As I went to California mainly to see and spend time with various members of my Extended Familial Unit, I think most of my adventure there would not be of interest to you. Much reminiscing about how little (and yes, cute) I used to be, many stories about my parents’ actual childhood (bingo! blackmail), and various conversations about ‘what I’ve done with myself ‘ since about the time I hit puberty, are not exactly the sorts of things to make blog readers lean forward in their ergonomic chairs and say ‘Ooh! tell me more!’
Therefore it should only take a few more posts to dispense with my vacation and the discoveries made thereon. And then I shall return to telling the world how to conduct itself.
The first week was spend with the paternal side, mainly consisting of grandma, aunt, and uncle by marriage. Said aunt and uncle own a ranch in the mountains near LA.* Way up in the mountains. Internet only by satellite, hour and a half by way of death-harbinger-ing roads to the nearest Walmart, no mailboxes, shoot rabbits off the back porch, hillbilly living.
I spent a lot of time racing the dogs up and down the mountain with the four-wheeler, boating and raftingand swimming, shooting (mainly rifles and my grandma’s .357 Magnum. . . which she sleeps with), hanging with my aunt doing stuff (cook, feed chickens, build an end table, water the garden), and performing various other acts which tended to make me feel Hick-ish.
I like these types of things. I like working with my hands, building things, playing hard, being free to shoot and run and scream without having to worry about the neighbors and the paparazzi. It was nice, a rather relaxing life. My aunt kept trying to convince me it is THE life.
The next week I switched sides of Green Acres and hit the city with the other family.
Which switch was what ended up reminding me which type of girl I am.
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* In California, ‘near’ is anything ‘less than a job-shift’s length drive.’
I’m back in lovely Wisconsin.
If this collection of electronic particles were able to accurately convey the actual tone of that sentence, you’d need a sponge to wipe the sarcasm off your keyboard.
I’m not one of those people who can walk through the door and collapse and leave the suitcases to ferment for a day or two. I’ve got to get right into unpacking and settling back in (though I don’t always have to finish the task completely – naps and things sometimes insist). Half an hour after I was back my mail pile had been sorted through, my backpack was unpacked, most of my larger items were distributed, and my toilet was scrubbed.*
Speaking of redistributing, I came back with less than I left with. I impressed even myself with my packing capabilities this time. Several weeks ago I had judged some various hair products, facewash etc. to be ‘about’ done, and I set them all aside to open their newer, fuller, more-expensive-due-to-cost-of-living-raises counterparts. The mostly-empty ones went with my to Cali . . . and five (5) never returned. Not only that, they were finished exactly on Saturday morning before I left to come back.
Please take this as a sign on my insanity, rather than a symbol of my pathetic-ness.
I’m trying to figure out why I’m even telling you this. All I can come up with is the going-on-29-hours of consciousness I’ve lived without the advantage of my usual . . . what’s the word? Immunity. Withstandability. Something.
I’m not drunk, I’m just really, really tired. If I had an audience, I’d be slap-happy, but you’re as close as I come at the moment, so take advantage.
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*When I’m in my 28th hour of wakefulness, compounded by jetlag and quite an adventurous trip (more on that next post), the order of things doesn’t have to make any sort of sense. In fact, I left the cleaner to soak for two minutes or so . . . and only remembered 20 minutes later I hadn’t finished.
I think this all might actually make more sense once I explain my journey to this point. Let me know, will you?
Today was my last day with the three boys.
We were preparing to go to the park and play our third of three basketball games (it was 1 and 1), and the oldest was bouncing the ball in the foyer waiting for us old fogies to get read to GO already. My aunt told him that ‘If that ball goes into my curio cabinet someone’s going to be sorry . . .’
He just directed this crazy quizical look at me. ‘What . . . grandma has a Cheerios cabinet?’
I think he was actually excited about it.
Ah well, happiness, expectations and imaginative cabinets were made to be destroyed.
When we all said goodbye, the littlest one was so cranky. Poor guy, we ran him ragged, he hadn’t gotten a proper nap, and it was past his bedtime anyways.
Yet when they went to leave he said ‘Bye-bye Mel . . . bye Mel . . .’ and waved the whole way out of the road.
Hoo boy.
Tomorrow night I leave, layover in Vegas, get back 18 hours later . . . and life as I don’t know what begins again.
Change is in the wind though.
As soon as I recover.
