Is it… SATAN?

Well, the deck is finished. Completely. Even the nasty rip-cuts snug up to the house. I wish, oh how I wish there had been a stop-action camera on me yesterday, and then we could run the tape in fast-motion and LAUGH AND LAUGH… because that would’ve been some funny shizzle. Mom and Dad rode the motorcycle out, and Dad decided to finish up the deck, which meant I was the tool runner and head flash-light holder. Do you know how many times I ran up and down those stairs for a tool, or a pencil, or a nut or a bolt? Me either, but it was probably more than 100 times, no exaggeration. Now that I think back on it, I’m wondering if Dad was messin’ with me some of those times, he’s be like, “I need a 5/8″ star-shank driver bit with a Sprankley sprocket mechanism”, and I’d run like a fool down to the garage yet again. IN between the phantom-tool-running, I was also putting through a couple loads of laundry and cooking a rosemary chicken dinner. Ahhh… rosemary…

I did manage to remember to buy potting soil, and moved my rosemary in for the winter, which is all kinds of exciting to me. Every time I walk by that plant I rub my hands in it and then smear it all over myself. I’m basting in rosemary. Sometimes I pull a leaf off and eat it, but I’m always disappointed in the taste. You have to COOK the rosemary, it’s nasty raw. I wish I could remember that.

My sister and I bought enormous Wandering Jews from a yard sale a few weeks ago. Mine has grown about 4 feet since. It’s getting a little  Little-Shop-of-Horrors scary. I’m going to hang it in the entryway, I think, we have a split-entry, so the one wall that reaches from upstairs to the garage is about 16 ft tall, which will hopefully give the plant plenty of room to “wander”.

Dear old Dad. Help me, Lord. My Dad is the most ANAL deck-builder in the history of deck building in the history of mankind, or something. He had 5 pieces of decking to install. Now I’ll grant ya, three of the pieces were rip-cuts, of differing widths, and the other two pieces were to be installed in thin air, off the opposite ends of the deck. They were specialty cuts, to be sure, but my God, it took my Dad 5 HOURS to get it done. Each piece was so precisely engineered, by the time he had measured, remeasured, did some calculations, moved the board around various angles, marked it, cut it, checked it, re-cut it, planed it, checked it, re-planed it, checked it, filed it, sanded it, checked it for fit, pre-drilled and counter-damn sunk the holes,  and finally, INSTALLED the durn thing, it was like, oh, I guess an HOUR PER BOARD. I had to keep myself busy in between with laundry and dinner, just to keep myself from cracking the hell up. I would’ve slapped those boards out in an hour, TOTAL. It would’ve looked a little sloopy sloppy, with a little gapping against the house, but I would’ve stuck a trim-board on it and a patio set, and VIOLA! BEAUTIFUL! You know that expression, when you’re building something, or doing flooring or decking, and you say, “Nobody’s ever going to see that, unless we point it out, right?” Dad NEVER says that. NEVER. Dad’s never said that in his life, I believe. I think he’s always had the Banty Rooster (his DAd) over his shoulder, checking on his job… Pap’s been dead for almost 10 years, but Dad’s still trying to please him. Me, I don’t know why I don’t have that in me, my Dad, he’s so precise. But I show him something I’ve built, and you know, it’s not exactly great construction, not “up to code”, lots of little “nuances” and creative, um, creative “engineering”, but he always admires it and seems proud of me, just the same. I don’t know. I don’t have to point out the flaws in my projects, they’re right there for all to see. I’m just proud I made a daggone PORCH, or a DECK or something. THat is some shizzle!

Hubz and I are starting a new thing. I’m calling it “Romantic Grocery Shopping”. Sunday mornings at 7:00 a.m., just Hubz and me, at the grocery store, getting the week’s groceries, shootin’ the breeze, buyin’ coffee, and the papers, and donuts for the kids… We had so much fun together, just picking up groceries, I said, we have to do this every week, this is romantic, dontcha think? And he’s all, Naaaaahhhh, because he’s a man… Plus, I don’t have to do all the hauling alone. I hate hauling 400 bags into the car and then into the house. Much better with Hubz. And so a tradition is born. We’ll see if I can get him out of bed again next Sunday.

Hubz is growing a goatee right now, which is kinda weird, but kinda sexy.  He’s got the dark hair, so he kinda looks like the Devil, or Andrea Bocelli, who, I think, is the Devil. I’m sure he’s very nice, Mr. Bocelli, and I guess people enjoy his singing and all, and I’m sorry, you know, about the blindness, too, but, I’m convinced, Andrea Bocelli is the Devil. I forget which one of my kids, it was either Franki or Zack, when they were very little, it must’ve been Franki, but we fell asleep one night, with the TV on,  back when we used to watch TV, and sometime during the night, Andrea Bocelli’s singing on the TV, little Franki wakes up, takes one look at Andrea Bocelli, and starts screaming like she’s seen the very Devil himself. I don’t know, you be the judge:

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Is it… Satan?

That’s not very nice. I’m sure he’s a wonderful, warm-hearted, beautiful individual. Who happens to look like the Devil.

Did I tell you we went to the American Indian Pow-Wow, at the community college? I took Franki and Charlotte to Franki’s guitar lesson, and then we went to the Pow-Wow afterwards. I’ve never been to a pow wow, so of course, when they started the drums and the haunting, ever-so haunting chanting… fresh, salty white-girl tears-of-shame ran like a mountain spring out of my face… Sigh. I’m so white.

My children, however, are not white. Hubz’ great-grandfather was full-blood Sioux, from South Dakota. His name was Harmon Gray Hawk. HEY! I have a picture of him, wait a sec…

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Did I show you this before? I may have. So anyways, we’re watching them start the ceremonies, and I get over myself a little, get the silly crying out of the way, and I look over at my son, and he says, Mum, I feel that drum in my HEART! (it was very loud, and we were in a dome stadium, the drum beat was pounding right through us…) So I said to him, Son, that’s because you’re Indian, your heart knows it, your heart remembers the drums, remembers being a Sioux… He looked at me and I could tell, he was really thinking about what I said… And sure, you know, I’m probably full of shit, but he doesn’t know that. Maybe somewhere, on some cellular level, his heart DOES remember being an Indian. I hope it does.

That was Saturday. We told Hubz all about it, and he’s all, you know, I’VE never been to a pow-wow either… So I said, on Sunday, the last day of the pow wow,  you HAVE to go, you would love it! You HAVE to go do that, you’re an Indian, you have to connect with that… I had to beg and cajole him into going to something I KNEW he would enjoy. Men. They’re all alike. So he and Zack went to the pow-wow yesterday. ANd of course he loved it. I told him to let Zack show him around a little, let your son teach you some stuff… because kids love that… He said he would. They were gone 3 hours! I asked Hubz about the drums, did he feel them in his heart? He said, yeah, he did, and he even wanted to join in the dancing, but Zack wouldn’t let him, he was embarrassed. Nine-yr-old boys are easily embarrassed. Maybe next year though. I’d love to see Hubz join in something like that. And the boy. If the boy danced with the Indians, I think my heart would soar right out of my chest.

