all the leaves are brown
and the sky is grey
I've been for a walk
on a winter's day
I'd be safe and warm
if I was in L.A
California Dreamin'
on such a winter's day
stopped into a church
I passed along the way
well, I got down on my knees
and I pretend to pray
you know the preacher likes the cold
he knows I'm gonna stay
California Dreamin'
on such a winter's day
all the leaves are brown
and the sky is grey
I've been for a walk
on a winter's day
if I didn't tell her
I could leave today
California Dreamin'
on such a winter's day
-California Dreamin' The Mommas & the Papas
Headline reads: Texas girl travels to a new state on vacation (finally) and decides never to return. Or something like that. Seriously? Isn't there an amendment on the ballet to rename California Utopifornia? If not, I will gladly sponsor one. I NEVER in a million years thought I would say this, but.....It was blissful not to be so darn hot!! That, and a few other observations, prompted me to write this blog examining the sanity in keeping good ole' Tejas in the 48 contiguous at all. WAIT! Put the lynchin' rope down just a gall darn second, wouldja ? Let's talk 'is out, k?
Observation #1 - People in California (based on my one time four day trip to San Diego) are in a state of Stepford wife-ish zombie-ness, in a good way. Here's the scoop: the hubs and I land. We get our luggage. We see the palm trees (instant hypnotic effect). We wander aimlessly but happily through the airport for an hour. We see my unimaginably handsome Navy boy who originated the idea for this trip. I scream and stomp my feet rapidly. I hug said Navy boy - we both may or may not have cried for a second. (Disclaimer: Navy boys soooo do not cry). It is then we realize that we will need a rental car.....Fast forward to the car rental place. See the lady tell us there's actually not a Jeep Wrangler in our price range. See her explain that the internet listed prices don't apply to San Diego due to the propensity for drug dealers & coyotes (not the furry sort) to drive them in and out of other countries. See her direct us out to a bench where a random gentleman will drive us to another car rental place where we can get a better deal. See us get in the car with the nameless gentleman does indeed drive us to an auxiliary car rental places with better prices. Convo ensues: Hubs: So, how long have you lived here? Unassuming driver guy: "Not long, maybe 14 years." Hubs: Do you like it? Driver: "What's not to like?"
Observation #2 - There didn't seem to be any California girls in California???? THEY WERE ALL NICE! I saw "Girls" in all shapes and sizes. They were on motorcycles. They were working on the Navy base (a blog in and of itself), they were walking down gloriously gorgeous boulevards, laying out on beaches, and even waiting tables in restaurants. None were tan. Few were overly highlighted. Only some were marginally blond. Most were my age. Most were riding bicycles on Coronado Island sans helmets because THERE ARE SIDEWALKS EVERYWHERE IN CALIFORNIA!!!
Observation #3 - San Diego has many, many, MANY nationalities encompassing it's make-up, but very, very few bugs. Hmmm? Yep! I said very few bugs. Here we have: mosquitos out the wazoo (in October & in a severe drought, no less!!!!), the ever popular "June" bug which manages to stay out waaaaaay past June, the cockaroacha (aka "Waterbug"), the dreaded fire ant, and CRICKETS (even in non-infestation years). California?????? WTH? We saw 5 (FIVE) freakin' flies and they WERE ALL NICE FLIES! We named them: Edward, Hubert, Ted (after my father), Alec (the hot fly), and Ringo. Don't ask. Again, all five were quite unobtrusive and were content to just look in on us from time to time, but never to light or disturb. Even the insects LOVE living in California.
Now, lest you decide to hold a dag nub trial and excommunicate me from Texas once an fer all, there were a few things in Cali that could use some improving: A) I was freaking' freezing the entire time!!!!! Holy shirts and pants! I wore a long sleeved sweater (the same one CONSTANTLY, since that's all I brought) every day and all day! B) EVERYONE rides a motorcycle. Actually, that's not a problem at all. The reason they do, however, is because there are ZERO parking spots in California!!!! Nada. Zilch. Zippty-do-da-day. I promise. Hotels - no spaces. Motels - no spaces. Holiday Inns - definitely no spaces. Those who do choose cars as chosen mode of transportation better be amazing at the parallel parking skill set. Still, it was beautiful, glorious, bug free (with minor exceptions), and very, very clean. But I don't want to live there.
Oh yeah, and we saw SEALS!!!! But, I still don't want to live there.
Oh yeah, and we saw DOLPHINS sooooooo close to the beach!!!!! But, I still don't want to live there.
Oh, yeah........never you mind. I have to go. There's a mesquite on my ankle that needs a good swattin'!
Monday, October 3, 2011
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Do You Know the Way to Hou-oo-ston?
She packed my bags last night pre-flight
Zero hour nine a.m.
And I’m gonna be high as a kite by then
I miss the earth so much I miss my wife
It’s lonely out in space
On such a timeless flight
And I think it’s gonna be a long long time
Till touch down brings me round again to find
I’m not the man they think I am at home
Oh no no no I’m a rocket man
Rocket man burning out his fuse up here alone
Mars ain’t the kind of place to raise your kids
In fact it’s cold as hell
And there’s no one there to raise them if you did
And all this science I don’t understand
It’s just my job five days a week
Rocket Man - Bernie Taupin/Elton John
The premise:
Yes, I am a savvy, sophisticated, chic, cosmopolitan, world traveler. Don't look at me like that!!! What? Oh, dear. 1985 called? What did they say? What? Braniff wants their frequent flyer miles back? Ouch. Now, that hurts!
Hear's the deal. I am NOT complaining!!! I'm a rules girl. If it's in the by-laws, I will do it. Stop signs? Color me stopped. Deadline? Got it. Speed limit? No worries. And, those are my "safely on land" rules! My "up in the air" rules are even better! What with the ugliness and wickedness in the world, I not only agree with but applaud any and all airport safety measures. Again - I not only agree with but applaud any and all airport safety measures. Still, though......for reals???
The prequel:
I live in Dallas. The Big D. DFW. Da Metroplex. Enough. I had to go to (drumroll)...Houston!!! I was traveling on company time and funds, so who was I to have a list of demands? I was ELATED, in fact!! Why, 'lil ole me? Goin' on a mahvelous trip? Why, I'll just have the grandest ole time! I'll buy all those cute little empty bottles and funnel my bougie shampoo and conditioner in them. I'll take a week's worth of books. A month ago, I started an outline of outfits: 1 for departure, 1 for each day, 1 for funsies, options for my pj's.....you get the picture. I got a little out of control (imagine that). Still, planner that I am, I packed, folded, and planned myself the perfect little work get-a-away ever planned. Go me!
The set up:
The Fast forward past: amazing hotel, great seminar, wonderful training material, incomprehensibly delish (FREE) hot appetizers and WINE each night, A ROOM WITH A WOOD FLOOR ENTRY AND GRANITE COUNTERTOPS.....my ship finally came in! End result? It came in, alright. Then it sailed...without me!
The funny part:
I had to come home. (Just wait, ok, it's not funny YET). I finished the meeting. I changed into the "return flight outfit" per the outline tucked away in side pocket suitcase (not too hoochie, not too matronly, Golilocks says this is juussst right). Shuttle was early. Ticket counter was empty. Smooth as buttah. Till I got to security.
1.The agent that had to clear me to enter the security area misread my last name. I said Moon. She said no. I said WRONG. She said SAY WHAT. I smiled and quadruple blinked my eyes (internal reset button). I squinched my nose up in my cutest, perkiest, Meg Ryan wannabe look. We started over. Whew!!!
2. I used 3 buckets: 1 for jewelry and various/sundry other metal objects, 1 for my ipad and iphone (Apple, check goes in mail now, please), & one for purse and carry-on. I so rock the security process!!!
3. I look up and see (gulp) the body scanner. I've heard about these. They're evil. I'll be able to talk to martians and get radio stations through my fillings after this. Never fear, though, cause savvy, sophisticated, chic, cosmopolitan, world traveling Dina is here!!!!!! I smile (again), squinch my perky nose up (again), and quadruple blink my eyes (again). Deep, cleansing breath. And.......
4. I step into Jetson's living room gadget. It looks like Arthur Murray was held captive in there! I see the huge yellow footprints. I step into them looking like I'm going to do a cross between the electric slide and the Rocky Horror Picture Show Time Warp.
5. When my Jetson's tube opens, I flip around like I'm about to do the 2nd Macarena and look the security man in the eyes. He's not smiling back at me. His nose isn't squinched. He looks......non-plussed (maybe even slightly irked?)
The finale:
Don't wear designer jeans with crystalized, studded, super-shiny, back pocket flaps.
A. They show up on a scan quite similar to other small, rectangle shaped, mysterious metal objects.
B. When you see the group of security guys gathered in front of the monitor, DON'T LOOK! Your glittery, crystalized, metallic derriere looks like planet EARTH! Those two things that look like TWIN NORTH AMERICAS ARE YOUR POCKETS! YOUR BOOTY IS BIGGER THAN RHODE ISLAND IN REAL TIME.
The Prologue:
The author hopes everyone understands and embraces her love for airport security. She also hopes you leave with these amazing insights: no one cares about your bougie shampoo and departure outfits, next time pack sweats for the return flight, and MEG RYAN ISN'T COOL ANYMORE!
Until next time - thank you for flying in my friendly sky!
Zero hour nine a.m.
