PWT
When I was seventeen I entered what would be the first of five colleges I would end up attending. My days were filled with backgammon, soap operas, and smoking cigarette after cigarette in a room the size of a prison cell. Evenings often involved driving the winding rural roads surrounding San Marcos listening to Guns-n-Roses drinking beer. Sometime during this year of freedom to exercise stupidity, I decided to get my first tattoo.
It was Christmas break and for the life of me I don’t remember what brought us to the seedy Montrose area that night. I remember drinking a bottle of cheap champagne (a habit I unfortunately have not kicked since that first year of college) then the next thing I know I have my leg hiked up on a stool while a fat man in leather shoots ink under my skin with a needle. I would love to tell you it was something cool, or at the very least something people would recognize, but alas my first permanent marking was nothing but the infinity sign. Yes, a sideways figure eight smack dab on my ankle that matched the one my girlfriend at the time put on her ankle. At least it wasn’t a name!
A year later when infinity ended and the relationship took a sharp turn in the downward direction, I attempted to cover the infinity sign with a shark. Why a shark you ask? It was on a model’s ankle in a magazine. The entire shot was of her ankle so I am not even sure what product the ad was for but boy did that tattoo speak to me. It said “you are a beach bunny with sandy blonde hair that glistens in the sun as you frolic in the waves on white sand beaches.” Truth be told, even after the tattoo I sadly remained a bleach blond, beer drinking, flunking out college student. A girl can dream.
After the tattoo, I wore socks whenever I was around my parents. Willing to fight the independence fight when it came to my curfew (“But I don’t have a curfew at the dorm”) but not yet willing to fight the doing the same stupid thing everyone is doing fight (“All my friends are getting them”). One day driving in the car with my father I had forgotten the all important socks. It took awhile but he noticed and asked, “What is that on your ankle?” I replied “A tattoo” with all the confidence I could muster. His response was “Congratulations, you have finally graduated to poor white trash”. Oh, but if he only knew what I did when I was twenty-one.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Ghosts of Christmas Present
Well, we survived another Christmas…barely. Christmas morning I woke up (unknowingly) next to Scrooge. Gone was my girlfriend and in her place was this mean spirited, bad mood, Scrooge. She even threatened to leave the house while everyone was over. She just needed a little reminder that if I stay she stays. Like the Marines we leave no man behind. This rule applies even more when twelve family members are going to descend upon our house in four hours. So Scrooge pulled it together and we were able to have all but the turkey and crab cakes ready when the nut house stopped the bus in front of our house and released its wards to our care for the afternoon.
Immediately following their entrance, our family members congregated not in the living room, not in the sunroom (both rooms with sufficient seating where nothing was going on) but in the kitchen. Not even the flames rising from the skillet could drive them away (the fire was minor and did not spread). When all food had finally reached the table everyone grabbed their plate and started filling up like we were running an all you can eat Chinese buffet.
My sister however exercised some restraint putting just two items on her plate; turkey and my grandmother’s spinach salad. Scrooge made it a point to sarcastically state that she was really branching out putting spinach on her plate at which point Morgan exclaimed “Spinach!! You mean there is spinach in this salad”. If I were my parents I would have called the private tutor and asked for my money back. This is the “spinach” salad served at every special occasion. We don’t call it “grandmother’s special salad” or “mandarin orange salad” it is always referred to as “spinach salad”. Throughout the meal Morgan shot side glances at everyone around her trying desperately to have someone, anyone, verify that there was in fact NO spinach on her plate.
After lunch we exchanged gifts then everyone packed up to head home with one exception, my aunt’s boyfriend who had been sleeping upstairs on our guest bed since arriving. Presents were in the car and he had not yet resurfaced. Scrooge and I dropped subtle hints then finally leaned in to ask my father if maybe someone had forgotten Ed upstairs. Seizing the opportunity to throw me into a panic he started telling everyone to hurry up and leave. In the end we did end up getting rid of Ed but not before I followed my aunt out to the car to verify that she would be taking him with her.
In the end it was a Christmas filled with family, good food, and lots of laughter but if the mother ship insists on giving me Scrooge again next year I may hop the bus back to the loony bin.
Well, we survived another Christmas…barely. Christmas morning I woke up (unknowingly) next to Scrooge. Gone was my girlfriend and in her place was this mean spirited, bad mood, Scrooge. She even threatened to leave the house while everyone was over. She just needed a little reminder that if I stay she stays. Like the Marines we leave no man behind. This rule applies even more when twelve family members are going to descend upon our house in four hours. So Scrooge pulled it together and we were able to have all but the turkey and crab cakes ready when the nut house stopped the bus in front of our house and released its wards to our care for the afternoon.
Immediately following their entrance, our family members congregated not in the living room, not in the sunroom (both rooms with sufficient seating where nothing was going on) but in the kitchen. Not even the flames rising from the skillet could drive them away (the fire was minor and did not spread). When all food had finally reached the table everyone grabbed their plate and started filling up like we were running an all you can eat Chinese buffet.
