thorvalson.net : babble ether

"'And now,' cried Max, 'let the wild rumpus start!'"

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

Do not be fooled by the creatures in the above photograph. Seemingly sweet and innocent, they are ferocious beasts that will tear limb from limb any psychology you learned back in 101. The care of these creatures requires a minimum of a Master's degree in Child Psychiatry, five years experience in the handling of said creatures, not to mention, reserves of patience normally impossible for the average human. Rope, duct tape, and a hammer and nails may also be helpful.

Dear God, who is this horrific beast and what have you done with my daughter. Madilyn Rae, as she has solely been monickered for the last three days, has decided that along with a vacation from school for the summer, she will also be on hiatus from manners. SHE HAS NOT LISTENED TO A GODDAMN THING I'VE SAID TO HER IN THREE DAYS. This infection of sorts has proven contagious, as she spread her evil monster germs to her best friend, Juliana, which may be my own fault for emphasizing prior to Juli's arrival that Maddie needs to share. Touche.

Last night was the first sleepover we've had at Aunt Stephy's house in .... Well, the last Gessner that spent the night with me was Ava, and she was still a sweet and innocent somethingmonth-old and incapable of disobedience, cute and cuddly and all baby fat and smiles. Which is not to say that Juliana was disobedient, per se. She actually followed the rules better than Maddie did, only stepping out of bounds to follow her friend, whom she was only trying to protect from The Wrath. I think it's the same philosophy that soldiers in war follow: Stick Together No Matter What. So I give her a lot of credit there. And once I had repeated myself in any request, she would take me seriously enough to do what I asked.
Madilyn, on the other hand, was more like, "Juli! Do you hear that buzzing? What is that noise? Hm. Oh well."

IT'S YOUR MOTHER, ASKING YOU FOR THE TWELFTH TIME TO PICK UP YOUR SHIT BEFORE I FEED IT TO THE DOG. IT'S ME, ASKING YOU TO LISTEN TO THE SENTENCE I AM SPEAKING WITHOUT INTERRUPTING ME WITH YOUR DINNER REQUEST.

And now, it's me, telling you that if you do not clean up after yourselves, stop jumping from the bed onto the beanbag on the floor/your friend's head, dumping popcorn on the floor for the dog to clean up - yes, the dog - IGNORE HER - whom, by the way, you are also driving into madness - I am going to send Juli home to face the Wrath of Her Father (which I have seen and, oh, the humanity), and YOU, Madilyn Rae, are being shipped via crate stamped HAZARDOUS MATERIALS to the nearest deserted island, which is probably only Washington Island up north and you'd actually love it but when I come up with a better punishment OH HOW YOU WILL QUIVER.

It wasn't that bad. Really. I just started out on a bad foot by cleaning the house all day long (hello, five year olds! GOODBYE, CLEANLINESS!) and having an untrained puppy. Ada did a pretty good job of ignoring the girls, but this was only accomplished by having their bedroom door shut much of the time (hence, the beanbag-jumping). I swear, they truly believe that out of sight = out of mind, and sweet Jesus dying on the cross do they have another thing coming. I found that the most effective means of control was to repeat, "I can hear you," in one-minute intervals from the kitchen where I was washing dishes. Even then, the rumpus continued, only quieter.

Silence. Whispers. Giggle. And then, the dreadful epiphany:

They are just like us.

Raindrops on Roses

I was hoping for a more well-written, snappier comeback, but I'm afraid me little neurons have been fried and will do the best I can.

Someone broke into our house last week; those of you in the fam are already aware and can probably skip reading this entire entry. Earlier that day (last Tuesday), I had been lamenting two things: 1) that I couldn't come up with much to write about that day, and, 2) I had no money. Ask and ye shall receive.

I've repeated the story about six times now, so there's little steam left for the blog, but... long story short: a guy walked right in our front door while Maddie and I were home and stole my purse off the kitchen table. I saw him - only his hand - and ran for the phone and Maddie, then out the front door. There just happened to be an unmarked squad in the area when I called 911, so they spotted the guys right away - three teenagers drinking 40's in a stolen car - and chased them a reasonable distance before the kids crashed their stolen vehicle through one moving car, two parked cars, a porch, and finally colliding into/being stopped by another house. The whole debacle lasted until 5 in the morning, with cops here and detectives, Greg walking purposefully from room to room with baseball bats and nailing windows shut, and me drinking coffee trying to piece together what had become all too surreal - Were there just cops here? Did something happen? What did I miss? - and trying to keep my mouth shut. Humor is a very effective defense mechanism that I have honed to a sharp point, but I sometimes forget that other people have their own ways of dealing with the sudden unannounced, uninvited intrusion. Half of me wished Greg had been home - as if it wouldn't have happened, which is ridiculous - and half of me was thankful he wasn't here, if only for fear of what he might - no, would - have done to anyone breaking into our home. Shout out to would-be trespassers: Beware of Boyfriend. Now, that's the sign we oughta put on the front door.

