Antoine

I’ve been a mother longer than it appears to the moms at the school yard. His name was Antoine…a shorter version of my own, Antoinette. We had that in common and it made him proud.  Antoine lived at a Residential Facility for neglected and emotionally and physically abused children. I fell in love with him immediately. By the time I graduated from college and got my first real job, he was 11. Today he’d be somewhere in his early twenties.

This all begins this morning, when I found myself crying over the bathroom sink, toothpaste spilling out of my open mouth. I was thinking about Christmas and the kids and the toys and the everything and then I saw Antoine’s face. He had an amazing smile. And a temper that was too old for such a young child.This morning I felt like he had disappeared from me. I wondered where he was, if he made it or did the streets of Philadelphia swallow him whole?

Antoine was a natural born leader. All the boys in our building looked up to him…even the counselors did.  He was my right hand man…tall and strong and extremely smart. His guardians even had a college fund for him. So, if Antoine was such an amazing kid, what was he doing in a residential facility?

Antoine wasn’t wanted. He was a burden to someone else. But for me, the sun rose and set with him.

He was one of the lucky ones. An older woman volunteered to foster Antoine. By this time he was 12. They say in the profession, that if you don’t reach a kid by twelve, you’ve lost them for good. No. I don’t believe that.

That day he left I was devastated but had to hold onto my tears because he was the vision of complete happiness. Saying good-bye that day, I realized what it feels like to see your child leave you behind, and I was only 21…not nearly prepared for the emotions I was feeling.

I picture Antoine now, rushing across a campus with a pile of books in his hands, trying to make it to some class on time.

Antoine, you were my first son. I want to know where you are this Christmas. And I want you to know, that you have not disappeared. None of the boys in that building have. I remember you all. That makes you real.

Reasons Why I Hate 2 Out of My 3 Cats

1. they continue to open the bathroom door while i’m showering, sending in an unpleasant blast of cold air. after this, they sit on the edge of the bathtub watching me and waiting for their share of the water.

2. they continue to open the bathroom door while i’m on the the toilet. if they had thumbs and could get me the toilet paper whenever i run out, this wouldn’t be so bad.

3. They are intent on opening EVERY door in the house and keeping them open at all times. maybe they’re claustrophobic. they don’t attempt to open the baby’s door. The baby makes noise and they want no part of that.

4. the male cat routinely attacks my Labrador retriever without provocation. imagine a fur ball of fangs and claws flying through the air, landing on the back of my poor dog, nails digging into her forehead, and abby desperately thrashing all over the place trying to throw the monster off her back. This where I get the broom and violently “shoo” Pilate (said cat) away. i’m trying to ”school” abby in the art if cat ass kicking.

5. they insist on scratching the under side of my mattress all night long. i haven’t had a good night sleep since BEFORE the kids were born. this is also where, at 3am, i have been known to grab the broom do some more shoo-ing.

6. if i leave a pile of clean clothes in a laundry basket for any length of time over 5 minutes, the male cat will piss all over them. this alone, is enough for me to commit an unspeakable act against my cat.

i mean, whose house is this, anyway? i feel like i’m living with a terrorist.

Old Beginnings

Our flight got in yesterday. I was up for 24 hours and then every two hours during the night with kids who refused to adjust their sleep/awake patterns to minus six hours. I have no business blogging.

But that’s never stopped me before.

Reverse Culture Shock is kind of like walking around in a dream. I was surprised I still remembered how to drive after nine months of using public transportation. I was convinced that once I came home, I would be distracted by every little thing on the road and possibly get into an accident. So far, so good.

I am surprised that there aren’t five more drug stores within the two miles between mine and my parent’s house. I guess the five that already exist within that distance have proved to the community to be getting the job done just fine.

I was pretty sure in Zurich that my ikea-fied bedroom was the most comfortable/logical place to sleep. I was wrong. Nothing compares to my nasa-tested mattress on which I spent a shameful amount of money because of my “back condition”. (sorry ally, looks like we’re keeping it)

I was confused when my mother called this morning to tell me that she couldn’t pick up the three year old for breakfast – like she had promised- because of what appeared to be some ice on the ground.  ” I don’t understand….so that means no one is doing anything today…anywhere…because of precipitation?”

