Veni, Vidi, Ventus --
The randomly chaotic and crafty scribblings of a deranged, wannabe artist allowed too many colours in her Crayon box.

Surgeon General's Warning: Some content of "From Pooka's Crayon" may not be suitable for: work, blue-haired little old ladies, the politically-correct, rabid moonbats, uptight mothers, priests, chronic idiots, insurance claims agents, Democrats, children, small furry quadropeds from Alpha Centauri, or your sanity.

Sunday, October 15, 2000

Butt Floss!

I don't get thongs.

Okay, okay, let me correct that. I mean, I DO get that they're the only way you can wear some kinds of clothes without panty lines showing through (and I'm including g-strings in the thong description to save time). I can also see the point that if your underwear is going to crawl up your ass, you might as well just start with it there and save time. Personally, I think that's just an excuse.

But Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the things just aren't comfortable. I've tried, and I've tried. I own multiple pairs (and why in the hell is it a "pair" of underwear anyway?) Really, you spend most of your life trying to keep your underwear OUT of your crack, but by putting them on, you deliberately subject yourself to it.

Okay, so they look good -- on SOME people, anyway. I'm firmly convinced that I'm not one of them, no matter what hubby says.

What sadist came up with the idea?

Closet Skeletons

There are skeletons in my head
there's some underneath my bed,
and the closet's overflowing.

Pocket demons in my brain
eat my thoughts till none remain
and there's nothing left but screaming.

* * *

I'm lying in bed, and some wild stray thought picks the lock to a childhood door that had otherwise been blissfully locked behind me.

My monster. My mother. Same colour, different smell.

I'm not sure when I first became aware that I wasn't a child, I was an inconvenience.

Maybe it was the day that, after complaining quite mightily since the night before about my ears and throat being sore, I was given cough medication and sent to school.

I passed out in the hallway.

When my mother showed up, annoyed that I'd dared to interrupt her day, the first thing she did was bark accusations at me in front of the school nurse and everyone nearby. I was a druggie, I'd taken something and was stoned. I was taken home, given a lecture, and that was that. Right.

Until I passed out at school again two days later. Yeah, fuck you lady.

This time, the old nurse (who had been a buddy of mom's when she worked at the school) wasn't there, and there was a temp in place. This budding genius not only took me seriously, but took my temp. 103. I was taken to the doctor, who pronounced a severe ear infection, strep throat, and an extreme case of vertigo. I spent several months on Antivert just so I could walk a straight line without staggering or stand up without promptly falling down.

Or maybe it was flag camp. Ah, the joys of summer activities. I spent the first day throwing up. Every time. Every year. Same routine.

Now, logicially speaking, heat stroke and heat exhaustion were to be expected. This was usually June, in Central Texas heat, out in the middle of a freakin open field with no shade whatsoever. Even better if they could find a paved asphalt parking lot. Mmm, boy. Baked tennis shoes, anyone?

I was a slacker, of course. I was just trying to get out of it. I just didn't know the drills (hah) and was trying to get out of it. I was lazy, blah blah blah. Never you mind that I was shaking and clammy and had totally greyed out to the point of being completely witless.

"Excuse me, but could you move your speculations 5 feet to the right whilst I vomit on your shoes? Don't mind me, that's just my lunch, do carry on."

Once I got the first few rounds of barfing over with, everything went fine.

Till my last year.

Oh no, they couldn't give us asphalt this time, some genius decided the grassy yard by a dorm was more satisfying. Kick and turn and OH FUCK where did that hole come from?

I went down in a heap, my leg twisted beneath me. At first, I thought I'd broken something. After all, your kneecap isn't supposed to wobble like that, and it CERTAINLY isn't supposed to be on the SIDE of your leg, right?

Oh, I was fine, there was nothing wrong. Get back up, dammit. Do it again, and without the falling down this time. What do you mean, you can't stand up? Lazy girl, here. (yank tug excrutiating pain) Now, wrap this ACE bandage around it and you'll be fine. See, you can do it!

So I spend the rest of camp limping around on a dislocated knee that had been VERY poorly popped back into place. Mmm, love that sweet smell of success in the air?

My mother, of course, told me to stop being a baby. There was nothing wrong with me, there was no one around to watch my act, take the damn brace off and cut it out. Yeah, fuck you lady.

The pain and frustration led to a frantic desperate tryst with the current boyfriend that led to the fun of a condom breakage and, in the two weeks before my birthday, my first and only abortion. I was 16.

