My friend needed to run some errands on Friday and she dropped her son off at the house to play. When she got here, Annabelle was wearing every tutu she owns (3--one from the dollar store that my mom got her, one that was Audrey's when we were in ballet, and one I got her from target ) and several purses. She had put a headband and two bows in her hair. We had been playing dress up. My friend commented that I had a real girly girl on my hands.
Well, maybe.
We removed the tutus so we could play outside. Annabelle took off her shoes and was walking barefoot on the driveway--which is littered with half eaten green pecans that the squirrels have impatiently stolen. She found a lizard and chased it about for a while before she figured out how to catch it with her bare hands. We put him in a Tupperware with some grass and she named him Japi-yo. She played garden in her sandbox and planted cauliflower. Then she gathered sticks for her "firecamp." We had to sleep by the "firecamp" and while she gathered the sticks she said cowboy things like "giddyyap" and "ki-yi-yipee-yipee-yay." She also used her "cowboy rope" (aka the rope to her spinning top) to slap at things which is apparently integral at being a cowboy.
I told the kids that Japi-yo needed water with the hopes that he would escape while they were filling his house from the spout. He had turned green by this time and he did escape, but Annabelle was now an expert at catching lizards and he was quickly put back in his house and almost drowned before I could explain that he just needed a drop of water. He escaped again while they dumped the water but was caught once more by my girly-girl.
Then we had popsicles and got really, really dirty and had to go inside to wash off the sand, syrup, and assorted yard dirt.
Hyphen distracted them while I freed Japi-yo. Incidentally putting a red popsicle stick in his house did not make him turn red as we had hoped, he was just brown with a rather grumpy expression.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
our various issues
I came home today from ballet lessons (for Annabelle , not for me) and I immediately noticed the door was locked. I didn't lock it when I left because I couldn't (this is the time of year when it is hard to lock our door, due to the fact that our house is old as the hills). I got scared, but then I thought, "well maybe I locked it" I mean, I try to lock it, and maybe the bolt went across and I didn't realize it. I immediately grab the phone prepared to call 911 in case the invader shows his face. Then I go pee. And there is toilet paper on the holder, and I know I didn't leave it like that. So now I am panicking, but looking for other signs that someone has been there and frantically calling Hyphen. It is close to 5 and I can't think of why he would come home and then leave again. I finally get in touch with me and turns out, he came home while we were in ballet used the bathroom (naturally Hyphen can only really poop comfortably when he has the home court advantage, not me, I can go any where) and then drove to a nearby Japanese food supplier to check things out for a dish they are making for the new restaurant. I was a little weepy and panicky when I talked to him, due to my delicate condition.
Later, as we are watching top chef and he is having his customary second supper of chips, I asked for some. And because I am pregnant, and lazy, and didn't want to get up to get a bowl, I just put them on the side table. He watched me as I did this and gave me the look. The look of total disgust, which I deserved because that was pretty gross. Then he launched into this diatribe:
H: "You are so messy." (then in a falsetto) "Oh my gosh I was so scared, a burglar came into the house today and locked the door and put toilet paper in the bathroom. I have a stalker who is a stocker. I am so scared of the burglar who tidies up my house....."
etc.
I couldn't hear much more because I was laughing and ignoring him haughtily at the same time.
Later, as we are watching top chef and he is having his customary second supper of chips, I asked for some. And because I am pregnant, and lazy, and didn't want to get up to get a bowl, I just put them on the side table. He watched me as I did this and gave me the look. The look of total disgust, which I deserved because that was pretty gross. Then he launched into this diatribe:
H: "You are so messy." (then in a falsetto) "Oh my gosh I was so scared, a burglar came into the house today and locked the door and put toilet paper in the bathroom. I have a stalker who is a stocker. I am so scared of the burglar who tidies up my house....."
etc.
I couldn't hear much more because I was laughing and ignoring him haughtily at the same time.