We did end up going to “Arsenic and Old Lace”, with Charlotte and her mom, and Franki, and Beane. Dee and I, we had a really nice time together, she’s a riot! The play was hilarious, the girls LOVED it, Franki wanted to go again on Sunday! We went out for cappuchinos and milk-shakes after the show. We’re going to look for another show to see together, it was so much fun! Dee’s husband works at the grocery store, he’s a butcher, so Dee had all the scoop on the grocery store people! She’s very frank, too, doesn’t mince words. She says the owner (oh dear, I’m gossiping…), she says the owner’s an alcoholic, he drinks vodka all day, he’s got a full bar in his office, been in and out of rehab…. She says the manager drinks with the owner all day, which, really blew my mind, because I always talk to the manager, he’s always super-friendly and jovial, he’s always out in the aisles, helping to stock shelves, talking and laughing.. Hmmmm… So I said that to Dee, I said, he’s always so friendly and gregarious, and she said, YEAH, because he’s DRUNK!!! HARRRRR!!! I love to gossip… Dee hates her mom, she calls her, I forget, something like “Woom Donor”… I forget, but it wasn’t very nice. She says her mom is insane. Actually, Dee doesn’t have a whole lot nice to say about anyone, she’s very very distrustful and paranoid, everyone is out to get her. But for some reason, she and I get along fine. It’s weird. She says the most mind-blowing things, and I just laugh and laugh. We’re like peas and carrots. She’s had a rough time though, she had a baby daughter born with birth defects, and died when she was two years old, which experience has really warped Dee, like it WOULD, you know… She talked to me quite a bit about all that, which really helped me to understand the way she is… She’s kinda strange, and she has trouble getting along with people, but she’s not a bad person…She was fired from her job last year, she’s a chemist, but she’s got a lab in her basement, and she’s still making products, freelance…WEIRD!!!  Also, hilarious, when you consider we were seeing “Arsenic and Old Lace”! We had some laughs though… Dee’s one of those tiny people who make you, even if you too are a small person, she makes you feel big and protective of her… She’s very delicate, she must weigh 90 lbs, she has fine, fine features, and beautiful, pale, translucent skin, and perfect, PERFECT fingernails on her delicate, tiny little hands… I notice these things… I never noticed how pretty she was before, probably because she’s always standing in my none-too-well-lit livingroom, talking talking talking, and saying such riotous, crazy things…

Hubz and I went out for a little while, after mom and dad left. I ordered grape leaves, but they had daggone MEAT in them. I’m pretty sure the ones at the grocery store olive bar, I’m pretty sure they just have rice and garlic and lemon in them. Meat, that was kinda weird. I’m trying to get some grape vines started, I would love to learn how to make grape leaves… Are they Greek? I don’t know, but I love them… I always buy about 5 or 6 of them when I go to the store, but I eat them before I even get home! I live exactly 1 MILE from the store! No one else in my house has ever even TASTED one, because I can’t get them home! I seriously have it BAD for the grapeleaves!

So, anyways.. the deck is finished, Andrea Bocelli, grape leaves, aresenic and old lace, pow wows, wandering jews, parental expectations, and drums in your heart, I think that about covers my weekend…

Thanks, Nance, for unnerstanding. You’re right, that frees up a whole big bunch of marshmallows for the rest of ya! The tequila, I wasn’t going to make much of a dent in the tequila, I love a good marguarita by the seashore, mamasita, but then that’s it for the tequila.

I’m further saddened to hear that I will miss out on meeting My5cents and her Hubz n Tombstone. Not fair. This whole thing has been tearing me up, trying to come to terms with it, make a durn DECISION and all. It had me constipated, writing-wise, I couldn’t even come to WordPress for a while. I even had this thought process, don’t laugh: “Well, for $400, I could DRIVE out, maybe make it a big deal ROAD TRIP, invite my mom and my sister and my sisterinlaw and my daughters (as in, SEVEN LOUISES, and ONE THELMA, because I’m ALWAYS the THelma, I told you that, I’m ALWAYS the Thelma…) , take EIGHT people on a trip for $400, what a DEAL!!! Heh heh heh heeeeeee wheeeeeeeeee!!!! I’m hilarious!!!!  And of course, you know, all these people would be able to drop EVERYTHING and come with me on my little cross-country ODYSSEY, right, they would ALL be immediately solvent and packed and rarrin’ to go, right? That’s what happened in the SexandtheCity movie, right, she needed her wimmens, and they all dropped everything and hopped on a plane with her to Mexico. It could happen. Heh. I even called Mom, and she was all for it! And then I got on Mapquest and found out, it’s 1,996 MILES, and 32 HOURS of DRIVING to get there. I don’t even want to do something THAT FEELS GOOD for 32 hours, let alone ride in a minivan with 7 stinky women!!! (they don’t stink, I just said that for my own amusement) Make that 64 DAMN HOURS, because you have to drive back, dontchya? Good god. So very very very not happening, not for me, not this time.

Plus it wouldn’t be fair to my Mom, she’d feel she had to TALK for 64 hours straight… No, wait… She’d LOVE that!!! Don’t tell her I said that.

I’m also pissed because I let Hubz go gallivanting off to Lake Erie TWICE this summer, fishing with my brotherinlaw, on the premise that I would be going to Tombstone in the Fall, right? I didn’t even question the money, and believe me, it was at least two or three bills every weekend he went up there, it’s very expensive to run a boat on Lake Erie for two days straight… So he gets TWO WEEKENDS of fun and fishing and relaxing and beer-drinking… and I get… what? (Actually, since he was fishing with my sister’s husband, she and Miss O. came out to MY HOUSE both of those weekends, and we had FABULOUS TIMES, without menfolks hangin’ around… So, really, WIN/WIN, but don’t tell Hubz that, I’m still pouting about Tombstone…)

I’m on the coffee again, mama pajama, it’s COFFEE WEATHER!!! Coffee really helps with all the furniture movin’ I’ve been doing lately. Do you know, I took an entire VAN LOAD of my own cast-off furniture and clothing down to the Salvation Army, which I dropped off, on my way to visit TWO CHURCH RUMMAGE SALES, where I promptly proceeded to refill my ENTIRE DAMN VAN WITH SOMEONE ELSE’S DAMN CAST-OFF FURNITURE AND CLOTHINGAGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!  I so did that! I so totally filled that van again and brought back as much, if not MORE than I took out. What the hell is wrong with me. I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me, I walked into the first sale 1 HOUR before the whole thing was OVER, and the nice church ladies were GIVING STUFF AWAY, throwing it at me for NICKELS, really, they were close to paying ME to take the stuff! I rushed through that one, because I had only 20 minutes to get across  town before the 2nd sale ended! I arrived at that one 15 MINUTES before the sale was over, these ladies were SO DONE WITH THE SALE, they were begging me to take stuff. Mommylap, you will appreciate this: FOR THE GRAND TOTAL OF 4 AMERICAN DOLLARS, that 4, FOUR, 4!!!!! AMERICAN DOLLARS, I got two twin headboards (one of them is real wood, solid, heavy, REAL FURNITURE, with a mirror finish. Shiny!), a california bedframe, a twin box-spring (mattress MIA), a very cool, very solid, very small-scale, well-made old chair with swivel and rock mechanism (SWEET!) a STIFFLE brass floor lamp with the funkiest, most incredibly, beautifully made lamp-shade I’ve ever seen. I’m freaking out over the quality of a lamp-shade. Oh well, if you knew me in person, you would think nothing of that. It’s the best, most beautiful lamp shade in the world. I’m going to take a picture of it, so you too can bask in it’s amazing, simple elegance:

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You’re welcome. Please, I beg of you, note the old-world craftsmanship in that INTERIOR LINING of that shade, so soft, so satinny, soooooooo, oh, I don’t know, I just love shit like that…

Sing with me now, OHHH, I’m jUsT WiLd aboUt LAMPSHADE, ’cause LaMpsHadE’s WilD abOuT Meeeeee…. (sung to the tune of “I’m just Wild about Harry”) Sigh. I love that old song. And that old lampshade. THere’s something about a red lampshade, it adds such… ambience to a room, you know, that glowy, warm sorta feeling… mmmmm… ambiennnnce….

