Someone to hold her hand ... always

 

Her 5th deviled egg 

I got some rare good news today. I can't write about that, so I want instead to share one of my favorite posts about my 9-year-old granddaughter, Coraline. One good thing that happened in 2020 is that I got official custody of her, something we both wanted a lot. When she used to ask why she lived with me, I'd tell her it was because we have a special relationship, and I think this post from 2013 shows just how special.

My daughter Elvira brought over my granddaughter Coraline, who turned 2 last week (and insists she's 5), about noon today to spend the day and the night. We had a busy day. We started by making deviled eggs for lunch. I keep up a running commentary as I cook or make food with Coraline now. It's like I've got my own Food Network show, and she's the only one in the studio audience. "And now we finish with just a sprinkle of smoked paprika to complement the tang of the mustard and the creaminess of the eggs...."

After lunch we threw the ball for Kohl, the granddog, watered the tomatoes, read a bunch of books, sat on the potty a dozen times both with and without success, and took a nap. The nap was for my benefit.

Then we headed over to a local botanical garden that has a big, creative play area for kids with lots of water features, sand boxes, fairy houses, caves, edible plants, and bees. We spent several hours there exploring and discovering things like snails and pale blue dragonflies and sensitive plants.

Back home we got into dry clothes, grilled some chicken and corn on the cob for dinner, and then took Kohl for a long walk as dusk fell, talking about the meaning of red and yellow and green lights, and when to walk and when to wait. A big bowl of homemade yogurt with blueberries, an apple, and about 30 books later, it was 11:30 and Coraline was fighting sleep. She missed her mommy, and wasn't ready for the day to end.

She didn't want to be held or rocked, so she tossed and rolled on my bed trying to get comfortable as I sang to her. Finally I persuaded her to lie still, close her eyes and just hold my hand as I sang the same song over and over.

Like a ship in the harbor,

Like a mother and child,

Like a light in the darkness

I'll hold you a while.

We'll rock on the water,

And I'll cradle you deep,

And hold you while fairies

Sing you to sleep.

As her muscles relaxed and her breathing slowed, I lay on my side facing her, her tiny hand curled around my fingers, and watched her give in to her dreams. And as I did, I saw superimposed over her small arm the arm of a much older woman -- a woman even older than I am. The arm of the woman she will be decades from now.

I thought of the times she had trusted my hands just today -- the many times when she reached out without looking as she navigated a long, man-made stream studded with rocks, knowing my hand would be there for her to grasp so she wouldn't fall; when she rested her head in my hand as I lathered up her hair and sprayed it clean over the kitchen sink; when she touched the hot, foil-wrapped corn after I told her it was hot, and I grabbed her hand and held it to a cool dishcloth to dissipate the pain; when I lifted her over a toilet that seems big enough to swallow her up because she likes using my potty ... when she fell asleep missing her mom and sleeping in my big bed instead of her own.

And I offered up a prayer to whomever may or may not be listening for that woman of the future. I prayed that she would remember the feeling of someone holding her hand and loving her as completely and fiercely as is humanly possible -- because I do, just like I have loved her mother and her uncle.

I prayed that all the nights she falls asleep snuggled up to her mommy's breast or curled up next to her daddy's side or holding my hand while I sing to her will stay with her like a warm, soft invisible cloak that she can fold around herself whenever she needs comfort, even after her arms are mottled with age spots and her skin has grown thin and wrinkled, and my ashes have long since been spread in someone's garden ... or lost if I know my kids.

That, I think, would be more important than knowing how to make deviled eggs and studying the mating habits of dragonflies, learning to pee on a toilet and that yellow means "be careful."

Although those things are certainly important too.

Finding my inner handypenis

 

I just had to check in and see how everybody's doing. Last week was a big week. Yuge. Nobody's ever seen one this huge. I have to admit I was feeling some PTSD on election Tuesday stemming from the 2016 election night horror show. I was irritable, unfocused, fearful even, after weeks of grinding tension. Like a lot of you, I suspect. 2020 has been unkind and I had no reason to believe it was going to change.

But as the week went by, something happened. The weather changed from chilly and rainy to dry and warm. The autumn trees cast a warm pink and yellow glow over our street. The tide started to turn blue in the days after the election. And Thursday I woke up and felt like a dark cloud had been lifted off my head. A heavy dark cloud. I felt like getting to work.

Toward the end of October I had signed up for a race called Run for Ruth--We Dissent* with my daughter-in-law Dakota. Crazy as it was this close to winter, we committed to riding (running, walking, skating) 87 miles by the end of January, 2021. Coraline and I loaded up our bikes and rode along the Stillwater River Thursday, leaves crunching under our tires, smiling and saying "hi" to the walkers. We weren't the only ones who felt more relaxed. Two weeks ago people walked with their heads down and often didn't make eye contact. Now they seemed eager to greet us as we blew past. We got in 8.5 miles, which isn't far for me, but was a pretty good ride for a 9-year-old.

