Self-Portrait Challenge for May, fresh, week 2:

The fields around our house are filled with these little yellow flowers right now. Last year it was purple flowers. It has something to do with what the farmers planted the previous harvest, I think: soy beans last summer. I wonder what it will be this time? Since I’ll be moving I won’t be here to see. That’s weird to think about.

******
I had an absolutely fantastic Mother’s Day. I never thought I’d say that. Up until this year it wasn’t really something we celebrated. Ryan didn’t believe that he should buy gifts for me since I wasn’t hismother and Ani wasn’t quite old enough to grasp the concept of giving to others. Her first year of school they made lip balm and she proudly brought home a crock of it for me. I don’t know what was in it (they didn’t exactly make out an ingredient list, those kindergartners) but it caused my lips to puff and swell painfully. Needless to say, that mother’s day was one to remember. I sounded like Rodney Dangerfield every time I tried to talk. “I gets no respect!!”

My first mother’s day gift ever, however, was from Jason. Funny, Carrie had her Mr. Big and I had “The Great Crash” - only, apparently from the previews, Carrie marries her Big and my Great Crash is shacked up with a pre-adolescent looking girl with the same name as I. Life is odd, isn’t it? He bought me the complete journals of Sylvia Plath (by request), which I, to this day, have never picked up to read. A depressive personality such as myself certainly doesn’t need to read about the life of a suicidee (is that what they are called? oh well, no matter, you get the point).

We had a pretty laid back weekend planned - and it was (laid back). I spent entirely too much of it in my car, driving to Billiam’s house, back to work, to Billiam’s house, back to get Ani, back to his house, back home on Monday for school. Ugh. Ugh. If I NEVER have to drive again I’m cool wit’ dat. Of course, I’ll have to drive. This move may put me closer to my handsome fella but it will put me farther from my family and friends and I see myself trekking back here nearly every weekend to see them.

It was rainy and cold. I put on my pre-planned mother’s day outfit only long enough for pictures. Ani refused to participate. She’s getting camera shy. I hate that. She’s so beautiful. She has nothing to be shy about! When I say that she only replies, “You’re my MOMMY you HAVE to think that.” I don’t HAVE to - it’s true dorkbutt.

Billiam took me to my favorite vintage shop and let me pick out three new dresses. Have I mentioned that I love him? I do. I really do. This is going to work, right? I can only hope…

Ryan helped Ani prepare a photo collage for me. When I arrived at his house to pick her up on Saturday night he was as excited as she was to show me the butterfly cookies, roses, and the book they had bought for me. I was really surprised by the sweet gesture.

It was nice to be appreciated.

Ah. Had more planned to say but my sister (yes, the one that ALWAYS calls when she wants something) called for a ride somewhere. *sigh*

tee: black keys concert
suspenders: little boys section of jcpennys
jeans: ??some store in the mall
my trusty chucks I’ve had since high school.
love handles: compliments of child birth and too many twinkies.

I love when my eight year old takes the pictures. she gives me absurd instructions - "pretend you are about to take off flying". I didn’t know how to do that so she sighed and showed me, "please - no pictures."

I give I give I give
I give you my passion, my words, my promises, my future.
What else is there?
You ask for more.

I cut a sliver of my bone white thigh
shocking red fleshy offering -
now I can’t walk away from you.
You gobble it greedily,
hold out your hands,
fingers cupped, weary palms up -
Unspoken request for “more”.

I give you my every breath -
each exhalation
whisper of your name
until it is all I can say -
the rhythm of my chest falling, rising, falling
beats out the syllables, I can’t breathe.
You ask for more more more
even as you shove these offerings into your back pockets
to be forgotten until wash day.

The swing of my hips, my luster, the shine in my eyes,
the lilt in my voice, the curve of my smile -
I give.
You take.
Precious little remains.
Skin in shredded lavender rags
busted oak finish of my stare,
worn lyrics stuck in my throat,
I open my mouth ….
nothing.
I have no more.

You, with a steady, plump, well fed hand,
reach for my carefully guarded heart
take it without permission,
weigh it thoughtfully,
compare it to other such gifts
you have tucked away in a gilded box of unknown origins
on the top shelf beside your photo albums
and Parisian knick knacks -
it’ll have to do,
it’s all I’ve got.

