Caloden

My winter gig of working on the ski mountain is a pretty good deal. The entire family gets free season passes. Devon gets to come with me and be in the nursery -free of charge. The kids get great lessons, which keep them busy ALL day and we all go home exhausted. And there is even a very small pay check waiting for me every couple of weeks. However, as I discovered with my last forray into employment, working just doesn’t leave enough time for the really important things. I rarely can make it to my blog everyday, which jams up my inner dialogue and causes me to have nearly constant, ongoing posts in my head. The children are again in sockless hell, a bit of an issue in the winter months of Colorado. I have not done a creative thing in months because I am just too whipped to lift a finger any higher than the height of the remote control. And it is not as though I am without the desire to be productive. I still am making my New Year’s list of resolutions. Although valentine’s Day was not my best effort this year, Easter and Cassidy’s brithday are on the horizon and they both bring out the Martha from Hell within me.

Luckily the snow will soon start to melt, ski season will come to an end and my small world will again become small.

Holy fuck. So drunk, I am. Very slow, I must type. Going out with highschool coherts, for a tatoo. Mix that with large amounts of wine and no amounts of dinner =a baaaaaaad entry.

P.S. No tatoo for me. But lots of pics of she who got one. If only I can find them hidden in my new camera……

I am well aware of my first class, one way ticket straight to hell. I think I first became eligible for this hot item when I hit puberty. I was an amazing bitch, an Uber Bitch, if you will. And I enjoyed it. As the years went on, I accumulated so many sins and evils that the ticket became a known for me. And I am fully all right with it all.  The way I figure it, Hell is littered with the coolest and most fun of people, it will be an eternal rave sort of party.  It will always be warm and since there is no sun, we pigment challenged people will never have to worry about tanning beds again. But sometimes as I trudge through the days I catch myself in small ways when I realize the depths of my evil, and at these moments I understand why the Pearly Gates will never open for me. For example, since I have begun posting about health issues, I cherish the occasional headline about a celebrity death. The younger and more famous, the better. An old famous fart may die in his sleep, but not a young one. Oh no. A young death smacks of foolishness or a heart attack. And that smells like a worthy post for me. And even better, an unfolding story means more than one post, which means more than one paying gig for me.

I am bad. Bad, bad, bad.

Help me. I have a toddler and he’s winning. Somebody come and save me.

Loren has this week off of school. He has been busy depleting my bank account as fast as possible as he eats his way through the ski cafeterias every day. I am thrilled that he has such a devotion to snowboarding and so I bite my toungue as I run to the ATM and deliver him every morning to the designated meeting spot with his friends. My favorite part of these days, other than knowing he is spending his days doing what he loves most, is the conversations we have as we drive.  Sometimes it’s politics (or my warped, liberal views of them), sometimes gossip -just whatever he brings up, I go with it.  Yesterday as we passed our small, local movie theatre we saw the ad for Brokeback Mountain. I have not yet seen it and expressed an interest in doing so.

“Oh, yuck, Mom. Why? Do you know what it’s about?” he practically yelled.

“Cowboys, I think.” I vaguely replied, as I had a feeling where this was all heading.

“Duh, Mom. They’re gay.’
“And?”

“Eww.  Mom, they have…well, they have butt, you know.”

“No, Loren, I don’t know.  You tell me.”

“You know. Butt.  Behind relations.  With each other.” He said as he looked anywhere but at me.

“Oh, so the whole movie is about butt relations?” I played along.
“Yes, they actually do it!”, realizing I was not a total moron after all.
“Well, hmmm.  That seems a bit odd. Seems like anything that drastic might not be at the local theatre.  It also seems like that might not be the most interesting movie topic. I think it is more a movie about a love story. I think it sounds lovely, brave, moving.”

“But mo-om, they’re gay.”
“So. So are alot of other people. Chances are a couple of people in your class might be gay. Some people at your school. People at my work, at dad’s work. So what. Some people have heart defects, like your little brother. Some people have blond hair. Some people speak four different languages. Some people are geniuses and others aren’t. So what. In fact, I bet we know some people who are gay and you might not even realize it. It is just a facet of their being, not their whole indentity.” I said, aiming for a tone of Cool Momness mixed with some Get-your-head-out-your-assness.

