I will remember her number.
May 24, 2013
I came up from my bedroom this morning to the vision of Katy, my daughter, eating a large bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. I open with this piece of information because Kate has been struggling with a stomach virus all week. Five minutes later, when I began my morning diatribe about the importance of punctuality and dental hygiene, Katy looked at me. She looked guilty. “Mom, my stomach hurts again.” She didn’t have a fever. She didn’t look pale. I had the suspicion that her pain had more to do with my lecture than her health. But I tucked her under some blankets on our bed and took Colin to school.
I got home to find Katy curled up on our chaise next to the bed. Then I noticed, Katy had erupted; half digested milk and cheerios were all over our quilt. I washed her hair, put her in some clean pajamas and brought her upstairs to her bed, which I had just finished putting clean sheets on last night. Katy throws up in bed. Not in the toilet. Or on the carpet. Never in a bucket. In bed, most of the time while she is half asleep.
Next piece of business, I got a phone call from my sister in law. My husband’s mom was dying. Today. Margaret has been staying with her daughter Debbie in North Carolina. She is, was, 93 years old, has, had cancer and dementia and failing lungs. So it wasn’t a surprise.
I spoke to her last week. We haven’t been talking as much as usual. I used to call her every day to fill her on every little thing my kids did; she was the only person that never, ever got tired of hearing every little detail. About how Katy loved ketchup more than the cheeseburger she put it on. How Colin would come downstairs 5 times a night to say good night and tell me just one more thing.
So when I called her last week, it was awkward. I couldn’t start talking about what we had for dinner last night, or Katy’s new passion for the recorder, after not talking to her for almost a month. So I told her about school, about my grades, about the weather. She was tired, her voice cracked. Before we got off the phone she said “Julie, don’t lose my number.”
I called her every day after, and I think I only got to speak to her once more.
Right after I got the call that the priest was on his way to give her last rites, the turtle turned up in our tv room. About a week ago, he had disappeared from his bowl. We all thought the dog ate him.
During dinner, conversation went back and forth from Margaret’s death to the discovery of Picasso Roadkill, (he’s a painted turtle found on the side of the road). Dinner was quick, just Katy and me. We had to drive over to Roxbury to pick up Colin from basketball practice. I wasn’t happy about driving to Roxbury at 8 o’clock. I have a lousy sense of direction, I can never find a parking space, and I always get lost coming home. To make matters worse, on the way to pick my son up, (while I was trying to figure out a way to get mad at my husband for asking me to do just that, even though his mother had just died hours before) in a sudden moment of clarity I remembered today was the day I had to start cat/snake sitting for a woman in Cambridge.
Change of plans. Katy and I drove to Cambridge. We couldn’t find the house. I finally parked the car, deciding that we would walk up and down Harvard Street until a building looked familiar. Or until a key fit in the front door.
We found the house. We fed the cat. We left food for the less friendly cat. We looked at the snake. We scooped litter.
Then we left, to go back to the car, and return to our original errand. Picking up Colin from basketball.
One glitch. I had lost the car. We walked and walked and walked. I gave Katy another speech about something stupid, picking up her feet, or not jangling the car keys, or to never leave the house in her pajamas. We walked, and walked, and walked. Katy tried to ask me questions. She wanted to know what her Nanna had been like as a young woman. She wanted to know who my high school boyfriend was. She wanted to know why she was named Kaitlin and what I would have named her if she was a boy.
I don’t think I answered any of her questions. I think I shook her off a few times, she was holding my hand, and sometimes I just couldn’t bare to be close, to be clung to. I just wanted to march forward fast, without speaking, find the car, pick up my son, and get home.
She kept reaching out, though. And she was the one who reached in my back pocket and grabbed my phone the 34th time it rang. She told my husband where we were. He’d picked up Colin. He came right away. On the way to get us, Colin spotted the car just blocks away from where Katy and I were standing.
On the ride home, in the dark, in the tunnel we call the Katy tunnel because it was completed just before she was born, I told them about Margaret. I told them about how one night Marg and I stayed up late, got drunk, and plotted how I could convince Sheldon he really did want a baby. I told them how she always announced that she didn’t like bread with her pasta, and that she always had bread with her pasta. I told them how their Dad used to call her “Mumsy” and how that would make her smile.
