It's so sweet. Bill's found this butcher out in Wasatch Hollows that he's been going to the past couple Saturdays. Now, yes, of course, we don't need that much meat. But I think Bill knows that. (Does he know I'm thinking of trying to be a vegetarian for my New Year's resolution? Doubt it.) He brought back pork belly the other day. That ain't gonna happen. But he's not going there just to get random stuff we don't really know how to cook or don't particularly want to. He's going there for some kind of...camaraderie. Or, actually, that might not be the right word. The butcher's quite a bit older than Bill — I'm picturing him in his early seventies — and I think Bill just likes listening to this guy go on and on with his little sayings and stories. He's been going and spending a couple hours out there...just talking. They chew on cigars (cigars!) and talk about the way things "used to be"...like Bill knows how anything used to be! But it's sweet that he wants to.
Bill's kind of a sucker for this angle, so this new friendship doesn't surprise me. He's always talking about how, "in Lincoln's day," the men would hang around the telegraph office all the time and chew on cigars and chat about what's going on that day...tell stories, etc. (Of course, during that same time, the women were at home with the kids — washing, cleaning, cooking...ONLY. But, no need to rain on his romantic parade of the past.) Bill wishes men still did that kind of thing today. And I think he goes to the butcher on Saturdays to tap into that. Sure, I always want to see more of my Bill, but I get it and think, again, that it's cute. He gets kind of giddy after breakfast on Saturday, knowing he's about to head out to the Hollows. I noticed he changed his shirt twice before leaving last time...each time, the shirt got more "country"; eventually, he settled on an old flannel I think he got from the compound somewhere. I thought that was adorable. He doesn't want to seem to "new school" in front of the butcher. He's tapping back into his rural roots, which I think is cool. Everyone needs to check themselves a little bit and make sure they're not "progressing" a little too fast. I think that's a really great instinct. Plus, with Bill, goodness knows the older men in his life haven't exactly been great role models, so...if he takes some good from an old timey butcher he found on the side of some back road, so be it.
The butcher's a Southerner. His name is Kenny Trollinger. He's from Arkansas somewhere, and I assume that's where he honed his skills — not to mention his home-grown nonchalantness that Bill seems to love so much. He smokes unfiltered cigarettes in between gnawed cigars and he has wooden crates standing on their ends scattered around the place where people like Bill sit on while they chat. He has an arsenal of knives so sharp I don't want to think about them. Bill stole a quick cell phone picture while Kenny was in the back (Kenny "ain't got no use for cellular nothin'," I'm told) and the place does look prety amazing. It has a wooden floor and what looks like, well, maybe it looks like a telegraph office with meats hanging everywhere. I don't know. But it looks pretty grizzled. And I know Bill's happy when he goes there. So, I'm happy. Plus, I think I made a pretty good little appetizer dish (non-vegetarian, of course) that I'd like to share with you. (I think I made it up, but I probably didn't. I don't know. Don't jump down my throat if I didn't. Maybe I picked it up somewhere along the way...) It's kinda seasonal. It involves pears:
First, get some really good pancetta from Kenny or your local equivalent. I guess, IF YOU'RE ALL UPPITY AND 21st CENTURY-LIKE, you can just go to your deli at the grocery store. But start with the pancetta and fry it up in a skillet on the stove. Be careful, though. It's so thin, it doesn't take long and it can get kinda smoky. Then, slice up a few pears so each piece acts like and looks like a medium-sized cracker. Spread some goat cheese on that fruity, little makeshift cracker. Next, put your pancetta on the cheese and pear combo and drizzle a little honey on top. Do that for each one and share them with your friends and family. I promise, if they eat meat, they'll like it. It's a great combination of sweet, salty, and fruity. Try it and let me know what you think.
Gotta run pick up my car from the shop. Boo. Hope I don't have to sell my house to pay for it! Talk soon.
Still got it, Internet. Yep. This married old hag still has it, alright. I got hit on today while I was doing my oh-so-rigorous work-out at the gym. I know, I know, I know. Seriously. Do NOT read into this. But I got an ego, too, OK? Never, ever, ever crossed my mind to do anything with this guy, but it's nice when you get the feeling that you affected a total stranger enough to make him ask you out. I don't get to have that small, and ultimately unimportant, feeling much anymore. I'm fine with that. I'm TOTALLY fine with that. I get a lot more, better (mo-betta) feelings through the relationships I actually do have. Meaning, of course, with Bill, Nicki, and Barb. But, I can't help it, it's fun to be hit on...once a year. More than that would be a nightmare — in that it would be a drag, and in that it wouldn't happen in reality. But it kinda put a little giddy up in my step today. Nicki's got Bill today and tonight. I'm kinda flying solo, and it was nice to get that little bit of totally superficial attention. It lasted the right amount of time, too. I had, like, seven more minutes on the elliptical when he started chatting me up. James. He was kind of a snooze, but he liked him some me. How do guys do that? I could never do that...just start talking to someone and complimenting them after knowing them for two seconds. It's crazy when you think about it, but then again...you know how men are. They're crazy. So it kinda matches up. But anyway, a little confession between me and my Internet. I got a little kick out of some twenty-year-old asking me out. That's not too terrible. Not that I would run and tell Bill about it, but, I mean, I'd tell if he asked for some reason. (Who else is curious about when he'll start being an avid reader of my blog? I don't think he appreciates yet how much I spill about myself on this thing...) I'm sure he feels the same way sometimes. In fact I know he does. I remember. I remember how he liked hearing me tell him what a great boss he was. How cute he was. How impressive he was. All that stuff. We all love it, OK? OK, Internet?!? So stop busting my chops. j/k. Have a great day, Internet. I'm off to Costco for more two new toilet seats and a pot for Barb's petunias. See? My ego needs all the help it can get on days like this...
I'm definitely not getting ahead of myself. BELIEVE ME. I promise I'm keeping an all-too-level head here. But I can't help but notice that this is, um...happening. Hearts on a Sleeve is starting to really come alive. It's up on its feet. And so am I, kinda. I rocked the house this last time I was on air (I promise I'll give you more of a heads up next time when I know I'll be on...I want you to tune in, Internet!) and, more than that, the heavy lifting is coming pretty naturally to me. If I told the eighteen year old version of myself that, these days, I kinda got a tingle from doing bookkeeping at nights, I wouldn't be surprised if teenage Margie (or "Clarissa," as I sometimes called myself) laughed right in my face and called the age-remaining-a-secret-but-present-day Margie a total simp before walking away, chuckling sarcastically. Well, that's ok by me, I guess. It happens, right? Can't always satisfy the younger version of yourself...but the current me actually kinda digs it. It's crazy. It's coming together. It's...happening. It's really starting to come together.
And we're actually selling stuff. People are actually buying the stuff (and...wearing it...presumably) that I'm putting in front of them. It's crazy. And they're wanting more, somehow...for some reason (besides my stuff being awesome, of course). I'm kinda starting to realize the bubble might not burst as quickly as the most negative-thinking part of me once thought. That's to say: there's no reason to think right now that we're one bad day away from going under. That's a pretty awesome feeling. HA! Event that's an accomplishment! (A big bonus out of all of this for me, mentally or whatever, is that I've learned to really enjoy the small goals being met...the small successes. I think that's something I didn't have in me before. I glossed over some good things because I was already worried about the next — potentially — bad thing...what a waste.) But, for now, I guess I'll just keep my head down, do the work (which I love), and just see what happens. I don't know, though. Again, not taking anything for granted, but I'm actually starting to have a good feeling about this. It's totally not about the money1, but wouldn't it be awesome if I became some kind of mogul or something. I'd wanna meet Oprah. Can that be a long-term goal for me? I guess you don't get to meet Oprah unless you're at that mogul-type level...I'm talking, like, at her house or whatever. Not on the show. Plenty of regular joe's get to be on the show2, but I mean...fine, I kinda wanna be in her circle, OK? Geez. Let me have this. I'll get back to loving inventory in just a second, but wouldn't it be awesome to be in Oprah's kitchen, chatting about how to really solve this health care what-have-you? Ah...a wannabe mogul can dream...maybe a wannabe mogul should dream...
Real quick: "Marlowe73," thanks for the breakdown about the confusing spelling of Filipino. Really appreciate that effort. You're smart! And "lilchet081," obviously, that's a big issue you're bringing up. "The Secret" is something we gotta deal with a lot (though not nearly as much as you might think. You have to remember — or, at least it helps me to remember — that most people are hiding something...too. There's not as much casual probing as you might expect. Day to day, it really doesn't come up. It's always "there," but it's not like having to dodge bullets from a tommy gun 24/7. We don't teach the kids to lie, lie, lie...or play up this secret "that no one else can know." That's too cruel...too much to ask of them. It is amazing, though, how quickly us humans can learn a "don't ask, don't tell" policy...it's interesting. I think they know they have it a little different, I think they like it that way...and I think that's all there really is to it. Keep in mind, though, I got youngin's! Who knows how I'll answer that question when they're high school! (Good grief...thinking more about that will give me a heart attack!)
