Dad, what does being weird mean?
Well, it can mean different things...Depends on how someone uses the word.
Why would someone tell another person that they are weird?
If a person says that are you weird it means that they do not understand who you are.
Oh. (pause) And if I think someone else is weird, it's because I do not understand them?
Yep.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
Wonky
I have never had a straight walk. Literally. As a child, I walked crooked with pigeon toed feet, until the corrective leg braces worked. As an adolescent on my cross country team, I ran crooked. So much so, my team-mates teasingly kept a wide gate between us during practice. Otherwise they would be inadvertently tripped or cut off by me. I still cannot walk or run in a straight line. Just recently, while walking with a new friend, I warned her of my crooked walk. “Sorry if I elbow you or step on your feet~ I don’t really know how to walk straight.”
My new friend (who feels like an old friend) suggested we walk in Audubon park, not on the smoothly paved track but through the more wooded, crooked paths on the perimeter. As we were walking and talking about life, as any old friend does best, I quietly thought about my adoration of crooked, unkempt, wonky , messy paths and the people who walk them.
My own path hasn’t been particularly straight. I guess like many teenagers and twenty something’s I shifted from boyfriends with opposite personalities, rebelled against my faith, drank too much, switched friendship groups, used school loan money to buy cute clothes and was insensitive to my parents and family in the name of independence and “finding myself.” Totally obnoxious. But necessary, I suppose. And comfortable, for she who rarely walks straight or consistently.
As a married woman with children and a developing career, I have comfortably transcended childhood, adolescence and the aforementioned stage of my twenties. Sigh. Relief. I don’t think I am obnoxious anymore. However my path and person are still not straight. As my daughter affectionately refers to anything that works imperfectly: They are wonky.
Commonly, I am full of contradictions. For example, I cannot reconcile conflicting political beliefs. Abortion? Murder? Yes. Undeniably. Can I sympathize with the want to end an unwanted pregnancy.Yes. Should any human being be denied access to good medical care? No. Never. It’s as inhumane as murder. Often, it is murder. Does the effect of socialized medicine on society scare me? Yes. Very much. If you could peek inside my soul, or have a script of it, you would see other wonky ways too. They materialize when I use my anger to say hurtful words to my husband, my pride to judge, my laziness to overlook meaning, or my impatience to frustrate my daughter...while my guilt leads me to ask forgiveness and my patience withstands endless days in the floor with a toddler and my love helps me forgive a friend and delight in a hiper child and give my family a warm meal and my husband my undivided attention. If my daughter’s intuition was more sophisticated, she would undoubtedly remind me, “ Mom you are very wonky.”
For countless moments, I have wished away my unkempt self. “If only I could consistently keep a tidy house, never gossip, lose patience, covet, etc.; Then, I would be straight, consistent, uncrooked, or…something like that.” I don’t even really believe in wishing but I have hoped that my will or prayer or both would propel be a bit closer to straight. Then, I moved to New Orleans. New Orleans, who says, “No.” to perfection, “Yes.” to life and most importantly to me, “Yes.” to a crooked life.
New Orleans: It’s human and raw and gritty. It’s wonky. I-10 into the city is much like a rickety county fair roller coaster. The roads get worse, the closer you get to local life. Natural speed bumps will ruin the best of car shocks on nearly every New Orlean’s street. Cracked sidewalks make it virtually impossible to stroll a sleeping child. Unashamedly, prostitutes solicit sex. Alcoholism, gluttony,and laziness shine at every corner. The city is dirty. Physically, the dirt and pollution will give allergies to the healthiest horse. Politicians are dirty too. They lie and cheat and steal. Murder and crime are blatant: robbery, rape, drug deals, abuse.
It’s a brokenness that at times, perhaps, would be relieving to avoid or ignore. Maybe, take a different route to only see beautiful homes or avoid seeing the homeless, ugly and crooked. But you can’t do that in New Orleans. You cannot avoid the bum on the bench, or the cat lady with huge breasts, no bra and a broom, who sweeps the sidewalk all day. There is no straight route home. No smooth road, no uniformity, and no normal.
