My Unfortunate Incarceration

Back in the late 80's/early 90's, there was a television show called Designing Women. One of the characters, Anthony, occasionally referred to his "unfortunate incarceration" when speaking of the time he had spent in jail.

I was recently hospitalized for four days. I will heretofore refer to that as my "unfortunate incarceration." I may blog more about it in the future after I get over the initial posttraumatic stress induced by the experience. In the interim, I will report this:

Believe it or not, during the "unfortunate incarceration," the thing that was most soothing was having the old man read to me. Having him read was better than television--no commercial breaks and no missing important dialogue when a nurse or doctor came by. If I closed my eyes, I didn't miss anything. I could have him back up. I could have him jump ahead. I could ask him to speed up or slow down. I may start calling him TIVO.

We actually read (or he actually read and I listened to) a whole book. It is one I would recommend, a very quick read with lots of food for thought. It is called The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls.

How We Met

The old man and I had a Saturday full of social functions that took us almost from the cradle to the grave, beginning with a brunch, followed by a funeral, then a drinks-and-hors d'ouevres-type function, and finishing with dinner and music appreciation at a local pub. At the drinks-and-hors d'ouevres-type function, the old man got to tell the story called "How We Met."

It's a very boring story, so I think we need a new one to tell people. One that will make their eyes widen with surprise and laugh out loud in delight. One that will make them say, "I think I heard that about you guys somewhere," when we're totally making it up.

I worked on our new story last night. Now all I have to do is get the old man to a) agree to use it the next time he's asked how we met and b) memorize the story.

Here's how it goes:

It was back in 1981. He was 23, and I was 21. We were both living in LA at that time. The old man had moved there to try to jump start a singing career. I was a California girl looking to get into the movies. We both happened to be taking dance lessons from Kenny Ortega, one of the guys who choreographed the movie Xanadu starring Olivia Newton-John and Gene Kelly. Kenny wanted to put together a couple to compete for fame and prizes on Deney Terrio's Dance Fever. He thought the old man and I would work well together. Kenny was wrong.

It was not love at first sight. Kenny had us working on his version of the Hustle for Dance Fever. The old man kept insisting that I was leading (when I most certainly was not!) I just thought he was an idiot from top to bottom and found nothing even remotely appealing about him. After weeks of struggle, we finally got the routine down to where Kenny was more than satisfied with our performance. We thought we were awful, and we both thought it was the other person's fault.

The night of our Dance Fever performance arrived. The old man had a powder blue suit fashioned after the white one that John Travolta wore in Saturday Night Fever, open nearly to his navel. I wore a sequined canary wrap-around top with a white tearaway skirt. We both had big hair a la 1981. We danced the Hustle and you'd think I'd remember the song we danced to, but I don't (and I don't dare ask the old man because then I'll have to relive that whole nightmare of a night and hear his version once again). Well, long story short, we did a passable job on the Hustle, although the old man flubbed the part with the tearaway skirt and his shoes were too slick. (Remember, this is my version.)

We ended up coming in second, and when our names were called, we smiled, and jumped and down, and hugged for the camera, and then immediately went our separate ways, happy that we'd never have to ever see each other again.

For the next six months, the old man kept singing, getting backup gigs here and there. (If you listen really closely to The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas soundtrack, you can hear him singing with Dolly Parton.) I kept looking for work in the movies, landing extra roles and bit parts here and there (most notably 1982's Slumber Party Massacre). Then, one night, we were both out with friends and ended up at the same dance club. It was like one of those moments right out of the movies where the guy and girl lock eyes across a crowded dance floor. Everything and everyone seemed to melt away and we began to move toward each other in slow motion. By the time we reached the middle of the dance floor, we were the only two people in the world and the spotlight was on us. We danced to How Deep Is Your Love by the BeeGees. We didn't seem to have any problem knowing who was leading and who was following, and we've been together ever since. And, for you boys and girls who might be reading this, the tearaway skirt stayed on until after we were married.

So, from now on, if someone asks how we met, this is the story I'm telling. Now, if I can just get the old man to agree.

My Husband Francois

The old man has a quirk that bothers me. It's not anything criminal. It's just, well, quirky.

