Have you ever had a friend or relative who over-reacted to everything? Each bump in the road was the end of the world, each bout with the common cold was the plaque, every small accomplishment was worthy of national press coverage, and every basic need was an emergency that had to be taken care of immediately?
My dog Barnaby is the drama queen in our family (or technically drama king).
We had a beautiful yellow lab for ten years named Honey Bear. We brought him home when our third daughter wasn't quite two and our fourth daughter hadn't even been born yet. He was an adorable puppy whose feet were too big for his body and whose tongue was always lolling out of his mouth. It was our girls first experience with training a dog, which was evidenced by my oldest daughter trying to convince the puppy not to chew a pillow by reasoning with him like this, "You shouldn't chew that, puppy, because it's my mommy's furniture and she'll get mad," instead of just saying, "No, no."
Honey Bear was loving, and protective, and put up with so much tugging and hugging and dress-up from our girls that he should have won doggie awards. He had his share of quirkiness (he wouldn't have fit in our family if he didn't) like loving water so much that he once dented the metal fence around our pool trying to force his way in, and looking forward to our annual Easter egg hunt so he could find a few on his own and carefully peel the shell with his teeth to get to the yummy egg inside. When he developed heart problems at age ten and passed away in my arms, a part of my soul died with him.
The house was too quiet without Honey Bear's nails click-clacking on the hardwood floors, so we decided to get a new puppy. It would have been too painful to raise a Honey Bear II, so we agreed to go in a totally different direction and get a little white Bichon Frise. We chose a female and named her Isabella, but she quickly became Bella to all of us (this was in 2001, so we weren't honoring vampires). Bella is a laid-back dog who hardly ever barks and when she does, it's a deep-throated ba-roo, like a beagle. Her eyes are as black as coal and the craziest thing she has ever done is chew on rocks when we were doing some digging in the backyard. Seriously, just the thought of scraping my teeth on the hard surface of a rock makes me cringe, but Bella loved digging them up and chewing on them. She doesn't know that Bichons have a long history as pampered show dogs and is most happy when she is half covered in dirt.
We were happily living with our quiet, sweet little dog and a handful of stray cats we'd taken in. Common sense would tell you to enjoy the situation and don't rock the boat, but my family will always rock the boat no matter how many times it tips over on us. We decided to get another Bichon to keep Bella company. After all, who wouldn't love two adorable, calm little dogs to cuddle? We got a male and named him Barnaby.
My vet, who also owns the kennel where the dogs stay while we are on vacation, calls Barnaby "sensitive" and says it takes a special owner to raise a dog like Barn. He is being very generous and very politically correct.
The real story is that Barn is a hot mess. He is nothing like easy-going Bella. You would think they are two different breeds of dog. He doesn't even have her soft ba-roo; he has a high pitched yap of a bark and he uses it when he's happy, sad, scared, confused, lonely, hungry, or awake. We have had him for eight years now and not a day goes by that I don't laugh at his antics.
Barnaby is afraid of everything. He is afraid of his dry food bowl and will only eat the food if it's tipped out onto the floor. He is afraid of his canned food and will only eat it if you hold the plate with your feet so it can't move and startle him. Anything that blows onto or is left sitting in our yard is cause for non-stop barking and avoidance of the area until it is moved or we touch it to show him it isn't dangerous. This includes such known dog-killers as a paper bag, an open umbrella, a cooler, or a bag of fertilizer. He is absolutely terrified by the magazine page with the boy with the "got milk" mustache and the shopping bags from trendy stores that have half-dressed men and women on them, like Aeropostale or Abercrombie and Fitch. Freaks him out every time. We have to hide them.
Everything is an emergency with Barn. Bella nudges her empty water bowl and then waits. Nudges and then waits. Barn nudges, then overturns, then bangs it into the wall, all without a pause, as though he has just spent two days crossing the desert without a drop to drink. Even when you say, "Just a minute, Barn," so he knows you are coming, the onslaught continues. When he has to go out, he whines and dances so you know he needs to go this very second, and the thirty seconds it took you to cross the room were twenty-nine too many for him.
He is afraid to miss out on anything. His attention is torn in so many directions and he has trouble choosing which one is the most interesting. He wants to be outside with my husband, but what if I'm doing something interesting inside and he's missing it? He wants to be by my side, but he also wants to be with Bella and we are in different rooms, so he needs to travel back and forth, back and forth. He has the worst case of ADD I've ever seen in a dog.
He loves to go for rides in the car, but going for a ride makes him so excited that he throws up every time. He runs to the window and whines for it to be lowered, but once it is, he runs to the other window, wanting that one down as well, in case there is something that smells more interesting out that side. Between the whining, vomiting, and running from window to window, Bella only wants one thing--to climb in the front by me where she can sleep in peace.
Bella has had ear infections, hot spots, and various ailments, but she rarely ever lets us know about them. We stumble upon them at regular vet visits or through a slight wince while she is being pet. Barn, on the other hand, is apoplectic about every flea bite. This past weekend, Barn got a hot spot on his tail (which is kind of like a person getting poison ivy). We immediately cleaned it with lukewarm water and put ointment on to ease the pain and itchiness. We then took him to the vet for an injection and have used the pills and spray the vet gave us faithfully since. I feel terrible for him, partly because I hate to see him in discomfort, but also because I know how much this is rattling him. He is shaking like a leaf, keeps trying to bite his tail, fur is falling out, he is unconsolable when I leave his side long enough to use the bathroom even though someone else sits with him, and he wants me to carry him everywhere. The drama of the situation is so much more intense than if Bella had the exact same ailment.
There is nothing funny about a dog in pain or discomfort and I wince every time I have to treat his boo-boo, touching him as gently as I would a newborn baby. He is my baby and I feel his pain deeply. I've gone with only brief patches of sleep the past three nights to take care of him. But it is slightly comical to compare his "I'm at death's door" attitude about common ailments next to Bella's stoic life-goes-on response. It's especially funny to note the similarities to a human male's reaction to illness and injuries versus human females. I've always been the "Bella" in our family, pushing through pain and illness to take care of everyone while my husband needs the world to stop if he has the sniffles, just like Barn.
In spite of all his neurotic behaviors, Barnaby is also one of the funniest dogs you'll ever see. He is the life of any room he is in. He is not only adorable to look at, but has tons of personality. When he walks, he takes two or three normal steps and then hitches one leg up into a cute little skip for a step, then back to normal. He is a bundle of energy and loves to chase a bouncy ball around the room, inevitably losing it under furniture and then lying with his nose tucked under the edge of the couch or table until someone rescues it for him. When he is picked up by someone he doesn't know, he keeps his four legs stiff and straight as though he was a stuffed animal or a possum playing dead. He has spent so much time around cats that he often thinks he is one, including sitting on the back of the couch pawing at my husband's head until he gets the attention he craves.
He is afraid to climb a set of stairs, so he climbs at an angle from left to right until he reaches the halfway point, which puts him all the way to the right side of that step, then walks to the left side, turns in a full circle so he is facing up, and completes the climb. He hates the water, but hates it even worse when we are in the pool and too far away from him, so we put him on a raft to keep him dry, yet in the midst of the fun. His behavior and high energy make him seem like a puppy still, but so does his size--he eats the same amount as Bella, but burns it off too quickly to fatten up, usually while running in circles around her as she patiently walks through the yard like the princess she is. Bella mothers Barn and puts up with his hijinks with as much patience as Honey Bear put up with my young daughters' hijinks, but every so often, she looks at me with those baleful eyes as though asking, "What did I ever do to deserve this?"
There are days when Barnaby's barking drives me crazy and days when I'm tempted to lace his food with Benedryl just to calm him down, but for the most part, he is a good fit for our crazy family. It's nice to have a dog to point to and say, "Look what he's doing now!" to distract your company while you discreetly blow broccoli from your nose into a tissue or move your mother-in-law's toe so you can reach the ice cream in the freezer you are about to serve them for dessert.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Growling Bears, Spinning Party Guests, and Bobbing Hearts
Today, I thought I would share with you a few random experiences that I have had over the years, experiences that have made me the model of sanity that I am.
Once, two delivery men refused to bring the furniture I ordered into the house and would only leave it on the back porch because they saw a bag of dog food sitting near the door and as one of them put it, "That don't say Kibbles and Bits, that says Kibbles and Chunks."
When I was a little girl, my family used to go camping each summer in tents by a lake in the Adirondack Mountains. The campsite had outhouses that all the campers shared. Sometime around the age of seven or eight, I woke up in the night and had to pee. I left the tent and started up the path to the outhouse, but stopped when I heard growling. Thinking that it was a bear, I squatted down and wet myself. Turns out it was only my grandpa snoring in the neighboring tent. Oops.
On those same camping trips, at the age of five, I was so scared of water that my father used to bribe me by paying me a nickel if I would wade in up to my knees and then squat down until my shorts got wet. I could have saved him the money. All he had to do was have my grandpa snore and my shorts would have gotten wet for free.
On my honeymoon, my first trip outside the States, Herbie and I took a cruise. Many of the waitstaff on the cruise were Indonesian. On the last night of the cruise, I wanted to personally thank each of our waiters. I pointed to a group of waiters and asked the head waiter what our waiter's name was. He said, in a heavy accent, "Which one," and I said, "That one," and pointed again. He said, "Which one," and I said, "That one right there. The one on the left." We did this one more time before someone at the table was merciful enough to tell me, through his laughter, that the head waiter was telling me the guy's name was Rishwan.
