Of the several men painting our house, most are missing teeth and one is missing an arm. The leader of this rag tag home improvement team gives them $10 an hour, paid in cash at the end of each work day, or thereabouts. They lucked out on Thursday. The day's wages were tucked firmly in their pockets before the boss man drove off to a local dive, where an acquaintance of his jacked him at knifepoint for what little cash was left, a cooler of beer, and a pack of USA Gold Menthols.
There's a seedy side of life in this town that I don't see through the flimsy metal and tinted windows of a 1989 Dodge Caravan, or a trailer home, or a leaning duplex with shingles and steps that are rotting. During a visit downtown with my daughter in tow, voices from the open-doored bars are garbled by country music and the sizzle of fat in the fryer as I walk by. I inhale the aromatic wind of cheeseburgers and Tabasco, but otherwise I notice nothing. We cross the street to a clothing shop that, miraculously, hasn't been run out by the WalMart a town over. I don't buy anything because it's too expensive. I wonder who does.
I also wonder about the invisible line between my town's presentable facade and its underground. The median household income here is ranked 237 out of 245 Connecticut towns and cities. Many are living paycheck to paycheck, my household included. I think about how delusional I am as I go through each day focused on what's in front of me, oblivious to my surroundings and to the path that's precarious beneath my feet.
Any sense of stability is imaginary. I look at the gaping smiles of the painters on ladders and I see what it means to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or to make a bad, irreversible decision. I see why the weight of providing for a family and its future makes my husband's shoulders hunch a little more each day. Whether it's through bad luck or bad planning, what we have today could be gone tomorrow. He knows this. I should know this. We are partners.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Thursday, September 28, 2006
What Were Your Cabbage Patch Kids Named?
The blue corduroy suit on my Cabbage Patch Kid doll has lost its elasticity, its Velcro tabs, and two buttons. It is not even fair to call it blue anymore. Newton Vince is his name, and he is approaching twenty-five years old.
You need to know this about Cabbage Patch Kids, if you don't already: they come with weird names and each one has a signature on its soft, batting-filled butt. The signer was Xavier Roberts, the creator of these pop culture precursors to Tickle Me Elmo, the kind of product that could cause Christmas-time brawls in the toy aisle when only one was left.
Newton Vince has a rubbery, talcum scented plastic head of perfectly round proportions. The globular effect is carried through in the tiny “o” of his mouth, which closes around a plastic pacifier that can be removed and inserted at his owner’s discretion. Newton’s eyes are round, too. Big and blue, overlooking a tiny nose, as rubbery and powdery smelling as the rest of that sweet head.
I was five years old when I received Newton as a Christmas gift from my uncle Bob. I remember this Christmas particularly well because it coincided with the time I decided I didn’t like having bangs. So, I cut them off. I went to a party at my aunt’s house sporting forehead fringe no longer than a centimeter at any given point. In pictures, I am clutching Newton tightly.
He's a mess right now. I do not blame myself for this, as he just recently came back into my possession. Previously, he spent time with my brother, six years my junior, and my sister, thirteen years younger than myself. I have my suspicions that a brief hiatus in my parent's attic is responsible for some of the additional grime on his aging body. His head has gone from white to brown and his fabric torso has darkened similarly. The strings that separated the soft paddle of his hands into individual fingers have frayed, leaving two dirty stumps.
He's home now, on the top of the washing machine, waiting for a toss in the gentle cycle. I keep putting it off because I don't know if he can stand it. How old is 25 in Cabbage Patch years? How long can a childhood last?
You need to know this about Cabbage Patch Kids, if you don't already: they come with weird names and each one has a signature on its soft, batting-filled butt. The signer was Xavier Roberts, the creator of these pop culture precursors to Tickle Me Elmo, the kind of product that could cause Christmas-time brawls in the toy aisle when only one was left.
Newton Vince has a rubbery, talcum scented plastic head of perfectly round proportions. The globular effect is carried through in the tiny “o” of his mouth, which closes around a plastic pacifier that can be removed and inserted at his owner’s discretion. Newton’s eyes are round, too. Big and blue, overlooking a tiny nose, as rubbery and powdery smelling as the rest of that sweet head.
I was five years old when I received Newton as a Christmas gift from my uncle Bob. I remember this Christmas particularly well because it coincided with the time I decided I didn’t like having bangs. So, I cut them off. I went to a party at my aunt’s house sporting forehead fringe no longer than a centimeter at any given point. In pictures, I am clutching Newton tightly.
He's a mess right now. I do not blame myself for this, as he just recently came back into my possession. Previously, he spent time with my brother, six years my junior, and my sister, thirteen years younger than myself. I have my suspicions that a brief hiatus in my parent's attic is responsible for some of the additional grime on his aging body. His head has gone from white to brown and his fabric torso has darkened similarly. The strings that separated the soft paddle of his hands into individual fingers have frayed, leaving two dirty stumps.
He's home now, on the top of the washing machine, waiting for a toss in the gentle cycle. I keep putting it off because I don't know if he can stand it. How old is 25 in Cabbage Patch years? How long can a childhood last?
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
This Odd House
I have this habit of ignoring the voices in my head. I suppose it wouldn't be such a bad thing, except that sometimes those voices are the articulation of my gut instincts. The other day, my voices were telling me this:
Are you sure you want to paint your house that particular shade of blue? It looks lovely in the Sherwin Williams color book, but isn't it possible that it might take on more of a purple hue when slathered all over your house?
And
Maybe you should spot test it first, just to see?
But listening to the voices requires work, and it's so much easier just to rely on blind faith like the martyr that I am.
Today I came back from the grocery store to a house that glistened majestically in the autumn sun. My sigh was carried by the shrug of my shoulders. Oh, well, I said. I thought this might happen.
My mom says I never listen. My husband says I don't hear. Lest they think that I am selectively ignoring them, I am submitting for public record the fact that I don't even pay attention to my own thoughts half the time.
On a positive note, the paint is still wet, which means there is potential for it to dry a darker shade than its current purple manifestation. I am nothing if not hopeful. The quality of the work is good, so we've got that going for us, too. Even if our house becomes known as the town oddity, with much pointing and laughing accompanying each drive-by, at least it's a clean paint job.
We can't afford another coat. The way it dries is the way it is. Thus, I smile, and I nod, and I grow to like it. The haphazard way I live each day pretty much forces me to embrace all life's imperfections.
Are you sure you want to paint your house that particular shade of blue? It looks lovely in the Sherwin Williams color book, but isn't it possible that it might take on more of a purple hue when slathered all over your house?
And
Maybe you should spot test it first, just to see?
But listening to the voices requires work, and it's so much easier just to rely on blind faith like the martyr that I am.
Today I came back from the grocery store to a house that glistened majestically in the autumn sun. My sigh was carried by the shrug of my shoulders. Oh, well, I said. I thought this might happen.
My mom says I never listen. My husband says I don't hear. Lest they think that I am selectively ignoring them, I am submitting for public record the fact that I don't even pay attention to my own thoughts half the time.
On a positive note, the paint is still wet, which means there is potential for it to dry a darker shade than its current purple manifestation. I am nothing if not hopeful. The quality of the work is good, so we've got that going for us, too. Even if our house becomes known as the town oddity, with much pointing and laughing accompanying each drive-by, at least it's a clean paint job.
We can't afford another coat. The way it dries is the way it is. Thus, I smile, and I nod, and I grow to like it. The haphazard way I live each day pretty much forces me to embrace all life's imperfections.
Monday, September 25, 2006
80s Flashback
Red vacuumed every day to Motown on the record player. Sometimes she'd get up on the coffee table, belting out "I Will Survive" to the subtle static of steel on vinyl. Her three children ran through the living room, unaffected, in a circuit that took them from bedroom to kitchen to sun porch to muddy yard, and back again. Their tracked-in dirt disappeared in a quick sweep of the Electrolux. Nothing was dirty or disorganized if it was within her control.
