thequeenmama'sworld

Ink...

2005-12-21T17:19:00.000-08:00

I lay there, stranded like a fish on a hot beach, in that black chair, underneath unforgiving flourescent lights. The man with the gun (tattoo, that is) hovered over me... he was kind and patient, not even seeming to notice my blinding white flab or the constellation of pale pink zebra stripes that adorn my body. My own child, just growing in my womb, has decorated my flesh, long ago, free of charge.

This torture that i am about to willingly undergo is a gift, no less... marking an anniversary, and celebrating a new beginning, so as instructed, i take a deep breath and let it out. I think 'You're in it good now, bitch' and 'Perhaps your feeble little mind has well and truly snapped, finally'. But i lay there, as stoic as i can be. And it begins. I try very hard not to think of the fact that really, i am being sliced, minutely, thousands of times. That ink, indelible and implacable, is being forced underneath my skin. The finished work will be two doves, suspended forever beneath my collarbone, holding a banner in their beaks... in the banner is a line of a Georgian song, in Georgian. The script itself is beautiful, art all on its own even without further adornment. The whole of the piece extends nearly across my chest, from armpit to armpit. The outlining is excruciating... i curse and squeal over and over again. I am ashamed of my weakness. and then astonished to find that it is far more painful, in its own way, then even pushing out a massive 9 pound baby with no drugs!

But we soldier on. After the outline, in dense black, is complete, we all take a break. I gingerly put my top back on and we go outside, where i eagerly smoke a cigarette and wish i had a VERY stiff drink at the moment. We begin again. At this point, the artist is shading the doves, delicately, with smoky black around the inner edges of the doves. These are no pastel wedding cake birds, to be sure, and i am glad. The inside of the banner is then shaded with deep, almost black purple that sort of bleeds inward, followed by red, a brilliant, not to be avoided red. But then, by God, i WANT people to stare. After all, it is my pain and my love branded on my skin... How could i hide it from the world after all i went through?. The red is not densely 'packed' into my skin, as he put it, but lightly shaded. The pale of my skin shows through, around the ornate letters and makes them stand out in shocking relief. Finally, the black of the birds feathers is delicately outlined in white.

We are finished. My legs are trembling and i am very cold. Each cut of the gun made the nerve in one leg jump, over and over again. I am exhausted. I have given birth... to love, to myself, to my own desire and dream. With this act, i peck at the shell of who i was. I am becoming... me.

Git yo shit, git you shit, git yo shit and get OUT

2005-12-20T10:50:00.000-08:00

Is what I badly want to say to my mother right now. God she is a toxic, overbearing, controlling miserable asshole. I hate feeling this way about her, really i do, but i just cannot like her. She is humorless, petty, and hypersensitive and also antagonistic. Fuck. I just want to vomit all over her right now. Bah humbug.

I am grateful for....

2005-12-17T15:08:00.000-08:00

Fifteen dolla jeans from Hell-Mart that make my ass look fabulous, my gut smaller and fit perfectly. Cain't beat that with a stick (imagine this said in my Southern accent, if you will (-;). Excellent jeans are essential to a good self-esteem, at least for me.

Letting go...

2005-12-17T13:24:00.000-08:00

Today, i bagged up every last scrap of all the maternity and nursing clothes i have held onto so desperately. It was like removing scraps of skin from my body, to tell the truth. I WAS going to Ebay a lot of it, some new with tags, but have not had the energy to do so. Well, the clutter of them sitting in my office has been a real psychic drain on me,and i decided i had to get ruthless and rid myself of them, once and for all. There is a lot, because not only did i have a great deal left from my pregancy with Sophia, i had collected many things from thrift stores and such for the past two years, thinking surely i would soon be pregnant again and be so grateful to have inexpensive, nice pants and cute tops for three dollars, etc.

