- 26. July 2010: Blog Break #17,000,000.04: Editing
- 21. July 2010: Blog Break #17,000,002: Catalina
- 15. July 2010: Baking---With A Rolling Pin!...
- 11. July 2010: Bird Bliss...
- 11. July 2010: Poem Break...
- 6. July 2010: Oh, PB---You're So Transparent...
- 5. July 2010: Blog Break: Dana Point Baby Beach
- 27. June 2010: The Secret Lives Of Parents...
- 22. June 2010: The Toddler Plants A Cypress...
- 20. June 2010: Really? Zzz...
- ANNE LAMOTT
- BOB TYLER & THE RECKLESS HEARTS
- BRIDGET HOIDA
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- MOTHERHOOD LATER
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- PB RIPPEY
- QUINCY
- Rippey Baby Food Maker
- SANDRA TSING-LOH
- SMART GALS
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- THE PIONEER WOMAN
- UNICEF: DRC SPECIFIC
- Welcome To The Middle Of Life
- ZACH MADDEN
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Blog Break #17,000,000.04: Editing
26. July 2010 by PB Rippey.
Cue elevator music. Cue photo of cute little boy ruling the roost. Shhh…The mama is working (cue sound of fingers tapping computer keyboard at breakneck speed…). La dee da dee da…
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Blog Break #17,000,002: Catalina
21. July 2010 by PB Rippey.
What’s not to like?
Much stimulating fun for the toddler—
and his parents.
Ocean breezes.
Fascinating California history, such as Zane Grey’s Pueblo Hotel (haunted by the author, I was informed—I can see why he wants to stay—he never missed a dawn if he could help it, watched the sea come alive).
Views everywhere.
Clear water.
Put the toddler to bed? No, no, no. Put him in his pajamas, then put him in his stroller and meander the waterfront to the pavilion, to watch the night divers and the bonfires on Descanso Beach. Once the toddler is lulled to sleep by the stroll, snoozing peacefully, covered by his favorite blankie, stop for ice cream, sit, watch boat lights twinkle, relax, holds hands, be happy.
Return to wonderful Catalina house and drink champagne with good friends (on Catalina, the toddler can be transferred from stroller to bed with no wake-ups whatsoever)—champagne so smooth and Cadillac it doesn’t give you a hangover and you can rent those several golf carts in the morning with your bloody-mary’s-in-plastic-cups-toting-friends and utterly enjoy your last hours on the island.
That’s Catalina.
Posted in Breaks, World, Vitals | Print | 1 Comment »
Baking—With A Rolling Pin!…
15. July 2010 by PB Rippey.
I’ve been utilizing the Weelicious recipe site of late. I’ve tried the Breakfast Bread Pudding, which my finnicky toddler actually enjoyed and asked for seconds (which he got once mama recovered from her heart attack and picked herself up off the floor). I made the Baked Zucchini Coins, which were delicious, although (grrrrr!) the toddler didn’t think so (luckily his dadda did). I baked the Pizza Muffins, which once again were a hit with the dadda, especially since I substituted tofu cubes for the chicken the recipe called for. The toddler? He licked the tops of two muffins with a suspicious look on his face, took one bite and asked for jello.
Today’s venture is Carrot Snack Sticks, which look beautiful in the picture on the site and which, around here, will be Carrot Dinner Sticks. I was very excited to use a rolling pin that I found in my havoc-of-cooking-implements kitchen cabinet. Can’t remember when or why I bought it, but how nice to have it at my fingertips! The toddler “washed” dishes while I prepared the recipe, adding about 5 times the amount of parmesan cheese due to my experiences with flour’s power to bland, bland, bland. I also added about 3 or 4 more tablespoons of vegetable oil than the recipe calls for. I’m wild, man! I’m crazy!
As I expected, the sticks did not look like the chef’s picture when they came out of the oven.
But T ate 1. Then asked for milk. Then he ate another. And I’m sure he’ll eat the watermelon slice I’m keeping out of sight as he ponders the remaining carrot sticks before him (hopefully he’ll eat more). So tonight’s dinner: Carrot Sticks, watermelon and milk. Not bad. Ha ha ha!
As I’ve mentioned incessantly, my toddler is a finnicky eater. Compared to other toddlers I know, those who only eat dry cheerios, for instance (so sorry for those mothers), he’s great. But for me each meal is a challenge in keeping cool, not worrying, not taking that rolling pin and using it to pound the many pillows on my bed as I silently scream my frustation when he refuses a recipe, any recipe, even the tried and trusted ones. Instead, I take the pin with both hands, bring it behind my head and commit 50 french presses. Right on! Cooking that’s good for the triceps, or whatever that area of arm is that waves like a banner in the wind. Ah, PB—you were born for motherhood! Peace and be well. And remember that the pediatrician told you not to worry—unless T starts losing weight from finnickiness and so far he’s way too chunky for that. Keep on cooking!
A BIG PS. After writing this post I noticed a burning smell. The 2nd batch of Carrot Snack Sticks were destroyed. I didn’t hear the timer. Too bad, because the longer I left the sticks on his tray, the more he eventually ate. Back to the rolling pin!
