The Crab Chronicles

In The Wilds of North Georgia

Mother and I decided earlier this week that a trip to the mountains was in order. We wanted to take the kids to the Foxfire Museum. So we got up and headed north.

 

When one heads into rural North Georgia, cows can be observed on the side of the road, grazing peacefully in pastures. As soon as we saw our first cows, I pointed them out to Michael. After a moment of hesitation, his little voice piped up from the backseat. “Are those cows wild?!” he asked, a bit edgy. Mother and I chuckled. "They don't attack, son," I reassured him. [I actually fear cows. I didn't tell him that. There's a reason I chose to live in a large city...]

 

Unfortunately, since I wasn't chugging my usual huge mugs of tea starting at 7 a.m., I had a caffeine headache, and I got distracted. I didn’t take a turn I should’ve taken. Next thing I know, we’re in South Carolina. Yikes. I stopped at the Welcome Center and got directions to head back west, over to Dillard.

 

There were several places where it wasn’t clear where to go. I have my father’s terrible sense of direction and have been known to get us lost for hours. Mother got rather insistent that I stop and ask for directions. Heedless of the danger from wild cows, I stopped and found an affable young man coming out of a rundown grocery store, who kindly led me to the road I needed to be on.

 

I have a slight southern accent. When I am talking to a non-southerner, it dwindles to practically nothing. When I am talking at a family reunion, I sound like an extra on Hee Haw. My ear picks up whatever accent I’m hearing and I unconsciously imitate it. If I am really tired, however, I sometimes have an accent that just pops out strangely, although unmistakeably southern. When that happens, words like “hair” and “house” have two syllables. They become “hay-ur” and “hi-uss.” I sound like Memaw. I startle myself sometimes. Anyway, I digress.

 

The young man who gave me directions looked like a fraternity boy and had an accent that would make the extras on Hee Haw sound like Yankees. Wow. He said to me somewhat apologetically, “That road over the mountains is a hard way to go, ya hear?”

 

Well, he wasn’t kidding. We were in the back of nowhere. The road had more twists and turns and ups and downs than a soap opera. I got tickled at counting the churches. We saw one Church of God, and the rest were all Baptist. I mean, there were few houses, but there was a Baptist church every 2 miles, back there in the boonies. If I had to drive those roads at night I would probably need some extra religion too.

 

We finally made it to Dillard House and had lunch. We didn’t have time to go to the museum. The kids didn’t care. They sat in the back seat and played cards, or took photos out the window.

 

Dillard House has the best food on the planet. I kid you not. Food is served family style and a lot of it is grown locally, so it’s very fresh. We had: beef ribs, fried chicken, barbequed chicken, country fried steak, country ham, fried okra, baked acorn squash, blackeyed peas, creamed cabbage, creamed corn, potatoes au gratin, turnip greens, coleslaw, corn muffins, rolls, an blackberry cobbler with ice cream for dessert. There was no way to eat it all, although Alesia tried. We brought a lot home. If you’re ever in the North Georgia mountains, try to get to Dillard House. It’s fabulous.

 

We came home and have had a really quiet rest of the day. The weather was beautiful – temps in the 60’s, and the kids spent a lot of time outdoors.

 

The nurse came and re-bandaged Mother’s leg, which still shows signs of the cellulitis. I hope it gets better soon.

 

Here are the kids on the porch at Dillard House.

Reminding Myself to Let Go

When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.
Lao Tzu

I like that quote. It’s the same as “Let go and let God” but I think it sounds more elegant. It’s so tough to do that, especially for a control freak like me. I want to know everything. I want to have a predictable outcome to my every action. Not knowing scares me. That’s why I read my horoscope, even though I have great skepticism about it.

I also like this one:

Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

I have had that Emerson quote on my refrigerator for many years. It seems to contradict the other quote, doesn’t it? I don’t think it really does, though. I think it complements it. We all want to plot and plan, predict what will happen, make spreadsheets and charts.

I have a hard time sometimes listening to adoptive parents who want to control every aspect of their adoptions. It simply cannot be done. There are too many factors out of your control. They don’t want to hear from me, either. My adoptions happened because I believed I was doing God’s will. I felt strongly, after much prayer, that my children simply needed me to wade through all the paperwork and money issues and get them home. From the moment I saw them, they were mine. You cannot imagine how that annoys accountant type folks.

Now, do I think everyone that says they feel they are doing God’s will is actually doing that? Nope. I think there are a lot of delusional people out there.

“God” is the great, vast unknown. Yes, the bible gives us hints, clues, ideas of God. I have great respect for the bible. Every preacher puts their own spin on it, however. I cannot stand someone who preaches starting off with “God wants you to…” Uh, nope. I have a brain. I can read. I can also discern what I feel is the real message, from whatever source. I have read and studied the bible in classes and on my own, for years. I see it as a beginning, a place to start the journey, not an ending point. There’s too many ways it can be misinterpreted.

