>How’s that bricklayin’ coming?

Shattered

Originally posted March 20, 2008, edited to reflect what I’ve learned about writing.

Sometimes you’re presented with a metaphor you just can’t ignore.

This bowl, the largest of a set of five, was a wedding gift from friends. I loved this bowl.

Over time, the smaller bowls broke. Dropped on a tile floor, knocked off a counter, shattered in the dishwasher as it came into contact with something heavier. With the end of each bowl, came a little twinge.

With no thought to the bowl’s welfare, I placed it outside to replace the birdbath bowl that was being repaired. It sat placed precariously on top of the birdbath pedestal and was visited by the sparrows that populated the garden all year long.

I should have known better.

Occasionally, I would check the bowl to make sure it remained steady on the pedestal. Sometimes it wobbled a little so I’d make a few adjustments and all would appear to be fine. The birds had their water and that was what mattered.

In early winter, the water in the bowl froze, but no one noticed.

The bowl, left in the cold to do its duty to the birds and the garden, endured the expansions and contractions of that long winter.

One brisk, sunny day, I went outside to fill the bird feeders and pushed my gloved fingertip against the water in the bowl. No give. Frozen solid. I reached down to lift the bowl and carry it inside.

The bowl crumbled.

I gathered the pieces knowing that I couldn’t fix this so it wouldn’t show. We discussed gluing the bowl back together, but some small pieces were missing, small but important pieces.

This bowl lay in the garden at the base of the birdbath while I, too, stayed in place.

When I first wrote this, Spring was coming. We’d have a chance to clear away those broken pieces and the garden surrounding it so that something new could grow there.

>

Connected, not connected. This is the way it goes.

We’ve reached the thin end of things again where there’s more month than money. MathMan and I drive past  billboard shrieking the current lottery amounts in garish colors.

Me: Let’s just buy a lottery ticket. A winning one.

(The typical silence that follows my deep thoughts.)

Me, again: Of course, winning the lottery creates its own problems….but I could use a new set of problems.

********

Let’s make using the cliche “kick the can down the road” in a political context punishable by a kick to the nutsack. Wait, no, let’s make any use of cliches or folksy-speak in a political context punishable by a kick to the nutsack. Recycle that can, get away from the pig with that lipstick, and compost those tea leaves already.

As for the nutsackless, kneecap them. Unless they’re women, then just leave them alone. Living in this oppressive patriarchy is punishment enough.

Also: Spurs job creation. Nutsack kickers need jobs, too.

********

Last night I called to see if my parents were keeping an eye on the weather as tornado warnings spread across Indiana. My dad, the man who watches The Weather Channel for entertainment, answered the phone. I asked if they were prepared for bad weather.

“What? No! We’re watching the Reds game.”

Me in an aside to MathMan who is next to me on the bed with his laptop propped on his knees, “Of course they’re not prepared. They’re watching the Reds game.”

MathMan doesn’t take his eyes off the laptop screen. His laptop is the third person in our love triangle. “They’ve got bigger worries than the weather. The Reds just blew a lead in extra innings.”

I’ve been handed off. Mother is on the phone now. “They’re in the eleventh inning. Is everything okay there?”

“We’re fine, I was just checking on you guys.” My eyes are trained on the red triangles stretching along the Ohio Valley that the Weather Channel woman is rubbing her hand over.

“Oh, we’re okay. Dad, did Ryan Howard just get a hit?” It always perplexed me a little when my mother called my father “Dad.” Did she do that even after we kids moved out?

“Well, I just wanted to see how things were there.” The Weather Channel was playing their elevator music in the background. I’d rather watch the Reds’ game, too.

Mother spoke again. We were back to the weather evidently. “You know, the last time the tornado sirens went off at night, we didn’t hear them.”

I sat up straighter. “No, I didn’t know. Maybe the two of you should just sleep in the bathtub.” In a whispered aside to MathMan, “I don’t want to dig them out of the rubble, do you?”

“I’ve got to work the rest of this week.” He’s so practical.

