We sit behind the glass watching our hearts out on the smooth wooden floor moving in a choreographed blur. Holding our breaths with every feat, attempting to will perfection with our gaze, knowing we have no control over the lump-dove lump-dove of the shifting movements. We smile and nod through tight teeth at each missed beat, nearly the same way we smile and nod through tight eyes with every perfected measure. Soon the wooden floor is empty and there is a whirlwind of children all around us, everyone talking at once, getting their shoes and coats, and asking about dinner. Our instructor smiles and waves us on, until next week.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 3, 2013
My Ideal Place to Write
My favorite place to write is on a graffiti-ed bathroom wall. In every purse I carry a black permanent marker, mostly for writing my number on my arm before a derby bout but secretly it's to draw Kilroy Was Here, or for a Good Time Call..., or to correct other defacers' spelling and punctuation errors, or just to tag an unsuspecting wall. I've never shoplifted, I don't cheat at games, I'm that person who tells the bank teller she gave me too much change back, I've been accused of being a goody-two-skates on more than one occasion, I'm a middle aged mother of two with a bum-knee who likes historical fiction and the Home and Garden channel, and I am a vandal. I've carved on public picnic tables, I've written on bathroom walls in at least six states in the last three years and once I even took a can of spray paint to a bridge. I don't have a message, I don't have any reason, I just like to do it. Shhh!
Feb 2, 2013
Three Names
I'm named after the floaty hippy song "Jennifer Juniper" by Donovan. My Mom thought it sounded unique and fresh. It turned out to be neither that year. The Melissas and Jennifers and Michelles of the world understand what it's like to have a single letter behind your name for twelve years of academia. When I entered college I tried out "Jenna" instead of "Jenny" for a semester and it was a horrible catastrophe. I wasn't used to it and so people would chase me down the hall yelling "Jenna!" at the back of my head while I meandered on to my next class. I had to give it up. I'm Jenny, that's the name they gave me.
The last decade I've been "Mom" a name also neither unique or fresh. This time it doesn't bother me at all to be called the same as women all around the world, in every family, all the way forward and back through time. It's a name I'll love forever even when it's howled from the sticky back seat of my car, during heavy traffic. Call it out into a crowd and I along with all the other women who's children are near mine in age, will turn around and look. I am Mom, that's the name I earned.
My first baby had an imaginary friend she used to call on the phone and blame things on. Bombadee broke it, colored on it, cut that doll's hair and ate all the marshmallows. Bombadee did whatever she wanted. It's her garden we played in and her feral laughter we chased all those young summer days with my first baby. It's her name I took when asked to pick a something for the back of my roller derby uniform. It's sometimes shortened to "Bomb" by my skatey sisters and thus never yelled in a crowded public place. Now if you google Bombadee it is my own garden and feral laughter you'll hear. I am Bombadee, that's the name I took.
The last decade I've been "Mom" a name also neither unique or fresh. This time it doesn't bother me at all to be called the same as women all around the world, in every family, all the way forward and back through time. It's a name I'll love forever even when it's howled from the sticky back seat of my car, during heavy traffic. Call it out into a crowd and I along with all the other women who's children are near mine in age, will turn around and look. I am Mom, that's the name I earned.
My first baby had an imaginary friend she used to call on the phone and blame things on. Bombadee broke it, colored on it, cut that doll's hair and ate all the marshmallows. Bombadee did whatever she wanted. It's her garden we played in and her feral laughter we chased all those young summer days with my first baby. It's her name I took when asked to pick a something for the back of my roller derby uniform. It's sometimes shortened to "Bomb" by my skatey sisters and thus never yelled in a crowded public place. Now if you google Bombadee it is my own garden and feral laughter you'll hear. I am Bombadee, that's the name I took.
Feb 1, 2013
Gardening
When you're getting a divorce after being married a very long time, all your memories, even the really good ones feel like walking through a cactus patch. Though some have flowers and look beautiful, you don't examine them up close and breath in the sweet smell like you would with lilacs. Some of them may even be nourishing, but most days it's safer to keep a distance lest you end up sitting on the floor trying to extract nettles from your skin and move on with the day. It causes me to very carefully walk my path in life, never veering too deep into the thicket, never watching certain movies, or reading certain books, tossing out a whole decade of music and avoiding whole regions of my brain, only peering in slightly when the children ask. It's a delicate and absurd dance living in a cactus patch. It's why I returned to the lush grass lands of Illinois where the oaks have deep roots and the rich black dirt will nourish just about any seed you can plant. I think eventually I'll have enough new growth to roll among the violets and keep my cacti in bell jars next to the pressed funeral flowers and childhood rock collection.
