Does this outfit make me look fat?

On the way out on my shopping trip Sunday morning, slightly hung over and a bit short on sleep from the night before, I was thinking that love is exhausting and that perhaps chocolate might do just as well for the endorphin rush. That was before I tried on bathing suits in front of a three way mirror. It was the same sort of shock the ground hog must feel upon seeing his shadow and realizing there would be at least six more weeks of deprivation before spring. Even though chocolate is only a distant memory, I can see clearly that our relationship was lengthy and damaging. I put on my clothes, gathered up the shopping bags I had accumulated, left the pitiless skimpy garments in the dressing room, and headed for home. My ever solicitous husband greeted me at the door with a hug and kiss, taking note of the pink striped Victoria’s Secrets bag. I came out of the bedroom a few minutes later and modeled one of my new black bras and panties with the tags still attached. He was appropriately appreciative of the, shall we say, “presentation quality” of the garments. I snuggled with him on the couch and he asked if I had gotten the bathing suit I went out to buy. I relayed my frustration about the try on process and he sweetly reassured me that I looked wonderful. By way of encouragement, he pulled up a picture on the laptop from last year when I was 90 pounds heavier. I countered with another when I was 40 pounds lighter and thirty years younger. I whined a bit about wanting everything now, being tired of the constant diet and exercise, and then, without thinking, I baited an old familiar trap. I told him I would love to have a cup of tea and one of those wonderful ginger cookies from Colonial Williamsburg. We buy them every time we visit, but he swore he had no recollection of them. Then, although he was toggling between Nascar and basketball, the man offered to drive the 60 miles down there and get me some. It sounds like a sweet gesture right? Well, women are f-ing hard to please now, aren’t they? I explained gently and sweetly that he was an enabler and that just because I said ginger cookie, I didn’t actually want one, wouldn’t eat one if it was in front of me, and would be furious if he brought any home. I’m not sure if he actually understood or if he was just humoring the girl in the sexy underwear, but he thought for a while, and then offered to get me a cup of tea. I gave him a kiss, thanked him kindly, and got up to make my own cup. He’s learning, and I think I’ll keep him, but the man doesn’t even know how to turn on the electric kettle. I’ll save that lesson for another day.

BLOCK BUSTERS

The realization finally hit me Thursday morning as I stepped out onto my front porch on the way to work and saw the two big ass Chevy trucks under my neighbor’s carport—I officially live in a red neck neighborhood. I should have known when the new folks moved into the house on the other side of me, the ones who tied their vicious dog to the clothesline and ignored him when he barked twenty four seven. I sort of got used to the dog eventually, but the African American family that lived on the other side of them didn’t. They left after a few months, and were replaced with a man who operates a bulldozer and has a lot of missing teeth. I know this sounds bad, but I should mention that the houses in our area are valued between $400,000 and $500,000, which is fairly high end for Richmond suburbs. I certainly don’t want to give anyone the impression that I don’t respect hard work, but the shirt collars around me seem to have morphed from white to blue while I wasn’t really paying attention.

My old neighbor, the one who lived in the spot where the white dog now runs back and forth barking, was a liberal democrat like myself. The black neighbor, who lived where the heavy equipment operator now lives, was reared in bad old Virginia. He went door to door shortly after he moved in to take the temperature of the neighborhood. For some reason, perhaps his formal but humble demeanor, I entertained him in my front parlor rather than the kitchen table. I still think of that, and wonder if I was being respectful, or if I have some subtle hidden prejudice. I believe if he had come a second time we would have sat around my table over coffee, but no matter how often I asked he and his wife to stop by, our relationship was confined to chats in the yard and waves as he passed by in his car. I have not asked any of the new folks over, although I did my usual and carried baked goods to their doors by way of welcome when they arrived. Unlike my liberal democrat friend who had a key to the front door of our house, the new folks don’t even know that a key is not necessary, since we only lock the doors about once a year.

(note: I want a paragraph break here, but evidently new Blogger does not, so I give up.)

My middle son, the eternal pessimist, was not at all reassuring when I mentioned my discovery. “Mom”, he said with a duh in his voice, “You have always lived in a redneck neighborhood from the time you were a child in Kentucky.” I protested, and he started telling me about friends he had played with when he was younger who were evidently the biggest group of peckerwoods since the Hatfields and the McCoys. No rose colored glasses for my lad; he just calls them like he sees them. I started thinking back and wondered if I have let the few liberals I associated with lull me into thinking the world around me was more enlightened than I projected. I didn’t ask son about this, because I already know his opinion. I guess he could be right, but since I have no control over yesterday I will just deal with the reality of today, those big ass trucks with the extended cabs. I am dangerously close to sounding like a bit of a bigot myself, but having had my fill of good old boys in my younger days in Podunk KY, I had thought to put the past behind me and move in more sophisticated circles. Although I am a little ashamed to say so, the time to get this house on the market has been moved forward. I sure hope there’s another moderately wealthy redneck out there looking for a new place to park the Chevy, tie up the dog, and play “If I’d shot you when I wanted to I’d be out by now” full blast on the truck radio while he overhauls the engine.

