Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Sweet Child Of Mine

There came a time in my life...perhaps a time in every mother's life....for me, it was born at the time I learned I was pregnant with my first child.

Long before I birthed that first child, I found myself consumed with the health and well being of that child that I , and only I, was responsible for. I quit smoking (mostly). I ate healthier (usually). I exercised and ate my veggies (OK, OK, let's not get into fairy tales here). But he was mine to take care of, and I took that responsibility to heart.

Lo, and behold, a healthy son was born. And I continued to rule supreme over the well being of this SON. I fed him wholesome foods (mostly). I taught him to look both ways when crossing the street. He learned to ride a two wheeler while always wearing a helmet.

He cried when getting immunizations, and I cried silently along with him in my heart. He got bit by a dog, and it was all I could do not to bite the dog back. He learned to drive, adding more than a few grey hairs to my growing collection.

Every scar, every scraped knee, every wound on his body was a personal injury to me. I spent years cleaning, bandaging, healing each and every blemish this cruel world left upon that body. I cried oceans of unshed tears for every single pain that coursed through this body I had given life too (very God like, no, dear reader? No wonder women keep having babies. The power angle is awesome!).

Yes. I, and I alone (well, almost alone) took this little zygote and cherished and protected and loved and nurtured it into, well, a person, dammit! Yes! I had grown me an adult (again, mostly). I had taken the ultimate challenge of what to do with this thing growing inside me, and I had (presto, magicko) turned it into a person. An adult. A young adult. An adult now entrusted with his own well being.

And this is how he came home:

From Graduation Day june 2009

The little b@stard! It doesn't even say "MOM". (Although if you look closely, it does kinda look like me when I'm pissed at him-which would be now!)

Thursday, August 6, 2009

And So they Gathered At the Summit

When deciding to join forces with the mountain man, I realized that as a blended family (yep, from mudslides to margaritas to step kids!) there was certain to be a fair amount of family traditions exchanged and shared as we created our own future memories (Oxymoron? Perhaps, but hey, one man's oxymoron is our theme song!)

Any who, there is a tradition in the history of the mountain man that goes back to his childhood (And seeing how he was a personal friend of Jesus, we're talking waaaaaay back!)

Ooh, constant reader? Obscure mysuestories fact. Did you know that Jesus' middle name is Horatio? No? Me neither, but when I was 6 years old, I asked my Dad (while he was fixing something-2ND obscure mysuestories fact- Daddy was not happy about fixing shit- anyway, while attempting some home repair, I kindly asked what the "H" stood for in my dad's every other minute exclamation of "Jesus H. Christ"--to which he simply replied "Horatio." Your welcome, dear reader, for such invaluable information.

Anyway, this particular tradition of mountain man was,well a trek, if you will. A five and a half hour trek only to be covered in a car filled with way too many kids/camping gear/pillows/books/ AND comfortably secured in it's own seat belt, Lappy Toppy! (even though there was not one iota of Internet access where we were going, and I knew this fully well before ever packing precious Lappy in the first place. I can only claim deep denial, readers).

So, mountain man, mysuestories, and our shaggy entourage of kids headed to (where else?) the mountain. As tradition dictates, we gathered with forty five of our nearest and dearest who also heeded the call to pilgrimage to the summit of what can only be known as Mount Back in Time.

Upon arrival to this most sacred of summits, many rituals had to be adhered to. Clearly, the most popular was the initiation of the "utes" into sloppy drunken adulthood, which took place after most of the previous inductees and those under 4 feet tall were asleep.

In order to call upon the favors of the gods for a successful mission, tribal music is played throughout the ceremony. While it is entirely up to those to be inducted to choose what hymns shall resonate, it is apparently imperative that whatever is chosen must be loud enough to vibrate the entire mountain.

