Trash and Treasure

Every spring my father would get that nostalgic look in his eye, often over Sunday dinner. I knew the story that was coming but my father had a rare gift. Even retold a hundred times he had such perfect timing that his audience clung to every word. “When Evelyn and I got married I had a brand new 1936 Packard Touring car. It had shades on the back windows….” He went on for some time about the glorious details of what seemed to me a Dr Seuss contraption, the most amazing car that was ever on the road. The story always ended the same, “… and if I had it today, can you imagine how much it would be worth?” I would sigh and grieve with him over the loss, remarkably like his fishing stories, “…don’t know how I let that one get away.” I calculated in my mind how my life would be different if we still owned it. The world would beat a path to our door to stand and marvel, and we would be rich beyond our wildest dreams. I found a picture of one in mint condition on line this morning. It is for sale for $22,500. Yes, my father did have a way with a story.

I thought of him this morning as I tackled an odious task, the cleaning of the garage. Now as far as I can remember the garage only had a car in it one time, back in the eighties when we moved into the house. I remember backing my green Pontiac station wagon into it to unload boxes. I believe some of those boxes were deposited in my attic and have been there ever since. You all must understand by now that I am in a mixed marriage. The husband and I are as different as night and day. In fact he sleeps days and I sleep nights, a perfect incompatibility and also likely the secret of our long marriage. His theory on a successful life is ending up with the most stuff when it’s over. My theory on success is being about to sort out trash from treasure, and coincidentally getting rid of the trash.

We each have a child like ourselves and one that combines our proclivities in a oddly bipolar way. My daughter and I have an understanding that if we want to throw something away we actually have to take it to Goodwill or the dump ourselves, else it will boomerang back to some secret corner of the closet or garage or even the car trunk to prevent it from being lost forever. I realize how much my middle child is his father’s son as I open the dozen plastic tubs he left here when he moved to Seattle. They are a collection of childhood toys, computer parts, firecrackers, gum wrappers, Chinese fortunes, old Victoria’s Secrets catalogues, excreta infinitum.  There is no way to sort through them for him without invoking his ire at some future date, most likely on a holiday when he comes to visit, but I do consolidate them a bit and come up with one less plastic tub.

His father sleeps this morning, but knowing I am cleaning the garage, I am certain it is a fitful sleep. He has long ago given up on trying to stop me from throwing away his collections of plastic bags and bottles, cardboard boxes, and broken or worn out household appliances and goods. I long ago quit asking him if I could discard things. I let him hang on to the jeans and shoes with holes, but I draw the line at broken keyboards and monitors that are incompatible with any of our computers. I do give him a few places to indulge the chaos that makes him happy, his personal closet, a cabinet or two in said garage, his media room where I can close the door. We do not argue about it any longer. In this area of our life together I am determined and he is resigned.

My oldest, the composite child, is moving into his own home this weekend. He and his wife were snuggled comfortably in a lovely one bedroom apartment but one small baby changed that in short order. When he left for the coast some years ago he and my d-i-l discarded perhaps three quarters of their collected stuff. What he could not bear to discard he put in plastic tubs and I think you may be about to guess where those are stashed. I know he choose well on the things he kept. I am thinking of the delight of his son upon discovering a giant plastic tub filled with brightly colored Lego blocks, another with laser tag guns and helmets, not to mention the Lionel train set with all accessories. What he may not know is that under my bed I have hidden his favorite storybooks from childhood, something I simply could not let slip away. I like to think my father would be pleased. 

Household hints from my husband

My daughter’s voice came from the kitchen, “Are there suppose to be flames shooting from the pan on the stove?” She’s had a rough week of working noon to nine in order to train new staff, plus she had a job interview in northern Virginia on Monday morning. She got the news Thursday that she was top on the list of applicants, but unfortunately the contract for the job had been lost.  They told her to check back the first of June. I’m so wondering why they headhunted her if there was a possibility they had nothing to offer. Not that this was the first thing on my mind at the moment.

