A True Story.

I know of a man whose ashes reside

In a box

in a bag

in a car.

His earthly remains tombed in white polyethelene

instead of a staid earthen jar.

He was put there one day by his third wife, Joan

who just wasn’t sure what to do

when handed a box with her husband inside -

Sprinkle him, bury him? She must think this through.

So she covered the box with a grocery store sack

To contain any possible spills

And set him on the back seat of a Toyota Corolla

With a blanket in case he got chilled.

She phoned all his children (of which there were many)

Whose love he would quite often brag

But they all curtly balked at taking their father

Leaving her quite literally holding the bag.

The last seven years of his life he existed

Locked up in a room with no view

With others just like him,

Bright eyes trapped in bodies

Not moving like they used to.

Now he enjoys quiet evenings alone

In a parking lot covered with stars

And day time with Joan as she putters about

Riding ‘round in the back of her car.

There’s no final resting place when you have errands            

Must get groceries, the prescriptions, mail a letter.

He is certainly dead, the man in the box

But quite frankly, this life is better.

I feel so alone.

When I was a little kid in the 70s, it seemed to me that the world ceasing to exist was a very real problem. I'm sure there were some bright spots in the movies and tv shows released in the day, (Hiya Herbie the Love Bug!), but what stands out most in my mind are the made for tv movies where the earth blows up, aliens mutilate all the cows, we have to eat each other, or all the above. I lived each day as if it were my last, but not in the good way where I was all "Carpe Diem!" It was more a constant looking over my shoulder, peeking through closed drapes, and finding every adult extreeeeemely suspicious. Because very probably, they were just an alien wearing adult skin.

In specific, there was a lovely little film called Where Have All the People Gone? Seems some solar flares made everyone disintegrate and turn to white powder. Well, not everyone. Some people were lucky enough not to be effected by solar flares because they're awesome or because they happened to be in a cave when it happened. So they got to walk around and find piles of white powder in the shape of bodies...still in their clothes. Because everyone knows that solar flares with the power of disintegration do not harm clothes, silly.  I could be imagining this, but I seem to recall someone driving a wood paneled station wagon down a street filled with flat clothes with powder in the them, and then stopping, standing by the open door and screaming, "Where have all the people gone?????"  Also, I'm pretty sure all the dogs were crazy and wanted to eat you.

To this day, I cannot lay out an outfit of clothes flat on a bed without thinking of it.

I bring this up because this morning when I logged into Blogger, I was presented with a similar eerie situation. Every. Single. One. Of. You. was gone.

According to Blogger, I follow no one. Which is sort of bad ass in a Clint Eastwood way, but nuh uh, I do too follow people. But you're all gone.

So, pretty please, keep me from driving my station wagon out into the middle of the freeway and yelling and put a link to your blog in the comments?  And I'll travel around and find everyone else that is connected that I collected over the last five years. After I get done watching the entire movie, which someone has apparently put on youtube.

PS - Huge foreshadowing...in the first two lines of dialog, the mom says, "Doesn't all the quiet make you crazy?"  Dun Dun Dunnnnnnn.

PPS - Huger foreshadowing...the the first five minutes, all the siblings and mom give each other come-hither eyes that kind of creep me out. But could come in handy for the regeneration of the human population.

Neighbor Jane said if I didn't put up another post everyone was going to think I slit my wrists but I said I would never slit my wrists because it would get blood on my keyboard and I've seen what coffee with milk can do to a hard drive so there's no way I'd mess around with that.  Because I talk in run-on sentences with Neighbor Jane all the time.

Did I ever tell you that like half the people on my block are named Jane or some derivation of Jane? It's sort of hard to get used to but is way better than the cult-de-sac we used to live on where all the couples names rhymed. Brandy and Randy, Dawn and Ron, Nic and Rick. Although on that street there was also the coolest named couple ever, Harley and Twyla. I had to call the HOA about them once because the enormous flag they hung over their house was flapping so loud the babies couldn't sleep, but I've always hoped to use their names in a very Eudora Welty-esque short story about subdivisions.

Anyway, let me hereby report that I in no way shape or form have purposely cut any part of my body in recent months or ever including my wrists. I have fallen on my ass on ice at work like four times though, but I promise it was an accident almost all of the times.

And, not only am I not critically bleeding, I've actually found some things to not frown about.

Exhibit A.

The $100 tree I bought last summer to put in the dog run only because they said it could handle the heat of being surrounded by pea gravel has these on it. They smell like honeysuckle, lilac and gardenia all mixed up in a yummy bucket of spring.

 Exhibit B:

A 14-year old who not only goes on job interviews but looks damned good doing it.

A 12 year old with a school dance the same day as 14 year old's interview so I can take a picture of boys in suits. Even if they are Sears model shots.

Is there a market for watch models?

Look. At. The. Size. Of. His. Feet.

 Exhibit C:

It's front porch season. Finally.

Exhibit D:

Because the floors were too clean and I simply had too much time on my hands.

