The Serrano’s New Year’s Eve
Alright – I know that many of you are recovering from some sort of new year’s celebration. Perhaps recuperating from an all night binge – Ashlee this better not be you because if Jose wakes me up to go to church in the morning – then you are going with me – there’s no doubt about that. So, my idea of New Years includes one of the following options:
Loser Version – staying at home with Ben & Jerry’s watching Dick Clark’s Rocking New Year’s Eve on television and going to sleep at 11:00 – after the ball drops in New York.
Single Version – going to the bar with friends – and praying that you are not the designated driver – (of course if it were me, I would be… damn my natural aversion to alcohol)
The Couple Version - going out with another couple – or having a small get together – in my version most likely there would be some sort of card or board game – as that’s really the only way that I know how to make long amounts of time pass.
And then there’s the Serrano Version. Now, I’m sure that after you read the exciting events of the Serrano family gathering, you’ll want to model it for your very own new year’s celebration next year. And all I got to say is … if you speak English, can I come too?
First of all, Jose in a day long miff, walks around the house and complains about how I’ve been on vacation for 2 weeks and haven’t done anything. He cooks pollo gisada (*spelling is most likely way way off). It’s this chicken in a sort of tomato type sauce. Any suggestions that I offer are met with – no, Spanish people don’t like that. However, I did feel a bit better this year, as his nephew said he was bringing barbecue and Jose said that Spanish people don’t like sweet things – to which I responded just because he didn’t like sweet stuff doesn’t mean that everyone doesn’t like it --- I figure the Spanish people don’t like has been a little technique that he has developed to keep from eating foods he doesn’t like. Anyway, so no one really eats during the day, sort of snacking in hopes of having a good meal in the evening. Around 5:00 p.m. – no one has arrived, Jose doesn’t know when anyone is going to arrive, and I’m getting very hungry. By 6:00 p.m. – no one has arrived, my hunger has emerged to the point that I will chew off someone’s arm for nourishment if allowed, and Jose still has no idea when someone is coming. So, I go ahead and eat – which for those of you who know me is about 2 hours later than my regular dinner hour. Anyway, it is now 7:30 and Jose’s brother (with his sons whom I refer to as the demon-spawn have arrived – and any work I had done in organizing Elijah’s room and getting toys into baskets has been destroyed in a matter of minutes) has arrived and his friend Moses, with his two kids. The first hour of their arrival time was spent with Jose and the crew sitting around in the living room and speaking Spanish to each other. Occassionally I’ll hear a word that I think I know or that I want to know, and I’ll ask what that means. After about an hour, the effort becomes too much and they all move into the Jose’s living room – where they can sit and watch Spanish television and talk in Spanish – and I put on the Law & Order: CI marathon and settle back to enjoy my loser version of new years sans dick clark – and unfortunately ice cream or chocolate. I’d have had chocolate as I sent Jose to town for some earlier – to which he balked because of my diabetes – so he returned to the house with hard candy – HARD CANDY – which in NO WAY SHAPE OR FORM addresses the CHOCOLATE craving – Thank god Elijah let his chocolate covered ice cream bar melt – and I was able to suck down the chocolate shell – wasn’t enough though. The upside was that Jose told me that Moses was bringing cake – cake is always good – I love cake. But then I remembered… at every single Spanish gathering in which cake was served it had some weird raspberry filling in it – which ruins a perfectly good vanilla cake with icing – ruins it – so when I saw the fruit on the cake – my heart sank as I’m pretty sure that the cake will be fruit filled – at which point they should just call the damn thing a cobbler. And . . . because no one else in his family has arrived, and no one is answering their phones (I’ll lay odds 10 to 1 that they are out at walmart doing some last minute Christmas shopping because they know that we buy gifts for their kids and they don’t for Elijah or Isaiah) that I won’t be able to eat any of the cake until tomorrow – at which point the icky fruit filling will most likely turn into some gummy bear type substance – so perhaps cake bits will be easier to suck off of it then.
The final aspect of what can only be described as my utter joy is that the kids are so wonderful. First of all, they are the only ones who speak English – so you can imagine the intellectual edge my conversations have for the evening. Secondly, they are destructive in a way that only boys can be. This year, I took all of the toys that Elijah got for Christmas that I wanted him to have past this evening and hid them. They have improved somewhat since they’ve gotten older – but still – they are an annoying bunch of kids all in all – and I dread the post party inspection to see what was broken or what not.
So there is such joy in the evening that I’m sitting here and writing in my blog. Had a brief moment of panic as Moses Jr. was reading over my shoulder for a minute – but then figured that I didn’t really care if everyone in the free world realized that I didn’t really think this was a good time. And thus far, my greatest moment of joy has come from Jose’s comment that this may very well be the last Serrano family new year’s celebration – as he’s a bit irritated that it’s so late and his family hasn’t appeared. And that would suit me just fine. I’d be perfectly happy just treating this evening like any other in the year --
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Friday, December 30, 2005
On Courting part 2
On Courting part 2
O.K. So here’s the story. First of all, you need to know that access to aol online had pretty much put a wedge between Craig and myself. I began, through the fantasy world known as online chat, began to realize that perhaps being settled for wasn’t really the way that I wanted to go. Sensing that his security blanket, a.k.a. free ride, was drying up, he promptly found another to fill the position. So, I was living blissfully alone, with my dog and cat, at the old mall apartments. And, though it may shock some of you to know this about me, I decided to drive to Atlanta to meet a friend of mine that I’d met online. Yes, danger alerts should be going off everywhere – as they do for me now – anyway… I went. Driving my oh so lovely 1977 Dodge Aspen station wagon. On the way home from that trip, that went well, my poor old car began to protest the arduous journey. And as I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment, my car breathed it’s last sigh and died. Though upset that my car was dead, I was eternally grateful that it had died at the apartment instead of dying on the road somewhere, which has been the case for all my previous cars. As a result, I was no longer able to have my own glorious apartment, I had to find a roommate, but fast. The roommate that I found was my friend Mary’s sister, BETH. Beth, who unless I desperately needed funds for my rent or I would be living in my new car, I would never ever live with. Anyway, Beth was a substitute at the refugee center in town. I applied for a position as well, and was thrilled when I got the part time job as well. I went in the day before I was supposed to cover the class and there, in the front row, was the most amazingly cute little foreign man that I had ever seen. Wonderful smile, great hands and forearms. He was just cute. Not handsome, and if you’ve seen Jose he’s not that he man type for handsome, but he is attractive – and if you don’t think so, then I can only assume that you are blind or have no taste, or both. Anyway, I kept looking at him, staring almost. And everytime he’d look up – as he must have felt as if someone was burning a hole into his head, I’d look away.
