Rockin’ to the 80’s…at around 80mph…but it’s ROCK!

My favorite Sirius channel lately has been the 80’s on 8. Reminiscent, I guess.
All week I’ve felt the need to buy a fresh can of hair mousse and pop my collar. But since I’m living a mostly cotton-tee existence lately, alas and alack, I’m without a collar to pop.
Sad.
Friday, after an Alan Hunter (remember him??), Charlie Sexton’s “Beat So Lonely” blared from the speakers and I nearly had to pull the truck over, because this girl had to rock. Just had to. (But I was in a truck; can a truck rock? or only mildly contort, because it knows nothing other than country things? I truly wished for a sports car at that moment.)
All weekend, I didn’t dare turn that knob. (Remember when vehicles had knobs? and window cranks? and wondered, what-the-heck-is-a-USB-port?) A week of Bowie, Springsteen, Bon Jovi, a dash of Thompson Twins, a smattering of A Flock of Seagulls spiced with a dusting of Duran Duran and my hair nearly congealed itself into a pompadour fronted by big bangs.
This morning I was compelled to Google Sexton’s name, typing quickly, all the while thinking, “Pleasedon’tbedead, pleasedon’tbedead…”
(This last couple of years, sneaky, evil Time has eroded my Rock Pantheon Monument, crumbling it into near-oblivion. So many guitars; too quiet now.)
But fortunately, no! Not only is Sexton still among the living, but he’s only moments older than I, doubling my relief that the man is still walking the earthly orb.
All morning, I’ve been YouTubing. I don’t do that, my son does that, yet here I am, clicking on one video after another, bouncing around in my absurdly uncoordinated middle-aged white girl brand of nearly-Fonda aerobics that double as Prancercising.
(Google that one; I’ll wait.)
In The Day, in the late 1900’s, I owned and wore out the Pictures for Pleasure album on vinyl, back when LPs were a norm. I’ll admit, I chose the record instead of the cassette because of the cover art. Because, well, aesthetics and all.
Now vinyl is back — my keen insight tweaked my nubian brain, blimpsing into the 2000’s and begging me to choose the proper form of musical listening — and sadly, I have no idea where that album could be.
I could cry, but I won’t, because thank heavens for YouTube, and Amazon, and next-day delivery.
If you see a big ol’ truck going too fast down a country road, but the music is awesome, please don’t stop me until you hear the song’s final, fading, fleeting departure, ’cause otherwise, I might really cry.

Ah, the Grand Tour

My Bubs doesn’t like to go to the movies, which defies his DNA, but I roll with it.
love going to the theatre, so if Mama wants to see a movie, Bubs gets bribed.
I’m okay with that. A tiny bit of sugar now, means I see my film and I get to play the mean ol’ “But you already had sugar today” Mom card.
Win/win.
The last movie we saw was Ferdinand. While I didn’t love it like I hoped I would, it was a cinematic adventure on a Friday night, complete with popcorn and a sticky walk to the exit. Great stuff, right there.
But oddly, in the pre-show commercial run, an ad for Grand Tour flickered to life.
Neither Bubs nor I had heard of the show or any of its three hosts, but the two-minute snippet was humorous, plus…cars. Fast cars.
Bubs was in, and since I love comedy and watching questionably dangerous car maneuverings, I was in, too.
We found all of season one and watched every episode. The boy and I are hooked.
It streams on Amazon, it’s currently airing season 2, and each Friday, voila, a new episode.
I get a Friday night thing to watch with a handsome boy, my son doesn’t have to enter a theatre, plus the show — a few irreverent, jump-to-the-screen-or-remote-to-hide-stuff-from-the-youth portions aside — is fun to watch, adventurous, and features gorgeous scenery, plus…cars. Fast cars.
Now, everywhere we go in our boring brown truck, the Bubs and I ride along with eyes peeled for any one of the numerous shiny toys featured on the show each week.
So far, cruising the streets of the Big City, we’ve seen five or six Alfa Romeos, innumerable Mustangs, Porsches, and BMWs, and one Bentley.
It’s car Bingo.
Bubs wants one of each.
My wish is that he someday can afford even one of them.
Because someday I’ll once again play the Mom card and refuse to let him buy one. Even if he’s forty years old. Because…cars. Fast cars.
There’s not enough bubble wrap in the world.

