Honesty

My son (aka Balthazar, the Kid) tapped on my bedroom door.

Me, looking up from my sprawled position on my bed: Oh, hey Kid. How long've you been up?

Balthy: An hour.

Me, surprised: Yeah? I haven't heard you. Whatcha been doin'?

B, shrugging: Avoiding responsibility.

Me, having lost an afternoon binge-watching the 1st season of Fargo on Hulu: Me too.

Took Balthy up to college for the start of his Senior year this weekend. If all goes according to schedule, he should be graduating in May 2016, God willing.

I almost can't believe it.

These past three years have challenged me, exhausted me. Now I've a year to get my shit together so we can move into a place of our own again, while simultaneously saving the requisite funds to put out another book (oh, and I suppose I should finish writing it, as well). I'm thrilled and terrified. I almost feel like a graduate myself. (I say "almost" because my back and knees frequently remind me that I ain't no spring chicken.)

Not gonna lie—I fear the future. It sucks when you're going through hell, but at least there's a devil you know. Yet all we can do is keep going.

Because what's the alternative? We're either going or stopping. I sometimes don't know which is preferable. But who, on this side of the veil, can know?

I'll keep going, I guess, till I'm either recalled or have no other reason to. In the meantime, I'm going to make myself some hot cocoa and get to work on my story.

That is all.

My Overprotective Kid

You may remember me mentioning how, when he was younger, my son Balthazar disparaged men who showed romantic interest in me. (And by "disparaged," I mean that he denounced them as being serial killers whom I should avoid like...well, like one should avoid a person aiming to end one's life.) Well, given that he's achieved the ripe old age of 20 (holy shit!) and has been away at a very liberal, girl-pow-ah kind of college for the past three years, I figured he'd outgrown this absurd over protectiveness/smart-assed desire to kill my buzz.

I figured wrong.

A few weeks ago, I texted Balthy the following:

So, like, I was waiting for the Shuttle to GCT & this guy comes up to me & hands me a piece of paper saying, "Excuse me, I just wanted to say you're drop dead gorgeous, I love your hair and eyes. Here's my number, if you ever want to call me." Think I should call him?

After two days of radio silence, I nudged him. Thus replied Balthazar:

No

Me: Why not?

Four hours went by. I nudged again. Balthy wrote back:

Ask one of your friends

Me: The two I asked told me to call him. Why do you think I shouldn't?

Balthy: I don't care, do what you want. I just don't want to hear about it or find out that you're beheaded in an alleyway.

So there you have it. I mean, I'd no intention of calling the guy (he never asked me for my name, which I found really weird) and, admittedly, you never know whether a stranger means you harm. But that'd be true at a nightclub or a bar or a party, right? I mean, all the old-fashioned/more traditional ways of meeting people couldn't ensure they'd be decent, non-psycho-killers. Surely there'd be a "safe" way to get to know someone from the above scenario?

Maybe there's a more promising opportunity coming around the bend for me, one even The Kid won't be able to balk at. Obviously, I don't require his permission. But I wonder if he'll ever be OK with me having a love life of my own...

Probably not.

Is The Kid Losing His Edge???

Balthazar & Goth Mom Lite
on Balthy's 19th birthday
May 29, 2014

If you're a regular reader, you'll know how my Kid, Balthazar, and I tend to go out of our way to push one another's buttons. And by that I mean that he goes out of his way to be a smartass and I struggle just to keep up. From being asked how I'd feel about him joining the Church of Satan to being advised that the men who've shown the slightest bit of interest in me must be psychopaths, Balthazar delights in nonplussing me. (What? That's totally a word.) Sure, I've managed to score the occasional hit, but it's generally the Kid who's in the lead in this ongoing game.

Except...I think he's mellowing, a bit. Possibly, he's losing his edge. Rather than seek to blindside me, he's been more...goofy.

A few days ago, I posted on The Facebook the following:

NYC's experiencing mighty stormy weather at the moment. Here's the text exchange between me and My Kid about him getting picked up by his friend to go to band practice:

Me: Ok. Text when u get to [friend's name redacted]'s

Kid: Why???

Me: Cause it looks like Armageddon out there.

Me: Isn't it dark, cloudy, rainy in [hometown's name redacted]?

Kid: Idk what youre talking about the sun is out the birds are singing a unicorn just flew by and Osama Bin Laden is dead like the forecast could not be more positive

Me: ...

