Sassmouth

Leemeelone.

I consider myself to be a patient mother, relatively speaking.  It isn't often that I raise my voice to Philip, like yell at him or anything.  I don't do the best job, or even a halfway decent job, of watching my language, but I'm on the fence about how much I care.  I try to give him some time every day in which he has my undivided attention, time to play together.  Despite the doubts I have much of the time, I know I am an attentive mother.

But holy hell, there are days when hearing his piping voice call my name for NO GODDAMN REASON OTHER THAN TO SUMMON ME makes me want to smash lots of things into tiny pieces.  Today is one of them.  Actually, what's making today a stinking pile of suck is that the little fucker is holding his poop, refusing to let it out, and has not taken a shit since Saturday.  SATURDAY.  Or maybe it was Friday.  And don't give me advice about how to solve this issue; he went through a phase of doing this allllll the time when he was two.  As soon as I start to hear the language indicative of a week of ass-clenching hell, I start dosing him with Miralax.  It works just great, but it takes a few days to kick in.  Once it starts working, there's nothing he can do to withold things any longer, and that's that.  Problem solved.  'Cept I have to keep him on the Miralax for about another month to be sure it doesn't happen again.

But oh, these few days of screaming and crying and whining and pacing.  I HATE THEM SO MUCH I HATE THEM SO FUCKING MUCH.  And I lose my temper 'round about day four.  Which is today.  So Philip, I love you so dearly and so terribly, and today I will say some shit to you I probably shouldn't say, or at least say it in a really mean, kinda scary voice.  I'm sorry.  I am.  It would be wise for you to leave me the fuck alone.  Or, as you put it, sweet boy, 'Leemeelone'.

WTFM.

 The compound noun 'cellar door' is supposed to be one of the most beautiful (with regard only to phonaesthetics) in the English language, especially in its British pronunciation.  But if you've ever seen the ever-lispy and irritating Drew Barrymore in Donnie Darko, you knew that.  Personally, it does nothing for me.  There is a phrase I love for the intensely satisfying way it passes the lips, both in its sound and its meaning, and that phrase is 'What the fuck?'.  It doesn't have to be a question, really.  In fact, part of the beauty of the phrase is the vast breadth of meaning to which it lends itself so readily.  Your ex-husband makes a big deal about spending time with his sons, then shows up for thirty goddamn minutes before deciding he has to go?  Are you serious=What the fuck?  You have a thyroid nodule and your dad calls you AND your whole family incessantly to rant about the anaplastic cancer that will surely kill you within months?  Pull yourself together and think of others, Dad=What the fuck.  You're a whole lot tired and a little bit sick but you really wanna be drunk and maybe engage in other activities of questionable judgement that will render you relatively useless to your small children the next day?  Why the heck not=What the fuck?  You wake after nine, count 'em, NINE hours of uninterrupted sleep because your baby has either slept through the night or learned to self-soothe enough not to bother your hungover ass?  Thank you, Jeebus!=What the fuck!  Joel McHale appears to you in a dream to hold you YES THAT'S RIGHT HE JUST HELD YOU FOR A WHILE and you woke up to a three year old's stank morning breff all up in your nose?  Bring me back to Joel's embrace=What the fuck, kid?

I hereby declare all Mondays to be 'What the Fuck Monday' here on Sassmouth.  No, it isn't necessarily a platform for complaint.  Any ol' thang that makes you say 'What the Fuck?', be it from incredulous frustration or awe-stricken joy, is welcome here, sisters.  Have at it=What the fuck.

 

Pretty Good Year

I've been bullied and bossed by the Hairy Wig (I'm not even gonna try to explain, but know that the nickname is cutting and mean and fuck you, jo!) into writing a post for the four of you out there that give a shit.  I almost apologized for not having blogged in a while, but that would be arrogant-- I'm not exactly layin' down solid gold here to begin with.  But I will certainly muster my skeeills to update you. 