Franki and her BFF, Charlotte, on their way to last night’s Social:

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Franki is Phantom of the Opera, in case you missed the red rose (I made the cape, with love in every stitch, and please, you will note the old-world craftsmanship in the white satin INTERIOR lining, thankyouverymuch….). Charlotte is a ’70’s disco queen. She’s wearing Flowerchilde’s favorite, most favorite EVER sparkly silver shirt from when she was 8 YEARS OLD (Her nickname in school was “Sparkle”, not fer nuthin’…). Charlotte was so sparkly and wild, she won a prize in the costume contest! Very exciting, they had a blast, they danced the whole night, when I picked them up they were running around the gym, just having a riot!

We came home and played a rollicking game of BINGO together, high stakes, baby! We were playing ”Loser Has To Feed The ANimals In The Morning”. It was a rigged game, because I didn’t want to have to feed the animals, and Charlotte, godblessherheart, Charlotte desperately wanted TO feed the animals! HA!! I should’ve made it “Loser Has to Scrub The Toilets”, because Charlotte would’ve done that too. She’s outside right now, brushing the dog out! Why is it that chores are always funner at someone else’s house? God bless her, I love that kid, she’s a ball of personality, that one. She’s loud, she’s brash, she’s opinionated and smart as a whip.  She brings my quiet little Franki out a little. I’ll bet if I ask her to go around the yard with the wheelbarrow and clean up the horse manure, she’ll jump on it. THat would be taking advantage though. Although, if I paid her… hmmm… I never considered taking on a Hired Hand at the ol’ WhutDHeck Ranch… The idea has merit…

Mmmmm… coffee gooooood…

I’m taking the kids tonight, to see a regional theatre production of “Arsenic and Old Lace”. I know the girls will appreciate it, but I’m wondering if Zack will understand it enough to enjoy it. I don’t know, maybe I’ll let him at home with his Dad, let him have a friend overnight or something…  He spent last night over at Chad’s (Karen’s son), after Chad’s birthday party, so he’s having quite the weekend!

I’m thinking about starting up an allowance again, for Franki and Zack. They should have some discresionary funds now, I think… And I should have CLEAN AND TIDY BEDROOMS!!! now, I think… THe idea has merit… I spent all last week, cleaning and rearranging Zack’s bedroom, re-working and shining up old furniture, hauling out the old carpet, scrubbing up the hardwood floors, ohmygod, are they beautiful… He’s got a full-sized bed now (remember the Mattress Incident, with my sister? Go back a few entries…), so I have somewhere to put my parents when they stay over. His room is very very manly, it’s all in soft golds and deep reds and blues, with rocket ships and outer-space and StarWars posters… it reeks of “Please Don’t Let My Son Be Gay”. (that’s one of my favorite lines from a movie, I can’t remember which, can you help me out?) (also, I would support and love my son if he were gay, I love gay people, and my son, I’m pretty sure he’s not headed that direction, but if he were, you know, I would love and support him, because I love gay people…)

java…java…java…javaaaa…

LA! I just got your comment on my previous entry, I’m so sorry to hear you won’t be able to make it to Tombstone either, because Nance and Poola are fantastic folks. Also, K-Lo, I was upset when she couldn’t go, because you two are on my list of TEN TOP COOL-ASS BROADS I WANT TO HANG WITH IN PERSON AND SHOOT THE SHIT. TerriT also, and Rosie, and Mommylap and Hil and… fuggit, the list is probably longer than 10, probably more like 12 or 13… as she rambles off into her own little world, a sad little world without a Buddy Pass…

Also, thank you for reading my carefully constructed, very well-thought-out political analysis, ya’ll, er, um, VOTE FOR OBAMA: HE’S GOT NICE TEETH!. He does have nice teeth, and a nice bod, and nice hair, and skin, and nice plans for health care coverage for our nation’s health-care-less-and-ain’t-it-a-crime, EVERYONE DESERVES HEALTH CARE. Sigh. THey do. Fug. They fugging DO. (edited to replace the expletive “fuck” and “fucking”.  As in, Everyone fucking deserves health care. FUCK. THey just do.) I have hope. HOPE, I tell you!!! HOPE!!! Big font! AND italics!: HOPE!!!  Please God, help this powerful nation move forward toward peace and health care for all. I want to be proud again.

Oh shit, I’m going all Bob Marley on your ass now, OnE loVE, oNe HeArt, giVe thAnKs and PrAisE to tHe LoRd, and I Will feel aLriGHt…  as it was in the beginning, so shall it be in the end..

I went too far.

Sigh. I’m very political this year. I was political 8 years ago too, and it damn near sucked my will to live. Eternal hope, that’s what I’m riding on. Hope.

So ends this reading…

Sport gets all OBAMA on your ass…

AAAAAAggghhhhhh!!!!…. THERE! I Said it! No, wait, I didn’t say it. I wish I had said it and got it over with already….

… It is with heavy heart that I have to say, I won’t be able to go to Tombstone this year. Fuck. Fuckity fugggggg…. It’s the stinkin’ money, is what… I can’t get a USAir Buddy Pass for $80 (I blame my daughter, who broke up with her boyfriend, whose father works at USAir, not that he would sell me a buddy pass, but he was my only hope), so my flights were gonna be $400, plus car rental, plus hotel, plus marshmallow/margarita money… fuuuuudge… I just can’t do it, I can’t spend $800+ for a trip for little ol’ ME, not when I have two daughters wanting to go away to school next year, it just isn’t there, the money…

Sigh..

I’m sorry. I feel horrible and awful and… well… I feel like everyone else right now, I feel the crunch… It’s just not the right time for me to travel alone right now, I have to get these kids further on their way. Poola, Nance, Rosie, you girls, I love you girls, and I will see you, it just won’t be this year, I’m so disappointed, and I suck. Not really, but sorta.

There. I said it. Dumbass. Can you still love flakey ass little me? I’m flakey! Woooo! I TOLE you I was flakey!!! I’m sorry, I can’t do it, I have this other huge obligation. Actually, FOUR huge obligations. I’m not even counting the frogs.

I’ve decided to take my kids back to the Yough, next weekend, for some hiking along that amazing river, in the fall colors, and the shine and the splash and the smell, the smell of the fall leaves and the tromping and the crunching, I can’t even imagine how beautiful it’s going to be along the Yough, I try to think of the path along the peninsula, draped with the leaves and the flittering down down down, fall, fall, fall, trickle, sparkle,  and the sun shining through the trees, splashing on the rapids, and the sitting on the rocks with the river CRASHING down around us and the clear, clear water pouring over our shoes… Well, that’s all I could think of, I could take my whole family for an amazing experience, instead of just myself. That sealed it. That, and the buddy-pass fiasco.

My fam’s in a sorta series of crises, I guess. Just growing pains, really. My teenage daughers are trying to kill me, I think, with drama and self-scrutinization, and identity crisesES. Plural. My days and nights are spent flopping about,  between amazing, soaring highs, and crashing, decimating lows… I awake each new day, with fresh determination, oh, I am READY FOR ANYTHING… By noon, I’m a pool of jelly on the couch. By 5:00 p.m. I’m up again, renewed, ready for action. By 9:00, they are killing me with Algebra, angst, and some other word that starts with “A”.  I fall over on the couch by 10:00, and  wake again at 4:00 am, shot from my bed like the house is on fire, and yet, no, nothing is on fire, it’s just time to get up for some damn reason. Stupid 4:00 am

I have a lot to say about the election. I’ll be brief. For the past 8 years I have been embarrassed by my country. I’m embarrassed by the bumbling imbecile who holds the highest office in my country. I hate the pointless war. I hate the dying and the killing. I’m horrified to know in my heart and my eyes and my mind, there is no denying, the attrocities we have committed, for money and power. I’m embarrassed that Americans are hated abroad. I hate oil, oil men, and oil money. I want alternative energy sources. I want the rich, white (sorry, it’s basically true, it’s white) proletariat to PAY, pay a flat damn tax, pay the same damn percentage my husband and I are paying. That money goes to health care. Everyone deserves basic health care. We’re bad-off, we’re in bad straights, we need shaken up. To me, Obama represents a new perspective, new hope. He’s not perfect, I would never think that about anyone.  But he’s young, he’s fresh, he’s HEALTHY (that’s a BIG one), and he’s different. He’s raising daughters in today’s world. He has to have them in mind.   I have hope now, and I haven’t had that in years. Ohhhh shit, thanks for listening… PA, we’re important this year, our votes count, my stately brothers, and  OHIO, you’re important, ROCK THE VOTE, YOI AND DOUBLE YOI!!!!!!!!

