Things I'm Going To Hell For, Or Why I'm Damned, Damned, Damned

1. I have Dan Quayle Disorder. If you spell it wrong, I'll be sure to tell you. Even if I can't spell it myself. Particularly if you get paid to spell things right. A local newspaper (and I'm using that word loosely as it is basically a written infomercial) inadvertently merged performance art and syntax when they accused a local dj of going to "collage." Another local paper (slightly more respectable) wrote movingly of our social morays. As in eels. I had no idea they were such bon vivants, but I try to avoid slime with teeth.

2. I have lusted in my heart watching teenage boys play soccer. And my son was playing, so it was all awkward and confusing, just like high school.

3. I don't mind stealing music one bit. But I despise plagiarism. Maybe I'd think different if somebody paid me to spell things correctly, but I'd rather be credited than paid. The artists most worried about illegal downloads seem to be the most concerned with their bank balance; at which point, imho, they stop being artists and start being CEOs. I understand art-as-commodity, but they need to understand that it's a privilege to make your living doing what you love. And I don't want to hear the poor-mouthing. If you were under the impression Britney might be a Mensa candidate, you thought wrong: http://www.musicunited.org/3_artists.html


4. I have no respect for the absolute sanctity of life. They may be living creatures, but if I find one of these in my tomato plants, we are not going to have a warm and fuzzy moment.












just icky, ain't he? and those are wasp larva/egg things on him; if I don't kill him myself, he's doomed to be eaten from the inside out. Decisions, decisions.

Hot Summer Nights

August 14. It was a hot and sunny Sunday, the kind of hot hot heat that's really...hot. The kind of heat that turns the sky white. The kind of heat that stews you in your own sweat. The kind of heat in which blinking is almost too much work. The kind of heat that - well, you get the picture. In spite of the heat, the Mr. and I put on our best blue jeans and ventured to Knoxville to see Lucinda Williams. And eat. And drink.

First stop was the Preservation Pub, which normally orders food in from the Tomato Head if you want to eat. On this night, there was a Christian concert out on Market Square and only one bartender, so no ordering in. We refreshed ourselves and sought out another restaurant. The only other one open was incredibly packed with fellow concertgoers. Does everybody have to copy me????? We waited forever, but with drinks! Finally, we ate. As quickly as possible, a dash to the bathroom and out the door to the Tennessee Theatre.

Late as usual. Ran downstairs for beer. Ran back upstairs for ID armband. Got beer, found seats while Rob Jungklas played some dirty white boy blues.

Then Lucinda. The Tennessee Theatre is recently renovated, and while I think it is absolutely beautiful, something about Lucinda's voice amped up the bordello chic. I'd never noticed how much RED there is in the decor. And gold.

Lucinda knows something about that angel/whore archetype. If she's not wanting to Get Right With God, she's begging for someone to 'shoot [their] love into my vein.' Her voice, like John Prine's or Bob Dylan's, you either love or hate; it's impossible to be indifferent to it. It's powerful caterwauling, the perfect complement to the raw emotion her music captures. She's fearless in her writing. Brutally honest, brutally frank, she strips herself down to the bone lyrically. That said, she's curiously detached onstage - the cowboy hat stayed over her eyes and while she was chatty with the audience, the so-called fourth wall was certainly in place. I suppose when you open yourself up that much in your writing, you need to step back to perform it. Otherwise, the first three rows get covered in blood and tears.

It was a good show. Fanboys stole the unclaimed fifth row seats in front of me. She had some new songs to try out. Jailhouse Tears is gonna be a great duet - personally, I hear George Jones there. Unsuffer Me was one of those songs that fill the silence - the silence after your lover walks out, the silence after a friend has died. Where Is My Love was haunting, kind of like Are You Down. I was hoping for Greenville (and god help me, I shouted it out more than once) or Jackson. I got Essence, Ventura, a vicious Joy, and Lonely Girls, amongst lots of others. She told a story about writing one of her songs in Knoxville on New Year's Day a while back - for the life of me, I can't remember which one, so if you know, tell! For two and a half hours, she whispered and wailed and rocked and moaned. Kept me up way past my bedtime, but it was worth every minute of lost sleep.

I Was A Middleaged Evacuee - A Vacation Story

of sorts. of the hurricane variety.

On the Thursday morning Walmart run, I noticed that the gas stations I passed were doing brisk business. My tank was on the bottom half of a quarter tank, so I gassed up. Of course, I had to have a non-verbal confrontation with the pump, which refused to surrender the secret to making it function until I had swiped my card 7 times (note to self: scrutinize statement). That was the best idea I have had to date. Gassing up, that is, not swiping my card 7 times, for the very next day, we had to evacuate.

