I'm actually going to start posting some of my writing assignments as blogs--that's what the Fah-Fah post was all about. Kyle and I don't do anything interesting enough to blog about, but some of these assignments have to do with interesting goings-ons, so enjoy! Here is my homework that is due Tuesday. The assignment was to listen in on a conversation and explain the setting in detail. Mine happened accidentally, of course.
Everything is wooden—the walls, the floor, the shelves piled to the wooden ceiling with knick-knacks, and then of course, the tables. It even smells woody in here. But it begins to smell more like spiced candles and fried food the further I walk. It’s a Cracker Barrel somewhere between Miami and Melbourne. Clutter. Round candies in mason jars, giant pecan-nougat rolls, John Deer paraphernalia, old-fashioned bottled root beer, stuffed animals wearing human clothes, hats that will never be worn (except when my mother talks my dad into trying a few on) and giant checkers on giant checker boards. A plump brunette wearing an oxford shirt in a flattering gray-blue color under her brown apron is smiling with her fingers laced in front of her stomach as she greets us.
“Hi! How are you doing this evening?”
My mother replies as if trying to match the hostess’ chipper tone. “Fine! Thank you for asking.”
My dad is parking the car and my husband has stayed with him. Good thinking. But now I can’t find my mother. I worked at a Cracker Barrel six years ago when I was a sophomore in high school and never could find a good enough reason to come back. Yet here we are. Over the speaker they’re playing a canned rendition of a bluegrass song. It literally sounds as if someone is singing into a tin can—a song about someone named “Bo Jangles.” And my dad sings the same line about this fellow, Bo Jangles all throughout dinner. My mother covers his mouth with her hand and laughs. There’s no music playing in the restaurant portion of the Barrel. A medley of voices and forks scraping plates and ice clinking in glasses is the music instead—thank God. My dad spends the meal—when he’s not singing about Bo Jangles—talking about the number of stars on each server’s apron. While my parents are in line at the register when the meal is finally over, I make my way to the bathroom before the last leg of our trip begins. We don’t want to have to stop with only an hour or so left on the road.
The bathroom is bright. A blue glow from a flickering fluorescent bulb casts an unkind light on the already unforgiving surfaces of the white countertops around the sink which are covered in murky puddles of water. The silver soap dispensers are caked with pink suds. The sink is stained brown around the drain. The music is louder in here and that song about Bo Jangles is on again—or still, maybe. I would rather hold my bladder for an hour. The only stall available is the middle of the three. I kick the pale door in with my cowboy boot to see a toilet that looks as if it hasn’t yet been abused by a careless patron. But the germs are invisible, I know. As I latch the stall door with the very tiniest tip of my left pinky finger I noticed the shoes on the right side of me. They are shiny, gold and strappy, stretched over wrinkled toes and a taupe-colored toenail polish. I suspect the feet belong to one of the women of the Red Had Society. On my way to the restroom I saw them finishing their meal at a large table on the far wall by the hostess stand. Now the women on either side of me seem to know one another. I listen.
“I’m going to try one of these and see if I can flush it down the toilet,” the one on the left says, sounding just as old as the feet to my right look. I have no idea what she’s referring to. I am afraid to wonder.
“I tried three and dropped the first two into the toilet just trying to get them out,” says the one to my right.
I imagine the two women fumbling with the crepe-thin toilet seat covers and relax as I come to understand the conversation I’ve now been thrust in the middle of. A loud noise comes from the left stall. I cringe.
“Oh, excuse me,” says the left stall.
“Oh, it’s okay. I did the same thing earlier,” replies the stall to the right.
I’m glad to have missed that.
“Well I haven’t gone all day and now that we’ve been here I’ve gone twice,” says the left stall.
“Well, you know how it goes. Once you start you just can’t stop.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
I burst out of the stall and wash my hands as thoroughly as if I could wash away everything I’ve just heard.
My family is waiting at the front door by the country music c.d. display and my mother and I run to the car, screaming about the chill in the air now that night has fallen, leaving our husbands jogging to keep up.
“Don’t worry mom,” I say, looking over at her in our sprint to the car. “I’ll warm you up with the conversation I just heard in the bathroom.”