And I’m gonna be high as a kite by then
I miss the earth so much I miss my wife
It’s lonely out in space
On such a timeless flight
And I think it’s gonna be a long long time
Till touch down brings me round again to find
I’m not the man they think I am at home
Oh no no no I’m a rocket man
Rocket man burning out his fuse up here alone
Mars ain’t the kind of place to raise your kids
In fact it’s cold as hell
And there’s no one there to raise them if you did
And all this science I don’t understand
It’s just my job five days a week
Rocket Man - Bernie Taupin/Elton John
The premise:
Yes, I am a savvy, sophisticated, chic, cosmopolitan, world traveler. Don't look at me like that!!! What? Oh, dear. 1985 called? What did they say? What? Braniff wants their frequent flyer miles back? Ouch. Now, that hurts!
Hear's the deal. I am NOT complaining!!! I'm a rules girl. If it's in the by-laws, I will do it. Stop signs? Color me stopped. Deadline? Got it. Speed limit? No worries. And, those are my "safely on land" rules! My "up in the air" rules are even better! What with the ugliness and wickedness in the world, I not only agree with but applaud any and all airport safety measures. Again - I not only agree with but applaud any and all airport safety measures. Still, though......for reals???
The prequel:
I live in Dallas. The Big D. DFW. Da Metroplex. Enough. I had to go to (drumroll)...Houston!!! I was traveling on company time and funds, so who was I to have a list of demands? I was ELATED, in fact!! Why, 'lil ole me? Goin' on a mahvelous trip? Why, I'll just have the grandest ole time! I'll buy all those cute little empty bottles and funnel my bougie shampoo and conditioner in them. I'll take a week's worth of books. A month ago, I started an outline of outfits: 1 for departure, 1 for each day, 1 for funsies, options for my pj's.....you get the picture. I got a little out of control (imagine that). Still, planner that I am, I packed, folded, and planned myself the perfect little work get-a-away ever planned. Go me!
The set up:
The Fast forward past: amazing hotel, great seminar, wonderful training material, incomprehensibly delish (FREE) hot appetizers and WINE each night, A ROOM WITH A WOOD FLOOR ENTRY AND GRANITE COUNTERTOPS.....my ship finally came in! End result? It came in, alright. Then it sailed...without me!
The funny part:
I had to come home. (Just wait, ok, it's not funny YET). I finished the meeting. I changed into the "return flight outfit" per the outline tucked away in side pocket suitcase (not too hoochie, not too matronly, Golilocks says this is juussst right). Shuttle was early. Ticket counter was empty. Smooth as buttah. Till I got to security.
1.The agent that had to clear me to enter the security area misread my last name. I said Moon. She said no. I said WRONG. She said SAY WHAT. I smiled and quadruple blinked my eyes (internal reset button). I squinched my nose up in my cutest, perkiest, Meg Ryan wannabe look. We started over. Whew!!!
2. I used 3 buckets: 1 for jewelry and various/sundry other metal objects, 1 for my ipad and iphone (Apple, check goes in mail now, please), & one for purse and carry-on. I so rock the security process!!!
3. I look up and see (gulp) the body scanner. I've heard about these. They're evil. I'll be able to talk to martians and get radio stations through my fillings after this. Never fear, though, cause savvy, sophisticated, chic, cosmopolitan, world traveling Dina is here!!!!!! I smile (again), squinch my perky nose up (again), and quadruple blink my eyes (again). Deep, cleansing breath. And.......
4. I step into Jetson's living room gadget. It looks like Arthur Murray was held captive in there! I see the huge yellow footprints. I step into them looking like I'm going to do a cross between the electric slide and the Rocky Horror Picture Show Time Warp.
5. When my Jetson's tube opens, I flip around like I'm about to do the 2nd Macarena and look the security man in the eyes. He's not smiling back at me. His nose isn't squinched. He looks......non-plussed (maybe even slightly irked?)
The finale:
Don't wear designer jeans with crystalized, studded, super-shiny, back pocket flaps.
A. They show up on a scan quite similar to other small, rectangle shaped, mysterious metal objects.
B. When you see the group of security guys gathered in front of the monitor, DON'T LOOK! Your glittery, crystalized, metallic derriere looks like planet EARTH! Those two things that look like TWIN NORTH AMERICAS ARE YOUR POCKETS! YOUR BOOTY IS BIGGER THAN RHODE ISLAND IN REAL TIME.
The Prologue:
The author hopes everyone understands and embraces her love for airport security. She also hopes you leave with these amazing insights: no one cares about your bougie shampoo and departure outfits, next time pack sweats for the return flight, and MEG RYAN ISN'T COOL ANYMORE!
Until next time - thank you for flying in my friendly sky!
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Girls Love Batman, Too
You with the sad eyes
Don't be discouraged
Oh I realize
It's hard to take courage
In a world full of people
You can lose sight of it all
And the darkness, inside you
Can make you feel so small
But I see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that's why I love you
So don't be afraid to let them show
Your true colors
True colors are beautiful,
Like a rainbow
Show me a smile then,
Don't be unhappy, can't remember
When I last saw you laughing
If this world makes you crazy
And you've taken all you can bear
You call me up
Because you know I'll be there
Billy Steinberg, as recorded by the amazing Cyndy Lauper
"Mom, I HATE my room!" she says at an incredible decibel level. Loud enough, it seems, to transcend the orchestra of pop-culture noises piercing the invisible barrier between her bedroom and the kitchen doorway. " I mean, I really HATE it. You said we could paint when I switched, Mom." It's not so much a complaint, but more of her unofficial thesis on the many broken promises of a modern day mom. She feels, I know, that words coming from my mouth are worthless, said as much to maintain peaceful silence at this equatorial line between the continents of Momland and the Outer Banks of Teenage Girldom as it's said just to be saying something. Pointless drivel, sometimes,is a beautiful thing. At times, I find myself talking to her, to Chynna, to this prettier, smarter, all around better rendition of me, and not really hearing what I'm saying. It just feels so good to have a connection to her. Walking into her room, I think as I forge through a sea of dirty clothes - are they really dirty? How does one person wear so many clothes in just a week? - is like exploring uncharted territory. It looks idyllic, until you get in the big middle. I consider giving up before I've even stepped in the door, but by then, it would take just as much effort to turn around as it would to forge ahead. I need a compass, or maybe a machete. It's the noise that always gets me. Who is that, singing? Is that singing? It sounds like someone is worshipping Satan and running over animals in a Mac truck, simultaneously. Why is the TV on, too? How can anyone stand to be in this room for more than 15 seconds, I wonder. I must look like I smell a decomposing animal, at that point. She laughs.The edges of her eyes close as she smiles. She shakes her head back and forth. The sentiment is instantly translated. "Mom, you are so old," she's thinking. "Whatever am I going to do with you, Momma?" Indeed, Chynna my dear, I think back at her. Whatever will we do.
It's like watching my own youth, a movie of me. Seeing me, watching me in another time. Thinking that this must be what my mother saw when I had such epiphanies. Realizing how similar my mini-me and I truly are. Noticing how she talks with her hands, just like me. Seeing her indignant stance as she puts her hands on her hips and points her right knee toward the corner, the heel of her right foot resting on top of her left foot. Just like me.Just like my mother. Suddenly, I'm back in my mother's house, standing in her kitchen - though she did not live there anymore, making homemade sloppy joe's for my dad.I'm 17. I stir the meat, talking absentmindedly to my father, when he says softly, "You stand just like your mother. Just like her." It's then that it hits me. The truth. The brevity of youth. The mistakes. A product of divorce, I, too, am divorced. Chynna, I wonder, is this your destiny? Do you exist just to wander the world and repeat the mistakes of your mother, and her mother before her? How far does this mistake heredity extend, I wonder? Is it like welfare? Is this a spell cast upon us by the wicked witch of the Catch 22's? Are we just going around and around in circles - riding some merry-go-round that's just a little too fast?
It's then that I consciously decide to engage in the conversation.
"Baby, what, exactly do you wanna do? I mean, you know I wanted to paint your room, but it took everything within my power to get the rooms switched around as it was.
