Pretty All True

Endurance

I am remembering too much lately.

Pretty sure.

There is an occasional superimposition of memory. My memories drape over the events of the day, suffusing those events with shadows of the past. And I am at once transported and stuck.

We went to a small amusement park today. The girls climbed onto a ride that swooped and spun. Kallan had stopped to check with me first, “Is it too spinny? I don’t like the ones that make my stomach go all sick.”

And I reassured her, “No, it’s a little kid ride. It’s not too bad. You’ll be fine.”

She ran off happily with her sister.

They climbed in together. The ride started up. Both girls waved happily as they went around.

I waved happily back.

Twice.

The third time around? Only Maj waved. Kallan’s eyes were shut and her head was tucked down into her chest.

I was wrong.

The girls swooped past us perhaps a dozen more times before the ride ended.

Every time? My eyes sought out Kallan, followed her, waited, and then sought again.

There was no panic on her unseeing face, just an emptiness, a shutting down.

An enduring.

And that? Made my eyes well with tears and my heart ache.

That enduring.

And when the ride was over? She came to me.

She came to me.

To look sadly up into my face, “I don’t want to do any more big rides. My stomach feels dizzy.”

I slid my sunglasses down from the top of my head to hide my tears, “Sorry, baby. Sorry about that.”

She was sad and quiet for a few minutes, but then she recovered and went about her day.

It was not a big deal. The day went on. A lovely day.

But for a moment? I was transported.

And then got stuck.

In memories.

Of trust.

And enduring.

And shutting down.

And enduring.

And in possibly related news?

My head? Is fucking killing me.

Raking it in

We took the girls to a free concert last night. Lots of people, good music, food and drinks . . . it was a lot of fun. We wandered around for a while, stood for a while along the edges of the crowd, and then decided to sit. There were no seats available (next time I will think to bring chairs), so we sat on the sidewalk, backs up against a brick-sided building.

Mark and I sit and enjoy the music while the girls dance and hop and twirl.

There is an intermission, and the girls come over to ask for money for candy. They have already had treats, and the answer is no.

“What if we could get money? Could we spend it on candy?” Kallan asks as she and her sister sit down next to us.

“What? I guess so.”

Kallan stares out thoughtfully into the crowd as it mills about, “We look like homeless people.”

I laugh, “We so do not look like homeless people. What are you talking about?”

“We so do! We are the only ones sitting on the ground against the building. We are all homeless and sad.”

Mark is all helpful, “Look around for a piece of cardboard! Maybe we can make some money out of this deal!”

Kallan is delighted, “Yeah! I will make us a sign! Homeless people have signs! I can write . . . Will Dance For Money! And when the music starts up again? Maj and I will be raking it in!”

She looks at me in concern as I choke on my drink, “Are you OK, Mom?”

I wave her off, giggling, “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m just so proud. Will Dance For Money! I just could not be more proud.”

“Okaaaaaaay,” and she turns to her sister, “You’ll dance for money, right, Maj?”

Maj is annoyed, “I am not pretending to be homeless and begging for money with dance.”

Mark is all helpful again, “We’re going to need paper bags!”

Kallan turns, “What? Why?”

He holds up his drink, “Homeless people drink out of paper bags. We’re going to need to put our cups in paper bags so we’re all authentic.”

“Good idea, Dad!”

I reach into my purse and Kallan protests, “Mom! You’re killing me here! How am I supposed to be all convincing and homeless if you are on your iPhone? Homeless people do not have iPhones.”

“What if they need to check their email?”

“Mom! Be serious!”

“Sweetie, you are not going to be homeless and dancing for candy money. You’re just not.”

“Even if I make a sign?”

“Even if.”

“I’m bored.”

“The music will start again in a minute. Stop complaining.”

Kallan is annoyed, “I’m not complaining! I just want to dance for money! What is wrong with that, exactly?”

She looks at me in concern again as I choke and giggle again, “What is wrong with you?”

There is no dancing for money.

Yet.

Mark comes to me this morning with a great idea! He has been looking at my idol’s blog, and in the corner? She has placed a donation box.

So that people who feel inclined to give her money? Might do so.