The next day we went out again with Dakota, my 3-year-old grandson Danger, and Dakota's mom, Red. This time we rode along fields and farms and through a small pretty midwestern town until we got to a park. Dakota stopped there with the kids while Redma and I rode on. About a mile and a half down the path, Redma decided to stop and call a friend. I rode on by myself past large cornfields that had been recently harvested. I passed a few people, mostly walkers. One old man was walking a bike at a jog that was slower than most people walk. I kept my eyes open for deer. The last time we rode that path a buck with an impressive rack ran across the path from out of the woods just 50 yards ahead of us. I have no desire to find out who would survive a collision between my road bike and a deer.

All in all, I got in 16 miles that day, about half of them at a good, hard pace. Not that far compared to how I used to ride, but the longest ride of this year. I'm up to 38.25 miles, and I think I can finish those last 50 miles in plenty of time.

I felt so energized our rides and the results of the election I got busy on several outside projects I've needed to do for months (many months). First I painted our old frame swing grape purple. I've had that swing for at least 15 years and I've moved it twice. The awning it came with rusted off long ago. Coraline uses it for gymnastics and we spend hours sitting out there reading and talking, playing music. It was getting pretty shabby though, the gray metal rusting in places. I've meant to paint it for .... well, longer than I care to admit. Two cans of spray paint later it's finally done and it looks just as quirky and "old hippy lives here" as I hoped it would. 

After that I got up on my big ladder and filled in a long gap between my side porch and the brick wall where a bat likes to roost and poop. Bats have gotten into the house several times over the 7 years I've lived here -- OK, if I'm honest it's probably a dozen times now. The last time my fierce  white cat Gandalf brought the bat down out of the air in the middle of the night and I found myself crawling naked through bat pee in my closet trying to save it. Did I not write about that? I guess not. It's funny now.

I asked several handypenises to help me figure out how the bats were getting in, but none of them could get the job done. What's a vagina to do? Well, find her inner penis, that's what. And I think I finally got that problem licked.

I bought caulk (no pun intended) and some of that ugly foam stuff that turns orange and looks like a disease, hoping to fill the gap with one or both. Turned out the gap was too wide for the caulk (nope, not going there) and the foam stuff wouldn't come out of the can after the first brief spray (nope). Worthless shit. Now what?

I searched my garage for answers. Screen? Couldn't find it, although I know it's there. Chicken wire? The holes are too big and besides that I don't want my house to look like a barn. Just as I was about to give up I noticed an old green eggshell sleeping pad someone had left in my garage. And I thought why not cut that into strips and stuff them into the gap? Sure enough. It worked and it hardly even shows. Fingers crossed the bats stay outside where they belong.

Today after Coraline and I did our writing/schoolwork sessions, I got the wooden steps scrubbed down with some kind of really strong deck cleaner so I can stain and seal them tomorrow. I'm also going to sand down some areas on the porch floors and get them repainted. After that I've got some dry rot to dig out and refill and paint. After that, I'm painting the cellar doors and filling in the gaps in the concrete stairs to the front porch and then .... who knows? Maybe I'll figure out how to put some new siding on my garage. My handypenis is pumped and ready to go!

I'm not dicking around here, people! I was going to pay someone to do most of this work, but I couldn't find anyone to do it and the custody/visitation lawsuit I've mentioned has cost way more than I paid for my Honda Odyssey, so I did what I had to do. I called up my own penis and I got to work.

Yes, I do still have jobs I need to pay a real handypenis to do, but I haven't felt this energized since we shut down for COVID in March. Maybe since the election four years ago. I hope the feeling lasts, because this old house needs some lovin' and it looks like we're going to be sheltering in here for a while.

How about you? How are you doing? Feeling better since the erection election? Dreading winter and wondering how to manage the holiday? Enjoying the last warm days of fall?

* If you're looking for a challenge it's not to late to sign up for Run for Ruth -- We Dissent. Just click on the link. It costs $35, but you get a t-shirt and some other swag. And some exercise. If you want to join my team, send me an email and I'll give you the name. Wearing pearls while you ride or run is optional.

Stay safe, my friends. I don't want to lose any of you.

Love, Coraline

Hope in a time of waiting

 

Apparently I just can't quit this place. I'm at my NaNoWriMo writing space with my notes and my intentions (5585 words so far!), but I have to get something off my chest before I can buckle down. The election is on-going. If we thought we'd have relief after Election Day, we were deluding ourselves.

About midnight, I posted this on my Facebook: "Tonight is one of those nights when it's hard to be alone. So glad Dakota [my daughter-in-law] called me on her way home from work for a long talk. Would be nice to be curled up under a blanket with someone watching a movie. That's election night during a pandemic for you. At least I get to choose the movie." I think this was the first election I spent by myself, which wouldn't have been so bad except the PTSD from the 2016 election was hitting me hard, as it was many of my friends who actually care about other people and the planet. I should have gone to bed early but ...

... I didn't go to bed until 3:00, not because I was watching election results. No, I turned off the movie I was watching about 2:00 because I couldn't focus and I thought I might as well get some sleep, and then, instead of going upstairs to bed I picked up my Kindle and started reading a book started playing Subway Surfers. I fled from a fat police officer, ran over the tops of trains and dodged others, rolled and jumped over blockades, and collected coins for an hour or longer, utterly stupified and disconnected from all things political. This could become an addiction.

