On my desk sits a little dalmatian puppy beanie baby. Around his neck is a turquoise scrunchy and his dark little eyes seem to be staring at me sadly. “Why were you mean to my little girl?” he seems to ask.

I love my children with every fiber of my being. I’m not the most patient person on the planet. I have always sworn I would never homeschool my kids. But here I find myself home with Rowan day after day and while much of it is rewarding, the perfectionist in me beats myself up for the areas that aren’t as rewarding.

The shortcomings I see in myself have made me even less patient with Rowan.

My youngest has perplexed me roughly from the age of three. She’s unlike her older sister and brother in so many ways. She’s my wild child, she’s funny, she’s wonderful in so many respects and she’s definitely smart. But, this homeschooling thing… while she can tell you the major exports of Brazil, name all her continents and the two major rivers in China… she can’t read. She knows her alphabet but really only recognizes maybe 2/3 of the letters.

Do I think she has a learning disability?

No. I think she has an issue with selective learning. That which interests her she soaks up like a dried out sponge. Phonics and reading holds no interest. It’s a chore and she hates every second of it. Science, Art, History, Music, Math – not a problem. She whizzes through happily and rarely makes a mistake. But, Phonics is creeping along at a snail’s pace and I’m nearing the end of my rope.

Typically by the time we are done with a lesson she’s in tears and I’m threatening to make her to go “regular” school. It’s a nightmare. My other children were reading avidly by this age and usually books that were far above their grade level.

I’m tired. It’s been a loooong week. I’m discouraged and frustrated.

Call me silly, but I am absolutely enamored and completely turned on by a cute guy who can play a guitar. John Mayer, S.O. and (not turned on but… um… happy to listen to) Julien.

S.O. spent probably 80% of my pregnancy with Rowan playing “Dee” by Randy Rhoads or “The Rain song” by Led Zeppelin to my ever burgeoning abdomen. It was sexy, romantic, and sweet all at one time.

Julien has far longer and more tapered fingers than S.O. and he can strum a guitar brilliantly or play them nimbly across a keyboard effortlessly. At least it looks effortless.

I’m thankful every day that his girlfriend (fiance` I’m tempted to say) Scarlet, finds it every bit as amazing and gifted as I do. Julien has a gift.

In 4th grade he was literally pissing people off with his rendition of “The Star Spangled Banner” that was as much an ode to Jimi Hendrix as it was flavored with his very own evolving style. A teacher asked him to “remove the distortion” and instead, my son without consulting me (which made me even MORE proud) amped up his distortion and his amp and gave an even more rousing, stirring, and emotional performance than he had ever given in rehearsal; with the full backing of his 2nd, 4th and future 5th grade teachers – who not only clapped but stood up and gave him a standing ovation. It was beautiful… and yes, I teared up.

There is something otherworldly that happens when a gifted musician has a moment in the spotlight or when you catch them completely unaware rehearsing “alone” totally entranced by the magic their fingers are creating.

In fact, sometimes with certain individuals it’s so strong, so apparent that even someone who has never witnessed it can feel it.

And that last bit? Is something that a mother only dreams of and is absolutely above the moon when it actually happens.

Thus is the case with my Julien. Julien… I suppose I should feel ashamed referring to him with an alias that I created. Given the chance to recreate history, maybe that would be his name. Except, his real name gives him the manliness of John Wayne, the sexiness of Jimmy Page, and the poetic nature of Jack Johnson, all wrapped in a sensibility that is every bit as much Clint Eastwood as it is Cary Grant.

Imagine that.

It’s amazing. Brilliant, moody, and romantic all in one pure artistic package.

Scarlet is a lucky girl.

And given how much I love her… I am more than proud to have produced the boy she is so in love with. There is nothing that makes me happier or lighter than to hear him playing “Bubbly Toes” by Jack Johnson to Scarlet.

Maybe sometimes… the things you wish for yourself are so imprinted on the universe that they pass you by and arrive at your feet, for you to watch joyously and happily?

Maybe?

I wonder.

Either way… I’m a happy witness.

I won’t post a “live” link because I’m paranoid, but feel free to copy and paste this on into your browser window http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2010/02/21/MNJJ1C3DIM.DTL

Take a peek through the comments. I’m sure you can probably figure out who I am.

