My daughter S has had a rough year, health wise. By most accounts, she appears to be a normal, healthy seven year old. She is a little taller than her classmates, no thanks to me, and she does have a booty that would make J Lo jealous. But other than that, she is like the other kids. Except this year, she has had a string of incidents and episodes that seem to be coming too frequently to be coincidental.
She started with her spectacular tumble down the stairs, which resulted in a sprained ankle and an assortment of bruises. She looked more like a college student after a rough weekend than a first grader. After a few days of limping around and a note from me excusing her from running laps, she stopped milking it and resumed normal activity.
On the heels of that, she developed a mystery virus. She had a normal fever, not brain cooking high, but she had delusions. She woke up from her bad dreams confused and screaming, raving about a big machine that destroyed my bedroom, which somehow she felt she caused. The next morning was no better, when she awoke to the cats, the two we normally have, but somehow she hallucinated a room of them, coming after her. By the time I took her to the doctor that day, her fever had broken and she was fine.
No sooner was that over when she broke her finger playing goalie at her second soccer game. That resulted in three weeks of her wearing a splint on her finger, along with three weeks of her asking me if she could take the splint off her finger. I am pretty sure there was a week and a half in there of me telling her to put the splint back on her finger.
We took a trip to the beach while her finger was recuperating, and on the way home from that, she puked all over herself in the back seat, during a repeat viewing of the library’s copy of “Mary Poppins.” I doubt she was the first kid to throw up all over a library DVD, but it was certainly the first time one of my kids did it. At least she threw up on herself and not the actual DVD player, but we still had one of those episodes where the entire family stood on the shoulder of the highway, screaming at each other while the puking child stands in her underwear, crying, with vomit tinged mucus running down her face. Normally we pass one of those families and think, Suckers. Not that day. I don’t know if she ate something bad or had a stomach bug, but she was the only one who got sick, and it only happened once. It is possible that delicious bacon and cheddar croissant was too much to handle that day.
Did I mention she is also afflicted with plantar warts? She would kill me for telling you this, but she has two warts on her foot, just like her sister did a few months ago. Lucky for me, I kept the unused portion of ridiculously expensive genital wart cream her pediatrician prescribed, which came in individual daily doses that my husband somehow managed to make last for a month. When I took off her band-aid off last night, it took all the skin surrounding the wart with it, leaving what looks like a wart castle teetering over a shallow moat of ripped flesh. Only worse than that.
This past weekend, we took a family hike on a misty morning. She loved it, climbing up the slopes, skipping up the trail. She didn't love it so much when she tripped over a tree root and landed hard on her knee, skinning and bruising it. I didn't love it either when she cried at the top of her lungs for the rest of the hike.
Yesterday, she woke up with an angry stye in the corner of her eye. It is red and inflamed and itchy and streaky. I have washcloths at the ready to soak in hot water and press over that pustule, trying to relieve some of her discomfort. So far, it’s not working that well, but I figure there isn’t much else that can be done, and quite frankly, I am tired of paying her pediatrician to tell me what I already know.
So, is it a fluke? Is she having a bad streak, or is her immune system compromised? Am I overreacting, or is she just a little klutzy? I try to remain optimistic, but I am at the point where I am ready to buy a giant plastic hamster ball for her. I am just a phone call away from ordering enough bubble wrap to make her a protective suit, and I am pretty sure I can find those astronaut diapers online somewhere.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
Final Moments
Yes. I wrote about squirrels again. All I'm saying is there are a lot of squirrels around here. Be glad I didn't take a photo of it and post it here.
I saw something driving home today that almost made me cry. It involved squirrels, so I could not be entirely sympathetic, but a little squirrel-sized piece of my heart did break. A freshly killed squirrel lay in the road, face down. It was not still twitching, but rather, very still, and seemed peaceful in its final repose. It was not yet flattened. Guts were not spilling out of its little slack mouth. It was your average non-graphic dead squirrel.
What was different was the living squirrel that repeatedly ran into the road, seemingly saddened and confused by its exceedingly sedentary compadre. The living squirrel kept darting up to the victim, looking nervously about, shooting back to the curb, then again sidling next to the body. I couldn’t help but imagine what the living squirrel would say, if I were speaking for it.
Alive Squirrel: “Hurry up, Joe! I think we can make it! Follow me!” Alive Squirrel sprints across the street, thinking Dead Squirrel is right behind. Alive Squirrel jumps on the curb. “Whew, Joe. We did it!” He says, panting hard, his palms resting on his squirrel thighs. Alive Squirrel looks over his shoulder and sees Dead Squirrel, in the road, dead. “Noooooo! Say it ain’t so, Joe! They got you! I can’t believe they got you!” Alive Squirrel tears at his fur, dropping to his knees. “Ah, damn you! Damn you all to hell!”
And scene.
Or maybe it was more like this.
Alive Squirrel: “Come on Mary. I think we can make it.” He runs in front, making it across the street to the curb. “See, Mary, I told you we could…Oh, Mary! My sweet Mary! Dear God in heaven, have you no mercy?” Alive Squirrel rushes back to Dead Squirrel’s side. “Mary, don’t leave me. Hang on, don’t leave the children. We need you, Mary, we all need you.” Alive Squirrel cradles Dead Squirrel’s head in his lap. “Don’t leave us. We can’t make it without you, Mary.” He shakes his fist at the sky. “Dear God, dear God, why hast thou forsaken me??”
And scene.
Here’s a third possibility.
Alive Squirrel: “Nuts! Nuts on the other side! Follow me! Nuts for everyone!” Alive Squirrel hurtles across the road. He makes it. Dead Squirrel doesn’t. And dies. Alive Squirrel looks back at his ex-fellow rodent, lying face down in the road. He skitters toward the body, poking it with his paw. “Nut? No, that’s no nut.” He looks up quickly, his shifty eyes on the nearby yard. “Oh, look, there’s a nut.” And he scampers away.
