I love my sheets.
Yes, sir. I love them. Not like I love my spouse, my child or my dog, but I love my linens.
I have five sets and they all have a good story behind them.
My oldest and most loved set is over 25 years old. Yup. And they prompted this post. Because this is the last week that Bing and I are sleeping on them.
They are worn nearly threadbare and have two holes. They have done their time and then some. It is time for them to turn into dust cloths. I went out yesterday and used one of our gift certificates to a department store to buy more sheets. They have their own story too. They are the replacement sheets.
As if. As if old white-with-blue-flowers could be replaced. They were the first sheets that I bought for myself. I was in my first apartment and needed sheets because I had gone home and retrieved my old full sized bed. I would no longer be sleeping on a thin mattressed dorm room twin bed.
And I needed new sheets. I went to JC Penneys and bought the cheapest, prettiest sheets that I could find. They were WWBF (white with blue flowers) and made of 100% cotton.
For almost five years, they were my only sheets. I changed them every Saturday and took them to the laundromat.
They saw a fair share of girl-on-girl action. Okay, A LOT. Because I was living with another woman for the first time. Cory. We lived together for seven years and being young and nubile, we knew how to give those sheets a work out, boy howdy.
Those sheets saw plenty of fighting too, especially near the end of that relationship. I can't count how many times I spent crying into them.
Cory moved out. But not before we had purchased another set of sheets. These were fancy sheets. 800 thread count pale green sheets. They were soft and sexy and Cory preferred them to the WWBF ones. But not me. I was loyal. The pale green ones were certainly softer and they gave me a new appreciation for high thread counts, but I loved my WWBF sheets just the same. They had grown soft with age too.
Cory didn't take the green sheets when she left. She took almost everything else, but not the sheets. I don't know how I lucked out. She took ALL the good books, ALL the good music and a fair amount of the furniture, but left the sheets. Probably didn't want the memories.
As one of my newly single presents, I bought another set of sheets: a pair of cream colored Egyptian cotton, 1000 thread count ones. So, now I had three sets of sheets and I was scrupulous about taking turns with them. Each set got their week each month.
I was also moving on up in my career. It was time to move into a new home. I was working so many hours, my career pretty much was my entire life, so I moved into a lovely home and hired a decorator to make it look like me.
Trouble was, the decorator didn't know me. That was okay, because I didn't really know myself either. I liked the "me" she professed to see, a young professional woman with a future so bright that she had to wear shades.
My bedroom was a posh black and white chrome design. A new shiny iron bed with such a big mattress that I had to use a step stool to hop into it. My old sheets fit, but the decorator bought a pair of 1000 count Ralph Lauren black sheets to fit on it as well.
My spare bedroom was not paid much attention to. I bought plain white 250 thread count sheets to put on the bed in there with the idea that any visitors would not wish to stay long.
So, I lived in this great little house that had so little of me in it that I always felt a little surprised when I walked in. There was never this sense of being home, feeling safe. It was always as if I walked into this sort of ritzy place that belonged to someone else far cooler than me. I was just visiting.
My job was my life so that was okay. And I did have a pretty hopping social life, lots of interesting dates, some who stayed over in my Cleopatra bedroom. I went to work, I came home, I read my mail, I got a computer and figured out how to use it.
My high heels click clacked on my tiled kitchen floor. I wore my Chanel business suits and at the end of the day, I balled up my panty hose and threw them into my linen bag, hating the way the nylon felt on my legs.
I thought I was happy and in a way, I was. I had a lot of stuff. I have never been without friends, I was on quite a few party lists. I had girlfriends, some who meant something to me, others who didn't.
My WWBF, pale green, cream, and black sheets got a work out, each in their own time. I had a maid service, so didn't even make my own bed.
And then I hit 40. I knew that my life was not going in the direction that I wanted it to go. I figured that I was too old to be a mother, my eggs were probably all useless. But, still...I woke up and simply knew that it was time to move on, that none of this life fit me, that I needed to find my life. The life that I knew would make my skin feel good. I felt like Peter Pan without his shadow and at the ripe old age of 40, I finally found it.
I was suddenly someone's mother at 41. And my sheets got a different work out. This time, I craved them for very different reasons. I was exhausted, sick with fatigue. I was enormously grateful for the high thread counts of my sheets and the soft aged cotton of my white-with-blue-flowers sheets. I tumbled into them with a gratefulness that was like a prayer.
My body began rebelling. I developed rheumatoid arthritis. Sciatica. Colitis. My high powered, busy life was not conducive to raising a child and without the big bucks, I couldn't live in the fancy schmancy house anymore.
I made the decision to quit my job and go into part time freelance work. Bing was still my best friend and we bought a house together, a ramshackle, fixer-upper that had a ridiculously low mortgage and a LOT more room. One problem: it was old and falling apart. She thought she could fix that. She took over the basement and Liv and I lived upstairs. Little by little, that house became an offshoot of me. And Bing. And Liv. When I walked into it and turned on the soft yellow kitchen light, it shone on the worn oak floor and I felt my spine relax and had the heady feeling of knowing that I was home. I was comfy cozy in my house with the old doors with white porcelain door knobs, the creaky floors and windows with thick glass. I knew the refrigerator's funny buzz, the cabinet that stuck and the walls that I wished could talk to tell me the story about those who came before me. Liv learned to talk a blue streak in our home. She outgrew her crib and I bought her a small twin bed with sheets of her own, zippy monkey sheets, Dick and Jane sheets, pale blue sheets with yellow stars all over them.
We became a family. I worked much less and found my shadow. I discovered something about myself. I had never felt that I would be a good mother. Now, I knew that I had been wrong. I just needed to be an older mother. I was adept at motherhood, in fact...I took to it like a duck to water.
It helped that Liv was the most wonderful baby in the world.
My sheets no longer held a business woman and her paramours. They held the new me, a woman who needed a haircut, who no longer got pedicures on a regular basis...a woman who often shared the bed with a toddler who liked to sneak in during the night. A happy, fulfilled woman with a child who loved her and a career that didn't define her.
Then, Bing went from being my best friend to being my partner and moved on up from the basement. The basement bedroom became the guest room.
The sheets liked her, I think. I know that I enjoyed her company.
Last year, I added a new set of sheets to the bed. I went shopping for new sheets for my dying neighbor, Orna. I figured that she deserved to have a pair of really soft 1000 thread count sheets. I bought her a baby blue set.
She died before she got to use them.
So, I took them and they went into rotation with the others.
And now, it is time to retire the WWBF sheets. So, with that thought in mind, I bought a new set of 1000 count sheets, a golden set with brown weavings. Bing likes them. We will take off the WWBF sheets on Saturday and put on the golden ones.
A change is good. I have come to believe that.
And I love my sheets. I love sliding into my warm bed and stretching my toes into the softness of them. Sinking into a dream all nestled in those sheets.
They finally hold the real me: a woman with a spouse, a child, a dog, and a life that fits at last.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Bing dyes her hair and I am too fat for my jeans, life in the fast lane.
Yep. That is about all the news here in Lake Wobegon, I mean, Nebraska.
I have been eating like a pig for over a week now. I swear, EVERYWHERE I go there are goodies. At the college where I work part time, someone brought those peanut butter cookies with a hershey's kiss in the middle of them. Someone else brought fudge.
There is cold turkey, dressing and mashers in the fridge. Pumpkin pie. Apple pie. Black olives, rolls. I can graze any time I wish.
Moo!
I went to slide into my jeans this morning and practically had to stuff myself in them like a fat little sausage. I had to lay down on the bed to zip them up. Pretty soon, I will be doing what my sister does: stuffing the jeans with pillows every night to keep them stretched out enough to accommodate my huge ass. When I sat down to write this post, I could feel that my jean snap would make an imprint in my belly. This is not good. And I do it every year. January is spent in a hungry mood. It is cold out and I want to eat, but instead, I drink boat loads of diet soda and munch on rye krisp and carrots.
After dining on sloppy sandwiches of turkey, dressing and cranberries spilling out of two gigantic chunks of sourdough bread, well...this does not make for a happy mama. Bing, of course, is not sympathetic. She eats healthy year round. Her plate at the holiday table is a sensible mix of crunchy veggies and maybe a teaspoon of something she likes, like sweet potato pie or mashers and gravy. And no rolls. No eggnog. A sliver of pumpkin pie with no whipped cream.
And there is my plate: so full that it can hardly contain the large portions of turkey, mashers, and stuffin, smothered in rich, country gravy. Ten black olives. Some of that green bean salad with crunchy onion rings on top. Boy howdy, pass me some more of that pumpkin pie and bury it in whipped cream, please. And refill my eggnog glass while you're at it. And let's chase it with a gin and tonic, because I am with my relatives and that is nerve wracking enough. And how's about a scotch on the rocks to chase the gin taste away?
Now, roll me on home, darlin'.
So, while I was lamenting my fat ass (which Bing wisely told me "wasn't THAT bad, honey"...she was being kind), Bing told me that she was tired of looking old. That she had noticed that she was the only one at the get-to-gethers who was completely gray.
It's true. She and I both started graying up at the same time and she went and surpassed me about a year ago. I am sort of salt and pepper, but she is a true gray haired woman. I think she looks great, I mean...shit...who cares about the hair when she has muscles on muscles in her arms and legs? She is one of the fittest women I know. She runs every morning and goes to the gym every single day. She has a few lines in her face, but not many.
But, I guess it bothered her.
I came home from work last week to find a stranger in my kitchen.
She had dyed her hair a sort of brownish golden color. I literally gasped and then (GOD I AM SO FRACKIN SORRY, SWEET BING), well....I stifled a snicker, a small laugh. I snorted instead.
She looked just....odd.
With her gray hair, she looked kind of cool and distinguished. It fit her. And before she went gray, her hair was so brown that it was nearly black, so seeing it this soft, brownish-goldy color threw me. She has always worn her hair very, very short and it was still short, but something was off. It didn't look like....her.
Liv came into the kitchen and bravely put her arms around Bing's waist.
"Doesn't Bing look pretty, Mama?" she said, sweetly. Her eyes told me to say yes.
I said yes.
It was Bing's turn to snort. She went into the living room and returned with our latest copy of The Advocate. She held the magazine up to her face and said, "Lookee, here. I look exactly like Lance Bass."
She did. She was a dead ringer for Lance Bass on the cover of The Advocate.
I flared my nostrils, trying not to laugh. Bit the insides of my cheeks.
Finally, I managed, "Well, Lance Bass is very good looking, I think."
I do think he is good looking. I just don't know that I want my partner to be his identical twin. Well, Bing doesn't sport a five o'clock shadow....
I went to Bing and hugged her, kissed her soundly on her mouth. And then I whispered four sweet little nothings in her ear: It. Will. Grow. Out.
And her hair is so short, that it won't take long.
Until then, I have taken it upon myself to tease her mercilessly.
"Um, Lance...I mean, Bing, could you pass the salt?"
She is good natured about it all. Very good natured when you think that she could very easily have answered, "Um..Tubby, I mean, Maria, I'd be happy to pass you the salt. But, no more bisquits for you, darlin. You're packin' plenty already."
Last night, in bed, we were talking and I asked her seriously if she was afraid of getting old. If that was why she dyed her hair.
"I dunno," she answered honestly. "I just look in the mirror sometimes and it scares me, you know? I mean, there I am...all gray. How did that happen? I used to be this boss lookin' woman, this young strutter with a guitar on my back, wearing my black leather jacket. I looked like I belonged on my motorcycle. Now, I look like I belong in a quilting circle."
"You DO NOT," I told her. "You look a little weary around the eyes sometimes, but you still make me go all weak in the knees when you play the guitar, when I see you on your hog, wearing that hat."
Bing sighed. "Honey, it is called a helmet. But, thanks for saying so..."
"I'm in the mood for some serious kissing now," I told her. "Think you can hack it, gray beard, or would you rather I rubbed some Ben Gay on your back?"
She thought she could hack it.
And not once did I cry out, "Oh, LANCE!! YES!! YES!!"
Because, no matter what color her hair is, she is still my Bing. My leather jacketed, wry smiling, hot music playing Bing.
I have been eating like a pig for over a week now. I swear, EVERYWHERE I go there are goodies. At the college where I work part time, someone brought those peanut butter cookies with a hershey's kiss in the middle of them. Someone else brought fudge.
There is cold turkey, dressing and mashers in the fridge. Pumpkin pie. Apple pie. Black olives, rolls. I can graze any time I wish.
Moo!
I went to slide into my jeans this morning and practically had to stuff myself in them like a fat little sausage. I had to lay down on the bed to zip them up. Pretty soon, I will be doing what my sister does: stuffing the jeans with pillows every night to keep them stretched out enough to accommodate my huge ass. When I sat down to write this post, I could feel that my jean snap would make an imprint in my belly. This is not good. And I do it every year. January is spent in a hungry mood. It is cold out and I want to eat, but instead, I drink boat loads of diet soda and munch on rye krisp and carrots.
After dining on sloppy sandwiches of turkey, dressing and cranberries spilling out of two gigantic chunks of sourdough bread, well...this does not make for a happy mama. Bing, of course, is not sympathetic. She eats healthy year round. Her plate at the holiday table is a sensible mix of crunchy veggies and maybe a teaspoon of something she likes, like sweet potato pie or mashers and gravy. And no rolls. No eggnog. A sliver of pumpkin pie with no whipped cream.
And there is my plate: so full that it can hardly contain the large portions of turkey, mashers, and stuffin, smothered in rich, country gravy. Ten black olives. Some of that green bean salad with crunchy onion rings on top. Boy howdy, pass me some more of that pumpkin pie and bury it in whipped cream, please. And refill my eggnog glass while you're at it. And let's chase it with a gin and tonic, because I am with my relatives and that is nerve wracking enough. And how's about a scotch on the rocks to chase the gin taste away?
Now, roll me on home, darlin'.
So, while I was lamenting my fat ass (which Bing wisely told me "wasn't THAT bad, honey"...she was being kind), Bing told me that she was tired of looking old. That she had noticed that she was the only one at the get-to-gethers who was completely gray.
It's true. She and I both started graying up at the same time and she went and surpassed me about a year ago. I am sort of salt and pepper, but she is a true gray haired woman. I think she looks great, I mean...shit...who cares about the hair when she has muscles on muscles in her arms and legs? She is one of the fittest women I know. She runs every morning and goes to the gym every single day. She has a few lines in her face, but not many.
But, I guess it bothered her.
I came home from work last week to find a stranger in my kitchen.
She had dyed her hair a sort of brownish golden color. I literally gasped and then (GOD I AM SO FRACKIN SORRY, SWEET BING), well....I stifled a snicker, a small laugh. I snorted instead.
She looked just....odd.
With her gray hair, she looked kind of cool and distinguished. It fit her. And before she went gray, her hair was so brown that it was nearly black, so seeing it this soft, brownish-goldy color threw me. She has always worn her hair very, very short and it was still short, but something was off. It didn't look like....her.
Liv came into the kitchen and bravely put her arms around Bing's waist.
"Doesn't Bing look pretty, Mama?" she said, sweetly. Her eyes told me to say yes.
I said yes.
It was Bing's turn to snort. She went into the living room and returned with our latest copy of The Advocate. She held the magazine up to her face and said, "Lookee, here. I look exactly like Lance Bass."
She did. She was a dead ringer for Lance Bass on the cover of The Advocate.
I flared my nostrils, trying not to laugh. Bit the insides of my cheeks.
Finally, I managed, "Well, Lance Bass is very good looking, I think."
I do think he is good looking. I just don't know that I want my partner to be his identical twin. Well, Bing doesn't sport a five o'clock shadow....
I went to Bing and hugged her, kissed her soundly on her mouth. And then I whispered four sweet little nothings in her ear: It. Will. Grow. Out.
And her hair is so short, that it won't take long.
Until then, I have taken it upon myself to tease her mercilessly.
"Um, Lance...I mean, Bing, could you pass the salt?"
She is good natured about it all. Very good natured when you think that she could very easily have answered, "Um..Tubby, I mean, Maria, I'd be happy to pass you the salt. But, no more bisquits for you, darlin. You're packin' plenty already."
Last night, in bed, we were talking and I asked her seriously if she was afraid of getting old. If that was why she dyed her hair.
"I dunno," she answered honestly. "I just look in the mirror sometimes and it scares me, you know? I mean, there I am...all gray. How did that happen? I used to be this boss lookin' woman, this young strutter with a guitar on my back, wearing my black leather jacket. I looked like I belonged on my motorcycle. Now, I look like I belong in a quilting circle."
"You DO NOT," I told her. "You look a little weary around the eyes sometimes, but you still make me go all weak in the knees when you play the guitar, when I see you on your hog, wearing that hat."
Bing sighed. "Honey, it is called a helmet. But, thanks for saying so..."
"I'm in the mood for some serious kissing now," I told her. "Think you can hack it, gray beard, or would you rather I rubbed some Ben Gay on your back?"
She thought she could hack it.
And not once did I cry out, "Oh, LANCE!! YES!! YES!!"
Because, no matter what color her hair is, she is still my Bing. My leather jacketed, wry smiling, hot music playing Bing.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Crabby crabby crabby.
God, what a day.
I HATED waking up to that fucking alarm. I was the only one who had to get up. Liv and Bing are on winter break. So, that was me stumbling around cursing at 6 this morning.
I have had a stuffy nose for a few days and now my ears are all plugged up. I probably sound like Elmer Fudd, but I wouldn't know because I can't hear a freakin' thing. My ears are so plugged up that my balance is off and I feel half loaded. And not in a nice, silly boozy way, but in a sleepy, painful, full way.
I spent the entire day with a client who is trying to decide which candidate to hire for an entry level position in his firm. There are 26 candidates. They are all fine, but it is my job to help him find the one who is the most fine.
This client (let's call him Mr. Who) nearly drove me insane. He could not seem to make up his mind. Jaysus, MAN UP and make a decision, dude. I have no idea why he hired me since every suggestion I made went unheard. He just sat there looking at the candidate tapes with his mouth so slack that I had to turn away and deliberately not look at him because he honestly looked like a half wit.
I narrowed it down to three candidates and gave him my reasons. They were sound reasons.
And then he said, "Well, I like that skirt Miss A wore. It was unpretentious. I think she is kind of pretty. What do you think?"
What do I think? I think you are supposed to want to hire her, not drool on her.
I told him that her references were the weakest and she did not come across as an across the board thinker. That she was a weak link waiting to happen.
But, hey...that was one unpretentious skirt.....
