CluePhone

Happy Mother’s Day

 

This is the post where I go on and on about my mom. Because she deserves it. (I figure, “Hey, you don’t have to read this if you don’t want to.)

 

 

I have to say that the best thing about my mom is that we are friends. Really, great friends. Time and time again, I have gone to her with issues and problems that I am facing, and she always has an answer. Not necessarily a solution, but more of a shoulder to lean on. She does what a mom is supposed to do; she supports her children and family, and still manages to maintain some sort of Zen being about the whole thing. I know it can’t be easy. We all have different needs and different relationships with our parents, but mom always knows how to deal with each of us, I find. My four sisters (count them, there are FOUR) also love my mom the same way that I do. It doesn’t matter that two of those sisters are related through marriage. It just is. My mom and my step-dad (I hate that term, by the way) have always done their very best to make us all a family. And they have succeeded.

 

This is a bit of a rewind, because it feels important to share. My mom used to have long, beautiful hair. I loved her hair. I remember being in the backseat of the car when mom announced that she was going to cut her hair. (And, who could blame her, with two young children at the time to take care of.) I started to cry. For some reason, I had associated a lot of my mom with how she looked, and I was afraid of the change. Turns out, she’s beautiful no matter what her hair length is.

 

I just Skyped with her today, and I love the ability to do that. We laughed, and talked, and joked like always. Then, it was time to sign off. The last thing I heard her say? “Doug, I don’t know what to do with this.”

 

I love you, mom.

That is a photo of yours truly, during my first year of college in the early ‘80’s. I had never used hair products beyond shampoo and conditioner, and then I made the unfortunate mistake of getting a “body wave” during my senior year of High School. Yeah, that’s when we all discovered my natural curl. I looked like a deranged poodle. Anyway, I went off to college in the big city of Minneapolis, and soon really, really needed a haircut. My friend took me to this high-end salon that his friend owned, and they asked what I wanted done with my hair. Since I just wanted the perm/”body wave” gone as much as possible, I hadn’t focused more than that on my desired outcome. The salon owner handed me a GQ magazine (I had never seen one before that) and told me “Pick out something you like, and we’ll see if we can do that.”

 

I selected a picture of what I thought was nice looking, and he said “Yep, we can do that.” After much pampered cutting and fussing, I was introduced to hair gel. You have to understand, this was the EARLY ‘80’s. Practically nobody even knew what hair gel was. The best part of all? They did the whole thing for free! Hey, I was a starving art student, in practically the literal sense, and I jumped at the offer.

 

Anyway, hair gel was expensive in those days. At least, for me. It was then that I discovered the cheap alternative. Dippity Do. Slather some of that on, and a brief spritz of Paul Mitchell “Freeze & Shine” (the more expensive stuff) and I was set. So was my hair. I once had an instructor ask me, two hours into class, “Is your hair EVER going to dry?” Heh. The only drawback to Dippity Do is if you use too much, and your hair is bleached/blond, you could end up with slightly tinted pink hair.

 

If you were really broke, and it was wintertime in Minneapolis, you could go outside with damp hair and it would hold for at least a little while. Hours later, it just melted and fell.

 

Looking back, I still think I did the ‘80’s proud. For the most part.

“So, I’m not sure, because I haven’t made it past the catacombs yet. Follow me, there is this switch I have to flip with my Electrical Element power.”
“Which one is me?”
“That’s you, on the right. You’re blue and I’m purple. But it is hard to tell us apart. Okay, zapping the switch now. You do not want to KNOW how long I was trying to flip the switch, using my Freeze Element instead of Electrical. Gah!”

“Okay, now you have to use your Poison Element to get rid of the vines.”
“Which button do I hit to choose my Element?”
“That one. No WAIT… that’s Fear. You need Poison.”
“Okay. How do I trigger the Poison again?”
“That button, there.”
“Cool.”
“No…. leap back up on that platform. You have to be right in front of the vines.”
“Dang it. How do I fly, again?”
“Press the ‘A’ button repeatedly.”

“This enchanted forest sucks.”
“Haven’t we been here before?”
“At least eight times. I know we have passed that moss-covered rock before.”
“Where the hell is the hermit?”
“Well, he’s a hermit. I’m guessing he won’t be easy to find.”
“Wasn’t there something about finding writing on the wall? WAIT…. Is that the letter ‘A’?”

