I had the greatest grandparents EVER. There are few things I would fight over, but I would cage fight anyone who suggested otherwise. Each grandparent provided me with different things I needed to grow up relatively sane, but my father's parents provided me with something unique: farm animals.
Nanny and Grandaddy farmed forty acres in Drew, Mississippi. After my parents' divorce, they would drive 25 miles to meet my mom and pick me up and take me to the farm for the weekend. There I learned key skills like how to call bobwhites, catch catfish, and pick figs. I don't use any of those skills currently, but they are ready to be whipped out as needed.
Their house was a steady stream of basically feral cats that my grandfather could get to sit beside him and be petted. My job was to name them. Smokey, Midnight, Spunky (the Mike Tyson of the cat world),plus innumerable visitors. One of those visitors regularly had kittens in the back storage building, and those kittens were regularly eaten by some wild animal. In fifth grade, I wrote an essay about the decapitation of the kittens that would probably get me referred to a psychologist today, but at the time I was fascinated by the fact that coyotes came in the yard overnight to catch them.
My grandfather was particularly indulgent of my desire to have pets. Lots of pets. One of my earliest memories is going to the hardware store on Main Street where there was a big box of baby chicks and being told to choose one. I grabbed a loud, polka-dot chicken and spent the next weekend loving him to death. I carried him around by his HEAD. My mother was horrified, but my grandmother was rooting for him to die. This was because I had trained him to ride around on my head, but anytime I sat him on her, he would crap. Like crap his whole body weight.
Of course, Spotty grew up. And I must have caused him brain damage because he grew up MEAN. My grandparents ended up with an attack chicken. He chased off all the farm cats. He would fly up, spurs out, into the face of a dog the size of a German Shepherd. He terrorized the bantam chickens. He chased cars. If a rooster can be evil,he was evil. By the time he was grown, the only thing he was scared of was a broom. When Nanny would go out to hang the laundry, she would carry a broom in her hand and she would have to watch under the sheets to make sure he was not doing some special forces sneak up on her. If he was, she would drop the basket and swing at him like Babe Ruth. Whenever, we would need to go to the car, Grandaddy would open the door and tell us to RUN. He chased my father up a tree and we had to go and sweep Spotty away. Grandaddy, who was perhaps the most sincere Christian I have ever known, used to look at Spotty and say he should take him into the ring as a fighting rooster. Finally, though, Spotty did the unthinkable. He attacked me. I was out in the yard playing, and he came up and drug his CLAWS down the back of my leg. I had a scar for years.
The next weekend when I went to my grandparents, Spotty was gone. I asked Grandaddy where Spotty was and he told me he had given him to the "colored man" (this is 1974) down the road who needed a rooster. The next visit when I asked about Spotty, I found out that Spotty was no more. Apparently when he killed two of the man's "setting hens" instead of fertilizing some eggs, Spotty was fried for Sunday dinner.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Dreams and space walks
Oh, it only takes 5 months to come up with something to say. I have a nasty case of bronchitis right now, and I am taking way too many drugs for it. Finally after 4 days of not sleeping longer than 45 minutes at a stretch, someone told me, "Oh, the steroids are doing that." Hm, guess that is why the drugstore gives you a list of all the side effects to read and maybe I should not be so anxious to recycle it next time. So, tonight I am not going to take the steroid before bed and pray that I get sleep.
Here is the problem with sleep, though. I DREAM. My dreams are so complicated and detailed that sometimes I wish I could wake up with a flow chart describing them because they rarely have anything to do with reality, and I am pretty sure that Freud wouldn't touch them and he would just send me to a padded room. For example, last night. Last night, I dreamed that I was a nurse. Fine, I completely stink at sympathetic care, BUT I was wearing one of those cool little white hats that nurses don't wear anymore. The weird part was I was a nurse who followed an anarchist band of people around and helped all the people that their destruction hurt. The leader of this band was a boy who lived down the street from me when I was a kid, and his name was Glen Campbell in the time when the other Glen Campbell of Rhinestone Cowboy was famous. Glen was a child that I am betting would get lots of IQ tests that proved he was brilliant today while at the same time recommending Prozac or Ritalin or some such, but growing up I just thought he was a little bit crazy in the best possible way because he knew all the words to Pink Floyd's "The Wall." It is perfectly logical that Glen would be the leader of this anarchist group because he and I used to play a game where we would throw knives at each other's feet and place our foot where the knife was until we would end up in the middle splits and the person to fall over first "lost." Glen and I climbed many trees, played many a game of hide and seek, and then when I moved away, we lost touch. I saw Glen 8 years later, he acted like he didn't know me. Broke my heart because Glen had been the first boy to ever ask me to couple skate and the first boy to pop my bra strap the very day I first wore one. So, anyway, I am following this anarchist gang around and the main objective of this group was to eliminate the Marlboro Man. I don't know why, either, but whenever a cigarette sign got blown up, fireworks went off, and I could watch them from the tower that was only accessible through my friend Melissa's parents' closet. All of this is happening in Leland, Mississippi.
