Autumn With The Union Clan

Baba G has begun attending exercise classes with Ellen at offensively early start times. He really hates it. He dreads going and remarks about the sheer horror of exercise class throughout the day but he still dutifully attends, has lost some weight, and even feels better but he still whines about the class. He does this bright and early and then comes home to shower and dart off into the world for the day. Typically he comes home for lunch and ventures off again for a few hours before coming home to slump awhile and then cook dinner. He and Mom have recently taken to playing Dominoes after dinner and watching reruns of Fixer Upper. Dad seems entirely blown away by Chip and Joanna Gains.

Mama continues her slow mornings of coffee, breakfast, prayers, and then a lackadaisical dressing routine. She’s doing lots of volunteer work (Bingo, piano playing, Bible studies) and also spends time ruminating about her daughters’ personal lives. She also rotates various tasks with Carolyn to make sure Grandma and G-Bob have what they need. She’s really quite busy and I have to call ahead now to make an appointment for Love Time with Big Mama.

Ellen is working two jobs, also attends early morning exercise classes, has multiple boyfriends, and still manages to keep up with all of her favorite TV shows. Ellie did finally sell her house and has moved into a smaller nice place that actually suits her more than the big house did.  She has a beautiful South American girl moving in with her next week so she’s been enjoying her last month of making messes and not wearing pants. Back before wedding season I purchased a giant commercial cooler for my flowers. It’s a happy orange Tropicana refrigerator and the only place we could store it was in Ellen’s garage. Naturally Ellen huffed and grumped and told me I had to contribute to her electricity bill even though I run the cooler just two days out of every week. So this wedding season I’ve been working over at Ellen house which has been great for a number of reasons but mostly because I get to see Ellen when she comes home between jobs, dates, and TV shows.  I think she enjoys this too even though she complains about the mess I make every half hour or so.

Pippa has turned out to be an even better thing than I’d thought she would be. She’s much more comfortable now that we’ve been a family for a whole month. She loves me very much and follows me around and sits in my lap and lets me play with her feet and jowls and tail and ears. She’ll let me do anything to her while other people are lucky if she allows them to pet her. She thinks I’m pretty great. Pip makes me laugh out loud several times each day because she’s very weird and cute and sometimes I think my heart will pop. She leaves her back legs on furniture while she does other things like eat, play, or just watch me, so she pulls herself off with her front legs and makes them carry her weight while she chews bones or squeaks her toys. She also becomes very concerned when anyone sneezes, coming over to stare or offer a lick until you stop, and she's very possessive of our shared driveway. I’m even more elated to tell you that Buddy now loves her too and they wrestle and romp and play for hours at a time. Mom is surprisingly delighted by Pippa and Pip feels the same way. They have a weird little bond.

I’ve had my head down as I barrel through wedding season. It has gone very smoothly and I have never felt so calm in the workplace. Lux and U had it’s one year anniversary and has gotten some really wonderful reviews. I also got my first letter of upset from a bride, which made me feel icky for a whole day. It was actually a very nice letter with only one complaint and though I have my own thoughts on the matter, I was pretty tickled that it took a whole year to even mildly annoy someone. I count that as a win as I knew I had to hit a snag at some point. This past weekend I did the flowers for and attended the wedding of Amy and Lou and it was really special. (That first photo shows some of Amy's centerpieces.)
 Lou and I thought about meeting for the first time in French class and then we fast-forwarded fourteen years to me pinning on his boutonnière. There’s lots love and respect wrapped up in there and Amy and Lou’s wedding was one full of mutual admiration for everyone who came to celebrate. I’ve got one wedding left to wrap up the Fall season and then I just have a few Lux things sprinkled in until Spring. I’m not sure what I’ll do with the down time but I know what I wish I would do (write, exercise, volunteer) so that’s something to start with but most of all I'm excited for uninterrupted mornings in my favorite corner. I sit here most mornings to read, pray, drink my morning tea, and think big thoughts. And I look forward to it a lot - which is how one knows they are aging. I go to bed excited about breakfast.

