This year, for the first time in years, I cooked a turkey for Thanksgiving. We had decided to have a bird, and EG gave the go ahead to take out a second mortgage on the house and purchase an all natural, free-range bird.
The turkey, when done, was gorgeous, perfectly golden brown, a triumph of poultry preparation. Martha Stewart would have been impressed--Kiki even took a picture. It looked just like turkey in the the Normal, um, Norman Rockwell painting.
My nephew and his delightful girlfriend joined us, and my two cousins called after the meal, asking to stop by, and of course we welcomed them, as we don't see them often enough. We played catch up about all the relatives, including the cousin who had moved in with his girlfriend--and her husband. And then there was the other cousin whose girlfriend violated parole and spent the holiday incarcerated, but she wasn't alone, as her sister-in-law and her friend were also there. When another family member took the girlfriend's children to their biological father's house for their family's meal, the father was waiting for them in the driveway so he could take them on a run to the drive-thru with his brothers. The unthinkable had happened: they had run out of beer.
Nephew's girlfriend impressed me. She did not leap out of her chair and run screaming out of the house, nor did she become any less gracious as the visit progressed. I guess later, though, my nephew clarified the whole thing for her. "That branch of the family," he told her, "has their own two hour special episode of Cops."
Well, let's just say they aren't very Norman Rockwell.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Is it just me?
Or does anyone else have days like this?
This morning I got up at 6:45, which is sleeping in to the point of decadence. We let the dogs out, made coffee, and got up my son, who is 13. He hasn't been doing his math homework this week, so we parked him at the kitchen table wtih his algebra book and told him he had to do 12 problems before breakfast. He stared at his reflection in the window for 20 minutes, apparently having discussions with girls in his head, judging by his side glances and smiles. Kiki, who is 14, got up and staggered to the table, making herself a bowl of cereal. Rocky whizzed through the math problems and asked, "Can I eat now?" I looked at the problems. All were incorrect--apparently, he wrote just anything so he could be done. I sent him back to the book. He stared at his reflection some more.
Kiki brought the squirt bottle which we use to chase the cats off the counter to me and said, "It has a leak." I said, "Empty it into the sink and throw it away." She put it on the counter, where is oozed all over the newspapers stacked there, sticking them to the countertop. Rocky brought the book to me. He had retraced all the original incorrect answers. I threw the paper out, gave him a fresh sheet, and sent him back to the table, where he dug his pencil into the cover of his math book.
The dog saw the cat, chased him under the sofa, got her shoulders wedged behind a sofa leg, and yapped stupidly. Nita took the now empty squirt bottle, refilled it, squirted the cat so he went upstairs, untangled the dog, and set the bottle in the middle of the kitchen table, where it leaked all over the wood top, soaked my cell phone, and dripped onto the floor. Rocky sat there and clinically watched the water soak his math paper, never saying a word. He then carved some answers into the soggy paper. The dog lapped the water off the floor. I told Rocky, "Get me a towel." He ran around until he found a roll of paper towels which the dog had shredded sometime during the night, gathered up the little pieces, and flung them all over the table. "A towel," I repeated. "A TOWEL!" He handed me my phone. "Your cell phone????"
"Go in the bathroom and get a towel," I said slowly, through clenched teeth. Rocky opened the door. The dog ran in and drank out of the toilet. "Yuk," so said, and chased the dog back out, shutting the door, so grossed out that he, of course, didn't bring a towel. Kiki said, "You forgot the towel."
"What?" Rocky asked. Nita interjected, "You forgot the towel. Are you a dummy?"
"Don't call each other 'dummy'," I said.
Rocky said, "Mind your own business."
Nita started sobbing. "Leave me alone. Everyone hates me; I want a new family."
"Oh, for crying out loud," Kiki said. "I don't see why you're talking about this now. We haven't liked you for a long time." Nita wailed dramatically. I sent both girls to sit at the table.
I found a towel on my own, mopped up the mess and sat back down to cold coffee. Rocky handed me the math paper and said, "I got them all right this time, but the paper is wet, so you can't tell."
"Nice try," I told him. I took a huge gulp of the cold coffee. Nita watched me. I had a second gulp.
