Shut UP!

Me. Me. Me.

I think I've ridden the Ferry more this week than I have in a month, bringing me into contact with more than a few people who surpass those who expose their personal lives in blogs and online journals everywhere. Who give up sex lives, marital problems, banking details, discussions with their doctors and basic gossip to the world around them. Indeed, "...millions of gasping little voices"

I am talking about the cell phone user.

More and more, people appear to believe when they are on their mobile phones, they are encased in a secure bubble, that blocks out everyone else... the way Cate Blanchett mentions when, as Elizabeth I, she turns to a suitor and says, "I pretend there is a piece of glass between all of them and myself." It's that "I am invisible" belief drivers who pick their noses or sing off key with the window open have.

People discuss anything and everything in huge crowds, in loud voices.... things I would go into my bathroom and shut the door to discuss (even though I live alone)....with no regard at all to those of us who don't want to hear, those who are offended by the conversations, amused by the conversations or those who strain their necks trying to hear as many as possible.

Those people will not be named in this journal.

In one morning, I heard a man ask the woman on his phone if he, "...... take the time to come up there, baby, and I'm keeping it real here, am I going to get the best fuck of my life? 'Cause I hear you want me in your (insert a graphic word) bad."

There was the woman discussing her upcoming hysterectomy with her mother. In graphic details.

The banker who told another he was pretty sure a large number of banks would be failing in the next two years. (There goes my $47.52 in savings!)

The girl screaming at her boyfriend, in words I'd never heard... although I did take notes for later use, just in case.

Phones ring, and you hear, "Hello? Hello? Hello?" The phone is shaken.... come on people.. the only electronic device to work when you shake it is a laptop.... then, "Hello? HELLO??" At this time, I want to lean over and say, "I don't think they are there." But, who am I to ruin a good time for the person who obviously likes saying "Hello?".

There are beep rings, buzz rings, bell rings... 8472 kinds of song downloads. "Hello?" is said in a number of voice tones and accents.

And, they all share their private business. The worse offenders are the ones who feel the need to use the walkie talkie thingy (technical term) so we can hear both sides of a conversation we really, really don't want to hear.

Somehow, I'm not that interested in how he did you wrong by going to your girlfriends house and getting up on her booty and then she was in your face. Or something like that.

With a blog or online journal, I have the option of finding these things and reading them. Phone conversations are all around me, washing over me, filling my ears with words I don't want to hear, in languages I don't understand.

I am in E.A. to begin with.... Eavesdropper's Anonymous. I have a hard enough time not leaning and listening to things that are unique and worthy of note taking.

You discussing with your Aunt Louby how you passed your kidney stones, isn't.

Trust me.



Our Neville Fact:


Our Margaret refuses to allow the grandchildren to wear their shoes in her house. She takes great pride in the hardwood floors, and the handloomed rugs made by nuns who live in a convent off the coast of Malabar. They must wear only cotton socks, and walk around the rugs, which have plastic runners on them for the times one must step foot on them. When no one is around, Margaret takes off her shoes and stockings, and runs her toes in the dense wool, while drinking a cup of tea, and reading M.M. Kaye.

Enviromental Youth

Boys don't change.

Walking home from the bus, I was privy to the following conversation, held between two boys, sitting on their bikes... creating their perfect cars. It was a youthful pissing contest...one I'd heard my own brother have, my sons... this one, however, this was....current.



Boy 1--Yeah, my car... it's going to be black. Black with black leather interior.

Boy 2-- Mine is going to have stripes, thin racing stripes. And, blacked out windows.

Boy 1-- Well, I'm going to have fat tires, and spinner rims.

Boy 2-- Huh. Me, too. And, and, I'm going to have a (blah blah) stereo system, with surround sound.

Boy 1-- Yeah. And, I'm going to have a 350 engine, with an auto trannie.

Boy 2-- I'm going to have a 450 hemi... turbo.

Boy 1-- I'll have GPS. And a DVD player.

Silence. The gauntlet was thrown. How can this be surpassed??

Boy 2-- Mine will get 40 MPG.



Game. Set. Match.

GARGH

ignore the blog look until sisterwife fixes it.


thank you.

