The Snowboard Police

Dear Nate,

It has been hitting the 'netwaves that you are irritated with your competitors wearing pants that do not conform to your baggy style.

Let me reiterate the key word here: conform

If snowboarding is anti-establishment, and the clothing that snowboarders wear symbols of those beliefs, how the hell is telling people what they are supposed to wear in keeping with the spirit of snowboarding? Doesn't that fly in the face of everything you represent? As much as you hate to admit it, that means letting people do whatever the fuck they want. If the majority of snowboarders wear baggy pants, the guys and gals who don't are actually keeping the anti-establishment spirit alive. They don't want to look like you. They want to carve their own path to represent who they are and what they feel. They look at you, snicker and wonder who died and made you the Snowboard Police.

So, shut the fuck up and do your job. Represent the US. Represent your snowboard culture. Represent yourself. The other guys are doing it. If you are going to talk the talk, you'd better walk the walk.

Sincerely,
NATUI

Burnt the Fire Of Mine Eyes

This afternoon I lost my shit. As in screaming into my mobile phone, stomping my feet on the kitchen floor, hang up on her ass lost. my. fucking. shit.

All in front of my kids (hangs head in shame).

Over what? That is the key issue. What was I really yelling about?

I am heading down to the ATL for a month of trying to keep from reverting into a bitchy sixteen year old fun and frolic with my parents. At which the end of this visit comes my yearly exam with Dr. Miracle as we so brilliantly chronicled last year. In some calendar clusterfuck, my mom has booked us into their condo for the same week I have my appointment.

This does not on first glance lend itself to behavior that leaves children trembling in fear behind sofas. It was the accusations. You never told me when your appointment was. Nyah nyah nyah I've stopped listening because my heart is beating so loudly my head is going to explode nyah nyah.

She never knew? My neighbors know. My kids' teachers know. Ever since I called my doctor to specifically verify the date to my mother, she has known.

She will not own up to it. And as my voice and anger grew by the decibel, my mother tried to turn it around and play the reason card. The let's fix it card.

But I was that teenager again. I was chugging down the track of misunderstood child, and ain't no one stopping that train once she's left the station.

Because that was the root of my anger: I felt she hadn't listened to me. That has become my number one hotlist button. My kids don't listen to me. My worthless four-legged feline freaks don't listen to me. I have allowed myself to be caught up in the circle of stay-at-home-mom hell that is needing to feel I have been listened to. That if I make a point of finding out information, it is retained. When someone who sucks as much as I do at organization has written a date in triplicate on calendars, I want some fucking credit. Not fingerpointing. Not getting digs in for the next few weeks/months how I didn't relay information. I am all about giving credit where credit is do, and if I did something by God, give me the fucking t-shirt.

I am not proud of my behavior this afternoon. But I own it. Have I apologized? Fuck no. I will, eventually. I am having a hard time reconciling the mother-daughter relationship I have with my mom now versus the mother-daughter relationship I had with her then. I had forgotten how much anger there has been. The frustration. The feelings of inadequacy. The need to feel appreciated. To know that I haven't been a disappointment. That my actions haven't failed her. Typical oldest daughter stuff, I suppose. Our relationship has been, for the most part, so good for so many years that when she pulls that old shit I am caught off guard.

Damn it. If I am going to act like a spoiled, bitchy 16-year old, can I at least have my 16 year old body back? Sans braces and zits, of course, but what I wouldn't give to get my ass back.

Biological Fathers Cause Cancer

My mother was three months old when my her "stepfather" came into her life. To say stepfather is a misnomer. My mother always considered him to be her father. She did not know any differently. He was the only father figure in her life.

She did know that he wasn't her biological father. She and her older brother had a different last name than the rest of the family. My grandmother and grandfather eventually had one child together.

Though my mother has never said, I understand that he was the golden child. My mom's older brother? The spitting image of my grandmother's first husband and a daily reminder of that failed marriage. My mother? The inconvenient middle child.

