Money Pit #2?

I will preface this with I Love Steven!
I love his sense of humor, his sarcasm and his support.
I love that he is such a great Dad and that he has his own interests.
Yes, some of these interests are easy to brag about: his paintings and his music.
Others a little harder to explain: horse racing and beer swilling.
But I now realize that there is one hobby/ interest where I need to draw the line.
This is his love of the "handy mans special".

Do you have a home that the foundation is crumbling?
Are there hundreds of birds living in your attic?
Is there glass all over the yard because almost every window has been smashed?
Has your home been inhabited by angry squatters within the last year?
Well then we would love to check it out?

"Run child run. Before the wind pushes it over."


I too love the idea of buying a run down home (with good bones of course), and fixing it up. The problem is, we already own a home that needs fixing up. We have painting projects to finish, a porch floor that needs replacing, roof work to pay for and new windows to install. All those things that seemed so easy to remedy before we closed on our house are still undone. We've owned this house for almost two years, mind you.
Do we need another house to deal with? Do we need a home that was vandalized with what looks like lots of paint and a sledgehammer? I would say no. But then I hear Steven,"look at that wrap around porch. And the garden, it's gorgeous. Have you noticed the hand crafted staircase?" I just fall in love with his optimism.
Blind, unrealistic optimism yes.
But optimism none the less.

The Blame Game

It's comforting and satisfying.
It takes the edge off.
It kills time.
It's liberating.
Am I talking about an icy cold margarita or a plate of hot brownies?
No, I'm talking about the Blame Game. Mine and most peoples favorite pastime. There is nothing I love more than sitting around and talking about my woes while blaming a list of people and institutions:

1) The President- (while I can't blame him for the fact that I was watching American Idol, I can blame him for giving a shout out on the program) I blame him for most of my problems related to money, insecurity about my world, the future, etc.

2)My Mother- I blame her for everything. I know typical. But seriously, I blame her for instilling a complete sense of insecurity in me, weight, men, intelligence, mothering, the whole lot. She's the easiest person I know personally to blame so she gets most of it.

3) Bad drivers- totally stress me out, "passing on the right, shame on you"

4) Little House on the Prairie- How dare you Ingall's be so darn positive when your life was such a nightmare? You gave a whole generation false hope. Mainly my generation.



Now I will show you the blame game played by others.



My Grandma blames everything on my mother (ya see people). It's actually pretty funny because most of it is unprovoked, I just can't help but finding humor in it. My Mother took my grandmothers hairdryer away from her because she was using it for things like warming the bed before she got into it by laying it under the covers and leaving the room for an hour. She also used it to dry clothing and heat cold coffee. But ever since then if anything in the house is lost keys, pocketbook, the newspaper, her toothbrush she blames my mom. It's brilliant. Even though she has lost almost all of her memory, she remembers enough to play the Blame Game.



Lydia places the blame for her unhappiness on many things. She blames the cat for not being "a real pet". She blames Lion for giving her the hiccups . She blames "a mouse" whenever I find an unexplained mess. And of course she blames me for many things: no siblings, being mean to Daddy, not letting her wear short skirts without undies and the list is growing.

So this is where the blame game gets complicated. I don't mind playing when other people are at fault, but when I have to take on the weight it's a whole other issue.

There has got to be a way of pinning this on my mom.

Hooters for Hair

When is a haircut for you child just a haircut? And when is a haircut for your child a lesson in the exploitation of woman? "Yes Lydia, even you one day may wear a tight white tank and five inch heals and earn an honest living." It's the American way and that is why I attempted to bring my child to Trim's in RI for a "trim" if you can believe it.