My adorable 1-year-old cousin took forever to say Mommy and Daddy. His first ‘word’ was ‘M&M.’ This may translate into ‘bad parenting’ to you, but really he’s as mesmerized by the characters as the sugar rush. His second word was ‘car,’ and for a long time those were the only two things he would say.
Now he has a few select words and phrases, but doesn’t really speak (though with the two older brothers he has, he’ll be lucky to get a word in edgewise). He’s a smart kid, he knows what things are, but he also knows he can communicate without having to conform to societies speech dictates.
So when he started saying my name within two days, I would basically give him anything he could desire. When he’s asked ‘Where’s Mel?’ and he points, beams, and says ‘RIGHT DERE!’ . . . I become a quivering puddle before him.
He’s a manipulative little mastermind. And I love him the more for it.
I’ve finally met my second cousins, ages 7, 6, and 1 (almost 8,7, and 2).
With a few notable exceptions (J.M., this is you), children of this age serve only to make me thankful I have chosen abstinence (nothing’s foolproof . . . again, shout-out to J.M.)
And I’d be lying would I tell you my 24/7 time around these guys – after contact with only ‘adults’ for most of my recent history and my very own house as sanctuary for collegiate activities – didn’t contain a few moments of teeth-grinding.
But for the most part, it’s been a blast. They’re intelligent for their age (they hate HSM – need I say more?), decently-enough behaved, and absolutely adorable . . .
Vignettes of actual substance to follow, but for my next few posts, I’m going to recount ‘cutesy’ stories. I’m turning into one of those blithering idiots who ooze about their ‘cute’ little relations until the sludge fills every cavity of those around them, leading to the sweet release of brain-death and not having to listen to any more blither.
I warned you. Don’t say I didn’t.
Our first day we went to Six Flags. This was the first time I’d been to an amusement park as a ‘grown-up’ with young charges, and I quickly discovered the truth to my theory that five adults to three children is not at all a fair ratio for the adults.
You know all those ‘Kids Say The Darndest Things’ stories that make you want to blow your brains out? Before you continue reading, please remove the guns from the room.
While waiting in line for a water ride, the 7-year-old was talking about the ride and the water and the cool contraptions and and and asking questions and wondering how it all worked and what that thing did and mainly talking to himself not really taking a breath or directing anything at anyone.
His grandmother started teasing him about some ride apparatus, saying it was designed to catch 7-year-old boys and enslave them to run the ride for the rest of their life, similar to the ship in Pirates of the Caribbean. Soon, she said, he’d have his very own barnacles for all eternity.
He got this horrified look on his face. I mean, teasing like that may not be my style, but it was obvious she was kidding, and I wasn’t sure why he was so terrified. And then he asked a fearful, trembling question:
‘Grandma, you mean they’d make me wear BARNEY’S CLOTHES!?!?!?’
He was such a good sport, even five minutes later when I could finally stop laughing long enough to explain.
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I know, you’re thinking it wasn’t all that bad. Don’t worry, I’m just easing you into the ooze.
As I’ve noted, I’m assigning myself random projects now that I have a little more ‘free’ time. So far most of what I have to show for it . . . isn’t showable. Other than my table, everything is rather ethereal. My burgeoning cooking ability. My organization and houseold-ery which is only impressive comparable to what was before . . . which was also intangible. My list of movies seen and books read is growing by leaps and bounds, but that’s not exactly a mountable trophy or usable object.
Last night, however, I stumbled upon a new project; one that shall carry me far.
My roommate’s last day with me was yesterday, and so we walked our traditional walk once more, to the ice-cream parlor* for cones.
On the way, we took a slightly non-traditional route. We passed someones trash heap, waiting to be picked up the next morning. I saw some bikes in a heap, and I asked if we could walk that way again on our way back. Which we did.
I’ve been hoping to purchase a nice bike soon – first a hybrid, and then maybe eventually a whole little fleet. I noted there was a mountain bike and what looked like a rusted-out road bike in the pile; I thought the mountain bike looked promising.
On our way back, I untangled the bikes and tested the mountain bike. In It was a tad too short for me (hey, free is free) and the tires were completely flat, but didn’t look too bad.
Upon closer inspection, however, I found the gears to be basically unusable, the shocks to be rusted or frazzled, and the frame to be a bit bent. It was going to be more time and money than it was worth to get a bike which was too small for me anyways.