My dad woke me up on Friday morning (really, really early for somebody on vacation) with a traffic forecast: hurricane coming, heavy traffic all the way to Birmingham. Best to get out before the Mass Exodus that would surely come on Saturday. We had a Jenkins Family meeting at which we concluded that indeed we did need to bug out. The question was when. The kids (and me) wanted a little more fun in the sun. Sun-poisoned Dad did not. Surprise! we won.

And that's the strangest damn thing about hurricanes. It was absolutely beautiful on the beach. Doom was not writ large upon the horizon; all green flags and gentle balmy breezes - like one of those Corona commercials. All us vacationing types were enjoying the absolute hell out of it. However, the folks that lived and worked there were in manic hyper-super-overdrive, hauling seadoos out of the water, boarding up windows, securing dumpsters and trashcans. I heard the NBC news guy describe a hurricane as 'a blizzard with shrapnel' - only warmer, I suppose. We splashed and played. Austin caught crabs. Hermit crabs. Josie tried to break her record for largest amount of water sucked up her nose. Katie went shopping. I folded things and deflated things and shook sand out of things. Jim sat in the shade, drinking beer and smiling because I'd promised to do the driving, a condition of the final beach trip.

So, we loaded up the minivan with seven tons of stuff and Began Our Evacuation.

We thought we were being smart. We thought we were avoiding the great migration north.
We thought we had an easy drive to Montgomery. Of course, we were wrong.

Things were going so well. Across the Three Mile Bridge, a short hop on the interstate and then up 29 to I-65. 29 was a Goddamn Parking Lot. At 3 p.m. on Friday afternoon. Every gas station we passed had 40 cars waiting to get to a pump. Those that didn't were completely sold out. Walmart had blocked off its main entrance. Can you imagine Walmart EVER trying to stop you from shopping??? I suppose Hell was freezing over. The 29 to I-65 section of this trip ordinarily takes a little over an hour. We spent two and a half hours creeping towards the interstate; for some unknown reason, the traffic unsnarled beside a giant stinking paper factory. I suppose the odor had something to do with it. Anyway, we finally made it to the interstate, hit cruise control (a modest 75, thank you very much) and congratulated ourselves on our patience and understanding and General Good Humor in Times of Stress. But wait! Has there been a wreck? Our average speed drops to 3 miles an hour. We cheer when we get to 7 and think, that's it, we're on our way. And it will clear for a while, but then it will shut back down again - some bizarre kind of Anti-Movement Forcefield had a powerful hold on Lower Alabama. After all this togetherness, a Rest Area break was needed and granted. I stood in line in the women's room listening to the idle conversation you make with people you don't know when you're fleeing a hurricane and you need to pee really bad: are you from Pensacola? I'm going to my sister's in Chattanooga, if I can get there; I was with my dad in Mobile but my mom wants me back in Oak Ridge; the shelter won't take animals, so we're going to Birmingham. Sometimes just a couple of words (after Ivan) and a shrug. At the next rest stop, maybe I was recognizing a few faces. A camaraderie built up amongst the evacuees, a shared purpose: to get the hell out of Dodge before sundown.


Most of the time when I'm driving on the interstate, I don't have a clue what's going on over there on the other side of the median. At 3 mph, one has lots of time to look. And it was freaking me out - every state trooper in the state of Alabama was headed south on I-65. I saw a herd of electrical company trucks, maybe 30 in all, heading south PRE-disaster; I saw a convoy of ambulances doing the same. If there is any fun in evacuating a hurricane, this is where it ended for me. A big ole slap of reality hit me: it's a blessing that we have the technology to get a fix on these storms, but it's chilling to see the actual disaster preparations. Everybody's seen the pictures post-Ivan. The recovery's been slow. The road into Gulf Islands National Seashore's Fort Pickens area was 4 days away from re-opening after Ivan completely destroyed it.

see here: http://www.nps.gov/guis/FLA/Hurricane%20Ivan/Hurricane.html

Tropical Storm Arlene, the first named storm of the season, washed it away again. This is a place that needs to be hurricane-free for a long time. But tell that to the ocean.

And thank god for cell phones! With a beer in one hand and a cell in the other, Jim managed to find a Holiday Inn in Montgomery that took kids AND dogs AND had a vacancy. We took the scenic route the next day, as all four lanes of I-65 were restricted to northbound traffic; Jim had no faith in my navigation skill, but I was RIGHT, wasn't I honey? There can be such a thing as too much togetherness.

Long and short of it is: Dennis deflated down to a 2, I think, actually, at landfall. More comparable to Opal than Ivan. The rebuilding goes on.

