The Nesting Loon - Tales from the South

Remember George Bailey - the richest man in town? That's how I felt at my Tales of the South premiere on July 19. Well, to be honest, I didn't feel that way until later. That night and the previous week, I went round and round the bend: the world might be falling further into chaos, but what about ME?

My tale was of my two-year madness while waiting to hear that our youngest daughter was waiting for us in China. (That six-month old baby disappeared, and in her place is a teenager - enough said.) I am still high from the response of the audience: they laughed in all the right places, shed tears in others. Friends in the audience supported me both through that long wait and through this one, because I also went a bit barmy at the thought of appearing in front of an audience. 

Years ago I worried that my baby might be ugly; this time I obsessed over how my looks. I wanted to look casual and chic, as if I had been to a clambake on the beach and didn't have time to change for a formal dinner party. I would show up with windblown hair and my cheeks kissed by sunlight, laughing and apologizing for my casual wear. The women in their designer gowns would wonder "how does she pull it off? Except for her slightly fishy smell, she makes us look like real bowsers."

After days of agonizing, I wore a $12 sundress from Half of Half.  Because it was sleeveless and short (attire usually reserved for watching television or working in the yard), I HAD to tan - just as I did all those years ago in my nesting phase. However, slapping some tanning lotion on my legs wasn't enough:  I went to a place similar to a car wash where you stand in a booth and are blasted by chemicals. (I also read about places where I could have a Professional blast me with chemicals - it's called Airbrush Tanning. I am not making this up.)   I felt as if  I'd come from a day of installing asbestos while chain smoking Camels. However, after I staggered into the lobby, I found out that included in the price was a second round.  I can't turn down free stuff! So I went back two days later. I put on my little protective cap but forgot to cover the back of my head, so part of my hair got tanned too. I thought it looked kind of punk.

I got a real haircut (vs. my $6 cuts at that place where the clowns stand by the side of the road in the heat, luring you in with great deals. I could write a whole blog about how much I hate clowns, so even I am curious as to my motives on that one). My real hairdresser (who forgives me when I get $6 cuts and trim my own bangs) offered a a generous gift: on my way to the Starving Artist Cafe, I can pop in and she will pouf my hair. Because she knows that no matter how good the cut, I can't take care of it. The last time I used a blow dryer, I smacked myself in the forehead with it (I am not making this up either).  To top it off, I got a brow wax:  I look much better with two distinct eyebrows. Because I'd gone so overboard on my dress, I gave myself a pedicure.

What made me feel like George Bailey the next day was thinking about the many friends who had shown up for moral support - two long tables filled with them, my current husband and my daughters' friend from pre-school, Billie. (The girls were at Red Cross Camp.) They all beamed with happiness for me - had you seen them, you might have thought each of them had won the lottery. Most had been through my initial journey, and here there were, all these years later, still listening and resisting the urge to say "Snap out of it! Can you think of someone besides yourself for one minute!!!!"  I sat next to a friend who suggested that I take a big swig of wine right before going on to calm my nerves; you couldn't tell from her demeanor that she has a child in the hospital.

I raise my glass to all of you - I would be writing from the asylum without you.

A Mermaid's Tale

Addendum:

I've been thinking all day about about an incident I left out of my original post. The first full day of vacation, my youngest buried herself in the sand, which for some reason prompted me to go into Hulk Hogan mode. I kept hurling myself down on her in that wrestler's move -- although I was not springing back up. I was cracking myself up while she obviously thought it was too lame to even remark upon - she just kept rolling her eyes. I might have been literally cracking myself up though: a full 14 days later, after a pound of BC powder, I still feel like I cracked a rib. Which reminds me of doing the same thing several years ago at the Clinton Library: the girls were rolling down the hill and kept saying "Come on, mom! It's so much fun!" Again I couldn't resist: I brought my hands to my chest (to cut down on wind shear), rolled down the hill and suffered for two weeks.