Kid: Naw but yeah its p shitty

See what I mean? Goofy! But not obnoxiously so!

I wonder...

...should I worry? Is he simply dialing back in his advancing years? Or is this a fake out, and he's lulling me into a false sense of security, planning to zap me a good one when I least expect it?

Hmmm...

Streaming Consciousness: Odds & Ends

But mostly odds, because I am. Odd, that is.

C'mon, now, you knew that about me already.

...so, like, I haven't had a cigarette since about 4:35pm, Monday, August 19, 2013. Prior to that, I'd smoked for about 26 years. On the bright side, the antidepressant I'm on is also prescribed, in lower doses, for help with smoking cessation. On the dark side (my favorite), there have been moments when I feel I shoulda been strapped up like my good friend Monty Burns, over to the right. And not just for the kink factor, either. Anyway, I've already seen some good results (food tastes better, Yay!) and some bad (I've been carb-craving like a MoFo, Booo!). I didn't say anything about this sooner 'cause whenever I try to do something like this and blab about it, I always crap out. But so far, so good...

...took The Kid back up to skewl for his second year of college. Dang. Second year of college. Wow. I mentioned a few months ago that I'm mostly over Empty Nest Syndrome. It should be noted, though, that the remnants of ENS manifest as a desperate need to feed people, along with me tossing out stuff like, "You're not going out in this weather without a coat?!" Which everybody loves...

...I've set my release date my debut fantasy romance novel, That Fatal Kiss, for

TUESDAY,

SEPTEMBER 24, 2013

W00T, W00T, W0000000000T! 

The e-book, anyway. I want to have a paperback available for folks who don't cotton to books in digital, but that may be somewhat delayed. (The best laid plans of mice and men...)

Meanwhile, if you'd like to read a sexy excerpt from That Fatal Kiss, click here. Or check out this interview of my heroine, Persephone, and hero, Hades, the Lady and Lord of the ancient Greek Underworld.

Stop by on release day and enter a comment for your chance to win a free copy of the e-book! And don't forget to spread the word!

Streaming Consciousness: The Kid

...So many responses to my most recent post center around the essential "Holy fuck, not Putin?!" theme, yet no one commented on the fact that my Kid's due to go to Russia next week, for a month-long stay. Perhaps y'all were so tightly clutched in the grip of horror at my taste in man-candy that this salient fact escaped you. Never mind. I've nerves of steel and feel perfectly blasé about the fact that it'd take me 10 hours and over a thousand bucks to get to Balthazar in the event of an emergency, from June 12 to Bastille Day.

...I'm clearly lying about that last bit. I plan to tipple steadily throughout the day this coming Wednesday, the day the Kid embarks on his trip, so I can just not give a shit that he's flying an airline I've never heard of before and will be almost completely out of reach till mid-July.

...Balthazar's girlie and some of her fam were in Europe themselves recently and had a brief layover in Manhattan yesterday on their way home, so he and I went downtown to say howdy. When Balthy and his gal reunited, I was struck by how much love for him poured out of her eyes. My next thought, which haunted me for the rest of the day, was how painfully vulnerable we become when we love and how easily our beloveds can destroy us. (What the Kid's initial response was to her I can't quite tell you, as I deliberately turned away so they could suck face in relative privacy.)

...The Kid finished his first year of college! Holy shit! I'm happy to report that I'm over the devastation of Empty Nest Syndrome and have come to enjoy the freedom of not having to rush home from work every day to care for my not-so-little birdling. I'm enjoying the weird journey from Goth Mom to Goth Mom Lite and rediscovering myself as just a chick again.

...Balthy's got way more clothes than I do. Waaaaay moooooooore. And that pic doesn't show even half of his crap. Who the hell's got time for that much laundry, ain't nobody got time for that! (The Kid obviously doesn't, else his threads wouldn't be in a mound on the floor, awaiting the tender mercies of Tide.)

What is love...?

"...love is desire sustained by unfulfillment." ~ Angela Carter


“Love is a fiend, a fire, a heaven, a hell, where pleasure, pain, and sad repentance dwell.” ~ Richard Barnfield


"Love is a grave mental disease." ~ Plato


Baby, don't hurt me...


