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67 Pounds of Paper

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Today is Father’s Day.  This means a lot of things to a lot of people. To me, it means spending part of my day reading letters. A giant tub of my father’s letters.

Without fail, my father wrote me a letter every day from when I was age thirteen to the time he died when I was twenty. If I break that down month by month, day by day, it comes out to somewhere close to 3,500 pieces of mail. Most of which are gone now. All but 67 pounds.

I realize the concept of a parent writing to their child every day, even while that child is in the same room, might be odd to some people (which it is), while others might think it was an endearing habit that made it easier for a single father to communicate with his teenage daughter (which it was). But here is the thing you have to understand: it wasn’t just me. He wrote everyone. When he died, some people took it upon themselves to send his letters back to me so I could read what he had written to them years earlier. As if I had never seen his words before. They had no clue their letter, so lovingly tucked away all those years, was barely a drop in the bucket.

A while back, one of my mother’s sisters gave me a saran wrapped pile of letters he had sent to my maternal Grandfather in the mid 1980’s. This is what I found:

Clink (yes, I had a grandfather with a badass nickname like Clink)

Friday we went to visit my mother. She is doing fine. Her grand-nephew and wife and 3 year-old son are in from Florida. They are annoying and their child is poorly behaved. It makes The Potato (that’s me) look like an angel by comparison, for which I am very thankful. She is old enough now to recognize that nobody likes a screamer. This goes on for four pages describing a children’s birthday party in a thunderstorm and the logistics of transporting someone’s triplet toddlers in car seats and something about buying a briefcase in an airport.

Will write more tomorrow.

Tomorrow? Seriously, Dad, what more did you have to say?

Apparently, a lot…

 
Brown ink was one of his favorite things. I do not recall ever seeing him without a fountain pen clipped to the front of his shirt, ready to jot something down on a legal pad. Sometimes he would fall asleep with it is still clipped to the front of his shirt. This meant all of our sheets and furniture were peppered with ink stains. It drove my mother nuts.

My father and his traveling stack of writing papers, taking a break with Belly Dancer in 1971.
Note the fountain pen clipped to his shirt front. 

Letters. Letters. Letters….

To my mother. To his mother. To my mother’s father and his children. To anyone with whom he loved or cared about or had a bone to pick with, letters were his way of communicating what was left unspoken.

To his clients, sending them brief, friendly notes attached to little newspaper clippings:  

I know you like the Colts. Thought this might be of interest. I’ll call next week about that thing we talked about last time.

To his old frat buddies, passing their latest sports quips and dirty jokes via fax machine: 

Here, I got one for you: How do you know if a fax came from a blonde? Answer: There is a stamp on it.
What did the earthworm say when he saw his own ass? A: Hey! Are you my brother?

To the IRS agent who conducted his audit, accompanied by a check made out to “Uncle Sam”, (which from the looks of the copy, appears to have been cashed anyway):  

Thanks for being so nice about it. Next time I need a foot up my butt,  I’ll know just who to call.

To the grocery store, furiously informing them that they sold him 3 pounds of dangerously old hamburger meat: 

I’ll still shop there because you employ that kid with the flipper arms so I know you are good people.

Letter writing was a habit he picked up in the army.

Apparently there is, or was, some superstition about soldiers writing home –those who did not write their wives and girlfriends were always the first selected for combat, or worse –the soldiers who did not write their mothers were always the first to get killed in action. That sounds like a ridiculous superstition, but I tell you, on the few occasions I have mentioned it to folks in service their reactions have indicated there might be some spooky truth to it. There are some traditions I do not question.

My father, who was pathologically superstitious, credited this notion for saving his life as it was his constant and unflappable letter writing that landed him a “kooshy desk job” (his words, not mine) writing letters to the families of dead and missing soldiers in Vietnam. His duty was to consolidate fractured, chaotic, sometimes gruesome field notes and blend them into an informative document that would tell the story of each man’s death or disappearance. The end result was to be a factual account of their final moments, but, as he described it, “wholesome enough you could post on a church bulletin board.”

He said that like it was something to be proud of. Like it was the best thing he could offer. And maybe it was, but I could tell by just by looking at him, talking about those letters rattled him. I think those letters scared him. I think he tried to bury those letters with all the other letters to everyone else, including the 3,500 letters he sent to me. 

I don’t think it worked.
 
It started following an all-night marathon of The Twilight Zone. I forced myself to stay up to watch so I would sleep in the car on the long drive to summer camp – something I had been dreading for months. My camping experience already included a three-day excursion in a cabin with my fifth grade classmates; but this was different. This was several weeks living with strangers. And not only was not a regular camping experience, this was a “Healthy Lifestyle Summer Experience.”

Read: fat camp.*

OK, so I was a chubby kid. I am a chubby adult (or as I prefer to think, fluffy). And while I have never been skinny, I can tell you, I never felt as fat as the day I arrived at that camp, ten years old, stripped nearly naked, and stood on a scale in front of three grown men and was asked, When was the last time you had a bowel movement?

*My thoughts on those weeks could fill a book, but as this is a father’s day post I will digress. Sufficient to say, if you are considering sending your child to fat camp, you should be taking notes from here on in, as you, my friend, will have some making up to do.

So, where was I? Yes… I stayed up all night watching the Twilight Zone so I would sleep in the car on the way up. Before we left, as I sat on a stool in the kitchen yawning and chomping my way through a low-calorie carnation breakfast bar, my dad reached around from behind and slipped an envelope in my front shirt pocket. The outside read Open Upon Arrival.

Four hours later I opened it to find a $10 bill and note reminding me to brush my teeth, take lots of pictures, and, Be nice to the other girls. I MEAN IT.

That was the first letter. That was the beginning.

