Giselle's
Diary
My
own little nook
I'm standing in the
most beautiful spot of what is left of Nook Farm, I'm transported. The year is 1874 and it's a warm spring day
and I see Mark coming towards me. And as
he passes through me he silently accuses me of being the apparition in this
scenario. Stupid I was to think he was
approaching me, it was Harriet's house he was headed into and I turn to look at
the back of his head as he steps onto her porch and proceeds into her house
without looking back to notice me and the vaporous hole he caused in my
midsection, or my entire being, I struggle to gain my substance once again. It appears that Mr. Twain cannot hear the
ruckus across the street either. A man
named Jack yelling to someone else or someone calling out for a person named Jack,
none of this matters and present day and nothingness jettisons me back into the
now. But I recall the moment when the
flowers were tall enough to block out modernization and Jack yelling, despite
the crowded route back to the highway and how it saddens and angers me and
reaches into my voice box to pull out vulgarities, because I don't know if I'll
ever return to see the homes that once housed greatness.
"Giselle" my
husband shouts as he honks the car horn in the most annoying manner. "What does he want?" is all I'm
thinking, it's all I ever think when I hear the echoing call of "Giselle"
as if it is a summons of nothingness, such as his calling for air to fill his
lungs, presuming that I too shall be an involuntary party of his own personal
account. I'm busy; planning, plotting
and worrying about absolutely nothing, as per usual, which requires an
immeasurable amount of solitude. That
man really should have married a gazelle instead of me. Yes, a doe eyed beast, unplagued by thoughts,
instead he married me and offered me a lifetime of distractions from solitude
and quiet thinking. I wonder how they
accomplished so many things, the writers who once lived at Nook Farm. They had just as many children and more than I
do, as well as spouses, dogs, cats, visitors who called on them often and the
occasional interruption of death. What did they think about all the distractions
as they wrote, did they yell and scream too, in an attempt to profess their
longings and find hope that value would be bestowed upon their documented
thoughts and ideas. Maybe I should try a
quill pen, as if that would help, the truth is I just don't have the exception,
or rather talent, well not in this current year but maybe I would have then. But I do find that I'm not lacking at all in
the narcissism that occasionally goes along with the knack for writing, else
why would I persist. I should just go
scrub the toilet, perhaps my time would be better spent, I could reflect in
dark image of myself at the bottom of the bowl and convince myself that I am
just a shadow caster. Perhaps I could
tune into a television show that would completely numb my thoughts for a while,
just until the looming dinner hour approaches as it does each and every day,
and like a servant summoned by an aggravated bell I shall answer the call of
that exclamatory nuisance. Perhaps being
ordinary isn't so bad, I've often tried it, with an enormous amount of difficulty,
but I have managed to assimilate on the rare occasion nodding my head along and
encouraging the conundrum of appropriate responses, but in that looming moment,
the magical, transforming Nook Farm moment, and other moments in the strangest
of ordinary places, I feel life as it should be and a welcoming home feeling embraces
me as I am wrapped in happiness and have a strong desire to never leave.
Giselle
the dead gazelle
It's time for the back
to school carnival; along with an array of pleasantries that I find well
frankly unpleasant. 'How do you do,'
that's it, I should have tried a nontraditional greeting when I greeted the
fellow ptg members. I wonder how they
would have reacted to a 'How do you do,' or perhaps, an ''I'd like to own half
that dog," oh my, that would have confused the hell out them. Instead it was weather talk all the while as
school aged children screamed and ran about with their faces painted and wearing
balloon hats, hiding the annoying little creatures they tend to be. The most exciting part was when the janitor
came and attached the hose to the valve producing that squealing turning of
metal on metal sound, because a diaper less three year old had an accident on
the slide, producing a skid mark about seventeen feet long. Well the line for the slide was short after
that, but our 'make an appearance' time was satisfied. We maneuvered through the parking lot which
resembled an intricate maze only a gazelle could gallop through unscathed. My husband muttered something about skilled
drivers, and "who parked like that?"
then he said as if he unraveled a great mystery while reading a
political bumper sticker on the same car, "a republican, figures."
laughing I replied, "didn't we decide to vote republican this year?"
he put his hand on the back of my arm as if to lead me towards our car, because
some men still think woman need a push in the right direction, or he really
believes I am a gazelle that cannot walk accordingly, perhaps he thinks he's
being chivalrous in this manner, but I always respond by pushing his arm away
from me, and depress the urge to strike him.