If you’ve read the previous blog, you know that I have some mighty fine, sophisticated, and subtle techniques for letting a guy know that I kind of like him. For example, for Jose, I made a point to stay a little after class and wait for him to leave so that I could walk “with” him. Alternately, if he left immediately after the class, I rushed out hot on his tail. One day, I spent the afternoon making fried apple pies – not nearly as good as my grandma’s but not too bad. And I made enough for everyone in the class – though really, I’d made them for Jose. Who, it turns out, doesn’t really like sweet stuff, but anyway. On one of the walks out of class, I told him that I had a new car. He looked it over, and then I made a point of going to see his car – a 1988 toyota tercel. Somehow, I somehow got myself invited to his apartment. Where we sat, with pen and paper, and had a bit of a question answer period – and some English instruction. Though quite happy with myself at the time, when I got home, I feared that he would think that I was a freakishly pushy fat girl who he was going to have to move to avoid. So, I purchased a card to apologize for my brazenness. And in the card, I mentioned that I had a bit of a crush on him and that was why I was acting in such a fashion. I gave the card to Jose after class, and watched him go to his card, where I expected him to open and read the card. Instead, he put the card in the seat beside him and drove home. Well, that wouldn’t work. I wanted to see what his reaction was, so I followed him home. He was a bit surprised to see me pull up in the parking lot behind him. But I told him that I wanted him to read the card. He told me that he had waited until he got home so that he could use his dictionary. So he read the card. Said thank you very much, and then asked me what it meant to have a crush. And never was there a more awkward moment in my life. So, I did my best to explain what it meant without making me seem a total loser – and his response to my painful explanation was “do you want me to give you a kiss” And the awkward moment I had a moment before was nothing in comparison to that one. I mean, sure a kiss would have been nice – but I was thinking that it would just happen not be discussed and a convenient time outlined. And thank goodness we were in a car because I’m sure that my face was about 2000 shades of red. And thus it begins – You’re probably thinking that the romance, the courting, the falling in love began. But you’d be wrong. Really it was the stalking.
Those of you who know me, know that I’m a bit obsessive and on the rare occasion overly organized (in most places besides my house – though to be fair I know where almost everything in my house is -- usually the floor of some room or another). So, I took it upon myself to discover his schedule and his phone number. Jose would arrive home at 6:10 from work every evening. I would call his house at 6:12. I would force him to chat with me for a few minutes before he headed to class for the night. He wasn’t too big on missing class – something we don’t have in common at all. I would call him on the weekend. Ocassionally, I would meet him at his apartment at 6:12 instead of calling him. Yes, what had begun was the systematic stalking of poor Jose Serrano. And of course, luckily, he didn’t know enough about the laws of this country to call the police and get a restraining order. Instead, he ended up giving me a key to his apartment. And had I been just a bit more crazy, that would have been a dangerous thing indeed. And what did I do with that key. I made it a point to go to his apartment, and have something cooked for him when he got home from work. I would clean / straighten his apartment. Showing what a good wife I would be. The first date we had was at the pool hall that used to be over by Roses. The next official date resulted from one of my daily 6:12 phone calls. The seemingly idle chatter was interrupted by what any girl will tell you are dangerous words, “I have something to tell you.” Typically such a phrase can be followed by such things as “I’m married.” Or “I’ve met someone else” or “I love you, but I’m not in love with you.” So, figuring that bad news was in the works, I asked him to meet me in person. At which point, Jose informed me that the girl that he’d been having sex with before we met had told him she was pregnant. My first question was how pregnant. I’d been stalking for about 3 months and usually “I’m pregnant” comes after 6 weeks. It turns out that in Vietnamese cultures, “I’m pregnant” comes when you begin to show – so Dung (and let me say that I had no small amount of glee to find out that was how she spelled her name) was 6 months pregnant. And thanks to my 10 years of emotional therapy with gay boy Craig, I was able to be very calm about the whole thing… move into counselor mode if you will. Ironically, Jose and I were just talking about this moment on the way home from Cadiz, this Christmas. Apparently, I told Jose that he was not the only man who had ever been in this situation, and that it wasn’t the end of the world. I remember asking him if he was going to marry her, and his response being, “no, I don’t like their food.” Of course, I was being supportive while suggesting that marriage wouldn’t really be the answer. I used my sister as an example – Though she would tell you that she didn’t get married because she was pregnant – I believe that had she had a bit longer without that pressure there – she may have decided that perhaps she and Lance weren’t really suited after all. Not long after Dung made her announcement, Jose told me that she wanted him to go with her to tell her dad. Sounded a bit scary to me … but Jose is nothing if not responsible. When he returned, he told me that as was Vietnamese custom, to have a party to announce the birth. That made sense to me, I knew what a baby shower was. Jose’s responsibility for this shower was to purchase the alcohol that would be consumed. And let me just say that they must really put back the booze, because Jose bought almost $1000 in beer, wine and what nots. $1000 didn’t mean as much to him then because he was living in his apartment with is brother and his cousin – and his monthly bills, including groceries totaled about $400 – which was what he made a week – I was always envious of his money situation – and that envy of course caused me to marry him and ruin it forever… Anyway, about two weeks before the party, Jose came home with an invitation. A piece of art really. It was ivory, with these satin doves on the front. And all the text was written in Vietnamese. Now, I was working at Kinko’s at the time. I worked in the print shop actually. And, well, I’m not an idiot. This was no baby shower invitation. There were no rattles, blocks, diapers, baby pins on this invitation. This was doves with rings. This was a wedding invitation. It took me about an hour to convince Jose that it was a wedding invitation. He finally agreed to call his friend Ha (great name don’t you think) though he may have called Ha’s brother (whose name I do not know). Now, there is little else more stressful than listening to two people who speak two different languages, not a one of them English, try to figure out what an invitation says. Jose got off the phone somewhat reassured that he was not being invited to his own wedding. I was not so sure. I went to goodwill and bought a nice $10 suit for him to wear. And since it was a clear assumption that I wouldn’t be going to the party – it was the time that the asian gang was pretty big in Bowling Green – they’d had that double murder in some trailer park and I wasn’t sure that I was ready to sacrifice myself – they might have tried to render my fat to fry my dog or something. Anyway, I gave Jose my camera – because I wanted to see what the party looked like. And I told him that under no circumstances – absolutely NONE – was he to stand in front of everyone with Dung. He wasn’t to walk down any aisles, not to jump over any brooms, not to repeat anything that was said to him by some little man in a robe, fancy dress, feathered head dress, anything. Because I didn’t care what Ha said – Dung was having a wedding. As far as Jose and I both know, he left the party still single. It wasn’t until 3 years later when I was pregnant with Elijah that I learned that my suspicions were correct. I had gone to PJ’s Beauty College – my choice for all beauty needs – and was treating myself to a manicure before I went to get an ultrasound. And of course, without being overly stereotypical, the little men working on my hands were Asian - Vietnamese – as it turned out. He told me that he had used to work at Eagle industries. I told him that my husband also worked at Eagle Industries and did he know Jose Serrano. His eyes got wide and he began to talk rapidly to his little friend in his native language. I pooh-poohed their conversation and offered them a brief summary of the Dung incident… which I intuitively knew is what they were talking about – or maybe I heard them say her name. Anyway, I told them that they didn’t get married, that it was just a party to announce that she was pregnant. At which point the little finger man informed me that he was a little pissed off because he was told it was a wedding and had given her $50 as a gift. Actually, I think Dung raked in some $6000 at that party – that’s a lot and enough to make me want to be Asian and have a wedding. So, I told him that he got screwed – paid my bill and ruined my manicure as I tried to start my car.
