On Record

When I first met Terry, he embodied everything I wanted in a man. He was tall, handsome, kind, gentle but masculine, he made art (that I fell in love with before meeting him actually), he liked my food which made me feel like a rescuer (some inherited busomy Italian gene?), he was weird in all the right ways, he was of pedigree extraction (McKay's and White's probably had high tea while the Bennett's and Angileri's were drinking homemade wine from the bathtub), and he was forward thinking, I thought. He was always thinking, in fact. And drawing. Quiet. Funny. Musical. The list could go on and on, for the record.

However. He once said something to me, very early in our "courting" days, that struck me odd and out of character for someone who I had classified as "forward thinking".

We were looking at something drawn, perhaps a childrens book illustration or something, that I mentioned I liked. He, without a second thought, said:

Terry: "A woman drew that."

Just by his tone, I knew that was not a good thing.

Me: "How do you know?"

Terry: "It looks like butterflies are about to fly off the page. It's flowery and curly and... look at how she drew the man in the book."

The man looked just like the way I'd have drawn a man.

Terry: "He's soft and sweet. I bet she was in love with him when she drew him."

By the way, Terry and I met in art school. Where I had planned on making art. For a statement to come so easily from his mouth, as though he'd thought this gem up long before then and waited for the perfect time to reveal his true chauvinistic side (once I was locked into the relationship, I guess), I was annoyed. And paranoid that I was one of those Lilith Fair artists. I shouldn't have cared, but it sunk deep at 18. Not completely his doing but having played a big part, I changed my major to experimental video. A major deserving an explanation for another post.

Since then, the issue has come up as we see illustrations, cartoons, and art made by women who draw with their {a word that looks like Regina, sounds like angina} apparently. Or so says Terry. And I still find offense in that after all these years.

Last night, he said it again:

Terry: "...like that time you drew me when I went to your mom and dad's house for the first time?", har, har, har.

I remembered exactly which drawing he was referring to, inside the very first sketchbook I kept in college, as sentimental as his shoe boxes full of concert stubs he's stashed away under our bed. I drew his profile sitting on the couch watching tv, and it was a darn good portrait, if I may say so myself. It wasn't sappy. He was fully clothed. It was just his profile. Because he was there. What hurt most was that I had no idea, 11 years later, that he thought it was bad.

Terry: "I never said it was bad. I said it looked like a girl did it. And you're a girl."

Me: "Don't patronize me. You think it looks fairy-ish."

Terry: "I think it looks like you loved me when you drew it."

Me: "Then I need to draw a picture of you now..."

Terry: "It was cute. Don't get your feelings hurt. I loved it. It was like this...", he pulls out Fiona's sketchbook and starts drawing.

{5 minutes later, and stifling a mouthful of laughter}

While he drew this, I tried drawing him again. And it looked like this:

I made his hair extra fluffy and lips extra pursed just to make him extra mad.

Instead, he tried to make me feel better with these:

Terry: "Ok. Well, here's how I would have drawn you in 5th grade."

"...or like this":

I laugh. Things are better. But, for added insurance...

Terry: "And here's how one of Banjo's {rhymes with witches} would draw him."

Indoor Tuesday

Post Workday

the new chalet de poulet, compliments of Dad and Terry. Ginger LOVES it, as you can see.

peaking baby snap pea sprouts, said in the most annoying baby voice possible.

already delicious-looking lettuces, basking in early morning light.

and the yard at large. (Although, I confess that I used the camera, not my honest husband, Terry. You will never see my house or yard in full. I'm hiding more than you, Erin!)

The Happy Couple

There is so much that is wrong with what you're about to see. But, sadly, I'm really only compelled to explain the ugliness of our yard. It looks like these kids are playing in a land mine (and maybe they kinda were), but in my defense... Saturday and Sunday were big workdays for us. Garden aside, the rest of our yard was in need of some attention. SO, that is why there are wheelbarrows, shovels, rakes, shingles, broken dog houses, piles and piles of rotting leaves, glass bottles from 1975, Funyun bags from 1997, and rain-soaked baby dolls lying around our yard.

When I use the camera, I make sure that ugly is decisively pushed out of the viewfinder. Clearly, Terry took these pictures.

Fiona spends the day with her favorite boy, Mike. And their baby.












Micheal- 12, Baby-0.

Alleged Blueberry Cookie

I'm next in line of cars and mini vans to procure my child from school this afternoon. I see her walk out, as darling as I remembered her from 7:30am, but her knee socks are now slouched and her jacket is pouring out of her small backpack.

Something's on her face.

It's a sticker. It's a sticker that has GREAT JOB! written across it.

Fiona: "Hi, Mom!"

Me: "Hi, Fi! How was your day?"

Fiona: "Good. I got a sticker!"

Me: "I see. How'd you get that?"

Fiona: "I spelled some words and counted and stuff."

Every day for the last 3 weeks, the drill's the same: I ask her how her day was and she says (big smiles), "great! I didn't get a blueberry cookie, but I did get a cracker!" And everyday I try to understand what the hell that means. What do you have to do to get a blueberry cookie? Do other kids get blueberry cookies? A blueberry cookie? For real? I've never even seen a blueberry cookie in my 28 years of cookie-eating. And all I can gather from her short term 5 year old memory and series of non sequitur answers is there is some stash of non chocolate cookies (I don't believe in the blueberry cookie) that are given daily as an educational tool or incentive for knowing something. And obviously my child has yet to know that something as she hasn't earned the alleged blueberry cookie. The consolation prize is a cracker, I suppose.

