bahHMMblog's Open Salon Blog

dear lucie - covered in paint, but still hanging in there...

Wed, 20 Jan 2010 16:01:46 -0500

darling lucie girl -

omg, what a total mess everything is. all the furniture is dragged into the middle of the rooms and can't be put back until the trimwork is done. i have blue paint in places i don't think i'm ever going to get out - and i may cut my hair even shorter before the last of the paint is out of it.

the bedroom is a wonderful dark grey with a blue ceiling. i go to sleep so very fast and stay asleep very well. it still isn't back properly as i have floor trim and doors yet to do, but it's probably the most put together room in the house.

and the living room - dear lord what a mess. the bookcases are down and disassembled to be painted the same color as the trim work, the books are piled in swaying piles that reach towards the ceiling and their categories are completely messed up. i need ian (or you) to come help me put it back together. if i told hannah that long fiction goes in one area, short fiction in another, sociology on another, essays over there; well, you can imagine how quickly her eyes would glaze over and sleep would overtake her. and, of course, we still have to hammer the shims back in under the bookcase to straighten them like we did on your last visit. this time, i plan to do it before the books are on the shelves.

ian is in indiana at the moment. he had moved to iowa for a bit of time while he continued to write the great american novel, but i think the winter there (makes michigan look like a tropical island) drove him towards more temperate climates. that, and (according to his facebook page) a politically conservative evangelical girl five years his senior with whom it seems he is living. of course, one could argue that she is neither conservative or religious to be living with ian of all people, but there you go. i always said the only way my children could rebel would be to become republican evangelicals and i am afraid it may finally be happening.

now, let's see, last time i promised more on social justice and world peace. i have a very secure, very non-demanding job working in civil service now. it's very odd for me, because i worked in non-profit work for so long. tho i joke and say after years of saving the world it's time i started saving myself, i find myself missing actively helping others in my daily life. of course, it is very nice not worrying if the agency is going to make payroll, but i do miss it.

and i've had to start to come to terms with something about myself that i don't like very much. without the challenge of fund raising, i have no arena in which i can be professionally aggressive. that's kind of vague, so let me put it in other terms. working for the good of others made it seem ok to be - hmmm, i keep coming back to the term 'professionally aggressive'. so, one more time: i fought hard, worked ridiculous hours and was (politely but persistently) in others faces to get done what i needed to get done. i was proud of what i had accomplished and routinely had to let everyone know (board, committee meetings, website postings, etc) just how good i was at what i did. but - and this is a big 'but' (make all the jokes you want on that) - i was blowing my own horn for an agreed upon greater good. and now i don't have the comfort of hiding behind the greater good - if i'm blowing my own horn, or listing my accomplishments, it's just me.

i can't begin to tell you how uncomfortable that makes me. it really shouldn't. i was raised in that nasty little era of post-feminism thought where not only could you go out and accomplish things, but you were supposed to go conquer the world. however, being raised in the deep south made that an endlessly nerve jangling proposition for me, as our main goal was to have good manners and enhance the lives of others.

so, darling girl, i'd welcome your thoughts on the matter - where do you think i can find an outlet for all my aggressive tendencies, now that they're not cloaked in the comfort of saving the world?

and, speaking of aggression - why did you bite that boy in school - you still haven't given me anything resembling an answer.

much, much, much (paint covered) love - mommy

dear lucie: it's like living in a damn igloo

Fri, 15 Jan 2010 11:01:41 -0500

darling lucie -

you've missed the entire month long process of going to every available store for paint chips to pin on the walls to watch in different light, getting small samples to paint patches on the wall and the inevitable muttered swearing of unloading 13 feet of bookcases and dragging them away from the walls so i could get in and tape off the borders. i have a three day weekend and originally it wasn't supposed to rain and remain dry and cool, so this weekend was cast as the great painting weekend. now i can barely walk from room to room with all the furniture dragged into the middle of everything; suddenly i have three other time-sucking things i have to do and it's supposed to pour rain for days...now i just want to laze in bed, reading while the heavy rain pours down, but to even get to the bed is a bit of a climbing challenge at this point.

so a-painting we will go...

ceilings first. i took the easy way out and picked the same muted blue we had in ann arbor, as i know it works (tho the ceilings here, as i'm sure you remember, are just a standard height and don't arch up towards a mid-beam). i'm a little worried it's going to turn it into a cave, but it will be an attractive cave, at least. pretty much the same with the trim, being that flat deepest chocolate black as it can make even the most generic of cheap apartment two inch baseboards seem an architectural feature. oh, but the wall colours - i've gone completely away from my muted tones.