I was the stray, the "summer sister." Red's middle daughter was my best friend. My mother dropped me off at the beginning of summer vacation and I stayed there for weeks, until a doctor's appointment or a trip to Lake George reuinited me with my given family. I never missed home.
Each day at Red's was structured by mealtimes. We ate cereal for breakfast, each child dumping leftover Os or flakes down the toilet. There were never any remnants in my bowl, though. I was a plate cleaner. Red loved that about me. She was effusive in her praise of my appetite. The funny thing was that I never saw her eat.
Between then and lunch we played Barbies, dress-up or pageant. Sometimes we'd play band. Once I ended the day with a black and blue five inches in diameter from hours of hitting the tambourine against my leg like Michelle Philips in a clueless California dream.
Lunch was tuna fish and celery that I crunched in contentment. Sometimes it was hot dogs with mac and cheese. I ate it all. Red patted my back.
Then there was more of the same play, or a dip in the pool. One summer when we were around ten, we orchestrated mini-triathalons that ended in their round, above-ground pool. I noticed after one such race that my everpresent ankh ring was missing from my right ring finger.
"SHIT!" I screamed, with all the force of discovery. My best friend's eyes were huge as she looked at me. Then she giggled. The shrug of my shoulders swallowed my neck as I bit down on my lip and waited.
"Girls!" Red yelled back from inside the house, where she talked in hushed tones to a neighbor. It was just a reminder that she was listening.
A huge pot of meatballs joined pounds of spaghetti at the dinner table. Us kids sat at the table while Red talked on the phone in the corner. Our voices carried conversations about Scott Grimes, Madonna, the hairy guy next door, and plans to ride our bikes to Friendly's for ice cream. I washed my seconds down with a tall glass of milk. Red nodded at me encouragingly, the phone bobbing against her ear. Her focus was everywhere. It's getting worse, I heard her say to the person on the other line. I don't think I can take it anymore.
My own mother never danced on the coffee table to anthemic oldies, which is why I was giggling and awkward in my admiration whenever Red did it. At Red's house, there was no sweeping things under the rug. Instead, the constant sucking of the vacuum cleaner was its own soundtrack as she made straight lines in the carpet that erased all the detritus of organized chaos. You think I'd crumble? You think I'd lay down and die? She sang it out to the four of us, like she was asking.
I shook my head no. I watched Red and it was clear to me, even as a child, that a mother has no choice but to be strong.
I was the stray, the "summer sister." Red's middle daughter was my best friend. My mother dropped me off at the beginning of summer vacation and I stayed there for weeks, until a doctor's appointment or a trip to Lake George reuinited me with my given family. I never missed home.
Each day at Red's was structured by mealtimes. We ate cereal for breakfast, each child dumping leftover Os or flakes down the toilet. There were never any remnants in my bowl, though. I was a plate cleaner. Red loved that about me. She was effusive in her praise of my appetite. The funny thing was that I never saw her eat.
Between then and lunch we played Barbies, dress-up or pageant. Sometimes we'd play band. Once I ended the day with a black and blue five inches in diameter from hours of hitting the tambourine against my leg like Michelle Philips in a clueless California dream.
Lunch was tuna fish and celery that I crunched in contentment. Sometimes it was hot dogs with mac and cheese. I ate it all. Red patted my back.
Then there was more of the same play, or a dip in the pool. One summer when we were around ten, we orchestrated mini-triathalons that ended in their round, above-ground pool. I noticed after one such race that my everpresent ankh ring was missing from my right ring finger.
"SHIT!" I screamed, with all the force of discovery. My best friend's eyes were huge as she looked at me. Then she giggled. The shrug of my shoulders swallowed my neck as I bit down on my lip and waited.
"Girls!" Red yelled back from inside the house, where she talked in hushed tones to a neighbor. It was just a reminder that she was listening.
A huge pot of meatballs joined pounds of spaghetti at the dinner table. Us kids sat at the table while Red talked on the phone in the corner. Our voices carried conversations about Scott Grimes, Madonna, the hairy guy next door, and plans to ride our bikes to Friendly's for ice cream. I washed my seconds down with a tall glass of milk. Red nodded at me encouragingly, the phone bobbing against her ear. Her focus was everywhere. It's getting worse, I heard her say to the person on the other line. I don't think I can take it anymore.
My own mother never danced on the coffee table to anthemic oldies, which is why I was giggling and awkward in my admiration whenever Red did it. At Red's house, there was no sweeping things under the rug. Instead, the constant sucking of the vacuum cleaner was its own soundtrack as she made straight lines in the carpet that erased all the detritus of organized chaos. You think I'd crumble? You think I'd lay down and die? She sang it out to the four of us, like she was asking.
I shook my head no. I watched Red and it was clear to me, even as a child, that a mother has no choice but to be strong.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Drink
I propose a new game for playgroup moms who decide to get together after hours. In the MOMS Club to which I belong (please reserve judgement at least till the end of this post), we call these monthly get-togethers "MOMS Night Out."
An ideal MNO, in my mind, is one where each mother must take a shot every time she talks about her child(ren). Two shots if it's a story we've all heard before. Three shots if it involves poop (granted, I myself would probably rack up a bit of a buzz on this one since I can't resist a well recollected crap caper). Half a bottle of Jagermeister in one swig if we have to hear how many gold stars your daughter earned today in pre-school.
I know many mothers. I know their children. I am familiar with the eating and excreting habits of 40 kids under the age of 5. I am perfectly happy being a vessel of such information. The stories are often enlightening, entertaining and useful. But in casual discourse, we're always moms. Is it too much to ask that we have on night, once a month, to learn about each other as people?
Motherhood has helped me forge a stronger identity as a woman. I am a deeper thinker, a better writer, and a more confident professional since I gave birth to my daughter. I love to tell people her stories. I value learning from others how to be a better mom. But, sometimes, I want to talk about other aspects of life. We're wives, too. We're daughters. We're employees or students. We're advocates. We're travelers. We're products of completely diverse upbringings.
So, let's talk about it! Of course we are mothers, and no conversation need deny that fact. But let's use that status to heighten discussions about those other aspects of our being, to lend perspective to conditions we may not have fully understood until now. I see that kind of introspection all the time in this little 'burg of the blogosphere, but in my real life there's a void.
Unfortunately, I don't think too many moms in my club would go for such a drinking game. It's a damn shame, too. A few poop stories and some triple-shots later, I probably won't even care that we're all still talking about our children.
An ideal MNO, in my mind, is one where each mother must take a shot every time she talks about her child(ren). Two shots if it's a story we've all heard before. Three shots if it involves poop (granted, I myself would probably rack up a bit of a buzz on this one since I can't resist a well recollected crap caper). Half a bottle of Jagermeister in one swig if we have to hear how many gold stars your daughter earned today in pre-school.
I know many mothers. I know their children. I am familiar with the eating and excreting habits of 40 kids under the age of 5. I am perfectly happy being a vessel of such information. The stories are often enlightening, entertaining and useful. But in casual discourse, we're always moms. Is it too much to ask that we have on night, once a month, to learn about each other as people?
Motherhood has helped me forge a stronger identity as a woman. I am a deeper thinker, a better writer, and a more confident professional since I gave birth to my daughter. I love to tell people her stories. I value learning from others how to be a better mom. But, sometimes, I want to talk about other aspects of life. We're wives, too. We're daughters. We're employees or students. We're advocates. We're travelers. We're products of completely diverse upbringings.
So, let's talk about it! Of course we are mothers, and no conversation need deny that fact. But let's use that status to heighten discussions about those other aspects of our being, to lend perspective to conditions we may not have fully understood until now. I see that kind of introspection all the time in this little 'burg of the blogosphere, but in my real life there's a void.
Unfortunately, I don't think too many moms in my club would go for such a drinking game. It's a damn shame, too. A few poop stories and some triple-shots later, I probably won't even care that we're all still talking about our children.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Hyper Extensions
When The Boss is mad, she invariably thrusts out her lower lip in a square pout and presses her face to the floor--from a sitting position.
Other times, I find her asleep in her crib, one foot pressed against her ear.
