Fuzzy Green Spider

Remembering My Mother

Ama — Thu, 23 Sep 2010 12:45:30 +0000

She is having trouble finding words, she is sighing and wringing her hands, she is beginning to cry. My sister has gone off to find a bathroom and so here we sit, mother and eldest daughter, uncomfortable together while knowing we shouldn’t be, trying to act as though we know each other. I must have known her once, right? I should try to remember.
I have walked into the parlor where my grandmother’s funeral is being held. It was difficult to find the time and the money to make the trip but I needed to come, needed to be here to honor the one member of my family who accepted my marriage and my husband. At the same time I am frightened. I do not know how my parents will react to my presence.
My father is sitting at an electric piano in the corner, playing quiet music as we gather. At the time I have no clue that a few years later I will sit at a similar instrument, playing the same sort of reassuring hymns for a family who does not know me—I am for the moment unaware of the choices I will soon make to follow in the family footsteps.
My mother sits in the second row, on the right. There is an empty space next to her and I am ushered into it. I am surprised that she is happy to see me. But this is her mother who has died; perhaps that has softened her a bit. We recite psalms, sing familiar hymns, commit my grandmother’s soul to eternal happiness with a god I never knew her to bother with. My mother cries. I comfort her. Then I do not see her for five years.
My wedding takes place three and a half years before my grandmother’s death. She is too ill to make the trip, but sends her love. In fact, I don’t know that any of my family will be there until the night before the ceremony. My husband-to-be, in keeping with the sense of humor I fell in love with, has arranged for bodyguards. This turns out to be a fortuitous decision.
My mother waits past the part where the pastor usually asks for objections. Perhaps she was able to control herself that long; perhaps she just decided to take matters into her own hands after realizing the program for the service would not give her the opportunity. She begins to whimper softly about the mistake I am making. The other guests, out of politeness (later it will be out of sheer shock) ignore her, so she gets louder. Louder still, and the pastor halts his recitation until my husband—well, almost—urges him to go on. The bodyguards prevent my mother from leaving her pew. Eventually my father tells her enough, sit down. I block out what she says, but I cannot forget what she does. She never asks me to forgive her.
The three of us do not have dates to our senior prom, but we don’t mind. We’ll go as a group and have a blast, and who needs boys anyway? My mother has bought me a corsage. It is white and blue and matches my dress perfectly. She has curled my hair and given me one of her favorite bracelets to wear. She tells me I am beautiful, and I believe her.
Earlier in the year, at a different school dance, I decide to leave early and go with my friends to a coffee shop. We sip cappuccinos and discuss Shakespeare and Ginsburg. My sister also decides to leave early and calls my mother to come get her. She is not pleased that I am not there. I wait an extra six months to get my driver’s license. The friend who drove is no longer on my mother’s list of acceptable companions.
The memories get dimmer as I reach back. She bakes my birthday cake; she takes me to the audition and joins the show too; she sews my first-day-of-school outfit and my Easter dress and my Halloween costume; she cooks for us and helps us with homework and is home when we get off the bus. She doesn’t let me go to that party that everyone will be at; she tells us our father is an alcoholic; she gives him coal for Christmas; she makes us get up early to do chores every Saturday. She is everywhere and nowhere, all of these things without being a real person, her own person. She has been my mother for thirty years, but I cannot remember ever knowing her.
* * *
The pains have started. She has finished cleaning up from yesterday’s Thanksgiving dinner, has begun putting out the Christmas decorations. It is too early. Not again, she thinks. Dear God, not again. Please let this one be okay, please let this one live.
This one does live. The standard baby cuteness cannot hide the tube in her nose, the needle in her arm, her remarkably tiny little body. But she does live.
She is a miracle, my mother thinks. She is my miracle and I will love her and cherish her forever.
I am beginning to understand now that she does.

