A Speckled Trout

In my obsession with reality shows about hoarding, I heard a pearl of wisdom from a professional organizer working with a client.  He said to her, “Life is about experiences, not things.”

Oh my.

In a house and garage that has too much stuff, a closet that is full, kitchen cabinets that barf Tupperware every time you open them, a freezer with food that can no longer be identified, and a basement that is a holding pen for crap we have no need or use for……this was an eye-opener.  I may not be a hoarder, but I buy way more than we need.

Last week, the girls and I went to see The Alvin Ailey Dancers.  That Tiny Dancer of ours has led the way to a whole new world for this family, and those professional dancers proceeded to Rocka My Soul to the Bosom of Abraham.  I’ve been singing my prayers ever since, and oh my indeed…………

It was an experience.

The Big Daddy rides his bike back and forth to work every day, and has for many years.  On the weekends, he rides early in the morning with a group of guys who call themselves The Gravy Train.  I think it’s because their wives are so frickin’ awesome their life is GRRRRRRRavy.  This is the fast ride.  A Hard 40.  The Shawshank Redemption.

It never fails that if we are out socializing on a Friday or Saturday night, The Big Daddy will say, “Yeah, I’m doin’ 40 in the morning.”  And nobody ever knows what he’s talking about.  This causes him to thump his chest and say, “40 miles.  6:30.  With The Gravy Train.”  Which leads to lots of oohs and aahs.  As if a monkey couldn’t ride a bike.

I’ve decided to play that BD at his own game.  Now when we leave a party, I say, “Yeah, I’m doing 10 tomorrow.  Maybe 12.”   And when people ask me what that means, I say, “Sentences.  10:30.  Ish.  Sweats.  Chair with wheels.”   However, if I was over-served by the hosts the night before, I write in fragments that I count as a sentence cuz I put a period at the end.  Like this.

I swear I can hear a little gasp, as if people are so impressed with me they can’t form a word.  It might be a choke, but I’m pretty sure it’s the Awe Factor.

When our cute, little Beamer went to meet his Maker, we decided we were going to take our time finding the next family cat.  When barely a month had gone by, The Teacher Girl informed us that the shelter that she adopted Butters from was having a sale on adoptions.  HALF PRICE YOU GUYS!!!  YOU’VE GOT TO MOVE ON THIS!!

And move we did, because she has a way of getting the show on the road.  That is how we ended up with The Brothers…..Frank and Pip.  Not only was it half price adoptions, but it was also Buy One Get One Free.  How could you turn down a sale like that?

My aunt once told me that she’s a real sucker for a sale.  Goes right to the sign, and dammit she’ll find something even if she doesn’t need it.  Oh, I know all about that, I told her.  I’ve got a closet full of good deals that have been worn once.  “I swear,” she said, “if they put a turd on sale I’d probably buy it.”

The Brothers have each been diagnosed with a kidney infection.  Urine sample.  Overnight stay.  Medication.  $150.00.  Next week is round two.  More medication.  Another urine sample.  $$$.

We’re off to a stellar start with this great deal we got, and The Two Turds we acquired hang in the closet next to the leopard pencil skirt that makes me look like a fat, middle-aged hooker.

Many years ago, The Big Daddy and I traveled to my parents’ house for Christmas from our apartment two hours away.  When we arrived, my dad pulled me aside to tell me they invited a nice, young couple for dinner that couldn’t make it home to Minnesota to spend the holidays with their family.  Since they were about our age, Dad wanted me to make a special effort to make them feel welcome.  Sure can do, Dad, and who is this couple you befriended?

From the kitchen Mom yelled, “It’s the cable man.”  What???  “Well, we’ve had so much trouble with the gull damn cable.  We kept calling and every time they’d send out some idiot that would get it working for a day and then we’d be right back where we started.  This kid came the last couple of times and finally fixed it, and well, we couldn’t have him and his wife celebrating Christmas by themselves.”

The Big Daddy and I moved further away and haven’t made it home for Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner in many years.  We fill our table with a different kind of family on the holidays, and everything I know about welcoming strangers to your home I learned from Bill and Gerry.

I walk every day in the park, along with some other regulars.  Through the years and in the neighborhood, I’ve met many people along the way, mostly retired men puttering in their yard looking for some distraction for a few minutes.