Posted in Usual Drama?, Vitals | Print | 1 Comment »
Bird Bliss…
11. July 2010 by PB Rippey.
The baby birds have hatched. We ooh and ahhh over the tiny heads and uhinged beaks of 3 (possibly 4, hard to tell) house finches making their presence known with tortured-mice screams the toddler is not sure he enjoys. Fascinating, though, is watching both mama and papa bird sit on the nest at the same time and feed their young. Then they zoom off, presumably to round up more food. I didn’t know papa birds did such a service. It’s lovely. It’s wonderful. It’s teamwork in the wild.
Next chore: rig up a net so that if anyone falls out of the nest, they will not land on the patio slash cat-land and we witness nature’s cruelty. No, no, noooooooo….
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Poem Break…
11. July 2010 by PB Rippey.
The Sixth Appointment
On the sixth appointment (your third) I rat-
tled off the plot of Washington Square,
gleaned from all five of seven cd’s decked
in our car in the grim subterranean lot
down there, your hand on my knee (your
reach strained—I don’t know why
we didn’t simply scoot you close), down-
town sun lightening lab-yellow blinds
and when I couldn’t look at you I spoke
to the baby squatting naked in a white
porcelain bowl on the wall, all squidge
and a stupid smile and hair sparse
as an old man’s (when we were shown
in, we laughed at the sight of him)
and when I couldn’t look at the baby
I spoke to the replica of certain a-
natomy (purple plastic for the womb,
barn-door-red for the cervix, pink
for It, etc.), the piece you joked
lonely bachelors might like to display
in their lonely living rooms and when I spoke
to you again the sun had your eyes,
hoarding their godly-green
and the room spun
and I sat back and you rose
as the doctor entered
in high platform sandals,
pleasant skirt beneath
the pale coat and the two
of you shared a laugh before
she whipped open her magic
chart, divined the unseen,
lifted my new blouse,
squirted on the goop,
pressed the thing home
and you heard (for the first time)
the tiny, persistent galloping.
And nobody laughed
then except for me, because I’d for-
gotten (even after all these fucking visits):
miracles breathe.
(honorable mention in some anderbo.com contest or other a few years ago, or whenever…)
Posted in Poems | Print | 1 Comment »
Oh, PB—You’re So Transparent…
6. July 2010 by PB Rippey.
Why does having a new cell phone make me feel so content? It’s not an iphone. It’s not even smart, just—the sort of super-basic model that no one would ever want to steal. But there’s no static when I make or receive calls, the kind of ear-wrenching, in-your-canal static that makes people scream and swear they will never speak to me again until I get a new cell phone. My phone does not disconnect every few seconds. My phone has colorful wallpaper depicting a tropical reef that instantly transports me to—I don’t know, let’s frikkin’ say Kauai, every time I look at it. My phone’s ring is a Latin woman singing a lazy bossa nova. I don’t know who the artist is. I don’t know what her words mean. I only know she makes me smile when I hear her voice, which reminds me of margaritas on the rocks. Now, when I call people, I cut them off before they can berate me to get a new phone. I yell: IT’S A NEW PHONE! Their suspicions are put to rest as the conversation continues with me babbling on about how there’s no static. Ha ha! No static! And I won’t cut out on you, either! I add, waiting for cheers, which might or might not come. And someday, I tell everyone, my phone will have a bluetooth piece for company (to which I might receive an oooh or ahhh in reply, but that’s only if it’s my mother, who has no idea what bluetooth is or why it would have a piece). Yes. I heart my phone. Is that wrong? Or just—millenial? Am I a millenial girl? Can I be millenial without a bluetooth piece? What does millenial really mean and why am I writing about it when I have a tiny hour alone at home until the toddler and his dadda return? Why am I writing about my new cell phone and its tropical features instead of—ah. Caught ya! Avoiding my novel editing. Again! Well, you listen up, PB, and listen well (no static here!)—no phone for a week unless you stop blather-blogging this second, pull up your novel and get to work! Yes, Ma’am. And don’t call me Ma’am! Yes, um—Lady Gollum. Well, now! That’s better. Gollum. Gollum. Gollum. (Note to Self: Do not ever show this post to husband or son…)
Posted in Vitals | Print | 1 Comment »
Blog Break: Dana Point Baby Beach
5. July 2010 by PB Rippey.
Hope you had a wonderful 4th of July! I made a berry cobbler that actually wasn’t burned on the bottom. A first! If you run your mouse over the picture, you’ll get the story, in his words. A beautiful day at Baby Beach and good for the Gdad to be out in the sunshine and fresh air (not to mention the toddler!).
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The Secret Lives Of Parents…
27. June 2010 by PB Rippey.
So he enters the bedroom and you both wake up the second his little feet cross the threshold because your toddler-radars are, for once, in total synch and you both start with the utterings: What is it, baby, come here, baby, get in bed with us, baby. And you fit him between you where he lasts for 2 seconds because, as you both well know but are still in denial about, he is not the cuddle-in-the-parent’s-bed type of child, never has been, busting out of his bunting those first months, thrashing his way out of the snuggle-nest you both flanked each night so hopefully, the nest enabling you to keep him so close, so that you could oooh and aaah over him constantly, at any minute, any hour, any second of the night, between feedings. Nope. He wasn’t having any of that then and now he leads the way to his room and you settle him on the big-boy bed—only to feel an odd wetness on the sheets and then his back is arching and he’s getting rid of the rest of his dinner.
