" I'm tired of talking about me, what about you?" Innocently she flutters her eyes and steers the conversation as she dismantles the feta on pita sandwich on her paper plate. The Greek man at the counter eyes the feta, knowing that he'll only be throwing it away, resents putting out the little effort for such a pretty girl. Unrequited attention.
The man next to her at the bar eyes her as well. Such a pretty little thing. We wonders why he warrants attention from this young bohemian, why she said yes to a date and what kind of underwear she was wearing. He smiles as nimble little fingers roll and crush a curd of pungent cheese, asking himself if a metaphor has been displayed, and if indeed it was, what the hell it meant. "Oh, I don't know. I'm working on a commission for a law firm right now. They saw my work downtown at the center and requested a similar piece. Smaller of course, but within the same vein. It seems that in times of crisis, these big companies need to show more than ever that they are thriving. It's a bit arrogant, but it really keeps the arts alive."
"We are always in a state of crisis."
"Hence the need for art." He smiled, appreciating a sense of interest within this object. A piece of art in herself, the mused, what kind of crisis might she bring? "How about a drink?"
The girl looked up, abandoning her feta mosaic in the shape of a nautilus, mischievously bringing her lips to a grin and playfully spinning of her seat. "Lets."
He took her to a dingy, bar two blocks down. The ambiance was darker, and quite a change from the fluorescents of the Greek café. The walls in the bar were suffocating, gasping for relief of their relics and artifacts stapled, hammered, mounted and stuck on with duct tape. Over the pool table, dollar bills fluttered on gum like bats to a cave, disturbed by the air conditioner. In the corner, a booth with a small brown lamp provided them refuge. She liked the atmosphere, raw and guttural; she was in the city and it smelled like the city and it tasted like the city and he looked like the city and she felt cultured and rough like the city. Big changes, she delighted in her surroundings, just act like you've taken this breath before. Act natural, your not a child and this isn't a tour, you breathe it and you will live it.
He was older, and she appreciated that. Much older. Twice her age, but that was all a part of the experience. Grey had firmly established an annex of his long hair, jutting out from the temples. He was aged, and that excited her. The fact that he had been brought up in her home town was interesting, and the fact he had never returned left her hopeful for a new life. She ordered a glass of wine, which over the conversation drew pink cheeks to her already existing glow. She wanted the art, the patience he possessed and wanted inside the psyche he was so consistent in maintaining. She wanted the life of the struggling artist, to thrive in the squalor and find beauty in the mundane, but only in the city of brooding writers, of junkie musicians and of the man in front of her, could she obtain that dream. She fumbled with her glass, finally achieving the most sophisticated way of holding it. This is how Dionysus would have wanted it.
"So why did you leave?" The girl knew, but asked anyway.
"I needed more, end of story. I went to the University, dropped out when I had the connections, and just worked from there, honing."
"Honing?" She pressed.
"Taking the little basics of what I knew and drawing them out by asking myself everyday, what would make this richer, fuller, deeper? How do I reach every eye and make it question what it perceives every day. Challenging peoples minds and making art as complex as I possibly could."
How did that work out for you?" The wine had made her slightly nasal in her banter.
I found out that you can't reach people with making things deeper and more complex. Instead of making them think, you r art becomes more of a soapbox, and you lose a lot of effect by being to political. People begin to disregard what you convey as a statement with a black and white acceptance. You understand or you don't."
" So intensity berates art in the eyes' of the beholder?"
"As a metaphor, it becomes a sonnet in Latin and not all people speak Latin."
"And then how, prey tell, can you reach the non Latin speakers of the world?"
"You make it simple." He winked at the waitress, who understood his Latin, and brought more wine.
"Universal?"
"No, because then you are pulling too much to the table. Just simple.Pure."
"Pure, I like that. Keep it simple and the message, or lack thereof is brought to the table?"
"Yes." The freshly opened second bottle of wine hit the table. Classic, he enjoyed the serendipity.
She felt vibrant and clever and a bit existential.
The conversation had waves of depth and segued to the moment. Just two people, learning each other, in the here and now. Breathing. Eye to eye. Glass to glass.
" So is there passion in simplicity?" She wanted to learn and drank his every word.
Bingo, he loved this. Talking with a young mind, exuberant and inquisitive, with eyes that could envelope the sea . Perfect porcelain, she was renaissance. He wanted to touch her flushed face and caress the soft shoulder peeking behind tank top and sweater. He could draw this moment. Soft charcoal, smudged along satin, creating curves and depth.
"Well what is passion?" he really wanted to know her mind, while his eyes were in enamored focus of her frame.
"Passion, um…" She had to think, through the haze and bliss of the wine. "is intense desire."
"Then what is desire?"
"Desire is the infatuation with the unknown. It's the curiosity that fuels us and the insatiable need to quench that thirst for more. It's the mystery upon which we thrive."
"Well put." God, I could fall into those eyes, he thought.
"To the mystery." He held up his glass of wine and felt it's last drop at his lip.
