Ed Note: This might not be a post for the faint of constitution. It might simply be TOO MUCH INFORMATION. Proceed with caution. I'm only writing for myself today, anyway...
One horrible thing about the whole experience is that it has deeply compromised my love of white sheets. And I so did love my hotel-style white sheets!
I prefer an entirely white bed, matter of fact. With a downy duvet and heaps of white-cased pillows. I love the crispness of it. I love the simplicity of it. I love the refreshed feeling I get from a freshly made all-white bed -- like trees after rain. I love the ease of mixing-and-matching my white sheets. The luxury of a clean, pressed white pillowcase. The dramatic pop of all those pieces against a painted wall.
It's the "pop" in fact, that I can't get out of my mind. That jarring, gut-wrenching contrast of colors. I was groggy and nearsighted, waking up in the middle of the night to find myself unsettled and in pain, my legs gliding across each other in some sticky ooze. When I threw back the blankets -- even before I found my glasses -- the first thing I perceived was the intensity of the stain on my white sheet. It was red. Fire engine, Radio Flyer, Valentine-heart red in a big spreading oval underneath me. Red, just like fresh blood.
Later, when I had cried and raged and become very, very meticulous, I tried to stain-stick that red stain out of existence. I used Shout. A bleach pen. I washed in hot. But the stain never completely went away. Where the middle finally came clean, the outlines of it held on to an ugly yellow-brown ring -- sepiatone proof of just how unsentimental life can be. How cruel, really, to catch us unawares, time and again, only to tell us that we have had hurts that will not wash away.
One day, while scrubbing the sheet in front of my kitchen window, for at least the fourth time, I suddenly became paranoid that a passing car could see into my house and somehow discern what I was doing at the sink. Not wanting anyone to know, I wadded up the wet sheet and threw it away. Never looked back. No great loss, right? I eman, I have other sheets. And, really, doesn't one white, queen-size fitted sheet look very much like another? Probably the way one dead fetus looks very much like another. I hope one day I can forget the most careless words uttered in my dire medical moment. "Just like last time, there's no heartbeat. And no limbs this time, only an empty rod with a head."
After the mattress pad completely dried, I made it my job to reassemble the bed. I flipped and fished through every linen shelf, looking for sheets the right size but not in white. I found an old floral set I once loved and never had the heart to purge. A big, friendly print of cottage roses and daisies on blue chambray -- all the better to hide any later signs of loss. The floral sheets went on and have remained, through multiple washings, our bedding for weeks.
Eventually, I'll return to all-white sheets. They'll be crisp and clean and they'll further lift my lightening mood. One Saturday morning, maybe sometime soon, I will remake my familiar, beloved bed and pause when it's done to take one deep breath in. I'll imagine a faint pine scent and hope for the best. But I do fear... with a small, pushed-aside, mostly-suppressable fear... that some part of me will have to take a look every morning thereafter, scanning my white sheets for a sign of unforseen tragedy and half expecting a yellow-brown outline of all that is raw and painful in my life.
Just a girl, asking for grace, to survive her happily-ever-after.
6.29.2006
6.28.2006
Storm Serial, Part III
So there we were, headed home on I-30. It was -- definitely -- a dark and stormy night. (That one was for Anglican.) The strangest thing about the water was that it seemed to come up at me, as much as down on me. Thick curving waves of it -- like miniature ocean surf -- flowed up, around my wheels and down the sides of my car if I strayed too far from the "sweet spot" in the center of the lane. When other -- larger and more fool-hardy -- cars passed me, buckets of water splashed over the roof of my car, down the windshield and across the hood.
The worst was when the rain itself thickened. It was like standing behind a gray vinyl shower curtain, without contacts, trying to see through. The landscape was reduced to dark blobs and fuzzy points of light. Speed reduced from 35 ... to 30.... to 25... to 20. And still the passing of another vehicle felt like the boom of a jet exceeding the sound barrier.
I had a CD on -- Third Day's "Offerings," I'm pretty sure -- and I kept edging the volume higher as the storm got louder. At some point, just after a larger car passed and the swush of water pushed my little wagon onto what felt like two tires, I realized I was clutching the wheel, hunched into the dash, doing my best "ten-minutes-to-Wapner" Rainman routine to the beat of BLARING Christian music. Oh, not pretty. Nervous breakdown, here we come.
I decided to pull over (three lanes to go, and cars scattered all along the shoulder) to collect my thoughts. My very sharp friend recognized the move and did the same just ahead of me. I brought the car to a complete stop (hands and feet inside the vehicle!) and dialed her cell. I was straining to hear the ring above the driving rain.
