"What the f*ck is a semifreddo? That's ice cream, is what that is, Dana." I unwittingly overheard this conversation at the table next to me while celebrating my wedding anniversary with my husband over dinner. The man continued: "It's frozen. It tastes like coffee. It's f*cking coffee ice cream."
Oh! We were enjoying the same dessert as the unfortunately arguing couple seated next to us, and my husband was having similar trouble making the distinction between the two...as I watched the man furiously stab his spoon into his dessert dish opposite his terrified wife out of the corner of my eye, I slowly realized that the unhappy couple sitting next to us were, in fact, not next to us but were us! I had been glancing sideways into a mirror.
Wow, the semi-fredo (not ice cream) is making Nick really, really angry, and I look very, very worried. This embarrassing situation (the culinary confusion between the ice cream and the semi fredo, not the fact that my husband - unintentially but still - tried to impale me with his spoon, twice; and I know most certainly it was the semi fredo he was mad at, not me) caused me to put a mirror up to my own face, figuratively speaking and beg the question: just how many frozen desserts are out there that my husband doesn't know about? If my husband, being the highly intelligent person that he is and therefore representing the most well-educated class of people in the world, can't correctly identify a semi-freddo, then by God, we clearly have a problem of global proportions. I mean if you're served a semi-freddo and incorrectly assume it's just melted ice cream, what the fuck?
So, I see it as my civic duty (not currently or ever having had one) to illustrate the sometimes subtle, always delicious, potentially pretentious differences between the many frozen dessert options. This will ensure that on your next culinary adventure, you won't embarras yourself or your spouse by confusing an italian ice with a Slurpee. We will start with the most basic items and work our way up from there. I encourage you to try all of the following items as you read along, so you can taste the difference for yourself. This will be delicious for you and will, subsequently, make you much, much fatter than me, so we all benefit.
1) Popsicle. Water with added sugar and flavorings frozen and molded onto a stick. Juice or pureed fruit can also be used. If you want to get really annoying, you could use jello, pudding, or jello-pudding. Most commonly available in phallic shapes but the possibilities are endless. Available at gas stations, convenience stores, supermarkets, and from creepy ice cream vendors who I think are now all listed sex offenders, but if you can flag one down, go for the Bomb Pop. Amazing.
2) Slush Puppie. The most liquidy of all frozen confections, a slush is made with water, sugar, flavoring, and radio-active or neon food coloring and dispensed out of a churning machine to keep it from freezing solid. Red dye no. 5 was big with this one until the partypoopers came along in the 1970's and decided to make everything 'safe' for children. They succeeded in the safe department but forgot about the deliciousness of red food coloring. Boo. The logo for this product includes a picture of a dog sporting a cozy hat and sweater which immediately lets you know, hey, this shit is cold, and if you're in the mood for that kind of thing then this is for you, or something to that effect. Available solely in gas stations, convenience stores, and some movie theaters that are not willing to invest in the time it takes to maintain a soft-serve machine; with cream as a main ingredient, soft-serve machines can get downright nasty. Windex, arguably an effective windshield cleaner, is not an effective anti-microbial.
3) Slurpee. A variation of the Slush Puppie, though no one truly knows which came first. (There have been intense debates about this since the early 1900's.) A Slurpee has very fine ice granuals and has the consistency of craft foam. (You know I'm right if you've ever bitten into a chunk. Subtley grainy and satisfying.) Again, this item is made with water, sugar, and flavoring, and is dispensed out of a machine, made from the same prototype as a cement mixer but way, way colder. The Slurpee does not have an animal for a mascot; instead, the logo uses a simple '70's disco font that implies motion, as in, 'if you choose to partake in this beverage, you are going places, man!', which for most of us from that era meant serving Slurpees. An unfortunate and potential life-threatening side-effect of Slurpee consumption is Sphenopalatine Ganglioneuralgia. Slurp at your own risk.
4) Sorbet. Sorbet is similar to a Slurpee but much, much fancier, though no one will ever admit this in public. Sorbet, like a Slurpee, has water and sugar as its main ingredients but is frozen to a lower temperature. Unlike a Slurpee which is composed primarily of scrumptious chemicals, a sorbet calls for 'natural ingredients' such as 'fruit' or 'chocolate' and is served in a 'glass dish'. (Alternately, a Slurpee is served in a paper cup, because in the middle of the night at a 7-Eleven, a glass dish becomes a lethal weapon.) Sorbet is also known as Sherbet (really, Sherbert) if you're a red-neck or Italian Ice if you are Italian, want to be Italian, or shop at Publix. For our intents and purposes here, it's all the same damn thing.
5) Ice Cream. Ice cream is made primarily from milk or cream, sugar, and fruit or other flavorings. The ice cream is churned and chilled slowly to produce a smooth and creamy product so delicious that certain people (most often single women who own multiple cats) will eat as much as a gallon at a time while sitting alone in their closet. It's that good. Common flavors include chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla. Other less common flavors include red bean, green tea, and onion-bacon, which are stupid. Chocolate chip cookie dough is another flavor that while widely available and wildly popular is also stupid. Artificial sweeteners and flavorings are often used to make ice cream less fattening so that people are able to eat more of it and not feel bad about putting on a swim suit at the start of the summer. Some researchers have identified many of these artificial ingredients as potential cancer-causing agents, but many feel it's a fair trade to look good now and worry about cancer later. There are about as many ice cream parlours as there are Starbucks, so about every 15 feet or so. Ice cream is most readily available from your local mobile ice cream vendor, trolling your neighborhood's pools and playgrounds. Just don't leave your child unattended (see above).
6) Gelato. Gelato, despite popular belief, does not contain gelatin, or horse hooves, so sorry to disappoint. Gelato is similiar to ice cream in that the main ingredients are dairy, sugar, and flavorings, such as fruit or chocolate. Gelato is dissimiliar to ice cream in that it is composed primarily of whole milk as opposed to cream, so it's less fattening and therefore smarter. It's smoother, richer, prettier, and contains less fat and hot air, like most Europeans. I just don't understand why they feel the need to keep rubbing this in. We get it, okay? Now, back off!
7) Semifreddo. "Semifreddo" is Italian for "half-cold", as in a half-cold, or melted, gelato. In ancient Italy, a servant had absent-mindedly left the king's gelato sitting on the counter while out for a smoke. When the king demanded to know where his dessert was, the servant had no choice but to chance serving the melting confection to his infuriated majesty. At the sight of it, the king shouted, "whata in the hecka is thata?!" and the servant, thinking himself to be very clever, replied, "e un semi-freddo!!!!" (or "it'sa halfa-colda!!!" to those who don't speak Italian.) The servent was subsequently beheaded, but the trend caught on with the wait-staff because it allowed them to take a smoke or bathroom break without worrying about the waiting gelato melting on the counter and potentially risking their jobs or lives. So, be wary; even though it sounds much, much fancier, it's really just a pool of melted ice cream with a sprig of fresh mint on top. If that's worth 5 bucks to you, there you have it.
Let's recap what we've learned here. Semi-freddo is melted gelato; gelato is ice cream without the cream; ice cream is sorbet (or sherbet) without the dairy; a Slurpee or Icee is sorbet at a higher temperature and more chemicals; a popsicle is a Slurpee at a lower temperature with a stick up its ass. And if your wife says it's a semi-freddo, then it's a fucking semi-freddo, so shut the fuck up and eat it.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Monday, February 11, 2013
Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Go Back In The Playroom
My neighbor came over yesterday. She is a very nice young woman, or I should say, considerably younger than me. She has a very cute little boy by the name of Bruce, 2. Bruce is a cherub-faced blondie, a rascal reminiscent of my own children, now 5 and 9. His latest obsession is garbage trucks, much to my surprise, and I just happened to have one of my son's old toys, a big green trash truck, with lights and sirens and a voice that announces, "load 'em up!" at the push of a button. Bruce was ecstatic to receive such a prize and I was over-joyed to eliminate another dust-collector from my household.