As I write this morning, the votes are being tallied. Trump gave what amounted to an acceptance speech in the middle of the night. I wasn't watching him though; I was dodging trains and collecting coins and trying to figure out what it meant when my shoes got bouncy. When I finally thought I could sleep, I went to bed, read my book for a short time and actually did fall asleep to the sound of pink noise, courtesy of Alexa ...

... Only to be awakened yet again by the guy who is living with my next door neighbor, mostly in his garage where he works on a loud motorcycle that he revs and revs and revs at all hours of the day and night. Sometimes he rides it down the sidewalk and leaves it running out there. Did I mention it's loud? Really loud? Fuck that shit.

And then there were the dreams. Jesus, save me from the dreams on election night 2020.

I woke up feeling heavy, sluggish, like my nerves are on the outside of my body and any touch or sound sets off an alarm. I yelled at my 9-year-old granddaughter Coraline for not picking up her dirty socks off the dining room floor. The same socks I told her to pick up yesterday morning. That was well deserved, I think, but she's not whom I really want to yell at.

I need some hope and in spite of the reassurances of the pundits both left and right (et tu, Fox News?) that the election isn't over and Trump isn't winning, hope is hard to find.

And so I look to the children -- or child, in this case -- and I share with you another blog post, one Coraline wrote on her private blog. I hope it gives you hope too. And I hope, like me, you voted for the world she wants to live in, not the one we should leave in the past.

   Dear man in the pickup truck at the food drive who said all lives matter,

So, Hello Mr. Guy at the food drive, how are you?. Never mind. Remember that time when you pulled up in your black pickup truck with fake Trump 2020 money in the front window? And we where in our car, with our masks on, I had om my BLM mask on, my grandma with her purple one on? And you did not have a mask on. You and my grandma talked for a good 5 minutes, and while you where driving away you said,

" All lives matter, honey,"

Good, because this is what I have to say about that.

   First of all, EWW. Don't call a little girl who you know Nothing about honey. Its creepy. Second, if all lives matter, why do you have a problem with Black lives matter? Hmm? Whats' that? You are just saying that because your racist, sexist, homophobic and trying to hide it? I thought so. Herse what your trying to say. All lives matter, but women are nasty. All lives matter, but Black people are dangerous. All lives matter but immigrants are being kept in concentration camps.  All lives matter but being LGBTQIA+ is a sin.  All lives matter but all Muslims are terrorists. All lives matter doesn't mean you can chose when they matter! Third of all, I was sitting there in my BLM mask that my friend Layla gave me. And no, I'm not black. But the reason I'm righting this here at the dining room table, is because none of us are free, until all of us are free. When Layla gave me that mask, I felt like I could speak up for the black community. I want to use my voice. But you did not give me a chance. You said All lives matter and drove away. You are the reason that the black community has to fight for equality that we are suppose to have.  

Thank you for your time,

Coraline.  

Learn from the children.

Day 29: Gratitude: Coraline

Coraline with Margaret Catwood
Photo credit: Reticulated Writer

I was trying to decide what to write about tonight on this next-to-last night of NaBloPoMo, and I realized I hadn't written a gratitude post yet this month. I should write at least one gratitude post in the Thanksgiving month, because I have so much to be grateful for. And then I realized some of you reading here this month might not know my 8-year-old granddaughter Coraline and me in real life, so I'm going to write about her.

Coraline has lived here with me in our big 145-year-old Queen Anne Victorian house for over four years. I can hear some of you thinking, Wait just a dang minute there, Reticula. You're raising yet another generation now, in your golden years, and you're talking about gratitude? I don't get it!

I'll tell you what. A lot of people don't get it -- unless they know us. Even then, I've heard," She's so lucky to have you," and "You're such an angel," and "How do you keep up?" and other variations on the theme.

Here's how I answer: I'm the lucky one. A little background: I'm the oldest of five kids and I have two of my own. I've been raising or helping to raise kids for a lot of years. But I still consider myself lucky, because if I am going to raise another child at my age, I am raising the perfect child. Not that she's perfect. Neither of us are. But she's the perfect child for me. I know other grandparents who are raising their grandchildren and from my perspective, as much as they love their grandchildren, they're not as lucky. They've got a lot of problems we don't have. My daughter's only unhealthy habit during her pregnancy was smoking. Same while she breastfed Coraline for a year and a half. She was careful. I didn't have to deal with fetal alcohol syndrome or a baby born addicted to drugs or any of the many other issues custodial grandparents deal with. We do have some issues that led to Coraline living here -- obviously. But Coraline is bright, healthy, empathetic, out-going, confident, so compassionate ... I could go on, but you get the idea. I am lucky and I am grateful. And I know many of you who know us in real life will give me a Blessed Be or an Amen.

I will admit I don't get to do some of the things I did the few years I was single and living alone. Or I don't get to do those things as often. Shrug. I'm doing other things. I'm a Girl Scout leader again. We go camping with my son, daughter-in-law, and grandson. We go to women's basketball games at my alma mater. Now that she's learned to ride her bike, we can do that together, and we'll ride farther and faster as she gets older. We go on fun day trips and we have groups of friends we socialize with. We go to church together. Oh, my god. You should see her dance in church. I'm not the only one who loves this child and her amazing spirit. She's taking piano lessons, and we're going to play a duet for her Christmas recital. Instead of making me feel old trying to keep up, raising Coraline keeps me younger, I think.