The walk to her apartment was close and personal. Exchanges of soft quiet touch , a graze of a shirt sleeve, an elongated, slightly tipsy lean in, she breathed in his scent; masculine and warm. He was comforting, a kind of woolen blanket of a man, that could make her feel safe, of only for a minute. Pink lights were slightly starry in the fog that settled around them. A much appreciated chill had finally taken hold over the city.
"So, what will you be doing in the future?" She asked. "I mean, apart from the commission?" She blushed at the ridiculous question, embarrassed, yet hopeful another date was ahead.
"After the commission, I'll be heading to Mexico" He sobered at the thought. Stiffening a little, bracing for a wave of mortality to break surf on his mind. He wasn't going to tell her. This was a night to keep.
"When will you be coming back?" A bit crestfallen, the girl fell into her six year old self, a pout emerged in her heart, yet she was determined to suppress it.
"Three months. I'm having a show at the University." He lied. He had already planned his memorial show. Time frames would no longer be an issue in a few months.
"Well, you'll have to put me on the list when you come back. I would like to see you again before you leave, though." A flirtatious glint sparked in her eyes. Sunset on the beach.
"Yes, that would be wonderful." Another lie. This night would be a still frame picture. Art, passion, desire, why spoil it with the truth?
"Thank you." She looked down at the ground and wanted to shuffle her feet.
His arms wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her essence toward him. Remember this, the man made a promise to himself. Remember her. He knew he would.
Soft lips touched and fell together. She breathed him in.
"Thank you." he smiled, touching the face he could no longer resist, and walked away.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Real Simple vs. Real Life
So I was checking my e-mail a few days ago, and this story popped up. I couldn't stop thinking about what a great idea that this is. Then I tried to do it. This is what I have to report.
The Keep-It-Clean Plan
With a plan of attack, you can maintain a sparkling house in just 19 minutes a day
http://www.realsimple.com/realsimple/content/0,21770,1020737,00.html
Kitchen, 4 1/2 minutes daily
Right we'll see how it goes, this is Real Simple vs. Real Life. Let's take a peek and see how they add up.
Always start with the sink. "Keep it empty and shining," says Marla Cilley, author of Sink Reflections (Bantam, $15) and creator of www.FlyLady.net, a housekeeping website. A sparkling sink becomes your kitchen's benchmark for hygiene and tidiness, inspiring you to load the dishwasher immediately and keep counters, refrigerator doors, and the stove top spick-and-span, too.
Wipe down the sink after doing the dishes or loading the dishwasher (30 seconds).
This only accounts for after the dishes get in the dishwasher, granted you can find them. Granted they are only under the couch, in the microwave, the dog is eating out of three of them, stacked one on top of the other. Allow an extra three minutes, if your on twelve cups of coffee.
Wipe down the stove top (one minute).
First, find spatula, biggest knife, boiling water and mallet, just to get rid of last nights science experiment. Chisel away. Add two minutes.
Wipe down the counters (one minute).
Same as for the stove top. Add two minutes
Sweep, Swiffer, or vacuum the floor (two minutes).
Sure just two minutes, until my two year old drops a bowl full of hiya! "kung fu" cereal all over the floor and the dog licks up half of it. Add three minutes.
Bathroom, 2 minutes daily
Make cleaning the basin as routine as washing your hands. But don't stop there. Get the most out of your premoistened wipe by using it to clean around the edges of the tub and then the toilet before tossing it.
Wipe out the sink (30 seconds). Wipe the toilet seat and rim (15 seconds).
Done, and done.
Swoosh the toilet bowl with a brush (15 seconds).
The dog has just done it for me, save 15 seconds.
Wipe the mirror and faucet (15 seconds).
Add two minutes for scraping toothpaste art off the mirror.
Squeegee the shower door (30 seconds).
As squeegie-ing occurs, dog pukes all over the floor after cleaning the toilet bowl. Re-clean floor, add two minutes, gag a little, add 15 seconds, re-clean the toilet bowl add 15 seconds
Spray the entire shower and the curtain liner with shower mist after every use (15 seconds).
Bedroom, 6 1/2 minutes daily
Make your bed right before or after your morning shower. A neat bed with inspire you to deal with other messes immediately. Although smoothing sheets and plumping pillows might not seen like a high priority as you're rushing to work, the payoff comes at the end of the day, when you slip back under the unruffled covers.
There are usually at least two kids and a dog that are considerable obstacles for this endeavor. And if I could only find a sheet…
Make the bed (two minutes).
Fold or hang clothing and put away jewelry (four minutes).
Straighten out the night-table surface (30 seconds).
Not too bad, just get rid of the dog hair and voila!
Family Room, Living Room, Foyer, 6 minutes daily
Start with the sofa — as long as it's in disarray, your living room will never look tidy. Once you've fluffed the pillows and folded the throws, you're halfway home. If you pop in a CD while you dust, you should be able cover the whole room by the end of the third track.
Pick up crumbs and dust bunnies with a handheld vacuum (one minute).
Fluff the cushions and fold throws after use (two minutes).
Wipe tabletops and spot-clean cabinets when you see fingerprints (one minute).
Straighten coffee-table books and magazines. Throw out newspapers. Put away CDs and videos. (Two minutes.)
