Engagement Announcement, later, ah, the truth!
June 15, 2008
Added later: Okay, so this guy here tells my daughter, listen, let’s take break until you can somehow get your act together. She borrowed money from him, being in a tight spot with a job change. I had to tell her. He doesn’t love you. Do you get it? She did get it.
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.
Family Reunion Non-Violent
June 10, 2008
We don’t know what happened to Allen, our cousin, the last of the clan. He was the only missing link for the First Annual Casey Camp Reunion sans Phil and Polly. My daughter came with her architect hunk, Steve came with son Ryan, I was protected by my bodyguard, Matt, who sat stoically throughout the proceedings, making small talk with my blood brothers. En route to the airport, when he was leaving for D.C. – he asked my younger brother many questions. One being, “What happened to Laurel? Why did she turn out this way? My brother just told him straight out. He wasn’t phased and why should he be? Most intelligent men are looking for a muse who will kick them in the ass and make them more than Capitalist Slaves, bring out their subversive, Buddhist inner selves. Drop out. Like the Beat-niks. Beat. Tired. Fed up with Fed Ex. The long weekend went swimmingly in 90 degree humidity. No fights. No hurt feelings. A family reset sans parents. the shake-down, the identity application and acceptance. Big steps forward. Me, in bikini, with dimpled thighs, legs and arms uncovered during our Stone Skipping Tournament. I relegate to Grandmother Preparedness Status. Lots of alcoholic drinking. The old stand-by Bloody Mary, an excuse to suck down Vodka before noon. How Continental. Everyone is leaving tomorrow, and I will be alone again, watching my garden, eating left-overs, scraping together the monies for a large electric bill. All is well. Time continues. Where are the grandchildren? Do we dare hope for them? Is it selfish to request another generation when we know the earth would be better off without them? The slow dying out of our species would be a world wide celebration for all remaining life forms. My woman hood is damaged by Hillary’s defeat. Let it be recorded herein: I do not trust Obama and I have no idea why. He is a good man, but there is something else going on. Stay tuned. Meanwhile, my Volvo only gets 21 miles to the gallon. My bank account cries with gas station debit card deductions. I tried to slow down for awhile and stop driving away from Camp Casey. I went crazy. As a gypsy, I need to move. I will substitute food for gas. A can of sardines can be had for 1.98. Three cans a week, voila, there is your protein. The rest is easy. beans. beans. Beans. I am planning a trip across the country in October- first stop Kansas City, second stop El Paso, third stop San Francisco. Will sleep in the back of the Volvo. Will we Baby-Boomers regress and embrace what once was our birthright? Movement? I predict a rebellion against cocooning and fanatic addiction to our homes. Sell it all. Get on the road. Laden down with junk, and as time passes, all the photos and memorabilia stuffed in the closets. Any day now, we are all going to take to the road for one last adventure. Burn the last of the oil. evaporate the coveted natural resources, force the next generation to harness solar power. It can’t be that difficult. Meanwhile, we still live in an age of steak and barbecue grills, air conditioning and road trips, convenient garbage disposal sites, unmitigated recklessness, which to me makes life worth living. What happens when I cannot fly to Morocco or San Francisco after budgeting madly? What if the world shrinks and we are forced to stay in one place unless we join a wagon train? Will we burrow in and settle down? I hope not. Geographic committment encourages tiny minds. I do not believe in community now that the National Bank of Middlebury has proven to be just another group of thugs. Small town life is dangerous. It encourages us to march straight. It is the end of expansive thought and crazy dreams. I will take my gray hair with me as I drift across the globe without health insurance or husband.
Are You Thinking About Your Wallet?
June 4, 2008
It’s a nasty habit.
The Center Of Our Existence in 2008
June 3, 2008
I feel good about my neck.
June 3, 2008
I feel good about my neck. At least it isn’t broken and I don’t have a husband ringing it. My neck supports my head. My neck is 55 years old and it still looks like a neck and not a tumor. It has served me well. I just browsed through the bestselling book “I Feel Bad About My Neck” and it should be stripped from the shelves. Just the title alone should warrant a citizen’s arrest. Read more
Featured Article:
Dumb- Ster
The cop looked in the dumpster and noticed a picture of his wife. He had just received a complaint from the Olympic Sports store that someone had dumped bags of garbage in their dumpster. That someone was me. I’d cleaned out a few drawers of hometown memories that morning, – high school notebooks, graduation pictures, diplomas, clippings and headed into what I thought was a free-for-all dumpster tucked behind a strip mall. After I threw the bags into the dumpster I took a walk with the dog and when I returned to my car I was met by the policeman and the assistant manager of the Olympic Sports store. Read more »