Don't Call It A Comeback! (at least not until there's more than one post this month)

I'm back bitches, gays, mothers who love profanity and anybody else who accidentally reads the word that is Miss Spoken!

Ahhhh, another extended hiatus from the blogosphere with absolutely no reason other than (a) I often question whether or not what I have to say is worth reading and (b) can I make what I have to say sarcastic enough that the collection of words truly conveys the ridiculous recipe of boredom, exhaustion, laundry and random vagina jokes that has become my existence.

Maybe I think too much.

Maybe I think too little.

I'll have to think about that at 3:00 in the morning when Satan's flock of Devil Birds start their early-morning cacophony of shrieks and cackles from their Hell-based nest (i.e. the tree right outside my bedroom window).

It's not that there hasn't been anything to write about. I have actually left my house and not just for butter and wine, although I gotta say, I really do love my butter and wine trips. And I have on occasion used my computer for reasons other than researching the do's and dont's of buying pharmaceuticals over the Internet (note: I think I'll stick to random trips to Mexico like any normal mother of three would do.)

Let me bore you with my June itinerary:

We kicked off week one with The Boy and Boss Lady participating in their school's Spirit Week. I'm told that this is some kind of school tradition and I do have vague memories of Legal putting me through this when she was in school. But the schools I attended in San Francisco either didn't perform these rituals or the memories were so horrendous I have deleted them from my memory bank. My elementary school was a concrete slab with three eight foot poles sticking out of the ground. Maybe a ball had been tethered to them at one point. Who the fuck cares. No jungle gym. No fucking tanbark. Nothing but concrete and benches to park your ass when you made little Susie close her eyes and you walked her repeatedly into the only structure available for your amusement: steel poles. Middle school was no different (except there were no steel poles, just a guy who sometimes walked by the fence and exposed himself). I wish I could tell you about high school but habitual truancy does not promote a great understanding of school pride, Winter Ball themes or even the location of a locker I'm sure I was assigned. But to be fair to my 16 year old self, it was 1988, Jane's Addiction just released "Nothing's Shocking" and you could buy Brass Monkey in 750 mL bottles.

Week one ended with a two night camping trip to Donner Lake. Ya'll remember how this ended last year? This time we managed to escape without too much blood and Legal stayed away from the vodka. Mostly because there wasn't any and she already learned her lesson about what it feels like to vomit copious amounts of wine so at least my Chardonnay was safe. This family of mine is pretty notorious for peddling crazy so it was only fitting that on our last night we almost got kicked out for playing Telephone. You know, the game that involves nothing but whispering. Fortunately for us, Johnny Boy is our go-to guy when it comes to speaking with the police or anybody in a I Can Arrest You capacity. Not only did we not get kicked out, But JB also schooled the Ranger on some of his own rules and regs that for whatever reasons, JB knew better than he did (Note: everybody run out right now and pick up a JB of your very own. It's like bail money in the bank.)

And that was just week one. Stay tuned for the remaining weeks which include belly dancers, an arrest and the subsequent chewing of Xanax like tic-tacs!!

Vomitous Maximus

The Boy has puked once a day, every day, for the last four days.

But yesterday he showed signs of improvement. No nausea. No fever. In fact, his energy level was high enough to force me into a corner where I curled up into the fetal position and went to my happy place (note to reader: my happy place usually involves bed & breakfast accommodations and wine).

I went to bed thinking the worst was over, except for whatever my mother (who, by the way, I'm thinking of referring to as Whore Mouth from here on out) was going through downstairs. Apparently, she has caught the disease from The Boy and she doesn't handle vomiting very well. In fact, I think she was crying at one point and asking God to make it stop.

My dream of being in a car race on a dirt road in Half Moon Bay was interrupted by The Boy's 12:30 AM wails.

"Mmmmmmom! Mmmmmom! I have to throw up ... I'm not going to make it!"

Fuck me. I've had enough of kids puking in floor vents. Not tonight. Not on my watch.

With lightening speed, I launch myself out of bed, run smack into a wall, rebound, fly into his room and simultaneously switch on the light switch while tripping over an abandoned Candyland game.

It was my brilliant idea to buy bunk beds. Now my pale faced son is about to lose his shit and can't make it down the ladder in time.