"Love isn't a battlefield, it's a genocide." ~ Balthzar, The Kid


"Love is a snowmobile racing across the tundra and then suddenly it flips over, pinning you underneath. At night, the ice weasels come." ~ Matt Groening


...don't hurt me...


"Love is so short, forgetting is so long." ~ Pablo Neruda


“A mighty pain to love it is, and 'tis a pain that pain to miss; but of all pains, the greatest pain, it is to love, but love in vain.” ~ Abraham Cowley


"...love don't make things nice - it ruins everything. It breaks your heart. It makes things a mess. We aren't here to make things perfect. The snowflakes are perfect. The stars are perfect. Not us. Not us! We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and love the wrong people and *die*." ~ Ronny Cammareri, Moonstruck


...no more.

Oh My Goth! ~ Then & Now

Image by ME!

Back in January, I blogged about some ideas I'd had for Some Dark Romantic. I'd built it as a platform for my author persona, as a way to connect with folks who might get a kick out of the kooky romances I like to write. In my first year of blogging I made loads of great connections with other bloggers, which is le awesome, but I felt perhaps I was drifting from my bloggy purpose, just a wee bit. So I considered who I am, as a writer and as a person. I strongly identify with being a Goth Mom (Lite!) and decided I should expand on the Goth part of this self-conferred title.


I got into the alt rock back in the early 80s, when more traditional rock was being tsunamied by the "new wave/post-punk" movement in music. Beginning with the New Romantics, Duran Duran, with whom I fell in love, I grew to dig Depeche Mode, Blondie, Ministry, New Order, Yaz, Love and Rockets, B-52s, Sisters of Mercy, Siouxsie Sioux and the Banshees, The Smiths, and The Cure, to name just a very few. I eschewed the bright, bubblegum pop of the day for the synthy, bassy, often dark and spooky vibes I caught from the above, as well as other bands I heard on my favorite New York radio station, WLIR (the station that DARED to be different).

Oh, to go back in time and even out those bangs!

My closest friends, who were all about the Doc Martens and black eyeliner, could take the train into Manhattan to hang out in Greenwich village. Those chicks got the cool stuff from thrift shops and whatnot, and really got properly into the Goth lifestyle. Not I. I was very, very, very sheltered. I couldn't go anywhere that wasn't school or family related, so I never got to hang in the village and kick it Goth style, as I'd have liked. I did the best with what little I had. I wore dark colors and vivid red lipstick. I strove to spike my hair but wound up less Siouxsie Sioux and more Generic Big 80s Hair (as evidenced by this pic from my senior year of high school). I wrote songs and short stories about sex. (This hasn't changed.)

Anyway, my Goth sensibilities were more about the music and fantasies than about a particular look, though I was so well known in my family for wearing mostly black that a cousin once remarked of me, "There she goes...always appropriately dressed for a funeral." Like I said, I didn't have the opportunities (or freedom) to experiment, so I did what I could and shrugged off the rest. I stuck with the black, mixed it up with blood red accents, and pressed on with long, sweeping skirts and dark, smutty thoughts.

Goth Mom Lite today...my, what an unfortunate nose...

Then I had my kid and life changed. A lot. I went from marriage to separation to single-motherhood to having to settle-the-fuck-down, put-aside-my-dreams, and provide-for-my-child, in what now seems a heartbeat. I suppressed a lot; in fact, I still do. But the wanna-be Goth Chick within yearns to break free. I continue to don the dark garb and paint my lips red, but in a manner which might now be termed "Corp Goth," or Corporate Goth. I'm not as nattily attired as some Corp Goths, though (money's tight with The Kid at college and I've got loads of single-mom debt). But, again, I do what I can with what I've got. I look forward to the day when I can let my inner Morticia cut loose. (I look forward to this like you just wouldn't believe...) I console myself with the thought that she's in there, just biding her time, and that she's always been with me, even if only in the deepest, darkest recess of my heart.

Streaming Consciousness: The Post-Birthday Edition

I began this post bitching about my Kid, and then about annoying couples, but decided to spare y'all the goth mom angst and just focus on the good birthday stuff instead.