Here’s Mark, “That is an awesome idea! If she’s doing it, you could do that too!”

“You want me to beg for money? Really?”

“It’s not begging! It’s like all those people who write the WordPress plug-ins and themes for free . . . they all have a spot where you can donate some money if you enjoy the free stuff.”

“I have never donated to anyone for free stuff. That stuff is free . . . duh.”

“OK, but I bet some people would donate. They’ve been getting a free benefit from your blog, and I’m sure that a lot of people would make a donation. To make it possible for you to keep writing. This is a great idea!”

“Remember Kallan’s plan to be homeless and dance for money to buy candy?”

“Yeah?”

“This sounds a lot like that. And babe?”

“Yeah?”

“You know I can’t dance.”

“You wouldn’t be actually dancing, you know.”

“I’m not so good at the metaphorical dancing, either.”

“Not even for money?”

“Would there be candy involved?”

“What?”

“I do like candy.”

Hmmmm . . . I’m going to need some cardboard. I need to make myself a sign.

BLOGGER WILL WHORE FOR MONEY (OR CANDY)!!!!

And soon?

In the words of Kallan?

I’ll be raking it in.

The glue that binds

You know how Taco Bell sells those double-decker tacos? In which they slather a soft taco with refried beans and then bean-glue it to the exterior of a filled hard taco shell?

Yeah, that monstrosity.

Who comes up with this stuff?

We had tacos for dinner at our house last night, and Mark had the brilliant idea that we should make double-decker tacos. How awesome would that be, right? We would be like culinary geniuses!

We have been watching Hell’s Kitchen lately, and Mark is all inspired! We’ll be chefs! Just like the contestants on Hell’s Kitchen!

Just like the guys at Taco Bell!

Snort.

The rest of us have our doubts, but Mark is all happy as we sit down to eat.

First the soft taco. He spreads a generous helping of refried beans over its entire surface.

Then he picks up a hard taco shell and fills it with meat and toppings.

And then there is a problem.

The soft shell? Is actually not taco-sized at all, but instead designed to wrap a burrito. So Mark’s smallish hard-shelled taco? Is swallowed up by the enormous soft bean-glued exterior.

It looks like a taco for a giant, except it is all floppy where the inner regular-sized taco will not support its flimsy walls.

The girls and I are all giggly.

Plus? We take turns playing the role of Gordon Ramsay to Mark’s sad chef contestant and mock him mercilessly.

Mark ignores us.

So he’s holding this crazy giant floppy taco in his right hand when he notices a small dollop of refried beans has somehow fallen on the table, just to the left of his plate.

I see it too, and honestly? It looks like some miniature someone has taken a shit on the table.

You just cannot get more appetizing than that, people.

But because I see that Mark has noticed the problem? I do not reach over with my napkin and wipe up the mess. Mark’s got this little bean-shit problem under control.

Still holding the giant taco in his right hand? Mark picks up his fork with his left hand and attempts to scoop up the shit pile.

Now, I am right-hand dominant . . . so I get it. But Mark is pushing at this pile of beans with his left hand? As though he has just had a stroke and has lost most of the muscle control on his left side.

Perhaps eight tiny little tentative ineffective pushes with the fork later? He has only managed to shove the tiny pile of poo about four inches across the surface of the table. A small trail of bean slime marks the path.

I stare at him. He realizes I am staring. He looks back at me . . . giant misshapen floppy taco in one hand, poo-pushing fork in the other.

And he says, “What?”

I sigh, “Sometimes, babe? I look at you in a moment like this? And I just fall a little more deeply and madly in love with you.”

I reach over with my napkin and wipe up the bean shit and the trail that marks it passage, “Seriously . . . could you be more awesome and sexy? I don’t think so.”

He takes a huge bite of his double-decker taco (there is no crunch, so I know he is still a good distance from the inner taco), and speaks with his mouth full, “You’re just jealous.”

Snort, “Yeah, that’s it.”

Happy sighs. Mark is way sexy.

Later in the evening?

We are watching television together. Hell’s Kitchen. Nobody actually makes a double-decker taco on this particular episode, but I can see that Mark is still basking in the glow of his accomplishment. He understands what these contestants are going through. He has been there.

