Not Afraid to Use It

Peace On Earth, Good Will To Men

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Fri, 25 Dec 2009 17:31:00 +0000

Wishing everyone a Merry Christmas! A Happy Hanukkah! A Bountiful Boxing Day! A Serene Solstice!

Extra love and prayers to everyone today! May you be surrounded by people you love, who love you back, and may everyone find at least one moments peace. Even if you have the lock the bathroom door to find it.

**Updated to add: By locking oneself in the bathroom, I did not mean to bring upon myself the past 36-hour marathon of vomiting and other nastiness one associates with a 24-hour bug. Merry Christmas to me.

Snowy Temptations

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 04:00:00 +0000

Just because I posted a sweet little post about caroling doesn't mean that we've turned into a sucrose 80s family drama. We can't have snow without honoring the family tradition. Burning in hell never felt so fun.

Caroling

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Sat, 19 Dec 2009 05:35:00 +0000

We went caroling this evening, and it was an amazing experience. Our friend suggested and coordinated the whole event, and I have to confess I choked up several times over the course of the evening.

I haven't gone caroling since I was a little girl. I remember it being chilly and fun with hot cocoa and cookies at the end house. We had the cookies and cocoa waiting for us, but our caroling tour targeted several of our elderly neighbors. The looks on their faces when they opened their doors brought tears to my eyes. One gentleman thanked us and told us we had made an old man's night.

Christmas caroling seems to be a dying art. No one does it anymore. At least, it does not seem to be on the yearly Christmas celebration list. I think we get so caught up in the shopping and wrapping and decorating of our own houses that we sometimes forget to make our community beautiful. Even if that community is just a few of the houses around you.

I hope this is the start of something amazing, and that caroling will become a tradition in our neighborhood. It is something I am reminded to impress upon my children. The idea of bringing joy to other through something as simple as a song. Happy holidays, indeed.

Aced, With A Side of Slam-Dunk

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 21:29:00 +0000

I'm back in ATL right now for the sole purpose of taking an instructional technology exam in order to renew my certifications. I find it slightly ludicrous that I currently maintain five websites yet have to prove my technological prowess, but it is what it is.

For two months this test has been on the back burner for me. I've tried to study for it, but aside from the sample questions provided there has been a disconcerting lack of information available.

No matter how long I wanted to procrastinate, today was the day. At 2pm I walked into my old high school (flashbacks saved for a future post) and sat for this exam. When I asked what the pass rate was, I was told it was fairly high--about 60% Seriously!?!? Sixty percent is not all that high. The nice lady proctoring the test continued by saying that usually the younger you are the better you do; however, if you have been a stay-at-home-mom and have been out of it for a couple of years it might make things much tougher.

Which just fucking described me to a T.

So I sweated and bit my nails and took calming breaths as I squinted at the sixty questions. We had two hours to take the test, I was done in 35. Turns out I aced it. With a side of slam-dunk and a sprinkling of kick ass. I was a drama queen for nothing, but I'm cool with that. I sometimes still have dreams of going to class only to find out I have a final for a course I didn't even know I was taking. Let's hope this experience doesn't trigger any of that shit back up.

But for now, booyah for me! Off for a celebratory glass of wine.

Looking Up

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 04:21:00 +0000

Moving across country ever two years has made it hard to keep and maintain friendships. I didn't do so well in Tahoe. I didn't think I was all that different from the other moms, but somehow there was not a whole lot of clickage going on.

We are coming up on two years here in the DC area, and for the first time in a long time I have made friends with a few girls with whom I feel really comfortable. The shift from that mom whose kids play with my kids to friend has been gradual but satisfying. It has taken me a long time to learn that all friends don't have to be all things. Everyone has their strengths, and while it is nice when several strengths overlap, it doesn't happen all that often.

A few weeks back I met up with one of these friends at a local park. She has lived in the area a long time, so it is not uncommon for her to run into people she knows. Keeping an eye on the kids, I just sort of stood by while she chatted with someone she knew. At one point she put her arm around me and referred to me as one of her best friends.

She kept talking, but I swear to god the leaves stood still in the trees. There was a loud rush in my ears, then everything fell away until I could hear the clouds drifting overhead. No one has referred to me in that way in years. Years.

I needed a few hours to mull this whole statement over in my head. Not obsess about it, but work it through my ears and into my reality. So many of my adult friendships have been epic fails. I like this girl a lot, and we seem to get on really well. The fact that she feels so highly of me was a one-two slap to the face of the part of me that constantly sells myself short.