Are there some drawbacks? Are you a parent or have you been? Are there ever not trade-offs when you're raising kids? I confess I feel guilty that I can't spend as much time with my grandson as I think I would otherwise. On the other hand, Coraline is so good with him and he adores her. I'm not a morning person, so that 7:15 alarm doesn't excite me every morning. Neither does the drive to the school twice a day, although we have a carpool this year, so that helps. I miss doing some things with my friends when I don't have childcare, but I also do some things I wouldn't otherwise have done, so I don't dwell. There are other things I know I'm missing out on, but nobody gets a guarantee that they'll do everything in life they want to do. And I have to say, Coraline is a good excuse not to date. I'm sure that's not the only bad decision she saves me from making.

So, yes, my life took a turn I didn't expect. Doesn't every life? And I'm grateful for every day I get to be in Coraline's life and that she is in mine. Have I mentioned she loves to mop (for now) and begs to be the one to mop the kitchen floor? See? Wouldn't you be grateful too?

I'll end with this Coralineism from earlier today.

Coraline: What do you think happens to toys when they die?

Me: I'm not sure I understand the question.

Coraline: If toys are secretly alive, if a toy dies then the kid won't know it.

Me: I never thought about that.

Coraline: Yeah, and then the kid will keep playing with the toy and all the other toys will have to watch him play with a toy corpse.

Me: I guess it's a good thing toys aren't secretly alive. I don't know how we'd solve that dilemma.

Coraline: Well, we don't really know though, do we?

Me: No, and now you're giving me the creeps. Are you ready for another pancake?

Quiet times: Day 27

I'm not going to say life is chaotic around my house, but it can be a challenge to find a few quiet minutes.

For example, the other day I thought I'd lie down on the couch for half an hour or so and read my novel. (Not a novel I wrote, or course, but a novel Meg Wolitzer wrote titled The Wife, which was made into a movie that stars Glenn Close, which could make me hate Meg Wolitzer if she weren't such a clever and engaging writer. Also she probably writes instead of taking naps. sigh.) I digress.

Coraline was engaged in her own rest period upstairs and Elvira was out, so the room was quiet. My eyes started to close -- pretty much like they are now -- and I decided a 15-minute nap was in order. I set my alarm for 15 minutes and settled in, already starting to drift off. I just love a good power nap, don't you?

I was sound asleep for about five minutes before Elvira came home. Her footsteps on the porch woke me up. She banged her way into the house and threw a big plastic bag down on the floor. Of course the 3 dogs got up and started barking and milling around, clicking their toenails. I kept my eyes closed. She went into the kitchen and graciously unloaded the dishwasher, which necessitated some banging around of dishes, pans, and cupboards. Finally she went outside to smoke a cigarette. I dozed back off. She came back in, slammed the door and went upstairs. To her room above the front parlor. Above my fucking head. She walked around for a while. Coraline came in and did a few cartwheels or jumped off the bed a few times. I don't know. I covered my head in case plaster should start falling.

Finally it was quiet up there and the dogs settled down. I drifted .... From the fire station up the street came a firetruck, sirens blasting, racing past on the street half a block away. I listened to it fade into the distance and drifted off again ..... only to startle awake when my text notification went off ... three times. Damn it. I risked a glance at my phone. The texts could wait. I only had 5 minutes left now. I closed my eyes again and fell asleep, desperate now for just a few minutes. I had to get up when my alarm went off to get ready to go out. This was my only chance to satisfy my nap urge.

I was there. I was almost there when my phone started to ring. I picked it up .... a fucking telemarketer. Assholes. I hit dismiss and resolutely closed my eyes again. Twenty seconds later I was slipping into a dream when the notification for a voicemail went off and jolted me awake yet again. It's not bad enough they call, but they leave partial messages that tell me to press 1 to talk to a representative. Dumb assholes. I didn't let that stop me.

I forced myself back to sleep .... for all of 30 seconds and that's when my alarm went off. Naptime was over.

No sleep deprivation here. Nope. No way.

Another example. Tonight after dinner I told Coraline we needed to do our meditation before she went to bed. We try to do it every afternoon or evening because it noticeably helps her focus better at school. We only sit still for 6 minutes, but I'd like to work up to 10. Ten peaceful, empty-minded minutes to sit in silence. We invited Elvira to sit with us, but she decided to meditate on a cigarette outside. Out she went with the dogs.

Coraline got into position criss-cross applesauce in an easy chair. I sat on the couch, took off my slippers and grounded my feet on the floor. We took 3 big deep breaths together and then I pressed start on the timer on my meditation app. Gooooonnnnnnngggggggg. The gong gonged and I tried to clear all thoughts from my head. Once the gong had faded, the only sounds were the clock ticking, some muted traffic noise, and my own tinnitus. Ahhh.