For a long time, i kept these things not just because the thrifty, pack-rat side of me kept insisting it would be criminal to get rid of such great stuff that i would surely be using soon. But also? I felt a bizarre kind of guilt, and came to believe that getting rid of all these pieces of cloth would be scrapping my last hopes for another child, that I would be in some mystical way letting myself down. No more of that. In fact, i DO still have hope, even if it is but a faint whisper of the boundless optimism i started out with. I found a local pregnancy center that i admire very much for its quiet but definite purposefulness in my community, and the woman had a little orgasm when I told her about all the clothes i had, lol. So, off they go, pretty clothes of good quality that will hopefully lift the spirits of someone who feels beaten and worn and let down by life (gawd that was melodramatic, but y'all know what i mean). I did keep two things that i could NOT bear to part with. One dress, that almost made me break down in tears: It is not a maternity dress, but of such tentlike proportions that it was my very favorite article of clothing. Bright lilac linen that barely skimmed my overripe belly in my tenth month of pregnancy (yes, the bastards don't tell you that it's not any goddamn NINE months). I was wearing it when i went to the hospital to have Sophia, and i need to keep it. Maybe one day she will have the cool and floaty pleasures of wearing it, even if it is as shapeless as a sack, ha. The other was just a cute empire waisted non-maternity dress that i think i will wear this summer, just for the hell of it (it totally makes me look pregnant but i don't give a shit).

Like bunnies...

2005-12-15T19:54:00.000-08:00

Twice in three hours...

Mama is walkin' funny but feelin' GREAT...

God I love that man... he can really lay it down (-;

Too cryptic?

Homegirl got LAID!!! Yeeha!

'Some people have TWO kids'

2005-12-12T17:13:00.000-08:00

My daughter said to me today. 'Kara has two kids, Aaron and Vera Beth. Annemarie has two kids, Ana and Andrei'. I had to muster a peaceful smile (though my heart was breaking) and tell her that yes, that's true, but some people only have one kid. And that God might give us two kids, one day, we just had to keep asking. When will the pain go away, i'd like very much to know. My poor innocent girl, she has no idea, and i would never let her know how much those sweet questions tear at my soul.

I suck

2005-12-12T15:48:00.000-08:00

I am so sorry i've not updated in a week, but i've been dealing with some serious things in my personal life that i just can't get into here. Anyway, i'll try to drum up something really interesting very soon, like tomorrow (0;. I'm sure all four of my devoted fans will be champing at the bit, lol.

Why she's my best friend EVER

2005-12-03T19:13:00.000-08:00

Kara is my best friend. She set me and my husband up on our first date. She was my DOULA and was with me through all 36 hours of my labor... in fact she almost caught the damn baby. She's always been there.

But, you want to know how i reaaally know she's my bff? She'd had a hard couple of days with last-minute company... and said to me when i asked her how she was faring..

'It's all i can do to keep the liquor in the house, Lydia... this morning, you know what i did? I got that nasty coconut rum out, and poured some of that into some orange juice and DRANK IT DOWN, because it was all i had.'

She really doesn't drink much, on a normal basis. So this touched my heart with it's vulnerability and humanity. That's why I love Kara, because she's real and true and has weaknesses and isn't afraid to admit it.

Content

2005-12-02T13:22:00.000-08:00

There is a very profound Scripture, by St Paul (i am the sucky kind of Christian who is incapable of remembering exact references, leave me alone) that says 'I have learned, in whatsoever state i am, there with to be content'.

Well, i've come to a decision, one that will change the way i answer people when they ask if we want more children. I am now only going to answer "We are so happy with the one that God has given us. If he wants to give us more sometime, that'd be Ok, too". I feel that will completely satisfy the casual asker, and derail any depressing and morbid discussions that might arise about my baffling inability to concieve again.

Oh, i forgot to mention: I have secondary infertility, as yet unexplained, because i have been unable to pay for more extensive testing. We think that part of the problem is possibly hostile cervical fluids (yeah, they're bad mofos, those fluids). Anyway, it's been two years and a couple of those goddamn chemical pregnancies but nothing more. And it hurts. It hurts like an untended broken tooth... sometimes it is quiescent and i think maybe the pain is gone for good... other times it throbs dully and wakes me up at night... and still other times it takes my breath away with a white hot bolt of agony.