So you rush him to the bathroom and he shocks you by lifting up the toilet seat as though he knows, at 2 1/2 years old, exactly what to do, even though he’s never barfed into the toilet before, but he does, does it with perfect aim as you murmur encouragements and by then your husband is in the bathroom, too, catching up on events, and you both wet washcloths and wipe your child down and you both pat your child dry and one takes care of fresh toddler-pajamas while the other quickly changes the toddler-bedsheet, silently cursing buying only 1 fitted toddler-bed-sheet instead of a year’s supply for ER’s just like this one, but suddenly you find the toddler-flat-sheet works just fine and your husband settles on the bed next to the little guy and you flip off the light and stagger back to your bed and 45 minutes later the entire process is repeated, only this time you take the ailing babe into the living room once he’s cleaned up, cuddle him on the couch while your husband replaces the toddler-flat-sheet with a Queen fitted sheet he found in the hall linen closet by emptying the closet’s entire contents onto the floor and when your husband enters the living room in fresh boxers and tee shirt, arms outstretched, eyes half closed, ready for sleep, to try it again, you stand to transfer to him your mutual, precious center-of-all-universes, only to find you’ve been sitting in cat gak and didn’t even know it.
So you hand over the barfing babe and rush to do some kind of swift body rinse and when you are dry and changed into a fresh nightgown, you find the toddler back on the couch, wearing yet another pair of toddler-pajamas, sitting by himself with an expression you can only define as “patient”. He sits on the towel covering the cat gak, your husband swiftly changing the big-boy bed for the 3rd time this long, strange night-into-morning and you throw your arms around your child and rock and cuddle him as your husband rushes by, heading for the laundry room again with barfed-on sheets in his arms, and just then your child leaps up and demands his toy jets, which he finds in the next second and you watch, in awe and dismay, as he dashes around the living room, waving his jets in jet-flying-simulation, making those funny jet sounds that include spit and dribble, and when he sees his weary father shuffling out from the laundry room, he demands he stop and play jets and your husband waves you off, back to bed, but before you go you think to put a movie in, “Stuart Little”, delighting the toddler, who consents to sit (with both jets) next to his Dadda on the gak-stained couch, both of your loved ones wrapped in velvety throws, or whatever they’re called these days, those blankety things that only live on couches…
So you leave them, father and son movie fanatics (like father like son) and stumble to bed, Geena Davis’ faint protests in your ears as your head hits the pillows and you think—because you know, really know this time, now that you’re out of the constant State-Of-ER worry that goes with the first few months of parenthood, or rather the first year, and you’ve been through the first fever, colds, the flu and you’re not totally freaked and ready to call the paramedics at the first sign of a cough or vomit—your head hits the pillows and you think (with relief and love and a deep, profoundly beautiful agony and that constantly returning sense of awe)—THIS is being a parent, this, this, this.
Posted in BABY BABY | Print | 5 Comments »
The Toddler Plants A Cypress…
22. June 2010 by PB Rippey.
He insisted on wearing his red boots in summer. Of course he did! He’s a toddler.
Right off the bat he let us know he was in charge of every aspect of the planting of the Father’s Day cypress tree.
He did pause to fiddle with his navel and contemplate Dadda’s work—but just for a moment.
This had nothing to do with planting the tree, but we’re just his parents, so who were we to question?
And then: Success!
And then: Time to strangle the tree.
Posted in Ponderosa, BABY BABY | Print | 1 Comment »
Really? Zzz…
20. June 2010 by PB Rippey.
Two and a half years later:
T sleeps until 7:00a.m. (vs. 4:30/5:00a.m. Maybe even a 3:40a.m. something or other frisky number that goes like this: MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA!!!—followed by a tip-toe-tap-dance only toddlers can execute that early—or ever)…
Then, for several consecutive days, our son sleeps until 6:20 a.m. S and I are agape, totally disoriented, muttering bits like: “Rabbit hole? Us? Down it? Quantam Physics? Da Vinci Code! Miracle? What is going on!”
Then (gasp!) 7:40a.m.—a new record! I kept peeking in T’s room to see if he was breathing, if the cat was on his head, if if if. He looked happy, utterly content in sleep, in his all-nighter-well-into-the-morning snooze. I closed his bedroom door and raced (quietly) to the kitchen, where my husband had the morning pancakes on hold. We covered our mouths, jumped up and down (quietly), obviously expressing joy, hope. “I can—maybe, of course, just maybe, if this keeps up—work out in the morning again!” my husband whispered. “And you–you can GET MORE SLEEP and? And, pb, and??? You can write!” “Shh!” I responded with clearly spastic gestures. “For the love of Diego’s baby jaguar, don’t say anything else! Shh!”
There is a reason sleep deprivation is used as a method of torture.
