fruitbaskets

Today, all day, I have been thinking of my neglected blog. Some recent changes have occurred, and in response, I have spent less time near the computer. With a little voice in my head chanting, "Long time, no post," I decided to sit down and tell some stories.

--The first thing on my mind is that I decided to play "Iron Chef" tonight at dinner, using garlic as my theme ingredient, and I made garlic mashed potatoes, fresh green beans with onion and garlic, and sauteed spinach and garlic. I could have added garlic bread but I kind of ran out of time on my clock. It was goooooooo-ooood.

--My daughter's principal just started this year at the local school. She is pretty young, really, a great sport and friendly. She holds a PhD, so she has got plenty of brains, and all. The funny thing is that she ends all of her sentences, those that I have seen so far, in exclamation points. It was kind of cute at first, and then a bit disconcerting after a while. "Is she still that excited?" I am pleased that she has fit in so well that the punctuation thing is the key issue for me. I am grateful.

--I read a post by getupgrrl that was really terrific. Well, she is always very insightful, a critical thinker, and very consistent in her support of choice, but this particular post got me where I live. I like reading her blog because she posts with a running theme about respecting other people's right to choose how they live their lives. Because her path is focused on building her family, those are the examples she uses to illustrate her theme, but again and again, I find myself reading that message. It is very helpful to me to see myself with her mirror.
Anyways, I like her.

--When I was a kid, I remember thinking that it was possible that my dad was Spock. It would explain a lot about him, like his unemotional nature (must be a Vulcan) and his long spells between visits (always on TV). I am not sure that I believed it, but maybe thought it was plausible until I learned that the show was in re-runs, and of course that Vulcans are fictional. Most likely. I have compiled other evidence over the years in case I am ever in a position to know such things, supporting the claim that my father may be Spock:
* Black hair and similar facial structure as Leonard Nimoy.
* Cringes during hugs.
* Has seen me 4 times in the last 27 years. Has never met Honey or the kid. The kid calls him "Bill" because "Grandad" seems too personal.
* When calling me and Honey answers, he will say "This is (Dad's first and last name) is Sparky home?" Honey will respond with "Oh, hey Bill, she isn't home right now. Would you like me to have her call you back?" and this is too much interaction, and he will respond with "Uhhhh... no. No. No. I will call back another time." A similar thing will happen when my sister or I talk to him. At some point he will decide he has completed the task of talking to us and sometimes in the middle of a sentence, he will break in with a clipped "Okay. Goodbye." If we want to end the call, we need only to mention visiting him or to name any emotions and we will be rewarded with "Ohhhkay. Goodbye."
* He refers to a piece of paper when asking questions about my life. I can hear it in the background. "How is uhh... Emma doing in school?"
* One time I went to visit him at his bachelor pad and he had, I believe, 6 different programmable calculators on the coffee table.
* Signs my birthday card and my Christmas card with his first and last name.

Today I have had so many things going through my head that I decided to stop to write them down. In keeping with my blog tradition, I am choosing to write as openly as possible.

In this blog, and when I am asked directly, I identify myself as a Buddhist. However I think it can be misleading for me to do that. We are interested in putting things into boxes, categorizing, organizing, those things that cannot be organized. I am often in a frame of mind that allows absolute inconsistency, with the love of separating on one side and at the same time acknowledging that these imaginary boundaries are on some level, meaningless.

A few years ago, I began learning more about Buddhist thought. I had some basic understanding of the history, from college classes, but was not familiar with day to day activities of regular old Buddhists. I knew cognitively that there were/are many different types of Buddhists, but I think at that point in my life, I had little enough understanding to still be placing them as a group on a large, spiritual pedestal. Very cushy, and unfair.

I had very little idea of the level of Buddhist activity going on in Oklahoma, which was so much more than I had imagined. Not a great deal, mind you, but more than I had thought, and after talking to many people, attending a few specific services and reading, I began to see that there were some Buddhists saying things that I liked to hear. I wanted to know more. To do more.

