DMV Hell Doesn't Suck For Once

Have I told you the story about how I have been driving on an expired license? For a year? No? That was probably smart of me. You never know when one of your internet friends is going to place an anonymous call to the local po po and have you arrested for driving your kid around without a valid license...

Yes, I see your eyebrows. They are all arched up in surprise that I am such an irresponsible scoff-law. I did actually try to renew six or eight months ago online. But as I have no mail box, I do not have an officially Google/GPS-sanctioned address. SO...the internet DMV gave me the finger, spat at me, and sent my camera card to my previous addy. Then I just didn't want to deal with it. For six or eight months. I am what you might call a master procrastinator.
(WHAT? You don't want to go to the DMV either!)

So yesterday, Carl looked over at me with an air of don't-EFF-with-me-woman! determination, declared that enough was officially enough, and informed me that this license problem was going to go away NOW. He then drove me to the dingiest part of the county, and waited with Wendy in the car for Mommy to get all legal again. He is a saint, and I will bake him pies.

Honestly, I expected more guff from The Man about this. Instead, I got a jolly gentleman (I'm sorry-there's just no better word for him; he was all large and rosy) who waived the $5 camera card replacement fee and winked at me. What's more, my license picture looks even better than the one from five years ago.

Let me repeat that: Above the neck, according to a legal document, I look better now than I did right after college, before baby, job and home stress. Yeah, okay, maybe it has something to do with how I am now slightly more mature about brushing my hair and dabbing on some eyeliner for a picture...but let me have my moment of happy delusion, okay? I can go ahead and get a speeding ticket now! Because I look good on my non-expired license!

You're right. It doesn't take much to thrill me lately.
:-)

Three

When last I blogged, I was in Colorado, making turkey, drinking wine, and getting all maudlin about things. I have several items to report:

1. My dad is okay. He will get out of the hospital today or tomorrow, and despite the prospect of facing some serious habit changes, he has a good attitude. My sister and I are not fatherless mongrels. (We sang him "Hard Knock Life" from Annie while he was stuck in ICU. I'm pretty sure that's what pulled him through.) He is now very cheerfully letching after the Russian nurse who gave him a good, attentive shave one day, though as far as she was concerned, "bald face on man same as bald box on voman-no use!"

2. The turkey was awesome. My sister and I were together, alone, so we raised a glass, ate piles of Thanksgiving, and watched a mindless Vince Vaughn romp-com. Holiday. Achieved.

3. A week after my getting home, Wendy is still happy to see me. She keeps turning around from whatever she is doing to reach up and pat my cheek with her hand, all aglow with baby love. We had a birthday thing for her yesterday...less a party, and more of a birthday cake-baking playdate/spaghetti dinner.

Last year, on Wendy's second birthday, I was at work from 6:30 AM til 4:30 PM, and didn't get Wendy home til 5:30. She fell asleep in the car, and slept the rest of the night, while I stressed out about school stuff and cried about barely seeing my baby on her birthday. We may as well have been in different states.

Unemployment sucks. But I am glad that I have had the time to spend with my family, for all recent events both drastic and mundane.

(My apologies for the grainy cell phone pics. Somehow, "camera" wasn't on my list of things to bring on My Dad's Heart Attack trip.)

Dear Turkey,

I sacrifice you to the oven of my sister, in the spirit of gratitude for all things beautiful in my world.

Gratitude for my child and family and friends; gratitude for my own life. Gratitude for the opportunity that I have to be in Colorado to sit next to my dad, who did not die, and to simply hold his hand and talk to him.

It is a difficult thing to see fear in my parent's eyes and watch the reality of mortality dawn on the faces of those I love. It cuts deeply to see it all this closely, this way: nothing is guaranteed...we will all eventually leave each other. But it will not be this day, and for that, I am thankful.

