Fiddle Dee Dee's Open Salon Blog

Mothers are Meant for Mending

Thu, 7 May 2009 11:05:01 -0400

Mothers are meant for mending

Broken hearts and holey socks

They usually are greatly gifted

With drying tears and curling locks

Weaving a web of importance

Around tiny dreams and quivering hands

The mere mention of meandering misgivings

Results in precious scoldings and capacious demands

The warmth of round arms that embrace you

Despite living miles away

The love in her smiles that still chase you

More compassion than words can convey

The memory of her will still linger

Though years have grown long since she passed

Knowing she would have given anything

If you had just only asked.

The day had passed like any other. Agonizingly long and painful, as much as she hated the expanse of daylight, she dreaded the evenings more. As lonely as the day could get, there was always sunlight, sounds of the day, birds singing, children playing outside. There was always the ever-present lite breeze that jangled the windchimes outside the kitchen window to remind her of joy. But the night, as the sun slowly sank through the trees into the ground, was terrifying. Dark, dank, isolated. No other beings in the universe to hold her hand as she wept. It was too late to call, too early to sleep, if sleep ever came. She picked up the phone anyway and dialed from memory, or what was left of it. It took three attempts, but finally she reached one of her children, a familiar voice, a young male. A grown man, nonetheless, but still one of her babies. She smiled through her tears, sticky mascara clinging to her lashes and oozing down her cheeks. No answer though. Voice mail. She frowned, then sobbed. At the beep, she muttered and slurred through what she thought was a happy sounding greeting and to please call back, if you have time. I miss you, she said, or she thought.

She sat with the phone in her hand, her arm coiled in her lap like a limp snake. She may have sat for minutes or hours; it was hard to say. She stared at the wall, the wallpaper matching the exact print of the curtains, having long ago lost its trendy style. Nothing is made to last, she uttered, the words inaudible to the world. She licked her lips, dry and crusty, her breath stale and sour. She needed a drink. Again. She stood slowly and carefully, swaying on her feet, holding the edge of the bed for support. Just getting my sea legs, she reasoned, and then it occurred to her she was on solid ground. Oh, yes, I remember, she laughed. She hadn’t been on the ocean for some time. To see the ocean you would have to venture out the front door and this had not happened in months, maybe longer.

As she steadied herself, she placed the phone in its cradle. A cradle is for babies. How she missed her babies! Though long since grown, she missed them terribly. Why didn’t they call? They had forgotten her, as everyone else had: her family, her siblings, her husband. So lonely. Her heart ached for them, for someone, for anyone. Fresh tears fell, loosening the mascara, and clearing her vision a bit. She made her way towards the closet.

The door to the closet was like a mouth. Once you walked through, it swallowed you whole and did not give you up easily. As she passed into the darkness of the space, she could smell the mildew and mold that emanated from the low ceiling. It was comforting to her. The space was tiny and made her feel secure. Of course, this feeling was fleeting because once she entered, she felt the dread of what was to come. It terrified her, but she was powerless to stop it. She dug underneath the piles of empty shoeboxes and felt the cold, hard glass of the bottle. It felt strong in her hand. She knew well what was contained within, and it knew her even better. No, no, no, she told herself, as she had countless times before. She knew it would do no good. Her body ached for the warming intoxication of the alcohol, straight from the bottle. It was as if tiny tentacles leapt out from every inch of her body to pull the bottle to her lips. She was defenseless. The acrid taste had long since lost its adverse quality. She tipped the bottle up, easily downing the contents of the entire fifth. It was the second time she had done this today.

Already well-intoxicated, the effects were immediate and wholly debilitating. The world spun side-ways, tipped up and slammed into the side of her head. It was an odd feeling trying to regain her balance and she felt certain she was standing on her own two feet and in some odd way the floor was shoulder to shoulder with her. Gravity was relentless; as she struggled to get to her feet, she was pulled down again and again, her knees bruised and aching as always. Finally, she surrendered to it, falling into to a deep, hazy sleep full of demons and snakes, creeping in and out of her head like so many terrible memories. She slept in fits like this for several hours, rolling over and groaning, for all the relentless years of emotional and physical pain.