The boys were NOT happy campers to switch to the room with just one closet, either." This entire room switch was a horrible idea, I realize, creating more problems
than it solved. Chynna's unhappiness with, as she termed it, the swamp bedroom that was always a balmy 80 degrees no matter what the thermostat says - was more than I
could tolerate. So, 6 months ago I told her they could make the switch. Then, 6 weeks ago, we actually did it. Maybe 6 years from now we'll complete the task? I am overcome by disparity, by the realization that she won't be here 6 years from now - or even in 2 years, defiantly arguing with me, drinking the last Dr Pepper in the fridge,leaving the bathroom in a mess....she'll be away at college. She'll be learning how to be an adult, a woman, a wholly thinking, independent entity. I am overcome with sadness, then, realizing just how empty my nest has become. In 30 seconds, I make the biggest decision I've made in a calendar year. "Chynna", I say with decisive clarity,"just take the bull by the horns. Make us a plan. Tell me what what you need. I'm fine with the outcome, I just don't have the energy to make the plan." As a smile bigger than the Grand Canyon lights up my 16 year old daughter's cherubic face, and as the infamous ice-pick dimple adds (if even possible) yet more beauty to her impressive landscape, she approaches closer. My underling, still, by a good 2 1/2 inches, she stands on the tops of her tiny, chubby, impossibly minute size 4 toes and grasps my chin with thumb and index finger. "That's my girl," she says. "I knew you'd come around! Oh, momma, you won't regret this! It's all I've ever wanted! What are we gonna do? Can we do Batman?" "What? No!" I yell, surprised by my own naivety. "I call foul, Chynna!" Crinkling up my nose and feigning disgust. "You know I do not like this whole Batman mentality." "But mom," she drawls, stretching my nomenclature out to several syllables,"think about how cool that would look. We could paint the walls bright yellow and do all the Gotham City buildings in gray, with a huge, black, bat signal on the wall across from the window," she points. With her arms looking like a military drill routine, pointing with practiced straight arms and stiff fingers. Choruses of "this can go here" and "that can go there" flowed in unison, from both our voices. We discussed our many options, mostly her ideas, her presentations - me in contemplation mode, like a modern day thinker sculpture. Our fraggle-ish pontytails nodding in unison. Both of us dressed in capri pajama pants and big t-shirt on this lazy Saturday morning. Aggies for her, for that's the only college, she argued on a weekly
basis, she'd set foot in no matter what the cost. Jackrabbits, for me, since it was my favorite sleep shirt, large and soft, plucked from the air by my husband at a high school football game with same mascot - the result of a touchdown by my teenage son's team, no doubt. So, we planned. We schemed. We conferred. We designed. Black walls with a portrait of Marilyn Monroe's gorgeous face, all done in chalk ("Chynna, you're such a good artist, I know you could pull that off.") A pirate bedroom, or our interpretation of, with red walls,and leopard print curtains - a headboard fashioned from an old door. Maybe even a "polar bear in the snow" look - everything stark white with splashes of hot pink or turquoise. There would be no pink. We'd done that in her room when she was just two - antique furniture, pink and white striped walls, window seat - even complete with a dollhouse in the corner. "That's so you and not me, mom!" She laugh-talked when I mentioned that look again. "Honestly, I'm way too complicated for that!" I can't help but smile at this statement. I remember, like yesterday, the arrogance of my youth. How amazingly sophisticated I was at her age, or so I'd thought. Why, I, too, thought settling for the norm was as bad as committing a mortal sin! Such time, such precision, such soulful crafting we girls put into the way we're perceived.
How sweet, I think fleetingly, she really doesn't know that life is going to kick her around for a while, very soon! And, then, just like that, a decision is made. It seems so obvious to the both of us. We wonder, silently, independently of each other, why we didn't think of this sooner. It simply can be nothing else! We will do a Disney princess room. We'll paint the walls a very adult oceany blue/green - just a shade or two darker than a Tiffany blue. It will be a room fit for Ariel herself, since that's the Disney princess of choice for my daughter. Belle's just ok. Snow White is too antiquated. Cinderella outlived her reign, in Chynna's opinion. Sleeping Beauty...waaaaay too passive. Jasmine? Ehh - she get's nod for being a brunette, but that's about it. Esmerelda had it going on, but she just never gathered enough steam. Ariel,on the other hand. Ariel is perfect. Different. Unique. Ariel has purpose. Ariel is a searcher of truths, a learner of meanings. She's beautiful. She's so darn perpetually happy. She never thinks a negative thought. She never gives up. She's scrappy. That's my Chynna. This is a no brainer, suddenly. This, it seems, will be the a room under the sea, so to speak. "Chynna," I say, impulsively. "This will be the very last room change, ever, for you at home. Understand? Is this really something you can live with indefinitely? Do you see yourself spending holidays in this room, in this way we're describing it, years from now while you're home from college - home with your kids?" "Oh, momma", she states with only the slightest of eye-rolls, a trait she definitely inherited from me. "I will always be 16 going on 8! You know that, right?"
More than you ever guessed, princess. Way more.
Don't be discouraged
Oh I realize
It's hard to take courage
In a world full of people
You can lose sight of it all
And the darkness, inside you
Can make you feel so small
But I see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that's why I love you
So don't be afraid to let them show
Your true colors
True colors are beautiful,
Like a rainbow
Show me a smile then,
Don't be unhappy, can't remember
When I last saw you laughing
If this world makes you crazy
And you've taken all you can bear
You call me up
Because you know I'll be there
Billy Steinberg, as recorded by the amazing Cyndy Lauper
"Mom, I HATE my room!" she says at an incredible decibel level. Loud enough, it seems, to transcend the orchestra of pop-culture noises piercing the invisible barrier between her bedroom and the kitchen doorway. " I mean, I really HATE it. You said we could paint when I switched, Mom." It's not so much a complaint, but more of her unofficial thesis on the many broken promises of a modern day mom. She feels, I know, that words coming from my mouth are worthless, said as much to maintain peaceful silence at this equatorial line between the continents of Momland and the Outer Banks of Teenage Girldom as it's said just to be saying something. Pointless drivel, sometimes,is a beautiful thing. At times, I find myself talking to her, to Chynna, to this prettier, smarter, all around better rendition of me, and not really hearing what I'm saying. It just feels so good to have a connection to her. Walking into her room, I think as I forge through a sea of dirty clothes - are they really dirty? How does one person wear so many clothes in just a week? - is like exploring uncharted territory. It looks idyllic, until you get in the big middle. I consider giving up before I've even stepped in the door, but by then, it would take just as much effort to turn around as it would to forge ahead. I need a compass, or maybe a machete. It's the noise that always gets me. Who is that, singing? Is that singing? It sounds like someone is worshipping Satan and running over animals in a Mac truck, simultaneously. Why is the TV on, too? How can anyone stand to be in this room for more than 15 seconds, I wonder. I must look like I smell a decomposing animal, at that point. She laughs.The edges of her eyes close as she smiles. She shakes her head back and forth. The sentiment is instantly translated. "Mom, you are so old," she's thinking. "Whatever am I going to do with you, Momma?" Indeed, Chynna my dear, I think back at her. Whatever will we do.
It's like watching my own youth, a movie of me. Seeing me, watching me in another time. Thinking that this must be what my mother saw when I had such epiphanies. Realizing how similar my mini-me and I truly are. Noticing how she talks with her hands, just like me. Seeing her indignant stance as she puts her hands on her hips and points her right knee toward the corner, the heel of her right foot resting on top of her left foot. Just like me.Just like my mother. Suddenly, I'm back in my mother's house, standing in her kitchen - though she did not live there anymore, making homemade sloppy joe's for my dad.I'm 17. I stir the meat, talking absentmindedly to my father, when he says softly, "You stand just like your mother. Just like her." It's then that it hits me. The truth. The brevity of youth. The mistakes. A product of divorce, I, too, am divorced. Chynna, I wonder, is this your destiny? Do you exist just to wander the world and repeat the mistakes of your mother, and her mother before her? How far does this mistake heredity extend, I wonder? Is it like welfare? Is this a spell cast upon us by the wicked witch of the Catch 22's? Are we just going around and around in circles - riding some merry-go-round that's just a little too fast?
It's then that I consciously decide to engage in the conversation.
"Baby, what, exactly do you wanna do? I mean, you know I wanted to paint your room, but it took everything within my power to get the rooms switched around as it was.
The boys were NOT happy campers to switch to the room with just one closet, either." This entire room switch was a horrible idea, I realize, creating more problems
than it solved. Chynna's unhappiness with, as she termed it, the swamp bedroom that was always a balmy 80 degrees no matter what the thermostat says - was more than I
could tolerate. So, 6 months ago I told her they could make the switch. Then, 6 weeks ago, we actually did it. Maybe 6 years from now we'll complete the task? I am overcome by disparity, by the realization that she won't be here 6 years from now - or even in 2 years, defiantly arguing with me, drinking the last Dr Pepper in the fridge,leaving the bathroom in a mess....she'll be away at college. She'll be learning how to be an adult, a woman, a wholly thinking, independent entity. I am overcome with sadness, then, realizing just how empty my nest has become. In 30 seconds, I make the biggest decision I've made in a calendar year. "Chynna", I say with decisive clarity,"just take the bull by the horns. Make us a plan. Tell me what what you need. I'm fine with the outcome, I just don't have the energy to make the plan." As a smile bigger than the Grand Canyon lights up my 16 year old daughter's cherubic face, and as the infamous ice-pick dimple adds (if even possible) yet more beauty to her impressive landscape, she approaches closer. My underling, still, by a good 2 1/2 inches, she stands on the tops of her tiny, chubby, impossibly minute size 4 toes and grasps my chin with thumb and index finger. "That's my girl," she says. "I knew you'd come around! Oh, momma, you won't regret this! It's all I've ever wanted! What are we gonna do? Can we do Batman?" "What? No!" I yell, surprised by my own naivety. "I call foul, Chynna!" Crinkling up my nose and feigning disgust. "You know I do not like this whole Batman mentality." "But mom," she drawls, stretching my nomenclature out to several syllables,"think about how cool that would look. We could paint the walls bright yellow and do all the Gotham City buildings in gray, with a huge, black, bat signal on the wall across from the window," she points. With her arms looking like a military drill routine, pointing with practiced straight arms and stiff fingers. Choruses of "this can go here" and "that can go there" flowed in unison, from both our voices. We discussed our many options, mostly her ideas, her presentations - me in contemplation mode, like a modern day thinker sculpture. Our fraggle-ish pontytails nodding in unison. Both of us dressed in capri pajama pants and big t-shirt on this lazy Saturday morning. Aggies for her, for that's the only college, she argued on a weekly
basis, she'd set foot in no matter what the cost. Jackrabbits, for me, since it was my favorite sleep shirt, large and soft, plucked from the air by my husband at a high school football game with same mascot - the result of a touchdown by my teenage son's team, no doubt. So, we planned. We schemed. We conferred. We designed. Black walls with a portrait of Marilyn Monroe's gorgeous face, all done in chalk ("Chynna, you're such a good artist, I know you could pull that off.") A pirate bedroom, or our interpretation of, with red walls,and leopard print curtains - a headboard fashioned from an old door. Maybe even a "polar bear in the snow" look - everything stark white with splashes of hot pink or turquoise. There would be no pink. We'd done that in her room when she was just two - antique furniture, pink and white striped walls, window seat - even complete with a dollhouse in the corner. "That's so you and not me, mom!" She laugh-talked when I mentioned that look again. "Honestly, I'm way too complicated for that!" I can't help but smile at this statement. I remember, like yesterday, the arrogance of my youth. How amazingly sophisticated I was at her age, or so I'd thought. Why, I, too, thought settling for the norm was as bad as committing a mortal sin! Such time, such precision, such soulful crafting we girls put into the way we're perceived.