So, I commend you, turkey, to your fate. I plan to sit on the deck overlooking the yard, watch the sun set over the mountains, and have a glass of wine while you finish cooking. I will gaze down upon the apparitions of my younger self and sister playing under hauntingly familiar trees and sky, and then we will render joyful destruction upon your carcass in the name of gratitude.

I am 28 years old, and you are the first turkey that I have made by myself. I know you will be delicious.

~Mo

How to Pack for Your Dad's Heart Attack

Stuff to bring:

1. Your game face

2. Clothing for dressing in layers-the temperatures of airplanes, hospitals, and foreign states vary widely.

3. Pictures of your young daughter, son, or cat that he has only met once-guilt has healing properties.

4. Your book/IPod/cell phone/laptop/knitting-waiting around takes up a lot of time.

5. A full cast recording of Douglas Adams' Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy-Keeps the mood light as you fly through the thin air of the Earth's higher atmosphere into an unfamiliar universe where your parents are suddenly mortal, and you have the power to consent to life-and-death procedures about which you know next to nothing.

Sub list- Songs not to listen to as you fly a shuddering airplane away from your young child and toward your possibly dying father:
-Freefalling, Tom Petty
-Dust in the Wind, Kansas
-Spirit in the Sky
-Stairway to Heaven, Led Zeppelin
-Porcelain/Wait for Me/Pale Horses, Moby
-My Father's Eyes/Tears in Heaven, Eric Clapton
-Bittersweet Symphony, The Verve
-Radiohead (just too emotionally confusing)
Sub list #2-Songs that are OK:
-Everybody Hurts (So hold on...), R.E.M.
-Aerodynamic, Daft Punk
-Beautiful Day, U2
-All is Full of Love, Bjork
-Lord of the Rings Soundtrack (gives one the sensation of going on an epic quest)

6. Nice shirts and clean pants...business casual if you can swing it. (Doctors statistically give out 27% more info with 14% less condescension to those who appear to engage in business casually.)

7. A graphing calculator, protractor, scratch paper, and a math major prepared to assist in the moment-to-moment calculation of your dad's chances of survival, based on the string of seemingly arbitrary but in fact highly scientific percentages given out by medical professionals over the course of his stay in the ICU.

8. Snacks

9. A notebook-you will inevitably be filled with deep thoughts concerning mortality, your childhood, unfinished business with your parent(s), resolve over being a better parent yourself, etc. Your deep thoughts may occur in nebulous fogs floating through your head, or they may occur in lists. Either way, writing down your musings of staggering import and originality sometimes helps you feel better. Also, the awkward way people avoid your eyes after looking over your shoulder and reading "How to Pack for Your Dad's Heart Attack" is amusing.

Blogging because I don't really know what else to do.

My dad is in the hospital. I have gleaned most of my information about the whys and hows through the awesome power of texts from my sister, who lives with him in CO. (Ha! Take that, no cell phone policy!) It seems that he has had a heart attack and/or renal failure caused by severe infection and/or unbeknownst diabetes, and also loss of vision caused by a nerve being pinched by something in his neck. Nothing big. Nothing serious. Just, you know, everything at once.

You are right. I do sound removed. I am making light of a serious situation. It's how I deal.

So this is a conversation that has been going on between us and my dad for the past seven or eight years:
Us: Hey Dad. You should get that checked out.
Dad: I'm too cool to take care of my illnesses. See? I wear black sweaters and cop glasses.
Us: I don't know who ever told you that you are cool. Not us. Go see a doctor.
Dad: I will when I have the money.
Us: You don't need money. That's why you have health insurance. Through the business that you co-own. Where you are the boss.
Dad: As soon as things are straight at work, the real-estate market has leveled, the elk herds have moved to higher ground, and the moon is in the seventh house, I can deal with it.
Us: This is not really the kind of thing you put off, you know? You are almost 60.
Dad: What if I find out that I need surgery or something?
Us: Then you'll take off of work for a while, have surgery or something, and go back to work.
Dad: Well, if I am not working, the world could explode.
Us: If you die, you can't go to work. Think about that.

