You Know You're a Completely Stereotypical Lesbian When...

1. You have Saturday shorts that have nothing to do with exercise.
2. You put on your Saturday shorts, and they have a pocket full of screws.
   
3. When you put on your Saturday shorts, with a pocket full of screws, and you can't remember the project you were working on the last time you put on those shorts.
   

Wow, This was Unexpected

I was making a comment in one of my favourite blogs - Big Ass Belle - and Lynette, the blogger, was asking the question: Have you ever had a fear you thought you couldn't get over, then you did? Tell, please.

And this is what I wrote:

"I used to fear my mother's disappointment. I don't know if anyone knows the kind of fiery red-head my mother is. She was also raised by a fiery red-head - chain-smoker, journalist-born-too-soon, member of John Birch Society who used to grill me from her position at the dining room table: [takes long drag of cigarette] "So, what are you gonna do when you grow up?" I was terrified, I was 8.
And so, my mother, raised by that woman who never wanted to become that woman, became a version of that woman, minus the cigs.
I kept my girlfriend a secret. For 3 years, she was my wonderful room-mate whom my mother LOVED. And then, she became my wife, and all hell broke loose.
It wasn't until we had kids that the fucking shit hit the fan - Prop. 8, her activism, my 3 year old's new questions. And I decided that I loved my children light years more than I wanted her respect. And that was that. I wasn't afraid anymore."

I'm not sure how long my estrangement with my mother (and by extension, my father) will last . I hope we will reconcile at some point before her health deteriorates - she's now 70 in somewhat poor, though not dire, health. I'm not expecting her views to change, I've never expected that. She believes with everything in her being that my relationship is sub-par, destructive, and vile. It will infect the "healthy" heterosexual relationships around me and force my children to follow into the "lifestyle" as a requirement for securing my love.
Okay. But the thing is: I used to believe these things. And it had very little to do with the people in actual gay relationships, and way more to do with my slavish devotion to a cultural mindset (and my own fears of the gay). Would I have maintained that mindset if I hadn't met Becca and instead, found some nice man who'd go along with my self-delusions? Honestly, probably. And I'd be one of those people I find so irritating today - self-righteous, bigoted, hard, small-minded. Well, I can never know.

But fear does horribly destructive things to your soul, and that is the TRUTH.

3 Hours of Sleep and Still Here...

Owen wakes Amelia, Amelia wakes Owen. We are all up, everyone in the house. Well, not Mabel. She lays on her pillow, oblivious to the human dramas. But if I make a beeline for the door to go after a critter, or a guy trying to steal my wheelbarrow, she's all over that. But no, it's just the kids, and she's immune to the crying in stereo.

So I'm trying to run a business and parent my kids and keep some semblance of a marriage. It's really late. I've sent the business e-mails out, updated the Facebook, and now will hope for more than the 3 hours we got last night. At least, I didn't sleep in the racecar bed. Poor Becca, I don't know how she does it. I'm crazy about that woman. And now, I get to hang out with her and be unconscious, 2 of my favourite things.

Funeral for Oakland

I decided to come in from doing yard work to watch a little of the funeral ceremony for the 4 Oakland Police officers shot and killed last week. The pipes are playing. It makes me think that these pipes mourn for the whole city. We feel like the police have taken the brunt of the violence and resentment for the entire city. If a police department is chronically understaffed by as much as 40 percent, public safety and trust will be crushed, and the city will deteriorate.

Fucking Ron Dellums. This is his fault. I can't believe the families let him show his face at this event. It's not like he's been showing up to DO HIS JOB since we elected the bastard.

I'm going to start calling my neighbourhood Wild West Oakland from now on.

Pizza and Obama

Peter, our recession housemate, made pizza. Becca's eating with the kids, including my buddy Maurice's daughter, Maia. He's gone home to get his wife, Shannon, and his out-of-town guest, Tom, whom I've never met.
I decided to wait to eat with the grown-ups, and after a long tiring day with my boundary challenging children, I'm happy to bury myself in the Obama press conference with some hard cider. Honestly, I'm still in shock that this guy - THIS GUY - is in charge. I'm continually gob-smacked that the country that invented endless forms of fried cheese voted to put the professional in charge. It reminds me of when I was young and really poor - PO - working for $3.25 an hour sweeping popcorn and cleaning warm chew-spit from rum bottles at the movie theatre in San Diego. I remember having just enough in my bank account to pull the last 20 out of the ATM. And that last 20 had to last for-ever. We knew, as a country, that we had BLOWN it the last time, and the time before that. And we knew we had that last 20 in our hands and couldn't give it to the erratic old coot and his crazy winking wingnut of a sidekick.