They are both in bed now. Colin’s probably awake, he’s watching the turtle in the dark and trying to remember how his Nanna used to rock him to sleep. Katy is sleeping, soundly. I hope she doesn’t throw up tonight.
I’m sitting here trying to figure out if this is a night for a sleeping pill, or a night for a walk in the dark with my memories. I think Katy and I did enough walking for tonight. So I think I will sit on my stoop for a while with Sophie and think about things.
I do need to get to bed soon. I need to get up early. I want to have breakfast with Colin. And I want to walk Katy to school. I will hold her hand, and ask her questions, and she will shake me off, and skip ahead, and tomorrow will be a wonderful day.
Long F#$%%^^ing Day
May 19, 2013
This morning at 5:30 my son was driven by his father to meet his basketball coach. Colin had a game to play in Fitchberg today and since neither his Dad or I were able to take the time off to drive him, (it’s about an hour and a half away,) his coach kindly offered to give him a ride. I didn’t say good bye to him. Or maybe I did. Five thirty in the morning feels like a very long way away from now.
Long story short, and I mean very long story, short, until 9:30 tonight I didn’t speak to my son. Or his coach. Or any of his fellow team mates. I called the director of the basketball program. I called my son’s other coach, who knows my son’s current coach to find out what he thought of the man that drove my son to Fitchberg at 6 o’clock in the morning. At about 7 pm I took an opinion poll at a going away party I was at to see if people thought I should be concerned at not being able to reach him. I called my mother. I told the woman behind the register at the CVS.
He finally called at 9:45. Even though he left with only eight dollars in his pocket a fact I told every one when I was telling them my tale of woe and worry, he said he had had enough to eat. He said he had fun at the games, that he had played well. He said he would be home soon, and would call me when they was getting close. When we hung up, he told me he loved me. That was kind, I’m sure he was a little horrified at the flurry of text messages and voice mails from me, his father and head of the AAU program.
When I talked to my mom, she chuckled. Not hysterical laughter, or obnoxious you-are-a-craz-idiot- guffaw, just a quiet, beneath her breath, low kind of chuckle. Maybe she thought I was too busy inside my hysterics to hear it.
She told me “He’s growing up. Colin’s smart, and he’s fine, and he’s had enough to eat. I promise.”
And she was right.
She also told me I couldn’t bury one of those satellite gps’s under his armpit while he was sleeping. Or make him quit basketball and take up ping pong in the neighbor’s basement.
She told me Colin is growing up, and there isn’t a helluva a lot I can do about it.
And she didn’t say it, but I got the impression she was trying to prepare me for the fact that this is just the beginning. It is going to get much, much worse, at least from my point of view.
I’m hoping that if this whole teenage growing up thing makes me utterly panicked and miserable, that he has a wonderful time. That he scores many, many baskets, survives a thousand crushes, makes a few true friends, eats his vegetables and shares his pizza, swims, and runs, laughs like an idiot, and cries when he needs to. Personally, I would like him to do all of this, and get enough sleep, but that’s reaching a bit.
But I am going to get him a charger for his damn cell phone.
Making Space and Losing Things
May 8, 2013
I don’t care what people say, unless a woman lives under a rock, she is probably prepared for childbirth. And everybody knows that time goes by quickly, that one day they are babies and the next, they are slamming doors and smoking pot, (or so I’ve been told). These are two truths that are always brought up when the conversation turns to the things in life that surprise us, and tell me, is there anyone you know that isn’t aware that having a baby hurts a lot, and time flies, even if you aren’t having fun.
What no one ever mentioned to me when I was younger was all the people I would lose as I got older. I’m not talking about death, or break ups. I’m talking about the friends and family that have quietly disappeared from my life. I was talking to my daughter the other day about a photo we have on the mantel, she is a baby, swaddled in the every girl baby must have, a pink blanket, and she is held by a smiling Uncle John. After admiring herself, she pointed at the smiling Uncle John. “Who’s that?”, she asked. “Uncle John, you remember Uncle John!” “I don’t remember Uncle John. Is he your brother, or Daddy’s brother?” “He’s a friend of our family. He’s, he’s, he is your Uncle John. He lives in Dorchester.” She stared at me blankly. Katy doesn’t know where Dorchester is, she doesn’t care where Dorchester is, and she can’t figure out why I seem to expect her to figure out who this smiling man in the picture is based on a location she only hears about when her father is talking about traffic. “He gave you that blanket,” I remember. I watch her face.