He wrote me an e-mail today, asking me to remind him to write some "cheques." His preferred spelling of "cheques" irritates me for no good reason. I know I shouldn't let it get to me.

But please. Where does he think we are? In the middle of Provence?

He might.

On occasion, he does develop a pronounced French accent. "Ah, mon cheri," he'll whisper between kisses up and down my arm, "come with me to zee boudoir."

Somehow he's convinced himself that this accent helps get me "in the mood."

Despite my protestations, he will persist. "I zee the lovelight in your eyes, mon cheri. Now come with me."

I usually end up going with him, hoping that this will be the time that I get to watch reruns of "The Addams Family."

Scoring

This afternoon, I tossed a pair of socks from the side of the bed into the laundry hamper.

"Say," I asked the old man, "if I shoot a pair of socks into the hamper and they both go in, but it's with a single shot, does that count as two points or four points?"

"Four points, I think," he said. "It's minus four if you miss," he added as he picked up a t-shirt that caught the edge of the hamper and slid to the floor.

I think I should get points just for picking up the piles of clothes Adventure Girl leaves all over the house.

Why I Will Always Be Able To See

The old man was running his fingers through my hair last night. He thought he was being affectionate. I thought he was being annoying.

Not only did he run his fingers through my hair, he "fluffed" it. Finally, he gave my hair a gentle pat. "There," he said, "It looks perfect."

I could tell by the feeling of hair standing upright that it wasn't perfect, and waves of panic washed over me as I thought, "What if someday I go blind and the old man is left in charge of my hair and clothing?"

Of all the big, scary things in the world to be afraid of, you wouldn't think that being coifed and dressed by the old man would be in the top 10.

On my list, it even beats out public speaking.

Life's Simple Pleasures

Adventure Girl has rediscovered one of life's simple pleasures--making out. Big car, radio tuned to favorite FM station, dark parking lot, and being with the old man equals lots of fun.

Speaking of the old man, he told me wants the song "Leather and Lace" at our 50th wedding anniversary party. I want "Son Of A Preacher Man." Another of life's simple pleasures--planning to be together at least 27 more years.

Queen For A (Number Of) Day(s)

I marked the passing of another year during the last week. First, I made myself Queen for the day of my birth. Then, as the birthday was on a Friday, I decided to make myself Queen for the weekend. However, as my age now ends with a "9," I decided it might be best to be Queen for the rest of the year to mark the last year in my current decade. Realizing that the next birthday would be the beginning of a new decade in my life, I decided that perhaps I should be Queen for the next two years.

Being Queen means that I tell the old man that he has to do everything I say for the next two years and then telling him what to do. For some reason, he doesn't think I should be Queen.

I think I'm going to have to call on Adventure Girl. She will have ways of convincing the old man of the wisdom of living under my rule.

Till The Calf Comes Home

I am beginning to wonder how long it takes before I stop listening for the front door to open and my son to come bounding in. It still feels like he is just away for a very long weekend.

Sunday evenings especially feel weird. There is no one to pester about whether they have clean clothes or homework finished. There's an inner alarm clock that rings, saying "It's Sunday evening. Do you have your child's schedule for the week so you can plan your life around it?" Apparently, when it goes off, I still hit "snooze" instead of "off."

I will probably start getting the hang of my new life about the time his winter break starts.

How I Discovered The Old Man Has A Thing For Cindy Crawford

Just a few weeks ago, I made a healthy food choice. Feeling a craving for something sweet a couple of hours after dinner, I chose to have a banana, full of potassium and natural sweetness, rather than something that was processed and refined and full of empty calories.

As I peeled, bit and chewed, I felt quite virtuous. This raised my endorphin level to the point of playfulness. Spying the Dole sticker, I peeled it from the banana and placed it on the right side of my upper lip. I turned to the old man, who was sitting nearby watching tennis (naturally), and said coyly, "Hey, don't I look like Cindy Crawford?"

In a nanosecond and with barely a glance in my direction (there was tennis on TV, after all), he replied, "The mole's on the wrong side."

"Busted!" I thought to myself. Aloud, I sing-songed, "You like Cindy Crawford, you like Cindy Crawford."

The old man tried to blame his quick thinking on the cat, as she also has a mole on the same side of her upper lip as Cindy Crawford. I didn't buy it.