But what is that? A high-pitched tone intruded. High high C, if I wasn't mistaken. Steady and insistent. Surely that wasn't coming from inside my head? No. I'm not supposed to be thinking. Let that thought go. The sound persisted. Faint. Steady. About half a step below a dog whistle.

I heard the side-porch door open. Oh for fuck's sake. Surely she hadn't smoked that cigarette that fast.

"I know you're meditating and I don't want to interrupt," Elvira contradicted, "but can you hear that sound? It sounds like an alarm going off."

Sigh. I turned off the meditation app and slipped into my slippers. "I'll come check."

"I don't think it's the next door neighbors," she said. "They seem to be just watching TV or something." I was outside by now, the pitch much louder now. "I don't think it's the purple house. Theirs didn't sound like that the time I accidentally set it off."

I walked through the falling snow to the back of the house. The sound was urgently annoying, like a super loud malfunctioning florescent light. It was definitely louder in the back, but I still couldn't pinpoint the location ....

And then it just stopped. At first I wasn't sure it had really stopped, but it did. Fine. Whatever it was I wasn't going to figure it out tonight.

Back inside, Coraline and I got back into position, and Elvira settled into another chair. I reset the timer. Goooonnnnngggggg. Eyes closed, I once again attempted to clear my mind. 

Crow, my standard poodle, started lapping his tongue in and out of his mouth, making a loud licking sound. I fucking hate that sound. Notice your annoyance and let that thought go, I thought, although I wasn't supposed to be thinking. He gave a few more laps and then settled down. Good.

Growl. Growl. Kohl. Elvira's border collie. Growling because Crow was in the room. It's constant. The growling whenever we all settle into one room. He hates Crow. Growl growl. I fucking hate that sound. But I tried to see my annoyance in my quiet fucking mind and let it go on by. Clearing my mind. An intense itch erupted next to my nose. I don't think you're supposed to scratch, I thought. You're supposed to just notice it and .... I scratched. I couldn't stand it. Clearing my mind now.

Growl. Growl.The furnace came on, reminding me of the $200 service call I'd paid for earlier in the day. You'd better fucking heat this house, I thought. Ooops. Letting go. Growl. Growl.

Either my mind started to clear or I started to doze off. I'm not sure, but Growl. Growl. I felt a soft plop on the couch next to me and a loud purr started. Gandalf. I sat still. Growl. Growl. I tried so hard to let my thoughts just slip out of my mind. I focused on breathing through my nose. I felt a small paw pushing at my leg. Growl. Growl. Push push. He bumped his head against my wrist. Growl. Growl. Push. Push.

Finally he settled down alongside my leg with his head on my arm. Growl. Growl. His purr was loud, but not distracting. Deep breath. Growl. Purrrrrr. I'm getting there. Growl. Growl. Gandalf suddenly decided he needed to lick his butt. He furiously licked licked licked licked licked. Growl. Growl. Lick. Lick.

Will that fucking furnace never shut off, I thought as a hot flash started burning its way out of me and my entire body flushed with a layer of sweat. I want to whip my scarf off so at least my neck will cool off, but I already scratched my nose so NO. Growl. Growl. Oh. My. God. I'm noticing that my body feels like it's engulfed in flames under my skin and I'm letting that thought go. Growl. Growl. Breathing. Emptying my mind. In. Out. Growl. Growl. In. Out.

Goooonnnnnnggggggg. 

Meditation over. Growl .... Growl. Sigh.

If we were sipping a glass of wine: Day 25

If we were sipping a glass of wine together I would tell you this is my favorite quotation from a movie: "You gotta be brave before you can be good," from Hearts Beat Loud. If you haven't watched it yet, I highly recommend it. It's a story that will leave you feeling good. And don't you need that after a day of scrolling Facebook and reading rude, stupid, incendiary texts shit out of a disgusting orange goat fart? Watching a movie about good people heals hope. You can watch it free on Kanopy if your library offers it.



If we were sipping a glass of wine together I would tell you I have discovered the most delicious way to eat leftover turkey .... OK, I didn't discover it. My friend Chicken Grrrrl told me how she does it. Whatever. She said she mixes leftover cranberry/orange relish with mayonnaise and spreads it on good white bread. Then she adds leftover turkey and a leaf of crisp lettuce. She said it's delicious.

I don't eat much bread, so I made mine in a big lettuce leaf. I squirted on some mayo, spread cranberry/orange relish over that, then piled on some leftover turkey. It's divine. Much better than it should be. Maybe even better than the original turkey dinner. If I were making these for company, I'd add some chopped toasted pecans, but it's highly unlikely I'm going to share. Try it either way. You'll feel positively gourmet.

If we were sipping a glass of wine together I would tell you Coraline wants to take karate. She's 7 and what she really wants is someone to teach her how to protect herself and how to take somebody who's bigger than she is down. She's not worried yet about boys or men trying to force themselves on her. Thank you, Jesus. But she does have a good friend, a sweet boy, who is a year older than her, and who is bigger and stronger. He plays a lot of sports. And they like to wrestle. She wants to learn some moves so she can compete  better in their wrestling matches. It's not that he's too rough nor is he mean or aggressive. He's just physically stronger and used to being tackled in football.

