Selfish needs and motorized transport

When I started this blog, I intended it to be a place where I wrote about funny stuff that happened to me and to nurture the illusion that I would actually write something "real" someday. All I can say to that now is "bleh." I can't even remember the last really funny thing that happened to me. I am pretty sure that funny stuff HAS happened, but I think there is a good chance I would not notice. All I want to do lately is bolt and run. Not just from caring for all the crippled folks around (wait, watching a four year old with a full leg cast run is funny, maybe I should make a video), but from anything that vaguely resembles responsibility. I am so overcome with selfish desires right now. Now, I am not talking about standard desires (a clean house, obedient children), I want really selfish stuff that I have never had ANY interest in. All-inclusive vacations, shiny stuff that supports genoicide in Africa, pretty things that look good in Vogue on anorexic people, foods with the first three ingredients to be: butter, cream, sugar. All of this stuff is so foreign to me, yet I want, want, want. I am going to use that as my gauge of when I am happy again, when my desires return to normal: olive bar purchases, a bubble bath, new houseshoes, a complete collection of Bare Naked Ladies CDs.

We are off on a trip again, this time to see my Aunt Becky who I generally refer to as "the family member I have never disliked." This is a good thing since it is my daughter's first name. She married a man named "Boots" who is loved almost as much as she is by my children, and they have a dachshund named Spike who could get work as a footbal lineman. He can take down a full grown person once he hits full speed and he can get Boo airborne. Today Boo was crying after a Spike flight, and when I went outside he was saying, "My leg, my leg!" I had this moment of terror that I was going to have a two cast kid (now THAT would be a funny video), but once I picked the magnolia pod out of his knee he was mobile once more. There is a precedent for this because when I was in high school I had surgery on my right foot for which I needed crutches. Being a stupid teenager, I decided it was a perfect time to learn to ride a motorbike. Unfortunately, I did not get adequate steering directions so I immediately drove into a freshly plowed cotton field, where I went airborne, had the bike land on my good ankle resulting in a massive sprain and making it impossible to walk for a couple of days. And Bunny, true to form, yanked out a couple of teeth when I was in a situation where I could do nothing about it since searching for kleenex at high speeds is probably up there with texting on the list of stupid ideas. She still believes in the tooth fairy (or claims to) and she looked at me and said, "This is a MOLAR. I think it is worth more, DON'T YOU THINK SO, MOMMY?" Five bucks for two. How was that for a run-on paragraph?

Today we went to the "Little White House" where FDR died. I was very impressed with the interpreter's ability to keep a straight face when she said that FDR had not had an affair. Yeah, whatever, she had a bedroom and Eleanor didn't? Figure that one out, ranger lady. I also learned that it would be a very, very bad idea to ever give my mother a motorized wheelchair because once she gets a little speed going, I think she becomes Bo Duke behind the wheel of General Lee. Things like curbs and feet were just soooooo irrelevant. Not that she has tortured me enough or anything, but she now has a torn rotator cuff which may mean surgery. Did no one get the memo that I am NOT GOOD AT NURSING CARE? On the other hand, it would mean a night off while she was in the hospital. This isn't outpatient, right?

I Must Change My Reading Habits!

I think my life must have really begun the day I learned to read. It is what I do to make me happy, put me to sleep, pass time in the bathroom, and get me through long trips. However, I have always had a problem with reading right before bed because most times whatever is the last thing I read before sleep will somehow appear in my very vivid dreams. I can't tell you how many times in my dreams I have been kidnapped or shown up for school in a Victorian gown as opposed to the normal naked.

Lately, in a vain attempt to keep up with popular culture, I have been reading novels popular with the teenage set. The whole Twilight series was consumed in a little over a week. Now, I am trying to catch up on the zombie phase a couple of years after its popularity peak. I have been reading a book called World War Z, An Oral History of the Zombie Wars. This was not a good plan. Last night I actually laid in my bed and looked around my room and thought, "Hmmm, what could I crush a zombie skull with?" Back in the old days, zombies supposedly could be stopped with salt, but according to the new theories, their brains must be destroyed. Decapitation isn't enough unless you also burn their heads. You can't drown zombies, or stab zombies or even pull them apart. A bullet through the brain is what is required.

