Mother of a teenage boy

Me walking by the Minion's room and glancing in:

Me: Jesus Christ! what the hell was THAT?!

Minion (putting Nip/Tuck on pause) : The person wearing the saddle is the lesbian's daughter.

Me ( resting head on door jamb. and closing eyes. wondering why I dismissed parental controls as rubbish ): Was that sex?

Minion: No, he's just having a dream.

Me: But it's a dream about sex....?

Minion: Well...yeah..i guess so.

Note to self. Wash his sheets in hot water this week.

Better Than Painful Shoes

I was going to write about the horrors of breaking in 2 3/4 inch satin pumps. But who wants to hear about that? {{Slides eyes to the floor where the offending articles are sitting..waiting..anticipating the 2 hours tomorrow when they will be worn again for "breaking in". There is no such thing.
Julia Roberts ~ barefoot wedding to Lyle Lovett : 

SMART GIRL. Well, the groom can sing, and I really like the head wrap. I do.  So instead of my taped Morton's toes ( look it up) I give you music from a 65 year old man.

My toes need wine. And my toes get what they want. But I admit to an '80's thing for the guy. Don't judge me. I was simply morphing.

 

Well, this has been just lovely. My bucket of hate is empty and my toes are numb. Seriously considering the Julia approach. And why the fuck not? It's my damn wedding.

Un-Oaked Pinot night

It's Thursday. The day the lady of the house over serves herself and waxes ridiculous. It was suggested by a Dear Friend that Thursday's be the day I write. I made the mistake of saying I had nothing to say. Dear Friend knows my dirty secret of Pinot Grigio Thursday ~ the reason he knows this is that he opens shameful emails from me on Friday mornings. I am sure as I am laying with a pillow over my face, detesting my 1am conduct, he is several hundred miles away simply shaking his head and grateful that he got out when he did. But being a true friend, he hasn't kicked me to the curb yet. I should also mention that my Dear Friend posts photographs of his travels and other people's prose on his blog. I think I would suggest that he write as well. Now that the self loathing and jabbing is over, fortification is needed in the form of nicotine, a full glass and my "Mom's goodies" mix on the iPod the Minion graciously tossed my way (literally) after I dropped $120 on a new one for his 16th birthday. {{{{several minutes pass, many of them with me trying to work the iPod}}}

So, I have music and wine. I also have crazy peas and kale. I have a new porch with pots of basil and parsley and leggy pansies . Dragonflies swooping around the oh so pregnant hydrangea. The whiskey barrel of daisies on the stone wall that saved the house from Irene. Marigolds, Lobelia,  Zebra grass, and black-eyed Susan's growing in a flower bed I made from the shovels of silt and dirt from the post-hurricane cellar clean up. I cut the flowers for the kitchen table and feel such relief that I can bring something beautiful into the house that grew from sorrow. Endless tears and anger when trudging up and out with those shovels of dirt. I have bunnies eating the lawn clover then hopping down and chasing each other in the pasture ravine. And I have a soak-hole in the brook that almost killed me. Stones moved around, a seat made, driftwood found and left ~ the sun hits it at 2pm ~ and it is a peace offering to sit in her and hear her apologize while my skin cools.

“The principal difference between an adventurer and a suicide is that the adventurer leaves himself a margin of escape (the narrower the margin the greater the adventure), a margin whose width and length may be determined by unknown factors but whose navigation is determined by the measure of the adventurer's nerve and wits. It is exhilarating to live by one's nerves or toward the summit of one's wits.”

Driver's Ed

Yes, it's hard to believe. The Minion can learn how to drive. I know it's a shock as I still think he's 11 years old as well. How this happened is easy. Against my better judgement, I continued to feed him. And now I get to reap the benefits of being a good, loving and caring mother. There was a parent/student meeting at the high school. I think every parent was pale and shaking afterwards. Friends came up to me, we'd had our children within months of one another, we looked at each other and asked: A) How did we get this old ( Note: not how did the children get so grown up). B) Weren't we all just yesterday fancy free drinking dollar drafts and watching volleyball outside at the local bar?(Note: this is how The Minion came to be). C) How the Hell were we going to cope with the mandatory 40 parental supervised driving hours. Yes. 40 hours of me sitting in the wrong seat, no doubt pressing my right foot into the invisible brake, probably breathing the way they told me to when I was attempting to push him out of my body and without a doubt, assuming we make it back home to Tearstained Farm in one piece, I will make a bee-line for the medicinal Scotch tucked into the back of the baking goods cupboard.