The real jumping-off place is exactly what Lao Tzu says, “When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.” Am I simply a bag of bones and flesh? Am I merely a woman, and of no account? [Most men on the planet would agree with that, unfortunately.]

I struggle every day to Let Go and Let God. If my tombstone were to be truthful it would probably have to say “Dee finally let go!”

I have two friends who are adoptive moms, and both are struggling mightily to deal with big issues in their lives. These are strong women, both faithful to God, both with strong faith, and yet they struggle. I see my mother, who gave me the greatest gift in the world, a strong faith, struggling to make sense of her life, and its limitations. I see my old friend Jimmy fighting to stay positive, while his body battles the ravages of cancer. I see the death of a beautiful woman my own age, Natasha Richardson, and I am shocked, and shaken. I do not understand why she died, or how that fits into any great plan. She left behind two little boys who needed her. I see all these things, and when I think hard about them, tears come. I hate crying. Yet I seem to do it a lot lately, in secret. Cry and pray, cry and pray.

This middle part of life seems to be my biggest challenge. I am not young, with the optimism and grace of youth. I am not blessed with the peace and wisdom of really advanced years. I am one of the “sandwich” people, trying to care for my kids and my mother. Every day I look in the mirror and see the toll of the day on my face, and grab frantically for the moisturizer. I finally have some hard-won wisdom, and my body is not cooperating. I finally understand my place in the world, and the world doesn’t seem to care at all.

Right now the world seems to be like a bed of quicksand. The economy scares me. Thinking of the future scares me. Trying to figure out time to write, time to help the children, time to be there for Mother, time to relax – there is simply never enough time.

The Emersonian idea of “leave a trail” inspired me a lot when I was enduring the adoption processes. I didn’t know anybody with older adopted kids. I had no idea if I was doing the right thing, or doing a crazy thing. I felt strongly God was leading me, and holding me, but I was still scared.

Emerson said “…go instead where there is no path, and leave a trail.” I had to read through a lot of his quotes before I found that one. I wanted to make sure I had the wording just right. Just reading his words was comforting. Even though he gets labeled as a Humanist, that’s not really accurate. He was a Transcendentalist.

“Transcendentalism in America, of which Emerson was the leading figure, resembled British Romanticism in its precept that a fundamental continuity exists between man, nature, and God, or the divine. What is beyond nature is revealed through nature; nature is itself a symbol, or an indication of a deeper reality, in Emerson’s philosophy.”

I’ve always had trouble understanding philosophy, but maybe it’s time I get back to trying again. The quote above comes from a philosophy website. There is great truth in philosophy, but you have to think it through. It’s like running a mental marathon.

I think every person in the world has the capability of understanding philosophy, religion, everything esoteric. It’s all filtered through the unique prism of our minds. We have an infinite number of ideas and a finite amount of brain power, but it all churns together to give us ways to make sense of the world. The complexity of it all seems to me the clearest reason I know to believe in God. Who could make sense of it all, balance it all out, except a supreme being?

Then again, when I reach for that one immutable truth, the one thing to cling to when it seems like everything is darkness, I have to conclude that Love is the only thing that matters. It sounds almost embarrassing, a trite song lyric. Yet, it’s true. I know that like I know the sun will rise. When my kids are flummoxed and hurting, if I hold them and rub their backs, they are soothed. When I am troubled, I want my mother to hold me. When I am heartsick, I want God’s grace to be a comforting balm to me. I must say to myself, in the depth of being so tired I can hardly move, OK God, here’s where I stop spinning my wheels. Here’s where I must close the door and lie down in the darkness and trust you will make the sun rise in the morning, and help me find the path again.

The words of Emerson, the loving embraces of my family, the inspiration and laughter from my friends’ blogs – all these are bits and pieces of God, and every day, I make my way through the cobwebs of doubt and fear, and these things keep me from being caught there. The easy thing to do is despair. The hardest thing is to let go, but I must. I have to turn off the tape in my head playing doubt and fear, the tape that prevents me from hearing God.

I have to put down the burdens, and trust the sun will be there, after the darkness. So must we all.

 

Singing the Blues

It's been a pretty awful day. I took my car in for new brakes and ended up having to have more than $2,000 worth of work done. It's got over 150,000 miles on it and hasn't had anything but the tires and oil changed in several years but dadgum. I now have to re-figure my whole budget for the foreseeable future. No sense in doing that, though, until I hear the bad news from Michael's orthodontist next Monday. The boy needs braces, bad.

I had to wait around for my car and didn't get home until almost 7 p.m. Then I tried to help Michael with his homework and he was in an incredibly foul mood. I let him stay up too late last night. He went to bed right after dinner tonight.

I need to get some sleep myself.

Years ago I got this email, and I read it anytime I want to smile. I actually own several blues CD's. So this really makes me chuckle.

