All the Horrible Girliness

Some things hit me on such a deep level, I have an emotional reaction without any clue why. It just comes.

This is one of those instances: at the very end of this video, the part where she closes her eyes, I cry. Every time! It makes me laugh, because I can't figure out why.

posted by Samus @ 10:37 PM 1 Comments

I need to not post at 1:00 AM. Better now!

posted by Samus @ 9:35 AM 0 Comments

I had this screen up for hours and typed nothing. I don't know what to say. I have a strange kind of melancholy tonight. Maybe because I watched Bee Season, and I tend to morph into the energy of the things I read and watch. I liked the movie as much as I liked the book.

Many of our arguments stem from the fact that I watch Mr. Aran closely, ask many questions, dig into his mind. I am his fan. I bother him with my fandom. I take on his interests and hobbies, from sci-fi/fantasy books, to martial arts, to video games, to movies I wouldn't care to see on my own. I enjoy most of these things, and I find my own identity in them. And yet, in having taken all of these things of his into my personality, I've become something else. Someone else. I guess I've become Samus.

A bit of that happens in Bee Season.

It all stems from me not believing I have anything to offer. And then, that belief becomes real. Now, because I never developed my own stuff to any degree, I have nothing to offer.

I thought massage and writing or even fighting would work for me. And by "work", I mean I thought maybe I could impress him with these things. And by "impress," I mean I thought I could make him feel as rabid for my mind as I am for his, always trying to pry in and find things out. But mostly, if I brought things to his attention, he thought I was asking for help. He tried to help me improve my massage, to my annoyance; who wants to put in an hour of work, just to be told you missed a spot? He gave wonderful advice for my stories but rarely asked to read them, or talked about them in any depth; I had to bring them up. I lost all interest in fighting a couple months ago while watching him help some other girls in the class.

He makes it a point to tell me he's proud of me. But that implies what is true of us: he is in the position to be proud of me, and I am in the position of always trying to earn that. That I do earn it doesn't change our dynamic. He will always be smarter and more interesting. When we meet people I've met and talked to online, he ends up doing all the talking, because next to him, I am boring.

He is who he is, and he is perfect. I can't expect an artist archetype, a Leo sign, to be interested outside his sphere very often. It's how he creates, and his creation makes our money. And I can't relax out of my boss mode, because it keeps the family running. But I sometimes wish we could trade places. Whenever people complain about stupid people, I always interject that someone must bag my groceries, someone must pour my coffee - but the joke's on me. Because Mister Aran is one of the truly great people in the world, and I am the one who pays his bills, folds his laundry, and keeps his ego high enough to do what he has to do.

When he reads this, he'll be angry at me, because he will think it means that eventually I'll decide to pursue my own interests without him. He's wrong about that, but I'm wrong for writing this, too, and I deserve whatever fight I get because of this. I don't feel anything about it, but tired.

posted by Samus @ 12:46 AM 0 Comments

Vacuum storage bags are the shit.

posted by Samus @ 4:11 PM 0 Comments

Today, the Bug falls asleep on my shoulder, to the sound of a leafblower outside, and my quiet rendition of Tori Amos' "China."

Somewhere, a child falls asleep at a bus stop, on his aunt's lap.

Somewhere, a child falls asleep between his parents, who fought earlier, in their bed.

Somewhere, a child falls asleep watching the shadows of a ceiling fan race across a hardwood floor.

Somewhere, a child falls asleep under a tree, in a grassy valley, while his brothers and grandmother tend the sheep.

Somewhere, a child falls asleep on the back of a water buffalo, his older sister holding him upright.

Somewhere, a child falls asleep in the heat, sweating into his clothes.