A significant element in the theme of growing up and growing older is the relationship with one’s parents. The reading selections “Girl,” “the mother,” and the excerpt from Zami: A New Spelling of My Name all explore an aspect of the mother/daughter relationship. I have always had a strained connection with my mother, especially in the most recent third of my life, so I used these texts as an inspiration to explore my own memories and thoughts about my mother. In particular, the poem “the mother,” with its vivid description of the emotions surrounding a terminated pregnancy, encouraged me to look at my relationship with my mother from the perspective of the first successful pregnancy after several miscarriages.

Two Quick Things

Ama — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 15:50:14 +0000

This guy? Wicked sexy.

These things? Also wicked sexy, but not very conducive to the whole weight loss thing.

This is why I love my husband.

Ama — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 04:27:16 +0000

Because he has the stones to say it.

Fun with numbers!

Ama — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 15:59:53 +0000

Census bureau numbers, to be exact. Those of you who are so politically inclined may remember a movement by us crazies to resist giving any information to the government beyond the constitutionally authorized headcount. Back in April we filled out our form with the number of people in our house, included a letter saying why we weren’t answering any other questions, and waited.

I had actually forgotten about it until the knock on the door a few minutes ago. Now I am listening to the poor census worker try to convince my husband to provide enough information to finish filling out his form. It has so far involved a lot of repetition of this exchange:

Census Guy: Are you willing to answer (question that isn’t how many people live in this house)?

Husband: I’m sorry, but I don’t believe the Constitution authorizes the government to collect that information.

CG: Oh yes, the Census Bureau is allowed to ask all of these questions.

H: Can you show me where in the Constitution the government is authorized to collect that information?

CG: Umm, well, I don’t know exactly where, but I’m sure it is!

The guy was earning, according to this site, approximately fifteen dollars an hour to knock on people’s doors and ask questions, which is more than either person living in this house gets for considerably more difficult work. Also my husband was extremely polite, and even went out of his way to assure the census guy that he personally was not doing anything wrong, we’re just, you know, crazy Libertarians and all. So I gotta say, pains in the butt though we were, I don’t really feel bad for him.

For words from people smarter than me about why we resist the census, you can go here or here or here.

Mixed Signals

Ama — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 22:05:09 +0000

About 6am this morning I’m driving home from taking the husband to work, and I see these two guys across the street running. Like, fast running. Well, at least it seemed fast to a half-asleep girl who has very little concept of a normal human being’s running speed. They were in workout clothes and seemed obviously out for their morning excercise.

Except each of them, in one hand, was carrying a box of Munchkins. And I was a little bit confused.

Incidentally, how weird is it that Munchkins have a Facebook page?

Weigh-in #1!

Ama — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 05:00:44 +0000

I’m still a long ways off, and I definitely have some habit-instilling work remaining, but hey, the first goal has been exceeded. Yay me!

Why you always give me the runaround?

Ama — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 03:47:42 +0000

I am frustrated.

See, I am a music major. For most schools, this means I study stuff like classical composers and the history of western music and composition and a little conducting and piano an instrument or two of my choosing.

In my school, it means I study jazz history and jazz styles and writing a lead sheet and meditation. Oh, and the art of dealing with a department head who is condescending and obnoxious and never available when you can’t avoid needing to contact him about something.

I was supposed to register for fall classes at the end of last semester. I did not. This is because I needed approval from that same department head to get credit toward my major for a directed study I want to take, and the rest of my classes for the semester depend on whether I’m taking that directed study or not. So I waited.

And I waited.

And a month into the summer, having still not heard anything, I try to email the department head to find out what’s going on. Because, see, along with needing his approval on the directed study, he’s my advisor and so I’m supposed to register through him, and I kind of want to do that before classes are full and all.

So I email him, and then I wait some more. And then I email again, and I leave a voicemail, and I wait some more.

And then it’s the middle of August, and the semester starts in two weeks, and classes are filling up. So I say screw it, I’ll assume I’m not getting the directed study approval and just register for classes based on that. I head up to the advising office to set up an appointment, explain about not being able to contact my advisor.

But they can’t help me.