If you have ever gone to an overnight summer camp you probably remember what a highlight it was to receive mail. Maybe they passed it out at your bunk every night or called up each camper one-by-one in front of the cafeteria, as it was in my case. The first lunchtime mail call ushered the arrival of 13 letters scattered among 200 campers. Eleven of them were for me. Eleven. All of them from my dad. Most of them mailed a week before I left. None of the other kids got a letter every day, and he knew it would give me something to gloat about. At some point I sent one back in return – a postcard made from a painting of a purple mountain I made in the arts and crafts cabin. That postcard was propped up on his desk for years and eventually migrated to his wallet for the rest of his life. Had I known, I would have spent more time on it.

In addition to his own letters, he asked other people to write me as well –family members, friends, even my teacher back at school. One time he got a former business partner on vacation in Hawaii to send me a postcard. I don’t remember what it said, but I do remember the front had a picture of girl in a bikini. I can’t tell you how insensitive it is to send pictures of skinny girls in bikinis to a ten-year old in a fat camp, but I can tell you, that if your spazzoid bunk mate sees it, she is likely to freak out and tell the cabin counselor you are hiding pornography. I speak from experience on this front. 

Two years later the local high school lost its college accreditation and we started looking at other schools. Private schools. Prep schools. Alternative schools. The idea of selling the house and moving to a better school district was discussed, but when Jenny –a former playmate who once bit the hand off my cabbage patch doll– became pregnant at age twelve, the leisurely search for a local private school ended and the urgent search for a boarding school began. As luck would have it, my cousins who had just moved to Saudi Arabia had already selected a viable option. With great sadness and a couple rounds of hysterics, I left for school.He said it would be just like camp, only longer.  Your cousins will be there and I will write you every day.

But I’ll miss my pets.
   I’ll send pictures.

But I’ll hate the food.
   I’ll send you packages with snacks and all that crap you eat.

What about my clothes?
   Calm down. You have too many clothes already. If you need something in particular, I can stuff it in an envelope.

Can you put the cats in envelopes?
   Keep your grades up and we’ll talk about it.
Boarding school was a lot like camp, only fancier and the adult figures didn’t ditch the kids to smoke pot behind the cafeteria after dinner. The mail was delivered through a series of slots on our lockers each day at 11am, so that when you went to put your books away for lunch, the moment the locker door was opened, the letter would fall to the ground. It wasn’t as ceremonial as having your name called aloud before the cafeteria but it was still a big deal. A silent competition. There were girls who would avoid opening their (likely-to-be-empty) lockers in front of other people for fear they would look unpopular, while others would peep through the delivery slot to check for mail, and if it was there, purposely delay opening the locker door until others were within eyesight to witness the envelope falling on the floor.  I let mine pile up and then read it when I got bored.

Hi Potato,
Well, I bet you are planning your itinerary for your brief visit home. I am sure that on the way from the airport you will want to stop for dinner at El Torito…

Typical letters included subtitled mini essays such as What Was for Dinner Tuesday and Mrs. Miller’s New Driveway and Guess Who I saw at The Post Office Yesterday, Your Third Grade Teacher With The Lisp Whose Name I Cannot Recall , each with a lengthy description of the encounter and how it would be different if I was there to experience it in person.

When that got old, he started writing letters on behalf of our pets. Our cocker spaniel Fitzgerald wrote regularly about how much the cats hated him and how he wished I would come home to keep them away. Of course, Fitzgerald wrote in an Irish brogue with very distinctive handwriting.

Not to be outdone, our two indoor cats, Sam and Harriet, sent cards and letters as well, complaining about how the food was not mashed up enough since my leaving, and, When you come back, can you please bring us some tuna fish?


There was also a slew of feral cats whom I had taken to feeding, most of them traveling vagabonds, and all of them named after my favorite early eighties television stars. He couldn’t come up with their names and personalities in my absence, but made sure to make their presence known via postcards from across the country. After all, they were traveling souls. One time a postcard came with one side featuring a photo of the iconic Flamingo casino in Las Vegas, the other side read: You should see the litter box! –Meredith Baxter.

We could go months without speaking, but letters were different. There were always letters. And cards. And postcards. And brown paper parcels. Thick padded envelopes stuffed with individually wrapped snacks were a frequent occurrence. Sometimes they were nothing more than an envelope stuffed with a comic strip clipping, or a page from the Sears catalog with pictures of pants scribbled with, Tell me again, which one do I need to order?…but every day, without fail, he would send me something.  Even over summer vacation he would continue to write and save up the envelopes in a paper bag to be deposited in a mailbox one week before my departure so I would arrive at school to a mountain of mail. 

Timing was important.  

In late August, five weeks before my birthday, he purchased a book of Happy Birthday postcards. Without my knowledge, he stamped them and sealed the cards in envelopes addressed to family friends across the country with a note asking them each to write something and drop them in a mailbox on a particular date, that way they would arrive on my birthday.  

I cannot be there in person this year so please help to make her feel special in my absence.

Sure enough when my birthday came, that locker rained birthday cards for a week. 

College is when things got weird. His business had failed and his health was not good. My mother was long dead and there was no one around to keep him steady. The letters stopped coming from the family pets and started coming from my childhood imaginary friend, Ralph, who wrote detailed accounts of attending Shaggiest Dog competitions on the beach with Fitzgerald, which sounded sort of like a Girls Gone Wild wet T-shirt contest in Fort Lauderdale, but with ugly dogs instead of drunken sorority girls. 

Look, I said it got weird. 

When I was 19 he was diagnosed with cancer. What he thought was an infected tooth was actually a rampant abscess caused by squamous cell carcinoma. Within two weeks of diagnosis, they surgically removed most of this throat and part of his jaw and tongue. When he lost the ability to eat or speak his notes became his only mode of communication. I had already moved in so there wasn’t anywhere to mail the envelopes, but just the same, he refused to stop writing. Simple comments or requests for assistance became lengthy essays on household goods.

