Little boy poops in his pants. Last week, I ignored it because, well, at 2 he’s capable of people sized poo. He’s got a diaper on and it seemed well contained. He didn’t seem to mind and we played with blocks and trucks and I made his stuffed animals fall off of towers endlessly. The whole house smelled. I opened the windows. His Mom came home and I realized that the baby had pooped in addition so now we really had a mess. I apologized. She was gracious.
So, anyway, the little boy poops his pants an hour before Mom comes home and I’m thinking: I’ve got to do this. Who cares? It’s just poop, like cleaning out a litter box or stepping in dog doo. Whatever. I’m being paid well, I should just suck it up. “Did you poo your pants, buddy?” I asked, real cheerful like I poop my pants all the time and we’re just hanging out. “Yes,” he says, shortly. I sigh, “Well come on.” I take his sister and put her on the bed, in the middle, propping her up on a really floppy pillow. It’s amazing to me how portable infants are, simply incredible. It’s as if I accesorized the comforter with a stuffed animal or something. She isn’t very mobile but I am worried she might suffocate herself in the folds of this super pillow–especially since she’s teething and she immediately stuffs the corner of the pillow in her mouth. I pledge to keep an eye on her.
“Hey buddy, come into the changing room,” I yell, wanting to get this over with. The baby is drooling up a storm; I find a bib that says, “I love my daddy” and put it on her. I go into the living room and see that the little boy is hiding behind a rocking chair. “What are you doing? Don’t you want me to change you?” He shakes his head, sheepishly. “You sure?” I say. He nods and refuses to leave his hiding place. “Are you embarrassed?” I say, not even certain he knows the word. “Yes, I embarrassed,” the little guy is truly serious. He does not want his baby-sitter near his diaper. “OK, but that means you’re going to have to sit in your poo for a while,” I say. The boy nods knowingly, “Sit in my poo.”
And so he did. And I was relieved. The two of us had reached an agreement: I wasn’t terribly excited about changing a boy of his age’s diaper and he wasn’t interested in letting me. Done.
People don’t say please anymore. We drill and drill this into children when growing up: say ‘thank you’ and ‘please.’ It’s certainly not instinctual or ingrained to use those niceties. It wasn’t until I was in the service industry that I realized how important it is to hear the words ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ When leaving the industry of tips, aprons, and customers I made a mental note to always treat service people fairly and with the same degree of politeness I expected when I was behind the counter. This means not starting a phrase with “I want” or “Get me a” unless I plan on tacking a ‘please’ to the end.
The spice store I buy my curry blend from has their customers write what they want on little note pads. The other day I wrote “2 oz Traditional Curry, please” on my note pad and turned it in. The guy behind the counter was really impressed that I had written ‘please’ down along with my order. He mentioned it repeatedly. It’s sort of the same thing with bagging groceries at TJ’s. You don’t have to do it, but if you remember your own days ripping your cuticles on paper bags you certainly feel the the urge to help the checker out.
You can’t change someone (with a few exceptions):
Perhaps you’ve told yourself: One day he or she will change…haven’t we heard this before? Isn’t this the reason for most relationship failures? To be fair, people can change depending on taste, age, and whim. For example: After nine years Josh will now eat tomatoes. However, he will not, can not, seem to give up his couch sleeping habit. Perhaps in the back of my mind I had always hoped this would change, that one day he would simply go to bed instead of passing out on the sofa at 9pm. I’m realizing now that this may never change, that he is biologically wired to sleep on the couch, and that there is nothing I can truly do about it.
Fighting Over Money
Whether you remain financially independent for years or dump both of your funds into a big joint account a week after meeting, money is always a reason for a fight. Perhaps one of you is a spender (impulsive, passionate, liberal gift-giver, your credit card weighs heavy with debt) and the other is a saver (tight fisted, guilt-ridden, penny pinching, paper bag lunch packing). Maybe one of you grew up in a household where you were rewarded with money ($100 for an ‘A’, anyone?) or maybe you never got an allowance and resorted to trolling the couch for loose change. Perhaps you agonize for days over an expensive pair of shoes, waiting until you actually dream about them before deciding they’re worth the expense. Maybe you celebrate when your decrepit toaster breaks because this means you can go out and buy the most expensive replacement on the market. (Ex. I ask Josh to buy me a simple egg timer and he in return buys a digital clock with 13 different timer settings). Either way, it’s doubtful you and your spouse are going to see completely eye to eye when you view your finances. I could write a small novella about fighting over funds, but really it comes down to what my Grandma Peggy used to say: “It’s only money.”
