Thursday, May 24, 2007
Last Day of School
The kid will be out of 11th grade around noon E.S.T. Here's hoping for a couple of hours of quality time - i.e. lunch - before she heads out to see the boyfriend (arriving home fifteen minutes after I fall asleep, as is usually the case) and then she's off in the wee hours tomorrow to meet up with her sister in Spain. We have to take this Spanish thing in shifts to spare the estrogen poisoning of Too Many Female Relatives In One Room.
I'll have two weeks to wrangle my store into submission before the Bonnaroo Festival. Two weeks to plan my Press Pass Strategy - any headliners care to talk about their craft with a middle-aged southern writer?
NTD
I'll have two weeks to wrangle my store into submission before the Bonnaroo Festival. Two weeks to plan my Press Pass Strategy - any headliners care to talk about their craft with a middle-aged southern writer?
NTD
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
After two days of tearing the place apart - searching beneath sofa cushions, in backpacks, pants pockets, the washing machine, the front yard, the garbage can, all floors in the house - the keys to the VW van were safely in the ignition.
Dementia is not just for the elderly.
It's time to make lists, tie strings around my finger, attach everything to hooks and rubber bands...
...and to think that I could still recite telephone numbers of classmates from the third grade when I graduated from high school. But if I didn't have my top ninety nine numbers safely programmed into my cell phone, I couldn't call my niece, my employees, or even my own boyfriend today.
I miss my excellent memory.
NTD
Dementia is not just for the elderly.
It's time to make lists, tie strings around my finger, attach everything to hooks and rubber bands...
...and to think that I could still recite telephone numbers of classmates from the third grade when I graduated from high school. But if I didn't have my top ninety nine numbers safely programmed into my cell phone, I couldn't call my niece, my employees, or even my own boyfriend today.
I miss my excellent memory.
NTD
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
I am a recovering plant killer.
Back in the eighties I had a few abundant gardens. I studied the Mother Earth News. I learned to can. There are photos of me with a cornucopia of produce cradled in my bosom.
But those are the glory days. Since then my once-green thumb has blackened. The only successes of the past ten years in my plant world are 1) a flourishing bamboo stalk in the kitchen and 2) a very stubborn rosemary bush in my otherwise barren flower bed. Now, a toddler could keep a bamboo plant alive, so that's no cause for bragging. And the rosemary bush - I suppose the universe uses the existence of this plant to remind me that Miracles Happen.
This year is going to be different, I swear.
So far the boyfriend and I have let several seedlings die on our watch. Undaunted, I keep buying organic fertilizer and transplanting an ever-increasing bunch of herbs and vegetable plants. I am determined to beat this curse, even though the demise of bees and the growing drought are not in my favor.
We have over a dozen living plants as of this morning. We also are suddenly aware that the wildlife population - including moles and slugs - is quite healthy.
Damn.
So my new persona will not be Plant Killer... soon I will morph into Mole Killer.
As Roseanne Rosannadanna said, it's always something.
NTD
Back in the eighties I had a few abundant gardens. I studied the Mother Earth News. I learned to can. There are photos of me with a cornucopia of produce cradled in my bosom.
But those are the glory days. Since then my once-green thumb has blackened. The only successes of the past ten years in my plant world are 1) a flourishing bamboo stalk in the kitchen and 2) a very stubborn rosemary bush in my otherwise barren flower bed. Now, a toddler could keep a bamboo plant alive, so that's no cause for bragging. And the rosemary bush - I suppose the universe uses the existence of this plant to remind me that Miracles Happen.
This year is going to be different, I swear.
So far the boyfriend and I have let several seedlings die on our watch. Undaunted, I keep buying organic fertilizer and transplanting an ever-increasing bunch of herbs and vegetable plants. I am determined to beat this curse, even though the demise of bees and the growing drought are not in my favor.
We have over a dozen living plants as of this morning. We also are suddenly aware that the wildlife population - including moles and slugs - is quite healthy.