Bruce and his mom, Janet often come over to play. Usually, they end up in our carport with all the riding toys. I've told them they have all access whether we are home or not...the carport is filled with trikes, big wheels, skate boards, and pogo-sticks. It never fails to amuse me that my kids, at their ages, rush out to greet this tiny boy, just learning to talk, not yet potty trained, dwarfed by the towering basketball hoop. My kids seem to welcome playmates of all ages, including our other neighbor, Lillian, who is a writer and retired teacher at the ripe old age of 91. Age discriminate they're not!
And so, as the kids were heading home from Lillian's house yesterday for a visit, they intercepted Janet and Bruce in the yard, inviting them inside. The door swung open, and there I stood in my slippers, my addled brain pumped full of allergy and cough medication, bottle of wine and opener in hand. "Hello!" I blustered. Not one to worry about people's perceptions, I offered Janet a glass of wine and a seat. "Sure!" she said, seemingly glad for the invitation. We had visited several times before while the kids played, but had rarely had the opportunity to really sit down and talk. I think it was the cough medicine and gravity that got the better of me.
I had already lit candles in the den, making the room very cozy and welcoming (for myself). My husband works and is gone a LOT, so I have taken to doing things I might normally do for us for myself: having a glass of wine, lighting candles, playing mood music. It sounds crazy as those are things you might do for yourself anyway, but it's amazing how quickly you can get out of the habit when you've been accustomed to doing things together for so long and that's suddenly taken away. As I entered the room, I wondered if Janet thought it was strange I had set such a scene for myself, or if as a mom herself, she appreciated it. I went with the latter. I was just grateful that my husband has a job and that I had fallen into some impromptu adult company.
Janet and I sat down on the sofa, new Walmart glasses of wine in hand, and began to chat. I admitted I had been sacked out on the couch watching 'Sex and the City 2' while the kids were gone. I asked her if she had seen it. She hesitantly said, "yes," not offering her opinion of the 'film'. I was not so cautious. "It was like watching a train wreck. What a piece of shit!" I blurted out, not realizing the powerful foreshadowing my words held, the wine and cold meds in full swing. She looked relieved. "Oh, I'm so glad you said that! I thought you were gonna say you liked it," she gushed. Nothing like a little cussing to open up the floor. I don't think I watched more than thirty minutes of that damn movie, and I heard two of the worst lines of dialogue in movie history: 1) Lawrence of my labia, and 2) You have a camel camel-toe! Who wrote that trash? The movie itself is supposed to be about female empowerment and the oppression of Middle-eastern women, right? I found myself seriously offended. Not as a woman but as a writer.
We were quite engrossed in our analysis of the film, when Janet stopped mid-sentence. "Uh-oh," she said, leaping out of her seat. Glancing over at Bruce, I could spot the dark stain spreading on his khaki pants. "I guess we better go," Janet said as she wrestled with the child trying to convince him it was time to leave. I told Janet not to worry as I handed her a towel. "You can leave him here while you run next door and get him a change of clothes," I offered. Janet studied Bruce, who was squatting in front of the toy microwave, totally oblivious to our presence and his soggy drawers. "Are you sure?" Janet asked, eyes pleading. "Yeah, he'll be fine! Go on!" I waved her out the door.
Janet and I had briefly discussed potty training several days prior. I explained to her that my method of potty training had been repeating the mantra "he'll figure out by the time he's ten" over and over and over. I really had attempted to potty train my son for one day, and one day only. After I realized that the only sure-fire way to get my son to pee in the potty was to chain him to it, I gave up. I put him in regular underwear and let him wallow in it, literally. He proved to be a quick learner. Really in just a matter of days, he had figured it out. My daughter took a little while longer, although I used the same approach and it did eventually work. I believe whole heartedly in the old fashioned method of putting them in underwear and rubber pants. The good Lord knows I've thrown away my fair share of kid's underwear - I'd rather buy more than have to wash them by hand. Janet had told me she had resorted to giving Bruce a cookie every time he used the potty though I knew another woman who used the bribery tactic and ended up three years later with a 5 year old M&M addict who shit in his pants just to piss her off. No thanks. I gave my advice to Janet gently and hoped she would follow suit. I think she had good intentions, she just forgot the underwear. And the rubber pants, for God's sake. You can't forget the rubber pants, man!!!
In the process of successful potty training, the underwear serves to hold the yucky stuff against the child's body so as to create and adverse response. The rubber pants serve to protect your carpets. Each is essential.
Janet returned minutes later, Bruce never noticing she was gone. She quickly changed him into his fresh pants sans underwear and rejoined me in the den. We picked right up where we had left off, enjoying the wine and the conversation. We relaxed. For a moment. Until Bruce called out from the playroom, "Mom!" We both ignored him. He hollered again, "Mom!" I could see him out of the corner of my eye, his little body frozen, his sweat-pant clad legs spread. "Bruce, Mommy is talking," Janet calmly replied, looking at me for my approval as she was being a 'good mommy' by not letting her child interrupt her adult conversation. I nodded my assent as I felt she needed it. She smiled and continued talking until Bruce, still standing in the same spot as before, quietly spoke from the playroom, "I pooped on the floor." Janet and I stood in unison and said, "what?!", our eyes searching the playroon for the evidence. Janet promptly scooped Bruce up and headed towards the patio door, which she opened trying to expel the stink. As my two children began dry heaving, cowering in the corner of the room, my concern turned to one of them projectile vomiting into the bookcase, which would not be nearly as tidy a clean-up.
I sized up the enemy. The turd was sizable and mushy, though fairly compact. I yelled, "I'll get a plastic bag! Stay right where you are!" Trying to remain calm and reassure my new mom next door neighbor. While she was mortified that her child had pooped on my floor, I was worried that she would be so embarrassed she wouldn't come back. I needed all the adult reinforcements I could muster! "I'm so sorry!" Janet called to me, now armed with a roll of toilet paper and a plastic bag. "It's no problem, " I said a huge grin plastered to my face, "it happens to the best of us." I smiled up at her as I picked up the poop and placed it gingerly in the bag. "This carpet has seen it's fair share of pee, puke, and poop, believe me. It's no big deal," I said, and I meant it.
After shooing the older children out of the playroom, retching all the way, I ushered Janet with Bruce held tightly in her grasp to the bathroom, where I wiped the majority of poop from his leg and foot, and Janet's hand. I gave her a damp wash-cloth and bid her adieu. We had discerned in the process of cleaning him off that he had in fact shit in his pants and it had rolled out the bottom of his pants leg, thus requiring a full-scale hose-down and bath at home.
As she left, I surveyed the scene. I sprayed the carpet with cleaner and let it sit. The children cautiously came out of their hiding places, holding their noses. "Is it gone?" my son asked. "Yes," I answered, "it's gone, silly. There's no reason to be afraid of a little poop." I realized my son's reaction to the incident had been much the same as mine to the movie, disgusted yet unable to look away. A sick and twisted fascination - perhaps born from his nostalgic memory of being a carefree baby in diapers and my mis-appointed fantasy of being stranded in the middle of a picturesque desert covered in haute couture and even hotter man-servants. All the same, we cleaned up the playroom and turned off the t.v., my son asking, "what's for dinner?"
Bruce and his mom, Janet often come over to play. Usually, they end up in our carport with all the riding toys. I've told them they have all access whether we are home or not...the carport is filled with trikes, big wheels, skate boards, and pogo-sticks. It never fails to amuse me that my kids, at their ages, rush out to greet this tiny boy, just learning to talk, not yet potty trained, dwarfed by the towering basketball hoop. My kids seem to welcome playmates of all ages, including our other neighbor, Lillian, who is a writer and retired teacher at the ripe old age of 91. Age discriminate they're not!
And so, as the kids were heading home from Lillian's house yesterday for a visit, they intercepted Janet and Bruce in the yard, inviting them inside. The door swung open, and there I stood in my slippers, my addled brain pumped full of allergy and cough medication, bottle of wine and opener in hand. "Hello!" I blustered. Not one to worry about people's perceptions, I offered Janet a glass of wine and a seat. "Sure!" she said, seemingly glad for the invitation. We had visited several times before while the kids played, but had rarely had the opportunity to really sit down and talk. I think it was the cough medicine and gravity that got the better of me.