S.O. says that I would probably have an easier time swaying people to my opinion if I were a little more nice about it. He followed it up by saying, “You have a way of going into it with: You are a fucking idiot and I’m going to tell you why. You always back your opinions up, but you usually piss people off in the process, even if you are right.”

Which is cool. I get that. Julien is fond of saying, “Light ‘em up, mom.”

My favorite quote from Katherine Hepburn is, “Why slap them on the wrist with a feather when you can belt them over the head with a sledgehammer.”

It’s not that I believe myself to be some badass or something. I’m just passionate when the mood strikes me.

Julien wanted “classic” looking aviator sunglasses.

I’ve been nagging him to wear sunglasses.

I bought him a pair.

He showed me how they looked (After they arrived)… I admit, I had a couple of shots of whiskey and a couple of beers.

I snickered. I chuckled.

He asked what was so funny…

I have to admit to never before having this ability to think so quickly on my toes.

The truth is, all I could think of while looking at him with those glasses on was Jeff Goldblum in The Fly.

Instead, I snickered and said, “You look like a cop in a bad 70′s porno.”

He said, “oh! That’s cool!”

Heh.

Crisis averted.

Got an apology from S.O. Mostly heartfelt but without explanation and that’s fine because I’m counting and I’m watching and quite frankly, the the distance isn’t exactly killing me anymore and I’m cool with that too.

I’m down to 2.5mg of anti-depressant now. Almost there… the closest I’ve ever been actually. A friend asked me how it felt… it feels normal. Normal in the best possible sense. Blood pressure seems to be under control, I’ve completely eliminated diet soft drinks and I’ve increased my green tea and water intake.

Tiny steps. But, the longest I’ve stuck with thus far.

You know, the thing about S.O. and his apology?

I don’t want my ass kissed. I really, really don’t.

I don’t want someone reading my mind or catering to me.

I want to feel cared for, taken care of, and yes, adored.

Certainly because that’s how I feel about him. I bash him quite a bit around here (with good reason and no this isn’t the “honeymoon” cycle where I think he’s soooo wonderful now) but, I wouldn’t give a shit or feel the need to bash him if I didn’t care so much. It’s not exactly a tremendous secret that I’m on husband # 2.

Husband #1 was a joke beyond all comprehension of tragic comedy. That one really isn’t even a blip on the radar anymore, save for the occasional nightmare and the moments when I notice the crooked angle my nose has. S.O. cannot even remotely begin to compare to his predecessor, in fact, it feels like an insult to him just saying predecessor.

The thing is? We click. We understand a great deal about each other that no one else has ever really gotten about us. So, I’d much rather fix the broken stuff and maintain what I have than chuck it all because see… when I see myself old and hopefully riding off into oblivion on the back of a Harley – I always see myself behind him. I don’t see my life without him no matter how annoyed I get, no matter how hurt I feel.

Doesn’t mean I won’t make him pay for it though.

Just told my husband, “wow, you are so hot in those glasses. I would totally fuck you right now if I didn’t NOT like you so much.”

yeah.

tequila 2
Stella 0

Freezer treatment again. We got into quite an argument yesterday morning and unless he needs his computer fixed or my help of some kind, he’s not speaking to me.

I told him that I’m tired of being the one to smooth things over or make them better. I’m sick of his ice treatments and that he’s doing more harm than good. He doesn’t seem to care.

He doesn’t seem to care.

I used to be married to the guy who brought home flowers unexpectedly sometimes and left me sweet notes where I would find them. The kind of guy who tried to apologize when he fucked up. I’m not quite sure who the person I’m married to is now… he’s stubborn, he has a mean streak, and he rarely apologizes for anything.

Yesterday I was told that my logic and reasoning skill are “severely impaired.”

After all the bullshit that has gone on for the last couple of years how someone could profess to love me and yet say something like completely floors me. I’m sure I said things to him that were hurtful. Although, I tried very hard not to. The point is, I try to communicate and he would rather punish.

I’m tired of being badgered, I’m tired of him trying to “win” instead of compromise. I’m tired of drama and bullshit. I’m practically allergic to it at this point.

What he is too stupid to be worried about is the fact that when he used to pull this bullshit it bothered me, a lot. I couldn’t sleep, I would have migraines, literally make myself sick… and now? Now, I can bitch about it but ultimately it’s not having the same impact anymore. Not that I don’t care, but I’m becoming harder and he really doesn’t want that, he’s just too fucking stubborn to realize it.

