"The Girl on the Ledge" Chapter - PREVIEW

Well, for the past few months I've spectacularly SUCKED at blogging. In large, due to the fact that I've been gearing my penning of my novel into overdrive. But, my lovely little blog audience, I will neglect you no more! So here it is, a chapter out of my novel-in-process, "The Girl on the Ledge", set to be out in print and awaiting your hard-earned attention and dollar later this summer!

Your criticism is always welcome; feel free to comment, Facebook me, email me, write a postcard - whatever. If you read my blog you are obviously in the top five IQ percentile, an extremely discerning literary elitist and the best creative input wireless Internet from my neighbor's house and a ten dollar bottle of wine can buy. LOVE.

So without further ado...

“Only the thunder knows

What drives a man in his darkest throes

Fortune and poverty

They’re oh so close.”

-The  Alarm, Only the Thunder Knows

ETHAN

She didn’t seem so fucking cruel and heartless when I met her. I thought she was sweet, caring and nice – maybe a little sad, even. Not the bitch she turned out to be. I remember when I first saw her, wearing tight jeans and an obvious hangover, with that cute little girl of hers running around. Cindy told me she didn’t like her from the start, that she knew she was trouble and no-good skanky, but hell, I’m a nice guy. I don’t see anything but the good parts of people, especially when they’re in trouble. Rachael was a drunk with a kid and no daddy for that little girl anywhere to be seen. That’s trouble. Every kid needs a daddy – I know my life went to shit when mine had to leave. And I knew as soon as she started talking about her ex and her life that she needed help. My mom always said that was the best thing about me, but what everyone in my path took advantage of – my big heart.

That girl showed me love that I didn’t think was real until her. Anything I asked her to do she’d do without thinking, and I knew that soon I wouldn’t have to ask because she loved me that much. She’d take off my boots for me at the end of the day and rub my feet, and the girl could cook, too. At night she’d be there, ready in the dark, fuck my brains out and then get up to fix me a sandwich. She’d rub my back in little circles until my eyes got heavy and I fell asleep. Man, I remember thinking; a little work and she’d make the perfect wife. She was young, almost ten years younger than me, and still needed a little learning in how to treat a man. I never blamed her for that; she’d had a kid and then the piece of shit walked out on them. But I was patient enough to teach her. I grew up with my mom and two older sisters; I knew how to deal with women since I was a kid. Rachael wasn’t just right when I met her. She was dumb and easily led – she’d let anyone stay in her house, eat her food, spend her money. I made sure to move in with her pretty fast – faster then I would’ve wanted, to protect her. She had that kid, Melissa, and I knew it would kill some of my free time. But I knew she needed help. Her fatass friend Mary was sleeping on her couch every night, loading her up on booze and watching her kid while she whored around before I stepped in. But I loved that kid, my little Missy, and I cared enough to step in before her dumbass friends sucked her dry. I’d just come back to the East from Louisiana when I met her, anyway, I had been spending my winters in the South and my summers in the North for seven years – endless summer, endless party. Cindy always wanted me to stay with her, being her only brother ad all, plus I helped her raise the only kid the State hadn’t gotten. Figured I’d just live that way forever, I had no family, no house, and I made money when I needed to and when I ran out just made more. Easy. I wasn’t expecting Rachael to fall in to my life the way she did. It was God, I think. I always used to tell him, if I can have a wife and a family, you better give her to me quick. So I guess he did, in His own sick way. My dad used to say we were descended from Job, my family. It took me some time to figure out that he was right, but I learned. He used to tell me all the time, “Boy, you’re hard headed and stubborn as shit, but you’ll learn.” And most of it, I did.

I told her all the time, real friends would be happy for her. They’d want her to spend most of her time with me, because I was making her happy. We fell in love at first sight, how often does that happen? They wouldn’t want to get in between us. They were always trying to take her away. I have sisters. I know how jealous women get.

My heart makes me dumb. I promised myself I’d use my head more, and my heart less. I get blind to the signs that are jumping out right in front of my face. It was all an act, the kind, sweet, gentle Rachael I saw. Professional bullshit. Two months after I met her, she showed her true colors. She wanted a baby. She moaned it in my ear one night after we drank a bottle of Rum, while we fucked in the dark of the bedroom. So I gave it to her. My son, I knew as soon as she took the test. My boy.

That was when she got cruel. Work was slow, not anything I could help. But when I did work I made fifteen bucks an hour, worth waiting the few months in between jobs. One week a month and I made five hundred in a check. She didn’t care.

“We need to get a bigger place,” she’d whine and cry, “Your money gets spent on just you! You need to make more than five hundred dollars in a month – I can’t support us all. I’m pregnant.”

