around the pond

Vacation again with the kiddo. She loves to walk with me. So we do. There’s a pond next door that we like to visit, all summer, usually. We’ve seen the Canadian geese of course, and ducks, and later in the fall, heron of all sorts. Yesterday, we saw a beaver. Which would explain the gnawed log sharpened to a perfect point a friend spotted with us a week prior. We were pretty excited to see the beaver swimming around (thought it was a floating log at first). Then, it came to the edge. The kiddo was absolutely hypnotized…I really don’t think she heard me pleading with her to back away. Just in case it was a big rat. But no, I saw the tail. It was indeed, a beaver.

I love spring. It’s my favorite season. I love watching grown men play baseball, or catch. Especially when they know you’re watching. Showoffs. Cute. Actually, I just like watching men exert themselves, in any manner. Except at a construction site. Grossness. And I like going to the auto section and getting good advice on, oh…windshield wipers….without being spoken to in a condescending tone..or worse…ogled…like I was when I was younger.

The kiddo chose a ham for this weekend’s dinner. “Hams are pigs, aren’t they, Mama?”, she asked.

“Yep.”

“So how do they get the ham out of the pig? And bacon, too?”, she went on.

I looked at her mostly solemnly. “They kill them, sweetie. They die.”, said I. Just a little gentle manipulation…a little nudge toward veggie land.

“Oh! I LOVE pigs. Bacon! Ham! And sausage! MMMMMM!”, she squealed.

Sigh. I have never cooked a ham in my life. Yikes!

and um…

I don’t need to cry over my windshield wiper anymore. Doused that sucker in Liquid Wrench and away that. Things that should be simple frustrate me. And cars are decidedly not a passion.

Not blue. Purple.

I’ve been thinking about my relative absence and wondering  just what this is about. The seven year itch? Nah, too early for that. Though it’s been suggested I’ve strayed too much on another site at the expense of this one.  Just a little bump on the road? Maybe. Or perhaps it’s just…nothing.

I just feel like…I’ve forgotten how to blog, after almost three years (?). So recently, I crawled over to my long ignored Facebook acount and hung around–seems my whole family and more than a few former classmates abound there—and after reading Colin McEnroe’s Sunday column last week on the subject, I thought I’d go splash around in the water too.

But I’m just too wordy for Facebook. I can’t just crank out little one sentence blurbs on the state of my day, or  its random hour or minute,  here and there, randomly. It’s too naked. Unembellished. I feel too compelled to be clever, or jingoey, so as not to be banal, as so many of these little announcements over there are. If I’m even going to be banal or otherwise boring, let it be my way. Wordy and unedited. Inconcise, even.

So I’m back. And in not quite a foul mood, but as close as one could get to it. I feel like one of those dark, purpley days just hanging around; cold, moist, heavy and full. On the brink. Ominous. On those days, you know it’s going to storm, and you just wish it would, and quickly. On with it.

And why, maybe you ask? Or not?

Because  I just got…bifocals, folks. And I want to cry. I’m going to cry. Sometime.

I knew I needed them; I swore, often, that  I needed them—immediately, right now, when I couldn’t read a book anymore without my eyes feeling raked over. And now I have them—-now I’m actually wearing these fuckers, and….I hate them!

It’s not a vanity thing. Really, it’s not. I actually like wearing glasses; they’re almost better than shoes, as far as accessories go. The one thing I maybe don’t like so much about wearing glasses is the feeling that they tip my hand and fool people into thinking that I’m smarter than I actually am. Sometimes that’s not fun. If I were a doctor, that could have its benefits…I fully expect my doctors to wear glasses, and most of the time, they do. But being expected to be smarter than you are, in ways you surely are not, can be problematic and frustrating, know?

Anyway,  this is not about being old, either. True, I’ve spent almost a lifetime in denial of my actual age;  employing as my ruses various hair dyes, self absorption, capricious behavior, delayed life choices, and, um, a few much younger (but legal!) boyfriends. And apparently, it at least fooled my young, impressionable neices into believing that my sister T, and not I, was the eldest of my mother’s brood (thanks, T).

