Sunday, August 5, 2012
The State of Chynna vs. The Wretched Bacon
I know a girl
She puts the color inside of my world
But she's just like a maze
Where all of the walls are continually changed
And I've done all I can
To stand on her steps with my heart in my hands
Now I'm starting to see
Maybe it's got nothing to do with me
Fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
Daughters -John Mayer
"Good morning, good morning, good morning, my lit-tle boys & girls! I love toseeyourfaceinthemorning, my lit-tle boys & girls!" "Oh well," I think, "it'll never be a top 40 hit, but it's better than nothing." Seasoning my downright militant weekday wake-up the troops approach with as much motherly love as possible - I realize the good cop approach is definitely not working this day. I have two boys to get to two different elementary schools on two different ends of town.....and it's almost too late! Pleasantly surprised to see 6 year old Daniel brushing his teeth, albeit with his shirt buttoned up askew and still no socks & shoes on, I suddenly realize that 4 year old Chynna's door is still closed. I must get her up soon. My stomach lurches a little. Oh, boy, this is one phase I'll be glad to eradicate from our lives. My daughter, the diva tyrant of the pre-school set.
"Dill? Dill? Dillan? Where are you son?" I'm downstairs, Momma," I hear my eldest son proclaim. 9 year old Dillan has sneakily crept down the stairs as I was passing by, no doubt, to stake his claim in his seat of choice for the morning ride to school. I'm sure he'll be informing me that he will ride shotgun and Chynna (he's taken to calling her "Chinks" lately - its time for a politically correct names only for your sister talk), while Daniel will sit in the "way back." Actually, not a bad configuration, I think, since each child sitting in a row, independent of each other makes for far less poking and teasing. I was considering a similar schematic strategy, myself, in light of the recent disastrous plastic cup travesty. Feeling my face flush just from thinking about the incident, I recall the events from last Thursday afternoon as I attempted to drive all three children home from Dillan's baseball practice - a scant 2-3 miles, though it felt like a cross-country journey. First we had Dillan giving us the minute by minute account of every player's performance, peppered with tales of his own super-human performance. Next, we have Daniel asking me, in his own little precious speech pattern, devoid of r's and most first syllables of words, imploring me to turn the car around so we can go find him that Batman action figure he simply cannot live without one moment longer. After all, didn't I fashion some sort of bargain during Dillan's practice to get hime to agree not to throw dirt at his sister. At least there was Chynna, an uncommonly precious angel quietly sitting in her booster seat, sucking her thumb and holding her favorite item of the past 6 weeks, a clear sippy cup with a built in straw that circled and swirled from the bottom to the tippy top of the shiny pink lid. My moment of weakness during last week's grocery shopping trip. All hail the magical calming powers of the round-&-round cup. As I'm driving, and shushing, and listening, and agreeing, and nodding, and turning the radio music up just a tad louder, and worrying about dinner, and wondering about a million other things...I realize a new game has started. A decidedly bad game. An evil, wretched game. Glancing into the rearview mirror while attempting a 90 degree turn, I see that Daniel has the amazing round-&-round cup, no - Dillan does. No, its definitely Daniel. Immediately, an otherworldly, guttural, primitive, head splitting scream emanates from the back seat. I have no words to describe this noise. I cannot believe the windows in the car haven't all shattered. There must surely be blood running from my ears, I think. It's her. The princess has awoken. Hell hath no fury like Chynna when she's been wronged in some way. "Boys!!!! Boys!!!!! How many times do I have to tell you about taking things away from your sister! That is HER CUP. Please give it back! Dillan! Daniel! Michael Dillan!!! Give....excuse me? What did you just say? Guh.....HEY! Gi......LISTEN!!!!!!!!! GIVE IT TO ME NOW! THIS MINUTE!" And quicker than you can say no wire hangers, I grab the cup, roll down the passenger side window, and execute an AMAZING throw of the round-&-round cup, lobbing it successfully across the wide ditch, directly into a plowed and recently planted field of what looks like cabbage. Quiet. Silence. No one daring to utter a single noise. Breathing heavily, I barrel on down this quiet little farm-to-market road, equal parts relieved to end this mayhem yet hoping my mini-nervous breakdown wouldn't scar them all for life. But, that cup - that cup would not soon forget. It would remain top side up, hot pink shiny lid glowing in the sunshine like a little piece of a rainbow trapped in the cabbage patch for weeks to come. Each time we drive past that corner, I will hear my daughter's wistful little voice whisper, "Awww. Dares my rounanroun cup, Mama." Thus, the assigned seating idea, albeit a product of Dillan's slight OCD (oldest child disorder) nature, comes to fruition. We'll tackle the therapy issue at a later date.
