Yesterday began as a hard day. We are all getting over some snarky virus that attacked us all in different ways. It began the same: sore throats. Fever.
Liv went from sore throat to runny nose to gross cough.
Bing went from sore throat to worse sore throat to being bone tired.
I went from sort throat to lung congestion to "I feel like I have been run over by a truck."
By Sunday, we were all sick of being sick. We looked at movies. None sounded interesting. Liv was too sick to have a play date. We decided to just hang out in our own ways and then meet up for take out bbq later in the day.
Bing went to take Socks for a walk. Socks was almost in a tizzy of excitement because he hadn't been walked in days, had just been rushed outside and told to "do your thing and get back in here."
She asked if Liv and/or I wanted to join her. It was a grey bone chilling cold day.
No, we didn't want to join her.
After she left, Liv settled on the sofa to work on her book report for school about the Lakota Indian tribe. This is a snap for her since her father IS a full blooded Lakota, so she has all kinds of information and can call a number of relatives to ask any questions she may have. She decided to go through a number of cds she has of Lakota music and decide on a few to use as props.
I told her that I was going to go lay down in my bed, try to read.
I plopped into my bed and tried to relax and read which was kind of hard considering Liv was listening to what sounded like war dances. Eventually, the music stopped and I could feel my eyes drooping into slumber.
And then, my dark midnight blue throw was pulled up gently and a little girl who really needed a shampoo and a tooth brushing slid in and under with me. I pulled her close, smelling the banana that she had for breakfast on her breath and nudging her soft pink cheek with my nose. We drifted off together.
In the back of my brain, I heard the downstairs door open and shut. Heard Bing's shoes plopping first one...and then the other down on the mudporch. I sighed and snuggled into Liv closer. By this time she was snoring lightly, something she only does when she has a stuffed up nose.
I felt eyes on me and opened mine up to see a small black dog sitting on the Lakota throw rug at the side of my bed. My hand was hanging off the side of the bed and he swatted it gently with his nose. Smiled at me. I swear he did.
Socks smiles. He does.
"Are your paws muddy?" I asked him quietly. It had been raining off and on for days, a dark, misty rain that seeped into the house, into our bones, into everything we ate and smelled.
He made a soft noise in his throat. No, alpha woman...can I come up there? I'm chilly....
I reached down and felt him. He felt dry. I patted the bed and he hopped up. Liv sighed and rolled over, making room for him to curl in between us in her sleep. Socks wiggled in between us, laying on his side and facing Liv, his nose resting in the crook of her arm.
We all sank deeper into sleep.
I woke up later to see Bing smiling at me, standing at the end of the bed.
"I'm going to go get us some bbq at Ted's," she told me, her finger tucked in an Arthur C. Clarke book. I winked at the cover. The Hammer of God. Ah...I remember that one. Something about a meteorite flying through the air, aiming it's sights on earth?
I yawned. "Make sure to get some of that really good cornbread," I whispered.
"And peach cobbler for Liv..." added the little girl who had banana breath and needed a shampoo.
Bing nodded. "A slab of ribs, saucy fries, coleslaw, that really good cornbread and peach cobbler for all. Anything else?"
Socks nudged me.
"A bone for a good, patient, sweet little dog?" I asked.
Bing winked. "I'll be home soon..." she said, leaning down to plant kisses on all of our foreheads and getting a lick from Socks in the process.
She stopped and turned at the door. "I hope y'all know that I came in and took a picture of you all sleeping with your mouths hanging open and all three of you snoring..," she said.
I gave her the finger and pulled up the midnight blue throw to warm up just a little.
I heard the door slam, the car start up and sluice down the rainy driveway.
"I think we should get up and set the table," I told Socks and Liv.
Later, we all ate bbq until we were full and satiated. Socks munched his bone down to a sliver. Liv finished her schoolwork and she and I took a shower together and I washed her haggie maggie hair with smooth goat's milk shampoo, lathered us both up and scrubbed until we shone.
Put Liv to bed and read a chapter to her from an incredibly silly book in a series called Goosebumps. Kissed her goodnight. Let Socks out into the back yard for one final pee and rabbit chase.
Settled in with Bing to watch Dexter.
It would be Monday soon enough. And we were all going to have a good week, a healthier week.
The rain would keep coming down, but at least it wasn't snow and our fevers were coming down too. The garden needed a drink.
The lights went out at 10 and the girl who no longer needed a shampoo, the alpha woman, the black puppy, and Bing, the bbq hunter all fell asleep.
And the dreams were all happy and good.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Thoughts on friends and blog readers.
So, we watched the third episode of The L Word last night. It was okay and I thought that bits of it were very, very good. I loved the part where the group of gay women friends troop to a restaurant to check out the chef there to see if their "gaydar" lights up about her. Been there. Done that. And for the record, I have often done that Shane thing where I am sent over to flirt and see if there is a response from a woman.
But, it generated some discussion with Bing and I. We pondered our friendships. I don't know, maybe it is our area, but we have just as many straight friends as gay ones. My best friend is straight, but most of our couple friends are lesbians or gay men. We agreed that it pretty much falls into the half and half stage.
Which is how I like it. I don't want to just have exclusively gay friends.
On The L Word, the gay women seem to have a fairly tight knit circle, go to mostly gay clubs and gay themed restaurants.
So, that got me thinking about my blog. I looked at my blogroll and realized that I have a big mix of friends. About half are gay and half straight.
And, again...I prefer that. I didn't begin my blog to form a readership. I began it to catch up on e-mail with my sisters, but it took off in a different direction and I really like it best that it is a hodge podge of different types. I even have a conservative Republican or two or three. (Um...that would be you, Stacy and Prudence.) I have been enlightened in many ways to know and like different people than myself. I can say that I have learned a lot of lessons from those who are different than I am. I go to their blogs, read them with real pleasure (well, NOT the political diatribes) and feel their happiness as they write about their daughter going to prom for the first time or their sadness at having to put their cat to sleep.
I think we both learn the lesson that diversity is a good thing. And it is very, very hard to be prejudiced or make statements like republicans are just plain stupid when I know some who aren't and not only that, they are compelling and interesting women who just see the world in a different spin.
I do read some blogs that seem to only have gay readers and other blogs who have none. But, is it by choice or happenstance? I don't know.
All I know is that I read an article in The Advocate where Cheyenne Jackson was interviewed. He talked about how being out should not be an issue.
"I just feel like being gay is the least interesting thing about me."
I agree. I don't want to be disliked or liked simply because of my sexual preference. I have known so many people who seem to get off on the fact that I am a lesbian. I can't tell you how many mothers at Liv's school will introduce me to their friends with lines like, "This is Maria. She is Liv's mother and a lesbian!" As if I am a rare white billed woodpecker or something.
And of course, there are the others. The woman at the party who sat close to me while we talked about our children's bouts with colds this Winter but when Bing came over and I introduced her as my partner, her face suddenly became stony with shock and she jumped away from me as if I had the measles.
I want Liv to grow up in a world where it simply doesn't matter if you are gay or straight or bi or transgender. Where skin color is a non issue. Religious preference is a personal choice, not an excuse to hate someone or be hated. I want her to know muslims and jews, blacks and whites, indians and drag queens and all different races of people. Democrats, independents and republicans. I like it that the internet may make it possible for her to have friends (as I do) in England, Australia, Russia and Iran. It is hard to go to war with your friends. I want it to be very, very difficult for her country to declare war on anyone.
And more importantly...I want it NOT TO MATTER that she has a diverse set of pals. I want us all to be in the same pot.
I feel like I should be playing the song Imagine now or something.....
I look at my sister's friends and they are all so homogenized. They are all white, heterosexual Catholic women. That seems a pity to me. There is comfort, yes, in similarity. But, surely there is something more to be said for having a diverse set of friends too.
So, here is my question to you. What are your friends like, compared to your parents, your siblings, your other friends? Are we moving in a good direction or not? What do you think???
But, it generated some discussion with Bing and I. We pondered our friendships. I don't know, maybe it is our area, but we have just as many straight friends as gay ones. My best friend is straight, but most of our couple friends are lesbians or gay men. We agreed that it pretty much falls into the half and half stage.
Which is how I like it. I don't want to just have exclusively gay friends.
On The L Word, the gay women seem to have a fairly tight knit circle, go to mostly gay clubs and gay themed restaurants.
So, that got me thinking about my blog. I looked at my blogroll and realized that I have a big mix of friends. About half are gay and half straight.
And, again...I prefer that. I didn't begin my blog to form a readership. I began it to catch up on e-mail with my sisters, but it took off in a different direction and I really like it best that it is a hodge podge of different types. I even have a conservative Republican or two or three. (Um...that would be you, Stacy and Prudence.) I have been enlightened in many ways to know and like different people than myself. I can say that I have learned a lot of lessons from those who are different than I am. I go to their blogs, read them with real pleasure (well, NOT the political diatribes) and feel their happiness as they write about their daughter going to prom for the first time or their sadness at having to put their cat to sleep.
I think we both learn the lesson that diversity is a good thing. And it is very, very hard to be prejudiced or make statements like republicans are just plain stupid when I know some who aren't and not only that, they are compelling and interesting women who just see the world in a different spin.
I do read some blogs that seem to only have gay readers and other blogs who have none. But, is it by choice or happenstance? I don't know.
All I know is that I read an article in The Advocate where Cheyenne Jackson was interviewed. He talked about how being out should not be an issue.
"I just feel like being gay is the least interesting thing about me."
I agree. I don't want to be disliked or liked simply because of my sexual preference. I have known so many people who seem to get off on the fact that I am a lesbian. I can't tell you how many mothers at Liv's school will introduce me to their friends with lines like, "This is Maria. She is Liv's mother and a lesbian!" As if I am a rare white billed woodpecker or something.
And of course, there are the others. The woman at the party who sat close to me while we talked about our children's bouts with colds this Winter but when Bing came over and I introduced her as my partner, her face suddenly became stony with shock and she jumped away from me as if I had the measles.
I want Liv to grow up in a world where it simply doesn't matter if you are gay or straight or bi or transgender. Where skin color is a non issue. Religious preference is a personal choice, not an excuse to hate someone or be hated. I want her to know muslims and jews, blacks and whites, indians and drag queens and all different races of people. Democrats, independents and republicans. I like it that the internet may make it possible for her to have friends (as I do) in England, Australia, Russia and Iran. It is hard to go to war with your friends. I want it to be very, very difficult for her country to declare war on anyone.
And more importantly...I want it NOT TO MATTER that she has a diverse set of pals. I want us all to be in the same pot.
I feel like I should be playing the song Imagine now or something.....
I look at my sister's friends and they are all so homogenized. They are all white, heterosexual Catholic women. That seems a pity to me. There is comfort, yes, in similarity. But, surely there is something more to be said for having a diverse set of friends too.
So, here is my question to you. What are your friends like, compared to your parents, your siblings, your other friends? Are we moving in a good direction or not? What do you think???
Saturday, March 29, 2008
A truly good meme and The L Word.
I know, I know...everyone hates memes. But...not this one. I came across this little gem at Heather's place and I decided it was one meme that I could do without frowning.
It is called The book meme.
1) One book that changed your life.
Easy. Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare. I know that this is not a book, but a play, but nevertheless, it changed my life. I was a freshman in high school when I read it and loved it so much that I began reading every play and sonnet he wrote. After that, I moved on to British poets and Old and Middle English works and by the time I read Chaucer, I was so smitten to the point of being one of those disgusting people who go around quoting all of the time. But...knowing all this sort of...opened me up, you know? I began to see what a huge world of books there was that surpassed my small town Iowa farm life. I went on to American classics and by the time I was in college, I had immersed myself in so much good literature that being an English major (well...for one semester) was a snap.
2) One book that you have read more than once.
A Tree Grows In Brooklyn. When I read it as a child, I vowed that my first daughter would be named Francie and my first son would be named Nolan. In high school, it taught me an important social lesson about early America and the haves verses the have nots. In college, I knew that it was a brilliant piece of writing. And as an adult, I read it to Liv just a few months ago. I was stung that she wasn't as enthralled with it as I was, but acknowledge that it just isn't her kind of book. She likes adventure, was a nut for Harry Potter, The Narnia series and of The Lord of the Rings, she has loved The Hobbit so far. She was the same way about the Little House books. I loved them and she was bored silly. Isn't it odd how we are disappointed when our children don't love the same books that we do? I am that way with my friends and my sisters too. If I love a book and they don't, I feel betrayed or something....
3) One book you would want on a desert island.
Um..there must be some book out there on survival on a desert island. I would want that one.
4) Two books that made you laugh.
I am totally crazy about David Sedaris. I especially loved Me Talk Pretty One Day and Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim. Sedaris has this sly way of hitting your funny bone in an almost serious way. He says things, makes observations that strike me as just perfect and exactly how I feel, but he says it ten times better and with a droll tone that makes me break down and laugh. I always try to listen to his books on tape as well as read them because his voice makes everything twice as funny. I have literally had to turn into a parking lot and sit for awhile as I was driving because I was laughing so helplessly.
5) One book that made you cry.
Ellen Foster by Kaye Gibbons. This book is exceptionally well written and heartbreaking too. For years I tried to get my sisters to read it and when Patrice finally did, she called me up and said, "Well, I tried to get into that Ellen book, but honestly, you could have told me that the character was a little black girl. Like I want to read a book about a little trailer park trash black girl?"
I was furious, not because she got it wrong, (Ellen is actually the product of a black father and a white mother) but because she couldn't just appreciate a beautiful character rendered with such tenderness and beauty. I broke down and cried at the end. I mean, I have never rooted so hard for a book character in my entire life.
6) One book you wish you'd written.
Tending To Virginia by Jill McCorkle. I love the lyrical way McCorkle writes, love how her characters just become real right from the get go. I found myself picturing them in my mind, shaking my head at the incredible beauty of the way one word followed the other. I would love to move people like that.
7) One book you wish had never been written.
Anything by Ann Coulter. I won't even put her name in big black letters. She writes trash and loves herself for doing it in such a narcissistic way that it makes me feel nauseated.
8) Two books that you are currently reading.
I only read one book at a time. I don't understand people who read two at a time, I really don't. I am currently just beginning A Version Of The Truth by Jennifer Kaufman and Karen Mack. I don't know whether I like it yet or not. It takes me a few chapters to get going.
After this book, I have Orange Mint and Honey by Carleen Brice. I heard it was good. We'll see.
9) One book that you have been meaning to read.
Choke by Chuck Palahniuk.
Bing read this one and she rarely reads fiction. She loved it and read it because she loved another book by the same author called Fight Club. I watched her sitting enthralled for days on the sofa reading it and figured if it could hold her attention, it could hold mine. So, it sits on my bookshelf.
I won't tag anyone, but I would sincerely love to hear what your favorite books are. Anyone want to share? I love having a book recommended to me. Love having stacks of books just waiting for me to jump into them.....
And to those of you who asked if we are enjoying The L Word....
Yes. And no.
We watched the pilot episode last night after Liv was asleep. I was disappointed. I mean, I felt like it was silly on so many levels.
1) A straight girl (Jenny?) moves in with her boyfriend and they find that their next door neighbors are lesbians. Suddenly, Jenny is beset with strange desires and deep feelings...a need to embrace her homosexual side.
Like that happens much? How many straight women do you know who suddenly go gay simply because they are around a group of lesbians? Admittedly, these were the hottest fucking lesbians I have ever seen all together in one group at one time....but, what the fuck? It doesn't happen. And I hate it that a comment was made about lesbians hungering for straight women.
I don't hunger much for straight women. I tend to be attracted to women, yes. But, I don't sit in a group of my straight friends and daydream about fucking them. And it pisses me off that some straight women seem to think that we do this a lot.
2) The sex scenes that took place every other scene seemed to be right out of a porno movie. The only one that really worked for me was near the end when Tina and Bette got it on. There was no hair flinging, no helpless moans of strangled longing, no bed gymnastics. Just heat. Lots of heat. Jesus Christ. Bing and I kept looking guiltily towards Liv's bedroom to make sure that she wasn't getting up to get a drink of water. I mean, I honestly felt like we were watching us some porn.
3) Why were all the lesbians rich and gorgeous with bodies that were sculpted by an artist? Are all your friends rich and gorgeous? Mine aren't. But, I concede that I wouldn't want to watch sex scenes with overweight, ugly women as much as I enjoyed watching sex scenes with truly hot looking women. Now, DO NOT come yelling at me that I am slamming fat ugly women. I am not. I am not beautiful, nor do I have the perfect body. I just don't want to view fat, ugly people fucking.
4) I thought the plot lines were skimpy. And predictable.
Now, after saying all of that. I will admit this:
After Bing and I hit the sack, we were both um...in very amorous moods. AND well...yes, we are watching the next episode tonight after we get Liv to bed and after we are SURE she is asleep.....
So, call me a hypocrite...I think we might be hooked.
It is called The book meme.
1) One book that changed your life.
Easy. Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare. I know that this is not a book, but a play, but nevertheless, it changed my life. I was a freshman in high school when I read it and loved it so much that I began reading every play and sonnet he wrote. After that, I moved on to British poets and Old and Middle English works and by the time I read Chaucer, I was so smitten to the point of being one of those disgusting people who go around quoting all of the time. But...knowing all this sort of...opened me up, you know? I began to see what a huge world of books there was that surpassed my small town Iowa farm life. I went on to American classics and by the time I was in college, I had immersed myself in so much good literature that being an English major (well...for one semester) was a snap.
2) One book that you have read more than once.