This is just impractical. In theory, it should take all problems away, that is, of your living "Real Simple". But I am living "Real Life", which is a more one step backwards, Two steps forward kind of life, and if I can get the grapes off of the floor before they become grapes, than I am successful. Ta!
Life as a Marvel (a momic)
Look there! In the shrubs! Is it a bear? Is it a sloth? NO! It's the Renegade Gardener! Here to battle the tyranny of the Axis of Eden! She could find a lost shoe in an acre of scrub in twenty-five minutes flat. Diligent and industrious, there was nothing that would get in her way. No unwanted plant could hold up to the power of her pruners.
But she hadn't always been a vicious killer. A once a young and naïve mother, Wren Alexander found herself on a wonderful day at her quaint abode as she practiced her domesticity. When it happened. Her loving little children were attacked by rogue blackberry vines, wrapping their noxious, thorny appendages around their ankles, pulling them deeper into the scrub like quicksand. Desperate to save her children the domestic damsel heaved them from the clutches of pain and fruit. The poor children suffered, but that damsel, she got mad. A vendetta was born. As was the Renegade Gardener.
Today, we find the Renegade Gardener in the throws of a mighty battle between herself, a crafty and resourceful woman, and the omnipresent Grape Vinula, who over the past ten years has been growing and gaining ground as well as weed power undetected to the negligent eye of it's cohabitants. But now the bold and bitchy Renegade Gardener is here to stake her claim and increase the peace, (not to mention the aesthetic harmony) in her new surroundings. As our hero attempts a huge sweep out of Grape Vinula's devious weed cronies, yet another nemesis enters the fray. The diabolical Dr. Bane Whinenstein.
The product of a loving family, he was raised in a caring and nurturing environment, until when at the tender age of two while he was watching a riveting episode of Yo Gabba Gabba, he fell to temptation and swallowed the vicious "Quarter of Chaos". Though the extraction proved successful, the poison had already infiltrated his mind, and his soul, (or rather, stomach). Emotional havoc washed over him and drove him to insanity. The only solace he found was in eating every two seconds and having live entertainment involving punching, kicking and biting those whom loved him the most.
Then Wren heard him approach, though it wasn't hard, as the sinister Doctor was known for his screeches that could pierce even the strongest of armor. It shook the warrior down to her soul. Fortunately, she was prepared for such an attack and paused from her melee with the undergrowth and fired an opened granola bar in a coup d'essai to quell the siren.
"Damn" she grunted. This was no time for her tricks to backfire. Her Achilles heel. Her Bane. She was so close to breaking through the seige of the wicked Grape Vinula and his stooges. She had made such bold steps forward. Now was not the time for a counter strike. The screams started to escalate. She could feel the very marrow of her bones start to quake, unsure that it would stand the test of pressure. Immense pressure.
The force was too great. A final attempt to quash all pain in her head the Renegade Gardener changed tactics; fighting fire with fire. She lunged, outreaching her muscular and well trained hands and grasped all she could amidst the mass of foliage. With ninja precision Wren took a ripe plump orb and with errorless skill, she freed the fruit and, with a flick of the wrist, deftly tossed it into the ruptured screaming orifice of the affected Bane.
He paused for a moment, allowing our paladin to gain a bit of composure. But it was all in vain. With a eye of contempt, he spat out the remains of Wrens hope and belted out his final blow. Blasted with the Doctors final assault, she knew the only thing to do was to live to fight another day. Retreating from the Warfield, the downtrodden warrior was captured by Bane and sentenced to a healthy lunch and an episode of Dora. As she writhed in her shackles, Wren looked back at her foe smiling tendrils of new growth, a battle yet to be won.
"I will become victorious! You will fall!" She yelled, but all in vain as her captor tugged at her t-shirt and led her to the dungeonesque kitchen for an evil, yet satisfying and healthful meal.
Momarella and June
I usually get really over my BIG ideas after I read about others in the field that are better at what I want to do or have actually made it. And then I get discouraged. You know that little voice inside your head that provides discretion and pragmatic logic?( The Eeyore?)
Yeah, well mine is a 400 lb. angry bitch on the rag with a bullhorn saying, "what the cock are you doing? Are you ready to totally fuck up? Are you really up for responsibility? That's a little too much for you, you are incapable of really doing anything. Here honey, take you shoes off and get your ass in the kitchen and cook me up some shit. There's a good girl, look, you don't need to be important, because your needed."
So then I go to focus on the daily chores handed down to me from my children, like pizza under the rug. I'm squashed by my bitch before I even begin to take steps forward. My failure has allready been planned out, so I don't need to think about furthering my desires in that route.
And then, with a turn of her big, fat moo-moo, the large rain cloud of an internal opinion sheds the beastly cocoon to unveil a very thin, very pretty product of the fifties, complete with hair in place, lipstick perfect dress in perfect accord and opinions properly addressed. "Now, what do we really need? A strong man, and a secure future. If you must get a job, make it something that you could actually do that's not too hard, and doesn't require a lot of skills, because my dear, you really don't have a whole lot of experience with a whole lot. Well, with the exception of spreading your legs, but I hardly think that's appropriate. Now, let's find you a nice job in a call center, and, if your lucky, you might just get to be a receptionist when you learn how to properly navigate through JC Penny's, your a wreck. Who would really want to hire you? But there's always a market for people like you, because your turnover is just so high. But you can work that to your advantage. For your sake, let's just hope your boss likes fat girls with cleavage and can't find spelling errors."
