Change is good, it really is. Although I like it much better when I instigate it rather than be forced into it. My poor Hubby, however, creature of habit that he is, is easily blown away by any deviant in his routine. It was nine years ago that I switched the utensil drawer and the silverware drawer around, they were side by side, and I hear about it to this day. Every time he takes one of the the prescription medications he is on, that would be twice a day, I hear bout how wrong Target pharmacy was to switch over to their new colored bottles. So has our pharmacist. And Target has received many e-mail also. I now just automatically switch his pills over to the old uncolored bottles before I give him his refills just so I don't have to listen to it anymore.
Other than this blog, here Are some of the things I am personaly going to try to change.
When I run up the stairs in the morning, I will no longer do the "Rocky" victory dance-jump with my fists held high up in the air. It's only thirteen steps.
When I am alone in the elevator at work, I no longer will sing Aerosmiths "Love in an elevator". Thank you Human Resource department for letting me know the elevator is not sound proof.
I will stop tilting my head to one side while I brush my hair just to see how much longer my hair will be in three months.
I will cut back on re-naming everyone I know. No more working with Basil Faulty, Olive Your Pies and Jackie Tran. I will not live by Sam Hill or Dawain the Tub. I will adress Mr. Rodgers at the grocery store as Jon and the counter monkey at the convience store will now be only known as Foopah Mama, er, I mean Liz.
I will eat the entire damn pint of Hagen Daas and not leave the last spoonful in the bottom trying to make myself look less like a pig.
I will no longer tell my husband, "You are so much calmer than our pool boy", after sex.
I will no longer make up imaginary conversations for postal workers when I spot one delivering mail. "Here you go, proper Miss Spinster Church Lady, here's this months issue of Pantsless Cowboy Mangravy Monthly", and "You call that a dog? Try and bite me will ya, I can fit all of you and your little cat buddy in my mouth", are now things of the past.
No more full volume drum solo's to Fleetwood Mac's Tusk on my steering wheel as I am attempting a left hand turn.
I will try not to pull up my shirt and stand sideways in front of my mirror to fool myself into thinking my stomach is flat.
I will stop telling the kids strories of being raised by wolves. Only because my sister told them the truth when they asked her for more stories.
I will stop petting the picture of The Rock that hangs on my fridge door and saying, "Good morning baby", in front of my Hubby.
I will stop licking the rim of every glass before I take a drink to aviod leaving my lipstick on it. I'm just gonna drink straight out of the bottle.
I will work on my cupboard door obsession. Even if every square inch of my kitchen is spotless, I will not fixate on open cupboard doors. They are my pet peeve. Oh hell, who am I fooling. I will always scream like a maniac when you leave them open. I just won't feel guilty about it.
I will contine to talk to my pets, I just won't wait for a responce.
I will stop pretending like I have famous and creative boyfriends. Like David Bowie once told me-
I still don't know what I was waiting for
And my time was running wild
A million dead-end streets
Every time I thought I'd got it made
It seemed the taste was not so sweet
So I turned myself to face me
But I've never caught a glimpse
Of how the others must see the faker
I'm much too fast to take that test
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes(Turn and face the strain)
Ch-ch-Changes
Don't want to be a richer man
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes(Turn and face the strain)
Ch-ch-Changes
Just gonna have to be a different man
Time may change me
But I can't trace time
Thank you for writting me that song David.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Epic Know Not
I don't know were I have been the past twenty five years or so, I really don't. How I have managed to grow up and never see a Star Wars film, or Lord of the Rings movie, or is beyond most people. Maybe I've just been busy.
