Saturday, February 5, 2011
Friday, February 4, 2011
Monday, January 31, 2011
Something New
This year, for my Birthday, my husband bought me a house, which makes us sound like the type of people that have a maid or take exotic vacations to Argentina. In reality finding out we would be homeowners on my Birthday was a happy little coincidence.
We are currently in escrow with a move in date sometime at the end of February. I have some serious packing ahead of me.
I love the house. It is a beautiful and the home I can see us in for the rest of our lives.
It reminds me of my childhood. The streets are tree lined and curvy. There is a downtown area within walking distance that resembles a Norman Rockwell painting. It is filled with antique stores and small cafes and even a British export shop where I can purchase my favorite items for a traditional irish breakfast. It even hosts an old time car show once a month and an elaborate Oktober festival in the fall.
Our new home reminds me of the beginning of my relationship with Aaron when everything was fresh and new and I still took a polite tone with him even when I was grumpy, when I tried really hard to keep the house clean and when I cried any time I made parental mistakes like the time I accidently scratched Andrew’s tiny perfect little infant nose and it bleed.
It reminds me of being six and hiding behind the dining room curtains of my childhood home whenever my dad came home from work giggling and thinking he would fail to see my scuffed tennis shoes peeking out from behind the thick white fabric. Our new house smells like memories—new and old.
When we first moved to San Diego we lived less than a mile away. We used to drive down the hilly streets of our soon to be neighborhood and imagine what it would be like to live in one of the houses on the hills and now one of them will be the place where we sleep every night.
It’s a foreclosure and very rough around it’s edges. It’s a fixer and not much to look at. With time we will spruce it up. There is a tree in the backyard that is meant for a tree house also there is a small barn back there that is absolutely adorable. On top of that the kids that live directly behind us have a pirate ship fort that looks like it belongs on the set of a Disney kid’s movie. It even has a working sink and mini fridge. It’s pretty darn amazing. The kids that own the fort are 6 and 9—Amelia and Jake aged. Our next door neighbors have an 11 year-old son for Andrew to hang out with and across the way is a 6 year old girl. I think—rather I hope-- our kids will be happy there. I have a feeling that I will be.
I still can’t believe it and won’t allow myself to get carried away with excitement until we have the keys and our furniture is neatly arranged in every room.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
My flight to Charleston
Before leaving for Lindbergh field I stop at Target for one of those pay-by-minute cellphones. I have misplaced my old one—I can never keep track of a phone. Everyone I know can attest to this. Sometimes I wonder if I lose them on purpose so that people will not have the advantage of being able to contact me on a whim. Apart from the phone I also buy minty gum that promises to eradicate bad breath and a toddler sized suit from the clearance rack with a corduroy jacket, flat front khakis and a tie featuring tiny adorable bears. It is for baby Seamus and I can already envision the picture my sister will send of him wearing it.
My mom is waiting in the car. She rummages through my plastic bags immediately and removes the phone from its package, diligently reading the directions. She proficiently rearranges the contents of my bag and neatly tucks the tiny 12 months sized suit in my carry-on bag. She is being helpful but still, she is getting on my nerves, not on purpose and not because her behavior is annoying but because I am on edge. I can hear myself taking on the tone I used at 16 when speaking to her.
My bags are too full and I have agreed to bring along a wooden boldly painted cane my father in law purchased for my mom in Mexico two weekends ago and a thick chenille sweater. My mom will be flying to Charleston in a few days and this will lighten her load. I want to do this for her because I know she has a hard time getting around due to her arthritis but my idiosyncrasies are causing me to act a little neurotic about it.
I like to travel light. I always check my bags. I am against carry-on luggage. My mom reminds me that Continental charges a fee for checked items. Truthfully I would rather shell out the 25 bones to not have to deal with the overhead bins on the plane and the line of impatient people behind me waiting for me to get a move on so they get to their destination. But that is not my mom’s style and oddly, I don’t want to disappoint her or look like someone who spends money frivolously merely for comfort even though she probably wouldn’t care. It’s funny how at my age I still attempt to be a dutiful daughter.