I know what you are thinking. How can you be so naive? Are you that oblivious? Well, I wasn't thinking and obviously it shows because I almost let my child get a bob at the "Hooters for Hair". There are huge posters of "pretty ladies" in the window but don't most places have pictures of attractive people in their windows when they are trying to lure in costumers. It's on the way to Providence so I wasn't thrown that you couldn't see inside, it just sort of had a city feel. It is located relatively close to her preschool (about two miles, that's like next door in RI), and it was on my way. I had noticed that it was there a few months back and stored it's location in my memory Haircut = place across from CVS. This is what people do, right, "I don't need a "trim" now brain but store this info so, I know where to go when I do". Plus it said barbershop which I associate with cheap. When I was little I got my hair cut at a barbershop with my granddad. It's an easy cut what's the big deal. She just need a quick trim for god sakes and in RI that might cost me more than my shoes. Well now I know what the big deal is.

So I open the door and immediately realize my mistake. I will say all the woman had a disturbing Bratz Doll appeal (which Lydia loved) . She was pretty upset that we left in such a tizzy.

I might have changed my mind if I knew that you get a free, cold can of Bud with each cut. Now that's my type of marketing.

Where is my perspective?

Sometimes I loose sight of who I am, and who my partner and child are. It happens all the time, I allow myself to relax and the next thing you know Steven is screaming at a stranger while my daughter is walking around in a jean skirt mini with a tube top on. I try not to put too much stock into these episodes because they usually blow over. Steven will walk away from the stranger without being pummeled and Lydia will find a different midriff exposing outfit to lounge around in. But when it comes to myself it gets a little more tricky.

I recently suffered from an episode of "Not My Child Syndrome". Everyone should be aware of this great debilitating illness. And if you are not aware of it, you have not been to any area where parents congregate with their preschoolers recently. "Not My Child Syndrome" effects most parents many times but most fail to recognize the serious symptoms. But let it be known, even if the victim is oblivious, every other parent in the vicinity will be aware but unfortunately will most likely become paralyzed from another ailment, this is called the "My Tongue Is Frozen From Rolling My Eyes So Hard Disorder".

The "Not My Child Syndrome" started a few weeks ago at the park when Lydia and a girlfriend of hers were hunting for a treasure at the playground after school. They were running all over the place with a group of boys from her class. There was lots of giggling and shrieking. Everything seemed harmonious, (I take a lot of pride in the fact that Lydia seems to feel comfortable playing with boys and girls). I scoff at other parents who talk of gender recognition effecting five year olds and I've always been happy that Lydia has not only had very close friends that are boys but seems to notice no difference in them. I always dreamed of having a daughter that was confident enough to forge her way past gender stereotypes and just enjoy the personality of the child regardless of their sex. It was at this self righteous moment when I hear, "Come on, you have to rescue us from the pirates we can't do it we're girls we need a boy to help us." a pause "boys are more scary than girls we are too pretty." It was at this point that I looked up from my book to see my daughter not only screaming these words but attempting to tie the ends of her shirt in a midriff exposing knot. Even the most severe case of "Not My Child Syndrome" could not blind me from seeing my daughter at this moment. I blame it on the schoolsor Hanna Montana (this is another syndrome called "playing the blame game" this needs no explanation).

Oh there are many more of these moments, most luckily go unnoticed by this impaired Mamma. But every once in a while (usually when I'm reflecting on what a great open minded child we've raised) I get shook into reality as my child karate chops and yells "high-ya" at some unsuspecting Asian child with her best Mulan moves.

Lion

When I was little I had a stuffed Dumbo that I slept with and was very attached to. I think I loved Dumbo so much because he was a deformed, emotionally vulnerable animal who was dealing with a mother that was thought of as crazy. He also tried desperately to get his life together and liked a good drink. You figure out the attraction.