I knew new sequels of both films were coming out a while back, so when I took my kids in to see The Ring Two, I was expecting a little light saber or hobbit action. As were were sitting in the local theater, settled in nicely with a vat of popcorn, the opening sceen of the story include a teenager and a whole lot of blood. "This ain't right", I say out loud, loud enough for my oldest son who was sitting a couple rows ahead of me to hear. I look around confused and no one else in the darkened theather is upset at what has to be a mistake. Ok, maybe I am just in the wrong showing room I deduct. I get up and leave the room to check the sign over the door. It does indeed read The Ring Two, but in smaller letters, "The evil returns". Damn, this is a horror flick. Squeamish chicken that I am, I march right back in to get my kids out of there. They would not budge. For the next two hours I sat with my eyes covered screaming like a little girl until K1 told me to shut up, I was embaressing him, and K2 sat on my lap to block the screen from view. Sorry Mr. movie theater manager, pee happens. Maybe vinyl seat covers when showing scary flicks eh?
Saturday we went to see The return of the Sith. I knew it was the right movie before it started by the quantity of geeks in costume. I know I once again irritated fellow movie goers by this time asking my kids about the plot line. "Who's father? Real or robot?" But it was not a waste of time. I actually enjoyed myself.
I recently finished reading the boys, JRR Tolkien's "The Hobbit", and we seen the play at The Institute of Art. I even watched twenty minutes of our Lord of the Rings DVD and might be able to sit through it in it's entirety. Maybe, just maybe, at this ripe old age I will turn into a sci-fi fanatic. But I doubt I will ever cross over to that dark side anytime soon.
I knew new sequels of both films were coming out a while back, so when I took my kids in to see The Ring Two, I was expecting a little light saber or hobbit action. As were were sitting in the local theater, settled in nicely with a vat of popcorn, the opening sceen of the story include a teenager and a whole lot of blood. "This ain't right", I say out loud, loud enough for my oldest son who was sitting a couple rows ahead of me to hear. I look around confused and no one else in the darkened theather is upset at what has to be a mistake. Ok, maybe I am just in the wrong showing room I deduct. I get up and leave the room to check the sign over the door. It does indeed read The Ring Two, but in smaller letters, "The evil returns". Damn, this is a horror flick. Squeamish chicken that I am, I march right back in to get my kids out of there. They would not budge. For the next two hours I sat with my eyes covered screaming like a little girl until K1 told me to shut up, I was embaressing him, and K2 sat on my lap to block the screen from view. Sorry Mr. movie theater manager, pee happens. Maybe vinyl seat covers when showing scary flicks eh?
Saturday we went to see The return of the Sith. I knew it was the right movie before it started by the quantity of geeks in costume. I know I once again irritated fellow movie goers by this time asking my kids about the plot line. "Who's father? Real or robot?" But it was not a waste of time. I actually enjoyed myself.
I recently finished reading the boys, JRR Tolkien's "The Hobbit", and we seen the play at The Institute of Art. I even watched twenty minutes of our Lord of the Rings DVD and might be able to sit through it in it's entirety. Maybe, just maybe, at this ripe old age I will turn into a sci-fi fanatic. But I doubt I will ever cross over to that dark side anytime soon.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
One Red, One Blue
I had four dresser drawers on my half of the dresser, as I was growing up. Top drawer was for my tops. Next drawer was jeans. My treasure drawer full of books, chockeys and lint followed. And farthest from the top was my underwear door. Not that I needed an entire door for my panties, I only owned two pair. That left only one pair to occupy my underwear door at any given time.
During my fifth and six grade years, the lumbar mill where my father worked was on strike. Dad was the foreman and could of gotten another job elsewhere. He chose not to, he thought had to remain loyal for his "boys." Boys is what he called his crew that had wanted the strike for higher wages and was mostly made up of younger men without family. Men with less obligations who could go longer without a paycheck. My mother, being a professional housewife, generated no income either. Not that we had ever been affluent, we learned to make do with even less. My family was fortunate that we had no house payment. We heated our home with wood and our meals revolved around venison and Moms garden. It was an easier time for me than my sister who was already in highschool. I could use her hand me downs. Just not the underwear.