The moral of the story is: Always have cake and ice cream for dessert.

Big Mama On Campus

We moved our son into his dorm room on Wednesday. It was two days earlier than most of the new students as he was participating in the "Service Plunge," a two-day opportunity to participate in "learning through service."

Looking around as I drove through the campus Wednesday to the spot where I was to deposit my child, I noticed that, in addition to the many people who looked to be of college age, there were many, many old people. They were everywhere.

And I was one of them!

How can that be? I still feel as gawky and goofy as a high school freshman.

I didn't do much friendly chit-chatting with the old people (I didn't want their old people cooties) and to the college students I am invisible.

I feel like I'm living in "Freaky Friday" land.

The Return Of Adventure Girl

This weekend was my twenty-third wedding anniversary, and the old man and I had an opportunity to spend some time alone. During that time, he made a proposition to me which I politely--and blushingly--declined.

"There was a time when you were Adventure Girl," the old man noted.

"Yes," I agreed, "But that was before I became a mother."

"You're not a mother anymore," he countered.

"I'll always be a mom!" I cried.

"Sure," the old man said, "But you're not a mother in the same way anymore."

While I continued to decline the old man's proposition (due to the fact that I didn't care to spend my anniversary in jail), I did decide that it is time for the return of Adventure Girl.

Stay tuned for the next episode.

The Real Question

On NPR this morning, I heard the tail end of a story on the Galapagos Islands that featured the ongoing conflict between evolutionists and creationists. I'm so tired of that debate.

Maybe there's something I'm missing, but it doesn't seem to me that the question we should be asking is "How did we get here?" Forget that.

This is what I say: "I'm here. Now what? How should I conduct my life?"

So, evolutionists and creationists, start behaving yourselves and get a life.

And if you don't like it, you can carbon date me.

The Devil Made Me Do It

If you are a regular reader of my son's blog, you know that he has had a number of things to say about the ESRB and GTA, which are the Entertainment Software Ratings Board and Grand Theft Auto, respectively. In fact, he has written more on the subject than I thought was humanly possible.

Recently, said son shared with me that he had read an article describing the use of GTA play as a criminal defense. This led to a discussion of the influence of the media and personal responsibility.

I told him it was not that unusual for otherwise normal people to be influenced by the media. In fact, I had an experience like that. I once tried to solve a crime after watching an episode of CSI.

The Two Boltons

Whenever I see a headline about President Bush and "Bolton," I always think Michael Bolton for some reason.

There's a split second of "Bush Stands His Ground On Michael Bolton???? Wow! He must be quite the diehard fan." Or, "Bush Appoints Michael Bolton As US Envoy To UN???? Is he like the American Bono or something?"

And then it dawns on me, "Oh, yeah, not Michael Bolton, John Bolton."

It strikes me as odd because I could not tell you even one song that Michael Bolton made famous--or John Bolton for that matter.

Identity Theory

I have heard a lot about "identity theory" this summer from my son, who is taking a philosophy course. In fact, his professor has written a whole book on the subject.

On my drive to work this morning--my new job at my son's high school, now his alma mater--I reflected back to my son's sixth grade year. Arriving one day to do some volunteer work at his middle school during the changing of classes, with the halls packed with junior high students, I suddenly realized that when the students looked at me, all they saw was somebody's mother. They did not see me as a person unto myself. I was attached to someone else who gave me my identity. It was startling.

While I will always be my son's mother and will always love him deeply and dearly and best of all after my husband, I am looking forward to these next few days and weeks and years where, after 18 years, people will not know me as somebody's mother. I will get to forge an identity apart from that, just like my son is now beginning to forge an identity apart from being somebody's child. He and I will be travelling parallel paths during this time in our lives, looking to find ourselves, him for the first time and me once again. It's an exciting time for both of us.

Road Apples

Guess who I am?

A reader has asked "What are road apples?" This is an excellent question and one which I will try to answer to the best of my ability. Most people do not explore questions such as these, preferring instead to merely lump "road apples" into the category generally known as "excrement." However, by doing so, they miss out on the minutiae that makes life ever so interesting.

"Road apples" is a reference to horse manure that can be found on or at the side of a road. My understanding is that a road apple hits the ground with a soft plop and generally retains its rotund shape, hence the term "road apples."

