And I’m Tie Dyeing Things Now…


…so…there’s that.  Trying to sell them to make a little extra cash.  Apparently no one in this town shares my enthusiasm for swathing their tiny people creatures in the ultimate symbol of the counterculture movement.  Bummer.  Looks like my kids are going to be the local hippies.  That’s okay.  No, really.  It’s okay.  There are worse things in the world.  Botulism comes to mind…

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Dear Russian Porn Bot…


I get lots of junk email.  Most of it is worthless.  Some of it is slightly less worthless than others.  When spam takes the initiative to go that extra mile and make me laugh…well, those are the moments I live for.  So I thought I’d like to respond to this particular spamalicious little number.  I got it a couple of weeks ago and it is truly delightful.  Responding directly to spam is essentially the same thing as participating in a Pittsburgh Yellow Screwdriver (yep, it’s on Urban Dictionary, so it’s a real thing, which means you should definitely go look it up) with Henry VIII, Charlie Sheen, and every member of 2 Live Crew.  Uh-uh, brothers and sisters.  Not this girl.  I can’t afford to have my computer die of Blue Waffle Disease.  And no, I will not provide the link for that one.  You’re going to have to Scooby Doo that shit out on your own.  But I would advise against it if there are children, bosses, parents, clergymen, creepy IT guys stalking your browsing history, or any other beings present with whom you’d like to maintain a comfortable, not-at-all-awkward relationship.  Oh, and if you’re reading this blog with your clergyman present, please get in touch with me directly.  You sound like an unfailingly interesting person and I have just so, so many questions…

Okay.  So.  Responding directly to spam = computer dies of mystery cyber crotch disease.  Nah.

“But Reason,” I whine, “I have so many things to say in response to this superb epistle!”

“My child,” Reason responds, “that is what your blog is for.  Why don’t you totter on over there and play for a while.  You’re starting to get lazy with that thing anyway and you pestered me for months until I bought you one.”

Ahem.  That was weird.

So I decided to respond……anybody?  /cricket chirp/ Here.  For all of you random dozen people in the world who may one day wind up here and see how dedicated I am to fighting sleep and the urge to clean.  What’s in italics represents the verbatim contents of said spam.  I’ve chopped them up a bit, but I assumed that was okay because Russian Porn Bot didn’t seem to care whether it was even slightly akin to a paragraph in form or substance.  I decided I’d just Frankenstein the whole thing – cut it apart and sew it back together with my own responses sprinkled throughout, like cigarette ashes on the floor of a pub restroom in the shady section of Edinburgh.  Yeah, I don’t know.  I don’t have the energy for good similes tonight.

“Hello.”

“Hmm?”  I glance around my empty living room.  Nope, still just me.  Unless…”Did you mean my husband?  I mean if anyone in this house were interested in what I can already sense you’re peddling, it would be him.  But even he wouldn’t bother with your mess because he can download only slightly virusy porn from any number of sources less contrived, not to mention less likely to attempt to steal the password to his bank account, than this.”

I’am Lesya. Do you remember me?

“Aw, hell.”  I lower my coffee mug onto my knee and lean back in the chair.  “I’m not doing anything else.  Sure, honey.  You bet.  I remember you from that one time down on Sunset Boulevard.  Weren’t you that blonde chick Alejandro used as a mule to deliver the gram of black tar heroin to me?  Shit, I thought you died!  I mean, when that balloon broke open inside your rectum I just…well, you know.  I just assumed that you died in a puddle of your own vomit.  Like, next to a dumpster behind a tattoo shop owned by a Puerto Rican dude named Bruiser or something.  One of those deals.  Parents back in Nebraska all shuffling around main street tacking missing posters up on the phone poles.  That kind of thing.

Hmmm.  Okay, cool.  So what’s been up?  Hey, you still, uh…you still know how to get ahold of Alejandro?  Because I just got out of rehab and…”

We talk on Facebook.

“Right right right right right.  Facebook.  For sure.  Of course.  Just…you just looked like…uh, forget it, okay?  I’m fairly certain I’m still considered a person of interest with the LAPD in regards to that whole…incident…How the hell have you been, anyway, girl?  Damn.”