“Mom, I was a baby then. I don’t remember getting that blanket. I can’t even remember what I had for lunch last week. When was the last time I saw him?”
And I thought about it. And I thought about it some more. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve seen my dear friend John. A long, long time since I’ve seen Simon, or Alex or talked to Patricia on the phone. It’s been years since I discussed literature with my cousin Daniel. Decades since I laughed with Andy, listened to Kent play the guitar or listened to Andrea whine about her husband.
So many people have slipped out of my life when I wasn’t looking. I know everyone is connected these days, and almost anyone can be found, but how would I start a conversation with some I haven’t spoken to in twenty years- “Hey, having a baby, really hurt, hunh? And did you check out how summer seems to go by in a week these days?”
Some people fade away because of geography, some disappear, or fall out of touch as one settles down, and one climbs the corporate ladder. And what makes me sad, when I think about these people that I have loved and lost, is that I miss them. I miss them when I hear a song, or glance at a photo, see someone driving down the street with a familiar profile. Some many of these people are always just on the edge of mind, like a lost library book, or a dream hours after waking up.
Honestly, I don’t have the time right now to reach out to these people whose numbers filled my phone books (remember phone books?), sat across from me in restaurants, got me on guest lists, toasted me at midnight, and brought me aspirin in the morning.
My life is fuller than it’s ever been. Two kids that have reached the ages where I drive them around a lot. And I’m happy to because some days that’s the only time I get to speak to them.
In the past five years, I’ve created a whole new circle of friends, in the town where I live. They are wonderful people, they appreciate good books, often offer me really nice wine, and read the NY Times. lot of them have kids too, and commiseration can be fun. I love these new friends of mine fiercely, and make sure I let them know as often as I can without seeming either needy or stawkerish. I only wish sometimes they knew a little more of my history, who I was before I became Julie, mom/writer/student/lousy housekeeper/sometimes funny, usually kind, when cranky I don’t speak much. The Julie from before was an interesting woman but kind of a mess.
I guess it’s not surprising I’m missing some people from before. And even though Julie 2.0 has things a little more together, I’m sure there are some friends that will fall off the radar as I move forward thru the rest of my life.
I just wish I had known when I started to make friends, real friends, not those based on proximity or the first letter of a last name, that I wasn’t going to stay friends with most of them. I would have liked to have been a little more attentive, taken more pictures, maybe told a few what I found so special about them. I wish I’d known, just a few times, when I was spending time with someone that I was never going to see again. Or that I could have been a little more aware all along that not everyone we love stays on our speed dial forever.
No one warned me about that so I just told you. What you do with the information is your own business. Maybe you were in a sorority 30 years ago, and text your sisters every time you are at a stop light. Maybe your families is just like the Waltons. Maybe you don’t have any friends and you don’t want them. But you’ve read this far, so I’ll end with what I’ve been trying to say all along.
Everyone always tells you to hold your kids close, they grow up so damn fast. All I’m trying to say is hold all the other people in your life that you love close by too.
Boys
May 1, 2013
I am a fifty year old woman. I am at an age when I should be gardening, or sorting thru cruise brochures, or joining a wine tasting class.
Instead, I am quite often surrounded by boys. Teenage boys. One of them is my son, who, like most 13 year olds, has begun to travel in packs of other thirteenish year olds. I spend a lot of time with the son of friend of mine, he’s on the cusp of 16, I think. He doesn’t look like a boy, anymore, but he is one. I am blessed that I get to see that side of him. I drive him places sometimes, and over time, and out of sheer boredom, I’ve gotten to know him.
Tonight, I was bringing this young friend of mine home from a class. He had his head stuffed between earbuds. He had a bag of Wendy’s on his lap. He had a scowl on his face and a french fry in his mouth.
A song came on the radio, and the ear buds came out. And he sang along. Not softly, not under his breath, out loud, each word clear, each note on key. He didn’t look at me; I didn’t look at him. I harmonized, or attempted it, during the choruses. I slid glances at his face, and saw his eyes were wide open inside the dark of the Grand Marquis. I still can’t believe he let me hear him sing. When the song was over, he stuffed the earbuds back in place. He popped a french fry in his mouth, he sighed and closed his eyes. Back in position we went. I drove the car, he went somewhere else in his head.
