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.
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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. My relationship with my mother is complicated. Get in line, right? My mother struggles with a non-treated mental illness and has for all of her adult life, I would guess. Maybe longer. She is a slave to her destructive, damaging impulses and addictions. They've stripped her of her health, her financial security, her relationships, her dignity. As her only child, my feelings for her jerk back and forth between love and hate, empathy and disdain. I want to slap her or hug her. I never want to see her again, I want her to move in with me. Sometimes I rail in anger at her, sometimes I beg in desperation - for sins committed, for the awareness and improvements I know will never come. I've often said to my husband, "Peace won't come for either of us until after her death." Last week, she had a heart attack. She survived. My mom has long enjoyed a mind-boggling relationship with suffering. She revels in it, she insists on it. Nothing, and no one, can keep her from it. She felt pain in her chest and arm, called 911 herself, got helicoptered out of the middle-of-nowhere, had surgery, and told no one. I heard it from her neighbor, who called the fire department when she finally noticed something was wrong over at my mom's house - it looked too still, closed up. Coincidentally, I'd just talked with her doctor the day before, a patient and caring man. The kind of doctor you want but never get. He'd been concerned, as we all were, that she could no longer live alone. It was a conversation she and I had many times, or I should say I had it. She tuned it all out. It's a conversation that went like most I've had with her since I was 13. A 40 year wrestling match. I always lost. "Please stop giving everything away." "Please don't insist on buying dinner." "Please don't insist on buying everything for everyone." "Please stop enabling your alcoholic husband." "Please respect the rules I've laid out for my children." "Please stop smoking. I'm allergic." "Please stop smoking. You've had cancer 3 times." "Please stop gambling all your money away." "Please respect my boundaries." All fell on deaf ears. "Please don't live alone in god forsaken nowhere when you're in such poor health," got the same negative reception as everything else. Or, no reception. She simply pretends I'm not talking. Her doctor suggested I write her a letter. She might take it better. So, I did. She still hasn't seen it since she is still hospitalized. But, I mailed it. I put a lot of effort into trying to lay it out to her gently. Without rancor or resentment. I used phrases like: "I care about you." "Your living situation scares me." "You have options." "We want this chapter of your life to be safe." Blah, blah, blah. Even though it was a letter all about her lifestyle and several options for better ways to live, it was really all about her death and dying. A round about way of asking, "Please, let us make your dying easier than your living." It's been painful to watch her lifelong, deliberate and relentless self destruction. She's frail yet tough. Meek yet stubborn. Until very recently, she moved at a frantic pace, a race to spend, gamble and smoke until the very last second of her life. She's done a bang up job of it too. She's got nothing left. I am angry at her. I resent what she's done to herself. I resent what her untreated illness has done to our family. I find her refusal to acknowledge it infuriating. Yet, last night I realized that when I wrote her that letter, spelled it out as carefully as I could, I left out what I really wanted to say, but couldn't. Please don't go. I'm not ready. Sometimes I say things.
I guess they're embarrassing. My oldest son Daniel is frequently called upon to tell me, "Mother, you shouldn't say that out loud." He always calls me Mother. With that tone. You know the one. I've already confessed I was a young mother. A too young, 17 year old mother. I was the best mother a 17 year old could possibly be - which is pretty much like being the smartest moron in the room. Two weeks before Daniel was born my dog got run over. Distraught with 17 year old grief I said, "I'd rather have my dog than a baby." I've told this story a few times. My son says, "Mother, normal mothers don't say things like that." He's forgetting that I always close with, "Imagine my surprise when I saw my kid and liked him waaaay better than that dog." I'm not a complete loser. Another favorite reminiscence of mine (well, it used to be. God forbid I should tell it) is when said son's turtle