The Thrill of Possible Change


Chinchillas have 32 hairs per pore. That’s why they’re so incredibly soft.
Jillions of pores, 32 hairs shoved into each follicle. Never mind that the individual hairs are thread-fine, because there’s 32 in a hole. I mean, come on…little critter will make it through the winter just fine.
Myself, I’m an anti-chinchilla. Thousands, not jillions, of pores on my cranium; 1 thread-fine hair per every-third-or-so hole.
I could bait a bass — wrap a hair around an enticing bit of bass bait, dunk it into the water, catch a fish every time. Why? Because the bass couldn’t see the fishing line.
Focus on the lure, that’s what the poor fishy would do, ’cause that’s all he’d see, and BOOM! Dinner tonight! (As soon as I found someone to de-bone, fillet, and cook the suckered fish.)
Plus, unlike rodentia, human woman hair thins over time. De-LIGHT-ful, I can tell you.
Why do I tell you this?
Interesting story. And I blame beautiful Annette Bening.
See, I spent New Year’s Eve alone. The Bubs was with his cousins having the time of his life, celebrating the year’s rollover with various video gaming systems and video gaming accessories.
Me? I thought, “Hmmm, I have a split of champagne (one of those tiny, two-glasses-in-a-bottle jobbies) and a fully lined queue on Netflix (movies I might wanna see, maybe not, but Bubs can’t be around if I do decide to press play). I decreed (to myself, because everyone else was out adulting with parties and social mingling), “I shall ring in the new January with cheap wine and side B movies!”
I feel confident I pointed at the ceiling with my declaration.
And I did.
First in the queue: something I don’t remember, but feel like it was okay.
Second: an Ed Harris/Annette Bening flick that began sad and only deepened into darkness over the duration of about twenty minutes.
Time on the clock: 11 something.
Thus, time to break out the champagne and watch these lovely actors, though their story was so very, very sad. “It can only get better,” I told myself.
Halfway through the tiny bottle — yes, I’m a lightweight — I found myself stopping the stream in order to take still photos of Ms. Bening’s gorgeous locks and text the pics to my mother.
“Mom. What do you think? Could I pull off this ‘do?” (Never mind that my hair thread count is more comparable to that of Ed Harris, bless his beautiful blue eyes.)
“Sure! You’d look great!” Mom replied, or something like that. Something equally supportive, because she’s my biggest cheerleader.
“Sure I could,” I told myself. then I hit Play, drank another swig, pulled my ottoman a tiny bit closer to the TV screen.
The plot saddened.
Mom texted back, “Are you thinking of a new cut?”
“Maybe,” I think I replied but maybe only thought, because she immediately chimed in, “It’s a new year! A new look! A fresh start!” (Again, I may paraphrase.)
The movie grew increasingly sad; the wine mysteriously disappeared.
I ruminated.
I could pull that off, I thought.
Then my eyes slid to the right, where I keep my art supplies and favorite pair of scissors.
I could even save forty dollars, I continued, ogling the orange-handled quilting shears while slugging back the drippings of wine.
“Have you made an appointment yet?” Mom queried.
“Not yet,” I responded, thinking, “Hey! I don’t need anyone else! I can do this! How hard can it be? Scissors! Right there!
But, like a cat with a laser pointer, I was distracted by the flicker of light at the bottom of my exceedingly small bottle of sparkling vino, and then by the climax of the movie, which left me a sobbing, dripping mess.
Scissors? Forgotten, due to sudden onset of temporary depression.
Thus, I put the bottle somewhere — hmmm, truly, I wonder where that somewhere might be?? — crawled onto my bed to fire up the next cinematic adventure, and promptly fell asleep.
The next morning — or a few hours later; who knows? — I woke to violently slap myself about the temporal lobe thinking I’d chopped my hair in the night.
But all twenty-five strands remained in place.
Whew!
My phone dinged, announcing a new Mom text.
“On second thought, maybe that’s a little short??”
I hid my scissors far, far away from my television.

Aaah…the New Year…Two Weeks In

No joy on these hangers. None.

