Reaching an All Time Reality Low
Friday night, as we sat around with a group of friends visiting, the conversation turned to guilty television pleasures. One most unexpected revelation from a friend was her obsession with Dog the Bounty Hunter’s recent wedding. Should she watch the wedding or Rock Star Supernova? Rock Star won out on the logic that the Dog episode would likely be replayed soon. Other favorites among friends included Lock Down: Life in Maximum Security, American Idol, Big Brother All Stars and Intervention.
Feeling safe with the conversation I put it out there that I am obsessed with The Girls Next Door, the reality show chronicling the lives of Hugh Heffner’s three girlfriends Holly, Bridget and Kendra. So much so that I had Carrie DVR all new episodes in the event I miss one and consequently don’t know what’s going on the next week. Carrie groaned when I admitted this but was soon comforted in the sympathizing faces of our friends that she has to put up with me at all.
Last night was an all new episode centered on The Girls second photo shoot for Playboy. I know you would think there would be more but apparently dating Hef doesn’t get you too much special treatment. So I’m watching thinking I must have that issue of the magazine. Why? Not sure but it must have something to do with my absolute fascination with these girls who live with a man my grandfather’s age and seem to really love him. It is a fascination I can’t quite explain myself but it is what it is and I am positive it won’t last like my fascination with all things Asian didn’t last. This obsession is so much more tawdry than wanting to learn calligraphy and wear a kimono. At the end of the episode I found myself online at Playboy.com ordering the upcoming issue. Oh how I hope that sucker comes in a brown paper wrapper.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Friday, August 11, 2006
When The Mind Takes An Unannounced Vacation
A good friend is having to care for her mother who in addition to a stroke is now suffering dementia. I speak to her every morning and my heart goes out to her as she recounts the previous evening’s events. Fortunate to have parents that are very young, I have not idea what it feels like to care for one of them. What her stories have brought to mind however is memories of my grandfather when dementia settled inside his head like an unwelcome visitor. One who moves all of your furniture and places things out of reach where no amount of searching yields the desired object.
Before we knew Parkinson Disease was taking a neurological toll, we assumed he had gone a little nuts. Common variety craziness is what we thought. He had other thoughts. For a long time he was convinced of the knowledge that the FBI was after him. His crime? Transporting a typewriter over state lines. You didn’t know it was a illegal did you? It’s not. The trash men? My father sent them to spy on him. Why? Not sure since my parents had been divorced for nine years at this point. The smoke detectors in his apartment? Listening devices. He would call the apartment manager to ask that she do something about the residents upstairs who were so obviously spies sent to listen in on his conversations via the smoke detectors.
The first time Carrie met him he showed her his emergency kit. He kept it nearby in the event he had to flee at a moments notice. Inside were the essentials; clean underwear, clean socks and lottery tickets. Yep! He was going to run away from home with nothing but underwear, socks and lottery tickets.
Eventually it became clear that he could not live alone so my mother moved him in with her. She would wake up to him crawling in the dark into her room to let her know “they were out there”. A few times he actually got out the front door before she woke up and convinced him to come back inside to safety. We laugh about it now. Not because it wasn’t serious but because sometimes life throws stuff your way you can’t do a damn thing about. It sucks and you find yourself mourning a person who is living and breathing right in front of you but you know it’s not really them. What was that line in Steel Magnolias? Laughter through tears.
A good friend is having to care for her mother who in addition to a stroke is now suffering dementia. I speak to her every morning and my heart goes out to her as she recounts the previous evening’s events. Fortunate to have parents that are very young, I have not idea what it feels like to care for one of them. What her stories have brought to mind however is memories of my grandfather when dementia settled inside his head like an unwelcome visitor. One who moves all of your furniture and places things out of reach where no amount of searching yields the desired object.
Before we knew Parkinson Disease was taking a neurological toll, we assumed he had gone a little nuts. Common variety craziness is what we thought. He had other thoughts. For a long time he was convinced of the knowledge that the FBI was after him. His crime? Transporting a typewriter over state lines. You didn’t know it was a illegal did you? It’s not. The trash men? My father sent them to spy on him. Why? Not sure since my parents had been divorced for nine years at this point. The smoke detectors in his apartment? Listening devices. He would call the apartment manager to ask that she do something about the residents upstairs who were so obviously spies sent to listen in on his conversations via the smoke detectors.
The first time Carrie met him he showed her his emergency kit. He kept it nearby in the event he had to flee at a moments notice. Inside were the essentials; clean underwear, clean socks and lottery tickets. Yep! He was going to run away from home with nothing but underwear, socks and lottery tickets.
Eventually it became clear that he could not live alone so my mother moved him in with her. She would wake up to him crawling in the dark into her room to let her know “they were out there”. A few times he actually got out the front door before she woke up and convinced him to come back inside to safety. We laugh about it now. Not because it wasn’t serious but because sometimes life throws stuff your way you can’t do a damn thing about. It sucks and you find yourself mourning a person who is living and breathing right in front of you but you know it’s not really them. What was that line in Steel Magnolias? Laughter through tears.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Happy New School Year
The Yorktown News View and the Schulemberg Sticker both published school supply list this week for returning students. What joy it gave me to read through the lists and remember how much I loved buying supplies for back to school. Spiral notebooks with their covers and pages clean. Ready to be filled with class notes, doodles and notes to friends when I should have been paying attention. The smell of No. 2 pencils being sharpened. Brand new colored pencils standing at attention in the yellow Crayola box.