fell off the balcony to his untimely death. I knew Daniel's heart would break. Desperate to soothe I told him, "You know, he had a lot of bills. He lost his job, his wife left him. That's why he jumped." He responded sobbing, his little face scrunched up in horror, "My turtle committed suicide?" "Well, if you put it like that..." What I didn't say was, "I told you not to leave that damn turtle out on the third story balcony, didn't I?" Do I get any points for NOT saying that? Guess not. When my daughter Kayla was born she was a homely little thing. I shit you not. She cried constantly and had no forehead. I loved her and all, but contrary to common belief, love isn't blind. "She's not that cute," I'd say. Daniel, age 4 would chime in, "Mother, you're not very nice." Today, Kayla is a stunner. Seriously. A beauty. I tell everyone. I love her and all, but love still isn't blind. Just calling it like I see it. I'm overcome with similar sentiment about my grandkids. Whom, I make no secret, I adore. However, I thought I was a little on the YOUNG side for grandma-hood. Not to mention, I thought my oldest daughter was too young for motherhood. She wasn't as young as I was...but still, not yet 20. Ack. But, ever stoic, I adjusted. When Kayla was pregnant, all kinds of women would say with glee, "Aren't you so excited? Grandkids are so awesome." I'd answer with, "I'm sure I'll like it just fine." Daniel would scold, "Mother. You don't say 'you'll like it just fine' about a baby. You say that about carpeting or a car. NOT a baby." Pardon me. To my astonishment, Kayla insisted on my presence during her labor and delivery. Let me tell you my friends, if you haven't had that pleasure...count your freaking blessings. I didn't want to be present for my own labors and deliveries, much less... I kept escaping. Then they'd find me. I told Daniel, "She was like the Mafia. Every time I tried to get out, she pulled me back in." "Mother, you just said that out loud." But, I have to admit, when Madison was born, she was every bit the miracle they said she'd be. I fell hard for her. I didn't have a prayer. My daughter still says that day, and her childbirth experience, was in the top five of her best memories. So, that's enough to melt even my black heart. Then came Adelia, Kayla's second baby. Not thrilled with the prospect. Said so. Then she arrived, and like a snuggly, cuddly worm, she crawled right into my heart. I don't think there's a kid more loved than Adelia. Then Amelie. Good God. Would they ever stop? At least this was a different daughter's baby. "You're going to be a grandma again? That's so fantastic," some idiot would crow. "Shut up." Daniel would lecture, "Mother, you know as soon as you see them you're like jello. Why don't you just try to enjoy it?" "Did I ever tell you about my dog?" Then, there she was. All red hair, big blue eyes, little gap between her teeth. She loves feather boas and crowns. How precious is Amelie? Then, yet one more. Kayla announced another imminent birth. I bit my tongue. I kept my mouth shut. So shut. Until... "Mom, I know you're not happy about this, but-" Then I said a bunch of stuff out loud that I shouldn't have. Daniel nagged, "Now you've done it. I told you not to say anything." Yeah. Got it. Well, as grandkids will, Che Jr. was born. Our first grandson. Oh my goodness. What a joy he is. A delicious bundle of all things fabulous. Just when you think your heart can't take it all in, it expands and grows and fills with all kinds of mushy love. Daniel said, "I told you, Mother...I knew as soon as you saw him you'd be crazy for him." Kaya said, "Isn't he so handsome?" "I hope he's not an asshole." Where were we?
Right. 12 year Doc said: It's your hips...torn labrums. I don't do that surgery. No one here does. You have to go to UCLA. Me: Surgery? What about physical th- Doc: Nope. They're torn. If you want to fix them, its surgery. It took two months to get an appointment at UCLA. Weird UCLA Doc's assistant tells me: She'll want to see your MRI. Me: Ummm...well...I don't have that in my purse or anything. Can she get it from my last doctor? Weird Assistant: We don't do that. You have to get them and bring them with you. Now, I don't know about you, but the last I heard this was the 21st century. The digital age. I can take a photo with my freaking phone and email it to my kids. Has this news not hit the medical profession? Me: Don't they just email them or something? Weird Assistant: No. You have to bring them. If it wasn't film you could FAX them. FAX? Should I just strap them to a pigeons leg and have them flown over? WTF? Two months later in UCLA Doc's office. My appointment was