But sitting in that optometrist’s chair, I was casually accepting of my advancing middle age; ha-ha-ing, even,  as I bantered lightly with the doctor, who looked to be about my age;  or perhaps older. (Ok, I secretly feel that everyone’s older than me, in a way. In my mind’s vantage point, every non-relative I encounter is about a good three feet taller than me, and intimidating in the way monsters under the bed are when you’re six. I digress.). I was stoic and mature as I related the news to dear Mom, who’s also in denial of my age. All went well until I actually wore the specs, and, a full half day later, here I am, 43 and on the brink of full on tantrum that will monsterously outdo anything the kiddo ever mustered during her entire six years on this earth.

Apparently, this happens to almost everyone in their forties. Presbyopia. The lens of the eye hardens and it becomes more difficult to adjust and focus. Quite logical, nothing mysterious about that. I  wish I could just get another lens though. Or take some magical supplement for it. Anything but this. Because the hard plastic lens I’m wearing to compensate for my defective living lens isn’t that much more flexible. And when I flutter my eye around, doing whatever I do to see what I can see, I hit a blur, and then I feel lost. In fact, that  blur I hit is a metaphor for any time I’ve ever felt lost.

And that’s the problem, friends.  Inconcisely, and unedited.

conversations with the kiddo

from a short two days ago:

“Does Santa have a penis?”

:pause:

“Well, yeah. If he’s a boy, he has a penis, right?”

“What color is his toilet?”

“Red. Santa’s toilet is red.”

:pause:

“Welllll….mine’s only white.”

(muttering under my breath) “Don’t even…”

back from the gumdrop mountains

Damn. I haven’t been around much, have I? Oy. And how were your holidays? Ours were awesome. A quiet, peaceful little cocoon of  quirky goodness.

Except that Santa flubbed a gift due to a last minute, virtually impossible request from my kiddo, who I suspect either got her holidays mixed up or is attempting to fuse Halloween and Christmas together, ala Tim Burton.

What was Miss Wheedle’s hearts desire? A skeleton costume. A freaking skeleton costume!

“Why Mommy, why? Why didn’t Santa bring me my skeleton costume??”, pleaded little Cindylou Who in despairing tones.

“(sigh). Because he couldn’t find just the right one. Anywhere, my sweet.”

Gah! Just what was she going to do in that thing? Besides dance around the tree and chant in it? Just where was she going to go wearing that? Actually, I know. At the playground, where she already prowls around in her black masquerade mask, looking oddly like some strange little bird.

I awoke the next morning to find she’d also perched, upside down, her coveted, overpriced Webkins batty-bat on the bottom boughs of the Christmas tree. “Just like Stella Luna, Mommy!”  Another Christmas present, by the way.

The big event during the holidays, though, were a pair of unexpected guests; two tiny, adorable elves. Noooo, not new birds. Twin, one year old boys we’d taken in over the week. Long story. Pretty cool though. Surprisingly easy; no fuss, no muss. Shocked myself. I could have had twins and managed that. Yep. Pretty cool.

Oh, and the new birdies, you might have asked? (or not.) They are flying. They are showing their new plumage and they are….boys. Both of them. One resembles Stella the fawn, and one resembles Miles the grey. Teenagers, they are; with croaky voices attempting to find their own song, just like the Fraggles. Adorable.

Happy New Year to you and yours, peeps!

“Tell me a story, Pew.
What kind of story, child?
A story with a happy ending.
There’s no such thing in all the world.
As a happy ending?
As an ending.”