I read too much and I tend to internalize select books.
My book club wants a Top 10 of 2017 list, and while most everything I read was written for young adults because of the incredibly time-consuming commitment I made to reading all things angst-ridden and gut-clenching — different story — I managed to read a few tomes that adulted up.
Number one on the list was the one about the magic of tidying up. (I don’t quote the title because it’s super long and I always get it wrong and I’m too focused on talking to you at this moment to Google it, but Marie K. wrote it and her Kon-Marie method has made me look at everything in my home differently, darn her.)
Basically, if something doesn’t bring you joy, why have it in your home?
It isn’t often that a non-fiction read makes the top of my list, but this year was an exception, both in the adult genre and in the young adult category. (Ask me later for the YA list; it was a terrific year.)
I think a number one ranking means the book hasn’t left you; vestiges have stuck. For instance, “Lifeboat” by Charlotte Rogan a few years ago…hated the main character, loved how unreliable she was as a narrator and absolutely loved hating her for it. Juicy. Delectable. Now that I think of it, I want to read it again. Loved it.
Anyway.
What does this have to do with a picture of my clothing draped from plastic hangers?
Because in tandem with my Kon-Marie-ing joyful disbanding of all things comfy and habitual, I internet-ed across a challenge in which you turn all the hangers in your closet backward, and at the end of the year, anything left in this dubious direction means, “Hey! I give you no joy! Release me into the wild where I might find an owner who would appreciate my intrinsic value and allow me sunlight and laughter!”
I paraphrase; I don’t know that that’s exactly what clothing longs for, but in my mind it does.
As January approached, I inspected my closet, and do you know, that to the item, all of my backward, no-love-given, didn’t-want-to-wear clothing was for exercise? That’s right. Pastel. Spandex-laden. Lycra-infused. Wicking materials designed to sluice the sweat from my overheated, drenched, plyo/yoga/step-aerobicizing form. All ignored for a year.
I thought, “Huh. Surely I worked out once, or twice…”
Right?
Well. If I did, I perspired in something street-level, not gym-worthy, and it must have been while I was asleep because memories aren’t rolling forward of my cardio levels rising or any “Whew!” towel-encased, sweat-dripping moments. Maybe Down Dog or two, but that may be wishful thinking.
But surely I did something to worthy of wearing a swoosh, or eating an extra twelve York peppermint patties; surely I inhaled those things like air because I earned them.
So.
New Year. New arrangement of the closet. New Goodwill pile sitting on the table by the door.
And did I include all the items collecting shoulder dust and staring at me in pretty pastel patterns?
No. Because this year I’m going to wear them out.
Yep, that’s right. I’m going to wear them out.
To Target, maybe, or to the school with yoga pants which I also don’t have the right to wear.
But one way or another, these items will see the light of the day. It will bring them joy.

Fleeced


I don’t get paid to endorse products, but if Cuddle Duds offered, I would accept.
Because in December, when the first crisp tint of winter approached, I armed myself by diving into warmth. Every fleecy piece is labeled Cuddle Duds.
For the beginner, start with the fleece leggings. Arctic winds be darned, they aren’t cutting through the sheer rapture of that squooshy soft barrier. It’s like being a cow, nattily dressed and impervious to the cold. Plus, the leggings go right over your natural winter coat…so you don’t have to shave. Bonus!
Then I recommend the throw blanket. It’s a good intro piece — accommodates the need for warmth, as well as the convenient travel sizing. And, when the dog jumps into your lap — as dogs are wont to do, in my experience, especially when I’m in my Dud — the throw is easy to launder.
If anything propels me to launder anything, it’s Dog Smell. And the need for work pants.
As a convenient side, buy the pillow that matches your Dud. Because it’s super comfortable, of course, but also, you wouldn’t want to not own the set. I think that’s a Good Housekeeping rule of thumb from the 1900’s.
Third, go with the fleecy top, because…fleece.
Then there are socks, gloves, scarves, pajamas, and the mother lode, the comforter.
Now, the comforter is not for the novice, I must warn, because other humans want you to share, for one thing, but second, the cover is enormous — perhaps I didn’t strictly need the King size for my queenly bed, but hey, when given the choice, I went large.
And then there is the dog issue. I fiercely protect my Dud against dog-dom but in the middle of the night, I feel the hefty harrumph of the moose-dog landing atop my perfect coverlet and I’m far too comfy to wrangle any beast mid-morning.
So. As added protection, I suggest layering the Dud beneath another less attractive, less dear, more expendable topper. Because laundering a King-sized anything is not a simple task. And who wants to wash their Dud every single night? Not this girl. That’s far too domestic for my temperament.
Get out there and get your Dud!
Caveat: when cloaked under a semblance of protection such as three layers of fleece, I must advise you not to touch anything metal.
I could light a house on fire just by touching its corner, that’s how much static is in my aura.
If I see you out and about, it’s wise if I don’t hug you, unless you have a defibrillator handy.