I took a break for lunch and spent the entire hour running errands. I called home to make sure that Bing would remember to put the turkey in. She said (and this will be important later): Sure. No biggie. Hey, Liv invited a friend over and I'm thinking that I will take her to the retirement place to visit my Aunt Ellen later.
I spent the rest of the afternoon uselessly trying to earn my fee while Mr. Who sat twiddling his thumbs and acting all namby pamby. Now, this is what will happen: He will hire the woman with the unpretentious skirt. She will prove to be not only a weak link, but will make some sort of stupid mistake that will cost his company a lot of dollars because I also noticed that she spoke about herself in the third person during her whole interview and had a tendency to let her eyes wander around the room. She has the attention span of a gnat and cannot even commit to herself. Bad omens.
He will end up remembering that he used my services to hire for this position. He will not remember that I told him not to hire her.
He will never use me again.
Which is fine. Since I don't think I could stand to spend another day with that idjit.
I came home after doing more errands after work. My ears were aching, I was crabby, looking forward to a turkey dinner and maybe an early bedtime.
And there was Bing in the kitchen, with that look on her face.
It is a look that I have come to recognize as her I fucked up and don't want to admit it so I will find a way to make this your fault look.
Her first sentences to me were, "Well, I hope you aren't in the mood to eat turkey because that breast weighs five pounds and it will take too long to bake. It is in the oven, but won't be ready until after seven thirty. Why on earth did you buy such a big freakin' breast? I had no idea it would take that long, so I will make it and we can have it tomorrow night."
This translates to: I dropped Liv off at her friend's house and then went to the retirement center to see my Aunt Ellen and we got to talking and I played the piano and loved the attention, so I was over an hour late picking up Liv (her mom will probably not let Liv come over and play again for awhile because they had to skip going to her child's dance lesson because I was late) and by the time we got home, it was nearly four thirty and I just didn't get the chicken done. I messed up.
And the house looked like a cyclone hit it. ALL of Liv's toys were out and about on the floor. Nothing had been put away. The laundry hadn't even been started.
I slowly and carefully put my purse down. I told Bing that she could eat the turkey by herself tomorrow, that Liv and I were going out with my sister for dinner, it was plainly marked on the calendar. That the house was a mess. That she KNOWS that Liv is not allowed to go to play dates if she has slop all over. I said that I had experienced a bad day and was tired and my ears hurt and I just wanted a hot turkey dinner, a hot bath and bed.
Bing offered to heat up some leftover sloppy joes for us. I said that was fine for Liv, but I would make myself a bowl of oatmeal. I did this. I sat at the table and ate and told Liv that she was to go pick up her mess after dinner. No excuses.
After Liv ate and excused herself, Bing asked me what had gone so wrong with my day. I told her about the client. I started to feel better just venting about it.
And then Bing did a very stupid thing. She did what she ALWAYS does when I complain about my day. I have told her that I hate it when she does this, but she just can't seem to help herself.
Instead of just listening and letting me vent and GET IT THE FUCK OUT OF MY SYSTEM, she starts trying to analyze how I could have made my day better. Why didn't I verbalize more to Mr. Who that he was paying for my services and that I was trained to do this and more adept than he at selecting a job candidate? Why didn't I simply cut him off at the pass and forcefully make my point?
By the time she finished "helping" me by listening to the contents of my bad day, she made it worse by making me feel as if I had handled everything incorrectly and that it was my own fault for not speaking up.
I sputtered at her that GOOD HELL. SOMETIMES I JUST NEED A HUG, DAMMIT. I don't need her to point out how the day could have been salvaged, I need her to hug me and tell me that Dr. Who is an asshat. A douche bag. A double asswipe. A pimpled nitwit. And then I want her to offer to make me a drink or let me have the last piece of pumpkin pie.
Why in the hell can't she EVER get this right? My bff, Harriet, could do this with her eyes closed and one hand tied behind her back.
So, instead....I came in here to vent and blog because I know that someone will say something to make me laugh or tell me how smart and perfect I am.
What kills me is that after all these years of knowing me, Bing still seems clueless as to what exactly I need when I am in a crabby mood after a bad day.
So, I will go give Liv her bath (and that mess will be cleaned up because she listens to me and obeys me and knows that Bing will let everything slide again tomorrow) and read a chapter of our book together.
And then I will take a long, hot bath and if Bing has ANY good sense, she will cut me a slice of pie and put lots and lots of whipped cream on it.
Maybe I am setting that bar too high....
I don't know....how do your spouses/ significant others/friends help you out after a bad day? Do they always get it right?
Just curious, as usual. And it beats doing another fucking meme.....
I HATED waking up to that fucking alarm. I was the only one who had to get up. Liv and Bing are on winter break. So, that was me stumbling around cursing at 6 this morning.
I have had a stuffy nose for a few days and now my ears are all plugged up. I probably sound like Elmer Fudd, but I wouldn't know because I can't hear a freakin' thing. My ears are so plugged up that my balance is off and I feel half loaded. And not in a nice, silly boozy way, but in a sleepy, painful, full way.
I spent the entire day with a client who is trying to decide which candidate to hire for an entry level position in his firm. There are 26 candidates. They are all fine, but it is my job to help him find the one who is the most fine.
This client (let's call him Mr. Who) nearly drove me insane. He could not seem to make up his mind. Jaysus, MAN UP and make a decision, dude. I have no idea why he hired me since every suggestion I made went unheard. He just sat there looking at the candidate tapes with his mouth so slack that I had to turn away and deliberately not look at him because he honestly looked like a half wit.
I narrowed it down to three candidates and gave him my reasons. They were sound reasons.
And then he said, "Well, I like that skirt Miss A wore. It was unpretentious. I think she is kind of pretty. What do you think?"
What do I think? I think you are supposed to want to hire her, not drool on her.
I told him that her references were the weakest and she did not come across as an across the board thinker. That she was a weak link waiting to happen.
But, hey...that was one unpretentious skirt.....
I took a break for lunch and spent the entire hour running errands. I called home to make sure that Bing would remember to put the turkey in. She said (and this will be important later): Sure. No biggie. Hey, Liv invited a friend over and I'm thinking that I will take her to the retirement place to visit my Aunt Ellen later.
I spent the rest of the afternoon uselessly trying to earn my fee while Mr. Who sat twiddling his thumbs and acting all namby pamby. Now, this is what will happen: He will hire the woman with the unpretentious skirt. She will prove to be not only a weak link, but will make some sort of stupid mistake that will cost his company a lot of dollars because I also noticed that she spoke about herself in the third person during her whole interview and had a tendency to let her eyes wander around the room. She has the attention span of a gnat and cannot even commit to herself. Bad omens.
He will end up remembering that he used my services to hire for this position. He will not remember that I told him not to hire her.
He will never use me again.
Which is fine. Since I don't think I could stand to spend another day with that idjit.
I came home after doing more errands after work. My ears were aching, I was crabby, looking forward to a turkey dinner and maybe an early bedtime.
And there was Bing in the kitchen, with that look on her face.
It is a look that I have come to recognize as her I fucked up and don't want to admit it so I will find a way to make this your fault look.
Her first sentences to me were, "Well, I hope you aren't in the mood to eat turkey because that breast weighs five pounds and it will take too long to bake. It is in the oven, but won't be ready until after seven thirty. Why on earth did you buy such a big freakin' breast? I had no idea it would take that long, so I will make it and we can have it tomorrow night."
This translates to: I dropped Liv off at her friend's house and then went to the retirement center to see my Aunt Ellen and we got to talking and I played the piano and loved the attention, so I was over an hour late picking up Liv (her mom will probably not let Liv come over and play again for awhile because they had to skip going to her child's dance lesson because I was late) and by the time we got home, it was nearly four thirty and I just didn't get the chicken done. I messed up.
And the house looked like a cyclone hit it. ALL of Liv's toys were out and about on the floor. Nothing had been put away. The laundry hadn't even been started.
I slowly and carefully put my purse down. I told Bing that she could eat the turkey by herself tomorrow, that Liv and I were going out with my sister for dinner, it was plainly marked on the calendar. That the house was a mess. That she KNOWS that Liv is not allowed to go to play dates if she has slop all over. I said that I had experienced a bad day and was tired and my ears hurt and I just wanted a hot turkey dinner, a hot bath and bed.
Bing offered to heat up some leftover sloppy joes for us. I said that was fine for Liv, but I would make myself a bowl of oatmeal. I did this. I sat at the table and ate and told Liv that she was to go pick up her mess after dinner. No excuses.
After Liv ate and excused herself, Bing asked me what had gone so wrong with my day. I told her about the client. I started to feel better just venting about it.
And then Bing did a very stupid thing. She did what she ALWAYS does when I complain about my day. I have told her that I hate it when she does this, but she just can't seem to help herself.
Instead of just listening and letting me vent and GET IT THE FUCK OUT OF MY SYSTEM, she starts trying to analyze how I could have made my day better. Why didn't I verbalize more to Mr. Who that he was paying for my services and that I was trained to do this and more adept than he at selecting a job candidate? Why didn't I simply cut him off at the pass and forcefully make my point?
By the time she finished "helping" me by listening to the contents of my bad day, she made it worse by making me feel as if I had handled everything incorrectly and that it was my own fault for not speaking up.
I sputtered at her that GOOD HELL. SOMETIMES I JUST NEED A HUG, DAMMIT. I don't need her to point out how the day could have been salvaged, I need her to hug me and tell me that Dr. Who is an asshat. A douche bag. A double asswipe. A pimpled nitwit. And then I want her to offer to make me a drink or let me have the last piece of pumpkin pie.
Why in the hell can't she EVER get this right? My bff, Harriet, could do this with her eyes closed and one hand tied behind her back.
So, instead....I came in here to vent and blog because I know that someone will say something to make me laugh or tell me how smart and perfect I am.
What kills me is that after all these years of knowing me, Bing still seems clueless as to what exactly I need when I am in a crabby mood after a bad day.
So, I will go give Liv her bath (and that mess will be cleaned up because she listens to me and obeys me and knows that Bing will let everything slide again tomorrow) and read a chapter of our book together.
And then I will take a long, hot bath and if Bing has ANY good sense, she will cut me a slice of pie and put lots and lots of whipped cream on it.
Maybe I am setting that bar too high....
I don't know....how do your spouses/ significant others/friends help you out after a bad day? Do they always get it right?
Just curious, as usual. And it beats doing another fucking meme.....
Monday, December 24, 2007
Meme # 48767
We've just come home from a nice Christmas breakfast at my sister's house. Bing and I are going to see the movie Juno. Liv is going to spend the afternoon at her Jewish friend, Belle's house. We will all meet up for dinner at home, which will NOT be a big Christmas spread, but instead, we have agreed to have um...pancakes. We had a big Christmas Eve dinner last night at Bing's sister's house and none of us feel like doing it again, so...yeah...we were all cool with pancakes. Bing and Liv are going to make the turkey tomorrow while I have to work with a client all day. The gifts have all been opened and oohed over (Bing gave me the obligatory book store gift certificate and a gorgeous Tibetan prayer bracelet made of pure brown agate and Liv made us a beautiful bird house out of a coconut...so we are all happy and sated.) Life is good. Life is happy. But, most importantly, my holiday obligations to my family are DONE and now we can all relax. And now I can finish this meme that has been sitting on my back burner for weeks now.
And sorry, but I cannot remember who named me for this one...so I can't credit you.
The Numbers Meme.
Ten Favorites.
1) Favorite color:
Deep forest green.
2) Favorite food:
Irish oatmeal with lots of raisins. It is a total comfort food for me. I even eat it in the summertime.
3) Favorite song:
"Let Go" by Frou Frou. Ever hear a song and just think it defines you? This song defines me.
4) Favorite movie:
Garden State. Ever see a movie and just think it defines you? This movie defines me.
5) Favorite sport:
FOOTBALL. FOOTBALL. FOOTBALL. And Cornhusker football is the best, but I will watch any football game, anywhere, anytime. I especially like smash mouth football. None of this namby pamby West Coast Offense for me. Naw. I like in-your-face-up-close football.
6) Favorite season:
Autumn. I love sweater weather and sweater weather brings FOOTBALL.
7) Favorite day of the week:
Saturday. It is my sleep in day. There is nothing I like more than waking up at 6 a.m. and realizing that I don't have to get up!
8) Favorite ice cream:
Coffee. Cookies and Cream. Peppermint Stick. Butter Brickle. God...too many choices.
9) Favorite time of day:
Sunset. I like it when the day starts winding down and shadows start falling and the air grows a bit cooler.
10) Favorite month:
October. It is just beginning to get nippy. And yes...you knew it was coming: FOOTBALL starts.
Nine Lasts:
1) Last cigarette:
Not sure of the date, but I was 24 years old. I had started smoking when I was 14 (peer pressure in the girl's bathroom) and at 24, was recovering from a bad bout of pneumonia when I just decided that I hadn't smoked in two weeks and maybe it was a good time to stop. It was one of the hardest things I ever did. To this day, almost twenty five years later, I STILL crave a cigarette when I am under stress and I still have very realistic dreams where I am smoking and I wake up and SWEAR that I can smell smoke.
2) Last drink:
Last night. I had a glass of wine with my dinner.
3) Last car ride:
This morning, we drove to my sister's house for Christmas breakfast and then back home.
4) Last kiss:
A couple of hours ago, I thanked Bing and Liv for their Christmas gifts and bussed them both.
5) Last movie seen:
The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. It was very good.
6) Last DVD:
The complete series of Arrested Development.
7) Last Phone Call:
From Bing's Aunt Caroline, wishing us Merry Christmas. She got my name wrong. Left a message on our answering machine saying, "I just wanted to wish Bing, Lisa and Liv a Merry Christmas." I told Bing that she needed to work a little harder at hiding those other girlfriends from me....
8) Last CD Played:
Jimmy Dean's Christmas Album. We played it while opening Christmas presents this morning.
9) Last Dance:
A few days ago, in the basement with Liv. listening to Bing play with her band.
Eight currents.
1) Current mood:
A little crabby. My nose is stuffed up and I am tired.
2) Current taste:
Danish modern. Bing and I have always said that if we had lots of money, our whole house would be Danish modern. Simple, clean lines. No clutter. No fancy swirly things.
3) Current clothes:
Jeans and a soft golden cashmere sweater. Brown hush puppies. My beautiful new bracelet.
4) Current desktop:
A picture of Liv from when she was five years old and had two missing front teeth. She currently sports braces, though.
5) Current toenail color:
Bright red. I let Bing paint them a few nights ago. I am too lazy to do them myself.
6) Current time:
12:25 on Christmas day, but I did start this meme on Christmas Eve night and then got lured into bed by Bing who was very....tenacious.
7) Current Surroundings:
A cold, crisp, quiet Christmas day. Liv is reading her new book of fairy tales, Bing is in the basement working on one of the heads of her drum set. I am in the office, typing.
8) Current Thoughts:
Relief. Just glad that the whole Christmas breakfast thing is over and done with. A laid back afternoon is in store for us. Peaceful thoughts.
Seven Firsts.
1) First Best Friend:
Shari. She and I met in kindergarten. Our friendship went strong until 2nd grade and then she went to public school and I was no longer allowed to play with her. My mother was insistent that I only have friends who were Catholic. And while Shari was Catholic, her parents committed the terrible sin of not sending their child to Catholic school, so our friendship was doomed. I actually ran into Shari about 20 years ago. She was married with several children and aghast that I was a lesbian. So...probably for the best.
2) First Kiss:
I was in second grade. A third grade boy offered me a dollar if I would meet him in a park and kiss him behind a tree. I was mercenary even at the ripe old age of seven and accepted his terms. I let him kiss me chastely on the lips, took the dollar and bought popsicles. This boy later became a priest, so I suppose it is fair to say that I wasn't much of a kisser. I improved with age.
3) First Screen Name:
Hmmm.....It was a series of numbers. I was not very creative.
4) First Pet:
Our family dog. His name was Rags. We had a series of dogs. They all lived outside in the barn.
5) First Piercing:
My best friend in high school pierced my ears with a closepin and a needle stuck in a candle flame when I was a freshman. They became infected. My mother took me to the doctor to get a "proper" ear piercing. They became infected. I figured this was a karmic lesson and I have never had a piercing since.
6) First Crush:
Honey West. This was a private eye show in the sixties. I loved Honey West. I wanted to go move in with her and solve crimes and wear stiletto heels. I eventually wore the heels, but never got the girl.
7) First Cd:
Thinking. Thinking. I believe it was the soundtrack from a movie, but I cannot remember what it was.
Six have-you-evers.
1) Have you ever dated one of your guy/girlfriends?
Not only did I date her, I am shacking up with her. Bing and I met when we were 18, as dorm mates. We were best friends for 30 years. When I was 47, we decided to give the love thing a go. It is working out just fine. I'm just sorry that it took my sorry ass this long to figure out that I had the perfect partner right in my own back yard. Bing claims that she knew we were meant for each other the second she laid eyes on me. That girl has got her some patience, boy howdy.
2) Have you ever broken the law?
Snicker, snicker. During my college days, I think I tried every drug known to man and woman at least twice. So, yeah...I broke the law.
3) Have you ever been arrested?
Nope. Lucky. Sheer luck, considering how stoned I was so many, many times.
4) Have you ever skinny dipped?
Sure. Who hasn't? But, it was when I was young and had the body for it. Now, I don't want to frighten the fish.
5) Have you ever been on TV?
Yes. I was interviewed about anorexia. I sincerely wish that I could burn that tape. I was aiming to look professional and cool. Instead, I looked like I had a cob stuck up my ass and my voice had this querulous tone that sounded like the church lady. I was also on television on a panel discussion about depression in teenagers. The most memorable thing about me was that I seemed to move my hands around like I was shooing a fly. I shudder just thinking about it...never again.
6) Have you ever kissed someone you didn't know?
Yep. LOTS of those New Year's Eve parties in college....
FIVE THINGS.
1) Thing you are wearing:
My edible underpants. (Just seeing if you are paying attention....)
2) Things you've done today:
Gotten up early, opened gifts, went to my sister's house for breakfast, did an impromptu pole dance in the basement for Bing...(again, are you STILL here?)
3) Things you can hear right now:
Bing playing the new Kenny Chesney cd I gave her for a Christmas gift...I am already sick of "Don't Blink"....
4) Things you can't live without:
Food, shelter. Other than that, I am pretty loose.
5) Things you do when you are bored:
Read new blogs, read books, nap.
Four places you have been today.
