"The problem is," she said as she dug at a crack in the earth with a metal implement formerly known as a tablespoon, "that he still thinks his happiness is supposed to be supplied to him by someone else."
"Well, that is how it is," he stated flatly as he tossed a green one that had seen too much sun over the fence.
"Nawsir, it idn't," was her authoritative reply. "A person can let it be that way, or they can accept responsibility for their own happiness. Then, happiness will not be given to us, but it can never be taken away by anybody, either. Our own happiness begins and ends with us." Her breath was labored from stooping over the plants in the full sun of the garden, and sometimes she farted as she bent to work a stubborn potato loose. Fortunately, he noticed neither because his hearing was bad, and hard work was to be expected. "Now, don't get me wrong," she continued. "There are plenty of joyful moments shared by others, and there are some kind deeds that are quite pleasing. But, these are responses to actions and perceptions, parcels of a whole. One's happiness is a state of mind that twists and tangles itself around the soul like a vine. You plant your own seed. You tend it as you will. Are you growing a vine that flourishes, that bears blossoms or fruit, or are you growing kudzu? For some, it's just a barren landscape. Those who have their plants delivered only sit and watch them fade and die, always awaiting the next shipment."
The combination of bending over to dig potatoes, acute acid reflux, and listening to her try to skirt around the original subject left a foul taste in his mouth. No amount of artful confusion could distract from the ugly original truth, which was the potential harm she was about to do, seemingly at a whim.
But, whims were not the stuff her thoughts & dreams, days & nights, weeks & years were made of. All was carefully considered and chosen for a greater good. One would never guess that, though, watching her amble between the rows with cow-like, stubborn grace.
"Finish him off, then," he harumphed with angry disappointment.
"I have to get these children grown," she said, mistaking "him" for "them" and disdain for grim approval. Her errors made her seem all the more calculating.
"The fact is, I'm lonely, and I miss my friend. And, I've been proven wrong so much that I don't really mind it anymore. If I can make things better, I will. Running the risk of messing up is the mountain in front of me at every turn. Odds are that I am going to wreck almost all of it. Having done so on many occasions has only taught me that the bits I am able to salvage from those wrecks are valuable, and they end up being the stuff my story is made of. Does the water break when dashed upon the rocks? Or does it go right on being water, flowing on and picking up rich sediment along the way."
She actually did not say any of this, having never been good at vocal expression, but the stooping and farting in the garden part is true. Instead, she asked how to do that when he told her the potatoes they had dug would need to be parboiled before cooking.
"I figured you for a parboiler from way back," he said, almost moving on from the previous subject.
Her own bitter gripe set in as she snapped, "Now, how was I supposed to learn stuff like that while Mama was sitting in the kitchen sink, raging at imaginary enemies and talking in sign language to invisible helicopters outside the window, and Granny told me not to practice cooking here because the home that used to be mine was where she was teaching Sis?"
Having arrived upon the scene, Granny quickly and easily described the parboiling method in less than a minute, and they all made their way across the porch and through the house, each one viewing the world through the window of their own experiences, none of them quite ready to toss out the original water.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Flashback of Last Year's Well-Woman Exam
For the first time in almost a year, I was able to find something positive and useful that was gleaned from my annual well-woman exam last May. It happened while I was enjoying margaritas and cooking with my aunts and mama. Usually, information flows the opposite way, and I learn a lot from their wisdom, experience, good humor and sweet souls. But, this time, I had peculiar insight.
Aunt Brunette: I'm really not very good at drinking. The last time I tried, the bed was spinning, I threw up in the shower, and the next day was plagued by diarrhea.
Me: Ah! Ooh, ooh, I know this one. If the bed is spinning, put one foot on the floor.
Aunt Blonde: (raises hand while stirring at the stovetop) I knew that!
Me: The shower was a good move (preferably sitting down or even laying on your side, the left side is better for the kidneys.) Throwing up is good. Bite the bullet and let it go. Otherwise, try to find the greasiest, cheesiest food possible - Allsup's chimichangas were really good, the taquitos with cheese are a modern day substitute, with ranch dressing, of course. You may have to add your own chiles because (a) at this point you just don't care, and (b) it might be the only thing that makes you feel like you are still alive.
Aunt Blonde: Damn! I forgot to bring the jalapenos! I put some in these enchiladas, but we are going to need more. (shakes head sadly even though every thing tastes scrumptious)
Me: I can explain the diarrhea thing, too.
Mama: Oh, please don't.
Me: (my aunts look curious, in my opinion, so I continue) Bowel inflammation. Just like our fingers and ankles get puffy when we drink and the hangover headache is caused by our brains swelling from water retention, the bowels swell, too, and can't absorb any more liquid, resulting in a mass exodus.
Mama: (garbled noise of disgust and exasperation, turns away as she sprinkles salt on a pickle before munching it thoughtfully)
Me: (my aunts are grossed out, too, but have expressions that vaguely indicate they appreciate the explanation) I get bonus points for knowing that the blackish-green color comes from drinking red wine. *smiles proudly*
Aunt Blonde: (now stirring again) I knew that one, too!
