tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70314612024-03-07T18:34:44.317-08:00NeuroticFitchMomCrazy in MississippiTiffany Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14530816250189123691noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7031461.post-6981328876529090512012-03-21T11:22:00.000-07:002012-03-21T11:22:23.574-07:00My Year of Change<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">2012, my year of change. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">I should have been careful what I wished for. Good change, forward momentum, that sort. Not world crashing down, deep purpled anger, life perspective twisting ugliness. </span><span style="font-family: Courier New;">37 1/2 years of being able to find the good in most anything washed away in one weekend. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New;">I've held off writing because I had nothing good, nothing pretty, nothing funny to say. </span><span style="font-family: Courier New;">Who would want to read this morose, self serving crap? Thus the new blog with the hope that I can write and perhaps get outside of myself, this circumstance. For even a moment.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">I'm being purposefully vague. It doesn't matter really, does it? I'm not yet ready to share with anyone what I consider a deep humiliation. An accounting of self. A verification of all the bad things I've ever felt, or said about myself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New;">My friend Amy says I should. That it is not talked about outloud enough. That people need to hear and that I would be a good messenger. But at this point, I care too much about what everyone thinks. I can only imagine the whispers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New;">Maybe in the future.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New;">For now, hello. Hello to a new day where I try to move forward. I try to remember what I love about life. About myself. </span>Tiffany Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14530816250189123691noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7031461.post-35734428271769374482012-03-07T08:10:00.000-08:002012-03-07T08:10:33.484-08:00Roller Girl“Mama, you’re way too old,” Henry said as I laced up my skates. But he didn’t know I held my own with Melanie Whitehead, 1985 Euless Skate-N-Play Roller Skating queen in her Crayola #108, sky blue roller girl costume and her personally owned white lace-up skates. <br />
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She could twist and twirl or skate backwards around the whole rink twice to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I_izvAbhExY" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"><span style="color: #4040ff;">Stayin’ Alive </span></a>replete with disco moves, but I was fast. <br />
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Which is why 20 plus years later, I ignored him. I zoomed past the little children all along the edges of the rink including my own. Their pudgy fingers sealed in a death grip to the rail, staring at me as I passed. <br />
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“If you put one foot in front of the other when yer’ turnin’ you’ll have more balance,” a balding, elderly man in sweatpants called to me as he glided by backwards.<br />
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I was the last person in attendance who needed his skating tips but I thought I should be nice. Who knew, one day I might decide hair pulling and fist fights were my leisure activity of choice, sign up for <a href="http://www.txrd.com/" rel="nofollow"><span style="color: #4040ff;">roller derby </span></a>and suddenly find myself in great need of his sage advice.<br />
<br />
So I smiled and ignored him too.<br />
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“Mama, how’re you doing that?” Henry yelled at me over <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7cPIT_T3mYU" rel="nofollow"><span style="color: #4040ff;">Donna Summer</span></a>, entirely impressed with my mad skating skills.<br />
<br />
“Because I rock.”<br />
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And I did. At least for a few minutes, whirling around the rink waving at the poor children still barely scooting along between falls, and their not brave enough to venture out parents. These same parents who watched like vultures wanting to feed on my broken carcass from the sidelines and prayed for one of their children to fall in my path.<br />
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“This is great, we should do this every weekend,” I shouted to Hannah who could now let go of the wall for 2 second increments. She looked to be having slightly less fun than I was but smiled in agreement anyway. <br />
<br />
Only 11 dollars for five hours of reverting back to childhood complete with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=otCpCn0l4Wo&ob=av2e" rel="nofollow"><span style="color: #4040ff;">MC Hammer </span></a>blaring over the speakers and only missing Melanie Whitehead in her sequined <br />