Flexibility is just one example of how far removed babies are from their grown up counterparts. Another is vocabulary. Though I suppose it's convenient to lump every animal, vegetable and mineral into one category called "dog," it's not very descriptive. Yet another example is a child's utter lack of discernment when it comes to what she will put in her mouth--though I suppose it can be argued that gumming rocks, sticks, solidified dog poop, loose change and live wires is not significantly more enlightened than smoking cigarettes. Not that I would personally make such an argument on the grounds of being hypocritical. Anyhoo.
Occasionally I watch The Boss taking in and pointing out the world around her and I wonder, "who are you?" Then, the extended version: "Who are you going to be?" It's hard to make any determinations based on that tiny human being splayed at my feet, her legs sticking out at ninety degree angles as she buries her mouth in a patch of dirt on the playground.
And that's usually when I realize I forgot the camera. Though I wonder about the future, I am all too aware that the to-be questions will soon be replaced by wistfulness and by backwards glances that lack the joy of all this newness. Today in the toddler section of the department store I was nostalgic for newborn layettes. Not for newborns--oh, no, the wounds are too fresh for that--but for the layettes a first time mother-to-be holds against her face, then her belly, as she dreams for nine months about a lifetime of unknowable days. I remembered visiting that very section while pregnant and looking only at what was before me. A year and change later, it's hard not to look back.
She is wild and fantastic, this boss of mine. She is completely strange. Her emergence forever changed my place in the world. Before, everything was in front of me. I could move forward in any direction. Looking back was an option, but why would I? Now, it's different. I am retrospective. Circumspective. I try to live in the moment, but I will indulge the past. I don't think I will ever again feel the total preoccupation with the future that I experienced as the pregnant mother of my baby girl.
Because now I understand what the future holds.
Other times, I find her asleep in her crib, one foot pressed against her ear.
Flexibility is just one example of how far removed babies are from their grown up counterparts. Another is vocabulary. Though I suppose it's convenient to lump every animal, vegetable and mineral into one category called "dog," it's not very descriptive. Yet another example is a child's utter lack of discernment when it comes to what she will put in her mouth--though I suppose it can be argued that gumming rocks, sticks, solidified dog poop, loose change and live wires is not significantly more enlightened than smoking cigarettes. Not that I would personally make such an argument on the grounds of being hypocritical. Anyhoo.
Occasionally I watch The Boss taking in and pointing out the world around her and I wonder, "who are you?" Then, the extended version: "Who are you going to be?" It's hard to make any determinations based on that tiny human being splayed at my feet, her legs sticking out at ninety degree angles as she buries her mouth in a patch of dirt on the playground.
And that's usually when I realize I forgot the camera. Though I wonder about the future, I am all too aware that the to-be questions will soon be replaced by wistfulness and by backwards glances that lack the joy of all this newness. Today in the toddler section of the department store I was nostalgic for newborn layettes. Not for newborns--oh, no, the wounds are too fresh for that--but for the layettes a first time mother-to-be holds against her face, then her belly, as she dreams for nine months about a lifetime of unknowable days. I remembered visiting that very section while pregnant and looking only at what was before me. A year and change later, it's hard not to look back.
She is wild and fantastic, this boss of mine. She is completely strange. Her emergence forever changed my place in the world. Before, everything was in front of me. I could move forward in any direction. Looking back was an option, but why would I? Now, it's different. I am retrospective. Circumspective. I try to live in the moment, but I will indulge the past. I don't think I will ever again feel the total preoccupation with the future that I experienced as the pregnant mother of my baby girl.
Because now I understand what the future holds.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
I Love The Cliches
Someone wants to know exactly what is written on the 5th through 8th sentences on page 123 of the book nearest me. This random foray into the desk and the psyche of the blogger is called a meme. For lack of any other definition that I can even begin to comprehend, a meme is "an idea, project, statement or even a question that is posted on one blog and responded to by other blogs."
To reiterate, for the purposes of this particular meme: What is written on the 5th through 8th sentences on page 123 of the book nearest you?
Well, funny you should ask, Amy! I just happened to be looking for some hilarious blog fodder. I should've known I would find it on page 123 of The Romance Writer's Phrase Book, which happens to be sitting before me in a brown wicker basket filled with other accoutrements of the writing life. Please do not ask why I own The Romance Writer's Phrase Book, which purports to be "the essential source book" for all things romantic and novel, and which is "guaranteed to stimulate the imagination." It is filled with more than 3,000 embarrassing cliches arranged for "quick, easy reference" by any writer in love with all things formulaic.
I am happy to report that page 123 falls in the "Sex" chapter. Other chapters include "Physical Characteristics - Male," "Physical Characteristics - Female," "Emotions," "Eyes," and "Miscellaneous." Each one consists of distinct, relevant phrases that are sure to get your romance juices flowing.
Now, for your reading pleasure, I present sentences 5 through 8 of page 123:
5: "Her lips found their way instinctively to his."
6: "His kiss was as challenging as it was rewarding."
7: "Kissing her devouringly..."
8: "His lips parted hers in a soul reaching massage."
Are you inspired yet? I can keep going.
"Their lips met and she felt buffeted by the winds of a savage harmony."
"As he roused her passion, his own grew stronger."
And my favorite: "The kiss was like the soldering heat that joins metals."
Anyway, it's now my turn to pass along the memetic torch of literacy. I tag my Connecticut cronies, Lauren and Linda. As for the rest of you, please leave your favorite romantic cliche, or make up your own, in my comment section. It'll be funny. And as I laugh, I'll have to ask The Partner if he looks at me and thinks to himself that "the even whiteness of her smile is dazzling."
To reiterate, for the purposes of this particular meme: What is written on the 5th through 8th sentences on page 123 of the book nearest you?
Well, funny you should ask, Amy! I just happened to be looking for some hilarious blog fodder. I should've known I would find it on page 123 of The Romance Writer's Phrase Book, which happens to be sitting before me in a brown wicker basket filled with other accoutrements of the writing life. Please do not ask why I own The Romance Writer's Phrase Book, which purports to be "the essential source book" for all things romantic and novel, and which is "guaranteed to stimulate the imagination." It is filled with more than 3,000 embarrassing cliches arranged for "quick, easy reference" by any writer in love with all things formulaic.
I am happy to report that page 123 falls in the "Sex" chapter. Other chapters include "Physical Characteristics - Male," "Physical Characteristics - Female," "Emotions," "Eyes," and "Miscellaneous." Each one consists of distinct, relevant phrases that are sure to get your romance juices flowing.
Now, for your reading pleasure, I present sentences 5 through 8 of page 123:
5: "Her lips found their way instinctively to his."
6: "His kiss was as challenging as it was rewarding."
7: "Kissing her devouringly..."
8: "His lips parted hers in a soul reaching massage."
Are you inspired yet? I can keep going.
"Their lips met and she felt buffeted by the winds of a savage harmony."
"As he roused her passion, his own grew stronger."
And my favorite: "The kiss was like the soldering heat that joins metals."
Anyway, it's now my turn to pass along the memetic torch of literacy. I tag my Connecticut cronies, Lauren and Linda. As for the rest of you, please leave your favorite romantic cliche, or make up your own, in my comment section. It'll be funny. And as I laugh, I'll have to ask The Partner if he looks at me and thinks to himself that "the even whiteness of her smile is dazzling."
Monday, September 18, 2006
Why We Need Counseling
This morning, upon waking, I assumed my rightful place on the porcelain throne. Imagine my surprise when the usual view of sink and tub was interrupted by this:
How sweet to see The Boss's foam letters sticking to the back of the tub in this message of morning cheer. Since I wasn't the one who left it there, and since The Boss can't spell, there was only one person left whom I could logically assume was the source of this tub talk. Logically, I said. Don't think for a minute that it didn't cross my mind that the sentiment came in the wake of a friendly poltergeist's midnight dip. It seemed about as likely as The Partner pulling off something so darned romantic.
"Awww," I shouted to The Partner, who was on the computer in the den. There was no reaction. "Awwwwwww," I shouted again, louder.
He peered in the bathroom.