I can see it’s not enough.
Your river eyes already running to the left, the right,
your mouth forming the words -
More.

My doctor thinks that perhaps I have rheumatoid arthritis. It is not a far-fetched theory - my grandmother suffered from it from her early 30’s. By the time she was in her 50’s her hands were worthless swollen claws. I’m fairly certain what I have is nerve damage though. It’s a radiating pain that numbs my fingers and worsens when I type or knit. So I spent most of my afternoon yesterday in a lab having vials of blood drawn and needles poked into my hands and veins. I look like a wrist banger. Gross. It’s bad enough that I bruise from bumping in to a door - having someone stick me multiple times makes me look seriously ill.

Speaking of seriously ill….

Doctor Hottie walked in holding my chart with a look of consternation on his face. “This says here that you’ve lost thirty pounds in the past eight months.” I nodded in the affirmative. He sighed and sat down across from me. Every now and then I wonder if his office staff think I’m a hypochondriac. Or that I have the hots for him. Neither is true. I WISH I didn’t have to go to the doctor’s office so much. I hate it. And I could never seriously have a crush on a guy that knows as much about my health as this fella does.

“Let’s talk.” He said. He had a very serious tone to his voice. Even when we’re discussing my manic episodes, my promiscuity during these episodes, my deteriorating ovaries, etc etc we always manage to joke. I nodded again. “You know that eating is okay, right? It’s good for you. You look fine.”

Confused, I replied, “Uhhhh okay.”

“Have you eaten today?”

“Sure.”

“What?”

“I had a bowl of cereal for breakfast. Then a bowl of strawberries. An apple. A McDonalds happy meal. An orange. Two candy bars. Some M&Ms. Some McDonalds fries…I’ve been craving them. Ummm I think that’s it. Oh and I ate a pack of Starburst while I was in the waiting room.”

He made a surprised noise and looked at my chart again. “Is this correct? About your weight loss?”

“Yeah.”

“And you usually eat like that?”

“Well. Not when I first started on this medication.”

“What medication?”

“The medication you prescribed for me. For my bipolar disorder.” I prompted. He looked at my chart again and scanned through the sleeping pills, anti-seizure medicine, birth control, anti-depressants. Ding. I saw his eyes alight on the culprit. “Yeah. That one. It’s an appetite suppressant I think. I didn’t really feel like eating when I first started taking it. So I lost all of that weight. But now I’ve stabilized and haven’t lost any more in months.” Took you long enough to notice, jackass.

He promptly wrote “Anorexia” on my file and I just as quickly protested. He sighed. “It’s only a medical term. It means weight loss and lack of appetite of any kind.”

“Oohhhh like how they use ‘abortion’ for a miscarriage.”

He blinked. “Yeah. Like that.” He asked me once, when I was questioning him about diabetes (for no reason other than the fact that I’m an extremely curious and nosy person) if I had ever considered going in to the medical profession. I had started laughing until I realized he was serious and I said ‘no’ and we left it at that.

We also discussed medical conditions that run in my family: heart disease, cancer, kidney problems, diabetes, arthritis. “Did I miss any diseases you can pass down through genes? Because if I did, I’m sure we have it in my family.” He put a big X across the entire section.

And he STILL didn’t give me anything for the pain. I understand his hesitation - given my history. I should have never been honest with him about my suicide attempts. Or I guess I should have because now he is looking out for my best interests. But seriously, doc, these hands of mine are hurting. This entry here has taken three hours with quite a few breaks in between to give the old phalanges a break.

After WAY too long spent at the doctor’s office I met up with an ex-boyfriend for lunch at a trail near my house. He stayed long enough to eat, make fun of me, express dismay and surprise that I was moving, and make me miss his general good humor. After he left I took off on my own down the trail for some reflection time and a little bit of MUCH needed exercise (eww everything starts gettin’ reallllll flabby like after 25, doesn’t it??).

When I emerged an hour later I found a park guard standing by my car looking pissed. Apparently you have to buy a pass to even enter the wildlife reserve anymore. What kind of crap is that? I tried to explain to the officious dickwad that my grandfather once taught at the one room schoolhouse the trail was named in honor of that used to stand there, that I helped build the trail itself during a public service stint in high school (this is what comes from getting busted for underage consumption three times in one week - building trails in the 100 degree heat, covered in poison ivy and bug bites), and that I spent my childhood walking that damned trail and never once paid for it. He wasn’t impressed. He wrote me a ticket anyhow. Some people have no respect for history.

this exact sign has been at the trail since I was a kid. they’ve been pulling at that bass for a LONG time.