at 1:00. She saw me at 3:00 UCLA Doc: I looked at the MRI and you do have torn labrums on both sides. Me: I know. UCLA Doc: But, this isn't the right kind of MRI. Me: There's a wrong kind? UCLA Doc: Yep. I need the kind with contrast. This one doesn't have contrast. So, you'll need to get that done at your local doctors office and come back. Me: This is UCLA. You don't do that here? UCLA Doc: No...yeah...well...it's best if you just do it there and bring the films with you again when you come back. Me: It took me two months to get this appointment. It's a two hour drive, one way. Plus I waited two hours in the waiting room. UCLA Doc: I'll have my assistant give you priority. That was reassuring. I head for the door. UCLA Doc, pointing at my feet: You'll need to stop wearing those. Those would be my stilettos. Me: That's not gonna happen. UCLA Doc, smiling: No, I'm not kidding. You can't wear those. You have a serious hip injury. Me: I'm not kidding either. It's not gonna happen. Who's in charge now? I thought she should know who she was dealing with. Everybody knows the way you look is WAY more important than your health. Duh. I wasn't born yesterday. Another month later in UCLA Doc's office with the right kind of MRI, stilettos ON. My appointment was at 2:00. I saw the doctor at 4:00. UCLA Doc: You need surgery. Me: I know. I knew that before I got here. With the wrong kind of MRI. UCLA Doc, not really listening: I do one hip at a time, three months apart. My assistant will book it. Me to Weird Assistant: I need to book my surgery. Weird Assistant: She books 2-3 months out. Two and a half months later, surgery day arrives. It's been almost a year since my first doctors appointment. Hubby and I are driving to UCLA, my cell phone rings. Me: Hello? Voice on phone: This is blah, blah, from Blue Shield. Me: Yes? Blah, Blah from Blue Shield: I'm afraid your hip surgery isn't covered by your current insurance plan. 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. I'm sure there's nothing left to say about Italy's food that hasn't already been said by more talented writers than me. But, one of the magnificent things about Italy in general is everyone who goes feels like they're the first. The food, so far, is deserving of its own post. When I die, I'm certain I'll have never eaten finer food. Last night we had Tuscan style food. We didn't know it was Tuscan style but the waiter told us. No idea what that really means except they don't have seafood and the wine is sublime. And cheap. We got this whole bottle for less than one glass in the US. We started with figs and prosciutto for an appetizer. They brought the figs, whole, on one plate and the prosciutto on another. No frills, no fancy prep, just the food. Fresh, simple, glorious. I wanted pasta. I hadn't had it yet and, well, it's Italy. It's a law. I ordered the Carbonara. I make it at home but wanted to taste the real thing. Needless to say, I probably won't make it anymore. Hard to believe pasta, butter, prosciutto and eggs could taste so heavenly, but it did. Hubby had the Pasta Castalinga - named after the restaurant. Castalinga means housewife. So, they've got it going on in Italy, those housewives. This pasta had tomatoes, chili flakes and basil. Sweet, spicy, light, perfect. I knew it was time to go when hubby started to recommend this fantastic pasta to the other ugly Americans sitting at the next table...the Pasta Cunnilingus. Dessert. Even though we'd stuffed ourselves and drank a whole bottle of wine...well...dessert was still a no brainer. Especially almond biscotti dipped in Vin Santo. When you get to the pearly gates, this is what they're serving. I swore I'd never eat again. Till breakfast. When hubby and I travel, we make it a point to never eat at the hotel we're staying in. We prefer to take our chances out and about. But, our zillion dollar hotel room came with breakfast so we felt like we had to. Good call. How could you not eat in a place so lovely? And how could you not love a waiter who brings you your own foot stool. I mean, right? Even the flowers were delicious. I just wish I could've filled all these plates. I tried. I think I even love that toaster. Man can't live by bread alone. So how about some of this? And this... A little bit of this... Or, this... Or, this... Yeah, I know...ridonkulous. No, I'm not kidding. Yes, there's still more. If you're feeling healthy. Healthier... A little cereal? Granola? Pumpkin seeds? Yogurt? Like, the best in the world...yes, that's a whole wall of champagne back there. That's what I'm talkin' about. Thought they'd never ask. I know, looks like I hardly ate a thing. That was my first plate.