With Your Shield Or On It

I am letting my husband sleep this morning for selfish reasons. He has been so ever attentive that I have had no time to write or read or even think about anything but our rehabilitated relationship. It will take some time to get a prospective on this transformed husband I seem to have acquired. My left shoulder aches from sleeping inextricably trapped in his arms at night. We have been out four nights this week, and my lungs are filled with stale smoke from the bars, my feet blackened from dancing for hours in my socks on the cobblestones in Shockoe Bottom, and my diet compromised with a lot of Guinness, Harp, Stella, and other lagers. I can see clearly that I have a problem with too much happiness. I must have become comfortable with my general level of background angst, enough so that it seems like a void in my life when it is missing. I have lived long enough to know that these honeymoons do not last; that no one has to rush out looking for tragedy, as it will find you no matter how well you think you are hidden.

The rush to tragedy in mind, I have tried to write about the wedding of our friend’s son for my family blog, but the opinions I have about the war just overwhelm me. I don’t want to sound critical of his choices because I truly respect the courage required to place your life in harm’s way. I equally hate the fact that young men give their bodies to be weapons of the war, and cannot comprehend that he can leave a beautiful young bride alone to travel around the world to kill men he does not know, and cannot ever understand. In this war they are called “ragheads”, but in previous wars they were called “gooks”, “huns”, “nips”, “krauts” and a thousand other names, but never, never the accurate term of “men”. They cannot kill men and sleep at night in the scorching desert heat. When this boy was a year old I watched his parents pull him protectively away from the danger of a sharp edged coffee table. I now watch in amazement as they show a fierce pride that both their sons are Marines; that their precious boy could go and die for some cause I do not grasp.

That’s all I have, no answers, only questions. I doubt that anyone will be surprised to find that I come from a long line of strong opinionated women. My grandmother told me that she remembered a feeling of relief when women finally got the vote, because she knew it would be an end to war. She had tons of suffragette sheet music in the bench of the pump organ that sat in her parlor. She taught me to sing them along with her as she played enthusiastically on that beautiful Victorian antique. Much of it spoke to the belief that women would not send their sons to fight a war, but of course she did not have the opportunity to study history like her grandchildren. Since the time of Sparta there have been plenty of mothers who felt their patriotic duty more strongly than their maternal instincts. My own sons do not know how thankful they should be to their fierce great grandmother, the first of many fiery Aries that seem to be karmatically placed in my life. She was the reason I stepped up to protest Vietnam, the reason I actually cursed at the military recruiter who tried to get my son to enlist when he was still in high school, the reason none of my children ever considered a career in service.

How to reconcile the sweet nature of my dear friend to the image of the Spartan women remains a mystery to me. Her father was career military, a Colonel in the army. Her husband volunteers to don uniform and take the place of a young soldier in Afghanistan each holiday season, so some other mother’s son can be with family for Christmas. These are the friends I hold most dear of any I have known in my life. Our children have grown up together and we have shared each other’s joys and sorrows, but we all have an implicit understanding that we do not critique each other’s lifestyle. If anything happens to the boy I have know since the moment of his birth, my grief will be as if he were one of my own. I listened silently as my friend told me about the best man at the wedding, the one who will have the back of her own child when he travels to Iraq this month. He is soon to be on his fourth tour and is only home recovering from wounds. With a bullet in his body, he killed eight “ragheads” in a firefight some months ago. His wife is expecting a baby soon, but he will not be home to see his first child born. I listen to the words, showing only the emotions she wants to see, but in my heart I cry silently, and I wonder where the war will be when his baby turns eighteen.

Sign of the Times

Things have changed since I was last at Virginia Beach. Evidently family values are being trotted out to discourage people doing what they have been going there to do for at least 70 years, get seminude and behave badly. I spotted the evidence on every block of the main drag of Atlantic Ave in the form of “no cursing zones”. Seems the city wants to be a bit more ball gown and a bit less bikini. Instead of trying to go upscale, I just wish the little city by the sea would realize it is a bit of a tart and just act appropriately. Oh, I’m not at all sure who came up with the idea to keep traffic and people separated with this little number, but damn, I mean dang, I'll just let it speak for itself.