"Did you do that?" I pointed, all giddy and smiling.
"Oh, that." His look was such that I knew some good smart-assery was coming. "Yeah, it was me. But only because I had to edit what The Boss wrote. Our daughter is really jaded, you know. Do you want to see her original message?"
I played along. There'd be icy bathwater in hell the day my thirteen month old could say, let alone spell, anything other than dog, look, thank you, or hi. "Suuuuuure," I said.
He walked over to the tub, overstepping my feet on the shaggy green mat in front of the toilet. Reaching in, he pulled up two more letters that had collected near the drain with a host of other water toys. He put them in their proper place. "I don't know where she gets these ideas," he said, shaking his head in mock consternation. Then he stepped to the side so I could read the updated text.
I looked. Then I sighed.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Small Town Closing Down
Today a local donut and coffee shop will put up a "closed" sign that won't turn to "open" tomorrow. The owners of that independent purveyor of jelly donuts and joe are looking at the end of a 30 year era, one characterized by friendships forged at the counter and a quality, no-nonsense menu. The good stuff.
We all know how franchises are sucking up the little guys into a vacuum powered by the cheap electricity of convenience. Here, it's Dunkin Donuts. In other realms, it's WalMart or Barnes and Noble or Home Depot. They uniformly lack history, a deficit from which it is hard to salvage good service or community ties.
The Boss and I put over 15,000 miles on my car in the short year she's been alive as we traversed this small corner of our state, taking in the realities of rural New England. There's a quiet beauty in farms, orchards, wineries and fruit stands. There's melancholy in abandoned mills. The hills roll with the lilt of a practiced storyteller.
Then there are the strip malls, the coffee chains and the sprawling stations of convenient fuel that dot the Interstate. If those places have tales, they don't have the patience to tell them. And, anyway, their customers don't have listening ears.
Nostalgia has an important place in my world view, which dictates that nothing ever changes, not in the grand scheme of things. We evolve, we grow, we ascend and we transcend. I know we can't go back. Yet there are certain truths that fall in and out of favor, but can never be lost. Here in New England, there are elements of the impersonal chain store phemonemon that appeal to our thrifty stoicism. There is a convenience to the drive-thru that speaks to our fast walking, fast talking ways. But when wintertime comes, there's a need for warm familiarity that can't be replaced by something new.
And it's getting chilly out, right about now.
We all know how franchises are sucking up the little guys into a vacuum powered by the cheap electricity of convenience. Here, it's Dunkin Donuts. In other realms, it's WalMart or Barnes and Noble or Home Depot. They uniformly lack history, a deficit from which it is hard to salvage good service or community ties.
The Boss and I put over 15,000 miles on my car in the short year she's been alive as we traversed this small corner of our state, taking in the realities of rural New England. There's a quiet beauty in farms, orchards, wineries and fruit stands. There's melancholy in abandoned mills. The hills roll with the lilt of a practiced storyteller.
Then there are the strip malls, the coffee chains and the sprawling stations of convenient fuel that dot the Interstate. If those places have tales, they don't have the patience to tell them. And, anyway, their customers don't have listening ears.
Nostalgia has an important place in my world view, which dictates that nothing ever changes, not in the grand scheme of things. We evolve, we grow, we ascend and we transcend. I know we can't go back. Yet there are certain truths that fall in and out of favor, but can never be lost. Here in New England, there are elements of the impersonal chain store phemonemon that appeal to our thrifty stoicism. There is a convenience to the drive-thru that speaks to our fast walking, fast talking ways. But when wintertime comes, there's a need for warm familiarity that can't be replaced by something new.
And it's getting chilly out, right about now.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
On Blogging
After writing an entire post about the virtues of speaking one's mind, I realize I have nothing to say. I must have jinxed myself. I'm always doing that. I wrote about the joys of breastfeeding approximately three days before The Boss up and weaned herself. It often happens that I am driving down the street when it occurs to me that I haven't gotten a speeding ticket in quite some time. Two blocks later, blue and whites are inevitably flashing in my rear-view. Why do I even bother thinking, let along writing? Life would be a lot easier if I just flitted from activity to activity, oblivious to anything that isn't laid out in concrete certitude before me.
But, especially when it comes to writing, I'm more analytical than that. Not mathematically, but emotionally. I think things like why is anyone going to care how cute it is when The Boss throws her hands up in the air and does a rhythmic shoulder shrug every time Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy" plays on my Sirius Satellite Radio? Or, on certain days, like The Boss's birthday or September 11, I wonder how I can possibly do justice to such loaded themes. So I don't even try. Then there are the times when I am fighting with The Partner and find myself unable to harnass the energy and creativity to write anything.
The reasons NOT to write are plenty, and they run through my head to this constant refrain: what makes you think you have anything of value to say, anyway? Who are you to show up every day on the Internet with a message that packages the same old inanity into a new box?
The only justification I can come up with is that it's not all about me. When I write, I try to make sure that my tales are not the "I, I, I" recaps of daily living that critics of blogging (especially "mommy" blogging) make them out to be. I want to address universal themes with a national--and sometimes regional--voice. A good voice. One that people can hum along to as they recognize the beat of their own lives. That's one of the things that makes me write, but it doesn't always help me figure out what to say.
So, to my four readers, I'm sorry for my week long absence from the Web, and for this stream-of-consciousness analysis of the act of writing with an inferiority complex. I will try to steer clear of such discussions about methodology for awhile, but they are cobwebs that needed to be cleaned out.
Here's to being witty and insightful, 24/7/365. It's not too late to start, is it?
P.S. Speaking of absences from the Web, I am happy to report that Redneck Mommy is back! Check her out. If you can go over there to get some hearty food-for-thought and a good chuckle, I will know that this post today hasn't been in vain. Welcome back, T!
But, especially when it comes to writing, I'm more analytical than that. Not mathematically, but emotionally. I think things like why is anyone going to care how cute it is when The Boss throws her hands up in the air and does a rhythmic shoulder shrug every time Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy" plays on my Sirius Satellite Radio? Or, on certain days, like The Boss's birthday or September 11, I wonder how I can possibly do justice to such loaded themes. So I don't even try. Then there are the times when I am fighting with The Partner and find myself unable to harnass the energy and creativity to write anything.
The reasons NOT to write are plenty, and they run through my head to this constant refrain: what makes you think you have anything of value to say, anyway? Who are you to show up every day on the Internet with a message that packages the same old inanity into a new box?
The only justification I can come up with is that it's not all about me. When I write, I try to make sure that my tales are not the "I, I, I" recaps of daily living that critics of blogging (especially "mommy" blogging) make them out to be. I want to address universal themes with a national--and sometimes regional--voice. A good voice. One that people can hum along to as they recognize the beat of their own lives. That's one of the things that makes me write, but it doesn't always help me figure out what to say.
So, to my four readers, I'm sorry for my week long absence from the Web, and for this stream-of-consciousness analysis of the act of writing with an inferiority complex. I will try to steer clear of such discussions about methodology for awhile, but they are cobwebs that needed to be cleaned out.
Here's to being witty and insightful, 24/7/365. It's not too late to start, is it?
P.S. Speaking of absences from the Web, I am happy to report that Redneck Mommy is back! Check her out. If you can go over there to get some hearty food-for-thought and a good chuckle, I will know that this post today hasn't been in vain. Welcome back, T!
Friday, September 08, 2006
Just Say It
My husband writes letters to the editor; he corresponds with our elected officials; and he speaks at town meetings. My in-laws donate large sums of money to their causes. My mother is a voting official and a veteran of the Women's Army Corps. My father watches Fox News from his well-worn armchair and screams at Alan Colmes.
Me? I suppose I've got some causes. But my passion is not so much political as it is practical. It's a palpable presence in my life all day, every day. It's how I make friends; it's why I have enemies. It's the reason I write. It feeds the fire of my fierce American pride. It's the thing I could not live without and it's the reason I'm grateful to those who have died to secure it.