“Work will pick up,” I promised her. And I meant it. Construction was dying, that’s what the whispers around town were, but I knew better. And I told her. But she pushed and pushed. Hit every last button. Lazy, she called me. Told me I had a drinking problem, told me that I had to stop smoking weed, that I should spend all my free time in between jobs looking for another job. “My time off is for me”. I tried to explain. Everybody needs to relax. And up until she got pregnant we were drinking together almost every night, it wasn’t fair that she expected me to just stop for no reason. She told me she wanted an abortion, to murder my only son before I could even hold him. Cruel. Mean. She pushed until she got just what she wanted, until I would explode and call her names and spit in her face. Nonstop complaining, that I’d scared off all her so-called friends and family. Why couldn’t she see that they were no good for her, just trying to rip us apart and tear her down? She’d push until I did anything just to make her meanness stop, to shut up her cruel words. Then I was the bad guy, I felt like shit, and she won. It was too late by the time I figured out who Rachael really was. She was already pregnant with my son, and I’d be damned if she killed him. I wouldn’t let her murder my seed. And I knew what it was like growing up in a broken home – she sure as hell wasn’t going to leave me, either. I loved her in spite of how cruel she was, and I thought she could change. For us. For our baby. For our little Missy, who called me “Daddy”. She needed me. I kept her in line. Without me Rachael would just let her run wild, all over her, without any discipline. Before me, that woman never raised a hand to that kid. I spanked her ass when she needed it because he mother was too lazy to even do that. She always made me the bad guy.

“You can’t touch her like that,” she’d scream in my face, “It’s abuse and it doesn’t work.”

Always screaming at me, always pushing me until I had to shut her up. The kid listened when I was around. She never gave me trouble like she did her mother. But that woman always thought she was right, even when it was clear as day that she wasn’t. I showed her every day that my discipline worked, that the kid stayed in line. And she still couldn’t admit when she was wrong. She brought something out in me that I never thought I’d be. I never wanted to raise my hand to the mother of my child. When I prayed to God at night for a wife, I didn’t see in my head one that would push me to put her in line like that. But Rachael always did.

She left her job but still yelled at me every day for not working. I didn’t want her working – her job was filled with no good whores and guys who she could run to whenever she felt like I wasn’t enough. I was going to make her my wife, my son’s mother – home is where she belonged. Safer that way. Easier for her to take care of our family. The whole world seemed to be in her ear all the time, poisoning her mind against me. I couldn’t let it keep happening – she was too young and dumb to know the right thing to do without me beside her. She ran to her Daddy for money, and he gave her money, all right. I always used to wonder, what kind of shit bag buys off his own kid like that? He gave her $100,000. So she thought that meant that she didn’t have to work, but I still did. And she thought it was always her way or no way at all.

I took her to pick out a new house to rent, something bigger, for the baby. We found the perfect one. Seems like that was the happiest time we had before things really went bad It was an old farmhouse, with plenty of rooms and a big backyard. Exactly what I dreamed about when I thought about my family. Rachael was getting big, six months pregnant maybe, and we knew for sure that it was a boy. I picked out a name, Connor, after my Grandpa. We didn’t fight the whole two weeks it took to move. The last fight we got in to was bad. It started because she didn’t think I could help pay rent. She always doubted me.

“Baby,” I told her, “If it bothers you that much, I’ll look for another job as soon as we find a place to move to. Just let me help you find a house first.”

“Okay,” she seemed to relax a little bit, but there was still doubt in her eyes. Why does she still doubt me  I said what she wanted to hear.

“And maybe you should stop drinking. It’s getting expensive. And you’re always drunk.”

“I’m not always drunk. I get drunk when I want to get drunk; it’s never an accident. I know my limits. Sometimes I just want to get drunk.”

“Well, you always want to get drunk then,” she said flatly.

“It’s my choice. Who are you to talk? A few months ago you were getting drunk every fucking night. You’re an alcoholic and you admit it.”

“I’m not drinking now,” she kept arguing. She was getting louder, “And I’m not going to drink after the baby. You can’t even stop for the baby, or for me, or for Missy. She has to see you drunk every night. And you’re wasting up all my money on your booze.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it; it was ridiculous. Shit spewing from her mouth.

“Why the fuck are you laughing at me?” She was starting to yell.

“Because you’re not going to stop drinking,” I knew her better than that, “You’re a lazy fucking drunk. And I’m not wasting shit. We’re having a baby, we’re getting married, it’s our money and you can’t have control over it all. That’s not how a family works.”

She got silent for a minute. I looked at her; tears were starting to build up in the corner of her eyes. Truth hurts, I thought to myself. I wouldn’t have said anything about her being a drunk if she hadn’t started on me first. She never knew how to just let shit go.

“I know I shouldn’t have been drinking that much,” she muttered, “But it’s how I dealt with Ray walking out, okay? It still hasn’t been that long. It still hurts. But I’m done drinking. And you,” she stopped, caught her breath, choked back her tears, “You should too.”

I couldn’t believe what had just come out of her mouth. She just admitted she still loved her ex, that piece of shit Ray, who just walked out and dumped all the responsibility on to the next idiot that walked in to them. Me. I felt rage boiling under my skin.

“Why the fuck does it hurt? You have me. And while that fucking asshole has been off in another fucking state shooting himself retarded full of dope, I’ve been here every day, taking care of his daughter, paying for his daughter, putting her to bed and teaching her. So why does it hurt?”