Now, back to the morning at hand? Passenger control is only one part of my stomach wrenching morning dilemma. Backpacks organized? Check. Breakfast ready to grab and eat in route - biscuits and bacon? Check. Shoes and socks in car? Yep. Hair gelled to oblivion and combed to the side with absolutely no alfalfa's, circa Little Ricky from "I Love Lucy"? Bingo. Ok - here we go. Like an Olympian athlete, I approach the stairs. Tentatively, I tap the bottom stair with my right big toe, as if to test it's sturdiness. Will I succeed today? Will I triumph? I must. Warrior that I am, I will not fail. On your mark, get set.....running up the stairs in record time, I turn the doorknob and enter her room. grabbing her favorite blanket with the slippery white satin ribbon trim from the foot of her bed, I pick, turn, wrap, and snuggle in one swift move. Ignoring her protests, I hold the massive tangly cloud of light brown hair against my left shoulder, aware that I can barely see where I'm walking through this super-sized bird's nest. There could be a small animal hiding in there somewhere. Down the stairs we go, more carefully this time. Through the kitchen, past the laundry room. Approaching the door to the garage, I'm so hoping the boys are already deeply into some loud argument that will upset her more. Luckily they're not. Dillan has his electronic football game going and Daniel has created little warriors out of both his fingers and toes. We're good!!!! Gently, I belt her into the little car-seat kingdom I've created in the middle seat. I plump the pillow I carry with me at all times, stretch the blanket up, and smooth the mop of slightly damp, sweaty hair over her eyes. Today, I rock at all things Mom. Today, I win. One sleepy hazely-brown eye gazes up from under amazingly black eyelashes. It crinkles. I see a lopsided smile form around the thumb in her mouth. The tiny dimple vibrates, unsure as to whether it will pop inward or stay smooth. All is good in the world. Until we get home, that is.
My sweet princess has multiple personalities. Some mornings she's all about being my perfect bambino on the way to the boys schools. On those days, however, I know my real job will start when we get home. I am so fortunate. I do not have to work. I get to stay home and organize this daily convoy twice a day. I get to wash, fold, freshen, scrub, and straighten to my hearts content. I get to put her down for a nap. I get to make fresh tea. I am so thankful - this is important to know. There are challenges, before the fortunate things, however, like the bacon. Princess Chynna does not like the smell of bacon. Sometimes, it's not even an issue. Sometimes, she refuses to leave the comfort of her throne in the middle seat. She whines, she growls, she kicks - leave me alone, she seems to say. Who goes there? Halt! No one wakes up the princess before she's ready! Be gone with you. So I leave - garage door locked tightly, car door and door into house open wide. I glance, I run back and forth every 60 seconds. I keep my eyes on her. Finally, she emerges. When I spot the silky Disney image of Esmerelda on the front of the pink nightgown, thumb still in mouth, tanned little toes firmly planted on the black and white tiles of the floor. I know what comes next. Thumb comes out. Sniff. Sniff. Eye-contact. Let the gagging begin. "Aaaaaah!" Fake gag. Fake gag. "Aaaaaaaah!" Faux cough/gag combo. OKAY. I say, firmly. YOU WIN. Out comes the magic spray. This week we're using the country potpourri scented air freshener. She seems to like this better than the powder scent we borrowed from the downstairs guest bath last week. Spray.....spray....room to room. Concentrate on the area my the stove. Concentrate on the bar area that faces the living room television. Cheerios go in the bowl. Spoon. Cup of milk. Place the princess on her favorite bar stool. Nick Jr - on. Face is here. "Little Bear next," she says, speaking for the first time today. "Yes, baby," I say defeated, having lost the battle once again, "Little Bear is next." "It smells bad, Mommy," she says, screwing up her little face and poking out a rosy, shiny bottom lip. I know, baby, I know, I think - you hate the smell of bacon, don't you. It's ok. Mommies can fix anything, even the evil smell of bacon in the morning. Why do I fight her, I wonder. She's obviously way better at this than I am. Mommy + Country Potpourri Air-Freshener = A very good, downright magical day, minus the round 'n round cup, of course. I beg your pardon. Apparently I did promise you a rose garden with no bacon.
