Journey To Arcadia

Oliver just recently turned nine years old this last December. Most of the time, he is at the house of the parents of Weird Sister. They are not ‘outdoors’ kind of people to say the least. In fact, I’m not sure that Oliver has ever made it past their front yard on his own. Even with knowing all of this, I was startled to discover that Oliver did not know how to ride a bike. Despite the fact that Romeo and the Montagues have bought Oliver two different bikes on two different Christmases before this… Weird Sister and her family have never bothered to teach him how to ride one.

This, in my opinion, was ridiculous. Romeo agreed. I couldn’t fathom how a nine year old BOY had no idea how to ride a bike. Even my little nephew Bugga knows how to ride a bike, and he’s only five. I can only assume that Weird Sister thinks that teaching a child how to ride a bike is the job of a man… just as how she assumes that camping can only be done by men… and building things… and cooking… the list goes on and on. Or maybe it has nothing to do with gender. I have often wondered if Weird Sister thinks that such things can only be done by Romeo or her parents. This would make sense, as she rarely takes part in activities that a normal parent would.

So this Christmas, Romeo, the Montagues, and I all chipped in to buy little Oliver his own bike for our house. Unlike the past two bikes, this would stay here, so that he could actually get some use out of it.

It only took Oliver about twenty minutes to learn how to ride a bike. He had a couple of minor falls at first, which made him really angry. He came ‘thisclose’ to crying—which is when Romeo decided it was time to step in and give Oliver a pep talk about not giving up. Sooner than later, Oliver had a pretty good handle on riding.

A few minutes past that and he was tearing the concrete up.

I can only hope that this memory stays with him for awhile. It was one of the first times that I have seen Oliver have to work hard to succeed. Most things come to him pretty easily, which made riding his bike a pretty big challenge.

But I suppose even if he forgets, I’ll have these pictures as proof. :>)

The other day at work, I had an interesting conversation with a guy whose desk is adjacent to mine. He is a pretty conservative fellow… which is all well and fine… expect for when he tries to push his conservative views on other people. Like me. Like the time that he scolded me for ‘co-habitating’ with Romeo before we were married. Or the time he saw that I was looking at Oliver’s school website and proceeded to preach about how great Catholic schools are. But that’s besides the point.

Let’s get back on track. A couple of days ago, I was talking to the woman next to me about my plans for graduate school. I told her that I would be taking a class this semester and would enter the program in the summer of this year. The guy—we’ll just call him Conservative Jerk—then takes it upon himself to come into the conversation.

CJ: “What grades do you want to teach?”

Me: “Secondary—like 7-12th.”

CJ: “Eww. I’d much rather teach elementary school. They’re easier to mold at that point in their lives.”

Me: “Yeah, I thought about elementary… but I’d rather do secondary.. maybe even middle school.”

CJ: “I’d eventually want to teach at the collegiate level.”

Me: “Me, too. That’s awesome. That’s a little strange. That you would either want to teach elementary or college kids… Don’t you think that’s kind of a big gap? If you taught high school, you’d be teaching more of the concepts that a college professor would teach.”

CJ: “No. I think you can mold little kids more. They’re easier to influence and control in elementary school. Once kids are in high school, there’s no hope. Nothing is going to change the way they act or think. College kids are there because they want to be there.”

This is where he started to irritate me. I’m a firm believer that any student can change. Any person. If they find it within themselves to change, then they can definitely do that.  There are some people who need help from others to start that change… others like teachers… but I still believe that students can be inspired at any age and at any grade—and that whether or not they are inspired is determined by the quality of the teacher. Not the age of the student. But I digress.

At this point he told me that I must be a “really optimistic” person… and the conversation kind of fell off… To be quite honest, I’m not sure that ANYONE who has that sort of mindset should be teaching ANYONE… regardless of what age they are.

Then CJ proceeded to go on and on about how he’s not even sure that he wants to teach at the collegiate level, because it ‘forces’ professors to be more liberal in their thinking.