About a half an hour after I got home, my son came in from a basketball practice. He laid on the sofa, protesting he was too tired to make it up the stairs. His dad tried to wrestle with him, and he rolled over, closed his eyes. (What is it with boys and the shutting of eyelids. Is it some adolescent version of peekaboo?)
I waited for his father to go downstairs. I told him it was time for bed. “Don’t you want to hear about practice?” he asked. He didn’t sound hopeful. He didn’t sound mad. He wanted to know if I had the time to listen. I did.
He told me, little by little how his practice sucked. One kid announced to everyone he didn’t want to pair up with him in a drill because my son was no good. Another kid swore at him for fouling him out. I don’t know exactly what went on, I don’t speak basketball. I just know that my son was squeezing tears out his eyes, and his lip trembled, and his shoulders shook. I know that he wouldn’t let me lay down next to him. We spoke face to face.
I said what I could. I told him how much I respected him for his drive, his determination. That the most I did sports wise growing up as a kid was join the swim team. I stayed on it until I was eleven, then quit when we moved and I found out I’d have to swim in a lake. Perseverance has never been my middle name, hasn’t even been an occasional visitor in my life.
I don’t think I helped. I did get a smile when I reminded that body spray is never a substitute for a shower. I think he was smiling because he thinks I’m wrong and that body spray is even better than a shower.
Boys, these mysterious creatures that clutter and lift up my life. I watch them struggle, and I really want to make everything all better for them. And I can’t. I shouldn’t even attempt to.
I just need to make sure I’m around when their eyes are open and they want to talk.
Small World
March 20, 2013
My world has felt tiny lately. I don’t know if it’s the weather, which has been a never ending onslaught of snow and wind. Maybe it’s school this semester, I’m studying Biomechanics and Intro to Computers. Both topics leave me a little humble, and humility is not something I’m accustomed to in the academic world. Or maybe it’s just that I feel like what I’m doing mostly right now is waiting. I’m waiting to get my degree. I’m waiting to begin a new career. I’m waiting for spring.
I’ve had a lot of time to pay attention to my children. I turn to them when things aren’t perfect in my world. My twelve year old son, is starting a new basketball team on Thursday. I get nervous about his love of sports; it is unfamiliar to me. I don’t know what makes a three point shot a three point shot, just that it’s farther away than a one point shot. He is incredibly talented and this gift of his will serve him well. Lately he has become preoccupied with his place in the world. In other words, he wants to be popular. About this I also have no clue. I was the last picked for gym class until I started high school and gym consisted of walking around the track smoking cigarettes.
When Katy is near, she is usually close to me. When we watch tv or read, some part of her leans onto some piece of me. She still throws herself into my body when I pick her up at the bus, still laughs at most of my jokes. She is nine. She is the peace keeper; when Colin and I fight, she takes me aside and explains to me that he is getting ready to be a “teenager” and that I really should give him space. When she is mad, and I do make her mad, she storms as far away from me as our tiny house allows. She tilts her head up, and her neck looks as long as a swan’s. I think she’s trying to put her nose in the air, she must have read somewhere that is appropriate behavior for little girls that have been wronged. I am thankful she doesn’t feel wronged that often, it’s a matter of time before I make the mistake of laughing as she flounces up the stairs. I didn’t even know it was possible to flounce in an upward direction until Katy figured it out.
My world is kids, animals, dirt from kids and animals, friends that know my secrets and still call me for advice, a yard that can only be described as sad, school, long walks in the woods, and respite from it all at the gym. It is a very small world, right now anyway. But it is filled up with everything that I love. Except for the dirt. And I promise that I will do something about my damn yard if the snow ever melts.
My feet are cold. They are still stuck inside the long, brown, polka dotted boots I wear for shoveling. The socks are a little wet, and the jeans I tucked inside the boots are also a little wet. This explains why my feet are cold, but not why I’m still wearing the damn boots.
It is the tail end of another “snow event”. In other words, it’s still snowing. In about twenty minutes, I will head back outside in my quest to clear a path along our thirty feet of sidewalk. It snowed a lot, two feet I think, so the walls of white along the path are about three feet high. I am proud to be the one that built those walls of snow, me and my shovel make a helluva team.
