Growin up Gangsta

The neighbor’s ridiculously loud music brought me to the porch. I just wanted to see which one was annoying me. Of course. It’s the “Can I getta…?” neighbor. As I glanced down the street and saw the kids with their pants riding stupidly low, yelling obscenities at each other over the roar of their skateboards it suddenly dawned on me. In 50 years we are going to have the most hilariously awesome old people ever.  They won’t have old people names like Harold and Ernest. They’ll be called Justin and Zach. With this in mind, I have created Carson.

The year is 2070 and Carson is 78 years old. He lives in a nursing home because his kids and grandchildren are scattered across the country in various prisons.  He can’t decide if the CNA’s at the nursing home are bitches or ho’s, so he just calls them all, “Shawty.” The only reason he agrees to take his medication in the morning is because it says “may cause drowsiness” on the bottle and he’s hoping he’ll eventually cop a buzz. He’s still quite proud of his tattoo that he believes is the Chinese character for “warrior” (the tattoo artist copied it off of Wikipedia and it actually means “strawberry”) and pulls the skin on his bicep taught to show it off to the ladies. Instead of fedoras he has a drawer full of do-rags and trucker hats and he can still deliver a convincing “for-shizzle” if he puts his teeth in. Although the home wouldn’t allow him to bring his 9mm, he compromises with a cap gun he tucks proudly in the small of his back. He and his buddies Marcus and Jake-dog have formed the South Wing Thugs and can be found chillaxing in their hallway keeping an eye on things. Arthritis prevents them from throwing gang signs so they’re hoping the intimidation factor alone will keep people out of their business. Carson is hoping to get a delivery of hard candy from the outside so he can make a little cheddar.

Eternally Thankful...

I can’t smell freshly turned soil without getting the urge to sink my bare feet into it.  From the time I was old enough to walk, I have spent my summers tending my father’s vegetable garden. It was always unnecessarily enormous, providing our family with laundry baskets full of produce each week. As a child, I considered laboring in the scorching sun cruel and unusual punishment. I know I complained because my parents still remind me of this fact often. When I look back on it, I remember quality time with my parents, the family working toward a common goal, and feeling the pride of being part of the machine that grew our own food.
            I will forever associate fresh vegetables with my father. Being at a farmer’s market or in a produce store brings back memories of whistles made out of squash vine and pump water that tasted like metal.  I never understood how the water was always cold, even though was pulled from the same earth that scorched my feet. My father would chew his tobacco and assign jobs while sweat dripped off his forehead. Somehow I always ended up with the green beans. His logic was that I was the shortest one in the family and the beans were closer to the ground. I still don’t understand how being short correlates with the ability to squat or walk on your knees for hours.
            Once we brought the vegetables home, my mother’s work began. The two of us sat on the porch, and the sound of snapping beans punctuated our conversations. Once the sun went down, the canning started. I usually sat on the counter, careful to stay away from the boiling water while my mother sweated over green beans, tomatoes, squash and okra. Then we would wait anxiously for the telltale “pop” of the jars sealing. Unsealed jars meant starting over, and the canning would continue past my bed time. 
            There is just something about the sunshine, tanned skin, dirt and a fresh vegetable that makes me feel a synchronicity with nature. The essential skill of feeding myself is an irreplaceable gift given to me by my family. It feels primal, natural. It’s a skill that has been replaced by supermarkets and spray painted fruit.
            As an adult, I still try to carry on the family tradition of growing my own food. My garden isn’t as pretty or bountiful as my fathers, but it gets better every year. I still have to call my dad when my tomatoes look splotchy, or talk to my mom when my cans won’t seal, but one day I’ll be confident enough to pass this gift on to someone who never realized you can make a whistle out of a squash vine.

Mom and Dad. I love you guys.

Wanna Pickle?

I was making a grocery store run, minding my own business when I suddenly heard someone call my name. I looked in the general direction of the sound and saw a previous neighbor flapping her arms like a pair of skinny chicken wings. She was pushing a cart with a tiny person in the baby seat. It was Jessica. She and her dope slinging boyfriend had lived across the street from us a couple of years ago. They regularly entertained the neighborhood with loud, screaming, frothing at the mouth, meth fueled throw downs in the front yard. She may be a tiny little thing, but she was insane, and everyone knows that crazy trumps strength any day of the week. And now she wants to reminisce.  Great. I made eye contact so I have to go over. For additional clarity I will type the actual conversation in regular type and my thoughts in italics.

“Hey Molly! Do you remember me?”

“Of course. It’s good to see you. Cute kid. Is this a new one?”

“Yeah, she’s only 8 months. My other baby is walking and talking now. Can you believe that?” Well, yeah it’s been like two years, so unless she’s retarded, babies tend to do that. Or is she already on the pipe?

“Wow. Already, huh? Well it was nice seeing you.” Walk away slowly.

“This baby’s name is Hannah Lee. All one word.” Son of a… “I thought that was so cute when I thought of it. Don’t you love that name?”

