Fluid Pudding

A few months ago, a friend asked if I was busy on the evening of June 25 because she won tickets to see The Wiz at The Muny and wanted to invite me. Because Harper is still out of town and the only other thing going on was my “We’re Halfway to Christmas” celebration (It typically involves me sitting on the couch and saying, “June 25th. I guess we’re halfway to Christmas.”), I gave a firm Yes.

After driving into the city and eating our picnic dinner, we headed to our seats. Once we arrived, we noticed that an older woman was sitting in N44—the seat listed on my ticket. She smiled and moved to the next seat and all was well. My friend and I sat, situated our things, and then quickly jumped onto our phones to take a few quick photos and check on our families.

This is the closest I’ve ever been to the stage, and I was super excited. The movie soundtrack for The Wiz was one of my favorites when I was a kid. I would lie on my floor and listen to the album over and over again because Toots Thielemans on harmonica is just so nice.

The only thing I’ll ask you to do today: Close your eyes and listen to part two of the overture. Picture me sprawled on the floor wearing my Mork from Ork suspenders. Now picture me picturing myself playing Dorothy to Michael Jackson’s Scarecrow. Oh, 1978.

Back to The Muny. I’m in my seat shooting off a quick text to Harper (because I haven’t seen her in THREE WEEKS), and I hear this from the older woman sitting next to me.

I looked over at her, and saw that she and her daughter were looking right at my friend and me. And I smiled a little and PUT MY PHONE DOWN. (I’m still annoyed with myself for putting my phone down. I am 48.)

Before the show started, an announcement was made that everyone should stand and face the flag for the singing of the National Anthem. Whatever. I guess I’m cool with it being played at sporting events but this is a MUSICAL and that seems weird, yet I know it’s not up to me. (“Few things are,” she whispered passive-aggressively.)

Seated a few rows in front of us was a large group of students. Most of them were African American teenagers. When it came time for the National Anthem, a handful of the students didn’t stand. (How do I feel about that? I feel like they had every right to stay seated. I feel like the best thing coming out of this particular presidency is a spark for activism. I support all forms of non-violent protests and peaceful disturbances. AND, I also know that 17% (or maybe 31%) of you are rolling your eyes into the backs of your heads and hating on me for that. I’m okay.)

This time it wasn’t the cranky older woman who spoke loudly. It was her daughter.

And what I WANTED to say was simple: “They know exactly what they are doing.” But, damnit, I once again didn’t say anything. I *did* throw a stink-eye, but I kept my mouth closed. And I felt shitty. And I spent the next half hour silently raging against 52% of angry old white women.

Being outside watching the sun go down over the trees as Dorothy and her pals made their way to the wizard was definitely not a crap experience. It was an incredible experience made even MORE incredible when my friend handed me a surprise bag of peanut M&Ms as I dreamed of a wizard who could hand out hearts and brains.

If only we had a wizard who could hand out hearts and brains (and maybe slip me a steaming side order of nerve).

When it was time for intermission, the lights came on and my bag of grapes came out and I heard the most delightful ten words of the night.

The reptilian mother/daughter team packed up their bags and stomped away leaving their wadded up napkins and empty water bottles behind (of course). I put my bags in their seats and smiled as I watched Dorothy and her friends get what they deserved.

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We dropped Harper off at camp nearly two weeks ago and we’ll pick her up after eight more sleeps. Having her gone is weird, but knowing she’ll come home with a handful of new friends and a deeper understanding of American Sign Language makes everything worth everything. (Her three week camp involves an expedited college course in ASL. It also involves trips to the local big box store, lots of delivered pizzas, a Halloween celebration, thrift store shopping, a dance every Saturday, and the adoption of a fish. His name is Clyde and we will love him just like we love all of the other pets.) She is happy.

On Sunday I sat on the couch and watched a dog show. After about 45 minutes, I realized that I recognized several of the dogs. I had no idea that what I was watching was from 2014 and that I had seen it before. I could get all down on myself for wasting so much time on the couch watching a rerun, but I’m choosing to be impressed with the fact that I recognized some of the dogs! One of my (many) brain hiccups? I can be in a room (or even sit at a table) with someone and hours later have no idea what they look like. Ah, but Nathan the Bloodhound and Freda the French Bulldog? I Will Never Forget Them.

