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2.26.2010

Tire-Gate...

So far 2010 has been all about Tiger-Gate and the myriads of women he's fucked.

Let me tell you, Tiger has nothing on Tire-Gate...

This past Wednesday night as I left work I noticed my van was making a funny noise. I was yakking away on my phone, talking trash to a guy so I didn't pay it much mind. By the time I'd gotten off the interstate I was pretty certain that the dull roar that was slowly getting louder and the sluggish pull of my steering indicated I was developing a flat tire. No biggie, I'd had a slow leak for a while and have an air compressor at home. The closer I got to home, the more I prayed ohGodpleasejustletmemakeithome.  I make it home, get out and examine the tire... which is um... flat... and uh, smoking. Holy fuck.

I go into the house, Dad is finishing up dinner on the stove. I said I have a flat tire. He says no problem I can fix it.* I said yeah but it's not only flat, it's smoking. The tire is done for and I need the spare put on. He says yeah but it's no problem.*

*Let the record show that whenever my dad says "No problem" this indicates that we are indeed about to have a very big problem.

Dad says he will simply blow it up.
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Before I can continue I need to explain something about my dad. You know those men, those fathers that are handy with tools, can fix relatively minor problems around the house, change the oil on the car and do those basic "manly" things?

My dad is not that man.

My dad is more like this. If it doesn't involve duct tape or Gorrilla Glue he can't fix it. Well, he can't fix it properly. There's a difference. My father is the man that will fuck up the simplest repair and spend gobs of money doing so, only to eventually have to admit defeat and call a professional to repair all the shit he fucked up plus the original repair. That is my dad and I love him anyway...
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Getting back to the tire. Dad said he'd blow it up. He gets the air compressor, attaches it to my tire, turns it on and voila! The tire begins to fill up with air. I went inside to check on the kids and about 5 minutes later Dad follows. He takes off his coat, fixes a plate of food and a salad and sits down to eat.

Then I heard the explosion.

Le fuck? Perplexed, I looked out the front door and see my tire, if possible, FLATTER than before. I turned around and yelled in disbelief "YOU LEFT IT ON?!" "You sat down and ate and left the thing on?!"

He said "No problem*, I'll just put the spare on. Won't take but a minute."

It took longer than a minute. It took the rest of the night... the following day... and most of today.

So, first he had to locate my jack and spare tire. Found those except the part of the jack that you use to get the lug nuts off, well dad had fucked that piece up the last time I had a flat tire. He bent it almost beyond recognition. Anyway, he got the spare out and propped against the car. The attempt to get the lug nuts off did. not. go. well. At all.  Dad blamed the mechanics and airguns. I thought they were called air wrenches but what do I know, being a girl and all. At this point I mentioned that we could simply call a tow truck and have someone put my spare on. Dad says no, I can do it. It is at this point that silent pleas are flung heaven-ward by me.

Dad tried and tried and could not get the nuts off the van. He leaves, goes to Wally World and comes back with not one but two wrenches ($25 & $35 dollars respectively) to attempt to get the nuts off. 30 minutes later he comes in triumphant. One lug nut has been removed. He holds the wrench up as proudly as an Olympic torch bearer. Then he says except, um, I can't get the nut out of the wrench. Quoi? Sure as shit, the nut is jammed in the wrench. Of course the other extensions on the wrench don't fit my tire at all so... let's leave that till morning and try and work it out.

4:30 Thurday morn: Dad is outside still struggling to get the lug nut out the wrench. He gives up and tries to use the fucked up wrench from my jack. Doesn't work. I get the kids up and ready for school. Dad drives the kids to school and drops me off at work. He says that he's going to buy a compressor and air gun (wrench, I corrected) "since this is a problem we'll always have." I timidly point out that you know, we could call a tow truck and spend about $75 and be done with it. No, he says, he can handle it.

Quarter of nine that morning my girl friend calls me at work asking have I heard the news? No, what? EVERYONE that left out the front gate yesterday got flat tires. Hoards of angry worker are rushing the police department at work because the tire spike strips malfunctioned and slice people's tires to ribbons. We're talking hundreds. She tells me call the police dispatch and give them my info and the government will reimburse my costs for repair. Jubilant, I call my dad with the news. "Go ahead and call the tow guy", I said. No, he's getting the compressor and other stuff.

Fuck.