One day we ran out of peanut butter at home for a sandwich that made up my school lunch. I knew not to even ask my parents for lunch money, there was none. As I was counting out my Christmas change, the money I had earned picking wild blueberry's during the summer, my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Christianson, (silly Millie Gillie, the class taunted her behind her back, as she had been a Gillie, a million years ago, before she had married a Christianson) watched pationtly as I fumbled and scroundged through my pockets for enough money for a meal ticket. Millie, who never ever left the class room unattended, because after all, we were an unruly lot, had a sudden emergency and left the room for a good ten minutes. I continued to stand at her desk, until I had gathered the last of my pennies for that days lunch. I returned to me seat and made the most of my free time with my classmates until Millie finally came back to a class that, by this time, was in quite an uproar. Wanting to regain control of her chaotic classroom, Millie first stops at her desk, slamming her cash box shut containing all the lunch money, before grabbing out a handful of tickets. She walks past my desk and slides a stack of them onto it and zealously attempts to quieten the rowdy kids and start our days lessons. I tucked all those tickets into the forefront of my desk and counted them when I had a chance. I slipped my hand into the crack of open desk, as I pretended to be concentrating and counted them with my fingers. There were over a months worth of tickets in that pile. I had enough tickets to eat lunch for up until Thanksgiving. I had an excited and sick feeling in the pit of my stomach knowing I could eat a real lunch but it was a mistake. I waited behind when all the other kids ran down to gym class. "Mrs. Christianson, you gave me too many tickets" I confessed to Millie when the class had cleared the room. "You are late for gym, Munkay", Millie quietly told me, "run off and I will count the balance in my cash box when you are gone and I will see if there has been a mistake."
Welfare, my proud parents thought,were for the poor . It was never brought up in our home that we would go on any assistance. My help came in the form of my sixth grade teacher. "Nonsense, she told me after gym. I don't make mistakes. The money was right to the penny. Somehow that stack of lunch tickets in my desk never ran out that year. They just unexplainably appeared. Mrs. Christenson knew pride ran in our family.
When my son's lunch funds get low in his account balance, his school stamps his hand as a visual reminder for me to send in a check. K2 came home the other day with his hand stamped and informed me he needed money for his account as his balance was getting low. "And what happens if you run completely out?", I asked him. "Then we ONLY get a peanut butter and jelly sandwich mom! Please don't make me eat that, it's looks so embarrasing." That's ok baby", I answered him, "I won't make you eat peanut butter. Go and count how many underwear you have in your drawer."
My children enjoy when I tell them my hardship stories. They just have a hard time believing them. Of that I'm glad.
During my fifth and six grade years, the lumbar mill where my father worked was on strike. Dad was the foreman and could of gotten another job elsewhere. He chose not to, he thought had to remain loyal for his "boys." Boys is what he called his crew that had wanted the strike for higher wages and was mostly made up of younger men without family. Men with less obligations who could go longer without a paycheck. My mother, being a professional housewife, generated no income either. Not that we had ever been affluent, we learned to make do with even less. My family was fortunate that we had no house payment. We heated our home with wood and our meals revolved around venison and Moms garden. It was an easier time for me than my sister who was already in highschool. I could use her hand me downs. Just not the underwear.
One day we ran out of peanut butter at home for a sandwich that made up my school lunch. I knew not to even ask my parents for lunch money, there was none. As I was counting out my Christmas change, the money I had earned picking wild blueberry's during the summer, my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Christianson, (silly Millie Gillie, the class taunted her behind her back, as she had been a Gillie, a million years ago, before she had married a Christianson) watched pationtly as I fumbled and scroundged through my pockets for enough money for a meal ticket. Millie, who never ever left the class room unattended, because after all, we were an unruly lot, had a sudden emergency and left the room for a good ten minutes. I continued to stand at her desk, until I had gathered the last of my pennies for that days lunch. I returned to me seat and made the most of my free time with my classmates until Millie finally came back to a class that, by this time, was in quite an uproar. Wanting to regain control of her chaotic classroom, Millie first stops at her desk, slamming her cash box shut containing all the lunch money, before grabbing out a handful of tickets. She walks past my desk and slides a stack of them onto it and zealously attempts to quieten the rowdy kids and start our days lessons. I tucked all those tickets into the forefront of my desk and counted them when I had a chance. I slipped my hand into the crack of open desk, as I pretended to be concentrating and counted them with my fingers. There were over a months worth of tickets in that pile. I had enough tickets to eat lunch for up until Thanksgiving. I had an excited and sick feeling in the pit of my stomach knowing I could eat a real lunch but it was a mistake. I waited behind when all the other kids ran down to gym class. "Mrs. Christianson, you gave me too many tickets" I confessed to Millie when the class had cleared the room. "You are late for gym, Munkay", Millie quietly told me, "run off and I will count the balance in my cash box when you are gone and I will see if there has been a mistake."
