What a Pig!

Okay, so I gave the kids two guinea pigs this past Valentine's Day.  I got them from a co-worker, who inadvertently put a male and a female guinea pig together in a cage and produced babies.  He brought them to work, and I told him that I didn't want the same accident to occur with my guinea pigs, so he better be sure that they were both females.

Here's the scene I walked into one day:  He was sitting at his desk with pictures of guinea pig genitals posted on his computer, while another coworker lifted the guinea pigs, one by one, and held them up next to the computer to do a side-by-side view.  The guinea pigs blushed as we viewed their, um, private parts, and I was assured that the ones I was getting were indeed both female. 

So I got the mommy, Tails, who had just given birth, and her daughter, Nina.

Tails is pregnant.  Nina is a boy.

Surprised?

Paige's response, bless her heart, was that she didn't understand how Tails could get pregnant when Nina and Tails never got married.  I told her that they must have had a secret ceremony when we were on vacation last time.

"Mommy, I think that the husband-son will eat the babies when they are born. . ." She said.  (Note that she calls him husband, not father).

"I don't know, baby, I have to read the Guinea Pig book."  I responded, sighing audibly.

"I'll read it!" 

She grabbed it off the shelf, looked up "family planning" in the index, and started reading while I stood in the kitchen talking to my brother Jim and my cousin Jessica.

"...if the courtship is successful, the male tries to mount her..."  Paige read, out loud.

Jim and Jessica giggle.

"See mommy, he'll try to mount her!"  She came running up to me, holding out the book.  I grabbed it from her and read the preceding paragraph, while Jessica read over my shoulder.

"...He circles the female in slow motion and makes a low sound: He purrs at her.  If she remains sitting, he continues to circle her and at brief intervals lowers his testicles.  If the courtship. . ."

Oh boy.  Jessica starts to laugh, Jim walks over, reads the paragraph, and a discussion between them ensues.  When I say discussion, I mean that they are laughing and spouting out incomprehensible words.

"Wait, what does mount mean?"  Paige asked. 

"Oh my God, have fun with that."  Jim said, still laughing loudly with Jessica.

I took Paige into the other room because Jim and Jessica started to have an inappropriate conversation about the virtue of Tails.

She asked again.

"Well, what it doesn't mean is that Nina will eat the babies."  I said, hoping she'd take that for an answer.

"But, what does mount mean?"  When she asked it again, another wave of laughter from the kitchen.

I had three seconds, in that moment, to decide whether I wanted to have the birds and the bees conversation with her.  She's eight now, she's curious.

My brain was screaming, "no no no no  no no no no..." and she is staring up at me, innocently and curious.

"Well..."  I started, "Mounting is what Nina needed to do to get her seed inside Tails. . ."

"Did she just say seed????"  Jim screams from the kitchen, and him and Jessica are crying, they are laughing so hard.

And Paige asks, "Does he put his seed in her mouth?"

Imagine, the response from the kitchen. . .  (I think one of them yelled out, "Sometimes!")

I shake my head slowly, "Um. . . no."

"In her butthole?"  Paige asks.

Bah!

"You know what Paige, we'll talk about this tomorrow when Uncle Jim and Jessica aren't here.  Is that okay?"

"Okay!"  She jumped up from her seat and ran up the stairs to check on the whore, er, guinea pig.

Bah!

Pathos

I just posted on my Facebook that I'm sick, and it sucks.  Exhaustion bred the sniffles which bred sneezes and coughs, which bred a lack of sleep, and a worse cold.  I don't like being sick.  It makes me crabby and short with the kids, and I am offended by the fact that the kids got the flu shot, and I got the flu.

Equally disturbing is that I am set to begin a new job on Halloween, and this is my last "free" weekend before work becomes even more consuming than it has been.  Don't get me wrong, I've been working from home, but the hours are mine.  Having to go into an office every day, aggravates me, but it is necessary to be successful at what I do. 

In essence, I feel sorry for myself, which is typical whenever I get sick.

I've begun writing a new story - I'm not sure if it is going to be short story, or if it is the start of a novel.  In my research for one of the main characters, I came across a fascinating blog on Sociopathy.  The article itself isn't nearly as interesting as the comments that follow.  It is blowing me away to hear some of the stories of the victims who have lived and are living with sociopaths.  It is crazy to see the varying degrees of this "mental" illness.  But what fascinates me the most, is that one of the main commentators is a sociopath - has been diagnosed, and is responding to people's questions on the blog.

If you have any interest, check the comments to this blog out: http://sociopathcomments.blogspot.com/2008/11/comments-on-common-everyday-sociopaths.html?commentPage=1

I am currently on comments 200+, but there are over 2000 comments on this illness.  If I didn't have a sense of one of my characters in the story I am working on, I do now.

