Birthday Massage

My mom bought me a massage for my birthday. I went last night and laid on a table for 1.5 hours. It felt so good, hurt so good, and was just almost long enough. I do not know though, that any time is long enough when you are having someone rub your body all over. She focused on my skull, my neck, and shoulder as that is where my stress is carried. She worked over and over once she found a tight spot until it was totally relaxed. It hurt! I just took deep breaths and let it out. She also used Reiki on me. It was warm and buzzy, or was that the smoke?
I do not get massages often enough. Here are my issues: underwear or no underwear. I went with no underwear, but if I had my period I would have worn them. Dirty feet: I have concrete floors, my feet are dirty the minute I walk out of my bedroom. They are also really calloused from this even though I scrub them everyday. She did not rub my feet, was that why? Dirty body: I knew I was going to get greasy and would need a shower afterwards, so I did not shower before hand. She wanted to work under my arms to loosen up my neck and shoulders, gross, but she did it anyway. Hairy legs: I have gotten so good at being lazy that I know never remember to shave, the therapist was kind enough not to say anything though. The worst part was: gas..... I have awful gas right now. I love it, it smells so rich, but Byron says it makes him want to throw up (makes me like it more). I did not want to fart while getting my massage but three, yes, three times, one hit my digestive tract and tried to push itself out. Here is was, comfortable, being rubbed, all limp, and then whammo, I would tense up like a coil and try to pinch the fart off. Of course, she knew what I was doing, unless I had some sort of spastic disorder. How is a person supposed to react in that situation, just let it fly. It makes sense the more relaxed you are, the more RELAXED you are. I did not let it ruin my time there, but I did think about it some. I still feel really good and relaxed today. I think that is better than therapy, just get a massage like that once a week instead and you will not give a shit what is going on in your life.

Resolve to Resolve

OK.....
So far so good my New Year's resolution is still intact.
I resolve to be dirtier.
I resolve to be lazier.
This is my re commitment for March.

HOE 301 AKA Parenting a Six Year Old

For those of you who do not remember HOE class stands for Hell on Earth.
Man, some days are ended with me thinking I am so over being a parent. Right now the days have been beginning that way. I can not believe I have 18 more years of this. By them time i have breakfast on I am ready to beat both kids and run back to my room and bury my head under the pillow. How am I supposed to get them to stop fighting? How am I supposed to get Connor to put more effort into school, be respectful, not argue, listen and do what he is asked. I have been in strict parent mode for about three weeks now and it is wearing on me. Every day I get asked "Mom, why are you so mean?" I always have the same answer, it is "It is not my job to be nice to you Connor. It is my job to raise you to be a good person, so sometimes you do not like what I do, and sometimes I will need to be mean." Geez, easy enough to understand. I wish I could see the end of the attitude somewhere in sight. I mean the kid has gone to bed early every night for about 2 weeks. Is it working? What else would? He is pretty much down to bare minimum now, how much more can get taken away, the privileges are running out. In order for me to recoup from this grueling time in my parental history I am going to need way more than an afternoon off. I think I am ready for about 2 weeks in a hotel room, completely alone. I could read books, magazines, watch movies, eat sitting down, take a bath, and NEVER have to wipe any ones butt but my own (that is kind of my fault though because I did not want to clean shit out of underwear, so I just kept wiping Connor and now he thinks he can not do it, he will not even poop at school if I am not there he thinks his butt will itch).I am hoping that my old theory of positive and negative phases of childhood last for six weeks. So we only have at the most three more weeks of it and then because he is so crappy right now, he will move into a happy cooperative child! I can do anything for three weeks, but the weeks being days is another story. We get old so fast before we even feel it.

Privilege of Being

by Robert Hass

Many are making love, up above, the angels
on the unshaken ether and crystal of human longing
are braiding one another's hair, which is strawberry blond
and the texture of cold rivers. They glance
down from time to time at the awkward ecstasy--
it must look to them like featherless birds
splashing in the spring puddle of a bed
and then one woman, she is about to come,
peels back the man's shut eyelids and says
look at me, and he does. Or is it the man
tugging the curtain rope in that dark theater?
Anyway, they do, they look at each other
two beings with evolved eyes, rapacious
startled, connected at the belly in an unbelievable sweet
lubricious glue, stare at each other,
and the angel are desolate. they hate it. The shudder pathetically
like lithographs of Victorian beggars
with perfect features and alabaster skin hawking rags
in the lewd alleys of the novel.
All of creation is offended by this distress.
it is like the keening sound the moon makes sometimes,
rising. The lovers especially can not bear it,
it fills them with unspeakable sadness, so that
they close their eyes and hold each other, each
feeling the mortal singularity of the body
they have enchanted out of death for an hour or so,
and one day, running at sunset, the woman says to the man,
I woke up feeling so sad this morning because I realized
that you could not, as much as I love you,
dear heart, cure my loneliness,
wherewith she touched his cheek to reassure him
that she did not mean to hurt him with this truth,
And the man is not hurt exactly,
he understands that life has limits, that people
die young, fail at love,
fail of their ambitions. He runs beside her, he thinks
of the sadness they have gasped and crooned their way out of
coming, clutching each other with old, invented
forms of grace and clumsy gratitude, ready
to be alone again, or dissatisfied, or merely
companionable like the couples on the summer beach
reading magazine articles about intimacy between the sexes
to themselves, and to each other
an to the immense, illiterate, consoling angels.