How sweet, I think fleetingly, she really doesn't know that life is going to kick her around for a while, very soon! And, then, just like that, a decision is made. It seems so obvious to the both of us. We wonder, silently, independently of each other, why we didn't think of this sooner. It simply can be nothing else! We will do a Disney princess room. We'll paint the walls a very adult oceany blue/green - just a shade or two darker than a Tiffany blue. It will be a room fit for Ariel herself, since that's the Disney princess of choice for my daughter. Belle's just ok. Snow White is too antiquated. Cinderella outlived her reign, in Chynna's opinion. Sleeping Beauty...waaaaay too passive. Jasmine? Ehh - she get's nod for being a brunette, but that's about it. Esmerelda had it going on, but she just never gathered enough steam. Ariel,on the other hand. Ariel is perfect. Different. Unique. Ariel has purpose. Ariel is a searcher of truths, a learner of meanings. She's beautiful. She's so darn perpetually happy. She never thinks a negative thought. She never gives up. She's scrappy. That's my Chynna. This is a no brainer, suddenly. This, it seems, will be the a room under the sea, so to speak. "Chynna," I say, impulsively. "This will be the very last room change, ever, for you at home. Understand? Is this really something you can live with indefinitely? Do you see yourself spending holidays in this room, in this way we're describing it, years from now while you're home from college - home with your kids?" "Oh, momma", she states with only the slightest of eye-rolls, a trait she definitely inherited from me. "I will always be 16 going on 8! You know that, right?"
More than you ever guessed, princess. Way more.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Rip, Rip, Ping (The Ballad of the Wayward Button)
Clean shirt, new shoes
and I don't know where I am goin' to.
Silk suit, black tie,
I don't need a reason why.
They come runnin' just as fast as they can
coz every girl crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man.
Gold watch, diamond ring,
I ain't missin' a single thing.
And cufflinks, stick pin,
when I step out I'm gonna do you in.
They come runnin' just as fast as they can
coz every girl crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man.
Top coat, top hat,
I don't worry coz my wallet's fat.
Black shades, white gloves,
lookin' sharp and lookin' for love.
They come runnin' just as fast as they can
coz every girl grazy 'bout a sharp dressed man.
"Sharp Dressed Man". -ZZ Top
It was the best of times. It was the less than best of times. I wear many hats, but plaguerist is not one of them, Mr. Dickens! Today was definitely a Manic Monday, except, of course, it was Thursday. In my best "who's on first" fashion, I can honestly say that Monday was more like a Wednesday this week. Not too many complications, plus, I'm one of those rare oddities of the human race who actually really like their job! Call me Suzy Sunshine (no really, don't!) but there's something to be said about getting up and going out into the world to try and impact someone else - be that a co-worker or a customer....or whomever. We won't go into any details about the details. Another hat I don't wear is "Dunce". Suffice it to say that I work (daily), and I like my job (almost always). Beyond that, we're on a need to know basis. Anywho, back to the week. Tuesday? I don't really remember Tuesday at all, so I guess it was above par. Wednesday? Pretty darn good! Today? Three steps forward and three miles back! Allow me to splain, Ricky!
I woke up today. Since the last time I blogged, I chopped off all of my newly grown shoulder length hair. It felt like the right thing to do. After being bald and s-l-o-w-l-y growing my hair out, I thought I would give it one last "I'm over 40 but I can't admit it" growth spurt. As I fell asleep every night, I would think, "Brooke Shields is one year older than you! Cindy Crawford is the same age as you. Demi Moore is OLDER than you." Repeat until you fall asleep. It's the old-girl-long-hair-sheep-counting technique! And, it was working for a while. Gradually, though, the hair started to bother me as it grew down the back of my neck. I couldn't sleep at night. I didn't think it looked that good. It was sooooooo hot and thick and unruly and unmanageable. So, it's gone! Anyway, back to this morning. I had a catastrophe wrapped in an enigma blanketed in a nightmare. Come to think of it, I'm reminded of another place and time - when all that separated the men from the boys was the quality of their pants.
Hello? 1999? You out there somewhere? Yoo hoo! Come in '99...... Paging 1999. Heyyyy (Hip Hop Hooray!) Thanks for joining me! Here's the deal. Once I had a farm. Not in Africa (quick, what movie?) It was actually just some acreage in Forney, TX. Still, I was blessed to be a stay at home mom for over 10 years. I subbed. I ran programs. I volunteered. I face painted at carnivals. I was definitely mom o' the year...consecutive years, mind you! Nevertheless, life with 3 young stair-step kids is never dull. It's equal parts bliss and piss. Those adorable little cherubs morph from angelic to demonic faster than you can say "Expecto Patronum!" (HP fans, you may bow down at my feet later). Still, we live, we love, we laugh. We enlighten. We feed. We clothe. We nurture. We tire, quickly. Here's the scene: Enter Dillan. Age 12 or so. Middle school. It's all about the image. Necklace made of ball bearings (check). Hair died platinum at the crown only (check). Wallet with chain (check). Leather motorcycle jacket (check). Always a study in contrasts, my eldest, he's in the band. I'm so proud to see his artistic side! Finally, a glimpse of his mom. Issue: " Mom, the band concert is tomorrow night. Do you have my navy blue pants!" Me: " Of course I do! Why, I'll have them pressed and ready to wear to school, tomorrow." (Note from author: I was instructed by said son NEVER to buy navy pants. They are not cool.) PANIC! What to do? No time for the mall. Hmmmm..... Think, think. I KNOW! I'll go to the local big-box retail grocer/tire/fuel/produce/feminine hygiene store!!! Not the best source for pants, mind you, but time is priceless, after all. Besides, he HATES the navy uniform pants. Cool guys only wear khaki, remember? So, I go. So I buy. So I iron. So I give. So he wears......Epilogue: 3:30 pm. I pull up in front of the school. 3:40 - nothing. 3:45 - nothing, 4 pm - who? Is that? Hmmmmm.....Yep, here he comes. Why Is he walking like that?
For the rest of the story.... 1) Dillan arrives at school. Leather biker jacket? Check. Circular section of crown of head died platinum? Check. Ball bearing necklace? Check. Navy pants? Check! 2) Humiliated Dill exits school. Mom's internal thoughts upon seeing eldest son walking in a rather constipated looking gate toward the car, "WTHeck is wrong with him? Hernia? Pulled a back muscle? Horrendous stomach cramps? Why is he all hunched over like the Notre Dame dude with his backpack clenched in front of him? 3) The Ugly Truth: Dillan: Mom, WHERE did you get these pants? Moi: At a store over by the mall? (sort of true) Dillan: Mom, I had THE worst day!!! Moi: Dill, what happened? Dillan: Mom, like an hour after I got to school I went to the restroom to pee. When I tried to zip up my pants, the zipper just went up and down but wouldn't do anything! I even unbuttoned to see if that would help. Then, when I tried to button back up, thinkin' I'd just tighten my belt extra tight, the button popped off and flew all over the bathroom. I heard it hit the sink, but I was too embarrassed to go and pick it up." Moi: "Well, I wonder what could've happened???"
Fast forward, oh catastrophes of clothing future! Scene: 2011 Protagonist: Me!!! Antagonist: Big box retailer's AMAZINGLY chic olive green-rayon-drawstring waist-shirt dress with double pocketed bodice (so triple darn c-u-t-e) that I just HAD to have it! And......ACTION: See me arrive back at office after visiting mui importante client. Staff member: "What's that?" (I glance down at the area near my right lower hip near the buttocks area) "OMG - My dress has a HUGE rip down the side and I'm on my way to another client meeting!!!!" MORE ACTION: The next client: "Uh, hey, what's that?" (Mind you I have my largemongous purse discreetly placed over the also largemongous rip) Me, looking down at the area near my left lower hip near the buttocks area: "OMG - my dress has a HUGE rip down the side and I'm on my way to a charity meeting!" EVEN MORE ACTION: Unable to rise and greet incoming attendees at said charity meeting, I exit the building doing a very odd "hold-purse-tight-to-body-place-left-hand-rigidly-against-left-hip" move (think "Night of the Living Dead" combined with Elaine from Seinfeld dance moves). Finally, easing myself into the driver's seat of my car, I allow myself a long-awaited exhale. Done. Finito. Over. Let's engage the seat belt and get the heck out of Dodge. And that, dear friends, is when my top button popped off. True story. All hail the power of karma. Ain't it a bit#*?
