Category Archives: Stories

Uh-oh!

Right, so remember how I hate the drama? Here is my letter to my brother telling him I’m not going to put up with his any more. Because, hello, I’m 35 and I get to say when you do something that is hurtful and offensive. Even if we have the same parents.

Enjoy!

Andy,

I’ve been thinking about our conversation Monday morning and wanted to write and tell you what it’s made me realize. Firstly, I got the distinct impression that you hadn’t talked with your wife before offering to keep the boys on Sunday. I got the distinct impression that she felt put upon, and unable to say anything about it to me. Secondly, I phoned twice on Sunday to check in, and asked that you call me if there were any problems. Not once was any misbehavior mentioned, nor did you care to go “all the way upstairs” to give me the chance to tell the kids goodnight and ask how their day was.

I appreciated your offer to keep the kids all day and night, but I am writing this to tell you that because of these and other things, my children and I will not be going to Park City next month.

I don’t know what you intended to accomplish by locking a child out of the bathroom at night; I do know that when Jack tried to go in the middle of the night and found the door locked, he was scared and confused and upset. Of course he wet himself. Your assertion that he should have gone downstairs was absurd and unreasonable, punishing him (teaching him a lesson?) for something which happened much earlier.

There should absolutely have been consequences for plugging up the sink in the bathroom–for all children involved–consequences which were immediate and relevant. Locking a half-asleep child out of a bathroom when he has to pee is not appropriate, and in my opinion, borders on being cruel. He doesn’t, as you asserted, have the ability to reason–in a semi-sleeping state, in a totally dark, unfamiliar house–that he might try the downstairs bath. These are the kinds of things that kids remember into adulthood, and I hope this particular one doesn’t carry over. Because in his mind it wasn’t a logical consequence, it was scary and mean.

He was upset, embarrassed and humiliated, and I wanted nothing more than to get us and our things out of your and your wife’s way. And yes, I was angry that you’d locked the door. I wanted to clean the mattress, but having no idea where you keep your cleansers, and wanting to avoid waking anyone, I stripped the bed and decided to call once we were on the road and it was a bit later. When your wife told me you’d locked the door I was exceedingly mad. Rather than stay and scrub the mattress I decided it was best for us to just go, so clear was it that she’d had enough.

I realize that we have different parenting styles, but I don’t criticize your choices, and I don’t appreciate you criticizing mine. It comes down, in my mind, to this: You have the right to make whatever rules you want for your house, but you then have the responsibility to supervise a group of kids (it’s different than having just one) and to tell me the truth when i ask if my children are behaving. Following that, phoning the next day to tell me that my children not only “trashed” your house by getting out toys and games that they then had to be asked to put away, but that they have “serious discipline issues and that we need to talk about how things are going to ‘go down’ in Park City” is not cool.

Your comment about how my children might “trash” the condo in Utah sealed my decision to stay home. You are not responsible for my boys. They are not your children. And if they damaged anything, I would have paid the repair or replacement cost. But your attitude of being the one “in charge” is something I’m not willing to abide. Yes, you made the arrangements. Yes, your name is on the lease. But your controlling attitude since last December has sucked the joy out of this vacation. For me, at least. People in this family have been walking on eggshells for fear of upsetting or offending you for a long time. I’m not doing that anymore.

I am sorry if your daughter will be the only kid on this vacation, but I have given this a lot of thought and I am doing what I believe is in the best interests of my children and myself. I hope that this is not a permanent solution, but it is the only one I can live with for the time being.

Madeline

In sending this, my entire family is up in arms about vacation. Turns out they were all going because I was going and bringing the boys. Apparently nobody wants to be stuck in a condo for five days with Captain Control Freak.

Oh, it’s so awesome to be responsible for everyone else’s happiness. Please. If people could just be nice, these things wouldn’t happen.

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Filed under Kids, Stories

Today I met my mother for coffee. It was Starbucks’ coffee, at the SuperTarget in my city, and since I had to go to Target and get the final details for the boys’ costumes, it was basically a “we’re both going to be there, so why not do our shopping together” sort of thing.

I had largely forgiven her for her “I have a question; where exactly do you stand with all the people you are seeing?” infraction from last week. Seriously, WTF? Just to be clear, I was appropriately deferent and basically said, “That’s none of your damn business.” Sheesh.

She didn’t ask any probing questions this morning, and shopping at UberTarget commenced as we sipped our Grande Pumpkin Spice Lattes (two pumps, thanks), and later had Tomato Basil Bisques at some lunch spot, after I’d procured the appropriate skeleton hand gloves for Miles’ Halloween costume.

