Monday, June 13, 2011

Empty Nests, Torn Underwear, and the Stirrings of a Rebellion

I'm thinking about getting a tattoo. Or shaving my head. Or maybe getting something pierced.

I've always been dutiful.

A dutiful student who didn't cheat, didn't sleep during even the most boring classes, didn't play hooky, and got the grades to get into and graduate from college.

A dutiful daughter who respected her parents and tried to make their lives easier as they advanced in years, and who took their advice about not giving away the milk for free or nobody will buy the cow (Who exactly came up with that flattering piece of advice? Couldn't they have said something more like if a man can find enough wildflowers, he won't need to plant a garden? Or if he can get free honey, he won't need a queen bee? Why did women have to be the cow in this scenario?) I also did things in the order they preferred--dating, engagement, wedding, moving in together, and then children.

A dutiful wife who has never even thought of straying in 29 years of marriage. Who packed her husbands bags and sent him off with a smile on business trips, adventure excursions with his buddies, and weekends in the mountains while I stayed home with four small children. Who has turned the other cheek to his families' behavior so many times I can now do a full 360 degrees with my head like Linda Blair in The Exorcist.

A dutiful mother who always, always, always put her children's wants and needs in front of her own. Who diapered and nursed, wiped and powdered, carried and rocked, punished and rewarded, listened and learned for the last twenty-six years. Who did homeroom mom, fund-raising, crafts, CCD meetings, sleepovers, treasure hunts, Back-to-School nights, party treats, costumes, car pools, designated driver for the of age drinkers, luaus, field-trips, chaperoning, and homework-checking.

Dutiful, dutiful, dutiful.

Now, I am 51 years old, my children are grown with lives of their own, my parents have both died, I've lost touch with most friends over the years as I concentrated on my husband and children, and my husband has spent the past 29 years out in the world, building relationships, friendships, and businesses that keep him fully occupied.

What I wanted more than anything in life was for my husband to be successful and my daughters to grow into independent, happy adults and it has happened. Unfortunately, I forgot to include myself in those goals and now that the nest is almost empty, I can't figure out who I am if I'm not the one gathering twigs for shelter and chewing up worms to nourish someone.

I shall have to drop the unneeded twigs and spit out the unwanted worms and re-invent myself.

The question is--into what?

I don't have the answer to that, but one thing I know is I am tired of caring what other people think, of following written and unwritten rules that make sense only to the people who made them up, and mostly, of being dutiful.

I want to be baaaaaaad.

I feel like putting leftovers into Tupperware and not burping the air out. I feel like throwing an aluminum can into the regular trash instead of the recycling--on purpose. I want to let the grass in the yard grow knee high just to see the neighbors' dirty looks. Check underneath the table of the next restaurant I go to and you might find my chewed gum or you might see me order a banana split and when the skinny people eating leaves and twigs at the nearby tables look down their noses' at my gluttony, I'll slowly and deliberately lick the bowl. I want to wear white before Memorial Day and show up at a funeral in red. Dare me to swim immediately after eating and run around the house holding scissors and just watch me go.

I want to shock my friends by showing up at their house without bringing a bottle of wine or a baked good. Shock my family by taking the last piece of pie without asking if anyone else wants it. I may even stop putting the parking brake on when parked in my own driveway. The next time someone asks if I mind without really caring if I do, instead of saying, "No, of course not," I'll answer, "Yes, I bloody well do mind!" even if I don't (Forgive me, I've been obsessed with watching British miniseries on Netflix lately--Cranford, Upstairs Downstairs, Downton Abbey--and now everything in my head comes with a British accent. As for "bloody" Ron Weasley uses it in Harry Potter, so it can't be too vulgar a curse word, can it? Ooooh, I can add use the word "bloody" in my blog to my list of shocking behaviors!) .

I want to leave dishes in the sink and clothes in the washer. Drink regular coffee after five p.m. Bend the corner of a page down on the book I'm reading to mark my place. Wink at the butcher when he hands me my pork chops. Leave empty rolls on the toilet paper holders. Ruffle up the hand towels and then walk away. Feed stray cats. Pet stray dogs. Write a picture book in bad rhyme. Eat the collection of chemicals known as a Twinkie. Wear torn underwear even though I know I might get in an accident.

I can feel this rebellious spirit rising up in me and it scares me. I don't know where it might lead. Is it possible that if I surrender to it, one day I might find myself truly crossing the line and wearing socks with sandals?

Only time will tell.

Let's just keep my rebellious stirrings our little secret for now. Wouldn't want to create widespread panic.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Do Baby Zombies Eat Your Face Or Can They Only Reach Your Ankles?