...I let Balthazar accompany me to one of two museum visits I'd planned for the day. We went to The Whitney Museum on the upper east side of Manhattan, to check out two exhibits that are right up my alley: Sinister Pop and Dark and Deadpan: Pop in TV and the Movies. Both focused on Pop Art of/in the 60s, an era which rather fascinates me. (I'm especially into the surf culture—it's the ginchiest!) We sort of split up to check stuff out independently. By the time we reunited to grab a bite in the museum's cafe, I'd been thoroughly distracted from my earlier teen-induced upset by all the art and films and whatnot. I'd had a thoroughly engrossing art experience which, admittedly, made me think a whole lot more than I usually care to, but still, I enjoyed the stretching of my poor remaining gray cells. Balthazar and I had a nice meal together, talking about what we'd seen, what we'd enjoyed, what we hadn't, etc. Then he buggered off back home to hang out with his friends, which was fine with me, because...

...my next stop was the Museum of Sex on Fifth and 27th, so I could cheer myself up with some smut. They have their standard exhibits (one examines sex in the animal kingdom, which is very educational indeed and absolutely the right place to take your kids if you really want them to learn about the birds and the bees), as well as more ephemeral installations. Right now, there's Universe of Desire, (though the Web site claims it would be gone after Nov. 4), which examines what turns the world on as evidenced by activity on the World Wide Web, as well as other electronic media. (Makes one more inclined to launch "Private Browsing" or its nearest relative when surfing the Web, eh what?) I have to admit to averting my gaze on more than one occasion for fear of succumbing to the vapors, but mostly I was able to look at all the kink square in the...well, you know.

...the next day, Saturday, I took myself to the Elektra Theater (at Times Scare) to see Silence! The Musical. This "unauthorized parody of The Silence of the Lambs" was hi-larious. The music was ok, the best of which, for me, was Hannibal Lechter's sweeping anthem, If I Could Smell Her Cunt. The gal currently playing Clarice Starling, Pamela Bob, executed the role masterfully, a high point for me being her response to Jack Crawford when he told her to stay put while he and the other FBI menfolk went to collect Buffalo Bill. Remember that scene in the movie? I remember feeling outraged that, after all the work Starling did, she'd be denied the glory of catching the murderer. Well, in the musical, Starling expresses that outrage with a convincingly stupefied monologue that riffs on the words, "What the fuck?" to uproarious effect. Loved it. Go see it, if you can.

...finally, on Sunday I took myself to see Hitchcock, starring Anthony Hopkins (neat little connection with the above, huh?) and Helen Mirren. It was a bit slow-moving, though enjoyable. I thought it would focus more on the quirks and foibles of making the film, but the emphasis seemed to be more on the relationship between Hitchcock and his wife Alma. After the film, I had to pick up the book upon which it was based, Alfred Hitchcock and the Making of Psycho by Stephen Rebello, as well as a honking huge book on pop art, Pop by Mark Francis & Hal Foster.

And that's about the extent of my birthday shenanigans. Please check back on New Year's Day for a topical post on facing the consequences of the previous night's revelry...

The Kid ~ Vignettes

Apparently, I can't do a nice thing for The Kid (my son, Balthazar) without said act of kindness being regarded with deep suspicion. A while back, he mentioned he needed gloves. I kept forgetting about this until one Sunday that I happened to be at work, I remembered to order him some and have them shipped to him up at college. So I ordered two pairs, each from a different vendor, 'cause, you know, they're easily lost or misplaced (though I didn't tell him he'd be getting two). He let me know when pair one arrived, but when pair two turned up a couple of days later, he texted me, "What is the meaning of this?"

*     *     *

When I moved back in with the 'rents at the end of September, I was appalled to discover that the closet in my "new" room reeked of mothballs. Reeked, I tell you! I tried simply cleaning/vacuuming/airing out, but the stench remained. So I took the advice I read on the Interwebs, to stick some baking soda all up in there, close the door, and wait for the malodorous offense to the senses to disappear. I'd forgotten to mention these to Balthazar, who visited for the Thanksgiving holiday this past week. He made it up to my room before I did and, when I arrived, asked, "What are those bowls of cocaine doing at the bottom of the closet?"

