FlipSide:Starting August 13, 2001

A journal of the trials, tribulations, and triumphs in the life of a woman in the 21st century.

Last Updated : Sunday, August 19, 2001 10:21:05 PM -0500

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Monday, August 13, 2001

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(ed- Due to a small boy taking after his mother's insomnia, someone's exhausted, and out of inspiration. She should return tomorrow with some form of wit. She also says that when she had some good ideas, I was using the computer. Right. It's always my fault. Then again, every married man is nodding at this one. Okay. I'll shut up and go quietly... Too late. Head wound. Quick, where's the tourniquet? I guess it's not that bad - I can still spell tourniquet... And, should she find it, I'm afraid where she'd apply it. -- jd.)

Tuesday, August 14, 2001

I hate shopping. Today, I stopped in at Daytons (oops, sorry, they're Marshall Fields now) to look for a dress for my brother's wedding. I should have known better, I should never go alone. I won't buy anything when I'm alone. I need verification of how it looks on me by a third party. A third party that does not have a vested interest, like a commission, in me buying the dress.

So, anyway, I go into the store and they are having a sale on their summer dresses. I pick out three dresses in three different sizes. One is a lovely little flirty black dress with a big floral print, one is a more fitted pink dress, and the last one is a cream floral tank dress with a matching jacket. (Ya gotta love how sizes vary from style to style and manufacturer to manufacturer. I think that is one of the reasons John refuses to buy me any clothes. He never knows what size of what to buy. I would have to give the guy a list. Jeans are a size 18, dress pants 16, skirts and dresses anywhere from a 14 to an 18, depending on the cut. Shirts are a large or XL, depending on if it is a teeshirt or a button down shirt . . .)

I take the dresses to the dressing room to try them on. Outside the dressing room is a lovely sign, announcing that "For your protection and ours, our dressing rooms may be monitored by female personnel." Great. Just what I need to add to my self-consciousness. Someone may be watching me get naked and attempt to fit these dressed over my body. Certainly makes one think twice when checking out how big your butt looks in the mirror.

The pink dress is too fitted so it doesn't even get on the body. Damn hips. Oh well, it is the one I like least anyway. One less decision to make. I move on to the other two. Both dresses fit. (Naturally it is the size in the middle that didn't fit. The smaller of the three and the larger of the three fit. Now what sort of message am I supposed to draw from this?) But now I am left with the decision. How do I really look in these dresses? You see, I look in the mirror and all I see is butt and hips. And of course, thighs. Does the flirty little black dress make me look hippy? Do my thighs look better suited to a water buffalo? I wonder. Hmmm . . . I slip on the creamy floral print. Does the long swingy jacket make me look larger? (Like I need that kind of help!) Is it too old looking? Is it too big? (For once the bodice seems a little large. Not a problem I commonly have so I am not sure if it is the dress or . . . or . . . geez, I don't know.) I twirl back and forth. I look at myself from all angles. I look at my butt. (Hey, that is an important consideration. Unless I plan to stand against a wall the entire time I have the dress one, some people will be looking at my butt at all times.)

So, I walk out of the store with nothing. I'm gonna take a friend tomorrow and torment them. I mean ask their opinion. John hates to go shopping with me. He says he is in a no win situation and that I don't believe his opinion anyway, so why am I torturing him. It's not that I don't believe him, it's just that his opinion is, well, suspect. What's he going to say to his sweet and charming bride? "Ya look like crap." Of course he isn't, he wants to live and sleep indoors (preferably with me), so he is left with looking for complements, no matter how horrid the frock. Or at least telling me in the kindest way possible if a dress doesn't suit me. And if he is feeling especially, um, er, neglected, his complements are even more effusive in the hopes of greater rewards later. You'd think after 11 years of marriage the man would realize that that doesn't work. Of course, you would think he also would have learned by now that accusing me of having a "god complex" isn't the brightest move either. Even though he meant it as a complement. (?!) He said I would make a good dungeon master in D&D as I have a god complex. If I had an imagination. Okay, it's not an exact quote and I am sure he will hasten to defend himself. However, he survived the faux pas, so I can't be as bad as he makes me out to be, now can I? Then again, I have always been a believer in the benefits of slow torture . . . like dress shopping!