It's freedom of speech. I will not censor myself and I will not allow others to do it for me. I find the exchange of ideas to be the ultimate form of honesty and the only way to find truth. It's ingrained in the basic functioning of my brain: I cannot really comprehend something until I get it out in the open, preferably on paper. It's the act of expressing something that makes it real to me. It's no exaggeration to say that if I couldn't write, I couldn't think--not deeply, not in a way that creates change.
The antithesis is fear. If I am afraid, or if my goverment is afraid, I cannot express myself. Then what am I? I am quiet and confused. I'm bored and bitter. I am everything that is wrong with the world.
Her Bad Mother gave us bloggers a call to action. She asked us to write about a cause we're passionate about, and to provide links, information and guidance. Well, I have no resources for you. No links. Not much in the realm of guidance. But I have my own call to action.
This weekend, shock someone with your honesty. Leave wide eyes and gaping mouths in your wake. Make someone think. Make someone laugh. Do a dance. Take your child to the library for your own banned book story time. Send an overdue thank-you note. Change someone's mind.
Me? I suppose I've got some causes. But my passion is not so much political as it is practical. It's a palpable presence in my life all day, every day. It's how I make friends; it's why I have enemies. It's the reason I write. It feeds the fire of my fierce American pride. It's the thing I could not live without and it's the reason I'm grateful to those who have died to secure it.
It's freedom of speech. I will not censor myself and I will not allow others to do it for me. I find the exchange of ideas to be the ultimate form of honesty and the only way to find truth. It's ingrained in the basic functioning of my brain: I cannot really comprehend something until I get it out in the open, preferably on paper. It's the act of expressing something that makes it real to me. It's no exaggeration to say that if I couldn't write, I couldn't think--not deeply, not in a way that creates change.
The antithesis is fear. If I am afraid, or if my goverment is afraid, I cannot express myself. Then what am I? I am quiet and confused. I'm bored and bitter. I am everything that is wrong with the world.
Her Bad Mother gave us bloggers a call to action. She asked us to write about a cause we're passionate about, and to provide links, information and guidance. Well, I have no resources for you. No links. Not much in the realm of guidance. But I have my own call to action.
This weekend, shock someone with your honesty. Leave wide eyes and gaping mouths in your wake. Make someone think. Make someone laugh. Do a dance. Take your child to the library for your own banned book story time. Send an overdue thank-you note. Change someone's mind.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
The Proof is in the Pudding
After roughly twenty months of coming to terms with the fact that he is a father, The Partner has wholly embraced the squirming, screaming wonder that is The Boss. And she, in turn, has latched onto the concept that she is Daddy's Little Girl. She will allow only him to put her to bed. She hits the crib inconsolable if anyone else tries. Perhaps it's the fraternity songs he sings to her, interspersed with the only slightly more politically correct "Rock A Bye Baby." Maybe it's his strong, calm hold as he rocks her. Whatever it is, I find this bedtime preference as annoying as I do sweet. She's my banshee; she's his bleating, doe-eyed girl.
Though he still refuses to change a diaper, I am mostly happy with The Partner's transformation. I've been waiting a long time. A lifetime. When I first got pregnant, he was unthrilled. I figured the sweet reality of it might hit him more when I began to show; but when I popped, his demeanor was unchanged. Then I thought her birth would clinch it, and that he would weep fatherly tears of joy that would be a film over his eyes for the rest of his life. He was more stoic than that, though. With my hopes wearing thin, I pinned the last shreds on the idea that maybe, once The Boss was out of the disagreeable fourth trimester, her sunny infant disposition would bring out an excited paternity in her father. But, no. So I gave up on all the hoping.
Which is obviously when it happened. I guess it's been a slightly more gradual process than I might make it out to be, but the fact is that The Partner's devotion to The Boss is now apparent. It cannot be misconstrued. It's in the swoop he makes from the door to wherever she's playing when he gets home from work. It's in his coos about her cuteness. It's in his face, which looks exactly like hers. My sigh of relief is gale-force.
Now, if I could only get him to change a diaper.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
This Is What I Tell Myself, And You
I have a disenchanted, single friend who recently told me I should feel lucky that I'm no longer in the dating pool. Just to make her feel less sorry for herself, I shared with her a couple stories about married life. She was silent for a moment. Then she said, "oh."
If the grass is greener on my side of the fence, it's only because of dog poop and too much rain.
I know it's human nature to want what you can't have. To yearn for more. To feel like you're competing with people who don't even realize you're in the race with them and who, furthermore, don't care. It's natural to want to better your situation. To better yourself. And I think it's pretty damn common not really to be happy, ever.
I'm saying this from a rational state, not a depressed one. It's a fact that there's a lot of dissatisfaction out there. Most people have major grievances that wipe the Pollyanna smile off their faces with some frequency. Single and married; employed and un(happily)employed; rich and poor; Red Sox fans and Yankees fans. I mean, what's the big diff? Every life is a circle of highs and lows that come at intervals specific to that person. The hero you envy one moment could be the person whose existence you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy the next.
The Rolling Stones say you can't always get what you want. Then there's what St. Teresa of Avila said first, before Truman Capote and Garth Brooks backed her up: more tears are shed over answered prayers than over unanswered prayers.
It's okay to want things. Sometimes it's more than okay. In other instances, you may have to work to keep those desires in check. But, always, it's a matter of leaving yourself open for those surprises you didn't even know you were in the market for.
If the grass is greener on my side of the fence, it's only because of dog poop and too much rain.
I know it's human nature to want what you can't have. To yearn for more. To feel like you're competing with people who don't even realize you're in the race with them and who, furthermore, don't care. It's natural to want to better your situation. To better yourself. And I think it's pretty damn common not really to be happy, ever.
I'm saying this from a rational state, not a depressed one. It's a fact that there's a lot of dissatisfaction out there. Most people have major grievances that wipe the Pollyanna smile off their faces with some frequency. Single and married; employed and un(happily)employed; rich and poor; Red Sox fans and Yankees fans. I mean, what's the big diff? Every life is a circle of highs and lows that come at intervals specific to that person. The hero you envy one moment could be the person whose existence you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy the next.
The Rolling Stones say you can't always get what you want. Then there's what St. Teresa of Avila said first, before Truman Capote and Garth Brooks backed her up: more tears are shed over answered prayers than over unanswered prayers.
It's okay to want things. Sometimes it's more than okay. In other instances, you may have to work to keep those desires in check. But, always, it's a matter of leaving yourself open for those surprises you didn't even know you were in the market for.
Friday, September 01, 2006
Fireworks--A Short Story
Write a scene showing a man and a woman arguing over the man's friendship with a former girlfriend. Do not mention the girlfriend, the man, the woman, or the argument.
It’s one of those “dog days” of summer. The plants are panting for rain but basking in the sunshine. The meteorologists are backpedaling on their promises for moisture, yet getting off on reporting on the record-breaking heat. It’s the kind of sweat-until-there’s-a-stream-running-between-your-breasts kind of hot.
Even in the heat, there are beings lounging in the humidity. Humans, dogs, squirrels, birds, rabbits even chipmunks. Some coexist peacefully, even genially. Others, not so much.
Watching the natural fireworks that tend to occur when the heat rises over 90 degrees becomes a regular, though not pleasant, pastime. It’s not pretty. It’s not pretty when the pretty leaves you with no place to go.
Words zing through the air like fireflies on steroids, a virtual tennis match of tears, betrayal and love. Past and present collide as fingertips lunge like lightening between bodies. The air, electric in its stagnancy, leaves exclamations and contradictions hanging.
There is an odd compulsion to get closer, to peer at the train wreck that has developed and search for survivors, or rather, casualties.
Words continue to volley until one scores a hit. Tears fall, and there is a stony silence, followed by retreat. The air remains charged, but broken.
by Heather, Blog Exchange Guest Blogger
(You looking for Binky? Yoo hoo! She's over here...)
______
Heather is a SAHM to 2 young children. She has plenty of random thoughts and feels compelled to share them with strangers. Her daughter is amazed at the size of her Cool Zebras. Don’t forget to visit your friend Elizabeth there, keeping my place warm today.