“It says we can swing from the chain while climbing. Have you seen a chain?”
“No. Where the hell is the chain?”
“I don’t know. Hey, what if it’s that thing that is…. chaining us together?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Okay, you climb and I’ll try to swing.”
“Where are you swinging to?”
“As if I know! I was stuck in the catacombs until you showed up.”
“Well, just try to swing then. I’m climbing.”
“COOL!!!! I just did a loop-de-loop! Okay, right. Calm down, it doesn’t appear that there is a time limit on this thing. Swinging to that platform now.”

“Do you remember where the boat is?”
“Wasn’t it near the ramp?”
“Where the hell is the ramp? Oh, crap. I don’t have my orb.”
“You DON’T HAVE YOUR ORB? What did you do with it?”
“I don’t know!!! I know I had it when we flipped that switch for the logs in the river.”
“Okay, we backtrack until we find your orb. Remember, the boat is on THIS side of the river.”
“Near the ramp.”
“Which has proven SO EASY to find.”
“There’s my orb, right by the switch! Told you where it was!”
“Yeah, well, just don’t drop it again. I say we fly back to the boat.”

“Do we repair the catapult first, or try to destroy the Siege Tower?”
“I think we have to protect the catapult, and then destroy the Siege Tower. Then, we repair the catapult and launch it.”
“Which side of the switch are you going for, left or right? Hey, where am I?”
“That’s me, over there. See, I’m leaping about.”
“Okay, let’s repair. RUNNNNNN… we have to launch quickly.”
“They’re still attacking. They’re really vicious.”
“Well, crap. Now we have to escort the Friendly Mole back to his seat on the catapult. Then, repair it. Then, launch it. Then destroy the second Siege Tower.”
“I’m out of green. Again.”
“There are some crystals over here, follow me.”

“My thumbs hurt. Break?”
“Oh, totally.”

I had so much fun with Twisty here, and we got to play Xbox. It just went far too fast.

Jamesy and Twisty, at her birthday party

I’ve been involved in a recent web of trickery and deceit. I can admit it now, since it’s all out in the open. It’s always been difficult for Twisty (my younger sister) to have a special birthday. She’s a New Year’s baby, as is one of my dear friends. Do you know how hard it is to plan something special for someone, when their birthday is the first day of the New Year? So not easy. In our younger days, everyone was either hung over or still trying to find their shoes. Or their way home.

I did manage to throw her a surprise birthday party once, but it was the weekend AFTER her actual birthday. So, I think I’m a bit excused for my recent deceptive behavior. Neither one of us could afford to fly home for Christmas this year, and that was hard for the whole family. Plus, this year was a big birthday for Twisty, and she knew I was coming to visit her for that. What she didn’t know was that our parents were going to be there weeks earlier than their annual trip, a day before her birthday. We had a plan, mom and I had it all mapped out. They would drive down a few weeks before expected, and arrive on December 31st. There was an agreement to tell no one, since that would be just more reason for either one of us to accidentally blow it. Then, The Diller (my older sister) said to me on the phone, “Mom and Doug are going to be there, aren’t they?!” Okay, my ability to lie is like my ability to bowl. It’s either a strike, or a gutter ball. Anyway, I hissed to The Diller, “If mom EVER finds out that I told you, she will have my hide.” The Diller wanted to come and surprise Twisty AND the Parental Units. I agreed that this would be awesome. Unfortunately, The Diller ran into the same high-priced airfare that Twisty and I had, and couldn’t make it. Here’s how it went down with Mom & Doug arriving:

The scene: Twisty and I, in her town home, playing Sega Saturn, which I had brought as a gift to her. (WHAT? I have to play up my part!) Twisty’s phone rings:

Twisty: “Hello?”
Parental Units: “Hey, Happy Birthday! Guess how cold it is in South Dakota! Lie…lie…lie.”
The scene: Doorbell rings…
Twisty: “Jamesy, get that….it’s probably a delivery.”
Jamesy: Answers door, it’s the Parental Units, as expected…mom on the phone to Twisty inside. “Hey, TWISTY… it is a delivery, but they need a signature!”
Twisty: “Okay, here… talk to mom.”