Now, let's contrast this with a "turd blossom." I have found two definitions of this phrase. The first is that it is a Texan term for a flower that grows from a pile of cow dung. The second, much less reliable definition is that it is a reference to cow manure that hits the ground with a hard splat and thus "blossoms" to cover an extended area. While this second definition is less reliable, it does provide a nicer contrast to the term "road apples."

And, if you guessed I was being the blogger KKairos, you would be correct.

Turd Blossom

I cannot believe people in this country sometimes. Some newspaper editors have their knickers in a knot over Gary Trudeau's use of the term "turd blossom" (in reference to Karl Rove) in an upcoming "Doonesbury" strip (click here).

For Pete's sake.

"Turd Blossom" seems pretty mild in comparison to some of the epithets that have been used for President Bush and his supporters. In addition, a fairly cursory Google quickly reveals fairly solid documentation that "Turd Blossom" is a nickname that Bush himself gave to Rove.

Given the crap that is on television at all hours of the day and night, "Turd Blossom" is a relief. It's almost poetic.

How do you like them road apples?

David Sedaris

I remember the first time I became aware of David Sedaris. He was a guest on David Letterman. His segment ended with a reading from his most recent (at that time) book of essays Me Talk Pretty One Day. He was hilarious.

I bought his most recent book of essays Dress Your Family In Corduroy and Denim and I often hear him on NPR's "This American Life." I like to listen to him read, and I like what he reads, and I like what he writes.

Last night, I heard him again. He was talking about his mother's aversion to having her picture taken and how he had so few photos of her. It reminded of the moment it dawned on me that I was robbing my family--my son and my husband--by not having a family picture taken. I remembered the moment that I realized it was important to them to have a record of us. I knew that there would be a day that my son would want to remember when it was just the three of us and that it was selfish to let my aversion to film stand in the way of that.

So, we had a family picture taken. When I look at it, I don't look at me. I already know I don't like what I see there. Instead I look at the cute little boy and the handsome man, who are my family.

Et Cetera, Et Cetera, Et Cetera

There is a scene in The King And I where the King learns what the term "et cetera" means and begins using it liberally whenever an opportunity arises (or he thinks an opportunity has arisen). I like that scene. I can picture Yul Brynner now and hear him pronouncing "Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera."

It's a good phrase. Very handy. I like that it has a nickname--etc.

If I were queen of the world (instead of Oprah), one of my rules would be:

Don't screw with the classics.

Avatars

Well, I'm supposed to be working, but I've "hit the wall," so I'm clocking out early to blog.

I was looking at those fake icon-things that people sometimes use--avatars. I saw where some loony 21-year-old was using actress Lauren Graham for hers. (That is not a Lauren Graham slam; that is a loony 21-year-old slam.)

So that made me wonder, "If I could look like anybody else, who would it be?" Then I thought "Nobody cares what you look like. Pick a hot body." Then I thought, "How shallow of you to only care about the figure and not the face." Then I thought, "How shallow of you to only care about the face and not the person inside." Then I thought, "How shallow of you to only care about the person inside and not the eternal soul that resides within." Then I thought, "So, if I could look like anybody else, who would it be?"

If I was a younger me, I would choose Ashley Judd. The older me would choose Susan Sarandon.

Tragedy

It says something about me (something I don't like) that, on this day of an attack by terrorists in the city of London, with dozens killed and many more wounded, all I can worry about is my facial hair.

I have a problem with facial hair. If I were a man, I would shave, but I am not a man and, as I find it humiliating enough to deal with this problem (and it is a problem because I'm a woman), I refuse to deal with it in that manner. I find it ever so much more pleasant to have it ripped from my face by its roots, which is what I had done earlier this evening.

Each time this ripping out of facial hair occurs, I get very angry. Part of the anger stems from the pain. It hurts like--well, it hurts like having your hair pulled out by the roots. Part of the anger stems from the fear I have about what facial hair says about my femininity. I already feel like I've failed at being a "girly girl," and I have the beard to prove it!

I did see a truly bearded lady on TV a few nights ago. It was cold comfort.

So on this day that will be marked as the saddest by people all over the world because of the loss of a loved one or a part of themselves, all I can cry about is facial hair. I disgust me sometimes.

