Soul Thumping

Ooh-la-la. A Generation Xer's Trip Down Holiday Decoration Memory Lane

As a child (I am a Gen Xer), my grandparents and my mother would bundle us up in December, throw us in the car, and drive around to look at neighborhood Christmas lights.  Each time we saw a house we particularly thought special, we all repeated the phrase "ooh-la-la!"  I don't know why, but it was a tradition.  I catch myself still doing this; however, I usually say it in my head, not out loud.

There was rarely anything spectacular about these displays of my youth, usually consisting of blue, and sometimes multi-colored lights adorning the gutter of a home, or a sparsely draped tree in a front yard.  Nothing that would warrant an enthusiastic "ooh-la-la" from the peanut gallery.  I mean, we saw nothing elaborate like gigantic 9 feet tall snow men or a Santa Claus hydraulically popping up and down from an inflatable chimney belting out, "Ho, Ho, Ho!"  that one sees (and unfortunately hears) proudly displayed on lawns today.

No, the childhood holidays of Generation Xers were much different.  Simple, serene lights twinkling in the distance (and I grew up in rural West Virginia, so when I say distance, I mean it) against a dark night sky was enough for us.  Chilly evenings driving around in a car oohing and ahhing at the subtlety.  No garish, obnoxious snow globe balloons taking up three blocks...oh my God, I have now become my mother.

 

Found these "vintage" Christmas lights on ebay

 

--Fortuitous Observer

 

Your Child, Sir, is a Serial Killer in the Making - Children and Their Parents at the Park

Poseidon and I have our house on the market, and sometimes we have to make scarce at the drop of a hat when the realtor wants to show our property to prospective buyers.  A few months ago, a last minute call from the realtor had me scurrying out of the house with a book, in route to the park just a few minutes from our house.

This park is next to an elementary school, and it was well after school hours, but there were many children running around playing and making new friends while the parents formed little cliques of their own discussing gymnastic instructors, dance classes, and swim meets and how well his/her tot is excelling in each of these sports/hobbies.

Away from the parental groupings in the park, I sat reading on a bench by myself, between the swing set and the adjacent tennis court, passing the time until I could go back to my house.  I looked up and directly across the playground from me was a man on bench, texting.  I didn't see children with him, or near him, just an observation I made.

Nearly 15 minutes later, I glanced up and the man was still texting, but this time a little girl, all of 4 years old (I'm guessing), approached him saying, "Daddy, come and see my castle."  She had been building a sandcastle in the large sandbox.  He said something to her I couldn't hear, but I did notice that he hadn't even looked up from his texting while he spoke to her.  The little girl waited for him to view her architectural masterpiece (I'm sure to her it was a masterpiece).  Nope.  Nothing.  Dad still texting.  Little girl walks back to her work.  I think I will name her "Sally."  I feel much empathy toward Sally.

Just minutes later, I glance up at the poor might-as-well-be-an-orphan Sally and another little girl (I'll call her "Mary") was trying to play with Sally.  Sally, who was sitting on her knees playing in the sand with her bucket, purposely turned he body away from Mary without saying a word.  Mary stood around a bit longer, hoping to make a friend to play with.  I suppose she finally took Sally's snub as a hint.  I feel much empathy toward Mary.

I am guessing that Mary desperately wanted to make a new friend because moments later she tried again with the evasive Sally by plopping down in the sand next to her.  This is when the drama/tragedy commenced.  Sally stood up, got in Mary's face and yelled, "LEAVE ME ALONE, AND I'M NOT KIDDING!!!"  I honestly thought my heart would beat out of my chest because the anger in this little tiny person was so intense, it was frightening.

Now I look up at quick-as-lightening-texter Daddy to see his reaction.  His head turned toward her direction, still texting, and I swear he never took his eyes from his iPhone and turned his head right back down.  Sally stomped off (literally) to another area of the park.  Daddy does nothing, oh, wait, I take that back.  He is doing something.  Texting.  Poor little Mary, ran to her parents, who were watching the creepy scene in the park sandbox play out.  They whispered something consoling to her, and she seemed to relax.  You tried little Mary, it isn't your fault.

I'm not a parent, but I am a human being, and was/am someones daughter, and a child myself once (oh, oh, and I've been in therapy of one form or another my entire adult life so I can spot a wow-you-are-going-to-be-once-screwed-up-puppy-if-you-don't-get-help-now tot when I see one) so I'm more than a little concerned about Sally.  The amount of anger in that 4 year old little girl was scary, appalling, and unacceptable.