Several IMs into our lunch, she asked who I was talking with.

“Kelly.”

“Oh.”

And that was that.

But imagine getting an IM from Kelly asking if he could “finger your pussy and your ass simultaneously” when you met on Friday and you’ll understand my predicament.

Cut to the Used Furniture Store 30 minutes later when (without my mom) I answered Kelly’s phone call and stated my great desire to suck his cock, peppered with my descriptions of the huge dresser with the huge mirror which I thought would look spectacular in my bedroom, let alone the amount of free space it would give me, to which he replied, “sounds great, how big is the mirror again?”

It’s being delivered Wednesday.

He’ll be here on Friday.

I sort of can’t wait to prop myself up on pillows so I can watch him do naughty things to me.

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Filed under Dating, Fuckbuddies, Stories

chill

it’s fall today. like, maybe the temperature hit 65 degrees. i had to put on a sweater inside and i had soup for dinner and hot tea, too.

makes me want to knit. unfortunately, i have a mondo deadline and i’m scarily unmotivated.

going to have a busy next two weeks with a little friend i like to call “office suite for mac.”

oh, and funny thing: miles was in the shower last night and when i handed him the towel, he pointed to the corner of the tub, saying, “make sure jack knows that his supplies are there.”

supplies=body wash, shampoo, (my) crushed almond scrub and (my) coconut milk face wash. i’m surprised the dude didn’t come out with a towel turban and cucumber slices over his eyes. seriously, he’s seven.

last week i overheard him explaining to jack the intricacies of shower pouf vs washcloth while they were standing naked in the tub during the switching-of-the-kid.

i can’t believe tomorrow’s effing thursday. shit.

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Filed under Kids, Stories, Writing

Wanton

So I’m at services tonight (wearing all white, thanks) and  gorgeous tall man is sitting a row behind me and four seats over.  Swoonage.

I’m trying hard to focus on things. cos g-d knows I’ve got what to atone for.

We stand for the Al Het, when we enumerate all 44 types of transgressions we may have committed in the past year and I glance over my shoulder.

He winks at me.

Eeeps. I grin and my stomach does little flips.

Then we get to the part of the Al Het where it goes (in the New Machzor) “For the sins we have committed with wanton glances” and I cringe a little bit.

But then I sort of smile to myself.

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Filed under Flirting, Jewish, Stories, Yom Kippur

Ritual de lo Habitual

I am a sucker for rituals.

For years I thought it’d be cool to be Catholic, so I could go to confession, light candles, dip my fingers in holy water and cross myself. Also, there’s the whole priest-putting-communion-wafer-on-my-tongue thing. That’s pretty hot.

They lose me, though, with the whole lamb of God/died on the cross thing. No that there’s anything wrong with people who believe that’s how things went down, it’s just not my tradition.

I’m not terribly religious. Like, I don’t go to services every week, or even every month. I’m always there for holidays though, and let’s face it, Jews have a lot of damn holidays, and Rosh HaShanah is my favorite.

So I was in services this morning and they’d finished the torah reading. The rabbi called up this seriously tall and gorgeous man to be Hagba and hold one of the scrolls while it was covered and put back in the ark.

His royal blue dress shirt accentuated the stripes in his tallit, not to mention what it did for his eyes. They were piercingly blue. Nice touch with the dark brown hair and closely trimmed beard. Man, but he was handsome.

The rabbi looked around, needing someone to do the Gelilah and “dress” the torah which was being held in the lap of said gorgeous man. So, you know, the rabbi picked me. This is a seriously big honor in the circle of the Heebs, and I don’t want to cheapen it by telling you what I thought as I approached the front, but you know, I’m going to anyway.

“Heeeeeeeee,” I thought to myself as I walked up to the bimah, “gorgeous guy sitting in a chair in front of me…um, what am I supposed to do, again? Right, right, I’ve seen this done before. Focus, Madeline, this is serious.”

I walked over and took the velvet elasticized band which clips over the centers of the scrolls and holds them together. I bent down, glanced at him and smiled, “Hi.”

“Hi,” he smiled back.

I took the velvet cover and threaded the wooden handles through the holes in the top, bringing the gold and white embroidered fabric down, brushing his knuckles. My heart did a little leap.