Both have kept me pretty much in check for the past few years. If one doesn't work, the other would step in. A self flagellation done by my internal 'odd couple'. The origin of where these ladies have come from is unraveling now that I've placed a face on each one. We'll call the fat one 'Momarella' and the 50's mother 'June'. Momarella is the product of my high school experience. She is the blush that occurs every time I speak in front of people, or discuss something of importance to me. She looks at me and says "Damn I would be humiliated right now. Aren't you? Let's see you do that again." My blush. It made me shy in a lot of situations. Then I started drinking and she had to get the bull horn.
June came after the alcohol, after the baby. She has kept me nice and safe for years. I haven't tried very many new things. Just working out ( so I don't disappoint my husband, because "he'll leave you if you don't up the ante soon," June tactfully reminds me) and taking care of your children ("Crackheads keep their house cleaner than you, my dear. And you wouldn't want people thinking that, would you, Rose?" She adds.) And taking care of children is much more challenging than I am capable of , according to June, so why would I add to that strain and make myself less of a mother?
I'm working on quashing these bitches. It's not easy, as you can see they are interwoven into every day of my life, but I'm just not feeling like listening. I'm using them against themselves. Using them as ammunition this time. Lock and load, bitches, your going down.
More to come soon.
Yeah, well mine is a 400 lb. angry bitch on the rag with a bullhorn saying, "what the cock are you doing? Are you ready to totally fuck up? Are you really up for responsibility? That's a little too much for you, you are incapable of really doing anything. Here honey, take you shoes off and get your ass in the kitchen and cook me up some shit. There's a good girl, look, you don't need to be important, because your needed."
So then I go to focus on the daily chores handed down to me from my children, like pizza under the rug. I'm squashed by my bitch before I even begin to take steps forward. My failure has allready been planned out, so I don't need to think about furthering my desires in that route.
And then, with a turn of her big, fat moo-moo, the large rain cloud of an internal opinion sheds the beastly cocoon to unveil a very thin, very pretty product of the fifties, complete with hair in place, lipstick perfect dress in perfect accord and opinions properly addressed. "Now, what do we really need? A strong man, and a secure future. If you must get a job, make it something that you could actually do that's not too hard, and doesn't require a lot of skills, because my dear, you really don't have a whole lot of experience with a whole lot. Well, with the exception of spreading your legs, but I hardly think that's appropriate. Now, let's find you a nice job in a call center, and, if your lucky, you might just get to be a receptionist when you learn how to properly navigate through JC Penny's, your a wreck. Who would really want to hire you? But there's always a market for people like you, because your turnover is just so high. But you can work that to your advantage. For your sake, let's just hope your boss likes fat girls with cleavage and can't find spelling errors."
Both have kept me pretty much in check for the past few years. If one doesn't work, the other would step in. A self flagellation done by my internal 'odd couple'. The origin of where these ladies have come from is unraveling now that I've placed a face on each one. We'll call the fat one 'Momarella' and the 50's mother 'June'. Momarella is the product of my high school experience. She is the blush that occurs every time I speak in front of people, or discuss something of importance to me. She looks at me and says "Damn I would be humiliated right now. Aren't you? Let's see you do that again." My blush. It made me shy in a lot of situations. Then I started drinking and she had to get the bull horn.
June came after the alcohol, after the baby. She has kept me nice and safe for years. I haven't tried very many new things. Just working out ( so I don't disappoint my husband, because "he'll leave you if you don't up the ante soon," June tactfully reminds me) and taking care of your children ("Crackheads keep their house cleaner than you, my dear. And you wouldn't want people thinking that, would you, Rose?" She adds.) And taking care of children is much more challenging than I am capable of , according to June, so why would I add to that strain and make myself less of a mother?
I'm working on quashing these bitches. It's not easy, as you can see they are interwoven into every day of my life, but I'm just not feeling like listening. I'm using them against themselves. Using them as ammunition this time. Lock and load, bitches, your going down.
More to come soon.
Mt two banshees and the Wal-Mart Conspiracy
Wal-Mart is the devil. It sucks. It has everything you could ever need and it's cheaper than anywhere else. It's the only place that you can buy bunk beds, sports bras, and frozen pizza at the same time. But it is truly miserable. It's not worth the trauma, and when I say trauma, I mean the damage done to you. Every time we go to the mega consumerville, my son and daughter get overwhelmed, hungry tired, start teething, start puking and then, of course, tandem screaming. And it's not just the screaming, it's the blood curdling screech that is piped up at the top of their lungs. And the worst part, it is not just my own children. Every parent that schleps their kids in and out of there must suffer the consequences.
