Surreal Shorts

Smoooooth

Whilst scanning the fridge for ingredients to put in my smoothie a few mornings ago, after not discovering yogurt, my gaze fell upon a bottle of white wine….and lingered there for just a few seconds more than I was comfortable with. Did I just visualize myself adding wine to the mangos, banana, and hemp powder, and then drinking it? Shaking it off, I quickly closed the fridge, self-promising that if I ever took the advice of the little voice in my mind saying, “It’s grape juice…do it…do it…do it,” I would immediately confess to my husband so that he could either help, or join me. Time will tell.

Speaking of Confessions

My uncle died recently and we traveled to Denver for the services, and to spend time with my aunt and cousins. My four cousins are wonderful people – four unique individuals who love, cry, work and play with passion. Even under the worst of circumstances, I enjoy seeing them and their children and spouses and spending time together.

Staying with the Catholic theme of the services, I have a few confessions of my own to make, even though I myself am not of the Pope. During the rosary, I confess that I lost count at around the 29^th Hail Mary. My husband later informed me that there had been exactly five miracles and fifty Hail Marys. I called him a show-off and told him he was wrong. There were six miracles, if you count the fact that I was in a church and it didn’t spontaneously combust upon my arrival. As much as I don’t relate to organized religion, I find it soothing to watch the faithful practice their rituals. Still, a cocktail waitress checking in from time to time would have been nice.

Mother’s Day Dingle Dangle

Soon it will be Mother’s Day again. I remember last Mother’s Day clearly. There we were, my son, daughter, and me, watching the best show never, My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding, when my son reached up behind his head and over toward the top of my pillow, while trying to adjust his own. I felt his fingers lightly grip the back of my upper arm, which was propped up behind me. Then, he said this:

“Is that the pillow, or is that you?”

I turned slowly, as a tear welled up in my eye.

“That is the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that! I didn’t know what it was!”

“If I knew any gypsies, I’d sell you to them and wish you luck with your teen bride and camper full of children!”

“Mom!”

Conversations, deconstructed

Some mornings, it’s all I can do to not grab the dog by the throat with one hand, wield a greasy spatula in the other and remind everyone that if even one more syllable is uttered in my general direction, the family hound gets it.

The problem is this: We moms are not just expected to give one answer per question, but two, because children and husbands need you to acknowledge the fact that they are about to need you, before they actually share why they need you. To do this, they state your name in the form of a question, just to make sure you are ready to help them, thereby doubling the number of responses we must supply in a given day. And as Lewis Black says, “That’s fucked up.”

I’ve gone ahead and devised some generic responses that I can use during peak question traffic time, because I simply cannot be expected to provide an original answer every time someone needs a thing.

There are several moving parts to keep straight: the preliminary alerts, my acknowledgements of the alerts, the actual questions, and my “generic responses.” Like parking regulations, my generic responses will be given between 6:30 and 8 a.m., then again between 5 and 7 p.m., when I’m trying very, very hard to cook dinner without murdering someone or myself, whichever burns more calories.

Of course, questions that express general discontent or status announcements aren’t questions at all (“Bras are dumb.” “I’m tired.” “Jackson is farting.” “My (insert body part here) is hurting/bleeding/missing). Still, these expressions deserve a response. Not really.

To give you an idea why I’ve invented my generic responses, here’s just a portion of the transcript from a recent school-day morning in my house. The following 90-second hail of verbal shrapnel in the form of preliminary alerts, acknowledgements, questions and general expressions occurred in the time it took me to commando-crawl the distance between my bedroom and my office, which happens to be a totally vulnerable, WWI-like no man’s land loft area right outside/above the kids’ bedroom doors:

Hey, Mom?

Lisa?

Mom?

Lisa?

Hey, Lisa?

Mama!

Lisa?

Mom!

My well crafted acknowledgements:

“Hmm?”

“Yeah?”

“Talk to me.”

“Yes?”

“Hmm?”

“WHAAAAAT?!”

“I said, ‘WHAT!?’”

And now for the actual “questions”:

“Where’s the picture of me with the duck?”

“My eye hurts.”

“Why is it raining?”

“Can you do my laundry before my game tonight?”

“I need my laundry done too!”

“Am I eating today?” (Husband, upon not finding his lunch on the counter)

“Are you going to Dad’s game?”

“Can you pick me up?”

“Where’s the bullets for my duck story?”

