>Silent Movie Reel

>

A hard to describe situation.

Filling that role. 

A long drive ahead of us.

But first a visit.

Details, please.

There and back, there and back.

Keeping a lid on it.

Tamping it down.

Don’t light the fire.

You’re good at that.

Washing, hanging, stretching, folding.

Writing under your breath.

You should make a note of that.

Mowing leaves in sunshine.

While Other People dig out.

Rap. Tango. Thrash. Grunge. Fast forward. Pause.

No time, no time, no time.

A chewed thumb nail.

Were the pork chops okay?

Nothing sucks. Broken boyfriend.

His belt won’t stay up, his brush won’t roll.

You need a new lover.

Sleep with dreams that made you

Angry and worried.

Fuck, that can’t be true.

One is real. 

You know down in your knowing bone.

It doesn’t matter. Hasn’t for a long time.

The other cauchemar c’est impossible!

Impossible. Right?

Navy shower, find and edit. Don’t drag your feet.

You always do.

Make a list.

Go, go, go.

Look for a fix. Hope it’s quick and easy.

Oh, shit. See the signs.

He left with a cup of hot water.

More coffee for you.

Bonus jitters.

I know. It’s not my typical offering. It’s Monday after a busy weekend. It’s gray. It’s kindoftensearoundhererightnow. Look in your crystal ball. What do you see for the coming week?

>I’ve gotten used to the space I’m occupying

>

There are some things I cannot imagine living without. For example, music and books (click that link for a book review I’ve posted at buy-her).

For a long time, reading was a deferred passion. I didn’t read adult books for fun while I was busy with the business of working full time and raising a family and commuting and being annoying to my inlaws, but now that my days are differently constructed (how’s that for bullshit), I’m reading whatever I dang well want.

I try to follow the trends, but my tastes won’t always cooperate. I got to maybe Chapter 8 of Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom before I made an obnoxious sound and tossed the book aside. Patty Bergland needed meds. I’m sure of it. You know what’s weird, Patty? You.

Um, sorry about that. I don’t usually get that hostile about characters with whom I don’t connect.

Other books grab me and I torture MathMan by telling him plot details and if he’s really lucky, by reading passages to him. He’s a good facial liar. His features say I’m listening, but I know the Einstein-haired brain squirrels are doing complex equations on a white board inside his cranium even while I’m speaking. It’s okay. I don’t quiz him to see if he was listening. I mostly talk to hear my own voice anyway.

Music, on the other hand, has never lost its place in my life. From being a little kid listening to Melanie’s Brand New Key on a transistor radio to today when I heard a new song I really liked by Plan B, music is always there.

Recently, I lost my itunes in a computer crash so I’ve been rebuilding my music library and creating new playlists. It’s time consuming, but it’s hardly a chore. I’ve enjoyed rediscovering songs I’d forgotten we had.

After the desktop computer had to be restored, I switched over to an old laptop we thought was dead (just the battery was dead).  Score! There’s an old itunes library with even more music and a couple of old playlists that were once the soundtrack of my days. Those days were so different, it’s hard to believe that was my life. From the distance of two or three years, it seems like that was someone else driving all those miles, doing that work, juggling those projects and negotiating her way through egos and budgets and the Big Ideas of other people.

Even so, I can listen to some of the music from back in the day when I actually wore panty hose to meetings and I’m transported.

Can’t you hear the screaming?

What are you listening to? What are you reading? Did you click the link and read the review? Don’t make me come over there!

>All those heartfelt conversations

>Thank you for all the wonderful comments. My father is amazed that people around the globe have wished him a happy birthday. He thinks I’m making you guys up. You’re like my imaginary friend Cindy. She used to do mean things to my brother and color on closet walls and melt those fat crayons in my sister’s Easy Bake Oven. That chick was a pill. Issues, you know.

But no, I tell him. These people are real. Just ask Denise or David. I think they read the blog sometimes. They’ll tell you.

So what if he feels like that time I insisted he ask Cindy if she’d like a red popsicle or an orange one, the thing is that he says Thank You.  Too bad for him he never figured out that Cindy liked the purple best.