Colin and Katy started their snow day out in the kitchen, making pancakes. Katy is nine, Colin is twelve. This was their first attempt at creating a breakfast that didn’t come out of a box or a bag of bread. I chose to stay out of the kitchen, I stayed on the sofa and listened to the process.
“I don’t know Colin, do you really think we should add two eggs? The box says to add one.” “Katy, what did you DO with the spatula?” “Why do you think I did something to the spatula. I don’t even know where mom keeps the spatula, I don’t even know what COLOR the spatula is… Sophie!!!! Put that down!!!”
For about 2 minutes I listen to both of my children chase Sophie the Wonder Pup, as she flies around our dining room, spatula firmly planted between her jaws. Then I hear- “Sophie… treats.” Katy is using her sweetest voice, the one that promises wonderful, wonderful delectable morsels. I almost got up to go see what she offered.
About ten minutes after the spatula was recovered by my daughter’s feminine wiles, and some old slices of turkey, the first batch was done. Colin called out “Orders up.” Katy stood at the refrigerator and asked me- “What’s your poison?” meaning did I want milk or orange juice. When did my kids begin to talk like short order cooks or bartenders? Why didn’t they bug me to make french toast?
Most snow days, we tackle the driveway and the sidewalks together. We argue over who gets which shovel, and wears the gloves that don’t match. We throw snow balls, and there comes a time where I have to institute a cease fire because one hits Katy to hard in the head.
But today, I felt like I could handle the job on my own. While I listened to them make breakfast, watched them serve breakfast, marveled at them cleaning up after breakfast… it occurred to me that maybe they deserved a break. And maybe I needed a few minutes outside by myself to get used to the idea that Colin and Katy are growing up.
The driveway is done. The sidewalk and the stairs up to our house are clear. I’m a gym rat, and I like the fact that I am strong enough to do all this work, to shift mountains of snow from one spot to another, without pause.
But I saved the other side, the sidewalk on Franklin. I have laid out our collective mittens, found a few extra shovels, and we are going to finish it up together. There will be snow balls thrown, and endless negotiations about who gets which shovel, and whether we should clear in front of the neighbors house. And if we still like each other when we are done, and can still feel our toes, I’m thinking this snow is the right kind for building a snow man.
I’ll see what they think. I am hopeful that they are still young enough to be bribed with hot chocolate, especially if I still have my stash of the right kind of marshmellows.
Bewitched and Bewildered.
February 27, 2013
Tonight, after I made our salad, I looked at the naked avocado pit on the counter. I asked my daughter if she’d seen any toothpicks.
Her eyes narrowed- “How many toothpicks do you need?”
“Four should do it,” I answered.
“Ok, I’ve got a stash in my room.”
Moments later, this beautiful creature presented me with exactly four toothpicks. Katy wouldn’t tell me where they came from, or for what reason she stored them in secret upstairs.
And so continues the mystery that goes by the name of Kate. I wonder what she would have said if I’d asked for twelve toothpicks, or twenty.
I’m thinking the mighty seed would be tucked into the bag of scraps intended for Miss Debbie’s chickens.
School Vacation Week for Them And A Question for You
February 25, 2013
My kids had mid winter break last week.
My brother had chest pains and had two stents put in his chest; my mom says having two stents put in his chest at 48 is no big deal, the surgery was non invasive.
I got a C on my BioMechanics quiz on Tuesday, my attempt at diagramming the muscles in the upper thigh was pathetic.
My mother in law, currently suffering from the early stages of dementia, was found to have breast cancer at her last checkup. Five minutes after she left the doctor’s office, she told her daughter they needed to go out and celebrate “another perfect checkup.”
When my husband told me this, I started to cry, but then I remembered I was late picking up my best friend’s kids from the school bus. They didn’t have a break this week. So if I was late I couldn’t use my own kids as an excuse. And I didn’t want them to see me crying because then I’d have to explain the whole thing to them and I’d cry more. Or they wouldn’t notice me crying
And I’d cry even more after I dropped them off.
My daughter went to camp. My son, he’s 12, in seventh grade, didn’t want to go to camp. He said he needed time at home to relax. I let him stay home, but made him put clean sheets on my bed, and walk the dog, and fold clothes, even Katy’s clothes, which always end up on the floor. Every morning before I left, I told him to feed the animals. I’m not sure what he fed them. Each night, when I got home, Sophie, Michael and Bijoux all seemed more anxious than usual. So, I’m wondering, did he feed them, or did he just listen to obnoxious music all day and they aren’t used to having him around. Maybe they have an afternoon napping club and he messed them up. So I fed them really large dinners each night.