***************************************************************** 1It's really not. I know people say that all the time when it totally is about the money, but you just have to believe on this one. You know me, Internet. I'm not a money person. Not really my style. Sure, I like looking cute in the right clothes, but I'm not a money person. You know this. 2Of course, I'd kill to be on the show, too...that's just not what I'm talking about in this particular instance...go with it.
That kinda never happens. Seriously, when was the last time someone sent you a postcard? It's from Niagara Falls, and it's kinda from the past. Mollie O., I'll call her...in case she doesn't want to be talked about on the dubya-dubya. We worked together at Home Plus the, um, couple of weeks I worked there. She was in Lawn and Garden and had a great tan because of it...and because she was half-Filipino1 so she had great skin to start with. But we were sort of default work buddies because we both hated the other people in our department so we eventually started hanging out at lunch. And then we started hanging out with each other outside of work. She moved away and never knew anything about me and Bill so, obviously, she still doesn't. He was just the boss who's butt we checked out (can I admit that?) when we were in the break room. She met a boy, got pregnant, lost the baby — that was scary (I went to the hospital with her that night) — then when he ended up joining the Army, they got married and, apparently, she moved with him to New York state where he's stationed. He's in Afghanistan now (so scary!!! When are we gonna stop this craziness!?!) and she took her mother-in-law to Niagara Falls when she came out to visit her and her (now not so new) baby...Julius, who's 3. Julius! What an AWESOME name!
Getting this in the mail brought three thoughts into my head. First was: thank you U.S. Post Office. (Heck of a job you're doing Mr. Postmaster General Jack Potter.) I haven't lived at the address Mollie sent this post card to in a long, long time. Sure, it took a few more months to finally get to me here on Linda Vista, but still...impressive. Way not to give up, Post Office. I really appreciate it.
Secondly: It's always crazy when I "reconnect2" with someone who knew me pre-Bill and doesn't know about the way my less-than-normal life has turned out. It really doesn't happen all that often...mostly because I've been in so many different places and the people that I've met along the way tend to stay (literally and figuratively) in that place when I leave. It's been an interesting way to go through life — it's been good and bad. I think it helps me meet and get to know people easier, which is good. But I can also kinda walk away from those relationships pretty easily, too...which is bad. It's kinda the only way to survive that way of growing up, I think, but it does make me a little sad thinking that there are lot of Mollie O.'s out there (from high school and just after...and before, I'm sure) that I might be a postcard away from talking to again...but probably never will. BUT, back to thinking pre-Bill. It's weird because I don't consider any of this a secret really — I mean, obviously we do a lot of "hiding" in a lot of ways...probably more than any of us want to, but, in lots of other ways, it never really crosses my mind. That said, it's not something I feel like I can put in a postcard, you know? It's just a little too big for that. Maybe I'll ease into it. Maybe I'll say: "GUESS WHAT?!? You're never gonna believe this. Remember 'Great Butt' Mr. H? Well, we're married and have two boys and a girl!" That alone will blow her mind, I'm sure. I'll give her a little time to digest that, then...the big guns. Man, she won't see ANY of this coming! I might not ever tell her any of it, I guess. Maybe it IS just too big. It doesn't seem that way to me, but...maybe I got a skewed perspective. I'll feel it out. I do want to stick with the postcard from of communicating with her, though. It's a dying art and we're gonna bring it back. You have to be really choosy with your words — you only have that little square to write in!
Which brings me to my third and final thought: Mail is awesome. I know I've already written on this subject, but it's just plain awesome. Letters are great, but postcards are so darn cute it just makes me sad Nell will have no idea what they are (were) because by the time she's grown up, as the postcard will have long since died. It'll be in e-mail form...which stinks. Since you can email from anywhere anyway, an e-postcard doesn't have that same sense of: "wow...so-in-so is way far away and this piece of paper started there and ended up here." That's a great feeling. And it's own...a little separate offshoot from the general "getting mail in this day and age is awesome." I want to thank Mollie (and will do so to her individually via a Utah-themed postcard3 tomorrow, if not today) for giving me this nice little surprise that totally put a smile on my face.
Now, back to sorting bracelet clasps! Sweet!!
Talk to you guys soon.
Love me!
Margie.
PS-And thank you, too,"Isaiahchapter4verse1", for your comments on plural marriage. You're more articulate than I am?one day, I'll be able to break down my thoughts on it so neatly. But, seriously, thank you for sharing. Hopefully you'll be a regular reader from now on?and tell your friends, wives, and wives' friends.
***************************************************************** 1Might have asked this before but I need an explanation as to The Philippines is spelled with a Ph- and a person from that very same country is a Filipino with an F. Make that make sense for me, Internet. 2Probably the wrong word in this case because I haven't written Mollie back yet - even though I will. One postcard a reconnection does not make. It's an awesome start, though. And I'm more than thankful to Mollie for getting the reconnection ball rolling?now, said ball is Margie's Court! 3Obviously, suggestions from my peoples are always welcome.
Word O'The Day:Bay Scallop
Function: noun
Date: 1943
Definitions:
(1) a scallop (Argopecten irradians) of United States coastal and estuarine waters of the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico that is harvested commercially for food
(2) the things Margene foolishly ordered from a restaurant called McGillicutty's in St. George that gave her code red food poisoning for the past four days
(3) The bane of Margene's existence; her nemesis from this point on1
I have to say, first, that McGillicutty's isn't as cheesy a place as the name might suggest. It's not a regional version of a sit-down fast food place or anything like that...not that I'm above sit-down fast food anywhere, really...I'm just saying McGillicutty's is actually, like, a nice place...supposedly, at least...despite its cheesy name. It's expensive, I know that much. And it makes itself look fancy: they have black napkins they offer you if you're wearing darker clothing so the white napkin doesn't leave those tiny white balls of cotton on your threads. Impressive. But that'd be a lot more impressive if the food didn't make you yarf for almost a week. That might be a little harsh, I guess. No one else got sick and Bill ordered Antelope for God's sake. So, I guess I just got unlucky...which I can accept, but still reserve the right to be grumpy about it.
So I've been laid up in between "sessions," which is what I've been calling my stints in the bathroom. (Oh don't be so squeamish, Internet! We've all been there. No need to be shamed into silence. I like to keep you in the loop, and this is what it looks inside the loop. Admit it, you love it!) I've been drinking kiddy juice jam packed full of electrolytes (which, apparently, are my new best friends) like it's going out of style...by the gallon, it seems. That was Nicki's idea. She and Cara-Lynn have been so good to me.2 Everyone's been great to l'il ol' me while I've been laid up, but those two have really put in their time. Bill was bringing me my daily piece of dry wheat toast early in the morning when he woke up (and he was always very sweet to me), but Nicki and Nicki 2.0 have done a lot of the heavy lifting. It's so impressive to witness Nicki turn on the caretaker switch that is so deeply built into her "being." Sounds pretty dramatic, I know, but it really is amazing. As you might expect, she's a firm caretaker...firm but fair, we'll say. If she's taking care of you while you're sick, she's in charge and there's just no way around it. You can fight it. You can say you don't want any more electrolyte goodness, but guess what: you're getting more electrolyte goodness because that's what you need and there's just not gonna be any arguing about it. I felt stupid even thinking about this because I knew I was gonna be OK eventually even if I was miserable all the time, but it was hard not to think of Nicki taking care of Barb when she was really sick. I've seen flashes of this in Nicki at times, for sure — it's remarkable how deeply she can care. But for some reason, the past few days have been really filled with that feeling. I'm really grateful. Everyone's nice and really helpful, but there's no doubt Nicki was leading the charge. It made me really special. Maybe, when I can actually eat real food again, I'll make her a dinner at home to thank her. No more McGillicutty's...that's for darn tootin'!
I know this short, but I'm gonna check back in in the next few days. Since it's been longer than usual since I posted, I'll be on double time once I can move around for more than 10 minutes without almost passing out. Promise! So, I'll talk to you soon. Wish me luck finally kicking this...
Me.
***************************************************************** 1I'm waiting to hear back from the Webster's people about my proposed additions to the definition of the entry "bay scallop" — noted here in italics. My hopes are high that they'll appreciate my passion on this issue and take my advice.