Oddly, I believe these are the realities that the disciple Paul encouraged us to ponder when he told us, “Brothers, whatever is true {real} , whatever is lovely…if there be any virtue or praise, think upon such things.” (Philippians 4:8). Truth: the reality that life and death, rich and poor, ugly and beautiful co-exist. Moreover, all humans suffer and sin (albeit to varying degrees) . Truth, like New Orleans, cannot deny that racism and poverty are always staring and most often ignored. And, that whether we spend our days sweeping our sidewalk with saggy boobs, paving bumpy roads, harmonizing tourists at Café’ du Monde, dealing drugs, loving children, hiding in beautiful homes or sleeping off a hangover in a cardboard box (or mansion), we are wonky.
Ironically, if it weren’t for the wonky, the virtuous and lovely wouldn’t exist. New Orleans is lovely. Which is known by my unspoken agreement with a friendly drunk father: Our girls met on the swing set and developed an instant friendship. Every afternoon, we meet at the same neighborhood park. He teaches my daughter how to hopscotch. I teach his daughter how to pump her legs on the swing, while he takes a “break” to drink a tall boy and pee behind a bush. He drinks way too much, is crass, and a good daddy. Or you may find it in the tattooed cowboy who boils crawfish and is gentle and godly and a teacher of life skills to uneducated men. Or you may find it in the calming hand of the large black woman at Winn Dixie, who gently pats the back of the frazzled, young, white mother of a tantrum throwing toddler and says, “Baby, you gonna get through it. These times a gonna’ pass and she gonna be good.” Or, by a jolly pastor, a lover of all things spicy, cajun and New Orlenian excitedly reminding his congregation, week after week, to receive communion with cheer . The Lord’s Supper and Heaven are like Mardi Gras, he says. (Yes, I did say Mardi Gras.) We have the promise of life and redemption: Shout! Parade!Jump! Drink! Feast! Celebrate! Live!
New Orleans is blatant about truth (good and bad), virtue and all things lovely. The streets are crooked and so are the people. Enjoyment of the city or even better, love of it, comes at the expense of being “straight.” It will love you, convict you, celebrate with you, grieve you, feed you (really well), expose you, entertain you ,bless you, confuse you, and befriend you.; If you are wonky, it will make sense to you. Even more lovely, it will make sense of you.--------------
My new friend (who feels like an old friend) suggested we walk in Audubon park, not on the smoothly paved track but through the more wooded, crooked paths on the perimeter. As we were walking and talking about life, as any old friend does best, I quietly thought about my adoration of crooked, unkempt, wonky , messy paths and the people who walk them.
My own path hasn’t been particularly straight. I guess like many teenagers and twenty something’s I shifted from boyfriends with opposite personalities, rebelled against my faith, drank too much, switched friendship groups, used school loan money to buy cute clothes and was insensitive to my parents and family in the name of independence and “finding myself.” Totally obnoxious. But necessary, I suppose. And comfortable, for she who rarely walks straight or consistently.
As a married woman with children and a developing career, I have comfortably transcended childhood, adolescence and the aforementioned stage of my twenties. Sigh. Relief. I don’t think I am obnoxious anymore. However my path and person are still not straight. As my daughter affectionately refers to anything that works imperfectly: They are wonky.
Commonly, I am full of contradictions. For example, I cannot reconcile conflicting political beliefs. Abortion? Murder? Yes. Undeniably. Can I sympathize with the want to end an unwanted pregnancy.Yes. Should any human being be denied access to good medical care? No. Never. It’s as inhumane as murder. Often, it is murder. Does the effect of socialized medicine on society scare me? Yes. Very much. If you could peek inside my soul, or have a script of it, you would see other wonky ways too. They materialize when I use my anger to say hurtful words to my husband, my pride to judge, my laziness to overlook meaning, or my impatience to frustrate my daughter...while my guilt leads me to ask forgiveness and my patience withstands endless days in the floor with a toddler and my love helps me forgive a friend and delight in a hiper child and give my family a warm meal and my husband my undivided attention. If my daughter’s intuition was more sophisticated, she would undoubtedly remind me, “ Mom you are very wonky.”