“What’s the weather today?”

“Do you have a Hawaiian shirt?”

“Where’s the dog?”

“Did you know there’s only 25 school days left?”

I’ve categorized my generic responses by type of grenade being tossed over the fence to me: Whys, wills and wheres. Henceforth, the following generic responses will be delivered with the utmost motherly sincerity and compassion:

All questions beginning with “Why…” get this:

“Because.”

All questions beginning with “Will you…,” or more commonly, “Can you…,” get this:

“Probably.”

All questions beginning with “Where is/are…” get this:

“Up my butt and around the corner.”

All expressions of discontent or general status announcements get this:

“Hmmm.”

Any questions?

Just Can't Win

Thumbing through my thpring folder, I found this gem that I scratched out one day last spring, after the last little pickle-puss was safely out of my world, for the next seven hours anyway. It’s an actual moment-by-moment transcript of the last day of school almost one year ago. I don’t know why I never posted it. Or maybe I do.

6:45 a.m.: Roll out of bed. Unpack joints, one at a time, until I am a fully upright hominid.

6:50: Wonder why an alarm beeping angrily from one of the bedrooms is being ignored.

6:51: Move laundry containing P.E. clothes, handed to me at 9 p.m. the night before, into the dryer. Put next load into the washer, but not my clothes that have been sitting there for a week; bump kids clothes to the front of the line, again, to keep Laundry Gestapo off my back.

6:55: Head downstairs and get bombarded with the first hard-hitting question of the day by my husband, Mike “The Lunchmaker” Wallace:

“Honey, who likes Munchies and who likes BBQ Twists?”

Staring at the two bags, I realize my eyes aren’t open yet.

6:56: Head back upstairs to get reading glasses.

6:57: Feel blood pressure rise slightly as I notice that the alarm beeping angrily from one of the bedrooms is still being ignored.

7:00: Head back downstairs. Take vitamins, look longingly at the wine rack, and reach for the coffee. Give husband answer to his question, which I’ve had plenty of time to think about:

“I don’t know.”

7:05: Feed cats, pet the dog.

7:10: Begin slicing strawberries.

7:13: Stop slicing long enough for husband to take all the slices out of the bowl that I’m presently slicing them into.

7:14: Resume slicing strawberries.

7:15: Stop slicing long enough for first kid to take all the remaining slices out of the bowl.

7:16: Resume slicing.

7:17: Stop slicing as second kid interrupts my progress. Place knife and strawberries on the kitchen table and walk away.

7:17 – 7:44: Make husband’s lunch; look for various missing things (books, socks, belts); make several key admonishments, including, “Get moving,” “Get moving now,” and “I said, ‘Get moving!’”

7:45: Begin wrapping son’s broken toe with waterproof tape in preparation for his field trip to water slide park.

7:50: Stop wrapping after being told I’m doing it wrong.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“The other stuff.”

“That?” I say, pointing to the non-waterproof tape we’d been using on non water park days.

“Yeah. That goes underneath and then the waterproof tape on top.”

“What’s the point of using non-waterproof anything? Remember last night at WalMart, when I bought waterproof tape and bandages? It was for this moment.”

“Well…I just think…I don’t know. Whatever.”

“Well, I do know, and I just think that waterproof is the best thing to wear when one plans to go in, well, the water, frankly.”

“Fine.”

7:58: “Okay, load up, we’re leaving,”

7:59: “Okay, let’s go.”

8:01: “Okay, we’re outta here.”

8:02: Begin looking for car keys.

8:03: Fail to restrain myself from dropping a truth bomb on daughter who is getting over nasty chest cold.

“Do you have water?”

“No, why?”

“Well, no reason, really; I just thought that a person getting over a nasty chest cold on hot day might find it helpful to have some water with her.”

“I’ll use the drinking fountain.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Of course I’ve got my suit on, we’re going swimming!”

Take a Number, Pal!

Mom! It’s a simple, one-syllable word, yet approximately 50% of the time I hear it, I nearly bite my own tongue in half — intentionally. Why? Because there’s one of me, and four of them. Now, I’m no Jimmie the Greek, but that’s some shit odds. And odds are, they need something, and they need it now. Or at least, they think they do. Nevertheless, chances are I’ll be in the middle of meeting one child’s needs when another one of my hormone-infested roommates makes his or her desperate situation known to this hormone-receding mom from all the way across the house, give or take a level.