I live in perhaps the oddest house I personally have ever seen. It's a farmhouse and the original rooms were built over two hundred years ago. Bits and pieces have been added throughout the years and sometimes I feel like I'm living in The Burrow--the Weasley's tottering home in Harry Potter.

The house has four floors. Let's start in the basement, shall we? The original basement was an approximately 15 by 10 foot room with beams running through the very low ceiling and a walk-in fireplace. Previous owners added a large cinderblock room under an addition which we finished to make a large rec room. Unfortunately, to get to this carpeted, paneled, rec room with it's pool table, sofa beds, and TV, you have to pass through the creepy old basement with it's rickety stairs, cement walls and floor, and exposed wires and pipes running the length of the ceiling. There isn't much we can do about it because we can't cover up these pipes and wires in case we need access. Feeling that this root cellar like atmosphere wasn't deterrent enough for our guests, we added a frequently used litter box to the mix. I have no idea how our daughters convinced any of their friends to venture down into this area to reach the playroom when they were little, but they did, and the basement has been the site of more parties, play-dates, and sleepovers than I can count. When you consider the fact that any little girl who had to use the bathroom in the middle of the night had to pass through here alone on her way, I'd say the Catholic Church should add this to it's list of miracles.

On the main floor, you have the dining room and living room, which made up the original house. A previous owner added a kitchen, family room and laundry room off the dining room and added a powder room under the stairs, which puts it right in the dining room. It's always a nice touch to be able to hear the sound of urination and a toilet flushing at your dinner parties. This powder room was the site of the unmentionable spinning party guest incident. Another nice touch to have that story in the back of your mind during meals around the dining room table.

Open a closet door in the dining room and you will find not a storage place for linens, but a spiral staircase leading to the master bedroom. The staircase is narrow and is unused because the same previous owner built a closet in the master bedroom that required lowering the ceiling in the staircase. A normal staircase was also built between the living room and dining room and I'm guessing that took place after the owners tried to pivot a dresser or headboard up the spiral one and got it stuck. There used to be a window in the wall of the now powder room, so they just put hinges on it and made it into a small storage cabinet.

On what we call the second floor (even though technically, it's the third) is the master bedroom, the master bath, and another bedroom. When you come up the stairs from the first floor, you are presented with the choice of three doors (It's just like Let's Make a Deal!). To your left, is the door to the master bedroom, immediately to your right is the door to the master bath, and slightly down the hall to the right is the door to the second bedroom. How is this possible when the house has four bedrooms? Well, someone throughout the years designed the layout of the house so that to get to the two bedrooms and bath on the third floor, you have to either go through the master bedroom or master bathroom. You can imagine the complications of that. If someone is taking a shower in that bathroom and someone else is asleep or changing in the master bedroom, you are stuck in the hall waiting for entry. This also means the master bath not only has the door to this hallway, but has a second door leading to the stairs to the top floor. I can't tell you how many guests have shared that they sat down on the toilet only to look up and realize there was a door wide open right in front of them.

The master bath had the only shower with the third floor bath containing only a claw foot tub, so you can imagine life with six people (four of them being teenage girls) and only one shower. Our stubborn insistence on keeping parts of history plus the herculean effort involved in carrying a cast iron tub down two flights of stairs kept us from putting a shower in even though it was greatly needed. Now, that three of the girls have moved out and are only occasional visitors, we, of course, came to our senses and we are in the process of installing a shower in that bathroom. It only took us twenty-two years of no one using the tub to realize, hey, maybe a second shower would be a good idea. It's no wonder our daughters know every spot on the ceiling when they spend so much time rolling their eyes at my husband and me for our inability to see the obvious.

The master bedroom has a closet with another spiral staircase leading to . . . nowhere. Previous occupants eliminated the exit at the top of the stairs by putting in a hardwood floor in the bedroom. The third floor used to be an attic, but was made into two bedrooms and a shared bath when the roof was raised by dormers.

In the long history of the occupants of our house, one thing was constant until we moved in---each family who lived here had five children. We, alas, broke the tradition by stopping at four. But even so, there have been many, many babies and young children living here throughout the centuries.

I personally am an open-minded person and don't believe in nor negate the possibility of ghosts walking among us, aliens flying above us, or intelligent life existing in Hollywood. I don't pretend to have absolute knowledge of whether these things are real or not. I can say that, despite living in this old house for twenty-two years, I have never felt an evil presence (other than my in-laws) nor have I seen anything out of the ordinary (well, I have, but I'm speaking in paranormal terms here, not my everyday abnormal living, breathing human sightings).

