Pajama Day is always special, even more so when it’s unplanned. Today I had every intention of getting up and being a grownup. Then one thing led to another, and the AM turned to PM. Chances are if you haven’t gotten out of your PJs by 2:30pm, you aren’t going to shed them, unless you are unwise about your scheduling. I ruined a perfect pajama day. I made an appointment for 6pm, forcing me to shower and get dressed. I really need to organize my time better.
I was not a princess. Like so many little girls of my generation, we were exposed to the Disney princesses. Yet we didn’t aspire to be them. If we dressed as a princess, it was only on Halloween. My generation knows princesses are rare. In fact, there were only three when we were young. There are ten now. (Evidently, they co-opted Pocahontas, one of the few impressive female role we encountered in our history of white men class. I can’t begin to tell you how much the Disneyization of her demoralizes me.)
From the Disney princesses, my generation is clearly flawed. We are marked by the tainted belief “and they lived happily ever after.” A perspective we have to overcome in order to actually have realistic relationships that endure beyond the honeymoon phase. Although daunting, our challenge is not nearly as insurmountable as that of the current generation being raised as princesses.
Now every little girl seems to be a princess prancing around in some sparkly outfit. Family members reinforce this belief. By and large, these girls come off as selfish monsters entitled to what they want because they are princesses. They stamp their feet and demand obeisance. But being a princess is more than an outfit and attention. In fact, it doesn’t even have anything to do with a prince. Lost in this charade are the key messages we should be teaching our daughters. Happily ever after is being a kind person with intelligence and a healthy self-esteem.
If you must uphold the Disney princesses as roll models, teach character. Cinderella works hard and doesn’t complain. Snow White accepts people without prejudice. Sleeping Beauty loves and cares for all creatures. Ariel has conviction. Belle is an avid reader. Jasmine is adventurous. Pocahontas is selfless. Mulan is brave. Tiana realizes her life-long dream job. Rapunzel is creative, intelligent and curious. So take that silly dress off your kid and teach her what is important in life. Be her role model rather than some unrealistic animated character. Teach her how to really live happily ever after.
I don’t want to talk about it. I know you are curious by the gleam in your eye anticipating gory details. Your look makes my stomach churn. You don’t care about me. You just want a gruesome tale to relate to friends and relatives. Most likely in your retelling, you will pretend we are friends. To set the record straight, we are acquaintances – at best. It’s as if making yourself closer to a murder makes you more real, more interesting, more human. It does not. It makes you prying and insensitive. We are a very sick society. I refuse to spread the disease. Go prey upon someone else’s tragedy.
Daycations rejuvenate me. Physical distance is not the goal. It’s mental. Launch from the home/work/school/store orbit. In town, go somewhere you’ve never been. Stop in at the place you’ve made a mental note to check out but never seem to make it there. For the more adventurous, see a different town – a little place where few stop. Any world apart from your own will do.
Today, I am there. This village has few businesses. All are local in small houses. There’s a bakery café, two antique stores, two art galleries, a bookshop and a barbeque joint. I’m munching on some of the best bread I’ve ever eaten. Everyone is remarkably kind despite the fact that the political signage in the yards, indicates our politics are worlds apart. We are all able to come together and appreciate this spot in the world today. I love a good Daycation.
Good German Catholics grieve alone. Fortunately, I have a touch of the Irish in me – enough to get drunk. Half a bottle into the petit syrah my teeth are bright purple, and I’ve been lighting up the phone lines. The real grief therapy with a paid professional starts tomorrow, much to my friends’ relief.
I tried to handle my first grief by convincing myself nothing was wrong. Hours of “Law and Order” marathons revealed differently. Salvation was almost unattainable by the time I realized what I had lost in the interim. Superman said nothing. He just drifted away. Sergeant Shultz should be the patron saint of German Catholics.
Now I know I need help. What I face with my second great grief is just as daunting as the first. It isn’t a nightmare. I will not wake up. I have to face the reality of every day without someone who interwove so intricately into my life that I honestly cannot imagine life without him. Whether thorn or rose, he’s always been there – my protector and my greatest source of woe. I always knew some day it would be this way. I just didn’t realize how much I would care when it happened.
Tears. Another glass of wine. Another night of nightmares. The promise of tomorrow. I’m grieving as fast as I can.
I am blesse
d. The beauty of my life has always existed in stark contrast to my brother’s. For every day I lived well, he spent hollow hours scraping and struggling with mental illness taunting him, teasing him and dangling him on the edge of life and death.
Getting high got him out of this world. Out of this existence, if only for a while. I can’t even fathom his personal pain. I would never have been so strong. I never would have engaged in such a fierce battle. I would have succumbed long ago. It is easier to die than live. Don’t let anyone fool you otherwise.
On better days we’d talk about why he survived. I told him the universe had great plans for him. Plans he had yet to achieve. There was greatness in his future. Why else would he live through a 27-year heroin addiction when so many of those closest to him were taken? There had to be a reason. Turns out, there wasn’t. Fortuna spins her own web and fashions it to her fancy.