In the spirit of several marriages that will be taking place soon I’ve taken it upon myself to act as a couples counselor, marital adviser, wisdom provider. As of Memorial Day I will have docked 9 years with my significant other…a significant amount of time in deed. Therefore I believe I have a little bit of insight on marriage and all that goes with it. Even if you’re not married, I think this advice is pretty standard:
Partnership Advice #1: Don’t Go To Bed Mad
This is one that old folks will always tell you. I think it should be reworded: don’t talk about anything serious, touchy, issue-y, or naggy after 10pm. This will help you avoid going to bed angry because, let’s face it, no one is really any good after 10pm. The sleepier you are the harder it is to hold your end of an argument. The more tired you feel the shorter your fuse. After 10pm is the wrong time to bring up your partner’s faults, who forgot to feed the cat, or your deep rooted insecurities. Save it…because things always look better in the morning.
Yesterday, I wrote a long personal post about a friend who has breast cancer. I wrote: “This is the vicarious nature we have with our friends. We latch on, we hang on, we experience and all the while we have side by side experiences with those we adore. We share, we care, we talk about our similarities as a way to navigate through life. And then something happens and we don’t have the experience…we can’t have the cancer right along side them. Instead we have to remain behind as they dive into this new part of their life.”
It was too upsetting. Even though this friend has been open about her health, I think I might have divulged too much and made it more about myself then, well, about reality.
The reality is breast cancer sucks major ass. When you learn a 27 year old friend has fallen ill with cancer it should motivate you to put your arm behind your head and start massaging your boob in circles checking for lumps. It should prompt you to take the plunge and get your first (or second or third) mammogram no matter how young you are. It should make you reflect on the health choices you’re making in your own life. It should make you hug those you love a little tighter.
This is all my friend really wants: “Please share my blog with the world. That’s why I have it. Feel free to use my full name – I’m about education. I have to make this somehow have a positive effect on the world. Tell everyone you know. Please do self breast exams every month! Please visit your OBGYN regularly!”
With that advice, I’m going to go feel up my booby and gain the strength to get my first mammogram.
Found myself in a position I swore I would never be in: nanny. Just for three hours, just one day a week (the pay is really good). I go back pretty far with this family, keeping an eye on the little boy back at my old job while his Mom took fitness classes. He was/is very sweet–although we’re looming on his second birthday and entering the ‘terrible twos.’ His Mom just had another baby who is four months old and completely content to just sit and watch her brother. She can’t even focus on being fed she’s so focused on tracking her brother. This makes up for all the ‘neglect’ she receives as a second child–the two-year-old commands more attention. Despite this she is a happy and loving baby girl.
Last week the little boy and I spent a whole hour putting his stuffed animals in time out. They languished on the stairs, hidden by the baby gate, until brought out of their respective punishments and released back into the real world. “Why is the zebra going into time out?” I would ask. “For hitting Mara,” the boy replied solemnly. “Oh dear, that’s no good,” I said and off we’d go, zebra in hand, ready to put him back on the stairs. Hitting is a new discovery for this little boy, and his punishment is to sit on the staircase for two minutes. I think it’s interesting he’s processing this new development by executing the same discipline on his stuffed animals.
The baby can’t be fed unless her brother is distracted. The best distraction, admittedly, is 1/2 hour of Dora the Explorer. While the little boy watches TV the baby is fed. Simple, right? Not if Tivo decides not to work and the baby is screaming because she just woke up hungry and the little boy is losing patience and the Mom on the phone can’t give me the right instructions to get Dora to come on. It’s a disaster. While struggling with the TV I check on the little boy: I find my clogs in the kitchen sink with him about to turn the water on. “No, no, I don’t need my shoes washed,” I dump a handful of plastic cups and rubber dog toys in the sink for him to scrub. I give up on Dora. With the baby facing the opposite way I stuff a bottle in her mouth while eying her older brother–he has discovered the sponge excretes an enormous amount of water on the floor. “Not on the floor,” I bark. “Keep the sponge over the sink.” He only tries it a few more times before the message is received.
