Looking over my recent posts, I realize I’ve been negative as of late. I’m sorry.
This blog site, above all, is supposed to be humorous. I love laughing and I love making others laugh, and I’ve been a downer (both in blog world and in person) these past few weeks, er, months.
Somebody I know was just put on an anti-depressant. When I found that out, it occurred to me it’s been a (if I swore, I would insert foul adjective here) year. So, I guess it’s okay for me to be a little crabby and unpredictable here and there. Still, I am vowing to do better – I have too many wonderful people, and too much general wonderful-ness in my life to be down all the time. Things will work out just as they should, and in the meantime, I need to apply the “be a better grown-up” rule to my attitude. But, please note, my sense of humor is dry and cynical, so don’t take my sarcasm as negativity, it’s merely my way of conjuring up a laugh to go along with the lemonade I attempt to make out of life’s lemons. (That sentence made sense to me, go back and read it slower.)
To my friends, family and loyal fans (both of you), chin up.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Let's talk about Socks, baby
(Disclaimer: I love my grandparents and my uncle, I wrote the following only for its comedic value. I realize the character described in the post has become a companion for my grandparents, and I would never want to rob them of that.)
Not the kind that go on your feet. I am speaking of the feline variety. My grandparents’ cat, inadvertently named for the former First Family’s comrade. This cat, Socks, wandered (more accurately, forced its way) into our lives some time back. My uncle, who lives with my grandparents, discovered him, began feeding him, and before long the cat had a permanent home on the screened-in porch, which has been locked from the inside since the cat took up residence therein. Meanwhile, the rest of us are stuck walking around the side of the house and up a dubious, do-it-yourself ramp to the front door. I have fallen down this ramp twice, and at least one of my cousins has fallen. It’s a dangerous ramp, with splintery handrails. Whenever weight is applied to the ramp, a visible gap appears between it and the porch landing, and the ramp itself sways and buckles like the Bay Bridge in a San Francisco earthquake. In the years I lived prior to knowing Socks, I can count on one hand how many times I remember going to the front door of my grandparents’ house. It just wasn’t done. Using the side door adjacent to the driveway was just a part of life. Not anymore, but I digress.
My grandparents don’t like animals. To this day my grandmother refuses to eat food prepared by someone who has an animal in his or her home. I can remember several instances of the city being called out to squelch barking dogs and expel neighboring cat colonies. Being a pet owner, and especially co-habitating with said pet, earned you a place of scorn in my grandparents’ opinion. But, Socks is different, he’s a clean, smart cat.
The whole ordeal started out innocently enough. The cat stayed on the porch because it wasn’t allowed in the house, and if let outside, it would run off or surely be eaten by wild dogs. Fall arrived and the air grew chilly, so soon heavy plastic had been stapled to the outside of the porch. Fair - Socks has to stay warm. That was the first winter. Then things warmed up, plastic didn’t come down. Want to know why? Because the plastic helps keep in the cool air being blown out by the newly purchased window unit. Yes, the cat has its own AC unit.
Now, I will say that although my grandparents had made special allowances for the cat, they held firm to the no-pets-in-the-house rule that had always presided. But soon, the cat was allowed to come in for “visits.” He watched The Price Is Right with grandpa in the mornings, and football with Uncle J on Monday nights. This is how things carried on for a while.
As winter again began to approach, there was a new addition to the “cat pad.” Suspended from the ceiling by two chains hung an electric space heater. There was also a square cut out of the blinds on the porch door, enabling the cat to peer into the living room whenever it fancied.
Socks now has free reign of the home by day. The door is opened first thing in the morning and the cat has claimed its place on top of the guest bed. I was visiting there a week or so ago when the cat rolled over onto its back. I was ordered to tell the cat how pretty he is, because apparently that is what Socks expects whenever he engages in the strenuous task of rolling over and stretching. So, loyal and obedient granddaughter that I am, I relinquished all pride, surrendered my adult card and said to Socks, the cat: “You’re such a pretty cat.” Brent saw me do it.
Not the kind that go on your feet. I am speaking of the feline variety. My grandparents’ cat, inadvertently named for the former First Family’s comrade. This cat, Socks, wandered (more accurately, forced its way) into our lives some time back. My uncle, who lives with my grandparents, discovered him, began feeding him, and before long the cat had a permanent home on the screened-in porch, which has been locked from the inside since the cat took up residence therein. Meanwhile, the rest of us are stuck walking around the side of the house and up a dubious, do-it-yourself ramp to the front door. I have fallen down this ramp twice, and at least one of my cousins has fallen. It’s a dangerous ramp, with splintery handrails. Whenever weight is applied to the ramp, a visible gap appears between it and the porch landing, and the ramp itself sways and buckles like the Bay Bridge in a San Francisco earthquake. In the years I lived prior to knowing Socks, I can count on one hand how many times I remember going to the front door of my grandparents’ house. It just wasn’t done. Using the side door adjacent to the driveway was just a part of life. Not anymore, but I digress.