Aunt Brunette: Now, how did you come about this...information?
Me: Oh, I learned it in my well-woman exam last year.
Mama: They have classes for being a well woman? And tests??
Me: No, that's just what the insurance calls it. It's just an annual physical for girls, only instead of finger-poking, turning and coughing, we get to ride in the stirrups with our butt hanging off the table. Gloves are still involved, though. BUT, girls get to have sweet extras like hot lights and cold gel because we're delicate like that, and the drape makes a curtain between our knees so that we can't see what's going on down there or which metal instrument is making that cranking wratchet noise.
Mama: I'm glad I'm too old for this.
Me: You're really not. You have just been remiss.
Aunt Brunette: I still don't understand what this has to do with drinking and diarrhea.
Me: Oohhh, right. Well, I was really not looking forward to the exam, particularly after reading that one should abstain from having sex 4 days before it, which reminded me that two years was probably enough time to have lapsed. Then, I got to thinking about the years leading up to the divorce and realized I really did not remember the last time I had sex and now I probably never will again. So, I ended up drinking too much, having the black diarrhea, spent a couple of drunk hours thinking I was dying of some kind of cancer, and asked about it in a wobbly voice during the exam.
A few lectures about overeating and alcohol consumption later, the doctor had explained it all. She also flashed some lights in my eyes and told me I had nyastagmus. Panic-stricken, I asked what that meant, and she said, "It means you are still a little bit drunk."
I was non-plussed at that point. So I said, "If we had to go through this whole exam just to come to the conclusion that I am a fat drunk, I could have saved a lot of time & money by telling you that when I walked in here. I saw how much you charged my insurance company for this." Then she was non-plussed. Come to think of it, it's about time to schedule this year's appointment...
Aunt Brunette: I'm really not very good at drinking. The last time I tried, the bed was spinning, I threw up in the shower, and the next day was plagued by diarrhea.
Me: Ah! Ooh, ooh, I know this one. If the bed is spinning, put one foot on the floor.
Aunt Blonde: (raises hand while stirring at the stovetop) I knew that!
Me: The shower was a good move (preferably sitting down or even laying on your side, the left side is better for the kidneys.) Throwing up is good. Bite the bullet and let it go. Otherwise, try to find the greasiest, cheesiest food possible - Allsup's chimichangas were really good, the taquitos with cheese are a modern day substitute, with ranch dressing, of course. You may have to add your own chiles because (a) at this point you just don't care, and (b) it might be the only thing that makes you feel like you are still alive.
Aunt Blonde: Damn! I forgot to bring the jalapenos! I put some in these enchiladas, but we are going to need more. (shakes head sadly even though every thing tastes scrumptious)
Me: I can explain the diarrhea thing, too.
Mama: Oh, please don't.
Me: (my aunts look curious, in my opinion, so I continue) Bowel inflammation. Just like our fingers and ankles get puffy when we drink and the hangover headache is caused by our brains swelling from water retention, the bowels swell, too, and can't absorb any more liquid, resulting in a mass exodus.
Mama: (garbled noise of disgust and exasperation, turns away as she sprinkles salt on a pickle before munching it thoughtfully)
Me: (my aunts are grossed out, too, but have expressions that vaguely indicate they appreciate the explanation) I get bonus points for knowing that the blackish-green color comes from drinking red wine. *smiles proudly*
Aunt Blonde: (now stirring again) I knew that one, too!
Aunt Brunette: Now, how did you come about this...information?
Me: Oh, I learned it in my well-woman exam last year.
Mama: They have classes for being a well woman? And tests??
Me: No, that's just what the insurance calls it. It's just an annual physical for girls, only instead of finger-poking, turning and coughing, we get to ride in the stirrups with our butt hanging off the table. Gloves are still involved, though. BUT, girls get to have sweet extras like hot lights and cold gel because we're delicate like that, and the drape makes a curtain between our knees so that we can't see what's going on down there or which metal instrument is making that cranking wratchet noise.
Mama: I'm glad I'm too old for this.
Me: You're really not. You have just been remiss.
Aunt Brunette: I still don't understand what this has to do with drinking and diarrhea.
Me: Oohhh, right. Well, I was really not looking forward to the exam, particularly after reading that one should abstain from having sex 4 days before it, which reminded me that two years was probably enough time to have lapsed. Then, I got to thinking about the years leading up to the divorce and realized I really did not remember the last time I had sex and now I probably never will again. So, I ended up drinking too much, having the black diarrhea, spent a couple of drunk hours thinking I was dying of some kind of cancer, and asked about it in a wobbly voice during the exam.
A few lectures about overeating and alcohol consumption later, the doctor had explained it all. She also flashed some lights in my eyes and told me I had nyastagmus. Panic-stricken, I asked what that meant, and she said, "It means you are still a little bit drunk."
I was non-plussed at that point. So I said, "If we had to go through this whole exam just to come to the conclusion that I am a fat drunk, I could have saved a lot of time & money by telling you that when I walked in here. I saw how much you charged my insurance company for this." Then she was non-plussed. Come to think of it, it's about time to schedule this year's appointment...