Again.

This Is The Happy Place I Go To

And honestly? How wrong is that? Spanking centaurs...why not? I do find myself listening to the real, non-Nyhm'd song " Bad Touch" over and over on my drive in to work to sell books. And I did just write a rec tag about baudy sites to see in Europe. I'll get really worried if I can't control the urge to dye my hair.

Noah's Bitch

There is a time immediately following a disaster when all you can do is talk about it. Repeat the same story over and over again. And then three months later, when you are still trying to cope, finding the words that you used ad nauseum seem to fail you. Because you are tired. And depleted. And talking about it just seems so useless. And you just want to lay down and beg for a different life. Then when you are thinking there is no light at the end of the tunnel, bulldozers are in your ravine and dump trucks are dumping, excavator jaws are screaming and diesel fuel is the fragrance of hope. But you are still exhausted and stressed because life doesn't stop when all your personal shit has hit the fan. It's like a death. People are around when it first happens. It's the afterwards when they are needed most. You find you are just dragging yourself through another day. If it weren't for The Minion I think I might have gone out back and drowned myself in the body of water that caused all this. The meaning of Irene is "peaceful" in Greek. Fuck that. Mother Nature is a bitch.

temporarily lost at sea

It's been a bad week. Maybe it was the eviction notice. Pinot and Freddie seems a good way to escape for the moment. And the f*cking awesomeness of Ian Anderson performing with an orchestra. When I was younger I wanted to play like him. Or be his flute.

Winter

Makes me go to the "happy place" that features a sunny deserted beach, a pile of books and a pitcher of something sweet and buzz inducing.

I can never decide whether to shovel out the van before the plow comes, then do it again or wait till afterward and move triple the amount of snow. Not that it really matters. It's all the same snow, just rearranged.

I miss leaves and grass.

Resolutions

I'm not a fan of denying myself things that are pleasurable, so I rarely resolve to stop certain behaviors in the New Year. I don't need to lose weight, I like having a bottle of wine every few weeks and smoking 5 to 10 cigarettes a day isn't good for me, but I certainly smoke less than I used to. I could be nicer to folks that irritate me, but basically I avoid those in my life who make me feel like I need to break out the razor blades. At work I have the"helpful smile" down pat. New Year's resolutions remind me of Lent. Find me a Catholic happy about Lent. There aren't any. This evening I'm going to enjoy the bottle of Pinot Noir I just opened, nibble crackers slathered with fat-laden cheese log and go outside and puff.

But this year I am resolving to do something I will enjoy. I am going to send one postcard a month to a friend. Or maybe more than one friend. Or maybe even...a letter. I honestly don't remember the last time I received a letter. The postcards may be crammed with regards or they may relay a single word or a list of things I'm reading. Technology has made it far too easy not to spend time on people. To loosely quote someone who will begin receiving said postcards: After the revolution we'll have to start writing again.

Geethali Is Her Given Name..

Ravi Shankar's lovely daughter, Norah Jones



Happy Christmas!

she loosed the chain and down she lay

She sings the poem in its entirety on her album "The Visit".

Love Song circa 1981, Clapton is God and a Woman who sounds as Lovely as she did 20 years ago.