I have told my family for years that sometimes when I laugh with food in my mouth, the food will shoot up the holes in the roof of my mouth and end up in my nose. I can blow my nose and there in the tissue is turkey or licorice or whatever I was eating. They never believed me and refused to look at the simple proof in the tissue (go figure). A few weeks ago, we were out to dinner with my oldest daughter when she was surprised by a laugh as she ate. She looked at me, blew her nose, and sure enough, broccoli florets. Don't doubt momma when she tells you she can suck food up into her nose from her mouth.
Sometimes when I get the hiccups, they turn into the burp-ups where each hiccup is a disgusting sounding burp. One of my daughters has inherited this great gift. When I lived with my parents and this happened, my father would say, "Leave the room." When it happens to my daughter, my husband says, "Good one!" The times, they are a changing.
Once, while out on our motorboat, the engine died, stranding the six of us far from shore with no other boats in sight. We reached for the oars and found that we had left them on the inflatable raft at the dock. With no other options in sight, we grabbed our waterskis, hung over the side of the boat, and used them to paddle. As we finally reached the busier part of the lake, several boats passed us, pointing and laughing, but not coming closer to offer help. At first, I was angry that they didn't assist us in our time of need, but when I thought about how we looked, I realized I probably would have steered clear of us, too. It's always best not to get too close to crazy.
The first time my parents asked my future husband to go on a trip with us, it was in a motorhome. As we drove, my mother opened the freezer to take something out for dinner, causing a shower of ice to fly toward her. She proceeded to jump up and down, wiping at the front of her blouse, and chanting, "Ice went down my hoo-hoos, ice went down my hoo-hoos." He married me anyway.
In college, I played the lead in a play that was a type of melodrama. I had a big dramatic scene where I picked up a "baby" wrapped in blankets and gave a monologue about the cruelties in my life. In one of the performances, the audience started laughing during my heartfelt speech and continued until I finished and exited the stage. I was crushed. Until my fellow actors told me I had been holding the doll upside down with her head clearly visible hanging out of the bottom of the blankets. Luckily, that prepared me for what NOT to do as a mother later on. (okay, so I occasionally picked up one of my babies by the wrong end, but at least there wasn't an audience to witness it)
In the middle of a backyard party at our house with about a hundred guests, an older woman we didn't know very well approached my husband, told him she'd had an accident in our powder room, and then got in her car and left. He found me and we approached the bathroom cautiously, as though it was a crime scene. Turns out she hadn't had the kind of accident I had when I thought I heard a bear, she'd had the kind some people have when they actually see a bear. We immediately called for backup. Doors to the house were locked and anyone pounding on one with a desire to use the bathroom was sent away with wild, panicked excuses. Two daughters guarded the doors, one rushed to light candles and spray anything that would spray, another stood clutching my arm as I shouted instructions between bouts of gagging, and the last daughter, the hero of this piece, helped her father take care of business. She only showed signs of cracking when she asked, "Was she spinning in circles when she did this because it's even on the walls." We made that daughter's boyfriend come in when we were done to sniff around and make sure we had wiped out the smell before we let any of the other party guests come in--see what bonuses come with being an almost member of our family! Seriously, does this kind of thing happen to other people because it would really help me hang onto a shred of my sanity if I knew this was a common occurrence. I have given lots of parties over the years and this was a first for me. I sincerely hope that's one party activity that doesn't become a tradition. I couldn't make myself use that powder room for weeks.
And lastly, one Halloween I went for my annual gynecologist appointment (I know, you're scared already, but be brave). As I lay there assuming the position, the doctor asked me a question. I raised my head slightly to answer her and saw, between my stirruped legs, two hearts bobbing in the air. I shook my head and looked closer and saw that the doctor, in the spirit of Halloween, was wearing one of those headbands that have objects attached to springs, and those pink hearts were bobbing up and down as she asked me intimate details about my body. To add to the surreal atmosphere, when she was finished, she snapped off her gloves, rolled her stool around next to my head, and hearts still bobbing with every word, told me she had found a problem that would need to be checked out with a CT scan and which would almost definitely require major surgery. As it turns out, the problem she found was cancer. So when people ask me how I handled the diagnosis, instead of the words, I remember those two hearts springing left and right, forward and back, and I say, "It wasn't as bad as you would think."
Once, two delivery men refused to bring the furniture I ordered into the house and would only leave it on the back porch because they saw a bag of dog food sitting near the door and as one of them put it, "That don't say Kibbles and Bits, that says Kibbles and Chunks."
When I was a little girl, my family used to go camping each summer in tents by a lake in the Adirondack Mountains. The campsite had outhouses that all the campers shared. Sometime around the age of seven or eight, I woke up in the night and had to pee. I left the tent and started up the path to the outhouse, but stopped when I heard growling. Thinking that it was a bear, I squatted down and wet myself. Turns out it was only my grandpa snoring in the neighboring tent. Oops.
On those same camping trips, at the age of five, I was so scared of water that my father used to bribe me by paying me a nickel if I would wade in up to my knees and then squat down until my shorts got wet. I could have saved him the money. All he had to do was have my grandpa snore and my shorts would have gotten wet for free.
On my honeymoon, my first trip outside the States, Herbie and I took a cruise. Many of the waitstaff on the cruise were Indonesian. On the last night of the cruise, I wanted to personally thank each of our waiters. I pointed to a group of waiters and asked the head waiter what our waiter's name was. He said, in a heavy accent, "Which one," and I said, "That one," and pointed again. He said, "Which one," and I said, "That one right there. The one on the left." We did this one more time before someone at the table was merciful enough to tell me, through his laughter, that the head waiter was telling me the guy's name was Rishwan.
I have told my family for years that sometimes when I laugh with food in my mouth, the food will shoot up the holes in the roof of my mouth and end up in my nose. I can blow my nose and there in the tissue is turkey or licorice or whatever I was eating. They never believed me and refused to look at the simple proof in the tissue (go figure). A few weeks ago, we were out to dinner with my oldest daughter when she was surprised by a laugh as she ate. She looked at me, blew her nose, and sure enough, broccoli florets. Don't doubt momma when she tells you she can suck food up into her nose from her mouth.
Sometimes when I get the hiccups, they turn into the burp-ups where each hiccup is a disgusting sounding burp. One of my daughters has inherited this great gift. When I lived with my parents and this happened, my father would say, "Leave the room." When it happens to my daughter, my husband says, "Good one!" The times, they are a changing.
Once, while out on our motorboat, the engine died, stranding the six of us far from shore with no other boats in sight. We reached for the oars and found that we had left them on the inflatable raft at the dock. With no other options in sight, we grabbed our waterskis, hung over the side of the boat, and used them to paddle. As we finally reached the busier part of the lake, several boats passed us, pointing and laughing, but not coming closer to offer help. At first, I was angry that they didn't assist us in our time of need, but when I thought about how we looked, I realized I probably would have steered clear of us, too. It's always best not to get too close to crazy.
The first time my parents asked my future husband to go on a trip with us, it was in a motorhome. As we drove, my mother opened the freezer to take something out for dinner, causing a shower of ice to fly toward her. She proceeded to jump up and down, wiping at the front of her blouse, and chanting, "Ice went down my hoo-hoos, ice went down my hoo-hoos." He married me anyway.
In college, I played the lead in a play that was a type of melodrama. I had a big dramatic scene where I picked up a "baby" wrapped in blankets and gave a monologue about the cruelties in my life. In one of the performances, the audience started laughing during my heartfelt speech and continued until I finished and exited the stage. I was crushed. Until my fellow actors told me I had been holding the doll upside down with her head clearly visible hanging out of the bottom of the blankets. Luckily, that prepared me for what NOT to do as a mother later on. (okay, so I occasionally picked up one of my babies by the wrong end, but at least there wasn't an audience to witness it)
In the middle of a backyard party at our house with about a hundred guests, an older woman we didn't know very well approached my husband, told him she'd had an accident in our powder room, and then got in her car and left. He found me and we approached the bathroom cautiously, as though it was a crime scene. Turns out she hadn't had the kind of accident I had when I thought I heard a bear, she'd had the kind some people have when they actually see a bear. We immediately called for backup. Doors to the house were locked and anyone pounding on one with a desire to use the bathroom was sent away with wild, panicked excuses. Two daughters guarded the doors, one rushed to light candles and spray anything that would spray, another stood clutching my arm as I shouted instructions between bouts of gagging, and the last daughter, the hero of this piece, helped her father take care of business. She only showed signs of cracking when she asked, "Was she spinning in circles when she did this because it's even on the walls." We made that daughter's boyfriend come in when we were done to sniff around and make sure we had wiped out the smell before we let any of the other party guests come in--see what bonuses come with being an almost member of our family! Seriously, does this kind of thing happen to other people because it would really help me hang onto a shred of my sanity if I knew this was a common occurrence. I have given lots of parties over the years and this was a first for me. I sincerely hope that's one party activity that doesn't become a tradition. I couldn't make myself use that powder room for weeks.