Oh ok, i’ll remind youI’m from Russian Federation,

“Naw, you know.  It’s just that I talk to a lot of girls on Facebook who wind up randomly emailing me at my private, unpublished email address.  Yep.  Just chattin’ up the lovely ladies of Russian Federation like it’s my job, baby.  Dang.  So, like…is that like, you know, The Federation that invaded Naboo?  Because those dudes were fuckin’ *harsh*.”
32 y.o.,

“Okay, Lesya.  Come on now, honey.  I’ve been playing with you.  You know, messing around, playing along.  But I’m going to have to get stern with you here, darling.  You are trying to get me to divulge any information I have that you might be able to use to do some nefarious thing or another.  You’ve got to con me, Lesya.  You’ve got to fool me!  And you’re creating this Lesya character who you think will cause me to drop my guard.  Wolves do the same thing, I know all about it.  But you’re already losing me, Lesya, and I’ll tell you why.  I’m going to have to be real honest here.  Your target is the type of redneck, wifebeater wearing, mullet having, ’73 Chevy pickup driving (and I’m talking painted primer gray with a can of spray paint and sporting a nice deer blood splash on both sides from running over dinner on the way home from the plant) sister swizzlin’, porn renting (renting, honey, not buying), sitting alone on a Friday night with a can of Bud in one hand and his deflated little member clutched tightly in the other, bitching to the empty house under his breath as he attempts to beat the poor thing into standing as proud and tall as it once did back when his truck was new and his wife’s tits weren’t swingin’ low, sweet chariots…You’re after a mouth breather, Lesya.  And a mouth breather has no interest in anything older than 25 or heavier than a tire iron.  If you want me to give you my bank account number and my social security number and send you eight grand to get here to the good ol’ USA, where the corn grows eternal and every public building has a vending machine full of hummingbird food in every color of the rainbow and every flavor under the sun…well, Lesya, you’d better tell me you just turned 18 and you can’t wait to become a woman, is all I’m saying.

I’m blond with green eyes,

Congratulations.  Would you like a cookie?  Well, you’re getting warmer.  I like the green eyes.  That’s a nice touch.  Most people would have gone for blue.  It’s a pretty safe bet.  There are whole categories dedicated to it on all the porn search engines.  And you know I know that.  But green is interesting.  You’re taking a gamble, of course.  Lots of fellas out there like their overseas slutty virgins looking like they just popped up out of the cotton field looking like a hot, sweaty, severely underdressed little ray of good old ‘Merican sunshine, and you risk being mistaken for some kind of Irish-American halfie with those emeralds.  But then, I do declare, Lesya with the green green eyes of Eryn herself, I wouldn’t min’ takin’ yeh fer a spin ’round the old potato patch, if yeh catch my meanin’.    Oh, fuck me I’m so fucking lame.”

my height is 176,and my weight is 57.

“Whoa.  Wait, did I read that…shit, girl!  The famine is over!  America sent sugar and bread and all of those fabulous things that are turning our entire populace into dimpled, sweaty bags of quivering human tallow as we speak!  And it’s no wonder you’re flirting with dudes on the internet.  You’re, like, eight times their height and you could hide behind a (really tall) fence post.  I mean, come on over here, girl!  Nothing else we’ll make a small fortune, between charging two dollars a ticket to see you at the county fair whatever they’re paying their freak show interviews at the Today Show these days.  Oh, Kathie Lee Gifford is going to hate you.  She’s been trying to get those stats since she went on the purified water and bones of tiny kittens diet back in ’83.”

I’am in your city now

“Ugh, why?  I mean communism ended in ’91.  Even if it hadn’t I think I’d still rather be in Russia than in this dumpy ass little backwater.  No, I know I would.  I’m not afraid to admit that I’d rather give it a shot eating grass and my neighbors than spend one more day in this cultural and intellectual cavity.  This place has been stewing in its own white, religious, xenophobic funk since before you guys even started your big famine.  Why, Lesya?  Why the hell are you in my…oh…you tricky!  I see what you’re doing.  This isn’t a city.  You would know that if you were really here.  Which you’re NOT!  Haha, buhhhhhhhhsted!”

and i’m looking for good guy to spent one week together.

“Well I hear ya there, sister.  Aren’t we all.  A week’s about all I can take of one too, no matter how good he is.”

Nothing serious in relations, but i want to spend night in the men’s bed.

“Then I got some good news for ya, sugar, because spending the night in a man’s bed ain’t no big thing over here anymore either.”