What Time Is It?

Spring forward, fall back?

I never get the time change right, thankfully, they do it on a Sunday, allowing me the luxury of a day with nothing to do in order to wake up in full panic wondering if I'm early/late for something because I didn't change the clocks.

Winds of change blowing. They make me wonder what is in store.


For WP...



Our Neville Fact:


Our Neville's favourite book is his well worn hard back copy of Three Men in a Boat:To Say Nothing of the Dog. He re-reads it on a regular basis, roaring with laughter over the antics of the scoundrels and their holiday contained within the covers of this novel. Margaret despises this bit of reading, and wishes our Neville would find something more solid to read, along the lines of Dame Agatha Christie or even the bloody Reader's Digest Condensed Books. But, no, year after year, he reads Three Men in a Boat, laughing before he finishes a line, mumbling them to himself when he shuts the book, all in all very pleased with the writer, the adventure he wanted so for himself, and the fact he'd hollowed out the inside long ago, and where he slips bodice ripper romances by Barbara Cartland to read, with Margaret being none the wiser.

Notes

From the week that was:

• Odd little man who stood at the bus stop last Monday, waiting for the bus, along with myself and others.... limping on his cane, obviously disabled... we stood aside as he clambered on board first, grumping the whole time about the delay. Forgiving of his rudeness because of his physical problems, trying to be politically correct, I suppose. He stood in front of a woman, a nicely dressed black woman, who was seated where he wanted to sit, ignoring the empty seat next to her. He stood and stared at her, finally saying, "Are you going to move or do I have to just sit on your lazy ass?" She looked up, and shifted over, not saying a word. Again, no one spoke. When the bus pulled over to the stop where he wanted to be, she moved up fluidly, and off the bus, while he struggled to get going and down the steps yelling at that point he needed the bus. Our driver honked his horn at the bus starting to pull away, to let them know he had a connection, to no avail. The woman passenger made the connection, it was no fault of hers the disabled man didn't make it...he'd not said a word until after she was gone. He was still going down the stairs when the other bus pulled away, at which point he started to yell, "FUCKING N*GGER BITCH!! GOT IN MY WAY, N*GGER BITCH!! MADE ME MISS MY BUS!" Our driver shut the door on his rant, merged into traffic, the hum of conversation was still. I spoke up into the lull, "I'm sorry, disabled doesn't excuse you from being an asshole." Everyone started to talk then.... It was a shock, we had all given way for him, made allowances for his slow movements, stepped aside, given up seats.... the huge wave of racist anger took us by surprise. Perhaps it was thinking just because he was disabled he was automatically meek, weak, gentle... all of those adjectives one would attach to someone who is low on the pecking order. Never judge a book, and all that jazz.

• I've noticed some languages sound the way they are written. This great revelation came to me after my second long (15 hours) day on the set, again on my bus, during the last leg of my trip home. The woman next to me was reading her newspaper, covered with Oriental markings, when her phone rang. She had an extended conversation that I was privy to (aka eavesdropped), whereupon I noticed the words spoken were like the words on that paper--sharply edged, precise, blunt, landing in my ear the way they lay in print. Either that or the long days may not lend themselves to logical thought process, but, do give themselves over to unique flights of fantasy.

• No matter how you want it to happen, a 37 inch wide sofa will not fit down a 36 inch wide stairwell. End of story.

• Will Ferrell needs to accept he has to find something new to do.... playing the same character over and over no longer works. Trust me on this one, Will.... Semi Pro sucks rocks.

• So does The Other Boleyn Girl. Please, if you are going to do historical drama, at least pretend to know the history.... okay?

• After 15 months in New York, I can finally say, with complete honesty, after a long study, the W train does move. Not often, which is why it is called the "Waithere Train"...however, it DOES move. Sometimes. Once. Really. It did.

• If you wear galoshes into the city based on NOAA's weather report, it will not rain, and you look stupid.