She slept in the quiet calm of the closet, opening her eyes at various intervals to stare at her shoes or the bottom of her clothes, dust-filled from lack of wear. She felt comforted by her belongings that surrounded her, but then she would realize this was not enough. Shoes and clothes can’t comfort or care for you, and they were old and unkempt anyway, like her; not pretty to look at anymore. They were once shiny and new and loved, but unless you take care of these things to preserve them, they wither and die like everything. Like her. She awoke suddenly, wide-eyed and panicked. She had no idea how long she had been asleep. Hours? Days? She had no way of knowing. There was urine soaked into the carpet. She could smell it. Her night-gown was cold and wet. She felt a rush of embarrassment and then relief; no one was there, no one would know. She expelled a sigh of relief, followed quickly by a sob of pity. No one was there. It reverberated in her head like a freight train. She was abandoned, helpless. She had no way to help herself. She could wait, someone would come, wouldn’t they? Surely, no one would forget her for days and days and not check on her. Someone had always come.

She crawled to the bed and laid on top of the covers. Her cat glared at her from the foot of the bed. He was fat and mean, but he loved her, was always with her. The thought of this made her smile and cry. She cried at the sweet sentiment of this loveless cat loving her and at the pity of this cat being the only one who loved her and stayed with her, as she fully recognized he had little choice. She slept again, this time on her back, her loud snores permeating the silence of the house. Her mouth gaped open and her rancid breath filled the space. The cat left abruptly out of irritation and disgust. This time she slept soundly, dreaming of nothing, free from nightmares. Soundly, however, does not mean peacefully.

As she rested, the sun slowly eased its way back up through the bushes and into her window. The ray of sunlight hit like a laser beam, aimed directly at her eyeball. An easy shot, as her eyes were half open. Though slow to react, she sluggishly lifted her heavy, throbbing head off of the pillow and rolled to the side of the bed. Swinging her legs over, she placed her hands at her sides and attempted to sit up. As she raised her head, a sudden sharp pain burst through her right temple. She moaned and steadied herself. Her only objective was to close the curtains so she could once again sink onto the cool surface of the bed. She reached out towards the window, grabbing a handful of curtain. She pushed herself off the bed with one hand and pulled herself forward with the other. As she stood, she became aware of just how unsteady she was, but it wasn’t the usual staggering and spinning feeling she was so accustomed to. This was different. Her head was on fire, her stomach churning and cramping, her entire body shaking. It was coming from the depths of her being, from an unidentifiable place, much like the origins of an orgasm but horrifyingly unpleasant, by contrast. She held fast to the curtain, knees half-bent, bracing herself for whatever was about to hit. She had no idea.

Her body exploded from the inside out. She immediately collapsed to the floor, spasming and seizing. She cleanly bit off her tongue in one chunk. The pain was so sudden and intense, she had no time to scream. In the few seconds she had left to look at the the world she thought of her children, what have I done? Wait. Wait. There was no waiting. As the lining in her blood vessels and organs finally gave up after years of abuse, blood poured out of every orifice of her body.

This is how my mother died.

Mothers are meant for mending
Broken hearts and holey socks
They usually are greatly gifted
With drying tears and curling locks
Weaving a web of importance
Around tiny dreams and quivering hands
The mere mention of meandering misgivings
Results in precious scoldings and capacious demands
The warmth of round arms that embrace you
Despite living miles away
The love in her smiles that still chase you
More compassion than words can convey
The memory of her will still linger
Though years have grown long since she passed
Knowing she would have given anything
If you had just only asked.

The Mother of all Holidays

Thu, 7 May 2009 10:05:19 -0400

Mother's Day was notoriously created by a greeting card company, which shall go unnamed here. Even though we all know damn well who it is. It's the same company who invented Valentine's Day and Crocs. Brain-washed us just enough to buy a bit of nonsense, again and again, year after year. When I was a kid we were required to read The Emporer's New Clothes, which seemed to temper gullibility a bit, at least in most of us. If you haven't read it already, you should. It will make you feel like a really, really big asshole for buying into most of the bullshit that swirling around us these days. You're wearing Crocs right now, aren't you?