It’s a big mish-mosh of cycles and bullshit. I get it. I’ve contributed, I’ve watched the wheel go round. I know that. The thing is? It gets old. All of it, gets old. I purposely watched both Saturday and Sunday… we’d get out of the car to go in somewhere and usually I’m the one who grabs his hand and he is the first to let go. I’m the one who approaches him for affection. So, Saturday and Sunday I didn’t do it. I watched to see if he would take some initiative… not once. He never reached for me once. And, it gets old making all the first moves whether it’s to resolve a problem, smooth over a spat, kiss, hug, or hold hands. It gets old.

In that “it gets old” thing? I get better at accepting it and it makes it that much harder for me to remain open.

At some point, he’s going to have to make a move, do the right thing, treat me the way I deserve to be treated, acknowledge me, cherish me, and care for me more than he cares for his own anger, pride, or what the fuck ever else it is… I won’t put my kids through a divorce, but I’ll damn sure close up like a fucking clam and not give him an ounce of pleasure.

Oooo, lookout she’s got another dark, sad, weepy, depressing post.

Scarlet’s mother sold her out in a meeting this morning with the shit-head teacher and vice principal (the one taking over next year for the current soon-to-be retired asshole principal) and the political, redneck, backwards, right-winged moron, machine keeps grinding it’s gears and spouting out bland, nonsensical, politically correct soundbites.

All of which were caught on digital recorder thanks to Scarlet.

Scarlet’s mother semi-chastised Scarlet in the meeting after spending the last week bragging about how she was going to slam the shithead teacher’s ass to the wall. Instead she bragged about her own high school grades and attempted to ingratiate herself to the faculty instead of backing her daughter as she should have done.

But, that’s the mentality this girl has been raised with, she’s been thrown to the wolves time and time again, not quite starting with but certainly including her father breaking her hamster’s back while on the phone with Scarlet because Scarlet’s mother browbeat her into telling her father she didn’t want to visit him. The girl was barely 12… and her father killed her pet as retribution.

It makes me so angry I’m sick. And there is nothing I can do about it. Nothing. These people do these horrible things and they just keep getting away with it. And, it’s a wonder that Scarlet is normal at all… this has toughened her, she stands up for herself and she spends the rest of her time with us. And, I suppose that I should realize that I am helping, I am doing a good thing by providing refuge.

But, I never wanted to be one of those characters in a book that provides refuge and a sympathetic ear while not being able to change a fucking thing.

It feels like I am trapped in “Girl of the Limberlost” (by Gene Stratton-Porter) only the characters around me don’t react to what is right, just, or fair – they don’t see the error of their ways and regret them. There is no character arc no changing moment that provides the catalyst for a happy ending.

It just fucking is… and it goes on and on.

And, in case you are wondering, no the shit at the school for Julien is not any better. I suspect they will try to force him into home study just to relieve themselves of the problem. Then life will go on as it has been with teachers acting like Gods who have no rules to follow and can do as they choose because the union and their tenure protects their wormy shit weasel asses.

S.O. doesn’t believe any of this will do any good. We’ll send complaints to the state, it might make them squirm again and then it will go back to status quo.

It’s how the world works because we’ve all become complacent, if it isn’t our problem we don’t do anything about it, and if it is our problem… well, there are loads of reasons not to make the problem worse and to just let the fuckers get away with it.

It’s how the world works… the fuckers get away with it.

I still have something odd pinched in my upper back. It’s been like this since Thanksgiving. It pings, it gets worse, it aches, and then it disappears only to reappear as a strange burning ache. In short, it’s annoying and no amount of soaking, rubbing, massaging, and tiger balm have helped.

Tripping around the blogosphere I read someone commenting somewhere saying something to the effect of: no one cares if you are happy. When I blog about being happy I get hits and no comments, if I’m miserable I get tons of comments.

And, If all you did was was cruise through my archives here (something, I know is a tad difficult to do since I made most of my archives private… digressing, I’ll explain later*) you would find that my most painful posts have the most comments.

Now, I admit, I’ve often been a glass is half-empty kind of gal. At least over the last year or so but come on, the last year has been shit. I admit it. I’m okay with it because so far this year is infinitely better in about nine million little ways even if none of those ways is reflected in my bank account currently and the bankruptcy isn’t quite filed yet. Know what I mean?

Do I feel like you’ve come here and got some sort of “misery loves company” vibe going?