Jan 31, 2013
I Bought Ink
I never have printer ink. When I need it, I call around and nobody else has it either and since whatever I need it for needs to be printed today it's useless to place an order. I go to the copy shop all the time and have one sheet of paper printed out; a permission slip, a handbook, a coupon, a homework assignment. I am the grasshopper of home office computing, never prepared for the long winter of needing ink, scrounging around at my friend the ant's house, with a flash drive in my pocket, trying to mooch printer access "Would you mind if I just printed a page or two real quick?" I've been known to hand draw a permission slip at eight fifteen in the morning on the day it is due back, my embarrassed nine year old asking "Are you sure this is ok?"
Jan 22, 2013
Chicago
The Aquarium was free on Sunday and the Art Museum on Monday. Ella had the day off for Martin Luther King Day. I just had to find a hotel in between them both, one with a pool. The Essex is right on Michigan Ave, and we could stay there for $80.00 so I booked it. I find mid-January is the perfect time to take a mini-vacation to cheer everyone up. I also find that standing in line for the aquarium on free day in mid-January with two Texans is very difficult. They end up both trying to crawl into your coat with you and while that is very warm for everyone, it's also very unstable once they get past being cold and start tickling each other and blowing raspberries at each other while in your coat. I had to kick them out periodically to remind them how cold it was.
The hotel pool was FREEZING. Other kids were in there, everyone splashing and swimming and dunking like little porpoises all happy and squealing. It's possible that it's just not the temperature we spoiled swimmers are used to, but our lips really did turn blue, so I don't think I'm just being wimpy. When I finally talked my little blue lipped babies from the pool and back to the room, we ordered a delicious deep dish Chicago style pizza. I was glad to remember binoculars because the view was pretty awesome and while I got us all ready for the art museum on the second day Ella spent a good amount of time reporting on the gargoyles around town.
The aquarium was a hit save for the wait to get in and the art museum a bust save for the miniature hall. Those children looked in every little room in a box in astonishment. Ella inspired to go home and build her own doll house and Jack proudly naming everything in the little room. But the rest of the time they were bored and nobody wanted to walk. Next time, we'll go when it's warm. Warm enough to walk to both attractions, warm enough to swim in the pool, and warm enough to stand on the lake front and stare out at the blue for a good long time while the kids run around the sculptures.
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The hotel pool was FREEZING. Other kids were in there, everyone splashing and swimming and dunking like little porpoises all happy and squealing. It's possible that it's just not the temperature we spoiled swimmers are used to, but our lips really did turn blue, so I don't think I'm just being wimpy. When I finally talked my little blue lipped babies from the pool and back to the room, we ordered a delicious deep dish Chicago style pizza. I was glad to remember binoculars because the view was pretty awesome and while I got us all ready for the art museum on the second day Ella spent a good amount of time reporting on the gargoyles around town.
The aquarium was a hit save for the wait to get in and the art museum a bust save for the miniature hall. Those children looked in every little room in a box in astonishment. Ella inspired to go home and build her own doll house and Jack proudly naming everything in the little room. But the rest of the time they were bored and nobody wanted to walk. Next time, we'll go when it's warm. Warm enough to walk to both attractions, warm enough to swim in the pool, and warm enough to stand on the lake front and stare out at the blue for a good long time while the kids run around the sculptures.
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Jan 14, 2013
It Was Only 10 degrees This Morning
I found the best brush in the whole world while searching under the bed for the kid's shoes. We'd been pining it's absence for about a week. It's wooden handle is warm and the bristles forgive just enough while still untangling. It's the perfect mixture of firm and warm and forgiving.
***
I'm on the second half of the lease in this house and looking forward to getting into a better place. We need just a pinch more space and all three bedrooms on the same floor. I have only lived one place where I didn't look forward to the end of the lease.