2I know a lot of "friends of the family" really want to know the deal with Nicki and CL. I know it'll grind your gears, but I'm not gonna go there. It's a really delicate thing. Nicki and her Ex are trying to work out a system and I'm sure it'll work out, but it just seems wrong to chitty-chat about it as it's happening. Soon enough, I'll break it down the best I can. But they deserve the time to figure it all out for themselves first. Obviously I'm involved in the discussions on the Henrickson end of things, but...I know it's annoying, but I feel like I should just keep my blogging mouth shut for the most part...for now. I don't wanna...disrupt the balance, we'll say. I hope y'all understand.
Hope everything's going alright out there, Internet. Pretty slow here today. It's early. It's 6:27 AM and I've already taken a shower. Respect that, Internet. I'm up, showered, and writing before 6:30...because I love you. That's why I do this. For the love.
The reason I'm up early is because I have an 8 AM appointment at the doggone DMV. Somehow things got all screwed up with my file or whatever, and now I have to go down there, sit in those horrible chairs, and not smile for about three hours, just to get my new license.1 I'm bringing Jane Eyre with me to read. I've never read it, even though I, in the interest of full disclosure, did write a five-page book report on it in tenth grade. Shawad Resvoni had the Cliff's Notes. Those...um...those helped a lot, we'll say. (Oh, but "writerwannabe,"2 yes...I did graduate from high school, despite this tale of corner-cutting and deceit. Unfortunately, Roosevelt High School was the last place I've graduated from, but maybe one day, when the chi'lens are out of my hair, I'll think about finally taking some college courses. Finally.) So anyway, I'm taking this huge book and I'm expecting the worst from the ol' DMV. But, you know...for my peoples...I had to do a little bloggy entry real quick. I missed you, and I know you missed me...right?
The "kids' future" question. As in: do I want them to "chose polygamy"...which, as a phrase, has some real shortcomings, but...anyway. This is a serious toughy...obviously. I don't really have some concrete answer for you. It's something I think about, of course, but it's not like when I'm frustrated in the moment about something "sisterwife-ish," I think, this is what I want Nell never to have to deal with. I mean, that's just ridiculous. I'm not too big a believer in the concept of "perfection," so I know this way of living has challenges and something that could definitely be seen as a downside. But that's so obvious to me that it's not worth obsessing over...mostly because I know that ANY and EVERY other path in life I might have ended up on would absolutely ? without a doubt ? have it's own set of challenges and something that could definitely be seen as a downside. I have to reserve the right to change this opinion, but for now, while the kids are this age3, I can honestly say that I'd be fine with them totally deciding on their own. I've never thought that this is for everyone. It's totally not. Hopefully, our kids see the fact that their parents all love each other with their whole hearts and that's what might seem attractive to them. But if they find that somewhere else in some other "way," how can I be upset with that? I do consider Bill their (the kids') spiritual leader...that I don't think about one bit. He leads the entire family spiritually, and I'm really thankful for that. I wouldn't have it any other way. And, in his heart of hearts, maybe Bill really does want the kids to follow our path directly. But I think this is something that all parents wrestle with...not just us. We talk about it...probably not as much as we should, considering how important it is...but we don't dwell...at least I don't. Ben and Sarah are at the age where things are more on the table because they're older. But, also, and this is easy to forget: they were both born before Bill and Barb married Nicki and, obviously, me. So, for them, and for Bill and Barb as parents, it's even more complicated. Ben and Sarah remember the transition into the family that we are now, and I'm sure that makes this issue even more complicated for them. For me, with our kids being still so young, it's something I feel will work itself out much more naturally if we don't push anything on them too hard...while all the while showing them how sure we are that WE (Bill, Margene, Nicki, and Barb) made the decision that was best for us...for the reasons that are important to us. Any of that make any sense? Hope so.
The Ana question. Another hard one. Unfortunately, I haven't talked to her since she left. That was so painful. I still love Ana so much, but I have come closer to terms with the fact that her coming into the family didn't exactly bring out the best in some of us...myself included, of course. So, I miss her like crazy and mostly just want to make sure she's OK, but we, she and I, haven't talked since back then. I think about calling her...more back then than now. But I just don't think it's a good idea. Us wives definitely played a big part in her "buyer's remorse" ? for lack of a dumber phrase ? but I felt like, once she left, it was gonna be something Bill/Ana related that would ever bring her back...and that ain't gonna happen, I don't think. As far as I know, Bill hasn't talked to her either. I know he said he didn't think he should, but...I don't know. It's really sad. She's so great. I hope she's doing alright. We miss her. Ana, if you're reading: YOU'RE MISSED IN THESE HOUSES. I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY.
BARB'S TAMALE PIE: Ingredients
* 2 Tbsp canola oil * 2 1/4 pounds lean ground turkey * 1 yellow onion, chopped * 1/2 white onion, chopped * 2 red bell peppers, seeds and stems removed, chopped * 1 Tablespoon salt * 2 Tablespoons pepper * 2 1/2 teaspoons chili powder (more or less to taste) * 1 Teaspoon brown cardamom (more or less to taste) * 2 14 1/2 ounce cans of roasted tomatoes * 2 Serano chiles, chopped roughly * 1/3 cup golden raisins * 1 1/2 cup grated sharp cheddar cheese (about 4 ounces) * 1 1/2 cup grated Monterey Jack cheese * 1/3 cup beef stock
* 1-pound of prepared cornbread mix * Whatever is needed according to cornbread mix instructions to make the cornbread batter (water, egg, oil, milk)
Method: 1. Preheat oven to 375°F. 2. Heat olive oil in a large skillet on medium high. Add the ground beef, onion, and bell pepper. Add salt, chili powder, and cumin. Cook, stirring infrequently, until the ground beef has browned on all sides. Remove from heat. Drain excess fat if necessary (if you are using lean beef, there shouldn't be excess. 3. Mix in fire-roasted tomatoes, Serano chiles, corn, raisins, cheese, and water. Adjust seasoning. Add more chili powder and cumin if desired. Rub a little olive oil over the insides of a 9x12-inch casserole dish (or use a nonstick cooking spray). Spoon filling into the casserole dish. 4. In a large bowl, prepare the cornbread batter according to the directions on the package. Pour the cornbread batter over the top of the filling in the casserole.
Bake for 40 minutes, until the top is browned.
NICKI'S CARROT-RAISON SALAD:
* 5 c. grated or shredded, pared carrots * 1 ½ c. raisins * 3/4 c. mayonnaise or salad dressing * 2 tsp. lemon juice * 1 1/2 tbsp. light cream * Lettuce * 1/3 c. toasted, blanched almonds
Combine carrots and raisins. Blend mayonnaise or salad dressing, lemon juice, and cream; mix with carrots and raisins. Spoon into lettuce cups or over shredded lettuce. Sprinkle with almonds.
Alright, I gotta run. Next entry will be my tattoo story and my wedding story...no, they're not the same story&:
Wish me luck, Internet. I hope I make it out of the DMV alive. Fingers crossed. Talk soon.
- Margene! (I'm thinking of officially changing my name to "Margene!", with the exclamation point. Thoughts?)
***************************************************************** 1I just read online the other day that, in Virginia, they passed a law that literally made it so you weren't allowed to smile in your DMV picture. What the heck kinda world are we living in here, people? They say they wanted the "most accurate picture possible," but all they've really done is suck the last part of your soul out of your body after they've made you wait in their midst for about six times as long as it should have taken...and then won't even let you fake a smile when it's finally picture time. Unbelievable. Way to go, Virginia. I thought you were "for lovers," anyway. Lovers smile, last time I checked. Shame on you. 2Hey! I'm one of those, too!! 3While it's "easy" to be all laissez-faire about it...
Oh, my goodness! Now that's what I'm talking about, Internet. That's what I was needin'! I fished for a pat on the back, and you came through. Grazie, grazie, grazie! It's amazing...I can be comforted by a long sequence of ones and zeros that comes into my house through a tiny blue wire. What a world!
First to "Marlowe:" my lil' biz is really going well. Thank you for asking! No real money yet, but I'm selling enough to keep making more pieces, and, well, hopefully sell those, too. It's hard. I haven't been "on air" in a while, but I'm hoping I get a chance to more and more. It's kinda complicated, but based on your numbers (as in, if they're high enough), you become eligible to carry more and more weight around the network. That means getting on air more, maybe piggy-backing with other products and sellers ("all ships rise with the tide, Margie...never forget that...")...maybe even an actual contract with the network. That's kinda the goal. Nowhere near that level right now, but I'm kinda on that path, I think...I hope. I haven't shot myself in the foot yet, so we'll see. Bill's been great. So have Barb and Nicki, but since they're not really "business people," they're not really believing it's all moving in the right direction because I haven't been able to buy a yacht yet. That's OK, though. They're not being mean about it or anything. It's just that...I think the whole thing's really growing (and so does Bill) and Barb and Nicki "know" it, but it's still kinda abstract growth at this point. Soon enough, though, ladies! Soon it will be much more than abstract! I'm a woman on a mission!!! Thanks again for asking, Marlowe. Look for me on the telly! Hopefully I'll be on again sooner rather than later! I'll let you know when I know for sure!