Both my mother and her older brother have terrible migraines. Terrible. The kind that leave them weeping between fits of vomiting. That keep them in bed behind closed shutters whimpering at any sound, cowering from any pinpoint of light.

There were likely many factors to which I am not privy, but my mother and her older brother sought out their biological father. They knew his whereabouts, and they knew that he was in ill health. I imagine they sought him out for closure. They sought him out for an answer to the crippling migraines from which they suffered.

All of this was kept secret from my grandmother. She had an absolute hatred of her former spouse. I am not saying she was not entitled to hate him, but her hatred should have had nothing to do with her children and their need for answers.

My mom's father understood the need for their search. While he may not have given his overt blessing, he understood their desire and did not oppose contact.

My grandmother, on the other hand, found out. To say she flipped her shit would be an understatement.

Shortly after these events occurred, my grandfather developed cancer. Lung cancer. He was an avid pipe smoker and had smoked since adolescence.

My grandmother blamed my mom. So did her younger brother and his entire family.

They told us that the stress of my mom finding and talking with her biological father had caused his cancer.

My grandfather died a horrible and painful death. Up to the day he died, and for many years afterwards, my grandmother and the rest of the family maintained that my mother and her older brother were to blame.

It was her fault that her father developed cancer.

It was her fault that her father was dead.

She had killed her father because she was so selfish.

It has taken many years for these wounds to heal. Stony silence has been replaced with laughter. Family gatherings are jovial with lot of hugs and kisses and good-natured teasing.

But I remember.

I look at my cousin who is now a registered nurse. Every time she talks about her husband visiting his "real dad," I want to ask her in front of everyone if she still believes cancer is caused by visiting ones biological father.

I want to slap her smarmy little face.

But I don't.

I laugh and smile and hug in return.

I try to ignore the screaming in my heart.

Godsmacked at the Safeway

I left the kids in Hubbie's capable hands for the peace and quiet of the grocery store. We were out of milk, and I thought a quick trip while the kids had their bath would be a great time saver.

I was doing pretty well. Being efficient. Getting everything on the list. Until I decided I needed balsamic vinegar.

I finally found the correct aisle. Stood back to look for the right bottle. When a girl approached me.

She stood right between me and that vinegar.

I had seen her earlier in a different aisle. I remember that she looked directly at me. Like she knew me. Like she looked through me. Being new here in town I wondered if I had met her at the preschool or somewhere, but she didn't say anything.

Until now.

She said she wanted to ask me a question.

Oh shit. Here we go.

She started asking me questions about God. And I was all ready to tell her that I wasn't interested. Then she started in with the woman thing.

About the female aspect of God. About God being made in the likeness of man and woman.

Listening to her speak, I was freaked out to realize that I agreed with a lot of what she was saying.

But all I wanted was my goddamned balsamic vinegar.

Then she pulled her bible out of her purse.

I hate feeling like I have been stalked. Hunted. And that was how I felt. Cornered.

She thumbed to a couple of passages while I politely nodded. I told her I did not disagree with anything she was saying (read: Please leave me alone now. I am too hungry to be at the grocery store and my kids are waiting for their Jelly Bellys).

She wanted my contact info. I told her to give me hers. She and her friend (who had conveniently joined us) finally let me go. I grabbed my vinegar, paid and high-tailed it out to my car.

Except that I was reeling. I have never been approached by a Christian sect that proclaimed anything positive about women. Ever.

And it made me sad that this encounter at Safeway left me feeling such loss. That I felt so empty and acutely aware of the need for a positive spiritual feminine aspect to my faith.

I don't know what about me or my demeanor caused this chick to pick me out. I didn't realize I was wearing my gullible hat today. In a sense, I'm kind of glad she did approach me. As my daughter gets older I will have to help guide her through this world of religious zealots.

Mommy? Why is that man holding a bible and pointing at us and calling us whores? Because god loves us, sweetheart.

How do I teach my daughter to love and be good to others when the majority of world religions rate her second class because she has a uterus?

We should have been born Navajo.

Amy Grant's Evil Twin

Don't worry, I'm not about to get all Christified on you.

