The thing about the roads we choose to go down in life...we can choose different ones at any time.
I think I'm taking a detour. This year, I've been lucky enough to get re-acquainted with a few people from my far distant past. Almost 35 years past. The dreaded high school years. Ack. No one was more surprised than me to find out how much its meant. When I left my hometown, I barely glanced in my rearview mirror. So long, suckers. I never looked back. To say I haven't kept in touch would be a gross understatement. I didn't pine for home. Ever. Don't get me wrong. Contrary to what some might think, I was not ashamed of my more humble beginnings. In fact, I felt a certain sort of pride (Girl, Interrupted) peppered with a generous dose of affection. But, it was a chapter I'd closed and as far as I was concerned, it didn't need to be opened. I held onto many painful memories from those days, I didn't want to dwell. Let's just say it was a dirt covered onion I didn't intend to peel. Then, life happened. My mother died (The Mother Load). To my astonishment, several old friends were kind enough to come to her memorial (The Things We Keep) including my best friend from high school. I felt awash in gratitude and a little ashamed. They'd all taken time out of their Saturday to help me grieve, to wish me and mine the best. I hadn't held up my end all these years. It was then I steered toward a different road. I reminded myself that more than one truth can exist at a time. Along with the painful, there's the sweet. I could pick what I wanted to think about, what I wanted to remember. I picked the sweet. When my book got published, I joined the social media fray, begrudgingly. I made a conscious decision to not include my high school in my personal info, or to try to Friend anyone from the good old days. Preferring to stay in the present. After my mother's memorial, I changed my mind. I've since been graced with a peek into many of my old cronies lives. I've seen their children, grandchildren, dogs, cats, spouses. I've peeked in on their vacations, celebrated their victories, felt sadness if they suffered. Some would argue that a virtual relationship via Facebook isn't a real relationship. I would agree. But, call it what you will, whatever it is, I've felt a part of it all. Even just a little feels like salve on a wound. Because of my newfound fervor for old friends, hubby and I met up with one of my girlfriends from school, and her husband, during our recent trip to Florida. Just like in the movies, the years fell away. We laughed, gossiped, solved several of life's more serious problems, broke bread, shared wine. She opened her heart and her home to me, introduced me to her friends, hosted a shindig to celebrate my book. William Faulkner wouldn't have gotten a warmer welcome. I felt like a literary star and the prodigal daughter all at once. I had the time of my life and I am still reeling over her generosity. My heart feels full with all sorts of warm fuzzies and I'm not a warm fuzzie kind of gal. Maybe I am now. I realized then what I'd really missed. My friends helped raise me. Let's face it, after the age of 12 our friends become our sounding boards, our parents shift into the background with their white noise and unwelcome advice. Our friends informed our opinions, values, helped discern what was important, what wasn't, they helped picked our clothes, our hairstyles and our peer group. They were there during the toughest part of life...adolescence. When your whole life could fall apart if a pimple showed up on your chin. Lately, when I think about home, it's in grateful appreciation. I remember with a smile how my best friend and I used to ride our motorcycles to the dump, singing (badly) at the top of our lungs. We'd go there to smoke, to bitch about our parents, to talk about whoever wasn't there, and laugh. We weren't allowed to go during hunting season. Our parents worried we'd get shot. Those were different days, my friend. We'd have sleepovers, which at my house involved working my parent's turkey farm, as my friend in Florida reminded me. We'd have to pick up and chuck the dead ones. That was some kind of fun for country kids. I have a great life with a great man and all the joy filled trappings that go with it. Kids, grandkids, a home and career I love. My life would've gone on quite happily had I never reconnected with old friends. But, there's something important about mixing the old with the new. It's humbling to know there are people who knew you when and still love you. So, while I might not need them to make my life happier, I want them. And isn't that the best kind of relationship? One you want only because it makes your already rich life, richer? And, I am rich indeed.
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Last year, Hubby and I went to Italy (See September's Blogs). I swore if I never went anywhere else I would still die a happy woman. I lied. There are still several really hoppin' places I'm DYING to see. When I recite my proposed locations to hubby he pretends he's catatonic. They're on my bucket list I say. They're on his too…post mortem. What about this doesn't look fantastic? Okay, so it looks a little like a giant petrified dinosaur turd. But, it isn't! It's the Biggest Ball of Twine. Who is this dork leaning up against it? And why isn't it me? Is that a biggest ball of twine stalker or his wife crawling over it on the left there? One guy, Francis Johnson, rolled this all by himself. It took 29 years and it weighs 17,000 pounds. Minnesota is one lucky state. Of course there're your copycats. Another guy in Kansas started his own biggest ball of twine (who wouldn't?) but croaked before getting very far. So, the town took up his cause. I'm not sure if it's bigger now or not. As far as I'm concerned its an impostor and probably not worthy of my time. However, we could roll through (that's funny and you know it) both states to see for ourselves. Then we could say we've seen the biggest balls in the United States. The Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz Museum in Jamestown NY. This is a replica of Lucy and Ricky Ricardo's living room in their NY apartment at 623 East 68th Street. Yes, I'm that big of a freak that I know the address and that it's really in the middle of the East River. I'm an even bigger freak who can spot right away that this isn't an exact replica. The curtains are wrong. No telling what other gross errors I'd find were I to examine it in person. I plan to take a large purse so I can steal stuff. Lucy'd want me to have it. Savannah, Georgia. Home of Lady Chablis, one of the greatest drag queens, the city where the great novel Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil is set, and