It is so easy to keep our eyes to the ground. We scurry after the hats and scarves and gloves our kids litter behind them as they move ever forward into the lives we create for them. For the first time in a long time I am looking up. I am meeting other eyes, and I see reflected back the substantial force that is me. And I have to say it is pretty fucking awesome.

Fucked Up Windows and Asshole Asian Trolls

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 15:37:00 +0000

Massive computer issues here. Computer won't boot up, and I am having a horrible time conquering a set of asshole Asian trolls out of the UK. Will update when I can get online. My apologies.

NATUI Holiday Giveaway

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 03:11:00 +0000

I need ideas, folks. I am search of presents of the masculine variety. Between my husband, father, and a brother-in-law I barely know, I am hurting for ideas.

Enter the NATUI Holiday Giveaway.

I was lucky enough to come across the mother of all Christmas albums this weekend. I've got a fucked up sense of humor, and let's just say this is right up my alley. Somewhere out there I've got a musical kindred spirit of the random persuasion. And this gem can be all yours.

Here's the deal: Leave a gift idea in the comment section. You can enter/comment as many times as you like as long as each comment has a gift idea for my husband, dad or BIL. Comments will be closed Thursday at midnight (EST), and Friday I will announce the winner drawn in some random fashion incorporating a hat and a preschooler.

I hate to be a spoilsport and put restrictions on your creativity but no suggestions of ties, belts, cuff links or anything that has to do with porn or sex toys. Obviously, I can come up with those on my own. I need ideas that work, people. So lay them on me.

A Jew and a Catholic Walk Into a Kmart

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 23:40:00 +0000

Now that December has rolled around and frantic Christmas preparations are underway, my friends and I are swapping notes on gifts and sharing recipes that are guaranteed to give our in-laws diarrhea. They don't call it the most wonderful time of the year for nothing.

It causes to me reflect upon our other great quasi-Christian holiday, Easter. This year, my husband watched my two and my girlfriend's two, and we headed out to the great land of Martha Stewart for the Financially Challenged, Kmart. I don't remember exactly why we chose to go. I suppose there must have been some specific toy I had on my list. Regardless, we hopped in her car giddy at the prospect of being kid free for two glorious hours.

We chatted about who knows what pointless drivel until walking across the parking lot I stopped dead in my tracks. I looked at her. She looked at me. It dawned on me to ask the question begging to be answered: How in the world am I going Easter basket shopping with a Jew? What the fuck is wrong with this picture?

To which we both broke into hysterical laughter as she answered: I know! I don't even know what the hell I am supposed to be buying! What even goes into an Easter basket?

In a week or two, I am going to this same friend's house for her yearly Hanukkah party. One of my favorite aspects of this phase of my life is the wonderfully diverse mix of people with whom we interact. I just know this holiday season is going to be awesome.

Facebook Smackdown: An Open Letter To My Sister

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 05:33:00 +0000

Dear What's-Your-Name*,

When you friended me on Facebook, I was privately filled with dread. While I rarely post anything on that site, the idea of you looking over my cyber shoulder was nonetheless disturbing. Still, for the good of the family, I friended you back and did my best to notice the photos you posted and make positive comments when I felt I could do so without compromising my integrity.

However, your behaviour over the past two weeks has been atrocious. When I posted photos of my wedding dress last week, I did it to share with the people who had attended our wedding. You were there, don't you remember? The Matron of Honor who laughed and played dress-up with our aunt's mink coat rather than help us with our pictures? Yeah. You.

I was standing next to Mom when she took your phone call on Thanksgiving Day. How you snipped and sneered into the phone asking why I took pictures in my wedding gown. Demanding to know if eight years was some kind of special Swedish holiday. As if the photos of your niece and nephew weren't enough to answer that question. I suppose that would mean actually paying attention to them.

I'm not surprised that you didn't leave any anniversary well-wishes. I mean, hell, you were only part of the wedding party. Damn you for making me right. Fuck you for not proving me wrong.

I might have let that slide save for the phone call I received last night. I rarely ever make any political statements in front of the family. It doesn't take a genius to know where I stand on certain issues, but yesterday I stumbled across a satirical site that had me pissing myself with laughter. In an uncharacteristic move, I became a fan. I didn't republish the headline. I didn't comment on it. I merely clicked a link.

