Feb. 28. 2010
Today, I helped my son dye his hair shoe-polish black. It was a very sweet moment and one that got me thinking- thinking about apples and trees and how they fall.
The last time I helped a boy dye his hair shoe-polish black was in 1993 and that boy was his daddy. At that time, the dying of the hair was pure, unadulterated teen angst, a deliberate slap in the face of authority, an overwhelming desire to shock, mock, and isolate ourselves from the proles.
As I look at my son, I see my husband. The child is an exact copy- physically. You could say "the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree," and that would pertain to both his momma AND his daddy in so many ways.
The truth of the matter, though, is that Jake is falling from an entirely different tree, is an entirely different strain of apple, and instead of falling, he's jumping with both feet and giggling the whole way down.
Today, the dying of the hair had nothing to do with teen angst. The only angst welling up inside Jake is that which simmers as a result of me not making his favorite chimichangas for dinner or when a string on his guitar breaks.
Today, the dying of the hair was for fun. For coolness' sake, with pretty much the same excitement as buying a T-shirt with his favorite rock band on it.
Today, he didn't come out of the shower with an aura of darkness about him, eyes cast downward in an attempt to create a vibe of isolation or a statement of anger. Today, he came out of the shower and asked if there was any hair dye left on his ears. Today, he told his momma "thank you" for helping him. Today, he got out of the shower, put his baseball cap back on, and went outside to go walk the neighbors dogs.
Today, I'm gonna tell him he looks cool. I'm gonna remind him he needs to touch up his roots in a few weeks. He's gonna go practice his guitar, read his new James Ellroy book, and finish his psychology exam.
Because, while his momma and daddy might have been old, bruised up apples with a big fat worm in the middle, against all odds, they created a Gala.
Yesterday, my husband was officially pinned 1SG by his grandaddy, a retired 1SG himself. It was pretty awesome.
In the Army, they call it "frocking," since he isn't actually an E8 yet. Just a bit of Army trivia there.
It's something he's been talking about since he was a scared little private living in South Korea. Well, he did it.
And I got flowers. I still haven't figured that one out, yet. My theory is that I'm being rewarded early for all the bullshit we're about to put up with. That's just my theory, though.
I swear, at least 5 different people said to me, "You're in a WHOLE different world now, Mrs. Davis!"
Oh shit. But I like the world I'm in now. It's all cozy and anonymous and stuff.
I suppose I'll go along for the ride. Especially considering he looks wicked sexy with all that crazy 1SG authority and stuff.
Feb. 23, 2010
I'll go ahead and say it. My house is messy. Not in a "call DSS" way. Not in an unhygienic way. But messy, nonetheless. Things like dusty baseboards, dirty siding that needs a good pressure-washing, dusty ceiling fan blades, junk piled up on the quasi-kitchen-table, dirty light switches and doorknobs, that type of thing. It bothers me to a point, but only sometimes enough to actually do something about it. When you really break it down, why shouldn't my house be messy? Both parents work full-time and we have 2 teenagers. But here's the rub. One parent works full-time at home and the kids are schooled at home. Needless to say, our home gets lived in a lot.
Sometimes I wish I had a little "show house." You know, the kind that stays clean all the time because the family is hardly ever there. All the couches look barely sat on. There are no marks on the wall directly across from the stairwell because the kids don't surf down the stairs on a baby bed mattress. All the linens and shower curtains and rugs in the guest bathroom match and there are no toothbrushes, toothpaste tubes, acne medications, and various tchotchkes scattered about. Sometimes I wish there wasn't a pair of sunglasses hanging awkwardly from a Christmas stocking hook on the mantle above the fireplace. Sometimes I wish I could actually burn a pretty scented candle without my firebug poking holes in it, playing with the melted wax, and the leaving candle crumbs all over the coffee table. Sometimes I wish I didn't have to have a whole damn computer lab and home office in my living room. Sometimes I wish my bedroom was the "sanctuary" all the advice columns say it should be, sans random Army uniforms, currency scattered about from various countries, miscellaneous piles of folded clothes, shoes, Army field manuals, and whatever else never found it's way to a drawer.
Sometimes I wish all these things.
Only sometimes.
Because when I consider the amount of precious time I would have to sacrifice to make all these things happen, it just all of a sudden doesn't seem worth it anymore.
