Highness

Petite lady loafing on her lounge.


photo, photography, tiny, bee, flower, potentilla

Thistle Me

Thistle sounds like it should be something really dirty. Like some wild taboo sex act. OMG! He used to just thistle himself but it's gotten so out of hand. She caught him thistling with the neighbor! I saw him at 2:30 in the morning thistling a stocker in the parking lot of the 24 hour grocery store. In fact he was thistled so hard he could barely walk the next day...


dirty, words, thistle, photo, photography

Milkweed

milkweed, catepillar, monarch, photo, photography

Personal

Pure of heart. Is strong. Talks out of ass sometimes. Thinks things are positive. Shows the sunny side of the street while thinking about the gutter. Reduced to babbling pile of goo by one simple song. Looks at the moon and thinks about lost loves and bad timing. Is pure Moonstone. Scared. Ignores impending doom. Wonders about why things happen. Puts on happy face and believes in happy. For the moment. Small things bring great joy. Simplest, smallest things. A honey bee crawling on the floor. Fat and fuzzy and soft. That could never hurt. Stung. Bad. But cute. N't change it. Does not shut off. A mother. Failure to some. Wears around neck, sometimes. Thinks deeply about situation, freaksoutflipsout and then whoknows? Only the nose knows... Thinks about a fat cherubic completely cool soul. Is True. Is pure. My Heart.


free association, red wine, personals, happiness, life, melancholy

For July

photo, boxer, dog, 4th of July

Necessary Torture

She called my name and I arose, zombie like and followed her to the last little room, way back in the corner. Everything was blue and grey. The weird kind of blue of a dirty pool or surgical scrubs. I sat upright in the same aforementioned color of blue vinyl chaise longue of death. Fox news was on the TV, perched high up in the corner so I had to strain my neck to "relax" watching it.

"Okay, I'm going to make a mold of your teeth, so please don't bite my fingers while they're in your mouth," she says dryly.

Was she fucking kidding me or what? I may not like where I am, but I am VERY aware of where I am and why I am there. Are people so shocked that they seize down like a Pitbull on those innocent fingers? I stare out the window and watch the rain drip off the pine needles, framing the scene like a gorgeous Japanese woodcut. I try to unclench my fingers from the arms of the chaise.

"Great," she says removing the hardened blob of pink elastic goo from my mouth, "They should be with you shortly," and smiles leaving me to my own thoughts. I can't believe I have to actually pay money for this.

I sit and countdown the minutes until he arrives and cordially begins oral plesantries only to offer me some gas before he pulls out his giant size needle that he uses part time to euthanize wild sea whales.

"We're going to numb it a little first and then you'll feel a little pressure," he says "And remember, if you need a break, just raise your hand. You're doing great."

Yeah, right. That "pressure" he refers to is such a sharp piercing feeling, so wildly devious in it's delivery. Shooting pain that begins to melt half of your face off the bone. They begin.

The high pitched whine of the drill rotating at warp speed makes me nervous, but I force myself to breathe, and take my gnarled nubby bloodly claws from the chair arms and place my fists open in my lap. I exhale through my nose deeply as if I were a Master Yogi. He stops and asks if I'm alright. Aaa, Aaa. I could really use some drugs right about now. Yes, everything has it's place.

Two crowns later I am still wondering where the frick my tiara is. I deserve one after that. But I can't speak very well because my face is made of Silly Putty. They advise me to be very careful eating afterwards. Eat? Yeah, I think I'll run right out and get an Everlasting Gobstopper to chaw on. Or maybe some Laffy Taffy.

"That looks great and you did a really good job," he says leaving, telling me to have a nice holiday. I smile and think fondly of him in my hazey numbness. It is finished. I like my dentist. He's kind of sexy for an older man.

Leaving the parking lot, I wonder why I couldn't have a dad like him. At least the pain he inflicts has purpose and comes with positive reinforcement.


dentist, anxiety, torture, crown

Those About to Rock

Snowflake does a soundcheck


And channels John Entwistle

The Babylegs arrived faster than the speed of light on Saturday. I immediately dolled the boy up and went for a walk. Later in the evening, Nana showed up and we decided to take him to a local Polka Fest for some deep fried cheese curds/death bombs. I could tell by her look she did not approve of the baby's legs.

In true rockstar fashion, Snowflake entertained the masses(the Geritol Set), dancing and spinning to music only he could hear on the giant deserted wood outdoor dance floor while the band took a break. He ripped two holes in his babylegs in a frenzy, conjuring images in my head of Jennifer Beals going crazy to "Maniac" in Flashdance. I was thinking, WOW. Just WOW.

"They're cute, but maybe Babylegs just aren't for him," my mother says as I strap him into the Slaab.