Saturday, May 7, 2011
A Secret Place
You packed in the morning and I
Stared out the window and I
Struggled for something to say
You left in the rain
Without closing the door
I didn't stand in your way
But I miss you more than I
Missed you before and now
Where I'll find comfort, God knows
'Cause you left me
Just when I needed you most.
"Just When I Needed You Most" - Randy VanWarmer
I fancy myself a story-teller, mostly of sad stories. Some of you understand this. Some of you don't. Some of you understand but are sick of hearing about it. Some of you are non-committal in regard to your feelings. Some of you will never read this. Some of you will. I write for me, though. I've never been one for therapy. I think it's wonderful, but I vehemently disagree with the repression or reappointment of feelings. If I'm sad, I'm sad. If I'm not, I'm not. Period. I take refuge in my grief at times - it's all I have left to cling to, it seems. I was just like all of you. We all grew up. We were told we could be anything. Some of us exceeded our wildest dreams, others did not. Hopefully we all found a happy place and became solid citizens and purveyors of good things in the world. I think I did. I married. I had babies. I was a very, very good mother. My children never wore disposable diapers, drank out of bottles, had pacifiers, or ate baby food out of jars. None of those things are wrong. I just did things this one certain way. I thought it was best. I thought this was what really good mothers did. Who knows. Things were GREAT for a long time. But, life gets tough. We all make mistakes - I certainly did. Then, everything changed. My baby died.
Everyone knows my story. One day I took my daughter to the mall and bought her first prom dress. Three weeks later, she was buried in that dress. It all happened so fast. It's been three years since that horrific event. Three years ago I was in shock and couldn't form words with my mouth. Two years ago, I was very sick and very sad. One year ago I was pretending like everything was perfectly fine. This year, I'm not sure where I am, exactly. Better? Yes. Normal? Not so sure. Healed? Never. I miss her so deeply. Tomorrow is Mother's Day. I am still a mother. Still a woman. Still a person. I still struggle. I watch my boys struggle. I see my mother struggle. Without sounding pathetic or angry or jaded, I know I'm not special. Parents lose children everyday. I'm thankful I only lost one.
I dream about her incessantly. That's one thing that changed in the last year. For a long time I never dreamed of her. Now, that seems to be all I do. My dreams are like my grief. It makes me so sad, but it's all I have left of her. Sometimes it's hard for me to imagine her voice. Her laugh. Her feet. These things blur with the passage of time and the mind's attempt to salvage some sanity. But, the dreams......are......amazing. They heal me and hurt me all at the same time. Take, for instance, this one.
She is eight years old. We are taking a family vacation. It's a cruise, I believe. We're all packed in a van with innumerable people of all sorts of nationalities. We seem to be on the way from the airport to our cruise-ship. We're laughing. She's tired and sweaty and very irritable. I decide we should all sing. Grudgingly, I convince everyone to follow suit. Laughs. Smiles. Harmonies. Then, suddenly she's not there. No one can find her. We tear the van from stem to stern, but no little girl. The ship sails without her and I am held captive by my fear and panic. Everyone is looking. Oddly, little pieces of her surface around every corner. I find her flip flop on the Lido deck. I spot her tiny gold hoop earring in the toilet. I pick her pink plaid headband up in the formal dining room. She's leaving me clues. "Find me, momma", she seems to be saying. I look. And look. And look. Months later, I'm leaving the grocers to head home one evening when I see her favorite barrette in the parking lot next to my car. I know, then, that she's back. I just know. Racing in my front door, I scream her name. She comes bounding down the stairs into my arms. Little tanned body, precious ponytail, scented with my special body lotion she's not supposed to use without my permission....she's perfect. She smells like angel wings. I am complete again. I tell her I never stopped looking for her. I tell her I could hear her calling for me in the distance. I tell her I cried so hard. I tell her, my sweet cherubic girl, that I knew she was somewhere. But, where? She can't tell me, or won't tell me. "Don't worry about that", she says. I tell her I felt her. I tell her that every night, right before I fell asleep, there was a tiny little place, a secret place that no one else knows, where I tried to slip through. I thought, if I could wiggle past that space, that I could find her. She looks at me, eyes wide and wild, equal parts amazed and scared. "Don't ever do that! Promise me you will never try to do that. It's not safe. You aren't ready to come there yet. It's not time. You wouldn't be welcomed there. Promise me you won't follow me, mommy."
And then, she was gone. Again. I will wait for her here, until the next dream.
Stared out the window and I
Struggled for something to say
You left in the rain
Without closing the door
I didn't stand in your way
But I miss you more than I
Missed you before and now
Where I'll find comfort, God knows
'Cause you left me
Just when I needed you most.
"Just When I Needed You Most" - Randy VanWarmer
I fancy myself a story-teller, mostly of sad stories. Some of you understand this. Some of you don't. Some of you understand but are sick of hearing about it. Some of you are non-committal in regard to your feelings. Some of you will never read this. Some of you will. I write for me, though. I've never been one for therapy. I think it's wonderful, but I vehemently disagree with the repression or reappointment of feelings. If I'm sad, I'm sad. If I'm not, I'm not. Period. I take refuge in my grief at times - it's all I have left to cling to, it seems. I was just like all of you. We all grew up. We were told we could be anything. Some of us exceeded our wildest dreams, others did not. Hopefully we all found a happy place and became solid citizens and purveyors of good things in the world. I think I did. I married. I had babies. I was a very, very good mother. My children never wore disposable diapers, drank out of bottles, had pacifiers, or ate baby food out of jars. None of those things are wrong. I just did things this one certain way. I thought it was best. I thought this was what really good mothers did. Who knows. Things were GREAT for a long time. But, life gets tough. We all make mistakes - I certainly did. Then, everything changed. My baby died.
Everyone knows my story. One day I took my daughter to the mall and bought her first prom dress. Three weeks later, she was buried in that dress. It all happened so fast. It's been three years since that horrific event. Three years ago I was in shock and couldn't form words with my mouth. Two years ago, I was very sick and very sad. One year ago I was pretending like everything was perfectly fine. This year, I'm not sure where I am, exactly. Better? Yes. Normal? Not so sure. Healed? Never. I miss her so deeply. Tomorrow is Mother's Day. I am still a mother. Still a woman. Still a person. I still struggle. I watch my boys struggle. I see my mother struggle. Without sounding pathetic or angry or jaded, I know I'm not special. Parents lose children everyday. I'm thankful I only lost one.
I dream about her incessantly. That's one thing that changed in the last year. For a long time I never dreamed of her. Now, that seems to be all I do. My dreams are like my grief. It makes me so sad, but it's all I have left of her. Sometimes it's hard for me to imagine her voice. Her laugh. Her feet. These things blur with the passage of time and the mind's attempt to salvage some sanity. But, the dreams......are......amazing. They heal me and hurt me all at the same time. Take, for instance, this one.
She is eight years old. We are taking a family vacation. It's a cruise, I believe. We're all packed in a van with innumerable people of all sorts of nationalities. We seem to be on the way from the airport to our cruise-ship. We're laughing. She's tired and sweaty and very irritable. I decide we should all sing. Grudgingly, I convince everyone to follow suit. Laughs. Smiles. Harmonies. Then, suddenly she's not there. No one can find her. We tear the van from stem to stern, but no little girl. The ship sails without her and I am held captive by my fear and panic. Everyone is looking. Oddly, little pieces of her surface around every corner. I find her flip flop on the Lido deck. I spot her tiny gold hoop earring in the toilet. I pick her pink plaid headband up in the formal dining room. She's leaving me clues. "Find me, momma", she seems to be saying. I look. And look. And look. Months later, I'm leaving the grocers to head home one evening when I see her favorite barrette in the parking lot next to my car. I know, then, that she's back. I just know. Racing in my front door, I scream her name. She comes bounding down the stairs into my arms. Little tanned body, precious ponytail, scented with my special body lotion she's not supposed to use without my permission....she's perfect. She smells like angel wings. I am complete again. I tell her I never stopped looking for her. I tell her I could hear her calling for me in the distance. I tell her I cried so hard. I tell her, my sweet cherubic girl, that I knew she was somewhere. But, where? She can't tell me, or won't tell me. "Don't worry about that", she says. I tell her I felt her. I tell her that every night, right before I fell asleep, there was a tiny little place, a secret place that no one else knows, where I tried to slip through. I thought, if I could wiggle past that space, that I could find her. She looks at me, eyes wide and wild, equal parts amazed and scared. "Don't ever do that! Promise me you will never try to do that. It's not safe. You aren't ready to come there yet. It's not time. You wouldn't be welcomed there. Promise me you won't follow me, mommy."
And then, she was gone. Again. I will wait for her here, until the next dream.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
You model? Cheerleader?
Well, I was born a coal miner's daughter,
In a cabin, on a hill in Butcher Holler,
We were poor, but we had love,
That's the one thing my daddy made sure of,
He shoveled coal to make a poor man's dollar.
-Loretta Lynn "Coal Miner's Daughter"
Well, ok. I was born a laundromat owner/pool hall proprietor/appliance repairman's daughter. We didn't live in a cabin, per se. We lived in a brick house, though I was born in a trailer, which is sort of like a cabin, I guess. Oh! There was a little red house on our 2nd acre that housed our well - it was definitely a cabin! Matter of fact, my daddy dug that 40 ft well himself, making him.....yep! Definitely a miner! Still, I've never been to Butcher Holler. I lived in Combine. I've been told to quit hollerin', though. Does that count? Why all the antiquated pioneer euphemisms, you ask? Well, remember the blog series I promised about all the things we thought we would be one day? Yepper, this is part dieu! Too much frost on this bumpkin's pumpkin, you think? Stay with me - it will all make sense soon.