I reach up, balance The Boy's stomach on my head and ease him down.

"Please don't throw up down my back. Please don't throw up down my back. Please don't throw up down my back."

Running to the bathroom with my son perched on my head, we make it just in time.

But my son is a rookie puker and lunges at the toilet at the wrong angle. He's now throwing up almost completely upside down.

With tears in his eyes and his little knees knocking he cries, "It burns! My nose burns!"

The next twenty minutes are devoted to blowing his nose in vain.

The Boy crawls into bed with me. With a designated puke bucket at the ready and a cold wash cloth on his forehead, I turn off the lights.

"Goodnight, Baby Boy."

"Goodnight, Baby Girl."

All is quiet except for the constant sniffing of The Boy who can't breathe out of his nose thanks to a trail of vomit left in his nasal passages.

Sniff. Sniff. Chunk. Sniff. Chunk.

By now, I'm about to puke. I don't know whether I'm actually sick, or just sick of cleaning vomit and loose bowels.

Sniff. Chunk. Sniff. Swallow. Swallow. Chunk. Sniff.

An hour and a half later, he falls asleep. The next morning he will ask for waffles and not eat them. I'll push enough caffeine in me to give a silverback gorilla the shakes and still be tired. I'll walk Boss Lady to school because she is unscathed from the disease (she tells me it's because she eats healthy) but not before she reads the paper (she says she likes to know what's going on in the world. She's five.) The bruise on my arm from running full speed into a wall will blossom. Whore Mouth will fret over what she should or should not eat. I'll write another post about vomit and remember the days when I used to write about vaginas and my imaginary boyfriends.

In non-puke related news, my underachiever achieved an average score and passed her GED!! And it looks like she might have landed a full-time job slingin' deli sandwiches. Yaaay Legal!!!

All I Want For Christmas Is Some Good ol' Fashioned Xanax

Why is my son behaving like a total asshole?

Yes, I know he's six but he's still acting like a jerk. And the whole Santa's watching threat is completely useless. The Boy thinks he's a bad ass and probably wants Santa to watch.

He has acquired the habit of chewing on his sleeves until they are soaking fucking wet... and then he chews some more. He's even had his behavior card flipped at school because of this. For those of you not up-to-date on your elementary school penal code system, getting your card flipped is bad. I put him in short sleeves and he manages to somehow chew his collar.

And he's repeating everything I say to him.

Me:  "Go to your room."

The Boy:  "You go to your room."

Me (in my head): "Fine, but I'm taking the wine with me." (then I do twirls and spins with my wine bottle glass in hand because that's where I wanted to be anyway.)

Me:  "Stop throwing paper airplanes at my head."

The Boy:  "I didn't do it." (he says this as a fleet of paper jet fighters sit waiting for take off at his feet)

Me:  "Don't lie to me."

The Boy:  "You don't lie to me."

Me (in my head):  "Shit. He's got me on that one."

His anger manifests itself in all kinds of physical ways. Usually it goes like this (and if anybody knew his father, they'll recognize this right away):

First, his eyebrow shoots up into his hairline while he simultaneously clenches his fists and grits his teeth. Then he shakes a little or a lot. He might even look for something to throw, but he catches my eye first (my eyebrow also holds the ability to arch with menace). Then he'll storm upstairs and threaten to runaway... to the gas station. I offer to help him pack. And so ends another day.

I think I recognize this for what it is:  the struggle for power and control. Mom versus Son. I'm pretty sure that in the end I'll win, if only because I have more duct tape than he does and I know how to use zip ties.

But it's exhausting work and requires copious amounts of Chardonnay. I'm also not opposed to sedatives (and not just for my son.) Stop yelling at me, that was a joke. But seriously, a little pharmaceutical gift in my stocking would be much appreciated, Santa.

Every villain needs a monocle.

A Morning Such As This

She hears them....

They're not even attempting to speak in hushed voices. She's half asleep but able to make out a few words; Mine. Downstairs. Waffles. Give it back. Ouch!

With a heavy sigh, Miss Spoken turns in her bed and begins the process of determining just what the hell time it is. This is made all the more difficult because of the infection that has taken up residence in her left eye. Her right eye is telling her that it's still dark outside. It's also dark inside except for the crack of light beneath her door which lets her know that The Boy and Boss Lady have made their way downstairs.