S our phone call went well. Better than expected. We talked about the birds that are visiting his feeders these days. I do identification for him because, you know, looking it up in a bird book just isn’t as much fun as our semi-lucid conversations.

“I’ve got this bird, but I’m not sure what it is. Maybe a finch?”
“Is it reddish? Brown stripey? Could be a female. Yellow?”
“I’d know a Goldfinch, I think.”
“Right. Right. What color is it?”
“It likes thistle.”
“Pointy beak?”
“It goes upside down.”
“Oh! It’s a nuthatch!”
“Whadjoo call me?”
“Pointy beak? Sharp?”
“Yes. It walks up and down the pole.”
“Nuthatch. It’s a nuthatch. What color is it?”
“Which one?”
“Nevermind. Any bluejays?”
“A few.”
“That’s nice.”

We talked about the weather. They still have snow. We don’t.

I even hollered at my mother. 

(That means said hello and a bunch of other stuff, but there wasn’t really any shouting.)

And the subject of my very short commute didn’t come up at all.

It’s almost as if they’d read the blog. But of course that would be silly.

If my mom read this blog, I wouldn’t be typing this.

I’d be tweeting frantically for someone to come bust me out of my room where I’ve been grounded.

At the end of the call, I told Dad about you guys and he made that funny noise he makes when he thinks I’m kidding around with him. And I was like No, really! They say happy birthday. And then he asked me to thank you and he whispered something to Mom that sounded like golf ball.

Seriously, thank you for the birthday wishes and all the comments – funny, warm, kind, interesting, intelligent. Thank you for coming around here so I can stand on my head and show you my panties.  Except that’s not really me. That’s Cindy.

It’s Wednesday, right? What have you done with your week besides make an oldish man happy?

>You cast your line and hope you get a bite

>

Then.

Our roles ares fluid. I’m the parent, I’m the child. Today is my father’s birthday so for a few minutes, I’ll be the child when I call to wish him a very happy day.

I’m reading Mary Karr‘s Liars’ Club which features wonderful segments of writing about her father. I marvel at how she captures the details of the man who played such a large role in how she views herself and the world. Without making the connection to today, I found myself wondering just yesterday how I would write about my father. While he undoubtedly helped shape me and my views, his type of guy doesn’t show up in the memoirs I read. He didn’t drink or fight or beat us. He’s not an artist, musician, diplomat or secret agent.

He worked, kept our vehicles spotless, delivered goofy one-liners, fished, made fabulous homemade ice cream and slept in his recliner.  Except for working, he still does all those things.

I once had a therapist who urged me to dig deep so I could hand her some juicy slug of wickedness with his name on it (how else to explain my approach to men and relationships?). I found nothing. Not that I’m so good at digging deep, but there was no abuse, no repressed memories. He’s just my dad. He’s not one to lavish affection or words on us, but I never felt unloved or unwanted. Did I feel like a nuisance, a disappointment, a drain? What kid doesn’t? As a parent, did I do things differently? What parent doesn’t?

My father was famous among the neighborhood kids for his suggestion that we “Go outside and play in the traffic.” But we knew he was kidding. Mostly. Our street wasn’t that busy anyway.

While the best I can do is a Crayola stick figure of a guy with a badly drawn truck and a fishing pole, Mary Karr’s writing about her daddy is a masterpiece. She paints him as rough-hewn, of mixed origins that showed in his face, a poor kid from a timber camp in East Texas, a fighter, a labor unionist.

They had that in common, our daddies. They both did manual labor for middle class wages for related industries. Her father worked for Union Oil, mine for Monsanto. I know. Don’t have a heart attack.We had good enough, not fancy, but good enough.  Vacations, an above ground swimming pool in the back yard. Cable TV when it first came out. Always two cars in the driveway – used, but still. I held my hand out and batted my lashes, murmuring something about movies or the mall and a twenty dollar bill floated down into it.