Welfare, my proud parents thought,were for the poor . It was never brought up in our home that we would go on any assistance. My help came in the form of my sixth grade teacher. "Nonsense, she told me after gym. I don't make mistakes. The money was right to the penny. Somehow that stack of lunch tickets in my desk never ran out that year. They just unexplainably appeared. Mrs. Christenson knew pride ran in our family.
When my son's lunch funds get low in his account balance, his school stamps his hand as a visual reminder for me to send in a check. K2 came home the other day with his hand stamped and informed me he needed money for his account as his balance was getting low. "And what happens if you run completely out?", I asked him. "Then we ONLY get a peanut butter and jelly sandwich mom! Please don't make me eat that, it's looks so embarrasing." That's ok baby", I answered him, "I won't make you eat peanut butter. Go and count how many underwear you have in your drawer."
My children enjoy when I tell them my hardship stories. They just have a hard time believing them. Of that I'm glad.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Passive Aggression vrs Retired Evil in a Bad Rug
It was an eternity I spent in that check out line. The line to the front of the Walmart pharmacy did not move a fraction all afternoon as my daylight burned without me outside the store. I had meant only to breeze in, five minutes tops, and pick up this months prescriptions. I had planned ahead. Done my math. Called in my much needed scripts after making sure the proper funds in my checking account. With a four digets to the left of my decimal point in place, I was good to go. But the hangers came in groups of 24, and the charity garage sale could use a bunch of them, along with the cleaning and storage supplies that tempted me on the way in, and the socks that both my boys were in dire need of. So there I stood, juggling my heavy load and growing roots into the hard tile beneath me as the infomercials played on. That is when I encountered evil incarnate herself.
Disguised as a pug dog in a bad wig, she bullied her way in front of me, using her cart like a demolition derby vehicle. Maybe it was the bouffant flaming red wig, teased to Jesus, that blocked her peripheral vision, or the dazzleing gleam from the fistfull of rocks that adorned her hands, that kept her from seeing me there, waiting only somewhat patiently by now. "Eithel!", she exclaims after wedging her empty cart directly in front of me, where she is able to pat the woman now standing at the counter on her back. That old hound of hell, jowls waggin, laments endlessly to Eithel, the difficulties of her life as she rests her more than ample sagging bosom onto her barren cart. She is now a human road block in support hose. With only time to kill. Mine. Eithel, polite lady that she is, has a hard time getting away from this walking poke in the eye, but finally does and breaks free. Not needing her battering cart, Lucifer, or Lucy as I have now come to think of her, shoves it off, to bounce off me and coast to rest at the end on the isle were the expensive Nicorest is shelved within the pharmists sight to distract tobacco jonesing shoplifters.
Lucy is a regular here. The poor counter girl reconizes her, and before she knows what she is asking, inquires after Lucy's welfare. Lucy is grouchy. Lucy is in a thither. Lucy is going out of town, to her sisters deluxe condo in Palm Springs, and needs her meads. Stupid slow counter girl has filled all her meds. Too many scrips, bumbling incompetent counter girl that she is. Brainless little know nothing has to count out only 21 days of each drug waiting. Not the full amount. She is to call the good doctor who wrote these prescriptions, as Lucy waits and huffs and drums the counter. She must call the insurance company also because there is no way possible that the price could be that high. Five dollars is five dollars, is five dollars, don't you know?