I'm guiding her toward jujitsu. Might as well get a start on self defense. Every woman needs it, much as that makes me want to throw up my glass of wine. I wish I'd taken my daughter to some kind of martial arts class. Lesson learned.

If we were sipping a glass of wine together I would long ago have offered you some Lays Classic potato chips or some lime tortilla chips or some peanut butter-filled pretzels. I don't know about you, but I like some salt with my wine. And that's why I've decided I have to join Weight Watchers.

I hate to admit this here where you only see my words, but I am fat, and now it's not all in my head, damn it. Elvira says I'm not really fat, but she's wrong this time. Sweet, but wrong. I feel like I'm wearing a fat suit, and it gets in my way. And the fatter I get, the less I want to move around like I used to. I used to put 100 miles or more on my bike every week. Now it just sits there and I haven't replaced riding with anything other than eating more chocolate and drinking more wine. I'm disgusted with myself.

A few of my friends have done Weight Watchers and it worked. So I'm going to do it too. I may wait until after the first of the year. Or I may be repulsed enough by myself to start during the food-filled winter holiday season. Ugh. If only there were a magic pill. Or a magic glass of wine.

I suppose we'll have to drink tea next time.

If we were sipping a glass of wine together I'd tell you Miss Serendipity visited today. As I was getting ready for the day, blow drying my hair and putting on mascara and such, I was thinking about Facebook and how much of my precious time it takes up. How I'm like a rat in a maze trying to find the lever that will give me a like or a heart or JACKPOT! a comment. And how I need to get off it for a while and get back to doing some of the things I used to do. This isn't the first time I've had this come-to-Jesus meeting with myself, and it was probably triggered by an artist friend who often takes breaks from Facebook -- even disables her account [shudder] -- so she can focus on her art and on her inner life. Whatever the reason, I knew I had to do something about this addiction.

And then I went to the church up the street from us, and the minister's sermon was about paying attention. And about how we don't pay attention because we're paying attention to our screens. And how Facebook is not a replacement for real, FTF interactions with other people. It's like she was talking right to me, because I'm pretty sure I'm married to Facebook and I never even got the ring.

I felt a text vibrate my phone in my back pocket during the sermon and it was all I could do not to grab my phone and immediately open it. I waited until the offering to surreptitiously glance. I didn't answer it until I got home though, so I think I get half a point.

I wish I could do both. I wish I could cruise Facebook for hours every day and still play my guitar and make art and write the fucking book nobody will buy already. But I can't. Not only that though, I'm not paying attention and it's affecting my attention span, which is almost nonexistent these days.

So I'm going to make a list of the things I'd rather be doing than Facebook, and then, once this month of NaBloPoMo is up, I'm going to stop carrying my phone around and checking Facebook every spare minute of my day. And just for good measure, I'm going to delete solitaire from my Kindle. I'm going to pay attention in December. It's possible nobody will pay attention to me because they'll all be on Facebook or Snapchat, but I'm going to give it my best try.

If we were slugging down the dregs of a bottle of wine, I'd have to tell you goodnight now and either push you out the door or make up the couch so you could sleep here. Then I'd let the dogs out, start the dishwasher, check the locks, tuck you in if you're still here, and head on up to bed. 

Good night. Sleep tight. We don't joke about bedbugs here in the 'hood. 

Day 11: The post-show blues

Ugh. The post-show blues hit me before my head hit the pillow tonight. If you've never felt the post-show blues, let me just tell you, it feels like ..... the blues. Whatever. It will pass. It's a normal reaction to the high of performing and taking in all that nervous energy that builds up and then becomes action on the stage and the energy the audience is giving back, which was electric and passionate tonight and last night. There's nothing to do but come down from that. Buttered popcorn and two glasses of wine aren't enough to stave it off.

You know what is though? Post-show fucking. The hardest thing about being single is not having a release for that energy. If you've never experienced it, you'll just have to believe me when I tell you nothing is better than post-show fucking. And since I don't have even a fuck buddy in sight .... sigh. I'm making do with buttered popcorn, wine, and stolen Halloween candy.

That's enough feeling sorry for myself. The show was great. I feel good about my performances both nights, which I can't always say. Usually I can find something to feel shitty about. Nope. Not this time. The cast was amazing. I made new friends. I've got nothing to complain about, and much to feel blessed about. OK, I look really fat in the photos. I do have that to complain about. But otherwise .... I've got nothing!

So in that vein, I'll just share with you the message Coraline gave me tonight, to be read right before I went on stage. She handed it to me and I stuck it in my pocket. "Don't look at it until you're ready to go on stage," she made me promise several times. "OK. I won't. I promise."

Aren't these supposed to be my words?

Translation: "Dear Mommers, Follow your heart, and you will do it. Love, Coraline (in cursive)."

Oh, my heart.

The plan is to do All the Sex Monologues every two years. That means I have two years to get out there and have some experiences to write about. But where to start? I haven't a clue. Help me out here, readers. Where do I start so I'll have a good story or two to tell at the next All the Sex Monologues? Seriously  .... HELP!

Day 10: Blev in yiurself

Tonight was our opening night for All the Sex Monologues. We broke legs! All the legs!

