I am considering the effects of constant blogging on the psyche. I wonder if it is healthy to examine, in the presence of others, my past, present, and future (and my family's). I worry I am becoming one giant skeleton for the flesh and sinew of this blog. And the reason I worry is because I have recently begun holding up my end of conversations with references to my blog entries.
Sample Hypothetical Conversation With Other Person:
Other Person: My problem, blah, blah, my situation, blah, blah, my opinion, blah, blah.
Me: I know what you mean. Have you read my blog entry "Silence"? It deals with this subject.
Other Person: No. Because I hate your blog.
Me: Well, you should read "Sanitizer" then. It's all about what we're discussing here.
Other Person: I did. It was crappy.
Me: I think you might at least relate to "Salinger, J.D.".
Other Person: Whatever. You're full of yourself.
Me: You know, I addressed that in "Surface".
I begin to wonder which came first. Did the blog spring from utter self-absorption or did utter self-absorption spring from the blog?
Sample Hypothetical Discussion With My Blog:
Me: You have made me self-absorbed. For shame.
My Blog: Please.You were withdrawn and self-serving way before I came along. Hey, that's a great blog title - Self-Serving. It could be about how you used to offer to bake the pizza for you and your sister's lunch so you could give yourself three centimeters more. Plus also, eight more fries.
Me: If that gets out, you are coming down so fast your Stats will spin.
My Blog: You wouldn't do it. You would agonize over whether or not the Russians and the German were trying to check in. (Like they care.) Ooo, that's a great title for a blog entry - "Self-aggrandizement".
Me: Why does this always have to be about me? What about all the things you've done?
My Blog: Like providing a vehicle for your sense of Self-worth? Another great title! That one can be about the time you thought someone was complimenting you, and you said, "Thank you so much!", only to discover they were referring to your husband.
Me: I'm not talking to you anymore. You're mean.
My Blog: I'm rubber and you're glue, so...
Me: Oh, that's real mature. You are the most "Self-Congratulatory" blog I've ever managed. Go screw yourself. You can call it "Screw Yourself" - with my permission.
My Blog: Someone's maaaad. Oh, wait......
Me: Never mind!
My Blog: See you tomorrow then?
Me: Heck, yeah.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Southern Accents
I raised two Southerners who seem to think they are not Southerners. They act as if they are merely passing through the territory, and that it's permissible to mock the locals (i.e."yokels"). Luke, alone, does not find it beneath him to pronounce his words in the Southern manner (as, probably, did Adam and Eve).
A person can't say "oil" around here without the mockery of an eye-roll. Ben and Allie find their sophisticated ears positively molested by their parent's pronunciation of the word "oil" (which is actually so bad, I can't think of an accurate enough phonetic equivalent to illustrate my point). The issue is the same for the words "toilet", "boil", and "spoiled" - all of which I use frequently.
The cause of this marked difference in accents between generations has to be the series of moral tales my children listened to on tape as youngsters: Adventures in Odyssey. None of the voice actors were from around these parts, and if you add to that the books they listened to on CD's, one can see the odds were stacked against the bestowal of any significant Southern language heritage.
Hence, the generation gap that causes our Southern children to linguistically cannibalize their Southern parents - a spectacle we witness every time we pull out the deep-fat fryer and fill it with "awl". (There. That's the closest I can get. But you still sort of have to round out your mouth a little on the "aw", making it sound more like an "o". But not exactly.) (Sigh.) (Whatever.)
But I also have to blame the lovelies lack of "hick" on the fact that they weren't raised, as I was, in Greenville, Mississippi - the place where I somehow learned to substitute "thar" for "there". An appalling development for my father who, as a brilliant, educated man, had worked hard to jettison most of the Mississippi Delta from his own accent. But soon after we left Mississippi, my male, fifth grade teacher, tidy and effete, broke me from using the word "ain't", and from the usage of the words "pin" for "pen" and "tin" for "ten". Eventually, I backslid on the "tin" and "pin" dealio, but for that one, brief shining period I was pretty cosmopolitan.
My sister successfully parlayed her Southern accent into quite the attention-getter in lower Missouri (because she's purty cute), but I bet you that her five Missouri-raised children, who are less easy to trick, still shake their heads at her.
My husband wonders, wisely, why anyone cares what we do in the South when there are those in the U.S. who say "tawk" instead of "talk" and "aiggs" instead of "eggs". So, it's primarily in the interest of modernity that I do not fully bemoan my children's lack of Southern accents. They are decent people, and it's silly to complain that they pronounce their "ings" (but I can sigh).
However, it's not always the new generation against the old; I, myself, fold in my lips judgmentally when I hear Arkansans replace "night" with "nyte". Even Allen, who was raised closer to the north than I (in Tennessee), takes occasional issue with my Mississippi pronunciations. Mainly, because he accuses me of believing I speak smarter than others, and finds it delicious to catch me in thoughtless mistakes. Now, admittedly, I can't be vigilant twenty-four hours a day, but I certainly don't think I'm smarter than anyone else.
Except maybe Tennesseans.
A person can't say "oil" around here without the mockery of an eye-roll. Ben and Allie find their sophisticated ears positively molested by their parent's pronunciation of the word "oil" (which is actually so bad, I can't think of an accurate enough phonetic equivalent to illustrate my point). The issue is the same for the words "toilet", "boil", and "spoiled" - all of which I use frequently.
The cause of this marked difference in accents between generations has to be the series of moral tales my children listened to on tape as youngsters: Adventures in Odyssey. None of the voice actors were from around these parts, and if you add to that the books they listened to on CD's, one can see the odds were stacked against the bestowal of any significant Southern language heritage.
Hence, the generation gap that causes our Southern children to linguistically cannibalize their Southern parents - a spectacle we witness every time we pull out the deep-fat fryer and fill it with "awl". (There. That's the closest I can get. But you still sort of have to round out your mouth a little on the "aw", making it sound more like an "o". But not exactly.) (Sigh.) (Whatever.)
But I also have to blame the lovelies lack of "hick" on the fact that they weren't raised, as I was, in Greenville, Mississippi - the place where I somehow learned to substitute "thar" for "there". An appalling development for my father who, as a brilliant, educated man, had worked hard to jettison most of the Mississippi Delta from his own accent. But soon after we left Mississippi, my male, fifth grade teacher, tidy and effete, broke me from using the word "ain't", and from the usage of the words "pin" for "pen" and "tin" for "ten". Eventually, I backslid on the "tin" and "pin" dealio, but for that one, brief shining period I was pretty cosmopolitan.
My sister successfully parlayed her Southern accent into quite the attention-getter in lower Missouri (because she's purty cute), but I bet you that her five Missouri-raised children, who are less easy to trick, still shake their heads at her.
My husband wonders, wisely, why anyone cares what we do in the South when there are those in the U.S. who say "tawk" instead of "talk" and "aiggs" instead of "eggs". So, it's primarily in the interest of modernity that I do not fully bemoan my children's lack of Southern accents. They are decent people, and it's silly to complain that they pronounce their "ings" (but I can sigh).
However, it's not always the new generation against the old; I, myself, fold in my lips judgmentally when I hear Arkansans replace "night" with "nyte". Even Allen, who was raised closer to the north than I (in Tennessee), takes occasional issue with my Mississippi pronunciations. Mainly, because he accuses me of believing I speak smarter than others, and finds it delicious to catch me in thoughtless mistakes. Now, admittedly, I can't be vigilant twenty-four hours a day, but I certainly don't think I'm smarter than anyone else.
Except maybe Tennesseans.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Stairs Boy
Nineteen years ago, on November 1, 1992, Benjamin Wesson Helms was born. Before his birth, I feared I would not be able to love another child as I did Luke, but I had hope that, in time, probably, I could learn to love him.
After Ben was delivered, they placed him on my chest, and I said to him spontaneously, "Hey, Cowboy!"
It was said all warbly- and dreamy-like with the rush of instant love. I marveled that I had ever worried, relieved at how these things take care of themselves. My next thought was for my first son who was now blessed with a brother. As for Allen, he could not have been prouder in the bounty of two sons.
When Ben was finally old enough to make himself useful, Luke ran to me, declaring, "Hey! Ben is fun!"
That began Ben's continual role as the Yankee or the German in all backyard wars. He learned defeat at a young age, and it has made him pragmatic and easy-going, but he was so quiet and focused as a boy that it was difficult to gauge his personality - though that, in itself, revealed much.
He was sensitive and watchful, always fascinated by visiting babies. I remember him sitting quietly beside his younger cousin, gently stroking his head while all the other cousins frolicked madly. At four, he would roll himself in a blanket, announcing, "Hey, look! I'm a pupa." He insisted I change the words to "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep" to: "And one for the little boy who lives by the lake."
He has an odd take on life, and is an ongoing surprise of brilliant humor.
He is an Eagle Scout and enjoys collecting camping and survival gear - for the day he leaves me and begins his lifelong dream of living as a "hobo". He is a connoisseur of tea and pipe tobacco (he thinks), and makes the meanest campfire succotash (and I would've thought that would be just gross).
Last month, when he told me he was thinking of joining the military (he has been well-trained, after all), I broke down crying until he took it all back and held me while I hiccuped. (I tried the same with Luke in a similar situation........but he got married anyway.)
Now, Ben can remain "the boy upstairs", and I will be the happiest mother in the land.
After Ben was delivered, they placed him on my chest, and I said to him spontaneously, "Hey, Cowboy!"
It was said all warbly- and dreamy-like with the rush of instant love. I marveled that I had ever worried, relieved at how these things take care of themselves. My next thought was for my first son who was now blessed with a brother. As for Allen, he could not have been prouder in the bounty of two sons.
When Ben was finally old enough to make himself useful, Luke ran to me, declaring, "Hey! Ben is fun!"
That began Ben's continual role as the Yankee or the German in all backyard wars. He learned defeat at a young age, and it has made him pragmatic and easy-going, but he was so quiet and focused as a boy that it was difficult to gauge his personality - though that, in itself, revealed much.
He was sensitive and watchful, always fascinated by visiting babies. I remember him sitting quietly beside his younger cousin, gently stroking his head while all the other cousins frolicked madly. At four, he would roll himself in a blanket, announcing, "Hey, look! I'm a pupa." He insisted I change the words to "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep" to: "And one for the little boy who lives by the lake."
He has an odd take on life, and is an ongoing surprise of brilliant humor.
He is an Eagle Scout and enjoys collecting camping and survival gear - for the day he leaves me and begins his lifelong dream of living as a "hobo". He is a connoisseur of tea and pipe tobacco (he thinks), and makes the meanest campfire succotash (and I would've thought that would be just gross).
Last month, when he told me he was thinking of joining the military (he has been well-trained, after all), I broke down crying until he took it all back and held me while I hiccuped. (I tried the same with Luke in a similar situation........but he got married anyway.)
Now, Ben can remain "the boy upstairs", and I will be the happiest mother in the land.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Super Powers
My super power is cold extremities.