glory, how had I ever passed this up?<br />
<br />
At least until they played the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YfhTKx43ezU" rel="nofollow"><span style="color: #4040ff;">Macarena</span></a>. They had skipped the limbo and the hokey pokey but some genius thought surely children could Macarena one handed. <br />
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And they could, with some coaxing. My own coaxing because didn’t I know everything after one hour of skating in 23 years.<br />
<br />
So I suppose it was inevitable. The last wiggle of my hips enough to throw off my moment of grace. My arms pin-wheeling, the floor looming entirely too close to my ancient and fragile bones. The final nail in my, for God sakes stupid woman no one should try to be cute over the age of 18, coffin as I slammed my knee into the only a little more forgiving than myself floor.<br />
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The rink held its collective breath, perhaps waiting for my defeated scream of agony. I did not wail. A girl can flounder around on the floor with a bit of pride.<br />
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I really wanted to though. Big fat, lusty cries of ‘I broke my knee’ like I hadn’t sung since I was at least 12. Far too long if you ask me.<br />
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But I only thought it. Beads of sweat dripping over my carefully held together smile as I pictured myself rolling around on the floor wailing.<br />
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I wasn’t going to let them win. Not my kids, who had somehow decided 37 was old or the other parents who had forgotten what it feels like to fly.<br />
<br />
I unlaced the skates and pulled them off. Gritting my teeth to haul myself from the floor without groaning. I prayed to the gods of self humiliation that I would not fall as I limped off. Surely once was enough for the day.<br />
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“That was some kind of fall, Mama. I’d be crying,” Henry said, helping me to a bench.<br />
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“Nah,” I grunted, plopping myself down and glaring across the room at the other parents, who quickly turned away.<br />
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“Think you could teach me,” he asked. “But you should probably get some knee pads…and maybe a helmet.”Tiffany Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14530816250189123691noreply@blogger.com0Hurst, TX, USA32.8234621 -97.17056780000001532.7809521 -97.208132800000016 32.8659721 -97.133002800000014tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7031461.post-66063187400926986752009-05-12T06:30:00.000-07:002009-05-12T06:31:28.350-07:00My blogIs located on xanga. Feel free to visit :))<br /><br /><a href="http://www.xanga.com/neuroticfitchmom">http://www.xanga.com/neuroticfitchmom</a>Tiffany Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14530816250189123691noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7031461.post-82702726228327493362007-04-30T06:45:00.001-07:002007-04-30T06:45:55.811-07:00NormalI just posted a new blog on xanga. You can now comment there and it will link back to a blog anywhere so come visit. :) <a href="http://www.xanga.com/neuroticfitchmom">http://www.xanga.com/neuroticfitchmom</a>Tiffany Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14530816250189123691noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7031461.post-77667810606855458522007-04-09T06:19:00.000-07:002007-04-09T06:20:01.172-07:00The RoadFor all its bleakness and paranoia inducing pages, The Road has a deeper message to convey to the reader. Set in an unknown time, somewhere in America, a father and his son journey to survive in a post apocalypse world. <br /><br />Their mission is to make it to The Coast, starving in a bleak landscape of people eating marauders, burned out buildings, dead bodies and falling trees. <br /><br />A harsh tale of survival, of a father's love for his child, and small kindness.<br /><br />McCarthy managed to chew me up and spit me out in a span of two hours. Several times I thought I wouldn't finish as Bill played Monopoly with the children. One of my greatest fears, something happening to the world and trying to survive with my children. Dear Lord, please let them be grown. Feeling their desperation, each bite of Easter dinner, guilt filled. But finish I did and thought about it all evening. And considered what he was trying to say.