Just for kicks, I took a look at the white bike I’d had to pull off the mountain bike. It’s was a classic style with retro pedals and brakes. What had looked to be rusted-through rims were actually rotted, gunked-up used-to-be-whitewall- tires (when I got it home and examined it under the light with my friend who used to work at a bike shop – oh, connections are good things to have – the only thing we could figure is some guy** had patched a hole with some sort of glue, and then figured ‘Hey, if this things fixes holes, maybe it can prevent them from happening! Like the tires with goo inside. So if a little bit is good, smearing the whole bottle thickly over the tires must be better!’) There was a bit of dirt and grime on the frame, one brake was loose, and I couldn’t tell if the gears worked or not, but I thought it was worth a try. I walked it back to the house, trying to keep the sticky Mississippi Mud ice cream residue on my hands off the handlebars.
A few hours later, I had a dismantled Schwinn, rotted tires, and various other components, strewn across my porch. The chain, gears and rims are in good shape, and everything else looks to be cosmetic.
I looked online. Similar Schwinn (this exact model isn’t for sale any more – probably hasn’t been for years) = between $300 and $450.
My beauty (which my friend calls my Granny Bike and which I prefer to call my Lorelai bike) = the cost of new tubes, tires, bell and basket, plus a couple hours of scrubbing.
So that’s what I’m doing with my Friday night. By 9 or so I should have a sweet ‘new’ ride. Just in time to leave for 2 weeks.
I could make some cheesy metaphor about digging through the trash heap of life, and finding what was promising isn’t, and what was a loss – with a bit of hard work and patience – is actually a beautiful thing. But I won’t.
Instead, I’ll hope dumpster diving isn’t illegal in WI.
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*pictures to follow*
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*I’m not just saying this to sound old-fashioned, while really meaning ‘that multi-billion dollar chain establishment down the street.’ Nope, as honest-to-goodness of an ice cream parlor as you’ll find around here.
**I’m not accidentally using a male noun to encompass either gender, nor am I using it in a casual, slang way for a woman. We really figured only a male would have gone to this extent.
I’m flying out to California on Saturday to visit various clusters of family, most of whom I’ve not seen in 10 years and three of whom I’ve never met. It’s a graduation gift from my family to . . . well, also to my family.*
I’m not really paying much attention at work. Or to you, truth be told. I’m just biding my time, making it crawl by so it has enough energy to sprint the whole two weeks I’ll be out in Cali.
I have three (!) days left with which to send my roommate back to Missouri, get bills and everything else in order, finish my work responsibilities, and pack.
Of course, the packing process has been in motion for a while. I am a contingency planner, as well as a compulsive list-er. Packing combines these two obsessions life skills with the challenges of a small space and the possibility of making luggage checkers sweat, swear, and regret their vocational choices. It’s a bit of an orgasmic experience. Which lasts for days.
I have a list of things to pack now, a list of things I need to pack last minute, and a list of things I need to buy to pack. I have a list of things to do before I go, a list of things I will need to do when I get back, and a grocery list for the day I return, to replenish the perishables I am currently rationing. (This meal planning requires only a mental list, cutting my tree-killing by about 6%.)
Tonight starts the serious phase of folding, condensing, and strategically filling the suitcase and backpack.**
Some would say all the planning takes the fun out of vacation. I say vacation gives me an excuse to have this much fun planning.
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*Pretentious much? Well, yeah.
**The pay-per-piece-of-luggage rule ticks me off, but until they actually weigh the carryons, I shall prevail and continue to squeeze under the 50-pound-per-suitcase weight limit – even moving to SC for a summer didn’t require an extra fee. I think my record is 46-pound backpack plus another carryon of about 20 pounds, plus of course a bag of trashy airplane magazines that I also managed to fit other stuff in amongst. And not once have I had to check anything planeside, even on little puddlejumpers. The trick to getting a backpack the size and weight of a basset hound – bulges, rolls and all – by the ticketers is A) carry it on the side away from checker while acting like it’s light as air 2) look detached and tough, making minimal eye contact.
Last week George Tiller was killed by a man who may or may not have been mentally ill.
I’m not going to comment on the specifics but the generalities.
First: the US declaring something is legal does not make it moral. People seem to think that once nine old men and women in robes decide there shall be no officially mandated repercussions for an action, that action is inherently right. Abortion is a more prevalent example, as are homosexuality, marijuana, and euthanasia. Basically, ‘If what I’m doing is legal, you cannot pass moral judgment or tell me I am doing something wrong.’