And lastly, one Halloween I went for my annual gynecologist appointment (I know, you're scared already, but be brave). As I lay there assuming the position, the doctor asked me a question. I raised my head slightly to answer her and saw, between my stirruped legs, two hearts bobbing in the air. I shook my head and looked closer and saw that the doctor, in the spirit of Halloween, was wearing one of those headbands that have objects attached to springs, and those pink hearts were bobbing up and down as she asked me intimate details about my body. To add to the surreal atmosphere, when she was finished, she snapped off her gloves, rolled her stool around next to my head, and hearts still bobbing with every word, told me she had found a problem that would need to be checked out with a CT scan and which would almost definitely require major surgery. As it turns out, the problem she found was cancer. So when people ask me how I handled the diagnosis, instead of the words, I remember those two hearts springing left and right, forward and back, and I say, "It wasn't as bad as you would think."
Monday, May 9, 2011
Hello, Mom? Is Shrimp Scampi First Or Second Base?
So I've been thinking a lot about prom and how things have changed since I was a young-un. Of course, back then Ma and Pa had to get out the wagon to take us across the prairie to the one room school house . . .
I grew up in a small town where even if you didn't know everyone in the school, you knew their name and knew of them. We didn't have a Junior Prom and a Senior Prom, we had a Junior/Senior Prom which both grades attended. It was always held in the high school gymnasium where a committee spent weeks making flowers out of tissue paper and trying to find a unique way to cover the basketball hoops. We had themes based on popular songs like "Stairway to Heaven" and the decorations matched the theme as much as possible (We built a fake staircase that twisted up to the gym ceiling as though "heaven" was in the second floor biology lab).
In those days, boys asked girls to prom. Period. If a boy didn't ask you, you didn't go and no one went solo. In fact, the tickets were sold by the couple, not the person. They were mimeographed sheets of paper that had been cut up into tickets and when you bought one, they wrote the boy and girl's names on the bottom of the ticket. I think a ticket cost $25 and we thought that was highway robbery, but all those tissue paper flowers had to be paid for somehow.
Some girls bought new dresses for prom, but most either borrowed one, wore a hand-me-down from a relative, or their mothers made a dress for them. Even the girls who bought one spent less than fifty dollars on it. We did our own hair and nails or had a friend do it for us. We wore the high heels we already owned for special occasions and no one dyed their shoes to match their gowns.
Your date would ask what color your dress was so he could buy flowers to match. Most girls got a small corsage to pin on their dress. The luckier ones got a wrist corsage. The ultimate at that time was a small bouquet that resembled a miniature bridal bouquet (I think it had the weird name of "nosegay") and very few girls received those. Most of the flowers were carnations, although sometimes a rose or two was mixed in if your date was flashy. My dates weren't flashy.
On the big night, your date would pick you up in his parent's car (usually a station wagon) and take you out to dinner. The only food waiting for you in the gymnasium was food donated by parents that ran the gamut from chips and pretzels to brownies and cookies, so dinner at a restaurant was an unwritten rule of prom night and girls bragged about which restaurant their date had chosen. Imagine the awkwardness of the dinner conversation when it's you and a boy who you've known most of your life, but have never talked to before.
Plus, you have to add in the advice your mother gave you before you left that you should order something nice, but not too nice because then your date might expect something in return. This advice led to thoughts like, "Hmmm, I've always wanted to try the lasagna, but that's $12.50 which translates to ten or fifteen minutes of necking. No way this guy's getting a steak dinner worth of wrestling in his back seat. I'm not eating steak until I'm married. He's not bad looking, and since he had his braces taken off, my lips should be safe for a kiss or two, so I think I'll go with the $9.00 chicken parmesan."
At the dance itself, the gym was suddenly magical with its twinkly lights and twisted streamers. A local band had been hired to perform and everyone crowded the floor to shift their weight from one foot to the other in true seventies dance style. Boys had to be dragged out for fast dances, but did the dragging on the slow ones since for some, it was their first chance to actually touch a girl their age. Every couple on the dance floor moved the same--girls' arms around boys' necks, boys' arms around girls' waists, no space between bodies, all leaning left, then leaning right, with an occasional change in the direction of the spinning as the only variety. We were about as animated as zombies.
When the prom ended, there were a variety of entertainment options. Some flocked to parties to continue the drinking they had started on the way to prom. Others dropped their dates off at their door with a quick kiss and a thank you for a lovely evening. Still others found a hidden spot in a local cornfield to park and negotiate what a dinner of chicken parm is really worth.
I have watched all four of my daughters navigate the complexities of present day proms and I can tell you that prom has been taking steroids.
First of all, while there are those who already have a significant other and are set for a date, so many others find dates through committee. If your friend has a boyfriend, she asks him which of his friends want to go to prom and then his list is matched with her list of friends until everyone has a suitable date. This, of course, involves negotiations and compromise. It also means boys don't have to actually ask a girl until they already know that the answer will be yes. Sometimes a more outgoing girl will just stand up before class and ask who still needs a prom date and then will match up the people who raise their hands, either with each other, or with people outside that class who she knows are still searching. It's all so civilized and democratic. It's also about as romantic as union negotiations.
Once a date has been procured, the search for a dress is on. I've already described that adventure in a previous post, but there are also appointments for hair, manicure, pedicure, waxing, exfoliating, dermabrasion, spray tan, and maybe other procedures I don't want to know about. These days, a girl has to have more things creamed, sprayed, and removed for prom night than I had done for my wedding day. Hey, I shaved my legs and put on deodorant--what more do you want? If my date/husband isn't attracted to me unless I allow hot wax to be poured onto various body parts, he'd better be willing to have the same thing done in the same areas and be willing to go first.
Proms these days aren't held in the school gym. They are held in banquet halls and country clubs and nightclubs. A buffet dinner is served and there isn't any prom decorating committee folding tissues into flowers since the venue provides live flowers. There's no homemade stairway winding up into the biology lab, there are balloon covered trellises. Real linens, china, crystal, and silver have replaced the paper plates, plastic cups, and brightly colored paper napkins of my prom days. No awkward dinner for two beforehand, now you share the meal with all those seated at your table. And don't plan on picking up your date in Dad's car because even a limo isn't enough these days--it has to be a stretch Hummer that seats twenty or a party bus that holds twelve couples. And what chance do you have to take your date parking in a cornfield for some smooching when you're in one of those?
My strongest memory of prom is of my date in my junior year. He was a senior who I had never actually talked to before. We had a nice time, shared a quick kiss goodnight, and I thought that was that. He graduated, joined the Navy, and I moved on to my senior year. Then out of the blue, he called to say he was home on leave and to ask if I would have dinner with him. I thought it would be fun to see how he was doing and I accepted.
He picked me up and immediately I could tell he was no longer the shy, quiet guy who had taken me to prom. He seemed more confidant and very edgy. He talked a lot on the drive to the restaurant. We had a nice dinner and then went to see a movie. About halfway through the film, he put his arm around me and I let him, not seeing any harm in it (he did buy me dinner, after all, and I had the chicken PLUS a piece of cake for dessert). When we were walking across the parking lot to his car, he stopped and planted a big, sloppy kiss on me. Now I wasn't as comfortable. He was a nice enough guy, I thought, but I wasn't attracted to him and he was only home on leave. We got in the car and as we were driving, he opened the glove box, took out a baggie of pills and asked me if I wanted one before popping one in his mouth. I was a naive little country girl, but even I knew these weren't tic-tacs.
He turned the radio up really loud and said he knew a good place at a local farm where we could park and "talk" for awhile. There are two reasons to go into a cornfield--one is to pick corn and the other isn't to talk. I just wanted out of the car at that point. I made excuses why I really had to get home and he started telling me how much he had missed me and thought about me while he was at basic training. He said he couldn't get me off his mind, which I thought was really strange since we hadn't had a relationship or anything, just a few casual dates. When we reached my house, he just kept driving. His talking became even more slurred and rambling and I knew I wasn't going into a cornfield or anywhere else with this guy. At a red light a few blocks past my house, I jumped out of the car and ran into the backyard of the nearest house and kept running through backyards until I reached my own. After locking the door, I peered out the front window and saw his car stop in front of my house, sit idling for a few minutes, and then pull away. I thought my heart was going to pound out of my chest.
The next day, the phone rang and when I answered, it was his mother calling me to ask if I had seen or heard from him. I said I had gone out with him the night before, but hadn't been in touch since. She said, "Oh, my, so he's in town?" I said, "He was last night. Haven't you seen him since he came home on leave?" She answered, "He isn't home on leave. He went AWOL. I knew he was missing you because he talks about you a lot in phone calls and letters. I had a feeling you might have been the reason he took off." I promised her that I would call if I saw or heard from him again, which I was praying wouldn't happen. It didn't. I have no idea what became of him. I hope, wherever he is, he is happy and well.
Because of him, when I get up in the morning and look in the mirror to see another wrinkle creasing my forehead, another silver hair mixed with the blonde, bags under my eyes big enough to pack lunch in, and another chin resting on my chest, I tell myself, "Yeah, okay, but once upon a time, a man went AWOL just to buy you dinner and have a chance to take you parking in a cornfield," and it's a little easier keeping my chin up, or in my case, chins up.
And as scary as it was, it was certainly more romantic than a union negotiation.