Can you fetch my extra strong reading glasses? In the kitchen...

turned into… 

When you get older and need reading glasses don’t start out with the strongest prescription, start with a low number or you will get dependent too quick and you will have to use them when you want to read a simple recipe.

…and then he’d grab a notebook and bury his head for twenty minutes scribbling the recipe for tuna casserole, which only has three ingredients but took eight pages to accommodate a diatribe on oil-packed tuna and a love song to egg noodles.

Don’t forget to add some crushed pretzels as the top. It’s the little things that matter most!

In late August, five weeks before my twenty first birthday, I sat on the end of his bed frantically rifling through his possessions. The time had come and gone. The hospital chaplain, who was now sitting in an armchair in the corner, passing gas with little fanfare or apology, informed me that, The nurses will box up everything and send it to the house. No need to worry. Just go home and take care of yourself. Just go home. Be at peace.

I remember those words specifically because they were so poorly chosen. Clearly, I was anything but peaceful. I was frantic. Not upset, not crying —just frantic. Searching…

What are you looking for? He asked.

A Letter. There should be a letter. He was fine when I checked in this morning. He didn’t die until 2:30. Mail gets picked up at 4. There should be at least one letter. WHERE IS THE LETTER…

The chaplain sheepishly admitted he had seen a stack on the nightstand. I didn’t want the cleaning crew to toss them aside so I put my own stamps on them and dropped them in the mailbox just before you arrived. I’m so sorry, I had no idea they were important.
Five weeks later, on my 21st birthday, I received not one, but 76 letters, cards and notes. Not from my father, but nearly everyone in his address book.

From his fraternity brother Rich, who I had not seen since I was five, and who I had not thought to call to tell him his old friend was dead, wrote inside a unicorn Hallmark card, Your Dad tells me you could use an extra round of wishes this year. Happy Birthday Kiddo!

From his second cousin, I received a note from your dad half an hour after Little Alice called to tell me the news. I’m sorry this birthday will be bittersweet, but I want you to know I am thinking of you.

On and on…76 times over. Enough to fill a shoebox.

The notes inside are all about my birthday, but the only time I let myself look at them is on Fathers Day when I look at the other 67 pounds of letters I have left. I’m ashamed to admit how many thousands of his letters I never saved, but I don’t think he ever intended me to treasure his words as I do today. Because that is what Dads do — they don’t expect much in return. They don’t focus on the sentimental. They don’t like being the center of attention. The whole concept of Father’s Day made my father uncomfortable. Why should you buy me something I don’t need? Why give me a card when you can tell me in person? Calm down. Read a book. Eat some ice cream. Watch television. Be happy. That’s the best thing you could ever give me. 

It is fitting that this card might have been the first letter I ever wrote. Happy Father’s Day. I love you Daddy.

 

Update 16 hours after posting: I wrote this post in a hurry yesterday (Father’s Day) after looking through the box – an emotional undertaking, as you can imagine. I needed to vent, and, honestly, I didn’t think many people would click past the “read on” after the first few paragraphs, and I certainly did not expect it to resonate with some folks the way it did (per your comments: I’m so sorry if this made you cry. Talk about a bummer way to start a Monday! Yeesh.)
All I was hoping to say is that sometimes a lifetime of small actions add up to something much bigger than any one-time gesture. Parents (moms AND dads) don’t get thanked often enough for all the everyday mundane responsibilities they take on when kids come in the picture. Since I couldn’t pick up the phone and tell my Dad how much I appreciated “the little things”, it made me feel better to tell all of you. Thanks for listening 🙂

 

Aunt Izora’s Pink Flocking

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Legend has it, my Great Aunt Izora was fond of pink flocking. Back in the late 1950’s she was kind enough to send her sister, my grandmother, Pumpkin, a pink flocked wreath to hang in the front window of what was my mother’s childhood home.
Side Note 1: Those names are 100% real. I couldn’t make this up if I tried.
Side Note 2: Pumpkin kept a very traditional home. Even back in the 50’s and 60’s when turquoise cars were commonplace, Pumpkin leaned toward the Ralph Lauren look…Green velvet. Mahogany wood. Tartan plaid. Dark antiquey things someone brought over on a boat from a place that smells like fish. You get the picture.
With that in mind, it’s easy to imagine the confusion raised when an oversize pink flocked wreath landed on Pumpkin’s door step that December day. Described as “huge” and “garish,” it came with silver balls and a “cute little Santa” perched in the middle. Pumpkin wondered why anyone, much less her own sister, thought her home suitable for such a gaudy, unorthodox specimen? 
Surely it was a mistake.

Surely Izora intended her to receive a green wreath, or perhaps a red one. Maybe even a white one, but pink? Heavens no. There must have been a mix up down at store, and Pumpkin even went so far as to pick an argument with florist until he exchanged the pink wreath for a traditional circlet of green holly. It hung in their window for several weeks, until Christmas Eve, when Aunt Izora called to confirm she was coming over the following day and could not wait to see “that pink wreath!”

Oh crap.

Pumpkin immediately sent her eldest daughters on a wild goose chase around town in search of another pink flocked wreath with a velvet Santa in the middle (no easy task on Christmas Eve). Eventually one was located and Aunt Izora arrived the followed day, delighted to see her gift prominently displayed in the front window for all the world to see, never knowing her well intended gift had ever caused such distress and upheaval, telling everyone,“The minute I saw it, I knew Patty would love that adorable pink Santa!”

Side note 3: Patty, now known as Aunt Pat (or as she signs her emails “Yer Olde Ain’t Pat”) is my mother’s younger sister and the baby of the family. Although she probably doesn’t like to be referred to as the baby. She is married to Uncle John, who, when I was eight, taught me how to play poker and bust a grown man’s knee cap with a fork. Not at the same time, though.

Aunt Pat was kind enough to send me a photo of the “adorable pink Santa.” Let’s take a look, shall we?
WOW AUNT IZORA, WAY TO BE WEIRD.