My sister however exercised some restraint putting just two items on her plate; turkey and my grandmother’s spinach salad. Scrooge made it a point to sarcastically state that she was really branching out putting spinach on her plate at which point Morgan exclaimed “Spinach!! You mean there is spinach in this salad”. If I were my parents I would have called the private tutor and asked for my money back. This is the “spinach” salad served at every special occasion. We don’t call it “grandmother’s special salad” or “mandarin orange salad” it is always referred to as “spinach salad”. Throughout the meal Morgan shot side glances at everyone around her trying desperately to have someone, anyone, verify that there was in fact NO spinach on her plate.
After lunch we exchanged gifts then everyone packed up to head home with one exception, my aunt’s boyfriend who had been sleeping upstairs on our guest bed since arriving. Presents were in the car and he had not yet resurfaced. Scrooge and I dropped subtle hints then finally leaned in to ask my father if maybe someone had forgotten Ed upstairs. Seizing the opportunity to throw me into a panic he started telling everyone to hurry up and leave. In the end we did end up getting rid of Ed but not before I followed my aunt out to the car to verify that she would be taking him with her.
In the end it was a Christmas filled with family, good food, and lots of laughter but if the mother ship insists on giving me Scrooge again next year I may hop the bus back to the loony bin.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Nectar of the Gods
My grandmother recently advised me that if I had enough wine at Christmas dinner everything would be fine. This was in response to certain family members who will remain nameless (my father) that think 1:00 is too early for Christmas dinner. My grandmother doesn’t even drink that much wine anymore but back in the days that woman was a wino.
One year for a birthday we went to eat at a quaint Italian restaurant. It wasn’t too froo froo but it wasn’t plastic red and white checkered table cloths either. Most of us had a fabulous meal. My grandmother drank her meal and proceeded to get schnockered at the table so when my mother commented on how much she liked the breadsticks she began throwing them at her saying “Put them in your purse. You paid for them. They’re not going to serve them again. Put them in your purse!” I thought my grandfather would drop dead right then and there. My mother not knowing what to do began stuffing her purse full of bread so my grandmother would stop yelling. She had to vacuum the thing out when she got home to get rid of the bread crumbs.
For years most of the family would not lift a finger to help her clean the table. She would retreat to the kitchen alone. Well not alone. She had her wine. We could always tell when her buzz was kicking in because her singing and whistling would increase to deafening volumes. “You say toe-may-toe! I say toe-mah-toe! Oooooo, let’s call the whole thing off!” Hey, whatever made her happy washing a million dirty dishes. Who were we to break up the party?
Grandmother has stopped drinking as much but if you go to her house the telltale signs of her wine days are everywhere. She drinks Ernest & Julio Gallo Chablis… in a screw top jug. She has recycled countless jugs by propagating ivy vines in them then placing them strategically in every room of the house. If anything happens to her I am giving them to Christo and Jeanne-Claude. They could line them up along I-10 from one side of Texas to the other and call it art.
My grandmother recently advised me that if I had enough wine at Christmas dinner everything would be fine. This was in response to certain family members who will remain nameless (my father) that think 1:00 is too early for Christmas dinner. My grandmother doesn’t even drink that much wine anymore but back in the days that woman was a wino.
One year for a birthday we went to eat at a quaint Italian restaurant. It wasn’t too froo froo but it wasn’t plastic red and white checkered table cloths either. Most of us had a fabulous meal. My grandmother drank her meal and proceeded to get schnockered at the table so when my mother commented on how much she liked the breadsticks she began throwing them at her saying “Put them in your purse. You paid for them. They’re not going to serve them again. Put them in your purse!” I thought my grandfather would drop dead right then and there. My mother not knowing what to do began stuffing her purse full of bread so my grandmother would stop yelling. She had to vacuum the thing out when she got home to get rid of the bread crumbs.
For years most of the family would not lift a finger to help her clean the table. She would retreat to the kitchen alone. Well not alone. She had her wine. We could always tell when her buzz was kicking in because her singing and whistling would increase to deafening volumes. “You say toe-may-toe! I say toe-mah-toe! Oooooo, let’s call the whole thing off!” Hey, whatever made her happy washing a million dirty dishes. Who were we to break up the party?
Grandmother has stopped drinking as much but if you go to her house the telltale signs of her wine days are everywhere. She drinks Ernest & Julio Gallo Chablis… in a screw top jug. She has recycled countless jugs by propagating ivy vines in them then placing them strategically in every room of the house. If anything happens to her I am giving them to Christo and Jeanne-Claude. They could line them up along I-10 from one side of Texas to the other and call it art.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Third Time is a Charm
C and I started a new tradition for the holidays whereby our families come to our house for Christmas dinner. This year will be our third year hosting anywhere between twelve and sixteen people. By now we have the whole affair down to a science but the first year did not go so smoothly.
We realized early in the day that when we built our house we chose to install only one oven. Great when we are making dinner for ourselves but how do you cook three side dishes when the entire thing is filled with a giant turkey that will take at least six hours to cook? Solution: we were watching our neighbor’s house so the rest of the day was spent walking back and forth to use her oven.
C’s father bought a ham to go with the turkey but he didn’t think to look at it before Christmas day. I wouldn’t either but when we did it was green. Green eggs and ham is one thing but a green ham is a bad sign. About the time C was discovering the strange tint to our meat I was cutting up iceberg lettuce to put in a salad. The knife slipped as it is wont to do in my hands and sliced a nice chunk out of my finger. In my typical melodramatic fashion I ran to the sink and fought off a fainting spell while C demanded to know why I had the knife pointed towards my fingers while cutting.