Last week, a petty man, a coward with a 38-special, shot my brother in the chest. The little man claimed self-defense. Supposedly he was looking for his girlfriend who just broke up with him. My brother just happened to be in the wrong place – at home, a place where the little coward’s girlfriend was not. The bullet lodged in my brother’s front door after it ripped through him. The little man didn’t just take one life; he took his own as well. No wonder she broke up with this loser. Was he going to try to woo her back with a gun? The hallowed halls of justice are charged with figuring it all out.
When my brother would say no one cared about him, I always reminded him that I did. My brother’s suffering is over. Mine continues. Aren’t I lucky to be so blessed?
The sign read, “Custom Limericks.” I had to double take to make sure I read it correctly. Standing outside the grocery store, the poet looked like any guy anywhere. His expression was classic amongst the downtrodden. The empty hat at his feet indicated he hadn’t found his audience yet today. I quickly assumed that I, too, was not a member of this obscure group.
The audacity of his creative offering is impressive, even for the town of oddballs where I reside. As I wandered the store thinking about him, my interest piqued. Not everyone can just throw together a custom five-line anapaestic or amphibrachic meter poem with a strict rhyme scheme that has enjoyed scant popularity since the 19th century.
The transaction intrigued me. What is the going rate for a custom limerick? If I don’t have the requisite amount of money, will he recite a standard limerick? Are there any limericks suitable for polite company? How would I even know it was custom? I decided the experience and chuckle would be worth the investment.
Hesitation proved my enemy. The poet left while I shopped. I missed out on a randy rhyme all my own. I guess that’s okay. Nothing rhymes with Cynthia.
The girl who works at the pizza parlor has a mustache. I’m not talking about some vague shadow of hair that only reveals itself in certain lights at certain angles. She’s got a full-blown ‘stache. My esthetician friends would politely and discretely hand her a card, cutely followed with a slight hand gesture over the lip and a “call me.” I just stare.
She’s got to know it’s there. How could she not? If I can see it in the dimness of this cave, she has to be able to see it somewhere, if only in the fluorescent hell they’ve set aside for the ladies room in this joint. Is she so distracted following the detailed employee hand washing directives that she fails to look in the mirror?
Perhaps it’s just one of those fads popular with the youngsters that I simply don’t understand, like ear-lobe plugs. (The kids do know that those are permanent, don’t they?) At least someone somewhere in the world will find the large plugs worthy of a lavish dowry of goat and sheep. I am not as confident the dowry potential is there for mustachioed woman. If it is a trend, it’s not very popular. She is the only one of her kind I’ve seen.
If she looked like a troll, the hairy lip might not bother me so much. She’s like the nerdy girl in films who just needs someone to encourage her to take her glasses off the reveal the natural beauty she is. What really bothers me, more than the fact that she needs a shave, is that despite being a regular, she never shows the slightest registration of recognition when I get to the counter. I should tip her a razor next time. If nothing else, she’ll remember me as the girl who insulted her.
The mor
e severe the precipitation the less one does. Errands are postponed. Day trips are canceled. Chores are forgotten. Scraping the exterior paint off the house is abandoned. Throw a chill in the air and any neophyte to accomplishing nothing well will excel. Thoughts turn to page-turners and steaming beverages. The verb “curl” jumps from every tongue, producing wistful longing in the reliable workers foolish enough to ignore Mother Nature’s intention for the day. For them, the watering skies are drudgery causing accidents, gray skies and foul moods.
For we who do nothing, this weather is an affirmation, a justification, a call to inaction. The rest of the world has expectations of us. We are obliged to indulge in what they cannot. So curl up with a good book, sip a cup of deliciousness and enjoy. The Carpenters’ were wrong about rainy days and Mondays. Each drop is a reminder that we’ve only just begun.
Dear Faithful Reader (and I do mean that in the singular),
I can only imagine your disappointment over the recent infrequency of my entries. Alack, Fortuna has spun her wheel and mired me in a situation forcing action. Rather than accomplishing nothing well, I have (gasp) been accomplishing something.
The impetus is a debate with Superman over whether the house exterior needs to be painted. I notice each flake of peeling paint like so many eyelashes raised to reveal the hidden eyes beneath. They need to be put back to rest. In some places the eyes have fallen off exposing the wooden bones beneath. Few things inspire me more than the challenge that I cannot do something.
My days are now spent hand scraping and sanding the house to prep it for a new coat – an outer garment of daring color, now that I have to do it myself. Scraping paint is about the most mindless activity one can undertake. Covered in gray flecks, like a giant powdered doughnut, I fantasize about rewarding myself for doing something. Never fear, there will be many future entries about how I pamper myself with the thousands of dollars I’m saving by painting the house myself.
As for Superman, he can deal with having a pink house.
Accomplish Nothing Well 