Helpers in Every Corner


It really boils down to a half-bag of charcoal.
For as many years as I remember, my mother has never shown up to visit me without a gift, a present, a thoughtful something she found somewhere that reminded her of me and she’d be darned if that item didn’t land in my hands soon, soon, soon.
Because she’s a helper.
I paraphrase Mr. Rogers who remarked that in times of uncertainty or trouble, look for the Helpers.
They’re the people taking charge, certainly, running into the fray to fix things, but they’re also behind the scenes, cleaning up, erasing the rubble so as not to remind anymore.
They’re the silent folks who stand in one place, unobtrusive, calm, ready and waiting for the troubled to approach.
They’re the ones who feet called to be specifically there, specifically then, holding onto an object for reasons they can’t fathom until it comes in handy to complete strangers. They sit and wait for something they can’t define with faith that things will come clear.
For the last two weeks, a loved one has been undergoing life-altering medical procedures that have blessedly kept him alive so he can continue his mission of service to God and his family. His helpers range from doctors and nurses, to bedside family, to friends preparing feasts for the vigilant, to specialists and engineers in other countries who built machines never dreamed of a few decades ago but that now extend lives.
Helpers are miracles dropped into a course of events.
I’ve had help, too. At a work lunch last week fate sat me next to a local preacher, a man I’d never seen in town and certainly never met, until that particular day I desperately needed counsel. (You’ll be glad to know I let him finish his stew before pouncing upon him to bend his ear.)
That same day I texted friends, asking for prayers from states away. Requests linked into a multi-state chain spanning the prairie to show God how much Oklahoma needed a hand. The prayer blanket, comforting in its weighted concern, seemed visible.
Family who couldn’t be at the hospital sent a basket of chocolate the likes of which I’ve never seen except — maybe on one of those air flight catalogs — because sugar is a love language we all understand. And what happened? Well, hello: chocolate, a magnet. So sharing happened, and then stories bubbled up, followed by laughter, and proximity, the kind that calls to anybody wandering by, asking them to huddle up, to lean in with kindness and compassion and faith.
And pass the truffles, please.
Then there’s my Bubs, who doesn’t understand the enormity of everything because he’s a kid, whose responsibilities include school, band, after-school obligations, all things I need him to continue, because it buys time for me to wrestle comprehension to the ground so that I can be a parent and he can be a kid.
That’s his job.
On the other hand, he wrangles with gravity, too, not understanding enough to know how to put together the questions roiling in his head.
In came his helpers: school personnel I recommend any family adopt. They’ve been right there, all day with the Bubs, lifting the weight with him.
How do you say thank you big enough to people like that, who go above, beyond, over, and through the realms of job requirement to solid human compassion for this one awesome kid as well as the other four hundred plus who walk the halls everyday?
A fruit basket doesn’t seem to cut it.
All of this has a point. My Helpers, Bub’s Helpers, the family’s Helpers: I see you. And I am so grateful. And though the limits of space or money or time may impede the appropriate responses, those of us in your care thank you. I hope one day to repay the love and kindness while you don’t need it, while things are fine, while life is plugging along beautifully. But if crisis comes, I will be there. With prayer. And hand-knitted socks. Or food…maybe that someone else made, because you’ll want me to spare you from my kitchen endeavors. Or I’ll bring a half bag of charcoal. You know, whatever you need.