He has been mocked for his efforts. Just like these people.

Mark and I sit and watch. We each have a glass of beer. I am holding mine like a normal person.

Mark is holding his glass like he always does. With two hands. Pinkies extended. All weird and freakish.

Like a monkey.

Sometimes? When I look at Mark in a moment like this? I just fall a little more deeply and madly in love with him.

It is hard to contain myself.

So I do not.

Plus also? Gordon Ramsay?

Way hot.

Certificates of genius

When I was about 8, my dad decided to retire and devote himself more fully to the development of his genius. He got some sort of fellowship from the state of Michigan to make this possible . . . welfare, I think it was called. As part of his grant, my dad was awarded these little certificates with which his family could purchase necessities while he busied himself with all of the genius he could find at the bottom of another bottle.

Do they still give out food stamps to families who are as special and deserving as ours was then?

As a kid? I loved food stamps because it meant we were going to get . . . food.

That part was awesome.

But even as a kid? I knew that there was some shame involved in these weirdly colored slips of paper bound in little rectangular booklets. Knew it from my mom’s nervous energy as we waited in the check-out line. Knew it from the exaggerated and showy way the cashier would count out, and then rip out, the proper number of food stamps from their booklets. Knew from the heavy judgmental sighs of the other shoppers.

As an adult? I hate coupons.

I hate small lightweight shiny pieces of paper that promise to save you twenty cents. I hate holding up the checkout line in any way. I hate having attention drawn to the fact that I have made a purchase that is in any way designed to save money.

Which is just so stupid.

If Mark has a coupon? I will wander away from him at the check-out, avoiding the inevitable discussion of whether or not this coupon has expired, and whether it’s good on this particular package of stuffing mix, and whether or not the coupon may be used in conjunction with another discount.

Mark finds this interaction to be a neutral experience.

But in my mind? I am eight years old and the cashier is clucking her tongue at our irresponsible purchases.

A candy bar? With government food stamps? Cluck.

Anyway.

Where was I going with this? Oh yeah!

The other day? I discovered that our car is made of cardboard! That’s related . . . sort of . . . more irritating paper products.

Work with me, people.

I am sitting in the front passenger seat of our minivan, and we are driving to Costco (seriously, people . . . it feels like we are always driving to Costco). The car is loud with talking and music, and I lean forward to change the radio station. And in that shifting forward? There is a subtle movement beneath my leg, the feel of cardboard bending.

I sit in this seat all the time, and I have never noticed this before. Are you kidding me? The seat is made of cardboard that has somehow come loose? How does Honda get away with this?

I lean forward to check if the sensation is still there. Yup, there it is again . . . that feeling of cardboard folding beneath me. I am so going to have to Google “cardboard construction of Honda Minivan seats” when I get home. We are paying way too much for this car every month for it to have seats that rely on ill-fitting cardboard for their construction.

And then I put it out of my mind. No point in mentioning this problem to Mark at this moment. I chat with the girls, chat with Mark, sing along with the radio. We pull into the Costco parking lot. Park.

Mark turns to me, “Can I have the Costco coupon booklet?”

And then I remember an earlier conversation. Not much earlier, though.

We are climbing into the car and Mark hands me the Costco coupon booklet and says, “Don’t let me forget to bring this in with me.”

I know what he actually means is, “Don’t purposely leave this in the car so that we don’t have it when we check out, because I know you are loony that way.”

So I get annoyed and wave the booklet in the air, “I will so not forget this booklet! Look at me! I am completely on top of the coupon situation! There is no way I will forget these coupons!”

And I shove the booklet under my leg as I sit.

No way am I forgetting those coupons.

And then shortly after that? The seat turned to weird shifting cardboard beneath me. What the fuck is that about?

Sigh.

Is it really forgetting if your brain just refuses to take in the information in the first place?

I hate coupons.

Scattered

Our landlords are coming into town to visit with Lake Oswego friends this weekend. We have been dealing with a property management company, but the actual owners are in town this weekend. They want to come by, meet all of us, and take a look at the house.

Sigh.