I had already lit candles in the den, making the room very cozy and welcoming (for myself). My husband works and is gone a LOT, so I have taken to doing things I might normally do for us for myself: having a glass of wine, lighting candles, playing mood music. It sounds crazy as those are things you might do for yourself anyway, but it's amazing how quickly you can get out of the habit when you've been accustomed to doing things together for so long and that's suddenly taken away. As I entered the room, I wondered if Janet thought it was strange I had set such a scene for myself, or if as a mom herself, she appreciated it. I went with the latter. I was just grateful that my husband has a job and that I had fallen into some impromptu adult company.
Janet and I sat down on the sofa, new Walmart glasses of wine in hand, and began to chat. I admitted I had been sacked out on the couch watching 'Sex and the City 2' while the kids were gone. I asked her if she had seen it. She hesitantly said, "yes," not offering her opinion of the 'film'. I was not so cautious. "It was like watching a train wreck. What a piece of shit!" I blurted out, not realizing the powerful foreshadowing my words held, the wine and cold meds in full swing. She looked relieved. "Oh, I'm so glad you said that! I thought you were gonna say you liked it," she gushed. Nothing like a little cussing to open up the floor. I don't think I watched more than thirty minutes of that damn movie, and I heard two of the worst lines of dialogue in movie history: 1) Lawrence of my labia, and 2) You have a camel camel-toe! Who wrote that trash? The movie itself is supposed to be about female empowerment and the oppression of Middle-eastern women, right? I found myself seriously offended. Not as a woman but as a writer.
We were quite engrossed in our analysis of the film, when Janet stopped mid-sentence. "Uh-oh," she said, leaping out of her seat. Glancing over at Bruce, I could spot the dark stain spreading on his khaki pants. "I guess we better go," Janet said as she wrestled with the child trying to convince him it was time to leave. I told Janet not to worry as I handed her a towel. "You can leave him here while you run next door and get him a change of clothes," I offered. Janet studied Bruce, who was squatting in front of the toy microwave, totally oblivious to our presence and his soggy drawers. "Are you sure?" Janet asked, eyes pleading. "Yeah, he'll be fine! Go on!" I waved her out the door.
Janet and I had briefly discussed potty training several days prior. I explained to her that my method of potty training had been repeating the mantra "he'll figure out by the time he's ten" over and over and over. I really had attempted to potty train my son for one day, and one day only. After I realized that the only sure-fire way to get my son to pee in the potty was to chain him to it, I gave up. I put him in regular underwear and let him wallow in it, literally. He proved to be a quick learner. Really in just a matter of days, he had figured it out. My daughter took a little while longer, although I used the same approach and it did eventually work. I believe whole heartedly in the old fashioned method of putting them in underwear and rubber pants. The good Lord knows I've thrown away my fair share of kid's underwear - I'd rather buy more than have to wash them by hand. Janet had told me she had resorted to giving Bruce a cookie every time he used the potty though I knew another woman who used the bribery tactic and ended up three years later with a 5 year old M&M addict who shit in his pants just to piss her off. No thanks. I gave my advice to Janet gently and hoped she would follow suit. I think she had good intentions, she just forgot the underwear. And the rubber pants, for God's sake. You can't forget the rubber pants, man!!!
In the process of successful potty training, the underwear serves to hold the yucky stuff against the child's body so as to create and adverse response. The rubber pants serve to protect your carpets. Each is essential.
Janet returned minutes later, Bruce never noticing she was gone. She quickly changed him into his fresh pants sans underwear and rejoined me in the den. We picked right up where we had left off, enjoying the wine and the conversation. We relaxed. For a moment. Until Bruce called out from the playroom, "Mom!" We both ignored him. He hollered again, "Mom!" I could see him out of the corner of my eye, his little body frozen, his sweat-pant clad legs spread. "Bruce, Mommy is talking," Janet calmly replied, looking at me for my approval as she was being a 'good mommy' by not letting her child interrupt her adult conversation. I nodded my assent as I felt she needed it. She smiled and continued talking until Bruce, still standing in the same spot as before, quietly spoke from the playroom, "I pooped on the floor." Janet and I stood in unison and said, "what?!", our eyes searching the playroon for the evidence. Janet promptly scooped Bruce up and headed towards the patio door, which she opened trying to expel the stink. As my two children began dry heaving, cowering in the corner of the room, my concern turned to one of them projectile vomiting into the bookcase, which would not be nearly as tidy a clean-up.
I sized up the enemy. The turd was sizable and mushy, though fairly compact. I yelled, "I'll get a plastic bag! Stay right where you are!" Trying to remain calm and reassure my new mom next door neighbor. While she was mortified that her child had pooped on my floor, I was worried that she would be so embarrassed she wouldn't come back. I needed all the adult reinforcements I could muster! "I'm so sorry!" Janet called to me, now armed with a roll of toilet paper and a plastic bag. "It's no problem, " I said a huge grin plastered to my face, "it happens to the best of us." I smiled up at her as I picked up the poop and placed it gingerly in the bag. "This carpet has seen it's fair share of pee, puke, and poop, believe me. It's no big deal," I said, and I meant it.
After shooing the older children out of the playroom, retching all the way, I ushered Janet with Bruce held tightly in her grasp to the bathroom, where I wiped the majority of poop from his leg and foot, and Janet's hand. I gave her a damp wash-cloth and bid her adieu. We had discerned in the process of cleaning him off that he had in fact shit in his pants and it had rolled out the bottom of his pants leg, thus requiring a full-scale hose-down and bath at home.
As she left, I surveyed the scene. I sprayed the carpet with cleaner and let it sit. The children cautiously came out of their hiding places, holding their noses. "Is it gone?" my son asked. "Yes," I answered, "it's gone, silly. There's no reason to be afraid of a little poop." I realized my son's reaction to the incident had been much the same as mine to the movie, disgusted yet unable to look away. A sick and twisted fascination - perhaps born from his nostalgic memory of being a carefree baby in diapers and my mis-appointed fantasy of being stranded in the middle of a picturesque desert covered in haute couture and even hotter man-servants. All the same, we cleaned up the playroom and turned off the t.v., my son asking, "what's for dinner?"
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Mothers are Meant for Mending
Mothers are meant for mending
Broken hearts and holey socks
They usually are greatly gifted
With drying tears and curling locks
Weaving a web of importance
Around tiny dreams and quivering hands
The mere mention of meandering misgivings
Results in precious scoldings and capacious demands
The warmth of round arms that embrace you
Despite living miles away
The love in her smiles that still chase you
More compassion than words can convey
The memory of her will still linger
Though years have grown long since she passed
Knowing she would have given anything
If you had just only asked.
The day had passed like any other. Agonizingly long and painful, as much as she hated the expanse of daylight, she dreaded the evenings more. As lonely as the day could get, there was always sunlight, sounds of the day, birds singing, children playing outside. There was always the ever-present lite breeze that jangled the windchimes outside the kitchen window to remind her of joy. But the night, as the sun slowly sank through the trees into the ground, was terrifying. Dark, dank, isolated. No other beings in the universe to hold her hand as she wept. It was too late to call, too early to sleep, if sleep ever came. She picked up the phone anyway and dialed from memory, or what was left of it. It took three attempts, but finally she reached one of her children, a familiar voice, a young male. A grown man, nonetheless, but still one of her babies. She smiled through her tears, sticky mascara clinging to her lashes and oozing down her cheeks. No answer though. Voice mail. She frowned, then sobbed. At the beep, she muttered and slurred through what she thought was a happy sounding greeting and to please call back, if you have time. I miss you, she said, or she thought.