A Tree Grows In Brooklyn. When I read it as a child, I vowed that my first daughter would be named Francie and my first son would be named Nolan. In high school, it taught me an important social lesson about early America and the haves verses the have nots. In college, I knew that it was a brilliant piece of writing. And as an adult, I read it to Liv just a few months ago. I was stung that she wasn't as enthralled with it as I was, but acknowledge that it just isn't her kind of book. She likes adventure, was a nut for Harry Potter, The Narnia series and of The Lord of the Rings, she has loved The Hobbit so far. She was the same way about the Little House books. I loved them and she was bored silly. Isn't it odd how we are disappointed when our children don't love the same books that we do? I am that way with my friends and my sisters too. If I love a book and they don't, I feel betrayed or something....
3) One book you would want on a desert island.
Um..there must be some book out there on survival on a desert island. I would want that one.
4) Two books that made you laugh.
I am totally crazy about David Sedaris. I especially loved Me Talk Pretty One Day and Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim. Sedaris has this sly way of hitting your funny bone in an almost serious way. He says things, makes observations that strike me as just perfect and exactly how I feel, but he says it ten times better and with a droll tone that makes me break down and laugh. I always try to listen to his books on tape as well as read them because his voice makes everything twice as funny. I have literally had to turn into a parking lot and sit for awhile as I was driving because I was laughing so helplessly.
5) One book that made you cry.
Ellen Foster by Kaye Gibbons. This book is exceptionally well written and heartbreaking too. For years I tried to get my sisters to read it and when Patrice finally did, she called me up and said, "Well, I tried to get into that Ellen book, but honestly, you could have told me that the character was a little black girl. Like I want to read a book about a little trailer park trash black girl?"
I was furious, not because she got it wrong, (Ellen is actually the product of a black father and a white mother) but because she couldn't just appreciate a beautiful character rendered with such tenderness and beauty. I broke down and cried at the end. I mean, I have never rooted so hard for a book character in my entire life.
6) One book you wish you'd written.
Tending To Virginia by Jill McCorkle. I love the lyrical way McCorkle writes, love how her characters just become real right from the get go. I found myself picturing them in my mind, shaking my head at the incredible beauty of the way one word followed the other. I would love to move people like that.
7) One book you wish had never been written.
Anything by Ann Coulter. I won't even put her name in big black letters. She writes trash and loves herself for doing it in such a narcissistic way that it makes me feel nauseated.
8) Two books that you are currently reading.
I only read one book at a time. I don't understand people who read two at a time, I really don't. I am currently just beginning A Version Of The Truth by Jennifer Kaufman and Karen Mack. I don't know whether I like it yet or not. It takes me a few chapters to get going.
After this book, I have Orange Mint and Honey by Carleen Brice. I heard it was good. We'll see.
9) One book that you have been meaning to read.
Choke by Chuck Palahniuk.
Bing read this one and she rarely reads fiction. She loved it and read it because she loved another book by the same author called Fight Club. I watched her sitting enthralled for days on the sofa reading it and figured if it could hold her attention, it could hold mine. So, it sits on my bookshelf.
I won't tag anyone, but I would sincerely love to hear what your favorite books are. Anyone want to share? I love having a book recommended to me. Love having stacks of books just waiting for me to jump into them.....
And to those of you who asked if we are enjoying The L Word....
Yes. And no.
We watched the pilot episode last night after Liv was asleep. I was disappointed. I mean, I felt like it was silly on so many levels.
1) A straight girl (Jenny?) moves in with her boyfriend and they find that their next door neighbors are lesbians. Suddenly, Jenny is beset with strange desires and deep feelings...a need to embrace her homosexual side.
Like that happens much? How many straight women do you know who suddenly go gay simply because they are around a group of lesbians? Admittedly, these were the hottest fucking lesbians I have ever seen all together in one group at one time....but, what the fuck? It doesn't happen. And I hate it that a comment was made about lesbians hungering for straight women.
I don't hunger much for straight women. I tend to be attracted to women, yes. But, I don't sit in a group of my straight friends and daydream about fucking them. And it pisses me off that some straight women seem to think that we do this a lot.
2) The sex scenes that took place every other scene seemed to be right out of a porno movie. The only one that really worked for me was near the end when Tina and Bette got it on. There was no hair flinging, no helpless moans of strangled longing, no bed gymnastics. Just heat. Lots of heat. Jesus Christ. Bing and I kept looking guiltily towards Liv's bedroom to make sure that she wasn't getting up to get a drink of water. I mean, I honestly felt like we were watching us some porn.
3) Why were all the lesbians rich and gorgeous with bodies that were sculpted by an artist? Are all your friends rich and gorgeous? Mine aren't. But, I concede that I wouldn't want to watch sex scenes with overweight, ugly women as much as I enjoyed watching sex scenes with truly hot looking women. Now, DO NOT come yelling at me that I am slamming fat ugly women. I am not. I am not beautiful, nor do I have the perfect body. I just don't want to view fat, ugly people fucking.
4) I thought the plot lines were skimpy. And predictable.
Now, after saying all of that. I will admit this:
After Bing and I hit the sack, we were both um...in very amorous moods. AND well...yes, we are watching the next episode tonight after we get Liv to bed and after we are SURE she is asleep.....
So, call me a hypocrite...I think we might be hooked.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The end is in sight.....
Ugh. What a long day. So much to do and then Liv came home sick in the middle of the day. I hate it that I felt almost irritated with her. Like...how DARE she get sick when I had so much to do and felt so lousy myself.
She has a sore throat and stuffy nose. A fever. The same drill we have all passed around all Winter. Except now it is Spring. Same dance, new season.
She is in bed finally and I will follow her soon. I'm sure she'll be home tomorrow and have already canceled everything on my plate.
Some good news: Bing came home with a package last night for me. I opened it to find that she had bought all three seasons of The L Word. So, now we have something to do on those nights after Liv is in bed. I have heard so much about it, am really looking forward to watching it.
Okay...on to more questions:
This is the last of Mme Benaut's questions:
When are you going to post a family photo?
Unfortunately, never. For two reasons: 1) I don't know how to post photos and 2) I have a blog stalker and the thought of her peeping at photos of me and my family makes me feel a little nauseated. She is the reason that I moderate all my comments. She harbors a lot of hate and lets me know that. So, if I ever come and visit any of you, please know that you may take my photo and put it on your blog, but she won't be seeing it on mine.
And now on to Bah and her questions:
How do you manage to make such wonderful friends?
I think that most people have good friends and/or family. I just blog about mine a lot. I have a very small circle of close friends, not a large one. And I am not really the sort of person who makes friends easily either. Bing knows far more people than I do and knows every neighbor we have in a two block radius. I am much less friendly. She is one of those people who will go out to mow the lawn and end up talking to the guy next door for an hour first.
I do feel that I am lucky. I have a wonderful best friend, Harriet. I have less luck with my family, most of them are on one side of every issue and I am on the other. I'm not exactly shy about blogging about them.
I tend to be very observant of people, though. I have always been an observer, not really a talker. And I am told that I am very aloof and cool in person while I come across as sort of warm and friendly on my blog. Not exactly a compliment, huh? I think that is probably true. I am much more likely to wax poetic on my blog than I am in my outside-blogville life.
Believe it or not, I am told that I am very quiet and reserved in person.
Stop snickering. It's rude.
Do you miss Winter in the heat of Summer?
Good hell, yes. I am known to complain about the heat even more than I complain about the cold. I am not much of a Summer person. I am an Autumn and Spring person, like most people. I dislike the snow and cold and because I have rheumatoid arthritis, I feel it keenly. But...I detest those hot, humid Summer days even more. Nebraska gives me a lot to complain about, weather wise. I don't know of too many people who actually LIKE the weather here. I do think I could live somewhere like San Francisco, though, and be very happy. I like it moderate.
Fusion asks:
Out of all the places you've lived, which is your favorite and why?
Now, since I just complained about Nebraska, it may surprise you that I will pick that state, but the thing is...all my best memories are centered around Liv and since she has only lived in Nebraska, well....yeah. This is my favorite place. If we move, that may change.
Do Bing and Liv know you blog and what do they make of it?
Bing knows that I blog and she rarely, if ever, reads it. She thinks blogs are stupid. She will read my blog if I ask her to, but never without coaxing. She is my alarm clock too. I only allow myself one hour per day on the computer to read and write blogs and when my time is up, she is often the one who is telling me.
Bing knows that I write about her because I often tell her that I plan on using something she has said or done on my blog. She sometimes laments that my readers must think she is a "case" but the truth is, I think she would like the way she comes across on my blog. She is easy to write about because she is so....herself. She is steadfast, a little stubborn and a great character.
Bing is not much of a reader, in general and when she does read, it is mostly non fiction. She likes books about music, computers and finance. This is one of the reasons she gets bored on my blog. She argues that why should she read something that she has already lived and heard my take on? And I think the sheer length of most of my blog posts would send her into deep sleep.
Liv has never asked me what I am doing on the computer, mostly because I rarely am on it when she is up. I tend to go on after she is in bed or when she is at school. I don't know that she even knows what a blog is.
But, I write with the assumption that someday she will read my words. I see it sort of as a diary to keep for her. I would have loved to read my mother's blog or journal (not that she kept either.) I think we are all fascinated with our parents and Liv will be no exception.
But, she has never shown the slightest interest in what I do on the computer when she is around. She knows that I sometimes do research on it and I think she assumes that I am doing that.
Would my blog change if either Bing or Liv read it faithfully? No. I yam what I yam and I am not shy about sharing my opinions with them. What is on my blog is usually something they already know or would hold no surprises for them...
Okay..last question. It is from Patty.
In your letter to your seventeen year old self, you made reference to your mom not accepting your sexual preference. How would you have liked her to respond?
Easy. With love. With no conditions on her love for me. When she first disowned me, I was beyond shock. I was devastated. I had naively thought that my family would be happy for me. I was 24 and to this day, I have no idea why I had such illusions. My mother and I had never talked about homosexuality but I should have known that my mother was an intensely religious woman and followed to the letter the edicts of her church. Which was Catholic.
Her rejection caused me more pain than I can speak about. It was like a big dark, dank hole in my life for many, many years. It took me a long time to accept that she was never going to let me back into her life. It hurt...so, so much.
Now that I have a child of my own, I am doubly hurt. I can't imagine doing something like that to Liv, I honestly cannot. My love for her is this great, encompassing thing. I can't take my brain or my heart to a place where I believe I could disown her.
And to know that my mother could go there and did go there? It just stuns me all over again.
Okay..folks....I'm going to hit the hay. Tomorrow I will have to play nursemaid all day and well...let's just say that it isn't my best personality trait. Plus, Bing and I both seem to have this bug that makes us ache all over and just want to sleep.
Bed sounds like a slice of heaven right now.
And it is only 8 p.m. I am sooooo old.
She has a sore throat and stuffy nose. A fever. The same drill we have all passed around all Winter. Except now it is Spring. Same dance, new season.
She is in bed finally and I will follow her soon. I'm sure she'll be home tomorrow and have already canceled everything on my plate.
Some good news: Bing came home with a package last night for me. I opened it to find that she had bought all three seasons of The L Word. So, now we have something to do on those nights after Liv is in bed. I have heard so much about it, am really looking forward to watching it.
Okay...on to more questions:
This is the last of Mme Benaut's questions:
When are you going to post a family photo?
Unfortunately, never. For two reasons: 1) I don't know how to post photos and 2) I have a blog stalker and the thought of her peeping at photos of me and my family makes me feel a little nauseated. She is the reason that I moderate all my comments. She harbors a lot of hate and lets me know that. So, if I ever come and visit any of you, please know that you may take my photo and put it on your blog, but she won't be seeing it on mine.
And now on to Bah and her questions:
How do you manage to make such wonderful friends?
I think that most people have good friends and/or family. I just blog about mine a lot. I have a very small circle of close friends, not a large one. And I am not really the sort of person who makes friends easily either. Bing knows far more people than I do and knows every neighbor we have in a two block radius. I am much less friendly. She is one of those people who will go out to mow the lawn and end up talking to the guy next door for an hour first.
I do feel that I am lucky. I have a wonderful best friend, Harriet. I have less luck with my family, most of them are on one side of every issue and I am on the other. I'm not exactly shy about blogging about them.
I tend to be very observant of people, though. I have always been an observer, not really a talker. And I am told that I am very aloof and cool in person while I come across as sort of warm and friendly on my blog. Not exactly a compliment, huh? I think that is probably true. I am much more likely to wax poetic on my blog than I am in my outside-blogville life.
Believe it or not, I am told that I am very quiet and reserved in person.
Stop snickering. It's rude.
Do you miss Winter in the heat of Summer?
Good hell, yes. I am known to complain about the heat even more than I complain about the cold. I am not much of a Summer person. I am an Autumn and Spring person, like most people. I dislike the snow and cold and because I have rheumatoid arthritis, I feel it keenly. But...I detest those hot, humid Summer days even more. Nebraska gives me a lot to complain about, weather wise. I don't know of too many people who actually LIKE the weather here. I do think I could live somewhere like San Francisco, though, and be very happy. I like it moderate.
Fusion asks:
Out of all the places you've lived, which is your favorite and why?
Now, since I just complained about Nebraska, it may surprise you that I will pick that state, but the thing is...all my best memories are centered around Liv and since she has only lived in Nebraska, well....yeah. This is my favorite place. If we move, that may change.
Do Bing and Liv know you blog and what do they make of it?
Bing knows that I blog and she rarely, if ever, reads it. She thinks blogs are stupid. She will read my blog if I ask her to, but never without coaxing. She is my alarm clock too. I only allow myself one hour per day on the computer to read and write blogs and when my time is up, she is often the one who is telling me.
Bing knows that I write about her because I often tell her that I plan on using something she has said or done on my blog. She sometimes laments that my readers must think she is a "case" but the truth is, I think she would like the way she comes across on my blog. She is easy to write about because she is so....herself. She is steadfast, a little stubborn and a great character.
Bing is not much of a reader, in general and when she does read, it is mostly non fiction. She likes books about music, computers and finance. This is one of the reasons she gets bored on my blog. She argues that why should she read something that she has already lived and heard my take on? And I think the sheer length of most of my blog posts would send her into deep sleep.
Liv has never asked me what I am doing on the computer, mostly because I rarely am on it when she is up. I tend to go on after she is in bed or when she is at school. I don't know that she even knows what a blog is.
But, I write with the assumption that someday she will read my words. I see it sort of as a diary to keep for her. I would have loved to read my mother's blog or journal (not that she kept either.) I think we are all fascinated with our parents and Liv will be no exception.
But, she has never shown the slightest interest in what I do on the computer when she is around. She knows that I sometimes do research on it and I think she assumes that I am doing that.
Would my blog change if either Bing or Liv read it faithfully? No. I yam what I yam and I am not shy about sharing my opinions with them. What is on my blog is usually something they already know or would hold no surprises for them...
Okay..last question. It is from Patty.
In your letter to your seventeen year old self, you made reference to your mom not accepting your sexual preference. How would you have liked her to respond?
Easy. With love. With no conditions on her love for me. When she first disowned me, I was beyond shock. I was devastated. I had naively thought that my family would be happy for me. I was 24 and to this day, I have no idea why I had such illusions. My mother and I had never talked about homosexuality but I should have known that my mother was an intensely religious woman and followed to the letter the edicts of her church. Which was Catholic.
Her rejection caused me more pain than I can speak about. It was like a big dark, dank hole in my life for many, many years. It took me a long time to accept that she was never going to let me back into her life. It hurt...so, so much.
Now that I have a child of my own, I am doubly hurt. I can't imagine doing something like that to Liv, I honestly cannot. My love for her is this great, encompassing thing. I can't take my brain or my heart to a place where I believe I could disown her.
And to know that my mother could go there and did go there? It just stuns me all over again.
Okay..folks....I'm going to hit the hay. Tomorrow I will have to play nursemaid all day and well...let's just say that it isn't my best personality trait. Plus, Bing and I both seem to have this bug that makes us ache all over and just want to sleep.
Bed sounds like a slice of heaven right now.
And it is only 8 p.m. I am sooooo old.
Monday, March 24, 2008
And the answers continue.....
Well, thanks to all who asked....the party was okay. It was not our best, certainly not our worst. I drank too much wine and ended up fairly hungover for Bing's Easter service gig.
I figured out what my problem is: vanity. Plain and simple.
We invited three teachers from the high school that Bing teaches at, all women, all lesbians, and their partners. Bing had told me that they were math, english and gym teachers all new to her school.
She neglected to tell me that they were pretty much brand spanking new teachers and that the oldest one was twenty five.
So, there I was feeling all good looking and stuff in my Cynthia Steffe 'Poet' skirt. My cream colored cashmere sweater.
My good china was on the table with the pretty Irish linens.
And then...these....these....young girls came trooping in.
They all looked to be about fourteen.
But, of course, they weren't. They were twenty somethings.
I just felt like some sort of aging Stevie Nicks next to them. They were in jeans and sweatshirts. One couple brought us a six pack of bud lite.
They were all very nice, very sweet young women. And I felt like their mom. I had practically nothing in common with them. They all talked a lot about the local university's women's basketball team. They talked about bands that I had never heard of.
It was fun, don't get me wrong. I liked talking to them all. But I think one sentence said it all. After dinner, as I was taking the good china into the kitchen (the china that can't be put in the dishwasher and would be hand washed after they all went home), one of the women followed me and flirtatiously told me that she found it hard to believe that I was 49. That, well...her mother was only 43 and I was still really, really pretty.