Then, Dad called. He called me at 9 o'clock at night telling me that you had called him in tears because you had seen my Facebook page. You had followed the link and read about a petition for a divorce ban in California. That because you were divorced how insensitive I was, and you couldn't believe how terrible I was to support a movement that proclaims Jesus doesn't love you because you are divorced.

First of all, if you had been paying attention you would have seen that it actually reads Jesus does love you, just not as much.

But let me see if I understand this: You are a 33 year-old married woman with a child, who sees something you find confusing and opposed to the ideologies you believed I had. Instead of calling me to for an explanation, you called our father and cried to him on the phone? What did you think he was going to do? Reach through the phone and slap me?

Obviously your career as a public school Language Arts teacher has left you with a glaring gap in your vocabulary. The word is satire. Look it up.

I feel the sheer ridiculous nature of these two events leaves me no choice but to remove you from my account. The fact that you are family no longer qualifies you to have access to me via any social networking site. I would not tolerate that behaviour from any other person and frankly, I've enabled you enough. If ~~hell freezes over~~ you happen to call me, ~~Satan gives free sleigh rides~~ act like an adult and ~~the Styx is open for skinny-dipping~~ want to have a reasonable sibling relationship I am willing. Until then, I am done.

You will heretofore be referred to as my husband's sister-in-law.

Sincerely,
The Lonely Only Who Needs to Be NATUI In Her Real Life

Those Perilous Jacket Pockets

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 17:10:00 +0000

Ideally when the seasons change we wash and neatly fold the clothing no longer needed and exchange them for the new season. Or, as happens in our house, space needs to be made in closets and drawers so the outgoing seasonal clothes get shoved into boxes and bins and stored in the garage until next year. This means that every year when the winter jackets are hauled out going through the pockets is an adventure: the lipstick you've been looking six months to find, sticky cough drops you weigh the likelihood of poisonous or palatable.

A few years back we made an emergency trip to Minnesota for my other grandmother's funeral. Really cold weather had not yet descended upon us, so I grabbed my warmest coat to throw in my suitcase. During our stay in the windy subarctic suburbs of the Twin Cities, I was wholly unprepared for the runny nose and teary eyes that biting cold brings. At one point I dug into my jacket pockets to find the least crusty wad of tissue. I discreetly walked to the side in order to give my nose a good clearing. Wouldn't you just know that not only did I blow, but I cleaned my nose, if you get my drift.

This was all fine and good until about 45 seconds after I stuffed my tissue back in my pocket. What the hell was that smell? And why the fuck was my nose starting to burn? I pulled the wad back out of my pocket only to find that my "tissue" was actually a dryer sheet. I had blown my nose and scoured my sinus cavity with a dryer sheet. Now, there are many household items that can be repurposed, but this is not one of them. I spent the next six hours mouth breathing because the remaining scent in my nasal passages was so strong I believe I may have chemically burned my nose hairs off. It gave me a phenomenal headache to boot.

Therefore, the NATUI PSA of the day is to empty your coat pockets immediately. As in now. You will regret it if you don't. And no one likes a mouth breather no matter what the circumstance.

Happily Ever After: Eight Years Later

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 05:11:00 +0000

We celebrated our eight year wedding anniversary this week. For fun, when my husband got home from work we snuck into our room and pulled out my wedding dress. I have not worn it since we got married, and with the obsession with princesses in this house I wanted to surprise the kids.

I also told him this would be a no-go if my bra/corset were not packed in with the dress. Lucky for everyone, it was.

He got me strapped, hooked and zipped into my dress with minimal swearing or oxygen deprivation. He put his suit coat back on, and we walked into our daughter's room where the kids were having a bedtime story.

My daughter's jaw dropped.

Both my children enthused how beautiful I looked, and I think my mom got a little misty-eyed. Both the dress and cloak were a hit. When I twirled to show them how the skirt swirled, my son asked me if he could be Prince Philip. And so we danced together in the bedroom. He in his fuzzy dinosaur jammies, and I in my beautiful dress.

It was like a fairytale. Sometimes happily ever isn't the end but something we can haul out of storage every eight years. I can't wait for the next time.

Hide and Seek Gone a Fowl

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 05:52:00 +0000

Overheard in car today:

Daughter: Hey! You know turkeys hide behind rocks?

Me: They do?

Daughter: Uh-huh! You know where else like to hide? Behind trees!

Hubbie: I know another place turkeys like to hide.