-Light Housekeeping, by Jeanette Winterson

I was in the children’s room at the library in town with the kiddo, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was my former neighbor, Anna. I was happy to see her of course, but she was supposed to be in Georgia, where she’d moved with her young son to live with her love after three years of long distance courtship. That was in the summer. I’d thought of her every now and then, and imagined her in the warm winters, working at a school, taking care of her son, who’s autistic, and singing beautiful notes to her love with that strong, melodious voice of hers; the one I’d hear in unexpected places, like the afternoon in RiteAid when the kiddo was roaming the aisles singing the Carpenter’s “Close to You”, and suddenly, Anna’s familiar voice joined in. Or the afternoon after school, out on the steps of my apartment, when she’d sung a rendition of “You Are My Sunshine” with such a warm arc of power in her voice, that I’d gotten goosebumps and tears in my eyes just listening. We were very sad to see her move, and the kiddo looked for her for months afterward.

She was supposed to be happy in Georgia. Fulfilled. The end.

But it’s true,  stories never end. Not with new locations, characters, and scenarios. They just move on. Detour. Or turn around. Backward. Like hers did. The man in her life hit her. And she did the right thing, and fled. Now she’s back in town, with no job, few possessions.  And her deep faith. I feel sad. But I’m still happy to see her. And it’s going to get better. It will.

That’s what I tell the people in my life who ask me how I’m doing since I made my decision a little over a year ago. “It gets better and better. All of the time.” I can say that with conviction now, but I couldn’t imagine it during the bleak and desperate days at the shelter, where I’d had two months to find a place to live, with no money and no job. I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know what was out there. I was safe, but I was not at home. There was no home.

The beginning of that story was the hardest part. Everything—finances, school, job hunting, apartment seeking, court appearances, therapy appointments for both of us—all happening at once. So many forms to fill out. Overwhelming.

I plowed through it, took deep breaths, and trudged along. I felt angry sometimes. Resentful. My confidence is still shot, and I have trouble silencing what I call “the tape” of various putdowns and cutting judgements I’d shook off for years and years that are still hardwired into my psyche. But there is so much to be grateful for, too. Angels are the humans walking among us. It’s true. They’re around. I met many. Couldn’t have come this far without them.

Anna will meet some too. It’s that time of the year, and she deserves them.

thoughts and notes

–The hosts of the local radio show this morning invited callers to describe, using one word, how they were feeling this morning with regard to the election results. Depressed. (cautiously) Optimistic. Relieved. Hopeful. Deflated. I feel….inspired.

–The kiddo spotted turkeys on the morning ride today. Her reaction: “We have to catch them and eat them!” Gas is my second biggest expense with this commute to school, but the quality time we have together on our commutes is priceless.

–Not to be outdone by my finch Prudence, little Stella is expecting. Her eggs are different, not ivory white like Prudence’s, but more of a faint grey-greeny color. I suspect its all the spinach she scarfs down. She’s kookoo for spinach. I’m thrilled for Miles, and for Stella. I should have just named her Queenie. Every time I look at her, I see an imaginary crown atop her little head.

–Yesterday, when I arrived to pick up the kiddo, she was deeply engrossed by some magnetic building toy. She apparently didn’t want to leave and told the teacher’s aide that I wasn’t her mother (!). Crafty.

digressing…

on my other post because I’m a bit overloaded with the holiday festivities. I’m loving them more and more as the kiddo gets older. She’s a tiger this year. She IS a tiger. Or a lion. She takes on those qualities whenever she’s challenged. She’ll growl when she’s scared or in a new situation…the kids at Headstart were a little confused when she came along. I have a warrior.

Yesterday I ran into my rockstar former therapist. I was delighted….I’ve missed her. Alot. She just returned to town from a tour of Africa. Africa. Sheesh! I’m ready to start planning for travel myself now that the kiddo is older. Africa. Wow.