I don't think she had any idea that this was not really a compliment. I think I laughed and said something about her not seeing me at 6:30 in the morning and she said something very rogue like, "Well, I wouldn't mind THAT happening..."
I felt like sort of a well preserved old geezerette. I was suddenly very conscious of my swirly skirt and my meticulously shaved legs, my carefully applied makeup. One of the women commented that I resembled Jane Curtin from "those old SNL shows." I began to sorely miss my cohorts, those who were actually old enough to remember when Jane Curtin and Dan Ackroyd did their Weekend Update and Dan would utter, "Jane, you ignorant slut...."
It occurred to me that we should have just ordered a few pizzas and turned on a basketball game and it would have gone better. Next time. Next time.
Of course, later, Bing laughed when I told her my feelings of being old. She said, "You know what it is? You are used to being one of the best looking women at the table and these young thangs, well...you can't compete with youth, honey."
And then she hugged me and said that she thought I was the best looking woman at the table, if that mattered.
It did. I also told her that she could have told me beforehand that their nickname for her was grandma....
But, it bothered me that she was right. That, in the end, it all came down to my foolish vanity. I mean, how fucking shallow is that?
Anyway....
I will answer two of Mme Benaut's questions...
Tell us a bit about your early working life. When did you develop an interest in psychology?
This questions is a bit uncomfortable for me too, as it reveals a trace of shallowness on my part, but hey...you already know that I peed my pants in my doctor's office, how much worse can it get?
I think I am probably in the wrong profession. When I was in grade school, I wanted to be a teacher. When I got into high school, I more specifically decided that I wanted to be a high school English teacher. By this time, I had fallen madly in love with the works of William Shakespeare, Chaucer, Yeats,Keats, Dickinson, cummings, and on and on. I decided to major in English.
I finagled a scholarship to college (which was handy, as my mother, although we could afford tuition, did not believe in higher education for women, she thought that women should only aspire to motherhood and refused to pay for any of her daughters to go to college....all of us except Celia have college degrees and advanced degrees as well) and it covered my room and books, but not my meals or entertainment.
I got a job in the cafeteria as a bus girl. I bussed tables for my lunch and dinner, breakfast wasn't covered. My breakfast was usually acquired by making sure that I bussed the tables of sorority girls. I discovered that they all usually had the three meals a day ticket (on Daddy's dollar, of course) and because they were also very cognizant of their waist sizes, they left most of their breakfasts on their trays and I would sneak their rolls, their toast, their sausages off their plates and furtively eat them before I dumped the trash off of their trays and put their plates on the conveyor belt to be cleaned.
I needed more money and a local restaurant hired me to be their weekend "gypsy." This meant that I sat at a little table under a sign that said, Get your tarot cards read for ten dollars! The restaurant offered to pay me half of whatever was brought in and I could keep any tips.
I studied up on tarot cards until I could read them backwards and forwards and began wearing my swirly peasant skirts and embroidered peasant blouses and I read tarot cards for people (mostly the sorority girls and their wealthy frat dates.) This proved to be ridiculously easy. I would lay out the deck in a celtic cross and simply reveal what the cards meant. After that, I would closely observe the person's facial expressions, body movements, etc and it was easy to see when the cards had hit a nerve. I would then center in on that subject and ask the cards further. Again, I would watch their faces, their eyes, their body language.
I quickly gained a reputation as a brilliant tarot reader and began charging 25 bucks a reading out of the student lounge or our dorm rooms. I made quite a bit of money from this. I also figured that if people liked tarot, maybe they would like natal charts as well, so I bought a cheap book about preparing astrological natal charts and began doing them for 25 bucks a shot. It was easy. I simply needed the exact time of the person's birth and their birthplace. Then, I would figure out the latitude and longitude and where the planets were aligned and then I would look everything up in the astrology book.
I took mostly English classes, but took a beginning Psych class too and found it to be fascinating. I loved reading and my brain began swirling around Freud, James, Bandura, Skinner, Lewin, Kagan and Bowlby. Once during class, my professor (a WONDERFUL teacher named Dr. Manning) was lecturing and a man came in, interrupted his lecture and handed him some papers while they whispered a bit and then left. After the fella left, Dr. Manning instructed us all to take out a piece of paper and analyze, sketch out a personality profile on this guy just on our twenty second glimpse of him.
I went to work. I had noticed that he had on the regulation basketball shoes of the university basketball team, that his backpack was pretty worn and shabby and his hair was very unstyled and unkempt. I also noticed that Dr. Manning had not seemed angry at having his class interrupted and that the student had handed him yellow papers from a legal pad. I surmised that he was an upperclassman here on a sports scholarship and that on the paper was a tentative bibliography that was a little late, but that Dr. Manning liked this student a lot. That he was poor, but very talented.
I was the only one who got it all right. One of my classmates, a sorority girl announced to the class that I got it all right because I was "psychic"; that she had seen me do tarot readings at Holly's Cafe that were very accurate.
That night, Dr. Manning and his wife came to dine at Holly's and he asked me to do his wife's cards. He immediately correctly guessed that my talent was half card reading and half just simple deep observance. Later, Dr. Manning asked to see me in his office and bluntly asked me why I was an English major when I should be a Psych major.
I switched majors. At my graduation, he took it a step further and asked me why I didn't get a masters in psychology or go on to med school and study psychiatric medicine. He promised to write me the best referral I would ever see.
And he did.
By the time Liv was born, I was in a very cushy job in private practice with seven men. I had a swanky town house. My student loans were paid in full. I even had a daycare on site at my workplace where I could eat lunch with Liv every day.
The first time that I left her there, I went to my office, put my head on my desk and cried. I had been away from her for about ten minutes at the time. She was two months old. It got so bad that I could not even have pictures on my desk of her because if I glanced at her, I would start crying.
I took a long look at my finances and decided that if I sold the town house and bought a really, really cheap house, I could live off of my savings for about seven years.
I made that happen. Many people thought I was insane. I was a little. I was insanely in love with my child. I couldn't bear to be away from her all day, even though she was only eight floors down from me.
This does not mean that I sit in judgment of women who work, women who do not have to work, but still do. You have to do what works for you and that is exactly what I did. And I was very, very lucky. I was able to do it. Many women simply can't.
I moved from the fancy pants, nouveau riche part of the city to a big fixer upper house in a very old neighborhood. It wasn't an unsafe neighborhood, it was just very, very old and established with huge sprawling trees and houses that all looked different from each other. Most of our neighbors were elderly and had raised their families on our block.
I became pretty much a stay at home mom. Once in awhile, a lawyer friend of mine would ask me to profile a jury for her and I was happy to do that. But, until Liv was four and started pre-school, it was just her and I.
I had a good circle of friends and they helped to keep me sane on the days when I thought that maybe I was going to go crazy if I didn't get out of the house and away from Sesame Street for a while.
When Liv was five and in kindergarten, I went back to work part time. Again, I was very fortunate. My lawyer friend still used me but she put the word out to other lawyers and since she had a very high success rate with her jury trials, I was called often to do the same for them. And eventually business owners began calling me to profile their potential hires. I began doing that.
I decided to stay part time when I discovered that if I were frugal, I could simply work part time and be around to take Liv to school, pick her up and not work during her vacation days, etc. I also had put Liv into a school who had it in their school policy that parents do a certain amount of volunteering or helping out in other ways and I needed to be able to do that. I volunteer four days a week at Liv's school. Most of the parents there do lots of volunteering or else they help out with things like purchasing plants for the school garden or buying milk for lunch. It is a service related learning institution.
Bing is with us now and if it were not for her, my life would be so much more difficult financially. She keeps us afloat and because of her, we can go on fun vacations too and eat dinner out from time to time. Money is not plentiful, but we have a happy life.
But, you know what? I honestly think that I would have been a kick ass high school English teacher too and I have many days of wondering if I did the right thing when I switched majors....
English made my heart sing, but Psychology made my brain dance. So...it was a toss up.
Okay...LAST question for today:
Have you done much traveling outside of Nebraska?
Hmmm...not outside of the United States, no. I tell myself that when Liv is in high school, we will do more of that. I have been to every state in the union except Washington and since Bing will be a presenter at an Apple seminar in Seattle in September, that will soon change. We are planning a family trip to go there and then to swing by our neighbor, Sven's school in a nearby state to visit him and maybe catch one of his football games too.
I am not particularly well traveled, though. No. I am more well read.
And next up, I will finish up Mme Benaut's questions and go on to Bah, Fusion, A Little Out of Tune and Patty.
I figured out what my problem is: vanity. Plain and simple.
We invited three teachers from the high school that Bing teaches at, all women, all lesbians, and their partners. Bing had told me that they were math, english and gym teachers all new to her school.
She neglected to tell me that they were pretty much brand spanking new teachers and that the oldest one was twenty five.
So, there I was feeling all good looking and stuff in my Cynthia Steffe 'Poet' skirt. My cream colored cashmere sweater.
My good china was on the table with the pretty Irish linens.
And then...these....these....young girls came trooping in.
They all looked to be about fourteen.
But, of course, they weren't. They were twenty somethings.
I just felt like some sort of aging Stevie Nicks next to them. They were in jeans and sweatshirts. One couple brought us a six pack of bud lite.
They were all very nice, very sweet young women. And I felt like their mom. I had practically nothing in common with them. They all talked a lot about the local university's women's basketball team. They talked about bands that I had never heard of.
It was fun, don't get me wrong. I liked talking to them all. But I think one sentence said it all. After dinner, as I was taking the good china into the kitchen (the china that can't be put in the dishwasher and would be hand washed after they all went home), one of the women followed me and flirtatiously told me that she found it hard to believe that I was 49. That, well...her mother was only 43 and I was still really, really pretty.
I don't think she had any idea that this was not really a compliment. I think I laughed and said something about her not seeing me at 6:30 in the morning and she said something very rogue like, "Well, I wouldn't mind THAT happening..."
I felt like sort of a well preserved old geezerette. I was suddenly very conscious of my swirly skirt and my meticulously shaved legs, my carefully applied makeup. One of the women commented that I resembled Jane Curtin from "those old SNL shows." I began to sorely miss my cohorts, those who were actually old enough to remember when Jane Curtin and Dan Ackroyd did their Weekend Update and Dan would utter, "Jane, you ignorant slut...."
It occurred to me that we should have just ordered a few pizzas and turned on a basketball game and it would have gone better. Next time. Next time.
Of course, later, Bing laughed when I told her my feelings of being old. She said, "You know what it is? You are used to being one of the best looking women at the table and these young thangs, well...you can't compete with youth, honey."
And then she hugged me and said that she thought I was the best looking woman at the table, if that mattered.
It did. I also told her that she could have told me beforehand that their nickname for her was grandma....
But, it bothered me that she was right. That, in the end, it all came down to my foolish vanity. I mean, how fucking shallow is that?
Anyway....
I will answer two of Mme Benaut's questions...
Tell us a bit about your early working life. When did you develop an interest in psychology?
This questions is a bit uncomfortable for me too, as it reveals a trace of shallowness on my part, but hey...you already know that I peed my pants in my doctor's office, how much worse can it get?
I think I am probably in the wrong profession. When I was in grade school, I wanted to be a teacher. When I got into high school, I more specifically decided that I wanted to be a high school English teacher. By this time, I had fallen madly in love with the works of William Shakespeare, Chaucer, Yeats,Keats, Dickinson, cummings, and on and on. I decided to major in English.
I finagled a scholarship to college (which was handy, as my mother, although we could afford tuition, did not believe in higher education for women, she thought that women should only aspire to motherhood and refused to pay for any of her daughters to go to college....all of us except Celia have college degrees and advanced degrees as well) and it covered my room and books, but not my meals or entertainment.
I got a job in the cafeteria as a bus girl. I bussed tables for my lunch and dinner, breakfast wasn't covered. My breakfast was usually acquired by making sure that I bussed the tables of sorority girls. I discovered that they all usually had the three meals a day ticket (on Daddy's dollar, of course) and because they were also very cognizant of their waist sizes, they left most of their breakfasts on their trays and I would sneak their rolls, their toast, their sausages off their plates and furtively eat them before I dumped the trash off of their trays and put their plates on the conveyor belt to be cleaned.
I needed more money and a local restaurant hired me to be their weekend "gypsy." This meant that I sat at a little table under a sign that said, Get your tarot cards read for ten dollars! The restaurant offered to pay me half of whatever was brought in and I could keep any tips.
I studied up on tarot cards until I could read them backwards and forwards and began wearing my swirly peasant skirts and embroidered peasant blouses and I read tarot cards for people (mostly the sorority girls and their wealthy frat dates.) This proved to be ridiculously easy. I would lay out the deck in a celtic cross and simply reveal what the cards meant. After that, I would closely observe the person's facial expressions, body movements, etc and it was easy to see when the cards had hit a nerve. I would then center in on that subject and ask the cards further. Again, I would watch their faces, their eyes, their body language.
I quickly gained a reputation as a brilliant tarot reader and began charging 25 bucks a reading out of the student lounge or our dorm rooms. I made quite a bit of money from this. I also figured that if people liked tarot, maybe they would like natal charts as well, so I bought a cheap book about preparing astrological natal charts and began doing them for 25 bucks a shot. It was easy. I simply needed the exact time of the person's birth and their birthplace. Then, I would figure out the latitude and longitude and where the planets were aligned and then I would look everything up in the astrology book.
I took mostly English classes, but took a beginning Psych class too and found it to be fascinating. I loved reading and my brain began swirling around Freud, James, Bandura, Skinner, Lewin, Kagan and Bowlby. Once during class, my professor (a WONDERFUL teacher named Dr. Manning) was lecturing and a man came in, interrupted his lecture and handed him some papers while they whispered a bit and then left. After the fella left, Dr. Manning instructed us all to take out a piece of paper and analyze, sketch out a personality profile on this guy just on our twenty second glimpse of him.
I went to work. I had noticed that he had on the regulation basketball shoes of the university basketball team, that his backpack was pretty worn and shabby and his hair was very unstyled and unkempt. I also noticed that Dr. Manning had not seemed angry at having his class interrupted and that the student had handed him yellow papers from a legal pad. I surmised that he was an upperclassman here on a sports scholarship and that on the paper was a tentative bibliography that was a little late, but that Dr. Manning liked this student a lot. That he was poor, but very talented.
I was the only one who got it all right. One of my classmates, a sorority girl announced to the class that I got it all right because I was "psychic"; that she had seen me do tarot readings at Holly's Cafe that were very accurate.
That night, Dr. Manning and his wife came to dine at Holly's and he asked me to do his wife's cards. He immediately correctly guessed that my talent was half card reading and half just simple deep observance. Later, Dr. Manning asked to see me in his office and bluntly asked me why I was an English major when I should be a Psych major.
I switched majors. At my graduation, he took it a step further and asked me why I didn't get a masters in psychology or go on to med school and study psychiatric medicine. He promised to write me the best referral I would ever see.
And he did.
By the time Liv was born, I was in a very cushy job in private practice with seven men. I had a swanky town house. My student loans were paid in full. I even had a daycare on site at my workplace where I could eat lunch with Liv every day.
The first time that I left her there, I went to my office, put my head on my desk and cried. I had been away from her for about ten minutes at the time. She was two months old. It got so bad that I could not even have pictures on my desk of her because if I glanced at her, I would start crying.
I took a long look at my finances and decided that if I sold the town house and bought a really, really cheap house, I could live off of my savings for about seven years.
I made that happen. Many people thought I was insane. I was a little. I was insanely in love with my child. I couldn't bear to be away from her all day, even though she was only eight floors down from me.
This does not mean that I sit in judgment of women who work, women who do not have to work, but still do. You have to do what works for you and that is exactly what I did. And I was very, very lucky. I was able to do it. Many women simply can't.
I moved from the fancy pants, nouveau riche part of the city to a big fixer upper house in a very old neighborhood. It wasn't an unsafe neighborhood, it was just very, very old and established with huge sprawling trees and houses that all looked different from each other. Most of our neighbors were elderly and had raised their families on our block.
I became pretty much a stay at home mom. Once in awhile, a lawyer friend of mine would ask me to profile a jury for her and I was happy to do that. But, until Liv was four and started pre-school, it was just her and I.
I had a good circle of friends and they helped to keep me sane on the days when I thought that maybe I was going to go crazy if I didn't get out of the house and away from Sesame Street for a while.
When Liv was five and in kindergarten, I went back to work part time. Again, I was very fortunate. My lawyer friend still used me but she put the word out to other lawyers and since she had a very high success rate with her jury trials, I was called often to do the same for them. And eventually business owners began calling me to profile their potential hires. I began doing that.
I decided to stay part time when I discovered that if I were frugal, I could simply work part time and be around to take Liv to school, pick her up and not work during her vacation days, etc. I also had put Liv into a school who had it in their school policy that parents do a certain amount of volunteering or helping out in other ways and I needed to be able to do that. I volunteer four days a week at Liv's school. Most of the parents there do lots of volunteering or else they help out with things like purchasing plants for the school garden or buying milk for lunch. It is a service related learning institution.
Bing is with us now and if it were not for her, my life would be so much more difficult financially. She keeps us afloat and because of her, we can go on fun vacations too and eat dinner out from time to time. Money is not plentiful, but we have a happy life.
But, you know what? I honestly think that I would have been a kick ass high school English teacher too and I have many days of wondering if I did the right thing when I switched majors....
English made my heart sing, but Psychology made my brain dance. So...it was a toss up.
Okay...LAST question for today:
Have you done much traveling outside of Nebraska?