my bedroom is going to be grey. yep, grey. no red, no deep warm terra cotta, no peach glaze layered over a medium cream. it's a funky deep grey, but not a blue grey, a warm grey and if the four foot test patch is any indication, it is going to be fabulous. it's so deep that anything you hold in front of it gleams as if it was specially lit - and here's where i let you in on how secretly vain your seemingly above it all, pseudo-cool pro-aging hippie chick mother actually is. the bedroom was going to be a deep pumpkin orange which played marvelously off the danae print and seemed to go well with the sub-tropical climate in which we now live.

however, i am no longer looking for work, having found my job, attained civil service status and am scarily the youngest on a staff of five. so, the hair is a funky, chunky very short cut and i am letting the bright white grow back in. and, unlike my younger blonde self, when i have white hair, i can't wear anything orange, brown, yellow, etc. looks like utter hell on me. i don't know why it popped into my mind, but i suddenly realised that if i had painted the walls deep orange, i would have looked hideous every time i was in my bedroom. shallow? quite possibly without a single doubt, yes. smart? beyond belief.

onto the open living area, which is how i'm defining that oh so oddly shaped living room/dining room/world's longest hall combo. are you ready? no soft butter tone, no sand, no light gold. we are going for something called "pink belief". (reminds me of when you were five, fell in love with disney's paint range and we did your ceiling in 'bibity bobbity blue' and your walls in that combo 'tinkerbell pink' and 'princess purple'). "pink belief" is a decadent, decaying, antique darkest rose tone; which - incidentally - is a fabulous colour on me. and don't feel bad for the wonderboy, living in such a shrine to aging female vanity fully indulged. he actually picked out the final colour and is a little upset we're not putting it in his room.

(wondering about the wonderboy's room? he currently has so much primary red and blue bouncing off the white walls that we are going to wait for another year to see what he would like, before we commit to a paint color or two. five is a tricky age and i am pretty sure the huge thomas table and his liking for his car/truck/motorcycle/airplane linens is about to go. he's already been leaning towards a 1950's turquoise and chrome scheme he saw somewhere and is increasingly into playing his guitar and pictures of classic fender electric guitars)

so my darling, i'm spending this long weekend painting, partially in tribute to you and in memory of the time that we moved to the highrise with the window walls and i thought our eagle's nest view of the arboretum was all the decoration anyone could need - and, while persuading me to go goth black on your three non glass walls you used the timeless phrase: it's like living in a damn igloo with all these white walls...

for you, i will never live in a damn igloo.

and as for what you should take away from this rambling email from your mother and add to your cache of life wisdom i've managed to pass down to you (right after the rules of always plucking three hairs a day to stay perfectly groomed and that one should always spend money on leather goods and buy tshirts from target) remember this: never paint any room a color that isn't ridiculously flattering to you.

i'll get back to world peace and social justice in my next email.

much, much, much love - mommy

dear Lucie No. 1

Wed, 13 Jan 2010 13:01:15 -0500

darling lucie girl,

i haven't heard from you in a while and we never seem to connect on skype because of the time difference, so i just wanted to send you a note so you know how much i love and miss you. we are ridiculously busy here, with work and school, though there have been a lot of off days from school for the wonderboy recently with the holidays.

one very funny thing happened here last friday - it got down to 25 degrees (as the low) so they closed the schools! i was laughing all day long and remembering how we used to bundle you up in tights, long johns, jeans, snow suits and multiple scarves/mittens and send you out to the bus stop when it was 20 below zero in Michigan. it's a little hard for me to remember to put on coats when it's forty-five degrees here, but if you don't people look at you funny because they think it's cold.

i hear that it's supposed to be snowing lots where you are in europe right now - at least you had a lot of practice in Ann Arbor - and if all else fails, i'm pretty sure that you own your own skis now.

the wonderboy's favourite gift for christmas was his guitar. his rockstar moves are very good and he wants to be just like the lead singer of green day. unfortunately (for me) chords are still a little hard for him, so he just strums fiercely and pouts like a lead singer while dancing. he was convinced he had to learn to play 'let it be' on guitar, which he informs me is in the key of 'c'. which it is, but he never quite hits 'c'...

what are you doing in the new term at school? have you bit another boy yet (or the same one, again)? i still haven't gotten the full story on that, btw, so please advise soonest.

much, much, much, much love - mommy

the camps (or where we stayed & why & how)

Wed, 23 Sep 2009 17:09:35 -0400

(chapter one of the never ending saga may be read here.)