Fighting back my growls of rage at this ominous granny, I yearn to drop my ungainly load into her unused cart, as my knuckles now drag on the floor from the weight. But I resist dropping hangers, anyway.
When she is done barraging the teary counter girl, she spins, still grumbling, and rolling her eyes, to reclaim her cart from where she had abandoned it, forcing me to clumsily side step her cart so she can squeeze it past me and the end of the isle, saving herself any inconvenience of walking around me and down the longer route to the stores entrance. I know she just prefers to see me dance. I supply her a moving target as she runs over my foot after bruising my thigh during her dramatic exit.
It is with a smile that I make out my check for my drugs when I hear the store security alarms going off. On my way out, I spot Lucy and she is madder than a wet hornet at the indignity of being stopped by the store police for trying to leave the store with unpaid for nicorest in her cart. Yeah, plenty of smoke already where you are going back to there Lucky. No need for that. It is my turn to pretend not to see her standing there as I walk past.
Disguised as a pug dog in a bad wig, she bullied her way in front of me, using her cart like a demolition derby vehicle. Maybe it was the bouffant flaming red wig, teased to Jesus, that blocked her peripheral vision, or the dazzleing gleam from the fistfull of rocks that adorned her hands, that kept her from seeing me there, waiting only somewhat patiently by now. "Eithel!", she exclaims after wedging her empty cart directly in front of me, where she is able to pat the woman now standing at the counter on her back. That old hound of hell, jowls waggin, laments endlessly to Eithel, the difficulties of her life as she rests her more than ample sagging bosom onto her barren cart. She is now a human road block in support hose. With only time to kill. Mine. Eithel, polite lady that she is, has a hard time getting away from this walking poke in the eye, but finally does and breaks free. Not needing her battering cart, Lucifer, or Lucy as I have now come to think of her, shoves it off, to bounce off me and coast to rest at the end on the isle were the expensive Nicorest is shelved within the pharmists sight to distract tobacco jonesing shoplifters.
Lucy is a regular here. The poor counter girl reconizes her, and before she knows what she is asking, inquires after Lucy's welfare. Lucy is grouchy. Lucy is in a thither. Lucy is going out of town, to her sisters deluxe condo in Palm Springs, and needs her meads. Stupid slow counter girl has filled all her meds. Too many scrips, bumbling incompetent counter girl that she is. Brainless little know nothing has to count out only 21 days of each drug waiting. Not the full amount. She is to call the good doctor who wrote these prescriptions, as Lucy waits and huffs and drums the counter. She must call the insurance company also because there is no way possible that the price could be that high. Five dollars is five dollars, is five dollars, don't you know?
Fighting back my growls of rage at this ominous granny, I yearn to drop my ungainly load into her unused cart, as my knuckles now drag on the floor from the weight. But I resist dropping hangers, anyway.
When she is done barraging the teary counter girl, she spins, still grumbling, and rolling her eyes, to reclaim her cart from where she had abandoned it, forcing me to clumsily side step her cart so she can squeeze it past me and the end of the isle, saving herself any inconvenience of walking around me and down the longer route to the stores entrance. I know she just prefers to see me dance. I supply her a moving target as she runs over my foot after bruising my thigh during her dramatic exit.
It is with a smile that I make out my check for my drugs when I hear the store security alarms going off. On my way out, I spot Lucy and she is madder than a wet hornet at the indignity of being stopped by the store police for trying to leave the store with unpaid for nicorest in her cart. Yeah, plenty of smoke already where you are going back to there Lucky. No need for that. It is my turn to pretend not to see her standing there as I walk past.
Coveting Lust
I know now the difference between desire and greed. I only hope I can recognize it with my eyes open.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Shack Nasty Day
So, maybe I am not your mother. I do not want or even like most jewerly. If I am drawn to shiny objects, it would be the sparkle of stainless steal for my kitchen or the gleam of chrome for my Harley. I do love flowers, but I have un endless hook up at Sis's flower shop. Food is always a good bet, but I have come to expect that daily. But that does not mean I am unpleasable come mothers day. A weekend at Shack Nasty is all I want.