Hot Child In The City

Took the gang out to Sundown in the City last night. Mic Harrison, formerly of the V-Roys, opened, with some loud metal band helping him out. The headliner was an Australian named Xavier Rudd, who played guitar and aborigine instruments that I can't spell simultaneously - really made some amazing sounds that pleased the Aging Hippies in the crowd. I liked it the way I like Jack Johnson's music. It's pleasant listening, good for work, but it doesn't grab me by the earlobes the way Elvis or John Prine does - the words don't really seem to be that integral somehow. And I don't mean that as an insult. It taps into a different part of my head - it's restful somehow.

Anyhoo, incredible people watching! Goth kids, preppy kids, kids who climb on rocks, chic grandmas, the afore-mentioned aging hippies, young hippies, Yuppy scum, anorexics by the dozen, and me and mine sitting in the middle of it all. I really didn't mean to stare. And I don't think of myself as nosy, per se, more interested in my fellow creatures. The rather plump lady chugging beers in a too-too tight pair of denim shorts was talking loudly about how her husband shouldn't buy her anymore beer because she couldn't stand up anymore - when Xavier Rudd starting grooving, she did too. As God is my witness, I have never seen anyone attempt a lap-dance standing up. And I hope I never do again - but it was like a train wreck. I couldn't look away. She's grinding into her husband, frontways, backways, sideways, sometimes with a rose between her teeth, sometimes chugging beer. Now and then, she'd take a smoke break, and some twisted part of my mind wondered if she could do other tricks with her cigarettes. I guess she had a good time. I know she's got a massive hangover this morning. I'd bet $5 that she passed out before any actual sex happened and I'd bet $10 that her husband was glad.

Since all these folks I'm watching are strangers to me, I make up their stories. The skinny girl puking in a trash can was holding a bottle of water, while her pony-tailed boyfriend held her hair out of her face - they looked like New Hippies to me, so I figured they were doing 'shrooms and that made her sick. Or maybe a bad veggie burger. She made a quick recovery.

The anorexic girl curled up in a lawn chair, while three older men stood talking around her - she was a trophy wife gone repentant, hating the middle-aged paw that caressed her bony shoulder in ever more possessive fashion. The kids with the pink hair - well, that was the most interesting thing about them. The gray-haired punk in combat boots was most likely a stockbroker (albeit a very cool stockbroker) reliving his wild youth, but somehow, aren't we all? Man in Green T-shirt was headbanging so hard I thought he was going to hurt himself, or somebody else - he looked an awful lot like an ex-boyfriend of mine, had time stood still. That ex-boyfriend would've been dancing just like that. Deja vu all over again.

And that was Sundown in the City.

In Cars

Do you drive? Or do you pilot? You can drive a car, you can drive a truck, you can drive yourself crazy, but you pilot a van. Or at least I do - something about the way I'm placed at the front of this long cabin, surveying the sea of pavement ahead. Yes, it's a powerful feeling, a feeling of controlling destiny and passenger safety. In the driver's seat of my Plymouth Voyager, I feel just like Captain Kirk heading out to kick some Klingon ass. Phasers on stun. Engage the warp drive, Mr. Sulu.

I spend waaaaaaaay too much time in my van.

But the Green Bean blew up the other day. And I found myself driving a truck. Not an 18-wheeler, but an old pickup truck. An authentic truck, not some chrome-brilliant richboy's toy, but a real work truck. The kind of vehicle you can haul stuff in: 2X4s, shovels and rakes, lawn mowers, giant sacks of dog food, dogs, the annual deer carcass if you are of the hunter persuasion. And the view from the driver's seat changed.

In my van, I put on my sunglasses, crank up the stereo and recognize no one. I'm cruising. Sure, maybe I've got 4 kids screaming at each other and throwing food, but I'm cruising. In the truck, with the windows down (no a/c - this is a man's truck!), I'm right there in the middle of it all, smelling the tar on the pavement and hearing all these punkass fart mufflers. And my fellow truck drivers are recognizing me as one of their own. I get the Nod of Respect. I get the Wave of Brotherhood (nevermind that I'm a sister). They let me cut in front of them, because they know it's gonna be tough to hold that clutch on this grade in this traffic. I could get used to this. Courtesy, good ole boy style. In my van, I'm invisible, partly by choice but mostly because there are gazillions of vans in all the colors of the rainbow being piloted by my contemporaries, forty somethings (ouch) with kids and groceries. The truck made me visible, at least to other truck drivers, and ya know, everybody likes to be noticed now and then.

I'm thinking we van-o-moms need some of this camaraderie. Like motorcyclists do that low wave to each other in passing, we need a gesture of recognition.

Suggestions welcome!

I love....

Little baby ducks. Old pickup trucks. Slow movin' trains and rain. Thank you, Tom T. Hall.

Baby ducks are cute, aren't they? Especially when they're all fuzzy and yellow and peeping around the park. And then they grow up into the monsters from hell that hiss and chase me around the walking trail. I'm warning them all - well, all of them that can read - I've got pepper spray, and I'm not afraid to use it!