the place where a weird guy with a vial full of stuff says he carries enough poison in it to kill everyone in Georgia. He likes to carry it around, keep it next to his plate at the diner just in case his eggs get overcooked. You know you'd do the same. And this cemetery, The Bonnaventure. Sounds like a swank hotel. Only it isn't. Unless you're dead and possibly fat, like these guys. Plus, I just like to say Savaannah…with a bad southern accent. And loud. Like all southerners are deaf. Cadillac Graveyard. If you're gonna commit to a tacky tour, you might as well go whole hog. I used to know why this graveyard exists, but now I forget. I don't care anymore. I just want to see it. I want to stand in that field with my fists at my sides and say, "What idiot buries Cadillacs?" and pretend I don't hear hubby say "What idiot drives across the country and pays to see them?" Graceland. Where the biggest mama's boy of all time resided…with his mama. The mother ship of all tacky vacation spots. The Jungle Room? Are you kidding? Who could go peacefully into the afterlife without sitting on the same couch where a near comatose Elvis sat slumped over while the Colonel fed him peanut butter, banana and bacon sandwiches? Not me, my friend, not me. Will I get even a glimpse of the white bedazzled polyester jumpsuits he sported in Vegas where he looked so hot with drool down his chins, his gut obscuring the view of his Karate belt buckle, tossing sweat soaked cheap scarves to the fanny pack wearing masses? If only. And to be so lucky as to see at least one of the faithful, prone on the grave, wailing in her puff painted sweatshirt, "He was so misunderstood!" I might die of happiness right then and there. And let me tell you, If the Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love really died on the porcelain throne, I want to see it, touch it, and take its picture. At all angles. Jesus Theme Park. I shit you not. This place really exists. It's not called Jesus Theme Park, but it should be. It's called The Holy Land Experience, in Orlando, Florida (of course). I shit you not. I would've loved to have heard the conversation the family standing in the background of this photo had while discussing their upcoming vacation plans. Mom: We're in Florida…how about Disney World? Dad: Roller coasters? Mickey Mouse? The happiest place on earth? I've got an even better idea. Let's pack up the kids, load up the RV and head on over to that place where they can see a flogging and a crucifixion! A good time was had by all. The next time you see those kids they'll be face down in a trailer park wearing handcuffs. Hubby REALLY doesn't want to go here. I shoulda kept my big mouth shut about the photo I wanted to take while there to use as our Christmas Card. One similar to the pic above, but with us in the front holding signs reading "Just hanging around, wish you where here." Amish Land. Okay, this place doesn't really exist. As I was dismayed to discover. Hubby and I went to Pennsylvania to see our kids and new granddaughter. What better way to top off the trip than a stop over at Amish Land. What? No such thing? Is that a joke? The airport in Harrisburg has rocking chairs in it - you guessed it - made by the Amish. They don't rock in them though because they won't let them bring their horse and buggy in and they don't fly. Plus, we saw a herd lined up at the Dairy Queen. So, Amish Land wasn't much of a stretch in my mind. I thought we'd take a nice drive to the country, pull up some place where they all gathered to make quilts, darn socks, bake homemade pies, can fruit and make motor home interiors. My son in law, Paul said, "You mean, like you thought there'd be a place you could observe them in their natural habitat?" Duh. Yes. I've been brain deep in my malingering manuscript so I haven't blogged in a while. Well, that's one reason. The other is I can't think of anything to blog about. I don't know how daily bloggers do it. I'm not that clever. Anyway...my mind has been taken over by most things dark and usually when I blog it's about things that annoy me. Or, things I'm trying to figure out. I decided to shake it up and write about things I love. Like, really love. Like, couldn't live another day if I didn't have them, love. Things I love so much they put that weird expression on my face. Besides, I can't think of anything better. The Bad Seed. If you've never seen this, your life is not what it could be. Originally a book, then a play, then a movie...which was made even better because the theater cast played their roles in the movie so their performances are over the top to say the least. Their dramatic, back of the house, approach to acting only adds to the creepy campiness of this fantastic film. Rhoda, Rhoda, Rhoda. What to do about Rhoda. One of the first, if not the first, fictional work to explore the nature vs. nurture theory. Are psychos born or made? Is there a serial killer gene? If your mother was a serial killer are you destined to make lampshades and door knob covers out of your neighbors, or perhaps enjoy them with some fava beans and a little Chianti? According to The Bad Seed - of course you are. Rhoda is an 8 year old force of bad genetic nature. She kills those who don't give her what she wants. Clearly, it's not her fault. If that brat Claude Dagle would've given her the award that he won, but she obviously deserved, he'd still be alive today and not floating on the rocks in the lake with tap shoe marks on his forehead. Only Rhoda could make "If I give you a basket of kisses will you give me a basket of hugs?" sound like, "Don't turn your back on me bitch or you're next." It's worth seeing if only to watch two mothers', one the killer's and the other the murdered boy's, mutual meltdown. Mesmerizing. Every year I try to make this a Christmas tradition (aren't we sick of Elf already?) but it never takes. Usually hubby is the only one I can corral to sit through it annually. The egg nog helps. So, I saw the original of this in the LA Times. As you'd expect, I had to have it and I tracked down a copy. This is hanging on my wall, in my house. I don't know what I love about it more...the fact that it's hilarious and tacky, or that everyone who sees it looks at it, then quickly away. Once, the pizza delivery guy asked if he could take a picture of it. If the pizza delivery guy loves it...what more do I need? Presents. I wouldn't want to spend another day in a place with no presents. I'm not one of those "it's the thought that counts," kinda gals. Especially if it's "the lack of thought that counts" sorta presents. I make a list, including website and item number information so hubby can SURPRISE me. Although, he gets surprised too...when he sees the price. But, he's