But maybe, just maybe... if i PRETEND to be content true peace will come. I know that the lesson i'm supposed to be learning is to wait on God and his ultimate, perfect timing. That's the main lesson of my life... i am impulsive and keenly want immediate gratification. I mean, everyone does but with me it's like a sickness. And i haven't yet learned.

I have railed against God, I have abused the body that refuses to give me another life to love. I have wept and keened, I have tried to drink and smoke away the pain (ooooh, deep dark secrets, folks). All for naught. The reality is still the same. And so is God, who gives all good things to those that love him. The end.

Groundbreaking news

2005-12-02T13:20:00.000-08:00

Apparently, God lives in Egypt...

So sayeth Sophia.

It seems that He does live in our hearts, but his primary residence is Egypt. Who knew?

Ooooh, i'm not a very nice person

2005-11-30T07:15:00.000-08:00

Ok, so... one interesting thing about me/my family (well, everything's about me, really, hee hee) is that my husband is not originally from here. He was born and raised in the Republic of Georgia, former USSR. He's actually going to become a naturalized citizen (finally, Hallelujah) in about three weeks, and has been here in the states for almost ten years. I met him in high school when he was a foreign exchange student and we've been together ever since.

Anyway, allll of his family is overseas, we've visited twice since we've been married. His brother speaks fairly good English, and his dad communicates well with a version of charades that we do together (it's hysterical, i tell you) and the little Georgian that i speak. Georgian is, ah, a complicated and difficult language. If my husband were even Italian, i'd be in good shape, as i do speak some Spanish, but hot damn... Georgian is a bad mofo of a language to try to learn if you don't live there. It is not related to a single other language system in the world, not Russian, or Turkish, or fucking Czech even, it stands alone (typical of the culture, i tell you).

I know this story is dragging but stick with me, there's so much history we haven't shared yet (dear lord, who the hell am i talking to anyway... probably myself). AAAAnyway, when G and i were first married, and i was desperate to please my in-laws and show them that he had not in fact married a flighty and irresponsible American hussy, i worked my ass off to learn some Georgian and talk with them as much as possible. I would fumble along and try to make sense with MIL, most of all, because let's face it, the boy's mama is the number one person a woman has to impress, bar none. Well, as time has passed, i have, um, slacked off in this department, you might say. And now, i have a horrible confession to make: I hang up when MIL calls or pretend the connection is bad. Yes, i'm going to hell, i know it. I like her, don't get me wrong, but it is SUCH effort to dredge up conversation that i just don't bother anymore. I suck. Ugh. I really have to stop doing that.

"When I grow up i wanna be a hockey player"

2005-11-29T12:53:00.000-08:00

Says Sophia, who is three, lol.

I ask, in response: Honey do you know what hockey players DO?
S: 'Yeah, they hit round things with sticks'
S: 'So, would that be ok with you?'
Me: Of course, baby, you can do whatever you want to do.
S: 'I'm gonna teach daddy how to play hockey'.
Me: Stifling laughter, That sounds like a great plan, kiddo.

Later on:
S: After I play hockey, would it be all right with you if I married Nicholas (a little boy who she goes to school with who is passionately in love with her, hee hee).
Me: Now choking on giggles, You know, Nicholas is a great kid, Sophia. I would be very pleased if you married him.
S: 'Yeah, he's nice. But sometimes he says bad words and doesn't listen to the teacher. But I don't say bad words, mommy.
Me: I am so glad, honey, that makes me very happy to hear.