We didn’t question where the money came from. Dad worked in a factory, he wasn’t in the mob or anything. It was the 60s, 70s, 80s. We didn’t know that Monsanto was altering our agricultural landscape in dangerous ways.We just knew that Dad came home smelling of chemicals and Vitalis with chewed Tums on his breath, put his black rectangular lunchbox covered in Dole and Chiquita banana stickers on the counter and looked tired. When he worked four-to-twelve, we had to keep it down during the day, but it seems like he didn’t get much sleep and operated that way for years. From what I’ve seen when I visit my parents, he’s making up for it now.

Dad was just the guy who drove the forklift, moving foam core, walking the concrete floors of the plant there in Addiston, on that bend of the Ohio River along Highway 50. He earned a living, took care of his family, put money in the bank, played by the rules, and didn’t take risks. Even with his good union job, he found ways to make side money. Helping on Grandpa’s little tobacco farm. Collecting old bottles and glass from dump sites in hollows, cleaning them up and selling them long before ebay was a twinkle in some wunderkind’s eye. Pumping gas at the Sunoco. Unearthing antique milk cans, painting them and adding decals before selling them as home decor pieces.

I was wrong. He is an artist.

He assumed his kids would continue the upward trajectory that began with him, having grown up poor and the recipient of occasional charity when Grandpa’s delivery job didn’t cover the necessities. As a kid, Dad had a paper route and did odd jobs. I picture him always working, working.

Which brings me to today. I’ll call, but I’m dreading it. The last time I spoke to my parents, I got off the phone and MathMan could tell with one look that I was bent in six different ways. I know they don’t mean to ride my ass about finding a job, they’re just worried. They didn’t send me to college so I could be a housewife. They can’t understand why I can’t find any job.

“Just apply to McDonalds.” That’s become the fall back suggestion. I refrain from pointing out that they didn’t send me to college to work at McDonald’s either.

The sad reality is that I have filled out online applications for every fast food and mid-range restaurant. Grocery stores, retail, cell phone, cable, satellite, coffee, greeting cards companies. Community colleges, administrative work in offices large and small. Doctors’ and dentists’ offices. The nursing home. The rare job in my field that pops up. Jobs like my old ones, but in Chicago and D.C.

The silence from potential employers is deafening.

It’s hard to explain to my parents who still live in a world where you walk in anywhere and ask for a job if you need one. I tried that a couple of months ago. I was in a small shop downtown and mentioned to the owner that I was looking for work. Did she know anyone who was hiring? No, came the answer. Most of the places there in the downtown area were just hanging on. Her smile was sympathetic though.

My parents don’t use computers so they don’t understand the process. Once you fill out the online application, you can’t create new ones. You return again and again to click new Apply for this position boxes. And hope. I guess that’s the emotion. It’s hard to identify. Sometimes it feels like when the guy behind the counter slides the lottery ticket toward you and you say a little Please Let This Be A Winner prayer even though you don’t believe anyone is there to take the call.

I can’t tell if my parents think I’m lying about looking for a job or if they suspect I think I’m too good for certain kinds of work. Thinking you’re too good for something is one of the Seven Deadly Sins where I come from. It replaces Gluttony because who needs that guilt when you’re chowing down on a Big Boy and Fries?

I started to whine to MathMan about my trepidation, but stopped mid-sentence. At least I can call my father even if I have to deal with the dreaded unemployment question. He’s been without a father for far too long.

I whined to Chloe instead when she called this morning. “Maybe they won’t be there and I can leave a message on the answering machine,” I moaned.

“That’s practical.”

Talk about shifting roles. Chloe called about her job and ended up talking me down off the ledge. I was nearly in tears because Sophie informed me this morning that she didn’t want to go to school because now that I’d chewed out the girls at the party, she didn’t have any friends. “I swear, I am the worst mother,” I choked out.

“Oh, please.” Chloe’s a woman of few words. “Stop it. She’ll get over it. Now, aren’t you glad I was anti-social?”

I sniffed. “Yes.”

“And don’t forget – it’s middle school. Not a pretty time.”