Check out the face on that thing.

Creepy.

Like, Black Velvet Clown Painting In The Bathroom type of creepy.

See, I don’t question why someone painted the clown on black velvet; I question the person who wants to look at it while they go to the bathroom. Not that my questioning should stop them. It’s their bathroom. It’s their home. Their life. Their bowel movement. Who am I to judge?

…but, when someone gives me the creepy clown painting and gets offended when I don’t hang it above my toilet, well, we have a problem.

And therein lies the rub: you can’t give people things you like and expect them to like them too.

Fact: This week, US retailers will exchange/return/reshelf more items than during the rest of the year combined. This wouldn’t happen if we kept our black velvet and pink flocking to ourselves. This wouldn’t happen if we learned to quell our inner Aunt Izora.

Sometimes, especially around Christmas, I wonder if I am just like Aunt Izora. Why, if I had a nickel for every time someone tossed one of my home spangled Christmas sweaters, well, I would have a whole dime.

And it hurts.

This Christmas I decided to embrace my inner Aunt Izora and gave myself the gift of a pink flocked tree. I have wanted one for years but always felt guilty wanting to something like that for myself. Now I realize that, if I don’t get it for myself, that desire will manifest in other ways and will push my taste, my style, my wants out via someone else’s gift, which, will inevitably be returned. And that’s not good for anybody. So, I propose a toast…

Here is to Aunt Izora and her pink flocked wreath.

Here is to me and my pink flocked tree.

And here is to all those folks standing in line right now, returning $46.3 Billion dollars in merchandise.

Just be thankful it wasn’t a clown on black velvet.

Happy new year!

*** PS: If you want people to quit returning your gifts, I suggest you look into a pink flocked tree for yourself. And don’t wait til next year either — Treetopia.com is having a major holiday sale right now. You can embrace your inner Aunt Izora for up to 70% off!



Moving Skeleton: 50 Pairs of Black Socks

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There are two kinds of people in this world; people who pair their socks together and people who let their socks roam free in the drawer. There is also an unusual sub-group of folks who safety pin their socks together before putting them in the washing machine (nerd alert!) but that’s a discussion for another time.

Me? I fall into the non-pairing, free-roaming sock drawer camp. I like to think my socks throw little mixer parties while I am not around–the pantyhose play saxophone while the flannel gray trouser stockings dance the merengue. Pleasant thought. But it only disguises my true hatred: pairing socks.

My housewife skills leave a lot to be desired in the cleaning and cooking departments, but if there is one thing I won’t do, it would be pairing socks.

I hate it.

Many moons ago, my ex and I celebrated our first anniversary.

He gave me jewelry. I gave him fifty pairs of black socks.

Why? He asked.

With delight, I told him, Because I’m tired of pairing your bastard socks together. Now we can throw out your mismatched pairs and you can have one giant drawer of the same type of sock. No matching necessary! See, this way you’ll never have to wake up in the morning and rifle through your drawers yelling WHERE THE HELL IS MY OTHER NAVY BLUE SOCK WITH YELLOW TOE STITCHING because now it’s all the same. Genius right? No need to thank me.

Somewhere in the world, a family therapist is reading this while condescendingly shaking their head.

Nine years later, when we were splitting up possessions, in the middle of a heated argument, right after I threw a crockpot out the window –and no I’m not kidding, and yes it was full of chili– he told me our relationship was doomed because he resented me twice a day, every day for nine years; once in the morning when the socks went on, and once at night when the socks came off. He hated the way the black socks looked, he hated the way they felt, and hated me for forcing him to dispose of his old sock drawer.

Nice.

Should I have left his sock drawer alone?
Should I have never forced him to wear socks he didn’t like?
Should I have been less lazy and paired his socks together for him?

Answer: I should have let the man do his own damn laundry.

So when I moved out of our home and into this apartment, where I truly started living on my own for the first time in my life, what was the first thing I  bought?

Fifty pairs of black socks.

And I love the sh*t out of them.

I like to keep it classy.

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My childhood neighbors, the Robersons, liked to dip things in gold. Brass, actually. Shoes, watches, army hats, pieces of machinery…even a guitar pic from a guy who played backup for Elvis. Nothing was too good to get the dip.

The Robersons, a lively retired couple, were known across the neighborhood for throwing impromptu Samba parties in their driveway complete with Perry Como music and custom cocktails with exotic names like Swamp Gas and Singapore Sea Breeze.

Mrs. Roberson would don a sequin cocktail frock and wheel out the bar cart, while Mr. Roberson flirted with the neighborhood females, regaling war stories from his days in Korea. “See this scar? Man doesn’t get a scar like that at the beauty parlor, no sir, that’s a bohica burn that’s what that is. Battle of Old Baldy, that’s what that is. They never saw us coming.” And everyone would shake their head and click their tongues as if to say, I know. I know. I saw it all go down on M.A.S.H. last week.

Folks would bring their own glass, sometimes a bottle, and sometimes, on special occasions, Mr. Elfman from down the road would bring his world famous whiskey milk punch. I am not proud to say that, at age nine, my first experience with alcohol consisted of ten feeble sips of Mr. Elfman’s milk punch followed by a mighty spray of vomit across the side of Roberson’s garage. I don’t remember much after that, but one of the neighborhood boys later described it as, “The raddest spew ever!”

The next morning at breakfast, my father informed me that me that I would be going back to Roberson’s house to apologize for 1. Vomiting all over the side of their garage and 2. Drinking their booze without bringing any for the host. The issue of underage drinking never came up.

Mortified and still slightly whoozy from the milk punch, I ran over straight away, going so far as to offer to weed their garden or scrub down their garbage cans, anything they wanted, just so long as it didn’t involve another drink. Mr. Roberson, who also looked a little whoozy from the night before, slapped his knee and declared, “Charlene, let her polish the brass. I hate that sh*t and you’re too old to see straight.” Then led me to the library where I proceeded to spend the day polishing brass knick-knacks with a tube of Close Up cinnamon tooth paste.