If you know me mostly from this blog (scratch that; If you know me at all), you may think I've had a somewhat fuckity time of things:  a marriage whose disintegration was epic in its crescendo to a big finish (how else can a marriage to an egomaniacal conductor end?) and a subsequent divorce that has gotten uglier still.  The birth of a baby and the postpartum aftermath are taxing to say the absolute least, and even when the result of it all is the glorious and darling Mr. Squish and his wildly delightful older brother, the All of the Everything has left me in a completely exhausted place.

And what a beautiful place.  I am exhausted but not at all depleted.  Or perhaps in my depletion, I've been opened wide to the capacity for renewal.  From this raw and difficult place, I've already been exposed to such unimaginably wonderful things in such a staggeringly short amount of time.  And even as I'm writing this, I get a call from the doctor that I do not have thyroid cancer.  So yes, that's also great.

It was on the last of December, if my calculations are correct and I know them to be, that I got pregnant with Oscar.  I was losing grasp of a marriage that was over before it started, miserable with myself for putting up with it for any amount of time at all, wondering--or perhaps knowing and being utterly disappointed in--how the fuck I ended up as I was.  I knew things would eventually end, wanted them to, but had no idea when or how it would all go down, and wanted so desperately for Philip to have a sibling.  I wasn't done beating the dead horse, and it wasn't anywhere close to as bad as it would eventually be.  I was in Virginia, visiting my beloveds, with my ex.  I always hated bringing him along.  He never fit, acted like a dick (no, really!), complained I never paid attention to him.  And now it is one year later, and I am returning to Virginia with that baby, three months old, and his brother, and I am a single mother (it had always been my vision of what motherhood would be), and I do not have cancer, and I am happier than I've been in four years, at the very least.  Probably more like ten years.  Maybe even more than ever.

I've never been a 'Happy Fuckin' New Year! WOOOOO!' type of dame, but I'm not sure I'll be able to help myself this year.

What is the Sound of One Blogger Blogging?

THIS SOUND, MOTHERFUCKERS.

My sisters have this problem, dig. They don't know that in order to be a Truly Successful Blogger you just have to shit out a bunch of words, just completely turn off the part of the brain between the thinky part and the mouth part (or in this case the hand part) and inflict yourself filterless upon the internet. And trust that the net of your inherent awesomeness will make the post worth reading. Y'all are agonizing over not having anything to say or wanting to get a post in shape and to that I say, FFPPBBBTTTTT! 

That is a fart noise. By the by.

Listen! I will tell you some things.

- I think of myself as having had a pretty good childhood. This good childhood sometimes involved being dropped off at Dad's house and having to play in the backyard until he finished sleeping it off and woke up enough to hear us pounding at the door to be let in. It also involved a lot of dangerous unsupervised activity outdoors. And crawdads. And turtles. It was fucking great. Yeah, we all came out with some dings and scrapes in this family. But it could have been a whole lot worse. We might have had to stay indoors.

Note: I speak only for myself, because those 2.5 or 5.5 years between me and each sister were filled with interesting happenings, and each child in a family gets a different set of parents, you know? I had it a lot easier than both sisters in a lot of ways. And I was mostly growned up before Awful Ex-Stepfather became a factor. But you know what I didn't have growing up? An AWSEOME OLDER SISTER. So in some ways I GOT SCREWED. You guys owe me big at Christmas.* Cashay de la Monay, ladies.

- I have no idea what I look like. Every picture is a shock to me. My body has changed so drastically in so many ways over the past decade that my self-concept just hasn't caught up. And shoot, my face has changed pretty radically too, what with the skull-sawing surgery. So despite the fact that I cannot pass a mirror without preening and posing, I don't think I could pick my own body out of a lineup. Well, except for the tattoos.

- One of which I am currently having removed. Think hard, nubile firm-breasted youngsters, before you put anything permanently on your tit. Especially anything that will be obviously slanted once the inevitable journey south-by-southwest begins. Or southeast, depending on the side. Anyway, lasers hurt! Worse than a tattoo! And you will blister and peel and it is expensive.

Actually, lasers hurt most people. I have crazy good pain tolerance or something, or at least some good training from all the baby-having. Birthing from Within = Bene Gesserit training. Also useful for distance running. 