My mom again. “The Reds were playing like little leaguers but now they’re playing like first graders.”

“Next thing you know, you’ll be calling them Fetus Leaguers,” I said.

My mother laughed. “Fetus Leaguers,” she repeated.

I nudged MathMan. “Write down this date. I made my mother laugh.”

“Oh, I’m just really tired. That’s why I laughed.”

So nevermind.

This. This is why I am prone to shouting at my children how wonderful, funny, creative, beautiful, intelligent and talented they are. This is why I overuse the word proud.

*********

Yesterday, I drove toward the sun and thought about the choices we make about the people we love. Why some people make better friends than lovers, why some make betters mates than lovers, how some passions never burn out while others fade away. How some choices aren’t ours to make. How one little change in the arc of a story – a life story or one imagined – can change all the outcomes. How the light reflecting off the hood of the car entices me to stare at it. A bad idea when one is supposed to be paying attention to oncoming traffic. Like so many enticing things. Shiny but dangerous.

********

I’m considering self-publishing. Playing by the rules has been a loser game for me in other aspects of my working life so maybe I should try a different approach.

********

I’m finishing up The Memory Palace by Mira Bartok. I love her straightforward writing. And the story itself is so compelling.  I was excited to see the author is following me on Twitter, but aside from the ego boost that is, there’s a practical element to it. Mira runs miraslist. Mira’s List is “a resource for artists, writers, composers, and others in the arts providing up to date information, links and artist interviews, deadlines for grants, fellowships and international residencies. Money, time and a place to create.”

Hey you, creative types, visit there and get the RSS feed. You never know where the good stuff is going to come from next.

A bientot.

>Some people wear their history like a map on their face

>Eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn

>I’m living in an age that calls darkness light

>You just haven’t earned it yet, Baby

>

I’m hot, I’m chilly. Not cold. Chilly. Is this a fever or perimenopause? Do I even care? What difference does it make anyway?

It’s been a day already. I’m already bracing for tomorrow and with all the talk of what happened with the IMF Head and the maid in the Midtown Manhattan hotel room, there’s an even greater sense of pressure from the day I wish I could forget. There’s the fury of what happened, but the weight of knowing that freedom has its downside. It means people like him can continue doing what they do.

Nevertheless, one must carry on and that’s what I’ve done.So far today’s landscape is, um, varied.

1. Using coupons, I got two free bags of cat food at Publix. A win.

2. The Kroger didn’t have the 1/2 gallon of milk for a dollar as advertised, but I did pick up a $3.88 bottle of Malbec. I also got hugged by the guy who delivers the Pepsi products to the Kroger, Ingles and WalMart stores. The hug came after he showed me where the packets of Kool-Aid were. It was kind of creepy. Then he was leaving when I left and he helped me load the groceries into the car. It was all awkward and I was trying not to overreact, just thanked him with a stiff smile, I’m sure but it was just – – strange. I’m feeling strange. Maybe that’s it.

And dammit, I forgot to stop at the customer service desk and ask for a rain check for the milk.

Good thing I bought that wine.

3. While I maneuvered around the curious cats to put the groceries away, the doorbell rang. A quick poke of my head into the dining room. The landlady. What did she want? She hadn’t called ahead. Fiddlesticks. Did I mention that we’re not supposed to have pets?

I pressed myself against the wall then dropped on all fours to crawl across the living room so she wouldn’t see me. My plan was to go out the basement door and meet her in front. If I could distract her from going inside or looking at the windows, maybe I could prevent her from seeing the cats who would undoubtedly be pressing their noses against the windows watching to see what might happen next.

She had other ideas. She met me halfway around the back. We chatted briefly while she took photos of the peeling exterior paint. She said she was glad to meet me finally. I didn’t correct her. We actually met two years ago when I met her in the Kroger parking lot to get the lease and keys to the house.

Why does it feel like my life is resembling a bad sitcom more and more?

