I remember swirling dishwater around your stainless steel sink, standing on a stepstool and holding a tiny wooden mop.
Andes mints in the stiff and prim living room, dancing to “You Can Fly” and “Bare Necessities” while you clapped and watched. I think of you every time I watch Peter Pan or Jungle Book.
Digging mud rivers with your flatware, rivulets of water and slopped mud into pie tins with clover and grass for garnish on top. I would bury piles of pennies wrapped in Kleenex – and then when I went digging to retrieve my treasure I would never be able to find them. Once you let me be a tree surgeon to get sweetgum sap and even though I’m pretty sure I killed that tree, you were never anything but proud.
You always cleaned me up and gave me something else to do. You bought me clothes and you were a person who actually used the powder in those big frilly tins people keep on their bathroom shelves.
You taught me to crochet and I made chains upon chains, garland for my room and decor for your mantelpiece. We pressed flowers and went for walks. You would always tell me about the things that would be mine when you were “gone,” even though I never really understood what that meant.
You turned 92 this week.
You don’t know us anymore.
We gathered around your hospital bed last night, singing happy birthday. You sang along and watched us all, happy we were there but without a clue as to why. You wore a tiara and smiled at us. Someone had painted your fingernails pink. I’ve never seen you with painted nails.
I don’t visit you like I should. I know that. It’s selfish of me. But I like to think you understand. If there’s any part of you left inside, I hope you can see why I would rather hang on to you as all sass and instructions.
I’m probably wrong. You’d probably tell me to get my bottom to that nursing home more, show you pictures and tell you about my kids. And then when I didn’t you’d throw your hands up and shake your head, like you used to do when I made a mess and giggled about it.
I love you. I’m sorry I don’t tell you more, but I think somehow you know. Happy birthday.
day 14 – best mashup you’ve ever heard.
Well, this seems a bit asinine, but who am I to judge?
Anyway, I love this.
As you may recall, I’ve talked once or twice lately about a contest I’m a finalist in.
There’s this website, http://www.inthepowderroom.com, and the best way I can think of to describe it is like a mom/women online magazine/talk show. They have daily articles that are hilarious, timely, sometimes poignant, and always at least a little thought provoking.
They’ve had a contest to fill a “permanent blogger” spot, which basically means that the winner has a static gig of one published article a week, a spot in the community, and moves up at least six points on the stalkable scale.
I want it, I won’t lie.
I have wanted something like this for years. An audience. Motivation. A reason to watch some TV (you know, for cultural relevance).
A “hey, you’re not bad at this, come be a part of us.”
I never said I wasn’t needy.
So, the contest runs until the end of the month. One vote per person/IP address is permitted.
You can vote by clicking here, which should open up your email with the subject “emylibef”. Just send it, that’s a vote.
I’m being featured on the site today, and if you’ve come from ITPR to check me out, then read this because it’s my favorite recent post.
I will work my ass off for this. And as anyone who knows me knows, I don’t have much in the way of ass. Flab I’ve got, but ass is precious.
And mine is yours.
I deliberately skipped day 12, because it was about a musical artist’s life story and I thought it was stupid.
So, here goes this:
day 13 – a memory that never fails to make you laugh
Without embarrassing my husband too completely, I will answer this honestly.
Who am I kidding? He married me, he had to expect to be exploited.
Years ago, we lived downtown in a lovely little house. Terrible heating and cooling, and not enough bedrooms, but the location was great, the floors were hardwood, and every time we drive by now we wish we still lived there.
Anyway, one night we didn’t have the kids (there were only two back then, you know, meeeeeemories), Josh broke out a bottle of muscadine wine which I still don’t know why we had. It was made fairly locally and had no alcohol percentage content on the label, so we thought, you know, no way this can end badly.
The wine was like hot nasty liquid shit in a bottle, so I declined more than a sip (and that’s saying a LOT, because I am all about making generous allowances in the name of alcohol). It was late and I was pretty tired, so I soon after went to bed. Josh wanted to watch SlingBlade (because wine and Billy Bob just seems like a natural progression), so he stayed up.
After….I don’t know, an hour? I woke up to strange sounds from the living room…which, in that house, was about 15 feet from where I slept.
I got up and steeled myself for whatever I might find (which, dude, we had a ghost in that house. Anything could have been waiting) and opened the door.
All the lights were off, the movie was still playing, and the bottle of wine sat empty in front of my husband, who sat with the biggest shiteating grin I’ve ever seen.
Just that moment, that instant, in my sleepy fog with my husband talking like Karl and grinning for all he was worth like it was Christmas Day and he’d gotten a box of puppies and cheesecake, that is one of the funniest things my warped, seizure addled mind will ever recall in full detail.
So I signed up for some email writing courses. I get the emails in the morning and basically thereafter I exist in a cloud of guilt until I complete the day’s assignment.
It’s good. It’s keeping my mind busy.
Also, I’ve made the decision (well, I decisioned a month or so ago) that I want to migrate this blog to be hosted apart from WordPress, giving me more specific control and a better insight to people who actually do read, where they come from, all that.
So in light of that decision, I’ve been fiddling. Servers, hosts, php, SQL.
I have always kind of thought of myself as a pretty technologically sound gal, but…..guys.
I tried yesterday to set up the hosting? It was like being dumped in the middle of Greece with no clue how to speak Greek, except at least in Greece you can get by with being the foreigner and maybe channeling Nia Vardalos.
Not so with web hosts and blogging outside the WordPress cocoon.
I’ve been so sheltered.
So, be warned that soon some things about the website might be a little glitchy and bugsome. Please do not think it a fault of your web browser or service provider or me. It’s all the evil code.