"You're just saying that because you think they're girly. We definitely live in the wrong place," I snap, defending my son's baby leg warmers. I cannot help the fact that he is as cute as a girl and I refuse to cut his curly locks. Secretly I was thinking, maybe they aren't boyly enough, maybe they are a tad froufy. I convinced myself otherwise and thought they'd be totally BADASS in ballet class if I sign him up. I want my guy to be a rugged individualist, willing to honor personal choice and difference among peers, even if it means wearing some very cute, very different clothes as a baby. He will be choosing his own togs soon enough.

This is still my time.


babylegs, legwarmers, kids, Union Jack, unusual, Maniac, polka, John Entwistle

Quackers

The easiest answer to any problem is medication. Got a pain? Vicodin should do the trick. Is it in the head? We could give you a little Oxycontin, but a shot of Demerol would be quicker. Kids a little too energetic for your lifestyle? Calm them down with some Ritalin or try the time release Dexedrine. Anxious? You definitely need some Xanax. Wait, do you think maybe you're having a panic attack? Here, here's some Valium. Having trouble sleeping at night? Forget those pesky relaxation excersises and have some Lunesta. Trouble getting out of bed in the morning? Yes, it's just fine to have some of your kid's script with your morning coffee. The key is to feel better, to feel good all of the time. Now, if you don't feel better after a few days, I know a corner where they sell the best SMACK in the city, very discreet. You can drive your mini van down there, no worries. Just tell them I sent you and they'll discount. I'd be happy to give you a script for morphine, but you're not terminal and I wouldn't want either of us to get in trouble. You'll be just fine, fine. Just don't breathe.


drugs, stress, overmedicated

My Legs (Feet, Actually)

And a new pair of clown shoes for me.


keens, providence boot, garnet

Babylegs

Because I'm impulsive and easily distracted at work, I seem to surf the web for interesting items to deplete my checking account thus rendering myself to a kind of check to check joie de vivre. Yesterday, savvy Annie stopped by and we got to talking about these. I think we both first saw them on Mama C-Ta's site, worn by the adorable Cricket.

Although they probably look the best on younger babies, they claim one size fits newborns to 10 years old. Now that's the kind of s-t-r-e-t-c-h I'm talking about! Yes, believe it or not these ARE the jeans I wore in college.

Who am I to deprive Snowflake of some crazy cool baby legwarmers?

I did buy him a pair of the flames so that he could wear them when he rides his red seated Like A Bike. I didn't stop there. I had to get him the Union Jack pair and a funky multicolor stripe set. I'm sure they will look adorable with his still fleshy, bulbous baby thighs. And if they don't? Annie's new bambina will just have a nice start on a punk rock baby girl wardrobe.


babylegs, legwarmers

Tonight

Tonight I sat under the geometry of my pergola. I looked at how the the graying dark sky stood as a canvas against the vertical lines of the copper roof on the garage, softened by the blooming white Japanese Lilac. The catalpa leaves so gigantic and heartshaped, dripped off the branches, swathed in blossoms. The air was filled with a sweet essence that can only be described as subtle. Unlike the harsh Spring lilac and its brazen perfume, this is rather like the way you catch a whiff, just a touch of something long forgotten.

The world keeps on humming. The traffic rushes by, the lawnmowers growl in the twilight. I listened to the fountain gurgle, babble and pop. I watched the fading blossoms from my trees drift down from high above, like a gentle snowstorm. Slow and fat, like huge pieces of popcorn landing without a sound, covering the lawn in a white fluffy blanket. As soon as they land they begin to decompose, tommorrow they will be shriveled and brown.

I thought, we are too hurried in this life. We need more poetry. We need more time.

Fugs Bucking

The chase



The embrace

Yes, it's all happening right here. It's good to know something is gettin' it on just outside my frontdoor. Bucking fugs.


milkweed, bugs, sex, photo, photography

Espresso Bean

Waiting for his person
in the parking lot of Starbucks.


spaniel, dog, truck, rust, chocolate, starbucks, photo, photography

Lightness of Being

Just a simple white Peony



Hugged by Hostas



Growing near the roadside


white, beauty, purity, nature, photo, photography

One Week Out of the Year

And why I don't cut them down


catalpa tree, in bloom, beans, mess

The First Visitor to Nirvana

Bug against the green shimmer between water & stone



Riding the lip of discovery in my paradise.



ps...It's a good thing you weren't found exploring the kitchen floor or the side of my tub, sweet nuisance. If that were the case, you'd be squished in a paper towel and out with the trash. I would have freaked and said, "Fucking creepy bug", but you're so beautiful. Does everything happen for a reason?


bugs, water, creepy, beautiful, green

Behind the Music

When I first met Lonis(pronounced Low Nis), he was just a poor farm boy. The last of three young 'uns to leave that burrough in the high green hills of Irma, he was bound for that glory road South, straight to being the King of Southern Swing. He hit the big time early and founded Blind Pug Records. Known not only for his droning, howlish laments to his eternal love Heidi, he had a thing for easy hyperventilation, especially in the humid throes of sultry summers. Quickly known for good times and fast snorting, he developed a reputation for eating anything and everything. His personal quote to live by was "Eat drink and be merry, for tommorrow we die"(or lay bloated on the couch).