In mid-fall, when I feel the initial tinglings and my appendages grow icy, I hold up frosty hands to the children, announcing archly, "My powers are returning."
My favorite feat of strength is to press two freezing, opened palms against their unsuspecting bare backs. When they yelp, I smile my victor's smile.
In deep winter, when I touch hands with others, I always get, "Your hands are like ice!"
Mortals do not see this as a super power, but as a circulation problem - which is all just part of my super hero's disguise.
I even have an arch nemesis: The man who won't allow me to toast my nitrogen-cold feet against his mercury-like warmth, though we share blankets. (His super power is the radar that detects the frigidly encroaching temperature of my frozen metatarsals on his side of the bed, rousing him from the deepest sleep to ward off any breach of his tropical, nighttime fortress of solitude. To him, apparently, my feet are the equivalent of kryptonite.)
And as far as using my powers for good..........meh. It's not exactly a "Cold hands, warm heart" situation with me. Though I always smile sweetly when I quote that. (It is also part of my disguise.)
In mid-fall, when I feel the initial tinglings and my appendages grow icy, I hold up frosty hands to the children, announcing archly, "My powers are returning."
My favorite feat of strength is to press two freezing, opened palms against their unsuspecting bare backs. When they yelp, I smile my victor's smile.
In deep winter, when I touch hands with others, I always get, "Your hands are like ice!"
Mortals do not see this as a super power, but as a circulation problem - which is all just part of my super hero's disguise.
I even have an arch nemesis: The man who won't allow me to toast my nitrogen-cold feet against his mercury-like warmth, though we share blankets. (His super power is the radar that detects the frigidly encroaching temperature of my frozen metatarsals on his side of the bed, rousing him from the deepest sleep to ward off any breach of his tropical, nighttime fortress of solitude. To him, apparently, my feet are the equivalent of kryptonite.)
And as far as using my powers for good..........meh. It's not exactly a "Cold hands, warm heart" situation with me. Though I always smile sweetly when I quote that. (It is also part of my disguise.)
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Special Song
I used to sing a special song for my children on their birthdays. It was a long, winding tale, chronicling their attempts to get food before their mother, the meanest, fattest woman in the land, ate it all. In this tale, goaded by desperate hunger, the lovelies would contrive to sneak the car from the carport while I slept off a pie-induced stupor, and drive to their favorite fast food restaurant, McDonald's. When they arrived home with their sack of cheeseburgers and fries, I would be awake again, and hungering. I would gluttonously inhale all their dinner (even the quarter-pounders, which were, in their minds, food so big only a grown man could order them), forcing them to ransack the shelves for old saltine crackers.
I did not spare the tragic details of their pitifully growling stomachs as I shoveled handfuls of fries into my gorging maw. Before song's end, however, they were able to restrain me, escape, and drive back to McDonald's to order their favorite meals, including large fries for each child. They almost hated me, but the triumphant ending, complete with the feast of McDonald's fare made it all worthwhile. Oh, how they laughed.
I remember them all sitting wide-eyed in a darkened room, waiting expectantly for the next ridiculous line.
Luke thinks I stopped this birthday tradition when he was around twelve, but I think it may have been a year or two earlier. He laughed again when I brought it up, as did Ben, but Allie remembers that she felt like crying when I sang it.
I'm rethinking certain aspects of my parenting methods these days.
I did not spare the tragic details of their pitifully growling stomachs as I shoveled handfuls of fries into my gorging maw. Before song's end, however, they were able to restrain me, escape, and drive back to McDonald's to order their favorite meals, including large fries for each child. They almost hated me, but the triumphant ending, complete with the feast of McDonald's fare made it all worthwhile. Oh, how they laughed.
I remember them all sitting wide-eyed in a darkened room, waiting expectantly for the next ridiculous line.
Luke thinks I stopped this birthday tradition when he was around twelve, but I think it may have been a year or two earlier. He laughed again when I brought it up, as did Ben, but Allie remembers that she felt like crying when I sang it.
I'm rethinking certain aspects of my parenting methods these days.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Sheltered
Several years ago, I reread Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. This lead to the reading of every biography I could find on Charlotte Bronte. Which lead to the reading of Emily Bronte's poems. Which lead to the reading of Anne Bronte's Agnes Grey and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. Which lead to the reading of Villette and The Professor, but only one-third of Shirley. Which led me to dragging out my French dictionary because my French was so rusty. Which doesn't sound pretentious at all. Which led me to checking out, but only reading half of the Bronte's Juvenalia. I was utterly on overload by then, winding down like a thing that winds down.
What interested me most was the personal information about the Bronte's familial genius and the copious, prolific writing that was the center of their collective youth. Apparently, they didn't play exactly like other children; they wrote. They made up a complex fictional world after playing with a set of Branwell's toy soldiers, and wrote of its characters and happenings on an ongoing basis; Charlotte pairing up with Branwell to write their portion, and Emily and Anne pairing up to write their portion.
What interested me most was the personal information about the Bronte's familial genius and the copious, prolific writing that was the center of their collective youth. Apparently, they didn't play exactly like other children; they wrote. They made up a complex fictional world after playing with a set of Branwell's toy soldiers, and wrote of its characters and happenings on an ongoing basis; Charlotte pairing up with Branwell to write their portion, and Emily and Anne pairing up to write their portion.
Portions of these tales were suprisingly amoral (not my word, but the word of every biographer who wrote on this subject). Surprising because they were, after all, the sheltered children of a clergyman. But I suspect the reading material to which they were exposed was the source of the mature subject matter of their juvenalia. As an adult, Charlotte would, ultimately, make a concerted effort to leave this imaginary world behind - even writing a determined "goodbye" in order to loosen it's grip on her imagination.
But, again, the most fascinating part, to me, is how naturally they adapted to this written world - polishing and honing and perfecting their skills. What sort of children want to stay in all day and write and think and write and think? Then send detailed notes to one another on plots and outcomes? Motherless as they were, it doesn't seem unusual, but..... it still seems unusual.
I would call such people geniuses on the basis of all that writing alone, but to have done it so young.....well. And I don't know why I always equate prodigious amounts of writing with genius, but I do.
This concludes the educational portion of your day.
But, again, the most fascinating part, to me, is how naturally they adapted to this written world - polishing and honing and perfecting their skills. What sort of children want to stay in all day and write and think and write and think? Then send detailed notes to one another on plots and outcomes? Motherless as they were, it doesn't seem unusual, but..... it still seems unusual.
I would call such people geniuses on the basis of all that writing alone, but to have done it so young.....well. And I don't know why I always equate prodigious amounts of writing with genius, but I do.
This concludes the educational portion of your day.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Snort
Today was cookie-making day. This means we are allowed, legally, to eat all the raw dough we like, in every stage of preparation: the butter/sugar stage; the butter/sugar/egg/vanilla stage; the butter/sugar/egg/vanilla/flour/baking soda/salt stage; and the butter/sugar/egg/vanilla/flour/baking soda/salt/chocolate chip stage. (I fuss, of course, when Allie and Ben eat too much of the raw batter, but they are quick to run after dipping out huge spoonfuls.) Then I am allowed to eat the three cookies that made it to completion, in their warm stage, their slightly cooled stage, and their fully cooled stage. This is why I am now sick.
While I was making these cookies, Allie burped loudly a couple of times, causing Allen to lecture her on decorum and femininity. Allie wondered why she can't burp freely when no one else is around, but Allen warned she will grow so comfortable burping loudly in private that she will forget herself in public. And burp loudly. He also informed her that he never hears her mother burping loudly.
Therefore, moments later, when she was aiming to please, yet feeling further need for release, Allie burped quietly in her mouth. I smiled encouragingly, granting her an "A" in femininity, but in an attempt to giggle quietly, she snorted loudly.
Sigh.
While I was making these cookies, Allie burped loudly a couple of times, causing Allen to lecture her on decorum and femininity. Allie wondered why she can't burp freely when no one else is around, but Allen warned she will grow so comfortable burping loudly in private that she will forget herself in public. And burp loudly. He also informed her that he never hears her mother burping loudly.
Therefore, moments later, when she was aiming to please, yet feeling further need for release, Allie burped quietly in her mouth. I smiled encouragingly, granting her an "A" in femininity, but in an attempt to giggle quietly, she snorted loudly.
Sigh.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Seven Years
Yesterday, when I hit the "view next" blog button on my browser, I came across a blogger who has been blogging monthly for seven years. Seven years. I don't believe I have seven years of this in me (I'm coughing up verbal blood after four months). I wondered how a person finds enough material for seven years worth of sharing. I worry that I will begin to just make stuff up in order to meet my quota.
I also came across pages where the opening lines are "I've been off for awhile" or "I haven't written in awhile, but..." and worried that I will write something embarrassingly similar next year. Or what if I'm reduced to complaining about personal matters? In fact, a friend of mine says I never convey any sadness I might be experiencing - which makes me sad. I wish to convey that.
I'm amazed at all the young families with babies and toddlers who name their blog after the family. Names like: "The Canvendishes Dish It Up!" (I totally made that up. See, I'm starting already.) I then start to rethink my vow to display no pictures of my own. After all, I have a picture of Ben at the Children's Museum of Memphis wearing a fox costume that is way too small; a picture of Luke at the Memphis Zoo pointing to the boobs on a cat goddess statue; and a picture of Allie making a horrid face in a baby bonnet at a Putt Putt Golf and Games photo booth. I could resort to any of this before seven years is up. Or maybe worse (or maybe it would be better).
Luke says when he reads our family memories as I write them, we seem dysfunctional - which makes me feel dysfunctional. I wish to convey that too.
Then there are blogs where the wife gives marital advice (I think it's safe to say I won't be giving any, and I really don't want to take any). And there are the ones where they are "Debt free and Livin' Better Than You!" or "Hunkered Down, Eating Cheese for a Year, and Whittling Our Debt Down to $0!". I want to convey how fast I hit that "view next" blog button.
Then there are the blogs with names like: "In His Name and In Your Eye" or "Serving Him, One Picture of a Toddler in a Pumpkin Costume at a Time" or "In His Grace Being Changed Daily By His Grace Daily". Okay, so that is a little unspiritual of me. Which is probably a good name for my blog: "A Little Unspiritual of Me."
Anyway, I don't know if I'll be doing this seven days from now, much less seven years from now, so don't go falling in love with me.
Which is actually a pretty good name for a blog.
I also came across pages where the opening lines are "I've been off for awhile" or "I haven't written in awhile, but..." and worried that I will write something embarrassingly similar next year. Or what if I'm reduced to complaining about personal matters? In fact, a friend of mine says I never convey any sadness I might be experiencing - which makes me sad. I wish to convey that.