The rest of the courtship was relatively uneventful. The first Christmas, I didn’t have enough money to buy gifts for anyone in my family and Jose spent $20 on each member of my family. I was touched beyond measure. Jose speaks of going to visit my parents and family with a bit more trepidation. He was nervous about going off to god knows where, and being trapped with strangers, but admits that he was really lonely at the time and welcomed the family contact. My family was probably so grateful that he wasn’t a black jewish man that they warmed up to him right away. Though they did all talk really loudly to him for the first year --- apparently a speaking a second language translates in American to hard of hearing. The marriage proposal consisted of me saying, “when we get married, we can (insert event here).” When Jose didn’t look at me like I was crazy and still talked to me the next day, I just assumed that we would eventually get married. Of course, I began to use the phrase once or twice a week, and then almost daily just to make sure that I wasn’t crazy. In March of 1997, Jose’s cousin and brother moved out of their apartment within a month – his brother left 3 days before rent was due and wasn’t planning of paying the next month’s rent at all. So, Jose moved in with me so that he wasn’t paying all the bills himself – that and my apartment was much nicer. And by July, Jose had withstood all the living in sin that he could possibly take, and we got married at Plano Chapel on a Saturday at 10:00 a.m. in the morning. I informed all of my family, but invited no one. I saw no point in spending on a wedding what could be used for a down payment on a house – though as I type this, I really think that I had new refrigerator in my mind – because I knew that I wasn’t spending thousands of dollars on my wedding and a good refrigerator was $1000 – the really nice ones anyway. So, our reception was catered by Rally’s drive through – I’m pretty sure that I had the double cheeseburger combo and Jose had the chicken sandwich combo – large sized as the fries are really good. And when we got home, we put together the aquarium that we purchased with the money that my family had sent. And because we didn’t kill each other as were putting together the pre-fabricated table and the aquarium – and hardly fought at all, I knew that we were going to do o.k. And that’s the story. The whole bizarre thing.
O.K. So here’s the story. First of all, you need to know that access to aol online had pretty much put a wedge between Craig and myself. I began, through the fantasy world known as online chat, began to realize that perhaps being settled for wasn’t really the way that I wanted to go. Sensing that his security blanket, a.k.a. free ride, was drying up, he promptly found another to fill the position. So, I was living blissfully alone, with my dog and cat, at the old mall apartments. And, though it may shock some of you to know this about me, I decided to drive to Atlanta to meet a friend of mine that I’d met online. Yes, danger alerts should be going off everywhere – as they do for me now – anyway… I went. Driving my oh so lovely 1977 Dodge Aspen station wagon. On the way home from that trip, that went well, my poor old car began to protest the arduous journey. And as I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment, my car breathed it’s last sigh and died. Though upset that my car was dead, I was eternally grateful that it had died at the apartment instead of dying on the road somewhere, which has been the case for all my previous cars. As a result, I was no longer able to have my own glorious apartment, I had to find a roommate, but fast. The roommate that I found was my friend Mary’s sister, BETH. Beth, who unless I desperately needed funds for my rent or I would be living in my new car, I would never ever live with. Anyway, Beth was a substitute at the refugee center in town. I applied for a position as well, and was thrilled when I got the part time job as well. I went in the day before I was supposed to cover the class and there, in the front row, was the most amazingly cute little foreign man that I had ever seen. Wonderful smile, great hands and forearms. He was just cute. Not handsome, and if you’ve seen Jose he’s not that he man type for handsome, but he is attractive – and if you don’t think so, then I can only assume that you are blind or have no taste, or both. Anyway, I kept looking at him, staring almost. And everytime he’d look up – as he must have felt as if someone was burning a hole into his head, I’d look away.
If you’ve read the previous blog, you know that I have some mighty fine, sophisticated, and subtle techniques for letting a guy know that I kind of like him. For example, for Jose, I made a point to stay a little after class and wait for him to leave so that I could walk “with” him. Alternately, if he left immediately after the class, I rushed out hot on his tail. One day, I spent the afternoon making fried apple pies – not nearly as good as my grandma’s but not too bad. And I made enough for everyone in the class – though really, I’d made them for Jose. Who, it turns out, doesn’t really like sweet stuff, but anyway. On one of the walks out of class, I told him that I had a new car. He looked it over, and then I made a point of going to see his car – a 1988 toyota tercel. Somehow, I somehow got myself invited to his apartment. Where we sat, with pen and paper, and had a bit of a question answer period – and some English instruction. Though quite happy with myself at the time, when I got home, I feared that he would think that I was a freakishly pushy fat girl who he was going to have to move to avoid. So, I purchased a card to apologize for my brazenness. And in the card, I mentioned that I had a bit of a crush on him and that was why I was acting in such a fashion. I gave the card to Jose after class, and watched him go to his card, where I expected him to open and read the card. Instead, he put the card in the seat beside him and drove home. Well, that wouldn’t work. I wanted to see what his reaction was, so I followed him home. He was a bit surprised to see me pull up in the parking lot behind him. But I told him that I wanted him to read the card. He told me that he had waited until he got home so that he could use his dictionary. So he read the card. Said thank you very much, and then asked me what it meant to have a crush. And never was there a more awkward moment in my life. So, I did my best to explain what it meant without making me seem a total loser – and his response to my painful explanation was “do you want me to give you a kiss” And the awkward moment I had a moment before was nothing in comparison to that one. I mean, sure a kiss would have been nice – but I was thinking that it would just happen not be discussed and a convenient time outlined. And thank goodness we were in a car because I’m sure that my face was about 2000 shades of red. And thus it begins – You’re probably thinking that the romance, the courting, the falling in love began. But you’d be wrong. Really it was the stalking.
Those of you who know me, know that I’m a bit obsessive and on the rare occasion overly organized (in most places besides my house – though to be fair I know where almost everything in my house is -- usually the floor of some room or another). So, I took it upon myself to discover his schedule and his phone number. Jose would arrive home at 6:10 from work every evening. I would call his house at 6:12. I would force him to chat with me for a few minutes before he headed to class for the night. He wasn’t too big on missing class – something we don’t have in common at all. I would call him on the weekend. Ocassionally, I would meet him at his apartment at 6:12 instead of calling him. Yes, what had begun was the systematic stalking of poor Jose Serrano. And of course, luckily, he didn’t know enough about the laws of this country to call the police and get a restraining order. Instead, he ended up giving me a key to his apartment. And had I been just a bit more crazy, that would have been a dangerous thing indeed. And what did I do with that key. I made it a point to go to his apartment, and have something cooked for him when he got home from work. I would clean / straighten his apartment. Showing what a good wife I would be. The first date we had was at the pool hall that used to be over by Roses. The next official date resulted from one of my daily 6:12 phone calls. The seemingly idle chatter was interrupted by what any girl will tell you are dangerous words, “I have something to tell you.” Typically such a phrase can be followed by such things as “I’m married.” Or “I’ve met someone else” or “I love you, but I’m not in love with you.” So, figuring that bad news was in the works, I asked him to meet me in person. At which point, Jose informed me that the girl that he’d been having sex with before we met had told him she was pregnant. My first question was how pregnant. I’d been stalking for about 3 months and usually “I’m pregnant” comes after 6 weeks. It turns out that in Vietnamese cultures, “I’m pregnant” comes when you begin to show – so Dung (and let me say that I had no small amount of glee to find out that was how she spelled her name) was 6 months pregnant. And thanks to my 10 years of emotional therapy with gay boy Craig, I was able to be very calm about the whole thing… move into counselor mode if you will. Ironically, Jose and I were just talking about