I will be back in a week but I’ll check in while I’m gone. 

I am shocked at how sedentary I became over the winter.  I’m taking a break from gardening, out of semi-exhuastion.  How could gardening make me this tired?  I shopped all day yesterday, first for my daughter’s trip, then for mine.  Oh, and I got a good book, too:  “A Year of Magical Thinking.”  I took it to dinner because I didn’t want to drive home in rush hour and just by chance I chose Embassy Suites.  Say what you will, I like the place.  I used to go there when I had little ones because I could go in the lobby looking like I had just been on a run or something. 

Sipping coffee (decaf) and reading after dinner, I was pretending I was already on vacation.  That’s because what awaited me were the loads of laundry, planting a ridiculous amount of pansies, ranuncleous, violets, African daisies, snapdragons, that white trailing stuff I can’t remember the name of,  — Shit, I’m too tired to go through the list.  Five giant pots are stuffed to the gills, along with the ground around them.  It seems like every year I am getting things planted so they won’t die while I’m gone.

The other thing I do is cook everything I bought but never got around to making.  Like the strawberry rhubarb compote I made today.  I don’t know why I let that intimidate me.  Instead of throwing the rhubarb away after letting it sit in my refrigerator for a month, I threw a little tapioca and sugar in and added some vanilla and cinnamon.  That’s good stuff. 

I must go water all those beautiful plants.  It’s a study in purple, that’s one theme.  I love dark, nasty looking flowers. And then the other thing I like are those snapdragons that have pink and yellow, moving to salmon and gold.  I pair those with English daisies and sweet yellow pansies, some white trailing stuff, and this new flower I discovered last year that has all the same hues as the snapdragons.  It’s slightly upright but trailing and grows like mad.

I ought to leave town more often.  So far I’ve found all the missing pieces to my summer wardrobe, lost 6 pounds, got everything planted and started reading again.  Tonight I’m even painting my toenails.  It’s been a loooong winter.

Normally, on these articles for the hospital, I am reviewing a book or a lecture or telling a story about a patient; pretty straightforward stuff.  The only college writing classes I’ve taken in the last 30-odd years were fiction 101 and 102.  Mostly I learn from watching you guys.  I used to read a lot when I was in two book groups but, these days, I’d rather read your posts. 

At the last minute, the article was due on the 23rd,  I changed my mind and tried to do something different, something I hadn’t done before.  I asked a writer friend for help who was very generous, part of the gift being this killer line that I couldn’t help but use.  At first I put quotes around it because it wasn’t mine.  But I’ve never quoted someone who was not referred to in the text or source.  So I took the quotes off. 

I also used a line that I stole from one of you.  I really like it and I told you so but in the end I erased it because I didn’t have your permission to use it.  Can someone tell me what the protocol is for this?

I had a late-night visit from the youngest and her new lesbian friend.  I guess that would make her the girlfriend.  This is someone she met off of Myspace.  I remember my daughter placing the ad.  Her best friend’s boyfriend had come back to town and my daughter was feeling lonely.  She told me she was going to place an ad for someone to go to the movies with.  I cautioned her about meeting strangers and she countered with “Well, you did it.” 

I explained that I spent weeks writing, weeks talking, and then finally, we’d meet.  I would know where they lived, where they worked, who their parents were, etc. When we got back from shopping she had a response to her add. 

“Mom, what does submissive mean?”

I didn’t know what was scarier, that she had to ask or what this young man had in mind.

“It means he wants to tie you up first.”

So when she showed up last night with this broken young thing my first reaction was that it would be harmless.  Somewhere around 1:00 a.m. I realized that it could be much more.  I want to call her counselor but the counselor is a lesbian who has been giving her books to read by lesbian authors all year.  This is a woman who hangs out with my daughter instead of sending her to class.  Now my daughter isn’t even going to school.  Knowing she’s graduating is enough for her.  She has opted out of college, choosing to travel.  That was before she met this girl. 

“Darling, did you take a razor blade to that coat or what?”

“Oh, it’s just falling apart.”

“So you went into the restaurant like that?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Oh, no reason.”

