Where Caterpillars Go To Die

(And other existential horseshit.)

I started blogging again a few months ago and posted an attempt at optimism with the Caterpillar story.  Mike rescued the swallowtail, he pupated in the jar...and, well, he's still living in there, with his friend the Wooly Bear caterpillar, who is trying to absorb him.  Looking like a potato chip, suspended up against the wall, and we're not even sure he's alive anymore.  But I refuse to part with the crunchy little guy.

At the time, I was going through post-divorce stress, and tried to spin the "Oh we found a caterpillar...he's going to morph into something better" story into some kind of analogy for the midlife transition I was experiencing:...Something about feeling bullied by my ex-husband and the new stepmom (something I've since learned is called Parental Alientation Syndrome, and is actually a very sad and subtle form of child abuse where one parent [my ex] is attempting to alienate my child from me...aided by his new spouse.)  Yikes.  How could something so insidious be happening to my supposedly evolved, educated and well-meaning family / ex-family?

Anyway...because of recent Holiday Season developments, I've decided I've been all wrong.
Wrong about assuming that my situation in any way parallels the life of a caterpillar who is destined to become better.  I am fine just the way I am, dammit!  All of this self-help bullshit; all of this "working your way through midlife crises" support group stuff...why is there this stubborn assumption that if you're depressed, or suffering because you are feeling separated or being alienated from your teenage child, that it means you are defective, in need of improvement, and need to bloom into some improved brightly-colored butterfly?

I've determined that I'm ACCEPTABLE as is, and I'm entitled to have an awesome relationship with my son, by simple virtue of the fact that he is my SON.  Period. The stepfamily is the stepfamily, and that's the extent of it.  You cannot take away the love and influence of the maternal bond, no matter what insecurity or perceived barriers exists.  Physically impossible.  There is absolutely no manipulative behavior or bullying that can be directed at me that will take away the fact that I am fine just the way I am!...and not in need of metamorphosis, tranquilizers, or $180 therapy bills.
Signed,
Momma Bear

This is Adam pitching last month, right before Parkland won the championship.  It's hard to believe my 13-yr-old is nearly 6 feet tall.  He's at the beach through the weekend with his dad, stepbrother and stepmonster stepmother.

Crunchy the Caterpillar

I've just been looking over my blog posts over the past 3 years, and have decided they all pretty much suck and lack direction.  I mean, they're just all over the place.  A little bit of divorce survival commentary here,  a few cat pictures there, various disconnected videos....yikes.  Can you say perimenopause?

What's all bringing it together for me now, hopefully, is Crunchy.  Crunchy is a Swallowtail caterpillar that Wonder Mike saved from certain flattening in a gas station parking lot.  He brought him home in a filthy glass vase that for some reason was residing in the back of my VW, and we decided to study him for a bit.  We tossed a bunch of greens, parsley and shit into the vase and watched as he sucked himself onto the glass with gummy-looking science fiction feet, arching his rubbery body around, every so often thwunking down to land on his grassy landing pad.  I researched these caterpillars online, and discovered that there are actually enthusiasts (other than 3rd graders working on science projects) who RAISE Swallowtails.  Anybody remember Silence of the Lambs?  The PhD weirdos with the larva chess game, when they're talking to Clarice about the moth?:  "Someone fed him nightshade and honey...kept him warm...somebody loved him." Just a little creepy.
                                         
                                           MEET CRUNCHY:

Metamorphojobosis and Mariah:
I've been at my current job for a year and half now, and I'm really enjoying it as I'm on the road much of the time and acting on a more professional level.  They have hired a college girl named Mariah to do some of the office-y/filing stuff I used to do, which is fine, because I suck at it and I used to turn yellow with boredom. I met her in person once, and she's very nice...but I also cringed, because, well, you know; when your namesake is Mariah Carey and all.  I don't know if anybody's aware of this useless pop culture factoid, but Carey had an album (...do they even call them "albums" anymore?)  that I believe was called Butterfly or Metamorphosis or something like that, and Mariah said it was based on how she emerged from a bad relationship feeling transformed,  having undergone a metamorphosis.  I guess maybe she considered getting a few extra million after finishing up with Tommy Motola, or having scored mammoth breast implants or a second yacht as metamorphosis of sorts.  But I digress.

So...while I certainly don't want to emulate Mariah Carey,  or identify with the weirdo entymologists from Silence of the Lambs, (*Anthony Hopkins was killer, though. No pun intended.) I DID always kind of identify with the idea of transformation, and I love the ethereal, dignified beauty of butterflies.  I'm also intrigued by the idea of a radical transformation that happens after some kind of shakeup. The trigger I'm speaking of is too big to fit on this page...and it will put me into a catatonic state to reiterate it...but let's just say I feel I'm  finally evolving into the person I want to be.  The mother I want to be.  And the human being who is fully capable of being in a relationship, remaining at a cool job, getting back into my art and music, and being the best daughter I can be, rather than cowering in the shadows and being constantly afraid of loss. With Mike's encouragement, I am now looking forward to using my new wings.

Fox Puppy Waking Up

My little spirit animal.

Me 33 years ago

For anyone who didn't know me at the age of 13,  8th grade/freshman year of high school was the time when I began running compulsively and eating rice cakes with peanut butter for dinner, in the hopes of looking like Brooke Shields and the other leggy chicks in the cheesy early 1980's designer jeans commercials. When I began receiving compliments on how fit I was, etc, it negated any unpleasant feelings of adolescent angst or vague insecurities about my lot in life as a privileged teenage girl growing up in a post-modern feminist (yet-still-heavily-partiarchal) Ronald Reagan world.  When the numbers on the scale crept over 100 lbs, this was a catastrophe; I sensed that all control was lost.  I loathed the prospect of a bra.

33 years later, (and at least 33 pounds heavier, with one awesome healthy 13-year-old child of my own, and one failed marriage) I now realize that the female body is a life-giving, miraculous machine, NOT something to be measured, evaluated or judged, or a piece of meat to gain approval or validation from lascivious onlookers.  Having an eating disorder - whether anorexia or overeating/food addiction - is a peculiarly American epidemic propagated by unrealistic media images that MUST be dispelled once and for all.  It's a horrid psychic addiction that can be more insidious and destructive than substance abuse like heroin or crack...because you can't exactly kick FOOD, can you?

This haunting song was on a mix CD someone made for me once, and I just stumbled upon this rendition of it.  

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gle1bcBpISE

Dad - March 1st Hospitalization.

I have been in a time warp for the past week...Dad went from being on his last breath (pneumonia), to partially recovered, to being on his death bed again, and now back to "improved."  This is an Emotional Rollercoaster Like None Other.  We are cautiously optimistic, and reminded of the frailty of life.  And the importance of Family.

Pillows

I went pillow shopping at Target, and settled for a one that featured a label: "For Stomach Sleepers."  But really...what in particular would make a pillow specially suited for a stomach sleeper?   Do the manufacturers/advertisers of these pillows really think we are that impressionable?   A pillow is a pillow is a pillow, thank you very much....and I am still trying to figure out why the tag may not be removed except by the consumer, under penalty of the law:   "Yeah, I'm doing hard time because I ripped the label off my pillow.....{sirens in the distance wailing}"   Anyway...I am getting delirious from sleep debt, so off to la-la land on my special STOMACH SLEEPER PILLOW......aahhhh.....