Nita said, "The dog drank out of your cup when you were cleaning up the table." Ack. I turned around to find Penny standing at my shoulder, wagging happily, apparently thinking the next step would be a trip to Starbucks. "Take her out and tie her so I don't kill her, please," I said to Kiki.
"Why me," she hollered. "I didn't ask to be the oldest. You just had me to take care of the younger two. And you got the dog to torture me. It's not fair. Slavery is illegal, you know."
I said, "That's right. Once we had the other two, we went back and had you so you could take care of them." She missed the sarcasm and dragged the dog out the door, sniffing about the injustice of our employment system here, muttering about socialism and Lenin. Once outside, the dog changed her mind and raced to come back in, knocking Kiki into the wall of the porch. "Penny, you idiot," Kiki shrieked.
By then, I had been up for 45 minutes. Is it just me? Do the rest of you have nice serene lives like I imagine and somehow my coping skills are horribly limited? In the crapshoot of life, did I get the more challenging children and pets? Anybody?
This morning I got up at 6:45, which is sleeping in to the point of decadence. We let the dogs out, made coffee, and got up my son, who is 13. He hasn't been doing his math homework this week, so we parked him at the kitchen table wtih his algebra book and told him he had to do 12 problems before breakfast. He stared at his reflection in the window for 20 minutes, apparently having discussions with girls in his head, judging by his side glances and smiles. Kiki, who is 14, got up and staggered to the table, making herself a bowl of cereal. Rocky whizzed through the math problems and asked, "Can I eat now?" I looked at the problems. All were incorrect--apparently, he wrote just anything so he could be done. I sent him back to the book. He stared at his reflection some more.
Kiki brought the squirt bottle which we use to chase the cats off the counter to me and said, "It has a leak." I said, "Empty it into the sink and throw it away." She put it on the counter, where is oozed all over the newspapers stacked there, sticking them to the countertop. Rocky brought the book to me. He had retraced all the original incorrect answers. I threw the paper out, gave him a fresh sheet, and sent him back to the table, where he dug his pencil into the cover of his math book.
The dog saw the cat, chased him under the sofa, got her shoulders wedged behind a sofa leg, and yapped stupidly. Nita took the now empty squirt bottle, refilled it, squirted the cat so he went upstairs, untangled the dog, and set the bottle in the middle of the kitchen table, where it leaked all over the wood top, soaked my cell phone, and dripped onto the floor. Rocky sat there and clinically watched the water soak his math paper, never saying a word. He then carved some answers into the soggy paper. The dog lapped the water off the floor. I told Rocky, "Get me a towel." He ran around until he found a roll of paper towels which the dog had shredded sometime during the night, gathered up the little pieces, and flung them all over the table. "A towel," I repeated. "A TOWEL!" He handed me my phone. "Your cell phone????"
"Go in the bathroom and get a towel," I said slowly, through clenched teeth. Rocky opened the door. The dog ran in and drank out of the toilet. "Yuk," so said, and chased the dog back out, shutting the door, so grossed out that he, of course, didn't bring a towel. Kiki said, "You forgot the towel."
"What?" Rocky asked. Nita interjected, "You forgot the towel. Are you a dummy?"
"Don't call each other 'dummy'," I said.
Rocky said, "Mind your own business."
Nita started sobbing. "Leave me alone. Everyone hates me; I want a new family."
"Oh, for crying out loud," Kiki said. "I don't see why you're talking about this now. We haven't liked you for a long time." Nita wailed dramatically. I sent both girls to sit at the table.
I found a towel on my own, mopped up the mess and sat back down to cold coffee. Rocky handed me the math paper and said, "I got them all right this time, but the paper is wet, so you can't tell."
"Nice try," I told him. I took a huge gulp of the cold coffee. Nita watched me. I had a second gulp.
Nita said, "The dog drank out of your cup when you were cleaning up the table." Ack. I turned around to find Penny standing at my shoulder, wagging happily, apparently thinking the next step would be a trip to Starbucks. "Take her out and tie her so I don't kill her, please," I said to Kiki.
"Why me," she hollered. "I didn't ask to be the oldest. You just had me to take care of the younger two. And you got the dog to torture me. It's not fair. Slavery is illegal, you know."