a sport. Or, he's so relieved not to have to come up with something that he'll absolutely know I'll love that he goes with it. This list comes in particularly handy at birthday time. And no, I don't celebrate my birthday week. What kind of chump do you think I am? I celebrate my birthday trimester. No, that is not a typo. It's 3 months of fun and games at our house. We (and by that I mean hubby) do it up right. For 3 months it's all about me and my presents. I don't make him watch the Bad Seed for nothin'. I Love Lucy. For real. If there's a heaven it's at 623 East 68th Street and Lucy and Ricky still live there and Fred and Ethel come in without knocking and mayhem ensues. Whenever I'm in a jam, I think...What would Lucy do? Then I usually don't do it to avoid an even bigger jam. I own all zillion episodes and never tire of them. I laugh like I've never seen them before every time. I can recite dialogue. I have my favorite episode (no, not the candy making one). It's the Ethel Goes to Her Hometown one. Look it up and watch it. You won't be sorry. I love Lucy not just because she makes me laugh, but because Lucy was gangsta. She had creative control over her show (unheard of for a woman in the 50's) and she was the first woman studio owner (RKO became Desilu Studios). Not to mention Desi Arnaz, who originated the concept of re-runs, who gave up salary at the front end to own the show outright and got all the residuals, and created the 3 camera method that is still used today to film TV shows. Yet, he couldn't recognize his own wife in a moustache and a sombrero. Home Town Buffet. Any restaurant with "All You Can Eat" on their sign is my kinda place. Especially if there's 37 tables groaning with every kind of preservative loaded, calorie laden, and artery plugging food imaginable. I love to eat the fried chicken, pasta, tacos, mashed potatoes and corn dogs all on one plate. Some call it gluttony. I call it carb loading. After all I am in physical therapy. I love it that I'm usually one of the only one's there under 400 pounds. I love the old ladies that take huge bags and sneak everything they can out. Including the sugar packets on the tables. I love it that people come at lunch and are still there at dinner. I've heard. Word to the wise: Try to avoid going on crab leg day. It's a life risking proposition. You know you're in deep shit when a brigade shows up wearing headsets so they can put out the call when they find the seafood table. And those big MOFO's can move fast. Run for your life. If you can get your pants buttoned back up. Tasteless Religious Chotchkes. This is Sock Monkey Jesus. Although, Woodstock Sock Monkey Jesus is more apt. Love the Jesus Christ Superstar 'do and the beads. This was a gift from our son. He knows how to get on his mama's good side. Action Figure Jesus. He has wheels on his sandals. If you run him up and down a flat surface really fast and let go of him, he takes off. It looks like he's walking on water. Another gift from our son. He's in the will now. Saint Joseph. I don't even have to hunt any of this down. It comes to me. This guy was found by our gardener. Buried in the yard, in a plastic bag, upside down. If you're up on your Saints (which I am) you'll know that Saint Joseph is the patron saint of property, more specifically houses. If you want to buy or sell a house, you bury him upside down in the lawn of said property. This find was enough to make me take up gardening. Or, give the gardener a tip. Whatever. Freida Kahlo cross. Those are coke bottle caps painted with her image. Including her mustache. And unibrow. Need I embellish? I don't know if Voo Doo counts as a religion. I don't know why not. This was a gift from our daughter, Kristen. Another one in the will. At any rate, whenever I see this I say, "Oh MY GOD! I LOVE this thing!" So that makes it religious. This is an hors d'ouerves platter. The pins are to stick the finger food with. I've used this at countless dinner parties. Not one person has ever taken the stick out of his crotch. And finally, this photo, even though it's not very focused. This is me and my mom at my book signing, two months before she died. That's her. Holding one of the book marks that were made by my good friend Mary Beth in honor of my book. There's something so perfect about my nearly 80 year old mother holding a 13 inch Rob Rhino dick book mark. She said she'd seen better. My mom was the last of the old school broads. I loved that about her. “How hot is it in this hell hole dump anyway?” I sounded a lot like a bitch, but so what? The fat guy behind the counter looked over the top of his bi-focals, silent, sweating, letting that one pass. We stared each other down. He was this close to calling me little lady. They say things like that in the Heartland. Just one reason I hated it. I didn’t have time to pick a petty squabble, so I carried on without pressing. My son gripped my sweaty hand with his sweatier one. We looked a sight. I was too young to be his mother, but still I was. He was too smart to be only a four year-old, but still he was. We spent all our time together, just the two of us – so we made the best of it. There we were, new in town (again), poor (still), and shopping for shoes on the only street with stores. Freakishly, we looked exactly alike back in the day. I was taller. The August humidity beat us down, its assault relentless. I wanted to get out of the blistering store, quick. As usual, I had more need than money. But, I’d grown skilled at account juggling when purchasing anything that couldn’t get eaten or didn’t keep the roof over our heads. What bill would go unpaid so I could buy shoes? My son had no such worries. Happy to be out of our basement apartment with no windows, he talked a blue streak, his still dimpled hand tight in mine. We lived like moles. We’d hit daylight, blink-blink-blink, hard and fast, getting used to the sun. It occurred to me this was not, necessarily, a normal way to live. I knew there was a better way. Just not for people who couldn’t keep the phone turned on because they had to buy Payless shoes. Daniel was a shoe guy, even at four. He led me, arm stretched out like a leash, up and down the aisles. The bubble gum smashed on hot rubber aroma crept up our noses. We sped through the cheap inventory like K-Mart Dollar Days veterans. “Mother (he always called me Mother, but would’ve preferred first names), you won’t believe it.” He hopped up and down, his floppy, worn sandals almost mute on the cheap carpet. He lunged, grabbing up the shoes his dreams were made of like they’d been surrounded by a pack of pleather loving, bargain hunting jackals. There they were – tacky in a lidless box – two toned, brown and white cowboy boots with fringe. Ecstatic, Daniel whooped, elated, pogoing like a jumping bean. Wondering about the ruckus, the fat man behind the counter waddled over. By the time he lumbered down the aisle Daniel yanked his sandals off, leaving his socks on pulled up to his knees (that’s another story) and jerked the boots on both feet. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d seen him so happy, his cocoa colored eyes took up most of his face, glistening with wonder at his luck. “Well, Mama, looks like you gotta little Roy Rogers on yer hands there,” the fat man winked. They say things like that in the Heartland. I smiled, nodded, my face blank as rice paper. Roy Rogers? Dale Evans, maybe. They don’t say things like that in the Heartland though, so my lips stayed sealed. Daniel swiped at his damp brow, skipped, then ran and kept on running, up and down every aisle. “Daniel, stop,” I hollered. Fat man put his hand on my arm to shush me. “Now, Mama, boys will be boys and he’s gotta try out them thar boots, get ‘em broke in.” Boys will be boys - unless they want to be girls. Wouldn’t this porky cowpoke choke on his beef jerky if he knew? Daniel loved those boots because they were the closest things to high heels he could get – boy pumps. He loved their look, the clack-clack sounds, and the added height. Not to mention the fringe that swung in hysteria every time he moved - the closest he’d been to heaven. Even at the tender age of four, it was clear that in the poker game of life my son had been dealt a full house, queens high. But, they don’t say things like that in the Heartland, or anywhere that I knew of, so no one said it. But, like all elephants in the room it weighed a ton or two (tutu and pink feather boa notwithstanding) and we ignored it. Daniel and I pulled it around like the frozen pig fat Oprah plopped down in the wagon on her first weight loss show. It was our secret. He was too young to know much about it, other than he thought other boys acted dumb and he’d rather try on his mother’s clothes than play with guns. He had masculine toys. He loved the He-Man action figures. But, Princess Teela was his favorite. He’d gotten the Castle of Doom for Christmas and Teela always beat the shit out of He-Man and sent him to the dungeon. Daniel knew, in his little boy gut, that I didn’t mind and wouldn’t discourage him. Maybe it was my youth, my blissful ignorance, but I didn’t expect he would be someone else. I didn’t know that I should try to influence his personality, lucky for us. I didn’t love him less or feel disappointment. That was our bond, and the way it went, for years. From the bottom of my scraggly purse, I scraped up the $6.00 to pay for the boots he still had on and we left, fat man grinning and waving us out. Still on his boy pump high Daniel kicked one of the several metal poles holding up the awning running the length of the sidewalk…then the next one…and the one after that. It was unlike me not to stop him. I was hard on him. I didn’t have the slightest clue what to do with him. His wicked intelligence made him seem older and I expected him to act it. When he behaved like a child it annoyed and embarrassed me. After all, at seventeen, I was a child when he was born. If anyone was going to act like a baby, it was going to be me. But, for those few moments, I let my son act like a four year old. A four year old in boy pumps with fringe. He galloped down the sidewalk kicking poles. All dark hair and eyes, plump fists at his sides, his round face broken by his smile, legs askew, kicking up and out, fringe flying. His giddy happiness made us both forget about the stupefying heat. Soon the poles lost their allure and he moved on to the parked cars. First he kicked a couple of tires. Not such a big deal. “Daniel, don-” I couldn’t finish the admonishment. What I wouldn’t have given to kick stuff. How did I get here? Well, I knew how I got there. The problem would be getting out. Dwelling below the surface of the earth, eating Rice-a-Roni only on special occasions, and watching Eight is Enough reruns every night was the same life I’d rebelled against and here I stood, living it. Good move. WHAM! The sound of a plastic cowboy boot toe hitting the metal side of a car door rang loud. Probably time to act like a mother – something I struggled with. Still, I couldn’t fake anger. I hated this town, this life. I had no idea who owned that car but I felt sure I’d hate them too. What did I care? He whacked two more doors before I grabbed him by the arm and went through the discipline motions. “Mother,” Daniel’s gaze bore into mine, tears about to run over. “Are you mad at me? Don’t you like my boots?” He searched me. Like always, he tried hard to read me, gauge my moods to intervene with a quip, a joke or a kiss if he saw sorrow. He hadn’t gone to school yet but he made me laugh harder than anyone I’d ever known. “No, I’m not mad.” I always spoke the truth to him. Another not good parenting plan. “I’m happy for you. And yes, those boots are…fantastic.” He grabbed my hand again. When he held it he really held on, and seemed as he rarely did, like a little boy - at my mercy and small. Like we were the only survivors on the island and he knew for certain holding my hand was the right thing to do, that I could save him. Didn’t he know I was the one who needed saving? When he got older, and things changed, his hands could still break my heart. When his words were bitter, his hands were still sweet. I held his palm up to my mouth and kissed it a bunch, loud cartoonish kisses. He laughed his belly deep, little boy laugh and galloped ahead toward our mole hole, me a little lighter than when I started and Daniel thrilled to wear the most hideous boots this side of Liberace on the 4th of July. Every few steps he’d check behind to make sure I was still there. He feared I’d get lost or fall and hurt myself. He was a worrier, a thinker. I’d smile, nod, and he’d skip on, comforted that all was well. I couldn’t see the future that day, or any other, and I’m not sure what I would’ve, or could’ve changed if I had. But it was all before…the drugs, the alcohol, the disappointments, and the heartbreak - his, mine, and, ours. Before the better angels of his nature got their asses kicked by the darker ones, before our bond severed, brittle and worn, our relationship swirling into a tailspin, both of us in freefall, without the aid of the other. I had my opinion, he had his, and they were not the same. I didn't know what an objective observer would say because I was not one. But I knew this - on that one sweltering day in Junction City, Kansas Daniel was the best little boy in the world and I was his mom. Laziness is my most marked characteristic so I don't do New Year's resolutions.