For countless moments, I have wished away my unkempt self. “If only I could consistently keep a tidy house, never gossip, lose patience, covet, etc.; Then, I would be straight, consistent, uncrooked, or…something like that.” I don’t even really believe in wishing but I have hoped that my will or prayer or both would propel be a bit closer to straight. Then, I moved to New Orleans. New Orleans, who says, “No.” to perfection, “Yes.” to life and most importantly to me, “Yes.” to a crooked life.
New Orleans: It’s human and raw and gritty. It’s wonky. I-10 into the city is much like a rickety county fair roller coaster. The roads get worse, the closer you get to local life. Natural speed bumps will ruin the best of car shocks on nearly every New Orlean’s street. Cracked sidewalks make it virtually impossible to stroll a sleeping child. Unashamedly, prostitutes solicit sex. Alcoholism, gluttony,and laziness shine at every corner. The city is dirty. Physically, the dirt and pollution will give allergies to the healthiest horse. Politicians are dirty too. They lie and cheat and steal. Murder and crime are blatant: robbery, rape, drug deals, abuse.
It’s a brokenness that at times, perhaps, would be relieving to avoid or ignore. Maybe, take a different route to only see beautiful homes or avoid seeing the homeless, ugly and crooked. But you can’t do that in New Orleans. You cannot avoid the bum on the bench, or the cat lady with huge breasts, no bra and a broom, who sweeps the sidewalk all day. There is no straight route home. No smooth road, no uniformity, and no normal.
Oddly, I believe these are the realities that the disciple Paul encouraged us to ponder when he told us, “Brothers, whatever is true {real} , whatever is lovely…if there be any virtue or praise, think upon such things.” (Philippians 4:8). Truth: the reality that life and death, rich and poor, ugly and beautiful co-exist. Moreover, all humans suffer and sin (albeit to varying degrees) . Truth, like New Orleans, cannot deny that racism and poverty are always staring and most often ignored. And, that whether we spend our days sweeping our sidewalk with saggy boobs, paving bumpy roads, harmonizing tourists at Café’ du Monde, dealing drugs, loving children, hiding in beautiful homes or sleeping off a hangover in a cardboard box (or mansion), we are wonky.
Ironically, if it weren’t for the wonky, the virtuous and lovely wouldn’t exist. New Orleans is lovely. Which is known by my unspoken agreement with a friendly drunk father: Our girls met on the swing set and developed an instant friendship. Every afternoon, we meet at the same neighborhood park. He teaches my daughter how to hopscotch. I teach his daughter how to pump her legs on the swing, while he takes a “break” to drink a tall boy and pee behind a bush. He drinks way too much, is crass, and a good daddy. Or you may find it in the tattooed cowboy who boils crawfish and is gentle and godly and a teacher of life skills to uneducated men. Or you may find it in the calming hand of the large black woman at Winn Dixie, who gently pats the back of the frazzled, young, white mother of a tantrum throwing toddler and says, “Baby, you gonna get through it. These times a gonna’ pass and she gonna be good.” Or, by a jolly pastor, a lover of all things spicy, cajun and New Orlenian excitedly reminding his congregation, week after week, to receive communion with cheer . The Lord’s Supper and Heaven are like Mardi Gras, he says. (Yes, I did say Mardi Gras.) We have the promise of life and redemption: Shout! Parade!Jump! Drink! Feast! Celebrate! Live!
