I've Got Sand In All the Wrong Places (11 page)

Frankly, I didn't know which was the best thing to do. I didn't know if we should run around and do errands or if we should rest, and I suspect the two of us were in a confused state, trying to hold on to each other and muddle through.

And, I think, we did.

And to a certain extent, we still are. Candidly, I think you can see from the essay she has written that she is still processing this crime and will do so in the months to come, maybe even years.

Any victim of violent crime probably goes through the same thing.

So I know she is not alone.

And she'll always have me.

I don't know whether I help her, but I don't think I make things worse.

All I want is to be there for her and not to screw up.

Because mothers screw up all the time, myself included.

It's a given that we love our children, but it's not a given that we love them the right way or give them what they need at any point in time.

And I learned that it doesn't get any easier as our children grow into adulthood.

Life can make a rookie of anyone.

And the best we can do is our best.

And I will always do my best, for her.

And I will always be there, for her.

That's what a mother is, isn't it?

And it never ends.

Because love never ends.

 

Mother Mary Flunks
Time
Magazine

Lisa

You may have read the article in
Time
magazine, entitled “The Five Things Your Kids Will Remember About You.” It was predictably sweetness and light, but none of it reminded me of Mother Mary, who was anything but sweetness and light. She was more olive oil and vinegar.

In fact, I considered the five things that
Time
set forth and compared them to Mother Mary, to see how she measured up, magazine-wise.

You can play along, with your mother.

Or if you've read the previous books in this series, you could probably fill in the same blanks with Mother Mary stories.

But no spoilers.

So don't tell anyone about the time Mother Mary refused to use the discount Batman bedsheets because she didn't want a life-size Batman lying on top of her.

Or the time she took to wearing a lab coat because it gave her an air of authority, plus pockets for her cell phone and backscratcher.

Or the time she grabbed her doctor's butt to prove that she was ready for cardiac rehab.

Nobody would believe those stories, anyway.

So, to stay on point about the
Time
magazine article, the first thing that your children are alleged to remember about you is “the times you made them feel safe.”

Awww.

How sweet.

Except that with Mother Mary, what I remember are the times she made me feel unsafe.

Because those were truly memorable.

And my general safety was a given, if less dramatic.

For example, when Brother Frank and I were little, we used to fight, which drove my mother crazy. I remember, one day, she yelled at us to stop fighting and we ignored her, so that she took off her shoe and threw it at us.

She missed, but that didn't stop her.

Because she had another foot with another shoe.

So she took that shoe off and threw it at us, but she missed with that one, too.

We stopped fighting.

You're probably thinking that she missed us intentionally, and I'll let you think that, but you didn't know Mother Mary. She loved us in a fiercely Italian-American sort of way, which meant that motherhood and minor personal injury weren't mutually exclusive.

So lighten up,
Time
.

The second thing in the article was that your children will supposedly remember “the times you gave them your undivided attention,” and the magazine advised parents to “stop what you're doing to have a tea party” with your kids.

Again, growing up, I had no doubt that I had my mother's attention, but it was never undivided and she wasn't into tea parties.

But she chain-smoked.

Does that count?

Mother Mary was a real mom, busy doing laundry, cooking dinner, and cleaning the house, and though she was always available, she wasn't staring deeply into our blue eyes. But every night, my family, The Flying Scottolines, would sit on the couch and watch TV, giving it our undivided attention.

We all loved TV, so by the property of association, we all loved each other.

Good enough for me.

The third thing was, your kids will remember “the way you interacted with your spouse.”

This doesn't apply to The Flying Scottolines, since the statement assumes that the parents interacted.

You can't win them all.

My parents barely talked to each other, but at least they never fought, and nobody was surprised when they divorced. But happily, they both loved us to the marrow, and my brother and I knew that.

What I learned from growing up in a house with an unhappy marriage is that divorce is better.

And so I'm divorced twice.

Which I think is the good news, considering the alternative.

If I can't have a happy marriage, I'll have a happy house.

The fourth factor was, your kids will remember “your words of affirmation and your words of criticism.”

I don't know if Italian-American families have things that can be characterized as words of affirmation, except “I love you.”

And as a child, I heard that at least ten times a day.

But I also heard, “Don't be so fresh.”

So I grew up thinking that I was lovable and fresh, which might be true.

The last thing in the article was that children would remember “family traditions,” like vacation spots and/or game nights.

The Scottolines weren't the kind to have “game nights,” but every summer, we did go on vacation to the same brick rowhouse in Atlantic City, New Jersey. All day long, we played on the beach while my parents smoked, and at night we sat on the front porch while assorted relatives dropped by and the adults talked, drank beer, and smoked into the night. When the mosquitoes got too bad, we all trundled inside the house, where the adults played pinochle until my brother and I fell asleep on the couch, to the sound of their gossiping and laughter, breathing in the smoke from their Pall Malls and unfiltered Camels.

We had no oxygen, but a lot of love.

And it wasn't Norman Rockwell.

But it was perfect.

Looking back, I wouldn't change a moment.

Thanks, Mom and Dad.

I love you.

And I'm still fresh.