I said, "That's right. Once we had the other two, we went back and had you so you could take care of them." She missed the sarcasm and dragged the dog out the door, sniffing about the injustice of our employment system here, muttering about socialism and Lenin. Once outside, the dog changed her mind and raced to come back in, knocking Kiki into the wall of the porch. "Penny, you idiot," Kiki shrieked.
By then, I had been up for 45 minutes. Is it just me? Do the rest of you have nice serene lives like I imagine and somehow my coping skills are horribly limited? In the crapshoot of life, did I get the more challenging children and pets? Anybody?
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Grief revisited
The anniversary of the 9/11 incident has brought up a lot of thoughts in my mind and forced me to reflect once again on grief. This historical incident happened well before our personal issues of Alzheimer's, dementia, and cancer, a time when the kids were healing and settling in to a routine, when we had friends and support in place. Then the proverbial rug was yanked out from under us.
Despite the stressors we had, I know that our situation was not as bad as some people have experienced. I am constantly humbled by those who deal with what would apparently be insurmountable grief: for example, the accident which caused this family to lose two children, and the life of a third teenager to be affected forever.
The mother of these two lost children has exhibited a tremendous amount of grace during this crisis. What she experienced is practically incomprehensible to me. Pick any day, any school morning, with its stresses, its chaos, and its assumption of normalcy, and then throw in a world-shattering event of huge loss and add in having to make decisions with great immediacy, such as donating your child's organs. How does anyone recover from something like this?
My children are getting to the age where I will let them play outside unsupervised, where I will leave them at the bus stop without obsessing if they will be safe. This perception of safety is simply that--a perception, an illusion. At any time things can change forever.
Despite the stressors we had, I know that our situation was not as bad as some people have experienced. I am constantly humbled by those who deal with what would apparently be insurmountable grief: for example, the accident which caused this family to lose two children, and the life of a third teenager to be affected forever.
The mother of these two lost children has exhibited a tremendous amount of grace during this crisis. What she experienced is practically incomprehensible to me. Pick any day, any school morning, with its stresses, its chaos, and its assumption of normalcy, and then throw in a world-shattering event of huge loss and add in having to make decisions with great immediacy, such as donating your child's organs. How does anyone recover from something like this?
My children are getting to the age where I will let them play outside unsupervised, where I will leave them at the bus stop without obsessing if they will be safe. This perception of safety is simply that--a perception, an illusion. At any time things can change forever.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Just two beers, officer
I have a kid who lies. The joke here (if you care to call it a joke) is that the way to tell if he is lying is to check to see if his lips are moving.
No offense to the men out there, but 13 year old boys are a world unto themselves, full of illogic, preoccupation, and basic stupidity, as well as twice the grocery bill of any other member of the family. Add to that the knee-jerk lying, the lack of thought processing, and general dopiness, and I find it hard to cope. However, the lying is the worst thing--I don't know if it is related to the attachment disorder, a residual effect left over from the trauma, or general teenage defiance.
I mean, last week Kiki asked if she and her friend could go to the library after school. The high school, rec center, library, and middle school, along with the two athletic fields and performing arts center, are all in a complex, so I gave her permission to walk to the library after school to do her homework, talk to her friends, or check out the boys. Twenty minutes after she arrived at the library, Kiki called and told me she was going over to visit at the junior high school. Since she had told me she was going, I gave her permission; I had suspected that was part of the plan since the beginning. Plus, I figured lugging her textbooks, violin case, and gym bag a quarter mile to the junior high and back to the library (I wasn't about to change the pickup point, after all) in ninety-two degree heat would be an outcome which might provide a better lesson than calling her out on her plot.
It was. However, I did point out that I didn't appreciate subterfuge.
The subterfuge is normal teenage stuff. What I don't get is the situation where I will look over because I hear slurping, see the dog licking Rocky's hand, and say, "Stop letting the dog lick you. How many times do I have to tell you to not let the dog lick you!"
Rocky yanks his hand away and says, "I'm not letting the dog lick me."
So, is it splitting hairs, as he at that very second is no longer letting the dog lick him? I say, "You were." Then we have the "No, I wasn't." At which point, I will look at him and say, "I had just two beers, officer." He gets it. Yet he still denies everything.