She sat with the phone in her hand, her arm coiled in her lap like a limp snake. She may have sat for minutes or hours; it was hard to say. She stared at the wall, the wallpaper matching the exact print of the curtains, having long ago lost its trendy style. Nothing is made to last, she uttered, the words inaudible to the world. She licked her lips, dry and crusty, her breath stale and sour. She needed a drink. Again. She stood slowly and carefully, swaying on her feet, holding the edge of the bed for support. Just getting my sea legs, she reasoned, and then it occurred to her she was on solid ground. Oh, yes, I remember, she laughed. She hadn’t been on the ocean for some time. To see the ocean you would have to venture out the front door and this had not happened in months, maybe longer.
As she steadied herself, she placed the phone in its cradle. A cradle is for babies. How she missed her babies! Though long since grown, she missed them terribly. Why didn’t they call? They had forgotten her, as everyone else had: her family, her siblings, her husband. So lonely. Her heart ached for them, for someone, for anyone. Fresh tears fell, loosening the mascara, and clearing her vision a bit. She made her way towards the closet.
The door to the closet was like a mouth. Once you walked through, it swallowed you whole and did not give you up easily. As she passed into the darkness of the space, she could smell the mildew and mold that emanated from the low ceiling. It was comforting to her. The space was tiny and made her feel secure. Of course, this feeling was fleeting because once she entered, she felt the dread of what was to come. It terrified her, but she was powerless to stop it. She dug underneath the piles of empty shoeboxes and felt the cold, hard glass of the bottle. It felt strong in her hand. She knew well what was contained within, and it knew her even better. No, no, no, she told herself, as she had countless times before. She knew it would do no good. Her body ached for the warming intoxication of the alcohol, straight from the bottle. It was as if tiny tentacles leapt out from every inch of her body to pull the bottle to her lips. She was defenseless. The acrid taste had long since lost its adverse quality. She tipped the bottle up, easily downing the contents of the entire fifth. It was the second time she had done this today.
Already well-intoxicated, the effects were immediate and wholly debilitating. The world spun side-ways, tipped up and slammed into the side of her head. It was an odd feeling trying to regain her balance and she felt certain she was standing on her own two feet and in some odd way the floor was shoulder to shoulder with her. Gravity was relentless; as she struggled to get to her feet, she was pulled down again and again, her knees bruised and aching as always. Finally, she surrendered to it, falling into to a deep, hazy sleep full of demons and snakes, creeping in and out of her head like so many terrible memories. She slept in fits like this for several hours, rolling over and groaning, for all the relentless years of emotional and physical pain.
She slept in the quiet calm of the closet, opening her eyes at various intervals to stare at her shoes or the bottom of her clothes, dust-filled from lack of wear. She felt comforted by her belongings that surrounded her, but then she would realize this was not enough. Shoes and clothes can’t comfort or care for you, and they were old and unkempt anyway, like her; not pretty to look at anymore. They were once shiny and new and loved, but unless you take care of these things to preserve them, they wither and die like everything. Like her. She awoke suddenly, wide-eyed and panicked. She had no idea how long she had been asleep. Hours? Days? She had no way of knowing. There was urine soaked into the carpet. She could smell it. Her night-gown was cold and wet. She felt a rush of embarrassment and then relief; no one was there, no one would know. She expelled a sigh of relief, followed quickly by a sob of pity. No one was there. It reverberated in her head like a freight train. She was abandoned, helpless. She had no way to help herself. She could wait, someone would come, wouldn’t they? Surely, no one would forget her for days and days and not check on her. Someone had always come.
She crawled to the bed and laid on top of the covers. Her cat glared at her from the foot of the bed. He was fat and mean, but he loved her, was always with her. The thought of this made her smile and cry. She cried at the sweet sentiment of this loveless cat loving her and at the pity of this cat being the only one who loved her and stayed with her, as she fully recognized he had little choice. She slept again, this time on her back, her loud snores permeating the silence of the house. Her mouth gaped open and her rancid breath filled the space. The cat left abruptly out of irritation and disgust. This time she slept soundly, dreaming of nothing, free from nightmares. Soundly, however, does not mean peacefully.
As she rested, the sun slowly eased its way back up through the bushes and into her window. The ray of sunlight hit like a laser beam, aimed directly at her eyeball. An easy shot, as her eyes were half open. Though slow to react, she sluggishly lifted her heavy, throbbing head off of the pillow and rolled to the side of the bed. Swinging her legs over, she placed her hands at her sides and attempted to sit up. As she raised her head, a sudden sharp pain burst through her right temple. She moaned and steadied herself. Her only objective was to close the curtains so she could once again sink onto the cool surface of the bed. She reached out towards the window, grabbing a handful of curtain. She pushed herself off the bed with one hand and pulled herself forward with the other. As she stood, she became aware of just how unsteady she was, but it wasn’t the usual staggering and spinning feeling she was so accustomed to. This was different. Her head was on fire, her stomach churning and cramping, her entire body shaking. It was coming from the depths of her being, from an unidentifiable place, much like the origins of an orgasm but horrifyingly unpleasant, by contrast. She held fast to the curtain, knees half-bent, bracing herself for whatever was about to hit. She had no idea.
Her body exploded from the inside out. She immediately collapsed to the floor, spasming and seizing. She cleanly bit off her tongue in one chunk. The pain was so sudden and intense, she had no time to scream. In the few seconds she had left to look at the the world she thought of her children, what have I done? Wait. Wait. There was no waiting. As the lining in her blood vessels and organs finally gave up after years of abuse, blood poured out of every orifice of her body.
This is how my mother died.
Mothers are meant for mending
Broken hearts and holey socks
They usually are greatly gifted
With drying tears and curling locks
Weaving a web of importance
Around tiny dreams and quivering hands
The mere mention of meandering misgivings
Results in precious scoldings and capacious demands
The warmth of round arms that embrace you
Despite living miles away
The love in her smiles that still chase you
More compassion than words can convey
The memory of her will still linger
Though years have grown long since she passed
Knowing she would have given anything
If you had just only asked.
Broken hearts and holey socks
They usually are greatly gifted
With drying tears and curling locks
Weaving a web of importance
Around tiny dreams and quivering hands
The mere mention of meandering misgivings
Results in precious scoldings and capacious demands
The warmth of round arms that embrace you
Despite living miles away
The love in her smiles that still chase you
More compassion than words can convey
The memory of her will still linger
Though years have grown long since she passed
Knowing she would have given anything
If you had just only asked.
The day had passed like any other. Agonizingly long and painful, as much as she hated the expanse of daylight, she dreaded the evenings more. As lonely as the day could get, there was always sunlight, sounds of the day, birds singing, children playing outside. There was always the ever-present lite breeze that jangled the windchimes outside the kitchen window to remind her of joy. But the night, as the sun slowly sank through the trees into the ground, was terrifying. Dark, dank, isolated. No other beings in the universe to hold her hand as she wept. It was too late to call, too early to sleep, if sleep ever came. She picked up the phone anyway and dialed from memory, or what was left of it. It took three attempts, but finally she reached one of her children, a familiar voice, a young male. A grown man, nonetheless, but still one of her babies. She smiled through her tears, sticky mascara clinging to her lashes and oozing down her cheeks. No answer though. Voice mail. She frowned, then sobbed. At the beep, she muttered and slurred through what she thought was a happy sounding greeting and to please call back, if you have time. I miss you, she said, or she thought.
She sat with the phone in her hand, her arm coiled in her lap like a limp snake. She may have sat for minutes or hours; it was hard to say. She stared at the wall, the wallpaper matching the exact print of the curtains, having long ago lost its trendy style. Nothing is made to last, she uttered, the words inaudible to the world. She licked her lips, dry and crusty, her breath stale and sour. She needed a drink. Again. She stood slowly and carefully, swaying on her feet, holding the edge of the bed for support. Just getting my sea legs, she reasoned, and then it occurred to her she was on solid ground. Oh, yes, I remember, she laughed. She hadn’t been on the ocean for some time. To see the ocean you would have to venture out the front door and this had not happened in months, maybe longer.