***
***
I'm on the second half of the lease in this house and looking forward to getting into a better place. We need just a pinch more space and all three bedrooms on the same floor. I have only lived one place where I didn't look forward to the end of the lease.
***
 |
| Lunarbaboon |
Jan 3, 2013
Whose Names are Unknown: A Novel by Sanora Babb
Whose Names are Unknown: A Novel by Sanora Babb is appealing to me on a few levels. I like to read about the dust-bowl and the depression. I just watched the PBS show about the dust-bowl and it all was so catastrophic. It's amazing to know we pulled our own butts out of an ecological disaster we created and it gives me hope in humans and what we can do. I'm a union supporter and a Democrat. Also, frankly it makes me feel very fortunate to live in this time of abundance, it reminds me to live simply and count my blessings. And perhaps the most important reason I wanted to read this was this book was it was written by Ms. Babb at the same time the Grapes of Wrath was written. The publisher told her the reading public couldn't support two books, though Steinbeck wrote the Grapes of Wrath after reading original pieces written by Babb.
"In 1938 she returned to California to work for the Farm Security Administration. While with FSA, she kept detailed notes on the tent camps of the Dust Bowl migrants to California that were loaned to John Steinbeck by her supervisor Tom Collins. She turned the stories she collected into her novel, Whose Names Are Unknown. Bennett Cerf planned to publish the novel with Random House, but the appearance of Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath caused publication to be shelved in 1939. Her novel didn't get published until 2004." - Wikipedia
Ain't that some crap? So since I have loved the Grapes of Wrath for such a long time, I felt I owed it to Ms. Babb to read her book, and it is magnificent. I recommend it. It's a smooth read, I wish I had more time to pour over it and at the same time I am trying very hard to savor it so it's not finished too quickly.
"In 1938 she returned to California to work for the Farm Security Administration. While with FSA, she kept detailed notes on the tent camps of the Dust Bowl migrants to California that were loaned to John Steinbeck by her supervisor Tom Collins. She turned the stories she collected into her novel, Whose Names Are Unknown. Bennett Cerf planned to publish the novel with Random House, but the appearance of Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath caused publication to be shelved in 1939. Her novel didn't get published until 2004." - Wikipedia
Ain't that some crap? So since I have loved the Grapes of Wrath for such a long time, I felt I owed it to Ms. Babb to read her book, and it is magnificent. I recommend it. It's a smooth read, I wish I had more time to pour over it and at the same time I am trying very hard to savor it so it's not finished too quickly.
Dec 21, 2012
Jack Frost
It finally snowed. It took all my might to wrestle Jack into a snow suit, yelling "Keep it on! Keep it on!" as he tore at the snow pants and hat and I quickly danced into snow boots. He discovered snow packs together into little balls for throwing, in the front yard after his sister got off the bus and hence refused to come in the house. Ella was squealing with glee and pelting me the first time I announced I was "too cold so you must be too", and on the ninety-ninth time I announced it, Jack was still working dilligently at packing snow into a small mound under his knees and smiling. He told the neighbor kids how wonderful it all was with a string of excited consonants and they nodded like they knew what he was saying. I picked him up and wrestled him into the house all the while he was tearing at his snow suit trying to keep it all on. While Ella made hot coco, he fell asleep. That was what it was like for Jack to see real snow the first time.
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 7, 2012
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Nov 27, 2012
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Nov 24, 2012
A Lot of Pop
"Infinite bottles of pop on the wall,
infinite bottles of pop,
take one down pass it around,
infinite bottles of pop on the wall."
-Ella
infinite bottles of pop,
take one down pass it around,
infinite bottles of pop on the wall."
-Ella
Nov 19, 2012
ten things
I looked inward to this small niche I've carved for my life to make a tidy little list of good things. Like every list of good things I ever post, coffee is at the top; burnt, bitter, life affirming, hot, morning coffee. Without it there would not be nine more things.