I grew up in a small town where even if you didn't know everyone in the school, you knew their name and knew of them. We didn't have a Junior Prom and a Senior Prom, we had a Junior/Senior Prom which both grades attended. It was always held in the high school gymnasium where a committee spent weeks making flowers out of tissue paper and trying to find a unique way to cover the basketball hoops. We had themes based on popular songs like "Stairway to Heaven" and the decorations matched the theme as much as possible (We built a fake staircase that twisted up to the gym ceiling as though "heaven" was in the second floor biology lab).
In those days, boys asked girls to prom. Period. If a boy didn't ask you, you didn't go and no one went solo. In fact, the tickets were sold by the couple, not the person. They were mimeographed sheets of paper that had been cut up into tickets and when you bought one, they wrote the boy and girl's names on the bottom of the ticket. I think a ticket cost $25 and we thought that was highway robbery, but all those tissue paper flowers had to be paid for somehow.
Some girls bought new dresses for prom, but most either borrowed one, wore a hand-me-down from a relative, or their mothers made a dress for them. Even the girls who bought one spent less than fifty dollars on it. We did our own hair and nails or had a friend do it for us. We wore the high heels we already owned for special occasions and no one dyed their shoes to match their gowns.
Your date would ask what color your dress was so he could buy flowers to match. Most girls got a small corsage to pin on their dress. The luckier ones got a wrist corsage. The ultimate at that time was a small bouquet that resembled a miniature bridal bouquet (I think it had the weird name of "nosegay") and very few girls received those. Most of the flowers were carnations, although sometimes a rose or two was mixed in if your date was flashy. My dates weren't flashy.
On the big night, your date would pick you up in his parent's car (usually a station wagon) and take you out to dinner. The only food waiting for you in the gymnasium was food donated by parents that ran the gamut from chips and pretzels to brownies and cookies, so dinner at a restaurant was an unwritten rule of prom night and girls bragged about which restaurant their date had chosen. Imagine the awkwardness of the dinner conversation when it's you and a boy who you've known most of your life, but have never talked to before.
Plus, you have to add in the advice your mother gave you before you left that you should order something nice, but not too nice because then your date might expect something in return. This advice led to thoughts like, "Hmmm, I've always wanted to try the lasagna, but that's $12.50 which translates to ten or fifteen minutes of necking. No way this guy's getting a steak dinner worth of wrestling in his back seat. I'm not eating steak until I'm married. He's not bad looking, and since he had his braces taken off, my lips should be safe for a kiss or two, so I think I'll go with the $9.00 chicken parmesan."
At the dance itself, the gym was suddenly magical with its twinkly lights and twisted streamers. A local band had been hired to perform and everyone crowded the floor to shift their weight from one foot to the other in true seventies dance style. Boys had to be dragged out for fast dances, but did the dragging on the slow ones since for some, it was their first chance to actually touch a girl their age. Every couple on the dance floor moved the same--girls' arms around boys' necks, boys' arms around girls' waists, no space between bodies, all leaning left, then leaning right, with an occasional change in the direction of the spinning as the only variety. We were about as animated as zombies.
When the prom ended, there were a variety of entertainment options. Some flocked to parties to continue the drinking they had started on the way to prom. Others dropped their dates off at their door with a quick kiss and a thank you for a lovely evening. Still others found a hidden spot in a local cornfield to park and negotiate what a dinner of chicken parm is really worth.
I have watched all four of my daughters navigate the complexities of present day proms and I can tell you that prom has been taking steroids.
First of all, while there are those who already have a significant other and are set for a date, so many others find dates through committee. If your friend has a boyfriend, she asks him which of his friends want to go to prom and then his list is matched with her list of friends until everyone has a suitable date. This, of course, involves negotiations and compromise. It also means boys don't have to actually ask a girl until they already know that the answer will be yes. Sometimes a more outgoing girl will just stand up before class and ask who still needs a prom date and then will match up the people who raise their hands, either with each other, or with people outside that class who she knows are still searching. It's all so civilized and democratic. It's also about as romantic as union negotiations.
Once a date has been procured, the search for a dress is on. I've already described that adventure in a previous post, but there are also appointments for hair, manicure, pedicure, waxing, exfoliating, dermabrasion, spray tan, and maybe other procedures I don't want to know about. These days, a girl has to have more things creamed, sprayed, and removed for prom night than I had done for my wedding day. Hey, I shaved my legs and put on deodorant--what more do you want? If my date/husband isn't attracted to me unless I allow hot wax to be poured onto various body parts, he'd better be willing to have the same thing done in the same areas and be willing to go first.
Proms these days aren't held in the school gym. They are held in banquet halls and country clubs and nightclubs. A buffet dinner is served and there isn't any prom decorating committee folding tissues into flowers since the venue provides live flowers. There's no homemade stairway winding up into the biology lab, there are balloon covered trellises. Real linens, china, crystal, and silver have replaced the paper plates, plastic cups, and brightly colored paper napkins of my prom days. No awkward dinner for two beforehand, now you share the meal with all those seated at your table. And don't plan on picking up your date in Dad's car because even a limo isn't enough these days--it has to be a stretch Hummer that seats twenty or a party bus that holds twelve couples. And what chance do you have to take your date parking in a cornfield for some smooching when you're in one of those?
My strongest memory of prom is of my date in my junior year. He was a senior who I had never actually talked to before. We had a nice time, shared a quick kiss goodnight, and I thought that was that. He graduated, joined the Navy, and I moved on to my senior year. Then out of the blue, he called to say he was home on leave and to ask if I would have dinner with him. I thought it would be fun to see how he was doing and I accepted.
He picked me up and immediately I could tell he was no longer the shy, quiet guy who had taken me to prom. He seemed more confidant and very edgy. He talked a lot on the drive to the restaurant. We had a nice dinner and then went to see a movie. About halfway through the film, he put his arm around me and I let him, not seeing any harm in it (he did buy me dinner, after all, and I had the chicken PLUS a piece of cake for dessert). When we were walking across the parking lot to his car, he stopped and planted a big, sloppy kiss on me. Now I wasn't as comfortable. He was a nice enough guy, I thought, but I wasn't attracted to him and he was only home on leave. We got in the car and as we were driving, he opened the glove box, took out a baggie of pills and asked me if I wanted one before popping one in his mouth. I was a naive little country girl, but even I knew these weren't tic-tacs.
He turned the radio up really loud and said he knew a good place at a local farm where we could park and "talk" for awhile. There are two reasons to go into a cornfield--one is to pick corn and the other isn't to talk. I just wanted out of the car at that point. I made excuses why I really had to get home and he started telling me how much he had missed me and thought about me while he was at basic training. He said he couldn't get me off his mind, which I thought was really strange since we hadn't had a relationship or anything, just a few casual dates. When we reached my house, he just kept driving. His talking became even more slurred and rambling and I knew I wasn't going into a cornfield or anywhere else with this guy. At a red light a few blocks past my house, I jumped out of the car and ran into the backyard of the nearest house and kept running through backyards until I reached my own. After locking the door, I peered out the front window and saw his car stop in front of my house, sit idling for a few minutes, and then pull away. I thought my heart was going to pound out of my chest.
The next day, the phone rang and when I answered, it was his mother calling me to ask if I had seen or heard from him. I said I had gone out with him the night before, but hadn't been in touch since. She said, "Oh, my, so he's in town?" I said, "He was last night. Haven't you seen him since he came home on leave?" She answered, "He isn't home on leave. He went AWOL. I knew he was missing you because he talks about you a lot in phone calls and letters. I had a feeling you might have been the reason he took off." I promised her that I would call if I saw or heard from him again, which I was praying wouldn't happen. It didn't. I have no idea what became of him. I hope, wherever he is, he is happy and well.
Because of him, when I get up in the morning and look in the mirror to see another wrinkle creasing my forehead, another silver hair mixed with the blonde, bags under my eyes big enough to pack lunch in, and another chin resting on my chest, I tell myself, "Yeah, okay, but once upon a time, a man went AWOL just to buy you dinner and have a chance to take you parking in a cornfield," and it's a little easier keeping my chin up, or in my case, chins up.
And as scary as it was, it was certainly more romantic than a union negotiation.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Hobos, Old Man Booty, And Cat Vomit
I'm a bad blogger. A bad, bad blogger. I shall say The Blogger's Oath fifty times before I go to sleep tonight as penance for not writing for so long (Is there a blogger's oath?).
In my defense, the last couple of weeks have been a bit of a whirlwind. First, I traveled to the writer's conference. Then, it was a week of preparing for prom night--not only dealing with dress, hair, shoes, jewelry, nails, flowers, etc., but also the fact that ten girls were coming back to my house for a sleepover following the festivities, so I also had to prepare sleeping arrangements, food, and drink (water and soda only, thank you very much). It's a lot of work, but so much fun to have the house full of teenage girls in gowns, gossiping about their dates and the dance itself, and then to wake up to bobby pins everywhere from the deconstruction of ten up-dos. (And guess what? I get to do it all again in a few weeks because the boy my daughter took to Junior Prom invited her to Senior Prom.) Plus this past weekend, we traveled to Pittsburgh to attend my daughter A's graduation from college--YAY! I'm a woman on the move these days.
Getting my daughter M ready for the prom was interesting. The two of us went to a local hair salon for her special 'do. She asked me to go with her to help explain what she wanted. It should have been an exciting time of preparation for a fun event. It was not. During the whole time we were there, the salon had the TV tuned in to an Oprah episode where she was talking to a young boy who had spent several years locked in a closet and was basically tortured by his family. Not likely to put you in a partying mood. Then, a male senior citizen walked by me and I noticed that he had money sticking out of his back pocket about to fall. I told him about it, he thanked me and stuck it in his front pocket, then wiggled his butt in my face and asked me if I saw anything else there I liked. I did not. Really, really not.