4. I tried to be calm and nice, but I ended up muttering fuck and bursting into tears while talking to the travel agent whose unpleasant task it was to tell me that Chloe’s plane ticket is nonrefundable. Oh, that fine print. I know.

Okay, who in England wants to host my kid from July 10 – August 10 because we’ve just paid an extraordinary amount of money for this damn plane ticket for which Delta can’t see their way to refund the money? She can au pair for you. She can clean. She could easily learn to drive on the other side of the road, if necessary. If it goes well, you can even keep her. She doesn’t eat much. Toss her  a bagel or a scone and she’s good for a day.

The travel agent was nice about it. The kindness of strangers and all that. (insert sound of grinding teeth)

5. I wiped my tears and emailed Cambridge a very professional sounding letter begging for a refund of Chloe’s deposit. I emailed a nastygram to Chloe. (Careful here on your comments, I’m allowed to beat up on my kids, but you aren’t, also, parental sanctimony isn’t a great idea today. Thanks.) Fingers crossed that Cambridge will be reasonable because right now I’m not feeling terribly reasonable.

6. Why can’t I be one of those people who can’t eat when they’re upset because the last couple of weeks would have been guaranteed to have helped me shed twenty pounds. But no. Of course not. In my head, problems are solved by copious amounts of sugar and fat. Please pass the bacon and chocolate ice cream.

7. Good thing I bought that bottle of wine.

8. There are many good things amongst the wacky, the unfortunate, the frustrating. I received another delightful treat in the mail. Teri Carter, of The Carter Library, sent me a handbag, a pocketbook, a purse and a bag. Some of them even came with their own bags. They’re an assortment of colors and styles that will up my panache factor in ways I cannot even begin to tell you. I’ve had great fun modeling them for the cats and anyone else who will look. I even include accompanying music in the form of hummed I Feel Pretty!

For now I’m carrying the blue Coach bag. The color says Spring and all my stuff fits into it with room to spare. If I try, I bet I can even fit that bottle of Malbec in there. Thank you, Teri, for thinking of me. I appreciate it very much.

9. Now I wish I’d gotten two bottles of wine. Maybe I’ll take that Coach bag back to Kroger and see how many Malbec bottles it will hold. A couple of nights in the local lock up might do me some good.

10. I’m reading The Memory Palace by Mira Bartok. Here we are again at the issue of perspective. As bad as things may seem, one can always find someone who’s having or who has had a harder time of it.

That doesn’t mean I won’t be swimming in the bottle of Malbec with all the self-pity I can muster. Let’s not give me more credit than I deserve. It just means I understand that my bad is someone else’s are you fucking kidding me, you drama lightweight?

Sally forth, my loves, using whatever coping mechanisms you trust. Whats new?

>You wander around on your own little cloud

>

Wild strawberries galorious.

Last night, the girls and I watched part three of South Riding on PBS in the living room while MathMan and Nate interacted with the Bulls game in the bedroom I share with MathMan and his growing collection of Calculus books. When the program ended, we got sucked into a special on Petula Clark. None of us could explain why we continued to watch, but there we were – watching until the very end. Inertia is a powerful force especially on a Sunday night.

I knew so little about Petula Clark, this woman who sang the song I heard every time I sat waiting for my orthodontist to get off the phone (he was usually discussing his boat) so he could peek into my mouth and issue directives to his posse of hot babes with bitchin’ wedge hair cuts, clad in uniforms the color of Necco Wafers. Adjust that, remove this, tighten this wire.…. They carried out his bidding with painful precision while I winced, tried to fight the tears that sprang to my eyes and reminded myself that a dazzling, straight smile was worth it. Plus my mother always took me to Skyline Chili afterward. So worth it.

I always left with either Downtown or Georgie Girl stuck in my head for the remainder of the day. This didn’t make being thirteen years old any easier.

While we watched, we discussed the songs (Chloe correctly noted that Ms. Clark had about six hits that she sang over and over on those funky TV specials), the hairstyles, the costumes and the background dancers. I decided that Ms. Clark would have done well to fire her stylist. I don’t care if it was the sixties.