3pm he gets my kids from school. 345 he gets me from work. The entire way home I hear about this fucking compressor and all that's wrong with this brand new equipment that he has no idea how to use. All evening he grumpily tried to get it going. All evening he failed at said task. At one point he got it going and tried to remove the lug nuts. Nope. He comes in and declares disgust and defeat and sits at the table brooding. Suddenly his face brightens and he announces that he thinks he knows what he did wrong:

I had it in reverse.

*facepalm*

Tries it again. DOES NOT WORK. More grumbling and raging, equipment brought back into the house, I'm going to bed, door slams.

Fast forward to this morning: Dad announces he will try again and if he can't get it he'll admit defeat and call me to have someone remove the tire.

By 10am he called me to admit defeat and have someone remove the tire, natch. I call a company close to my house, kindly gentleman answers and says sure thing, I can do that. It'll cost $45. Mr Tow Guy comes to my house, removes the tire in 2 minutes,

2.19.2010

Infuriated... Indignant... Indecisive...

In the 1950s my father went to a Catholic school specifically for blacks in the inner city. He grew up during the Civil Rights era, never participating, only observing. Based on what he observed, he formed his own opinions on race relations.

In the late 1970s thru 1991 I attended Catholic schools. I learned that there was a special month dedicated to Black History by watching an episode of the Cosby show one Thursday night. I believe it was Theo that had to write an essay about the Civil Rights movement and did a piss poor job of it and the grandparents ended up schooling him on it. I sat enthralled. There was no mention of this stuff in my history books at school. There was a token picture of Martin Luther King somewhere but aside from being shot dead and making a speech about a dream I really had no clue about history, slavery, Civil Rights, black power, black inventors, nothing. Far as I knew the only significant black in American history was Crispus Attucks and I didn't learn his race until nearly 8th grade. It wasn't until I graduated from Catholic school and entered a public high school that I really learned that, oh my fuck, there's an entire MONTH dedicated to us. Albeit it was the shortest month in the year but dude... in the libraries I learned about Benjamin Banneker, Phyllis Wheatley, Malcolm X, George Washington Carver, and so many more. Then I learned about local blacks like Bill Robinson, Arthur Ashe, Maggie Walker, John Mitchell, Jr. The more I learned the more I became incensed that WE, my people, my ancestors, were left out of so many books. After all the struggles and accomplishments, blacks couldn't even get a fucking paragraph in a textbook.

Fast forward to the present...

My daughters, yes both of them, now attend Catholic school. Jaalyn has attended this school since she was 4 years old. She is currently 9.

Not once has Black History Month been acknowledged at that school.

Not. Ever.

I asked the principal about it. Why didn't she mention a new person each morning before prayers commenced? They do it for all the saints on the feast days and the even read a short history of that person. The principal replied that she usually leaves that sort of "thing" to the individual classroom teachers. It's more of a Social Studies kind of "thing". And she admitted that when she taught third grade she never "got around to it" until March.

I blinked.

And then I mentioned that March is actually National Women's History Month.

I wasn't sure I even heard her correctly. I didn't want to hear her correctly. Because... That. Is. BULLSHIT.

What the fuck? Seriously what fucking year/century... I mean WHAT?! The goddamned President of the fucking United States is fucking BLACK. When he won the election last year it made fucking HISTORY.

How can... let me pause because I'm getting heated...

I simply don't understand it. The school my girls attend is pretty diverse. Way more diverse than the schools I attended. Often there were two blacks in my classes; me and Georg (no -e, just Georg). We were like pepper in the salt shaker you know? Very evident, very obvious, very awkward. But my girls' school has more black students, black teachers, Asian students, ESL kids, Hispanic and Latino children. The bulk of the student body is still White, but when you look out at the sea of cherubic faces every shade of person is represented in some way. Yet...

No one celebrates it.

I can't tell you how insanely angry this makes me. It's not just about Black History, Women's History, Asian-Pacific or whatever. It's about education. It's about the fact that I pay money for this education and not just a little bit, I pay a LOT of fucking money all year long. I pay because I want my kids to have a better education than the public schools can provide. I pay big bucks for that privilege. But when shit like this happens, I feel like I'm getting a raw deal. Because they are not teaching my child as much as they could. Hell as much as they should.

My daughter already gets angry when she notices toys specifically marketed to white children or the token black person in some of her favorite shows. She has a very loose concept of what racism consists of and understandably despises it. The kids in her class are very bright, very inquisitive as all children are at that age. Their minds are the proverbial sponge primed for soaking up succulent morsels of knowledge...

And all their school give them is vinegar.