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Time is a Diamond
I tend to have my favorite thoughts while I am in the shower because that is when I have time to let my mind wander off on its own while I am busy tending to mundane tasks that require no mental supervision, which might explain why I so often knick myself with the razor while shaving my legs. This morning, my stream of conciousness drifted down the road of time...
Time is not linear at all. That is only our perception of it based on our progress through life and our record of history. A line exists, and it is the first dimension. Square the line, and you have a box, the second dimension. Square the box into a cube, and there is our third dimension. Square the cube so that all of its surfaces go on infinitely in all directions, and we are enveloped in the fourth dimension. This is Time.
But, why would we stop there? We are beyond where we could draw these images on paper; but mathematically, if we square the squared cube, we would have a multi-faceted diamond of intersecting points and planes, a crystallic and ethereal structure that is both self-contained and infinite.
What possibilities would this notion of time enable? Ghosts might simply be glimpses of proximous points in time, visible to us like faces in the cars we pass on the road, brief snapshots of someone else going a different way on the same path. Premonition and intuition could be likened to electrical arcs leaping among positive, negative, and neutral forces or compared to circuits that have been inadvertently completed. Deja vu is simply a momentary loop. And, even time travel might not be beyond our grasp if we mastered the matrices. Fantasy becomes conceivable as both a theory of invention and a memory of discovery in this diamond of time.
But by the time I had thought all this through, I had spent too long in the shower and was late for work again.
Time is not linear at all. That is only our perception of it based on our progress through life and our record of history. A line exists, and it is the first dimension. Square the line, and you have a box, the second dimension. Square the box into a cube, and there is our third dimension. Square the cube so that all of its surfaces go on infinitely in all directions, and we are enveloped in the fourth dimension. This is Time.
But, why would we stop there? We are beyond where we could draw these images on paper; but mathematically, if we square the squared cube, we would have a multi-faceted diamond of intersecting points and planes, a crystallic and ethereal structure that is both self-contained and infinite.
What possibilities would this notion of time enable? Ghosts might simply be glimpses of proximous points in time, visible to us like faces in the cars we pass on the road, brief snapshots of someone else going a different way on the same path. Premonition and intuition could be likened to electrical arcs leaping among positive, negative, and neutral forces or compared to circuits that have been inadvertently completed. Deja vu is simply a momentary loop. And, even time travel might not be beyond our grasp if we mastered the matrices. Fantasy becomes conceivable as both a theory of invention and a memory of discovery in this diamond of time.
But by the time I had thought all this through, I had spent too long in the shower and was late for work again.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Saturday, October 31, 2009
The Witchin' Hour
I love autumn, I really, really do, so I found my head filled with all kinds of fancy notions today. Halloween on a Saturday with hours to spend on autumn adventures!
My son went on a road trip with his dad, a tour of presidential libraries and barbecue joints throughout the midwest. They called from Wichita, KS at midnight, and Gage announced, "This is the nicest cheap hotel I have ever been to!" Today, they have Eisenhower and Truman on the agenda. So, he is off having his own adventures, which leaves me and my little witchy-boo...
She began the day by eating all the candy I had set aside for trick-or-treaters. That meant our first order of business would be to buy more candy. Ever frugal, I suggested that we instead use groceries we already have to make caramel apples and popcorn balls to take to loved ones within driving distance.
Niki: So, instead of going to people's houses and asking for candy, we would be bringing them some. :-)
Julie: Why would we ever want to do that?
Niki: That's the trick! Get it, trick or treat?
She didn't think it was funny, nor did she go for it. To her, the only option was clearly going to buy more candy and a costume for her and going trick or treating.
Niki: Where will we go? To see family? Your dad's neighborhood?
Julie: We'll go around right here in the apartment complex.
Niki: I don't know, Jules, we don't know hardly anybody here. What if we run into some bad people?
Julie: Then, we will eat them up. (runs off snarling and growling, sort of hissing, too.)
So, there we were in the costume aisle at Target, which is also where all the mean, crazy mamas go on Halloween morning, as it turns out. They like to ram their carts into people, run over children, and snatch things out of people's hands while they are talking complete crap on their cell phones about how the whole thing just got so messed up...it was just going to be a simple party with her son's girlfriend and a few of their friends and then all these other people who weren't invited started thinking they could come and then her mother said that she wouldn't let her go if XYZ was going to be there and blahblahblahblahblah in an irritating, whiny, nasal voice. How do I know the whole story? Because the damn thing followed me on every aisle from costumes to housewares. I couldn't get away from her, and she wouldn't shut up! I began to feel that I was actually the bad people and that I would indeed eat her quite up. So, when we were on the bath aisle, I threw a stack of Shabby Chic pink toile towels at her and ran off snarling, growling, and sort of hissing.
Anyway, Julie picked out an awesome little witch costume that I was wishing came in uber-witch size, but she ended up asking me if she could get the Liv Sophie doll instead.
Niki: WHAT?