“It sounds like a perfect place for Puff to frolic in the autumn mist.”

She tilts her head to the side and twists her face into what I assume it confusion. “I don’t get it.”

“Nevermind. It’s just an old song you’ve probably never heard. Nice seeing you.”

“Yeah, I really liked the name. Except we spell it J-A-N-N-I-L-E-I-G-H. You know like the Spanish people say jalapeno? Isn’t that clever?” Seriously? Good lord. Her ‘I’m bored’ detector has been seriously compromised. Be nice…Molly! Damnit!

“Well are you going to go around introducing her by saying her name then spelling it for the rest of her life?”

“Uh…no?”

“Then who gives a crap how it’s spelled? All you’ve done is guarantee that her name will never be pronounced or spelled correctly on the first try. “

“Well, maybe you don’t get it.” Ahh. A crack. She starting to sound annoyed. Maybe I can make a break for it. Must soldier on.

“Maybe not. And while I’m sure that Spanish people have uttered the word ‘jalapeno’ I’m pretty sure you mean Mexican. They speak Spanish, but they’re Mexican.”

“It just seems mean to call them Mexicans.”

“You do understand that they’re from Mexico, right?” I back away slowly.

“I guess. Hey! Before you go, Hannah Lee (I know, but I refuse to spell it that way, it’s stupid.) has been doing this really adorable thing lately. I asked her if she wanted a pickle the other day and she scrunched up her face all cute. Now she does it all the time. Watch. “Hannah Lee, you wanna pickle? You wanna pick-le? Hannah Lee, you wanna pickle? I swear she does it. Hannah Lee? Wanna Pickle? Pick-le? I swear she does this scrunchy thing with her face it’s so funny. Hannah lee? Pick-le?” The baby is just looking at her with the same expression on her face that I likely have on mine. Poor kid. If she’d known what she was in for she’d probably have tied a noose in that umbilical cord.

“Uh…it’s ok. I don’t think she’s feeling it.”

“But it’s so cute. Hannah Lee? You wanna pick-le?”

“Christ! She’s a baby not a damned German Shepard. She doesn’t want to do tricks.” I back further away. I’m really at the end of my “nice” rope.

“I guess not. She’s started dancing too. Wanna see her dance?” That’s it. I’ve had enough.

“Uh, no. Not really. I’ll see you later. “ I can hear hear voice trailing behind me as I walk away.

The Long, Long Haircut

I found a split end and Dewie is starting to look like a librarian, so it’s time for haircuts. Dewie calls our old pal Weezie and makes an appointment. We walk into the salon and Weezie is there and standing behind her is a human match stick. Weezie stands to the side to give us a full view of the skinniest live person I have ever seen in my life. She has pale, thin blond hair cut short in some kind of asymmetrical bob, and it does not appear that the asymmetry was on purpose.  Weezie introduces us.

“Molly, Deb, this is my new girl, Deann. She’s just learning, but she’s got real potential. Whaddya say I do the short cut and Deann here can try Molly?” Crap. I really want to ask Deann if she cut her own hair, but something about her prominent shoulder blades makes me think even a suggestion of an insult will make her collapse into a pile of weeping bones.

“Sure, why not?” Weezie smiles appreciatively and we all take our seats. Deann tries to pin my hair up with one of those clippy things while she puts the cape on.  She twist it up, clips it, it falls. She does this about three times before I reach back, take the regular sized clippy thing and hand her one of the big ones. She offers a tiny smile.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” She finally gets me situated, then releases the hair. She begins to brush it out. The more she brushes, the bigger her eyes get.

“Uh, how much do you want to take off?”

“About two inches.”

Weezie pipes up, “One inch.”

“Two inches.”

“ONE INCH.” We have this argument every time I go in. I assume she is trying to make me keep my hair as long as possible. She cuts her eyes at Deann who is combing out hair that’s already combed out. She is stalling. “We might need to leave a little room for TRAINING.” Holy crap. Am I her first haircut ever? I’m not even completely convinced that she can hold up the weight of the scissors with her skeletor hands.

“Ok, you old bat. One inch.” I catch Deann’s eyes in the mirror. She is clearly terrified. “You can do this. It’s just basic long layers. “ She nods but she’s still frowning.

“You have a LOT of hair.” I am unsure how to answer this. Is this a trick question?

“Uhhhh… true?”  She is still just standing there. What are the magic words that will make her start cutting? “You know Deann, you can’t will it shorter. You do have to actually cut it.”

“Yeah.”  Weezie looks over. She looks annoyed.

“Take some of the weight off first, and then start the layers.”

“Yeah. Ok.” She actually makes a cut, but she has not sectioned it off. “There’s just so much hair. I can’t see my lines.” Ok, I’m not a cosmetologist, so I have no idea what lines she’s talking about. I’m not completely positive that she knows. Weezie walks over.

“You can’t just cut her hair like that. It’s too thick and heavy, you have to cut it in sections.” 

