Apathy Lounge

Some food, some fireworks...and then it's off to camp.

I'm packed. Art supplies have been ordered and all auxillary materials previously purchased are already being pulled from storage at camp. Tomorrow we'll take in the neighborhood parade, attend a swim party, eat more than we should, walk the dogs and take in the fireworks. Saturday morning will see the oldest son and me loading up the car and heading to camp (pediatric cancer camp...I teach arts/crafts). This will be his first year working there...and my fifth. The rest of the family will come down on visitor's day.

Where I'm staying has no WiFi, so no updates until then. If I can sneak some time in the main office with staffer's computers I might try to do that, but I'll be fairly incommunicado between Saturday and the 11th. That's okay. The whole notion of being out in the middle of nowhere is somehow compromised if I'm checking my Facebook/Twitter account or blog every 45 minutes. Not that there's time in the day to do that anyway. I'm just saying.

So celebrate the independence of this country in grand style tomorrow. Don't forget the contributions and sacrifices that our foremothers and fathers made and if that means lighting a Roman Candle with your grandmother's cigarette? Just remember to put your beer down first. Setting your pants on fire with a sparkler doesn't make you more patriotic than the next person, so don't even go there. Besides, the ER could probably use the break.

Be safe, y'all. I'll see you on the 11th.

Further proof that your average phone salesperson struggles mightily with geography...

Cable Company Representative:  "So you're actually paying about twice what you should be for premium cable. Are you interested in getting what you have at a cheaper rate?"

Me: "Um...sure. I mean...why wouldn't I be?"

CCR: "Exactly. Now I need to get some information from you and confirm your address. It says here you are in Fort Worth, Texas."

Me: "That's correct."

CCR: "Cool. Is that where they keep all the gold?"

Me: ".....huh?"

CCR: "The gold. Is that where they keep it?"

Me: "Oh....uh...OH! No, that would be Fort Knox. As in 'That bank is locked up tighter than Fort Knox'. In K-e-n-t-u-c-k-y. I live in Texas."

CCR: "Oh, okay. My bad."

Me: "That's okay. Where exactly are you calling from?"

CCR: "Iowa."

Me: "I guess you eat a lot of corn there, no?"

CCR: "Beg pardon?"

Me: "Nothing".

**************************************************************************

Dear Neighbor,

Though we've never personally met I've seen you before. Occasionally, we shop at the same neighborhood grocery store. By the college ring on your finger (and bumper stickers on your truck) I see that we both graduated from the same alma mater. That, combined with certain familiar political endorsements lets me know you're what my people like to call "a fellow traveler". Good on you!

The other evening I was walking and listning to music when my phone rang. Given that my iPhone provides me with both utilities, I stopped to answer it. At about that time I guess I was walking past what turned out to be your house. You were dragging a soaker hose around the front yard and I thought you were talking to yourself until I realized you were looking at me. You seemed...um...a tad upset.

I paused my conversation long enough to learn that you didn't really understand how I could be out taking a nice walk and then have the nerve to talk on my phone. While I was outside! The very nerve! "I just don't get it", you said while shaking your head.

In my own world, such a public show of disapproval is typically reserved for women who beat their children at Wal-Mart. Those morons who leave their pets/children in the car when it's 100 degrees outside...or perfectly-abled people who park in the handicapped spot because they'll just be a moment.

But stopping to answer a ringing phone while enjoying a beatiful walk at dusk? Yeah...high crimes, that.

I would have let it get to me until I realized that every time I see you at the store...you're fairly plastered and usually only buying another bottle of wine. So then I felt better about myself.

Bugger off,

Me

Anyone in your world minding someone else's business or saying something dumb? Operators are standing by.

Even if my dysfunction had been funny, I still wouldn't be able to write a book about it.

A few weeks ago I finished reading Sarah Thyre's memoir, Dark at the Roots. If you haven't read it, you really ought to. It's funny and raw and, as is the case with most women like her, it made me want to drive to Louisiana and stalk her until she became my best friend.

The most amazing thing, apart from her enviable recall of details and events as well as her unflinching honesty regarding even the most unflattering anecdotes of family life, could be found in the page-and-a-half writers generally reserve for expressions of gratitude to those who assisted her/him in making any book into a reality. Or, at the very least, those who helpfully hid all of the sharp objects in the house during the suicide-provoking time period known as the editing process.  Among those to whom she offered her sincerest thanks, like her editor and her husband, the comedian Andy Richter, and various good friends were... her parents.