New Orleans is blatant about truth (good and bad), virtue and all things lovely. The streets are crooked and so are the people. Enjoyment of the city or even better, love of it, comes at the expense of being “straight.” It will love you, convict you, celebrate with you, grieve you, feed you (really well), expose you, entertain you ,bless you, confuse you, and befriend you.; If you are wonky, it will make sense to you. Even more lovely, it will make sense of you.--------------
Monday, October 10, 2011
The Wizard of Oz and Church
Dorothy (The Wizard of Oz one) and her peeps are all the rage in this home of mine. Halloween and all its magical wonder has taken over. The glitter is already worn of the toes of her ruby reds and her blue and white checked dress that arrived 3 days ago is stained with all manner of dirt and paint and toothpaste. I am rather certain that she dressed herself for church before I was awake, so that I would have zero say so in her outfit choice. Proud little Dorothy was reared and ready to go in her Sunday best at the crack of dawn.
Making our way to church was typical: Dorothy fussing at Toto for barking too loud, me (Glinda) having to oil the Tin Man because he is so rusty and SLOW, while the Munchkin blows out her diaper and poos all over Glinda, and for the first 5 minutes of the car ride, it seems there is a land that I am dreaming of that feels really far from the current one.
I was sitting in church, nursing the munchkin, staring at my husband's dirty feet and hands wondering if he forgot to wash them in the shower and simultanelously loving that his hands are always caked in dirt of some sort. Always...because his hands are in the business of being useful and creative. Reaching for his dirty hand in church, I was reminded, as I am most Sundays of why I go to my church.
I am very certain that nobody else noticed his dirty nails and if they did, they would understand them. And, why they were understanding dirty calloused hands, they were looking adoringly at my daughter who giggled her Dorothy self into my pew to steal my purse, while I unashamedly nurse my baby and struggle to see the Rev. who's face is blocked by the huge hat worn by the old granny in front of me. After the sermon, we have a meet and greet before receiving communion and everytime, Ms. Louise (another Granny) and I look for each other and talk about what we bought at the Farmer's market last Tuesday. Then, she kisses my cheek and her one long whisker tickles my face. And then we all hold hands and sing the Lord's prayer and I really believe that the hands I am holding know what it means to ask for daily bread and to long for God's kingdom on earth as it is in heaven. When I receive communion and I am holding my baby, her little forehead gets gently patted and blessed with some gentle words like, "may the Lord make His face to shine upon you." And then before it's all over, with a blessing from the Rev. and some good old fashioned church cookies and coffee, my kids are adorned with lipstick kisses from a variety of different grannies, most of which are eager to get home to watch their favorite NFL team win a football game.
It's a land I dreamt of for some time. It's not even over the rainbow and I don't have to click my heels to get there.
Now, don't you think the Tin Man needs to wear this instead?
Munchkins have dirty hands and feet too, right?
Making our way to church was typical: Dorothy fussing at Toto for barking too loud, me (Glinda) having to oil the Tin Man because he is so rusty and SLOW, while the Munchkin blows out her diaper and poos all over Glinda, and for the first 5 minutes of the car ride, it seems there is a land that I am dreaming of that feels really far from the current one.
I was sitting in church, nursing the munchkin, staring at my husband's dirty feet and hands wondering if he forgot to wash them in the shower and simultanelously loving that his hands are always caked in dirt of some sort. Always...because his hands are in the business of being useful and creative. Reaching for his dirty hand in church, I was reminded, as I am most Sundays of why I go to my church.
I am very certain that nobody else noticed his dirty nails and if they did, they would understand them. And, why they were understanding dirty calloused hands, they were looking adoringly at my daughter who giggled her Dorothy self into my pew to steal my purse, while I unashamedly nurse my baby and struggle to see the Rev. who's face is blocked by the huge hat worn by the old granny in front of me. After the sermon, we have a meet and greet before receiving communion and everytime, Ms. Louise (another Granny) and I look for each other and talk about what we bought at the Farmer's market last Tuesday. Then, she kisses my cheek and her one long whisker tickles my face. And then we all hold hands and sing the Lord's prayer and I really believe that the hands I am holding know what it means to ask for daily bread and to long for God's kingdom on earth as it is in heaven. When I receive communion and I am holding my baby, her little forehead gets gently patted and blessed with some gentle words like, "may the Lord make His face to shine upon you." And then before it's all over, with a blessing from the Rev. and some good old fashioned church cookies and coffee, my kids are adorned with lipstick kisses from a variety of different grannies, most of which are eager to get home to watch their favorite NFL team win a football game.