Like I said, I almost shed a tear. Sniff, sniff.
I saw something driving home today that almost made me cry. It involved squirrels, so I could not be entirely sympathetic, but a little squirrel-sized piece of my heart did break. A freshly killed squirrel lay in the road, face down. It was not still twitching, but rather, very still, and seemed peaceful in its final repose. It was not yet flattened. Guts were not spilling out of its little slack mouth. It was your average non-graphic dead squirrel.
What was different was the living squirrel that repeatedly ran into the road, seemingly saddened and confused by its exceedingly sedentary compadre. The living squirrel kept darting up to the victim, looking nervously about, shooting back to the curb, then again sidling next to the body. I couldn’t help but imagine what the living squirrel would say, if I were speaking for it.
Alive Squirrel: “Hurry up, Joe! I think we can make it! Follow me!” Alive Squirrel sprints across the street, thinking Dead Squirrel is right behind. Alive Squirrel jumps on the curb. “Whew, Joe. We did it!” He says, panting hard, his palms resting on his squirrel thighs. Alive Squirrel looks over his shoulder and sees Dead Squirrel, in the road, dead. “Noooooo! Say it ain’t so, Joe! They got you! I can’t believe they got you!” Alive Squirrel tears at his fur, dropping to his knees. “Ah, damn you! Damn you all to hell!”
And scene.
Or maybe it was more like this.
Alive Squirrel: “Come on Mary. I think we can make it.” He runs in front, making it across the street to the curb. “See, Mary, I told you we could…Oh, Mary! My sweet Mary! Dear God in heaven, have you no mercy?” Alive Squirrel rushes back to Dead Squirrel’s side. “Mary, don’t leave me. Hang on, don’t leave the children. We need you, Mary, we all need you.” Alive Squirrel cradles Dead Squirrel’s head in his lap. “Don’t leave us. We can’t make it without you, Mary.” He shakes his fist at the sky. “Dear God, dear God, why hast thou forsaken me??”
And scene.
Here’s a third possibility.
Alive Squirrel: “Nuts! Nuts on the other side! Follow me! Nuts for everyone!” Alive Squirrel hurtles across the road. He makes it. Dead Squirrel doesn’t. And dies. Alive Squirrel looks back at his ex-fellow rodent, lying face down in the road. He skitters toward the body, poking it with his paw. “Nut? No, that’s no nut.” He looks up quickly, his shifty eyes on the nearby yard. “Oh, look, there’s a nut.” And he scampers away.
Like I said, I almost shed a tear. Sniff, sniff.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Good Fortune
I wanted to write about what happened this weekend, because now I find it funny. It certainly wasn't funny at the time, and due to reasons which would be obvious to all of you if you knew what I was talking about, I am not at liberty to discuss the event. So instead, I thought I would treat you to some of the fortune cookie fortunes I found in my purse when I cleaned it out yesterday afternoon, while my kids watched "Ratatouille." I did in fact prefer cleaning out my purse to watching that dull movie again. And I am sharing the benefits with you, the reader. I shall post them in no particular order, mostly because I am not anal retentive enough to sort them. Just deal with it.
I don't know if this referred to a UFO or the guy filling my water glass.
.jpg)
(You will live a long life and eat many fortune cookies.)Or else.
(Only the prepared speaker deserves to be confident.)
Amen to that. Not so much funny, but definitely true.
(Your life will be happy and peaceful.)
I don't know if cookies should bring you this level of peace. After some wicked good chicken with garlic sauce, this one did the trick.
(You have an unusual equipment for success, use it properly.)
I'm still working on this one. I don't think it involves a pole or interpersonal skills.
(A huge fortune at home is not as good as money in use.)
This one seems more timely now with the economic crisis than when I actually ate the cookie.
(God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another.)
This either applies to my two faces or my multiple personalities. Or perhaps my proclivity to refer to myself in the royal "We."
(An alien of some sort will be appearing to you shortly!)
I don't know if this referred to a UFO or the guy filling my water glass.
(You will live a long life and eat many fortune cookies.)
Friday, May 8, 2009
Splint: $5.99, Co-pay: $20, BelievingYour Parents: Priceless
Both my daughters are playing soccer this spring, which is funny because they are together two of the most non-athletic, uncoordinated children you’ve ever seen. They come by it naturally. I have broken seven of my own ten toes in various clumsy acts, one of which I like to refer to as “chronic terminal stubbing.” Their father once broke his arm most impressively while killing a roach. Clearly, we are not making any Mia Hamms in this gene pool.
So it should come as no surprise that one of the girls has already suffered a soccer-related injury. S, who is renowned for her frequent tumbles down the stairs, was playing goalie at her last soccer game. She has already let one ball roll right past her, forgetting that the magic of playing goalie was the ability to use her hands. When the next kick sent the ball her way, she reached right out and stopped it. We all cheered. S looked at me and said, “My finger hurts.” She came over to us and sat down, holding up her right pinkie for us to see. It looked much like a finger should. And she wasn’t crying. We offered her something to drink, and she went back in and finished the game, not as a goalie this time, but rather as one of those kids who kind of runs in circles and never quite gets close enough to kick the ball. I don’t know what position it is, but that’s okay, because never did she, nor did any of her team.
With her game finished, she might have mentioned again in passing about her finger hurting, but it was time to eat lunch. W Then later, when my other daughter played her game, S went searching for caterpillars in the trees, bringing them back on a stick, naming them good caterpillar names like Sticky and Callie and my favorite, Fasty. She got bored with her livestock and again mumbled about her finger hurting. I told her we would get some ice for it when the game was finished.
