Do You Realize?

Crash

Yesterday was not my day. I was rear-ended in traffic, for the second time in three months. As if that weren’t coincidental enough, consider this: I have been hit by other drivers no less than seven times in the last seventeen years. Adding to the absurdity of this number are the almost unbelievable stories that go along with most of them. (I emphatically assure you, however, that they are true.) I am a walking example of Murphy’s Law, as it applies to motor vehicles.

For example, when I was eighteen, I was traveling down the narrow, recently paved country road on which I lived. As I came around a sharp curve, I noticed there was a large truck speeding toward me in my lane. I swerved into the ditch to try to avoid hitting him, but he was too far in my lane; a collision was inevitable. I was so shaken up (as this sort of thing hadn’t yet jaded me) that I let the driver convince me that, since I had hit him, the accident would be my fault; luckily, he was such a nice guy, he said he wouldn’t call the police since his truck wasn’t damaged too badly. What a guy. Shaken, I drove home, where my mother told me nicely what an idiot I was for falling for that line of bullshit, and we called the police. It turns out the guy also lived on this road, apparently had several outstanding arrest warrants, and he was drunk when the accident happened (he was dead drunk an hour after the accident, passed out in his floor). I had to pick him out of a police photo line-up so they could add a DUI to his charges.

Another time, I was stopped at a stop sign when I was rear-ended by a girl I had gone to school with. She had a passenger in the car. No one was hurt, the cars were only slightly bumped and bruised, and so after the police made their report, we went on our merry way. A couple of days later, I got a letter from an ambulance-chasing slimeball personal injury lawyer, offering to sue the other driver for me. What a guy. I threw the letter away, not even considering this a remotely legitimate reaction to the wreck, even though the other driver was, indeed, at fault. A few days after that, I got another letter from the same ambulance-chasing slimeball personal injury lawyer, informing me that the passenger of the other car had retained his services & that she would be suing me for “loss of consortium” on her part; I was being charged in the suit with “negligence in stopping.” Are you kidding me? I was stopped at a stop sign, moron! I had to answer ten pages of questions regarding my personal life and driving record and the accident in question, and I had to drive to Atlanta to give a deposition. After all that pain in my ass, the other party dropped the suit. Surprise, surprise (since they had no grounds for anything anyway).

Still another time (Yes, there are more!), a girl hit me as I was pulling out of a parking lot. The police were summoned, insurance cards were checked, reports were made, phone numbers were exchanged. She told us she “knew a good body shop who would give us a good deal.” What a gal. We went with her suggestion even though we wanted a different body shop. After the work was done, we found out that the girl’s insurance had been canceled for non-payment of premiums the day before she had hit me, which she had conveniently not told either us or the officer. When we confronted her & asked that she pay for the work, she agreed and said she would. She then filed for bankruptcy rather than pay anything. So, in the end, we had work done by a body shop we never would have chosen, and we had to pay for it ourselves.

If I’ve learned anything from all these driving experiences is that whatever’s going to happen will happen. (Also, if the person at fault offers to do something nice, do not believe them.) I AM still searching for that invisible target on my car, though. I’m painting over that sucker.

Nana

My great-grandparents were sweet, wonderful, generous people. And they each brought something different to their marriage; they were very different people in many ways, but love filled in the rest. Nana, who was named Daisy, had an uncanny knack for making sure that people paid attention to her; Papa (Robert) had a talent for calling her out about it. One of my favorite stories about the two of them goes something like this:

One day Papa was engaged in something that Nana was displeased about. It doesn't matter what the activity was now; all that is important to keep in mind is that it did not revolve around Daisy, and that was surely unacceptable.

"Oh, Robert," she said, in her most dramatic voice, I'm sure. "I just feel terrible. I feel like I'm at death's door."

Papa, more beleaguered than beguiled by this, replied matter-of-factly, "I know, honey. But, don't worry. I know you'll be feeling better in a couple of hours."

"What do you mean?" Nana sniffed.

"It's bowling night, Daisy, and we both know you won't be sick when it's time to leave."