Blessed Alchemy

Scent is a powerful thing. Whenever I smell peppers and onions I remember my Memere's kitchen. When I smell warm, wet wool I think of the Appalachian Trail, when I catch a whiff of Chanel No. 5, I think of my mother. A few months ago I received an email from the woman who owns Pura Vida in Brattleboro. Judia concocts amazing lotions, oils, mists and soaps. Sadly, she was discontinuing one of her more popular fragrances: Mayan Gold. An ingredient was obscenely expensive; she just couldn't brew it up any more. I did not receive this news well. I cried. Then I ordered as many bottles as I could afford and vowed to use it sparingly. Mayan Gold is what I have worn every day for nearly 8 years. It is lush. It would be what K23 smelled like in the Tom Robbins book Jitterbug Perfume. It is something I was loathe to live without. So for the last few months I have been frugally spritzing. The bottles are getting low. Two nights ago I lamented to the S.O that it would soon be gone and I wouldn't smell like myself much longer. I wouldn't feel the same. The Minion wouldn't hug me and sigh "Mommy smell". Then this morning I opened an email from Judia. She is bringing Mayan Gold back. Of course it could be that I had only been awake for 10 minutes, but I burst into tears. I am simply giddy with happiness. Obviously, since I'm attempting to share the joy here. It's not just that I feel like I got an early holiday gift, I'm trying to understand why I feel so invested in this scent and why it has triggered in me such a range of emotions.Will I hoard bottles of it now as a just-in-case measure? Is every memory from the last 8 years tied up in that blue bottle with the golden flower? Would I have saved the last drops just to uncap it occasionally and breathe those memories in?

Judia's website : www.vermontoils.com

So The Odd Thing Is..

I bought this David Gray album in 2003 when I left my husband. I liked it. I hated him. I liked that it had nothing to do with him. And up until tonight I have never seen a David Gray video. I had no idea what he looked like. It's been 7 years. David Gray looks British. I guess he is, given the pub and the football/rugby footage. I tried to find a video for "Real Love" which is a great tune even though it has a sappy title. The only one I could find was a creepy family photo montage of {perhaps} residents of the southern part of the USA. So it's "Be Mine" ~ which still has me tapping my toes and shouting "Jumpin'Jesus! Holy Cow!" in the right spot. Still, I am a little confused about the football/rugby. Perhaps Paul the deceased psychic octopus could have explained it. Of course the whole severed head thing is just plain wrong. This coming from the woman who bought Edward Gorey Christmas cards today. I'll link the in studio version as well. No disturbing images. Aside from the homely British man.

These Noon to 9PM shifts have me all half werewolf for half the week. It's almost 12:30 am and I feel it's 7pm. Damn that 7:30 AM schoolbus.

It's All In The Drumming

I like to listen to this and block out everyone but Bill and Mickey. Shimmy shimmy! Time to break out the bellydance garb! School-marmish bookseller by day...but she has a dark side.

Tango Again

I really love this on so many levels.




I would say "Get a room"..but I think I want to watch.



They aren't flashy. They aren't Morticia and Gomez. They look like they did this at their wedding decades ago. And her shoes are fabulous.


Great movie. Great scene.

Decor For The Acutely Morbid

I was a morbid child. I cut my teeth on Charles Addams and Edward Gorey. I saved my baby teeth because I had dreams of making them into a necklace. I suppose my parents figured that if I wasn't mutilating the chickens, horses or dog I was "okay".

We live in an area where there are woodland and farm creatures. These critters die of natural causes or maybe..most likely.. not, and there are a lucky few who find the picked clean remains. That would be us. Not only do we have your basic animals expiring we have a cow graveyard way up in the woods. The coyotes drag the snacky bits around and on our walks we tend to find them. And then we bring them home. Some people collect leaves or flowers. We get all in a tither about bones. The collection isn't vast, but it's growing. The Minion and S.O have brought home the lower jaw of a beaver ( in the bay window next to the miniature rose plants ),a spike-horn skull ( in the whiskey barrel planter with the Chinese forget-me-not ), a second deer skull sans antlers ( in the other whiskey barrel with the chives...don't eat at our house ) and just last week while I was a work:the most fabulous cow femur.

My first thought on the femur was: "How can I make this work? It's too big for inside the house." My second was: "This is not normal...who decorates with de-fleshed bones?" My third was: " The S.O must really think I'm a ghoul." So for the time being, the femur is out with the deer skulls...right where the S.O dropped it. With winter coming I feel I should bring the skulls and leg inside, I just don't know where to put them. And I think the S.O may object. His ability to humor me only goes so far. I'm thinking if I re-arrange the Minion's room ...he does have an alligator head and caribou antler ( see Christmas picture post from 2007 ) motif going...it could work. I could even display the Minion's baby teeth~ he's saved all his too. It must be genetic.

Jitterbug Perfume

Pan lives.