After E’s game ended, we went home, took showers, and watched some of a movie. And periodically, S would say something about her hurt finger. No tears. No moaning. No sign for worry.
Until about 4:00, when she said, “Mom, my finger still really hurts.”
“Let me take a look at it,” I told her. She waved it in my face. Holy crap! Her finger had turned thirty different shapes of purple and was about three times the size of the other fingers sharing the hand. It looked like a Vienna sausage that had been left out in the sun for two days. “I think it might be broken. K, come take a look at it.”
My husband shuffled over and peered at the pinkie. “It’s probably just sprained. Fingers get jammed all the time. Can you move it?” he asked S. She tried, but with all the swelling, it wasn’t too movable.
“Do you think we should go to the ER?” I asked in my worried mom voice.
“What for?” he said. “They don’t do anything for pinkies. I’ll look online and see what it says.”
Like most people in the modern age, my husband takes more stock in what Dr. Google has to say than an actual live doctor. Especially if it kept us out of the emergency room on a Saturday night. I decided to call the pediatrician to confirm our choice to not examine the pinkie, while S wandered into the other room to practice piano. About the time I spoke with the nurse is when finally, the crying started.
“Has she been crying like this all day?” the nurse asked me pointedly.
“No,” I replied. “Just since I made her practice piano.”
Dr. Google recommended icing and a finger splint, and the nurse didn’t say anything we wanted to hear, so we moseyed over to the CVS and found what I could only assume was a toe splint, the perfect size for a 7 year old pinkie. We splinted her, gave her Motrin, and considered it fixed.
The next day, while visiting the girls’ grandparents, S showed off her shiny pinkie splint, which we had taken to calling her robot finger. “K, you ought to x-ray that at your office,” my father in law said. Did I mention my husband is a dentist? Well, he is. And while he does not have x-ray vision, something I know he yearns for, he does have access to the next best thing. We left my in-law’s house and drove straight to his office. K got everything set up and took out a couple of bitewing x-ray films, you know, the ones that irritate the crap out of the side of your cheeks as you hold still with that metal ray gun cone pointed at your head. He positioned S’s finger on the counter, a bitewing film underneath it, and aimed his x-ray cylinder pointing straight down above it. We all skedaddled out of the room and K zapped her picture. Then he repositioned her finger for a side view, and did it again. The girls raided the treasure drawer of free kids’ dental crap like tattoos and bouncy balls while we waited for the x-rays to develop. K popped them on the light box, and lo and behold, we had two one inch square x-rays of a pinkie. Luckily, there was no Frankenstein crack running along the bone, so we congratulated ourselves for not over reacting and went home to get ready for bed.
Later, as I tucked S in and kissed her good night, she said to me, “Mommy, can you please take me to the doctor tomorrow? “
“Is it bothering you worse, baby?” I asked her.
“No, I just want someone who knows what they’re doing to look at it.”
After dropping E off at school in the morning, S and I went to see the doctor. We had our bitewing finger x-rays with us, finger splinted in its metal casing, when we went back to the exam room.
When Dr. P came in the room, he took one look at the sleeve of x-rays and said, “What’s that?”
“Oh, those are her x-rays,” I said smugly for being so thoughtful and prepared, like it was a college entrance exam instead of a physical one.
He stared at them for a minute. He looked back at me. “They’re kind of small.”
“Yes, well, my husband is a dentist.” I told him.
He looked at me some more. Then he shook his head slightly. He picked up the films and peered at them, holding them up to the fluorescent light overhead. He looked back at me again. “Do you mind standing?” He asked me.
I stood up, and Dr. P grabbed my chair and put it directly under the fluorescent light. Then he stood on the chair and held the x-rays right up to the light again. “It’s a finger!” he announced. He examined it some more, then said to me, “See right here, by the top joint? That’s where it’s broken.” He handed it to me and I pretended to see what he was talking about. “Mmm hmmm, I think you’re right,” I said.
“Well, it looks like you just need to splint it, S.” He picked up her right hand. “Where’d you find such a tiny splint?”
“CVS,” I announced proudly.
He took the splint off her finger and moved her bruised pinkie, flexing and bending it. “Looks like no ligament damage. It still moves well. S, you need to wear that splint for about two weeks. After that, you should tape it for another week, and then we’ll see how it feels.” He put the splint back on her. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. “ He patted her back, friendly-like.
“Could you please tell her that her parents did the right thing, Dr. P?” I asked.
“They did,” he said, addressing my daughter, who still looked skeptical.
We are on week two of finger splinting. Piano practice is difficult, as is any homework, washing hands, or carrying lunchboxes. Luckily, the broken finger doesn’t interfere with her ability to play with toys, sleep, eat chips, hold hands, carry the cat, or surprisingly, play soccer. But she does refuse to be goalie again.
So it should come as no surprise that one of the girls has already suffered a soccer-related injury. S, who is renowned for her frequent tumbles down the stairs, was playing goalie at her last soccer game. She has already let one ball roll right past her, forgetting that the magic of playing goalie was the ability to use her hands. When the next kick sent the ball her way, she reached right out and stopped it. We all cheered. S looked at me and said, “My finger hurts.” She came over to us and sat down, holding up her right pinkie for us to see. It looked much like a finger should. And she wasn’t crying. We offered her something to drink, and she went back in and finished the game, not as a goalie this time, but rather as one of those kids who kind of runs in circles and never quite gets close enough to kick the ball. I don’t know what position it is, but that’s okay, because never did she, nor did any of her team.