Nana was properly indignant, not because he had insulted her, but because she knew he was spot-on in his assessment.

Several years, even one very recently (possibly before last year's trip to the Smokies), Nana would contract a mysterious and devastating illness just before we were scheduled to leave for vacation. She would always insist we go, though. "Don't worry on account of me," she would moan. It was a tactic to which we've grown accustomed, equal parts charming and maddening.

Having never lost her prescient talent for detecting a family outing, Nana took a downward turn in health just before the Georgia family left to drive out here. They visited her in the nursing home, where she has been for a couple of years. She was groggy and minimally responsive from pain medications, which has been typical for several months now, but she seemed on par, healthwise, with recent visits. My mother and sister decided to make the trip out here for Eldest's graduation.

Nana passed away early this morning. She was ninety-six. She had given up months ago, ready to go "be with Robert again," and she was resentful that her body would not cooperate with her will, but both were very strong (she had a basketball-sized ovarian cyst removed surgically at ninety-two, handling the recovery like a trooper). As I am with most deaths, I view hers not as a sad thing, but as a fulfillment of what she wanted. And Nana almost always got what she wanted. And how fitting that she would pass after the family decided to take a trip out here. (W. Somerset Maugham's Louise had nothing on Nana.) Even in death, she's up to her same shenanigans; I'm sure it's not a coincidence, but fate.

I love you, Nana. I hope you're with Papa somewhere, just like you wanted.

Me, Me, Me, Meme

I was tagged for this meme by Byrning Bunny, one of my favorite bloggers. She has a blog where she participates in many memes, from Green Thumb Sunday to Unconscious Mutterings. She is intelligent, an animal-lover and gardenre like me, and she has the cutest little boy ever. Go see for yourself. Anyway, here are the rules:

1. The rules of the game get posted at the beginning of the post.
2. Each player answers the questions about themselves in their post.
3. At the end of the post, the player then tags 5-6 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read your blog.
4. Let the person who tagged you know when you’ve posted your answer.

The Questions:

1. What was I doing ten years ago?
   I was filling in for Youngest's Pre-K teacher, who was on maternity leave.
2. What are five things on my to do list for today?
   Just five? Grocery shopping, mopping, mowing the lawn, planning a menu for fifteen for the next almost-a-week, picking Poogan up from the veterinary hospital.
3. Snacks I enjoy?
   Devil's food cupcakes with Duncan Hines fluffy white frosting.... mmmm.... Lucky Layla drinkable yogurts (especially pina colada, with its chunks of coconut and pineapple), peanut butter and apples.
   
4. Things I would do if I were a billionaire?
   Oh, geez. Let's see. First, we would pay off our debts and the debts of our parents and siblings. We would set aside enough money for all the kids' college educations.  I would go back to college myself. We would finish the repairs on our house, sell it, and move to a little plot of land large enough for my animals to run around on, preferably in Vermont. I would open at least one non-profit, no-kill animal shelter. I would travel to New Guinea to study their indigenous birds. I would go back to Italy. I would travel around the world volunteering and photographing natural disasters to raise awareness and support for relief. It's too early to really think about this one yet. Show me the money first, bitches!
5. Three of my bad habits?
   Are you kidding? I don't have any bad habits! LOL! Okay, maybe a couple... Let's see... I can be an incredible pig; my husband hates to ride in my car. I curse like a sailor. I sometimes hold grudges.
6. Five places I have lived?
   I'm quite boring. I've only lived in two cities my entire life. How about houses? The houses in which I've lived were never boring. They all have stories.
   