Stuck in the Middle with Me

Self-help gone wrong

Oh. Oh. Oh.
It’s NaNo time again, time to write 50,000 words in a quick 30 days, and of course, I’m in it to win it. Gonna do this thing! Let’s go! (Insert “Animal House” scene, John Belushi running away to battle while his friends sit and watch his weird exit.)
This year I sat a moment and examined my previous attempts, all of which met the critical 50K bar of excellence, but none of which completed a story. That’s where the post-NaNo editing was supposed to happen, and when at last I pulled up the files to begin, I got stuck in the morass of my own verbiage and fell asleep a lot. My stories still lie festering and staring blankly until I get the cojones to rework and complete.
It’s a mess.
And what did I do for those half-successful but not to my own par all previous seven times? I Pantsed it. (That’s a real verb in the NaNo world.) I wrote and wrote, with no thought for rhyme nor reason, spewing lyrical genius from atop my cerebellum onto the keyboard with abandon and glee.
Ain’t so gleeful now, am I?
On October 29th, so so late in the game, I decided I’d make an Outline, the middle school equivalency to torture; loathed them then, loathe them now. But Pantsing wasn’t working, I reasoned. Maybe Plotting was the way of my future, especially if I wanted to finish a story.
Being the book geek that I am, I consulted not one but seven tomes on the subject of writing, planning, navigating, and getting-onto-paper the visual translation of the audio in my head.
Most all of these helpful books say: Start in the middle.
Egads!
Are you kidding me? The middle doesn’t come around for two full weeks! I haven’t even come up with an opener besides “Once upon a time…” and these helpful self-helpers have effectively left me quagmired in a stew of over-wrought thinking, over-whelmed and eating ice cream for both supper last night and breakfast this morning! (Though, you know, that’s not really my complaint here.)
Today is Day 2 of NaNo, and though I floated a lot of words onto the Doc yesterday, today I’m tapped. I got nothin’. Yet my grey matter is storming the castle, screaming, “Just Pants the thing, this one last time. Do research the other eleven months and next year we’ll try this outline thing. We’re running out of time, Dudette [my brain calls me “dudette,” a weird affectation that I’ll ponder later as some sort of brain condition, but for now, Dudette doesn’t seem to rile me]. Get this thing in the books and be done!”
And yet the other half of my brain, the tenacious, not-quite-there side, says no, we gotta figure this out this year.
“Think through the details,” rational-but-annoying Me says. “Create the back story and the “why” and generate the point of the whole telling. Get an outline. Get to work. We have 29 days.”
But since I always have finished before Thanksgiving — because who needs to think of a nearly-done novel around the turkey table; no, all focus should be on mashed potatoes — that’s less days.
Adding to my panic.
And more reason for my brain to keep throwing images of pants onto the screen of my frontal lobe.
I’m telling you, people, I don’t have enough ice cream left for this level of tension and no time to get to the nearest freezer section, because of course I’m in the middle of the prairie.
This is going to be a long month.

 

On Timeliness

If I’m not five minutes early, I’m late.
At least, in my brain I am.
“I’m sorry I’m late, traffic was a bear…” I always apologize, shoulders up, head turtling into my neck. Even though it’s the prairie and “traffic” consists of the occasional harvester or a snake in the road.
“You’re not late! Not at all!” says my gracious host, eyes wide with disbelief.
But I hate to not be prompt. Even in college, I’d rather not go at all than squeeze in through a doorway a minute or so after the bell. because hey, I didn’t want a gazillion eyes upon me. School is hard enough without judgment from strangers.
Thus…I missed a lot of classes…sorry, Mom.
So when I shout with near apoplexy at my Bubs, supine in slumber, “Get up! We’re late,” it’s shocking, he doesn’t really listen.
Normally, we are not late to school. I might be taking that last curb on only two tires, and teachers certainly wake up when they hear the chirping of my too-quick tread across that last speed bump, but we aren’t late to school.
Last Wednesday, I may have possibly quite likely mistakenly erroneously not set an alarm to waken me at the normal pre-dawn hour. And perhaps the only cue for sunrise was the snout of my giant moose dog snuffling lovingly into the middle of my face, thus causing me to notice I could see his face in the sunshine, startling me enough to bolt out of bed at 7:33 am, a full 53 minutes past my normal bedside departure.
“We’re late,” I warble as I thump upon my sweet child’s delicate blanket-encased body. “Get up now, please, we’relatewe’relatewe’relate…”
And as I hurriedly don flip-flops and a hat and dub whatever-else-I’m-wearing as appropriate for Office Attire to Drop Off the Late Student, my beautiful boy ignores me.
Wholeheartedly and with no contrition, he ignores me.
“We’re late!” I scream, hurriedly grabbing his coverings and sweeping them back in a flourishing arc. “Throw on clothes, we’re late!”
Finally — finally! — the boy senses urgency in my tone and arises. (Who am I kidding? The stand-off ended in, “If you don’t get up NOW, you get no tech for a year!”)
With a last look at the house, I back the truck and race across the potholed prairie expediently, assuredly, and not-at-all over the traditional speed limits, and chauffeur the boy to the school’s front door.
“What time is it?” he at last asks when I open the front door and shoo him inside.
“7:53,” I remark, with the told-you-so writ large across my derision. I picked up a pen and signed the boy in on the office desk tablet, noting with a blue Wildcats pen to the world about my Mommy Fail for the day.
“Oh. Weird,” he answers while I wait impatiently for elucidation. “We really are late, not just your late.”
“Yes! Yes, we are!” I answer, all patience gone. I turned to face him full on and finished, “And it was the dog’s fault, so now I have to go home and kill him. Have a good day!” And with a pat on the head, he was off to class.
I turned to leave and find clothing suitable for public perusal before work. And coffee.
Unfortunately, while my child may have understood my humor when I’m impatient, homelessly dressed, and under-caffeinated, the proximal office attendants were a bit wary.
They look at me funny now.
I tell myself it is because they admired my hat and rakish insouciance for morning style.

