My father said all sorts of silly things.
Your ass is grass, and I'm the lawnmower.
I'm gonna cut you three ways - deep, wide, and continuously.
Like a one legged man in an ass kicking contest.
Wish in one hand, shit in the other, see which one fills up faster.
Sometimes they were movie quotes. Sometimes they were Marine Corps-isms. Sometimes they were antiquated Texas-isms.
Never leave a hat on the bed.
Always say DADDY loudly when waking him, touching him before you spoke was a terryfing experience. I made the mistake once when I was eight, and he sprang up and grabbed me by the arm. I almost died from fright.
The way he mashed his fried eggs up with the tines of his fork, instead of cutting them.
The way he'd sweat when he ate spicy food. He would sit at the head of the table, his dark skin red with heat and sweating.
The very small things he did everyday that made him such a champion of the ordinary.
Daddy started balding early, and in 1986, he made the last ditch effort of a desperate man. He let my mom give him a perm.
My father said all sorts of silly things, and sometimes he said things that weren't so silly at all. He was the most educated uneducated man as you'd meet. He voraciously read newspapers and magazines, and had an encyclopedic knowledge of sports.
He did not like to go out much.
He was the best storyteller in the world.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
A Post That's Not A Post
My friend Tara at Faith In Ambiguity said 'May is for mothering'. Between end of school parties and awards and graduations and recitals, May is certainly, overwhelmingly, for Mothering.
I have spent the past couple of weeks in a state of goofy almost-doneness, pitting responsibility against warm days and sandboxes and four o'clock beers. I took the kids to ice cream for no other reason than today was Wednesday and we had nothing better to do. Then, in an effort to negate my coolness, I let Katie hurt my feelings and let her know it, and cried and said the truest thing I've ever said -
"No one will ever love you as much as your mommy does."
Heavy knowledge for an eleven year old, though likely not believed. And then I felt silly and blamed it on blood sugar and made her kiss me, twice.
I don't know what is wrong with me. It could be the busyness, it could be that this week is the anniversary of my father's death (though it is just another day, I still feel mostly like this), it could be that my OCD is cycling I am doing battle with it, armed with Comet and a toothbrush.
It could just be that I am ready for summer and time spent blowing bubbles and sitting in the sun, instead of driving to activities and trying to cram quality time in between homework and bedtime.
Sometimes, in summertime, the pool is a good enough bath.
Bedtime is negotiable.
Lunch can be a popsicle.
The table outside will be covered in the assorted detritus of fun - wet towels and flip flops and foam noodles - and I will turn out the light snd lock the door and think, 'I'll pick that up tomorrow,' and not feel the least bit irresponsible.
Sometimes, in summertime, you can do that.
I still have 2 1/2 weeks of real life and lunches and ceremony. I will spend it with a perpetual lump in my throat for the passing milestones, and an eye on June.
Summer, I am waiting.
I have spent the past couple of weeks in a state of goofy almost-doneness, pitting responsibility against warm days and sandboxes and four o'clock beers. I took the kids to ice cream for no other reason than today was Wednesday and we had nothing better to do. Then, in an effort to negate my coolness, I let Katie hurt my feelings and let her know it, and cried and said the truest thing I've ever said -
"No one will ever love you as much as your mommy does."
Heavy knowledge for an eleven year old, though likely not believed. And then I felt silly and blamed it on blood sugar and made her kiss me, twice.
I don't know what is wrong with me. It could be the busyness, it could be that this week is the anniversary of my father's death (though it is just another day, I still feel mostly like this), it could be that my OCD is cycling I am doing battle with it, armed with Comet and a toothbrush.
It could just be that I am ready for summer and time spent blowing bubbles and sitting in the sun, instead of driving to activities and trying to cram quality time in between homework and bedtime.
Sometimes, in summertime, the pool is a good enough bath.
Bedtime is negotiable.
Lunch can be a popsicle.
The table outside will be covered in the assorted detritus of fun - wet towels and flip flops and foam noodles - and I will turn out the light snd lock the door and think, 'I'll pick that up tomorrow,' and not feel the least bit irresponsible.
