Surreality Bites

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I offered my son his choice of places to visit yesterday. I told him we could visit the fountains or one of the two large parks with playground in our town. He didn't want any of those places; he wanted to visit the little playground in our neighborhood with its worn, shabby attractions and all the ducks he could feed. He is an ecologically minded young man who sees no reason to travel someplace by car when he can travel two blocks by little red wagon.

And did I mention there were ducks? Not just the same old ducks, either. There were dozens of new ducks to see, because we are in the middle of hatching season.

( Ducks by the dozens )

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If anyone was wondering about the girl at the fountain who had the audacity to stand to close to me and earn the contempt of my son, here she is, playing with the man whose mommy she tried to steal.

( That Girl Splashing in the Colors )

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Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about how my husband is not a jealous man, but the same can't be said for our 3 year old son.

He demonstrated this to me this weekend. We were at a local fountain designed specifically for children to run though. At night, the fountain lights up, and it looks like the kids are running through wet pillars of color.


This photo was taken last November, when my son was still
too leery of the water to run thought it and be in the picture.
But at least you get a visual idea of what I'm talking about.

( That Girl Better Watch Himself )

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Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about how one of my quirky habits (and take my word for it when I tell you I have more than my fair share of them) drives certain people to distraction: I doodle during meetings. Not just a little, either. I will fill a page with doodles, and if the meeting is long enough, I'll start a second page. Certain people take this as a sign that I'm not paying attention. The truth is, it's the only way I can pay attention.

( My Right and Left Brains – The Odd Couple in My Head )

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Today on my drive into work, I was thinking that 3 year olds are peculiar people, and that I'm not the only one to have noticed this.

Back in March when I attended the Democratic Party convention in my county, one of the other delegates from my district was Alex. He was a tall, lean, soft spoken black guy with a 17-year-old daughter about to graduate high school. He showed off a picture of her in her prom dress, and we other delegates ooh-ed and ahh-ed over how pretty she was. The other two women delegates each had teenagers as well. I was the only one who still had a toddler at home. I had just called my father's house to check on my son, and learned that he had thrown a little tantrum because he wanted to go outside, but could not because when I had packed him up in the car that morning still in his pajamas, I forgot to bring his shoes. He had his socks on, but would not take them off.

"Three year olds are peculiar people," I told my fellow delegates.

( Undressed under her Sunday Best )

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Today, somebody brought cupcakes to the office and left them in the kitchen. White cupcakes with chocolate frosting. There they sat as I fixed my morning coffee, tempting all who walked by them. I'm a voyeur when it comes to sweets; I get off to looking at them, but I don't seriously consider indulging in the act of consumption. I imagine them touching my lips, imagine their sweetness, their texture, their decadence, and as I do this, my pulse and my breathing both quicken a bit.

Deserts are culinary pornography to me. Icing may as well be pasties and a g-string.

( Get a little something that you can't get at home... )

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"What, no questions?" the Carney asked me, "You usually got questions for me."

"Can't I just stop by to say hello? Isn't that what friends do?" I asked.

"I suppose," he drawled.

"Make a smoke ring, please," I told him, "I like those."

( Making Do About Matters and Mattering )

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Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about how an object's value increases from a small dollar amount to priceless when it has a good story to go with it. I came into the possession of several such objects this weekend.

Take, for example, the pair of earrings that my Aunt Jo gave me. They are small pearl stud earrings, circa 1950. They are a tiny luxury, but a luxury even I could afford to buy for myself if I wanted to. At least, they were until she told me where they came from. Now there is no way I could ever afford such earrings. They are a treasure handed from one hard working woman to another, and finally passed along to me wrapped in a priceless story.

( A fallen woman – in more ways than one. )

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Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about The Wiggles. For those of you without a preschooler, The Wiggles are 4 Australian guys who are rock stars for the 5 and under set. They sing, they dance, they wear silly clothes, and the travel the world and put on concerts for their tiny fans and their parents (since the fans can't drive themselves to the shows).

The first time I saw these guys on TV, I wondered what would possess a grown man to decide that this was a great way to make a living. Even guys who kind of like other peoples' children only like them so much. Then, listening to the radio one morning, I learned the real reason they do what they do: they're in it for the MILFs.*

( Wiggle it! )

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Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about the times my mother cursed me by saying, "One of these days, you're going to have a kid just like you, and you'll understand how frustrating it is!"

A powerful magic dwells within mothers, and their curses carry great weight in the universe. I realized that this weekend when my 3-year-old son did something that reminded me of myself. I don't have my mother's temper, though, and though all the experts say I should have scolded him, I had to try very hard not to laugh.

When your child acts up do not laugh at his or her actions, no matter how "cute" or "funny" it may seem, the childrearing books all say, A child will interpret your laughter as approval, and it will only reinforce unwanted behaviors.

It's easy to say this stuff when you are typing up a book telling other people how to raise perfect angels. It's not so easy when you are dealing with a flesh and blood toddler who has just pointed out that you are an idiot without saying a word.

( Leading By Bad Example )

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Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about the day I first learned the Leslie's son had an aneurysm. It was spring of 1993, and I was a few weeks away from graduating from college at the age of 23, because I couldn't think of any way to put it off any more. I put a whole 6 years into getting that 4 year degree, because my father was willing to pay for it and because I still didn't know what I wanted to be or where I wanted to go in my life. To tell the truth, I still don't. Stalling, by taking a minimum class load and changing majors ever so often, in order to keep my diploma at bay was the best tactic I could come up with, but my scheme had just about run it's course.