“Do not yell at me from across the house!” I yell, from across the house, followed by a four-step recommendation on how to solve their problem, while the kid in front of me stares blankly, as if to say, “I can’t wait to go to college,” to which I want to reply, “Same here.”

Trying to stay in the moment is exhausting when two or three other people want you in their moments. How come there’s no book for that? Maybe I’ll write it. I’ll call it Mindfulness for Mommies: My Ass.

I really do try to practice mindfulness in my daily life, which takes conscious effort. Like most things, it gets easier the more one does it. When you meditate, you remain mindful of your breathing. But you can be mindful when you're doing other things and it can be just as relaxing as meditating. Here’s how it works: Do, and think, about one thing at a time. It’s like a game. When I’m winning, it’s noticeably relaxing and calming. It’s pretty easy when I’m working at my computer during the day, all alone in the house. When I’m editing an article, and I get to a particularly riveting sentence describing solderable finishes, and my mind tries to plan dinner, I gently guide it back to where it’s supposed to be. So I recognize that I’m mentally wandering, and then I return my thoughts to their proper place: the article. When it wanders again a few minutes later, I nudge it back to where it belongs. Rinse, repeat.

It feels good to give oneself permission to just think about the task at hand. Over time, the mind veers less frequently, and it’s easier to catch it and return it to its rightful moment – this one – the only one that actually exists. That’s all there really is to mindfulness. Do what you’re doing with your body and your mind. Easy, right?

Enter children.

Inevitably, a minute into a task, I get my marching orders, beckoning me in another direction. Which way should I go? If I go mentally and not physically, hollering suggestions across the house, the person in front of me suffers. I suffer.

The thing about getting interrupted when I am helping one of my kids with something is that I feel bad that he or she can’t get help with a knot, a tricky paragraph in a homework assignment, or a gaping flesh wound without having to share my attention. So, it really comes back to me. It’s about how it makes me feel when I can’t complete one simple mission without saying, “Let me see what’s going on. I’ll be right back.” I mean, what if the thing upstairs, or in the garage, or in the bathroom really is more important than what I’m currently helping another one of them with? What takes precedent, a hairy spider in the shower, or the lid on a jar of nacho cheese sauce that won’t budge? Which moment wins? These are judgment calls I am not comfortable making.

That’s why I’m installing one of those “take a number” machines that spit out little pieces of paper to people in delis, butcher shops and customer service counters in department stores. It’s going to take the anxiety out of my moments, mainly because I’ll have total freedom to stay in the one that’s currently happening until it’s all the way over, and guess who gets to decide when it's over: me. I'm the decider.

“Mom, I need you to – “

“Take a number.”

“Oh, ok.”

“Thirty-fiiiiive?”

“Right here!”

“How can I help you?”

“I’ve got a knot in my shoelace.”

“Ok, let’s see….”

“Honey, have you seen my –“

“Take a number.”

“What the hell? Oh, fine!”

“Thirty-siiiiiix? Thirty-six!”

“Thirty-seven?”

“Wait! I’m thirty-six!” my husband says, skidding back into the room. “Right here! I need—“

“Sorry, pal, ya gotta pay attention.”

“Thirty seven!!”

If my kids don’t like it, I’ll just tell them what I usually tell them when they look at me like I’m a total moron:

“Call me when you have four kids.”

“I will!”

“Don’t bother. I’ll be busy lying on a beach, thinking only about the coconut I’m drinking out of.”

Serbian Christmas...Deconstructed

Back by popular demand, much to the dismay of some local Serbian Church officials, are the cherry-picked cultural traditions that many of the quarter- and half-breeds (I’ll call them Slivers of Serb, or SoS’s) have taken upon themselves to continue. That’s right: Some of us are keeping the stuff we like and at least for now, and maybe forever, ignoring some of the stuff we don’t—but rumor has it that may be changing—that something’s afoot, in the form of a re-cleaving of the flock. In other words, be patient, Father, for some of the young guns’ sins are coming a little less frequently these days.

Many of the young Serbs and SoSs have regularly or semi-regularly attended church through the years, while others have opted out completely. Personally, I had a short run of about six years when I accompanied my elderly Great Aunt (Tete), a total Serb (TS), to Christmas Eve and sometimes Christmas Day service. Not having grown up as a churchgoer, I’m one of those who pick up after church service ends (more on that later), and I’m raising my children the same way.