10 Simple Pleasures

1. rain on the roof when I'm sleeping. a cat purring at my feet makes this ultra-cozy. and waking up and realizing I don't have to get up anytime soon - icing on the cake.
2. cold vanilla ice cream on a hot cherry turnover
3. beer on the beach, under a strong summer sun
4. squishing barefoot through a summer rain -this is a lot more dangerous than it used to be, so watching those big fat summer drops implode on a puddle is almost as satisfying.
5. walking my youngest daughter to school, feeling the trust in her little hand which is growing bigger every day, so this is a fleeting treasure, as it was with her brothers and sister before her.
6. watching my silly old dog run. she does that just for the hell of it sometimes, and if dogs can smile, well, she's smiling when she does it.
7. making somebody else laugh out loud, especially my husband. the last time he did was when I told him he was allergic to the word "God" unless it was immediately followed by "damn." He's a very tough sell.
8. getting all the words AND the question on the Word Scramble puzzles in my local paper. I can either do them all immediately or not at all.
9. green lights all the way to work.
10. a freshly-washed vehicle.

A Modest Proposal

Today is June 1, 2005, which is commonly written as 06-01-05. I'm going to spend the next two weeks either writing 05-??-05 or 06-??-06. Do you have this problem making the monthly transition? I've got a solution.


Let's get rid of the months. Let's just have 1/2005, 2/2005...365/2005. See how simple? Only one real change per annum. With this hole in the ozone layer, climates have changed and seasons have slipped off the track. April showers bring May flowers? Fuhgeddaboudit. April blizzards bring May showers, mudslides, mosquitos and the occasional avalanche. We redivide the calendar to more accurately divide the year. The Naughts, those first hundred days, begin in the dead of what was formerly known as winter. The Hunnerts take us from the frosty first days of what used to be spring into the pleasant part of the season formerly known as summer. Next up, the Binerts (or 'berts), from day 201 to 300, encompass both the Dog Days and Halloween, which I think would make that whole Back to School thing a bit more believable. Who can look at wool in August? Rounding out the year, we have the Trinerts, which would be mercifully short, so that we can look forward to the coming of the Naughts again come 01/2006. And we'll toss that Spring Forward/Fall Back crap while we're at it.

Are ya with me? Write your congressman.

A Tisket, A Tasket, I Bought a Laundry Basket

I've been doing the Mom thing for 19 plus years now, and I swear to you, I thought I'd seen it all. Sweet bubbly smiles, nasty body fluids, sticky valentines, muddy sneakers, the little time warp kids fall into as they go to sleep that turns them back into babies (I have a sneaking suspicion that this is an evolutionary survival tactic - we moms can forgive a lot when we see 'em transformed back into the babies we remember). I can't tell you how many tubes of chapstick I've found in my dryer (cleans up better than crayon, fyi), how many toilets I've plunged because some newbie potty user was very enthusiastic about wiping. Kids do lots of peculiar things, just to see if they can. Like my oldest son stuck his head through the slats on the back of a rocking chair. And got stuck. Same child tried to fly. He put some thought into it: got every fan in our house in one room, got a towel for a cape, turned on all the fans and did the Superman Liftoff. He then discovered the Law of Gravity. His younger brother got a Power Wheels truck for his birthday. I found him in the street in the predawn gloom, merrily Power Wheeling his way to the store.

I thought I'd seen everything.

But I'd never seen two children get into a fist fight over a clothes basket.

It was all my fault of course. I bought two new baskets so that I could put each child's neatly folded clean clothing in his or her own basket, for him or her to put away. A nice end-run around the part of laundry I despise - the redeployment. An organized system to deal with an awe-inspiring weekly heap of smelly socks, questionable undergarments and mystery stains. I have about 4 baskets in varying degrees of decay. I threw out the most decrepit, drove to Big Lots and purchased two rectangular white plastic baskets. Took them home feeling like I'd solved a major problem, like I could be nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize. Tossed them down in the living room and went to turn on the dryer. And when I returned, I saw this: in one corner, weighing in at 42 lbs and standing 48 1/2" tall, Josephine the Spitting Queen. In the other corner, at just under 55" and tipping the scales at 70 lbs, the Austinator. I left a living room and came back to a WWF Smackdown. There was hitting and punching and kicking and yelling and name-calling. There were tears and snot, but no blood and guts. Pouts aplenty. Sulking with style. Deep sighs and whispered threats. All over a damn laundry basket!

I read this book once about sibling rivalry. It claimed that each child's personal mission was to claim the exclusive love of the parent, which sorts out to this: each kid wants to be the favorite. And the favorite gets the new laundry basket.