When it comes to flying I can be a bit crazy. I love window seats more than anything else. I love the aerial view of plots of lands; the way cities light up like LiteBrite toys, vast bodies of blue-green water, and the clouds that look like fluffy patches of mountains. Yet, despite myself, I opt for aisle seat nearly every time. I do this because I can’t bear awkwardly annoying the person seated next to me when I have to get up to use the bathroom. Also, I rarely agree to an inflight beverage from the flight attendants. The idea of spilling it on someone is too much stress for me to handle. Also my soda is never finished when they come around to pick up the trash—which annoys the flight attendants. I am left wondering what to do with my empty cup. I just want things to be simple. The easier the better. I want to read quietly or carry on intrusive conversations with the person seated next to me.
At the san Diego airport, when I get to the security checkpoint line I have forgotten about the new airport screening. I am taken aback when I am ushered into a strange rectangular box. Before entering an airport employee asks me if I am able to stand on my own, unassisted. I am confused by his question and look at him quizzically. “Can your knees bare your weight?” he asks. I remember the cane--they think I am handicapped. “Yep.” I answer, not bothering to explain that the cane is not mine.
A woman with black eyeliner tells me to stand with my hands on my head. I appear to be doing jazz hands—or like I am attempting to mock a reindeer. I look like clown. I laugh inwardly over the stupidity of my pose. The woman assisting me demands politely that I remove my belt unless I want to be frisked. “I do not want to be frisked.” I laugh. She doesn’t find her question comical in the least and instead lets a small annoyed sigh escape her lips. I wonder who is viewing my full body scan. Is it a man a woman? I imagine a group of male employees hovering over the screen making lewd comments about my mom butt.
When I am lead out of the box I sweep the area to figure out who is studying the images. I am uncertain but think perhaps it is a round young woman who is smacking on gum. She looks bored and unimpressed. I wonder what implants look like in x-rays?
The man sitting next to me on my flight to Houston is diligent. He has checked ahead and is aware that the seat between us is vacant. When I get situated I notice that he has already utilized the middle seat tray table and has placed his items on the seat between us. This annoys me just a little bit and I conclude that he is a man used to getting his way.
His wife is across the aisle. She looks artistic with her polka dot spotted sweater and artesian jewelry. I offer to switch seats so they can sit side by side. They both shrug.
“No thanks.” She says.
“I get it!” I tell them, “I would want my husband across the aisle as well.”
She smiles knowingly. She tells me to feel free to pester him as much as I want. He does not appear to be the type of man that would tolerate any sort of pestering.
To my disappointment he doesn’t make idle chit chat. He puts on head phones and proceeds to fall asleep.
I read two articles form the New Yorker, an Atlantic piece on Duke Universities famous Karen Owens—which breaks my heart into tiny sad pieces over the inescapable label that will forever follow her, and two short stories by Dave Eggars . Lastly I review my notes from the previous days interview with An El Capitan Association member. I highlight and write paragraph ideas in the margins of my notebook. I read the thick pamphlet she gifted me with from the Lakeside 46th rodeo and my heart is broken once again when I read what the animals endure during a rodeo. I highlight the names of people I would like to follow up with.
At the Houston airport it appears that everyone notices the cane I am carrying. It is hard to miss with its vivid coloring. Without fail many eyes land on it and a bizarre quizzically expression covers their face. They must think I have cancer or maybe they believe a car accident has left me with a severe limp. I feel gimpish. The think I am a tragic young lady that needs a cane. I wonder if I should somehow take advantage of my odd circumstance.
When I find my gate I sit near a couple each of whom are wearing tank tops. They are traveling with a toddler who has a buzz cut. The dad is wearing a snug wife beater and has a tattoo that looks homemade.
When their toddler starts to scream loudly I am surprised by the sweetness the dad handles his son. He puts his scrawny arm on the kids head and rubs his hair looking at him lovingly. I wonder if I judge too quickly.
When I board the plane for the final leg of my trip, I am surprised over the miniature size of the aircraft. A man in front of me bumps his bald head on the ceiling. I mention that our plane appears to have been built for tiny elfin people. He gives me a polite forced smile that says “I am in no mood to talk to odd women carrying techno colored canes” In return I hope we are not sitting next to one another and let my face show it.
My seat is the very last one in the way back. No one sits near me. Again my hope for idle chit chat is dashed. Instead I am writing this while at the same time wondering what my nephew will look like.
I have seen photos, loving shots taken of him in his Christmas outfit or studio portraits with my sister bending over to kiss his sweet little cheek but photos aren’t the same. I want to see him for myself, to study his round little face and memorize every inch of his soft skin. I am eagerly waiting to witness my big sister as a mother. Most of all I want to see if in person he resembles his namesake—my dad. I think he will.