I was born with brains and just enough charm to get me by, but these things could not make up for an appalling lack of ambition. I am one of those quaint, useless people born to follow where ever the wind blows me, like a small autumn leaf. When there is no wind, I lie on the ground and molder with all the other useless leaves.

I was alone in my college apartment sitting at the dining room table, when the phone rang. It was my kid sister-in-law, Pat, and she was almost hysterical.

( A Proxy Pillar of Strength )

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Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about Mrs. Shepherd, my favorite of all my mother's friends when I was growing up. Like many of my mother's other friends, we knew her from church, but she was like no other lady at our church. A good decade younger than the other women my mother hung out with, Mrs. Shepherd was a tall, big-boned, bleach blond woman with a tattoo on her ankle who swore like a sailor. She said "sh*t" all the time, even at church, much to my mother's chagrin.

"I love that girl to death," my mother said more than once, "But sometimes I want to wash her mouth out with soap." My mother did not approve of swearing in general, especially not at church.

( Blessed are the pure of heart, no matter how foul mouthed they may be. )

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Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about the fact that my friend, the Cajun Queen, got married the Friday before last. She notified me by sending an email with photos taken at the courthouse where it happened. This casual method of notification didn't hurt my feelings one bit, because I suspect she probably notified her parents the same way. She queen likes attention, but she doesn't like fuss. If the spotlight is going to be on her, it needs to be on her simply because she is fabulous, not because of anything her fabulous self is doing.

( I certainly do, your honor. )

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Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about how my father had to get deathly ill in order for his once-favorite son to come back into his life. Visiting my father in the hospital this Sunday, I saw my middle brother, Russell, for the first time in over 8 years.

( Return of a prodigal son (and his wife) )

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Today on my drive into work, I was thinking that I will be either off site or busy this week, and won't be doing any real posts.

On the other hand, I may have more photos of the Funeral Museum to post next week. It seems I didn’t get one of the eagle-shaped coffin, the crab-shaped coffin, or of the mock up of an old-timey embalming room last time. If I’m lucky, I may even get a chance to slip back into the mortician’s collage and get a shot of the heads in a glass case. I think that everyone will agree that the woman's head in the middle has a pretty face.

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Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about my cousin Leslie. I got a call from her 82-year-old mother the other day, inviting me to come visit her. She wants to personally give away her things to insure that they don't wind up in the hands of Leslie's first husband. Her nursing-home-bound grandson, Cameron, is her next surviving kin, and his father is his next of kin. My aunt shudders at the thought of her ex son-in-law getting his hands on her wedding china or her prized doll collection. While I am not sure how much interest this man would have in such things, it means a lot to my aunt that he not get them.

"Now the china, it's a rose pattern, and I've got most of the pieces," my aunt told me. What she meant is that there is full service for 8, provided half the people leave early and won't want coffee afterward. "I'd like you to look at it, and see if you want it. It's nice, but if it doesn't suit your tastes, it won't hurt my feelings at all if you don't take it."

( Keepsakes )

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Today on my drive into work, I was thinking that total honesty is the worst thing in the world for a relationship, and anyone who thinks different is single and destined to stay that way. The best things for a relationship are diplomacy and tact, which are expressed not as complete honestly, but as white lies. The problem I have with telling white lies, though, is that I'm a really bad liar unless I'm well rested and prepared (even then, I'm only a mediocre liar). This made the moment Jeff handed me the bouquets of cut flowers that he had painstakingly picked out for me for Mother's Day kind of awkward yesterday. It was early, and I had only drunk half a diet Coke with my breakfast. In order for me to fake getting excited about a gift I hate, I need a lot more caffeine in my system.

( What woman doesn't like flowers? )

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Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about how my friend the Cajun Queen always gets depressed on Mother's Day, which is this Sunday. She is a mother, but she won't get a card or flowers for being one. Her son has another woman's name is on his birth certificate, and that woman will get his kisses and the card he made at school this week. That is his real mother, and the only mother he knows. The Cajun Queen is only his birth mother, and not real to him at all.

( A Cajun Unaware )

Today on my drive into work, I was thinking that I am special. Not only am I special, I'm a walking miracle. I've had at least two doctors tell me this, so it must be true.

"If I ever get to work on a study of why some people get complications and some don't, you're the first person I'm calling," my endocrinologist, Dr. Thomas, told me yesterday.

"I'll give you a vial of blood, if you think the answer is in there somewhere," I told him.

(  I believe Fate smiled and Destiny laughed  )

Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about home invader Jeff and I threw in the back of his pickup truck and dropped off in the woods yesterday evening. It's alarming to discover that someone has taken up residence in your garage without asking. Especially when they are the sort to go through your garbage and leave the place spelling like urine.

The saga began last week when Jeff announced: "We have a possum* living in our garage."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Because I saw it. It's a baby one."

"Awwww. What do you want to do about it?"

"There's a guy at work who has a trap he said I can borrow."

"Cool. Why does he have a trap?"

"Let's put it this way, we call him Roadkill Robert. He lives in the woods and eats whatever he finds out there."

I just looked at my husband.

"I'm not kidding."

"You aren't going to give him our possum, are you?"

"No, I'm going to let it go somewhere that's not here."

"Well, until then, he's part of the household," I said, "Let's name him Eddie."

Yesterday morning, I went in the garage and found this note on top of the cage:




It seems Eddie is a girl.

( Not Just Playing Possum )