Well, I just found out that a recently refurbished Stepford Wife is about to hit the market. A few months ago, I heard about her second breast augmentation, tummy tuck, full body lipo, and new Mercedes. I had assumed these improvements were her scheduled forty-five-year maintenance and done for the enjoyment of her Stepford Husband. It seems now, however, that this work was done because she was about to be put back on the market and everyone in Stepford knows you can’t get anything for a forty-five-year-old Stepford Wife unless she’s been properly maintained.
The other Stepford Wives are now busily discussing her options amongst themselves. Because this particular Stepford marriage lasted longer than ten years and she hasn’t worked outside the home in quite awhile, she will surely get some sort of spousal support on top on the $2100 per month in child support she’ll receive for her three children. Because Texas is a community property state, the couple’s assets will be divided down the middle and distributed once all the debts are satisfied. Sadly, the one million dollar home will probably have to be sold. However, there are places in Stepford, less desirable neighborhoods such as my own, where a Stepford Ex-wife can survive on her half of the marital assets and spousal/child support until she’s put back into to service again.
This morning, while instant messaging regarding the soon-to-be Stepford Ex-wife’s options, it occurred to me that while I feel really good about how I look, the fact remains that I’m not exactly in marketable condition. I’m much more like a well taken care of used car. I don’t have any obvious body damage from past collisions, my paint job still looks pretty good, and the interior is nice and clean. However, once you get under the hood, well, let’s just say I could use some engine work. Under the facade of my size eight clothing lie Spanx and a Miracle Bra that camouflage the hail damage on my rear-end and my flat A-cup boobs. So as to not be too hard on myself, I feel I need to mention that my tummy does not need to be tucked. I have been graced with a flat stomach and a small waist, so I try to emphasize that as much as possible without highlighting what is above and beneath. I’m concerned that at forty-one, this feature of my figure may soon begin to change. It is my understanding that as my estrogen levels drop with age, my mid-section will begin to thicken.
This displeases me greatly and I pray I’ll be able to fight off this assault with core training and yoga. So far, so good. I’ve made peace with my rear end. I could make it smaller and less lumpy, but I have decided I’m not willing to invest the time needed in knee-crunching aerobics to make that happen. I’m working on making peace with my breasts. There is no exercise available to alter their current state and augmentation is financially out of the question, so I’m left with the Miracle Bra, which is really not a miracle at all. It’s much more like a slight of hand than any real magic.
As I’m pondering these uniquely Stepford issues, it occurs to me that one of the reasons I’m okay with how I look is that I never plan to be on the market again. It’s not that I think my marriage could never end in divorce or that my husband could never die. It’s just that I can say with all certainty that if my husband spontaneously combusted at lunch today, I would never go back on the market. The thought of a man other than my husband seeing me completely naked is not one that I’m willing to entertain. Further, I do not want to see what is under the hood of any other forty-plus year old man ... ever. I’m not afraid of this as much as I am just uninterested. There are so many things in my life that I still want to do. So many areas of myself that I feel are unexplored. In the script I’ve written for myself, it’s just a given that if I ever find myself without my husband, I won’t go looking for another. Instead, I will go looking for other parts of me. I tell my husband all the time that I think I’m about one-third done with this life. And he responds the same every time: “You think so, Kristi? You think you’re going to live to be one hundred and twenty? Really? Really?” And I say, “Yep. Really. Yes, I do. I still have a lot to say.” And I’m sure as he looks at me and smiles, he is thinking, “Yes. God, help us all. Yes you do.”
Thursday, 19 June 2008
Thursday, 12 June 2008
The Guilt Cliff in Stepford
It’s the first week of summer camp for my soon to be second and fifth graders. And my mommy guilt is in overdrive. It happens every summer. The first couple weeks of camp are always an adjustment—the schedule, the location, what friends are going to be there, are the counselors nice, do I have to eat the food in the cafeteria, can I swim with a shirt, why do I have to share a locker with boy, why are Gameboys only allowed on Friday’s, and the list goes on and on and on.
As my children adjust a bit more each day, the Stepford Wife in my head repeats her mantra “... if you didn’t work they could be home having a leisurely summer like their Stepford friends.” And I tell this bitch, who continually refuses to mind her own Stepford business, “SHUT UP!” But in true Stepford fashion, she refuses and it becomes a matter of just waiting it out. Eventually my children adjust, dare I say even begin to have a fabulously fun summer, while their friends have begun to be bored at home and have grown sick of spending twenty-four-seven with their Stepford moms. Yes, this is truly the time of year I have the hardest time living in Stepford. It’s the time of year when I’m almost swept away by the tsunami of “you’re a bad mommy because you work” messages that permeate the very air I breathe.
More than just about anything in my life, I want my children to be happy. But damn it, more than that, I want them to know HOW to be happy. And I know from my own life, that learning how to be happy is HARD. Learning how to be happy is not fun and as a matter of fact, sometimes it down right sucks. However, learning how to be happy sure beats the alternative. I can say for sure, that I am happy. This has not always been true and I don’t like everything about my life, but I choose happiness each day. And that is how is it has to be. And that is how it has to be for my children too.
Will they rise to this challenge when they are adults? I don’t know. I pray they do. I pray that by constantly restraining my instinct to shield my children from every uncomfortable situation, that they will learn that their happiness is a choice and not a matter of their circumstances. I pray that even though we live in the sanitized world of Stepford, they will learn that all the material things they are blessed with and those that they are not, do not and cannot make them happy. I pray that by talking to them about politics, war, poverty, and the inevitability of death that they will see so much more to life than cell phones, Ipods, and Wii’s. I pray that by working they will see me as more than their indentured caretaker and provider of all their heart’s desires. I pray they see a work ethic and develop one of their own. I pray they see how hard my husband and I work at being married and that marriage is not a perpetual honeymoon, but a deep commitment to another person you may not always like, but hopefully always love.
Whenever I’m tempted to slip into helicopter-mommy mode, I ask myself exactly what I’m trying to accomplish with my children. I’ve asked myself these questions every hour on the hour this week trying to talk myself off the guilt cliff to which I’m clinging. Am I trying to create the “perfect” childhood where my children never have to struggle, feel uncomfortable, sad or upset? Do I never want them to have to do something they they don’t want to do? Or do I want my children to learn as many of the hard lessons of life while they are still under my protective gaze and I have the ability to intervene and counsel and give advice? Do I want my children to face their first set backs in life AFTER they are adults ,when the consequences are so much larger and the safety net is gone? Do I want my children to be self-righteously indignant the first time they get a boss who couldn’t care less if they want to work, arrive on time and have a good attitude?
I know by the end of the week I’ll have at least one leg swung on top the guilt cliff and by the end of the month no part of me will any long be hanging over the edge. I also know my children will have settled into their new routine, enjoyed some really cool field trips, and made some new friends. Their still small bodies will be tanned and their brown hair will be highlighted gold. They will have played approximately twenty soccer games, swam in an indoor pool ten times, and eaten four ice cream cones that came off an old fashioned truck. I think its going to be an okay summer in Stepford after all.