No sanctimonious holier than thou bullshit here, thank you. If I'd carried the baby to term, I'd have died. I know this well enough know, though I didn't at the time. As it was, I almost bled to death when I finally did have a baby (and the next, and so forth until they tied my tubes so my body wouldn't help me self-destruct) and had enough trouble. Frankly, it was it or me. Selfish as shit, I know, but that's what teenagers are good at.

I remember the abortion itself clearly enough, though. My parents never knew. Which is a blessing, because I'd have been out of the house quicker than shit through a goose. The only one with me was my boyfriend who was as scared as I was. Planned Parenthood gave you chances to back out. I almost did. I remember him promising to stand beside me, no matter what my decision was.

In the end, I went into the room.

Afterwards, all I felt was overwhelming, all-encompassing relief. I digress.

So, I'm a teenage unwed post-abortion ex-mother-to-be with a fucked up knee, (k-i-s-s-i-n-g), trapped in a car with my happy little Norman Rockwell from Hell family on our way to Outer Nowhere, New Mexico, to visit my aunt the doctor who happens to be the only really cool person left alive on my mother's side of the family. My grandparents are okay, really, but my aunt is more in touch with the Now of the world, rather than with the Then.

And my aunt wants to know what's wrong with my knee. I tell her. My mother blows me off and starts scolding my aunt for encouraging me. My aunt, love her to death, ignores my mother and looks at it. She also promptly "suggests" to my mother that maybe taking me to an orthopedic doctor when we got back might be a good idea, just in case.

Thank you for inserting some logic into the woman's brain.

The doctor she somehow picked happened to also be the orthopedic surgeon for not only my high school's football team, but also worked with the Houston Oilers. Oh. My. That must mean he can Be Trusted. Yeah, fuck you, lady.

Doc looks at my knee. I explain. He looks at me. He unwinds the wrappings. He looks at the knee. He, mind you, GLARES at my mother.

He then makes her come over to the table, and put her ear down right against my knee. He wiggles my kneecap (which moves quite freely). There's a horrible grating sound. Nasty. Icky. Makes you shiver.

"Hear that? That's a Bad Sound. How long has she been walking around without seeing a doctor?" He's not glaring at me. He's still looking at her.

She mumbles something incoherently and inspects the ceiling.

Doc starts prodding. "See this muscle?" He whips out his handy blue marker. "This is where it SHOULD be. " Marker slash. "Want to know why it isn't?" He told her anyway.

"These..." Several marker slashes. "Are where her scars are going to be if we can't rehab this knee." Lots of physical therapy.

Mom makes sure physical therapy is done, because by god she's not going to waste money having me cut on because I'm lazy. Yeah, fuck you, lady.

Hell, maybe it was the time that Dad had been sick for a few days. Dad is not a Brave Man when it comes to being sick. Dad is a downright card-carrying certified Sick Wuss. He's dying. After a few days of this, you wish he would so he'd at least shut up. But Dad had germs. And Dad passed them around.

And I got them.

But noooo, I wasn't sick. Fuck, I could be bleeding out the eyes and ears and my mom would slap a bandaid on me and tell me to shut up and get dressed because school started in half an hour.

Two days later ... yup, you guessed it. I passed out at school.

Here came the accusations again, here came the glares, here came the .... the nurse holding the thermometer. I was too pale and too red (all at once, I'm a very dramatic feverish) all in the right places, and she'd taken my temp. Whoo hoo, lookit that, she really IS sick, go fucking figure.

Walking pneumonia. Another day, and the doc would have hospitalized me. He should have. It's not like I got any care or compassion at home for the entire two days that I got to skip school. Oh yeah, mom, I'm having a whole fucking world of partying down drug doing fun here at home while I'm laying in a goddamned coma in the bed, unable to even get up to get a drink. Yeah, I'm just partying down so hard that I'm working myself into dehydration just for the sheer fucking fun of it. Yeah, fuck you, lady.

This is is the same woman whose idea of responding to a grade drop, or a bad conduct mark, or a note from a teacher was to threaten me with a visit to a psychiatrist. Maybe I should have just let them send me. I'm sure he would have loved the rant I'm going through right now. Psychiatrist, great. Physician, forget it.

Yeah, fuck you, lady.

* * *

There are skeletons in my head
there's some underneath my bed,
and the closet's overflowing.