Ahem….

and that’s all I have to say about that…

Gump out.

Jack’s Shoes

Worked Friday at the Very Special School for Broken Children Who Swallow Your Heart Up and Make YOu to SHine In Ways You Never Expected. Or something. I’m not really even ready to work again, I have the projects going on, and haven’t pursued getting my interviews in for the other two school districts I worked at before, but the Special School keeps calling me… In more ways than one…

Sigh.

Is it incredibly naive to fall in love with those kids, just working in the classroom one day? I think it probably is, and I think if I admitted that to any of the aides who work there, day after day after day, changing enormous diapers, wiping piles of drool, and lifting and unfolding 70 lb children from fetal positions on the floor, I think they would laugh at my naivety. And of course, as the head teacher, I didn’t do any of the toileting. I did do some lifting and some wiping and whatnot…  I don’t know… the kids are just so loving, I think I got a thousand hugs that day.  Does that get old? I don’t think so, because the aides were both very huggy and affectionate with them, and also at times, kinda stern and… grumpy? Like parents, really.

This was only the second day I worked there, but I’m noticing a pattern in each room… it’s funny… I walk in, and there are usually two aides for about 6 or 7 kids. One aide is the Good Cop, and one aide is the Bad Cop. They’re both very very loving with the kids, but one is  more gentle and quiet and…motherly. The other is more boistrous, demanding, exacting, correcting, and rougher around the edges, courser. More fatherly? I don’t know. I’ll have to sub in more rooms to see if the pattern plays out, but it’s just sorta amusing.

Subbing with aides in the room is always a little… weird, though… because I’m the boss, you know, I’m the head teacher, I’m the one with that DEGREE, but I have NO CLUE, completely clueless, where do I stand, what do I do, where is everything, when do we go, when do we stay, where to we go, what do we do when we get there, are we allowed to touch the wall, no DON’T TOUCH THE WALL, NO, DO, DO, DO TOUCH THE WALL… I’m trying something different this year though, I’m laughing about it with the aides, from the get-go, I’m telling them, hey, I’m clueless, I’m so grateful you’re here, just let me know where to stand, which wall we’re allowed to touch, where do I heat up my soup…  .

They ask me if I’m looking to get hired on full-time. They all ask me that. Is there a high turn-over rate there? I don’t know. I always say no, my son’s still in elementary, I still have to get him on that bus most days, but I’m thinking, that’s stupid, what if I WANT to get hired on full-time? Weird. I’m only saying this stuff here, in my diary, because it’s probably all very naive and silly. I’m sure I’m not the first person to fall in love with amazing, busted-up, perpetually delighted, loving little children. I need to have a couple BAD days at that school, before I go and do something crazy. ANd my nearest neighbor, the one who plows my driveway in winter, the one who’s just so… neighborly, he had open heart surgery last  month, and is home, and was home most of the time even before the surgery, he’d be there if Zack had any bus trouble… I really have no excuses for not pursuing full-time employment, especially if it is REWARDING employment. Rewarding to my soul, because let’s face it, the pay sucks,  and worse,  my husband’s wage make it a JOKE, really…  I don’t know. I’m grateful to have choices here… I’m grateful for the flexibility of subbing, and for the times when I feel effective and useful. And for healthy children at home, children with less busted parts…

I read a note on the teacher’s desk, from Jack’s mom. Jack is five, he’s partially paralyzed on his right side. He can stand, and walk just a little. But mostly he crawls, or walks on his knees, or is pushed in his stroller. He has a shining, angel face, always smiling, clapping, and taking delight in whatever is put before him. He’s somewhat verbal, he knows Barney and the Wiggles and Blues Clues, he knows some of the songs. They tie a bib, made out of a tea-towel, around his neck, and remind him occasionally to wipe his face. The bib is too long, and interfers with his crawling. Also, the bib is pastel, which bothers the Gruffer Aide, Patty. Patty says he should have something manly, like Spiderman on his bib. But it has to be absorbent. She wishes someone would make him a decent bib, with Spiderman or something manly, that is not too long o as to interfere with his scooting… And it must be absorbent. His feet are so tiny, like toddler feet, with little tiny white lace-up shoes. The note from Jack’s mom went something like this:

“Dear Jack’s Teacher, Please bear with us this week, I’m not able to fix this situation right away… Over the weekend, my nephew stole my car (it’s complicated), Jack’s shoes were in the back of the car, and as I have just paid my rent and my heating bill, I cannot afford to replace his shoes until next week. Sincerely, Jack’s Mom”

I guess this happened a few weeks ago, because Jack had shoes on when I was in, but honestly, GOD!!! You just don’t want to see stuff like that, or think about that beautiful little boy with no shoes. I told Hubz about it when I got home, and he says, “I hope you realize how fortunate we are…” Which infuriated me, because, christonastick, you don’t have to tell ME to count my damn blessings… I know he was just making conversation, or trying to commisserate, he’s just a lousy commisserater. He’s a man. Also, he didn’t meet Jack. I don’t know. I realize, I wasn’t furious at my husband, I was just upset to have to think about those kids and their challenges, and the parents at home…  I’m going out today, to find some damn decent, absorbent, daggone SPIDERMAN OR SOMETHING MANLY wash cloths, and make Jack some decent bibs. That’s one thing I can do…

Moster Deck

Just checking in to say this:

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The Deck That Ate New York. No, seriously, it’s killing me. It’s ENORMOUS, well, for me it’s enormous, I’m used to making little 9X12 decks, or 8X10, but this one is 12X14. Here’s what I thought when I was first considering ripping up that slate, I thought, hmmmm, you know, I’ll bet I can have that slate ripped up, the site leveled, the framework built, and the deck layed out in about… hmmmm… probably take me 2, 3 days TOPS. This is Week Two. Sigh.

Not that I have two weeks in it, but that’s how loooooong it’s taking me to wrap it up. I probably have more like 4 full days in, plus my sister helped one day, and Hubz has been giving me about 4 hours help, the past two days.. It’s a lot of cutting and piecing and filing, because the span is too long, I’m going across 14ft. I’ve been doing all the cutting and filing, and he’s been doing the shooting. We had a good little rhythm going for a while, but he always has to be a party pooper and go in and get some sleep for night turn. Who needs sleep, we got a DECK to build.

I have all my cuts done, and need to shoot about 5 runs, plus do my rip cut for where the deck meets the house siding. That’s the part I never finish, that damn rip cut. I WILL FINISH SOMETHING. I WILL. It’s nice, working with first-choice lumber though, instead of that jacked-up crap I usually buy from Chad (Chad gets construction-site rejects, and resells them to people like ME, who think they’re getting a GOOD DEAL, but then spend 400 extra hours, trying to pry and bend that shit into STRAIGHT LINES… never again…). This time, I got to be the REJECTOR, instead of the TABLE-SCRAP-LICKER, as in, I get to TAKE BACK any boards I have deemed to be inferior in any way. H’rump. It feels good, this superiority. I have a pile of 6 or 7 boards that are going back, due to splits, or “chafing” or “wankering.” (I don’t know lumber grading terms, so I’m making up my own. I hate wankered lumber the worst.) And H’rump.