But I do have a dirty little secret.

I play guitar. Or should I say, I played guitar. For years.

At church.

Going to a parochial school will do that to you. I admit that I loved it. We had a folksy teacher and it really shaped how I view god and things of a spiritual nature.

Today, whilst picking up LittleBird from preschool, I saw the director coming out of Chapel with a guitar. I thought about it for two seconds. I opened my mouth.

I volunteered to help out with Chapel next year as part of my co-op requirement for the school.

Let me clarify. I volunteered my rusty-dusty-John-Denver-Morning-Has-
Broken-inspired-mad-guitar-skillz for next year.

What the fuck was I thinking.

Why Do You Care?

I spent a very cathartic five minutes last night deleting all the totally worthless friends I had in OldTowne from my mobile phone. With every satisfying beep, I was making way for the new friends I will meet.

Now tonight, as I sit with the laptop I confiscated borrowed from my mother, I get an email from EtiquetteSays. I actually posted about her here, when I got snubbed from her kids party, and here during one of her conversations about her husband.

EtiquetteSays is the the mom who, though we have not socialized privately in over half a year, shot me an email saying that we needed to have lunch together before we left. Why does she even care? If this move has taught me one thing, it is to GET TOGETHER with your friends. Who cares if the house isn't clean? Who cares if it is in the middle of the week? Just do it, people. Call your friends and actually have a social life. Especially if you have young kids--who cares if they get to bed two hours later than usual? What is actually going to happen? They might sleep in the next morning? God, that would be a shame.

Stepping off my soapbox...

Back to her email. She asked if I were still in town, and when we could do lunch. Honey, you asked me this over a month ago and then never followed up. Why do you even care?

As much as I wanted to flame her, I took my usual chicken-shit method and responded.

I left OldTowne yesterday. Sorry lunch didn't work out.

That is it. Nothing else. I felt it was dry enough to make my point.

Now, I just got another email.

How did the move go? Are you already in NoVa, or enroute? Do you already have a place and an address? Let me know where you are!

What? Why do you fucking care? Seriously, I just don't get this chick. Maybe she is super sweet (like I initially thought) but has the social skills of a pygmy marmoset. Hell if I know. I just had to post about the craziness of some people. I swear if I get a Welcome To Your New Home card, I am going to incinerate it.

Who You Callin' Fat?

With all this talk about Britney Spears and her performance on the VMA's last night, I have to add my two cents.

Where is this "paunch" they keep talking about? Did Britney look anorexic? No! Did she have rippin' sixpack abs? No! She looked like a healthy 20-something.

Was her outfit unflattering? That is a matter of opinion. I have seen "worse" bodies in "worse" outfits at the mall and at the beach.

I think the author of this particular piece, and all those calling Britney fat should take a look in the mirror themselves. Take a look at your wives. Take a look at your husbands. Go ahead and tell them to their faces that they have a paunch and see how long it takes you to get back up off of the ground after they slap the shit out of you.

I personally prefer Britney looking like she did on the VMAs. Like a real woman. A real woman with a real body who was not afraid to show it off. It was refreshing to watch a celebrity and not worry that her hipbones were going to poke through her skin.

If that is fat, give me fat any day. If I want to see rib bones I will order some at a restaurant, thank you very much.

Call Me A Hypocrite and Call It A Day

As my um, few readers know, I do not have a nanny/maid/house cleaner or any other various and sundry staff at my house. This is painfully obvious to anyone who comes by. Shoes piled in the doorway, laundry piled in the hallway, dishes piled in the sink. I think you get my drift. We do what we can to get through the day, and that has to be good enough.

However. However. Just this morning a very interesting and important opportunity has presented itself.

See, my hubbie is from another country. We talked about many cultural issues before we got married, one of which being the importance of raising bilingual children. We both find this to be incredibly important for many reasons. The challenge in our family is this: most multi-cultural marriages that we encounter for our language group is the mom is the "non-American" and the dad is the American. The kids pick up the native language of the mom because she is their primary caregiver, and the kids pick up English from friends and school. It is not so in our case. Because I am the American and the one staying home with the kids, the kids have tons of exposure to English but not enough of their pappa's native language.