"Vro022!" What a question!! What do I want my kids to be? Man...that's something I feel like I must have thought about tons of times, but now that you've asked, I really don't know what to think. I think Nell is gonna be a judge, and that would make me happy. I think she's a thinker. Very pensive. Maybe she'll be on the Supreme Court. I think she'd really love to wear one of those little white doily things around the neck of her black gown. Plus she likes playing with the boys...and getting under their skin with her "feminine sensibilities."1 It drives them crazy! If Lester were answering himself, he'd say that he'd do anything to be garbage man. Like a lot of boys, he just loves that garbage truck and really can't imagine anything cooler than riding around in that thing. But if that doesn't pan out, I could see him being a teacher...another one that I'd obviously be very happy with. (Not that I wouldn't be happy with him being a garbage man, of course!) He's always showing you how to do something. If you're stacking blocks, he's got a better method and really wants to teach it to you. Though he might need to work on his patience if he's gonna be a prof. If you don't take his advice on how to stack the blocks, you better get ready for a pretty severe backlash. In fact, you might get a block thrown in your general direction...with some heat on it, too. That, I'm pretty sure, gets you fired in schools these days. (Times ain't what they used to be, right?) Now, Aaron...I got the perfect occupation for that one. I can't imagine he wouldn't get on board with this idea, either. You see, he's a snoozer. That boy can nap! He loves it. He naps like an eighty-year-old man. It's amazing, if he's got three minutes in one location, his eyes are drooping. But another amazing thing about him is that he's the hottest kid I've ever seen. Like...his body heat. Not in a dangerous way; we've had it checked out. But the kid's just warm, always. He's like those little packets you shake up and put in your gloves when you go skiing. So, what I think he should do is rent himself out to people and get in their bed a couple of hours before they do. He'll fall asleep in a matter or seconds and, in the wintertime when you hate getting into a cold bed, Aaron will have been there for a couple of hours and your bed will be nice and toasty. Then, you wake him up, he gets out of your bed, you get in it all warm and snuggly, and he moves on to another house where people go to bed later than you do. Of course, he might have to start this business pretty early on because while it's cute as all heck when a five, six, or seven year old is in charge of this racket, it's kinda weird to have a twenty-two year old deadbeat sleeping in your bed for a few hours before you do. Sure, the bed might be even warmer, but...you don't know where that guy's been, am I right? I think that's just called being homeless. So, Aaron's gonna need to really get on this.
Word O' The Day! The site I use2 has a weird one today: "Philadelphia Lawyer." It means "a lawyer knowledgeable in the most minute aspect of the law." I can't really tell if this is a joke or not. I would have just called that person a lawyer, but apparently they're really awesome in Philadelphia. I wouldn't know. I've never been there. Can anyone from Philly comment on this? Let us know. Another cool thing on that website is that it has a thing for you to submit words and definitions that aren't in the dictionary (yet)3. Like, if you have a word for the crusty residue that forms on the outer lip of a bottle of BBQ sauce, you can submit it and maybe they'll post it. We should come up with one, Internet. We can share the glory!
Alright. I'm gonna run. I know I kinda tackled the easier of the questions this go round, but I promise I'm working my way up towards the harder ones. They're all good, and please keep sending them if you're so inclined. I love it and I really appreciate you guys playing along with me. I'm having Barb and Nicki write down their recipes so I'll get those to you next time. And no way am I cutting my hair! I have an image to maintain, remember!! "Kjhall," "Joyride," "Boglover"4...I'm not leaving you hanging. I'll dive into the past a little bit next time. Promise!
Have a great week!
***************************************************************** 1If she gets bored halfway through law school or decides she's not really into doilies anymore, she's welcome to follow in her Mama's footsteps and take over the family business...the family jewelry business, that is. 2http://www.merriam-webster.com/ 3http://www3.merriam-webster.com/opendictionary/guide.php 4My favorite misspelling in a long while!
Thought I might have built up a little more store credit with you, Internet...but I'll get you back on board...
Wow. Um. Ok, Internet. A snooze, huh? A snooze. That "snooze" kinda stings, I gotta tell you. I'm sitting here writing this...a little irked...a little bummed. I'm trying to just take it as constructive criticism and move on. Comes with the territory, right? Moving on, moving on, moving on. Alright. I'm not really moving on. Um...I mean, what should I be writing about? You can tell me. I hate putting you to sleep. There's enough out there that can do that...I don't want my blog to add to that long list of boringness. I want you to read me when you wake up in the morning. Not at 10:45 at night, after you've brushed your teeth and washed your face...when you're minutes away from dreamland.
So, Mom's stuff isn't doing it for you. That's a shame because it's really cool for me to go through it. I guess that's a "me" journey. I'm throwing the barn doors wide open and will be glad to take some suggestions/questions from the almighty dubya-dubya-dubya. But since I've already sat down this morning, I can't just wait around until everyone out there tells me what they wanna hear (I'll be glad to give you what you wanna hear1, but I squeeze these writing sessions into my days when I can, and when I'm finally sitting at the laptop, the magic's gotta happen then). It's this or nothin', for now. "Boglover" and "Butterflypromise," let's work it out so everyone's happy. I'll do what I can to give you what you need. I promise. I hate thinking I'm disappointing you out there...don't give up on me yet!2
Since my game plan's changing a little bit after this feedback from you, Internet, I'm gonna cut this one pretty short. But, to answer your question, "vro022": yes. I do think I'm like my mom in some ways. Not an absolute ton — I'm definitely not a clone of hers. But, mostly, I think I have perspective the way she did, when she was at her best. She made more mistakes in her life than you could count on three thousand hands. She'd admit to about 2,347 of them...the rest fit in some other category, I guess. But what she was really good at — and what I think I'm good at and getting better at — is keeping all of those things in perspective. Mom lived hard. She saw a lot; did a lot. Eventually, I think she honed the ability to keep an even keel. Not always, God knows. But...I bet it took her a lot longer to develop that trait than I'm giving her credit for because I don't really know. But I know she did a lot during my life to strengthen that muscle in me. It bothered me for a while...as a teenager, definitely...but her "oh, Margie. Don't worry about it so much" turned out meaning more to me than I thought it would at the time. She'd been up and down too many times to think any one moment really meant all that much. I don't know if I totally believe that...it's nice to feel like everything matters, to some degree. But I think things roll off my back a little easier because of her. Maybe she let too much roll off hers, but I'm still glad I got that from her. It's helpful.
Alright. I'm outta here. Let me hear from you, Internet. I don't wanna be wasting your time with these posts so hit me up. Surely we can figure something out!
***************************************************************** 1Please don't bust my chops, though, OK? I wish I could be in other Henricksons' heads so I could tell you all about it. If "insider information" is what you're jonesing for, I might not be able to help you out. There are a lot of kooky folks in my life that you're nice to be interested in. But until I can convince Nicki or Barb or Bill or Nell to start blogging, I can only tell you what I know. It's just little ol' me in this noggin o'mine...and come on...do you really expect me (or anyone) to just spill the family's beans on the web (the beans that I know, at least)? So, for better or worse, you're kinda stuck with me. I think you should be counting your blessings anyway, though!
2Also, "subscribing to this blog" just means signing up, right? You didn't have to get a mortgage or anything...I mean...it's not that big of a deal, is it? Just hang on for a little while longer, "butterflypromise". I'll win you back.
It is! It totally IS! Music From The Big Pink. VINYL. Totally in here. Unreal!
Of course, we don't have a record player. You think we got a recorder player in these houses? Really? Come on. No way. But I did just download it on iTunes and it's totally awesome. Nell's really liking the painting on the album cover. I like to think she likes the elephant. I like the elephant. I like to think that Mom likes to think the guy on the ground holding the other guy over the piano is the best part. It's the goofiest part. And, in going through her stuff, I'm beginning to appreciate Mom's goofiness.
I'm halfway through the third box. The pace of this process has been the topic of conversation, as of late, around the Henrickson campfire...at least between Bill and me. I kinda went on a tear there in the beginning and didn't get to bed 'til five in the morning that first night, going through boxes one and two...the two biggest ones by far. That kinda got Bill's goat...whatever that expression is or means. He pouted about that for a good little while, is what I'm trying to say...starting from when my head hit the pillow at 5:08 til after dinner that night. We did end up talking about it a little and then I — note: I — decided to pull the throttle back a tad bit1. So I've been going slowly through box number three. Taking my time. It's still big, but it's nowhere near the behemoths one and two were. Number one was sort of a nonstarter, though, because a big chunk of it was another box, a separate box, filled with papers and legal stuff. So, that's obviously important, but also obviously lame. Bill said he'd ask Lee to look over that stuff so we'll see what comes of it, but that's not the kind of stuff I was excited about, so...