Let's say you need milk, and just milk. Okay then you look for the milk and what the hell? It's all the way, 3 miles to be exact, in the back of the f-ing store. The cruel deviants that design the store, drunk on the money and plight of modern middle America, cackle as they play the 'let's make it painful for mothers hauling their brood'. As you snake your way through the barrage of fat carts the din begins to consume your mental state, until you realize that the din is coming from the cart and you get a random shoe slapped across the face. Just a little attention grabber. The train of thought has been lost by the screams and appeals for 'Candy! Chips! Ice cream! Crack! Porn! Drugs!' are coming from the little angels possessed by the demons of consumerism. As they writhe towards the toys intentionally lain out to be grasped by their talons, the pleas triple in decibels.
"Why are we here again? Oh, right, right, I got it."
After waiting 25 minutes in line and looking over every cracked-out celebrity rag out there, you lay it all out for the disgruntled employee, when you tally up the prices it all adds up to about $85.00. Milk of magnesia, milk duds, 5 Milky Ways, cereal, peanut butter, a stuffed cow, and of course- oh shit, where did it go? I got it right? Where the cock is it? I walked by it! Oh that's right, I was picking up 13 bags of Chips Ahoy! Up off of the ground after the hellion kicked down a kiosk made of something weaker than toilet paper. Then, like a stealth bomb, you cut a swathe to the door until the smiley lil bitch reminded you that you needed to pay. So now I have $85 of crap and milk like type products. Thanks again, Wal-Mart! The one flaw that I see is that you need to keep the booze right next to the fashion rags, so it'll just take a little edge off waiting in that f-ing line.
Let's say you need milk, and just milk. Okay then you look for the milk and what the hell? It's all the way, 3 miles to be exact, in the back of the f-ing store. The cruel deviants that design the store, drunk on the money and plight of modern middle America, cackle as they play the 'let's make it painful for mothers hauling their brood'. As you snake your way through the barrage of fat carts the din begins to consume your mental state, until you realize that the din is coming from the cart and you get a random shoe slapped across the face. Just a little attention grabber. The train of thought has been lost by the screams and appeals for 'Candy! Chips! Ice cream! Crack! Porn! Drugs!' are coming from the little angels possessed by the demons of consumerism. As they writhe towards the toys intentionally lain out to be grasped by their talons, the pleas triple in decibels.
"Why are we here again? Oh, right, right, I got it."
After waiting 25 minutes in line and looking over every cracked-out celebrity rag out there, you lay it all out for the disgruntled employee, when you tally up the prices it all adds up to about $85.00. Milk of magnesia, milk duds, 5 Milky Ways, cereal, peanut butter, a stuffed cow, and of course- oh shit, where did it go? I got it right? Where the cock is it? I walked by it! Oh that's right, I was picking up 13 bags of Chips Ahoy! Up off of the ground after the hellion kicked down a kiosk made of something weaker than toilet paper. Then, like a stealth bomb, you cut a swathe to the door until the smiley lil bitch reminded you that you needed to pay. So now I have $85 of crap and milk like type products. Thanks again, Wal-Mart! The one flaw that I see is that you need to keep the booze right next to the fashion rags, so it'll just take a little edge off waiting in that f-ing line.
Gypsy habits die hard
Ever since I was a child, the thought of travel was exciting and new, but it never really happened. But since the time that I got pregnant with Magnolia, I (we) have moved a total of 16 time covering a little over 11,000 miles. On dreamier days, Eric and I have spent hours making our own "double decker double wide" caravan, to trip across the world in. We have also looked at the Nomads of the east and really considered investing in a donkey and a yurt. If it weren't for the donkey pie allergies, we'd be doing it today.
But no, we made the Decision to move once again and do something that we haven't done; bought a house, thinking the large amount of debt might keep us in one place.
But here I am again, looking at property back in the PACNW, and dreaming of yet another move.
I'm trying to shake this need for movement; I work out twice a day and sweat in the garden for hours, but that little desire is proving to be insatiable. Blaring 'Democracy Now' to drown out that little voice is not really working either.
Florida is a pretty place. The beaches are wonderful and it's very green everywhere, but I haven't seen a rock or a hill over 25 feet tall in almost two years. Magnolia and I parked on a slope to go out to lunch one day. As we got out of the car, we both weebled and wobbled and had a little vertigo. It was really weird. It was like I was drunk on elevation, I'm sure my ears popped.
That's the big difference. Yes it's pretty here in a stratus kind of way. Just a whole lot of horizontal lines. Water, sky or beach, water, sky or grass, sand, beach then sky. But being next to a mountain has an inspiration all to it's own.
It's one thing to look at something pretty, but when you wake up next to a glacial mountain, as the sound curls around it's toes, your breath is stolen and you are at the mercy of this amazing bounty of strength and glory. You just want to crumble to the ground thanking it for being what it is. Maybe it's a magnetic pull that keeps it stuck in your mind and calling you back, begging you to return.
We will, it's inevitable. But when will be the question, and how. Will we have the glory of the caravan? Complete with shingles and hippy rainbow flags barely being held together by, duct tape and bad words?
Or will we be returning in Jags and Beemers with our Floridian leather exteriors, looking like waspy assholes expressing our opinions in passive aggressive tones?
Whatever way, the roads are calling us and they all seem to head north.(It's f-ing Florida, what would you expect?)
But no, we made the Decision to move once again and do something that we haven't done; bought a house, thinking the large amount of debt might keep us in one place.