Sunday, January 23, 2011
80's movies I love
I have been brainstorming birthday ideas and I thought, "what could bring life-long joy to me and my family?" And I got it. There are a few 80's movies I adore. Why didn't I think of this sooner? Here they are, starting with the most awesome.
1. Pretty Woman
2. The Breakfast Club
3. Dirty Dancing
4. Working Girl
5. Ferris Bueller's Day Off
6. Big
1. Pretty Woman
2. The Breakfast Club
3. Dirty Dancing
4. Working Girl
5. Ferris Bueller's Day Off
6. Big
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Fah-Fah
I know exactly where it is. I could be sitting 1,000 miles from that tiny, crammed apartment. But I could still tell you exactly where to find it. We have a lot of stuff in our one-room, one-closet home. In the closet there’s a washer unit I don’t know how to use, there’s my husband’s Easter basket from last year that my mother insisted on buying “her Easter-basketless son-in-law.” I’m getting warmer. There’s a trophy my husband won at a horse-shoe throwing competition. It’s appropriately made out of horse-shoes. A tiny horse-shoe man throwing an even tinier horse-shoe. Where do you get such a tiny horse-shoe? Where the heck am I supposed to put this thing? And then there it is.
It is my childhood blanket. Its name is “Fah-Fah.” Or is it? Was Fah-Fah a name or simply a word followed by “my” from back before I knew how to say the word “blanket”? I don’t know who gave it to me how long ago. I could call my mom and ask. The name still stands. Within the last few years I remember my sister asking me, “Do you still have your Fah-Fah?” Yeah, I do.
When I’m holding it, still folded in my arms, I’m afraid to turn the halves into a whole and look at its faded entirety because I know what I’ll see. It’s thin. But it was always thin. It wasn’t designed for warmth, I don’t think. But now when I hold it up to the light I’m almost sure I could read through its faded white background. I see the bright yellow trim where there are now only faded beige outlines. Tweety Bird holding his pastel-colored balloons is only a faded injustice of what he was my entire childhood. And when I run my polished fingertips over the split in the bottom right-hand corner I am back in that summer evening. Or was it summer? It was warm and the yards were green and the wide, black street was clear enough for a bunch of us kids to be having a race on it. On overseas Air Force bases every kid knows each other. Or at least they think they know. I don’t know about Navy or Army bases. My sisters and I had the best wagon on the block, a Radio Flyer whose red metal bed was far from its rusty days to come. There were at least two neighborhood kids being pulled vigorously in the wagon, one sitting on my Fah-Fah, its lemony-yellow corners fluttering in the wind we were making for it. I was at the rear pushing with everything my six-year-old arms and back and chubby legs could give. I think my older sister was pulling. But too suddenly our race or whatever we were driving that Radio Flyer so fast for seemed childish, the way most games do when someone gets hurt. Fah-Fah was stuck in the wheel and wrapping tighter and tighter around and around before I screamed, “Stop!” The awful sound I had heard only moments after I could have stopped it was the sound of a five-inch rip being torn in the corner of my blanket. It sounded over the whoops and hollers of my playmates. It struck me right in my 6-year-old heart. I shoved the wagon on its side. Looking back, I’m hoping I didn’t tip the wagon over while my friends were still inside it. I pumped my legs as hard as they would go toward my house, Fah-Fah under my arm. I am sure there must’ve been a distinct smell of fresh-cut grass, so green in my memory. Inside the house I remember my mother sitting poised on the edge of the couch with a needle (already threaded, of course) in one hand and the other extended for quick deposit of the injured patient. But I know that’s not really where she was. She was probably on an important phone call or baking something sweet or, knowing my parents, she was making out with my dad somewhere. But eventually she was sewing. Her bony, pale hands with the translucent and soft skin revealed every vein in her hands. Watching her hand move with the needle I probably could have learned how each bone moves almost freely to get one job done. But I only cried. My barely-older sister, her round cheeks pink with excitement, stuck her blond head in the front door while my mother was still operating and asked, “Awe you coming back to owah game?” Of course I wasn’t. “No,” I had whined through tears. No I wasn’t. Inspecting the stitch now, 15 years after, I want to call my mother up and tell her what a good job she did. The top stitch closes the gaping hole without much noticeable stitching, and on the back is where she gathered the ripped material and used her sewing machine to do a tight stitch. She did this so that the front wouldn’t look torn—so that I wouldn’t notice it without careful inspection. I’m not going to call her. Because despite her best efforts it is the one spot I think of when I hold it in my arms like a broken and brittle antique. But I'm glad.