I was so thrilled to see lots of faces I knew in the audience. Even my son, who had to sit there and listen to me talk about the time I walked in on him masturbating. Totally my fault. The shame is mine. In spite of that, even my son was there.

I'm not going to ramble on and on about a show you didn't even see. I do want to share the note from Coraline I found in my makeup bag before the show.

How sweet is that?

In case you're not an expert at reading phonetic writing, let me interpret: "Dear Mommers, Believe in yourself and you. Do it. Love, Coraline." My heart melted a little.

And I wondered what I'll write about her for a future All the Sex Monologues. Please let it be funny!

Day 31: If we were sharing a box of wine on my porch

Tonight is the last night of July, and I'm pretty happy that I managed to only miss 2 days this month. I'll make those up, of course, because my OCD insists on it. Coraline has written -- or at least inspired -- some of the most popular posts this month. One of the reasons I haven't been blogging as much is because I thought my life as a single grandmother might not be nearly as interesting as my life as a single woman living alone was, but apparently I was wrong. I intend to encourage Coraline to start her own blog as soon as she can write.

As always, I appreciate everyone who comes here to read and stays until the end of the post. Blogging experts advise choosing a topic for a blog and then sticking to the damn thing in each and every post. Other rules include posting consistently and keeping posts short so readers don't have to scroll. I'm pretty sure my batting average wouldn't get me into Little League, must less the pros. My rule is I do what I want, and you all get what you paid for.

All kidding aside, I, my ego, and my Muse Dolores do sincerely thank you for reading.

And now, on to tonight's random, rambling one-sided conversation which really would not happen if we were sharing a box of wine for realz. I would let you talk sometimes, especially if you wanted to ask me something about myself. That's if, OC, we were sitting on my front porch sharing a box of wine. (It's OK if you drink something else as long as you bring potato chips and chocolate to share.)

******

If we were sharing a box of wine, I would counsel you that experience tells me cucumber slices are a poor substitute for potato chips no matter how much salt you put on them.

If we were sharing a box of wine, I would tell you I've decided to stop checking out books at the library. And that's significant because between the 2 of us, Coraline and I always have at least 50 books and videos checked out. It's obscene really, but they let me take them for free, and so I get greedy. I've decided though that I really need to read the books I own, both hard copy and on my Kindle, instead of putting the library books first and never getting to the ones on my personal shelves.

The other day I took back a full bag of books so heavy I could barely carry it. I kept only one book, the latest by Louise Erdrich, titled LaRose. I'll still check out DVD's, but no more books for a while. I feel lighter already. I'm going to get rid of a lot more books in August too. It's not right that I should feel so weighted down by paper and words. Sometimes I think I'd like to live in a hotel and just visit my house.

If we were sharing a box of wine,  I'd tell you about the play I'm in, titled Semple Gifts. It's a play about Aimee Semple McPherson, who had a crazy interesting Pentecostal life. I'm playing one of the lead roles, so I'm glad it's reader's theatre so I don't have to memorize a long script. Apparently someone else was cast in my role, and she wasn't very reliable and quit or something. I don't know for sure. I said yes when the playwright/director asked me, because I miss theatre so much. I think it's going to be good. The music is fun, and I learned a lot about a pretty influential woman in American 20th-century history. We would raise a glass and toast Aimee, and the irony would not escape us, because she was probably against drinking, at least on paper.

If we were sharing a box of wine, I'd tell you every time I have a birthday, I feel like I become more and more transparent, and someday I will become utterly invisible. I'm finally tempted to lie about my age, and I hate that. So vain. Only a couple of people really give a shit about my age, and that says more about them than it does me. You would try to reassure me, but I'm a realist. I would appreciate that you tried though, and then we would probably end up talking about dating -- which I'm not going to do here.

If we were sharing a box of wine, I would tell you I sometimes buy the best presents! Coraline's favorite birthday present from me was definitely her magenta Kindle Fire that came with Amazon's Freetime. That means  she has access to hundreds of books, movies and games free for a year. Her addiction was immediate. And scary to me.

But I think the best gift I gave her was 8 cans of shaving cream. Often after I've finished my shower I'll call her in and wash her hair. Then I'll give her a big pile of shaving cream to play with and she'll stay in the shower running up my water bill for a while. So I gave her her own shaving cream so she could play with it out on the glass-topped patio table.

She had a ball. I had to get my hands in there too, and it felt so cool -- smooth and squishy. Eventually though, she had to come in for dinner, and by then she was covered in foam from her forehead to her feet. I had to spray it off with the garden hose. I thought the cool water would feel good on such a hot day, but she started whining. "What is the big deal?" I said. "It's only water."

"It's not that," she whined. "You got my clothes wet, and dark pink just isn't my color. I need to get these off."

1st world problems.

If we were sharing a box of wine, I'd tell you I have such shitty luck with gardens.  My community garden plot is in a new bed that sits right under a tree. Not only that, the soil is loaded with weed seeds that grow like fucking tribbles, That's my plot there. Not the one you can see. The one on the other side of the tree.