Is there anything in the world that makes a house feel less like yours than having the actual owners show up to take a look at it?

I’m sure they are lovely people.

I’m sure the meeting will go fine.

Although I anticipate a certain amount of alarm about the fact that we are not as concerned with their landscaping as they might have hoped. Things grow crazy-fast here in Oregon . . . and honestly? Mark and I have trouble sometimes figuring out what is and isn’t a weed. So while everything looks neat? It does not look fussed over.

But that aside? I do not want to meet the owners of the house.

When we sold our house in Vallejo? Sold it for so much less than we owed on it? Made a crazy devil-deal with the bank whereby they would accept less than we owed on our mortgage if they were then given permission to make big ugly black marks all over our credit report?

When we did all of that?

We knew we were going to have to rent for a while.

What I didn’t anticipate? Was how very different that would feel. That renting.

That borrowing of a house.

A house that’s not mine.

Sigh.

And so even though the landlords have made clear that this is just a friendly visit and not an inspection?

It feels like an inspection.

Sigh.

And inspections? Are designed to reveal flaws.

So I am feeling all vulnerable. That is not my favorite way to feel.

Hmmmph.

In other news . . .

I was watching The Real Housewives of New Jersey last night. Because there is just little in the world that makes me feel better about myself than mocking and judging those ladies. I am all dysfunctional that way.

One of the women was all excited about her upcoming 10th anniversary, and she was hoping for a big gift from her husband. Her husband, in another scene, expressed concern that he wouldn’t be able to live up to his wife’s expectations because money was tighter than it has been in the past. So sad.

So I was expecting a lovely scene in which he bought her flowers and dinner, and she threw a huge fucking fit of greedy rage.

Happy sighs of anticipation.

But here’s what happened instead . . . He took her on a private helicopter ride over New York City. They checked into a luxurious hotel. They had a private dinner served in their room. And then? Stuffed into a chocolate dessert? An enormous fucking diamond ring.

Enormous. Also? Covered in chocolate frosting . . . that part was maybe not thought all the way through.

Sigh. I want to do belt-tightening the way these people do belt-tightening.

They cut away from that couple then, because they were having sex for the entire remainder of the episode.

It was a big ring.

I look over at Mark with raised eyebrows.

He looks back, “What? You’re not a jewelry person. Plus? You would never go in a helicopter.”

That’s true.

He holds out his bowl of popcorn, “Want some?”

Sigh.

I do like popcorn.

This morning, I tried to get the girls organized to help me clean up a little bit in preparation for the inspection (I mean visit) from our landlords. I explained that we needed to make things look a little neater than usual so that the landlords would be confident that we are doing a good job of taking care of their house.

They stood there and stared at me sadly for a moment.

And then Kallan screamed out, “SCATTER, MAJ! RUN AND SCATTER! SCATTER! SCATTER! SCATTER!”

And they were both gone, running for the hills and away from responsibilities.

And I was left giggling.

Scatter . . . are you fucking kidding me?

Stood there in the kitchen that is not mine for a moment. The kitchen I am borrowing.

What do we have here? Leftover popcorn?

I do like popcorn.

It’s a tiny stale. Still tasty, though.

I eat a couple of handfuls. Look around.

From where I stand?

I can see a huge cobweb dancing in the corner. And a small mountain of Labrador poo in the middle of the back yard. And a pile of dirty towels and bathing suits draped on the kitchen counter.

Sigh.

Bring on the inspection.

But how awesome would it be if, when they rang the doorbell? We opened the door and then all ran past them screaming and hiding?

SCATTER! SCATTER! SCATTER!

That would be awesome.

Note to landlords: We are looking forward to your visit! What a pleasure it will be to give you a chance to appreciate how happy we are in your house. Plus also? Mark and I turn out to be way lame at identifying weeds.

Sigh.

Pretty All True

Somebody Said…

Posts

Take me with you

In The News

Endurance

Raking it in

The glue that binds

Certificates of genius

Scattered

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Pretty All True

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Somebody Said…

Posts

Take me with you

In The News

Endurance

Raking it in

The glue that binds

Certificates of genius

Scattered

Recent Posts

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