Heh. They were on her front porch with Santa hats on. And then, we had a get together the next day at the Legion, and lots of family and friends turned out. I would like to think that Twisty had a great birthday, and it seems like that’s the case.

My New Year’s resolution is to only lie if it’s for a good cause. Hey, I don’t feel like I broke that one last year!

So, today has been one year since I had to have Gigi put to sleep. I’m finally writing a tribute to her, in a way. Partly because I am no longer in so much danger of bursting into tears thinking about the loss.

Her full name was Genevieve, pronounced in the French manner, from what I understand. Sort of “shawn-vee-evv” as opposed to “jen-a-veeve.” It’s my cousin’s name, and I always thought it was really pretty. I got her because sister Twisty had recently moved to the Bay Area, and couldn’t wait to get a kitten. A coworker of hers had a cat that had a litter, and they were available for adoption. Twisty got Felix, and then called me and said “There’s only one other black cat in the litter, and it’s a female.” I went to check it out, and she came home with me. As if I could have resisted this little ball of fluff. (They said the kittens were 6 weeks old, but we were suspicious because they were so small, and momma kitty was not taking care of them.) In the end, it didn’t matter.

She was potty trained from the day I got her, and I have to say that it was fairly amusing watching her have to do kitty-pull-ups to actually get into the litter box. She’d flip over the edge, a little puff of litter dust would go up, and then all you’d see was this tiny little tail moving around. Her little poo’s were so small, they fell through the strainer at first. She may have been small, but she was a certified spitfire.

Everyone told me that she would calm down after she got fixed. So not true, in her case. She leapt up on top of the door, as she was wont to do, and I actually said “If you tear out your stitches, I am NOT taking you back to the Vet.” She just looked down at me, from on high.

One day, Twisty called and said “You’re never going to believe what Felix is doing. He’s fetching like a dog!” “Really?” I replied, and balled up a piece of paper and threw it. Sure enough, Gigi ran to get it and brought it back. There began a very amusing, and sometimes (often) tiring game, of “Fetch With Gigi.” One of her favorite things to fetch was cigarette butts. And no, I’m not proud of that. I had to start either emptying the ashtrays all the time or covering them up. I have a picture of her, walking across the floor, with a cigarette butt in her mouth. Filter end in the right way too.

Probably her best “feat” was turning on one of the gas burners of the stove while I was at work. I walked into the apartment thinking “Wow, it’s really hot in here!” while she wailed and meowed at me more then usual. Yeah, flames shooting in the air from the burner. Not only did she turn it on, she turned it all the way to High.

Thereafter, my stove looked like I had bought it at a flea market or something, as I had to remove all the knobs.

She slept with me like a person, always on the right-side of me, with her head on a pillow. I so miss that. But, I am not looking to get another pet at this point. As a fellow pet owner at work said, “You just don’t want your heart broken again.” And that really is the truth. I feel fortunate to have been a part of her life, as she was part of mine. I miss you, Gigi. And I’m stronger now. I’m only crying a little bit at this point, but I’ll never, ever forget you and what you meant to me.

Well, I can name family and friends right off the bat! My aunt Shelle was just here to visit, and it was nothing short of fabulous. We had a party and everything, at the loft. Nerves were a’janglin! (Mostly mine.) Unfortunately, Shelle ended up working most of the time. Not that I wasn’t contributing. I was! By putting together a table (that she had bought for me) and subsequently having two of the glass panels crash to the floor and shatter. Now, you might be saying that that doesn’t sound like a favorite thing at all. And you’d be right. My favorite thing is our reactions to the situation, and to each other. When you can laugh like mad people over the fact that one of you (Shelle) is sweeping up a giant pile of glass from the bathroom floor, for the SECOND TIME, on the day of “her” party, you have to have a sense of humor. Did I mention that it was her birthday?

If I had a fireplace, I’m sure she would have been cleaning the cinders out of it.

Another thing that I love is my mom’s Chef-Boy-R-Dee pizza. The kind where you add your own toppings. My best friend used to worm her way into eating over at our house when she knew we were having that. You’d take a square-shaped piece of pizza, and it would kind of droop in your hand. (Now I’m hungry!) And the best part of all? Either left-over tavern meat or green olives as toppings. With both? Swoon!!!

And lastly (well, not really lastly, I’m just tired of composing this) is watching my favorite moments from TV / Movies over, and over, and over. My poor friends and family. It’s amazing that they still associate with me!