Forget visualizing world peace. Buy all you want at Big Lots for $1.99 a basket.

Reality Check

This won't be my Stones year. I was there, in all my internet glory, logged in and ready to buy tickets at 10:00 a.m. The first ones I drew were limited view. As were the next and the next and the next. Finally, in desperation, I took two that would have been looking over Keith's shoulder, but from 10,000 feet up. Damn the home computer's useless dial-up internet!! I timed out before it could process my request, so I lost those tickets. Then I went insane.

I tried to buy seats that actually faced the stage. I tried to buy seats from which you could SEE the stage. I tried to buy seats from which you could tell which direction Mick tucks. I threatened. I pleaded. I let loose lots of colorful language and gesticulations. All to no avail. Freaking scalpers/ticket brokers/greedy maniacs in Charlotte. Nothing was left at 10:12. Nothing.

I should be disappointed, but I'm not. Angry. Bitter. Disenfranchised. But I was all that before. I don't want to see the Stones from the Ozone Layer. I don't want to see them with 20,000 strangers, That Drunk Guy and his girlfriend The WooHoo Girl (only there will be like 100 of each). The negatives are beating the positives senseless on this fight. I don't really like big crowds. I don't like to wade through piss and vomit in public restrooms (any restrooms, I should clarify). Parking's a bitch. I hate standing in line. All this to watch the back of Keith's head? The vague disappointment will disappear like smoke after a bit of retail therapy. Mick, Keith, you'll get your money anyway. And I won't have to pay $5 for warm beer.

OTC

Bought any decongestants lately? Are you a meth manufacturer? A meth addict? Do you drink cough syrup to get high? I like a good Nyquil buzz now and then, but I don't consider myself an addict. I had an experience yesterday purchasing Claritin-D for my son, who though he is 19 years old and over 6 feet tall, becomes the biggest baby in the world when he's sick. He's a man, after all. I stood there in the aisle at Walgreen's - here are the allergy medications, the cough syrups, the cough drops. There's the Claritin. Where's the Claritin-D? Then I see the rack of cards. To buy this medication, you must take this card to the pharmacy. At the pharmacy, I'm given the Once Over, like she's checking me out for meth sores, and asked to show my driver's license. Which she records in a log book. That I have to sign - why do I have to sign? Shouldn't she be initialling something somewhere? We have six people in our family and I only bought a 10 pack of 12 hour pills. If I go back in 3 days will she pull out that logbook, show me my signature and deny me drugs? Is this what happens with medicinal marijuana? God help me if I need morphine. Although, it would be simpler to purchase, with a prescription paving the way. I guess we're taking the War On Drugs to the drugstores and supermarkets. I steer very clear of methamphetamine. I think, no, I know, I would be all over that like stupid on W, and I can see a very clear picture of my life Going All To Hell. I mean, of course, worse than it is now, which is not bad exactly, but there's always room for improvement. I quit smoking 9 years ago. If I live to be 85, I will take it back up. I like cigarettes. A lot. When I was young and wild, I could never understand why people took downers. Why turn yourself into a zombie? But speed (and by this I mean amphetamines, not the toxic waste called methamphetamine) - the evening never had to end. That was a long time ago and in a galaxy far, far away, but I can see how easily I could get sucked into that temptation trying to keep up with a job, a house, a family and still carve an hour or two out for myself. So, I will take the little cards to the pharmacist when I need Claritin-D (who should be paying me something for all these plugs). I will show photo id and I will sign the logbook, and all of this will make for a cleaner, safer Land of the Free.

Signs of Summer

1. Grainger County tomatoes.
2. Honeysuckle blooms.
3. Sandals. And winter white feet.
4. Lightning bugs.
5. The inverse ratio of homework to daylight. Is that right? I mean the longer the days, the shorter the homework.
6. Surf music.
7. The reappearance of The Six Flags Old Dude.
8. Strawberries.
9. The wafts of steak sizzling on your grill.
10. The reinstitution of the Kids and Balls Outdoors Rule.

In Search of: The Perfect Shoe

Yes, I'm a shoe girl. It's my most girly trait, I suppose. I have yet to outgrow a single pair since I had my first kid. I recently went thru the painful task of cleaning out my closet. I was brutal. I sort thru my clothes twice a year, as the seasons - well, IF, the seasons change. If I haven't been wearing it, I generally toss it, unless it's dressy. Or really really cute.

But the shoes. I never get rid of the shoes. I might NEED them someday. I think I can safely say that I have mourned the loss of many, many shoes. There were the satin sandals with the ankle straps. I think I actually threw up on them after a teenage misadventure. The Dr. Scholl's - did you know it is possible to stand on your toes in your Dr. Scholl's? Kids, don't try this at home. Platform wedges. Clownishly loud suede slip-ons. The workboots I wore planting trees (well, actually cutting down and burning them in uneco-friendly piles) with the BCTV. The brown quasi-roman sandals with the broken sole. The burgundy stiletto sandals I wore to my very last ever piano recital. I can't remember a chord, but I remember those shoes. The golden brown woven-leather clogs. So many good friends consigned to the Big Trashcan in the sky. But the time had come. No Imelda, I.