“Well, it-. I-“ she stammered. Caught. Caught in her shit.

“What, you’re still in love with him?”

“No!” she faked being upset, “I hate him. It just –“

No answers. Just excuses. Dumb excuses. I stepped closer to her, got right up in her face, “It just what? Why the fuck does it hurt, Rachael?” I screamed at her. She fell back on to the couch behind her, silent. Nothing to say. Her eyes were wide and afraid - the look of a guilty woman.

“What, have you been fucking him?” My fists were balled, I was so mad. I could feel my eyeballs almost popping out of my head as I yelled. She shrunk back and curled up a little. It felt almost good to see her so guilty. And she was getting what she wanted, too. Sick bitches, addicted to drama. Always trying to play a man for what they can get.

“No,” she screeched up at me, “I haven’t seen him! You can call him, you can ask him! I’m always with you, Ethan! I’m always with you!”

“Bullshit! That scum would lie for you.” I knew better than to believe her stories by then. “That’s why you wanted to kill my son. Is it even my son? Is it, Rachael?”

“Yes!” she was crying, tears running down her face. Why the hell was she crying? She didn’t feel bad; I knew it. Sorry she got caught, maybe.

“It is why you wanted to kill my son? You fucking slut. You stupid fucking slut. I’ve spent the last four months taking care of your kid for that fucking piece of shit deadbeat scum dope fiend, and when I go to bust my ass to pay for your fucking shit, you wave that dirty, nasty gaping pussy right over to that piece of shit. You fucking nasty-ass pig. You,” I hocked back and drew up every last bit of mucous I could muster to the back of my throat. I didn’t even think about it, I just did it. I spit as hard as I could right into her twisted, sobbing face, “You whore.”

She stopped sobbing, stopped moving, she might’ve even stopped breathing for a minute. Her face went white and her eyes went wide with shock. She looked up at me and her eyes seemed to take up half her face. The spit slid down the bridge of her nose, under her eye to her cheek. Something changed in her face. I don’t know what. She stood up, her face blank, and gently pushed me aside. She didn’t have to push hard, I felt weak in my knees. Afraid. I didn’t know what she was going to do. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking with her face expressionless and wordless. She walked slowly, staggering almost, into the bedroom. I followed her without a word. I watched as she fell on to the bed as if she had gotten shocked by electricity and collapsed into heaving sobs. I watched her for a few minutes and she cried and wailed and gasped for air, her lips turning to a slight shade of purple.

Finally, she looked at me, her eyes puffy and red; her cheeks wet.

“Get out,” she growled, “I’m leaving you.”

“What?” I should’ve known that was coming. What do I do? She’s not leaving me. I’ll break her face in. She has my son. That’s my son. That’s my girlfriend. We’re getting married. They’re mine. She’s not leaving. She’s not ruining my family.

“Get out,” she repeated, clearer, louder, “This is my apartment and I want you out.”

“I’m not leaving,” I raised my hand again, “You already fucked me over once. It’s late. My sister’s door is locked and I have no where to go.”

“Then call her,” she said.

“She won’t answer her phone this late, you dumb fucking whore.”

She reached to the side of the bed and grabbed the phone,  “Don’t come near me. I’ll call the cops. I’ll scream so loud the neighbors will call the cops. I want you to leave. You spit in-” she broke down into tears again.

“You’re not kicking me out in the dark,” I said again, “I’ll leave in the morning. I don’t want a dumb whore like you anyway.”

“Then leave now,” she screamed.

“Shut up!” I said, “You have a kid sleeping. Did you forget, Mother of the Year?”

“I want you to leave.”

“Stop saying that. I’m not going anywhere. You have my son and I’m not leaving him.”

“I thought it was Ray’s,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “I wish it was. Leave.”

Stupid fucking bitch. Just when I calmed down. Just when I stopped yelling. She had to push that button again, “So it is his, you dumb, nasty fucking slut?” I roared, “It is his??” I leapt on the bed, right on top of her. I pinned her down by her wrists and knocked the phone out of her hands.

She looked me right in the eyes. She tightened her face, “No. But at least he had a job,” she spat the words at me, “At least he didn’t call me names like you. At least he wouldn’t spit in my face like you.” Shut up. My head was screaming.

“At least when he was here he helped with the bills,”

Shut up BITCH.

“And didn’t blow every cent he could get on booze.”

Shut the FUCK up BITCH.

“You’re worried about him because even that piece of shit dope fiend is more of a man than you and wouldn’t put his hands on me like this.”

SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU FUCKING PIECE OF WHORE BITCH.

I lifted one hand off her wrist, swung back and struck her in the face. I smacked the words right out her mouth. She stopped, in stunned silence again.

Oh God, what did I do? I didn’t mean to cross the line. I swore on my unborn son that I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t that guy. I wasn’t the kind of man who would put his hands on his pregnant fiancé like that. I never was. She pushed me to it. She pushed me. I looked at the phone lying on the floor. Was she going to call the cops? She’d have my arrested. She planned it, to set me off so that she could call the cops and put me in jail and be rid of me. This was all her plan.