As she steadied herself, she placed the phone in its cradle. A cradle is for babies. How she missed her babies! Though long since grown, she missed them terribly. Why didn’t they call? They had forgotten her, as everyone else had: her family, her siblings, her husband. So lonely. Her heart ached for them, for someone, for anyone. Fresh tears fell, loosening the mascara, and clearing her vision a bit. She made her way towards the closet.
The door to the closet was like a mouth. Once you walked through, it swallowed you whole and did not give you up easily. As she passed into the darkness of the space, she could smell the mildew and mold that emanated from the low ceiling. It was comforting to her. The space was tiny and made her feel secure. Of course, this feeling was fleeting because once she entered, she felt the dread of what was to come. It terrified her, but she was powerless to stop it. She dug underneath the piles of empty shoeboxes and felt the cold, hard glass of the bottle. It felt strong in her hand. She knew well what was contained within, and it knew her even better. No, no, no, she told herself, as she had countless times before. She knew it would do no good. Her body ached for the warming intoxication of the alcohol, straight from the bottle. It was as if tiny tentacles leapt out from every inch of her body to pull the bottle to her lips. She was defenseless. The acrid taste had long since lost its adverse quality. She tipped the bottle up, easily downing the contents of the entire fifth. It was the second time she had done this today.
Already well-intoxicated, the effects were immediate and wholly debilitating. The world spun side-ways, tipped up and slammed into the side of her head. It was an odd feeling trying to regain her balance and she felt certain she was standing on her own two feet and in some odd way the floor was shoulder to shoulder with her. Gravity was relentless; as she struggled to get to her feet, she was pulled down again and again, her knees bruised and aching as always. Finally, she surrendered to it, falling into to a deep, hazy sleep full of demons and snakes, creeping in and out of her head like so many terrible memories. She slept in fits like this for several hours, rolling over and groaning, for all the relentless years of emotional and physical pain.
She slept in the quiet calm of the closet, opening her eyes at various intervals to stare at her shoes or the bottom of her clothes, dust-filled from lack of wear. She felt comforted by her belongings that surrounded her, but then she would realize this was not enough. Shoes and clothes can’t comfort or care for you, and they were old and unkempt anyway, like her; not pretty to look at anymore. They were once shiny and new and loved, but unless you take care of these things to preserve them, they wither and die like everything. Like her. She awoke suddenly, wide-eyed and panicked. She had no idea how long she had been asleep. Hours? Days? She had no way of knowing. There was urine soaked into the carpet. She could smell it. Her night-gown was cold and wet. She felt a rush of embarrassment and then relief; no one was there, no one would know. She expelled a sigh of relief, followed quickly by a sob of pity. No one was there. It reverberated in her head like a freight train. She was abandoned, helpless. She had no way to help herself. She could wait, someone would come, wouldn’t they? Surely, no one would forget her for days and days and not check on her. Someone had always come.
She crawled to the bed and laid on top of the covers. Her cat glared at her from the foot of the bed. He was fat and mean, but he loved her, was always with her. The thought of this made her smile and cry. She cried at the sweet sentiment of this loveless cat loving her and at the pity of this cat being the only one who loved her and stayed with her, as she fully recognized he had little choice. She slept again, this time on her back, her loud snores permeating the silence of the house. Her mouth gaped open and her rancid breath filled the space. The cat left abruptly out of irritation and disgust. This time she slept soundly, dreaming of nothing, free from nightmares. Soundly, however, does not mean peacefully.
As she rested, the sun slowly eased its way back up through the bushes and into her window. The ray of sunlight hit like a laser beam, aimed directly at her eyeball. An easy shot, as her eyes were half open. Though slow to react, she sluggishly lifted her heavy, throbbing head off of the pillow and rolled to the side of the bed. Swinging her legs over, she placed her hands at her sides and attempted to sit up. As she raised her head, a sudden sharp pain burst through her right temple. She moaned and steadied herself. Her only objective was to close the curtains so she could once again sink onto the cool surface of the bed. She reached out towards the window, grabbing a handful of curtain. She pushed herself off the bed with one hand and pulled herself forward with the other. As she stood, she became aware of just how unsteady she was, but it wasn’t the usual staggering and spinning feeling she was so accustomed to. This was different. Her head was on fire, her stomach churning and cramping, her entire body shaking. It was coming from the depths of her being, from an unidentifiable place, much like the origins of an orgasm but horrifyingly unpleasant, by contrast. She held fast to the curtain, knees half-bent, bracing herself for whatever was about to hit. She had no idea.
Her body exploded from the inside out. She immediately collapsed to the floor, spasming and seizing. She cleanly bit off her tongue in one chunk. The pain was so sudden and intense, she had no time to scream. In the few seconds she had left to look at the the world she thought of her children, what have I done? Wait. Wait. There was no waiting. As the lining in her blood vessels and organs finally gave up after years of abuse, blood poured out of every orifice of her body.
This is how my mother died.
Mothers are meant for mending
Broken hearts and holey socks
They usually are greatly gifted
With drying tears and curling locks
Weaving a web of importance
Around tiny dreams and quivering hands
The mere mention of meandering misgivings
Results in precious scoldings and capacious demands
The warmth of round arms that embrace you
Despite living miles away
The love in her smiles that still chase you
More compassion than words can convey
The memory of her will still linger
Though years have grown long since she passed
Knowing she would have given anything
If you had just only asked.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
The Mother of All Holidays
Mother's Day was notoriously created by a greeting card company, which shall go unnamed here. Even though we all know damn well who it is. It's the same company who invented Valentine's Day and Crocs. Brain-washed us just enough to buy a bit of nonsense, again and again, year after year. When I was a kid we were required to read The Emporer's New Clothes, which seemed to temper gullibility a bit, at least in most of us. If you haven't read it already, you should. It will make you feel like a really, really big asshole for buying into most of the bullshit that swirling around us these days. You're wearing Crocs right now, aren't you?
Anyway, the original notion of Mother's Day was to buy your mom a greeting card (see above) and some candy or flowers to thank her for all that she's done for you (i.e. washing your face with spit) throughout the year. Of course, the main motivation of this depends on your age. When you're seven, you perceive your mom to be the greatest person in the world. Fortunately for you (and unfortunately for the greeting card company), you can get away with making her a card and planting a kiss on her cheek. As you get older, however, expectations and therefore the guilt quotient goes up exponentially. Forget the mere card and flowers; that card better contain a kick-ass spa certificate, or if you really know what's good for you, jewelry, and I don't mean the home-made kind. We're talking diamonds. A tennis bracelet. An heirloom pin. And the most valued gift of all...your precious time.
When I was growing up, it was just me, my brother and sister, our parents, and my dad's folks. This made special occassions very easy on us. My grandparents came over to our house. My mom fixed a meal. Everyone was happy. That all changed once my parents got divorced and I got married. Then, we were required to make an appearance at my mom's, my dad's, and my in-law's, all on the same day. In addition to just showing up, I had to look genuinely happy to be there and, also, hungry. My husband and I were forced to eat three sit-down meals in one day just so we didn't hurt anyone's feelings. Nevermind the impacted colon.
Many years later, my mother and grandparents passed away. Since my parents were divorced and not on speaking terms, that had prevented mine and my husband's families from celebrating holidays together. Now that my mom and the looming threat of Word War III were out of the picture, we had the opportunity to joyously unite our families in celebration! Spending every holiday in peaceful harmony! No more tension headaches from guilt and worry! No more stomache-aches from stress and over-eating! We would simply all convene in one place, at one time and celebrate together. This worked beautifully for a while...
It was good. It was too good. Not enough drama. Not enough turmoil. Too many people in one place, at one time, for too long. It was too good to be true. It was too good to be true because it was bad. Resentment reared its ugly head.