So goodbye snakeskin mules. So long, fuzzy clogs. Adios, beloved square-toed cowboy boots. I saved the dressy stuff, of course. The black pumps, the navy pumps - I've got weddings and funerals covered as long as I don't have to actually walk in them. I've forgotten how. If I ever knew! I seem to recall the sound of clomping, but I've tried to block it out. I could not part with my wellies, even though I'm afraid spiders might live in them now. I kept the espadrilles just because they are purple. The tan loafers likewise got a pass. They are preppy as hell, but the silver buckle is a fabulous and unexpected detail. Sneakers were kept. They pass thru life stages: exercise shoe, casual shoe, carwashing shoe. I kept the white slippers with the tiny little rose pattern that I took to the hospital when my first daughter was born. I bought her a white linen dress with matching roses. Our first (and last) Mother/Daughter outfit. I kept the brown platform sandals (with a merciful wide platform!) that make me feel like a Funkified Diva. Out went the Barbie Shoes, the fuzzy blue slippers with the strange rhinestone trim, the fantastically cute but stupidly heavy thongs from Old Navy. In stayed the ratty Keds I run to the mailbox in - they are easy on/easy off and absolutely machine washable. In the end, I could see the carpet at the bottom of the closet, spaces in the cabinet, room on the shelf.

Rack Room, here I come.

wondering, wondering

all about me. I'm always wondering what my problem(s) is/are - and I'm convinced that somewhere, somehow, someday someone is going to walk up to me and say 'ok, fix this, this, stop doing that and smile more' or something, and My Life Will Be Perfect. Maybe I need my colon cleansed. A mantra. Perhaps some affirmations pasted to my bathroom mirror. Something - that is no doubt the heart of my dilemma, this quest for somethings - but anyway, in the eternal quest for self-knowledge, I did an online handwriting analysis today.



I discovered that: I'm sarcastic. No shit, sherlock. I'm an ambivert. That means neither extroverted nor introverted and has nothing to do with an amphibian fetish. I also have the best of two kinds of minds; I always knew there was something schizophrenic about me. I have an investigating as well as a creating mind. Oh my. I'm just cut out for the National Enquirer, aren't I? Diplomacy is also one of my best attributes, but I'm also candid and direct and I have a temper, which is "... a hostile trait used to protect the ego." The last half of that is dead on.


You can try it for yourself. It's free and painless, unless you get writer's cramp.
http://www.handwritingwizard.com/

kids and sports

My name is Debbie, and I'm a soccer addict.

And I'm about to go cold turkey.

My 11 year old son, let's call him Austin because that is his name, plays on a U-12 AYSO team. The spring tournament started last Friday night. Austin got sick at school - nothing contagious, just his allergies making him miserable. We got him doctored up and he was fit to play Friday night. Normally, I don't allow a child of mine who has been sick enough to leave school to participate in any activities on that day. But we have an ozone layer defense - lots and lots of holes in it, and Austin is something of a dynamo on the soccer field. (apologies to non-US fans. I can't use the word 'pitch' outside the baseball context). In fact, just so you don't think I'm bragging (well, I am - but is it bragging if it's truth? ;>) or that I'm biased in my son's favor (I'm not - he's the AntiChrist most of the time), let me point out that his coach told me that he thought Austin was his best player. That's stretching it. We've got some offense, but they have some communication problems to put it mildly. One ballhog and two class clowns, and more dives taken in the penalty area than at the last two Summer Olympics. Anyway, it seemed important that Austin play. And he felt better. I didn't make him. Austin played well and played hard and so did everybody else; we won 2-1.

Saturday. The semi-finals. It's threatening thunderstorms, humid and no shade in sight. We beat this team before and our little guys are expecting to win today. One of our strikers is out, so we make some adjustments, but apparently not the right ones. The other team scores. Twice. We can't get within shouting distance of the goal. Our ballhog striker attempts to outwit their keeper by running straight at him. The goalkeeper is twice this kid's size and not clumsy. Ballhog's mama screamed herself hoarse at the previous game, so thankfully cannot scream HELP HIM!! to his teammates - he won't accept help, pure and simple. Anyway, we lose. Austin is upset, but drowns his sorrows in Gatorade and granola bars. He will live to fight another day. He did get teary telling his sister about it, but acheived that great grammar school triumph: he did not cry in front of his teammates.