But she just lay still on the bed. Quiet, Soundless tears rolled down her cheeks; big, fat drops at the end of long and constant streams. I sat up off of her and looked at her, lying there, crying those quiet tears. She made me feel bad. Guilty. What did I do?

“I’m sorry,” I said after what felt like hours of her motionless tears.

She didn’t say anything. She wouldn’t look at me. After all the heartless things she just unleashed on me, after what she made me do, and she wouldn’t even look at me. My hand twitched, itching to hit her again. But I couldn’t. Just because she hadn’t reached for the phone yet didn’t mean she wasn’t trying to push me to do it again, harder, to leave a mark so she could. Her cheek was just a little red; it would fade away soon. She wasn’t going to get to me again. I wasn’t that guy. I didn’t hit women. Not me.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. I drew her into my arms in a rough hug. I was sorry. I didn’t want to. I didn’t mean to. She pushed me too far. She stiffened at my touch for a second, then fell limp. She buried her head in my chest and began to sob loudly again.

“Shhh,” I urged, “Missy’s sleeping in the next room.” She wouldn’t stop. She just started crying louder.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, “I didn’t mean to. You were so mean. I just lost control. I have a hard time with my anger, I told you that.” And I had told her before. I was honest, “And I feel bad about myself, okay? I hate myself sometimes. I feel stupid and ugly and worthless. You should know not to make me feel lower.”

Her crying softened a little bit.

“I act confident, but I’m not,” I continued, “And I love you so much. You’re the girl of my dreams. I literally dreamt about you before I met you. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted in a girl. No, a woman. You’re a woman. And that’s why it hurts so bad when you get so cruel. You can’t be so heartless with me, Rachael. I love you. Nobody’s ever loved me like you do. And nobody’s ever hurt me like you.”

I started to cry, too. The pain bubbled up from inside me and spilled over like a forgotten pot on the stove. I held her and cried. As I cried harder, her tears slowed and then stopped. She looked up at me, her face sunken and sallow.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t know.”

“I’m sorry too,” I sobbed, “I didn’t mean to get that far. But baby, you can’t push me. You can’t. I love you too much.”

I sucked in my tears and wiped my face. I pulled away and held her face roughly in my hands.

“That will never happen again,” I promised, “Never. Just promise you’ll never push me like that again.”

“I won’t,” she whispered.

“Good. I’ve never hit a girl before in my life,” I lied. Not a lie, just not the whole truth. I’d never hit a girl unprovoked before. Never had, ever. Never would, “There’s just something about you that brings this out in me. And it hurts, because I promised myself I’d never do that.”

She began to sob again, even more loudly than before. She fell back on the bed, her chest heaving with each sob and moan.

“Shhh,” I said, “Missy is sleeping.”

She kept crying.

“Shhh,” I hissed.

I heard the whimpering of a toddler, then a few short cries. Then wailing. Screaming.

“Look what you did!” I said sharply, “I told you to be quiet! Are you gonna get her or what?”

Rachael sat up, still crying. She sucked in air, trying to control her tears. She nodded.

“Stop crying. She’ll know something’s wrong.”

She nodded again. But didn’t stop. Missy kept screaming. She was getting louder. More urgent.

“Are you gonna get her?” I asked irritably.

Rachael fell back again, curled up, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Fine,” I snapped, “I’ll get her.”

I crept out of the room to the crib where Missy was standing, reaching out to me. I picked her up and held her in my arms, patting her back, rocking softly. I could hear Rachael, still crying, in the other room.

“Mommy?” Missy looked up at me, a question on her little face.

I shut her door, “Mommy’s fine. She’s having a fit, that’s all.”

In the black of the nursery, I stood and rocked another man’s child in my arms while her mother fell to pieces on the bed. That was Rachael, always making messes and then leaving me to clean them up. 

***

Might post more at some point in the near future, you never know...

To Do

I need to do a couple more "Crappy Internet Dating" segments. Stay tuned.

Verse: My New Sardonic Best Friend

My rambling on my parenting can get boring. But my unfortunate and entertaining self loathing is always there to pitch hit on the blog. So, for your entertainment: A short collection of my latest verse.

"Rebound Pets"
Lovers come, lovers go,
Passion plants a seed, misery will grow.
Rejections stings, but estrangement cuts deep,
Angst is exhausting but ruins your sleep.
Weddings are wasted time,
And babies make your stomach grow fat;
Forget marriage number two,
I'll just buy a cat.

"Soul Mate for Everyone"
I'm told one day I'll grow lonely
(I suppose I'm already there.)
My babies will grow up to leave me
(And leave lines on my face and grey in my hair)
There's a soulmate for everyone,
That's what "they" say;
A man to cherish and adore me,
"True", I reply, with a gleam in my eye,
"But in bed a gay man would bore me."

"Love Letter"
I wished and hoped our love would get better,
When all else failed,
I wrote a love letter.
A desperate plea,
A piteous sonnet,
Sealed with my affliction,
My tears misted on it.
If you were going to treat me well,
Perhaps I should have found another way,
Because, alas, my last lovelorn letter,
Was a 209a.