The baby is furious with me because I put her down to figure out Tivo and then put her down again to warm up her bottle. She cried huge crocodile tears, her face was bright red, and I could practically see her little heart breaking. She emitted little protest cries throughout her feeding but eventually forgave me. While I monitored the kitchen sink play, the baby watched eagerly from her swing. The mechanical device swings back and forth while playing tinny music. The baby is happy. The little boy is drenched from head to toe and is happy. The baby ‘blows out’ her diaper just when Mom shows up. I completely forgot about the diaper (kids usually poop while sleeping, right? Isn’t the first thing you do after a nap is check their diaper?). I barely figure out how to get the baby’s shirt over her head; luckily she’s still smiling. She’s thrilled to have such one-on-one attention from her baby-sitter. She coos and laughs at me with her little fingers. Wow.
The little boy is tired. He’s mad because I put my clogs on and am ready to go. He cries pitifully while his mother talks with me. We discuss preschool, waiting lists to go to preschool, soccer, the new development of hitting, the guilt she feels over not being able to spend much time with the baby. I’m a good listener, having spent all week with children her son’s age. I see a range of children, I can compare, I can assure her that he’s fine. He’s smart and a good kid despite the new hitting development. Starting preschool at three is fine–two is really young. The baby is learning so much from her brother, it’s ok if the Mom isn’t focused on her 100%. I’m glad to give her a three hour respite in the middle of her week. “It’s all good practice,” I say, for teaching and eventual parenthood. The little boy gives me a mournful wave. His zebra has been removed from time out and is sitting limply next to him. I wave good bye.
With all the attention on soft rocks hits in my life lately I started thinking: what song really made a difference in my life? What song really ’spoke’ to me? Other then the usual punk rock hits, of course, since I certainly didn’t lean towards that type of music typically. In fact, I was raised on a pretty healthy dose of nothing but classical music, opera, and my Dad’s old Beatles albums. It wasn’t until sixth grade when I finally got a little radio for my bedroom that my music tastes started opening up. During most of my early adolescence, you could find me in my room, blasting Casey Kasem on the radio, and drawing.
Recently I checked out the Casey Kasem cd set, “America’s Top 10 Through the Years.” This is a five cd set, starting from the 50s and careening through the 90’s. WOW. It’s amazing how much more tolerant I am of the 80’s hits versus the songs from the 90’s. It was just so, so, bad…like Amy Grant and Wilson Phillips bad. Anyway, I stumbled on “One More Try” and was immediately transported to my bed room during 7th grade. (His music was so true! I mean, if I ever got a boyfriend, I was sure that this song would sum up our inevitable break up). What I really love about this music video (and subsequent videos from the early 90’s) is the incredible styling, dance moves, and back up dancing. I mean, really, do we need several people swaying in the background? Do we need mock turtle necks paired with gold chains? Were white jeans on straight men ever appropriate? Apparently so…I mean we must have needed it because the early 90’s were my slow introduction to sub-culture. Anyway, I really love this video:
Side note: in an attempt to convince Mark to include this gem in our upcoming Soft Rock show I made Joey sing it with me at The Hideout last night. I sang it badly, but I’d had a few drinks and thought I sounded awesome. Josh pointed out the repeated rhyming of the word ‘you,’ and I think Mark might have actually considered it. Then I stumbled on this live version and OMG, the choreography is PRICELESS:
Been busy recovering…Josh has been sick, I’ve been wiped from teaching (kids are showing severe signs of spring fever), and our house seems to look more and more shabby under the newly sunny skies. Fun things planned for the weekend, including Lizen vacationing at our house, cookies being baked, and hopefully I’ll get around to planting my ’shade garden.’
Random image from the Chop Suey I took during dress rehearsal:
(Thanks to Stephen for taking this on-stage photo)
It was almost too much–ALMOST, not quite. For the first time in a long time, I felt the brush of stardom. The build up to the show had been buzzing within the Seattle community for a long time. Our posters stared back at me every time I stood near a telephone pole at any Capitol Hill intersection. The Weekly posted a huge picture and boasted about our sexy costumes. Pictures from our press shoot were circulating all over the internet, from facebook to myspace and back again. People started feeling pressured–no, scratch that, OBLIGATED–to come to the show. Chop Suey was a big venue, a rock star venue for musicians, benefits, and crazy gong shows.