This is my big accomplishment of the week: Twelve people came to my house on Monday evening and I made a bunch of food and the guests sat on couches and chairs and looked at jewelry catalogs and I don’t think any of them really hated it. In fact, they ordered some jewelry and as a result, I will be wearing this necklace sometime in the next week. 

It’s a lariat, which means I can use it as a lasso if/when necessary. You know how I am with my frequent lasso needs. (I cropped out that necklace model’s face because she really does look a little bit like Ivanka Trump and I refuse to hang that poster on my wall.)

Speaking of my wall, we have lived in this house for nearly four years, and I’m just now starting to feel inspired to hang things.

Do you remember when I got my mountain tattoo? Well, last week I came across the semi-matching mountain shelf up there, and the price was right. (It currently holds a Buddha, a few saints, a Christmas thing I made last year, and Herbert the Owl.)

I bought a dozen or so dollar frames and my goal is to fill them with quotes and words that I like. Literature and Chickens is the first.

Finally? My door knocker wall is up to three knockers, which means it officially qualifies as a collection. AND I hung a fake triple spigot over the entryway to the family room. I could say I did it to remind all of us to let go of the figurative dirt before we spend time as a family, but that would be a lie. I did it because I thought it was funny.

On a bit of a side note, I’ve also been knitting and freelancing and eating and making lots of stupid mistakes and drawing and writing and creating cake balls and cleaning the house and driving a lot while listening to Anthony Bourdain books (because he reads them and I will always like him). I do this sort of manic “keep your hands and mind distracted” sort of thing when I’m feeling the unpleasant and inexplicable blend of Frantic + AngrySad + Being Physically Unable to Cry. If I happen to put a fist through a wall, at least I know I’ll immediately patch and paint. This will pass. And then I’ll take a nap.

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Jeff took the day off on Friday, and the four of us went to the Pulitzer Arts Foundation. The main exhibit right now is artwork by Mona Hatoum, and it was so interesting and amazing and wonderful.

That glass cube holds a year’s worth of Hatoum’s fingernails. (If you’re curious, the year in question was 2005. As Harper was finishing up her stay in my uterus, Hatoum was clipping her nails and perhaps putting them in an envelope.) You might look at that cube of nails and think it’s disgusting or way too weird or just not art. I saw that cube of nails and I was IN.

Look closely. It was woven out of hair. Mona Hatoum’s hair. She collected her own hair for several years and kept it in shoe boxes under her bed until inspiration struck.

Not everything at the Pulitzer was a Hatoum. (Read that sentence again while smoking an imaginary cigarette on one of those long stick things. Scowl just a little. There. Much better.)

The woman above was one of my very favorites. This painting is part of a series by Amy Sherald.

So, this past week has been a tough one for me because I have the same amount of time as everyone else, and I spend too much of that time sitting on the couch NOT being creative and NOT making people think.

(Photo credit to LHM)

John Pavlovitz appeared at our church last weekend. (Out of nowhere! As if by magic!) I am a huge fan of his words—both written and spoken—so I attended each and every presentation he gave. (Chapter 17 in A Bigger Table changed everything for me. That chapter laid out every one of my spiritual struggles and then gave me a big hug and told me I was going to be okay.) While he spoke, I sat up front and I took notes. So many notes. (Photo evidence of my note taking above. And another thing: Jeff and the girls gave those shoes to me for my birthday a few weeks ago, and they make me feel like an R.E.M. song.)

A phrase from last weekend that stood out to me in a really beautiful way was “That looks HORRIBLE. Let’s go there!” I need to force myself to see things outside of my bubble, because my bubble is SO sanitized. I don’t have to try very hard to view sitting on the couch as actively harming someone who might need something that I can provide, and I know that may sound ridiculous to you, and I’m okay with that.