*     *     *

While he was home, he asked if he could hang out with friends Thanksgiving eve, which was fine, as my mother worked that day, so we didn't celebrate the holiday till Friday. I told him to be home by 12:30am, at the very latest (only 'cause my mom works nights and typically gets home by 1am, and if he wasn't home by the time she was, I anticipated us both getting grief). 12:30 came around and Balthy didn't. The following text conversation ensued:

Me: Almost home?
The Kid: Sooooorta.
Me: How soon will you be here?
The Kid: Er like 15. Sryyyy
Me: Sighs
Me: You're not walking, are you???
The Kid: Naw we're [at a diner] in [place redacted]
Me: Wtf
The Kid: We're driving back very soon about to pay the bill

(There was no way he'd get home before my mom. I then went through a swift succession of pre-set "smileys," seeking a frowny one which would adequately convey my extreme displeasure. Amusingly, I hadn't used many of these pre-sets, so I had no idea what image I'd get, half the time. Some of them were doozies. After a heart came up...)

Me (explaining): I'm trying to find a pissed off smiley

(I tried a few more and finally settled on a "smiley" that looked, to me, as though it was pissed off.)
 
Me: I guess that's the one
Me: Though the bat was pretty kewl
Me: But yeah, I'm totally pissed at you
The Kid: Oh, you

PS: He got home significantly later than my mom, who, when I told her he was with friends at a diner and running late, said the equivalent of "Poor baby!" in Portuguese. I'm not sure why she commiserated with him, when I was the one wigged out by his lateness, but there it is: for all the things that would've earned you a strip torn from your hide, your parents will readily forgive their grandchildren (and give 'em cookies, while they're at it).

There's no justice in this world.

Au revoir, appartement...

Still no Interwebs set up at my 'rents' place, so I'm staying late at the office Friday night to prep something for my regular Monday post.

Moving day came and went. 'Twas a longie. I was up at the ungodly hour of 6am to get myself ready for the movers. Stepped outside for a smoke and became mesmerized by the unexpectedly dense white clouds above...

Before the fellas turned up, I snapped one last pic of my nearly naked bedroom...

And living room, where The Kid and I spent most of our time...well...living...

Was done with everything much later in the day and finally sat down to dinner with my parents around 8ish. I was exhausted. If I'd toted any more barge or lifted any more bale, I don't think I'd have survived. As it was, I was so beat, I took to giggling for absolutely no reason at all. Like, a lot. I went to get something out of the trunk of my dad's car and inadvertently set off its alarm. I doubled over laughing as I tried to figure out which button to press to quiet the infernal thing. And every muscle hurt. That evening, I moved with all the ease and grace of a nonagenarian in her ninth month of pregnancy. Which is to say, none at all.

Things are OK. I really shouldn't complain.

But I will.

I miss my own space and not having to worry about pleasing anyone but myself. I miss my privacy. I miss my pretty village street. I miss my teal bedroom walls. But mostly, I miss that sense of independence. The seven years Balthazar and I spent there were the only in which I completely supported myself. (And him, obviously.) I miss these things deeply, with an ache springing from the pit of my stomach. The empty-nest thing really kicked my ass for a couple of weeks, but I was getting over it, you know? I began to delight in my solitude and, dare I say, freedom. Now this...

Le sigh.

These doldrums shall pass, eventually. Unless I die before they do, but you take my point. And maybe someday, I'll have happier personal tales to tell, though I truly wonder...Anyway—for now, there's chocolate. And music in which I can indulge my 80s-based inner Emo...

Part II: The Kid Goes to College...

...and I lose my mind. (Click here if you missed Part I, as Part II won't make much sense without it.) (It may not make much sense, regardless.)

Dad, Star, and I made it home all right (in spite of continuing thunderstorms!), had dinner with Mom, and then my Sis spent another night at chez moi to lend me some (im)moral support. We cracked open our (second) bottle of cabernet sauvignon and re-watched, for the umpteenth time, the movie Warlock (from 1989, starring still super-sexy Julian Sands and Richard E. Grant). (Hubba freaking hubba.) (I would even add wooooooof!)

I got up with Star early-ish Sunday morning, to make her some coffee before she trekked back to Brooklyn, and then I was alone. Before she left, she asked me how I was doing and, taking her meaning, I told her I'd be totally fine. And I really thought it was true. I'd felt nothing but normal through the past few days and, in spite of the nasty storms we'd encountered, took great pleasure in Balthazar's obvious excitement to be embarking on this great college adventure. I really felt OK.

I went back to bed and snored away a couple more hours, dreaming intense and crazy dreams, one of which included my Dad flying me somewhere in a small plane and telling me not to look. Of course, I looked, and he said not to panic. When I saw we were flying over a beach and about to fly out over open water, I completely freaked out. Quelle bizarre. (My Dad ain't no pilot.)