Hmmm...not outside of the United States, no. I tell myself that when Liv is in high school, we will do more of that. I have been to every state in the union except Washington and since Bing will be a presenter at an Apple seminar in Seattle in September, that will soon change. We are planning a family trip to go there and then to swing by our neighbor, Sven's school in a nearby state to visit him and maybe catch one of his football games too.
I am not particularly well traveled, though. No. I am more well read.
And next up, I will finish up Mme Benaut's questions and go on to Bah, Fusion, A Little Out of Tune and Patty.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
3rd round of questions.
Wow...thank you for all the happy Easter wishes. I am very pleased to say that we will not be having dinner at my sister's home this year. We decided that instead, we would go to Bing's gig at a church downtown's Easter service, go out for pancakes and then go to another Hitchcock film at the new Film Stream Theatre. This time it is North By Northwest.
This will sure beat listening to my brother in law talk about how he is sick of those wetbacks trying to get into his country. He has already sent me a disgusting e-mail today with the subject line "Why Obama Will Loose The Election." I replied to his e-mail telling him that he might want to check his spelling as it made him look even more ignorant than he already is.
I think my blood pressure deserves to stay down and not trying to choke down dinner at his home and having daydreams of smacking him in the head with an entire leg of lamb will help....
Tonight we are having a small dinner party. Just six people from Bing's school. All gay. All women. So, it should be fun. Of course, I am the one running around worrying that our house isn't tidy enough. Bing is the one who will invite them in and instead of taking their coats will tell them to "just throw them down anywhere..."
Her idea of playing hostess and my idea of playing hostess are two very different things. I am in charge of the pork roast, rolls and dessert. Bing is in charge of the vegetables, drinks, and rice. Liv is in charge of setting the table. Suffice it to say that I will be the one getting shriller and shriller as the day goes on. Bing and Liv will be comfortable and easy going. My pork roast will be too dry, the rolls too hard and my brownies will be too gooey. Bing's green beans will be crisp and delicious, her rice perfectly seasoned and her drinks cold or hot and perfect. At the end of the night, I will be totally exhausted and my face will hurt from fake smiling. Bing will be perfectly at ease and say something about how great that was and let's do it again soon. I will look at her with astonishment.
She is an easy going entertainer. I am not. I will compensate by drinking too much wine until I sort of loosen up.
Liv's father, Tinton is coming to stay with us from Thursday until he and Liv leave for the Indian Reservation for a spring break visit. I never worry about HIM being company. He is used to sleeping in a tent (is a geologist) and drinking water out of a bucket. Our house will seem like a fancy hotel.
So...on to the questions:
Josie asks:
What are five characteristics you most admire in other people and five traits you dislike most?
This was harder to answer than I thought it would be. But, I decided that these are the five characteristics I admire most in others:
1) A sense of humor. I know that sounds trite. I mean, EVERYBODY says that. But, in my case, I have grown to really value humor much more as I grow older. Not because I like a Don Rickles personality, I don't mean THAT sort of person, but someone who takes life with a grain of salt and has a sense of humor about life's totally bizarre curve balls. I get weary of worry warts, people who simper and fret about anything and everything.
2) Trustworthiness. I like people who keep their promises, who can be counted on and don't yank me back and forth with their lack of reliability. In my old age, I have grown to appreciate stability. In my younger days, I was much more receptive to surprises than I am now and I was actually attracted to people who were sort of jaunty and unreliable. Now, absolutely not.
3) Intelligence. I don't mean that they have to belong to Mensa. I mean, that they have to have curiosity about the world or about SOMETHING. I tend to really dislike people who are political idiots. I am not talking about just republicans (as some might think.) I am talking about anyone who has political opinions and no facts to back them up. People who simply hate democrats because they are "bleeding heart liberals." Or people who hate republicans because they are "uptight, racist assholes." Nothing sets my teeth on edge more than seeing some idiot write a blog that is all about slam dunking candidates. Slam dunk all you want IF you have a factually based argument for your opinions. I like a good debate and I don't mind being one upped now and then, and who knows, I might learn something new from you.
I also tend to like people a lot more if they are readers. If you haven't heard of Catcher in the Rye or Travels With Charley or Walden, we are probably not going to like each other much. I am not a snob, in general, but about reading, well....okay...I AM.
4) The ability to forgive. I have known people who were so bitter and angry and trussed up with rage that they were just very hard to like. They had so many chips on their shoulders that they found little joy in life. It is very hard to like someone who is angry all the time and unforgiving when you mess up a little. The happiest people I know are those who understand that people are basic fuck ups and give them a lot of compassion.
5) Wit. This is different than a sense of humor in that someone who has a sense of humor sees the world with a wide lens. Someone with wit can take that scope and put it into words. Wit is a very seductive tool with me. It works nearly every time. It even wins out over kindness, although I know very few witty people who are not kind as well. True wits are generally kind souls.
Traits that I dislike:
1) I dislike arrogance in people. Arrogance is sarcasm without warmth and wit without kindness. Arrogant people tend to have a sense of entitlement, seem to feel as if they are somehow better, smarter, worthier than the average Joe. They aren't. And underneath arrogance usually lives self doubt.
2) Bullies. You don't just find them on the playground. They are the people who try to manipulate you into doing things or saying things that you aren't comfortable about. They push. Hard. They use belittling phrases and mocking body language. I find them odious. The thing is, they come across as very tough, but if you fight back, they usually run away fast. Bullies are actually cowards underneath all that swaggering.
3) Passive aggressive fighters. This one is hard because it is me in some ways. I have learned that sometimes in order to get what I want, it is best to be passsive aggressive and I will perform that way if I have no other choice. But, you know what? I never feel good about myself when I do that. And I don't like it when others use it as a tool to manipulate me either. So...hey, let's all just speak up and say what we need, what we believe, and I think the world would go round better....
4) Racism. I detest any sort of prejudice or racism. It goes against my nature and I am proud of that. I would never judge anyone because of their skin color, their religious preference, their sexual preference or their ancestry. Yet, being a lesbian, I have seen it up close and personal in a way that only someone who is different from the norm can. To watch someone like me just fine and get along with me well and then see them move away from me in disgust because I am a lesbian...not only hurts me, it angers me. We are all around you. And until like Martin Luther King preached, we judge people not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character, we as a people will not advance far.
5) Rigidity. I like someone who will admit that they are wrong once in a while. Show some flexibility. To be rigidly attached to all of your belief systems is to be stuck your whole life. It is good to have principles. It is not good to never question them.
Angelissima asks:
Were you involved with Liv's father or just into his sperm?
I nearly skipped this questions because although I am pretty out there on my blog, this is a very personal part of my life. So, forgive me if I just give the facts and don't give much detail on this one.
Liv was conceived by accident. A one night stand with a first year graduate student, barely twenty two years old, in the geology department at a local university. His name was/is Tinton. He is a full blooded Lakota Indian. The first time I saw him, he reminded me very much of a character in an old television show I had seen called Centennial. He strongly resembled the character called Jacques Pasquinel played by an actor named Stephen McHattie. Too much was had to drink. The condom broke.
He had no interest in parenthood. I had a great deal of interest in it and in fact, had been trying by artificial means to get impregnated and was unsuccessful.
Liv was a huge wonderful surprise for me and a huge terrible one for him. When she was four months old, he signed away all parental rights and I was frankly, thrilled. When she was about two, I got a letter from him asking if he could see her. After much gnashing of teeth and wringing of hands, I allowed it.
They took to each other, well....like father and daughter. Liv resembles him strongly. She has his deep dark brown eyes and her skin, while not as dark, is that kind of creamy color that tans like a dream. She is tall and very lean, very long legged, like he is. Only her hair is from my side of the family. It is golden.
By the time she was four, he visited whenever he passed through our area (about twice a year at most) and they saw each other. Tinton and I decided that she could know that he was her father.
Now, she is nearly nine and they are very close. He is a successful geologist and teaches sporadically at different universities in America and Europe for short intervals of time. He mostly does geological research work with his assistants, Nirand and Joe. He has never asked to be officially reinstated as her parent and he is very, very respectful of my parental rights. He dates a woman, but I have no idea how close they are. She lives in Colorado and breeds terriers. Socks is from one of her terriers.
Tinton and I have an easy going relationship and are closer now then ever. He calls frequently to talk to Liv and sometimes he and I will chat afterwards for an hour or so. He sees Bing and I as Liv's parents and has thanked me for letting him have a part in her life.
Next up.....Mme. Benaut (also known around our home as "the queen of the fairies.")
This will sure beat listening to my brother in law talk about how he is sick of those wetbacks trying to get into his country. He has already sent me a disgusting e-mail today with the subject line "Why Obama Will Loose The Election." I replied to his e-mail telling him that he might want to check his spelling as it made him look even more ignorant than he already is.
I think my blood pressure deserves to stay down and not trying to choke down dinner at his home and having daydreams of smacking him in the head with an entire leg of lamb will help....
Tonight we are having a small dinner party. Just six people from Bing's school. All gay. All women. So, it should be fun. Of course, I am the one running around worrying that our house isn't tidy enough. Bing is the one who will invite them in and instead of taking their coats will tell them to "just throw them down anywhere..."
Her idea of playing hostess and my idea of playing hostess are two very different things. I am in charge of the pork roast, rolls and dessert. Bing is in charge of the vegetables, drinks, and rice. Liv is in charge of setting the table. Suffice it to say that I will be the one getting shriller and shriller as the day goes on. Bing and Liv will be comfortable and easy going. My pork roast will be too dry, the rolls too hard and my brownies will be too gooey. Bing's green beans will be crisp and delicious, her rice perfectly seasoned and her drinks cold or hot and perfect. At the end of the night, I will be totally exhausted and my face will hurt from fake smiling. Bing will be perfectly at ease and say something about how great that was and let's do it again soon. I will look at her with astonishment.
She is an easy going entertainer. I am not. I will compensate by drinking too much wine until I sort of loosen up.
Liv's father, Tinton is coming to stay with us from Thursday until he and Liv leave for the Indian Reservation for a spring break visit. I never worry about HIM being company. He is used to sleeping in a tent (is a geologist) and drinking water out of a bucket. Our house will seem like a fancy hotel.
So...on to the questions:
Josie asks:
What are five characteristics you most admire in other people and five traits you dislike most?
This was harder to answer than I thought it would be. But, I decided that these are the five characteristics I admire most in others:
1) A sense of humor. I know that sounds trite. I mean, EVERYBODY says that. But, in my case, I have grown to really value humor much more as I grow older. Not because I like a Don Rickles personality, I don't mean THAT sort of person, but someone who takes life with a grain of salt and has a sense of humor about life's totally bizarre curve balls. I get weary of worry warts, people who simper and fret about anything and everything.
2) Trustworthiness. I like people who keep their promises, who can be counted on and don't yank me back and forth with their lack of reliability. In my old age, I have grown to appreciate stability. In my younger days, I was much more receptive to surprises than I am now and I was actually attracted to people who were sort of jaunty and unreliable. Now, absolutely not.
3) Intelligence. I don't mean that they have to belong to Mensa. I mean, that they have to have curiosity about the world or about SOMETHING. I tend to really dislike people who are political idiots. I am not talking about just republicans (as some might think.) I am talking about anyone who has political opinions and no facts to back them up. People who simply hate democrats because they are "bleeding heart liberals." Or people who hate republicans because they are "uptight, racist assholes." Nothing sets my teeth on edge more than seeing some idiot write a blog that is all about slam dunking candidates. Slam dunk all you want IF you have a factually based argument for your opinions. I like a good debate and I don't mind being one upped now and then, and who knows, I might learn something new from you.
I also tend to like people a lot more if they are readers. If you haven't heard of Catcher in the Rye or Travels With Charley or Walden, we are probably not going to like each other much. I am not a snob, in general, but about reading, well....okay...I AM.
4) The ability to forgive. I have known people who were so bitter and angry and trussed up with rage that they were just very hard to like. They had so many chips on their shoulders that they found little joy in life. It is very hard to like someone who is angry all the time and unforgiving when you mess up a little. The happiest people I know are those who understand that people are basic fuck ups and give them a lot of compassion.
5) Wit. This is different than a sense of humor in that someone who has a sense of humor sees the world with a wide lens. Someone with wit can take that scope and put it into words. Wit is a very seductive tool with me. It works nearly every time. It even wins out over kindness, although I know very few witty people who are not kind as well. True wits are generally kind souls.
Traits that I dislike:
1) I dislike arrogance in people. Arrogance is sarcasm without warmth and wit without kindness. Arrogant people tend to have a sense of entitlement, seem to feel as if they are somehow better, smarter, worthier than the average Joe. They aren't. And underneath arrogance usually lives self doubt.
2) Bullies. You don't just find them on the playground. They are the people who try to manipulate you into doing things or saying things that you aren't comfortable about. They push. Hard. They use belittling phrases and mocking body language. I find them odious. The thing is, they come across as very tough, but if you fight back, they usually run away fast. Bullies are actually cowards underneath all that swaggering.
3) Passive aggressive fighters. This one is hard because it is me in some ways. I have learned that sometimes in order to get what I want, it is best to be passsive aggressive and I will perform that way if I have no other choice. But, you know what? I never feel good about myself when I do that. And I don't like it when others use it as a tool to manipulate me either. So...hey, let's all just speak up and say what we need, what we believe, and I think the world would go round better....
4) Racism. I detest any sort of prejudice or racism. It goes against my nature and I am proud of that. I would never judge anyone because of their skin color, their religious preference, their sexual preference or their ancestry. Yet, being a lesbian, I have seen it up close and personal in a way that only someone who is different from the norm can. To watch someone like me just fine and get along with me well and then see them move away from me in disgust because I am a lesbian...not only hurts me, it angers me. We are all around you. And until like Martin Luther King preached, we judge people not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character, we as a people will not advance far.
5) Rigidity. I like someone who will admit that they are wrong once in a while. Show some flexibility. To be rigidly attached to all of your belief systems is to be stuck your whole life. It is good to have principles. It is not good to never question them.
Angelissima asks:
Were you involved with Liv's father or just into his sperm?
I nearly skipped this questions because although I am pretty out there on my blog, this is a very personal part of my life. So, forgive me if I just give the facts and don't give much detail on this one.
Liv was conceived by accident. A one night stand with a first year graduate student, barely twenty two years old, in the geology department at a local university. His name was/is Tinton. He is a full blooded Lakota Indian. The first time I saw him, he reminded me very much of a character in an old television show I had seen called Centennial. He strongly resembled the character called Jacques Pasquinel played by an actor named Stephen McHattie. Too much was had to drink. The condom broke.
He had no interest in parenthood. I had a great deal of interest in it and in fact, had been trying by artificial means to get impregnated and was unsuccessful.
Liv was a huge wonderful surprise for me and a huge terrible one for him. When she was four months old, he signed away all parental rights and I was frankly, thrilled. When she was about two, I got a letter from him asking if he could see her. After much gnashing of teeth and wringing of hands, I allowed it.
They took to each other, well....like father and daughter. Liv resembles him strongly. She has his deep dark brown eyes and her skin, while not as dark, is that kind of creamy color that tans like a dream. She is tall and very lean, very long legged, like he is. Only her hair is from my side of the family. It is golden.
By the time she was four, he visited whenever he passed through our area (about twice a year at most) and they saw each other. Tinton and I decided that she could know that he was her father.
Now, she is nearly nine and they are very close. He is a successful geologist and teaches sporadically at different universities in America and Europe for short intervals of time. He mostly does geological research work with his assistants, Nirand and Joe. He has never asked to be officially reinstated as her parent and he is very, very respectful of my parental rights. He dates a woman, but I have no idea how close they are. She lives in Colorado and breeds terriers. Socks is from one of her terriers.
Tinton and I have an easy going relationship and are closer now then ever. He calls frequently to talk to Liv and sometimes he and I will chat afterwards for an hour or so. He sees Bing and I as Liv's parents and has thanked me for letting him have a part in her life.
Next up.....Mme. Benaut (also known around our home as "the queen of the fairies.")
Friday, March 21, 2008
More answers, more cheshire cat stuff
Well, I forgot that it was good friday. My sister called to remind me and to tell me to be sure not to eat meat at all today.
Which is why we are having hamburgers for dinner tonight.
So, righto...on to the questions.
Sister AE asks:
What is the farthest you've been from the place you were born?
India. I went many, many years ago when a friend of mine needed major surgery and did not have health insurance. He found out that he could get the same surgery in India and that it would cost a fraction of what it did here in America. I went along with he and his partner and I admit that it was an incredible experience. He not only got his own room with his own private nurse, but had excellent surgery and excellent follow up care and it cost under 10,000$. In America, it would have been close to 300,000$ for the same thing with less fine linens and personal nursing care. I was impressed and got to see some of the country, which was so beautiful that it brought to me to tears.
Gypsy asks:
What is the reasoning behind your blog name?
I have written about this in a very early post but...to those newcomers, this is the story: My bff, Harriet, and I used to volunteer to do pre-school lunch together at Liv's school. We no longer do. It is not a job for the faint hearted. We had about 40 kids to supervise and it was so not fun. Imagine three and four year olds with yogurt cups, juice boxes, cheese sticks to open. Some demonic parents also would send idiotic things like Campbells Soup at Hand, those soups that had metal poptops to be opened and then microwaved for thirty seconds, stirred and microwaved again. One mother (or father...but I found that mothers were usually in charge of lunches) regularly sent Chef Boyardee ravioli in a can. I am serious. JUST A CAN. In her daughter's lunch. Like...did she really think that her child would be able to open it, dump it in a dish and microwave it? Or maybe she thought that her child had her own personal lunch server?
