As threatened...a progress report on our mini-remodel that actually feels pretty major. That's our knocker. And we love our knockers around here. That's our entryway gargoyle. Making everyone feel welcome. Or creeped out. Whatever. Speaking of our entryway... This is the family room/kitchen before. Dullsville. This is what it looked like when we first looked at the house. This is not our furniture. NOT. That was then...this is now... On to the Master. When I saw this photo online I thought it was a garage. Turns out it was more of a brothel type deal. We didn't do much to it. That's the kind of people we are. As you'll see in the following photos we have a pillow situation. Hubby has two master's degrees but he is not qualified to arrange the pillows. It takes a pillow master. Which, I happen to be. Next up - the stairwell. Who cares about the stairwell? Me. Snoooooze....but not anymore! The media room. It was, and is, tacky city. But, we've pretty much run out of steam to do anything to it other than put stuff in it that we don't have room for anywhere else. This is it before...you'll notice it doesn't look much different after. No, your eyes aren't playing tricks on you. That IS leopard print carpet. Meow.... You will notice that the original photo is of much better quality. Naturally. The guest rooms. I only have before photos of one of them. This is why I would suck at food or style blogging. I never remember to take the pics. No, I don't know what that is growing on the walls. They might've filmed The Ring in here. This room was one well away from having a dead girl climb out of it. Or, it was some bio-terror experiment gone awry. This last room has no before photos. It was just empty. Now it's not. This blog takes as long to read as the remodeling did. But, that's it. Almost.
Just the living room (still waiting on the furniture. Why does it take 10-12 weeks to get it? Does anyone know?) and the landscaping. Stay tuned.
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We bought our granddaughter, Adelia, a new bicycle for her birthday today.
I'd guess no one gasped after reading that sentence - hardly earth shattering news. Grandparents buy their grandkids stuff all the time. But, this bicycle came at what feels like an intolerable price, in a way that has nothing to do with money. We have a bunch of grandkids. After the first two girls arrived, we did the usual toy/clothes/crap buying that usually follows for birthdays, holidays, etc. As kids do, they'd lose interest in whatever we'd purchased in about two days. We decided we wanted to give something more meaningful. We opened savings accounts for them, and all those preceding. So, every year, instead of a pile of junk we put money away for each of them to hopefully entice them to go to college. No more gifts. As anyone who has a history with me, or this blog knows - our granddaughter Adelia has lived with an undiagnosed Cerebral Palsy like illness for several years. Specialist after specialist threw up their hands and tossed out CP after ruling out everything else. Ataxic Cerebral Palsy to be exact - which was not good news. They thought...maybe... The hope held firm in the maybe. As long as she went undiagnosed with a maybe trailing there was a chance, wasn't there? Maybe there'd be a medication. A therapy. A miracle. We hoped. Let me tell you what I've learned about hope...it is NOT the thing with feathers that perches in the soul. It's the thing with a boa constrictor's grip that strangles you like prey. We held tight in its grasp, willing and breathless. So, every year we put money in Adelia's account like we did for everybody else. After all, she might go to college. And, every year we'd watch her deteriorate, her struggle more obvious. But, she could probably still go to college. This week, after nearly four years, she got a final diagnosis from a round table of some of the best doctors in the world at one of the finest hospitals - they were half right before. She is Ataxic but does not have Cerebral Palsy. It's a different sort of Ataxia with most of the same terrible, debilitating, life shortening, symptoms and some different ones just for shits and giggles. I won't bore you with the details but the fact that this disease made itself known around the time she turned two means its course is more determined, relentless. Adelia won't go to college. Somewhere in my head, I knew this already. The temporary CP diagnosis should've gotten us all used to the idea, but I couldn't face it and we kept counting on her future. Her savings account proved she'd have one, didn't it? As long as we kept putting money in it her chances increased. Until they didn't. The maybe got lopped off. Now we talk about her quality of life, not its quantity. We're planning for now, not later. We're taking money out of Adelia's savings account to buy her things that she can enjoy now, that might make her living less encumbered. We're going about it like we need to. Her new bike is a special needs, adapted bike...a high-tech, raspberry pink, hella sweet ride. I feel like I'm walking under deep water with lead in my shoes. They call it crying uncle because you're crying while you do it. Adelia got a normal bike a couple years ago, before her mobility was as challenged as it is now. But still wasn't able to do it. "Dad...where's the tools?" she'd ask. "That bike doesn't work." That's Adelia - the bike's broken. She is not. "She's gonna love that new bike, Mom." My daughter, the unsinkable Kayla Mead, tells me. "She wouldn't ever know what it's like to ride one if it weren't for this," she assures. I mumbled something, but I don't remember what. We both go silent. "Don't be sad, Mom." Sad? Sad is an aspiration. I search for comforting words, thinking I've found some, I start to speak but the lump in my throat keeps it down. I stay quiet. "I'm so excited for her to get it. She'll be so happy," Kayla says. I still say nothing. She prods,"Mom?" As always, I'm battling tears and Kayla is propping me up. "Adelia is still with us. We'll have a lot of days ahead of us to be sad," she continues. "But today is not one of them."