I didn’t go with the Trek Deck. Mostly because it was 4 times the cost, but also, I wanted the look of wood this time, with the grain and stuff. It’s so pretty, I may even do a shiny, transparent, reddish stain this time, instead of my usual opaque gray or blue, to set it off against the gray pergola. It will mean a lot more up-keep though.

Oh my GOD is that boring. Are you still here? Me either.

Went to a wedding on Saturday, one of Hubz’ work buddies married the daughter of another of Hubz’ work buddies. Keepin’ it real. All the guys from work were there, asking me if I’m going fishing on opening day again. I’m one of the guys now! Actually had a nice time, sitting next to my least favorite sisterinlaw. Go figger! Actually, she is now practically my MOST favorite sisterinlaw, as I now hate the OTHER one! HA! Life is strange. We danced all the chicken-hokey-pokey-electricslide-macarena-personal-Jesus things, of course. My sisterinlaw, I never realized she was so clutzy, (don’t tell her I said that, because I actually LIKE her now), but she was ALL DAMN OVER THE PLACE during the electric slide. And it wasn’t from drinking, she drinks coffee. But she was EVERYWHERE, tripping and messing up! Miss Stick-up-her-ass! It was actually somewhat ENDEARING. (what am I becoming?!) Hubz wanted to get a hotel room for the night, but I insisted on driving home. I drank wine through dinner, and then switched to Diet-7-up, which I drank 2 full cans of that, and then my stomach hurt like a mo-fo, all the way home, gassy and pinchy and rock-like. Hubz said I was making it up, so I wouldn’t have to have relations with him, you know, after-the-wedding relations… I told him, if I don’t want to have relations, I’m gonna say, I don’t wanna have relations, I’m not going to pantomime gas pains, ya yutz.

Sing the DECKING SONG with me, now…

I’m headed out this morning, oh my, to buy decking for the patio area, WHOOOOOO!!! There is excitement in the air, I tellya! By this evening, I will be slammin’ down that mo fo, one board at a time, WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

It took me way too long to get my understructure done, considering it only involved building a 12 by 14 framework of 2by4’s, but I was kinda sorta busy cleaning up after sick kids for the past WEEK. First, Zack fell, with the stomach virus, then Franki. FlowereChilde had a mild touch of it yesterday and today, just sorta queasy. And I was achy all over yesterday, to the point where I was weepy and crying on Hubz shoulder. I’m not sure whether I had the virus, or was just bone-tired and muscle-sore from lifting those WALLS O’ 2BY4’s by myself. I’m telling you, you bolt together 11 or 12 treated 2by4’s and then try to move that thing, that is some SHIZZLE. Treated lumber is the DEVIL heavy! Poor Hubz, he had sick people, crying and whining all over him last night.

I’m better today though. I’m ready to tackle the deck AND the walkway out front. I’m thinking of just decking right over the nasty, flaking-away, concrete walkway, sorta a semi-temporary repair jobby… I don’t know… I hate to do it half-assed, but on the other hand, I hate to make it into some big earth-moving, digging to China project. I can deck right over it (YAY! More decking!!!), and that will take care of the liability/danger/tripping factor, and then next spring I can address the leaning rock wall. Right? It’ll keep, right? Just nod in agreement, wouldya… Thanks. You’re a peach!  

I’ve decided against the Trek deck. For miriad reasons. About 900 George Washingtons, that is.  Also, I love to re-stain the decks every couple years. I just DO. It’s very fast, very Zen, and very satisfying, a fresh coat of stain on a deck. Mmmm… deck stain…

I worked one day last week, I forgot to report, at the Special School For Special Students. I had a class of 7 young adults, and two aides. (Thank GOD for aides!) It was okay, a little scary at times, these are LARGE people, pretty much non-verbal. As a sub, you don’t really know these people, you don’t know who gets “set off’ by WHAT, you don’t know what you can say, or who doesn’t like to be touched or who wants to grab your wrist and slowly squeeeeeze it in a bone-crushing death grip… Oh, and the drool… Sigh… The drool will take some getting used to. Even the aides were not used to the drool… It was a tough day, but I would go back again. They called me twice after that, but I had sick children at home, and had to turn down the work. I don’t know though, I’m told that the younger kids, there may be BATHROOM ISSUES, such as, I may be called upon to CHANGE DIAPERS on, for example, TEENAGED people… Um… I just don’t know… I’m pretty unflappable… but 100 lb people in shitty diapers, THAT might “flapp” me some…

On a much happier note, it’s time to buy decking! Did you hear that? The bells? Decking! Bells! WHeeeeeeEEEeeeeee!!! Decking, so vErY pReTty, PrEttY, dEcKiNg, I’d LiKe tO DeCk the world, oh yes I would, dEcKinG…

Goodbye to Vermont Red

Would you like to come out and sit on the patio with me, the lovely vermont red slate patio with cobbled sandy-stone accent bricks? Under the equally lovely, and not terrifying AT ALL, massive, reaching, climbing white hydrangea? While tickling tendrils of whispering wisteria trail down to brush lightly against your cheek, which you will totally NOT MISTAKE FOR FACE-EATING SPIDER FROM BLACK LAGOON. Very relaxing, my patio:

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Folks, THIS is not the patio I had envisioned. LOOK at that nastiness! That is what I have to look out onto EVERY DAMN day, I stand there at the door, seething, SEETHING I tell you! Oh sure,  I bought Round-Up, that vile poison, and I sprayed it once. But then I thought, you know what, my kids and my dog are traipsing across that thing 500 times a day, usually barefoot; do I really want them wading in Round-Up? No. No I do not.  And then I got the bright idea to try boiling water on the weeds. I submit to you, there is not enough boiling water on this planet to kill quack grass. And so, it is with deep regret (not really) that I inform you, the Vermont Red Slate Patio is no more. This is what my patio looks like now:

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Some day soon, I hope to sit out on one of my patios or decks, without feeling the urge to A) rip it all up and start over, or B) Move the whole thing, brick by brick, just 4 ft to the left, or C) Build another damn deck. Some day, I will sit on a deck or patio. Just sit. Read a book. Write a book. Drink a fruity drink. I don’t know. I really don’t know what you DO on a deck. For me I think, ”leisure time” means building questionably structured decks, as far as the eye can see…

My sister is out for the weekend, with Miss O. Which explains the patio moving. You give my sister and me a whole weekend together, and we will… move some… stuff… Beane helped too, so it was a pretty smooth operation, the busting up, hauling, and stacking, I’ll bet we had it done in a little over an hour. And then we moved on to the pool. The pool. What a friggin’ mess. Leaves, algae, bugs… And you haven’t lived until you’ve jumped into a pool in Pennsylvania, mid-September. Actually, the water wasn’t bad, it was the air OVER THE WATER that was cold. We strained leaves and scrubbed the pool sides down, then shocked and algaecided, and let Wanda the Whale loose. It puts the cover on the pool. IT PUTS THE COVER ON THE POOL! (that’s my silence-of-the-lambs impression.) God as my witness it puts the cover on the pool TODAY. Also, for future reference: The kids do NOT swim after Labor Day. In fact, they don’t swim the entire WEEK before school starts. They just don’t. It’s not that it’s cold, it’s just that… they just don’t swim. Stop holding out hope. It doesn’t happen. Cover the pool and be done with it, because THEY are, they are SO done with it.

Today is for measuring and leveling the patio, going out to my brotherinlaws, picking up my fatherinlaw’s truck (he’s in Myrtle Beach this week), going back to fatherinlaw’s house, getting the key I’m sure he has under his doormat or something, going into his condo under the auspices of dismantling and removing the bed he’s giving me for Zack’s room, but really, I want to fart around in his condo when he’s not there, maybe check the fridge for a beer, sit on his couch, read his magazines, see what’s in the candy dish… You think I’m kidding… I will totally be sitting on that couch with the remote in my hand, checkin’ out the cable, reachin’ in the candy dish…  He always has Hershey Kisses, or at least those weird, gummy sugar-coated Orange Slices. Or maybe Peanut MnM’s! Oh, the possiblities are endless!!! How do people keep candy in a candy dish? That’s always puzzled me. I have candy dishes. Really pretty, pretty candy dishes. But I can’t keep candy in them.