Before I explain more about my zombie obsession, I must tell you about the other attempt I have made to join in with the popular culture. I love Facebook with a crazy passion. It is as good as email, but with pictures and updates. It lets you reconnect with friends without the real responsibility of true friendship. I am a huge fan of shallow relationships. I have found lots of people that I used to like but had lost touch with, acquired some "new" friends, found all my exboyfriends and crushes so they can't sneak up on me, and acutally found a way to connect with the teenagers I volunteer with through my church that doesn't make them feel weird. I guess I am speaking in their language for a change. Anyway, that brings me to John/Hunter.

During college, I had a lovely boyfriend, who is now a facebook friend, of course. His best friend was John, who sort of epitomized my idea of what cool was supposed to be in college. As a result, I rarely talked to him because I was convinced he thought I was a dork. I guess he didn't because I am now his facebook friend, and I take consolation in the fact that he has possibly sold out even more than I did. At graduation, I honestly thought I would go and live on some organic lavender farm and milk goats and have solar panels, etc. Instead, I am happily middle class, a room mom, and drive a minivan. I frequently have periods of discontent about this, but I cope. However, John lives in a gated neighborhood and is a psychiatrist. I would have called you a liar if you had ever told me he would do this twenty years ago. Anyway, I am finally to the point. John has put Hunter S. Thompson's face as his face on his facebook page which he finally posted two days ago.

So, after sending John/Hunter a message, I sat down to read the Zombie Wars (can't drown them, either). Fall asleep. The wars begin! It was a terrifying dream about Hunter and I trying to fight the zombie hordes. I woke up yesterday exhausted. Now, you would THINK this would make me stop reading the zombie book, but, no, I must find out how civilization makes it. Last night, I read again. Again, I dream about zombies, Hunter (who now has a tank), me (I have a shovel), and just when I thought he has left me dreams forever, the President of Iran was back, trying to woo with me his wife-beater t-shirt and his killer zombie skills. I am so grateful that I have no reason to psychoanalyze this dream, but I really would like to know why these two particular people (Hunter/John and Mr. Iran) won't leave my dreams. I am fully confident I don't have a real interest in them while I am awake, yet I am totally enthralled with their zombie destruction skills while asleep. I want to know why I got a shovel and they got tanks and bombs. I even had a dream conversation with Mr. Iran last night about whether nuclear weapons will destroy zombies. The only thing I know for sure is I am returning that book to the library today. If my other dream boyfriends, John Adams and Emperor Claudius show up, I am going to work on developing an addiction to No-Doz and confining myself to Jane Austen novels.

In Praise of the Average Child

One time one of my best friends, Shelley, was doing a project for grad school. She asked, "What are you most afraid of?" I am pretty sure she wanted something like global warming or poverty, but I answered, "Not having kids." Having children has always pretty much summed up what I wanted from life, and every man I ever dated was evaluated LITERALLY on the first date as to whether he had father material. Fortunately, I managed to pick a husband who was oblivious of all the tests he was required to pass, and he has helped me create three amazing small people.

I supposed I should have been more honest with my friend and said my real source of terror was "Not having a daughter." Even though I have two boys who are as necessary to my life as the air I breathe, it is my daughter who was? is? the culmination of my life's goals. Before we found out the gender of the baby, I told Hubby Dear that if it wasn't a girl, we were going to keep going until we had one, stole one, found one on the street corner. He was the opposite of the "Man needs son" stereotype because he was so relieved our daughter came first. The pressure was off him.

When they handed Bunny to us, I remember feeling like I couldn't breathe. I could not believe that I had created this absolutely unattractive, giant, bald baby that looked exactly like my husband's brother at birth. Then she opened her eyes and looked at me, and it was all over. I have always heard people say "he is an old soul," but our daughter had "old eyes." I honestly believed she already knew more than I would ever learn. The first logical thought I had beyond "DANG! THAT IS A HUGE BABY!" was, "I know why Jewish women volunteered to go with their children to gas chambers." What a joyful introduction to motherhood those thoughts were.