Damn.
So my new persona will not be Plant Killer... soon I will morph into Mole Killer.
As Roseanne Rosannadanna said, it's always something.
NTD
Monday, May 21, 2007
Fixing to Die Blues
I use the words 'die', 'to die for', 'dying to', and other death variations to punctuate certain thoughts frequently in conversation. Most of us do. Death and sex are the two mysteries conjured up in order to make us feel deep ... like we know, man. We dig it. Now sleep with me, or respect my conceptual darkness, or let's just go get that pastry I'm 'dying' to eat. It's kind of silly the way we name-check death, because all of us walking around have never died (unless you count those who have seen the tunnel of light and been jerked back into the hospital room to live another day). We're like the virgin cheerleader in American Beauty boasting about her sexual expertise. Like Goth teenagers, sullen and wearing black while shopping at the mall. But the day we lose our death virginity, we're, like, corpses. We don't really know what death is like because we've never done it.
So my 97 year old step-grandmother is at the nursing home. It's been years now, and her death is alleged to be imminent. And I was compelled by an urge to go see her yesterday, perhaps to tell her goodbye. We were never close, but we know each other. She was one of the old-school strict constructionist Assembly of Godders, stern and strange. My stepmother told me that her mother had never sinned in her life. Both of them seemed to believe it. As a result, the woman was a pretty judgmental old hen. I always felt the angry eye of Jehovah on me while I sat on her stiff living room couch over the years, bouncing a nervous knee. Step-Grandma Mattie was a Marine sergeant for Jesus. She walked to church every Sunday morning and evening in Savannah. Mattie was like a stiff locust branch jutting heavenward from her unupholstered wooden church pew, where she usually sat alone.
My stepmother knew something had to be done when she was riding in the passenger seat with Mattie at the helm when the Holy Spirit descended on her and the prophesies began. Mattie was driving 50 mph down a main thoroughfare of Savannah when Jesus lit the fire on her tongue again and she began to speak in that unknown language. She raised her hands until her fingertips touched the headliner while my stepmother grabbed the wheel.
The car was sold soon afterward.
But Mattie was unstoppable. She took to walking everywhere while her mind and eyesight failed. She let the yard man fill out his own check from her checkbook. She stepped into a bed of fire ants, oblivious. One day Daddy called me and said that Mattie was moving in with them. I heard the deepest sigh. Daddy knew that this would never work.
Step-Grandma Mattie got looser and looser around the edges while she forgot to go to the bathroom, forgot to eat, forgot where she was. Sometimes she seemed to forget that her daughter was trying to sleep fitfully in the bed beside her. Mattie would perceive her as an intruder and proceeded to whale on her and demand that she get away from her bed, that she be taken home instead of being in this strange place she found herself in.
A series of nursing homes followed. But Mattie got thrown out of a couple of them, calling the attendants a certain inappropriate racial epithet and hitting those who got in her personal space. In the meantime, my stepmother was consumed with guilt and shame for letting her mother down. I heard about it all over again last night when she called to thank me for visiting Mattie. Her mother's decline is not the result of living ninety something years. No, it is all because my stepmother is a bad daughter.
Sometimes I worry that, when the day finally arrives, my stepmother will jump into that coffin with her mama.
I walked into Mattie's room yesterday and thought that she might be already dead. I had seen her a few months ago, but this time I understood the notion of a person being nothing but skin and bones. She was sleeping and I could literally see the skull beneath her papery skin, the eyes sunken so deeply in the sockets. It was startling when she awoke with the same bright blue eyes so much like my own, although no blood relation exists.
It's hard to talk to a dying woman. It must be like confessing to a priest, I would imagine. One-sided, and hopefully with forgiveness granted at the conclusion. Small talk is fairly useless but is still the chosen method of passing the time. I described my daughters, my life, and the cloudless sunny day outside of the concrete block building. Finally, Mattie blurted out "Who are you?". I did better with giving her sips of water through a straw. She grasped my hand tightly for a minute, but then would almost shove me away. And those eyes bored into me all the while.