It is my childhood blanket. Its name is “Fah-Fah.” Or is it? Was Fah-Fah a name or simply a word followed by “my” from back before I knew how to say the word “blanket”? I don’t know who gave it to me how long ago. I could call my mom and ask. The name still stands. Within the last few years I remember my sister asking me, “Do you still have your Fah-Fah?” Yeah, I do.
When I’m holding it, still folded in my arms, I’m afraid to turn the halves into a whole and look at its faded entirety because I know what I’ll see. It’s thin. But it was always thin. It wasn’t designed for warmth, I don’t think. But now when I hold it up to the light I’m almost sure I could read through its faded white background. I see the bright yellow trim where there are now only faded beige outlines. Tweety Bird holding his pastel-colored balloons is only a faded injustice of what he was my entire childhood. And when I run my polished fingertips over the split in the bottom right-hand corner I am back in that summer evening. Or was it summer? It was warm and the yards were green and the wide, black street was clear enough for a bunch of us kids to be having a race on it. On overseas Air Force bases every kid knows each other. Or at least they think they know. I don’t know about Navy or Army bases. My sisters and I had the best wagon on the block, a Radio Flyer whose red metal bed was far from its rusty days to come. There were at least two neighborhood kids being pulled vigorously in the wagon, one sitting on my Fah-Fah, its lemony-yellow corners fluttering in the wind we were making for it. I was at the rear pushing with everything my six-year-old arms and back and chubby legs could give. I think my older sister was pulling. But too suddenly our race or whatever we were driving that Radio Flyer so fast for seemed childish, the way most games do when someone gets hurt. Fah-Fah was stuck in the wheel and wrapping tighter and tighter around and around before I screamed, “Stop!” The awful sound I had heard only moments after I could have stopped it was the sound of a five-inch rip being torn in the corner of my blanket. It sounded over the whoops and hollers of my playmates. It struck me right in my 6-year-old heart. I shoved the wagon on its side. Looking back, I’m hoping I didn’t tip the wagon over while my friends were still inside it. I pumped my legs as hard as they would go toward my house, Fah-Fah under my arm. I am sure there must’ve been a distinct smell of fresh-cut grass, so green in my memory. Inside the house I remember my mother sitting poised on the edge of the couch with a needle (already threaded, of course) in one hand and the other extended for quick deposit of the injured patient. But I know that’s not really where she was. She was probably on an important phone call or baking something sweet or, knowing my parents, she was making out with my dad somewhere. But eventually she was sewing. Her bony, pale hands with the translucent and soft skin revealed every vein in her hands. Watching her hand move with the needle I probably could have learned how each bone moves almost freely to get one job done. But I only cried. My barely-older sister, her round cheeks pink with excitement, stuck her blond head in the front door while my mother was still operating and asked, “Awe you coming back to owah game?” Of course I wasn’t. “No,” I had whined through tears. No I wasn’t. Inspecting the stitch now, 15 years after, I want to call my mother up and tell her what a good job she did. The top stitch closes the gaping hole without much noticeable stitching, and on the back is where she gathered the ripped material and used her sewing machine to do a tight stitch. She did this so that the front wouldn’t look torn—so that I wouldn’t notice it without careful inspection. I’m not going to call her. Because despite her best efforts it is the one spot I think of when I hold it in my arms like a broken and brittle antique. But I'm glad.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
I have to talk about blessings
Lately I have had ear aches and ear itches. This morning I actually woke myself up because I was itching my ear in my sleep. I was putting off going to the doctor because of finals and yesterday I hosted my work Christmas party. So this morning I went to the walk-in clinic at Walmart. Here are all the ways I pre-judged it.
~It's going to be full of dirty, sick people.
~The people who work there are going to be rude from having to deal with the sick people.
~It's going to be dirty.