A Helpful Weenie

When I was a little girl, I would walk around the backyard and collect all the acorns I could find and then put them into a few big piles at the base of the oak trees. I wanted to make sure the squirrels would have enough food for the winter and I figured I could carry more acorns at once so it made more sense for me to gather them up for the squirrels so they didn’t have to work so hard at something that I thought should be handed to them. Life is hard enough, imagine having to forage enough food for month-long spans of cold, dark time and doing it all with hands the size of sugar-cubes. I was sad and worried for the squirrels and I wanted to help. I thought about what a great day it would be for a squirrel that suited up for a long excursion of foraging only to find a pile of gold at the end of his driveway.

I did this many autumns over before it occurred to me that maybe the squirrels didn’t want my greasy human fingers rubbing their food. What if they were the kinds of animals that abandon their young if they can smell that a human touched them? What if I was literally spoiling all the food they have for winter? This was one of the moments that made me consider my place in the world. What if sticking my nose in realms beyond mine was actually causing harm instead of the good I so desperately wanted to give? Suppose my help isn’t wanted? This was all before ten years old. As a sixteen-year-old I was very interested in mission trips. I thought about my super great home life and then felt terribly guilty for it and sad that so many other people didn’t get to have that. I thought that I’d even switch places with them so they could feel warm and loved because surely I could handle poverty in exchange for someone else’s happiness. I researched lots of mission companies and volunteer organizations around the world and I read articles from ex-missionaries, aid workers, and founders of selflessness. One of the articles I read was written by an African man from a small town where many college students came each year to build houses and work on farms. While he understood the intentions of their help, he felt undermined by their pity and worse, he and other local men would have to go back behind the students to properly build the structures and till the fields. These kids knew nothing about farming or building and caused more work for the town in a roundabout way. That may only be one man’s opinion. Maybe another townsman appreciates the college kids getting the ball rolling even if they have to finish the job, but that guy’s article stayed with me. What if those college kids were just rubbing their grubby paws all over Africa’s acorns?

This sort of trepidatious yearning to be helpful translates to me being overly accommodating to people’s superficial desires and never actually making big helpful changes in someone’s life. Maybe that homeless guy wants to be homeless. I hear homelessness can be a profitable field to be in. So I opt out of getting to know the homeless guy. I don’t want to embarrass him by pointing out that he’s homeless. I’m sure he’s already aware of that but what if I give him the rest of my turkey club sandwich and he’s lactose intolerant or gluten free? One time I tried to give a box of cupcakes to a homeless guy and he told me he wanted “real food”.  Aren’t you hungry and poor? Wouldn’t any help be better than none? But turns out that sometimes the answer is no. On another occasion in New York City a man approached me for food so I offered him my hot dog but it turns out he’s a homeless vegetarian.  He had a pregnant wife with him and I‘ve never been pregnant but I imagine that’s a good time in life to make sure you’re getting enough protein and iron. I didn’t want to insult him by suggesting he give the hot dog to his wife so I simply carried on with a newly broken heart and my New York City hot dog. I’m envious of people that can talk to and befriend other people in bad scenarios. If how concerned I am came out, I'd surely offend them with my pity, even if it's pity from a place of love. I so badly want everyone to be happy and loved and healthy that it keeps me up at night. I wish I could be that sick person’s healthy friend who talks to them about life outside of the hospital bed they’re trapped in. Do you tell them the good things they’re missing? But if you left those things out, you’d just be a sick person’s downer friend who never had anything fun to say. How do you help some without hurting their feelings or ruining their acorns?

I write this post as I’m looking for volunteer work. I’m feeling guilty about my charmed life but that’s a silly thing to do. I’m in the perfect position to do something great for someone who needs it. I’ve been dealt some great cards. I have hands much larger and more capable than sugar cubes. I just don’t know how to use them. (And I don’t like children, germs, loud things, sticky things, medical things, or hard labor.) But I’m, like… a really nice person.