"Hello?" says Susie.
"Well, I'm freaking awake now!!" (I think I might have forgotten to say hi back.)
We briefly discussed the highway insanity and Suse suggested she check in with her all-knowing, ever-capabale spouse. "He'll be tracking the storm on radar." She said she'd call me back shortly, once she got spousal reassurance that the worst had passed and we were almost home.
A few minutes and one barely audible song later, my cell rang. "Well, that wasn't very helpful." I learned that BT had said something profoundly reassuring to his wife... something pretty much like, "No shit it's bad! You're right in the middle of it."
Oh, words cannot describe. The sudden, defeated letting go of all hope that this, too, will quickly pass. 'Cause it wasn't gonna. Pass. Quickly.
Nothing to do but cowboy up and shoulder on. We saw an opening and I pulled out first. The going was a little better as lead pony. Less water on my windshield.
Conditions still stunk, and I had to REALLY watch my speed -- it was easy to slide into a faster pace than I could control with my not-exactly-new brakes. I passed the time thinking about just how badly our friends would feel if we got into an accident! They simply hadn't done enough to stop us and, boy, would their collective conscience suffer! (Yep, you spotted it: maturity in action.) I thought long and hard about the pithy lines we could use if we called them from Susie's garage. I wouldn't even wait to be fully indoors before I kicked off the guilt parade.
Little by little, road signs became more familiar and a little easier to read. The skies lightened and overpasses came into full view. By the time I saw the "Tom Landry Highway"sign with the little fedora above the words, I was pretty sure we were going to live.
Oh, and in the higher visibility of dimishing rain, the cars seemed fairly unscathed, too. My first reaction to these cheerful revelations? "Ah, crum! No guilt parade!"
About 6 minutes later, we were turning onto Susie's street and, slowly, still cautiously, edging into her driveway. The smart aleck stood in the back doorway, waiting up for us and, of course, sending us his best thoughts through the worst of the storm. He was glad we hadn't perished. But BT never doubted we'd be fine. Doppler radar notwithstanding, we are the kind of girls well equipped to survive any -- and I mean any -- of life's storms.
The worst was when the rain itself thickened. It was like standing behind a gray vinyl shower curtain, without contacts, trying to see through. The landscape was reduced to dark blobs and fuzzy points of light. Speed reduced from 35 ... to 30.... to 25... to 20. And still the passing of another vehicle felt like the boom of a jet exceeding the sound barrier.
I had a CD on -- Third Day's "Offerings," I'm pretty sure -- and I kept edging the volume higher as the storm got louder. At some point, just after a larger car passed and the swush of water pushed my little wagon onto what felt like two tires, I realized I was clutching the wheel, hunched into the dash, doing my best "ten-minutes-to-Wapner" Rainman routine to the beat of BLARING Christian music. Oh, not pretty. Nervous breakdown, here we come.
I decided to pull over (three lanes to go, and cars scattered all along the shoulder) to collect my thoughts. My very sharp friend recognized the move and did the same just ahead of me. I brought the car to a complete stop (hands and feet inside the vehicle!) and dialed her cell. I was straining to hear the ring above the driving rain.
"Hello?" says Susie.
"Well, I'm freaking awake now!!" (I think I might have forgotten to say hi back.)
We briefly discussed the highway insanity and Suse suggested she check in with her all-knowing, ever-capabale spouse. "He'll be tracking the storm on radar." She said she'd call me back shortly, once she got spousal reassurance that the worst had passed and we were almost home.
A few minutes and one barely audible song later, my cell rang. "Well, that wasn't very helpful." I learned that BT had said something profoundly reassuring to his wife... something pretty much like, "No shit it's bad! You're right in the middle of it."
Oh, words cannot describe. The sudden, defeated letting go of all hope that this, too, will quickly pass. 'Cause it wasn't gonna. Pass. Quickly.
Nothing to do but cowboy up and shoulder on. We saw an opening and I pulled out first. The going was a little better as lead pony. Less water on my windshield.
Conditions still stunk, and I had to REALLY watch my speed -- it was easy to slide into a faster pace than I could control with my not-exactly-new brakes. I passed the time thinking about just how badly our friends would feel if we got into an accident! They simply hadn't done enough to stop us and, boy, would their collective conscience suffer! (Yep, you spotted it: maturity in action.) I thought long and hard about the pithy lines we could use if we called them from Susie's garage. I wouldn't even wait to be fully indoors before I kicked off the guilt parade.
