Shave & A Haircut, Two Bits

I was rushing around, trying to line up homework assignments, make sure rooms and bathroom got cleaned, and tending to other details all weekend getting the kids ready to fly to beautiful Orlando, FL for a Mickey Mouse love-a-palooza at Disneyworld with their other family  All well and good, but I still had to give J-Man a haircut.  Been doing it for years.  Notorious B.E.N. opted to pay for cuts rather than have me do it, but J-Man has always been quite happy to let me attend to this tiny detail.

I’m thinking after this last haircut, I’ll be taking him to the barber.   It was all going fine, just an ordinary day.  J-Man verified that the shield was the #2 for a nice short cut.  I oiled the blade.  I placed the shield on and gave him the cut.  Then, I took the shield off to do his neck, ears, and sideburns.  The boy had sideburns all the way down his cheekbone—that was a little shock.  How had I not noticed?  So, I then put the clippers down and use the scissors to grab those little stray hairs on his almost totally kinky hair so he had that smooth, polished look.  Ah, I see that I missed a spot on the left temple – need to get the razor out again to give it that nice #2 blade look.  Do you notice what I didn’t?  Yes, I forgot to put the shield back on and J-Man now had a decided bald spot on the side of his head.

I panicked.  Would he notice?  I said nothing.  He went into the bathroom to inspect.  I could see it all in the reflection in the mirror.  Yes, that looks fabulous.  Yes, yes, so does that.  Then – he noticed.  He turned and looked at me, eyes wide.  I just shrugged and said, “Oops.”  Then asked if he had a hat.

He looked at me and said, “It could have been worse.  It’ll grow out.”   As excited as they were to leave on that plane  to fulfill their Mickey Mouse destiny,  I got double hugs from them both and J-Man let me kiss him goodbye.

Forgiveness is a beautiful thing.

Exposure

Man, what a night. We went out Valentine’s Day shopping and for dinner. J-Man has a girlfriend and wanted to get her something. I discouraged him from the routine candy thing. We found a couple of nice, thoughtful, insightful gifts that weren’t too personal (her parents will not freak out because he did not get her edible underwear nor a slinky tank top and short-shorts). We had to run to Uncle Doreen’s to take her dogs for a walk and then we came home. I was all ready to get a good night’s sleep as it’s been a long, hard week.

Instead, I hear a call from Em: “Come upstairs, J-Man needs you.” I get upstairs and J-Man is having difficulty walking. He’s listing into the wall every time he tries to propel forward and has numbness in his legs.

I looked at the clock. Called his insurer to get authorized, spoke with his on-call doctor’s service, and loaded him into the car. We were off to Sutter General’s emergency room downtown. This was 10 pm.

This was our first emergency visit to a medical facility here. I didn’t know what to expect. The ER waiting area was small, but there were two empty seats. No one seemed terribly ill or injured, so I guessed we’d just have a wait. We settled in. It took two hours to be triaged and another hour to get into the ER itself.

While we waited, whether we wanted to or not, we had to listen to two women, who did not appear to know one another, regaling the entire waiting room with their tales of various women’s prisons in California and what each one was like – who they knew in common, and how long they were in for their last stretch. Both were drug users. Recovering, apparently. They didn’t really look it though. They seemed quite disheartened about all the young women coming in as “lifers.” If I hadn’t been so tired, that might have actually spurred some social justice outrage in me.

Pretty soon, a young man wearing a camouflage jacket, with a military style buzz cut, dirty jeans, and a slumping, defeated walk came in. He knew one of the women. They compared notes on his mother, who she had known in prison. Turns out that woman was back “in.” He complained of a terrible headache.

As we went into be triaged, the police came in and took him away. The triage nurse said to another nurse, “We were supposed to call when he came in and he just went with them. No problem, thank goodness. It is so busy tonight—so many walking wounded.”

We waited for our ER bed and a young Latino man came out, pants hanging down to his knees. He clothes covered in blood. He was on his way out, apparently no worse for wear.

After three hours, J-Man had a bed. The nurse came in. She spoke to J-Man in kind, gentle tones. She was not irritated by what appeared on the outside to be nothing too serious. She said it would be a while and we waited. I covered J-Man with his sheet and he went to sleep. I paced. Two hours later the doctor who was professional, kind, and compassionate, talked to J-Man and me about his symptoms and history. When he was 3, he was paralyzed from the chest down by Guillain-Barre. That was what was of concern to the doctor – the similar symptoms.