"Twisted Humor"
Strike me, hit me, kick me down;
Find your comfort in my brow furrowed,
And my mouth in a frown.
Belittle me, frighten me,
Mock my tears,
Corrode my worth over years and years.
Laugh at my misfortune,
Make a joke of destroying my pride;
Tear me open and chuckle at my most intimate side.

But here you're left to say,
"Alack! Alay!,
It's so unfair!"
The joke's on you, fool;
Can't destroy what was never there.

Wasn't the tide, or sweet love's season;
I'm sick and self loathing, asshole:
I took you for a reason.

"Tips for dating a Single Mom"
Show up early,
And I'll probably be late,
Ignore my baffled look
At actually seeing a full plate.
Don't speak about my kids
If they knew you they'd hate you,
And not having to wipe your ass
Is the main reason I date you.
I didn't get child support this week
That's why I seem bitter
And you're not on my speed dial,
I save that for my sitter.
If I dissapear outside
It's probably for a quick screaming match with my ex,
Don't get too offended,
From the minute we met I was too tired for sex.
Empathasize with me this week,
I'm just under so much stress!
Next time I'll mistake it for affection
And be lonely enough to get out of this dress.
But a free meal and some drinks
To me is the high life;
Home before ten, lets do this again,
I've got kids and you've got a wife.

"Internet Dating"
Kids interfere with meeting someone new
Luckily the net helped me find you.
Brand new red dress. Tonight I'm a thriller
Off to meet the Craigslist Killer.

"Greener Pasture"
Men lie, men will cheat you,
If he doesn't do that,
He'll probably beat you.
Men are lazy, dumb and trite,
Even the brightest just aren't that bright.
The best ones out there won't abuse you,
They'll just sit around and annoy and use you.
All in jest, I know a few good ones...

They just happen to be my toddler sons.

Gender Roles...not so black and white. (Or pink and blue)

I think somewhere along the line of bearing and raising children, we all as parents are faced with confronting our own notions of where women and men respectively fit into society. I know as a mother I was hit with it as soon as I became pregnant with my oldest son, and it was a real touchy and grave subject to me, seeing as I happened to be married to the king of late-twenties, chauvinistic misogynists. As far as he was concerned, it was a simple matter: a man would work, come home to be waited on, drink beer and exercise any privilege or whim he wished, because...well, he had a penis and generally at least a few pounds and inches on his wife. And conversely, a woman would stay home, raise the children, care for the house, cook the meals, wait on her husband and have rights to go nowhere but the kitchen, bedroom and occasionally the grocery store unaccompanied because those are the only places acceptable for our rib-stealing, whorish gender once owned under the Almighty Law of Marriage.
I never wanted my son to think like that...I often felt it important to remind dear batshit husband that we ditched the horses for motorized carriages called "cars", black people are no longer pieces of property, and utes womanfolk are now permitted to vote, drive and work. Which often prompted a swift slap across my mouth or two hour screaming session because I have yet to learn to properly "shut my whore mouth". Go figure.
The discussions of gender came just ad swiftly. In the vague future of "teenage years", my daughter would have a strict curfew of ten o'clock, my son, none. The rationale behind this? Boys can't come home pregnant. Because clearly unplanned pregnancy is the only concern with teenagers. And clearly him getting someone pregnant is not a possibility. I see it as a pretty overt message: men are entitled to more privilege than women. Conversely, that my daughter I'd more protected than my son. Awful. Sorry, asshole, but I personally loved my kids in utero before I even saw their tiny genitals. Equally. So pink or blue, it doesn't make a difference, I want the same for each and every one.
That being said, although my experience with sexism is extreme, we as a society have a hard time parting with those age old rigid gender roles. Financial burden is shared more equally between spouses than ever. In comparison, the progression of the division of household labor and chilcare is, well, lagging.
I'll say one thing, the more old school you go, the more your kids lose...girls, and boys.
Hypothetically, had we stuck out batshit husband's amazing plan to the end, what would my children have been taught?
Well, my daughter would believe in subservience to a man, hook line and sinker. She would believe herself to be inadequate, lesser, incapable...fragile and secondary. She might develop a shot (or more) of resentment for men, mixed with an unquenchable thirst for male affection, topped off with a splash of antiquated notions about her place in the household and world. Pretty stiff self destructive cocktail. And my sons? A sense of entitlement, delusional grandiose, an affinity for testosterone and control-fueled aggression...masking a heartbreaking emotional vulnerability because girls are protected (nurtured), not boys. Boys don't cry, boys don't deserve comfortable limits, boys are exempt from the rigors of boundaries.
You can't lock down a child, nor can you let them roam free. That in itself is a recipe for dysfunction. Add in reproductive organs as the rationale...and we can expect a generation of fucked up people.
Girls are not all pink, boys are not all blue. They're people.
We all hold on to some bigoted beliefs, be honest! My oldest son, at nearly three, is rounding out a nearly yearlong phase of loving tea parties, dollhouse and baby dolls. And yeah, for a while there, I cringed. Because this is not "manly" stuff. But don't I want him to develop those domestic inclinations to share the burden equally with his future spouse? Old notions die hard. I came to terms with the fact that my son is himself, a beautiful, sweet little person with a wonderful vocabulary, affectionate, with a kind heart and a sharp sense of humor and even in a fucking pair of heels and a dress, all these amazing qualities would still be prevalent as ever.
If anything, the way I feel about gender roles, is that boys need more equality. Boys are disfavored in school, emotionally repressed, privy to morally questionable role models. Our present day "female empowerment" is a damn joke. Men were at one point encouraged to womanize, while women were faced with stigma for exercising sexual freedom. So what did we as a society turn to? Glorifying female promiscuity. What?!? Chlamydia isn't sexist, ok? Why must we lower female standards? Why can't we up it for males? I don't want my daughter to be a rampant slut...but I don't want my sons to be, either.
I'm no feminist. There are biological, inborn differences between the genders, absolutely. Irrefutable. I wouldn't be so presumptuous as to challange that. So...in our abilities, natural strengths and gender specific traits, men and women are not equal. But in our value as human beings, our responsibilities as parents and members of society, and moral accountability, we are. My children will be raised with the same exact rules, moral expectations and curfews, regardless of sex. We are NOT ignorant inbred white trash.
So I no longer cringe even a little when my sons pick up a baby doll. I gladly babysit for my son's make believe newborn (her name is Emily. His choice.) I attend mixed company tea parties, and I indulge the occasional mixed-gender game of Pretty Pretty Princess because bling is bling, bitches. My boys are intrinsically boyish and my girl girly, but they are kids, and deserve the opportunity to explore everything they reasonably and safely can. And if they didn't fit neatly in to the gender package, well, they'd still fit perfectly in my heart. I smile just as much when my boys zoom matchbox cars around my livingroom as when they try on their sisters dressup heels. Its probably just a phase. And I imagine it's pretty hard to beat your wife in a pair of stilettos.