The Public Works Department is often in the park, mowing, trimming, emptying trash.  My girlfriend got to be chatty with one of the guys who took an interest in her dog.  He really, really liked her dog.  Loved her dog.  After months of conversing whenever they would see each other, he stopped to pet her dog and casually said, “We should go out for a drink some time.”  She was a flustered mess, totally taken off guard and said, “Ummm, no, no, that’s not a good idea.  I’m married.”  To which he said………..

“Oh, that’s o.k. so am I.”   Ya think he was faking the dog liking thing?

I never paid any attention to him, and have walked daily without being asked out by a city employee.  I take a different route home than she does and pass the home of Barbie & Ken every day.  I did not make that up.  Ken’s been a friendly guy over the years, especially since the time his dog was running loose and tried to bite me in the leg.

Today when I walked by, he was in the backyard and called me over to the fence.  Can I ask you a question?  Sure.  Does it bother you that I stop you on your walk to visit?  No, not at all.  Well, I just wanted to make sure because you’ve been coming at different times lately and I thought maybe you were trying to avoid me.  No, some mornings I get out earlier than others.  Well, good because I really have enjoyed getting to know you and I wouldn’t want to do anything to offend you.  Other than your dog leaving teeth marks in my thigh, we’re fine.  To which he said……..

“Sometimes I get lonely.  That’s why I look for you in the morning.  So we can talk.” 

Sheesh. 

My mom at her top height was about 4’10”, and it would be a mistake to think her size made her anything but mighty.  Corralling six kids on a daily basis gave her nerves of steel, and each one of us can tell you stories of Mom going C.R.A.Z.Y when we were misbehaving.  And I use that term loosely because my three older brothers tended to swim in and out of the delinquent pool on a regular basis. 

Growing up, they all played hockey.  In the burbs of Chicago, hockey is King.  Most hockey games can get out of hand, even for the amateurs, and we were watching one rough match when a player from the opposing team shoved the butt end of the stick into my brother’s face.  First, that is a low class, dirty move.  Second, he broke my brother’s front tooth.  We witnessed all this from the stands and my parents were mad as hell.  Fortunately, it happened near the end of the game before a major brawl started.

My mom was worried there might be a fight near the locker rooms, so she told my dad they should head that way just in case.  As the opposing team started filing down the hall, my mom spotted the tooth-breaking, butt-end-of-a-stick-player, grabbed him by the jersey, threw him against the wall, and went C.R.A.Z.Y.  To the point, where my dad had to pull her off and get her out of there before a major brawl started. 

The ride home was especially quiet, and the Thought Bubble that hung over every head in the car was some  version of, HOLY SHIT!!!  WHAT HAPPENED IN THERE???  After a very long time, The Little Boxer spoke with a cracking voice, “It’s just that of all you damn kids, he had the best teeth.”

That was the night I learned the value Mom put on our choppers, and that if you dared to mess up one of her kids, you were going to answer to her.

I know about OCD.  When my brother was getting some counseling while going through a divorce, the  Perfection Gene we all inherited was discussed.  The therapist suggested that he let some things go, starting with the checkbook.  Don’t worry about the color pen you’re using, just write down your entry in whatever is available.  He told me this like it was some kind of breakthrough for the entire family.  No, no, no.  Neat.  Perfect slant to the handwriting.  Same color pen.  Every entry.  It’s the anal foundation this family was built on.  She says it will set us free.   What would Dad say?  Dad who taught us how to line up baby food jars of screws on his bench like North Korean soldiers, and semi-annually scrubbed the garden hose.  You need to try it.

I never did.  It was too much to ask.

I also know about thumb sucking.  My mom was under the impression that she shamed me into stopping at the age of 12, but it was closer to 13.  I spent a year hiding in the closet taking a thumb hit every day after school.  Which explains the overbite. 

I read in the paper about a guy who had an extreme case of OCD.  He was 34.  He sucked his thumb every day, but first wrapped it in Saran Wrap to avoid the germs.

This is a mingling of mental disorders which can never lead to a good outcome, for there is no comfort to be had in sucking a thumb wrapped in plastic.  It has to be skin to mouth.  Alone.  In the closet.   Anxiously waiting every day for the mosquito bites to blossom right out of that training bra.  And praying for the boys to notice the quiet, freckled-face girl that was on the verge of some kind of wonderful.