Accepting a legal mandate as a moral one is a declaration of disbelief in absolute or inherent morality. If law or might makes right, and law or power to make the law is constantly changing, there can be no immutable right or wrong.* Most people would not say they hold legal mandates as moral ones, but most act like they do.
I hold with a certain President who believed the government’s job is to keep people from harming others – if they want to hurt themselves, that’s between them and them and God. Legalize alcohol or marijuana or anything which won’t realistically pose a public danger. Get out of the homosexuality arena, but crack down on those having sex with children. Freedom of choice to sin, if you will, but not freedom of choice to harm. I will argue against laws which ban things I don’t necessarily believe are moral or ‘right.’ Do whatever you want to your own body and life (or that of any other consenting adult), but don’t interfere with or impose on anyone else. This wrong, this imposition of one’s will or desire upon others, includes murder, which abortion is.
Here then is the point. Not only is abortion murder, but the laws and language admit it.
First, prohibitions against ‘dilation and extraction’ abound. This disgusting procedure is to drug-induced abortion what chopping an elderly woman with a meat cleaver is to a drug-induced euthanasia. If it’s ‘just like removing an unwanted growth’ then who cares if you zap it with a laser or cut it to ribbons and vacuum out the insides? There’s obviously some difference here, and the laws acknowledge it.
Second, restrictions against ‘late-term’ abortions (which George Tiller’s abortion clinic provided). These slaughters are only performable if
1. the baby isn’t going to be viable outside the womb (which is a percentage guess at best) and
2. two doctors agree the woman would be harmed more by delivering a baby or having a c-section than having a more-dangerous abortion procedure (this is basically a cop-out, all anyone has to do is shop around long enough to get a doctor who agrees with them. But still, it’s a roadblock).
Third, the language and admissions of those fighting for abortion rights. They declare they want abortion to be ’safe, legal and rare.’ They call it ‘The hardest choice a woman is ever going to have to make.’
Please. If you told me I had an unwanted tumor growing inside me and I could have surgery to remove it, that wouldn’t only be easy, it would be desirable. Get that sucker OUT of me. And if you say you want these procedures to be ‘rare,’ you’re some kind of sicko. A baby is not some malignant growth or cluster of cells or benign discomfort; the rhetoric cops to it.
No other action having (supposed) complete moral and legal acceptability has this many caveats. The law and abortionists want to have it both ways. And they’re getting what they want.
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*Interestingly, most of the same people do not consider other countries’ laws to hold the same moral authority. Any country which suppresses women or promotes children soldiers or slavery is not only incorrect but immoral. Thus America and her laws have become god and religion.
Shrugging off the constricting, strange Motherly advice tidbits, like ‘Don’t Call After 9:00!’ (which is the time most cell phone companies start their free minutes. Coincidence? I think not!)
Giving people yet another chance.
Convincing people you’ve given them yet another chance.
Taking the safety seal off a Nutella jar in on piece.
Leaving your house/car door unlocked when you’ve been raised to always lock it. And vice versa.
Going to be because you *should,* and you have to get up early to go to work, but you’re not tired and you only have three episodes left . . .
I’ve been accused of being arrogant or snobbish. Is so-and-so just not ‘good enough’ for me?
I have acquaintances, friends, and good friends, and I don’t think there are many people I would refuse to speak to. But there’s good reason for not associating with people I don’t admire or, at the very least, approve of on an intellectual or interpersonal or at least interesting level.
You pick up traits, mannerisms, colloquialisms, mindsets, habits, ideas, and much more from your surround-ers.
One summer of working at a hotel exposed me to more creative usages of swear words than I knew existed. You think sailors are bad? Try the housekeeping department.
It’ll take years to get ‘feisty’ out of my everyday vocab after working at my current job. Also, the bad grammar of some co-workers is causing many issues. (’Oh yeah, I seen you yesterday’ would cause my mother to wash my mouth out with soap as fast as would those housekeeper-adjectives.)
I have this habit thing I do with my fork, picked up from many meals in the dining hall with a friend. I didn’t even notice I did it until another friend pointed it out, and then I couldn’t figure out where it came from until . . . ah! There we are eating dinner, and there’s my idiosyncrasy across the table.
More phrases, hand gestures, and body language abound, picked up from teachers, friends, coworkers, tv show characters, and enemies I’ve been exposed to too often.
Some are intentional, more are subconscious. If it’s going to happen whether I determine it or not, why would I open it up to just anyone?
I wouldn’t.
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