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.

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...

A Saint I Ain't...

St Andrew fresco (Kintsvisi, Georgia)

...but according to this quiz, I'm like Saint Andrew, patron saint of a country I ache to visit (Scotland), of my parents' village in Portugal, and ALSO of singers, sore throats, happy marriages, AND spinsters!

(How all those fit in with one another, I've no idea, but I'm a singer-who-wants-to-get-back-to-singing, I've been experiencing sore throats and, as things stand, I'm riding hell for leather down Spinster Road, so it does all rather seem to fit me.)

I luuuuurve taking quizzes, it's so fascinating to learn what these arbitrary responses on my part reveal about me and the inner workings of my psyche, according to some stranger whose credentials, if any, are shrouded in mystery.

:-)

Anyway, it occurs to me that, if I were to be a patron saint of stuff, it'd probably be:

• Ex-smokers and/or folks trying to quit.
• Mothers of teenagers who think they're smarter than their moms (so, like, every teenager ever).
• Lovers of Duran Duran, Depeche Mode, and Blondie.
• Folks who chuckle/snort over a solid pun.
• Peeps who obsess over other peeps to the point that they can't focus on the things they need to be doing with their lives and seem to require repeated boots to their bottoms to aid them in getting their respective (and collective, if applicable) shit together.

Or similar.

How about y'all: of what would YOU be a patron saint???

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.)

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.

Non Sequiturs Part Deux ~ Goth Mom Strikes Back

I mentioned in a previous post that my teenaged son, Balthazar (a.k.a. The Kid) likes to throw these mind-blowing non sequiturs at me out of the blue in order to mess with my wits, such as they are. Over the years I've learned to under-react, either by pretending I didn't hear him or going along with whatever nonsense he's spewing. For example:

The Kid: Knock, Knock.
Me: Who's there?
TK: To.
Me: To, who?
TK: To whom, Mom!
Me (roll my eyes and shut my mouth)

And like that. OK, that one wasn't too bad, and a harmless bit of fun, at that. But I realize that all this time suffering from his intense assaults on my (questionable) sanity have left me punchy. Case in point -

An old high-school chum, her toddler, and I were at the local Target with The Kid to shop for his then-girlfriend's Christmas gift (though it was already late January). I was mildly annoyed that his procrastination on this task was tapping into my afternoon with my friend and quickly came to understand that Balthy hadn't given the matter too much thought beyond getting himself to a Target.

Me: So what do you plan on getting your girlie?
The Kid (with a shrug): I dunno. A scarf, I guess.
Me: A scarf, you guess?
TK: Maybe something else too.
Me: Like what?
TK: I dunno. Something feminine.
Me (with some asperity): Tampons?

I think I made my poor friend snort some of her latte up into her sinuses. (Sorry 'bout that, Dude.) But never fear - old Balthazar got me back soon after.

One Saturday afternoon he was out with some pals and didn't respond to my text asking for his whereabouts (not longitude and latitude, or anything, I just wanted a rough idea of where he was). He didn't reply so when he came home -

Me: I sent you a text, why didn't you answer?
TK: Didn't get it.
Me: Humph. Where were you?
TK: Around. (At my glare.) At the park.
Me: What were y'all doin' there?
TK: Oh, you know. The usual. Walkin' around. Exploring. Meth.

Grrr...Of course, he totally wasn't doing drugs. (I don't think.) (Please, God, let him have been yanking my chain.) I made a mental note to strike back at the earliest opportunity, and here's how that went -

I kicked Balthazar off the PC around 11pm and sent him to bed. The Kid came at me all growly and testy teen-like so I give him a big hug and kiss.

The Kid: Ah, I farted.
Me: Is that what you do when your girlfriend kisses you?
TK: Euw, that's gross.
Me: Which part; kissing your girlfriend or farting while you do it?

And that, I am thrilled to inform you, successfully shut him up. Until he farted again. 'Twas a small victory for Goth Mom but I'll take what I can get.

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.