 I dropped what I was doing and made a “come as you are” dash to the kitchen. I had been in the slow process of getting undressed and the slacks and shoes I wore that day had already been discarded. I had on my white thong and the tight tee shirt I had worn under my jacket at work. I grabbed the pan off the stove and clicked off the burner. My husband ambles in looking sheepish. “I can’t believe I forgot about that pan.”

“What were you cooking,” my daughter asks, gazing at the still bubbling liquid in the skillet. Her father, unabashed, explains his theory on cleaning pans. “I always put a little soap and water in the pan and put it back on the stove. It cooks the grease off.” My daughter stares at him for a second. “My father sets water on fire and my mother is in the kitchen in her underwear. No wonder I didn’t get that job.”

I’m sorry dear. I wanted to give you a normal life. 

My house from Space

There are two kinds of people in the world, ones who have to explain things and ones who don’t. Guess which kind I am?

Okay, I’m going to have a party and you are invited, but we need to get some stuff sorted up front. First, I do not do windows. I want that clearly understood. If you cannot abide the spider web collection in my kitchen windows bring a bottle of windex and some paper towels when you come. Second, the house needs painting, not the brick part mind you, but well, the windows, maybe a door or two. Third, if you are traveling from a distance or plan on being other than sober when the evening is over there are many flat surfaces on which to sleep, but privacy may be an issue. We’re all friends, right?

I know you’re asking yourself, “Now why would I want to attend a party at the home of this compulsive explainer?” I guess I should insert some positive notes. The house will not be immaculate but it will be acceptably hygienic. I am an excellent cook and I will be making fabulous food, food I am not allowed to eat, but you can. There will be too much of it and I will insist on you taking some home with you. There will be wine and beer and soft drinks and whatever you decided to bring. Wine will be served in wine glasses because I have about 500 of them. It’s a long story but I’ll be glad to tell you when you come.

You may get to meet my girl but you may not tell her that I talk about her all the time on my blog. She pretends she does not know about my blog. It’s a game we play. You will certainly get to meet Mr. Spellbound and you will most likely find him charming. You will get to meet my 5 cats and you will go home with cat hair on your clothing. I apologize in advance. Wait, that’s another negative. Did I tell you there will be dancing? I have ordered a warm dry evening and we can dance out on the deck under the starlight. If nature does not cooperate we can dance in the basement unless we have a hurricane. The two hurricanes we had on my daughter’s wedding weekend flooded my basement and the back yard had a river running though it. On a positive note bugs were not as much of a problem as we had anticipated for an outdoor wedding in August.

So, there it is folks, the date is May 16, the time is anytime you get here until you leave, but I might narrow that down a bit later. Breakfast will be served if you stay over. Mimosas and homemade biscuits will be on the menu. I have still not come up with a theme for the event so I may just go with my usual putting lipstick on a pig type of affair. As this is all rather amorphous but I will fill in the blanks as I go. Updates will be posted as things pop into my head. If you are not sufficiently horrified by the length and insanity of the invite put your RSVP in comments and I will email my address.

The only amusing thing about my hotel room Friday night were the toiletries created by obvious bear for my washing pleasure. I must admit it was good to have clear information after a long night lying awake listening to sirens, blaring TV's, and children playing until past 3 am. I  think I got about an hour of sleep between the time those kids collapsed exhausted and a million or so birds started chirping. I finally gave up the sleep thing at 5:30, got up and showered, dressed, and woke a very unhappy husband with the news that we had to leave for the tournament in 15 minutes. It was a long sleepy day, but we both enjoy the friends we have made in the organization and the amazingly creative kids we get to see perform. 

Oddly enough the same husband that had suggested we head for WG's big barn dance in Farmville seemed surprised when I started trying to hustle him out the door to get on the road. We arrived in time for the bake sale and a bit of the dancing and in plenty of time for hugging on friends. 
This is on of the few pics I have of Tiff that is not blurred, and that is not because I might have a bit of wine. She was in perpetual motion all evening. Darryl (Mr Blogbaby) was attending to the bake sale and Tiff was checking to see if her brown sugar pies had sold out yet.