Pocket demons in my brain
eat my thoughts till none remain
and there's nothing left but screaming.

Yeah. Fuck you, lady.

Wednesday, October 11, 2000

Are we there yet?

So, am I the only totally sick fuck up this late?

Apparently so. None of the other journals seem to have been updated recently, while I was busily off writing the great American novel: "How to Fuck Up Your Kid's Life in Twenty Moves or Less."

I feel like I'm a total failure at everything, heavy thoughts for 6 am when you haven't been able to go to sleep and all those little skeletons keep nagging at you. My eldest child is a neurotic, delicate wreck. The youngest is a sociapathic future Playmate looking for a clock tower.

Where the fuck can you go RIGHT with that? Talk about troubles finding a middle ground, it's the classic scenario: perfect victim, perfect victimizer. The baby is a bully, her sister cries. No, she bawls, loudly, like a cow with colic. It gets old, because it's not a matter of her not wanting to defend herself, she simply can't.

And I'm so tired, so tired of everything, so tired of being in charge of everyone else, tired of having to be responsible for everyone, tired of being sick, tired of feeling guilty, tired of the whining and crying and bitching and moaning that it's impossible to feel sympathy. I don't care about fair. I don't care about hurt. All I want is some fucking peace and quiet.

I might as well talk to myself. No one else around here listens to me.

My house is a disaster of Biblical proportions. My health is bad enough that the process of repeatedly bending down to pick up and put away various haphazardly strewn items relocated to such a position by Hurricanes 1 and 2 causes immediate waves of dizziness, followed by spiraling levels of sheer pain. Up and down and up and down are meant for roller coasters and carousels, not my ears

When, in some self-abusive burst of energy, I get totally sick of it and do a massive whirlwind attack before seeping into unconsciousness, it lasts all of an hour before WHAM. I'm giving them credit, usually it takes the amount of time for me to turn around before it's a mess again.

Thing 1, the delicate weeping flower, bawls and heehaws and moans when asked to clean up. You'd have thought we'd asked her to cut out her own liver for dinner instead of pick up her freakin mess. Thing 1 has perfected the Eeyore face, and has moping down to an art form.

Thing 2 looks at us like we're stupid, then wanders off to do whatever the fuck Thing 2 wants to do. Thing 2 has decided she will only respond to frantic screams. Everything else is totally ignored.

It goes something like this: Point child to toy. Explain to child that toy must be removed. Explain to child where toy must go. Explain to child why toy must go. Point child and toy to room. Make child pick up toy. Pick up toy, put toy in child's hand. Child drops toy. Child walks off. Repeat. Repeat again. Threaten to beat child. Repeat. Threaten to send child to room. Watch child walk happily off into her room, having decided that was where she wanted to go in the first place. Pick up toy. Put toy in room. Pull out last remaining strands of now-grey hair.

So, as I sit here writing the great American novel and wondering how many people are going to get ticked off for my verbosity ....

"Oh, MOMMY! You ugwy! Your nose all screwed up!"

Thaaaaaank you, Thing 2.

Stop growing up already.

For Mommy?


Sunday, October 08, 2000

Day in the Life, or, Things my family has learned

-- that Mommy can not only do a perfect Beavis voice, but she does a damn good Bart Simpson, too.

-- cats do not like being dressed up in clothing.

-- gravity works.

-- neato seasonal tights are not appropriate wear for tile floors.

-- sticking a key in an electrical outlet is a Bad Idea.

-- rain can be cold.

-- if you unwind a cassette tape, it probably won't work anymore.

-- toilet paper will not hold up a Barbie in the bathtub.

-- Mommy doesn't care about fair, Mommy just wants to stop the screaming.

-- if you aren't bleeding, you do NOT need a Band-Aid.

-- powdered sugar sticks to EVERYTHING, including Mommy.

-- cannonballs in the bathtub make a really big pool on the floor.

-- permanent marker does not come off furniture.

-- washable markers aren't.

-- crayons melt in the dryer.

-- leaving Legos on the floor in the dark is the quickest way to send Daddy to the ER for stitches.

-- they will not die if they don't get what they want.

-- hand soap makes lousy toothpaste.

-- if you ignore something long enough, there is NOT a magical fairy that will come and clean your mess up for you.

-- just because Mommy is sick and can't talk does not make Mommy stupid, deaf, or blind.