One year my mother bought me a folder with a picture of Nadia Comaneci on the front doing a back bend on a balance beam. Oh how I coveted that folder. Unlike the others that sported stains and drawings, this one remained perfect the entire school year. In fact I saved it for years in my closet. Nothing it in just sitting on a shelf like a shrine.
School supplies embodied hope for a new beginning every year. It was a do over wrapped up in a three ring binder. This year I will make friends. This year I will try playing a sport. This year I will make all A’s. How could I fail with all of these tools at my disposal? Most school years ended the same. I didn’t make many new friends because I was too afraid to make the first move. I tried a couple of times to play a sport always with the same disastrous conclusion. As for the all A’s, never did happen until my fourth year of college. Still I look at these lists of school supplies for kids I will never know and I think how lucky they are to be getting a do over once again.
The Yorktown News View and the Schulemberg Sticker both published school supply list this week for returning students. What joy it gave me to read through the lists and remember how much I loved buying supplies for back to school. Spiral notebooks with their covers and pages clean. Ready to be filled with class notes, doodles and notes to friends when I should have been paying attention. The smell of No. 2 pencils being sharpened. Brand new colored pencils standing at attention in the yellow Crayola box.
One year my mother bought me a folder with a picture of Nadia Comaneci on the front doing a back bend on a balance beam. Oh how I coveted that folder. Unlike the others that sported stains and drawings, this one remained perfect the entire school year. In fact I saved it for years in my closet. Nothing it in just sitting on a shelf like a shrine.
School supplies embodied hope for a new beginning every year. It was a do over wrapped up in a three ring binder. This year I will make friends. This year I will try playing a sport. This year I will make all A’s. How could I fail with all of these tools at my disposal? Most school years ended the same. I didn’t make many new friends because I was too afraid to make the first move. I tried a couple of times to play a sport always with the same disastrous conclusion. As for the all A’s, never did happen until my fourth year of college. Still I look at these lists of school supplies for kids I will never know and I think how lucky they are to be getting a do over once again.
Monday, July 24, 2006
The Jury’s Still Out
I don’t know about anyone else, but from time to time I read a book and so relate to the character it feels as if I have found the missing link in our family tree. My long lost twin. You get the idea. So this weekend I started ‘Just Checking ~ scenes from the life of an obsessive compulsive” by Emily Colas and I am starting to have that old familiar feeling.
She:
Worries incessantly about contracting any and every illness.
Won’t eat out for fear someone has slipped drugs into her food.
Drives her husband nuts with her constant worry.
Me:
Have at one time or another believed I have a brain tumor, breast cancer, lung cancer, among other life threatening illnesses.
Will eat out but don’t like my foods to touch on the plate (not one word about "what do you think it does in your stomach?").
Drive Carrie crazy with the fact that if we leave through the front door I MUST click the handle THREE times to make sure it is locked, cannot sleep at night without asking if she has set the alarm (I’ve been really working on this one), and am always touching the tips of my thumbs to each finger's tip then first knuckle. Once the finger tapping has begun it MUST go one full round (all five fingers) then back the opposite direction. Stopping, I am certain, would be fatal.
I am beginning to believe I have OCD but can’t decide if it I really do or if it is just another imagined illness. Hmmm?
I don’t know about anyone else, but from time to time I read a book and so relate to the character it feels as if I have found the missing link in our family tree. My long lost twin. You get the idea. So this weekend I started ‘Just Checking ~ scenes from the life of an obsessive compulsive” by Emily Colas and I am starting to have that old familiar feeling.
She:
Worries incessantly about contracting any and every illness.
Won’t eat out for fear someone has slipped drugs into her food.
Drives her husband nuts with her constant worry.
Me:
Have at one time or another believed I have a brain tumor, breast cancer, lung cancer, among other life threatening illnesses.
Will eat out but don’t like my foods to touch on the plate (not one word about "what do you think it does in your stomach?").
Drive Carrie crazy with the fact that if we leave through the front door I MUST click the handle THREE times to make sure it is locked, cannot sleep at night without asking if she has set the alarm (I’ve been really working on this one), and am always touching the tips of my thumbs to each finger's tip then first knuckle. Once the finger tapping has begun it MUST go one full round (all five fingers) then back the opposite direction. Stopping, I am certain, would be fatal.
I am beginning to believe I have OCD but can’t decide if it I really do or if it is just another imagined illness. Hmmm?
Friday, July 21, 2006
Over The Ledge
My father has at last finished his novel. I finished reading it last night. The really fun thing about reading his book is that I recognize so many of the characters. One in particular was almost my stepmother until she went completely nuts. We’re talking about loony bin nuts here. I won’t mention her name but bear with me while I tell you my favorite episode. The three of us, my father, me and Nutso, packed up for a weekend at Aquarina Springs in San Marcos. It is no longer there but if you visited it as a child you remember it well. There was the old west depot with the dusty saloon that housed the tic-tac-toe playing chickens. You would put a quarter in the slot then push the square you wanted for your X on and the chicken would scratch a square in response. I was much too young to suffer the humiliation that should come from losing to a chicken so this was one of my favorite games. You could also dress up in old west style clothes and take a sepia tone photo next to the long bar. I have one of these to this day that shows my father smiling in a confederate soldier uniform with me sitting on a saddle mounted on a saw horse next to him in bar maid garb, my right hand pointing a small pistol to the sky. In addition to the wonders of the old west there was Ralph the swimming pig and glass bottom boats. Ah, the fun.