this moment on the way home from Cadiz, this Christmas. Apparently, I told Jose that he was not the only man who had ever been in this situation, and that it wasn’t the end of the world. I remember asking him if he was going to marry her, and his response being, “no, I don’t like their food.” Of course, I was being supportive while suggesting that marriage wouldn’t really be the answer. I used my sister as an example – Though she would tell you that she didn’t get married because she was pregnant – I believe that had she had a bit longer without that pressure there – she may have decided that perhaps she and Lance weren’t really suited after all. Not long after Dung made her announcement, Jose told me that she wanted him to go with her to tell her dad. Sounded a bit scary to me … but Jose is nothing if not responsible. When he returned, he told me that as was Vietnamese custom, to have a party to announce the birth. That made sense to me, I knew what a baby shower was. Jose’s responsibility for this shower was to purchase the alcohol that would be consumed. And let me just say that they must really put back the booze, because Jose bought almost $1000 in beer, wine and what nots. $1000 didn’t mean as much to him then because he was living in his apartment with is brother and his cousin – and his monthly bills, including groceries totaled about $400 – which was what he made a week – I was always envious of his money situation – and that envy of course caused me to marry him and ruin it forever… Anyway, about two weeks before the party, Jose came home with an invitation. A piece of art really. It was ivory, with these satin doves on the front. And all the text was written in Vietnamese. Now, I was working at Kinko’s at the time. I worked in the print shop actually. And, well, I’m not an idiot. This was no baby shower invitation. There were no rattles, blocks, diapers, baby pins on this invitation. This was doves with rings. This was a wedding invitation. It took me about an hour to convince Jose that it was a wedding invitation. He finally agreed to call his friend Ha (great name don’t you think) though he may have called Ha’s brother (whose name I do not know). Now, there is little else more stressful than listening to two people who speak two different languages, not a one of them English, try to figure out what an invitation says. Jose got off the phone somewhat reassured that he was not being invited to his own wedding. I was not so sure. I went to goodwill and bought a nice $10 suit for him to wear. And since it was a clear assumption that I wouldn’t be going to the party – it was the time that the asian gang was pretty big in Bowling Green – they’d had that double murder in some trailer park and I wasn’t sure that I was ready to sacrifice myself – they might have tried to render my fat to fry my dog or something. Anyway, I gave Jose my camera – because I wanted to see what the party looked like. And I told him that under no circumstances – absolutely NONE – was he to stand in front of everyone with Dung. He wasn’t to walk down any aisles, not to jump over any brooms, not to repeat anything that was said to him by some little man in a robe, fancy dress, feathered head dress, anything. Because I didn’t care what Ha said – Dung was having a wedding. As far as Jose and I both know, he left the party still single. It wasn’t until 3 years later when I was pregnant with Elijah that I learned that my suspicions were correct. I had gone to PJ’s Beauty College – my choice for all beauty needs – and was treating myself to a manicure before I went to get an ultrasound. And of course, without being overly stereotypical, the little men working on my hands were Asian - Vietnamese – as it turned out. He told me that he had used to work at Eagle industries. I told him that my husband also worked at Eagle Industries and did he know Jose Serrano. His eyes got wide and he began to talk rapidly to his little friend in his native language. I pooh-poohed their conversation and offered them a brief summary of the Dung incident… which I intuitively knew is what they were talking about – or maybe I heard them say her name. Anyway, I told them that they didn’t get married, that it was just a party to announce that she was pregnant. At which point the little finger man informed me that he was a little pissed off because he was told it was a wedding and had given her $50 as a gift. Actually, I think Dung raked in some $6000 at that party – that’s a lot and enough to make me want to be Asian and have a wedding. So, I told him that he got screwed – paid my bill and ruined my manicure as I tried to start my car.
The rest of the courtship was relatively uneventful. The first Christmas, I didn’t have enough money to buy gifts for anyone in my family and Jose spent $20 on each member of my family. I was touched beyond measure. Jose speaks of going to visit my parents and family with a bit more trepidation. He was nervous about going off to god knows where, and being trapped with strangers, but admits that he was really lonely at the time and welcomed the family contact. My family was probably so grateful that he wasn’t a black jewish man that they warmed up to him right away. Though they did all talk really loudly to him for the first year --- apparently a speaking a second language translates in American to hard of hearing. The marriage proposal consisted of me saying, “when we get married, we can (insert event here).” When Jose didn’t look at me like I was crazy and still talked to me the next day, I just assumed that we would eventually get married. Of course, I began to use the phrase once or twice a week, and then almost daily just to make sure that I wasn’t crazy. In March of 1997, Jose’s cousin and brother moved out of their apartment within a month – his brother left 3 days before rent was due and wasn’t planning of paying the next month’s rent at all. So, Jose moved in with me so that he wasn’t paying all the bills himself – that and my apartment was much nicer. And by July, Jose had withstood all the living in sin that he could possibly take, and we got married at Plano Chapel on a Saturday at 10:00 a.m. in the morning. I informed all of my family, but invited no one. I saw no point in spending on a wedding what could be used for a down payment on a house – though as I type this, I really think that I had new refrigerator in my mind – because I knew that I wasn’t spending thousands of dollars on my wedding and a good refrigerator was $1000 – the really nice ones anyway. So, our reception was catered by Rally’s drive through – I’m pretty sure that I had the double cheeseburger combo and Jose had the chicken sandwich combo – large sized as the fries are really good. And when we got home, we put together the aquarium that we purchased with the money that my family had sent. And because we didn’t kill each other as were putting together the pre-fabricated table and the aquarium – and hardly fought at all, I knew that we were going to do o.k. And that’s the story. The whole bizarre thing.
On Courting
On Courting
I am writing this story for a couple of reasons. First, because Ashlee laughed so hard when she heard it that she was almost in tears. Secondly, because Stephanie, my dedicated reader (thanks Stephanie) has most likely been checking to find nothing new recently.
First, let me give you a bit of background. As I’ve never been what one has considered a raving beauty, or a beauty – in fact many would consider me a two bagger – I have never had many romantic relationships that were, umm… well a partnership. By this, I mean that I have had a series of almost obsessive crushes in my life and was fortunate in that the victims were relatively kind hearted. Thus, hope reined supreme in my heart as I dreamed, fantasized, planned romantic rendezvous for the poor objects of my affection. Let me give you a run down.
David Cunningham – from kindergarten in Greenfield, Missouri. David was the IT boy in my class. And he seemed to like Natalie, the IT girl. I showed my deep affection for him by violently swinging him about when we played tag. I’m not sure that he really made the connection. But such violent swinging would represent my masculine style of courting for years to come. If I wrestled or punched that means that I liked you. Subtle, I know, and massively ineffective.
Grant Roark – also from Greenfield. He was blond and rode my bus.
Doober – was a boy who lived down the street from us in San Jose. I don’t have a clue what his real name is, but he called me 4 eyes, though I didn’t wear glasses, because he thought I was so smart. It was my first compliment from a boy.
Jim Jim Wallace – my first little gay boy crush. He was very popular and I think that I was more interested in being accepted than anything more.
Stacy Gardner – Stacy was a god. He was 4 years older than I was and a life guard at the city pool. He had those blond locks, tanned skin, nice body. And I used to call him all the time. And he would occasionally talk to me. I didn’t realize it until much later that he was most likely grooming me for future fag had status. And that would be a pattern that I would fall into again. What I remember the most about Stacy Gardner, besides his Brad Pittish good looks, was that one day while we were at the pool and I was staring longingly at him, I saw him walk into the boy’s bathroom. And I came to realize that Stacy Gardner, THE STACY GARDNER, used the restroom!!! Can you believe it? I was floored.