Other than the C, school was good. Katy had fun at camp. Colin seems more relaxed, but he also announced this morning he is suffering from a severe cold. So I don’t know if he’s relaxed or weak from fever.
Thank God we went away for a weekend. Thank God, I saw my friend, and had a conversation outside of what’s for dinner, or what’s for lunch or whether the special socks are dry. Thank God, there were movies, and time to talk without any agenda, bigger than small talk, but smaller than meaningful… just conversation. And then home, and a drop off of luggage, and we deposited ourselves at another friend’s house for the Oscars. Chicken wings, and skits about boobs, and Captain Kirk as the voice of all wisdom…
And home by 9:30. I’m packed for the gym in the morning. Colin and Katy are ready for school There is milk for their cereal. There is cream for my coffee. There is coffee.
I am at the age where normal, daily life is going to be interrupted by horrible, horrible news. And I need to move forward thru my normal daily life because I am lucky enough to be in the middle of one. My prayers go out to the world, and soon enough, I know, I will be asking that the world pray for me.
Happy February Vacation Week. We are a little closer to springtime tonight and a little closer to death.
Are you an optimist, a pessimist or just plain disgusted with poorly executed transitions?
I’m a little of both, but figure this will pass once the sidewalks are clear and I get a good grade on my midterms.
The Opposite of a Tweet aka My Weekend So Far
February 17, 2013
This was one of those weekends.
Friday night was a workshop at our church about conflict run by Reverend Eric Dawson and his wife, Tammy Tai. I wish I could do it justice, I can’t. I will say ages from 6 to 65 were present, there were snacks, and games, and laughter. I think we all walked away with a heightened awareness of what they referred to as our “escalators”- factors that intensify our responses to conflict. My escalator is when my son gives me the dead eye stare, I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but if you have, you know what I’m talking about.
Today was easy, for me anyway. The day started with an extended dog walk. My friend invited someone that doesn’t usually join us on our morning stroll. This newcomer brought her dog, a puggle, and before we even got to our spot, this puggle had pooped all over the back of my friend’s car. It didn’t bother me, it wasn’t my car, and I experienced that wonderful moment -“thank God my dog didn’t poop all over the back omy friend’s car.” It was not our usual dog walk on a Saturday morning. But the snow falling made the world look pretty. It wasn’t cold. I needed the exercise, and so did Sophie, the most amazing of dogs. She’d never poop in a car. Right after we brought her home from the pound I took her for a ride. She waited until I got to our destination to throw up. And she didn’t even know me that well.
Saturday afternoon I spent home with kids. We watched Glee. I talked about canceling my plans. They talked me into going out. I blew dry my hair. Is there anything more boring than blowdrying hair? My hair is shoulder length and thick so it takes a long, long time. At the gym I read magazines while I wave the dryer around. At home all we have are National Geographics and Sports Illustrated for Kids. Not entertaining material for vanity projects like making curls fall into long straight waves. And my blowdryers old, so it’s loud. If I turned the radio up, the neighbors would think my kids were having a party.
So I sucked it up, dried the hair, put on the dress and went to the party with one of my favorite people in the world, Julie Baker. You’ve probably seen her on Twitter, or Facebook, or out on one of her sweaty walks. If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t have gone. It was snowing, and I like to stay home in bad weather, and I’m lazy, and there’s that hair thing I mentioned… I don’t blow dry my hair for a night at home with my kids.
We went to the benefit, Dances for Hope, a cause that helps St. Judes Hospital. We volunteered at the door. We were responsible for checking people in, figuring out who merited VIP status, who ranked as a sponsor and making sure they got the appropriate wrist band. The power, the responsibility… Actually, not really. People seemed pretty honest, I didn’t meet any gate crashers. Just checked off the names and gave out the bracelets.