That was until a frenzied piranha like fight over a Krispy Kreme blueberry donut hole caused him to leap off one of his amp cases and throw out his back. He ate a blanket and some pillow stuffing in a blind rage that left him almost physically damaged. Damage to his pride was more like it. After pulling the silk cord edging from his fair ass one morning, Heidi had had enough. She demanded he seek treatment. Introspection and a modicum of age left him singing a different tune. This is when he found comfort and refuge in The Teaching's of the Ayatolla. Not only did he tout the benefits of being neutered, his musical stylings turned spiritual in nature and he won a Grammy. Twice he sang the Chinese National Anthem at the Winter Olympics(Lillehammer and then Nagano where he also sang in Japanese).


It's been almost nine months since our sweetest Friend and Comrade has hopped the Chuck Wagon to that giant bag of dog food in the sky. It was time to share his glory, and his story. Spread the message and please give generously to Pug Life Ministries.

R.I.P Dear Dear Friend

pug, legend, pets, companions, love

The Day the Earth Stood Still

They say your kids will do things to embarrass you. I've always done such a good job of embarrassing myself. My little Damien, seems to have found the Oedipus in him a wee bit early even though there's no Da around. Sunday night we were in bed ready for sleepies & dreamies and I ask him if he'd like me to rub his back as per our nightly attachment parenting ritual.

He looks at me with this Devil eye and says, "Mama rub my pee pee?" and laughs.

"What?!" I retort stupified to the point of swallowing my tongue and choking to death, somehow calmly holding it all together and laughing nervously and say, "I love ya babe, but not like that(like he has a clue!). You can rub your pee pee all you want. It is yours and yours alone to rub. In fact, you are the ONLY person who should be rubbing it." I left it at that. He said "Ya."

Can you feel me cringing? I was left wondering if I should check his scalp for 666. Instead I called my mother and she thought it was weird. I told the coworker and he looked at me like I was the Devil's Spawn. I even tried to share my pain on a friend's blog by commenting that her budding pyromaniac is an angel compared to my experience. I just wanted someone to say it was okay. He's normal, curious and maybe a little precocious. Fat fucking chance.

I removed my comment because I felt like the town freak. I'm left to figure it out on my own. Even at this early stage I think it sets an openess for future conversations about difficult subjects between the two of us. I want him to be comfortable with expressing his feelings about whatever is on his mind.

Even if he turns out to be a complete weirdo.




toddlers, attachment parenting, sexuality

Shangri-La

I really wanted to put a Camaro



Up on cinder blocks here. Or maybe an eight foot SAT-E-LITE dish.



All I could say when I pulled into my driveway this evening was,



Holy Shit! Holy extreme backyard makeover SHIT!



Godfather, I won't be thinking of you in Greece on Wednesday.
But you can still bring me the tchotchkes, lots and lots of tchotchkes.


Shangri-La, backyard, makeover, pergola, zen, green

Youth

The green bursts wide open, thickly, blades of grass clump and form the lawn of summer. The yellow daffodil, a Spring remembrance, heralds the way for heirloom iris and the beautiful white valleys of the lily. Remember the lilac, fresh and purple, gone already as the Catalpa buds, with lanky beans of fresh sproutling seeds, leading to the alabaster blossoms of weddings.

Pavement fresh and gray, forgetting the snow crusted walkway. What is yellow snow? I forget as I push the stroller past the Tasty Treat, pulling the dog away from the ice cream of strangers.

The flesh of youth, ripe and raw, tan and toasted just right, riding by on bicycles. Is that bleached Fruit of the Looms or the top of their actual ass skin peeping out of the waistband of their Levi's? That will never be my order again. Buzz cut and half naked, they laugh as they glide by saying,

"Ice cream makes you sterile!"


summer, youth, aging

Not the Flocking Kind

Safe, snuggled siblings in the topiary nest


Wishing we could have stayed that way forever
Or at least a little while longer.



baby birds, leaving the nest

Green Is Blue

Mr. Green floating, chilling
Hanging in the basin of the fountain.


Suspended, frozen in the moment
His last minutes before



Homelessness, bidding adieu.

frogs, nature, green, homelessness

Beer Cans & Ass Cans (Don't Go Breakin' My Heart)

It's so easy to be lulled into a false sense of security. There are people you think you can rely on, spill your guts to and in the end, they pour them into the hot, black tar sun soaked street for all to see. It burns.

Take for example The Italian. We're the same age and he just happens to be married to my cousin and works for my family. There are times when I'm deep in thought, meditating and concentrating on the sentence that's forming in my brain as I type. He sees my intensity and has to try and interrupt me any way possible.