I have to confess that this gave me pause.  You see, I had always heard that the safest time to write a memoir where you could actually tell the truth about your life--unless you happened to be Laura Ingalls Wilder, Eudora Welty or Helen Keller--was after your parental units had joined "the choir invisible", to quote John Cleese.

When author and MSNBC columnist Jeanette Walls published the beautiful-but-excruciating The Glass Castle I was similarly blown away, but since both her parents were still voluntarily homeless during its creation and literary debut, a familial fallout seemed less likely to evolve in her case.

But when you're dealing with parents who still seem to have no personal recollection of any wrong doing (or any willingness to consider specific issues you might have with your childhood)--as I imagine Thyre's situation to be, I can't even imagine taking on the enormous emotional responsibility of exchanging the psychological burdens placed on us by parents with the apocalyptical nightmare that would be sure to follow the publication of a tome which made no attempt to excuse the plethora of mistakes parents make when raising kids.

Can I stop here before I go any further just to go on record and say that my parents did the very best they could with the few tools they had. They were polar opposites, as parents and as humans and their backgrounds were even more dissimilar. I would also like to say that I love them dearly, even though they would say that this is a huge fib on my part and why don't I come visit more often? They were not perfect and though they did some things right they also got a lot of things very wrong. That said, I'm certainly not pointing an accusatory finger from my patchouli-scented and sanctimonious throne of higher ground where unicorns poop rainbows and biscuits with butter have the caloric content of a celery stalk. I may not have made the same mistakes my parents have made , but I'm pretty sure really sure positive I've made plenty of others. ("I yell because I care...really!")

The difference between us is that my parents seemed genuinely surprised when confronted with the blunders they made. I can't even imagine writing a book about it. Mainly because none of it--unlike Thyre's story...or that of David Sedaris...or Anne Lamott (the early years) is all that funny. But also because after it was published there wouldn't be enough booze or hard drugs in the world to get me through Thanksgiving/Christmas with my parents ever again.

I will--when the day comes-- express no such shock over my  own parental transgressions. In fact, I fully expect to be handed a long laundry list (with footnotes) of my many, many grievous sins as soon as my sons get out on their own and start raising their own kids. That's when it really kicked in for me. I'm just hoping that when the day comes, it isn't an officer of the court who hands me that dreadful packet of truth.  Regardless, I hope I'm a big enough person to say I'm sorry for screwing up. In fact, I've already started because--here's a little secret--it takes a lot of the momentum out of their accusations if you've already apologized. In other words, don't wait 20 years. The hide you save may be your own.

So...would you ever publish the unvarnished story of your life right now? Or would you wait?

Also...pictures of the raccoon's rampage aftermath, as promised. Little bastards.

Staggering into the light

If one more thing in our house breaks down I'm going to have to start wearing prairie clothing and join an Amish community. Two cars, the oven, one television and our internet service. As it is our refrigerator is on Deathwatch 2008 so I may be taking our perishables down to the river to cool, just like Ma Ingalls, except it's 97 degrees right now and any body of water in this area makes bathwater seem positively bracing.

Also? Some industrial cleaning will be required after two criminally-minded raccoons broke into the service porch late last night and knocked over a large can of white primer paint. Yes, I have pictures but that'll have to come later.

So I haven't been posting, visiting or doing anything with Twitter or Facebook. All you people who are waiting for me to take a turn at Scramble are going to have to wait a little longer. The menfolk just returned home from a week away at camp and what they're bringing indoors makes everything smell like Old Tent & Shoe.

Back later on in the weekend.

Apathy Lounge in the Evening

Front Porch

Kitchen Herb Garden

Passion Flowers blooming in the courtyard.

What does your house look like?

Reason # 5,623 Why I Love My Husband

Because even though we said "no anniversary presents" (due to the new car/new oven that must be purchased next week)...he wanted me to have this. Now I'm off to try to get the cats to pose for me without terrifying them. They don't know how lucky they are that I decided against dressing them up in tiny Village People costumes first. I'll be by later on. Don't forget to smile really big when I get there.

Summer Solstice x 22

This weekend, like many that are typical for us, will be a busy one. Kids coming and going. Two of them working and one getting ready to leave for a week of camp. Last minute preparations. Finding the right kinds of socks, packing trunks, checking items off of a list. In and among the usual and ever-shifting craze of obligations and opportunities my husband and I will try to pause and mark our wedding anniversary. It's a day worth celebrating.

