Monthly Archives: February 2014

Top Ten Reasons I Know I’m Not at Home

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  1. No one complained about having sushi for dinner.

    Another word for "clean" is "sterile."

    Another word for “clean” is “sterile.”

  2. The sheets don’t have any cracker crumbs, Matchbox cars, wood chips, sand, or pee on them.
  3. It’s been 14 hours since I had to worry about the state of anyone else’s butt.
  4. I don’t even know which channel Nick Jr is on this TV.
  5. No alarm.  I get to sleep until I decide to wake up.
  6. The bathroom has been “Sanitized for My Protection.”
  7. I had a one-hour uninterrupted conversation with a friend.
  8. There are no cats to let in then out then in then out then in then out.  Then in.
  9. Surfaces.  All of the furniture, the carpet, the counters–uncluttered.
  10. No one kissed me good night.  And that makes me glad I’ll be home tomorrow night.

Boys Who Love Boys

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SongAchilles-pb-c“I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me.
If I had had words to speak such a thing, I would have. But there were none that seemed big enough for it, to hold that swelling truth.
As if he had heard me, he reached for my hand. I did not need to look; his fingers were etched into my memory, slender and petal-veined, strong and quick and never wrong.
“Patroclus,” he said. He was always better with words than I.”
― Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

I just finished this mesmerizing book last week and I don’t even want to return it to the library.  I don’t want to download a copy on my Kindle–I will go buy a physical copy of this book so that I can touch it whenever I wish.  It’s THAT good.  There’s action, lyrical language, adventure, exquisite characters, classical mythology, and a heartbreaking love story.

I’m not sure how easy it would be to get swept up in the story if you weren’t already familiar with the characters and the twists of The Iliad (Homer’s epic poem of the war between the Trojans and the Greeks).  Part of the anguish for me was knowing what was going to happen in the end, but being completely absorbed in the inescapable trek towards the final fate of each character.  Well, that’s a lot of 50 cent words for this–I knew everyone was going to die in the end.  I remembered from lit classes who killed whom and why, so it wasn’t a suspenseful tale.  Madeline Miller spins a story so rich that it’s not about the destination; it’s about the journey.

My six-year-old daughter saw the book in my purse the other day when I picked her up from school and asked about that thing on the cover.  I told her that it was a soldier’s helmet from four thousand years ago.  She wanted to know who was fighting back then, so as we drove to get her brother, I explained the basic arc of the story like this:

Patroclus and Achilles become friends as kids.  They fall in love.  Achilles is a great fighter, the best ever.  He’s half god–his mother is a sea nymph who lives under the ocean.  Patroclus is more gentle and shy; he likes being a doctor.  A war starts because this queen, Helen, runs off to Troy with a prince who isn’t her husband and her husband gets mad and asks his brother to get all of the other kings to help him go steal her back.  Achilles decides to go along because he wants everyone to know how good he is at fighting.  Patroclus goes with Achilles because they don’t want to be apart.  Achilles and the Greeks fight the Trojans for years and years and years.  Then Achilles gets mad at the king because he insults him.  Achilles stops fighting.  The Greeks start to lose.  Patroclus doesn’t like seeing his friends get hurt, so he begs Achilles to go back and win the war.  Achilles won’t do it because he’s too proud.  The Greeks are about to get wiped out.  Patroclus comes up with a trick to get the Greeks fired up again–he dresses up in Achilles’ armor and helmet and leads the Greeks into battle.  It works!  The Greeks start beating the Trojans, but then the best Trojan of them all, Hector, throws a spear and kills Patroclus because he sees the armor and thinks that it’s Achilles…

…and this is the point where Vivi interrupts me and says, “Wait.  I thought Patroclius is Achilleseses’ wife?  Is he a boy?”

I parked in front of the day care and turned around to face her.  “Patroclus is a boy.  Well, a man by the time the war happens.  He and Achilles love each other–they’re boys who love boys.”

“Oh.  Can I see that book?”

“Sure.”  I handed it back to her in its crinkly plastic library book cover.  “I’m not sure you’re going to like it–there aren’t any pictures.”

She gave me a look.  “I don’t need pictures anymore.”

Oh yeah, right.  She opened the book to a page in the middle, stuck her finger in her mouth and set to reading.  By the time I got back to the car with her brother, she peppered me with questions:  Who is Apollo?  What’s a plague?  What’s a chariot?  Who kills Achilles?  Why?  Does Patroclius become a ghost?  Who wins the war?  Are these people real?  Where is this?

I answered her questions, every one.  She was stumped by things like goddesses who live under the sea and prophecies that come true, but not the least bit surprised that Achilleses and Patroclius were boys who love boys.  I am so overwhelmed with gladness that she is growing up in THIS world.  “If I had had words to speak such a thing, I would have. But there were none that seemed big enough for it, to hold that swelling truth.”

