You Call It a Job Fair, I Call It Hell

So, the big Job Fair I’ve been so excited about rolled around. Needless to say, in the house of Chef, this is cause not for celebration but for consternation and crap behavior on his part. To start with, the night before the job fair, I went to bed feeling a bit punk and quickly developed both a fever and a sore throat. This was Chef’s cue to forget to brush his teeth, check his blood sugar, take his meds, and inject himself with insulin, which put us on a ride on the Crazy Bus. 

When his sugar is too high, he’s combative, whiney, and argumentative. Too low, and he’s the same, coupled with completely unreasonable and borderline psychotic. And let’s not forget the special hell of something big happening with his family that day that sets off anxiety and depression. All together now: let’s keep the girl awake. Let’s start shouting that she’s snoring loudly, even though she’s been awake with a sore throat and fever for more than half an hour, then let’s jerk upright screaming hysterically that cold fingers touched the small of his back. (Impossible, due to the barrier of quilts between us, a 102 degree temperature, and more important, had I wrapped my fingers around any part of his body it would not have been anything as innocuous as his back.) I finally slunk out to get a bit of sleep on the sofa before rolling out of bed and getting ready to go. 

Naturally, it rained a bit, and I had trouble finding parking, and I ended up driving down the street car tracks a little by mistake…but I got there, and I interviewed, and I stood in line for hours with an empty stomach and dry mouth and pounding head and poured my heart out to school principals. Dear God, I need a job, not just for the power of having money again, but because I’m at my best caring for and guiding children. I’ll figure out the rest later—how to take care of my dog, when I can see my parents, how to fit the Chef into all these plans—but oh, to be able to call myself a teacher again! That will be a wonderful, wonderful thing.

Bizarre Moment from a Navy Family Childhood

True story. I was in kindergarten, which means we were in San Diego. We lived in a newly-built subdivision in the midst of desert.  The entire neighborhood sprang up in less than a year—in fact, we had the first completed house. Our neighbors tended to be in the military as well. Sometimes ringing the doorbell at a friend’s house meant waking up a newly-returned soldier who, fresh from combat in Vietnam, would answer the door with a dagger in his hand and a crazed look in his eyes. Sometimes our neighbors were educated people, engineers who had travelled around the world with the Army, sometimes they were the enlisted men and their wives and families. For the most part, all of the men were gone, and the women were left to run things. There was a war on, after all, and even non-combats like my dad (Navy radioman) were gone for nine month deployments or longer.

My mom knew most of the ladies in the neighborhood. They traveled in packs to the PDX, sharing precious resources like cars and lawn mowers and punch bowls. Not many women drove back in the 60’s and fewer had access to their own cars. My mother could drive after a fashion, but she couldn’t drive stick shift, so my father made it a point to only buy stick shifts. Thus, we had a car, but it sat in the garage awaiting his return. My mother made do with the bread truck—oh, what a glorious day when the bread truck came by!---and the gift of a ride to the store when a neighbor offered. She often bought a month’s worth of food at a time, just in case the next ride wouldn’t come along for a while. (It was the 60’s, may I remind you, the nadir of the Canned Food Movement.) We also went out to eat in packs, two or three fatherless families hitting the Shakey’s together so our mothers could get the hell out of the house and talk to an adult for a while.

A few families in the neighborhood were non-military, or had a dad with a “regular” job at the base, such as jet mechanic, which meant the women’s days revolved around a hot meal on the table promptly at five-fifteen, when He walked through the door. Evenings were devoted to waiting on Him hand and foot. The ladies partied among themselves during the day and scattered like sad little clouds promptly at four, when it was time to Start Dinner. Since I was in half-day kindergarten (morning session, ugh) I was often dragged along with my mom to local houses for afternoon Tupperware parties, teas, and bridal showers.

Many of our neighbors had not, I believe, finished high school. Many had married quite young—seventeen was considered an “old” bride—and many were Southern. I remember very clearly one of my favorite families: they had a fascinating back yard with a fish pond, quail, and a chopping block for butchering livestock. The mother, Mrs. Cosby,  was very sweet to me, with good Appalachian manners, fresh from what can only be described as the backwoods. Her children were far older than I was, and everyone in the family had an accent so thick I often had trouble decoding what they were saying, and often ran to my mother afterwards to ask the meaning of phrases such as “Thankee” and “Tha’ thur’s a gra-cee-ous PLENNY!”  

On this particular occasion, a bridal shower for a sixteen-year-old, the women participated in a party game which left me mystified. I’ve asked my mother about it and she can’t remember much, but I’m still appalled when I think about it.