- I do have excellent pain tolerance. Can sit motionless with no breaks for extensive tattooing (or removing), deal with awful dental work, have successfully removed broken pencil tip from deep within heel (every time I grabbed the lead with the tweezers it powdered and scooted deeper into the flesh!). But I cannot STAND to wear a coat in a car, as it both makes me too hot and restricts my motion ever so slightly. I have a toddler meltdown/rage storm/panic attack if I forget to take it off before I'm buckled in.

- I am REAL FUCKING TIRED of talking about myself because I? Am the LEAST INTERESTING of the three of us right now. So one of you high-standards-having mofos needs to step the fuck up and TYPE something before I start putting up all those pictures I have of you playing Naked Tea Party.**

*Yes, I am Jewish, but you? Are not. You give me present. I give you latke. Maybe cheap chocolate coin. That is how it goes. 

**The ones from 1985, not the ones from last summer. 

TMI Friday, Weekend Edition

Dear Sassmouth Sisters- 
I need your help! There is a strange woman (a neighborhood mom) who has cyber stalked both my husband and now one of my best friends. I get a paranoid but not unjustified feeling that this woman has some sort of obsession with me or my husband. Let me give you some back story. This woman whom I barely know but sent her kids to the same daycare contacted my husband on both linkedin and Facebook. He had never had a conversation with her other than the polite hello you say to parents you pass in the hall and I barely know her either but i had accepted a FB friend request. The messages were about him referring her to a position at his firm and they were long winded (she discussed a lot of what they have in common based on his profile...even though we don't see the similarities.) He felt uncomfortable and politely (but awkwardly!) told her he could not refer someone he didn't know! She then sent him a Facebook request and said in the request message that she was more or less as chatty as me...strange! He declined the invitation and we were both a little freaked out at the weirdness of it all. I then noticed that she had looked through a lot of my old albums on FB and had "liked" pictures of my husband. I have since blocked her from seeing any of my info. A week later when we went to meet my sons teacher before school started, the teacher said to us. " oh I have heard all about your son! He is good friends with ----(her kid)". We have never had a playdate but my kid does know him from preschool although they were never good friends. This woman has an open marriage and both her and her husband (who is even weirder!) have been seen around the neighborhood holding hands with other people. Hey...to each his own but just think its an important detail because it shows that she could have interest with my hubby. She has since sent some strange FB messages to my good friend who she doesn't know at all (but knows she is one of my besties) inviting her kid to her kids b-day party. My friend politely declined and she got a mean message back.

So here's my dilemma. My son is in the same class with her son and my kid is very friendly. He likes almost everyone and makes friends super easy. I love this about him and would never want him to treat another kid badly just because someone is a little strange. (yes her kid is super strange too). BUT I also don't want my kid going over to their house. They are not good friends but her kid keeps inviting my kid over for a playdate and I keep making excuses....I have also overheard the mother telling her kid to chase after us and ask us where we are going. How do I address this with my kid? I don't want him to know that I think this kids parents are too weird to trust my kid at their house...but I also really don't want these people to be involved in our life. I swear I'm not a bitch ( most of the time!) and I hate popularity BS but all my maternal and personal instincts are raising HUGE red flags that something is not right here!!! I'm telling you...if you read the messages you would know this is not a mentally healthy person I'm dealing with! Advice please! Thanks!

Joanna:

Oh my hell, girlfriend. I don't need to read the messages to smell the crazy on this one. And I'm really, really glad you didn't ask how to handle the whole situation because YIKES is that way above my pay grade. Although it might be worth mentioning the situation and your misgivings to the teachers, just so everyone is clear that your two families aren't BFFs and that there is to be no offhand sharing about you guys with Unstable Lady, as often occurs in a close-knit school.

So how to handle with the kid? That's hard, because as you said, you don't want to give him the impression that all weirdos must be shunned (although the likelihood of that happening is probably pretty low). You also don't want to say anything that he might, in innocence, repeat to the other child.