“Like who?” He asked, and I could see I now had his interest.

And here is where I may have crossed a line, delivered something I was not authorized to do so.  But I am his mom and he is my son. I refuse, absolutely REFUSE to raise a close minded fool to release into this close minded foolish world. So I said:

“Well, take your uncle, my brother.”

“WHAT?” Fully having his interest now.

“Yep. I am not sure if he is bisexual or gay, we don’t hit on that subject too often. But yes, your uncle.”

Silence for a mile or two.

“Is that why he never brings home a girl? Is that why he drinks and does drugs? Is that why he is bi-polar?” The questions came at me like a machine gun.

“Well, I would suspect that is why we have yet to meet a woman in his life (my brother is now 39). He is bi-polar because that is the way he was born. And, I believe, he was born with homosexual tendencies. But one does not lead to the other. As for the drinking and drugs, I think it is tied into his bi-polar status. And this is not to say that all people with bi-polar are drug addicted alcoholics. Nor is it to say that all homosexuals are bi-polar. This is just your uncle.” I looked over at him to if it was sinking in.

After a few minutes he said, “You know, it makes sense. He likes Hugh Grant almost as much as you do, Mom.”

“Wanna see the movie with me?” I asked, testing to see if our talk was a success.

“No. But how about The Pink Panther?”

This was one of those times when I was doing my best as I was flying by the seat of my pants. I so want to have an open minded, liberal son. I don’t want to brainwash him but the thought of him growing up to be closeminded and a Republican physically hurts.  And did I sell my brother down the river? I don’t know. Frankly, my brother has so many issues that his sexuality seems to be at the bottom of the list. I don’t think Loren will treat him differently next time we see him.  And knowing Loren, he likely forgot about the whole thing by the time he got on the chairlift.  Will I continue my Too-Much-Information chats with my kids? Oh, yes. I figure they can take what they want and ignore my rants and raves for what they are -sort of like picking out their favorite colored M&M’s from the candy bowl.

Sometimes there is so much damn noise in my head that I don’t even know where to start. Make a list? Go for a walk? Pour a drink? Or maybe just sit and listen to the voices, maybe I’ll learn something.

My Disgust-O-Meter has been completely maxed out this weekend. Yesterday began with Cassidy stepping out of the bathroom, proclaiming that she had just ,”peed out of her butt.” Recalling that Devon had spent the better part of the past two days filling as many diapers as possible, I made a mental note to not make her a lunch and to call her teacher about the absence. What started as an iffy day quickly turned to outright horror. It seemed that everytime I was cleaning Devon’s ever reddening arse, Cassidy was planting either her top end or back end on the pot and spewing bodily fuids everywhere but into the toilet. Good thing for baby wipes otherwise I would have simply walked. Mucous and barf. Can’t do either one of them. Bowels movements in any form deposited neatly in a diaper, that I can handle. Liquid chocolate dripping down the side of the comode, no can do. Cass does not suffer silently. The maternal side of me truly felt for the girl. Nothing would stay down, not soup, sherbert, ginger ale, water. But the part of me that is eternally fed up with drama, that side wanted to run screaming from the house. I must have looked at the clock every ten minutes for the entire duration of the day -just hoping for the light at the end of the tunnel.

Depsite the invasion of stomach hell, yesterday was also meant to be a milestone of sorts in our wee home: it was to be Devon’s cinematical debut. We had decided to see Curious George after school. We invited Loren’s best friend and his mother, who is also Devon’s Godmother. As the time drew near I told Cass to buck up, not swallow a thing and put mind over freaking matter. Not every child would be able to do this, but Cass is no mere child. She is a trooper made of far better stuff than the average person. I had given her an out, an option to call off the movie for another day, but she would have nothing of it. So suck it up she did and off to the movie we went. Devon was IMPRESSED. We walked in to the movie just as it started and he leaned back, dropped his softie and yelled at the top of his lungs. Then he ran down the aisle, yelping and growling. He did this for the entirety of the movie, except when he removed his snowboots and went aisle to aisle offering them to the various movie guests. Overall I have to claim it as a success. Cassidy didn’t barf, Devon didn’t scream in fear, the movie was cute and the soundtrack, by none other than my favorite-Jack Johnson- was fabulous. Quite a turn around from the beginning of the day. Of course this morning started out with a bang when Cassidy went to the bathroom for a glass of water and promptly puked all over the place, but I got out the wipes, plopped her in the tub and went in search of coffee.