Mr. Roberson was partner in a tool and die factory that made parts for heating and cooling systems—not what you might call glamorous work but made him a lot of money. So much so, every time a new cog or gizmo made him a dollar, he had that dipped in brass and mounted on a piece of wood to put on display in their home library. Business flourished and the collection never stopped growing. That afternoon alone, I polished enough brass pieces to fill the shelves of their wall-to-wall library bookshelves, plus Mr. Roberson’s highly intricate war-themed chess set, complete with brass canons with real cannon balls. “There’s real gun powder in them cannon balls. Don’t polish too hard, less you want to the amo to go and blow off your hand.”

I polished slowly.

It was hard work, but at the end of the day, I stood back, impressed with my work and declared to no one in particular, “One day I will be the sort of grown up who has a room full of golden knick-knacks.”

And here we are.

Last week my apartment was posted in a house call from Apartment Therapy, wherin I mentioned my “solid gold garden gnomes” which prompted an email from Alice, who asked, where are your gnomes and where can I get some of my own.

Well Alice, these are not only garden gnomes, they are naughty garden gnomes: one is pooping, the other is mooning. If I could have found one in mid-vomit, I would have purchased it too. SUBTLE NOTE TO FAMILY AND FRIENDS: MY BIRTHDAY IS AROUND THE CORNER.

The gnomes started out as traditional plastic garden gnomes—a gag gift. I always wanted to put them in my garden but feared they would get stolen or offend someone. Then I though, well, if I am going to offend someone, why not do it in solid gold. Tastefull. Trump-like. I always wanted a room full of solid gold knick-knacks. No time like the present.

The pooping gnome was painted in antique liquid brass, and the moon gnome was done in 24k gold leaf, because, you know, I like to keep it classy.

Moving is going to be awesome.

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Slowly packing up the house is drudging up all sorts of crap. Physical and emotional dust bunnies abound, not to mention a skeleton or two. This is typical with moving, especially for someone with  hoarding tendencies like mine.

This morning I was clearing out a junk drawer and found myself debating whether to throw out an unused roll of super-sticky fly tape. Simple enough, right?  Toss it, right? Then I remembered the time there was a roll of fly tape above the trash can in the alley when I dropped in my garbage bag and accidentally flipped up my elbow-length hair, successfully taking down the gluey-tape and several dead flies in one fell swoop.

And it wouldn’t come out.

And then I had to go to work.

And then my co-worker Jeannie had to rub my entire head with ice cubes because she called her mother for advice, who said, ice gets gum out of hair so it should work on fly paper, but you know what? It sure didn’t. So then Jeannie just started cutting out chunks of my hair with a razor blade envelope opener, and then that weirdo bearded guy in shipping came by and said you look like you just came out of a can, so then  I had to go to the beauty salon and get ALL MY HAIR CUT OFF up to my ears, only to take some solace and said to the hairdresser, I’ll gladly donate my hair to Locks of Love, but she snapped her gum said, No Hun, those cancer kids don’t want flies in their hair either.

So now I’m standing over my junk drawer, feeling horrible just thinking about all the sick, bald headed children I denied a new wig because I got sloppy with the fly tape.

Good news: I recently learned that smothering your hair with peanut butter will remove fly tape and any other sticky substance, including hot glue. Who knew, right?
Bad news: Now that I know the peanut butter trick, how can I possibly throw out the fly tape?

This is how my mind works: Keeping the unused roll of fly tape + One Jar of Peanut butter = Doing my part to help kids with cancer. Throwing out the fly paper would be the equivalent of snubbing an ill child and would derail my path to Sainthood. The whole But-Peaches-You’re-Not-Even-Catholic-Thing will be overlooked if only I keep the fly tape. So clearly, I’m keeping the tape. 

Moving is going to be awesome.

The Donkey Display

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It’s a very creative donkey display, don’t you think?

Hard to believe they have been dead since before you were born.

That’s the hallmark of quality taxidermy you know—they look younger than you.

It’s depressing.

Actually, I once had a job working for a taxidermist.

And by job, I mean eight hours spread over two days in a basement full of freezers while wearing a gas mask and listening to Fleetwood Mac.

And by taxidermist, I mean an artist who specialized in bodily restoration.

That’s what he called it: bodily restoration.

It sounds like something on a spa menu but the reality is closer to a plate of sloppy joes…

Working for a taxidermist probably strikes most people as gross, but I didn’t mind. Embarrassing? Sure, but I was young and the money was good and I figured I had seen plenty of dead stuff in my day. What was one more raccoon?

And besides, the taxidermist was a very nice man—not like these weirdo taxidermists you see on TV who live in their parents’ basement and get off on collecting body parts—quite the contrary, he was quiet and gentle with soft voice and an immaculate work space. Lots of coasters. Cleanest mustache you ever saw. Sometimes he would talk to the animals as he worked and say things like “are you sure you want to twist your neck to look to the right? The squirrel in the tree is on the left. See here….that’s better, isn’t it?” and of course, everyone agreed the left would be a much nicer place to gaze upon for all eternity.

On the downside, he smelled strange and listened to way too much Stevie Nicks. This one time, he told me he could only install glass eyeballs while listening to Sara because it “inspires an inner serenity” which was major creepy, yet, oddly complimentary, no?

I liked to think when Stevie Nicks sat down to compose the piece, she thought, I want to write a song that entrances a man into state so serene he is fit to install glass eyeballs into the head of a bird carcass.

You know, apparently Sara was actually written about Mick Fleetwood’s first wife, but I’m pretty sure Stevie is going to change her story when she hears my theory.