As my children adjust a bit more each day, the Stepford Wife in my head repeats her mantra “... if you didn’t work they could be home having a leisurely summer like their Stepford friends.” And I tell this bitch, who continually refuses to mind her own Stepford business, “SHUT UP!” But in true Stepford fashion, she refuses and it becomes a matter of just waiting it out. Eventually my children adjust, dare I say even begin to have a fabulously fun summer, while their friends have begun to be bored at home and have grown sick of spending twenty-four-seven with their Stepford moms. Yes, this is truly the time of year I have the hardest time living in Stepford. It’s the time of year when I’m almost swept away by the tsunami of “you’re a bad mommy because you work” messages that permeate the very air I breathe.
More than just about anything in my life, I want my children to be happy. But damn it, more than that, I want them to know HOW to be happy. And I know from my own life, that learning how to be happy is HARD. Learning how to be happy is not fun and as a matter of fact, sometimes it down right sucks. However, learning how to be happy sure beats the alternative. I can say for sure, that I am happy. This has not always been true and I don’t like everything about my life, but I choose happiness each day. And that is how is it has to be. And that is how it has to be for my children too.
Will they rise to this challenge when they are adults? I don’t know. I pray they do. I pray that by constantly restraining my instinct to shield my children from every uncomfortable situation, that they will learn that their happiness is a choice and not a matter of their circumstances. I pray that even though we live in the sanitized world of Stepford, they will learn that all the material things they are blessed with and those that they are not, do not and cannot make them happy. I pray that by talking to them about politics, war, poverty, and the inevitability of death that they will see so much more to life than cell phones, Ipods, and Wii’s. I pray that by working they will see me as more than their indentured caretaker and provider of all their heart’s desires. I pray they see a work ethic and develop one of their own. I pray they see how hard my husband and I work at being married and that marriage is not a perpetual honeymoon, but a deep commitment to another person you may not always like, but hopefully always love.
Whenever I’m tempted to slip into helicopter-mommy mode, I ask myself exactly what I’m trying to accomplish with my children. I’ve asked myself these questions every hour on the hour this week trying to talk myself off the guilt cliff to which I’m clinging. Am I trying to create the “perfect” childhood where my children never have to struggle, feel uncomfortable, sad or upset? Do I never want them to have to do something they they don’t want to do? Or do I want my children to learn as many of the hard lessons of life while they are still under my protective gaze and I have the ability to intervene and counsel and give advice? Do I want my children to face their first set backs in life AFTER they are adults ,when the consequences are so much larger and the safety net is gone? Do I want my children to be self-righteously indignant the first time they get a boss who couldn’t care less if they want to work, arrive on time and have a good attitude?
I know by the end of the week I’ll have at least one leg swung on top the guilt cliff and by the end of the month no part of me will any long be hanging over the edge. I also know my children will have settled into their new routine, enjoyed some really cool field trips, and made some new friends. Their still small bodies will be tanned and their brown hair will be highlighted gold. They will have played approximately twenty soccer games, swam in an indoor pool ten times, and eaten four ice cream cones that came off an old fashioned truck. I think its going to be an okay summer in Stepford after all.
Saturday, 10 May 2008
Rules of the Game in Stepford
OK ... let me just start by saying upfront that living in Stepford is not all bad. If it were, well, I’d be compelled to leave and after seventeen years, two kids, a yellow dog and house number three, I just don’t see that happening. AND, there are actually some really good things about living in Stepford. One of these things is its predictability. I like this ... I like things to be the same today as they were yesterday and I like knowing they will be the same tomorrow. For instance, I like knowing that it will take me exactly six minutes to get from my driveway to the church parking lot. This is important because I’m always running late and I hate being late for church.
There are two times a year, however, that I never know how long it will take me to get from my driveway to the church parking lot. One of these is Parrothead Weekend (when Jimmy Buffet is in town) and the other is Redneck Weekend (when Kenney Chesney is in town). Invariably, these two weekends are back to back. Invariably, I’m late for church two weeks in a row. I realize this is partially my fault for purchasing a house that has the Stepford Concert Venue in between my house and my church. However, the complete lack of knowledge, understanding, and appreciation by the Parrotheads and the Rednecks for how the game is played in Stepford got me thinking that perhaps someone (someone like me) should publish a Rules of the Game for our sweet little burb, a tourist guide, per se. So if you’re planning a trip to Stepford, take heed, and while in Stepford, do as the Stepford Wives do.
1) If one is good, way more is better. This applies to money, jewelry, houses, Hummers and Louis Vitton’s, just to name a few. This applies to just about anything with the noted exceptions of weight and gray hair.
2) The newer the better. This applies to everything listed above, but also includes wives and breasts. Wives would be listed in number one, except that it is illegal in Texas to practice polygamy—just ask anyone living in Eldorado at the moment.
3) Gadgets are good. I haven’t done the research on this, but I’m convinced that Stepford contains the highest per capita distribution of Blackberry’s, Bluetooth’s, and iPhones in the universe. My children are convinced CPS will take possession of them at any moment, because they are continually and purposefully deprived of cell phones of their own.
4) Bigger is better. This specifically applies to diamonds, houses, Hummers, and breasts. Under no circumstances does this apply to rear-ends.
5) Thou shall not approach the soccer field without coiffed hair and a full face of make-up. I violate this rule weekly, so I can convey to you with confidence that if people pretending not to know you hurts your feelings, you should not attempt this.
6) If you choose not to drive an SUV, a Mercedes or BMW sedan are the only acceptable alternatives. Stepford Wives live under a carefully crafted set of myths and one of those is that driving a mini-van will make you fat. Having driven a mini-van for the last nine years, I purport to have busted this myth. I believe there are those in Stepford who would say otherwise.
7) If you work outside the home, never, ever, ever say while discussing the fact that you have an occupation other than motherhood that you “have to work.” This is a poor reflection on your Stepford Husband that directly implies that his earning power is not up to Stepford standards. You’d be better off discussing a deficiency of what’s in his pants.
8) If you don’t workout and it’s not obvious, just leave it at that. If asked what gym you belong to, just say you use your home gym, even if that really means your dusty treadmill, a flat exercise ball and couple of sad hand weights.
9) Thou shall not clean one’s own house. You also must be prepared to lament the difficulty in finding a good maid the way that your unmarried friends still living in the city lament the difficulty in finding a good man.
10) Jeans whose MSRP are less than $150 are unacceptable. If you need to buy them off eBay to defray the cost, please do so, but by all means keep it to yourself.
I’m living proof its possible to live happily in Stepford while violating the Rules of the Game. However, this path is not for the faint of heart, insecure or vain. And lest I be deemed a hypocrite, I confess I see myself in a few of the Rules. You can’t live in Stepford for as long as I have without at least a few things rubbing off on you.