He reminds me of this character called Colleen Fernman that Gilda Radner played on SNL. She was this crazy little girl with no attention span. Sometimes when I look at him in conversation I can hear the song "She's Not There". It's like looking at a deer in the healights. It's a robot saying "This does not compute".

Bald yet hairy, tall and beer bellied, he slides open the door next to my computer and lights up his Marlboro Light. I quit smoking in August and his stench now bothers me as the haze blows back into the office.

"So, what else ya know?" he says, trying to get my attention. Sometimes I am so disturbed that I have to point blank tell him that I am TRYING to write and could he please just give me a minute. I know it's rude, but half the time when he's talking I just nod like I'm listening in agreement with his meandering babble. Today he's ignoring me completely. Holdover.

Wednesday the bambino was with me at work and there was a point where he made a comment about the time to come when Snowflake has his first beer. Yes, I pointed out, that would be akin to the first blow job his daughter gives. He said it wasn't the same thing. It really steamed his clams, baby.

He actually told my father that "I" wasn't talking to him. WTF? He still hasn't talked to me this morning. He is so old school when it comes to grudges and I think it must be so stressful to be so angry and begrudging and rotten like that on the inside. Fuck that. Maybe this is why I am still single. I cannot handle the fragile egos of these poor babies called men. I refuse to kiss the ass of an asshole.

The thing is, Snowflake's Y is an alcoholic. My own father is a daily drinker but it's acceptable because he's made alot of money. One of my bothers had a drinking problem and died from an overdose of valium. I don't take this kind of funnin' towards my bambino lightly. I am a parent alone and it pisses me off to have to constantly fight the jackass comments people make because it is normal for them.

This little corner of the world is home to The Culture of the Drink. It permeates everything, weddings, baptisms, funerals, every single fucking holiday and everyday life. It is not uncommon to read court records involving people charged with their seventh and eighth drunk drivings.

Now he's answering ALL the phone calls, every s-i-n-g-l-e one. At one point he had BOTH cordless phones on his desk next to his desk phone. As an extra bonus, he's carrying a can of air freshener around to cover up his blowout ass stench. Sweet. He just sprayed some lilacy bullshit in his office. And he's all about the bullshit. Gee, I wonder why he's being so nice to me.


assholes, annoying coworkers, grudges, drinking, blowjobs, kids

Your Songs (For J)

It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside but, here I am being tagged for my very first MEME by the lovely J. I'm kind of excited yet almost nauseated because this is the moment of truth. Name 13 songs you absolutely love/loved but are humiliated to admit to. Excuse me for a moment while I pour myself a glass of Fish Eye.

1. She Drives Me Crazy by The Fine Young Cannibals No Comment.

2. Tusk by Fleetwood Mac featuring the UCLA Marching Band Damn, I thought those drums and horns were just so effing cool. Once in awhile I still kind of like it.

3. Shelter by former Playboy Playmate Taylor Dane. My best friend Paul and I would just jam out to this in my apartment in college. Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na I'll be your shelter, baby.

4. Muskrat Love by The Captain & Tenille Yes, The C & T's Greatest Hits was the first LP I bought when I was in fourth grade. I just loved those little Muskrat noises, and you KNOW that wasn't from using ProTools. How'd they do that?!

5. Der Kommisar by After the Fire Hey, don't turn around and always remember, the more you live the faster you will die La La La La La

6. The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald by Gordon Lightfoot Maybe it's because it's about the northern stomping grounds, but in any case I still would like to know where the love of god goes. Anyone?

7. Baker Street by Gerry Rafferty I had this 45. It just jammed, baby.

8. Jesse James by Cher Come on, Baby! If you can give it, I can take it cuz if this heart is gonna break it's gonna take alot to break it... Oh hell, I still love all these cheesy whack songs, who am I kidding?!

9. Pac Man Fever by Buckman & Garcia Any questions? In my defense, I WAS under 10 at the time.

10. Afternoon Delight by The Starland Vocal Band and it wasn't just because it was in "Tiger Eyes" by Judy Blume or because I'm in love with Ron Burgundy.

11. Billy Billy Bayou by Jim Reeves Listened to him from the time I was born.

12. Xanadu by Olivia Newton John I was IN LOVE with this movie. Shhhhhhhhh!

13. Brandy (You're a Fine Girl) by Looking Glass

You know there's a lot more, I just can't seem to thinkof the REALLY good ones. Enjoy! Now I must ask The Hip Stylish and Utterly Preggo Glamgranola to add her two cents, along with RadioFree as he stares down high from his lofty musical perch. And of course, any one else happening by to do so as well. Let me know if you take this enormously important challenge!

p.s. Anyone that loves ELO is right on! in my book.


thursday thirteen, embarrassing songs you loved

If Found Please Return To

At work I'm my own boss and I like to dabble


In office supplies.


