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Thursday, August 25, 2011

Attic Attack

Recently, my mother hounded me into going home to root through her attic before she called a company to dredge through it and remove everything for a minimal fee. I did what any grown child would do to their demanding parent…I put her off for months. Finally, after she pestered me for the 400th time (my mother has the tenacity of a honey badger) I agreed to come out in two days time. See, two days was what I needed to fortify myself for this undertaking…well, that and to con a friend into helping me.

I immediately conned the friend. Then, I actually started to get excited about it. I would be digging through my childhood, and I distinctly recall the attic being a treasure trove of goodies and fabulous used clothes. In the least, I figured I could snatch some of my old toys for my kids, and pick some snazzy costume jewelry for me. We suited up!

We arrived at Mom’s at 9am. I pulled on the attic hatch and down came creaky old rickety stairs. We climbed up, and were greeted with the smell of neglect. I flipped the light switch and stepped into the harsh realities of my youth. Garbage bags filled with awesome ‘retro’ clothes were actually tattered, dirty and eerily creepy fur coats, threadbare nightgowns and polyester contraptions that no self-respecting human would put on in this day & age. I sighed. I was hopeful for a Halloween costume or two; I guess this year I’ll be donning something store bought once more.

I perked up, “OVER THERE! In the back…I think those are my toys!”

We waded through piles and piles of papers that my mother should have burned or thrown out decades ago. I knocked over countless stacks of books (and not good ones either – bizarre self-help books with accompanying audio cassette tapes). Finally, I think: the reason I actually came. [strange, the box was nowhere as big as I remember] In it were some pathetic things indeed. It was like a real-life Island of Misfit Toys. There was a pink opossum missing an eye, a dirt stained kitty puppet, random dollar store fodder and the only salvageable saving grace…Ashleigh.

Ashleigh was a disturbingly empty commentary on my battered childhood. Ashleigh was my red-headed Cabbage Patch. Ashleigh had a bag of homemade clothes. Ashleigh had ears I had pierced myself. Ashleigh was my best friend; hell, she may have been my only friend much of the time. Grown up Me stood, stooped in my mother’s attic, clutching this dingy piece of memorabilia; overwhelmed with the need to cry. The sum total of my childhood resulted in a singular shoddy piece of redemption…Ashleigh.

In the glaring moments in that dim lighting of the attic, I came face to face with the blaring realities of my life. I know I didn’t have much of a childhood (for reasons I shall not bore you with – other than stating my mom was sick and we were poor). I now understand it is different to know that behind closed doors, never really sharing it with anyone - and to stand amidst it clutching your one thing of value – long forgotten for over 20 years. I took Ashleigh home.

That night, I tenderly cleaned Ashleigh. I brushed her hair (which is very life-like). I delicately washed her clothes. I took a deep breath and took Ashleigh upstairs. My oldest daughter was playing in the living room. I asked if I could have a moment…

“I want you to meet someone special to me. This is Ashleigh. Ashleigh grew up with me. She keeps secrets better than anyone. She gives the best hugs when Mommy can’t. She’ll always love you, and best of all - she’ll never leave you. Would you like to have Ashleigh and introduce her to your other babies?” I waited nervously, hopefully. I wasn’t quite sure what I was anticipating. I held my breath. Then the most wonderful thing happened.

My daughter looked up at me, with her intelligent eyes and said, “You loved her? She was your friend? [nodding her head] Yes, I love her, Mommy. She’s so beautiful, and has such nice hair. She’s perfect! Are those her clothes?” I pushed the bag of clothes over. In that moment, my daughter changed everything. Her mere acceptance of a silly doll took a lifetime of loneliness and transformed it into something remarkable.

I’m glad Ashleigh has a new best friend…one who sparkles and laughs. She deserves it.

Friday, August 19, 2011

The Gas Company

I married into the gassiest family on the planet. No, not oil riggers who live in Texas. Think more like bean eating, fiber-loving, green cloud excreters. I knew this going in. It wasn’t a problem for me…I have next to no sense of smell. Although, I was sometimes embarrassed by the outright blatancy of these tooters, I was willing to over look the entire issue for love. …until recently.