There are two times a year, however, that I never know how long it will take me to get from my driveway to the church parking lot. One of these is Parrothead Weekend (when Jimmy Buffet is in town) and the other is Redneck Weekend (when Kenney Chesney is in town). Invariably, these two weekends are back to back. Invariably, I’m late for church two weeks in a row. I realize this is partially my fault for purchasing a house that has the Stepford Concert Venue in between my house and my church. However, the complete lack of knowledge, understanding, and appreciation by the Parrotheads and the Rednecks for how the game is played in Stepford got me thinking that perhaps someone (someone like me) should publish a Rules of the Game for our sweet little burb, a tourist guide, per se. So if you’re planning a trip to Stepford, take heed, and while in Stepford, do as the Stepford Wives do.
1) If one is good, way more is better. This applies to money, jewelry, houses, Hummers and Louis Vitton’s, just to name a few. This applies to just about anything with the noted exceptions of weight and gray hair.
2) The newer the better. This applies to everything listed above, but also includes wives and breasts. Wives would be listed in number one, except that it is illegal in Texas to practice polygamy—just ask anyone living in Eldorado at the moment.
3) Gadgets are good. I haven’t done the research on this, but I’m convinced that Stepford contains the highest per capita distribution of Blackberry’s, Bluetooth’s, and iPhones in the universe. My children are convinced CPS will take possession of them at any moment, because they are continually and purposefully deprived of cell phones of their own.
4) Bigger is better. This specifically applies to diamonds, houses, Hummers, and breasts. Under no circumstances does this apply to rear-ends.
5) Thou shall not approach the soccer field without coiffed hair and a full face of make-up. I violate this rule weekly, so I can convey to you with confidence that if people pretending not to know you hurts your feelings, you should not attempt this.
6) If you choose not to drive an SUV, a Mercedes or BMW sedan are the only acceptable alternatives. Stepford Wives live under a carefully crafted set of myths and one of those is that driving a mini-van will make you fat. Having driven a mini-van for the last nine years, I purport to have busted this myth. I believe there are those in Stepford who would say otherwise.
7) If you work outside the home, never, ever, ever say while discussing the fact that you have an occupation other than motherhood that you “have to work.” This is a poor reflection on your Stepford Husband that directly implies that his earning power is not up to Stepford standards. You’d be better off discussing a deficiency of what’s in his pants.
8) If you don’t workout and it’s not obvious, just leave it at that. If asked what gym you belong to, just say you use your home gym, even if that really means your dusty treadmill, a flat exercise ball and couple of sad hand weights.
9) Thou shall not clean one’s own house. You also must be prepared to lament the difficulty in finding a good maid the way that your unmarried friends still living in the city lament the difficulty in finding a good man.
10) Jeans whose MSRP are less than $150 are unacceptable. If you need to buy them off eBay to defray the cost, please do so, but by all means keep it to yourself.
I’m living proof its possible to live happily in Stepford while violating the Rules of the Game. However, this path is not for the faint of heart, insecure or vain. And lest I be deemed a hypocrite, I confess I see myself in a few of the Rules. You can’t live in Stepford for as long as I have without at least a few things rubbing off on you.
Thursday, 8 May 2008
Mother's Days to Remember
“When’s Mother’s Day?” my eleven year old son asks from the backseat of my minivan.
“This coming Sunday, May 11th”, I answer.
And as so often happens, a simple question from my son inspires me to write.
I’ve had a few really special Mother’s Days in my life ...
1977—This is the first Mother’s Day I remember in detail, complete with the texture of color, sound, and smell. I had just turned ten and the Friday morning prior to Mother’s Day my mother woke me, before it was light outside, to let me know that she was in labor. Two days later on the morning of Mother’s Day, I was allowed to visit my mom at the hospital and meet, for the first time, my baby brother who now has a son of his own and another baby on the way. Until he began having his children, I was convinced I could never love another’s children as much as my own. I was wrong.
1995—I found out I was pregnant for the first time a week prior to Mother’s Day. I still have the Mother’s Day card my husband was smart enough to buy me and remember vividly the naive excitement regarding my pregnancy and what motherhood would bring. I knew that 1995 would be a turning point in my life. I knew that it would be a time when nothing that came before this year could compare to what would come after. I knew this would be the year I would finally become a grown-up. I just didn’t know how. I thought I did. I was wrong.
1996—I spent this Mother’s Day visiting the cemetery in a pouring rain, weeping for the baby boy buried in the tiny white velvet casket underneath a headstone with “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep” engraved upon it. I seemed a million miles away from 1995. I thought I would never be at peace again. I thought I may never become a mother with a baby to hold. I was wrong.
1997—I spent this Mother’s Day learning to breastfeed my now eleven year old son. My husband surprised me with a ring that contained the birthstones of my son in heaven and the one at my breast. When my daughter was born three years later, she was kind enough to come two weeks early so that the ring now contains her birthstone as well. In the chaos of having a newborn after a very difficult delivery, I thought I would never get the hang of motherhood. I was wrong.
2007—Last year my son presented me with a most unusual gift ... actually, of all the gifts he has ever given me it is the one that is the most special. And as it often is with gifts that come from the heart, it is one I will never forget. The Friday before Mother’s Day I picked my children up from school and my son was in a very grumpy mood. Nothing I did seemed to make his mood any better. I inquired with his sister about anything that may have happened at school. All she could say was that he seemed just fine until I arrived to pick them up. His moodiness continued through Saturday and as he went to bed that night, I decided that he must be coming down with something. The next morning I awoke early to find him in the office using the computer. He knows he’s not allowed to access the Internet without permission and when he saw me he immediately told me that he was only using Microsoft Word and was not on the Internet.
As I proceeded to the kitchen for coffee, my daughter was coming down the stairs with a messy bedhead, sleep in her eyes, and a flowerpot with her hand prints on both sides. Always the morning person in our house, she all but screamed, “HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!” As we were discussing what type of flower we should purchase to plant in the flowerpot, my son entered the kitchen with a single sheet of paper in hands. He handed it to me with a bowed head and tearful eyes. As I turned it over and began to read what was written next the to pink heart he had obtained from his clip art library, I too had tearful eyes. I was reminded of why I love being a mother so much and why being perfect either as a mother or as a child is never really necessary. The letter he had written that morning on Microsoft Word said the following:
Dear Mom,
I didn’t make the Mother’s Day project at school in the past week; so that was why I was about to cry. I’m so sorry, it’s my fault, I did not get my work done fast enough. I’m sorry.
As he allowed me to hug him I could feel all the distress he had carried with him through weekend melt away. For the first time in quite awhile, he didn’t let the hug go before I did. I’m sure this is why he was inquiring about the exact date of Mother’s Day this year. What he doesn’t know is that while whatever gift he is making me at school will surely make me smile, it probably won’t forever hang on my refrigerator and in my heart like last year’s gift.
Before I became a mother, I thought I had all the answers and would teach them to my children. I was wrong. It’s the other way around.
“This coming Sunday, May 11th”, I answer.
And as so often happens, a simple question from my son inspires me to write.
I’ve had a few really special Mother’s Days in my life ...