Boys will be boys (and girls will be girls)

Forgive me father for I have had impure thoughts about men the age of my children. It's not my fault though; they were Marines in dress uniform, in the best physical shape they will ever be in their life, all heroes fresh from the fight. Sigh. I kept my hands mostly to myself though, because my husband was ever attentive and danced with me a lot. Okay, there was that little incident at the bar with the best man (far left with the microphone), but it wasn't me that made the first move unless you count putting my drunken self in close proximity to his arm. I think he was just being friendly when he said his wife was very understanding, you know, conversational stuff. My husbands though it was funny when he caught me, but the old girls in the group were scandalized by my demeanor. Yeah! One of them told my husband that he really ought to control his wife, and she didn't even see the incident at the bar. My husband told them that I was under no ones control but my own, but I would be going home with him that night, so not to worry. The old boys were not scandalized in the least, according to what my husband told me later. They were just wishing their own wives were not quite so well behaved. One of them said to me that I must have been very good to get the ring, and I immediately replied, "or very bad." My husband scooped me up and kissed me when I reported that bit of news and laughed his butt off the rest of the way home. I will tell the rest of the story when I have time, but the weekend was jammed packed with action, Comcast was having issues when we got home Sunday night, and last night was our actual anniversary so I got taken out again. Hope your weekend was half as much fun as mine.

I'm easy to get along with but don't mess with my coffee

Why am I not surprised that ants with substance abuse problems ended up on my kitchen counter? On days when I do not use my French press to make coffee, translation, days when I am running late for work, I have a cheerful, high tech, red and black Mr. Coffee patiently awaiting my whims. This morning was one of my busy days, but I was stopped in my tracks by an unwelcome guest. Even though I am vegetarian, I do not hesitate to squash lower forms of life that invade my kitchen, so be warned. I killed the first tiny black ant by my sink and scanned the counter with an eagle eye. There is never just one ant, so I took a look around and killed several more. Job accomplished, I pulled Mr. Coffee forward to fill it with water. Arguh! Hundreds of ants were scurrying in circles where the base of the pot had recently rested. After 15 seconds of death from the sky, all of them seemed to be gone. I washed the little dots of their bodies down the drain with no regrets, but when I lifted the pot to check again, there were just as many as before! The smash and rinse continued along with a bit of shaking of the pot to extract them all from the base. They had been there sucking up the remains of the last batch, and trotting anxiously back to their secret underground chambers. I imagined the queen sitting down there with a headache, and what passes for a grouchy face in an ant, demanding her caffeine fix. I suppose she’s all but given up on finding sugar in my house again and has turned to the only alternative available. What she’s going to get from me today is tough love. It’s for her own good. After the massacre is mopped up, and my coffee is at last ready, a few gulps of the hot strong heady brew starts my brain working. I suddenly realize the implication of ants in my kitchen, be they caffeine crazed or just seeking sugar. Although frost sits on the brown grass outside my window, the trees still denuded and stark, it is official. The first tiny harbinger of spring has come to the south. February is dead and gone and March moves forward with haste. Any day now there will be crocus and jonquils blooming by my back doorstep. The winter of our discontent is almost over.

I'm engaged! Oh, wait...

He didn’t say a word. He just put it in front of the computer screen in the media room so I’d be sure to find it when I got back from work and the gym. I have been worrying the empty spot on my finger continuously for all these months, and now I’m trying to get used to the weight of this new stone on my hand. I’m posting this right above Micky in the trap and can’t help wondering if it might have been a more appropriate picture for this news. I’m not saying I’m not happy. I’m just saying that this happy makes me nervous. In your comments you can tell me why I’m an idiot for feeling uneasy about the détente we are experiencing.

What Have I Gotten Myself Into?

In the first flush of the relationship I told my new personal trainer last night that I would meet her at 7:30 Friday morning for the Pilates class. She told me it wasn’t necessary and that I could wait until next week to start, but it sounded so good at 7 pm Thursday night. It must have been some sort of exercise high that was speaking, but whatever it was I do know that at 7:15 am I was in front of the computer instead of going into the door of the gym. I’m one of those strange people who never sets an alarm clock. My body just seems to know what time it is and when I need to get up. Friday morning my body told me something else at 5 am. It said, “Ouch, ouch, ouch, stay in bed! I hurt.” My brain told me that although the sweet little blond trainer didn’t look like the devil, she was definitely going to be the one I need to hold my feet to the fire. I went into the gym with my head down at 6 Friday evening and did an hour of cardio, longer than my usual 30 to 45 minutes per day, but I was trying to make amends. I saw my trainer Christy on my way out. She said nothing, and was probably not thinking of my absence in her class, but of course, I had to explain and apologize. She asked me if I was sore from the day before and I denied everything, not really lying you know, because I had mostly worked out the misery during cardio.

“Well, great” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow and we can increase the weight and the reps!” My vanity just got me in trouble again. I’m off to the gym now to be tortured some more. Hope you all have a wonderful Saturday and that I’m still able to walk when my husband takes me out tonight.