I think you understand me 🙂

“Yeah, Lesya.  I get ya.  😉  Wink wink.  Tee hee.  Giggle giggle.”  *obnoxiously loud stage whisper* “She means sex.”  Cue entire audience of twelve-year-olds dissolving into little puddles of pee from laughing so hard.  “Listen, Lesya, from one woman to another – and I know you’re just a fictional character but I’ve started to like you and I feel I need to let you know that you don’t have to do this.  ROXANNE!   No, I mean you don’t have to be all coy and cutesy.  No, you still totally have to be a prostitute because look at you.  You can’t even spell or properly compose a complete sentence.  You’re going to have to hook until you die of crotch rot at the age of “32.”  But the innocent cutesy nonsense…I mean, it’s a nice touch and all but any dude who’s on board with you at this point doesn’t care whether you’re naughty or nice.  You lost him at 18 (because I know you went back up there and took that 32 year-old business out of there).  The rest is just a game to weed out the either obscenely naive or the obscenely desperate.  Either way…you can drop it.”  😉

I make i little page with more information about me with my photos, becouse a lot of websites blocked at my work.

“Alright.  I’m getting bored.  It’s almost time for a middle of the night poop and formula festival with Thing 1 and I need to have time to pee before we commence.”

If you would like to meet me, you can visit my page here http://menelay.com.

“Oh, fuck.  I’m in the area of…Do you mean meet you, or “meat” you?  Haha.  Get it?  Because “meat” is a euphemism for…yeah.  I know.  You have no idea what euphemism means.  Rolling forward.”

Just search for my ID, I’m sweetheart_fairy.

“See, you know what you’re doing.  You’ve got the hair and the eyes and the blatant invitation to engage in prostitution with what basically equates to a legally usable body with the mind and mannerisms of a twelve-year-old, the better to remind him of the little sister that no woman could ever live up to.  You’ll do fine over here.  Hell, if you are in my “city” right now you might want to just go stand on the corner in front of CVS.  You’ll have enough money for a first class ticket to anywhere else in a night or two (it’s not that there aren’t proportionally a lot of men or women of that persuasion, only that the population is embarassingly low.  And trust me, that’s a golden ticket in this town, girlie.  I know lots of people who would do anything for one.  Well, just about anything.”

You should sign up on this site,

“…So that I can continue to send you spam, as well as sell your information to other spammers.”

but it’s free.

“So that makes it okay.”

You can message me on this site.

“Oh, goody goody gumdrops and strawberry sundaes with cherry flavored anal beads on top!  Thank you so much!  Now, Lesya.  Now that you’ve given me permission to send you a message on your fraudulent digital porno rag’s social component, I can die a happy girl.”

Hope, you’ll write me!

“Really?  Wait, who is Hope?  Oh…Oh, I see.  You don’t know how to use a comma and inadvertently changed the meaning of your entire sentence.  Okay, Lesya.  I think we’re done here.  You go run on back to Russia and wait for some poor sucker fish to bite.  Shouldn’t be long.  From what I understand America is the third best fishing hole in the world, if that’s the kind of fish you’re after.  As for myself, I’m more of a Salmon fan.  Think maybe I ought to start fishing for my own BC.  Peace.”

The Girls


Hunter Thompson’s Ghost is Riding My Consciousness Wagon…


Okie dokie, folks.  We’ve just crossed the border from reason and logic to the swarthy land of full-on crazy sauce.  My left eye and both ears are currently hallucinating.  Everything looks like it’s on a slant, I’m seeing things that I know were here earlier – happily obeying the iron rule of gravity – floating inches above and to the side of where they belong.  Everything in front of me looks like that weird reality you accept when you take the 3D glasses from the man at the window and shuffle into a dark corner of the theater.  Yes.  There are shadow people.  All up in my business.  And even if I close my eyes the baby monitor, glowing that half-breed shade of pondwater green/almost-dead-goldenrod, streams a constant report of static-crumpled giggles, singing, chirps, conversations from three tables over in a crowded tea house (sliverware tinkling), whimpers, hisses, clicks, hiccups and – perhaps most disturbingly – dragging noises.