At least not for myself. This year, I decided to turn a new leaf (which is totally different than making a resolution) and make some...for other people. And I'm so lazy that even this is late. What could be more helpful than pointing out everyone else's faults? I consider this a public service. 1. Women of a certain age. Meaning, I'm certain you're still living so stop dressing like you're dead. Age appropriate and giving up are not the same things. Yes, I realize you can go too far (see my earlier post NYDJ). But, you won't die if you wear a high heel now and again. No, it's not easy. It can be painful. Who cares? Have some vanity for Christ's sake. I don't want to hear it. I wear them on crutches. I realize there's an argument to be made that perhaps I wouldn't be on crutches if I wasn't a life long stiletto wearer. I can live with that. At least I didn't go down without a fight. Birkenstocks, elastic waist pants, pantyhose (they don't look good on Kate Middleton, they don't on you either), sweat pants if you're not sleeping...yoga pants if you're not...you get it. Back away from the sale table at Sears and get yourself a Vogue subscription. Come on ladies! We've still got it and we've gotta show it. 2. The entire Medical profession. THINK before you speak. I'm an authority on this. Here's snippets of my recent conversations as proof. Nursey: Do you prefer Kathleen or Kathy? Me: Kathleen Nursey: Okay, great...Kathy...can you spell that? Dr. Doogie Howser: The last time you had a bowel movement was it in shapes? Me: You mean, like animals? Nursey: Do you have a DNR? Me: Ummm...I'm only 51. No. Nursey: So, Kathy, if you go into cardiac arrest and your heart stops you want to be revived? Me: I'm thinkin' YES. Nursey: On a scale from 0-10, 0 being the least, where would you like your pain level to be? Me: Is that a joke? Does anyone say, If you're all out of NO pain...I'll take excruciating? That would be ZERO. Nursey: Sssssss....well...okay...hmmm...how about 5-10? Doctor Doogie: Wow. Alot of these drugs don't work for you... Me: Well, it is the 21st century, there's got to be a lot of choices, right? Doogie: Any suggestions? 3. Annoying dog people. Keep your four legged friend to yourself. I'm allergic to dogs. But, I don't hate them. What I hate is those dog owners who assume you love their dogs as much as they do, so you won't mind at all if their furry beasts jump up on your cocktail dress, or wipe their snotty snouts on your pants. I adore my grandkids. But I wouldn't let them sniff your crotch, wipe their chocolate covered hands on your jacket, or lick your suede shoes. Please, show me the same courtesy. 4. Traffic controller drivers. Just drive. These are those folks who slam to a stop to "let you in" their lane or sit through their turn, two or three times, at four way stops to wave everyone else through. I'm sure they mean well. But, I often find myself in weird, Marcel Marceau type pantomime conversations with someone who can barely see me through their windshield. Using jerky hand motions and contorted facial expressions I struggle to let them know I don't want to turn into their lane. I want to go the other direction. By the time they get the message they've stopped a line of cars two blocks long. Honking, name calling and middle finger salutes commence and I'm still there, trying to turn left. Grrrr...if everyone just follows the rules of the road we'll all be fine. Really. 5. Hoity Toity Restaurants. Call a spade a spade. When did eating out get so complicated? Pan seared? Really. Isn't that just...fried? Charred bread? I can burn my own bread in my toaster at home. Waiter: Our popcorn has an aura of grapefruit essence, rosemary mist, star anise dust and black sea salt. Get out. Do we seriously need popcorn that takes a Walter White style laboratory to make? Or this jewel...Slow baked organic Scottish salmon with Yuzo-koshu crust, baby green vegetables, glazed gnocchi, and smoked bonito flaked orange broth. Huh? Of course it all arrives in a Leaning Tower of Pisa shaped cylinder on your plate which explodes as soon as you try to fork your way through it. It's about 3 ounces of food for $45. And, why are my scallops covered in two kinds of sauce, one a heinous shade of green, on top of a now inedible soaked and soggy bed of lettuce? Couldn't I have had them...pan seared...or at the very least...charred? Don't worry though, you can bring your own bottle of wine...they'll only charge you $25 to uncork it. And don't even try to bring your own opener. I've heard they're not amused. Happy New Year. Get it together. "If you had the chance, what would you tell your younger self?"
