LifePundit

I'll Bet You Would Talk to the Dog

A Toyota pulled up beside me, and in the back seat, which was aligned exactly with my seat, a large brown dog ran to the window and looked at me like he had something to say. (Yes, I am sleep deprived.) This dog had a very expressive face, with eyes that locked onto mine and I felt like... well, like I was supposed to respond. 

So I said, "Hey, Dog." My teenage daughter in the seat beside me ignored this. This was Mom as Usual. I talk to animals. The ones at home talk back.

Then the dog's window rolled down. And he was looking at me like he had something to say, so I did the polite thing and rolled my window down, too. Really. 

Somehow, I was expecting a conversation. The dog looked like he was, too. So I said, "Hey, Dog. Having a good trip?" 

The dog didn't say anything, in fact he scooted up between the driver and passenger in the front seat, as if to tell on me. 

"That lady is talking to the dog," the driver said. The passenger glanced back at me, and I couldn't hear what she said. I'm glad about that.

The dog didn't hold up his end of the conversation. I was feeling let down. Hot air poured in the window.

Lily, my daughter, said, "Mom, did you just roll down the window to talk to that dog?"

"Well, he rolled his window down first. I thought it was the polite thing to do."

Lily slid down in the seat. "Mom!"

I rolled my window back up and pretended to look straight ahead until the light finally changed. The dog came back to the window and stuck his head out of the window, but I didn't say a thing this time.

Covering Up

Graduation is tonight (the first of two for one girl graduating from one middle school) and I have come up with a solution to the bosom problem.

A foot of lace trim, an old T-shirt cut into a strip, and some safety pins.

Lily had the choice of death or taking the lace ($1.59 at Hobby Lobby) and facing it with the doubled-over T-shirt strip, then pinning both sides to her undergarments. Voila! A modesty panel.

I don't get mad at her very often, but she found out this afternoon that it does happen.

She looks very nice and we'll be off shortly. We're not showing anything but our smiling faces. We're smiling, right?

We Don't Show Our Bosoms before 4:00 O'Clock

I'm in a crisis. It's funny, the things that come to you in a crisis. Things you think you remember but can't find any evidence of. And the headline for this post shows how I am already in the midst of a battle I am losing.

First off, I said "we don't show our bosoms."

And now I'm negotiating not to show them before 4:00.

Didn't Mammy say that in Gone with the Wind? "We don't show our bosoms before four o'clock." I can see her talking to Scarlet while the rest of the girls are napping and Scarlet has A Plan. Hence, she needs to show her bosoms before 4:00. Or was it 5:00?

At what time of life and time of day is it all right to show our bosoms? From the look of things on TV, as soon as you wake up is a good time to be showing your bosoms (note -- I am talking about low-cut frocks, not naked skin). Coffee and bosoms every morning on the news. And do hospital administrators really dress like Dr. Cuddy on "House"? My den overfloweth with images of overflowing, button-stressed tops.

A couple of weekends ago Lily and I went dress shopping for a dress for her for church confirmation and for middle-school graduation. (Didn't I already whine about this? Well, if I did, I'm not done.) There were NO dresses that didn't show bosoms. My child is 14. She shouldn't even have bosoms. I think she should leave them home in a box, under the bed. Save them for later. But no. She has bosoms and the fashion designers have plans for them.

They are to be emancipated. Yes, as soon as bosoms sprout, they are to be displayed, set free, let loose upon the world. Yes, the dresses are even pretty. But pretty doesn't equal appropriate.

On our very painful shopping trip, Lily picked out several dresses. Hmmmm. Lots of spaghetti straps. Dresses that were nothing more than bikinis with skirts attached. So I went through the racks (no pun intended) looking for more modest clothes (we were in major department stores, not your local Hookers 'r' Us), and they were not there. There are no modest clothes. We are all hookers now.

So, we tried to do the best with what they had. Lily looked stunning. Like a sexy 25-year-old. She'd have to wear a nametag that ready, "Sorry. I'm really 14." with any of these dresses.

We haggled. We negotiated. I looked back through the racks. There were two other mothers in the dressing room, and we were all having the same argument with our 14-year-old daughters.