She had a point. By the time we got off the phone, I felt better and had a plan for that call to my father.

If the question comes up, I’m prepared. Even if each parent is on an extension doing that double-team thing they do.
Did you get a job?
Why, yes, I did.
Really? Where? What are you doing?
I’m doing domestic work for a family here in town.
Oh?
Uh huh.
Does it pay well?
Not really, but it’s a job.
I see. Are you still looking for something better?
Always, always.
Good.
There will be an awkward pause, then I’ll say Did you want to talk bout the weather? It’s pretty bleak here, but I hear it’s going to get better…..

Now-ish.

>Adventures in Real Parenting: The Birthday Party

>

Micro Version: On Friday we finally had Sophie’s twice postponed birthday party. If I ever mention that we’re doing an overnight party that isn’t Adults Only (safe words optional), please stop me. Whatever it takes, stop me.

Short Version: On Friday we had Sophie’s twice postponed birthday party. The girls were every bit twelve years old. One minute they were laughing and goofing around like kids. The next minute they were verbally cutting up someone who wasn’t there.

Girls deal in whispers, careful glances over their shoulders, common bonds of insecurity and false confidence, loud bursts of laughter, increasing decibels to be heard, shrill calls to hold my place, I’m next to tell my story, Has anyone seen my phone?

Who’s in, who’s left? Sometimes labels fit. The Queen Bee, Her Second(s), Miss Bossy, The Observer, Troubled, The Fringe, The Independent, The Bookworm, The Freakshow.

I was outnumbered. Eleven to one. I don’t recommend it. And for party planning purposes of this nature, don’t try to blend girls from different social avenues unless you have a very tight timeframe. Two hours or less. And planned activities. If I ever host an event like this again, it will end by 10p.m. Six hours is plenty long for the arc of the party to climb, peak and descend. If you’ve shooed them from your home by ten, you may finish before tears flow. Yours or theirs. Does it matter? Perhaps the party should end at 8:30 just to be safe.

Other things I learned:
1. Precocious and quirky becomes annoying and weird in the span of two hours. Please, parents, encourage individuality, but balance it with some social skills. I’m not talking socially awkward (I see that in the mirror every day). I’m talking about the kid who touches everything in the kitchen, thinks every word she says is funny and clever and believes being a picky eater makes her interesting. It does not.
2. There is never enough soda to satisfy kids.
3. When one kid accidentally drops her cake and ice cream on the floor, someone else is likely to do the same while laughing at the first kid.
4. Whatever you say about black people, gay people, and/or hoping that the President of the United States won’t live to see a second term in office will be repeated by your children.
5. No matter how hard one tries to ensure that upon departing, everyone has accounted for everything they brought with them, the host or hostess will still find a pair of some kid’s balled up socks stuffed between the sofa cushions a day or two after the party.

The long version:  Is written. And ripening. And might never see the light of day. But holy cats, did it feel good to write it.

>Gout. Look it up.

>

Source

Have you ever noticed that when you get back to something – school, work, your gym routine – Day 1 goes well. You are on it and everything clicks. And you know that clicking and you think Maybe this time will be different. And then Day 2 goes sideways. And upside down. And sticky.

I knew I shouldn’t have answered the phone yesterday morning, but it was the middle school. Someone didn’t want to be there (we’ve gone through this every January since this child was dumped in daycare by a heartless mother).  “She threw up,” said the nurse. We’re on a first name basis at this point.

Damn it. Vomiting. There’s no turning back, no bargaining. “I’ll be right there.”

The sudden need for popsicles and chicken soup, required a trip to the grocery. I don’t drive the several miles into town on a whim so if I was going, I intended to get all the groceries in that trip. As if one can get all the groceries. Ever.

At the store, I frightened a stranger. I’d unloaded the cart and stood chatting with Savannah, the bagger, and Julia, the cashier, while groceries traveled the long stretch of conveyor belt. A woman with the most interesting mullet I’ve ever seen surveyed my purchases as she waited for enough space to clear so she could put her items on the belt.