With her game finished, she might have mentioned again in passing about her finger hurting, but it was time to eat lunch. W Then later, when my other daughter played her game, S went searching for caterpillars in the trees, bringing them back on a stick, naming them good caterpillar names like Sticky and Callie and my favorite, Fasty. She got bored with her livestock and again mumbled about her finger hurting. I told her we would get some ice for it when the game was finished.
After E’s game ended, we went home, took showers, and watched some of a movie. And periodically, S would say something about her hurt finger. No tears. No moaning. No sign for worry.
Until about 4:00, when she said, “Mom, my finger still really hurts.”
“Let me take a look at it,” I told her. She waved it in my face. Holy crap! Her finger had turned thirty different shapes of purple and was about three times the size of the other fingers sharing the hand. It looked like a Vienna sausage that had been left out in the sun for two days. “I think it might be broken. K, come take a look at it.”
My husband shuffled over and peered at the pinkie. “It’s probably just sprained. Fingers get jammed all the time. Can you move it?” he asked S. She tried, but with all the swelling, it wasn’t too movable.
“Do you think we should go to the ER?” I asked in my worried mom voice.
“What for?” he said. “They don’t do anything for pinkies. I’ll look online and see what it says.”
Like most people in the modern age, my husband takes more stock in what Dr. Google has to say than an actual live doctor. Especially if it kept us out of the emergency room on a Saturday night. I decided to call the pediatrician to confirm our choice to not examine the pinkie, while S wandered into the other room to practice piano. About the time I spoke with the nurse is when finally, the crying started.
“Has she been crying like this all day?” the nurse asked me pointedly.
“No,” I replied. “Just since I made her practice piano.”
Dr. Google recommended icing and a finger splint, and the nurse didn’t say anything we wanted to hear, so we moseyed over to the CVS and found what I could only assume was a toe splint, the perfect size for a 7 year old pinkie. We splinted her, gave her Motrin, and considered it fixed.
The next day, while visiting the girls’ grandparents, S showed off her shiny pinkie splint, which we had taken to calling her robot finger. “K, you ought to x-ray that at your office,” my father in law said. Did I mention my husband is a dentist? Well, he is. And while he does not have x-ray vision, something I know he yearns for, he does have access to the next best thing. We left my in-law’s house and drove straight to his office. K got everything set up and took out a couple of bitewing x-ray films, you know, the ones that irritate the crap out of the side of your cheeks as you hold still with that metal ray gun cone pointed at your head. He positioned S’s finger on the counter, a bitewing film underneath it, and aimed his x-ray cylinder pointing straight down above it. We all skedaddled out of the room and K zapped her picture. Then he repositioned her finger for a side view, and did it again. The girls raided the treasure drawer of free kids’ dental crap like tattoos and bouncy balls while we waited for the x-rays to develop. K popped them on the light box, and lo and behold, we had two one inch square x-rays of a pinkie. Luckily, there was no Frankenstein crack running along the bone, so we congratulated ourselves for not over reacting and went home to get ready for bed.
Later, as I tucked S in and kissed her good night, she said to me, “Mommy, can you please take me to the doctor tomorrow? “
“Is it bothering you worse, baby?” I asked her.
“No, I just want someone who knows what they’re doing to look at it.”
After dropping E off at school in the morning, S and I went to see the doctor. We had our bitewing finger x-rays with us, finger splinted in its metal casing, when we went back to the exam room.
When Dr. P came in the room, he took one look at the sleeve of x-rays and said, “What’s that?”
“Oh, those are her x-rays,” I said smugly for being so thoughtful and prepared, like it was a college entrance exam instead of a physical one.
He stared at them for a minute. He looked back at me. “They’re kind of small.”
“Yes, well, my husband is a dentist.” I told him.
He looked at me some more. Then he shook his head slightly. He picked up the films and peered at them, holding them up to the fluorescent light overhead. He looked back at me again. “Do you mind standing?” He asked me.
I stood up, and Dr. P grabbed my chair and put it directly under the fluorescent light. Then he stood on the chair and held the x-rays right up to the light again. “It’s a finger!” he announced. He examined it some more, then said to me, “See right here, by the top joint? That’s where it’s broken.” He handed it to me and I pretended to see what he was talking about. “Mmm hmmm, I think you’re right,” I said.
“Well, it looks like you just need to splint it, S.” He picked up her right hand. “Where’d you find such a tiny splint?”
“CVS,” I announced proudly.
He took the splint off her finger and moved her bruised pinkie, flexing and bending it. “Looks like no ligament damage. It still moves well. S, you need to wear that splint for about two weeks. After that, you should tape it for another week, and then we’ll see how it feels.” He put the splint back on her. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. “ He patted her back, friendly-like.
“Could you please tell her that her parents did the right thing, Dr. P?” I asked.
“They did,” he said, addressing my daughter, who still looked skeptical.
We are on week two of finger splinting. Piano practice is difficult, as is any homework, washing hands, or carrying lunchboxes. Luckily, the broken finger doesn’t interfere with her ability to play with toys, sleep, eat chips, hold hands, carry the cat, or surprisingly, play soccer. But she does refuse to be goalie again.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Touch It
Do you remember a few months ago when a bald girl shook me down for loose change at the movies? Well, this story is also under that "why does this shit always happen to me?" category.
My friend RC and I stopped at the Publix on James Island last week on our way to Folly Beach for a long weekend. We needed the essentials, some organic milk, no-pulp orange juice, fortified with both calcium and vitamin D, and a little bit of fruit and veg to counteract all the crap junk food that would be making up the bulk of our weekend diet, just to help keep things moving along. We were looking around the produce department for some strawberries and pineapple when a man walked up to us. He was younger than both of us, and quite muscular. He had a very short haircut, almost a flat top, and was wearing a muscle shirt, circa 1983, which allowed us to see the various nondescript tattoos adorning his shoulders. He also had a tattoo of two Chinese characters on the back of his left calf, making me think of that old joke, the beef with broccoli Chinese take out menu tattoo.