When I first met my darling Hubby, he told me about his favorite place, his cabin. His faced glowed with an erethral love as he spoke of the wonderful retreat he had built, three hours north of the cities, on the iron range. With much anticipation, as young lovers, we threw the bare essentials into a bag and hit the road for a weekend there.
It off an old highway, then a county road, then a low maintenance seasonal road. Slinging our packs over our shoulders, we trekked the last half mile up an old logging road that was reverting back to it's original shape, due to the growing underbrush. The dank little hovel he took me too, I thought, was just an abandoned logging camp. No electricity, no plumbing, lots of critters. It was with great pride he gave me the tour of the one room little abode. "Look! Windows!", he would point out excitedly, "Bunk beds and a table!" All this I could of seen from the door.
Don't take me wrong now, I am not a snob. I grew up in the backwoods. We did not always have plumbing or much electricity. And I am all about nature, I really am. But when my Hubby had spoke of this place, I had expected more. Comfort perhalps. But this was the boy who grew up in south Minneapolis and would bike twenty miles one way to be able to fish in good fishing lake. This was his retreat. He had probley dreamed of such a place constantly was he was growing up in his rough inner city neibhorhood. And it was well made, he had created it with his own hands. He proclaimed it our "love shack". (Go ahead, in your mind sing the B-52's song in your head.) I immediately renamed it more appropriately, Shack Nasty.
Over the years, we have made many memorable times there. When our kids were born, it did not stop our pilgrimage every spring opening fishing season to Shack Nasty. We just learned to just pack more things. It did not make my husband hesitate one heart beat to take an infant along. His reasoning, one more in the boat, one more limit of northern were were allowed to keep. Years I had to work opening weekend, Hubby took the babies, diapers and all, by himself.
The only addition or repair we have ever made is the out house we added a few years back.
I go less up there now, choosing to leave it a primal male bonding experience for my men. It is the place were they can be themselves, and let it all hang out. No matter how nasty and unwashed it is.
Around Febuary, in the pitch of spring fever, the boys start making preparations for their yearly ritual. They sit on the couch, watching fishing shows on TV, putting new line on their rods and practice casting at the fish on the screen. Large plastic containers are bought and stocked with survival food. The kind I would never buy for them. Canned puddings, chilli, sugar laden sodas, bags of licorice, sunflower seeds. Months are counted.
March they pack duffel bags full of clothes. Swim suits to snow suits and everything inbetween. You never know what the temperature will be opening weekend. New fishing lures are scouted and bought before packing away. Weekends are counted.
April they are out cleaning the boat for the year. It is vacuumed, cleaned and polished. Fillet knives are sharpened. Days are counted.
Opening day falls on Mothers day weekend every year in our state. This upsets many women, as a lot of them don't want to share any time or attention on "their" day. And many do not fish. Not me. As much as I used to enjoy the fishing trip with my men. I now lookforward to my precious time alone. I count the hours.
I will eagerly pack them off. I will walk outside and help them load everything into the truck. I will even walk as far as the end of the drive way as a few tears slip out and roll down my cheek's, as I wave at the back of the truce cram packed full of sports parafinallia, as they pull out of my sight down the road. Then I skip back to the house.
I will walk around my now too empty house and adjust to it's silence. Sometimes I wait a full twenty minutes before I call someone. I have, in the past just shown up at my sisters house with a lonely forlorn look and spent the weekend. Or I will rent the chick movies I never have the chance to watch and walk around in my underwear, eating ice cream by the gallon straight out of the container. For breakfast. I will talk to the cat and dance with the dog. Yes, I do those things anyway but now I really mean it. Sometimes I will cook myself a wonderful gourmet dinner and eat of my good china and drink from my crystal. I have tackled big projects, like washing all my windows, or I will remain in my bead and read until I can no longer see the blurry words in front of me. For fourty-eight hours, life is good. Life is mine.