Monday, September 13, 2010
gd armoire
Once upon a time, there was a lonely armoire. At one time, it had been loved and cherished, and had held hats and gloves and sweaters, but over the years it fell into disfavor and ended up in an unairconditioned leanto laundry room of an old house, stuffed with rags and the occasional rat dropping. Then, a kindly old woodworker saw it and took pity on it. He and his wife took it home. And then the kindly old wood worker took a closer look at it, and discovered there was a reason it was in the unairconditioned leanto laundry room-- it was not very well made. And the kindly old woodworker wanted to split it into kindling, or, in the alternative, throw it away. But his wife, who was not royalty, but was a royal pain in the ass, wanted to keep it, for sentiment's sake. And so they did. And for many years it lived in a rented storage shed. But the woodworker, who while kindly, was also thrifty, got tired of putting money in the storage shed owner's pocket. So he cleaned out the storage shed and tried to convince his wife to get rid of it. And there was much grinding and gnashing of teeth and the wife won, as wives usually do, and the armoire ended up in the kindly woodworker's wood shop, which was also unairconditioned.
And now the armoire was in a very sad state indeed, for it now held nothing and was constantly being cursed by the woodworker for taking up space in his shop.
But the woodworker and his wife had a daughter. And she was fabulous, and creative and beautiful and wonderful in every way. She was also great with child. Her second child, who would have no room or furniture of its own. And so in the hysteria that often accompanies women in this condition, and causes them to do completely irrational things such as getting spiral permanent waves; the daughter asked for the armoire, with the intention of making it look beautiful and shabby chic.
And so after more grinding and gnashing of teeth, the woodworker, who was slightly grumpy by this time, and his wife loaded up the armoire in his truck and drove from the countryside to the big city where the daughter lived.
The city was very hot and humid with highs in the mid 90s and the "feels like temperature" was 104 degrees. And the woodworker and his pregnant daughter put the armoire in the garage which was also unairconditioned. And then the woodworker and his daughter painted the armoire. They put five coats of paint on the armoire in the heat and humidity and unaircontionedness. And they began to curse the armoire. And the woodworker thought that the daughter's ideas were unreasonable and ridiculous, such as painting stripes on the back of it, and covering some of the insides with fabric and buying knobs from anthropologie instead of Lowes. But the woodworker was good humored when it came to his daughter--up to point.
And so it came to pass that they finished it. And they were somewhat pleased with their work. And then it came time to move it the upstairs guestroom, where the child would stay. But the daughter lived in an exceedingly ridiculous house that was built long ago and the stairs on her house were very small. The daughter's husband, who wisely stayed out of the armoire project, told the daughter she should measure it before she undertook the project to make sure it would go up the stairs. But while the daughter was beautiful and creative, she also very flippant of her husband's sage counsel. And so the daughter,who was very great with child indeed, the woodworker who had a bad back and knee, and the wife who was lame in a variety of ways attempted to move the armoire up the stirs and it did not work. There was much yelling. Much, much, much, yelling. And somewhere, in the heavens, the people who had put the armoire in the leanto were laughing. Cackling, actually.
But the daughter was exceedingly stubborn and argumentative and called moving companies. She lectured them about their ridiculous prices and safety policies regarding hoisting things through windows. Then a kindly receptionist took pity on her and whispered very quietly "call my husband."
And that is how the woodworker, his wife and their daughter met Prince Donnell. Who drove to the daughter's house and helped the woodworker shove the armoire though a window while the daughter waited upstairs and despite her delicate condition, pulled it the rest of the way inside. And the daughter wrote Prince Donnell a check for 40 dollars. Then they said good bye to Prince Donnell and waved as he drove off into the hot afternoon sun.
Then the daughter turned around and was amazed as her parents, including her aged and infirmed mother packed up their belongings with record speed and burnt rubber as they backed out of her driveway.
And then the armoire was happy.....
And now the armoire was in a very sad state indeed, for it now held nothing and was constantly being cursed by the woodworker for taking up space in his shop.
But the woodworker and his wife had a daughter. And she was fabulous, and creative and beautiful and wonderful in every way. She was also great with child. Her second child, who would have no room or furniture of its own. And so in the hysteria that often accompanies women in this condition, and causes them to do completely irrational things such as getting spiral permanent waves; the daughter asked for the armoire, with the intention of making it look beautiful and shabby chic.