Thanksgiving

It's that time of year again. Turkey and all the fixings, football, family....I love this time of year. The kids and I have been talking a lot about being thankful, because with the moral and judgement deficits in my own life, I never miss an opportunity to dole out a lesson in character.
And this year, we happen to have a lot to be thankful for. To understand, we're going to have to take a look at some past Kate family Thanksgivings.
Or should I say, Batshit family Thanksgivings.
Batshit husband was always adamantly against traveling for the holidays. For someone like me, whose childhood consisted of all packing into the car and heading to Grandma's to celebrate with my extended family, this was a traumatic change. But seeing as my opinion was about as important as a beer at an AA meeting in my "marriage", I had no reasonable option but to blow off Grandma and concede. So, instead, we spent our first of several sorry Thanksgivings with his sister.
Total. Fucking. Clusterfuck.
First off, even though most of his immediate family lives within 20 minutes of one another, they did not all attend said Thanksgiving dinner. So we're left with Batshit husband, Mama Batshit, one of the sisters, and her inlaws. Even though this event was hosted at the sisters, I ended up supplying everything, including THE TURKEY, while she contributed a few assortments of canned vegetables. To make a long and pathetic story short and slightly more bearable, I sat and ate MY turkey with complete strangers and people I hate while my husband and mother-in-law bitched incessantly about how shitty this was and my sister-in-law got plastered. Thats the stuff memories are made of.
The next one wasn't much better. Batshit husband and Mama Batshit refused to repeat the previous year, so we spent it just the three of us and our kids, stuffed into the tiny efficency where we were living. Fun.
This year, sans awful inlaws, we are preparing for a three day extravaganza filed with church, friends, family and food. As it should be.
So when I asked the kids what they were thankful for, I was not at all surprised when my oldest son replied, "That the police put daddy in jail.", just a little sad. Our safety and an actual joyful Thanksgiving is a lot to be thankful for! But when his sister insisted on, "chocolate milk", I was perplexed and offended. I do so much, we are so blessed....CHOCOLATE FUCKING MILK?!
Then I got to thinking. Who puts the milk and chocolate syrup in the fridge? Who lovingly prepares said chocolate milk, and makes sure she doesn't get it in excess? This woman. Chocolate milk is delicious, and an expression of my maternal love. It's something that she enjoys with her siblings and friends. It's a treat, a reward...it's something to be thankful for, yeah. Actually, that child is more grateful than I am. I get so caught up in my daily life that I am rarely thankful. In fact, I made the kids give up their list, but did not offer my own.
I'm thankful for my freedom and safety. I'm thankful that my family is close and loving and supportive and NOT the Batshit clan. I'm thankful for my beautiful, smart, healthy children and my awesome fucking friends, for the roof over my head and the food on my table. I'm thankful to be alive, that in a few hours I will be enjoying a beautiful holiday and not stuck with depressing white trash. I'm thankful for my church. And yeah, I'm thankful for Batshit husbands continued incarceration (therefore our continued safety), and I'm thankful for chocolate milk. Why not?
Have a happy Thanksgiving everyone. I'll have a glass of wine for all of you!