Dancing With The Stars

I saw "Dancing With The Stars" for the first time tonight. I often wonder what it feels like to be able to move like that, to have a body that responds in that way. Even when I wasn't fat, I wasn't graceful. I have never felt in rhythm or sync with my body. I can remember as a kid feeling very angry with my body because I could visualize what I wanted it to do and tried to send it the messages to get it to do what I visualized, but it just wouldn't cooperate.

I can walk and chew gum at the same time, however.

What A Wonderful World

This is the one song I want at my funeral. Sing it, Louis. Oh, yeah.

What A Wonderful World
(George Weiss/Bob Thiele)

I see trees of green, red roses, too,
I see them bloom for me and you,
And I think to myself, "What a wonderful world!"

I see skies of blue and clouds of white,
The bright blessed sky, the dark sacred night,
And I think to myself, "What a wonderful world!"

The colors of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky,
Are also on the faces of people going by.
I see friends shakin' hands, sayin' "How do you do?"
They're really saying, "I love you."

I hear babies cryin', I watch them grow.
They'll learn much more than I'll ever know.
And I think to myself, "What a wonderful world!"
Yes, I think to myself, "What a wonderful world!"
Oh, yeah.

Exercise

Okay, this is only my fifth day of blogging, and it's already feeling like a "have-to." I think that's because I made the mistake of saying to my son, "I think I'll blog every day." So, periodically throughout the day, I hear, "Mom, have you blogged yet today?" Ugh. I can't lie, because he immediately goes to check to see if I've written anything about him.

Feeling the "have-to" makes blogging about as appealing to me as exercise.

Someone asked me yesterday why I was blogging. I told them that I was trying to reinvent myself now that I'm no longer a mother. The look in their eyes told me "Good luck with that."

I did indeed ask the child who led me to blogdom the questions below regarding how blogging should be performed. He was no help. He rambled about all the different approaches ad nauseum. I quit listening (but notice how I am increasing my Latin vocabulary).

Bullied and Badgered

I have just been bullied and badgered into doing my blogging for the day. By the kid. Who started his own blog the day after mine. I didn't think this was going to turn into a competition. Thank God he moves out soon and won't be able to track my movements (or lack of them).

Okay. I'm old. I'm tired. Time for bed.

I stink, therefore I am.

My son is taking a Philosophy course--his first college course ever. I may not survive it. My brain may explode first. He is thinking about all the questions I have been trying all my life to avoid thinking about.

I said to him yesterday, "I was thinking about what Descartes said. But tell me what you think about this: 'I stink, therefore I am.' So, if you can smell me, would that be proof that I exist?"

He told me, in his most withering way, he did not think so.

Also, in order to talk to my son now, I need to know Latin. If I ask for a translation, I get the eye roll and the sigh that says, "Mom, don't you know anything?" It is doubly humiliating if his father is involved in the discussion. Then it's two eye rolls, two sighs.

The mistake I make is, when the discussion gets above my head, instead of shutting up, I start trying to crack jokes.

Puteo ergo sum.

L-Po and HP

I'm thinking I made a mistake with my name ... L-Po. I think it's too much like Alpo. Arf! This blog is a dog.

There is a series of commercials advertising Hewlett-Packard's Photosmart line, the ones where you don't know if it's real or a photo, and the guy keeps putting frames in front of his face or over his head. Totally creeps me out. Spouse and child love the commercials. Must be that Y-chromosome rearing its ugly head again.

This blogging thing ... how are you really supposed to do it? Is it supposed to be stream of consciousness? Do I run to my blog everytime I think something that remotely entertains me? Are you supposed to have something well-crafted and profound before you post? Perhaps the child who led me to blogdom will be able to enlighten me. I will let you know what he says.

Here we go ...

In the next room, I hear the familiar tap, tap, tap of thumbs on a video game controller and the faint repetition of the video game music.

My son calls out. "Have you started your blog yet, Mom?"

He's the one who got me to this site. I actually found this screen myself.

He started college this past Monday. He's taking Philosophy and World Religions. Required courses.

I'm too young to have a kid in college. But the calendar says that I am, and I do.

Here I sit, Big Mama Off Campus.