And so after more grinding and gnashing of teeth, the woodworker, who was slightly grumpy by this time, and his wife loaded up the armoire in his truck and drove from the countryside to the big city where the daughter lived.
The city was very hot and humid with highs in the mid 90s and the "feels like temperature" was 104 degrees. And the woodworker and his pregnant daughter put the armoire in the garage which was also unairconditioned. And then the woodworker and his daughter painted the armoire. They put five coats of paint on the armoire in the heat and humidity and unaircontionedness. And they began to curse the armoire. And the woodworker thought that the daughter's ideas were unreasonable and ridiculous, such as painting stripes on the back of it, and covering some of the insides with fabric and buying knobs from anthropologie instead of Lowes. But the woodworker was good humored when it came to his daughter--up to point.
And so it came to pass that they finished it. And they were somewhat pleased with their work. And then it came time to move it the upstairs guestroom, where the child would stay. But the daughter lived in an exceedingly ridiculous house that was built long ago and the stairs on her house were very small. The daughter's husband, who wisely stayed out of the armoire project, told the daughter she should measure it before she undertook the project to make sure it would go up the stairs. But while the daughter was beautiful and creative, she also very flippant of her husband's sage counsel. And so the daughter,who was very great with child indeed, the woodworker who had a bad back and knee, and the wife who was lame in a variety of ways attempted to move the armoire up the stirs and it did not work. There was much yelling. Much, much, much, yelling. And somewhere, in the heavens, the people who had put the armoire in the leanto were laughing. Cackling, actually.
But the daughter was exceedingly stubborn and argumentative and called moving companies. She lectured them about their ridiculous prices and safety policies regarding hoisting things through windows. Then a kindly receptionist took pity on her and whispered very quietly "call my husband."
And that is how the woodworker, his wife and their daughter met Prince Donnell. Who drove to the daughter's house and helped the woodworker shove the armoire though a window while the daughter waited upstairs and despite her delicate condition, pulled it the rest of the way inside. And the daughter wrote Prince Donnell a check for 40 dollars. Then they said good bye to Prince Donnell and waved as he drove off into the hot afternoon sun.
Then the daughter turned around and was amazed as her parents, including her aged and infirmed mother packed up their belongings with record speed and burnt rubber as they backed out of her driveway.
And then the armoire was happy.....
Friday, September 10, 2010
Don Brown
Don Brown is dead. Dead and gone and buried today. To say he was a grumpy old fart would not be accurate. If you only knew Don Brown and had no concept of what a fart was, you would think farts are not at all pleasant, which, of course, they can be. Dexter Patterson is a grumpy old fart. Not Don Brown. He was irascible and misanthropic. Sly like a fox. Qualities which I personally find endearing, but I didn't necessarily want to talk to him. When I saw this icon of a bygone era in the courtroom, I wanted to run and hide out of fear.
By the time I came to Conroe, he was already on the decline. But he still beat me like a drum in trial. It was an unlawful carrying of a firearm case. The guy was driving in his car with a handgun in the door pocket. In my mind at the time, my youthful, cocky, "we live in the Heights, recycle our trash, don't own guns and never will" mind, the case was clear cut. The guy was guilty. We set out to pick a jury. Don walked in at the last minute, wearing a light blue, suede, nubuck- style jacket with gold cording on the shoulders and lighter shade of blue Wrangler dress pants and, of course, cowboy boots. His white hair was slicked back. I watched the panel of potential jurors as they watched him. Regular good folks, the kind of people that our current commander in chief thinks cling to their guns and religion. It was like John Wayne had walked in the courtroom. And there I was. Twenty-something in my Ann Taylor belted suit. Mercifully, I knew enough to to think "oh shit, this ain't good."