Tonight I went to my first ever Weight Wather’s meeting. I know most people do this during the first week of January, but I believe this to be a seriously bad move on their part. To jump right into that sort of thing right off the bat is silly. You can’t possibly know if anything as serious as a WW commitment is the best move for the new year. You definitely need at least four weeks to think it through. That brings you to the end of January, at which point Valentine’s Day is practically staring straight in your face. I don’t like to commit in the beginning of February because who knows what the cupid might bring. February 14 could arrive with dozens of chocolates, a fancy, gourmet dinner, a weekend at a taster’s benefit. No, this has never actually happened to me, but it just might. So to be saddled to a weight losing regime would be pure folly. I say the best time to truly begin the New Year is February 15. That is a clean slate.

So tonight as I was attempting to get out of the house, Cassidy was trying to weasel her way into coming with me.

“Please Mommy.” she begged.

“No, honey. This is for big girls.”

“Oh, I’m big. I’ll be a big girl, just like a nine year old.”

“No, baby. I mean Big Girls”, I said as I pointed to my mid section.

She looked at me for a moment, cocked her head to one side and shot back, “You’re going to a meeting for fat girls?”

“Yes, babe. Fat Girls.  And a skinny little thing like you? All us fatties might just eat you up if you came to the meeting.”

Sometimes the best thing in the whole world is a helium filled latex balloon. 11 inches of floating happiness. 99 cents of joy. Especially if you are just about two feet tall and you can attach the balloon to your person.  For as long as that baby stays aloft all is well.  Not much can beat that.

When I was a kid winter skiing, either alpine or cross country, was a big deal in our house. My father had forgone big firm law opprtunities by relocating his young family to the mountains, all in an attempt to avoid the weekend ski traffic. So whether we wanted to or not, every weekend we trouped out the door, into the cold and up the lifts. There was many a weekend day when I looked down yet another impossible mogul field, seeing my father and brother at the bottom, when I hated them and their skiing ease with all my heart. The weekends were split into lessons on Saturday and family days on Sunday. And then later, in prep school, we spent anywhere from two to three days on the hill as well. The exception to this was every four years when the Olympics magically came to our world. Then we would gather round the TV and watch all weekend long: alpine, cross country, the nutty lugers, the ice skaters. I loved it all. It meant no long treks from the parking lot to the lift, no hefting my horrid gear, no trudging in those god-awful boots, no freezing thumbs, no life shortening, child eating moguls….

To this day I still love the Olympics. The drama. The life stories about the athletes’ devotions. The athletic excellence. Those people are pure grace. Last night I began this year with watching the speed skaters. I have done no preparational research for this year’s Olympics. I don’t know who from what, except from the little cut -in dramas that the TV network offers. No matter, I jumped right in and started rooting. Although I give nary a hoot about speed skating, I was suddenly entranced. The beauty of those skaters as they swish around the rink again and again. And then suddenly Matt grabbed the remote and changed channels. He explained that they had many laps to go, all the laps looked the same, we could hop in for the last few laps and all would be well. No. Not at all. ALL WOULD NOT BE WELL. These are the Olympics for fuck’s sake.

Now, to give him a break here, I have to mention that he might no fully grasp the history here. My father was super busy with his work when I was a child. After ditching the big city firm, he started his own. He worked 26 hours a day. Eight days a week. Until ski season or an Olympic year. We’re talking sacred ground. So in an attempt to recapture my lost youth, I grabbed the remote, told him that although the laps looked the same, it was our duty to watch every freaking one of them.

Tonight there has been no argument. Downhill, speedskating, snowboarding. Drama. It’s all here in my living room.  And I love it.