Bunny spent the first hour or two of her life just looking and, in particular, staring at us, and her intense abilities to focus continued for many months. All babies study things intently, especially things like window panes and ceiling fans, but with her it was more like she was watching things we couldn't see. I read somewhere that babies can still see angels, and the more they connect to the world, the more they forget heaven. I truly believed that she was talking to heavenly creatures that I could no longer experience. To this day, she still fervently believes in all things magical, and she has a depth of spirituality that it took me two decades or more to develop.

As she has grown up, I naturally have learned to love her more. Because school was always so easy for me and Hubby was a college professor, I just assumed that my children would find school a piece of cake. Bunny has shown me that you should never assume anything. School was never easy for her, and even now she struggles to make a C in many subjects. Intelligence isn't the question because she already is a true scholar about First Ladies, and I am pretty sure she was the first Eleanor of Aquitaine most people had ever had trick-or treat at their home. Wait until Elizabeth I shows up this year. I imagine she will surprise a few folks this year, too. It is just everything that interests her isn't a part of school or ever evaluated. In addition, she is continuously confronted with the slightly younger brother who thinks school is a joke, plays on a select soccer team, is always faster at understanding and mastering things, and who has never had to struggle for anything in his life.

She is not particularly coordinated, she possesses the artistic skills of her father, and she has the attention span and inability to multitask of her mother. She is just the average kid. She is not the prettiest, tallest, or sweetest. I have always struggled to find a way to communicate to her how absolutely marvelous she is, and how even if all of her friends can swim better, make better grades, draw more elaborately, sing better, and have cuter clothes and cooler parents, she is still the most amazing person I have ever met. She will probably never finish first, play the winning play, or be the star of any show, but she has taught me how to look beyond the flashy, obvious things kids do to find her real worth. She is able to forgive her own flaws in ways I still haven't mastered for myself. She remembers we should call her grandmother to cheer her up. She is the one who notices that the birds are using the dog's dish to take a bath. She can hold a group of toddlers in her thrall when she reads a book. She is never demanding and has more patience with me than I deserve. She is the only one of my children who cares about third world orphans or how to start a laundry machine ("I will need to know this someday, Mom!"). So, as a result of having the blessing of being her mom, I am always going to make an effort to find the kids who never shine the brightest and talk to them. If my daughter is any indication, they will be far more interesting anyway.

Is it possible to have a phobia of buses?

So, I have nothing new to report. Decided to control my ADD by eating an entire bag of York peppermint patties that were also chock full of BRIGHT ORANGE mint filling, so I also got my carcinogenic food colorings in there.

The other day I was thinking, and for once, it was an almost complete thought. It was a thought of how much I hate buses. Not in theory. In theory, I like them. I used them daily the year we live in Sweden, but to get me to use them most other places, I would have to be like Mr. T on the A-team and have to be tranquilized. I have valid reasons for this aversion. During college, I was one of the last people of the previous generation to not have a car. Periodically, my mother would issue edicts declaring that I needed to come home. This did not mean I could count on her to come get me; it simply meant I needed to be in Greenville by Friday night. Most weekends I could find someone to bum a ride with, but on those awful weekends that I couldn't, it meant the bus. The DELTA BUS line. It is really only about a 2 hour drive to Jackson from Greenville, but because it is the only means of public transportation for a vast amount of the state, it is required to stop at every four way intersection or largish gas station in the delta plus an extensive layover in Vicksburg, so generally it took a minimum of 4 hours. I was without one single exception during my many rides, the only "minority" on the bus. I am glad I did it for that reason, but the last trip I went on I woke up to some completely random stranger getting ready to kiss his drunken, drippy lips on me. Some random woman on the bus came to my defense and followed me around the Vicksburg terminal to keep potential molester away from me. I bought her Krystal burgers since she told me she would "protect me."