<br /><br />Yes, I think it was some sort of warning on where we could end up. If we don't straigten up, and start being nice. But I also think, it was to remind us, in a way we could relate to that people are starving now. That people are just trying to survive with their children now. In landscapes, that are extreme in their own ways. Where people kill you because you aren't their race, their tribe, their religion. In stupid wars. Just because they can. <br /><br />It really was good. And I'm really glad I read it. I'd love to know what meaning it gave you.Tiffany Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14530816250189123691noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7031461.post-46053777904912731842007-04-04T10:57:00.000-07:002007-04-04T11:00:01.258-07:00Sliding Away Like a Popsicle on a Hot, Summer DayCrossposted from my <a href="http://www.xanga.com/neuroticfitchmom">main blog</a><br /><br />I counted down the months today. April, May, June, July. Only four... my stomach twisting into a tight knot of regret. I wish I hadn't counted.<br /><br />"How long now Mama," she's asked for the last year. I replied with a made up number, not wanting to think of it. <br /><br />Until she caught on and I was forced to face the reality.<br /><br />11 years prior, I'd started wistfully counting, tacking on more years with each child I birthed. The years until school, until my house was quiet and I could actually think. The children running wild through the house; screaming, playing, painting my walls KoolAid red, I longed for even one moment of silence.<br /><br />But somewhere along the way I stepped back, as each one went off in turn, the years sliding away like a Popsicle on a hot, summer day. And wished for them back. The late nights staring into wide eyes, the bumps and bruises of one, the tantrums of independence at two, the endless hugs and kisses. Me their entire world.<br /><br />The guilt overpowering some days, that maybe I'd parented better with my last two. The first two, only three days shy of a year apart, a time of survival. Feeling my way around like a newborn kitten until the third was born and I felt more secure. By number four I'd relaxed into parenting and was blessed with two years alone with her as the others tromped off to school.<br />And here I am now, four months away, wishing I could roll back time.<br /><br />"Aren't you excited?" Well meaning people ask me, more and more frequently.<br /><br />And I find that I'm not. She's supposed to be my little one, my baby. And somehow she's grown tall and her features are that of a girl.<br /><br />She thinks thoughts I don't know. Soon enough she'll look at me with exasperation like my older daughter and I'll be left waiting for those fleeting moments of being let in on her world.<br /><br />She's ready to fly away, all of five, as her brothers and sister have done before her. I see her watching the other children at the school, reaching out to them. I assess the teachers who will care for my baby and pray they aren't mean. I'm clinging to these last days.<br /><br />I'll adjust,I'm sure, as I've done before. Writing and thinking, in a silence, that on some days will remind me more of them, than the loudest noise ever will. I probably will enjoy it and find a new place, a new definition of me without a shadow in my image, following along behind. But I'll stop and listen and grab each moment, remembering this counting and how the years pass...so quickly.Tiffany Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14530816250189123691noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7031461.post-77310606589372341092007-03-22T10:55:00.000-07:002007-03-22T10:57:50.455-07:00Flat Faced Four Eyed FreakMirrored on <a href="http://www.xanga.com/neuroticfitchmom">my xanga</a> with pictures<br /><br />"Your face is so flat," she'd whisper under her breath, when the teacher wasn't looking.<br /><br />The leader of a gang of pretty, privileged girls with perfectly coifed hair, plastered on Guess jeans, and the latest Swatch watch.<br /><br />"And she's practically blind. Look how thick her glasses are," the other would twitter, just loud enough for me to hear.<br /><br />My pale skin betraying me with a brilliant shade of red, to match my hair. Mortified, I'd count the minutes until the school day was over and I could return to my safe little nest.<br /><br />"Just ignore them," my mom counseled me. "They're just jealous."<br /><br />Of what, I couldn't see. Out of place in my own skin, I began second guessing every choice for it's coolness factor. My previously high self esteem spiraling into nothing.<br /><br />I permed my hair, everyone was doing it. It fried and the chopped up result resembled Billy Ray Cyrus' poodle.<br /><br />"Love the hair," she yelled out the next day. I considered buying a wig.<br /><br />I bought the Guess jeans, the Coca Cola shirts, the Swatch watch, and the Converse tennis shoes. And felt like an imposter.<br /><br />"Isn't that cute. She's trying to look like us."<br /><br />I didn't want to...really. I wanted to blend in, just enough, so they wouldn't notice.<br /><br />My friends didn't get it.<br /><br />"They only think they're cute. They look stupid. I like your leopard and fluorescent dress and Madonna bracelets. Do you think your mom would perm my hair?"<br /><br />I tried a color rinse, so it wouldn't stand out, only to turn it slightly purple.