J-Man was released with instructions from the doctor for me to observe his legs and the numbness for the next four days. If it happens again, he goes back. If not, he just gets a follow-up with his pediatrician.

We rode home tired—but me, with some relief that his symptoms had abated and maybe he was off the hook. J-Man got an education in the street life downtown in Sacramento last night and I don’t think he much cared for what he saw. I’m sure those women had no idea that they had provided him yet another “Just Say No” moment.

Honesty Is The Best Policy?

So, I spent most of the day home with sick #2 kid.  Made chicken soup, tended fevered brow, in gloves and mask, ad nauseum (no pun intended).  Fortunately, signs of life are slowing returning.

Since I had a little time, I thought I’d actually make a dinner, and invited my sister over to celebrate the occasion.  Lovingly and carefully, I prepared three Trout fillets, made some specially seasoned baby potatoes and snapped and steamed some lovely fresh green beans.  Healthy, tasty, and just perfectly timed.

We sat down to dinner. 

HahnatHome:  So, how’s the Trout?

Sistah Child:  (Pause)  Well, they’re a little dry. Tasty, but dry.  Everything else tastes great.

HahnatHome:  (Tasting Trout)  OMG, it tastes like shit.

Sistah Child:  Nope, shit isn’t dry.

Okay, I can deal with the truth–but did Em have to snort her milk out her nose?  Traitors.  Hamburger Helper for the next month!

Is solace anywhere more comforting than that in the arms of a sister. ~ Alice Walker (MY ASS!)

J-Man Has A Girlfriend

Intelligence reports started coming in on Tuesday. J-Man, it was reported, had officially declared he had his first girlfriend. I could feel the gray hairs meeting on the top of my head, reminding each other that they’d be having new neighbors really soon.

Now, I would have loved to talk to him about it, but I wanted him to tell me first. And, I didn’t want to be too snoopy, at least not this soon.

This morning, we are driving to school and he says, “I know you know.”

We went round and round about what I knew and when I knew it. Then, I unloaded his bike from the back of the car. I said, “I was waiting for you to tell me.” He said, “You didn’t ask.” I forgot about the requisite parental privacy invasion clause in my contract.

After many half-ass attempts to talk to these kids over the years, I’ve hit upon a couple of sure-fire methods. With the boys it’s go for a ride in the car. They don’t have to look at you, but are in proximity, so they got the “Mom loves you vibe.”

With Em, the best method is to sit right across from each other, maybe even holding hands—or touching in some way, like having my arms draped over her with foreheads touching.

I sensed he wanted to talk about it, but didn’t see that we’d be alone in the car anytime soon, so I did a J-Man. He likes to talk by e-mailing me from six feet above me in the loft. So, what did I do? I called him on the phone. He called me doing so, “random.” I had all kinds of things running through my head.

 

HAH:                So, do you want to tell me about this girlfriend? [Please, don’t let her be 35 and one of your teachers]

J-Man:             Her name is *Suzy* [Ah, a name I recognize—one of his GATE

                        friends]

HAH:                She was at the basketball game Saturday?

J-Man:             Yup. [You seemed a little eager to spend an entire afternoon with just sweaty teenage boys]

HAH:                So, what does it mean to be a boyfriend? [Don’t you dare say you hope to get your own stable going to make a little spending money.]

J-Man:             What do you mean?  It means what you think it means. [Son, you don’t know what I think it could mean]

HAH:                It means all kinds of things to different people, how does it look

                        to you?

J-Man:             I dunno.  [Long, close, slow dances and liplocks have no place

                        in there, right?]

HAH:                Will you be going out on dates, just the two of you?

J-Man:             No, her parents are strict; I don’t think they’ll let her. [Thank you parents of *Suzy*]

HAH:                So, you’ll be doing the group get-together thing? [Damn right!]

J-Man:             Yes.

HAH:                I think we’ll be revisiting the safe sex talk though, okay?

J-Man:             Yes.  [At least he didn’t say, “too late.”]