When I was her age I showed up with a drug dealer who I thought was the coolest guy I’d ever met.  He wasn’t selling pot at that point but it wasn’t long before he introduced me to psychedelics.  I dropped out of college to live with him, once my dad decided two years was all he way paying for.  By then I wasn’t all that motivated. 

The late 60s, for me, was the same kind of departure she is taking.  Do I regret mine?  I don’t know.  I don’t think so.

Big news:  I got a call yesterday, from the company who handles my time-share trades.  This is the first time I’ve “banked” my week.  If you don’t use your designated week, you have the option of trading it in for another week in a different location.  So I picked Seattle or the Oregon Coast, someplace I could drive. 

This happened three weeks ago and, after relinquishing my week, I hung up the phone, completely disillusioned.  They won’t tell you what’s available until you turn your week in, and once I did they glibly informed me that there were no vacancies available for the rest of the year, either at the Oregon coast or in Seattle.  But they put me on a waiting list, and when they called yesterday they said, if I wanted it, I could have the first week in May at a hotel in Seattle I happen to like.  Woot!, as they say.

I’ve never been to Seattle for a whole week; this will be great.  I’m a little bummed as there is not much of a kitchen, just a mini refrigerator and microwave.  But the hotel said there was a full kitchen I could use in the game room.  That seemed a little odd. 

I’m not sure what to do about my stocks.  I don’t have a laptop — Well, I do, but it’s messed up.  I haven’t gone without a computer for a week since I can’t remember when.  I’d be too lonely up there without y’all.  Maybe they have a computer in the game room .

“I wandered to the back fencing of my apartment complex to sample the early honeysuckle.  Each flower holding the barest raindrop of nectar. Pinch the stem to the neck of the petals, tuck the flower in my mouth, and draw the nectar with my tongue.  Not the most efficient way, but I love the feel of flowers in my mouth. The feather of petals curling on the roof and blooming out from the oval pot of my lips.  I like the taste of bitter and green, the base perfume of flower mixing with saliva. When the brief nectar fades on each honeysuckle I spit the flower free and move to the next.”  drunkpunches

This is the first paragraph of the best thing I’ve read in a long time.  He posted it yesterday. 

My heart’s still racing.  I just wrote the chapter about moving out, the three weeks of secrecy where I put a downpayment on a rental house and made the rounds of estate sales the next weekend.  I still can’t bring myself to write the part about him coming home from the beach and seeing all my stuff gone.  Maybe because he didn’t seem to mind.  I realized later he figured I’d come to my senses.  But, anyway, I made 50,000 words tonight; comin’ into the home stretch.

It’s amazing how much fear I have about this part of the story.  The kids were so mad at me.  That last week, I just bulldozed through it, pushing to be free.  It seemed astonishingly easy, at the time, to create a new life.  Waking up in a new house, with all new furniture, and no one to hassle me, I marveled at my accomplishment. 

It took years for the fallout to hit.  Up until recently I wanted no part of that life.  Now I think back, longingly, to all the good times we had over the years, the family life I gave up, the lifestyle I lost.  I’m not saying I did the wrong thing, I’d never want to live with him again.  I’m just saying I gave up a whole lot more than I realized.  I turned my back on precious history.

These last few nights I have spent hours on the phone, once with a new friend and once with an old friend.  The new friend is not my age, not my sex, and far enough away that we’ll never meet.  In other words, unavailable.  The old friend is someone I used to walk with every morning.  She ran the child-care center at the club and when we would tavel without the kids, she’d stay with them.  She and I know every little detail about each other’s history.  But as she’s grown up and had her own child and divorce, I found her to be someone I do not want in my life. So, again, I spent two hours curled up in bed with the wrong person.

Today I had coffee with the realtor again.  I’m afraid part of the reason she’s wanting to make up is to get information about my daughter’s best friend, the estranged child of her new husband.  Small world, huh.  None of his daughters speak to him and I thought she wanted to know why.  Today she asked if this girl had been getting her birthday and Christmas cards with the check.  I kicked myself for getting caught up in the situation, sharing information I probably shouldn’t.  But after going through that whole thing about my dad, I think this child should reconnect with hers.