It was crazy making and Harriet and I developed a very dark, black humor that got us through. We would often say things privately to each other that were simply wicked. But, in our first week together, we were strangers to each other and were doing that polite thing that we women are so good at.
Hi! Well, here it is another day, isn't it? Did you have a nice evening last night? Did you see the weather forecast? WOW. The kids are going to be squirrelly today, huh? All this RAIN. You should see my garden. It is drowning! My tomatoes are drowning!!
There was this one kid, Brian. We both disliked him. He used to pick his nose constantly and then TOUCH you when you had to bend over him to help him unwrap his Hostess cupcake every day. You just knew he had booger fingers. He was also a whiner. We had a pitcher of milk and the kids could have as many refills as they wished if they didn't bring their own drink. He asked for about six refills a day. Drove us nuts.
On one particular day, Brian had been extra whiney. He didn't like the bologna sandwich his mother packed. It tasted wet. By the time he was eating his Hostess cupcake, he complained that his hands felt sticky.
Under her breath, Harriet muttered, "Oh, for fuck sakes, just eat your cupcake, you little shit."He didn't hear her, of course.
But, I did. And I started laughing. I mean, really laughing. Like snorty, hiccuping laughing. And she started up too. We were both standing with our legs crossed, laughing so hard that we could not stop. Seriously. We had tears rolling down our cheeks and the other kids were clammering at us, "What is so funny, Miss Maria and Miss Harriet? What is so funny?"
That was the real beginning of our friendship. After that, we talked honestly (as opposed to that polite chit chat) about anything and everything and we found that rare thing in each other: a true blue best friend.
To this day, it is our standard throwaway line with each other. One of us will complain that her kid is acting like a brat from hell and the other one will say, "Oh, for fuck sakes...just eat your cupcake, will ya?"
When Harriet's sister lay dying and she finally let herself break down and cry in my lap one day, I leaned down and whispered, "Jeezo Pete, your sister is dying and here you are acting like such a whine ass baby. Just eat your cupcake, bitch."
It made her smile and I hugged her so hard that she told me I needed to let go, she couldn't breathe.
So, that is the story behind the blog title. And Harriet? I know you read all my posts, so hey...Just eat your cupcake, you loser mom...
And you know how much I love you.
I'll get to Josie, Angie, Mme Benaut and Bah next up.
Which is why we are having hamburgers for dinner tonight.
So, righto...on to the questions.
Sister AE asks:
What is the farthest you've been from the place you were born?
India. I went many, many years ago when a friend of mine needed major surgery and did not have health insurance. He found out that he could get the same surgery in India and that it would cost a fraction of what it did here in America. I went along with he and his partner and I admit that it was an incredible experience. He not only got his own room with his own private nurse, but had excellent surgery and excellent follow up care and it cost under 10,000$. In America, it would have been close to 300,000$ for the same thing with less fine linens and personal nursing care. I was impressed and got to see some of the country, which was so beautiful that it brought to me to tears.
Gypsy asks:
What is the reasoning behind your blog name?
I have written about this in a very early post but...to those newcomers, this is the story: My bff, Harriet, and I used to volunteer to do pre-school lunch together at Liv's school. We no longer do. It is not a job for the faint hearted. We had about 40 kids to supervise and it was so not fun. Imagine three and four year olds with yogurt cups, juice boxes, cheese sticks to open. Some demonic parents also would send idiotic things like Campbells Soup at Hand, those soups that had metal poptops to be opened and then microwaved for thirty seconds, stirred and microwaved again. One mother (or father...but I found that mothers were usually in charge of lunches) regularly sent Chef Boyardee ravioli in a can. I am serious. JUST A CAN. In her daughter's lunch. Like...did she really think that her child would be able to open it, dump it in a dish and microwave it? Or maybe she thought that her child had her own personal lunch server?
It was crazy making and Harriet and I developed a very dark, black humor that got us through. We would often say things privately to each other that were simply wicked. But, in our first week together, we were strangers to each other and were doing that polite thing that we women are so good at.
Hi! Well, here it is another day, isn't it? Did you have a nice evening last night? Did you see the weather forecast? WOW. The kids are going to be squirrelly today, huh? All this RAIN. You should see my garden. It is drowning! My tomatoes are drowning!!
There was this one kid, Brian. We both disliked him. He used to pick his nose constantly and then TOUCH you when you had to bend over him to help him unwrap his Hostess cupcake every day. You just knew he had booger fingers. He was also a whiner. We had a pitcher of milk and the kids could have as many refills as they wished if they didn't bring their own drink. He asked for about six refills a day. Drove us nuts.
On one particular day, Brian had been extra whiney. He didn't like the bologna sandwich his mother packed. It tasted wet. By the time he was eating his Hostess cupcake, he complained that his hands felt sticky.
Under her breath, Harriet muttered, "Oh, for fuck sakes, just eat your cupcake, you little shit."He didn't hear her, of course.
But, I did. And I started laughing. I mean, really laughing. Like snorty, hiccuping laughing. And she started up too. We were both standing with our legs crossed, laughing so hard that we could not stop. Seriously. We had tears rolling down our cheeks and the other kids were clammering at us, "What is so funny, Miss Maria and Miss Harriet? What is so funny?"
That was the real beginning of our friendship. After that, we talked honestly (as opposed to that polite chit chat) about anything and everything and we found that rare thing in each other: a true blue best friend.
To this day, it is our standard throwaway line with each other. One of us will complain that her kid is acting like a brat from hell and the other one will say, "Oh, for fuck sakes...just eat your cupcake, will ya?"
When Harriet's sister lay dying and she finally let herself break down and cry in my lap one day, I leaned down and whispered, "Jeezo Pete, your sister is dying and here you are acting like such a whine ass baby. Just eat your cupcake, bitch."
It made her smile and I hugged her so hard that she told me I needed to let go, she couldn't breathe.
So, that is the story behind the blog title. And Harriet? I know you read all my posts, so hey...Just eat your cupcake, you loser mom...
And you know how much I love you.
I'll get to Josie, Angie, Mme Benaut and Bah next up.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Answers, Cheshire cat style
I'm going to start this post tonight, but it may take me a few days to complete. For the last two weeks, I had so much time on my hands that I felt like I hadn't earned my sleep at night. And now suddenly I have more work than I know what to do with, have so much to do that even sliding online for an hour a day is tough.
Spring break for Bing and Liv is in two weeks. Bing will be off to Los Angeles to check out her new summer job specifics and Liv is going to spend four days with her Father visiting his family on an Indian reservation. It will be just Socks and me for most of Spring break. I'm kind of looking forward to time alone but mostly not too thrilled about it. When Tinton called to say that he was making the trip and would Liv like to go, I felt like just saying no. Because I could have, you know. Tinton always checks with me first and if I had nixed it, he would have let it go. He is good like that. But, I felt (feel) that Liv needs to know that side of her family too, so I said that I'd run it by Liv and if she wanted to go, she could.
She wants to go. I suppose I could tag along with Bing, but she is planning on staying at her cousin's house while she is in California and she will be so busy, no real time to play together or sightsee. I'd be stuck with her cousin and his wife, people I have never met, only know through casual phone conversations perhaps once a year.
I'll stay home. Walk the dog. Pout a little. Drink too much wine at night. Keep my workload high so that I have minimal time to think and pine. I just realized that I may be able to make a dent in my pile of books. Read some blogs that I have neglected because I just have no time.
This could actually be fun.....
A few of you raised some interesting questions from my last post, so let's get right down to that dance number.
Sandy Shoes asked me this one:
What ever happened to that creepy neighbor who bothered you when you took Socks for a walk? Is he still around?
Unfortunately, yes. But...not around me. I have seen him a handful of times. He never acknowledges my presence and I return the favor. Socks and I go a different route every day and we have not had to deal with that creepy peeper man again.
Deboo asks this:
Why not move to California?
I have too much junk in my basement to move anywhere. It is expensive there. I could not afford a big rambling house there like I can in Nebraska, because frankly, no one really wants to live here so housing is cheap. I like Liv's school. I like my friends. I am old and decrepit and settled in my slovenly ways. We won't even be able to visit Bing except for maybe once or twice. Money is tight in our house, so tight that instead of renting a place for the summer, Bing is planning on sleeping in the spare room at her cousin's house. If we visit, we will get a hotel and Liv and I will slink around on the beach while Bing works and then both pounce on her when she gets home. My real pouncing will occur after Liv is asleep.
Ok...my eyes won't stay open. I will get to the other questions in the next post. Until then, someone tell me why I put the shampoo in the fridge. I am way too old to be working such long hours.....
Spring break for Bing and Liv is in two weeks. Bing will be off to Los Angeles to check out her new summer job specifics and Liv is going to spend four days with her Father visiting his family on an Indian reservation. It will be just Socks and me for most of Spring break. I'm kind of looking forward to time alone but mostly not too thrilled about it. When Tinton called to say that he was making the trip and would Liv like to go, I felt like just saying no. Because I could have, you know. Tinton always checks with me first and if I had nixed it, he would have let it go. He is good like that. But, I felt (feel) that Liv needs to know that side of her family too, so I said that I'd run it by Liv and if she wanted to go, she could.
She wants to go. I suppose I could tag along with Bing, but she is planning on staying at her cousin's house while she is in California and she will be so busy, no real time to play together or sightsee. I'd be stuck with her cousin and his wife, people I have never met, only know through casual phone conversations perhaps once a year.
I'll stay home. Walk the dog. Pout a little. Drink too much wine at night. Keep my workload high so that I have minimal time to think and pine. I just realized that I may be able to make a dent in my pile of books. Read some blogs that I have neglected because I just have no time.
This could actually be fun.....
A few of you raised some interesting questions from my last post, so let's get right down to that dance number.
Sandy Shoes asked me this one:
What ever happened to that creepy neighbor who bothered you when you took Socks for a walk? Is he still around?
Unfortunately, yes. But...not around me. I have seen him a handful of times. He never acknowledges my presence and I return the favor. Socks and I go a different route every day and we have not had to deal with that creepy peeper man again.
Deboo asks this:
Why not move to California?
I have too much junk in my basement to move anywhere. It is expensive there. I could not afford a big rambling house there like I can in Nebraska, because frankly, no one really wants to live here so housing is cheap. I like Liv's school. I like my friends. I am old and decrepit and settled in my slovenly ways. We won't even be able to visit Bing except for maybe once or twice. Money is tight in our house, so tight that instead of renting a place for the summer, Bing is planning on sleeping in the spare room at her cousin's house. If we visit, we will get a hotel and Liv and I will slink around on the beach while Bing works and then both pounce on her when she gets home. My real pouncing will occur after Liv is asleep.
Ok...my eyes won't stay open. I will get to the other questions in the next post. Until then, someone tell me why I put the shampoo in the fridge. I am way too old to be working such long hours.....
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Memes, Just ask me, and a bad start to the week.
Well, I've been tagged for two small memes, so I am going to shoot them out on one shot. But first, this comes under the heading of Be careful what you wish for...
Bing has been offered a summer job in California. A job for the whole summer. She would leave the day school gets out and return the day before it starts up again. Three whole months gone. It is a good job, pays pretty well. She would be setting up and running music camps for children. She is good at this, has done it loads of times here in Nebraska. But, this is California. And...they want her to come down to check things out and get things rolling on her Spring break and several weekends in April and May.
She wants to do this. But, I keep thinking three whole months???!! I don't want her to be gone that long. And just a few days ago, she was driving me completely nutso over something, probably her god damn messiness, and I thought to myself...I just really need her to go away for a while....
So, be careful what you wish for. Shit. WHY didn't I wish for that lottery ticket to have all the right numbers on it? But that is the thing with random wish granting, you can never see it coming, so you must always be alert.....
And now...on to the memes. I actually like these and you may too. They are short and sweet. Now, who would have thought I was capable of producing something SHORT?
The first meme is from my friend, Rebecca, over at Clumsy Kisses.
You are supposed to look up from your computer, look around the room where you are sitting and pick up the closest book. Open the book, turn to page 123, count down to the 5th sentence on that page and then post the next three sentences.
Well, now. Even I can pull that one off. Let's see. The nearest book to me is the one that I am almost finished with, The Senator's Wife by Sue Miller. It is fantastic, by the way.
"He said he understood her feelings, that he knew he'd done something unforgivable, as he had so many times before; but what he ardently hoped--though he knew he had no right to--was that Delia could forgive him again, as she had done so many times before. Then he mentioned the campaign, his campaign for reelection, which had already begun. When she came to this passage, Delia smiled bitterly."
I sorely wish that I had hit on a more juicy passage, but you get what you get. You are supposed to tag people, but I never do. If you want to take it, consider it yours. And hey...this book is really, really good. I like Sue Miller. I think she pens a good story.
The next meme is one that sounds easy, but in actuality, it is torture, especially for someone as um....verbose as me. And I think that my friend, Earth Muffin, did this on purpose to torture my wordy natured self....
The rules are simple. You are to write a six word memoir about yourself. And then tag six people. So...let's see...
She had a lot to say.
And, no...I am not going to tag anyone. But...it is harder than it looks, if you want to try it.
And lastly, I am running short of ideas for posts and have seen this on a few other's blogs, so I am going to try it.
Ask me any question and I will try to answer it. Want my opinion on something? (Yeah, like you have to coax me for mine....) Just ask.
I will try to answer, but if it is something too personal, I will just pretend that I didn't see it and you will have to forgive me.
But...hey...I confessed to peeing my pants in my doctor's office. How reserved and private do I seem to you???
Bing has been offered a summer job in California. A job for the whole summer. She would leave the day school gets out and return the day before it starts up again. Three whole months gone. It is a good job, pays pretty well. She would be setting up and running music camps for children. She is good at this, has done it loads of times here in Nebraska. But, this is California. And...they want her to come down to check things out and get things rolling on her Spring break and several weekends in April and May.
She wants to do this. But, I keep thinking three whole months???!! I don't want her to be gone that long. And just a few days ago, she was driving me completely nutso over something, probably her god damn messiness, and I thought to myself...I just really need her to go away for a while....
So, be careful what you wish for. Shit. WHY didn't I wish for that lottery ticket to have all the right numbers on it? But that is the thing with random wish granting, you can never see it coming, so you must always be alert.....
And now...on to the memes. I actually like these and you may too. They are short and sweet. Now, who would have thought I was capable of producing something SHORT?
The first meme is from my friend, Rebecca, over at Clumsy Kisses.
You are supposed to look up from your computer, look around the room where you are sitting and pick up the closest book. Open the book, turn to page 123, count down to the 5th sentence on that page and then post the next three sentences.
Well, now. Even I can pull that one off. Let's see. The nearest book to me is the one that I am almost finished with, The Senator's Wife by Sue Miller. It is fantastic, by the way.
"He said he understood her feelings, that he knew he'd done something unforgivable, as he had so many times before; but what he ardently hoped--though he knew he had no right to--was that Delia could forgive him again, as she had done so many times before. Then he mentioned the campaign, his campaign for reelection, which had already begun. When she came to this passage, Delia smiled bitterly."
I sorely wish that I had hit on a more juicy passage, but you get what you get. You are supposed to tag people, but I never do. If you want to take it, consider it yours. And hey...this book is really, really good. I like Sue Miller. I think she pens a good story.
The next meme is one that sounds easy, but in actuality, it is torture, especially for someone as um....verbose as me. And I think that my friend, Earth Muffin, did this on purpose to torture my wordy natured self....
The rules are simple. You are to write a six word memoir about yourself. And then tag six people. So...let's see...
She had a lot to say.
And, no...I am not going to tag anyone. But...it is harder than it looks, if you want to try it.
And lastly, I am running short of ideas for posts and have seen this on a few other's blogs, so I am going to try it.
Ask me any question and I will try to answer it. Want my opinion on something? (Yeah, like you have to coax me for mine....) Just ask.
I will try to answer, but if it is something too personal, I will just pretend that I didn't see it and you will have to forgive me.
But...hey...I confessed to peeing my pants in my doctor's office. How reserved and private do I seem to you???
Sunday, March 16, 2008
The kind of day that cleans up your soul.
Today was blissful. I slept in until nine. Had crazy dreams last night about visiting two old men who were babysitting an infant and doing it all wrong. I had to keep stepping in and showing them how to change a diaper, make a bottle, etc. NO idea what that signified. Maybe I shouldn't have had that brandy while watching SNL?
But, it was good to sleep in. When I got up, Liv and Bing had been up for a couple of hours and immediately informed me that they had found the perfect movie to go to: Hitchcock's The Birds. It was playing at a small theater downtown that shows great old films and all the new indie ones that don't make it to the bigger theaters.
I thought this sounded great, so I made myself a big bowl of steel cut Irish oatmeal (is there ANYTHING better than Irish oatmeal on a cold, raw day?) and Bing and Liv loaded up the crock pot with corned beef, cabbage and potatoes.
This made me laugh. Bing makes corned beef every year around St. Patrick's day. But, the thing is...ask anyone from Ireland or of Irish ancestry and they will tell you that corned beef is not a staple in Ireland. My Mother never made it, we usually had this with soda bread. And St. Patrick's Day was very religious in my family, none of this big drinking binge stuff.
But, still...I do like corned beef and I am always happy when someone else cooks.
So, we saw The Birds. Liv and I loved it, neither one of us had seen it. Bing had seen it several times but she is a huge Hitchcock fan. And good hell, if Tippi Hedren was not the most gorgeous woman of her time.....I pined for that little roadster she drove too.