There is a reason poems are not written, novels not edited, words are dolloped on pages vs. forming sentences entire cultures might comprehend. There are no words, or there is one word typed on a blank Word document and it’s all wrong; I can’t read my own handwriting; my hard drive burns out without my backing it up first; I use dictionary.com when I never needed to before (before becoming a mother).
There is a reason why my cell phone has dents, we have 3 loaves of bread in the fridge, the sprinkler was left on for 2 hours, the dashboard of the minivan is so coated in dust I sneeze as I drive T around, I can’t remember names of people I’ve just met or my house numbers. There’s a reason why when 3:00p.m. arrives and I haven’t napped because T hasn’t napped someone might as well have frozen me in carbon like Harrison Ford in not “Star Wars” but that other one and thrown me into a bottomless lake. There is a reason why I am not Louise Hay most days, or—any day(s), except weekends (when co-parenting explodes beautifully and we are a magic trio—and I can sleep in). There is a reason why Dora, or Shrek or Curious George DVD’s can make me cry, or that one toilet paper commercial featuring human and animal babies.
Yet—some clarification: Each second of sleep lost these past two and a half years? Better than a lifetime of eight hours of sleep a night. Or rather: BETTER THAN A LIFETIME OF EIGHT HOURS OF SLEEP A NIGHT. Yes, I shout it out, and I mean it. Because even at my tiredest, my most thereisarhinocerosridingonmyback, I have dug deep, then deeper and grasped dregs of energy that got my a** off the couch, T in the car and us on our way to an outdoor adventure—or maybe the Disney Store. So that one day, when my son is 18 and I am staring at him in awe, wondering when he grew up, wondering how it is he can be telling me he’s entering NASA’s revamped Space Program, or going to try his hand at growing pinot noir grapes, or declaring he is leaving the nest to devote his life to the fine tuning of deep sea submersibles that will one day link to deep sea state-of-the-art aqua stations where he will study deep sea extreme environments, like those deep sea smoking chimneys that amaze the world and hatch freaky, squirmy otherwordly life forms obviously related to the Tasmanian Blobster, when my son is 18 and in the polling booth next to mine, I can flash on these early years and feel good about myself, know that I tried my best to be present in our family, no matter how hard it is to keep going sometimes. nomatterhowhard…
I wonder if one’s memory returns in force after one gets more sleep—like a flock of homing pigeons, a parade of boomerangs, gas…
WWW.PBRIPPEY.COM
Posted in World, Vitals, BABY BABY | Print | 2 Comments »
Eternal Snapshots Of The Mental Kind…
13. June 2010 by PB Rippey.
My tooth falling out of my mouth our 3rd hour in kauai, as we strolled down our hotel’s coconut-husk-colored hallway, bemused in paradise, dressed for dinner, relishing the balmy air and tiki torches flaring not menacingly outside the windows. We held hands. I opened my mouth to comment on tropical delights and an upper rear tooth landed first on my tongue, then the hibiscus-blossom-patterned carpet. A dull-white crown. A dull-white crown had broken in half and fallen out of my mouth. We stared at it, then S reached down, plucked it up, handed it to me. I placed my tooth in a pocket of my purse—and on to dinner we strolled in our aloha prints and slightly wilting leis, utterly, completely—sublimely—the epitome of: On Vacation.
Each time I’m forcing myself to rise into another push-up, T kissing my arm, patting my head and saying, “Hi, Mama, hi!”.
Our first family trip to the Los Angeles Zoo, when T was 3 months old. As S gallavanted eagerly from flamingos to gorillas, T riding smack against S’s chest in the Baby Bjorn, looking, absorbing New World, I hung back, furious we hadn’t brought a crowbar to fight off the lions or chimpanzees if there was an earthquake and all the animals escaped. The entire visit I staked out snack bars, administrative offices, or sheds where we might dash for safety when the earthquake hit, certain scenes from “Jurassic Park” vivid in my mind. I vowed never to return to the zoo without a tazer tucked into the baby backpack, or a crowbar hidden in the jogging stroller’s pouch. I hated us for endangering our son’s life. I hated the zoo. I hated it.
Same thing at the Long Beach Aquarium—only no tazer, but a super-quickly-inflating life raft for when all the water gushed from the exhibits due to the glass being blown out by the massive earthquake. Life raft also integral for surfing post-earthquake tsunami to safe, higher ground, like maybe the top of the Long Beach Marriott. Also possible life raft could transport us to the Queen Mary and she could surf the tsunami to a safe harbor. Then I scratched the QM idea. Too “Poseidon Adventure”-ish. Way, way too risky…
T at the foot of the stretcher in his little stripy cap, somewhere between his Mama’s beached-whale calves and ankles as we were wheeled to our room—where S and I stared in shock and awe at our son—staringfeedingstaringfeeding…Such hours! Miraculous and insane…
Waiting for the nap to consume me—T asleep in his room, me in my bed listening to the rain on the roof, watching water filter through the trees outside my bedroom windows, the whole world vaguely musical, sense-making, my house quietly complete.