I could do something about it. I did bring the matter up with Jaalyn's teacher but I got no results. Well, that's not entirely fair. She told me there just hasn't been time to teach it. Okay, that's understandable with the snow days, parent/teacher conferences and so on. Now, I'm no professional teacher but I do know that dropping facts to kids in a fun manner can take oh I don't know... 10 minutes max? I'm not asking for a dissertation. I'm asking for acknowledgement. I'm asking that they try.

So like I said, I could do something about it. I could volunteer and teach the kids myself.

The question is should I?

2.17.2010

Urpy...

Blargh...

Saturday night:  I awake with a start in the middle of the night to find my daughter, Jaalyn, just staring at me. Annoyed I asked what on earth was the problem. "I'm hot." I was angry at first but then I looked at her eyes and then her flushed cheeks, called her over to feel her forehead and reached for the thermometer...

101.1... fuck.

I get up, give her motrin and get back into bed. I tell her that if she's not sleepy she can play on her laptop or watch a movie on netflix. About 5 minutes later I hear gurgling and then the eruption. How she managed to vomit all over herself, the bed, the blankets but not the laptop I'll never know. She's crying, scared, unused to the process of throwing up. I talk her through each convulsion, trying my best not to blow chunks myself (Note: chicken ravioli with alfredo sauce and broccoli are quite repulsive when regurgitated.). When it seems that her stomach is calming down I dash downstairs for towels, warm wet washcloths, sheets, etc. I get her cleaned up and by the time I begin stripping the bed she's already back on her laptop, chuckling at a game she's playing, buck naked to boot. After I change sheets I slip a fresh tshirt over her head, put her back to bed, and settle back down to try and get some sleep. 20 minutes later I'm awakened by movement in the bedroom. It's Jaalyn again, this time holding her panties in two fingers of one hand. Poor kid. Two new major experiences in one night: Vomiting and sharting. Another cleanup...

Sunday: I spend most of the day doing laundry, washing hands, washing everything Jaalyn's touched, cooking bland starchy food to combat Jaalyn's diarrhea and praying desperately that Trinity doesn't get the same virus. By the evening Jaalyn's able to eat normal food and keep it down. Her fever breaks during the day but returns that night.

Monday: I keep the girls out of school. Jaalyn, because she still has a fever. Trinity because I suspect she's incubating the virus and I don't want to expose her classmates to it. Fast forward to Monday night... Trinity sits up in the middle of the night and vomits... and then vomits again... and again... and again. Fuck.

Tuesday: I keep the girls out of school another day; Jaalyn's fever hasn't been gone for over 24 hours, don't want to expose her classmates to the virus either. Trinity is just miserable. To be three and unable to fully understand what's happening and why is frustrating to her. She doesn't want to eat for fear of throwing up again and doesn't want to drink anything either until I introduce her to ginger ale.

Love at first sip.

By mid-morning my stomach is doing it's own do-si-doh and a trip to the bathroom confirms that fuck, I've got it too.

By the evening it's evident something's not quite right with my dad. He claims it's his sugar levels, they've been running high for several days. Then he starts stumbling and bumping into things. I leave the room and come back to him seated in a corner at the kitchen table with is head laying on his arms, school boy style. He says he's really beginning to feel lousy. I tell him go to bed, I'll finish dinner although the smells of the food make me gag. Jaalyn's the only one able to eat a normal dinner. Dad went to bed and slept for 5 hours and then announced that yep, he's got the virus too.

Wednesday: I manage to haul my aching carcass out of bed and take Jaalyn to school. I come home and lounge on the couch with Trinity allowing the tv to babysit for another day. I don't feel too badly about this though because I notice with the new shows on Nick Jr. she's actually learning things and repeating them throughout the day. Now after a long nap we both feel much better, although Trinity I believe is trying to milk this illness for all the hugs, kisses and ginger ale she can.

Back to work and civilization tomorrow. I hope.

2.15.2010

Promises...

*sigh*

Yesterday I said I'd write more often. I looked forward to the task because after writing I almost always feel better about whatever's bothering me. Today, it's a chore. Writing means thinking; thinking means worry (for me) and I've done my best this entire weekend to just try and slow my brain the fuck down.

I don't know. Sometimes I wonder if I have the adult version of ADD because I have those moments where so many thoughts crowd my mind that I cannot focus on any one thing in particular and any attempt at doing so ends in failure. This is especially true at night or when I have something pressing to do. I become forgetful to the point of ridiculousness. More than once I've actually been in the middle of saying something and while speaking I'll completely blank out and forget entirely what I was talking about. It's insane.

So this weekend I've done my best to not think. To relax and calm my mind. Saturday was a bust and most of Sunday was too but today?