Shit.

She cracks the curtain of crust over her left eye and stares at the alarm clock. It's 5:45 in the fucking morning! That can't be right. She pulls the clock closer to her face. It's still 5:45.  Her mouth opens and out pours a chorus of profanity but nobody hears.

She kicks off the covers and starts to feel her way to the bathroom but is hindered by the gauntlet of oversized Legos that litter the floor. And the thing about oversized Legos is that they are made by The Devil who, with his underworldly knowledge of such things, made them large enough to impale every tender spot of a foot which is the entire foot.

She falls into the bathroom, cursing the day she was born. And when her ass hits the splatter that The Boy left on the toilet seat, she curses him, too. How is it that he has the dexterity to connect a bat to a ball, can balance quite nicely on a skateboard in motion, can stand on his head for fuck's sake, but he cannot manage to piss directly into the toilet bowl without hitting the seat or the floor or the ceiling or the damn window?? Miss Spoken thinks he's fucking with her.

Miss Spoken takes a deep breath and politely tells her mind to stop trying to get her hands to rip her hair out. She takes her piss-stained ass into the shower, carefully stepping around little plastic figurines of Strawberry Shortcake and more fucking Legos that are laid out in the tub like a forgotten minefield.

Telling herself that she will start this morning over as soon as she is sufficiently caffeinated, she steps out of the shower nude (because why would a towel be readily available on a morning such as this) and is met by Boss Lady.

Boss Lady smiles at her mother who is dripping wet and trying to find a towel or a robe or a sheep dog or something to dry herself off with. Boss Lady is clearly considering the fact that her mother is naked and then says this... "I see your butt. Don't worry Mom...I won't laugh."

And this is not the first time Boss Lady has told her this which makes Miss Spoken think that this little five year old is fucking with her, too.

Stranger Danger, Popcorn and Rape Whistles

Miss Spoken catches The Boy doing a lot of things he shouldn't be doing. She imagines that most of these things are rather normal for a six year old boy. For example, she often catches him shoving Skittles up his nose even after that time she had to remove them from said nasal cavity using a pair of tweezers and a miner's cap.

On more than one occasion, she has caught him sticking his little gel-coated head into a 350 degree oven to see if his beloved pepperoni pizza was done.

He's been caught stealing; been caught hacking into the computer; been caught storing random things like Barbie heads, Hawaiian sweetbread and a parking garage full of Matchbox cars between his sheets and under his pillow.

All of these things are relatively minor, except maybe for the whole flammable head thing.

But yesterday, The Boy told Miss Spoken that his after-school program took all 6 million kids to the skatepark. And then came that delicious tune that makes small children scream and parents cringe ... the song of the ice cream truck. Who, in Miss Spoken's humble opinion, shouldn't be hawking his wares in November, but whatever ... he showed up and The Boy bought a lollipop because Lord knows that the 18 pounds of refined sugar he scored during Halloween wasn't enough.

The problem is Miss Spoken didn't give The Boy any money. So where did he get it from?

Did he find it on the playground? Answer:  No

Did a teacher give it to him? Answer: No

Did (deep intake of breath) a stranger give it to him? Answer: Yes

[Insert montage of serial killers, kidnappers, duct tape and windowless vans playing on a loop in Miss Spoken's panic-soaked mind]

When further pressed on the subject (where further pressed means waving arms, yelling and repeating over and over again, "You know you are not supposed to talk to strangers!!") The Boy admitted that A Lady Stranger gave him fifteen cents but it was okay because, "she didn't kill me."

Miss Spoken closes her eyes. She shakes another pill into her sweaty palm, places her mouth comfortably around the Franzia spout and opens the valve. She then proceeds, yet again, to tell The Boy and Boss Lady all about stranger awareness and how to be safe. She is serious. And scared. Because she can totally see her kids being lured by stories of lost puppies and the promise of cotton candy unicorns.

