Monday night is tae-kwan-do night. Usually I am on a deadline or too slammed with work to accompany Schmoopie so the GITB takes her. Because he is an accomplished kick-boxer, he enjoys going and watching his girl. Other nights the GITB will poke his head in the study and say: "Honey, I will pay you $100 to take her tonight," and I sigh and turn off the computer and she and I head out. (We used to have these bargaining sessions re: changing her diaper. He actually did pay me a few times to change a particularly poopy diaper when it was, in fact, HIS turn at the changing table. And did I keep the money? Hell yeah. Mommies need sassy shoes too, girl.)
I love going, actually, because my kid is graceful and lithe and whirls across the floor brandishing her bow-staff like a translucent fairy charged with turbo-pixie dust -- a dangerous one who is now a black belt candidate. I delight in watching the awe on the faces of the boys in her class (all about 3-5 years older) as she flies past them, golden braids whirring like humming birds on either side of her head, completely oblivious to their admiring stares. She is sweetness and speeding havoc and little girl and she-devil all rolled into one. It's heavenly watching her take flight.
So last night I was sitting there transfixed when the door of the auditorium opened and the click of the handle distracted me. When I turned to look, my dad was strolling in. He strode very purposefully toward me, definitely a man on a mission. For a moment my heart quickened and the thought that something might be wrong with my mom skittered through my mind, but I reminded myself that were this the case he would call me on my cell phone which is never not in my pocket. But nevertheless, his appearance alarmed me. He comes to watch Schmoopie in action at class maybe once a month and always when she tests for a new belt, but he is overly-concerned about not "interfering" and he would never want to be construed as being intrusive. He has always been that way--polite to the point of absurd. He respects my adult-ness and my role as a parent and I am appreciative of that but I wish he would quit feeling like he has to ask permission to hang around. Anyway. So Dad comes and sits next to me and calls me by my first name, which no one else does (except for one other soul on the planet--they know who they are) and asks me in a very concerned tone of voice how I am.
"Are you okay--I mean, is your health alright?"
"Yeah, Dad, I'm fine. Why?"
"Your mom and I are a little concerned that something may be bothering you. You seemed so distracted during the holidays and we're wondering if everything is okay..."
"Dad--I'm fine. Really. Maybe it's a midlife thing, I don't know. I've been thinking about a lot of stuff that I usually don't think about -- you know -- I wonder what's going to happen when Schmoopie leaves for college, I mean, what do I want to do with the rest of life, all that shit."
Dad looked across the auditorium and squinted, focused on Schmoopie as she ran and jumped and kicked and pirouetted through a line of sweaty, gaggly boys.
"You know, I feel bad that I wasn't around much when you were her age. I don't really even remember you at this age. I guess I was gone too much."Dad then went on to remark about my brother and all the traveling he does and his concern that my two nieces are missing out on quality time with their daddy.I said: "He does a great job with them, Dad. He's a great daddy and they know above all else that their Daddy loves them. That's all that really matters."Dad turned to me and said: "I'm concerned that you didn't feel loved when you were growing up. Did you feel like you were loved?"Me: "Jesus, Dad, yes. What is going on? Are YOU in okay health?"Dad: "I'm fine, fine." We were silent for a minute as we watched our girl, the sweet-faced dervish. Then Dad said: "Because if there's anything you need, anything at all, you can come to me, you know. You'll let me know?"
"Sure Dad, yeah. I'm fine."And that was the end of that. It's funny how here I am, all grown up with a family and a career (I guess) and a big fat life packed with loud, noisy and loving family and friends, freedom and resources to do pretty much whatever the hell I please, swimming in art and beauty and all the things that I need to be happy and yet my parents can still detect something not quite right every now and then. It must be the unparalleled power of DNA. They know me so well. It's maddening sometimes.Driving home I thought about the evening I got married (14 years ago--God!!), standing in the back of the church with my dad as he and my uncle hovered over me like two anxious nellies. It was a windy November evening, the end of hurricane season in Florida and a tropical storm was brewing. Rain hit the stained-glass windows in staccato splats as it whipped off the palm trees with each gust of wind. Just before we started to make that long walk down the aisle, my dad and my uncle had this little unspoken exchange and then cleared their throats and stood in front of me, blocking my view of the aisle, of the packed church and the grinning groom waiting for me on the dais."You know honey, you can change your mind," Dad said."WHAT????!!!!!" I sputtered through my veil, clenching my bouquet of roses and gardenias."Really, Uncle Paul and I want you to know that you can still change your mind--even now. It's okay. No one would be upset with you."And I know it sounds odd, but that was the most wonderful moment I have ever had with my dad. I didn't perceive this as a judgment on my judgment or an attack on my soon-to-be-husband. My family liked the GITB and they were all happy for me. No, it was an acknowledgment of the weight of the moment and a declaration of love from the two men who had the biggest hands in raising me. If I wanted to run screaming from the church, they would aid and abet me. If not, that was great too. They just wanted me to know I had options and they backed me no matter what. That's love--it really was a kind and loving gesture. And I did pause and take a deep breath and savor the moment before I slipped my hands through their arms and walked down the aisle, one on either side of me. I guess that's a big piece of what being a parent is all about--it is a job that never ends. And that's what's nice about it.