Monday, July 9, 2012
George Eat Old Gray Rat at Phillip's House Yesterday
Ben, the two of us need look no more
We both found what we were looking for
With my friend to call my own I'll never be alone
And you my friend will see, you've got a friend in me
Ben, you're always running here and there
You feel you're not wanted anywhere
If you ever look behind and don't like what you find
There's something you should know, you've got a place to go
I used to say, "I", And "Me"
Now it's "Us", Now it's "We"
Ben, most people would turn you away
I don't listen to a word they say
They don't see you as I do I wish they would try to
I'm sure they'd think again if they had a friend like Ben
Like Ben, like Ben
"Ben" -written by Scharf, Walter, Black, Don & sung by the incomparable MJ himself
Rats! No, seriously, I have rats. I have A rat, at least. I'm trying to convince myself that it's "one, singular sensation, every little step she takes." Still, I don't see "my" rat starring in A Chorus Line anytime soon. Yes, I choose to think she's a large she and not a he rat. She has excellent musical taste, otherwise, why would SHE be frequenting my humble abode? After all, who else in my neighborhood plays classical music in their kitchens while slaving away at work all day? See, I also keep my amazingly precious dogs kenneled in the kitchen during the work week. Gotta have the classical music jammin', though I did try Spanish speaking radio for a while thinking it would make the pups tre' sophisticated. It didn't. They do like to bark at Selma Hayek, though. Every time the trailer for Savages is on TV they go crazy! But.....back to my rattus norvegicus (that's how those in the know talk about their vermin guests). HHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLPPPP MMMMMEEEEEEEEE!
"A Rat", by Dina Moon (poetic version). "A ratticus in my atticus. Sounds so quite sympaticus! With my whole wheat pita bread you are in love...icus."
"A Rat - The Remix", also kind of by Dina Moon (rap version). "Yo, yo, yo baby rat come here and give me a kiss (no, don't). Bettah make it fast or else I'm feedin' you a dish (of poison)."
*************************************and finally*************************************************
"Gone with the Rat", inspired by Dina Moon (theatrical version). Dina: "Rat, rat, where evah are you goin'? Why, oh why, are you choosin' to ravish your rodent tendencies in my plantation?" Rat: "Frankly, Dina, I don't give a d#$n!"
So, here we sit. I have a rat, who apparently, LOVES living in my kitchen. Why rat? Why not mouse? Well, this lovely rodent lady saw fit to down a WHOLE BAG of whole wheat pita bread rounds yours truly likes to have with the amazing hummus I keep handy. Exhibit A: Imagine my shock with I pulled out my bag of near zero calorie pita bites to find that the package was EMPTY! I accused everyone of being the pita bandit, but they all looked at me like I was crazy and said, in unison, "What the heck is a pita?" Exhibit B: My husband brought home the dreaded Mrs. Baird's cinnamon rolls. I rolled my eyes - surely he will start understanding I wound never eat something so repulsive as packaged cinnamon rolls! Yet, 24 hours later, who was ready to throw caution to the wind and scarf down a luscious, impeccably iced, cinnamonly morsel of amazingness (on the patio with coffee, of course)...THIS GIRL! Until I noticed the corner of the package. It didn't exist. Until I noticed the missing Mercedes hood ornament sized section of cinnamon roll. It didn't exist, either. Ok, so maybe I accused someone's bratty kid at Kroger of wedging a pudgy finger in MY cinnamon roll package and devouring MY corner of sugary, guilty, yumminess. But, this ain't my first rodeo. I knew better. Something cinnamon was rotten in Denmark! Out, out you darn cinnamon rolls. And, so, I threw them away. (WAAAAAAAAH!) Exhibit C: That was NOT a partial chocolate chip snippet on the countertop the next morning. Enough said!