"You're not planning on wearing THAT, are you?"

Why yes. And before 4:00. In fact, before I'm 16. Before I'm 18. Before your very eyes.

Well, one of the dresses was marked down to $12 and actually was lovely, except for the fact that there was no fabric across the bustline. So I told Lily she could get it if she wore a camisole. She agreed. And tonight she tried on the dress with a camisole. She said it looked terrible and made her look like a hillbilly.

Better a hillbilly than something else.

Hear that stomping? That's me putting my foot down. I'm getting quite a rhythm going. Pretty soon it will be a real 'ho-down.

I may have a new play, though. Something that will be a real game-changer. Okay. She can show her bosoms.

Two can play at that game. Or would this make it four? I, too, have bosoms. And I'm not afraid to use them. 

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, though some apples may have fallen a lot farther South than others. But you didn't need to know that.

Yes, I have a plan. Can there be anything worse than having your mother show up somewhere not fully dressed? And there's only one thing that will stop me.

"When I say, 'WE don't show our bosoms,' I mean 'WE.' You show yours, and I'll show mine."

I will win. This time.

Happy Confederate Memorial Day!

This is a photo I took on Saturday of South Carolina's State House. That's Lily in the front left. I don't know who the Confederate re-enactors are, but I'm sure they were hot. They were also extremely serious people, like the Beefeater guards you can't get to acknowledge you.

Not that Lily was one to find out. I could hardly get her to stand in the same town with them to get this photo.

"Who are those people?" she asked.

"Why do you think I'd know?" I answered. I have a lot of crazy friends but most keep to themselves and dress normally. "Just stand in front of the State House so I can get your picture." I practically had to haul her over there and sit on her just to get this picture. This was as close as she would get to them.

"They look like rapists," she said.

"They're not. They're just men with a love of history and too much time on their hands," I said.

"Why are they doing that?"

"Smile, honey, and we can get this over with."

We had a wonderful confluence (is that the word) of things this past weekend. Lily had a school project where she has to take pictures of various historic places (about 25 in all) downtown. She gets extra credit if she's in the photo.

And I got a brand new Nikon D60 for my birthday and Mother's Day. Yahoo! As soon as the battery charged, we were off, with Paul driving and Lily and me hopping out in traffic to take the photos.

Today I found out from a friend who works in state government that today is Confederate Memorial Day and she has the day off. So that's why there were sweaty re-enactors standing in front of the Confederate Memorial. (Though I'm beginning to think that a secession might be in order with the Obama administration doing all it can to dismantle what made America great. But that's another topic.)

Here's probably my favorite picture of the day -- Lily standing by the Gervais Street bridge. Sherman's troops sat on the other side of the river and shelled Columbia from there before crossing the river to burn the city.

I remember that Confederate Memorial Day was something my mother observed, but I don't remember how. Maybe just by remembering. She knew her grandfather, who was in Virginia when the war ended and had to walk home to South Carolina. She told me once about how as children she and her siblings would pretend to listen to their grandfather tell his stories, would say "yes sir" and nod their heads and not listen to a word. She said she regretted that she didn't pay more attention, that she didn't remember more. I guess when Confederate Memorial Day rolled around she remembered all that she could remember. And more. Now she can't remember who I am.

For those of us who can still remember, Happy Confederate Memorial Day.

The Hamster Wheel

Today is the first day this week I haven't had to polish Buddy, the horse we have for sale, to show him to potential buyers. I mean polish, too. Like he's about to appear in his own TV show. After you get him clean (no easy job) you spray on Show Sheen, a product that acts like Teflon on his hair and makes him shine. He even smells like a polished, plastic horse. He's a clean thing of wondrous beauty.

Since we keep him at home that means I also have to polish all areas of the house (translation: clear path) from the back door to the bathroom in case potential buyers need to use facilities. And also the first day that I don't have to run Lily back to town for something (orchestra rehearsal, orchestra concert, confirmation stuff) though I did have to haul her and her new horse, Markus, to a riding lesson.

I am worn out. To keep horse, barn, house, etc. in company-ready state and be nice to people is exhausting.