Recently, it came to weigh very heavily on me that my goal of raising kids to the ripe old age of 18 before throwing them out of my house and changing the locks may never come to fruition. Not only does this sadden me, it leaves me with an impending sense of dread. The reason you see, is because my oldest child is going to live with me forever. I’m never going to be able to marry her off.

See, she’s not ever going to be a trust fund baby. The most I can hope for is that I will be able to one day purchase that 12th goat that will stand as the biggest dowry upgrade that anyone inside of Zanzibar has ever seen…either that, or finding some poor deaf mute in Papua New Guinea who is oblivious to their olfactory living conditions who won’t mind taking her in.

The in-laws find it appropriate to bust ass whenever the urge strikes. Walking through a store, in mixed company and most horrifyingly at the dinner table - all fair play for this quartet of flatulence factories. Each time this happens, I remind my husband that polite society dictate that no one anally omit noxious odors before witnesses. He merely giggles. Or so he did, until our lovely little girl "ripped a hole" in one of my dining room chairs while eating. It was like the heavens opened and shined a dawning light upon his psyche, he must have had visions of the fleeting Zanzibari goat herders slipping through his grasp and our dreams of a quiet homestead squashed…forever.

“Honey, if you need to make stinky tooters, you should excuse yourself to do it in the bathroom; not at the dinner table. It is rude.”

5 minutes later, my daughter loudly announces, “I NEED TO FART!” She bolts from the table. By going into the bathroom, I had actually meant – go into the bathroom, close the door and discretely break wind. My daughter’s interpretation was to barely aim her rear end into the bathroom from the doorway and cut the cheese as if her life depended on it. PPPFFFFFFT, POOOOOT, PFFFFFTBANG! [at this point, I’m certain that I will need to buy her new underwear]. “Ahhhhh, much better!” Then rampant giggling ensues…and not from my oldest, my pride & joy. Nope, I look over to find hubby’s shoulders shaking with mirth.

That night, I sobbed myself to sleep. I’m quite certain that the faint sounds of bleating goats floated away on the wind of my fitful slumber…

Thursday, August 11, 2011

A Word From Dora...

Admittedly, much to my father’s chagrin (please note that he was a Social Studies teacher for over 30 some-odd years), I suck at geography, social studies and history. He’s had the audacity to ask me before where Greece was. “I have no idea. Instead, how about I name you like five of their Ancient God’s and/or Goddesses?” He stared at me, speechless (I bet that’s exactly the look on my face when my kid says something priceless...), and then began to wonder, aloud, rhetorically, to himself, how I ever expected to travel (across whatever ocean it is I’d have to cross to get there); “Jesus Dad…I’d get there like everyone else: by booking a flight, going to the airport, arriving and then hopping on a tour bus. And mind you, I don’t even have to know how to get to the airport. I have a GPS!” [My father has made scowling an art.]

Which brings me to my husband. He’s brilliant, and I love him for it. Man, his brains are sexy. …and on top of that, he’s everything I’m not. He’s patient, he’s soft-spoken and most importantly for this scenario – he’s up to date on world events (past & present) and well versed in geography and social studies. We really are a great team. I’m sure with his help, my dad can rest easy, that in my ultimate retardedness, I’ll someday be able to travel to Greece and arrive safely with the other half’s superior intellect in tow.

Frankly, the above is the reason why, the other night, my husband left me staring at him with absolutely nothing to say. Nada. Zero. Zip.

I walked into the living room and plunked down next to him on the couch. On TV was some sort of educational NatGeo or Green Planet show (little known fact – we’re educational TV junkies). “Hmmm, what’s this – isn’t that Kilimanjaro? Nín hǎo. Oh, come on. Don’t you remember the episode of Dora where she goes to China and also whatever country that mountain is located in…and learns to say Nín hǎo? You know: SWIPER NO SWIPING!!!”

“OMG, Cath…you do realize that they wouldn’t say Nín hǎo if you visited Mt. Kilimanjaro? You DO know that Mt. Kilimanjaro is located in Africa, right?”