So, what's a working girl to do? Wanna catch a bigger mouse? GET A BIGGER MOUSE TRAP! Sure, I initially wanted to trap the lil lady live and release her into a pristine field somewhere in a proverbial rattus norvegicus Eden, complete with lavender and pita plants galore. Realistically, though, do you know what a live trap costs? GEESH. Nevermind. Let's annihilate the sucker! That is how I wound up choosing the top o' the line, cutting edge, REUSABLE, GINORMOUS sophistimacated rat trap! (Go, me) But, my rat catchin' life - it ain't been no crystal stair. Night 1: trap set on top of counter. Trap tripped. Cheese abandoned in favor of life saving measures. Trap winds up in kitchen floor. No rat. Night 2: Trap is set in floor (she's smart enough to push it off counter without experiencing Ratticide). Trap not tripped. Cheese still in trap. No dice. Night 3: Trap set in floor with peanut butter (OOOOOOOOOH! AHHHHHHHHH!). Trap NOT TRIPPED AGAIN. Peanut butter left in tact. Houston, I have a problem. Night 4: Trap set on other side of kitchen in the floor with cheese AND peanut butter AND bread. Trap STILL NOT TRIPPED. Whole smorgasbord left in tact. Egad, she's onto me. I fear I am turning into a girl version of Abraham Lincoln, Vermin Hunter.
Fast forward (cue Gilligan's Island dream sequence music).......it's a year from now. I come home early from work one day. There she is, Ophelia (yes, I named her - it's classic and tragic, don't you think?). She's wearing my new Nike capri workout pants and doing my TapOut MMA workout in the living room. Her abs are amazing. Later, I see her drinking a glass of my merlot and chatting with the dogs about the perils of eating dog food high in fat. Next she takes a bubble bath and washes her fur with my Kerastase zero phosphate shampoo - she contemplates dousing herself with my It's a 10 leave in conditioner, but decides to do that in the AM, instead. She favors peep toe platform pumps, Michael Kors purses, and only real pearls. She refuses to get any body piercings but wants a tiny tattoo of the infinity symbol. She knows the words to all the Miranda Lambert songs.Yep, that Ophelia is a really cool rat. Sure, she poops on the kitchen counter and has a predisposition for rabies and certain types of mites. Still, she's a survivor!
On the other hand, HHHHHHHHHHEEEEELLLLLLPPPPPP MMMMMEEEEEEE!
A rat by any other name is still eating my pitas and listening to my classical music and I won't have it one minute longer! Tonight, maybe I'll try asparagus & parmesan cheese. A sophisticated rodent like Ophelia would never eat plain peanut butter!
We both found what we were looking for
With my friend to call my own I'll never be alone
And you my friend will see, you've got a friend in me
Ben, you're always running here and there
You feel you're not wanted anywhere
If you ever look behind and don't like what you find
There's something you should know, you've got a place to go
I used to say, "I", And "Me"
Now it's "Us", Now it's "We"
Ben, most people would turn you away
I don't listen to a word they say
They don't see you as I do I wish they would try to
I'm sure they'd think again if they had a friend like Ben
Like Ben, like Ben
"Ben" -written by Scharf, Walter, Black, Don & sung by the incomparable MJ himself
Rats! No, seriously, I have rats. I have A rat, at least. I'm trying to convince myself that it's "one, singular sensation, every little step she takes." Still, I don't see "my" rat starring in A Chorus Line anytime soon. Yes, I choose to think she's a large she and not a he rat. She has excellent musical taste, otherwise, why would SHE be frequenting my humble abode? After all, who else in my neighborhood plays classical music in their kitchens while slaving away at work all day? See, I also keep my amazingly precious dogs kenneled in the kitchen during the work week. Gotta have the classical music jammin', though I did try Spanish speaking radio for a while thinking it would make the pups tre' sophisticated. It didn't. They do like to bark at Selma Hayek, though. Every time the trailer for Savages is on TV they go crazy! But.....back to my rattus norvegicus (that's how those in the know talk about their vermin guests). HHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLPPPP MMMMMEEEEEEEEE!