I already told you. Try to retain a little sumpin, willya?
Three people you can tell anything to:
1) Bing
2) Harriet
3) Me. I am probably the most trustworthy of the bunch. I would never spill my secrets.
Two choices:
1) Black or White?
Depends. On chocolate, I like both white chocolate and very dark bitter chocolate (at least 85% cacoa) but on my bedroom walls, probably white.
2) Hot or Cold?
Again, depends. If it is summer, the colder the drink the better. In winter, make that the hotter the better. Nothing lukewarm is worth drinking. But, a lukewarm breeze feels nice.
One thing you want to do before you die?
Not be a burden to my family or friends.
Merry Christmas, y'all...and to the Grinches...yeah...it is almost over.
And sorry, but I cannot remember who named me for this one...so I can't credit you.
The Numbers Meme.
Ten Favorites.
1) Favorite color:
Deep forest green.
2) Favorite food:
Irish oatmeal with lots of raisins. It is a total comfort food for me. I even eat it in the summertime.
3) Favorite song:
"Let Go" by Frou Frou. Ever hear a song and just think it defines you? This song defines me.
4) Favorite movie:
Garden State. Ever see a movie and just think it defines you? This movie defines me.
5) Favorite sport:
FOOTBALL. FOOTBALL. FOOTBALL. And Cornhusker football is the best, but I will watch any football game, anywhere, anytime. I especially like smash mouth football. None of this namby pamby West Coast Offense for me. Naw. I like in-your-face-up-close football.
6) Favorite season:
Autumn. I love sweater weather and sweater weather brings FOOTBALL.
7) Favorite day of the week:
Saturday. It is my sleep in day. There is nothing I like more than waking up at 6 a.m. and realizing that I don't have to get up!
8) Favorite ice cream:
Coffee. Cookies and Cream. Peppermint Stick. Butter Brickle. God...too many choices.
9) Favorite time of day:
Sunset. I like it when the day starts winding down and shadows start falling and the air grows a bit cooler.
10) Favorite month:
October. It is just beginning to get nippy. And yes...you knew it was coming: FOOTBALL starts.
Nine Lasts:
1) Last cigarette:
Not sure of the date, but I was 24 years old. I had started smoking when I was 14 (peer pressure in the girl's bathroom) and at 24, was recovering from a bad bout of pneumonia when I just decided that I hadn't smoked in two weeks and maybe it was a good time to stop. It was one of the hardest things I ever did. To this day, almost twenty five years later, I STILL crave a cigarette when I am under stress and I still have very realistic dreams where I am smoking and I wake up and SWEAR that I can smell smoke.
2) Last drink:
Last night. I had a glass of wine with my dinner.
3) Last car ride:
This morning, we drove to my sister's house for Christmas breakfast and then back home.
4) Last kiss:
A couple of hours ago, I thanked Bing and Liv for their Christmas gifts and bussed them both.
5) Last movie seen:
The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. It was very good.
6) Last DVD:
The complete series of Arrested Development.
7) Last Phone Call:
From Bing's Aunt Caroline, wishing us Merry Christmas. She got my name wrong. Left a message on our answering machine saying, "I just wanted to wish Bing, Lisa and Liv a Merry Christmas." I told Bing that she needed to work a little harder at hiding those other girlfriends from me....
8) Last CD Played:
Jimmy Dean's Christmas Album. We played it while opening Christmas presents this morning.
9) Last Dance:
A few days ago, in the basement with Liv. listening to Bing play with her band.
Eight currents.
1) Current mood:
A little crabby. My nose is stuffed up and I am tired.
2) Current taste:
Danish modern. Bing and I have always said that if we had lots of money, our whole house would be Danish modern. Simple, clean lines. No clutter. No fancy swirly things.
3) Current clothes:
Jeans and a soft golden cashmere sweater. Brown hush puppies. My beautiful new bracelet.
4) Current desktop:
A picture of Liv from when she was five years old and had two missing front teeth. She currently sports braces, though.
5) Current toenail color:
Bright red. I let Bing paint them a few nights ago. I am too lazy to do them myself.
6) Current time:
12:25 on Christmas day, but I did start this meme on Christmas Eve night and then got lured into bed by Bing who was very....tenacious.
7) Current Surroundings:
A cold, crisp, quiet Christmas day. Liv is reading her new book of fairy tales, Bing is in the basement working on one of the heads of her drum set. I am in the office, typing.
8) Current Thoughts:
Relief. Just glad that the whole Christmas breakfast thing is over and done with. A laid back afternoon is in store for us. Peaceful thoughts.
Seven Firsts.
1) First Best Friend:
Shari. She and I met in kindergarten. Our friendship went strong until 2nd grade and then she went to public school and I was no longer allowed to play with her. My mother was insistent that I only have friends who were Catholic. And while Shari was Catholic, her parents committed the terrible sin of not sending their child to Catholic school, so our friendship was doomed. I actually ran into Shari about 20 years ago. She was married with several children and aghast that I was a lesbian. So...probably for the best.
2) First Kiss:
I was in second grade. A third grade boy offered me a dollar if I would meet him in a park and kiss him behind a tree. I was mercenary even at the ripe old age of seven and accepted his terms. I let him kiss me chastely on the lips, took the dollar and bought popsicles. This boy later became a priest, so I suppose it is fair to say that I wasn't much of a kisser. I improved with age.
3) First Screen Name:
Hmmm.....It was a series of numbers. I was not very creative.
4) First Pet:
Our family dog. His name was Rags. We had a series of dogs. They all lived outside in the barn.
5) First Piercing:
My best friend in high school pierced my ears with a closepin and a needle stuck in a candle flame when I was a freshman. They became infected. My mother took me to the doctor to get a "proper" ear piercing. They became infected. I figured this was a karmic lesson and I have never had a piercing since.
6) First Crush:
Honey West. This was a private eye show in the sixties. I loved Honey West. I wanted to go move in with her and solve crimes and wear stiletto heels. I eventually wore the heels, but never got the girl.
7) First Cd:
Thinking. Thinking. I believe it was the soundtrack from a movie, but I cannot remember what it was.
Six have-you-evers.
1) Have you ever dated one of your guy/girlfriends?
Not only did I date her, I am shacking up with her. Bing and I met when we were 18, as dorm mates. We were best friends for 30 years. When I was 47, we decided to give the love thing a go. It is working out just fine. I'm just sorry that it took my sorry ass this long to figure out that I had the perfect partner right in my own back yard. Bing claims that she knew we were meant for each other the second she laid eyes on me. That girl has got her some patience, boy howdy.
2) Have you ever broken the law?
Snicker, snicker. During my college days, I think I tried every drug known to man and woman at least twice. So, yeah...I broke the law.
3) Have you ever been arrested?
Nope. Lucky. Sheer luck, considering how stoned I was so many, many times.
4) Have you ever skinny dipped?
Sure. Who hasn't? But, it was when I was young and had the body for it. Now, I don't want to frighten the fish.
5) Have you ever been on TV?
Yes. I was interviewed about anorexia. I sincerely wish that I could burn that tape. I was aiming to look professional and cool. Instead, I looked like I had a cob stuck up my ass and my voice had this querulous tone that sounded like the church lady. I was also on television on a panel discussion about depression in teenagers. The most memorable thing about me was that I seemed to move my hands around like I was shooing a fly. I shudder just thinking about it...never again.
6) Have you ever kissed someone you didn't know?
Yep. LOTS of those New Year's Eve parties in college....
FIVE THINGS.
1) Thing you are wearing:
My edible underpants. (Just seeing if you are paying attention....)
2) Things you've done today:
Gotten up early, opened gifts, went to my sister's house for breakfast, did an impromptu pole dance in the basement for Bing...(again, are you STILL here?)
3) Things you can hear right now:
Bing playing the new Kenny Chesney cd I gave her for a Christmas gift...I am already sick of "Don't Blink"....
4) Things you can't live without:
Food, shelter. Other than that, I am pretty loose.
5) Things you do when you are bored:
Read new blogs, read books, nap.
Four places you have been today.
I already told you. Try to retain a little sumpin, willya?
Three people you can tell anything to:
1) Bing
2) Harriet
3) Me. I am probably the most trustworthy of the bunch. I would never spill my secrets.
Two choices:
1) Black or White?
Depends. On chocolate, I like both white chocolate and very dark bitter chocolate (at least 85% cacoa) but on my bedroom walls, probably white.
2) Hot or Cold?
Again, depends. If it is summer, the colder the drink the better. In winter, make that the hotter the better. Nothing lukewarm is worth drinking. But, a lukewarm breeze feels nice.
One thing you want to do before you die?
Not be a burden to my family or friends.
Merry Christmas, y'all...and to the Grinches...yeah...it is almost over.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Getting Lost in Her Music.
I love to watch Bing play her guitar. Actually, I like to watch her play just about anything and she can play many instruments: piano, violin, percussion, guitar, banjo, congo, you name it. She loves music and she loves playing in the basement with her friends, a ragtag group of guys and a few women who have regular day jobs like teaching, painting, running grocery stores and selling insurance.
But, when they get together, they play the hell out of their systems.
Bing rarely sings, she doesn't have the best voice, but when it is Springsteen, she can hack it. His pitch fits hers and she can easily do his stuff.
Today, they were on a Springsteen kick. The band had been playing literally for hours and Liv and I went down to listen for awhile.
Bing grinned when she saw us sit down on the floor.
"You want me to do one for you?" she asked sweetly, looking right into my eyes.
I nodded cautiously. It bothers me a little that she knows how completely turned on I get when she plays the hell out of her guitar. I like to keep my cool exterior in place and it is difficult for me to do when she gets lost in her instrument and takes me along with her. Especially when she is wearing her jeans with the ripped knees and her Led Zeppelin tee shirt that show all the muscles in her arms moving as she plays.
She conferred with the rest of the band and then turned back to me.
"This one's for you, hon," she said.
They launched into one of my all time favorite Springsteen numbers. I tried to find it on youtube but couldn't get it to come up, so go here and down to the first video for Tunnel of Love.
Bing sang it and yes, played the hell out of her guitar, her face full of intent and grimace and joy. She changed the line about "man meets woman and they fall in love" to "woman meets woman" and that was okay fucking fine with me.
Liv and I couldn't stand it anymore when Bing got to what I call the roller coaster part of the song, the place where the slight yee-aaa--hoo part of the song comes on and every instrument played is going strong and in perfect sync. We got to our feet and danced, holding hands and twirling and bobbing and weaving.
You have to know me to understand that I don't easily let loose like this in front of anyone, but there I went, lost in Bing, her voice, her fingers hitting those guitar strings in a frenzy of heat and love and joy. I caught her eye and she was smiling and I let myself smile back, letting all my feelings show for once.
She threw back her head and laughed. Everyone playing was grinning and playing hard and Liv and I danced until the last note.
My back, I knew, would pay for this later, but...maybe not. Maybe I had been just dancing on clouds. It felt like it. A roller coaster series of clouds.
Liv and I clapped and the musicians bowed to us and then I said I needed to go up and start dinner and did anyone want to stay?
They all said no, they had places to go and people to see....but maybe just one more song. Maybe two.
As Liv and I reached the top of the stairs, I heard Willie, the drummer for today's band say to Bing, "Oh, man...I am guessing that you are going to get lucky tonight, girl..."
I smiled...because...yeah, she just might. We walked into the kitchen and Liv said, "What did Willie mean that Bing is gonna get lucky?"
I told her that maybe Willie thought I wouldn't burn the chicken. She nodded solemnly, knowing my tendency to burn everything I try to cook.
Yee-aaa...hoo....
But, when they get together, they play the hell out of their systems.
Bing rarely sings, she doesn't have the best voice, but when it is Springsteen, she can hack it. His pitch fits hers and she can easily do his stuff.
Today, they were on a Springsteen kick. The band had been playing literally for hours and Liv and I went down to listen for awhile.
Bing grinned when she saw us sit down on the floor.
"You want me to do one for you?" she asked sweetly, looking right into my eyes.
I nodded cautiously. It bothers me a little that she knows how completely turned on I get when she plays the hell out of her guitar. I like to keep my cool exterior in place and it is difficult for me to do when she gets lost in her instrument and takes me along with her. Especially when she is wearing her jeans with the ripped knees and her Led Zeppelin tee shirt that show all the muscles in her arms moving as she plays.
She conferred with the rest of the band and then turned back to me.
"This one's for you, hon," she said.
They launched into one of my all time favorite Springsteen numbers. I tried to find it on youtube but couldn't get it to come up, so go here and down to the first video for Tunnel of Love.
Bing sang it and yes, played the hell out of her guitar, her face full of intent and grimace and joy. She changed the line about "man meets woman and they fall in love" to "woman meets woman" and that was okay fucking fine with me.
Liv and I couldn't stand it anymore when Bing got to what I call the roller coaster part of the song, the place where the slight yee-aaa--hoo part of the song comes on and every instrument played is going strong and in perfect sync. We got to our feet and danced, holding hands and twirling and bobbing and weaving.
You have to know me to understand that I don't easily let loose like this in front of anyone, but there I went, lost in Bing, her voice, her fingers hitting those guitar strings in a frenzy of heat and love and joy. I caught her eye and she was smiling and I let myself smile back, letting all my feelings show for once.
She threw back her head and laughed. Everyone playing was grinning and playing hard and Liv and I danced until the last note.
My back, I knew, would pay for this later, but...maybe not. Maybe I had been just dancing on clouds. It felt like it. A roller coaster series of clouds.
Liv and I clapped and the musicians bowed to us and then I said I needed to go up and start dinner and did anyone want to stay?
They all said no, they had places to go and people to see....but maybe just one more song. Maybe two.
As Liv and I reached the top of the stairs, I heard Willie, the drummer for today's band say to Bing, "Oh, man...I am guessing that you are going to get lucky tonight, girl..."
I smiled...because...yeah, she just might. We walked into the kitchen and Liv said, "What did Willie mean that Bing is gonna get lucky?"
I told her that maybe Willie thought I wouldn't burn the chicken. She nodded solemnly, knowing my tendency to burn everything I try to cook.
Yee-aaa...hoo....
The Christmas Angel and Crabby Pants.
Every year, Liv and I go to the local shelter and pick out a child's name from their Christmas angel tree. We have done this since she was three and it is a fun part of our holiday. This year, Bing went with us. Bossy Bing.
Liv and I always pick a baby because well...she likes babies and I like buying for babies. I don't have to worry about tastes or favorite colors. Babies are really easy. But, this year we allowed Bing to pick out our angel and she selected a 12 year old boy. T'aylir. It gave his sizes and said that he loved sports, especially basketball. I frowned when Bing handed me the angel. Because I am a crabby pants.
"It is hard to buy for an adolescent," I told her. "They are picky about their clothes, their stuff."
"He's homeless," she replied. "He needs Christmas more than an infant."
I knew she was right, but I frowned and sighed anyway.
We had decided to shop for our gifts at Von Maur. We had never been there and since they had just re-opened after the shooting, we wanted to be sure to send business their way.
I was shocked at how hard it was for me to walk into that store. It was totally unexpected. I walked in and immediately my heart lurched and I wanted to grab Liv and hold her close.
I kept thinking about all the news reports I had seen after the shooting, the lone police officer who had been the first on the scene after the 911 calls. How he spoke of how awful it was to enter the silent store alone and hear Christmas carols playing over the intercom while he saw the bodies on the floor. I thought of the people who had hidden terrified in dressing rooms, perched on the seats inside the rooms with their feet up, praying that the gunman didn't come in. I thought of Fred Wilson, one of the victims of the shooting who survived and said he had no anger towards the shooter, only pain that the man had been ill and not been helped before he could do so much damage.
But, as we walked in and milled around, the sad feelings disappeared and we got to the business of shopping. It had been important for us to do this, to support the store, not let the dark side win. We needed to be there. And so many others obviously thought the same. We were all there to set things right again.
We went to the teen department and looked around. Found a pair of jeans and some shirts, one nice, one with a basketball star on it.
"What if he doesn't like this basketball guy?" I asked. "See this is why it is easier to buy for babies."
We picked it out anyway and went on to buy underpants. I bitched that underpants were a private matter. How did we know if he liked briefs or boxers? Bing replied that she was sure he would be glad to have either.
Still. I wanted to get him what he wanted. And said so.
We ran into Bing's sister and her husband. They were shopping for their daughter at the perfume counter, had come in for the exact same reason we did. We hugged and talked about Christmas Eve dinner, which would be at their home. The husband kept coming up to me for me "one more hug, darlin'" until I cut him off by saying that we had to get going. He teased Liv that Santa wouldn't be coming if she hadn't been a good girl.
"Santa is a myth, Uncle Tommy,"she said, her face serious. He looked crestfallen. One more child who had joined the ranks of the disbelieving.
We went on. Bought bedsheets. A parka. Socks.
Finally, we were done.
Or we thought so.
Liv led us into the sports department where she found a basketball, a football and a soccer ball.
He needs these more than clothes.
Bing and I looked at each other. This was getting a bit pricey. But, yes, Liv was right. He did need those things more than clothes.
So, we added them to the pile.
We bought our gifts and prepared to walk out. As we walked through the front doors, Liv turned to me and said, "All those people that died? I bet they are welcoming the man that shot them into heaven. I bet they are saying to him that they know he was very, very sick and didn't mean it."
I smiled but didn't answer. She is already at a place where I am not able to go just yet. Too much anger. I'll let her be the Christmas angel. I'm just not worthy of that title yet. I'm the one who almost didn't pick T'aylir. I'm the one who almost picked an infant because it is much more fun (and cheap) to buy clothes for a baby than for a pre-teen.
We stopped for ice cream on the way home. And then we would wrap the gifts and take them to the shelter.
Liv and I always pick a baby because well...she likes babies and I like buying for babies. I don't have to worry about tastes or favorite colors. Babies are really easy. But, this year we allowed Bing to pick out our angel and she selected a 12 year old boy. T'aylir. It gave his sizes and said that he loved sports, especially basketball. I frowned when Bing handed me the angel. Because I am a crabby pants.
"It is hard to buy for an adolescent," I told her. "They are picky about their clothes, their stuff."
"He's homeless," she replied. "He needs Christmas more than an infant."
I knew she was right, but I frowned and sighed anyway.
We had decided to shop for our gifts at Von Maur. We had never been there and since they had just re-opened after the shooting, we wanted to be sure to send business their way.
I was shocked at how hard it was for me to walk into that store. It was totally unexpected. I walked in and immediately my heart lurched and I wanted to grab Liv and hold her close.