It's possible your son might save you the trouble of figuring out what to do, though -- have you talked to him about this kid, and whether he (your son) is interested in getting together? It might be an opportunity to focus on how we always need to be kind to other people, but not everyone has to be your best friend. If he pressed you on the matter, would your son be receptive to something along the lines of, "I'd rather we spent our time playing with your friends X___ and Z___" ?

And when the kid or his mother asks your son for a playdate, just keep on refusing -- politely, but firmly -- and don't bother with an excuse (which inevitably leads to questions or further invitations). Just, "No, I'm sorry!" and "Thanks for asking, but no, we simply can't." No explanation necessary. Just no, and no, and no. It may not stop the invitations coming, but at least it's polite!

I've Got the World on a String

Joanna:

My reproductive years have been divided pretty evenly between taking sensible precautions NOT to get pregnant and feeling like a total chump for ever passing up any opportunity TO get pregnant as I found myself injecting synthetic hormones into the fat where my jeans dig in if I sit down too long. "I'll never use birth control again, and just take as many as I get," I proclaimed confidently, assuming that might total zero, or possibly one. 

For a long time that was working pretty well, what with all the subfertility, and then when Sophia was two, a mere couple months after my period returned (I know, right?! Talk about your lactational amenorrhea), I popped a second pink line and whaddaya know, it stuck. And is currently wearing footie pajamas with penguins, and insisting on one more drink of water. 

And then my period came back even sooner this time -- eighteen months, a mere eyeblink for me -- and it got regular. And stayed regular. Turns out all those things I do to manage my PCOS -- taking metformin, eating mostly protein and vegetables and healthy fats, exercising -- well, they actually WORK. So hey, my bloodwork looks great and now I have regular periods without pharmaceutical assistance for the first time since EVER, and maybe this is the height of hubris but I kind of feel like if I wanted to get knocked up it might conceivably (har!) happen. 

Except now I got some shit I need to take care of. Like finish my prereqs and get into nursing school and GO to nursing school and once in a while wipe my ass without an audience. And babies have a way of interfering with all of those activities. Because of my history of hellish reactions to exogenous hormones (from the Pill to the subcutaneous shots, I FEEL IT ALL) I didn't want any of the hormonal methods of birth control. Which left barriers and IUDs.

Oh, did I mention my history of ectopic pregnancy? Used to be that disqualified you for an IUD. So we bought condoms and then I came up with a million reasons that we didn't need to use one JUST THIS ONCE IT WILL TOTALLY BE FINE so I asked for a cervical cap and they don't make those anymore and so I got a diaphragm and had to chase all the fuck around town looking for one BIG ENOUGH FOR MY GIANT CUNT and then I think it might've actually been a little too big. At any rate it was always uncomfortable. For everyone involved. Especially all the pharmacists I harrassed.

Also? Some men are very sensitive to spermicides.  

I had resigned myself to monthly nail-biting sessions when a good buddy pointed out that the IUD recommendations had been updated recently, meaning that even with my history of ectopic pregnancy I could convince a nice lady to shoehorn a little copper T into my ladyparts. The putting-in was just fine, and the bleeding wasn't a big deal. I expected a couple heavy months. I did NOT expect the string to have to be readjusted by an unpleasantly surprised husband as often as it needed -- although now that I mention it, it's been a while since it was a problem -- and even months later I still reliably have midcycle bleeding. Not spotting, either. BLEEDING. For a couple days. Which is not cool but preferable to the alternative of BABIES. I forget about it when it isn't happening so I never do anything about it and just deal. Periods are pretty normal by now, though.

So. Yeah. Hormone-free Paragard works for me. It does highlight the relative paucity of options, though -- there's not really much variety. There are hormones, there are barriers/spermicides, and then there's copper. (Mirena counts as hormones in my book.) If you are in a position to require contraception (for example, nekkid on your back with your heels to the sky), have you found something that works well for both parties? 