“Love is the fervor, the dullard, the Elmer’s and the Muscle.” Who said that? Do. Not. Remember. Certainly not an ex-boyfriend. No poet that I know. Not my husband. Bill Clinton? No, no. Sade? Nah. No prophet…Possibly a mommy…Yes. Must have been a mommy—on her first Date Night since giving birth. Yes, yes, I’m quite sure! Said after her first sip of chardonnay in over a year, her first sushi in forever on a gleaming plate before her. She was wearing a maternity dress, secretly grateful that empire waistlines were in style. She was staring at her husband staring at her, both of them fuzzy-brained from lack of sleep, yet—content, and—still basically terrified—not as much, but still feeling the exhausting extreme-terrification that comes with newborns. That is when she said it: Love is the…etc. Her husband reached across the candlelit table and took her hand. They looked deeper into each other’s eyes—and yawned.
Posted in Vitals | Print | 3 Comments »
Thank-Q’s…
7. June 2010 by PB Rippey.
I am a grateful, thank-you type, especially since S and T came into my life. Huge, massive gratefulness there, never enough thank-you’s for these 2 miracles.
Then there are the things I don’t notice much—vital little things popping out at me as I’m rushing by with a wet, muddy boy in my arms, reminding me: oh, yes, I must acknowledge these ordinary miracles that keep our lives so rich.
For instance: the bananas hook. Fabulous! I’m so happy to sling my bananas on it rather than have them cluttering up and falling off (to be smushed beyond recognition by my urban-flip flops) the counters in our counters-challenged kitchen. Who thought of this hook business? A sailor? An inmate? Al Gore? They have my gratitude.
The pith helmet! So shade-providing when gardening, and also, since the pith helmet happens to be resting on it: the changing table pad! What marvelous inventions! How lucky I am to own and utilize both, even though my husband hates pith helmets and grimaces whenever I wear mine. “Why are you wearing that hat? You’re not supposed to be able to knock on a hat, unless you’re in construction. It’s all wrong! Ugh!” Huh. I suppose I could say the same when he wears his—his—can’t think of anything he wears that’s hideous. Bugger! Back to the changing pad: lucky that my toddler will lie on it without a fuss! Not so lucky the toddler is not potty trained yet, but thank goodness for the training toilet, not to mention its other uses when the toddler has obviously decided he will wear diapers until he’s a teenager.
And John Leguizamo’s screams as Sid the Sloth in “Ice-Age”. Marvelous! I laugh and laugh. I laugh more than the toddler. Ah, joy.
When I’m lying on my back in T’s room and he’s piling his stuffed animal collection on top of me for the 200th time in 10 minutes, I gaze up at the ceiling and—jellyfish! So pleasant. So Zen inducing when sock monkey is heading for my eyeballs.
Jimmy Zangwow’s Out Of This World Moonpie Adventure never gets old, no matter how many times we read it, and despite my toddler failing to appreciate the voice I use for the Martians. In my Martian voice, I ask my toddler: Why. Are. You. Put. Ing. Your. Hand. O-ver. Mama’s. Mouth… Seriously! Didn’t I used to have a therapist?
Z Bars, cantaloupe and free-from-god-awful-chemicals canisters. And, in the distance, wooden blocks that hold kitchen knives…
Giraffe doorstops.
Glow balls. I mean, come on!: Oooooooh!
Grass.
Hugely original artwork.
And now that I’ve forgotten what this post is supposed to be about, the toddler just now in the bath with Dadda (bedtime O where art thou), it hits me: I love little moments like these, between bath and bed, when I may play with words in the sudden quiet of my bedroom, computer on my lap, finches snoozing in the trees outside the windows, world calming, the calm before the week, the breath between breaths, the jellyfish AND the pith helmet, treasures all—ordinary miracles—one of a kind.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
WWW.PBRIPPEY.COM
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Valley Delusions…
30. May 2010 by PB Rippey.
Recently, during those torrential, late-winter rainstorms, the police visited our mini-Ponderosa.
To clarify: we moved from busy NoHo to the wilds of uber-quiet suburbia. We were used to sirens and overhead helicopter traffic and muffler-less motorcycles speeding down our street at 3:00a.m. We were used to a lack of parking and doors-banging neighbors who think like this: it’s a GREAT idea to bring a rooster home to live in my kitchen and to leave all my kitchen windows open so that when my feathered friend crows at 5:00a.m., an angry mob bangs on my door, which I don’t answer because I wear earplugs and have a white noise machine because I brought a rooster home to live in my kitchen and everyone knows roosters are noisy buggers, ha, ha!
We relocated from NoHo excitement to silent, leafy streets offering plenty of parking and a sweet house flanked by kindly types who offered up their lawn mowers when ours broke down because we ran it over a partially submerged-in-earth tree stump, and why wouldn’t we run over a partially-submerged-in-earth tree stump with our lawn mower since we’ve never had a lawn (much less a mower) of our own before and are bemused by mowers and gardening power tools and white fly infestations and ants as welcoming committees and lunatic mocking birds dive-bombing our cats and the frequent raking of leaves and yanking up god-awful growths called weeds and finally understanding yes, yes, gardening gloves are absolutely necessary when pruning roses (a procedure we YouTubed because we’ve never pruned a rose and are still shocked that rose pruning has proper procedure, like nose jobs).