2. The Camps (or where we stayed & why & how)

The bridges of Cincinnati behind us, we pressed on down the length of the country. The wonderboy proved to be a good traveler; then again, I had provided him with three new games split between his leapster and my old game boy.

He reads well, so I turned him into my navigator, telling him when we were coming to a major highway intersection, and once he figured out the green highway signs overhead, he proceeded to read each and every one to me, asking if we needed to take the exit. I handed him my extra Google maps print out and he proved to be a better map reader than many of the adults with whom I’ve road tripped.

Now, a short digression on my road trip style: I’ll stop for a sign proclaiming the world’s best milkshake, biscuits or coffee. I’ll stop for certain scenic overlooks if picturesque enough mountains are involved. I’m a total sucker for the world’s largest anything, be it frying pans or balls of string or rubber bands. But this was process, highly goal-oriented driving to beat the moving truck down and so I love nothing better than the steady singing sound of good tires on a highway, eating up the miles between me and my goal. Better yet if its night and the windows are down and the music is playing as the child sleeps.

But this one wasn’t sleeping. This one – and understandably so, since he’d just spent three weeks watching his house disappear into a series of cardboard boxes which left on a truck he’d never seen before that morning – this child was consumed with where we were going to spend the night. I’d explained over and over again that we’d most likely be staying in a hotel – while secretly hoping he’d crash out early and I could drive through the night – this child wanted to know the specifics.

Where are the hotels? He asked, yet again.

Once more I point out the hotels as we pass them, bright yellow and blue and green lighted signs standing in clumps like sentries at the exits. Those are the hotels, I say. When we’ve driven enough for one day, we’ll pull in and choose one.

Yes, but which one?

I don’t know yet, it depends on which hotels are at the exit where we stop.

Mom?

Yes?

I’ve been watching the commercials for a while now, he tells me. You should let me pick.

What do you mean, I ask – which commercials have you watched?

The hotels, ever since you said we’d be staying at an hotel, I’ve been watching and now I know.

You know?

I know what hotels are the good ones. I’ll know where we should stay. You should let me pick.

Ok, wonderboy, you get to pick the hotel.

We’re coming into Nashville when my mother calls my cell.

It’s getting late, she says.

I know, I tell her, loading took forever and we didn’t get away til after two.

You should pull over, I’ve been watching the weather channel and it’s going to rain, soon.

It’s raining now. It isn’t bad at all. Wet enough that people are driving pretty sanely, not too heavy to have a problem seeing anything

You should pull over.

I was hoping to get below Memphis. I don’t think that’s going to happen now, but I at least want to get as far as I can below Nashville.

You should pull over.

(I remember my promise to myself that I will not revert to teenage behaviour if I move next to my parents for the first time since 1984 – don’t know how long I’ll be successful with this, but decide to give it a try).

I can hear that you’re really concerned, I tell her – You should remember that I’m a really good driver and I would never push it to the point where it’s dangerous for us or other people on the highway. Besides, I remind her. I’m still on Eastern Time here, so it’s an hour later for you then me.

OK, but you should really pull over.

I know, and I’ll pull over soon and call you when I do – ok?

Ok, but you should really pull over soon.

The rain lets up, and I am driving through the man-cut narrow valley in the hills of Tennessee in the dark. I’m pretty content, and think that the wonderboy will crash out soon.

No.

Mom?

Yes?

We should stop soon, or I’ll be asleep and I won’t be able to tell you which hotel to pick. It’s very important that I tell you which hotel to pick. I’ve never been in an hotel (yes, I am very particular about speech, and if he’s not using his hip preschool vernacular, he sounds like a miniature Anglophile accountant). I need to see the hotel before I’m asleep.

It’s not as far as I wanted to get, but it’s far enough, I decide.

Ok, I tell the wonderboy, next hotel exit, we’ll stop.

We pull off the exit into the garishly sign-lit access road. Burgers, tacos and something called e-cigarettes beckon us with their showy wares, but he’s an almost five year old on a mission and is having none of it.

Where are the hotels? I need to choose –

They’re down here a bit.

My heart sinks as I survey the three offerings. The Wonderboy doesn't have much from which to choose: something local and non-chain, a seedy looking Holiday Inn and a Best Western.