The prom was Friday night and on Monday, my husband, my daughter M, and I traveled to Florida to visit my oldest daughter J. J is an aerospace engineer who works on the space shuttle Endeavor. We originally made plans for the visit so we could watch the shuttle launch, but the launch was postponed. We can't go down then, so we decided to keep our plans and spend the week sightseeing in Florida. The day we arrived, J arranged for us to attend a private function where we met the astronauts who had just flown on Discovery's last mission. It was amazing to get to shake their hands, talk with them, and get pictures signed. I was humbled by the dedication and sacrifice these individuals make and was a little tongue-tied. My husband--not so much. He said, "Nice chucks," to one astronaut who was wearing sneakers and then told him to have a safe flight---despite the fact that they had just returned from their last flight ever. Oh, well. His isn't the only red face. I thanked an astronaut "for all you do" and he thanked me for all I do in return, thinking I was one of the employees who maintain the shuttle. Rather than hold up the line explaining that I didn't do anything other than raise a smart daughter who helps keep the shuttle functioning, I just smiled and stammered, "You're welcome."
We also spent several days at the beach. My youngest daughter M, who is seventeen and gorgeous, came back from the beach one afternoon and told me she'd felt uncomfortable tossing a football with her dad and sister since, as she put it, "Two hobos were staring at me." I laughed for a half hour, not at the sad plight of homeless men or the creepiness of them staring at my young daughter, but because all I could picture was two guys sitting on the beach in top hats with sticks thrown over their shoulders supporting a bandana full of their belongings as cigar stubs dangled from the corner of their mouths. I couldn't remember the last time I heard anyone use the word hobo and I told her so. The next day we visited the Ripley's Believe It Or Not Museum in St. Augustine and there was a plate made of cigar bands by, yup, hobos. And then we were watching a popular sitcom on TV and one of the songs had the word hobo in it. On one of the pages of the book I read that night was a sentence with hobo in it. I guess hobos are making a comeback. We should all take the wads of extra cash we have laying around and invest in companies that make bandanas. We'll make millions! Wouldn't it be odd if you avoided becoming a hobo by investing in supplies that hobos use?
This past weekend we were at A's graduation. We paid tens of thousands of dollars in four years of tuition so we could spend Sunday at a two hour ceremony in the morning where the speaker talked about himself and his accomplishments with barely a mention of the graduates, followed by a three hour ceremony in the afternoon where a twenty minute introduction of the speaker was followed by a half hour talk by the speaker about the speaker. I think someone thought they were at a political fundraising function instead of a graduation. All that was followed by a five hour car ride home. I lost all feeling from my neck to my knees, but my daughter A graduated Magna Cum Laude and is qualified to psychoanalyze me, which should be a full-time job. She now has the degree to answer the question Am I Crazy? and it only cost me sixty thousand dollars. Plus, by the time she hit puberty, she was telling everyone who would listen that I'm crazy, so I must be crazy to spend all that money to hear her reaffirm her beliefs. Or something like that.
I'm back home at last and my pets are punishing me for leaving them so often and for so long. The older dog just stares at me with baleful eyes if I call her or give her a command. The younger one is trying the helpless baby approach to getting attention and suddenly must be lifted up the stairs and onto the couch despite the fact that he has no problem doing it on his own when he thinks I'm not looking. The cats take turns climbing on me and sharpening their claws on my clothes and skin, giving each other a nod when it's time to trade places. This isn't just my guilt talking--there is an actual plan to punish me afoot. Speaking of afoot, M must be included in the punishment since one of the cats threw up on her bare foot last night. With a whole house and seven acres to throw up in, tell me that wasn't deliberate.
Life has slowed down to its normal craziness, so I'll try to post regularly again. I wouldn't want any of you to have to resort to coming up with elaborate plans to punish me the way my pets have. I can only take so many baleful stares and my clothes have so many claw holes that if you hold them in front of a light, you can see a whole galaxy of stars shining on the wall.
In my defense, the last couple of weeks have been a bit of a whirlwind. First, I traveled to the writer's conference. Then, it was a week of preparing for prom night--not only dealing with dress, hair, shoes, jewelry, nails, flowers, etc., but also the fact that ten girls were coming back to my house for a sleepover following the festivities, so I also had to prepare sleeping arrangements, food, and drink (water and soda only, thank you very much). It's a lot of work, but so much fun to have the house full of teenage girls in gowns, gossiping about their dates and the dance itself, and then to wake up to bobby pins everywhere from the deconstruction of ten up-dos. (And guess what? I get to do it all again in a few weeks because the boy my daughter took to Junior Prom invited her to Senior Prom.) Plus this past weekend, we traveled to Pittsburgh to attend my daughter A's graduation from college--YAY! I'm a woman on the move these days.
Getting my daughter M ready for the prom was interesting. The two of us went to a local hair salon for her special 'do. She asked me to go with her to help explain what she wanted. It should have been an exciting time of preparation for a fun event. It was not. During the whole time we were there, the salon had the TV tuned in to an Oprah episode where she was talking to a young boy who had spent several years locked in a closet and was basically tortured by his family. Not likely to put you in a partying mood. Then, a male senior citizen walked by me and I noticed that he had money sticking out of his back pocket about to fall. I told him about it, he thanked me and stuck it in his front pocket, then wiggled his butt in my face and asked me if I saw anything else there I liked. I did not. Really, really not.
The prom was Friday night and on Monday, my husband, my daughter M, and I traveled to Florida to visit my oldest daughter J. J is an aerospace engineer who works on the space shuttle Endeavor. We originally made plans for the visit so we could watch the shuttle launch, but the launch was postponed. We can't go down then, so we decided to keep our plans and spend the week sightseeing in Florida. The day we arrived, J arranged for us to attend a private function where we met the astronauts who had just flown on Discovery's last mission. It was amazing to get to shake their hands, talk with them, and get pictures signed. I was humbled by the dedication and sacrifice these individuals make and was a little tongue-tied. My husband--not so much. He said, "Nice chucks," to one astronaut who was wearing sneakers and then told him to have a safe flight---despite the fact that they had just returned from their last flight ever. Oh, well. His isn't the only red face. I thanked an astronaut "for all you do" and he thanked me for all I do in return, thinking I was one of the employees who maintain the shuttle. Rather than hold up the line explaining that I didn't do anything other than raise a smart daughter who helps keep the shuttle functioning, I just smiled and stammered, "You're welcome."
We also spent several days at the beach. My youngest daughter M, who is seventeen and gorgeous, came back from the beach one afternoon and told me she'd felt uncomfortable tossing a football with her dad and sister since, as she put it, "Two hobos were staring at me." I laughed for a half hour, not at the sad plight of homeless men or the creepiness of them staring at my young daughter, but because all I could picture was two guys sitting on the beach in top hats with sticks thrown over their shoulders supporting a bandana full of their belongings as cigar stubs dangled from the corner of their mouths. I couldn't remember the last time I heard anyone use the word hobo and I told her so. The next day we visited the Ripley's Believe It Or Not Museum in St. Augustine and there was a plate made of cigar bands by, yup, hobos. And then we were watching a popular sitcom on TV and one of the songs had the word hobo in it. On one of the pages of the book I read that night was a sentence with hobo in it. I guess hobos are making a comeback. We should all take the wads of extra cash we have laying around and invest in companies that make bandanas. We'll make millions! Wouldn't it be odd if you avoided becoming a hobo by investing in supplies that hobos use?
This past weekend we were at A's graduation. We paid tens of thousands of dollars in four years of tuition so we could spend Sunday at a two hour ceremony in the morning where the speaker talked about himself and his accomplishments with barely a mention of the graduates, followed by a three hour ceremony in the afternoon where a twenty minute introduction of the speaker was followed by a half hour talk by the speaker about the speaker. I think someone thought they were at a political fundraising function instead of a graduation. All that was followed by a five hour car ride home. I lost all feeling from my neck to my knees, but my daughter A graduated Magna Cum Laude and is qualified to psychoanalyze me, which should be a full-time job. She now has the degree to answer the question Am I Crazy? and it only cost me sixty thousand dollars. Plus, by the time she hit puberty, she was telling everyone who would listen that I'm crazy, so I must be crazy to spend all that money to hear her reaffirm her beliefs. Or something like that.
I'm back home at last and my pets are punishing me for leaving them so often and for so long. The older dog just stares at me with baleful eyes if I call her or give her a command. The younger one is trying the helpless baby approach to getting attention and suddenly must be lifted up the stairs and onto the couch despite the fact that he has no problem doing it on his own when he thinks I'm not looking. The cats take turns climbing on me and sharpening their claws on my clothes and skin, giving each other a nod when it's time to trade places. This isn't just my guilt talking--there is an actual plan to punish me afoot. Speaking of afoot, M must be included in the punishment since one of the cats threw up on her bare foot last night. With a whole house and seven acres to throw up in, tell me that wasn't deliberate.