Anyway, this job, with the taxidermist, would be the first of two jobs where I was hired entirely based on the appearance of my hands. The moment the taxidermist saw them he flipped them over, held them to the light and declared they were “the hands of jeweler!”

He was getting up in years and his hands were not as steady as they used to be. Stuffing and sawing were not a problem, but he needed someone with steady hands to glue individual hairs and feathers around the facial features of the deceased. See, (and feel free to skip ahead if you just ate), if you have ever seen a dead animal, you know the areas around the eye sockets and mouth are the first to decompose, and since making a dead animal look alive again relies heavily on the appearance of realistic hair, my job would be of critical importance. He made a big deal about valuing my time and my talent, which was a first for me in the workplace. It’s hard to say how much I appreciated it at the time. Hallmark just doesn’t make cards for these things.

This post has already gotten more gruesome than I intended, so I’ll spare you the details of my eight hours of bodily restoration boot camp, sufficed to say, I quit shortly after a phone call with a client in Missouri who wanted me to color match the innards of a fox to see if they would be appropriate to use in his fishing gear. It didn’t matter how much I needed the money, a girl has standards.

Blah blah blah, where was I going with this? Oh yes, the taxidermied donkeys. So last weekend, Kiki and I went to the Field Museum, which is sort of like Chicago’s natural history museum—an essential library of taxidermy species, plus a basement of archived creatures that the public never gets see. The taxidermist I worked for was always very proud to say he had several birds on display at the Field, but I won’t show you pictures of them because I cannot remember which ones belong to him. I think there was an African partridge or two. Or something. Oh, I’m a bad employee…

Photo Caption Wanted

Anyway, while we were at the Field, I saw these donkeys on display. The taxidermist was highly critical of how subjects are positioned and thought they should mimic their natural environment. I’m guessing the people at the Field Museum are of similar ilk, so I wonder, honestly; what the hell is going on here?

These donkeys—are they kissing? Are they greeting? And that one in the middle looks shocked. It sort of looks like a scene from Three’s Company with Jack and Janet smooching on the couch and Krissy just walked in from the Regal Beagle.

Or maybe it’s something else.

I can’t decide. But it’s a very creative donkey display, don’t you think?

Madame Rhinoceros

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Madame Rhinoceros collage shadow box I made, oh, err 2004? Look, sequins!
Yesterday I found myself killing time in the cosmetics section at an upscale department store. I don’t generally loiter among the lipstick but I was early for lunch with a friend and was running low on mascara.
Ten minutes in, a chipper young sales clerk with a dolphin tattoo successfully deployed a sales technique that I learned years ago while training for my first retail job. I’m sure there are lots of variations on the technique but I know it as CCI (Compliment, Comment, Introduce).

   Step 1. Clerk compliments the Customer = Customer feels good.
   Step 2. Clerk comments on the Customer = Customer feels insecure.
   Step 3. Clerk introduces a product = Customer buys it.

The basic concept is that if you can make a woman feel insecure in a “friendly” way, she will buy anything. I wish I could tell you that the technique is wrong and it never works and we are all too smart for that…but alas, sadly, it works all the time. We are a manipulative bunch. Yesterday, the conversation went something like this:

   Clerk:  “Oh my you have such lovely skin!”
   Customer: “Well thank you very much. I try my best.”
   Clerk:  “You know, you have such unique coloring. I can see how it would be difficult finding the right color pencil to tame those brows. Have you tried one of these?”
    Customer slumps her shoulders, lifts right hand to eyebrows to smooth them out while left hand reaches for the pencil.
    …

Five minutes later, Customer walks out with one eyebrow pencil, three eye shadows, foundation primer and countless packets of product samples.

Thing is, Customer went in looking for mascara.

Oh dear me, I feel just like Madame Rhinoceros!

Madame Rhinoceros and Her Dress
From Aesop’s Fables by Arnold Lobel

Madame Rhinoceros saw a dress in the window of a shop. It was covered with polka dots and flowers. It was adorned with ribbons and lace. She admired it for a moment and then entered the shop.
“That dress in the window,” said Madame Rhinoceros to a salesperson, “I would like to try it on.”
Madame Rhinoceros put on the dress. She looked at herself in the mirror. “I do not think this dress is at all attractive on me,” she said.
“But Madame,” said the salesperson, “you are completely wrong. This dress makes you look glamorous and alluring.”
“If only I were sure,” said Madame Rhinoceros.
“Ah, Madame,” said the salesperson, “everyone who sees you wearing this dress will be filled with
admiration and envy.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Madame Rhinoceros, turning around and around in front of the mirror.
“Absolutely,” said the salesperson. “You have my word.”
“Very well,” said Madame Rhinoceros, “I will buy the dress, and I will wear it now.”
Madame Rhinoceros left the shop. As she walked up the avenue, she saw that people were smiling and laughing at her.
“Admiration,” thought Madame Rhinoceros.
She saw some people who were shaking their heads and frowning.
“Envy,” thought Madame Rhinoceros.
She continued up the avenue. Everyone who saw her stopped and stared. Madame Rhinoceros felt more glamorous and alluring with every step.

o-o-o-o-o



Prehistoric Garden Gnomes

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Spotted these in the fern room at the Lincoln Park Conservatory the other day. I think they are there to illustrate that these plants date back to the time of the dinosaurs, which is indeed impressive, but dude, seriously, IS THIS A COOL IDEA OR WHAT?!

I’ll tell you something–soon as my postage stamp garden plot pops up next month, I’m planting a couple of dinosaurs.They are like prehistoric garden gnomes.

The Old Tomato Wreath

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Ten years ago I lived upstairs from The Old Tomato. Her real name was something like Veronica Pommerossi or Verachi Pomodesa or Villanova Panchinelli…whatever it was, it sounded like vecchio pomodoro, which roughly translates from Italian into old tomato. It was an acuarte description too –she was wrinkled and acidic, small and round, squishy and strangely sweet like a roma tomato that had been left out in the sun.