"Is squash supposed to be soft and squishy or firm and hard?" he asked me. I immediately looked around to see if this was some kind of joke. He appeared to be in earnest.
"Firm and hard," I told him.
"Well, it's not," he replied. "It's all soft and squishy, every single one of them." He pointed in the general direction of the squash bin.
"Don't tell me," I said, "tell him." I pointed at the produce department guy who had his back to us, carefully arranging the green peppers so that if you removed the one that looked good, the rest would come crashing down around you.
RC and I turned our attention to the bags of mini carrots. "Why do these people always talk to me?" I asked her. "Do I look like I work here?" RC giggled and grabbed a bag of carrots off the shelf.
When I turned back around, the tattoo guy was there again, only this time he held a yellow squash in his hand. You know how those things look, sort of curved upward, bulbous on one end? Well, he was palming it, like he was used to holding squash in that intimate way.
"Here, feel it," he told me. So I did.
"You're right, it is soft," I said.
"See, I told you," he answered. He walked back over to the squash bin and put it back with its friends before pushing his cart away from the produce department.
RC and I looked at each other. "I can't believe I just touched another man's squash, " I told her. I meant it too. I couldn't believe I just did that. Who presents a squash to a stranger for fondling? And why would I feel obligated to touch it? Can't I ever say no?
"What did it feel like?" RC laughed.
"Soft. Flaccid. Just like he said."
"At least he didn't ask you to taste it."
"Yeah, really. I should have told him I only go by mouth feel." We cackled and pushed our cart toward the dairy case.
The weird part is this is not the first odd experience I have had at that grocery store. When I lived on James Island, many moons ago, I once saw a large black lady pull down her pants and piss right on the sidewalk in front of the store. Why she didn't just walk inside and use the restroom like a sane person, I don't know. She didn't appear to be making some sort of statement, since there were no employees to witness the event, just me. How fortunate. I returned home after that and called the manager of the store to tell him what I had seen so he could send some poor unsuspecting bag boy out there to squeegee the sidewalk, although I am pretty sure it somehow violated a child labor law. Of course, back then, it was a Winn Dixie, so it sort of made more sense. Maybe next time I should stick to the Piggly Wiggly.
My friend RC and I stopped at the Publix on James Island last week on our way to Folly Beach for a long weekend. We needed the essentials, some organic milk, no-pulp orange juice, fortified with both calcium and vitamin D, and a little bit of fruit and veg to counteract all the crap junk food that would be making up the bulk of our weekend diet, just to help keep things moving along. We were looking around the produce department for some strawberries and pineapple when a man walked up to us. He was younger than both of us, and quite muscular. He had a very short haircut, almost a flat top, and was wearing a muscle shirt, circa 1983, which allowed us to see the various nondescript tattoos adorning his shoulders. He also had a tattoo of two Chinese characters on the back of his left calf, making me think of that old joke, the beef with broccoli Chinese take out menu tattoo.
"Is squash supposed to be soft and squishy or firm and hard?" he asked me. I immediately looked around to see if this was some kind of joke. He appeared to be in earnest.
"Firm and hard," I told him.
"Well, it's not," he replied. "It's all soft and squishy, every single one of them." He pointed in the general direction of the squash bin.
"Don't tell me," I said, "tell him." I pointed at the produce department guy who had his back to us, carefully arranging the green peppers so that if you removed the one that looked good, the rest would come crashing down around you.
RC and I turned our attention to the bags of mini carrots. "Why do these people always talk to me?" I asked her. "Do I look like I work here?" RC giggled and grabbed a bag of carrots off the shelf.
When I turned back around, the tattoo guy was there again, only this time he held a yellow squash in his hand. You know how those things look, sort of curved upward, bulbous on one end? Well, he was palming it, like he was used to holding squash in that intimate way.
"Here, feel it," he told me. So I did.
"You're right, it is soft," I said.
"See, I told you," he answered. He walked back over to the squash bin and put it back with its friends before pushing his cart away from the produce department.
RC and I looked at each other. "I can't believe I just touched another man's squash, " I told her. I meant it too. I couldn't believe I just did that. Who presents a squash to a stranger for fondling? And why would I feel obligated to touch it? Can't I ever say no?
"What did it feel like?" RC laughed.
"Soft. Flaccid. Just like he said."
"At least he didn't ask you to taste it."
"Yeah, really. I should have told him I only go by mouth feel." We cackled and pushed our cart toward the dairy case.
The weird part is this is not the first odd experience I have had at that grocery store. When I lived on James Island, many moons ago, I once saw a large black lady pull down her pants and piss right on the sidewalk in front of the store. Why she didn't just walk inside and use the restroom like a sane person, I don't know. She didn't appear to be making some sort of statement, since there were no employees to witness the event, just me. How fortunate. I returned home after that and called the manager of the store to tell him what I had seen so he could send some poor unsuspecting bag boy out there to squeegee the sidewalk, although I am pretty sure it somehow violated a child labor law. Of course, back then, it was a Winn Dixie, so it sort of made more sense. Maybe next time I should stick to the Piggly Wiggly.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Another Sign the End is Near
Times used to be such that people liked to read novels for a little escapism, a break from the ordinary life, the dull routine of day in, day out. Some people, perhaps looking for a challenge, would indulge in literary novels, those that revolve around character development and theme, which would prompt discussion and deep thought beyond the words on the page. Others just wanted something to read while they took a shit, and thus the mass market trade was born. Formulaic writing, frowned upon in literary circles, became the way for authors to get rich quick as the readers wanted a story like the one they just put down, only with a different setting perhaps. The characters could be the same, no matter, it all boiled down to the literary equivalent of a Clue game.