I'll do a few highlights to catch y'all up, then I'll talk about today's. I guess that'll be the de facto2 procedure for a little while. I mean, I'm gonna grab a few things a day, but I probably won't write every day. I'd love to and, like I said, I really do believe it's good for me. But I just don't have the time, you know? Mama-in's hard, you know? Anyway, highlights:
1. A fake trillion-dollar bill with Monica Lewinsky's face on it. So random. 2. A Cuban cigar...not a joke connected to the Lewinski bill that I know of, but...it's always a possibility, I guess. 3. Her (I'm assuming!) toothbrush! I thought it was a hilarious Mr. Wallace decided to include this. He put it in a ziplock bag with "toothbrush" written on it in Sharpie. His handwriting, by the way. Turns out, Wally (that's what he asked me to call him) was Mom's friend/building manager for a couple years in her last apartment. So...that's kinda cool. He's a really nice guy from one of the Carolinas. He says, "ma'am." I've called him a few times since I go the boxes. I like chatting with him. 4. A ".38 special" bullet. Mom was pretty hardcore, huh? 5. My old Garfield pillowcase from fourth grade. Why she kept that, I don't know. But I'm happy she did. 6. An Outback Steakhouse "Free Bloomin' Onion" coupon from 1997. 7. A plastic bride and groom from an unknown wedding cake.
And today's. Today's are kinda...sad...but that's OK. There's nothing wrong with that. The stuff inside these boxes can make me cry and smile at the same time. I respect that. But I can't get mad when it's just one or the other. I've done a lot of laughing, with no tears...much more than the other way around. So, I'm due, but today's kind of a bummer. The first thing was a piece of mail. Mail inside mail...already boring. Then the sad: It was a court summons for a pre-trial something for a DUI. That's sad for obvious reasons.
The other thing, though, was...well, it's probably just as obviously sad, but...it was her journal. She never had an email address so I doubt she ever would have taken to blogging. But she made a stab at keeping this journal. I say "journal," well, because the notebook itself has the word imprinted in gold cursive on it...but what I'm saying is it's not a diary. A girl has a diary. This was from the recent past. In fact, the first entry was dated only about 8 months before she died:
"I should be doing more. I want to do. There's a lot of stuff I want to say I've done. To get there, I have to do. I want to have had a journal at some point. So, I got this at the airport gift shop when I was waiting to pick up Carl. It has the word 'journal' written on the cover in cursive so if I don't write in it, that word will stare at me and guilt me into writing at least something when I can. 'It's still snowing.' Or: 'I didn't win the lottery again.' Something. That's the goal. To keep some kinda track of me. We'll see..."3
That was the only entry. How sad is that...
***************************************************************** 1Definitely don't wanna make Billy Boy sound like a jerk here. He totally wasn't. Let me clarify: he one-hundred-percent gets me wanting to wade through all of Mom's stuff. He was just a little grumpy because he didn't wanna sleep alone...which I obviously "get" — I get that way about 2/3's of the time if I'm not careful. It was more of a little game we were playing than really anything. But it did get me thinking that I could have a pretty cool opportunity here. At first I wanted to, or thought I wanted to, just get it all out on the floor as quickly as possible like I did (and still kinda do) on Christmas morning. (If I could put a footnote inside a footnote, I'd do it now to say that I was watching '30 Rock' the other night which I always do because it's funny as all get out. Anyway, I'm watching '30 Rock' and they kinda nabbed my story about being so excited about a getting a present that you throw up. I think we all know I vomited immediately upon seeing that Santa had given me a Sega as a kid. "OH, SEGA!" Vomit. I was wearing blue pajamas with footies. In the show, as a kid, Jack did that, too...sure they changed it to a birthday party and the toy was a spaceship or something, but that that happened to me, for real. I mean, no hard feelings. They did a great job with it. That's an awesome show. But that story happened to me. I wonder if they're bugging my phone...)Back to original footnote: That first night, I wanted to open 'em up fast as heck. But I've slept on it and now that's not happening. I'm going slow and enjoying it. My method is basic...like...closing my eyes and grabbing two things a day out of the box that's already been opened. This is all I got from her, you know? I think it's kinda cool to try to extend it. It's like a super-personal one of those calendars that you tear a page off each day and it gives a cool inspirational message. AND! It's also kinda like the note your mom wrote on a napkin and put in your lunch bag that said "I love you" or "Try your best today." I imagine those feel pretty good. Mom never did that...she was much more of a "lunch money" mom...but she's making up for it now so I'm letting it go.
3There's something enjoyable about typing out words she wrote...even if it's a sad thing I'm copying. If I get the chance, I might try to...transcribe again. It feels kinda cool. It's like a Ouija board type situation...it's cool.
It was great and terrible at the same time, but that's not really the point. I got memories from those two weeks that put a smile on my face every time I think about them. I was at camp the first time I heard the song "Patches," and I still love that song so much. Man, what a song. But also, I hated camp like all get out. I mean...that was the first I ever thought: "If this is a dream, I wanna wake up now. I don't like this anymore." But it wasn't a dream. It was for real and while I didn't love it all the time, I'm glad I went. I mean, I feel bad for people that never went to camp when they were kids. Even if you hated it (all of it or some of it), I think it's good to have gone...and I've only appreciated that in my old-ish age.
One of the "lessons" I learned at camp was the power of mail. Mail can be really, really rewarding. It can be a drug. You can become addicted to it, I think. I mean, it can make you giggle lickety-split. Then again, it can bring some tears, too, of course, but that's not really what I'm trying to focus on right now. I got some mail today and I'm trying to focus on the smiles. I got nine boxes. Big ones, actually. Nine. Big. Boxes. I didn't know she had this much stuff. She...she...her...her her her her her her her her her her...Mom. It's funny how things you can't stop from coming end up coming and hitting you in ways you never thought they would. I went through a lot of crap about my mom dying. At first I thought it was something I could wrap my head around...something I could "see coming" and all that silliness. I was dead wrong about that (pun unintended, but punny nonetheless). There's no such thing as "see it coming," and when it's right in front of you...when IT...whatever IT is...is right in front of you...you're doing something for the first time. That's kinda awesome. That's the way I've started to see it these days. But the point of me talking about this instead of a lot of other stuff I can talk about is...I'm looking at these boxes and I'm looking at this box cutter and...I'm pretty excited about getting into these suckers.
Her stuff.
I only barely know the person who boxed all of it up for her...for me. He's a nice, nice man who knew her in her...later years. He sent me some really important mail. Maybe the most important mail I've ever gotten...since Mom sent my postcards from Reno when I was at camp. This time, I had to go to the train station downtown with Bill's car to haul it all home and I'm so happy they're here, these boxes, and I'm looking at them, waiting for the moment to become neck-deep in Mom and her stuff. I'm gonna do it. I'm about to do it. I actually...can't wait to do it. I think this gonna be really good for me. I'm gonna throw on "Music from Big Pink," one of Mom's favorite albums (I bet her vinyl copy is in one of these boxes!), and I'm gonna tear into these here boxes.
My goal is to be open to any and all memories that flood into my brain as I sift through her stuff. It all happened, good and bad, and I think I need to spend some time on this specific stretch of Memory Lane. If it's alright with you, Internet, I'm gonna use my blog as a mouthpiece for some stories and stuff that churn up as I root through it all. I won't force it on you. If you feel like I do, let me know. I don't mean to or want to. This won't be anything exclusive. If I get really hacked off at the dry cleaners, believe me, I'll let you know about it. Or if you wanna ask me something specific, you know I'm all ears. But I'm setting a goal for myself. I wanna thumb through it...no real pace...no organization. Just...looking. And I'm feeling like I kinda wanna write about it. About her. I just...writing stuff down has become really useful to me. The blog is good for that...for me. Hope you don't mind...
You think Life's given you a basket just big enough to carry all the everything you're supposed to carry. You think this a lot, whenever...at whatever age or phase you're in at the moment. When you're four, having to eat your peas THEN having to take a bath seems like too much to bear. In tenth grade, you can't believe you have to deal with Chemistry and Trevor Singletary all the time, at the same time. You think, "I couldn't handle one more thing if I had to. I'm all booked up over here. No room for anything else. No mas. No mas, por favor."