Julie: I've been wanting her for soooo long, and I would only wear the costume one night. It probably won't fit next year.
Niki: I am stunned by your logic. But you won't have anything to wear trick-or-treating.
Julie: Eh, I really don't want to go.
Niki: Can I still make caramel apples and popcorn balls?
Julie: Whatevs. I'm not going to eat them, though. They're sticky, and my crown is loose.
Niki: Again with the logic! This is crazy. How old are you? Hey, wait a minute - you'll eat up bad people but popcorn balls will stick to your crowns?
Julie: Mo-o-om.
My suggestion of roasting spaghetti squash and eating it out of the shell with marinara sauce "like guts!" got a similar response. Butternut squash and lentil stew were boring. Baked apples with cinnamon and nutmeg got nothing but rolled-eyes. We drifted apart while I was looking for the lavender soap, but I found her loading up on free samples at an endcap.
Julie: Mom, we have GOT to get some of this gingerbread apple dip and these sea salt & caramel things.
Niki: Yay, finally some apples!
Julie: You are so weird.
Maybe so, but I was smiling as I loaded up a bag of honeycrisp apples.
While driving home, I tried to think of some ways to mark this magnificent harvest holiday with something more seasonal than plastic dolls from Target and fabulous fatty, creamy spiced dip. (But really, those are great in every season, right?)
Niki: Hey! I bet the Botanical and Japanese gardens have some beautiful fall colors right now!
Julie: Mo-o-om, I don't wanna go to the bucanical gardens...
Niki: (laughs) What?
Julie: I just want to go home and show Bridget to Kamba, Aswad, and Daphil.
Niki: Sambo, Asswad, and who? I don't know any of those people, and you should not talk like that. Where do you get this rascist filth?
Julie: NO, Mo-o-om, our neighbors from Chad,** my friends that I walk home with every day! ggrrr!
Niki: Okay, so who is Bridget?
Julie: My Liv Sophie doll - she looks like Bridget from Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. I already have Tibby, so now I just need Carmen and Lena.
Niki: Well, I'm going to take a nice hot bath with Tom's of Maine and Trader Joe.
Julie: WHAT?
Niki: (haha, got her with her own name game) My lavender soap and salt scrub.
Julie: Then can we watch Twilight?
Niki: Sounds like a plan, witchy-boo.
Julie: (sighs) You are so weird.
Since none of these experiences resulted in the Fall Festival of photos for which I had hoped, I will throw in a few pictures I stole from my co-worker Scott Parker. He shot these while in Massachusetts last week...
And by the way, my little tomcat Grimriddell refused to wear his costume...
**These people are actually very, very nice, and I am going straight to hell for joking about their names.
My son went on a road trip with his dad, a tour of presidential libraries and barbecue joints throughout the midwest. They called from Wichita, KS at midnight, and Gage announced, "This is the nicest cheap hotel I have ever been to!" Today, they have Eisenhower and Truman on the agenda. So, he is off having his own adventures, which leaves me and my little witchy-boo...
She began the day by eating all the candy I had set aside for trick-or-treaters. That meant our first order of business would be to buy more candy. Ever frugal, I suggested that we instead use groceries we already have to make caramel apples and popcorn balls to take to loved ones within driving distance.
Niki: So, instead of going to people's houses and asking for candy, we would be bringing them some. :-)
Julie: Why would we ever want to do that?
Niki: That's the trick! Get it, trick or treat?
She didn't think it was funny, nor did she go for it. To her, the only option was clearly going to buy more candy and a costume for her and going trick or treating.
Niki: Where will we go? To see family? Your dad's neighborhood?
Julie: We'll go around right here in the apartment complex.
Niki: I don't know, Jules, we don't know hardly anybody here. What if we run into some bad people?
Julie: Then, we will eat them up. (runs off snarling and growling, sort of hissing, too.)
So, there we were in the costume aisle at Target, which is also where all the mean, crazy mamas go on Halloween morning, as it turns out. They like to ram their carts into people, run over children, and snatch things out of people's hands while they are talking complete crap on their cell phones about how the whole thing just got so messed up...it was just going to be a simple party with her son's girlfriend and a few of their friends and then all these other people who weren't invited started thinking they could come and then her mother said that she wouldn't let her go if XYZ was going to be there and blahblahblahblahblah in an irritating, whiny, nasal voice. How do I know the whole story? Because the damn thing followed me on every aisle from costumes to housewares. I couldn't get away from her, and she wouldn't shut up! I began to feel that I was actually the bad people and that I would indeed eat her quite up. So, when we were on the bath aisle, I threw a stack of Shabby Chic pink toile towels at her and ran off snarling, growling, and sort of hissing.
Anyway, Julie picked out an awesome little witch costume that I was wishing came in uber-witch size, but she ended up asking me if she could get the Liv Sophie doll instead.
Niki: WHAT?
Julie: I've been wanting her for soooo long, and I would only wear the costume one night. It probably won't fit next year.
Niki: I am stunned by your logic. But you won't have anything to wear trick-or-treating.
Julie: Eh, I really don't want to go.