In other closely related news, we have a new member in our family. Greg and I had a very minor and quick disagreement known as the Dog Vs. Glock Argument, with myself fighting for the former and himself for the latter (hell, both), and I won. Not because Guns Are Bad, but because if I had only known my parents' safe combination when I was 14 years old, I wouldn't be here to entertain you all right now, and because Maddie will one day be 14. 'Nough said.

Her name is Ada. She's a spry little six-month-old Shepherd/Collie mix, and absolutely loves her new home (although she wishes she were the boss of it). Between last Tuesday's fesitivities and the resulting addition to our family, neither Greg nor I have enjoyed a full night's sleep in over a week. She's not housebroken - yet! - but is dutifully trying. Greg is the WalkMaster, while I am doing what nerds do best: reading. I have two books at the moment, only one of which even mentions housebreaking, and the advice sounds suspiciously like the stuff I read when potty-training Maddie: encourage her, and she'll do it when she's ready, which is a trainer's way of saying, "Take her outside every hour or two and stand there half-asleep and hallucinating in the rain/wind/snow/hurricane, pray she'll do her business, watch her like a hawk... and when she squats, throw a party." So that's what we're doing.

I'm finding that, like my sister told me when she first got her dog, Fletcher, there are a lot of similarites between puppy-raising and child-rearing. For example, this past Saturday. Greg and I were both scheduled to be at work from 9 a.m. until 3 a.m. and 10 p.m., respectively. Puppy no stay home by self. So we brought her with (read: diaper/goodie bag filled with treats, plastic bags, and leash), and, MIRACLE OF MIRACLES, she did not piss all over the lobby or receptionist's desk. In fact, she did not pee AT ALL, which led to me crying "GOOD GIRL! GOOD GIRL! GOOD GIRL!" all the way home that evening in an effort to encourage the Lying Down in Car part while discouraging the Getting Up to Squat and Pee action. THAT'S RIGHT! LIE THERE! DON'T! DO! ANYTHING! GOOD GIRL! It was eerily much like Maddie's first car ride, home from the hospital, minus the Pee Panic and substituting Is She Still Breathing? I'd Better Look.

While obviously irresistably cute and furry, Ada is a hands-down, bets off the table, HORRIBLE guard dog.

Note: I am publishing this information on the assumption that most burglars are not bloggers. If you are thinking of robbing my house, the following information will be of no use to you whatsoever. You can just, ya know, look at the pictures. Go take a hike.

Ada. She does this thing, this disgusting puppy thing, called Submissive Urination. Basically, she knows you're the boss ("you" being anyone human, animal, or inanimate) and, upon greeting, will submissively - literally! - BOW DOWN TO YOU, your majesty, and make a little piddle on the floor. Not full-on peeing, per se, not even a puddle, but a piddle. As in, "I, meek little bastard, bow down to you, oh Great One Your Highness, and humbly swear my allegiance to you and will fight (do I really have to fight?), okay, OKAY! TO THE DEATH! (gulp) for all present and future gains in the interest of Your Great Empire."

The night after we got her, I got locked out of the house. My keys, which had been in my purse the night of the burglary and had wound up in the car wreckage, were still at the City Tow Lot, waiting for me to come get them. Greg was understandably in Omega Beyond the Omega sleep mode, exhausted from Everything, and would not wake up no matter what I tried, which included but was not limited to: doorbells, calling him by phone from a different location, and shouting, "TIME FOR SCHOOL!" through the bedroom window (should've known that one wouldn't work). I ended up crawling through a window. This was also the One Single Time in my life I actually thanked God for making me so skinny.

And what did Ada do? Lazily approached the window. Sniffed. Cocked her head to the side. Sniffed again. Welcomed me! Me, hanging halfway into the house through a window! She welcomed me with a warm, inviting greeting, then went straight to the bar to fix me a drink. One olive or two?