We talk about sex frequently – the physiological mechanics, the emotional consequences, and the way to behave and treat your partner if you do decide you’re going to have sex. I don’t condone having sex young. I’d like them to wait. They know that too. If you ask any of them when they are allowed to get married or make me a grandma, they’ll, by rote, say, “I’ll be at least 25 years old and have an education and a j-o-b.” Kind of a family joke, but the idea behind it is sincerely and deeply meant. I want them to get a start in life and not be tied down by the aftermath of having sex early or starting a family or being forced to make a choice about abortion or adoption. There are more condoms laying around all over this house than in some 3^rd world nations.

But, I also know that ultimately, it won’t be my choice – and I won’t know when it happens. My parents didn’t. I’m pretty sure it will shock me too. I want them to be armed with as much information as they can load into their brain despite the fact it retracts in proportion with the growing strength of their hormones and urge to procreate.

I know, I’m making some leaps from first group-date girlfriend to me getting an appliquéd sweatshirt from Wal-Mart with “World’s Best Grandma,” but jeez. How did we get here so fast?

Screwing Off, Part Deux

Happy 2008!  I hope the new year brings you all you wish it to bring!

I stayed up until 12:03 last night, party on!  Then, I passed out cold from fatigue as I started the morning with Gina the 60-pound alarm clock on my chest at 5 am again.

I took Magical Samantha down to the Old Sacramento (the historic original “downtown” post gold-rush 1850s Sacramento) area yesterday where we checked out the old one room schoolhouse and she got to play schoolmarm—if it hadn’t been a public place, that little game might have gone a little differently. 

And, we checked out the Wells Fargo museum and ATM.  Seriously, there is all this historical stuff—old telegraphs, saddle bags from the Pony Express riders, gold ingots from the gold rush, lots of stuff to read and look at and an sitting right in the middle of it all sits a single ATM machine.   

They have a new hat shop in Old Sacramento which really excited me – Magical S. tried a lot of those on as I snapped away.  I was thinking about a fedora – and found one I loved, but maybe next time.

 

Uncle Doreen joined Notorious B.E.N., who flew in yesterday afternoon, Magical Samantha and I as we played some epically bad games of pool and laughed our arses off over some pretty juvenile stuff (like acorn squash breast enhancements —Notorious B.E.N. walked out into the kitchen and took one look at me and ran away).  This was sober.  As always, Ben was happy to get his requisite hugs and kisses from mama.

I have to go back to work tomorrow.  And, I didn’t get a damned thing done while I was on vacation.

Cheers to a new year and another chance for us to get it right. ~ Oprah Winfrey

They Didn’t Tell Me Teenagers With This Tough When I Signed Up

I’ve thought all day how parents who’ve been through the teenage years never tell you the full story about parenting teens–otherwise the birth rate would be 0.0.   

It’s really hard sometimes, having Notorious B.E.N. out of my purview.  This is one good kid.  I’ve said it before.  He is the “perfect” child everyone wishes for—perfect in the sense he’s easy, outgoing, funny, and caring.  Not so easy in that he has always been so very private, we haven’t known what is going on in his head.  Sometimes, I worry for him in his inability to share his thoughts and feelings.  I get boys.  They don’t talk feelings.  They are rarely in touch with them, so what’s to talk about?  I’ve never doubted he’s been raised right, given a solid foundation, opportunities to make choices, and held responsible if those choices are faulty. 

Last night, something life-altering happened to the “perfect” child.  I had a message at 6:30 this morning from his father.  I needed to call right away.  Every terrible thing imaginable went through my mind, remembering my own Saturday nights out as a 17-year-old.  I prayed, by breathing in and breathing out, that the words out of his father’s mouth wouldn’t be words I would have echoing in my head for the rest of my life.

“Notorious B. was arrested last night.”  I sure didn’t think those words would be a relief.

Seems the boy was doing what untold millions of teens before him had done.  Smoked pot.  Only, he got caught doing it in a closed park.  I just got off the phone with him.  His father had the hard part, but Notorious B. dreaded talking to me for some reason.  I discussed how doing stupid stuff took away choice.  How I love him.  Choices he had made now will not come to fruition.  How I wish I could wrap him up and hug him until he got it.  How he needed to dig himself out.  How I love him. And, tomorrow is a new day to start over.  Parts are not fixable.  Parts are.  He’s got to be the one to do it.  He thought he could.  How I love him.  You can fuck up, but don’t be fucked up.  And, I love him.