And then I had a new nightmare. I dreamed I was an astronaut, which is ridiculous because I have absolutely ZERO interest in how most scientific stuff works. So, of course I was on the space shuttle and I had to a space walk and my cord connecting me to the space shuttle got cut so until I woke up for the eighth time that night, I was slowly dying in space. Awful. However, the zombies of several months ago have not returned, so I will take my blessings.
When I was little, I watched a movie of the week about the nuns that got killed in El Salvador in the early 1980s. This was the first step on a path that I am still stumbling down where I am sure that I am supposed to some kind of mission work. It doesn't necessarily have to be religious, but the problem is that the idea of danger is kind of irrelevant, too. When I told my mom that I wanted to go and help these nuns, my mother pointed out 1) I am not Catholic 2) the nuns are dead 3) you aren't allowed to go to El Salvador while under my care. So, my new crazy plan is I want to go to somewhere and teach English. Our book club is reading this book called Half the Sky, and there are all these horrible stories aboout how women are mistreated around the world, and I realized that I really want to take a couple of months to go somewhere and teach English. My problem is I read the paper and think, "I should go to Yemen." I have not suggested this to my husband yet, but I imagine he will respond much as my mother did.
That is all. Can't promise I will write again within the next five months.
Here is the problem with sleep, though. I DREAM. My dreams are so complicated and detailed that sometimes I wish I could wake up with a flow chart describing them because they rarely have anything to do with reality, and I am pretty sure that Freud wouldn't touch them and he would just send me to a padded room. For example, last night. Last night, I dreamed that I was a nurse. Fine, I completely stink at sympathetic care, BUT I was wearing one of those cool little white hats that nurses don't wear anymore. The weird part was I was a nurse who followed an anarchist band of people around and helped all the people that their destruction hurt. The leader of this band was a boy who lived down the street from me when I was a kid, and his name was Glen Campbell in the time when the other Glen Campbell of Rhinestone Cowboy was famous. Glen was a child that I am betting would get lots of IQ tests that proved he was brilliant today while at the same time recommending Prozac or Ritalin or some such, but growing up I just thought he was a little bit crazy in the best possible way because he knew all the words to Pink Floyd's "The Wall." It is perfectly logical that Glen would be the leader of this anarchist group because he and I used to play a game where we would throw knives at each other's feet and place our foot where the knife was until we would end up in the middle splits and the person to fall over first "lost." Glen and I climbed many trees, played many a game of hide and seek, and then when I moved away, we lost touch. I saw Glen 8 years later, he acted like he didn't know me. Broke my heart because Glen had been the first boy to ever ask me to couple skate and the first boy to pop my bra strap the very day I first wore one. So, anyway, I am following this anarchist gang around and the main objective of this group was to eliminate the Marlboro Man. I don't know why, either, but whenever a cigarette sign got blown up, fireworks went off, and I could watch them from the tower that was only accessible through my friend Melissa's parents' closet. All of this is happening in Leland, Mississippi.
And then I had a new nightmare. I dreamed I was an astronaut, which is ridiculous because I have absolutely ZERO interest in how most scientific stuff works. So, of course I was on the space shuttle and I had to a space walk and my cord connecting me to the space shuttle got cut so until I woke up for the eighth time that night, I was slowly dying in space. Awful. However, the zombies of several months ago have not returned, so I will take my blessings.
When I was little, I watched a movie of the week about the nuns that got killed in El Salvador in the early 1980s. This was the first step on a path that I am still stumbling down where I am sure that I am supposed to some kind of mission work. It doesn't necessarily have to be religious, but the problem is that the idea of danger is kind of irrelevant, too. When I told my mom that I wanted to go and help these nuns, my mother pointed out 1) I am not Catholic 2) the nuns are dead 3) you aren't allowed to go to El Salvador while under my care. So, my new crazy plan is I want to go to somewhere and teach English. Our book club is reading this book called Half the Sky, and there are all these horrible stories aboout how women are mistreated around the world, and I realized that I really want to take a couple of months to go somewhere and teach English. My problem is I read the paper and think, "I should go to Yemen." I have not suggested this to my husband yet, but I imagine he will respond much as my mother did.
That is all. Can't promise I will write again within the next five months.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Turning 40 and empty nests
This year I turn 40. I have been dreading this for a good five years now, so I am fully confident that when I get to the other side of that number I will realize that life has not ended and I am just in a new marketing demographic. The part that makes it tough for me is that it is also the year that I get an empty house. The youngest goes to kindergarten, the middle one is wrapping up his elementary career,and the oldest to middle school. It signals an end to a period of life that seems to have lasted forever, being a full-time stay-at-home mom. I just realized that I have been caring for kids for as long as it took me to get from kindergarten to college, and that was an eternity when it was going on and still seems like it was too two days longer than forever to get through. Now I realize that in an additional twelve years, I might be a grandmother (please,no), but I really will be an empty nester. Since Stefan is twelve years older than me, that will be the year he can also seriously consider retirement.
I am all over the map about this because somewhere in all of this caring for other people, I disappeared. Of course I dreamed about getting married and having kids, but somehow it never occurred to me that that would be ALL I did. I have never held a "real" job, made a major purchase on my own, or even traveled to a place that was where only I wanted to go. I have had a fabulous life for which I am completely grateful, but it is time to make it more mine and less everyone else's. So that is what I am dedicating the next twelve years to - being selfish, getting a big girl job, shoving the chicks out of the nest, and traveling somewhere that does not come with the Disney Channel.