   1. I've lived in the place where I grew up, Booger Hollow, on 200+ acres of beautiful forested land in the middle of nowhere.
   2. The first house where hubby, the kids & I lived was a little gingerbread house on a corner of a neighborhood called Saddle Mountain. We loved that house, but we never took the option to buy it, mainly because of needed updating and plans to widen the highway in front of it. Eight years later, that highway is exactly the same as it was when we lived there. Damn.
   3. The first house we owned had some great features, like floor-to-12-foot-ceiling windows, which I adored. The walls of the living room were buttery yellow, which is my favorite color. But it took us over a year to sell it because it was synthetic stucco, and people had heard horror stories of real stucco houses in the south rotting from the inside when termites got behind it. That house, by the way, is still standing; no termites have eaten it to the foundation.
   4. When we moved out to Texas, we moved into a house we'd never seen before. The weekend hubby & I were supposed to have found a house, he had a terrible car accident on his way to work the day before leaving.
   5. This is our third house in eight years. We hate it. More specifically, we hate the people from whom we bought it. I guess the guy was a friend of an inspector, because we've since found so many fucking problems an inspector should have found. We currently only use one shower, as water drips liberally through to the downstairs when we use it. I just took down some of our plantation shutters only to discover that the door had once had double-paned glass, one of which had been broken out, with shards left around the edges. To make matters worse, they had painted the trim since breaking the glass and just left the glass shards there, painting over them. Un-freaking-believable.
7. Five jobs I have had?
   My first job was opening a Dress Barn; I worked as a cashier at Kroger; I worked as an assistant to the marketing director of our mall; I worked as a server in many restaurants; and as a dining room manager in two of them; and I managed and taught classes at a scrapbook supply store.
8. How did you name your blog? I adore the premise of this Flaming Lips song about life and death and the impermanence of it all, and that's where I got it. If you haven't heard it, I'd highly suggest listening to it.

Okay. Tagging. Does it say how many we have to tag? Here goes: Blue Like the Sky, RedMolly, Tenuous at Best, and while I totally don't expect anything to come of it, I'd love to see Crystal's answers, over at Boobs, Injuries, and Dr. Pepper. I occasionally stalk her blog for hours at a time. She makes me laugh. A lot. I'll go tell them I tagged them when I get back from my 100-mile-round-trip to Youngest's school & Whole Foods. Or, if you make it here before then, don't make me do all the work... get posting! Heh.

Frisco

Last week, I mentioned to my therapist (who is actually a psychoanalyst) that our family therapist has made the comment a couple of times that I exhibit a lot of signs of someone who has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and that she had asked if I'd ever talked to him (my regular therapist) about it. My therapist replied that, yes, indeed, he thinks I do. All of this stems from my first marriage to C. (Remember him? If not, you need to go here. And here. And here.) Honestly, that thought had never crossed my mind. I never really think of myself as a "victim" of anything, only sometimes an unwilling accomplice in some things; I believe in accountability, and I take responsibility for a lot, even things for which others would say I am not to blame. Things like Frisco.

C. came home one day with a surprise for the kids. (I don't know where he had been, but it couldn't have been a job; I didn't ask a lot of questions before we got married, and now I realize it was because I knew on some level I wouldn't like the answers.) As he pulled out this minuscule gray fluffball of a tabby kitten, tiny enough to fit in my two small-ish palms. Eldest's eyes sparkled like a diamond in sunlight. "His name is Frisco," she declared. We spent the next several hours playing with Frisco at my parents' house.

Then I had to leave for work. Oh, how I wish I'd never left. I tell myself, even today, that hearing about an atrocious act is different than seeing it happen, and that if I'd seen it happen, maybe my life would have changed for the better.

It was a weekend, I think, because I remember being able to talk for a while when my mother called me at work to tell me that Frisco was dead.

"How?"

"C. killed him." She was, understandably, distraught.

"What happened?"

And this is what she told me:

C. was watching the kids in the living room. All the other adults were in other rooms of the house.

Middle (again, at that time he was Youngest, but you know him here as Middle) was in his playpen, one of those contraptions with fabric mesh for walls. He had a particularly endearing habit of leaning his weight, face-first, into the mesh, contorting his cherubic little face into all sorts of hideous but adorable shapes.

Eldest was still playing with Frisco. She was in love. Frisco was digging Middle's playpen, a vehicle on which to propel himself with his little kitten claws.

What happened next will never be completely known, since the only three people in the room were C. and two toddlers, and a 6-to-8-week-old kitten. What we do know is that within seconds, this picture-perfect Norman Rockwell scene would transform forever. Frisco would lay bleeding and convulsing at the base of a nearby wall, where C. had thrown him.