Married Bliss

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mr-rightIt’s 12:28 a.m. and I may never sleep again.  The scene of depravity that I just stumbled on in the den has burned itself into my brain and it will fester there until my last moment on this earth.

I went to bed at eleven, and left G still on the couch watching TV.  After reading myself into a trance (Junot Diaz’ “This Is How You Lose Her”–ironic, given the way this story is going), I switched out the light and tried to fall asleep.  I almost had, then jerked awake because my nose was stuffy.  12:05 a.m….dangit.  I poked around in the medicine cabinet for one of those sexy nose strip things and couldn’t find any.

So I walked toward the den to grab my phone and type a note to get breathie strips tomorrow.  As I opened the door from the hallway, a guilty looking G whirled his head around from where he sat on the couch and I heard a strange clunking noise as he tried to hide an object on the lower shelf of the coffee table.  My eyes darted to the TV, expecting to see some horrifying adult pay-per-view. Nope, just a sci-fi movie (and not even a sexy one at that).  Then I looked closer at the object he had tried to hide.

What do you think it was?  Given the level of panic on his face, you might guess crack pipe.  Then he started to giggle and I saw that the secret object was my kitchen shears.  My fancy German steel kitchen shears.  The ones I protect from the children when they want to cut paper.  The ones I squawk over when he uses them to slice open a plastic bag.  My precious.

The father of my children was using my kitchen shears to cut his toenails.  He was staying up late, waiting for me to sleep, so that he could do perverse things with foreign objects.

As the truth of the moment revealed itself to me, I stood frozen in the doorway, one hand covering my gaping mouth.  Seconds ticked by as he waited for my outrage to pour forth.

“I would rather have found you in here with a woman.”

He cringed and laughed.  “The clippers just don’t do as good of a job.”

Like he’s done this BEFORE.

“I was going to put them in the dishwasher.”

We laughed so hard I bent over double.  When I finally got myself back together, I said, “You KNOW this is going in the blog.”

So that’s why I’m sitting here in bed typing at 12:40 a.m.  Some stories just beg to be told.

And damn if the fool didn’t just come in here and waggle his eyebrows at me in a suggestive, “Hey, the kids are asleep” fashion.  I met him with a steely glare.

“You have GOT to be kidding.”

He plopped down on the bed beside me and said, “Hey, at least I wouldn’t scratch you.”

Sunday Sweetness – “I Was Hers First”

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love spokenToday is a day for reflection, so I wanted to share with you the best thing I read this week.  It’s from my friend Rachel’s brand new blog–Cynical Christian Like You.  She started her blog on the one-year anniversary of Baddest Mother Ever!!  

Rachel and her husband adopted their first daughter from foster care and the path was an arduous one.  This piece is called “I Was Hers First” and it’s about the invisible presence of that “other mother”:

For an adoptive parent, when an ER nurse looks at you like you are just another over-reacting mom, it is hard not to yell things like, “You will never understand who this girl is, what she cost, and what she means.” So you try to rein it in, act normally, even though you are terrified that you will have to call the other woman who loves your child as much as you do and tell her, “Um, I botched this.”

There is so much to botch. So much already botched. (read more)

 

And so much that Rachel has done right with this kid.  I hope you enjoy this story and that you’ll share it with other parents who might understand.  

Saturday Snort–Say What??

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You-clearly-look-confused-lYesterday, I made reference to a traditional Polish proverb:  “Not my circus, not my monkeys.”  Here are some other odd sayings from other languages…

  • Hebrew: You don’t threaten a prostitute using a penis.
  • Russian: Don’t threaten a hedgehog with your naked butt.
  • Korean: You got a cat to watch your fish. (you came up with a solution that didn’t solve anything)
  • Norwegian: Taste is like the butt. It’s divided.
  • Finnish: Climbed up the tree ass first (idiotic)
  • My Grandfather:  You’re going around your ass to get to your elbow.
  • French: Having noodles framing your asshole (lucky)
  • Arabic: You bury me (I love you so much, I want to die before you do)
  • Spanish: I don’t even have a dead guy at this funeral (I don’t have a dog in this fight)
  • German: Two idiots, one thought (great minds think alike)
  • Russian: In times like these, it helps to remember there have always been times like these.

Monkeys

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Well.

You know those times when you have a day that should have been a really good day–and it WAS a really good day–but then one person says one pissant thing and bursts the whole bubble?  And you keep telling yourself “Let it go!  Let it go!  That’s about them, not about you!  Kumbayah, My Lord, Kumbayah!” but your mind floooooooaaaats back to that meanness?  And by the end of the day you think you’ve forgotten about it but as soon as you sit in the car and take a deep breath before turning your mind to what to cook for dinner and who has homework left to do…then all of a sudden you’re CRYING?  And it’s not sad crying, it’s MAD crying?  Then 20 minutes later you’re back to thinking about meanness and wondering if you still remember the finer points of rolling toilet paper all over someone’s yard?  But you can’t do that because your husband is at a conference and you can’t leave the kids alone long enough to go t.p. some trees…oh, and you’re out of toilet paper?  And you can’t take the kids with you because you’d be setting a bad example and besides they suck at being stealthy?