Probably most perplexing of all: my cats have forgotten how to use the hole in the basement door.

p.s. still researching Scientology for a future, much- anticipated blog. i want to make sure i get everything correct…especially the parts about the extraterrestrials and how supplements cure schizophrenia.

Horrible Pizza in 9 Easy Steps.

This is how you would go about making the worst pizza ever:

1. Do not use a cookie sheet or pizza stone

2. Do use a casserole dish, instead

3. Do not pound out the dough until it’s nice and thin

4. Do just throw the ready-made dough into the casserole dish in a lump

5. Do use some really cheap jarred sauce from the Migros

6. Throw the sauce and some shredded mozzerella onto the lump o’ dough

7. When the top starts to burn and the bottom of the pie is still raw, just take out of casserole dish and throw the rectangle of a “pizza” onto the rack in the oven

8. Use several profane remarks as the rectangle slips off the rack in a gooey mess onto the bottom of the oven

9. Serve pizza blob half raw and half burnt to loved ones

Not all of us like Danielle Steele, Funny Death, & Not so Funny Switzerland

Why do Europeans think the only thing Americans read are crime novels or Nora Roberts fluff? I found a new English book section in a bookstore in the mall the other day. I was so freakin happy…running toward those great big letters: English. I could feel my face lighting up like it hasn’t in months. Finally…something decent to read from a store relatively close by.  Sean and I raced to the tiny section of shelves (he had no choice, being bound into the stroller) and as soon as I could quickly scan the books, I realized it was all for naught.

Just a crap-load of Danielle Steele, James Paterson, Nora Roberts, and some guy by the name of Follet. For a brief moment I considered buying the History of Ireland…which, if proved very boring, could be used as a door stop. Sean was also disgusted by the selection. He began to squirm immediately, spit out his dummy, and proceeded to howl.

I did manage to find one lonely Joyce Carol Oates piece: The Gravedigger’s Daughter. It’s better than nothing. Actually, it’s quite good and I’m only on page four.  I like her main female character, Rebecca. She’s pissed off a lot. Much like myself.  But I’m sure she has good reason to be, whereas I’m just moody and mad that I’ve spent way too much money on therapy to find out that I’m just moody.

So..Switzerland: I would prefer not to have to read Nietzsche in his mother tongue. Let’s get some translators over here. Shnell.

I never thought I would say this, want this, or believe this, but I have had enough of Switzerland….for now. You ask why. And I will explain that winter begins in October and extends to May. I have not seen the sun in possibly weeks. The clouds are so low, if you climb a decent hill, you can see the Alps perfectly because…the clouds…are…in the freakin street!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This is why if you walk into any cafe at 9am, people are drinking!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And everyone is sort of fine with this.

Er…What else? I just finished a short story about dying. It’s a comedy. I’m not sure what to do with it, as is the case with most of my things. Maybe I’ll post it here. Maybe I’ll submit it somewhere. I need to first realize that none of that is necessarily narcissistic.

I have a love/hate relationship with what I write. On the one hand, I have to do it. I’m compelled and the words never stop (unless I self medicate) and if I want a moment’s peace in my head, it all has to get out. Immediately. On the other hand, I have this feeling that handing your crap out to read is incredibly conceited. Just because I do it, doesn’t mean it’s worth reading.

So, I have this notion that when I die, one of my kids will stumble across my piles of nonsense and maybe they’ll at least be worth something because by that point they will be really old and all hand written, becuase I despise creating anything on a screen, and my kids will be able to pay off their college loans. Yes. That is why I write.

Sixteen days left. And then this blog will be Tales From Suburbia, kind of like Tales from the Crypt because that’s exactly what suburbia is….a grave. (I crack myself up).

eff this rss

I still do not have a clue as to how to get “things” such as Last.fm smooshed into my blog. Yes yes, I know it has something to do with RSS. But no one else I know has been able to figure that part out either. We get the RSS widget and…..then…..what?

Even my sister, the mockingbird, can’t make heads or tales of it and she knows EVERYTHING about silly tech things.

I, myself, am reminded everyday of why the pencil and the eraser are my favorite tools of creativity.