"Why do we have to spend every holiday with her family?" my sister-in-law posed the question to my husband in private, but of course, he ratted her out later. Blood does not run thicker than alcohol and two children. "I want to spend Mother's Day with Mom, not your wife's entire family. Can't you and I take Mom to brunch? Just you and me? We're her kids, afterall." Yes, she and my husband are my mother-in-law's kids, though they are both in their late thirties and way, way to big to fit in her lap. "I mean," my sister-in-law continued, "she doesn't even have a mother anymore, so why should she care?"
Yes, my mother is dead; she is correct. To her credit, I genuinely appreciate the occasional reminder so that I do not embarrass myself by attempting to call my now dead mother out of the blue to get her recipe for swedish meatballs that died with her, leaving me shit-out-of-luck standing in the kitchen with my husband's boss pounding his dinnerware on the kitchen table, while holding my husband at gunpoint. However, I am also a mother myself, to her niece and nephew, who are, um, her brother's children. Shouldn't I factor somewhere in the equation?
My family, on the other hand, will show up anywhere, any time, any place as long as there is food. They may be an hour late, but they'll show up. I actually had to tell my dad last year that my husband's family no longer wanted to celebrate holidays with my family. "Oh, I see, " he said. I could tell he was hurt, but he is too classy to say anything unkind. Because we were all split apart, he did not get to see his grandchildren or his son-in-law on Father's Day last year. I didn't get to see my father-in-law, either. Or my husband, for that matter.
Surprisingly, I understand my sister-in-law's motivation. She is divorced and has no children. She is clinging very tightly to her parents. I, for this reason, am willing to step aside. I have a husband and two children who stand beside me, regardless of who else shows up. However, as a mother, I want to spend Mother's Day with my children. I would like to spend time with my mother-in-law and stepmother, as well. Because my husband's family isn't willing to celebrate the occasion jointly, this probably will not happen. We all live far enough apart to make two stops in one day too much for my two young children.
When anyone asks me what I want for Mother's Day, I used to jokingly say I want to be hit over the head and locked in the closet. I am not joking any more...that actually sounds quite appealing. Maybe if I ask nicely, my sister-in-law will take me up on it.
Anyway, the original notion of Mother's Day was to buy your mom a greeting card (see above) and some candy or flowers to thank her for all that she's done for you (i.e. washing your face with spit) throughout the year. Of course, the main motivation of this depends on your age. When you're seven, you perceive your mom to be the greatest person in the world. Fortunately for you (and unfortunately for the greeting card company), you can get away with making her a card and planting a kiss on her cheek. As you get older, however, expectations and therefore the guilt quotient goes up exponentially. Forget the mere card and flowers; that card better contain a kick-ass spa certificate, or if you really know what's good for you, jewelry, and I don't mean the home-made kind. We're talking diamonds. A tennis bracelet. An heirloom pin. And the most valued gift of all...your precious time.
When I was growing up, it was just me, my brother and sister, our parents, and my dad's folks. This made special occassions very easy on us. My grandparents came over to our house. My mom fixed a meal. Everyone was happy. That all changed once my parents got divorced and I got married. Then, we were required to make an appearance at my mom's, my dad's, and my in-law's, all on the same day. In addition to just showing up, I had to look genuinely happy to be there and, also, hungry. My husband and I were forced to eat three sit-down meals in one day just so we didn't hurt anyone's feelings. Nevermind the impacted colon.
Many years later, my mother and grandparents passed away. Since my parents were divorced and not on speaking terms, that had prevented mine and my husband's families from celebrating holidays together. Now that my mom and the looming threat of Word War III were out of the picture, we had the opportunity to joyously unite our families in celebration! Spending every holiday in peaceful harmony! No more tension headaches from guilt and worry! No more stomache-aches from stress and over-eating! We would simply all convene in one place, at one time and celebrate together. This worked beautifully for a while...
It was good. It was too good. Not enough drama. Not enough turmoil. Too many people in one place, at one time, for too long. It was too good to be true. It was too good to be true because it was bad. Resentment reared its ugly head.
"Why do we have to spend every holiday with her family?" my sister-in-law posed the question to my husband in private, but of course, he ratted her out later. Blood does not run thicker than alcohol and two children. "I want to spend Mother's Day with Mom, not your wife's entire family. Can't you and I take Mom to brunch? Just you and me? We're her kids, afterall." Yes, she and my husband are my mother-in-law's kids, though they are both in their late thirties and way, way to big to fit in her lap. "I mean," my sister-in-law continued, "she doesn't even have a mother anymore, so why should she care?"
Yes, my mother is dead; she is correct. To her credit, I genuinely appreciate the occasional reminder so that I do not embarrass myself by attempting to call my now dead mother out of the blue to get her recipe for swedish meatballs that died with her, leaving me shit-out-of-luck standing in the kitchen with my husband's boss pounding his dinnerware on the kitchen table, while holding my husband at gunpoint. However, I am also a mother myself, to her niece and nephew, who are, um, her brother's children. Shouldn't I factor somewhere in the equation?
My family, on the other hand, will show up anywhere, any time, any place as long as there is food. They may be an hour late, but they'll show up. I actually had to tell my dad last year that my husband's family no longer wanted to celebrate holidays with my family. "Oh, I see, " he said. I could tell he was hurt, but he is too classy to say anything unkind. Because we were all split apart, he did not get to see his grandchildren or his son-in-law on Father's Day last year. I didn't get to see my father-in-law, either. Or my husband, for that matter.
Surprisingly, I understand my sister-in-law's motivation. She is divorced and has no children. She is clinging very tightly to her parents. I, for this reason, am willing to step aside. I have a husband and two children who stand beside me, regardless of who else shows up. However, as a mother, I want to spend Mother's Day with my children. I would like to spend time with my mother-in-law and stepmother, as well. Because my husband's family isn't willing to celebrate the occasion jointly, this probably will not happen. We all live far enough apart to make two stops in one day too much for my two young children.
When anyone asks me what I want for Mother's Day, I used to jokingly say I want to be hit over the head and locked in the closet. I am not joking any more...that actually sounds quite appealing. Maybe if I ask nicely, my sister-in-law will take me up on it.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Razor Sharp Twit
I walked up to the counter at a fast-food restaurant at the mall. As I was perusing my options, the guy behind the counter said, "can I help you, ma'am?" I responded, "yes, I'd like to get an, um..." He quickly retorted, "ma'am, I'm sorry! We don't serve 'um' here!!" "Ha!" I gasped, purely out of pity and to keep myself from groaning out loud. After placing my order and handing the cashier my money, another customer approached the counter. "How can I help you today, ma'am?" the fast-food artist asked the woman. She replied, "I'd like an, um..." As the words barely escaped her mouth, the employee blurted out, "ma'am, I'm sorry! We don't serve 'um' here!!" I could feel the heat coming off of the cashier beside him. In mere nanoseconds I could sense the poor poor girl's suffering, having to listen this idiot repeat the same phrase, or joke as he probably refers to it, hundreds upon hundreds of times day after day after day. She collected my money as she gingerly fingered a plastic knife in her other hand.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
The Picture of Worn-in and Gray
I renewed my license at the DMV today! Just shy of my 39th birthday. It seemed like I had been there not too long ago, though it had been four years already. Four years? Where does the time go? To work, children, and husband, that's where. I carefully examined my soon-to-expire license, as I gripped it tightly in my hands. I studied my picture. I had not been happy with it four years ago, and was not happy with it now. My hair was too dark from a bad dye-job, my lipstick too pale, were those crow's feet around my eyes?? I had only been 34 at the time the picture was taken. Still I looked weary and worn. I remember considering 'losing' my license on purpose so that I could go back and get my picture retaken (or maybe they just make you pay another $20 - that would have been worth it), but I decided to keep it. I felt certain that this many years later I would gaze upon the picture of me from four years prior and marvel at how young and supplely beautiful I was, how fresh and vibrant my smile was. Now as I looked down into the haggard face of a maybe middle-aged woman, I still felt wronged. I couldn't wait to take a new picture.