But here I am again, looking at property back in the PACNW, and dreaming of yet another move.
I'm trying to shake this need for movement; I work out twice a day and sweat in the garden for hours, but that little desire is proving to be insatiable. Blaring 'Democracy Now' to drown out that little voice is not really working either.
Florida is a pretty place. The beaches are wonderful and it's very green everywhere, but I haven't seen a rock or a hill over 25 feet tall in almost two years. Magnolia and I parked on a slope to go out to lunch one day. As we got out of the car, we both weebled and wobbled and had a little vertigo. It was really weird. It was like I was drunk on elevation, I'm sure my ears popped.
That's the big difference. Yes it's pretty here in a stratus kind of way. Just a whole lot of horizontal lines. Water, sky or beach, water, sky or grass, sand, beach then sky. But being next to a mountain has an inspiration all to it's own.
It's one thing to look at something pretty, but when you wake up next to a glacial mountain, as the sound curls around it's toes, your breath is stolen and you are at the mercy of this amazing bounty of strength and glory. You just want to crumble to the ground thanking it for being what it is. Maybe it's a magnetic pull that keeps it stuck in your mind and calling you back, begging you to return.
We will, it's inevitable. But when will be the question, and how. Will we have the glory of the caravan? Complete with shingles and hippy rainbow flags barely being held together by, duct tape and bad words?
Or will we be returning in Jags and Beemers with our Floridian leather exteriors, looking like waspy assholes expressing our opinions in passive aggressive tones?
Whatever way, the roads are calling us and they all seem to head north.(It's f-ing Florida, what would you expect?)
Subtle signs your pregnant (old essay)
There are just a few subtle signs your pregnant, and when you are, you will know. But if you are one of those women who waddle into an E.R. and say, "I'm having really bad cramps, I haven't really had a period in a while and I need to poop." You; A- need to get in touch with yourself, and B- where the hell have you been the last few months?
Some women know instantly and the reaction is something similar to, "You just did what?" or "oops" or only slightly delayed , like, "Yes, I would like some coffee."
For me it was a message from above. After spending the last few years smoking pot and experimenting with various natural psychotropic drugs, I had become an ethereal being on earth. I was so aware of my surroundings and, "my hands, man there just so cool!"
Conception of my daughter came after a magical night of tripping the light fantastic, and though I cannot recall the exact moment of conception, I remember the dream that night.
I was at a Phish concert at the Gorge in George, located in central Washington, the sun had set and there was a great jam going on. I had a friend in a rabbit suit and he was dancing on stage along with the band. During the intermission I was walking along a lit pathway amidst the masses when I saw her. A gleaming ball of ecstasy. A girl in her early twenties in head to toe silver, with glitter dripping off of her. She had wonderful apple cheeks that sparkled like disco balls and trailing behind her were two beautiful, elegant wings made of white feathers, Mylar and glitter. She had a silver mini skirt, silver stockings, silver socks pulled up to her thigh and silver knee-high combat boots. And a bubble wand.
I watched this girl with awe, as she skipped along the heads smiling and stopping to bend slightly and blow bubbles to people. Then she would wink and be off. I watched her and her air of innocence and joy as she passed through the crowd and she started to come my way. Then the girl skipped right over to me, and with a single graceful movement she grabbed both of my boobs in a firm honk,, kissed me on the lips and whispered into my ear, "your pregnant!" and with that the little imp was off on her bubble blowing mission to spread smiles.
Needing a moment to process this epiphany , I took solace in little red velvet chair. Taking a few breaths, I just couldn't digest what was just told to me when, "Hi!"
A small little girl, I'd say about four years old plopped right down next to me. She was a petite little thing, with gigantic blue eyes with mischief in the corners. She stared up at me beaming, and patiently waiting for a response "Hi." I replied.
"Do you like Phish" she asked
"Yeah"
The little girl chirped away as she swung her little feet in her Sunday shoes only stopping to smile until I awoke from the dream feeling good and thoroughly confused.
And then life changed. My tits became sore, my emotions rushed like torrents, and I walked around with a quiet secret that only me, the imp and the child knew for quite sometime. I think that's how the majority of us go about life for the first month of our motherhood. Yes, it may be chaotic and the pressing matters in the forefront may take precedence over the majority of daily life, but in those few quiet moments in the day, that stupid little smile you have, even if you don't really know it, is for you , the imp and the child.
Droolian and the Giant Quarter
Current mood: trying not to swear so much, thanks Mom!
I have a song in my head, too. I'm making it up. It goes, "bad mom! gosh golly your a shitty mom". It's kind of sing-songy. Undertimes of stress, my mental soundtrack flips to sort of a deranged musical, kind of a 'seven brides for seven brothers' on acid sort of feel. This for sure a time of stress.
"Ew!Gross! Dad, Julian is drooling all over the place, it's disgusting, what's the matter with him?" Magnolia is sitting next to our little Droolian in the back seat seriously creeped out by the chipper little slime machine. We had to pull her out of school a little early today.
We pull up to a stoplight and a shaking husband looks over at me, "Let's see that x-ray again."