This year, however, evil is in the air. Hubby's job responsibilities may wreck havoc on our plans. I am trying hard not to scream and wail on the inside. I need my time. That short, not often enough time when I am not a wife or a mother.
If it has to be this way, I will be alone. Even if it is in my mind. I will revert back to primal woman on my inside, with or without them here. I will stroll around here covered only in an exfoliating mask and salsa with what ever four legged creature dares look in my direction. I will sing my own bad rendition of Gwen Stefani's "Holla Back Girl", while eating a brownie as big as my head, followed by a salad. And I will bawl unabashed at the sappy part of what ever I am whatching with out letting any taunts affect me. I will have my day. I have many others ones to worry about therapy for my men. I will have my own Shack Nasty Day, with or without them.
When I first met my darling Hubby, he told me about his favorite place, his cabin. His faced glowed with an erethral love as he spoke of the wonderful retreat he had built, three hours north of the cities, on the iron range. With much anticipation, as young lovers, we threw the bare essentials into a bag and hit the road for a weekend there.
It off an old highway, then a county road, then a low maintenance seasonal road. Slinging our packs over our shoulders, we trekked the last half mile up an old logging road that was reverting back to it's original shape, due to the growing underbrush. The dank little hovel he took me too, I thought, was just an abandoned logging camp. No electricity, no plumbing, lots of critters. It was with great pride he gave me the tour of the one room little abode. "Look! Windows!", he would point out excitedly, "Bunk beds and a table!" All this I could of seen from the door.
Don't take me wrong now, I am not a snob. I grew up in the backwoods. We did not always have plumbing or much electricity. And I am all about nature, I really am. But when my Hubby had spoke of this place, I had expected more. Comfort perhalps. But this was the boy who grew up in south Minneapolis and would bike twenty miles one way to be able to fish in good fishing lake. This was his retreat. He had probley dreamed of such a place constantly was he was growing up in his rough inner city neibhorhood. And it was well made, he had created it with his own hands. He proclaimed it our "love shack". (Go ahead, in your mind sing the B-52's song in your head.) I immediately renamed it more appropriately, Shack Nasty.
Over the years, we have made many memorable times there. When our kids were born, it did not stop our pilgrimage every spring opening fishing season to Shack Nasty. We just learned to just pack more things. It did not make my husband hesitate one heart beat to take an infant along. His reasoning, one more in the boat, one more limit of northern were were allowed to keep. Years I had to work opening weekend, Hubby took the babies, diapers and all, by himself.
The only addition or repair we have ever made is the out house we added a few years back.
I go less up there now, choosing to leave it a primal male bonding experience for my men. It is the place were they can be themselves, and let it all hang out. No matter how nasty and unwashed it is.
Around Febuary, in the pitch of spring fever, the boys start making preparations for their yearly ritual. They sit on the couch, watching fishing shows on TV, putting new line on their rods and practice casting at the fish on the screen. Large plastic containers are bought and stocked with survival food. The kind I would never buy for them. Canned puddings, chilli, sugar laden sodas, bags of licorice, sunflower seeds. Months are counted.
March they pack duffel bags full of clothes. Swim suits to snow suits and everything inbetween. You never know what the temperature will be opening weekend. New fishing lures are scouted and bought before packing away. Weekends are counted.
April they are out cleaning the boat for the year. It is vacuumed, cleaned and polished. Fillet knives are sharpened. Days are counted.
Opening day falls on Mothers day weekend every year in our state. This upsets many women, as a lot of them don't want to share any time or attention on "their" day. And many do not fish. Not me. As much as I used to enjoy the fishing trip with my men. I now lookforward to my precious time alone. I count the hours.
I will eagerly pack them off. I will walk outside and help them load everything into the truck. I will even walk as far as the end of the drive way as a few tears slip out and roll down my cheek's, as I wave at the back of the truce cram packed full of sports parafinallia, as they pull out of my sight down the road. Then I skip back to the house.