Gretchen:

My period returned at a whopping 6 weeks postpartum with both babies.  I have never in my life used any form of birth control other than the occasional condom (oh, shut up) and knowing when I ovulate (I am so regular, it's stupid).  So I've decided to go on Mirena (my periods have always been excruciatingly painful and heavy) and would love to hear of any experience with it.

A Married Person Tells You How to Get Divorced

Allow me to preface this by stating that I have never been divorced. But since my own life is lacking in dramatics and that particular flavor of conflict, I have been able to devote a not insignificant amount of time and energy to observing the divorces of others. Some might condemn my interest as prurient, rubbernecking even, but hey, you people are the ones who call me on the phone and the facebook and tell me shit. As an Impartial Observer of All Y'all's Divorces, I would like to offer the following handy tips:

1. Don't even try to be friendly with Ex. Yeah, yeah, it's the nineties and shit and it doesn't have to beeee like that with the animosity but guess what? IT'S GONNA BE. It's gonna be that way for a while, in fact. And the more you try to be reasonable and rational and fifty-fifty and even-handed, the longer you will draw out the unpleasant angry ugly phase. The more opportunities you give your ex to be a douchebag, the more he or she will BE A DOUCHEBAG. And by "opportunity" I mean "slightest chance to disappoint you or your children or not show up as agreed or refuse to do anything not mandated by law or even some things that are."  
   
    
2. Ditto Ex's family, unless there is a significant family divide of the type that results in convoluted letters to advice columnists and everybody is cutting Ex out of their wills and inserting you. These people are, more likely than not, the people who helped make Ex the way he or she is, so not only do they know all the same shitty tricks, they've been practicing a LOT longer.  
   
    
3. Never argue. Never. Ex and probably some of his or her family will be watching your every behavior for the opportunity to start a fight -- did you maybe nod towards a person of the opposite sex? Then you are a whore who takes in gentleman callers in front of your children, who will soon be removed from your care! Did you go out for fries with a friend while your children were left in the care of their loving in-laws? Then...see above. Also you abandoned your children. House getting a little messy? See all of the above and then add in Child Protective Services for living in filth.
   
   They will pounce on any chance to prey upon your insecurities. They want to draw you into an argument because it gives them the opportunity to show off their making-you-miserable chops and because as soon as you're in it, they've won. There is NO winning for you. You cannot win an argument with Ex, no matter how righteous you are -- and the second you start trying, you're at a disadvantage. The only way to get out successfully is to refuse to engage. Delete the text. Delete the email. Hang up the phone. Turn on your heel and walk away.
   
    
4. Cut them off sooner rather than later if their behavior proves troublesome. I don't mean interfere with custody or anything like that; I mean, if ex-Grampa is giving you shit, then he sees his granddaughters on Ex's time and not on yours. If Ex can't be respectful to you, then ex interacts through your lawyer. Does it sound extreme to do that if Ex is just being a whiny little shit like he/she always was the whole time you were together? Maybe. But I'm right. Trust.
   
   
   
5. Prepare to be disappointed at every turn. Alternately, have zero expectations. Need a weekend to care for a dying grandparent? Don't expect any favors from ex -- and by "favors" I mean switching weekends or ceding as little as an hour of child care in order to help you. Did Ex agree to come over to take a kid to the park? Be ready for Ex to show up long enough to throw a coloring book at the child and then have to disappear on "urgent business" (read: booty call). Or just not to show up at all, leaving you to explain to the child.
   
   
   
6. Steel yourself to be hurt on behalf of your children, again and again. Because Ex doesn't feel like paying the child support on time (because you're just going to spend it on whiskey and red shoes!) and they get to eat ketchup sandwiches for dinner again. Because they are so obviously not a priority in Ex's day as evidenced by the string of broken "dates" or shuffled custody plans -- and yet those kids still need and love that parent and believe, every time, that Ex is coming over just like he or she said.
   
   Because Ex is willing to let them down again and again, just to get under your skin. The fact that they have feelings just doesn't even register in Ex's rush to piss you off or hurt you or inconvenience you. And somehow that is even more heartbreaking. 
   