Like all women, Ada also has an instinctual love of shoes. This was perhaps encouraged by Greg optimistically believing that Ada could differentiate between his One Single Black Chuck Taylor and All Other Shoes, but hey. A girl's gotta have her fun. I have since diabolically replaced the Shoe and Furniture Eating with Rawhide Bone Gnawing, but she has been known to steal a shoe if it's left lying around. So beware.

All's well that ends well. Greg is drifting back from Big Bad Boyfriend mode and becoming gradually more his usual self, with both of us reassured that his inner Bad Ass Motherfucker hasn't weakened from lack of use nor buried itself too deeply to be useful (you still got it, kid! I love you). Now that my maternal skills have been tested and awarded a Badge of Merit, my inner Psychiatric Inventory Check List is leaning more towards "Gets Along Well With Others" and less towards, "Laughs Hysterically at Inappropriate Times." Maddie is blissfully ignorant of much of what happened, and I'm sorry, were you saying something? Because I GOT A PUPPY!

Sugarplums dancing, guards posted at the watchtowers...

Hey! We didn't get raped! BA-doomp, CHING!

Calling all Bad Ass Motherfuckers!

I just registered for AIDS Walk Wisconsin, and you should, too. If you can't make it, please visit my personal page here to make a donation.

Don't worry, I'll remind you.

Ode to My Ass, and to My Being a Bad-Ass Motherfucker

After twelve years of avoidance, broken up by one brief stint in a ballet class in college (which I only occasionally actually showed up for - truancy: it's followed me), Tracey succeeded in half-dragging me to a modern dance class at DanceWorks this past Monday. My. Ass. Hurts.
It's been hard week for this body. I grew up with a pretty firm desire to be a dancer. I loved it in elementary school, continued through middle school and into high school, and until I dropped out, was relatively sure it was a definite possibility if I only worked hard enough. Enter teenage hell, boredom, frustration with growing up in what I perceived to be a crushingly conservative town. Even if I stayed in dance, there is nowhere to do it in this town. This thinking eventually grew to become the all-encompassing focus of my mindset at the time. Even if (blank), there is nowhere to (blank) in this town. Obviously, this is what led me to leave Rockford. Even if leaving meant going headfirst - with blinders! - into a marriage whose strength I wasn't convinced of and whose fundamental weaknesses I was unwilling to accept. For the affects that my immaturity and recklessness wreaked on members of my family and close friends - not to mention, my former husband - I will always be sorry. But I'd also be lying if I said there isn't a part of me that knows that, in the end, we all ended up where we should be and that neither of us could have done it any other way. For that, I'm grateful.
Going back to that pre-Leaving Rockford state of mind, though - going back to who I was before any of that even started, back to the little girl who wanted to be a dancer - is hard at 28, and that is the kind of two-way mirror that is going to a dance class with Tracey. It seemed to me like some kind of attempt on my part to go back in time, to have one more chance to see dozens of bodies moving, and, amidst the bodies, to see my best friend in the entire world moving with me. At a time in my life when nothing and no one seemed certain, I was always aware of her constant friendship, her willingness to stay by my side, both figuratively and literally, even when I lost my balance, forgot a move, or threw my arms in the air and walked away laughing. Or crying.
Going to this class meant admitting I am no longer who I once was, and that I will never be who I once wanted to be. It meant admitting defeat. It meant getting down and dirty on the floor, stretching my hardened limbs, envying the younger, leaner, more flexible bodies around me, and somehow trying to manage my way to a conclusion that said, "It's okay."
I never took modern. Tracey seemed to have forgotten that, previous to the class. Did I mention this was an INTERMEDIATE class? Not for beginners? Yeah. Minor point there. Not only have I not stretched properly, exercised, done ballet-style warm-ups, etc., in over a decade, but NEWS FLASH! My body has aged. And gone through a pregnancy. And nicotine, and alcohol, and years of misuse and abuse.

"You'll see. You'll catch up just fine. Once you get into it, your body will just remember, and... I don't know. You'll see. You'll be fine."

Okaaay...

She was right. I was fine. Not graceful or anywhere near it, and I couldn't do the combinations, and my body didn't just fall into pose as my brain so willfully instructed it to, and I just plain didn't have the physical strength to do what was being asked of me. But I did it anyway. And when I couldn't do it, I laughed. And I loved it.

I'm not a dancer. I will never be a dancer. I often find it funny how in middle school, our dreams and goals were tied up in me being a dancer and she being a writer, and how we unintentionally swapped places somewhere between Chicago and the suburbs, somewhere between the meetings and silences that sprinkled a whole lotta salt on our friendship during that period.

I'm still not a writer.