At a loss for anything else to do, I asked if she wanted me to pray with her. She said "yes" in her birdlike warble. And so I prayed to Jesus with her, for her, expressing gratefulness and love toward God in the best way that an agnostic can. It was awkward as hell. But after I said "amen" she thanked me.
I sat there hoping she would go back to sleep so that I could slip out without saying goodbye. But she continued to stare at me. Mattie seemed as strong and willful in death as she has ever been in life. I bet that she could die for years. That's fine if she takes her time. It is, after all, her life. I mean that with utmost respect.
I finally kissed her and left. And I realize that I might go back to that nursing home and pray with her a hundred more times before she gives it up. Mattie could outlive me. But probably not - the nurses and hospice seem to think that it's any day now. But no one knows for sure.
I woke up this morning with all of this on my mind. And I am pretty damn humbled by Death, realizing that I don't really know it at all.
NTD
So my 97 year old step-grandmother is at the nursing home. It's been years now, and her death is alleged to be imminent. And I was compelled by an urge to go see her yesterday, perhaps to tell her goodbye. We were never close, but we know each other. She was one of the old-school strict constructionist Assembly of Godders, stern and strange. My stepmother told me that her mother had never sinned in her life. Both of them seemed to believe it. As a result, the woman was a pretty judgmental old hen. I always felt the angry eye of Jehovah on me while I sat on her stiff living room couch over the years, bouncing a nervous knee. Step-Grandma Mattie was a Marine sergeant for Jesus. She walked to church every Sunday morning and evening in Savannah. Mattie was like a stiff locust branch jutting heavenward from her unupholstered wooden church pew, where she usually sat alone.
My stepmother knew something had to be done when she was riding in the passenger seat with Mattie at the helm when the Holy Spirit descended on her and the prophesies began. Mattie was driving 50 mph down a main thoroughfare of Savannah when Jesus lit the fire on her tongue again and she began to speak in that unknown language. She raised her hands until her fingertips touched the headliner while my stepmother grabbed the wheel.
The car was sold soon afterward.
But Mattie was unstoppable. She took to walking everywhere while her mind and eyesight failed. She let the yard man fill out his own check from her checkbook. She stepped into a bed of fire ants, oblivious. One day Daddy called me and said that Mattie was moving in with them. I heard the deepest sigh. Daddy knew that this would never work.
Step-Grandma Mattie got looser and looser around the edges while she forgot to go to the bathroom, forgot to eat, forgot where she was. Sometimes she seemed to forget that her daughter was trying to sleep fitfully in the bed beside her. Mattie would perceive her as an intruder and proceeded to whale on her and demand that she get away from her bed, that she be taken home instead of being in this strange place she found herself in.
A series of nursing homes followed. But Mattie got thrown out of a couple of them, calling the attendants a certain inappropriate racial epithet and hitting those who got in her personal space. In the meantime, my stepmother was consumed with guilt and shame for letting her mother down. I heard about it all over again last night when she called to thank me for visiting Mattie. Her mother's decline is not the result of living ninety something years. No, it is all because my stepmother is a bad daughter.
Sometimes I worry that, when the day finally arrives, my stepmother will jump into that coffin with her mama.
I walked into Mattie's room yesterday and thought that she might be already dead. I had seen her a few months ago, but this time I understood the notion of a person being nothing but skin and bones. She was sleeping and I could literally see the skull beneath her papery skin, the eyes sunken so deeply in the sockets. It was startling when she awoke with the same bright blue eyes so much like my own, although no blood relation exists.
It's hard to talk to a dying woman. It must be like confessing to a priest, I would imagine. One-sided, and hopefully with forgiveness granted at the conclusion. Small talk is fairly useless but is still the chosen method of passing the time. I described my daughters, my life, and the cloudless sunny day outside of the concrete block building. Finally, Mattie blurted out "Who are you?". I did better with giving her sips of water through a straw. She grasped my hand tightly for a minute, but then would almost shove me away. And those eyes bored into me all the while.