Little by little, road signs became more familiar and a little easier to read. The skies lightened and overpasses came into full view. By the time I saw the "Tom Landry Highway"sign with the little fedora above the words, I was pretty sure we were going to live.
Oh, and in the higher visibility of dimishing rain, the cars seemed fairly unscathed, too. My first reaction to these cheerful revelations? "Ah, crum! No guilt parade!"
About 6 minutes later, we were turning onto Susie's street and, slowly, still cautiously, edging into her driveway. The smart aleck stood in the back doorway, waiting up for us and, of course, sending us his best thoughts through the worst of the storm. He was glad we hadn't perished. But BT never doubted we'd be fine. Doppler radar notwithstanding, we are the kind of girls well equipped to survive any -- and I mean any -- of life's storms.
6.21.2006
Storm Serial, Part II
Like most hospital procedures and 7th season sitcoms, it didn't start out so bad. A few sparse, fat drops on Campbell Road. Slightly slick pavement as we turned onto 75. (Remember: Tap those brakes!) We were making good time, cruising along in a fluid, serpentine line of other cars headed out of the Big D.
The stray drops became actual rain -- smooth, transparent sheets of it -- as we navigated overpasses and interchanges for the highways we didn't need. The water flow shifted and slanted a bit as the wind picked up, spray glancing off windshields and making it harder to read road signs after 45. (Good thing the car, like a solid cow pony, knew its way home from there. And, good thing Susie was the lead horse! All I figured I had to do was follow the silver SUV, and keep it between the lines...)
Traffic had slowed by 5 or 10 miles by the time we got to I-30, but the pace wasn't anything alarming. In fact, my first sign of trouble was how very many, many white lights I saw beaming towards us, versus how very few red ones twinkled ahead of us. Hmm... "Well, we don't need to follow the crowd!"I boldly pronounced. "We're fine! Next stop: Grand Prairie." Or, as it turns out is the city ancient Indian name, Vast Water Plain In Time of Downpour.
More tomorrow!
The stray drops became actual rain -- smooth, transparent sheets of it -- as we navigated overpasses and interchanges for the highways we didn't need. The water flow shifted and slanted a bit as the wind picked up, spray glancing off windshields and making it harder to read road signs after 45. (Good thing the car, like a solid cow pony, knew its way home from there. And, good thing Susie was the lead horse! All I figured I had to do was follow the silver SUV, and keep it between the lines...)
Traffic had slowed by 5 or 10 miles by the time we got to I-30, but the pace wasn't anything alarming. In fact, my first sign of trouble was how very many, many white lights I saw beaming towards us, versus how very few red ones twinkled ahead of us. Hmm... "Well, we don't need to follow the crowd!"I boldly pronounced. "We're fine! Next stop: Grand Prairie." Or, as it turns out is the city ancient Indian name, Vast Water Plain In Time of Downpour.
More tomorrow!
6.20.2006
The Storm Serial, Part I
So D offerred us a bed. A quiet, safe, dry place to sleep for the night.
Before I go all over-the-top about my near-death experience, I really should note that someone in the Circle of Friends offered us an alternative to driving.
Oh, and BT did advise us to wait it out. There is that.
But it was getting late, and we'd already waited. Some. A little. Probably. Bottom line: We had confidence. We did not wait. We did not sleep. We drove.
We walked confidently (well, mostly) out of the house, unlocked our separate cars and basked in the mild, dry sky around us, plus the glow of dome lights and fully-charged cell phone screens. Then we two silly, silly girls roared off to meet the storm.
More later! Must get back to work now....
Before I go all over-the-top about my near-death experience, I really should note that someone in the Circle of Friends offered us an alternative to driving.
Oh, and BT did advise us to wait it out. There is that.
But it was getting late, and we'd already waited. Some. A little. Probably. Bottom line: We had confidence. We did not wait. We did not sleep. We drove.
We walked confidently (well, mostly) out of the house, unlocked our separate cars and basked in the mild, dry sky around us, plus the glow of dome lights and fully-charged cell phone screens. Then we two silly, silly girls roared off to meet the storm.
More later! Must get back to work now....
6.19.2006
Lunchbreak!
I feel like Sam the Sheepdog today. Do you know that Warner Bros. cartoon? I think it was made before anyone's time, but a lot of '70s and '80s kids must have seen an episode or two.
