Engagement Announcement
June 15, 2008
This is a new idea, mothers. You just get a great snapshot of your son or daughter with their partner, write a fantasy wedding announcement and send it to the local paper and the New York Times. You must create your own reality. Fake it till you make it, as they say. I need grandchildren to kill time with. I can’t remember the last time I played Barbie or Legos, changed a diaper, pushed a carriage. As the grey hairs sprout and everything begins to sag, I realize it is only the promise of another generation that encourages me to take Calcium supplements. Why is grandma in the corner sucking her thumb? my future grandchildren will ask. Why is grandma drinking all day? Why was grandma caught holding up a 7-11? Why doesn’t grandma ever laugh? Don’t grandmothers laugh? Don’t they bake pies and can tomatoes? On second thought, a grandchild may not be the answer. A mother-in-law apartment might be the answer. I have got to feign a limp so that I can get some sympathy. I’ve let my hair go gray to remind people that I am retired and tired. They should give me their seat on the bus. Stop feeling me up. Where are the garden parties, the bridge games, afternoon tea with other battle axes? Let’s get on with it. Suddenly I am middle aged forever and ever. Monotonous dont you agree? It used to be that we were young for a brief period, and old for a long period. Old worked. It was the end of the road and enlightenment came easily– as it does when you are forced to give up. Recently middle aged people are starting new careers, going back to school, writing their first book, marrying younger people, traveling to India, opening Italian restaurants. Reinventing themselves instead of fading away, content with soup and TV. The stakes continue to rise, rise rise. Grandchildren are no longer enough. Knitting doesn’t make the grade. The pressure continues: Do something. It’s very unpleasant. I just heard of a woman to told everybody she had cancer so they would get off her back about doing something. She was finally able to relax and read. People sent her get-well cards and casseroles, life was pretty good until they got frustrated with the lengthy remission. I thought she was supposed to die. I am tired of being generous and patient with her. Why doesnt she just drop dead and get it over with. My daughter and her beau were here last weekend and already I could feel the slight pull towards the grave. I was yesterday. They were today and tomorrow. I did not want to be a burden. Just the mother-in-law apartment and a few bottles of Gin and I could make it through, and yes, watch the grandchildren and play Barbie and Legos. Tell friends I have cancer but am going back to school to get my Master’s in Drama Therapy. Smile bright thanks to a lightening kit. Should I order new internal organs while I can hold a pen or type? Or will the grandchildren do that for me, and can I kiss them if we are both wearing oxygen masks.
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There is somebody in my house in Vermont. A nice man is renting my house and I am thrilled because that man is renting my house and sending me money so that I can rent an apartment in Providence. Now, wait a minute. Does this make sense? I thought so, a few weeks ago, when I was working here, singing, planning, organizing, hob-knobbing, but as of today, as I lugged a bunch of my crap up two flights of stairs on the East Side, all the while knowing I would have to lug the crap back down the two flights of stairs a few months from now— as of today, I thought to myself, “Gee, I don’t feel very good in my head” I sat on the stairs, dirty stairs, very dirty, and considered my situation. I blamed the town of Bridport , Vermont, for not having a Dunkin Donut’s or a Cafe, a bar or a nightclub, a college, tennis courts, health club, movie theater. Then I blamed myself for wanting those things. Then I blamed myself for having those things here in Providence and not taking advantage of them because I like staying home and reading in bed. Now, if I like staying home and reading in bed, why don’t I just move back to my own home, in Bridport, and wait out the winter with Charles Dickens and Mark Twain? Now that I have rented my house, I miss it. It is not available. That is why I was so sad today, moving into what I thought was a nice apartment on the East Side. It is somebody elses house and always will be, no matter how many knick knacks, rugs, paintings, books, personal items I stuff into it. Renting makes me feel insecure, more insecure than worrying about how to pay my property tax. It’s silly, because none of us own anything fully. Still, sombody is in MY house and i am in somebody else’s house, and it’s ridiculous in a way that I can’t quite comprehend and it is making me very very sad.