Don’t Fear the Reaper
Hard At Work
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Do Run Run Run, Do Run Run
As Halloween prep has our life in full tilt at the moment, I’ve been neglecting to update. No, really–despite evidence to the contrary, my life has not just stopped.
Which begs the old tree falling down in the forest conundrum, “If I don’t actually write about it, did it really happen?” We’ve been running so much that slowing down to post any of the details seems daunting. I’m just beat trying to keep up. Thankfully, things should settle down a bit after Halloween.
Thanksgiving is a calmer event around here. Don’t over think that too much. And, as my darling sister-in-law has so graciously offered to host the event this year I shouldn’t be too pressed in November. October, however, is an entirely different matter.This
week in particular has been grueling and it’s only half over. Whose big idea was it to make 50+ trick-or-treat handouts? Ever heard of snack-sized candy bars, lady? What made me think meeting my new doctor and finding a new hair stylist were compatible events for the same day? Did I really think that I was going to manage any laundry after teaching the kid 5 subjects, taking the kid to do ceramics, and then running the kid to a homeschool event for three hours? And what in the hell got into me that made me think I could cook? Butternut squash soup? OMG… kill me NOW. I don’t even like squash.
There is something about October. Martha Stewart takes possession of my body for the month and I am not myself. I am so exhausted, that sometime in the middle of the night last night I put on my glasses and went back to sleep. Evidently, I’m working in my dreams as well.
What’s left to do makes me shudder. I keep telling myself, “this is supposed to be fun!” But the truth is, I’m looking forward to Halloween being DONE this year. We’ve managed, in the short span of one week, to over-extend ourselves beyond your imagination. Well, beyond mine anyhow.
Monday can not come soon enough. But until then, it’s back to the grind. Only four more pumpkins to carve, one more writing gig to finish, two more parties to attend, one more haunted Coast Guard vessel to visit, one more talking cemetery to haunt, two more spider webs to string, one more swimming lesson to swim, and I’m sure there is something I’ve forgotten. But what I can’t forget is why I’m doing this.
Oh yeah, one more haircut to schedule.
Same As It Ever Was
Lately,
I’ve been in a bit of a funk. I’m not adjusting to all the
changes we’ve encountered nearly as well as I would like. Part of
it is how undone our house is. Part of it is how alone I
feel. It’s weird not meeting up with friends for coffee or even
chatting often on the phone. The realities of moving, I
guess. And part of it is our "Constant Eight Year Old."
He’s everywhere. All the time. He never shuts up.
He’s doing great working from home–but his mother? Not so
much. Or at least on every other day. Like now, he just
walked into the room and said, "Do you, by any chance, have the guts to
play RISK with me?" I don’t know about guts, but I have enough of
a brain to know that’s not a
very good idea. No, there is never a dull moment and never a
quiet moment. It’s the Boy Wonder Channel: all day, every day.
Same as it ever was.
Which has led me to lament to IZ (who else
is there to talk with about this?), "How did I get here?" The
60’s may have had their Bob Dylan. But we had the Talking Heads.
How do I work this?
Where is that large automobile?
This is not my beautiful house!
This is not my beautiful wife!
IZ
and I pass each other throughout the day and mutter under our
breath, "This is not my beautiful house. . ." It’s become a bit
of an anthem. How did
we get here? It’s not a bad life. It’s just so isolated
that lonely takes on a different hue–that subtle shade of gray
surrounding me like the fog that rolls in off the river. It
is beautiful here, this is my beautiful house. But I’m still
asking, "How did I get here?"
Last night over dinner, IZ
snatched up my new Antrhopologie catalog which happens to feature
a very lovely family in all those equally lovely clothes, and
says, "Now THIS is supposed to be your life. Four darling
children and a svelte husband!" Without missing a beat, Boy Wonder
exclaims, "Hey, you did want four kids!" I just smiled across the
table and nodded. (four kids, who was I kidding?) And then Boy
Wonder says, "Does that mean you wanted a svelte husband too?" IZ
and my combined laughter left Boy Wonder wondering what he had said
that had been so funny.