Yesterday's potential buyers stayed three hours. It was hot, too. They were very nice and have taken Buddy home on trial. He can get as dirty as he wants now and I know that will make him happy. They said the first thing he did when he got off their trailer was roll in the dirt. Hallelujah! Not my dirt.

I asked Lily what she wanted for dinner. She said anything was all right. When "anything" turned out to be salad and boiled eggs, she said she'd cook her own dinner. so I altered the menu. She's never had deviled eggs (how can this be? I even have a plate I inherited from my aunt that is made for deviled eggs and nothing else) so I told her I would devil them.

Don't know how. They will probably have horse hair in them. But how hard can they be? I'll mush stuff up in the yolks and put them back together, then sprinkle paprika on top.

We'll probably eat them watching a "House" rerun if we can find one.

Doing nothing is a wonderful thing. I am off the hamster wheel for now.

The Drama Mama

"You'll probably be getting a call from Carla's mother," Lily said on the way to school yesterday.

Carla is her best friend. They're both 14 and don't date. They do text. I think that's how a crush works these days. You text. Then when you're with the boy in person, you don't know how to talk to your crush. Carla liked a boy, then told him she didn't like him. It (the like), was over. So Lily asked Carla if it was all right if Lily liked him, and Carla said yes because Carla was finished liking him. So Lily likes this boy. And now Carla has changed her mind, I suspect with some help from her mother. Carla likes him. And doesn't want Lily to like him anymore.

Is this like a dog chasing a car or what? What would these girls do with these boys if they had them? Never mind, don't tell me. I'm enjoying my innocence.

Carla's mother has told Carla that Lily violated "Girl's Rules," which include but are not limited to that you never like your friend's ex- what would he be? Ex-crush? Ex-like? I was not aware of it, but something called "Girl's Rules" were handed down at Mt. Sinai. My mother apparently didn't know them either, as she didn't teach them to me. I wonder what other Girl's Rules are out there to be violated.

Carla's mother has called the boy's mother. And now Carla's mother has called me.

Carla's mother is a really nice person. She's just overly involved in her daughter's life. And a bit of a Drama Mama.

"I just wanted to warn you that there may be a bit of drama when you pick up Lily from school today," she told me. I'm afraid I wasn't much fun. I said that this was the girls' problem and that I wasn't going to get involved.

I also said that I was sure their friendship was strong enough to survive this. "I'm not so sure," Carla's mother said, with great warning in her voice. That would be a shame as they are best friends and very compatible. They even have the same taste in boys.

Where is the boy in all this? And how far has his mother been sucked into the drama? Don't know. Don't these people have lives?

So I said again to Carla's mother, "I'm sorry, but they need to work this out themselves. I'm not going to get involved."

"Neither am I," said the Drama Mama. And I didn't say, "Then why are you calling me?"

Be a Fountain, Not a Drain

Lily's been on spring break all week. We've spent her vacation in the car, either driving to go look at a horse to buy, or hauling our horse in hopes that someone will buy him, or hauling the horse we've selected home for a two-week trial (Markus, pictured at left). I drove. She listened to her iPod while texting her friends. For hundreds of miles.

Still, we had a lot of quality time in the car. We had a lot of confessions. So far, I'm the only one to confess anything. She said she's not old enough to have anything to confess, and let's hope she keeps it that way. We've talked about:

• What really happened to Princess, the hamster (Tiger ate her, leaving only her hands and feet and head on the laundry rug.)
• Why I would be in a long-term relationship with a guy who thought the overhead passenger handles on the London Tube were germy so he got ME to hold them and then he held onto me.
• Why I would still date a guy (same as above) when he couldn't remember why he was standing outside a men's room so he left with me in it, unguarded. He wasn't there very long -- I promise. I had gone in there to use the facilities and he was supposed to stand guard at the door so I would have the men's room to myself. He was reading a book, forgot why he was standing there, and wandered off. His roommate came in the men's room, saw my sandaled feet under the stall door, said, "Hi, Anne. How are you?" and proceeded to use the urinal. I used my Invisible Walk to exit as quickly and as invisibly as I could. (And no, I was too mortified to cast even a backward glance.)
• And other things that don't make sense from my past.