I've gotta go...we're getting ready to go to dinner. And I ran out of time before I could add lunch pictures. So glad I brought my fat pants. Today is Kenneth's birthday. He's our youngest. Which, can't be right because no one his age can be our youngest. I won't say how old he is. This is still my blog, after all. I'll give you a hint though, this photo is more than ten years old... I have to confess I'm not sure what an ode is. I think it's poetic. Even though I could find out in half a second what it means, I'm not gonna. I just like it. This is still my blog, after all. In this instance, it means "Shout Out." Kenneth is one of those people who are not appreciated enough. So, today, on the anniversary of his birth, I'm gonna appreciate him, show him some love, with one of my favorite things - a list. This is a list of some of the things I love and appreciate about Kenneth. Almost everything I know about baseball, I know because of Kenneth. Well, his Dad too, but it isn't his Dad's birthday. I know a double-header lasts a hell of a long time. I know what a change-up is. I know its important to count pitches. I know there's no half-time, cheerleaders, points, or crying, in baseball. What I still don't know is why the coaches and the managers wear baseball uniforms. Kenneth doesn't know why either. Kenneth is thoughtful. He bought me this leg lamp because one Christmas TBS played A Christmas Story over and over for 24 hours. I said, "I love that guy's leg lamp. How awesome would it be to have a leg lamp of my own?" Now I can tell you, it is indeed, AWESOME. Because Kenneth bought it for me. You know you want it. Kenneth carries groceries without me asking him to. If you're cold, he'll give you his coat. He's never late. If he says he'll do something, he does it. He fixes stuff. He helps me with the techno crap on my website and Facebook page because I'm a zero. He once spent all day trying to hook up my new MP3 player in my car. He's that kind of guy. He was Best Man at our wedding. He made a toast that he'd thought of himself. This was big. Kenneth is shy, not terribly fond of public speaking. But, I've never heard a better toast. Except for the one his Dad made at our daughter's wedding. But, it's not his Dad's birthday. He cracked open the champagne and poured us a glass. He made me cry. This photo and memory means the world to me, and his Dad. All of our kids were fantastic on our wedding day. But, it's not their birthday either. This is Cosmo. This is Kenneth and his sister Kristen's arms. She gave him this rabbit for his birthday, a zillion years ago. I love that he gave his rabbit such a cool guy name. Even though she was a girl rabbit. I love that he will probably be embarrassed that these photos are here. He will probably be embarrassed by this whole post. But, that ship sailed. Not sure why Kenneth's head is cut off in this photo. But, I love that he planted these roses for us. He worked at it all day. They were beautiful and the only thing I missed, and miss still, since we sold that house. I love that Kenneth thinks anything happening below the waist is hilarious. Fart jokes? Fuggetaboutit! Naked fart jokes? Stop...he's dyin! Oh...he laughs at my jokes too. That's key. He also read both my books, in manuscript form. Even the first, really crap one. He didn't even say it sucked. I love that. I have stuff on my book shelves that can only be called, tacky. My sock monkey Jesus, my naked fat lady salt and pepper shakers, my Van Gogh figurine sans ear... Kenneth baptized this shelf my tacky shelf. I LOVE it that Kenneth has kept this tradition alive and has his own tacky shelf. This is Nunzilla (she rolls and spits sparks out of her mouth) and the Expanding Nerd. He started out a minuscule sponge like thing and when soaked in water, he expanded. You know you want one. I love it that Kenneth is a good cook and made this meal himself last Thanksgiving. No, that's kind of a lie. I love it that Kenneth re-creates the exact meal that I've made at holiday time for the last decade, plus. Right down to the apricot jam I spread on the bottom crust of the pumpkin pie. That's really something. Traditions are for carrying on. To know that this dinner has meaning to him, well...that's everything, isn't it? Speaking of carrying on. This is Kenneth and Madison, our now 11 year old granddaughter. It's hard to believe how much time has passed since I first met Kenneth so many years ago. Before Madison was born. We've grown. The funny thing about writing is it never goes the way you plan. This blog, for instance. I wanted to salute Kenneth on his birthday. But, I noticed there's a pattern here. It's as much about me as it is about him. Kenneth makes me feel like my best self when he's around. That's the gist of it. I feel like a good mom, a good friend, a good cook, and don't forget, funny! So, happy birthday to Kenneth. I'm thinking of him today and all the years we've gotten to know one another, and all the ways knowing him has made me happy. I wouldn't trade them, or him. He's my youngest kid, and