And I ask myself, how did we get here? I don’t know. What I do know
is that in the long run, we are happy–if a little isolated, if a
little disconnected. We are still laughing at the unfinished walls, the undone laundry, the undone selves that aren’t as svelte as we would like. And we are laughing together.
Letting the days go by
let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by
water flowing underground
Into the blue again
in the silent water
Under the rocks and stones
there is water underground
In the meantime–it’s the same as it ever
was.
American Idol
It’s
always a little nerve wracking when your online reality crashes through
the very thin layer of separation between it and the rest of your
life. Of all my reasons not to attend those blogger meet-ups,
chief among them is the deep fear people will catch on to my
fraud. They will meet up with me and say… OMG–what the hell is
she drinking when she writes this stuff. Oh wait… you already
think that–thanks a lot. So, had Pops emailed and wanted to meet
me, just me… I would have found some reason to be "not around" this
weekend. Not because I have anything against Pops–I’ve always
assumed he was a pretty cool guy (and I was right!)–but because I’m
very much a Girly Girl. To the best of my knowledge men who understand
point spreads and politics and philosophy tend to not understand you
when you say, "DID YOU SEE the Wish List Catalog from Anthropologie?
I’d die for that Owl Belt on page 99!" Ok, so I’m a pretty shallow girl at that… It’s all about me.
Except when it’s not.
No,
Pops promised to bring along Mr. Man. In fact, we met at an
Arcade! And I couldn’t resist the urge to let Boy Wonder meet
another of his kind. Every Therapist, Pediatrician, and School
Administrator in our wake has suggested that Boy Wonder would not have
"peers" until Grad School. While I’m willing to concede that his
kind are probably limited editions–it does strike me as a bit
odd that there aren’t more of them floating about. Grad
school? Even at the rate he’s going, he has to wait until his
early 20’s to have a meaningful conversation with someone not
65? S i g h. It’s a hard life, when you’re interesting and
only 8. So with trepidation, we headed to Seaside on Saturday to
see if our hunches were right. (Man, I love alliteration!)
I
can decidedly say, that my child’s kind is spread around the country
roughly one to every 181.35 miles. (Somebody do the math and tell me how many of
these Kids are in the US. It probably isn’t statistically
relevant to count Arkansas.) This is going to make play
dates a little difficult. But I’m also happy to report, that
as unusual as our child is, he is not unique. In addition to being
interesting, Mr. Man is a delightful child, full of humor and good
grace. And I hope his ears have been burning, because Boy Wonder
has been talking non-stop about his new friend. Hopefully, they
will get to see each other again before they meet up at MIT.
And
Pops… well, I told you he was a cool guy. He managed to hide
his amazement when I told him I’d never taken a philosophy class in my
life–and then he hid his disdain when I continued to suggest I didn’t
see the NEED to ever rectify that situation! And then, for a full
three seconds, he bought the idea that IZ and I got married at
12. I’m still snorting over that. It’s true that when Boy
Wonder turned seven I started telling people that I was a teenage
mother–however, we were legal (barely) when we tied the knot. He even
went so far as to put up a great photo on his site that bears a
striking resemblance to Cindy Crawford me.
Besides, how can you not like a guy bearing this gift?
And
me? I resisted the urge to tell him I have a pair of jeans in
exactly the same shade of pink as my new candy dispenser.
A Ghoul Time Will Be Had By All
In case you hadn’t heard HERE,
Pops is headed my direction to get a fix for his obsession. Of
course, on his site, he’s singing a different tune. But don’t be
fooled! He can try to pass off his addiction to penny arcades and
dime candy as a visit to see me–but the truth is the man needs
HELP! Do virtual interventions even work? Anyhow, we are
anxiously anticipating their arrival–bonfires and bonding are
promised. However, I can’t tell you how much sleep I lost last
night over the question, "Whatever will I wear?"