But, of course, there's almost always...mas. I think we all know that. I mean, that's something you learn fairly early on - you fight with it all your life, but you know it's the truth pretty early on - and you think that's that. But there's another part of it...a part that I didn't really appreciate until very recently. It's not like Life simply gives you more crap to carry in your basket and says, like a New Yorker that doesn't give a hoot about you at all, "deal with it," while your basket stays the same size the whole time. It's not like that. Your basket's been getting bigger this whole time, too...without you even knowing it. Only at the important times do you realize it. It sounds so silly, I know. Don't make fun of me. I'm just happy to really be seeing that happen with us recently. We've been through a lot of messes recently and I'm so happy that I think all of our baskets have gotten big enough to handle all that we're carrying...and on top of that, our Family Basket has grown bigger than any of us ever thought it could. Even if we all had to endure a lot...a WHOLE lot...make a lot of mistakes...say a lot of "I'm sorries"...cry a lot of tears...allow for a lot of forgiveness...deal with a lot of disappointment...process a lot of regret, remorse and resentment...we can handle it! Somehow, we can. Even if we thought we couldn't take one more step with all this...stuff to deal with. It's amazing, really. So, so much...everything. So, so much.
BUT...this isn't the end. That's important for me to remember.
There's still a whole lot to be sorted out. Tonight, Bill really stepped up to the plate and gave us what we all needed not just for the moment, but from now on: unity. I should capitalize it: Unity. It's not perfect Unity...that might be a total myth. But he told us, in a really great way, that we're not "them" or "them" or "them." We are "us." He urged us to see that and appreciate it, and I think we all have...thanks to him. I've been lying awake for hours now thinking about it. I love that man like crazy. Good head on them there shoulders, I tell ya! Big heart, too. I love him. I'm so thankful for him. But I don't want to get too gushy - even though I am - because there's a lot of loose ends that will be being worked out in the near future, I'm sure. Tons. Things aren't perfect around here right now. I know that. But tonight was a pretty great change in course, and even if things take a while to settle back down, I think we're in a better place starting tonight than we've been in a good, long while...loose ends and all.
We're all in different places but, again, this isn't the end of anything. That's comforting because I have a new sense that we can handle all this stuff. I don't have any doubts that there are trials and tribulations ahead for all of us...(and all of you, too, Internet. There's no beginning or end to any of...this...for any of us. Deal with that. 1 Nicki and Bill have a ton to work out. An absolute ton. I know that and am not delusional enough to think that that won't be one of the hardest things they've ever done in their lives. But they're closer. Barb's connection to her old church is over, but she's put faith in Bill and all of us. She's closer. Sarah's looking at her life as her own. She's been through way more than a girl her age should have to. She's starting to figure things out for herself, though. It's gonna be hard, no doubt about it. But she's...closer. I want to be the businesswoman I know I can be. I'm not there yet. But I'm closer.
See the pattern? We're all closer, I think (hope)...to where we need to be. We've been given more, and I think we can carry it. If we share the weight, I know we can.
Alrighty then, Internet. I gotta get some sleep. But don't worry. I'm not leaving you high and dry. I'll be hollering at you again soon.
Margie.
***************************************************************** 1I have faith your basket's been growing, too, though, Internet. You'll pull through.
There have only been a few times in my life when I've seen this much...I hate to say it, but...stubbornness going on all sides of a fight in my life. I can't start judging everyone because that's its own form of stubbornness, I guess. But, man. We're talking for ALL time and ETERNITY here, Internet! Come on! I really want to bring all parties together, but I'm making zero headway. It's all really serious, obviously, but it's starting to make me chuckle how little everyone's willing to budge. I'm taking a break. I'm taking a trip down hardheaded lane. Here's a list of the top three most stubborn moments I've ever witnessed, not counting this standoff between Bill & Barb (individually and collectively) and Nicki...in no real order:
1. Mom grew up next door to these kids named the McClures when she and her mom were living in Barstow. The McClures had two boys about her age that she was friends with: Jamesy and Louis. They were pretty darn close growing up and, like, twenty years later, once Mom had me and we were living in Colorado, Jamesy moved to town working on the HUGE construction crew that was building a bridge over the Westmoreland tributary...which took, like, three years. Part of that time, Mom and Jamesy dated...on and off, as usual. (I guess, real quick, I'll explain the name: he was called "Jimmy" as a kid and when he was getting older, he tried to get people to call him James or Jim, instead. Just to grind his gears, Louis and his friends started calling him "Jamesy"...and it stuck.) Anyway, Jamesy rented this cabin thing he shared with a Comanche guy named Clarence that was pretty much one big room, but it had a loft where Jamesy (and Mom, sometimes) slept. It had a ladder and, at the top, this railing with wooden balusters so you didn't roll out of bed in your sleep and drop the twelve feet or whatever to the living room below. Well, one day, I was downstairs playing Chinese checkers with Clarence and Mom and Jamesy were just lounging in the bed in the loft, chatting with us from up there. Jamesy peaked his face through the balusters to look down and tell one of his terrible (and dirty) knock-knock jokes1 when he realized his head could fit in between them. Well, and you can see where this is going: he got his head stuck in between those two pieces of wood in the railing. It was all fun and whatever for a few minutes; we were all laughing it up and cracking jokes. Mom was unscrewing the posts, but she started talking a little too much trash as she was doing it and Jamesy was starting to get mad. They started to get into it and it got to the point where she was gonna make him say, "this is the dumbest thing I've done since the time I lit a car on fire because someone dared me to." But he wouldn't. I remember not remembering the time he set a car on fire because someone dared him to, but he didn't like her bringing it up, it seemed, and he refused. Time and time again. For, like, forty-five minutes. Then he started yelling. Then Mom started yelling, and Clarence and I looked at each other like you do when a situation's turned bad. Clarence left without saying anything to Mom or Jamesy, leaving just me to watch this stupidity unravel above me. "Do you want me to help your sorry ass out of this mess or not?" Mom asked. "Not," he said like a pouty kid trying act tough. "Go to hell."
Mom put the screwdriver down on the bed and walked downstairs. She told me we were leaving. I stood up. Jamesy, lying on his stomach with his head still stuck, crossed his arms on the outside of the railing in defiance. It looked more uncomfortable. He did manage to give Mom the finger, though.
"I'll stay here forever, if I have to," he said.
"Don't doubt it," Mom said, putting things in her purse.
"I hate that you're like this."
"Me, too."
She looked up at him as she took my hand. We walked out outside. I couldn't decide who was more stubborn, but I was pretty sure I'd never see Jamesy again. And, of course, I didn't.
2. This one involves me and a pair of rollerblades. First of all, I should have never been on rollerblades, ever. It is absolutely impossible to understand a young me (a) wanting to rollerblade so badly and (b) raising so much hell when I wasn't allowed to. At first, I wasn't allowed to because those things ain't cheap. Well, at least they weren't cheap then. Thankfully, I don't know now. Can't imagine they've gone way down in price, but I guess we'll see when the boys get old enough to be dumb enough to want a pair of rollerblades. But anyway, the price hurdle was overcome when I won a pair in a raffle at school. Mom was furious. "Stupid raffles...I swear..." Anyway, two weeks later...skating...crack in the sidewalk...broken arm. Pink cast. Six weeks. Summertime. It sucked.
The whole time I had my cast on: "I swear to God, Margene. I know what I'm talking out. Those things are a goddamn death trap. A death trap. Death on wheels...inline wheels. Just isn't right." I had to sign a contract with Mom and the doctor that said I wouldn't skate while I had the cast on, but I fought Mom on her philosophy about rollerblades all the while. She didn't get how cool they were, I thought...how much fun they were. She didn't care, I figured. She didn't know what that kind of fun was anymore. I insisted I wasn't deterred. I told her I loved rollerblading. I can't believe I said that, but I remember telling her, specifically, that I loved it more than anything else I did. (I was a stupid kid a lot of the time, you see.) She enjoyed the six skate-less weeks, but I hated them and couldn't wait to get that cast off and them skates on. She told me I shouldn't, but I was hearing NONE of it. Finally, the day came. They sawed the cast off. Two hours later, I put the skates on...crack in the sidewalk...same sidewalk...different crack...broken arm...other arm. Pink cast again. Six weeks again. Autumn time. It sucked...worse.
3. NELL! RIGHT NOW! WILL. NOT. EAT. Refuses, and it's driving me CRAZY!!!!!!
***************************************************************** 1Knock-knock/who's there/Emerson/Emerson who?/Emerson nice t*ts ya got there, lady.
