Tag Archives: Big Gay

In the Big Gay Library

I got to spend 24 hours with The Gays this weekend–my stepmother, Big Gay, and my sister, Little Gay–which means we spent about 18 of those hours talking about books. It. Was. Heaven. All three of us are voracious readers, each in her own genre, but with enough overlap that we can give each other great recommendations. I read mostly literary fiction. Big Gay prefers non-fiction, mainly history and memoir. Little Gay has been reading a lot of fantasy lately and she’s not sure why. And she and I both dabble in Young Adult. We can’t wait for Vivi to be old enough for Phillip Pullman’s His Dark Materials or Jonathan Stroud’s Bartimaeus trilogy (both Little Gay’s discoveries).

On the walk over to the football stadium to watch Jackson’s high school graduation on Thursday night, Big Gay and I hung back to talk books. When I told her I had finished The Map Thief from the stack of books she had passed along to me last time I was home, Big Gay gasped, “Ayshley! Could you believe THE NERVE of him?” Oh, to have the confidence of a mediocre white man who makes a living stealing rare maps from libraries then selling them to his cients.

“What else have you read that you liked?” she asked as we walked past the police cars blocking traffic. “Language Arts!” She thought on it but it didn’t ring a bell. “The book I gave you for your birthday and when you found out it was about autism you told me not to read it?” She was still at a loss. “You know, the one about the father of the boy with severe autism, and the boy is aging out of his group home so the divorced parents are setting up private care and the father flashes back to a friend he had in elementary school…(and then I told her the twist)” She grabbed my arm. “Yes! It just about broke my heart.” I nodded. “I had about 30 pages left one day after reading on my lunch break and I had to go back and shut my office door so I could finish it.”

Big Gay asked if I had read The Elegance of the Hedgehog because it was the last book to leave her in a puddle on the floor. I pulled out my phone and sent myself an email with the title so I wouldn’t forget to read it. “There are passages in it where the language is so beautiful that I cried when it was done, not because it was sad but just because someone could write something so breathtaking.”

Smiles, everyone!

Smiles, everyone!

We found our seats in the stadium and settled in for the ceremony and the heat and the bugs. The valedictorian, Ivan Alejandro Lopez Castillo, gave a charming speech about how proud he is of his Mexican heritage and how thankful he is for the opportunities he’s had in America. He encouraged his classmates to “take advantage of every opportunity that comes your way,” like he had. Little Gay and I started talking about immigration–we have a family friend who needs papers. “I’m reading this book Americanah about a Nigerian woman who comes to America to study then ends up staying on a work sponsorship and getting her green card, but her boyfriend can’t get a sponsor so he tries to go to England and he overstays his visa there and has to go through all these awful things to try to work…” I told Little Gay to read that one and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s other novel Half of a Yellow Sun. “I learned so much in that book! It’s about the Nigerian civil war in the 1970s with the Biafrans–have you ever heard of any of this?” As we sat there whispering about books through the boring choral tributes to high school teachers, we concluded that our education had been totally Euro-centric. There was ancient Egypt, something about Rommel in the desert, then apartheid. That was it for African history at our high school.

The morning after all the graduation hoopla, we got right back to talking books. Big Gay and I went into “the rat hole” (the utility room) where she keeps her recently read books. I whooped to receive a copy of The Nest because ever since Jill wrote about it on Bookreasons, I’ve been 15th in line on the library hold list for it. I can’t wait to read this story of four wobbly siblings and their joint inheritance that’s in jeopardy. I saw she had read All the Light We Cannot See–all three of us agreed it was sublime. On the theme of women’s stories of World War II, Little Gay and I agreed that The Nightingale really delivered but Big Gay hasn’t read it. She gave it to me for Christmas but had to wrap it before she had time to read it! I promised to bring it to her on my next visit and then I told both of them to read The Light Between Oceans, a between the wars story about a childless Australian couple who live on a lighthouse island in the Indian Ocean and what happens to them when a child comes into their lives.

Little Gay and Big Gay

Little Gay and Big Gay

We went into the library (most houses have a den, but Big Gay and Daddy made theirs a library with floor to ceiling book cases and two comfy chairs in front of a double window). Big Gay moved stacks of gardening magazines off the wooden chest and I held the lid open so she could pull out more books. The Monuments Men led us to talk about art theft, which scored me Big Gay’s marked up copy of Museum of the Missing and got Little Gay and me talking about taking a trip to Boston to the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum, site of a yet-unsolved robbery in 1990. That led to talk about the great art collections of the American industrialists and the long history of thievery among cultures–the Elgin marbles and the looting in Iraq and how we all want to read The Lady in Gold, about one family’s fight to get a Klimt painting returned after it was stolen by the Nazis.