Why is this my business?  Because I still walk on this planet, and Sally is just one more little creature brought into the fold by selfish mooncalves who are too lazy to parent and set boundaries or pay the poor little troll any attention while she is creating something in the park; so, it is my business because in just a few short years, Sally will be in some newspaper or on TV and/or behind bars because she will have done something "very wrong" because she didn't know it was wrong or have any reliable concept of how to live socially with others, and she is too full of rage at having been ignored during the most important teachable years of her life, and that "something very wrong" could be committed against me, those I cherish, or any other hapless victim in or out of the park.  Ah, yes, but she can text like the dickens.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

 

Could the Waltons Exist in the 21st Century?

I had a dream the night before last that I was watching some sort of new crime drama on tv (and we know there are not nearly enough of those), and all of the characters, both good and bad, were from The Waltons.  Please don't ask me why.  It would take my therapist and I a year at least to figure that one out.  I haven't seen the show in some time, though I know it is still shown in syndication on at least one cable channel, so it was quite strange that those characters appeared in my subconscious.

Growing up a Gen-Xer, my parents were still in control of the television and what was actually allowed to air in our home, so when it came to good ol' family television shows like The Waltons, we were allowed to watch, even if it was passed our bedtime.

Anyway, the next day, Poseidon and I drove to a small town near Raleigh, one that has a quaint resurrected downtown area, and on the way there, I saw a house that looked exactly the house in The Waltons.  It made me remember my dream.  This house looks like it is straight from the tv show, but it is only a couple of miles from this up-and-coming downtown area, and it made me think:  could a family like the Waltons exist today?

At first of course I thought, "No way in hell."  Then I put my opinion on hold because the Amish community popped into my head.  They truly do live like the Walton family.  They don't even have automobiles, which proves they can live pre-Walton style.  This lifestyle is a choice and they dig their heels in and refuse to step into the 21st century, yet they thrive as a community and a people.

I'm not saying I want to throw away my make-up and hair dryer (or my laptop for God's sake), put a hat and petticoat on and join that world, but when I think about past episodes of The Walton's, and as a kid growing up in the 70s and 80s and an adult in 2011, I find myself longing for something easier than now; something slightly more innocent and a great deal quieter and less hectic.

Good night Mama.  Good night John Boy.  Good night Mary Ellen.  Good night Waltons, wherever you are.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Do I Genuinely Need Validation...From My Cats?

Do those cats have any idea how hard I worked on the pillow I made for them?  Hell, no...ungrateful little quadrupeds.

I decided to use some scrap fabric I had to make a "kitty pillow."  I designed it myself, painstakingly sewing little squares of discarded fabric together to form a hip, ultra-groovy pillow for our two cats to park themselves on next to the fireplace.  I had visions of two cats who were so proud of their new one-of-a-kind pillow that each would prance in the window sill, taunting all of the other cats in the neighborhood for being so square and not having a mom as cool as their mom.

Ten minutes after putting the final stitches on the pillow, I laid it on the floor, anxiously awaiting one or both of our cats to pounce on it, so excited to even think such a glorious creation was made just for them.  I honestly expected that to happen, but then I became keenly aware of my ability to flip swiftly into the land of delusion.

Neither cat gave a damn about that pillow.  Oh, I did get some strange glances because I had plopped something down in front of them that was foreign, and being they are creatures of habit, nothing new introduced into this household (no matter how insignificant) is ever welcomed with open arms until the proper amount of scrutiny has been given.

My feelings were hurt.  I know this is crazy, but I think anyone who has ever read my blog understands that I'm neurotic, and I no longer offer apologies or explanations.  The thing of it is, I feel my cats are my children, and if they don't respond automatically to something I've done for them, I grow anxious and sad, feeling unloved and under appreciated...from creatures who don't even have opposable thumbs (showing how far they have truly evolved--sarcasm).  I will add this to the, "Why Poseidon and I should not procreate" column of our "Baby or No Baby Decision" list. 

If there is a 12-step program for pathetic?   

--Fortuitous Observer

The Naked Man on Fire - One of my Favorite Childhood Memories

Last night I found myself staring into the glow of my fireplace, trying to lose myself in the dancing orange flames.  As usual, my mind started taking little trips of its own, and I sat back and let it go.  I started thinking flames, flicker, heat, fire, naked man.  What?  Did I just say naked man?  That's right, naked man.

When I think of fire, I think of the naked man who visited our home one morning (approximately 2 am, on a school night) when I was in the fourth grade (or it could have been the fifth grade...once one hits 40, grade school seems like one big year instead of many), because he wasn't just naked...he was on fire.

The drama started around 2 am when our front doorbell rang.  My parents got up immediately, and as the doorbell continued to ring, in an urgent sort of way, my sister and I crept out of bed to check out the action.  My dad opened the door to find a skinny naked man and his hair, or what was left of it, was on fire.  His skin was red and blistered, and smoke was billowing from his body!  His clothing had melted away!