I will walk around my now too empty house and adjust to it's silence. Sometimes I wait a full twenty minutes before I call someone. I have, in the past just shown up at my sisters house with a lonely forlorn look and spent the weekend. Or I will rent the chick movies I never have the chance to watch and walk around in my underwear, eating ice cream by the gallon straight out of the container. For breakfast. I will talk to the cat and dance with the dog. Yes, I do those things anyway but now I really mean it. Sometimes I will cook myself a wonderful gourmet dinner and eat of my good china and drink from my crystal. I have tackled big projects, like washing all my windows, or I will remain in my bead and read until I can no longer see the blurry words in front of me. For fourty-eight hours, life is good. Life is mine.
This year, however, evil is in the air. Hubby's job responsibilities may wreck havoc on our plans. I am trying hard not to scream and wail on the inside. I need my time. That short, not often enough time when I am not a wife or a mother.
If it has to be this way, I will be alone. Even if it is in my mind. I will revert back to primal woman on my inside, with or without them here. I will stroll around here covered only in an exfoliating mask and salsa with what ever four legged creature dares look in my direction. I will sing my own bad rendition of Gwen Stefani's "Holla Back Girl", while eating a brownie as big as my head, followed by a salad. And I will bawl unabashed at the sappy part of what ever I am whatching with out letting any taunts affect me. I will have my day. I have many others ones to worry about therapy for my men. I will have my own Shack Nasty Day, with or without them.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Three Questions
Three questions of the day:
Question- Does a reality challenged seven year old really write all your poems and lyrics?
Answer- Yes, but she is heavily influenced by Godiva chocolate liquor laced with
barbituates first.
Question- In a card game, what to you enjoy best?
Answer- Dealin
Question- What is the name of the hard candy attached to the end of a stick?
Answer- Lolly, I'm gonna pop you right up side your head if you ask me that again.
Question- Does a reality challenged seven year old really write all your poems and lyrics?
Answer- Yes, but she is heavily influenced by Godiva chocolate liquor laced with
barbituates first.
Question- In a card game, what to you enjoy best?
Answer- Dealin
Question- What is the name of the hard candy attached to the end of a stick?
Answer- Lolly, I'm gonna pop you right up side your head if you ask me that again.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Automated Smile
I have packed the thin white plastic bags too full again. I feel them as they cut sharply into my fingers. The bags contents barley definy gravity and will break leaving my groceries rolling across the supermarkets atrium just to further inconvenience me. My lame plan is to run from the store to my jeep waiting outside in the parking lot. I know my timing is crutial. I have places to go, people to talk to, meals to cook, and clean ups to avoid. Now what is the delay with the automated door I wonder. I shift my gaze from the straining bags embedding themselves into my flesh to the door ahead of me. I see now the cause of my brief seconds wait. Ahead of me, he is also struggling with his bags. But he is counterbalancing his. His cane in one hand, bags in the other. Instead of moving around him to use the other door, I take the time to study the stranger in front of me. It is his boots that draw my attention. More specifically his boot. One foot is clad in the most expensive, highly polished pointy toed cowboy boot I have ever seen. Must be custom made. In contrast, the gentleman's opposite foot is wearing a sturdy thick soled orthopedic shoe. Probly also custom made, but to allow room for a brace.
He either senses I am waiting behind him or he catches a glimpse of my reflection in the glass in front of us. He turns and smiles. It is not the apologetic and shameful, "Sorry I have inconvenience you, smile", that I have grown to expect. It is a confident, "I see you looking at me baby", smile. And I smiled back at him. In that moment, I really was.
He either senses I am waiting behind him or he catches a glimpse of my reflection in the glass in front of us. He turns and smiles. It is not the apologetic and shameful, "Sorry I have inconvenience you, smile", that I have grown to expect. It is a confident, "I see you looking at me baby", smile. And I smiled back at him. In that moment, I really was.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
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