1977—This is the first Mother’s Day I remember in detail, complete with the texture of color, sound, and smell. I had just turned ten and the Friday morning prior to Mother’s Day my mother woke me, before it was light outside, to let me know that she was in labor. Two days later on the morning of Mother’s Day, I was allowed to visit my mom at the hospital and meet, for the first time, my baby brother who now has a son of his own and another baby on the way. Until he began having his children, I was convinced I could never love another’s children as much as my own. I was wrong.
1995—I found out I was pregnant for the first time a week prior to Mother’s Day. I still have the Mother’s Day card my husband was smart enough to buy me and remember vividly the naive excitement regarding my pregnancy and what motherhood would bring. I knew that 1995 would be a turning point in my life. I knew that it would be a time when nothing that came before this year could compare to what would come after. I knew this would be the year I would finally become a grown-up. I just didn’t know how. I thought I did. I was wrong.
1996—I spent this Mother’s Day visiting the cemetery in a pouring rain, weeping for the baby boy buried in the tiny white velvet casket underneath a headstone with “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep” engraved upon it. I seemed a million miles away from 1995. I thought I would never be at peace again. I thought I may never become a mother with a baby to hold. I was wrong.
1997—I spent this Mother’s Day learning to breastfeed my now eleven year old son. My husband surprised me with a ring that contained the birthstones of my son in heaven and the one at my breast. When my daughter was born three years later, she was kind enough to come two weeks early so that the ring now contains her birthstone as well. In the chaos of having a newborn after a very difficult delivery, I thought I would never get the hang of motherhood. I was wrong.
2007—Last year my son presented me with a most unusual gift ... actually, of all the gifts he has ever given me it is the one that is the most special. And as it often is with gifts that come from the heart, it is one I will never forget. The Friday before Mother’s Day I picked my children up from school and my son was in a very grumpy mood. Nothing I did seemed to make his mood any better. I inquired with his sister about anything that may have happened at school. All she could say was that he seemed just fine until I arrived to pick them up. His moodiness continued through Saturday and as he went to bed that night, I decided that he must be coming down with something. The next morning I awoke early to find him in the office using the computer. He knows he’s not allowed to access the Internet without permission and when he saw me he immediately told me that he was only using Microsoft Word and was not on the Internet.
As I proceeded to the kitchen for coffee, my daughter was coming down the stairs with a messy bedhead, sleep in her eyes, and a flowerpot with her hand prints on both sides. Always the morning person in our house, she all but screamed, “HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!” As we were discussing what type of flower we should purchase to plant in the flowerpot, my son entered the kitchen with a single sheet of paper in hands. He handed it to me with a bowed head and tearful eyes. As I turned it over and began to read what was written next the to pink heart he had obtained from his clip art library, I too had tearful eyes. I was reminded of why I love being a mother so much and why being perfect either as a mother or as a child is never really necessary. The letter he had written that morning on Microsoft Word said the following:
Dear Mom,
I didn’t make the Mother’s Day project at school in the past week; so that was why I was about to cry. I’m so sorry, it’s my fault, I did not get my work done fast enough. I’m sorry.
As he allowed me to hug him I could feel all the distress he had carried with him through weekend melt away. For the first time in quite awhile, he didn’t let the hug go before I did. I’m sure this is why he was inquiring about the exact date of Mother’s Day this year. What he doesn’t know is that while whatever gift he is making me at school will surely make me smile, it probably won’t forever hang on my refrigerator and in my heart like last year’s gift.
Before I became a mother, I thought I had all the answers and would teach them to my children. I was wrong. It’s the other way around.
Monday, 28 April 2008
The Answer is "Hell No"
Every other year or so, I get the email from one of my handful of friends that answers a list of personal questions and requests that I answer the same questions while forwarding the email on to more of my friends. I have the same problem every time I receive this email—all my friends are already copied on it (that’s another story though).
I always find the answers to these questions interesting and usually do learn at least one thing I previously didn’t know that I have in common with one of my friends. This year the revelation was that we all pretty much agree that Cheerios rule in the breakfast category and that a relatively new friend of mine also watches a locally televised church service where women dance barefoot in a circle while waiving tambourines over their heads. I’m not sure what her excuse is for watching this bizarre display of worship, but my excuse is that my husband used to work with one of the tambourine dancers. Granted, I’ve never met the tambourine dancer, but how often do you get to see someone your husband knows on television? I realize this is a lame excuse for wasting my time watching the equivalent of a spiritual train wreck, but otherwise I’d have to delve deeper into my psyche to figure why this is appealing to me. I’ll admit I’m afraid I would be disturbed by the answer. Anyway ... I digress.
The question on the email list that highlights, with neon intensity, how very different I am from my fellow Stepford wives is this: Would you be friends with yourself? I have never once seen anyone answer no to this question. As a matter of fact, I can never remember anyone only answering yes and leaving it at that. Everyone always answers these questions as if it is the equivalent of, Does the sun rise in the east? I’ve seen this question answered with Of course! or You bet! and Oh, I would certainly hope so! My answer is always the same, HELL, NO! At the risk of further pairing down my list of friends, here are the top ten reasons I would not be friends with myself:
1. I’m blind to my children’s faults. And if there is one thing I cannot stand, it’s a mother who thinks her kids are perfect.
2. I don’t want my friends thinking they know me better than I know myself. I’m positive I’m as good a psychologist as anyone with formal training.
3. I suck at remembering birthdays and knowing what to do when my friends are sick or sobbing on the other end of the phone. I want my birthday remembered and food brought to me when I’m sick and someone to know how to make the sobbing stop.
4. I cannot lie. Therefore, I don’t want to be told that yes, my ass looks fat in my favorite jeans and that I really do look forty. Okay, Okay ... forty-one.
5. I don’t want to be friends with anyone as funny as I am. I might be jealous.
6. I don’t want my friends emailing me articles they’ve written for me to read. (No matter how finely crafted and eloquent said articles may be.)
7. I don’t have the gift of hospitality. I truly enjoy the times I spend in my friend’s homes and would be hurt if I never got invited to dinner at my house.
8. I don’t like whiners.
9. I don’t want to worry that my friends are going to write about me and post it on a Web site for all the world to see.
10. I know what goes on inside my head that never comes out of my mouth or gets typed on a keyboard. I don’t do friends that are crazy, neurotic or self-righteous.
I guess after reviewing this list, it’s not really another story after all as to why I have so few friends. However, to the friends I have, thank you for your tolerance. I’d be very lonely without you sharing your lives with me.
I always find the answers to these questions interesting and usually do learn at least one thing I previously didn’t know that I have in common with one of my friends. This year the revelation was that we all pretty much agree that Cheerios rule in the breakfast category and that a relatively new friend of mine also watches a locally televised church service where women dance barefoot in a circle while waiving tambourines over their heads. I’m not sure what her excuse is for watching this bizarre display of worship, but my excuse is that my husband used to work with one of the tambourine dancers. Granted, I’ve never met the tambourine dancer, but how often do you get to see someone your husband knows on television? I realize this is a lame excuse for wasting my time watching the equivalent of a spiritual train wreck, but otherwise I’d have to delve deeper into my psyche to figure why this is appealing to me. I’ll admit I’m afraid I would be disturbed by the answer. Anyway ... I digress.