We’ll see what he does with his situation.  He’s paying for his own attorney.  I did learn he wasn’t “booked”—no fingerprints or photos—so perhaps it was just a misdemeanor ticket—these are the times I want to scream at his father—ask the right fucking questions!

Thanksgiving 2007

I’m not a big believer in most holidays. I do, however, believe in the time off from work that often comes from them. I’m just as excited to have an extra day off as I was when I was 15 and we had a school day off. It’s t-i-m-e, baby. Something of which I have so little, and crave so much.

This one marks the beginning of the time I start redrawing commuter routes to begin the annual avoidance of many major streets and thoroughfares as the city wraps itself in a one, long, manic shopping spree. It means the rains will be coming soon and the cold has arrived, so I won’t be able to walk around my patio barefoot for a while. I will wake in darkness and fall asleep in darkness. Soon, I’ll fire up the furnace and wait for that funny smell caused by disuse to briefly waft through the air.

I think of Thanksgivings past, which tend, as I’ve gotten older, to blur into one sentimental ball of memory–playing with cousins, deftly snagging the drumstick and gizzard, and getting to break the wishbone as was my Grandmother-given right as oldest grandchild.

Since leaving home at 17, I have spent but one Thanksgiving home with my family of origin. In between, I’ve shared meals with friends and lovers, and now, with children—my family of choice in whatever place I find myself.

And, while still pissed off that we continue to perpetuate the history of the conquerors in our celebration of this particular holiday, I will indeed give thanks tomorrow. Thanks for all the opportunities, love, and lessons I’ve received from both my family of origin and my family of choice these past 46 Thanksgivings.

Hope yours is as abundant.

Honor the sacred.
Honor the Earth, our Mother.
Honor the Elders.
Honor all with whom we
share the Earth:
Four-leggeds, two-leggeds,
winged ones,
Swimmers, crawlers,
plant and rock people.
Walk in balance and beauty.

~ Native American Elder

Gayly Forward

Em got an invitation to a sleepover Sunday. They don’t have school in honor of Veteran’s Day, but I have to work (ironic the only veteran I know around here is me and I’m working). Like most kid designed/written invitations, key facts are left out. Like what is “Suzy’s” last name? What time on Sunday would they like the children there? What are their plans for the following day? Thankfully, unlike some invitations she’s received there is a phone number attached to an adult listed. I call.

Turns out, after having a brief conversation with the woman, that Suzy has two mommies. How cool is that? Now, there are three verified lesbian-run families at that middle school. What? It’s a start. We should probably form a PTA sub-committee or something.

I mention to Em in the morning that Suzy has two mommies. She had no idea. Then she smiled.

The kids were in the kitchen, so I asked them both if they ever mentioned it to people before they came over and they both shouted in unison, “NO!” J-Man admitted that there were a couple of people who knew because he was forced to because of the questions. But, no way were they going to mention it if they didn’t have to. “Suzy” deals with it the same way, only a few very close confidants know.

Notorious B.E.N. came swooping in one day when I was celebrating an anniversary with my ex. We had all kinds of cards up on the counter in the kitchen. In he ran, snatching up all the cards and shoving them behind the toaster. Then, he went back out and got his friends then came in and swarmed all over the house.

Kids don’t want to be different. They want to fit in and sometimes living in an alternative family doesn’t easily allow for that. Kids ask these kids all the time how they can be brothers and sister because of their different skin tones, and I love to watch these kids deal with those questions. They’ve developed some pretty funny tools to deal. But, the gay thing, that’s about me, not them. I’m sure there are many people who might think gayness is contagious—like those families in the far, outer, Stepford-like suburb we started out in years ago who wouldn’t let their children play with the kids once they figured out the two females in the house were not just roommates. Take out your intolerance on a kid, very nice.

I just tend to go on my way gayly and not think about the fact that other people might have any reaction at all to the fact I’m gay. But, I don’t want to cause any unnecessary angst for the teens in my life—what could I do to help? Did they think I acted “gay” or was that a problem for them with their friends? They both said, “NO!” Obviously, then, I’m not doing a good enough job at being gay. I promised to work on it starting by putting out a rainbow flag out front and waving it high and proud in our bland, cookie-cutter suburban neighborhood (as they slunk down in the seats of the car). Brighten the place up, give ‘em something to talk about.