"A Rat", by Dina Moon (poetic version). "A ratticus in my atticus. Sounds so quite sympaticus! With my whole wheat pita bread you are in love...icus."
"A Rat - The Remix", also kind of by Dina Moon (rap version). "Yo, yo, yo baby rat come here and give me a kiss (no, don't). Bettah make it fast or else I'm feedin' you a dish (of poison)."
*************************************and finally*************************************************
"Gone with the Rat", inspired by Dina Moon (theatrical version). Dina: "Rat, rat, where evah are you goin'? Why, oh why, are you choosin' to ravish your rodent tendencies in my plantation?" Rat: "Frankly, Dina, I don't give a d#$n!"
So, here we sit. I have a rat, who apparently, LOVES living in my kitchen. Why rat? Why not mouse? Well, this lovely rodent lady saw fit to down a WHOLE BAG of whole wheat pita bread rounds yours truly likes to have with the amazing hummus I keep handy. Exhibit A: Imagine my shock with I pulled out my bag of near zero calorie pita bites to find that the package was EMPTY! I accused everyone of being the pita bandit, but they all looked at me like I was crazy and said, in unison, "What the heck is a pita?" Exhibit B: My husband brought home the dreaded Mrs. Baird's cinnamon rolls. I rolled my eyes - surely he will start understanding I wound never eat something so repulsive as packaged cinnamon rolls! Yet, 24 hours later, who was ready to throw caution to the wind and scarf down a luscious, impeccably iced, cinnamonly morsel of amazingness (on the patio with coffee, of course)...THIS GIRL! Until I noticed the corner of the package. It didn't exist. Until I noticed the missing Mercedes hood ornament sized section of cinnamon roll. It didn't exist, either. Ok, so maybe I accused someone's bratty kid at Kroger of wedging a pudgy finger in MY cinnamon roll package and devouring MY corner of sugary, guilty, yumminess. But, this ain't my first rodeo. I knew better. Something cinnamon was rotten in Denmark! Out, out you darn cinnamon rolls. And, so, I threw them away. (WAAAAAAAAH!) Exhibit C: That was NOT a partial chocolate chip snippet on the countertop the next morning. Enough said!
So, what's a working girl to do? Wanna catch a bigger mouse? GET A BIGGER MOUSE TRAP! Sure, I initially wanted to trap the lil lady live and release her into a pristine field somewhere in a proverbial rattus norvegicus Eden, complete with lavender and pita plants galore. Realistically, though, do you know what a live trap costs? GEESH. Nevermind. Let's annihilate the sucker! That is how I wound up choosing the top o' the line, cutting edge, REUSABLE, GINORMOUS sophistimacated rat trap! (Go, me) But, my rat catchin' life - it ain't been no crystal stair. Night 1: trap set on top of counter. Trap tripped. Cheese abandoned in favor of life saving measures. Trap winds up in kitchen floor. No rat. Night 2: Trap is set in floor (she's smart enough to push it off counter without experiencing Ratticide). Trap not tripped. Cheese still in trap. No dice. Night 3: Trap set in floor with peanut butter (OOOOOOOOOH! AHHHHHHHHH!). Trap NOT TRIPPED AGAIN. Peanut butter left in tact. Houston, I have a problem. Night 4: Trap set on other side of kitchen in the floor with cheese AND peanut butter AND bread. Trap STILL NOT TRIPPED. Whole smorgasbord left in tact. Egad, she's onto me. I fear I am turning into a girl version of Abraham Lincoln, Vermin Hunter.