Love ya, McCloud. PS--This Dennis Weaver link has been added for the chillrens who have no awareness of the 1970s. Sigh. PPS--not that I am into the whole celebrity deathwatch thing, but that's two in as many days. Who's number three?
Even though he wears my ass out, Miss Otis is one of the loves of my life and one of the many reasons why is that he has the best timing. He always seems to know exactly when I need him and that is when he calls me up and plays this wretched, god-awful song and sings along, loudly adding obscene commentary, of course, in the background just because he knows I hate it and will therefore laugh until I pee. Every girl should have a boy like Randy in her life. That's all I'm saying.
Love ya, Barney.adieu Don Knotts. My favorite performance: The Incredible Mr. Limpet. Need I say more? His final role: the voice of Mayor Turkey Lurkey in the 2005 animated film Chicken Little. Jeebus--talk about death with dignity.
Not I, said the little red hen. The Olympics sucked ass this year, it bored the hell out of me and Bode is as stupid a fucking name as "Picabo." And by the way, if you are going to pronounce it "Peek-a-boo" here's a crazy idea: why not spell it like it sounds? WTF? People wear my ass out.
Every day I get up and face the world with the best of intentions, I want to be a good girl, but temptation is everywhere and jesus, people wear my ass out. I tried to get myself into a nice mellow meditative mode this morning but right about the time I snuggled into my favorite big-old reading chair with my nice hot cup of joe and started thinking about all the good things I have in my life and all the people I love and wish blessings on, my cell phone rang and Randy told me he had fallen down the stairs of his front porch last night and woke up covered in blood, oh, and by the way, he can see bone through one of his wounds. Miss Otis is wearing my ass out. So after I was sufficiently satisfied that he is okay, I proceeded to scold him and then he called me "Mom" (not good) and admitted he was totally shitfaced when his buddies dropped him off after a crawl through one of the local really icky dive bars last night, I really let him have it. Miss Otis huffily replied: "Girl, you cannot tell me you have never gone out one night intending to have a great time and woke up the next morning with your hair all over the place, eyeliner smeared halfway down your face and three-quarters of you covered in blood..." I started to tell him that I had not, but then I remembered that I had. But it was the '80s for chrissake. And besides, it wasn't my blood, it was my boyfriend's. And he has since forgiven me.
My compadre in grammatical terrorism, political incorrectness and gleefully pooh-pooing all that is good and clean and holy about "Ameer-ka" (as her fellow Texan, Dubya, puts it), Miss Sassy-Pants herself, eb has decided to excuse herself from the table that is Blog Land. I am sad but understand. Happy Trails, elizabeth. Stop by to thump my melons soon and often. Love ya!