But others claim that they have experienced things while in our humble home. One case was of a couple who came to feed our cats while we were away. As the wife was opening cat food cans, the husband picked up the baby monitor from the kitchen counter and flicked it on. He casually mentioned to his wife that the kids sounded like they were having a good time upstairs. She froze and reminded him that the reason they were there in the first place was because no one was home. They listened to the sound of children's voices and he suggested that perhaps the part of the monitor that picks up sound was turned off and the receiving part, which he held in his hands, was picking up a signal from a neighbor's monitor. That can happen only if the transmitting part is turned off. She begged him to go upstairs and see if it was turned off. He refused and they dumped cat food onto plates and got out of there. They called us to tell us what happened and when we got home, we checked the monitor. It was turned on upstairs. We also reminded our friends that there were no other children living within the monitor's range. Many times over the years, we turned on the monitor to hear the same lullaby playing. It wasn't playing in our house and it was always the same one.

But baby monitors aren't reliable and there could be any number of explanations. So let's share our next story.

We asked two construction worker friends of ours to do some remodeling in our bedroom closet while we were away on vacation. These are tough, burly, hockey fan kind of guys. When we arrived home from vacation, excited to see the finished closet, we were shocked to see the work half done and tools lying abandoned on the floor, paint cans left open and drying, and general disarray. We'd had these guys do work for us before and knew that they were reliable about cleaning up after themselves.

A call to one of the workers resulted in an explanation of sorts. He said they had been making good progress on the closet when he casually mentioned to his co-worker that he wished I would pick up the baby because the crying was giving him a headache. His co-worker agreed before they both froze at the realization that I wasn't going to be picking up any baby since I and my babies were in another state. They stepped out into the bedroom and both were absolutely positive that the source of the crying was within the house and right up the stairs. They dropped their tools and pushed and shoved each other to be the first down the stairs and out of the house. Both refused to return until we were at home and could assure them that they weren't about to be slimed or have their faces eaten off by a zombie toddler.

I will say that when they did come back, the job was finished in no time. It's the fastest I've ever seen construction workers move.

Perhaps I should share this story with all future workers I hire. I could even rig a tape recorder to play a tape of a baby occasionally crying in case they are tempted to slack off a bit. I could program the lights to go on and off by themselves, have doors slowly creaking open . . .

Well, if it doesn't get my new wallpaper hung faster, it might at least discourage the in-laws from dropping by.

Of course, if there really were ghostly presences in my house, the time that my in-laws have already spent here probably convinced them to move to the light and cross over. Whatever unfinished business was keeping them here was probably forgotten as they came to the same conclusion I have--moving to the light is preferable than living in the hell of having my in-laws in the same house.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Wedding Plans, Barrel Racers, and Blood Oaths

I am honestly curious about something. Is my life normal? I mean, do most other people have the day-in day-out craziness and non-stop circus atmosphere that is my life? I'm not complaining. I know that I have a very good life in many ways--I don't have any flesh-eating diseases, none of my family members have ever appeared on Jerry Springer, I don't have to drive to the state prison to visit any of my children, and none of my in-laws live with me. But there is a constant swirl of insanity in my life and every once in awhile, I wonder if every one else lives in their own constant swirl of insanity, too.

My daughter C and her fiance E were in town for ten days for a whirlwind wedding planning visit. My daughter A came in to go to appointments with us. Ten days of trying on dresses, visiting prospective reception sites, meetings with a wedding planner, talking and talking about where, how, when, and who. C was sick when she got here, so within a few days, so were E and daughter M, who lives at home. M is finishing up her junior year of high school, so we wedged some end of year events into the schedule, too. There was all the usual shopping, cooking, and cleaning that goes with having house-guests, plus a dog who is still biting the rash on his tail where fur used to be, plus visits with their old friends from high school, plus appointments with family doctors to take care of while in town, and since it was Memorial Day weekend, barbecue food needed to be prepared and enjoyed.

It was great having them home and a lot of fun, but exhausting. A drove back to Pittsburgh on Saturday and by the time we got back from dropping C and E at the airport Monday night, all I wanted to do was float on a raft in the pool until I was as wrinkled as Grandma Moses.

Before I could even get home, I got a call from M saying that she needed me to go with her to a craft store for supplies for a school project. We pulled in the driveway at 5:30, and since the store closed at 6, pulled right back out again. Shopping was followed by dinner which was followed by trying to put the house back into some semblance of order.

Then the fun began. I received a text from C saying that they had made it to their layover in Minnesota and were taking off for the final leg of the journey back to North Dakota, but the pilot said there were severe thunderstorms in their path. She informed me, by text, that they were going to try to fly through the eye of the storm. And that was it. Then I got to wait, nervously gnawing at fingernails that don't have much room left for gnawing.