Fast forward (cue Gilligan's Island dream sequence music).......it's a year from now. I come home early from work one day. There she is, Ophelia (yes, I named her - it's classic and tragic, don't you think?). She's wearing my new Nike capri workout pants and doing my TapOut MMA workout in the living room. Her abs are amazing. Later, I see her drinking a glass of my merlot and chatting with the dogs about the perils of eating dog food high in fat. Next she takes a bubble bath and washes her fur with my Kerastase zero phosphate shampoo - she contemplates dousing herself with my It's a 10 leave in conditioner, but decides to do that in the AM, instead. She favors peep toe platform pumps, Michael Kors purses, and only real pearls. She refuses to get any body piercings but wants a tiny tattoo of the infinity symbol. She knows the words to all the Miranda Lambert songs.Yep, that Ophelia is a really cool rat. Sure, she poops on the kitchen counter and has a predisposition for rabies and certain types of mites. Still, she's a survivor!
On the other hand, HHHHHHHHHHEEEEELLLLLLPPPPPP MMMMMEEEEEEE!
A rat by any other name is still eating my pitas and listening to my classical music and I won't have it one minute longer! Tonight, maybe I'll try asparagus & parmesan cheese. A sophisticated rodent like Ophelia would never eat plain peanut butter!
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Country Roads, Take Me Home
You got a fast car
I want a ticket to anywhere
Maybe we make a deal
Maybe together we can get somewhere
Anyplace is better
Starting from zero got nothing to lose
Maybe we'll make something
But me myself I got nothing to prove
You got a fast car
And I got a plan to get us out of here
I been working at the convenience store
Managed to save just a little bit of money
We won't have to drive too far
Just across the border and into the city
You and I can both get jobs
And finally see what it means to be living
"Fast Car" - Tracy Chapman
So, it hit home one day at work. I am eccentrically different. I think I always sort of knew, but didn't want to realize it for a long time. I travel extensively in my profession. I go to different parts of the country and talk to different people in order to help them do their jobs more proficiently. I was up North (that phrase alone hints to the content of this blog) and launched into my monologue about a weed eater. It's a lovely little ditty of a tale about customer loyalty, but it fell upon deaf ears like a huge anchor on a dry lake. Silence. Crickets. No one got me! Why? Up North, there are no weed eaters. Why, they thought (as I rambled incessantly for several minutes) I was telling a story about an ANIMAL! Apparently, this group of co-workers was trying to mentally envision some giant, prehistoric anteater type creature who ran around and ate Paleozoic weeds!! I picture a redwood/fern hybrid that's roughly 50 ft tall. Turns out, they call my deep South weed eater a WEED WHACKER. Who knew? Case study #2: I know someone who is a recent transplant to Texas from another state. When you really take stock of the people in our larger communities who we interact with daily, are any of them Texas natives? Increasingly, as with any metropolitan city, we are comprised of many people who originally hail from all sorts of places. Cool, right? Still, she looked at me and said, "You know, when I moved to Texas I imagined all the girls were Southern Belles and sounded like you, but no one does. Everyone here sounds very Midwestern. When you opened your mouth on the first day, I thought - YES! Finally, someone who actually sounds Southern!" Great, now all I need to do is show up in my cowboy boots and talk about J.R. Ewing. On another business trip, I became very animated - typically, that's when my Texas accent is most obvious. Realizing I had lapsed into country girl euphemism speak, I apologized and explained that I'd really tried hard to keep the accent at bay all week. The consensus from the group was that I failed miserably. I thought: I am uber cosmopolitan and professional. Hear me not sound Southern! They thought: We can't understand anything she's saying. Is this even the King's English? Why do her words have 377 syllables?