My grandparents don’t like animals. To this day my grandmother refuses to eat food prepared by someone who has an animal in his or her home. I can remember several instances of the city being called out to squelch barking dogs and expel neighboring cat colonies. Being a pet owner, and especially co-habitating with said pet, earned you a place of scorn in my grandparents’ opinion. But, Socks is different, he’s a clean, smart cat.
The whole ordeal started out innocently enough. The cat stayed on the porch because it wasn’t allowed in the house, and if let outside, it would run off or surely be eaten by wild dogs. Fall arrived and the air grew chilly, so soon heavy plastic had been stapled to the outside of the porch. Fair - Socks has to stay warm. That was the first winter. Then things warmed up, plastic didn’t come down. Want to know why? Because the plastic helps keep in the cool air being blown out by the newly purchased window unit. Yes, the cat has its own AC unit.
Now, I will say that although my grandparents had made special allowances for the cat, they held firm to the no-pets-in-the-house rule that had always presided. But soon, the cat was allowed to come in for “visits.” He watched The Price Is Right with grandpa in the mornings, and football with Uncle J on Monday nights. This is how things carried on for a while.
As winter again began to approach, there was a new addition to the “cat pad.” Suspended from the ceiling by two chains hung an electric space heater. There was also a square cut out of the blinds on the porch door, enabling the cat to peer into the living room whenever it fancied.
Socks now has free reign of the home by day. The door is opened first thing in the morning and the cat has claimed its place on top of the guest bed. I was visiting there a week or so ago when the cat rolled over onto its back. I was ordered to tell the cat how pretty he is, because apparently that is what Socks expects whenever he engages in the strenuous task of rolling over and stretching. So, loyal and obedient granddaughter that I am, I relinquished all pride, surrendered my adult card and said to Socks, the cat: “You’re such a pretty cat.” Brent saw me do it.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Siblings, Struggles and Spies
My younger sister and I have a love/hate relationship. It’s really the relationship of a teenager and her mother. You’d think I would be the cool big sister who lets her borrow my clothes, teaches her how to do her hair and makeup, covers for her when she wants to start dating two years before she’s allowed to. And, I would love to be all those things to her. Every once in a while she lets me, too. I’ve already given her the “I don’t care what time it is and I won’t tell mom and dad, call ME before you try to drive home drunk” talk. That went over fairly well. I try to educate her about the bands that are never played on the station she listens to. Thanks to me she can usually identify AC/DC (she also knows what the letters stand for), Van Halen and Guns ‘n Roses at the very least. I have also tried to enrich her life through film. She’s familiar with many of the most worthy cultural icons ever captured on the screen, like Matthew McConaughey in Dazed and Confused, Matthew Broderick in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, among others. But, for every good day, there are at least five bad ones. You will learn more by studying the following examples.
On Saturday, I was in the bathroom doing my hair. Rebekah refuses to get ready in the same bathroom as me. She comes to the door and, without pointing, hinting, nodding toward or acknowledging any object IN ANY WAY, says,
“Hand me that.”
I take a few moments to look at the bathroom counter where my eyes scan multiple brushes and combs, at least 15 bottles of various shapes and sizes containing all kinds of potions, and an array of hair tools, toothbrushes, bobby pins, etc.
I turn back to her, returning her request with a blank stare.
This infuriates her. My inability to read her mind and decipher which of the 50 or so objects littering the bathroom vanity is the one she requires at that precise moment has lowered me, in her opinion, to the status of social paramecium. I am no longer her intellectual equal. I have failed.
Visibly irritated, but still not conceding any form of helpfulness, she replies: “That!”
Again, blank stare on my part. My facial expression is absent of any understanding for what she is asking. But, out of fear, I begin pointing to random objects.
First, I try hairspray. No, not it. Stupid answer, Rachel! Her hair is straight today – no need for hairspray. Gosh!
Next - hair tie. A look of disgust is shot toward me.
Repeatedly, I point, then look to her, hoping to see approval and acceptance in her eyes. Growing weary I motion to her toothbrush. Wrong again!! I can hear Napoleon Dynamite’s voice echoing “idiot.” Bullets of cold sweat begin rolling down my temples.