The metal breastplate was next. I hung its chain over the handles and straightened it, leaning forward and peeking from behind the torah which separated us. Then the silver Yad pointer, which hangs on its chain from one of the tops. It chunnnked into place when I laid it down.

“Good job,” tall gorgeous man whispered.

I smiled, “You, too.”

“It’s my first time,” he said.

“Really? It’s my first time, too.”

And there are not too many things I can say that about.

Many glances were exchanged for the rest of the service, as he sat up front holding the torah and I sat in my seat.

Later, the rabbi made a special effort to make sure I knew that he considers Yom Kippur a “hookup holiday,” since once your 25-hour fast is over, you’re supposed to like, get it on. Apparently it says this in the bible somewhere.

Then he winked at me and invited me to lunch at his home.
So now tall gorgeous man and I have shared gefilte fish, hummus, mandelbrot and coffee at the rabbi’s house. He is a Mac user, Honda owner and our Treos had sex as we beamed our business cards to each other. I don’t think I said anything stupid or ridiculous but how would I know, really? My mind kept wandering to how handsome he was, and how I came just to his collarbone. How he would have to bend down to kiss me.

I love the High Holidays, with their familiar rituals and liturgy, the same prayers every year, the sounding of the shofar and the whole spirituality of it. I love the way that, at Rosh Hashanah, things seem infinitely possible. As the past year closes and we prepare for the next, everything seems new and alive and sweet. For the rest of the world, it’s just another couple days of the week, but for Jews it’s so significant. That’s pretty awesome.

I love, too, how the last few days have been a minor drag for me with some family drama and yet I felt so serene as I walked the dog tonight with my boys, excited about this guy–about the possibility that this guy represents–and smiled all dreamy-like.

We left the rabbi’s house together this afternoon, tall gorgeous man and I. I walked with him to just short of his car. He took my hand and didn’t shake it, just walked backwards to his car and looked at me with those eyes.

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Filed under Dating, Jewish, Rosh Hashanah, Stories

those people are mean.

it’s 8:50 pm and I just realized that my internet is down. like, it’s some infrastructure thing or something because the signal keeps disappearing and even when it’s full, I can’t sign on. Bah, so I walked away from the computer and went to turn off the movie the kids had been watching before bed. I thought, what the hell, I wonder what’s on TV? (I’m blogging from my Treo like a geek.)
Um, could someone *please* explain the appeal of this show called Fat March? Because I don’t get it and it made me feel all icky inside and I unplugged the TV. Blech, can’t people just be nice to each other?

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a letter to mr. krups

dear herr krups,

i am writing to express my extreme annoyance at the design of my (your) espresso machine.

i don’t know the model number, nor do i have my original receipt. what i do have are second degree burns on my thigh from the damn lid falling off the carafe whilst pouring my daily cup of awesome locally-roasted black stuff.

i noticed this problem when i first acquired the machine, and solved it (sorta) by not using the lid–by storing the lid in the cabinet–thus avoiding plastic-top-falling-onto-counter-every-time-i-pour syndrome, but resulting in tiny little coffee drips all over my counter from the espressing coffee drops being forced into the carafe. that’s messy. i don’t like messy.

so i resumed use of the lid, which has a pour spout and a center opening for the tip of the coffee chamber, sealing off the spattering spray of white-hot liquid from its surroundings. i realize the value of the black plastic lid. it has saved my countertop from daily pinpricks of coffee spots, but has required that i tip my cup up and brace the lid against its rim to avoid a brown deluge which spreads over my counter and floor and sometimes, the clean dishes in the drainboard. that is a drag, man.

i can do the whole bracing thing, but on mornings like this one, when i wake up as if from a hundred years’ sleep, i sorta forget. i sorta just pour and realize just as the lid is tipping off that “shit, i forgot to brace it on the cup rim” and it’s part in my cup, part on the counter, part splashed onto my naked thigh. and it hurts, herr krups. it hurts me real bad.

so, even though i bought it four years ago at a garage sale for five dollars, i really don’t want a newer, replacement machine. i like this one’s simplicity and workhorse durability. i don’t care for the frothing, the self-timers, the auto-grind features of fancypants machines. i just want mine to brew great coffee. which it does.

then i have to figure out how to pour it. i hope you understand what a problem this task is first thing in the morning for someone who has not had coffee yet.

please send a custom lid to me at the enclosed address.

espressly yours,

madeline

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Filed under Frustration, Stories

13.

I woke up at 6:13, made it to the kitchen to make coffee and barely noticed that the water pressure was significantly lower than usual. It’s an old house; someone takes a shower or runs the washer, the rest of the faucets run low.