No, I don’t. In fact, I get the feeling that sometimes you check in here to see if I’m still breathing, to see if you need to lend a shoulder or just drop an encouraging comment. If you read some post that isn’t screaming for comfort or a touch of human kindness then you figure I’m holding my own.

I don’t mind that.

But here’s the deal, I’m talking about the people whose names show up over and over again in the comments. The little group that I share inside jokes with of monkeypunchers, sugartits and condoms, and the occasional sometimes craptacular moments of motherhood. I know you, I care for you, and if something happened to you or yours I would probably jerk my ass out of my reclusive non-unabomber hermit-ness and do something… whatever I could.

Or as another friend would put it, I’d show up at your funeral. But, I admit, the list of people that extends to is small, very small, v-e-r-y small. And, I no longer feel the need to name all the “special” people who get access behind my velvet rope. I refuse to feed into that pathetic “clique” mentality any more. In fact, I’m the anti-clique that’s me, the anti-clique.

I start on lines of thought like this with all the thoughts rolling around, whirling in the foggy ether that is my mind and I weigh the consequences of words, what is my responsibility and what is not. I think of the things I’d like to say but I won’t because I know that somewhere the intended reader is really too wrapped up in their own delusions of grandeur for it to hit the broad side of a barn.

Not to mention, like I said before, I’m staying away from that negative shit because it is shit and it’s a joke and it’s a miserable waste of humanity and it does nothing more for the world and spiritual environment than all the cow farts in Texas do for the actual physical environment. (Cow emissions = bad for ozone) Sometimes my jokes are only funny to me. I get that.

Round and round she goes… I have no point, I’m streaming consciousness here, giving my own take on my own little unique situation. I have no real conclusion and this isn’t in perfect 5 point essay format and I don’t have a proper theme and whatnot. It just is.

* I made my archives private because my husband wanted me to. We had reason to believe that my paranoia might be legit and that was my quickie solution. Is it permanent? I have no idea. If you want access for some reason email me, I’m easy like that.

I’ve spent two hellish weeks battling Julien’s school. Today Julien is snappy and mopey. He and I snapped a bit at each other in the kitchen today and really haven’t spoken since.

I vented to S.O. about it and he in turn got irritated. I probably should have just kept my mouth shut. Julien slept most of the afternoon… after the week he has had I don’t doubt he needed the rest. He woke up looking disoriented… like a 4 year old who has fallen asleep in the afternoon and has woken up after dark. That kind of ruffled, drowsy look.

He was still a tad grumpy. S.O. couldn’t take it and even though I asked him to back off, he decided to issue a very brief scolding and Julien went off to pout in his bedroom leaving Scarlet and another friend downstairs. The friend, Julien, and Scarlet had plans tonight to experiment with deep-frying some candy bars and things. I think Julien needed the silly break from the bullshit, but S.O. was fed up…

So, I’m back in front of my computer and S.O. wanted to know why I was in here instead of in the family room with him. He can’t understand that he’s made things uncomfortable now. That I don’t like the tension, that I can’t take it after the way the last week has gone. But, no, what I want or think or feel doesn’t matter. He was sick of it and that was all that mattered.

S.O. tried to argue it with me… and I asked him not to and I had to repeat myself over and over again until he finally just shrugged his shoulders and shot me a dirty look and left the room.

Yeah, it’s all my fault. Like always.

On a sidenote, our next door neighbors are moving. They moved in about a month before we did. We kind of watched the neighborhood finish around us and now they are leaving. They couldn’t modify their mortgage. They’ve already found a larger house somewhere else and they are young and have parents with money to help them. But, I’m bummed. I don’t even know why because we weren’t that close with them. I liked them a lot, I think I’ll like the next people less, but wouldn’t it be nice if that weren’t the case?

They were good neighbors. I’m sad to see them go… and it makes me wonder if it was worth the fight to keep this house, which of course it was, it’s just… they were my favorite neighbors and I hate change. There, I admit it. I’m like Jack Nicholson in “As Good As It Gets.”

Okay, I’m not quite that bad, but you get the point.

What I’d like is to find a channel with actual black and white classic movies, I want to see Gable, Cooper, Stewart, and Bacall… except now the classic movie channels play the shit that was in the theaters when I was a toddler and that is kind of fucked in a sense.

Tonight, I don’t know what I want… other than another shot of tequila and another beer, that’ll do for now.