           

One of the older women took a dishtowel (imprinted with strawberries, the “theme” for the kitchen of the bride-to-be) and did a bit of mountain origami on it, producing a long thick tube with a funny-looking knot at the top of it. The women took turns passing it around, carefully handing it to one another with a funny grip, ensuring that it remained upright, topknot aloft. As they did so they chanted a poem, carefully typed out on a piece of paper for the uninitiated. When the towel finally slumped down from its upright position the women screamed with laughter and the unfortunate holder of the towel lost. This went on for a while until Mrs. Cosby remembered my presence and sent me out of the room to watch my favorite soap opera, Dark Shadows. (Two kids were trying to raise a demon in that episode. Quite wholesome fair compared to whatever was going on in the other room.)

It was forty years or so before I realized what that towel was meant to resemble, and another few years before I realized I may have been witnessing not a party game, but some antiquated bit of backwoods voo-doo. Mom doesn’t remember, and my source of reliable facts, my sister, wasn’t there. She was there, however, the day that Mrs Cosby invited my mom over for some “fancy” drinks. Mrs. C used her best gas station  give-away drinking glasses, and when she pulled out the jug of wine, she filled my mom’s Speedy Gonzalez 16 ouncer to the brim. Now that’s a gracious plenty.

Our Mommy Says It All

My mother has Alzheimer’s. I make an overnight trip to see her and Dad weekly. I call a lot. Sometimes she’s in a fuzzy little world where she’s not quite sure what I’m saying, and sometimes my sharp and funny mother is there. We call these two states Other Mommy and Our Mommy. Other Mommy smiles weakly a lot, and looks tired, and responds to any comment with “Well, isn’t that something?” Our Mommy makes a wisecrack. Other Mommy cannot remember a time when Dad was less than patient and kind (and trust me, that’s about the only memories his children have of him) whereas Our Mommy can still take a good dig at the foolishness of men. Both of the Mommies love to hear the dirt on people, although they differ in the type. Other Mommy likes to hear about the cast of Everyone Loves Raymond and Big Bang Theory, gentle “Did you know” type facts.  (Did you know Sheldon can really play the piano?) Our Mommy likes to hear about why the diabetic down the street is gaining weight, or why anybody (me excluded) is piling on the pounds.

So I was rambling on to Other Mommy about the idiot exploits of The Boyfriend and his ex, nicknamed Hippie Whore. Other Mommy was responding with “Boy, SHE’S something” which signaled to me that she wasn’t really processing much of what I had to say. Suddenly the marbles in her brain shifted and her eyes grew clear and bright. She reached over and rapped me on the hand. “All men are dumbasses,” she said. “It comes with the pants.”

He Doesn't Just Poop at Parties

There's always a naysayer somewhere, the sort of kid who sneers, "What's THAT s'ppozta be?" at any project he or she sees. This, coupled with the ubiquitous "Whydja use all them big words?" pretty much sums up peer relations until I was in my twenties or so. But the "suppose to be" comment still rankles, possibly because I still hear it on occasion (I'm a teacher and I work with a lot of lower-income kids.)

 Only slightly higher on the scale is the person who belittles or knocks down an event just as it's passing--the dinner guest who complains about too much garlic while gently belching over his coffee, or worse, the boyfriend who "lets" you plan, shop for, cook, serve, and clean a special dinner and then blasts you for serving too-large portions. I'm still ticked over a recent incident in which I was delayed (by the complainer himself) several hours, and then found that the oven was broken. I thought I did a good job of finishing on time and presenting a nice meal, but oh, no, the portions were too large. TOO LARGE!

I said, rather tartly, "Then say you can't finish and save some for later," only to be greeted with incredulity. No, can't do that, wasn't raised that way. I think of some of the things I was raised with--being told I didn't need to learn to drive because I didn't have kids, and that I didn't "need" college because I was pretty, that girls don't need math...and I think of the best thing I ever learned from a pop song. It was thirty years ago, but Neil Finn said it best when he wrote "You can choose what you choose to believe." I believe my efforts are worth more than condemnation for a perceived mistake, and if you want to wallow in what you see to be my errors, I believe you're full of shit.

Spring is Here, I Hear

We're all fools in April. It's the sunshine, I think, or perhaps the green on the trees. We hope that our own lives will unfurl like buds that were hidden all winter. We not only hope, but for a few minutes, here and there, we feel that our time will come. I felt like that when I was sixteen, that life was full of wonderful surprises that were just waiting to shower me with happiness, and in spring, in early April at least, some faint hint of that resonates through me. Somehow calling this "Topsy Turvy Day" and trotting out my ritual meal for whatever small children are around me seems a bit like a slap in Fate's face, but there you go: even if I'm alone, every April Fools Day sees me serving meatloaf with mashed potatoes dressed up as cupcakes, and cupcakes decorated like spaghetti and meatballs, and possibly a "fried egg" made of creme anglaise and half a poached apricot (with a sprinkle of nutmeg on top.) Like that rhododendron out front--the one that's almost dead--I struggle to bloom yet again.