It was during this time that I came down with a case of bronchitis, or something like it. I was taking some medicine that I had a reaction to, during Christmastime, working overtime in retail with Honey in our gift shop. And I stopped sleeping. I think I had very little sleep for four nights, catching small cat naps, and then being awake for hours through the night. The first night was all right, and the second, but by the third night I was having sort of vision quest but without Matthew Modine.

I know there are many groups that use the lack of sleep or food, or use different plants to fuel their spiritual experiences. It did not occur to me at the time that this was what happened to me. I only thought I was a bit looney from not sleeping, and this idea was reinforced when I would mention the experience to other people. But one day, I mentioned it to my therapist in an offhand guess-how-crazy-the-holidays-were-for-me kind of way. She was different in her response, though, suggesting that I just allow it be whatever it was, not trying to make light of it, or to make it too important.

Since that time, I have had this underlying urge to go back to that place, to feel that sense of connection and to experience that degree of understanding. Admitting that feeling may be my first step in realizing that the feelings I experienced and the ideas I understood are still inside me, I just have to learn the skill of seeing them.

-------------------

Today, Sloth wrote an interesting post about her thoughts on Religion. It made me really think about some things, one of which involved going back to the above posting to give it another chance. I had actually written this post back on 2/7, but did not publish it, because I felt it was kind of weak and demonstrated exactly what I said at the beginning: it is difficult to put into words that which is beyond words.

About five years ago, I probably would have expressed very similar ideas to those written by Sloth today. One day, driving to work, I was listening to NPR on Science Friday. There was an astronomer being interviewed about the theory that the universe is expanding. At the time, I had one of those "Aha!" moments, thinking "What is it expanding into??" After that, talking to a physicist friend named Karen, who offered an explanation, I decided that I liked not knowing. Up until that time, there had not been much in the world that I felt I could classify as Things I Cannot Understand, and to be fair, I had an explanation waiting from my friend Karen. But it somehow clicked for me that this is how religion has worked for people in the past. There have always been Big Questions that have wanted answering, and these would regularly fall into the realm of religion. With science, I have felt there was little need for help from religion. It (religion) has always been a subject of interest, more like history. Up until that time, I really hadn't needed anything other than science.

When my mom died, my daughter was almost 2, some might say she was too young to ask questions, but she wasn't. It seemed cruel to tell her what I really thought, and so I used the crutch of "heaven" to explain why she couldn't see Grammy anymore. There seemed to be a vague connection for her- it was spring, there were road-kill squirrels everywhere, and she seemed to get it that Grammy was with the squirrels. She liked that idea, and I guess I did too.
It is probably far more confusing, but now that she is older and can ask far more complex questions, I give several answers, telling her that sometimes there are many different ways of talking about the Big Answers, but the important part of that is finding what works for you.

The End.

I don't think she has read my blog before, but thanks to Sloth for the inspiration and the fearless writing.
Oh. And speaking of fearless, I love the ESC.

This is a short selection of the easy listening music I listened to while doing some work for my mother-in-law:

* I Just Called to Say I Love You

* You Light Up My Life

* (I've Been to Paradise But I've) Never Been to Me


Forgive me if this alienates anyone, that is not my intent, but boy does it make me chuckle when I am trying to concentrate and these 3 muzak biggies slide over my ears. In a row.

One night in late October ('96) I met a friend at a small, smoky bar to have a couple of beers and to listen to a local musician. This friend was my ex-boyfriend, and although we had been in the 'just friends' category for a couple of years, many people were used to seeing us together. We saw two other friends, one of which was Honey, and we all shared a table while we listened to the music and chatted. That evening, the four of us talked about travel and music and movies. We laughed. I was feeling a tipsy enough to show them my tattoo; I still can't believe I showed it in that bar. Towards the end of the evening, Honey leaned across my ex to ask me for my phone number. He called right away to invite me to a party- a pumpkin carving- at his house.