Niki: Can I still make caramel apples and popcorn balls?
Julie: Whatevs. I'm not going to eat them, though. They're sticky, and my crown is loose.
Niki: Again with the logic! This is crazy. How old are you? Hey, wait a minute - you'll eat up bad people but popcorn balls will stick to your crowns?
Julie: Mo-o-om.
My suggestion of roasting spaghetti squash and eating it out of the shell with marinara sauce "like guts!" got a similar response. Butternut squash and lentil stew were boring. Baked apples with cinnamon and nutmeg got nothing but rolled-eyes. We drifted apart while I was looking for the lavender soap, but I found her loading up on free samples at an endcap.
Julie: Mom, we have GOT to get some of this gingerbread apple dip and these sea salt & caramel things.
Niki: Yay, finally some apples!
Julie: You are so weird.
Maybe so, but I was smiling as I loaded up a bag of honeycrisp apples.
While driving home, I tried to think of some ways to mark this magnificent harvest holiday with something more seasonal than plastic dolls from Target and fabulous fatty, creamy spiced dip. (But really, those are great in every season, right?)
Niki: Hey! I bet the Botanical and Japanese gardens have some beautiful fall colors right now!
Julie: Mo-o-om, I don't wanna go to the bucanical gardens...
Niki: (laughs) What?
Julie: I just want to go home and show Bridget to Kamba, Aswad, and Daphil.
Niki: Sambo, Asswad, and who? I don't know any of those people, and you should not talk like that. Where do you get this rascist filth?
Julie: NO, Mo-o-om, our neighbors from Chad,** my friends that I walk home with every day! ggrrr!
Niki: Okay, so who is Bridget?
Julie: My Liv Sophie doll - she looks like Bridget from Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. I already have Tibby, so now I just need Carmen and Lena.
Niki: Well, I'm going to take a nice hot bath with Tom's of Maine and Trader Joe.
Julie: WHAT?
Niki: (haha, got her with her own name game) My lavender soap and salt scrub.
Julie: Then can we watch Twilight?
Niki: Sounds like a plan, witchy-boo.
Julie: (sighs) You are so weird.
Since none of these experiences resulted in the Fall Festival of photos for which I had hoped, I will throw in a few pictures I stole from my co-worker Scott Parker. He shot these while in Massachusetts last week...
And by the way, my little tomcat Grimriddell refused to wear his costume...
**These people are actually very, very nice, and I am going straight to hell for joking about their names.
Monday, September 14, 2009
September
The sun falls,
and my favorite old chambray shirt wraps around me
with the smell of rain and deep dark earth
made rich with old bones
and memories of summers, alive and abundant,
warm and golden.
The harvest season sets in, and we slip into the indigo
to the song of the cicada and the casanova cricket.
The seeds that have lain dormant in my soul
sprout and bring forth new life
and joy,
crying and dancing in victory
and stretching their limbs
to grasp the world and cling for dear life,
drinking the rain with thirsty throats
and siphoning a private reservoir to draw upon
when the sun grows hot again.
and my favorite old chambray shirt wraps around me
with the smell of rain and deep dark earth
made rich with old bones
and memories of summers, alive and abundant,
warm and golden.
The harvest season sets in, and we slip into the indigo
to the song of the cicada and the casanova cricket.
The seeds that have lain dormant in my soul
sprout and bring forth new life
and joy,
crying and dancing in victory
and stretching their limbs
to grasp the world and cling for dear life,
drinking the rain with thirsty throats
and siphoning a private reservoir to draw upon
when the sun grows hot again.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Stunts My Mama & I Have Pulled
Today, my daughter greeted me with tears and a tale of wrong-doing on the part of certain employees in our complex's office. After walking home from school in the August heat of Texas, she had gone in for a little paper cone cup of water from the 5 gallon bottle the office keeps on hand, though apparently Reserved for Employees and Future Residents Only. The childless cow who guards the sacred bottle declined, in fact refused to dole out the 1/3 cup portion of water to my daughter on the grounds that if she supplied it to one kid, she would have to for all of them. The two then sat in silence and looked at each other, perhaps waiting for this flood of children to bear down on the water-keeper, for the 10 minutes it took me to fetch my girl.
I pondered this event in calm consternation as I altered my route home to include a trip to the grocery store. There, we purchased a case of water bottles and all the makings of a gift basket. My daughter watched from the air-conditioned front seat of the car as I cheerfully fashioned an elaborate display of thirst-quenching generosity, and she smiled politely when we delivered it to the aforementioned cow, whose nervous embarrassment was obviously at odds with her exclamation of thanks.
"Lady," I said, "I wouldn't piss on you if your hair was on fire, but if your daughter was thirsty I would give her a damn drink of water."
That was the second time in less than a week that I had seen my daughter gaze at me with pride and trust. While attending a school function the other day, we returned to our vehicle to find that another car had parked behind mine, effectively trapping us. My daughter was utterly perplexed, but I waited a few moments in patient meditation, giving the thoughtless driver a chance to return. When another car down the row a ways vacated a space, I told my girl to get in the car and buckle up. She paused long enough to watch me place the gum I had been chewing under the door handle of the car that had blocked me. Her shock and confusion escalated as I silently drove over the schoolyard to slip smoothly through the vacated space. Even I was impressed with our ability to exit with such grace from a difficult situation.