J-Man felt the need to clarify, “My friends just think you’re weird. But, I’m weird, so they’d expect no less of my mom.”

Thanks All You Freakin’ Law & Order Politicians, You Suck

Yes, Guy, I stole this concept today…I’m tired and have only half the allotment of brain cells…remember, imitation is the highest form of flattery.

Bastards.  J-Man came home today with all his gift cards ripped off out of his wallet and yet another ID card stolen after they broke into his gym locker.  They broke the lock.  They took his cell phone (but fortunately, the gym teacher found it in a closet of all places).  They’d have taken his money, but he had that stolen two weeks ago, along with his ID.  All of these things need to be replaced, and guess who foots the bill?  Me—not those little bastards raised by bigger bastards who apparently think that’s just fine and dandy raising the next generation of thugs and bandits.  All of this in the school, in a locker room where anyone could have walked in and caught them.  And, poor J-Man, who knows I am not able to replace his lost loot.  Why…I have half a mind (and I really do today, by the way)…it was a very good weekend.

I’m sick of the asshole kids who break glass all over the park sidewalks, thinking it’s funny for some reason as they watch all the dogs walking through the park.  Or the asswipes who think it’s just fine to break into houses, knowing full well the cops won’t even bother coming out.  Thankfully, my burglar was stupid enough to pour paint all over my house a while back, or I’d never have seen the women in blue.  Or even those asshats who spin donuts on the street next to a crosswalk, tossing out beer cans as they hoot and howl with idiotic glee.  Or steal cars right out of the driveway just because they can.

Seriously, once this high school thing is done, I am so moving to the country where I can just worry about meth labs, those inbred cousin country crime syndicates (you know, where they sit around on the porch playing the same bizarre song on the banjo all day as the meth addicts come by to pick up their stuff even as their teeth fall out of their mouth and spend all night poaching in the woods for some lost kayakers so they can get their squeal on), or white supremacist survivalists who think lesbians are a threat to the American way of life.  I’d move to another country, but, I have a feeling it sucks there too.

Thank God I love people so fucking much.

 

I am misanthropos, and hate mankind,
For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog,
That I might love thee something.

~ Bill Shakespeare

We’re Not Right

Hey, feel free to hit those buttons above you…for Blog Interviewer (so I can wins loads of cash)…and, feel free to vote for Starr Ann Chronicles, currently in the Top 10 for the month. And, if you’re not bored hitting those shiny buttons, please hit that Sacramento Top 25, so I can get that upstart Sacramento Video Cams guy out of the #2 spot, huh? Seriously, that flashing thing that sight has going on is annoying the hell out of me.

In the News: Check out Ask A Lesbian for her fabulous continuing coverage on the Monsignor at the Vatican who says he’s not gay, his computer is….as well as her outstanding coverage of the ongoing Larry Craig situation…Visit Red Hog Diary for the latest and greatest SCHIP video…Drop by Hello…Is This Thing On and leave a message – “Did you get laid this weekend or not—inquiring minds want to know!” That should catch her attention…

Last night, I made dinner. It was good too. Really. Fish. I made fresh salmon with a papaya mango chutney covering the top and baked for just the right amount of time with some whole grain rice and vegetables. Tonight, it’s a little chicken dish I whipped up. Don’t get the wrong freakin’ idea, I’m never going to like cooking, but it is good not eating the crap I was cooking the last few months. Of course, my repertoire is dry after tomorrow. I see the future: the kids will all writhe in agony and scream in unison, “Taco Bell,” when I pull out my childhood recipe for tuna casserole, Midwestern style. Oh, wait, no Cream of Mushroom soup allowed in the house anymore, no worries.

Tonight, I’m gonna hang wit’ the kinder…so, I’m out. Oh, this little exchange today while dropping J-Man off at school, and not in the we’re in church kind of way:

Me: Goodbye, my son.
J-Man: Goodbye, my sister.
Em: Goodbye, my brother.
Me: Peace be with you.
Em: We are so just not right. And we don’t have to be.
Me: Amen, sister.