So, yeah. Glad you could make our point for us with such dramatic and colorful flair, Dad.

I might fly out to CO tomorrow. I don't know. Like I said, I don't actually know what the situation is. Texts from my sister. The fourth-party information from my mom (who is also highly dramatic).

But I'll tell you what, I have last minute Travelocity tickets up on my other tab , and I have a bag half-packed and ready to go.

I don't know what to do. So I blog. Thanks for listening, internets.

Deal.

Wendy: Can I play your game?
Daddy: I don't know, you are only nice to me when you want my Bejeweled.
Wendy: I'll be nice.
Daddy: Oh yeah? How nice are you gonna be?
Wendy: Um....thirty!

Yeah, that sounds like enough. A good-ish amount of nice. Not enough for a cookie, but just enough for Bejeweled.

HalloWeendy

Get it? Cause it was Halloween and her name is Wendy? Hallo-Weendy?? HAHA-okay, no.

Just here to pass the cuteness on to you, the customers.




We trucked the kid over to our babysitter's neighborhood, where there is prime, small-child friendly trick-or-treating territory. We got rained on a bit, but Wendy worked pretty hard, and we came back with a decent haul. You know, for an almost-3 year-old.

She had a great time, and so did we. I should add here that I managed to psychologically scar my child this season (what? again? when will I learn?) by way of Halloween-themed library books. My mistake was letting Wendy make age-inappropriate decisions for herself. Now she is afraid of "pretend floating eyeballs" and "mad wolves in the walls, not happy wolves," and won't stop talking about them.

*note to future self: REMEMBER THIS GUILTY FEELING. Also, remember the crying. No matter how mature she seems, when she wants to pierce something or drop out of school to be an artist, or go riding off to the shore with Taylor the tattooed senior, remember the crying.*

Happy November, everyone!

Interviews for Spazoids

I looked like this:

...but a suit jacket was involved, and I was slighly less rumpled, and there were less toothpaste spots hovering in front of me. So really, nothing like this. (I really hope I didn't have this look on my face during.)

It went well. Except for the hyperventilating somewhere in the middle.

Picture trying to steer a Ford Explorer with bad tires down a sloping, ice-covered driveway. Toward traffic. You imagine that at some point, as the sweat pools in all of your crevices, your foot will miscalculate the pressure required for the break pedal, and you will start to slide....

That's about what happens when someone asks that "tell me about yourself" question. I hit a slick patch, and suddenly, I'm hammering down the hill about a mile a minute toward an oncoming Mack truck and Just. Can't. Stop.

Now I need to send my suit to the drycleaners, because it smells like interview fear-today's on top of the reactivated stench leftover from the interview in August. (I only have one suit.)

But back to the "it went well" part...yeah. It went pretty well. I said some smart things. I asked genuine questions. I liked the people, and we had good, natural conversation. Of course, as is my post-interview habit, I rehashed every single word I said all the way home, and it all sounded like crap in retrospect. It was a long drive. I had time to think of many, many better ways to answer those questions. That crazy girl in the runaway Explorer who is yammering eloquently about skill-based assesment activities and state standards and gesticulating very sincerely to her dashboard?

That's me.

New Hope

We took a drive to New Hope yesterday. It was one of those spontaneous house evacuations that may or may not have a destination in mind…this one spurred by Carl, who demanded that we all go and spend family time together, as a family, because we are a family, damn it. I knew where he had in mind to go-he’d been doing the “I wanna go to New Hope” chant for a couple of weeks.

New Hope is a small artsy town along the Delaware, where Pennsylvanians go to pretend that we are quaint New Englanders. It is far enough north of Philly for it to remain small, but close enough for it to be a tourist trap around holidays. Its great-it has little nooks and alleys where bohemian types grow tiny gardens and maintain art studios. People sit outside stores making jewelry and painting things. They have vintage clothing stores and Grateful Dead galleries and a barn theatre and Thai food (Wildflowers Café, I heart you).