Priority Check, eisle nine.

When I first sat down to blog,  armed with a glass of Sutter Homes and furious resolve NOT to die unwanted and alone with a brood of ungrateful and embarrassed offspring, I thought my mission was simple. Forget loser husband, poke fun at batshit crazy inlaws, find a series of outrageous dates and go on with my little dysfunctional fairytale ending with Mr. Right (for me).
Well, its been a while. Curious as to why? You all know you LOVE my chaos.
I won't dissapoint, I promise.
My family has gotten caught up in the normal flurry of day to day life. My eldest started school (thats a WHOLE other post!), we have had schedules to adjust, potty training x2 to tackle, trick or treating, first school dances to attend, and, oh yeah...their dad got tased repeatedly and arrested from my apartment for beating me, all with our kids right there.
Sordid drama. As you would expect. Blog worthy, the only people left dissapointed are my parents.
I could rehash every little detail of that awful night, but there is a local newspaper article (yup, it was that kind of thing), and I'm all about protecting privacy here. Even in the case of people I hate.
And really, it's the aftermath that matters.
This is a cautionary tale.
What a lot of people don't understand, myself included at one blissful point, is that domestic violence is so  much more than just a beating or fifty. It's mind control, with self confidence and mental health taking the brunt of the abuse. Add kids, shake it all up with the instability of the cycle of abuse, and you've got a family on the rocks. The courts, child protective services, therapists, all label me as "the victim". I'm not. I choose to engage with this guy. My kids are the only real victims. And they suffer.
Let me paint you a picture of what happens when you beat your kids mother, degrade her, insult her, threaten her.
My daughter stays up at night waiting by her window, afraid he'll come back. She tells me, social workers, teachers and anyone else who will listen that she is afraid he will kill me. She has called me a "stupid cunt". My son, his fathers namesake, told his preschool teacher that his daddy is a "monster" who hurt his mommy. They are  traumatized. Every day is a fight, as they attempt to proccess what they just can't. Every child is in therapy, even my two year old.
Here we insert the Batshit Clan.
What else would they do but, loudly proclaim his innocence. In one online post the phrase, "Mr. _____ is the real victim here." The police lied, I lied, the witnesses lied...poor Batshit husband. Clearly the only one to trust here is the guy who kicked the cop and got cuffed after five taser rounds. But thats the cards these people were dealt. And his sister waiting outside  the courthouse to threaten me and ramble about "karma" makes their case all the more compelling.
I owe my former inlaws a resounding thank you, though. I can look at them and get a comprehensive preview of what will happen to my family if I don't spartan up and end this. It's not very pretty, functional or educated. Sometimes it takes sobering reality through something drastic to show you what really matters. And I know that even marrying Jason Aldean will not make me happy if my kids grow in to a bunch of hot messes.
Worry not. My foundation remains. I'm still broke. Still have a tribe of kids, still love my cheap wine and eccentric friends. And I still have the worst inlaws ever pulled off an episode of cops. But is Kate overly concerned with dating? Nope.

This whole "White Trash Mom" Thing, it's an art.

When I say I'm broke, I mean broke. As in, the kind State steps in and gives me a couple hundred embarrassing dollars a month to feed my irresponsibly large family as a consolation prize for my unfettered reproduction topped off with Daddy walking out the door, unemployed.
It's an art, to be this poor, really. Dollars are like rubber bands, they only stretch too far. And when your resources are more pathetic than a swollen-bellied little Indian baby, well....you gotta make it work. There's no choice involved.
And trust me, I do.
Where do I start? Hmm, groceries.
Every week before I go grocery shopping, the first thing I do is look at a calendar. Monday through Friday all my kids are in daycare, and bundled neatly in that price are breakfast, two snacks, and lunch. Check check and check. So, I write up a list, that looks something like this:

Monday: Dinner - Blue cheese chicken, wild rice, green beans

Tuesday: Dinner - Macaroni and cheese, broccoli

Wednesday: Dinner- Beef stroganoff, egg noodles, glazed carrots

Thursday: Dinner - Chicken stir fry, rice

Friday: Dinner - English muffin pizzas, tossed salad

Saturday: Breakfast - Pancakes, sausage, fruit 

A.M. Snack: Ants on a log

Lunch - Chicken salad on croissants, grapes, salad

P.M. Snack: Carrots and dip

Dinner: Roasted chicken, roasted vegetables, rice pilaf

Get the basic idea? Then I write out my list, based on my meal plan for the week. I cook only from scratch - believe it or not, it's cheaper that way. When I make, say, macaroni and cheese, I can buy enough for two batches, cook them both, and freeze one. Bam. One extra meal for the week.

We always have enough food. Hell, on any given day, I feed my family, a couple families down the hall, the family down the street. There's two things that are fundamental to my family: church and food.