What follows are some of the things I wrote down as John Pavlovitz spoke:
Does your faith influence your politics? Why is cruelty trending? Don’t respond to monstrous things by being monstrous. Be students of people—don’t settle for false stories and stereotypes. “I feel spiritually nauseated.”

Cultivate a life of activism. Use your gifts and advantages to lift up the voices of people who may not have those advantages. When conversations get heated, step in. Share love, mercy, and compassion, but point out false stereotypes. Decide what matters enough for you to speak. Every person of faith thinks they’re doing it right.

We know things are horrible. Horrible things are horrible. BUT, we’re going to find happiness somewhere. DEFIANT JOY. It’s exhausting to give a damn, but we’re here because we’re damn givers! There’s a cost to fighting for diversity, equality, love, and justice. You don’t have to complete the work, but you cannot abandon it. It’s okay to be a Christian on medication.

Give others a reason to go on another day.

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The guy who lives next door is putting his house on the market. A family who lives down the road is putting their house on the market. Earlier this week I found myself eating a gluten-free chocolate torte, (drinking a beer), and discussing intentional communities with a good friend of mine who I will refer to as Sarah.

Okay. Intentional community conversation followed by two new open houses in my subdivision. This can only be seen as a sign from above. Cosmic Poetry.

Mission: I need to somehow attract some of My People to My Subdivision. (Note: Some of my people already live here. We’re off to a good start.) How do I attract more? Sarah suggested a rainbow pride flag, and that got me to thinking. (I don’t think I’ve ever said “That got me to thinking.” before.)

(Disclaimer: Some of you followed the intentional community link in Paragraph One and you immediately started telling yourself false stories about me being a stinky hippie who wants to live in the woods and drink the urine of three-legged dogs while smoking weed around a fire in the name of Goddess Gaia. When the final ember burns out it’s like musical chairs but with lots of crazy monkey sex and maybe I smell a little too much like patchouli and maybe a guy named Pegasus occasionally howls at the moon. This type of community is not (necessarily) what I’m envisioning. And why did I just use a parenthetical Necessarily? Because I can be okay with almost all of those things if someone else is doing my laundry in exchange for monthly cake balls. And maybe we have some pygmy goats. A good library. Netflix.)

I just made the first gentle-suggestion purchase intended to attract a wider demographic to my subdivision.

I will hang it, and I will also give equal time to a flag that goes a little something like this.

Finally, I made a few signs for the front yard.

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Summer does not officially start until June 21, yet I have already spent four hours next to a pool. (Reminder: I don’t swim and being around water is a HUGE anxiety poker. The fact that I survived with nary a twitch is monumental. I give credit to the company and the dips, beans, and phyllo pizza.)

The latest Sedaris book arrived late last week and I’ve already requested the audiobook from the library. Some of the essays are hitting me hard, and I need to hear David Sedaris reading them to me. Maybe more than once.

I started this Waves in the Square Shawl on September 15, 2009 and the fact that it isn’t yet finished is such crap. Hit that link and just look at how pretty it will be. This is the shawl that is going to make me embrace pink again! (Pink and I have had a bit of a falling out. It’s nobody’s fault, really.) Anyway, the goal is to not put the project bag back into the closet, because when that happens I tend to not pull it out again for at least two years.

I’m devoting most of the day to the Scripps Spelling Bee preliminary rounds. I’ve gone from pajamas to clothes and from coffee to water flask and the bee blazes on. I would invite people over to watch with me, but as my kids can tell you: If anyone speaks during the bee, I lose my head. (I don’t lose my head often. Spelling bees stir up all of my emotions.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

One year ago today I sat in a chair and paid a guy to draw a fountain pen nib, a stippled spiral, and suspension points on my left arm.

The stippling was his idea, and what a good idea it was.

I’ve spent the past year really loving my stippled bracelets, and when you love something like stippled bracelets you find yourself wanting MORE stippled bracelets.

Stick with me here for a second.

I experience (what I believe is) more than the standard amount of extreme coincidences. Here are three examples:

1. Harper (who was named for Harper Lee) was born on Harper Lee’s birthday. We didn’t find this out until she was a few weeks old.