HOW TO SING THE BLUES...A PRIMER

 1.  Most Blues begin, "Woke up this morning..."

 2.  "I got a good woman" is a bad way to begin the Blues.  Unless you stick something nasty in the next line like, "I got a good woman, with the meanest face in town."

 3.  The Blues is simple: after you get the first line right, repeat it, then find something that rhymes.  Sort of: "Got a good woman with the meanest face in town.

Yes, I got a good woman with the meanest face in town.
Got teeth like Margaret Thatcher, and she weigh 500 pound."

 4.  The Blues is not about choice: you stuck in a ditch, you stuck in a ditch--ain't no way out.

 5.  Blues cars: Chevys, Fords, Cadillacs and broken-down trucks.  Blues don't travel in Volvos, BMWs, or Sport Utility Vehicles.  Most Blues transportation is a Greyhound bus or a southbound train.  Jet aircraft and state-sponsored motor pools ain't even in the running.  Walkin' plays a major part in the blues lifestyle.  So does fixin' to die.

 6.  Teenagers can't sing the Blues.  They ain't fixin' to die yet.  Adults sing the Blues.  In Blues, "adulthood" means being old enough to get the electric chair if you shoot a man in Memphis.

 7.  Blues can take place in New York City but not in Hawaii or any place in Canada.  Hard times in Minneapolis or Seattle are probably just clinical depression.  Chicago, St.  Louis, and Kansas City are still the best places to have the Blues.  You cannot have the blues in any place that don't get rain.

 8.  A man with male pattern baldness ain't the blues; a woman with male pattern baldness is.  Breaking your leg cause you were skiing is not the blues; breaking your leg cause a alligator be chomping on it is.

 9.  You can't have no Blues in a office or a shopping mall - the lighting is wrong.  Go outside to the parking lot or sit by the dumpster.

 10.  Good places for the Blues:

    a. highway

    b. jailhouse

    c. empty bed

    d. bottom of a whiskey glass

 11.  Bad places for the Blues:

    a.  Nordstrom's

    b.  gallery openings

    c.  Ivy League institutions

    d.  golf courses

12.  No one will believe it's the Blues if you wear a suit, 'less you happen to be a old ethnic person, and you slept in it.

 13.  Do you have the right to sing the Blues?

Yes, if:
    a.  you older than dirt

    b.  you blind

    c.  you shot a man in Memphis

    d.  you can't be satisfied

No, if:

    a.  you have all your teeth

    b.  you were once blind but now can see

    c.  the man in Memphis lived

    d.  you have a 401K or trust fund

 14.  Blues is not a matter of color, it's a matter of bad luck.  Tiger Woods cannot sing the blues; Sonny Liston could.  Ugly white people also got a leg up on the blues.

 15.  If you ask for water and your darlin' give you gasoline, it's the Blues.  Other acceptable Blues beverages are:
    a.  cheap wine

    b.  whiskey or bourbon

    c.  muddy water

    d.  nasty black coffee

The following are NOT Blues beverages:
    a.  Perrier

    b.  Chardonnay

    c.  Snapple

    d.  Slim Fast

16.  If death occurs in a cheap motel or a shotgun shack, it's a Blues death.  Stabbed in the back by a jealous lover is another Blues way to die.  So is the electric chair, substance abuse and dying lonely on a broken down cot.  You can't have a Blues death if you die during a tennis match or while getting liposuction.

17.  Some Blues names for women:
    a.  Sadie

    b.  Big Mama

    c.  Bessie

    d.  Fat River Dumpling

18.  Some Blues names for men:
    a.  Joe

    b.  Willie

    c.  Little Willie

    d.  Big Willie

19.  Persons with names like Michelle, Amber, Debbie, and Heather can't sing the Blues no matter how many men they shoot in Memphis.

20.  Make your own Blues name Starter Kit:
    a.  name of physical infirmity (Blind, Cripple, Lame,etc.)
    b.  first name (see above) plus name of fruit (Lemon, Lime, Kiwi,etc.)
    c.  last name of President (Jefferson, Johnson, Fillmore, etc.)
    For example: Blind Lime Jefferson, Jakeleg Lemon Johnson or Cripple Kiwi Fillmore, etc.

    (Well, maybe not "Kiwi.")

21.  I don't care how tragic your life: if you own a computer, you cannot sing the blues.

Potty Time

I read a hilarious blog entry not long ago by a father who wrote about his dilemma when in public with his toddler daughter, and what bathroom to use. Public bathrooms are tricky. I so understood his issues.

When I first got Michael I would stand sentry outside the men’s room every time he had to go, worried to death there might be some creep in there. I couldn’t take a 10 year old in the ladies room, even though he was the size of a 6 year old. He wouldn’t have gone in there even if I had tried it, and I don’t blame him. It was scary, nonetheless, particularly when we were actually flying home from Kazakhstan.

When I was small, I have no memory of my father ever taking me to the bathroom in public. It was the 1960’s. Daddies left that stuff to the mommies.