Tunes of "Harper Valley PTA" went through my mind as we drove on, smiling while the wind blew our hair and the setting sun glinted in the rearview mirror.
These things reminded me of an episode years ago during one of my little brother's softball games when Mama and I were watching from the car along the fencerow. A particularly hateful neighbor decided to try to pass through the narrow space with her epic-sized nachos and pickles rather than going around my mom's tiny blue Toyota. Her generous proportions made navigating the pass difficult for her, and she squawked loudly, "Some People just don't know how to paaarrk!" I don't think it was so much the remark as it was the sneering expression on the woman's face, all wrinkled nose and snarly lips, that motivated my mother to release the parking brake. The car rolled forward just enough to pin the hippopotamus-shaped woman against the chainlink fence, resulting in much waving of gelatinous arms, spilled refreshments, and ridiculous expressions that bent the snarly lips like a wire coat hanger. In case her shrill activities did not attract enough attention, Mama's boob pressed the horn for an extended amount of time as she craned forward to watch my brother catch a pop fly. It was hard to see around the spectacle.
As if sensing my nostalgia, my mom called me this evening. After our customary greetings and mutual assurance that we were doing okay and had talked to my brother recently, the conversation went something like this...
Mama: Well, I have to explain something before you find out anyway.
Me: ...okay...
Mama: Some neighborhood kids stopped by today, and I thought they were offering to mow my lawn for me so I told them I did not have enough gas in the lawn mower. They said they were just warning me that I would get a citation for my grass being too high. Since I don't want Another Citation, especially since the felony charges for assaulting an animal control officer have not been tried before a jury of my peers yet, I decided to try to mow it myself.
(Note - my mother is 61 years old and is bipolar, so get ready for the rest of the story.)
Mama: I mowed most of it even though it was getting dark, but then I realized that the keys I had pinned to my underwear had come loose and gotten lost somewhere in the yard.
Me: You have a key to the bathroom window? (Mama enters and exits the house only through her bathroom window with the assistance of an elaborate structure consisting of rusted bathtubs and cast iron stoves in the carport.)
Mama: No, no, these are keys to other things. Do you remember that cabinet I used to have?
Me: Uhh...
Mama: Anyway, I had been feeling all over and couldn't find the keys in my pants, so I took them off. Then, I got down on my hands and knees to look through the grass with my cigarette lighter.
Me: Oh, no.
Mama: Turns out, I had more gasoline than I thought I did, and that is why the fire department is here, and my turtle is dead. I love you, and I love you ... there is someone in an official-looking uniform who wants to talk to you ...
I pondered this event in calm consternation as I altered my route home to include a trip to the grocery store. There, we purchased a case of water bottles and all the makings of a gift basket. My daughter watched from the air-conditioned front seat of the car as I cheerfully fashioned an elaborate display of thirst-quenching generosity, and she smiled politely when we delivered it to the aforementioned cow, whose nervous embarrassment was obviously at odds with her exclamation of thanks.
"Lady," I said, "I wouldn't piss on you if your hair was on fire, but if your daughter was thirsty I would give her a damn drink of water."
That was the second time in less than a week that I had seen my daughter gaze at me with pride and trust. While attending a school function the other day, we returned to our vehicle to find that another car had parked behind mine, effectively trapping us. My daughter was utterly perplexed, but I waited a few moments in patient meditation, giving the thoughtless driver a chance to return. When another car down the row a ways vacated a space, I told my girl to get in the car and buckle up. She paused long enough to watch me place the gum I had been chewing under the door handle of the car that had blocked me. Her shock and confusion escalated as I silently drove over the schoolyard to slip smoothly through the vacated space. Even I was impressed with our ability to exit with such grace from a difficult situation.
Tunes of "Harper Valley PTA" went through my mind as we drove on, smiling while the wind blew our hair and the setting sun glinted in the rearview mirror.
These things reminded me of an episode years ago during one of my little brother's softball games when Mama and I were watching from the car along the fencerow. A particularly hateful neighbor decided to try to pass through the narrow space with her epic-sized nachos and pickles rather than going around my mom's tiny blue Toyota. Her generous proportions made navigating the pass difficult for her, and she squawked loudly, "Some People just don't know how to paaarrk!" I don't think it was so much the remark as it was the sneering expression on the woman's face, all wrinkled nose and snarly lips, that motivated my mother to release the parking brake. The car rolled forward just enough to pin the hippopotamus-shaped woman against the chainlink fence, resulting in much waving of gelatinous arms, spilled refreshments, and ridiculous expressions that bent the snarly lips like a wire coat hanger. In case her shrill activities did not attract enough attention, Mama's boob pressed the horn for an extended amount of time as she craned forward to watch my brother catch a pop fly. It was hard to see around the spectacle.