My final guess - I point to the hand mirror. It seems to take hours as I rotate my head again. There is hope in my heart, but also foreboding.
The moment of truth.
With an inpatient grunt, Rebekah snatches the mirror and disappears into her cave…errrr, room.
Victory is mine.
Example No. 2
I get up at 5:15 and I must be out the door by 7:00 to get to work by 8:00. I have a very demanding haircut, but I also like to have a little downtime before leaving – you know drink my coffee, watch a few minutes of the news, etc. So, an hour and forty-five minutes is just enough time to shower, dress, do hair and makeup, eat breakfast, brush teeth and still have some cushion to catch the weather or accommodate wardrobe malfunctions (I will never be able to express the gratitude I feel for Janet Jackson for giving us that phrase.) However, I still have to run a pretty tight ship.
Rebekah has to be up and getting ready by 6:45, but generally she wanders out about 6:30 to inform the rest of us that we have disturbed her. She then spends 15 minutes or so pouting on the couch or in the recliner, frequently grunting or wincing in agony whenever I open my mouth. (There is something about the sound of my voice she just can’t take in the morning…or ever.) Then she eventually eats breakfast and goes to her room to do her hair. Or, she used to.
After this morning, I believe the grunting and wincing are mere fronts. Today it was obvious she had been studying my schedule and habits for some time. I always assumed she was groggy and unaware in the mornings, but I realize now she’s been gathering intelligence. She is acutely aware of all my actions.
After finishing my coffee in the morning, around 6:40, I take my mug to the kitchen then go to the bathroom to brush my teeth and powder my face. That’s how it goes. Every Morning. Without fail. I’ve noticed for a while now, that when I start toward the kitchen Rebekah catapults off the couch or out of the chair and heads to the bathroom where she stays, with door locked, for approximately twelve minutes. Just enough time to throw me off and get me out the door five minutes late.
Sabotage.
The irritating point is this – she’s been sitting around for ten or fifteen minutes while I drink coffee and eat breakfast, acting repulsed by any sound I make, but she doesn’t take that time to use the restroom and escape my vocal reach. She waits. She waits until I am ready to go back in, then she strikes.
Just wait, Rebekah. I’m on to you now.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Good things to come
Since (I hope) many of you reading this blog haven’t actually met me (clearly this blog is a buzzword in all the major publishing houses by now – I’m expecting a book deal this week) I am starting a series about my past. People who do know me should enjoy them too, as some of these experiences helped turn me into the not-so-well-adjusted adult I am today. Also, I over-analyze EVERYTHING, and I just can’t seem to blame all of my current habits and apprehensions on any of these experiences. Maybe you can. Please – analyze away, leave comments about my unaccounted for mental stability. It’ll make for some lunch hour comedy one day this week. Episode one is in production…stay tuned.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
About a turtle
I know all of you have been in torment waiting for the next tantalizing installment in the saga of my exciting, awe-inspiring life. Trust me, this is going to be a letdown.
We have a turtle. The turtle has a name, but I don’t remember what it is. Obviously, the turtle is an integral element of our family’s everyday existence. Said turtle has been with us for over three years now. We never, believe me NEVER, expected it to last this long, but alas, the turtle has fortitude.
Turtles grow and change, and this turtle grew and grew and eventually, the dormant bleeding-heart, animal-rights-activist gene in mom and me started to show through. The turtle needed a new home, a bigger home. You had to feel bad for the turtle; his (or her, we respect the turtle’s privacy) current quarters were so small he couldn’t even swim. In the animal kingdom, we were considered slumlords. However, there is some background involved.
We started to see months ago, maybe even years ago, that the turtle was unhappy. It’s possible, I suppose, that the connection I fancied was never really there at all. At night we could hear him scratching, trying to climb away, but to no avail. He wouldn’t eat. His favorite hobbies lost all charm. The turtle became despondent and spent more and more time in its shell with each passing day. It seemed he (or she) had lost the will to live altogether, or at least the will to live with us. Our suspicions were confirmed a few months back when we returned from a vacation. While we were away the turtle spent some time with the grandparents. After all the recent disturbing behavior, we felt the turtle didn’t need to be alone for long periods of time. We thought the change would do him good. After picking him up to take home we made a brief stop. In a moment of clumsiness his bowl-thingy was bumped and the resulting slosh of water carried him out of the bowl-thingy, out of the car and onto the pavement 18 horrifying inches below. He landed on his feet and in a flash (or whatever word defines the breakneck, top speed of a turtle) he was off. The turtle charged forward under the mammoth weight of his shell. From somewhere we heard the faint tune of “Born Free.” It’s as if we were moving in slow motion, all seemed lost until Rebekah, in what I know was strenuous effort, bent over, picked the turtle up between thumb and forefinger and replaced him in his bowl-thingy.