So we get to Aquarina Springs and I am busting a gut to get to the chicken. First we check into the hotel and that is when all hell broke loose. I was sent to the bathroom and told not to come out until my father told me. I could hear them arguing so I laid my cheek against the cold tile and tried peeking beneath the door. No going. The room had carpet that elevated over the tile bathroom floor. I made an individual pot of coffee since really there isn’t much else to do sitting in a bathroom by oneself. At last my father opened the door and said let’s go glaring at Nutso sitting on the bed crying.
My father and I exited the building hand in hand when we heard our names being called. We turned around to see if it was someone behind us. No, no one there, but why is everyone looking up? Leaning over the ledge yelling our names was Nutso telling us to look so we could see her jump. My father sprinted back into the hotel as I stood there contemplating if I had enough quarters to get in a couple of mean games of tic-tac-toe before anyone noticed I was gone. I ended up waiting in the lobby watching hotel staff run around in a panic. It was my father who pulled her off of the ledge and dragged her straight back to our room to call someone to pick her up. This was not the beginning of the end but the end of the end. It was but one episode in a long line of insanity that my father had put up with for months. We didn’t wait to see her off but she was still waiting for her ride when we returned. There she was in the lobby with a big old shiner covering one eye that she was telling anyone who would listen my father had given her. He didn’t. She gave it to herself with the handset of the phone in the room. At least this time the police didn’t think he had murdered her but that is another story for another time.
My father has at last finished his novel. I finished reading it last night. The really fun thing about reading his book is that I recognize so many of the characters. One in particular was almost my stepmother until she went completely nuts. We’re talking about loony bin nuts here. I won’t mention her name but bear with me while I tell you my favorite episode. The three of us, my father, me and Nutso, packed up for a weekend at Aquarina Springs in San Marcos. It is no longer there but if you visited it as a child you remember it well. There was the old west depot with the dusty saloon that housed the tic-tac-toe playing chickens. You would put a quarter in the slot then push the square you wanted for your X on and the chicken would scratch a square in response. I was much too young to suffer the humiliation that should come from losing to a chicken so this was one of my favorite games. You could also dress up in old west style clothes and take a sepia tone photo next to the long bar. I have one of these to this day that shows my father smiling in a confederate soldier uniform with me sitting on a saddle mounted on a saw horse next to him in bar maid garb, my right hand pointing a small pistol to the sky. In addition to the wonders of the old west there was Ralph the swimming pig and glass bottom boats. Ah, the fun.
So we get to Aquarina Springs and I am busting a gut to get to the chicken. First we check into the hotel and that is when all hell broke loose. I was sent to the bathroom and told not to come out until my father told me. I could hear them arguing so I laid my cheek against the cold tile and tried peeking beneath the door. No going. The room had carpet that elevated over the tile bathroom floor. I made an individual pot of coffee since really there isn’t much else to do sitting in a bathroom by oneself. At last my father opened the door and said let’s go glaring at Nutso sitting on the bed crying.
My father and I exited the building hand in hand when we heard our names being called. We turned around to see if it was someone behind us. No, no one there, but why is everyone looking up? Leaning over the ledge yelling our names was Nutso telling us to look so we could see her jump. My father sprinted back into the hotel as I stood there contemplating if I had enough quarters to get in a couple of mean games of tic-tac-toe before anyone noticed I was gone. I ended up waiting in the lobby watching hotel staff run around in a panic. It was my father who pulled her off of the ledge and dragged her straight back to our room to call someone to pick her up. This was not the beginning of the end but the end of the end. It was but one episode in a long line of insanity that my father had put up with for months. We didn’t wait to see her off but she was still waiting for her ride when we returned. There she was in the lobby with a big old shiner covering one eye that she was telling anyone who would listen my father had given her. He didn’t. She gave it to herself with the handset of the phone in the room. At least this time the police didn’t think he had murdered her but that is another story for another time.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
A Musical Collection No Thief Would Bother To Steal
I have found a radio station that plays old rock (well, okay mostly oldies) and have been having a ball while I work. The occupant of the cubicle outside my door must want to throw a stapler at my head but that’s okay because I love some of the songs they play. For instance today I was working on this incredibly boring, long spread sheet that not only doesn’t challenge my brain but I am pretty sure if you took a look inside right now you would find nothing but mush. So, I have my radio at a modest volume listening to my new favorite station when what should come on…… Bad Bad Leroy Brown. I ask you who would be able to resist turning it up and singing along…”Leroy looked like a jig saw puzzle with a couple a pieces gone”! Oh yeah, I was jammin. Then as a follow up they played Cats in the Cradle. What a tear jerker when the dad calls his son who doesn’t have time for him anymore. So, if you are reading this from home be thankful you are not C and married to the biggest musical dork in the world. If you are reading this from work thank your lucky stars you won’t need to use that stapler as an instrument of death.
I have found a radio station that plays old rock (well, okay mostly oldies) and have been having a ball while I work. The occupant of the cubicle outside my door must want to throw a stapler at my head but that’s okay because I love some of the songs they play. For instance today I was working on this incredibly boring, long spread sheet that not only doesn’t challenge my brain but I am pretty sure if you took a look inside right now you would find nothing but mush. So, I have my radio at a modest volume listening to my new favorite station when what should come on…… Bad Bad Leroy Brown. I ask you who would be able to resist turning it up and singing along…”Leroy looked like a jig saw puzzle with a couple a pieces gone”! Oh yeah, I was jammin. Then as a follow up they played Cats in the Cradle. What a tear jerker when the dad calls his son who doesn’t have time for him anymore. So, if you are reading this from home be thankful you are not C and married to the biggest musical dork in the world. If you are reading this from work thank your lucky stars you won’t need to use that stapler as an instrument of death.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
What would you do?