I kept thinking about all the news reports I had seen after the shooting, the lone police officer who had been the first on the scene after the 911 calls. How he spoke of how awful it was to enter the silent store alone and hear Christmas carols playing over the intercom while he saw the bodies on the floor. I thought of the people who had hidden terrified in dressing rooms, perched on the seats inside the rooms with their feet up, praying that the gunman didn't come in. I thought of Fred Wilson, one of the victims of the shooting who survived and said he had no anger towards the shooter, only pain that the man had been ill and not been helped before he could do so much damage.
But, as we walked in and milled around, the sad feelings disappeared and we got to the business of shopping. It had been important for us to do this, to support the store, not let the dark side win. We needed to be there. And so many others obviously thought the same. We were all there to set things right again.
We went to the teen department and looked around. Found a pair of jeans and some shirts, one nice, one with a basketball star on it.
"What if he doesn't like this basketball guy?" I asked. "See this is why it is easier to buy for babies."
We picked it out anyway and went on to buy underpants. I bitched that underpants were a private matter. How did we know if he liked briefs or boxers? Bing replied that she was sure he would be glad to have either.
Still. I wanted to get him what he wanted. And said so.
We ran into Bing's sister and her husband. They were shopping for their daughter at the perfume counter, had come in for the exact same reason we did. We hugged and talked about Christmas Eve dinner, which would be at their home. The husband kept coming up to me for me "one more hug, darlin'" until I cut him off by saying that we had to get going. He teased Liv that Santa wouldn't be coming if she hadn't been a good girl.
"Santa is a myth, Uncle Tommy,"she said, her face serious. He looked crestfallen. One more child who had joined the ranks of the disbelieving.
We went on. Bought bedsheets. A parka. Socks.
Finally, we were done.
Or we thought so.
Liv led us into the sports department where she found a basketball, a football and a soccer ball.
He needs these more than clothes.
Bing and I looked at each other. This was getting a bit pricey. But, yes, Liv was right. He did need those things more than clothes.
So, we added them to the pile.
We bought our gifts and prepared to walk out. As we walked through the front doors, Liv turned to me and said, "All those people that died? I bet they are welcoming the man that shot them into heaven. I bet they are saying to him that they know he was very, very sick and didn't mean it."
I smiled but didn't answer. She is already at a place where I am not able to go just yet. Too much anger. I'll let her be the Christmas angel. I'm just not worthy of that title yet. I'm the one who almost didn't pick T'aylir. I'm the one who almost picked an infant because it is much more fun (and cheap) to buy clothes for a baby than for a pre-teen.
We stopped for ice cream on the way home. And then we would wrap the gifts and take them to the shelter.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
The Jesus thing.
Well. Yeah. What to do. What to do.
Before I was a parent, I didn't sweat the Jesus thing too much. I mean, it was just me and my confusion and I didn't put much thought into it.
But, then Liv came along and well...she requires answers. Good answers. Plus, it is my job to make sure that she gets all the facts, ma'am. I want her to make informed decisions and to keep an open mind. I have known too many people (my family, anyone?) who believe one way, support one candidate, have one way of thinking and just bash everyone else who dares to think differently.
I don't know if I believe in God or not. And please spare me the comments telling me that you will pray for me to find my faith or that it is not Jesus' fault that I don't believe, but mine for not letting him in. Trust me. My family has already done this. Many, many times.
I was raised in the Catholic faith. And the word raised seems inadequate. I was dunked, soaked, immersed, just plain drowned in Catholicism.
It didn't take, obviously.
In college, I discovered that not everyone was Christian or believed in God. I met doubters. I also knew true believers. But, what struck me the most was that being a good person seemed to have little to do with faith or belief in God. The most incredibly good person that I ever met was one of my professors in college who was an atheist. And if I am absolutely honest, I must admit that some of the smarmiest, stupidest, cruelest, just....odious people I have ever known were Christians. And not just practicing Christians, but ones who sported a frenzied belief that they must convert me too.
Somewhere or other, they seemed to have missed the part in the bible about he who is without sin throwing the first stone. They not only threw verbal stones, they lobbed them carefully to hit me where it hurt the most and then shook their pious heads at me, saying they pitied my lack of faith and would pray for me.
And then they went back to their lives of beating their wives, hating people because of their skin color or sexual orientation, doing whatever bashing thing fit them the best.
Forgive me if I wasn't too impressed.
And now I have a child to raise. I decided not to raise her as a Catholic. That dress had never fit me and I didn't want to force my child to wear it either. I wanted her to have a choice of clothes.
My sisters were enraged. How could I do this? Why on earth would I condemn an innocent little baby to hell by not baptizing her? I found out later that they had actually baptized Liv one afternoon when one of my sisters was babysitting. She had literally taken faucet water and baptized her. This was all condoned by the church because it was an emergency.
I was furious at first and then decided to laugh it off. I mean, who had been hurt? They had sprinkled water on my daughter's forehead and said some mumbo jumbo phrases and declared her all ready and spanking clean for heaven now. If it comforted them, well...okay. It wasn't as if they had gotten her ears pierced or something. I let it pass.
But, as the years went by, they became more verbal. Was I sure that I didn't want to send Liv to parochial school? Very sure?
Yes. Quite sure.
Did I want to send her to ccd classes? At least that way she could wear her little veil and white communion dress, she could partake of the body and blood of Christ.
No, thanks.
Christmas time is especially hard for them. And now it is hard for me too. Not because I feel guilty, but because I just want Liv to know the facts and have a say in what she believes.
Last year, I bought a book on the nativity and we read it together and then discussed it. I tried to make it as educational as possible. I told her the story and said that there was some history to back up that these events did happen but to what extent I wasn't certain.
We talked about all the Christmas hymns that she liked to listen to on the radio: Joy to the World. O Holy Night. Silent Night.
Liv asked what my beliefs were and I explained them as honestly as I could, without getting too technical or wordy.
I wasn't sure if I believed in God. That I did believe that there was a power for good in the world and also a power for evil. That I tried hard to lead a good life, do the right things and be grateful for my good fortune.
But the Jesus thing? Well, yes, there was documentation to prove that he had existed, had done some fairly miraculous things. Did I think he was the son of God? I didn't know.
Liv and I agreed that for now, she didn't need to decide. That as time went on and she became more curious, we would explore the topic further.
We don't put up a nativity. We don't go to church on Christmas or go look at baby Jesus in the manger.
I have a bible in my house. I also have the Hindu Vedas, the Qur'an of Islam, the Jewish Torah, the Lotus Sutra, the Book of Mormon and a Wiccan text. I want to have it ALL at Liv's fingertips.
I just can't pass on my beliefs to Liv when I am this uncertain. When my sister was being treated for breast cancer, she said that Jesus gave her strength. This was mystifying for me. If I had been in her shoes, I would not have thought to rely on my religious faith to get me through. I would have relied on my inner hope and faith in my friends to help me.
Bing refers to my beliefs as Star Wars mentality. And she is pretty on target. There is a dark side and a light side. It is my hope that the cup always tips to the light side, that the dark will never extinguish the light.
But, I plain refuse to believe that it is the Christians who will save us. I think it is the good people who will. The good Muslims, good Christians, good Buddhists, good Atheists, good Agnostics, good Witches, good Mormons, good Jews. Simply the good people.
I have seen them. They exist. And they aren't all sitting in one pew.
So, my sisters will have to continue to be scandalized by my godless behavior. One of my sisters told me that she prays for my soul every night, that she fears that I will burn in hell because of my sexual orientation. I tell her to pray for her husband instead. Him. That man who talks in a derogatory way about black people, hispanic people. The one who cracks brokeback jokes and won't get on an airplane if there is a "towel head" in the crowd.
Worry about his soul, sis. I think I will do just fine after I die. If there is a heaven, I am confidant that I will get there. But, really, now. I like the whole idea of reincarnation so much more. And logically, well....it just makes more sense. I mean, how can one really think that only people of their faith will be in heaven? That strikes me as pretty damn arrogant. If there is a heaven, I suspect that my old atheist college professor is up there smoking his joints and analyzing Plato's cave allegory.
Because we all fit together and are of one piece. Once we figure that out, the rest will fall into place.
And that's how it goes in my mind.
Before I was a parent, I didn't sweat the Jesus thing too much. I mean, it was just me and my confusion and I didn't put much thought into it.
But, then Liv came along and well...she requires answers. Good answers. Plus, it is my job to make sure that she gets all the facts, ma'am. I want her to make informed decisions and to keep an open mind. I have known too many people (my family, anyone?) who believe one way, support one candidate, have one way of thinking and just bash everyone else who dares to think differently.
I don't know if I believe in God or not. And please spare me the comments telling me that you will pray for me to find my faith or that it is not Jesus' fault that I don't believe, but mine for not letting him in. Trust me. My family has already done this. Many, many times.
I was raised in the Catholic faith. And the word raised seems inadequate. I was dunked, soaked, immersed, just plain drowned in Catholicism.
It didn't take, obviously.
In college, I discovered that not everyone was Christian or believed in God. I met doubters. I also knew true believers. But, what struck me the most was that being a good person seemed to have little to do with faith or belief in God. The most incredibly good person that I ever met was one of my professors in college who was an atheist. And if I am absolutely honest, I must admit that some of the smarmiest, stupidest, cruelest, just....odious people I have ever known were Christians. And not just practicing Christians, but ones who sported a frenzied belief that they must convert me too.
Somewhere or other, they seemed to have missed the part in the bible about he who is without sin throwing the first stone. They not only threw verbal stones, they lobbed them carefully to hit me where it hurt the most and then shook their pious heads at me, saying they pitied my lack of faith and would pray for me.
And then they went back to their lives of beating their wives, hating people because of their skin color or sexual orientation, doing whatever bashing thing fit them the best.
Forgive me if I wasn't too impressed.
And now I have a child to raise. I decided not to raise her as a Catholic. That dress had never fit me and I didn't want to force my child to wear it either. I wanted her to have a choice of clothes.
My sisters were enraged. How could I do this? Why on earth would I condemn an innocent little baby to hell by not baptizing her? I found out later that they had actually baptized Liv one afternoon when one of my sisters was babysitting. She had literally taken faucet water and baptized her. This was all condoned by the church because it was an emergency.
I was furious at first and then decided to laugh it off. I mean, who had been hurt? They had sprinkled water on my daughter's forehead and said some mumbo jumbo phrases and declared her all ready and spanking clean for heaven now. If it comforted them, well...okay. It wasn't as if they had gotten her ears pierced or something. I let it pass.
But, as the years went by, they became more verbal. Was I sure that I didn't want to send Liv to parochial school? Very sure?
Yes. Quite sure.
Did I want to send her to ccd classes? At least that way she could wear her little veil and white communion dress, she could partake of the body and blood of Christ.
No, thanks.
Christmas time is especially hard for them. And now it is hard for me too. Not because I feel guilty, but because I just want Liv to know the facts and have a say in what she believes.
Last year, I bought a book on the nativity and we read it together and then discussed it. I tried to make it as educational as possible. I told her the story and said that there was some history to back up that these events did happen but to what extent I wasn't certain.
We talked about all the Christmas hymns that she liked to listen to on the radio: Joy to the World. O Holy Night. Silent Night.
Liv asked what my beliefs were and I explained them as honestly as I could, without getting too technical or wordy.
I wasn't sure if I believed in God. That I did believe that there was a power for good in the world and also a power for evil. That I tried hard to lead a good life, do the right things and be grateful for my good fortune.
But the Jesus thing? Well, yes, there was documentation to prove that he had existed, had done some fairly miraculous things. Did I think he was the son of God? I didn't know.
Liv and I agreed that for now, she didn't need to decide. That as time went on and she became more curious, we would explore the topic further.
We don't put up a nativity. We don't go to church on Christmas or go look at baby Jesus in the manger.
I have a bible in my house. I also have the Hindu Vedas, the Qur'an of Islam, the Jewish Torah, the Lotus Sutra, the Book of Mormon and a Wiccan text. I want to have it ALL at Liv's fingertips.
I just can't pass on my beliefs to Liv when I am this uncertain. When my sister was being treated for breast cancer, she said that Jesus gave her strength. This was mystifying for me. If I had been in her shoes, I would not have thought to rely on my religious faith to get me through. I would have relied on my inner hope and faith in my friends to help me.
Bing refers to my beliefs as Star Wars mentality. And she is pretty on target. There is a dark side and a light side. It is my hope that the cup always tips to the light side, that the dark will never extinguish the light.
But, I plain refuse to believe that it is the Christians who will save us. I think it is the good people who will. The good Muslims, good Christians, good Buddhists, good Atheists, good Agnostics, good Witches, good Mormons, good Jews. Simply the good people.
I have seen them. They exist. And they aren't all sitting in one pew.
So, my sisters will have to continue to be scandalized by my godless behavior. One of my sisters told me that she prays for my soul every night, that she fears that I will burn in hell because of my sexual orientation. I tell her to pray for her husband instead. Him. That man who talks in a derogatory way about black people, hispanic people. The one who cracks brokeback jokes and won't get on an airplane if there is a "towel head" in the crowd.
Worry about his soul, sis. I think I will do just fine after I die. If there is a heaven, I am confidant that I will get there. But, really, now. I like the whole idea of reincarnation so much more. And logically, well....it just makes more sense. I mean, how can one really think that only people of their faith will be in heaven? That strikes me as pretty damn arrogant. If there is a heaven, I suspect that my old atheist college professor is up there smoking his joints and analyzing Plato's cave allegory.
Because we all fit together and are of one piece. Once we figure that out, the rest will fall into place.
And that's how it goes in my mind.
Catching up with Sven
Many of you readers remember Sven. If not, he is all over my past posts, especially from last summer. Not sure how to link you to them, will ask Bing for help with that when she gets done teaching on Friday. (Right now, she is a total trainwreck...she teaches high school and she says "the natives are more then restless, they are rebelling and pushing every single button I have this week.")
But, Sven. Yeah. He and his mother have been my next door neighbors since I moved in when Liv was two. Sven left for college this fall and we have missed him so much. We have sent him boxes of cookies, e-mails, funny cards, but it didn't help the fact that we simply missed seeing his face every day. He was a star football player in high school and we went to ALL of his games. This fall, we followed our Cornhuskers faithfully, but we missed those friday night lights.
He came home for winter break a few days ago. We left him alone the first day so that he could catch up with his Mom, but then we couldn't stand it anymore and went running over to see him.
He took my breath away. I had forgotten how huge he is. And I don't mean fat. That boy is all muscle. He plays for his college team now and is even more massive. He tells me that he is considered "one of the freshman pups" and that they are working on adding even more muscle to his frame. When he hugged me, he literally lifted me off of the ground. When he hugged Liv (and turned her upside down as is his custom), she squealed in remembered glee.
We all kept touching him, his mother, Bing, Liv and me. Liv shyly stood next to his chair and then inch by inch ended up in his lap. He kept his arms tight around her, his chin resting on her head while he talked to us. I kept thinking to myself of how this young man will be such a good father. And it is all thanks to his wonderful mother, his own father left them when he was just a kid.
Liv volunteered that she was studying the United States in school and one of the states she picked to do a report on was the state where he went to college. She mentioned that she was bringing some samples of the state fruit for a prop and tentatively asked him if maybe he could come with her and tell some more about the state?
I had a moment of worrying that he would say no, that her feelings would be hurt, but should have known better. This was Sven.
He asked her what time he needed to be there and fished out her early Christmas gift, a hooded sweatshirt and a cap with his school's logo on it.
"I'll wear my school duds and you can wear yours and we will knock their socks off, small fry," he told her.
We spent the afternoon talking. He talked about how different the culture is at his school, how liberal the state is in general.
"I thought I was very liberal," he said. "I mean, I was half raised by a lesbian. My mom is a hippie and we recycled before anyone else did. But, I am just part of the crowd now instead of being on the fringe like we are here."
He spoke about his friends (mostly fellow football players) and his crazy dorm mate whose feet smell like garlic, but he likes anyway.
There are triplets down the hall from him. All female. Named Faith, Hope and Charity. They do his laundry. Yeah, I think they like him. They go hiking on the weekends together and hang out in general.
I asked him if he liked one triplet more than the others. He laughed. No, he said. He liked them all the same and it was pretty cool to have three sweet women in his life to study and eat meals with.
I think it is safe to say that he is really enjoying college life.
He got all A's on his finals.
His mother kept coming over to run her hand over his hair. He took her hand once and kissed it, smiling at her. I almost felt like bawling. He is one of those people who are just intrinsically good.
He met a girl on the plane ride home who lives nearby and he already made a date with her.
And yesterday, he was Liv's prop on her state report.
I was volunteering that day helping to sort books in the library and I saw him drive in and park in the lot outside of the school. I realized that I had neglected to tell him the code number to get into the school, so I ran to meet him and escort him to Liv's class. He was dressed in his school colors, sweatpants and a shirt.
When we walked into Liv's classroom, she literally leaped from her chair in joy and started running towards him before abruptly stopping halfway, figuring out that it might not be too cool to jump into his arms in front of her whole class. She carefully caught herself and took his hand to introduce him to Miss Perry.
Who blushed and almost stammered when speaking to him. I'd forgotten that she is not that much older than he is and well, he is a fucking gorgeous man.
I stayed and watched the report. It went well. Liv presented her report and then held out her hand to invite Sven to talk. He was remarkably composed and good natured.
Most of the kids in the class were more interested in what position he played on the football team than what the climate was like or what he saw on the hiking trails.
Afterwards, Miss Perry invited him to stay for lunch and he accepted and sat at Liv's table, his big body looking like a giant in the small child sized chair. He ate the hot lunch of the day: cheese souffle, fruit slices, a salad, and a raspberry scone.
Before he left, he stood up and thanked the class for having him, thanked Liv especially for wanting his help and then left, waving and giving the peace sign.
I love this boy.
I have known him since he was a gangly paperboy, twelve years old and with a bowl cut. He made my daughter's day. She is the only child in her class with no siblings and he is just as good as her big brother.
Sven, you rock. And thanks again for taking Socks for a walk and whipping him into a frenzy of dog joy by wrestling with him on my kitchen floor.
Welcome home, sweet bird of youth. We love you.
But, Sven. Yeah. He and his mother have been my next door neighbors since I moved in when Liv was two. Sven left for college this fall and we have missed him so much. We have sent him boxes of cookies, e-mails, funny cards, but it didn't help the fact that we simply missed seeing his face every day. He was a star football player in high school and we went to ALL of his games. This fall, we followed our Cornhuskers faithfully, but we missed those friday night lights.