Oh, poor, poor little DD! I wanted to be a princess. I wanted a prince to fall in love with me. I wanted to be beautiful, popular, athletic (even I'm rolling my eyes now)...I just wanted to be the 100% polar opposite of what I was: a short, brunette, country-fied child who lived out in the middle of nowhere. We used clotheslines instead of an electric dryer. We didn't have central air conditioning (or any air conditioning). We bought these huge slabs of pork at a butcher and sliced our own bacon. We caught rain water in a barrel.....and used it to rinse our hair. My mother made all of my clothes - including my jeans. Cool and earthy/hippy chic now. Back then, though, I was mortified. How in the world would I ever, EVER, fulfill my precocious destiny given this "Deliverance" type hand I'd been dealt? Easy....we economically challenged redneck girls are oh so resourceful!
I have a wonderful mother. If necessity really is the mother of invention, my mother invented gumption. If the other girls had expensive dresses from "The Rag Doll" boutique across the street from Smith's Pharmacy, no worries. She learned to sew the exact same thing. When earth shoes were all the rage...we discovered lay-a-way at Myer's Department Store. When EVERYONE but me was wearing blue eye-shadow, we used pool cue chalk. And, when all my friends showed up at school with their hair frosted, I was introduced to the lemon! Finally, the most important contribution to my quest for dominance with the female race...(drumroll)...my mother made sure I started school already able to read.
I read anything I could get my hands on. My first sentence? "Momma, read the book." My first book purchase at the age of 5? The biography of Orville & Wilbur Wright (purchased, of course, from the Salvation Army store). My specialty? The cinema. Marilyn Monroe, Marlene Dietrich, the romance of Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart, Judy Garland, Audrey Hepburn, Vivien Leigh, and my absolute favorite...Elizabeth Taylor. I studied them. I knew how they each were discovered. I memorized the studios they worked within, their real names, every movie they filmed. I poured over still photos of their mannerisms - the way they almost smiled, the tilt of their heads, their doe eyes, the way they held their hands....what they wore. Legendary. Timeless. Other-worldly. This is what I would be. This would be my legacy. I would be.....an actress! An icon. Perfect!
In the third grade we were assigned roles to portray for a class project. We didn't get to choose. While there weren't any cinema legends up for grabs, I just knew I was a shoe in for the Shirley Temple part. Wrong. Ok, so, no big deal. I would surely be the obvious choice for the adventurous Amelia Earhart portrayal. Nope. Cleopatra? Uh-uh. Pocahontas - had to be, right? I even had long braids!!! Nada. Who did I get? Susan B. Anthony, suffragette. Really? How preposterous! How unglamorous. Still, I labored over my role. I planned. I rehearsed. I decided my rendition of Susan would be VERY Shakespearean. She would speak with a British accent - that'll show those neigh-sayers! They were non-plussed over my finished project. No one seemed to get it. No one clapped. It came across as a little odd. Sort of like when Napoleon Dynamite gives his report over Nessie.
Not to worry! Ushering in the 5th grade, I find out there would be......A PLAY! The decades in song!!! Yessss! My name is written all over this one! I see the list of parts and I know beyond knowing that I will be cast as 60's icon CHER! I immediately begin wearing my dark hair down and straight. I practice holding my arms bent at the elbows hands pointed down (in retrospect, it probably looked like I was channeling a T-Rex). I learned all the words to "Half Breed". I could even make a small "O" with my mouth when I licked my lips. Victory? Sadly, no. I'm still shaking my head in disbelief when I tell you the part went to some girl with BLONDE HAIR! I didn't get Shirley Temple. I didn't get disco duck. I didn't get to be a bathing beauty. I was....a flapper. Ok, so the costume was uber glam, but I was one of several. I didn't even get to belt my heart out in song! I was in the chorus line. Sob!
Two years later, I received the prerequisite letter from the Barbizon School of Modeling. Could it be? Could this really happen? Would I finally be discovered? Mentally picturing myself telling the entire universe that nothing would come between me and my Calvin's, I begged with my mother - pleaded with her - to please take me to the casting call. She said no. I went on a hunger strike (it lasted 6 hours). I dramatically explained that I would surely be doomed forever to a life of anonymity at her hands. I swooned. I feigned illnesses, became despondent.....threatened to run away and live on our 3rd acre in a rusted junk car of my father's. Finally, she acquiesced, and we hit the road to the big city of Dallas to visit a modeling agency.
In the 70's, there was a commercial for the world's first battery powered curling iron. It revolved around a would-be starlet with short, straight, blond hair sitting in an agency waiting room. A man looks out of his office and tells a caller (undoubtedly Vogue magazine) "but we don't have any blonds with curly hair". In roughly 10 seconds, the starlet pops out her curling iron and a star is born. It didn't happen to me that way! I stood in the middle of a room. A woman walked around me in a circle. I was 5'0" and weighed 88 lbs. "A little chunky aren't we," she said. "Your hair is nice, but those nails." Tsk, tsk. Finally, she sighs and tells me: "Sweetie, you're just not tall enough to model. Have you thought of acting?" Oh, the best laid plans of mice and men.
Back to the country. Back to reality (oops, there goes gravity). Back to my books. No Academy Award speeches for this girl. No princess outcome. No fairy-tale endings. No MGM studio contracts. Not even a lousy commercial. Things happen for a reason. I went home that day and began making plans for the summer. This is the point in the story where my kids crack up laughing. That was the summer I read an entire set of encyclopedias. But that, my friends, is a horse of a different color - we shall table until another time. Until then.....
In a cabin, on a hill in Butcher Holler,
We were poor, but we had love,
That's the one thing my daddy made sure of,
He shoveled coal to make a poor man's dollar.
-Loretta Lynn "Coal Miner's Daughter"
Well, ok. I was born a laundromat owner/pool hall proprietor/appliance repairman's daughter. We didn't live in a cabin, per se. We lived in a brick house, though I was born in a trailer, which is sort of like a cabin, I guess. Oh! There was a little red house on our 2nd acre that housed our well - it was definitely a cabin! Matter of fact, my daddy dug that 40 ft well himself, making him.....yep! Definitely a miner! Still, I've never been to Butcher Holler. I lived in Combine. I've been told to quit hollerin', though. Does that count? Why all the antiquated pioneer euphemisms, you ask? Well, remember the blog series I promised about all the things we thought we would be one day? Yepper, this is part dieu! Too much frost on this bumpkin's pumpkin, you think? Stay with me - it will all make sense soon.
Oh, poor, poor little DD! I wanted to be a princess. I wanted a prince to fall in love with me. I wanted to be beautiful, popular, athletic (even I'm rolling my eyes now)...I just wanted to be the 100% polar opposite of what I was: a short, brunette, country-fied child who lived out in the middle of nowhere. We used clotheslines instead of an electric dryer. We didn't have central air conditioning (or any air conditioning). We bought these huge slabs of pork at a butcher and sliced our own bacon. We caught rain water in a barrel.....and used it to rinse our hair. My mother made all of my clothes - including my jeans. Cool and earthy/hippy chic now. Back then, though, I was mortified. How in the world would I ever, EVER, fulfill my precocious destiny given this "Deliverance" type hand I'd been dealt? Easy....we economically challenged redneck girls are oh so resourceful!
I have a wonderful mother. If necessity really is the mother of invention, my mother invented gumption. If the other girls had expensive dresses from "The Rag Doll" boutique across the street from Smith's Pharmacy, no worries. She learned to sew the exact same thing. When earth shoes were all the rage...we discovered lay-a-way at Myer's Department Store. When EVERYONE but me was wearing blue eye-shadow, we used pool cue chalk. And, when all my friends showed up at school with their hair frosted, I was introduced to the lemon! Finally, the most important contribution to my quest for dominance with the female race...(drumroll)...my mother made sure I started school already able to read.
I read anything I could get my hands on. My first sentence? "Momma, read the book." My first book purchase at the age of 5? The biography of Orville & Wilbur Wright (purchased, of course, from the Salvation Army store). My specialty? The cinema. Marilyn Monroe, Marlene Dietrich, the romance of Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart, Judy Garland, Audrey Hepburn, Vivien Leigh, and my absolute favorite...Elizabeth Taylor. I studied them. I knew how they each were discovered. I memorized the studios they worked within, their real names, every movie they filmed. I poured over still photos of their mannerisms - the way they almost smiled, the tilt of their heads, their doe eyes, the way they held their hands....what they wore. Legendary. Timeless. Other-worldly. This is what I would be. This would be my legacy. I would be.....an actress! An icon. Perfect!
In the third grade we were assigned roles to portray for a class project. We didn't get to choose. While there weren't any cinema legends up for grabs, I just knew I was a shoe in for the Shirley Temple part. Wrong. Ok, so, no big deal. I would surely be the obvious choice for the adventurous Amelia Earhart portrayal. Nope. Cleopatra? Uh-uh. Pocahontas - had to be, right? I even had long braids!!! Nada. Who did I get? Susan B. Anthony, suffragette. Really? How preposterous! How unglamorous. Still, I labored over my role. I planned. I rehearsed. I decided my rendition of Susan would be VERY Shakespearean. She would speak with a British accent - that'll show those neigh-sayers! They were non-plussed over my finished project. No one seemed to get it. No one clapped. It came across as a little odd. Sort of like when Napoleon Dynamite gives his report over Nessie.
