Tweet: Black socks black socks don't go with reeboks black socks.#twitterive

Tweet: still pondering my inspiration for my #twitterive although, black socks song come to mind!

Tweet: 30 years ago there were no black socks. Only white ones with stripes at the top #twitterive

“Did you see the guy in corner? The one with the black socks with white Reeboks and shorts?! Seriously, he should’ve just been wearing socks and Birkenstocks,” said Jenna.

“Right! Did he seriously think that was hot? Did he look in a full-length mirror before he left the house and say, ‘Damn, I look good! I’m gonna get me some ass tonight!’ Why do guys not understand the concept that when wearing shorts and white sneakers, you cannot wear black socks!” said Lucy with a look of disgust.

Then, John started beating on the countertop and jamming back and forth, “Black socks. Black socks don’t go with Reeboks. Black Socks.”

This was typical four AM behavior for John. He was an aspiring musician and our only male roommate. We called him “white rapper” due to the fact that he loved to bust out some beats after a few drinks.

“Seriously John? The neighbors are going to call the cops,” I said, because I’m the motherly figure of our foursome.

“Thirty years ago, there were no black socks, only white ones with stripes at the top,” John rapped as he made an imaginary ring around his ankle with his pale, frail fingers.

“C’mon ladies! Help me out. Black socks. Black socks don’t go with whaaa-t?” said John as he pointed to me.

“Reeboks.”

In unison we all busted out the chorus, “Black socks. Black socks don’t go with Reeboks. Black socks”



Then, we busted into laughter. John always had a quirky way of making our ridiculous gossip into some sort of joke or song for that matter. He was good for that. That’s why he worked in our foursome of roommates. The four musketeers.

 

 

 

Tweet: Ring slips into his pocket, but will she ever know? #twitterive

He arrives looking down, but still strides to the bar.

He orders a drink, then glances over and decides to order two.

A pretty woman who is all by herself

Maybe she will be interested in more than his wealth?

He places his ring of gold

Into his pocket of stories untold

She nods her head to thank him for the drink

He nods back and decides to throw in a wink

Her instant discomfort is apparent

His self-loathing begins

Her male companion nestles his nose into the soft skin of her neck

His loathing continues.

They walk away with laughter.

His heart begins to sink.

What happened to the days when it used to work? The wink?

Tweet: A young, scared future daddy reads about his new endeavor! What is he nuts?!?! #twitterive

It has been six months now. Six months of ovulation tests that look like pregnancy tests. Six months of zero spontaneity. Six months of planned sex. You would think that a guy like me, well any guy, would love the idea of six months of sex with his amazing wife. So, why is it that I cringe when I hear Erin’s shriek from the bathroom, “I’m ovulating! Hurry up! Let’s get naked!”

 “Sure honey,” is always my reply.

I try to put on my game face and put myself in the mood, but it’s just so hard to get well, hard. My wife is smokin’ hot, don’t get me wrong, but she thinks you can just turn a switch or something to get a hard-on. Honestly it sucks.

Erin and I have been married for a year now, and for the first six months of our marriage the sex was good, no I’m lying, the sex was amazing. It was spontaneous, sex-on-the-kitchen-table sex, it was shower sex, it was anywhere-we-could-find sex. God, I miss those days.

It started six months ago. It was Erin’s thirtieth birthday party. I threw her a surprise party with all of our friends from college and our families. I had it downtown at her favorite restaurant, and saying she was surprised was an understatement.

“SURPRISE!!!”

“Oh my. What the? Kevin!!! Did you? Is this for? Oh my god,” Erin babbled through the tears.

“It’s all for you baby. You deserve it,” I whispered in her ear.

As she made her rounds around the room, I handed her favorite drink, dirty goose martini (extra dirty, no olives) and she looked at me with the look of overwhelming happiness. I finally pulled one off! She had no idea and she was super excited. I definitely got some bonus points.

“Aunt Lola! Oh my goodness. I can’t believe you came all the way from Florida! Thank you so much for coming,” said Erin.

“Of course I came. You think I would I miss my only niece’s thirtieth birthday party?” said Aunt Lola. “

So, now when are you and Kevin going to get to the baby making? It’s been six months you know. They say after your thirty your eggs start to dry out. So, make sure tonight you start making babies because your biological clock is ticking sweetie.”

Oh shit.  I thought to myself. I know my wife better than anyone and Aunt Lola’s word was God’s word in her eyes. If Aunt Lola said Erin’s eggs were drying up, then they were. Despite the fact that Erin’s doctor would tell her different.