In the
meantime, my little fan club is headed off to see Corpse Bride this
afternoon. We missed the opening few weeks due to our ever
present house guest, the Autumn Cold. We seem to have finally rid
ourselves of the bug and can no longer resist the impulse to mingle
with the masses–which, you know will just lead to
reinfection. Ah, one must suffer for one’s art. Or, in this
case, one’s passion for Tim Burton. Of course, this establishment
has a policy of not paying ransom, so our fist stop will be to the
local supermarket to pick-up candy at a lesser price than outright
extortion. The joy of sneaking our contraband into the
theatre is a 2for of scoring the sugar cheap! I’m willing
to be gouged for popcorn and coke–Hello, can you say sticky mess at
the bottom of my designer knockoff
bag? But $3.25 for a bag of chocolate covered caramel that will
eventually lead to more visits to my dentist? No. I know my
Dentist has bought stock in theatre candy–I do believe you can’t be
taxed twice for the same income! Or something like that.
Anyhow, that should completely absorb our weekend–that and laundry
and the possibility of Religion on Sunday. After that, it’s back
to the weekly grind… see you then.
Master Plan
IZ: "I’m having your computer build a new user cache."
Me: "Um. . . You say that like I would have some idea what it
means. My hair may be red, but you married a dumb blond."
IZ: "You’re a lot smarter than you let on."
Me: "Yeah, that’s what I want you to think!"
You Can Make Me Sleep, But You Can’t Make Me Dream.
I
think dreaming is a waste of time. In fact, I hate to
dream. This is highly unusual for my subset of the species–we
touchy feely types tend to imbue import into even the most mundane of
items. As spiritualists, we think rocks and clouds and flashes of
prescience actually mean something.
We are great believers in omens and karma, totems and fetishes,
and anything else the Universe throws our direction that we can wring
meaning from with a straight face. Among my people,
dreaming is considered a holy grail of sorts. Your dreams mean
something–they should mean something–they damn well better mean
something!
I
once told this to a therapist, that I hated
dreaming. She was a touchy feely type too, despite her
profession. The look on her face after my declaration of apostasy
was enough to encourage a lifetime of messing with the Crystal
crowd. Get a group of us together and five minutes won’t pass
before you are asked, "Dream anything interesting lately?" To
which I always reply as nonchalantly as possible, "Oh, I don’t believe
in dreaming." I’m not
sure what color my aura turns when I say it, but people take steps
back. You can see the shock on their faces. It’s the same look
the therapist had: Does. Not. Compute.
Evidently, I’m supposed to
be paying
attention when I dream. It’s supposed to be the best conduit to
hearing what the Universe has to say to me. Well, candidly, I
think the Universe is a chatter box and I would like it to just shut
the fuck up so I can get some sleep. Would it kill the Universe
to be plain spoken? Hasn’t the Universe ever heard the
expression, "Silence is Golden, but Sleep is Platinum?" No, if
the Universe has something to say to me, it can say it in broad day
light. I don’t mind the ton of bricks.
Which
is why I
don’t dream. Ok, I know I dream. But I refuse to remember
my dreams. This strategy is far more effective than you might
think. Except when I do remember my dreams. Then I’m
screwed. So… with that, I will tell you a recent dream that has
me really bothered. Not because it means anything–but because
it doesn’t. No, it doesn’t mean anything. You can’t make me
believe that it does, so stop trying. Seriously, if you are going
to insist on making meaning out of this I’m not going to tell
you. Now, shhhh and listen up—
So,
in my dream, IZ and I are on vacation with Boy Wonder in the Bay
Area ish. Because, you know, places in dreams are never quite
what they are in real life. We
check into a hotel so we can get some rest and touch bases with our email.
I KNOW, priorities! Anyhow, I decide to catch up with a few of my
favorite blogs. I log onto Soylent Content
to see what Pops has been up to–only to discover that he has just
returned from a vacation in San Bruno. What are the odds? I
KNOW, weird. Pops has detailed his trip and even made a
suggestion for a great water park in the area that is not to be
missed. Evidently, this place is everything a small child dreams
about plus a built-in KFC with a drive-thru carwash! IZ and I take
Boy
Wonder to this park the next day to see if Pop is yanking
our chain. We’re just a little bit skeptical about the travel
tip. After all, you don’t really think Water Slide Mecca when you
think San Bruno. However, the water park is beyond coolio!