What Balthazar leaves behind...

I got out of bed for realz a little before noon and headed to the bathroom. I passed Balthy's bedroom, now nearly completely vacant and a bit of a mess with moving-away debris and stuff I'm to throw out at some undesignated point in the near future. I thought I noticed a tumbleweed roll by. Then I became completely overpowered by sobs. I spent all of Sunday alternately keening and telling myself this horrible feeling would pass, without believing it for one second. I felt like I was dying. And, God help me, I almost wanted to die, if it meant I wouldn't feel so awful, ever again.

The thing is, it's not just the reminder that Balthy's gone which set me off. It's the fact that I can either pay rent on my apartment (or on any apartment) OR pay the balance of his college fees that aren't covered by scholarships and loans and whatnot. Which means that when my lease expires at the end of September, I'm moving back into my parents' two-bedroom apartment. It's absolutely generous of them to let me, as they know why it's necessary. I love my parents, a whole hell of a lot, and I'm so grateful to them for all they've done, and continue to do, for Balthy and me. But moving back in with them at this stage in my life, living in such close quarters, after running a home of my own...gah.

Finally, I'm facing not only a midlife-crisis, but an identity crisis as well. Without having to provide such nuanced care for my kid on a daily basis, I feel all at sea. (Aha, that dream now makes sense!) I have to redefine who I am and I'm not sure I know how to be anything other than a mom anymore. Geez, I've been a mother for most of my adult life! I know who I wanted to be, before Balthazar came along. And I reckon I should go back to that head space and re-frame those dreams with the wisdom I've acquired over the years. I know this is a wonderful opportunity to recreate myself, but this parting of ways with the Me I've been since May 29, 1995...it's a stunningly painful divide.

All Sunday I felt grief-stricken, with these thoughts of loss and dreaded change roiling around in my mind and gut. I know, intellectually, that this downpour of feeling was the worst of it. As the days go by, I will adjust, I will re-frame, and I will conquer all of this ick. And I will strive, in the immortal words of my favorite band, Duran Duran, to not "...cry for yesterday; there's an ordinary world, somehow I have to find." (Man, actually listening to this song on Sunday night = big mistake.)

And I may get a tattoo. 'Cause, you know, a midlife crisis is the perfect time of life in which to do something terribly permanent which you may some day regret. Well, one's teen years are the ideal time, but that ship has long since sailed, alas...

Part I: The Kid Goes to College...

Balthazar, snoozing through several deadly thunderstorms.

...and I lose my mind...

About a week ago, I asked some friends what, apart from quarters for doing laundry and condoms, I should make sure Balthazar The Kid took with him when he moved up to college. They helpfully answered:

• Lube! Bleach! Cookies!
• a snuggie
• bug spray and blankets!
• a taser
• mace
• Flint, Steel, a Good Knife, pair of good boots, canteen and a water filter
• pepper spray
• Ramen

Of the above, I did procure cookies but figured he could pick up the other items later, if required. (They sell tasers at college bookstores, right?) (And no, I didn't buy him any condoms, as a quick rummage through his armoire's drawers revealed an already ample supply.) (::sighs::)

Last Thursday and Friday were spent picking up the items I did deem necessary (stuff for his dorm room, some clothes and shoes, refilling his asthma meds, etc.). Then Friday night, Balthy did about five loads of laundry and, with the help of my sister, Star (not her real name, obviously), and myself, folded and packed it all. The three of us got to bed around 2:30am.

Later that Saturday morning, we got all the stuff in my Dad's car and he drove us masterfully through two hours' worth of weather hell in upstate New York. The skies were heavy with dark clouds and it rained, often dangerously, a good part of the way to Balthy's new college and sporadically on the way back. At several points, the rain was so intense that we could barely see the faint glow of the red break lights of cars ahead. I have to say, I got pretty Catholic, praying fervently and begging the Virgin Mary, all the angels and saints, and all our loved ones who'd gone on before us to put some good words in with the Lord so He'd get us safely to our destination. And He did. (For which I thank you again, Most Holy of Dudes.)

Star and Balthy, figuring out where to get started with unpacking.

