Pyridoxine Hydrochloride Means Never Having To Say You're Sorry

"Where are we going, momma?" she asked me two night ago from the backseat of the car. "Home, baby", I answered. "Are we going to our new Texas house?" she squeaked softly from her carseat, and I told her we were. "Momma, dats not my home."


*gulp*


"Where is your home, babycakes?" "My bwue house is my home, wif my green woom. It's empty."


Empty House


Yes, yes it is, love.


She misses her home. She can 't remember the house in Denver that we lived in until she was 6 months old, she can't remember the little two bedroom apartment her brothers and I called home for a little over a year while her dad and I sorted our shit out, separately; all she knows in life is Moorside Place; the stairs, the yellow living room walls, her Granny Smith green bedroom walls, her white bed that we left behind for a new little baby who will need a crib when he's born. This is just some place full of boxes that we've crashed in for a while.


Home is where her gerbil is, and her gerbil isn't in America.


We're trying to do everything we can to make this as easy on them as possible. We spent every day of our 2+ weeks in the hotel at the pool, even the really cold, rainy ones, I haven't enrolled the boys in school yet, I got them cell phones, 3of3 has spent every single night in my bed, and I bought them every nasty, evil, food-coloring-soaked, marshmallow-laden, not really food at all breakfast cereal on the market. Because if their life is going to be torn asunder, I think they should at least get to eat some Count Chocula while it happens.


It's worked, so far.


We've spent these 3 weeks since we moved together, just the 5 of us, burrowed into each other making cardboard houses, watching so many movies, slowly unpacking, and laughing like we're hopped up on sugar dipped food coloring. It's been nice, but real life has to resume at some point.


Eventually, this house has to become home. And 3of3 doesn't even have a bed yet.


So yesterday, after my kid informed me that this isn't her home, I got on the horn with the eight thousand doctors and schools to get all the vaccination records and school records I'll need to get the boys back in school. I took them to Petsmart and let them buy a new gerbil, whom we've named Theodore. (Shut up, Molly & Marge, gerbils are heartier. It shall live. DAMMIT.) I opened a few of 3of3's boxes and dug out some clothes and toys. I went to the grocery store and bought more than beer and Apple Jacks. And last night, I took 3of3 with me to the Kirtsy Takes a Bow book signing where she made a new friend whom she wrestled with, got into a fight with, resolved that fight with and decided that he could be her new best friend fowrevowr.


And through sleepy eyes and tired words on our way back, she asked, "Momma, where we go now?" and I said that we were going back to our house. She said, "Are we going to my red home, momma?" and I smiled. Yes, little girl, we are going to your red home.


This Texas House


And now, to buy some fucking GRANOLA...


Move Is A Four Letter Word

For those of you not particularly versed in my brand of convoluted double-speak, I'm not in Canada anymore.

It's not so much that I got kicked out, per se, as it is that I was asked to hold up my end of a rather large, life altering bargain. That bargain was that as long as my husband was gainfully employed in Socialist, Pot Smoking Gay Loving, Insuring Everyone Canada, we could live and work there. Once his work visa failed to be valid, for whatever reason, we'd agreed in official black ball point ink to vacate the country within 30 days. His visa became unvalidedadated on October 10th. And we hadn't started finishing our applications for permanent residency, so here we are. In the land of milk and honey. The promised land. The land of tolerance and acceptance, unless you have much better sex then all the straight, fat white dudes. Then fuck you.

Where we are isn't important yet, because we're not anywhere yet. We're in the middle of one of thoseextended-stay hotels in the middle of some big city we don't know. We don't have an address yet. We don't have anything yet, except the suitcases we brought with us containing enough clothes and Axe body spray to get us through the next few weeks. And a bunch of towels. Because I'd left 2 towels out for after the people took all our crap away on the vans, which was rather clever of me, so woot, except that I'd checked the dryer before they left with my life in 4X4 boxes, but not the washer, so I got to bring with me an entire load of bath towels, which I don't even want to know how long they sat in that washer.

But some guy named Kevin is driving a rather large van in my direction, and should be here within a week, 10 days max, and he seems like a stand up guy and I certainly hope h is because he's got my car, my china, my Mac and my Lady of Perpetual Hor D'ourves, which is admittedly more important to me than my wedding photos, in which I am the same weight I came in at yesterday fatter than I've ever been in my whole life.

The hotel has a fitness room. I've walked through it 5 times. Baby steps.

I'd left out a bunch of DVD's and the Wii to bring with us, because 800 square feet is really damn big until you put 5 people, who all like to fart, in it. Of course, once the house was empty and we were signing, literally, our life away on a van lines form, we realized they'd packed the Wii and the DVD's. Why? Because on the bottom of that contract, near the dotted line, were in big block letters, VIP ACCOUNT.

Whuuu?

I asked the Kevin dude what that was all about and he said, I dunno, but there it is, and I said, well shit, yo, I guess I should have gone slightly fancier than the box of Happy Meals I brought over for lunch, and we all scratched our butts together for a minute and then he was gone with my very VIP Ikea bedroom furniture and my insanely fancy VIP 4 year old Target wardrobe.

And here we are, bored off our butts, with only the fucking scary as piss movies we bought the kids to watch on Halloween because there's not exactly a good amount of trick or treating to be done in the middle of a corporate extended stay hotel somewhere in the industrial sector of America, and a bunch of new cell phones which were a brilliant purchase if you're not above buying your children off after totally fucking their lives, but not so brilliant in the you have to spend 2 1/2 weeks in an 800 sq foot extended-stay hotel room with 3 antsy kids and two very loud, very much so texting all day and night cell phones.