He came home for winter break a few days ago. We left him alone the first day so that he could catch up with his Mom, but then we couldn't stand it anymore and went running over to see him.
He took my breath away. I had forgotten how huge he is. And I don't mean fat. That boy is all muscle. He plays for his college team now and is even more massive. He tells me that he is considered "one of the freshman pups" and that they are working on adding even more muscle to his frame. When he hugged me, he literally lifted me off of the ground. When he hugged Liv (and turned her upside down as is his custom), she squealed in remembered glee.
We all kept touching him, his mother, Bing, Liv and me. Liv shyly stood next to his chair and then inch by inch ended up in his lap. He kept his arms tight around her, his chin resting on her head while he talked to us. I kept thinking to myself of how this young man will be such a good father. And it is all thanks to his wonderful mother, his own father left them when he was just a kid.
Liv volunteered that she was studying the United States in school and one of the states she picked to do a report on was the state where he went to college. She mentioned that she was bringing some samples of the state fruit for a prop and tentatively asked him if maybe he could come with her and tell some more about the state?
I had a moment of worrying that he would say no, that her feelings would be hurt, but should have known better. This was Sven.
He asked her what time he needed to be there and fished out her early Christmas gift, a hooded sweatshirt and a cap with his school's logo on it.
"I'll wear my school duds and you can wear yours and we will knock their socks off, small fry," he told her.
We spent the afternoon talking. He talked about how different the culture is at his school, how liberal the state is in general.
"I thought I was very liberal," he said. "I mean, I was half raised by a lesbian. My mom is a hippie and we recycled before anyone else did. But, I am just part of the crowd now instead of being on the fringe like we are here."
He spoke about his friends (mostly fellow football players) and his crazy dorm mate whose feet smell like garlic, but he likes anyway.
There are triplets down the hall from him. All female. Named Faith, Hope and Charity. They do his laundry. Yeah, I think they like him. They go hiking on the weekends together and hang out in general.
I asked him if he liked one triplet more than the others. He laughed. No, he said. He liked them all the same and it was pretty cool to have three sweet women in his life to study and eat meals with.
I think it is safe to say that he is really enjoying college life.
He got all A's on his finals.
His mother kept coming over to run her hand over his hair. He took her hand once and kissed it, smiling at her. I almost felt like bawling. He is one of those people who are just intrinsically good.
He met a girl on the plane ride home who lives nearby and he already made a date with her.
And yesterday, he was Liv's prop on her state report.
I was volunteering that day helping to sort books in the library and I saw him drive in and park in the lot outside of the school. I realized that I had neglected to tell him the code number to get into the school, so I ran to meet him and escort him to Liv's class. He was dressed in his school colors, sweatpants and a shirt.
When we walked into Liv's classroom, she literally leaped from her chair in joy and started running towards him before abruptly stopping halfway, figuring out that it might not be too cool to jump into his arms in front of her whole class. She carefully caught herself and took his hand to introduce him to Miss Perry.
Who blushed and almost stammered when speaking to him. I'd forgotten that she is not that much older than he is and well, he is a fucking gorgeous man.
I stayed and watched the report. It went well. Liv presented her report and then held out her hand to invite Sven to talk. He was remarkably composed and good natured.
Most of the kids in the class were more interested in what position he played on the football team than what the climate was like or what he saw on the hiking trails.
Afterwards, Miss Perry invited him to stay for lunch and he accepted and sat at Liv's table, his big body looking like a giant in the small child sized chair. He ate the hot lunch of the day: cheese souffle, fruit slices, a salad, and a raspberry scone.
Before he left, he stood up and thanked the class for having him, thanked Liv especially for wanting his help and then left, waving and giving the peace sign.
I love this boy.
I have known him since he was a gangly paperboy, twelve years old and with a bowl cut. He made my daughter's day. She is the only child in her class with no siblings and he is just as good as her big brother.
Sven, you rock. And thanks again for taking Socks for a walk and whipping him into a frenzy of dog joy by wrestling with him on my kitchen floor.
Welcome home, sweet bird of youth. We love you.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
I miss her.
It never fails to amaze me. The things that I miss most as Liv grows up are the things that used to make me the most weary.
When she was an infant, I longed for the day when she could walk and I wouldn't have to carry her everywhere. Then she started walking and I found myself missing those long hours of holding her. Now, I was following her, snatching away her hands from somewhere, re-directing her.
When she started walking, I wanted her to be trained so badly. I was weary of changing diapers. And then one day, she was trained and I called the diaper service to tell them that I wouldn't need them anymore and felt jubilant...for about a week. And then I was driving down my street and noticed the diaper service van delivering a bag of fresh diapers to someone else's house. I remembered that clean, fresh scent of opening that bag of clean cloth diapers every week. I had less recall of yanking out the bag of dirty diapers from her diaper pail and hauling them out to the front porch to be picked up. I missed Liv kicking her legs as I changed her, the strawberry kisses on her belly, the sprinkling of baby powder and her saying, "nice, nice!" as I did it.
I used to look into her dark brown eyes and wonder what she would have to say when she could finally speak.
Plenty. She had plenty to say. Her first word was "water." And once that was said, the rest came tumbling out: mama, light, pizza, pretty, bird, dog, tree. She talked early and with remarkable clarity. I remember long, mind numbing days when she was the only person to whom I spoke all day long.
She was very shy until she was about six. I used to get weary of her hands finding anywhere on me to latch on nervously when someone would even say hello to her. She would shake her head no and put her face determinedly into my skirt so that she didn't have to talk. She preferred to only talk to me. And to talk a LOT.
On her first day of pre-school, she held on to me so tightly that the teacher had to pry her fingers off of me and gently shoo me away, saying she would be fine as soon as I was out of sight.
She wasn't. An hour and a half later, her teacher called to tell me that I needed to come get Liv. She had not stopped wailing the entire time, would not be deterred from her main goal: getting me back asap. She broke the school record for crying and carrying on.
When I saw her sitting on an aide's lap, steadily weeping, my heart went into my throat. She saw me and ran blindly to me, scared, her arms going around my neck in a chokehold. Her teacher came out of the room and gently told me that it was obvious that Liv was not ready for school at three years old. Maybe next year.
In the car on the way home, Liv told me in a shuddering voice that she had thrown up in her teacher's hands. She was mortified with embarrassment. We talked and agreed that no, she did not have to go back to school until she was ready. I rocked her to sleep after lunch and tried to put her into her bed but she had a lock of my hair held so tightly in her hand, so afraid that I would leave her again, that I ended up just holding her while she slept for three hours straight. For days after that, I had to reassure her that I would not leave her again until she was ready.
Secretly, I was worried. What if she was never ready?
The next year, like clockwork, she was ready. She was shy and a little hesitant, but her curiosity was bigger than her fear and she started pre-school.
With each year, she has gained more independence and now as a third grader, she is slowly stepping away from me even farther.
Now, I'm the one saying things like, "Do you want to bake some cookies with me?" or "How about a trip to the park?"
She is the one who honestly prefers to be with her friends, but kindly makes time for me because she sees how much I need it.
We have switched places slightly and while she still needs/wants me, it is on a much smaller plane. And of course, this is as it should be.
But, I miss her. She doesn't fit in my lap well anymore, her long colt legs hang to the floor and her body feels like a bag of hangers. She is skinny and gangly and not content with long sessions of cuddling.
When I drop her off at school, she no longer lingers to kiss and hug me several times. Now, we have a goodbye ritual. She blows a kiss to me. I catch it and put it in my pocket. Then I blow a kiss to her and she does the same. No arms around my neck. No wet little mouth on my cheek. But, I catch that kiss every time.
When I pick her up from school, she is full of news about this friend or that friend, what Miss Perry said.
At night, I still run her bath, but I no longer bathe her. I wash her hair, but she bathes herself. And then plays with her barbies or just soaks. When she is finished, she no longer needs me to dry her off, she does it on her own. We meet in her room to read a chapter of a book, but she no longer sits in my lap as we read. She lays in her bed.
I miss what made me the most weary: her hanging all over me constantly. There was a time when I wasn't sure where I left off and she started. Now, we are two distinct people. We love each other, but she isn't attached to me in a literal sense.
She is just so....big. She has opinions. She loves me, but she doesn't think I hung the moon.
I look at her and I don't see my baby anymore. I see my little girl. Soon I will see my big girl and then my teenager and then my grown woman daughter.
And I think back to those days of endless touching, of long stroller rides, of feeling as if I were her whole world and god, it got heavy on my shoulders some days. Now, I am standing off to the side and watching her with my heart still in my throat, but her hands aren't reaching for me anymore. They are reaching for life, for the outside world. Her own two hands are stretched out wide instead of just around my neck.
It is as it should be. I know that.
But, I miss her. I miss my baby.
When she was an infant, I longed for the day when she could walk and I wouldn't have to carry her everywhere. Then she started walking and I found myself missing those long hours of holding her. Now, I was following her, snatching away her hands from somewhere, re-directing her.
When she started walking, I wanted her to be trained so badly. I was weary of changing diapers. And then one day, she was trained and I called the diaper service to tell them that I wouldn't need them anymore and felt jubilant...for about a week. And then I was driving down my street and noticed the diaper service van delivering a bag of fresh diapers to someone else's house. I remembered that clean, fresh scent of opening that bag of clean cloth diapers every week. I had less recall of yanking out the bag of dirty diapers from her diaper pail and hauling them out to the front porch to be picked up. I missed Liv kicking her legs as I changed her, the strawberry kisses on her belly, the sprinkling of baby powder and her saying, "nice, nice!" as I did it.
I used to look into her dark brown eyes and wonder what she would have to say when she could finally speak.
Plenty. She had plenty to say. Her first word was "water." And once that was said, the rest came tumbling out: mama, light, pizza, pretty, bird, dog, tree. She talked early and with remarkable clarity. I remember long, mind numbing days when she was the only person to whom I spoke all day long.
She was very shy until she was about six. I used to get weary of her hands finding anywhere on me to latch on nervously when someone would even say hello to her. She would shake her head no and put her face determinedly into my skirt so that she didn't have to talk. She preferred to only talk to me. And to talk a LOT.
On her first day of pre-school, she held on to me so tightly that the teacher had to pry her fingers off of me and gently shoo me away, saying she would be fine as soon as I was out of sight.
She wasn't. An hour and a half later, her teacher called to tell me that I needed to come get Liv. She had not stopped wailing the entire time, would not be deterred from her main goal: getting me back asap. She broke the school record for crying and carrying on.
When I saw her sitting on an aide's lap, steadily weeping, my heart went into my throat. She saw me and ran blindly to me, scared, her arms going around my neck in a chokehold. Her teacher came out of the room and gently told me that it was obvious that Liv was not ready for school at three years old. Maybe next year.
In the car on the way home, Liv told me in a shuddering voice that she had thrown up in her teacher's hands. She was mortified with embarrassment. We talked and agreed that no, she did not have to go back to school until she was ready. I rocked her to sleep after lunch and tried to put her into her bed but she had a lock of my hair held so tightly in her hand, so afraid that I would leave her again, that I ended up just holding her while she slept for three hours straight. For days after that, I had to reassure her that I would not leave her again until she was ready.
Secretly, I was worried. What if she was never ready?
The next year, like clockwork, she was ready. She was shy and a little hesitant, but her curiosity was bigger than her fear and she started pre-school.
With each year, she has gained more independence and now as a third grader, she is slowly stepping away from me even farther.
Now, I'm the one saying things like, "Do you want to bake some cookies with me?" or "How about a trip to the park?"
She is the one who honestly prefers to be with her friends, but kindly makes time for me because she sees how much I need it.
We have switched places slightly and while she still needs/wants me, it is on a much smaller plane. And of course, this is as it should be.
But, I miss her. She doesn't fit in my lap well anymore, her long colt legs hang to the floor and her body feels like a bag of hangers. She is skinny and gangly and not content with long sessions of cuddling.
When I drop her off at school, she no longer lingers to kiss and hug me several times. Now, we have a goodbye ritual. She blows a kiss to me. I catch it and put it in my pocket. Then I blow a kiss to her and she does the same. No arms around my neck. No wet little mouth on my cheek. But, I catch that kiss every time.
When I pick her up from school, she is full of news about this friend or that friend, what Miss Perry said.
At night, I still run her bath, but I no longer bathe her. I wash her hair, but she bathes herself. And then plays with her barbies or just soaks. When she is finished, she no longer needs me to dry her off, she does it on her own. We meet in her room to read a chapter of a book, but she no longer sits in my lap as we read. She lays in her bed.
I miss what made me the most weary: her hanging all over me constantly. There was a time when I wasn't sure where I left off and she started. Now, we are two distinct people. We love each other, but she isn't attached to me in a literal sense.
She is just so....big. She has opinions. She loves me, but she doesn't think I hung the moon.
I look at her and I don't see my baby anymore. I see my little girl. Soon I will see my big girl and then my teenager and then my grown woman daughter.
And I think back to those days of endless touching, of long stroller rides, of feeling as if I were her whole world and god, it got heavy on my shoulders some days. Now, I am standing off to the side and watching her with my heart still in my throat, but her hands aren't reaching for me anymore. They are reaching for life, for the outside world. Her own two hands are stretched out wide instead of just around my neck.
It is as it should be. I know that.
But, I miss her. I miss my baby.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Not anyone's angel
Just in case my last post made y'all think that I am some sort of Melanie Wilkes-like angel....
This morning, the alarm went off and the first words out of my cherubic mouth were: FUCK. FUCK THIS SHIT! It can't be 6 a.m. yet! I just laid my damn head on the pillow! FUCK.
Bing came in to kiss me goodbye before she left for work and tried to give me a sweet lingering kiss. I said, "Jaysus, honey...I'm half naked and freezing. Would just give me the damn kiss and let me get dressed here?"
When Liv asked for an "egyptian eye" (a piece of bread with a hole in it fried with an egg yellow peeking through) for breakfast, I gave her a long weary look and said, "How about cornflakes? Or maybe some applesauce? Doesn't a granola bar sound better?
When the dog began whining at the door to be taken out, I said, "Crap, Socks...you JUST went out. Is your bladder the size of a pea or something? NO! It's COLD out there." (Maybe I should get points for taking him anyway...)
It is not even seven a.m. yet.
I'm no angel.
This morning, the alarm went off and the first words out of my cherubic mouth were: FUCK. FUCK THIS SHIT! It can't be 6 a.m. yet! I just laid my damn head on the pillow! FUCK.
Bing came in to kiss me goodbye before she left for work and tried to give me a sweet lingering kiss. I said, "Jaysus, honey...I'm half naked and freezing. Would just give me the damn kiss and let me get dressed here?"
When Liv asked for an "egyptian eye" (a piece of bread with a hole in it fried with an egg yellow peeking through) for breakfast, I gave her a long weary look and said, "How about cornflakes? Or maybe some applesauce? Doesn't a granola bar sound better?
When the dog began whining at the door to be taken out, I said, "Crap, Socks...you JUST went out. Is your bladder the size of a pea or something? NO! It's COLD out there." (Maybe I should get points for taking him anyway...)
It is not even seven a.m. yet.
I'm no angel.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Flowers and hugs for Molly
About two years ago, one of the teachers at Liv's Montessori school befriended an elderly woman who lives a few houses down from the school building. This teacher saw her out trying to rake leaves one day and having a hard time of it as she is in her 80's, lives alone and has such bad arthritis that her hands are permanent commas.
This teacher wondered if we could adopt Molly, this woman. She brought it up at a parent meeting and we all thought it a lovely idea. So, it happened. Without media pats on the backs, without pomp and circumstance. Exactly the way it should be. We didn't want our children to associate acts of kindness with back thumping, but more as something that we should all do without expecting praise or glory.
We were just a group of people, mostly children, who decided to adopt Molly as our friend.
A list of ideas went up of ways to assist Molly. Some children agreed to either come to school early, stay late or give up their recess time to shovel Molly's walks in the Winter as needed. When we had a series of ice storms this month, it was suggested that we put out de-icer on her sidewalks. This idea was rejected since the school is totally green and de-icer is not good for plant life or animals. Two children brainstormed and came up with the idea that all the children bring one bucket of sand from their sandboxes to put on the sidewalk. It worked like a charm.
Others work to help in different ways. We have a huge garden in back of the school with individual plots for each child or group of children who want to tend it together. A few children decided that their vegetables would go directly to Molly (the others go to the homeless shelters.) One child's family owns a bakery and she brings a big muffin, roll or croissant to Molly every morning for breakfast. Once every two weeks, a group of the older children go to Molly's and clean her home, dusting, vacuuming, etc.
Molly is invited to all school programs and two children are assigned to go and get her and walk with her to the school, one on each side. Once inside the building, they guide her to "Molly's chair" which they have decorated with streamers. She loves any and all programs and claps with enthusiasm. The children bask in her praise.
She recently had to go to the hospital for a small procedure and had so many visitors that the nurses began making us sign up in shifts. When she came home, her front door was decorated with holiday greenery by a child's family who owns a nursery.
Liv and I signed up with three other families to buy Molly groceries this month. When it was our week, Liv and three of her friends got a grocery list from Molly and we went to the neighborhood grocery store and shopped after school one day. After we had purchased all that she needed for the week, we were checking out and one of her friends, Vashnavi, decided to grab a bouquet of flowers on our way out. I was hesitant. We had spent the allotted amount of cash agreed on and this would add a few more bucks. But...I shrugged and told her to go for it. She picked out a wild bunch of black eyed susans and other colorful choices.
We walked to her door and rang the bell, waiting patiently for her to answer. She walks slowlllllyyy. When she opened the door, the children ran in with their bags and helped her put everything away. And then hugged her goodbye. I leaned in to hug her too.
"I went for years and years after my husband died with no hugs and now I have so many of them..." she told me, smiling.
On the walk back, Vashnavi happily pointed out Molly's front picture window. She was standing at a nearby table with her nose buried in the flowers. It had been a good move, those blooms.
On the drive back home, Liv and I were quiet; she was listening to Christmas music and I was thinking deeply. I kept coming back to Molly's statement about hugs.
I get a hug every day. EVERY DAY. I can't imagine going for years without one. Bing or Liv hug me each day. My sisters and I hug and kiss each time we see each other whether we want to or not. Even Socks the dog gives me love daily. I wondered about Molly's life. I knew that her husband had died, knew that her only child, a daughter had died of a heart attack shortly after her husband died. I never recalled seeing any of her family in the hospital. Did she have any? I don't know. I don't think so.