Goodness Darryl if you can't bribe your child with chocolate what's the world coming to?  She did succumb eventually with happy smiles all around. I seem to only have pics of Brook's backside because I might not have been in the best shape for taking photographs. My husband says I did fine dancing however. Well his exact words were, "You never actually fell down." but I take my compliments where I find them. I did wear the wrong shoes, but I changed into flats soon after arriving rather than sink down in the dirt of the barn floor. I was hoping for wood but this was a new fangled metal barn. I did keep my shoes on however which is more than I can say for the owner of these shoes, deserted on the dance floor. 

We arrived home safely about 11 but not before my husband stopped to get me coffee. After drinking it I realized I might need to apologize for stuff I said to Brook and I would if I could remember it. I also should apologize to Monty as I texted him on the way home with the following message. 

Leavingparltyin miive with brook andherhu

Lsband

He says it's no problem, he understood every word. I can't wait to find out what I meant. 

No one reads poetry anymore, pity

A dear friend of mine suggested I share this with everyone. I know I'm supposed to leave you laughing but occasionally I have the need to share something more personal, closer to my soul. The non de plume will be familiar to you I think and now you will know from whence it came. You will also see the date, so those who know me will also know I have reinvented myself since then. Still, spellbound lives always, right below the surface....

SPELLBOUND

 

I ran again in dreams last night, my feet not touching the ground

Barefooted through the clover field

Between the house where my grandmother lived and my own

Back when I was a light princess, free from gravity,

a time traveler headed for the marvels of tomorrow.

 

Waking I find that it is dark and windy

 and I am held to earth by a string so thin and worn

That any minute it may break and I will be tossed and blown without control.

 

Again today I take precautions

So the wind will not lift me

Gathered many sweet and madding weights

and glued them fast onto my frame

and while my voice protests confinement

I've sealed all my escapes with bricks and

Trapped myself here inside protection

So I cannot float away

or even move.

 

 

Winter 2003

It's Always a Good Time for TMI

Saturday I planned to write for an hour and then clean the house. My daughter came upstairs dressed for the gym, with an agenda for the two of us for the day. Body pump at 8:30, a bit of cardio, and then power shopping.  Two malls and many hundreds of dollars later I have one really cute outfit and a few lacy silk items, and she is weighted down with two shopping bags full. 

Not sure how we ended up at the sex shop, I think it had something to do with my daughter wanting a plaid skirt. I had been in Priscilla’s one time before, but going with a companion emboldened me. I strolled over to the toy section to browse and after a few minutes she joined me. I am reaching back into all the books I have read on parenting and trying to form the appropriate words in my head for dildo/vibrator shopping with my adult daughter. Noting comes to mind. Right before the silence becomes uncomfortable the girl says,

“I want one with remote control.”  I doubt that she was prepared for the response that came immediately to my lips,

 “OMG so do I”!  After that icebreaker all vestiges of hesitation were gone. We looped through the store examining and discussing everything. She rifles through the sale table.  We take pictures to amuse our friends. We discuss options (very scientifically) with the little red headed clerk who puts the batteries in our purchases to make sure they work.

An hour later we left the store with a lot of things that used to arrive at people’s houses in “a plain brown wrapper, no returns or exchanges”.  We sat in the car and opened our surprise grab bag, only ten dollars, guaranteed to be at least a $40 value. My girl hands me the one piece stretch lace body stocking and says, “This looks like you Mom.” I think it’s the nicest compliment she’s ever given me. I do hope she intended it to be a compliment.

Both of us were hungry at this point so we grabbed a coffee at Starbucks and walked next door to Panara for soup.  Our conversation is punctuated with giggles. The girl says, “Well, that was an interesting thing to do on Easter weekend.”

I pause with my spoon mid way to my mouth. “Well, it is about resurrection you know.”  We burst into laughter again, turning the dreary day into summer for us both.