She laughed until she cried. She even turned off her iPod and stopped texting for a few minutes.

When I ran out of things to confess, I took in the scenery. And I saw a country church sermon sign that I think I will take as my new motto: Be a Fountain, Not a Drain.

Happy Easter, all!

Trying Out Cats

We're low on cats -- down to just Izzie, who likes me best. This makes Lily crazy because she saved up her money and jumped through hoops to get Izzie as a kitten from the pound three or four years ago. If we're watching TV, Izzie will only get in my lap. If I hand her to Lily and settle her in Lily's lap, Izzie hops right down and hops back into my lap. Once I get past thinking this is funny, I feel sort of bad about it. Having a cat in your lap is a most pleasant thing and I'd like it to be a memory from her childhood. Unfortunately, her memory will be that her cat liked her mother better. 

Izzie sleeps under my side of the bed. She sits on the back of my office chair while I work, or on the floor nearby. I have an advantage in Cat Charming because I work at home and am here more than anyone. The cat hangs out with me. Plus, there's that little business where I take care of the cat, feed her, pick catnip for her, clean out her box, etc. 

"That cat is biased," Lily says. "She likes you best." I used to deny it but it is true. 

So, since we've always been a two-cat family, when Tiger died Lily figured it was  inevitable that she'd get another cat. One that liked her. (Note: Tiger liked everybody so that wasn't an issue with him.)

Unfortunately, Tiger's medical expenses (diabetes care and various infections) made Paul wary of getting another pet. If you are a responsible pet owner, pets can be expensive. And besides, Paul says that Lily doesn't play with Clover, her rabbit, so why should she get yet another pet?

I'll talk about the bunny later. I do believe that Paul has a point but I also believe that having a cat in your lap is good preparation for life. No, I believe that having a cat in your life is a necessity, up there with food and water.

So, Lily and I go to the pound a couple of times a week to see what's in. And almost every visit we fall in love. The pound seems to specialize in the exotic, if that's a possibility in stray cats. White blue-eyed cats with grey-striped legs. Cats with six toes. Cats with no tails. Very sweet cats. Very fat cats. A calico that was split down the middle, one side of her face grey tabby and the other side -- clearly marked by a straight line right down the middle of her face -- was orange tabby. Her tail was tortoiseshell with an orange tabby tip, like God had dipped her the end of her tail in orange tabby dye. She was sweet, too. She's gone, quickly adopted out.

The fancy ones and the plain but loveable ones don't last. The lady who works there said that they all eventually get adopted. I guess if you make it into the adoption room you get to live, I don't know. 

Lily is working on Paul to get him to go along with another cat. She's not nearly as good at getting things out of her father as the average daughter. She's too nice or something. Anyway, we visit, knowing that we won't be taking a cat home....yet.

In the meantime, Lily has devised a test to see if a cat is right for us or not. We sit down on the bench in the cat room, side by side. Lily holds the cat. If the cat leaves her lap to get in mine, the cat fails the test. She's looking for a cat that will like her best. (I suggested that she feed it and take care of it....)

It's not really a fair test, because the cat is out of its cage and wanting to move around. If it starts in Lily's lap, the next place to go is mine. 

A few days ago we found a cat biased in her favor. A 9-month-old long-haired male that just wanted her to hold him. His family lost their jobs and had to move. They gave up this sweet cat. We stayed and stayed, the cat never wanted to get down. Lily put him down, and he was playful and followed her around. 

"What shall we do, keep this cat or dad?" I asked. "Never mind, don't answer."

"I've never had a cat act like this," Lily said, holding him like a baby. He was so content, just limp and purring. "I need this cat."

"Call your father."

"That never works. He just gets mad," she said.

Maybe I should have overridden Paul and brought home the cat. This cat was special. But Lily was leaving town for the beach on a confirmation retreat with church, and this might sound silly, but I thought if I brought home this cat and was the one to tend to it while she is gone and they never have a chance to bond alone, I'd end up with two cats in my lap and she'd have none. 