So I have decided that as long as I consider myself eccentric, my house will never be messy, but "charmingly disheveled." I like that. I suppose it's really a metaphor for EVERYTHING that makes me me- Charmingly disheveled.
Travis had me at "F-Word." I usually don't play along with all the bloggie things, but he wrote all about his first F-word experience and so did I, so I feel an obligation to play.
Hmm...let's see...I could write about my first....ummm, no.
I could write about that time I......not so much.
I could tell you all about that one guy I skipped school with and.....yeah, not happening.
Gosh, this is hard. My memory sucks. I have so many funny little moments and anecdotes, but not enough memory to actually tell a whole story without making shit up to fill in the holes.
The time my kid set my mom's house on fire? Naw...
That one time in high school when my friend spent the night and we made a trumpet-case tequila bar in my bedroom? Nah....
That time in Korea when my husband and I found ourselves in a dark alley in downtown Seoul surrounded by a bunch of Middle Eastern guys? Not too exciting....
The first time I saw A Clockwork Orange? Oh that would be good, if I could remember it.....
I got it. I'll tell you about my wedding. Here we go.
Once upon a time, there was a girl and a boy. They met in summer school. She was failing algebra and he was failing English. During the school year, he went to a different school, but his school didn't offer summer school, so that's how he ended up at her's. They actually met a few months before, but only in passing, so I will start here.
Boy offered Girl a ride home from school. Girl accepted. Boy's car radio didn't work, so he had an 80s style boom box in his floor board. No lie. Girl snickered. Boy asked Girl on a date before she got out of the car. Girl accepted. Boy and girl spent the ensuing summer months attached at the hip.
They were that annoying couple in high school that drops ALL their friends as soon as they get together. You know the type. They literally began spending every waking moment together. School was forgotten. Rules were forgotten. They had fun.
If you really want some ambiance, here's some music to set the mid-90s-teenage romance mood:
Okay, so where was I? Oh, right, they had fun. Girl pretended to spend the night with her friends, but spent the weekend in Boy's black-light bedroom listening to the Cure and watching The Wall. Girl and Boy liked each other. A lot. They did lots of stupid stuff. There was a little teenage drama.
One day, Boy told Girl he wanted to join the Army. Then Boy said they were going to get married. Girl was glad she was informed. Girl was 16 years old; Boy was 17.
Girl's momma was vacuuming the floor when Girl and Boy told her. TOLD her, NOT asked her.
Boy and Girl were pretty sure they'd have fun being married. Hell, they'd been dating for a WHOLE 6 MONTHS ALREADY! Okay, dating is probably a bad choice of words....
Notwithstanding the fact the Girl's momma did like Boy a lot, Momma was expectantly apprehensive. But girl was really REALLY bad before she met boy and, after she met boy, she was just really bad. That had to be taken into consideration. Also, Boy and Girl threatened to run away to Mississippi on prom night to get married if she said no. I don't know if Mississippi really would have let them get married without permission, but Boy and Girl were under the impression that Mississippi was down like that.
A few weeks later, Boy ran off to basic training. Girl stayed home and began planning a wedding. Hilarious basic training/long-distance love letters ensued. Girl kept them all.
Girl didn't want a wedding. She wanted to go to the courthouse. Girl's momma wouldn't have it. If Girl was gonna do this thing, she was gonna do it right! Girl shuddered at the thought of having to wear a dress and stand in front of a group of people who were running bets on how many weeks it would last.
Girl and momma bought invitations. They chose to use a Grandma's backyard because it was free. Boy's family owned a plant nursery, so they helped with pretty flowers and ferns. Momma rallied some troops for a cake and whatnot.
Girl felt awkward. After 4 months of basic training, Boy was completely calm and acted about 5 years older than he really was. Girl fell apart during the ring part. She didn't even know what finger they were supposed to go on. She stood there in front of the judge and her whole family and hollered for her momma with tears streaming down her face, "What finger do they go on, momma?"
Boy and Girl were too young to have a keg party, so they had a barbecue afterward.
Boy and Girl were too broke to go on a honeymoon, so they went to a hotel room, watched cartoons, and ordered pizza.
Somewhere around July 10, 1993, Boy and Girl met in front of the lockers in summer school. On April 30, 1994, Boy and Girl were married.