That reminded Big Gay of a quirky little book called No Voices From the Hall, the memoir of a man who snoops around English country houses that fell into disrepair after World War II when families didn’t have the resources to maintain them. I pulled out a biography of Deborah, Duchess of Devonshire, who during that same thin time turned Chatsworth into a thriving estate. Big Gay and I are both fans of the Mitford sisters (Deborah being the youngest of them) and have swapped many books about them and by them over the years. Little Gay didn’t know their story, so we talked about Debbo, Diana, Unity, Nancy, and Jessica. And apropos of interesting women and British history, I took a copy of That Woman: The Life of Wallis Simpson, Duchess of Windsor.

13327634_10208133357404709_1812243487365768491_n

We sat in the sun in the comfy chairs and talked across the morning about Catherine the Great, bad marriages, Marie Antoinette, Paris, Napoleon’s sister Pauline. From Daddy’s big leather chair, Little Gay confessed to never having read To Kill a Mockingbird and I confessed that I had read Go Set a Watchman. We talked on about Truman Capote and Nell Harper Lee and Andy Warhol and Jackson Pollock. Molly the Yorkie curled up on the back of the chair and nodded off once Big Gay pulled out her notes from book club so she wouldn’t forget to tell us about any gems on the “To Be Read” list.

This is my happy place, surrounded by briliant women, new ideas about old things, patient dogs, and comfy chairs. Read on, read on, read on.


Some Big Gay Advice

It’s been kinda quiet here at Baddest Mother Ever lately. Not quiet in my life. Not quiet in the world. Just quiet in this space because I ran into a wall of fear.

2013 - 1the world needsMy fairy stepmother, Big Gay, called this weekend. We’re gearing up for Big Gay Christmas, so there’s lots to be done. After she got the list of suggestions for presents for the kids, and reviewed the menu for standing rib roast, she said, “Ayshley (you have to say it with the extra vowel and a little touch of cigarette smoke to get the full effect), your Daddy and I adore your blog. You have such a gift.” I thanked her quickly but she was not to be deterred.

“We used to get something new to read every day–lately we’re lucky to get a story once a week. What’s up with that?” I know she was teasing me, but she was making a point too. That woman knows me. And she knows when something is up.

“I’m in a rut. I feel like I talk about the same stuff over and over and I figure people are getting bored with that. It just seems like blah blah blah blah nobody cares. I’m afraid to mess it up and I’m afraid to not write. I’m just stuck.”

And that’s when she doled out some Big Gay Advice.

“You’re going to need to get the fuck over that.”

Big Gay does not find Bunny's perching trick funny.

Big Gay does not find Bunny’s perching trick funny.

She collects antique English porcelain and has a little Italian Greyhound named Bunny. She grows antique roses and peonies as big as a dinner plate. She’s in the garden club and the book club. She’s elegant and smart and lovely.

And right.

Sometimes you just need to get the fuck over yourself.

I’m in such an over-analyzing mode lately that now I’m wondering if I’ll lose readers just because I said fuck. Several times. Or if I talk too much about my goofy brain.

Whatever. I’m going to choose to get the fuck over that.

Big Gay and I talked a while longer but I had to get off the phone to see who was yelling at whom back in the house. I took a shower and when I checked my phone a half hour later, I saw a missed call from Big Gay.

“Hey, did you need something else?”

“I did, sweetheart. I had another thought. Your writing HELPS people. It makes us think, ‘Well, I guess I’m not so weird after all.'”

“Thank you for saying that. That’s what I want to do.”

“But, Ayshley–what I realized is this. It can do the same thing for you. When you write, you’re not alone either.”

So here I am–telling another story about how sometimes I forget that telling stories is important–even if your parents are the only ones reading. Even if the story has been told again and again, like the one about the Christmas when Daddy gave Big Gay an industrial meat slicer. Or the story about the time we were picking on Little Gay about being  a bad driver and she stormed out of the house and ran over the cat. That time when Brett got pulled over by the cops for stealing her own car. Or when Daddy got emotional asking the blessing and toddler Grant whispered loudly, “Pop Pop’s cryin’ like a baby!”

Yeah, I think I’m over it. Thanks, Big Gay. I got you that heavy duty garden hose you asked for for Christmas. You are so good at making things grow.

It’s a Wonder Any of Us Survived

4th century, gold and glass medallion, Roman mother and child

4th century, gold and glass medallion, Roman mother and child

Tonight, I listened as another mother expressed some guilt over discovering that her 9 week old baby wasn’t gaining enough weight. The lactation consultant figured out that the baby needed more milk in the evening when the mom’s supply was low. After the baby gobbled up 7 ounces of pumped milk that first evening, the mother burst into tears because she realized then how hungry her baby must have been on the other nights.

Oh, I remember those feelings. The “cold” that turned out to be a double ear infection. The funny spot that was staph. The “teething” that was really hand/foot/mouth blisters. No matter how much we read and worry and track and monitor, it’s all still a surprise half the time.

My advice to the new mom came straight from my stepmother, Big Gay.

“Honey, put down the whip.”

That’s what she says whenever I’m flogging myself over some mistake or almost mistake (kinda like when Richard was yelling “Old Lady!”). Quit beating yourself up because there’s nothing to be gained from punishing yourself for not being omniscient.