My garden in my yard suffers from the same fate. Too much shade from the neighbors' trees on either side. The neighbor to the north is growing a massive patch of poison ivy up the trunk of said huge tree while my poor tomatoes are pale and sickly looking. I think I should probably give up and put my energy elsewhere next year. Coraline thinks we should just grow raspberries, and let people pick as much as they want. I'm not sure that's the answer either.

If we were sharing a box of wine, we would laugh about this. Because we either need to laugh or run screaming from this country in terror.

If we were sharing a box of wine, it would be empty and I'd mention that it's after 3:00, so I should get to bed. Feel free to crash in the guest room. I'll open some windows and turn on a fan.

What would you tell me if we were sharing a box of wine?

Day 25: What little ears hear and little eyes see

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NaBloPoMo #30: Coralineisms #109

I made it! One post every day in November. I didn't even run out of material to write about, so I need to keep going in December. Not every day. Who's that fucking crazy? But 3-4 times a week. I can do that.

I'm going to end the month with some Coralineisms. I've almost depleted my stash, but she's a renewable resource. In no particular order, here we go.

Tell me you didn't expect a vagina joke

Coraline: Look what I did to my spider. (Holds up one of those stinky, sticky, icky spiders you get in gumball machines. The ones that leave a greasy spot on the wall.)
Me: What did you do to it?
Coraline: I made it into a girl spider.
Me: Was it a boy before?
Coraline: Yes. And I made it into a girl.
Me: What did you do?
Coraline: I gave it a ponytail.

Modern-day vampire slayer

Coraline: I'm not afraid of any vampires.
Me: You're not?
Coraline: No. If any vampire tries to get me, I'm going to take him down and beat his attitude.

Big sneeze ...

Me: Oh, thanks. You just blew snot all over my arm.
Coraline: (Because everything is an argument with this child.) No, Mamá. That's not snot. That's just sneeze juice.

A woman's work is never done

Coraline: Mamá, I killed all the zombies!
Me: Who's going to clean that mess up?
Coraline: (heavy sigh) I guess I am. I'm the hunter.
Me: So you're the hunter and the cleaner?

Coraline: Yep. .... Mamá, I need a towel with some water on it to clean up that zombie mess.

Perspective

Coraline: Did you have a fun birthday party?
Me: It was pretty fun. Small, but fun. Except that Linda .... remember Linda whose swimming pool we go to sometimes? .... she fell on the front porch and broke her shoulder.
Coraline: Oh.
Me: You don't sound very concerned. It's a bad hurt.
Coraline: I know, but she'll be OK. She didn't actually break it off.

Me: I guess that's one way of looking at it.

She's going to hate me for this some day

Coraline: I need to itch my vagina.

Me: You don't need my permission. Go ahead and do it.

Coraline: I can't. My jeans are getting in the way.

Me: Just stick your hand down the front. Your jeans are big enough.

Coraline: Good idea, Mamá. That's what we call a short cut.

A big thank you to Coraline for basically writing 3 of my posts this month. I needed her help tonight after I spent close to 2 hours cutting up a pink banana squash the size of a 2-year-old. For perspective, Coraline is 45" tall -- evidence of Vikings on both sides of the family.

In any case, that squash would feed a small country for a month. I thought I'd never get it peeled and chopped. I have no idea what I was thinking when I bought it other than that it was cheap and the bigger ones didn't cost more than the smaller ones. Well, bigger isn't always better when you have to wrestle the thing down and make it into something edible. Remember that.

Thanks for reading this month. I'll see you back here in a couple of days with some interesting news about vaginas. 

Hugs and kisses,

Reticula

NaBloPoMo #13: Hey, boy ....

As she promised, Coraline was happy, and apparently sticking out her tongue, when the nurses wired her up for her sleep study. My daughter Elvira reported she was not only the youngest but also the best behaved there. Apparently a boy in another room was bothering her with his temper tantrum, so she sat up in bed and yelled, "Hey, boy! Quit being a baby." (Before anybody goes off on the "boys have a right to their feelings too and we need to stop making them repress them" subject, I assure you she would have said the same thing to another girl. She's an equal-opportunity represser of feelings.) Maybe that boy's parents should have shown him the photos of happy kids in sleep studies that I showed Coraline.

Now, fingers crossed they documented her snoring and the instances when she stops breathing. It's tense listening to someone stop breathing every minute or so. You can't ignore that shit, because what if she doesn't start up again? Sleeping with her is like sleeping with an old fat man.

My son Drake had sleep apnea too, starting when he was a newborn. I told his pediatrician he stopped breathing over and over while he slept, but the doctor told me I was just being a nervous first-time mom. Asshole. I know when somebody's not breathing. Having a baby didn't make me a fucking idiot. Also, I'm the oldest of 5 kids. I remember changing my little sister's diapers when I was 5 years old. I was probably the least nervous first-time mother he saw that year.

Finally after 6 years of ear infections and antibiotics and ear tubes, an allergist found out his adenoids were huge and pressing on his airway. No shit! It took 6 years for them to find out what I'd already told several doctors was happening from the beginning.

Anyway, I hope Coraline's doctor gets it right the first time, so we can both sleep better when she spends the night. If I wanted to sleep with a fat old man, I'd get on Piece of Fish and find me one.