Bliss.

The girls entertained themselves with minimal fighting between them and I was left to my own devices. I had remote in hand and watched the History Channel nearly all frigging day. I've proclaimed before that I'm a history nut and on President's Day I'm in heaven watching... well, The Presidents. When I wasn't watching that I watched American Pickers on the History Channel website or else I perused other mundane material. Completely vegged out. I felt guilty at first, because it just seemed wrong, for whatever reason, that my kids played without me. But, they were fine and only sought me out if they needed someone to make a decision or to ask permission to use something.

All in all it was a lovely, boring day.

Soon though, I'll have to address all those dark thoughts lurking in my mind. Anyone reading this blog is aware of how unhappy I am with the direction my life is headed. I need to make changes but I procrastinate and refuse to address the issue. Why? *shrug* I don't know really. Maybe it's because there are certain aspects of my own character that have caused the massive fuckups recently; maybe it's because I hope the problems will go away on their own if I ignore them long enough. Or maybe I'm hoping to get a magic pill from one of my doctors that will make all the hurt, anger, pain and indecisiveness go away for good.

Or maybe I'm just lazy. I dunno. Right now I'm too tired to think on it (surprise).

I'll pick it up again in the morning.

2.14.2010

Emoting...



One of the things I dislike the most about having a public journal/blog is the fact that I always hesitate before writing what's truly on my heart. In the back of my mind there is always the fear that someone, somewhere will judge me, take things out of context or criticize. That's part of the reason I stopped posting daily/weekly.

However, I feel that writing enhances my thought process and helps me deal with little issues here and there. So I've made a promise to myself to continue to write, to try and write daily because I miss it. And I miss its soothing effects on my person.

That said, I wish sometimes that I could simply stop emoting. It's one of those things I typically characterize as being distinctly feminine and I firmly believe that it's a weakness. I can't stand getting emotional about things that don't involve my children. That type of emotion, the maternal kind, is okay. I can deal with that. That overwhelming, all-consuming, powerful love, wistfulness and occasional sadness of parenthood. That, I can tolerate.

What I hate is the other emotions that come with day to day living and contact with other people. On this day, of all days, I hate being reminded of love. I hate feeling sorry for myself because, lo, I have no one to love me. The ultimate slap in the face was finding out my suspicions about my kids' father were true. He is seeing someone, it's serious and he's thinking about making her a permanent fixture in his life.

That is a good thing. I am happy for him. He's always been the type to need another person to feel complete. He's not entirely a bad guy so, yay for him. But... it bothered me. Not in the sense that I'm jealous of his girlfriend. God forbid. I don't love him, don't want him, thank God daily that I had the sense not to marry him. It's just... it's that he was the least likely person I thought would find a mate. It bothers me that everyone else can find a special someone, while I get other women's leftovers (i.e. married men).

That thought gave me serious pause. That pause caused considerable pain. Somewhere in that mid-chest region, around that foreign object I keep forgetting I have otherwise known as the heart. I did have to ask myself, why not me? What am I doing wrong that I cannot get a single decent man in my life? For a long time I've always thought I was single by choice... hm. Seems I'm not exactly choosing it anymore.

What's my problem?

Is it really me? Or is it them?

I was once told by a former friend that because of the way I carried myself and the way I spoke that I'd never be attractive to black men. I laughed her comments off at the time and called them ridiculous. Absurd. She claimed that I acted as if I didn't need a man and black men in particular need to feel needed. Plus I spoke "like a white girl" and that intimidated black men and intimated that I felt superior to them.

I still think that's a load of bullshit.

Fast forward to the early part of last year and I was just in casual conversation with a married lover and he commented that the type of man I sought would never be found (for the record I said I desired a man that was intelligent, stable and would love me for me. I think I may have put in a few minor particulars that I can't recall at the moment but those were the top things I sought...). I asked why; he responded that I intimidate men too much. Just by being me. He said the way I carried myself was with the attitude of "I don't need you". I said well, I don't need a man. And I still feel that way. I don't need a man to feel complete. But I'll come back to that statement in a minute. Mr. Married Friend stated that that was exactly the problem. He said a man needs to feel needed otherwise he figures why bother?

*cue chirping crickets*

Hm.

So after that I went to another friend (another former lover but very close friend) and asked him the same questions... and I received the same fucking answers. What. The. Fuck. Seriously? I need to be practically desperate to pull a dude? A black man in particular? Getthafuckouttahere.