On July 8, 2010, Boy and Girl will have a 15-year-old son....with a black light in his bedroom....who listens to the Cure....and has a Pink Floyd t-shirt....memories ensue....
Feb. 21, 2010
Is that even still "in style?" I have no idea. The last concert I went to was They Might Be Giants and, believe it or not, a bunch of high school kids tried to start one. No, seriously. It was hilarious.
Three Days Grace is really not my thing, but Jake is in love, as much as a teenage boy can be with a rock band. They're playing in Raleigh, so I bought tickets.
Honestly, the only song I know by them is I Hate Everything About You. Yeah, yeah, they're loud. They play guitar. They have an "emover" and wear "guyliner." Not impressed.
But, I'll suffer through it.
The bad thing? Um.....I accidentally bought tickets for right in front of the stage. Seriously, I didn't mean to.
Feb. 21, 2010
For your future information, an ICD is in implantable cardioverter defibrillator. The ICD-9 is the International Statistical Classification of Diseases and Related Health Problems which codes diseases, therapeutic studies, diagnoses, tests, and pretty much anything else a doctor does to a patient for which he seeks reimbursement through Medicare or insurance. The ICD-9 cannot be implanted into a man's chest to prevent him from having a heart attack. Please do not refer to it as such.
Thank you,
Your friendly anonymous medical transcriptionist who is not from India.
Feb. 18, 2010
So here I sit, working away, brain in overdrive, fingers with a mind of their own.
All of a sudden, I hear the esteemed doctor- the man who spent countless years and countless dollars on his education, is responsible for the lives of regular folks like you and me, walks around with a white coat and has a pretty gold name plate on his desk- say "I had great difficultyness inserting the catheter."
I'm just....just....speechless.
I can't even imagine from whom or from where this man learned this word.
It's unthinkable. Unfathomable. He's a DOCTOR OF MEDICINE. He prescribes medication. He diagnoses illnesses. He makes life and death decisions.
I was 5 years old. I was at KinderCare in Opelika, Alabama.
I had a little boyfriend there named Trey Parker. How the HELL do I remember that?
He said we should fuck. I said "what's fuck?" He said it meant kissing with your tongues.
I didn't believe him.
We didn't fuck.
I went home, where we lived with my grandmother.
I was in the kitchen with my mom, who was cleaning out the pantry, and my grandmother, who was doing the dishes. My grandmother is also a prude and a devout catholic who once proclaimed that the only reason to have sex is to procreate and she'd already had all the kids she was gonna have. My poor grandad.
I asked my momma, at 5 years old, "Momma, what does fuck mean?"
I heard my momma's heart drop into her stomach. I heard my gramma drop a dish in the sink. Instead of being scared, I couldn't help but giggle. I done said sumthin' alllllll wrong.
My momma flew out of the pantry, grabbed me by the hand, and lead me into the hallway. She proceeded to bend down to my 5-year-old level, get her face as close to mine as possible, and said "It's the WORST bad word you could EVER EVER say out of ALLLLLL the bad words and you should never EVER say it again!"
I was undeterred.
"Yes, but what does it MEAN?" I said.
That's the point where my memory fails me. I tend to believe she actually did tell me what it meant because I went to KinderCare the next day and informed Trey that we would not be fucking any time soon.
That's also the point when fuck became my new favorite word. Because it's was the worst word out of ALL the bad words. And I'm all about superlatives.
Feb. 13, 2010
The truth is that mothers have these certain, very specific, very particular fleeting thoughts. They can happen any time and can be triggered by even the most benign situations: Your child sleeping a bit late on the weekend, especially if they had a cough or headache the night before; your child spending the night at a friend's house, taking a vacation alone with daddy while the kids are at gramma's; your kid taking a shower for too long, being too quiet in another part of the house. The list goes on. These thoughts can be so graphic and so terrifying that they literally take your breath away. These are thoughts that would be totally taboo and shocking to non-parents. And if you are a mother who has already experienced the death of someone close to you or a mother who is a self-described Fangoria "fangirl," these thoughts can be even worse. That's just the ugly truth.
I would now like to introduce to you my beautiful first born, rockin' out hardcore, doin his thang. Save your applause (or blaspheming accusations) until the end of the performance, please.