My mom is waiting in the car. She rummages through my plastic bags immediately and removes the phone from its package, diligently reading the directions. She proficiently rearranges the contents of my bag and neatly tucks the tiny 12 months sized suit in my carry-on bag. She is being helpful but still, she is getting on my nerves, not on purpose and not because her behavior is annoying but because I am on edge. I can hear myself taking on the tone I used at 16 when speaking to her.
My bags are too full and I have agreed to bring along a wooden boldly painted cane my father in law purchased for my mom in Mexico two weekends ago and a thick chenille sweater. My mom will be flying to Charleston in a few days and this will lighten her load. I want to do this for her because I know she has a hard time getting around due to her arthritis but my idiosyncrasies are causing me to act a little neurotic about it.
I like to travel light. I always check my bags. I am against carry-on luggage. My mom reminds me that Continental charges a fee for checked items. Truthfully I would rather shell out the 25 bones to not have to deal with the overhead bins on the plane and the line of impatient people behind me waiting for me to get a move on so they get to their destination. But that is not my mom’s style and oddly, I don’t want to disappoint her or look like someone who spends money frivolously merely for comfort even though she probably wouldn’t care. It’s funny how at my age I still attempt to be a dutiful daughter.
When it comes to flying I can be a bit crazy. I love window seats more than anything else. I love the aerial view of plots of lands; the way cities light up like LiteBrite toys, vast bodies of blue-green water, and the clouds that look like fluffy patches of mountains. Yet, despite myself, I opt for aisle seat nearly every time. I do this because I can’t bear awkwardly annoying the person seated next to me when I have to get up to use the bathroom. Also, I rarely agree to an inflight beverage from the flight attendants. The idea of spilling it on someone is too much stress for me to handle. Also my soda is never finished when they come around to pick up the trash—which annoys the flight attendants. I am left wondering what to do with my empty cup. I just want things to be simple. The easier the better. I want to read quietly or carry on intrusive conversations with the person seated next to me.
At the san Diego airport, when I get to the security checkpoint line I have forgotten about the new airport screening. I am taken aback when I am ushered into a strange rectangular box. Before entering an airport employee asks me if I am able to stand on my own, unassisted. I am confused by his question and look at him quizzically. “Can your knees bare your weight?” he asks. I remember the cane--they think I am handicapped. “Yep.” I answer, not bothering to explain that the cane is not mine.
A woman with black eyeliner tells me to stand with my hands on my head. I appear to be doing jazz hands—or like I am attempting to mock a reindeer. I look like clown. I laugh inwardly over the stupidity of my pose. The woman assisting me demands politely that I remove my belt unless I want to be frisked. “I do not want to be frisked.” I laugh. She doesn’t find her question comical in the least and instead lets a small annoyed sigh escape her lips. I wonder who is viewing my full body scan. Is it a man a woman? I imagine a group of male employees hovering over the screen making lewd comments about my mom butt.
When I am lead out of the box I sweep the area to figure out who is studying the images. I am uncertain but think perhaps it is a round young woman who is smacking on gum. She looks bored and unimpressed. I wonder what implants look like in x-rays?
The man sitting next to me on my flight to Houston is diligent. He has checked ahead and is aware that the seat between us is vacant. When I get situated I notice that he has already utilized the middle seat tray table and has placed his items on the seat between us. This annoys me just a little bit and I conclude that he is a man used to getting his way.
His wife is across the aisle. She looks artistic with her polka dot spotted sweater and artesian jewelry. I offer to switch seats so they can sit side by side. They both shrug.
“No thanks.” She says.
“I get it!” I tell them, “I would want my husband across the aisle as well.”
She smiles knowingly. She tells me to feel free to pester him as much as I want. He does not appear to be the type of man that would tolerate any sort of pestering.
To my disappointment he doesn’t make idle chit chat. He puts on head phones and proceeds to fall asleep.
I read two articles form the New Yorker, an Atlantic piece on Duke Universities famous Karen Owens—which breaks my heart into tiny sad pieces over the inescapable label that will forever follow her, and two short stories by Dave Eggars . Lastly I review my notes from the previous days interview with An El Capitan Association member. I highlight and write paragraph ideas in the margins of my notebook. I read the thick pamphlet she gifted me with from the Lakeside 46th rodeo and my heart is broken once again when I read what the animals endure during a rodeo. I highlight the names of people I would like to follow up with.