We labored for months, many of having reached our one year anniversary as a Freedom Dancer recently, the core group of performers made room for a 7 piece band, a d-jay, and an improv troupe that specializes in video. We squeezed into a hideously tiny dressing room, our stuff sitting on top of mic stands and instrument cases. Weird people came in and out and little paper signs everywhere were posted warning us not to keep the back door open at any cost. The dancers changed their costumes, their underwear, their clothes constantly while shouting, “Close the door! Close the door!” (There’s only so much muff you can show in the name of the stage before anxiety kicks in). Everyone lost something at some point, although everything was eventually recovered. (With the exception of my jazz shoe). The enormous and friendly drummer sat on the only couch in the green room. We were using it as a place to put our costumes and I watched in sinking horror as all my clothes sank into the deep recesses of the couch. Later, I narrowly averted a hissy fit thanks to Lieta and Abigail, as I searched in vain for my black and blue tights. They had fallen into hard-to-reach spot between the back of the wall and the couch. I found them just in time–I don’t get nervous before shows but my fuse does get shorter.
The audience stood on top of tables, booths, and chairs to see the stage. They crammed inside the venue with passion, singing along to every song Mark belted out, many of them knowing all the words and shouting encouragement to the stage. Our doubt that we might not fill the venue vanished when we heard people were being turned away, the beers on tap went dry, and then the cops came. Chop Suey had stuffed the crowd past capacity. The chaos from the crowd seeped into the backstage, suddenly we didn’t remember what came first the bows or the encore. I jumped the beginning during “Hero” and beat myself up about it for the entire song, cursing myself for ruining the last number of the night. Mark had warned us that we were required to stay and dance for the d-jay–a nice woman who brought a male sidekick we kept kicking out of the dressing room during our quick changes.
I found myself too tired to dance, the lights vibrating into my brain at a bad angle, I couldn’t seem to muster the strength. I floated from the ‘quiet room’ to the dance floor, excited by how many friends I saw. At one point an older lady asked me if I was Mark’s sister. “No, that’s the joke,” I said, referring to a gag Mark and I always play about not being related–only having similar sounding names. “I’m not his sister.” The woman pushed, “Are you Lieta?” I was not patient, “NO, Lieta is Mark’s sister…that’s not me.”
I wasn’t being a bitch, I was just overwhelmed, for the first time in a long time. After doing so much improv, I’m not usually bowled over by the crowd. But this night schooled me. When I first entered the sweaty sticky crowd after the show, I searched in vain for my husband. This past week I’ve shocked multiple people with the information that I am married. No one can believe it, (even though–pardon my French–I’m wearing a fucking wedding ring on my ring finger). It’s not that I don’t feel a little proud that I carry myself like a swinging, liberated, chick who rocks the local theater scene in leg warmers, hot pants, and humor. It’s just that I can’t partake in the usual shenanigans that take place in the theater (you know: multiple affairs, back stabbing, spin-the-bottle games, drunken one night stands). Sometimes I think my absence from these events make people think I’m this truly untouchable lady–but not because I’m married…I’m just above it all. Alas, a very sweet gentlemen revealed that I was his favorite freedom dancer and that he has a crush on me. (I’m hoping he’ll notice on my Myspace profile that I’m hitched). Flattery, flattery, flattery…isn’t that why most of us are on the stage? Anyway, I found my husband outside the venue at the hot dog stand. He was standing with an assortment of friends, wearing my gay best friend’s sweater, and eating a cream cheese dog. “I love you!” I shouted, and hugged him around the middle. Everyone laughed and clapped me on the back and said I had done well–despite the fuck up in the last number–and ushered me inside where I devoured a Maker’s Mark on the rocks.
I met significant others, random fans of the Soft Rock series, and introduced myself to the bouncer–who was exhausted and said that the night had been ’stressful.’ He was cute. Pizza was ordered and I took a break in the green room and ate a slice of veggie. There was no room so I sat on the half of the pizza box that didn’t contain pizza. A friend of mine mouthed the words, “I’m so drunk” as I polished off a slice and a half. (This same friend wasn’t wearing any underwear under her panty-hoes while sitting ‘criss-cross applesauce’ on the floor). We steamed about the injustices of the venue, how their were no bartenders, and how we didn’t even know the cops were there until after the show. The dressing room was heavy with the lingering smell of Aqua net, sweat, and several nervous stomachs. “We did it!” someone said, “We sold out the Chop Suey!” I stuffed a piece of cheese pizza into my purse for later–feeling as if my Freedom Dancer ride was only beginning.
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