Petula Clark was quite the outlier. During the British Invasion, she was the PTA Mother to the hippies and mods. I mean, what in the hell was Donovan on? But there was Petula in her Paul Revere ponytail and flowery gown singing about where we can go to forget all our troubles, forget all our cares. Exception to the rule that she was, Petula Clark gave the world a song that, even forty years later, is guaranteed to worm its way into your brain and stay there. I can’t think of a single song that Donovan sang despite the fact that he had a better hairstyle and cooler clothes.

Of course, I’m still singing Downtown today. The cats are providing backup. I love it when they’re willing to play along. And they look smashing in their Mondrian outfits.

********

Speaking of orthodontists, you should see the hate mail from Nate’s orthodontist. They want their entire payment before they’ll do any more work on the kid’s teeth. Well, yes. That’s practical and realistic. I can’t make the $155 payment most months and they expect me to yank $3,000 from somewhere. It pains me greatly to send them dribbles of dosh, but I am not going without a place to live, electricity, water, gasoline, the phone, food, and natural gas in order to pay the orthodontist bill. I’ve offered to work as an indentured servant until the bill is paid in full, but so far no dice. Anyway, the hate mail contains colorful threats. They’re going to ruin our non-existent credit or worse. What’s worse? Jail? I hear it’s being done.

This is frustrating, of course, because we’re contrite non-payers who didn’t include the orthodontist’s bill in our bankruptcy because we intend to pay when we have money and who, when we agreed to put the braces on Nate’s teeth, had twice as much income and always fully intended to make those payments. As much as I don’t want to stiff a small business person, I really don’t appreciate being threatened.

Meanwhile, Nate may wear these braces until the glue holding them on finally dissolves over time. I can’t imagine the adhesive is meant to last more than twenty years or so. The brackets will fall off sometime in his early thirties, I suppose.

He’s thrilled about getting a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records for being the person who wore his braces the longest ever.

He’s such a sunny side of the issue kinda guy, that Nate.

********

The revisions on my manuscript continue, although operations have moved indoors. Funny, when we lived in the Midwest, this temporary weather setback would have sent me into a chill-induced Blue Period. Here I welcome the break from last week’s searing heat. Oh, perspective, how I love you.

While I work on the story, I’m thinking about movies. I’ve been watching more than usual. Most of them aren’t of the blockbuster genre. The Boys Are Back with Clive Owen. Summer in Genoa with Colin Firth and Catherine Keener. Please Give, another movie featuring Catherine Keener with Oliver Platt and cameos with Sarah Vowell and the guy I always think is Oliver Platt, but isn’t. He’s the guy who was in Grounded for Life, not Oliver Platt. Sometimes my brain connects two people and it’s hard to sever those connecting threads once they entwine.

None of these movies are neat and tidy at the end. They illustrate the complex and often heartbreaking act of being human. Ugly and beautiful. Empty and full. Something to celebrate, something to smother.

What does this have to do with writing? Buckets. Buckets and buckets and piles.

********

From the mailbag, I want to share with you some treats we received from Summer. Such sweet goodness. And tea. Delectable tea named after one of my favorite cities. I guess share with you isn’t quite accurate. It’s a photo. If you want some of these, you’d better get here quick. We are not big on moderation.

Thank you, Summer. We’re grateful for your kindness.

Seize the moment.  Remember all those women on the Titanic who waved off the dessert cart.  ~Erma Bombeck

What’s been your biggest surprise lately?

>Yesterday, Today, Hopefully Tomorrow

>

There’s a whole lotta this…

And this….

You?

>I am the id to your superego

>

I’ve been taking photos of flowers.

Pardon my hyperbole, but I have the best dang friends. Rulebreakers, the lot of you. And thank you for that. Thank you for the emails and Facebook comments when I wouldn’t let you comment on that last post. Today I’m still as dull as ever, but feeling better even if the house is shrouded against the predicted heat. Man, I hate having the house closed up and worse – hate shutting blinds and putting up curtains (or makeshift curtains) – but with predicted highs near 90 degrees, it’s either that or be a whining puddle of perspiration by 2p.m. because that thermostat is set at 80 and it’s staying there even if I have to break every bone in Sophie’s fingers. (She’s the thermostat fiddler around here.)