Then we’re going to buy decking. How I love to buy decking!  I really should buy Trek-deck for this one. But I probably won’t. Because it’s painfully expensive is why, and also, if you buy Trek-deck, you never have to clean it or stain it or waterproof it or paint it. So what’s the point? HAR!!

Sister and I had a good run at the yardsales yesterday morning, in between getting Franki to her guitar lesson, and dragging three kids along, one with a broken leg… O’s really getting around well on that little orange cast, she does a sort of hippity hop thing, when she wants move out smartly.  I bought an electric RAzor Bullet scooter thing for the kids, which they nearly lost their minds over. It’s pretty fast, especially downhill. Uphill, not so much. But they’ll easily get $25 worth of fun out of it. It even has working turn-signals, although, for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.

Somewhere in between all the decking and the bed-moving and the candy eating, we have to do some mosaicking and/or painting, and  help my sister grade 120 poems (she teaches 7th grade English), which, I’m a little rusty on the subjective-type grading, but it’ll be fun to try…

Hubz is on Lake Erie, with my sister’s husband and fatherinlaw, fishing their little hearts out. This separate week-ends thing is working out pretty well, I must say! He’s happy, I’m happy. I do wish he’d MOW once in a while though.

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And so ends the drafted entry I wrote yesterday morning. We actually DID ALL THOSE THINGS, except the mosaicking, we just couldn’t find the time for that one thing.We moved that bed, (and my fatherinlaw had BOTH Mnm’s AND gummy orange slices in his candy dishes!), bought lumber, covered the pool, and my sister got her papers graded. Hubz had a great weekend fishing,the kids rode the scooter, did the dishes, and that, THAT, my friends, makes for the perfect weekend. When the kids do the dishes… that’s it. That’s the ONE THING.

The bed was, um, less than perfect. Oh my. It was held together by, I believe, about 329 assorted nuts, screws, bolts, paper clips, gumbands, and the Lindburgh baby. Two cement blocks were wrapped in plastic, and sitting on the floor, to prop the middle of the bed up. Sigh. It wasn’t pretty. The mangled hardware we pulled off there must’ve weighed about 15 lbs.  I was told the mattress set was brand new. Well, sure… if you consider brand new to be “1992″, which is  what the tag read. Maybe my FIL meant “Brand New OR about16yrsold”.  We had many adventures and assorted belly laughs, hauling the mattress to the car, it was heavy, and huge, and unweildy, you know, like mattresses TEND to be. At one point, THIS happened, for which I was very very grateful, because I hadn’t laughed that hard in at LEAST 10 minutes:

 

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That’s what happens when you’re trying to get the mattress back OUT of the minivan, so you can put the box-springs in first, one person pushes from the side door, while the other one backs up, falls on the box-springs, and then gets trampled with the mattress. And then the side-door-pushing person howls with laughter and shouts, “HEY!! Wait’ll I get my camera!”

By the time we got the mattress set loaded, we didn’t have room for the bed frame. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I know my FIL wants it out of that room when he gets back from vacation, but I tellya, that thing is useless.  I’ll probably have to go back and get it out of there some time this week, but it’s going straight to the burn pile. Sorry, dude. I’m all for recycling, but I wouldn’t even give that thing to Salvation Army.

 This happened a couple times during the weekend, and if my sister’s reading this, she probably knows when I mean: We’d be driving somewhere, either yardsailing, or to or from the lumber yard or whatnot, and we’d be CRACKING UP, just howling with laughter, and I’d look over at her and she’s looking at me, and our eyes met, and it was just a moment, a flash, and I don’t mean this all sentimental and slobbery, it was just a connection where, I’m thinking, DAMN, THIS is what it’s all about, and I know she’s thinking the same thing. It’s about laughing and falling and getting back up and laughing harder. It’s about pushing yourself to do ridiculous things, just to see what happens. And mostly, it’s about having a sister, by blood or by circumstance, just someone to do that silly stuff with, someone who knows who you are and what you are and still wants to hang out with you in spite of it. Or because of it.

Trimmerman

Tried to update live from my brand new favorite EVER library last night, but the guy next to me in the computer room was giving me fits, and I couldn’t… put. words. together… or something. He was new, I think, on the innernetz, so he kept popping out of his chair every 3 seconds to ask the librarian something, until I felt like popping him out of his chair myself. Sigh. Free country though, you can’t just go around knocking people out of their chairs when they irritate you. That’s one of the drawbacks of the whole DEMOCRACY thing, if you ask me…

I’m kidding. He wasn’t that bad, just  a little lost. But because of him, I could only write about the stupid 4-meatball sandwich I had just eaten, which was sitting on my stomach like a huge, round, skin-stretching, garlic-infused BOWLING BALL. If Mick Jagger ate a bowling ball, THAT’S what my stomach looked like. And felt like.

I was very very very busy, you know, watching videos of METH HEADS on the Youtubes, for that is my new hobby, I’m into the Meth heads. I googled something like “bagworms on honeylocust tree” and somehow ended up studying the somatic effects of methamphetamine abuse. Hubz works with a guy who sniffs, smokes, huffs, cooks, and most likely will be INJECTING anything he can get his hands on, into his sad, increasingly scrawny face.  It’s bad. And it’s a guy he grew up with, actually, ALL the guys at work are guys he grew up with, they’ve all travelled together sorta, from job to job, until they ended up here, because they are weird, I think I told you, the guys at work, they go TANNING together, and SHOPPING together, although, not Hubz, because he’s already a BLACK INDIAN and HATES SHOPPING. But this guy, we’ll call him “Scotty,” for that is what they call him, Scotty, not Scott, Scotty, and they call him that with all  the affection and tragic undertones of knowing a guy for years, and slowly watching him drug himself to smithereens. They like Scotty, he’s like a pet, like a seriously deranged, meth-huffin’ little cocker spaniel. Or maybe he’s a whippet by now. And you know, he is a cute guy, he’s got the wavy brown hair, the knock-out, crinkly-eyed smile, and a sweet, self-deprecating manner. So they take care of him, and they put up with him, and they come home and they tell their wives, oh, that Scotty, he really had the twitchy-face-hair-standing-on-end thing today, heh heh heh…  That is not cute. These guys are on furnaces, melting metric TONS of metals together, pouring out pots large enough for a man with 4 children to fall into and disappear forever.. There just  shouldn’t oughtta be a guy on your crew, buzzing around, twitching, and thinking there are BUGS CRAWLING UNDER THE SKIN OF HIS FOREARMS. They need to be watching out for each other, and they need to be in their right minds.  I do understand how the situation could morph into what it has, I do understand that they care about this guy. But I wish he would get busted, sad to say, I wish he’d get busted and set straight, or even I wish he’d get fired, before he hurts someone. Wait, I don’t even mean that, I don’t wish he’d get fired or busted, I just wish he’d get straight. Sigh. I don’t even know what I mean, he’s a nice guy. And I don’t know what drugs he uses, or how he gets them in his face, I only know he’s getting SOMETHING BAD INTO HIS FACE, VIA SOME METHOD. He needs help.