As if sensing my nostalgia, my mom called me this evening. After our customary greetings and mutual assurance that we were doing okay and had talked to my brother recently, the conversation went something like this...
Mama: Well, I have to explain something before you find out anyway.
Me: ...okay...
Mama: Some neighborhood kids stopped by today, and I thought they were offering to mow my lawn for me so I told them I did not have enough gas in the lawn mower. They said they were just warning me that I would get a citation for my grass being too high. Since I don't want Another Citation, especially since the felony charges for assaulting an animal control officer have not been tried before a jury of my peers yet, I decided to try to mow it myself.
(Note - my mother is 61 years old and is bipolar, so get ready for the rest of the story.)
Mama: I mowed most of it even though it was getting dark, but then I realized that the keys I had pinned to my underwear had come loose and gotten lost somewhere in the yard.
Me: You have a key to the bathroom window? (Mama enters and exits the house only through her bathroom window with the assistance of an elaborate structure consisting of rusted bathtubs and cast iron stoves in the carport.)
Mama: No, no, these are keys to other things. Do you remember that cabinet I used to have?
Me: Uhh...
Mama: Anyway, I had been feeling all over and couldn't find the keys in my pants, so I took them off. Then, I got down on my hands and knees to look through the grass with my cigarette lighter.
Me: Oh, no.
Mama: Turns out, I had more gasoline than I thought I did, and that is why the fire department is here, and my turtle is dead. I love you, and I love you ... there is someone in an official-looking uniform who wants to talk to you ...
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Road to Hell
The road to hell is paved with good intentions, and I witnessed such a path this weekend. As I was making my way back from the mailbox, I watched a sweet little blue-haired lady slow her Cadillac, roll down the passenger window, and helpfully advise the close-cropped (black) woman and child wrapped in colorful towels that, "In this country, we wear our tops back from the pool so that our bosoms won't show." In response, the noble lady kindly overlooked the cultural condescension and said, "This is my son, those are not bosoms, and I was born & raised in Haltom City." The elderly lady, surely trying to save face, said, "He needs to lose some weight, then." That is when the Haltom City lady threw her 44 ounce Slushie at the elderly dignitary's windshield.
I hid my laughter and shock in my own voluptuous bosom as I stooped to collect my dachshund's stool in a ziploc baggie so as not to foul the grounds. My private mind speculated upon similar collections elsewhere in the world.
I hid my laughter and shock in my own voluptuous bosom as I stooped to collect my dachshund's stool in a ziploc baggie so as not to foul the grounds. My private mind speculated upon similar collections elsewhere in the world.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Day 3
Happy Mothers Day!
The kids and I went to lunch (after an interesting drive through Northside, the Stockyards, Downtown, the Cultural District, an unidentified area, and University Park while looking for the restaurant at which I had a gift card) and then we spent a few hours browsing in the bookstore because that is something we all like to do.
First, though, I tortured them by making them behave in Williams Sonoma and Pottery Barn. They got back at me back acting like dingbats at the Botanic Garden. I am quite sure I am the only mother there today who threatened to beat the hot pee out of her children (almost silently through gritted teeth, of course.)
I did say it out loud, however, when we were in the car and they were making chicken/Wookie noises all the way home. They pointed out that their racket could not be distracting my driving all that much since they had been absolutely silent while I parallel parked the car with the rear wheel 31 inches from the curb and the front tire slightly on top of it.
It was a very fun day, though, and since they are my kids, I really cannot expect them to behave any other way. Here is a bit of what our day looked like...
The kids and I went to lunch (after an interesting drive through Northside, the Stockyards, Downtown, the Cultural District, an unidentified area, and University Park while looking for the restaurant at which I had a gift card) and then we spent a few hours browsing in the bookstore because that is something we all like to do.
First, though, I tortured them by making them behave in Williams Sonoma and Pottery Barn. They got back at me back acting like dingbats at the Botanic Garden. I am quite sure I am the only mother there today who threatened to beat the hot pee out of her children (almost silently through gritted teeth, of course.)
I did say it out loud, however, when we were in the car and they were making chicken/Wookie noises all the way home. They pointed out that their racket could not be distracting my driving all that much since they had been absolutely silent while I parallel parked the car with the rear wheel 31 inches from the curb and the front tire slightly on top of it.
It was a very fun day, though, and since they are my kids, I really cannot expect them to behave any other way. Here is a bit of what our day looked like...
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Day Two
Still WOOHOO!!!
Even though I am feeling much relief and optimism again, I have been very tickled by a couple of sour cherries here lately. One was an overheard quote, and the other was a photo. They just made me laugh...
Quote = "They seldom bite," said the three-fingered man.