Tire Pressure Seems Important, but What Do I know?

The fancy truck I drive tells me the pressure of each tire. Which is good, because tire pressure is not on my priority list…ever…
When the tire “map,” as it were, popped up the other day, it told me all the tires were low by about five pounds.
So I gunned it to warm the air and gain some pressure.
I wish I were kidding.
But the owner’s manual seated within the car pocket subliminally told me I was acting like an irresponsible beginning driver.
“Don’t ignore my warnings. I’m high-tech; you’re not; you’ll lose,” the truck announced to my chagrin, because it’s right. It’s always right.
Besides. I needed gas. And an Icy Drink.
Under the guise of Adult Vehicle Maintenance, I pulled into a prairie 7-11, one so busy that it’s hazardous. But it has the best Icy Drinks: just the right juice/ice combination so important when enjoying a frozen beverage.
“Bubs,” I said, as I pulled up to the air compressor. “I’m going to leave the key on, and you’re going to read the gauge,” which I displayed with my best parade wave at the dashboard control, “And tell me when the pressure number reaches 41. Okay?”
(Note that I was so proud of myself for using correct vernacular instead of pointing and using nonsensical words ending with “-icky” or “-ingie,” as in: “I’m going to push a button to get  air to squirt into the wheel…valve…thingie.”)
“Okay,” he proudly respond as the driver door slammed shut behind me at the precise moment the radio volume escalated to a level left behind with high school and days of “cruising.”
“Turn it down!” I barked, indeed using a pointer finger to enunciate my point. And I frowned; it was All Mom there for a minute, though I really like Imagine Dragons and my toes betrayed me. They were thankfully hidden by the enormous truck body so I could retain my Mom Status and get away with a wiggle in my butt.
At the first tire, the one most perilously close to empty though not low enough to have caused any true alarm, I unscrewed the valve cap and proceeded to push air through the stem. Down about five pounds? I’ll count to…10…
“What’s it read?” I yelled in to my child, ever vigilant to his mother’s voice.
(Yeah, right.)
“Turn down the radio!” I repeated atop a window bang. Things were getting heated.
“What?” came the reply over the stilled air.
“The gauge, on the dashboard, what does it read now?”
“Still 36.”
I waited a beat.
“Okay, what about now?”
“What?”
“It’s been two seconds!” I yell, rising to stroll quickly to the open window and wave my rubber hose dealie in my son’s perplexed face. “What does the gauge read now?”
“36,” he said, his eyes wide but sparkly, because, hey, I was waving a hose in his face, and yeah, that’s pretty funny, but fortunately he didn’t laugh. Smart kid. Mostly.
“You didn’t even turn your head and look!” I noted loudly.
“Oh,” he mumbled, then turned to read the number. “38.”
I paused. I’d counted to 10 and only gained 2 pounds.
“Alright,” I muttered, more to myself and the guzzintas in my head than to my boy. “Fine. I’ll count to 20 then, sucker.”
And I did.
And after a similar verbal exchange as previously, I heard my boy say, “It says 45.”
“45?”
“Yeah. 45…is that good?”
“Yes,” I answered. “If I were going pontooning in this thing.”
“What’s a…”
“Never mind, never mind,” I said, canceling the ensuing conversation post haste.
Did I want to air the others up to 45, stay balanced, would that work??
No, no…I’m kidding. I knew the situation was overinflated, never fear.
With a fingernail, I proceeded to release some of my hard-won air.
“What’s it say now?”
“Uuummm…”
Silence.
“Son?”
“Yeah, uuuummm…I’m looking…”
“I don’t believe the gauges have moved.” My spirits were low. It was a hot day. I’d been at work all day. I had no Icy with which to cool my ire. Things were dicey, I’ll admit.
“Still says 45.”
“But I let out so much air,” I said to no one in particular, because of course my son had found a Big Nate book in the previous half second and cared not one whit for my predicament.
“Fine,” I said, again surly. “I’ll show you how to let it out, ya stupid ol’ stupid ol’…” (Insert any swearing you like in there; I’m sure it’s as accurate as any illustration would be.)
“Okay,” I said after letting the tire relieve itself. “Howzabout now?”
“What?”
Oh, sweet Lord in Heaven, he’s so cute…don’t let me use this air hose inappropriately, I prayed as I stomped my unhappy self toward the driver window and popped my head to check for myself.
“It looks like a big red butt,” my son whispered in my ear.
And sure enough, I’d lowered the pressure so much that now the tire map glowed rouge and indicated with a decidedly butt-like icon that indeed, the tire was low, low, low.
“What now?” Bubs asked.
“I get rid of the butt.”
I stomped back into place, shot air into the air like I knew what I was doing — all the while relying on my bird like instincts to tell me when air pressure was optimal — and released the hose when any good bird would.
“What’s it say now?” I called for what I hoped was the final time.
“Um…36.”
“Perfect!” I screamed at anyone within listening range. “Mama earned an Icy Drink.”
I wrapped the hose around the waist of that delightfully inexpensive air dispensing machine, stormed into the store toward the frozen concoction dispenser and filled two cups to the brim.
“I got no trouble until the butt glows red.” I’m gonna print it on a bumper sticker.