I'm amazed at all the young families with babies and toddlers who name their blog after the family. Names like: "The Canvendishes Dish It Up!" (I totally made that up. See, I'm starting already.) I then start to rethink my vow to display no pictures of my own. After all, I have a picture of Ben at the Children's Museum of Memphis wearing a fox costume that is way too small; a picture of Luke at the Memphis Zoo pointing to the boobs on a cat goddess statue; and a picture of Allie making a horrid face in a baby bonnet at a Putt Putt Golf and Games photo booth. I could resort to any of this before seven years is up. Or maybe worse (or maybe it would be better).
Luke says when he reads our family memories as I write them, we seem dysfunctional - which makes me feel dysfunctional. I wish to convey that too.
Then there are blogs where the wife gives marital advice (I think it's safe to say I won't be giving any, and I really don't want to take any). And there are the ones where they are "Debt free and Livin' Better Than You!" or "Hunkered Down, Eating Cheese for a Year, and Whittling Our Debt Down to $0!". I want to convey how fast I hit that "view next" blog button.
Then there are the blogs with names like: "In His Name and In Your Eye" or "Serving Him, One Picture of a Toddler in a Pumpkin Costume at a Time" or "In His Grace Being Changed Daily By His Grace Daily". Okay, so that is a little unspiritual of me. Which is probably a good name for my blog: "A Little Unspiritual of Me."
Anyway, I don't know if I'll be doing this seven days from now, much less seven years from now, so don't go falling in love with me.
Which is actually a pretty good name for a blog.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Same Summer
The same summer that Allie adopted Birdie, she also "rescued" a duckling that had been injured in an attack of some sort. His name was called "Duckie" and he was as downy soft as a downy, soft thing. Since the neighbor whose elderly mother I had been attending on weekends was in the medical field, Allie sought her help with Duckie's broken leg. Darlene fashioned a little splint out of popsicle sticks and medical tape, but it eventually had to be removed as it impeded Duckie's progress worse than his actual twisted limb. With time, the leg got better, but Duckie was never fast enough to escape Allie's love.
And escape was the engine that powered his dark little heart. He did not want protection and work-free meals; he wanted liberty and junk. When sleeping, he was slightly more enjoyable, allowing Allie to cradle him close to her side; but waterfowl ruin everything by pooping indiscriminately in their sleep. And though Ben enjoyed having duckie's soft, downy self tucked underneath his chin as he slept, it was, ultimately, for this reason he lobbied energetically for Duckie's release from captivity. Ben whined so unmanfully about having to duck-sit, you would have thought it was his own child.
One afternoon, for Duckie's lunch, Allie and I spent over an hour harvesting larval specimens from a muddy rivulet beside our neighbor's pond. He snatched them violently from our fingers, despicably trying to escape after each morsel. Allie desperately scooped him up each time, but began to see that he would inevitably succeed in his tireless bid for freedom. The only answer was to ride around the curve to the Dacus' pond where there were flocks and flocks of ducks and ducklings. Mayhap we could foist........... I mean dedicate Duckie to another young mother.
So, we biked around that curve and found just the right location to liberate our crabby, young adoptee. He hatefully swam away as quickly as possible, hiding ungratefully among the jumbled roots and keeping us watchfully in his mistrusting line of sight. We cut our eyes at each other ruefully, then wondered where all the other ducks were hiding.
As we crept off our neighbor's land, he pulled up beside us in his jeep. Blushingly, we pointed in the direction we lived, explaining our situation with Duckie, and our hopes that he would be happily assimilated into a worthy duck family. It was then Mr. Dacus shrugged his shoulders, saying it was actually too bad, but their entire duckling population had been decimated by bass.
Oops.
And escape was the engine that powered his dark little heart. He did not want protection and work-free meals; he wanted liberty and junk. When sleeping, he was slightly more enjoyable, allowing Allie to cradle him close to her side; but waterfowl ruin everything by pooping indiscriminately in their sleep. And though Ben enjoyed having duckie's soft, downy self tucked underneath his chin as he slept, it was, ultimately, for this reason he lobbied energetically for Duckie's release from captivity. Ben whined so unmanfully about having to duck-sit, you would have thought it was his own child.
One afternoon, for Duckie's lunch, Allie and I spent over an hour harvesting larval specimens from a muddy rivulet beside our neighbor's pond. He snatched them violently from our fingers, despicably trying to escape after each morsel. Allie desperately scooped him up each time, but began to see that he would inevitably succeed in his tireless bid for freedom. The only answer was to ride around the curve to the Dacus' pond where there were flocks and flocks of ducks and ducklings. Mayhap we could foist........... I mean dedicate Duckie to another young mother.
So, we biked around that curve and found just the right location to liberate our crabby, young adoptee. He hatefully swam away as quickly as possible, hiding ungratefully among the jumbled roots and keeping us watchfully in his mistrusting line of sight. We cut our eyes at each other ruefully, then wondered where all the other ducks were hiding.
As we crept off our neighbor's land, he pulled up beside us in his jeep. Blushingly, we pointed in the direction we lived, explaining our situation with Duckie, and our hopes that he would be happily assimilated into a worthy duck family. It was then Mr. Dacus shrugged his shoulders, saying it was actually too bad, but their entire duckling population had been decimated by bass.
Oops.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Style
When my mother and grandmother discovered they could give themselves perms and save the exorbitant cost of a weekly trip to the beautician, they did it. And they did it to me.
But not before cutting my bangs.
Which brings me to a revelation about myself - something I've hidden from some of you:
I have an extremely high forehead.
Further honesty would have me reveal that it's not so much a large forehead as an inadequate hairline. This is the reason I wear bangs. And never part my hair in the middle. Or on the side. Or on the other side. Or pull it up in a ponytail. Or run my fingers through it. Or stand facing the wind. Or swim in public.
In my day, I have hidden this knowledge from many a suitor (both of them). And why shouldn't I? I don't want to know it myself.
So, when my mother and grandmother began practicing their dark arts on the vertically-challenged expanse of my head, I always wound up looking like a baby gorilla. The kind with kinky, frizzy corkscrews ringing its giant, glowing scalp.
I was completely unaware of their collective error in judgment until I was a young adult wanting a perm for the holidays, and had been instructed by my mother to get my bangs cut first. Though my anal sphincter tightened wincingly, I dropped by a local beauty shop, informing them I needed my hair cut before my big perm. To which the beautician replied, "Honey, you get your hair cut after a perm, not before."
I went home, vomited, and never got another perm. My mother was likely more relieved than hurt as she had a lot of other heads to perm back in those days. More grateful heads than mine.
She did her best to help me with my hair difficulties over the years, suggesting flattering styles, paying for me to see a real hair stylist once, and encouraging me without hurting my feelings. But when one night, on the phone, she asked gently about us injecting some life into my lifeless hair through the art of the home perm, my answer was a bitter, uninterrupted diatribe against home perms that began with the word "Ogilvie" and ended with the words "baby gorilla".
Afterward, I was dry-mouthed and tight-jawed awaiting an apology (I suppose), but the silence I mistook for her regret was only the pause before her cackling waves of laughter. She kept hiccuping, "You never even paused!" Then we both laughed until we cried.
And it wasn't the last time we laughed on the phone until we cried - because my mother is an amazing woman.
Larger than life itself (and relieved as I was to be done with the Ogilvie home perm phase of life).
But not before cutting my bangs.
Which brings me to a revelation about myself - something I've hidden from some of you:
I have an extremely high forehead.
Further honesty would have me reveal that it's not so much a large forehead as an inadequate hairline. This is the reason I wear bangs. And never part my hair in the middle. Or on the side. Or on the other side. Or pull it up in a ponytail. Or run my fingers through it. Or stand facing the wind. Or swim in public.
In my day, I have hidden this knowledge from many a suitor (both of them). And why shouldn't I? I don't want to know it myself.
So, when my mother and grandmother began practicing their dark arts on the vertically-challenged expanse of my head, I always wound up looking like a baby gorilla. The kind with kinky, frizzy corkscrews ringing its giant, glowing scalp.
I was completely unaware of their collective error in judgment until I was a young adult wanting a perm for the holidays, and had been instructed by my mother to get my bangs cut first. Though my anal sphincter tightened wincingly, I dropped by a local beauty shop, informing them I needed my hair cut before my big perm. To which the beautician replied, "Honey, you get your hair cut after a perm, not before."
I went home, vomited, and never got another perm. My mother was likely more relieved than hurt as she had a lot of other heads to perm back in those days. More grateful heads than mine.
She did her best to help me with my hair difficulties over the years, suggesting flattering styles, paying for me to see a real hair stylist once, and encouraging me without hurting my feelings. But when one night, on the phone, she asked gently about us injecting some life into my lifeless hair through the art of the home perm, my answer was a bitter, uninterrupted diatribe against home perms that began with the word "Ogilvie" and ended with the words "baby gorilla".
Afterward, I was dry-mouthed and tight-jawed awaiting an apology (I suppose), but the silence I mistook for her regret was only the pause before her cackling waves of laughter. She kept hiccuping, "You never even paused!" Then we both laughed until we cried.
And it wasn't the last time we laughed on the phone until we cried - because my mother is an amazing woman.
Larger than life itself (and relieved as I was to be done with the Ogilvie home perm phase of life).
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Several Days
Last night, I was on the floor in Ben's room painting when I heard him say disgustedly, "Well, there's several days of neglect." I craned around to see him holding out the end of his dirty pipe cleaner. I said to him, "Those are six words you don't want to hear about any situation."
Inspired, Ben came up with the following situations you don't want to hear "Well, there's several days of neglect" in regards to:
Your teeth
A baby
Your butthole
An animal
Your toenails
Your hair
The garbage
Your genitals
Well, I thought it was funny.
Inspired, Ben came up with the following situations you don't want to hear "Well, there's several days of neglect" in regards to:
Your teeth
A baby
Your butthole
An animal
Your toenails
Your hair
The garbage
Your genitals
Well, I thought it was funny.
Sundry
Luke Zachary Helms
I
- Luke Zachary Helms Hell yeah, my kid is going to be a bad ass, or a huge disappointment. Helms are extremists in that right.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Short Lived
Allie found an abandoned baby sparrow the summer after the summer Sugar died. She named him "Birdie" and made sure he had plenty of food, fresh air, and sunshine. He slept in her room in a homemade, shoebox nest, following her everywhere as he begged for food.
For two months that summer, I had been staying with our neighbor's elderly mother on the weekends while she recovered from a broken hip. So, the afternoon Birdie developed an alarming condition, Allie brought him over for me to have a look-see. I hustled them into the bathroom in order to exam him in better light.
What I observed was a large, swollen place on Birdie's neck. It was not so much a swollen place as a distended protrusion. I covered my eyes, uncovered my eyes, and looked again. The little bird's thinnish neck skin had ballooned out like a.................balloon. A transparent balloon with shadowy images pressing into the freakishly strained membrane.
Peering as closely as I dared before engaging my gag reflex, I whispered, "Is that broccoli?"
After assessing the situation further, I told Allie that if my years of medical training had taught me anything, it was that something with Birdie had gone horribly awry.