Life has slowed down to its normal craziness, so I'll try to post regularly again. I wouldn't want any of you to have to resort to coming up with elaborate plans to punish me the way my pets have. I can only take so many baleful stares and my clothes have so many claw holes that if you hold them in front of a light, you can see a whole galaxy of stars shining on the wall.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
There's No Place Like Home
So I had an interesting experience last weekend.
Went to a regional writer's conference to meet up with some people, get some work critiqued, and have some quiet time to write (that means without cats or dogs between me and my laptop). The workshops were Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, but I drove up on Thursday and booked my room until Monday so I'd have time to work.
The conference was being held at a historic inn located in a small country town. I chose not to stay in the main hotel since I knew it would be crowded and noisy and instead booked a new little cottage with a queen bed, full kitchen, and small living room. When I called to make the reservation, I asked if I would be able to get room service since I wanted to eat while I worked. I was told yes. The day before I left (Wednesday) the hotel called to confirm my reservation and again I asked about room service and was told it would be available.
After a two hour drive, I arrived and went to the front desk to check in. As I was signing the forms, I read the small print and was bewildered to find that even though the inn charges extra for the rooms with the kitchens, they flat out tell you that you aren't allowed to use the kitchen. Huh? The form stated that even though the room contains a refrigerator, stove, oven, dishwasher, and microwave, they don't allow cooking and have provided no pans or utensils for use in the rooms. If you want to cook, you must make arrangements through them for a different room. So you lure customers in by offering a full kitchen and even charge them extra for it, and then when they show up, you tell them it's just for show? What's next--"There is also a king size bed in the room, but all sleeping must be done on the floor." "You'll find a toilet in the bathroom, but . . ." well, you get the point.
I hadn't planned on cooking anyway and had just brought some basics to keep in the fridge--fruit, cheese, milk, etc., so I didn't make a big deal out of it. I moved my stuff into the room and got to work. Around seven p.m., I took a break and decided to order some soup and a salad from room service. I called the number and reached an answering machine. Room service was available until nine, so I was surprised that no one answered. I called the front desk and they said, "Oh, the restaurant is only open on weekends." Seriously? The two times that I asked about room service, they couldn't say, "Yes, we have it available, but only on the weekend," so I would be prepared? Now it's seven-thirty on a Thursday night and I have to drive around a strange town looking for food. I felt like a high school boy whose date rubbed up against him all night only to push him away when he tried for a kiss goodnight. The word "tease" comes to mind.
The next morning, I took a shower before dressing for the first of my sessions. The owners of the inn had little notecards all around with environmental messages on them. Suspiciously, most of the messages might have helped the environment, but mainly seem to save money and work for the inn. I had to turn the water all the way up for it even to be lukewarm and then within five minutes, it was chilly. You know how important my Herbal Essence is to me, so I wasn't thrilled with rushing through my lather, rinse, repeat. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my hair, then starting drying my body with another one. Ouch! These towels must have been recycled bamboo or reconstituted pine nuts or something because they would take the skin off an armadillo. I patted the spots that still had skin and got dressed in my writer's uniform--black dress pants, black books, and a black sweater. Now all I had to do was dry my hair, put on my makeup and I could face my fellow writers. I unwrapped the towel and rubbed my hair with it, then looked in the mirror. It was as though I had rolled on the floor of a cotton factory. I was covered in bits of towel. I'm not talking about your normal everyday lint. I have cats and dogs, so I'm used to pulling fur off myself. No, this was chunks of towel covering most of my sweater. A lamb would have had to explode to get this much fluff on me.
I changed my sweater, finished getting ready and headed out. The conference part was good. I had fun talking with the other writers and there were some interesting talks. I met an agent who I think would be a good fit for my work and who seems to get me (I know, terrifying thought, right?).
After my meetings, I stopped by the general store to see if there was anything I could take home for my husband and the daughter who still lives at home. I found a bronze bear that I thought my husband would like. Oh, brother, no price tag on it. I took it up to the cashier and asked for the price. She called to one of the male workers and told him to find another one with a price. He wandered around the store with the bear in his hand, but couldn't find one. He picked up a fairy and with a serious face said, "These weigh about the same, so just charge her $20 since that's the price on the fairy." Talk about time travel. I thought I was going to have to come up with some gold nuggets to throw on the scale to pay.
I bought the bear and went back to my room to get to work. It was Saturday night, so I decided I would give room service another try and then put my nose to the writing grindstone. The cottage was with a group of buildings that were away from the main inn, but still within walking distance. The front desk had told me that I could park in what is usually the luggage drop-off zone because there wasn't anyone else staying over in those buildings. Since I was so isolated, I was surprised when there was a knock on my door that evening. I opened the door and found a six foot plus state trooper in full uniform. He said he was sorry to interrupt my vacation, but he was investigating a burglary in the building attached to mine from the night before and he wanted to know if I had heard anything. Say what?
It seems that while I slept in my little cottage, a person or persons had broken into the room next to mine and had taken everything--sheets, pillows, blankets, the TV, the lamps, and yes, even the crappy towels. The trooper wanted to know if I had heard or seen anything suspicious. I told him that I hadn't as my knees shook and my mind tried to wrap itself around the fact that only a cheap hotel room door had stood between me and criminals. If they had thought those towels were worth stealing, how much would they have risked to get their hands on my laptop and other technology? Yikes!
I gave the trooper my contact info, thanked him, then shut and locked the door. Fifteen minutes later, my bags were in the car and I was pulling out of the parking lot on my way home.
Peace and quiet in a country setting is overrated. I would much rather be at home trying to type around the dog on my lap, a dog who will bark like his tail is on fire if anyone shows up here looking for crappy towels to steal. Hey, maybe I can leave the ones my sister made dingy on the back porch and the burglar will take them and leave.
Two birds--one stone.
Went to a regional writer's conference to meet up with some people, get some work critiqued, and have some quiet time to write (that means without cats or dogs between me and my laptop). The workshops were Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, but I drove up on Thursday and booked my room until Monday so I'd have time to work.
The conference was being held at a historic inn located in a small country town. I chose not to stay in the main hotel since I knew it would be crowded and noisy and instead booked a new little cottage with a queen bed, full kitchen, and small living room. When I called to make the reservation, I asked if I would be able to get room service since I wanted to eat while I worked. I was told yes. The day before I left (Wednesday) the hotel called to confirm my reservation and again I asked about room service and was told it would be available.
After a two hour drive, I arrived and went to the front desk to check in. As I was signing the forms, I read the small print and was bewildered to find that even though the inn charges extra for the rooms with the kitchens, they flat out tell you that you aren't allowed to use the kitchen. Huh? The form stated that even though the room contains a refrigerator, stove, oven, dishwasher, and microwave, they don't allow cooking and have provided no pans or utensils for use in the rooms. If you want to cook, you must make arrangements through them for a different room. So you lure customers in by offering a full kitchen and even charge them extra for it, and then when they show up, you tell them it's just for show? What's next--"There is also a king size bed in the room, but all sleeping must be done on the floor." "You'll find a toilet in the bathroom, but . . ." well, you get the point.
I hadn't planned on cooking anyway and had just brought some basics to keep in the fridge--fruit, cheese, milk, etc., so I didn't make a big deal out of it. I moved my stuff into the room and got to work. Around seven p.m., I took a break and decided to order some soup and a salad from room service. I called the number and reached an answering machine. Room service was available until nine, so I was surprised that no one answered. I called the front desk and they said, "Oh, the restaurant is only open on weekends." Seriously? The two times that I asked about room service, they couldn't say, "Yes, we have it available, but only on the weekend," so I would be prepared? Now it's seven-thirty on a Thursday night and I have to drive around a strange town looking for food. I felt like a high school boy whose date rubbed up against him all night only to push him away when he tried for a kiss goodnight. The word "tease" comes to mind.
The next morning, I took a shower before dressing for the first of my sessions. The owners of the inn had little notecards all around with environmental messages on them. Suspiciously, most of the messages might have helped the environment, but mainly seem to save money and work for the inn. I had to turn the water all the way up for it even to be lukewarm and then within five minutes, it was chilly. You know how important my Herbal Essence is to me, so I wasn't thrilled with rushing through my lather, rinse, repeat. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my hair, then starting drying my body with another one. Ouch! These towels must have been recycled bamboo or reconstituted pine nuts or something because they would take the skin off an armadillo. I patted the spots that still had skin and got dressed in my writer's uniform--black dress pants, black books, and a black sweater. Now all I had to do was dry my hair, put on my makeup and I could face my fellow writers. I unwrapped the towel and rubbed my hair with it, then looked in the mirror. It was as though I had rolled on the floor of a cotton factory. I was covered in bits of towel. I'm not talking about your normal everyday lint. I have cats and dogs, so I'm used to pulling fur off myself. No, this was chunks of towel covering most of my sweater. A lamb would have had to explode to get this much fluff on me.
I changed my sweater, finished getting ready and headed out. The conference part was good. I had fun talking with the other writers and there were some interesting talks. I met an agent who I think would be a good fit for my work and who seems to get me (I know, terrifying thought, right?).
After my meetings, I stopped by the general store to see if there was anything I could take home for my husband and the daughter who still lives at home. I found a bronze bear that I thought my husband would like. Oh, brother, no price tag on it. I took it up to the cashier and asked for the price. She called to one of the male workers and told him to find another one with a price. He wandered around the store with the bear in his hand, but couldn't find one. He picked up a fairy and with a serious face said, "These weigh about the same, so just charge her $20 since that's the price on the fairy." Talk about time travel. I thought I was going to have to come up with some gold nuggets to throw on the scale to pay.