What I am trying to get to is that Lydia has an animal that she just adores. His/her (depends on the day) name is Lion. She dresses him up and brings him everywhere. She recently acquired a carrying case for him. This is a picture that she took, without my knowledge of Lion on a hot water bottle. (He gets cold) She tells me very often that he is sick, "Lion doesn't feel well today because he played with a fox last night. Lion is allergic to foxes." Lion usually is covered in band-aids. Me: "Why does lion have a bandage on his nose?" Lydia: "I bit him last night by accident and now his nose is broken." Yesterday I was told that Lion might be dying. Lydia: "I have some bad news. Lion might be dying. He's spending too much time with foxes, he can't control himself. He needs help." Me: "where should he go for help?" Lydia: "I'm not sure. Somewhere that sick people go who can't control themselves around foxes."

Luckily Lion is doing much better. But I can't help but notice Lydia being drawn to someone with an addictive self destructive personality. Is this a sign? What was your favorite animal or doll? Did they have a dark disfunctional background? What does this say about you? I think I'm onto something here.

How did I get in this pickle?

By pickle I mean predicament to the ultimate degree. You ever notice that just when you weren't even paying attention all the rules in your life change? You think you're in charge and have everything under control and the next thing you know you are side swiped by a role reversal reality check. Well that has been my week. I'm not complaining. I'm actually in awe of this phenomenon and I feel like it deserves a notation.



One big issue is my Grandmother. The poor thing can't remember a darn thing. She gets totally frustrated by this, until 30 seconds go by and she forgets to be frustrated and its business as usual. She asks the same questions all day long.

"What day is it?" "Did I eat lunch?" "What's your name?"

I love her dearly, but I have watched her become someone that I don't know very well and she certainly has no clue who I am. She doesn't know that she practically raised me and that when I was my daughters age I loved her so much that I carried a photo of her to school. But she does know one thing, and she stated it pretty clearly this week.

"You seem like a smart girl, you need to do something with your life."

And the pickle jar is sealed.



Lydia my charming, sweetheart of a trouble making child also seems to have one up on me as of late. Today she destroyed her room. She got hold of the cinnamon while I was dealing with our taxes. A jar of cinnamon some water and one egg later, her room is one contaminated mess. Even if I could force her to clean up this disaster, she would never be able to. This concoction was in drawers, all over clothes and smeared into the floor. As I'm cleaning up Lydia says, "Lion and I were talking", (lion is her fave rave stuffed animal that she brings everywhere and is often very insightful, although he is allergic to foxes supposedly) "and we were thinking that you really ought to go on a vacation. You seem really tired."

It used to be that Lydia was my daughter and she didn't hold much insight into my emotional state. She might recognize that I am happy or cranky but she took this as inevitable maternal emotions. Only recently have I begun to realize that she sees me for who I really am.
Take it from me when your five year old and her lion recommend a vacation you need to take them up on it.
And when your 95 year old grandmother with dementia realizes that you are wasting your potential it's time to get to work.

The Wig Runs In The Family

Sometimes I wonder where my child comes from. She puts so much time and energy into pretending to be someone else. She is super creative and fun. She loves finding the weirdest and strangest clothes and wearing them together. She can spend hours dressing and redressing. She talks about fashion and clothes to whomever will listen.

I on the other hand feel so uninspired. I watch her with envy and tell people that she gets her creativity from her dad. I feel like I am in a creative rut and am totally bored with myself.

I see so much happiness and excitement in her eyes when she gets a new "item" to put on. She plans these outfit's for every event: parties, dance class, the supermarket.

I struggle with this sometimes because I know even though I gave birth to her she seems nothing like me: creative, confident and happy.

Then I found these photos of myself. All of which I had forgotten about. It all falls into place. I need to get those creative juices flowing. I need to be a little more creative. I need to get that excitement back about something. I NEED A NEW WIG!

Me in high school, this is not a wig, this is my real hair in a beehive. The B-52's were popular I guess and I made the most of that look.
This was not Halloween. I am drinking and wearing shades, so it could have been during my "undercover" days. Steven does not believe that this is me. Compliment or not?
This was Halloween, or at least I hope it was.

The smile and happiness is the same in these photos as in Lydia's.

Needless to say at least the Wig Gene is not recessive.