Yesterday, I was the Avant Garde Postmaster.

One for the Little Lady

Do you ever look in the mirror and wonder what you'll look like when you're older, much older? Or have you ever pondered the thought of your own longevity? How long do you wish to live? Does it depend on the condition you're in? It's bizarre to look in the mirror and see your face slowly morphing into another version of you. For the longest time I felt like I was fresh out of college, 22 in the mind and mirror. This persisted well into my mid 30's and finally I am seeing that certain something fading away. This is not a bad thing per se, but when I take photographs of myself I am seeing the emergence of something different, something I don't recognize. Is this the middle age me? I don't know and it does scare me a little. I guess if I want to buy into the whole baby boomer fascination with "60 being the new 30", then I'm just fine, fine.

92 years ago my grandmother came into this world. Today, this sweet church goin' lil' lady celebrates her birthday amid the release of The Omen and those three little numbers that cause such fright and frenzy. She knows and recites vague and well known poetry and prose from memory. This morning I was treated to "The Spider & The Fly". Those amazing blue eyes have seen so much. Not only did she witness the Great Depression and the New Deal, but on her 30th birthday, the Allies invaded the beaches of Normandy. D-Day, B-Day. Cool, granny. She gave birth to eight little beings in this life. She buried four throughout her existence, including her husband almost twenty years ago.

I remember when she finally broke down and moved into an apartment 12 years ago because she was afraid to live alone. She was as happy as clam, and as spritely as a lamb in her new place. After a while, friends began to die or lose their health. It became depressing for her. She told me on several occasions that she was ready to die whenever that happened. I'm sure the ambulance calls get to be somewhat of a death siren after a while. I always cheered her up by telling her how fortunate she was to have such great health and how lucky Snowflake and I are to have her. I don't know what I believe about faith and religion, but I assured her that the God she believes in has a purpose for her. She took comfort in that.

A long time ago she gave me the slim white gold wedding band embellished with tiny orange blossoms that stayed on her hand come hell or high water. She had to take it off with a vat of vasoline. I never felt so honored. I thank her for the gentle love and warmth she has given me throughout life. For caring for me when I was little and for being here to care about my son.

She is so sweet and wonderful. I look into the mirror and hope to be as beautiful of a person as she is. Prune me up, hunch me over, render me unrecognizable from any youthful blink of the eye but please give me at least 100 years- the dirty, the good, the bad, the ugly. I'll take them all.


grandmothers, aging, longevity, birthdays, salad days

If Hockney Were a Dog

David Hockney, dogs

Shirts & Skin

kids, sprinklers, Memorial Day, summer

multum in parvo

puppies, big paws

Snips & Snails

puppies, kids

Opening Up

The demolition has begun. Earlier this week a pile of boulders magically appeared in the yard. The trailer they were carried in on left nice ruts in the boulevard across my beautiful golf course like lawn. Thursday the "BobCat" showed up, parked squarely in the center of the backyard. What did it all mean? It meant the pergola was closer to realization!

I came home tonight to the center of the Earth opening up behind the garage. Well, it wasn't quite that but, but seriously there were huge piles of black dirt everywhere from excavating and the beginnings of the boulder retaining wall were already taking shape. I felt like I was witnessing the birth of my own Secret Garden. Thankfully SF was cashed from a heavy overdose of outdoor air and was sleeping soundly. This gave me the opportunity to explore the newly exposed pit of hellfire and damnation.

Spotted Cow in hand, I changed the exterior lightbulb so I could linger awhile. It was just long enough to get dirt in my Keens and between my toes. Gritty like drywall dust. You could smell the fresh soil newly turned, there is something so very clean about its essence. The crescent moon appeared in the sky, floating frozen above the copper cupola on the garage. This IS where I belong.

A perfect, perfect night.


pergolas, home improvement, Spotted Cow, nightime, organic, origins, contentment, chaos,

Imagining Meat

The first "Meat Raffle" had to be a smashing success. I imagine monster trucks jamming the parking lot, as their flannel wearing, trucker's cap topped owner's heads bottleneck at the entrance. Bad teeth and chewing tobacco are everywhere. I can smell man sweat. I feel a thousand slaps on my ass that I want to greet with a Club Size can of mace. How exciting to win a batch of smoked chops, a ham or a turkey! Maybe I should go...

Now if this was my kind of Meat Raffle, he'd be tall dark and handsome or even Nordic, preferably multilingual and well endowed. Smart, but not smarter than me. I think to myself is that any way to find a mate, MsMamma? Nah, I'm not actually desperate enough to pay for sex. If I went and I really wanted to get laid, I'm sure the sex would be gratis, but hell no gracias!

meat, raffles, bizarre, northwoods,

She Would Kill Me

What she doesn't know won't hurt her,


And besides, I think she's adorable.