Sometimes, in summertime, you can do that.
I still have 2 1/2 weeks of real life and lunches and ceremony. I will spend it with a perpetual lump in my throat for the passing milestones, and an eye on June.
Summer, I am waiting.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Mr. Bojangles
God, how she loved that cat.
She had waited so long to adopt him; visiting the pet store every week for three months, talking to him through the wire mesh, tickling his fur with her outstretched finger. Sometimes the man who worked there would let her take the orange tabby out and pet him, but she was careful not to ask too often. She didn't want to be known as a 'cat lady'.
'Cat lady' implies a certain strangeness, and she wasn't strange. At least she didn't think so.
She'd asked the owner of the store to hold him until she could save up the adoption fee. In return, she paid for his food and visited faithfully. She thought it would take her four or five months to save enough. She was a writer and a student, and neither of those things lent themselves to disposable income. Still, she had managed to gradually purchase all of the things she'd need for him - the litter box and scratching post and furry mice and a leopard print collar. She was still a month or so away from having enough to bring him home when she got the call.
She'd won a writing contest. The entry was an unlikely hit, the story of a traveling cat circus, led by a woman with three nipples and chronic flatulence. She felt sure the judges were cat lovers, and perhaps they were nipple lovers as well. Or fart lovers. Regardless, she was suddenly a thousand dollars richer, and her dream of bringing home the cat from the pet store happened sooner than she hoped.
She named him Mr. Bojangles.
Every morning, she woke to find his warm body curled up on the pillow beside her. She sang him awake with his special song - "Oh, Mr. Bojangles, with you soft widdle ears and your sweet widdle tummy, come over here and kiss your mummy!". Every night, she fed him tuna fish in a crystal bowl, and wiped his face with a linen napkin. She brushed his fur and took him for walks and treated him as if she had given birth to him herself.
Mostly, he liked her. He tolerated her silliness and accepted the pampering as his right. Only once, when she tried to carry him in a baby sling between her breasts, did he rebel. When she sang to him in the mornings, he looked at her in his bored way and thought, bitch, please. She mistook his indifference for adoration, and he indulged her affection as a means to an end. Some mornings he watched as she slept, her eyes rolling behind closed lids, a fine stream of spittle flowing from the corner of her mouth. One morning, he drank from that stream with his sandpaper tongue, and found she tasted of a dark loneliness and something vaguely metallic.
It was not a bad life, afterall.
And then she died. The penny mouth he'd tasted had been the sickness inside her, dripping out and pooling on her pillow. She'd told no one, not even him.
She had no family nearby. As he watched the sunlight move across the floor from morning to afternoon on the first day, he waited patiently for someone to come and fill his food bowl. The phone rang sporadically and he listened to disembodied voices calling out where are you? hope you're not sick! By evening, he found himself foraging in a near empty trashcan, fishing out the remants of a pimento cheese sandwich and a half rotted grape. A grape! he thought. The indignity of the situation did not escape him.
By the third day, he was restless. He paced the rooms of the apartment and chased long shadows across the floor. There was nothing to eat; no crumb or scrap or bug to be savored. His litter box was filled with filth and he was forced to do what little business he had to do on the floor beside it.
He awoke the morning of the fourth day to the sounds of his stomach. He lay on the pillow beside her swollen body. Her lips were parted just slightly and her tongue, purple and fat, pushed past her teeth. She looked as if she was about to give a whistle, or blow a raspberry on his tummy. 'Mithhhter Bojanglethhhhh,' he heard it say. He touched the tongue with his paw, and found it surprisingly soft. Supple. Meaty.
God, how much she had loved him. And now, how much he loved her.
She had waited so long to adopt him; visiting the pet store every week for three months, talking to him through the wire mesh, tickling his fur with her outstretched finger. Sometimes the man who worked there would let her take the orange tabby out and pet him, but she was careful not to ask too often. She didn't want to be known as a 'cat lady'.