Allie has never liked the joke about my years of medical training. She has a way of staring at me when I make it. And since this afternoon she was obviously looking for a real answer, I earnestly searched my mind for a real answer to a goiter made of broccoli.
My search led me to ask, "Have you been feeding Birdie broccoli?"
She said she thought broccoli was good for everybody.
By then, I did not want to look at Birdie's "problem" anymore - I was worried it might explode. Failing to fathom how his meals had diverted from their correct destination, I said I thought it would be best if she took Broccoli home. I mean Birdie.
Allen called later to inform me he and Allie were going to find some actual worms so he could teach her to feed Birdie properly. Thankfully, I was clipping my elderly charges thick, overgrown toenails, and would be unable to witness this lesson.
However, that night in Allie's room, Birdie began an incessant cheeping campaign. Obviously suffering, despite being treated to good, honest bird food, he kept Allie awake nearly all night with his cries. Near tears and stretched to the limit, she took Birdie outside; placed the lid on his shoebox nest; poked holes in the sides; and plopped a rock on top to ensure his safety. She then slogged back in the house and sank into an exhausted, worried sleep.
The next morning she told of how she ran down to check on Birdie first thing, only to find the rock gone, and the box completely empty.
Oops.
For two months that summer, I had been staying with our neighbor's elderly mother on the weekends while she recovered from a broken hip. So, the afternoon Birdie developed an alarming condition, Allie brought him over for me to have a look-see. I hustled them into the bathroom in order to exam him in better light.
What I observed was a large, swollen place on Birdie's neck. It was not so much a swollen place as a distended protrusion. I covered my eyes, uncovered my eyes, and looked again. The little bird's thinnish neck skin had ballooned out like a.................balloon. A transparent balloon with shadowy images pressing into the freakishly strained membrane.
Peering as closely as I dared before engaging my gag reflex, I whispered, "Is that broccoli?"
After assessing the situation further, I told Allie that if my years of medical training had taught me anything, it was that something with Birdie had gone horribly awry.
Allie has never liked the joke about my years of medical training. She has a way of staring at me when I make it. And since this afternoon she was obviously looking for a real answer, I earnestly searched my mind for a real answer to a goiter made of broccoli.
My search led me to ask, "Have you been feeding Birdie broccoli?"
She said she thought broccoli was good for everybody.
By then, I did not want to look at Birdie's "problem" anymore - I was worried it might explode. Failing to fathom how his meals had diverted from their correct destination, I said I thought it would be best if she took Broccoli home. I mean Birdie.
Allen called later to inform me he and Allie were going to find some actual worms so he could teach her to feed Birdie properly. Thankfully, I was clipping my elderly charges thick, overgrown toenails, and would be unable to witness this lesson.
However, that night in Allie's room, Birdie began an incessant cheeping campaign. Obviously suffering, despite being treated to good, honest bird food, he kept Allie awake nearly all night with his cries. Near tears and stretched to the limit, she took Birdie outside; placed the lid on his shoebox nest; poked holes in the sides; and plopped a rock on top to ensure his safety. She then slogged back in the house and sank into an exhausted, worried sleep.
The next morning she told of how she ran down to check on Birdie first thing, only to find the rock gone, and the box completely empty.
Oops.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Skunk
We were returning from a round of errands the day we spotted a juvenile skunk sniffing in circles on the street to our home. Fortuitously, we had doughnuts to toss from the open truck window. The little black skunk ate greedily, emboldening us to get out and look more closely. He nibbled feverishly at his doughnut; the sugary crystals clinging prettily to his whiskers. Allie, eleven at the time, inched alarmingly close to him, and called his name "Sugar".
And that is how these things happen.
When Sugar immediately threw up his doughnut, Allie tore off another piece. When he threw that one up, we scratched our heads and wondered if Sugar the skunk was any good. Allie reasoned that something must be so wrong with Sugar that his mother had had to abandon him. She also reasoned that this made him the perfect pet.
Next thing I knew, Allie had made Sugar a rag-lined shoebox bed, and was luring him into the backyard. She then searched the fridge for skunk vittles because, obviously, dessert wasn't going to stay down. An internet search informed that skunks can eat bugs and melons. Melons we had, and the crickets could easily be stolen from Allie's new lizard, who had suddenly become "old and ghastly".
Close to sundown, Sugar went to sleep in his dirty little skunk bed, and I thought he might be dying - based just on his grossness. He was unkempt, stinky, flea-ridden, and vomity. To a city person, it seemed a given that no one could survive these conditions long. And he was partially blind for sure, as Allie discovered that evening when searching for him with the flashlight. The tapetum in only one eye lit up in the flashlight beam, and Allie felt sorrier than ever for her furry, circling baby.
Sugar thrived, however, setting up a day-time home under our neighbor's willow tree, and sleeping right beside the pond where the willows drink. And even though he would first lift his tail in warning, he would lower it the instant he recognized Allie's familiar scent on the wind. He would waddle toward her as fast as he could.
The morning after adopting Sugar, Allie found him near the neighbor's front drain, gnawing a baby snake. It was probably dead when he found it, but she admired his opportunism.
For two weeks, Sugar hunted by night and slept in Allie's lap by day - heedlessly peeing all over her. He feasted on melons and foraged near her lap, never once biting or spraying her. But one morning, Allie didn't find Sugar making his rounds; nor did she find him in the afternoon or evening. It wasn't until the next morning that Sugar managed to drag himself nearly home to the neighbor's pond before collapsing.
Allie ran into the house wailing, "Sugar is dead!"
While I was looking for a Walmart burial sack, I saw Allie striding back across the yard with a shovel........and a flower. She had thought of everything. Since we were unsure about digging graves, Allie placed Sugar in his nasty, little bed, and toted him to the creek in the woods where her brothers were breaking up camp from the night before.
Luke took one look at Allie's face, and came wordlessly to take up her burden. He and Ben began immediately digging a grave while Allie sat watching silently.
And that is how these things happen.
Allie cried, but then we moved on, refusing to dwell on inevitabilities. We did discuss Sugar frequently for the next year, but mainly to puzzle over why he died so prematurely when he seemed healthy and well-fed on delicacies of melon.
Some two years later, Allie watched a program that warned against feeding pet skunks too much fruit because they are not meant to live on it.
Oops.
And that is how these things happen.
When Sugar immediately threw up his doughnut, Allie tore off another piece. When he threw that one up, we scratched our heads and wondered if Sugar the skunk was any good. Allie reasoned that something must be so wrong with Sugar that his mother had had to abandon him. She also reasoned that this made him the perfect pet.
Next thing I knew, Allie had made Sugar a rag-lined shoebox bed, and was luring him into the backyard. She then searched the fridge for skunk vittles because, obviously, dessert wasn't going to stay down. An internet search informed that skunks can eat bugs and melons. Melons we had, and the crickets could easily be stolen from Allie's new lizard, who had suddenly become "old and ghastly".
Close to sundown, Sugar went to sleep in his dirty little skunk bed, and I thought he might be dying - based just on his grossness. He was unkempt, stinky, flea-ridden, and vomity. To a city person, it seemed a given that no one could survive these conditions long. And he was partially blind for sure, as Allie discovered that evening when searching for him with the flashlight. The tapetum in only one eye lit up in the flashlight beam, and Allie felt sorrier than ever for her furry, circling baby.
Sugar thrived, however, setting up a day-time home under our neighbor's willow tree, and sleeping right beside the pond where the willows drink. And even though he would first lift his tail in warning, he would lower it the instant he recognized Allie's familiar scent on the wind. He would waddle toward her as fast as he could.
The morning after adopting Sugar, Allie found him near the neighbor's front drain, gnawing a baby snake. It was probably dead when he found it, but she admired his opportunism.
For two weeks, Sugar hunted by night and slept in Allie's lap by day - heedlessly peeing all over her. He feasted on melons and foraged near her lap, never once biting or spraying her. But one morning, Allie didn't find Sugar making his rounds; nor did she find him in the afternoon or evening. It wasn't until the next morning that Sugar managed to drag himself nearly home to the neighbor's pond before collapsing.
Allie ran into the house wailing, "Sugar is dead!"
While I was looking for a Walmart burial sack, I saw Allie striding back across the yard with a shovel........and a flower. She had thought of everything. Since we were unsure about digging graves, Allie placed Sugar in his nasty, little bed, and toted him to the creek in the woods where her brothers were breaking up camp from the night before.
Luke took one look at Allie's face, and came wordlessly to take up her burden. He and Ben began immediately digging a grave while Allie sat watching silently.
And that is how these things happen.
Allie cried, but then we moved on, refusing to dwell on inevitabilities. We did discuss Sugar frequently for the next year, but mainly to puzzle over why he died so prematurely when he seemed healthy and well-fed on delicacies of melon.
Some two years later, Allie watched a program that warned against feeding pet skunks too much fruit because they are not meant to live on it.
Oops.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Shoes
Good morning, Heather Marie! Am I in time for your morning coffee?
I hear you got a promotion at work; which is great because you work hard and you deserve it and you have pretty, red hair. You should put all that on your resume because junk like that works.
You probably wear the nicest shoes in the land owing to your career, so I thought of you two nights ago when Ben was burning his two-year-old converse. He wore them the first year he staffed at scout camp, and decided to ritually burn them as part of his past. Plus also, he just likes to build fires in the fall. Those burning shoes sent up a burny, smokey, plasticky smell, forcing Ben to retrieve them before we died.
Ben really likes fire.
When he was a boy, I caught him setting a newspaper picture of John Kerry on fire. When the burn reached his fingers, he accidentally dropped it in Allen's house shoe. That incident was scary enough for me to forge an agreement that whenever he wanted to light a match, he could - as long as I was present. As a result, he would, betimes, approach me with the kitchen matches, and we would take time to light a few. As crazy as it sounds, he never tried to burn down our house again.
Actually, the above sounds a little dysfunctional now that I write it and read it. Can I get parental points for mere survival? I need some sort of category for that.
Allie adds that I yelled at Ben that day, then sicced his dad on him before the nice little talk about lighting matches together. Obviously, Allie has a poor memory....and lies.
On a side note, Ben is more politically moderate these days.
I hope you have a great day at work. You are to be admired for your independence, your mind, and your loveliness.
Don't burn any shoes.
I hear you got a promotion at work; which is great because you work hard and you deserve it and you have pretty, red hair. You should put all that on your resume because junk like that works.
You probably wear the nicest shoes in the land owing to your career, so I thought of you two nights ago when Ben was burning his two-year-old converse. He wore them the first year he staffed at scout camp, and decided to ritually burn them as part of his past. Plus also, he just likes to build fires in the fall. Those burning shoes sent up a burny, smokey, plasticky smell, forcing Ben to retrieve them before we died.
Ben really likes fire.