I hope I look that good at 60. Kick & Stretch, Mama!

Sun Shine

Either you love it or you hate it.

Very cool, very stylish and totally mine. To some this signifies the epitome of 50's Modern. Forget about Vitra's reissue, this baby is the real deal. Everybody tried to copy this one in some shape or fashion. My classic sweetness is an original George Nelson key wind Sunburst clock made by the Howard Miller company in Zeeland, Michigan. Back in the day(c.1948 or so), this little number sold for around $30. Pretty expensive for the times. What many people don't know about their beloved George is that he had a talented stable of designers that worked for him. When you say George Nelson, you may as well be saying Irving Harper when you're getting down to clock talk.

My little supernova hung on the wall of my parents cottage for many moons. They bought the cozy little shack almost 14 years ago from the widow of a oil company owner. They bought the place fully furnished and when I saw it for the first time I thought I was going to puke. Extreme orange shag carpeting wall to wall rubbing up next to shiny ebony colored paneling. There was a little turntable on a special cart and underneath were a thick stack of Hawaiian music records with a few polkas mixed in. Then there was that clock in the corner. That hip, cool fucking clock. We transformed the place with our creative minds but kept the Sunburst in its original spot. I always told my parents I would like to have it if they didn't want it anymore.

Monday night there was a knock on my door and it was my mom with a big bag of relics from up yonder. One of them was the Sunburst. I immediately took down a picture where I had always planned to hang it. It looks so hep, cats! So right at home.

I love it. Come on over and we'll read some Ferlinghetti, baby.


george nelson, 50's Modern, Irving Harper, Vintage, Original, Wind Up Clock, Howard Miller

Heirloom

She handed me a piece of paper when I dropped the baby off on Friday and asked me to type it up and fax it to the realtor. It was a list of items that they were willing to part with. The doctors buying their home asked the realtor if they would consider selling any of their furniture because they simply loved my mother's taste.

"I love that table", I said, speaking of the funky teak Danish Modern table that we shared meals on for the past 15 years.

"Of course you do", she said, "but you can't afford it."

"I can't understand why you wouldn't just give it to me", I said.

"Well, you don't want it, it's a little beat up and if I get rid of all of this stuff, I can buy some new stuff", she said without any glint of emotion.

"So much for family heirlooms", I said.

I got in my car and backed out of the driveway. It struck me as strange that my parents who are so generous can be so bizarre. I thought of the beautiful teak table, an elipse clipped at the ends, honey gold and warm. The chairs elegant and sexy, fine thin strips of teak rising up and curving in a lumbar form at the back, fanning out in an arc separated by solid balls of wood at the very top.

I thought of the slight milky white stain on one part of the table that was made by a plate of hot food. I thought of the other mark, a dark small spot from a burning cigarette left unattended by a brother dead now almost six years. Forever 28. It made me cry. This table was one of the last things I could think of that had his mark on it. There will be nothing left after this that I can touch to remind myself that he was here, I had another brother once.

We ate memorable meals, had birthday cakes, opened presents. We talked around this table, told stories and lies. And cried. We shared our lives. Life changes and we move on each in our own way. An heirloom is yours only as long as you last. And sometimes heirlooms are yours only as long as they last.


heirlooms, loss, moving on

Memorial

This is the post where I vent to myself about my family and how I feel so fucked up and in the process alienate myself and/or turn off anyone who's ever read this little rambling shambling attempt at a daily personal process. Maybe I am a pissy person, a real bitch. Maybe I am sick of going along with my cornfed kin. Every holiday is usually spent in some semi-expensive restaurant where they indulge in their appetites while Snowflake and I make due with the usual plethora of half baked potatoes, iceberg lettuce or "California" blend frozen fricking vegetables. For them it comes down to just one question- Where's the beef?

When my brother's trio arrived this morning we were all going to go out for pizza tonight. Fine. Cool. I was looking forward to staying overnight again and having a bonfire and enjoying the cottage one last time before they tear the ol' joint down. My mother wasn't involved in this really, but when we came back from a 90 degree three hour boat riding odyssey, suddenly it was martini time and on to the one restaurant I really hate up there. I decided to go home.

But not before that fucking idiot left his "Purple Gecko" martini on the low table while he went to the bathroom. It was just long enough for my beautiful boy to grab it and take a drink. Why does this have to happen? I was so pissed but I didn't say a word because I didn't want to be the usual family asshole. Then Big Pappy put me on the spot in front of the trio and my mother.

"You know Heidi, we can't help it because the two of you are vegetarians", he says.

"Why can't you just let me leave instead of making me look like a big asshole?" I said, "This morning we were going for pizza and now you're all going out for a big feast."

Dickwad chimes in "We just took the baby last night and had pizza, so I really don't want it again." I don't belive he has ever committed a thankless act of kindness in his entire life.