Speaking of chicks leaving, I am at a complete loss as to why the Bunny is so thrilled about going to middle school. Does a LOCKER contain that much allure? She has studied her combination with far more dedication than she did one test in elementary school. Does she not know what is coming next? All the weird growth that is about to happen all over her body? That her hormones are about to take her on a ride bigger than any roller coaster? That her peers will start forming wolf packs that roam the halls looking for the weak to devour? That her hair is about to become a SERIOUS ISSUE? Nope, not the bunny. She has always been delightfully indifferent to her peers' opinions on most things and suddenly she is lying out outfits for the week. She has a secret crush, her first crush since preschool. Her father choked when I told him that, but I reassured him that she has excellent taste in men since she is following her mother's role model. I stare at awe at this person who still truly loves me, but she really doesn't seem to need me like she did.
Meanwhile, her brothers' are completely indifferent to the beginning of school. Monkey Boy refused a haircut, so he will be Cousin It the first few days so people will be able to recognize him. Boo's only concern was that he can't remember his kindergarten teacher's name. I have pushed him suddenly to learn how to write, but once again, my husband's genes have overcome mine and he will have handwriting indecipherable in any language. They are also like their father that once they leave my presence, they completely forget my existence. The great thing about this is when they DO see me again, it is always with a look of delight that they had forgotten something they like so much. Which is, of course, why disappearing for twelve years really was worth it.
I am all over the map about this because somewhere in all of this caring for other people, I disappeared. Of course I dreamed about getting married and having kids, but somehow it never occurred to me that that would be ALL I did. I have never held a "real" job, made a major purchase on my own, or even traveled to a place that was where only I wanted to go. I have had a fabulous life for which I am completely grateful, but it is time to make it more mine and less everyone else's. So that is what I am dedicating the next twelve years to - being selfish, getting a big girl job, shoving the chicks out of the nest, and traveling somewhere that does not come with the Disney Channel.
Speaking of chicks leaving, I am at a complete loss as to why the Bunny is so thrilled about going to middle school. Does a LOCKER contain that much allure? She has studied her combination with far more dedication than she did one test in elementary school. Does she not know what is coming next? All the weird growth that is about to happen all over her body? That her hormones are about to take her on a ride bigger than any roller coaster? That her peers will start forming wolf packs that roam the halls looking for the weak to devour? That her hair is about to become a SERIOUS ISSUE? Nope, not the bunny. She has always been delightfully indifferent to her peers' opinions on most things and suddenly she is lying out outfits for the week. She has a secret crush, her first crush since preschool. Her father choked when I told him that, but I reassured him that she has excellent taste in men since she is following her mother's role model. I stare at awe at this person who still truly loves me, but she really doesn't seem to need me like she did.
Meanwhile, her brothers' are completely indifferent to the beginning of school. Monkey Boy refused a haircut, so he will be Cousin It the first few days so people will be able to recognize him. Boo's only concern was that he can't remember his kindergarten teacher's name. I have pushed him suddenly to learn how to write, but once again, my husband's genes have overcome mine and he will have handwriting indecipherable in any language. They are also like their father that once they leave my presence, they completely forget my existence. The great thing about this is when they DO see me again, it is always with a look of delight that they had forgotten something they like so much. Which is, of course, why disappearing for twelve years really was worth it.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Low level Weirdness....
Went to Mississippi again. It was not weird, which makes it weird. Met no crazy people, but that may have been because I only associated with people I have known for more than 20 years. After that length of time, you kind of lose your sensitivity to their particular weirdness.
But there was one person - I discovered that someone I know in Greenville is a vegan. This is sort of like finding Mormon missionaries in Kabul. I imagine the difficulties are approximately the same. I have known this man for approximately 25 years, but until the visit, I never realized how much I liked him. It isn't often you can meet a man who can take a conversation from an ashram in India to a urinal story involving Lamar Alexander and Ross Barnett. Ross Barnett was MS's famously racist governor from the 1960s who pledged to keep Ole Miss lily white and which resulted in the National Guard visiting Oxford. Mississippi, of course, named its' capitol city's water source after him. Anyway, he was telling a story about when he was growing up he went from having CNN's Ted Turner as a big brother at boarding school to having Mr. Plaid President-want-to-be Lamar Alexander as his fraternity big brother. Well, because his family has roots so deep in Mississippi that they probably walked the real Natchez Trace, his family knew everyone, including Mr. Barnett. So, he (I need to come up with some distinctive name, so I will call him Walker) is standing at the Cotton Bowl with Lamar peeing in the 1960s. Well, he looks over and Mr. Barnett is peeing on the other side. So, after making introductions along the lines of "Politician meet future politician," Ross, without skipping a beat, swaps hands he is using for his package and reaches across Walker to shake Lamar's hand. Lamar waited until after soap. Makes me like Lamar just a tiny bit. Anyway, in addition to Walker knowing the universe in Mississippi, he has also traveled a lot, including time on an ashram where he became familiar with the Swami who moved to Oregon with all his Rolls Royces and attempted to poison the town's drinking water. Walker "didn't like him."