After the movie, we came home and there is something so bracing about smelling food cooking when it is cold outside. It was cloudy and stiff winded outside, the forecast calls for yet another little ice storm tonight. Liv and I set the table and we all dug in.
After Liv and I cleaned up, it was still early, not even 3 o'clock. Liv went to practice her violin, she is auditioning for a children's chamber orchestra next month. Bing sat curled on the sofa working on a study guide for school and half watching some show about the Kennedy curse.
And me? I headed for the office to check my e-mail and then stopped and made a bee line for my bedroom instead. I took my book, The Senator's Wife by Sue Miller with me and tucked myself in under my midnight blue cashmere throw. I read for awhile and then felt myself drifting off for a delicious long nap.
There is nothing quite like tucking under a soft throw in soft grey sweatpants and a long sleeved tee shirt. Heavy wool socks on your feet. A good book read in the soft glow of a lamp because the sky is so dark and heavy outside. The wind whistling around the house. I felt content. Calm. I could hear Liv doing her scales on her violin downstairs and then heard the soft tapping of Socks, the puppy coming up the stairs to escape the high pitched strains of Liv's violin playing Fiddles on Fire by Mark Williams. I patted the bed lazily and Socks jumped up, circled twice and lay down next to me, his head across my knee.
I like having a dog's head rest on my knee.
I like hearing my daughter practice.
I like hearing the wind blow when I know that I am safe under the covers, warm, and my love is downstairs holding down the fort.
I liked knowing that Dexter is going to be on tonight and that I will probably watch it and have cold corned beef sandwich and a drippy dill pickle too, while I watch it.
Liv will be tucked into bed. Bing and I will be settled on the sofa together, eating and crunching our pickles.
Tomorrow will be busy. Monday again. A dog to walk. The remnants of an ice storm to drive in. A job to go to. A child to take to school. Dinner to prepare.
But, for today, there was the soft dark blue blanket curled around me, the wind and my soul.
At peace.
But, it was good to sleep in. When I got up, Liv and Bing had been up for a couple of hours and immediately informed me that they had found the perfect movie to go to: Hitchcock's The Birds. It was playing at a small theater downtown that shows great old films and all the new indie ones that don't make it to the bigger theaters.
I thought this sounded great, so I made myself a big bowl of steel cut Irish oatmeal (is there ANYTHING better than Irish oatmeal on a cold, raw day?) and Bing and Liv loaded up the crock pot with corned beef, cabbage and potatoes.
This made me laugh. Bing makes corned beef every year around St. Patrick's day. But, the thing is...ask anyone from Ireland or of Irish ancestry and they will tell you that corned beef is not a staple in Ireland. My Mother never made it, we usually had this with soda bread. And St. Patrick's Day was very religious in my family, none of this big drinking binge stuff.
But, still...I do like corned beef and I am always happy when someone else cooks.
So, we saw The Birds. Liv and I loved it, neither one of us had seen it. Bing had seen it several times but she is a huge Hitchcock fan. And good hell, if Tippi Hedren was not the most gorgeous woman of her time.....I pined for that little roadster she drove too.
After the movie, we came home and there is something so bracing about smelling food cooking when it is cold outside. It was cloudy and stiff winded outside, the forecast calls for yet another little ice storm tonight. Liv and I set the table and we all dug in.
After Liv and I cleaned up, it was still early, not even 3 o'clock. Liv went to practice her violin, she is auditioning for a children's chamber orchestra next month. Bing sat curled on the sofa working on a study guide for school and half watching some show about the Kennedy curse.
And me? I headed for the office to check my e-mail and then stopped and made a bee line for my bedroom instead. I took my book, The Senator's Wife by Sue Miller with me and tucked myself in under my midnight blue cashmere throw. I read for awhile and then felt myself drifting off for a delicious long nap.
There is nothing quite like tucking under a soft throw in soft grey sweatpants and a long sleeved tee shirt. Heavy wool socks on your feet. A good book read in the soft glow of a lamp because the sky is so dark and heavy outside. The wind whistling around the house. I felt content. Calm. I could hear Liv doing her scales on her violin downstairs and then heard the soft tapping of Socks, the puppy coming up the stairs to escape the high pitched strains of Liv's violin playing Fiddles on Fire by Mark Williams. I patted the bed lazily and Socks jumped up, circled twice and lay down next to me, his head across my knee.
I like having a dog's head rest on my knee.
I like hearing my daughter practice.
I like hearing the wind blow when I know that I am safe under the covers, warm, and my love is downstairs holding down the fort.
I liked knowing that Dexter is going to be on tonight and that I will probably watch it and have cold corned beef sandwich and a drippy dill pickle too, while I watch it.
Liv will be tucked into bed. Bing and I will be settled on the sofa together, eating and crunching our pickles.
Tomorrow will be busy. Monday again. A dog to walk. The remnants of an ice storm to drive in. A job to go to. A child to take to school. Dinner to prepare.
But, for today, there was the soft dark blue blanket curled around me, the wind and my soul.
At peace.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Rocks for my Da
I was barely eleven when my Da died. It was a surprise to the whole family, even though it was long held in my family that he tended to be "sickly."
My Da seemed to have bad luck with health from birth. He had type one diabetes (and passed it on to me, my sisters were spared), migraine headaches (also passed on to me and to two of my sisters.) By the time he was thirty, he wore dentures because his teeth were so bad. Again...passed on to me and my sister, Celia. He was plagued with ulcers and had to have half of his stomach removed at age 23.
When he caught a cold, he caught a cold. My Mother was his opposite in almost every way. She was hardy, vibrantly healthy, energetic and was the pragmatist to his dreamer. She was as strong as a horse and when she did get sick, well...she just went on with it, stoic and not prone to complaining.
I loved him more than I loved my Mother. We were cut from the same cloth, everyone said so. Not that I was sickly, I had my share of childhood illnesses and had to be careful because of diabetes, but I was, in general, healthy.
It was our hearts that matched. My Da and I were close in a way that he wasn't with my sisters. He was a farmer, as was my Mother, but he loved land not for the money it afforded him, but for the beauty of it.
He could make anything grow. He would sit outside with me on Summer evenings. I would sit in his lap, a big girl of ten, really too big to be lap sitting, but he didn't mind. And we would sing to the vegetables. He would whisper to me, "Look, kiddo (he always called me kiddo), look how that tomato plant is pretending not to hear us. She's a vain one, but wait....THERE...did you see that? She smiled, just didn't want us to see her." And he would go and gently stroke her leaves and sing about Molly Malone roaming Dublin's fair city, where the girls were so pretty....
That tomato would shoot out blooms like a pampered lover.
He never used Miracle Gro or anything other than egg shells and coffee grounds and we had the most bountiful gardens in town.
My Mother was constantly exasperated with him. He loved to read, mostly poetry, and I think this embarrassed her. He never noticed when his daughters needed new shoes, new dresses, new school books. She did. She kept us clean, dressed nicely and made sure that we were well fed. All of our basic needs were covered by her.
But, she wasn't a hugger, never once told us she loved us or that we were beautiful or even pretty. When pressed, she would grudgingly admit that we were "good enough." She wasn't impressed with my attempts at poetry or my little stories about elves living in the corn. As long as I made good grades at school, that was all that mattered.
When I tried to read her a story I had written once, she stopped me half way through and handed me a bowl of peas to snap. Told me that I had just produced evidence that I had too much time on my hands.
I never knew what they saw in each other. I think, perhaps, that each one offered what the other lacked and that attracted them to each other. My Da knew that he needed a firm, steady, hard worker to help him on the farm and well, it helped that my Mother had auburn curls and could jig (when heavily coaxed) like (as he wrote in his diary) "a fairy who had lost her wings."
My Mother would push him away, half laughing, when he would come in from the fields and lift her off the ground, telling her that he could smell her biscuits two miles away, when he would snuffle into her neck, pretending to be made ravenous by the smell of flour on her skin.
They loved each other, but I think it was difficult for them to like each other.
My Da would come into our bedrooms in the dark of night to wake us up to look out at a full perfect moon. My Mother would trail behind him, sighing heavily, telling him that he was acting like an "idjit", admonishing him that we had school tomorrow and it would be his responsibility to yank our sorry carcasses out of bed in the morning.
But, there it was....a perfect, gorgeous moon. I still remember it. It was a harvest moon, he said, all golden and orange, looking like a huge shimmering plate in the sky.
My Da collected rocks. He loved a pretty stone. The few times we went on a family vacation (people who live on farms do not go on summer vacations, as a rule), he always stopped by the side of the road to pull up a heavy rock, glistening with pink mica deposits or a perfect thread of blue running through it. He placed the larger stones in circles around shrubs and bushes. The smaller ones, he placed around the base of a bird bath that had a beautiful Virgin Mary standing above it, in her dark blue robes that he had painted in, with auburn curls and dark blue eyes like my Mother.
All of our neighbors and friends knew to bring a stone, or better yet, a large rock home for my Da from their travels. We had rocks from Paris, from Hawaii, from New York, from Pennsylvania, from England, Denmark, Alaska, even one from India.
In the evenings, we would talk about rocks. He and I would walk, hand in hand, and stop in front of this rock or that one.
"That one there, she is from Virginia," he would tell me. "At night when we are all sleeping, the rocks talk about where they are from, what they miss, what they love about their new home. What do you think this rock thinks about?" he would ask me, pointing to the one from Wyoming, from Montana, from Tennessee.
I would say, "I think she misses the Spanish Moss, but I think she is excited to see snow for the first time."
My Da would smile broadly and hug me to him, I would hang on his arm and swing back and forth, happy and so glad to be his little girl, his own child.
Sometimes, even when I was too big, he would swing me up for a big hug and a kiss, hold me close to him and say that I was the smartest, the most beautiful, the best little girl in the world.
I believed him. I believed every word that came from his mouth. He knew things. He knew that dogs liked to have love and attention but that they also needed a firm hand, so that they would never feel without a pack. He knew that cats needed their own space and that you waited for them to come to you, not vice versa, and then that you acted as if you were honored for their company. This bought him loyalty from every creature on our farm. He knew how they thought, what they needed.
He knew that roses need a good pruning and that if you ignored rosemary, it rebelled by swirling it's leggy legs all over the basil and would kill it.
He came down with the flu when I was in sixth grade. It went into his lungs, as viruses always did, and he ended up in the hospital.
He died there a few days later. The last time I saw him, my Mother had led him to the window facing the parking lot (children were not allowed in the room) and he raised his hand to wave at us, at his four girls while we blew kisses and did a jig together as best we could. Patrice was not a good dancer and was way out of sync with the rest of us and Celia was crying so hard that she had snot running down her chin. Jessie was only three so she toddled about trying to mimic us. But I wasn't crying. I was holding up a rock and trying to make the sun hit it just so while I jigged for my Da. It never once occurred to me that he would die.
But, he did. And then, nothing was the same.
We went on, but I was lost. We all were. My Mother kept the farm running, she was always the more efficient one about keeping tools in running order, etc. She hired a hired man to help out.
Our gardens did okay, but they didn't thrive until I took them over. I did what my Da had done, I sang to them. I apologized for his absence and my own less than perfect voice. He had a beautiful tenor that my shaky alto could not match. They produced.
To this day, I sing to my garden each year except now I sing with my daughter. I think my Da would have loved Liv.
My Mother disowned me when I was 24 after I came out as a lesbian. She died when I was 35 of breast cancer. She refused to speak to me and died believing that I would go to hell for being a "deviant."
I don't know what my Da would have thought about me. I will never know.
The farm was sold long before she died. She sold it, made a huge profit and went to live with my sister, Patrice until her death.
After she died, my sisters and I re-connected (she had threatened to disinherit them if they spoke to me..but Celia did anyway and paid for it dearly) and one afternoon, we drove out to the farm to have a peek at it. The people that lived there now had renovated the house so much that it was unrecognizable to me at first glance. But, the rocks were still there. I looked at them longingly, wanting to cart them away with me, but of course, they were no longer my rocks, so I let them be. I wondered if they saw me and commented on it in their late night talks. ("I remember her! She is all grown up now, isn't she?")
I collect rocks now. Every family member and friend knows to bring me back rock and stones from their trips. I tell Liv that they talk amongst themselves at night.
She believes as I still do.
My Da seemed to have bad luck with health from birth. He had type one diabetes (and passed it on to me, my sisters were spared), migraine headaches (also passed on to me and to two of my sisters.) By the time he was thirty, he wore dentures because his teeth were so bad. Again...passed on to me and my sister, Celia. He was plagued with ulcers and had to have half of his stomach removed at age 23.
When he caught a cold, he caught a cold. My Mother was his opposite in almost every way. She was hardy, vibrantly healthy, energetic and was the pragmatist to his dreamer. She was as strong as a horse and when she did get sick, well...she just went on with it, stoic and not prone to complaining.
I loved him more than I loved my Mother. We were cut from the same cloth, everyone said so. Not that I was sickly, I had my share of childhood illnesses and had to be careful because of diabetes, but I was, in general, healthy.
It was our hearts that matched. My Da and I were close in a way that he wasn't with my sisters. He was a farmer, as was my Mother, but he loved land not for the money it afforded him, but for the beauty of it.
He could make anything grow. He would sit outside with me on Summer evenings. I would sit in his lap, a big girl of ten, really too big to be lap sitting, but he didn't mind. And we would sing to the vegetables. He would whisper to me, "Look, kiddo (he always called me kiddo), look how that tomato plant is pretending not to hear us. She's a vain one, but wait....THERE...did you see that? She smiled, just didn't want us to see her." And he would go and gently stroke her leaves and sing about Molly Malone roaming Dublin's fair city, where the girls were so pretty....
That tomato would shoot out blooms like a pampered lover.
He never used Miracle Gro or anything other than egg shells and coffee grounds and we had the most bountiful gardens in town.
My Mother was constantly exasperated with him. He loved to read, mostly poetry, and I think this embarrassed her. He never noticed when his daughters needed new shoes, new dresses, new school books. She did. She kept us clean, dressed nicely and made sure that we were well fed. All of our basic needs were covered by her.
But, she wasn't a hugger, never once told us she loved us or that we were beautiful or even pretty. When pressed, she would grudgingly admit that we were "good enough." She wasn't impressed with my attempts at poetry or my little stories about elves living in the corn. As long as I made good grades at school, that was all that mattered.
When I tried to read her a story I had written once, she stopped me half way through and handed me a bowl of peas to snap. Told me that I had just produced evidence that I had too much time on my hands.
I never knew what they saw in each other. I think, perhaps, that each one offered what the other lacked and that attracted them to each other. My Da knew that he needed a firm, steady, hard worker to help him on the farm and well, it helped that my Mother had auburn curls and could jig (when heavily coaxed) like (as he wrote in his diary) "a fairy who had lost her wings."
My Mother would push him away, half laughing, when he would come in from the fields and lift her off the ground, telling her that he could smell her biscuits two miles away, when he would snuffle into her neck, pretending to be made ravenous by the smell of flour on her skin.
They loved each other, but I think it was difficult for them to like each other.
My Da would come into our bedrooms in the dark of night to wake us up to look out at a full perfect moon. My Mother would trail behind him, sighing heavily, telling him that he was acting like an "idjit", admonishing him that we had school tomorrow and it would be his responsibility to yank our sorry carcasses out of bed in the morning.
But, there it was....a perfect, gorgeous moon. I still remember it. It was a harvest moon, he said, all golden and orange, looking like a huge shimmering plate in the sky.
My Da collected rocks. He loved a pretty stone. The few times we went on a family vacation (people who live on farms do not go on summer vacations, as a rule), he always stopped by the side of the road to pull up a heavy rock, glistening with pink mica deposits or a perfect thread of blue running through it. He placed the larger stones in circles around shrubs and bushes. The smaller ones, he placed around the base of a bird bath that had a beautiful Virgin Mary standing above it, in her dark blue robes that he had painted in, with auburn curls and dark blue eyes like my Mother.
All of our neighbors and friends knew to bring a stone, or better yet, a large rock home for my Da from their travels. We had rocks from Paris, from Hawaii, from New York, from Pennsylvania, from England, Denmark, Alaska, even one from India.
In the evenings, we would talk about rocks. He and I would walk, hand in hand, and stop in front of this rock or that one.
"That one there, she is from Virginia," he would tell me. "At night when we are all sleeping, the rocks talk about where they are from, what they miss, what they love about their new home. What do you think this rock thinks about?" he would ask me, pointing to the one from Wyoming, from Montana, from Tennessee.
I would say, "I think she misses the Spanish Moss, but I think she is excited to see snow for the first time."
My Da would smile broadly and hug me to him, I would hang on his arm and swing back and forth, happy and so glad to be his little girl, his own child.
Sometimes, even when I was too big, he would swing me up for a big hug and a kiss, hold me close to him and say that I was the smartest, the most beautiful, the best little girl in the world.
I believed him. I believed every word that came from his mouth. He knew things. He knew that dogs liked to have love and attention but that they also needed a firm hand, so that they would never feel without a pack. He knew that cats needed their own space and that you waited for them to come to you, not vice versa, and then that you acted as if you were honored for their company. This bought him loyalty from every creature on our farm. He knew how they thought, what they needed.
He knew that roses need a good pruning and that if you ignored rosemary, it rebelled by swirling it's leggy legs all over the basil and would kill it.
He came down with the flu when I was in sixth grade. It went into his lungs, as viruses always did, and he ended up in the hospital.