Once I had three inches of bandage wrapped around my finger, I began calling restaurants and hotels to replace the rotten ham. One hotel said yes they were in fact serving ham but that no they wouldn’t sell me one. Denied by some Scrooge and on Christmas day no less! The search seemed fruitless until I called the Matamoras Meat Market. In what little Spanish I remember from studying it multiple times throughout high school and college I was able to ask if they sold hams. Success at last, they were open and had ham.
I jumped in the car, throbbing finger still wrapped in three inches of bandage and headed to the meat market. With a spring in my step I walked through the doors and asked where I would be able to find the hams. With a smile, the gentleman behind the counter lifted a large, rectangular, slimy ham LOAF out of the cooler and asked how much I wanted. There was no ham for Christmas that year but what I didn’t eat in pork I made up for in wine. This year we will look at the ham, my grandmother will bring the salad, and we will definitely offer to watch the neighbor’s house.
C and I started a new tradition for the holidays whereby our families come to our house for Christmas dinner. This year will be our third year hosting anywhere between twelve and sixteen people. By now we have the whole affair down to a science but the first year did not go so smoothly.
We realized early in the day that when we built our house we chose to install only one oven. Great when we are making dinner for ourselves but how do you cook three side dishes when the entire thing is filled with a giant turkey that will take at least six hours to cook? Solution: we were watching our neighbor’s house so the rest of the day was spent walking back and forth to use her oven.
C’s father bought a ham to go with the turkey but he didn’t think to look at it before Christmas day. I wouldn’t either but when we did it was green. Green eggs and ham is one thing but a green ham is a bad sign. About the time C was discovering the strange tint to our meat I was cutting up iceberg lettuce to put in a salad. The knife slipped as it is wont to do in my hands and sliced a nice chunk out of my finger. In my typical melodramatic fashion I ran to the sink and fought off a fainting spell while C demanded to know why I had the knife pointed towards my fingers while cutting.
Once I had three inches of bandage wrapped around my finger, I began calling restaurants and hotels to replace the rotten ham. One hotel said yes they were in fact serving ham but that no they wouldn’t sell me one. Denied by some Scrooge and on Christmas day no less! The search seemed fruitless until I called the Matamoras Meat Market. In what little Spanish I remember from studying it multiple times throughout high school and college I was able to ask if they sold hams. Success at last, they were open and had ham.
I jumped in the car, throbbing finger still wrapped in three inches of bandage and headed to the meat market. With a spring in my step I walked through the doors and asked where I would be able to find the hams. With a smile, the gentleman behind the counter lifted a large, rectangular, slimy ham LOAF out of the cooler and asked how much I wanted. There was no ham for Christmas that year but what I didn’t eat in pork I made up for in wine. This year we will look at the ham, my grandmother will bring the salad, and we will definitely offer to watch the neighbor’s house.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Excuse me waitress, there is an eye in my salsa.
I admire people who really live by the cliché “when life gives you lemons make lemonade”. Personally I live by the adage that if life gives you lemons throw a fit, cry, yell then have the world’s largest pity party for yourself. Call it a pity prom and invite all your friends. It isn’t a successful party unless they all go home unhappy.
My mother’s brother has four boys. The oldest is also the most successful. He attended West Point, made great grades, played football, met the woman of his dreams and settled down about half a mile from my uncle’s house. This side of the family has a relationship that can only be found by taking your nose out of a book and talking to one another. Hence the reason my father’s family is about as close as one side of Texas from the other.
My cousin’s first child had a broken chromosome. This caused her to be born with severe mental problems, open heart surgery immediately after birth, physical handicaps, and only one eye. Amy has outlived all of our expectations but the experience has been a trying one on my cousin and his wife, but they chose to make lemonade.
Case in point, the entire family attended a rehearsal dinner at a Mexican restaurant. Amy was sporting a brand new glass eye which she was fixated on playing with at the table. Ed told her several times to “put your eye back in and leave it alone” but she just went right on popping the sucker out. At one point she threw the eye in the salsa. For grins, my uncle called the waitress over to complain about the eye in his salsa. Is it sick that my family would laugh at the expense of an innocent (and equally horrified) waitress? No, it’s squeezing a little bit of pleasure out of life’s less shining moments.
I admire people who really live by the cliché “when life gives you lemons make lemonade”. Personally I live by the adage that if life gives you lemons throw a fit, cry, yell then have the world’s largest pity party for yourself. Call it a pity prom and invite all your friends. It isn’t a successful party unless they all go home unhappy.
My mother’s brother has four boys. The oldest is also the most successful. He attended West Point, made great grades, played football, met the woman of his dreams and settled down about half a mile from my uncle’s house. This side of the family has a relationship that can only be found by taking your nose out of a book and talking to one another. Hence the reason my father’s family is about as close as one side of Texas from the other.
My cousin’s first child had a broken chromosome. This caused her to be born with severe mental problems, open heart surgery immediately after birth, physical handicaps, and only one eye. Amy has outlived all of our expectations but the experience has been a trying one on my cousin and his wife, but they chose to make lemonade.