At a loss for anything else to do, I asked if she wanted me to pray with her. She said "yes" in her birdlike warble. And so I prayed to Jesus with her, for her, expressing gratefulness and love toward God in the best way that an agnostic can. It was awkward as hell. But after I said "amen" she thanked me.
I sat there hoping she would go back to sleep so that I could slip out without saying goodbye. But she continued to stare at me. Mattie seemed as strong and willful in death as she has ever been in life. I bet that she could die for years. That's fine if she takes her time. It is, after all, her life. I mean that with utmost respect.
I finally kissed her and left. And I realize that I might go back to that nursing home and pray with her a hundred more times before she gives it up. Mattie could outlive me. But probably not - the nurses and hospice seem to think that it's any day now. But no one knows for sure.
I woke up this morning with all of this on my mind. And I am pretty damn humbled by Death, realizing that I don't really know it at all.
NTD
Sunday, May 20, 2007
While Spaniards gracefully promenade about their lovely cities with style and nary an observed stilleto heel slip, the boyfriend and I clomped around in our sensible shoes like the hairy American giant and giantess that we are (apparently grown directly in a petri dish from Klutz Laboratories, U.S. Division). How did we ever get so big and tall to appear as Gulliver's hick cousins in Lilliput? And why did I feel guilty for craving an extra-grande biggie-sized coffee with lotsa cream and not be satisfied with these one-ounce shots of espresso I kept paying almost three Euro apiece for?
I really don't want to go Accidental Tourist on anyone. Although we spied Burger King and Starbucks off in the distance, we pretended not to notice. I was proud of my resolve - after all, there are empanadas and falafel and cheap beer galore - but the insecurity of realizing that the U.S. way of life is, well, kind of ridiculously luxurious and that I am far more American Gringo in my everyday comings, goings, and dinings than I ever knew.
So here is the short list in praise of Spain:
1. Hardly anyone is overweight. Between the relentless walks and the tiny tapas morsels of food offered at cafes, Spanish people don't tend to expand like their American friends. And if some rare Spaniard is quite obese, you can be certain that he will be wearing a Speedo at the beach and bending over frequently while directly in your line of vision.
2. Conservation of resources is the standard. There are timers on wall switches, a minimum of A/C, apartments are small, and sub-compact cars are the rule. I only saw about a dozen SUVs in ten days of travel. I don't think I saw a styrofoam container during our entire stay. Spaniards are not generally wasteful in the way that Americans thoughtlessly consume energy and stuff.
3. The cities are beautiful. There is no Wal-Mart Supercenter destroying the integrity of the small business infrastructure. The plazas and parks are numerous. The cathedrals are breathtaking. Barcelona and Valencia seem so functional as urban centers.
And here's the list of Things Spain Would Need in order for me to stay there longer:
1. Big Gulp cups for coffee and homebrewed sweet iced tea. And Tab.
2. Extension of hours for cafes and bars. We all want a siesta, honey, but can't people take it in shifts and just be open when I'm really hungry? Now the ice cream vending machines helped - they really did - but I believe that my ice cream/pastry/chocolate quota for 2007 was used up during my vacation.
3. Less octopus and processed meat (that pink stuff they put in every sandwich and on every plate) and a few more vegetarian options. I'm not even a vegetarian any more, but those slices of pink stuff could drive me to it.
NTD
I really don't want to go Accidental Tourist on anyone. Although we spied Burger King and Starbucks off in the distance, we pretended not to notice. I was proud of my resolve - after all, there are empanadas and falafel and cheap beer galore - but the insecurity of realizing that the U.S. way of life is, well, kind of ridiculously luxurious and that I am far more American Gringo in my everyday comings, goings, and dinings than I ever knew.