It's not one of the things that you would ever think that you see. Or that you would want to see, but sure as the pope poops in the woods there it was.
The Dr. came in after x-rays were taken, he looked at me a little funny, then paused and then....." Do you have any coins in you house bigger than a quarter?"
Julian has always had a funny kind of appetite. Dog hair, polar fleece, string, etc..That was about the extent of it until he turned one, then his diapers started to get interesting. It was like Christmas's dirty little present you weren't looking forward to opening. But to aviod being repetitive, I'll stop talking about Julians biz.
As we rushed Jules from the urgent care to the ER, quite a few emotions were experienced and all at the same time. We were giggling because we couldn't f-ing believe it, dazed because we were lucky, scared, because an endoscopy is simple, yet scary. And if you were just quiet enough, you could hear the hauntingly soft sound of jingling change with every step he took.
In the end, it really only took about five minutes to take the quarter out, and within an hour he was awake and fully pissed off due to the fact he was tethered to IV's and EKG monitors, and the really expensive machine that goes 'bing'. He was the kid screaming at the hospital. I should have been more sympathetic, but I was still in awe that he could have actually gotten that thing down his gullet. I can see him in the Jim Rose freak show. The kid that swallows foreign objects.
The one little joy that I had at the Hospital was seeing Jules in this itty bitty hospital gown, running down the hall with his ass hanging out as he raced his own IV stand. It just was the cutest thing ever.
The next good sign that he was recooperating was his appetite. Within two hours after he was out of surgery, he had had 5 popsicles, 4 puddings and 12 bags of graham crackers. And was still "so hungry!"
His flair for the drama has yet to leave and ever since the ordeal, he has to eat every thirty seconds. He can now eat his weight in pizza and crayons.
Now a normal child would have been quickly weaned from their PICA-esque tendencies after the first time they figure that the nutritional value of quarters, or say, paint chips, was not what the need and expereinced adverse reactions. But not Jules. Not two days later, on my hubby's watch he was caught mumbling. Upon further investigation we found not a quarter, but three pennies and a magnet. He's a stinking vaccuum. Maybe he'll shit out a copay sometime soon.
What an expensive little bastard (and by bastard, I mean sweet little angel). I'm thinking that I'm going to put his quarter on E-bay with the starting bid at $10,000.00. Hey, there was an Aussey woman who got $300.00 dollars for her soon to be ex-hubby's lovers grundies and condom wrapper. I'm thinking the story is worth it.
But as the Doctors (we had three, but there were probably about ten others that came in to see the cute, squishy piggy bank) said, "You are not alone as the only negligent parents in the area, this is my seventh foreign object extraction this week!". This was on a Wednesday.
The Doctors still couldn't help but laugh and the seredipitous situations. Like the perverted plumber right next to us in the ER that found the problem with the pea traps is that they look really funny in a pair of pants.
It's taken me about three weeks to finish writing this because I have to keep two eyes on that little guy, he's to busy and mischeivious with an insatiable appetite.Speaking of which, I wonder why he's burping bubbles......
Social Grace in your face
I guess discretion is not one of my strong suits. Yep, it's definitely not. I'm moderately outspoken, and I would hope that my children are as well. But, that stupid discretion keeps getting in the way. Maybe it's due to the relocation to said region. In the south there is slightly less tolerance for first amendment activists, where, in our former habitat, PacNW, it was celebrated and eagerly anticipated. The most difficult part is candidly speaking your mind in front of children with a pension for repeating your every word in the least appropriate places in the world. I never thought it would hit me squarely in the face. And yet....
Getting the note from the school, Beulah Elementary. (Say it with a drawl and you just about have it)The note would read; "Dear Ms. Rose, please arrange a meeting with me at your earliest convenience regarding Magnolia's extra-curricular education." Shit, here it comes. I transform into a sixth grader instantly. Panic, raging hormones and the thought that I'm in big trouble. I hope I don't get detention.
"Thank you for coming in, good to see you and sorry this is such short notice." Mrs. Nott, Magnolia's first grade teacher says.
"Not at all, I'm glad to touch base once again, is everything allright?" I'd ask, making myelf comfortable in a tiny ass chair.
"I'm afraid that we need to discuss Magnolia's education, that is, the extra-curricular education."
"Extra-curricular? At home?" I'd strain as I make a quick inventory of the things that I have taught her. Cooking eggs, that's not an educational offense. Makeup? Maybe. How to beat the dog with the shoe he just ate? Hope not. How to make a beer bong? All of the lyrics and dance moves to the Rocky Horror Picture Show? Oh shit, this could get interesting.
"Yes, it appears that she has been misinformed in current world politics. Most directly who the president is" Mrs. Not would tighten up a bit.
" Well Magnolia has been very interested in the election campaigns. And I know Obama isn't President yet, but we are hopeful." I'd smile weakly, in an effort to sell it.
"Yes, unfortunately that is not the issue that we need to disscuss today. Magnolia has been mislead as far as the name of our current President."
Lightbulb. Fuck. Right now I'm regretting everything that I had ever joked about in this southern landscape and wish I could just melt into a puddle on the grey green carpet and get evaporated by the excessive AC.
"George W. Douche" I'd mutter, eyes closed.