Anyway, the original notion of Mother's Day was to buy your mom a greeting card (see above) and some candy or flowers to thank her for all that she's done for you (i.e. washing your face with spit) throughout the year. Of course, the main motivation of this depends on your age. When you're seven, you perceive your mom to be the greatest person in the world. Fortunately for you (and unfortunately for the greeting card company), you can get away with making her a card and planting a kiss on her cheek. As you get older, however, expectations and therefore the guilt quotient goes up exponentially. Forget the mere card and flowers; that card better contain a kick-ass spa certificate, or if you really know what's good for you, jewelry, and I don't mean the home-made kind. We're talking diamonds. A tennis bracelet. An heirloom pin. And the most valued gift of all...your precious time.

When I was growing up, it was just me, my brother and sister, our parents, and my dad's folks. This made special occassions very easy on us. My grandparents came over to our house. My mom fixed a meal. Everyone was happy. That all changed once my parents got divorced and I got married. Then, we were required to make an appearance at my mom's, my dad's, and my in-law's, all on the same day. In addition to just showing up, I had to look genuinely happy to be there and, also, hungry. My husband and I were forced to eat three sit-down meals in one day just so we didn't hurt anyone's feelings. Nevermind the impacted colon.

Many years later, my mother and grandparents passed away. Since my parents were divorced and not on speaking terms, that had prevented mine and my husband's families from celebrating holidays together. Now that my mom and the looming threat of Word War III were out of the picture, we had the opportunity to joyously unite our families in celebration! Spending every holiday in peaceful harmony! No more tension headaches from guilt and worry! No more stomache-aches from stress and over-eating! We would simply all convene in one place, at one time and celebrate together. This worked beautifully for a while...

It was good. It was too good. Not enough drama. Not enough turmoil. Too many people in one place, at one time, for too long. It was too good to be true. It was too good to be true because it was bad. Resentment reared its ugly head.

"Why do we have to spend every holiday with her family?" my sister-in-law posed the question to my husband in private, but of course, he ratted her out later. Blood does not run thicker than alcohol and two children. "I want to spend Mother's Day with Mom, not your wife's entire family. Can't you and I take Mom to brunch? Just you and me? We're her kids, afterall." Yes, she and my husband are my mother-in-law's kids, though they are both in their late thirties and way, way to big to fit in her lap. "I mean," my sister-in-law continued, "she doesn't even have a mother anymore, so why should she care?" Yes, my mother is dead, she is correct, but I am also a mother myself, to her niece and nephew, who are, um, her brother's children. Shouldn't I factor somewhere in the equation?

My family, on the other hand, will show up anywhere, any time, any place as long as there is food. They may be an hour late, but they'll show up. I actually had to tell my dad last year that my husband's family no longer wanted to celebrate holidays with my family. "Oh, I see, " he said. I could tell he was hurt, but he is too classy to say anything unkind. Because we were all split apart, he did not get to see his grandchildren or his son-in-law on Father's Day last year. I didn't get to see my father-in-law, either. Or my husband, for that matter.

Surprisingly, I understand my sister-in-law's motivation. She is divorced and has no children. She is clinging very tightly to her parents. I, for this reason, am willing to step aside. I have a husband and two children who stand beside me, regardless of who else shows up. However, as a mother, I want to spend Mother's Day with my children. I would like to spend time with my mother-in-law and stepmother, as well. Because my husband's family isn't willing to celebrate the occasion jointly, this probably will not happen. We all live far enough apart to make two stops in one day too much for my two young children.

When anyone asks me what I want for Mother's Day, I used to jokingly say I want to be hit over the head and locked in the closet. I am not joking any more...that actually sounds quite appealing. Maybe if I ask nicely, my sister-in-law will take me up on it.