Pray for me people.

You're My Home

I left you three years ago. In a cloud of righteous indignation, I packed my possessions into a van and my children onto an airplane and with that, I was gone. I never said goodbye to you, and I didn't much care.

My entire world changed when I left you. I saw things, I learned things, that people like me, people from the slums of southeast Philadelphia, seldom know exist. I learned that there is magesty in this world beyond that which I could ever dream or measure. I realized that there is, indeed, a life beyond the borders you'd provided me and I'd accepted without consideration. I loved like I thought I never would, I reveled in the beauty of the life that had always laid just beyond my fingertips, I reached out to the world and it swallowed me whole.

The core of the person that I am has changed in these three years without you.

I dared to allow myself to dream of a life beyond your tumultuous shores. I'd seen the height of you and the breadth of you and depth of you and I still wanted more. I just didn't want it from you anymore. Your peaks and your valleys proved to much for me to bear in the end, our shared history haunted me, our commonalities grew to frightening, and I began to care about you more than I am comfortable caring about anything in this life.

So I left you one sunny summer day with a plane ticket in my hand and your sons and daughters  in my arms and I fully intended to stay gone forever.

Things in life seldom work out the way I plan for them to.

The past few weeks have been a blur of sorting my life into neat, little columns. I've made detailed spreadsheets and official phone calls. I cut my hair off and everything close to my heart out. I turned the treble down and the volume up and sought asylum in the bottom of a bass line, just so I could feel. I did the things I always do when everything I ever wanted is yanked out from under my feet, which happens more often in this life than I care to admit.

And I sit here this morning, typing with torn, chewed fingertips, reconciling myself to the fact that maybe, sometimes, I just want the wrong things and that you are where I am meant to be, for better or worse, for richer or poorer. I have come back home to you, to the very heart of you, your sons and daughters beside me. We are ready for you. We only hope you are ready for us, too.

Goodbye, Cobblestone Road

You Will Be Assimilated. Resistance is Futile.

We are not Canadians.  We have to get on our hands and knees and beg re-apply annually to live here.  Someday, they're going to get wise to us and throw our asses out.  Because of this, because we know it's coming eventually, we hold on to our Americanismness with clenched, white knuckles.  We celebrate the FOURTH of July, it's currently 41 degrees outdoors, not 4.  You know, American.

When nameless Canadian friends who live mere minutes from me but fear getting outed as a closet geek *ahemzoeyjane* say things like "You will be assimilated," we just laugh and go right on with our Yank ways until one day, we're on the phone with an American friend and we try to say that we're pr-ah-cessing something and then we stop, stutter, backtrack and say pr-oh-cessing something...."

Oh, fuck, we're totally Canadian, eh.

Since we're now all a bunch of hosers, we've decided to apply for Permanent Residency.  That means we get to live here for 5 whole years before I have to start flashing immigration officers we have to re-apply again.  That means that it doesn't matter where we work, because my husband's job will not be the only reason we're allowed to be here.  That means that I will not have to answer 5,000 questions every time I have to cross the border into or out of America.

That means we're making a commitment for the first time in our adult lives.  And it's scaring the crap out of us.  It's like buying a house, except instead of "house" it's a "whole freaking country."  Which still won't let us vote.  Bygones.

We've been talking about what that entails, becoming permanent residents with capital letters, and aside from the shitty things (re-importing the cars, etc) we have to start thinking about some medical business.

If we're going to try to get 5 unconditional years here, there's a chance they'll say Hell No and then not renew us when we're up next.  This kind of puts the pressure on us to get some things done that are covered under our MSP (the dreaded socialist health care...oooooo) before they get the chance to kick us to the curb.  And by "things", naturally I mean "balls."

We've officially decided that we're not having any more kids.  We've officially decided that The Donor drew the short end of the stick on this one, mainly because now he'll know when we get a dude for a mailman.  We've had several long, drawn out discussions about whether or not we're really really sure we're done, and in the end I said that I was done making babies and he said "Good, because I'm so done with you making babies."

No ladies, he's not available, thanks for asking.

Maybe we'll foster a child someday when we have a bigger house, but daddy's getting the old snip-snip.  Soon.  Before he chickens out soon.

We were talking about it last night and he was saying how he was nervous (naturally), how he didn't think he could make the appointment.  I tried to make it all about me reassure him by reminding him that someone's ass once came out of my vagina and a few minutes on ice was nothing compared to that pain, and of course he countered with "You're not going to make me feel bad about that; you were built for it.  My boys weren't built for razor blades."

And no, he doesn't have any brothers either, girls.  Sorry.

Then he mentioned that he was afraid of something else, too, and I asked what.  He said he was afraid that he would lose the, um, desire, after the procedure.  That he'd be afraid to test out the re-vamped tool kit.  You know, like Peter Griffin did in that Family Guy episode.  I kindly reminded him that I gained 105 pounds carrying the seed of his over-zealous loins, that I incurred the wrath of the Frankenvulva pushing his son's big, beautiful, perfectly round head out, that I was afraid to sit down for two months after our son was born, and that if he wanted to know about losing your will to fuck, I could tell him all about it.

13 years later, I can still take his breath away.   It's a beautiful thing, really.  But he's still getting the damn vasectomy.