Molly had been invited to a Christmas dinner at one of the children's houses and she accepted, so I guess she didn't have other plans.
I thought that it was important to teach these lessons to our children, to be kind to their neighbors, look out for them. It was the way I was brought up, but nowadays, it is not uncommon to not know your neighbors. I'm lucky that I live in a neighborhood now where we look out for each other, but before Liv was born, I lived in a neighborhood where I honestly did not know ANY of my neighbors. Nor did I care to. I was wrapped up in my career and didn't want any additional "chores" on my plate.
There must be a lot of Mollys out there. I don't think that I am a sap in hoping that someone, somewhere finds them, looks out for them.
Hugs them.
Sorry to go all mush headed here. But, I get so lost in other's biting bitterness sometimes.
Why can't we all just get along? You've heard that one.
Why must so many of us go out of our way to mock others, hurt them, ridicule them, ignore them?
All it took was one teacher to look up and see a need and then work to attend to it.
It is really that simple.
This teacher wondered if we could adopt Molly, this woman. She brought it up at a parent meeting and we all thought it a lovely idea. So, it happened. Without media pats on the backs, without pomp and circumstance. Exactly the way it should be. We didn't want our children to associate acts of kindness with back thumping, but more as something that we should all do without expecting praise or glory.
We were just a group of people, mostly children, who decided to adopt Molly as our friend.
A list of ideas went up of ways to assist Molly. Some children agreed to either come to school early, stay late or give up their recess time to shovel Molly's walks in the Winter as needed. When we had a series of ice storms this month, it was suggested that we put out de-icer on her sidewalks. This idea was rejected since the school is totally green and de-icer is not good for plant life or animals. Two children brainstormed and came up with the idea that all the children bring one bucket of sand from their sandboxes to put on the sidewalk. It worked like a charm.
Others work to help in different ways. We have a huge garden in back of the school with individual plots for each child or group of children who want to tend it together. A few children decided that their vegetables would go directly to Molly (the others go to the homeless shelters.) One child's family owns a bakery and she brings a big muffin, roll or croissant to Molly every morning for breakfast. Once every two weeks, a group of the older children go to Molly's and clean her home, dusting, vacuuming, etc.
Molly is invited to all school programs and two children are assigned to go and get her and walk with her to the school, one on each side. Once inside the building, they guide her to "Molly's chair" which they have decorated with streamers. She loves any and all programs and claps with enthusiasm. The children bask in her praise.
She recently had to go to the hospital for a small procedure and had so many visitors that the nurses began making us sign up in shifts. When she came home, her front door was decorated with holiday greenery by a child's family who owns a nursery.
Liv and I signed up with three other families to buy Molly groceries this month. When it was our week, Liv and three of her friends got a grocery list from Molly and we went to the neighborhood grocery store and shopped after school one day. After we had purchased all that she needed for the week, we were checking out and one of her friends, Vashnavi, decided to grab a bouquet of flowers on our way out. I was hesitant. We had spent the allotted amount of cash agreed on and this would add a few more bucks. But...I shrugged and told her to go for it. She picked out a wild bunch of black eyed susans and other colorful choices.
We walked to her door and rang the bell, waiting patiently for her to answer. She walks slowlllllyyy. When she opened the door, the children ran in with their bags and helped her put everything away. And then hugged her goodbye. I leaned in to hug her too.
"I went for years and years after my husband died with no hugs and now I have so many of them..." she told me, smiling.
On the walk back, Vashnavi happily pointed out Molly's front picture window. She was standing at a nearby table with her nose buried in the flowers. It had been a good move, those blooms.
On the drive back home, Liv and I were quiet; she was listening to Christmas music and I was thinking deeply. I kept coming back to Molly's statement about hugs.
I get a hug every day. EVERY DAY. I can't imagine going for years without one. Bing or Liv hug me each day. My sisters and I hug and kiss each time we see each other whether we want to or not. Even Socks the dog gives me love daily. I wondered about Molly's life. I knew that her husband had died, knew that her only child, a daughter had died of a heart attack shortly after her husband died. I never recalled seeing any of her family in the hospital. Did she have any? I don't know. I don't think so.
Molly had been invited to a Christmas dinner at one of the children's houses and she accepted, so I guess she didn't have other plans.
I thought that it was important to teach these lessons to our children, to be kind to their neighbors, look out for them. It was the way I was brought up, but nowadays, it is not uncommon to not know your neighbors. I'm lucky that I live in a neighborhood now where we look out for each other, but before Liv was born, I lived in a neighborhood where I honestly did not know ANY of my neighbors. Nor did I care to. I was wrapped up in my career and didn't want any additional "chores" on my plate.
There must be a lot of Mollys out there. I don't think that I am a sap in hoping that someone, somewhere finds them, looks out for them.
Hugs them.
Sorry to go all mush headed here. But, I get so lost in other's biting bitterness sometimes.
Why can't we all just get along? You've heard that one.
Why must so many of us go out of our way to mock others, hurt them, ridicule them, ignore them?
All it took was one teacher to look up and see a need and then work to attend to it.
It is really that simple.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Replaced.
Well, I knew this day would come.
I am no longer the only apple of Liv's eye.
She has a huge crush (and I don't mean....like a romantic crush, people, I mean an eight year old girl crush) on her 3rd grade teacher.
I like her too, but boy howdy, I don't much like being compared to her.
Miss Perry. She is 24. This is her first teaching job. She is Montessori teacher certified with a master's degree in Creative Writing.
She looks like a grown up Pippi Longstocking, complete with long red braids hanging nearly to her waist. She is six feet tall, thin as a rail and flat as a board.
She knows sign language, plays on a women's basketball league at the Y, is a vegan, is green living (recycles, etc), goes outside to recess with her charges and plays in the snow and she has a boyfriend named Chet who looks like Jesus Christ if you took that silly robe off and slid him into some jeans.
I liked her immediately when I talked to her at parent/teacher conferences. She had slightly bucked teeth that I found endearing and she seemed to get Liv's learning style. A Montessori teacher has to be very savvy and respectful of learning styles since basically, the whole classroom is set up to let the child learn at their own pace and individual style. She knew that Liv caught on to things quickly, but became bored quickly as well and that she often did a slip shod job on things that didn't intrigue her. (The apple doesn't fall far from the tree on this one.) Miss Perry commented on the close relationship that Liv and I share and said that Liv seemed to be a very happy little girl. After that, we kind of visited about her home state of New Mexico, how hard it was to adjust to a climate like Nebraska.
I liked her. I approved of her to teach my child. Plus, I just respected her whole laid back style to teaching and clothes. She often wore what Bing refers to as Annie Hall clothes. I volunteer three times a week at Liv's school (all parents volunteer in some way, whether it is with time or picking up the milk for the class or buying plants, whatever you can, it is important to all of us) and would often find Miss Perry sitting cross legged on the floor with one child or another who would be sprawling next to her, diligently working on a math problem, etc. They have no desks, just lots of working areas. Many people have criticized this technique of learning, say that children need to learn sitting at attention in their own desk. I disagree. I learned that way but wish that I could have learned the way that Liv does. They work in groups sometimes (sign language, french) and in other areas, at their own pace (math, spelling.) All I know is that something works in this school, as their grade performances tend to be off the charts. If someone cannot afford tuition, they can work for their child's tuition by either cleaning or helping in the lunchroom, etc. If a parent really wants their child to learn, there is always a way at this school. I know of one woman who works at her day job all day and then comes and cleans the classrooms at night, vacuuming and dusting. Now THAT is something. I am one of the lucky ones who can afford the tuition, but if I couldn't, I am not kidding when I say that I would work at Walgreens nights to make sure that Liv went to this school.
It just fits us like a glove. It isn't for everyone, but it is for us.
Anyway, all the teachers are pretty groovy, but Miss Perry is tres groovy. And Liv thinks that she invented cool.
Miss Perry says that she and Chet share one car to save on polluting the environment. Why don't you and Bing do that?
Because we are lazy. I don't want to get up at 5 to take Bing to her school at 6:30 and then have to pick her up and take her to her gym after work and wait with her and bring her home...etc. And frankly, I don't think that Liv would relish being pulled along with me. She already hates it when I have to stop and get a fucking gallon of milk on the way home from school, hates being lugged around to chores like that...I could just see her if we had one car. Get real.
Miss Perry only wears clothes made from hemp and all natural materials. Why don't you do that?
Because I like my expensive cashmere sweaters in the cold winters. Sorry, kid. Plus, I think I wear plenty of natural fibers, but I'm not tied to the idea or anything. I am a lazy hemp wearer. I wear natural when it suits me.
Miss Perry is a vegetarian. Why can't we be vegetarians?
Miss Perry is not only a vegetarian, she is vegan. You, my dear Liv, would sorely miss your scrambled eggs, hot cocoa after a snowman building session or BLT. I don't mind vegans or vegetarians, I just don't want them to make me feel badly about eating a cow now and then. Miss Perry doesn't.
Miss Perry can sit on her hair. I want to have hair long enough to sit on.
Fine. Then Liv can get her own snarls out. Frankly, I would prefer it if she just allowed me to get her hair cut into a pixie. I am not talented with bows and braids and all that shit and I am not good with a curling iron. I already dread the hair styling segment of our mornings before school. If she had even longer hair, we would be talking even more time spent on combing.
Miss Perry plays basketball and does pilates. How come you don't do that stuff?
Can you hear me laughing? And, by the way, I have a big Hilary Clinton laugh and don't you dare say that I bray. I am so sick of that shit.
I take the dog for a walk twice a day. That is all that I am required to do in the exercise department. Plus, I have sciatica and arthritis. I am 49 years old, for Christ cake. (Yes, I said cake. When I was little, I heard the expression Christ sake and thought it was Christ cake and so I say that. Yes, I do get me some looks over that.)
Miss Perry gets our classroom lizard out and lets it sit on her shoulder while she reads to us after recess. Can we get a lizard?
No. And if we did, it would NEVER sit on my shoulder. I am askeered of lizards, mice, gerbils and snakes. No way is one living in my house.
Miss Perry brings tortillas filled with red pepper hummus to school for lunch. Can I have that in my lunch too?
Sure. As long as I don't have to eat it, we're good.
Miss Perry doesn't believe in makeup. She says that a clean face is healthier.
Miss Perry is 24. I am twice her age, old enough to be her mother. I have crow's feet and laugh and frown lines. My face is as dry as rice paper. My hair doesn't shine like gold anymore. If I don't wear lipstick, people ask me if I am ill. I NEED my lipstick. I can live without eye makeup, but I must have lipstick and blush. And earrings. And dangly bracelets. When Miss Perry is 49, maybe she wants to look like me without makeup. I am fine to be without makeup as long as I am just around my family. If we go out, I'm sorry...I am vain and I want to look pretty. Makeup helps me feel pretty. I refuse to apologize for wanting to look pretty.
Miss Perry says that it is a waste of energy to use an electric blanket. Why do you and Bing have one?
Again, I am FORTY FUCKING NINE. My feet and hands are always cold. I need my electric blanket. Bing swears that my feet and hands feel like ice cubes. Sometimes when she first gets into bed, I put my cold hands on her breasts or run my foot up her thigh and she screams like a girl. I admit to laughing wickedly when this happens.
Liv thinks the world of Miss Perry. I do too. But, I refuse to compete. I yam who I yam and all that.
Liv tells me that she loves me just the way I am.
She better. Because I am her old mother and I am here to stay. And Miss Perry might dress like Annie Hall, but I WAS Annie Hall.......
I am no longer the only apple of Liv's eye.
She has a huge crush (and I don't mean....like a romantic crush, people, I mean an eight year old girl crush) on her 3rd grade teacher.
I like her too, but boy howdy, I don't much like being compared to her.
Miss Perry. She is 24. This is her first teaching job. She is Montessori teacher certified with a master's degree in Creative Writing.
She looks like a grown up Pippi Longstocking, complete with long red braids hanging nearly to her waist. She is six feet tall, thin as a rail and flat as a board.
She knows sign language, plays on a women's basketball league at the Y, is a vegan, is green living (recycles, etc), goes outside to recess with her charges and plays in the snow and she has a boyfriend named Chet who looks like Jesus Christ if you took that silly robe off and slid him into some jeans.
I liked her immediately when I talked to her at parent/teacher conferences. She had slightly bucked teeth that I found endearing and she seemed to get Liv's learning style. A Montessori teacher has to be very savvy and respectful of learning styles since basically, the whole classroom is set up to let the child learn at their own pace and individual style. She knew that Liv caught on to things quickly, but became bored quickly as well and that she often did a slip shod job on things that didn't intrigue her. (The apple doesn't fall far from the tree on this one.) Miss Perry commented on the close relationship that Liv and I share and said that Liv seemed to be a very happy little girl. After that, we kind of visited about her home state of New Mexico, how hard it was to adjust to a climate like Nebraska.
I liked her. I approved of her to teach my child. Plus, I just respected her whole laid back style to teaching and clothes. She often wore what Bing refers to as Annie Hall clothes. I volunteer three times a week at Liv's school (all parents volunteer in some way, whether it is with time or picking up the milk for the class or buying plants, whatever you can, it is important to all of us) and would often find Miss Perry sitting cross legged on the floor with one child or another who would be sprawling next to her, diligently working on a math problem, etc. They have no desks, just lots of working areas. Many people have criticized this technique of learning, say that children need to learn sitting at attention in their own desk. I disagree. I learned that way but wish that I could have learned the way that Liv does. They work in groups sometimes (sign language, french) and in other areas, at their own pace (math, spelling.) All I know is that something works in this school, as their grade performances tend to be off the charts. If someone cannot afford tuition, they can work for their child's tuition by either cleaning or helping in the lunchroom, etc. If a parent really wants their child to learn, there is always a way at this school. I know of one woman who works at her day job all day and then comes and cleans the classrooms at night, vacuuming and dusting. Now THAT is something. I am one of the lucky ones who can afford the tuition, but if I couldn't, I am not kidding when I say that I would work at Walgreens nights to make sure that Liv went to this school.
It just fits us like a glove. It isn't for everyone, but it is for us.
Anyway, all the teachers are pretty groovy, but Miss Perry is tres groovy. And Liv thinks that she invented cool.
Miss Perry says that she and Chet share one car to save on polluting the environment. Why don't you and Bing do that?
Because we are lazy. I don't want to get up at 5 to take Bing to her school at 6:30 and then have to pick her up and take her to her gym after work and wait with her and bring her home...etc. And frankly, I don't think that Liv would relish being pulled along with me. She already hates it when I have to stop and get a fucking gallon of milk on the way home from school, hates being lugged around to chores like that...I could just see her if we had one car. Get real.
Miss Perry only wears clothes made from hemp and all natural materials. Why don't you do that?
Because I like my expensive cashmere sweaters in the cold winters. Sorry, kid. Plus, I think I wear plenty of natural fibers, but I'm not tied to the idea or anything. I am a lazy hemp wearer. I wear natural when it suits me.
Miss Perry is a vegetarian. Why can't we be vegetarians?
Miss Perry is not only a vegetarian, she is vegan. You, my dear Liv, would sorely miss your scrambled eggs, hot cocoa after a snowman building session or BLT. I don't mind vegans or vegetarians, I just don't want them to make me feel badly about eating a cow now and then. Miss Perry doesn't.
Miss Perry can sit on her hair. I want to have hair long enough to sit on.
Fine. Then Liv can get her own snarls out. Frankly, I would prefer it if she just allowed me to get her hair cut into a pixie. I am not talented with bows and braids and all that shit and I am not good with a curling iron. I already dread the hair styling segment of our mornings before school. If she had even longer hair, we would be talking even more time spent on combing.
Miss Perry plays basketball and does pilates. How come you don't do that stuff?
Can you hear me laughing? And, by the way, I have a big Hilary Clinton laugh and don't you dare say that I bray. I am so sick of that shit.
I take the dog for a walk twice a day. That is all that I am required to do in the exercise department. Plus, I have sciatica and arthritis. I am 49 years old, for Christ cake. (Yes, I said cake. When I was little, I heard the expression Christ sake and thought it was Christ cake and so I say that. Yes, I do get me some looks over that.)
Miss Perry gets our classroom lizard out and lets it sit on her shoulder while she reads to us after recess. Can we get a lizard?
No. And if we did, it would NEVER sit on my shoulder. I am askeered of lizards, mice, gerbils and snakes. No way is one living in my house.
Miss Perry brings tortillas filled with red pepper hummus to school for lunch. Can I have that in my lunch too?
Sure. As long as I don't have to eat it, we're good.
Miss Perry doesn't believe in makeup. She says that a clean face is healthier.
Miss Perry is 24. I am twice her age, old enough to be her mother. I have crow's feet and laugh and frown lines. My face is as dry as rice paper. My hair doesn't shine like gold anymore. If I don't wear lipstick, people ask me if I am ill. I NEED my lipstick. I can live without eye makeup, but I must have lipstick and blush. And earrings. And dangly bracelets. When Miss Perry is 49, maybe she wants to look like me without makeup. I am fine to be without makeup as long as I am just around my family. If we go out, I'm sorry...I am vain and I want to look pretty. Makeup helps me feel pretty. I refuse to apologize for wanting to look pretty.
Miss Perry says that it is a waste of energy to use an electric blanket. Why do you and Bing have one?
Again, I am FORTY FUCKING NINE. My feet and hands are always cold. I need my electric blanket. Bing swears that my feet and hands feel like ice cubes. Sometimes when she first gets into bed, I put my cold hands on her breasts or run my foot up her thigh and she screams like a girl. I admit to laughing wickedly when this happens.
Liv thinks the world of Miss Perry. I do too. But, I refuse to compete. I yam who I yam and all that.
Liv tells me that she loves me just the way I am.
She better. Because I am her old mother and I am here to stay. And Miss Perry might dress like Annie Hall, but I WAS Annie Hall.......
Thursday, December 13, 2007
The REAL Christmas letter.
Dear Family and Friends,
Well, it is another year of joy for the Jones family. We got through 2007 intact and with our dancin' shoes on, but boy, it sure went fast! It dragged like a sonofabitch and I am glad to be done with it.
Dick got his big promotion that he was promised. With it comes lots of extra hours and responsibility. He is gone a lot, but that's okay. I know he works hard for that money. And okay, he comes home nearly every single night reeking of Wind Song perfume that his skanky secretary wears. Her name is Bitsy. And there is nothing bitsy about her butt. But, I don't say a word because tricky dicky is bringing in extra dough and that gives me more moolah to spend on my obsession with Holly Hobbie paraphernalia for my house.