Somewhere, a child falls asleep in the cold, bundled up to his neck, his breath making patterns that his mother watches for reassurance.

posted by Samus @ 11:42 AM 0 Comments

Nothing particularly happening today, but I just didn't want that last entry to be up at the top anymore, since things have simmered down and we're doing well. Problems aren't all fixed, of course, but love and time conquer all.

posted by Samus @ 11:33 AM 0 Comments

Mister Aran had to take over last night at about 4:45 because I was about to lose it. I was about to be rough with The Bug. After I went to bed, I could hear the screaming, and M.Aran making a bottle, and I wanted to go help, but I didn't know if I could keep myself from hitting the kid.

posted by Samus @ 10:39 AM 0 Comments

So much turmoil in my head now, The Bug crying himself to sleep these days, his nose stuffed with snot, and projectile vomit after rough play, crawling into every sharp corner, diving off everything head first. My mom making me worry, striking out at my character, lies and misconceptions, our future together scary and close. My husband, in constant pain of one kind or another, fighting in two months, stressed at work, so much responsibility, and I can't ease him.

And yet, in my head, I hear, "Let it be, dear lord, let it be." I know it comes from God.

Then I can breathe again.

*

Last weekend I couldn't breathe. Starting Friday, I would go around yawning, gulping, gasping, stretching my ribcage, trying to make room. I went to the doctor for it and he said it was stress. I hate that. I think I wrote about it already.

So I'm at Red Robin and I can't breathe. The Bug has his first balloon tied to his high chair and he's banging the hell out of it, and I am forcing air down my pipes. It's not like an asthma attack. I just can't get deep breaths, and it lasts for days or weeks.

"Stress," says Mister Aran. "Go ahead and call her."

So I go outside and call her back. I think she's already been drinking, but I can't be sure. I only know that her retribution is swift: she wails at me, blubbering so I can't understand, but I know this game, I watched her play it with us all my young life, and already I'm forgetting the breathing problem.

On my order, she calms down enough so that the conversation can continue somewhat, but the wailing starts up again soon enough, and I bring her back down. The third time, I'm done. I'm not eleven anymore, and the conversation is going nowhere. So I hang up.

While walking back to our table, I hold down the red button. The cheery face of my phone goes dark, and I sit down. My food is already there. I take a deep breath and eat.

posted by Samus @ 9:33 PM 3 Comments

Many times, I've considered making another blog where I can write anything I'd like, where no one would know it was me, and no one would be offended. I could write about the argument with my husband or mom, or wanting to throw The Bug out the window on long nights.

Also, having The Bug has added a weight to my life that makes my pre-Bug posts feel ridiculous, immature, or bratty. They weren't, really, but they read that way now. I can't post about how Animal Crossing Rocks! anymore.

This is a slippery place. This is where I stopped writing before. Everything I typed had a certain heaviness, a necessary future. I could no longer write a story. I had to finish the story, edit it, print it and send it off to be rejected again and again. The story became a means to making money, though it rarely did, and ceased being fun. That's why I started this blog in the first damn place, I remember now! No one expects good shit from a blog - do they? Blogs are where emoticons convey paragraphs of meaning, where you fill in the blanks: I feel ________. I'm listening to _________.

I got pregnant and this blog got serious, and anyone who knows me can log on and find out that, earlier in the day, I didn't like them. So I censor. Because the problem with being so loved is, you have a responsibility to take care of your loved ones' hearts.

I haven't made the anonymous blog, and I probably never will. But it's on my mind. Would be nice to just fill in the blanks again, for awhile.

posted by Samus @ 9:15 PM 0 Comments

My brother was hit in the face with shrapnel from a bomb last week. He says he's fine. How do you answer? What questions do you ask?

posted by Samus @ 8:54 PM 3 Comments

My hair is pink. Well, some of it.

It never occurred to me that other people might look at it as an odd thing.

***

I suck at sparring class. Royally. Horribly. I just get my clock cleaned over and over. Everything I've learned goes out the window. I get no respect in class, for good reason. All I am doing at this point is showing up; I can't even expect to improve anything yet. But showing up is 90% of anything.