My Tete’s sister, my Baba (grandmother) had no use for church. I never bothered to find out why and she never discussed it. Personally, I suspect it was like a few other things in her life, from her pot roast to her lemon pies to her 62-year marriage to my Jedo: We didn’t always understand how things worked, they just did and we didn’t question her about it. Most likely, if we had, she would have just smiled and said, “I don’t know, honey” and that would have been the truth.

Post-church Traditions

A handful of years ago, I wrote an article chock-full of inaccuracies, according to the local Serb priest, about the cultural traditions of Serbian Christmas, especially the shooting of guns on Christmas Day. At the end of an exhausting phone conversation in which we picked apart the article point-by-Serbian-priest-perspective-point, I officially took responsibility for two factual errors and apologized for not checking my resources more thoroughly. I did not apologize for describing the cultural traditions outlined in the article, stood firm in their accuracy because I was either present, or had been given pictures to prove it, (long-dead church officials shooting guns on Christmas and judging by the images, it wasn’t against their will). Bottom line, I grew up doing what was described, I did not dream it all up, and I don’t apologize for the behavior modeled by my grandparents and their friends, who would lay an egg at the very mention of that word, by the way. Right after they reloaded their black powder blanks. Still, at the end of the day, I understood the priest’s position. I'm not so sure he understood mine.

But we didn’t all sign up to be priests. We didn’t even all sign up to be Christian. Those are choices we make when we become adults. I was lucky enough to be born to the son of a total Serb, and my quarter-Serb status gained my entry to some great parties. Even at 8 or 9 years old, I picked up on the fact that the adults in the room were having one helluva time. Now, it’s my turn.

Some of the cultural traditions in question seem to get a little too much attention, in the eyes of the local church officials. And especially right now, I can understand it. I don’t own a gun, and if gun laws changed tomorrow it would be fine with me. But who doesn’t like to shoot a shotgun now and then? (Well, a few people I know, including my husband, but he gives me a long leash on Serb Christmas. As evidenced last year when he suggested that perhaps it wasn’t exactly on his list of favorite things to look across the room and see a slobbering SoS (or was that an SOB?) “draped across my shoulders like a blanket.” It was harmless, I assure you, until an hour later when the same SOB accidentally caught my son’s cheekbone with his fist during a little three-teenage-boys-on-one-grown-man wrestling match.)

Yes, Serbian Christmas is just one of those magical times when it makes sense to let it all hang out. Or, maybe it makes no sense at all, but people still do and then tend to the cleanup later. With a little help from Brother Slivovitz, grievances can be aired, repaired or deepened; if it’s the latter, just remember that it ain’t a knife fight you’re going to.

The point is this: The cultural traditions that we kids and grandkids of total Serbs, religious or not, choose to partake in mean something to us. They connect us to another dimension of our loved ones—their long gone, but not forgotten big personalities— which often matched their big Serb feet. Even the quieter among them may have blossomed on that one day a year. I’ve seen the grainy reel-to-reel films, in which faithful, churchgoing total Serbs of yore could occasionally be seen with a hand on the wrong -ich’s ass at the last house party of the evening, or within the hallowed walls of the Wells Fargo Club. 

On that one day a year, the cultural traditions, cherry-picked as they may be, remind us that we are one, and of our common thread, be it TS, SoS or SOB.

In fact, I suspect that it is not today’s young SoSs who invented the idea of embracing the fun stuff as passionately as the religious stuff. It just might be possible that some of those same old-country Serbs carried forward not every aspect of the religious habits of their forefathers, but plenty of the midnight coin-throwing, gun-toting rituals they witnessed as children for the same reason we do—because it made them feel closer to their own, long-dead loved ones. So there’s nothing new here. There’s nothing new about a flock whose members aren’t always headed in the same direction. Sometimes they even bump into each other and fall down. People are many things, but they aren’t everything.

We’ve all got a job to do. God bless the priests for doing theirs. God help the rest of us for doing ours.

Christian Grey, Housewife

There are moments, between corks, when I think about the limits of my patience. I think about strategies for maintaining my composure when things go completely haywire. Like when I’m sitting in the car, waiting for someone to find his or her shoes, and thinking about the admonishment handed back to me in a snotty tone just twenty minutes earlier for reminding said person to watch the clock because it’s almost time to go. I can hang in there for awhile, but I’d like to be able to stay really cool – Christian Grey cool, even when just below the surface I’m about to go fifty shades of crazy.