I've seen that question a lot lately. It's a blog topic, a celebrity interview question. The answers are often trite. "I really AM beautiful." "Don't be so hard on yourself." "You ARE thin enough." Not that those things aren't true. They're just probably not the only true things. At least not for me. Whenever I've dared examine myself, if I'm honest, I've never concluded that I'm fantastic. Does anyone with half a brain ever leave a therapist's office thinking, "It really is everybody else?" Not me. So, in the spirit of having half a brain...what would I tell my younger self? It's okay to not have an opinion. I felt strongly about...everything. Even when I didn't know my ass from a hole in the ground. Wait...I don't think I've changed that much...anyhoo... My friends' husband? Thought he was a jackass. Did I know him? No. Reaganomics? Who's Reagan? What's an omic? No matter. I could argue for a couple hours about that topic. Religion? I was there. I knew it wasn't true. There's something to be said for the ignorant optimism of the young. It's just not anything good. It's okay to have an opinion and keep it to yourself. Ack. Little did I know that even if I knew a lot about the subject at hand, it was sometimes preferable, even wise, to keep my pie hole SHUT. My friend's husband really was a jackass. Shoulda kept that gem to myself. Jeans don't make your ass look fat. All that fat makes your ass look fat. Who knew she wouldn't take that well? Religion? I wasn't there and I still don't think its true. But, do I really need to tell the devout (like my mother-in-law for instance) I'm an atheist? Well, agnostic. I'm too lazy to take a stand. Turns out, no. Silence really is golden. Chances and opportunities aren't limitless. This one hurts. Bad. Went to the concert instead of work? Fired. No problem, I'll just get another job. Not so fast. Especially when you've done it ten or twenty times and you're 35 and the economy comes to a screeching halt. Need to exercise more patience and understanding toward my mother? Sure. Later. Too late now. She's gone. Didn't finish college? Who needs that crap? I'll do it later. Marriage, kids, divorce, finances, life...later never came. Here's the finest pearl of wisdom: chances and opportunities involve a hell of a lot of work and sacrifice. Not willing to do it? Then it won't happen. Other than a fair trial, you have a right to very little. Your parents or your neighbors lifestyle isn't your birthright. See chances and opportunities. Privacy is a privilege, especially if you still live at home. Happiness is a choice, often elusive. Self esteem is earned. Doing a job well (starting with that first one at McDonalds), working hard at something even though you're not that good at it until you get better, doing things you need to do instead of just what you want to do, that's how you build self esteem. Stand up for something you believe in even if it costs you. Changing the world is often something only the young have the energy for, so do it. Go to the mat for an ideal. Nothing builds character more than that. Wait. Hate your job and want to quit? Wait. HAVE, HAVE, HAVE to get married? Wait. DYING to have kids? Wait. Can't imagine living without that way too expensive outfit? Wait. How many mistakes would I have avoided if I'd have just...waited. What doesn't kill you often doesn't make you stronger. Trash your health with booze and cigarettes? Cirrhosis and emphysema don't kill you...at least not quick. Hacking up your lungs and turning yellow from jaundice really isn't attractive. And it sure doesn't look fun either. If you feel depressed or anxious ignore it, buck up, it'll go away. It won't affect your judgment or your decision making? Right? This will kill you. But not until you swill in misery for years. The same bad relationships over and over? They wear you down, give you ulcers and wrinkles, make you cry, and beat you down. Kill you? Unfortunately not. Gratitude is more important than almost anything. There hasn't been one day of my life that I haven't had something to feel grateful for. I should've recognized it, celebrated it, shown thanks for it. Lucky for me, I'm still breathing. As long as I am, it's not too late. I'm motherless. The woman I thought would never die, did. When I was ten, there was a girl in my class who had no mother. I don't remember anything about her other than that. At the time, I couldn't imagine anything worse. I realize that a ten year old losing her mother is a tragedy. A 51 year old losing her mother is the ordinary course. Illogically, I feel orphaned. There should be something between tragedy and ordinary, and whatever it is, it's painful. For most of my adulthood I worked hard to maintain a healthy separation from my mother. I sometimes over reached in my efforts, in ways I'm sure she found hurtful. I needed a reprieve from her intrusion, her enabling, her self destructive lifestyle. At the thought of her permanent absence, I only imagined relief. Now I only miss her. One of the many things she did that drove me crazy, I now admire - she lived her life exactly the way she wanted to, with no explanations or apologies. And, here's the kicker - she never expected explanations or apologies from me either. And I can assure you I owed her some. Everyone raise their hand who shouldn't apologize to their mother. That's what I thought. My mother didn't come from a generation that sat around talking about their feelings, and she didn't. Ever. To my great annoyance. But now I realize she lived what she felt. No words necessary. I knew she loved me and she knew I loved her. That's what it comes down to in the end. But, I find myself in a mother-free limbo. Where is my place in the world without my mother? Besides, next? I'm still a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a friend, a writer. But now, I'm no one's daughter. Who do I call for a quick, invigorating tussle? Who can I count on to disagree, disapprove? Who has to love me even when I'm a jackass, a shit head? And who has to always open her door for me? When my mother died, all those certainties went with her and I'm adrift, feeling like a real grown up, responsible for myself without her as a safety net. And she could be the greatest safety net ever. I don't believe death makes us better than we were in life. So, as much as I loved my mother I'm not about to elevate her to sainthood now that she's gone. To say my mother was a saint would be an insult to her memory. She was no saint. She was a card carrying human being with all the flaws and frailties that membership requires. She was complex, hard to figure, often difficult. But she loved everyone she knew the best way she could, with no hesitation, and she gave everything. I didn't always agree with the way she went about it. I didn't think she made the best choices. We didn't often see eye to eye. I didn't understand her. But there's a hole in my life where my mother used to be. When my oldest was born, my mother came bearing gifts. Not for the baby, but for me. A pair of brown polyester trousers and a 3-pack of underwear. Those HUGE kind that double as a shirt. In fact, you don't really have to wear any other clothes, you're all covered.