Austin has always reminded me of a puppy. He can be a frolicking kind of kid, particularly when balls are involved. And he's good at it - basketball, football, soccer, baseball. If there's a ball involved, he can play it. It's one of my greatest and simplest pleasures - to watch him playing hard, absolutely absorbed in what he's doing and this big puppy smile that lights up his whole face. I suppose it sounds 1) boastful and 2) pretentious, but it's like seeing somebody do what they were made to do.

Anyway, BIG UPS!! to Coach Lee who takes the AYSO credo to heart: everybody plays.

How will I make it through the offseason?

Big Ups to....

1. The Pigeon Forge street department for fixing that crater on Middle Creek - my cd player thanks you! And my tie rods thank you, too!

2. All you bad Mothers everywhere! You know who you are!

3. San Jose Earthquakes! First game I've seen this year ended with a 1-0 win. Now let's work on scoring while I'm watching!

4. The pilots of a certain high-winged Cessna for illustrating with style that even in an age of GPS navigation, there are still men who won't ask for directions.

5. The Rolling Stones - this is gonna be my year!

6. me.

I Survived Mother's Day

Did you?

It's fast becoming my least favorite holiday. I know it's supposed to be all about saying a big Thanks, Ma! for all you do, but all it ever does is remind me, in BOLD print and brilliant detail, of all my shortcomings as a mother and a daughter. They are legion, and they have names like Sloth and Short-Temperedness, Forgot to Write Again and Next Week, I Promise. And, trust me, I know I shouldn't feel like that, so it compounds the guilt ten-fold! Oh, what a lovely holiday! Who came up with this idea? Could it be SATAN??? Yep, I've got a problem with Mother's Day.

but, I lived through it again, and that which does not kill me makes me stronger (or exacerbates those masochistic inclinations, whichever you prefer).

I neatly avoided breakfast in bed by getting up before it was ready. My daughter told me to go back to bed. I told her no. Anyway, I ate not-quite-cheesy-enough grits before I'd even had a cup of tea, so I think that was really sportsmanlike of me. My youngest daughter had hidden a lovingly made card under my pillow on Friday, so I had to be careful not to discover it all weekend. My housekeeping borders on the slovenly, but I do keep my bed made to keep Pawli out of it, so more sporting behavior on my part. I remembered to call my mom! I did not guilt trip anybody into taking me anywhere! In fact, I took my kids to the river for a picnic! I'm giving myself a solid B+ for the day's efforts.

note to self: when world domination is achieved, cancel Valentine's Day and Mother's Day ASAP.

The Big To Do List

My senior year of high school, we were asked to articulate our aspirations and ambitions for our tender young futures. Mine reads like this: I have no ambition. Oh, the angst! the teenage gloom! Yes, I deserved a swift kick in the collective unconscious. I was reading too much Vonnegut, listening to loud punk music, spending too much time with bad influences and juvenile delinquents. And they wouldn't let me say Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll, so really, what was I to say? But today, through the magic of the internet, I'm going back to high school to answer that question - (soon-to-be graduating student), what do you want to do with your life?

1. I want to see celery grow. Everytime I buy it at the grocery store, I think, what the hell does this stuff look like growing in the ground? Like green Roman columns? Like short palm trees? I want to see acres of celery on the hillsides of Tuscany or northern California or wherever it may grow. Is there special celery harvesting equipment? Celery House Rules?

2. I want to drive a Bobcat. They're so cute! Tiny heavy equipment! Girly industrial gear! This would involve purchasing new footwear (i. e., work boots), and that's always a plus.

3. I want to follow a river. Like the Mississippi. From source to sea, living out my own little Lewis & Clark fantasy. A good possibility of shoe shopping and the added allure of the occasional campfire to poke.


So, that's it. Nothing to compare with my classmate who wanted to be Quincy, M.E. But better than the generic Travel, Get Rich and Rule the World. It occurs to me that Hunter S. Thompson's untimely demise leaves an opening in the Gonzo Journalist world - I could try that too. Not because I'm that fabulous, but because that would be some Serious Fun.

Are You Tired of My Capitalized Emphatics Yet?

the rain continues...

and I wish I had a cigarette.

Ground Rules

Should have done this on my first post, but better late than never.

Top Ten Things I Don't Wanna Talk About


1. You. At least most of the time.

2. God. Except where I need a colorful obscenity, or I'm drunk and philosphical.

3. Elected officials of any ilk, unless I want to take potshots at them.

4. My job, lest I find my self job-less.

5. Reality tv. Proof that Western civilization is riding a speedball to hell.

6. Michael Jackson. Just ick. ick. ick. ick. I want to wash my hands now.

7. Paris Hilton, unless I need a bad example. Don't fuck with my name, bitch!

8. My sex life. You have already met my breasts. The rest of me is less interesting.

9. Causes of the Week. If you've got money to give away, you can give it to me.

10. Cute Things My Kids Did/Said - at least not more than once a week.



And we (the royal one) are coming at you commercial free, 24/7/365 ad infinitum perpetuus. (that's hillbilly latin, btw).