Daughter: You do? Where!?!?

Hubbie: In the freezer.

I hope we don't receive any notes from the preschool teachers this week, or requests for any after school conferences.

The House That Jack Built

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 17:03:00 +0000

One of the high priorities on our own-a-house-list is to have a residence free of mice. We had them in Tahoe, which we learned is actually fairly common up in the mountains. However, the D.C. area is not the kind of place one would expect to find various kinds of wildlife. Since we moved here last year, our backyard has seen a woodpecker on steroids, a fox licking his balls on my patio, hordes of bowl-stealing squirrels, and of course the mice in our kitchen.

We have two cats, and I have to say that are the biggest waste of fluff and space I have every seen. They do nothing but eat crunchies and piss on my floor. They haven't done one thing to earn their keep, and if not for the fact that we shipped them from Sweden I would put them out on their hairy asses.

Earlier this week, in a half-hearted attempt to put toys in their rightful place, I meandered down the semi-cleared path through the playroom chucking toys into their proper bins. I went back and forth several times and finally noticed what should have been obvious save for all the other stuffed animals laying about. A dead mouse.

That's right. In my kids' playroom. A very dead, slightly-chewed little field mouse.

The grin on my face nearly split my cheeks. I called Hubbie in to document the momentous occasion. After ten years, we still can't figure out what motivated our big grey cat to kill this mouse. The only thing we can figure is that it must have been a suicide attempt. The cat was probably asleep, and the mouse forced its way into her mouth and tickled her tongue until it was gummed to death.

I am sure very few people are happy to see dead vermin in their house, but one dead mouse in the playroom is one less live mouse in my kitchen.

Rain, Rain On My Face

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 05:24:00 +0000

All other blog ideas went out the window last night when LittleMan decided to fall on the floor like a drunken lumberjack. Instant blood. Shrill screams. Likely broken nose. We therefore spent the evening at the ER trying to avoid standing next to the hacking and groaning members of the H1N1 U.N. Having a cute child with masses of bloody wads of tissue helps bypass some of the wait time, but I still feel like I need to huff a can of Lysol.

Diagnosis? Likely lateral fracture down the center of his nose. Follow up with a specialist in a few days when the swelling has subsided.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

So, for those of you who haven't been counting:

Hubbie's bike was stolen from the train station
I've got lingering bronchitis and a sinus infection
Our car broke down last week and left us without transportation for four days
LittleMan breaks his nose last night

And now adding to the list, Hubbie got passed over for a promotion tonight. He put in for it last week, but they were so sure of their likely candidate that they did not bother to interview any other applicants.

Tomorrow? Doesn't seem to look any brighter. If judging by today's antics are any indication, the next two weeks are going to be hell. What part of don't run in the fucking house is hard to understand? Or don't wave the sword? Don't throw the book? Don't swing your arms? If I didn't think my kids would rat me out, I would be tempted to tie his ass to the bed and keep him immobilized until his nose healed.

To say things have been a bit of a clusterfuck would be an understatement. At least Hubbie got a cool SARS mask out of the deal.

Finding My Hips

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 05:57:00 +0000

One sore spot with women is weight. You don't talk about it unless you are bitching about it. Kind of like scar comparison, you often hear women one-upping on the jiggles:

Ugh! Look at all this cellulite on my ass!

You think your ass is fat? Oh my god, I haven't seen my ankles since Little Johnny was born.

Your ankles are fine! Look at my fingers! I haven't been able to wear my wedding ring in ten years!

And on. And on. And on. I would think a little venting about perceived flaws would be good, except we never celebrate the other side of it.

I cannot tell you how many times in my life I have been called a bitch because I was thin. Even as recently as a month or so ago, a girlfriend I have known since high school and her mom told a group of people at a party what a skinny bitch I have always been. Have I been skinny? Yes. Have a been a bitch? On multiple occasions. I do not think they necessarily go hand in hand.

After my first pregnancy, I got in the habit of weighing myself at my parents' house. I did not have a scale at my own apartment, so on weekends we happened to have dinner at their house I would do a quick check. I had had terrible edema at the end of my pregnancy, and pissing out twenty-five pounds of water in a week was a pretty incredible experience. I wasn't making an overt effort to lose weight, but as the months passed I wanted to keep an eye on my weight to make sure I was staying healthy.