The moral of the story: don't roll your chickens before they are hatched.

_________________________________________________________________________________

I wish I'd saved the blog I started in the middle of our beach vacation last week - I had my laptop on the table outside and couldn't even read what I was writing because the sun was so bright. It had something to do with bliss.

Now that I'm back to reality, I can't recall the exact feeling - I published it by accident and frantically called my daughter to come NOW and delete it. It might have had a spelling error or something, and I can't afford to lose any faithful fans.

The funniest image I have from the trip is me, rolling around on the beach in my old-lady bathing suit, as shown below. It's a one-piece with a skirt almost to my ankles.

The waves were very strong the whole week we were there. They battered and bruised me, and in the end took something precious from me. At one point they almost succeeding in ripping my left arm from its socket; at another point I almost chipped a tooth; several times I was spun over so many times I didn't know which way was up. A couple of times I felt as if I'd been punched in the face, which was painful but an effective way of clearing my sinuses. Then I would head out again - this is my idea of fun. On more than one occasion, I almost staggered to the safety of the beach, only to have the waves cut me down at the knees. I can't spring up gracefully like I could in my youth. First I have to make it to all fours, get my balance and then do the old heave-ho. This particular time I was knocked down and then just for fun, the waves hit me again and again so that I was literally rolling around on the beach, flailing, in shallow water. John and the girls missed it, but I hope someone who was feeling kind of blue saw me, because I laugh every time I think about it.

For a little night music, we headed to the beach to listen to fiddler crabs play their tiny fiddles; a crowd-pleaser was Some Enchanted Evening. They played their little crab hearts out until tourists with flashlights hunted them down and accidentally stomped them to death. They died doing what they loved.

We also entertained ourselves with a new family tradition: squeaking in the sand, which involves shuffling around in circles and making the sand squeak. We even learned how to do it backwards. I couldn't tell whether onlookers were jealous or thought us pathetic. Certainly no one asked us to teach them the moves.

I did something I've always wanted to do: parasailing. The sea was supposed to be brimming with life that day - sharks, turtles, rays - although all I saw was a dark hump in the ocean that might have been a turtle or a ray or a patch of seaweed. I told my youngest daughter that I should have nicked her a few times so we would have sharks circling below.

My oldest daughter thought it bizarre that we risked our lives on some frayed rope handled by men who spent eight hours a day with the sun beating down on their heads.


My friend Lynette, who has known me since my 20s and takes certain liberties with me, drove twice from Pensacola to visit. She also experienced a great loss on her second visit: the use of a couple of her toes, which she broke while frolicking in the waves with us one evening. We got up to find a scribbled note on a paper towel saying she would love to stay but had to seek medical help.

I was reminded that I have a habit of posing like this with my girlfriends, even when we're not at the beach.

As to what I lost at the beach: my wedding rings. I forgot to take them off for our last night swim. As I was howling in the sea at my loss, my girls held me tight (as much as they could, since we were still being battered about) and comforted me, while my husband dived repeatedly to look for my rings, reminding me that this was a loss I could bear. I hope a mermaid found my rings and treasures them as I did. Maybe she'll return them to me one day.

As for me, at that moment I realized what I had not lost. And I hope the mermaid who inherited my rings is as lovely as the two below.

 -- this is dedicated to my husband John and my girls, who remind me each day of my bounties.

Am I Ready for my Close-Up?

I’ve been feeling very Eyore-ish lately:  grouchy, touchy, under-appreciated and basically unhappy with my lot in life. Not tragically unhappy, where I could get some sympathy and maybe food and presents. Not even unhappy enough to whine about.

Then I received some validation from a source other than my dogs, who love me way more than is healthy.  No, my family didn’t hold an intervention in which they furiously berated each other for not realizing that they’d be lost without me. And I didn’t get a raise at work. 

My validation came in an email from Paula Morell, asking that I read an essay of mine for Tales from the South (http://www.talesfromthesouth.com/index.html) at the Starving Artist Café in Little Rock. My first two thoughts:

Holy shit, I’m going to be on NPR!