1 Coffee
2 Warm socks
3 Wood floors
4 Family and friends
5 Spell check
6 Internet
7 Thanksgiving stuffing
8 Roller derby
9 Leave in conditioning hair spritzer that smells like cake
10 Satire
1 Coffee
2 Warm socks
3 Wood floors
4 Family and friends
5 Spell check
6 Internet
7 Thanksgiving stuffing
8 Roller derby
9 Leave in conditioning hair spritzer that smells like cake
10 Satire
Nov 16, 2012
Teeming Mass of Privileged Humanity Up Close
A very dear friend from Texas asked me to go over to the one book store we have in the third largest city in Illinois (yes one!) and get a book signed by the author for her. This pal came to my house and chased Jack for me when I had to put my newly reconstructed knee into the medieval knee bending machine for an hour, three times a week. I figured the least I could do was take a trip to the bookstore for her. Besides, how many people could there possibly be in Rockford standing in line for a four time world champion WWF wrestler gone children's book author? Turns out, a whole bookstore full.
The children and me walked towards the back of the bookstore to waste time at the train table play area and find the latest Diary of a Wimpy Kid while figuring out what to do. I inquired about "how long these things usually take" and the line lady who had no idea. When we arrived at the children's area, there was another mob of people standing around in a large circle with cameras in hand holding them high and trying to listen intently. I figure it was the author of the book giving a little interview and these folks were mobbing him. I didn't even bother to try to see; we walked past the assemblage and went straight to the train table. Ella found her book and sat tableside reading intently. I found a seat and decided to people watch. Next, there was a great round of applause from the mob and like a football huddle, they broke, kids in purple shirts running everywhere and doting helicopter parents chasing. I realized it was some school event, where the kids sing or dance or something and it was the same night as the book signing. The place was a zoo.
A dozen preschoolers in purple shirts besieged Jack, attempting to play trains. He seemed slightly taken aback, I let him handle it. He was able to hang onto one train, driving it in the big squirrely loop around the table while others wined, snatched, played, cried and tantrummed. I saw worried parents standing over children demanding they say please and thank you, share, take turns, "play right" and "say cheese." I watched one girl in a tutu and tiara melt down completely because she couldn't play with a specific train. Then I watched her mother try to bargain with Jack so that her child could have the one toy she wanted (the one toy in Jack's hand.) Jack paid no attention. I did, but I didn't interfere at all. The girl had to be extracted kicking and screaming from the train play area where no doubt her mother bought the train she wanted to play with in the next aisle.
Jack was polite, focused on his fun and had a good time without me jumping in. I also witnessed an insane amount of booger eating perhaps even it was the most schnozberries consumed in one place ever. I couldn't believe with all the hovering and supervising of the play not one parent said "Gross! Don't eat that!" They just pretended they didn't see it. And here is where I need to say; if you are paying enough attention to praise your precious progeny for successfully getting the train through the tunnel, then you also saw that nose pick, and "Ew" on your parenting.
Next, I had to figure out how to get a book signed for my pal. I moved my caravan of children, stroller, winter coats and new books to the other side of the store to see if the long line of wrestling fans was moving. It wasn't. The angel on my shoulder whispered in my ear, "You came all this way, you're so close." the devil wined in the voice of my eldest "Are we done yet? I'm booored." conjuring pictures of me wrestling Jack back into the stroller.
I went to the front of the store to buy the books the kids picked and inquired about the price of the featured book. I also asked if I could buy one today, have it signed, and pick it up the next day. The cashier asked with surprise "Don't you want to meet him and have a photo taken?" to which I responded that I was sure the author was a fabulous guy but I didn't need a photo or to shake his hand I just wanted his signature on a book. She asked me to wait a moment while she stepped away and then she came back and said she found a nice young man near the front of the line that would get my book signed for me. Ah! The whole operation salvaged, I quickly agreed. The nice young man found me after about ten minutes and handed me a signed book. I thank him and we left, faith in booger eating humanity restored.
The children and me walked towards the back of the bookstore to waste time at the train table play area and find the latest Diary of a Wimpy Kid while figuring out what to do. I inquired about "how long these things usually take" and the line lady who had no idea. When we arrived at the children's area, there was another mob of people standing around in a large circle with cameras in hand holding them high and trying to listen intently. I figure it was the author of the book giving a little interview and these folks were mobbing him. I didn't even bother to try to see; we walked past the assemblage and went straight to the train table. Ella found her book and sat tableside reading intently. I found a seat and decided to people watch. Next, there was a great round of applause from the mob and like a football huddle, they broke, kids in purple shirts running everywhere and doting helicopter parents chasing. I realized it was some school event, where the kids sing or dance or something and it was the same night as the book signing. The place was a zoo.