Loren – he was a senior the year I was in 8th grade. His sister owned and ran the horse stables at Lake Barkley State Resort Park. He had green eyes and black hair and I thought he was dreamy. I volunteered to work at the stables for free that entire summer just for the opportunity to be in the same room with him. He of course preferred the other little girl who was working there – her daddy was rich and they summered at the lake on their house boat.
Rob Castelign – was the foreign exchange student from Holland. And, I have a thing for little foreign men – yes I do. I got him to go to the movies with me and my sister (who had to drive because I was too young.) We saw Missing in Action, my treat. And to this day, I have no idea why he decided to go to the movies with me.
Daniel Rodriguez – continuing in my little foreign man theme. Daniel was the junior scholar counselor the summer between my junior and senior year. He was 28 – I believe, from Venezuela and hairier than a monkey. He was the first person that I ever told that my mother was a lesbian.
Michael Ball – was a student at Western. He hosted the parent’s weekend talent show. I had entered, and performed Winnie the Pooh. And later, my creepy friend Susan Wrocklage and I saw him at the football game. He had a red light in his window at Pearce Ford Tower, and thought my roommate was cute. And I think he would have been willing to let me do his homework. He aspired to be a male model and had changed his name to Michael Diamond for the purpose. He was a bit Rick Springfield-ish.
Prince – who didn’t even know I existed.
Craig Flener – my last little gay boy. This one is too long and complicated to really even bother to get into. Just let me say that in the 10 years that I was waiting for him to decide that there was no gay man out there that he wanted to be with and settle for me (settle, can you believe it?!) I learned many life lessons about family, jealousy, self worth, friendship, finances and a bevy of other things. All in all it was cheaper than therapy and would count for many people’s first marriage.
Jose – finally, the cute little foreign man who isn’t gay. Of course he’s not overly romantic either. He’d tell you that mostly he was ready to get married and he liked me well enough. It was no grand passion, no amazing – obsessive love – at least for him – but it will last until one of us dies – though some days murder may be an option. And I know that it was meant to be . . . it was fated. And that story, I’ll tell you on another blog.
I am writing this story for a couple of reasons. First, because Ashlee laughed so hard when she heard it that she was almost in tears. Secondly, because Stephanie, my dedicated reader (thanks Stephanie) has most likely been checking to find nothing new recently.
First, let me give you a bit of background. As I’ve never been what one has considered a raving beauty, or a beauty – in fact many would consider me a two bagger – I have never had many romantic relationships that were, umm… well a partnership. By this, I mean that I have had a series of almost obsessive crushes in my life and was fortunate in that the victims were relatively kind hearted. Thus, hope reined supreme in my heart as I dreamed, fantasized, planned romantic rendezvous for the poor objects of my affection. Let me give you a run down.
David Cunningham – from kindergarten in Greenfield, Missouri. David was the IT boy in my class. And he seemed to like Natalie, the IT girl. I showed my deep affection for him by violently swinging him about when we played tag. I’m not sure that he really made the connection. But such violent swinging would represent my masculine style of courting for years to come. If I wrestled or punched that means that I liked you. Subtle, I know, and massively ineffective.
Grant Roark – also from Greenfield. He was blond and rode my bus.
Doober – was a boy who lived down the street from us in San Jose. I don’t have a clue what his real name is, but he called me 4 eyes, though I didn’t wear glasses, because he thought I was so smart. It was my first compliment from a boy.
Jim Jim Wallace – my first little gay boy crush. He was very popular and I think that I was more interested in being accepted than anything more.
Stacy Gardner – Stacy was a god. He was 4 years older than I was and a life guard at the city pool. He had those blond locks, tanned skin, nice body. And I used to call him all the time. And he would occasionally talk to me. I didn’t realize it until much later that he was most likely grooming me for future fag had status. And that would be a pattern that I would fall into again. What I remember the most about Stacy Gardner, besides his Brad Pittish good looks, was that one day while we were at the pool and I was staring longingly at him, I saw him walk into the boy’s bathroom. And I came to realize that Stacy Gardner, THE STACY GARDNER, used the restroom!!! Can you believe it? I was floored.
Loren – he was a senior the year I was in 8th grade. His sister owned and ran the horse stables at Lake Barkley State Resort Park. He had green eyes and black hair and I thought he was dreamy. I volunteered to work at the stables for free that entire summer just for the opportunity to be in the same room with him. He of course preferred the other little girl who was working there – her daddy was rich and they summered at the lake on their house boat.
Rob Castelign – was the foreign exchange student from Holland. And, I have a thing for little foreign men – yes I do. I got him to go to the movies with me and my sister (who had to drive because I was too young.) We saw Missing in Action, my treat. And to this day, I have no idea why he decided to go to the movies with me.
Daniel Rodriguez – continuing in my little foreign man theme. Daniel was the junior scholar counselor the summer between my junior and senior year. He was 28 – I believe, from Venezuela and hairier than a monkey. He was the first person that I ever told that my mother was a lesbian.
Michael Ball – was a student at Western. He hosted the parent’s weekend talent show. I had entered, and performed Winnie the Pooh. And later, my creepy friend Susan Wrocklage and I saw him at the football game. He had a red light in his window at Pearce Ford Tower, and thought my roommate was cute. And I think he would have been willing to let me do his homework. He aspired to be a male model and had changed his name to Michael Diamond for the purpose. He was a bit Rick Springfield-ish.
Prince – who didn’t even know I existed.
Craig Flener – my last little gay boy. This one is too long and complicated to really even bother to get into. Just let me say that in the 10 years that I was waiting for him to decide that there was no gay man out there that he wanted to be with and settle for me (settle, can you believe it?!) I learned many life lessons about family, jealousy, self worth, friendship, finances and a bevy of other things. All in all it was cheaper than therapy and would count for many people’s first marriage.
Jose – finally, the cute little foreign man who isn’t gay. Of course he’s not overly romantic either. He’d tell you that mostly he was ready to get married and he liked me well enough. It was no grand passion, no amazing – obsessive love – at least for him – but it will last until one of us dies – though some days murder may be an option. And I know that it was meant to be . . . it was fated. And that story, I’ll tell you on another blog.
Monday, December 19, 2005
The Growing Child
The Growing Child
Well, it’s official. My son is no longer a baby. How do I know this? Was his first day of school? Was it how he posed for his Halloween pictures or at dinosaur world with his fingers pointed like he was a jock? Nope and nope. I know that my son is no longer a baby or a little boy but a kid because … he has phone issues. I have long used the phone to teach Elijah numbers. Teaching phone numbers and have a large phone list was a really easy way to help him learn his numbers (that an Thomas the Tank Engine). And in recent time, he’s really enjoyed playing with cell phones, opening them, punching in numbers; and as long as he doesn’t push the green send button, I’m all for him using it as a toy. But it would appear that his interest in dialing has some more insidious characteristic. It would appear that it wasn’t about learning numbers and fine motor skills. No, it was the emerging of the beast. I too was victim to the beast in my mid to late teenage years. You may recognize the beast in those close to you because it’s seed pods attach to the ear of it’s victim, while sucking the brain waves out and transmitting them through a curly, twisty umbilical chord back to the main base. Recent adaptations of this beast have evolved and are able to transmit the sucked brain waves through the air though their small antennae. Don’t kid yourself, though the beast may seem to be helpful and useful – it is very addictive and can lead to financial ruin if it’s power is not carefully monitored. I personally fed the best the larger portion of my earnings from the ages of 17 – 20 years of age – before area wide long distance was created. Yes, my son has developed a fondness for CALLING HIS FRIENDS. He has always called the neighbors to see if he could go over and play. But now, he likes to call his friends from school. Today, he called his friend Gabby from school and told her that she could come over, but she’d have to go to Myron’s house first and get directions. Then he called Myron, to let him know that he should expect to see Gabby sometime soon, I guess. The sheer glee and joy on his face when he was talking to them was precious. And each time, he said “you remember me, I’m Elijah from your school.” Which leads me to my own personal “please like me” issues that I suffered while in school and don’t wish upon anyone. I’m hopeful that he will be more like Jose when it comes to making friends – everyone seems to like Jose – especially mentally challenged people – which doesn’t say a lot about me I guess – but anyway – That was it – today, looking at Elijah as he was grinning at me, giving a thumbs up sign and talking on the phone. My prepubescent teen of the future. Please god let all of his friends live in my county.