    
7. It's possible that if you follow all those tips, some years down the road, you will have the comfortable, friendly, reasonable, rational divorced relationship you thought you could have. It's been done. But in the majority of cases I have personally dealt with, that peace only comes after years of really heavy boundary-drawing. So why wait? Start demarcating those lines right away. At best you'll end up with something that works down the road; at worst you will have made your reputation as someone who is not to be trifled with -- even if that doesn't change the day-to-day terms of your existence. 
   
   

Did I describe your divorce or breakup? Not on purpose. The examples I used, I only used if I had heard them from more than two people. More than two. I hear the same story again, and again, and again. Who are these shitty people and why are they marrying my friends in the first place? And is there some book they've all read?

Maybe you had a good divorce. Maybe you're one of the lucky few who can jump right to the peaceful phase. That's wonderful and I am genuinely happy for you. But don't assume you will be among them, no matter how willing to compromise you might be. It's so much easier to move the boundary back than it is to push forward belatedly. I'm not suggesting being combative or argumentative -- just be prepared for the other party to be. Just be firm. Be clear about your limits. Prepare for the worst. And for the love of god, remember that the argument is always a quagmire. 

OH GOD IT'S TMI FRIDAY and I'm still recovering from Thanksgiving. Check back later today or tomorrow. WHEW.

Tuesday Night Tales: What Vermeer Never Painted

Once upon a time, there was a young woman who looooved her some hallucinogens. She loved them SO MUCH that she would do almost anything to experience their swirly pulsating charms -- even it if meant forgoing a reasonable sleep schedule. And that girl had a sister and a friend and that sister had an apartment and that friend had some connections that necessitated an eleven p.m. drive into the suburbs of Richmond to procure a few precious squares of blotter and you know what, why wait until tomorrow? When we could drop that shit toNIGHT, bitches? 

Yeah, it was midnight before they got back to that apartment. But they were young and must not have had jobs to go to the next day so put some sugar on that tongue, girl. At one point it seemed like a great idea to jump up and down! A lot! It was like flying! And the next day the young woman's knees felt like they were full of ground glass but it was totally worth it.

So in this apartment, the refrigerator was located at the end of a blind corridor exactly six inches wider that the refrigerator, and there was a seven-foot-high window that let in the light of the brightening dawn, and that light slanted golden into that corridor, dust motes dancing, sparkling, and the golden light on the ivory walls and the dark heavy moulding was like a Vermeer painting, rich with impeccably rendered detail and the heartbreaking light, oh god, the LIGHT.

And the young woman and her sister and her friend stood transfixed at the vision of an Old Master's painting right there in the apartment, the mind-bending improbability and yet undeniable rightness of the dingy refrigerator in that golden, golden light, the illusion of timelessness in a dead-end hallway, a painting come to life, the rising sun beaming through begrimed glass onto...onto...

"Wait a minute," said the sister, squinting into the corridor.  One solitary aqua can stood atop the ancient refrigerator, shattering the sepia dream into a million oh-holy-fuck-I'm-so-tired-of-tripping-where-is-the-goddamned-weed shards. Summoning the last of her discernment and disbelief she spat the words, "Vermeer never painted FRESCA." 

 

 

Tell Me Something Good

I'm trying to memorize a whole chapter of my Anatomy and Physiology textbook about digestion, but I'm getting all tripped up on the section about salivary glycoproteins. You know, mucins? That are, and I quote, "primarily responsible for the lubricating action of saliva?"

Yeah, so guess what I'm thinking about.

There are lots of heavy topics I want to get into -- the cost, for a woman, of speaking frankly and explicitly (and, okay, with obvious relish) about sex; sex ed in the home (you're going to need to sign this permission slip before your teenagers are allowed to have dinner at our house); some other things I have banging around in my head. But damn, I am exhausted and I have a lot of studying and busywork to complete before Tuesday evening. And I would love to know what y'all would like to talk about. 

So tell me something good. Or something interesting. Or something confounding. Give us a little to go on and we'll sass you back, but I think the Sassmouth girls are pretty tapped out right now.