OK, I'm getting on the soapbox. Fasten your seatbelts.

I have vivid and traumatic memories of having to tinkle really bad, and my grandmother Memaw taking me to the bathroom. Memaw had to open the door, inspect the stall, and if there were no toilet seat covers, I had to put toilet paper on the seat so my bottom didn’t touch the nasty seat. Then she had to inspect again, and make sure I did a good job. I endured this even in bathrooms that looked sparkling clean to me. You know, when you’re little you sometimes wait a bit too long to ask to go to the potty. I would be dancing the pee pee dance and trying to cover the toilet seat at the same time and Memaw would be fussing at me. It was traumatic.

I don’t remember my mother making go to those lengths, but she might have. I just don’t remember it. I do recall one bizarre instance when we were in my father’s club downtown, which didn’t allow women except one day a year [Christmas Eve day] and they just hung a sign on one of the men’s room doors and women used it that day. So I went in and in two of the three booths there were these bizarre looking bowl things. Mother used the booth with the toilet. I had to go really bad, so I climbed up on the funny toilet and tried to tinkle. My mother, who was next door guessed what was happening and starting hollering at me. “Do NOT TOUCH that thing! Just wait a minute and use the toilet!” I had no idea I had been trying to use a urinal. I had never seen one before. Mother made me wait and use the potty after her. It was traumatic.

Women are weird about bathrooms.

A few years ago I went into the bathroom at the law firm where I worked and the toilet was covered in tinkle. I had just seen the girl come out of there, and I must admit, I fussed at her. She cleaned it up. “What on earth happened in there?!” I demanded, with a total lack of sensitivity. Turns out, she was taught as a small child to do some kind of gymnastic balancing act while she peed, so her butt wouldn’t touch the toilet seat. When she told me that I think I said something sweet like, “So because you were raised by a germ freak, other people get to sit on YOUR PEE?!!!” She never talked to me after that. In fact, she avoided me. She quit soon afterwards. [I don’t think I caused that. Hope not anyway…]

I have a distant relative who stays dehydrated all the time because her mother was such a germ fanatic she taught her daughter simply to never go in a public restroom and use it. Never. The poor woman works 12 hours at a time, frequently, and she will only use the bathroom at work once in all that time. I’m sorry, I think depriving yourself of liquids due to a germ obsession has got to be far worse for yourself that just drinking plenty of fluids [which your body really needs] and staying hydrated, and just using the dadgum bathroom.

The thing is – and I know I’m going to get outraged comments here and will likely lose some readers, but this is important – I don’t advocate covering up toilet seats in public bathrooms. If the toilet is really gross, don’t use it.

I have to tell you, I think the thing to do is this – just sit down and tinkle. Wipe. Stand up, and flush with your foot. Never touch the handle with your hand. Then go out and WASH YOUR HANDS. That’s right, just wash your hands carefully.

If you take your hands and use them to carefully position the thin piece of tissue paper on the toilet seat, you are putting your hands in close contact with 10 millions nasty germs. If you plop your butt on the bare seat, but then DON’T TOUCH YOUR BUTT again until you get in the shower; far fewer germs get on your hands.

I’m sure the new government stimulus bill contains funds to cover a study that will prove I am right.

If you are really concerned about germs, buy gloves and wear them constantly. Doorknobs are a huge source of germs.

DOORKNOBS are far worse than toilet seats - everyone touches them.

My kids spent their early years Russia and Kazakhstan, where clean American style toilets are rare. In fact, toilets themselves are rare. Outside Moscow or St. Petersburg - out in the boonies - a bathroom is usually just a squatty potty – a porcelain hole in the floor – and sometimes there’s just a regular hole in the floor. If you’re female and you need to tinkle, you develop good squatting muscles. In Kazakhstan I actually used outhouses, which were just wooden shacks with holes in the floor – they would’ve horrified the Beverly Hillbillies.

There are many bathrooms in Russia where you have a squatty potty, and no toilet paper. To wash your hands there is one small sink and either no towels or maybe one grimy cloth towel. Soap? Forget it. During all my travels, I carried Kleenex in my purse and a large bottle of Purell hand sanitizer. I always used both in any public restroom. Even the bathrooms on airplanes were bad, though they always had toilets.

So I got over some of my bathroom hangups when I traveled to get my kids. I still flush with my foot, however.

The Russian word for toilet paper is "boom-aga." Just fyi.

RECAP

So to summarize, here are my opinions:

1.      Don’t use a bathroom that looks really nasty.
2.      For heaven’s sake, don’t pee on seats and leave it for others!!! [This is a huge pet peeve of mine]
3.      If you’re so concerned about germs in bathrooms, do not touch the toilet seat with anything except your behind, and WASH your hands carefully. Don’t touch the door.

4.      Purell hand sanitizer is a great product, and I carry it. Use it anytime you come out of a bathroom. Also carry Kleenex if you don’t want to touch things like doorknobs.