~ell
a friend of mine loves the Dump The Purse routine. When she meets new chicks she says: "Okay, what's your story--Reader's Digest version--lemme see what you're packing" and most women happily comply. And since we are all admitted voyeurs and exhibitionists here--hence our collective presence in the Blogosphere--I am showing you mine so let's see yours. Oh, and I hereby specifically challenge Mel ('cause EVERYONE wants to see what The Church Lady has in her purse) and Steph (ditto The Nun--I mean--really-- I cannot wait), eb (cause the lesbians from Texas MUST be included) and Grace (Because she is as big of a bi-atch as I am and I would love to see what is in her trendy bi-atch bag, plus Grace is an awesome name) to dump your purses and show us what your packin'. Ladies, I am waiting. PS: (If I didn't invite you to dump and you feel so inclined, please, by all means, share away!) Now, here is an inventory of the contents that my purse vomited onto the dining room table today: (clockwise from the top) hair clip, Hello Kitty CD holder, lipstick, appt. book with press pass in black case on top, open wallet with Batman action figure and restauraunt receipt on top (Lanna Thai restaurant with Anne at lunchtime day before yesterday. I had the Pad Thai with chicken) a wrapped biscotti from Starbucks that has been in my purse since December, pack of matches from Don Giovanni's restaurant on W. 44th Street in NYC, doggie cookie, notebook with lip gloss on top (Revlon Color Stay--"Flesh"), more matches, silk sunglasses case, cell phone, more matches, Robin action figure (he and Batman are apparently temporarily separated), doggie cookie, iPod Nano in pink leather case purchased at Target (yesssssssssssss!), pressed powder compact, assorted pens, credit card case, loose change, nail polish, doggie cookie, highlighter pen, turquoise bracelet.
I love the baggers at my Publix. Most of them are crusty old guys with Army or Navy tattoos on their forearms that are so faded they look like they were applied with water colors (we have tons of old vets in the area because of the VA hospital and the nearby bases where they like to go shopping and get their liquor and cigarettes tax-free). Anyway, a lot of them are obviously WWII vets and you know that they have seen some shit, sister. And by the way, they saved the world. I love these guys--they are my heroes. My favorite elderly bagger is John, who always winks at me and calls me "Cookie" as he lovingly double-wraps my chicken breasts. He is the only man on the planet capable of getting away with that. I usually choose whichever line John is bagging, no matter the length of the line. He has the sweetest smile and pale blue eyes and I imagine he was quite the hottie when he was a young man. I like to look at old geezers and try to picture them when they were at the height of their youthfulness and vigor. I remind myself that these old men were once strapping young studs who liked to party and raise hell and bang as many chicks as they could. Sure, now they are someone’s Grampy and they have enlarged prostates, no hair and bad knees. But once they rocked someone’s world, no doubt. I totally see that when I look at John. John has been places, he has seen some shit. And he can call me “Cookie” any day of the week.
So I took the Inner-Bombshell quiz that Trish has on her site and yes, I answered truthfully. Turns out that Mae is my inner ho and soulmate. What a shocker. Here's my result:
"Va-Va-Voom! You're Inner-Bombshell is Mae West. You've definitly got a lot of wit, a lot of smarts, and you know how to use people to your advantage. Ever heard the phrase "doesn't take any crap from anybody"? Well that's you! Just like Mae you never want to settle down, and can't imagine being with just one man for the rest of your life. You don't care about conventions and have no filter from your brain to you mouth. Check out the movie "She Done Him Wrong" to see your inner bombshell in all her voluptuous glory!"
Regret, remorse, recrimination. Here is the thing about deeply wounding another person: even if there was never an intention to do so, even if, in fact, the total opposite was genuinely intended, albeit in a deluded and misguided sort of way, the damage is irretrievable. It can't be taken back. You can't hit rewind, you can't go back and edit and if you are able to look at yourself in the mirror, you can't forgive yourself. Especially when you realize that as kind and charitable and loving a person you like to think you are, you have visited misery on someone who didn't deserve it, never asked for it and they will carry it with them always.Sometimes guilt really is appropriate and earned and deserved. And when the shame is earned it feels like Hilda Doolittle (1886-1961) described it in her poem “Iphigeneia in Aulis,” Shame, scarlet, fresh-opened a flower, Strikes across my face.I suck and I am going to hell and all the stuff I thought I had managed to learn I apparently did not. Other happy thoughts:
One should sit upright and meditate on the true aspect of all things. All sins are just as frost and dew, so wisdom's sun can disperse them ~Repentance in Buddhism "If you wind up with a boring, miserable life because you listened to your mom, your dad, your teacher, your priest or some guy on TV telling you what to do, then YOU DESERVE IT." ~ Frank ZappaFor all the evil deeds I have done in the past, Created by my body, speech and mind,From beginningless greed, hatred and delusion,I now know shame and repent them all.
~Traditional Repentance Verse from "The Practices & Vows of Samantabadra Bodhisattva" (Avatamsaka Sutra, Chapter 40)"Accept life, and you must accept regret." ~Henri Frederic Amiel, 1876 My karma is so FUCKED.