Because, see, all the classes I want to take this term are music classes, not general requirements. And my department head slash advisor? He’s insisted that he’s the only one who’s allowed to register any students for any music classes. Ever.

Bit of a conundrum, hmm?

So eventually it worked out that the Dean of Humanities emailed the department head himself. With any luck he’ll think that’s important enough to respond to and I can actually get my classes set before the term starts.

I’m not holding my breath.

Oh, by the way?

Ama — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 02:46:28 +0000

Having four Maker’s Mark’s in one evening? Not very conducive to an attempt to lose weight. Much more conducive to sleeping until the last minute before you have to go to work.

I am a superstar.

Ama — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 05:28:16 +0000

A karaoke superstar, that is. As long as you’re only looking as far as the bar next door to where I work.

Tonight I sang “Midnight Train to Georgia” and it was awesome. AWESOME. So many people told me it was awesome, in fact, that I was quite overcome, and I am a girl who is not shy about her singing prowess. The last time I sang that song at karaoke I could not quite hit the highest note in my full voice — belting, that is. Tonight I could. I was pretty surprised, actually. It was definitely the best I’ve ever sung it.

Luckily that was before I had the second and third and fourth Maker’s Mark’s that are, coincidentally, making it a little difficult for me to type out this post right now. (Don’t worry, I had a ride home. Promise.)

I love this spotlight. I love that I can return to a karaoke bar after months of not performing and people who are not my friends know who I am. I love that they all stop chattering and listen to me when I sing. I love that, as I make my way back to my table, they stop me to tell me how great it was.

Now if only I could get paid for this, right?

Mercury poisoning? Pshaw.

Ama — Thu, 05 Aug 2010 16:33:13 +0000

I. Love. Sushi.

Yep, love it to death. I’m pretty sure I could eat at the local sushi restaurant every single day and never ever get tired of it. Though I imagine I might get tired of sleeping outside since I’d probably stop being able to pay the rent before too long.

Sometimes I forget there was a time in my life when I did not know the wonderous deliciousness of little bits of raw fish. Believe it or not, it wasn’t really all that popular in the middle of rural Pennsylvania, several hours from any variety of ocean. I don’t believe, growing up, that I ever even encountered a restaurant that served sushi — not even on trips out toward the coast.

But now I’m in Massachusetts. (Man, look at all the info dump going on in this post!) It was probably eight years ago or so that the husband and I got a coupon in the mail for a free sushi appetizer with a meal purchase at one of the local chinese restaurants. It was the first sushi bar in town, and I imagine they weren’t sure how it’d go over, and were naturally trying to play it up, right? So what the heck, we decided, we both like food, we’re into trying new things, let’s give it a shot!

So we go to the restaurant and present our coupon and they bring over this little plate with five balls of rice with strips of raw fish sitting on top of them.

And we stare at it.

For like ten minutes.

I mean, it *looked* good. And I didn’t know anyone who had died or even gotten sick from eating sushi ever. But the first time? It’s pretty damn intimidating.

Eventually we were able to work up the courage to pick up a piece. Well, I should say, my husband worked up that courage. I was watching, waiting for any signs of keeling over. And he took a bite. And he said it was yummy. And so finally I tried it too.

And it *was* yummy! And we didn’t die!

So the next few times we were there we branched out a little more, trying more exotic combos, and got a pretty good idea of what we liked and did not like. For example? I do not like smoked salmon. I ordered a Philedelphia roll — you know, being from PA and all — and it made me sick. Sick enough that I could not eat any more sushi that day or for several trips afterward.

Once I realized that it was the smoked-ness of the salmon and not anything wrong with sushi itself that got to me, I dove back in with renewed vigor. Amusingly, non-smoked salmon is by far my favorite kind.

So the sushi bar there went over really well, possibly thanks to our business alone, and lots of other joints in town have gotten in on the action, including the grocery stores. Which makes the whole eat-sushi-everyday thing much easier on my wallet.

In conclusion, because I’m really not going anywhere profound with this — I just had sushi for lunch and decided to talk about it — meditate on this beautiful craziness: