Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Things I can't say to my kids

I walk on very tenuous ground with my TBM children. There's a large part of my life that I can't share with them becaue it would disturb our fragile detente. Even uttering a "hell" or "damn" is enough to bring a distinct chill to our relationship for an hour or two. I worry that because I don't share the small things of my life with them, they might not share theirs with me. It's just another wall the church has helped build between my own children and me.

Just once I'd love to be able to say these things:

"I had the best time with my friends last night at the huka bar!"

"I just need to make a quick stop at the liquor store on the way home."

"It's a good thing I'm not paying tithing or I wouldn't be able to afford to buy that for you."

"Mommy just got nominated for a Brodie for Best Erotic or Sexual Piece!"

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

A fresh Mormon hell

"Moooooooooom!" The noise bleating through my phone could only be my college-age daughter. With boy problems. Again.

It's happened before. She's tall and gorgeous and hysterically funny so she's a hit with the guys at Bee Why Woo. She has had her share of dates and relationships and heartbreak the past year. But this time the problem was much more serious. With the beginning of a new semester this month, new callings had to be made in her ward. She was retained as the Activities chairman but she was lacking a co-chair. The counselor in the bishropric fancies himself a matchmaker and hand picked a special guy to fill the spot. A newly-returned missionary who was tall. Yeah, tall, blond and glowing with religious fervor and mating hormones. The most dangerous species roaming the campus in search of prey pray. And she's falling for him!

I really want to go punt kick that damn counselor in his puny little balls (right through his impervious magic underwear) for doing this to me my daughter. She's 19 and has a whole hell of a lot of living to do before she settles down. I constantly tell her this. We have this general conversation at least once a week:

"Mom, I LIKE him! We CUDDLED!"
"You're not getting serious with anybody. I'll lock you in the basement and make you take classes online. Don't end up like me."
"Thanks mom, I needed to hear that."
"Any time, dear."

Wicked, eh?
I'm thinking there needs to be a new type of chastity belt but for the ring finger! Make it impossible for some horny little dude to slip on an engagement ring and trap a girl. Something kind of like this.

I'd better make two of these babies. I've got another daugher getting to that age and her Laurel class just went to White Elegance to try on ugly modest wedding gowns. (Why the fuck couldn't they have had a class on filling out a college application instead?!)

Being an apostate mom is a rough job but someone has to do it.

Friday, January 20, 2012


My "Free by Fifty" plan has been moving along nicely. The last (but not least) problem has been getting my uneducated ass some marketable skills so I can support myself. I had found the solution and have been eagerly awaiting the starting date. On-the job-training for certification! I could keep the job that I have insurance with and get free training while getting paid to work! Woot! The solution to ALL my problems. (Okay, just SOME problems. But major ones.)

That was abruptly yanked out from under me yesterday, leaving me dangling, my haunches in the air and udderly vulnerable. I'm feeling stuck. Again.

Saturday, January 14, 2012

What The Hug!

Like all things in life, houses age. The shingles are beaten by the elements year after year and begin to wear. Small leaks form. The home owner may notice and make repairs before too much damage is done. Or he may just shrug and think, "It's not that bad. I'll deal with it later." The paint gets worn and the wood underneath is exposed to the weather. If left long enough, rot sets in. The windows age and don't block the heat and cold as well, making it harder to maintain a comfortable temperature. The damage begets more damage and the deterioration escalates.

Suddenly the clueless homeowner notices the condition of his home and realizes that his dream of living in the house for the rest of his life is in jeopardy! Whatever shall he do? How can he make this right? From somewhere the solution comes to him. He will hug his house every day! By doing this he can erase the years of neglect and and make it livable again. Yes, that is the solution! No need to start in and work at repairing the leaks and broken boards. Just a hug once a day! So much easier too.

This analogy may be lame but it explains my "what the holy barking fuck?!" reaction as I was approached each day this past week by my spouse and hugged. Completely out of the blue. It's been months (and years, if I'm honest) of literally skirting around each other emotionally and physically, so the touch felt awkward and alien. It does nothing to repair the horrific damage done to our marriage. Fruitless, useless and pointless. Might as well give mouth to mouth to roadkill. But not as entertaining.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Snorting at the devil

I used to be scared of the dark. No, make that petrified. I was scared of what might be lurking. Ghosts, demons, who knew what? I knew Satan was out to get me. All those stories I heard at church about what had happened to Joseph Smith in the Sacred Grove. The stories of missionaries visited by demons that made objects go flying across the room. The church is rife with those tales and I took them to heart and let them scare the bejeezus out of me.

I slept with a blanket over my head for decades. Only my nose stuck out so I wouldn't suffocate. Growing up in a hot climate, this could be excruciatingly sweaty but it was the only way I could protect myself as I slept! Even after I was an adult and married, I slept this way for years. I also had to have a nightlight on. (This bugged the hell out of the hubs because he likes to sleep in the pitch darkness. That was one of the many reasons he gave for moving into his own room years ago.)

Something gradually shifted as I aged and felt bigger and badder than anything I might encounter in the dark. But the fear never really went away until the last few years. As I lost my faith in god, my faith in the devil pretty much left me too. What I didn't believe in certainly couldn't hurt me. (I keep the nightlight on now simply because I don't like to pee in the dark and turning the light on is blinding.)

So it was odd that last night I had a very, very vivid dream.  There was a cold chill in the air and a dark substance in the corner of a strange room.  The substance turned into the form of a woman who slowly moved toward me and reached out to shove darkness down my throat.  I was paralyzed as she pushed into my open mouth for what seemed like hours.  I couldn't move, couldn't cry out for help.  fI was completely helpless. Until I did what any reasonable person having a nightmare would do. I snorted. Loud and long. And it worked! I woke up. (With a very sore throat from the snorting.) But I was safe in my room where nothing lurked in the corners. It was just a dream.

But now I'm wondering where in the hell this dream came from. Since I know this wasn't caused by some kind of real demonic possession sort of thing, I'm trying to figure out what my subconscious mind is trying to tell me.  Or perhaps it was just one of those random brain farts. I certainly won't lose any more sleep over it.

Thursday, January 5, 2012

Survival of the fattest

For the first time in weeks I am sitting alone in the house with a hot cup of coffee. Sheer heaven. Well, the dogs are here but they always are and they are quite pleasant. Furry, warm and loving. Simple creatures. When they are hungry, one of them kicks the dog bowl until they are fed. When they are happy, they frisk around the house with toy ropes, tails wagging. So easy to be around. I love my dogs. If only people were as simple.

It's been an orgy of work, sleep and family home for the holidays. Exhaustion reigned. An exhaustion so deep that I actually entertained the idea of going to church on Christmas Day so I could see my kids a little more! But I simply couldn't think of the proper outfit to wear. You know, an outfit that makes me look hot with just a touch of skank mixed with loving mother. (I doubt the proper outfit even exists.) I compromised by staying home with my eldest (fantastic heathen that he is) and he colored my hair while I sipped coffee.

I admit I reveled in the treats of the season. A co-worker's homemade truffles. Pie. Cinnamon rolls. All the damned fudge, toffee and cookies from the families my husband home teaches. (Wasn't it kind of them to give their insulin-dependant diabetic home teacher lots and lots of sugar? I ate it to protect him.) But I'm nipping that in the bud butt right now and have gone extreme low carb while I flush that shit out of my system along with the accumulated fat. Life is slowly settling back to normal.

How did you survive the holidays?