C. insisted that Frisco had attacked Middle, and that Middle was crying and bleeding. (For the record,
Middle had a scratch on his cheek that was one quarter of an inch long, and my parents said that when they walked in, he was not crying.) C. reacted quickly, simply wanting to save Middle and get the cat off of him. He didn't mean to slam it into a wall.

What I believe to have happened is another story. I've played this scene out so many times in my head, I feel like I was there, and sometimes I have to stop myself from actually thinking that I was. I suspect that Middle had mashed his face into the side of his playpen at the very same time that Frisco decided to climb up the very same place. C., who was probably not watching very closely, heard a commotion, grabbed the vile, vicious kitten, and hurled him into the wall, killing him.

As with some of the other things I've related about C., I wish I could tell you this was the end. But it wasn't. It was only the beginning; we hadn't even married at this point. Why did I stay? Because I thought I was damaged goods, a young woman with two small children, and I thought my possibilities for a mate had diminished to the point that maybe this was the best I could expect. Why do any of us do things at the ripe old age of twenty that will later cause us to cringe with remorse? My fuck-up was just more grand than others.

See how blurred lines can become? Will we ever know C.'s reason for throwing that kitten? No. I've tried to tell myself time and time again that C. hadn't grown up with cats as I had, that he really thought the kitten was hurting Middle. I told myself that because the alternative was too painful to consider. What I do know is that I was expecting more than one tiny scratch on Middle, and that I was expecting some remorseful behavior. I got neither. To the bitter end, C. insisted he'd acted as a hero with quick instincts.

They were killer instincts, anyway.

Sunday Scribblings--Smorgasbord

This week's prompt is: Smorgasbord. From dictionary.com:

smorgasbord:
1. a buffet meal of various hot and cold hors d' oeuvres, salads, casserole dishes, meats, cheeses, etc.
2. an extensive array or variety

We can use either definition, and with the use of the second, choose from any previous week's prompt to use. I thought I'd take it one step further. I will offer some new writing using one prompt, then point you in the direction of a couple of older posts I've written that could easily have been used for other Sunday Scribbling prompts. (The rules say we are not to link from there to an old post. I think they simply don't want us to wimp out on actually writing something new. As such, I'm simply pushing the limits of vague rules, which is not altogether uncommon.)

Prompt: What's your sign?
I was born on July 13, under the sign of Cancer. Every personality trait attributed to Cancer is attributable to a tough outer shell protecting a soft and vulnerable inner core. I fit so well under the blanket of Cancerian traits, I shouldn't be getting cold anytime soon. This page has the most dead-on description of me, it's uncanny.

My good qualities, according to the astrological indications, are qualities of which I am proud. Tenacious, resourceful, defensive, loyal? Check. A homebody, intuitive, generous, emotional? Yeppers. Loving, sensitive, protective, cautious? You betcha. Purposeful, shrewd, warm, security-oriented. Most assuredly. Imaginative, romantic, creative, sentimental? Oh, yeah. Wise, warm, sympathetic, caring? True. Receptive, perceptive, instinctive, inventive? Affirmative.

I also have some bad qualities that are typical Cancerian traits, as well. Moody, overly sensitive, depressive, touchy? So what of it?! Dominating, devious, manipulative, overly dramatic? Why on earth would one think that of me? Eccentric, lacking in stability, tending toward lethargy, clingy? Don't hate me for it. Passive, non-self-assertive, unable to foster self-interests without feelings of guilt? Umm, is that okay?

There are a couple of traits I've read that don't necessarily apply to me: conservative, cold (but how can one be both cold and caring?). Hm. Mike Huckabee needn't get his hopes up.

Now, for a trip down memory lane, here are a few older posts which could easily fit into the smorgasbord of today's writing.

Prompt: Thief!
Post: Those Crazy Genetics

Prompt: Hotel Stories
Post: I'll tell on the hotel

Prompt: In the Kitchen
Post: Movin' to the country, Gonna eat a lot of peaches...