When Sally Field won the Oscar (best actress AND best head piece) for the Flying Nun and said something like “You like me, you really like me!”

Instead of wondering what to make for dinner, I’m looking for a media consultant. Before that, though, I have to figure out what to wear before a radio audience and how much voice lessons cost. I want an elegant, yet casual look and a smokey voice: Midnight In the Garden of Good and Evil vs. an extra from Deliverance. I could write a book about how much that movie disturbed me.

Worrying about how I will sound makes me think of how David Sedaris makes fun of his own voice and how, being NPR people, we’re going to be the best of friends.

“I should have read Six to Eight Black Men,“ he’ll whimper over the phone from a hotel in the heartland. "My piece about their city being a magnet for porn actresses didn’t go over at all! They hated me!”

“Now, Blisters,” I’ll say. “I thought it was hilarious. I listened to it while I was preparing one of my fabulous dinner parties for my other NPR friends – the Crème brûlée almost fell because I was laughing so hard! By the way, I’m mailing you a small manuscript that I hope you’ll be honest about. “

I know the paparazzi is sure to come for me. I hate the thought of having to be “on” all the time.  Instead of hitting the girls at the store when they whine, I’ll have to throw back my head in a playful way, as if thinking “these girls of mine say the darndest things!” And forget going to the beach: I don’t want my thighs and buttocks to end up on the cover of the Inquirer where you have to guess whose they are. I'm just going to have to go incognito.

Frankly, my big worry is how many of my friends I'm going to have to give up for my new celebrity BFFs.  Sure, they've been loyal through thick and thin (to tell the truth, I'm a bit of a high-maintenance friend), but are they ready for being under a magnifying glass because they know me?  One thing is sure: I've GOT to get new dogs.

Help, my mother is crazy and she can't get off my back

My teenagers have taught me a few valuable lessons lately. I know -- you want to puke -- I hate sentimental crap like that.

It's Okay If You Don't Want to Make Friends and Influence People

My younger daughter (we'll call her Perle Mesta) has one true friend from back in the day (we'll call her Tia) and has made several more her freshman year of high school.



You can see what drew them together.

The joy of seeing her with her friends has been somewhat tempered because the delight is accompanied by a pang that my oldest daughter (we'll call her Gwyneth) has not invited any friends to our house, nor has she been invited to sleepovers, parties or just to hang out. I frequently used subtle approaches such as, "if you want to invite friends over, that would be great! If you want to go to a movie with a friend, I'll drive!" You would think I would already have learned this lesson: while I would literally collapse without my friends, my husband describes himself as an "anti social worker." I just could not accept that Gwyneth could be happy without sleepovers and such, even though she's assured me that she's fine without them. I knew that of course she was in denial - if I need friends, everyone does. Three days ago she told me in the nicest possible way to bug off: she has friends at school but is perfectly happy with her own company. A friend of mine laughed when I told her last night because she has been saying the same thing for years: "I know you worry, but she is perfectly happy."

(Can you tell that I am a high-maintenance friend?)

Gwyneth in her younger years.

Making Cs at School Does Not Mean You Will End Up Living in a Box on the Street

Unless my life drastically changes, my kids are going to have to get scholarships to go to college. Because I think they are of superior intellect, I hound them about their grades - for their own good, of course. If they get Cs, I treat them like social pariahs. I go through stages:

• When I was unemployed and checked their grades obsessively, I would attack them the minute they got home from school - and this was before I read about the Tiger Mom. (In my defense, I never called them garbage, just shiftless and lazy.) I could not believe that they were not making straight As and colleges weren't already calling, offering full scholarships, a car, a clothing allowance and an apartment for when their dad and I visited.
• I'd swear that I didn't care: "I'm not going to check your grades anymore! I'll just wait a few years: either you'll be in college or you'll be working at a fast-food restaurant, serving your friends who are home from college on spring break. I don't care!"  
• Threats followed by pathetic bargaining: "Don't think you're going to flunk out and live at home! I'm looking forward to my golden years; I don't need some punk-ass living in my basement. Let's make a deal: I'll give you $100 for each A!" 
• Pleading: "You're too young to know that grades MATTER now. You're not in Oz anymore, Dorothy."
• Depression: "I'm a failure as a parent! I don't deserve to have children! I shouldn't even be raising the pups!" Hiding from friends for fear they would brag about their no-neck kids. Trying to score Valium from tired-looking women at Kroger.