“Was another snowstorm predicted?” Her eyes were wide.

Julia, the cashier, laughed. I’d just mentioned that we’d run out of everything during the last snow.

“No,” I smiled at the worried woman. “We were out of everything and I came in for a side of beef and a buttload of Buy One Get One Free things.”

She didn’t even flinch at my use of the term buttload. “Oh, phew!” She drew her hand across her forehead. “I am so over the snow.”

Me, too. I’m also over hearing how there’s no food in the house and why can’t we have more meat because we’re starving and need real meals, blah, blah, blah. Listen, I’d have to rustle a steer, marry a chicken farmer and have a hog farmer on the side to keep enough meat in this house now that Nate is working out with the baseball team.

It’s something to watch your son transform from boy to man with muscles and hairy armpits and a new chiseled effect to his jawline, but damn, it’s like feeding lions at the zoo. I remember my brother David at this stage. He and his friend, the other David, would eat a box of PopTarts and drink a 2 liter of Mountain Dew each.

MathMan and Nate are working out every night after school doing core exercises with names like The Bus Driver, The Hindu, Russian Twists and  other offensive things. Their bodies are screaming for protein. Shakes and Clif Bars are fine substitutes, but Hans and Franz want meat. MEAT.

There is now meat in the house. I am going to stuff these people so full of dead animal that Nate will never again ask what gout is. He’ll look at his big toe and remember.

Obviously, I’m sensitive to criticism of this sort. I’m working on it, but when a cat offers feedback about breakfast by depositing undigested Purina One swimming in Friskie’s Mariner’s Catch on the carpet, my mood plummets. That is the final insult. Someone is going to pay.

Punishment takes many forms. Some days, it’s messing with the cats’ heads by placing stuff in the exact spot on the bed where they usually spend the hours between 8:08 a.m. and 10:45 a.m. Their time share arrangements get turned around and I take sadistic pleasure in their discombobulation. They fuss with each other and mope and try to work out a new schedule, but there’s always that one guy. You know how it is.

Today, I was more aggressive about the punishment. Since no one stepped forward on all four paws, all the cats had to suffer, not just the puking perp. I forced them to endure my version of Naked Eyes’ Always Something There to Remind Me. As soon as I finished cleaning up that pile of puke, that’s exactly what I did. Twice. With hand gestures.

What’s your favorite form of punishment? Go nuts, people.

>Paying Attention Because There Is A Story Here

>“We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.” — Thornton Wilder

If you’ve been visiting here any length of time, you know that our family is adjusting to a new financial paradigm. I just used the word paradigm. Someone please slap me. I wanted to stay away from the prevalent phrase “New Normal” because after reading through some blog archives, it’s clear that there is nothing new about this. It’s been our normal for a while now except that it’s gotten worse.

It’s a case of Once You’re In It, It’s Hard to Get Out of It. Like the mafia or a gym contract.

With the loss of my job last December, we received that apocryphal blow most of the American Middle Class fears. It was that one last thing that would flick us off the edge and tumbling into the precipice of the financial unknown.

I want to tell you all the things we’ve learned along the way. I want to show you how we’ve changed and grown. I want to reassure those of you living paycheck to paycheck and in terror of that one disaster that could send you and your family into the financial soup that you will survive. You will be different, but you will get through it. But my first wish for you is that you never find yourself here in the first place.

But there will time for that later.

Some days I’m reluctant to share with you the daily ups and downs of this financial recalibration because it seems like so much whining. I have to preface things with phrases like We brought this on ourselves or We should have done this differently…. I’m forever balancing the reality with my distaste for victimhood. I mine these events for humor because there are so many of us living through this – whether we want to talk about it or not (much less put it in writing) and if I can contribute anything to the conversation, I want it to maybe make people feel a little better instead of worse.

This period of our lives has taught me many things, but one of the most wonderful gifts I’ve received is the experience of gratitude. When you’re the giver, the caregiver, the donor, the contributor, you do so for a lot of reasons. Those reasons are as varied as the people involved. I’ve not always been good at receiving thanks. I dismiss it, wave it off, minimize my contribution. It was nothing. Don’t mention it. I didn’t see through the other person’s eyes that whatever I’d done – whether big or small – mattered.