Miss Spoken fondly remembers her own childhood which was appropriately riddled with fear. Like the time her mother ran into the liquor store for a pack of Benson & Hedges Menthol and left Miss Spoken and Miss Led in the Pinto alone. A man began to approach the car but when her mom came out of the store he stopped, smiled, gave Miss Spoken a wave, turned on his heels and walked away. 

Miss Spoken grew up looking at the face of Adam Walsh who stared back at her from every street light in San Francisco. She played in Golden Gate Park where they discovered nude bodies stuffed inside cement-sealed barrels. Later she would read about the horrors committed by Leonard Lake and Charles Ng and learned that some of the victims were from her neighborhood. And when the Night Stalker crept around her city, she took little comfort in knowing that her older brother slept with a baseball bat and a steak knife. Big deal. This guy was called the fucking Night Stalker, not The Guy Who Is Intimidated By A Boy And His Bat.

Miss Spoken wants her kids to understand danger and be instinctive. She doesn't understand why they insist on talking to everybody; why they are so damned friendly. They did not inherit this from her because she doesn't even talk to people that she knows and likes.

She has thought about hosting a Nancy Grace marathon. Invite the neighborhood kids. Maybe hand out popcorn, rape whistles and a map of local sex offenders. But Miss Spoken doesn't want to suffocate her children with fear. At least not until they are in their teens and she is able to use crime scene photos. However, she also does not want them to walk up to cars, point to their house and say, "Second bedroom on the left. Yeah, the one with the broken screen on the window."

Now Playing: Santa Barbara & the Dick Beaters

"I'm squeezing it as tight as I can!"

Those are the words I usually (a) love to say and (b) love to hear. But those aren't exactly the words I want to hear from my son as we try to make our way over Donner Pass after being in a car for eight hours. You see, during our four-day trip from Nevada to Half Moon Bay to Sunnyvale to Santa Barbara to San Francisco and back ... The Boy who normally does not eat, consumed actual food. Food and tootsie pops. And now with the closest rest stop two miles away, The Boy's body has decided to say AhhHellNo. This is after one previous stop where I had to toss his briefs into the women's tampon disposal. Sorry 'bout that Marie Callender's employees but Miss Spoken doesn't like to hold shitty underpants in her purse while sipping on your godawful house Chardonnay. Actually, Miss Spoken can't think of a time when she likes to hold on to crappy underpants.

Anyfeces.....

We made it home without The Boy blowing up Johnny Boy's car and having to ride into Reno as a hood ornament. That's almost never fun when it happens to you.  Almost.

The trip was worth every mile spent twisting my 5'10 frame around to rip toys from one offspring to another, push batteries back where they belong, create makeshift pillows from blankets using one hand and threatening bodily injury to my Brat Pack.

And for those taking a trip to Santa Barbara, you have to stay at the Lemon Tree Inn. Salt water pool, balconies for every room and Bloody Marys on site. Leadbetter Beach is also a great spot to barbecue, roll down hills and fall in the ocean. If you get there early enough, as Kick Ass Corrina did, you might even get the chance to ear-hustle on a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. Stay late enough and you can watch the homeless, twackers, my dad nonconformists create spatulas out of beer cans because they don't want to use their "dick beaters."

This will probably be my last trip of the year. Miss Spoken is tired of road trips even if she's not the one doing the driving. She is the one doing the drinking and cursing and that my friends can be done in Babbleville.

P.S. Corrina ..... The Boy sends hearts and love and kisses and sexual harassment.

The Boy's First Misdemeanor

Does this look like the face of a criminal?  

Look closer ....  closer ...

Last night The Boy, Boss Lady and I had dinner at Grandma's house. And when I say dinner, I mean that while most of us ate enchiladas, The Boy had pasta (remember that pesky eating disorder I diagnosed him with?) and not much else.

On the way back home, we had a brief layover at The Store That Claims To Sell Things Way Cheaper Than The Other Stores. I don't usually hit this particular spot but was lured by the promise of that creamy garlicky goodness known as Boursin cheese. Alas, some Boursin-Cheese-Eating-Harlot must have snatched every last one of them because they were all gone. I did however learn that Wolfgang Puck has a new line of frozen appetizers out on the market. So with my cart full of chilled risotto balls, snacks for my wicked children and an array of lotions and potions that I don't really need, I pay for my haul. Needless shopping done, we arrive home and I throw The Boy and Boss Lady in bed. No bath because I said so. Lights out.