A dozen preschoolers in purple shirts besieged Jack, attempting to play trains. He seemed slightly taken aback, I let him handle it. He was able to hang onto one train, driving it in the big squirrely loop around the table while others wined, snatched, played, cried and tantrummed. I saw worried parents standing over children demanding they say please and thank you, share, take turns, "play right" and "say cheese." I watched one girl in a tutu and tiara melt down completely because she couldn't play with a specific train. Then I watched her mother try to bargain with Jack so that her child could have the one toy she wanted (the one toy in Jack's hand.) Jack paid no attention. I did, but I didn't interfere at all. The girl had to be extracted kicking and screaming from the train play area where no doubt her mother bought the train she wanted to play with in the next aisle.
Jack was polite, focused on his fun and had a good time without me jumping in. I also witnessed an insane amount of booger eating perhaps even it was the most schnozberries consumed in one place ever. I couldn't believe with all the hovering and supervising of the play not one parent said "Gross! Don't eat that!" They just pretended they didn't see it. And here is where I need to say; if you are paying enough attention to praise your precious progeny for successfully getting the train through the tunnel, then you also saw that nose pick, and "Ew" on your parenting.
Next, I had to figure out how to get a book signed for my pal. I moved my caravan of children, stroller, winter coats and new books to the other side of the store to see if the long line of wrestling fans was moving. It wasn't. The angel on my shoulder whispered in my ear, "You came all this way, you're so close." the devil wined in the voice of my eldest "Are we done yet? I'm booored." conjuring pictures of me wrestling Jack back into the stroller.
I went to the front of the store to buy the books the kids picked and inquired about the price of the featured book. I also asked if I could buy one today, have it signed, and pick it up the next day. The cashier asked with surprise "Don't you want to meet him and have a photo taken?" to which I responded that I was sure the author was a fabulous guy but I didn't need a photo or to shake his hand I just wanted his signature on a book. She asked me to wait a moment while she stepped away and then she came back and said she found a nice young man near the front of the line that would get my book signed for me. Ah! The whole operation salvaged, I quickly agreed. The nice young man found me after about ten minutes and handed me a signed book. I thank him and we left, faith in booger eating humanity restored.
Nov 5, 2012
House Mouse
I had a cup of coffee after seven pm again and with daylight savings happening and my insomnia, I'm screwed. So I sit here making lists of things I can't get off my mind. I'm feeling like I don't want to let anything slip through the cracks when I hear a mouse in my stove. He's not being very stealthy clomping around on the sheet metal and with all his echoing mouse yodels. I got worried and thought maybe they squeak only when they're mating. Then I got mad at the thought of mice humping in the place I make banana bread for my children. But it turns out they are just squeaky when they're scared or excited and for a shiesty little house mouse that is pretty much all the time. I stood in the doorway and watched him poke his little nose up through the burners looking for spilled macaroni and cheese or boiled over rice, but I've been making a large effort to keep the kitchen crumble free and so he didn't find anything good and he saw me seeing him and ran back into the stove. I gave the side of it a good Timpani drum whack and now I have to add disinfecting one stove to the list of chores tomorrow.
Nov 1, 2012
Oct 29, 2012
Frustration Smörgåsbord
You know what is a great way to not start a Monday morning? Get on the phone with your cable company and AT&T to sort out your bill and cancel some crap they put on there that you never asked for. Then start a new phone call asking for a credit from Sprint because you cell phone doesn't work in your own house and then while you're having fun dancing to hold music go ahead and take a call from the hospital and entertain the idea that the two insurance companies that should be playing nice aren't. Perhaps you could try to get all the insurance companies on the phone with yourself and the hospital and then when your phone is dropping the call you can just cha cha cha you way to the kitchen for a hot cup of coffee and a sink load of dishes. Follow up with a healthy dose of correspondence with my soon to be ex-husband. Yeah, that's pretty much how not to do it.
Oct 22, 2012
I'll Pick Up My Guitar and Play
Ella: I'm in a play and I'm a fern and I hate it.
Me: Why do you hate it?
Ella: Because I'm the only girl fern... They're all boys... and goofy boys. Harumph!
Me: Why are the goofy?
Ella: We have to sing rock-n-roll and do air guitar and it's not my style.
