Let's Talk About...

SEX.

Yes, I said sex.

I have to begin by saying that my sex-education is solely based on what they taught us in school. My mother's idea of sex education was to say, "Don't do it." and, later, when I was a teenager, regularly asking, "Are you still a virgin?"

God help me, but the day I quit lying to her and said, "No" her next question was "How many have you slept with?"

I kid you not. I honestly think that if I'd answered with more than "one", she'd have demanded names and vital statistics.

She's warped. She sent mixed messages. When I was in college, she said, "If you think you need to go on the pill, let me know. I don't want you to get pregnant." And when I mentioned, before the aforementioned conversation about my virginity, that we should talk about my going on the pill, she reacted by giving me a lecture of how "I didn't raise you that way."

Small wonder I got pregnant, unmarried, at 20.

I have, slowly, over the years, grown into my sexuality. Thankfully, too, I didn't end up with anything worse than an unplanned pregnancy.

My mother seems to be rather unnerved by the fact that I respect no Victorian era taboos on the subject. She's embarrassed by my lack of shyness, my lack of ladyness, and my casual enjoyment of a good dirty joke or story.


She's also habitually mortified by my use of *blue* language. I love it. If I can say something so extreme and unprecedented, she'll shut up for a full 5 minutes. It's a joy to have that kind of power.

She seems to think that $267.50 of MY money paying for the PPV for the Toad, while extreme and dishonest on his part, okay, though, because he's a man.

She has bought into the lies and crap of a culture where sex is "family duty". Over the years, she has quit making jokes at mine or Kevin's expense because, in all honesty, I turn them around on her. If she comments on size, I give her a number. If she comments on quantity, I say something funny about "right now, even while you and I are talking".

I suppose, in the end, it's taken the fun out of it for her. For her (and my siblings) to have used "You weren't raised that way" as an excuse to treat me badly for not making decisions, especially sex based ones, on THEIR protocol....and especially to have my brother use it, all the while having been doing the SAME things with HIS pre-wife lead me to fight back verbally.

It also led me to believe that if I had a dick, they'd never have had an issue with my choices.


Once I realized this, I was free--free from worrying about THEIR hangups, and free to discover my own.

I am much happier for it--and more comfortable in my own skin than many women I know. I have been accused of having Penis Envy, but my accuser would have done better to find his own, rather than direct his Penis Envy onto me. That is, and was, another rant. I was unable, due to the proximity of customers to explain that cencept to him--for me to be envious of something, he'd have to have had one in the first place. Sorry I missed the opportunity to explain it to you, Bub.

I also revel in the fact that my husband, while he is sometimes mortified by some of my comments, also thoroughly enjoys the fact that he can talk "like a guy" in front of me without my going all premenstual and girly.

Finally, I'll end with the thought that has stopped a good many male coworkers in their tracks: Sex is only dirty if you're doing it right.

The Little Mister

Isn't he lovely?
He's the reason the world knows Mumple.

(in other words, it's HIS fault)

What If....

Woman to Woman this week is about TIPS & TRICKS: Facing Your Parenting Fears.

It's difficult for me to separate my parenting fears into individual fears; they are mostly all smashed together in a huge boulder that rolls over me every couple of months or so. I cry myself to sleep.

It doesn't help that I get to experience the trauma of a teenager-cum-adult and a Kindergartener at the same time. I envy those parents whose children are close enough in age that the problems and fears (and frustration) are, at least occasionally, similar amongst their children.

What I get to live is the "What is he going to do with his life?" and the "What will I pack in her lunch?" dilemmas. It's a leap from one to the other. No wonder my jaw is clenched and I don't sleep well.

Things were simpler with just the Toad, too. When he was born, he seemed so safe. And cuddly. (Now, however, he's smelly and annoying.) It was so easy back then--love him to pieces, and sleep soundly at night. I still don't worry all that much, although, of course, it's a lesson in letting go to do so. I know where he'll end up, so I don't worry much about that. Sure the road to get there is rough, but, my jaw hurts like hell anyway, right?

The Howler is a totally different scene. She terrified me from the minute they handed her to me. Some primal part of me is utter terrifed OF her, and FOR her. Perhaps it's being older and, hopefully, wiser, but somehow, I think it's HER.

Something about her is heart-stopping. Wispy, transient, temporary. Adorable, delightful, wonderful. The girl has been poised for launch since she was barely a year old. She's going to fly...she's going to soar...she's going to go down in a ball of flames, taking as many spectators as she can with her.

I'll be one of them.