At the Houston airport it appears that everyone notices the cane I am carrying. It is hard to miss with its vivid coloring. Without fail many eyes land on it and a bizarre quizzically expression covers their face. They must think I have cancer or maybe they believe a car accident has left me with a severe limp. I feel gimpish. The think I am a tragic young lady that needs a cane. I wonder if I should somehow take advantage of my odd circumstance.
When I find my gate I sit near a couple each of whom are wearing tank tops. They are traveling with a toddler who has a buzz cut. The dad is wearing a snug wife beater and has a tattoo that looks homemade.
When their toddler starts to scream loudly I am surprised by the sweetness the dad handles his son. He puts his scrawny arm on the kids head and rubs his hair looking at him lovingly. I wonder if I judge too quickly.
When I board the plane for the final leg of my trip, I am surprised over the miniature size of the aircraft. A man in front of me bumps his bald head on the ceiling. I mention that our plane appears to have been built for tiny elfin people. He gives me a polite forced smile that says “I am in no mood to talk to odd women carrying techno colored canes” In return I hope we are not sitting next to one another and let my face show it.
My seat is the very last one in the way back. No one sits near me. Again my hope for idle chit chat is dashed. Instead I am writing this while at the same time wondering what my nephew will look like.
I have seen photos, loving shots taken of him in his Christmas outfit or studio portraits with my sister bending over to kiss his sweet little cheek but photos aren’t the same. I want to see him for myself, to study his round little face and memorize every inch of his soft skin. I am eagerly waiting to witness my big sister as a mother. Most of all I want to see if in person he resembles his namesake—my dad. I think he will.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Waiting
Right now I am at The San Diego Children's Hospital waiting for Andrew to get out of surgery. He is getting an ear tumor removed. The medical name for the growth is long and contains a g or maybe a c and is hard to pronounce. However, the technical name sounds far less dismal than tumor.
It's benign and essentially no big deal other than the idea that it is getting in the way of his hearing. So here we are on a cloudy Monday afternoon waiting for the news that the little guy is okay.
In the waiting room, four seats down a man is holding a copy of the Reader story I wrote about TJ. IT makes me feel a little uncomfortable. I have never been in the presence of a stranger reading from a magazine with my face on it. My photo is plastered just underneath his left thumb. I can't help staring at him wondering what he thinks and if he is reading my article or the help wanted ads?
A couple of hours ago Andrew and I were in a small room, he was reading a thick novel I just bought him for Christmas and I was watching the Rachel Zoe project. The anesthesiologist came in to discuss the procedure with us. He had a mole on his left eyelid. It made him look gentle like a guy with make-up on or someone unashamed to wear a kilt. While he explained what would happen during the surgery I stared at his small round freckle.
Ten minutes later a nurse in zebra print clogs walked Andrew down a long hallway. Half of his back was exposed from the hospital pajamas he was wearing that featured sleeping tigers. Andrew looked back and waved quickly before disappearing down the corridor.
Now I wait, anxious to see him. No matter how routine the surgery is I am still worried and won’t feel comfortable until I see his face.
It's benign and essentially no big deal other than the idea that it is getting in the way of his hearing. So here we are on a cloudy Monday afternoon waiting for the news that the little guy is okay.
In the waiting room, four seats down a man is holding a copy of the Reader story I wrote about TJ. IT makes me feel a little uncomfortable. I have never been in the presence of a stranger reading from a magazine with my face on it. My photo is plastered just underneath his left thumb. I can't help staring at him wondering what he thinks and if he is reading my article or the help wanted ads?
A couple of hours ago Andrew and I were in a small room, he was reading a thick novel I just bought him for Christmas and I was watching the Rachel Zoe project. The anesthesiologist came in to discuss the procedure with us. He had a mole on his left eyelid. It made him look gentle like a guy with make-up on or someone unashamed to wear a kilt. While he explained what would happen during the surgery I stared at his small round freckle.
Ten minutes later a nurse in zebra print clogs walked Andrew down a long hallway. Half of his back was exposed from the hospital pajamas he was wearing that featured sleeping tigers. Andrew looked back and waved quickly before disappearing down the corridor.
Now I wait, anxious to see him. No matter how routine the surgery is I am still worried and won’t feel comfortable until I see his face.