WOW. Really? I didn’t even get a chance to respond to this before he to take a phone call.

I would agree with him in the fact that a lot of college professors are liberal—but I would have to argue that the institution itself is not what makes them liberal–but instead, the wealth of knowledge that they’ve accumulated over the years. The truth sets you free, right? Knowledge is power?

I’m just rambling at this point. But CJ just really gets under my skin.

One might wonder how someone like me, who has had so many exciting things happen in the last few months, could feel so blue on such a fabulous day. Although Christmas is not my favorite holiday—it is still a time of year that I usually enjoy. Not to say that I didn’t enjoy it this year. Only that I definitely didn’t enjoy a small interaction that occurred the morning of the 24th.

For the past few weeks, I have done my best to ensure that Oliver Twist would have the best Christmas ever. This is the first year that Romeo and I will have him for the entire first half of his Christmas break. This is also the first Christmas that my role as a fairy godmother has really been solidified, as Romeo proposed to me on the 16th of this month. All that I really expected in return from Oliver this Christmas was a big smile and a couple of good hugs over the course of our 7 day holiday.

Until Oliver mentioned getting me a present.

About three weeks before Christmas, Oliver was absolutely thrilled to tell us about the Secret Santa workshop that was set up at his school. Every year, Oliver saves up his money throughout the year to make sure that he can buy Christmas gifts for everyone in his family. This year was no exception. After rattling off the list of all the gifts he had purchased, Oliver stated, “Now I just have to get gifts for Pam and Aunt Jenny.”

Despite the fact that I have been a part of the ‘family’ for the past two Christmases, I have never received a gift from Oliver—nor have I ever expected one. In all honesty, it just never crossed my mind as something that he should have to do. When those words came out of his mouth, I began to feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I was just tickled pink that Oliver was making the choice, all on his own, to get a present for me.

That is, until a week or so later, when we had Oliver over for dinner. It was then that Oliver told me that he had finished all of his Christmas shopping. He rattled through his list like he had done a week before—aunts, uncles, parents, grandparents, pets—naming off every important person in his life except for me. My heart sunk.

After mentioning this to Romeo, the two sat down privately to discuss different options for presents. The present that I would eventually receive, however, was not purchased by the two. In all of the hustle and bustle of the holiday season (and the fact that we only see Oliver a few days a month) the two were not able to make it to the store. Mrs. Montague took it upon herself to make sure that I would get a present from Oliver, regardless of whether or not Oliver was actually there during the purchase.

Which isn’t the same, I might add. This became really apparent when the Montagues came over the morning of Christmas Eve, gave Oliver the gift that was supposed to be from him to me, and pulled out the camera to begin capturing the celebration. It was at this point that Oliver casually handed the gift to me while snidely remarking, “I don’t even know what this is.”

Sadness. Followed by anger. And resentment. I couldn’t believe that this nine-year old boy would have the audacity to make such a remark. This being after I had taken him to go sledding and snow tubing at my sister’s—after I had sent a letter from ‘Santa’ so he would have no worries about the jolly old man stopping by a day early—after I had spent hundreds of dollars to make sure he had tons of surprises—after I had helped him make cookies from scratch the night before to leave out for Santa. And this is not to mention the last two years where I have been around to love him, support him, and watch him grow.

So needless to say, it was a slap in the face. But who am I to judge the actions of a nine-year old boy?

Which is why I won’t. Realistically, I shouldn’t have expected anything less. For every weekend that we spend time with Oliver and he turns into a loveable, huggable little guy—there is always the next weekend waiting for us where he is full of attitude and backtalk. The Oliver that we pick up on Friday evenings is completely different from the Oliver that we return on Sunday nights. I am not naive enough to think that kids don’t act differently from day to day—but I am wise enough to know that there is a direct correlation between the changes in his behavior and the time he has spent with Weird Sister. There is always an apparent difference in the way we are treated by Oliver in the first few hours that we spend with him after picking him up.

