Three Wishes

Two of my kitchen drawers are completely empty; I purge the closets every season. We've only got one dog right now. And also I'm a hoarder.

Peek at the picture: (unless you're with PETA). It's my wishbone collection, started back before the equally gruesome days of Alex's new vegan diet. I keep it on the windowsill over the sink so that, while I'm doing dishes, I can see how many wishes I've got coming to me, how many good things I have left.

My wishes aren't the only things saved and coddled in the safe harbor of my kitchen. I have two generous spa certificates in my possession, gifts I received from the person who knows how much I hate spending money on anything "luxe," as the kids say. I plan to spend one on my annual summer pedicure, an event so auspicious that it's like celebrating the new year. I once explained to a friend that the timing of the expenditure is carefully planned. Deliberate. "When the outside half my big toe is red, and the inside half is plain old natural nail, I know it's January."

"Let me get this straight," she said. "You use your toenails as a calendar?"
"It's not a bug, it's a feature," I told her.

The other spa certificate isn't so easily spent. Chances are good that I will agonize over its redemption, and when Alex encouarges me to cash it in for a massage or a facial, I will likely look at him like he's suggested I sell one of my kidneys on the black market. "Use it?" I'll ask with my arms crossed. "If I use it, I won't have it anymore."

I commit this same kind of flawed logic to other things too, specifically shampoos and bath products, including the fancy little soaps and lotions I've taken from fancy resorts. "What? They're travel-sized," I say, stuffing them into the Ziplock bag that's bulging with last year's stash. I now have sufficient materials to coat the Burning Man playa with enough lotion to create the world's biggest slip 'n slide. (I can't wait for the email that tells me it's already been done.)

But when I consider that the Dead Sea is dead primarily because there's no outlet for the incoming water other than evaporation, I look down at my toes and wonder if I'm doing myself any favors. When I consider that Ernest Holmes was onto something with his writings on the Law of Circulation, I think I feel a resolution of sorts coming on, not that I'm into resolutions or anything.

Maybe I can just say, "No more hoarding," in 2009, or any other year. I will use my things up, knowing that it's an act of gratitude, maybe even a kind of prayer, when doing so. I will faithfully use myself up, too, knowing that being too careful, too tight-fisted with one's self is the battle cry of the fearful. Whether the law of conservation of matter holds up in a laboratory or not, I will work my own experiment and let go of all my wishes, knowing that the only shortage--and the only source--of real wishes exists only in my imagination. Not on my windowsill.

I will resist the urge to engage in any more emotional constipation and let the cosmic equivalent to gravity do its work. I will exercise my gratitude and my own potential by letting loose the hounds. For my own good, I will sacrifice in order to receive. Personal growth hurts; it's going to be difficult, but I'm up to it.

I'll be at the spa.

Introducing My Daughter, The Philosopher

On the drive to school this morning, Sophie mentioned the late Mona, our wonderful, nutjobby black Lab who died in July. Sophie's been thinking a lot about her lately, which has included a fair amount of crying, and I guess which is expected when you're figuring out what death is for the first time. And now that it seems most of the grief has passed for young Sophie, she's been contemplating the concept of loss.

"We used to have a different car, right?" Sophie asked, after confirming that Mona was never coming home from the vet. "The black one." It's true. At about the same time we lost Mona to some sort of brain injury or disease, we bought a new car and sold our old car, a black Subaru.

"Right," I said. "And now we have this car."
She was quiet for a few blocks and then said, "We have two things missing. One from our family and one from the garage."
I asked her, "Are you sure you're four?"

How to Torture Yourself: The Modern Parent’s Guide to Life (Based on true events)

Today's post is a re-print from my post over at the Zwaggle blog. And if you don't know Zwaggle, run on over there and get familiar. Yes, both of you. Thanks, now on to today's post.

Wake up to the words, “My bed is wet, Mama.” For some reason, you feel compelled to check for yourself instead of just stripping the bed, as if your child would lie about such a thing just for kicks. Notice that the bed is not just damp, but that it rivals the swampy conditions found in the Everglades.

On the way to school, categorize and prioritize your day’s tasks thusly: Should-do, Need-to, Said-I-would, Have-to, Dying-to. (Rearrange these several times during the day, until you have ignored them all.) Drop off your child at school. When the teacher tells you that there is now a confirmed case of pink eye circulating the school in addition to foot and mouth disease, rotovirus, and head lice, heave an audible sigh. Go to work at your desk, for example, and clear your schedule for the next five to seven days, knowing that your child is certain to catch all four ailments that day. Repeat, until June.

During the day, give yourself a headache asking yourself why you’re not doing more with your life. If you have a full bottle of pain reliever around (Motrin, if you’re not swayed by advertising controversy), draw harsh comparisons between yourself and those you consider to be “successful.” Forgo drinking water and eating healthy foods that day in favor of consuming only those things consisting of caffeine and/or salt.

When the economy tanks, pretend to understand why you should be freaking out, then secretly congratulate yourself for not having any money to lose in the financial black hole of 2008. When you notice the fallout directly affecting you in the form of a sharply reduced income—say a reduction along the lines of one hundred percent—genuinely freak out. To avoid worrying others, do your freaking out between the hours of 3 and 5 AM. Repeat, until June.

At the end of one of your daily freak out sessions, realize, very abruptly, that you’re 39 years old. (How did that happen?) Decide to become a librarian, based on someone once telling you that the average age of Library Science students is 39. Or is it the mean age? Try and remember what the difference is between averages and means. Forget it; write down, “become a librarian” on a slip of paper and leave it on the nightstand so that you can look into it later. Find it the next day while you’re straightening up, and misread your own handwriting as, “become a libertarian.” Scratch your head, and try to remember why it seemed like a good idea to drastically change your political affiliation.