Big Pappy supportingly agrees, he does not want to consume any pizza either and why do I always have to be so difficult?

"You know, when have you EVER gone anywhere out of consideration for the two of us? huh? Never." Not even on my birthday which I just happen to share with my brother.

I was so damn mad it intensified while I was driving home and looking at Snowflake in the rearview he seemed zombified. I pulled over and ran around to the other side of the Slaab and checked him over. I really want to believe that he was zoned out from the sweltering afternoon in the sun and heat, but of course that evil little psychotic bastard that lives in the back of my head thinks maybe he is a little buzzed. I seem to always overanalyze and freak out. I start asking him questions, drilling him like a State Patrol officer on a bust.

"What's your dog's name?"

"Charlie"

"Who lives next door to you?"

"Bob & Cathy"

"What's my name?"

"Heidi Jo"

Yes, that's right, that's right, breathe deeply mamma-san, breathe. Perfect answers for a two year old.

He passed my sobriety test but I was still pissed thinking about the way my parents always seem to coddle my brother. I called my mother's cell phone and left a message and told her that when jackasses(aka 'dickwad' aka 'my brother') little boy is walking, I'll make sure to leave a big blue raspberry martini out just for him. I could never do something so stupid, not even unintentionally. Maybe my parents know they don't have to worry about me. They have already lost one son and I know they could never bear a repeat.

I'm just trying to figure out where I fit in. I just can't seem to find my place. Even in my own family.


Why is it that when you feel so bad, a little ray of light pops in just at the right moment and makes you feel human again, renews your hope in yourself? Thanks, neighbor, thank you.



holidays, family, dysfunction, nightmare, single parenting, the token vegetarian

The Beat of a Different Drum

If you're wondering where all of that damn loud banging is coming from, just blame Snowflake. Tomorrow his shipment will arrive via FedEx. He scored BIGTIME and it's not even his birthday. He's getting this and this plus a pair of finger cymbals and four egg shakers. He is going to flip out. I'm going to flip out. I'm so excited that if I really dig them, I'm going to go right ahead and order that big ass friggin' 21" x 22" Gathering Drum so we can really tear it up. We two vegetarians starting a neighborhood drumming circle. Can you smell the patchouli yet?

Summer nights under the stars and my imagined pergola, thumping away loudly with wild abandon as the neighbors scurry to peer over their fences or strain their eyes looking out of their windows wondering what the bejesus WE are up to will be priceless. Screw the pergola, we should just put up a sweatlodge in homage to Snowflake's ancestry. Maybe we'll even howl at the moon.




remo kids percussion, parenting, playing, toys, making music, Oppenheimer Award Toys

In the Dirt

Digging in the dirt comes with rewards but always seems to disgust me. Especially now that the area I live in is rampant with Blastomycosis. Officials assure us that there is nothing to worry about although the confirmed cases are a gazillion times more than normal. No one seems to know where it comes from. It's found in the dirt yet it flies through the air. No one is safe and if left untreated, it mimics a very bad cold, you end up coughing up blood and die a nasty death. I imagine it as the Ebola of the midwest.

On the shiny happy people side, the ground heaves up it's treasures in the form of nurturing the plants through the Spring and Summer seasons. I possess good black dirt. This weekend I planted Purple Fountain Grass and lime green Sweet Potato vine in three copper colored planters on my front steps. I planted Black Millet and Gerbera Daisies, white and purple Echinacea and Reed Grass. I transplanted some Stella d'Oro daylillies from the backyard to the patio. Things are shaping up for the side garden. My mother gave me an interesting plant called "King Tut". It's a type of papyrus and simply striking for these parts. It's like an exotic reed/ grass.

My heirloom Concord Grape vine is back with vim and vigor. It has been four years since I was able to harvest those dusky eggplant colored globes, sweet and ripe from the snapfrost. They make the most amazing preserves. This vine is so special to me. My grandparents now long dead took a cutting from their neighbor probably 50 years ago. When they died I dug it up and planted it next to my porch. I love it.

After planting for two days, I actually had to find sheets and blankets to cover everything up because a hard freeze warning was issued. Forkin' hay. I simply have got to cut back on my swearing or my little Paulie Parrot will ultimately end up sounding like a Salty Sea Dog. For example, this weekend my dear friend the Godfather came home from Miami to grace us with his presence for just a few short days. I immediately put him on baby duty, ie- WATCH THE BABY, Godfather. We walked to the front of the house and came back to the garage and I said 'Where's the baby?' and he bolted back and said, 'Oh Christ, that's right!' grabbing him.

The three of us went looking at plants. After buying a few we went back to the car and the Godfather opened the Slaab by sticking his arm through the open window and popping the lock. No, no, no, no... the alarm went off. "Oh Christ!" he says and I say "It's such a piece of crap!" Snowflake steps in with his two bits from the back seat and says,

"Christ mama, what a piece of crap!"