Such is my cross. There are people without enough food to eat, Lisa, you goon.

But back to my friends. They offer understanding, care, their stories of similar feelings. There really is something to that old adage Misery loves company. It really is nice to know you’re not alone while you’re in full wallow mode. Unless, of course, thinking you’re alone is part of the fun.

I also received a gentle ass-kicking from a friend who’s been in and out of my life for longer than I care to mention. If you’ve read the Ethan stories under the Little Love Stories tab, you already know him. His real name is Craig and, aside from MathMan, he’s probably my best friend. While this might seem odd and dangerously dangerous due to my proclivities toward bad behavior, it’s turned out surprising well. Plus and bonus, he lives an ocean away so safe gets even safer. Add to that the fact that I’ve sworn off cybersex because typing all those mmmmms and oh yeah, babies, right there gets so bloody boring. If I’m going to type out a blow job, I may as well – – – oh nevermind.

Anyway, Craig read yesterday’s post and got in touch with me via Skype. Shortly into the conversation, he made an important point: If MathMan had gone quiet, couldn’t I offer him some understanding? Wasn’t there a better way to handle things?

“Let’s see, he’s working three jobs, money is tight, his wife can’t find a job, he can’t finance his daughter’s trip to England or even pay the rest of her tuition and, you said it yourself, it’s that time of year with the end of school stuff. That shit is hard on a man.”

Who asked him anyway?

Of course he’s right. He then went on to note that we’re doomed as a species because of our horrible communications skills. “Someone wants to talk when the other person doesn’t want to listen. Women want to vent while men want to jump in and fix things. We’re a mess.”

When the man is right, he’s right.

Thinking about what Craig had said, I did the simple thing. I asked MathMan how things were going. And he told me. I swear this relationship stuff can be so easy if we’re not stupid about it.

Which brings me to Mother’s Day. I’m just going to say this – I motherfucking hate that day. And MathMan summed up why. “I can never get it right,” he growled at me after I fussed that it was just another day around here. No gift, two hand written cards, which were lovely, but I opened them in between running the restaurant and doing another load of laundry. I couldn’t go on Facebook because of all the dumbass Mother’s Day posts. I pretty much stayed off the blogs, too, because I was busy being angry and giving my family the silent treatment.

We went to a matinee showing of Water for Elephants and on the way there, I read a book because I didn’t want to be myself – I’m a terrible backseat driver to MathMan. With added snark for giggles. I thought I did really well, but when I related this bit of family trivia to Craig as an example of how I’m trying to do things differently, Chloe, who was in the room at the time, reported that I couldn’t help myself.  As MathMan barreled down on the stopped traffic ahead of us, I repeated the word “brakes” without ever looking up from my book. Fuck.

But I really hate that day. Who am I kidding? I a total curmuddgeon. I’m not fond of any holiday and partly because of the highflying expectations for magic and, oh god, I am my father’s daughter.

The highlight of Mother’s Day may have been dinner on the deck with Sophie and Chloe. Sophie is having trouble finding reading material that suits her and holds her attention. At twelve going on fifty-three, she’s a tough nut. Chloe rummaged through the box of books she’d lugged home from school and came up with Jane Eyre, Chronicle of a Death Foretold and Eve Ensler’s I Am An Emotional Creature. Really.

Sophie opened Jane Eyre, cocked an eyebrow and closed the book. Chloe clucked her tongue in disgust. “You have to get through the first part. And just ignore the marginalia.”

“What’s marginalia?”

“The stuff I’ve written in the margins.”

As an aside to Chloe, I said, “I want to make a joke about the marginalia I added to Stephen Elliot’s book.”

“Mother, you’re forgetting that you’re the mom, not the friend,” she replied with a hint of a smile.