When you are the recipient of care and kindness and generosity, your role is simple. Say thank you.

Yesterday, I received an email that left me speechless. A group of people had provided a gift to our family that will help us bridge the wasteland that is January. The writer of the email did what I do when I’m the contributor. She minimized the significance of the gift. When I regained my composure and my ability to mangle the English language, I wrote to tell her how much the gift mattered and how the timing could not have been better. And to please pass our family’s gratitude on to the others who’d contributed, as well.

And in case any of them are here, I want to say those important words.

Thank you. 

>What I give to you is just what I’m going through

>

Tuesday. Thank goodness. I’d become even more unbearable than usual. I’m the worst teenager in the house. A solid week of forced togetherness had worn The Goldens down to the nubs. By last night, I resorted to threatening nudity to chase Nathan from the bedroom.

“Time for you to clear out. I want to change into my pajamas.”
“Hang on, I’m watching this. Mama, you love World War II in Color.” This is true, but I saw this for the diversion it was.
“5:30 is going to come very quickly tomorrow morning. I need to get some sleep.”
“Your laptop is still on, I don’t believe you.” I hate the back talk. I hate that he was right even more.
“Nate, go now. I want some alone time with Dad.”
“Oh, gawd. I’m staying.You guys don’t need alone time.” He made air quotes with his fingers.
“You better scram. I’m taking off my pants.” I did, too.
He covered his eyes.
“Now I’m going to take off this bra.”
“Mom, no!”
“And I’m going to throw it at you. It’ll probably burn your skin.” I reached behind me to unhook my bra.
“I’m going.”
“You can throw that bra here.” MathMan is never far from the action when breasts are involved.

So they finally got out of the house today and I stood at the kitchen counter sipping coffee and listening to the quiet house. All around me chores begged for attention. Cat hair fringing the edge of something sticky on the kitchen floor tried to convince me to mop. Dirty clothes already sorted whispered Come on, baby to me when I passed by the laundry room door. My ever-trusty vacuum stood in the corner of the dining room. I swear it winked at me when I stopped in there to get something from the file cabinet. Fresh.

Resist, I told myself.
I’ll just wash up these dishes. It’ll only take a moment.
No! Resist! Walk away! Go work. Go workout. Go have a shower. Eat something! Be that person you said you wanted to be.

I hate when I make declarative statements to MathMan when my conscience is listening. Caught in the middle of whining about interruptions yesterday (and probably every day since January 1) I corrected myself by saying that I wanted to be that person who got up, got her family out the door, worked out, had breakfast, a shower and got busy writing. No internet until after 1pm when the job search would take priority each day.  Disciplined, focused, driven. That’s who I want to be.

Time to stop blaming the kids and MathMan for my inability to finish anything.

I’ll just do these dishes, then I’ll work out, have some breakfast, a shower and then I’ll be ready to work. Except why does the water pressure in this sink seem weak? Maybe I should take the aerator off and check it. Will pliers get it off? I’ll get the pliers. On my way, I’ll toss in a load of laundry.

I left the kitchen and fetched the pliers then went downstairs to the laundry room. Everything was going so smoothly. I’d get it all done and have time to work.While I wrestled with the pliers and the aerator, I talked to myself some more.Why do I treat writing like dessert? It’s the best part of my day, but I save it for last, when I’m tired, distracted and likely to be interrupted.

I have a girlfriend who has always been thin despite her raging sweet tooth. She eats dessert first whenever she feels like it. Which is often.

I won’t beat you silly with that epiphany. I put the pliers back and transformed into that person I said I wanted to be. I pulled out the manuscript that I’ve been revising since 1946 and didn’t stop working until two hours later when I stopped to feed the cats who were using the youngest among them as a battering ram against my bedroom door, I think. She appeared dazed when I opened the door.