Now, at first I was quite disheartened. We place so much self-value on the perception of others, after all. I think back to one of my first "car dates" with a boy when I was 16. It was Saturday afternoon and we were going to see a movie. I spent an entire week teaching myself how to do finger waves on my long hair, a la Veronica Lake. I thought I looked tres chic! Whatever prompted me to ask this question, I will never, ever know. As we approached the entrance ramp to the highway, bluebonnets and waist tall weeds in the background, concrete and highway bridges in the horizon, I asked this poor, clueless boy if he also thought the city was far, far more exciting than our dumb, boring life out in the sticks. He seemed non-plussed. I asked if he didn't think I belonged in the city - didn't I seem like a sophisticated fish out of the water out on the dirt road? Why, I would fit far more nicely with a slick, modern high rise apartment address than with my rural route and box # that no one could find on their first try, right? Finally picking up on the fact that his answer might dictate the entire mood of this date, he grappled to find something to say that would both placate me and shut me up: "I guess you're like a citified country girl?" Egad. My spirits were dashed. All I wanted was to be so different that the person I was.
Fast forward 30 years. I finally get it. Everybody wants to be somebody they're not. Everyone wants to reinvent themselves. None of us thinks we're quite good enough in our original packaging. Part of this original thought is good, I think. Shouldn't we as the human race want to aspire to more? Doesn't this form evolution in a certain aspect - both the scientific form of evolution AND the spiritual type of evolution. Shouldn't we all want to be better, make less mistakes, improve our existence. I say yes. Somewhere on this journey to perfection that's never enough and never attainable, I drove my inner-self jalopy into a ginormous pot hole. I broke my self-perception axle and had to have my life towed to an existential garage. Those who love me have been working on my chassis for some years now. I think I'm almost ready to be a road warrior once again. I think I'm ready to get behind the steering wheel and start moving along toward my goal of being the person I should be. This time, it will be different. This time, I have GPS. This time, I'll use the compass. I never did find the city, after all. I kept driving all around the outskirts, but there was never an exit ramp that would take me where I wanted to go. Today, I drive again. This time, I'm headed back to the country. All hail the power of Indian Paintbrushes and Buttercups. This time I will embrace sweet tea and banana pudding. I won't be embarrassed for people to hear the twang in my voice, the word y'all, the mixology of our Southern words (whatch'alldoin?).
I think I finally realized I am different. The real me is different than anyone else I know. It's time I embraced that. To do otherwise would be criminal. So.....as we end this first week of Spring, I encourage us all to do some self-introspection. Pop the hood on your life. Roll down your windows. Drive through your life's neighborhood and understand that whether good or bad, those are the things that form the essence of you. Turns out, the things you're trying to banish may just be the things that others adore about you most.
You can put your therapy check in the mail today!!!! Peace, love, grits 'n Aqua Net, y'all!
I want a ticket to anywhere
Maybe we make a deal
Maybe together we can get somewhere
Anyplace is better
Starting from zero got nothing to lose
Maybe we'll make something
But me myself I got nothing to prove
You got a fast car
And I got a plan to get us out of here
I been working at the convenience store
Managed to save just a little bit of money
We won't have to drive too far
Just across the border and into the city
You and I can both get jobs
And finally see what it means to be living
"Fast Car" - Tracy Chapman
So, it hit home one day at work. I am eccentrically different. I think I always sort of knew, but didn't want to realize it for a long time. I travel extensively in my profession. I go to different parts of the country and talk to different people in order to help them do their jobs more proficiently. I was up North (that phrase alone hints to the content of this blog) and launched into my monologue about a weed eater. It's a lovely little ditty of a tale about customer loyalty, but it fell upon deaf ears like a huge anchor on a dry lake. Silence. Crickets. No one got me! Why? Up North, there are no weed eaters. Why, they thought (as I rambled incessantly for several minutes) I was telling a story about an ANIMAL! Apparently, this group of co-workers was trying to mentally envision some giant, prehistoric anteater type creature who ran around and ate Paleozoic weeds!! I picture a redwood/fern hybrid that's roughly 50 ft tall. Turns out, they call my deep South weed eater a WEED WHACKER. Who knew? Case study #2: I know someone who is a recent transplant to Texas from another state. When you really take stock of the people in our larger communities who we interact with daily, are any of them Texas natives? Increasingly, as with any metropolitan city, we are comprised of many people who originally hail from all sorts of places. Cool, right? Still, she looked at me and said, "You know, when I moved to Texas I imagined all the girls were Southern Belles and sounded like you, but no one does. Everyone here sounds very Midwestern. When you opened your mouth on the first day, I thought - YES! Finally, someone who actually sounds Southern!" Great, now all I need to do is show up in my cowboy boots and talk about J.R. Ewing. On another business trip, I became very animated - typically, that's when my Texas accent is most obvious. Realizing I had lapsed into country girl euphemism speak, I apologized and explained that I'd really tried hard to keep the accent at bay all week. The consensus from the group was that I failed miserably. I thought: I am uber cosmopolitan and professional. Hear me not sound Southern! They thought: We can't understand anything she's saying. Is this even the King's English? Why do her words have 377 syllables?