I commenced to showing the kid videos of chicks that rock trying to sooth her.
We started with Tina doing Proud Mary, then Joan Jett, and then of course Le Tigre, Bikini Kill and Veruca Salt (ah the classics.) Still Ella seemed unsure. We watched my freinds daughter's band (below) and she liked it but nervously mentioned "that air guitar thing" again.
I realized the stupidity of air guitar and decided to find some people doing cool looking air guitar, or something close to it. So it turns out, the air guitar championship for 2012 had two women in the top three contenders. We watched the video. Ella loved the first lady.
Spoiler alert! At a minute forty five the lady smashes her air guitar on the stage. In the next clip she gets it out again and Ella said "Oh yeah right! Where did she get ANOTHER air guitar?!" and I couldn't stop giggling. Then she realized what she said and we were both laughing.
She concluded "So it's like miming but to music!" and I said "Exactly! It's mimming!" (she loves mimes.) I'm sure dude-bros all over this nation would just love to hear my eight year old say "I just loove mimes!" in response to their rockin' out to Rush in bars across the land.
When the second air guitar guy comes on, he's pretty good and Ella asks "Why do they keep jumping around on stage?" and I realize the key piece to this whole lesson is that my kid has NEVER seen a lead ax man go nutty on stage. She has never sat in front of MTV hoping to see Eddie Van Halen or Angus or Slash, she has no idea why anyone is even smashing an air guitar, and there's no context for wanting to twiddle your fingers near your crotch and to the left of your body while making crazy grunty faces. She has never experienced the worship of a guitarist.
Yes, we spent the next half an hour watching crazy solos while I explained "No that's not a woman that's a man dressed up like that because he thinks it's tough," and "Yes, the band IS named after him," "His body is shiny and sparkly because he's been sweating all night and jumping all over in velvet school boy short pants," and finally "You're right, the heavy metal look really never went away, it did just turn into Goth."
While Ella forgot her homework in her desk today, I feel fully satisfied with what she learned at home.
I leave you with this:
Me: Why do you hate it?
Ella: Because I'm the only girl fern... They're all boys... and goofy boys. Harumph!
Me: Why are the goofy?
Ella: We have to sing rock-n-roll and do air guitar and it's not my style.
I commenced to showing the kid videos of chicks that rock trying to sooth her.
We started with Tina doing Proud Mary, then Joan Jett, and then of course Le Tigre, Bikini Kill and Veruca Salt (ah the classics.) Still Ella seemed unsure. We watched my freinds daughter's band (below) and she liked it but nervously mentioned "that air guitar thing" again.
I realized the stupidity of air guitar and decided to find some people doing cool looking air guitar, or something close to it. So it turns out, the air guitar championship for 2012 had two women in the top three contenders. We watched the video. Ella loved the first lady.
Spoiler alert! At a minute forty five the lady smashes her air guitar on the stage. In the next clip she gets it out again and Ella said "Oh yeah right! Where did she get ANOTHER air guitar?!" and I couldn't stop giggling. Then she realized what she said and we were both laughing.
She concluded "So it's like miming but to music!" and I said "Exactly! It's mimming!" (she loves mimes.) I'm sure dude-bros all over this nation would just love to hear my eight year old say "I just loove mimes!" in response to their rockin' out to Rush in bars across the land.
When the second air guitar guy comes on, he's pretty good and Ella asks "Why do they keep jumping around on stage?" and I realize the key piece to this whole lesson is that my kid has NEVER seen a lead ax man go nutty on stage. She has never sat in front of MTV hoping to see Eddie Van Halen or Angus or Slash, she has no idea why anyone is even smashing an air guitar, and there's no context for wanting to twiddle your fingers near your crotch and to the left of your body while making crazy grunty faces. She has never experienced the worship of a guitarist.
Yes, we spent the next half an hour watching crazy solos while I explained "No that's not a woman that's a man dressed up like that because he thinks it's tough," and "Yes, the band IS named after him," "His body is shiny and sparkly because he's been sweating all night and jumping all over in velvet school boy short pants," and finally "You're right, the heavy metal look really never went away, it did just turn into Goth."
While Ella forgot her homework in her desk today, I feel fully satisfied with what she learned at home.
I leave you with this:
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