I went to the bar after class that night (what better way to reward intense physical strain than with dehydrating ALCOHOL and CIGARETTES!) and told my friend/bartender, John,

"I think she was a bit optimistic about my abilities. Like, optimistic to the point of being flat out WRONG."
"Aw, that's probably not entirely true."
"Tracey has always been more optimistic than I deserve in terms of my capabilities, and if that weren't true, she wouldn't still be friends with my sorry ass. THANK GOD she is the way she is, or I wouldn't have made it out of Rockford alive."

I spent the next day in recovery, followed by two days of intense gardening at County Clare and at home. Yesterday, I went running for the first time since... well, since the last time Trace and I went jogging, which would have been some time around 8th grade or freshman year. Fourteen years ago, give or take. I thought my lungs were going to spontaneously combust. I only made it halfway around the block before slowing to a walk. Twice. The third time, I pushed it to three-quarters around, but regretted it. Regret confirmed when I checked my "target heart rate" for exercise online and found I was exerting myself and my poor little ticker to about twice what it could handle: my target range is 96-114 beats per minute, and when I checked my heart rate after that last lap, I was at 144 bpm. Oops.

My. Ass. Hurts.

But my hubby-to-be-I-hope (maybe I'll substitute that phrase for the dumb "partner" word I'm so sick of until it annoys him to the point of doing something about it wink wink) loves it.
And I'm totally going back to that class and kicking its ass. In a few weeks. After a few beginning classes.

Intermediate modern, I will have your ass in a sling like you've had mine for the last week. And even if I fail, you will not be the last one laughing.

News flash! The world is fucked up!

Having a rough morning, which is sad to say, considering I haven't even had my coffee yet.

Alright, I just re-read that sentence and it should read, "makes complete sense considering..." Let's try again.

Last night was great - had Tracey over for girly drinks, and why don't I take pictures of these things? Dammit! Sat on the front porch for five hours blabbing and drinking vodka (slowy! I was a good girl!) out of colored plastic margarita glasses rimmed with fruit-flavored, Red No. 9-colored sugar. Good times.

It blows me away sometimes how long we've known each other, and through countless circumstances, etc., but at the same time, I can't imagine there ever being a time in my life in which we don't sit on each other's porches and drink and talk about our days.

She's convinced me to come with her to a modern dance class on Monday - an intermediate course, which I DO NOT think I qualify for, considering, a) I haven't danced (aside from one ballet class four years ago that I hardly went to) in 12 years, and b) none of my dance experience included modern. She seems to think I'll be able to catch on really quickly, to which I respond with a hearty, Oh, to have your optimism, but it's Tracey we're talking about and when she asks me to do something with her - sans kids! - I just can't say no. It's not like she asked me to do acid with her again.

In other news, our neighborhood has been under police supervision for the last three days following this mess. His house is about four houses down from ours, and the entire block was taped off when Maddie and I came home from Tracey's house on Thursday afternoon. Long story short, the only way I could figure out what was going on (the police weren't telling me anything) was to turn on the 5 o'clock news, which I knew would provide details as there were three local news affiliates' vans parked around the block. The television is now situated in Maddie's room, which means she was watching with me when they announced, "A police officer accused of homicide has taken his own life in his south side residence."

Launch 20 Questions: What does that mean, Mommy? If he's a police officer did he have a gun? Did he use his gun to hurt himself? Why would someone do that? Who else would do that? Would you do that?

Needless to say, it was a long discussion. "And no, Maddie, I would never do that. Because I love you, and I love Greg - 'And Grandma!' - yes and Grandma, and Aunt Tracey and lots of other people and when someone does that to themselves it hurts their loved ones more than it hurts them and I could never do that to you."

"I tell you I love you lots of times in case you die."
"Maddie, I am not going to die until YOU are an old, old lady. I will be around so long you'll wish I wasn't."
"Will 'I love you' be in your heart still?"
"Yes. Always."
"What if your heart breaks?"

Kid, if you keep asking me questions like that, my heart is going to break right now.

There's still a squad car parked in front of the guy's house down the street, presumably to guard it. I haven't slept through the night since Thursday night. Nightmares, everyone I know who's ever committed suicide or seriously considered it. Greg's been stressed as hell for like a week and we haven't had much opportunity for "quality time,", and now the work week is in full swing, so I'm on the Hang Tight Until Sunday and You'll Get it Straightened Out path. Not that there's anything to be straightened out. He's just stressed and needs some alone time, and we're both feeling depressed because people in this world sometimes kill themselves, not to mention, each other.