I sat patiently listening for my number to be called out over the loudspeaker and flash up on the didgital sign. I had dressed up and put make-up on (mostly for work, but I did get up early and put in extra effort for the occassion). I could feel people's eyes on me, or so I thought. They knew. Even though my license was up for renewal anyway, they knew I had come to re-take my picture! How vain! How self-important! I had plenty of friends whose pictures on their driver's licenses looked like the mug shots of hardened criminals. Why did mine have to be any different? I felt silly, naked almost. Still, I didn't care. I just wanted to re-take the damn picture.
Finally, I was called to the counter to complete the paperwork. Address: easy, it's been the same for ten years. Date of birth: can't really lie on that one, though I'd like to. Height: 5'8 (maybe only when I am retaining fluid, but, still, accurate enough). Weight: 130 (my perpetual goal weight, because when I eventually reach that goal, I want my license to be accurate, dammit. We're talking about the law here!) Drug or alcohol use: none of your damn business, but for all intents and purposes here - no. Revocation of license for any reason: all warrants for unpaid parking tickets paid in full so, no. I signed the form and turned it in to the DMV Lady (I do believe this is the correct terminology here, like the Lunch Lady in the cafeteria, or the Cashier Lady at the grocery) with my old license attached.
I felt saddened as I watched her walk away with my old license. I would never see that old, familiar face ever again, with its mousy brown hair and ashy face. Sadness quickly turned to excitement as I remembered I would get to take a new picture today! My license would finally reflect the real me! The young, vivacious woman who had been betrayed all these years by the picture impersonator she carried around in her wallet would finally get vindication!
I considered my hair and lipstick. Should I retouch? No. No mirror. I hoped that I looked okay. Of course, I did, I reminded myself! I had gotten up early today! I had put in extra effort! I had on a pretty dress in a bright color! When they called my name, I practically skipped over to the photo booth. The woman, or the Other DMV Lady, politely instructed me where to stand, conveniently marked on the floor in masking tape. I smiled and cocked my head to the side. She asked, "are you ready?" and, gaily, I said, "yes!" She snapped the picture and remarked, "that came out fine!" Victory! I smiled. She seemd so pleased with her photography and the subject matter I felt certain she was going to tell me she was now inspired to be come a professional photographer, and was I, in fact, a super model? I blushed at the thought of this, and though she did not say it out loud, I felt surely this was what she was thinking...
All I had left to do now was wait. Would my eyes be closed? Would I have a doucle-chin? Would my make-up look garish or would I be washed out? I held my hands tightly in my lap. The Other DMV Lady called my name. I rushed up to the counter. I was surprised that she did not congratulate me as she handed over my license, but she did smile and nod. Something special had passed between us...an artist and her muse.
I did not look at my new driver's license until I was in the sunlight. I slowly looked down at the picture and took it all in. My hair was too light from a bad dye-job, my lipstick too pale, were those crow's feet around my eyes?? Not bad, I thought. The picture hadn't changed much, but I had: I'm older now and more accepting of myself. This would be the picture I would carry in my wallet for the next ten years and, for the first time, I was okay with that. Hell, I ain't getting any younger! I skipped all the way back to the car.
I sat patiently listening for my number to be called out over the loudspeaker and flash up on the didgital sign. I had dressed up and put make-up on (mostly for work, but I did get up early and put in extra effort for the occassion). I could feel people's eyes on me, or so I thought. They knew. Even though my license was up for renewal anyway, they knew I had come to re-take my picture! How vain! How self-important! I had plenty of friends whose pictures on their driver's licenses looked like the mug shots of hardened criminals. Why did mine have to be any different? I felt silly, naked almost. Still, I didn't care. I just wanted to re-take the damn picture.
Finally, I was called to the counter to complete the paperwork. Address: easy, it's been the same for ten years. Date of birth: can't really lie on that one, though I'd like to. Height: 5'8 (maybe only when I am retaining fluid, but, still, accurate enough). Weight: 130 (my perpetual goal weight, because when I eventually reach that goal, I want my license to be accurate, dammit. We're talking about the law here!) Drug or alcohol use: none of your damn business, but for all intents and purposes here - no. Revocation of license for any reason: all warrants for unpaid parking tickets paid in full so, no. I signed the form and turned it in to the DMV Lady (I do believe this is the correct terminology here, like the Lunch Lady in the cafeteria, or the Cashier Lady at the grocery) with my old license attached.
I felt saddened as I watched her walk away with my old license. I would never see that old, familiar face ever again, with its mousy brown hair and ashy face. Sadness quickly turned to excitement as I remembered I would get to take a new picture today! My license would finally reflect the real me! The young, vivacious woman who had been betrayed all these years by the picture impersonator she carried around in her wallet would finally get vindication!
I considered my hair and lipstick. Should I retouch? No. No mirror. I hoped that I looked okay. Of course, I did, I reminded myself! I had gotten up early today! I had put in extra effort! I had on a pretty dress in a bright color! When they called my name, I practically skipped over to the photo booth. The woman, or the Other DMV Lady, politely instructed me where to stand, conveniently marked on the floor in masking tape. I smiled and cocked my head to the side. She asked, "are you ready?" and, gaily, I said, "yes!" She snapped the picture and remarked, "that came out fine!" Victory! I smiled. She seemd so pleased with her photography and the subject matter I felt certain she was going to tell me she was now inspired to be come a professional photographer, and was I, in fact, a super model? I blushed at the thought of this, and though she did not say it out loud, I felt surely this was what she was thinking...
All I had left to do now was wait. Would my eyes be closed? Would I have a doucle-chin? Would my make-up look garish or would I be washed out? I held my hands tightly in my lap. The Other DMV Lady called my name. I rushed up to the counter. I was surprised that she did not congratulate me as she handed over my license, but she did smile and nod. Something special had passed between us...an artist and her muse.
I did not look at my new driver's license until I was in the sunlight. I slowly looked down at the picture and took it all in. My hair was too light from a bad dye-job, my lipstick too pale, were those crow's feet around my eyes?? Not bad, I thought. The picture hadn't changed much, but I had: I'm older now and more accepting of myself. This would be the picture I would carry in my wallet for the next ten years and, for the first time, I was okay with that. Hell, I ain't getting any younger! I skipped all the way back to the car.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Waiting Out The Storm
Despite the current condition of the economy, my cup is still half-full. In fact, because of the current condition of the the economy, my cup runneth over. For the first time in my life, I don't feel like the only person living from paycheck to paycheck, struggling to make ends meet and save a little on the side.
What I am used to is being surrounded by people who drive better cars than me, live in nicer homes, wear more expensive clothes, and take more expensive vacations. (Who am I kidding? To take any vacation at all is out of my budget, unless I have a free place to stay.) I constantly felt in awe of those around me, like a child on a first visit to Disney World, my eyes wide with amazement...surrounded by people my age, in their late thirties, who drive Mercedes, live in 300K homes, shop only at high end stores, and take their kids skiing for spring break. The lift tickets alone would put me in hock.
I feel like Eve in the Garden of Eden, seeing clearly for the first time. The enormous dip in the economy has pulled the blinders off and evened the playing field. Friends and acquaintances whom I had admired before for their lavish lifestyle have been exposed for who they really are, and that is...just like me. They don't necessarily have much more money than me, they just live beyond their means. Way beyond their means. While I understand why people choose to do this, it has never been an option for me.
I was raised by very frugal parents. My dad, a surgeon, was unwilling to part with cash to pay for my new homecoming dress every year. We did not wear designer clothing nor did we have the latest gadgets. We survived with an outdated stereo, an ancient console T.V. ( which was missing a knob so you had to use pliers to change the channel), and a Honda. Our home was modest yet nice. (Even at a young age, I wondered what my father's colleagues and students thought when they came to our brady Bunch house for the annual Christmas party, with ugly green carpet and old furniture.) Still, we wanted for nothing. We had a roof over our heads, food on the table, and yes, we went skiing for spring break, a fantastic opportunity that I hope to give to my children one day when I can afford it but no sooner.