<br /><br />"Copper Top," they'd squeal.<br /><br />The bangs, in 7th grade, the last ditch effort. They stood six inches high and were plastered with enough hair spray to catch fire within a half mile from a flame.<br /><br />Soon enough, my whole brigade had them too and the other crowd had grown their's out.<br /><br />So, I gave up. Resigned myself to being queen of the band nerds, which suited me fine.<br /><br />Twenty years later, they've probably forgotten me and their careless words. I've mostly forgotten them. Except for those rare occasions someone is standing next to me and I find my hand snaking up, to hide my profile or the thickness of my glasses. And I remember.<br /><br />And I hope they got fat.Tiffany Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14530816250189123691noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7031461.post-39581524651205613062007-03-17T10:51:00.000-07:002007-03-17T11:25:44.508-07:00The Best Animal in the ZooMirrored from my xanga site, <a href="http://www.xanga.com/neuroticfitchmom">here</a>. It has pictures which I would put here if I could figure out how to do that, or change the banner, design, etc... I suck<br /><br /><br />“Do we have to go Mama? The zoo's boring,” my daughter whined when I informed her of our plans for the day.<br /><br />“It'll be fun,” I told her remembering a trip to the zoo with my mom and friends, Madonna and Michael Jackson serenading the animals with the boom box we carried.<br /><br />They went grudgingly, entirely too cool for our bunch. Until they discovered the best animal at the zoo, pre-teen boys.<br /><br />"That boy back there liked us Mama! His Mama was saying that was a red fox and he went on and on about how it was half panda or something, trying to impress us. And he looked right at me."<br /><br />"I think he was looking at me," her friend replied. "And he keeps flinging his hair. JUST LIKE JESSE."<br /><br />"He's sooooooooooo cute," they squealed.<br /><br />"I'm sure he thought all of you were cute," I told them, hoping they'd hush, for just a moment.<br /><br />I searched with my eyes around the scores of strollers clogging the walkway for little boys. I'd taken to counting them out 1 through 9 at least 60 times an hour after finding the 13 year old, brother of squealing girl three, chasing the peacock that roams free throughout the zoo and trying to climb in the elephant's enclosure.<br /><br />"Stay by me. No running ahead. Find your buddy," I hollered until my voice was hoarse.<br /><br />"Where'd he go?" The girls asked, having lost track of their prey while relating his every perfectly divine quality to me.<br /><br />And like animals stampeding, they followed.<br /><br />"Boys don't like to be chased," I called after them, thinking about my own pre-teen boy and his pre-teen friends. They are more horrified by girl's stares than anything else.<br /><br />But considering, that in the 7th grade, my 12 year old stalker in the making self, forced my mother to drive by Bryan Mitchell's house at least once a day and cried copious tears and listened to Aerosmith's Angel 750 times when he didn't even speak to me at the Valentine's Dance, I didn't have much room to talk.<br /><br />So I let them lead the way. At the next exhibit, they jostled one another around, vying for the coveted spot next to him in front of the boa constrictor. By the fifth exhibit, he'd blocked himself between his parents, ignoring them with a look of abject horror in his eyes.<br /><br />“I think he might be cuter than Chase,” one of the girl's said. Chase being the A list boy, at their school, since THIRD grade. “And maybe even Jesse.” Jesse McCartney, who is the CUTEST famous person EVER, at least according to them.<br /><br />“No one's cuter than Chase or Jesse,” Georgie mulled. “He can be number three. We need to make up a name for him.”<br /><br />“How about Jeff,” one of the girls suggested.<br /><br />“My first boyfriend was named Jeff,” I informed them, trying to hear over the boys bird calls.<br /><br />“Make that Josh,” my daughter replied.<br /><br />Two hours later, squeezed together in the zoo's train seat, I snapped a picture for them to fawn over. Hustling everyone to the car as soon as it was over.<br /><br />They positioned themselves at the windows, rolling them down and hanging out as far as I would allow, the perfect music blasting from the radio.<br /><br />“Bye cute tall boy with the blond hair,” one of them screeched as they all waved, flinging themselves back inside in a fit of giggles.<br /><br />“His hair was brown dummy,” a voice chided. And I smiled.<br /><br />“Mama, that was the best zoo trip EVER.”Tiffany Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14530816250189123691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7031461.post-1134422758844174322005-12-12T13:25:00.000-08:002005-12-12T13:25:58.856-08:00Life Goes OnThe Bake Sale Nazi is on a rampage and my mother-in-law is dying. <br /><br />The neighbor tells me her children, "cried from Biloxi to Hattiesburg. They didn't understand why we couldn't stay. They ran from room to room touching the two by fours. This is my room. This is Mama's."