I promised to take Randy to see Brokeback Mountain this weekend but he was too tired to get out of bed Saturday and has been napping his ass off. His last t-cell count: 86. Even the idea of a hot gay sex scene, lots of popcorn and the pleasure of my company will not move his ass out of the rack (but he will of course get up and light a cigarette). I am going over there to kick me some Miss Otis ass first thing tomorrow. Beauty sleep my ass. There are movies to be watched and boys to be ogled and smack to talk.
my dad called me at 8:30 this morning to triumphantly announce that I look like my great-grandmother. It's taken him all this time to figure this one out, no matter that my age now begins with a 4. Dad said he and my mother have been at this discussion in earnest for two weeks now, ever since they came to see a performance of a show I was in that was set in the 1930s (see drag queen photo below). Dad has been mystified since then about who in the family I resemble but he just knew it was someone way back there. So I look like Theresa. Theresa was an actress in Hungary and she came to America before the turn of the last century. According to family lore, she lied about her age to get on the ship without a parent or an adult guardian so when she was older and we tried to get her a social security card, no one knew her exact age because (a)she lied about it and (b)she had no birth certificate. I think that took huge balls--the leaving home and going to a new country. And she was beautiful, so I am flattered that my dad thinks I resemble her in some way. Maybe it's just the balls part because I do have those from time to time.She always said she came to America not to find a better life but to find her true love. She knew he was here. She just knew it. And I guess he was. And they lived happily ever after until his work as a coal miner affected his health and he started to drink a lot then died young of stomach cancer leaving her in mourning for fifty years. But it was great while it lasted. They were madly in love with one another and so I guess her trip across the ocean was worth it. Theresa was always "Buba" to me and my cousins. She spoke little English (as far as she let on) and she was always ancient. I mean, she was my dad's grandmother, and that was OLD, man. She taught me how to make stuffed cabbage the "old country" way and so nothing is measured. It's a handful of this and a pinch of that and my family begs me to make it a few times a year because it is so yummy. I make it just like she taught me and roll the cabbage just right then let it all cook all day in a huge vat with sauerkraut and pork loin and tomato sauce. To die for. Buba was arouund 100 when she died. But she was still a huge believer in true love and she adored the movie "The Princess Bride." My favorite part, by the way, is when poor Buttercup is about to marry the creepy evil prince and they are standing in the church and the speech-challenged priest starts to deliver a homily about "Wuv. Twue wuv. It's what bwings us togetha" Totally cracks me up. I also dig the whole Dread Pirate Roberts routine. But what is the deal with twue wuv, anyway? Is it real? Does it exist? Is there one true love for each of us? In spite of my anti-Valentine's Day stance, I think so. But twue wuv doesn't always bring us together, sometimes it is the very thing that keeps us apart. And so it isn't always wonderful. But it is worth it.
I hereby proclaim Valentine's Day a huge steaming crock of consumer shit.
sweet boy--yes, now I am employing subtext. Miserable, tortured, agonized subtext. Fire alarm not included.
I miss the old Oprah, don't you? The present-day Oprah just seems too hard-edged and, okay, I'll say it, mean for me. Yes, I think Oprah has joined the ranks of the Mean Girls. And I think she is way too impressed with her own presence, cleverness and moral superiority. Her latest drama queen performance at Coretta King's funeral was embarrassingly cringe-worthy because she seemed so acutely aware of the cameras. The disingenuousness of the whole thing made my skin crawl. For chrissake, get over yourself, girl, and go eat some smashed potatoes. In my opinion, Oprah has sadly become the antithesis of who we all fell in love with 20-or so years ago--you know--a nice, unassumming, genuine and exuberant real woman. Oprah used to be warm and spontaneous. Now she seems pre-packaged, calculating, steely-eyed and haughty, her warmth frozen over by a fierce devotion to protecting her brand and her image at all costs.And the $600 blouses and $75 bars of soap and $100 jars of face cream she heralds as her "favorite things" in "O" magazine are far from reach for most of her devoted viewers, I dare say. They are barely scraping by, clipping coupons and shopping at Wal-Mart for their "favorite things" like diapers and mac & cheese and deodorant while dreaming of living their best lives, ala Oprah. Well, hell yeah, I could "live my best life" too if I were paid billions of dollars to run my mouth. Wow. WTFW (the old Oprah) D?