So, they called me from the hospital, wanting to look at my right boob again. This is NOT the news you want to hear after your first mammogram and especially when you’re a manic-depressive hypochondriac like me. My original mamm-o-grammer had told me that callbacks are common, nothing to be concerned about, etc. Sure they are. Common as dirt. Still, I’m not one to miss an opportunity to panic.

Fortunately, they were able see me the very next morning (which, naturally, made me worry that it was Really Bad and URGENT!). Again, I had to show them my driver’s license and the reception clerk was again unimpressed with my ‘will driving be involved?’ remark. I sat down to wait. Unfortunately, no new magazines. . There’s a friend of my mother’s on the other side of the room – I don’t want to explain why I’m here, so I keep my eyes on the floor, and send silly text messages requesting songs of inspiration. The nurse finally calls me AND my mom’s friend back together (irony is NOT just a literary device). A new room with two changing areas, a coffee pot, cookies and the omnipresent television, all under some very soft forgiving lights. We put on lovely open-in-the-front gowns and sit down, neither one of us attempting the coffee and cookies. We catch up on family gossip. The nurse takes her into the other room. Time of reflection and dread for me. Let’s send some more text messages! This is when I start screwing up. Not Dark Yet is a beautiful song. A powerful song. But it’s a real downer. Not inspiring. Not uplifting. And uplift is what we want when our breasts are involved! My mom’s friend comes back with good news, and now it’s my turn. We’re only interested in the right boob today, so this very nice, efficient lady takes a measurement on the original xray with her finger and draws an X on my boob with a black Sharpie. I hate the smell of Sharpies. She takes several pictures and toddles off to a radiologist for an instant read. I go back to the changing room and check messages. I’m amazed they are even being sent – I’m two doors down from that big hunk of magnet called an MRI. I’m likewise amazed there aren’t any signs telling me to shut it off. Anyway, I’m dressed again and here comes Nurse Efficient to call me back into the x-ray room. There’s a doctor in there. I don’t know much, but that looks like trouble to me. He gives me a watered down smile. There’s this little patch of calcification that, given my mom’s history, ought to be biopsied. Fuck me! This is my first mammogram! A BASELINE mammogram. I wait for him to tell me they’ll want to keep an eye on it on my next one. Instead he says, we can do a core biopsy on Monday, what time is good for you? Fuck me again! I’m supposed to be in Florida! Is it that urgent?? First good news is that it isn’t. It can wait a week or two.

Can I?

Sure I can, with the right medication. Which, in this case, was a week in not-so-sunny Florida with the offspring trying to read a stack of books and working (unsuccessfully, I should say) on improving my guitar playing. John Prine I’ll never be. However, if you need somebody to play a tediously slow Kumbaya, and you’ll spring for drinks, I can make myself available.

The actual biopsy was remarkably painless. My old friend, Nurse Efficiency, was the master of ceremonies. This was what is known as a stereotactic biopsy – and scientifically speaking, it was impressive. Like launching the space shuttle. My boob got Sharpied again, this time with an R – god knows I need all the help I can get telling my right from my left, but sad to say, it wasn’t permanent – somebody ought to let the Sharpie people know. Anyway, I lay on a table with a hole in it for boob R. The table is elevated and more mammography is done to guide the needle to the exact spot they want to biopsy. When everything is in place, the doctor comes in and does the biopsy. He asks Nurse E to get it x-rayed, I get a band-aid and an ice-pack. The doctor looks at his x-rays, gives me some post-procedure information and his card with his cell phone number on the back. That freaked me out. Doctors don’t do that. Unless it’s bad news. Can he see something already?

The wait begins.

While we’re waiting, let me attempt to describe the Strange Behavior. Not mine this time. Or maybe it was my Strange Perception of other people’s behavior. Judge for yourself. I got cards. Not playing cards. Thinking of You and Praying for You cards. Hell, as far as I knew, I wasn’t even sick! Did I look sick? Can they see something I can’t? And these people that sent them to me – I wouldn’t describe them as friends.

My hypochondriac paranoia ran amok. I teetered on the edge of a big Drama Queen meltdown.

The biopsy was on Monday, and the doctor said it could be as late as Friday before they had the results. Naturally, I didn’t hear until Monday and by then I was convinced I was in my Final Moments.

I was wrong.

All good news and nothing to worry about.

Thank you Jesus!

But, I’m kind of pissed. Not that I want to be sick, but I had the title of a lifetime: This Old Boob.

I could get them lifted…