Wednesday, August 15, 2001

Why is it my children think I am stupid? Or maybe it is just that they think that my senses have dulled in my old age. Tonight the youngest members of the family were sent to their room to pull all the assorted crap that has accumulated there out and put it away (or throw it away, as the case may be). One of the "treasures" retrieved was a bottle of Love's Baby Soft perfume that one of my in-laws misguidedly gifted my daughter with about a year ago. From the kitchen, I smell the unmistakable odor that can only be produced by a small child attempting to use perfume as an air freshener. "Who's playing with the perfume?" I call. Rhiannon turns and looks at me, aghast and in awe. It is quite plain from her expression that (A) she is the guilty party and (B) she can't figure out how I knew. My response to her? I am Mommy and I am omniscient. So far, they are buying it. Now if only I can keep them convinced through the teenage years . . .

(ed - It should be noted that she also did that in front of a fan. Blowing into the apartment. I never said she was bright, just cute. -- jd)

Then, there is need to translate children's words and actions to their true meaning. For example, Rhiannon was complaining that Jack wasn't helping her clean up. Since I had seen the kid crawling under the bed on his belly like a slug, I correctly translated this to "My brother isn't doing enough work for me to not do any." There is also the sudden impulse to hug their parents. Which can be translated in many ways, depending on the situation. With Jack, this often means "I have pissed off my father something fierce so I had better suck up to the only other parent who likes me right now." Or it can mean, "I really really don't want to do the job you assigned to me, so if I come and snuggle you and tell you how very much I love you, perhaps you will become addled and forget the work you told me to do." Then there is the always reliable trip to the bathroom to get out of your chores. They know you don't dare deny them, for fear they will actually need to go and pee all over the carpet, so they got you there. They seem to think that senility has recently set in and in the five minutes it takes them to pee, I will forget that they were doing something other than screwing around. Or supposed to be.

Explain to me how my children can spend the better part of three hours "cleaning" their room and it is a bigger mess than when they started?! Pray for me that I don't strangle them. Thus far I have managed to calmly tell them that they will be spending every waking hour that they are not in school in their room until it is clean. Now, I know that we don't have space for all their stuff, but, we don't need to have every square inch of their room covered in toys and paper and clothes. AARRGGHHH.

Some recent (and some not so recent) events have me pondering just how much influence parents have on their children's personalities. I have one friend who's parents were swingers in the 70s (yes, that kind of swingers"). Now, her parents' marriage is falling apart with accusations of infidelity and homosexuality and addiction. And she is one of the most conservative Catholic people I know. Obviously, her sense of values was developed in direct contrast to her parents. On the news every day, we hear of some kid from a good family who committed some incomprehensibly cruel act. Or most families have their "black sheep". You know, the family member who is just completely opposite of everyone else. It leads me to the inescapable conclusion that we all are born with . . . an essential essence that no amount of environment, whether good or bad, can change. I thinking coping is one of those things. Some people are just born able to deal with adversity and come out, if not happy, at least whole. Others crumble. And often, these individuals will be from the same family.

Yet, when we hear of a child going wrong, committing some horrible crime, what is our first reaction? We want to blame the parents. At least some. It is probably comforting to us, kinda like blaming the victim for being raped. That way we can believe that it can't possibly happen in our family. But it can. None of us fully understands what makes a person tick. What makes a person cruel? What makes a person warm? The family certainly plays a part. I know kids that I can see slowly sliding into delinquency through the neglect and disinterest of their parents. But, then again, I also know some who's behavior simply can't be explained by their home life. The only explanation I can come up with is that a person is made up in equal parts of nature and nurture. And all we, as parents, can do, is love and encourage our children and try to steer them in the direction of right. And pray that our teachings hold and that our children don't have a black hole in their soul. It is that black hole in the soul that creates the Jeffrey Dahmers and Ted Bundys of this world. And hope that those predators don't cross paths with our children.

I believe that children are our future.
Teach them well and let them lead the way.
Show them all the beauty they possess inside.
Give them a sense of pride, to make it easier
Let the children's laughter, remind us how we used to be.

Greatest Love of All

Thursday, August 16, 2001

I took my lovely creamy floral dress home last night. My husband's first reaction?
"Looks like something my aunt used to wear."
"Oh, so you're telling me it is a fat old lady dress?"
"She wasn't always fat."
?!

This is why the man's opinion is suspect. He is a bundle of neuroses from his childhood. Granted, we all take our childhood experiences and turn them into some of our irrational likes and dislikes. But he takes it to a whole new level of mental illness. Anything that happened to him as a child completely colors the way he looks at something. A pair of glasses I once had he didn't like because his sister once had a pair like that. He hates the name Claire because of a girl he disliked in grade school. Sheese! What's he going to be like at 50?