So, the other day I made my mom cry. This is not new, but she gets really, really upset about how much I hate Greenville. She tells me I will never be happy anywhere I live, which is completely possible, but I do, honestly, strongly dislike my hometown. Talking with hubby and friend one night, we were talking about how much we liked college vs. high school. Hubby and friend's wife were in favor of high school, and I said, "I would rather eat my own eyeballs than go back to that time." What I have come to realize is that I always felt like people around me growing up were only interested in their tiny little portion of the world, and anything that disturbed that or was different or forced them to change was BAD. Girls making good grades is BAD. Religious curiosity is BAD. Voting Democrat if you are white is EVIL. There were a couple of times when I heard and saw stuff this visit that were so racist and ignorant that it took my breath away. That was appalling, but more appalling to me was my unwillingness to address those comments and attitudes. I was completely willing to walk away, which made me feel like I was back in 1986 and living there again.
This sounds so judgmental, and I know I am, but it really isn't a Mississippi overall thing. It is the only place I know all the bugs and trees. I spend hours trying to figure out how I can justify to my husband the need to buy land and plant a pecan orchard in Mississippi. He can't do it because it would mean he never had another bit of dietary roughage and he is quite proud of his colon's health. And it is hot. And he doesn't understand one word anyone says to him. We were sitting on our porch at the Shack Up Inn, and I said, "I can't believe I have nothing to do." And he said, "Sitting here in silence and sweating IS doing something." So, that is what I did this trip. Sweated. Is that the past tense of "to sweat"?
Oh, here is a project for you. When you travel, always be sure to check out the magazine rack in the gas stations. You can learn so much about the community that shops there from it. One place in Tennessee where we stopped apparently likes only these things: 1) Female genitalia. Lots of porn magazines focused below the waist. Boobie fans are out of luck. 2) Marijuana. I learned there are 4 magazines that specialize in it. 3) Ty Pennington, the host of Extreme Makeover. They keep back issues in case your collection is not complete. 4) The stars of Disney. These were arranged between the titties and the marijuana, which kind of frightened me. 5) Hairstyling magazines like you find at Supercuts. That was it. Not one monster truck, hunting, cooking, travel, or current events magazine, but I now know that Selena Gomez broke up with her boyfriend AND there are lots of animal names used for girl parts, but which are necessary to know for understanding the covers of the gentleman's publications. So, while you are waiting for your child to choose the sugar bomb that will make him talk without breathing for 2 hours in the car, you might want to learn something new from the magazine rack.
But there was one person - I discovered that someone I know in Greenville is a vegan. This is sort of like finding Mormon missionaries in Kabul. I imagine the difficulties are approximately the same. I have known this man for approximately 25 years, but until the visit, I never realized how much I liked him. It isn't often you can meet a man who can take a conversation from an ashram in India to a urinal story involving Lamar Alexander and Ross Barnett. Ross Barnett was MS's famously racist governor from the 1960s who pledged to keep Ole Miss lily white and which resulted in the National Guard visiting Oxford. Mississippi, of course, named its' capitol city's water source after him. Anyway, he was telling a story about when he was growing up he went from having CNN's Ted Turner as a big brother at boarding school to having Mr. Plaid President-want-to-be Lamar Alexander as his fraternity big brother. Well, because his family has roots so deep in Mississippi that they probably walked the real Natchez Trace, his family knew everyone, including Mr. Barnett. So, he (I need to come up with some distinctive name, so I will call him Walker) is standing at the Cotton Bowl with Lamar peeing in the 1960s. Well, he looks over and Mr. Barnett is peeing on the other side. So, after making introductions along the lines of "Politician meet future politician," Ross, without skipping a beat, swaps hands he is using for his package and reaches across Walker to shake Lamar's hand. Lamar waited until after soap. Makes me like Lamar just a tiny bit. Anyway, in addition to Walker knowing the universe in Mississippi, he has also traveled a lot, including time on an ashram where he became familiar with the Swami who moved to Oregon with all his Rolls Royces and attempted to poison the town's drinking water. Walker "didn't like him."
So, the other day I made my mom cry. This is not new, but she gets really, really upset about how much I hate Greenville. She tells me I will never be happy anywhere I live, which is completely possible, but I do, honestly, strongly dislike my hometown. Talking with hubby and friend one night, we were talking about how much we liked college vs. high school. Hubby and friend's wife were in favor of high school, and I said, "I would rather eat my own eyeballs than go back to that time." What I have come to realize is that I always felt like people around me growing up were only interested in their tiny little portion of the world, and anything that disturbed that or was different or forced them to change was BAD. Girls making good grades is BAD. Religious curiosity is BAD. Voting Democrat if you are white is EVIL. There were a couple of times when I heard and saw stuff this visit that were so racist and ignorant that it took my breath away. That was appalling, but more appalling to me was my unwillingness to address those comments and attitudes. I was completely willing to walk away, which made me feel like I was back in 1986 and living there again.