Although I’ve ingested nothing fun aside from some fajita chicken and the effigy of a chubby, jolly wee elf, whose chocolate innards pleased me intensely, I have only just understood what Hunter S. Thompson meant by “bad vibes, fear and loathing.”  Ugh.  I really want to go get my husband because, although sensation reports that reality has jumped ship, I know that he’s only a set of stairs away and that he would give me that pitying, irritated, bleary-eyed one-in-the-morning look and tell me to go to bed.  I could close my eyes and wait for whatever rift in the space-time continuum has been created to sew itself back up.  But I can’t bring myself to do that because I’m afraid of what I’ll see if I stand up and go around the corner into the dining room, which offers access to the aforementioned stairs.

Why?  Why, for the love of all that’s good and holy won’t Harper wake up screaming?  She always wakes up screaming about this time of night.  If she would wake up screaming, then my husband would wake up and I could slink upstairs secure in the knowledge that if I have melted into some some horrible and completely unintended bad trip, my husband will be able to pull me safely from the purple alligator-filled quicksand.  Won’t he?

I’ve always found Schizophrenia to be the most fascinating of psychological disorders.  Fascinating because it is terrifying.  To me, the thought of having no way to distinguish between reality and hallucination would be the absolute measure of terror.  And I’m being one hundred percent serious when I say that I can hearwhat I believe to be an unknown song by The Eagles very clearly through the white noise in this baby monitor.  This thing is evil.  Also, I would put my right hand on the bible and swear to you that I hear the floor above me creaking as if my husband is at the bassinet.  But not an earthly creature stirring.

I know that it’s a weird combination of lack of proper sleep, a day spent far more in the sun than others, matrixing sounds out of white noise, the chorioretinopathy in my left eye coupled with the almost complete shadow of my living room.  But I just heard someone burp into the monitor and my brain is working double time to try and convince me that the armchair across the room has turned itself to face me and is gently rocking itself, waiting patiently for me to get up.  And for what I care not to know.

Wow.  I really don’t understand how anyone could voluntarily do this to themselves.  Timothy Leary, you were one ballsy character because if this were to be a common occurence I think I would certainly just jump off a bridge.  Not sure how tonight is going to end up.  I think it’s time to turn on the television and wait (pray) for one of my children to wake up and, in so doing, wake my husband up, so that I can reconnect with reality.

Strange, strange things here tonight.

A Letter to My Husband, Who I Love, but Who I Hope I Like More Tomorrow


I can remember three separate occasions on which I’ve cried openly in front of my father since learning the shame inherent in crying openly.

The first was the night my mother left us.  I was fifteen, and he sat beside me in my bedroom while I sobbed into my pillow, hiding my face because I was so embarrassed and confused.  He stroked my hair, patted my back, and asked me if I wanted to go to my grandmother’s house for the night.  I told him no.  I never told him it was because I didn’t want to be the second woman to leave him that day.

The second was the night before I went to jail.  I was twenty-one, and he drove me from his house, where I’d gone to visit one last time, to my mother’s house, where I would spend the night before I had to turn myself in the next morning.  He told me that we all had to face consequences and that everything would work itself out.  It was only thirty days I had to spend away, but that night in the glow of the dash lights it felt like thirty years.  I faced the window and pressed my lips together tight, but the pitch of my voice gave me away.  I told him I was crying because I didn’t want to go to jail.  I didn’t tell him that it was really because I was so embarrassed for having let him down, and disappointed in myself for having to leave him.

The third was tonight, when you cut him off in the middle of his sentence.  He was telling me about his own memories of being my age.  The sun had just gone down and the overwhelming humidity of the day had finally broken and I was rocking in my rocking chair and listening to him and thinking how unusual – but how thoroughly nice – it was to have him visit and tell stories and just be with me.  I know you don’t know this, because you didn’t take the time to stop and wait for my attention.  You burst through the screen door with that wild, pissed off look I’ve gotten so familiar with, and you didn’t yell, but you hissed, “I can take this anymore.  They’re both fucking crying and I don’t know what to do.”  Then you stormed back inside to sulk and pout.  I’ll bet I know another thing you didn’t know.  I’ll bet you didn’t know that I’d been listening on the monitor and they’d been crying for under two full minutes.

Tonight is the last night I cry in front of my father over you.  Tonight, I’m going to let you deal with them the way you let me deal with them for the first three weeks of their lives:  all alone.  All those nights that I dealt with two howling newborns completely independently because my husband “needed his sleep for work.”  All those nights, frustrated and bewildered and completely forbidden to call you downstairs from your air conditioned bedroom to help me, or just to console me while I attempted to console them.  I had no idea what to do with them.  I had no idea what to do with myself all those mornings afterward, when I’d had no sleep and my breasts ached and bled from my failure at breastfeeding, which mirrored what I considered my horrible failure at motherhood, and when no one was coming to relieve me of any of it – not for a shower, not to go to the bathroom, not to sit quietly in another room or have a bite to eat – for hours.  And I figured it out because you gave me no other option.  And I’m a god damned good mother for it now, so it’s time you became a god damned good father.