Non sequiturs…

I mentioned in a previous post that my son, the not-so-little-anymore Balthazar, likes to put me through my mental paces with his rapier-like wit (which is patently unkind, as I am aged and worn-down and defeated by life). Over the years I’ve made note of these ninja-like sallies, to serve as evidence of my mental deterioration and the provocation of same when I face a board of nice young men in their clean white coats.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate his sass (well, ok; I often don’t, as he’s yet to learn when to save it for when I’m not soul-crushed after yet another miserable day out in the world). It’s that he comes at me with these bizarre non sequiturs which defy my ability to retaliate in kind. For example, one day, as The Kid and I made our way home from Sunday brunch -

The Kid: Mom, you got any connections in the industry?

Me: Which industry?

The Kid: The music industry.

Me: Not that I know of.

The Kid: Does my dad?

Me: I dunno. Ask him.

The Kid: Don't wanna ask him.

Me: Why not?

The Kid: 'Cause then he'll know my dark secret.

Me (waiting for it): What's your dark secret?

The Kid: Freezer burn.

See what I mean? But do ya see what I mean??? Wait, here's another one -

The Kid: Hey, Mom, who do you think would win in a fight; Gandhi or Martin Luther King, Jr.?

Me (clueless, but playing along): Martin Luther King, Jr.?

The Kid (with a sneer): Why, 'cause he's black?

Or -

The Kid (in a stage whisper and with a mighty glare): I wish you’d just stop doing all those illegal drugs, Mom, they’re tearing our family apart.

And he said the last two things, like, in public! Loudly!!! (For the record, peeps, I totally don't do drugs. Although I'm seriously considering starting...friggin' Kid.)

But possibly the best one, to date, was after we ordered dinner at our favorite local burger joint:

The Kid (leaning forward with a grin): So, Mom…what would you say if I told you I wanted to join the Church of Satan?

What I probably should've said was, "Honey, they can't handle you."

The Kid

Given that I'm still in a sort of introductory phase with this blog I thought I'd take a few moments to tell you about my kid. Let's call him Balthazar. Why? Well, he chose Balthazar for his Confirmation name ("Because it's *sick*, Mom!") and he used it only the one day, so it's still got that new-car-smell, as it were.

Plus, there are a number of interesting connotations to the name, both good and bad. Traditionally (though not Biblically), one of the three wise men/kings who trekked way out west to give props to the Baby Jesus was a Balthazar (which rendered the name acceptable for The Kid's Confirmation). On the dark side (my favorite side, of course), the name Balthazar has been applied to several miscreants, among them an angel with conflicted loyalties in the TV series Supernatural, and a half-demon seeking to overthrow Satan for a bigger share in bad-guy glory in the film Constantine.

So that's The Kid in a nutshell, really: he's a wiseguy and an unholy terror. OK, that last bit may be a slight exaggeration, but here's an example of the smart-assery he throws my way on a daily basis:

One year, when The Kid played football, he posted as his Facebook status some encouragement to his JV team, as they had a game the next day. That night, he pored over photocopies of plays he was supposed to memorize and finally threw them on the coffee table in frustration.

Me: What's the matter?

The Kid: I'll NEVER memorize all of these.

Me: Well, you won't if you don't go over them. (I watched him not go over his plays for a couple of minutes.) Hey, explain that play to me.

The Kid (rolling his eyes): You'll never understand it, Mom.

Me (gritting my teeth and reminding myself that love is patient and kind and, almost certainly, not murderous): Try me. (I pretended to pay attention as he pointed at Xs and Os and lines and so forth. I interrupted him as he pointed to a prominently featured "O.") What's that, there?

The Kid (in that teenage sage-smug tone): That's the quarterback, Mom.

Me: What's his name?

The Kid (dopey grin lighting his face): "Circle."

True story, folks.

There are other truths I can share about The Kid: he pursues his goals full-throttle, regardless of any obstacles he may encounter along the way. He's smart, creative, witty, fearless, compassionate, discerning, principled, and charismatic. He's a story-teller, a comedian, a guitarist, a lover of art, heavy-metal, and teh kittehs. He's my pride and joy, my inspiration (and exasperation!), my hero and my hope.

And forever, he's my baby.