Now, at first I was quite disheartened. We place so much self-value on the perception of others, after all. I think back to one of my first "car dates" with a boy when I was 16. It was Saturday afternoon and we were going to see a movie. I spent an entire week teaching myself how to do finger waves on my long hair, a la Veronica Lake. I thought I looked tres chic! Whatever prompted me to ask this question, I will never, ever know. As we approached the entrance ramp to the highway, bluebonnets and waist tall weeds in the background, concrete and highway bridges in the horizon, I asked this poor, clueless boy if he also thought the city was far, far more exciting than our dumb, boring life out in the sticks. He seemed non-plussed. I asked if he didn't think I belonged in the city - didn't I seem like a sophisticated fish out of the water out on the dirt road? Why, I would fit far more nicely with a slick, modern high rise apartment address than with my rural route and box # that no one could find on their first try, right? Finally picking up on the fact that his answer might dictate the entire mood of this date, he grappled to find something to say that would both placate me and shut me up: "I guess you're like a citified country girl?" Egad. My spirits were dashed. All I wanted was to be so different that the person I was.
Fast forward 30 years. I finally get it. Everybody wants to be somebody they're not. Everyone wants to reinvent themselves. None of us thinks we're quite good enough in our original packaging. Part of this original thought is good, I think. Shouldn't we as the human race want to aspire to more? Doesn't this form evolution in a certain aspect - both the scientific form of evolution AND the spiritual type of evolution. Shouldn't we all want to be better, make less mistakes, improve our existence. I say yes. Somewhere on this journey to perfection that's never enough and never attainable, I drove my inner-self jalopy into a ginormous pot hole. I broke my self-perception axle and had to have my life towed to an existential garage. Those who love me have been working on my chassis for some years now. I think I'm almost ready to be a road warrior once again. I think I'm ready to get behind the steering wheel and start moving along toward my goal of being the person I should be. This time, it will be different. This time, I have GPS. This time, I'll use the compass. I never did find the city, after all. I kept driving all around the outskirts, but there was never an exit ramp that would take me where I wanted to go. Today, I drive again. This time, I'm headed back to the country. All hail the power of Indian Paintbrushes and Buttercups. This time I will embrace sweet tea and banana pudding. I won't be embarrassed for people to hear the twang in my voice, the word y'all, the mixology of our Southern words (whatch'alldoin?).
I think I finally realized I am different. The real me is different than anyone else I know. It's time I embraced that. To do otherwise would be criminal. So.....as we end this first week of Spring, I encourage us all to do some self-introspection. Pop the hood on your life. Roll down your windows. Drive through your life's neighborhood and understand that whether good or bad, those are the things that form the essence of you. Turns out, the things you're trying to banish may just be the things that others adore about you most.
You can put your therapy check in the mail today!!!! Peace, love, grits 'n Aqua Net, y'all!
Monday, October 3, 2011
Edward, Hubert, Ted, Alec, and Ringo
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'!
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'!
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#*?
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