I’m allergic to pine trees. Not sure whether its the needles or the cones or both but I don’t test it.

The rain has forced me to cancel a picnic in the park and a bluegrass band with several friends. I ran out of tape so I can’t pack. My wrists hurt so I can’t write even though I finally have an idea for a fictional story in my crowded confused little noggin. Oh well. It could be worse. Trust me, I know this. I really really do.

This is theme suggested by Hip Hop and banana bread (ahhh,”open your eyes, mommy, it’s all around you” hehheh).

Me, Pre-1985:

My favorite shoes:

For Self-Portrait Challenge’s May theme: “definitions of fresh: recently made, produced, or harvested | beginning | vitality and energy | original | not rotten | clean: free from impurities | lively, clean and fruity character | stimulating and refreshing | youthfulness and vibrancy |”.

FRESH LIFE

There is nothing better in springtime than all of the new life: baby cows, horses, sheep, puppies, and (in my house, at least) kittens.

This is my favorite of Rosemary’s five babies. She had three pale gray ones and two darker ones. This one is a little chunker who is always eating or sleeping belly up in the air.

Example of his extraordinary cuteness:

Seriously - you couldn’t get sweeter if you had a little lamb holding a heart shaped lollipop dressed in baby clothing.

I’m a sucker for baby anythings. It’s part of what I adore about spring.

The weather in the Midwest has one constant: you never know what to expect. One day this weekend it was fifty degrees. This morning it was nearly eighty. I go from skulking indoors to sitting on my front porch with bare feet eating strawberries and baking.

It is exactly one month until we move to the new house. Four weeks. I have half a dozen boxes packed - that’s only the books from my desk and bedside table. I haven’t started on my bookcases or what I have in storage yet. I haven’t even given much thought to my closet. When I do think about it I have the overwhelming urge to throw it all away rather than try to shove it all in a teeny tiny space. Please - talk me out of it!

I had one of my more difficult parenting moments over the weekend. Whilst perusing at a vintage store Ani found a set of polly pockets that she wanted. When I saw the outrageous 10 buck a piece price tag on them I told her to leave them there and to come with me to another section. She didn’t follow immediately and I had to call her name twice before she did. She came up with both hands shoved in her pockets. (hmmhmm, you see where this is going?)

“Ani, did you put those toys in your pockets?” I asked her. I didn’t need to ask. I already knew.

She didn’t do what I expected. There was no apology or even shame. She retorted, “Well, I was TRYING to ask you if I should put them down and YOU just ignored me.”

PARDON ME? You HAD to steal them because I didn’t tell you NOT to? Is there logic in this thinking, folks?

I was faced with how to react to her outright disrespect and thievery. I have to think that every parent deals with this at some point; and I hate to think that they don’t, because if not - what did I do wrong that lead her to think stealing was okay?

When we were young my sister stole constantly. We were very poor and I don’t think it ever crossed her mind that it was wrong to do so. She only saw it as something that we went without. She didn’t understand why we shouldn’t have it and so….she took it. Mostly it was candy. Sometimes dolls. My mother was wise to this from the beginning and made Adrian empty her pockets at the register. Adrian found other ways. I can vividly recall eating warm melted M&Ms she had stashed in her shoes. I suppose that made me her partner in crime (okay so I VERY much was).

The only time I joined in my sister’s illegal hobby was when I was seven and I wanted a set of lisa frank stickers. ALL of the girls at school had lisa frank stickers. All over their notebooks, binders, folders, on their hands, they exchanged them at lunch, wore them on their foreheads as status symbols…. I never had any. I pocketed a package while my mom was weighing the merits of canned vs. frozen veggies. She discovered them as soon as we got home, of course. There was no way for me to explain my triumphant prize. I had to ‘fess up. They were hot.

She marched me in to the mom & pop store down the road that I had lifted them from and right up to the counter. “My daughter stole from you. Betty, give them what you took.”

I handed them over through enough tears to float a boat. The grandma behind the counter looked sympathetic and thanked me for bringing them back. My mom wasn’t satisfied. “I told her the punishment for stealing would be to go to jail. Could you please call the police?”