Beane started her pottery class last night, which is why I was exploring new libraries, I had 3 hours to kill. But I walked in at the end of her class, and there’s Beane, cleaning up her wheel, putting away her big ol’ bag o’ clay. I saw several students cutting lovely little pots off their wheels, so I said to Beane, well, what’d you make, a nice little ashtray? Jewelry box? She said, mock proudly, heh, well, you see here, I have produced a series of brown, lumpy BALLS. HARRR!! Apparently, and you know, I’ve never tried a pottery wheel, apparently there is some sort of TRICK to it, you can’t just walk up to a pottery wheel and throw  out Inca vases (that’s pronounced “VAHzez”). Beane said something about “posture” and how she was just getting the “posture” and the thing was starting to have a shape and starting to stand up and it was happening, it was happening and then: SLAMMO. Brown, lumpy ball. I tried real hard, because I am a good mother, I tried to be proud of those balls. She was in a good mood, I think she enjoyed it. I think I would’ve enjoyed it, it looks fun. In fact, the teacher was very welcoming, and told me I could come in any time, which, I think I may just do that, sit in next week, try to get my hands on one of those balls. Heh.

Flower Childe is watching documentaries on Bob Dylan, and squeezing most-likely poisonous berries, for juice, the brightest, pinkest juice, to paint with, just like the Indians did. She’s very into the poet right now. I think talked about this before, he’s very sexy, VERY SEXY, SCARY SEXY, in “No Direction Home”. He’s talking about his first two girlfriends, he looks into the camera, and he says, “And I wanna tellya, those two girls… they brought out… the poet in me.” He looks right through you (well, ME, he looks right through me) when he says that, and I think, “You little devil, you.”  I never thought of Bob Dylan as sexy, until that moment, and now, pretty much, I’m a tiny bit obsessed with him. In a healthy way though. All of my obsessions are healthy, I’m pretty sure…

Reasonably sure…

Mom and Dad were out for the weekend. Mom visited a while, and then went to Cousin Donna’s for a jammy party. Which meant I had D.O.D. (dear old dad) all day Sunday! Oh, my mind was racing, racing, racing, oh the possibilities… I got up early, made the coffee, washed the dishes, and stood at the kitchen window, chuckling maniacally to myself, rubbing my evil little hands together, listing and categorizing, prioritizing… You have to THINK FAST when you recieve an unexpected windfall like Dear Old Dad for the weekend, you have to be on your toes, you have to have your tools lined up, your drills charged, your various nails and screws and 5/8″ hex bolts at  the ready. .. Very exciting!

I finished the dishes, and I pretty much had my battle plan lined up, when I thought to myself, sheesh, WHEN is Dad going to drag out of bed and GIT TA MOVIN? The old man’s really slipping… And then I saw him. He was out tromping about in the yard with a shovel and a rake, cleaning up horse manure. He was up before I was. He probably had about 14 trees trimmed too… Fed the birds… Filed the horses’ hooves. ..Tweaked the picket fence gate… Who knows… Dad’s amazing:

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Trimmerman

 I love this picture, it is so very, very MY DAD, always looking up with great yearning, at the branch he just can’t quite reach… That’s not a metaphor either, that’s literally my Dad, he’s always trimming the trees, and he’s always looking up, with great yearning, at the branch he just can’t quite reach.

So the theme of the weekend was: The Doors of My House: A Study in Mangled Locks, Loose Hinges, and Missing Trim Strips. Well, that was one of the themes. There were several, including: Tree Surgery 101:

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Tree be lookin’ like Harry Headwound. Bad windstorm pushed up from the hurricanes, smacked  our trees around like licorice whips. This is my favorite little honeylocust tree, it’s got the sweet, yellow-green leaves, why it fairly GLOWS. I thought it was a goner. Now, see, I would’ve hacked one of those trunks off, said a little prayer, and walked away, sorta heart-broken and defeated-like. Not Dad. Dad figgers out a way to fix the whole mess. We have the technology. We can make the tree better, faster, stronger than it was before. Is what he seemed to say. All you need’s a little help from Clampy:

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This was the only picture he posed for. He doesn’t like to pose for pictures. I wanted to tell him to LOOK UP, but I felt like I’d already asked too much, asking him to pose with CLAMPY. It’s just a little too silly for my dad, posing with a clamp. He stood there, staring at that clamp, not looking up, feeling embarrassed, while I took 3  shots with a digital camera, with the stupid DELAY of digital cameras. So I didn’t want to tell him to look up. Me, I was just tickled that he called it “Clampy”, because that was my thing, and he remembered it.

Ever see a Bionic Tree?:

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THat there’s about a 10 inch bolt, holding those two trunks together. Dad even let me drill the hole through the smaller trunk. And I got to tighten the bolt when he wasn’t looking. He trimmed about 80 lbs off the tree top, so the trunks wouldn’t be so heavy and burdened while they’re trying to stitch themselves back together. Eventually, the tree will grow right over the bolt, absorb it,  and we will have to look long and hard to find the wound.  Nature always reclaims. I love that shizzle.

Wheelchair dreams

Hey, thanks for all the mosaics lovin’s! I haven’t grouted yet, onaccounta… no grout. I’m a no-grout-havin’-mutha-fucka. HA! Sorry, it’s 4:00 a.m., I’m a little… corky. Corky? No idea.

Comcast Bob The Chuckler came out yesterday, right on time, exactly 12 noon. He was delightful. He told me about his divorce and his 16 yr old juvenile delinquent, borderline-anorexic daughter (sorry, I don’t believe in “borderline” there. Own the anorexia, dude.) and his daily commute from SHARON to PITTSBURGH. DAILY!! I told him about my divorce and my three comparatively healthy, reasonably pleasant (so far) teenage daughters (even if half of them hate me right now). We giggled, we chuckled, I said you want coffee, he said nope I’m good, I said hey man, you gotta catch UP with me!, he laughed, he wrote out a contract, I signed it, and then he talked about working in McKeesport, and how he makes sure he never wears blue in McKeesport, or red in Aliquippa… or was it blue in Aliquippa and red in McKeesport? Shit, I’m doomed.

I dreamt I was a little nerdy-type boy, in a wheelchair, trundling down unfamiliar hallways, past myriad, scary, menacing,  gang-member-type black dudes… At each turn I was assured of my doom, my demise, my destiny, and yet… not one of them glanced at me, not one of them overtly threatened me, or moved toward me in any way…they just moved through the hallways as I did, until the end, where I found the top of an escalator, and a crowd of marginal, expressionless people, shuffling toward the moving, downward staircase…I barged onto the escalator, my salvation, wheelchair and all, where I popped an amazing wheelie, so as to rest one wheel on one of the stairs, suspending my 3 other wheels and my useless legs high in the air, as I rode down, down to safety. The relief was palpable.

I think Bob re-awakened some sort of gang-fear in me.

I didn’t want Bob to leave so soon. We were like peas and carrots, me and Bob. I just felt like… I’m sitting at my grandmother’s table, and I’m so friggin’ comfortable talking to this person who just chuckled his way into my house. And he with me. I don’t care that the kids have left cereal bowls on the table, I don’t dart my eyes around nervously, wishing I had had time to fold those blankets and vacuum that dog hair, I don’t wish I had put on at least some damn lipstick, I just chill, and enjoy the springiness, the cushioniness of those chairs and Bob’s chuckle and even the signing of the incidental papers… I don’t know, I’m pretty comfortable right now. At this juncture. It seems like total strangers are just TALKING to me. I feel more… community? Yes, community. The produce-dude at the market, we always say good morning, and you’d think we have nothing in common, he’s an old, black dude (I give you his color, merely for description sake, but, what would we have in common) but now he’s talking to me, just about the Steeler game and the corn and the marked-down spinach and how I’m saving the world with my cloth market bags…  we’re buds now. The lady at the Salvation Army, we started out tentatively shootin’ the breeze,, both our sons were in wrestling, how ’bout that weather?, whooooo it’s hot, whooooo it’s cold, whoooo it’s rainy, but now, I see her twice a week, Mondays all the ”domestics” are on sale. I love the old, soft percale sheets. Quality. Cool. Soft. I buy everything they have, regardless of color or pattern. My linen closet is a rainbow of second-hand, quality coolness… I was there when her mom was sick, to say I’m sorry, I hope she feels better, and  I was there when her mom died,to say I’m sorry, I hope you feel better, and later when she was feeling better, I tell her that I can hear her laughter across the far reaches of the vast store, and I think to myself, well, there’s SHERRI!! I tell her she should come up for girl’s night out and I’ll let her wear the beaded, crocheted, medieval-style head-adornment piece that I bought from their store, but later she told me she LOVED that thing, maybe I should give it to her, Naaaaaaa… We’re buds now.