I bought the bear and went back to my room to get to work. It was Saturday night, so I decided I would give room service another try and then put my nose to the writing grindstone. The cottage was with a group of buildings that were away from the main inn, but still within walking distance. The front desk had told me that I could park in what is usually the luggage drop-off zone because there wasn't anyone else staying over in those buildings. Since I was so isolated, I was surprised when there was a knock on my door that evening. I opened the door and found a six foot plus state trooper in full uniform. He said he was sorry to interrupt my vacation, but he was investigating a burglary in the building attached to mine from the night before and he wanted to know if I had heard anything. Say what?
It seems that while I slept in my little cottage, a person or persons had broken into the room next to mine and had taken everything--sheets, pillows, blankets, the TV, the lamps, and yes, even the crappy towels. The trooper wanted to know if I had heard or seen anything suspicious. I told him that I hadn't as my knees shook and my mind tried to wrap itself around the fact that only a cheap hotel room door had stood between me and criminals. If they had thought those towels were worth stealing, how much would they have risked to get their hands on my laptop and other technology? Yikes!
I gave the trooper my contact info, thanked him, then shut and locked the door. Fifteen minutes later, my bags were in the car and I was pulling out of the parking lot on my way home.
Peace and quiet in a country setting is overrated. I would much rather be at home trying to type around the dog on my lap, a dog who will bark like his tail is on fire if anyone shows up here looking for crappy towels to steal. Hey, maybe I can leave the ones my sister made dingy on the back porch and the burglar will take them and leave.
Two birds--one stone.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Who Can I Count On To Suck Out The Poison?
Psychoanalysis-Stage Two.
Some people have a natural confidence in themselves and wear it like a second skin. Others never find confidence no matter how great their achievements. I fall somewhere in between. Mine's more like a sunburn that peels easily. Or like the shell game you find on street corners-now you see it, now you don't, and even when you see it, it's not there for long. Definitely a sucker's bet.
It was distinctly not there for most of my school years when I was too shy to peek out from behind my curtain of hair. In my junior year, I was chosen as a majorette. Not top tier popularity like the cheerleaders, but moving up the ladder just a bit. In my senior year, there was the combination of being head majorette and realizing this was it, I would probably never see most of these people again, so what did I have to lose? I stepped out of my shell a little and gained a thin layer of confidence.
Then I left for college and a whole new life. It was a very small school, but these people hadn't been there for all my awkward years, hadn't seen my Cousin It impression, hadn't known my family, and hadn't had front row seats for every embarrassing puberty-driven humiliation life had dealt me. I could start fresh. And I did.
I had great friends, I was in plays, I dated cute guys, and even when my confidence flickered, I had discovered the secret that most successful-people-manuals share with you--fake it. That's right-fake it. I became the queen of faking confidence and surviving faking it made me more confident. I challenged myself all the time-- if nobody wanted to be the one to ask the cranky professor for more time to complete an assignment, I volunteered. Nobody wanted to approach the group of hot guys to find out where the best party was going to be--send me in. My knees would be shaking and my head would be spinning like a seat on the Tilt-a-Whirl at the town carnival, but I'd grit my teeth and do it.
By the time I graduated from college, I was feeling pretty good about myself. I had a college degree, a guy who thought I was pretty special, lifelong friends, and my whole future ahead of me. The guy asked me to spend my life with him and everything was coming up roses. Besides, that was part of that brief period when my lumps and bumps were aligned like the stars.
So when exactly did that layer of confidence start splitting like the skin on an overripe banana?
Maybe it was when my future father-in-law told me to be sure my coal-cracker family wore shoes to the wedding so he wouldn't be embarrassed. I could be wrong, but I think IBM required that their executives, of which my father was one, wore shoes to work.
Or perhaps it was when my future mother-in-law said she wouldn't come to the wedding if it was in my church because she wasn't going to sit through a "heathen" ritual (you know us Methodists are always beheading chickens and smearing the blood on our infants to appease the pagan gods).
Could it have been in the middle of my bridesmaids' luncheon, when in front of everyone, my soon-to-be sister-in-law announced that no one in her family was happy about the wedding going forward (she could have just given me a toaster, but this was a nice gift, too).
Or maybe it was the first ten Christmases or so when I arrived at their house with bags of carefully chosen gifts for all of them and left with bags of gifts for my husband and children, but not one item in there for me. I guess the Grinch took all mine up the mountain and they fell off his sleigh. (Oh, to live in Whoville where we can all join hands and enjoy the Roast Beast--Yahoo torres . . . ) (Note to mother-in-law--Yahoo torres is a phrase from a Christmas cartoon, not a chant from one of our pagan rituals. That goes more like Ba boo zorres. Just want to make that clear.)
These are just a few of thousands of examples, but this steady drumbeat of "You're not good enough, you're not smart enough, and gosh darn it, we just don't like you," was more than enough to break my thin shell of confidence. I responded by vowing to prove them wrong, but the more I tried to be what I thought they wanted, the less I was myself and the unhappier I grew. I don't remember what the straw was that broke the camel's back, but one day I realized that I didn't want to be like them, I didn't care what they thought, and being around them was like sprinkling arsenic on your salad, toxic and self-destructive.
I couldn't cut them out of my life altogether because that wouldn't be fair to my husband and children. I do show up for the important functions a couple times a year and I never try to talk my husband out of going to as many of his family's get-togethers as he wants (well, except for the time I was only a week out of the hospital after major abdominal surgery and they insisted he leave me to participate in a family photo at their house). Sometimes my girls go with him, but most of the time they don't. They are smart girls and have witnessed things for themselves.
At some point in the years after I stopped caring if they liked me, they started liking me. My in-laws went from "no gifts for you" to bidding on and winning a signed Joe Paterno football for me just because they knew he's my favorite coach. They call me for help and advice and actually respect my opinion. Sometimes, they even tell people we're related.
What caused this change? I have no idea. It all happened around the time my first book was published, so maybe the move from hick/heathen/mutt to author was the turning point. Maybe it was because my kids turned out so well, despite their predictions to the contrary, or maybe it was because my marriage survived past all the dates in the betting pool estimating it's eventual failure ( I hear my mother and father-in-law put a crapload of money on six months). I don't know the reason why, but I do know it makes me very nervous.
After all, what other creature does a rattlesnake cozy up to? Only a victim or another rattlesnake.
Trying to figure out which one I am keeps me awake at night.
Some people have a natural confidence in themselves and wear it like a second skin. Others never find confidence no matter how great their achievements. I fall somewhere in between. Mine's more like a sunburn that peels easily. Or like the shell game you find on street corners-now you see it, now you don't, and even when you see it, it's not there for long. Definitely a sucker's bet.
It was distinctly not there for most of my school years when I was too shy to peek out from behind my curtain of hair. In my junior year, I was chosen as a majorette. Not top tier popularity like the cheerleaders, but moving up the ladder just a bit. In my senior year, there was the combination of being head majorette and realizing this was it, I would probably never see most of these people again, so what did I have to lose? I stepped out of my shell a little and gained a thin layer of confidence.
Then I left for college and a whole new life. It was a very small school, but these people hadn't been there for all my awkward years, hadn't seen my Cousin It impression, hadn't known my family, and hadn't had front row seats for every embarrassing puberty-driven humiliation life had dealt me. I could start fresh. And I did.
I had great friends, I was in plays, I dated cute guys, and even when my confidence flickered, I had discovered the secret that most successful-people-manuals share with you--fake it. That's right-fake it. I became the queen of faking confidence and surviving faking it made me more confident. I challenged myself all the time-- if nobody wanted to be the one to ask the cranky professor for more time to complete an assignment, I volunteered. Nobody wanted to approach the group of hot guys to find out where the best party was going to be--send me in. My knees would be shaking and my head would be spinning like a seat on the Tilt-a-Whirl at the town carnival, but I'd grit my teeth and do it.
By the time I graduated from college, I was feeling pretty good about myself. I had a college degree, a guy who thought I was pretty special, lifelong friends, and my whole future ahead of me. The guy asked me to spend my life with him and everything was coming up roses. Besides, that was part of that brief period when my lumps and bumps were aligned like the stars.
So when exactly did that layer of confidence start splitting like the skin on an overripe banana?
Maybe it was when my future father-in-law told me to be sure my coal-cracker family wore shoes to the wedding so he wouldn't be embarrassed. I could be wrong, but I think IBM required that their executives, of which my father was one, wore shoes to work.
Or perhaps it was when my future mother-in-law said she wouldn't come to the wedding if it was in my church because she wasn't going to sit through a "heathen" ritual (you know us Methodists are always beheading chickens and smearing the blood on our infants to appease the pagan gods).
Could it have been in the middle of my bridesmaids' luncheon, when in front of everyone, my soon-to-be sister-in-law announced that no one in her family was happy about the wedding going forward (she could have just given me a toaster, but this was a nice gift, too).
Or maybe it was the first ten Christmases or so when I arrived at their house with bags of carefully chosen gifts for all of them and left with bags of gifts for my husband and children, but not one item in there for me. I guess the Grinch took all mine up the mountain and they fell off his sleigh. (Oh, to live in Whoville where we can all join hands and enjoy the Roast Beast--Yahoo torres . . . ) (Note to mother-in-law--Yahoo torres is a phrase from a Christmas cartoon, not a chant from one of our pagan rituals. That goes more like Ba boo zorres. Just want to make that clear.)