To clarify: the previous inhabitants of our home spray-painted an ultra red Lightning McQueen (cartoon car) on the wall in our back yard. It’s gone now, but during those torrential rains, those mini-monsoons of earlier this year, the mural was still there. Then, one dark afternoon during a break in the weather, as my son cheered for Tinky Winky catching Tubby Toast, I sipped dubious coffee and gazed through the large windows facing the back yard—and I saw something besides old Lightning McQueen.
There, under the retreating blooms of our potato-vine-tree-thing, I saw, in white paint, this:
E N R I Q U E
My first thoughts: OH MY GOD WE’VE BEEN TAGGED BY A GANG A GANG WAS IN OUR BACKYARD AND THEIR NAME IS ENRIQUE AND WE’RE TAGGED AND WE DON’T HAVE A DOG AND I AM ALONE DURING THE DAY IN SUBURBAN WILDS WITH A SMALL CHILD AND TWO SLACKER CATS INCAPABLE OF CATCHING SPIDERS OR FIGHTING OFF DIVE BOMBING MOCKING BIRDS AND MAYBE IT’S SAFER TO LIVE IN POLICE AND HELICOPTER PATROLLED NOHO RIGHT UNDER DANGER’S NOSE THAN OUT HERE IN UBER-HUSHED SUBURBS WHERE HELICOPTERS FLY FAR FAR NOISELESSLY OVERHEAD AND ALL I HEAR ARE BEES RAIDING ORANGE BLOSSOMS AND THE OCCASIONAL DOG BARK AND MY SON’S PLEAS FOR HOT DOGS OH MY GOD WE HAVE TO MOVE.
I called my husband and in an urgent tone told him: ENRIQUE. He immediately called the police. As I waited for them to arrive, I stared gloomily at Lightning McQueen, wondering what he saw last night when the ENRIQUE gang arrived to mercilessly tag our lives—and suddenly I was positive ENRIQUE had taqgged Lightning McQueen, too, adding new colors to the mural, enhancing it, gang-artistes. My eyes scanned the walls of our mini-Ponderosa. I gasped: spray painted on the far left wall, just above the spiky agave, was a white cross I had never seen before in my life.
By the time the police arrived I was also convinced there was tagging on the curb across the street that said: UFO. Great. In addition to the cross-obsessed ENRIQUE gang there was also the notorious UFO gang leaving their mark in our Hood and we were going to have to move because we simply could not raise a child in gang-infested suburbs of the San Fernando Valley, no matter the cute houses and pretty, well-maintained yards. Any second the gun shots were going to start up. I was mentally packing my bags as I let the two policemen in and pointed out the tagging. Their politeness and poker faces fueled my terror. I watched them through the windows as they inspected ENRIQUE and the dreaded cross. It was starting to rain again.
The cops: No, ma’am, it’s not a gang. You’d have to live up in Northridge for gang action. Probably just some kid on a dare. There aren’t any footprints. Could be the rain washed them away, although the ground is kind of protected by that tree thing…Well, I wouldn’t worry, ma’am. Sure, get a dog and keep up your security lighting and always remember that nowhere is safe, but you’re in a nice neighborhood, ma’am. Good looking boy! We’ll be on our way now.
Wait! I begged, unable to process what they were telling me. What about the UFO gang?
The cops exchanged glances of pity and impatience.
The cops: Well, ma’am, If you go right up to the curb, you’ll see the letters aren’t actually UFO, but DWP. Probably someone’s water pipe is right around there and needs fixing.
They loped off to their police car, leather jackets up over their heads for protection from the cloud burst.
After I put T down for his nap, I hauled my computer onto my lap and brought up the before-moving-in and post-excessive-renovation pictures of our Ponderosa.
Oh. My. Sweet. Basil. And. Cow. Crap.
In one particular photo of the yard, one directed at the grave of Mr. Peabody, there, behind the grave, partially obscured by the potato-vine-tree-thing, this: ENRIQUE. Further scouring of the pictures revealed the white cross. There were plenty of photos of Lightning McQueen and as I examined them carefully it was obvious that no tagging enhancement had taken place. No tagger had been in our yard, period. No wonder there weren’t any footprints! I was both relieved and: DOH! DOH! DOH!
Forget out-of-sight-out-of-mind. How about: in-sight-for-nearly-a-year-and-COMPLETELY-NOT-ON-YOUR-RADAR.
I called my husband and listened to him laugh and laugh. Babe, he gasped between laughter gushy as the rainstorm. Babe, I thought we’d been tagged, too—it wasn’t just you!
Listen, I responded. Listen to me, husband: I made policemen get all wet and muddy for no reason.
Ha, ha! I can’t believe you—I mean we—ha, ha, so funny! I–I can’t breathe. Ha, ha, ha!
My cheeks burned.
I still want a dog, I hissed.
But babe, S laughed. Try and see the humor! Aren’t you glad we haven’t been tagged? It’s all good, babe. And funny as—-
He was laughing so intensely it was necessary for him to hang up.