Photo = Looks like this is about to get a lot worse:
Then there is the photo I found on Ivar Ivrig's blog (He always has beautiful photos! Check him out at http://ivarivrig.blogspot.com/ and see the amazing view he has from Trondheim, Norway.) The expression on this herring gull's face just cracked me up:
And since today is May 9th, Happy Birthday to Eric Golden wherever he is.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Sunday Snapshot
A night alone with myself in the dark, and I slept like a stone. The sunbeams peeping through the blinds politely woke me, along with my cat jumping into my solar plexus rather impolitely. Simple luxuries gilded the morning: brewing coffee with cinnamon sifted into the ground beans, sipping slowly in the crisp, post-freeze air, watching the steam rise and the feeding birds take flight. Finally feeling awake for the first time in a couple of weeks, I ripped the house apart in a cleaning frenzy. I scrubbed, laundered, dusted, swept, vaccuumed, and tidied myself into order along with my surroundings.
With all accounted for, I stepped out into the world and wandered. I did some grocery shopping and some price comparing, and I browsed through my favorite stores. My sister-in-law who lived in the Dijon region once told me the French word for window-shopping translates to "window-licking," and I think that is so much more accurate. I window-licked until my tongue felt nimble and my eyes were bright.
My daughter called for me to come get her. Her visits with her dad are usually shorter than the allotted time, and I will just enjoy it while I can. Someday, she will covet every moment out of my embrace, at least for a time, but for now I will hold her and love her all she wants.
We cooked Chinese food and lamented allergy season while watching cartoons and folding the laundry. When I brought out the camera to take a few shots of the hibiscus that sprouted in fond appreciation of being brought inside during the cold snap, she mugged and posed for me...hugging the cat, sniffing the flowers, looking goofy, and smiling her freckled face. Never have I seen such a tough and beautiful love than what lives in her. It is like going back in time and watching a world conquerer as a vulnerable youngling. The rest of the world will probably never see the tender, loving heart that I watch with joy and awe each day.
"I'll keep the door unlocked," she calls as I carry the trash out.
"No, go ahead and lock it," I shout back unexpectedly. I see the look of confusion on her face, but I will explain when I get back that I don't want everyone within hearing range to know she is alone with the door unlocked even for the 2.5 minutes it will take me to carry the trash to the bin. Every second counts in her young life.
As I round the wall of the bin, I surprise two boys. They are probably 12 years old and have tucked themselves away in this nasty crevice for the sake of privacy. I excuse myself demurely and look away while I toss the bags, pretending not to hear the tall one ask his cell phone, "Stephanie, which one of us do you love?" as his friend squats hopefully beside him.
The rest of the day will be harder, but good in a fought-for way. KW has finally agreed to divorce on good terms, and he will go over paperwork with me when he brings my son home. Earlier, I watched my son's tears fall when he asked, "So, you are going ahead with the divorce?" Either out of cowardice or kindness, I answered, "This is just paperwork, honey. Nothing is really different than it has been. Your dad has your house, and I have your apartment, and you are free to be either place any time you want. Your dad and I will keep trying to get along, and we will always take care of you kids and love you. Just paperwork, sweetheart." I did not explain how much hope and strength this paperwork would give me. My fortification is my business.
With all accounted for, I stepped out into the world and wandered. I did some grocery shopping and some price comparing, and I browsed through my favorite stores. My sister-in-law who lived in the Dijon region once told me the French word for window-shopping translates to "window-licking," and I think that is so much more accurate. I window-licked until my tongue felt nimble and my eyes were bright.
My daughter called for me to come get her. Her visits with her dad are usually shorter than the allotted time, and I will just enjoy it while I can. Someday, she will covet every moment out of my embrace, at least for a time, but for now I will hold her and love her all she wants.
We cooked Chinese food and lamented allergy season while watching cartoons and folding the laundry. When I brought out the camera to take a few shots of the hibiscus that sprouted in fond appreciation of being brought inside during the cold snap, she mugged and posed for me...hugging the cat, sniffing the flowers, looking goofy, and smiling her freckled face. Never have I seen such a tough and beautiful love than what lives in her. It is like going back in time and watching a world conquerer as a vulnerable youngling. The rest of the world will probably never see the tender, loving heart that I watch with joy and awe each day.
"I'll keep the door unlocked," she calls as I carry the trash out.
"No, go ahead and lock it," I shout back unexpectedly. I see the look of confusion on her face, but I will explain when I get back that I don't want everyone within hearing range to know she is alone with the door unlocked even for the 2.5 minutes it will take me to carry the trash to the bin. Every second counts in her young life.
As I round the wall of the bin, I surprise two boys. They are probably 12 years old and have tucked themselves away in this nasty crevice for the sake of privacy. I excuse myself demurely and look away while I toss the bags, pretending not to hear the tall one ask his cell phone, "Stephanie, which one of us do you love?" as his friend squats hopefully beside him.
The rest of the day will be harder, but good in a fought-for way. KW has finally agreed to divorce on good terms, and he will go over paperwork with me when he brings my son home. Earlier, I watched my son's tears fall when he asked, "So, you are going ahead with the divorce?" Either out of cowardice or kindness, I answered, "This is just paperwork, honey. Nothing is really different than it has been. Your dad has your house, and I have your apartment, and you are free to be either place any time you want. Your dad and I will keep trying to get along, and we will always take care of you kids and love you. Just paperwork, sweetheart." I did not explain how much hope and strength this paperwork would give me. My fortification is my business.
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