I've really done some work on myself in the past couple days, even though there has been more...craziness going on around me than at one other point in my life. As my last post might have suggested, I have decided, once and for all, to take control of life. I'm proud of myself for deciding this, as stupid as it sounds. To me, that, in and of itself, is something I should be proud of...the decision to change some things. And also, I've learned some things during this mini-process that have helped me relax a little bit about what's going on all around me (crazy or not), no matter how hard it is to believe that it's all real. First I've realized there is a whole buttload of things so far beyond my control that I cannot even try to change them or wrangle them to the ground and ask them what the hell they think they're doing. It's such a relief to really and truly realize this...at least it was for me. Seriously, it's not like that's some ancient Chinese wisdom or anything...I know it's more obvious than that. People know it, but...well, they claim to know that little rule. They say it out loud, but they don't think about what it means. And until you take some of the pressure off yourself to control everything from the rotation of the earth to the time lunch is served, you will absolutely go crazy. I don't even think I was someone who tried to control everything. A week ago, I'da said, "Of course you can't control everything, but..." and it's that "but" that means you don't quite it just yet. Like I said, I don't think I was obsessive about controlling stuff, but I was someone who tried to control more than I could actually handle. And it made everything harder. It felt like trying to take three deep breaths in a tiny room with only enough air for two small breaths. So, Nell and I got in the bath one night, turned off all the lights and just sat there. Hot water and darkness is the recipe for some good ME-time...or so it seems to me and my little ladyfriend, Nelly-Poo Buttonface, who's sitting right next to me right now, sleepy as all get out. It was that night - three nights ago now - that I decided there's too much to get a grip on to get a grip on everything. That was really freeing and it was a really good start.
Next, I decided that I got too many of my own issues pumping through my veins to take on other people's. A lot of times, people vomit all their problems onto everyone else and everyone else takes it...deals with it simultaneously...struggles with it...thinks about it...takes it on as partially their own...whether they want to or not. That's fine. If that's how some people are, that's how some people are. But I don't have to be that way and, to my point here, I don't WANT to take on their stuff. I can control doing that. I don't wanna be some kinda Unabomber loner or anything; I wanna be sympathetic and listen. I'm not saying I want to just ignore everyone so I can live in some blissful world where all I think about is ME. In these houses, that's impossible...in a good way. But I don't have to take it on myself - I don't have to feel the weight the same way, say, Nicki does right now...the way she wants me to when she tries to explain why she's doing the things she does that make her life so gosh dang complicated. I'll listen as patiently as I can. I help when I can. I'll kick her in the butt when I can. (Man I wanna kick her in the butt sometimes!) But her problems aren't mine, no matter how much she wants them to be (mine or Barb's or Bill's or anyone else's). AND, I can't change it. They're hers. Nicki is a mess. From where I'm sitting, it sure looks like she's overwhelmed with the countless bad decisions she's made and now that the cat's out of the bag, no matter how much her mistakes affect us as a family and as individual people, they're her mistakes to think about, figure out, and eventually make right. She said she was scared, and I told her she should be. She's been lying so much to so many people, and when you do that, controlling it all is all you think about. That must be so terrible. (I went through a pretty big lying phase when I was, like, 19 or so...late teens somewhere...and I was so miserable all the time.) But back to Nicki. I'm really, really upset with her, and I really want to bring everyone to the table so we can try to remedy this situation (which I'll get to in a second). But in that moment, when I was sick with her and she had just said something really mean about my business right before making it about her again, I was happy that I said what I meant: she should be scared. Maybe that'll straighten her out. And I felt like I didn't let her put any of her guilt or fear onto me. I didn't get mad, I don't think, but I wasn't a pushover. I didn't share her burden just because she wanted me to. I didn't tell her it will be ok. I don't know if it will, no matter how hard I pray that it does. I didn't let her put any of her own sh*t onto me, and I felt that that was a product of my positively concentrating more on the things I can control. I can control what I let people drag me into. I think Nicki's taken advantage of the old me, that way. Until I had done some real thought, I didn't realize I have control what people can do to me. That's a "can control1" and I feel good for recognizing it. Now that I do, even though I'm sick to death the first test is something this big, I'm happy with myself for changing the way I handle times like this. (Unfortunately, there haven't really been times "like this"...this big?but still...you get what I'm saying.)
My final thing before I have to lay The Stinker down for the night: I can control my anger at Nicki, as long as I give it its due...and maybe I can be the one to actually get the conversation going because I can be the one NOT to let their anger be the driving force behind all communication. I want Nicki back here tomorrow (I want her here tonight!), not because I'm not still upset and disappointed in her. But because what good is it to have her separated from the rest of us when nothing's gonna be solved until she's right in front of us? I don't have any delusions about how mad everyone is. I know the chips are stacked against one big group-hug ten seconds after she walks back in the house (she decided to stay at the compound, but only after she tried to make her doing that Bill's decision). But, I feel like, at this point in time, I'm able to be mad and be constructive at the same time. I'm not trying to toot my horn. It's just the way it is now. Maybe I can bring something to the table because of this. I'd like to. I really want to. I hope I can. Whether I do and people listen, though...is out of my control. That's sad, but I can wrap my mind around it all the same.
***************************************************************** 1Trademark on that phrase pending, Internet. You can't have that one.
Something's gotta give, Internet. I gotta get back in control of my situation1. I'm tired. I'm tired of being...I don't know. I'm tired. Fed up, a little. A lot. It doesn't matter. You're either fed up or your not. And I am. I be! I gotta start looking inward. The waters of the world - of this world - are too choppy to just float along without being in charge of where your boat's going. I'm taking the helm.
I feel like a piece of dirt for even thinking about myself now because I do and should feel so badly for Joey. I wish we were closer and I could do more. He's a good man. I know that. I wish I knew Kathy better, too. She was a sweet woman who was way too young. Obviously. And when it happened. Geez. He's gonna need a lot of help from Bill. Barb, too. I think she could really help Bill help Joey through this.
I really do wish I could do more on that front. I'll help when I can, but I gotta take command of...me. I AM mad, damn it, on top of whatever else. But the anger, on its own, does no good. I gotta get through that, then I'm gonna never let this...manipulation happen ever again. I'm in control of me. I'm in control of me. I'm in control of me. I'm in control of me...
Nicki's really pulled some wool over some eyes around here lately. Tons of wool. Tons of eyes. And it's really come at a bad time for me, personally. Usually stuff rolls off my back a little easier than it does, say, Barb's - I'm just saying - but the one-two punch of Nicki deliberately not getting pregnant (not to mention her totally avoiding our trying to help her through that issue) AND her, totally insanely, using my name to help her do whatever it is she thinks she's doing for her dad...ALL that on top of my mom and all THAT...I just feel like I've been kicked in the gut and I can't catch my breath anymore. Most of the time, I'm a big believer in, "just give it some time and things will work themselves out." But, I feel like I need to get cracking on me now and I'm the only one that's gonna do the heavy lifting. It seems like it's bootstrap time for me. (How many more phrases like that can I use? you ask. I got millions.) It's gotta be all me, right? I mean, I'm not trying to sound all dramatic or anything, but this is a venting blog entry, though, OK? Lay off. There are certain times when you gotta be in control of you (see: rant at end of previous paragraph). I need to do what I can to make ME happy. My feelings are hurt by Nicki and I really do wonder what's going on in her head right now, but she's gonna have to figure her own crap out. I can't take myself out of the family, and don't want to, of course, but other people, at least for a little while, have to take a backseat to what I need to do to get right again. You've been saying that all along, Internet. It just took some time for it to soak in.
So, I'm off. Challenged by my goal to take more of an investment in me. Putting the ME back in Margene.
Sincerely,
MargE...ne2
***************************************************************** 1This brings me to my one bit of funny for this post. "Situation." Does anyone else love it in those acne commercials when Puff Daddy says the cream or mask or scrub or whatever helps "moisturize his situation?" That might be the best phrasing I've ever heard.
2I thought long and hard about what to do with that second E. I decided to leave it. Don't hate.
Knowing what Ben's "going through" (I hate that term) makes it a little harder, actually. It makes me think about...it makes me look at myself a little bit, too, when I think about what's happened between us in the past couple of days. I guess it's worth mentioning - we're in Kansas. Sweet. We've been on this cross-country road trip for the last...forever...and we're on our way home. I could probably write about six million entries about this trip, but I'm trying to focus on one thing. Just for...well...for your sake, Internet, and mine. But Ben and I had a moment involving changing out of bathing suits in a cramped hotel room. OK. We saw each other in our skinnies, by accident. He's taken it...a bit far. He's...God, he's being annoying, but I know what he's feeling...which is great and sucks at the same time because I just kinda wanna smack him around and say, "what the H are you thinking is going on here?" If I had no idea what was going in that noggin of his, I could just set him straight real quick and we'd just move the H on. But...why am I such an empathetic person? Ok, get off your high-horse, Margie. I guess I just wanna be mad, say, "you're being ridiculous," and just get over it. But...alas (), I can't. Because I've had this crush before. I mean...just cool it, Internet. Don't read into that last sentence. What I'm saying is, I've had that crush on an older person and I remember being just dumb enough to think, "I mean, maybe it could happen."