As I noted earlier, my sister, Star, joined us to lend a hand. She graduated from this very same college back in 1998 and, though I'm not positive, I think the fact that Balthy has an alum in his pocket maybe helped his application to this very prestigious art-school-type-place. He attended her graduation back in '98, just a few days shy of his third birthday. Now, his auntie beams with pride to see him follow in her Doc Martens clad footsteps.

The view from Balthy's dorm room.

Star and I helped Balthy unpack and settle in, quickly getting rid of excess bags (which made me crazy to see, floating about the place) and recyclables (which did the same to my Sis). We got to meet Balthy's new roomie, a seemingly nice young man (fingers crossed!), went through the various hoops of Student Accounts and I.D. picture-taking and whatnot, and got drenched in the continuing rain for our troubles. Oh, and we got to experience the cafeteria food, which was rather crap but all-you-can-eat-for-five-dollars (for family and friends; the newbies ate for "free"), so that was some small reward. Sorta.

"...let us say goodnight till it be morrow..."

Then it was time to mix metaphors and leave my no-longer-little birdling to fly under his own steam. (As it were.) I managed to snap a pic of us despite his bitching. FYI, he's not all gelled up, hair-wise, here; it was just so friggin' humid we all dripped with sweat. Which is less attractive than it sounds...

...be sure to tune in tomorrow for Part II, in which, to quote Spandau Ballet, "...to cut a long story short, I [lose] my mind."

Subversive Coffee...

A recent-ish conversation with Balthazar, The Kid:

Me: I wish you knew how to make coffee.

The Kid (with a sneer): I can make coffee.

Me: Oh, yeah? How?

TK: You pour the water in the thing, and then you measure out the coffee, and then you turn on the machine.

Me: How do you measure out the coffee and water?

TK: You know, it's a ratio. It's what's on the coffee bag.

Me: I never go by what's on the bag.

TK: That's 'cause you're a Commie.

Well, of course. I'm amazed I didn't see that about myself before this enlightening exchange.

Pic taken by me.

Just the other day, Balthazar enlightened me further by bringing home a bottle of some curious refreshment, completely new to me. I only really noticed it after he'd consumed it all. I hadn't ever seen this particular brand of beverage and examined the label with interest, wondering what this Bai stuff was. Apparently, it's made of coffee fruit.

I snorted when I read that. Coffee fruit? C'mon, that's some kinda gimmick, yeah?

No. In fact, it's, like, totes for realz.

I was astonished, and chagrined, to learn that what I'd believed to be properly labeled a coffee bean is actually a coffee seed, and that it's nestled inside the actual fruit of a coffee plant. The seed's home resembles a rather largish cherry and it's of this berry that this Bai drink was made.

Well, slap my ass and call me Sally.

That needful nectar, that exhilarating elixir, that divine drink, made of seeds and not beans. How do ye friggin' do?

Did y'all know about that???

Seventeen years ago today…*

Balthazar, June 1995.

…at 10:21 am, I unleashed the fruit of my loins upon the world. Balthazar popped out of my pelvis weighing 7 lbs, 11 oz, and measuring 21” in length. Born of a slightly jaundiced mother, he did a brief stint under bili lights, which allowed me to get a bit of rest after my ordeal labor.

After fetching us from the hospital, his father left to pick up my sister, who was to stay with us for a couple of months to lend a hand and moral support, as needed (and both were desperately needed). I stood in the little hallway beyond the front door, cupping my one-day old baby in my hands, wondering what the hell I should do with myself. I looked over at his bedroom and realized I hadn’t put any bedding on either his crib mattress or the twin bed my sis would be sleeping in. As I pondered which to tackle first, the kitchen phone suddenly rang, an unpleasantly jarring shrill in the otherwise quiet apartment. It scared the crap out of me - and out of Balthazar as well. Literally.

I became aware of an unexpected warmth and looked down, saw the meconium oozing out of his diaper and onto my hands. The phone continued to bleat at me and I just stood there in the hallway, grossed out and nonplussed, feeling completely alone and useless.

Balthazar, September 2011

Today, he weighs about 160 lbs, stands at roughly 5’8”, and is hairier than I could ever have imagined.

And he’s still giving me shit.

:-D

 




*This is an updated version of a post I made on the message board of an author whose works I heart, under my other online persona, several years ago.

Intuition...?

...or just more smartassery?