The night of the party, I arrived at his place to find many of his neighbors in the driveway, gathered around a table carving pumpkins. They were very welcoming, lots of smiling my way, and Honey came around to my side of the table to help me and keep me company. At one point, at opposite ends of the table again, all the neighbors in between, Honey asked me if I could come to dinner at his house the following evening. I remember everyone waiting for my answer, thinking "How could I say no?" I didn't.

We got married the following year in September, with our mothers stage whispering to each other about how they didn't think we needed a honeymoon, since we had been living together already. But that was okay, because we were so happy and are even happier now, with our little family.

And that is the story of how I found Honey. The end. Thankyouverymuch.

A long time ago... in fact, when I was working with Brownie and Blondie at the bar, my first night on the floor waiting tables, I met Honey. Blondie was taking me around, introducing me to regulars, making funny jokes about what it is like to be a waitress and trying to advise me on who tips well. She led me to a large table of young men, and with a warning look, she introduced me. "Y'all be real nice to sparky, she is new here!" There I was, in my finery- a polyester uniform shirt that smelled of grease and something else. ugh. Short dark hair, nervous, flustered, nineteen, chewing gum to keep from babbling. Someone told me later (not my nice husband) that I looked like a little German boy. Table full of young men, mostly drinking beer. They loved Blondie and her big hair. They loved that she flirted with them. The table went silent, when one of the many leaned over and asked in a clear voice "Do you keep your gum in, or spit it out, when you are giving head?" pin drops . crickets. "I keep it in, what do you do?" (explosion of laughter, much denial of any head-giving on the young man's part)

And so began my one year at the bar. Honey was in that group, drinking club soda. He was still in high school at the time, just a year younger than me, and always drank club soda. It made me curious that he wasn't trying to sneak beer. He had round glasses that made him look smart and quiet. He would come in with his friends to listen to a band, would request American Pie, and then be a vocally disappointed that the band always messed up the words. Honey was so proud one day that he and his friend had made a banner, to be unrolled for the band, listing the correct words for the song. He seemed very solemn then, and I was too. Too serious. Needed to laugh more. He is happy now to tell anyone that I was the worst waitress ever, which is so true. I was experiencing angst. I was nineteen, a bit of a late bloomer for all that doom.

I don't remember when Honey first asked me for a date. I do remember that he invited me over for dinner at his home, and I was wondering if his mom would be there. I called to ask what I should bring, and he advised me on a particular kind of devil's food cookie, even describing the box. I think we watched Casablanca, or attempted it. He gave me a tour of the house, including his room which was covered in posters of Marilyn Monroe, comic strips, quotes, and little army men in a battle glued to the ceiling. There was a list of things to do if he ever got bored, and I don't even remember what was on the list now, but I do remember wishing that I could ever be that interesting.

Things didn't work out then, we were both maybe too much alike at the time. We both went on our way, hearing about each other through mutual friends. Honey got married, I dated a few guys that as my mother told me "didn't adore [me] enough." I worked, went to England for a year, got my degree, and when I finished I worked for a bookstore while I tried to figure out what to do next. Honey came in one day, recently divorced, just back from Ireland. He came in another time with his baby niece, and I thought it was so sweet that carried her while she slept.

.........................................

The next part of this story will be in another post, since I did not realize that my post entitled "The first time I met Honey" would cover a time span of 10 speedy years.

While playing with the kid:

"Let's play that you are bad and I release these baby cabbages that tickle you," showing me a handful of marbles.

I turned around with what must have been a strange look on my face, from trying not to giggle, when she looked up at me, studied my face for a moment, then:

"Actually... Let's make them baby cookies-- just like we don't spank, we won't make them be cabbages. Actually, make them hoober catchers. Are you wondering what a hoober catcher is? I made it up. Are you writing this down?"

Many years ago, maybe when I was 19 or so, I moved in with a new roommate whom I will call Brownie.* So, I was working at a local bar, along with Brownie, and it just so happened that she needed someone to move into her apartment. She kept apologizing, "The room is really small. I am so sorry." But I did not care. It was a terrific apartment. Brownie had a twin bed in the loft bedroom and I had the bedroom downstairs. I was in heaven; my very pretty roommate liked the B-52s and was a bartender. I felt my coolness factor rising just by putting my stuff in the apartment. I was walking away from Country Kitchen Blue and walking into edgy music, exotic food and a new group of friends.