That cat is probably already adopted. In the meantime, Lily came home and tended to all the animals. The dog got a bath. The rabbit got a rejuvenated hutch and some play time. The horses got massages. She even picked catnip for Izzie, though Izzie let her know that she wanted something else that Lily will never, ever discover. 

I'm sure there's another cat or kitten in our future. And even if it is against my nature, I'm going to be mean to it (or at least ignore it) so that Lily can do all the cat charming.

And Izzie and I will just go off somewhere in a huff.

The Science Project

(Photo is of my state of mind, not Lily's science project.)

The phone rings, and I'm almost afraid to answer it. The caller ID says it's the mother of one of Lily's friends, and although she is an interesting and nice woman, she seems to have more time on her hands than I do. Or you do. Or anyone else does.

She seems to have more time on her hands than my mother does. My mother has Alzheimer's and is bedridden. Yes, some of us are busy. And others of us are looking for something to do.

This woman is a bit too involved in her daughter's life. She's calling to find out "how we're coming on our science project?"

"I don't have a science project, and Lily is watching TV," I say. I feel like a negligent mother. I'm not sure I remember what the science project is about. Then I remember. I've already finished eighth grade. I don't have a science project, other than what's growing in the refrigerator.

"Are you splitting the (FORGOT WHAT SHE SAID) into different pages or doing it together?" she asks. I have no idea what she's talking about, but I have the urge to be helpful.

"I haven't even looked at it, but I think I'd put things on separate pages. Make the whole thing look longer," I say.

"You aren't working on it? My daughter has been working all day (Saturday) and will be working on it all day tomorrow," she exclaims.

The drama comes from the fact that the science teacher forgot to tell them all until the last minute that they need to include a major part of the project that hasn't been mentioned before -- a booklet -- when they turn the project in on Monday.

Though this shouldn't have happened, I figure it's Lily's problem. Lily seems unconcerned. So when I (finally) get off the phone with her friend's mother, I feel the need to check to be sure that there isn't some adolescent slip-up slipping up right under my nose.

"Your friend and her whole family are scrambling to get her science project finished by Monday. Why are you watching TV?" I quiz Lily.

"Because I like this show, and it's Saturday," she says.

"What about your science project? Why aren't you foaming at the mouth?" I say. "Have you looked at everything you're supposed to turn in?"

"Could you move out of the way of the TV?" Lily says.

"Not until you tell me about your science project." I'm not going to be the negligent mother I feel like I am.

So Lily gets her scrawled notes. "It's supposed to have a title page, a contents page, a summary, research method..., Mom, why am I reading you this?"

"I'm just making sure there's no Sunday night surprise when you go to put it together," I say.

"There's nothing to this," she says. "All I have to do is reformat what I've already done."

"Then why is your friend's family working all weekend?" I ask.

"Because they're not us," she says. Then, "Thank you, Mom, for not getting so involved in my stuff."

"You're welcome. As long as you're getting good grades and acting normal, I won't."

What she doesn't realize is that at this point, I probably couldn't pass eighth grade, so that's why I'm leaving it to her.

It's 50 Degrees and Cloudy, So They Cancelled School

I love South Carolina. Right now it's 50 degrees and cloudy. I just got an e-mail, a text-alert on my cell and an automated voice-call on the land line: School is canceled tomorrow because it might snow.

I do hope that it does. I could use some snow, so long as it doesn't hang around. Snow is best for one day or two. Not the whole winter.

Snow is a reason for a holiday. Outside will smell wonderful -- the air heavy with pine because our poor trees weren't made for snow. The snow will collect on the needles and in the branches and be too heavy for the tree. Snap! Down they'll fall. Which is all fine provided they don't fall on your power lines because then, in your all-electric, not-too-warm-from-the-heat-pump house, you'll be cold and in the dark. And if you live in the country and are on a well, you'll also be thirsty and stinky because your well won't work without electricity and you won't have water.

But sometimes it snows and the power doesn't go out. That, my friends, is a real holiday. A reason to cancel school, stay home with your family, and drink hot chocolate and marvel at the stuff floating down from the sky. Snow. That rarest of weathers.