I spend a lot of my time breathing, or concentrating on breathing these days. I can't say it enough--family planning isn't just a trend, IT'S A REALLY GOOD IDEA! That 13 year age difference between my children leaves me, every breathtaking day, with the same thing:

All the attitude I can take at any given minute.

But I'll still be in the audience, staring raptly at the blaze...

Little Ditty 'Bout Jack & Diane...

So, since I alluded to it in the previous post, I probably should explain why we are the Mumples.

When Kevin and I were getting married, I teased him about him needing to change his name to mine, instead of the traditional thing of my changing my name to his. The arguement ran thusly:

Me: Hon, I've been me for 35 years. You shouldn't expect me to take your name.

Kevin: I'm 9 months older. I'm not changing my name.

Me: But hon....

Kevin: So don't change yours. I don't care. I'm not changing mine.

And so it went. Then I remembered an article I read somewhere about how some progressive couples are BOTH taking new names--either combining their names to make one, hyphenating his-and-hers into one name for both, and, I guess, in some cases, just taking a new name they both liked (that last one seemed weird, even to me.)

I mentioned to Kevin that we should combine our names (hyphenating, as I said in the previous blog, involves paying, at a minimum, the DMV. They get enough of my money, thanks anyway!)

He looked at me like I was nuts.

But then, we discovered that we did have two options then. The first, which sounded very classy and high-brow and the other was Mumple, which sounds, in all honesty, like a disease. A hillbilly, redneck, backwoods kind of disease. Something contagious.

And, we discovered, if you say it with the right look on your face and with a certain tone in your voice, it also sounds like an unpleasant experience:

"Oh, No! Hide the silver! The Mumples are here!"

and

*roll eyes* "The Mumples are coming? I'm outta here!"

So, we became, if not actually legally, the Mumples. We are the Mumples. (you can hear us singing it now, can't you? Hey Hey We're the Mumples...People say we Mumple around).

We have a lot of fun with it. Of course. And, the word Mumple has its myriad uses.

(btw, the Gator liked that option less than the option of my keeping my maiden name as my middle name.)

Honk Honk

Here comes the Issue Bus. And, shocker, the Gator* is driving.

The backstory: I didn't get married until I was 35 years old. When planning everything, I told my Sweetie that he should change his last name to mine, since I will have been Non-Mumple for 35 years. He informed me that since he was 9 months older, he wins--he's been Pre-Mumple for longer.

I decided, for several reasons, to drop my given middle name and keep my maiden name as my middle name. No hyphenation, no fuss, no muss. Just presto change-o and I have a new monogram. My reasons, at the time, included: I was someone for 35 years and I wasn't ditching that person; I have a son who has that last name also; at work, I would be called Non-Mumple anyway; I was never that fond of my middle name, and since it wasn't bestowed in an misguided attempt to impress or endear anyone to me, I didn't need to keep it. (The reasons have expanded to now include the fact that there is a woman in town, that had I not made this particular decision, we'd have exactly the same name...not that it's so common, but, in all honesty, she's a shrew and we have the same doctor--and some of the problems that stem from just the first and last names being the same have been nightmares.)

Anyway, when I made it clear to all concerned that this was the decision, my mother about blew an aorta. She probably would have been more agreeable to my saying that I was going to join a cult. Her arguements came down to this: That's not the name your father and I chose and gave you when you were born. (Never mind that my Sweetie's last name is not one they chose and gave me either, that much of a change was commanded, demanded, and expected.)

I informed her of the flaw in her grand arguement to have me conform to HER way of thinking (Somehow, I thought it would be less vile, even to her, to continue to identify myself with my son and my father, than to drop a name that had meaning only because she chose it from a long list of possibilities--silly, silly, liberal me.) I made it clear that I was not hyphenating (believe it or not, that costs money with the DMV.), but like I said, you'd think I was joining a cult and changing my name to Jim Jones or something the way she sneered.

Prior to this, she also made it clear, through snide comments and spittle, that she did not like the name we chose for our daughter. The Howler's given name is a mombo-combo of my first and (previous) middle name and Kevin's first and (permanent) middle name. Kevin also liked the idea that he and his daughter would share, at least for a while (stress of the phrase from the Gator), a monogram. He had no interest in having a son named after him, but he also likes the idea that our daughter has his middle name, although, he did chose to spell it in a more feminine way. My mother sees that as the height of vanity--never mind that she named her son for his father--she claims that it is not vanity when it's a boy. (The logic here boggles the mind, doesn't it!)

