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."

Blessings Look Different Nowadays

I unpacked 15 boxes today! Actually found a place for every single thing that came out! And I made sure one of them was the liquor box. I have known where it was for sometime, but I did not have it high on my "to do" list, but I was delighted to find out that I have 3 different kinds of whiskey in my house. I like to drink an occasional glass of wine or a cold beer, but those have yeast, and I am not allergic to yeast, so once it was pointed out that whiskey does not have yeast, it was just time to go back to the original drink of choice. I felt a small amount of guilt packing the liquor away in my grandmother's sideboard since she was a teetotaler until the end when the doctor told her that a shot of vodka a day might be good for her heart. She refused to make this better by mixing it with juice, so my mother went and bought her some apple flavor, but she decided since it tasted so much better that it made it even more sinful. I also remember because she was so embarrassed by this medicine, that she sent my poor grandfather who was going through chemotherapy, bald as a rock, and wobbly as can be to the liquor store. As he wove back in forth with his cane trying to get to the door, I remember thinking "He looks like he is drunk, and it is 9 a.m. Like people aren't going to talk about that more." The real issue was no one would ever think Grandaddy would do something like that, but Nanny was mean enough that if she had gone into the liquor store, people would immediately have said she was so cantankerous because she was a closet drunk and was just hiding it.

I have mastered a new skill - the slightly hysterical, overburdened, only you (the listener) can help voice. This is a great tool when dealing with bureaucracy. It is even more effective if you sit with such an angry look on your face that your four-year-old thinks you are mad at him and starts to cry and stands by the phone and asks repeatedly, also with increasing hysteria and volume, "What is wrong, Mommy? Are you okay, Mommy? Mommy, mommy, mommy???!!!???" And then starts crying even louder. I used this trick this morning on the person who I later learned is part of the approval process of my mother getting another week in inpatient rehab, and I am pretty sure she will approve Mama another week for my mother's own safety since they are clearly going to be releasing her to a person who needs high dosage Xanax. Also useful for getting specific rather than vague answers out of various medical care providers.

I am actually doing much better, since I realized that we don't REALLY need that dining room for a dining room and it will make an excellent bedroom. But, then I was horrified to learn that insurance does not like to pay for "durable goods" i.e. a wheelchair, a medical toilet, straightjacket, etc. I went to a support group meeting for caregivers tonight, and even though every person in that room was oh, 30 years older than me, and had their own crisis care situation, they were so happy to give me advice on everything that now I know where the best deals on medical supplies are (answer: Goodwill), but I also learned there are SIZES in everything from the aforementioned toilets to undergarments, etc. And I learned where my mother can go and play bingo, including places that might even giver her a ride. She is doing GREAT and is starting to make significant progress, or at least what counts as progress with a stroke victim. So, until she does something funny, I am done talking about my crisis with my mother. Of course, this means I will be going to MS again within the next 7 days....

Guess What I Found!!!

Now I am in the midst of unpacking, wondering where, when, why I have all this crap, contemplating arson, when I found a TREASURE. I am not a journal keeper mainly because it requires a repetitive action and I have the attention span of a gnat, but I AM a list maker. So, I found a journal that I began in 1987 that has only 3 entries. The first is about my grandfather dying, the second is a list of every boy I ever kissed from 1985 on, followed by a second list with ratings that I maintained through college, song associations for them, and most importantly a KEY and a GRADE. A heart means I actually liked them, a D for intoxication, and a star if I thought it was a decent kiss. No one has all three, I am sad to report. The third page, the true phenomenon, is the poem that I wrote about my obsessions. Tennyson, Sidney, and even Allen Ginsburg need to never worry that I am going to try to have the same job title as them. The funny part for me is that I called these guys "obsessions," and for the ones I can figure out who they are, it was pretty much stalking on my part and no action. Here is an excerpt:

My new love has left for school
It's probably for the best
Cause with those eyes of baby blue,
I'd fail the moral test.

I have ABSOLUTELY no idea who this stanza was about, but I have six more stanzas for which I have figured the name of three. And the other stanzas are FAR, FAR WORSE. There is a line that rhymes with PEW. I think I will have to consult my friends from high school and see if they can remember. And I clearly need to develop some dignity and burn this poem in case it ever should be found by one of my children. I am having more fun with the ratings, trying to remember the where/when/why these poor schmucks deserved passing or failing grades. And these songs - imagine the very worst roller skating song from the 80s and I probably have a dedication for it for one of my ex-flings.

