Nicknames

I was three when Robby was born.  I remember being devastated that he wasn’t a little sister.  When I found out his name was Robert Douglas, I took to my rocking chair with a vengeance.  “Ugly Dugly.  Ugly Dugly,” I repeated to myself until I fell asleep.  Robby and I have had a tumultous relationship over the years.  I don’t think I’ve ever forgiven him for not meeting my expectations.

The baby of our family, christened Thomas Wilson, was mom’s Angel Baby.  The four of us ‘non-angel babies’  resented his nickname.  We tried to convince him his name was “Mot.”  He looked like an angel with his blonde curls, blue eyes, impossibly long eyelashes  and an impressive array of freckles. 

Jimmy, the oldest of my brothers, I called “Bimbo.”  I think I originally called him “Jimbo”, but “Bimbo” sounded funnier.  He was diagnosed with lazy eye and had to wear an eye patch for about a year.   He developed allergies to all things green and had to swallow pills and endure weekly shots until he was in his teens.

Carrie never got a nickname.  She never even got a middle name.  Since she is 18 months older than I am, I don’t know anything about her first few years in our home, but I’m convinced that something made her angry and she’s held onto it ever since.  Come to think of it, it could have been me.

Growing up, I was daddy’s “Pretty Pet.  Now, one of my nephews calls me “Aunt Sweetpea.”  One calls me “Cio Cio ReeRee”.  To my nieces, I am ”Auntie Cindy.”  For a few days when he was three, my step-grandson called me, “Grandmop.”  Now I’m Grandma Cindy.

Broken Stuff

I saw a brown paper lunch bag on the kitchen counter.  I didn’t pay much attention to it.  The next day it was still there.  And the next.  Saturday morning, I noticed it again.  I reached over to pick it up. 

It was heavy, and it tinkled.  It was full of broken pottery, ceramic and glass.  It was the remains of my collection of jars, vases, pots and knick knacks I kept on the shelf in the back bedroom.

“I wondered when you’d get around to asking about that,” my husband said.

Molly vs My Universe, Chapter 6.

Early this morning I got up to pee.  I didn’t bother to turn on the overhead light.  My foot found a little something on the floor.  Something sharp…and broken.   I reached down and pulled the little something from the bottom of my foot.  It was the head from my little gondolier figurine.  Somehow I can’t see him committing suicide by leaping from the bathroom shelf to die on the tile floor. 

Chapter 7

Oh yeah, we’re still looking for his body AND his gondola…out in the backyard with a shovel and a stick.  My husband refuses to call in the CSI crew.

Gratitude

Today I am grateful for:

The smell of this afternoon’s rain (OK, it was just a sprinkle, but it smelled great!

A 59 degree day during the last week of May in Las Vegas.

My friends and family, and my e-friends I haven’t met yet.

Not losing my temper today (not even a little).

The Cubs won 5 to 4 over Texas.

The beautiful Christmas wine glasses Susan gave me (and the pinot grigio in one of them).

Molly is finally asleep. 

Puppy snores.

I have a job.

Bailey (and her brothers).

Books, books, books, books and more books.

Apricots from Susan’s tree and onions from Tom’s garden.

Candles.

Rudy (the movie).

The kids on my street (especially Sean).

My health.

My Tacoma.

My garden.

My garden bathtub, and bubble bath.

My new friends weren’t injured (or worse) in the attacks on Kandahar.

My slippers (well, the left one anyway.  The right one is slightly chewed.)

Vanilla yogurt (with no gelatin!).

Kleenex with lotion (bless me).

Honeysuckle and night-blooming jasmine.

Cheese.

Knitting.

The smell of baby powder.

Music.

Phil Jackson’s genius.

Toast.

Red toe-nail polish.

Night lights.

The blue room.

Naps.

Snooze buttons.

Shortbread cookies.

Sunshine.

Coffee.

and my baby tomatoes.

Bob and Mocha

One evening a few years ago, Bailey and I met Mocha in the field at the edge of our neighborhood a few years ago.  He’s a chubby chocolate lab with a happy tail and a battery-operated lighted collar attached to a retractable leash.  A few minutes later, we met Bob at the other end of Mocha’s retractable leash.  They live three blocks over on one of the main streets in our tract.  Bailey and I walk past their house every day, and stop to visit if they are hanging out in the garage.

One day last Spring, we saw Mocha running loose in the field and Bob sitting in his truck on the edge of the road.  He told me that he’d just had surgery to repair an old ankle injury and he couldn’t walk.  For several months, he hobbled around on crutches and Mocha got a little chubbier. Several times over the last couple months, I saw another neighbor, Bill and his dog Chloe, walking with Mocha. 