So, do what you do best fellow bloggers, and school me.

Current Reading, Bin Laden’s Health Concerns, & Growing out of the Flat

As usual, I have no idea how this is going to turn out. I just know that it’s time to write about anything. There are…also as usual…too many things floating around in my brain to make sense of. Once again, I beg your pardon in advance.

So, right now I’m reading Norman Mailer’s last book : On God: An Uncommon Conversation.  The last Mailer book I read was Why We Are At War. I finished it in an afternoon on the beach and passed it around the circle for everyone else to read. I think about four of us read that book that summer afternoon. It was memorable enough of a piece to make me snatch up this next one in the english book store. It’s a very thin paperback and ended up costing me about 30 CHFs. At home…I don’t even want to think about how much it would have cost me.

I’m not yet finished with it, but I know how it’s going to end…with more questions. Even Mailer quotes another philosopher in saying that “there are no answers, only questions.” 

 In short, he speaks about how, at this point in his life (which I find suspicious) he has abandonded his previous belief (?) of atheism and now believes that there is a Being of Creation and that Being is an Artist who is constantly trying to improve upon his art (us) and makes just as many mistakes along the way as the rest of us do. To Mailer, God is not All Powerful/All Knowing.  He/She/It does have a considerable amount of power in order to create and then learn from mistakes in creation to improve upon his art.

The Devil is also as equally powerful as God and is always trying to throw a wrench into the works to keep humanity from advancing. The Devil’s weapon is technology.  Mailer believes that technology pushes us further away from the way God intended us to live.

Take media. Mailer wonders if humans were originally outfitted with such psychic powers as to create our own movies, operas, songs, or novels in our heads and then be able to transmit them throughout the world to others via telepathy. Maybe our “advances” in technology are actually hinderances. I can dig this. If you know me at all, then you know why. If you don’t know me, then leave a comment and I’ll get back to you. But before you leave a comment, just think about one thing first: The Atom Bomb.

That’s where I’m at with Norman. I haven’t decided if I completely buy his take on God, but it’s a much more creative, refreshing perspective than say, Catholicism or Atheism…which I see as both cop outs on someone’s part to actually think.

So…Bin Laden. Why am I getting breaking news from CNN in my email from the CIA about Bin Laden’s failing health? If we know this much about his medical circumstances, how is it that we haven’t snatched him up by now? I have an idea. The CIA can stop worrying about his health and take him to a god dam hospital if it’s that news worthy. I’d rather read about the California wildfires for the umpteenth time. They happen every year, folks. Stop building your homes so close to the damn trees.

We have outgrown our current digs. When we moved into the flat, Cate wasn’t yet three. There is a big difference between two and three. Most of it has to do with very loud negotiations, stomping feet, and screaming from the naughty spot. At two, “No” still holds some weight as an answer for why. You can forget about that at three. Our neighbors have tapped on the walls, rung the doorbell, and asked repeatedly if everything is ok. I just assumed that kids made noise. I was ok with this assumption when I decided to have them. I don’t even mind the noise. Let’s be honest, I don’t even hear it anymore. But I know it’s only a matter of time before the Swiss police ring my bell and then we’ll have a whole other set of problems; one of them being a language barrier.

It is time to go home to our house..as tiny as it is. The only horrendous trade off, is that I have to go back to suburbia and live under the microscope again. Suburbia…also a tool of the devil? I think so.

This is a Test…Only a Test

I’m trying to get images successfully posted into my blog without having to put in ugly links to photobucket.  Here goes nothing.

such a punk.

Not Politically Correct for a Yoga Instructor….be warned

To the Swiss business man on his way to work this morning, who looked me square in the eye and saw that I had one hand steering a baby carriage and the other holding an umbrella as we walked Cate to school in a downpour, and shoulder checked me anyway, slamming me into a pole: If my hands weren’t already full, you’d be choking on your balls right now.

Namaste, Fucker.

Pages?

Maybe it’s b/c I’m not as tech savvy as I would like to be at this point in my life…but, I don’t see the need for a “pages” option on the sidebar. Isn’t that the entire purpose of the blog itself? I don’t get it. If anyone else does, feel free to let me know.