One of the best things about growing up in Mississippi is none of these boys expected anything beyond a kiss, no matter how much alcohol either he or I had consumed. I don't think that is the case today, so I have to make sure that my daughter is not left unsupervised in case she attempts poetry.

Another treasure that returned from Mississippi is what my mother called the "Birth Conrol Jesus," a bad print that used to hang over the couch in my grandmother's house. My mother always said that it was the single most effective thing to guarantee that things never went too far, because if you saw Jesus out of the corner of your eye while snogging with your boyfriend, you just had to stop. I also acquired a giant Elvis poster while in St. Louis, and I am trying to figure out how to fit the Heavenly and the earthly King into the decorating scheme around here. Once I get them hung, I will let you know.

Mama is doing okay. I am calmer. I needed the belly laugh of that ratings list.

I am sick of Mississippi

Guess what! I have been to Mississippi AGAIN. I know for a fact that I have now spent more time in MS in the past year than I have spent in the past ten years combined. We managed to leave St. Louis, for the most part in one piece, way past the desired time, but surrounded by those we had come to love. We arrived back in Knoxville and we were immediately surrounded by people we love at this end. We began to unload the rental truck, the storage unit, etc. Of course, the air conditioner was broken and couldn't be fixed for a week. Got up the next morning for the "real" movers to bring the stuff in. They showed up, and about an hour and a half later, as I am watching my dining chairs leave the truck, I get a phone call telling me my mother is having a stroke and is in the emergency room. So, because I simply can't leave at that moment, and I don't think I will be of any use, I decide to wait until the next day to go.

Next morning when I get up to leave, the engine light comes on. I end up having to rent a car. For some reason, the drive from here, even though it is only an hour longer, seems to take days and days. I arrive just as dusk is setting in, and when you drive through the delta at that time, the bugs sound just like rain on your windshield. Bought a mega-pack of bologna to feed some starving dog with the hope that it will send me some good karma. Dog was happier, but it didn't work.

My mother has had a stroke that resulted in her being paralyzed on her right side. This is horrifying, BUT it is amazing how something like this can knock your perspective around so you can find the good in stuff you would never consider. Here is the good. She can talk. She even makes sense when she talks. Some movement is coming back in her right leg. At the beginning of the week when she couldn't understand everything so well, we spent A LOT of time watching What Not to Wear (I think I need to nominate myself), but by the time I left yesterday, she could follow Law & Order. She is now in a rehab facility, where she will only be able to stay for two weeks in a best case scenario. At that point, I will have to go back to MS, move her out of her apartment, move her here to Knoxville, and well, just see. When I got home last night, husband had tons of questions that started with, "What is going to happen...." and I just stared blankly at him. People are always told they should not worry about tomorrow and just enjoy the moment, and that is what I have learned to do. I will make future plans, but I really can't do it until I know how rehab works. And, thanks to the great state of MS's insurance plans, I have absolutely no idea what will happen afterwards in terms of what they will pay. I am completely flying blind. There are these popular t-shirts in Greenville that say, "Put on Your Big Girl Panties and Stop Whining." So, I have tried to do that, because if I let the tiniest emotion out be it anger, frustration, or tears, I am pretty sure I will have a breakdown in my peach has a bruise on it. For example, yesterday when I was leaving, I realized that my mother doesn't have anyone to do her laundry for her until I come back, so what will happen if she needs a new t-shirt? I hate being an only child - always have, but I really hate it now. However, I am kind of enjoying the power thing - I actually know my mother will keep her promise to quit smoking since unless she learns to teleport, she will not be able to buy any, and since I have the checkbook......power is good.

I am sure that something funny will happen soon, but I have to wait for my children to do something stupid.

Zombies and Freezer Cleaning

Well, we have less than 72 hours left here in the Midwest metropolis of St. Louis, and I am holding up surprisingly well. I have put a moratorium on packing because there are so many boxes piled all over my house that I can't figure out what to do. And, all these boxes are stressing my dog out so much, he is licking all the fur off of his body and developing nervous twitches, so I am chasing him with a broom and dustpan to scoop up the chunks of hair. Don't feel too sorry for him, though, because my guilt about him is being assuaged with giving him quality dog food. Of course, because I am moving, it means I have to clean out the refrigerator, so he is getting lots of people food, too. However, the hot dog I gave him the other day was clearly past its prime because he took it, started gagging, and threw it down on Bunny's art project. She was not pleased. And, the kids are not digging this move, either, mainly because Mommy is only coming in one form - SCREAMING mommy. I wake up freaked out, and it only escalates through the day. And, then, the poor little puppies come and mention the fact they are hungry/thirsty, and I SCREAM, "Can't you take care of it yourself?" In addition to the main food groups of pretzels, apple sauce, vanilla wafers, and canned beans which they can serve themselves, they now pour their own drinks. The other day, my four-year-old climbed up on a cabinet, got a cup, opened the fridge, and poured himself some milk. He was pleased about all of it except the half gallon of soymilk on the floor, but it did remind me that they are not Brazilian street kids and I shouldn't expect them to fend for themselves all the time. Hubby dear is not very excited about my cooking offerings, "What do you mean you don't want Andouille sausage, sweet potato fries, egg rolls, and potato latkes for supper? They are all in the freezer, aren't they? Who cares if they match or cause indigestion?"