Mom said, "Now that you're married with a baby you'll need to stop wearing jeans and dressing like a kid." Never mind I was a kid and she was wearing jeans paired with a puff painted cat sweatshirt. I got the message. You're judged by your outfit. This is a concept I still struggle with, particularly as I get older. Not long ago, hubby and I attended a work shindig - his work. I'm a writer, we don't have shindigs. Unless you count group therapy. We had to travel there so I packed a way cute dress that I'd bought last December and still hadn't worn. That's what a great wife I am. I make sure I always keep a stock of way cute stuff to wear whenever duty calls. I know, I know, I'm a trouper. Anyway, last December was...a while ago. Perhaps...a few pounds ago. I remember when I tried it on it was a hair snug. "I'm gonna lose a few pounds right after Christmas so it'll be perfect by the time I wear it." Turns out that standing up while eating doesn't burn as many calories as I thought. Wine apparently doesn't count as a fruit either. I realize I'm not gonna get much sympathy here as I am not a big person. But, I will say that as a small person, five pounds is a whole size. Menopause is no respecter of persons. After a certain age...thick frequently turns up in your body description. And too tight is too tight no matter what. I was dismayed to discover that the way cute dress I'd packed for the shindig resembled a sausage casing. I might've doubled up on the Spanx but then I'd never have gotten the dress on. You know you've got problems when the girdle actually makes the dress tighter. Anyway, after I tugged, yanked, sucked in, and spanxed my way into the dress I looked myself over in an, unfortunately, full length mirror. It got me thinking... Maybe the dress wouldn't have been right even had it been, well, bigger. I'll admit, the oxygen getting cut off to my brain might've influenced my thought process. Still. Those brown polyester pants and chin hugger underwear popped into my mind. Am I dressing too young for my age? Ouch. We all know those women. Saggy knees, baggy arms, spandex mini dress. Ack. Then there's the snowflake sweater, navy knit trousers (yes, there's a difference between pants and trousers and it's not good), serviceable Easy Spirit flat shoes kinda woman. Double ack. Isn't there something in between? Does age appropriate dressing equal frump? I set out to re-vamp my wardrobe. I started with jeans. Sorry, Mom. "I want some jeans that don't show my butt crack," I said to the 16 year old salesgirl at Nordstrom. "Those are for kids. I'm getting older, you know." She looked me over with that, "You don't have to tell me, sister" kind of face. She announces, "I know just the thing. You WILL LOVE them." I head to the dressing room with a few pairs of decent looking jeans. I noted the brand name stamped in leather on the back - NYDJ. Never heard of it. I pull them on. And keep pulling. They stopped somewhere around my armpits. The zipper was about 3 feet long. Another version of those underwear. I creep out of the dressing room, hopeful no one I know sees me. "Those look darling on you!" 16 year old crack smoking salesgirl says. "Are these pants or a jumpsuit?" She hasn't noticed I'm not wearing my shirt. No need. She stays mum, a dental ad smile glued on her face. "What does NYDJ stand for anyway?" "Not Your Daughter's Jeans." She chirps. I look in the mirror. Nope, they're not; they're my grandma's. I put the jeans back and bought some longer shirts. This is our baby Adelia.
She's 6 years old. She's hilarious. She's smart. She loves to say "butt cheeks" and "sucks to be you." She wants candy for Christmas and means it. She won't open any present that doesn't sound like it's candy. She shakes the box then hands it back with "Nah...that's okay." She yells at her baby brother. For nothing in particular. It usually involves "butt cheeks" or "sucks to be you." She wears her shoes on the wrong feet. I'll say, "Your shoes are on the wrong feet." She says, "It's okay. Don't worry about it." She likes to one up her dad with fart noises or bad jokes and say, "Sho you right." She has Cerebral Palsy. We don't know what that means in the long term. We only know that the long term will be shorter because of her disease. Her mom and dad have always worked hard to make sure Adelia lives her life like other kids. She does most things for herself. She's just not fast. She rides the school bus. She plays softball. She dances. She sings...badly, but loud. She fights with her older sister. She gets in trouble. I got to thinking the other day about what kind of life Adelia can have with a disease that gets progressively worse. Other than the obvious cure, what would I wish for her? I think I've proven in the short time I've been a blogger that sentiment is not my strong suit. So, I'm not one of those people who think that the disabled are inherently endowed with mystical, magical or pure qualities. I'm certain there are disabled assholes. I realize that's not a popular view. Not in a world where we are all in the stranglehold of political correctness. But, I stand by it. I say, good for them. There're plenty of non-disabled assholes, so please, feel free. And, I think only idiots say things like, "I don't want her to be defined by her disability." Have you ever seen a person who struggles with major disabilities? It defines them. They don't like it anymore than you do. So stop patronizing them. But, it all got me thinking... I want Adelia to fall in love, get her heart broken, make big mistakes, celebrate small victories, say the wrong thing at the wrong time, say the right thing at exactly the right time, hurt someone's feelings, kiss someone to make them better, cry like the world will end and laugh like it never will. I want Adelia to live a life in full, in all its glorious, messy, and complicated wonder. Years from now, I want her to visit me in the old folk's home with her shoes on the wrong feet, chocolate all over her face, making fart noises, telling bad jokes and saying, "Sho you right, Mimi." I just want her to live. I'm sure you're sick of hearing about Italy. But, this is my blog and I get to write about whatever I want. Plus, I don't think you're really sick of it. What is it exactly that's so great about Italy? Funny you should ask. Take this, for instance. This skeleton guy is hanging on a church wall. It's about 25 feet tall. What a fantastic way to introduce your kids to