Monday, October 02, 2000


I hate dreams that are so realistic that, upon waking, they distort your view of reality. I hate waking up lost and not knowing where I am, certain that I should be Somewhere Else. Maybe it's the fever, maybe it's the meds, maybe ... maybe it's just Karma.

I haven't seen my great-grandmother's house in over 15 years. In fact, I can't even recall the year that she died. I do know that the scar on my hand is still visible, but since it was quite a doozy of a scar, that makes sense.

We had all shown up at the hospital, and were sitting there waiting ... and waiting ... and waiting. It was over half an hour before anyone bothered to talk to us, only to tell us that she'd died before we even got there. What was the wait for? To clean her up.

They had to do a trach on her (severe pneumonia, she basically drowned) ... but they left her on the table where she had died. And so these people take us all in, including me, and I couldn't have been more than 13 or 14. I knew enough to know what a tracheotomy was, and so the cloth they had thrown over her throat did nothing more than conceal the actual damage. It all seemed very cheap to me, that someone who was so loved was presented to their family ... like that.

I pretty much freaked out.

I "think" I hit my hand on the door when I fled the room. My family let me go. All I know is that I stopped some time later, sobbing in the middle of some hallway. A nurse stopped, upset, and dragged me back to the ER. Why? I was bleeding all over her floor. LOL Whatever I contacted with my hand, it left one hell of a scar as a reminder.

I digress.

Anyway, Ethel's house (she wasn't great-grandmother, she was Ethel, dammit) wasn't quite in the sticks, yet wasn't quite "citified" yet either. You walk outside, and you smell country. You had to walk some distance to reach the huge garden in back of the house, where rows upon rows of soon-to-be food waited, scarecrow and all.

I can never remember if the house was 2 bedrooms or 3, but I remember the layout clearly enough, especially the kitchen. I grew up in that kitchen, and the smells of fried chicken or fresh boiled corn, or better yet, jalapeno cornbread can still make me misty eyed. I can remember the incessant and futile humming of the window units, just barely breaking into the Texas summer heat. I remember the back door in the middle of the "living room" that led straight out to a flower bed and a cut brick walkway. I can remember the little iron scotty dog that always held that door open. My grandmother has it now.

For all I know, the house is no longer there.

Yet for the life of me, I can't figure out why I was suddenly back there again last night. Not just there, but moving in, with my family, trying to figure out how to install ceiling fans so the temperature would be bareable until we could get central air, or figuring out where the kids were going to sleep, or how to get the washer and dryer hooked up INSIDE the house, instead of in the huge garage that was always more of a barn, and always filled with wild neat things to get yourself thoroughly in trouble.

In the hazy early wakeup, I had no idea where I was. It certainly wasn't "here."

I was still there, and I could still remember in such clear detail that "home" was hundreds of miles away, in a quiet Texas cornfield.

And they say you can never go home again.

I just vomited an electric pumpkin

I'm feeling extraordinarily self-conscious about my body again.

Fat. Well, the word is really subjective. Everyone has their own ideas of what exactly constitutes FAT, how many pounds versus height make you obese, what you can carry and still at least look good. It's never just a matter of numbers, since every eye views it differently.

And in my eyes, I'm fat.

I hate being fat, I really do. I know I'm overweight, trust me. I'm hardly deluding myself on that issue. Diets can only do so much without exercise, and for me, exercise is really difficult. My health limits it in so many ways that there's very little I can do that won't be infinitely worse for me in short term perspective.

Running and aerobics are right out. Walking, if done often enough and long enough to make a difference, makes chronic foot problems act up. My breasts are too large to be able to comfortably and efficiently use exercise machines. I can't afford an exercise bike, or access to a health club (not that there's one anywhere close anyway). Swimming can only be done in the summer without an indoor heated pool -- which I don't have access to -- and how am I supposed to really SWIM and work out in a tiny apartment pool while watching two small children that don't know how to swim? Yeah, I know, there are ways around a lot of it, but it gets really frustrating.

I'm rarely happy with my body. I'm fat. I've got some wonderful curves that, with 30 pounds off me, would look fabulous. Those thirty pounds aren't off, and I look awful.

I can't be happy with being fat. I can't make myself comfortable with it and just accept that I'm a Big Girl now. I've tried. It's just not happening. The mirror is an enemy even more devious than my mind, because it sometimes gives the illusion that I don't look quite as bad as I think I do.