Now I need to put on my saucy French maid outfit and clean house. Happy Easter all.

Snickering Hedgehogs and other Imponderables

This was the headline on the email that appeared in my work inbox Friday morning:

ATTENTION ASSOCIATES:  Due to system limitations we were unable to exclude you from this communication.  However, this communication is not intended for you. Please disregard this communication in its entirety.

I pondered over this statement for some time before reading over the remainder of the epistle. Now like most of you, I get a lot of ignorable emails that I delete without reading. Normally this would have been one of those, but because I was told to ignore it I pored over every word, including the unintelligible attached document. It was about some legal issues I had never heard of and did not care to, but the disclaimer at the top compelled me to read. I was almost convinced that I was part of some twisted corporate psychological experiment but finally concluded that no one at my place had enough free time or was clever enough to devise this sort of plot. I determined that whoever sent it was an idiot and I certainly did not have time to entertain it further.

In fact work has been so exceedingly demanding lately even reading critical email is a luxury, but Friday I had a slight respite, as I was the only person in my department. Without interruptions I was able to accomplish much more productive work and even have a few minutes of free time, so I turned my attention to a small personal annoyance that has been plaguing me, a quarter size itchy spot on the inside of my wrist. It started three months ago as a blister of bee sting size and has gradually grown to the point of being unignorable. Being involved in the health care industry I have access to numerous on line diagnostic resources and just enough false expertise to think I can substitute that for a medical degree.

As I stumble about in the TMI graphic pictures of skin rashes, I am astounded and horrified by the pustules and lesions that can appear on the human body. Finally I discover one less horrendous that seems to look exactly like my minor problem. I page through the description and I am smugly patting myself on the back for the genius of my medical expertise until I come to the cause of my condition. The most likely culprit seems to be a fungal infection caused by contact with a hedgehog.

This stops me dead in my tracks of course as I walk backwards through my mind trying to remember any random hedgehog encounters. I know they are certainly adorable creatures and while I would find picking up one irresistible, they are not native to this continent. It seems highly unlikely I have that particular fungi and even if I had I did not know the treatment. It was time to call the doctor. I arrived in his office a few hours later and held out my arm. “Well,” he said very scientifically, “Looks like a fungus.” I am vindicated and braced for his question about recent encounters with hedgehogs when he moves on. “Of course, it could be some sort of autoimmune disorder. Maybe we should start you on a round of steroids.” I start shaking my head no before the words come out of my mouth. Both my husband and my daughter had been subjected to steroid drugs recently and I already knew the side effects.

“What would be the treatment for a fungus?” I ask, still trying to remember the hedgehog encounter.

“Oh, we would use a topical ointment for a week and see if it clears up. I could give you an injection of steroids if you prefer.” I can see he still favors the shotgun approach.

“Let’s try the cream first. If that doesn’t take care of it I’ll consider the steroids later.” I am thinking that I’ve had this for months now and another week is not going to mean life or death. He writes out the script and hands it to me. As he turns to leave he glances over at my iPhone lying on the counter.

“Is that mine?” He looks confused for a second and then realizes he has left his new iPhone on the opposite counter. My doc is a member of my gym and I noted he had been there playing with his new phone recently.

“You would know immediately if you tried to use mine. It’s password protected,” I explain.

“Oh, I just slide mine open, no password. I don’t really have anything on it except porn,” he quips with a wicked little smile that lets me know he’s joking. I think. Leaving the office I marvel at the strange relationship I have with my doctor, a man who has seen me naked, does my annual pap smear and breast exam while making every effort to be professional, and can still kid with me about porn when I have my clothes on. That thought is soon displaced by images of hedgehogs as I drive across the street to the pharmacy.

Back at work I check my email first and my other mystery of the day is still there. I can’t decide if I should delete it or not. Finally with impending meetings in the afternoon I dismiss my hedgehog theories, my young doctor’s porn comment, and my strange email with one final click, thankful that even my mundane world still holds enough mystery and intrigue enough to keep me amused.