2. About five years ago, I ran into my best friend from college after not seeing/talking to each other for a dozen years. We quickly discovered that our dogs look like cousins and are both named Henry, we had the same primary care physician, we had purchased the same set of earrings from Kohl’s, and so many other things that on their own would not be seen as extreme coincidences but when you spend evenings saying “Me too!” over and over again, something magical is happening.

3. More than once each week a streetlight will go out as I’m driving. This has been happening since my grandpa died many years ago. It happens at different times of the day and has happened in several different towns. A few weeks back I put on my armadillo necklace (Grandpa loved armadillos) and went to my mammogram. When I sat down to register for the test, the receptionist’s table lamp went out and she said something like, “Well, THAT’S never happened before!” (Me (in my head): Actually, it happens all the time.)

A book I recently read refers to these things as Practical Magic. Back in 2015 I watched an interview with Bono. During the interview he told a story about his mother, and while telling the story he said, “I am ALWAYS looking for cosmic rhymes.” Cosmic rhymes. I love that. It gave me a term other than Divine Intervention to use for those weird experiences that deserve so much more than “coincidence.” (Or “irony.” Don’t even get me started on the misuse of that word.)

Yesterday I sat in a chair and paid the same guy to draw a cross, a stippled spiral, and cascading stars on my right arm.

Cosmic poetry.

The fact that I did it NOT knowing that today was the one year anniversary of the other stippled spiral is a TINY bit of cosmic poetry in itself. (Probably more of a coincidence, actually, but definitely noteworthy. Not ironic at all.)

My faraway mountains now have stars and the stippling didn’t hurt as much as you might think and as the artist inked the cross I thought about Jesus. Full disclosure: My mind sometimes drifted to, “Jesus, I hope he finishes the cross soon because OUCH and DAMNIT.” But mostly? I thought about Jesus.

My alarm went off at 3:50 this morning, and the cats and I came downstairs where we drank coffee and watched the wedding. And it was pretty and people had beards and my most important takeaway? I now know who Bishop Michael Curry is, and high fives to him over and over again. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I love getting up super early and drinking coffee on the couch, and that’s the ONLY reason why I might tune in for the royal wedding on Saturday. (Also, by the time Charlotte or the other kids get married, I’ll be too busy dealing with my own problems.)

Today is the last day of school and without going into detail, let me just say: Dear God, please let the next four or so hours go by smoothly and quickly with no blood, sweat, or tears coming from “that’s not so normal” places.

This year has not been without ruffled feathers.

(When it’s stormy, Henry wears a shirt. When Henry wears a shirt, I see him as a little boy dressed up like a dog when I should probably see him as a dog dressed up like a little boy. #Laurel)

Somewhere between three and five times each day I picture myself doing something that wouldn’t be acceptable to most.

Examples:

1. If a person with a clipboard stops me at the library and asks me to sign a petition, I let them spiel their spiel and then I sign or I don’t sign. BUT, in my mind I’m ripping the clipboard out of their hand and tossing it like a frisbee into the street.

2. If I’m eating at a fairly nice restaurant where everyone is quiet and polite, I picture myself going on a rampage and turning tables over while screaming the lyrics to “A Kiss to Build a Dream On.”

3. Every time I pass an animal who is dead because they were hit by a car, I picture myself pulling over and holding the animal in my lap for a bit. I tell the animal a few stories about how much they were loved, and then I give them a proper burial.

I watched the video of the woman defecating on the floor of Tim Hortons, and I wondered if she had spent time in the past picturing herself doing a floor defecation. I then felt a little afraid because I’m getting older and am starting to drop more filters. (In other words, I made the floor dump all about me.)

Example of a filter drop:

Last night I heard this song and I’m not even going to pretend that I didn’t like it.

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Yesterday was spent celebrating my birth, and today was spent celebrating the fact that I have two teenagers in the house who call me Mom, and four animals who think of me as their mom. (At least I think that’s what they think.) Know this: I really don’t believe you have to actually give birth to be a mom. In fact, some folks believe that *I* didn’t actually give birth because the girls never slid out of my vagina.