22 years ago tomorrow he was waking up on the floor of the living room in the house we had just bought together (I wouldn't let him sleep in the bedroom until I was there and we were pretending to be all traditional for a couple of days as I had moved out of my apartment and back into my childhood bedroom for the two nights prior to the big day). This was a nod to convenience rather than convention.

That morning my wedding dress was hanging from an S-hook (an old macrame plant hanger) in the ceiling when I awoke. No hangovers for either of us. We opted NOT to have separate bachelor/bachelorette parties and just went to the rooftop grotto of the Caravan of Dreams for drinks with our wedding party. Pioneers, we were.

I didn't take care not to break the ribbons on my shower gifts nor weave them around a wire hanger for God-knows-whatever-reason-women do that. Maybe to ward off bad luck, I suppose. I didn't throw my bouquet and he didn't remove my garter with his teeth in front of our guests. My dress was not a surprise to him. I showed him many pictures of it long beforehand. We told the minister (actually, there were two) that I was NOT going to be saying "obey" to anyone and my father was only going to be "presenting" me as I was on my own and supporting myself and not a cow to be given away or sold to the highest bidder. Bryan never asked my parents for their permission nor their blessing to marry me. They liked him quite a bit, but their consent or objection wouldn't have made the slightest difference in our plans. And pretending as though it did seemed pointless to us. I'm not that good at pretending.

I do remember momentarily sliding down the wall--stomach churning-- to sit on the floor of my old bedroom and consider just exactly what I was about to do. I had no real plan. No prototype worth following. No one I wanted us to wind up resembling. I did not really know anyone whose marriage I would have wanted at that time. They all seemed to be in a mad scramble to fill pre-set roles written by mysterious and authoritative somebodies which had nothing to do with skill or knowledge or desire. Or an understanding of people.

The happy success (not to be confused with mere endurance) of this kind of partnership isn't based on some rusty old promise I made after swilling half a bottle of Pepto and standing on a hot June day in my very cruel pumps. It's based on waking up every single day and choosing all over again to live my life with this man. This man who was my friend first...and everything else after that has been a wonderful bonus. And luck had nothing to do with it. See you guys on Monday.

I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. Hamilton.

 

In my book there are two kinds of summer people in this world...those who look good without a tan and those who don't. Tragically, I fall into the second category and it has been the bane of my existence since I can remember. I'm not a cool blonde who can get by with a hint of sun-kissed skin, nor am I a raven-haired beauty nor even a redhead whose naturally pale exterior seems to enhance the luminous quality of their fiery coif. I don't include the actress Tilda Swinton in this last group as she mostly resembles an ancient corpse recently freed from the chilly confines of a frozen iceberg. But I digress...

No, I'm a dirty blonde...borne of an olive-completed father and a very pale-skinned mother who doesn't really do more than freckle when exposed to the sun. I need a touch of the old sun on my face if only to make sure I'm not accidentally taken to the cemetery and buried one day after falling asleep in the doctor's waiting room. So in the colder seasons my skin color seems to suggest that I've been wintering with a crop of toadstools in a deep, dark closet and in the summer I look...more normal. I run, I work out, I've played outdoor sports and I watch my kids play so I'm outside a lot and as a result, I can...and do...eventually turn a shade that allows me to wear shorts without causing snow blindness in others who didn't have the foresight to wear polarized lenses.

Early childhood pictures show me to have been an exceedingly thin child with a bad haircut and bone-white limbs. If you think I'm exaggerating, you should know that I once weighed 42 pounds and was 42 inches tall. I looked like a stick drawing of a child who had been recently discharged from a long hospital stay, especially when compared to my same-age cousin who was a dancer. Sure, I wound up about 4 inches taller than she did, but she got the olive skin. The jury's still out on who got the better deal.

My friend Paul and I spent many a summer day during high school frying practically grease free tanning with an undiluted bottle of Crisco oil...having abandoned the practice of mixing baby oil and iodine. And mostly I was able to coax from my skin the impression that I had a strong pulse and, on a particularly moonless night, I probably would not glow in the dark.

Now, in my family of origin I think it's safe to say that no one cares as much about tanning as much as I do. Mainly because they probably don't enjoy the direct sun as much as I do but also it is because of Benji.

Mrs. B (for Benjamin) was our elfin-sized, chain-smoking elementary school PE teacher whose skin resembled a rack of beef jerky. I have no idea how old or young she was because she always looked the same to us...even after my baby sister (who is quite a bit younger than me) labored under her wizened stare for six years. Whether it was from a constant exposure to the playground sun, her several-pack-a-day cigarette habit or both, Benji remained a cautionary tale for those who craved a daily fix of UV rays. And it goes without saying that listening to her hack up a lung while we did deep knee bends to "The Chicken Fat Song" was a constant reminder of the dangers of smoking.