"George W. Douche" Mrs. Nott would spit out, just barely over the tightly pursed lips.
George W. Douche.So simple, so true. This is a guy, who walked up to Pope Benedict, the largest leader of one of the most prominent religions in the world and said, "Lookin' good, there Pope!"
I thought I was being clever, and sometimes I think that I still am, but before this scene played out in real life, I took it upon myself to correct the situation.
"Magnolia, in a form of political protest, you have been misled as to the information of who our current national leader is. The pronounciation of his name is George W. Bush." I winced.
"I know, Mom."
"Really?" I'm surprised.
"But you can still call him whatever you want at home, but when you start school, you gotta be cool, got it?"
"Got it Mom."
Allright, I can right that horrid little scenario out of my head. A little sigh.
"But, Mom?"
"Yes, Magnolia?"
"He's still a douche,right?" She asks with those wide open, inquisitive eyes.
"Yes, my baby, he is"
Getting the note from the school, Beulah Elementary. (Say it with a drawl and you just about have it)The note would read; "Dear Ms. Rose, please arrange a meeting with me at your earliest convenience regarding Magnolia's extra-curricular education." Shit, here it comes. I transform into a sixth grader instantly. Panic, raging hormones and the thought that I'm in big trouble. I hope I don't get detention.
"Thank you for coming in, good to see you and sorry this is such short notice." Mrs. Nott, Magnolia's first grade teacher says.
"Not at all, I'm glad to touch base once again, is everything allright?" I'd ask, making myelf comfortable in a tiny ass chair.
"I'm afraid that we need to discuss Magnolia's education, that is, the extra-curricular education."
"Extra-curricular? At home?" I'd strain as I make a quick inventory of the things that I have taught her. Cooking eggs, that's not an educational offense. Makeup? Maybe. How to beat the dog with the shoe he just ate? Hope not. How to make a beer bong? All of the lyrics and dance moves to the Rocky Horror Picture Show? Oh shit, this could get interesting.
"Yes, it appears that she has been misinformed in current world politics. Most directly who the president is" Mrs. Not would tighten up a bit.
" Well Magnolia has been very interested in the election campaigns. And I know Obama isn't President yet, but we are hopeful." I'd smile weakly, in an effort to sell it.
"Yes, unfortunately that is not the issue that we need to disscuss today. Magnolia has been mislead as far as the name of our current President."
Lightbulb. Fuck. Right now I'm regretting everything that I had ever joked about in this southern landscape and wish I could just melt into a puddle on the grey green carpet and get evaporated by the excessive AC.
"George W. Douche" I'd mutter, eyes closed.
"George W. Douche" Mrs. Nott would spit out, just barely over the tightly pursed lips.
George W. Douche.So simple, so true. This is a guy, who walked up to Pope Benedict, the largest leader of one of the most prominent religions in the world and said, "Lookin' good, there Pope!"
I thought I was being clever, and sometimes I think that I still am, but before this scene played out in real life, I took it upon myself to correct the situation.
"Magnolia, in a form of political protest, you have been misled as to the information of who our current national leader is. The pronounciation of his name is George W. Bush." I winced.
"I know, Mom."
"Really?" I'm surprised.
"But you can still call him whatever you want at home, but when you start school, you gotta be cool, got it?"
"Got it Mom."
Allright, I can right that horrid little scenario out of my head. A little sigh.
"But, Mom?"
"Yes, Magnolia?"
"He's still a douche,right?" She asks with those wide open, inquisitive eyes.
"Yes, my baby, he is"
Signs your kids have been quiet too long
This last weekend for Julians birthday, we went to his favorite place, the beach. The little spit of heaven that we call Pensacola Beach is teaming with the happy squeals of children splashing and the inaudible groans of the fratboys' hangovers after finding themselves alone and confused on the beach in the morning.
As we made a move to stake our claim, we all reveled in the beauty of the day and were excited about the day I went to lay a towel down and set up the sushi (by the way, the wordt thing ever to take to the beach.)
Looking up to take inventory, I found that I was one babe short. Shit. Julian was out of range. I started running the shoreline asking people if they had seen a little boy two feet tall with a mohawk and getting bewildered looks.
Everysecond that passed I became more and more panicked and less coherent. "Please, please don't be in the water, " I begged.
Two minutes. That's how long he was lost. It's all it takes to drown a baby.
"Excuse me we found you son" a man called to me. A flutter of panic washed over me. Shit shit shit. He led my up the boardwalk, and there my little monster was standing outside the bar he walked into. "Here he is, maam" said the bartender.
That little monster walked up onto the boardwalk and right into Capt'n Fun's bar.
It took them a few minutes before they asked for his ID. But I'd imagine he'd said
"Bushwhacker, peas" in the cutest little way.
I balled, emotionally drained from the fiasco. What a nightmare.
But I guess that's what you get when you don't respect the silence. That simple little void of auditory stimuli that allows you to catch a mental breath in a sea of parental status checks. That happen 300 times a minute. A joyful deprivation as well as insurmountable fear of the potential disasters your miniscule vacation has allowed. Fear it, love it, it is what it is, but with two years olds always be on your guard.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)