I do want to make a clarification: I don’t think that Weird Sister has nothing better to do with her time than try to make stabs at me. I also don’t think she sits Oliver down to fill his head with all sorts of evil ideas about Romeo and myself. Nor do I think that anything negative that is said about us is ever stated in a direct manner. But I do know that she makes snide remarks. And offhanded suggestions. And faces. Expressions, comments, and attitudes that make it clear to a nine-year old boy that he should be weary of a relationship with our household. How do I know this, you ask? Because I’m sure any woman in her position would do the same. Not that it makes it right. Only that I know that Weird Sister does not have the strength, maturity, or courage at this time to let things unfold as they may. She is afraid of being replaced. She is jealous of the life that Oliver has where she’s not included. She is scared that she might be forgotten.

Pity. This is a new feeling that I’ve experienced with her. Usually I’m angered, disgusted, or upset. But I think that I’ve come to really pity her.

I just need to remember (as hard as it may be at times) that the Oliver that ‘forgot’ about the present he originally wanted to get me and the Oliver that casually gave me a present with an attitude was not Sunday Oliver. It was Friday Oliver.

Yikes. I can’t believe that I’ve been away for so long. Not that I really have any avid readers or anything… or at least none that I know of (with, of course, the exception of my sister) but still.  I really need to work on my writing skills as much as I possibly can.

Sooooo… how do I summarize the last two months?

1) I’m engaged! Hooray! And NO, I’m not pregnant. It seems as if everyone seems to think that an engagement equals an unexpected pregnancy these days… And really… when are pregnancies REALLY unexpected? Rarely.

2) I’m finally getting into a Masters program. Not in English Literature as I originally hoped… but in Education.  As it looks like I’ll be in town for a few more years, I would at least like to have a fulfilling job until I go on to pursue a graduate degree in English.

3) I’ve come to the conclusion that being a part of a ’step’ family is a never-ending battle.  For me. For my fiance. For my bonus son. That’s right—I said it. In all the literature I’ve read about ‘blended’ families, I have begun to reject the word ’step.’ It just sounds so awful.

4) Thanksgiving was great. I ate lots of good food, drank a lot of good wine, and hung out with a lot of great people.

5) Work still sucks. No surprise there. Nuff said

 I’ll have to write more later.  Since I’m at work, I should technically be working… so I’m going to try.

This last weekend was, undoubtedly, one of the best weekends that I’ve had in a long time. I LOOOOVVVEEE Halloween.  The following pictures are all from this weekend—enjoy =)

Romeo and I getting ready to go to a par-tay. Can you guess who we are? Hehe

Penelope as Alice in Wonderland

Moonwalk

Classic MJ move

Don’t ask

Two of my good friends: Naughty school gal and army chica

Me, Penelope, and Penelope’s good friend—the following night

Oh Penelope.

Romeo’s business partner and his wife: Priest and Genie

The bunny and ‘Hey-Zeus’

The bunny and the naughty nurse

The bunny and the OTHER naughty nurse

Doc and Nurse—our two good friends

Joinin’ in on the fun with some random guy

And after all was said and done… a little relaxing for the rest of the day…

Mr. Montague playing a little melody

At the dog park

Ewwww. Just typing it makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit. This is not, however, because I don’t believe that children should be supported financially by their non-custodial parents—but only because child support is typically not handled properly. By the courts. By the custodial parents. By the non-custodial parents.

Case in point. Weird Sister. Here’s a picture of her if you haven’t come across my other post.