Case in point, the entire family attended a rehearsal dinner at a Mexican restaurant. Amy was sporting a brand new glass eye which she was fixated on playing with at the table. Ed told her several times to “put your eye back in and leave it alone” but she just went right on popping the sucker out. At one point she threw the eye in the salsa. For grins, my uncle called the waitress over to complain about the eye in his salsa. Is it sick that my family would laugh at the expense of an innocent (and equally horrified) waitress? No, it’s squeezing a little bit of pleasure out of life’s less shining moments.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
35
I woke up this morning a whole year older. Ugh! It did get me thinking on past birthdays:
The cake with “Happy Birthday Jacqueline from Ronald McDonald” that I got at my McDonald’s birthday party. Oh yeah! They know how to suck you in young and start the French fry addiction early.
The 10 speed bike my parents bought me that I had trouble getting the hang of. The first time I came screeching up my grandmother’s driveway I hit only the front breaks causing the back of the bike to come up over my head hurling me into the garage door.
Getting ALL of the Nancy Drew mysteries that I was missing on one day and having to decide which one to read first. Go by the numbers of course. These are still at my father’s house waiting to be read by my sister.
My 21st birthday spent with a good friend at a dive bar named Juliet’s. Standing on the barstools drinking Cactus shots. Mature, really mature.
The birthday I spent alone in a one bedroom efficiency in Lubbock, TX. All of my friends had finals the next day so no one would celebrate with me. I ended up going to the strip for a bottle of wine and drinking it in front of my tiny gas space heater.
The luau C threw for my 30th. It was a beautiful day until the temperature dropped a trillion degrees and we had to use propane heaters in the big tent to keep semi-warm.
My 31st in New Orleans. This was a fun one! Casinos, Cajun food, champagne, a drag brunch. Our most proper friend showing up at the hotel a bit tipsy wearing no shoes and a Café du Monde paper hat.
Going to NYC with C. She woke me up the day of my birthday by throwing a snow ball on me in bed that she had collected from the window sill of our room. That is one of my favorite memories. We captured Sadaam Hussein that day.
I woke up this morning a whole year older. Ugh! It did get me thinking on past birthdays:
The cake with “Happy Birthday Jacqueline from Ronald McDonald” that I got at my McDonald’s birthday party. Oh yeah! They know how to suck you in young and start the French fry addiction early.
The 10 speed bike my parents bought me that I had trouble getting the hang of. The first time I came screeching up my grandmother’s driveway I hit only the front breaks causing the back of the bike to come up over my head hurling me into the garage door.
Getting ALL of the Nancy Drew mysteries that I was missing on one day and having to decide which one to read first. Go by the numbers of course. These are still at my father’s house waiting to be read by my sister.
My 21st birthday spent with a good friend at a dive bar named Juliet’s. Standing on the barstools drinking Cactus shots. Mature, really mature.
The birthday I spent alone in a one bedroom efficiency in Lubbock, TX. All of my friends had finals the next day so no one would celebrate with me. I ended up going to the strip for a bottle of wine and drinking it in front of my tiny gas space heater.
The luau C threw for my 30th. It was a beautiful day until the temperature dropped a trillion degrees and we had to use propane heaters in the big tent to keep semi-warm.
My 31st in New Orleans. This was a fun one! Casinos, Cajun food, champagne, a drag brunch. Our most proper friend showing up at the hotel a bit tipsy wearing no shoes and a Café du Monde paper hat.
Going to NYC with C. She woke me up the day of my birthday by throwing a snow ball on me in bed that she had collected from the window sill of our room. That is one of my favorite memories. We captured Sadaam Hussein that day.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Merry Christmas Y'all...
From your Pistol Packin' Grandma
The following is an excerpt from my grandmother's annual Christmas newsletter:
"End of June a half naked man appeared at my patio door at 10PM!! Next day I put padlocks on my gates--told neighbors, Epernay Town-house manager since their esplanade is at my back fence, and then the police. Bought me a .38 revolver and laid my .22 across the chair. Then I needed an anti-depressant!!"
To steal a quote from Prince of Tides "and that's what I love about the South".
From your Pistol Packin' Grandma
The following is an excerpt from my grandmother's annual Christmas newsletter:
"End of June a half naked man appeared at my patio door at 10PM!! Next day I put padlocks on my gates--told neighbors, Epernay Town-house manager since their esplanade is at my back fence, and then the police. Bought me a .38 revolver and laid my .22 across the chair. Then I needed an anti-depressant!!"
To steal a quote from Prince of Tides "and that's what I love about the South".
Monday, December 12, 2005
Precious Cargo
When my mother met my stepfather in 1978 he was somewhat of a free spirit. His main income source was rent on a couple of houses he owned in Belmont, NJ. To supplement his income as a slum lord, he also played saxophone in a jazz band and had a paper route. He lived in an old Victorian he also owned in Ocean Grove, NJ, twelve or so blocks from the shore and close enough to Asbury Park that you could ride a bike.
Tom’s only mode of transportation was a vanilla colored cargo van that had but one seat, the driver’s. After they were married I used to love helping with the paper route, driving in the van with the side door wide open throwing papers on people’s porches. My favorite was pay day when I would run up to everyone’s door and collect the monthly fee in a tiny brown envelope.
For my mother’s twenty-ninth birthday, Tom arranged for them to spend a night on the town in Atlantic City. After years of nothing but fighting with my father, my mother was ready for some romance. She bought a new red dress, did her nails, and had her hair done for her big night.