Well, it’s official. My son is no longer a baby. How do I know this? Was his first day of school? Was it how he posed for his Halloween pictures or at dinosaur world with his fingers pointed like he was a jock? Nope and nope. I know that my son is no longer a baby or a little boy but a kid because … he has phone issues. I have long used the phone to teach Elijah numbers. Teaching phone numbers and have a large phone list was a really easy way to help him learn his numbers (that an Thomas the Tank Engine). And in recent time, he’s really enjoyed playing with cell phones, opening them, punching in numbers; and as long as he doesn’t push the green send button, I’m all for him using it as a toy. But it would appear that his interest in dialing has some more insidious characteristic. It would appear that it wasn’t about learning numbers and fine motor skills. No, it was the emerging of the beast. I too was victim to the beast in my mid to late teenage years. You may recognize the beast in those close to you because it’s seed pods attach to the ear of it’s victim, while sucking the brain waves out and transmitting them through a curly, twisty umbilical chord back to the main base. Recent adaptations of this beast have evolved and are able to transmit the sucked brain waves through the air though their small antennae. Don’t kid yourself, though the beast may seem to be helpful and useful – it is very addictive and can lead to financial ruin if it’s power is not carefully monitored. I personally fed the best the larger portion of my earnings from the ages of 17 – 20 years of age – before area wide long distance was created. Yes, my son has developed a fondness for CALLING HIS FRIENDS. He has always called the neighbors to see if he could go over and play. But now, he likes to call his friends from school. Today, he called his friend Gabby from school and told her that she could come over, but she’d have to go to Myron’s house first and get directions. Then he called Myron, to let him know that he should expect to see Gabby sometime soon, I guess. The sheer glee and joy on his face when he was talking to them was precious. And each time, he said “you remember me, I’m Elijah from your school.” Which leads me to my own personal “please like me” issues that I suffered while in school and don’t wish upon anyone. I’m hopeful that he will be more like Jose when it comes to making friends – everyone seems to like Jose – especially mentally challenged people – which doesn’t say a lot about me I guess – but anyway – That was it – today, looking at Elijah as he was grinning at me, giving a thumbs up sign and talking on the phone. My prepubescent teen of the future. Please god let all of his friends live in my county.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
king kong
King Kong
We went to see King Kong on Wednesday – and let me just say it is an amazingly good movie. Not as good as Polar Express – but very close – it is a different genre after all. Now let me say that I have a history with this movie. When I was little, my mom took Jodi, Jason and I to see the version of King Kong with Jessica Lange and Jeff Bridges. And I thought (and still think) that it is a good movie – though I haven’t seen it in quite some time and will have to rent it and watch it with Elijah soon. I distinctly remember that I cried at the end. I didn’t think it was right or fair that King Kong was killed by the men. I mean, he didn’t ask to come to the city. He was just being an ape – that was what he was – and man came to him, and caged him and moved him. And when he got out, they killed him. I was sobbing at the end of the movie. I also remember that my mom consoled me by saying that it wasn’t real blood but cherry syrup on King Kong. He wasn’t really dead, but acting. In retrospect, I have thought it a bit odd that she didn’t tell me that King Kong wasn’t real, but a robot – but instead that he was merely pretending to be dead, not really dead. And I suppose, I prefer keeping the belief that he was real and not really dead. Anyway, this movie makes all those feelings come right back.
On the island, King Kong fights dinosaurs (our original pull to the movie). But there are also really big, creepy, icky, squirmy bugs – and bunches of them. Enough of them that if RAID hadn’t been invented, you’d want it invented automatically -- And there’s King Kong and Ann. King Kong is such a wonderful person for a gorilla. You like him, understand that he’s just being the monkey that he is and can’t help himself. And when he climbs up the building whose name I have just forgotten in New York, you just want him to get down and find a better place to stay. As soon as the planes appeared, the tears started rolling. And by the end of the movie, I hated Mr. Denham who wanted to make money, and every person in New York who wanted him dead. Hell, in Jurassic Park 2 they just recaptured the t-rex and took him back to the island – and the t-rex does not evoke one single tender emotion at all – just fear and awe. But King Kong – can they take him back – no, no, no – King Kong they have to kill. I still wish he could have at least landed on Mr. Denham.
Anyway, if you haven’t seen, I would highly recommend it. It was a very good movie – one to see more than once, and one to buy when it comes out on DVD -
We went to see King Kong on Wednesday – and let me just say it is an amazingly good movie. Not as good as Polar Express – but very close – it is a different genre after all. Now let me say that I have a history with this movie. When I was little, my mom took Jodi, Jason and I to see the version of King Kong with Jessica Lange and Jeff Bridges. And I thought (and still think) that it is a good movie – though I haven’t seen it in quite some time and will have to rent it and watch it with Elijah soon. I distinctly remember that I cried at the end. I didn’t think it was right or fair that King Kong was killed by the men. I mean, he didn’t ask to come to the city. He was just being an ape – that was what he was – and man came to him, and caged him and moved him. And when he got out, they killed him. I was sobbing at the end of the movie. I also remember that my mom consoled me by saying that it wasn’t real blood but cherry syrup on King Kong. He wasn’t really dead, but acting. In retrospect, I have thought it a bit odd that she didn’t tell me that King Kong wasn’t real, but a robot – but instead that he was merely pretending to be dead, not really dead. And I suppose, I prefer keeping the belief that he was real and not really dead. Anyway, this movie makes all those feelings come right back.
On the island, King Kong fights dinosaurs (our original pull to the movie). But there are also really big, creepy, icky, squirmy bugs – and bunches of them. Enough of them that if RAID hadn’t been invented, you’d want it invented automatically -- And there’s King Kong and Ann. King Kong is such a wonderful person for a gorilla. You like him, understand that he’s just being the monkey that he is and can’t help himself. And when he climbs up the building whose name I have just forgotten in New York, you just want him to get down and find a better place to stay. As soon as the planes appeared, the tears started rolling. And by the end of the movie, I hated Mr. Denham who wanted to make money, and every person in New York who wanted him dead. Hell, in Jurassic Park 2 they just recaptured the t-rex and took him back to the island – and the t-rex does not evoke one single tender emotion at all – just fear and awe. But King Kong – can they take him back – no, no, no – King Kong they have to kill. I still wish he could have at least landed on Mr. Denham.