Mommy Says

Fri, 24 Apr 2009 12:04:13 -0400

"You have a mouth like an eighty year-old grandmother." My husband utterred these words very calmly and matter-of-factly to me and yet they stung like he had slapped me across the face. "I sound like what?!?!" A comparison to a truck driver would have been more expected and more appreciated; I've let the F-bomb (and other smaller, less significant, bombs) drop more than my fair share in my lifetime. Not something to necessarily be proud of mind you, but I relish my ability to use it when necessary in mixed and perhaps inappropriate company, only sparing my grandmother out of respect, of course.

And so, what had changed? My mind struggled to remember the expletive I had blurted out only moments before which had solicited such a comment from my husband; and then, there it was, in all it's glory, at the forefront of my brain with all of the other recently uttered "curses" I had resorted to using in front of my children: "Lordy be!" What exactly this means, I do not know.

I do know that since the birth of my first child I have had to become highly creative with my choice of "cuss words", if you could even call them that. When my husband accused me of sounding like someone's grandmother (surely not mine; I'd never heard her swear a day in her life, not even something so tame), it struck a chord. I was disappointed in myself. What had become of me? Had I completely lost my edge in the midst of wifedom and motherhood? Was I softening in my old age? Was dementia slowly creeping its way into my brain? No. I had simply realized that any word that came out of my mouth would surely come out of my son's, and I realized only too late the harsh repercussions of this.

One evening, long after I had put my son to bed, as I was gracefully trying to pull the leg of my boot-cut jeans over my stilleto (surely I had been to happy hour this particular evening? Otherwise, I can't explain the logic here), I (surprise!) lost my balance and fell forward into the dresser. It hurt. Upon impact, I apparently blurted out, "Shit!" I mean, who wouldn't? I say 'apparently' because in the moment, I did not realize I had said it and continued getting ready for bed. Little did I know that tiny ears were awake and listening in the next room. Actually, I am not convinced he was indeed awake, only that somewhere in the remote corners of his dream he heard his mother shout a very new and interesting word, one that his kid radar had locked in on.

So much so, the next day in the middle of the grocery store, he proceeded to whisper, "my mommy says...", followed by a long pause (so all the kindly shoppers could look our way in antiticpation of what darling phrase would escape from this child's lips), and then, "...SHIT!!!!" Jaws dropped, children fled, and many a heel was turned upon. I quickly clamped my hand over my son's mouth while assuring myself and anyone within earshot, "I most certainly do not!!" (Granny speak, hmmm?) My son proceeded to repeat this same phrase over and over and over again, giggling all the while. Despite my protests, there as no stopping him. He was 2 1/2, if that explains anything.

I decided then and there that I would have to watch my mouth, whether or not he was around, because certainly at some time, he could overhear my filthy, filthy language and repeat it for all the world to hear, to my credit. My master plan had a major loop-hole, however. I had not counted on my child overhearing other people's filthy mouths, or more importantly, the filthy mouths of their children. My son started daycare shortly thereafter, ironically for socialization with his peers. To my relief, his experience at daycare had taken his focus off repeating the word "shit" over and over again. To my horror, on the first day he came home toting the F-bomb. He was armed and dangerous, and more significantly, he was smart. He substituted his new favorite word into his favorite phrase: "Mommy says FUCK!!!"

Now, "shit" you can pretty easily get away with. Other mothers laugh and shake their heads; they can commiserate with you. "Fuck", on the other hand, means you are a low-life piece of white honky trash who needs to be reported to DFACS immediately. I hung my head in shame while trying in vain to cover my son's mouth.

Eventually, the novelty wore off, and he stopped saying it. It had a permament effect on me, however. Thus, I have the mouth of an eighty year-old grandmother. Well, Lordy be!! It could be worse. I've yet to get a call from DFACS.