Below is a photo of a Russian potty - not a squatty, but very awkward... the red wastebasket is for used toilet paper.

A Blubbering Part Irish Mess

I don’t usually pay much attention to St. Patrick’s Day, except to try and remember to wear green. This year, for no discernible reason, my Irish ancestors are screamin’ in me ears…

[As you’re reading this, please try to hear it in an Irish accent. Think about the Lucky Charms commercials, or the movie The Quiet Man.]

I could not get Michael to wear green, no way. He has a green shirt he likes and wears often, but not today. I told him this morning if he gets pinched not to complain to me. [He actually did get pinched, and he did complain.]

Alesia wore a green hoodie and a green shirt, which don’t really coordinate, but Mother and I didn’t say a word as she left this morning. [We just quietly pulled our hair and prayed to St. Chanel of Prada that she would find wisdom one day…]

Michael’s 2^nd post-placement report is due soon, and I picked it up from the local agency on my lunch hour. As soon as I got in the car to head over there, I flipped on NPR. There was a tenor singing Danny Boy, in case I might’ve forgotten what day it is. The tenor sounded like a cross between Placido Domingo and The Cowardly Lion. However, after listening for only a minute I started sniffing, and by the time Cowardly Domingo got to the end of the song I was blubbering. Danny Boy was my grandfather’s favorite song, and we have the piano sheet music which is like 75 years old. For years after Papaw died, Mother got upset when she saw the music, never mind singing the song.

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Michael had his first tennis match tonight. He was supposed to play last Saturday but it poured rain all weekend. Today, it was beautiful – highs in the 70’s. He played at a very ritzy club, off Riverside Drive. Does every city have a Riverside Drive where the upscale real estate is located? I was so busy rubbernecking at the mansions I missed the entrance to the club twice.

 

Michael and his partner lost their match. Michael was really bummed out. He got in the car and looked comatose. He said “I need FOOD! Now!” OK, ok, calm down. After he ate a sandwich he was much better. Isn’t it great how kids can recover from disappointment so easily?!

 

We started watching the movie Bullworth tonight. I had resisted showing it to the kids for years, mainly due to language. They loved it. They know they can’t use that language and I’m sure most of the political references go over their head. It’s a terrific movie, though. It stars Alesia’s favorite, Corn Baby – aka Warren Beatty.

 

In our house, we have Corn Baby and Heart Attack Man [Jack Nicholson].

 

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ANXIETY ALERT

 

So I am working on getting my second book published, as you know. It’s about my daughter’s adoption. I have been writing this book – no kidding – since early 2005. It has been through more incarnations than Shirley Maclaine.

 

Here’s my great anxiety. I have sent the manuscript to several people to read so they can give me favorable quotes. Only one person has responded with a nice quote [thanks Judy, love ya, mean it!].

 

My mama always taught me If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all. That’s why I was a quiet kid. I didn’t want to get spanked every 5 minutes. Maybe other polite people are the same, remaining silent to avoid telling me my book stinks… So now I am thinking, maybe if I publish it people will think I am a horrible writer. Maybe all I am fit for is blog writing. Aaaaargh….

 

Send chocolate.

 

Geek Envy

I was perusing my friend Brainella’s blog today and she linked to This excellent article about geeks.

I am not quite smart enough to be a geek but I secretly envy them.

My daughter, who has some difficulty writing, can do anything mechanical. We had to order a new battery for the security system the other day, and she read the instructions, looked at the 10 lb. battery, and popped that thing in within 15 minutes.

I have no trouble writing, but anything mechanical scares me. If I had tried to change out that battery, it would have taken me hours and hours, and many tears, and probably I would have needed a lot of chocolate afterwards.

So I have hopes one day she may be a geek. Or at least marry one.

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I took Mother to the vascular specialist this morning. Her leg is much better. She is supposed to wear those elastic support hose, though. I don’t see her doing that. However, after the doctor said failure to wear the hose might result in more cellulitis, Mother said she would give it a try.

This doctor only sees patients in her office Monday morning and Wednesday afternoon. We had to wait an hour and 45 minutes before we could see the doctor. We both forgot to take books to read. We won’t make that mistake again. I found myself sitting in a very crowded waiting room where there was a TV showing Regis and -- Kelly? Is that her name? I just refer to her as The Idiot. It was torture.

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When we were eating lunch yesterday there was a middle aged man sitting at a table right next to us, and he was watching the UT basketball game on the TV, and talking to the TV. You know “C’mon, score! Go for it!” etc. etc. My children kept listening to him like he was an escaped lunatic. Michael even nudged me and whispered “What is wrong with him?” – and it dawned on me that I never watch sports on TV. So he thought the guy’s behavior was bizarre.

One night when I was picking up sandwiches at a local place, I watched a few minutes of a Georgia football game and was rooting for the Dawgs, and the kids were mortified with embarrassment. I was telling a colleague about it and she said that’s pretty typical teenage behavior. They do not want a parent who chats with store clerks or does anything out of the ordinary, in their mind.