I'm scattered.
The last eight months have been tough. Illness, death, surgeries, retirement, moving...all those serious life changes they warn you about. You know, all the stress inducing ones. In the background, a granddaughter suffering with a debilitating disease and to a much lesser, but still off putting degree, this Mother's Day was my first without a mother. So, I find myself in a daily quandary, my brain a-jumble. I stare off into the abyss, overwhelmed, hanging on the ledge not really trying to pull myself up. Getting by is fine for now. I have 3 pairs of glasses and often can't find even one pair. I walk (limp) into a room and can't remember why I'm there. I'll make a phone call and feel surprised when someone I know answers. Making a grocery list feels like writing a thesis. Yet, oddly, I find myself thinking about Father's Day. Perhaps to get a jump on it, to not forget. Even though my father is dead. My husband is a father, my sons-in-law are fathers...so maybe that's it. Or, maybe not. Lately, I've been thinking about my stepfather- who is just as dead as my father. He and my mother were married over 30 years. A miracle of midwestern stick-to-it-ness if you ask me. But, stick with it they did. Until his death several years ago. I've discovered when you're feeling a little beat down, your brain goes places it never would if you felt stronger. You don't have the energy to keep at bay the feelings you'd squashed before, or you realize in a weak moment you feel differently all together. Barely a teen when my mother and stepfather married, I felt no love for him. Just a casual disdain that grew into a lazy hatred then settled into an annoyed apathy. He was an alcoholic. Cruel, unreliable, unpredictable. Both my mother and I knew it from the get go. She married him anyway, as bad men were her comfort zone. I can't say I felt disappointed. Experience had already taught me that fathers were absent, uninterested, unavailable, violent. He ruled our house in a surly silence, where something always felt like it was moving in for the kill. We waited every night till eight o'clock when he'd stumble off to bed, in a drunken haze and our collective sigh of relief signaled safety at last. If you'd asked me to list his good qualities, I couldn't have. But, I would've been wrong. He had some. I just never gave him his due credit. He was the first man to ever tell me I was smart. He was the only parent I had who told me I could, and should, go to college. When I got a B in history because my teacher didn't believe in giving A's he drove to the school, without my mother, and had a talk with the teacher. My stepfather was 6ft. 4in, 250 lbs. He came back with my A. He expected me to get A's and if I didn't, his disappointment could bring me to tears. He taught me to work. He fought my mother when I wanted to get a job while still in high school. He lost. He spent all day catching a rabbit for my science project. He was falling down drunk...but this isn't exactly a Hallmark card, is it? He thought I needed limits set, not money handed out. My mother disagreed. After he had the stroke that signaled his downfall, he mellowed. He became a loving, adoring grandfather to my daughter's daughter. He'd let her do anything to him she wanted. He never raised his voice or his hand to her. But old habits die hard, and I kept watch, a bundle of nerves when they were together. She still points to the stars and reminds us that Papa Ed is there among them. When he finally died, 12 long years later, of various smoking and alcohol related diseases, I felt nothing. Not sad. Not relieved. Now, I feel something else. Not love exactly. But a grateful affection. Not for the man he was, but for the man he tried to be, but couldn't.
I read recently that France has lost its chic. Its je ne sais quoi.
Their President is out of control. While the French have always looked gracefully, and stylishly, the other way where "the other woman" is involved, particularly Presidential women, de Gaulle forbid he should comport l'affair on a moped, in the passenger seat, wearing a suit with cheap shoes and a giant Daft Punk helmet. A President cheating on his wife and his mistress with yet a third woman is the height of panache. But, in a bad outfit? Mon Dieu. The French are up in arms. I so get it. There is never an excuse for bad shoes. Except for hip surgery. My once impeccably shod tootsies are mourning their old, fashionable life, when their daily wear looked like this:
The perfect gladiator look. Minus the toga. Wouldn't be caught dead in a toga.
I remembered why these were so awesome in the 80's. Because they're awesome. My leg is coming from who knows where.