It is not specific to any one genre either; anything that is mainstream can be mass produced with shoddy quality, suited to the Walmart palate. Romance novels, around forever, are just as bad, but honestly, when you get past man seeking woman, woman seeking man, man seeking man, and woman seeking woman, the rest of the variations stray from the mainstream and no longer are appropriate on the bedside table, but rather, hidden in one of the bottom drawers, under that extra bottle of lotion you keep there. Chick lit is another popular formula that sells, as long as it revolves around high fashion, caring for someone else's young children, or being a single girl looking for Mr. Right, a handsome, successful man, only to find that Mr. Right was her homely loser best friend all along. But as bad as most mainstream novels are, no genre is worse in its lack of creativity and meaning than the mystery.
Mysteries, thrillers, and crime dramas all fall under that too lazy to think of a new angle category, becoming more like a math problem than literature. Plug character A into situation B and presto! everything is neatly wrapped up in chapter C. Take John Grisham novels, for instance. John took what he knew, law, and turned it into one story. Then he took that one story and made it into a whole body of work,almost twenty novels, which people who like legal thrillers love, because they are familiar and make one feel they too have the capacity to crack that difficult case, to ultimately bring people to justice. But they don't. They can only read about it before it is time to heat up another hot dog or take out the trash.
The more people want to read the same thing over and over, the more formulaic writers will continue to churn out the same crap, only with new variations. Known sometimes as "cozy" mysteries, these brain candy pages include such riveting drama as the bed and breakfast mystery (Will the croissants be fresh?), the culinary mystery (whose hair is on my sandwich?), the religious mystery (Did God do it?), the animal as companion mystery (Lassie! Get Help!), and even the sports mystery (where is my golf ball?). As inane as any of these types of mysteries may seem, however, they are still masterpieces compared to what I saw at the library yesterday.
It was entitled "Death by Sudoku: A Sudoku Mystery" and no, I did not check it out. I did snicker and show it to someone else, who luckily did not exclaim, "Oh, there it is! I have been looking for this!" Who exactly is the audience for a Sudoku mystery? Is it someone who wishes they could complete a sudoku puzzle, but, accepting their limitations, feels it is better to read a dramatization of what might occur if one falls victim to the dangers of puzzle solving? Is it possible to die from too much sudoku? Is that what happens if you actually finish a sudoku puzzle? Are people getting murdered because of their ability to complete newspaper puzzles? Is the possibility of murder limited to sudoku, or are there Jumble victims as well? I don't want to even think about the cryptoquote casualties.
I suppose I should not judge people for their reading material selection any more than I would like to be judged for mine. But at least I like to challenge myself now and then. I might read something fluffy, but I tend to follow it with something more complex, where I might have the opportunity to learn something about myself or the world at large. Does reading a sudoku mystery even constitute reading? And what can one learn from it? That a good story can be summed up by a line of numbers, not repeated, either in a small square or in intersecting lines?
I wonder if it can be finished by the time you flush the toilet.
It is not specific to any one genre either; anything that is mainstream can be mass produced with shoddy quality, suited to the Walmart palate. Romance novels, around forever, are just as bad, but honestly, when you get past man seeking woman, woman seeking man, man seeking man, and woman seeking woman, the rest of the variations stray from the mainstream and no longer are appropriate on the bedside table, but rather, hidden in one of the bottom drawers, under that extra bottle of lotion you keep there. Chick lit is another popular formula that sells, as long as it revolves around high fashion, caring for someone else's young children, or being a single girl looking for Mr. Right, a handsome, successful man, only to find that Mr. Right was her homely loser best friend all along. But as bad as most mainstream novels are, no genre is worse in its lack of creativity and meaning than the mystery.
Mysteries, thrillers, and crime dramas all fall under that too lazy to think of a new angle category, becoming more like a math problem than literature. Plug character A into situation B and presto! everything is neatly wrapped up in chapter C. Take John Grisham novels, for instance. John took what he knew, law, and turned it into one story. Then he took that one story and made it into a whole body of work,almost twenty novels, which people who like legal thrillers love, because they are familiar and make one feel they too have the capacity to crack that difficult case, to ultimately bring people to justice. But they don't. They can only read about it before it is time to heat up another hot dog or take out the trash.
The more people want to read the same thing over and over, the more formulaic writers will continue to churn out the same crap, only with new variations. Known sometimes as "cozy" mysteries, these brain candy pages include such riveting drama as the bed and breakfast mystery (Will the croissants be fresh?), the culinary mystery (whose hair is on my sandwich?), the religious mystery (Did God do it?), the animal as companion mystery (Lassie! Get Help!), and even the sports mystery (where is my golf ball?). As inane as any of these types of mysteries may seem, however, they are still masterpieces compared to what I saw at the library yesterday.
It was entitled "Death by Sudoku: A Sudoku Mystery" and no, I did not check it out. I did snicker and show it to someone else, who luckily did not exclaim, "Oh, there it is! I have been looking for this!" Who exactly is the audience for a Sudoku mystery? Is it someone who wishes they could complete a sudoku puzzle, but, accepting their limitations, feels it is better to read a dramatization of what might occur if one falls victim to the dangers of puzzle solving? Is it possible to die from too much sudoku? Is that what happens if you actually finish a sudoku puzzle? Are people getting murdered because of their ability to complete newspaper puzzles? Is the possibility of murder limited to sudoku, or are there Jumble victims as well? I don't want to even think about the cryptoquote casualties.
I suppose I should not judge people for their reading material selection any more than I would like to be judged for mine. But at least I like to challenge myself now and then. I might read something fluffy, but I tend to follow it with something more complex, where I might have the opportunity to learn something about myself or the world at large. Does reading a sudoku mystery even constitute reading? And what can one learn from it? That a good story can be summed up by a line of numbers, not repeated, either in a small square or in intersecting lines?