When he was a boy, I caught him setting a newspaper picture of John Kerry on fire. When the burn reached his fingers, he accidentally dropped it in Allen's house shoe. That incident was scary enough for me to forge an agreement that whenever he wanted to light a match, he could - as long as I was present. As a result, he would, betimes, approach me with the kitchen matches, and we would take time to light a few. As crazy as it sounds, he never tried to burn down our house again.
Actually, the above sounds a little dysfunctional now that I write it and read it. Can I get parental points for mere survival? I need some sort of category for that.
Allie adds that I yelled at Ben that day, then sicced his dad on him before the nice little talk about lighting matches together. Obviously, Allie has a poor memory....and lies.
On a side note, Ben is more politically moderate these days.
I hope you have a great day at work. You are to be admired for your independence, your mind, and your loveliness.
Don't burn any shoes.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Survey
This was one of those Facebook thingys I thought interesting enough to try with the kiddos a couple of years ago:
Mommy questions
Wednesday, March 11, 2009 at 12:38pm
At the time, their ages were: Luke 18, Ben 16, Allie 14
1. What is something mommy always says to you?
Luke: Make good choices.
Ben: Stop eating.
Allie: The end times are here.
2. What makes mommy happy?
Luke: When schoolwork is done
Ben: Idk because you're never happy.
Allie: Whenever the dishes are in the dishwasher
3. What makes mommy sad?
Luke: Bad grades
Ben: When I eat too much
Allie: When we pinch your butt
4. How does mommy make you laugh?
Luke: Cute little faces
Ben: Hmmm....hmmm
Allie: When she reads us the Bible
5. What was mommy like as a little girl?
Luke: Not all there
Ben: Loose canon
Allie: Bitter and mean
6. How old is mommy?
Luke: 40
Ben: 85
Allie: 40
7. How tall is mommy?
Luke: 5'2"
Ben: 49
Allie 5'4" (she's right)
8. What is mommy's favorite thing to do?
Luke: Run in place with weights
Ben: yell at me about my eating
Allie: Talk about how fat she is
9. What does mommy do when you are not here?
Luke: sit and cry
Ben: Not allowed to tell
Allie: Spend time with Dad
10. If mommy becomes famous what will it be for?
Luke: The 5,000 lb son.
Ben: Drowning her children in a bathtub
Allie: Taking care of old ladies
11. What is mommy good at?
Luke: Asking questions
Ben: Writing things on facebook
Allie: Being a mom
12. What does mommy do for a job?
Luke: Keep Daddy happy.
Ben: Chomping crackers while I sleep
Allie: Being a teacher.
13. What is mommy's favorite food?
Luke: Her children's fears
Ben: Crackers
Allie: Salads with carrots and nuts.
14. What makes you proud of mommy?
Luke: Her humor
Ben: The way she eats crackers
Allie: Organizing her office work
15. If mommy was a cartoon character, what would she be?
Luke: Chowder
Ben: Bubby the Whale
Allie: The green M&M
16. What do you and mommy do together?
Luke: What DO we do together?
Ben: Math
Allie: Go on walks and bike rides
17. How are you and mommy the same?
Luke: We like to talk a lot.
Ben: We both use the bathroom
Allie: Short
18. How are you and mommy different?
Luke: I'm never home
Ben: I'm male and your female
Allie: You have red hair, I have brown
19. How do you know mommy loves you?
Luke: She gives me kisses and talks to me before I go to work in the morning.
Ben: She leaves me to my own devices.
Allie: She makes me pasta
20. Where is mommy's favorite place to go?
Luke: Away from here.
Ben: Internet
Allie: Michael's
1. What is something mommy always says to you?
Luke: Make good choices.
Ben: Stop eating.
Allie: The end times are here.
2. What makes mommy happy?
Luke: When schoolwork is done
Ben: Idk because you're never happy.
Allie: Whenever the dishes are in the dishwasher
3. What makes mommy sad?
Luke: Bad grades
Ben: When I eat too much
Allie: When we pinch your butt
4. How does mommy make you laugh?
Luke: Cute little faces
Ben: Hmmm....hmmm
Allie: When she reads us the Bible
5. What was mommy like as a little girl?
Luke: Not all there
Ben: Loose canon
Allie: Bitter and mean
6. How old is mommy?
Luke: 40
Ben: 85
Allie: 40
7. How tall is mommy?
Luke: 5'2"
Ben: 49
Allie 5'4" (she's right)
8. What is mommy's favorite thing to do?
Luke: Run in place with weights
Ben: yell at me about my eating
Allie: Talk about how fat she is
9. What does mommy do when you are not here?
Luke: sit and cry
Ben: Not allowed to tell
Allie: Spend time with Dad
10. If mommy becomes famous what will it be for?
Luke: The 5,000 lb son.
Ben: Drowning her children in a bathtub
Allie: Taking care of old ladies
11. What is mommy good at?
Luke: Asking questions
Ben: Writing things on facebook
Allie: Being a mom
12. What does mommy do for a job?
Luke: Keep Daddy happy.
Ben: Chomping crackers while I sleep
Allie: Being a teacher.
13. What is mommy's favorite food?
Luke: Her children's fears
Ben: Crackers
Allie: Salads with carrots and nuts.
14. What makes you proud of mommy?
Luke: Her humor
Ben: The way she eats crackers
Allie: Organizing her office work
15. If mommy was a cartoon character, what would she be?
Luke: Chowder
Ben: Bubby the Whale
Allie: The green M&M
16. What do you and mommy do together?
Luke: What DO we do together?
Ben: Math
Allie: Go on walks and bike rides
17. How are you and mommy the same?
Luke: We like to talk a lot.
Ben: We both use the bathroom
Allie: Short
18. How are you and mommy different?
Luke: I'm never home
Ben: I'm male and your female
Allie: You have red hair, I have brown
19. How do you know mommy loves you?
Luke: She gives me kisses and talks to me before I go to work in the morning.
Ben: She leaves me to my own devices.
Allie: She makes me pasta
20. Where is mommy's favorite place to go?
Luke: Away from here.
Ben: Internet
Allie: Michael's
Monday, September 26, 2011
Symptoms III - Fin
Cluster Headache Dietary Trials - Day 3
Ben awakes with a cold. He curses Drew Pearson who coughed indiscriminately on everyone at Monday night's meeting. Ben's appetite, however, does not seem to be affected. He eats another hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast - after vainly lobbying for a bowl of Captain Crunch.
Right after breakfast:
Ben solicits my help in a search for the three-hole-punch. While I am digging for it, I notice he is speaking around a wad of gum. He explains that he had found an old piece of gum, but was unable to master the ground-in wrapping. While thinking to himself that no candy is worth this trouble, he remembers he has a newer piece somewhere in his cubby drawer. He later swallows it.
Sometime during school:
Ben intersperses study with orders for lunch. (I had formerly agreed to make some zesty fries with lunch today.) Luke, disgusted, with the unmanful begging, declares, "Ben, if you were thrown in a vat of fries, you would eat yourself." Ben responds by pulling up his shirt and pretending to rub ketchup on his belly.
Grammar circle:
An actual conversation held during grammar exercises:
Allie: Because of Ben, I have been deprived of fatty, fried foods.
Luke: And yet you are still big.
I bring up a small veggie tray with ranch dip and a can of assorted nuts. Ben devours some Brazil nuts and begins to flop around seal-like on his brother's back. (I say nothing because I am beginning to regard these exertions as exercise.)
Sometime before lunch:
I announce there will be no zesty fries with lunch. It is not until this moment I discover that Allie has skipped breakfast in anticipation of zesty fries.
Lunch:
All is quiet as Allie fixes a simple lunch of two Claussen pickles, one exploded hot dog, and a honey crisp apple. Ben pulls out veggies for yet another hoagie. He again loudly protests the sad state of all bread in this house. Allie is having trouble speaking to me, and won't make eye contact.
During lunch:
I am alone upstairs waiting for the children to finish their prison lunches.
After lunch:
Allie flops onto the couch declaring she is being punished because of Ben.
Ben erroneously prepares a package of cook and serve pudding according to the directions for instant. It doesn't set up.
Math time - outdoor classroom:
Allie brings her package of Sour Patch Kids to math class. At some point yesterday, she spit in it - to protect it from further pillage. Ben eats one anyway, and complains about the stickiness. He later chomps on a honey crisp apple. He feeds Bushrod the core.
Half way through math:
We head back inside to finish, and I transform the cook and serve pudding into hot chocolate by adding milk, vanilla, and heat. Ben tops his with sprinkles. Allie drinks hers from a flowery teacup.
Dinner:
We have chicken and dumplings and Allen's homemade baked beans and weenies. Allie comes down late and Ben has eaten all the baked beans.
True story:
Luke arrives upstairs and spies the leftover bag of Sour Patch Kids. I quickly warn him that Allie has spit in them. He eats the last five. (And drinks my ice water.)
Later:
We turn on satellite radio and Ben logs in some dance time with Luke. They then take turns testing the limits of Allie's claustrophobia. Afterward, Ben and Allie wrestle off aggressions - and calories. Ben admits to having four starbursts before dinner.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Symptoms II
Cluster Headache Dietary Trials - Day 2
Wake up:
Ben tacks the remaining chocolate chip cookie in the baggie to his bulletin board and stares at it.
Breakfast:
Ben requests eggs, bacon, and plain toast. While it is being prepared, I have Allie pass out honey crisp apples (which can only be purchased this time of year). Ben crawls into Luke's attic "studio" to pass the word about the apple before breakfast. Everyone else consumes the delicious pomme, though we are uncertain even now what has actually happened to Luke's - who will only laugh when questioned.
Devotions:
It is discovered that Allie has a pack of sour patch kids. When she is distracted, Ben snatches the bag and stuffs a handful in his mouth. Screaming and wrestling ensue - after which Ben finds a lone sour patch on the floor and eats it.
Luke snickers amusedly from his bed, where he is popping handfuls of Charleston chews.
Lunch:
We run to the post office and to Mapco to get air in the truck tires. Ben smells Jo Jo potatoes on the wind. He subtly inquires, "Can I have some Jo Jo potatoes?" I buy him a diet Pepsi instead, but he informs me his favorite is regular wild cherry Pepsi. I only stare. He then sulks away to gaze at the candy aisle. As we are leaving Mapco Ben asks, "Can I have some Jo Jo potatoes?" On the drive home, I discover Ben is eating a bag of grapes in the back seat. At home again, he prepares a hoagie and a half - all the while complaining about the quality of the bread.
Allie has righteously requested tomato soup with water, not milk. Ben is aghast.
After lunch break:
I notice the chocolate chip cookie baggie has gone missing from the bulletin board. Ben informs me he has just eaten it.
Writing period:
Ben writes another alarming story about a fussy farm animal who determines in his heart to get rid of the disappointing farmer. There are always these dreadful sounds emitting from barns and all these farmers that are "never seen again". Yesterday, Alex the sheep decided to "take care" of the farmer who didn't serve meals on time or adhere to the sheep's wish for water that was "precisely 20 degrees F".