My grandparents, who greatly influenced my father, were frugal as well. "Everything in moderation" is the best way to describe their lifestyle. They spent a little and saved a lot. They socked away everything they had and when they spent money, they spent it wisely and well. My grandmother, who was very fashionable, wore the same clothes until they were worn out. She mended what she could and got rid of what was unsalvageable, even for the Good Will. My grandfather carried a sack lunch to work with him every day, a tradition my father upheld until his retirement at 70 years of age. Because of their modest lifestyle, my grandparents were able to winter in Hawaii and summer in Palm Springs every year. This was not paid for on credit but out of pocket. This was money they had set aside for such frivolities once all necessities had been met. My grandfather retired from dentistry in his 60's a very wealthy man. He and my grandmother lived very comfortably until their deaths a the the age of 98, when my father was left a hefty inheritence.
Fortunately, some of these habits have been passed on to me. Unfortunately, I cannot say that I am quite as wise or as frugal as my father and grandparents. Even still, I consider myself to be quite sensible, my "splurges" hardly qualifying as such. I troll the sale racks at Target, Old Navy, and Ann Taylor Loft for clothing. We often go to parks or to the library for entertainment, or rent movies. On occasion, we splurge on a babysitter, but mostly rely on family for extra childcare.
My husband and I bought a modest home about ten years ago for a little more than 100K. Two children later, our 3 bedroom, 2 bath home has become a bit crowded. However, my husband and I and the children each have our own rooms. Company sleeps on the sofa-bed in the "Red Room Suite" (our living/ dining room). Our "master bathroom" is the size of a very small closet with a stand-up shower. The children share their bathroom, and when we have company stay, they use ours. We own two cars and have no car payment, having fulfilled our payments a few years ago. Our "newer" car cost 18K used. Each car is a little over ten years old, but they run fine. I do not plan to move or buy a new car anytime in the near future.
My husband and I both work. Although I would prefer to be at home caring for the children (6 and 2), my income is necessary to sustain the family. I have a whole new appreciation for my paycheck and for the turmoil going on around me. I have found that the wealthy elite are not so wealthy nor so elite anymore. People living in lavish homes are scrambling for money to buy groceries. Working in a dcotor's office, I have part-time nurses who have worked in the past solely to keep up their licenses, now begging me for hours, carrying negative balances in their checking accounts because their builder/ mortgage lender/ real estate agent husband is no longer bringing in the big bucks. Actually, forget the big bucks; they're bringing in na-da. Homes and second homes costing hundreds of thousands of dollars, if not millions, are being foreclosed on.
All of this panic is swirling around me and I feel...fine. Not only do we have food on the table and a roof over our heads, we have money for extras (entertainment, eating out, a little shopping) plus money saved on the side. Not only do I feel comfortable, I feel priviledged, smart, and proud. Priviledged that we are able to maintain our conservative yet comfortable lifestyle, unphazed by the economy. Smart that my husband and I did not take vacations we could not afford, buy a home outside of our budget, or buy the kids indulgent extravagances. Proud that I have, afterall, learned from my grandparents and parents to live in moderation and well within my means.
Even if my husband or I lost a job, we would have enough money to survive for months, if not a year if we really scraped. All that there is left to do now is wait. Wait out the storm of the down-turned economy. I feel certain the storm will one day pass and we will all be stronger and smarter for it.
What I am used to is being surrounded by people who drive better cars than me, live in nicer homes, wear more expensive clothes, and take more expensive vacations. (Who am I kidding? To take any vacation at all is out of my budget, unless I have a free place to stay.) I constantly felt in awe of those around me, like a child on a first visit to Disney World, my eyes wide with amazement...surrounded by people my age, in their late thirties, who drive Mercedes, live in 300K homes, shop only at high end stores, and take their kids skiing for spring break. The lift tickets alone would put me in hock.
I feel like Eve in the Garden of Eden, seeing clearly for the first time. The enormous dip in the economy has pulled the blinders off and evened the playing field. Friends and acquaintances whom I had admired before for their lavish lifestyle have been exposed for who they really are, and that is...just like me. They don't necessarily have much more money than me, they just live beyond their means. Way beyond their means. While I understand why people choose to do this, it has never been an option for me.
I was raised by very frugal parents. My dad, a surgeon, was unwilling to part with cash to pay for my new homecoming dress every year. We did not wear designer clothing nor did we have the latest gadgets. We survived with an outdated stereo, an ancient console T.V. ( which was missing a knob so you had to use pliers to change the channel), and a Honda. Our home was modest yet nice. (Even at a young age, I wondered what my father's colleagues and students thought when they came to our brady Bunch house for the annual Christmas party, with ugly green carpet and old furniture.) Still, we wanted for nothing. We had a roof over our heads, food on the table, and yes, we went skiing for spring break, a fantastic opportunity that I hope to give to my children one day when I can afford it but no sooner.
My grandparents, who greatly influenced my father, were frugal as well. "Everything in moderation" is the best way to describe their lifestyle. They spent a little and saved a lot. They socked away everything they had and when they spent money, they spent it wisely and well. My grandmother, who was very fashionable, wore the same clothes until they were worn out. She mended what she could and got rid of what was unsalvageable, even for the Good Will. My grandfather carried a sack lunch to work with him every day, a tradition my father upheld until his retirement at 70 years of age. Because of their modest lifestyle, my grandparents were able to winter in Hawaii and summer in Palm Springs every year. This was not paid for on credit but out of pocket. This was money they had set aside for such frivolities once all necessities had been met. My grandfather retired from dentistry in his 60's a very wealthy man. He and my grandmother lived very comfortably until their deaths a the the age of 98, when my father was left a hefty inheritence.
Fortunately, some of these habits have been passed on to me. Unfortunately, I cannot say that I am quite as wise or as frugal as my father and grandparents. Even still, I consider myself to be quite sensible, my "splurges" hardly qualifying as such. I troll the sale racks at Target, Old Navy, and Ann Taylor Loft for clothing. We often go to parks or to the library for entertainment, or rent movies. On occasion, we splurge on a babysitter, but mostly rely on family for extra childcare.
My husband and I bought a modest home about ten years ago for a little more than 100K. Two children later, our 3 bedroom, 2 bath home has become a bit crowded. However, my husband and I and the children each have our own rooms. Company sleeps on the sofa-bed in the "Red Room Suite" (our living/ dining room). Our "master bathroom" is the size of a very small closet with a stand-up shower. The children share their bathroom, and when we have company stay, they use ours. We own two cars and have no car payment, having fulfilled our payments a few years ago. Our "newer" car cost 18K used. Each car is a little over ten years old, but they run fine. I do not plan to move or buy a new car anytime in the near future.
My husband and I both work. Although I would prefer to be at home caring for the children (6 and 2), my income is necessary to sustain the family. I have a whole new appreciation for my paycheck and for the turmoil going on around me. I have found that the wealthy elite are not so wealthy nor so elite anymore. People living in lavish homes are scrambling for money to buy groceries. Working in a dcotor's office, I have part-time nurses who have worked in the past solely to keep up their licenses, now begging me for hours, carrying negative balances in their checking accounts because their builder/ mortgage lender/ real estate agent husband is no longer bringing in the big bucks. Actually, forget the big bucks; they're bringing in na-da. Homes and second homes costing hundreds of thousands of dollars, if not millions, are being foreclosed on.
All of this panic is swirling around me and I feel...fine. Not only do we have food on the table and a roof over our heads, we have money for extras (entertainment, eating out, a little shopping) plus money saved on the side. Not only do I feel comfortable, I feel priviledged, smart, and proud. Priviledged that we are able to maintain our conservative yet comfortable lifestyle, unphazed by the economy. Smart that my husband and I did not take vacations we could not afford, buy a home outside of our budget, or buy the kids indulgent extravagances. Proud that I have, afterall, learned from my grandparents and parents to live in moderation and well within my means.
Even if my husband or I lost a job, we would have enough money to survive for months, if not a year if we really scraped. All that there is left to do now is wait. Wait out the storm of the down-turned economy. I feel certain the storm will one day pass and we will all be stronger and smarter for it.
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