A few weeks later, when the Ponderosa had dried out somewhat and the sun totally confused blossom-bearing plants with a surprise pre-Spring heatwave, I painted over Lightning McQueen and ENRIQUE. Only the cross remains—until I can get to the paint store and purchase more gloriously white, white, beautifully blanking, utterly erasing gallons.
Posted in Ponderosa, Usual Drama? | Print | 2 Comments »
On Non-Reacting…
23. May 2010 by PB Rippey.
Today, as I made a deposit at the BofA drivethru ATM, a car pulled in behind me and the driver said, immediately, loudly, COME ON.
Hm, I thought, depositing my checks. How rude!
The man continued to express himself.
OH MY GOD. YOU’RE TOO SLOW.
Oh. Hell.
This is the thing about me—I too often see red when provoked by a stranger’s rudeness. Red makes me act hastily vs. breathe and remember crucial situation-bits, such as: he could have a gun, he could get out of his car and strangle me, I could endanger my son’s life by responding to his rudeness. Lately I’ve been so good about not responding to rudeness that I can’t even recall any rude encounters since—well, since the last bout. If anyone has been rude, I’ve been oblivious to it. Life has been one joyous set of outings! I’m pretty sure, anyway.
OH MY GOD. HURRY UP.
When seeing red, I forget that whatever a rude stranger’s problem is, it isn’t mine, therefore, I: don’t need to react.
COME ON, LADY. JESUS.
When seeing red, my usual eye color of blue-tinged-with-a-stricken-gray is completely obscured. Red conceals the very whites of my eyes. I look like Medusa on a Red Bull binge (like she needs an energy drink). I look totally, mirror-image-y, Norma Desmond (spitting fire).
YOU’RE TAKING TOO LONG. OH MY GOD.
As I was saying, lately I’ve been working on letting things go, on forgiveness and compassion. I feel better when I forgive and move on—I feel freer—lighter—I like myself more—and besides, I’m busy! I don’t have room in my heart for a bunch of old hurt feelings, guilt or resentment. I have a family! How lucky, how marvelous, how—
HURRY UP, LADY. YOU’RE TAKING TOO LONG. CAN’T YOU HEAR ME?
SHUT THE F*** UP YOU F***ING F***ED UP F***ING DING-DONG CLEARLY F***ED IN THE HEAD F***ING CRETIN AND A**HOLE! YOU F***ING F***-ALL SUCK!
I didn’t say this out loud. I promise. But I did pull ever-so-slowly away from the ATM, sending the man into a heightened verbal rage. My hands shook on the wheel. My breath came fast. My heart felt like a million fingers were drumming on it. When I finally drove out of the bank’s lot, saying cheerful things to T in his carseat, what I felt was a depth-plumbing dismay.
I had let some stranger and his rudeness affect me. As my grandmother used to say, Oh for crying in the beer, PB!
On the other hand, even as I antagonized that man, I was conscious of what I was doing, conscious that I wasn’t proud of myself, and I heard, though did not heed, a special voice clearly advising me to move on, move on. Voice from my heart. Yeah. I heard it.
When I pulled into the parking lot of Trader Joe’s, T babbling happily about clown fish, my breathing was steadier, my brain was back in “calm”. During the brief drive from BofA to the store, I’d vowed to try harder to non-react to rudeness. Because this vow came so swiftly on the heels of the Rudeness Event, vs. a week, or months later, I decided that I was a step closer to personal progress, to being able to let it go sooner than ever before in my life. Perhaps the next time I am confronted with a stranger’s rudeness I will be able to fully non-react without even a hint of red clouding my eyes. Hm…
Sometimes, I am sooooooooo nice to myself.
I hope.
Posted in Rudeness, Usual Drama? | Print | 1 Comment »
Mama’s Day, 2010
14. May 2010 by PB Rippey.
This year, Mother’s Day started the friday before, around 6:30p.m. From my post at the kitchen sink, scrubbing dried ketchup from T’s food tray, I watched my dearly beloved pull up and extract a huge white cage from the passenger side of the car. I slid back the kitchen window so hard it banged. WHAT DID YOU DO! I shouted quite rudely.
I’ve had some experiences with birds. More than one wild house finch has required my rescuing services, the last one just a week ago, when I pulled a youngster from Al’s mouth and T and I rushed it to the Wildlife Waystation in Calabasas. One wing was tweaked, I think tweaked before Al’s mouth tasted it, which is why he was able to catch the finch at all, because when you look like THIS, you don’t move very bird-catcher-cat nimbly. Mostly you lie around licking your large pink belly, when you’re an Al.
WHAT DID YOU DO!
Back when I was a single woman in Los Feliz, I opened my security gate one morning and there he was, Mr. Peabody, my new love, collapsed on the ground at my feet. I rushed him inside, revived him with drops of tap water on his beak and popped him in a cage I had from saving a wild finch who’s leg had been damaged by a pop-up sprinkler and who I’d nursed back to health. In went Mr. Peabody for 3 or 4 years. He died right before I moved in with my (then fiancee) husband, destroying me. I kept him in a small box in our freezer for two years (yes, creepy shades of “A Rose For Emily”), until we moved here, to the Ponderosa, and I was able to give Mr. P a proper burial in our back yard.
WHAT DID YOU DO!