~The doctor really isn't going to care about me.
This is how the visit went. First I got online to look up what these clinics were all about. And apparently Wuestoff Hospital (our county's main hospital chain) is putting them in all the walmart storefronts as a way for people (even with insurace) to be able to get a quick doctor's appointment even on weekends and evenings. It's not a state-run health clinic. It's a doctors office in walmart. And it was brand new!
When I got there I filled out the patient forms and handed them in and was followed by a woman who was there to get sea-sick patches for a cruise she was taking. We chatted while the very nice desk lady checked us both in, and within 15 minutes I went back and met the nurse practitioner. She looked in my ears, nose and mouth and felt my glands and asked me lots of questions. (I have a sinus infection)Then when she realized I didn't have insurance she gave me coupons for my nasal spray and ammoxacilin because it's free to fill! All for $49. (I called an E.N.T. and they said just for a first-visit consultation it would be $306)
I always thought having no insurance would be a major burden. That I would be unhappy with my clinic visits and go un-cared for by busy, underpaid care-givers. But these people were really helpful and caring. And it was so affordable. Other than the fact that in an emergency we would be screwed over by a high ER bill, having no insurance has not turned out to be a burden at all. In fact, I pay less for birth control than I ever did before. It's free, too!
All this to say, God is truly blessing us and today I felt very thankful for all the ways that He shows me He is watching out for me. He wants me to be healed and he wants Kyle not to be stressed about doctor bills. I will always be "the sickly wife" to Kyle, but with this cute little clinic, I won't cost much!
~It's going to be full of dirty, sick people.
~The people who work there are going to be rude from having to deal with the sick people.
~It's going to be dirty.
~The doctor really isn't going to care about me.
This is how the visit went. First I got online to look up what these clinics were all about. And apparently Wuestoff Hospital (our county's main hospital chain) is putting them in all the walmart storefronts as a way for people (even with insurace) to be able to get a quick doctor's appointment even on weekends and evenings. It's not a state-run health clinic. It's a doctors office in walmart. And it was brand new!
When I got there I filled out the patient forms and handed them in and was followed by a woman who was there to get sea-sick patches for a cruise she was taking. We chatted while the very nice desk lady checked us both in, and within 15 minutes I went back and met the nurse practitioner. She looked in my ears, nose and mouth and felt my glands and asked me lots of questions. (I have a sinus infection)Then when she realized I didn't have insurance she gave me coupons for my nasal spray and ammoxacilin because it's free to fill! All for $49. (I called an E.N.T. and they said just for a first-visit consultation it would be $306)
I always thought having no insurance would be a major burden. That I would be unhappy with my clinic visits and go un-cared for by busy, underpaid care-givers. But these people were really helpful and caring. And it was so affordable. Other than the fact that in an emergency we would be screwed over by a high ER bill, having no insurance has not turned out to be a burden at all. In fact, I pay less for birth control than I ever did before. It's free, too!
All this to say, God is truly blessing us and today I felt very thankful for all the ways that He shows me He is watching out for me. He wants me to be healed and he wants Kyle not to be stressed about doctor bills. I will always be "the sickly wife" to Kyle, but with this cute little clinic, I won't cost much!
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Instead of working on my finals, I'm doing this!
Here are my Christmas decorations. I came home tonight with every intention of doing some homework seeing as how classes end next week.
Nope. Santa can't wait that long.
Here are the Christmas village places that mom bought me. We have matching sets. From the left there is the Toy Shoppe, The (Southern Baptist) Church, The Court House, and a Blue House that belongs to the Judge/Pastor/ToyMaker of the town. His name is Santa.
Here are the twinkle lights around our massive window
Here is Thornton Santa. Mom bought him for us on Black Friday and said that he would be the santa that our kids will be excited about getting out each year. He's awesome. I don't think the kids will be as excited for Thornton Santa as we were for Sprite Santa.
And here's Sprite Santa in case you didn't know...
Here are our advent stockings. Kyle demands individually-wrapped twizzlers in his stockings so the search is on. *sigh*
Here is Marsh Santa. We had one like this when we were little and it disappeared so Grandma CC gave me hers. I love him the best.