“Okay, guys. Let’s go,” I said to the cats as we moved en masse toward the kitchen where I didn’t notice the spots on the floor, the wonky faucet or the dishes in the drainer.

>There’s a war going on for your mind

>

When last we met I was referring to myself in the third person and worrying about unemployment benefits.  Family members were all up in each other’s business as we got through Snowbound Day2 and the cats took to dark corners of closets for fear they may become stew.  Or casserole.  Who cares?

That’s my prevailing attitude. Not only was Wednesday cancelled, but so were Thursday and Friday. A long weekend.  It’s the winter break that never ends.

Does my voice sound strangled?  I feel strangled. I miss my alone time.  I’ve gotten some writing done, but it’s been chaotic with kids darting in and out of the house bringing cold air and the metallic smell of snow with them.  I’d get started on a good writing jag and someone inevitably needed something.

I’m hungry. Have you seen my gloves? When do I get a turn on XBox? I left my phone charger at my friends, can I get a ride back over there? Can I mix this with this? Who took my last piece of gum?  The container of pudding in the fridge is mine, I may or may not have spat in it.  Who did that?  That’s not one of mine.  Why do you have your purse, Mom? Are you going somewhere?

I’m not going anywhere.  I’m fleeing.

I did get the unemployment issue sorted on Wednesday afternoon.  A representative explained that my year was up and they had to see me in person to re-certify.  Nevermind that I was just there on December 28th.  So I’m back on the dole, sucking up the resources the rich so desperately need and clicking through the jobs websites and whimpering at the paucity of openings.

I looked for any excuse to nor sit down and focus on writing. I usually found one, too.

One afternoon, MathMan, sick of my whining about not having the peace and quiet to write, duct taped decorative pillows over my ears and motioned to me to sit down and start typing before he left the room, slamming the door behind him. That was some slam. I could hear it through the pillows.

Another morning, he watched me from the back door as I shoveled snow.  When I came to the door, he opened it and announced, It’s nineteen degrees. When we move back north, I assume you won’t complain about the cold. You just shoveled snow in your pajamas and slippers. No coat, no gloves, no boots, no hat.

I was wearing gloves.  I showed him my hands.  He made that face.  I bet his students are familiar with it.

I didn’t feel like typing, but felt compelled to use my hands. To do things that required tools, that could be easily completed. That I could point to and say, “I did that and it is done and it is good.”  Except for blog posts, I’m not getting that from writing at the moment so I sought substitutes.

“You know, I love Naked Lisa, but Naked Lisa with a screwdriver peaks my curiosity,” I didn’t realize he was paying attention. He’d been deep in the development of a Calculus Powerpoint.

“The drain is clogged. I thought I’d take care of it before I got dressed instead of getting my clothes wet.”

“I’m coming in to see your plumber’s crack.”

I assume the Phillip’s head will leave a star-shaped scar.

Reduced, it would appear we were either rocking each other’s socks off or snarling and circling each other with our marital, I know your weak spots knives drawn.  But mostly we just shared the space of our bedroom which doubles as an office, he doing his mathy things and me getting into word mischief.  Him snoring softly to some video while I stayed up til the wee hours reading.

It wasn’t all wasted time and minor stabbings.

I learned how hard it is to photograph birds close up.  I lured some to the deck with birdseed so I slunk down the steps into the daylight basement and dropped to the floor so I could crawl commando style across the floor.  I reached the door, raised the camera to the window and watched through the viewfinder as the finches took flight in every direction.

A cat sat on the window sill a few feet away looking at me like I was an idiot.  I mean, more so than usual.

They say a snow year’s a good year

Inspired ever so loosely by the wonderful, historical lighthouse keeper posts of Ranger Bob.

Covered Bridge Springs, Euharlee
January 11, 2011 or 1/11/11 or 11/1/11 or 6th of Sh’vat, 5771 on the Hebrew calender

We’re nearing sunset of Snowbound Day 2 with overcast skies and temperatures that topped out at the thirty-six degree (F) mark. Tomorrow has already been cancelled. Yes.  The whole day. Cancelled. The Keeper and his wife have been drinking since 3:30p.m.