I wonder if it can be finished by the time you flush the toilet.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Box Seats
I went to see David Sedaris the other night at the Peace Center with my husband and our friends. Some of my friends are very familiar with his work, while others just ask, “David Sedaris? He’s that gay writer?” as if being gay defined him or his genre. Last time I checked the Barnes and Noble bookshelves, his work was right out there alongside the heterosexual writers, instead of tucked away in some lurid corner with the books whose jacket photos resemble an Abercrombie and Fitch catalog. I don’t think people would feel as comfortable saying, “Nipsey Russell? He’s that black actor?” or “Jerry Seinfeld? He’s that Jewish comedian?” but they feel somehow that Sedaris being gay goes a long way in explaining his literary appeal.
I almost didn’t make it to the show because my daughter, S, was sick and thus home from school that day. It was the first day back after spring break, which was enhanced this year by the observation of Easter Monday, heretofore only recognized by banks and postal employees, but is now bleeding over into the education system. S woke up at two in the morning with a fever and delusions, causing all of us a great deal of distress. I was already awake due to my own allergy issues and stupidity at following my husband’s advice of popping two Sudafed before bedtime. He and I both tend to forget that we are not the same size or weight and what works for his strong constitution wreaks havoc on my chemically sensitive disposition. So I was up from a fitful bout of sleeplessness when I heard S’s screams and delirium, trying to calm her down enough to shove the ear thermometer with the low battery into her ear canal to get enough of an inaccurate reading to justify a dose of Motrin. She calmed down, after sips of water and pats on her back, and I returned to my night of tossing and turning, punctuated by my cat’s late night affections and the occasional neighboring dog bark.
The next morning, after round two of S’s screaming hallucinations, it was clear she was unwell for school that day and that I would begin day 11 of intense mother-daughter togetherness. Only this time , we enjoyed the added value of illness, meaning we would be spending about as much time in front of the television as the average American, with my intermittent pleas for S to drink more, drink more, just one more sip, don’t you want to get better? We watched The Pink Panther, we watched Oswald the Octopus, and then we watched Enchanted, which caused me to sing my requests for her to drink up rather than merely whine them.
Lucky for me, S was only feverish and lazy, with none of the truly fun signs of illness, like simultaneous puking and shitting, commonly referred to as “two exits, no waiting,” nor did she have green mucus streaming out of her nostrils, a dry hacking smoker’s cough, an unusual rash on her face or hands, nor any other sign that causes a babysitter to turn around before entering the quarantined space and flee for less contaminated air. My friend agreed to come over to babysit, knowing that her exposure to anything life threatening was unlikely, and I went about in my usual whirling dervish way to ensure that the kids’ routine was not too disrupted, which included our eating a home cooked meal together, selecting school clothes for the following day, and lovingly packing a nutritionally balanced lunch to take to school. I was so ready to go, it didn’t matter if it was roller derby, a tractor pull, or the living nativity, I just wanted to be out of my house and away from my kids.
We arrived downtown, found decent and affordable parking, and walked over to the Peace Center to look for our friends. The lobby was packed with more left wing types than are ever assembled in this town in one day. David Sedaris sat at a table, signing books and answering preshow questions while a line of witty liberals snaked its way around the available floor space. We decided to go back outside to wait for our friends, and on our way through the door to the seating area, we ran into some Jewish friends from our temple. “I see the Jews are out to support the gays tonight,” I remarked after greeting them. I also saw my writing friends and some of my mom friends, as if the entire local contents of my address book went out together on a Thursday night.
We finally found our friends and made our way to our seats. I was very excited, because I was the one who got the seats, and for the first time ever, I got box seats. They were the same price as orchestra seats, and I have always wanted to sit there, high and to the right, like Statler and Waldorf on The Muppet Show. Ideally, I would get to make snide comments loudly and heckle the whole time to the delight of the other patrons, but I knew my husband would push me from the box if I did that. He was secretly delighted to have box seats as well, and he leaned over and whispered to me that we were above the riff raff, as if we were going to watch a Barnum freak show and not paying $40 a pop to hear some guy read out of his journal.
We entered the box and imagine my surprise to find that our seats were not together. Unlike the seating in the rest of the theater, which is fixed, the box seats were unattached and on wheels. Two of our four seats were in the front row, which had four seats across, but the middle row had only three seats, leaving the last row with one sad lonely chair. Two women sat in the first row, and two women were seated in the middle row. There were small brass plates indicating the seat numbers on the floor, and it turned out that one of the women in the middle row was in one of our seats. Now, I hate to appear petty, but shit, I didn’t want to sit in the time out chair in the back of the box, so we stood there, looking at our tickets, and then looking at the chairs, and then looking at each other, until finally one of the women got up and moved out of our seat. Our husbands, forever the gentlemen, sat in the front row, and my friend, R, and I moved to the middle. I sat and made small talk with R while scanning the audience for more familiar faces. Why, I don’t know. What was I going to do? Stand up and yell like it was a graduation ceremony? While we talked, the woman seated in the lone chair edged it up slightly. We talked some more, and I overheard her complaining how she couldn’t see anything from that spot tucked in the back. Then she rolled forward a bit more. My friend and I continued to chatter, until the woman’s presence looking over my right shoulder took all my attention. If I had looked in her direction, I am sure her nose would have slammed against my cheek. I leaned forward and asked the husbands if they would like to sit on the same row with us. They agreed, so I offered our seats to the woman next to me and the woman who was supposed to be behind me. “Oh, no, honey,” she drawled, “We couldn’t take y’all’s front row seats,” like we had orchestra pit seats. I insisted, and they quickly arose and switched places with our husbands.
