Income Poop

At first I thought Little A was complaining about her shitty allowance, but then I realized that she was yelling it through the bathroom door to her friend who was having some outgoing poop.

"Why did you call me an income poop?"
"Becauuuuse you're on the toilet."

Who keeps selling this tale that little girls aren't as gross as little boys?

I believe though, that Little A may have finally found the perfect nickname for my job. Yup, everyday I get up at 5:00AM to partake of my daily income poop. No, I do not work for sanitation, but my job is shitty, my boss is shittier, and the only reason I take this poop....its just enough income to poop. Uh, I mean live.

The end.

Oh how I wish I still had the ability to string words together.....

I've been thinking so many things that my mind feels like it is on constant overload. Between all the thoughts that come with recent break-up, cramming my head full of new improved biology and reaching saturation on reading for my thesis....well...uh....there are many, many things floating around. Yet, all of the thoughts are so incomplete its hard to sit here and write....vaguely topic-less. But, I'll try. Maybe it'll glue a few together into completion....hahahahaha!

I find I'm really, really suspicious of happiness lately. Especially and mostly when I see couples. I know, I know....very typical of current romantic state, but its not the first time I've wondered such things, even at times when it was so apparent that I'm a flaming romantic failure. I look around and I feel like people are oozing pretend happy roles out of every pore. (If any of you are still out there...I realize this may be a bad place for this...considering that most of you seem pretty damn happy with your others....but well...)

I took Little A and her bestest buddy out to a pond we swim at a lot in the summer yesterday. Besides being a happy little swimming hole, its pretty highly frequented by couples. Hell, I've even been there with boyfriends past. A few people caught my eye, and as I pretended not to be a psycho stalker, I sat back and tried to get them.

The first couple was very young...maybe mid-20's at most. Very attractive to that eerie point where you say, " Well of course they are together...would either of them date someone that didn't look like that?" They seemed pretty new. And by that, I mean a little over-affectionate for a place where children are building sand castles two feet away. But it all seemed like pure infatuation. There didn't seem to be one ounce of connection between them. They talked, the cuddled, they kissed, but all of it with a bizarre sort of emptiness. They distracted themselves for a while by playing with a stray kid by the shore, both playing the "look how much I love children" game (him more than her), all the while snuggly-huggly. If you looked at them quickly (uh...like I'm sure I should've) I'm sure that they would have elicited an "Aww....look how happy and in love..." blahblahblah from anyone. But I just wondered, mostly about her since she seemed less interested in performing than him (less obvious with the affection...less involved with trying to seem maternal with the kid). Was she happy? Will she be happy if she ends up with this guy? Will the performance stop? What will she think then? Is this show the closest that anyone gets to romantic happiness?

A little later on, I was sitting on a rock wall, drying off, and watching the girls who refused to get out of the water until I threatened "no ice cream." A few feet away was an older couple. The woman was hunched over and the man was rubbing her shoulders. It was not a show. He was rubbing her shoulders because she needed him too, and no one else was there watching them. They didn't talk hardly at all, but the connection between then was insanely obvious, as if they clung to each other, as if they were parts of each other. She got up a little later and walked a little way away. She was sick. There was no doubt about it. She was so thin you could see every bone of her and she walked with the hesitancy of someone who knows that one fall might do them in. As she walked away, he looked out over the pond, over the yelling kids, and the glaring sunlight hitting the water, and I couldn't help but to feel like he was waiting, waiting in that horrible way you do when you know something horrible is coming. Maybe he was worried that she would fall. Maybe he was worried that this would be their last trip to the pond. Was he happy? Was it enough to have loved for his whole life to have to endure the loss that was coming? Was she happy? Knowing that she would be leaving him? Knowing how alone he'd be after she was gone?

I don't know. I just don't trust that slippery little happiness anymore. (Ok...I'm not all insanely depressed or anything....it's just a really slippery one...yuh know?)

I had a post....

but my classmate ate it.

Seriously. I was all ready to come in here and rant and rave this disgusting, rainy (AGAIN) Friday morning about my insanely busy week and the fact that my eyeballs are playing jumprope with my hair follicles because even when I'm ready to pass out, I haven't been sleeping so well.

I was gonna tell you how Monday, Little A had her last official dance class for the year.

Tuesday...class with teacher on crack no less, who skips ahead about 5 weeks and monologues at 90 mph for 70 minutes about DNA. Hello people, BIO 101....2nd week??

Wednesday....Little A and I both had friends over.

Thursday...class after spending two hours searching my corner of this rainy fucking planet looking for TAN tights in a girls size 8. Right. After hitting 6 stores in two hours we bought the smallest size women's pantyhose and I promised I would sew up the toe a little. I won't of course, it was only a ploy to make her wear them. They fit (ish). At least when she's standing still. We'll have to re-open this issue after she's tapped for 10 minutes in them.

And then class AND the first science test that I've taken in FOURTEEN years.

Tonight Little A has dress rehearsal and by the time we get home, JMom should have arrived for a weekend visit. My apt is a disaster as all living areas become when you only have time to run in, throw in the stuff you have, grab different stuff and run out again....over and over again.