These are just a few of thousands of examples, but this steady drumbeat of "You're not good enough, you're not smart enough, and gosh darn it, we just don't like you," was more than enough to break my thin shell of confidence. I responded by vowing to prove them wrong, but the more I tried to be what I thought they wanted, the less I was myself and the unhappier I grew. I don't remember what the straw was that broke the camel's back, but one day I realized that I didn't want to be like them, I didn't care what they thought, and being around them was like sprinkling arsenic on your salad, toxic and self-destructive.
I couldn't cut them out of my life altogether because that wouldn't be fair to my husband and children. I do show up for the important functions a couple times a year and I never try to talk my husband out of going to as many of his family's get-togethers as he wants (well, except for the time I was only a week out of the hospital after major abdominal surgery and they insisted he leave me to participate in a family photo at their house). Sometimes my girls go with him, but most of the time they don't. They are smart girls and have witnessed things for themselves.
At some point in the years after I stopped caring if they liked me, they started liking me. My in-laws went from "no gifts for you" to bidding on and winning a signed Joe Paterno football for me just because they knew he's my favorite coach. They call me for help and advice and actually respect my opinion. Sometimes, they even tell people we're related.
What caused this change? I have no idea. It all happened around the time my first book was published, so maybe the move from hick/heathen/mutt to author was the turning point. Maybe it was because my kids turned out so well, despite their predictions to the contrary, or maybe it was because my marriage survived past all the dates in the betting pool estimating it's eventual failure ( I hear my mother and father-in-law put a crapload of money on six months). I don't know the reason why, but I do know it makes me very nervous.
After all, what other creature does a rattlesnake cozy up to? Only a victim or another rattlesnake.
Trying to figure out which one I am keeps me awake at night.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
When Exactly Did I Move To Crazy Town?
Last week was full of stinky bits---stress, sadness, exhaustion, and strangeness.
But I haven't moved so far into crazy town that I don't realize that a lot of that was my own fault. I can complain about all the food I had to cook for my family (who I love, really I do), but who asked me to cook so much? Yeah, I had to feed people, but I could have pulled out the lunch meat or thrown hamburgers on the grill instead of trying to impress with crab-stuffed cod and homemade rolls. I spent hours on the music for the slideshow, but I could have just found a nice instrumental piece and made it work instead of searching for the ultimate funeral music. I could have just appreciated that my towels were clean and not cringed over the fact that they are now a different shade.
Why do I obsess over making everything so perfect? I wasn't always this way. I used to be semi-normal (I know, hard to believe, isn't it?) So let's psychoanalyze my need for perfection. Hmmmm. This could take many, many blog posts, so let's start with just one possibility.
Did it start with the "You could be so pretty if"'s my mom used to throw at me. You know the ones--"You could be so pretty if you'd only pull your hair off your face," or "You could be so pretty if you'd only dress nicer," which leaves you with the only possible deduction--I'm not so pretty now. I need to try harder, up my game.
Moms aren't the only ones who use this phrase. Dads-guilty. Boyfriends-guilty. Sisters, best friends, strangers in line at Dunkin' Donuts-guilty, guilty, guilty. Everybody thinks they have the magic secret to what's keeping you from being so pretty.
I never got the you-could-be-so-pretty-if-you'd-only lose a few pounds, exercise more, stop eating, bleach your mustache, get highlights, have a nose-job, or change sexes, but I know people who did. I'm sure I've said a form of those dreaded words to my own daughters and shame on me. My daughters are beautiful as they are and they don't need to change a thing.
Now that I'm a mom, I know that my mother wasn't trying to be cruel or make me feel bad--she just wanted me to be the best I could be and to her eyes, I wasn't using all my potential in the looks department. She was probably right. I probably would have been prettier without scraggly hair falling over my face, but I wasn't confident enough to believe that and the scraggly hair made me feel less vulnerable. It was my invisibility cloak. Of course, it didn't make me invisible, it just made me look like Cousin It from The Addams Family, but to my puberty-stricken mind, it was a place to hide.
My ill-fitting clothes hid the body that was all strange lumps and bumps and odd angles. Once I hit seventeen and the bumps moved to the right areas, I no longer hid them in baggy shirts and pants. I had a few good years of showing off those bumps until I had four children and now I'm wearing anything that would camouflage an army tank in battle.
I see young women now who throw on a hoodie and a pair of wrinkled sweats, finger comb their hair, and they are out the door. I want to run up to them screaming, "You are wasting the very small window of attractiveness you have been given. Do you think anyone is going to want to see you in a tank top in ten years? You're past the gangly stage and headed straight for the even my wrinkles have wrinkles stage! Strut it while you've got it, girl!" But of course I don't because that would be crazy and wrong. So wrong. So very wrong.
My mom passed in 1991 and I loved her dearly. She was my biggest fan and for some reason, she thought I should be a movie star. She started telling me that when I was just a little girl and continued until I got married and had kids. I guess she gave up on the idea at that point.
But I haven't moved so far into crazy town that I don't realize that a lot of that was my own fault. I can complain about all the food I had to cook for my family (who I love, really I do), but who asked me to cook so much? Yeah, I had to feed people, but I could have pulled out the lunch meat or thrown hamburgers on the grill instead of trying to impress with crab-stuffed cod and homemade rolls. I spent hours on the music for the slideshow, but I could have just found a nice instrumental piece and made it work instead of searching for the ultimate funeral music. I could have just appreciated that my towels were clean and not cringed over the fact that they are now a different shade.
Why do I obsess over making everything so perfect? I wasn't always this way. I used to be semi-normal (I know, hard to believe, isn't it?) So let's psychoanalyze my need for perfection. Hmmmm. This could take many, many blog posts, so let's start with just one possibility.
Did it start with the "You could be so pretty if"'s my mom used to throw at me. You know the ones--"You could be so pretty if you'd only pull your hair off your face," or "You could be so pretty if you'd only dress nicer," which leaves you with the only possible deduction--I'm not so pretty now. I need to try harder, up my game.
Moms aren't the only ones who use this phrase. Dads-guilty. Boyfriends-guilty. Sisters, best friends, strangers in line at Dunkin' Donuts-guilty, guilty, guilty. Everybody thinks they have the magic secret to what's keeping you from being so pretty.
I never got the you-could-be-so-pretty-if-you'd-only lose a few pounds, exercise more, stop eating, bleach your mustache, get highlights, have a nose-job, or change sexes, but I know people who did. I'm sure I've said a form of those dreaded words to my own daughters and shame on me. My daughters are beautiful as they are and they don't need to change a thing.
Now that I'm a mom, I know that my mother wasn't trying to be cruel or make me feel bad--she just wanted me to be the best I could be and to her eyes, I wasn't using all my potential in the looks department. She was probably right. I probably would have been prettier without scraggly hair falling over my face, but I wasn't confident enough to believe that and the scraggly hair made me feel less vulnerable. It was my invisibility cloak. Of course, it didn't make me invisible, it just made me look like Cousin It from The Addams Family, but to my puberty-stricken mind, it was a place to hide.
My ill-fitting clothes hid the body that was all strange lumps and bumps and odd angles. Once I hit seventeen and the bumps moved to the right areas, I no longer hid them in baggy shirts and pants. I had a few good years of showing off those bumps until I had four children and now I'm wearing anything that would camouflage an army tank in battle.
I see young women now who throw on a hoodie and a pair of wrinkled sweats, finger comb their hair, and they are out the door. I want to run up to them screaming, "You are wasting the very small window of attractiveness you have been given. Do you think anyone is going to want to see you in a tank top in ten years? You're past the gangly stage and headed straight for the even my wrinkles have wrinkles stage! Strut it while you've got it, girl!" But of course I don't because that would be crazy and wrong. So wrong. So very wrong.
My mom passed in 1991 and I loved her dearly. She was my biggest fan and for some reason, she thought I should be a movie star. She started telling me that when I was just a little girl and continued until I got married and had kids. I guess she gave up on the idea at that point.
I have no idea why she thought I would make a good movie star. I think maybe it was because I liked Shirley Temple movies and I had curly hair ( I couldn't dance or sing and I didn't have the skills to be an ambassador, but she didn't let that get in the way). I had never shown any interest in acting or performing, I had never shown any skill for it either. I didn't have some mysterious "it factor" that drew people in. I was just a shy, awkward little blonde kid whose mother had big dreams.
She even talked me into signing up for a drama class in college by convincing me I could work behind the scenes. I did it to make her happy and then on the first day, I found out everyone in the class had to audition for the plays. What? I just wanted to paint scenery and get a free ticket to the show. I did the audition and won the role of one of the main characters. Life can be so cruel sometimes.
I went on to enjoy acting and to have roles in a bunch more plays during college and even had a role in a TV commercial, but I never tried to be a movie star. That was her dream for me, not mine. I can admit though, that if she hadn't seen something in me that I didn't, I would never have signed up for drama class and had the experiences that I had. So I guess her gentle little nudges didn't make me psychotic, just less shy and less hairy.
In my next post, I'll explore Possibility #2 in the search for the reason I can't say, "Make yourself a sandwich. If you need me, I'll be taking a nap."
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