Family Photos
I am vehemently against studio portraits. I think they’re dripping with cheesiness. However, that very well maybe due to the fact that my parents had a framed photo of the three of us kids (Michelle, Roger, and I) hanging in their bedroom. At first glance it was adorable. My sister and I are both wearing puffy dresses and Roger was sporting a nice stripped polo. On further inspection you will notice that my hand is planted firmly inside my diaper. The photo was source of perpetual embarrassment. Oddly I never mentioned how offensive I found it until was in my late teens at which point my mom explained that I had a diaper rash or bladder infection or some similar aliment. “Every shot they took, your hand was inside your diaper. Other than the placement of your hand the photo was cute.” I would disagree with that statement.
This year instead of opting for a JcPenny Picture Studio photo with a blue or forest themed backdrop my friend Nicole and I took turns taking pictures of each other’s families. I am really happy with the results.
This year instead of opting for a JcPenny Picture Studio photo with a blue or forest themed backdrop my friend Nicole and I took turns taking pictures of each other’s families. I am really happy with the results.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Shoot em Up
When the boys were toddlers I had a strict anti-gun toy rule in my home. They were not allowed in my house ever! Aaron’s brothers have never believed in this rule and without fail always ended up buying them some wildly inappropriate plastic toy gun for birthdays or as Christmas gifts. I would always throw them away.
Andrew and Jacob used to chew their sandwiches into the shapes of guns and run around pretending to shoot each other. They would fashion just about anything into a gun. It appeared my ban on toy guns was futile.
When Andrew was 5 we moved to a new home. There were so many kids in our neighborhood that it was like a 24 hour amusement park. Many of the kids had toy guns. I eventually gave in about the guns. Now I don’t care so much, also they are old enough that the allure of playing with such things is pretty much gone.
Last Sunday we had Conrad and Jesse over to celebrate Jake’s birthday. We ate cake, and sang Happy Birthday, and then Jake opened his gifts. Conrad bought him Call of Duty, a game in which you shoot people. Jesse bought him a bb gun.
Can you believe that!?
Forget about my toy gun rule now my kid has a real one!
Aaron tried to pull the same stunt with Andrew on his tenth birthday. He called me from the store to alert me that he was purchasing our kid a bb gun. I told him that if he came home with such a thing he might as well get used to the idea of sleeping on the couch for the rest of his life. He didn’t buy it. However the following year he did. Andrew opened up his gift and looked at in with a mixture of fear and sheer panic.
“Bring it back,” He told Aaron “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
It was returned the following day. Aaron told me that I was a brainwasher. I’m okay with that.
Jake didn’t have the same reaction. He was so excited and an outing to shot bottles in the wilderness has already been scheduled. I told Jesse that when and if one of my children loses an eyeball from a bb I will kill him. He didn’t seem to care.
The Brauns are annoying.
Andrew and Jacob used to chew their sandwiches into the shapes of guns and run around pretending to shoot each other. They would fashion just about anything into a gun. It appeared my ban on toy guns was futile.
When Andrew was 5 we moved to a new home. There were so many kids in our neighborhood that it was like a 24 hour amusement park. Many of the kids had toy guns. I eventually gave in about the guns. Now I don’t care so much, also they are old enough that the allure of playing with such things is pretty much gone.
Last Sunday we had Conrad and Jesse over to celebrate Jake’s birthday. We ate cake, and sang Happy Birthday, and then Jake opened his gifts. Conrad bought him Call of Duty, a game in which you shoot people. Jesse bought him a bb gun.
Can you believe that!?
Forget about my toy gun rule now my kid has a real one!
Aaron tried to pull the same stunt with Andrew on his tenth birthday. He called me from the store to alert me that he was purchasing our kid a bb gun. I told him that if he came home with such a thing he might as well get used to the idea of sleeping on the couch for the rest of his life. He didn’t buy it. However the following year he did. Andrew opened up his gift and looked at in with a mixture of fear and sheer panic.
“Bring it back,” He told Aaron “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
It was returned the following day. Aaron told me that I was a brainwasher. I’m okay with that.
Jake didn’t have the same reaction. He was so excited and an outing to shot bottles in the wilderness has already been scheduled. I told Jesse that when and if one of my children loses an eyeball from a bb I will kill him. He didn’t seem to care.
The Brauns are annoying.
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