After that we knew something had to be done. Something had to change. But we didn’t know what. We thought of counseling. We thought of sending the turtle away, placing him in the lake. But we were afraid. Afraid of the change, of the acute silence coming from the bowl-thingy, afraid of ourselves. If we sent him out with the big turtles, would he be scared, eaten? In desperation we pondered this. And eventually, after what had to be at least four minutes, CSI came back from the commercial break, and like so many of life’s perplexing problems, this too was swept under the rug, unresolved.
Several months later, while we stood in front of PetCo, we were reminded. We couldn’t escape it this time. Sacrifices must be made for a relationship to survive. We purchased a new and larger bowl-thingy (it’s an Olympic-sized swimming pool in comparison to what the turtle previously had) and a few accessories to brighten the place up. We could see the gratefulness in the turtle’s body language as he took his first full-length swim across. We had made the turtle happy. Though now, it’s been a few days and many of the same old problems are resurfacing, some new ones, too. It’s almost like he’s holding it over our heads, my head especially. The turtle must know I’m jealous. I think of him in his big bowl-thingy with his plastic plants and three-tiered AQUAEL Resin rock, and I think, why can’t I have a place to call my own? But, we’ll work through it.
We have a turtle. The turtle has a name, but I don’t remember what it is. Obviously, the turtle is an integral element of our family’s everyday existence. Said turtle has been with us for over three years now. We never, believe me NEVER, expected it to last this long, but alas, the turtle has fortitude.
Turtles grow and change, and this turtle grew and grew and eventually, the dormant bleeding-heart, animal-rights-activist gene in mom and me started to show through. The turtle needed a new home, a bigger home. You had to feel bad for the turtle; his (or her, we respect the turtle’s privacy) current quarters were so small he couldn’t even swim. In the animal kingdom, we were considered slumlords. However, there is some background involved.
We started to see months ago, maybe even years ago, that the turtle was unhappy. It’s possible, I suppose, that the connection I fancied was never really there at all. At night we could hear him scratching, trying to climb away, but to no avail. He wouldn’t eat. His favorite hobbies lost all charm. The turtle became despondent and spent more and more time in its shell with each passing day. It seemed he (or she) had lost the will to live altogether, or at least the will to live with us. Our suspicions were confirmed a few months back when we returned from a vacation. While we were away the turtle spent some time with the grandparents. After all the recent disturbing behavior, we felt the turtle didn’t need to be alone for long periods of time. We thought the change would do him good. After picking him up to take home we made a brief stop. In a moment of clumsiness his bowl-thingy was bumped and the resulting slosh of water carried him out of the bowl-thingy, out of the car and onto the pavement 18 horrifying inches below. He landed on his feet and in a flash (or whatever word defines the breakneck, top speed of a turtle) he was off. The turtle charged forward under the mammoth weight of his shell. From somewhere we heard the faint tune of “Born Free.” It’s as if we were moving in slow motion, all seemed lost until Rebekah, in what I know was strenuous effort, bent over, picked the turtle up between thumb and forefinger and replaced him in his bowl-thingy.
After that we knew something had to be done. Something had to change. But we didn’t know what. We thought of counseling. We thought of sending the turtle away, placing him in the lake. But we were afraid. Afraid of the change, of the acute silence coming from the bowl-thingy, afraid of ourselves. If we sent him out with the big turtles, would he be scared, eaten? In desperation we pondered this. And eventually, after what had to be at least four minutes, CSI came back from the commercial break, and like so many of life’s perplexing problems, this too was swept under the rug, unresolved.
Several months later, while we stood in front of PetCo, we were reminded. We couldn’t escape it this time. Sacrifices must be made for a relationship to survive. We purchased a new and larger bowl-thingy (it’s an Olympic-sized swimming pool in comparison to what the turtle previously had) and a few accessories to brighten the place up. We could see the gratefulness in the turtle’s body language as he took his first full-length swim across. We had made the turtle happy. Though now, it’s been a few days and many of the same old problems are resurfacing, some new ones, too. It’s almost like he’s holding it over our heads, my head especially. The turtle must know I’m jealous. I think of him in his big bowl-thingy with his plastic plants and three-tiered AQUAEL Resin rock, and I think, why can’t I have a place to call my own? But, we’ll work through it.