Not to worry! Ushering in the 5th grade, I find out there would be......A PLAY! The decades in song!!! Yessss! My name is written all over this one! I see the list of parts and I know beyond knowing that I will be cast as 60's icon CHER! I immediately begin wearing my dark hair down and straight. I practice holding my arms bent at the elbows hands pointed down (in retrospect, it probably looked like I was channeling a T-Rex). I learned all the words to "Half Breed". I could even make a small "O" with my mouth when I licked my lips. Victory? Sadly, no. I'm still shaking my head in disbelief when I tell you the part went to some girl with BLONDE HAIR! I didn't get Shirley Temple. I didn't get disco duck. I didn't get to be a bathing beauty. I was....a flapper. Ok, so the costume was uber glam, but I was one of several. I didn't even get to belt my heart out in song! I was in the chorus line. Sob!
Two years later, I received the prerequisite letter from the Barbizon School of Modeling. Could it be? Could this really happen? Would I finally be discovered? Mentally picturing myself telling the entire universe that nothing would come between me and my Calvin's, I begged with my mother - pleaded with her - to please take me to the casting call. She said no. I went on a hunger strike (it lasted 6 hours). I dramatically explained that I would surely be doomed forever to a life of anonymity at her hands. I swooned. I feigned illnesses, became despondent.....threatened to run away and live on our 3rd acre in a rusted junk car of my father's. Finally, she acquiesced, and we hit the road to the big city of Dallas to visit a modeling agency.
In the 70's, there was a commercial for the world's first battery powered curling iron. It revolved around a would-be starlet with short, straight, blond hair sitting in an agency waiting room. A man looks out of his office and tells a caller (undoubtedly Vogue magazine) "but we don't have any blonds with curly hair". In roughly 10 seconds, the starlet pops out her curling iron and a star is born. It didn't happen to me that way! I stood in the middle of a room. A woman walked around me in a circle. I was 5'0" and weighed 88 lbs. "A little chunky aren't we," she said. "Your hair is nice, but those nails." Tsk, tsk. Finally, she sighs and tells me: "Sweetie, you're just not tall enough to model. Have you thought of acting?" Oh, the best laid plans of mice and men.
Back to the country. Back to reality (oops, there goes gravity). Back to my books. No Academy Award speeches for this girl. No princess outcome. No fairy-tale endings. No MGM studio contracts. Not even a lousy commercial. Things happen for a reason. I went home that day and began making plans for the summer. This is the point in the story where my kids crack up laughing. That was the summer I read an entire set of encyclopedias. But that, my friends, is a horse of a different color - we shall table until another time. Until then.....
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Hakuna Matata
Got your bag on your shoulder,
Never thought once about thinkin' it over.
Feel like you're the only one,
Who's ever been in a bad situation.
Now you need to take yourself a love vacation,
'Cause after all, what's done is done.
Sick and tired of being sick and tired.
Everything around you's growin' old.
The days drag on, the nights last forever,
Every day's tougher just to keep it together.
Forget everything you've ever known,
Except for home.
"Sick and Tired" -Cross Canadian Ragweed
I am Superwoman! Hear me roar! Well, it's more like a whine. Sort of a sigh, in fact. It's probably more akin to a breathy exhale. Still, I'm super, alright. Super tired. Super lost. Super unsure. Super scared.
Oh, I'm fine. I'm just like any other person on any other dismal afternoon. I see my life slipping by day after day after day. It's dizzying, isn't it - this life thing? When you're a kid, life goes by at about a -50 miles per hour. When did THIS happen? Now I'm on the Autobahn and life is outside my window, flying by at a pace that slightly exceeds the speed of light. I feel as though I might blink and miss an entire era! Am I alone in this? It's just this: I was supposed to grow up and be something. True, I'm many things. Wife, mother, step-mother, friend, daughter, employee, boss. I wear many, many hats (no wonder my hair looks so bad today). Still, I didn't ever really get to be anything I wanted to be, just yet. I think I'm running out of time, too. That's where the exhaustion comes to play. Life is tiresome. Just when you figure out what you want to do, you don't have enough energy to fit it in with all the other stuff you have to do. Or, at least, I can't. Can you? What did you want to be? I can answer that for myself. Indulge me, kk?
"I had a farm in Africa"
When I was around 13, I found myself spending the summer in Andrews, TX (parent free)with my oldest brother and his family. I did many things that Summer. I got a perm (it was the year of "Urban Cowboy" after all. Though I look like more of a Pam than a Sissy, I wanted more than anything to emulate Debra Winger). I got a fierce tan. I heard all the words to Fleetwood Mac's "Landslide" for the first time. I ate my first Drumstick ice cream cone. And, I met - really, really met - my so-called-cousin Kelly for the first time. Kelly's great - always was, always has been. He's not really my cousin, by definition, I don't think. Still, we're exactly the same age and he's a part of my sister-in-law's family, so we were paired together almost every Summer visit. This year, for the first time, we were deemed responsible enough to roam the street's of Andrew's, TX alone - footloose and fancy free! A typical day consisted of: sleeping late, walking the streets with a walk-boy cassette player with either the aforesaid Fleetwood Mac OR ACDC's "Back in Black" playing loudly, a trip to the gas station where cousin Joanie would let us have free hot dogs, a root beer and a drumstick if she wasn't at work, and deep discussions about what grandiose plans we would have when we shed our stupid, insipid teenage personas and became the all powerful and omnipotent.....ADULT. We would show everyone! We were both going to be actors. I would act alongside Robby Benson, while Kelly would do documentary work. We would both be published - I was the next S.E Hinton, and Kelly would be a world class photographer who's pictures would decorate influential coffee tables around the world. And, above all, we would take these ginormous financial earnings and do the one thing we longed to do above all.....together, we would buy Africa! I had just read Joy Adamson's "Born Free." I learned all about and cried all about the amazing lioness, Elsa. Kelly had read it, too! We decided that, as amazingly wealthy adults, we could single-handedly eradicate every single poacher and re-educate the entire continent in regard to the majesty and beauty of the Serengeti wildlife! Besides, as I told Kelly, I would look great in a tan safari hat and earthen colored gear.
We wrote each other a few times after this encounter. We still saw each other on holidays and Summers. We talked more about our plans, but never as in depth as that time. We grew up. Adulthood wasn't all we though it would be. Kelly lives in Florida now, and I'm still here in the non-chic suburbs of Dallas. I never went to Africa. I never saw a lion in the wild. I never educated a poacher. I never even wore safari gear. Still, any time I watch "Out of Africa", I think of Kelly. I can actually hear the gnats, smell the wildlife excrement, hear the hoof beats and eery growls and roars. I'm not even a girl any longer. I'm a woman. I've won. I've lost. I've been up. I've been down. Sometimes I can't believe all I've been through. Other times, I feel I've wasted all my chances. And, it makes me sick....and tired.
Let's make this a series, shall we? Join me soon for Part 2 in my - "Things I Just Knew I Was Going to Do - The Sequel"! Until then, let's all get some rest.
Got your bag on your shoulder,
Never thought once about thinkin' it over.
Feel like you're the only one,
Who's ever been in a bad situation.
Now you need to take yourself a love vacation,
'Cause after all, what's done is done.
Sick and tired of being sick and tired.
Everything around you's growin' old.
The days drag on, the nights last forever,
Every day's tougher just to keep it together.
Forget everything you've ever known,
Except for home.
"Sick and Tired" -Cross Canadian Ragweed
I am Superwoman! Hear me roar! Well, it's more like a whine. Sort of a sigh, in fact. It's probably more akin to a breathy exhale. Still, I'm super, alright. Super tired. Super lost. Super unsure. Super scared.
Oh, I'm fine. I'm just like any other person on any other dismal afternoon. I see my life slipping by day after day after day. It's dizzying, isn't it - this life thing? When you're a kid, life goes by at about a -50 miles per hour. When did THIS happen? Now I'm on the Autobahn and life is outside my window, flying by at a pace that slightly exceeds the speed of light. I feel as though I might blink and miss an entire era! Am I alone in this? It's just this: I was supposed to grow up and be something. True, I'm many things. Wife, mother, step-mother, friend, daughter, employee, boss. I wear many, many hats (no wonder my hair looks so bad today). Still, I didn't ever really get to be anything I wanted to be, just yet. I think I'm running out of time, too. That's where the exhaustion comes to play. Life is tiresome. Just when you figure out what you want to do, you don't have enough energy to fit it in with all the other stuff you have to do. Or, at least, I can't. Can you? What did you want to be? I can answer that for myself. Indulge me, kk?