The question on the email list that highlights, with neon intensity, how very different I am from my fellow Stepford wives is this: Would you be friends with yourself? I have never once seen anyone answer no to this question. As a matter of fact, I can never remember anyone only answering yes and leaving it at that. Everyone always answers these questions as if it is the equivalent of, Does the sun rise in the east? I’ve seen this question answered with Of course! or You bet! and Oh, I would certainly hope so! My answer is always the same, HELL, NO! At the risk of further pairing down my list of friends, here are the top ten reasons I would not be friends with myself:
1. I’m blind to my children’s faults. And if there is one thing I cannot stand, it’s a mother who thinks her kids are perfect.
2. I don’t want my friends thinking they know me better than I know myself. I’m positive I’m as good a psychologist as anyone with formal training.
3. I suck at remembering birthdays and knowing what to do when my friends are sick or sobbing on the other end of the phone. I want my birthday remembered and food brought to me when I’m sick and someone to know how to make the sobbing stop.
4. I cannot lie. Therefore, I don’t want to be told that yes, my ass looks fat in my favorite jeans and that I really do look forty. Okay, Okay ... forty-one.
5. I don’t want to be friends with anyone as funny as I am. I might be jealous.
6. I don’t want my friends emailing me articles they’ve written for me to read. (No matter how finely crafted and eloquent said articles may be.)
7. I don’t have the gift of hospitality. I truly enjoy the times I spend in my friend’s homes and would be hurt if I never got invited to dinner at my house.
8. I don’t like whiners.
9. I don’t want to worry that my friends are going to write about me and post it on a Web site for all the world to see.
10. I know what goes on inside my head that never comes out of my mouth or gets typed on a keyboard. I don’t do friends that are crazy, neurotic or self-righteous.
I guess after reviewing this list, it’s not really another story after all as to why I have so few friends. However, to the friends I have, thank you for your tolerance. I’d be very lonely without you sharing your lives with me.
Tuesday, 22 April 2008
Why I Live Here - Stepford
“My boobs are broken,” is the instant message I send my friend last Thursday afternoon. I send this to my friend whose life is the most similar to mine. Our husbands are friends, we each have a son in the fourth grade and a daughter slightly younger than their older brothers. We attend the same church and both live in nice homes in Stepford, commuting to paralegal jobs in North Dallas to work in, if not identical, exceedingly similar mid-rise glass office buildings.
“WHAT?!?!?!?!?!” is her response. I smile.
“They are broken. My left one keeps sneaking out of the bottom part of my bra and my right one is doing something that is causing the strap that is supposed to be holding it up fall to my elbow,” I type.
“Your boobs aren’t broken, your bra is,” she tries to explain. Her boobs aren’t as broken as mine, so she cannot understand.
“NOPE ... it’s my boobs. Before they broke, all my bras worked just fine,” I clarify.
Fast-forward to later the same evening. You can find me sitting at my kitchen table in Stepford, with my fourth-grader, working through two hours of prepositions and math word problems that contain names of hypothetical children, which neither my son nor I can pronounce, and which certainly no parent in Stepford would dare name their child. I’m not exactly sure what happened to Dick and Jane, but they no longer live in my son’s math book. For that matter, Dick and Jane’s children, Jennifer and Jason, are also conspicuously absent. There are also no Stepfordish names such as Grace, Sam, Emma or Jack.
At some point during my hellish revival of fourth grade, my first grade daughter asks if she can play dress up with a bag of clothing I’ve gathered to give to charity. I’m pretty sure I answered her with a “Sure honey, just be sure you clean up your mess.” Although, what I remember thinking was, “whatever, please just don’t interrupt me again while I’m trying to figure what the probability of getting two apples and a banana out of whatever this kid’s name is basket.” Where do kids with fruit baskets come from anyway?
While I intently work through math torture problem number seven, my son orchestrates the Battle of Armageddon between his eraser and the salt shaker left on the table from dinner. It’s irritating as hell, but I know from experience it will take more energy than I have to negotiate a peace treaty between the eraser and the salt shaker, so I let go. Suddenly, there is silence. And stillness. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I slowly lift my eyes from the math workbook and am terrified by the look of horror on my son’s face. The eraser and the salt shaker are frozen in mid air attack. I’m thinking to myself, “I didn’t hear the alarm signal that a door had opened ... the sixty-eight pound yellow Lab at my feet has not even flinched ...”
Then I see her ... my daughter ... MY SEVEN YEAR OLD DAUGHTER .... who has procured from the charity bag and adorned herself with 1) a red underwire push-up bra, 2) a black blouse that fits her like a mini-dress, 3) a pair of black patent boots which fit below the knees on me, but are thigh-highs on her, and 4) two C cupped sized granny smith apples which she has appropriately placed inside the red under wire push up bra. She says, “How do I look?” and proceeds with a wobbly curtsy that causes one of the apples to hit the tile floor. Then she says, “Uh oh, my boob fell down.” I’m speechless with the most unfortunate and inappropriate exception of, “Just you wait.”
The next night, my husband is working crazy late so I get the kids to bed and get in bed myself and try to find something on TV that will keep me awake until he comes home. And what do I find but the original, from 1975, The Stepford Wives. I had never seen this movie. I, of course, knew all about it and had seen the remake with Nicole Kidman and Matthew Broderick. I was only eight years old when this movie was released, almost the same age my daughter is now, and it’s a movie that I’ve never thought to rent. I WAS TRANSFIXED.
How I could have lived my whole life without seeing this masterpiece of social commentary? This omission has been a tragedy I didn’t even know existed in my life. The original movie is very different than the remake I had seen. It isn’t FUNNY at all. It’s scary ... it’s a HORROR movie, in fact. And all I can think the whole time I’m watching it is, “this is where I live. I live in Stepford. My God, why haven’t I seen this before? In my obsessive quest to extricate myself from East Texas, I traded Redneckville for Stepford without even realizing it.”
It was such a relief to realize the underlying thing that nags me, haunts me, makes me crazy about the “perfect” place I live, is its Stepfordness. It isn’t me or my broken boobs or my imperfectly textured rear-end, or the fact that I choose to work or that I have a love/hate relationship with my mini-van or that I’m secretly thankful home-baked goods aren’t allowed at classroom parties. It isn’t that I don’t like to garden, or sew, or even other people’s children for that matter. It isn’t that I don’t spend hours at the gym so I can look like I did when I was twenty or that I don’t feel like I have enough money or desire to “fix” my boobs to look like every other woman’s in Stepford. It’s not me ... its Stepford. And then I thought something unimaginable ... something I had never considered ... something very Un-Stepfordlike ... something radical.... “What if my boobs really aren’t broken? What if this is what they are supposed to be like after forty years, three pregnancies and two children?”