Then ... WHAM. I'll turn around, and suddenly the mirror will have expanded my bulk till there's nothing left but fat and ugly and repulsive. I do a lot of crying at that point. Sometimes, it's so extreme and so damaging that I can't force myself to put on my fat clothes and go out in public. Hubby has to put up with me weeping and refusing to go out with him and the family, because I'm a hideous fat monster.

Half of the problem could be solved by the breast reduction that my insurance refuses to pay for. They, of course, don't give a rat's ass about mental damage. They don't give a shit about psychological breakdowns. Hell, they don't even give a damn about the blisters and the bruises and the other impacts that my chest has made on my health. I look like a freak. I feel like a freak. They don't care.

Strap two heavy melons to your chest. Go on, I dare you to find something that will hold them up. Oh, don't worry if you're only barely hanging in there, that's what happens when you're a freak of nature. Got it? Great. Now jump up and down. Go ahead. Aerobicise. You can do it.

Awww, did you get hurt?

DUH. No shit.

So, I'm fat. Physically pffffft.

Totally unreasonable. I know, somewhere in my brain, that I'm not THAT big, that the largest percentage of overweight people are FAR bigger than I am. Doesn't matter. They aren't living in my skin. I am. I don't like it. I don't like me.

I'm on a nice limited diet. I don't just sit around and eat junk food and ice cream and crap like that. Goodies like my Hubby bought me the other night will last for MONTHS, till the food is so inedible that it has to be thrown away. A small square of fudge will last days with just a nibble every now and then. I drink water more than anything else, maybe one or two sodas total, IF that, in a day. Usually, it's nothing but bottled water to drink. Yes, I miss drinking other things ( I LOVE root beer, yum ), but it's not like I sit and make a total pig out of myself.

Not that it makes any difference to the people that look at me and see fat. I have an insulin disorder. I've been severely hypoglycemic all my life. My body produces way too much insulin, and doesn't process carbohydrates well at all. I've got a high potential to become diabetic if I don't watch what I eat. I try very hard to pay close attention to what goes in my mouth.

Of course, I'm still fat.

I can't buy a dress off the rack. My proportions are so off because of my chest size that nothing will hang right. I bounce between a 16 and an 18. The problem is, even when I spent 6 months as a size 12, I still had to wear XL and 1X shirts because of my chest. Dresses both stretch and ride up in the front because of my chest, then wrinkle and ride up in the sides and back because of my hips. I have a very tiny waist by comparison, so I'm really doomed.

Then there are the idiots that feel that just sizing up the junior fashions and leaving them alone is going to work. Riiiiight. Take one beanpole, make it really wide. Uh huh.

Now the clothes look like shit and they STILL don't fit anyone with a curve. Yeah, that was real effective, folks. You don't even get a C for that effort.

I *really* have a thing about SOME kind of jacket to go over my arms. I found a wonderful crochet top last summer that helps, but with only one colour, and no real length, it's seriously limited. (I HATE the 4" purple scar on my arm, and if I don't cover the skin, then my arms look chubby AND sunburned. No thanks) If they DO bother to put a jacket with it, the damn thing is wrist length sleeves and too damn warm, defeating the purpose of the sleeveless shell beneath.

And explain this: WHY in god's name do designers think larger women want to walk around looking like neon signs? I see the most horrendous colours in Plus sizes, and it's not just splashes, no. I mean full suits of "This Colour Came Out of My Child's Diaper" green, or "I Just Vomited an Electric Pumpkin" orange.

It's not that I want us to be camoflaged and in dull colours, it's that these colours are flat out hideously ugly on ANYBODY!!!!!

I remember high school. I was 5'4" or so then, weighed maybe 110. I thought I was fat. I hated my body. I was always trying to diet because half of my girlfriends were all twigs.

Twig. Aha. In retrospect, the problem was a simple difference in body structure: I was built like a woman. They were built like little boys. I had curves, serious curves, classic hourglass curves, from late 5th grade on. I never wore a training bra, I went straight to a B cup and kept right on going. I was a heavy C-D all through high school. I had a tiny waist, big boobs, and hips, and hated the fact that I didn't look like a string bean like everyone else.

What a fucking joke.

Looking back, I'd kill to have that body again, to be able to go back and do it over and be proud of what I had. Hindsight is always 20/20. Now I know what fat really is.

Now, I'm fat.

And I hate it.