Talk about sickness.  I am coddling myself due to a cold, and I am using the down time, to read about a sickness that cannot be cured.  The sociopath has no sense of guilt, no sense of remorse, they lack the ability to empathize, and thrive on gaining control in relationships.  Some become serial killers, some end up drug abusers, some simply move from failed relationship to failed relationship without considering the devastation (in some cases) left behind.  Those that are part of a marital relationship, always leave their spouse with no control, with a sense of worthlessness, with a destroyed sense of self; and the spouses that get away from the sociopath spend years trying to understand that not everyone is that untrustworthy.  They lie, they cheat, they have no permanent friends (they generally lose them or cut them out of their life at some point - even those labeled "best" friends), and though some can love, say their own children, most of them end up destroying that relationship too.

It's a game, and it is so interesting to me, to know that I've met people like this - was employed by one who ended up in jail after the FBI investigated his dealings for years (in fact, I was witness against him in the case). Fascinating.

I believe there was a book called American Psycho (and a subsequent movie) about this sickness.  I have the book somewhere among the thousands of books on my shelf, and I remember reading the first couple chapters and putting it down because it was so very disturbing to me.  I've only never finished two books:  American Psycho and War and Peace (that book is massive).  Now I want to dig for it, and see if I can finish it because that kind of person actually exists.

Can you imagine not feeling love?  Can imagine that the only real emotion you feel is rage?  All the others are blanketed versions of what you observe in other people.  The victims are told to get as far away from this kind of person as possible.  Turn and don't look back because they can't be fixed.  Can you imagine if your child was a sociopath? (It's a genetic and physical disturbance to the frontal lobe of your brain, and can be seen in scans).  How could you turn and never look back?  It would be impossible for me. In fact, one of the commentators argued that God was the only answer in a highly intelligent post, and was subsequently "spanked" by the sociopath, who maintained his control by stating, effectually, that he wouldn't even consider this guy's argument.  That sociopath also said that he believes in God and also believes in Satan, but fears neither one of them.  Fascinating.

So, as I nurse this cold, I get chills from all my reading.

Being sick sucks, but it's better than being really sick.

The Little Babies. . .

My immediate family has turned a corner.  I just realized that the little bastard, Enzo, isn't a little bastard anymore.  He's actually kind of cool.  No longer does he bite my ankles in a frenzy, or jump on the kids and drag them by the shins around the house.  He doesn't jump up on the counters, trying to grab cookies, or pork chops, or bananas and apples.

Every once in awhile, he'll put his paws on Gracie's head and whine for her attention.  She generally ignores him until his cries reach a high-pitched crescendo.  Then she'll make a face and snap at his nose. 

Yet, they get along very well.  They chase each other around in circles in the house, until she tires herself out.  (My Gracie girl will be 8 in January).

They've come a long way, her and Enzo.

 Then we have the kids. . . They simply adore Gracie and Enzo.

The kids' bus comes at 4:10 every day.  At 4:00, both dogs are running around like crazy.  They scratch to go out the back door, and run to the fence closest to the street.  When they see me putting on my shoes to go down to the bus stop, they run in circles, scrambling to be as close as they can be to the door when I open it.  I have to slither out.

As the kids come running down the driveway with their back packs, both dogs are at the door, their tails wagging so that their whole backside shakes.

Yes, we've come a long way.

One moment

Still grateful because of the weekend, I turned in my bed to see a text coming in from my sister.  "Oh, cool, I get to start the day with her."  The text informed me that one of the family's best friends (our neighbor since we were in diapers, and Jeff's best friend throughout high school and adulthood) was in a car accident because he was trying to avoid deer and slammed into a telephone pole. 

Man, my heart was in my esophagus when I read that text, and I immediately said a prayer and started to cry.  Thank God, he only got pretty banged up, and nothing worse.

One moment.  One swerve.  One deer.  One pole.

The accident reminded me of how grateful I am to have people in my life that I love so deeply.  It also reminded me that one moment can change everything.

Everything.

Love. Love. Love.  It's what we must do.

Do I Really Feel the Way I Feel?

"It is easy to be the person you have always been, for it requires no change, no self-reflection, and no growth.  It may appear that changing yourself requires giving up something.  In reality, there is no need to give up anything--you must simply add to what has been."

I am a quote junkie.  I see quotes, brilliant thoughts by people who "get it" and I consistently write them down.  Even if they're in a book somewhere, I grab my little notebook and I write them down.  I have been writing quotes in various notebooks for years now, and I am always pleased when I come across one randomly, and think, "I understood that and it applied to my life when I wrote it down."

The above quote was written down about three years ago, when I was in the haze of self-reflection, bitterness, resentment and unforgiveness.  I remember thinking, no praying, that the person who had betrayed me would change by growing and self-reflecting. 

In reality, now that time, healing and wisdom have evolved in my little head, I realize that the person who betrayed me, was me.

". . . you must simply add to what has been."

I like that.  It gives me comfort.

It's funny to recognize your own faults- - humbling, for sure, but also funny in a curious sort of way.  I sometimes get on this high-horse, and think I know all the answers to all the questions that pertain to what I've experienced in life.  Divorce?  Oh, I'm an expert on that.  Infidelity?  Oh, I can give you all kinds of advice.  Death?  I'm the one you can turn to.