I'm sure those of you with teens can relate - sometimes, one's child develops such skill with the latter that it's difficult to discern whether:

A) your child's being serious, and if so
B) the gravitas should be trusted.

In particular, I reference my son, Balthazar, and his ready dismissal of the (very few) men to have interested me romantically since his dad and I split up, lo so many years ago. Oh, he knew there'd been a dude after his dad, but he was about 3 at the time, so who knows what a child that age can really grasp of such matters. But there'd been a long drought since that fella and it was in The Kid's earlier teens that other contenders nearly entered the ring, so to speak.

I commute into Manhattan for work and, a while back, there'd been this guy on the train who eyeballed me with some frequency. He didn't make any moves to reach out to me, just stared and let me catch him staring a few times, you know how it goes. Well, there was something about him, an intensity to his gaze, that appealed, and I was not averse to an overture, should it have come. Then one night, as The Kid and I walked past our town's train trestle, we both happened to look up at the steps leading down from it, casually noting the descending commuters, and there he was! Our eyes met and held for a few heated seconds, then Balthy and I kept walking. I slowed my pace at some point so the guy could pass us and was gratified to see him looking back at us periodically. The Kid noticed him and commented on the fact that he sorta resembled one of our neighbors. I agreed, mentioned seeing him on the train once in a while, and that was the end of that.

UNTIL I boarded a homeward-bound train one night and saw him seated at a window seat, with the middle and aisle seats next to him free. I had my chance - it was now or never! (Or so some twisted little voice in my head assured me.) I took the aisle seat. He looked up, saw me, and an electric moment of mutual awareness passed.

This is the point in the story where things should've taken a delightful turn for the woof! They kinda didn't. He tried, several times, to engage me in conversation. But my natural timidity with men (go on, laugh, disbelieve me, but it's true - I get stupidly tongue-tied and blushy when an object of my interest approaches) didn't allow for the burgeoning of rapport (or anything else, for that matter). Too, the timbre of his voice put me off, for some reason, and I just couldn't relax into the moment. I was interested but antsy, and I couldn't figure why, but I couldn't shake my uneasiness and did nothing to encourage him. Still, he gamely tried to chat me up, valiant man. We disembarked at our stop, walked together for a bit, then parted ways.

When I got home, I ached to share the experience with someone, though I didn't think I was so pathetic as to need to gush to my son. In fact, I was.

Me: You remember that guy from the other night?

The Kid: Yeah?

Me: The guy we saw at the train station?

The Kid: Yeah?

Me: The guy you said looks like our neighbor?

The Kid: Yeah?

Me: We chatted on the train tonight. I think he likes me.

The Kid: (Smirks.)

Me: What?

The Kid: (Smirks and shakes his head.)

Me: What??? (I glare at his continued smirkage.) Well, what do you think of him?

The Kid: He looks like a murderer.

Me: WHAT?!

The Kid: He looks like a psychopath, Mom. So what's for dinner?

And that really was the end of that. Oh, I saw the guy a few more times. Once, he passed by me and tapped me on the arm, scaring the ever-loving crap outta me, but my son's words echoed in my mind and kept me from welcoming further advances. Maybe a few months later, I stopped seeing him around altogether.

Now, I've no way of knowing if The Kid was sharing real concern with me or just being a snot, but what he said seemed to support my unidentifiable discomfort during my brief interaction with the guy, so I chose to believe Balthy had some sixth sense and might just be looking out for me, after all. However, about a year later, I had cause to question his purported altruism.

On Facebook, a male friend of a friend sent me a friend request. The corresponding message read, "I like your hair and eyes." I told Balthazar about this and asked him if he thought I should befriend this dude.

The Kid: No, Mom. He obviously wants to rape you and feed you to a wood chipper.

He had no reason, at all, to suggest such a thing (except maybe he'd caught the tail end of Fargo recently), still he glibly harshed my buzz.

Me (sharply): You don't ever want me to date again, do you?

The Kid: No, I want you to stay lonely. Forever.

Me: Why?

The Kid: It works for me.

Of course.

Mind you, I accepted the friend request and later wound up un-friending (De-Facing!) the dude, on account of his weird rants (and truly alarming misspellings and appalling grammar). So, possibly, The Kid's Spidey-senses did actually pick up some vibes to which this chick's ears are not attuned.

Possibly.