Prompt: Rooted
Post: Green Thumbs and Other Myths

A Super Secret Undercover Mission

One big reason that Youngest triggers horrific reactions in me is that he is a carbon copy of his biological father. And I divorced his biological father for a reason. Because he wasn't a likable person, and I didn't like him. At all. Now, it's like I have to live with him again, with no divorce in sight.

"So, are you going to look for a job today?" a very pregnant me asks a very unemployed husband. (Remember him?) Thirteen years ago.

"Not yet. I have something I have to do today. And I'm going to take Middle (who was really Youngest at that point in time) with me. We'll go to the park or something. We'll hang out." (We'll be a chick magnet.)

"No job?"

"Tomorrow." (Riiiiight. If hell freezes over.)

Hours pass. Unemployed husband comes home with toddler and three new comics in hand. (How the fuck did these get in my hand when I have no fucking money? Huh.) Elated. Giddy. Euphoric.

"Middle was a hero today, Mommy." (Ummmm...)

"Oh, really? How's that?" (Ask you no questions, tell me no lies. I should know better.)

"He saved a police investigation." (Huh?)

Me: "Tell me about it."

"Well, I've got this friend at the department who I occasionally do favors for when he needs somebody. Like an informant." (Oooh, this is gonna be good.)

"So, today, he asked me to come and make a pickup of an audio tape for a big investigation they're doing right now. I can't say exactly who it is, but when it breaks it's gonna be big. Very important political figure. His family owns juice companies." (Really good.)

"I'm sitting on the bench waiting for the drop-off, and when it happens, the tape falls to the ground. Middle ran over & picked it up & brought it to me. Didn't you buddy?" (You're asking a fifteen-month-old.)

Me: "Did you get paid for this?" (Wait for iiiit....)

"No. But I helped the police out, baby! If you can't handle my working with them, you need to get over it now. Because I do important stuff for them sometimes. They just can't pay me for it." (Oh, well, of course not.)

(sarcasm) Thirteen years later, I'm still trying to figure out what political scandal Bob Dole was supposedly being investigated for in Floyd County, Georgia. Maybe he was lying. Maybe he was out spending money we didn't have on comic books. Ya think? (/sarcasm)  I'm telling you, I couldn't make this shit up.

Woofday Wednesday--Soot & Ash

This is Soot & Ash. They are my cross to bear as an individual who takes in the unwanted. They are the ones I couldn't save. They followed my husband home while he was out jogging one day. They were the sweetest dogs, but they were big dogs, the biggest we'd ever taken in, and the kids... well, the kids weren't so big. When it came time to walk dogs, Soot & Ash would be so excited they would knock the kids over like bowling pins. When the gate was opened to the backyard, one or both would streak out & take off for an adventure, which would cause us to have to follow them and haul them back home, usually wet & muddy.

It was too much to handle for us at the time. We'd had them spayed, we tried the obedience classes, but they never got any calmer. It was an agonizing decision, because we loved them (even though I admit I jokingly called them Shit and Ass when I was irritated). I cried and cried when we took them to the animal shelter. I keep telling myself that labs & lab mixes are one of the most popular dogs & that someone adopted them because they were so sweet. But the fact is that I don't know that for sure, and it still troubles me, even after four-and-a-half years.

I miss you, girls.

Love a stray; neuter & spay!

Sunday Scribblings--The Unspoken Competition

There exists in today's culture a competition so fierce, with competitors so driven, and so exclusive, in which men cannot even hope to participate and women have been accused of cheating for the title. It's a competition which is never advertised, and no one is to ever call it such. Its ostensible purpose is to help each other, to offer a sense of camaraderie and fellowship. Don't be fooled. It's a competition. It's the Childbirthing Championships.

When I got pregnant at seventeen, I didn't tell anyone for five months. Part of it might have been trying to avoid women of all walks of life telling me I was going to hell and that I should give that baby to a family who could raise it right, but most of it was self-preservation. I had seen women all but eat each other for the title of Most Death-Defying Delivery, and when they spy a pregnant belly, they seem drawn to it by some unnamed force, to tell their horrific, harrowing tales of painful parturition. The longer I could avoid that the better. Invariably, though, they found me. Each woman of Prima Gravida status or higher had a story to tell me, but not to scare me or to outdo some other woman of equally noble character; no, they were there to help me, to let me know what to expect.