And that's nothing. You should hear the amazing things she comes up with! And her memory is, like, freakish or something. I worked at a gym daycare from when she was about 7 months to 2.5 years old. One of my coworkers would bring one of those vile chicken nugget frozen 'meals' (high fructose corn syrup and partially hydrogenated oils, mmmm good) EVERY day. Every goddamned day for her own kid who was a little younger than Sophia. Well, sometimes the girls would share their food and Sophie would score a chicken nugget. Today, a YEAR since we've set foot in that joint, we were driving past it and she says, i shit you not: 'Mom, you remember that lady, with glasses but not like your glasses, with the little girl? She used to give me chicken nuggets. 'Member her?' I almost wrecked the car i was so stunned. I love our conversations, sigh.

Fakers

2005-11-29T04:13:00.000-08:00

Want to know what bugs the living piss out of me? Do you? I looooathe, with every fiber of my being, people who are fake. Specifically, people who take on accents and mannerisms of another country or culture. For example...

Every Monday night, i go to this coffeehouse/pub place downtown with a group of friends. One of THEIR friends was there, a guy I've met once before and found to be pleasant and funny. Well, last year, this guy spent a grand total of a WEEK, yes only seven days, in London. A vacation. Not on a job for six months or as a foreign exchange student for a year. But my everloving lord, this guy? Apparently he affects the tiniest hint of an accent, not too much but i can hear it. And what's worse is that he constantly drops little British-isms into his conversations, little words and phrases. Ooh, oh, and what's worse is that he'll use a British turn of phrase and then stop and tell you, most pompously, that that's how they say that in London, sorry if he confused you.

I was very proud of myself and did not smack him on the back of the head and say 'Look, fucker, i know what your stupid little game is. I am onto you, dude. I am the original Anglophile from way back, asshat, and i get every dumb little word you throw in there, and also? The fake accent is like grease on water, so cut. it. OUT!'. Nope i didn't do that, but damn if it made me not like that guy any more. Not to mention, he is gay (lurve gay people, am tiny bit queer myself so shut it if you're thinking of spitting on me and telling me i'm bashing someone) but really like cloyingly queer and smarmy and not surprisingly FAKE about it. I know he's truly gay, not questioning that for a second, but it's just his way about him that rubs me the wrong way. Urgh. Anyway, there you have it. One of the number one things a person can do to make me snarl and roll my eyes at them, pretend to be something they're not. What about y'all? What makes you screech with frustration about people?

Fat

2005-11-28T14:37:00.000-08:00

Today i taught my three year old daughter a new word. Fat. Yep. I didn't call her that, mind you; she's not and i would never ever EVER do that in any case, no matter how heavy she could ever be. But, this evening i was getting dressed to go out, and in a fit of hormonal pique i blurted out 'Ugh, i just look so fat and horrible'. Now, normally, even though i am about fifty pounds overweight, i don't feel that way about myself. Sincerely, i love myself and the body that i find my soul in, these days. But the one time i didn't censor myself, she picked it right up. Of all the unfortunate things my daughter has ever heard me say (and believe me, to my shame, there have been plenty), this was one i thought i could always keep myself from letting out. We work really really hard at encouraging her to understand that everybody and every body are different but equally as wonderful and special. She, being the age she is, often points out with painful accuracy that a person is dressed 'funny' or that they have a physical disability. It bothers her when men have long hair, even though we explain over and over that both men and women can have long or short hair, whatever they choose. Anyway, i digress.... but my God, i never wanted her to learn that word from my mouth. She immediately understood that it was an ugly and insulting word. I told her that mom shouldn't have said that about herself, and i never EVER want to hear it come out of her mouth about anyone at any time. Who wants to nominate me for mother of the year, hmmmm?

welcome to my world

2005-11-28T07:14:00.000-08:00

Ok, so, i've been told that i should get a blog. I am by nature a writer, but honestly, i find the idea of keeping up a blog very daunting. I've never been good at regular journaling, but i will do my damndest to keep up with this. And, because my life will soon be turned upside down and inside out when my husband goes to boot camp in a couple of months, i figure i need some place to pour my soul out. I promise to try to be witty and clever and interesting, but sometimes? This might be a place for me to just vent, and that's a good thing (oh dear me i just quoted Martha fucking Stewart!) Anyway, here goes.