He died there a few days later. The last time I saw him, my Mother had led him to the window facing the parking lot (children were not allowed in the room) and he raised his hand to wave at us, at his four girls while we blew kisses and did a jig together as best we could. Patrice was not a good dancer and was way out of sync with the rest of us and Celia was crying so hard that she had snot running down her chin. Jessie was only three so she toddled about trying to mimic us. But I wasn't crying. I was holding up a rock and trying to make the sun hit it just so while I jigged for my Da. It never once occurred to me that he would die.
But, he did. And then, nothing was the same.
We went on, but I was lost. We all were. My Mother kept the farm running, she was always the more efficient one about keeping tools in running order, etc. She hired a hired man to help out.
Our gardens did okay, but they didn't thrive until I took them over. I did what my Da had done, I sang to them. I apologized for his absence and my own less than perfect voice. He had a beautiful tenor that my shaky alto could not match. They produced.
To this day, I sing to my garden each year except now I sing with my daughter. I think my Da would have loved Liv.
My Mother disowned me when I was 24 after I came out as a lesbian. She died when I was 35 of breast cancer. She refused to speak to me and died believing that I would go to hell for being a "deviant."
I don't know what my Da would have thought about me. I will never know.
The farm was sold long before she died. She sold it, made a huge profit and went to live with my sister, Patrice until her death.
After she died, my sisters and I re-connected (she had threatened to disinherit them if they spoke to me..but Celia did anyway and paid for it dearly) and one afternoon, we drove out to the farm to have a peek at it. The people that lived there now had renovated the house so much that it was unrecognizable to me at first glance. But, the rocks were still there. I looked at them longingly, wanting to cart them away with me, but of course, they were no longer my rocks, so I let them be. I wondered if they saw me and commented on it in their late night talks. ("I remember her! She is all grown up now, isn't she?")
I collect rocks now. Every family member and friend knows to bring me back rock and stones from their trips. I tell Liv that they talk amongst themselves at night.
She believes as I still do.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Cabin fever and SPRING
I remember reading an article a long time ago about pioneer women on the Nebraska prairies. How they were so isolated, out in the middle of nowhere, enduring blizzard after blizzard in the Winter, sick children, animals living in the cabin with them and bitter cold. The Winters are long and brutal here. A few of the women went mad, it seemed. They would walk out into the white and have to be dragged back into their cabins kicking and screaming, wanting only the release from the endless cold, the endless snow and the endless howling wind.
I don't know how they managed. I have internet, television, music, good books, snow plowed streets and lots of distractions in the Winter.
But come March, I feel as if I have a weight on my shoulders. I am so tired of pulling on boots, heavy coats, and mittens just to go to the grocery store. I hate bundling Liv up every morning, the constant mud and grime on my floor from dirty slushy boots and now....dog tracks as well. The cold eats at me, invades my veins, makes me feel like slamming pots and bursting into tears. My skin is chapped, my lips raw. The howling of the wind at night invades my dreams in odd ways; I will dream that I am in the basement doing laundry and the clothes are moaning.
I feel dull and stupid in March. I try to hide it, try to be a good sport, but the truth is that the only thing that really cheers me is to go through my seed catalogs and run my pencil along my ruler on a paper, plotting my garden. I look hungrily at seeds for my onions, my heirloom tomatoes, my carrots and green beans. I swoon over seeds for bachelor's buttons, bleeding hearts and calla lilies. I get my starter pots ready in the basement, sniffing the potting soil like it is an exotic perfume.
So...this morning was a usual dull March beginning. Bing gets up at five every morning to go for a run with Socks, the puppy. Then, she comes in all pink cheeked and cheerful, breathing heavily and gets in the shower. Socks laps up his water and settles down on the kitchen rug, waiting for us to come downstairs and turn all the lights on, listen to the news on the radio.
Bing is usually halfway dressed when my alarm goes off at 6. She will turn it off and come over to me to kiss me good morning, smelling like Irish Spring soap and Clairol Herbal Essence shampoo. I always groan and she always smiles and sits on the side of the bed, rubbing my arthritic hands until they don't ache, until I can make a fist. I am only 49, but rheumatoid arthritis has robbed me of easy joints.
And then, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and ease myself out, slide into these and head down the hall to Liv's room to tousle her hair and ask her what she'd like for breakfast today.
Today was a regular day. I went down to the kitchen, my slippers kissing the floor, my granny gown holding my body warmth close to me.
I made Liv and me some scrambled eggs, made toast and scraped the last of the gourmet strawberry jelly that someone gave us for Christmas out of the jar. Bing had started the coffee and I poured a cup for Liv (yes, I let her drink coffee...it is actually more cafe au lait though, three fourths milk and one fourth coffee with two sugar cubes) and then another cup for me. Liv came into the kitchen in her red long johns, making a bright spot on the floor as she sat by Socks, whispering who-knows-what into his pointy ears. They both seemed to be enjoying their conversation.
We all sat at the table, Bing drinking her protein shake and munching a granola bar while she read the Wall Street Journal, Liv nibbling on her toast and dreamily leaning her chin on her hand as she stared out of the window. I sat drinking my coffee and scowling at Socks when he tentatively begged for a toast crust. Bing frowns on feeding Socks scraps. He usually knows to wait until she leaves for work and then I put all of our leftovers into his dish for him.
The radio was on, but none of us was really listening. Background noise.
And then suddenly Liv gasped. Made a sound in her throat. Pointed out the window.
We all looked up and there they were.
Two robins. Sitting on our deck rail, looking in at Liv and I with our haggie maggie hair, eating our breakfast and Bing reading her paper.
ROBINS!
One was robustly fat, probably pregnant. The other was either her skinny mate or a friend keeping her company.
We all sat and stared.
And then we smiled at each other all around. Big, happy grins.
Because even though the back yard is still an ice rink, when you see a robin in Nebraska, that means that Spring is coming. Probably not today, maybe not next week, but soon.
And that made all the difference.
Bing's step was springy as she kissed us all, including Socks, goodbye. Socks looked surprised, but very pleased, licked her chin.
Liv gobbled up her eggs and ran up the stairs two at a time to go get ready for school.
And me? I gathered up the plates, put the scraps in Sock's bowl and then the dishes into the dishwasher.
And then I took a piece of bread, toasted it lightly and went outside in my nightgown and broke it up into bits and tossed it over the deck railing for the robin's breakfast.
I took a deep breath of the cool air and I could taste it.
Spring. It was whispering, "Soon. Soon. Soon."
I don't know how they managed. I have internet, television, music, good books, snow plowed streets and lots of distractions in the Winter.
But come March, I feel as if I have a weight on my shoulders. I am so tired of pulling on boots, heavy coats, and mittens just to go to the grocery store. I hate bundling Liv up every morning, the constant mud and grime on my floor from dirty slushy boots and now....dog tracks as well. The cold eats at me, invades my veins, makes me feel like slamming pots and bursting into tears. My skin is chapped, my lips raw. The howling of the wind at night invades my dreams in odd ways; I will dream that I am in the basement doing laundry and the clothes are moaning.
I feel dull and stupid in March. I try to hide it, try to be a good sport, but the truth is that the only thing that really cheers me is to go through my seed catalogs and run my pencil along my ruler on a paper, plotting my garden. I look hungrily at seeds for my onions, my heirloom tomatoes, my carrots and green beans. I swoon over seeds for bachelor's buttons, bleeding hearts and calla lilies. I get my starter pots ready in the basement, sniffing the potting soil like it is an exotic perfume.
So...this morning was a usual dull March beginning. Bing gets up at five every morning to go for a run with Socks, the puppy. Then, she comes in all pink cheeked and cheerful, breathing heavily and gets in the shower. Socks laps up his water and settles down on the kitchen rug, waiting for us to come downstairs and turn all the lights on, listen to the news on the radio.
Bing is usually halfway dressed when my alarm goes off at 6. She will turn it off and come over to me to kiss me good morning, smelling like Irish Spring soap and Clairol Herbal Essence shampoo. I always groan and she always smiles and sits on the side of the bed, rubbing my arthritic hands until they don't ache, until I can make a fist. I am only 49, but rheumatoid arthritis has robbed me of easy joints.
And then, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and ease myself out, slide into these and head down the hall to Liv's room to tousle her hair and ask her what she'd like for breakfast today.
Today was a regular day. I went down to the kitchen, my slippers kissing the floor, my granny gown holding my body warmth close to me.
I made Liv and me some scrambled eggs, made toast and scraped the last of the gourmet strawberry jelly that someone gave us for Christmas out of the jar. Bing had started the coffee and I poured a cup for Liv (yes, I let her drink coffee...it is actually more cafe au lait though, three fourths milk and one fourth coffee with two sugar cubes) and then another cup for me. Liv came into the kitchen in her red long johns, making a bright spot on the floor as she sat by Socks, whispering who-knows-what into his pointy ears. They both seemed to be enjoying their conversation.
We all sat at the table, Bing drinking her protein shake and munching a granola bar while she read the Wall Street Journal, Liv nibbling on her toast and dreamily leaning her chin on her hand as she stared out of the window. I sat drinking my coffee and scowling at Socks when he tentatively begged for a toast crust. Bing frowns on feeding Socks scraps. He usually knows to wait until she leaves for work and then I put all of our leftovers into his dish for him.
The radio was on, but none of us was really listening. Background noise.
And then suddenly Liv gasped. Made a sound in her throat. Pointed out the window.
We all looked up and there they were.
Two robins. Sitting on our deck rail, looking in at Liv and I with our haggie maggie hair, eating our breakfast and Bing reading her paper.
ROBINS!
One was robustly fat, probably pregnant. The other was either her skinny mate or a friend keeping her company.
We all sat and stared.
And then we smiled at each other all around. Big, happy grins.
Because even though the back yard is still an ice rink, when you see a robin in Nebraska, that means that Spring is coming. Probably not today, maybe not next week, but soon.
And that made all the difference.
Bing's step was springy as she kissed us all, including Socks, goodbye. Socks looked surprised, but very pleased, licked her chin.
Liv gobbled up her eggs and ran up the stairs two at a time to go get ready for school.
And me? I gathered up the plates, put the scraps in Sock's bowl and then the dishes into the dishwasher.
And then I took a piece of bread, toasted it lightly and went outside in my nightgown and broke it up into bits and tossed it over the deck railing for the robin's breakfast.
I took a deep breath of the cool air and I could taste it.
Spring. It was whispering, "Soon. Soon. Soon."
Monday, March 10, 2008
Saying goodbye to The Wire and getting lost in the past.
First, please tell me that somebody who reads my blog is a freak for The Wire as much as I am....
God, I felt like weeping at the finale last night. Marlo was back on the streets, Scott won the fucking Pulitzer for being a lying jackass even though Gus tried to get in his way. And my McNulty, the fuck up cop with a brain and a true heart had to retire without a pension while douche bags all around got promoted. But...hey...Bubbles didn't have to live in the basement any more! And poor, poor Duke. Anyone out there watch it? Anyone??? It is only like the best show around. And now it is over and I am going around with the theme song stuck in my head.
I took Liv to school and tried to listen to an old cd of America called Holiday while I drove home.
It took me back. What was high school like for you? For me, well....it wasn't as horrible as some I have heard about, but it wasn't a picnic either. I went to a small Catholic girl's academy, had a small group of friends. We lived in small town Iowa.
We weren't in the popular gang, although....I confess to being courted by them. I wisely stayed put with my gang of three friends from the Hermione Granger set. We were known as smart and edgy, a bit mouthy but nothing like the school wild girls (called rags, I am sorry to say.) We picketed the cafeteria in order to get them to stop using Styrofoam plates and won. We were just one group out of many. There were the popular girls (the cheerleaders), the goths (the vamps),the athletes (the jockettes), the religious (the rollers), the math whizzes (the geeks), the slow learners (oh...I am so sorry to write this...but we called them the "tards"), the wild girls who put out with the boys from nearby St. Michaels (the aforementioned rags) and we were the smart ones, called the brains.
We were a small group within a larger one. We were Maria, Penny, Becca and Sue. We spent a lot of time studying together and on the weekends, we hung out together. I was the only one with a steady boyfriend, a guy named Stephen from St. Mike's who was a so-so athlete and planned to take over his Dad's small appliance repair business after graduation. He did this and still lives in the small town that we grew up in.
Except he married a girl a few years younger than me who has given him four daughters and a happy life. He runs the family business and when I run into them if I am home visiting, she is always very nice to me, but keeps a hand on Stephen's arm like a vise as if I just might try to spirit him away.
My friend Penny was the least attractive of us four. She had acne which she hid by applying makeup to her face with a trowel. Her father was the town doctor, her mother, a sad woman who always seemed to have a drink in her hand. It was rumored that she walked around naked in her back yard at night, a martini in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Penny never had a steady boyfriend, although she continually lusted after Al, one of the star athletes at St. Mike's and a catch. She became furious with me one night during our senior year when Al put the moves on me at a party and I almost succumbed as I was tipsy. Penny went on to college, but dropped out after a few years and moved back to that small town in Iowa where she worked as a receptionist for her father and now works as as a receptionist for the new doctor. She is overweight, single and leads a quiet, somewhat lonely life, I suspect. Or hell...I could be wrong. Maybe she is happy as a lark. Not really fair to assume, is it?
Becca, my next friend, was the glamour puss of our quartet. She wasn't gorgeous, but she was pretty, with long glossy brown hair, deep brown eyes and a tall lean body. She was good at all sports, was on the girls basketball, volleyball, softball, hockey and track team, but sidestepped being a jock because she was smart as hell and all the less gifted intellectuals on the teams paid her for her math notes. She had her pick of boyfriends, they ALL buzzed around her like flies to honey. At parties, the boys would quickly pick up that we were her friends and they would be crazy sweet to us in hopes of getting to her. She could never make up her mind, often had a different date every Saturday. Her parents were from inherited wealth. She lived in one of the nicest houses in town and was the oldest of six girls. She went on to graduate with a degree in journalism and became a news anchor in a big city.
And then she became addicted to cocaine and hit the skids. She landed back in our small Iowa town about five years ago after being in and out of re-hab half a dozen times. She married a rich rancher about twenty years her senior. My sister sent me her wedding picture. There Becca was, still very good looking, with a wedding dress and a cowboy hat with a veil on her head. Her husband, a retired vet around age 70 stood proudly next to her. In one hand, he held hers, in the other hand, he held the reins to his horse.
I kept thinking about all those times Becca and I drove around town talking about where we'd end up. Somehow, I don't think she would have ever guessed this, but maybe she is where she needs to be. I hope she is happy.
Sue was the friend that I knew the least well. She was not easy to know. She was smart and pretty in that corn fed small town Iowa way. She wore her hair in Farrah Fawcett style, she was a tiny bit plump. Not fat, just...yeah...corn fed. Think of Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz with blonde hair and you have Sue. Sue fell in love with a different boy each year and dated him with a vengeance, loved him whole heartedly. And then she would dump the guy right before the start of the new school year and go on to her next love.Sue's parents owned one of the two grocery stores in town and we were very loyal to that store, never bought anything at the other store....except cigarettes. We all smoked like fiends.
Sue went to teacher's college after we graduated and met her husband-to-be in her sophomore year. They married right before her junior year, the first of us to tie the knot. They are still married, both teach junior high, have one daughter and one son and live in St. Louis. I see Sue very occasionally when we are both in town on holidays, etc. She looks mommy-ish. She sent me a lovely baby gift for Liv when she was born. Her kids were both in high school by that time.
And lastly, there was me. We all had labels. Penny was the easy going one, the one who never fought with anyone, always kept everyone smiling and happy. Becca and I were competitive. We both vied for the highest grades, the best papers. But, she was labeled the rebel. It was Becca who found us our first joints to smoke. She had a car and we tooled all over that tiny town in it. It was a red volks and we called it Incognito. Sue was the nurturer of our group, she had kleenex if you had a cold. She would hug you if you got a B instead of an A.
I was the aloof one, the sort of cool one who was a bit apart from the rest because the cool girls invited me to sit at their lunch table more than once and I declined. This made them like me all the more and it gave me status in my own group. I was the one who could have been with the popular girls but I chose to be with Becca, Penny and Sue. It set me apart. I was also the one who would speak my mind to the nuns, politely of course.
I was the only one who wasn't a townie. I lived on a farm and had a school permit to drive when I was 14 to school. But, we never used my car. I had a beat up old tan Dodge Dart that barely got me and my sister, Jessie to school and back.
I often spent one night over the weekend with one of my friends, usually Becca, because she and I got on the best. We both had wicked, wicked senses of humor and thought ourselves extremely cosmopolitan in that self involved way that only a teenager from a small hick town in Iowa could.
We would drive around our little town and the countryside surrounding it, smoking our "ciggies" and driving out on old roads to drink Boone's Farm wine and put in the new America track, leave the headlights on and get out and dance. Sometimes boys would find us and we would all have ourselves a little party.
It sounds like a teen pregnancy or rape waiting to happen, doesn't it? But, it didn't. No. Penny and Sue graduated virgins. Becca and I, the more rebellious ones, lost our hymens and lived to tell the tale. We both acted like it was nothing, just stupid boys who nagged us and nagged us about blue balls until we both gave it up to shut them up.
It wasn't that simple, of course. At least not for me.
By the time I was sixteen, I knew I was a lesbian, but I didn't tell a soul. Not Penny. Not Sue. Not even Becca, who probably would have been my best choice. I never told anyone or even let myself write about it in my diary. It would not be until I met my college room mate (Bing) that I would let myself be who I really was.
And after we hit college, none of us stayed in touch really after the first few months. We all went to separate colleges, all made new friends. I think we got together for Christmas that first year away. We all sat around Penny's parent's living room and there was none of the crazy shrieking, the shared jokes that defined us in high school. No. We all had moved on and none of us felt the desire to re-connect on anything but a very shallow level.