Midnight, Mother and Sleepy Child, 1794

Midnight, Mother and Sleepy Child, 1794

Sharing that nugget of advice reminded me of a funny moment of parenting advice that Big Gay gave me when I was pregnant the first time. I drove down for a visit when I was about four months pregnant with Vivi. While we were eating dinner, I started getting really tired. Big Gay asked if I was sleeping OK.

“Usually,” I answered, “but last night I woke up at 2 a.m. and realized in a panic that I was sleeping flat on my back and the book says you’re not supposed to do that after about 10 weeks because the weight of the baby can restrict blood flow and cause the baby not to get enough oxygen so I’m supposed to sleep on my side and when I woke up and realized that I was sleeping on my back I felt so nervous about accidentally doing it again that I couldn’t really rest after that.”

Big Gay looked at me for a few seconds, like she was trying to figure out if I was kidding. Or if I might be having a neurological attack of some kind.

“No sleeping on your back? Huh. I don’t think I ever knew that when I was pregnant.”

I nodded in all seriousness. “Yep, it’s in the ‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting’ book.”

Moche Culture, 3rd century Peru, ceramic mother and child figure

Moche Culture, 3rd century Peru, ceramic mother and child figure

She picked up her bourbon and took a sip. “We didn’t have anything like that.” She leaned across the table and whispered, “And it’s a wonder any of you survived.”

Then we had a good laugh and I promised to put down the whip. And while I was at it, I put down that book, too.

Women have been doing this a long time. Even before Google.

 

Sunday Sweetness–Happy Easter

 

spring

Happy Easter from my favorite chick!

The Myna Bird

cold map

After spending yesterday at home with my kids due to the schools being closed for extreme cold, I saw this map and had a good chuckle.  HONESTLY.  How many times do I have to say “SHUT THE DOOR!” when it is in the single digits outside?  I said it to G when he went out in the garage to look for a plumbing snake.  I said it to Vivi when we came in the house, left the house, went out on the deck, came back in from the deck.  I even said it to Carlos but he gets a pretty wide path (having just figured out doorknobs).  If only I could train Huck to kick it closed with his back leg when he passes through.  

It reminded me of a story my dad tells.  Back when he was a country veterinarian, driving from farm to farm, he used to stop by this little crossroads grocery store in Meriwether County, somewhere between Luthersville and Hogansville (down the road from Hooterville).  The owner kept an old myna bird as a pet.  The myna sat on a perch by the front entrance and every time someone walked through the door, the myna squawked, “Shut the Got-dam DOOR!” 

Whenever things get crazy at Daddy’s house–between the dogs and the kids and the comings and goings–Big Gay says, “All we need is a monkey and myna bird and we could charge 50 cents admission here.”  Amen.

I am in the market for a myna bird if this weather doesn’t warm up and these kids don’t get back in school!

Playing Telephone

play phoneHow about a silly story that has nothing to do with Christmas?

When my nephew, Jackson, was about two, Brett dropped him off at Nana’s house for the afternoon.  Jackson’s diaper was riding low.  Brett said, “I’ve tried everything short of tying him down but he will NOT let me change that diaper.  See if you can get him to cooperate.”

After a while at Nana’s, Jackson pulled a yellow plastic phone out of the toy box.  Nana acted all excited and said, “Jackson!  I have a great idea!  Let’s call your daddy and talk to him about that diaper!”

So Nana pretended to dial the plastic phone.  She waited for it to ring and for someone to pick up…all the while Jackson was giggling and wiggling at their silly game.  Then Nana said:

“Hey!  Could I speak to Jackson’s Daddy?  Why yes, I’ll hold”…….”Hey!  I hate to bother you at work, but I need a little help.  Jackson has a wet diaper and he doesn’t want me to change it.  Would you talk to him and tell him that we need to change that diaper?”

Jackson hung on every word that Nana spoke into the yellow plastic phone.

She went on:

“OK, so you’ll talk to him for me?  Good!  Let me put Jackson on the phone.”

She handed the baby the phone.  Like a pro, Jackson stuck the phone between his ear and shoulder and began pacing back and forth across the floor.  He listened carefully to the imaginary voice on the other end of the line.  He nodded his head and said, “Uh huh.  Uh huh.  OK.”

Then he handed the phone back to Nana and said, “Daddy said NOT to change my diaper.”

Well, okey dokey then.

phone

The 52 Things Basket — A Simple and Meaningful DIY Gift

Big Gay's 52 Things Basket

Big Gay’s 52 Things Basket

 

See that brown basket up on the top shelf?  That’s a gift I made a long time ago for Big Gay.  She still has it, and that makes me very happy.  

My column today at Work It, Mom! is called The Most Meaningful Christmas Gift I Ever Gave.  I hope you will read it and discover how simple it is to create the magic of the 52 Things Basket.  I love how the story turned out.  Read the story here