Her tan was impressive. All summer long she could be found in front of the building, sitting in a folding lawn chair and listening to Frank Sinatra on her portable radio. She didn’t speak much English but managed to express disgust and/or worldly advice at nearly every passing person. Teenage boys would walk by wearing baggy jeans and she would yell Why you don’t put pants on your ass? You try to catch you the raccoon? Put pants on your ass and you catch TWO raccoons!

Raccoons?

One time there was a string of robberies in the building next door and she took to sitting on the stoop waving a giant metal spoon at every suspicious person who past the building. I sort of wondered what she would do with the giant spoon, but alas, the opportunity never arose, as the robberies stopped. We took to calling her The Old Tomato: Crime Fighter at Large.

Sadly, the summer passed and so did she. Shortly after Halloween The Old Tomato suffered a massive stroke and died a few days later. Her family came and cleared out a few prized possessions then hired a flock of teenage boys to clear out the rest of her belongings and set them by the dumpster. It was a sad sight: her whole life in boxes laid out in an alley, discarded by raccoon chasing boys in baggy pants.

One of them saw me walking up the stairs and said Hey lady, want some Christmas stuff? I don’t feel right putting Jesus in the garbage, and handed me a box the size of a stove, filled with ornaments and wax evergreens.

It was her Christmas box. How could I say no?

Now, it’s not like I needed a bunch of funky Seventies Christmas stuff, even back then. In fact, I didn’t even keep a Christmas tree in those days. It just broke my heart to think of throwing it away. The box sat in a closet with the water heater for years.

One day the water heater broke and the repair man came in and moved the box, tipping it over and the contents fell out. Instead of apologizing, you know what he did?  He made fun of me. He said I was hoarding someone else’s memories. He said I should get rid of the box.

Perhaps he had a point. Perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut. I ‘m not sure, but I got so crazy defensive that I became determined to take every single one of those ornaments out of the box and put them on display. Good bad, ugly, broken down, I was going to take them out and let them shine.  I still didn’t have a tree at that time so I settled on clustering them together and tying them onto a wreath. It’s like a whole Christmas tree clustered together in a single circle.

I love it.

There are glass balls and satin bells and needle point poinsettias…gold bows and green icicles….even a one-eyed angel. Why, the only thing missing is a raccoon.

The other two smaller wreaths have specific affiliations too; the one on the left is made from candy I picked up on a wonderful vacation, and the one on the right is made from ornaments on a tree that used to be on display at a previous job. There are more scattered around the house. My goal is to make one wreath a year, affiliated with one person or place or event.  They are accumulating quickly.

I’m still deciding what this year’s wreath will be. I’ll have to clean my cupboards out after Christmas and see what comes out to play. It’s a good post-Christmas pre-New years activity.

I’ll keep you posted 😉

Dinosaurs: A Disco Christmas in Saudi Arabia

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 Y’all, meet Ahmed. My favorite Christmas decoration.  He may not look Christmasy, but believe it or not, he reminds me of the baby Jesus in the most wonderful way you can imagine. Ahmed, in all his glitter and glory, is a Tool of Worship.

As someone whose system of beliefs runs “deep and polka dotted” the holidays make me keenly aware of our diversity in faith. Christmas time can drudge up a lot of confusion for people who fall outside to picket fences of organized religion.

Do you say Merry Xmas or Happy Holidays?

Do you get offended if I just typed Xmas instead of Christmas?

Do you get offended by people who erect a Christmas tree in their home but never bother to celebrate the birth of Christ?

Do you get offended by people who hang dreidels on the Christmas trees?

Do you sometimes wonder, “Why the hell am I up at the butt crack of dawn roasting this damn turkey for four kids who will be too full of chocolate Santas to appreciate this hard work?”

Don’t answer that.

I have a confession: I’m not Aunt Peaches.  My real name is Second-Cousin Peaches. See, I don’t have any siblings, or, not in the typical sense at least. So being an Aunt is pretty much impossible.

Disappointed in me? I’m not. My niece Abigail’s Dad, Bubba, and his two siblings, Katie and John, are as close to brothers and sisters as I have ever known. We are close in age, and played and fought and sang and screamed and burped in each other’s faces the same as siblings. We even went to school together. I saw two of them just last weekend.

Abigail is named after my Mother who passed away when I was young, and who loved my cousins same as she loved me. They were, and are, my family. So when I was twelve, and they up and moved to Saudi Arabia, I was heartbroken. Years later I realized that their move was best thing that ever happened to me but that’s a story for another time.

How much do you know about Saudi Arabia? You probably know they aren’t exactly friendly toward Westerners like you and me. They keep a strict interpretation of Islamic law and are perceived to isolate themselves from outsiders in general. Its home to Mecca, which is as sacred as it gets in the Islamic system of beliefs. 

Tangent: If you are not familiar with the basic tenets of Islam, but you think that everyone on the planet should know about your religion, I want you to stop reading this and click right here right now. Yes, now. Read it. Don’t worry, I’ll wait. 

Look, I’m not trying to evangelize any point of view here; I just don’t think anyone has any business running their mouth before they open their ears.

My family lived on a compound that functioned in the same way you hear people describe army bases in other countries–like a small town with walls and its own school, grocery store, post office etc. Thing is, even if everyone on this private compound was American or Canadian, they still lived under Saudi Arabian law. Breaking these laws could lead deportation or imprisonment, or better yet, corporal punishment, including the public amputation of your hand or foot, or maybe just a good ol’ fashioned flogging. Getting stoned to death in the town square was a not uncommon. Fun stuff, huh?