Anyway, if you haven’t seen, I would highly recommend it. It was a very good movie – one to see more than once, and one to buy when it comes out on DVD -
On Good Friends
On Good Friends
I just had lunch with my two friends, Sandy and Terri. And as it is with every other time that we get together, I wish that we would get together more often. I have a good time with them every single time that I am with them… they are more than friends, they are family. I had been having a particularly rough day. I had the pleasure of sleeping with Isaiah, that means that I get the early morning – which is fair since Jose had the late night. Duke had been hit by a car – and the poor woman who unfortunately did the deed was extremely upset – she was sobbing. She was even more upset when she realized that I had kids – so upset in fact that she went home, got her own dog and brought it back to us because she felt so bad. An amazing thing to do I think – unless maybe she wanted to get rid of her dog. And Jodi, if you want to tell grandma, that won’t hurt my feelings. I would prefer to tell her that someone fell in love with Duke and took him home with them, but I know that the first thing out of Elijah’s mouth will be, Grandma Duke got hit by a car and went to heaven, but I won’t tell you about the blood. So, I’m putting that off – Monday is her birthday the next holiday is Christmas – there really isn’t a good time. And on top of that Isaiah was fussy and crying. He was ready for his nap, but didn’t have anyone to get him to sleep. And as soon as we sat down at the restaurant, all of it melted away. We talked, we laughed, it was a really good time. Such a good time that I wished that I didn’t have Jose and Elijah, and that Terri didn’t have something else to do – so that we could all just sit around and do nothing. Of course, 4 hours later, I’m thinking drinking might not have been a bad idea. I’m not a drinker, but these past few weeks, I’ve almost wished that I was. Beside the point, I know.
The crux of the matter is that I am so grateful for the friends that I have who let me just forget everything and be Amy for a little while – not teacher, wife, mother, pet owner, student, whatever. So, as we left and promised to get together more often – I’ve decided that I’m not going to get busy and let the opportunity fall away – I’m going to make the time to go and do something – And chances are, I’m going to make the time by myself. I haven’t had any by myself time lately – and I can think of no one I would rather spend it on that Terri and Sandy.
I just had lunch with my two friends, Sandy and Terri. And as it is with every other time that we get together, I wish that we would get together more often. I have a good time with them every single time that I am with them… they are more than friends, they are family. I had been having a particularly rough day. I had the pleasure of sleeping with Isaiah, that means that I get the early morning – which is fair since Jose had the late night. Duke had been hit by a car – and the poor woman who unfortunately did the deed was extremely upset – she was sobbing. She was even more upset when she realized that I had kids – so upset in fact that she went home, got her own dog and brought it back to us because she felt so bad. An amazing thing to do I think – unless maybe she wanted to get rid of her dog. And Jodi, if you want to tell grandma, that won’t hurt my feelings. I would prefer to tell her that someone fell in love with Duke and took him home with them, but I know that the first thing out of Elijah’s mouth will be, Grandma Duke got hit by a car and went to heaven, but I won’t tell you about the blood. So, I’m putting that off – Monday is her birthday the next holiday is Christmas – there really isn’t a good time. And on top of that Isaiah was fussy and crying. He was ready for his nap, but didn’t have anyone to get him to sleep. And as soon as we sat down at the restaurant, all of it melted away. We talked, we laughed, it was a really good time. Such a good time that I wished that I didn’t have Jose and Elijah, and that Terri didn’t have something else to do – so that we could all just sit around and do nothing. Of course, 4 hours later, I’m thinking drinking might not have been a bad idea. I’m not a drinker, but these past few weeks, I’ve almost wished that I was. Beside the point, I know.
The crux of the matter is that I am so grateful for the friends that I have who let me just forget everything and be Amy for a little while – not teacher, wife, mother, pet owner, student, whatever. So, as we left and promised to get together more often – I’ve decided that I’m not going to get busy and let the opportunity fall away – I’m going to make the time to go and do something – And chances are, I’m going to make the time by myself. I haven’t had any by myself time lately – and I can think of no one I would rather spend it on that Terri and Sandy.
Riding the Range
My mom has often told me as I grew older that when we were children she didn’t lie to us; rather she created alternate realities. Many of those “alternate realities” followed me around for several years – the realization that they were “alternate” usually coming at inopportune times. For instance, my mother told us that an Indian Guru had taught her how to walk across a bed of hot coals and lie on a bed of nails. So, as a child, whenever I say a nail or a hot coal I asked my mom to lie on it, or walk on it. She would sagely reply, “Ah, but it is not a bed of nails or hot coals. I can’t do this with just one nail or one piece of coal. I am a master and must have the bed.” It made sense to me, so I didn’t push it. Though I did wonder what type of Indian it was that taught her. Was it like the Indians who shot at cowboys, or the ones who danced around prettily at the state fair grounds?
When I was 16, I was fortunate enough to be a part of WKU’s Junior Scholar program – it’s a summer program where kids who are going to be senior’s in high school live on campus, take college classes for the summer. Part of that program was a research project. My group chose Ghandi, which was the film for good behavior at my school that spring – I was inspired. And at the age of 16, some 10 or 11 years after my mom’s presentation of the alternate reality, I finally learned that a GURU was an Indian (ohmmm, I’m hindu and praying type of Indian and not an wa wa wa wa {imagine yourself putting your hand over your mouth there – can’t figure out how to type that sound effect} me friend o kemo sabe type of Indian) from India. And of course, I have to tell the whole story to my group mates, to which they respond by looking at me as if I’m a bit crazy.
However, my life as a child has given me some great stories to tell in the Big Fish (props to Ashlee who likes this movie a lot) sort of way. For example, there are few people in the world who have had the opportunity to witness barnlot surfing as my family has had the opportunity to witness it.
As I’ve mentioned before, my mother’s ambition was to become a true gentleman farmer – or perhaps Mr. Greenjeans. So on our farm, we had a true menagerie of animal life: geese, chickens, goats, ponies and horses, and a cow. Ironically, I have a terror-filled memory with each and every one of these animals. The geese would chase us, hissing with wings spread ready to attack. Only several years of Basil Griffen park have helped me overcome my unease in their presence. The white rooster would chase us unmercifully, trapping us on the front porch. The goats would chase us, pull our hair – but were perhaps my favorite of the animals because they were occasionally nice. And the horses. It is every girl’s dream to have a horse, to be able to ride around with hair blowing in the wind. My mom had a pretty white horse named Baby—I believe he was a Missouri Walking Horse. We had another horse, I vaguely recall as being named Angel, but I’m not too sure about that. And we had the ponies. My sister had a pony, I had one, and my brother, in true Jason form, ran through three or four. I think Jodi’s was named Pokey Sawdust, mine was Smokey, and one of Jason’s was named Blackie. Jodi’s may have just been named Sawdust and I’m confusing pokey with smokey – there’s really no telling – but I like the name pokey sawdust, it has a ring to it, so from here on out in my memory, pokey sawdust it is. Anyway, on rare occasions, we’d all get the wild hair to go riding. And what an “occasion” that was. It seemed to take hours upon hours to get everything ready for a ride. In fact going riding was probably a bit like riding a roller coaster. 3 hour wait for a 2 minute ride. First we’d have to put a little grain or gravel in a coffee can and walk about shaking it to lure the horses to us so that we could get them into the barn.