 When we got their grades this semester, I was so mean that I made my youngest cry and she basically asked me, "What's wrong with average?" I was totally ashamed and couldn't answer her.

It helped that a friend told me about a friend who went into deep debt because he wanted a degree from Harvard -- a teaching degree. His friend is now making $30,000 a year and probably planning a trip to South America so he doesn't have to pay back his crushing debt.

Keep Your Kids On Their Toes

Perle Mesta had two sleepovers last weekend: one here with her friend L. and then she and L off to spend the night with A. They went to the mall, where I was to pick her up on Sunday. She called her dad to let him know she was there, but when I texted, I didn't get a reply. Of course, I knew she had been kidnapped and was being used for medical experiments. But instead of going to crazy town, I decided to go to the mall and do some shopping (I was looking for a blue spring cardigan) and either I would bump into her or she would text me. I wasn't there long before I spotted the three of them, strolling arm-in-arm. They turned around almost immediately, and the look on my child's face was priceless, as they say: I couldn't hear her but read her lips: "Oh my God it's my Mother."




Before the mall incident.

It was great entertainment, but I also learned a lesson: it's not a bad thing for both of them to know that I might appear anytime, anywhere -- their Guardian Angel who can ground them. Which reminds me of a true story: Tia spent the night at our house many years ago, and she and said daughter had been back in our bedroom (because they loved our water bed) for a long time. I decided to spy on them - were they talking about boys yet? Instead, I discovered them going through a dictionary. I think they are as wise (and lucky) at choosing friends as I have been.

As I write this, Gwyneth told me that she has invited a friend over on Sunday. Sometimes you win.

Happy Holidays!

Many of you will think I am tacky for writing our annual Christmas letter this way, but unlike a lot of you, I am BUSY.

The maid had to go see her dying mother or something, so not only have we had to clean our own house, but we had to put up the Christmas tree and decorations too. Last year her son fell off the roof while putting up all our outside lights -- he threatened (unsuccessfully) to sue us, so I don't know why we keep her anyway. She did promise she'd come by sometime the week before Christmas and bake cookies for us to give away -- we think homemade cookies are always appreciated.

Once again, John was passed over for promotion at work. The cretins he works with and his so called "manager" are so jealous of him they can't stand it. So he continues to at a job for which he is CLEARLY overqualified and nags me about getting a real job and cooking something other than ramen noodles with fried bologna. Like sweeping up hair at a salon 10 hours a week is a breeze. (I was saving the hair to send to some beach where a tanker of olive oil hit a reef or something -- a guy on the news said it was good for moping up oil, and I thought it would count towards my mandatory community service. But here's a free tip: don't use a big bag of hair to mop your floor when your dishwasher leaks!!!! It will make a foul, disgusting mess, no matter what the talking heads say).  However, John and I are going to try to patch things up over the holidays at a couples-only retreat in Greenville, Mississippi. We got a great deal - $60 a night for the hotel. The brochure said something about "taking up serpents," so I'm thinking it might be one of those reptile farms. Which are kind of creepy but interesting, too: I saw an albino alligator one time! Anyway, we'll have some time to share our problems with other couples. As my fans know, my husband can't get enough of socializing, especially with strangers so desperate they want marital counseling.

Girls before they went bad.