Cut to the next morning.

Before I can even peel my eyes open, there is a small warm body next to me softly whispering in my ear, "Mom, don't look at the gum in the drawer. Plllleeease."

Shit.

Is there sticky sweet and strawberry scented gum attached to everything in my makeup drawer? Is it his drawer? Is there a web of fruity gluey goodness entangling his new school clothes? Or is it (gasp!) a ball of gum, partially eaten by The Boy and partially feasted on by a colony of ants?! 

His pleading is escalating as I approach what I think to be The Drawer. Sure enough, inside there is a pack of candy. Not gum though, it turns out to be Jawbreakers. It also turns out that while I was distracted by frozen Wolfgang Puck and bottles of $3 wine, The Boy put the jawbreakers in his pocket, i.e. he stole them!

I've been down this road before with my oldest daughter. When she was two years old, I took her to the Berkeley Flea Market and she "accidentally" took off with some hippy chick's stash of string bracelets. That probably really was just an accident. It wasn't an accident however when she was busted stealing energy drinks at the local grocery store. Or lifting eyeliner from Walgreens. 

The Boy feels bad and wants to know if he'll be going to jail. Not this time. He will however, be going back to that store, confessing his crime and paying for his Jawbreakers.

Get off the junk, son

Thin Mints, Chinese Orphans and The Boy

Things that are thin:

 * The MacBook Air

 * Karen Carpenter

 * My Patience

 * Thin Mints

 * The Line Between Love and Hate

 * Chinese Orphans

 * My son, The Boy

I know The Boy is only six, but I'm pretty sure he has an eating disorder. Like any concerned, highly strung and sometimes intoxicated mother, I spent some time Googling toddler eating disorders and forced the pieces to fit my puzzle.

Pay attention people.  Here are some signs that your precious little lanky and angular first grader might have an eating disorder, too:

Does he/she wear big or baggy clothes?  Sure does. My son couldn't keep his pants on for nothin'. We could be in a room with 500 people and if the word Pants! was shouted, my son would be the first to wiggle his size 5's back to where they belong without skipping a beat.

Does he/she have an obsession with continuous exercise? Yes, in fact he does. His workout routine starts at 6:30 in the morning with cardio. This usually entails playing Wipeout in his bedroom and then running circles around his mother's bed, repeating the words Waffles, Waffles, Waffles. By 10:00 he's ready for the pool and will swim all day long if his mother lets him, which his mother doesn't because she has things to do too and is fed up with sweating her ass off in this Nevada heat which is clearly just an expression because her ass is just as big today as it was yesterday. Swimming is followed by skateboarding, biking and a little bit of downhill luge. Most days also include shadow boxing and some All-State worthy freestyle wrestling with his younger sister, Boss Lady. When it comes to exercising with his older sister, he prefers to lick his hand, smack her across some area of exposed skin and then run for his life. 

Visible food restrictions and self starvation?  Where do I start? The Boy eats PB & J but only without the J. He eats more pasta than Mario Batali, but only with butter or Alfredo sauce. No red sauce and no cheese and good God don't try to slip him a meatball. If he's forced to sit at the table while his sister has dessert, he might have an inch or two of chicken. No fish. No beef. No hot dogs. He prefers a bun with just ketchup. Might eat rice. Must have waffles in the morning. No eggs. Likes his cereal dry with a glass of milk on the side. Likes apples, hates melon. Big fan of chips, salsa and taco shells with no filling. Is repulsed be vegetables and all things green, except of course green Otter Pops.

What's a parent to do?

Well ... I've got that book, Deceptively Delicious, but with The Boy's all-day-every-day workout routine it's been hard scheduling time to steam, puree and jar vegetables that I'm supposed to sneak into his meals. Mama has to have time to chill, uncork and pour Chardonnay too, you know. 

I am however making the switch to whole wheat pasta. Hold your applause.

The Boy, shown here in a display of deep shame.

It is clear that the stigma of being the only six year old in his entire school to be diagnosed with the rare Possibly-Maybe-Probably-Not-Eating Disorder is a great burden to carry.

That, or he is passed out from too many Skittles.