Tom arrived at my Uncle’s house where we were living at the time in his cargo van. He came up to the door to collect my mother and escort her to the car. When he opened the door, mother realized he had set up a lawn chair in the back for her to sit on. Mother didn’t balk but climbed right into the back of the van and assumed her throne for the evening. A window in his van had recently been broken so the ride was a windy one. Oh to have a picture of them riding down the road, an old hippy driving around a woman dressed up sitting in a lawn chair in the back.
When my mother met my stepfather in 1978 he was somewhat of a free spirit. His main income source was rent on a couple of houses he owned in Belmont, NJ. To supplement his income as a slum lord, he also played saxophone in a jazz band and had a paper route. He lived in an old Victorian he also owned in Ocean Grove, NJ, twelve or so blocks from the shore and close enough to Asbury Park that you could ride a bike.
Tom’s only mode of transportation was a vanilla colored cargo van that had but one seat, the driver’s. After they were married I used to love helping with the paper route, driving in the van with the side door wide open throwing papers on people’s porches. My favorite was pay day when I would run up to everyone’s door and collect the monthly fee in a tiny brown envelope.
For my mother’s twenty-ninth birthday, Tom arranged for them to spend a night on the town in Atlantic City. After years of nothing but fighting with my father, my mother was ready for some romance. She bought a new red dress, did her nails, and had her hair done for her big night.
Tom arrived at my Uncle’s house where we were living at the time in his cargo van. He came up to the door to collect my mother and escort her to the car. When he opened the door, mother realized he had set up a lawn chair in the back for her to sit on. Mother didn’t balk but climbed right into the back of the van and assumed her throne for the evening. A window in his van had recently been broken so the ride was a windy one. Oh to have a picture of them riding down the road, an old hippy driving around a woman dressed up sitting in a lawn chair in the back.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Pete
After lunch with my mother today, as she drove me back to the office, we began discussing my grandmother. It is that time of year when family members who don’t live close begin to descend upon Houston like tornados from the sky. First my Aunt Sharon on the 17th followed by her daughter on the 18th. The 21st brings my Aunt Laurie. On Christmas day my Aunt Sharon’s boyfriend Ed is coming. Not one of the above mentioned will be leaving at the same time and as you see arrivals are spread out. Enter my mother who has been offering to pick everyone up. My father flat out doesn’t offer and this is his family!
Here we are in the car after a perfectly pleasant lunch and my mother begins talking about how my grandmother is not going to be around forever. How my mother already sees her declining. Back up a damn minute. I spoke to my grandmother on Tuesday morning. She was getting ready for her weekly tennis match. Does this sound like an 83 year old who is “declining”?
My grandmother is my hero. I have always been close to her. Looked up to her. Admired everything she does. She is a painter. She plays tennis. She can cook (although you really should ask how long the meat has been in the freezer). She likes to sing, drink wine, garden, read, do the crossword puzzle and truly enjoy life. She took care of me when my parents were in the midst of their separation making crepes for my school home economics project.
I tried to stop my mother from saying these things. Quantifying my grandmother’s existence by predicting how many years she may or may not have left on this Earth. I didn’t want to hear about her decline because the second she senses we think that she is declining I think she won’t try as hard not to be the same person. The chink in her armor is there I just can’t see it right now.
Right now I want to hear about her kicking ass at tennis on Tuesdays. I want her to bring me spinach salad every special occasion. I want to see her finally discarding my grandfather’s home office to set up her painting studio. I want to watch her pick out her Christmas tree, strolling through the Scotch pines, grabbing a big handful of branches that she will stick her face right in the middle of to smell if it is fresh. This is my hero and if you never get to meet her I am sorry, you would truly enjoy the visit.
After lunch with my mother today, as she drove me back to the office, we began discussing my grandmother. It is that time of year when family members who don’t live close begin to descend upon Houston like tornados from the sky. First my Aunt Sharon on the 17th followed by her daughter on the 18th. The 21st brings my Aunt Laurie. On Christmas day my Aunt Sharon’s boyfriend Ed is coming. Not one of the above mentioned will be leaving at the same time and as you see arrivals are spread out. Enter my mother who has been offering to pick everyone up. My father flat out doesn’t offer and this is his family!
Here we are in the car after a perfectly pleasant lunch and my mother begins talking about how my grandmother is not going to be around forever. How my mother already sees her declining. Back up a damn minute. I spoke to my grandmother on Tuesday morning. She was getting ready for her weekly tennis match. Does this sound like an 83 year old who is “declining”?
My grandmother is my hero. I have always been close to her. Looked up to her. Admired everything she does. She is a painter. She plays tennis. She can cook (although you really should ask how long the meat has been in the freezer). She likes to sing, drink wine, garden, read, do the crossword puzzle and truly enjoy life. She took care of me when my parents were in the midst of their separation making crepes for my school home economics project.
I tried to stop my mother from saying these things. Quantifying my grandmother’s existence by predicting how many years she may or may not have left on this Earth. I didn’t want to hear about her decline because the second she senses we think that she is declining I think she won’t try as hard not to be the same person. The chink in her armor is there I just can’t see it right now.