 

Barbarians at the Frontgate

Lisa

Today I'm reporting from the front gate of suburbia.

As well as the Frontgate.

I wanted to buy a new chair for outside, because I like to read or work in the sun and I have only two chairs.

I know what you're thinking.

One person for two chairs, what's the problem?

There are five problems, and they all happen to be dogs.

Often when I come outside with my book or my laptop, the dogs are already occupying both chairs. If I move them off one chair so I can sit down, the five of them spend all day fighting over the second chair.

Most people would solve this problem by training the dogs to stop fighting.

But these people never heard the expression, You can't teach an old dog new tricks.

I'm the old dog.

I gave up teaching my dogs anything, and I try to avoid most of my problems, in this case by buying a new chair.

In other words, some people buy dog beds, and other people buy dog chaise lounges.

Anyway, the chaise lounges I have are ancient wrought-iron affairs with basic green cushions, and that's what I wanted.

So I picked up one of the three hundred catalogs that come in the mail, which I usually pounce on and thumb through, fantasizing.

The Frontgate catalog is porn for suburban women.

Everything in the catalog is color-coordinated, monogrammed, and effortlessly glamorous, and I am none of the above, except for effortless.

Which is Frontgate for lazy.

Not to pick on Frontgate, because I looked at a bunch of other catalogs, and you can't just buy a simple reclining chaise lounge anymore, because they don't make them.

I'm here to tell you, exterior furniture has lost its mind.

In every catalog, there were pages and pages of exterior furniture, and none of it looked like it belonged outside. There were fancy long couches with matching club chairs, end tables, dining-room and coffee tables, as well as love seats and even a chair-and-a-half.

To fit your butt-and-a-half.

All of it looked nicer than my inside furniture.

There were at least twelve “collections” of exterior furniture, with names like Hamptons, Palm Springs, and Palermo.

Surprisingly, there was no Philly.

Yo.

The photos showed fleets of overstuffed furniture beside pools and gardens, but it would have been more appropriate in a living room or a conservatory.

You have a conservatory, don't you?

It's next to the library, and Colonel Mustard is waiting for you there.

With a wrench.

Every catalog had pages of multicolored-fabric options for the megacushions in an array of different styles, such as tufted, piped, double-piped, or knife-edge.

For the felony-lover in you.

I flipped the page, looking for normal-weight fabric in basic green, then I came across “outdoor rugs.”

I blinked and blinked.

This concept was new to me.

Evidently, now we need outdoor rugs to put under our exterior furniture, to “protect against hot and cold patio and deck surfaces for luxurious underfoot comfort.”

I thought that's why we had “shoes.”

Not only that, but there were massive gas grills, stainless-steel refrigerators, and tall patio heaters. There was even a TV with a giant projection screen that you can watch outside. And finally, there were curtains, so-called “outdoor draperies,” and their purpose was to “help you define the ultimate outdoor room.”

What's an outdoor room?

I thought rooms were supposed to be
inside
.

And the whole point of going outside was to
not
be in a room anymore.

Hence the technical term—out.

Isn't this inside-out?

Or upside-down?

I felt dizzy from the possibilities.

If I get an outdoor rug, do I have to vacuum it?

Or do I need an outdoor vacuum?

Do I want to food-shop for an outside refrigerator, too?

Where will I lose the remote for the outside TV?

Hint: check the azalea.

And what's next, moving the bathroom outside?

Oh wait. We used to have outside bathrooms, but we brought them inside.

Back when we were sane.

Bottom line, is it really a good idea to construct a second house in the backyard of the first one?

The thought makes me tired.

I'm going outside to lie down.

On the grass.

The ultimate outdoor carpet.

 

Milestone or Millstone?

Lisa

By the time you read this, I will have turned sixty, and my birthday will have passed.

Hopefully, I won't have passed, too.

I can't say I'm delighted about this birthday. It's not that I hate aging, it's that I hate dying.

This feeling caught me by surprise. Generally, I love my birthday because it always involves chocolate cake.

But now I'm wondering if the cake is compensation for my death, in which case, we need to do better.

Oddly, I didn't realize I was having negative feelings until I got the idea to renovate my kitchen.

Let me explain.

You may remember that a few years ago I planted a perennial garden, which has somehow survived all the beginner mistakes I made. For example, first I watered it too little, then I watered it too much, so much in fact that I broke an underground water pipe.

Backhoes were called. It adds a whole new dimension to gardening when you bring in the heavy equipment.

A much prettier view than stainless steel

Not to mention expense. I don't want to think about how much that garden cost. After I soaked the flowers, they soaked me.

But the thing is that the garden is now going gangbusters, though most of it is weeds, but that is neither here nor there.

The point is, I like to look at the garden, but there's no window that looks out onto the garden from my kitchen. The only windows that overlook the garden are on either side of the oven. I want to look at flowers, but I'm looking at stainless steel.

So lately I found myself wishing that I could replace the oven with a window or maybe even a door, then I could not only see the garden all the time, but go out into it. And maybe if I put a little flagstone patio there, I could have a cup of coffee and maybe write outside, in my garden.