Marie Antoinette was so right. Eating cake in these shoes is so much better. That's what she meant, right?
I agree. These are fantastic.
I have hip problems because I apparently only have one leg. But it's wearing an adorable shoe.
There it is! I do have two legs. These are my Goldfinger shoes. I think James Bond would love them.
I'm a sucker for an ankle strap.
Brought these back from Italy. Can you blame me?
A shoe that looks like a velvet corset. Sigh.
Another pair from Italy. Had to.
I can't resist a pink shoe. Or a rhinestone buckle. Or shoes, period.
I hate getting caught on the Yellow Brick Road unprepared.
Gained an ankle strap. Lost a leg.
These are for when I mean business. 5 inches of business.
This is what I'm reduced to after crutches. These might as well be flat. I'm pouting just looking at them.
These are me, now, on crutches. The heel is so non-existent that it wasn't worth showing. Except for its pink. To make myself feel better I bought these in several colors. But still. So, not the same.
If you hear I've bought a moped. Shoot me. I'm a college basketball fan by marriage. Ok. That's a stretch. I've watched a lot of college basketball since I've been married. Ok. That's a stretch too. I've been in the room a bunch of times when college basketball is on TV. Now, college basketball is all over our TV. It's March, baby! That means it's March Madness time. AKA the NCAA Division One Basketball Tournament. Despite what the name indicates it doesn't start and end in March. It starts in March and lasts a couple of years. So, now its time to throw your hat in the ring (or on the court) and fill out your brackets! AKA Bracketology. It's the last day to participate. I'm sure that'll put the fear of the basketball Gods into you. For those of you in the know, Bracketology is a familiar term, and a real word. For those of you in the dark, it's like those office football pools. You pick who you think is gonna win but you gotta pick winners for every game. All 64 of them. Whoever picks the most wins…wins. I win a lot. And no, I don't pick by favorite uniform color. How dumb would that be? I use a complicated, detailed, well researched, and delicately balanced system. Never before revealed. Until today. For you. A peek at my Bracket: The first thing you need to do is look at the numbers.
The teams are rated by numbers, one is the highest. I have no idea what the lowest number is. Who cares? They call these numbers seeds. Asinine, I know. As far as I know nothing is growing, except my impatience for the whole damn thing to get over with. Anyhoo, if you're a number one seed that means you're the most likely to win. So, I pick a lot of those top numbers, say one through three, first. Duh. Occasionally a number ten will beat a number two. This is called an upset. Mostly because when it happens no one's picked that number ten to win and they get REALLY upset. Hubby yells at the TV and drinks more. Now my system gets a little more complicated. Feel free to print. I always pick Gonzaga because I like to say it. I always pick Xavier because it's, like, the coolest name ever. Just rolls off the tongue like a fine French wine. I always pick Kansas because my daughter was born there. I never pick UNC because their coach, Roy Williams, gets on my last nerve. The few times I've seen him on TV (when I wasn't in a self induced coma) there's just something about him I don't like. To add insult to injury, their team is called the Tar Heels. WTF? I never pick Georgetown because when I visited there I was disappointed in their restaurant scene. You see my point. I always pick Wisconsin because my mom was born there. I always pick UCLA because who doesn't love Westwood? Hip, cool, on the fringes of Hollywood. What's not to love? I pick Oklahoma because the Pioneer Woman lives there. I always pick Florida (I've picked them to win it ALL) because Versace's house is there and hubby and I ate a zillion dollar dinner there on vacation once. They have the best drag queens too - which is big. And, finally, I've taken Duke pretty much off the list because their coach dyes his hair and lies about it. He's almost 70 years old and his hair is pitch, shoe polish, black. Who ya kiddin, Mike? Nobody. No good can come from that, my friend. Remember when air travel looked like this? Me neither. But, I've seen Mad Men and this is what it looks like there. I know it must be true because Jon Hamm would never lie to me. I might not be sure about yesteryear, but I'm positive about now. It's the seventh circle of hell. It makes hitchhiking from Los Angeles to Miami with the Mayor from Toronto seem like a good idea. Never in a million years did I think Americans would tolerate the whole airport fiasco…er…process. We're the people who revolted, left England and a monarchy to create a country where everyone is welcome, a democracy. A place where we could do whatever the hell we wanted. Okay, we didn't do any of that but we've seen it on Netflix. Still. Its amazing to me that we'll refuse to wear a helmet on a motorcycle but we'll let some felon with an anal probe grope us in our bare feet. Yes, the shoe-less shit really climbs up my ass. Have