Like I said he should have married a gazelle, any ways he found a reply
to the republican debate, "so we can park like that too I
suppose." I said, "Sounds good
to me, front row, and entitlement with little or no regard to parking violations,
perfect." Then I saw it, and rushed
the girls by, but it was too late, the little one let out an "Oh my god"
and her two sisters immediately said "what" and "Oh that's so
gross." My eleven year old said I'm
going to puke and did. I found a tissue
in my pocket, I gave it to her to wipe her mouth, she wiped her mouth and
handed the tissue back to me, "here take this." The smell introduced itself after our eyes
had been delighted enough, the senses must all take turns in this manner. I was
assured all the other carnival freaks would be unaware of the mangled mess in
the dark as they departed from the fun for the evening, aside from that most of
them are oblivious to horror and death, which showed up just to entertain my
family. The dead creature that was
unfortunate enough to be imposed upon by a republican tire, not only lost its life,
'the snake that no longer slithers,' that's what we called it, and its last
meal that had been ripped from its belly by the tire tread, and I can confirm
that no one should have to gaze upon a half digested rat, but we of course were
lucky enough to be blessed by that sight.
It wasn't a typical lesson in death and nature, but we managed to get
passed it quickly. And "gross"
was what we all agreed. We did not feel
inclined to bury the mangled snake rat duo like the baby rabbits in the yard
that met death in the mouth of one of the dogs.
The republican tire murder case was not followed by a funeral, names of
the deceased were not etched into rocks and placed over two graves, ironically
both of the same size and shape and there wasn't an array of sympathy to go
along with the snake's passing, but we later joked that the rat was more upset
about what had happened than us.
Waxing
where the sun doesn't shine
It's official the kids
are back at school and I have a few moments to myself these days. Today I decided to us my personal laser. I can recall only one man in history who has ever
mentioned facial hair on women in a positive light. It was Marky Mark, who wasn't really a man
when he said it. My grandmother once
said something about hairy women and that it held a special meaning, she said
that about a lot of things, things like body hair and stepping in dog crap, but
back to the hair on hand, or face or wherever really. She said hairy women are bound to become
successful, but later in life. I wish I
could laugh while I'm using my laser as I gaze into the bathroom mirror at my
reflection thinking about what my grandmother used to say, but the pain free
product, that delivers hair free beauty is anything but pain free. "Ouch," it's as if a tiny ant is crawling across my
face and when I press the trigger that ant takes out his tiny little ant knife
and repeatedly stabs my unwanted hair growth areas. This is not my favorite pass time, but I
can't complain too much, because I'm happy with the results I'm receiving, for
instance ridding myself of a mustache that resembles Mark Twain's.
On this particular day,
I have also decided to give myself, well what I would consider a Brazilian wax,
since it's now September and bathing suit season has passed, I know, and keep
in mind I've never had one done professionally and don't even know the precise
meaning of the subject. So I get the box
of wax strips, and warm them between my hands then place them on the desired
hair free region, let's just call that zone the 'South Pole.' Now I'm a novice at this so next time, if
ever there shall be one, I may visit the shed and grab a few gardening tools
first, because maybe, although I don't know because I can't really see what's
going on, a little trimming should take place before the wax strips are laid
down to destroy my flesh. Once again
"Ouch" I'd rate the experience about thirty percent successful, I'm now
off to a ptg meeting and need to put on an extra pair of underwear, because the
'South Pole' is freezing and I feel utterly naked. I've also called and cancelled my afternoon
yoga appointment, because I've done all the bending and twisting I'm going to
do this day and 'downward hair free dog' seems like an entire workout, when I've
held the position for so long. While I
drive to school I decide to become an advocate for naturalism, and never worry
again about being hair free. At least I'll
always be a firm believer of evolution this way.
Caught
in a net
At 4:15 I grabbed the
box of sugar cookies and headed to the middle school, the first thing I said
when she got into the car was, "I forgot to put them in your backpack, so I
brought them here. How did it
go?" I was asking about volley ball
tryouts as she got in the back seat and opened the box of cookies. "Not too good," she replied. "Oh no, I said, at least you tried, was
it fun?" "It was until I ran into the net and my ponytail got
caught." "Holy mackerel,"
I thought, well because you know mackerel is a fish and fish, never mind. "Did you get hurt?" is what I said
out loud, but planned on making mention of the mackerel reference another
time. "No, but they had to cut part
of the net and a piece of my hair."