The grandmotherly clerk tried to tell her it wasn’t necessary but mom was insistent. The police were called. A shame faced and befuddled officer arrived to look over the $1.99 merchandise and the pink cheeked miserable culprit. Mom told him he should take me in. He settled for a stern rebuke.

Trust me - I didn’t want to steal after that.

With this horrifying experience in mind I wasn’t sure howto approach Ani’s misdemeanor. I certainly wasn’t going to make her face the police and the nightmares for weeks after. I made her replace the toys, return her allowance to me plus give Billiam back the money he had given her to shop with. I told her I was disappointed in her behavior. Her response? A stony face. Ouch.

The next morning Billiam turned to her after breakfast and said, “Don’t you have something you want to say to your mommy?”

Ani shrugged.

“Remember what we talked about last night?” He prompted.

“Oooohhhh yeah. I’m sorry Mommy. I’m sorry I was rude and that I stole something. I won’t do it again.” She parroted and gave me a nearly satisfactory hug.

Still….why do I feel as if she didn’t really get the point? What was I supposed to do in that situation? (bamboo under the fingernails comes to mind)

I haven’t been writing much. Not because I don’t have much to say but because of the pain in my wrists. I go to see my doctor tomorrow to see if I can get some medicine or start pain management for them. It’s gotten so bad that I can’t open a twist cap or lift more than ten lbs. Some days even brushing my hair is too much. Typing is definitely out of the question on those days. Today is a better day. If I keep this short I should get away with only slight pain. Hope hope for something so I can write again. I feel voiceless right now.

Also? I’m happy. At this exact moment, sitting in my unbelievably cluttered bedroom with Rosemary’s babies mewing near my feet, Ani shouting “da plane, da plane” down the hallways, expecting a phone call any moment from my boyfriend who, while not perfect, is working as hard as I am to change for the better and make things work. I had strawberry shortcake with dinner. I have “Ichi the Killer” to watch tonight. When that’s over I’m going to read more of “My Frontal Lobotomy” and cuddle the kitties (shh, I don’t let the girls hold them and I have to do it on the sly). It’s not anything grand. Really, I know it. But it’s mine. And it’s really all I need.

AND it’s warm enough that I can wear dresses every day. Yayayaya. I went thrifting over the weekend and had unbelievable luck - tons of little dresses, gloves, bows, scarves. I bought a darling pair of kitten heels and made the mistake of leaving them on the floor at Billiam’s house. We came home from an afternoon at the park to discover Leon, the spoiled cat that resides at the boy’s house, jackrabbiting (the endearing habit cat’s have of gripping an item with their front paws and clawing with their back claws) the right shoe. It’s a goner.





While at the post office today two elderly ladies were standing behind me and they noticed the tattoo on the back of my leg and made a few comments about “crazy kids and their crazy tattoos”. I wasn’t sure whether I should be offended or not - I’m a 27-year-old mother of an 8 yo. I haven’t been a kid for a long time. I decided to take it as a compliment.

This week is their “alphabet” edition. I chose the letter “B”, for obvious reasons. THIRTEEN B’S about geek-betty

1. I’m a BETTY! I’ve “bumped” into several bloggers that call themselves Betty on their blogs but aren’t Betty’s in real life. I can’t blame them. It’s a cool name. Check out my previous Thursday 13 about famous Betty’s.

2. Butterflies.I have always loved butterflies. I have a tattoo of one on my back. There are no pictures of this tattoo. I got it when I was 17. It was the 90’s. It’s a tribal butterfly. *grimace*. It wasn’t until recent years that I realized my mother also had a thing for butterflies. Four (or more, now) tattoos of them plus she decked out the house in butterfly tchotchkes.

3. Boys.When I was a kid my dad used to squeeze my knee and if I giggled he claimed that meant I was boy crazy. Did anyone else’s dad do this? I always giggled. As a matter of fact, I still giggle when anyone touches my knees….especially if it’s a cute boy.