This post is part of the September Blog Exchange. This month's exchange is a little different - we're all writing short (fictional) stories based on the 13 Writing Prompts found at McSweeney's. You can find me at Heather's site today, and the full list of participants can be found by clicking here.
It’s one of those “dog days” of summer. The plants are panting for rain but basking in the sunshine. The meteorologists are backpedaling on their promises for moisture, yet getting off on reporting on the record-breaking heat. It’s the kind of sweat-until-there’s-a-stream-running-between-your-breasts kind of hot.
Even in the heat, there are beings lounging in the humidity. Humans, dogs, squirrels, birds, rabbits even chipmunks. Some coexist peacefully, even genially. Others, not so much.
Watching the natural fireworks that tend to occur when the heat rises over 90 degrees becomes a regular, though not pleasant, pastime. It’s not pretty. It’s not pretty when the pretty leaves you with no place to go.
Words zing through the air like fireflies on steroids, a virtual tennis match of tears, betrayal and love. Past and present collide as fingertips lunge like lightening between bodies. The air, electric in its stagnancy, leaves exclamations and contradictions hanging.
There is an odd compulsion to get closer, to peer at the train wreck that has developed and search for survivors, or rather, casualties.
Words continue to volley until one scores a hit. Tears fall, and there is a stony silence, followed by retreat. The air remains charged, but broken.
by Heather, Blog Exchange Guest Blogger
(You looking for Binky? Yoo hoo! She's over here...)
______
Heather is a SAHM to 2 young children. She has plenty of random thoughts and feels compelled to share them with strangers. Her daughter is amazed at the size of her Cool Zebras. Don’t forget to visit your friend Elizabeth there, keeping my place warm today.
This post is part of the September Blog Exchange. This month's exchange is a little different - we're all writing short (fictional) stories based on the 13 Writing Prompts found at McSweeney's. You can find me at Heather's site today, and the full list of participants can be found by clicking here.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Wah. I stood in the ice for 3 days and now I can't feel my toes. Wah.
The Boss has turned into Harriet F. Houdini. I think we all know what the F stands for. Yesterday, for her first trick, she removed her poop-filled diaper without unsnapping a single closure on her long sleeved, long panted romper.
I went up to get her at the tail end of naptime, only to discover a happy, bleating 13 month old, sockless in the southeast corner of her crib amidst a trail of reddish brown viscosity. A diaper, one side agape and fecal, lay on the mattress.
I blinked. The Boss was strangely lumpless in a pink and white one-piece outfit with a big wet spot on the leg. The cotton drape of her romper was contoured to the rises and falls of her baby fat, unspoiled by the ugly absorbancy of her diaper. I lifted her up, expecting to see that she had unsnapped the legs of her outfit to make a skirt through which to remove the diaper. Yet, all snaps were secure. I turned her around to look at the closures on the back of her neck, wondering if she somehow pulled the diaper out the head hole. But that exit was not compromised, either. I puzzled on it all the way to the bathroom. Then I threw her in the tub.
The only thing I can surmise is that dextrous ingenuity led her to wiggle halfway out of the diaper before using her hands to squeeze it the rest of the way down her pant leg and out the elastic cuff. My Baby Blaine. My Copperfield Kid.
I'm so proud, I could vomit.
I went up to get her at the tail end of naptime, only to discover a happy, bleating 13 month old, sockless in the southeast corner of her crib amidst a trail of reddish brown viscosity. A diaper, one side agape and fecal, lay on the mattress.
I blinked. The Boss was strangely lumpless in a pink and white one-piece outfit with a big wet spot on the leg. The cotton drape of her romper was contoured to the rises and falls of her baby fat, unspoiled by the ugly absorbancy of her diaper. I lifted her up, expecting to see that she had unsnapped the legs of her outfit to make a skirt through which to remove the diaper. Yet, all snaps were secure. I turned her around to look at the closures on the back of her neck, wondering if she somehow pulled the diaper out the head hole. But that exit was not compromised, either. I puzzled on it all the way to the bathroom. Then I threw her in the tub.
The only thing I can surmise is that dextrous ingenuity led her to wiggle halfway out of the diaper before using her hands to squeeze it the rest of the way down her pant leg and out the elastic cuff. My Baby Blaine. My Copperfield Kid.
I'm so proud, I could vomit.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
A Day At The Fair, Revisited
It's time for fairs. I love all those early-autumn staples, filled with hay, fried dough, and tractor pulls. There are young couples in love, wild-eyed mothers pushing double strollers, and groups of old women waddling from stall to stall in bedazzling shirts. It is always hot or cold, rainy or bone dry. It's harvest time in New England.
Last year around now, I was in the unglamorous "fourth trimester" of my pregnancy. I know now that I should've kept that baby firmly entrenched in my womb as long as humanly possible, but, at the time, medical science and some Pitocin convinced me otherwise. The Boss was born at almost 42 weeks gestation, but we still weren't ready. The circadian rhythms of my fast paced life were hopelessly out of sync with her more sedate scheduling. She would've been just as happy sucking amniotic fluid from inside a heat-regulated placenta for the next three months, at least.
It was toward the end of that amorphous phase that The Partner and I ditched The Boss for a day at the Big E (or the Eastern States Exposition, otherwise known as the ninth largest fair in the USA). Despite some grumblings and the occasional “So, why do you want to go to this thing, again?,” The Partner took the day off from his other job and we made arrangements for my mother to watch the nine week old Boss. We were off.
In one of the agriculture buildings, we saw a stay-at-home-pig with approximately 8 out of 10 udders swollen with milk, her pile of piglets basking in the fluorescence. She was beyond ugly, but the piglets were cute. It is easy to become so enchanted with the wiggly lethargy of a baby piggy that you don’t think about the fact that it will soon grow to resemble Ted Kennedy and grunt similarly, too.
I looked down at my own engorged mammaries and thought that I would never feel so connected to that pink, hairy and maternal swine as I did just then. It wasn’t appealing when I thought of it in those terms, so instead I pictured my own smiling baby, soft and cooing, separate from my breasts and years away from any possible runs for senate as a bulbous democrat from Massachusetts.
It was the chicks, however, that won best of show in the cute department. Row upon row of brown eggs incubated atop a wire mesh display case. If you watched carefully, you could see fine lines develop on the shells as hidden chicks pecked for their lives. The audience of fair-goers, peering in through the glass, were fixated on one particular egg as the crack grew and a few straggly hairs poked out and receded, poked out and receded. This went on for five minutes, then ten, till the girl next to me stated she had been caught up in this chick’s fight for over a half hour. A woman behind us clucked knowingly and said that most of these little ones die of exhaustion if they are not able to extricate themselves from the albumen within 20 minutes.
In the time that this chick worked spasmodically to break through one final piece of eggshell, an entirely different egg developed a crack, was pushed open, and produced a newborn chicken, all bedraggled and weak-legged. We were happy for this new little guy, but sad for the other fighter in whose birth we were still caught up.
While I didn’t know if the woman’s ominous foretelling of the twenty-minute window was accurate, it was too depressing to find out. The Partner and I traded the stinky dome of the agricultural building for the open spread of gray September fairgrounds. I don't remember much else about that day, though. In my mind, it's just the piglets and the chicks and the overcast skies heralding all that new life.
Last year around now, I was in the unglamorous "fourth trimester" of my pregnancy. I know now that I should've kept that baby firmly entrenched in my womb as long as humanly possible, but, at the time, medical science and some Pitocin convinced me otherwise. The Boss was born at almost 42 weeks gestation, but we still weren't ready. The circadian rhythms of my fast paced life were hopelessly out of sync with her more sedate scheduling. She would've been just as happy sucking amniotic fluid from inside a heat-regulated placenta for the next three months, at least.
It was toward the end of that amorphous phase that The Partner and I ditched The Boss for a day at the Big E (or the Eastern States Exposition, otherwise known as the ninth largest fair in the USA). Despite some grumblings and the occasional “So, why do you want to go to this thing, again?,” The Partner took the day off from his other job and we made arrangements for my mother to watch the nine week old Boss. We were off.