I'm calling Bullshit. I'm now a member of the Multi Gravida Club, and I now have a story to tell, too. I KNOW that it's all about the competition. And everyone has a different strategy. Who went the longest without an epidural? (For the record, the epidural is my friend.) Who labored longer at home before going to the hospital? Who drove themselves to the hospital? Who was in such pain they passed in & out of consciousness, having Frida Kahlo art-inspired visions? Who endured pain and panic and delivered their baby at home on a holy rug with no pain relief but a midwife's comforting whispers?

I'll own up. I'm in. My story is easily as worthy of Childbirth Champion status as someone else's. My childbirth story. Let me tell you it.*

*I'll tell you later. Just know that it involves 38 hours of action, adventure, suspense, pain, blood, and gore. I'm in it to win it, peeps.

Woofday Wednesday---Poogan

We have six dogs. All of them are rescues of some brand or another. Each of them has their own sad story & their own baggage that they carry with them, but I love each of them dearly. For a while Wednesdays will be dedicated to our canine friends and others' canine friends who were adopted.

Buying a dog from a breeder is like buying a T-shirt from Saks Fifth Avenue. You're paying way too much to find a designer dog, when a pound puppy will likely fit better and be happier to serve your needs.

Without further ado, this is Poogan. She was named after hubby's & my favorite restaurant in Charleston:  Poogan's Porch. We were so taken by the story of this restaurant we decided it would be the name of our first dog.

Some may say Poogan doesn't qualify as a rescue, because she came from a pet store. After one meets Poogan, your mind will change. If anyone but us or another 0.00001% of the population had ended up with Poogan, she would have been dropped out in the country to fend for herself, used for a bait dog, or euthanized. This dog is truly NUTS! She is a fear biter, and she is afraid of a whole plethora of evils: the vacuum, aluminum foil, brooms & mops, shadows on the wall, reflections on the ceiling. The list goes on. And when she's afraid, she yaps... in a high-pitched, little dog yap... a lot.

Despite all this, we love her. She was our first dog. She was supposed to be a Pomeranian, but having come from a disreputable puppy mill, we really can't pinpoint exactly what she is, since she weighs about 15 pounds. (She weighs more like what original Pomeranians weighed when Queen Victoria loved them so.) She's fiercely loyal to hubby & me. She has a heaping helping of neuroses that might otherwise get her kicked off another family's island, but we run the Island of Misfit Animals, so she's Queen Bitch here.
She's getting on up in years (almost 11), getting kind of blind (that really helps her neurotic state of mind, I assure you), and when she gets really anxious about something, she starts panting & does the greatest Jack Nicholson "The Shining" impression I've ever seen.

Love a stray;
neuter & spay!
AAAARRRRRRRGH!

Walk Like an Italian

The most (and most enjoyable) walking I've ever done was in Italy. Walking there is much more common than here in the States.

In Varenna, my favorite place on Earth, my husband & I would start our morning walking down the side of the mountain from our hotel overlooking Lake Como into the medieval town itself. We would wander to a pasticcerie to buy freshly baked breakfast pastries with real butter and milk. Then we would walk to the same spot to sit and eat this colazione ("first meal") while we watched the sailboats and the ducks.  This is the spot: 

Then we would wander the tiny town for the rest of the day, trying out limited Italian (and the locals trying out limited English), then walking back to the hotel for a nap at some point during the day.

If I had an extra $10 million lying around, I'd love to buy up one of the gorgeous villas on Lake Como, there since Pliny the Elder's days. But I'd also take a tiny, two-bedroom cottage and be very, very happy. But since history is more important  to native Italians, people don't tend to move often; they stay in a house their entire lives, and in the case of the villas, for centuries. And they walk.

(The image contained in this post was taken by one Marco Mayer, and is not copyrighted.)