In other selfish news, the folks over in Tenby, Wales asked if I’d write a short post for the town blog.
You can read it here:  http://tenby.co.uk/traveller-tales-laura/

My Face

The other day I went to the dermatologist. I love my dermatologist. She a good-humored gal in her mid-thirties who laughs at my jokes and understands my repulsions to personal skin ailments. When I was a teenager, she stood in the background, just an assistant at the time, and I had to explain my pimple woes to a middle-aged, stone-faced, man who seemed annoyed by my presence and more disgusted than I was that the cheap zit creams weren’t working.  He was always trying to sell me expensive things so I could have skin like a Hollywood star. I thought that was too lofty for a bumpkin like myself and was perfectly content with only a bi-monthly breakout. When his lovely assistant finished med school, the grumpy doctor passed my pimples and me over to her and we’ve been happily battling zits, rashes, and flakey patches since ’09. She checks my big, belly mole (I have a big, belly mole) while I complain about my sandpaper forehead in an exhausted Jewish mother’s accent. She likes that accent. “Ya forheyad looks like sandpaypa!”

Anyways, I went to see the dermatologist because I have a reoccurring eczema patch on my left shin. It’s about the size of a quarter and pops up every five years or so. The special eczema cream that gets rid of it in under a week (the miracle of science!) comes in an enormous jug that could easily coat and lather a family of eight or nine flakey folks but it expires after two years so by the time my flakey patch shows up again, my miracle mayonnaise jar has no magical powers left… so I have to go back to the dermatologist, show her my leg and she goes, “Yep. It’s eczema.” And then writes me a new prescription for the mayo tub and I skip off into an ointment daze.

Last month, while she inspected my leg I rambled about life in your late twenties.

“So, how about independence, huh? What a racket.”

“Yep. It’s eczema.” she replied. “Do you have any other concerns today?”

“Well,” I said bashfully, swinging my legs as they dangled from her vinyl examination table, “I’m worried about my forehead.”

“I think it’s looking a lot better!”

“Oh no, it’s only about a 320 grit these days. That’s great!” I told her. “It’s that I do this a lot when I think.”
And then I crunched my eyebrows together like I was reading a sign from acres away. “I’m furrowing. You can see the furrow line even when I’m not furrowing, especially if I’ve being doing a lot of thinking that day.”

“I don’t see a line.”

“I haven’t thought much today.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m just wondering if there’s something I can do now to prevent it from becoming Tom Selleck-y. Are there eyebrow exercises? Creams? Butters? A facial pickling process of sorts?”

She stepped closer and looked at my head.

“You do have a really strong brow muscle and if I’m being honest, that’s not going to get better... but Tom Selleck is a good looking guy.”

“But no! I’m so young! I can’t wrinkle and furrow at this age!”

“How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-seven.”

“Really? Well you know… you’re not too young.”

I furrowed my Selleck brow and narrowed my eyes at her.

“… for Botox.” she whispered and I gasped. “Wait wait wait!’ she said, “Hear me out!”

“I could never!” I told her. “I’m twenty seven!” I shrieked.

“Just listen!” and she explained to me the preventative elements of putting tiny dollops of Botox into creases created by muscle movement. I glared at her while she explained this. Then she would make an interesting point and I would lean in, a faint, hopeful smile creeping along my face and then I would come to, jerk myself away and rest my chin on my shoulder. “No.” I’d whisper.

“I started Botox at twenty-seven.” she admitted. I eyed her forehead. It was like flawless satin. She could be twenty-two, bee bopping at a concert on Spring Break. Looking at her forehead made me stop resisting and consider just one little squirt of Botox. Just one little squirt, right between the eyes, and wham bam. Problem solved. She continued talking about it while I thought about vanity and my life long excitement to age, and how I would always deny ever having Botox no matter who asked me.

“So you’re saying it wouldn’t be a filler, it would just stun my brow muscle.”

“Exactly”

So I couldn’t scrunch my brows together anymore?”