Flash forward to now: Kevin's niece (and mine because "what's his is mine and what's mine is mine" lol) and her DH just had a baby. She had her heart set on naming her son after his father--and he refused. So, she did the next best thing--she found and chose a name that is very similar to his Daddy's name, and, in fact, has Daddy's name as it's root. Whether or not anyone else likes it, he is their son, and naming their baby is the first gift, after life, they will give him. That's all that matters to the rest of us--they chose his name together, and they like it.

I went to see the baby yesterday. He's beautiful--and one of those children who are more beautiful the more you look at him. He's wonderful! I'm so very happy for them (and as an aside, I do not want one!).

When I got home and talked to my mother last night about him, I told her his full given name. The Gator gets in the Issue Bus and starts yapping about my daughter's name--and the fact that I dropped my perfectly good middle name.

What a whack job she is over this. It's been FIVE freaking YEARS and she's still holding a grudge, seeming to think that I rejected HER in choosing, with my husband and my daughter's father (same guy, just said funny) a name that has meaning to both of us; and because I dropped one name in favor of one with more meaning to me and my children--one in which I closely identify and am pleased to still have.

(I won't even start on the fact that my mother's given first name is actually two names, with no given middle name, chose, as an adult, to begin using only the first of the two first names and dropped the second part of her first name to second-fiddle middleness.)

Again, the mind boggles that woman even has a driver's license for the Issue Bus. I see her more as a Tour Guide.

*The Gator = my mother

Magic

Currently, we have small sized heather plants in the garden center. They're tagged (by the nursery) as "Winter Garden". The nursery also spray painted them, to increase their attractiveness, I suppose.

I don't know if it's barometric pressure, cooler nights working on the thin line between reality and sanity or what, but I've had some interested customer generated questions regarding the heather.

First up:

Customer #1: *shoves heather in my face* Why doesn't this heather smell like lavendar?

Mumple: *working hard to keep eyes from rolling* Because it's not lavendar. It's heather.

#1: What exactly to you mean by that?

M: It's heeeeeeeeather. It will smell like heather. Heather isn't supposed to smell like lavendar.

#1: Well, I don't want it then. *turns to friend and says in a tone that implies mis-represented heather* It's heather.

Next:

Customer #2: Hey, yeah, that heather? Will it grow all winter?

Mumple: No. Plants don't generally grow this far north during the winter.

#2: Well, why does it have a snowflake on the tag? Shouldn't it grow in the winter, then?

M: No. They either go dormant if they're perennials or they die off, if they're annuals.

#2: What a ripoff.

I think next year, instead of "Winter Garden" we should label them, "Magical Heather."

I Hadn't Noticed

Tonight, at work, it was pretty windy.

Windy enough that I was thankful that I am "a hefty one". If I were a skinny lil' thing, I'd have to worry that I'd end up stuck up on the back fence getting a chain-link fence grid pattern on my face.

I have to say, though, that the people who felt the need to state the obvious to me this evening was staggering in volume.

"Sure is windy here tonight"

*ducks Auntie Em's house as it zooms by* "Really? I hadn't noticed."

Book Review: The Screwtape Letters

“Of course I know that the Enemy also wants to detach men from themselves, but in a different way. Remember always, that He really likes the little vermin, and sets an absurd value on the distinctness of every one of them.”
The Screwtape Letters
by C.S. Lewis

Written by C.S. Lewis (of The Chronicles of Narnia fame), this book is a series of letters from Screwtape, a devil and administrator of Hell, to Wormwood, a novice Tempter and his nephew.

Wormwood’s subject is “an ordinary man” and it is Wormwood’s job to tempt him and encourage all the sins, bad behavior and thoughts, he can. The ordinary man and his exact circumstances are not disclosed. It is made clear that the “patient,” as Screwtape refers to the young man, is in England around the beginning of World War II, but beyond that, all identifying information is bland and non-descript.

Screwtape is a crafty old devil and has much experience in being Tempter, and therefore, lots of advice and guidance to offer Wormwood. His attitudes and opinions about humans is definitely degrading, frequently referring to humans as "animals".

C.S. Lewis tells the story of a nameless young man and his demon Tempter, while showing very clearly our human foibles. I found my own spiritual journey in several of Screwtape’s letters.

Included with the letters is also a speech Screwtape gives at a banquet in Hell. It seems a sort of State of the Union address to a graduating class of Tempters.

In it, he describes the many ways in which humans do the Tempters’ work for them—making bad choices and allowing themselves to be complacent in the face of sin and evil in order to “fit in with everyone else.” Lewis leads his reader to examine his or her own heart and motive.