Very, very bad, but we couldn't stop laughing.

I'm waiting for my contractor to start digging up my backyard for the pergola. A bobcat was supposed to magically appear either Monday or Tuesday and it's still a no show. I'm waiting and things are just growing around me, everywhere.


gardening, blastomycosis, parenting, swearing

Yesterday

My sweet little dewdrop, my delicious bean, my Super Baby. You were 26 months old yesterday. In honor of this glorious, shining moment, you pooped on the floor. This was after you hopped out of the bath. I applaud your personal style and at least you don't poop in the tub. You are so adorably sqeezable right now.



Brand New BabyCakes May 2004


Your language is in high gear and you speak better than most four year olds I've heard. You sound kind of like Bela Lugosi with your old world style accent, or maybe it's your old Polish granny that you never met. Yes, everyone still assumes you're a girl because I refuse to cut your hair. Luckily for you I never took you out of the house that day I put the pigtails in your hair. It was a Mommy Dearest kind of moment.


Stand Up Guy May 2005



You love Kindermusic. But REAL music, is in your blood. Long before Kindermusic you were exposed to a healthy dose of various musical genres and you love them all. It's so cool to see you stop whatever you're doing if you hear something you like and just start grooving. You're one swank little dude. You like Swing and you LOVE to swing on a swing. I have this little song I sing to you when I push you and you love it. It goes like this:

Super Baby, Super Baby
He's Flying High In the Sky (repeat a jillion times)

And then you start to sing it. It's precioso, my love and so are you. I don't need to blather on and on because you actually know how fabulous I think you are.



Beautiful Boy May 2006



parenting, toddlers, dancing, time flys by

Needling

I hear it at the back of my mind subliminally picking me like an ax to the head. You really should get your ass to the dentist. You could have some serious problems, you know. If you don’t maintain, you’re looking at a really big bill and you don’t have dental, you know that. Remember, you have the pergola to pay for... Oh shut up! I know, I know.

I used to love going to the dentist. I simply adored Dr. Zander. He was the perfect childhood dentist. Cute in a very 70’s kind of way and funny. His secret weapon? Knowing all of the words to “Star Wars”. That Was Incredible! if you know what I mean. He had other tricks that took me an instant to realize as an adult.

Damn the day we moved.

I was a teenager and had to find a new sadist. When I went to Dr. Howard, he said I had two cavities that needed to be filled. I wasn’t too concerned until he brought out this BIG ASS NEEDLE THAT THEY MUST USE ONLY ON RABID RHINOS saying, “we’re just going to numb you up a little.” Whoa there, sailor.

“No way! I’ve never had needles before!”

“Well, we can try and drill without it”, he says, looking at me as if I were totally insane. They begin to drill and break through the tooth and hit a nerve. I bolted upright like Frankenstein’s Bride, screaming as they tried to hold me down. He just missed my tongue.

“Give me the shot, give me the shot!” I beg.

I realized in that moment, Dr. Zander only gave me those shots when I was good and high from the laughing gas, eyes closed with a liberal swathing of the numbing gel to the gum. The mark of pure genius. Dr. Howard ruined me for all dentists after that.

It has been two years since I have been to the dentist. I thank my genes for good chompers. Thank you O Great Ancestors In The Sky! Luckily, my dentist is very cool and always has LOTS of painkillers for me. He checks with me to see if it is in fact, numb enough. He’s benevolent that way, but he’s still no Zander. Laughing gas is extra now, so I just skip it and take the shot like a champ, all the while clutching the armrests like a scared cat about to be dipped. Whileknucked, my hands ache when I am done. Sedation dentistry sounds like fun to me.

You really should call. What if your teeth just turn black or break off? You'll end up looking like a crackhead. Real cute. Yes! All right. Shut up! I made the call, I have the appointment. Happy?! I congratulate myself for being an adult. I am growing up.

humor, going to the dentist, sedation, needles, fear

A Tinkle for Your Thoughts

Oh, I've had my fleeting glimpses of glory with potty training. Bursting with pride, making long distance telephone calls to loved ones in far away lands telling them of his urinary prowess. I was so proud of the lackadaisical pisser. So much so that I bought a giant sized box of gummi snacks as his special treat of choice a few weeks ago containing 72 fricking packets when things were full speed ahead, gung ho. Not so fast, lady. I think I have 70 packets left. The red Baby Bjorn potty chair sits collecting dust. Can you hear it's lonely echoing cry? Is that a tinkle I hear in the corner of my mind? This morning:

"Mamma, Trueby peed in the tub."

"You peed in the tub?!"

"Yeah."

"Trueby, that is just gross."

"Gwoss is wyte! Gwoss is wyte! Absowootwee."


potty training, parenting, humor