I’ll be back tomorrow.  Until then, it’s up to you to figure it out.  If I can do it, so can you.

A Whole God Damned Month…


…has gone by since the day I had my abdomen cut open and two human beings ripped from my loins, as it were.  Couple of little Macduffs, anyway.  I can only hope that they’ll one day have a hand in unseating a possibly schizophrenic Scottish king.  *sigh*

Halloween is this family’s favorite holiday.  Of course it is.  Just look at us.  I’ve already got two costume ideas:

1) Identical Macduffs.  No one needs to know they’re girls.  No one can tell unless they’re dressed in pink anyway.  And what’s that about?  Just because one of them isn’t dressed in pink while the other one is, people just assume that one is a boy.  Gender stereotype much?  Kidding.  But for real…

2) The twins from The Shining.  I’ve already warned my friend Danny that I’m going to send them over to stand in front of his house on random days at random times and invite him to “come play with us, Danny.  For ever, and ever, and ever.”

The One About Poop


I’ve been posting all of the not-so-nice moments of parenthood and I sound like a Whiny McWhinerson. Oooh, speaking of whine which -> wine, I have a bottle in the fridge now that I’ve given up attempting to be Mother Superior and breastfeed twins. I know the social etiquette about drinking before five p.m., but what about drinking before five a.m.?

For the past two nights I’ve gotten these girls down at eight in the evening and they’ve not woken up until three in the morning. I think someone may be coating their bottles with Robitussin. And I love that person. But Thursday night was a bad deal all around. Harper was screaming bloody murder and absolutely refused to be consoled. Neither bottle nor poop cleanup nor dark of night could quiet the noise and I love her, dearly and with all of my wasted heart, but her cries can be mind-numbing and infuriating at the same time when one cannot puzzle out what it is that she wants.

Turns out what she wanted was to poop. Poor thing was constipated all that day, that night, and most of Friday. And let me tell you, after a quick convo with the pediatrician after discovering what can only be described as a poo cork on a Friday afternoon diaper change, the last thing you want is for your child to become constipated. Because what they want you to do before you resort to apple juice or Karo syrup…what they want you to do to your infant daughter with the thermometer and the Vaseline and the warm bath…well, it just seems as though it may border on wildly inappropriate and I really didn’t want to do it. I’m thanking all that’s holy that the warm bath was all we needed, and that the subsequent daily dose of apple juice has realigned the planets and kept Chaos at bay. They say that an apple a day keeps the doctor away. Well, apparently it keeps the rectal thermometer away as well, so I’m now the biggest fan of apples in the history of apple fans, I do declare.

My brother in law has really taken to these girls, and fawns over them and buys them presents as though they are famous socialites or something. The one thing he just doesn’t have the stomach for – bless his heart – is poop. He’s always here helping and playing with them but when he opens a diaper to find that they’ve cooked him a treasure he hands them off to us. Even the talk of poop brings a reflexive grimace to his face. I’ve assured him that having children throws one headlong into a necessary comfort with poop and pee and puke and all of the important “p” words, really. One month ago I would have needed an entire Hazmat scrub-down had I found myself with poop on my finger or puke between my breasts. Now here I am, having had a close encounter of every kind with pretty much every mucousy, smelly, biohazardy bodily fluid an infant girl can produce and standing here to tell the tale.

It’s amazing how comfortable one gets with children – and with all of their byproducts – when one is given the task of keeping one of the little creatures alive. It’s funny…the thought of handling another person’s baby still makes me cringe with discomfort, but I’ve gotten comfortable swinging mine around like those crazy ass mother apes you see on the Discovery channel.

Random note to close on: I’m craving cigarettes and chocolate soft serve ice cream like it’s my job. The ice cream I get. Ice cream is delicious. But I’ve not had a cigarette since day three of my honeymoon. The day I discovered that I was pregnant. The smell of cigarette smoke now turns my stomach. Yet all I can think about right now is rocking on my porch with a Camel Crush. What is wrong with me?