I wake at 4:00 am, after a particularly harrowing wheel-chair-menacing-gang-member dream, the house is chilly, and I walk from the floor of the livingroom, for that is where I sleep, to the computer room, collecting, along the way, a complete set of all-weather clothing, oh, there’s a pair of socks, disgarded in the hallway, my feet are cold, I slip them on, they must be my son’s, they’re a little small, but warm, and hey, there’s a warm, soft gray hoody lying by the top of the stairs, I shake off the doghair and put it on, mmmm, Flower Childe has all the best hoodies… I make my way into the computer room, and there on the couch, remember the couch?, there on the couch is my kimono-style robe, it’s not warm, but it is soft and it is another layer I can wrap around myself, which I do, and here I sit and I submit to you, a person could surely outfit himself for ANY Arctic adventure, just by travelling through my house and putting on all the dirty clothes my family drops on the floor…

I think of a phrase, a beautiful and profound phrase, and I stop, and I LOVE that phrase, and I wonder, has anyone ever EVER uttered that phrase before, so I open a new search window and I type in my beautiful, so very profound phrase: “The thing we forget to remember”, and don’t you know, friggin’ 6,240 OTHER people have uttered that same beautiful but apparently not so profound phrase, and…dammit.

And so I am here. It may not sound like much, talking to the produce-dude, and the cashier at the Salvation Army, but those are just small, whatayacallit, TANGIBLE, those are just small, TANGIBLE examples, there’s so much more, but it’s a feeling, I’m just… a little more comfortable with myself, a little more… just… comfortable.

I think it has to do with the clean garages. I shit you not. I think that has affected so many aspects of my life. It makes it so much easier to get things done, and to get that sense of accomplishment. That’s exactly what I need right now, to accomplish. Today I cleaned both litter boxes. Tha’s right! I’m BAD! I detailed the inside of my car. Fo’ SHIZZLE! I pulled out the shop vac and went apeshit on the car. Did you know, if your husband uses the shop-vac that you bought at a yard sale, if he uses it ONE TIME, TWO YEARS AGO, to clean up, what was apparently some sort of MONSTER PUKE, and then he lets it set in the back of the shed, full of wet, fetid damn monster puke, for TWO YEARS, and you know it’s back there, and you really could’ve USED a daggone SHOP VAC in many MANY instances over the course of those two years, but you just don’t feel like getting it out and learning how to use it, and good thing you didn’t, because…FESTERING PUKE, but finally one day, in a garage-cleaning frenzy, you pull that shop-vac-of-doom out, you open it, you gag, you retch, you throw the devil thing in the garbage can (the one your fatherinlaw has NOT sat on and destroyed), you hesitate, you think, I paid $8 for that thing and he used it ONCE, ONCE! And you are one cheap bastard (I like to think of it as ”resourceful”) , So you drag it back out of the garbage can, pop the top, and commence to scrubbing. You even scrub the grimy sponge filter, so you don’t have to buy a new one, besides, a new filter will cost more than the whole shop vac did, right, and in the end, don’t you plug that thing in and don’t you find out what you wish you had known your WHOLE LIFE: A shop vac is so powerful, it will suck the fillings out of your teeth. Not that you stuck the hose in your mouth, or tried to see how far it would suck your shirt-tail up… DAMN. I started sweeping out my car and I thought, SHOP-VAC, sweet, dear SHOP-VAC, where have you BEEN all my life?!!!  

Have you ever done a really good job on something, you know, you got the right tools, like a SHOP-VAC, and while you’re doing it, like, digging holes in the yard, or painting a room, or sweeping the living shit outta your vehicle, don’t you think, just for a minute, HEY, this ain’t bad… why… I believe I would make one HELL of a professional (hole-digger/room painter/car sweeper outter). Don’t you think that? You do something for 2 hours of your life, and you think, HEY, I could totally do this for A LIVING, 8 hours a day, day in, day out, year after year after year after year… And then you get real.

Or is it just me…

I tore down and packed up the cabana today. I did a good job and I thought, HEY, I’ll bet other people have cabanas they need tore down, I could TOTALLY do this for a living…

I don’t care who reads this. I’m fruity. It’s all little incidental stuff. It’s just a feeling. I hope it stays for a very long time.

Also, the thing I will never forget to remember is this: SHOP-VAC. Word.

HARRRR!! Oh how my commenters delight me, and just in general be crackin’ me up. Indulge me, I have to respond to each and every one of them today:

whatdayisit: I bequeath all my chairs to you. With love in every stitch.

cocoabean: I remember your cable guy debacle, HARRRRR!!! I have taken a “headcount” (hee hee har, HEADcount), two working toilets, present and accounted for. Although, one of the bathrooms no longer has a doorknob, thanks to Franki and Zack, just a big ol’ 2 and 1/2″ HOLE in the door! I’ve purchased another doorknob, but you know, it may be YEARS… we’ll just continue to stuff a washrag in the hole, and pray someone doesn’t walk in on you when you’re… um… reading…

Shippie- I am a CHAMPEEEEIOnship Dumpster Diver Extraordinaire! Meet me in Tombstone, we’ll have some great, trashy adventures!

LA-what most amused me was your hope that someone such as myself might help with bunched corners. I’m wiping tears from my eyes, that’s so funny. Haven’t you noticed, I am the QUEEN of “Goodenuff”, as in, meh… that’s goodenuff… I never finish ANYTHING, and I certainly have never attempted tucking pleating bias cutting, oh the humanity!! I’m kidding, I do try tucking, pleating, bias cutting (I’m glad YOU knew the technical terms!) but I always end up in Goodenuff Land. Because perfection is overrated.

LAP- Mamma Pajaama, you sure know yer furnitures! I had know idea Grandma’s set would be called “Midcentury”, that is so cool! I do know she’d be tickled that it has come home, and that I’m enjoying it so much! Also, I’m going to get points with my Mother, the keeper of all things familial historical, and whatnot. My mother, although a small person, is the original Matriarchal Elephant, she never forgets, and never wants to let anything, ANYTHING go. I accidently called her “The Matriarch” once, she was, I think, a tiny bit offended, but she mentions it every once in a while, I think she’s relaxing into it. Also, she can’t deny it. How did I get on the subject of my MOTHER?!

Sigh.

I’m thinking about her because, well, I’m a mother. And I’m not very popular right now. And it’s not okay. I’m trying to separate from my daughters a little, for all our sakes. It’s just about impossible. It’s killing me. No it’s not, it’s okay and it’s natural, but it FEELS like it’s killing me. I just wrote a big, stupid email to Beane, just sorta trying to explain why I’m worried about her and her sister, and my own mother and my sister and her sister’s sister and my cousin and blah blah blah… Maybe I dumped a bunch of my stuff on her. Maybe she’ll understand me better. I don’t know.

Zack and I made chocolate chip cookies yesterday, from scratch. I had to run to the store TWICE. We had a flour disaster, with tiny… don’t ask. And I forgot eggs.

I have to go shopping. Or something. I’m a big dumb mess. Beane just brought me a peanut butter/banana/honey on toast. An ELVIS.  And Sleepytime tea. With Stevia. She also hugged me twice. BEANE hugged me twice. I must look like a real basket case. Plus, I smell like old dude.