This strange man told my parents that his car had exploded up the street and could he please get into a bath or shower and run cold water on his body because he was burning.  My parents rushed him down the hall and into the bathroom, which is of course when my sister and I noticed he was naked (and smoking, mostly his hair).  My parents helped him turn on the cold water and one of them called the police.

Now, there really isn't much else to tell of this story.  I suppose this may have been my first naked man sighting, but it was a blur because he was on fire, which captured my attention more than his nakedness.  It turns out, he was stealing gasoline from cars in the neighborhood and he was putting the stolen gasoline into large open containers in the trunk of his car, which of course, caused an explosion.  He was naked, on fire, and stupid.

I can't really remember what happened next, but I believe the police came to our house and promptly arrested him, and that was the end of that.  The lessons learned from my little flashback into childhood are these:  if you are going to steal gasoline, make sure you put it in closed containers, and, if you have an unexpected naked visitor on fire at 2 am--or anytime--grab your camera, because no one will believe you the next day.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

The Delights and Miseries of Christmas

I love Christmas.  I hate the self-imposed sense of urgency to get everything done.  I love watching my Christmas tree blink relentlessly in the evening as Poseidon and I bask in the glow of it (with our sunblock on).  I hate thinking about dragging it through the foyer, through the door, across the yard, and out to the curb for "tree pick-up day" in January, only to then retrace my steps to clean the fallen needles left behind.

I love watching old Christmas specials from my Gen X childhood.  I hate that Gen Y and Gen Z think the animation is lame (it isn't, you are).  I love finding perfect gifts for people.  I hate standing in line at the post office to mail said gifts to those people.

I love lighting the gas log in the fireplace (I know, I'm not really "lighting" it as much as "turning" the knob).  I hate that it is so cold outside that we have to turn on the fireplace.  I love humming my favorite Christmas songs as I move through the house.  I hate hearing the same 3 Christmas songs over and over and over and over at every establishment in my neighborhood.

I love moving through the stores with a smile on my face as I think of friends and family opening gifts on Christmas (when I must go to the stores that is...on-line shopping rules most magnificently).  I hate seeing scrooges moving through the stores with frowny faces, grumbling about prices, crowds, having to park more than 10 feet from the entrance, etc.  I love seeing those same scrooges in the parking lot yelling at another scrooge because of a ding on their car door.

I love opening my gifts from Poseidon because I never know what to expect.  I hate when I've opened all of my gifts because I'm greedy and I want more.  I love when Christmas is over.  I hate waiting for Memorial Day.  I love summer, the sand, the beach, and the sun.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Father's Day...For My Father Who Has Passed

It's Father's Day, and because my father passed away a few years ago, I thought I would post an article I wrote about him for the paper I did some freelance work for in Philadelphia.  Here is the online version of the paper, with my article.

Happy Father's Day Dad.  You are missed.

--Fortuitous Observer

Graveyard of the Atlantic? Ha! I call it Paradise.

Yesterday we arrived in Avon, NC for our week of glorious baking in the sun (yup, I'm a sun bunny alright and not ashamed...I love it, and I use sunscreen...those anti-sun folks might want to read up on the latest medical news...a growing number of folks being diagnosed with Vitamin D deficiency), listening to the waves, feeling the warm breezes of the Outer Banks in North Carolina.

This morning I'm blogging (obviously) and getting ready to go for a run before the weather turns sweltering.  I love that word and we use it quite a bit here in Carolina.  So, I don't really have much to snark about yet.  It's too gorgeous here to care!  The house we rented this year is absurdly awesome so I'll be spending the week in a state of crazy euphoric bliss here in the "Graveyard of the Atlantic."  Come and get me pirates, I triple-dog dare ya!

-- Fortuitous Observer

Remembering Mr. Gristle Head

I don't know why we named him Mr. Gristle Head, it just sounded right.  Mr. Gristle Head was actually a styrofoam wig stand (or holder, or whatever the correct term is) that belonged to my mother in the 1970s.  As Gen Xers, my sister, brother, Play Stations, iPods, and the internet didn't exist yet, so we had to actually use our imagination to come up with cool shit to do, and we did.  It was during one of those days when we had to find something to do that my mother's wig stand met with a most unfortunate makeover, becoming Mr. Gristle Head for all eternity.

One winter afternoon, my sister and I decided to kidnap my mother's wig stand and mutilate it beyond recognition.  I can only guess we did this out of pure boredom, but as it is decades later, the exact whys, hows and wherefores are mere speculation on my part.