So here is the short list in praise of Spain:
1. Hardly anyone is overweight. Between the relentless walks and the tiny tapas morsels of food offered at cafes, Spanish people don't tend to expand like their American friends. And if some rare Spaniard is quite obese, you can be certain that he will be wearing a Speedo at the beach and bending over frequently while directly in your line of vision.
2. Conservation of resources is the standard. There are timers on wall switches, a minimum of A/C, apartments are small, and sub-compact cars are the rule. I only saw about a dozen SUVs in ten days of travel. I don't think I saw a styrofoam container during our entire stay. Spaniards are not generally wasteful in the way that Americans thoughtlessly consume energy and stuff.
3. The cities are beautiful. There is no Wal-Mart Supercenter destroying the integrity of the small business infrastructure. The plazas and parks are numerous. The cathedrals are breathtaking. Barcelona and Valencia seem so functional as urban centers.
And here's the list of Things Spain Would Need in order for me to stay there longer:
1. Big Gulp cups for coffee and homebrewed sweet iced tea. And Tab.
2. Extension of hours for cafes and bars. We all want a siesta, honey, but can't people take it in shifts and just be open when I'm really hungry? Now the ice cream vending machines helped - they really did - but I believe that my ice cream/pastry/chocolate quota for 2007 was used up during my vacation.
3. Less octopus and processed meat (that pink stuff they put in every sandwich and on every plate) and a few more vegetarian options. I'm not even a vegetarian any more, but those slices of pink stuff could drive me to it.
NTD
Saturday, May 19, 2007
farewell to barcelona
Even if I had bought a pair of boots of Spanish leather, they wouldn't have fit into the luggage after my daughter handed me several dozen kilograms of extra stuff to bring back to the states so that she can continue to globetrot without being encumbered by all the weight I lugged stateside for her. But this is all the kvetching I can really muster; my college girl has grown into a bilingual wonder who can live on bocadillas and a handful of euros while wending her way through a spaghetti junction which IS the Barcelona metro system with ease. I was in awe.
Today, however, I am reclining on my sofa wishing that this tall glass of iced tea could be inserted directly into my bloodstream via IV.
Maybe this jet lag will pass by tomorrow morning. I really do need to accomplish something larger than reading the gossip that I missed online.
NTD
Today, however, I am reclining on my sofa wishing that this tall glass of iced tea could be inserted directly into my bloodstream via IV.
Maybe this jet lag will pass by tomorrow morning. I really do need to accomplish something larger than reading the gossip that I missed online.
NTD
Saturday, May 5, 2007
The daughter morphed fairly effortlessly from beauty pageant runner-up into tobacco spitting redneck boy for a comedy troupe skit last night. I didn't even recognize her onstage for a minute or two.
It's good to be versatile - pageant girls are lovely, but rednecks get to wear comfortable shoes.
It is not easy leaving her for two weeks - but the other child is waiting to meet up in Barcelona. Got to divvy up the Quality Time between them.
NTD
It's good to be versatile - pageant girls are lovely, but rednecks get to wear comfortable shoes.
It is not easy leaving her for two weeks - but the other child is waiting to meet up in Barcelona. Got to divvy up the Quality Time between them.
NTD
Friday, May 4, 2007
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Spain: the Final Frontier
Actually, I hope not - I look forward to the AARP years when I can demand senior discounts and terrorize the countryside with my poor depth perception in a giant biodiesel RV while establishing honeybee sanctuaries and being the Oldest Grandma Dancing at some Rock Festival For Peace and Justice. But when I think about landing in Barcelona and knowing roughly the equivalent of Sesame Street Spanish (muy caliente, muchachos!), wandering the streets without a cell phone or a computer, while trying to re-grow the umbilical cord to my daughter so that she will not lose us in a museum among the Dalis and Picassos - it feels like Deep Space just thinking about it.
(must call doctor for anti-anxiety flight meds ASAP)
NTD
(must call doctor for anti-anxiety flight meds ASAP)
NTD
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