She is ultimately the reason that these two little words, when put together, make me nauseous. But before I can really go on about the latest episode—I feel that I must give a brief, but accurate history of her track record—CliffNotes style:

• Weird Sister did not file for child support until two years ago
• The reason for this was because she lived at home with her parents.
• Another reason for this is because her parents are the ones responsible for really raising Oliver Twist.
• But I suppose when you’re a few years from being 30, it’s about time to move out on your own and start raising your child.
• Oh wait—did I mention that her parents discovered that she was going to file for child support because she was old enough to become legally emancipated but still live at home?
• And that her OWN parents told Romeo this a month before he was served? They also told Romeo that, and I quote, “Our daughter is just looking for a man to support her—and although we support whatever she’s going to do, we really don’t think she’s doing this for Oliver Twist.”
• So Romeo and Weird Sister come to an agreement, about a month before court, that Romeo would like to have Oliver Twist Sun-Thur, every other week. Both parties agree and both are (seemingly) happy about the decision.
• Once the bloodbath actually begins, however, it turns out that Weird Sister (after consulting with her ruthless lawyer) decides that this is too much time. She also decides that enough time will be just under the limit for the number of overnights that determine the amount of child support a custodial parent can collect.
• Weird Sister also convinces the court that not only does she deserve a large amount of child support—but that she was the sole provider (financially) for Oliver Twist for the last 8 years. Which is a blatant lie. Refer to bullet point # 3. Romeo and the Montagues also provided financial and (more importantly) emotional support for Oliver Twist for this same period. This of course, was not the story she told.
• Around 15,000 dollars later—the order is finalized. Romeo is to pay $750 a month. This, the documents read, would be his ‘expected contribution’ if the two were in a relationship. Yikes. There goes that barf again.
• Romeo is also given the least amount of visitation possible for a non-custodial father. A great non-custodial father, might I add. What is sad about our court system is the fact that Romeo has been placed in a bucket of fathers that are just one tier above those with supervised visitations (felons, druggies, etc.).

This last Friday, while picking up Oliver, Weird Sister mentions that there is an awards banquet being held for Oliver’s soccer team. It’s at 5:30, on Sunday, at a local restaurant—and it’ll cost about 5-6 dollars a head. We can take him there.

Even at this point, I was a little irritated. Okay. A lot. “Thank you so much, Weird Sister, for allowing us to take Oliver to the awards ceremony. Also, thank you for letting us know how much dinner is going to cost us. Next time, however, please make sure to send Oliver with money to cover his head at the dinner table. I’m sure that you understand that $750 a month is a lot to send to you every month. Not to mention the $150-200 per month that we end up spending on him anyway, for the short amount of time that he’s with us. Or, of course, our own cost of living. Please also remember that this was not part of our weekend plans. Thank you for your consideration.”

Yes—I know that six dollars is nothing. It’s next to nothing. But this is not the first time that she has done this. And it’s the principle. If one were to truly calculate the amount of money that we spend on ‘child support’ per month, it would easily reach 1,000 dollars. The extra money that we spend on Oliver during our time is our choice. And we want to do it. The extra money that Weird Sister dictates that we pay on our time is not our choice. Like this. Or the last time. But whatever.

At this point, I’m thinking, “Pamela… stop being so hard on her. I’m sure that she just told you guys this to be nice. It also doesn’t sound like she is planning on coming. I mean—why else would she say anything? Plus—why would she want to come? This is our weekend and she hates us both—probably more than we despise her.”

So we go to take him there. It has already been decided that if she is present, we will drop Oliver off. If she is not, then we will enjoy our last hour with Oliver this weekend. Why not try to sit at the same table and pretend to get along? Because we’ve tried that. And it’s all for show. And nobody wants to do that anyway—on either side, I’m sure. This has nothing to do with the well-being of Oliver. It never has, and it probably never will. This is all about spite, bitterness, money, and revenge. Not what’s best for Oliver.

When we arrive a little after 5:30, it turns out that she is there. Along with her mother. And father. And sister. And brother-in-law. We let Oliver know that we have to run and tell the hostess that Oliver is to join the table under the name of Weird Sister. As much as we would like to stay to support him—it’s just not worth it. Not now. Not with all the tension that Oliver undoubtedly feels between the two sides. I generally don’t like to spend my dinner time with hypocrites and liars if I have a choice.

But before we can leave—the hostess asks for payment. We explain that we are not staying and that Oliver is going to join another table.