The Picture of Worn-in and Gray

Thu, 23 Apr 2009 16:04:07 -0400

I renewed my license at the DMV today! Just shy of my 39th birthday. It seemed like I had been there not too long ago, though it had been four years already. Four years? Where does the time go? To work, children, and husband, that's where. I carefully examined my soon-to-expire license, as I gripped it tightly in my hands. I studied my picture. I had not been happy with it four years ago, and was not happy with it now. My hair was too dark from a bad dye-job, my lipstick too pale, were those crow's feet around my eyes?? I had only been 34 at the time the picture was taken. Still I looked weary and worn. I remember considering 'losing' my license on purpose so that I could go back and get my picture retaken (or maybe they just make you pay another $20 - that would have been worth it), but I decided to keep it. I felt certain that this many years later I would gaze upon the picture of me from four years prior and marvel at how young and supplely beautiful I was, how fresh and vibrant my smile was. Now as I looked down into the haggard face of a maybe middle-aged woman, I still felt wronged. I couldn't wait to take a new picture.

I sat patiently listening for my number to be called out over the loudspeaker and flash up on the digital sign. I had dressed up and put make-up on (mostly for work, but I did get up early and put in extra effort for the occassion). I could feel people's eyes on me, or so I thought. They knew. Even though my license was up for renewal anyway, they knew I had come to re-take my picture! How vain! How self-important! I had plenty of friends whose pictures on their driver's licenses looked like the mug shots of hardened criminals. Why did mine have to be any different? I felt silly, naked almost. Still, I didn't care. I just wanted to re-take the damn picture.

Finally, I was called to the counter to complete the paperwork. Address: easy, it's been the same for ten years. Date of birth: can't really lie on that one, though I'd like to. Height: 5'8 (maybe only when I am retaining fluid, but, still, accurate enough). Weight: 130 (my perpetual goal weight, because when I eventually reach that goal, I want my license to be accurate, dammit. We're talking about the law here!) Drug or alcohol use: none of your damn business, but for all intents and purposes here - no. Revocation of license for any reason: all warrants for unpaid parking tickets paid in full so, no. I signed the form and turned it in to the DMV Lady (I do believe this is the correct terminology here, like the Lunch Lady in the cafeteria, or the Cashier Lady at the grocery) with my old license attached.

I felt saddened as I watched her walk away with my old license. I would never see that old, familiar face ever again, with its mousy brown hair and ashy face. Sadness quickly turned to excitement as I remembered I would get to take a new picture today! My license would finally reflect the real me! The young, vivacious woman who had been betrayed all these years by the picture impersonator she carried around in her wallet would finally get vindication!

I considered my hair and lipstick. Should I retouch? No. No mirror. I hoped that I looked okay. Of course, I did, I reminded myself! I had gotten up early today! I had put in extra effort! I had on a pretty dress in a bright color! When they called my name, I practically skipped over to the photo booth. The woman, or the Other DMV Lady, politely instructed me where to stand, conveniently marked on the floor in masking tape. I smiled and cocked my head to the side. She asked, "are you ready?" and, gaily, I said, "yes!" She snapped the picture and remarked, "that came out fine!" Victory! I smiled. She seemd so pleased with her photography and the subject matter I felt certain she was going to tell me she was now inspired to be come a professional photographer, and was I, in fact, a super model? I blushed at the thought of this, and though she did not say it out loud, I felt surely this was what she was thinking...

All I had left to do now was wait. Would my eyes be closed? Would I have a doucle-chin? Would my make-up look garish or would I be washed out? I held my hands tightly in my lap. The Other DMV Lady called my name. I rushed up to the counter. I was surprised that she did not congratulate me as she handed over my license, but she did smile and nod. Something special had passed between us...an artist and her muse.

I did not look at my new driver's license until I was in the sunlight. I slowly looked down at the picture and took it all in. My hair was too light from a bad dye-job, my lipstick too pale, were those crow's feet around my eyes?? Not bad, I thought. The picture hadn't changed much, but I had: I'm older now and more accepting of myself. This would be the picture I would carry in my wallet for the next ten years and, for the first time, I was okay with that. Hell, I ain't getting any younger! I skipped all the way back to the car.