church. Scare the shit out of them right off the bat. And not just once. Every single Sunday. I don't have stats but I'll bet Italy's crime rate among teens is lower than ours. Every time little Luca picks his nose, or punches little Isabella during the sermon, all Mama has to do is point. This'll straighten his ass up, pronto. If that's not enough, there's this. It's on the other side of the same church. Again, about 25 ft. tall. Skeleton Stereo. AWESOME. I mean, come on. You know you're kids are gonna talk about you in therapy. Might as well make it worth their while. This isn't in the same church. Duh, it's not a skeleton. This is in a different church. In the middle of the aisle. Nothing like a corpse laid out on the floor to get the party started. Yeah, yeah, I know. My hand basket is on its way to pick me up...blasphemy is my strong suit. But, really? Isn't this a little much? Nah. You're right. It's fantastic and you can rotate churches with your kiddies. Then there's this guy. He's a dead guy covered with some kind of metal. A human made into sculpture. There's actually a bunch of these all over the place. Lots of churches have their own dead guy. I thought this was a good idea for me. If I go first, hubby can have me encased in metal and enshrined in a prominent spot like the living room. Or, the bedroom. Maybe even sitting on the couch with a glass of wine in my stiff, metallic, little hand. It might decrease his chances of marrying again. But so what? Like that's my problem? You might recognize her. I posted this photo on my Facebook page already. It's Saint Lucy. The patron saint of eyesight. Hard to tell from this photo but those are her eyeballs in that bowl. A little confusing because she still has eyeballs in her head. "It's too gruesome to paint her without eyes," Tour guide said. Really? Unfortunately, I didn't get photos of the other martyred Saints we saw. Mostly because they were in places we weren't allowed to take photos in. Martyrdom is big. Apparently you've got to die a gruesome death and then you're in. There's the guy who is always painted with giant rocks sticking out of his forehead and blood running down his face. He was stoned to death. Me: "That's not too gruesome to paint?" Tour guide: Silent. There's the guy who's always painted holding his own skin since he was...skinned to death. Me: "That's not too gruesome to paint?" Tour guide: Silent Or, the guy who's always painted with grill marks all over him because he was...you guessed it...barbecued. I didn't bother to ask. Virginity is good. Sex is bad. If you have sex its important that you don't like it and you're punished for it. Even the Greek myths celebrate virginity among its Goddesses. About the only acceptable way to get pregnant is by a snake, a pig, or an invisible man. Hey, that's the way a lot of women get pregnant today. WTF? Coincidence? See girls? We really are like Goddesses. They've got these sassy little angels all over the place. My favorite was one I couldn't photograph. He was nude except for his chaps (butt-less of course) with a big, wide cowboy belt holding up the chaps. Picture Howard Stern's flight into the MTV awards that one year. But smaller. No shirt. Less hairy. Love it. Sassy. Speaking of Sassy. This is Kinky Boots David. I mean, Donatello's David. Kinda like Michelangelo's David if his kitten-with-a-sword sex game had been interrupted by having to pose. I mean, really. How much do you love this? In case you couldn't decide... Yeah, you love it. I love the Italians. Even our tour guide had to comment on it: "If you answer the door totally naked, it's entirely plausible that you just got out of the shower. If you answer the door naked, except for your hat, boots and sword...somethin's goin' on." Yeah, we even had cool tour guides. For comparison. No photograph can do justice to this sculpture's magnificence. You really gotta be there. At first, I felt ambivalent about seeing it. I've seen the replica in Caesar's Palace...that's pretty much the same, right? Not even close. (For more on our ugly americanism see this). In Florence, the message is: "We've got Michelangelo. You don't." And do they ever. What a guy. He was only 26 when he finished the David. He was in his early 30's when he painted the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel. He'd only painted one painting before that and never a fresco which involves wet plaster and is very difficult. He didn't really like to paint. He was hard to get along with. He was obsessed with the nude, male form. He'd sculpt nude women but they looked like men, burly, buff men, with bad boob jobs. On the Sistine chapel ceiling even God has firm, taut, buttocks. He'd drag his feet on projects he didn't want to do. Like a gigantic tomb for a Pope. It took him 40 years and he never finished it. Pieces of it are displayed around Italy. He knew his own worth and died a millionaire. Part of his feet dragging involved negotiations. He'd stop work to re-negotiate his fee. Not starting again till he got the price he wanted. He never married and when he died at 89 he had a young, male, Roman companion. You go, Michelangelo. I'd love Italy just for him Okay, this isn't really a toilet. It's a bidet. Both of our hotels had them. In restaurants toilets have no seats. Not even women's toilets. In hotels you get double toilet action. I don't know about homes. We never got an invite. Shocking, I know. I'm afraid of bidets. How do you use it? Do you straddle it facing the wall? Do you sit on it like a regular toilet? Do you turn both handles? There's soap? Too much pressure for me. I was afraid I'd have some embarrassing bidet accident that would go down as legend, talked about at every hotel staff party for years to come. No grazi. There is no one photo, or series of photos, than could ever do justice to Italy. But, as you can tell, it's in my mind forever. As a writer, I can't help but love a country that reveres its artists like Italy. Everywhere you go there's someone's artistic expression. No surface goes unloved, no building unadorned. The Italians value art, they preserve it, they restore it, they dig for it, they hang on to it. It's a country where angels guide you, Saints have your back, and breathtaking beauty soothes your soul. I've been humbled by gratitude ever since I laid eyes on it. |
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November 2017
IF YOU LIKE THE BLOGS YOU'LL LOVE THE NOVELS IN HER TWISTED CRIME SERIES |