I kind of drowned the rest of the conversation out and walked over to the bar for another shot of black. I kind of had a feeling this was the start of something not so good. Of course Erin and I have always wanted children, but I hated the idea of being pressured into it.

So, that’s when the planned sexual encounters started. They were a few times a day, a few times a month, and ONLY during ovulation of course. I tried to have spontaneous sex with Erin when she looked especially hot, or I was especially horny, and most of the time I got rejected.

Erin would say, “We can’t waste precious sperm on non-ovulation days Kevin, come on now, you know better.”

This was my life now. So, not only are my meetings at work planned, but so is sex with my wife. I just want her to be pregnant already, so we can be done with this part of our lives, so we can be parents.

Erin rushed in from work with pregnancy test number 1,645 and dashed to the bathroom as usual. This has been her MO for the past six months. She takes the test, sees the negative result, and sobs in the bathroom for about an hour. I try to help her, but she likes to be left alone. She’s taking this really hard, and she refuses to talk about it. We talk about everything and always have, but I think she feels like a failure.

“It’s not your fault honey. These things take time. We should just let it happen,” is usually what I say to her.

Her response is usually along the lines of, “Kevin, shut up! You have no idea what’s it’s like to know that your precious eggs and ovaries are rotting away inside of you.”

You’re right. I don’t, because I don’t have those parts. Geeezz! Didn’t she pay attention in health class?

So, I’ve learned to avoid her during the testing phase. I usually do work in my office and wait for the dust to settle. I feel so guilty. I feel so horrible that she has to go through all of this. And what if after everything is said and done it’s me who’s the problem? Then what? Will she leave me?

I decided she needed to start talking to me about all of the fertility issues. Maybe we need to see someone to see if it’s me who is the problem.

I picked up a big bouquet of her favorite Gerber daisies on the way home, and after her sobbing hour we were going to talk.

I waited outside of the bathroom door, and I was shaking. Why was I so nervous? I knocked on the door.

“Honey, are you okay in there?”

“Yes, I am fine, but I can’t pee.”

“Want me to get you some water? Or maybe you can put on the faucet?”

“Thanks asshole I know how to pee,” she said as I heard her turn the water on.

“Ahhh. So, listening to assholes these days, huh?”

I heard her chuckle, and I instantly relaxed. Her laugh is part of the reason I fell in love with her. She has an amazing laugh. It’s contagious.

“Oh my god!” I heard her scream through the door.

“Oh my god! Kevin get in here!”

“Ummm…it’s locked. What’s going on? Are you okay? Did you fall in?”

“No asshole! I think I’m pregnant!”

“You’re what? Open the damn door Er!”

She opened the door and gazed into my eyes like she did on our wedding day and held up the stick with a big dark purple plus sign and said, “We’re pregnant. We did it babe. We’re gonna be parents.”

This was the most calm I’d seen Er in months.

Thank fucking god! Spontaneous sex here we come!

“Er, see I told you! It just had to be the right time. We’re gonna have a baby.”

Oh shit, we’re gonna have a baby.

I grabbed her and gave her the longest hug ever, and we cried. Yes I’m a big pussy and I cried. Just wait until you find out your going to be a parent. Although, now that I think about it. I don’t know if I cried tears of happiness, or tears of fear?

“Hold on. I have something for you.”

Erin ran into the bedroom.

“Oh wait, I have something for you too.”

I ran into the fridge to get her bouquet of flowers.

We met in the living room and sat on the couch.

“I’ll go first,” I said as I pulled the bouquet from behind my back.

“Oh my god, Kev. They are gorgeous. But, how did you? Where did you?” the tears began to flow.

“I just knew,” I said. Which, by the way, was a total bullshit line. I didn’t want to tell her what I thought our talk was going to be about tonight.

“Thank you baby. I love you so much. You’re going to be an awesome dad.”

Oh shit. I’m going to be a dad.

“Okay, okay. My turn,” she said with excitement. It’s true what they say about pregnant women. She was honestly glowing.

“Ta-da!” Erin pulled a book out from behind her back, The Expectant Father Facts, Tips, and Advice for Dads-to-Be.

“Wow, ummm thanks babe.”

 I got her flowers and she got me a book? Not Artie Lange’s new book, mind you, a book about how to be a dad? I thought she said I was going to be a great dad?In fact, I think she used the word "awesome."

Then, why did I need some fucking book to tell me how?