We can
barely get Boy Wonder out of the carwash!
Now, here’s the makes no sense part,
I go back
to our hotel for the expressed purpose of commenting on Pop’s
blog. It’s one thing to write blog entries in your sleep–I do
that all the time–but come on, commenting on someone else’s
blog? I KNOW, what’s that about?
I’ll tell you what
that’s about… nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Trick or Treat
Dear Readers,
Look
at your calendars closely. What do
you see? Yes, indeed, today is the first of October. Which
means that you have exactly 30 days to come up with your
Halloween costume. This is not something to be taken lightly,
Dear Readers, no siree! In fact, much conversation on the subject
matter has been taking place here at our little house of horrors and I have come up
with the perfect themed concept for this year’s costumes. An idea
so wonderfully brilliant that I do believe I’ve outdone even last year’s
hilarity. "What could it be?" you ask. . . Well, let me tell
you… YEARS will be spent in purgatory for this!
Wait for it. . .
We
are going as the Holy Trinity! IZ will be God the Father, Boy
Wonder will be God the Son, and I am going as God the Holy Ghost.
I
know! C’est parfait, non? Although there has been quite a
debate over which "nature" of Christ Boy Wonder should take
on. I say he should go trick-or-treating as the Human Christ after
Mel Gibson’s "Passion." Iz, on the other hand, thinks he should
be a South Park version of Jesus, handing out candy with a pithy little
blessing, "A piece of Christ be with you." (sic) If only we could
find a way to have two natures in one person. . . hmmm.
Anyhow, now it’s your turn. I do hope you are all working
diligently on your costumes. Remember, Dear Readers, that it
isn’t Halloween unless we make at least one eleven year old cry like a
baby and go running home to his mother. Trick or Treat.
Happy Haunting,
Wende
Not Gettin’ Any. . .
Better.
Or that either… come to think of it. Snot is such a turn on.
Too much has
happened since I got sick to attempt a thorough update. It’s not
as if those things are unimportant–it’s just difficult in
retrospect to find all the words much less a place to start. We
are indeed happy about the color Pink! Which, here-to-fore will
always be spelled with an exclamation point in honor of our
enthusiasm. Between hacking, snorting, and coughing up soft
internal organs we have been obsessing over all the details associated
with our new obsession. (namely, the baby shower I’m throwing in
December) Ok, I’ve been obsessing. IZ has been compelled by
proximity to listen. So much so, that Boy Wonder walked into a
conversation earlier this week and exclaimed, "OH! Let me
guess! You’re talking about the baby!"
(Why, yes, I was. Thank you for noticing… ) Let me tell you,
that child has perfected his eye-rolling skills and has moved on to the
subtle fine art of sarcasm. He’s such a joy to parent.
See, Becca, another thing to look forward to–sarcasm. Add that to your list!
Anyhow, all the misery of the past two weeks has been punctuated by a few bright moments. Here are some of the highlights:
- In
an IM convo with Kat, she called our academic class the, and I quote,
"crack-head baby of liza mineli and michael jackson." You
probably have to know them to find this funny–so just trust me on
this. They SO are! - Then she sent me
a card in the mail, with a quote from William Feather that read,
"Setting a good example for children takes all the fun out of life." I
laughed so hard I snorted snot–and then choked and swallowed it.
Ew…
- And finally, she sent me this apron she made:
Which reverses to this:
And has these cute details:
So the gold star goes to Kat! (I’d kiss you, but you might get this cold. )
Hello ~ Welcome to Evidently
- Introvert and word lover and Christ seeker
- Currently learning Swedish just in case
- ISFP... what are you?
No one really leaves comments any more. But if you did, you'd be my favorite. At least until someone else came along. I'm fickle like that.
Patron Saint