Reading this article I have a couple of questions:
1) If you were going to die would you want it quick and painless or drawn out?
2) If Dr.'s and nurses who stayed to care for the ill for four days without electricity in over 100 degree heat are being arrested do you think we could arrest the assholes at the top who left them there in the first place (Brownie? Bush? Nagin? Blanco?) and charge them with second degree murder?
Reading this article I have a couple of questions:
1) If you were going to die would you want it quick and painless or drawn out?
2) If Dr.'s and nurses who stayed to care for the ill for four days without electricity in over 100 degree heat are being arrested do you think we could arrest the assholes at the top who left them there in the first place (Brownie? Bush? Nagin? Blanco?) and charge them with second degree murder?
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Walk Tall, Carry a Big Stick, and Scream Real Loud
Growing up in Baton Rouge, my father and I would go bass fishing at my Maw-Maw’s pond. Her nickname would lead you to believe she was of some relation but Maw-Maw was the mother of a boy my father had mentored in Big Brothers. She and her husband, Doc, welcomed us into the family, sharing their lives including the pond on a piece of land they owned close by.
Dad and I would pack up our tackle box, a bucket of worms, our rods, and a cooler then head off in the green Torino. You had to park quite a ways from the pond and walk through thick, tall grass. My father would gather up all of our gear and begin to head off. It didn’t take long for him to realize I was frozen at the edge of the grass, too afraid to proceed. “Come on, Jacqueline” he would say “walk right where I walk.” Thus began my pleading for him to carry me. I was terrified a cotton mouth would bite me if I walked through that grass. I don’t know why I thought the snake would leave him alone and bite me but it made perfect sense at the time.
Back he would walk to where I was standing and explain that it was impossible to carry me and everything else we brought with us for the outing. I could ride piggyback I argued. It was too hot, I was too big and nothing was going to get me in the grass he said but he did have the answer. Sharing with me a word passed down from generation to generation, he taught me how to say “go away snake” in ancient Indian. “Geeeee ya” I screamed walking through the grass. “Geeeee ya”! We never caught many fish and in hindsight it is easy to see why they fled to the cool waters of the bottom when they heard an insane child approaching screaming gibberish.
That was twenty-seven years ago but when I walk through the woods at the ranch I still mutter “geeeee ya” under my breath. It can’t hurt and its kept me alive this long.
Growing up in Baton Rouge, my father and I would go bass fishing at my Maw-Maw’s pond. Her nickname would lead you to believe she was of some relation but Maw-Maw was the mother of a boy my father had mentored in Big Brothers. She and her husband, Doc, welcomed us into the family, sharing their lives including the pond on a piece of land they owned close by.
Dad and I would pack up our tackle box, a bucket of worms, our rods, and a cooler then head off in the green Torino. You had to park quite a ways from the pond and walk through thick, tall grass. My father would gather up all of our gear and begin to head off. It didn’t take long for him to realize I was frozen at the edge of the grass, too afraid to proceed. “Come on, Jacqueline” he would say “walk right where I walk.” Thus began my pleading for him to carry me. I was terrified a cotton mouth would bite me if I walked through that grass. I don’t know why I thought the snake would leave him alone and bite me but it made perfect sense at the time.
Back he would walk to where I was standing and explain that it was impossible to carry me and everything else we brought with us for the outing. I could ride piggyback I argued. It was too hot, I was too big and nothing was going to get me in the grass he said but he did have the answer. Sharing with me a word passed down from generation to generation, he taught me how to say “go away snake” in ancient Indian. “Geeeee ya” I screamed walking through the grass. “Geeeee ya”! We never caught many fish and in hindsight it is easy to see why they fled to the cool waters of the bottom when they heard an insane child approaching screaming gibberish.
That was twenty-seven years ago but when I walk through the woods at the ranch I still mutter “geeeee ya” under my breath. It can’t hurt and its kept me alive this long.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Recently Read
How you see a country depends on whether you are driving through it, or living in it.
How you see a country depends on whether or not you can leave it, if you have to.
I am reading Alexandra Fuller’s “Scribbling the Cat”. The words are hers but I liked them so much and they made me think of really great countryside (here and elsewhere) seen from a car window.
How you see a country depends on whether you are driving through it, or living in it.
How you see a country depends on whether or not you can leave it, if you have to.
I am reading Alexandra Fuller’s “Scribbling the Cat”. The words are hers but I liked them so much and they made me think of really great countryside (here and elsewhere) seen from a car window.
Friday, June 30, 2006
What’s with this hair on my chinny chin chin?
A month or so ago while driving to work my hand brushed against something on my chin. After further, frantic inspection, I found I had a rogue whisker on my chin. A long, blond, whisker! As soon as I stopped at the next light I yanked down the cosmetic mirror on my visor to inspect the interloper. Yep, it was a whisker where none had been for the past THIRTY FIVE years of my life. Where did this bugger come from? Without the benefit of a set of tweezers in the console I began frantically plucking at it with my fingernails. When the offender was successfully extracted, I sat there holding it up to the light inspecting it as if it were a diamond. Realizing I was not the only car sitting at this light I began to look around to see if anyone was looking. I could not have been more embarrassed if I were caught picking my nose.
For the couple of weeks following my discovery I constantly checked for another unusually long hair on my face. Was this going to become commonplace? Had my hormones gone crazy? Was this the beginning of early onset menopause? How long before I looked like George Michael with his five oÂ’clock shadow? Should I immediately begin waxing? Why had no one seen that sucker?