Finally, overall, Lewis presents the idea that all sin is against God, and equally advantageous to Satan, no matter how, as humans, we qualify our sins and big or small. He also firmly convinces the reader that virtue, when twisted and used, can be as damning as out-and-out evil and sin.

It’s certainly an eye-opener: the reader cannot fail to see him- or herself in the lessons Screwtape sets down for his nephew.

The Screwtape Letters
With Screwtape Proposes a Toast

C.S. Lewis
HarperSanFrancisco
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers

Here's the Thing

At this point, I so desperately want to participate in Woman to Woman that I'm willing to ignore the *rules* (again) this week.

There's scant little I feel unequivocally thankful for. But here goes (and, as a deal-breaker, there's not 11 of them.)

1. Kevin, my husband. My life began when we met. How pathetically sappy is that?

2. I am grateful that I will never be expected to live with two teenagers in the house at the same time. Once is enough, but, God help me, I'll be doing it again in 8 years. Pray for me.

3. I'm thankful to still be sucking air. Sometimes, (okay, right now) that's as good as it gets.

epiph·a·ny *

i-'pi-f&-nE
3 a (1) : a usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something (2) : an intuitive grasp of reality through something (as an event) usually simple and striking (3) : an illuminating discovery, realization, or disclosure b : a revealing scene or moment


Much like the prophet Jonah, I am heading to my very own Nineveh. Lucky me. Usually, when threatened with being swallowed by the fish, it's because I need to do something that is a continuation of what I've already been doing, or it's stretching out into an unknown area, but one in which I already know I have the skills or the knowledge to accomplish it. It's generally just something I do not want to do.

This time, I'm being told that I need to do the cliche "Let Go; Let God."

It comes from having spent the last few years raising a teenager. It comes from my knowing, without a doubt, where he is to head--where he is to end up, what he is to do with his life. It comes after yet another instance of the boy's blatant stupidity, arrogance, and sheer determination to do the wrong thing.

On Friday, September 7, 2007, I had an epiphany. One that was so clear on intent and so vague on details.

I have to let the boy go. I have to stop trying to get through to him, I have to stop trying to teach him, reach him, better him, guide him...you name it. The only thing I am to continue in reference to him is to love him.

The epiphany went like this:

I got in the shower. I started thinking about the latest round of stupid.

I had a vision that was of the boy, in a church, being ordained to something. I was not in the picture--in any fashion. I was glimpsing this from the very back of a church, dimly.

Stepping out of the shower, I was crying. It was clear to me that whatever it is the boy is to accomplish, it is to be totally without me.

Basically, I saw God gently showing me to "sit down, shut up, and get out of My Way."

I choose to listen, although I'm sure God knows (better than even I do myself) how hard this is going to be for me. I have control freak tendencies, and I do have an inordinate amount of emotion attached to this boy.

And, said boy is being a total screw up.

For the last three days, I have been concentrating on NOT barking, shrieking, screaming, yelling, offering advice, giving instruction, trying to explain, asking for explainations...and it's killing me. So I am also, at the same time, concentrating on not clenching my jaw, neck, and back muscles. Mostly because that ends up being a physical manifestation of my emotional pain. Both of which are intensely stupefying.

I am comforted by the fact that I have peace with this. And that peace is how I know that this is, truly, what I'm supposed to do: If I get out of the way, the Toad will eventually cease being a Toad, and become the person he is intended to be. I need, to quote the cliche, to get my oar out of it, and let it ride.

Having a strong tendancy to be a control freak (and the obligatory being-nearly-always-right that goes with it) isn't helping him, or me, be who we are supposed to be. Or, if truth be known, continue to exist on the same plane with the other.

It will, I'm sure, prove to be the single hardest thing I've ever had to do.

*found at: http://www.m-w.com/dictionary/epiphany (Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary)

Mother's Little Helper

There's a reason so many women are (over) medicated these days.

My reasons for wanting to fake my own death (simply as an "out") are many, and most involve my family--my Sweetie, the Spawnlings, and the Gator.

Mostly I just wish that my mother and sibs would understand that I am frustrated enough, without all them "sticking their oars in" with the Toad. They all seem to be of the delusion that they are making a difference.

They are making a difference--they're making it harder on ME.

He lost his job. I don't entirely believe his story about it. Some of it, I'm sure, is reality based, but I got over trusting him last spring. Whatever small vestige of hope and trust I had in him died early in April when he stole money from us and lied about it.

It continued its death-throes when in May he lied about looking for a job (stuffing the apps in his glove box) and when, two months later, we discovered the PPV porn.