For 2 years my husband couldn’t get over having a dead bird in his freezer—still can’t. He brings it up to friends and colleagues and me, when I mention my missing-of Mr. Peabody…
WHAT DID YOU—oh whatever. Givehimtome, givehimtome, givehimtome now.
Regardless of his whole frozen bird complex, S obviously took to heart how much I miss Mr. Peabody and so he got me Julian for Mother’s Day: a very young, green parakeet I plan on taming and giving free-fly time around here. We’ve hung his cage up extremely high (meaning away from cats) and in a central location, so he can see us coming and going, hear us, hear the TV, the birds outside, can be in on all the wild action in these parts.
THANK YOU!
Our son calls him “baby bird”, said with a mixture of shock and awe every time he stops and looks up at the cage, which is often. “Baby bird!”
THANK THANK THANK YOU!
So for once I didn’t save a bird, but was given a bird and it’s such a different feeling. Part of me feels, well, rude: Oh god–another animal to feed, water and worry about, NO NO NO!!! But that panic passes when I watch Julian explore his food bowl by plopping down in it, or tussle with a rock-hard piece of bagel, or when he emits those cheerful chirps and delights my son. I’m glad he’s here. I look forward to coaxing him onto my finger one of these days, when he decides I’m worth trusting.
Welcome to the Ponderosa, baby bird. Just—live a long time, okay? And prosper.
Seriously, though: Thank you.
Posted in Ponderosa, Vitals, ANIMAL DRAMA!, BABY BABY | Print | 1 Comment »
Tylenol Recall…
3. May 2010 by PB Rippey.
As you probably know by now. Nevertheless, here is the link:
TYLENOL RECALL 2010
Since we gave our son doses of one of the recalled Children’s Tylenol last week, I had a mommy freak-out today when reading about the recall, especially the bit about possible “particles” in the liquid. Let’s interview me for a second:
PB–how do you feel about having just given your son a s***load of potentially toxic, harmful, particle-filled, very bad stuff posing as medicine to your one and only beloved toddler?
Hm. Let me see. I feel—–*@#*%!!!!!!! I feel as if I should never, ever have purchased Tylenol, but done my research and found some wonder-organic fever and pain reliever. I feel as if my investigative diligence is seriously lacking when it comes to what’s best for my toddler. Since the recall was announced, I have silently screamed, snapped at my husband, privately wailed and Googled holistic and homeopathic topics incessantly, downloaded lists having to do with pesticides in fruits and vegetables, growled into my pillow, FB’d my concern and eaten obscenely thick wedges of brie. Any questions???
Yes, just this: does your son show signs of illness, rashes, odd behavior, excessive fatigue, listlessness or anything, really, that might alarm?
What are you getting at? You sound like my husband!!!
Surely your son is fine. Sit back, have a glass of wine, call the doctor in the morning and step away from Google, PB. Just step away.
Listen–you can’t possibly be a parent, because if you WERE you wouldn’t offer such ^$%*@ advice! Why don’t you go stick your questions in a firecracker headed right up your a@#!!!
Night, night, PB.
Grrrrrrrrrrr….zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…….
Posted in BABY BABY | Print | 2 Comments »
Blog Break #17,000,000…
30. April 2010 by PB Rippey.
As I experience the flu AND caring for an absolutely non-sick toddler bored with Blues Clues, Thomas, Cars, Little Einsteins and basically any dvd in his collection, bored with puzzles and bubbles indoors and sticking playdough to the walls, I offer this blog break w/picture, taken from my sick chaise-longue in the backyard, where I can be found reclining in sun and wind on the thinning brown mattress, moaning lightly as he digs passionately in the dirt pile.
Posted in Breaks, Ponderosa, Usual Drama?, BABY BABY | Print | 1 Comment »
LodylodylodyROCKINTHEWATER…
19. April 2010 by PB Rippey.
Last week I sat deep in a canyon next to a rushing creek. I was amazed by the emotion this busy bit of nature created in me. All was concurrently canyon-serene and utterly riotous. The creek was thunder and Zen, a zealot’s feverish telling and a whisper softer than bee-speak. Mind-tweaking. Very.
I sat on the flat, sun-infused boulder, watching T toss pebbles into thunder-bubbles, into the catchy, incessant water-laugh, water-rage. LodylodylodyROCKINTHEWATER, shouted my son. I glanced downstream: more boulders, domed as lazing turtles, pond-greens, canyon shadow so Chumash, so cave and tearing, water precious, dappled skin stretching into slap and roil and rage.
What were my feelings? Loss and bounty. What were my thoughts? Knots and gold beach. Focused, anyway—funneled. What was my name? My son held it in his little hands, felt it, shook it like dice, tossed it to eternity. His eyes found mine and he laughed.
We held hands and climbed up the trail, back into the sun and poppy fields. When he said, Dadda, I knew we’d both been on the same wavelength. Where else would my mind rush to after experiencing such a roughing up? Home. 75 miles South. T was checking in. I nodded at him.
And we moved amicably on to the beach. Low tide. Sweet shush, shush, shush.
Posted in Ponderosa, World, Vitals, BABY BABY | Print | 2 Comments »