It was as real of a moment for me as I’ve ever seen in film, when the main character, Joanna, is asked by the gallery owner who is interested in her photography, “what do you want out of this?” and Joanna says, “I just want someone to remember I was here.”
And that one statement from a character in a movie from 1975, based on a book published in 1972 when I was five years old, answers the question people often ask me when they find out about my writing.
“Why do you write?”
“I just want someone to remember I was here.”
“WHAT?!?!?!?!?!” is her response. I smile.
“They are broken. My left one keeps sneaking out of the bottom part of my bra and my right one is doing something that is causing the strap that is supposed to be holding it up fall to my elbow,” I type.
“Your boobs aren’t broken, your bra is,” she tries to explain. Her boobs aren’t as broken as mine, so she cannot understand.
“NOPE ... it’s my boobs. Before they broke, all my bras worked just fine,” I clarify.
Fast-forward to later the same evening. You can find me sitting at my kitchen table in Stepford, with my fourth-grader, working through two hours of prepositions and math word problems that contain names of hypothetical children, which neither my son nor I can pronounce, and which certainly no parent in Stepford would dare name their child. I’m not exactly sure what happened to Dick and Jane, but they no longer live in my son’s math book. For that matter, Dick and Jane’s children, Jennifer and Jason, are also conspicuously absent. There are also no Stepfordish names such as Grace, Sam, Emma or Jack.
At some point during my hellish revival of fourth grade, my first grade daughter asks if she can play dress up with a bag of clothing I’ve gathered to give to charity. I’m pretty sure I answered her with a “Sure honey, just be sure you clean up your mess.” Although, what I remember thinking was, “whatever, please just don’t interrupt me again while I’m trying to figure what the probability of getting two apples and a banana out of whatever this kid’s name is basket.” Where do kids with fruit baskets come from anyway?
While I intently work through math torture problem number seven, my son orchestrates the Battle of Armageddon between his eraser and the salt shaker left on the table from dinner. It’s irritating as hell, but I know from experience it will take more energy than I have to negotiate a peace treaty between the eraser and the salt shaker, so I let go. Suddenly, there is silence. And stillness. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I slowly lift my eyes from the math workbook and am terrified by the look of horror on my son’s face. The eraser and the salt shaker are frozen in mid air attack. I’m thinking to myself, “I didn’t hear the alarm signal that a door had opened ... the sixty-eight pound yellow Lab at my feet has not even flinched ...”
Then I see her ... my daughter ... MY SEVEN YEAR OLD DAUGHTER .... who has procured from the charity bag and adorned herself with 1) a red underwire push-up bra, 2) a black blouse that fits her like a mini-dress, 3) a pair of black patent boots which fit below the knees on me, but are thigh-highs on her, and 4) two C cupped sized granny smith apples which she has appropriately placed inside the red under wire push up bra. She says, “How do I look?” and proceeds with a wobbly curtsy that causes one of the apples to hit the tile floor. Then she says, “Uh oh, my boob fell down.” I’m speechless with the most unfortunate and inappropriate exception of, “Just you wait.”
The next night, my husband is working crazy late so I get the kids to bed and get in bed myself and try to find something on TV that will keep me awake until he comes home. And what do I find but the original, from 1975, The Stepford Wives. I had never seen this movie. I, of course, knew all about it and had seen the remake with Nicole Kidman and Matthew Broderick. I was only eight years old when this movie was released, almost the same age my daughter is now, and it’s a movie that I’ve never thought to rent. I WAS TRANSFIXED.
How I could have lived my whole life without seeing this masterpiece of social commentary? This omission has been a tragedy I didn’t even know existed in my life. The original movie is very different than the remake I had seen. It isn’t FUNNY at all. It’s scary ... it’s a HORROR movie, in fact. And all I can think the whole time I’m watching it is, “this is where I live. I live in Stepford. My God, why haven’t I seen this before? In my obsessive quest to extricate myself from East Texas, I traded Redneckville for Stepford without even realizing it.”
It was such a relief to realize the underlying thing that nags me, haunts me, makes me crazy about the “perfect” place I live, is its Stepfordness. It isn’t me or my broken boobs or my imperfectly textured rear-end, or the fact that I choose to work or that I have a love/hate relationship with my mini-van or that I’m secretly thankful home-baked goods aren’t allowed at classroom parties. It isn’t that I don’t like to garden, or sew, or even other people’s children for that matter. It isn’t that I don’t spend hours at the gym so I can look like I did when I was twenty or that I don’t feel like I have enough money or desire to “fix” my boobs to look like every other woman’s in Stepford. It’s not me ... its Stepford. And then I thought something unimaginable ... something I had never considered ... something very Un-Stepfordlike ... something radical.... “What if my boobs really aren’t broken? What if this is what they are supposed to be like after forty years, three pregnancies and two children?”
It was as real of a moment for me as I’ve ever seen in film, when the main character, Joanna, is asked by the gallery owner who is interested in her photography, “what do you want out of this?” and Joanna says, “I just want someone to remember I was here.”
And that one statement from a character in a movie from 1975, based on a book published in 1972 when I was five years old, answers the question people often ask me when they find out about my writing.
“Why do you write?”
“I just want someone to remember I was here.”
Thursday, 21 February 2008
Why I Live Here - Texas
I’m a Native Texan and usually when you hear people say that around here, it’s a statement of pride. I, however, have a much more complicated relationship with my home state. Texas is too vast and diverse a place to really write one article about living in the state. Truly, you would need an entire series of articles and even then I’m not sure you could do Texas justice. I choose to live in Dallas, more specifically a northern suburb of Dallas, not because I grew up here, but because I grew up in rural East Texas. I love the suburb that I’ve lived in for sixteen years because it’s close enough to where I grew up to feel like home, but not so close that it suffers from the small town issues I felt I needed to get away from. I have, however, made peace with it and have come to appreciate that a lot of who I am today is because I grew up in place I did not enjoy. For me, finding out who I am, came from seeing, for the first half of my life, who I did not want to be.
East Texas is not all bad and once I set the scene for why I knew from an early age I could never spend my life there, I will let you know a few of the things I experienced growing up that I do have a great deal of sadness my own children will never experience.
For all the progress blacks have made in this country, my hometown was still segregated when, the day after graduation, I packed my car and left in May of 1985. 1985? Segregation? Yes … it’s not a typo. While it’s true the schools and town were not “officially” segregated, for all practical purposes they were. White kids and black kids did not play together on the playground, sit by each other in the cafeteria, or live in the same neighborhoods. The “N” word was freely spoken in my house and in my mother and step-father’s circle of friends and our extended family. It was spoken among the white kids at school and used to describe that certain part of town where the majority of the black families lived. There were two neighborhoods in my town of 10,000 souls that were nicer than the one in which my family lived. No black families lived in those two neighborhoods or mine. There were “black” churches and “white” churches, although only the “black” churches were described according to race. It was well understood that white girls did not date black boys and I vividly remember with great sadness the one mixed race child in my high school. I still wonder if she knew, surely she must have, that neither the white kids or the black kids liked her because, as everyone said, “She thinks she’s white.” Of course, no one minded at all, when black students excelled on the playing field and took my high school football team to the district playoffs my sophomore year.