She showed me her hair; I didn't really notice a difference, but
thought," shark attack while trapped in the net." "Well if you don't make the team at
least you will be remembered."
"Oh right, the dork that got stuck in the net, I'll be
legendary," she replied. I just
keep thinking, "This would be great in a story." "Are you going to practice with me when
we get home?" All she ever wants to
do is practice and now tryouts are done and she wants to practice some more. Man I'm proud of this kid, I wish the coach
and everyone else could validate her determination and dedication. "Sure," I said after you do your
homework. "Lame," she replied,
this time I said it out loud, "well if I'm lame then how can I practice,
because lame indicates that I'm hurt or not functioning properly." "Shut up, dork" and I replied to
her, "I love you too, dork Jr."
Smashing
pumpkins
As the death of summer
approaches, I find I cannot cope because that is the final stage of acceptance,
I'm still in denial. Yes school has
started, wonderful, because nothing can end until it begins. and that is my usual pace, let's get through
this, look back and reflect, I realize there are a lot of moments that need to
played out slowly, like a concerto, to be fully enjoyed, but school years are
best if they pass quickly, I tend to
think. Mind you the youngest is in first
grade so there needs to be a lot of passing before we can reflect about it, but
now that the biggest of the bunch is in middle school, the coup de gras of the
elementary school monotony, where a simple act of switching classes can free an
eleven year old from boredom and misery, I say Halleluiah, and I'm not a church
goer in the least.
By all standards
summer is still upon us, the calendar dictates the cause, despite the
weather. Snow may fall if it pleases but
until the date is upon us to declare that we must fall into the autumn air and
decor, let us continue schlepping lemonade and wearing shorts. Meanwhile my neighbor has begun to pumpkinfy
her front porch, any minute now the Halloween decorations will be staring at me
from across the street; this frightens me more than a masked individual with a
humming chainsaw chasing after me, unless of course a mighty wind blows them
away. Now I pray to the wind gods,
"hear my plea and take those orange and dead grass things away from here,
perhaps to pumpkin land, or somewhere else, where I do not care."
It was not done on
purpose I swear, but not on my life, because perhaps my intentions controlled
my actions, and I was present when it happened, but I'll never admit it. This is what happened, I was walking one of
my dogs, Molly, she's a bit aggressive in nature, which is a nice way of saying
she wants to attack everything, and we had to cross the street because another
dog was being walked and Molly was doing her usual pulling on the leash,
dragging me around routine, because she's really in charge of the situation and
I'm just a puppet on a leash. Well I
managed to get her all the way up the pumpkin lady's driveway, the greater the
distance from the other dog, the best for my wrist which suffers leash burn
twice or three times a week, but Molly is really sweet when she's not provoked,
when I say provoked I actual mean not at all bothered by anyone or anything
that doesn't live in our house. She
doesn't mind us at all and gets along with the cats and other dogs at home, but
the entire rest of the world poses a threat to her. So there we were, Molly and me and my decision
to undo a bit of the in my face prefall decor.
"Look, Molly a ball, get it." and sure enough Molly bit into
that pumpkin and pushed it out into the street which happens to have a steep
grade. So as the pumpkin rolled it
gained speed until in finally stopped when another neighbor was backing out of
his driveway and ran it over. By that
time Molly and I were clear across the street, looking completely
innocent. And two teenagers just
happened to be walking through our neighborhood, perfect decoys. The next day the pumpkin lady was telling me
how, Howie down the street, the guy who ran her pumpkin over, said two teens
rolled it down the hill. "Oh that's
terrible," I replied, she said she wasn't buying another one until the
week before Halloween, because those kids would probably come back and do it
again. "Halleluiah," I thought
and laughed incredibly loud on the inside.
Just then my kids came running out of our house asking if they could set
up a lemonade stand at the end of the street.
What
do you want for your birthday?