My sister happened to catch me at one of my weigh-ins. It had been a long time since I'd weighed myself, and she walked in right as the scale beeped. I remember feeling so shocked, and I asked her if the scale was accurate. Her whole demeanor changed. She looked almost gleeful. Oh yes, she assured me, that scale is very accurate. I weigh myself on it all the time, and it's the same as the one I have at home. She paused a moment, I suppose for effect, and then asked me what the scale read.

Over the years I have learned to hide my weight from other women, but I am also a big proponent of don't ask me if you don't want the answer. That smug, shit-eating grin she didn't bother to hide was so mean, and I was in such a daze I decided it was worth the risk.

What does it say? she asked. And so I told her: 127 pounds.

To say her face darkened would be an understatement. She hemmed and hawed some kind of congratulatory kudo and left the room, and barely spoke to me for the remainder of the visit.

I have had another baby since then. Bodies change. Physiques change. The awful truth I have come to realize is that no one is happy for you when you lose pregnancy weight. It takes a rare friend to share that you have rediscovered your ankles. That finding your hip bone is like greeting a long lost friend. I want to be able to shout from the rooftops when a week of walking my kids to school gives me the tiniest suggestion of a calf muscle.

I am tired of those shouts being empty echoes in my head. Accomplishments are meant to be shared, not used as fodder for ridicule. I suppose I am still searching for those gal pals who feel the same way. Those who are ready to celebrate the other side.

That Woman

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 04:49:00 +0000

I do not very often speak of the state of my marriage because I know I am the girl who is easy to hate. I have a husband who does everything. And by everything, I really mean everything. He irons. He cooks. He cleans the bathroom. He can change a battery, a tire or the oil. He got up every night to change diapers, and he always puts the seat down. Always.

He is in no way perfect, but he is perfect for me. I usually joke that I am married to a woman because of his housekeeping abilities, but in all seriousness I am one lucky bitch.

The past three weeks have been very tough for me. I very rarely get sick. However, I inhaled something, somewhere, that has taken up residence in my body and will just not leave. Initially, I had a brutal cough. Now, I am just a mess. Crackly ears. Stuffed nose. Bloodshot eyes. Racking cough. With the hours my husband has been forced to work lately, getting my ass to a doctor has just not been a priority. In the years since I have had children, this has been my truth. I have two options:

1) I can drag my three and four-year old to the doctor's office and have other people cough on them for two hours until my name is called. While we wait their little fingers touching nasty magazines harboring every pestilence known to man. Then, I am called back but sit another forty-five minutes in a tiny room and attempt to keep my children out of the cabinets.

2) Stay home and hope I eventually get better.

Over the past five years, I have always chosen Option 2. Until Tuesday.

I had not really reflected over how bad I was feeling. Just another day of daily grind. Until I took my temperature. It was not a high fever, but I do not fever very often. And the family with whom we'd just spent a significant amount of time had come down with H1N1.

I called my husband and said I needed to go to the doctor and get this shit sorted out. I wasn't convinced I had the flu, but enough was enough.

And here is one area in which my husband and I are not a good match. He is laid back. Very laid back. I am not good at asking for help. If I get to the point of asking for help, I need it. Really need it. I could tell that my news was not going over very well. I think it was more his brain kicked into gear starting to figure out the logistics of leaving the office, but I told him if it was a problem I would find someone to come watch the kids instead.

Shockingly, he called me from the train telling me he was on his way home.

I went to the clinic. I have never had a medical professional try and push drugs on me like this lady did. She actually looked at me and said Please let me give you drugs. Turns out I have bronchitis and a sinus infection. Awesome.

The nurse practitioner was nice, but incredulous when I told her I'd been like this for three weeks. She asked me where my husband was in all this and why had he let me get this sick. I rambled on about work hours and school schedules, and while she kept her face neutral I could see she wasn't buying one bit of it. Suddenly, I was one of those women. One of those women I just can't stand. The ones who marry good-for-nothing asshole men who are more interested in a cold beer and a football game than taking care of their family members.

That night, I had a talk with Hubbie. I asked him straight out the same questions I'd been asked. He didn't really have an answer. Between my not complaining, his late hours and subsequent exhaustion things just kind of got out of hand.

My feelings on the whole situation are very mixed. For the first time in the sixteen years that we have been together, I was embarrassed. I have never, ever been ashamed of his behaviour or embarrassed by his actions. Until I listened to my stuttering lame excuses as to my deplorable health condition. None of this was intentional on his part, but it is obvious that I slipped through the cracks. I needed to be taken care of, and being too sick to realize it, he should have stepped in.