Deann finally figures it out, pulls up half of my hair (after I once again give her the big clips) and starts cutting tiny bits off the ends of my hair. After about 20 minutes Weezie comes back over,”

“Hey, you cut a straight line.” I am slightly annoyed that she sounds surprised. She will pay for this. “Now start the layers.”

“I’m not good with long layers.”

“Just try.” Weezie demonstrates by cutting a few snips. Her hands work too fast for me to catch, so I know Skeletor has not seen a thing because her reflexes are delayed by malnourishment.

“Maybe you should show her slower, Weezie.” Weezie slows down her hands. Son of a…there’s some sort of weird wrist twisty thing going on that I know Deann will never get. Deann tries.

 Weezie yells in my ear ,“No! Turn your wrist over. You’re cutting it the wrong way.” Deann turns her wrist over and snips. This is just getting painful. When I said I wasn’t in a hurry I didn’t realize that I had committed myself to sitting in this chair for the better part of the afternoon.  After a couple more demonstrations, she finally gets it. She manages to make it all the way around my head. Weezie inspects it. “Not bad.” She’s lifting sections of hair and letting them fall. “But this side is about a half inch shorter than the other. You need to even it up.”  Skeletor looks like she’s about to cry. I spin around to face Deann.

“Look, sweetie. It’s just hair. It’s not a big deal. If you make a mistake, it will grow back. You can do this.”

“Ok. But there’s just so much of it.” This is just getting ridiculous. I get it. I have thick hair. But it’s just on the thick side of normal. It’s not like it’s freakishly, gorilla thick.

Deann actually starts to cut at a pace that might get me out of this place before dinner. When she finishes, Weezie comes over and makes a few corrective snips and declares me finished. I make sure to fuss over it a little extra even though it’s just my normal haircut and leave a significant tip. Maybe by the time I need another trim Deann will have had a little more practice.

Kidding Around

Believe it or not, not every woman on the planet yearns to procreate. I have never been one of those girls that dreamed of having a baby. Don’t get me wrong, I like kids. Sometimes. But therein lays the problem. After a significant chunk of time has elapsed, kids just get on my last damn nerve and I have to give them back to their rightful owners before I hurt them. My time limit is usually about 8 hours. Sometimes less, sometimes more, but that’s about average. So when people say to me, “You’re so great with kids, why don’t you have any of your own?” it just rubs me the wrong way. I am forced to say, “I don’t want them.” And this evokes a shocked reaction that makes me appear to be a selfish tool. So here it is, for the last time. I don’t want kids, and here’s why:

1.       I have issues with clutter. When there’s a lot of stuff lying around, I feel like I can’t breathe.  Sometimes when I go into the homes of friends with small children I have to force myself to not act like a neurotic lunatic. The amount of colorful plastic crap covering the floor and every surface in the house is so uncomfortable to me, I often find myself making organized piles without even realizing it. I am aware that it’s offensive but I honestly don’t even realize I’m doing it. I’ve heard the question, “Are you cleaning my house?” more than once and I can only uncomfortably answer with, “Apparently. Sorry about that.”

2.       I secretly have bad, non-maternal thoughts about people’s kids. A person that I hardly know, but apparently thinks we’re BFF’s showed me a picture of her toddler in a store recently. “Isn’t she just precious?” To which I answered, “The precious-est.” But what I was really thinking was, “It must be really hard to love a kid that ugly. Seriously, that’s just side-show ugly. Was her daddy an oompa-loompa? ”

3.       I am selfish. I know that the first time I have to stay home when I really want to go out because I have a kid, I’m going to resent having it. I am also at the age when I don’t recover from going out as quickly as I used to. It’s all well and good to get a sitter for the night, but what about the next day when I feel like crap, but I have to be “mommy”? I am even more selfish when I’m forced to reside in a dehydrated shriveled up pile of toxic waste shell of a body. In this condition it would not seem unreasonable for me to lock a kid in their room with a box of Cheerio’s and a bowl of water.

4.       My gene pool. The only positive things I can think of that I could pass onto a child are a high IQ and good teeth. This would be fantastic if it weren’t coupled with a slew of other obstacles that are lurking around in there, like alcoholism, obesity, crippling depression, poor eyesight and diabetes, just off the top of my head. These things are not the legacy I want to leave to future generations and I certainly don’t want to curse a child with them.

5.       I have to work at it to be “kid friendly.” Maybe this is why kids exhaust me after a day or so. The constant censoring of my language is tiring. What’s worse is that I find a toddler swearing absolutely hilarious. Especially if it’s unprovoked and the swear word is used properly. I have learned that no matter how much you try to hide it, kids can just sense when you are amused by something.  This will cause them to do whatever the offensive behavior is over and over and will not hesitate to do it in public.

So the point is, I like this arrangement. Bring me your children when I ask for them so I can play with them and teach them cool stuff, then come get them right before their child-like behavior starts getting on my nerves. And stop asking, because no matter how unbelievable you may think it is, no, I don’t want any of my own.