I can remember being mortified because my parents were not quiet, robot-like creatures with eyes on the floor at all times when in public. They drew attention to themselves.

Mother would talk about a backed up toilet while buying a new plunger, for instance, and Dad would dance around in parking lots.

The horror of it.

Now I remember.

I once needed [gasp] feminine products [pads] and I was too embarrassed to walk in the store and buy them. Dad went in the store, and found an enormous package, huge, and went to the checkout with it balanced on his shoulder like a sack of chicken feed. I slumped in the car, stricken. Then, of course, the inevitable, price check on register 2!! And I wished for death.

He came strolling out to the car, opened the door, looked at me squished on the floorboard, held up the huge package, and bellowed Are these the ones you need?

Why yes, Dad, excuse me while I pluck out my eyeballs, set my hair on fire and do a death chant…

That was more than thirty years ago. [OMG I am SO old…]

Now, I can buy any product in any store, and I do not care what the checkout clerk thinks! It’s so liberating! Even something like Preparation H [which contains the warning, Do Not Ingest Orally – ack!] is no problemo.

I hope to live long enough to be OK with wearing my pajama pants in public. I can’t quite go there yet, but I have a job, still, and I’m just not that easygoing. I live for the day when I can work from home, completely free of underwear…

This is a picture Michael drew for me. Isn't it sweet?

A Great Personality

We’ve had a good day.

 

The kids and I went to church in the pouring rain. Mother didn’t feel up to it. She didn’t sleep well last night.

 

It’s hard to watch people Mother loves pass away, and see Mom grieve. I know it’s the circle of life and all that, but it’s tough. In the last few years, Mother has lost her best friend, several good friends, and her brother and sister in law. She had nightmares last night, seeing people that died. I told her it’s not her time, not anytime soon, I hope. She’s only 75. A youngster, compared to a lot of her friends.

[Mother, no big Dirt Nap for you yet, you hear me?!]

 

We drove all the way to Lithonia so we could eat lunch at Smoky Bones, a place we used to really enjoy eating, when there was one in Dunwoody. They have great barbeque. Alesia had ribs and Mike had hot wings. Mother and I got the pork plates.

 

Smoky Bones in Dunwoody is where Alesia and Mother and I sat one afternoon more than 2 years ago and debated over names to present to Igor, so he could choose an American name. He chose Michael Robert, and we were so happy with both choices. Funny thing - Alesia wanted him to be Alex, Mother liked Luke, and I called him Matthew throughout the adoption before I saw him in Kazakhstan, but as soon as he said “Michael” it became his name and it fit him perfectly.

I tease him sometimes and call him "Mickey Bobby."

 

The rain had let up by the time we got home, and the kids and I headed to Kroger and Mother got a long nap.

 

Late afternoon was spent helping both kids with school projects. It’s so tempting to just do too much, but I held firm and just helped. Michael is balking at doing his project, even though I told him exactly what to do. I need to enlist some help with that. I told him I do not want to hear the words “I can’t” come out of his mouth.

 

We watched a great movie, The Rookie, a Dennis Quaid film from a few years ago. I’ve always liked Dennis Quaid, even though his movies are hit and miss. The kids kept remarking how much he looks like Uncle Bruce. I think he looks more like my friend John, especially when he smiles, but they don’t remember John as a young guy like I do.

Anyway, towards the end of the film, Alesia remarked absentmindedly, “Oooh, look at his cute butt!”

 

“Alesia, he is older than Uncle Bruce, Sweetie,” I told her.

 

There was a long pause while she pondered that.

 

“He has nice shoulders.”

 

Yes, and a great personality… ROFLMAO

 

[Just kidding - I don't care how old he is, he's still a hottie to me...]

Not A Smiley Day

My friend Cindy always starts off her posts with a photo, and I am going to try and do that more often. You will just have to suffer through my terrible photographs, though, unless I pull something from the net and flirt with copyright infringement...

Anyway, this is a pretty typical photo. Mike smiling, looking sort of goofy, and Alesia hiding behind her camera. The mattress is the aerobed Mike sleeps on when Uncle Bruce is in town.

Anyway, back to the news...

We slept late this morning, and awoke to pouring rain.

 

Michael had therapy. It was a difficult session. Sometimes he just refuses to do what I ask. Mother wants me to force him to obey, and the therapist wants me to compromise with him. I am caught in the middle.

 

I asked Michael to wash the sheets from his bed this afternoon and he just refused. Then he did it, but threw himself on the bed pouting. Then he forgot to put them in the dryer. I ended up putting a set of old sheets on there for him at 11 p.m., but I probably should’ve made him sleep on the bare mattress.

 

I struggle every day with wanting to parent the way I was parented – very strict, no deviating from orders – and wanting to be lenient, and make it up to him for the terrible early life he had.