And then, since our service entitled us to VIP status, we went upstairs for cocktails and snacks. Free cocktails and snacks are pretty exciting to me, I’m currently a little “cash poor,” (meaing we’re broke, but doesn’t that sound so much better? It implies that I have property, or stock, or something other than cash, but I’m everything poor. For the record.) So I gobbled down crab puffs in filo, and bread pudding in cups, and salmon in paper whenever the waiter came by. I was drinking rum and diet coke and I didn’t want to make an ass of myself. It was a benefit. And I wanted to dance without wobbling.
The first dance was the Wobble. That was pretty stupid. Nobody knew it, myself included, but it was short. After that, the DJ played a million songs. Why do they always have to mash everything up? Aren’t there any songs out there that merit being played from point a to point z? Maybe it’s helpful when trying to satisfy the Michael Jackson demographic simultaneously with the Pitbull Jay Z crowd. It was fun dancing. It got a little intimidating when all of the professional dancers came on the floor. Did I mention there were professional dancers? And that they came on the dance floor?
I wish they’d stayed on the stage, and gone somewhere else to boogie afterwards. I don’t mean to sound like an ass but when I get on the dance floor I don’t want to look over at a professional being amazing. I want to glance at some idiot swaying out of time and a couple doing a waltz and a whole bunch of girls laughing and trying out the macarena.
It was fun, even with all the Fred and Gingers showing their stuff. And then it was time to go home. Kids were waiting, and dogs needed to be walked.
Actually the kids would have been thrilled if I’d stayed out. And the dogs were sleeping. But it was time.
I’m home now. Tomorrow is the science fair. Monday is the JFK Library. In between, there are meals, and laundry and showers and dog walks and a million other details; if I listed them all I’d never, ever get up in the morning.
Ten years ago, I never liked getting up in the morning. I hated it; I’d sleep until noon. Now I do. I think it is truly the best thing I can say about my life… I like waking up to my life.
But this was one of those weekends. I think tomorrow I will have to sleep in.
Fishing
February 12, 2013
I’s been about a week since my last post on WordPress. I wrote about my fear of developing Alzheimer’s disease; my father died from complications of early onset Alzheimer’s when I was in my 20’s. It was dark, intensely personal, (too much so, according to my mom) and lacking in humor, attempted or other wise.
About three days ago, I realized it was getting to be that time. I try to update my blog about once a week; .(I really hate the word blog, and “blogging” sounds like something dirty people do in the back rooms of convenience marts or shoe stores). I really wanted to write something light, to balance out the melancholy reflections last time out.
So I started looking for something to write about. First up, and the obvious choice, was the blizzard, “Nemo”, “Snowmaggedon”, “The Storm that was Badder than the one in 1978″… I live just outside of Boston, about two feet of white powdery stuff fell on Milton. I considered devoting a few paragraphs to shoveling. This is all I got- Shoveling is hard work, and no matter what is on your feet, your socks get wet. I was going to write about the joy of having a few days home with the kids. They spent a lot of time complaining about not being able to go sledding, and asking for more hot chocolate. When I made them hot chocolate- the homemade kind, fancy dark chocolate mixed with brown sugar, honey, a pinch of salt and vanilla- they’d fish out the marshmallows and leave the half drank cocoa on any available surface. Where, more than once, they knocked the mug over. It’s fun to mop up cocoa in wet socks. Definitely couldn’t fill a few paragraphs of the joy of being stranded at home with two clumsy, culinary challenged, ungrateful children. Even if my favorite bliss is being wedged in the middle of their solid, sweet little bodies while we argue about who gets the remote.
So I crossed the blizzard of my list of suitable subjects for this time out I started scrutinizing everything I did for potential material. Looking for a pair of sweat pants… A piece about cleaning the closet! Rubbing Sophie the Most Wondrous of the Canines? A rambling ode to the joy of loving a dog. Making sloppy joes? What about a stab at the comedy that the sauce is called Manwich? Girls like sloppy joes too. This girl likes sloppy joes a little too much. As a matter a fact, how about something about what happens when I’ve been stuck at home to long and it’s hard to zipper up my favorite pair of jeans. Everybody wants to read about somebody else getting not able to squeeze into pants.. Except I don’t want to write about that. It’s not too personal, it’s just embarrassing.
So instead of publishing an essay about snowstorms, or puppies or the need to not eat too many sandwiches, I just wrote about what I am choosing not to write about. At this time.
If I don’t think of something by next week, I might revisit the singular joys and pitfalls of cleaning the closet.
julierichmond 