But see...it has never been my intention to look like Benji either and quite possibly wind up attending my next high school reunion with a face like an old saddle. I don't know anyone who would knowingly choose that. But the urge to look vital and...you know...still alive is strong. And because I refuse to try and replace that artificial glow by applying a thick layer of spackle tinted foundation to my face as I age, I look to someone like George Hamilton for guidance in times like this. This, my friends, is a 69-year old man.

A 69-year old actor and professional tanner. True, he was genetically blessed with a primer coat of lovely olive epidermis and as you can see he has figured out how NOT to look like an abused piece of carry-on luggage over the years. As he says in the Nabisco commericals: "George knows toasty".

And this summer? I'm going to know melanoma toasty, too. But not without my sunscreen, of course. And possibly a light application of self-tanner. I'm not a complete idiot. But I don't think I'll ever stop being interested in discovering what brown can do for me. Sorry, UPS. I couldn't resist.

The second shortest post next to "Jesus Wept". For me, anyway.

I've been blogging for 2 1/2 years. Actually, it seems longer, but I don't mean that in a bad way. Despite many an attempt to claw my way to the top increase my audience of friends and readers, I've never been able to break out of the B-List blog status.

It's the story of my life. Perhaps there's something I'm not revealing about myself, but maybe there's not all that much I've done in my life that is worth 1,459 comments or a panelist slot at BlogHer. Whatever.

It's like what our pediatrician said about our oldest son when he was about three years old (the son...not the pediatrician). "If you lined up 100 kids his age, your son would be in the middle at #50". Meaning that he wasn't the tallest nor the shortest. Or any other extreme. He was always going to be in the middle. The same goes for me. I pretty much earn the same number of comments...regardless of what I say. That can either be comforting or frustrating.

But there was this one time that I got 89 or so comments before I had to disable them. I wrote something about Angelina Jolie that angered a strange group of people who had been sent here from a blog which dealt in mothering tips. Not at all the same thing as Mommy Blog, but whatever--they seemed genuinely upset that I had dissed Ms. Jolie. So much so that one anonymous blogger claimed that I was merely "JELOUS!!" (sic) Another swore Jolie was almost like Mother Teresa. It was fun before it got scary.

That's never happened again. So it makes me think about the following: At which time did your comments spike in a dramatic way and what did you ask/say that made this happen? What happened on your blog that made you go from 13 to 31 comments? Or 10 to 100? Some of you probably won't be able to answer that question, because your readerships are many times that of mine. Still...

I'm asking.

And So The Slander Begins!

Where do I start? This isn't news...it's editorializing and pandering to the lowest human denominator. That being the unthinking/unquestioning fear that every bigot allows to take root in his or her own mind. It's taking an highly educated and very accomplished woman who is the married mother of two children and possibly the next First Lady and hoping that one ugly and sterotypical headline will accomplish what the crazy internet rumors about Obama being a Muslim or the anti-Christ haven't done.

It's the same "News" channel that reported on the Republican senator who was gay-baiting his underlings with phonecalls and e-mails and when it all hit the fan, Fox's coverage labeled him a Democrat. Because they count on their viewers to swallow their news without ever having chewed it first. And it works.

Think that was an oversight? The blatant subjectivity isn't so surprising, if you consider the source. Where else can someone be asked to be a guest on the show and then be bullied and shouted down by your interviewer? Where else can an organization call itself "fair and balanced" (Is there anyone who really believes that nonsense?) simply because they have one very lukewarm liberal on the show, to balance out the likes of Cal Thomas or...ugh...Ann Coulter...Bill O' Reilly (when he's not sexually harassing employees or cursing at his monitor) or that idiot Sean Hannity? The disrespect isn't so surprising either when you think about it. Anyone is fair game. Remember when Rush "Oxycontin" Limbaugh called poor 13-year old Chelsea Clinton the "White House Dog"?

This is the same organization that 7 1/2 years later can't get over a Presidential blowjob, but WILL NOT touch the issue of McCain's first marriage and the philandering that led to its demise.

Or is it only wrong when you're the leader of the free world? Or a Democrat? Yeah...that must be it.

Too bad none of their viewers are interested in Daddy Bush and his consort...Jennifer Fitzgerald. Google THAT...if you dare. And yes, people. He was the President then.