That's all I have to say about politics. Margaret and Helen do it better, I can never compete.

Play-Dough is Gross

The very item that can capture the kids' attention better than almost anything, except TV, is becoming the bane of my existence, but only sometimes. Fortunately, Becca makes a batch every month, so we're not going through our savings buying the real stuff. But between the moments when it comes out of the pot as warm, new goo until the red or green or blue substance forms dry, buggery bits all over the kitchen floor, all the dirt and dust and fur and germs of our home find its way into the dough. In other words, everything that is wrong with my lack of house-pride is IN that ball of yuck.

And the kids love it. Mostly, I just close my eyes and sit down at the kitchen table with the expectation that I'm sitting in at least some vestige. Mostly, I don't care.

Vacation is Over, Final Notes

All is quiet. Amelia just started sleeping in the same room with her brother. Of course he worries she'll cry and wake him up. I worry about that too, because he's into long Sesame Street stories, and I can't bear to read another one until well after dawn. I had an Other Mother experience in San Diego over the weekend. Owen's diaper was off, but he kept his signature bright orange shirt on so I could see him from a pretty far distance. Becca had gone back across the street to the hotel for I don't know what, and Amelia was crying. So I was holding her. I know my son, he's not going to run into the street, unlike his sister, who is a lunatic when it comes to danger. I know within 5 seconds I can get to him. But then the people want to ask him where his Mama is. Mama is across the street doing whatever. Nobody thinks, he must have a SECOND parent in charge. That would be me. Maybe every parent gets the judgy rundown from beach patrol cops who think the mostly naked three year old is too far away from me on the beach. But the last thing I need is trouble from authority figures on ATVs.

I scoop him up and I'm outta there. But the whole thing left with this unmistakeble fear - not of my competence, but of the perception of competence. Meanwhile some random woman was scolding her daughter for leaving her behind to play with other kids, "Don't you LOVE me?"

Hey, we're all just doing the best we can, trying to learn from our mistakes, trying not to make the most egregious ones. And it stands to reason that most kids come out the way they're supposed to - standing on their own feet with their own psychological and spiritual shit to dig at. I only hope mine get a part-time job ASAP, because I'm sure we can't afford the therapy.

Not Having Precious Moments with my Kids

This my first blog post ever. Probably no one will be there to read this, and that's okay. Right now, I'm watching Bill Cosby on Hardball talking about racial matters. Maybe I'll talk about that stuff later. I'm hardly "qualified", but I always give it a shot.

So, all I wanted to do is leave a comment on Joe My God about my relationship status, and here I am writing to myself. The house is quiet, except for Mr. Cosby and the normal sounds of the neighbourhood. Relationship status: Married. Legally married. One of the 36,000 of us married in California between June and November. But that was the third ceremony. However one wants to quantify it: 10 years, or 5 years or 9 months. Or never. From our first date, I felt married, and that was more than 13 years ago. I knew I wanted to be with Becca. And that was it.

But anyway. 2 kids, 3 - Owen- and 18 months - Amelia. I'm the stay at home. And like most things, it's not all hearts and flowers. It's sometimes the hard slog of tantrums and shitty diapers and "Why Mummy?". All day long.

And today, Becca took them to the zoo, and it's quiet.

My children are amazing. Owen has this way of using a very grown-up "hmmm..." whenever he ponders a question. He also wants to be inside with his footie pajamas every single hour of the day. Maybe he should have a blog. Amelia, who just like her brother walked at 10 months and is now running and diving at certain heights into the dog pillow, is now starting to throw out several new words a day. She has a beautiful raspy voice and looks like a wood nymph.

This week has been hard, and I haven't liked my attitude nor my tactics. Maybe next week, I'll have better luck next week. Hey, the children just came home. I'm better now.