Right now I want to hear about her kicking ass at tennis on Tuesdays. I want her to bring me spinach salad every special occasion. I want to see her finally discarding my grandfather’s home office to set up her painting studio. I want to watch her pick out her Christmas tree, strolling through the Scotch pines, grabbing a big handful of branches that she will stick her face right in the middle of to smell if it is fresh. This is my hero and if you never get to meet her I am sorry, you would truly enjoy the visit.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Dear PETA,
This Winter I’m Wearing Fur
Funny that when I was young I wanted to shave my legs. Couldn’t wait to start shaving my legs. It was like wearing lipstick or piercing your ears. A rite of passage so to speak. When I was around eight I decided to just try to shave a little of my leg to see what it was like. I perched my leg up on the side of the bathtub, grabbed my mother’s razor then proceeded to slice a four inch line from my heel up. My bathwater turned pink as I yelled for my mother who immediately asked if I had tried to shave. No, the razor fell into the tub and I set my foot down on it thereby cutting myself. Right. She didn’t push the issue probably thinking I wouldn’t try again too soon after that experience. She was right.
These days it is a completely different story. Although C and I fell asleep with the fire place ablazin last night and woke up to a bedroom hotter than the Sahara desert, when I stepped into the shower I couldn’t get the chill out of my bones or the water hot enough. I stood there turning the knob, turning it some more, waiting to be surrounded by the steam. Nothing.
Resigning myself to the fact that it just wasn’t going to happen I proceeded with my shower. I looked at the razor, perched on the side of the bathtub, outside the glass doors of the shower. I thought I had two options; brave the cold of the bathroom to retrieve the razor, effectively giving up what little heat I had built up or shave tomorrow. Looking at my legs it was clear that today would have been a good choice unless I was willing to use a new blade on each leg. I opted for comfort over practicality.
This morning when I left for work the temperature outside was hovering in the thirties. That’s when it hit me. I am growing myself a winter coat (one particular reader is laughing about a completely unrelated story). Why do I need smooth legs that won’t see the light of day until February at best? Come Spring I’ll get some industrial clippers and sheer myself. Maybe make a sweater or two. Until then, PETA if you see me walking down the street please don’t throw red paint on my legs.
This Winter I’m Wearing Fur
Funny that when I was young I wanted to shave my legs. Couldn’t wait to start shaving my legs. It was like wearing lipstick or piercing your ears. A rite of passage so to speak. When I was around eight I decided to just try to shave a little of my leg to see what it was like. I perched my leg up on the side of the bathtub, grabbed my mother’s razor then proceeded to slice a four inch line from my heel up. My bathwater turned pink as I yelled for my mother who immediately asked if I had tried to shave. No, the razor fell into the tub and I set my foot down on it thereby cutting myself. Right. She didn’t push the issue probably thinking I wouldn’t try again too soon after that experience. She was right.
These days it is a completely different story. Although C and I fell asleep with the fire place ablazin last night and woke up to a bedroom hotter than the Sahara desert, when I stepped into the shower I couldn’t get the chill out of my bones or the water hot enough. I stood there turning the knob, turning it some more, waiting to be surrounded by the steam. Nothing.
Resigning myself to the fact that it just wasn’t going to happen I proceeded with my shower. I looked at the razor, perched on the side of the bathtub, outside the glass doors of the shower. I thought I had two options; brave the cold of the bathroom to retrieve the razor, effectively giving up what little heat I had built up or shave tomorrow. Looking at my legs it was clear that today would have been a good choice unless I was willing to use a new blade on each leg. I opted for comfort over practicality.
This morning when I left for work the temperature outside was hovering in the thirties. That’s when it hit me. I am growing myself a winter coat (one particular reader is laughing about a completely unrelated story). Why do I need smooth legs that won’t see the light of day until February at best? Come Spring I’ll get some industrial clippers and sheer myself. Maybe make a sweater or two. Until then, PETA if you see me walking down the street please don’t throw red paint on my legs.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Putting the Christ You People Need a Life back in Christmas
For all of the conservative, right wing, evangelical, Bible thumping, hating in the name of the Lord, Christians who are trying to put the Christ back in Christmas, I have this to say. You can have it back but it will cost you.
I am taking Santa Claus back. He is too good for you. You don’t deserve Saint Nicholas, who according to Wikipedia is “revered by many as the patron saint of seamen, merchants, archers, children, prostitutes, pharmacists, lawyers, pawnbrokers, prisoners”. Got that! Prostitutes and pawnbrokers. Prisoners. Santa Claus is a democrat. I am sure Rush Limbaugh wouldn’t mind revering the patron saint of pharmacists and Tom Delay might want to light a candle for any saint that might help his attorneys. We can only hope he is in prison soon praying to good old Saint Nick for himself.
Guess what?! I am taking your Christmas tree also. You don’t want something in your house that started as a pagan tradition do you? No. You are chaste. You are compassionate conservative Christians who want to follow the Bible by the word when it suits you. So no more trees for you. You can however keep the nativity scene.
You want schools to start calling it “Christmas holiday” instead of “winter break”. Sure is going to suck when little Johnny and Suzy have to call it “Kwanza holiday” and “Chanukah break”. Oh, you didn’t think you were the only ones who got two weeks off of school named after you did you? You see this is America. The same America that embraces all cultures or used to before you hijacked our government. If you want Christ back in Christmas start with the person in the mirror.
For all of the conservative, right wing, evangelical, Bible thumping, hating in the name of the Lord, Christians who are trying to put the Christ back in Christmas, I have this to say. You can have it back but it will cost you.