Look, I would love to have someone special in my life. I'd love to give every ounce of love I have in my cold, black little heart and have it reciprocated. In the relationships I've had in the past, all of which have been long standing, I was a great girlfriend. I was a great wife when I was married. This isn't just my opinion, all of my exes said the same thing. They really had no complaints and our relationships fizzled because of other reasons (like finding that one boyfriend was a psychotic, married, stalker or discovering that he wasn't man enough to handle responsibilities [that was baby daddy] or merely discovering that we were no longer suited for one another). So I really thought I was prime girlfriend material.

*cue the crickets again*

Evidently, I'm wrong.

As far as needing a man... please. I don't need a man. Yes, I'd like to have a good man but I won't be all miserable and on suicide watch (yeah, I've had some friends that were like that) just because I don't have someone with a three piece set at my side. Having a good man is like... It's like cooking a tried and true recipe and one day you add a different ingredient and it adds a whole new flavor to the dish. The dish was fine without the new ingredient, but better with the addition.

That's what I want. I don't feel incomplete. But I'd enjoy having an accompaniment.

Which brings me back to baby daddy and the new girlfriend. Again, I'm not jealous that she has him. Good Lawd she can take him (preferably far, far away from here... like Tanzania). I'm jealous that he gets the joys of the single life. That he can go out and date, whereas I'm either in the position of taking the kids with me or locating a sitter. He can go spend his money on himself. I spend my last dimes on the children. He can go out to places where singles congregate. I get the PTO and kiddie birthday parties. I think I'm more upset at the gross disparity in our lives than the actual outcome.

I wish... a lot more than I care to admit... I wish that I could devote more time on me. On cultivating my interests, maximizing my appearance, on being young and single. But I can't, or rather I can't seem to focus on that right now. Right now, as always, the focus is on the girls. And that's okay. That's my chosen lot in life and I enjoy it. But then natural feelings like the ones I'm experiencing now creep in and I start to resent things... people... my own children.

That's worrisome. I feel, as always, that I have the better part of the deal because I have the kids, I have all their experiences. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't experiencing burnout. That frightens me terribly. I don't like resenting my girls and I don't like not being able to fully enjoy them.

And truthfully, I'm not really sure how to deal with it or change it. I'm open to suggestions though.
NDVYXJF2NZP9

2.03.2010

And So It Ends...



Originally I was going to write about the passing of time, observing how my life has changed, has it changed for the better or worse, have I grown, etc.

Nope. Changed my mind.

Instead, I write about what's really on my mind. What I've really been wanting to write about despite fearing what others would think when they saw how I felt.

As anyone who reads this, or has ever read this or read my Blackplanet page, or anyone that even knows me at all... pretty much everyone knows how I feel towards relationships, men, marriage and the like. Recently there were a few that I thought would change how I felt; make me see the error of my ways and all that jazz. You know, make me see how fucking wrong I was about love, life, men and everything.

Bull-fucking-shit.

I've come to the conclusion that I am not relationship material. I simply am not. I can't deal with the emotions of the heart, the games of the mind, the bullshitty-ness of it. The fleeting happiness of being with another person just isn't enough to make it worthwhile in my opinion. Love fucking hurts like hell and I don't see why I should continue to subject myself to the pain like some sort of martyr.

Love isn't easy, relationships aren't easy. I know, I get it. It takes work. This time, like so many others I was willing to try. I was willing to make it work. I really thought I wouldn't get hurt, that I'd have this awesome ROI kinda thing going on... except...

Except that it didn't work out that way. Heart's broken. Again. FUCK.

I said it wouldn't happen.

I said I'd give myself those daily pep talks. The ones that state that I don't need a man/deserve the best/worth so much more. All lies. All bullshit. All dreams shot to shit.

AND I hurt. Fabulous.

So now what? Pick up the broken heart pieces and keep on looking? Dust myself off declare that this one little incident won't define me or deter me from future loves?

Nope. I plan to sit in the corner, lick my wounds and be a total bitch about it. I plan to be totally emo about it, channel my inner 14 year old girl and have a good cry. And once I've aired out my feelings and gotten past this fucking weakness, this sickness, then, I'll pick myself up, dust myself off and become that Ice Queen again.

Because after all, being the man hating, ball busting, bitchy Ice Queen doesn't get me hurt. I can cover my heart and all those weak emotions until there isn't even the smallest nugget of feeling left.

And I'll be just fine.

Just fucking fine.

I wasn't wrong in my initial assessment of men, relationships and marriage. There's nothing wrong with any of them in particular. They simply are not for me. Not at this moment in time. Perhaps not ever.

And that too, is just fucking fine.