We are going to work on communicating a little more. He on paying better attention. Me on expressing myself (or coughing more loudly in his ear). We'll work on it. I do not ever want to be that woman again.

Spreading My Wings

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 05:21:00 +0000

I'm here today, being featured at Indie Ink. It's my second appearance, and I am both grateful and honored that they liked me so much the first time around that they allowed me to submit another piece. My old timers may recognize the post. It involves contacting the family of a friend of mine who died in high school. I submitted it because even several years later, reading this entry still brings tears to my. I hope you enjoy it. And if you have the time, check out some of the other essays. They are phenomenal and put me to shame.

Coat of a Different Color

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 02:30:00 +0000

One of the hallmarks of becoming an adult is becoming privy to the stories of the elders in your family. Realizing they drank, skipped school, got fired from a job. When you can no longer cry you just don't understand! in a fit of teenage angst because you realize that they do.

I think one of the most gratifying moments as a young adult was my grandmother sharing stories of her and her sisters going out dancing. My grandmother had both an older and younger sister, all very close in age. As young married adults, the three of them would often meet up for a few hours of dancing. My grandmother's younger sister, according her her, was incredibly vain. She was a beautiful young woman. And she knew it. I think it was a bone of contention for my grandmother to have constantly heard growing up it's a shame you aren't as pretty as your sister Dolores.

On this particular night, the three sisters met up and walked to the dance hall. Smoking their cigarettes and having a good time. Dolores wore her new coat. Her beautiful, new and expensive coat. She twirled around, Don't you love my new coat. It was very expensive. Doesn't it suit me. My grandmother and her old sister rolled their eyes behind their younger sister's back. What a snooty bitch, they laughed to themselves.

Dolores also like to drink. A lot. After their evening out, as the sisters walked home, Dolores announced that she had to take a piss. She staggered off into the bushes, ungraciously copped a squat and relieved herself. Except that being stinking drunk meant that she had no coordination. And Dolores fell, straight back into the steaming puddle she had just created.

Fifty years later, my grandmother's throaty laugh crescendoed to a cackle. Oh the screaming! she laughed. She shrieked and screamed all the way home! She and her sister couldn't laugh then because Dolores would have killed them. But all these years later, laugh she did. The image still brought tears to her eyes. Her throaty laugh, pleased as punch that her sister had ruined her coat.

No one likes a braggart. It is one thing to celebrate a success or the completion of a goal. It is something else to brag about everything. Incessantly. My grandmother's glee reminded me that even decades later, there is nothing more gratifying than seeing someone get their comeuppance.

A huge thank you to Cristin for her brilliant post and therefore the inspiration to write mine.

Desperately Seeking A Remake

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 03:12:00 +0000

Sometimes we love a movie or a book and then the last five minutes or last five pages ruin the whole fucking thing. Even though it has been twenty years, I still feel this way about the movie Leviathan.

This movie had potential. It had amazing elements that made for a kickass story: off-the-record Soviet military operations, unwitting people in a dangerous underwater environment, secret scientific experiments involving human genetics. How in the world can you go wrong with that?

Let me tell you.

Instead of making a horror film that scared the shit out of the audience emotionally and intellectually, we get a giant monster jumping out from steamy corridors with lots of blood and body parts. Now the blood and body parts were fine. Justifiable even. However, instead of an Alien knockoff, couldn't we have used the genetic experimentation aspect to make an Aquaman meets Waterworld scenario? If the idea were to create a super soldier, how cool would it have been to follow that plot line down a scientifically intelligent path.

So, while I usually think remakes of films are a terrible idea, I am pleading with the Hollywood powers-that-be to hire a bunch of geneticists and rewrite and re-shoot this film. You have a whole generation of X-Files, X-Men, and Fringe aficionados who would flock to a film that pandered to both their intellect and their love of scientific horror.

I've Fallen In Love All Over Again

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 15:50:00 +0000

For more Wordless Wednesday click here.
For my Wordless Wednesday contributions, click here.

Is Sportsmanship Dead?

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 15:35:00 +0000

I had the opportunity to go to a Caps game last night (that's the Washington Capitals, for the NHL-deficient). We had a blast, and I was once again reminded how people watching at sporting events can be even more interesting than the game itself.