The neighborhood association leaves snippy notes on the residents’ doors:
Dear Artistic Friend,
As you know, Halloween season is upon us, and it is crucial that our community maintains a high-quality picturesque atmosphere for our visiting brothers and sisters with the wallets.
We have noticed that the ivy growing on your stone wall/lattice/picket fence has dropped below the requisite 75% coverage. Please rectify the situation promptly, or you will and face a fine and also be barred from future community drum circles until such a time as the ivy has been restored.
Please know that we are only here to promote the welfare of our enclave for the betterment of all individuals, including yourself. Let us know if you need help cultivating your ivy; we have some sweet organic compost that would perk that shit right up.
Namaste.
~Rainbow Goldberg

I have been here many times. Every time I go, I am simultaneously enchanted and rendered bitter with jealousy. Yesterday, I'm pretty sure the bitter won out. As I enjoyed showing Wendy the ducks and the water and the cat named Morgana that roams around the witch shop, I was meandering around in a haze of displaced confusion. Something about the constant press of economic desperation at our backs makes it kind of difficult to pay $15 for parking and then have a good time window shopping for things you wish you could afford.

It's not all happy in funky town, either. You can tell that the economy has hit these people hard, too. A lot of shops empty, a lot of houses for sale.

I do know that real estate is outrageously priced, or we would ditch the land of “Answering Darwin.com” lawn signs and move there in a heartbeat. Leave behind this world of community Apple Butter Frolics that are actually meant only for specific church members and not really for the community…trade in the entrenched German farmers and Oyster Picnic set for homemade incense and Sweeney Todd at the Playhouse types...

Or not. I can be a sweater-dress wearing eccentric making my art-or my crafts, as Steph recently defined for me-from anywhere. It doesn’t have to be picturesque and covered in ivy. But it would be nice.

Wendy really did dig the witch shop. She pawed through the astrological rocks and poked at the chakkra wind chimes and identified the perfect wizard wand for her. She's cool like that.

What I Like About You

Dear Carl,

Your birthday is today, and I am broke, so you will probably be getting a few home-made gifts. Like something knitted. And a home-made cake. And a list of thinks I like about you. *Ahem. *

There are several things that I like about you, but here are some of the best ones (that are on my mind this week):

1. You find really creative ways to tell people that you love them. We watched Juno earlier this week, and you really dug that line where the dad says, “you need to find someone who thinks the sun shines out of your ass, good mood, bad mood, whatever.” Ever since, you have been making the angels-in-heaven “ahhhh” sound when I walk by, and muffling it when I sit down.

2. The ridiculous, mismatched, but many-layered outfits in which you swaddle Wendy so she will be warm. Even if it is 70 degrees outside. Also, the way you have charmed her into being your fishing buddy, and how openly touched you are that she wants to dig up worms and hang with you.

3. You don't compromise yourself.

4. You don’t think I should compromise myself. You are even more indignant about the minor injustices of my job(s) on my behalf than I am. When you tell me that I am brilliant and talented and strong, I believe you.

5. We were watching Dirty Jobs, and you kept rewinding the part where the guy bit the lamb's testicles off over and over and over. That was really disturbing. Your maniacal giggling, though? That was cute.

6. You made this chili:

…and it is awesome.

7. We were driving around on Saturday looking at houses we wish we could afford, and when we drove down that unpaved road alongside the creek and rounded the corner, you had the same reaction to the Buddha on the log near the path that led down to the little falls that I did. It went something like: "ooooooohhh…I looooove thiiiiiiiis!" You love things that are truly, naturally beautiful. You can picture us living somewhere like this, together, and happy.

8. I like that you are with me. This shows that you have good judgement. Thank you for being here, and never being anyone but yourself.

Love,

Mo