As for bills, I have to be just as meticulous. I get a paycheck, I sit down with a pen and my handy-dandy notebook (get the reference?) And I plan out every single penny. I put cash into envelopes - I tend to stumble with a bank account because debit cards are my Nemesis. But hey, my rent is rarely late or delinquent. So it works for me. 

And we don't do extravagant in my house. I have mostly boys, close together, so clothes go down the line until they are no longer wearable. Fashion, I tell my oldest daughter, is a flash in the pan. She wanted twinkle toes, these God-awful sneakers made by Sketchers that look like Michael's craft stores threw up all over them. Sorry, if I'm going to splurge, it's going to be on something more than a stupid preschool fad. "We," I told her, "Are far too fabulous for Twinkle Toes." Still, she persisted. So for her birthday, I decided to make her her own, and they are just as fabulously gaudy and personalized, for a fraction of the cost. That's right. 

Being poor is exhausting. It adds more tasks to my already overwhelming life. But were we in a better financial situation, I would've just caved and bought the stupid Twinkle Toes. Then the world would be robbed of my personalized shoe project, as would my daughter. I can't say it enough, less is more.

Eff all those mean five year old girls. They're going to be so jealous. 

I often think about my life if I had made different decisions. If, at seventeen years old, I had taken my dad's advice and gotten in the car with him, driven to the clinic, never had my daughter. I'd be home from my last year at a real school, leaving my dormitory behind, my childhood bedroom covered with pictures of parties, summer vacations, smiling young faces. I'd have closets full of shoes and clothes, a part time job that was not my livelihood, but beer money until I moved on to my meticulously planned career. In a few years, I'd meet another college-educated young man, probably with the same upper-middle class yuppie roots, we'd fall in love, have a beautiful wedding, live in our well-maintained Cape with our two point five kids and a golden retriever named Ronald. Beautiful, perfect, exactly what my dad saw for me the day he first held me in his arms and looked into my eyes, I'd bet. But I'd be missing so much.

I bet my hypothetical husband would've sprung for the Twinkle Toes. But what's regret?

I wasn't raised here, where I'm living. My cousins and uncles and parents don't live down the street. I don't even know what the High School here looks like. But this city and I, are soul-mates. I've found something so beautiful and real and fulfilling in this struggle. Something that's made me so much stronger and smarter and resourceful than the hypothetical Me could've ever been. My lights get turned off, yeah. I know a million and one ways to get them turned back on, quick. I can pass this on to other people struggling. The hypothetical me knows nothing of struggle, of heartache. The hypothetical me would be too responsible to procreate like a caged hamster. So she would never know the exhausting joy when kids A and B are fighting, and the baby's crying, and you've got beautiful, tiny chaos swirling around you and you still manage to end up with a household of "Best Buddies" who adamantly stick up for a sibling when they're being scolded. THAT's just as much accomplishment as a PHD. Believe it. 

I wouldn't know that when you live in a crappy low-income apartment, your neighbors can become your family. You eat together, pick up the slack when someone falls short, know that the favor will be returned. An amazing give-and-take. A congregation, a Fellowship, all praying for better days and hanging in together until they arrive. The hallways here are always teeming with children, laughing and growing together, learning and changing and bonding. My door is always open, every door here is. We scold each other's children, we revolve babysitting, we help with homework and cook meals and collapse on each other's couches at the end of the day, tired as hell, with a glass of cheap White Zinfandel and a shitload of complaints and jokes. Your husband's an asshole, my husband's an asshole, our kids are too much, work sucks, we're broke, Let's Drink.

We're in this together. And to be honest, if I had a yard and a good man and a good job, a cute little dog and stability, I wouldn't know this. I wouldn't have to.

There's beauty in the breakdown. We all have albums of our children together, and we look at how they've changed, grown, who's going to marry who. I know each child in this apartment building as well as my own. My children love each one of my neighbors like the extended family we rarely see. They are family. 

It's an art, a challenge, and I ROCK THIS. 

My kids learn to cook with me from a young age. We make casseroles for sick friends, neighbors and members of our church. We bake pastries and cakes and cookies for birthdays and celebrations and sometimes, just because it's raining and there's nothing else to do. They learn the power of a home-cooked meal. They watch this profound give-and-take on which we survive, and they learn empathy and family values and what it means to be connected to the community around you. Tell me Muffy and Buffy and their perfect husbands and kids can say that? They don't have to worry about the things we do. They don't know. For those who truly have "It" together, giving is a hobby, an obligation, tax write off or occasional warm, fuzzy feeling. It's kept to Christmas or when Sally Struthers gets on your plasma and guilts you about starving children. When you struggle, it's a way to survive.

I don't hate the middle class or wealthy. When my lights go off or I pass a really cute handbag, I envy them. But, it definitely passes. I am proud of what I have. In a material world, in this crazy capitalist Rat Race, there are a lot of values that just sort of, fade away. I feel blessed every day that though I can't afford an Xbox or big TV, I can't take my kids to Disney every summer or buy the stupid fucking Twinkle Toes, I can give them these old-fashioned values and know that they will stick a lot longer than vacations or glitter-strewn shoes. That is a blessing.

Sorry to disappoint, dad.