Throughout the evening, several people did a little seat-swapping to let their friends have a period in the better seats. One of the guys in our group was rooting for the other team. Very vocally rooting for the other team. He got to spend the second period in Caps season ticket seats, directly behind the goal. We could see him across the stadium. A jersey of blue in a sea of red. It was absolutely hysterical to see, even from afar, the syncopated hopping about and yelling.

After the second period, this brave young man came back and regaled us with his tales. The first thing out of his mouth was:

I have never felt so hated in my life. It was awesome!!!

Then he came to the meat of the matter. In the midst of all the hootin' and hollerin', the seven year old boy sitting behind him? Was throwing popcorn. At him.

Let me repeat: A seven year old boy was throwing popcorn at a 35 year old man. While his parents looked on in approval.

Blue Jersey man finally turned around and said: Look. Yell and verbally abuse me all you want to. That's fine. That's cool. Your kid throwing food at me is not. Psycho Caps family just blinked and tried to justify, then blinked when he continued, Your kid does that again, and I will have you ejected.

They shut the hell up. The food throwing stopped.

I am sure some would disagree, but I think this guy was spot on. Who the hell lets their children throw food at adults? Can he throw his lunch at his teacher when he doesn't agree with what she says? Can this child throw his crackers at his parents when they tell him to put his toys away? What the fuck? Like the guy said, yell, shout, dance, tease and nah-nah-nah with your fingers in your ears all you want. Throw food? Not in my book.

So what's the deal? Is sportsmanship dead?

The One Where I'm An Ugly American

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 04:01:00 +0000

I am fairly well-traveled. Enough so that while abroad I have spotted groups of Ugly Americans and exchanged looks with the locals standing beside me. Often times, if I never opened my mouth it was assumed I was a native.

Therefore, it is with great shame that I once found myself an unwitting participant in Acts Befitting An Ugly American.

We spent our honeymoon in the Dominic Republic, or, as the Swedes call it Dominikanska Republiken. I love how that rolls off the tongue. We were set for two weeks of sun, sleep, sex, and doing absolutely whatever the hell we felt.

One of the tours we booked was riding horses up in the mountains to look at waterfalls. It was awful. A bumpy, hot bus on a road with winding one point five lanes and no guard rail. Nauseous doesn't even begin to cover it. We arrived in one grateful, if not disheveled piece. We rode the horses, got rained on, snapped a few pics for posterity and were ready to head back to the comfort of our rooms.

I had several snacks in my knapsack, including an apple. I'd chewed on part of it in an unsuccessful attempt to calm my stomach. It only made it worse. I did not see a trash can around, and I did not want to chuck it on the ground. So, I asked our guide if I could give it to the horse. He told me that it was fine, and so I held the apple flat in the palm of my hand. The horse lipped it, nuzzled it, held it in his teeth for a second and then flung it to the ground. Now, I had a dirty apple with horse spittle dripping from it, and still no trash can. The guide explained to me that horses in the Dominican Republic are not often given apples. It was then that I noticed the boys standing around, staring at us. They worked cleaning and caring for the horses. They were looking at us with strange expressions on their faces, and the guide explained to them that in the States, giving an apple to a horse is not considered unusual.

One of the boys indicated that he wanted the apple.

I did not know what to do. There was still not a place to throw it away. The apple was slimy with horse saliva and splotched with mud. But how could I say no? The boy wanted it. So I gave it to him. He and his friends gave me a bit of a dirty look, letting me know how stupid they thought I was to try and waste an apple on a horse. And I felt stupid. And wasteful. And very conscious that I would be held as a shining example of a stupid tourist. An Ugly American.

I take from this that no matter how culturally savvy we think we are, we can still fuck it up. And if you go to the Dominican Republic, keep your apple in your knapsack.

Procrastination

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 19:28:00 +0000

In spite of the drama involved in getting my grandmother's ashes, I still have not dealt with task of actually putting them in the urn.

First, I needed a funnel. The idea of pouring my grandmother into the container has been too much for me to handle, and so I have not. My husband did not see the point in my insistence on buying a funnel. He named several kitchen tools we have on hand, then had to listen to my illogical explanation as to why I could not have remnants of my grandmother's body on my kitchen utensils.

The funnel was purchased.

The next step was to get a proper sealant in which to secure the lid. Forgive me that when I run into the hardware store to grab an extension cord or cabinetry hardware that stopping an employee to discuss the pros and cons of their in-stock bonding agents slips my mind.