Our abstract exchange makes it difficult for me to know what kind of flashcards I should be flashing at her. What kind of flashcard will help her score a blueberry cookie?

Me: "You don't remember what you did to get the sticker?"

Fiona: "Um, yeah. I sat in an orange chair and counted to (gazing out window, immediately bored by my questions) 10 or said abcs or somethin'."

Me: "Honey, I don't think they give stickers out to kids for doing that in kindergarten. That's stuff you learned when you were 3."

Fiona: "Yeah. I know. But guess what? When I answered the question, she moved me to the blue seat, and all the kids clapped, like this." (Big smile while imitating clapping children.)

Me: "Fi, that's wonderful."

{pause}

Fiona: (Very serious) "I know."

{pause}

Fiona: (Looking out the window) "And then they said, 'Hooray, Fiona! Hooray, Fiona!"

Me: "Wow. But you can't remember what you did? Exactly?"

Fiona: "Something about learning."

{pause}

Fiona: "And then the kids in the orange chairs were mad like this (imitates an angry child with arms crossed, scowl on face), because they didn't know the answers."

Me: "Answer to what? And I thought you said everyone was clapping and cheering?"

Fiona: "Well, the kids who like me did, because they were sitting in blue chairs. But the ones who don't didn't because they don't know the answers and had to stay in the orange chairs."

Me: "Answers to what!?"

Fiona: "You know, school stuff."

Me: "Was it about math- addition, subtraction? Or was it about words- spelling or sounds?"

Fiona: "Spelling and minuses."

Ugh. I give up.

{pause}

Fiona: "Jocylyn, my best friend who's Irish (I'm pretty sure there are no Irish kids in her class, as Fiona is the only white kid. It's less about my disbelief in the non-Caucasian Irish person, but more in my disbelief in my child's recognition of an Irish person, Caucasian or not.), said I'm super smart."

Me: "Aw. That's nice of her. I agree."

Fiona: (Still looking out window) "Yup."

{pause}

Fiona: (Still looking out the window) "And I'm going to get a blueberry cookie tomorrow."

So, let's review. I don't believe:

1. in the blueberry cookie
2. that Fiona knows what she has to do to earn the blueberry cookie
3. that Fiona remembers what she did to earn the face sticker
4. Fiona's interpretation of her classmates' reaction to earning that sticker
5. in Jocylyn's ethnicity
6. I will ever know the appropriate flashcards to make for Fiona to earn the blueberry cookie

My Thing

We pull up to my parents house early Saturday afternoon. My dad has already begun building the coop, to which he has no connection. No connection, that is, other than his connection to me by way of being my father. He won't eat the eggs they will lay (I think him and my mom are secretly part of the pasturization safety committee), he could care less about Ginger, our current neglected chicken, and he is certainly busy making other things, coops being at the bottom of that list. Regardless, he has already been to the hardware store and back, and he's begun building the frame for this marvelous chicken chalet. He has an enthusiastic way about him, in spite of the fact that he's committed an entire Saturday for this.

Before Terry strapped on his tool belt (a welcome sight for these lumberjack-loving eyes), my dad shows us his latest creation, a stunning oak and mahogany communion table for his church.

A brief history about my parents: they make stuff all. the. time. Like, quilts by the week, new lovely wardrobes for my children every year, mandolins, violins, and pieces of Shaker-style furniture far more often than you'd think those things could be manufactured by 2 people who complain about their sciatica and poor arch support. (I still swear that they're hiding a sweatshop on some secret floor of their home.) Paintings, drawings, and other types of 2 dimensional art as often as I make shopping lists. It's inspiring and maddening all at once. Every time I visit them, I notice new "mades" all around their already lovely home... things that my mother has clearly already forgotten she's made (a new set of pin striped curtains say, or a new table runner on the salvaged wood dining room table my dad made), having moved on to other forms of creativity that my brain has barely even had time to think about, let alone do.

Last year: "So, mom? I started my garden last week... wanna hear what I'm planting?", I glance out the living room window to see a veritable rain forest of lush zucchini vines, their fruits waiting to be picked. My parents don't even eat zucchini! My mom, "Oh honey, that's wonderful!"

Everything they create is practically perfect, and always at the highest level of craftsmanship. I keep telling myself that it's due mostly to the luxury of being newly retired, stuffing those memories of my homemade childhood Christmases when I unwrapped gift after homemade gift that have now made their way into the arms of my children. Just thinking about how much they do makes me want to unbutton my pants and eat a log of Pillsbury cookie dough on the couch.

This apparently does not go unnoticed by even the young:

Fiona: faint nail gun and table saw noises coming from my dad's workshop downstairs, "Mom? Why does Papi make stuff so much?"

Me: "Because it's his 'thing'. Everyone's got a thing, you know?"

Fiona: "Yeah. Mina Ro's (my mom's) thing is sewing me dresses."

Me: "Yes."

Fiona: "And Mina Lani's (Terry's mom) thing is doctor." Just to clarify, my mother-in-law is a nurse. Her 'thing' is not doctors, although not a bad hobby if you're single I suppose, but the practice itself.

Me: "Yup."

Fiona: "Daddy's thing is drawing, because he makes cartoons." Sort of. He does the ecards and design on the website for the network you'll never be allowed to watch, and the one your grandparents think is porn.

Me: "Mmm hmm."

Fiona: "And your thing is 'making-up'."

Me: "Making-up? What's that?", visions of me picking fights with people and quickly saying I'm sorry. Just for fun.

Fiona: "You know? Making-up beds."

I've got to go now. I'm going to unmake my bed, and then remake it again. {Chills}