<br /><br />I never understood what people meant by life goes on. I'd heard it said by many people, in many ways.<br /><br />"I lost my job but life goes on. I've got to keep going and not look back." <br /><br />"The dog got run over by a tractor. Hunting season is comin' up soon. Better get me a new dog. Life goes on, ya know."<br /><br />"My mother is dying. Isn't it funny how life goes on?"<br /><br />The sun keeps shining, the children keep playing, the deadlines don't go away, the Bake Sale Nazi insists you be at the Bake Sale the entire 12 hours that it is going on.<br /><br />Your children must go to school. You must make money to pay the rent. You have to get out of bed. <br /><br />"Call me tonight," she calls out to me as her car rolls by in the carpool line. "You need to add the times we need help to the Bake Sale reminder handout."<br /><br />"Could she make it more difficult," I say under my breath. I want to scream, "They can bring booger muffins for all I care." But I don't, because it is not her fault. <br /><br />"Park over there, Daddy!" I hear her yell from 6 cars back. Daddy is half deaf, pointing the munchkin to the bathroom when she asks for an apple, the first time I went over to discuss the bake sale. <br /><br />Daddy helps her into her wheelchair, she leans so far forward, as he pushes her towards me at my post, that I hope she doesn't fall out in the middle of the carpool lane.<br /><br />"That bake sale is in one week," she tells me, pointing her finger, somewhere around my upper thigh. "And I haven't heard a thing from you."<br /><br />I listen, committing to nothing. <br /><br />"Gotta love the bake sale lady. She sure has definite ideas." The school secretary informed me a week earlier. <br /><br />"We need signage, new tablecloths. Fred's has some cute ones that are cheap. Labels for the baked goods. You'll probably have to be there all day Wednesday as well to receive the stuff." <br /><br />I know what she meant now. <br /><br />How do I tell her that explaining, why the man on the bicycle is wearing a neon orange shirt and pants, with his gut hanging out in between, feels like too much right now. <br /><br />Three school parties and a beginner violin concert on Friday.<br /><br />A bake sale on Thursday.<br /><br />Life goes on and my mother-in-law is dying.Tiffany Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14530816250189123691noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7031461.post-1134400171164587322005-12-12T07:08:00.000-08:002005-12-12T07:09:31.176-08:00Thanks for the memories!This came from <a href="http://writesforchocolate.blogspot.com/" target="_new">Writes For Chocolate</a> ... Let's see how creative y'all are!<br /><br />Please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL MEMORY OF YOU AND ME. It can be anything you want–good or bad–BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE. When you’re finished, post this paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people DON’T ACTUALLY remember about you.Tiffany Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14530816250189123691noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7031461.post-1134063629926815382005-12-08T09:39:00.000-08:002005-12-08T09:47:19.470-08:00O Christmas TreeThe Fraser Fir takes up half the room. Branches hang over the love seat, smacking me in the face if I move in the wrong direction.<br /><br />"How are we supposed to get to the table, Mama?" The children ask me.<br /><br />"Just squeeze right in between the couch and the love seat there." I tell them, wondering how my fat ass will fit through.<br /><br />"This tree is obscene," my friend comments the first time she sees it. "Has Bill lost his mind?"<br /><br />"Has he ever had it?" I reply, gazing at the monster. "18 HUNDRED lights, if you count the swag on the window."<br /><br />"Dear God," she says.<br /><br />My husband tells me about a little boy, in a worn out blue jacket and patched jeans, gazing at trees: Fraser, Eastern Red Cedar, Leland Cypress, Douglas Fir. He can't decide.<br /><br />He walks to and fro between them, hand running along each one, feeling the sharp poke of the needles against his palm. He wants the BIGGEST one, the one that will reach the ceiling and fill up the empty corners of his home.<br /><br />"Can we have this one Mama? Please!! This one!!" He asks, tugging at her jacket with small hands and pointing to the biggest one on the lot.<br /><br />"Not this time, Billy." She knows the small packet of bills in her purse must last for 23 more days.<br /><br />23 more days to have no space to move in the living room.<br /><br />552 hours for the neighbors to wonder what the hell we were thinking.<br /><br />33120 minutes to heal a grown man's heart.Tiffany Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14530816250189123691noreply@blogger.com1