Here is our nativity scene--Peanuts window pasties. I love how Woodstock is baby Jesus. So sweet.
Here are our stockings hung by the front door with care. With hopes that the tacks holding them up with do their job by keeping them there. (the stockings are filled with cotton)
Nope. Santa can't wait that long.
Here are the Christmas village places that mom bought me. We have matching sets. From the left there is the Toy Shoppe, The (Southern Baptist) Church, The Court House, and a Blue House that belongs to the Judge/Pastor/ToyMaker of the town. His name is Santa.
Here are the twinkle lights around our massive window
Here is Thornton Santa. Mom bought him for us on Black Friday and said that he would be the santa that our kids will be excited about getting out each year. He's awesome. I don't think the kids will be as excited for Thornton Santa as we were for Sprite Santa.
And here's Sprite Santa in case you didn't know...
Here are our advent stockings. Kyle demands individually-wrapped twizzlers in his stockings so the search is on. *sigh*
Here is Marsh Santa. We had one like this when we were little and it disappeared so Grandma CC gave me hers. I love him the best.
Here is our nativity scene--Peanuts window pasties. I love how Woodstock is baby Jesus. So sweet.
Here are our stockings hung by the front door with care. With hopes that the tacks holding them up with do their job by keeping them there. (the stockings are filled with cotton)
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Five-Day Weekend
From Wednesday until Sunday I had no school and only worked one shift Saturday night. In that time I did the following.
Wednesday I:
Cleaned my apartment from top to bottom. This includes but is not limited to, stripping the bed, cleaning the kitty litter, sweeping and vacuuming the floors, running the dishwasher, Mr. Clean Magic Eraser-ing the doors from Kyle's dirty handprints, scrubbing the tub, its tiles, sink and all house mirrors, and scrubbing the floors on my hands and knees using a pot of almost boiling water, pledge floor cleaner and a green scrubby.
Bathed the cat.
Did a minimal amount of homework because I got all of my major projects done last weekend so I could enjoy the holiday.
Got my hair cut again.
Baked 2 pinapple casseroles in preperations for my two Thanksgiving dinners (neither of which were eaten).
Made a brownie trifle (almost all of which got eaten).
Went to dinner with Kyle.
Saw a movie for free that sucked (Faster, some action film that Kyle's workout buddy invited us to).
Thursday I:
Went to Kyle's parents in Orlando at 9 to watch the parade.
Watched the whole parade with his sisters which was so much fun.
Helped in the kitchen, made the drop biscuits.
Ate at 1:00, left 30 minutes after and were slightly late for mom and dad's dinner, but still caught the tail end.
Played scategories with mom, grandma and neighbor glenna.
Cut coupons and planned black Friday.
Took picture for Christmas card.
Friday I:
Woke up at 2:30 to be at mom's by three. AM.
Shopped until 5 pm at Kohls, then Target, then a huge/awesome mall I'd never been to.
Ate Chik-fil-A, Subway, and Mexican as my 3 meals that day.
Learned how to Crochet while watching Garfield Christmas and The Grinch with mom and dad.
Discovered that the engine light had been on in my car because I had somehow driven off without my gas cap.
Got my windsheilf wipers replaced.
(I have to pause and say that I can't believe that after shopping for 14 hours and learning to crochet, I still was forced to go to Auto Zone and get diagnostics run on my car, buy a new gas cap and get my wipers replaced. I'm lucky my husband cares so much about my car's safety.)
Was asleep by 10
Saturday I:
Went to the flea market with Kyle.
Went to lunch at our favorite pizza place that reminds me of the place we went to in England as kids. (They use those dimply red plastic coke cups and have old arcade games in the back)
Saw a movie not that was good (Love and Other Drugs)
Went to work.
Went grocery shopping.
Sunday I:
Was late to church.
Did laundry while eating leftovers at mom and dad's.
Got a fourth row done on my scarf that I am crocheting.
Went out to eat with Kyle for the third time in one weekend (but all totalled it was technically my 6th time that weekend)--it was a new Mexican place and it was the best I have had since moving here.
Did homework.
Packed Kyle's lunch.
Went to bed.