You might be wondering; what about your daughters? I know some of you have heard of my struggles -- they live to make me crazy. Their grades have been falling steadily in high school, and PLEASE - no more of that "they're struggling and you're the parent" crap. The guidance counselor keeps calling and talking about "gang activity."  We were a bit tickled, to tell the truth: both of them started dressing a lot better - no more of that snotty preppy look they had going.  Since they were tiny tykes we've been spinning tales about back in the day when we rode with the Demon Spawn of Flatbush. Sure, our black leather chaps are a bit tight, our vests resemble bolero jackets, and we've switched from Yamahas to Segways, but we still turn more than a few heads. Especially at Teachers' Night.

(Note to fans: I wanted so much to find a suitable image to insert here, but searching for "overweight couples wearing chaps on motorcycles" sent me to some sites I'd rather not visit again.)

Wow -- I was gathering wool there for a moment -- thinking of how we almost had that rumble with the Blouds and the Cripes before they went running home to their mommies!

Back to the girls -- unfortunately, they are spending the holidays in detention. We found out after the fact that the "gangs" they hang out with are totally lame. They usually just drive up and honk for them, so we hadn't actually met any of them. Those loud noises we were so impressed with turned out to be crappy cars with even crappier mufflers. Turns out my oldest one tried to steal several expensive slide rules as an initiation into the Cute Angles, a group of girls so geeky the regular math club wouldn't let them in. My youngest was caught stealing fruit to serve at a soiree given by the No Shows, a group so vile they had been banned from the Drama Club. She would have been given probation if her aim hadn't been so good: she hit the police officer right in the eye with a Granny Smith. You can only imagine our disappointment and shame at their choice of companions.

(I know it sounds callow, but is this not the best excuse EVER for saving money on presents! Not only do they not deserve them, but they're not even here to open them if they WERE under the tree.)

It looks as though Aunt Lucy is going to have to move back in with us:  the woman cannot hold a job and I don't know why she keeps going back to working in technical support. She thought she was just practicing tough love when she screamed at a second-time caller, "Users are losers, you lowlife motherf___ing earwig! May bedbugs nest in your pants! May all food you eat turn to rat turds in your mouth! May jackals tear out your entrails and eat them in front of your children! Even the squirrels I shoot from my porch know to save their work now and then!"

I'm not happy about this, but we continue to feud with our next door neighbor about our lawn ornaments and silk flowers -- she thinks she's so high and mighty with her "native plant" and "habitat for butterflies" crap. When we tell her we don't mow our lawn because we also want to save the planet, she scoffs. Nothing I relish more than a good feud. I get a real kick hearing her complain to the neighbors about her morning paper always landing in her fountain. Oh yeah, I'm keeping it real.

We're still a family who tries to have dinner sitting at the table at least once a month, because studies show that's the best way to stay close or some such crap. The girls know they can always talk to me, but seriously, when is the last time you actually listened to a teenager - they yammer on and on about themselves.

Our family advice to you is always take the high road; our family wish is a blessed and happy holiday season. And as always, please don't give us your lousy fruitcakes, cookies, jams (even if you call it curd) and homemade liqueur -  nothing says "we wish you a merry Christmas!" like some cash stashed in a tasteful Christmas card.

p.s. can someone pick up the girls on the 28th? Because we'll still be improving our marriage at the alligator farm.

Verizon, the Sequel

I just got a great letter from a guy named Jeremy McCarthy, Director of the Preferred Customer Team at Verizon. My first thought was: how do they treat their non-preferred customers? Do their phones explode if they go over their minutes?

Jeremy told me that I need to SEIZE THE SAVINGS. As Director, he has personally gone over my bill and found that I need to either maximize my current plan or change my plan because I'm paying $31.75 in "total overage charges."

The right solution is at my fingertips: I need to call one of their customer service people, and I don't even have to extend my contract!!!!!   Jeremy personally appreciates my business and looks forward to keeping me connected, now and for years to come. Is it just me, or does that sound ominous? Now I get the nagging feeling that I'm serving life with Verizon. They either get you in the small print or put Brad, Customer Service boy from hell, on the line and you agree to anything to get him to shut the fuck up. Pardon my French.