I can't remember if he called me Stella or Miss Stevens, but when he talked he spoke with that peculiar East Texas accent that you don't hear too much nowadays, in an age where everyone is from nowhere. Regardless, it sounded snidely and condescending. Of course, addressing me by my Christian name only occurred when we were conferencing with the judge, to the jury I was the government's attorney. I was the government trying to take their guns away. The defendant was traveling (funny how he never mentioned that to the cop-- see how I am still a sore loser?) and it was his God-given right to have a gun in his car to protect himself if the need should arise. It would be a stretch to say the jury deliberated for10 minutes, because I could hear a lot of toilet flushing going on in the jury room and afterwards, they did not want to talk to me, just to the old gun-slinger, the meaner, crankier, wrinklier, Western version of Matlock.
My only consolation was that a few months later, my friend beat him in a DWI case. She did it with grace and charm, qualities that will get you a long way with a jury when your opponent is as mean as a put-upon rattlesnake. After the guilty verdict, she very sweetly asked the jury for the maximum punishment and got it-- minus about 10 days. After that trial, Mr. Brown called her "Maxumiiiiime -Caru-liiiine." And for years after, on a regular basis brought her huge sacks of candy.
He had a stroke. And he was on death's door, or so we were told by his putative son. But he came back. His skin was green, his nails were yellow, but he was back dammit. And I loved him for it. And a couple of years later he had another stroke. And again we were told, this is it, he won't make it. But he did and a month later was back in the saddle, maybe a little lopsided, but back in the saddle.
And so after the second stroke I just assumed he wasn't going to die, like my mom says "cosa mala nunca muere."
He wasn't mala, not really, not by a long shot-- just a cantankerous old fart, okay, maybe a sour, cantankerous old fart, with my apologies to Mister Patterson and the fart.
By the time I came to Conroe, he was already on the decline. But he still beat me like a drum in trial. It was an unlawful carrying of a firearm case. The guy was driving in his car with a handgun in the door pocket. In my mind at the time, my youthful, cocky, "we live in the Heights, recycle our trash, don't own guns and never will" mind, the case was clear cut. The guy was guilty. We set out to pick a jury. Don walked in at the last minute, wearing a light blue, suede, nubuck- style jacket with gold cording on the shoulders and lighter shade of blue Wrangler dress pants and, of course, cowboy boots. His white hair was slicked back. I watched the panel of potential jurors as they watched him. Regular good folks, the kind of people that our current commander in chief thinks cling to their guns and religion. It was like John Wayne had walked in the courtroom. And there I was. Twenty-something in my Ann Taylor belted suit. Mercifully, I knew enough to to think "oh shit, this ain't good."
I can't remember if he called me Stella or Miss Stevens, but when he talked he spoke with that peculiar East Texas accent that you don't hear too much nowadays, in an age where everyone is from nowhere. Regardless, it sounded snidely and condescending. Of course, addressing me by my Christian name only occurred when we were conferencing with the judge, to the jury I was the government's attorney. I was the government trying to take their guns away. The defendant was traveling (funny how he never mentioned that to the cop-- see how I am still a sore loser?) and it was his God-given right to have a gun in his car to protect himself if the need should arise. It would be a stretch to say the jury deliberated for10 minutes, because I could hear a lot of toilet flushing going on in the jury room and afterwards, they did not want to talk to me, just to the old gun-slinger, the meaner, crankier, wrinklier, Western version of Matlock.
My only consolation was that a few months later, my friend beat him in a DWI case. She did it with grace and charm, qualities that will get you a long way with a jury when your opponent is as mean as a put-upon rattlesnake. After the guilty verdict, she very sweetly asked the jury for the maximum punishment and got it-- minus about 10 days. After that trial, Mr. Brown called her "Maxumiiiiime -Caru-liiiine." And for years after, on a regular basis brought her huge sacks of candy.
He had a stroke. And he was on death's door, or so we were told by his putative son. But he came back. His skin was green, his nails were yellow, but he was back dammit. And I loved him for it. And a couple of years later he had another stroke. And again we were told, this is it, he won't make it. But he did and a month later was back in the saddle, maybe a little lopsided, but back in the saddle.
And so after the second stroke I just assumed he wasn't going to die, like my mom says "cosa mala nunca muere."
He wasn't mala, not really, not by a long shot-- just a cantankerous old fart, okay, maybe a sour, cantankerous old fart, with my apologies to Mister Patterson and the fart.
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