In one of the agriculture buildings, we saw a stay-at-home-pig with approximately 8 out of 10 udders swollen with milk, her pile of piglets basking in the fluorescence. She was beyond ugly, but the piglets were cute. It is easy to become so enchanted with the wiggly lethargy of a baby piggy that you don’t think about the fact that it will soon grow to resemble Ted Kennedy and grunt similarly, too.
I looked down at my own engorged mammaries and thought that I would never feel so connected to that pink, hairy and maternal swine as I did just then. It wasn’t appealing when I thought of it in those terms, so instead I pictured my own smiling baby, soft and cooing, separate from my breasts and years away from any possible runs for senate as a bulbous democrat from Massachusetts.
It was the chicks, however, that won best of show in the cute department. Row upon row of brown eggs incubated atop a wire mesh display case. If you watched carefully, you could see fine lines develop on the shells as hidden chicks pecked for their lives. The audience of fair-goers, peering in through the glass, were fixated on one particular egg as the crack grew and a few straggly hairs poked out and receded, poked out and receded. This went on for five minutes, then ten, till the girl next to me stated she had been caught up in this chick’s fight for over a half hour. A woman behind us clucked knowingly and said that most of these little ones die of exhaustion if they are not able to extricate themselves from the albumen within 20 minutes.
In the time that this chick worked spasmodically to break through one final piece of eggshell, an entirely different egg developed a crack, was pushed open, and produced a newborn chicken, all bedraggled and weak-legged. We were happy for this new little guy, but sad for the other fighter in whose birth we were still caught up.
While I didn’t know if the woman’s ominous foretelling of the twenty-minute window was accurate, it was too depressing to find out. The Partner and I traded the stinky dome of the agricultural building for the open spread of gray September fairgrounds. I don't remember much else about that day, though. In my mind, it's just the piglets and the chicks and the overcast skies heralding all that new life.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Colloquialisms
I call the long sandwiches with many meats grinders.
I call the little ant-like toppings for ice cream shots.
I call the fizzy brown stuff Coke (even when it isn't).
I call that event wherein I put all my junk in the front yard and sell it a tag sale.
I call the shoes I wear while exercising sneakers.
I call the place where I buy (a lot of) alcohol the package store.
I call getting there a packy run.
I measure distance in the time it takes to arrive.
I am a child of Connecticut, that expensive, boring state that separates New York City from Boston. It's a nice place to visit your grandparents, but you wouldn't want to live there. It's got some cities, some country, and a lot of suburbs. It has the "highest per capita income" in the country, but all the big heads are down Fairfield County way. We pay for it up here, though, on the eastern side--where the United States Supreme Court decided a house is not your home; where the mills shut down years ago; where the remaining factory makes potato chips in the enormous Fry-Daddy that is my town.
It is important to me to infuse my writing with a sense of place, though Connecticut often loses me. In the South, voices are alternatingly lilting and thick with the heat of history. The West Coast writers are on the edge, pushing discovery and polished individuality. In the big cities across the country, fast-paced talents take leaps that make you hold your breath in anticipation of the landing.
But here...I don't know. We watch the network news and think the anchors sound just like us. We think they could be us. Watching, reporting. Telling the truth as it was always meant to be told. Sometimes I think we lack passion. We lack kindness. Sometimes I think there are no stories behind our facts. We are stony New Englanders removed from the hot center.
Connecticut is where I come from, like it or not. Even if I move away, my tone is set.
I call the little ant-like toppings for ice cream shots.
I call the fizzy brown stuff Coke (even when it isn't).
I call that event wherein I put all my junk in the front yard and sell it a tag sale.
I call the shoes I wear while exercising sneakers.
I call the place where I buy (a lot of) alcohol the package store.
I call getting there a packy run.
I measure distance in the time it takes to arrive.
I am a child of Connecticut, that expensive, boring state that separates New York City from Boston. It's a nice place to visit your grandparents, but you wouldn't want to live there. It's got some cities, some country, and a lot of suburbs. It has the "highest per capita income" in the country, but all the big heads are down Fairfield County way. We pay for it up here, though, on the eastern side--where the United States Supreme Court decided a house is not your home; where the mills shut down years ago; where the remaining factory makes potato chips in the enormous Fry-Daddy that is my town.
It is important to me to infuse my writing with a sense of place, though Connecticut often loses me. In the South, voices are alternatingly lilting and thick with the heat of history. The West Coast writers are on the edge, pushing discovery and polished individuality. In the big cities across the country, fast-paced talents take leaps that make you hold your breath in anticipation of the landing.
But here...I don't know. We watch the network news and think the anchors sound just like us. We think they could be us. Watching, reporting. Telling the truth as it was always meant to be told. Sometimes I think we lack passion. We lack kindness. Sometimes I think there are no stories behind our facts. We are stony New Englanders removed from the hot center.
Connecticut is where I come from, like it or not. Even if I move away, my tone is set.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
When Defiance is Still Cute
Every meal time, The Boss takes it upon herself to remind me of our dog's presence. "Dog!" she shrieks, pointing with the hysterical emphasis of a child ingraining a word into her vocabulary. "Dog!" She points again, staring down at the dog perched beside her. She looks at me. She looks at our pet. "Dog!"
"Yes, she's a dog. I think you've mentioned that already."
"Dog!"
"You can do better than that," I say. "I know you have more words." I never had much patience to begin with, but I have even less when I'm trying to nourish a child who insists on using a spoon when she doesn't know how.
The Boss casts upon me a sideways look of raised eyebrows and a curl-cornered lip. She takes a piece of chicken and holds it out over the edge of the high chair. Her gaze stays connected to mine. I am afraid.
The food falls into the dog's waiting mouth.
"Uh-oh," she says.
___
"Yes, she's a dog. I think you've mentioned that already."
"Dog!"
"You can do better than that," I say. "I know you have more words." I never had much patience to begin with, but I have even less when I'm trying to nourish a child who insists on using a spoon when she doesn't know how.
The Boss casts upon me a sideways look of raised eyebrows and a curl-cornered lip. She takes a piece of chicken and holds it out over the edge of the high chair. Her gaze stays connected to mine. I am afraid.
The food falls into the dog's waiting mouth.
"Uh-oh," she says.
___
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
24/7 Car Repair
I know nothing about cars. I know nothing about a lot of things, in fact. One could theoretically string together everything I don't know, end to end, till the link of my idiocy reaches the de-planetized Pluto and comes back again, infinitely. But today we're just talking about cars.
I'm driving a vehicle that is leaking something into (or out of?) something else and then evaporating off a really hot something in a very rubbery-smelling way. All I know for sure is that when a particular light on the dashboard glows orange--I've been told it's in the shape of a radiator--that I must add coolant to the clear thingy underneath the hood of the car. This is, apparently, a temporary band-aid that will cover my car's wounds until the parts my husband ordered from the Internet arrive at our doorstep.
Except that today, I couldn't get the cap off the clear thingy underneath the hood of the car. I tried, but not only am I afraid of opening it because I got psyched out by the message right on the cap that says OPEN SLOWLY, CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE!!!!!!!!! (or something to that effect), but also because I am weak. I am a weak idiot. A weak idiot on the side of the road in a state where no person is under any obligation whatsoever to express an interest in and/or care for another human being. I would've stood there all day if I didn't give up and get back in my car. I headed for a gas station. I needed gas anyway.
There was a man a the Shell station (cheapest around, by one penny) who looked just like my father. He was all white-bearded and porous as he shot the bull with the Pepsi delivery guy. Once my car was done refueling, I asked the gentlemen if either of them would be willing to help me get the cap off the coolant thing. The one who looked like my father was amenable.
"I have to keep adding coolant because it leaks out," I volunteered as he removed the cap, which came off with a gentle hiss that was not nearly as explosive as I feared.
"Oh?" He didn't seem to believe me. As if I am one of those modern, coolant obsessed women who juggles a baby, a writing career and a compulsive need to top off the coolant resevoir every 25 miles.