This sounds so judgmental, and I know I am, but it really isn't a Mississippi overall thing. It is the only place I know all the bugs and trees. I spend hours trying to figure out how I can justify to my husband the need to buy land and plant a pecan orchard in Mississippi. He can't do it because it would mean he never had another bit of dietary roughage and he is quite proud of his colon's health. And it is hot. And he doesn't understand one word anyone says to him. We were sitting on our porch at the Shack Up Inn, and I said, "I can't believe I have nothing to do." And he said, "Sitting here in silence and sweating IS doing something." So, that is what I did this trip. Sweated. Is that the past tense of "to sweat"?
Oh, here is a project for you. When you travel, always be sure to check out the magazine rack in the gas stations. You can learn so much about the community that shops there from it. One place in Tennessee where we stopped apparently likes only these things: 1) Female genitalia. Lots of porn magazines focused below the waist. Boobie fans are out of luck. 2) Marijuana. I learned there are 4 magazines that specialize in it. 3) Ty Pennington, the host of Extreme Makeover. They keep back issues in case your collection is not complete. 4) The stars of Disney. These were arranged between the titties and the marijuana, which kind of frightened me. 5) Hairstyling magazines like you find at Supercuts. That was it. Not one monster truck, hunting, cooking, travel, or current events magazine, but I now know that Selena Gomez broke up with her boyfriend AND there are lots of animal names used for girl parts, but which are necessary to know for understanding the covers of the gentleman's publications. So, while you are waiting for your child to choose the sugar bomb that will make him talk without breathing for 2 hours in the car, you might want to learn something new from the magazine rack.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Topless bathers and peeing in the ocean
We are back from yet another trek across the ocean. Growing up, I never went on vacation really. Going to Jackson only happened twice in my memory, and that was only 1.5 hours away. You went to see your relatives an hour away once a year. The only times I left Mississippi were when I went to visit my father, and among my group of friends, I was exotic because I was the only one who had ever been north of the Mason-Dixon line. I went to the beach twice before age 18. None of this is a complaint, but rather an observation as to how different the lives of my children are from my own. When you ask Bunny where she wants to go next year for vacation, the answer is inevitably, "Venice." None of my children consider going to Europe every single year a vacation. It is just a long trip to see the family with the perk of 8 straight hours of watching TV on a plane without mommy making them stop to eat, blink or sleep. And a grandmother who will let you eat 5 pieces of cake at one sitting. So, I find this somewhat disturbing to hear the five-year-old say, "Spain is hot and boring." WHAT? I don't know how to cope with this - all this travel is inevitably making them smarter and more worldly, but will there come a day when they look at something amazing and don't feel a sense of awe anymore? I think soon we will have to take them either the "supersights" route to the Eiffel Tower, the Empire State building, and the Taj Mahal, or the natural route like Victoria Falls or the Grand Canyon before they are impressed. They have no sense of 1,000 year old history being really old and rare. They don't even know how crappy the beaches of Spain are compared to Florida's because they have NEVER BEEN THERE. Well, Miami Beach doesn't count because that is just as weird as going to Spain.
As to the Spanish beaches and European beaches in general, I think it is important to clear up a misconception. All the women going topless. Honestly, think about this. How many women do you know that are not on a reality show that you really want to see the breasts of? As a woman, do you want to expose even more of your body for critique? As I sit happily on the beach in my burkha (well, the European equivalent, a one-piece suit, EVERYONE wears a bikini, including the men), I must admit I do a lot of looking at boobies. I am generally happy with my own, so this is mainly to determine if 1) this person has given birth 2) this person has original boobies 3) how many layers of support garments are necessary to restrain those bubbies. However, 99% of the time, it is just boring. European women have outstanding body self-esteem, and they really don't care much about how they look either in or out of a swimsuit. Almost all the beautiful people keep theirs covered, as well as all the natives. And I am kind of wondering how you handle it when you go on vacation with friends. When your best friend whips off her top and she has mogambo boobies, is your husband/boyfriend not allowed to notice? And if he does notice, how does he not look repeatedly? I have a suspician at to why all the sunglasses on men in Spain are black. Sometimes, you get a stunner on the beach. I have no idea how old this person was, but if you have ever seen one of those people that they periodically find buried in the bogs of Denmark, you get the idea. Well, this woman was in good shape, about 60 years old (I am guessing) and she had breasts that looked like leather. When she lay on her back they would kind of be stretched taut because all the moisture had been sucked out of her skin years ago, and there was no give. After an accidental glance, my husband was so disturbed he wouldn't even turn his body that way. I am just grateful that the European fondness for weenie bikinis on men seems to be passing. The Spaniards missed the message, but the lily white British men are avoiding it at least, for which I am grateful.
Just wondering. When your son asks if he can pee in the ocean, and he is ten-years-old, should it not follow that means you sit to do it, not that you stand with you back to the crowd and squirt toward the horizon? Is this something I should have to explain?