Months have passed without incident since that hair-raising revelation, until this morning. Standing in front of the mirror putting on my make up something caught my eye and there on my chin was a long blond whisker shimmering in the light. This time with tweezers in hand I eradicated the freaky follicle, taking out a few of his friends who had the unfortunate fate of growing too close. WhatÂ’s next hot flashes? Clearly these things crop up overnight and I will just need to be more diligent in my weed control efforts.
A month or so ago while driving to work my hand brushed against something on my chin. After further, frantic inspection, I found I had a rogue whisker on my chin. A long, blond, whisker! As soon as I stopped at the next light I yanked down the cosmetic mirror on my visor to inspect the interloper. Yep, it was a whisker where none had been for the past THIRTY FIVE years of my life. Where did this bugger come from? Without the benefit of a set of tweezers in the console I began frantically plucking at it with my fingernails. When the offender was successfully extracted, I sat there holding it up to the light inspecting it as if it were a diamond. Realizing I was not the only car sitting at this light I began to look around to see if anyone was looking. I could not have been more embarrassed if I were caught picking my nose.
For the couple of weeks following my discovery I constantly checked for another unusually long hair on my face. Was this going to become commonplace? Had my hormones gone crazy? Was this the beginning of early onset menopause? How long before I looked like George Michael with his five oÂ’clock shadow? Should I immediately begin waxing? Why had no one seen that sucker?
Months have passed without incident since that hair-raising revelation, until this morning. Standing in front of the mirror putting on my make up something caught my eye and there on my chin was a long blond whisker shimmering in the light. This time with tweezers in hand I eradicated the freaky follicle, taking out a few of his friends who had the unfortunate fate of growing too close. WhatÂ’s next hot flashes? Clearly these things crop up overnight and I will just need to be more diligent in my weed control efforts.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Carrio Andretti
Carrie drives like a woman trying to outrun a nuclear mushroom cloud. I lose seventy five percent of my water weight every trip we take to and from the ranch, from my sweating palms. I try to read, I try to listen to music, I try to imagine the impact of the air bags, but nothing really soothes my safety first nerves. Yesterday’s trip home was no exception. Seeing that the car in front of us had slowed to a modest 86 miles per hour, Carrie decided some passing was in order. She moved to the right hand lane which lo and behold was ending. That’s right it was ending, merging with other moving traffic. She could have slowed down, accepting her place behind ole pokey who at this point had slowed to a 75 mph crawl or she could do the very Carrie thing which was punching it so when the lane ended she could be the first to merge and consequently the first to slam on her brakes to avoid the cars taking a Sunday drive in the fast lane.
For my part, during the actual passing I sucked in the biggest breath I could, curled my toes, gripped the arm rest with my sweaty palms and shut my eyes as tight as they would go. As soon as we were safely in the fast lane I let loose a tirade of insults about her driving. At one point letting her know that in all the time we have been together I wanted to ring her neck more at that moment than any other. Sure, she could have apologized for endangering me and poor innocent Isaac sleeping in the back, unaware of his impending doom. She could have even argued her point. Instead she put us in danger once again because I am sure there is no way she could have seen through the tears of laughter in her eyes. As an insult to injury she laughed about it all night. Next week I think I’ll drive and see if she doesn’t want to strangle me.
Carrie drives like a woman trying to outrun a nuclear mushroom cloud. I lose seventy five percent of my water weight every trip we take to and from the ranch, from my sweating palms. I try to read, I try to listen to music, I try to imagine the impact of the air bags, but nothing really soothes my safety first nerves. Yesterday’s trip home was no exception. Seeing that the car in front of us had slowed to a modest 86 miles per hour, Carrie decided some passing was in order. She moved to the right hand lane which lo and behold was ending. That’s right it was ending, merging with other moving traffic. She could have slowed down, accepting her place behind ole pokey who at this point had slowed to a 75 mph crawl or she could do the very Carrie thing which was punching it so when the lane ended she could be the first to merge and consequently the first to slam on her brakes to avoid the cars taking a Sunday drive in the fast lane.
For my part, during the actual passing I sucked in the biggest breath I could, curled my toes, gripped the arm rest with my sweaty palms and shut my eyes as tight as they would go. As soon as we were safely in the fast lane I let loose a tirade of insults about her driving. At one point letting her know that in all the time we have been together I wanted to ring her neck more at that moment than any other. Sure, she could have apologized for endangering me and poor innocent Isaac sleeping in the back, unaware of his impending doom. She could have even argued her point. Instead she put us in danger once again because I am sure there is no way she could have seen through the tears of laughter in her eyes. As an insult to injury she laughed about it all night. Next week I think I’ll drive and see if she doesn’t want to strangle me.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Nighttime is for Day Dreaming
This morning over our normal breakfast of coffee and cigarettes, C asked if I had slept well. I told her I guessed but I wasn’t sure because I remembered having trouble getting to sleep and the next thing I knew the alarm was going off. I usually wake up several times during the night but last night was like those nights when you drink too much and the last thing you remember is saying “sure I’ll have one more but then I really am going home.” I turned out my light last night and rolled over to C, spooning her back. That lasted all of two minutes before my legs were restless and the need to turn on my stomach was too great. Onto my stomach it was but which way to face? Left didn’t feel right, right was hurting my neck and so it went as I tried to think of something to keep my mind off the fact that thirty minutes had elapsed and I was still wide awake.