Alright. Stop it. I guess I have to state, clearly, for the record, how my situation was different so your mind doesn't start wandering, Internet. It has a tendency to do that, you know. But I don't judge you. I love you. You've been so great to me. Anyway. My disclaimer...and a brief intro into the crush that makes me think I have some inkling of an idea of what Ben is going through: My friend Courtney Richard1 belonged to a country club. It wasn't one of those in the movies - it didn't have slaves working there, is what I mean - but it was more than the public pool. That's all I mean. She had a little number that you could write down and get Nutty Buddies and hot dogs at the snack bar. It's was nice, definitely, but not...swanky. I just want that clarification made. Sorry. I'm weird. Anyway, that year, Courtney and I were at that pool...Every. Single. Day. Seriously. The earth would have to stop spinning for us not to be there. We loved it when people called us "pool rats." We even thought about making t-shirts. (One more little sidebar: the dagger in my heart after my falling out with Courtney in ninth grade came when she made t-shirts with her new group of friends who called themselves the "Five Stars"...I hated those "Five Stars" shirts so much. Granted, looking back, they were pretty lame but I totally still wanted one at the time, for sure. Last sidebar. Focus, Margie.) So we were there all the time, at the pool, that summer. By mid-June, they were letting us jump in real quick during adult swim and by July Fourth, we were jumping off the high dive and catching tennis balls the life guards would throw from their thrones-slash-stands during adult swim. We became above the law. By Labor Day, we were hanging out in the lifeguard lounge being really sarcastic with the girl lifeguards (because that made us cool) and being even more sarcastic with the guys. We learned little tricks about the club like the combination to the freezer in the snack bar and where the secret, employee-only drink machines were stashed.
It was amazing. They loved us and we loved being loved by them. They were so cool and sassy and...awesome. Courtney had an older sister who actually hung out with these people during the school year and even though she was spending the summer in Vail at a horse-riding camp, they all knew who Courtney was and they really did take care of us. Looking back, things definitely could have gotten...weird. I mean, we idolized these girls and guys and, I guess, knowing now how terrible people actually can be, I guess we were in a position to be...corrupted in some horrible way. I don't even know what I mean by that, exactly, I just want to make clear that this set-up was, by and large, completely innocent. A dirty joke we didn't quite understand was the closest thing to R-rated things ever got (I guess there were a few cigarettes, but not until the end). We thought of these people as heroes, but they weren't even that much older than us. They were seventeen, which in and of itself warrants hero-status from a sixth grader, but nothing "adult" was anywhere near the radar, so just get that idea out of your head. It was like being accepted by the Court of the Pool Kingdom. They were the coolest thing going there. Tanner than everyone else. Cooler sunglasses than everyone else (Tortoise shell?!?). In better shape than everyone else. COOLER than everyone else. They were, no doubt about it, the bee's knees.
They were all first-world cool kids, but Courtney and I both had our favorites. Courtney loved how "totally popular" Eileen Maniche was with everyone. She had cooler-than-thou down cold, and Courtney loved that. Her favorite boy was Eileen's boyfriend, Kevin. They were the power couple she wanted to be a part of when she was older. I think, deep down, she was hoping they would run away together and take her with them as their cohort-slash-prot&eactue;gé. My focus was more...well, focused. Xan (pronounced Zan) Turner. Good Lord, Xan Turner.
He had a girlfriend already in college at Boulder and a twin sister, Sara ("Sara with no H and don't you forget it!") so he knew how girls really were. At the peak of my infatuation, I...I loved Xan Turner, intensely and with all my heart, for two solid weeks - from the Wednesday before the club's steeple chase 'til three days afterwards. He totally got me, I thought. And he let me hang out with him so I figured I got him too. We started really connecting when he and his girlfriend were in some fight about something - going down to Lake Havasu or something - and I listened to him vent and said "that sucks" whenever I deemed it appropriate. He smoked cigarettes but was so much cooler about it than the other boys that did because he knew he should be quitting and gave himself flack every time he lit up another one...like a grown up whose life was just too complicated at the moment to worry about quitting smoking...even though he knows he should.
"Gotta quit these things," he'd say. "But she just drives me up a wall sometimes."
"That sucks."
"Like it wouldn't drive her bats**t if I went down to Havasu with a bunch of people...a bunch of chicks she'd never met. Please."
"Please. That sucks."
"It does suck, Margie. I totally does."
I asked him for a cigarette. My first cigarette. An American Spirit Yellow. He said he didn't want to give me one but felt like he owed me one for all my listening. "Plus it'll get 'em outta my hands so I can finally start cutting back." He warned me not to get addicted to that cigarette I was coughing on and I told him I'd pinky swear on it (kinda broke that one, but it was totally worth it).
He was so mature and cool. To put it in current terms: he was a Clooney. George Clooney. Not like a young George Clooney. But the George Clooney you know now, but in the body of seventeen year old...in 1993. Yeah. Dreamy, I know. Believe me, I know.
So I became his Sancho Panza and I started being able to use his lingo without anyone around thinking it was weird. Things like saying "Saa" and wagging my finger when someone who just got reprimanded for running or diving where they weren't supposed to. "You know what you did," I'd say with confidence. "Park it." It was awesome. And it was all sanctioned and approved by my main man Xan.
Needless to say, I got drunk on a combination of coolness, acceptance and whatever happens to you when your heart pitter-patters a million times a second, all day long, all summer. The honeymoon was bound to end, and it did...badly. Not that badly, I mean...well, I'll get there.
You can probably say things started going south when 'Sleepless in Seattle' came out and I really wanted to go. As part of his beyond-his-years coolness, Xan appreciated the brilliance of 'When Harry Met Sally' - which had come out a few years earlier - very early on, when it was socially risky to do so among teenage peers. He quoted Harry's neurotic speeches and when some wannabe like Jeff Andrew (another lifeguard) said, "Xan, that movie's so gay," my hero never failed to find the perfect retort: "Your gay." Mean, but affective.
So when 'Sleepless' came out and was billed as, more or less, the next 'When Harry Met Sally,' I knew I had to strike.
That's right. I asked Xan Turner out on a date. It. Was. Terrible.
We were having our daily cigarette, which I was chasing with a strawberry fruit pop, when I brought it up. After staring at me for a little bit, he put his arm around me and laughed like you do when a kid asks something like, "where do baby storks come from?"
"Margene, come on," he said. "I mean...you're like my bud, you know?"
Those words entered my ears, rattled around in my brain, traveled down my spine, into my lungs where they created a cold, swirling feeling, before reaching my heart and breaking it into two distinct pieces. Those words were cold-blooded gangsters who didn't mind killing.
I put out my cigarette in my fruit pop, which I spiked onto the ground and left in a huff. I walked home and didn't go back to the pool for weeks. I was so sure we had something. Something. I knew it. I knew it me and Xan's "WE" would be different and might be hard to understand, but there was something. Right? There was something, damn it! I was so mad. At myself, mostly. And his stupid girlfriend who didn't know who she was dating and how lucky she was. Then I was mad at him for a while, too.
"You're like my bud, you know?"
Hell no, I didn't know. And that's what this long-winded nothing of a post is about, I guess. I was positive something was "there" that wasn't and never was (I've subsequently let Xan off the hook for this affection I thought was there). But I was so certain. I had good feelings about the whole thing, really. I thought he'd be a little surprised by my proposal of dinner at IP72 and a flick, but I thought he'd chuckle to himself and say, as if talking to himself and all the doubters, "you know what? Why not? Sure. Let's do it."
But that's not what happened. We were buds. I just didn't know it. Obviously, Ben's and my relationship is a heck of a lot more "deep" (read: complicated) than my stupid crush on a lifeguard one summer in the early 90's, but listening to Ben's sense of conviction, I was mad as all get out, but I could remember being so stupidly sure of something that didn't exist at all...just like he said he was. He's a (young) man so he's not gonna storm off like a girl would but I'm sure he is a little embarrassed and this defiance is a product of that. Where I ran off and exiled myself in shame, he has to stand by his incorrect assumption because, well, that's what men do sometimes. It's alright. I'm not as mad as I was earlier on, but he kept pushing me and I felt like I had to get harsh. But I do, in a way, know what he's going through. He reminded me of the first time I gambled with misguided feelings and got burned. I'm definitely not mad at him at this point. I was. But I think he'll work it out. Maybe he'll blog about someday...but I doubt it.
***************************************************************** 1Sixth grade best friend, out-right enemy by ninth grade and from then on?I hate school. Why does that stuff happen?
2Italian Pizzeria #7: there was an Italian family that owned this mini-chain of pizzerias in the area and instead of naming each one, they were/are just numbered...IP3 is my favorite for some reason, but they're all the same.
But it's sweet that he wants to.