Last Saturday, Bailey and I met Bill, Chloe and Mocha on the street.  I asked him how Bob was doing, since I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks.  He said, “Bob’s dead.  His doctor wouldn’t refill his prescription for his pain medication, so he drove home to get his gun, returned to the doctor’s office and shot himself in the head.”

Technorati Tags: chocolate lab,neighbors,suicide

Meet Joe, Assignment 1

Welcome to the Writing School In My Head.  Sometimes I get so caught up in WRITING THE DAMN BOOK that I forget to enjoy writing.  I can’t afford any classes or, heaven forbid, any more writing instruction books.  So I have an imaginary writing instructor in my head who doles out free writing assignments.  Free Writing.  Just open the pen and go.  Whoosh!

Assignment 1:  Create two characters named Joe (or Jo) and describe them.

Joe Number 1:  Male, unmarried.  He lives alone.  He has a strong relationship with his mother (not necessarily a good thing). Dad – still living, but in the shadow of his wife, Joe’s mother.  Joe’s losing his hair.  He’s maybe 35 years old.  If he loses his hair (and begins to look more like his Dad) how will he ever get a wife and grant his Mother the grandchildren she craves, she deserves?  All she’s ever asked for.  Like a court.  Shining, happy grandbabies to admire and adore her. And teach them how to make perogies, like her grandmother did.

Joe sets his sights too high.  He should lower his expectations and catch a waitress.  Someone who’s used to serving others.  According to his mother.  Wives are better if they aren’t too smart.  Or too pretty.  Hey!  How did that happen?  Joe’s mother has taken over.  I could hardly keep up with her voice in my head. 

But look what I’ve learned about Joe.   He’s pathetic.  And probably has chubby hips and stooped shoulders.  And if I let her go on, I can see a confrontation in a page or two over those darn perogies.

I don’t know if Joe is short or tall.  I don’t care at this point.  But I can almost see the crocheted toilet cover lid in his bathroom.  I can see his resigned shrug and hear his apologetic voice offering excuses for her.  I mean Her. “She only wants what’s best,” he says.  But best for whom?  Probably not him. 

What about their names?  Mom, I should say, “Mother” needs something solid, grand…an imperious name.  Eleanor, maybe.  Or should I consciously cut against the grain and label her with something fluffy and soft.  Something that brings to mind an image she’s had to struggle to overcome:  Poppy?  Or Millicent? Or should I play off the perogies and tap into a ethnic vein?  I like Katerina. There’s a name you could cut yourself on.

And what about Joe?  So far, I’ve established that he’s not a Joe-Cool type of guy.  More of an everyday Joe, who’s mother named him Joseph, after St. Joseph.  The earthly father of Jesus.  A name so huge, a standard so high.  Under the weight of those expectations, it’s no wonder Joe slouches!

If Joe’s driving in the middle of the night and comes to an intersection controlled by a flashing red light, and no traffic for miles around, does he come to a complete stop?  I would say yes. 

He buys his clothes off the rack, knit shirts and regular pants (not trousers).  He shops in the Men’s department, two aisles over from Automotive.  When he shaves his neck, he wonders how far down he should shave. Aftershave?  Old Spice.

He lives in a two-bedroom apartment with dingy white walls and worn carpeting that used to be beige.  His bathroom is functional, a toilet, a sink with metal legs, and a shower stall.   A metal medicine cabinet is embedded in the wall above the sink.

His kitchen has formica counters.  He stores his two pots and a frying pan inside his oven.  In the  fridge, he’s got a box of canned beer and a shelf of dead leftovers from his mother’s table.  A full set of ivory china, with gold ribbons and blue flowers, collects dust in the cabinets over the sink, a gift from his parents on his 30th birthday.  It was supposed to be a wedding gift, but …

Describe Joe in terms of what he’s not:   Not too many people have to look up to talk to him.  He’ll  never be tall enough to please his mother.  Joe’s not the kind of guy who wears glasses.  He squints.  He’s never had to share a bedroom with a brother, never had to wear hand-me-downs. Joe doesn’t drive a pickup truck with a poodle on his lap.  Nor does he drive a sportscar, foreign and sleek, with a personalized professional firefighter’s license plate that says, “OOUCH.”

His sugarless chewing gum doesn’t have layers of flavors or a squirt of minty gel hidden in the middle.  His toothbrush doesn’t come with batteries and he squeezes his toothpaste in the middle or wherever he happens to grab it.  He doesn’t stand in his closet in the morning wondering which pair of loafers will showcase his new socks with yellow chevrons.  His earlobes remain unpierced.

His doctor is not female.  He doesn’t remember the last time he went to the dentist. His apartment building doesn’t allow pets.

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Tomorrow, I’ll start on another Joe/Jo.

PS:  You can play, too.