My oldest daughter then called to talk about her upcoming visit home (she is flying in today for a wedding this weekend) and while we were discussing details, I got a text from A that went like this, "Can I ask you a weird question?" No parent ever wants to get a text like that. A graduated from Pitt in April, but is staying out there for another year while her boyfriend finishes up his teaching degree. I cautiously replied, "Okay," and waited for the shoe to drop. She texted back, "Would you mind if I go to Canada tomorrow?" I guess for some people that isn't an odd question, but for us, it came from so far out in left field, it was in the bleachers. I told oldest daughter J that I had to go so I could call A and find out what she was talking about.

When I reached her, A told me that some sorority sisters were driving up to Canada the next day to stay for just one night to see Niagara Falls and wanted her to go with them. I got her to agree that she wouldn't get "Oh Canada" tattooed anywhere on her body, wouldn't go over the falls in a barrel or anything else, and wouldn't elope while there, and then gave her my blessing to take the trip. Of course, she was sitting in a bar doing birthday shots with her roommate when we talked, so I'm not sure she knew what she was agreeing to and I won't be surprised if she comes home married to a Canadian barrel racer with an American flag tattoo from a drunken misreading of my instructions.

Once I handled that situation, my youngest told me that she was having problems printing out a pamphlet for a psychology class assignment that was due the next day. She had completed the work, but the printer wasn't co-operating. I agreed to check the printer in an hour to make sure the pamphlets had printed and went back to writing. She went to bed since it was after 11 and she had school the next day.

I got another text from C at 12:20 saying, "Back in Minn two hours later. Probably here for the night." I called and she said they got about a half hour outside Grand Forks and had to turn around because of the storms. I asked if the airline was going to put them up at a hotel and she said no, they wanted them to hang out at the airport while they decided what to do.

Ding, ding, 1:02 and another text. "Looks like we're reboarding soon, looking at the radar, I think there is a gap in the storms, we're going to try to go through." Be still my heart. I called and asked if there was an option to spend the night and fly the next day, but she said there were no seats available on any flights. I hung up and looked at Barnaby, who now has a puff of fur at the base of his tail, a long section of what looks like pink playdoh, and then an odd little tuft that survived at the very top, and even he looked nervous. But then again, that's his usual expression.

I left my home office to check the printer and found nothing sitting in the tray. In the chair next to the printer, I saw four printed documents and a page that was crumbled as though it had come out of a paper jam. Hmm, curious. I absolutely love technology, but there is nothing as frustrating as technology that won't do what it's supposed to do. I used M's laptop to send the page to the printer again and it started shooting out pages with bits and pieces of text, but not the whole thing. I canceled and tried again with the same result. Oh, well, I thought, I'll just save it to a memory stick and print it on the one in my office. Except the laptop refused to recognize the memory stick. I tried for a half hour, but no luck. So I decided to email the pamphlet as an attachment to myself and and then print it in my office. In order to attach a doc, you have to close it first, so I did. Then I opened her email account and when I went to attach the doc, I couldn't find it anywhere. Another half hour went by as I searched for it, including in recent documents, and I finally found it in a sub-folder of another sub-folder.

I sent the email, went back to my office, and opened the file. But since my daughter typed it on a PC and I have a Mac, there were updates and patches and blood oaths that had to take place before my Mac would consider giving the print order. And once it was printing, since it was a tri-fold pamphlet with printing on both sides, it took me awhile to figure out which way to put the paper back in and what to ask the printer to do before I got it right. Plus there were the obvious questions of how many does she need, do I fold them, and why does this teacher hate me, too.

I finally finished with the pamphlet at 2 a.m. (spending most of that time wondering about the possibility of this whole thing being the actual psychology assignment--"See how far you can push subject before he/she snaps"). My eyes were bleary, I was having trouble making my legs move, and I had ink stains on my fingers, but I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep until I knew that C and E had landed safely. Being a writer, I must admit to having a bit of an active imagination, so of course I was picturing lightning strikes, turbulence, and C screaming, "I should have never left my mommy!" At 2:30 a.m., she finally texted, "Landed in Grand Forks, thank goodness." I replied and then stumbled off to bed to recharge for whatever awaited me in the morning, including a possible Canadian son-in-law.

I wish that I could say that this was a rare rogue wave in an otherwise calm sea, but this kind of stuff happens to me about as regularly as waves hit a beach. So I just want to know, is anyone else out there treading water or are you all floating on a raft, trailing your fingers in the cool water, sipping from a drink with an umbrella in it?

I could really use one of those umbrella drinks right now.