4. Breakdancing.The first real crush I can remember having as a kid was on this boy that lived down the street who could breakdance. I was five. He was probably fifteen. Obviously there was no flourishing love affair but I carried a secret adoration for breakdancing for years after (thus my email address’: breakdancebetty@verizon.net & breakdancebetty@gmail.com). I did miss the craze by a few years - by the time I was a teenager it was replaced by the geek-guy-gets-the-popular-girl phase of the late 80’s, early 90’s.
A bit of trivia for you all though: apparently, my Billiam was a pro at breakdancing. Doesn’t surprise me - his senior pictures he was posed in full mullet glory in an oversize BUM sweater that hung off of his shoulders, cut off shorts,and no shoes, posed against his refurbished ’60’s Mustang. He was a true child of the 80’s. No wonder I fell in love with him.

5. Babysitting. How I earned my bread & butter during my teen years. During one summer I babysat eight kids, aged 9 months - 10 years old.

6. Breakfast food.My favorite meal of the day is breakfast. My favoritest favorite is pancakes with strawberries and whipped topping. MMM.

7. Books. I’m a complete and total bookworm. Half of my paycheck from the bookstore goes right back to the store. I started listing books on Alibris to sell (go buy some!) I put up 400 before I got bored and quit.

8. Brawn. Of which I have none. Sammy, the 9-year-old, has to open jars for me sometimes.

9. Baggage. Of which I have plenty. I’m working on them, slowly. I wish there was a magic word to make them *poof* disappear.

10. Billiam. My handsome, handsome boy. My boyfriend of over a year. I’m nervous about moving in with him - however the prospect of waking up with him every morning beats out my nerves every time.

11. Best Friends. What would life be without good friends?

12. Blue.My favorite color in the whole world. I used to only date guys with blue eyes. Pretty obvious I’m over that one - Billiam’s eyes are as dark as they come. I finally figured out that it’s not eye color that matters - it’s personality, morals, wit, and empathy. Huh. Whod’ve thunk it?

13. Burns.I spend all of summer completely sunburned. I make Drew Barrymore look tanned when summer first begins. I’m okay with that. When I’m forty my skin will still look nice. I don’t spend much time in bathing suits.

Could someone please please explain to me why it is that I have to make everything in life so damned difficult? Really. Because I’d love to know.

I had a wonderful weekend - worked one day and spent the rest of it with billiam and the pup. The only warm morning we had we took Sooner to Miller’s Creek - a place that billiam claimed was the place to hang out when he was in high school. Well, since that was a gazillion years ago I’ll forgive him for the dried up little ribbon of water he took us to. Sooner had never been in water before (besides the one bath we gave him when we brought him home). It was doggy heaven. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to run around and smell all of the bunny, mole, and dog smells or splash in the water. He nearly drowned himself sticking his whole head under the water to retrieve a stick.

Billiam even drove here for once. He’s been on party manners since a few weeks ago when I had an absolute melt-down about not seeing him much. Just because we have a move-in date planned doesn’t mean he’s under no obligation to hang out with me. Obligation? Gah. I hope its not.

AND we had sex.  That’s right - he has started putting out again.  I was starting to think he never would be interested in being intimate with me again.  My sad ego was flagging even more.  I had bought a few books of erotica and even considered hitting up the …uh…the “toy” store with some friends.  ANYTHING to get rid of the sexual frustration.  I found myself checking out a teacher at Ani’s school yesterday.  He was wearing dockers.  And penny loafers.  PENNY LOAFERS for goodness sake!  And I actually paused to check him out.  He’s a far cry from the tattooed rockers I am usually interested in.  That’s how I knew it was getting bad.  No worries - we’ve started to make love on a semi-regular basis.  You know, more than once every eight months. 

We spent a few hours on Monday working on the new house. The previous leasers (is that correct?) left it in quite a mess. And the walls are sponge painted black and red. *shudder* I took some “before” pictures but I think I’ll wait until I have some redeeming “after” pictures to post. The place is TINY. Smaller than the house I am in now - even with the massive amounts of step-kids, bikers, boyfriends, and pets we have shoved in here.

Why is it then that I woke up today feeling like I wanted to rip someone’s throat out with my teeth and spit it back in to their mouth?

I suppose one reason for my sudden vicious temper would be my mother’s ongoing war against me. She seems to forget I exist for a few months at a time (thank the flying spaghetti monster) and then remembers me and steps up her efforts at making me miserable. What the hell can she possibly gain from tormenting me? It’s only phone calls for now - has only been phone calls for some time. I hope that is all it will be. Most of them she hangs up without a message but occasionally she will leave one of her darling “you’re stupid ugly slut” voice-mails for me that just make my day.