Spain is lovely. Spain is brown. Spain loves to put plastic greenhouses on every possible surface. Spain is still a country where goat herding is a profession. Spain has signs at every exit to the interstate pointing out you can not ride horses on the interstate. Spain has no sand on their beaches, just tiny rocks. Spain has crappy pizza but great orange ice cream. Spain has a radio station where they play every song from your 1980s prom in rotation. Spanish people love children. Spanish people shut down civilization for a two-hour nap everyday. Spanish people don't hate Americans and don't pretend they can't speak English. Even if you drive to the highest point in the Sierra Nevada, it is still brown. Southern Spain has not one freaking thing to see after you go to Grenada. Gypsies are scary. I lay on the beach and fantasized about going to Morocco. Southern Spain is, sadly, a place that I really have no desire to go to again.
After 13 years of marriage, don't you think one of the two people would remember the date before 10 p.m.? Clearly, my husband is not under pressure to come up with something romantic.
I have to stop reading books. Of course, that would mean I have to watch yodeling on the German TV, BUT it would keep me from going off on crazy tangents. Whatever book I am reading directly impacts my behavior. Survivalist novels result in my hoarding food. Victorian novels will causes words like "prithee" and "verily" to be said at some point. Zombie novels are just too horrifying to comprehend. On this trip, I read a whole bunch of novels that caused me to 1) want to be a cop 2) become obsessed with British imperialism and resolve to determine what the status of the Irish Republican movement is 3) consider dog breeding as a job 4) attempt to understand medieval alchemy 5) willing to accept almost any conspiracy theory out there that doesn't involve Jews or the Romanov dynasty and my person favorite, trying to determine if bilocation is possible. You know when you are simultaneously in two places at once? All the good medieval Saints did it. So, supposedly this event happens when both sides of your brain are both turned on and listening or are "in convergence." No, I don't believe it, but now that the obsession to become a crack shot with a rifle has passed, I am going to go and study the mysteries of the mind. If I show up for a visit unexpectedly, just ask me if it is really me or just my shadow self. Later. All those hoarded dirty clothes followed me from Spain.
As to the Spanish beaches and European beaches in general, I think it is important to clear up a misconception. All the women going topless. Honestly, think about this. How many women do you know that are not on a reality show that you really want to see the breasts of? As a woman, do you want to expose even more of your body for critique? As I sit happily on the beach in my burkha (well, the European equivalent, a one-piece suit, EVERYONE wears a bikini, including the men), I must admit I do a lot of looking at boobies. I am generally happy with my own, so this is mainly to determine if 1) this person has given birth 2) this person has original boobies 3) how many layers of support garments are necessary to restrain those bubbies. However, 99% of the time, it is just boring. European women have outstanding body self-esteem, and they really don't care much about how they look either in or out of a swimsuit. Almost all the beautiful people keep theirs covered, as well as all the natives. And I am kind of wondering how you handle it when you go on vacation with friends. When your best friend whips off her top and she has mogambo boobies, is your husband/boyfriend not allowed to notice? And if he does notice, how does he not look repeatedly? I have a suspician at to why all the sunglasses on men in Spain are black. Sometimes, you get a stunner on the beach. I have no idea how old this person was, but if you have ever seen one of those people that they periodically find buried in the bogs of Denmark, you get the idea. Well, this woman was in good shape, about 60 years old (I am guessing) and she had breasts that looked like leather. When she lay on her back they would kind of be stretched taut because all the moisture had been sucked out of her skin years ago, and there was no give. After an accidental glance, my husband was so disturbed he wouldn't even turn his body that way. I am just grateful that the European fondness for weenie bikinis on men seems to be passing. The Spaniards missed the message, but the lily white British men are avoiding it at least, for which I am grateful.
Just wondering. When your son asks if he can pee in the ocean, and he is ten-years-old, should it not follow that means you sit to do it, not that you stand with you back to the crowd and squirt toward the horizon? Is this something I should have to explain?
Spain is lovely. Spain is brown. Spain loves to put plastic greenhouses on every possible surface. Spain is still a country where goat herding is a profession. Spain has signs at every exit to the interstate pointing out you can not ride horses on the interstate. Spain has no sand on their beaches, just tiny rocks. Spain has crappy pizza but great orange ice cream. Spain has a radio station where they play every song from your 1980s prom in rotation. Spanish people love children. Spanish people shut down civilization for a two-hour nap everyday. Spanish people don't hate Americans and don't pretend they can't speak English. Even if you drive to the highest point in the Sierra Nevada, it is still brown. Southern Spain has not one freaking thing to see after you go to Grenada. Gypsies are scary. I lay on the beach and fantasized about going to Morocco. Southern Spain is, sadly, a place that I really have no desire to go to again.
After 13 years of marriage, don't you think one of the two people would remember the date before 10 p.m.? Clearly, my husband is not under pressure to come up with something romantic.