I tried thinking about what I had ahead of me today at work. Ugh! That only made me more agitated. I tried counting which works sometimes but once you get past two hundred you simply have to surrender to the fact that by the time you go to sleep you will have counted dollar for dollar the size of the national debt. So I turned to method three. Where would I be if I could be anywhere? What would I be doing? What would my surroundings look like?
Soon I was sitting on the back porch of our tiny cottage by the water. Its exterior is wood plank painted mint green with white trim. We bought the plans from the back of Southern Living and built it ourselves. Inside the antique iron beds are covered with white chenille spreads. C is watering the garden we can see from the kitchen window. She is standing over rows of tomatoes, purple hulls, and tall stalks of corn smiling with the possibility of fresh vegetables. I am on the back porch watching her taking slow sips from a cold glass of champagne. There is a ring of condensation on the table in front of me from the glass. I move my book so the cover doesn’t get wet. At my feet is our dog, stretched out on his side, his legs straight in front of him. I am rolling my ankle back and forth mushing my toes into his downy fur. His tail makes a soft thump thump on the boards that rises to my ears where it mixes with the trill trill of cicadas in the trees. The alarms sounds and I am immediately cranky from the dreamless night sleep until I remember my dreams played out in my mind before I even nodded off.
This morning over our normal breakfast of coffee and cigarettes, C asked if I had slept well. I told her I guessed but I wasn’t sure because I remembered having trouble getting to sleep and the next thing I knew the alarm was going off. I usually wake up several times during the night but last night was like those nights when you drink too much and the last thing you remember is saying “sure I’ll have one more but then I really am going home.” I turned out my light last night and rolled over to C, spooning her back. That lasted all of two minutes before my legs were restless and the need to turn on my stomach was too great. Onto my stomach it was but which way to face? Left didn’t feel right, right was hurting my neck and so it went as I tried to think of something to keep my mind off the fact that thirty minutes had elapsed and I was still wide awake.
I tried thinking about what I had ahead of me today at work. Ugh! That only made me more agitated. I tried counting which works sometimes but once you get past two hundred you simply have to surrender to the fact that by the time you go to sleep you will have counted dollar for dollar the size of the national debt. So I turned to method three. Where would I be if I could be anywhere? What would I be doing? What would my surroundings look like?
Soon I was sitting on the back porch of our tiny cottage by the water. Its exterior is wood plank painted mint green with white trim. We bought the plans from the back of Southern Living and built it ourselves. Inside the antique iron beds are covered with white chenille spreads. C is watering the garden we can see from the kitchen window. She is standing over rows of tomatoes, purple hulls, and tall stalks of corn smiling with the possibility of fresh vegetables. I am on the back porch watching her taking slow sips from a cold glass of champagne. There is a ring of condensation on the table in front of me from the glass. I move my book so the cover doesn’t get wet. At my feet is our dog, stretched out on his side, his legs straight in front of him. I am rolling my ankle back and forth mushing my toes into his downy fur. His tail makes a soft thump thump on the boards that rises to my ears where it mixes with the trill trill of cicadas in the trees. The alarms sounds and I am immediately cranky from the dreamless night sleep until I remember my dreams played out in my mind before I even nodded off.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
A Mother of Invention
My friends and I have always joked about the odd combinations of businesses you find across the border. Is there a great need in Mexico to have your bicycle repaired while getting a root canal? Did some unnamed man go out one day armed with a list of to-dos: 1) pick up prescription at pharmacy 2) pick up bottle of tequila for later 3) stop by tailor to order custom made shirt 4) get new car battery 5) laser hair removal on chest and back. Wouldn’t it be nice to do one stop shopping for all of the above he thought and an idea was born. Again, I admit I have always found the combinations odd but on the other hand all very practical tasks. Ingenuity I think it’s called.
Necessity is the mother of all invention after all and no one I have seen can top the woman in front of me at the convenient store this weekend. When I stepped in line behind her to purchase cigarettes, my eyes were immediately drawn to the little boy at her side. He was adorable, small perfectly round head with a white bandana do rag on top, white wife beater tucked into his dark denim shorts and tennis shoes. Cute as a future rap star button! Mom was desperately trying to keep him from pulling one of every candy for purchase. When she bent down to point to a few choices he could have, it was then that I noticed mom had her very own fashion sense. Flip flops showing off painted toes, denim Capri pants, tank top, all very common trends these days. Ah, but look above the neck and there, there is where her true ingenuity shined through. Junior must have borrowed mom’s bandana and not wanting her hair to frizz in our humid weather mom wasn’t about to go out without covering the mop. So, she put his underwear on her head. It is one thing to do this in the privacy of one’s bedroom with enough wine in one’s system to kill an elephant. It is quite another to wear underwear on one’s head in public. Took everything I had not to burst out laughing at the tufts of pink toned hair sticking out of the leg holes on either side of her crown.
My friends and I have always joked about the odd combinations of businesses you find across the border. Is there a great need in Mexico to have your bicycle repaired while getting a root canal? Did some unnamed man go out one day armed with a list of to-dos: 1) pick up prescription at pharmacy 2) pick up bottle of tequila for later 3) stop by tailor to order custom made shirt 4) get new car battery 5) laser hair removal on chest and back. Wouldn’t it be nice to do one stop shopping for all of the above he thought and an idea was born. Again, I admit I have always found the combinations odd but on the other hand all very practical tasks. Ingenuity I think it’s called.