It makes me wonder: How would my family stand up to a mom version of Christian Grey? Would they fear her? Would they be drawn like a moth to a flame and eventually yearn for the punishment? Not like Ana’s yearning, of course, but a decidedly more G-rated yearning, similar to the way they drool at the mere mention of the phrases water slide park, or NFL Ticket!  Would they all think twice before rolling their eyes at me, not making their bed before leaving for school, or leaving their backpacks strewn about the dining room?

The fact is, my household is a virtual Disneyland for maternal sadists.

I can see it very clearly. Just like those tense moments in 50 Shades, when Ana steps across an arbitrary and imaginary line, my family members would sense the sudden energy shift in the room. Of course, I wouldn’t have a long list of ridiculous infractions to avoid, like Christian does. You can bet Mama Grey’s  No-No List would make Christian’s look like, well, child’s play—no pun intended. In fact, one of the first ways my family would probably become ensnared in the fine print would likely concern the most grievous and punishable offenses of all: not cleaning up after oneself in the kitchen.

First, the merest shadow of a hint of dissatisfaction would eclipse my normally sunny demeanor; somebody would notice, and the tension would start to build. Then, a cock of the head, and an innocent beckoning to “come closer.” Next, a gentle, yet direct inquisition.

 “Is that your mess?”

“Um…it’s stuff from…uh, breakfast,” the submissive would say, eyes downcast.

“Is that your mess?”

“Well, it’s dishes on the counter….by the sink.”

“What else?”

“Pans on the stove from breakfast.”

“What else?”

“Stuff on the counter.”

“What?”

“Crumbs and jelly on the counter.”

“I see. Pots and pans stretching from the stove to the sink and goopy countertops is called a mess, where I come from.”

“But—“

“Does that mess belong to you?”

“Um….”

“What?”

“Yes.”

“Now, tell me, if I asked you whose job it is to clean up a mess like that, would the first, second or even third name that pops into your mind be mine, the only person who did not have a hand in making it because I was working all day while your greatest challenge was taking snack breaks between dips in the pool?”

“No.”

“Perfect. Now, do you see that bungee cord over there—the one that’s been sitting in the corner of the living room for three weeks because someone, again, not me, tied the dog up to the front porch with it because someone else other than me lost the leash?

“Yes.”

“I want you to go and get it and bring it here. I’m going to go get my thongs.”

“Mom!”

“Silence!” I’d say, lips set in a thin line.

After returning from the red room of pain, a.k.a., my closet, with a box labeled, “Punishing Childhood Memories,” we would begin.

“W-w-what’er those?”

 “When I was a kid, thongs were hard rubbery contraptions, more like plastic really, that you wore on your feet. The unforgiving little thingy between your toes first caused raw, red divots, and then calluses formed, which compelled one to rub his toes together incessantly.”

“Ewwww.”

“Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m not going to allow anyone to do any dishes tomorrow, or the next day, which shouldn’t be too difficult. Then, I’m going to pile them in the kitchen sink, which will be filled with soapy water. Then, you’re going to stand in front of the kitchen sink.”

“Wearing the thongs?”

“I’m impressed.”

“Whatever.”

“Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“What’s the bungee cord for?”

“That’s a very good question. You see, I’m going to hook the bungee cord to your back belt loop and the other end to the cabinet drawer on the other side of the kitchen island, directly behind you. I figure you’ll be about two feet shy of easily being able to reach the sink.”

Slowly, the mental lights will flicker to life...Constant straining against the stress of the bungee in order to reach the sink, hard rubber thingy between toes, sinkful of dishes….Yoooowwwie!

“But that’s going to hurt.”

“Almost as much as my feelings when I walk into the kitchen and see messes that anyone old enough to wipe his or her own butt can clean up for themselves, but has chosen instead to leave for the next person who needs to use the kitchen, and by use, I mean make a home-cooked meal for her family.”

“I promise never to do it again?”

“Yes, I know.”

“You’re my favorite mom?”

“Yes, I know.”

“Dad, can you get me out of this,” the mini-submissive will call out to his father, like poor old Tessio to Tom Hagen in The Godfather, just before he got snuffed out.

“I don’t think so,” my husband will say, eyes downcast, shaking his head.  “See my shoes over there? I left them in the doorway and she tripped over them yesterday.”