This is what I have to say about weekends like this. They are wonderful. I did very little critical thinking--except when I was dominating scategories--and I was so tired every night that I was doing that weird laugh thing when your so tired you can't even groan and it comes out in bursts, like sleepy cackling. ?? The issue is that when you go back to the real world, you are so over all the writing and thinking you did the week before the holiday and you're so relaxed from the no-work holiday that you just want to take a nap every time you open the computer.
But here is a really funny knock knock joke I heard at work tonight and was hoping to use on Kyle when I got home but he is asleep. Alas, you will have to try it. Say the whole thing aloud:
me: Knock Knock
you: Who's there?
me: smell mupp
you: smell mupp who?
CRACK UP LAUGHING!
Please excuse this--I worked late tonight.
Wednesday I:
Cleaned my apartment from top to bottom. This includes but is not limited to, stripping the bed, cleaning the kitty litter, sweeping and vacuuming the floors, running the dishwasher, Mr. Clean Magic Eraser-ing the doors from Kyle's dirty handprints, scrubbing the tub, its tiles, sink and all house mirrors, and scrubbing the floors on my hands and knees using a pot of almost boiling water, pledge floor cleaner and a green scrubby.
Bathed the cat.
Did a minimal amount of homework because I got all of my major projects done last weekend so I could enjoy the holiday.
Got my hair cut again.
Baked 2 pinapple casseroles in preperations for my two Thanksgiving dinners (neither of which were eaten).
Made a brownie trifle (almost all of which got eaten).
Went to dinner with Kyle.
Saw a movie for free that sucked (Faster, some action film that Kyle's workout buddy invited us to).
Thursday I:
Went to Kyle's parents in Orlando at 9 to watch the parade.
Watched the whole parade with his sisters which was so much fun.
Helped in the kitchen, made the drop biscuits.
Ate at 1:00, left 30 minutes after and were slightly late for mom and dad's dinner, but still caught the tail end.
Played scategories with mom, grandma and neighbor glenna.
Cut coupons and planned black Friday.
Took picture for Christmas card.
Friday I:
Woke up at 2:30 to be at mom's by three. AM.
Shopped until 5 pm at Kohls, then Target, then a huge/awesome mall I'd never been to.
Ate Chik-fil-A, Subway, and Mexican as my 3 meals that day.
Learned how to Crochet while watching Garfield Christmas and The Grinch with mom and dad.
Discovered that the engine light had been on in my car because I had somehow driven off without my gas cap.
Got my windsheilf wipers replaced.
(I have to pause and say that I can't believe that after shopping for 14 hours and learning to crochet, I still was forced to go to Auto Zone and get diagnostics run on my car, buy a new gas cap and get my wipers replaced. I'm lucky my husband cares so much about my car's safety.)
Was asleep by 10
Saturday I:
Went to the flea market with Kyle.
Went to lunch at our favorite pizza place that reminds me of the place we went to in England as kids. (They use those dimply red plastic coke cups and have old arcade games in the back)
Saw a movie not that was good (Love and Other Drugs)
Went to work.
Went grocery shopping.
Sunday I:
Was late to church.
Did laundry while eating leftovers at mom and dad's.
Got a fourth row done on my scarf that I am crocheting.
Went out to eat with Kyle for the third time in one weekend (but all totalled it was technically my 6th time that weekend)--it was a new Mexican place and it was the best I have had since moving here.
Did homework.
Packed Kyle's lunch.
Went to bed.
This is what I have to say about weekends like this. They are wonderful. I did very little critical thinking--except when I was dominating scategories--and I was so tired every night that I was doing that weird laugh thing when your so tired you can't even groan and it comes out in bursts, like sleepy cackling. ?? The issue is that when you go back to the real world, you are so over all the writing and thinking you did the week before the holiday and you're so relaxed from the no-work holiday that you just want to take a nap every time you open the computer.
But here is a really funny knock knock joke I heard at work tonight and was hoping to use on Kyle when I got home but he is asleep. Alas, you will have to try it. Say the whole thing aloud:
me: Knock Knock
you: Who's there?
me: smell mupp
you: smell mupp who?
CRACK UP LAUGHING!
Please excuse this--I worked late tonight.
Monday, November 8, 2010
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