Math period:
Ben peels and de-seeds a pomegranate (which you can only purchase this time of year) -Allen and the kids eat the jewel-like flesh from cereal bowls. Today (and usually), Ben was eating his pomegranate by the handful. Even while tattling on Allie, he was shoveling in portions from a precarious bowl.
It was today that Allen suggested we begin falsifying school records, and send the children out to work.
Mentally preparing for scout camp this weekend:
Ben announces he will be packing his entire Excedrin migraine bottle - along with a bag of candy.
1:18:
I open a fun size bag of skittles and lay the green, purple, and yellow ones on an end table. Allie helps herself to a couple of yellow and green. The rest disappear mysteriously - after which, Ben admits he ate them.
1:27:
Ben puts the t.v. clicker to his ear and pretends to order five cheese pizzas.
1:35:
Ben is caught eating a roll of smarties. Three are sacrificed before he is stopped.
I spend the rest of the afternoon falsifying school records.
Dinner prep time:
Ben catches me eating a spoonful(s) of crunchy peanut butter while "cooking" dinner. He helps himself to one, plus also, a tall glass of milk and a Claussen pickle. He begins preparing his special honey mustard to dip his chicken in.
Dinner time:
Ben burns his finger retrieving a chicken leg from the pan, and hacks away at halving a chicken breast. When I encourage him to just take the whole thing, he gasps insultedly that he is not some pig after all. He returns later for another piece.
Allen refuses to eat the chicken, declaring I can't make him. He leaves the room with a sad plate of mac and cheese and vinegar beans. I say he should have a piece of meat on that plate; he says I can't make him.
Allie complains about the dried out mac and cheese, asking if I can ever make it creamy. She also inquires why we are having those beans again. I inform her there are peas as well, and the universe shifts back to its natural place.
Luke is away from home and will ultimately eat dinner with the Stanfield's where he is always delighted to eat Sabrina's cooking.
Book time:
Luke returns home and lords it over Ben and Allie that he has also eaten Bourbon chicken at the mall
We later discover that Ben has eaten a bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch after dinner. He made no formal announcement except to leave a lone crunch on the floor beside the refrigerator.
To be continued........
Friday, September 23, 2011
Symptoms I
The following was written nine years ago when I decided to ascertain the cause of Ben's frequent migraines. Thinking it might be food related, I put him on a diet and attempted to catalog his eating habits. I sent a daily email on my observations to my friend Kelly Daniele who had grown worried after witnessing some of these episodes. I was forced to abandon my efforts three days later though, and return to life.
Cluster Headache Dietary Trials - Day 1:
Morning:
Ben, who has willingly agreed to these trials, balks at the absence of sugary cereal at breakfast. He attempts to fix a bowl of Ramen, but settles for a large meal of eggs and cheese toast. He supplements upstairs with a homemade chocolate chip cookie he has stored in a baggie.
Lunch:
Ben agrees hungrily to a bowl of vegetarian vegetable soup (after confirming that there would be no fries). He blanches to discover that it has been diluted with a little water. He ultimately accepts the bowl, but crabs, "I feel like an old man!"
After Lunch:
Ben recounts a story where a group of survivors are forced to eat their own buttocks.
Snack time:
We are working math problems on the back deck to enjoy the warm sun and brisk breeze. This time is punctuated with declarations of dire hunger, starvation, and encroaching scurvy. I offer homemade trail mix. Dog-like, Ben snuffles through the nuts, leaving the dried cherries behind. I threaten, and he gobbles the fruit in one gulp - to abbreviate the horror. He is caught sneaking two to the dogs. He demands some of the M&M's for his troubles and receives two.
Math time:
Allie has made everyone a glass of lemon water which Ben slurps gratefully. However, I later find the sugar bowl has clumps of sugar from Ben's wet, digging fingers. He admits to retrieving one "lump" to sweeten his lemonade when he was ostensibly going for more ice.
Late afternoon:
Ben is sent outside to put in an hour of P.E. He comes back fifteen minutes later saying it FELT like an hour. I look on helplessly. The rest of the afternoon is spent inquiring about dinner.
Dinner:
Ben returns for more roast and is warned to leave some for Dad and Luke (who will soon be home from work). He protests injuredly that he's not an animal after all. But, suspiciously, there is not enough roast for Luke to have seconds as well. Ben leaves a dirty plate upstairs.
After scouts:
Ben begs for a hamburger from Sonic. I say no, and he says, "Well, how about onion rings?"
Back home:
I have shopped and brought home the items Ben requested for these trials: Iceberg lettuce, tomatoes, cheese, hoagies, and 1,000 Island (Kraft or Kroger, but NOT Wishbone or homemade). He begins to make a sandwich (even though it is 9:00 p.m.). I relent because, actually, we are all starving. Even Allen emerged from his lair to make a bologna sandwich. Ben then proceeds to make a salad as well, so I allow Luke to eat half the huge sandwich Ben has created (for that is how he views his sandwich artistry). He squeals in a decibel I did not think possible since he entered puberty.
To be continued.........
Cluster Headache Dietary Trials - Day 1:
Morning:
Ben, who has willingly agreed to these trials, balks at the absence of sugary cereal at breakfast. He attempts to fix a bowl of Ramen, but settles for a large meal of eggs and cheese toast. He supplements upstairs with a homemade chocolate chip cookie he has stored in a baggie.
Lunch:
Ben agrees hungrily to a bowl of vegetarian vegetable soup (after confirming that there would be no fries). He blanches to discover that it has been diluted with a little water. He ultimately accepts the bowl, but crabs, "I feel like an old man!"
After Lunch:
Ben recounts a story where a group of survivors are forced to eat their own buttocks.
Snack time:
We are working math problems on the back deck to enjoy the warm sun and brisk breeze. This time is punctuated with declarations of dire hunger, starvation, and encroaching scurvy. I offer homemade trail mix. Dog-like, Ben snuffles through the nuts, leaving the dried cherries behind. I threaten, and he gobbles the fruit in one gulp - to abbreviate the horror. He is caught sneaking two to the dogs. He demands some of the M&M's for his troubles and receives two.
Math time:
Allie has made everyone a glass of lemon water which Ben slurps gratefully. However, I later find the sugar bowl has clumps of sugar from Ben's wet, digging fingers. He admits to retrieving one "lump" to sweeten his lemonade when he was ostensibly going for more ice.
Late afternoon:
Ben is sent outside to put in an hour of P.E. He comes back fifteen minutes later saying it FELT like an hour. I look on helplessly. The rest of the afternoon is spent inquiring about dinner.
Dinner:
Ben returns for more roast and is warned to leave some for Dad and Luke (who will soon be home from work). He protests injuredly that he's not an animal after all. But, suspiciously, there is not enough roast for Luke to have seconds as well. Ben leaves a dirty plate upstairs.
After scouts:
Ben begs for a hamburger from Sonic. I say no, and he says, "Well, how about onion rings?"
Back home:
I have shopped and brought home the items Ben requested for these trials: Iceberg lettuce, tomatoes, cheese, hoagies, and 1,000 Island (Kraft or Kroger, but NOT Wishbone or homemade). He begins to make a sandwich (even though it is 9:00 p.m.). I relent because, actually, we are all starving. Even Allen emerged from his lair to make a bologna sandwich. Ben then proceeds to make a salad as well, so I allow Luke to eat half the huge sandwich Ben has created (for that is how he views his sandwich artistry). He squeals in a decibel I did not think possible since he entered puberty.
To be continued.........
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Sleepwear
My husband has never been a believer in sleepwear - in that he doesn't wear it - or sleep in it. Whenever he needed to shush the boys in the night, he simply cupped his hand over his privates and walked to their door. I began referring to this state of dishabille as "Dad's pajamas". The children and I sometimes discuss how they will puzzle their future therapists with the inexplicable trauma of Dad's "pajamas".
A trauma that touched a branch of the family gathered for a fishing weekend in Louisiana. A trauma that strode through the central area of a large clubhouse at midnight, shushing all the rowdy male cousins. A trauma that quickly stumped back to the room where Allie and I were hiding when his mother started screaming, "Allen!"
A trauma that touched a branch of the family gathered for a fishing weekend in Louisiana. A trauma that strode through the central area of a large clubhouse at midnight, shushing all the rowdy male cousins. A trauma that quickly stumped back to the room where Allie and I were hiding when his mother started screaming, "Allen!"
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Sparrows (and starlings)
The neighbors caught Allen stopping up their birdhouses with mud.
They did not confront him; they came to me. His logical explanation was that the sparrows had killed the chickadee. "Oh." is what everyone said. Then Allen sprayed their yard for free.
He vehemently hates sparrows, and they pulled the chickadee right out of the house wherein she had been for days building a nest, leaving her on the ground for Allen to find - like a murderous calling card. This is how sparrows procure homes of their own, but Allen said, "Not in this yard."
Which means all conversations on the deck this summer were punctuated with pellet gunfire and cursing. The day Allen managed to shoot a starling from its perch, he left the carcass lying on the ground for the sparrows to find - like a murderous calling card. But when he stuffed one of his birdhouses with old socks, only to realize (joyously) that he had trapped actual sparrows beneath it, I began to worry. Especially when he gleefully described the sight of their helpless beaks pecking vainly at escape.
I conducted a little research on the topic of predatory sparrows, and found Allen was not alone in his disgust of these birds. There is an entire community of gentle-souled birdwatchers who speak openly of their battle with sparrows (and starlings), advising the no-nonsense extermination of the male birds. They devote earnest amounts of time, effort, and skill toward creating deterrents and traps; some rigging up devices attached to car batteries. And though the killing of a sparrow with bare hands is an image not comfortably associated with stereotypical birdwatchers, it is accurate. I think of them as ingenious guerrillas who do not hope to rid the land of all sparrows, just their own yards.
This war is so all-encompassing that even after nesting season when Allie noticed a small sparrow light on the stones near Allen's koi pond, she turned to me, saying, "Dad would have a fit."
They did not confront him; they came to me. His logical explanation was that the sparrows had killed the chickadee. "Oh." is what everyone said. Then Allen sprayed their yard for free.
He vehemently hates sparrows, and they pulled the chickadee right out of the house wherein she had been for days building a nest, leaving her on the ground for Allen to find - like a murderous calling card. This is how sparrows procure homes of their own, but Allen said, "Not in this yard."
Which means all conversations on the deck this summer were punctuated with pellet gunfire and cursing. The day Allen managed to shoot a starling from its perch, he left the carcass lying on the ground for the sparrows to find - like a murderous calling card. But when he stuffed one of his birdhouses with old socks, only to realize (joyously) that he had trapped actual sparrows beneath it, I began to worry. Especially when he gleefully described the sight of their helpless beaks pecking vainly at escape.