I am taking Santa Claus back. He is too good for you. You don’t deserve Saint Nicholas, who according to Wikipedia is “revered by many as the patron saint of seamen, merchants, archers, children, prostitutes, pharmacists, lawyers, pawnbrokers, prisoners”. Got that! Prostitutes and pawnbrokers. Prisoners. Santa Claus is a democrat. I am sure Rush Limbaugh wouldn’t mind revering the patron saint of pharmacists and Tom Delay might want to light a candle for any saint that might help his attorneys. We can only hope he is in prison soon praying to good old Saint Nick for himself.
Guess what?! I am taking your Christmas tree also. You don’t want something in your house that started as a pagan tradition do you? No. You are chaste. You are compassionate conservative Christians who want to follow the Bible by the word when it suits you. So no more trees for you. You can however keep the nativity scene.
You want schools to start calling it “Christmas holiday” instead of “winter break”. Sure is going to suck when little Johnny and Suzy have to call it “Kwanza holiday” and “Chanukah break”. Oh, you didn’t think you were the only ones who got two weeks off of school named after you did you? You see this is America. The same America that embraces all cultures or used to before you hijacked our government. If you want Christ back in Christmas start with the person in the mirror.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Turtles and Mice and Bulls, Oh My!
Ah, another weekend in the country. When C’s father is not at the ranch we cube the cows (give them treats) from the back of an old orange Jeep that has been fitted with a hunting tower and seats with gun racks on the front. We have a system so to speak. C drives out to the pasture while I sit in the passenger seat until we get close then I hop in the back to pour out the cubes. First, however you must load the bags in the back of the Jeep. This weekend we removed the doors and as I walked around to the back where we would load the bags, AAAAGGHHHH! There half in, and half out I might add, was a turtle with a bullet hole through his shell. C took one look and said “Well, get him out.” Hmmm, why must I be the one to remove the offending corpse? Because she said if I didn’t we would just not cube the cows at all. I bucked it up and removed the turtle. You thought I touched it didn’t you? No, I found a silver bucket top, slid him off the tailgate and quickly covered him up with the lid. Perfect.
Cubes loaded and ready to go, we set out along the gravel road that leads to the back pasture. A few minutes into our journey, I see a mouse high tail it from the console, straight up the middle of the cab between our seats and somewhere in the back. Before I could quite warn C of her impending doom, the scared shitless part of my brain took over and I jumped right out my door while the Jeep continued on. C seeing her passenger bail knew it must be bad. By this time I have yelled into the dust cloud the Jeep is leaving in its wake “MOUSE”! A split second later there is C jumping out of her door. What else was there to do but watch the Jeep slowly rolling away from us with nothing but a field mouse for a passenger. The Jeep finally stopped but before climbing back in we looked everywhere for the mouse. At last we came to the conclusion the mouse must have seen us bailing ship and thought he would do the same.
Now you may know how spoiled our dog is, but what you may be unaware of is his tendency to not think before acting. It is a trait he inherited from me. C’s father has been feeding one of the bulls outside the gate of his pasture because despite being the Alpha (only) Male in his pasture, the female cows will beat the crap out of him and take his feed if given the opportunity. We let him out of his gate which went as smooth as silk. It was on reentry that he had some trouble. He didn’t want to go back. Instead he went halfway in the gate, stopped and stared. C was shooing him in but he wouldn’t budge. I came out with all the confidence in the world (as well as a piece of conduit) and poked him in the rear to move the process along. When an animal the size of a Honda turns around and shakes his head at you after you have just poked him in the ass it is time for Plan B. Before we could really come up with Plan B, Isaac decided he would crawl under the barb wire fence separating him from safety and certain death and come bounding towards us both. I panicked. I screamed. C retrieved the dog and pulled him away from the danger zone. The cows took the opportunity to start making their way out of the pasture to see if there was anything left in the feed bucket. At this point I was high on adrenaline with a bit to spare so I went nuts. Screaming at the top of my lungs and waving my arms around. My hair was standing on end. They cows gave me one look, looked at each other as if to say “whoa, she has lost all her marbles”, then walked calmly back into the pasture. I’m telling you I can be scarier than a dead turtle, fleeing field mouse or a two ton bull when panicked.
Ah, another weekend in the country. When C’s father is not at the ranch we cube the cows (give them treats) from the back of an old orange Jeep that has been fitted with a hunting tower and seats with gun racks on the front. We have a system so to speak. C drives out to the pasture while I sit in the passenger seat until we get close then I hop in the back to pour out the cubes. First, however you must load the bags in the back of the Jeep. This weekend we removed the doors and as I walked around to the back where we would load the bags, AAAAGGHHHH! There half in, and half out I might add, was a turtle with a bullet hole through his shell. C took one look and said “Well, get him out.” Hmmm, why must I be the one to remove the offending corpse? Because she said if I didn’t we would just not cube the cows at all. I bucked it up and removed the turtle. You thought I touched it didn’t you? No, I found a silver bucket top, slid him off the tailgate and quickly covered him up with the lid. Perfect.