 She’s looking less hostile each time; today she laughed and smiled just like she used to, her face softening into that loving look I spent 45 years with.  But I have a feeling she is not someone I should be loving again.

Three days in a row, after the unsettling time with my family, I find myself drawn to people I should probably stay away from.  Why is it so hard for me to set healthy boundaries for myself?  I love talking to these people but it’s like sleeping with a date when you should have just been friends.

Growing up, Easter meant baskets and a hunt.  I don’t remember any special dinner, and we didn’t go to church.  I’ve forgotten much of my childhood but I’d remember if the cousins came over.  That was a bi-annual event reserved for Thanksgiving and Christmas.  It was the only time we went to my dad’s brother’s house, and my mother would always take me shopping for an expensive outfit at Christmas.  But it would be in lieu of a Christmas present.  I think my sister wore my hand-me-downs.

I married into a family who did holidays up right.  The grandparents came, and we all got solid chocolate bunnies from Van Dynes, something I wasn’t accustomed to.  Lots to drink and leg of lamb, we even did an Easter egg hunt those first couple years.  I latched onto his family like I was one of theirs.  We had Thanksgiving with them, which cut visits to my mother’s in half.  That seemed like plenty.  But then my dad remarried, again, and started doing a dessert thing just before Christmas.  It was always nice to see everyone, and, without my mother’s toxic energy, we found we enjoyed each other.

My brother now seems to have taken on a patriarchal role.  My youngest sister is moving up the corporate ladder suddenly, and the middle sister, who left her family last summer, is beginning to cuss.  I no longer occupy the position I held.  I am still the oldest but I have stepped down, no longer enjoying the lifestyle I suppose they envied.  We are getting to know each other all over again, especially since I’ve moved around the corner from my brother, which came as a total surprise after I moved in and recognized the street name.   We have all aged in our own peculiar ways. Sometimes we remind me of the eccentric family Anne Tyler writes about.

Easter was a new event for us.  I admit I planned it so I wouldn’t have to fuck around with my kids and their last-minute “maybe we can come for brunch, maybe we can come for dinner but we have to wait to see what dad’s doing” bullshit.  I’m tired of it.  Next Easter I’m going to church and I thought if I started a new tradition of dinner, when I announced I was going to church next year it wouldn’t be at the expense of their brunch. 

I also have enjoyed our little meetings this past year where we all bring something, we drink lots of wine, and we grouse about our mother, under the guise of sharing information and opinions about her latest decline and what we are supposed to do about it. 

My middle daughter announced she was coming by for a drink.  She and the Baptist are quite close now.  I found myself wishing she hadn’t come, knowing she would report back to her dad’s camp the nature of what she’d overheard. 

There was some in-fighting among the siblings last night.  This is new for us.  We were so distant growing up that, even though my sister and I shared a room (not the overweight one, she’s ten years younger) we weren’t close enough to fight.  The youngest sister is very domineering and, because my brother is the executor of the estate, they were vying for position.  The Baptist is trying to spearhead a separate camp, saying that because she and I are mothers we are more inclined to take responsibility for others when they are unable to make rational decisions for themselves.  I think there is some merit to this and agreed with her over the phone but kept my mouth shut last night, busying myself with dinner.  My daughter got grossed out and left, which was good because it only got worse. 

Dinner was fabulous and I think we all felt more like family after the kind of bickering we must have done when we were little.  After dinner the middle sister brought lemon bars to the table.

“Oh,” I said, “I love lemon bars.”

“They’re my favorite,” said my brother, reaching for one.

The youngest is finicky so I was surprised when she agreed.  We all love lemon.  My dad liked lemon cake and I remember a couple birthdays my mother made him one but we sure never had lemon bars.  In fact, we never had dessert unless it was a birthday dinner.

It seems so odd to be getting reacquainted with grown siblings.  There were advantages to the distance and it might get ugly but it’s nice to be part of a family again.

I’ve opened one of the bottles for Easter, a lovely white wine my friend at the wine bar picked out for me last night.  I’m going to have to go back tonight to get another.  The pork loin has been rubbed down with caraway, garlic, salt and pepper.  It’s resting and so am I.  Have I mentioned that I hate to clean.  The “Zen yams,” as dp says, are slowly cooking, and the hard-boiled eggs are done boiling.  They’re resting, too.