“Yep. Exactly.” And in that moment my little heart broke because I wouldn’t look like me anymore. I scrunch and furrow and raise and wiggle my brows all day everyday, telling stories, writing emails, even watching TV. 

Sometimes Mom watches me watch TV because I react as though I’m in the scene. I can’t tell a story with stoic eyebrows. I suddenly found it all very sad.
"This is my face!" I shouted in my head.

I stomped up out of there with my jar of mayo and went to my favorite coffee shop. Andre, the coffee guy, eyed me curiously while I waited in line.

“What are you doing?” he asked when I stepped up to the counter.

“What?”

“With your fingers…on your eyebrows.”

I realized I’d been smoothing my thumbs along my eyebrows, trying to press out wrinkles and massage my overworked muscles.

“Andre!” I shrieked, “I’m going to look like Tom Selleck!” and I told him the whole story. Andre, a sassy, no-nonsense type finds me amusing. He laughs at me while I agonize over a beverage choice, chuckles while I mutter and dig through my purse, and makes fun of my sensitivity to caffeine. He has helpfully introduced me to lots of fun coffee drinks that aren’t so potent but then he ridicules me when I order them. Andre told me my dermatologist sounds like a jerk. “You don’t need Botox. You’re twenty seven!”

“That’s just it Andre! She’s not a jerk and she a has a forehead like room temperature butter!” I took my coffee and left Andre rolling his eyes.

A couple days later I had moved on from my face woes to worrying about work things and hadn’t thought about Botox or the devastating, personality-stunning effects it would have on my disposition. But then!

My friendly drug-dealing neighbor came over and asked me to help him move some furniture. This whole ordeal was very odd but that’s a tale for another day. While we were talking he told me I had some makeup smeared under my eyes.

“I’m not wearing any makeup.” I told him.

“Oh.” he said and then there was a pause. “What about last night. Were you wearing makeup last night? I think it’s smudged.”

“I was not.” I informed him and I rubbed under my eyes because now I was getting insecure. I kept talking and the expression on his face changed. He delicately interrupted me.

“I’m sorry”, he stammered, “Has someone hit you? Is it a bruise? Is someone hitting you?”

I stepped over and looked at my face in a car’s side view mirror. I looked at my eyes and back at him and I sighed.

“That’s just my face, Jordan."

Marriage and A Pup Named Pip

You know how women in their late twenties sometimes have that marriage meltdown? It occurred to me that I’m now eligible for the meltdown. I haven’t had it yet mind you, nor do I wish to get married at this time. But I’ve been worrying about having the meltdown. I’m worried my mind will change and then I’ll want something I don’t currently want and then it will hurt my feelings. This is akin to my worry about whether or not I have any regrets. I don’t think I do but the fear of a regret is matched with the burden of acquiring one. See how I torment myself?

As a teenager, I didn’t want to get married until 29. I thought that was the appropriate age and I smile at this now knowing that I was a pretty cool kid – in no rush to commit or be tied down or to do laundry for two. “I have my own dern life to live!” 

I have a Lebanese uncle who became nearly hysterical to find that I was 25 with no desire to get married. “It’s too late!” he shouted at me, clearly distraught. I laughed at his naivety and carried on quitting jobs that interfered with my travel schedule. Two years later, little has changed.

But it all started with everyday items. Mom bought new towels. Fluffy, light grey bath towels with matching washcloths, and I felt a twinge of jealousy. I’ve always wanted a set of matching towels. Matching towels look intentional and orderly. I use a heap of zany beach towels and a mismatched collection from my youth. I also have a pale green towel that was present the first time Ellen learned to do laundry with bleach. My longing for matching towels started around age 22 but I’ve never given the thought true consideration. Why would I spend money on matching towels when I have plenty already? I’ll buy matching towels when I get married and have a home.

Later, Ellen bought string lights to hang on her porch. Big, round café lights like the ones I’ve loved since I was a little girl. As a 12 year old I imagined the perfect backyard patio and though the flowerpots and cushion patterns have changed with age, the one constant is having countless swags of café lights dipping down over the table and disappearing up into the trees. I’ve always wanted string lights for my backyard but why would I buy those for a patio I rarely sit on? I’ll buy string lights when I get married and have a real yard.

Two months ago I got a craving for a puppy. With that craving came the frantic feelings I have towards anything that’s unruly and damp, namely small children and select members of the elderly community but animals also fall into the category. I ignored my maternal instincts. I like my clean, quiet house. And anyways, loving puppies is too trendy. I’ll get a puppy when I’m married.

That’s when it hit me. For someone only mildly concerned with the concept, I seem to think life starts after you get married. This realization crept up on me slowly as I noted more things I wasn’t doing. Surely that can’t be. Look at all the things I do. Look at the life I’ve had so far. I didn’t need to be married to be Laura. The longer I thought about this, the more things, bizarre inconsequential things, came to mind that I’ve unknowingly put in the category of “Later, When I’m Married”. The list goes as follows:

Things to Buy                                                                    Things to Do

String Lights                                                                      Adopt a dog

Patio Furniture                                                                  Get a bicycle

A coffee maker, knife set, and casserole dishes                     Volunteer

Matching towels                                                                 Start an exercise regimen 

A dresser (I keep my clothes in a bookshelf)                         Write that book

Picture frames                                                                    Have dinner parties

A bar cart or credenza to display shiny glassware                 Finish my paintings

When I realized how many things were on my Married List I felt an amused sadness for myself. As a mild defense, many of these are purely for financial practicality. Decorative beebobs are lovely but they cost money that could be spent on airfare or concert tickets. You have to prioritize these things you know. But mostly I realized I’m living an abbreviated life, waiting around to invest in making a home I really love until I have someone to sit under the patio lights with me. Do you think my bumpkin husband is going to care if the pictures on the walls are in frames? I doubt his one good eye will even take a hard look at the photo. The frames are for me. I should buy the frames. Will Husband be appalled, patting dry his varicose veins with towels from 1990? Nope. I reckon he would dry his rump on anything within arms reach of the shower. How will being married help me write a book or finish my paintings? What if I don’t meet my husband at the Seven-11 cigarette counter until I’m 45? I can’t wait that long to exercise.

You get my point. I don’t know where this has come from though it’s a list that’s been secretly growing for over a decade. Maybe I think I’ll be more at peace – feeling loved and settled etc, and therefore more clear headed and less anxious, and somehow also possessing much more free time for artistic expression and reading magazines. Or maybe I’m just avoiding commitments. I change my mind an awful lot. I find this whole thing ridiculous but also understandable. I imagine lots of people, men in particular, have a silly thing or two that they’re holding off until they have a spouse. But I can’t allow myself to continue living like an Amish girl on the eve of her Rumspringa.

So I played a game with myself. Suppose God came to me in a very moist chocolate cake and said, “By the way Big Lu, I didn’t write ‘getting married’ into your story. You’re going to be the good-natured neighborhood hippy with a fondness for landscaping and home brewed kombucha.”

Then what Big Lu? I told Mom that God not letting me get married could be my thing. 

“No Mom, it’s perfect. Me! Someone who loves to love people and write them witty poems! That’s going to be my big trial. That’s going to be my lost limb or my house fire or my drug-riddled teenage boy! It’s the perfect crime!”

Mom laughed at me and said “That’s ridiculous.” but I think she was just trying to make herself feel better. I saw her consider it for a moment. So I pretended I’ll never get married. How would I set my life up now? What would I want my life to look like? How would I make myself happy?

The first thing that came to mind was being lonely. I’m lonely now, holed up in my house alone all day, writing emails to people who are… getting married. I’d get a companion immediately, cause I have lots of cuddles to give. And we would start an exercise regimen, possibly involving a new bicycle. Look at me livin’ my dern life!