When I originally read the title of Gloria Anzaldua’s reading I assumed it was going to be a tale of the struggles a foreigner has to overcome in a land where their language was not spoken. Then, I read the first few paragraphs and realized I was way off. Then, as I continued reading her piece, I realized my original perception of the piece was somewhat on the right track. I believe “losing” you native tongue is a practice that has been going on in America since the days of Ellis Island. When you choose to move to a different place, where they speak a different language or have a different accent, you are more than likely to adapt to your daily influences.

To me, language is like camouflage. Humans are mammals. We adapt to and conform (for the most part) to the environment we place ourselves in. This does not make us lose our sense of heritage or culture, unless you let it.  For example, my mother-in-law was born and raised in South Jersey. A few years ago she decided to move to the great state of South Carolina. After only a short time of living there she began to develop a southern “twang” as I call it and her vocabulary and daily practices were directly affected. She went from saying, “You guys” to “Y’all” and went from eating scrapple at the diner to eating grits. She even started calling diet soda “diet pop” (where did that come from anyway???).

This does not mean that she has lost any sense about who she is or where she came from. She’s still a Jersey girl at heart and when she spends enough time vacationing here you hear the occasional “you guys” come back to her vocabulary. I believe this is a super sensitive issue, and I think this is mainly in part to everyone being worried about sounding politically correct. I don’t think you should be afraid to tell someone that they should learn the language where they decide or choose to live. It was their choice. I would not expect to move to France or Italy and not expect to learn French or Italian. I don’t think that people should be judged because of their accent or native tongue, even though people often do (it’s human nature). 

Conversely, I do believe that people who decide to move to another country or even within different areas of a country need to attempt to learn the native tongue of that particular place. That being said, I also believe that people should have the right to be heard, and that “Anglo teacher” should have been more sensitive to Anazaldua’s needs. 
Although I cannot directly related to Anazaldua's story, due to the fact that I was born and raised in America, I have similar feelings about my own heritage. I am Irish, German, Polish, and Native American. I do not speak any of these languages and barely participate in cultural practices of my heritage. I believe this is partly because I am a citizen of the United States of America. This is where I choose to live, so I speak English. It does not mean that I am any less Irish, German, Polish or Native American.  

  In Gian S. Pagnucci’s chapter from Narrative Life “Telling Your Own Story” he states, “Living the narrative life is about embracing the stories that make us who we are.”

When I read this statement, I finally figured it out! I remembered why my love of writing was revived. Although writing has been a passion of mine since I learned how to write a sentence, I had lost touch with my writer side over the years. Other things became more important to me, like going out with my friends, making fast money, and the internet kept me occupied for the rest of the time. The internet initially hindered my passion for writing. I didn’t have to write stories anymore to keep myself entertained! There were thousands of people on the internet already writing, so what did I need to write for?

Then, something happened in my life that gave me meaning. I gave birth to an amazing son and suddenly I felt the flow to write again. I had purpose. I had meaning. I wanted him to remember every moment in his life. So, I began to write about my experiences as a mother.

After over a year of recording these experiences, I discovered the blogging world and an overwhelming sense of inspiration was bestowed upon me. Pagnucci states that when writers expose themselves and share their personal experiences, it is only then that the “approach will engage readers” and be compelled to tell their own stories.

Pagnucci’s theory was something that rung true to my own writing. I started to read mommy blogs when different stages of development were occurring in my son’s life. It is only then that I felt compelled to share my own stories with others. That’s when I started my blog and began to share stories with other moms. These blog posts uncover the many pages of my story as a mother. I began and still continue to “live the narrative life” and it feels fabulous!

The first assignment given by Professor Mangini was presented in an informal fashion. He instructed to send him an email in which we would cover a few topics to give him some insight as to what the students were expecting from the class, as well as a introduction or bio of the student. 

I normally would have gone home and created a fancy word document with wordart, illustrations, and prodigious vocabulary. But, due to my time constraints and the comments from the professor (stressing that the assignment was not graded) I allowed myself to suppress my stress and keep it simple. 

Now, when Professor Mangini mentioned in class that we would be posting our assignments on our blogs I will admit that I slipped into a slight panic mode. Then he mentioned that we could edit our work and my panic subsided. As I reviewed the email that I sent him, I realized that he wasn't half as a bad as I thought. In fact, section B needed to minimal editing. 

Section A I rearranged due to the purpose of the assignment. Although blog posts do usually contain bulleted points, I preferred to formally organize my bullets into a letter to the professor. 

The main reason I decided to change the arrangement was due to the fact that it would be public for all of the world wide web to see. I have aspirations of becoming a writer or a teacher, which applies additional pressure on the samples that are published on-line.