I'm so frustrated by the Toad right now, I can't even think straight. I get mad, depressed, frustrated, and disgusted all in a whirl of seconds. I want to beat him more senseless; I want to throw him out into the streets; I want to scream and throw things. None of that will happen, however, so you can rest your 9-1-1 fingers now.

I am beyond seeing the humor in any of this. There is NO humor in it--at least not from where I sit, stand, and pace anxiously. It's like waiting for them to pronounce your death sentence.

Now, on top of all that, my Sweetie seems to be totally beyond thought--he cannot seem to remember how the Toad listens to no one; how my mother and brother are sticking their oars in (and how that means I must have at least 2 calls a day from each of them, asking "how is Toadly?")

Nobody asks "how are YOU?" It's all about HIM. Which pisses me off as well. It's like it's all my fault. Sure I know I made mistakes (and yes, they're all mine) but dammit! They act like my mother didn't spend the last 18 years undermining my authority, and coddling and spoiling him. Whatever decisions I made, they were the best I could do at that time. But somehow, that gets lost in the translation.

And somehow, it's all my fault. Even Kevin thinks so, on some level. As if HE can get the boy to do anything other than hide in his room. That's Kevin's sum total of effective authority with Toad: get the boy to disappear into Ass Caverns for the day.

The simple fact that I choose to not elevate my blood pressure AND my tension and stress (leading to the need for copious muscle relaxers and ibuprofen) is wrong in his eyes.

It also irritates me to no end that because HE screwed up, the rest of us get to walk on eggshells with each other in an effort to not take out our anger and frustration on each other. Toad does leave late every afternoon (or sooner) and doesn't come home for several hours, during which time the emotions fester like a bad bug bite. It's an itch you can't scratch enough.

Today, I yelled at Kevin, "And just what the #$@! do you expect me to be able to accomplish with him? I can't MAKE him ANYTHING. YOU TRY. How far, exactly do YOU get?"

My mother's current plan (as it always is) is to get her hands on him--and get him away from me. At this point, I don't care.

I just want this OVER. Because if it's not soon, I may need to go back on meds...and if that happens, I will probably never get off them. (and that's not my idea of a good time).

Stupidity Is As Stupidity Does

Saturday, I finally had the absolutely stupidest question ever. (yea, that stupid!)

"Excuse me, but do I need to bring all my stuff to the register to check out?"

"Yes."

*whiny* "Do I really?"

"Yes."

Sigh.

Envy

I was recently accused of having penis envy.

Considering that it came from a 19 year old boy at work, I laughed. He claims that he knows this about me, because, of course, he's taken one psychology class in college.

Yep. That class certainly makes him an expert--and added to that his age, well, I definitely believe he's right.

The idiot.

I forgive him his stupidity, every day, mostly because I know that in a few short years, he may actually realize what an unbearable puke he is right now.

I highly doubt that full realization will set in, because he's cock-sure of himself and his superiority. I don't honestly have the energy, the ambition, or the compassion to set him straight. Also, I think he's dead-to-rights dense when it comes to "the big picture" and he'll go through his life as a misogynistic bastard who sees nothing more than his own contrived opinions as right.

He was pissy just three weeks ago, because in a fit of talkativeness, I said some things about him to someone who went and told him.

Double idiot.

Now, the Puke lets this out, when I call him on his rudeness and idiocy.

In my own defense, I said nothing about him that I haven't already said to him. The Reader's Digest Condensed version is this: "I come to work to not have to babysit my children. Knock off the attitude, shut up, and do your job."

I suppose on some level, he thinks he's cool. Heaven help us. He's cool. He thinks it's okay for him to say whatever asshole thing he can think of to me, but, of course, that's only if he has an audience. Someone to show off for.

Unluckily for him, the last time he tried it, I was already fed up with his playacting as an Alpha Male. I made it a point to explain to the Puke, with his audience, that not only do I not need his crap, I don't even think of him as a man. He's more of a snot-nosed little boy playing at being a grown up--and certainly not someone I consider to be an equal, and certainly not a better. I may have actually said that I don't see him as much of anything at all.

I'm pretty sure his latest snit about my having penis envy is more in retalitation for that public humilation than anything else. Of course, I could be wrong. He could actually believe that all women have penis envy. (I have a rather long list of profanity for this idea.) What a pathetic way to go through life.

I had so been hoping that he'd move to where-the-hell-it-is that he goes to college and stay there. Forever. Otherwise, I fear that by next spring, he'll be promoted.