Then, as my espresso was espressing (right?) I started filling the sink to wash the few cups left from last night and get ready for the sticky mess my mixer bowl would be when I started mixing flour, yeast and water for bread. Monday morning, wee hours. Bread baking time.

Ahem.

But the water was a mere drizzle. Nobody was taking a shower. The last load of laundry I did was at 8PM last night. I walked downstairs and heard the washing machine filling. Uh, oh. I rounded the corner and found an inch of water on the floor of my laundry room, and the washer taking on more and more water. Overflowing.

I shut off the machine, and unplugged it, even. Probably not a great idea in retrospect, seeing as how I was standing in water and there’s this thing about water and electricity, yeah? Anyway.

But the water continued. I turned off the taps to the washer. Finally it stopped pouring in, but there I was, sloshing through water in my basement, a fully loaded schedule today and no washing machine repair people to call at 6:30 in the freaking morning.

Whatevs, I called at 9, after canceling one of my clients, they said they’d work me in. The dude called when I was getting my hair cut and I didn’t hear the phone. When I called back he was all accusatory that I didn’t answer my phone. So I kissed his ass and apologized and he came over.

Eighty-five dollars and a new water valve later, my washing machine works. I met my friends for lunch at a new place where they give you those little number cards on metal stands when you order.

Oh, I think you know my number.

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Mad Happy Dance!

My babies come home tomorrow!

I’ve missed them terribly, but I’ve also really enjoyed the last three weeks of relative solace. It’s strange to be suddenly free of direct parental responsibility and able to do Whatever I Want.

Some highlights: A pool party at Joe’s house (he invited me as his co-host…eep). Thomas’ first overnight in my new house. My friend Aaron from LA coming to town, which was at once hell damn fun (Simpsons movie, midnight burritos and hilarity) and strained (awkward sex moments which pissed me off and reminded me why I’m always a little cautious with my emotions when we’re together). It worked itself out in the end, though, so that’s good. And a semi-new lad whom I’ve yet to blog, but who seems to be sticking around for a good while, so more news when I’m caught up with other stuff.

Like, did you know, I have a DOG?

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He is awesome, and I can’t believe that some dumbass person just left him for whatever reason. He was waiting for me at the Humane Society last Saturday and after a few baths and a clip he is sweet and gorgeous. And big. Because little dogs bug me. He’s a Standard Poodle and his head comes to my waist and his name is Churchill.

So, he has an allover afro, because I don’t rock that whole foo-foo Poodle cut. Also, check the Paul Smith-esque collar and lead. Aw, yeah, when we go walking, heads turn at the hottness.

So, boys! Dog! House with a yard! Which I MOW! With my push reel, Norman Rockwell blade-type mower! It’s almost too much, right? Your brain is reeling, yeah? Mine, too.

Finally, last night I was out with friends at a local bar where I sweetly requested a bourbon on the rocks, “But, like, really small rocks, like pebbles, really. Bourbon on the Pebbles.” The bartender looked at my cleavage, smirked over his soul patch and drawled, “Aiight, darlin’.”

This is what he poured me.

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I believe I will be paying another visit to Soul Patch Boy, whose real name is Walker. Gotta love a dude who was named after a whiskey. (Hopefully he wasn’t named after the Texas Ranger, though if it yields me cheap, strong drinks and free pool, I really don’t care. Chuck Norris is a badass.)

I also believe that I am a much better pool player when my props are the above glass and a pool cue which I semi-consciously kept caressing like a you-know-what.

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Filed under Flirting, Kids, Quiet, Stories

Catharsis

They come out of hiding as soon as my children are gone. Friends and lovers calling to check in. I am grateful for the contact, as it is much too quiet here.

Over the next two days I have plans with nearly all my friends (and several lovers, two of whom I’ve already seen since returning). Here’s hoping the activity level can be sustained and continued over the next two weeks.

I’m busy working and writing, too, and doing big projects in the house, so to all of you who said, “Just keep busy, Maddie. It’ll help pass the time,” check my shit out, man.

Oh, I got another phone call from Jack yesterday, and one this morning at 6:19. Gack. I’m sure the hushed tones as I hid in the bathroom piqued the interest of the person half asleep in my bed:

“Baby, I love you. You are my brave, sweet boy. I know you’ll have a good visit. I saw your photos from day camp and it looks awesome! Take hugs and kisses, and call me whenever you want.”

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