 

I can’t tell sometimes whether or not he’s manipulating me.

 

Michael’s tennis tournament canceled this afternoon and I think he would’ve been better if he had gotten outside and gotten some exercise.

 

Tonight just before dinner he refused to clean up a Coco mess. Just flat out refused. I finally said “OK, but tomorrow you’re going to tell me an alternative job you will do. You will have to do something else.”

 

I also told him if he can’t clean up poop he’s going to have a hard time when he gets married and his wife asks him to change a poopy diaper. I told him diaper refusal means his wife will probably leave him. I shouldn’t have said it. It was petty, but it just popped out. Sometimes my annoyance level reaches critical proportions.

 

In Kazakhstan, gender roles are more traditional. I think sometimes that’s why he refuses to do household chores.

 

Alesia has been very good most of the day. It’s nice that they seem to alternate – one day he’s a problem and she’s easy, the next day it’s reversed.

 

Such is life.

[NOTE: TO the person who commented that I probably make my son do all the dirty jobs around the house, uh no. I clean up probably 60% of all the Coco poo because I am the first one downstairs in the morning. Mother helps, and Alesia is good about helping. Michael cleans it up maybe 5% of the time. He also refuses to help clean the bathrooms. Don't expect me to print comments that take me to task, especially when you don't know how we operate around here.]

Bodies In Urns and Things Given Away

Every once in a blue moon I hear a story from someone and I think Good Lord there are folks out and about who are even more bizarre than me or my relatives. Wow.

I have a friend at work whose mother is the same age as my mother and we often swap Mama Stories. If you’re not southern this may sound strange, but in the south, if you have a mama and she raised you right, you have some Mama Stories. I have a million of them, but since Mother reads the blog, I will have to wait and regale you with most of them after the funeral. That will be the natural time since I will be full of fried chicken, pound cake and perhaps a drop of sherry and I tend to get loquacious at such times.

Actually, now that I’m in that mode, let me be frank. I will never bury Mother. She will be cremated, and her ashes scattered in the ocean off St. Simon’s Island, Georgia, which is her choice. I asked her once if she had a second choice for the disposal of the ashes and she looked at me like I was dense or something, then shrugged and said “Just flush ‘em down the commode. I always spent a lot of time on the commode, might as well go right into it, at the end.”

You just heard a Mama Story.

Anyway, my work friend was telling me that her mother’s best friend has a caregiver who is a tad, uh, eccentric. I will call the caregiver Miss Millie. This is a maiden lady in her 50’s who goes everywhere with her dead mother’s ashes in an urn. Miss Millie had to be terminated from her teaching job for carrying AshMama to the classroom and freaking out the kids. Now she carries AshMama to her caregiver job. When she goes home at night, she leaves AshMama with her client, to keep her company. I’m sure her client is thrilled with that extra level of service.

When my dad died, Mother and Bruce went to the funeral home to make the arrangements. Dad was cremated, at his request. The funeral home lady asked if we wanted an ornamental urn, and started a big sales pitch about lovely choices for the final resting place of the ashes. Bruce said later Mother was not in the mood. Mother looked at the funeral home lady and said “Look, we just want a box. A plain cardboard box. How much is that?”

The woman stammered something about not knowing if there was a box available.

Mother looked at Bruce. “Just bring a Hefty bag when you come back to pick up the ashes.”

The funeral home lady looked horrified. “Uh, well, I am sure by then we will find a suitable, uh, box, Mrs. Thompson.”

You just heard another Mama Story.

[Brother Story: Bruce picked up the ashes a day or two later, put the box in his house, and after while couldn’t remember where they were. His wife opened a little-used closet one day and the ash box was staring at her and she read the big black letters saying MORTAL REMAINS, screamed and had a fit. I’m sure Dad got a big kick out of it. He never did like her. Shortly after that, she left my brother, to our great joy.]

MICHAEL PERFORMS

I saw Michael in his first ever musical performance since coming to America. His school doesn’t actually have a chorus, but he was drafted to sing and play bells in the program, which features choruses from several schools.

I had told him he had to wear a white button down shirt and he pitched a fit and said he wouldn’t wear it. I let him wear his green shirt, but I put the white shirt in his backpack, despite his protests. He also didn’t have black pants, but the assistant principal brought in some pants for him, which was very kind of her. She has 4 boys at home.

He got up to sing with his group, and stared at the crowd like he was trying to avoid a sniper.

For the first song, he didn’t sing. He opened his mouth and gulped a couple of times, but I am sure no sound emerged. He said he would never remember the words, and Mother and I had told him just to stand there and mouth “watermelon” and try to look like he was singing. He forgot. He was also supposed to play the bells, but it looked like he just shook the bell when the other kids did theirs, except a beat late. I would bet he was not following the music. I felt rather sorry for him because I know he was scared. However, I doubt if anyone else noticed anything amiss. Everyone is always staring at their kid at those things.