This morning I was talking to Jane about child birth and we got to comparing stories. She shared the story of the husband who complained to his laboring wife that she squeezed his hand too hard. Wah. Poor fella. Was his itty bitty delicate fingers squished? GOOD! I upped her with my story of John, who said, whilst I was on a pitosin IV drip (for those of you who have not had the joy of pitosin, let me clue you in. It brings on your contractions harder and harder. Unfortunately in my case, it does no good, babies just don't come out the "normal" way for me. So I just get to enjoy the thrill of hard labor without the results.) Anyway, my husband says
"This is too hard for us. First kid, last kid. I can't take this"
Excuse me?! What's this we shit, kemosabe? I don't see you with an IV stickin' outta your arm trying to pass a watermelon through a garden hose. However, the best labor story belongs to another friend of mine. She gave birth to her first child in the military. Her son was born with the unusual attribute of shoulders wider than his head (on newborns, this is not conducive to delivery), so he got stuck. At which point she turned to her Marine husband, punched him in the chest, pulled him to her by his chest hair and screamed into his face "GET IT OUT". He claims he was bruised from collarbone to navel (and the bruise grows every time he tells the story).

Children grow up so fast. This same child is now rapidly approaching 13 and he is . . . developing, shall we say. His latest escapade was ordering 15 X-rated, pay per view movies in a three day period. All broadcast in the wee hours of the night. The real interesting part? They have this type of programming blocked. Young sir simply looked at his mom and said, "They make interesting sounds." Now, if the "blackout" is like the way they used to scramble HBO when I was younger, if one stared long enough at the screen, one could get glimpses of what was going on. Or he may have figured out the parental code to "de-blackout" the screen. Hmmm . . . This child is going to be slave labor for his family and their friends for quite sometime to pay off the $148 cable bill. Then there is the young man who decided to surf the X-rated websites. At his mother's office. On her computer, using her sign-on. Mom got a call from corporate IT wanting to know just what the heck was going on. Yet another young man who will be lucky to see adulthood.

I have a couple of little tidbits that I just can't resist posting for your perusal and bemusement.
1. Gay Redneck (honest to God, they exist. In fact a friend of mine's first boyfriend was one.)
2. Seen on a church announcement's board - God answers all "knee mail". - Ouch.

Friday, August 17, 2001

As I am sure I mentioned before, I am not an optimist. I'm not really a pessimist either. I am just one of those people who is constantly expecting the other shoe to drop. Whenever fortune smiles on me, I wait with full confidence that soon the aforementioned other shoe will drop and my good luck will be tempered by some bad. It's just the way life is, after all, that silver lining is on the inside on one big-ass thunderhead! As John put it today, the optimist sees the glass as half full, the pessimist sees it as half empty, and I see it as a potential mess on my carpet. (Especially if Jack is nearby.) Jodi says it is just a symptom of my control freak nature. When something is out of my control, I expect it to spin completely out of control and bite me in the butt.

Much is being made of a recent poll that was conducted showing that President Bush is not well thought of by our European neighbors. This is not surprising considering that Bill Clinton was extremely popular internationally. Those would be hard shoes to fill, no matter who succeeded to the presidency. That George Bush is his polar opposite in almost all ways seals his fate. As any regular reader of my site knows, I am no fan of President Bush, but I don't think Europe's dissatisfaction with the man is entirely his fault. In many ways, Bill Clinton was the darling of Europe. He was charming, he was relatively liberal, he was environmentally minded, and he liked pretty ladies (always popular in Europe with its fashion capitals and sparkling jet-set society). George Bush is a down home Texas conservative with considerably less interest in Europe than his predecessor had. He was disliked before he ever uttered his first protectionist policy. That said, President Bush's policies do smack of a return to a more isolationist America. I had thought we learned after two World Wars that what effects Europe and Asia and Australia and most any far corner of the globe also effects us. Environmental damage and political unrest are not stopped by the Atlantic or Pacific Oceans, especially in an age of intercontinental missiles and suicide bombers. Obviously an American President needs to consider American needs first and foremost, but he must take into account that it is truly a small world and the people he alienates now maybe the leaders he needs later. I live by the rule, never burn a bridge if you can help it. I hope our President has learned that rule too.

My children have finally done sufficient work in their room after 3 evenings of confinement to qualify for parole to the living room. And now my son is sheathing his bubble sword in his underwear. Can pay per view movies be far behind? Maybe I should have left him in his room.