“Oh. Weird Sister… she has five people listed. She didn’t pay for a child.”

Strange… considering that she has one. That she knew her child was coming. That chances are that we would not stay if she was present—even her little brain should be able to figure that out. I instruct the hostess to send the bill to the appropriate table. She refuses. They’ve already paid. It’s too late. We need to pay for Oliver to eat. Weird Sister did not state she was paying for a child when she arrived. So I refuse. “Send the bill. We’ll wait.” Romeo chimes in weakly. Poor guy. I know that if it were just him, he would’ve footed the bill and left to avoid confrontation. But—thankfully—he’s not alone.

The hostess goes to the table.. After a disgruntled look and an exchange of money, Weird Sister foots the bill. Her mother peers over at us. We leave.

For the $750 that we have paid her this month, at least $6 of that can now be accounted for. That it’s actually going to the right place—Oliver. Yes—it doesn’t make up for the $500 designer bag that she was toting at his last soccer game or the newly aquired wardrobe of clothes that she has—but boy did it feel good.

Wicked Stepmother:1 Weird Sister:0

When you know you’ve hit rock bottom…

Or Trouble in Tahiti, if you please.

On Monday evening, Romeo and I drove to Denver University to watch a performance of Trouble in Tahiti, which is an opera by Leonard Bernstein. Now don’t get me wrong—we are not theatre-goers at all. Not that I wouldn’t LIKE to be—but just that I haven’t ever taken the time to take note of the performing arts around the city.

That is… until I get calls… from one person in particular… Dionysus—who is one of my good friends from high school. Hmmm… Where do I begin…

I suppose I should start by stating that he normally doesn’t dress in such a business-like fashion. He also doesn’t normally wear huge glasses that don’t have lenses. Or that goofy smile that’s plastered on his face.

I take that last one back. Dionysus normally DOES have a goofy smile plastered across his face—and if he doesn’t, you better believe that you will. His wit and sense of humor are like none other. Like the Greek god that shares his name, Dionysus is a patron of the theatre, liberation for all, and most importantly, a good drink. Oh—and did I mention his love of music? It certainly doesn’t take much of an artistic eye (i.e. me) to see that this man (i.e. Dionysus) is definitely a connoisseur of the brain’s right side. Out of all of my close friends—he is certainly the most creative and artistic, bar none.

After all this, you must be thinking “Who is that goofy looking fella in the above picture? That certainly can’t be the suave, artistic man of which you speak..” And you’re right. It isn’t. He was in character—for the opera… remember? For your viewing pleasure—below is a picture of the REAL Dionysus—in all of his glory:

Oh yeah. Work it!

But back to the opera. It was FABULOUS. The singing was great, the storyline was awesome (I won’t ruin it for you—go see it yourself) and the message was very deep. The number one thing that I love about the performing arts (or any type of art, really) is its ability to relay different ideas and feelings in such a powerful way. Just watching Dionysus and the others take stage was enough to send chills up my spine—and was also enough to convince me to start looking for art and theatre classes that I can take in my off time. It has definitely been too long—and I’ve waited long enough.

And once again—bravo, Dionysus, on a wonderful job!

I love irony. In literature. In movies. In life.

Just not in my life.

Yesterday, I was given the green light to leave work early without using sick time. This—I thought—was one of the best things that had happened to me all week. I jumped in my car, blasted the music, and skipped over to the local mall to browse the new shoes and makeup. I then drove home to change into something more comfortable and called Cabin Fever Mom to chat. I just couldn’t help but to gloat about leaving work an hour early—and I felt that if any one should have to hear me gloat about something so stupid, it should be my sister. She’s blood. Less likely to judge me for such a thing.

All of this week, I have been trying to find time to buy a clothes iron. I have been reading reviews online and have been comparison shopping between different stores to make sure that I get the best deal. A little overboard, I know. But I’m just sick of using an iron that has black smuck all over the bottom of it—let alone an iron that doesn’t even get the damn wrinkles out of my garments.