First, we unearthed our old LITE-BRITE® pegs from somewhere.  I think we had them in a large freezer bag in a dresser drawer.  We began by sticking the LITE-BRITE® pegs into the styrofoam wig stand, which we began referring to it as "the head."  Once we started, there was no stopping.  The wig head must be covered with colorful pegs, and so it was.  We stuck the pegs close together, so close that barely an empty space could be found on the wig head.

Conveniently, there was already a hole in the bottom of the wig head.  It was made that way.  I'm assuming wig heads were traditionally displayed in wig stores on large wooden pegs or something to keep them from falling over.  So, fortunately, we had an empty hole in the bottom of the wig head, and a baton that would fit perfectly into that hole.

Next, we decided to somehow put some clothes on our new Frankenstein-like creation.  We found an old shirt belonging to my dad, and we buttoned it around the wig head.  Of course, the wig head had no shoulders, so the shirt draped over it, giving it a ghostly, yet comical look.

Now what?  We have killed my mother's wig head stand and stolen a shirt belonging to my dad.  The next logical step in this improvisational moment of cleverness was to name the beast.  As I stated at the very beginning, I don't know why we chose to call him Mr. Gristle Head (or why we decided it was a "him" because the wig head was already wearing blue eyeshadow and red lipstick), but we did.  We paraded him around, holding the end of the baton, marching him down the hall and through the dining room, into the kitchen.  I think we even took Mr. Gristle Head outside.  We tried scaring our little brother, though he recognized the now destroyed wig head immediately, and the LITE-BRITE® pegs just weren't scary.

I'm not really sure why I'm even telling Mr. Gristle Head's story.  Probably because it popped into my head one day last week, out of know where, and I felt the tale must be told.  Believe it or not, Mr. Gristle Head suck around for a few years, mostly hiding out in the closet, making an occasional appearance at Halloween.

Perhaps Mr. Gristle Head is important because my sister and I were extremely proud of the creativity displayed in the design and execution of our plans to create such a unique being.  Perhaps he is important because we took something from our mom and destroyed it without getting into too much trouble.  Those are possibilities, but whatever the ridiculous reason, Mr. Gristle Head was a holding space for our LITE-BRITE® pegs (I don't think we even had the LiteBrite at that time...it bit the dust years before), a conversation piece, and a bit of my personal childhood history that I look back on with fondness...though I really don't know why.  Long live Mr. Gristle Head.

--Fortuitous Observer

Imbecilic Things I've Done

Now that the new year and decade is immovably upon us, I've been doing the obligatory reflecting and I've realized that I have done some asinine things in my life.  I don't think I'm apologizing for them because these things, no matter how idiotic, have assisted in shaping me into the person I am today, good, bad, or insane.  I just feel like sharing.

This list is by no means a "no stone unturned" catalog of confessions.  I'm sure I've done things not included in this little lineup that I'll be reminded of at some point, either in this life or my next one as a bug (not to mention, my mom may be reading, and I don't want to give her a heart attack...yet : ) 

· Made rocket fuel in the 3^rd grade from a number of household cleaning products and tried to ignite it with my dad’s lighter

· Mixed Pop Rocks and soda together to see if I would explode (I didn’t)

· Hitchhiked drunk with my friend Josie (I won’t use her real name) one night just for laughs – oh, and because we were drunk

· Asked a cabbie in Albuquerque if he knew where I could buy pot.  Also asked him why Bugs Bunny never made that “left turn at Albuquerque”…he didn’t know the answer to either question

· I’ve broken all of my toes, on both feet, at least once.  This really isn’t my fault.  I have brittle toe bones and no control over their snapping into pieces.  I stopped going to the doctor long ago.  Now I just make my own little splints from nail files (or popsicle sticks, but I rarely have those) and tape

· When I was 8, I stuck a bunch of straight pins in a girl’s hand because she wanted to join our club and that was how she would prove her worthiness

· Accused the same girl of stealing the club’s money (an entire 20 cents), even though she didn’t, so we could have a reason to kick her out of the club

· Destroyed a neighbor’s garden when I was 9 (along with my sister and our best friend Jenny) because he was mean and we didn’t like him

· Purposely sang the wrong words to the song “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang” (you know…”Shitty Shitty Bang Bang) when I was 5

· Taught a 4 year old little boy that I was babysitting how to strike matches (no one asks me to babysit their kids…it isn’t a good idea)

· Stole a pack of Tic-Tacs at a newsstand (that was really an accident, I did plan to buy them but absent mindedly stuck them in my pocket while looking through the magazines – I think I even went back and paid for them)

· When my twin sister and I were little and took our baths together, I always peed in the tub, but told her I didn’t

It's good to share...

 

--Fortuitous Observer