It's a land I dreamt of for some time. It's not even over the rainbow and I don't have to click my heels to get there.
Now, don't you think the Tin Man needs to wear this instead?
Munchkins have dirty hands and feet too, right?
Friday, October 7, 2011
Housework, Sex and Van Morrison
One of my bosoms just told me I need to be a consistent blogger. Monday. Wednesday. Friday. Those are my days. But my camera is dead so I can't interest you with photos and I am supposed to be cleaning my home instead of typing. But alas, in the name of consistency, I type (but quickly). Two things on the agenda today. 1. Clean House (because mamma aint happy starting the weekend off with dust and laundry..and if Mamma aint happy, .....) 2. Listen to music. Pandora delivers. Van Morrison delivers. Van Morrison gets me in a lovin' kinda mood. You? Good thing its the weekend. Lots of time for lovin. Which brings me to think about a book I once read. The lady rambled on about how important it is for men to assist in housework if they want to increase their wife's non distracted involvement during that three letter word. You know, the one that starts with an S and ends with an x. Or better said, if you want your wife thinking about your hot self rather than laundry, then help her get it done. I think it's rather genius. For the most part. I would add and subtract to other things she said (and believe you me, I have.) Including, if you have more time than your husband to do the mundane, like clean, humble yourself and do it. I am humble today. And I am cleaning. And this weekend, I'll be lovin'. Crazy Love.
You? Not feeling the love? Here, maybe he will help:
You? Not feeling the love? Here, maybe he will help:
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Rolling With My Homies
The husband doesn't quite meet bosom buddy criteria. But, he sure as hell, is awesome. I like the way he rolls. My kids do too.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Sacred Stories-The Only Kind
I come from a social tradition, of sorts, that gets excited to give their daughters dolls they cannot play with; you know the ones that sit on the shelf. These dolls are usually accented by a few other non-kid friendly breakables. .…little breakable figurines. Some of mine were these porcelain doll figurines that I received each year from birth through my sweet sixteen. The baby one is a babe in a bed, the first birthday is a little pretty tot holding a number one; each year the girls got a little taller and doned a different color dress. The sweet sixteen year old holds her sixteen proudly. Back when I got her, I liked her because she reminded of the girl in The Sound of Music. Anyhow, these dolls took their place one by one on my do not touch shelf throughout my childhood. The same Christmas I received my sound of music chick, I also received a Waterford crystal angel figurine from my first boyfriend. (Because, nothing says love like a crystal angel from your boyfriend’s parents.) The next Christmas I received that angel's twin. (Same boyfriend)
The band of breakable girls and their late guardian angels lived on that same shelf until they moved into a box when my parents moved out of my childhood home. Then, my daughter had her first birthday and I had this awful dilemma on whether or not to have a do not touch shelf. I mean, my grandmother did give them to me, and they did stare at me for 18 years and admittedly, I kind of like them..And the angels are wonderfully reminiscent of my first love and all that I was and wasn't for years and years of teenage drama and sloooow maturation. On the one hand, it seemed sweet and sentimental to give these to my daughter; And on the other , I am rather anti toward all things that tell kids not to be kids.
Now that my daughter is 5, and she has discovered the do not touch items, she begs to play with them. I let her and reminded her to use her “soft touches, like we do with babies.” Needless to say, after a few of them lost their heads in a rather imaginative game of hide and go seek, I decided to send the figurines back to their box..But I couldn’t put the angels in a box.
These damn angels! (yikes, is that blasphemous?) What to do with them? (I still haven’t decided) So they sit in the far corner of my daughter’s closet, where their heads are safe but close enough where I am reminded, not of my first boyfriend and his parents so much, but that like everybody, I have a history and my story, like everyone’s, is sacred and important and in need of soft touches.
email me: grannysbosom@gmail.com
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