I have a distinct memory of being assigned the job of holding the horses. And getting very nervous because I was very small – horse knee height, and the horses, were very big. And the longer I stood there holding the reins, the longer I had to look at their feet, and the longer I had to think about how much those feet would hurt. I think in the end, I was hiding behind a tree with my arm stretched around holding the reins so that they wouldn’t be able to step on me. Anyway, we’d finally get all the horses in the barn lot, and often that was the hard part. Mom and Robin’s horses were tamed and quietly moved into the stalls to get saddled. Even the ponies were apt to follow. However, Blackie, Jason’s jet black Shetland pony purchased more for mom’s dream of a Dick and Jane get a pony book than for other reason had other ideas. Blackie wasn’t interested in being one of the herd. He wanted to be free! And so he was running around the barn lot. We had tried to corner him, bribe him with grain and goodies, but all to no avail. So, my mom decided that it would be best if we could get him to run through the barn and she would rope him when he came out the other side. Seemed like a good idea to us as well, so we chased Blackie through the barn. My mom swung the lasso and missed. So chased Blackie again through the barn, again my mom swung and missed. I wasn’t surprised really because she wasn’t doing it right. Real cowboys swing the thing over their head and then hurl it over the horses head. My mom wasn’t doing that. She was just sort of tossing out there. It was hopeless I knew. But we chased Blackie again through the barn. Mom swung the lasso and missed . . . or so she thought. Mom began to pull the rope back when instead it began to run through her hands… and caught at the knot at the end. Logically, I know that Blackie must have only pulled her down in surprise before she let go, but as in all good stories my memory has expanded the true events. In my minds eye, I see my mom hanging on to the rope and Blackie pulling her through the barn lot almost cartoonishly on her belly and bouncing around a bit. And that part of me thinking that it looked like fun. I remember that when it was all over, Blackie still wasn’t captured, but mom had already had her ride anyway.
When I was 16, I was fortunate enough to be a part of WKU’s Junior Scholar program – it’s a summer program where kids who are going to be senior’s in high school live on campus, take college classes for the summer. Part of that program was a research project. My group chose Ghandi, which was the film for good behavior at my school that spring – I was inspired. And at the age of 16, some 10 or 11 years after my mom’s presentation of the alternate reality, I finally learned that a GURU was an Indian (ohmmm, I’m hindu and praying type of Indian and not an wa wa wa wa {imagine yourself putting your hand over your mouth there – can’t figure out how to type that sound effect} me friend o kemo sabe type of Indian) from India. And of course, I have to tell the whole story to my group mates, to which they respond by looking at me as if I’m a bit crazy.
However, my life as a child has given me some great stories to tell in the Big Fish (props to Ashlee who likes this movie a lot) sort of way. For example, there are few people in the world who have had the opportunity to witness barnlot surfing as my family has had the opportunity to witness it.
As I’ve mentioned before, my mother’s ambition was to become a true gentleman farmer – or perhaps Mr. Greenjeans. So on our farm, we had a true menagerie of animal life: geese, chickens, goats, ponies and horses, and a cow. Ironically, I have a terror-filled memory with each and every one of these animals. The geese would chase us, hissing with wings spread ready to attack. Only several years of Basil Griffen park have helped me overcome my unease in their presence. The white rooster would chase us unmercifully, trapping us on the front porch. The goats would chase us, pull our hair – but were perhaps my favorite of the animals because they were occasionally nice. And the horses. It is every girl’s dream to have a horse, to be able to ride around with hair blowing in the wind. My mom had a pretty white horse named Baby—I believe he was a Missouri Walking Horse. We had another horse, I vaguely recall as being named Angel, but I’m not too sure about that. And we had the ponies. My sister had a pony, I had one, and my brother, in true Jason form, ran through three or four. I think Jodi’s was named Pokey Sawdust, mine was Smokey, and one of Jason’s was named Blackie. Jodi’s may have just been named Sawdust and I’m confusing pokey with smokey – there’s really no telling – but I like the name pokey sawdust, it has a ring to it, so from here on out in my memory, pokey sawdust it is. Anyway, on rare occasions, we’d all get the wild hair to go riding. And what an “occasion” that was. It seemed to take hours upon hours to get everything ready for a ride. In fact going riding was probably a bit like riding a roller coaster. 3 hour wait for a 2 minute ride. First we’d have to put a little grain or gravel in a coffee can and walk about shaking it to lure the horses to us so that we could get them into the barn.
I have a distinct memory of being assigned the job of holding the horses. And getting very nervous because I was very small – horse knee height, and the horses, were very big. And the longer I stood there holding the reins, the longer I had to look at their feet, and the longer I had to think about how much those feet would hurt. I think in the end, I was hiding behind a tree with my arm stretched around holding the reins so that they wouldn’t be able to step on me. Anyway, we’d finally get all the horses in the barn lot, and often that was the hard part. Mom and Robin’s horses were tamed and quietly moved into the stalls to get saddled. Even the ponies were apt to follow. However, Blackie, Jason’s jet black Shetland pony purchased more for mom’s dream of a Dick and Jane get a pony book than for other reason had other ideas. Blackie wasn’t interested in being one of the herd. He wanted to be free! And so he was running around the barn lot. We had tried to corner him, bribe him with grain and goodies, but all to no avail. So, my mom decided that it would be best if we could get him to run through the barn and she would rope him when he came out the other side. Seemed like a good idea to us as well, so we chased Blackie through the barn. My mom swung the lasso and missed. So chased Blackie again through the barn, again my mom swung and missed. I wasn’t surprised really because she wasn’t doing it right. Real cowboys swing the thing over their head and then hurl it over the horses head. My mom wasn’t doing that. She was just sort of tossing out there. It was hopeless I knew. But we chased Blackie again through the barn. Mom swung the lasso and missed . . . or so she thought. Mom began to pull the rope back when instead it began to run through her hands… and caught at the knot at the end. Logically, I know that Blackie must have only pulled her down in surprise before she let go, but as in all good stories my memory has expanded the true events. In my minds eye, I see my mom hanging on to the rope and Blackie pulling her through the barn lot almost cartoonishly on her belly and bouncing around a bit. And that part of me thinking that it looked like fun. I remember that when it was all over, Blackie still wasn’t captured, but mom had already had her ride anyway.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Santa Anxiety
I'm about 99% certain that I've written about this before - but here we go again -- I haven't posted in a while and I'm sure my readers are getting anxious. Christmas and Santa and the obligation of the parent. My brother had offered to buy Elijah the GraveDigger monster truck for christmas - and at first, I thought, wonderful - Elijah will be able to get this toy that he really wants, and I won't have to worry about ruined christmas dreams. But then, this prideful animal inside of me comes forth and says - now Uncle Jason will be giving Elijah a better present that Santa can give - better than you can give (which matters when Elijah's older and realizes that Santa is not exactly delivering the gifts) -- so here I am, not liking the idea of my gift coming in second place -- which can only occur after the anxiety of making sure that the gift is actually going to be coming has been set aside. So, now I feel the need to compete with my brother's generosity - and I can't -- there's no way that I can compete with that - I don't have that kind of money - it's just not possible - but i want to have it - I want to be the one to give the best gift to my son - and in the long run - i don't think that Elijah is going to really care. I'm pretty sure that Jason doesn't care - but I worry about his money issues - but then he wouldn't offer to buy it if he couldn't afford it -- or if he didn't have the money on hand -- that's not the same thing as affording it - because i think he often purchases things he can't afford.
Anyway, that's my dilemma - and I think that I'm going to handle it by letting Jason pay for the gift and being very grateful. and taking the money that we "saved" and getting elijah and isaiah something else -- and letting go of my own issues --
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