But, listening to this old America cd today, I was back in high school again. In Becca's little red bug. Incognito. In more ways than one.
I saw myself in my trademark jeans and a sweater, high top sneakers or maybe a granny skirt and hiking books. Becca driving, Sue beside her, Penny and I in the back seat...all of us listening to America belt out that "Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man, that he didn't, didn't already have..." All of us lighting up our ciggies when we passed the town limits, and passing around the Boone's Farm. Becca yelling for us to be on the lookout for a pasture with no fucking cows or horses so that we could all get out and dance to America.
What was your high school life like?
God, I felt like weeping at the finale last night. Marlo was back on the streets, Scott won the fucking Pulitzer for being a lying jackass even though Gus tried to get in his way. And my McNulty, the fuck up cop with a brain and a true heart had to retire without a pension while douche bags all around got promoted. But...hey...Bubbles didn't have to live in the basement any more! And poor, poor Duke. Anyone out there watch it? Anyone??? It is only like the best show around. And now it is over and I am going around with the theme song stuck in my head.
I took Liv to school and tried to listen to an old cd of America called Holiday while I drove home.
It took me back. What was high school like for you? For me, well....it wasn't as horrible as some I have heard about, but it wasn't a picnic either. I went to a small Catholic girl's academy, had a small group of friends. We lived in small town Iowa.
We weren't in the popular gang, although....I confess to being courted by them. I wisely stayed put with my gang of three friends from the Hermione Granger set. We were known as smart and edgy, a bit mouthy but nothing like the school wild girls (called rags, I am sorry to say.) We picketed the cafeteria in order to get them to stop using Styrofoam plates and won. We were just one group out of many. There were the popular girls (the cheerleaders), the goths (the vamps),the athletes (the jockettes), the religious (the rollers), the math whizzes (the geeks), the slow learners (oh...I am so sorry to write this...but we called them the "tards"), the wild girls who put out with the boys from nearby St. Michaels (the aforementioned rags) and we were the smart ones, called the brains.
We were a small group within a larger one. We were Maria, Penny, Becca and Sue. We spent a lot of time studying together and on the weekends, we hung out together. I was the only one with a steady boyfriend, a guy named Stephen from St. Mike's who was a so-so athlete and planned to take over his Dad's small appliance repair business after graduation. He did this and still lives in the small town that we grew up in.
Except he married a girl a few years younger than me who has given him four daughters and a happy life. He runs the family business and when I run into them if I am home visiting, she is always very nice to me, but keeps a hand on Stephen's arm like a vise as if I just might try to spirit him away.
My friend Penny was the least attractive of us four. She had acne which she hid by applying makeup to her face with a trowel. Her father was the town doctor, her mother, a sad woman who always seemed to have a drink in her hand. It was rumored that she walked around naked in her back yard at night, a martini in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Penny never had a steady boyfriend, although she continually lusted after Al, one of the star athletes at St. Mike's and a catch. She became furious with me one night during our senior year when Al put the moves on me at a party and I almost succumbed as I was tipsy. Penny went on to college, but dropped out after a few years and moved back to that small town in Iowa where she worked as a receptionist for her father and now works as as a receptionist for the new doctor. She is overweight, single and leads a quiet, somewhat lonely life, I suspect. Or hell...I could be wrong. Maybe she is happy as a lark. Not really fair to assume, is it?
Becca, my next friend, was the glamour puss of our quartet. She wasn't gorgeous, but she was pretty, with long glossy brown hair, deep brown eyes and a tall lean body. She was good at all sports, was on the girls basketball, volleyball, softball, hockey and track team, but sidestepped being a jock because she was smart as hell and all the less gifted intellectuals on the teams paid her for her math notes. She had her pick of boyfriends, they ALL buzzed around her like flies to honey. At parties, the boys would quickly pick up that we were her friends and they would be crazy sweet to us in hopes of getting to her. She could never make up her mind, often had a different date every Saturday. Her parents were from inherited wealth. She lived in one of the nicest houses in town and was the oldest of six girls. She went on to graduate with a degree in journalism and became a news anchor in a big city.
And then she became addicted to cocaine and hit the skids. She landed back in our small Iowa town about five years ago after being in and out of re-hab half a dozen times. She married a rich rancher about twenty years her senior. My sister sent me her wedding picture. There Becca was, still very good looking, with a wedding dress and a cowboy hat with a veil on her head. Her husband, a retired vet around age 70 stood proudly next to her. In one hand, he held hers, in the other hand, he held the reins to his horse.
I kept thinking about all those times Becca and I drove around town talking about where we'd end up. Somehow, I don't think she would have ever guessed this, but maybe she is where she needs to be. I hope she is happy.
Sue was the friend that I knew the least well. She was not easy to know. She was smart and pretty in that corn fed small town Iowa way. She wore her hair in Farrah Fawcett style, she was a tiny bit plump. Not fat, just...yeah...corn fed. Think of Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz with blonde hair and you have Sue. Sue fell in love with a different boy each year and dated him with a vengeance, loved him whole heartedly. And then she would dump the guy right before the start of the new school year and go on to her next love.Sue's parents owned one of the two grocery stores in town and we were very loyal to that store, never bought anything at the other store....except cigarettes. We all smoked like fiends.
Sue went to teacher's college after we graduated and met her husband-to-be in her sophomore year. They married right before her junior year, the first of us to tie the knot. They are still married, both teach junior high, have one daughter and one son and live in St. Louis. I see Sue very occasionally when we are both in town on holidays, etc. She looks mommy-ish. She sent me a lovely baby gift for Liv when she was born. Her kids were both in high school by that time.
And lastly, there was me. We all had labels. Penny was the easy going one, the one who never fought with anyone, always kept everyone smiling and happy. Becca and I were competitive. We both vied for the highest grades, the best papers. But, she was labeled the rebel. It was Becca who found us our first joints to smoke. She had a car and we tooled all over that tiny town in it. It was a red volks and we called it Incognito. Sue was the nurturer of our group, she had kleenex if you had a cold. She would hug you if you got a B instead of an A.
I was the aloof one, the sort of cool one who was a bit apart from the rest because the cool girls invited me to sit at their lunch table more than once and I declined. This made them like me all the more and it gave me status in my own group. I was the one who could have been with the popular girls but I chose to be with Becca, Penny and Sue. It set me apart. I was also the one who would speak my mind to the nuns, politely of course.
I was the only one who wasn't a townie. I lived on a farm and had a school permit to drive when I was 14 to school. But, we never used my car. I had a beat up old tan Dodge Dart that barely got me and my sister, Jessie to school and back.
I often spent one night over the weekend with one of my friends, usually Becca, because she and I got on the best. We both had wicked, wicked senses of humor and thought ourselves extremely cosmopolitan in that self involved way that only a teenager from a small hick town in Iowa could.
We would drive around our little town and the countryside surrounding it, smoking our "ciggies" and driving out on old roads to drink Boone's Farm wine and put in the new America track, leave the headlights on and get out and dance. Sometimes boys would find us and we would all have ourselves a little party.
It sounds like a teen pregnancy or rape waiting to happen, doesn't it? But, it didn't. No. Penny and Sue graduated virgins. Becca and I, the more rebellious ones, lost our hymens and lived to tell the tale. We both acted like it was nothing, just stupid boys who nagged us and nagged us about blue balls until we both gave it up to shut them up.
It wasn't that simple, of course. At least not for me.
By the time I was sixteen, I knew I was a lesbian, but I didn't tell a soul. Not Penny. Not Sue. Not even Becca, who probably would have been my best choice. I never told anyone or even let myself write about it in my diary. It would not be until I met my college room mate (Bing) that I would let myself be who I really was.
And after we hit college, none of us stayed in touch really after the first few months. We all went to separate colleges, all made new friends. I think we got together for Christmas that first year away. We all sat around Penny's parent's living room and there was none of the crazy shrieking, the shared jokes that defined us in high school. No. We all had moved on and none of us felt the desire to re-connect on anything but a very shallow level.
But, listening to this old America cd today, I was back in high school again. In Becca's little red bug. Incognito. In more ways than one.
I saw myself in my trademark jeans and a sweater, high top sneakers or maybe a granny skirt and hiking books. Becca driving, Sue beside her, Penny and I in the back seat...all of us listening to America belt out that "Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man, that he didn't, didn't already have..." All of us lighting up our ciggies when we passed the town limits, and passing around the Boone's Farm. Becca yelling for us to be on the lookout for a pasture with no fucking cows or horses so that we could all get out and dance to America.
What was your high school life like?
Friday, March 07, 2008
Fairy Blood
I have it. So there. My parents were both immigrants from Ireland, so I figure that somewhere along the line, I have a smidge of fairy blood.
I am telling myself this because I am having a wrestling match with my conscience.
Last night, I was putting Liv to bed and went to fluff up her pillow and noticed a scraggly looking plastic shamrock about the size of a silver dollar under her pillow.
"What's this?" I asked.
Liv looked down, then away.
"Liv?"
She looked up. Squared her shoulders.
"I think...I'm not absolutely sure, but I think..it is a shamrock from a leprechaun," she told me.
I sat down. Waited. You have to do this with her. Give her time. Give her space. Room. She had a story to tell me but I would have to let it be in her way on her clock.
She sat down next to me, her hair still damp from her shower, smelling like shampoo and goat milk soap.
She swallowed. Took a drink from her warm milk with nutmeg that I make for her to sip while we read every night. Then, she looked up at me. Smiled nervously.
I was out in the back yard a few days ago and you know that patch of grass between the house and the garage where wild violets grow in the Spring?
I nodded yes.
Well, I saw this shininess and I looked and it was.....this. She held up the little shamrock.
I am thinking that maybe a leprechaun or a fairy or some sort of magical creature left it for me to find. Does that sound babyish?
I smiled. Told her no. Privately, I was surprised. Liv has been going through this phase lately where she has become quite pragmatic. She doesn't believe in Santa, told me that months ago. She recently told me that she thinks there probably is no Hogwarts. She no longer peeks around in the basement when she tags along with me to do laundry to see if she can spot a borrower hiding among the boxes. When we take Socks for his walk, she doesn't ask me questions about whether I think trees talk in a special language at night when we are sleeping.
She is eight and losing her imaginary life rapidly. Too rapidly,in my opinion. I miss our leprechaun hunts on our walks.
So, it surprised me that she could find a beat up plastic shamrock that probably blew away from someone's garbage and landed at our house, and think it was magic.
Liv went on.
I took the shamrock to school and told Cassie about it because I figured she would know if it was real or not.
Cassie is one of her classmates who is fascinated with mythical creatures. She has white blonde hair and eyes so light blue that she is right next door to an albino. She is slight, thinner than Liv, who is pretty skinny. She is the Luna Lovegood of Liv's school. For those few of you who don't follow Harry Potter, she is a character in those books who is very mystical, poetic, dreamy, a believer in all and everything and has a deep faith in magical creatures.
I love Cassie. But, she is not particularly popular. She isn't ridiculed, that kind of thing just doesn't happen at Liv's school. But...she is on her own a lot, often by choice and she swears that she saw a dragon in her backyard once. She and Liv are friends, but seldom playmates.
Well, Cassie said that I should try and find out. That I should write a little note and leave it and see if anything comes of it. We wrote this at recess today...
Liv handed me a small note. It said:
Dear leprecons, faeries or any majikal creetures,
My name is Liv Lastname. I would like to be your friend. I will not hurt you. If there is anything I can do to make your life eesier pleaze leave a note back. Pleaze stay at my house.
Love, Liv.
I read the note twice. Discovered that I could not speak as a golf ball seemed to be lodged in my throat. I pulled myself together and handed it back to her.
I told her that she should put in a baggie first, so it wouldn't get wet.
So, you don't think I'm acting babyish?"
No, I told her. "I think that sometimes it is important that we just stay open to everything and be willing to take a chance. And you know me, I'm a believer."
I know. I just didn't think that I was anymore. But, I want to try this. So, tomorrow before school, I'll put the note in a baggie and then find a shell to put on top of it so it doesn't blow away. Something not so heavy that a small fairy or leprechaun couldn't move it.
And that is exactly what she did.
So, here I am at 9 p.m. on a friday night with a note in my hand. A reply to her note. I have written it in french and wrote it with my right hand (I am left handed) to disguise my handwriting. It is a note from Mme Benaut (pardon me for using your name, Madame...but I pictured a miniature you as my queen of the fairies) telling Liv that if she could please plant these carrot seeds for the leprechauns, they would be most obliged. I also asked if the little dog that she walked was friendly. And said that I would be delighted to be her friend.
Bing is not particularly supportive. "You do realize that you will now spend the next several months having to sneak outside with your little notes in french and hide them? And really, don't you think that you should just stay out of this? She is nearly nine, Maria. It is time for her to put away these childish games. She doesn't really believe in fairies. It is just a little phase. She is doing pre-algebra for fucksakes. She is too smart for you to be able to pull this off for long."
Maybe. Maybe not. But, either way the note is going under the shell tonight.
And I DO have fairy blood. I do.
And I just need Liv to be my little girl for a bit longer.....
I am telling myself this because I am having a wrestling match with my conscience.
Last night, I was putting Liv to bed and went to fluff up her pillow and noticed a scraggly looking plastic shamrock about the size of a silver dollar under her pillow.
"What's this?" I asked.
Liv looked down, then away.
"Liv?"
She looked up. Squared her shoulders.
"I think...I'm not absolutely sure, but I think..it is a shamrock from a leprechaun," she told me.
I sat down. Waited. You have to do this with her. Give her time. Give her space. Room. She had a story to tell me but I would have to let it be in her way on her clock.
She sat down next to me, her hair still damp from her shower, smelling like shampoo and goat milk soap.
She swallowed. Took a drink from her warm milk with nutmeg that I make for her to sip while we read every night. Then, she looked up at me. Smiled nervously.
I was out in the back yard a few days ago and you know that patch of grass between the house and the garage where wild violets grow in the Spring?
I nodded yes.
Well, I saw this shininess and I looked and it was.....this. She held up the little shamrock.
I am thinking that maybe a leprechaun or a fairy or some sort of magical creature left it for me to find. Does that sound babyish?
I smiled. Told her no. Privately, I was surprised. Liv has been going through this phase lately where she has become quite pragmatic. She doesn't believe in Santa, told me that months ago. She recently told me that she thinks there probably is no Hogwarts. She no longer peeks around in the basement when she tags along with me to do laundry to see if she can spot a borrower hiding among the boxes. When we take Socks for his walk, she doesn't ask me questions about whether I think trees talk in a special language at night when we are sleeping.
She is eight and losing her imaginary life rapidly. Too rapidly,in my opinion. I miss our leprechaun hunts on our walks.
So, it surprised me that she could find a beat up plastic shamrock that probably blew away from someone's garbage and landed at our house, and think it was magic.
Liv went on.
I took the shamrock to school and told Cassie about it because I figured she would know if it was real or not.
Cassie is one of her classmates who is fascinated with mythical creatures. She has white blonde hair and eyes so light blue that she is right next door to an albino. She is slight, thinner than Liv, who is pretty skinny. She is the Luna Lovegood of Liv's school. For those few of you who don't follow Harry Potter, she is a character in those books who is very mystical, poetic, dreamy, a believer in all and everything and has a deep faith in magical creatures.
I love Cassie. But, she is not particularly popular. She isn't ridiculed, that kind of thing just doesn't happen at Liv's school. But...she is on her own a lot, often by choice and she swears that she saw a dragon in her backyard once. She and Liv are friends, but seldom playmates.
Well, Cassie said that I should try and find out. That I should write a little note and leave it and see if anything comes of it. We wrote this at recess today...
Liv handed me a small note. It said:
Dear leprecons, faeries or any majikal creetures,
My name is Liv Lastname. I would like to be your friend. I will not hurt you. If there is anything I can do to make your life eesier pleaze leave a note back. Pleaze stay at my house.
Love, Liv.
I read the note twice. Discovered that I could not speak as a golf ball seemed to be lodged in my throat. I pulled myself together and handed it back to her.
I told her that she should put in a baggie first, so it wouldn't get wet.
So, you don't think I'm acting babyish?"
No, I told her. "I think that sometimes it is important that we just stay open to everything and be willing to take a chance. And you know me, I'm a believer."
I know. I just didn't think that I was anymore. But, I want to try this. So, tomorrow before school, I'll put the note in a baggie and then find a shell to put on top of it so it doesn't blow away. Something not so heavy that a small fairy or leprechaun couldn't move it.
And that is exactly what she did.
So, here I am at 9 p.m. on a friday night with a note in my hand. A reply to her note. I have written it in french and wrote it with my right hand (I am left handed) to disguise my handwriting. It is a note from Mme Benaut (pardon me for using your name, Madame...but I pictured a miniature you as my queen of the fairies) telling Liv that if she could please plant these carrot seeds for the leprechauns, they would be most obliged. I also asked if the little dog that she walked was friendly. And said that I would be delighted to be her friend.
Bing is not particularly supportive. "You do realize that you will now spend the next several months having to sneak outside with your little notes in french and hide them? And really, don't you think that you should just stay out of this? She is nearly nine, Maria. It is time for her to put away these childish games. She doesn't really believe in fairies. It is just a little phase. She is doing pre-algebra for fucksakes. She is too smart for you to be able to pull this off for long."
Maybe. Maybe not. But, either way the note is going under the shell tonight.
And I DO have fairy blood. I do.
And I just need Liv to be my little girl for a bit longer.....
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