.

I Can Hear Bells from Everywhere

My Bubs is officially a sixth grade band member.
I am a band mom.

I am a band mom to a sixth grade percussionist.
Monday was Instrument Night, in which moms cry a lot as they write really big checks and then go home to eat ramen.
(Or maybe it was just this mom. The other didn’t seem so stressed. And actually, I don’t mind ramen, so that last statement may have seemed more dire than intended.)
Anyway, what does a big check buy on Instrument Night? Well, for a newly minted percussionist, it buys a carry-on luggage-style bag — with sassy wheels and a clever ull-out handle, thank heaven — housing a drum practice pad, a set of mallets, a set of drumsticks, an instrument stand, a metronome, a chromatic tuner, and a xylophone, though I was immediately corrected that indeed it was not a xylophone, it was a “set of bells,” that for all my worldly experience I would swear was a xylophone.
Here’s the sweet, sweet thing: Bubs wanted to “get the feel” for his new instrument, as for the last week he’s been learning how to hold sticks, how to tap rhythmically, how to keep time, and now that he had a rolly-cart full of official merchandise, he wanted to practice on the real thing.
Absolutely! Yes! Let’s do this!
He carefully demonstrated how to mount his drum practice pad on the stand; it screws on; it’s a dull sound, not the snare drum chaos I was expecting. I took my fingers out of my ears almost immediately, so Bubs didn’t know of my fear.
Then he moved on to the metronome, which he turned on and to which I found myself keeping time while I was watching ramen noodles boil. Why was the beat, beat, beat continuing? Why was Bubs not stopping the madness? Oh, because he suddenly had to go to the bathroom for the interminably long time that boys suddenly go to the bathroom. Books are involved.
Somehow I managed to find the power button on the delightful apparatus that I learned “stays home for nightly practice.”
Delightful.
Once Bubs was out of the bathroom, he returned to center stage to put together the bells — to properly mount them on the instrument stand — and grab his mallets.
“Ready?” he asked while I shoveled noodles into my head.
“Yes,” I mumbled and nodded. I had no free fingers to plug my ears. Why would I? Bells are melodic, bells are lovely, soothing, dainty…
What the holy hell.
I have never heard such disruption of my psychic calm.
Did you know an eleven-year-old boy can make a xylophone wail like it’s part of Metallica?
Or maybe that was only me wailing.
Because without even realizing it, Bubs’ mother had deserted her noodle bowl, grabbed a bag of dark chocolate chips of questionable age and a screw-top bottle of red wine — pairings are important, even in the time of crisis; dark chocolate absolutely must go with red wine — and vanished into her bedroom as quickly as possible. Door closed. Netflix on the Fish in Aquarium app — “so soothing!” squeals the ad — and a fistful of chocolate shoved into her maw as quickly as possible.
Band Mom. That’s me.
Ever supportive. Ever present. Ever tipsy.
It’s going to be a long year.