Joey still works for Pizza Hut. He is on the road a lot in the advertising department. He delivers pizza. He and his girlfriend are thinking about the M word. Maternity. She wants a baby because she thinks they are "so cuuuuttee." Yeah, lookee see how cute they are when they barf all night and keep you from that bong you love so much.
Ben still hasn't met Ms. Right, but we can always hope. We think he is gay. Or maybe he just really, really loves Judy Garland music. He says that he is holding out for a good cook like his mom! There is this guy he likes who bakes brownies to die for. He also has offered to cut my bangs.
Caroline is a cheerleader this year at King High School. She loves to strut her stuff on the basketball court and football field. She has some truly athletic moves! She looks like a pole dancer. She has lots of moves in the back seat of her new boyfriend's souped up car too. He calls at all hours and she whispers about blow jobs and then giggles.
Our youngest (the huge accident because Dick guilted me into screwing him one night and he hates condoms and I was too lazy to get up and put in my diaphragm) is Sue. She is ten and somehow talked us into getting her a puppy this summer. Woof! Woof! I hate that little shit. And that is exactly what he does all over my house. Shits. After two weeks, the shine was off the apple over the dog with Sue and now she basically ignores him, while I on the other hand, take him for two walks a day. Sue likes ballet and takes lessons once a week. She looks like a hippo squeezed into her tutu. I think she needs to just say no to all those after school oreos. And go for walks with me and the dog.
I'm busy with my church choir. We are having a Christmas concert, so lots of rehearsals! Come see us at St. John the Forever Martyr's church on December 22nd at seven sharp! My family won't bother to show up, you can bet on that. Dicky will be getting his dick serviced care of slutty Wind Song bitch and the kids can't be bothered.
I am still working part time at Wal Mart. I like it. It's fun to get out of the house and I get good discounts. I hate that cesspool with all those idiot shoppers but I need money to support my casino habit. The casino is my getaway from the booby hut where I live.
Dicky's mom had a little scare this summer. We had to take her to the ER as she was experiencing chest pains. Faker. Jesus Christ, what won't that woman do for attention? Turns out she just had indigestion. Thank the lord. She eats like a hog, just like all Dicky's side of the family. But, knock on wood, everyone else is well and happy! Dicky and I drink and Joey has several bongs in plain sight in his room. He told me they were vases. As if. Caroline is on heavy duty valium because of her "cheerleading stress." Uh huh. Sue eats entire sacks of potato chips in one sitting and Ben is always in his room with the door shut reading David Sedaris books or Out Magazine.
Come see us if you are ever in the Houston area! Don't you DARE. We love company. The dog likes company, the rest of us don't. All of the kids still live at home. The more the merrier! Shoot me now.
I hope your holiday is as blessed and happy. Actually, I could care less.
Love from the Jones clan!
Oh, and our dog, Zapper Crapper sends a paw print to his animal buds!
Well, it is another year of joy for the Jones family. We got through 2007 intact and with our dancin' shoes on, but boy, it sure went fast! It dragged like a sonofabitch and I am glad to be done with it.
Dick got his big promotion that he was promised. With it comes lots of extra hours and responsibility. He is gone a lot, but that's okay. I know he works hard for that money. And okay, he comes home nearly every single night reeking of Wind Song perfume that his skanky secretary wears. Her name is Bitsy. And there is nothing bitsy about her butt. But, I don't say a word because tricky dicky is bringing in extra dough and that gives me more moolah to spend on my obsession with Holly Hobbie paraphernalia for my house.
Joey still works for Pizza Hut. He is on the road a lot in the advertising department. He delivers pizza. He and his girlfriend are thinking about the M word. Maternity. She wants a baby because she thinks they are "so cuuuuttee." Yeah, lookee see how cute they are when they barf all night and keep you from that bong you love so much.
Ben still hasn't met Ms. Right, but we can always hope. We think he is gay. Or maybe he just really, really loves Judy Garland music. He says that he is holding out for a good cook like his mom! There is this guy he likes who bakes brownies to die for. He also has offered to cut my bangs.
Caroline is a cheerleader this year at King High School. She loves to strut her stuff on the basketball court and football field. She has some truly athletic moves! She looks like a pole dancer. She has lots of moves in the back seat of her new boyfriend's souped up car too. He calls at all hours and she whispers about blow jobs and then giggles.
Our youngest (the huge accident because Dick guilted me into screwing him one night and he hates condoms and I was too lazy to get up and put in my diaphragm) is Sue. She is ten and somehow talked us into getting her a puppy this summer. Woof! Woof! I hate that little shit. And that is exactly what he does all over my house. Shits. After two weeks, the shine was off the apple over the dog with Sue and now she basically ignores him, while I on the other hand, take him for two walks a day. Sue likes ballet and takes lessons once a week. She looks like a hippo squeezed into her tutu. I think she needs to just say no to all those after school oreos. And go for walks with me and the dog.
I'm busy with my church choir. We are having a Christmas concert, so lots of rehearsals! Come see us at St. John the Forever Martyr's church on December 22nd at seven sharp! My family won't bother to show up, you can bet on that. Dicky will be getting his dick serviced care of slutty Wind Song bitch and the kids can't be bothered.
I am still working part time at Wal Mart. I like it. It's fun to get out of the house and I get good discounts. I hate that cesspool with all those idiot shoppers but I need money to support my casino habit. The casino is my getaway from the booby hut where I live.
Dicky's mom had a little scare this summer. We had to take her to the ER as she was experiencing chest pains. Faker. Jesus Christ, what won't that woman do for attention? Turns out she just had indigestion. Thank the lord. She eats like a hog, just like all Dicky's side of the family. But, knock on wood, everyone else is well and happy! Dicky and I drink and Joey has several bongs in plain sight in his room. He told me they were vases. As if. Caroline is on heavy duty valium because of her "cheerleading stress." Uh huh. Sue eats entire sacks of potato chips in one sitting and Ben is always in his room with the door shut reading David Sedaris books or Out Magazine.
Come see us if you are ever in the Houston area! Don't you DARE. We love company. The dog likes company, the rest of us don't. All of the kids still live at home. The more the merrier! Shoot me now.
I hope your holiday is as blessed and happy. Actually, I could care less.
Love from the Jones clan!
Oh, and our dog, Zapper Crapper sends a paw print to his animal buds!
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Cool Stuff
I was driving to work today and heard the song Christmastime In the City by Mary Chapin Carpenter. God, I love that song. I hear it and just...yeah...it sinks into my bones and I feel myself relax and groove right along.
I was at a movie (not worth talking about) last weekend and saw the preview for Juno. I decided that I HAVE to see this movie. Especially after Bing leaned over and said, "My God, that is Liv in 8 years..." This sort of pissed me off since the movie seems to be about teen pregnancy, but I got her gist. Liv is already very much like the character in that movie already, well...without the pregnancy. And...god...NO, I do not want a grandchild THAT soon.
Yesterday was a snow day and by four p.m. the roads had cleared. Bing, Liv and I decided to go out for dinner before I had to go teach my class. We went here. Boy howdy. Dario specializes in french cuisine, but I am not a fan of mussels or escargot (which Bing and Liv selected) so I ordered the cheeseburger. It was perfectly prepared, like always. Pink in the middle but not too pink. Fries that were crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. Ah...
I looked around the cafe as we ate and thought to myself that it doesn't get much better than this. Candlelight. Warmth. Two people whom I love most in the world.
And then I ate like a fucking sow.
I had to. I had to give one last lecture before finals next week. And if I was going to have to look out into a sea of blank faces taking blind notes (I can't tell you how many times I want to just start babbling to see if they will all diligently write down, "three blind mice, three blind mice..."), I need FUEL.
Liv's Winter program is tomorrow. She is reciting her poem:
I am skating
My blades hit the ice
I wobble
I am better going backwards than forwards
Will I stand or will I crash?
I'm better at going backwards too. Maybe it is genetic.
I finally finished the Christmas cards. I keep getting all these newsy Christmas letters from my family and they are so FAKE. I would love to read one that says:
Well, Joey is back in rehab. We hope the third time is the charm. I am still eating too many snickers bars and I suppose that I will gain about five more pounds this Christmas like I always do. The dog ate one of our kitchen chairs. Our daughter received yet another DWI. I suppose she needs to go to rehab too. I pee every fucking time I laugh. I will be in diapers soon if this keeps up. Aunt Nell fell in love with the paperboy. They made a run for it but didn't make it. The trial is in two months as he is 14 and she is 54. My Dad is still trying to get everyone to pull his finger. He thinks this is funny...
I love how it feels when you first get into bed and your feet start warming up under those covers. That drowsy, wonderful feeling of knowing that you get eight hours of shut eye with no one to bother you. Just bliss. Sleep.
A good book. A chocolate chip cookie, preferably made by anyone but me.
Watching Liv make a snow fort with a few friends. Brushing out her hair in the morning while she leans against my legs....
Just some cool stuff.
How about you? What is your cool stuff?
I was at a movie (not worth talking about) last weekend and saw the preview for Juno. I decided that I HAVE to see this movie. Especially after Bing leaned over and said, "My God, that is Liv in 8 years..." This sort of pissed me off since the movie seems to be about teen pregnancy, but I got her gist. Liv is already very much like the character in that movie already, well...without the pregnancy. And...god...NO, I do not want a grandchild THAT soon.
Yesterday was a snow day and by four p.m. the roads had cleared. Bing, Liv and I decided to go out for dinner before I had to go teach my class. We went here. Boy howdy. Dario specializes in french cuisine, but I am not a fan of mussels or escargot (which Bing and Liv selected) so I ordered the cheeseburger. It was perfectly prepared, like always. Pink in the middle but not too pink. Fries that were crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. Ah...
I looked around the cafe as we ate and thought to myself that it doesn't get much better than this. Candlelight. Warmth. Two people whom I love most in the world.
And then I ate like a fucking sow.
I had to. I had to give one last lecture before finals next week. And if I was going to have to look out into a sea of blank faces taking blind notes (I can't tell you how many times I want to just start babbling to see if they will all diligently write down, "three blind mice, three blind mice..."), I need FUEL.
Liv's Winter program is tomorrow. She is reciting her poem:
I am skating
My blades hit the ice
I wobble
I am better going backwards than forwards
Will I stand or will I crash?
I'm better at going backwards too. Maybe it is genetic.
I finally finished the Christmas cards. I keep getting all these newsy Christmas letters from my family and they are so FAKE. I would love to read one that says:
Well, Joey is back in rehab. We hope the third time is the charm. I am still eating too many snickers bars and I suppose that I will gain about five more pounds this Christmas like I always do. The dog ate one of our kitchen chairs. Our daughter received yet another DWI. I suppose she needs to go to rehab too. I pee every fucking time I laugh. I will be in diapers soon if this keeps up. Aunt Nell fell in love with the paperboy. They made a run for it but didn't make it. The trial is in two months as he is 14 and she is 54. My Dad is still trying to get everyone to pull his finger. He thinks this is funny...
I love how it feels when you first get into bed and your feet start warming up under those covers. That drowsy, wonderful feeling of knowing that you get eight hours of shut eye with no one to bother you. Just bliss. Sleep.
A good book. A chocolate chip cookie, preferably made by anyone but me.
Watching Liv make a snow fort with a few friends. Brushing out her hair in the morning while she leans against my legs....
Just some cool stuff.
How about you? What is your cool stuff?
Monday, December 10, 2007
The Life and Times of Party Doll
He had a pretty good life. Party Doll. My beta fish. My male beta fish.
He came to live with us on mother's day, 2005. He was my gift from Liv. She purchased him because he was the ugliest beta fish that she could find and she wanted all the other fish to see him and think well, now...lookee there, that ugly one went right away...maybe he wasn't so ugly after all...
She thought he needed it for his self esteem. He didn't, really. He was a vain little guy right from the start. We bought him a nice bowl, not a fish bowl, no...we wanted something a bit more jazzy for him. So, we found a lovely round glass bowl and Liv selected the prettiest of our rocks to put in with him, all pinks and oranges.
He liked his digs.
We pondered what to name him. Blinkers? Satchel? Comet? Since he was white with a few flecks of black and orange, Liv suggested Dots.
But, I carefully watched him and noticed the decidedly fey, campy way he swished his tail. I knew that he wasn't a Duke or a Mick. No, I thought, this one is a....a...party doll.
I tried it out on him. "Hey, Party Dolllll...."
He liked it. It fit. So, he was christened Party Doll after the sublime Mary Chapin Carpenter song.
He had a good life. He was conscious of his waistline, so we wisely only fed him one fish pellet daily. And he liked me to feed him. If Bing or Liv did it, he remained at the bottom of the bowl, pretending not to notice and only came up to gulp it down when they left. If I fed him, he came up, gulped it and winked merrily at me.
He lived on the end table in our living room and liked to watch television. He had a real affinity for the Jaws movies or any show about the ocean. A boy fish has to dream.
He sometimes entertained us by doing impromptu dance numbers in his bowl. He wasn't afraid to push the limits of fish swishing.
He tried to talk me into buying him a boyfriend several times. I told him over and over again that male beta fish fight to the death with other beta males.
"Hearsay!" he would exclaim. "And, hey...look at me. I'd have that fella wrapped around my tail and giving me fishy back rides before he knew it. C'mon...think about it."
A few days ago, it was time to clean his fish bowl. As always, I took him to the kitchen sink and poured him into a small plastic container so that he could supervise the cleaning of his bowl and rocks. He liked those rocks to shine.
Liv and I carefully cleaned his rocks with an old toothbrush, got all the slimy stuff off. We cleaned his bowl carefully. He watched, nodding his approval in his plastic container.
Then it was time to do the tricky business of transferring him from his container back to his bowl. Liv asked to do this and I said okay. She tried to do it carefully, but alas and alack, Party Doll fell into the garbage disposal.
At first, I didn't notice what had happened. Had he fell on the floor? No, Liv said, the garbage disposal...she went to turn on the overhead light and hit the um....turn on switch to the garbage disposal instead.
For one moment of horror we looked at each other and then, yes...Liv began to wail.
"Oh, my! I killed Party Doll!!!" she screamed. "I didn't mean to, Mama...I...oh, NOOOOOOOO!"
I hugged her. I told her that accidents happen, that he had a good life, that he was um...sliced and diced so quickly that he never knew what hit him. Besides, he was two and a half years old...that was what? About 89 in fish years.
It was okay, I kept telling her. It was okay.
Well, of course, it wasn't. She was morose, sick with grief. I finally got her to stop crying and we carefully washed the bowl and set it aside. We would get another fish someday. Until then, she still had her very own beta fish, Steve, who lived in her bedroom and had never met Party Doll. Steve is a bright red, robust, virile beta fish and Liv and I thought it best that Party Doll never know of his existence for his own sake. Steve would have eaten him down in one gulp and not in a good way.....
So, after a while, Liv calmed down and managed to stop blaming herself, stop crying. We went on to other things.
And then Bing came home and the tears started again. Liv met her at the door and said, her face once again streaked with tears, "I killed Party Doll in cold blood..."
I explained what happened and Bing hugged Liv, reiterated what I had said, that accidents happen and hey...Party Doll didn't have to suffer the indignities of old age now. How embarrassed he would be to lose his sense of rhythm, his snappy fish moves. It was better this way. And yes, we would get another fish after a suitable mourning period.
Later that night, after Liv was in bed, Bing and I discussed the situation.
"Well, it seems like things have calmed down now," Bing noted.
"God, yes," I said. "And really, it could have been so much worse...."
"I mean, I was like ten seconds away from sticking my HAND down that disposal to get him out when she hit that button......
He came to live with us on mother's day, 2005. He was my gift from Liv. She purchased him because he was the ugliest beta fish that she could find and she wanted all the other fish to see him and think well, now...lookee there, that ugly one went right away...maybe he wasn't so ugly after all...
She thought he needed it for his self esteem. He didn't, really. He was a vain little guy right from the start. We bought him a nice bowl, not a fish bowl, no...we wanted something a bit more jazzy for him. So, we found a lovely round glass bowl and Liv selected the prettiest of our rocks to put in with him, all pinks and oranges.
He liked his digs.
We pondered what to name him. Blinkers? Satchel? Comet? Since he was white with a few flecks of black and orange, Liv suggested Dots.
But, I carefully watched him and noticed the decidedly fey, campy way he swished his tail. I knew that he wasn't a Duke or a Mick. No, I thought, this one is a....a...party doll.
I tried it out on him. "Hey, Party Dolllll...."
He liked it. It fit. So, he was christened Party Doll after the sublime Mary Chapin Carpenter song.
He had a good life. He was conscious of his waistline, so we wisely only fed him one fish pellet daily. And he liked me to feed him. If Bing or Liv did it, he remained at the bottom of the bowl, pretending not to notice and only came up to gulp it down when they left. If I fed him, he came up, gulped it and winked merrily at me.
He lived on the end table in our living room and liked to watch television. He had a real affinity for the Jaws movies or any show about the ocean. A boy fish has to dream.
He sometimes entertained us by doing impromptu dance numbers in his bowl. He wasn't afraid to push the limits of fish swishing.
He tried to talk me into buying him a boyfriend several times. I told him over and over again that male beta fish fight to the death with other beta males.
"Hearsay!" he would exclaim. "And, hey...look at me. I'd have that fella wrapped around my tail and giving me fishy back rides before he knew it. C'mon...think about it."
A few days ago, it was time to clean his fish bowl. As always, I took him to the kitchen sink and poured him into a small plastic container so that he could supervise the cleaning of his bowl and rocks. He liked those rocks to shine.
Liv and I carefully cleaned his rocks with an old toothbrush, got all the slimy stuff off. We cleaned his bowl carefully. He watched, nodding his approval in his plastic container.
Then it was time to do the tricky business of transferring him from his container back to his bowl. Liv asked to do this and I said okay. She tried to do it carefully, but alas and alack, Party Doll fell into the garbage disposal.
At first, I didn't notice what had happened. Had he fell on the floor? No, Liv said, the garbage disposal...she went to turn on the overhead light and hit the um....turn on switch to the garbage disposal instead.
For one moment of horror we looked at each other and then, yes...Liv began to wail.
"Oh, my! I killed Party Doll!!!" she screamed. "I didn't mean to, Mama...I...oh, NOOOOOOOO!"