In this particular ceremony, those about to cross the threshold into oblivion divide into sets of two, with two teams juxtaposed across a given altar (in our case, these altars were erected from long tables from the plasticene era). Gifts are made to the deities in the form of 10 plastic chalices precisely aligned in the shape of a triangular form. The chalices are then carefully filled with nectar of the gods. (Apparently, some of our congregants were weight conscious, for the nectar chosen was of the Lite variety).

Once the alter is set, the opposing apostolic teams faced off against one another, each trying to sink the Orb of the Almighty (read: ping pong ball) into the oppositions chalices. Upon orbic destiny, or the sinking of the ball, the other team was to consume the nectar-Lite. This ritual is repeated until each participant is either hurling up the coveted nectar (-Lite), or there is no longer anyone able to toss the orb in the vicinity of the chalices.

As mysuestories is well slightly over the age of orb tossing, I was one of the unlucky pilgrims who had gone to bed before the ceremony began. Some hours later (no clue how many!) I was awakened to the throbbing of the tribal drums.

Upon investigation, I noticed that all of our apostles were snoring loudly. I climbed over the mountain man, stepping atop one of our apostles (who let out a swoosh of air as I bounced off of him!) and crawled out of our camper (another day, another post, constant reader).

Outside, across the field in which the ceremony was held ( which judging by the dozens of empty Lite cans, was quite successful!), not a soul was standing. I staggered two hundred yards in the pitch black of night without benefit of street lights and set out to find the damned stereo to turn it off. I (who can barely see with benefit of daylight and eyeglasses) had absolutely no luck.

I staggered two hundred yards back to the camper, stepped on the sleeping apostle, (another swoosh of air), and over the mountain man. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the pounding beat of the music. No. Such. Luck.

I whispered to the mountain man, which immediately woke him up. (Have I mentioned mysuestories does not have an indoor voice? Or a whispering voice?) I told the man of my dreams, the one I have forsaken all others for, of my dilemma of the music that would not let me sleep. I may have cursed along the way six or twenty times. Surely he would rescue me in the form of turning off the blasted stereo, no?

Apparently, no. The man who once promised to love, honor and cherish me did not believe this included allowing me to get a decent night's sleep. He did, however, tell me to just go shut off the stereo. Gee, what a novel idea. When I told him I could neither find the stereo, or see anything out there!!!!, he very wisely advised me to simply follow the music.

I must have still been half drunk asleep, because that sounded like a good idea at the time. Once again, I climbed over the mountain man, stepped on the snoring apostle (swoosh again- at least he was still breathing!), crawled out of the camper and back into the pitch dark. I (again) staggered two hundred yards toward the offensive music, and following it's vibrations on the ground beneath my bare feet, located not one, but two speakers. However, the offending stereo? Nowhere in sight. Damnit!

Back two hundred yards to the camper, over the apostle (yes, another swoosh!), over the mountain man, and back into bed.
"Mountain man!!!!" I whispered as loudly as the music. " I followed the music!!!! I can't find anything but the damned speakers!!!"

Finally, by the grace of the gods of peace and quiet, mountain man calmly arose ( okay, so not so calmly). He stepped on the apostle (swoosh!). I followed (swoosh again!). He crawled out of the camper. I crawled behind him. He stomped across two hundred yards. I tiptoed. Hey, no sense in waking the rest of the tribe, right?

Mountain man, my hero, finds the speakers. "See?" I told him. " Speakers but no stereo." Duh. Hadn't I been saying that all along?

In a move worthy of Brad Pitt in Troy, my mountain man reached down to each speaker and grabbed every wire attached. He pulled them out. Hard. The music died.

In that instant, I saw the man I have come to adore. He is so cute!!!!!!

He stomped back to the camper, over the apostle (swoosh!) , and back to bed. I followed.

The next evening, well before the nightly ceremonies commenced, I noticed the speakers were not where they had been the previous evening.

Where did they go? Well, it appears our many time stepped upon apostle was not asleep the night prior. And, he thought it would be great fun to have me looking all over the mountain for the damned music again.

I showed him, though. The next night I wore high heels to bed!!!!

Swoosh, my ass!