Sam the dog and Ralph the wolf are these mild-mannered, friendly co-workers. They show up at the time-clock together, exchange plesantries, stash their lunches and punch in for the day. Then they fight like, well, sheepdog and wolf until a factory whistle blows and they break for a peaceable lunch. (Poor, never-successful Ralph usually has a few lumps by lunchtime, but he munches his sandwich, decants Thermos coffee and carries on.)
I just heard an internal whistle blow and decided it is LUNCHBREAK time here at the casa de interminable laborar! Therefore, I will put aside the game face, lose the business voice, and RELAX for the next 25 minutes.
I may even leave for a quick loop to the post office and the Subway (where they brew the best sweet tea!). I may crank some music. I MAY go groom my unruly, dried-into-frizzy-curls head. (Mmm... actually not that likely.) Oh, oh -- but I REALLY may dip into that new package of pricey, all-natural Cheetos substitutes. (What can I say? Thoughts of hair automatically lead me to thoughts of snacks! I'd almost always rather munch than straighten. I have no priorities at all -- so NOT a real Southern lady!)
P'shaw the details; this point remains: I am currently ON BREAK! OFF DUTY! Feelin' free! For at least 18 more minutes....
In the meanwhile, enjoy this preview of me after lunch. I'll be the serious, red-topped one holding the disgruntled problems at bay. (Oh, and look at that! My aforementioned hair is remarkably like the sheepdog's today! Can I pick a character reference or can I!?) Ta ra, ta ra!
Sam the dog and Ralph the wolf are these mild-mannered, friendly co-workers. They show up at the time-clock together, exchange plesantries, stash their lunches and punch in for the day. Then they fight like, well, sheepdog and wolf until a factory whistle blows and they break for a peaceable lunch. (Poor, never-successful Ralph usually has a few lumps by lunchtime, but he munches his sandwich, decants Thermos coffee and carries on.)
I just heard an internal whistle blow and decided it is LUNCHBREAK time here at the casa de interminable laborar! Therefore, I will put aside the game face, lose the business voice, and RELAX for the next 25 minutes.
I may even leave for a quick loop to the post office and the Subway (where they brew the best sweet tea!). I may crank some music. I MAY go groom my unruly, dried-into-frizzy-curls head. (Mmm... actually not that likely.) Oh, oh -- but I REALLY may dip into that new package of pricey, all-natural Cheetos substitutes. (What can I say? Thoughts of hair automatically lead me to thoughts of snacks! I'd almost always rather munch than straighten. I have no priorities at all -- so NOT a real Southern lady!)
P'shaw the details; this point remains: I am currently ON BREAK! OFF DUTY! Feelin' free! For at least 18 more minutes....
In the meanwhile, enjoy this preview of me after lunch. I'll be the serious, red-topped one holding the disgruntled problems at bay. (Oh, and look at that! My aforementioned hair is remarkably like the sheepdog's today! Can I pick a character reference or can I!?) Ta ra, ta ra!
6.18.2006
Great Blog Description...
(But also Unfortunate Life Description.)
I stand somewhere at the intersection of bearing fruit and crying in futility. Occasionally this place brings crystal insight. Other times, it just makes me numb. For now, let's call the feeling "fruitility."
I stand somewhere at the intersection of bearing fruit and crying in futility. Occasionally this place brings crystal insight. Other times, it just makes me numb. For now, let's call the feeling "fruitility."
6.16.2006
Realtors & Clarients
OK, so I TRY not to make fun of my daily callers. Really, I do. But sometimes they bring out my inner English-major demon.
My field is full of tricky sewing and design words, you see -- like alterationist! (Ah, you doubt me, but you've never heard anyone ask about "alternators" or "alternations.") Then there's "empire," "basque," "shirring" and "ruching," oh my! Sometimes, the talk of the trade just trips people up.
Today, a Texas consumer left a lengthy message complaining about the "realtor" she used to order some dresses. She was using all her longest words and most business-like tone, but she needed the word "retailer" and couldn't quite get there. It ruined her self-righteous rampage entirely.
Then, a West Coast caller asked me about purchasing ribbon in the color "clarinet." I was thinking, as a one-time, wind-instrument wielder myself, what color would that be? Black? Silver? Spit? Then, like a bolt of lightning, I realized she meant to say "CLARET," as in a reddish wine tone.
But those calls were simple deductions compared to the man from Michigan who asked to speak to my "sweat bookie." (No, he did!) I asked him to repeat himself and I heard the same thing twice. (Disclaimer: I just finished the book "Seabiscuit," so perhaps reducing and bookmaking were unusually forefront in my mind.) I finally determined he was asking for our credit manager, or "sweet bookeeper," as he was calling her.