Anyway.

I may or may not have had a day like that today.  Mind keeps floating back to meanness.  Retaliation.  Comeuppance.  (That’s twice in a week I’ve used “comeuppance” in a post so I think it might be time for a spa day.)

Days like today, I recall an old Polish Proverb:  “Not my circus, not my monkeys.”  It’s their clever way of saying “Not my problem” at the same time recognizing that life is essentially a circus filled with shit-flinging monkeys.  Circuses are fun, but they do smell.  

So I made a little picture to unleash my creative side.  If you find yourself surrounded by monkeys some day, print this out and tape it above your desk at work.  Or home.  Depends on the monkeys.  

monkey

Mom-tor

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The role of MENTOR sounds daunting if you think too hard on it.  Kind of like being a mom, right?  My column over at Work It, Mom! today is about the parallels between the roles of mentor and mom.  Click the pic to scoot on over…you might discover that you are ready to be a mentor.  

Oil_Lamp_(4752005479)

dishes

Why We Ask About Y’Mom’n’em

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waving pandaToday’s story blends together some of my favorite things–sociolinguistics, Southern storytelling, and getting the goat of an uppity snoot.

When I was a young professional, forging my path into the world of work, I took a job at a bank holding company.  My boss was very…prim.  Priggish, even.  Uptight, Outta Sight.  (She will play the role of the Uppity Snoot.)  During my first week on the job, she made appointments for me to go around and introduce myself to some of the higher ups in the organization.  Before each one, she would offer pointers–AS IF my mama had not already raised me, thankyouverymuch.  I nodded and smiled and went about my business.

Well, one morning, she came to my desk all breathless and said, “Today you are going to meet the head of commercial lending!  He’s VERY important and he’s very busy.  Be sure to be your most professional and don’t waste any of his time.  Get in, get out, get back over here.”

I got back to the office an hour and a half later.  She was in a swivet.  A full on tizzy.  “What took so long?” she panted.

“It turns out his in-laws live three houses down from my daddy! They’ve been taking their dogs to his clinic for years.  I invited him over for a hot dog on July Fourth.  He’s a hoot!”

She looked like I had slapped her.  “What?  How did that even COME UP?”

And that’s when I taught her a thing or two about the power of asking about Y’Mom’n’em.

For those of you who don’t know Y’Mom’n’em, that’s a Southern idiom for “Your mother and them.”  That is, your people.  A simple question like “How’s Y’Mom’n’em?” conveys that the speaker shows concern not only for you, but for your entire family.  It’s “in speak,” a form of jargon that members of a social group use among themselves to establish solidarity.  Like “totes ma goats” or “a’ight” for  my teenager’s friends.

So…how did I end up inviting the head of Commercial Lending over for a hot dog?  As soon as I had shaken his hand firmly and introduced myself (as my mama taught me), I noticed that he had a degree on the wall from the University of Georgia.  I said, “Oh, I guess you’re a Georgia fan.  May I offer my sincere condolences on behalf of the alumni of Auburn…” because we had recently beaten them in football.  He laughed and said “Oh…now we’re hiring people from Auburn?”  I mentioned that I had my graduate degree from there (see how I slipped that in there?) and that I had my undergrad degree from Wesleyan College.  He told me that he knew a girl who had gone to Wesleyan–Sara Soandso from Griffin.  I exclaimed that she was in my sister’s class at Wesleyan and she was now back living in Griffin.  That’s when he mentioned that his in-laws lived there too–I said they probably knew my dad, the veterinarian–he told me about the dogs–then it even came down to how he had been down that past weekend to help them with some housework and BAM…they live three doors down from my’dad’n’em.

That exchange took a couple of minutes.  THEN we talked business.

That’s the lesson I boiled down for my boss.  Southerners like to establish a personal connection first, no matter how tangential it may seem, then they talk business.  According to the business manuals, we’re supposed to conduct business together to establish trust, then share personal connections.  Nope.  Not around here.

Explaining Y’Mom’n’em to her that way clicked and she began to understand all those “wasted” minutes at the beginning of every business meeting–talking about football or fishing or what was for dinner last night or how Little Sally did in the school spelling bee.  She thought of those tidbits as the kind of things you saved for AFTER work–but no one was socializing with her after work because they didn’t trust her.  She never asked about Y’Mom’n’em!

Those exchanges establish trust and lay the groundwork for making decisions together or conducting business.  I know we aren’t the only social group that does this, but it’s a pretty concrete rule down here–make a connection on a personal level if you ever want to connect on a professional level.

There you have it–sociolinguistics, Southern storytelling, and comeuppance.  If this story had a three-legged dog name of Cletus, it would be perfect.