that's that. I know one thing for sure, when Kenneth gets married...she won't be good enough for him and I'll be the mother-in-law from hell. You could ask my sons-in-law to elaborate...but it's not their birthday. This is George and Alice. To the untrained eye they look pretty much like everyone else. They are SO NOT like everyone else. I'll start with George. He's tallest. George is a musician, engineer, attorney, quasi-geologist, father to twins, husband. A conversation with George goes like this: George: That was when I was a pirate. Me: Ahhh...what? George: Yeah, pirate. I used to swing in on a rope. Aaaaargh. There was more to this story, but he had me at pirate. Or, George: Yeah, that was when I fixed the air-conditioning at the Chicken Ranch. Me: The whorehouse Chicken Ranch? George: Yeah. When I was in high school my parents retired and moved to Nevada. Right. I'd forgotten that the natural progression was, you go to high school, your parents retire, then you're fiddling with the air-conditioning at a whorehouse. Me: You just happened to find yourself there when the air conditioning broke? George (with an aren't you simple look on his face): No...my mom sent me. She made friends with a lot of the girls. Of course. Or, George: That was when Ray Charles came to my house... Or, George: That was when I went camping in Australia and got invited to the male puberty ceremony with the aborigines... You follow me. Then there's Alice. She's a pipeline engineer, mother of twins, wife, and entrepreneur. She owns and operates a Chinese restaurant, a chain of massage stores, and I'm not sure if she still owns that factory. Alice left China, her traditional Chinese family, her culture, her language, to come to America, alone. She arrived not speaking much English, but still managed to buy and operate a business with thirteen branches. She is the only person in her family to not have had an arranged marriage. She married her pirate-friend-of-Ray-Charles-whorehouse-repairman-male-aborigine-puberty-ceremony- guest-guy, because she wanted to. Because, she told me, "He's the best, purest man I've ever known. He's all the way good." Be warned, if you sit still next to Alice long enough, she'll buy you, remodel you, bring a couple of her cronies over from China to bitch slap you into shape, hang an "Open" sign around your neck, and expect you to turn a profit in a week. Alice didn't like the food at the only Chinese restaurant in their town, so she bought it, remodeled it, brought a couple of her cronies over from China to bitch slap it into shape, hung out the open sign and its going gangbusters. Lucky us, we were treated to a feast there with George and Alice, just recently. The food kept coming. We kept eating. I think they brought about 65 lbs. of food to our table. I thought we'd died and gone to Chinese heaven. If Buddha ate Chow Fun, he got it at Alice's restaurant. BTW...sometime during the evening, perhaps mid-pirate story, George quoted something from my blog. Me: George! You read my blog? George: Yep. My sisters do too. I passed it onto them. Let me tell you, finding out that George reads my blog and passed it on to his sisters is like discovering Francis Ford Coppola watches the videos of your 1st grader's school play on YouTube and forwards them on to Sophia. I digress. The first time I met George and Alice, they'd attended a company soiree. George and hubby work together. A little known fact - All Asians know when there's another Asian in their midst. They might not know how Asian you are, or what kind of Asian, but if you've got a drop of Asian blood they will find you. And when they do, you're in the pagoda for life. Alice found me. My soul sistah. She's treated me like family since that day. The second time I ran into George, he'd attended a company soiree, alone. Alice had taken a fast boat to China to buy a factory or some such (Alice buys factories in her off time). I had the opportunity to talk to George. Me: Where's Alice? George: China. Buying a factory. Me: Oh, well...nice to see you, at any rate. George: Can't stay long. Me: Why? George: Because Alice is in an all-girl Chinese band. She plays the Chinese mandolin (I could be wrong on the exact instrument, but what's a girl to do?) and sings. Me (not catching on): Oh...well...she's in China, right? George: Yeah. I'm taking her place. Me: You play the Chinese mandolin and sing in Chinese? (I let the fact that he wasn't a girl, slide) George (shrugs): I do all right. As he was leaving, he told me: George: You know, I got married really late in life. I'd given up. I didn't think marriage was in the cards for me. Me: I was speechless, for once. George: Then I met Alice. She opened up my life in ways I never imagined. So, no. George and Alice aren't like everyone else. We're so lucky to know them, to call them friends. Yep, George and Alice are the cherry on top of our Chinese chocolate cupcake life. |
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November 2017
IF YOU LIKE THE BLOGS YOU'LL LOVE THE NOVELS IN HER TWISTED CRIME SERIES |