Then I have a choice--I need to decide if he is lying to get out of trouble (and incidentally thinking that THIS TIME I will be stupid enough to believe him) or is he lying because he honestly was skating around the rings of Saturn and didn't know the dog was licking him. Usually, I will have him tell me, working through which would be the lesser of the two evils, as each will have its own consequences.
Someday, someday he will tell me the truth. And the sad part is, I probably won't believe him.
No offense to the men out there, but 13 year old boys are a world unto themselves, full of illogic, preoccupation, and basic stupidity, as well as twice the grocery bill of any other member of the family. Add to that the knee-jerk lying, the lack of thought processing, and general dopiness, and I find it hard to cope. However, the lying is the worst thing--I don't know if it is related to the attachment disorder, a residual effect left over from the trauma, or general teenage defiance.
I mean, last week Kiki asked if she and her friend could go to the library after school. The high school, rec center, library, and middle school, along with the two athletic fields and performing arts center, are all in a complex, so I gave her permission to walk to the library after school to do her homework, talk to her friends, or check out the boys. Twenty minutes after she arrived at the library, Kiki called and told me she was going over to visit at the junior high school. Since she had told me she was going, I gave her permission; I had suspected that was part of the plan since the beginning. Plus, I figured lugging her textbooks, violin case, and gym bag a quarter mile to the junior high and back to the library (I wasn't about to change the pickup point, after all) in ninety-two degree heat would be an outcome which might provide a better lesson than calling her out on her plot.
It was. However, I did point out that I didn't appreciate subterfuge.
The subterfuge is normal teenage stuff. What I don't get is the situation where I will look over because I hear slurping, see the dog licking Rocky's hand, and say, "Stop letting the dog lick you. How many times do I have to tell you to not let the dog lick you!"
Rocky yanks his hand away and says, "I'm not letting the dog lick me."
So, is it splitting hairs, as he at that very second is no longer letting the dog lick him? I say, "You were." Then we have the "No, I wasn't." At which point, I will look at him and say, "I had just two beers, officer." He gets it. Yet he still denies everything.
Then I have a choice--I need to decide if he is lying to get out of trouble (and incidentally thinking that THIS TIME I will be stupid enough to believe him) or is he lying because he honestly was skating around the rings of Saturn and didn't know the dog was licking him. Usually, I will have him tell me, working through which would be the lesser of the two evils, as each will have its own consequences.
Someday, someday he will tell me the truth. And the sad part is, I probably won't believe him.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Fall
I love autumn. As much as I like summer, I enjoy fall more. Summer is great: lots of places to go, swimming, picnics, parties, grilled food, lack of school constraints. However, fall gives me a sense of relief, getting cozy and preparing for the winter, burrowing in if you will.
Today it feels like fall--cool temperature, cloudy skies, breezes. Today I feel the urge to make chili, to watch high school football, and shop for pumpkins.
Today it feels like fall--cool temperature, cloudy skies, breezes. Today I feel the urge to make chili, to watch high school football, and shop for pumpkins.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Finally
This morning, about 5:45, I opened my email to find that I had passed the doctoral competency exam. Hallelujah. Now on to the dissertation.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Tamale on the Steps
Yesterday, I went to work, did a new student orientation, went to a three-hour meeting, did a new employee orientation, ran home, got Nita, dropped her off at drum lessons with an admonishment to wait for her dad after the lesson, and then ran to Kiki's two high school open house.
Then I came home, ran the dishwasher, threw a load of clothes in the dryer, packed lunches, signed homework and assignment books, put the three kids to bed, and fed the dogs while EG fed the cats. He said to me, coming down from the upstairs where the girls and cats live, "Why is there a tamale on the steps?"
Of course, I assumed I was tired and had heard him wrong. But, there in his hand, was a corn-husked wrapped tamale.
Do I really want to know?
Then I came home, ran the dishwasher, threw a load of clothes in the dryer, packed lunches, signed homework and assignment books, put the three kids to bed, and fed the dogs while EG fed the cats. He said to me, coming down from the upstairs where the girls and cats live, "Why is there a tamale on the steps?"
Of course, I assumed I was tired and had heard him wrong. But, there in his hand, was a corn-husked wrapped tamale.
Do I really want to know?
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