Lest you come away thinking it was just the racial divide that precipitated my escape, there was much more. “Yankees,” meaning anyone who was from a state further north than Oklahoma, were not welcome. My grandfather’s sister, poor Aunt Eunice, was forever designated the family “Yankee” because she married my Uncle George and he was from Omaha. This was much more a stain on the family than her brother, J.W.’s, suicide. George was always spoken of with contempt, but J.W.’s suicide more as just a matter of fact. That disturbs me just a bit. Education was also viewed with suspicion. While the bright kids were expected to go to college and my own family did indeed encourage this, too much education earned you the label of “weirdo.” Aunt Eunice and Uncle George’s son earned a PhD when I was in middle school. My mother welcomed this news with something to the effect of “I always knew he was a little weird.” Even at the age of twelve or thirteen, I found it hysterical as well as ironic that the most educated person in our family’s Y chromosome was contributed by a “Yankee.”
OK, so there is the Reader’s Digest version of why I left East Texas for Dallas and its suburbs. Here are the positive things about growing up there that are bittersweet. Bitter because the experiences are tinged with the claustrophobia of my small town, sweet because these memories are the bright spots of my youth and the parts of my childhood I freely share with my children.
1) I know what grass burrs and bull nettles are. To this day I think twice before walking across my manicured and weed-free suburban lawn without flip flops for fear of getting a grass burr stuck in the bottom of my foot. I also know that if I were to ever get stung by a bull nettle again, there are two things readily available that will make the stinging stop. One is household bleach and the other is pee (yes, as in urine and preferably my own). I’m quite confident I am the only person in my eleven story office building that possess this information.
2) I’ve had the experience of holding a Horny Toad in my hand. No, it’s not what you’re thinking. My grandfather’s house, in which my mother and I lived after she and my father divorced, had a huge back yard. Contained in this backyard was quite the population of Texas Horned Frogs (which happens to be the Texas Christian University mascot). I’m not sure I would hold a frog today, but I held many a Horny Toad during my preschool years. And while I’m afraid of spiders and wasps, I’m not afraid of the similarly looking Granddaddy Long Legs and Dirt Dobbers. Dirt Dobbers are black and don’t have stingers and Granddaddy Long Legs don’t bite. I also know that if you pull most of the legs off a Granddaddy Long Leg it will walk in a circle. (I’m not particularly proud that I know that, but PETA wasn’t really active in my hometown.)
3) I’ve eaten warm watermelon while sitting in the patch in which the watermelon was grown. I could have never dreamed of a day when there would be watermelons without seeds or that they could cost more than five whole dollars.
4) I have an Uncle Buck (he owned the watermelon patch). His real name isn’t Buck and he is missing a finger and has always had false teeth and somehow all of that seemed quite normal to me as child. I had an Uncle Wood and that was his real name. He could wiggle his ears. You don’t see that much anymore, OK not at all. I called my grandfather “Granddaddy” and he called me “Baby Doll” until the day, when I was twenty-nine, that he died.
5) I had a Nannie. No, not the type of Nannie my professional friends hire to help with their childcare. She was my great-grandmother who stepped in to love and care for me and fill an emptiness that was left when my grandmother (her daughter) died the year I turned four. Actually, we called her “Big Nannie.” There was another “Nannie” in the family (it was Uncle Buck’s wife, Minnie) and because Big Nannie was older, she got stuck with the “Big” designation. She always bought me underwear for Christmas and I never minded. I can still see her in the backyard of her house ringing the neck of a real live (but soon to be not) chicken. She would then pluck all the feathers and fry it in a cast iron skillet for Sunday dinner.
We would have cornbread crumbled into our sweet tea to go with it. I would love to see the faces of my business associates if one day over lunch, I took a piece of cornbread and crumbled it into my tea glass. She taught me to shell purple hull peas and we watched “All in the Family,” “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” and “The Carol Burnett Show” every Saturday night snuggled up in her recliner, while my mother dated looking for me a stepfather.
6) I understand the phrase “Happy as a Pig in the Sunshine.” I’ve seen lots of happy pigs and every one of them was laying in the sun at the time. I understand the phrase “That will hare lip the Governor.” Although, as I child, this always conjured up for me a disturbing mental picture of the actual Texas Governor who had been suddenly and inextricably stricken with a cleft palate.
7) I know how to crochet, cross stitch, and twirl a baton. These skills don’t come in handy much in my life today, but you never can tell when the need may arise. I’m considering teaching my seven year old daughter to crochet. For all my efforts to the contrary, she seems to have inherited the gene responsible for cooking, music, and arts and crafts.
8) I had my first kiss while skating backwards under the disco ball at the local roller rink when I was thirteen.
9) I prefer open casket funerals. I know how cold and hard an embalmed dead body is and that you can apply, remove, and then reapply make up to it. I think its perfectly natural and healthy for people to be allowed to kiss a dead body goodbye. I firmly believe this helps with closure. I’ve never once been to an open casket funeral outside of East Texas, but have left explicit instructions with my husband and my best friends that if the need arises, I want everyone who took the time to come to my funeral to have the opportunity to see me dead. I also do not want any happy “Celebration of Life” thing going on at my funeral. I want an old fashioned, open casket, wailing and carrying on, funeral. If someone faints, I’ll consider that a bonus. I want to look down and know these people will miss me and are actually sad I’m gone. If I see balloons in my favorite color being released, I will not be pleased. I want Amazing Grace sang afterward at a graveside service where everyone takes a flower from the top of my casket to press in between the pages of their Bible.
10) I love vanilla coke. Not the kind you can now by at the supermarket, but the kind only Dairy Queen can make.
So, I live in Dallas because Texas is home, warts and all. I have occasionally worried about raising my children here. I’ve worried that they won’t grow up to be tolerant, open-minded and kind. I’ve worried they will grow up to be Republicans. Occasionally, however, I get reassurance in this area from them. Last year for my son’s tenth birthday, I agreed to allow him to invite as many children as he liked to his party. This meant that for the first time, there would be children attending a party I was hosting that I had never met. It was a great party at an old fashioned roller rink and we had about thirty children there. While driving home after the party, I turned and looked at my son and said, “I didn’t know Andrew was black.” He looked at me, tilted his head ever so slightly to the left, as if contemplating some new information, and after a few seconds said, “So?”
Touché my little Native Texan. Touché.
East Texas is not all bad and once I set the scene for why I knew from an early age I could never spend my life there, I will let you know a few of the things I experienced growing up that I do have a great deal of sadness my own children will never experience.