So, we have been having a sleeping issue around here lately. The main one is my kids are reading books that are too sophisticated for them, which is resulting in them being freaked out about stuff. For example, do you children worry about Minotaurs? Revenants? Mine do, because they have been reading too many fantasy stories lately. I told my children that zombies are afraid of salt, so Bunny coated her bed with salt and Monkey Boy uses a shaker as his comfort item during sleep. Now, a neighbor who I normally adore, mentioned that salt is not effective for all zombies, so I will have to figure out what to do about the other types. I can't make fun of them, though, because I slept with a foot long, glow-in-the-dark crucifix for two years. And my mother took me to see Amityville Horror when it came out (I was in third grade), and just in case you don't remember, the little girl had an imaginary friend named Lucy who turned out to be a demonic pig. Guess what my imaginary friend's name was? Lucy. That is right. I was then convinced that Satan was personally after me and if I missed one Sunday School session, he was coming in my bedroom window to steal my soul. I was hoping the crucifix worked on both demons and vampires. Zombies weren't a concern, but I have also never seen a zombie movie because I tend to absorb new fears visually.

Off to pack!

Oh, to have a Valium prescription

Went to Mississippi again. Managed to make it down in, oh, 10 hours. Mom asked to see the kids, and as she had cared for my dog for the past month, I decided to humor her and drag them along. What I learned - the piercing whine of, "I have to pee," is even worse than the one complaining of "how long, I am hungry, I hate this song, I am bored, X hit me." And the great thing is, it can go on for many exits. It is amazing how a kid that doens't have to pee at one exit, has to pee once you get on the on ramp and you have to get off at the next one. Well, this got tiresome after oh, 100 miles into the 350 mile trip, so the whine changed to, "Why CAN'T I have anything to drink? I can see the bottle RIGHT THERE. Please, please, please pass me some. I promise to not have to pee if you just let me have one little drink."

When I was in high school, my father was stationed at the United States Military Academy. My parents' divorce wasn't great, but my mother always had no problem with visitation. Basically, one week after school finished, I was sent to Daddy to return one week before school started. They never bothered with holidays/weekends. West Point, NY, 4,000 cadets and me. True, they all left soon after I arrived, but for a few glorious days, it was me and a bunch of men in uniform moving in formation. I loved it, and because of these trips, my accent is not as thick as is used to be. Anyway, I remember after one of these visits, when I returned home, I realized something. New York City radio stations NEVER talk about "pork belly futures". And they never advertise herbicides, fungicides, or insecticides. And no one ever wore a baseball hat advertising seed companies. And, most importantly, no one got to watch this on a regular basis:

crop dusting

I am so immune to them that I didn't even notice until the kids yelled about the crashing plane.

Mississippi isn't perfect, but I realize that one way it is totally in my skull is I only relax in places that are completely flat. And Mississippi definitely doesn't look like this:

Sirens

Why? Well, water doesn't flow in Mississippi. It slides. And there isn't one freaking rock in that state that wasn't brought in from somewhere else. Our gulf coast beach was imported because there are no rocks nearby to make sand.

Our water looks like this:

swamps

or like this:

Catfish ponds

Just so you know, they typically drive a tractor around the pond spraying dogfood in there and the lake looks like it is alive.

Because I am obsessed with beauty pageants a bit right now, I have to tell you a story about one. Growing up, watching beauty pageants was a ritual for me. Loved them. But then one year, Miss Mississippi was in the finals, and her question was about her unusual hobby. It was grappling. Drawing a blank? Here is an instructional video. Skip about 3 minutes in.

Fishing Mississippi style

Oh, and it is flooding a bit in Greenville, too.

floods

The guy doing this is the most irritating person I have seen awhile, but it has some good images of Mississippi.

Delta video

We are going to be moving and I think it is possible I will ignore this blog even more than I have been lately.