And so the months have passed. And so she sits. Still in the plastic baggie. Still in my bookcase. Some mornings I do, indeed, bring her a cup of coffee. The day wears on and beds need to be made, messes cleaned up. Suddenly those days have become months, and there she sits. Presiding over our daily activities from her living room perch.

On the days we walk home from school, my children scour the yards for dandelions. They love to pick them, and I never tell them no. I like to think of it as my neighborhood public service. We have tiny little Tupperware containers that, when not used for snacks, have been adopted as miniature vases for my children's nature collection. This particular day, my daughter rambled on and on once we get home could she get the little container and fill it with water so the flower could have water and... Of course, my dear. Whatever you like.

Key in the door. Shoes tucked in closets. I wrestle with backpacks and lunch boxes and preschool art. I've hardly made a dent when my daughter comes rushing up to me. See Mamma! I've put water in it and everything! Isn't it beautiful?

She'd clambered up onto the entertainment center shelf, found the empty "vase" filled it with water and put her flowers in it because she thought it would look so beautiful.

And it did.

Mice On Ice

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 03:35:00 +0000

My husband earned another Pater Ex Animo stripe today. Through his work, he was able to secure tickets to Disney on Ice.

At any other time in my life I would have scoffed at the idea of sitting in a stadium watching over-sized and slightly freakish mascot-versions of our favorite childhood characters wobble and teeter on a makeshift ice arena. Instead I held back on the cynicism, reserving judgment because I knew my kids would probably enjoy it.

Let me say that I stand corrected. The show kicked ass. My kids sat wide-eyed and slack-jawed for nearly the entire performance. While I thought my daughter would be excited to see the princesses, I was in no way prepared for the sheer enthusiasm of my son. He practically shrieked Look! It's Aladdin! And Jasmin! And PINOCCHIO! AND IT'S MULAN!!!!

I must also sheepishly admit that their delight brought tears to my eyes. It took a good five minutes or so to get my shit together. For every shout of joy, for every point and jab of their chubby little fingers, a tear fell.

It has been four and a half years since my daughter was born, five if you count my pregnancy. Those five years have somehow not entirely erased those three years of limbo when I did not know whether or not I could have children. I used to get like this at birthday parties and playdates. Not enough so as to draw attention to myself, but a burning behind the eyes and a lump in my throat as I sat in. the. moment. As I took in my surroundings and watched my children and realized how god-damned lucky and fucking privileged I was to be there. To bask in the light my children shine on the world around them.

One would think I would have outgrown those moments. Somehow, I still seem to get blindsided. Now don't get me wrong. The show, while awesome, was not weep-worthy. It just felt so amazing, so huge to be a part of something so momentous to my children. Yes, it seemed like it was just a mouse on ice. But it was so much more than that.

She's A Keeper

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid to Use It) — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 03:08:00 +0000

Making and keeping friends gets harder and harder as our lives change because of jobs, kids and our own personal development. I've cultivated a few friendships since my move last year, and last week was a good indicator that I've been forging in the right direction.

Standing Wednesday playdate. Large house. Four children. Two moms. Happy chatting in all directions. Until my daughter comes down the stairs to the landing. Proudly splaying her hands I hear Look Mamma! And I do. At her green, freshly-painted fingernails.

Girlfriend and I jump up out of our kitchen chairs and book our asses up the stairs. Thinly disguised tension expressed in Where did you get that honey? Who is painting their nails? Where were you guys sitting?

I am having flashbacks of my mothers permanently lacquered carpet as we race into the master bedroom. There is her two year old son, with green toe nails. And green nail polish on their white carpet.

Thankfully, miraculously, there were only three spots. Three very light spots. My girlfriend? To say easy peasy doesn't even cover it. I apologized profusely for my daughter's behaviour, and she wouldn't hear of it. She said it was obviously her fault for leaving the bottle where the kids could find it and not to worry about it one bit. We broke out the nail polish remover and a stash of Q-tips and amiably worked on erasing our children's transgressions.

Our clean-up efforts ended when the two other children found us. Her four-year old daughter hauled open the bathroom cabinet, pulled out her mom's basket of colors, plopped down on the floor and looked at us expectantly. My girlfriend never batted an eye. We made our way from the carpeted bedroom to the tiled floor of the bathroom and gave colorful pedicures to our four-year old daughters and our three year-old sons.

There is so much that could have gone wrong with this scenario, but so much that went right. I feel damned lucky to have found a friend in her. She is definitely a keeper.