Today the phone call I have been dreaming of came. There is a girl studying at our local college from my dh's native country. She is looking to pick up hours babysitting, etc. This is exactly what we have been looking for. Someone to come over a few hours a week to tutor Little Bird. Since she is only two, I am interested in someone coming over to play with her in the backyard, kick a soccer ball around, play "store" with her--all the time using only Swedish.

But. But. Damn, this smacks of "having help." And I am not that kind of mom. But I know this is my pride talking. This is the only way that my daughter is going to get the language input. My Swedish is passable. Det funkar. But Little Bird's vocabulary has already far surpassed what I can help her with.

And so all the railing I have done against moms who "have help" has come full-circle. We will be hiring this girl to come and play with the kids. If I am going to sell out on my principles, I suppose my kids are a good enough excuse. Parenting comes down to doing what is best for your kids. We believe their ability to function in two languages and two cultures will serve them well in the future. In this tiny corner of the world, this is our only option to keep our kids on track. So smack me on the back of the hand, call me a hypocrite and let's call it a day.

Stick To Your Morals

I have an old school friend who went, as I see it, psycho religious on me after high school. She is Catholic, married a Catholic guy--and they are now überCatholics. One of my last conversations with her was back in 1998 or 1999. She'd just had her second child, and I asked the standard question, "So, are you guys done with two?"

You would have thought I had asked her to eat her own fecal matter. "You know we don't have a choice," she said.

"Huh?" was my eloquent response.

She continued:

As Catholics, you know we do not have a choice as to how many children we have. We are going to have as many children as God gives us.

Holy fuck. At that point, I didn't know any real life Catholics who felt that way. I mean, I had read that there were people out there like that, but a girl my age? And she was so sincere, so genuine in her belief. And that was fine. I did not take too kindly to the preachy, high-and-mighty tone she took with me, but I can certainly live and let live.

Until now. Just got wind of her via a mutual friend. Said friend has just had her fifth baby, and they have decided they are done at five.

WHAT!!! WHAT WHAT WHAT?!?!?! You freaking hypocrite!! She sat there on her goddamned high horse and preached to me how god is in control. Now that she feels overwhelmed with five children, she has decided that she has had enough!?! How unbelievably convenient. How dare she come down on me and others for their choice in family structure then suddenly, all these years later "decide" she is done. No way.

If one has a "moral compass" (or whatever the current terminology is), and judges us with it--you need to stick to it yourself. It is not for you to pick and choose. That is what we heathens do.

It will never happen, but I want to hear why the sudden change of heart. Why suddenly it is okay for her to be in charge of her fertility when, seven years ago the mere thought of it was practically a sin. I am not looking for an apology, but I want to hear that she admits she was wrong. In a perfect world I want to hear what her thought processes are, and if she is indeed now accepting of the fact that she and her husband control their actions. I want to hear the mea culpa, that it was wrong for her to pass judgment on all of us. She is obviously no better.

Well, maybe I do want an apology.

The Hypocrisy of a Blog

The title of this blog is obviously a misnomer. If I truly were not afraid to use my mouth I would have no need for this space. There is a difference, however, between what you want to say and what you are entitled to say. I do not believe in saying something solely for the purpose of stating my opinion regardless of the feelings of others. When a friend tells me of some ridiculous behavior her husband has exhibited, I do not say, "Wow. Your husband is an asshole." My friend has come to me for a shoulder to cry on, not for my judgment. Now if she is critical of her husband, I may feel free to chime in, but only to a point. Every relationship has its own rules, its own boundaries. What works for them may not work for me. Exactly the reason why they are married to that stupid oaf and I am not.

If I let loose with every random thought that crossed my mind, I would have even less friends than I do now. I do not believe in destroying someone's day simply for them to hear my opinion. Some thing are best left unsaid, or stated on a blog. I recognize the hypocrisy of these statements, but such is the world in which we live.