So, keep up the emails -- I'm not going to be using my phone much.

Open Letter to Verizon Wireless

Dear Verizon,

I just spent 64 minutes on the phone with two of your customer service people. It was such a long conversation that my husband and I took our pups on a long walk during half time of a Razorback game. My dogs don’t like you either. And it’s my birthday weekend.

A few months ago, my 13-year old daughter and I went to a local Verizon store, bought her a new phone and signed up for unlimited texting. This was for two reasons: I was tired of whacking her when she went over her minutes, and one of my sisters and I love texting each other really stupid messages about the superiority of our animals and how Dante’s Peak was a silly movie but worth seeing because of Pierce Brosnan being such a hunka hunka burning love.



We came out of the store all warm and fuzzy: we could text with abandon!
We did not get a very good deal (because although it was not our choice to switch and we pay a whopping bill to Verizon each month, we’re considered vile reptiles, otherwise known as Alltel customers), but it would have cost too much to change providers. (It reminds me, in reverse, of the way the Little Rock School Board is so fond of hiring superintendents, firing them, and then buying out their contract for oodles of money. You guys really stink but I’m stuck with you and have to pay you vast sums of money). I thought that when you sucked Alltel into your vast death ship I became a Verizon customer – that’s what my bill says. I’ve been told several times in your stores that I’m “an Alltel customer”, and your representatives always spit on the floor afterwards as if it puts a bad taste in their mouths. “I would SO love to get you in a Mercedes, but your past wireless provider makes you worthy only of this two-toned Pacer.”
 


We’re a family of four, all with phones, but only two of us text. At last I come to the heart of the story: my bill today showed that we had gone over on our texting minutes. Apparently we stood around in your store for 20 minutes before seeing anyone and then spent about 30 minutes signing up for unlimited texting – but the dog apparently peed on our order. Your rep tonight acted as if it was just another tricky day at Verizon. He never went off script (which had no bearing on what I was talking about) and put me on hold probably 10 times for long periods. Although I'm pretty sure he was in front of a computer, I kept imagining him skating down the hall to check the Manual for Alltel losers, maybe having a beer or two on the way back, jesting with his colleagues about the live wire twisting on the phone.



I repeatedly asked to speak to his manager; he repeatedly refused – he didn’t really refuse; he just kept coming back and saying things like, “Well, I could give you a 10% discount on the charges you shouldn’t have had in the first place”, or “I could wash your dog for you.” Except he wasn’t as clear; he would give a long spiel about some plan I wasn’t interested in, such as giving me 40 free minutes a month to call someone in a gulag in the former Soviet Union. One of his special offers (seriously) was to inform the Mother Ship that I had a complaint about the store where I signed up originally. Really? You’d do that for me? He was relentless about keeping me from his supervisor; she would only confirm what he’d done, but I was more so: I told him that I’d wait on the phone all night if that’s what it took. But when she came on, she agreed that my situation stunk and sounded beaten down – it took the wind right out of my sails. And by that time I was convinced that I was getting cancer by listening to the endless spiels while on hold.

A side note: I generally go to the office on Chenal in Little Rock. I’m not sure whether they have a sadist for a manager or whether all your stores operate this way: why do you make your employees stand on their feet all day? It seems a bit of a sweat shop-ish thing to do. I know what you’re thinking: that episode of Seinfeld.

As much as I’d like to put the blame on you; I am the moron who renewed our contract. But next time we’re up for renewal, we’re gone.

p.s. I am posting this letter on my blog before even putting in the mail to you – I have at least 10 loyal fans!!!!!! And some advice about customer service 101: satisfied people maybe talk to 4 people; those who bear a grudge tell about 5,000. And trust me; my story will get better each time I tell it. Especially if I call next month and they tell me that there are no records of me calling.