I conducted a little research on the topic of predatory sparrows, and found Allen was not alone in his disgust of these birds. There is an entire community of gentle-souled birdwatchers who speak openly of their battle with sparrows (and starlings), advising the no-nonsense extermination of the male birds. They devote earnest amounts of time, effort, and skill toward creating deterrents and traps; some rigging up devices attached to car batteries. And though the killing of a sparrow with bare hands is an image not comfortably associated with stereotypical birdwatchers, it is accurate. I think of them as ingenious guerrillas who do not hope to rid the land of all sparrows, just their own yards.
This war is so all-encompassing that even after nesting season when Allie noticed a small sparrow light on the stones near Allen's koi pond, she turned to me, saying, "Dad would have a fit."
Monday, September 5, 2011
Sweet Tooth
There is probably no other household wherein more sugar is consumed than my own. This is because my husband has a sweet tooth - that runs a business of its own. Nay, it installed itself on a throne and reigned for forty-seven years. I am chief facilitator, and chocolate is the coin of the realm.
As a young bride, I learned to keep a well-stocked cabinet of treats for my liege lord: candy bars, sour candies, pecan logs, brittles, cookies. You name it. But just as the English referred to all dessert as "pudding", Allen refers to all dessert as "chocolate". As in, "Now that dinner's done, it's time for chocolate." He eats all varieties of sweets, really; but when the cocoa's runnin' low, he'll let you know. (I just made up that rhyme in case you missed it.) And all of it was kept in a treasury we called "the snack cabinet".
I raised my children in this kingdom of sucrose. They were my little sugar flowers; their faces turned toward the snack cabinet as if t'were the sun. They knew their own favorites were housed there, just waiting for a meal to be gotten through. But though Allen never gained a pound, the rest of us struggled, watching with jealous fascination as he ate unbelievable amounts of candy.
Once, Luke impersonated Allen getting his popsicle fix by strolling nonchalantly to the den with fifteen plastic popsicle cylinders.....topped with a brownie. And poor Ben thought even breakfast should end with dessert. (I think it did.) It is enough to say that God formed Allie's DNA from the same beaker He used for Allen's (tooth). She is sure to succeed the throne.
I learned over the years that the mothers of my acquaintance did not appreciate the existence of such a cabinet in my house. Because their children, when staying over, were allowed the same access to it as my own. Most all my friends run healthy establishments, stocking their pantries with whole grain wheat stuff and unbleached things and milk skimmed (of all its goodness), and no stacks of butter, bought on sale, lining the freezer shelves.
So, I am always the quiet one when ladies' groups discuss the disintegrating wholesomeness of society's victuals, eyeing me surreptitiously because everyone of them has dropped off a child at my house for the weekend. But, in my own defense, it was only for parties and backyard campouts that I went completely overboard, providing a smorgasbord of delights in order to please all palettes.
And if John Gluzscek hadn't let the cat out of the bag by throwing up twelve Kit Kat bars, I might have some semblance of a reputation to my name.
As a young bride, I learned to keep a well-stocked cabinet of treats for my liege lord: candy bars, sour candies, pecan logs, brittles, cookies. You name it. But just as the English referred to all dessert as "pudding", Allen refers to all dessert as "chocolate". As in, "Now that dinner's done, it's time for chocolate." He eats all varieties of sweets, really; but when the cocoa's runnin' low, he'll let you know. (I just made up that rhyme in case you missed it.) And all of it was kept in a treasury we called "the snack cabinet".
I raised my children in this kingdom of sucrose. They were my little sugar flowers; their faces turned toward the snack cabinet as if t'were the sun. They knew their own favorites were housed there, just waiting for a meal to be gotten through. But though Allen never gained a pound, the rest of us struggled, watching with jealous fascination as he ate unbelievable amounts of candy.
Once, Luke impersonated Allen getting his popsicle fix by strolling nonchalantly to the den with fifteen plastic popsicle cylinders.....topped with a brownie. And poor Ben thought even breakfast should end with dessert. (I think it did.) It is enough to say that God formed Allie's DNA from the same beaker He used for Allen's (tooth). She is sure to succeed the throne.
I learned over the years that the mothers of my acquaintance did not appreciate the existence of such a cabinet in my house. Because their children, when staying over, were allowed the same access to it as my own. Most all my friends run healthy establishments, stocking their pantries with whole grain wheat stuff and unbleached things and milk skimmed (of all its goodness), and no stacks of butter, bought on sale, lining the freezer shelves.
So, I am always the quiet one when ladies' groups discuss the disintegrating wholesomeness of society's victuals, eyeing me surreptitiously because everyone of them has dropped off a child at my house for the weekend. But, in my own defense, it was only for parties and backyard campouts that I went completely overboard, providing a smorgasbord of delights in order to please all palettes.
And if John Gluzscek hadn't let the cat out of the bag by throwing up twelve Kit Kat bars, I might have some semblance of a reputation to my name.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Swear, Men's
Shortly after Ben learned to phonetically sound out words, we went on a shopping trip to Target. He noticed a large sign over the Menswear section, and tattle-taled, "Ooooo, men sweeeaaar."
This is when I first realized how Ben thinks.
This is when I first realized how Ben thinks.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Sophistry
Whenever we stand staring at magazines by the checkout counter, I sometimes play a game:
If there is a cover (and there always is) of a particularly lovely young woman with flowing hair, a gloriously flat stomach, and pert.....things, I will say to the lovelies:
"Now, I did this shoot two months ago. Back when I was young and stupid."
or
"I dyed my hair blond for this one. I might try that again someday."
or
"Sigh. That was five pounds ago."
or
"I was supposed to look Spanish for this one. Nailed it!"
or
"I said no at first, but there was no one like me to pull it off. So......."
or
"I wasn't paid nearly enough for that. Don't plan on college."
or
"My tan was at its awesomest that summer. Though the string bikini hides some of it."
or
"In this one, I was going for 23. Nailed it!"
or
"Yes, children, I will do anything for money. And the problem is?
or
"Notice the artistry of the lighting. I hardly felt naked at all."
or
"Jealous? Of your own mother?"
Ben only responds with a superior stare, but Allie plays the game to the veriest bitter end. As a female, she knows how important fantasy is to a woman's concept of beauty (or a man's).
Either way, I'll keep doing those photo shoots - as long as I'm wanted.
If there is a cover (and there always is) of a particularly lovely young woman with flowing hair, a gloriously flat stomach, and pert.....things, I will say to the lovelies:
"Now, I did this shoot two months ago. Back when I was young and stupid."
or
"I dyed my hair blond for this one. I might try that again someday."
or
"Sigh. That was five pounds ago."
or
"I was supposed to look Spanish for this one. Nailed it!"
or
"I said no at first, but there was no one like me to pull it off. So......."
or
"I wasn't paid nearly enough for that. Don't plan on college."
or
"My tan was at its awesomest that summer. Though the string bikini hides some of it."
or
"In this one, I was going for 23. Nailed it!"
or
"Yes, children, I will do anything for money. And the problem is?
or
"Notice the artistry of the lighting. I hardly felt naked at all."
or
"Jealous? Of your own mother?"
Ben only responds with a superior stare, but Allie plays the game to the veriest bitter end. As a female, she knows how important fantasy is to a woman's concept of beauty (or a man's).
Either way, I'll keep doing those photo shoots - as long as I'm wanted.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Stockyard I
Luke works at Stockyard Horticultural Supply. Though very young, he is now in charge of the growing operation there - setting up his own accounts, taking stock of situations, and whipping that place into shape. He is also somewhat of a linguist. But I don't like to brag. I really don't.
Two days ago, he relayed to me a motto he had invented for his fledgling company:
"Here at Stockyard, we run things by the seat of our pants. Unfortunately, we wear assless chaps."
Two days ago, he relayed to me a motto he had invented for his fledgling company:
"Here at Stockyard, we run things by the seat of our pants. Unfortunately, we wear assless chaps."
Monday, August 29, 2011
Sex I
One year, when our financial situation was as dire as we could stand, and we had spent the evening discussing our unraveling circumstances until I was mentally worn and collapsed, Allen surprised me by inviting me to bed.
I muttered, "I'm too depressed to ever have sex again." To which he replied, "Hey! It's the only thing we do that's free!"
I muttered, "I'm too depressed to ever have sex again." To which he replied, "Hey! It's the only thing we do that's free!"
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
S.W.A.T.
We once lived across the street from a juvenile delinquent my husband referred to as "Lurking Thing". Lurking Thing was large, dumpy, and greasy. He cursed his helpless parents in public; played loud music from his open window; and invited undesirables to his front yard at all hours. His house was shot at during a drive-by shooting and his dog killed a neighbor's puppy. He did not buy fireworks for July 4th - he bought them for July 5th......to explode at midnight.....one at a time. We would watch from our bedroom window, and hope for his arrest (or execution-style murder). But night followed night as he sported freely in his yard, forcing my husband to step outside in his underwear to discuss societal norms.
We were surprised, nonetheless, when Luke exited our home one afternoon to discover armed men hiding behind vehicles, trees, and bushes on our street, their guns trained on Lurking Thing's domicile. He had finally attracted the popo. Luke was ordered back inside where we took up stake-out positions at the front windows (only to be ordered to close our blinds). Evidently, Lurking Thing was either barricaded with his gun or loose with his gun. Yawn.
My husband called from a nearby intersection, informing us he was unable to return home because of a police blockade at our neighborhood entrance. "Cool!" is what we shouted. But one gets bored and hungry surreptitiously watching the fuzz stalk inch by inch toward a criminal target, so we reasoned it was totally time to grill our dinner. As Luke clanked around in the backyard, with a smoking grill alerting everyone of our doings, a soldier crawled from his position behind our front-yard tree to our backyard fence to shut down all food operations. Luke attempted to inform the officer that Lurking Thing had probably run into the woods behind our house, but we were again ordered back inside.
Suddenly, our hostage situation was not so amusing. While Lurking Thing ran free, we were prisoners, and now that we had no other option but for Luke to pan-fry our steaks, we felt we were eating prison rations as well. And my husband, eager to end a long, hot day of work, kept calling to inquire if The Lurking Thing had been shot yet. While we spoke, I witnessed, through a small slit in the blinds, one of those cobra unit vans trundle by. The insignia was that of a coiled cobra, so I guess that means we were saved.
Several quasi-soldiers, wearing bullet-proof vests and carrying riot shields, eased out and tightened into a phalanx that crept with agonizing slowness toward Lurking Thing's front door. When they were close enough, they burst in, fanning out in all directions. We watched breathlessly until, one by one, they returned empty-handed to the front yard. Lurking Thing had, apparently, evaded capture by fleeing to the woods behind our house.
If only we'd known.
We were surprised, nonetheless, when Luke exited our home one afternoon to discover armed men hiding behind vehicles, trees, and bushes on our street, their guns trained on Lurking Thing's domicile. He had finally attracted the popo. Luke was ordered back inside where we took up stake-out positions at the front windows (only to be ordered to close our blinds). Evidently, Lurking Thing was either barricaded with his gun or loose with his gun. Yawn.