Necessity is the mother of all invention after all and no one I have seen can top the woman in front of me at the convenient store this weekend. When I stepped in line behind her to purchase cigarettes, my eyes were immediately drawn to the little boy at her side. He was adorable, small perfectly round head with a white bandana do rag on top, white wife beater tucked into his dark denim shorts and tennis shoes. Cute as a future rap star button! Mom was desperately trying to keep him from pulling one of every candy for purchase. When she bent down to point to a few choices he could have, it was then that I noticed mom had her very own fashion sense. Flip flops showing off painted toes, denim Capri pants, tank top, all very common trends these days. Ah, but look above the neck and there, there is where her true ingenuity shined through. Junior must have borrowed mom’s bandana and not wanting her hair to frizz in our humid weather mom wasn’t about to go out without covering the mop. So, she put his underwear on her head. It is one thing to do this in the privacy of one’s bedroom with enough wine in one’s system to kill an elephant. It is quite another to wear underwear on one’s head in public. Took everything I had not to burst out laughing at the tufts of pink toned hair sticking out of the leg holes on either side of her crown.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Two Weddings, Four Funerals and a Host of Other Painful Events
My cousin is getting married at the end of July in Denver. My mother, the queen of family functions, the woman who uses every vacation day to see her family has started hammering me on whether I will be attending. Last week she called me at work to have what I thought was a perfectly normal “how is your day” conversation then out of the left field drops the “Are you and C going to your cousin’s wedding? It is really going to hurt my feelings if you don’t go” bomb in my lap. I told her we haven’t decided which led to the run down of every wrong I have ever committed. I did not:
Go to my great aunt’s funeral at a convent in Pennsylvania.
Go to my other great aunt’s funeral in Washington.
Go to my other great aunt’s funeral in Washington.
Go to my cousin’s wedding who I have no more than two words to say to at any given time. Nor does he have much more to say to me.
Go to my cousin’s graduation in Denver. This was a toughy because he graduated Mother’s Day weekend and I STILL didn’t go.
I did:
Go on vacation with my father last summer (it must be added that this was the first vacation I have gone on with my father since I was eight)
Go to Belize with C’s father (this is how my mother says it but in reality I went with C for her 30th birthday which her father and four other friends joined her to celebrate therefore this does not technically count as a vacation with C’s father).
You get the idea. I went home fuming. How could she try to guilt me into going? If she was going to bring up places I went eight years ago I should be allowed to go back as far as possible to dredge up enough places I went with her to counter those she was mentioning. I could have ended the cycle of abuse right there but instead chose to hammer C all the way to Yorktown that I want her to go with me in July. If you are wondering, yes, I started listing all of the places I have gone with her, trying to fill my column with enough selfless attendance that she will come with me in July. Like mother like daughter. It pains me to admit that.
My cousin is getting married at the end of July in Denver. My mother, the queen of family functions, the woman who uses every vacation day to see her family has started hammering me on whether I will be attending. Last week she called me at work to have what I thought was a perfectly normal “how is your day” conversation then out of the left field drops the “Are you and C going to your cousin’s wedding? It is really going to hurt my feelings if you don’t go” bomb in my lap. I told her we haven’t decided which led to the run down of every wrong I have ever committed. I did not:
Go to my great aunt’s funeral at a convent in Pennsylvania.
Go to my other great aunt’s funeral in Washington.
Go to my other great aunt’s funeral in Washington.
Go to my cousin’s wedding who I have no more than two words to say to at any given time. Nor does he have much more to say to me.
Go to my cousin’s graduation in Denver. This was a toughy because he graduated Mother’s Day weekend and I STILL didn’t go.
I did:
Go on vacation with my father last summer (it must be added that this was the first vacation I have gone on with my father since I was eight)
Go to Belize with C’s father (this is how my mother says it but in reality I went with C for her 30th birthday which her father and four other friends joined her to celebrate therefore this does not technically count as a vacation with C’s father).
You get the idea. I went home fuming. How could she try to guilt me into going? If she was going to bring up places I went eight years ago I should be allowed to go back as far as possible to dredge up enough places I went with her to counter those she was mentioning. I could have ended the cycle of abuse right there but instead chose to hammer C all the way to Yorktown that I want her to go with me in July. If you are wondering, yes, I started listing all of the places I have gone with her, trying to fill my column with enough selfless attendance that she will come with me in July. Like mother like daughter. It pains me to admit that.
Friday, June 02, 2006
A Tomato for your Thoughts
This morning when I got to work, I noticed plump, red, home grown tomatoes on my boss’s desks. I knew they were from a gentleman in our office whose past gifts have included homemade jelly and other fresh vegetables. I went into my office feeling dejected but talked myself off the ledge by reasoning that he must have only given his peers the tomatoes. I am for all intents and purposes a rung or two down the ladder and therefore didn’t warrant a tomato at this time.
Come lunch time I ventured into the kitchen for a cup of water. I hate office kitchens. There seems to be no way to make people realize that parmesan cheese should NEVER be heated in a public microwave. Or broccoli for that matter. You who drain your tuna can in the sink leaving slimy pink chunks marinating in fish juice for the rest of us to smell- you are the reason I hate our kitchen. So, I am holding my nose and getting my water when I see two women who hold close to the same status around here as I do cutting up fresh ripe tomatoes. Coincidence that they too brought in fresh tomatoes? I don’t think so.
Back to my office again and now I begin wondering. Did I say something inappropriate to this fellow? Was it at a happy hour? Because if you get me around a bar and a corporate card at the same time I can become very happy. No, couldn’t think (remember) a thing. Hours pass with me letting this push me deeper into a funk. I will never get ahead. I will never be on the same level as the tomato recipients. (At this point I think it is only fair to point out that this week I am a bit more hormonal than usual which results in a bottomless pit of need to feel worthy).