For all the progress blacks have made in this country, my hometown was still segregated when, the day after graduation, I packed my car and left in May of 1985. 1985? Segregation? Yes … it’s not a typo. While it’s true the schools and town were not “officially” segregated, for all practical purposes they were. White kids and black kids did not play together on the playground, sit by each other in the cafeteria, or live in the same neighborhoods. The “N” word was freely spoken in my house and in my mother and step-father’s circle of friends and our extended family. It was spoken among the white kids at school and used to describe that certain part of town where the majority of the black families lived. There were two neighborhoods in my town of 10,000 souls that were nicer than the one in which my family lived. No black families lived in those two neighborhoods or mine. There were “black” churches and “white” churches, although only the “black” churches were described according to race. It was well understood that white girls did not date black boys and I vividly remember with great sadness the one mixed race child in my high school. I still wonder if she knew, surely she must have, that neither the white kids or the black kids liked her because, as everyone said, “She thinks she’s white.” Of course, no one minded at all, when black students excelled on the playing field and took my high school football team to the district playoffs my sophomore year.
Lest you come away thinking it was just the racial divide that precipitated my escape, there was much more. “Yankees,” meaning anyone who was from a state further north than Oklahoma, were not welcome. My grandfather’s sister, poor Aunt Eunice, was forever designated the family “Yankee” because she married my Uncle George and he was from Omaha. This was much more a stain on the family than her brother, J.W.’s, suicide. George was always spoken of with contempt, but J.W.’s suicide more as just a matter of fact. That disturbs me just a bit. Education was also viewed with suspicion. While the bright kids were expected to go to college and my own family did indeed encourage this, too much education earned you the label of “weirdo.” Aunt Eunice and Uncle George’s son earned a PhD when I was in middle school. My mother welcomed this news with something to the effect of “I always knew he was a little weird.” Even at the age of twelve or thirteen, I found it hysterical as well as ironic that the most educated person in our family’s Y chromosome was contributed by a “Yankee.”
OK, so there is the Reader’s Digest version of why I left East Texas for Dallas and its suburbs. Here are the positive things about growing up there that are bittersweet. Bitter because the experiences are tinged with the claustrophobia of my small town, sweet because these memories are the bright spots of my youth and the parts of my childhood I freely share with my children.
1) I know what grass burrs and bull nettles are. To this day I think twice before walking across my manicured and weed-free suburban lawn without flip flops for fear of getting a grass burr stuck in the bottom of my foot. I also know that if I were to ever get stung by a bull nettle again, there are two things readily available that will make the stinging stop. One is household bleach and the other is pee (yes, as in urine and preferably my own). I’m quite confident I am the only person in my eleven story office building that possess this information.
2) I’ve had the experience of holding a Horny Toad in my hand. No, it’s not what you’re thinking. My grandfather’s house, in which my mother and I lived after she and my father divorced, had a huge back yard. Contained in this backyard was quite the population of Texas Horned Frogs (which happens to be the Texas Christian University mascot). I’m not sure I would hold a frog today, but I held many a Horny Toad during my preschool years. And while I’m afraid of spiders and wasps, I’m not afraid of the similarly looking Granddaddy Long Legs and Dirt Dobbers. Dirt Dobbers are black and don’t have stingers and Granddaddy Long Legs don’t bite. I also know that if you pull most of the legs off a Granddaddy Long Leg it will walk in a circle. (I’m not particularly proud that I know that, but PETA wasn’t really active in my hometown.)
3) I’ve eaten warm watermelon while sitting in the patch in which the watermelon was grown. I could have never dreamed of a day when there would be watermelons without seeds or that they could cost more than five whole dollars.
4) I have an Uncle Buck (he owned the watermelon patch). His real name isn’t Buck and he is missing a finger and has always had false teeth and somehow all of that seemed quite normal to me as child. I had an Uncle Wood and that was his real name. He could wiggle his ears. You don’t see that much anymore, OK not at all. I called my grandfather “Granddaddy” and he called me “Baby Doll” until the day, when I was twenty-nine, that he died.
5) I had a Nannie. No, not the type of Nannie my professional friends hire to help with their childcare. She was my great-grandmother who stepped in to love and care for me and fill an emptiness that was left when my grandmother (her daughter) died the year I turned four. Actually, we called her “Big Nannie.” There was another “Nannie” in the family (it was Uncle Buck’s wife, Minnie) and because Big Nannie was older, she got stuck with the “Big” designation. She always bought me underwear for Christmas and I never minded. I can still see her in the backyard of her house ringing the neck of a real live (but soon to be not) chicken. She would then pluck all the feathers and fry it in a cast iron skillet for Sunday dinner.
We would have cornbread crumbled into our sweet tea to go with it. I would love to see the faces of my business associates if one day over lunch, I took a piece of cornbread and crumbled it into my tea glass. She taught me to shell purple hull peas and we watched “All in the Family,” “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” and “The Carol Burnett Show” every Saturday night snuggled up in her recliner, while my mother dated looking for me a stepfather.
6) I understand the phrase “Happy as a Pig in the Sunshine.” I’ve seen lots of happy pigs and every one of them was laying in the sun at the time. I understand the phrase “That will hare lip the Governor.” Although, as I child, this always conjured up for me a disturbing mental picture of the actual Texas Governor who had been suddenly and inextricably stricken with a cleft palate.
7) I know how to crochet, cross stitch, and twirl a baton. These skills don’t come in handy much in my life today, but you never can tell when the need may arise. I’m considering teaching my seven year old daughter to crochet. For all my efforts to the contrary, she seems to have inherited the gene responsible for cooking, music, and arts and crafts.
8) I had my first kiss while skating backwards under the disco ball at the local roller rink when I was thirteen.
9) I prefer open casket funerals. I know how cold and hard an embalmed dead body is and that you can apply, remove, and then reapply make up to it. I think its perfectly natural and healthy for people to be allowed to kiss a dead body goodbye. I firmly believe this helps with closure. I’ve never once been to an open casket funeral outside of East Texas, but have left explicit instructions with my husband and my best friends that if the need arises, I want everyone who took the time to come to my funeral to have the opportunity to see me dead. I also do not want any happy “Celebration of Life” thing going on at my funeral. I want an old fashioned, open casket, wailing and carrying on, funeral. If someone faints, I’ll consider that a bonus. I want to look down and know these people will miss me and are actually sad I’m gone. If I see balloons in my favorite color being released, I will not be pleased. I want Amazing Grace sang afterward at a graveside service where everyone takes a flower from the top of my casket to press in between the pages of their Bible.
10) I love vanilla coke. Not the kind you can now by at the supermarket, but the kind only Dairy Queen can make.
So, I live in Dallas because Texas is home, warts and all. I have occasionally worried about raising my children here. I’ve worried that they won’t grow up to be tolerant, open-minded and kind. I’ve worried they will grow up to be Republicans. Occasionally, however, I get reassurance in this area from them. Last year for my son’s tenth birthday, I agreed to allow him to invite as many children as he liked to his party. This meant that for the first time, there would be children attending a party I was hosting that I had never met. It was a great party at an old fashioned roller rink and we had about thirty children there. While driving home after the party, I turned and looked at my son and said, “I didn’t know Andrew was black.” He looked at me, tilted his head ever so slightly to the left, as if contemplating some new information, and after a few seconds said, “So?”
Touché my little Native Texan. Touché.
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