 So let me tell you about Pippa. She’s a boxer mix and she’ll be three in February. She weights 38 lbs, her tail only wags up and down, not side to side, and I adopted her from Pet Helpers on September 24^th.

Brett, Hayden, and I walked down the kennel hallway, my little heart breaking at every cage, and greeted the pups inside. Some were gregarious, some were barking, and one had a confusing mix of growling with a happy tail wag. One dog was sprawled out across a cot, one was cowering in the back corner, and another had to have his cage blocked off so he couldn’t see out. I’m not sure about that guy.

But one was a happy, handsome fella named Flint and I asked if I could meet him. They made me fill out forms and had us wait in a cinderblock room reminiscent of prison visiting hour on TV shows. We were antsy. Brett was delighted by my urge to get a dog. Hayden was less convinced. Just moments later, Flint came swinging into the room, jumping and wagging and licking and he was so excited, he immediately peed all over Brett’s shorts. The presence of Flint stressed me out but we listened to the worker talk, telling us what a fun, smart dog he is but I knew he wasn’t for me. I decided to cut the crap. I said, “Listen, I’m a quiet, lazy, nervous person. I work from my clean home and I don’t like loud noises. Who do you have?”

She laughed and said, “Let me go get Rasta.” and moments later she brought in this nervous wreck of a dog. It was the cowering dog from earlier. The worker said she’s afraid of people and hasn’t really been eating because the noise and barking in the kennel is stressing her out. But Rasta liked us. She approached us slowly and licked our faces and broke all of our hearts. I thought she was perfect. We took her outside, out of the noisy kennel, and she transformed into a normal dog, She ran and wagged her up and down tail and eyed us curiously.

I thought about her all night, hating that she had to spend another night hungry and afraid. I went back for her the next day, bought her a collar, and renamed her Pippa.

Now let me tell you about this nervous dog. We spent two full days together. She wouldn’t eat much but she let me pet her and walk her and she would turn around and look at me while we walked, wondering why I was following her. She never pulled on the leash, barked at other dogs, or took off after squirrels. She was living an abbreviated dog life. I wondered if she was waiting for marriage to be a dog. On the third day, I had to leave her at home for a few hours and I worried. Would she have a fit, chew up my furniture, go to the bathroom on the rug? I came home three hours later and she was curled up in my bed, everything in place and no piles on the carpet. And when that dog saw that I had come back, she lit up, wagged her catapult tail, and she’s been sure about me ever since. She eats hearty meals, drags me down the street, and sleeps across 75% of my bed, leaving me with a small quadrant.

Pip sleeps quietly through the night and wakes me up about 7:00am with a head nudge and forced cuddling. She seems to never need to go to the bathroom and now the both of us go out at least three times a day for walks and jogs.  She has lots of weird quirks that make me wonder what happened to her. She doesn’t like anything to pass over her head (people, hedges, car trunk doors), she hates loud noises, and she flinches when you reach out to say hello but she loves dogs and going to the Dog Park and I have a huge bruise on my hip from the time she decide to fly me like kite. She’s very strong.

Two more notes. Buddy is not excited about Pippa. He won’t let me pet her when we are at at his house. If I call her, he comes and if I reach down to touch her, he squeezes between Pip and my hands. He also doesn’t like that she makes him look very fat and slow and he became visibly frustrated when he couldn’t catch her as they ran through the backyard. Things have gotten better since their first few meetings and I know he’ll grow to appreciate her (he loves anything that plays with him) but right now he’s working on some jealousy issues. Lastly, you know who really hates Pippa? Sweet little Grace. She’s taking this news very hard. She’s ignoring me and sometimes Brett too if he’s caught loving on Pip. She nips at Pippa when she walks by and they’ve gotten into a few heated arguments. Sometimes they run and play together and then Grace suddenly remembers that she’s not supposed to like Pippa and so stops and looks around nervously, hoping no one saw her having fun. We've been laughing at Grace a lot.

Pip gets me out of the house and I give her a quiet place to rest. 

We’re a good  little nervous match.