"I had a farm in Africa"
When I was around 13, I found myself spending the summer in Andrews, TX (parent free)with my oldest brother and his family. I did many things that Summer. I got a perm (it was the year of "Urban Cowboy" after all. Though I look like more of a Pam than a Sissy, I wanted more than anything to emulate Debra Winger). I got a fierce tan. I heard all the words to Fleetwood Mac's "Landslide" for the first time. I ate my first Drumstick ice cream cone. And, I met - really, really met - my so-called-cousin Kelly for the first time. Kelly's great - always was, always has been. He's not really my cousin, by definition, I don't think. Still, we're exactly the same age and he's a part of my sister-in-law's family, so we were paired together almost every Summer visit. This year, for the first time, we were deemed responsible enough to roam the street's of Andrew's, TX alone - footloose and fancy free! A typical day consisted of: sleeping late, walking the streets with a walk-boy cassette player with either the aforesaid Fleetwood Mac OR ACDC's "Back in Black" playing loudly, a trip to the gas station where cousin Joanie would let us have free hot dogs, a root beer and a drumstick if she wasn't at work, and deep discussions about what grandiose plans we would have when we shed our stupid, insipid teenage personas and became the all powerful and omnipotent.....ADULT. We would show everyone! We were both going to be actors. I would act alongside Robby Benson, while Kelly would do documentary work. We would both be published - I was the next S.E Hinton, and Kelly would be a world class photographer who's pictures would decorate influential coffee tables around the world. And, above all, we would take these ginormous financial earnings and do the one thing we longed to do above all.....together, we would buy Africa! I had just read Joy Adamson's "Born Free." I learned all about and cried all about the amazing lioness, Elsa. Kelly had read it, too! We decided that, as amazingly wealthy adults, we could single-handedly eradicate every single poacher and re-educate the entire continent in regard to the majesty and beauty of the Serengeti wildlife! Besides, as I told Kelly, I would look great in a tan safari hat and earthen colored gear.
We wrote each other a few times after this encounter. We still saw each other on holidays and Summers. We talked more about our plans, but never as in depth as that time. We grew up. Adulthood wasn't all we though it would be. Kelly lives in Florida now, and I'm still here in the non-chic suburbs of Dallas. I never went to Africa. I never saw a lion in the wild. I never educated a poacher. I never even wore safari gear. Still, any time I watch "Out of Africa", I think of Kelly. I can actually hear the gnats, smell the wildlife excrement, hear the hoof beats and eery growls and roars. I'm not even a girl any longer. I'm a woman. I've won. I've lost. I've been up. I've been down. Sometimes I can't believe all I've been through. Other times, I feel I've wasted all my chances. And, it makes me sick....and tired.
Let's make this a series, shall we? Join me soon for Part 2 in my - "Things I Just Knew I Was Going to Do - The Sequel"! Until then, let's all get some rest.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Dina Moon aka Michael Finnegan (Begin Again!)
Time, time, time, see what's become of me.
While I looked around for my possibilities,
I was so hard to please.
But look around, the leaves are brown,
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter.
Hear the salvation army band
Down by the riverside, it's bound to be a better ride
Than what you've got planned,
Carry your cup in your hand.
And look around you, the leaves are brown now,
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter.
Hang on to your hopes, my friend.
That's an easy thing to say but if your hopes should pass away,
It's simply pretend, that you can build them again.
Look around, the grass is high, the fields are ripe,
It's the springtime of my life.
Oh, seasons change with scenery,
Weaving time in a tapestry,
Won't you stop and remember me?
Hazy Shade of Winter - Paul Simon
Welcome, oh new year! Mysterious, complicated, & frustratingly vague though you are. Will you be my BFF, 2011? Will we fall in love? Will you woo me incesantly? Or, like that bad boy cousin of yours, 2008, will you tell me sweet nothings and then walk out on me, breaking my heart to the point that I still curse the day I met you? Irregardless, it is a new year. I could dread it, or embrace it. I choose the latter!
Honestly, I tried not to think about a new year encroaching on me. See, I can barely make it through Christmas!!!! I'm a procrastinator, so I do lots of shopping around 12/23 each year. I'm not proud of it - but there you go. New years are like birthdays. They just bring on more wrinkles, more gray hairs, more muscles to pull. Still, there's this little pampered princess girl deep down inside of me somewhere. Let's call her Anastasia, after the mysterious Russian Czar's daughter. Wasn't that one of the Nicholas Czars?? I digress. Anastasia can't let go of her dreams. She thinks there's still time. Time to figure out who she wants to be when she grows up. Time to take up new hobbies. Time to change the world. Time to figure some things out. So, so much blessed time. Enough to waste. Enough to taste, even. Here are the things my inner princess has on her 2011 bucket list. Melancholy though it seems right now, the Winter blahs will soon evaporate and the sun shall shine on our dreams, once again. Make time to discover yours, this year! Take the time.
1. I'm finally going to write that book. Even if it only sits in the top of my closet for all eternity, I will blow the dust from the pages once a year to show it to my grandchildren, proof that a simple person can make a monument take shape. I will not care whether anyone likes it. I will not be stopped by fatigue, or self-doubt, or even disease. I will start and I will finish.
2. Music will return to my life. I will learn to play the guitar. I might even pick up the violin again. Maybe even a piano. There was a time when I considered this a gift. I'm sure there's a punishment for underutilizing one's gifts, right? I'm taking off the acrylic nails today. Dogs all over the world, clear your throats and practice howling. You're gonna need it!
3. Work that body - ok, I can't even type that without laughing! I've already started on this endeavor. It all falls into the Serenity Prayer mentality. If there's something I don't like, and it's within my power to change, then I must change it or let it go. I can't let it go, just yet. It doesn't have to be perfect, just better. There's a healthy, younger looking person in here somewhere, darn it! No matter how many eliptical machines it takes to find her, I won't give up!
4. I will re-engage in my own life. Daugher - gone. Cancer - done. It was rough, the tunnel was long, but I crawled through the light and made it to the other side. Still, there's fear. There's regret. There's longing. There's even a little self-deprication that won't go away. There's a ton of guilt. What's not there? There's not much passion. I've embraced this not good/not bad, not happy/not sad mentality, because that's the only way I knew to hold it together. I let it go - just now, I think. It's scary. I may feel worse before I feel better, but you can't know what amazing feels like unless you know where to find the bowels of the Earth, right?
So, here's to a new year. The journey will be noteable, I assure you! Wanna come along? Who knows where we'll wind up! Hop on board. I will stamp your ticket....
B-E-L-I-E-V-E (because we will). Ciao!
While I looked around for my possibilities,
I was so hard to please.
But look around, the leaves are brown,
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter.
Hear the salvation army band
Down by the riverside, it's bound to be a better ride
Than what you've got planned,
Carry your cup in your hand.
And look around you, the leaves are brown now,
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter.
Hang on to your hopes, my friend.
That's an easy thing to say but if your hopes should pass away,
It's simply pretend, that you can build them again.
Look around, the grass is high, the fields are ripe,
It's the springtime of my life.
Oh, seasons change with scenery,
Weaving time in a tapestry,
Won't you stop and remember me?
Hazy Shade of Winter - Paul Simon
Welcome, oh new year! Mysterious, complicated, & frustratingly vague though you are. Will you be my BFF, 2011? Will we fall in love? Will you woo me incesantly? Or, like that bad boy cousin of yours, 2008, will you tell me sweet nothings and then walk out on me, breaking my heart to the point that I still curse the day I met you? Irregardless, it is a new year. I could dread it, or embrace it. I choose the latter!
Honestly, I tried not to think about a new year encroaching on me. See, I can barely make it through Christmas!!!! I'm a procrastinator, so I do lots of shopping around 12/23 each year. I'm not proud of it - but there you go. New years are like birthdays. They just bring on more wrinkles, more gray hairs, more muscles to pull. Still, there's this little pampered princess girl deep down inside of me somewhere. Let's call her Anastasia, after the mysterious Russian Czar's daughter. Wasn't that one of the Nicholas Czars?? I digress. Anastasia can't let go of her dreams. She thinks there's still time. Time to figure out who she wants to be when she grows up. Time to take up new hobbies. Time to change the world. Time to figure some things out. So, so much blessed time. Enough to waste. Enough to taste, even. Here are the things my inner princess has on her 2011 bucket list. Melancholy though it seems right now, the Winter blahs will soon evaporate and the sun shall shine on our dreams, once again. Make time to discover yours, this year! Take the time.
1. I'm finally going to write that book. Even if it only sits in the top of my closet for all eternity, I will blow the dust from the pages once a year to show it to my grandchildren, proof that a simple person can make a monument take shape. I will not care whether anyone likes it. I will not be stopped by fatigue, or self-doubt, or even disease. I will start and I will finish.
2. Music will return to my life. I will learn to play the guitar. I might even pick up the violin again. Maybe even a piano. There was a time when I considered this a gift. I'm sure there's a punishment for underutilizing one's gifts, right? I'm taking off the acrylic nails today. Dogs all over the world, clear your throats and practice howling. You're gonna need it!
3. Work that body - ok, I can't even type that without laughing! I've already started on this endeavor. It all falls into the Serenity Prayer mentality. If there's something I don't like, and it's within my power to change, then I must change it or let it go. I can't let it go, just yet. It doesn't have to be perfect, just better. There's a healthy, younger looking person in here somewhere, darn it! No matter how many eliptical machines it takes to find her, I won't give up!
4. I will re-engage in my own life. Daugher - gone. Cancer - done. It was rough, the tunnel was long, but I crawled through the light and made it to the other side. Still, there's fear. There's regret. There's longing. There's even a little self-deprication that won't go away. There's a ton of guilt. What's not there? There's not much passion. I've embraced this not good/not bad, not happy/not sad mentality, because that's the only way I knew to hold it together. I let it go - just now, I think. It's scary. I may feel worse before I feel better, but you can't know what amazing feels like unless you know where to find the bowels of the Earth, right?
So, here's to a new year. The journey will be noteable, I assure you! Wanna come along? Who knows where we'll wind up! Hop on board. I will stamp your ticket....
B-E-L-I-E-V-E (because we will). Ciao!
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