• While filming in a church in Brooklyn, I was reading about the various Saints listed around the Baptismal Font. Each panel of walnut had a Saint painted, with the reasons for sainthood placed beneath their likeness.... St. Thomas More-Martyr for the Faith. Mother Cabrini-Patron Saint of Immigrants. St. Christopher-Patron Saint of Travelers. St. Jude-Invoked for Lost Causes. Elizabeth Seton-Mother, New Yorker. St. Augustine-Bish....wait a minute. Hold on. Elizabeth Seton is a Saint because she was a NEW YORKER? Does that mean I'll be sainted because I've ridden the 'F' and the 'G' trains and lived to tell the tale? Is she sainted because she knew where to buy the best knish? She had an in for knock off purses? She wasn't a martyr, she was a New Yorker! If she was from Jersey, she'd just have been a woman who became a nun who did good things...never have made sainthood, I guess.
  

• There is a revival of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, with James Earl Jones as Big Daddy. I may have to sell a piece of liver to go, but, I'm going. Imagine..... the quintessential Southern play, by Tennessee Williams, with colourblind casting. Word.
  

• Spoke to Loo, Miss Sof, DebB, HRH, WeatherGuy and Jarhead this week. Letters from GW and Peter and my Oddship. I'm smiling.

Slow week, soft week, standing outside on the Ferry for the first time in a long time. Listening to tourists chattering, watching the city pull up out of the water the way it does, have Sweeney Todd discuss politics with me while he cuts my hair, then the great fun of street food on my way home.

What more do I need?

HRH

Twenty years right at this minute.

I'm stunned it's been that long, when I think about it.... twenty years since that day I went to see some long since forgotten film with Mother, that ended with her leaving in a huff, me waddling up the long drive to the house, the Ex helping me put Jarhead and TheInvestment to bed.... he decided to run errands, his way of getting out for a bit.

My back hurt some, but, then, I was the size of a house... a split level house. He was gone a bit when I realised my back hurting was something we call 'labour'. No cell phones, none of my friends were home, I was not due for another five weeks.

My Mother's phone was busy, and even though I worked for the Corporate Giant, I didn't think to have the operator break in on the line to tell Mom she needed to get back in her car and come to where I was.

I did call my friend and doctor, who lost her usual composure to tell me to "....get here ASAP!!" when I said my contractions were around 5 minutes apart.

Instead, I washed out some nice underwear and took a shower.

The Ex came in, humming a tune, and asked why the dryer was running for a few things. I toweled off and said I was in labour.

By this time, a friend had shown up to watch the boys in their sleep. I was still quite calm. He went into throw everything into the van mode, including me and my still damp underwear. Off we went into the dark Colorado night.

I was panting and clocking things at every two minutes.

His comforting words?

"Don't push, for God's sake, don't push!" Since I agreed with his thought process, I worked on not pushing. After all, I was a tad bit early in the delivery process.

We raced down the Diagonal Highway between Longmont and Boulder, me huffing and puffing, him trying to keep me calm. I still remember him reaching over, smoothing my shirt over my tummy, speaking to me, to our unborn child.

We hit the outskirts of Boulder and I said, still very calmly, "You have to stop.. we need film."

"What?"

"We need film. I have a camera, no film. Get some."

The Ex was one to watch pennies... he had to, we had a large family.... the only thing open was the corner store, the kind that charges you $2.00 for a candy bar. He dashed in, threw a large bill at the counter clerk, and yelled, "Keep the change!", running back out to the van with the insisted upon film in his hand.

I heed and hooed.

Finally, we arrived at the hospital, two hours after I'd made the call to the doctor, telling her I was in labour. You think she'd have been happy to see me, right?

Up she walked... all 5'4" of her, blonde curls quivering in rage.... she grabbed the front of my cute maternity smock and said, "WHERE. IN. THE. FUCK. HAVE. YOU. BEEN?"

What? I can't shower and shave and pick up film? Just because my baby is breech and early?

I was thrown into a bed, wires attached, machines turned on and everyone peered at the sonar machine....

A collective gasp of relief went up.... the baby had turned, no breech birth was going to happen. '

"So, do I get to go home?" Five heads, including the Ex's turned and five voices said as one, "NO!"

I was in for a birth....

A needle in my back, blessed relief from the labour pain (yes, it is pain) and we were ready. Ex was with me the whole time, holding my hand... both of us worried... she was going to be very early.