Then there was the East Coast store who, in a rage, called my (in her judgment) inept co-workers "mis-creeps." All I could think to fill in there was "miscreants," maybe? (Powerful stuff, by the way. I'm not even sure I could define that. Was she trying to say we're all evil?) Then again, perhaps she really meant to say "mis-creeps."
Either way, vocabulary can be dangerous for the casual user. Not to be too elistist about this, but words aren't exactly one size fits all. Sometimes I laugh, but I know I've got no call to judge. Hey, I speak hick, and of all people I know the lengthy process by which each one of us must find the words that just feel right in our mouths. Sometimes, the "right" ones simply don't work. And that's why, on occasion, I like to let my inner sweat bookie out to say it loud and say it proud. I think sometimes I get things wrong... but no one's ever labeled me a mis-creep -- yet.
My field is full of tricky sewing and design words, you see -- like alterationist! (Ah, you doubt me, but you've never heard anyone ask about "alternators" or "alternations.") Then there's "empire," "basque," "shirring" and "ruching," oh my! Sometimes, the talk of the trade just trips people up.
Today, a Texas consumer left a lengthy message complaining about the "realtor" she used to order some dresses. She was using all her longest words and most business-like tone, but she needed the word "retailer" and couldn't quite get there. It ruined her self-righteous rampage entirely.
Then, a West Coast caller asked me about purchasing ribbon in the color "clarinet." I was thinking, as a one-time, wind-instrument wielder myself, what color would that be? Black? Silver? Spit? Then, like a bolt of lightning, I realized she meant to say "CLARET," as in a reddish wine tone.
But those calls were simple deductions compared to the man from Michigan who asked to speak to my "sweat bookie." (No, he did!) I asked him to repeat himself and I heard the same thing twice. (Disclaimer: I just finished the book "Seabiscuit," so perhaps reducing and bookmaking were unusually forefront in my mind.) I finally determined he was asking for our credit manager, or "sweet bookeeper," as he was calling her.
Then there was the East Coast store who, in a rage, called my (in her judgment) inept co-workers "mis-creeps." All I could think to fill in there was "miscreants," maybe? (Powerful stuff, by the way. I'm not even sure I could define that. Was she trying to say we're all evil?) Then again, perhaps she really meant to say "mis-creeps."
Either way, vocabulary can be dangerous for the casual user. Not to be too elistist about this, but words aren't exactly one size fits all. Sometimes I laugh, but I know I've got no call to judge. Hey, I speak hick, and of all people I know the lengthy process by which each one of us must find the words that just feel right in our mouths. Sometimes, the "right" ones simply don't work. And that's why, on occasion, I like to let my inner sweat bookie out to say it loud and say it proud. I think sometimes I get things wrong... but no one's ever labeled me a mis-creep -- yet.
6.01.2006
Milesisms
Some recent conversational snippets follow. The ever-so-big, 4-year-old boy does deeply amuse me with his eager, triumphant, mostly-sort-of-sometimes-reasonably-right, self-evident truths.
While watching me primp for leaving the house...
"Oh, Mom, I figured it out! I know how those contacts work in your eyes. They're clear, just like a window, so you can see right through 'em!"
During a dinner discussion of dinosaur eating habits....
Dad: "But maybe Triceratops ate chickens."
Miles: "No, defintiely not chickens!"
Dad: "Why not?"
Miles: "Because there were no barns built yet."
While driving around town with me...
Mom: "Do you know where we are? There's the movie theater we sometimes go to, and just over there is the big-kid school where (our friend) Kelsey goes to school."
Miles: "Oh, that's great! Because, if we ever want to pick Kelsey up from school one day... and, um, then say we wanted to take her to a movie with us, well, um, we will barely use any gas, because they're RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET FROM EACH OTHER."
While watching me primp for leaving the house...
"Oh, Mom, I figured it out! I know how those contacts work in your eyes. They're clear, just like a window, so you can see right through 'em!"
During a dinner discussion of dinosaur eating habits....
Dad: "But maybe Triceratops ate chickens."
Miles: "No, defintiely not chickens!"
Dad: "Why not?"
Miles: "Because there were no barns built yet."
While driving around town with me...
Mom: "Do you know where we are? There's the movie theater we sometimes go to, and just over there is the big-kid school where (our friend) Kelsey goes to school."
Miles: "Oh, that's great! Because, if we ever want to pick Kelsey up from school one day... and, um, then say we wanted to take her to a movie with us, well, um, we will barely use any gas, because they're RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET FROM EACH OTHER."
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