And, as much as I know it shouldn’t, it bothers me.

Today, instead of depressing me however, it’s made me angry. Mad mad mad.

Add some of my worry about moving on to that. It’s all seemed very ….. idealistic up to this point. Ani brought home registration forms for next year for school. Those - those bright orange pages - they were concrete. They were evidence in my hands that I could: a) fill them out and assume we will be here so she will attend the same school next year or b) disregard them because she will be attending school in our new town. It sort of sent me into a tailspin. Is that silly?

I’m worried that all of the problems Billiam and I had in the past might resurface in some dim and unpleasant future event. I don’t know why or how they would but what if they did? And we’re living together? There is no going home to recoup, no taking a break so we don’t kill each other.

Another worry: it doesn’t seem that he works with me on my problems. Sometimes it’s almost as if he works against me on my issues. There are really very simple ways to help me cope with the trainload of baggage I carry behind me. My trust issues are the biggest problem we encounter. It’s not as if I CHOOSE to not trust him - more often than not it’s a sick gut feeling I can’t ignore. I know, I know, you’re all going to tell me to pay attention to what my gut tells me. But my gut is ALWAYS a mess. It gets knotted up if he misses one of my phone calls, if his phone rings, if a girl says hi to him. It’s ridiculous.

There are ways for him to help me through it though. Calling periodically during the day is one. A pain in the ass, yes, yet it keeps me sane. He still does the annoying and suspicious thing where he leaves the room to make a phone call or WORSE takes his phone in the bathroom to make a call (as he did this weekend). Not to mention the fact that I will see him send several text messages and then, when I look at his phone, he’s deleted all of them. Why hide unless there is something to hide?

Gah. I drive myself insane. I really do. How can I work past these things? What can I do to build trust? I HAVE to eventually if I want any of my relationships to work.

I’m spitting mad today. I don’t get this mad anymore. I try really hard not to get this mad. My temper has been tamped down. It’s a-flarin’ right now. I’m afraid to talk to anyone because I might tell them exactly what’s wrong with them as people and why it is that they suck at life. Not very friendly or encouraging, I know.

OH!! Something good DID happen today. We had baby kitties. Rosemary, aka hell cat, finally gave birth to a five kittens, all of them striped and light to darker gray. Which clears up the question as to who fathered them - we’ve seen a light gray striped cat skulking around the house in the past few weeks. Hoping Rosemary will put out again. Cad.

I was worried about how she’d do with them. I never see her clean herself - WEIRD. She’s the definition of a feral cat. While she’ll let us pet her, she certainly doesn’t want us to. I did have to help a bit. She didn’t want to chew the umbilical cord & other icky junk off. I had to cut it off after three hours of two of the babies trying to crawl around with it still attached. I have a terrible gag reflex. I had to stop and puke after kitty number two. Ick.

But she’s feeding them now. They are happily curled up in a box in my bedroom and hell kitty has been purring non-stop all morning. See? Once again - proof that young mothers can kick some ass. After they figure out exactly what it is they are supposed to be doing with the pink little rat babies, that is.

Ani & Sammy both want to keep a kitten. It will be fun convincing them that we can’t. Anyone want a free kitty? You know you do!

The move also means I’m job hunting again. We all know how well that goes for me - after I have a panic attack, stutter through an interview, get lost trying to find the business, and show up with my shirt on backward, mabye somebody will feel sorry for me and hire me.

I’ve updated my “about me” page.

wordless wednesday

Maude: I should like to change into a sunflower most of all. They’re so tall and simple. What flower would you like to be?
Harold: I don’t know. One of these, maybe.
Maude: Why do you say that?
Harold: Because they’re all alike.
Maude: Oooh, but they’re *not*. Look. See, some are smaller, some are fatter, some grow to the left, some to the right, some even have lost some petals. All *kinds* of observable differences. You see, Harold, I feel that much of the world’s sorrow comes from people who are *this*,
[she points to a daisy]
Maude: yet allow themselves be treated as *that*.
[she gestures to a field of daisies]
Maude: [cut to a shot of a field of gravestones in a military cemetery]

from “Harold and Maude”, one of my all-time favorite movies.