I hugged her. I told her that accidents happen, that he had a good life, that he was um...sliced and diced so quickly that he never knew what hit him. Besides, he was two and a half years old...that was what? About 89 in fish years.
It was okay, I kept telling her. It was okay.
Well, of course, it wasn't. She was morose, sick with grief. I finally got her to stop crying and we carefully washed the bowl and set it aside. We would get another fish someday. Until then, she still had her very own beta fish, Steve, who lived in her bedroom and had never met Party Doll. Steve is a bright red, robust, virile beta fish and Liv and I thought it best that Party Doll never know of his existence for his own sake. Steve would have eaten him down in one gulp and not in a good way.....
So, after a while, Liv calmed down and managed to stop blaming herself, stop crying. We went on to other things.
And then Bing came home and the tears started again. Liv met her at the door and said, her face once again streaked with tears, "I killed Party Doll in cold blood..."
I explained what happened and Bing hugged Liv, reiterated what I had said, that accidents happen and hey...Party Doll didn't have to suffer the indignities of old age now. How embarrassed he would be to lose his sense of rhythm, his snappy fish moves. It was better this way. And yes, we would get another fish after a suitable mourning period.
Later that night, after Liv was in bed, Bing and I discussed the situation.
"Well, it seems like things have calmed down now," Bing noted.
"God, yes," I said. "And really, it could have been so much worse...."
"I mean, I was like ten seconds away from sticking my HAND down that disposal to get him out when she hit that button......
If only dreams were real....
Last night, I dreamed that I had published some sort of self help book (no idea on what, sorry...) and that I had just bags upon bags of money in my basement. We were stacking them against the wall like flour sacks.
Bing kept saying, "We need to print more books!" And indeed, there seemed to be some sort of loom thing which I suppose was my printer sitting in our bedroom.
Julie Andrews was making coffee in my kitchen. My neighbor who died last year, Orna, was there too, baking something with Liv.
"I thought you were DEAD!" I told her.
She laughed. The whole room laughed and I thought to myself, How could I have thought Orna, our Orna, was DEAD?
Unfortunately, there was this woman that I detest, a real pee butt peeper, in my home too. I looked at her and decided to go get a fork and just...
GIVE HER A BIG POKE.
And I DID IT. I ran around poking her with this fork, saying, "Are you done yet? Because you have some serious cooking to do before you are normal, you sick, sad little woman!"
The dream sort of changed and I was in my childhood home. I was walking around and looking at it, it didn't seem to be the same on the inside, had changed a lot and that bothered me, but not that much. I seemed more intent on buying a book for Liv in this bookstore that was on the premises, it was a first edition of Leaves of Grass and I was thrilled to be able to buy it.
I thought to myself that I needed to find a bathroom, because I sure did have to pee.
I woke up then, and yes....got up and did just that.
But, on the way back to bed, I thought to myself that I wished I had remembered what book I was supposed to write, because I could use those bags of dough....
Bing kept saying, "We need to print more books!" And indeed, there seemed to be some sort of loom thing which I suppose was my printer sitting in our bedroom.
Julie Andrews was making coffee in my kitchen. My neighbor who died last year, Orna, was there too, baking something with Liv.
"I thought you were DEAD!" I told her.
She laughed. The whole room laughed and I thought to myself, How could I have thought Orna, our Orna, was DEAD?
Unfortunately, there was this woman that I detest, a real pee butt peeper, in my home too. I looked at her and decided to go get a fork and just...
GIVE HER A BIG POKE.
And I DID IT. I ran around poking her with this fork, saying, "Are you done yet? Because you have some serious cooking to do before you are normal, you sick, sad little woman!"
The dream sort of changed and I was in my childhood home. I was walking around and looking at it, it didn't seem to be the same on the inside, had changed a lot and that bothered me, but not that much. I seemed more intent on buying a book for Liv in this bookstore that was on the premises, it was a first edition of Leaves of Grass and I was thrilled to be able to buy it.
I thought to myself that I needed to find a bathroom, because I sure did have to pee.
I woke up then, and yes....got up and did just that.
But, on the way back to bed, I thought to myself that I wished I had remembered what book I was supposed to write, because I could use those bags of dough....
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Finally ready to talk about it.
The Westroads Mall shooting. I have sat on things for a few days, mostly because I wasn't sure what I was feeling or how to deal with it.
It infuriated me every single time I saw the shooter's name on a television report. It was exactly what he had wanted.
I didn't want him to have that. Hadn't he taken enough? He walked into a mall, shot and killed a lot of people and then took his own life. I know that he was a troubled soul. I know that he had a rough childhood. I know that he had been treated for some mental difficulties. I know that he had just broken up with his girlfriend and lost his job. I know that he had a sad, fucked up life.
But, I know a few people with that rap sheet and they don't go to malls and kill people and leave suicide notes saying that at least they will be famous now and isn't that just sumpin, sumpin?
The news channels keep flashing the victim's photos and I think to myself YES. We need to remember these people, these people who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and paid for it with their lives. But, then, they inevitably flash the shooter's photo too. You can even go and watch the surveillance tape from Von Maur and see him in action.
This is what enrages me. I don't want to know his name. I don't want to see his face. And I especially do not want to see his face along with those whom he murdered.
Let's call him The Sad Little Boy. He was not even a man. His behavior was not that of a man. We can remember him that way. Let's not say his name. Let's not look at his photo or the tape of him. It was what he wanted and I am opposed to giving him that, even in death.
And if you live in Omaha or a nearby town, do me a favor. If and when Von Maur re-opens, go shopping there. Even if, like me, you have never been in the store, go inside now. Buy something, even something tiny. Just buy something. Do not let fear overtake you when you re-enter the building. Don't give him an inch. Just walk in and buy something. Anything.
Keep that store open and keep those employees working.
If we don't shop there, if we let ourselves be spooked, well....what do you think will happen? The store will close, the people who work there will be out of work and That Sad Little Boy will get exactly what he wanted: his name in lights. Every time you drive by that place, you will remember what he did.
Instead, let's go on with our lives and not give him his fame. Let's remember the victims and ache for their families. You can even ache for his family if you want to. Ache for him too, ache for a boy who was so twisted that he was capable of doing something this evil. He didn't get this way all on his own. He must have had plenty of people who helped him get there.
But let's not help him get his wish. Let's not say his name. Let's not see this store close it's doors because of a Sad Little Boy.
Anyone with me, Omaha?
It infuriated me every single time I saw the shooter's name on a television report. It was exactly what he had wanted.
I didn't want him to have that. Hadn't he taken enough? He walked into a mall, shot and killed a lot of people and then took his own life. I know that he was a troubled soul. I know that he had a rough childhood. I know that he had been treated for some mental difficulties. I know that he had just broken up with his girlfriend and lost his job. I know that he had a sad, fucked up life.
But, I know a few people with that rap sheet and they don't go to malls and kill people and leave suicide notes saying that at least they will be famous now and isn't that just sumpin, sumpin?
The news channels keep flashing the victim's photos and I think to myself YES. We need to remember these people, these people who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and paid for it with their lives. But, then, they inevitably flash the shooter's photo too. You can even go and watch the surveillance tape from Von Maur and see him in action.
This is what enrages me. I don't want to know his name. I don't want to see his face. And I especially do not want to see his face along with those whom he murdered.
Let's call him The Sad Little Boy. He was not even a man. His behavior was not that of a man. We can remember him that way. Let's not say his name. Let's not look at his photo or the tape of him. It was what he wanted and I am opposed to giving him that, even in death.
And if you live in Omaha or a nearby town, do me a favor. If and when Von Maur re-opens, go shopping there. Even if, like me, you have never been in the store, go inside now. Buy something, even something tiny. Just buy something. Do not let fear overtake you when you re-enter the building. Don't give him an inch. Just walk in and buy something. Anything.
Keep that store open and keep those employees working.
If we don't shop there, if we let ourselves be spooked, well....what do you think will happen? The store will close, the people who work there will be out of work and That Sad Little Boy will get exactly what he wanted: his name in lights. Every time you drive by that place, you will remember what he did.
Instead, let's go on with our lives and not give him his fame. Let's remember the victims and ache for their families. You can even ache for his family if you want to. Ache for him too, ache for a boy who was so twisted that he was capable of doing something this evil. He didn't get this way all on his own. He must have had plenty of people who helped him get there.
But let's not help him get his wish. Let's not say his name. Let's not see this store close it's doors because of a Sad Little Boy.
Anyone with me, Omaha?
What No One Tells You About Marriage.
First, before I get into the next post, I want to thank all the readers who sent me e-mails asking if my family and I were okay after the shooting at the Westroads Mall here in Omaha.
Yes, we are fine. We are not mall shoppers; I haven't been in a mall in over three years and none of my family or friends were there. Thanks so much, though, for caring enough to check. Thanks especially to my good buddy, Jill over at Charming and Delightful, who sent me emails from her hospital bed after giving birth! Like she didn't have enough on her plate? You're the best, Jill, and Spike is gorgeous.
The whole shooting thing makes me too sick to blog about it much. Yesterday, after I met with a client and had some spare time before I had to pick up Liv, I stopped in a book store to browse and suddenly it hit me: This was exactly what one of the victims of this sick boy was doing when he was shot. He had wrapped up a business meeting in Omaha and stopped to do a little Christmas shopping before he headed back home to Iowa. My heart aches for all those families. Just aches.
Okay...going on.
I have been thinking about marriage, co-habitation, whatever, a lot lately. Probably the season, all the commercials that show shy husbands surprising their fabulous wives with diamond necklaces, the TV shows that seem to show only shiny happy people (thank you R.E.M.) enjoying their shiny happy families and have read a few blogs where hot crazy love seems to be the main event. Plus, my own frame of reference from my parents was not based on much reality. They NEVER fought in front of us children and I was shocked when one of my aunts told me that my Da had actually had an affair and that my mother nearly had a nervous breakdown over it. Where was I when all of this happened? I don't remember even a wary glance. Not that I think that parents should have knock-down-drag-outs in front of their children, but honestly, I grew up thinking that my parents never argued and that it was unnatural for couples to do so. And since my sisters and I were not allowed to argue with each other, I figured that families that didn't present a Hallmark card picture to the world were just...bad.
I think that I have a pretty decent marriage. Bing and I love each other. We work hard to get through our differences and celebrate our good times.
But, my marriage is not perfect. Bing and I fight. We are very, very different and come from very different childhoods. Bing is a yell-and-get-it-out person. I am a sulk-and-brood-silently-and-then-explode-two-weeks-later type.
Neither one of us are very romantic. We do dance together sometimes and exchange a nuzzle or two or three. We tease each other a lot. But, we don't kiss in public (and frankly that would not be a very smart thing to do in Nebraska for two women) or call each other "bunny pie" or "sweetums."
I'm not a particularly sexual being. Bing is. She is pretty much ready to go at it if I remove my socks. She tells me that I make her "work for it" and that she often feels as though I have to be coaxed into lovemaking.
She's right. But, as I tell her, it is nothing personal. I am very attracted to her. I am just not all that sexual. Once I am on that road, I tend to heartily enjoy myself, but I often have to be sort of...well...talked into it.
I get there. I'm just sort of slow.
And that is not our only obstacle. I have discovered that what I thought was so cute about her before we became a couple, I no longer find so adorable. I used to find it very sweet that she had to have all the towels folded a certain way in the linen closet. Now that she is sighing heavily and yanking out the towels that I just put away to refold them, I no longer find it so appealing.
I used to laugh at the way she drove like we were on the way to the emergency room even if we were just going to the grocery store. Now, it annoys the snot out of me. She, in turn, used to tease me about driving like a little old lady. She no longer finds that something to smile about. It makes her want to jump out of her skin. I can see it on her face.
She has a strange set of housekeeping methods. She detests crumbs on the counter, a sink faucet that is not wiped off neatly every time you use it and insists on a spanking clean kitchen floor at all times. Yet, she puts her mail in little piles all over the house and gets mad if I throw away an expired ad before she has seen it.
She irons her jeans. I iron....nothing. Maybe a tablecloth if we are having company.
Neither one of us like to discuss our feelings. We have friends who swear that couples therapy is the only thing that keeps them together. I think Bing and I would rather have root canals than sit down together and talk about our feelings with a therapist. This is odd as I used to be the therapist that people came to talk to. So, while in practice, I made a living at it, in private, wild horses couldn't have drug me into a counselor's office unless one of us started robbing 7-11's willy nilly or indulged a need for a bottle of Jack Daniels every night.
We fight. We grow apart. One of us notices and yanks us back together.
Sometimes, I admit that while I love Bing, I do not necessarily like her. And I am quite certain that she feels the same way about me.
I worry when a big obstacle comes along. Right now, she is still in interviews for a job in California. She wants to get this job badly. Me? Not so much. But, if we have to make a decision, well...we will. It is never easy, though.
Love is never simple for us. It involves a lot of negotiation and compromise, neither of which are my strong points. Plus, good hell...sometimes she just plain fucking bugs me. Sometimes, I look at her eating something and think to myself god, she drinks water like a fish and why must she gobble up her food as if someone is going to yank the plate away from her?
I'm sure that if asked, she would have many, many gripes about me. Yet, we both stay. We figure it out. One of us gives in or steps back or forward or whatever is needed for the good of the marriage and the family.
It is exactly like this.
And well, yeah...we figure out how to dance together again, how to get back to where we need to be. Because, in the end, it is worth it. We are worth it.
How about you? If you are married, co-habitating, etc...is your life like a jewelry commercial really? If you are divorced, what pulled you apart? If you are single, what are you looking for?
Just curious.
Yes, we are fine. We are not mall shoppers; I haven't been in a mall in over three years and none of my family or friends were there. Thanks so much, though, for caring enough to check. Thanks especially to my good buddy, Jill over at Charming and Delightful, who sent me emails from her hospital bed after giving birth! Like she didn't have enough on her plate? You're the best, Jill, and Spike is gorgeous.
The whole shooting thing makes me too sick to blog about it much. Yesterday, after I met with a client and had some spare time before I had to pick up Liv, I stopped in a book store to browse and suddenly it hit me: This was exactly what one of the victims of this sick boy was doing when he was shot. He had wrapped up a business meeting in Omaha and stopped to do a little Christmas shopping before he headed back home to Iowa. My heart aches for all those families. Just aches.
Okay...going on.
I have been thinking about marriage, co-habitation, whatever, a lot lately. Probably the season, all the commercials that show shy husbands surprising their fabulous wives with diamond necklaces, the TV shows that seem to show only shiny happy people (thank you R.E.M.) enjoying their shiny happy families and have read a few blogs where hot crazy love seems to be the main event. Plus, my own frame of reference from my parents was not based on much reality. They NEVER fought in front of us children and I was shocked when one of my aunts told me that my Da had actually had an affair and that my mother nearly had a nervous breakdown over it. Where was I when all of this happened? I don't remember even a wary glance. Not that I think that parents should have knock-down-drag-outs in front of their children, but honestly, I grew up thinking that my parents never argued and that it was unnatural for couples to do so. And since my sisters and I were not allowed to argue with each other, I figured that families that didn't present a Hallmark card picture to the world were just...bad.
I think that I have a pretty decent marriage. Bing and I love each other. We work hard to get through our differences and celebrate our good times.
But, my marriage is not perfect. Bing and I fight. We are very, very different and come from very different childhoods. Bing is a yell-and-get-it-out person. I am a sulk-and-brood-silently-and-then-explode-two-weeks-later type.
Neither one of us are very romantic. We do dance together sometimes and exchange a nuzzle or two or three. We tease each other a lot. But, we don't kiss in public (and frankly that would not be a very smart thing to do in Nebraska for two women) or call each other "bunny pie" or "sweetums."
I'm not a particularly sexual being. Bing is. She is pretty much ready to go at it if I remove my socks. She tells me that I make her "work for it" and that she often feels as though I have to be coaxed into lovemaking.
She's right. But, as I tell her, it is nothing personal. I am very attracted to her. I am just not all that sexual. Once I am on that road, I tend to heartily enjoy myself, but I often have to be sort of...well...talked into it.
I get there. I'm just sort of slow.
And that is not our only obstacle. I have discovered that what I thought was so cute about her before we became a couple, I no longer find so adorable. I used to find it very sweet that she had to have all the towels folded a certain way in the linen closet. Now that she is sighing heavily and yanking out the towels that I just put away to refold them, I no longer find it so appealing.
I used to laugh at the way she drove like we were on the way to the emergency room even if we were just going to the grocery store. Now, it annoys the snot out of me. She, in turn, used to tease me about driving like a little old lady. She no longer finds that something to smile about. It makes her want to jump out of her skin. I can see it on her face.
She has a strange set of housekeeping methods. She detests crumbs on the counter, a sink faucet that is not wiped off neatly every time you use it and insists on a spanking clean kitchen floor at all times. Yet, she puts her mail in little piles all over the house and gets mad if I throw away an expired ad before she has seen it.
She irons her jeans. I iron....nothing. Maybe a tablecloth if we are having company.
Neither one of us like to discuss our feelings. We have friends who swear that couples therapy is the only thing that keeps them together. I think Bing and I would rather have root canals than sit down together and talk about our feelings with a therapist. This is odd as I used to be the therapist that people came to talk to. So, while in practice, I made a living at it, in private, wild horses couldn't have drug me into a counselor's office unless one of us started robbing 7-11's willy nilly or indulged a need for a bottle of Jack Daniels every night.
We fight. We grow apart. One of us notices and yanks us back together.
Sometimes, I admit that while I love Bing, I do not necessarily like her. And I am quite certain that she feels the same way about me.
I worry when a big obstacle comes along. Right now, she is still in interviews for a job in California. She wants to get this job badly. Me? Not so much. But, if we have to make a decision, well...we will. It is never easy, though.
Love is never simple for us. It involves a lot of negotiation and compromise, neither of which are my strong points. Plus, good hell...sometimes she just plain fucking bugs me. Sometimes, I look at her eating something and think to myself god, she drinks water like a fish and why must she gobble up her food as if someone is going to yank the plate away from her?
I'm sure that if asked, she would have many, many gripes about me. Yet, we both stay. We figure it out. One of us gives in or steps back or forward or whatever is needed for the good of the marriage and the family.
It is exactly like this.
And well, yeah...we figure out how to dance together again, how to get back to where we need to be. Because, in the end, it is worth it. We are worth it.
How about you? If you are married, co-habitating, etc...is your life like a jewelry commercial really? If you are divorced, what pulled you apart? If you are single, what are you looking for?
Just curious.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)