Cubes loaded and ready to go, we set out along the gravel road that leads to the back pasture. A few minutes into our journey, I see a mouse high tail it from the console, straight up the middle of the cab between our seats and somewhere in the back. Before I could quite warn C of her impending doom, the scared shitless part of my brain took over and I jumped right out my door while the Jeep continued on. C seeing her passenger bail knew it must be bad. By this time I have yelled into the dust cloud the Jeep is leaving in its wake “MOUSE”! A split second later there is C jumping out of her door. What else was there to do but watch the Jeep slowly rolling away from us with nothing but a field mouse for a passenger. The Jeep finally stopped but before climbing back in we looked everywhere for the mouse. At last we came to the conclusion the mouse must have seen us bailing ship and thought he would do the same.
Now you may know how spoiled our dog is, but what you may be unaware of is his tendency to not think before acting. It is a trait he inherited from me. C’s father has been feeding one of the bulls outside the gate of his pasture because despite being the Alpha (only) Male in his pasture, the female cows will beat the crap out of him and take his feed if given the opportunity. We let him out of his gate which went as smooth as silk. It was on reentry that he had some trouble. He didn’t want to go back. Instead he went halfway in the gate, stopped and stared. C was shooing him in but he wouldn’t budge. I came out with all the confidence in the world (as well as a piece of conduit) and poked him in the rear to move the process along. When an animal the size of a Honda turns around and shakes his head at you after you have just poked him in the ass it is time for Plan B. Before we could really come up with Plan B, Isaac decided he would crawl under the barb wire fence separating him from safety and certain death and come bounding towards us both. I panicked. I screamed. C retrieved the dog and pulled him away from the danger zone. The cows took the opportunity to start making their way out of the pasture to see if there was anything left in the feed bucket. At this point I was high on adrenaline with a bit to spare so I went nuts. Screaming at the top of my lungs and waving my arms around. My hair was standing on end. They cows gave me one look, looked at each other as if to say “whoa, she has lost all her marbles”, then walked calmly back into the pasture. I’m telling you I can be scarier than a dead turtle, fleeing field mouse or a two ton bull when panicked.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Designed With Quiet in Mind
In the past couple of years, C has begun snoring every night. Two seconds after her head hits the pillow great waves of sound begin filling the room. It sounds like she is snorting gravel. Interspersed with the snoring is the “puh”. This is the sound of a big intake of air followed by the “puh” sound her lips make on exhale.
In addition to C’s snoring, Isaac chimes in with his own brand of keep you awake make you cringe noises, lip smacking. He sounds like a dog that has been deprived of water for a week. Smack. Smack. Smack. I do however have Isaac trained to immediately retreat to the closet when I say the words “quit it” real loud. This trick doesn’t work so well with C.
As C’s snoring habit has developed into full bloom, my own inability to sleep has grown to irritating proportions. I toss. I turn. I shake her and tell her to turn over. I toss. I turn. I shake the bed violently to make her wake up. Nothing worked until now.
At the ranch one weekend, C placed a small fan on the bedside table next to me to see if the quiet humming would lull me into a deep sleep. It worked. It is a rare occasion that I don’t sleep through the night at the ranch. What works in the country should work at home so last night we went to the drug store and bought me a fan.
The box said “Designed With Quiet in Mind”. What the hell? I don’t want a quiet fan. I need noise. Humming, whirring, something. We bought it anyway with the intention of returning it if it should prove too quiet. First thing when we got home we unpacked the fan and plugged it in. Zzzzzzzzz, tik tik tik, zzzzzzzzzzz, tik tik tik, zzzzzzzzz clink. The box lied! This fan was designed with revenge in mind because when I turned it on last night to settle in for a good nights sleep, C was almost kept awake by the noise. Alas, she did fall asleep and promptly began snorting gravel but with my trusty noise maker I was able to sleep also.
In the past couple of years, C has begun snoring every night. Two seconds after her head hits the pillow great waves of sound begin filling the room. It sounds like she is snorting gravel. Interspersed with the snoring is the “puh”. This is the sound of a big intake of air followed by the “puh” sound her lips make on exhale.
In addition to C’s snoring, Isaac chimes in with his own brand of keep you awake make you cringe noises, lip smacking. He sounds like a dog that has been deprived of water for a week. Smack. Smack. Smack. I do however have Isaac trained to immediately retreat to the closet when I say the words “quit it” real loud. This trick doesn’t work so well with C.
As C’s snoring habit has developed into full bloom, my own inability to sleep has grown to irritating proportions. I toss. I turn. I shake her and tell her to turn over. I toss. I turn. I shake the bed violently to make her wake up. Nothing worked until now.
At the ranch one weekend, C placed a small fan on the bedside table next to me to see if the quiet humming would lull me into a deep sleep. It worked. It is a rare occasion that I don’t sleep through the night at the ranch. What works in the country should work at home so last night we went to the drug store and bought me a fan.
The box said “Designed With Quiet in Mind”. What the hell? I don’t want a quiet fan. I need noise. Humming, whirring, something. We bought it anyway with the intention of returning it if it should prove too quiet. First thing when we got home we unpacked the fan and plugged it in. Zzzzzzzzz, tik tik tik, zzzzzzzzzzz, tik tik tik, zzzzzzzzz clink. The box lied! This fan was designed with revenge in mind because when I turned it on last night to settle in for a good nights sleep, C was almost kept awake by the noise. Alas, she did fall asleep and promptly began snorting gravel but with my trusty noise maker I was able to sleep also.
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