The usual jovial nature of my doctors was subdued, they worked quickly to get her out... I felt the tug, the pull... and silence. No cry that I was used to hearing upon the immediate touch of air to my child's face.

A small gasp, then she cried... still not huge yelps, but, a cry nonetheless. They held her up for me to see, my girl I'd waited for.... she was deep blue. Before I could appreciate her beautiful face, she was whisked over to the doctors waiting to rub her, get her going, help her breathe. I heard them give her APGAR.... it wasn't very high.

Ex patted me, stroked my face... I had him go with her, I'd be fine. Suddenly, I was in pain, the meds were wearing off and I was there, with my body cut open.

"I can feel that!", I said. "I can feel you."

They brought my daughter over, quickly.....she was so, so beautiful... soft, pink... mewling now. My sweet baby girl. Then, I was out.

I woke up a few hours later, and looked over to a crooning in my dimly lit room. In the other births, the Ex had gone home, dealt with the children there, home, work. With this one, he chose to stay with me, had a cot put there in my room... he was sitting on the cot, our tiny preemie in his arms, an IV strapped to her arm, oxygen being fed to her, she already had pneumonia. He was singing to her, talking to her, kissing on her minute face.

"Here's your Mom." he said. "She's been waiting for you for a long, long time."

I've never bonded with any of my children at first sight... I'm not wired that way. I would fight for them, defend them, at one point, I suddenly adore them... but, that instant love never happens.

With HRH, there was something... she was my own baby girl. She was helpless and there and struggling. She opened her eyes and that was that.

I looked down on her, and sang to her the song my grandmother sang to me...."Oh, K-K-K-Katie, beautiful Katie... you're the only g-g-g-girl that I adore. When the m-m-m-m-moonshine comes over the c-c-c-cowshed, I'll be waiting at the k-k-k-k-kitchen door."

Hokey, yes...but, it made sense at the time.

She and I snuggled down and went to sleep, with our matching IV's and oxygen bottles.... she later went on to have RSV and croup and to drive me mad with a number of other things.

She's married now, with a husband and two children she's learning to raise...she's in school and growing to be a woman. I am as proud of her now as I have ever been. Our road together isn't always smooth, she is far too much like me for that to happen. I don't like every decision she's made, she's not wild about mine. Still, I can close my eyes, and think of that first time, of the time I saw her last.... her joy in life, her belief in herself, her love of her husband and her new family, her devotion to her siblings, the deep satisfaction she gets in learning, the chuckle that starts low in her throat, her dimple, her quick anger and her quicker forgiveness, slender arms, beautiful hands moving in the silent language of the deaf, body folded up on itself when we watch films together, bumperbutt, my one, my only HRH.

I'll be waiting at the k-k-k-k-kitchen door.


Happy Birthday, heart of mine.

Boys Who Are Blonde

Double Duty Day.

Bunch of years ago, my dad came to my school, and announced to me that I wasn't going to get that puppy I wanted...

....again.

Instead, again, I was getting another sibling.

Another brother.

This one, I adored... he wasn't held out as the successor to Jesus Christ, nor as all I should be... he was a great toy for me to play with. He wore diapers my Mawma always seemed to bleach with something coloured in the washload, so, they were tinted pastel colours of green and blue and pink and yellow... He was blonde and blue eyed, a wonderment to my dark self.

I was allowed to name him, and name him I did.... to his later disgusted self.

He stands godfather to TheInvestment, he works hard, is a good man and his wife... I adore his wife. They are both people you wish you could have in your life, and when you find out they are, send a prayer out to God in gratitude.

He wasn't always swell, but, he's my Baby Bro... He and the Wife take on Jarhead, who looks like their child, and who will more than likely work for BB when he gets out of the service.

Happy Birthday, BB...

The segue to Jarhead is simple... today, he was promoted to Corporal Jarhead in the USMC. I was going to go watch him receive his stripe....but, he said they have a hazing ceremony he'd prefer I not know about...so....

I'm still on the set, too... 15 hours yesterday, 13 today, another long haul tomorrow.

The upside is the unique folk on the bus...but, that's for tomorrow's ramble...

Today is about my blonde haired boys...