(I have a stuffed goat that sings “The Lonely Goatherd” from The Sound of Music. It was a gift. Fear me.)

~~High on a hill sat a lonely goatherd~~ ~~Lay-Oh-Eee-Lay-Oh-Lay-Eeee-Ohhhh~~~

So, I’m watching the movie Earthquake and we have…. an earthquake. Let’s just say I’m not going to be watching Twister or Volcano anytime soon.

And can I just comment on the cheesiness of this movie? Apparently, all the men had to have on very high-waisted slacks, and then after the disaster, you might just discover an adorable, abandoned puppy nicely tucked into evenly cut strips of newspaper. Under a crumpled building. It could HAPPEN! People who tend to abandon puppies usually make sure they have a comfy, nicely lined bed.

I also love the creepy, girl-obsessed guy who likes to play the role of a soldier. Like, even if his act was so convincing, how in the HELL did he get in command of some rescue unit after all the chaos? Maybe he had the papers all ready, and was all “I was away on a Top Secret Mission. And that’s why you’ve never met me. But I’m in charge.” Plus, he’s wearing a wig. Is that supposed to be a disguise? Or just something creepy he does?

Okay, we just had another “aftershock” (in the movie) which decimated many of the people standing below the cracked and could-crumble-at-any-moment skyscraper. I’d do that too, run outside and stand near a very visibly impaired skyscraper.. Maybe with a downed power line nearby. If you’re going to be in disaster, you might as well make it a bit more exciting.

If you’re like me, you have those moments where you have a great idea, and you’re thinking to yourself “Hey, this would be something people would like if I blogged about it” Then, by the time you get your word processing program open, you have totally forgotten what they hell you were so previously verbose about. Yeah, thus this blog. Of nothingness. Or, close to it. But there was SOMETHING there, just a nano-second ago. This is your (my) cue to start thinking… “Hmmm, Olympics? No. Dixie Chicks? No. The latest Crate & Barrel catalog? No. I like pie. Well, yeah, but… no. WHAT THE HELL WAS MY FANTASTIC IDEA TWO SECONDS AGO?!?!” It’ll probably come to me at about 3:34 a.m., just after I’ve managed to fall asleep. Without a writing instrument and pad nearby. It’s so hard being a genius. And a better driver than 94% of the population. I rarely even talk on my hands-free cell phone while driving, and that’s not a smug look on my face right now. I usually look this way. Unless I’m shooting pool, because then I am required to stick out my tongue from the corner of my mouth. What were we talking about? Eight ball, corner pocket!” Hey that reminds me of something……   dang.

(also known as “The Shudder”)

We all have those things we fear. Whether it be spiders (“Hi mom and Twisty!”), snakes (“Yo, Grandma T!”) or sandals with socks. (Hey, umm… most of us.)

For me, it’s something else. And no, we’re not talking about a giant plate of lima beans. Although that’s probably a close second. (Those of you that are delicate, or squeamish about things might not want to read on. Heh.)

Parasites. There, I’ve said it. Any kind of parasite, where some creature latches on to you and starts to SUCK YOUR BLOOD is so many different kinds of wrong. I think my fear of parasites may have started when I read “On The Banks of Plum Creek” and they lured Nellie into the leach-infested section of the creek. Even though she TOTALLY deserved it, I was like, “Okay, that’s pure hell.”

I’ll never forget the time we had been up at the lake, and my aunt had driven us kids back to our house. I was taking a shower, and glanced over to my shoulder. There was a TICK, just happily sucking away my life force. I had to finish my shower, growing steadily dizzier. (That may have been my mind working overtime. We’ll never know.) I hurriedly dressed and went out to show my aunt this Horror, this Abomination. She was calm, although she could have just been putting on a brave face for my life-threatening predicament. She tipped a bottle of rubbing alcohol over the tick, and it released itself from its deadly grip.

And in the Olden Days, they used to use leaches, as part of their “medical technique.” If I were living then, and was approached with a leach, I would have been all, “No, no, sire doctor. I’m feeling just fine now. I don’t even think that’s gout, really. I must have banged my leg against something. Hand me that giant turkey drumstick!”

There could still be tick parts, like tubules or something, floating around in my system. Just waiting…. Waiting for the day.

{{shudder}}