Saturday, August 18, 2001

It is amazing how much money one spends to outfit their clan for a wedding. First, I had to buy a dress. Both children also needed clothes suitable (and that fit). Then Rhiannon and I needed haircuts and shoes. (Marcia would be proud, I couldn't decide which pair would go with my dress better, so I bought both.) And, of course, pantyhose and/or tights. And since we were out all day gathering these items, plus our normal run to the farmer's market, we ate a meal plus a snack out. The grand total for the day was a bit, well, steep. And we aren't done yet. Dad still needs jeans and we need to buy a wedding gift yet. Yikes! And we still have back-to-school shopping to do. Oh my aching checkbook.

Of course, to John, this is all pure torture. His idea of shopping is:
STEP 1    Walk into store
STEP 2    Find the item in question in your size
STEP 3    Buy it

All this trying- on and moving onto another store when you don't find exactly what you want is completely alien to his nature. He only wants to hit 2 stores max. Today, we hit at least 5. And try it on?! Whatever for? My most entertaining moment of the day is listening to him attempt to try some clothes on Jack at Mervyns. They are soooo very good at pushing each other's buttons.

In closing, I 'm going to do something I rarely do. I received this story via email today and I thought it was funny and touching. Sometimes life does work out this way. I am a big believer that things do happen for a reason and this story illustrates this nicely. Have a good night.

MOM'S LAST LAUGH...

Consumed by my loss, I didn't notice the hardness of the pew where I sat. I was at the funeral of my dearest friend - my mother. She finally had lost her long battle with cancer. The hurt was so intense, I found it hard to breathe at times. Always
supportive, Mother clapped loudest at my school plays, held a box of tissues while listening to my first heartbreak, comforted me at my father's death, encouraged me in college, and prayed for me my entire life.

When Mother's illness was diagnosed, my sister had a new baby and my brother had recently married his childhood sweetheart, so it fell on me, the 27-year-old middle child without entanglements, to take care of her.

I counted it an honor.

"What now, Lord?" I asked sitting in church. My life stretched out before me as an empty abyss. My brother sat stoically with his face toward the cross while clutching his wife's hand. My sister sat slumped against her husband's shoulder, his arms
around her as she cradled their child.

All so deeply grieving, no one noticed I sat alone. My place had been with our mother, preparing her meals, helping her walk, taking her to the doctor, seeing to her medication, reading the Bible together. now she was with the Lord. My work was
finished, and I was alone.

I heard a door open and slam shut at the back of the church. Quick footsteps hurried along the carpeted floor. An exasperated young man looked around briefly and then sat next to me. He folded his hands and placed them on his lap. His eyes were brimming with tears. He began to sniffle. "I'm late," he explained, though no explanation was necessary.

After several eulogies, he leaned over and commented, "Why do they keep calling Mary by the name of 'Margaret'?

0h" "Because that was her name, Margaret. Never Mary. No one called her 'Mary,'" I whispered. I wondered why this person couldn't have sat on the other side of the church. He interrupted my grieving with his tears.

"No", he insisted, as several people glanced over at us whispering, "Her name is Mary, Mary Peters."

"That isn't who this is, I replied.."

"Isn't this the Lutheran church?"

"No, the Lutheran church is across the street."

"Oh."

"I believe you're at the wrong funeral, Sir."

The solemnest of the occasion mixed with the realization of the man's mistake bubbled up inside me and came out as laughter. I cupped my hands over my face, hoping it would be interpreted as sobs. The creaking pew gave me away. Sharp looks from other mourners only made the situation seem more hilarious. I peeked at the bewildered, misguided man
seated beside me.

He was laughing too as he glanced around, deciding it was too late for an uneventful exit.

I imagined Mother laughing.

At the final "Amen," we darted out a door and into the parking lot. "I do believe we'll be the talk of the town," he smiled. He said his name was Rick and since he had missed his aunt's funeral, asked me out for a cup of Coffee.

That afternoon began a lifelong journey for me with this man who attended the wrong funeral, but was in the right place. A year after our meeting, we were married at a country church where he was the assistant pastor. This time we both arrived at the same church, right on time.

In my time of sorrow, God gave me laughter. In place of loneliness, God gave me love. This past June we celebrated our twenty-second wedding anniversary.

Whenever anyone asks us how we met, Rick tells them, "Her mother and my Aunt Mary introduced us, and it's
truly a match made in heaven."