“Yessssss. I know that. I was merely quoting that Dora episode that is now stuck in my head. Alls I can remember about it is she kept saying Nín hǎo, as they went to China first…THEN Tanzania, and now the kids say it all the freaking time – as if we are in China at this very moment. BTW: how was it they’d say ‘HI’ if you were dense enough to climb that mountain? ..bout the only thing I can’t remember from that episode.”

“Well, they’d say it however you’d say ‘hi’ in African.”

This time, it is my turn to just stare, mouth agape…Words, for one of the few moments in my life escape me. I’m barely able to hiss out a “WOW, BJ, wow…” I actually think about calling my father (except that it is after 10pm) and telling him that my husband, whom he loves more than he loves me most days, has no idea where Mt. Kilimanjaro is located (further than Africa, even though I had JUST said it) and that apparently, if we were to go there…you know, on safari or something…our guide might just be speaking African.

Friday, August 5, 2011

Kenny Rogers Roasted Her?

So, last night, the 6 year old and I had it out. This happens from time to time. Sometimes, it can be frustrating. Sometimes, it can be an effort in Herculean self-control not to say what I really think…and sometimes, some VERY special times, I make myself laugh. Hysterically. No joke.

Last night was one of those very special times. My daughter (who incidentally believes she is the Queen Bee in the house and is approximately going on 36 years old), has gotten quite sassy in the last few months. She’s testing the waters of her self-assuredness, which all things considered is very apropos for her age and totally understandable. I do not however, have to like what is being said, or more officially the tone of disrespect with which it is being said. You got it. My house is militant…and I am the Drill Sergeant. I fancy myself being a relatively “decent to good” type of parent.

“Go ahead kid and assert your authority, make your decisions, but here’s this line in the sand. Be careful not to cross it.”

For the last few weeks, I have been wracking my brain AND pocketbook in an attempt to make new dinners. Something that would be tasty enough for us grownups to actually stomach, but mute enough and visually pleasing so that little kids might venture a forkful into their mouths. Every night, every new creation has been greeted with various disdain from the peanut gallery. One night it just became too much to bear.

“Why did you make that? I’m not eating it. I don’t want to try it. Can’t you just make something you know I like? I’m just sick and tired of eating this stuff.” I had had enough. Something inside me snapped…a rant of monumental proportions bubbled up.

”Really? REALLY?!?! This is what you’d like to pick a fight about? Trust me, I’m going to win this one… Every day, I go to work. I earn a modest amount of money. That salary buys the groceries that I go to the store to shop for. Those foodstuffs go into the wonderful dinners that I lovingly prepare for this family. They have each of the four food groups, and no, I’m not talking about Go-gurt, Pop-Tarts, Frosting and Dino chickens…. Every night I try to make something else I think you MIGHT eat due to the fact that you’ve near refused everything else I’ve ever served you. Since you really seem to be a Master Chef, worthy of Chef Gordon Ramsey’s approval – I revoke all my cooking AND comestibles shopping duties unto you. I expect no less than I give, which means: I want 14 different dinners (planned out for every day for the next two weeks), the edibles shopped for and purchased in the confined restriction of our budget , and all of those hot piping meals on the table by no later than 5:45pm.”

I’m sure I’m not the first and I’m certain I won’t be the last parent to ever have this conversation. My daughter stared up at me. I decided to be on the same level. I stopped setting the table and sat down in a chair in the living room. My husband was humming to himself and filling his glass of water in the kitchen.

Oddly, the kid didn’t get the hint and kept right on going, “I don’t want to do all that. I just would like it if you would stop making these (said with loathing) dinners and make only what I like…”

The most bizarre thing happened just then. I am still not quite sure what came over me. Maybe it was the Gambler himself. I can’t be certain. I started to sing. Loudly, and most certainly off-key. “You got to know when to hold them. Know when to fold them. Know when to walk away – Yeah, that means you kid…Know when to run. You never kick the cooker, when it’s time to come to dinner. There’ll be time enough for role reversal, when you’re all grown up.”

Quite possibly, there was a snort of laughter from the kitchen, I can’t be sure. My daughter looked at me again, “I just lost, didn’t I?”

“You did. Now, wash up for dinner and not another word.” I slowly sashayed into the dining room, muttering to myself: If you're gonna play the game, kid…You gotta learn to play it right.