So yeah, I was gonna come in here and complain about all that and of course whatever other little annoyances I could scrape up.

Then I went to class and walked in to this conversation:

Classmate: So, I had to go to the police station today and file charges against him because the girl is only fourteen. I have no idea what she's going to do with the baby...she's already had one abortion.

Me: What? Oh my god! How old is the father??

Classmate: Fourteen. It's my son.


Soooooo....nevermind. Tights....impregnating fourteen year old....dance class....police station. Yeah...just nev. er. mind.

I'm slow on the uptake, ok?

AGES ago, Stella tagged me for this meme. Sadly, at the time, I was absent blogger, but I am now here to fulfill my taggily obligations and attempt to prove that I'm not the piss poor bloggie buddy that I seem to be lately. And so....

I am not sure I know what I want. I am not sure that I know where I'm going.
I want to feel secure and safe.
I wish I could let go of grudges against certain people. I wish I had the guts to confront other people.
I hate seeing Little A unhappy, small talk, the fact that people don't regularly waltz (etc...any ballroom dancing would make me happy...I just want to go to those old parties...) anymore, my tendency to let things mold in the refrigerator for months, losing trust...more and more as I get older...I thought it would be the opposite.
I miss not having had selfish time in between college and motherhood.
I fear not being a good enough mother. I fear that I may fall apart the day that Little A stops thinking that I rock the world.
I hear too much. I like me some silence.
I wonder if I'd be alive if I hadn't had Little A....to ground me and give me perspective on the melo-drama of life.
I regret few things. I'm not a regretter. I prefer worrying about the future to regretting the past.
I am not a good liar, even though there are times that it would be really handy if I had developed that skill.
I dance to the 80's. Who doesn't? Oh and only in the privacy of my own living room.
I sing with Little A, a lot. I love her voice.
I cry. Yes, I sure do, and fairly often.
I am not always as nice as I should/want to be.
I make with my hands whatever I possibly can. Ask Roo...she's heard my latest retarded plan to build a spinning wheel with a dremmel!
I write with more ease than I speak, especially in front of groups.
I confuse N, apparently.
I need more time, more sleep, more yarn.
I should be more patient, kinder, and less jugdmental, to start.
I start thinking about quitting my job every morning when I open the door to my office.
I finish most things, eventually. The key word there being eventually, not finish.

Ummm, and since I'm slow on the uptake, I feel like everyone has done this one? If you haven't, you are thus tagged.

Guest Blogger!!!

(It’s time for the June blog exchange! Please welcome the lovely and talented Amy from Binkytown. I’ll be posting over there today if you want to come say hi! And here she is!)

Maiden Name

My family is Polish-American. My maiden name started with a W, we had a z, an n and a k in it with some vowels scattered in between. Because it started with a W, I always sat in the back of the class. It wasn’t pretty, it didn’t roll off the tongue, it was harsh and unfamiliar, even to me. In the days growing up when you want nothing more than to assimilate I had a name no one had even heard of it, much less had a clue how to pronounce.

I would sit in the back row day dream during Language Arts about how maybe one day I’d be Amy Rose, Amy Sanotorini, Amy Miller. Changing my name when I got married wasn’t a choice for me. It was almost a reason to get married. The only question was would it be prettier than the one I had? More interesting? Something lyrical? Would I be able to order a pizza without having to say my name is Amy and immediately launch into W-O-Z…? The possibilities were endless.

Turns out when I did get married at 30, I was madly in love with my husband and I wanted to be on the same team with him so I changed my name. The fact that his last name is common the way that the name Smith is common, well that was just a bonus. No more spelling! No more having to introduce myself to spare people from having to stumble over it.

I didn’t abandon it altogether - My first name is Amy and my middle name was Jo. When I got married I combined AmyJo into my first name (which is really funny actually -When I call places like credit card companies the voice response units pronounce it as Amy-ho). I kept my maiden name and bumped it up to my middle name then took my husbands last name as my surname. If I really wanted to, I could still use it in a hyphenated fashion, but that would make four names. I think three names are OK, ala Hilary Rodham Clinton or Sarah Jessica Parker, but using four names feels like I’m taking myself a bit too seriously.

In retrospect I think I had a romantic notion that I would be reinventing myself as Ms. So-and-so. A new-and-improved married version of me. I was so excited to sign that wedding license and misguidedly expected to wake up the next day having undergone an overnight personal upgrade. Turns out I’m still me, just married and with a different name. Funny how that turned out.

Five years later I am still crazy about my husband but I find myself wishing I had thought the name change through a little more. I miss my old name - consonants and all. I think I gave up a lot when I changed my name. I miss it’s heritage and uniqueness. I miss the connection to my grandparents and that side of my family. I also didn’t know then how much I would give up getting married and becoming a mom. Not that it’s not worth it, it is, but I think it would be nice to have retained that slice of my identity that was 30 years in the making. That and who knew that people still make you spell names like ‘Smith’ when you order take out?! (Damn it!).

Amy writes about this and other stuff at Binkytown.

This post is part of a June Blog Exchange on the theme "What's in a Name?" Click here to read more. And, if you'd like to participate, email Kristen at kmei26 at yahoo dot com.