'Cat lady' implies a certain strangeness, and she wasn't strange. At least she didn't think so.
She'd asked the owner of the store to hold him until she could save up the adoption fee. In return, she paid for his food and visited faithfully. She thought it would take her four or five months to save enough. She was a writer and a student, and neither of those things lent themselves to disposable income. Still, she had managed to gradually purchase all of the things she'd need for him - the litter box and scratching post and furry mice and a leopard print collar. She was still a month or so away from having enough to bring him home when she got the call.
She'd won a writing contest. The entry was an unlikely hit, the story of a traveling cat circus, led by a woman with three nipples and chronic flatulence. She felt sure the judges were cat lovers, and perhaps they were nipple lovers as well. Or fart lovers. Regardless, she was suddenly a thousand dollars richer, and her dream of bringing home the cat from the pet store happened sooner than she hoped.
She named him Mr. Bojangles.
Every morning, she woke to find his warm body curled up on the pillow beside her. She sang him awake with his special song - "Oh, Mr. Bojangles, with you soft widdle ears and your sweet widdle tummy, come over here and kiss your mummy!". Every night, she fed him tuna fish in a crystal bowl, and wiped his face with a linen napkin. She brushed his fur and took him for walks and treated him as if she had given birth to him herself.
Mostly, he liked her. He tolerated her silliness and accepted the pampering as his right. Only once, when she tried to carry him in a baby sling between her breasts, did he rebel. When she sang to him in the mornings, he looked at her in his bored way and thought, bitch, please. She mistook his indifference for adoration, and he indulged her affection as a means to an end. Some mornings he watched as she slept, her eyes rolling behind closed lids, a fine stream of spittle flowing from the corner of her mouth. One morning, he drank from that stream with his sandpaper tongue, and found she tasted of a dark loneliness and something vaguely metallic.
It was not a bad life, afterall.
And then she died. The penny mouth he'd tasted had been the sickness inside her, dripping out and pooling on her pillow. She'd told no one, not even him.
She had no family nearby. As he watched the sunlight move across the floor from morning to afternoon on the first day, he waited patiently for someone to come and fill his food bowl. The phone rang sporadically and he listened to disembodied voices calling out where are you? hope you're not sick! By evening, he found himself foraging in a near empty trashcan, fishing out the remants of a pimento cheese sandwich and a half rotted grape. A grape! he thought. The indignity of the situation did not escape him.
By the third day, he was restless. He paced the rooms of the apartment and chased long shadows across the floor. There was nothing to eat; no crumb or scrap or bug to be savored. His litter box was filled with filth and he was forced to do what little business he had to do on the floor beside it.
He awoke the morning of the fourth day to the sounds of his stomach. He lay on the pillow beside her swollen body. Her lips were parted just slightly and her tongue, purple and fat, pushed past her teeth. She looked as if she was about to give a whistle, or blow a raspberry on his tummy. 'Mithhhter Bojanglethhhhh,' he heard it say. He touched the tongue with his paw, and found it surprisingly soft. Supple. Meaty.
God, how much she had loved him. And now, how much he loved her.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Potty All the Time
My world has been consumed by the toilet for two days. Henry, whose fixations make me look like an OCD lightweight, has fixated on doing his business in the potty. Which should make me extremely happy.
Instead, he is driving me insane.
He has been accident free, due in large part to his insistance on sitting on the pot every fifteen minutes. The first seven or eight or twelve times, it was cute. I high fived and potty danced and heaped praise for the tiniest dribble. I pulled a muscle while executing a triple salchow after he pooped. By this evening, I barely give him a raised eyebrow and a 'Oh, pee pee potty. That's great.'
I have to watch him, though. Yesterday, he tiptoed out of his room and into the bathroom, where he managed to unroll an entire roll of toilet paper and shove it into the toilet. Two plastic bags and a thorough handwashing later, we had the toilet paper etiquette talk.
"Toilet paper only when you poo poo."
"Poo poo?"
"Yes, only when you poop."