The baskets are done and I only took a few nibbles off the peanut brittle.  That’s a new addition this year, as the day I did my candy run I discovered a German reataurant which had some for sale, this being Easter. Oh, and I had one truffle.  That’s the best I’ve ever done while assembling Easter baskets.  My favorite is the toffee.  In fact, usuall, I get extra of my favorites.  Not this year.  I can almost get my summer pants zipped.

I think I’m going to have another glass. Hold on.

Okay, I’m back.  While I was at it I grabbed some sharp cheddar and a length of the farmer sausage I bought at the smokehouse yesterday when I was getting the smoked salmon for the dip.  Woops, I gotta make that tonight.  Remind me.

Anyhoo.  Oh, wait, I wanna tell you about the sausage guy.  I can’t figure hinm out and you know I always can.  This guy has a face like he used to be a boxer.  Except that he’s a little guy.  So then you think he was in jail.  Somehow his face has been worked over a couple times.  Recently.  What’s compelling to me is that, even though his eyes look very scary, like he has no moral boundries, he always comes out and talks to the old lady in a way like a girl would if she were telling her best friend a secret. 

The smokehouse is through the swinging doors, and without fail he comes through.  He says “hello,” and yesterday I raved about the Farmer’s Sausage they had on the counter, cooling.  The old lady had given me a sample and I ordered two long lengths of it.  One for me and one for the party.  It’s kind of like an interesting summer sausage.  He perked up and said it’s the first time he’s made it.  “Just threw some spices and meat together.”  I asked how organic it was and he got prickly.  “There’s not anything weird in it.” And back through the swinging doors he went, irritated.  That’s probably the last time he’s gonna call me when he’s done a fresh batch of smoked salmon.

One sister is bringing salad.  One is bringing desert.  My brother’s girlfriend is bringing an onion/apple thing which will go well with the pork and I am making deviled eggs, Henry’s dad’s famous smoked salmon dip, and if I haven’t eaten it all some of this killer sausage and the cheese I bought to go with it.

All I have left is to clean the toilets and make the dip.  Oh, and vacuum the rug in here and mop the tile.  But every time Bridget goes out she tracks mud in so I am waiting.  Mmm, this wine is good.

I’m sorry I’ve been a bad blogger lately, both in the posting and commenting.  I get interested in an idea for a post, like how weird is it that I seem to have lots of friends who I enjoy for one reason or another but I don’t necessarily hold them in the highest esteem.  I have two friends that I do feel that way about but one, my best friend, Marcie, lives in California and one, Teresa, is married with kids and a busy social life.  More and more I find women who amuse me.  The woman I just wrote about produces sentences I want to get on paper.  She’s a smart-ass without being heavy on the sarcasm.  She’s got a light touch and a quick mind.  And I like the way she looks. What I really liked was the way she was with her kids. She loved them like kids should be loved.  For a woman attorney, she was very low-key.  She quit work to stay home with her kids and I watched her take up the same pursuits that kept me sane.

I remember the first time I noticed her in the locker room.  She was telling a story, while the women in her aerobics class did their hair, something about being at a Halloween party.  She was the butt of the joke she was making but you could tell she was the coolest one at the mirror.  I was over at my locker, in my swim suit.  She’s why I quit swimming.

The reason I haven’t been as attentive as I’d like to be here is that I am hooked on my book.  I can’t tell if it’s a way to feed an old addiction, without the danger, or if I’m just in a good place and it’s flowing.  That’s always fun.  For whatever reason, it’s all I want to do. 

But I’m supposed to be getting ready.  I’m doing an Easter dinner for my family.  Not my kids because they’re going to their dad’s, fuckers.  I think it’s unreasonable that when he has no plans and I announce I’m doing a dinner this year that he decides he will, too and they all go there.  The middle daughter kept trying to get me to do a brunch, but I held firm.  So then he says he’ll start his later so that the oldest can come.  Like I’m supposed to have a prefunction.  I guess she’s coming over with that in mind.

Hope you all had a Good Friday.