I mentioned I love my shoes more than life? Not keen to throw them in some dirty bin that just seconds before held a pair of Crocs. Gotta empty your purse, take off your jewelry, watch, wallet, why don't we all just go nude. The line would go a lot quicker, I can promise you that. All of this crap before we even get on the plane. Remember when no one knew what a carry on was? Everyone checked bags. Now it looks like this. Go ahead. Check bags. Make my day. Bahaahaahaahaaaa. Why do we get into what looks like a gigantic phallic symbol with wings, made of what…aluminum...whatever…that goes, I don't how many thousands of feet in the air, flown by these clowns? You're right. I don't know if I've ever been on a plane flown by these two exact clowns but I've been in thousands of work places in my life. They're full of clowns. Why would the airline industry be any different? What are they doing back there? Why is the door shut so we can't see? Why do they try to talk to us mid-flight about the scenery in that creepy porn pilot voice? You know what I'm talkin' about. Thanks porno pilot, I'll look at the scenery when I'm actually in it. On the ground. Why don't they just shut up and fly the damn plane? On a related note…can anybody tell me why the whole plane isn't made of whatever the 'black box" is made of? Seems like a no-brainer to me. Welcome to your airline experience. I'm so glad we paid a kazillion dollars for these seats. Yeah, it's not a big deal. The flight's only 14 hours long. Oh, right. That's why we paid a kazillion dollars for these seats. Because they serve food. This guy sat across the aisle from us. And by us I mean hubby. And by sat I mean stood. He never sat down. He spent nearly the whole flight fiddling with something in the overhead bins. Maybe snacks, I don't know. Hubby had to lean sideways, toward my side, for most of the flight to avoid a nose inside crack situation. Finally, my flying pet peeve. Apparently, along with our dignity, we've lost our hearing. The second you step on the plane the steward…I mean…flight attendant starts yelling at you. "THIS IS A FULL FLIGHT." DING DING DING. That's a mysterious very loud noise that goes off for no reason, that intersperses with the Flight Attendants screaming commands. "IN THE EVENT OF AN EMERGENCY…" DING DING DING. "I WILL BE COMIMG DOWN THE AISLE SHORTLY WITH YOUR DRINK SELECTION." To add insult to injury drinks are not free. She leans over to inquire: CAN I GET YOU SOMETHING TO DRINK? Of course, by this time, you're stone deaf. So, you're screwed. Hope you had a grand time FLYING THE FUCKING FRIENDLY SKIES. Funny thing about being a mom. Some of it's not that funny.
Don't get me wrong. A lot of it is joyous, glorious, fulfilling. Even when you're sleep deprived, at the fraying end of your rope, wishing you'd had your tubes tied when you were eleven, one look at those tiny, precious faces and somehow it's okay. You have your babies, get to call yourself Mom. Then they start doing shit. You gotta start kissing boo boos. They have to get immunized. They don't like it. Sometimes you have to help the nurse keep them still, hold them down. All for their own good. You tell yourself, Don't cry, Mom. They get pushed off the swing by the little prick next door. Even though their pride is what gets hurt the most, their lip trembles, their eyes fill. They never want to go to the playground again. Don't cry, Mom. They get bit by a dog. Have to have stitches. They hold up pretty well, you're a wreck. The doctor says, Don't cry, Mom. They score the winning point, they hit home runs, they get the starring role in the school play. Don't cry, Mom. They get dumped by the loser you hoped would dump them. They're devastated. You know it's for the best, you wished for it, dreamt of it. But their heart is broken. Don't cry, Mom. Then the worst. They grow up, marry, start having babies of their own. By some cruel twist they want you in the delivery room. It's the most painful labor you've ever had. Don't cry, Mom. Then there's more babies. You don't think they need more. You're not that thrilled even though the first baby is among the finest specimens ever born and your love for them knows no bounds. But they insist and before you know it, between them all they've got six all together. You didn't ask for them, but you've gotta see them. It's love at first sight. Don't cry, Mom. Then one of your grown up babies calls to talk about her baby. The one who's spent 3/4 of her six year life struggling with a still unnamed, Cerebral Palsy like illness. The one who just broke her finger because she can't walk without a walker. And even then... She says they think something is wrong with her baby's bones, the break is odd. She needs one more specialist. She will probably have to use a wheel chair now. The air sucks out of your chest. Your fingers grip your phone so hard they might break. Your heart beats so loud you almost don't hear your daughter say - Don't cry, Mom. 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. |
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November 2017
IF YOU LIKE THE BLOGS YOU'LL LOVE THE NOVELS IN HER TWISTED CRIME SERIES |