"Poo poo potty?"
"Yes, only when you poop on the potty."
"Poo poo?"
"Yes."
"Potty?"
"Yes."
"High five?"
"Yes, you get high five when you potty."
"HIGH FIVE? HIGH FIVE? HIGH FIVE?"
"Yes, when you poop."
"Poo poo potty?"
Here's another thing about potty training my boy - he's not a big talker. Whereas both girls were highly verbal and could communicate with ease (Mommy, I need to use the bathroom, although it is not an extreme emergency. Please finish reading that highly informative article about Oscar fashions before escorting me to the restroom.), Henry just screams POTTY! and runs with alarming speed through the house and vaults himself onto the toilet. POTTY! could mean 'I think I might have a tiny bit of wee', or it could mean, 'I am getting ready to jettison a huge load and you'd better come quick because I've taken off my pants and I won't hesitate to drop a deuce on the floor'.
Then there's the flushing.
Honey, you only need to flush one time. OK, good job, no more flushing. THAT'S GOOD! OK, stop flushing. STOP. STOP FLUSHING!
I probably shouldn't complain about the flushing. I've never subscribed to 'if it's yellow, let it mellow; if it's brown, flush it down.' The thought of peeing on top of someone else's pee makes me a little queasy. I will completely abandon a public restroom if all the toilets contain remnants of the previous occupants. Peeing on top of a loved one's pee is gross enough. Peeing on stranger pee? Do you want me to have a panic attack?
What happened? Heart condition? Overdose? Too much to drink?
Worse than that, I'm afraid. She peed on stranger pee.
Maybe Henry and I will avoid public restrooms for a while longer. It's probably best.
Instead, he is driving me insane.
He has been accident free, due in large part to his insistance on sitting on the pot every fifteen minutes. The first seven or eight or twelve times, it was cute. I high fived and potty danced and heaped praise for the tiniest dribble. I pulled a muscle while executing a triple salchow after he pooped. By this evening, I barely give him a raised eyebrow and a 'Oh, pee pee potty. That's great.'
I have to watch him, though. Yesterday, he tiptoed out of his room and into the bathroom, where he managed to unroll an entire roll of toilet paper and shove it into the toilet. Two plastic bags and a thorough handwashing later, we had the toilet paper etiquette talk.
"Toilet paper only when you poo poo."
"Poo poo?"
"Yes, only when you poop."
"Poo poo potty?"
"Yes, only when you poop on the potty."
"Poo poo?"
"Yes."
"Potty?"
"Yes."
"High five?"
"Yes, you get high five when you potty."
"HIGH FIVE? HIGH FIVE? HIGH FIVE?"
"Yes, when you poop."
"Poo poo potty?"
Here's another thing about potty training my boy - he's not a big talker. Whereas both girls were highly verbal and could communicate with ease (Mommy, I need to use the bathroom, although it is not an extreme emergency. Please finish reading that highly informative article about Oscar fashions before escorting me to the restroom.), Henry just screams POTTY! and runs with alarming speed through the house and vaults himself onto the toilet. POTTY! could mean 'I think I might have a tiny bit of wee', or it could mean, 'I am getting ready to jettison a huge load and you'd better come quick because I've taken off my pants and I won't hesitate to drop a deuce on the floor'.
Then there's the flushing.
Honey, you only need to flush one time. OK, good job, no more flushing. THAT'S GOOD! OK, stop flushing. STOP. STOP FLUSHING!
I probably shouldn't complain about the flushing. I've never subscribed to 'if it's yellow, let it mellow; if it's brown, flush it down.' The thought of peeing on top of someone else's pee makes me a little queasy. I will completely abandon a public restroom if all the toilets contain remnants of the previous occupants. Peeing on top of a loved one's pee is gross enough. Peeing on stranger pee? Do you want me to have a panic attack?
What happened? Heart condition? Overdose? Too much to drink?
Worse than that, I'm afraid. She peed on stranger pee.
Maybe Henry and I will avoid public restrooms for a while longer. It's probably best.
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