(please pick the best western, I beam in pleading thought rays)

There. That’s it.

????

The Best Western. They have excellent beds and offer breakfast. I saw the commercial, I know.

And you know what? They do.

Next Installment: The Battle for Ideals Begins – Wonderboy vs. Grandma Blue and me versus the evil, lying, hideous moving company.

in which the wonderboy and i trample out the grapes of wrath

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 22:09:29 -0400

part one of however long it may take:

If you want to read the backstory (eg, me endlessly whinging about being laid off) click here.

Foreword:

It all started when we got an apartment that should have been impossible to get in my hometown of Baton Rouge and the almost five year old wonderboy and I packed up the movables and hit the road in search of a better life and the actual possibility of employment, the dust of the Michigan recession fading through the back window of the Nissan.

But that's too easy a summary. Before we got to that point, I had spent almost four months fruitlessly clicking links online, networking while maintaining the facade of being fine while growing more and more scared as it sunk in that there were simply no jobs to be had and the unemployment and the nest egg continued to shrink.

I was thinking Portland would be a good option, if perhaps a bit crunchy for me. I've made huge moving jumps before, but never without a job, house or friend in wait - and the wonderboy made everything even more complicated - if i'd been by myself, I'd have been willing to do the classic two suitcase move to the local hostel until I'd nailed a job and a place to live, but with a child in tow, that just wasn't a possibility.

My parents are pretty well on their way towards their seventies and my mother had been urging me to move closer to home. The wonderboy had been intermittently badly ill all winter and spring - and remained undiagnosed, though they thought it might be the beginning stages of juvenile rheumatoid arthritis. If I was going to move, it wasn't the worst idea to be near family backup in case he had to continue to miss huge chunks of school, as there was no guarantee that i'd again land a job that I could work from home if needed.

But I was stuck in the classic dillemma of needing either a job or a place to live before moving. I'd investigated the possibility of joining the service corp in louisiana - they were interested, but the stipend was impossible to live on with a child.

I was stuck.

Then the way seemed clear, from a chance comment from my mother - a two bedroom had opened up in her complex, smack dab in the center of Baton Rouge. Housing's been impossible in Baton Rouge since Katrina, when half of New Orleans moved in, hugely increasing the population overnight - there was very little chance that an unemployed single mother would be accepted as a renter - but I was.

So now I can throw in that tidy (if rambling) opening sentence in a more proper place: It all started when we got an apartment that should have been impossible to get in my hometown of Baton Rouge and the almost five year old wonderboy and I packed up the movables and hit the road in search of a better life and the actual possibility of employment, the dust of the Michigan recession fading through the back window of the Nissan.

Chapter 1: The Migration

Stuck in a hideous traffic jam on the bridges of Cincinnati, he devises a sing-song chant:

oHIIIIoooo takes forEVVVVerrrrr…

oHIIIIoooo takes forEVVVVerrrrr…..

oHIIIIoooo takes forEVVVVerrrrr……….

This is the youngest child out of four, the only one still at home, so I’m fairly immune to this sort of thing. Unfortunately for me, this is clashing with the interior viral song playing on an endless loop in my head:

Baby, if you’ve ever wondered, wondered whatever became of meeeee…..

(oHIIIoooo takes forEVVVVerrrrr)

....I'm living on the air in Cincinnati, Cincinnati, WKRP...

(oHIIoooo takes forEVVVVerrrrrr)

…Got kind of tired of packing and unpacking, town to town, up and down the dial….

(oHIIIoooo takes forEVVVVerrrrr)

…baby you and me were never meant to be, just maybe think of me, once in a while….

(oHIIIoooo takes forEVVVVerrrrr)

I’m at WKRP in Cincinnati…..

(oHIIIoooo takes forEVVVVerrrrr)

And did I mention that I drive a six-speed stick, fearless girl that I am? So not only are bad 70’s tv theme songs competing with child chants, I am endlessly clutching and unclutching to move forward three feet, then throwing it back into neutral so save my left leg, which is cramping from holding in the clutch.

To save what’s left of my sanity, and the possibility of the wonderboy actually reaching the age of five with intact vocal cords, I throw in the latest Green Day and crank his current favourite, ’21 guns’.

And so we traveled from the bleak economic environs of Michigan, towards our brighter (or at least, much warmer) future.

Next Installment: The Camps (or, where we lived and why and how)