Michael actually has a good singing voice – well, he will, when his voice finishes changing. He just has a hard time singing on key.

The second song was better. He got to put his bell down and just sing about John Henry. He likes that song. The first day he learned it he came home and “practiced” –I would hear him in the kitchen singing, out of tune, “Well john Henry, was a little baaaaaybeeee…”

He reminded me so much of my father. My father had a wonderful baritone voice and loved to sing. He never learned all the words to a song, however. He listened to country music, and he would remember the line of the song he really liked, and just sing that over and over. One weekend at our cabin on Douglas Lake he walked around all day with a beer in his hand singing “Jose Cuervo was a friend of mine.”

Sometimes he would remember an entire sentence, just a phrase “… just like old dogs and children, and watermelon wine” Or “I’m proud to be an okie from Muskogee…”

Dad loved Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson. When I watched the movie about Johnny Cash, Walk the Line, I almost got weepy at the end, knowing how much Dad would’ve liked the movie. I own it now.

I also own a CD of the greatest hits of Glen Campbell. Go ahead and laugh, if you want. Like Dad, I loved early Glen Campbell.

I later loved John Denver. I had all his albums until just a few years ago, when I gave away all my vinyl records.

I wish I still had them. I am the opposite of a pack rat. I am too quick to give stuff away, and I regret it later.

Here’s a list of things I have given away and now regret:

- My favorite childhood albums by the Partridge Family, The Carpenters, John Denver

- The authentic moon rock my great uncle Joe sent me from Florida in 1969

- 1950’s Barbies and their clothes

- My guitar

- My purse made out of a coconut and the grass skirt Mamaw brought me from Hawaii

- My grandmother’s Pfaff sewing machine [called “portable” but it weighed 500 lbs.]

- My copy of the movie Sleuth [Laurence Olivier, Michael Caine, 1972, not the remake]

So, have you ever given away anything like that and regretted it ever afterwards?!

[NOTE: I left out "fixin' to" on my list yesterday. I always say "I'm fixin' to..." go to the store, cook dinner, etc. Great southern phrase.]

Throwing Things and Talkin' The Talk

I had a blog post all written out and then I decided to scrap it. It's too personal. I know, I blather on about everything and probably err on the side of being too revealing here, but sometimes I just need to digest things, and get some perspective, before I write.

Alesia is at a point in her therapeutic process where we're seeing a lot of anger issues at home, sometimes. Yesterday was a bad day, and this morning. I think things will get better, though. I am praying a lot. She's a good girl, and I try to keep in mind that she is remarkably sweet and normal, despite everything. She's never so angry we can't handle her. She doesn't rage.

Alesia can throw tantrums sometimes but Michael throws everything. [good segue, huh?!]

Michael likes to toss things in the air, all the time. Balls, forks, bread, flashlights, etc. - you name it, he's walking around flipping it up in the air. I think it's a boy thing.

Today he was walking around all afternoon making throwup noises. I asked Alesia why on earth and she said he sounded like some song that's popular with all the boys now? A rap song with a techno beat that sounds like my dog throwing up?! HUH???!!! I looked at Mike after she said that and he just grinned. I was so tired of it I glared at him and said "If I hear that noise ONE MORE TIME, you will go straight to bed, ya feel me, Dawg?!"

I like to use the quiet, menacing tone sometimes. It's like i am channeling Michael Corleone.

GRANNY TALK

We have been warned by mother we cannot use the word "fart" in the house. I am training the children to say "tooter" - as in, "If you're gonna do a tooter, leave the table!" Mother despises the word "fart" - I do too, truthfully. There is a whole separate vocabulary if you live in my house. We are not politically correct, nor do we try to be. We are not concerned with Biology, either.

It's not a penis, it's Mr. Happy

On a girl, she simply has a "bottom" - no need to discuss anything specific

buttocks are referred to as a "popka" - the Russian word, which we like

BM - For instance Michael will complain his stomach hurts, and Granny says "Have you had a BM today" [bowel movement] One day he nearly got his face slapped when he said "Yes, Granny, I took a dump!"

SOUTHERNISMS WE USE

"Big 'ol" - I didn't realize until I got Alesia that I say this all the time. Example: "Lord it's hot out there! I need me a big 'ol glass of tea!"

Co Cola - We live in Coca Cola City, Atlanta, and everything made by Coke is a "Co Cola" - even if it's a Sprite, doesn't matter. Pepsi is simply a very inferior product and we sneer at it.

Hawg fat - There's regular fat, and Hawg Fat. Example: "After that last baby she just can't lay off the Co Colas and she's gotten Hawg Fat!"

Big Rich - Only Mother says that. It started when my dad would talk about his banking customers. Somebody with a nice trust fund who wasn't ostentatious was simply "rich," but somebody like Donald Trump was "Big Rich."

I think there are other examples but they don't come to mind right off. Stay tuned.