So after discussing this with my sister, I decided to speed over to the local Bed, Bath, and Beyond to browse their inventory of irons.

And speed I did. 11 miles over the posted limit, in fact. Well—according to the officer (who was a complete jerk, by the way) I was initially going 9 miles over… and apparently I sped up to 11 when I saw him…

“Yes officer… that’s exactly what I did… I saw you sitting there and I thought I might go a little faster to defy the law EVEN MORE right in front of you… I get a kick out of doing stuff like that”

REALLY—by the time I passed him (at which point I was pretty sure I was speeding, but wasn’t positive since I didn’t recall the speed limit for that side street) I was going down a huge hill—so is it really any surprise that my car was going a bit faster than when he originally clocked me??? Guess this guy must not have paid attention in physics class. “Well little missy—I was gonna let you go until I saw you speed up even more” Riiiiigggghttt. Just give me my ticket.

An afternoon that should’ve been filled with happiness, excitement and a new iron left me sad, distraught, and ironless. Exactly a year and a half after I received my first speeding ticket (which was 4/03/2006) I was smacked down with yet another. AND to top it all off, now I HAVE to go to court (I would’ve just paid it through the mail) because I didn’t have my insurance ID cards on me.

Last time for a long time that I leave work early.

Who loves porn?  People?  Men?  Women?  Men especially?

What is the appeal of porn?  It doesn’t hold back?  It’s ’sexy’?  It’s always available?

Where do must men satiate this desire?  Magazines?  Movies?  Internet?  All of the above?

When do we decide that enough is enough?  After women have been objectified?  After women develop body issues?  After men except REAL women to look and behave a certain way?  Wait… hasn’t all of this already occurred?

Why do men hunger after such material?  They’re ‘visual’ creatures?  It’s easier to access? It’s ‘wrong’? 

As a feminist—I’ve always had a difficult time with the issue of pornographic material.  On the one hand, porn is often argued to be a sexual outlet for women—both those who watch it and those who participate in it.  Such material is said to give women (those who participate) the kind of ‘masculine’ power that is difficult (if not impossible) to obtain any other way.  It ‘frees’ women from the sexual restraints that society has placed on them—restraints which are rarely, if ever, applied to their male counterparts.  And it’s a woman’s choice.  What’s more liberating for a woman than to have the choice to use her goods to her own advantage?

What a crock of shit. 

Pardon my French.  Don’t get me wrong—I’m all about sexual liberation.  I just can’t help but think that the former arguments were created by a man.  A porn-hungry man—but a smart man, nonetheless.  A man who was wily enough to know that no woman, in her right mind, would degrade herself in such a fashion unless she believed that doing so would actually empower her.

And now… the other hand…

Pornographic material demeans women.  Period.  It presents women as objects that men should lust over, use, and throw away.  It teaches men (and women alike) that the sexiest thing about a woman is not her intellect, her humor, or her confidence—but her vagina pussy… her breasts tits… and her bottom ass…

Why such filthy words, you ask? Because I just couldn’t write a critical article about porn without feeling that such words were appropriate.  MORE than appropriate.  A picture may be worth ten thousand words, but a word, if chosen carefully, is worth more than all the pictures the world has ever seen.  And what a beautiful picture these words paint.  Barf.  Whatever happened to leaving some things to the imagination?

Porn…

• demeans women by presenting them as objects
• which makes men believe that women are okay with this
• which makes women believe that they aren’t good enough
• which makes women believe that to be good enough, they have to become real-life porn stars themselves
• which makes men believe that such presentations should be what turns them on
• which is what it then takes to turn them on
• which demeans women by presenting them as objects.

‘The Porn Myth,’ by American writer Naomi Wolf, is what inspired me to examine this issue.  It really is a great article—so if you have a few extra moments in your day, I highly recommend reading through it.  It definitely gives some insight as to why porn isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be—for men and women alike.

So… what is the ’Porn Myth’? In the end, porn doesn’t whet men’s appetites—it turns them off the real thing.