Start a magazine, a radio show, or secret society by reserving the domain name. Then, run completely out of juice writing the mission statement. Seconds into transforming yourself into a member of the libertarian party, stop short and gasp. What if the note you wrote said “lesbian,” not “libertarian?” Imagine the changes you’ll have to make.

In an attempt to entertain and distract you from yourself, see David Sedaris in concert. Instead of enjoying the show, spend the time asking yourself, “Why can’t I do that?” Go home, write down, “Become an author who writes funny little stories about life and reads them aloud to audiences around the world. Rake in the dough.” The next morning, decide that it would be enough simply to spend a few minutes writing a funny little story. Feel a little better, a little happier, a little lighter. Make the bed. Congratulate yourself while you go to the sink to wash your face.

Try not to curse aloud upon discovering that you have pink eye.

Now You're Voting With Gas

What a relief: Election day. Today we not only get a new president; we get a break from the phone calls and door knockings asking us if we've voted. For someone who is already asked to repeat herself five thousand times a day because she lives with a four year old and a grown man with ADHD, OCD, and a few other initials, the civic commitment of some people and organizations came as particularly bad news.

Because I work at home, I'm forced to answer calls from unfamiliar numbers in case they pertain to something lucrative. Instead, it was often a recording of a plumber in Denver named Joe, who doesn't care for a certain candidate stereotyping his identity for the benefit of ideals he doesn't support. Or it was a woman in Duluth who told me I was a "good girl" after I gave her what she considered the good news.

Weeks ago, I'd voted by mail, an act that I thought would save me from all the hoopla, like the long lines and archaic practices of punching pieces of paper with a stylus that I would secretly sterilize with a Lysol wipe before touching.

So last night, much too late to make any kind of material gain from it (my timing is always this spot-on), I made a little sticker, as much to amuse myself as to keep others from asking me if I've voted. I've passed it, much like the dutchie, to the left hand side. Feel free to use it at your blog, and wherever else you like. Personally, I think Benjamin Franklin would be proud.

Doing Some of my Best Head Scratching

My guest post, or Octoberguest post as Laura calls it, is up at Laura Benedict's Notes From the Handbasket. (Thanks, Laura!)

Here's a hint: I guaran-damn-tee that it will give you the willies/the creeps/the heebie jeebies, in that I'm-glad-this-happened-to-someone-else kind of way. Get on over, and comment, too. Laura's giving away fabulous prizes, as they say on Wheel of Fortune. No vowel purchase necessary.

Out of the Closet, Into the Handbasket

Tomorrow, I'll be guest blogging at Laura Benedict's Notes From the Handbasket. If you don't know Laura, she's the author of Isabella Moon, and the forthcoming Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts. She's also the co-editor of Surreal South, an anthology. But she's more than that, of course. She's a mom and a wife--a writer's wife, no less--and a snake wrangler on occasion. And it's tomorrow at the Handbasket that I'll be making a very creepy confession, just in time for Halloween.

So go on over to Laura's place and make yourself at home. Hear tell she makes good bread.

Four

I.
You were born on September 23^rd, 2004 at 9:50 PM mountain time. “Hey, it’s Bruce Springsteen’s birthday too,” we said, laughing and singing "Born to Run" in the delivery room. You are four today, and I’m already doing that thing that parents do when they realize that in the blink of an eye, you’re going to pack up your 2017 vegetable oil-powered Subaru and speed away into your future because you’re THAT excited about what’s next. I’m a little misty, I’m a little verklempt. I realized on your 2^nd birthday, the only one in which you would double your age in one year, that you weren’t going to stay little for very long. At the time, this was really good news. Today you’re twice the person you were last year, even if you’re only one year older, and I find myself trying to slam on the breaks. (See also: Good luck with all that.)

II.
I couldn’t be prouder of you. You’re already the kindest person I know, with a self-awareness that I didn’t possess…ever, maybe. My friend Carol calls you “the future president of the United States” and says you’re the oldest soul she’s ever known. This is what friends are for, to tell you that you’ve managed to produce the finest person since Thomas Jefferson (who was born on my birthday, by the by.) But these are the things that stick with me: You can make friends anywhere, even if it’s a dog, or a bug, or a kid who doesn’t speak English. And you are able to give an unapologetic voice to your needs. As a woman who is guilty too often of torturing herself for needing anything at all, I can’t tell you what a relief it is that you’ve always been able to tell me what you need, and ask for what you want. I’m trying not to mess that up.

III.
That day I was trying to hurry you into your car seat, and you looked at me, tearful, and said, “I’m fragile today” made me grateful beyond measure for your way with words. What a relief that you can at least tell me what’s wrong, or what’s right, even if I fail to listen right away. The night I was trying to get dinner made, despite your whiny requests for milk, for a snack, for some paper and markers, you finally said, “I need attention.” Dinner waited that night, our schedule got all messed up, and nobody died; in fact, we were all better off for it.

IV.
You’ve decided lately that your old man is OK. In fact, you’re pretty sure he’s cooler and funner than the rest of us. I knew this day would come; it doesn’t make it any easier, though. After four years of your unabashed worship, it’s downright painful to pass on the baton, even if it does make bathtime, bedtime, and life in general a little easier. I have my own plans, that’s true, but the day you decided to join “Boy Team” as you call it, I considered setting them on fire. You are joining the legions of all the other creatures I’ve brought home who have adopted the habit of ignoring me until sick or hurt, at which point you all come limping back to me. That’s OK. Let the record show that, no matter what, I will be your Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman. I will be the president of your fan club. I will be your teacher, your student, your sidekick. And I will continue to uphold the doctrine your father and I carved into stone the day we learned of your existence: We will love you, whoever you are.