After our pleasantries had been exchanged, we started rolling and scooting the chairs around to bring that lone seat up in line with the other three, which was a tight fit, but comfortable with four people who know and like each other, and infinitely more relaxing than the back seat look-over I had been experiencing. By the time we had our seats arranged snugly, David Sedaris strode onto the stage, took a sip of water, and in his squeaky voice, made time fly.
I almost didn’t make it to the show because my daughter, S, was sick and thus home from school that day. It was the first day back after spring break, which was enhanced this year by the observation of Easter Monday, heretofore only recognized by banks and postal employees, but is now bleeding over into the education system. S woke up at two in the morning with a fever and delusions, causing all of us a great deal of distress. I was already awake due to my own allergy issues and stupidity at following my husband’s advice of popping two Sudafed before bedtime. He and I both tend to forget that we are not the same size or weight and what works for his strong constitution wreaks havoc on my chemically sensitive disposition. So I was up from a fitful bout of sleeplessness when I heard S’s screams and delirium, trying to calm her down enough to shove the ear thermometer with the low battery into her ear canal to get enough of an inaccurate reading to justify a dose of Motrin. She calmed down, after sips of water and pats on her back, and I returned to my night of tossing and turning, punctuated by my cat’s late night affections and the occasional neighboring dog bark.
The next morning, after round two of S’s screaming hallucinations, it was clear she was unwell for school that day and that I would begin day 11 of intense mother-daughter togetherness. Only this time , we enjoyed the added value of illness, meaning we would be spending about as much time in front of the television as the average American, with my intermittent pleas for S to drink more, drink more, just one more sip, don’t you want to get better? We watched The Pink Panther, we watched Oswald the Octopus, and then we watched Enchanted, which caused me to sing my requests for her to drink up rather than merely whine them.
Lucky for me, S was only feverish and lazy, with none of the truly fun signs of illness, like simultaneous puking and shitting, commonly referred to as “two exits, no waiting,” nor did she have green mucus streaming out of her nostrils, a dry hacking smoker’s cough, an unusual rash on her face or hands, nor any other sign that causes a babysitter to turn around before entering the quarantined space and flee for less contaminated air. My friend agreed to come over to babysit, knowing that her exposure to anything life threatening was unlikely, and I went about in my usual whirling dervish way to ensure that the kids’ routine was not too disrupted, which included our eating a home cooked meal together, selecting school clothes for the following day, and lovingly packing a nutritionally balanced lunch to take to school. I was so ready to go, it didn’t matter if it was roller derby, a tractor pull, or the living nativity, I just wanted to be out of my house and away from my kids.
We arrived downtown, found decent and affordable parking, and walked over to the Peace Center to look for our friends. The lobby was packed with more left wing types than are ever assembled in this town in one day. David Sedaris sat at a table, signing books and answering preshow questions while a line of witty liberals snaked its way around the available floor space. We decided to go back outside to wait for our friends, and on our way through the door to the seating area, we ran into some Jewish friends from our temple. “I see the Jews are out to support the gays tonight,” I remarked after greeting them. I also saw my writing friends and some of my mom friends, as if the entire local contents of my address book went out together on a Thursday night.
We finally found our friends and made our way to our seats. I was very excited, because I was the one who got the seats, and for the first time ever, I got box seats. They were the same price as orchestra seats, and I have always wanted to sit there, high and to the right, like Statler and Waldorf on The Muppet Show. Ideally, I would get to make snide comments loudly and heckle the whole time to the delight of the other patrons, but I knew my husband would push me from the box if I did that. He was secretly delighted to have box seats as well, and he leaned over and whispered to me that we were above the riff raff, as if we were going to watch a Barnum freak show and not paying $40 a pop to hear some guy read out of his journal.
We entered the box and imagine my surprise to find that our seats were not together. Unlike the seating in the rest of the theater, which is fixed, the box seats were unattached and on wheels. Two of our four seats were in the front row, which had four seats across, but the middle row had only three seats, leaving the last row with one sad lonely chair. Two women sat in the first row, and two women were seated in the middle row. There were small brass plates indicating the seat numbers on the floor, and it turned out that one of the women in the middle row was in one of our seats. Now, I hate to appear petty, but shit, I didn’t want to sit in the time out chair in the back of the box, so we stood there, looking at our tickets, and then looking at the chairs, and then looking at each other, until finally one of the women got up and moved out of our seat. Our husbands, forever the gentlemen, sat in the front row, and my friend, R, and I moved to the middle. I sat and made small talk with R while scanning the audience for more familiar faces. Why, I don’t know. What was I going to do? Stand up and yell like it was a graduation ceremony? While we talked, the woman seated in the lone chair edged it up slightly. We talked some more, and I overheard her complaining how she couldn’t see anything from that spot tucked in the back. Then she rolled forward a bit more. My friend and I continued to chatter, until the woman’s presence looking over my right shoulder took all my attention. If I had looked in her direction, I am sure her nose would have slammed against my cheek. I leaned forward and asked the husbands if they would like to sit on the same row with us. They agreed, so I offered our seats to the woman next to me and the woman who was supposed to be behind me. “Oh, no, honey,” she drawled, “We couldn’t take y’all’s front row seats,” like we had orchestra pit seats. I insisted, and they quickly arose and switched places with our husbands.
After our pleasantries had been exchanged, we started rolling and scooting the chairs around to bring that lone seat up in line with the other three, which was a tight fit, but comfortable with four people who know and like each other, and infinitely more relaxing than the back seat look-over I had been experiencing. By the time we had our seats arranged snugly, David Sedaris strode onto the stage, took a sip of water, and in his squeaky voice, made time fly.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)