My husband called from a nearby intersection, informing us he was unable to return home because of a police blockade at our neighborhood entrance. "Cool!" is what we shouted. But one gets bored and hungry surreptitiously watching the fuzz stalk inch by inch toward a criminal target, so we reasoned it was totally time to grill our dinner. As Luke clanked around in the backyard, with a smoking grill alerting everyone of our doings, a soldier crawled from his position behind our front-yard tree to our backyard fence to shut down all food operations. Luke attempted to inform the officer that Lurking Thing had probably run into the woods behind our house, but we were again ordered back inside.
Suddenly, our hostage situation was not so amusing. While Lurking Thing ran free, we were prisoners, and now that we had no other option but for Luke to pan-fry our steaks, we felt we were eating prison rations as well. And my husband, eager to end a long, hot day of work, kept calling to inquire if The Lurking Thing had been shot yet. While we spoke, I witnessed, through a small slit in the blinds, one of those cobra unit vans trundle by. The insignia was that of a coiled cobra, so I guess that means we were saved.
Several quasi-soldiers, wearing bullet-proof vests and carrying riot shields, eased out and tightened into a phalanx that crept with agonizing slowness toward Lurking Thing's front door. When they were close enough, they burst in, fanning out in all directions. We watched breathlessly until, one by one, they returned empty-handed to the front yard. Lurking Thing had, apparently, evaded capture by fleeing to the woods behind our house.
If only we'd known.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Scat
After discussing whether or not the Arlington post office has set up a surveillance camera, Ben and I decided to make the monotonous task of checking the post office box more interesting. (It's usually my responsibility alone, but Ben will slog in if I insist.) We accomplish this by pretending to poop in the garbage can by the door. When it's my turn, I will swing the tall, rounded garbage receptacle away from the wall so he can easily see me from the car; When it's his turn, he'll do the same, and, oh, how we laugh. Then we scurry for the mail and exit the building before they can send in the FBI. (It's all very suspenseful.) If we're in a hurry or there are others about, we will just nod toward the can, and wink. This is also considered a "poop" since it's what's in our heart that counts.
One night, I did not pretend to poop because, frankly, I was too tired. I just shuffled in and out, all uninspired, without even a nod toward our can. When I returned to the car, Ben said a little disappointedly, "You didn't poop in the can tonight." I shrugged, saying, "Nah."
But, I felt pretty bad about my failure to do so. Life's not right when you can't laugh, poop, or laugh about poop, and I didn't like letting Ben down as a mother. So, I said, "I'm sorry. I'll do better next time." To which Ben replied, "That's okay, but you know, you should blog about this. That'd be funny. And if you were really brave, you could title it, *Shit*."
I'm not really brave.
One night, I did not pretend to poop because, frankly, I was too tired. I just shuffled in and out, all uninspired, without even a nod toward our can. When I returned to the car, Ben said a little disappointedly, "You didn't poop in the can tonight." I shrugged, saying, "Nah."
But, I felt pretty bad about my failure to do so. Life's not right when you can't laugh, poop, or laugh about poop, and I didn't like letting Ben down as a mother. So, I said, "I'm sorry. I'll do better next time." To which Ben replied, "That's okay, but you know, you should blog about this. That'd be funny. And if you were really brave, you could title it, *Shit*."
I'm not really brave.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Shame
At the church we attended while my children were growing up, there was a monthly social event for juvenile church members. Its name was called, "Kid's Nite Out", and parents could drop their children off for a time of activities and refreshments. The adults were then free to meet for dinner or drive to the nearby bookstore for a heavenly evening of uninterrupted browsing.
One of those Saturday evenings, after we had returned home, and I was settling in to read the lovelies a book, Luke announced baldly, "Kevin So-and-So saw my butthole."
"Pardon?" is what I said.
"Kevin So-and-So accidentally saw my butthole," is what Luke said.
I was quiet. ..............................................................................................................................
..............................................................................................................................
.............................................................................................................................
However, I did not refrain from asking, "How does one person manage to see another person's butthole accidentally?"
Luke explained that his elastic-waist britches had slipped too low while he was giving his younger sister Allie a pony ride. Way too low. Still bewildered, I asked how someone could see that if only the britches had slipped down. Luke then admitted he had not donned any underwear while dressing. (Apparently, this can eat into a person's time.)
But there's a life lesson for all of us in Luke's explanation that, "When you're playing pony, your crack just naturally opens up."
After we had discussed all the ramifications of this event, Luke hoped tentatively, "Maybe Kevin will forget by tomorrow."
I laughed in his face.
It seemed an absolute certainty that Kevin So-and-So would tell the entire children's department the next morning. In light of that certainty, we managed to laugh, shrug our shoulders, and return to our book. But the following day at church, everything went off without a hitch. Kevin So-and-So had not been a problem, seemingly forgetting the whole incident (no pun intended).
All up until Allie spotted Kevin in the hallway, and confronted him, yelling shrilly, "Have you been going around telling people about Luke's butthole!!!???"
One of those Saturday evenings, after we had returned home, and I was settling in to read the lovelies a book, Luke announced baldly, "Kevin So-and-So saw my butthole."
"Pardon?" is what I said.
"Kevin So-and-So accidentally saw my butthole," is what Luke said.
I was quiet. ..............................................................................................................................
..............................................................................................................................
.............................................................................................................................
However, I did not refrain from asking, "How does one person manage to see another person's butthole accidentally?"
Luke explained that his elastic-waist britches had slipped too low while he was giving his younger sister Allie a pony ride. Way too low. Still bewildered, I asked how someone could see that if only the britches had slipped down. Luke then admitted he had not donned any underwear while dressing. (Apparently, this can eat into a person's time.)
But there's a life lesson for all of us in Luke's explanation that, "When you're playing pony, your crack just naturally opens up."
After we had discussed all the ramifications of this event, Luke hoped tentatively, "Maybe Kevin will forget by tomorrow."
I laughed in his face.
It seemed an absolute certainty that Kevin So-and-So would tell the entire children's department the next morning. In light of that certainty, we managed to laugh, shrug our shoulders, and return to our book. But the following day at church, everything went off without a hitch. Kevin So-and-So had not been a problem, seemingly forgetting the whole incident (no pun intended).
All up until Allie spotted Kevin in the hallway, and confronted him, yelling shrilly, "Have you been going around telling people about Luke's butthole!!!???"
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Surface
I am socially inept. It's manageable (mostly), but if I have been out of social settings for any length of time, I am apt to behave maniacally when thrown back in. Hence, my apprehension when returning to the workforce last year. At first I was able to cope by strapping ballast to my ankles and diving deep into the social pool. Most everyone at work thought I was a quiet, shy, solicitous being because, at first, I would smile in lieu of an answer or laugh in lieu of a reply. I kept this up so long I almost began to believe it myself; but as I grew comfortable, I was unable to hold.
I have always been unable to hold. As a little girl, if I was allowed even a smidgen of attention in a social gathering, I would take on the manic behavior of a starving prisoner set free. I would grow louder, talk faster, perform verbal tricks, sing the words to a song I didn't understand in Portuguese, and do impressions - all in order to garner every ounce of attention in the room - everything short of screaming, "Look at me!", "Laugh at me!". My father knew these episodes well enough to step in, ordering the crowd: "Don't feed the coon!" These days, I am on my own.
After a year at work, I began, helplessly, to jettison my ballast, and float toward the surface. There were pauses on the upward journey because I sometimes drew inward (to incubate), preparing for future outburst. This would not be negative if I was not so ultimately inappropriate. It's true that "Out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaketh" because when I eventually surfaced, the fount of it burst forth with me.
On the day following these episodes, I feel headachey and drained - all dry-mouthed and bereft. I liken it to the state of a person who has imbibed too freely the night before. It must be, as I feel the need to make up for it the entire next year. I commit to never speaking again. I mentally screw on every cap, tie up every thought, zip up every lip, and batten down every hatch. But I am really only incubating once more.
It is always inevitable that I will resurface. I actually have no choice, or possibly no control. At work, there is not a calendar I have not filled in with my co-worker's embarrassing doctor's appointments; there is not a piece of paper I have not left a stupid comment on; there is not a single mistake I haven't blamed on someone else (in writing); there is not a corner of the store I haven't yelled and waved from; there is not a private joke I haven't hit, run over, and dragged along; there is not a corporate fax I haven't been tempted to tamper with; there is not a rude sign I haven't left on a cabinet; there is not a telephone message I have not drawn hearts and flowers on; there is not a pretend conversation I haven't had over the phone; there is not a thought I haven't spoken aloud before thinking, and that does not even touch my behavior with the seven-foot porter. My inappropriateness is staggering. I have shocked even myself. Every bit of restraint I exert on myself is at a cost, and I am constantly exerting it........to no avail.
I freely admit it: My name is Stacey Henderson and I am a coon. Feed me.
I have always been unable to hold. As a little girl, if I was allowed even a smidgen of attention in a social gathering, I would take on the manic behavior of a starving prisoner set free. I would grow louder, talk faster, perform verbal tricks, sing the words to a song I didn't understand in Portuguese, and do impressions - all in order to garner every ounce of attention in the room - everything short of screaming, "Look at me!", "Laugh at me!". My father knew these episodes well enough to step in, ordering the crowd: "Don't feed the coon!" These days, I am on my own.
After a year at work, I began, helplessly, to jettison my ballast, and float toward the surface. There were pauses on the upward journey because I sometimes drew inward (to incubate), preparing for future outburst. This would not be negative if I was not so ultimately inappropriate. It's true that "Out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaketh" because when I eventually surfaced, the fount of it burst forth with me.
On the day following these episodes, I feel headachey and drained - all dry-mouthed and bereft. I liken it to the state of a person who has imbibed too freely the night before. It must be, as I feel the need to make up for it the entire next year. I commit to never speaking again. I mentally screw on every cap, tie up every thought, zip up every lip, and batten down every hatch. But I am really only incubating once more.
It is always inevitable that I will resurface. I actually have no choice, or possibly no control. At work, there is not a calendar I have not filled in with my co-worker's embarrassing doctor's appointments; there is not a piece of paper I have not left a stupid comment on; there is not a single mistake I haven't blamed on someone else (in writing); there is not a corner of the store I haven't yelled and waved from; there is not a private joke I haven't hit, run over, and dragged along; there is not a corporate fax I haven't been tempted to tamper with; there is not a rude sign I haven't left on a cabinet; there is not a telephone message I have not drawn hearts and flowers on; there is not a pretend conversation I haven't had over the phone; there is not a thought I haven't spoken aloud before thinking, and that does not even touch my behavior with the seven-foot porter. My inappropriateness is staggering. I have shocked even myself. Every bit of restraint I exert on myself is at a cost, and I am constantly exerting it........to no avail.
I freely admit it: My name is Stacey Henderson and I am a coon. Feed me.
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