With characteristic bad timing, DISH Network finally gave up demanding their money and reduced us to the deadbeat channels made up mostly of shopping channels and the estrogen-driven variety:  Oxygen and Hallmark.  Were she with her family instead of snowbound in the sorority house at school, the Keeper’s oldest child Chloe would be lying face down on the sofa staring blankly at a marathon of It’s MY Wedding and I’ll Be Dreadful If I Want To!  The rest of those trapped in domo with few televisual options are reacting with varying levels of frustration.

The Keeper, not really a TV watcher, is fucking around (you heard me) with iTunes and asking rhetorical questions like “How did Styx’s Babe get into my Martinis in the Evening playlist?”

The Keeper’s wife, only a teensy bit annoyed to miss her new TV boyfriend Dylan Ratigan, is alternately writing, reading Hector and The Search for Happiness and stomping around the house plucking wet clothing from the floor and ceiling fans and reminding the children to put their wet clothes in the laundry room when they come in from playing in the snow.

The children are keeping themselves busy with brief intervals of making nuisances of themselves.

Nathan, fearing for his testosterone levels, has vowed to stay away from television, opting instead to watch Seinfeld DVDs and whatever is free on Hulu.  In moments of pituitary security, he’s also expanded his abilities in the kitchen, having mastered baking a cake and perfected his sloppy joe and pork chop recipes.  Please just don’t spread that around.

The youngest child, Sophia, has been playing risky games of petulance as her boredom reaches peaks and valleys.  The Keeper and his wife are hoping that this is the 7th Grade Terrors come early.  Threats to cancel rather than postpone her birthday party have proven to be only minimally effective. She’ll be introduced to the Buddy Sorrell method of child rearing if she doesn’t change her ways quickly.  The Keeper’s Wife doubts that Sophie will like that rap in the mouth.

Mealtimes have been chaotic and fraught with drama because the person who stockpiles provisions didn’t fall for the dire predictions of bad weather, much to her chagrin.  Ignoring the meteorologists/domestic advisers throaty commands to get thee to the grocery, she scoffed at the morons standing in long lines with carts full of milk, bread and eggs and chose not to make the panicked trip for the essentials.

As a result, there is no vodka, half & half, rice or hamburger buns. And the family has learned that of the two choices (1) dry or (2) with kool-aid, cereal is best eaten dry.  MathMan swears that Cap’n Crunch goes great with beer, but since this is not Spring Break nor is it 1986, no one else is willing to test his hypothesis.

Besides, there’s no Cap’n Crunch. There’s Uncle Sam Cereal, Frosted Mini Wheats, Lucky Charms and Cinnamon Toast Crunch.  All poor substitutes for the Cap’n and his corny, slice the roof of your mouth open, sugary goodness.

The cats are making themselves somewhat scarce, not sure if The Keeper’s Wife’s jokes about Kitty Casserole were actually jokes or not.  They don’t realize that if things get truly dire, there’s a frozen birthday cake and a bag of Bugles stashed away for the birthday party, but available in the case of emergency.  The birthday party reserve of frozen pizzas has dwindled from four to two, but not everyone in the house eats lentil soup so there’s been the necessary concession to prevent the Keeper’s Wife from beginning a sentence with “For fuck’s sake, you’re not hungry. You’re bored….”  Because she is not preparing meals for people who are simply bored and out of sorts because their sleep schedule is in total disarray.

Meanwhile, The Keeper’s Wife is reminded once again that nothing creates a craving for this or that like the inability to go out and fetch it.

It is now 6:45p.m. and the Keeper’s Wife is wondering if the Department of Labor will deign to open their offices tomorrow since they have not done so for two days already this week.

Because worrying changes nothing, she may as well have another cocktail and see if The Keeper wants to end the day the same way it started:  rediscovering long forgotten, but pleasing ways to create warmth through friction.

How is your week going?  Have you skated on Peachtree? Sledded down the hill with no pants on? Tipped a snowman? Kissed a girl? Jumped the shark?