I recovered from this somewhat, except I noticed that I refused to ride the buses in NYC when I was a nanny. This was in the height of the crack/ice addictions time, and I would rather (and I did) sit near a man talking to his fingers and smoking crack on the subway than get on a bus. However, once again I was required to conquer the Greyhound Demon. When I was a nanny, I temporarily lost my mind (recurring pattern for the next 18 years) and got engaged to my best friend. Not Hubby, my best friend now, a previous best friend. Anyway, I decided that I would go from North Carolina to see him in Tennessee via Greyhound. It literally took 23 hours to get from Roanoke, Virginia to Clarksville, Tennessee. In the intervening hours, I visited towns I have still not found on the map- Brigadoon, Virginia, Butt Crack, North Carolina, and my personal favorite, Knoxville, Tennessee. I was dumped in Knoxville's bus station at 3 a.m. I had been entertained during the trip by the little boy who's mother fell asleep immediately after her butt hit the cushion. Everytime my head would fall forward, he would literally stick his finger between the seats and into my ear. He pulled out enough hair to stuff a voodoo doll. Finally, a soldier who had just been dishonorably discharged and was going home to confront his girlfriend who was sleeping with another man sat beside me, and I got to get my hair pulled out while advising this man that killing the man who was boinking his girl was just a bad plan. If I asked the little boy to stop, his mother would wake up and slap him, which would make him cry, which induced guilt.

So, we are dumped into Knoxville. Knoxville's bus station is not charming. It is even less charming when all the homeless people are using it for their bedroom and bathing facility. I decide that I will go to the bathroom since I had been holding it awhile so I wouldn't have to go in the bus bathroom that clearly had not been cleaned or aired out since the person vomited in it.

So, as I am hovering over the toilet seat (can't sit - this is pre the age of enlightenment about AIDS), I realize that there is literally a crazy (not PC - a mentally ill person not receiving proper care) person is in the stall next to me. She is getting increasingly irate over the fact someone had broken the 13th Commandment and gotten AN ORANGE COMMUNIST MEDAL for it. And she COULD NOT BELIEVE THIS COULD HAPPEN IN AMERICA. I am terrified to leave the stall. Finally, I bolt. I climb on the bus, only to have my friend, the con sailor, decide that I am right. He doesn't need his cheating ho, he is going to try to charm me for the next three hours. Yank - there goes another hunk of my hair. Then, I realize that the woman who is worried about the negative effects of Communism is sitting in front of me and she is still unhappy about it. She begins to cry, which makes me completely unafraid of her. And I realized that she was wearing an Andy Warhol wig, and it made me sad and sympathetic, too. It was the bus ride from hell. It was Knoxville's first nail in the coffin and I am still not convinced that this town isn't full of homeless, mentally ill right-wingers. I am starting to move away from the homeless belief, but the rest is still there. And I won't ride buses unless they have the word "tour" painted on their sides.

Stupid Computer Stalkers

I took a test today to see what my problem is. Not that it is caring for a house and 4 people, or anything, but it really must be an "outside" problem. And, the diagnosis is...I am suffering from adult ADD. Now this is based completely on a 20 question survey on the internet, but it wasn't like it was a waffling answer, it was a "yeah, you are an unfocused, undisciplined, needs to be medicated person. Seek help immediately" and a tiny little stick figure of me. Of course, I was horrified and I went and asked my mother and husband, and they were both like, "Yeah, obviously." Hubby made it worse by pointing out he told me this a year ago, but I thought he was being sarcastic then. I have always defined myself through academics, and I had no idea you could read well and have ADD. However, the "symptoms" do match what I have better than the gall bladder ones. So, if it turns out that I am not mentally ill but chemically challenged, I will be happy. Two years ago on Desperate Housewives, one of the wives started taking Ritalin because it let her get stuff done and at the time I thought, "Gimme, gimme, gimme." So, if it turns out that I am ADD, I will view Lynnette from DH as my personal Oracle of Delphi.