The truth is, I don't know squat.  The only reality I know is my own, and when I think about it, I also think about a line from the song "Walking in Memphis":  Do I really feel the way I feel?

We are all subjects.  We are subjects of our own smoke-screen and mirrors, and my thoughts are not my own thoughts, my feelings are not my own feelings, they are just reflections of a mentality that I am the center of the universe, and all that happens in the universe is a reflection of what I put out there.

Maybe that is partially true.  I mean, we are all connected.  We have to be. . . we've all seen how rain dances on water. . . we've all experienced tears from frustration, grief, happiness. . . we've all been passionate about someone or something and found disappointment with the reality of it. . . we've all experienced regret and those what if moments. . .  we've all had our breaths stop for beauty. . .

We're human.

Because we are human, we are able to experience the gifts that life provides - - daily, hourly, by the minute.

So, what?

Not sure what I feel right now, but I know that in three years, I might come across the quote above, and have an entirely different train of thoughts.  I suppose I can only take what is given to me, and add it to what I already assume that I know. 

What I know is that I don't know all there is to know.

Yet I do know what I feel when I observe rain dancing on the ocean, rays of sunshine bursting through the clouds, a drop of dew reflecting off the wet grass, a hawk soaring through the sky, an unexpected smile from a stranger, and belly laughs. . .

I just wish I could always remember that joy as I continue being human in a broken world. . .

God Made Him

The boy's name was Clifford.  He wasn't a big red dog.  He wasn't even a black, successful gynecologist (though, as luck might have it, he shared the first name with one Clifford Huxtable, and by virtue of that he was exposed to women's anatomy).  He wasn't best friends with Norm, though he often philosophized with a Sam, sometimes over an alcoholic beverage, I am sure, but never in a bar called Cheers.

Now Clifford earns his money as a safety inspector and trainer, yet as anyone who might have seen him, also knows that Clifford is a lover of food,  a lover of family and a lover of words.  He has written several books, notably his most recently published, Oh, Brother.  The Life and Times of Jeffrey Fazzolari, and wrapped up into this book is a story of love, family, relationships and survival.

You see, Clifford is a survivor.  There are days when he gets hit upside the head with an unwanted reality, and he mourns the losses that arose from these realities.  But despite that bubbling pain, he awakens and begins his day with words, with sharing and with an attitude of love.  He is aware that this is what he must do because his little sister, Carrie, relies on it.

Together, along with Clifford's family, readers and friends, we all move forward another day and feel the warmth that comes from relating to Clifford.  On one very special day, of every year, this day, Clifford walks on even higher ground, and here on earth and in the heavens, all who know or know of him celebrate.

Today is his birthday.  Raise a toast and wish him well.

Cliff -  God made you.  He must be in love with me.  I love you.  Happy Birthday.

Sleepy Time

We were all treated to a beautiful autumn weekend in Maryland.  The leaves just started to turn those gorgeous reds and golds, but it was still warm enough outside to enjoy the sun shining down from clear, blue skies.  I felt fortunate to be able to share this weekend with Paige and Tony, who rode around on their bikes (Paige took the training wheels off, finally.  I had been trying to coax her for the past year), and scooters, shooting hoops and chasing all the dogs around the neighborhood.  It was a happy weekend, and every night, the three of us fell into our beds, exhausted.

Yesterday morning, I got a text from a friend of mine.  "You missed a great time last night.  I am just getting home."  It was 7:24 in the morning!  I was just getting up for the day.  There was a part of me that was envious because I am sure that whatever had gone on the night before was filled with laughter and fun times.  Yet, there was a bigger part of me that was so happy that I had been sound asleep by 10pm.  I couldn't imagine functioning the next day.

Then, my brother comes strolling in the house.  I thought he had been up early and was just coming back from  a trip to the grocery store, but no, he was whistling and laughing.  "You missed a good time last night."  He had been hanging at the same place as my texting friend.  So I heard some of the funny stories, and looking at my brother, I was doubly happy that I was in bed at 10pm.  He was whipped.  But did it stop him from covering my pool with my cousin, Larry?  Did it stop him from running his laundry, and making a pot of sauce big enough to feed the entire Ravens team?  Nope. He functioned.  I have no idea how, but he did.  I was tired just watching him, and while the kids rode around the neighborhood, I sat on the front porch and dozed in the sunshine like a cat.

Sleep.

I love to sleep.

Last night, at 8:30, me and the kids were cuddled up on the couch, watching Spongebob.  My eyes were drooping, and when I looked over at them, they were half-asleep.  Despite Patrick's idiocy, the kids and I weren't all that into it.  I turned the tv off, and without complaint, they slipped under their sheets, and were out within minutes.

Sleep.

I awoke this morning to the little bastard Enzo slobbering all over himself, and found Tony beside me, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. 

"What are you doing?"

"Waiting for you to wake up."

"I'm up."

"Good.  Can I ride my scooter?"

If the weather remains the same, we will go for another walk after dinner, and we will sleep soundly again.

I'm happy to be with them, alive, well-loved, and well-rested.