***

My mom visited for a couple days. Very weird. She's not the same person. Ever since she read this, though, I can't expound. Besides, when I do, I just sound like a brat. Fuck it.

***

The Bug has a runny nose, making it difficult for him to breathe while he sleeps. It'll be another long night tonight. My poor baby.

posted by Samus @ 11:30 PM 0 Comments

There's something sleek, passionate, almost sexy, about flying planes into buildings. It's easy to think of it like that: inanimate object vs. inanimate object; objects go boom. And there is the matter of the terrorists themselves: pilots, even if not trained to take off and land, and pilots are intelligent men, interesting men. It's innovative, too. Nobody had done it before. And so premeditated! So planned! Spending all those months or years gaining access to the devil country, taking classes, then giving their lives for their faith. It's understandable, almost, how some American people felt for them. For their cause. Guilt is nothing new to Americans. We are an idealistic but rich country, and that means a heavy conscience. Some believed we had it coming.

***

There is nothing sexy about Beslan. Shouting Allahu akhbar, dozens of terrorists attacked a school on the first day of the school year. There was an assembly that day, where first graders, carrying flowers and balloons, would be presented to the town as new students. Parents and grandparents joined their children for the celebration.

***

What does it take to kill people, methodically - wait, no, to kill children - for over fifty hours? How do you listen to their screams? How do you kill parents in front of them, kill children in front of their parents? How does the human brain allow this?

How do you point your weapon at a child with bows in her hair and pull the trigger? How?

How do you string bombs over the heads of innocent families?

***

I can't begin to relate to these animals. May they all fucking die. May they all die horribly. Fuck them all.

***

Yes, I know about the horrors done to the Chechens. I know of all the children killed there. I know their desperation.

I know I've always been free, so I'll never understand.

I don't care where the evil began. If you can look into a child's eyes and kill him, you aren't human. Your mind is gone, and you cannot live in society anymore.

Maybe that makes me overly simplistic, and maybe that makes me stupid. You can think what you like. My days of liberal rationalizing ended on July 26, 2005.

***

Last year, on Mother's Day, I received a rose at church. I was seven months pregnant and just starting to really show. I told Mister Aran that it was my first Mother's Day, and he said, Not officially.

He felt like a jackass for saying it, and my mother and I laughed about it, but he was right.

posted by Samus @ 10:17 PM 0 Comments

Two minute post

Just remembering my dad in hipwaders, fishing in some freezing river in the Rockies. My mom's big batch of spagetti, the marshmallows and hot dogs roasting on stretched-out wire hangers over the campfire, smoked rainbow trout. Hooks in our clothes and fingers. Fold-out cheap chairs teetering on uneven ground on lake shores, bobbers winking in and out of the water, cans of beer and Pepsi warming in the sun. Sunburns and books and nature walks, furious emo writing in notebooks about the grossness of worms.

posted by Samus @ 11:12 AM 0 Comments

I think I've started the hardest part, physically, of mothering: the toddler years. Now that The Bug is as mobile as he wants to be, there are no easy bathroom breaks. I can no longer leave him in the living room with a toy while I make a sandwich. He must be watched at all times, even in his crib or playpen, lest he fall in his signature neck-bending way. He did it at Gymboree today.

Even with all the help I have, I'm a wreck. I can't wait for the busy mornings that are followed by hours of schooltime, during which I can work, clean, and eat.

Maybe I'm wrong. The hardest part must be with multiple kids.

posted by Samus @ 3:27 PM 4 Comments

I'm sitting, trying to chill, listening to "Let It Be," and wishing it would fix me.

In the other room, The Bug sleeps with soft rock playing, Brian Adams and Celine Dion, until I can get my own lullabye mix burned for him.

There is a lot of joy in my day, now. It balances the worry and fear. Before, I wasn't so worried and scared, but I didn't know these hugs, the laughs, the play, the rib-busting love.

***

I'm tired of being considered a racist just because I'm white.

posted by Samus @ 9:32 PM 0 Comments