How to Waste Money

Two words: music lessons. I have managed to give birth to three children completely devoid of musical talent. I spent 2 years giving money to a lovely lady so that my children could slaughter the piano (yes, you can make a piano sound bad) and so that they could scream at me all the other days when they had to practice. To their defense, they now can clearly tell what is "good" music, or at least they haven't subjected me to an excess of Miley Cyrus. The youngest, Boo, requests the Beach Boys. Louder. Bunny, the girl child, is the most conventional of my children, and is in the throes of an Abba binge. She got the soundtrack to Momma Mia, which comes with the lyrics, so we spend a lot of time singing, "Take A Chance on Me!" Loudly. Monkey Boy only likes LOUD ROCK MUSIC. For example, his favorite bands are Led Zeppelin and White Stripes. He actually put a Led Zeppelin song down on his "What You Need to Know About Me" questionnaire for the first day of school. Between his music, sports and fabulous hair, he is going to be a babe magnet. If he ever stops whining. Okay, he will be a babe magnet when his voice changes I have been praying for since about 10 minutes after his birth because the pitch of his whine is one that reverberates in your brain hours after he stops making noise. Monkey Boy was the only one of our newborns to complain about his arrival. The other two came out and said, "Wah!" and were done. Bunny spent the first few hours staring at the light, and Boo went to sleep. Monkey Boy complained and complained and complained. Of course, a woman who had a breathing style like Darth Vader was delivering next door, so I cried along with him in rhythm with her exhales and inhales. I was happier when her child was born than when mine was.

Oh, I am not sure what the technical definition of Munchausen's syndrome is, and whether if you don't want to be sick you can still have it. Let me explain. Every time I am put in a long-term stressful situation, I develop an illness. I don't develop a headache, I get really sick. In fact I managed to convince one of my doctors not once, but twice, that I had a brain tumor. In his defense, I had completely different symptoms both times, and each time after I had gotten some big test (a MRI, a CAT scan) that came back negative. I have managed to do this to my new doctor now. I have been having intense stomach pains for about 6 months that come and go periodically, and even though my husband could trivialize them as PMS, they have no relationship to any of that. This month they reached a new plateau where I couldn't talk very much while they were going on and I actually asked hubby to come home from work and be nice to me. The only thing that worked was starving myself and remaining in fetal position. So, new doctor sent me to get TWO gall bladder tests that revealed that not only is my gallbladder healthy, but it is working overtime, and so, once again, I have managed to make myself ill via stress. And guess what? Now that I know I get to keep my gallbladder, I have no pain. I suppose I should be grateful because each "major illness" is not as horrible as the one before, so maybe by the time this is done, my stress will be of the rough skin/hangnail variety.

So, today I had an experience that made me a little sad. My youngest was coming home from school, and he wanted to hold my hand. My hands were full, and I needed to shift stuff so I could have an empty hand. While he was walking beside me, he was running his fingers up and down my arm and as soon as he could slip his hand in mine, he gave me the most beatific smile. I felt really sad because this is my last year as a full-time mom, and the lovebabies are getting just scraps of me whenever I can focus for longer than 10 seconds which happens only on the second Tuesday of the month. The older my children get, the more I enjoy being around them, but the converse side is I am not sure they would say the same. I am pretty sure that my 12 year-old future son will realize that his mother who never shaves her legs because it takes concentration is not as beautiful as she was when he was in preschool. Right now he is wearing his father's glasses and for the first time I can see the man he will become. And my daughter is already telling me my clothes are bad. When she isn't stealing them.

Since I don't have a gallbladder problem, I have also decided that I don't have depression. I am just eating that entire jar of potato chips because it is the company's fault for making them tasty.

Whenever I have a chance to do a lot of reading, I tend to go on "tears" where I only read about that subject. A few years ago I read a book about Los Alamos' founding, so I actually checked out a book on chaos theory. And then when I read about breaking the Enigma code during World War II, I decided that I wanted to learn about secret codes. I know NOTHING about either because I couldn't even understand the dedicatory quote and just called it quits early. So, in the past month I have read all four of the Twilight series (if you know any teenage girl you wish to speak to, you should read these books) which are a love story between a vampire and a human. Fortunately, I already knew everything there was to know about vampires from my previous childhood obsession with them, but somehow it led me to reading about Israeli spies. So, I now have a library book about the history of the Mossad on my shelf, and I read the Jerusalem Post today. It was very National Enquirer because they are obsessed with finding this missing, abused child, and I was thinking, "Have you visited a refugee camp?" but it was as sordid as New York Post. I meant to get to Al-Jazeera's English page because I wanted to see if I can figure out why the Lebanese don't like the Jordanians, and whether all this horrid stuff about the Egyptian Secret Police is true (Guatanoma Bay is preferred to Egyptian prisons), but I didn't to it. I have decided to try and understand the whole Arab-Israeli conflict better because it is key to every foreign policy out there.