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Till Cell Phone Battery Death Do We Part

There comes a time in every relationship when a decision is made to either discontinue the union, or to consummate it in the most permanent way possible. The mountain man and I decided to bound one another (no, dear reader, not with duct tape---this time!), for each of us to be bound to the other in the most legally binding way available today; I added him to my existing phone plan. For a two year contract.-- A contract Houdini would have trouble escaping from if a) he had a cell phone and b) he hadn't destroyed it while submerged in a tank upside down while in a straight jacket.

So, I agreed, in a moment of drunkeness unrequited lust, to love, honor, and obey all laws of said cell phone contract, till ungodly early termination fees do we part.
Since this penultimate decision to co-phonitat, much has happened to facilitate the progression of the mountain man/mysuestories collaboration. We have out of necessity, as many such newly joined couples, raised our sharing plan minutes. We have chosen together our "Special 10" - those "friends" who dare to have service out of our network, and who now by the grace of Verizon Wireless Deities are not counted against our allotted precious minutes.
We have even ventured together to the evil inferno that is the Verizon Wireless phone store to secure an updated cell phone for the mountain man. Note to reader: Any phone not requiring a third party operator to connect your call Ala Lily Tomlin and smaller than a bread box would qualify as an update.
So, I take the mountain man into the land of all that is glittery and geeky, and we peruse the aisles upon aisles of available phones. To say he is bewildered is akin to saying Michael Phelps can doggy paddle.
We examine flip phones, sliders, and blackberrys of endless shapes, sizes, and colors. What we cannot locate is one with a rotary dial. A salesman, who has no idea he is about to honestly earn whatever pittance of a salary he is being paid, steps into the Twilight Zone that is our humble lives.
Our salesman is excited that we are looking to expand our phone lines by one (Oh the joy!) and that we are looking for new hardware (Can I get a hallelujah!)
He brings us full circle to the front of the store, where, once again, we examine flip phones, sliders, and blackberrys of endless shapes, sizes, and colors. Our personal geek gleefully explains every whistle and bell available. On. Every. Single. Phone.
We have literally handled every individual demo available, and still mountain man looks like the rain man five minutes before Judge Wopner. Our sales geek's enthusiasm is starting to wane.
"Mountain man," I inquire, "which one do you like?"
"I don't know, mysuestories. They are all just so small."
"Um, yes, mountain man. It is a portable phone. So you can carry it with you," I explain.
At this point our sales geek is looking for the little yellow school bus parked outside.
"Mountain man, just pick one. Any one. For the love of maryjesusandjoseph. Just. Pick. One."
The mountain man turns from me to our geek and asks, "Do you have one with real big numbers on it?"
Geek looks at me. I shrug, and he turns to the mountain man and speaks slowly, as if addressing a child on the theory of quantum physics. "Er, sir, if we made them BIG, then they wouldn't fit on the little phones."
"Why are the phones so small, anyway?" mountain man asks geek boy, who by now is wondering if maybe he should rethink that college brochure his father keeps shoving at him at the dinner table.
"Sir, small is good. Everybody wants small. Nobody wants big any more."
Mountain man turns to me. "But, mysuestories, I
like big."
I patted him gently on the arm. I grabbed the nearest little phone with the biggest numbers available and told the geek we'd take it.
"You've got to compromise, mountain man, It's the 21st century, you know."
He grumbled, but agreed.
Our geek couldn't get us to the register fast enough.
"Accessories?" he asked warily?
"What kind of accessories could I possibly need with a tiny phone?" mountain man quirked.
And that's when it all went bad.
The geek said it.
He did.
He said, "Would you like a blue tooth with that phone?"
And honest to fucking Betsy, the mountain man replied," How would
you like a black eye?"

Oh, and the compromise? The mountain man now has a cell phone that rings exactly like the phone on "The I Love Lucy" show. You know. From a hundred years ago. Sigh.

Wait till I tell ya about trying to get the man out of black dress socks with sneakers and shorts....