I have to stop reading books. Of course, that would mean I have to watch yodeling on the German TV, BUT it would keep me from going off on crazy tangents. Whatever book I am reading directly impacts my behavior. Survivalist novels result in my hoarding food. Victorian novels will causes words like "prithee" and "verily" to be said at some point. Zombie novels are just too horrifying to comprehend. On this trip, I read a whole bunch of novels that caused me to 1) want to be a cop 2) become obsessed with British imperialism and resolve to determine what the status of the Irish Republican movement is 3) consider dog breeding as a job 4) attempt to understand medieval alchemy 5) willing to accept almost any conspiracy theory out there that doesn't involve Jews or the Romanov dynasty and my person favorite, trying to determine if bilocation is possible. You know when you are simultaneously in two places at once? All the good medieval Saints did it. So, supposedly this event happens when both sides of your brain are both turned on and listening or are "in convergence." No, I don't believe it, but now that the obsession to become a crack shot with a rifle has passed, I am going to go and study the mysteries of the mind. If I show up for a visit unexpectedly, just ask me if it is really me or just my shadow self. Later. All those hoarded dirty clothes followed me from Spain.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Survival of the Fittest
Has anyone else noticed that the world falls apart in May? Everything except taxes and Christmas happens then. I have been busier the past two weeks than I am in some months. And it is all busy work - signing things, driving to events, moving piles from one place to another (snow shovel under house, box of pool crap out from under house). And then stuff starts GROWING. I have these illusions of having a green thumb, but only in a survival of the fittest sort of way. I am about to dig up my 6th dead dogwood that I have personally planted and promptly killed. I plant stuff and if it lives, great. If not, I don't mourn. However, whatever I seem to plant that does live tends to take over the other three closest plants. So far, I have learned not to plant miniature roses (mine is now about a four food wide bush and took over my herb garden), elderberry (who cares if birds love it? it is bigger than most of my trees and that is after hacking it to the ground yearly) and oregano, which is completely indifferent to dog urine and is therefore inedible but has essentially become ground cover. My rosemary bush could supply an Italian village because it failed to get the message that it doesn't like clay soil. Every year I plant stuff in my little garden and about 90% of that goes to feeding bugs, but the next year I come back and plop more stuff in and repeat the cycle. This year I decided to start tomatoes from seeds. This was surprisingly easy, except what do you do with 10 yellow tomato plants? Do what I did - stick them in the ground, promptly kill 7, then go to the store and buy 6 more tomato plants to replace them. And this year I planted some zucchini, my husband's favorite vegetable right after okra and mustard greens (got those darlings, too). My lettuce is growing nicely and I have lots of peas. My cherry tree may break under the fruit. And the best thing about all of this? They will ALL be ripe while we are out of the country, so the bugs literally will get to eat them. One year we actually wanted our cherries so we covered the tree with a net. A bird still got in and ate EVERY SINGLE ONE and sacrificed at least half of his feathers during his escape. I was mad, but that didn't last long because I had to go and drink a beer so I could have residue to kill slugs. I am so happy beer kills slugs. It is the best of all worlds. I drink enough to make me happy, then use the rest to kill my archenemy. This year I am also growing a very healthy crop of poison ivy. Both daughter and I are allergic to it, so it is someone else's responsibility.My husband, being German, can't identify it so he went out there and pulled up the last batch with his bare hands (honey! There was some vine growing up the tree, but I pulled it all down!), but unfortunately he won't do that for me anymore, so I have to hire "Yard Boy" to come and do it. He will do just about anything for me for $10 an hour, and he is teaching me about "sexting" (no, not to me, just how common it is among teenagers and how my children can sneak things past me) and all the nifty things my phone can do (it has a calendar! it can take pictures!). I love spring. Except for the fact I have to go and battle some weeds now and plant these little plants I grew from seed but don't know what they are. Except they aren't pumpkins.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Vacation torture
If I had lined up every male on the planet 20 years ago and said which one are you least likely to marry, I am pretty sure that my husband would have been that person. Or at least in the small cluster of people that included Kalahari bushmen, Communist Special Forces, and dog chefs of Korea. This is not a negative toward him, but I am pretty sure I would not have given him the time of day because I was shallow as a birdbath. He is the polar opposite of me - not spontaneous, responsible, eats yogurt willingly, puts himself to bed when sick, doesn't like ceiling fans, and is completely indifferent to People magazine. He is what I would like to be more like, but I have decided that I am serving my purpose by letting him live vicariously through me and my escapades. When we were first starting to date, I think he pretty much decided that I was drunk between the ages of 18 and 21, had avoided all contact with nature, went through men like others go through toilet paper, and only read mystery thrillers. There is a chunk (not a grain) of truth in that, so it delights me when I can prove him wrong about ANYTHING or rattle him. Mainly because he is always right. Because he is always right and so methodical that entire decades can pass without a major decision, I love to rock his world. I have managed to do it a few times - the surprise that is Boo, telling him I ran track in high school and seriously thought about going to the United States Military Academy. He hates spur of the moment decisions, which brings me to the whole point of this post. Vacation planning.
We go to visit his family in Germany every year. He grew up in a lovely, charming village in the north of Germany that is primarily an agricultural region. We saw everything remotely interesting 15 years ago, so each summer is a challenge for me to entertain myself. It is impossible to carry the amount of books that Bunny and I need. His parents insist on watching lip-synching leider (folk music) shows with the occasional bike race (note to self - bike racing is more boring to watch than golf or bowling) thrown in which rules out TV even if it is only basic German cable. The local bookstores do not carry any English language journals so it is the equivalent of stepping into a time capsule for the three weeks we are there - I have no idea of what is going on in the world unless he tells me. His mother brightens my day with her cooking so I come home fatter if not happier. One of my favorite activities while there is being a "schnecker jaeger" or slug hunter when I walk around with my salt dispenser. His parents used to have a huge garden so I could at least dig potatoes, but they took the garden away from me about 8 years ago because it was easier to go to the market. My husband knows I do this trip for him and because I love the theoretical concept of grandparents spending lots of time with their grandchildren, so every other year he throws me a bone of a real vacation.