I have to go and scream at Monkey Boy now and tell him to stop playing ball since he was supposed to be asleep 45 minutes ago and it is loud. And I won't promise another blog post anytime soon. It is that concentration thing, and I need to make sure I don't have any more new diseases.

Exercise for the Handicapped

Well, to say I have been busy the last few weeks would be an understatement, but I decided to wait until I stopped hyperventilating to write. My mother is here, and it hasn't been the unmitigated disaster I supposed, but let's just say the stress level here is sort of equivalent to the Korean or Iraqi/Iranian borders. We are making it though without the help of chemical or police interventions thus far. And today I taught her how to use a swifter in a wheelchair. If she can mop, she can stay.

The toughest part for me is having to stop being a 50s housewife. My husband likes to deal with all the "stuff" and I like to tend to the kids and bake. It is a beautiful relationship because it works, but unfortunately I can't take on that role with my mom. I have learned how to be patient and assertive and cry on demand, but I am trying to do the assertive more. For example, today I told her job that I refuse to let her "quit" until I get insurance to fully and completely explain the repercussions of this, and since that insurance office is held by an imaginary person who doesn't call back, they can just keep paying her for not working, even if the poor babies in the classroom aren't being taught. And I intend to start paying attention to the stuff around here, too, even if I have no intention of actually tending to it.

Guess what? My hometown of Greenville was mentioned 3!!! times in yesterday's NYTimes book review, or rather, three people from my hometown were mentioned positively in the paper. We have lots of "old" famous writers - Shelby Foote, Walker Percy, etc., but the most famous local running around right now is Julia Reed, who is the lead writer at Vogue Magazine. She has a new cookbook/memoir out called Ham Biscuits, Hostess Gowns, and other Southern Specialties. There is a line in there that I am going to adopt as my motto, "She ain't much in a parlor, but she is hell in a tonk." And everything she says about Pepperidge Farm Thin White bread is true. It is worth the search.

The other thing interesting to me, at least, about this whole caregiver thing is how I have really become aware of the complete lack of gifts I have in this department. I can plow through a to do list, but I can only nurture people who I gave birth to. My husband who had a sickly youth (his mother is fantastically nurturing in the health department) never gets sick anymore. When I asked him why, he said, "Because it is too scary." I guess it is because when I get sick, I want to have someone bring me a glass of water and then not make any sound at all until I am well. No patting of hands, warm soup, etc. Just leave me alone. And, if you need more than that yourself, you better give me clear instructions as to your needs because it will never, ever occur to me. And my mother, bless her, is the exact opposite. She thrives when she is in my company. I finally had to tell her that my fantasy vacation is to go somewhere for 3 days and no one talk to me. When she is better, I am going on a retreat with a bunch of monks. I am trying to find one with a cave, just because I think if I am in a cave, it will be even less likely that someone will come and bug me.

Do you all remember a few years ago when that book The 5 Languages of Love came out? I don't remember them all, but I know that MY language of love is acts of service. My husband will always be rewarded more for mopping my floor than for buying me sparkly things. My sons and my mother are all physical touch love language people. This makes me stark raving nuts. I like the hello/goodbye hug but lots of contact makes me cranky. My youngest child is following his brother's path in that he likes to physically be in contact me the whole time he sleeps. Son #1 almost never immediately sticking his hand up my shirt when he tried to talk to me, but he has FINALLY realized that it politically incorrect to fondle your mother in public. And it can't just be a foot gently touching me for Boy #2. He has to hold on to me and breath up my nostrils. When I try to escape, he murmurs, "oh, mommy, I love you. I love to touch you." This would be creepy except I know the boy is a babe magnet and will soon drop me cold, so I try to enjoy it right now. The whole point of this is I was trying to decide if this was always the case, or a new development in my personality, the anti-touch thing. Well, hubby dear is not complaining, so I decided to ask my college boyfriend about this, and he said, "You weren't particularly cuddly." I find this hilarious, so I think my acutal shirt will say, "Not cuddly, but hell in a tonk."