Tomato man walked into my office a few minutes ago to see if my boss would be in because he had put a tomato on her desk from his garden (saw it, thanks). He said he ran out but would bring me some next week. What’s that you say? I am vegetable worthy? This is excellent news. I am leaving now to get my weekend started a red tomato in hand. My boss is out today so I figured I would take hers and she can have mine next week.
This morning when I got to work, I noticed plump, red, home grown tomatoes on my boss’s desks. I knew they were from a gentleman in our office whose past gifts have included homemade jelly and other fresh vegetables. I went into my office feeling dejected but talked myself off the ledge by reasoning that he must have only given his peers the tomatoes. I am for all intents and purposes a rung or two down the ladder and therefore didn’t warrant a tomato at this time.
Come lunch time I ventured into the kitchen for a cup of water. I hate office kitchens. There seems to be no way to make people realize that parmesan cheese should NEVER be heated in a public microwave. Or broccoli for that matter. You who drain your tuna can in the sink leaving slimy pink chunks marinating in fish juice for the rest of us to smell- you are the reason I hate our kitchen. So, I am holding my nose and getting my water when I see two women who hold close to the same status around here as I do cutting up fresh ripe tomatoes. Coincidence that they too brought in fresh tomatoes? I don’t think so.
Back to my office again and now I begin wondering. Did I say something inappropriate to this fellow? Was it at a happy hour? Because if you get me around a bar and a corporate card at the same time I can become very happy. No, couldn’t think (remember) a thing. Hours pass with me letting this push me deeper into a funk. I will never get ahead. I will never be on the same level as the tomato recipients. (At this point I think it is only fair to point out that this week I am a bit more hormonal than usual which results in a bottomless pit of need to feel worthy).
Tomato man walked into my office a few minutes ago to see if my boss would be in because he had put a tomato on her desk from his garden (saw it, thanks). He said he ran out but would bring me some next week. What’s that you say? I am vegetable worthy? This is excellent news. I am leaving now to get my weekend started a red tomato in hand. My boss is out today so I figured I would take hers and she can have mine next week.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Internet Palm Reading
Duly Inspired tagged me with this and seeing as it is the end of a LONG day and I just got out of LONG appointment, I decided to give it a go.
Jacqui needs to ensure she has saved enough during the first twenty-years to have this.
Jacqui needs to open and sing.
Jacqui needs eye drops to help her vision.
Jacqui needs more bread…
Jacqui needs to talk about someone named Jack.
Jacqui needs to improve her speed around the field.
Jacqui needs more help with fundraising committee.
Jacqui needs help solving a baffling public folder calendar.
Jacqui needs Bert and John.
Jacqui wants her Virgins and saints on shelves facing her bed.
Jacqui wants to write a book
Jacqui wants a Darwin show bag
Jacqui wants to suggest a joint event with local scouts…
Jacqui wants a tummy tuck
Jacqui wants to go shop for yarn…
Jacqui wants to study vet science…
Jacqui wants to find out more about alternative therapies…
Jacqui wants to believe Patrick but she is unsure therefore keeps this from Phil.
Jacqui wants to sue a major company.
A bit like having your palm read except I don’t know a Jack, Bert, Patrick or Phil. I do however need to increase speed on the field, need help with a fund raising committee, want to write a book, and want a tummy tuck
Duly Inspired tagged me with this and seeing as it is the end of a LONG day and I just got out of LONG appointment, I decided to give it a go.
Jacqui needs to ensure she has saved enough during the first twenty-years to have this.
Jacqui needs to open and sing.
Jacqui needs eye drops to help her vision.
Jacqui needs more bread…
Jacqui needs to talk about someone named Jack.
Jacqui needs to improve her speed around the field.
Jacqui needs more help with fundraising committee.
Jacqui needs help solving a baffling public folder calendar.
Jacqui needs Bert and John.
Jacqui wants her Virgins and saints on shelves facing her bed.
Jacqui wants to write a book
Jacqui wants a Darwin show bag
Jacqui wants to suggest a joint event with local scouts…
Jacqui wants a tummy tuck
Jacqui wants to go shop for yarn…
Jacqui wants to study vet science…
Jacqui wants to find out more about alternative therapies…
Jacqui wants to believe Patrick but she is unsure therefore keeps this from Phil.
Jacqui wants to sue a major company.
A bit like having your palm read except I don’t know a Jack, Bert, Patrick or Phil. I do however need to increase speed on the field, need help with a fund raising committee, want to write a book, and want a tummy tuck
Monday, May 01, 2006
Like Chinese Water Torture Only Worse
My father called while C was watching the NFL draft this weekend and when he found out she had it on he began asking me question after question about who was picking who. Does this man know me at all? Not only do I not know, I am not going to ask C every two seconds and relay an entire conversation (about football no less) back and forth over the phone. So he asked which station it was on. This too I had to ask C. Before I got off the phone with him he walked into his living room where my 8 year old sister was watching Discovery Kids or something similar and said; “Hey Morgan, I’ve got something better to watch.” I would have given anything to see the look on her face when he changed the channel.
My father called while C was watching the NFL draft this weekend and when he found out she had it on he began asking me question after question about who was picking who. Does this man know me at all? Not only do I not know, I am not going to ask C every two seconds and relay an entire conversation (about football no less) back and forth over the phone. So he asked which station it was on. This too I had to ask C. Before I got off the phone with him he walked into his living room where my 8 year old sister was watching Discovery Kids or something similar and said; “Hey Morgan, I’ve got something better to watch.” I would have given anything to see the look on her face when he changed the channel.
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