Friday, May 4, 2007
My Favorite Things
Granted, Oprah’s list is probably better than mine, but I’m on a budget here people…
Watching movies in bed on Saturday mornings: I love to wake up on Saturday with nothing on the books. No weddings or showers to go to, no mile-long list of errands or chores, just a blank page of a day. Even when I wake up relatively early, I don’t mind because I take bliss in the knowledge that I have no call to get out of bed. I can stay there as long as I want. Generally, the HBO Gods smile down on me and I am able to find an entertaining, but not too perplexing movie. About thirty minutes after this ritual begins, I scamper to the kitchen and start a pot of coffee. What’s a Saturday morning in bed without coffee? Which leads me to favorite thing number two….
Coffee: Otherwise known as sweet and essential nectar from on high. Coffee is so much more than a beverage to me. It’s my morning companion – when no one else is awake at 5:25 on a Monday morning, I’ve got my coffee. It faithfully sits on the bathroom counter in my Luckenbach, Texas, mug while I dry my hair and make ready for the day. Coffee is also a communication platform. It’s the excuse for a first date, a reason to catch up with an old friend. You never hear people say, “Hey, let’s get together for water sometime.” Nope, it’s always the coffee.
Laughing: I’m not talking about the forced chuckles we all muster up for our coworkers’ lame (LAME) jokes. I’m referring to next-day-abdominal-pain, teary-eyed, coke-out-the-nose laughter. It’s the kind of fun you can only have around people you get, and who get you back. There can’t be any shame or reservations or shyness, that would mean you were uncomfortable with the people around you - and you don't want coke coming out your nose around just anyone.
Family & Friends: These two get lumped together because there is a lot of overlap in my life. The only friends I had when I moved to Texas were family. And the friends I’ve made since, are a part of my family now. I don’t say it often enough, but I am blessed, I use the words family and friend interchangeably, because to me they are one and the same. I have such an amazing group of people in my life. There is never a need to worry if I’m bothering them, annoying them, making them mad. It’s a waste of time to try and impress them, because the only reason they loved me in first place is the promise they saw, which I couldn’t see in myself. True friends aren’t exactly the same in every way, but they are perfect complements of one another, which makes the teary-eyed laughter thing all the easier to accomplish.
Watching movies in bed on Saturday mornings: I love to wake up on Saturday with nothing on the books. No weddings or showers to go to, no mile-long list of errands or chores, just a blank page of a day. Even when I wake up relatively early, I don’t mind because I take bliss in the knowledge that I have no call to get out of bed. I can stay there as long as I want. Generally, the HBO Gods smile down on me and I am able to find an entertaining, but not too perplexing movie. About thirty minutes after this ritual begins, I scamper to the kitchen and start a pot of coffee. What’s a Saturday morning in bed without coffee? Which leads me to favorite thing number two….
Coffee: Otherwise known as sweet and essential nectar from on high. Coffee is so much more than a beverage to me. It’s my morning companion – when no one else is awake at 5:25 on a Monday morning, I’ve got my coffee. It faithfully sits on the bathroom counter in my Luckenbach, Texas, mug while I dry my hair and make ready for the day. Coffee is also a communication platform. It’s the excuse for a first date, a reason to catch up with an old friend. You never hear people say, “Hey, let’s get together for water sometime.” Nope, it’s always the coffee.
Laughing: I’m not talking about the forced chuckles we all muster up for our coworkers’ lame (LAME) jokes. I’m referring to next-day-abdominal-pain, teary-eyed, coke-out-the-nose laughter. It’s the kind of fun you can only have around people you get, and who get you back. There can’t be any shame or reservations or shyness, that would mean you were uncomfortable with the people around you - and you don't want coke coming out your nose around just anyone.
Family & Friends: These two get lumped together because there is a lot of overlap in my life. The only friends I had when I moved to Texas were family. And the friends I’ve made since, are a part of my family now. I don’t say it often enough, but I am blessed, I use the words family and friend interchangeably, because to me they are one and the same. I have such an amazing group of people in my life. There is never a need to worry if I’m bothering them, annoying them, making them mad. It’s a waste of time to try and impress them, because the only reason they loved me in first place is the promise they saw, which I couldn’t see in myself. True friends aren’t exactly the same in every way, but they are perfect complements of one another, which makes the teary-eyed laughter thing all the easier to accomplish.
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