This is vacation year. For unknown reasons, I decided that he was going to do it all. This has been sort of like asking Dick Cheney to mind his own business in terms of difficulty for me. I make graphs of opening times and prices for museums before trips and doctoral dissertations are written based on less research than I put into a vacation. So, he started looking. Every time he came close to making a decision, I would throw out a new country. We tentatively decided on Greece since we knew we would eat the food, it had beaches, and it was fairly cheap. I was strongly advocating for Norway or Morocco, but he more strongly resisted. Germany loves the package vacation and we were going to squelch our individuality and go on a package tour where you got the hotel and food and a beach for the low, low, price...So, husband spends lots of time looking for the perfect place. Then I tell him, I don't know if I want to go to Greece. I want to go to Turkey. In fact, I start looking for HOUSES in Turkey because I don't want a package deal anymore. We figure out that for one week it would be a giant pain in the posterior, so we go back to Turkish package deals. I learned that Russians love Turkish package deals and there were so many complaints about loud, drunk Russians we went back to Crete as the plan. Many, many, many hours into his labor, I get on the internet and say, "Look! Spain is cheaper!!!" He isn't convinced, but then he says, "Grenada! Alhambara!" and we were done. So, smart man that he is he immediately booked the tickets before I could change my mind again. I decided that no matter how miserable I am, I will be able to eat olives and good sausages and drink sherry every day, so I will probably make it. I will just have to avoid the British package travelers. Here is how to find a British female tourist on the beach. There is a better than average chance that she is the topless one smoking a cigarette while lying on her back and dragging her breasts out of her armpits (in their defense, they shave all appropriate areas). In America, she would be in a mumu, but in Europe she will be in a thong. When we went to Crete a few years ago, I realized that I don't like package tourists so I am going to struggle with my prejudices.
So, I am now going to add Spanish to the languages that I need to know but don't. At least I can count to 10 which is more than I had in Italy.
We go to visit his family in Germany every year. He grew up in a lovely, charming village in the north of Germany that is primarily an agricultural region. We saw everything remotely interesting 15 years ago, so each summer is a challenge for me to entertain myself. It is impossible to carry the amount of books that Bunny and I need. His parents insist on watching lip-synching leider (folk music) shows with the occasional bike race (note to self - bike racing is more boring to watch than golf or bowling) thrown in which rules out TV even if it is only basic German cable. The local bookstores do not carry any English language journals so it is the equivalent of stepping into a time capsule for the three weeks we are there - I have no idea of what is going on in the world unless he tells me. His mother brightens my day with her cooking so I come home fatter if not happier. One of my favorite activities while there is being a "schnecker jaeger" or slug hunter when I walk around with my salt dispenser. His parents used to have a huge garden so I could at least dig potatoes, but they took the garden away from me about 8 years ago because it was easier to go to the market. My husband knows I do this trip for him and because I love the theoretical concept of grandparents spending lots of time with their grandchildren, so every other year he throws me a bone of a real vacation.
This is vacation year. For unknown reasons, I decided that he was going to do it all. This has been sort of like asking Dick Cheney to mind his own business in terms of difficulty for me. I make graphs of opening times and prices for museums before trips and doctoral dissertations are written based on less research than I put into a vacation. So, he started looking. Every time he came close to making a decision, I would throw out a new country. We tentatively decided on Greece since we knew we would eat the food, it had beaches, and it was fairly cheap. I was strongly advocating for Norway or Morocco, but he more strongly resisted. Germany loves the package vacation and we were going to squelch our individuality and go on a package tour where you got the hotel and food and a beach for the low, low, price...So, husband spends lots of time looking for the perfect place. Then I tell him, I don't know if I want to go to Greece. I want to go to Turkey. In fact, I start looking for HOUSES in Turkey because I don't want a package deal anymore. We figure out that for one week it would be a giant pain in the posterior, so we go back to Turkish package deals. I learned that Russians love Turkish package deals and there were so many complaints about loud, drunk Russians we went back to Crete as the plan. Many, many, many hours into his labor, I get on the internet and say, "Look! Spain is cheaper!!!" He isn't convinced, but then he says, "Grenada! Alhambara!" and we were done. So, smart man that he is he immediately booked the tickets before I could change my mind again. I decided that no matter how miserable I am, I will be able to eat olives and good sausages and drink sherry every day, so I will probably make it. I will just have to avoid the British package travelers. Here is how to find a British female tourist on the beach. There is a better than average chance that she is the topless one smoking a cigarette while lying on her back and dragging her breasts out of her armpits (in their defense, they shave all appropriate areas). In America, she would be in a mumu, but in Europe she will be in a thong. When we went to Crete a few years ago, I realized that I don't like package tourists so I am going to struggle with my prejudices.
So, I am now going to add Spanish to the languages that I need to know but don't. At least I can count to 10 which is more than I had in Italy.
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