Sunday, August 19, 2001

I am a detail oriented person. I give very concise and precise directions to others. Even my husband thinks so. (In fact, it is one of my qualities that he is the least enamored with, I think. He doesn't deal well with logic.) I am even, on occasion, called with some justice, anal retentive. (Should that be hyphenated?) So explain to me why my children are unable to follow these instructions. For example, I will say "Pick up the toys in the living room." They will be standing a room strewn with toys in every direction and they will ask, "What toys?" "All around you!" I will reply. They will look at the one spot on the floor that has no toys (usually the 3 inch square area that they are standing in) and say "We don't see any toys." Sometimes I literally need to hold their heads and direct their gaze to the mess. "Oh, those toys."

No wonder I get headaches. I swear, they must have learned that from their father. I know the stubborn comes from him. Rather than get his own pajamas out of his room tonight, my son stood in his towel, soaking wet from the tub, and whined about being cold. I told him nicely (without sarcasm, even!) three times to get in his room and put on his pajamas. Instead he just moaned louder. I finally physically picked him up, put him in his room, and shut the door. And still he stands there and wails. You would think at some point he would accept that he is not going to get his way. In fact, by now, I'm not sure he even remembers what he wanted me to do. But, oh no, he is a Dominik and he thinks he can out-stubborn the world. Or at least his mother (just like his dad). What he does manage to accomplish to to royally tick me off. At Gulag Dominik, when a child is not performing in an optimum manner, said child gets a count of three. Rhiannon will begin moving at one. Jack never moves until at least two. Sometimes, he waits until I hit three. By then it's too late and, since he obviously isn't planning on executing his appointed task, he receives his punishment. Usually banishment to solitary (aka his room) so that he has a moment to contemplate the error of his ways. However, I expect what he contemplates is how to get around me next time. Little machiavellian. (Yes, that one comes from me.)

I heard from a friend from high school recently. In our younger years, we were inseparable. We had great times together. But once we got to college, our lives began to diverge. She lived life a bit more on the wild side than I did and married while still in college. We lost touch during her first marriage, partially because I didn't like the way she and her husband were living their lives and raising their son. That marriage ended and she is now remarried, to a doctor, no less, and much more settled. We have seen each other a few times through the years and, sadly, we have nothing to say to each other. All we really have to talk about is the past, as our presents have nothing in common. Or so it seems. It got me to thinking of all the friends I have had that were once so close. And now, we never talk to each other. My maid of honor in my wedding and I were friends since we were two. I haven't spoken to her in years, and she lives less than 20 miles from me. Sad, isn't it? Yet it happens to all of us. The people that meant everything to us when we were 18 we lose touch with. There are still a few that I see on a regular basis. Friends that I still seem to have some common ground with. I look through my high school year book and see "Friends Forever" written by lots of people, most of which I'm not sure I'd recognize if I passed them on the street now. No, really. I have been out of high school for 16 years now. When I went to my 15 year reunion last summer, there were some people there I didn't recognize any more. And they weren't spouses, they were classmates! Our class was only 168 people. But time has marched on and some are losing hair, some have lines on their faces, or gained or lost weight or grayed or . . . I don't know. They weren't the 18 year old I remembered, but, more like our parents. Scary. Have I become my mother? Me, who used to proudly proclaim "I am the one my parents warned me about"? (Actually, I think I bypassed my mother and have become my grandmother. My mom is a lot more easy going that I ever have been. But that's a whole 'nother story. Remind me to tell you sometime how my under 5 foot grandmother reduced my husband to a babbling idiot before he ever laid eyes on her . . .)

Well, I need to get my kids to bed and hope that Jack doesn't have more nightmares tonight. Last night and the Saturday night before, Jack was having a nightmare that had him so worked up that he wasn't really awake when I came in. He was punching the air and kicking and carrying on. I had to take him to out of the room to his dad so we could both hold him and wake him up out of it. Scary. I never have had experience with that kind of nightmare. It seems Jack bottles a lot of things up. Gee, wonder where that comes from. (Sayeth the woman who had an ulcer before she was 18.)

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Copyright © 2001 Ann Dominik. All rights reserved. Complaints about the technical details of this page can be directed to the abused geek who takes care of it for me, and is grossly underpaid for what he does, he thinks. No reproduction without written permission. The opinions and content of this site are my own, and not the responsibility of this site's host, my employer, my pets, my parents or anyone else you may care to blame. Please respect my opinions and I will do the same for you. I may on occasion publish e-mail to me; if you do not wish your mail to be published, please write CONFIDENTIAL or DO NOT PUBLISH at the top of the e-mail. If you would prefer to remain anonymous, please note that as well. If you're incapable of reasoned civilized discourse but feel compelled to correspond with me, I'll be happy to filter your mail out after a few choice comments regarding your ancestors, upbringing, and the likelihood of your family tree not