“Is Stephen Elliot the guy who’s into S&M?” Sophie laid the book on the table. Jane Eyre couldn’t hold a precious candle to Stephen.

Chloe turned and gave me a look.

“Point taken,” I said.

Chloe read to us from Jane Eyre. I really like being read to. Sophie declared the book beyond her grasp and asked if we had any Agatha Christie. What a kidder she is. I also gave her A.A. Milne’s The Red House Mystery so here’s hoping. Too bad I don’t have any adult Judy Blume or Sidney Sheldon she can find and read on the sly like I did at her age. I wonder if my old copy of Flowers in the Attic is in one of those boxes in the garage?

We’re watching too much political television around here again. Could that be it? Anyway, Chloe noticed yesterday that Howard Dean appears to have lost weight. MathMan mentioned that Newt Gingrich has gained weight or, porked up, as he put it so eloquently. I keep track of Howard Fineman’s haircuts. Frankly, I liked it when his hair curled at his collar. It was middle-aged Jewish guy sexy and I’m into that obviously.

A text exchange with another friend also reminded me of how social media has changed the way peer pressure continues into adulthood. Before Facebook, twitter, and blogging, I suppose, lots of us went to work or did our thing around the house, and at the end of the day, did whatever we did, but most of us weren’t interacting with a handful or more of people unless one was lucky enough to be a regular at a bar or gym or a joiner of clubs. Okay, well, I wasn’t. I went home, did the housework, lavished my kids with fifteen minutes of attention, watched television, read or dicked around in the garden. Aside from not wanting to assault the world with my face without make up or the stray pube at the public swimming facility, I didn’t much care what other people thought about me. Sure I followed the social norms to get by at work, but I didn’t much follow the crowd. Hell, I didn’t even know which crowds there were. I was in the phase of life where you just don’t care. You don’t even care that you don’t care, you’re so busy. Peer pressure was mostly a curse of the teen years.

Now peer pressure is served up in the form of Facebook, Twitter, and the other social media that create the brackets around our lives. Were you a shit heel who didn’t offer all your fb friends a happy mother’s day? I was. The hell with that peer pressure that can render things pretty meaningless after a while. I called my mother and left her a voicemail. Want to know where I got my attitude about holidays? You don’t have to look far. Growing up, we just didn’t make a big deal out of things in our household, if you know what I mean.

And while I’m at it – um, listen, it’s Facebook – noting the fb is redundant. See, there I go. It’s like repeating the word brakes except someone should be saying that to me and my mouth.

And what about this #FF bullshit on Twitter? We sure can take something fun and easy and load it with all kinds of obligations in no time flat, can’t we? I mean, I get it. It’s a way of giving, but criminy, can’t anything just be fun without being weighed down with all this Have to stuff? I quote Steve Martin in the movie Parenthood “My whole life is have to” which was more true when I had a paying job, but you should see the frowny face texts I get if someone’s favorite pair of socks aren’t clean so I stick by that quote.

Why can’t we just leave well enough alone? 140 characters, light, fun, maybe profound, if you’re into that, a link to something you found interesting, but do we have to create structure and rules? Yes, yes, we do. It’s how we know what to do next and with which hand to do it. And how not to wear white shoes while doing it, too. Unless it’s between May and September. Wheat and chaff and all that. I’m chaff, nice to meet you.

I think my inner anarchist needs some Funions and red pop to make her quiet down.

I never should have turned on the television this morning. The things you see. Our elected dumbasses (possibly my new favorite word) running around repeating their new favorite catchphrase “An adult moment.” I’m sure someone or three hundred and sixty-seven someones have already made this joke on Facebook and Twitter, but An Adult Moment for me would probably include the typed out blow job (referenced above). And I sure as hell don’t want to pay taxes on that. Unless I’m making over $250k and then go right ahead and tax dollars 250,001 and above because I’m reasonable even if foulmouthed and vulgar.

Your turn. Unleash your inner (fill in the blank) because I think I’ve said more than enough.