One of these friends was Blondie. She was tall and thin and had the biggest blond curly hair I had ever seen. (Blondie was so thin that when she would put on bobby socks, the cuffs would not touch any part of her legs. She was also a Fundamentalist that did not believe in dinosaurs. Yeah, well...) Lots of rockstar hair. Blondie had been Brownie's roommate previously, and it was kind of confusing about why she had moved out.

sparky: But why doesn't her mom like you? What if she doesn't like me?
Blondie: Her mom is just really protective and she didn't like it that I borrowed Brownie's clothes. Don't worry. I'll still be here all the time. Just don't tell her mom.

And so it went. Blondie was over all the time and it was like a big sleepover. Often, it was really warm in the loft with just that twin bed, and so Brownie and Blondie would have to just wear their bras and panties to sleep in. They would be so cute in the morning, cuddled up on the loveseat, spooned together, watching tv. Well, it was colder downstairs, especially in the mornings. Sometimes, at the bar, guys would come up to me with a certain look in their eyes, asking me "What's it like, living with those two?" "Well, you know! We are always laughing. They are very crazy girls!"

I understood what they were getting at, but since neither of the girls had actually said anything, I always assumed that the guys had active imaginations. "They are just really good friends!" But really, everyone knew but me. It was years later that I learned from one of their good friends why they had moved to Dallas. "They wanted to be more open about it." oh.

After more life experience, of course, I can see it now. But at the time, it just seemed to be all very innocent. I have learned since then that I have this tendency to listen more to people's actual words than to watch their actions. It is a habit that comes from living with an alcoholic (my mother,) and tends to come in handy whenever there are people who want to be inside their own type of denial closet. I like to think that if the girls had felt okay about being verbally open about things, that I would have been cool about it. Who knows, I was 19.


*I changed the names of people to protect anyone that blahdeblahdeblah, you know what I mean.

I ordered these on Friday in a lovely olive green. Yay. They have already shipped, so should be here sooooon. I can't wait because I never order things online and I rarely buy new shoes and they are never under $15.00 including shipping. Hurray!

I am trying some new things in the fruitbasketeria, so be patient with me, 'cause I'm a rookie.

thanks.


love,
sparky

Things are getting better on this end so I wanted to take a moment to tell some more stories about the kid.

flick
One day, my daughter was very angry with me, and although I don't remember the context now, I do remember what followed:
"If you don't do what I say, then I am flicking you off of the friendship boat."
This was some time back, and although she will still sometimes say it to me, I have no idea where it came from. It doesn't work, of course, unless I crack up. Now that she is older, she will make a little motion with her finger and say "Mo- ommmmm. Flick." I guess it is a little warning to me. (Eyebrows raised, Flick.)

boys don't say fabulous
We were talking about the show Lilo and Stitch, when the kid asked if Pleakley is a boy or a girl. After we talked for a moment, she decided, "I think he is a girl." I asked her if there were ways to tell if someone was a boy or girl. She replied, "Yes! From the way they talk. Like 'fabulous.' Boys never say the word fabulous."

old and new
Yesterday, the kid asked Honey to bend over and pick her up. Honey said "Baby, I can't bend over right now, 'cause I'm old." The kid said, "You are not old, you are new."

grilled cheese angel
Yesterday, the kid was asking for a grilled cheese sandwich, her favorite. As I was making it, I heard her singing a little song about how she is the "Grilled Cheese Angel."

linus
We have a giant Japanese Bobtail cat named Linus. He is a big baby, an excessive drooler, and a wiley hunter. The kid asked me yesterday if we could change Linus' name to something prettier. "Like what, kiddo?" "How about Princess?"
(Actually, Linus often inspires other names, such as Leenus, which rhymes with... well anyway.)