Lastly, in a brazen act of selfishness and irresponsibility, I bought me a puppy, you guys. Because much like scarves or kick ass boots, one can really never have too many bulldogs.  Her name is Chowder Prudence but we call her Betty Pearl.  Chowder because it's just an awesome name. Prudence because my father called my sisters and me "Patience, Prudence and Grace." Betty because when you tell someone in a loud bar that your name is Penne, they say "Betty?" "Your name is Betty?"  And you say, "What? Nobody in this bar is named Betty, you freak, we're all 22 years old. What is this, an Archie comic?" And Pearl because she was born on Pearl Harbor Day.  So there, Nazis.  (That doesn't make any sense. I realize that, but I'm pretty sure we're not supposed to talk mean about Japan anymore.)

Thanks for waiting out the shadows with me. Here's to smelly trees, silly boys, porch swings and puppies.

A Series of Unfortunate Houseguests.

It's been an exhausting sort of 18 months, these months where blogging has been more frequently absent than present. It's been the kind of 18 months that you go into with the most noble of intentions, all smiles and sunshine but you get kicked in the teeth and handed a parking ticket instead.

After a foreign-exchange student gone wrong for 8 months, we played host, for 14 weeks and 3 days, to a family member fresh out of rehab. It's difficult to determine which was more taxing...the privileged child of wealthy parents who turned his nose up at all things American and put his pajamas on at 2pm, or the senior citizen who demanded gluten-free meals after three decades of consuming grain alcohol by the gallon.  Either way, they both slept in until 11 and wouldn't do their own damned laundry.

The damnedest thing is we spent months, MONTHS, trying to do the right thing, trying to take care of people who didn't appreciate it, in fact - resented it - and feeling guilty because we resented it right the hell back. You know how hard it is to hide in your own house? Stupid open floor plan.

Larger than that, some folks we considered dear friends, people we would've bent over backwards for...how do I put this eloquently? Let's see...they screwed us over. They said, "Hey, know what? Eff off, nice people. The fact that our utter lack of effort has affected your very livelihood doesn't bother us. And you know what? Screw your kid, too."

That. That's the shit that zaps the funny right outta me. That scrapes the goddamn give-a-shit outta me. Those symbolic house guests that you let into your life thinking they like you as much as you like them. But really they're just there for the free night's stay and the hot meal. They're going to use your good towels and leave the bed unmade.

My father, the person I'm probably most like, has a saying, "People are no damned good." I used to think it was an all-encompassing sentiment. But it was a warning. Take care of your own. Take care of the people who take care of you.

My husband, the person who has put up with me longer than anyone else has a saying, too. "You can't fix stupid."  I've been trying to fix everybody, with opportunity, with my time. I thought I could fix stupid. But people? Turns out they're no damned good.

So. This year and all the other years to come...I will not fix stupid. I will concentrate on treating the people well who deserve it. Starting with me.

Well, whaddya know. I almost feel funny again.

Good boy.

We recently had to put down one of the labradorks. He was a goofy brown 13 year old and this post is not about how sad it was and how much we miss him and how the 11 year old kid couldn't catch his breath in his sleep he cried so hard or how the 14 year old giant kid wept silently save for the big giant kid tears plopping on his geometry homework.  I'm not going to write that post, you are not going to cry. Go ahead and read it even if you're wearing regular mascara.

Although I totally wrote that post. Then I deleted it though because, ugh.

Anyway, this post is about how, in his final months on this planet said labradork lost control of a few key bodily functions, one of them the ability to keep all his parts tense as he stood up, slept or walk. At the same time, standing up, sleeping and walking also came with greater strain. These factors combined created what scientists call "poop balls." Okay, not scientists, just us.

Each time the poor old dude would struggle to get up, plop. Poop ball.

He'd chase bunnies in his sleep. Poop ball.

Grazing on the front lawn when someone lit a firecracker. Array of poop balls up the front steps.

We started calling him Poopball.

Admittedly, we let it go on too long, but it really wasn't that bad hopping around the house, using my iPhone as a flashlight to avoid kicking them on late night bathroom trips. It wasn't like it was big gross dog piles of poop. Just cute poop balls. More like rabbit pellets. Really big rabbit pellets. And the fact that it really embarrassed him sort of made it forgivable. He'd look behind him with his gray eyebrows raised and then look at me as if to say, "How in the hell did the bulldog do that back there?" And I would look at him and say, "I dunno, brownie. Bulldogs are sneaky." Because when you're 91 in dog years you deserve a little dignity I think.

We did, however, go through a lot of plastic bags picking them up. In fact, there were times when I would ask for double bags at the grocery store just so we'd have enough to keep the poop balls in check. One of the last times I was doing this, I got the evil eye from the lady behind me in line. She is typical for my grocery store in that she was wearing yoga clothes and $30k worth of jewelry, holding the keys to a European SUV and looking down a surgically-altered nose to shun my use of plastic bags.

I smiled sweetly at her and said, "Would you prefer I picked up dog shit with your Whole Foods bag?"

Apparently she did not prefer that.

In any case, RIP Sedgwick Fletcher's Honor. AKA: Sedgie. AKA: Browndog AKA: Poopball. You were a good dog. A very good brown dog.

Labor Day 2011

Since it's labor day weekend, I'm now going to treat you to a minute-by-minute rundown of the two times I was actually in labor.*

Go grab yourself a big frosty Bloody Mary and get comfortable kids, this is going to be goddam riveting.

Not really.  I'm going to go outside with a beer and a bulldog and pretend I have a union job.

Happy three days off in a row.

xoxo,
LGBG

PS - Exactly why do people write about that for the whole internet?  Because, bluck.