"Yeah," I said. "Yesterday it almost overheated!"
"Really?" He seemed to believe we were getting somewhere, now.
"It had plenty of coolant and then suddenly it was gone! Boy, I sure don't want that to happen again." I probably didn't sound that hokey, but almost.
"How's the oil?"
Ding! Ding! Bells went off in my head. I knew the answer to this! The Partner shared the story with me last night when I went to visit him in the garage. Those trips are rare for me, as I hate that workspace and everything in it. I feel roughly the same way about garages as I do about Home Depot. Both are cavernous and dingy; both are filled with mice, birds and plumber's cracks.
"The oil is fine. There's no coolant leaking in there. Nosirree. My husband checked it last night. This type of car is prone to coolant leaking into the engine, though. Yup, my last engine had that very problem. But not now. This time it's the filter." What filter, I have no idea. And, d'ya know what? He didn't ask.
So he poured in the coolant that I had pulled out from behind my driver's seat. Really, he was going above and beyond. I just needed the cap opened. I could've figured out the rest.
"There you go," he said, replacing the cap and closing the hood.
"Thanks," I said. He nodded and walked away.
I side-stepped to the driver's side with a spring to my gait. I waved at The Boss, who was content as always in the back seat. I felt like I had really accomplished something.
I averted disaster. All by myself. So what if I needed a little assistance when it came to the manual labor. Baby steps, people. Baby steps.
I'm driving a vehicle that is leaking something into (or out of?) something else and then evaporating off a really hot something in a very rubbery-smelling way. All I know for sure is that when a particular light on the dashboard glows orange--I've been told it's in the shape of a radiator--that I must add coolant to the clear thingy underneath the hood of the car. This is, apparently, a temporary band-aid that will cover my car's wounds until the parts my husband ordered from the Internet arrive at our doorstep.
Except that today, I couldn't get the cap off the clear thingy underneath the hood of the car. I tried, but not only am I afraid of opening it because I got psyched out by the message right on the cap that says OPEN SLOWLY, CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE!!!!!!!!! (or something to that effect), but also because I am weak. I am a weak idiot. A weak idiot on the side of the road in a state where no person is under any obligation whatsoever to express an interest in and/or care for another human being. I would've stood there all day if I didn't give up and get back in my car. I headed for a gas station. I needed gas anyway.
There was a man a the Shell station (cheapest around, by one penny) who looked just like my father. He was all white-bearded and porous as he shot the bull with the Pepsi delivery guy. Once my car was done refueling, I asked the gentlemen if either of them would be willing to help me get the cap off the coolant thing. The one who looked like my father was amenable.
"I have to keep adding coolant because it leaks out," I volunteered as he removed the cap, which came off with a gentle hiss that was not nearly as explosive as I feared.
"Oh?" He didn't seem to believe me. As if I am one of those modern, coolant obsessed women who juggles a baby, a writing career and a compulsive need to top off the coolant resevoir every 25 miles.
"Yeah," I said. "Yesterday it almost overheated!"
"Really?" He seemed to believe we were getting somewhere, now.
"It had plenty of coolant and then suddenly it was gone! Boy, I sure don't want that to happen again." I probably didn't sound that hokey, but almost.
"How's the oil?"
Ding! Ding! Bells went off in my head. I knew the answer to this! The Partner shared the story with me last night when I went to visit him in the garage. Those trips are rare for me, as I hate that workspace and everything in it. I feel roughly the same way about garages as I do about Home Depot. Both are cavernous and dingy; both are filled with mice, birds and plumber's cracks.
"The oil is fine. There's no coolant leaking in there. Nosirree. My husband checked it last night. This type of car is prone to coolant leaking into the engine, though. Yup, my last engine had that very problem. But not now. This time it's the filter." What filter, I have no idea. And, d'ya know what? He didn't ask.
So he poured in the coolant that I had pulled out from behind my driver's seat. Really, he was going above and beyond. I just needed the cap opened. I could've figured out the rest.
"There you go," he said, replacing the cap and closing the hood.
"Thanks," I said. He nodded and walked away.
I side-stepped to the driver's side with a spring to my gait. I waved at The Boss, who was content as always in the back seat. I felt like I had really accomplished something.
I averted disaster. All by myself. So what if I needed a little assistance when it came to the manual labor. Baby steps, people. Baby steps.
Monday, August 21, 2006
The Boss's Executive Decision
It appears that The Boss is done sucking at the teat of bewildered maternity. She has had enough. If she could speak coherently, I'm sure she would look me straight in the eye, twerk my nipple, and say "Get that thing away from me, now!" But, instead, she just looks away, points at the ceiling fan, and shrieks "dat."
La Leche and Kellymom.com say that it's highly unusual for a child under 18 months to self-wean. Of course, I've heard the "unusual" angle before as it relates to childbearing. If I honestly believed that half of the things that happened during my pregnancy and in the first year of my child's life were so darn strange, I'd have long ago exchanged our home life for a suitcase and the circus. Ladies and Gentlemen! Children of All Ages! Hold onto your hats as we unleash for the first time into civilized society...the Amazing Self-Weaning 13 Month Old and her Bearded Mother!
It's been a process in the works for months now, which is something I realize in retrospect only. She went from several feedings, to not-so-many feedings, to three. But never during this period of gradual decline did she ever request the breast. Other toddlers have words for breastfeeding, and gaping, grasping mannerisms to indicate what they want. Not The Boss. She would drink only when I made the first move, and she would decline anything more than three times a day (upon waking, going down for a nap, and at bedtime). Now, when she wakes in the a.m., she will suck for a minute, only to come up for air making the teeth-gnashing growl of a child hungry for a high chair, a spoon she doesn't know how to use, and colorful foods full of taste.
It's fine, I guess, except that they said I had 18 months. Breastfeeding advocates everywhere swore that either mother or child is aberrant if weaning commences before 18 months of age. Thinking myself and my baby relatively normal, despite a startling number of indicators to the contrary, I counted on that number. I kept a calendar free of commitments well into the winter so that The Boss could get her thrice daily fortifications from mom. And I did it gladly, because that bonding time was just as important to me as it was to the Boss--if not moreso, as it would now appear.
If the real truth is written anywhere, it must be in that How To Raise a Child manual they forgot to give me at the hospital. Either that, or the nurse slipped it to me before the morphine wore off, and I ate it.
La Leche and Kellymom.com say that it's highly unusual for a child under 18 months to self-wean. Of course, I've heard the "unusual" angle before as it relates to childbearing. If I honestly believed that half of the things that happened during my pregnancy and in the first year of my child's life were so darn strange, I'd have long ago exchanged our home life for a suitcase and the circus. Ladies and Gentlemen! Children of All Ages! Hold onto your hats as we unleash for the first time into civilized society...the Amazing Self-Weaning 13 Month Old and her Bearded Mother!
It's been a process in the works for months now, which is something I realize in retrospect only. She went from several feedings, to not-so-many feedings, to three. But never during this period of gradual decline did she ever request the breast. Other toddlers have words for breastfeeding, and gaping, grasping mannerisms to indicate what they want. Not The Boss. She would drink only when I made the first move, and she would decline anything more than three times a day (upon waking, going down for a nap, and at bedtime). Now, when she wakes in the a.m., she will suck for a minute, only to come up for air making the teeth-gnashing growl of a child hungry for a high chair, a spoon she doesn't know how to use, and colorful foods full of taste.
It's fine, I guess, except that they said I had 18 months. Breastfeeding advocates everywhere swore that either mother or child is aberrant if weaning commences before 18 months of age. Thinking myself and my baby relatively normal, despite a startling number of indicators to the contrary, I counted on that number. I kept a calendar free of commitments well into the winter so that The Boss could get her thrice daily fortifications from mom. And I did it gladly, because that bonding time was just as important to me as it was to the Boss--if not moreso, as it would now appear.
If the real truth is written anywhere, it must be in that How To Raise a Child manual they forgot to give me at the hospital. Either that, or the nurse slipped it to me before the morphine wore off, and I ate it.
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