*Folks, I’m no international legal scholar, but let me give you a few of the more memorable highlights:

  • No drugs or alcohol of any kind. You couldn’t buy Wild Turkey in the whole dang country!
  • Human rights were not a priority. Women were treated sort of the same way our society would treat a small child –no voting, no driving, no walking around alone in strange places. Technically, I believe they could own property but no bank would accept their signature without her husband’s written authority. Women would shroud themselves head to toe in a type of dark body veil called an abiyah. Now, I know plenty of ladies who will tell you the abiyah is a liberating experience, but you sure could have fooled me. I could chit-chat about this for ages, but this story is already making me ramble, so if you want to hear more about human rights in Saudi Arabia, or women’s right’s in particular, I suggest you read Princess. It was real popular a few years back and might be outdated by now, but I tell you, it is a fascinating read.
  • Freedom of speech did not exist. Openly criticizing the government was forbidden.
  • Western influence is shunned at every opportunity. People would tell stories about buying a magazine in London for the plane ride into Saudi, where promptly upon arrival, a little man at the customs counter would flip through your magazine with a giant black marker and ink out any unsuitable images of girls in swimsuits, pictures of booze, etc..Click here to see images of Mariah Carey albums as they are sold inside Saudi Arabia vs. Everywhere Else. Fascinating stuff.
  • Freedom of religion does not exist. This was a big one. The Government strictly prohibited the public practice of any religion besides Islam. There were no churches. Non-Islamic/foreign/temporary workers were allowed to enter and live in the Kingdom, but they could only worship in secret inside the privacy of their homes. Items like Bibles and crucifixes were as illegal as drugs or violent weapons. Oh wait, violent weapons weren’t illegal at all. Just the same, sometimes people would sneak them in by hiding them in their luggage in a box of tampons or wrapped in dirty underwear, but it was risky. Any item deemed a “Tool of Worship” would be confiscated on the spot, and the person carrying the item could be deemed a zealot missionary and sent back to where they came from. This could also mean that you, or your family’s breadwinner, would loose their visa and thier job and be deported on the spot. Sometimes Westerners were given some slack, but generally speaking, the rules were firm and unfavorable.

* Please note my crass summary of these laws is mostly written in the past tense. I have read the Saudi Arabian legal system has come a long way in the last twenty years but I am inclined to think some things never change. I hope you’ll do your own research before forming an opinion. If someone reading this has first hand experience and would like to pipe up, well go ahead and chime in. I’m all ears.

So, given what I just said, how do you think people celebrated Christmas in a place like that? Not like you can find a contraband Christmas tree in the desert. There are no chestnuts roasting on the fire. No jingle bells to jangle. What would you do to mark the season?

You would get creative, that’s what you would do!  And that’s just what these families did. Thousands of them, every year would build Christmas trees out of cardboard and tomato cages or string lights on potted plants. Now that stuff seems trendy and eco-conscious, but back then, for them, it was the only option. Isn’t that wonderful?

My favorite story was about people building nativity scenes out of children’s toys. Sometimes they were nothing more than a manger made of a simple blanket fort with a few teddy bears underneath.  Other times they got real elaborate and theatrical; Barbie and Mr. Potato Head sat in for Mary and Joseph. Gi-Joes offered gifts of gold, frankincense, and murr, as a family of My Little Ponies looked on. Swarms of farm animals could be swapped in for matchbox cars or tiny plastic army soldiers.  Jesus was usually played by a Polly Pocket Doll, or they made him themselves out of clay.

Somewhere along the way I heard about a lady in Riyahd whose young son had outgrown his dinosaur obsession. She took the contents of his rejected toy chest, dipped them in glue and glitter, and went to town. The end result was a glittering nativity scene that took over most of their living room. They said it was wonderful. Some people might think that sounds scandalous, but I think it must have been beautiful. More important, it says something about how each of us can find a way to celebrate our family and our faith, even when we in the most unwelcoming surroundings.

Gosh, that storyline sounds familiar….reminds me of this of this baby that was born in cold dark barn, surrounded by humble creatures while worshiped by angels and kings. I wonder if there is a connection? (That’s sarcasm.)

Years passed….my family moved back to the US and we were back to tearing up the holidays with evergreen trees and A Barbra Streisand Christmas Album. (That’s not sarcasm.)

The holidays seemed much the same as always until the Christmas Eve after my father died. I was twenty and didn’t have anywhere to go. I was still in college and my friends had all gone home for the holidays and my boyfriend was working late in a restaurant. I couldn’t afford to travel to see my extended family down South. Probably just as well I was alone that night because I was really good at feeling sorry for myself. I mean, realllllly sorry. Like, Real Housewives of New Jersey style sorry. So I sat there and cried and watched It’s a Wonderful Life. Eventually I got bored and frustrated and started cleaning…one thing lead to another and it was time to take the garbage out.

Just as I got to the alley behind my apartment, I saw him there. Standing on the edge of the dumpster waiting for me, a tuft of snow on his green plastic head. It was dark outside and there was the halo of a street light shining down around.

I have never seen a living nativity but I’m pretty sure the feeling of awe and wonderment I felt in that moment by the dumpster is as close to a spiritual fireworks as I will ever know.

Sure, it was just a just toy on a trash can. Sure, it was probably just some leftover trinket some kid dropped while carrying his other Christmas loot. Sure, that snow had been projected for days. Sure, that light shined down on that dumpster to keep the rats away. Sure, there were a hundred people walking down that alley who could have stumbled in at any moment….but in that moment, in my moment, I was sure that dinosaur was meant for me.

Two minutes later, I was back in my apartment, plastic dinosaur in hand. Ten minutes later he was dipped in glue and glitter. Thirty minutes later he was situated on top of the TV, surrounded by mementos; photos, books, a wallet, a necklace, a piece of ribbon…it must have been an odd sight to see them there, piled up on the TV that night, but what did that matter? It was an inventory of the people and places I love most. Not so much objects of desire, but tools of worship.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Six month update: To my surprise, this post created some controversy.
Click here to read what happened next.