The big day approaches
and the intrusive, "what do you want for your birthday," question
keeps buzzing in my ear, like a lost bee looking for its hive, oh how I wish I
could swat it dead. I want what I've
wanted for years, but because the gift givers do not conceive what I truly
want, I get something they imagine for me, an annual imposition of what they
perceive will be to my liking, or rather what I should like. "Oh yes a weekend with the whole family
miles away so we all have to spend time in the packed car to get there before
we relax." This time of year I
always ask the same question, "Do you people even know me at
all?" Their usual response is dim
witted and followed by a laugh at my expense.
"Lovely," I think and sit back and hope the day passes
quickly. The truth is I'd rather be
celebrated by strangers than my loved ones, because that connection would mean I've
actually done it, connected with the masses on some level. Maybe I could invent something that would
bring me the recognition I want, my stamp on the world, my reason for being
here, you know the more valuable one, aside from raising the kids well and
caring for my family all while I diminish a bit each day, fading into
nothingness, 'the gazelle effect'. That's
it! For my birthday no matter what gift I
receive I want it to have a 'stick it sentiment' attached to the package. I haven't thought about 'the stick it
sentiment' for years, but it's something I thought of and I'm not quite sure
why I haven't insisted on the concept until this moment. the 'stick it sentiment' is really just a
label, a shipping label before I run it through the printer and the ink makes
the blank sticker page come alive with an identity. In reality we will draw on the label, and
write messages of birthday greetings and make each a work of art. In my imagination the damn card company
produces these sentiments with the sticky backs by the masses and there they
sit next to the folded, traditional, envelope encased, boring old concept of
here is your gift and this is the formal paperwork that goes with it, so you
can respond to the giver with a note of thanks, also in card form, and because
etiquette dictates this response and this initial action, you are trapped and
the card company rules the world. I vow
to free everyone from the imperial rule of the card company. Here use this oversized label and let the world
know who the gift is from, that is the kind of non-card I want stuck to my
presents.
Rigor
mortis sets in
Making sense of
nonsense. Any minute now that kid is
going to rip of that mask of hers off and devour her parents, and I won't
flinch a bit as their flesh tears apart and that child sucks the life from them
like a tiny vampire, dangerous but comical.
When she is done with them, she may search the room for others to
destroy, if she hasn't quite had her fill.
When she gets to me, she will undoubtedly turn and flee, since I'm more
a vampire than her. Full grown in size
and equipped with the sharpest of tongues as I lash at her wielding the word
no. A word, her parents do not possess
and she knows this, this is her strength.
But tiny vampires are more comical than dangerous and their thirst is
quenched often with only a juice box. I've
had my cake and now I must go, as a small birthday gift to myself I vow never
to attend another of this demon child's birthday parties.
Swollen face and hands,
I've been brutalized by a night's sleep once again. I'll play the part of the maiden, because the
diamond would suffocate my ring finger if I forced it on. Cold water, perhaps ice, perhaps another
night's sleep would relieve the puffiness of my headshot. Now that I'm dressed and prepared for the
day, I will now fire all the warning shots from my 'I'm not a morning person'
cannon. Lunches are made with fumbling
fingers and hair is brushed, those who ask for help with buttons or braids
beware, for my wrath and my help are always a package deal on a day like
this.
Off to work I go, just
another swollen face in the crowd with a milestone birthday behind me and the
fill of that milestone birthday resting comfortably on my backside, hey I had
my cake and ate it too.
Ordinary
ending
The middle schooler
happened to make the volleyball team after all, she's not the most coordinated
of the lot, but her enthusiasm must have granted her the spot. The pumpkins are beginning to rot and I've
tossed them all into the garden, waiting for the snow to come I suppose, and
wondering what snow days were like at Nook Farm. How many cigars did Twain smoke in
winter? I suppose just as many as the
other seasons, but I still wonder what it would have been like to live there
and perhaps be notable for something, anything.
If only the smoke clouded cigar room was a time machine, I'd use it, but
would desire the fresh air above all when I arrived. Being Stowe's neighbor, I would pick her
brain and ask for help or offer to help with anything I suppose. The year is no longer 1874 and we are back
from the hospital because the volleyball player now has a broken leg. She fell down the stairs before the first
game. Such is life, for clumsy people and
such an ordinary adventure it has been to date.
I wonder what that monstrous child is asking Santa for Christmas. I really should get out to the garden shed
before the snow falls; I need to do a bit of trimming before I wax this
time.