One of my sweetest, semi-guilty pleasures is watching Grey’s Anatomy in bed. It’s the only show I watch. Ok, it’s also the only channel I get, too. Christina Yang is my favorite character—brilliant, flawed, a little capricious (best line ever: Oh, it’s like candy, but with blood. Which is so much better. (on surgery). But it’s Meredith’s issues that have me coming back for more. I get her. I loved last night’s episode when she was carrying childhood doll Anatomy Jane around and playing with her during a meeting to solve a surgery. Quirky and creative. And now she’s found her mother’s diaries! I love diaries. Er, journals. I call mine a journal. I have my high school art teacher, whom I’ve always regarded as a painter/football coach in soul, to thank for a habit I’ve kept up for decades. It all started with those little black and white bound notebooks he’d issued us freshman year. I still use those from time to time, but my favorite are the tall, bound accountant notebooks. There’s something elegant about their size. My art teacher believed anyone and everyone should do art. And he has a point. But I would add that everyone should journal. Even badly. Just journal. One could say that in the age of blogging, it’s not neccessary, but I don’t count blogs as journaling because of their public nature. Journals are private and a good place to put thoughts of such a nature. I’m not sure I want the kiddo perusing my journals someday, but I do wish my parents were the journaling sort. I’d be all over them like white on rice for sure.

O.k., lastly, my little finch Prudence  is expecting. Really. Three eggs and counting. In the feed dish. The fact that my first expectant bird is named Prudence kind of amuses me.  Dear Mom loves her name. Go figure. Anyway, I’m going with this, even though I have zebra finches coming out of my ears– I had already scooped up two eggs a week ago, but I haven’t the heart to take these new ones  away. Which means I’m building an aviary this spring. Doesn’t this one look sweet?

accomodation

I haven’t been up for much this past week besides ringing up poor Mom and moaning on about my terrible head cold. Fortunately, for your sakes, I kept all that away from here. As an aside, however, I have noticed, in the age of sanitizers and airborne preventives, a recent reluctance….a self consciousness, even; when I blow my nose in public. Probably because I don’t carry a hand sanitizer and imagine eyes upon me, imploring me not to touch anything around them.

The last snot rag has not quite hit the floor, but I’m feeling much better and slightly more interesting. Hence, I am present.

Unfortunately, due to a slow week and extended weekend, there’s not much to report, beyond—brace yourselves, dearies—-another birdie update. After a week long quarrantine, I have let the flock of seven loose into the the palace. The big cage. With Miles and Stella. Things have changed, my friends. I knew they wouldn’t be initially pleased with sharing space, but I didn’t expect the changes I’ve seen.

Stella, who previously was content to preside as an imperious, delicate cage decoration, has morphed into an aggressive, fish mongering banshee. She’ll go after any hen who comes within a five centimeter distance of her man, or her swing, which occupies the quiet right hand (or wing, I guess) corner of her domain.  And all this time I thought she was ignoring Miles.

Miles at first regarded himself as King Cock, and hopped onto every hen…clumsily, I might add. Until the males came. One specific male seems to threaten him. He keeps mostly to Stella’s side, or guards the nest box, which I suspect will become a point of contention among the entire flock, as there is only one. I spy him periodically auditioning a concubine (yes, I really do regard Miles and Stella as a sort of royalty); a young hen I named Edie, who faintly resembles Stella. Cad. He doesn’t even try to woo her with his two hop song and dance the way he approaches Stella. Nope, he just hops on her. Unsuccessfully.

So that’s what I’m doing, these days. Crocheting a babette blanket while studying avian society dynamics and their bumbling amorous blusterings.

After all this, I can honestly say that I’m glad that I’m not a bird. And probably you would be too, if you had me watching you, no?

Prudence, Edie, Rheya, Clea, Nate, Fisher, and Kisa

I have seven new finches. That is all.

No, not really. I DO have these beautiful creatures, adopted from a lady with too little time for them. They were all stuffed into a tiny cage. I had to rescue them! But I’m giving a few to a good home; a pal of the kiddo’s. The rest will fit nicely in my big flight cage.

The kiddo’s poison ivy is stubborn, and all over her face. Poor thing. But school is good, and she is greeted by clamoring hugs everyday. Her preferred lunch is a crab sandwich and Spiderman fruit snacks. She’s hinting to pack some octopus. Will that scare the little kiddies?

I had problems hunting for a suitable thermos. My one flask; engraved with Samhain 1991,  wouldn’t do. Wanted to start the year on a good note.

And now, that is all. For real.

Ciao!