Evidence: Please (once again) enjoy this photo of Harper being pulled from my insides! While the photo was being taken, I was chilling out on my back eating Funyuns and wondering if I would be cleaned up and returned to my room in time for Jeopardy. (I was! Fun Fact: The Final Jeopardy question had something to do with the Black Hole of Calcutta!)

47 was a good year for me. I didn’t have quite enough work, but I put in a lot of volunteer hours. My colon stopped working properly, but it’s now pretty much on the mend. Although they look like something my grandma might have worn, I bought yellow shoes. A few friends gave up on me, but I made some new friends who fall under the umbrella of Band Parents Who Aren’t Afraid to Eat a Nacho or Drink a Beer. I helped a few dogs find their way back to their owners. I engaged in some friendly civil disobedience. I took a writing course. I stopped growing my hair out and will never again grow my hair out because growing my hair out is such bullshit. I started practicing the piano again.

I became a tiny bit more fearless.

I added a knocker to my collection of knockers.

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Harper turned 13 on Saturday, and because we were in Columbia for state music contest, she chose Shakespeare’s Pizza for her birthday dinner. My favorite Shakespeare’s combination is broccoli pizza with orange soda, so there I went.

Meredith turned 15 on Sunday, and she chose Mission Taco for her birthday dinner. My favorite Mission Taco dinner is two portobello tacos, so there I went.

I will be turning 48 on the 12th, and my parents asked me what I would like for my birthday. I said, “A really tall fake ficus that can get lit in the corner of the family room.” (It’s either me or the ficus, you know.) The six-foot-tall tree arrived today and I had five strands of tiny lights. More lights will be arriving on Saturday, and I’m hoping to spend some time fluffing (because I am a fluffer) between now and then.

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Last night I made couscous and I threw a bunch of grilled vegetables into it and summer is my least favorite time of year, but: Oh, the vegetables.

I’m thinking of doing the lazy journal thing again.

Finally, tomorrow is the sixth anniversary of MCA’s death, and my left ear is all “Intergalactic planetary, planetary intergalactic!”

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“I’ll have a Peacemaker. My friend will have a Fuzzy Navel with four pierced cherries. The Peacemaker is for me. Did you know it was named after a bomber during World War II? I’m not so much of a fru-fru drinker…” The bartender walked away as she continued to ramble on about peaches and nuclear weapons. As he should have. Because really.

I’ve been writing and stalling and writing a little more on my very first ever short story, and it’s not going anywhere at all but it’s certainly fun and I’ve reached the point where I’m enjoying the process of poking at my characters.

As Krystal fumbled with her wallet she accidentally emptied all of her cards and cash across the top of the table, buying Charlotte a few more seconds to drink as much of the beer as she could. (Charlotte could never waste a Peacemaker—especially in these troubled times.)

It seems that I really love writing on the thing when I actually sit down to write on the thing, but sitting down to write is something I tend to save until last.

The flurries were glowing under the streetlights, the sky was filled with stars, the air smelled like waffles, they were leaving perfect dusty footprints on the sidewalk, and suddenly Krystal stumbled and fell and there went all of her cash and cards again. Krystal. Shit. She is essentially homeless in this town and Charlotte knew that if she were to let Krystal crash at her place, she might take that as an invitation to stay even longer. (Sometimes it sucks to be the person who won’t let their friend sleep it out on a park bench.) As she stood shaking her head and watching Krystal recover, Charlotte heard her name, but not really her name.

“Mary?”

Let’s all sit down and write a little today. Or draw a little. Or play the piano a little. Or eat a little popcorn with a little Singapore spice a little.

As Krystal tried to take off her boots (the zippers were hilariously confusing for her), Lincoln left the room to grab water—giving Charlotte the chance to check out his decorating style, which she supposed would be considered eclectic by anyone who doesn’t want to use the word nonsensical.

The dishes/laundry/food prep can wait until tomorrow, right? What do you want to do instead? Give yourself 30 minutes and do it. (Disclaimer: I am not a licensed life coach.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>