lavenderose

I thought that I might dream today...

Sunday, February 27, 2005

Slay Dragons of the Past, Find Forgiveness

I'm not really sure how to talk about this, because it is so intensely personal. But tonight, I had a lesson in forgiveness. I've read that there are no such things as small miracles--that all miracles are large. Here, there may have been a miracle. I talked to Issac's dad today for a surprising two hours. The conversation, at first, was typical, and I remembered why I avoid him:

Him: Hello?
Me: Issac wants to talk to you.
Him: Okay, thanks.
Me: Here he is.
Issac: Hi dad. I'm driving to mommy's house. In car. Vroom Vroom. Love you. Bye.
Me: Well, that's all, Issac just wanted to talk to you.
Him: Thanks. I didn't understand a word he said though.
Me: He said... (explaining). We were eating dinner at Cindy's house, with Cindy and Hayley. We're driving home right now.
Him: Oh, yeah, yeah...Cindy. Yeah...um, uh, Hayley didn't say anything about me, right?
Me: What? No... Hayley is nine years old. You must be thinking of her other daughter.
Him: Oh yeah... uh, nevermind.
Me: (falling into the trap. I don't want our worlds crossing.) Why, you know her or something?
Him: Uh, just forget about it.
Me: Whatever. (Thinking...asshole! Get out of my life and stop messing around with people I know!)
Him: (Laughing because he knows I'm upset).
Me: Look, so I wanted to talk to you about Costa Rica.
Him: What is there to discuss? I already said no.
Me: Well, I thought you might want to ask me some questions or something.
Him: Nope, I'm not letting my son go to a dangerous third-world country.
Me: It's not a dangerous third world country.
Him: Yes, Melissa, it is.
Me: No, Mike, it is not.
Him: Oh, so now you know everything?
Me: So now YOU know everything?

It proceeded in this way until he accused me of yelling at him and hung up on me.

I didn't care, really. As I pulled into my yard, I tried to let go of my dream and realize that if I want to go to Costa Rica with Issac this summer, or any summer, I'm going to have to be prepared to dig my ditches first with Mike. I might not be able to do it this year, I told myself. But miracles can happen. The time will come. I reminded myself to breath and held back the ferocious urge to dance around stomping my feet and swinging my arms like Rumplestiltskin.

When I was giving Issac a bath the phone rang. It was Mike:

Him: Look, Melissa, uh, did you get my message?
Me: No, I didn't hear my cell ring.
Him: Well, uh, I'm sorry I hung up on you like that. It's just that I can't handle you yelling and stuff.
Me: Look, Mike, nobody was yelling. It wasn't a fun conversation, but nobody was yelling.
Him: Well, you have an attitude with me all of the time. I don't want to argue.
Me: Well, YOU have an attitude with ME. I don't want to argue either.
Him: I just want to talk like adults.
Me: So do I.
Him: Whatever. I can just see you smirking and laughing with the guy who's over there right now.
Me: WHAT? Are you crazy? There's something wrong with you. You haven't changed at all, Mike. This is ridiculous. This is why I can't talk to you! It's so sick it isn't even funny.
Him: I know there is someone over there. I can tell by the way you're acting.
Me: Oh my god. There's not, but who even cares. You don't want to talk--you just want to argue. I have to go. (Click).

My conversations with Issac's dad always leave me feeling drained and edgy. Part of it is the unpredictability: nobody knows where it can go. I constantly find myself slaying dragons of the past, or more accurately, turning into one. I don't like the way my voice sounds when I talk to him: civil, but sarcastic. There is a definite edge under my tongue, one that cuts, bites, and scorns, one that says "I'm doing fine and meanwhile you are a homeless bum who hasn't paid child support in over a year and can't even get off his ass to find a job. Obviously, I'm better than you and you are nothing but scum." My tone makes it evident that I don't approve of him or even like him. All it takes is one wrong word from him and I'm all over him like grease on chicken. I'm the worst kind of bitch--the subtle you-can't-prove-it, it's-all-in-your-head type. The type of bitch that looks good on paper. The type of bitch that righteously deserves to be a bitch. There's no hiding it-- I'm angry.

And I should be. Mike has given me very few reasons to trust him. He's had drug addiction problems and violence problems and depression problems and family problems and every type of weird problem you could possibly imagine: any excuse to be a miserable, wretched victim. He's lied to me and threatened me and betrayed me when it mattered most. He's begged for my forgiveness time and time again and I've given it and given it until the day came that there was no more left to give.

Since then, I've survived by putting up a thick wall. We don't talk often. When we do, I try to keep it brief and to the point. But sometimes I want something, like to take a trip up north or to go to Costa Rica for a few months. Then we have to talk, because I have to get his permission.

I said sometimes I want something from him, but that is not true. I ALWAYS want something. I want to soften the crust of anger and bitterness and hatred that has been hardening around me for the last two years. I don't like carrying that around. I want to be able to trust Mike, to have faith in him, even to be proud of him. I want this so badly, and I feel like a fool for entertaining the idea of ever believing in him again.

But it is my spiritual challenge. I have to let go and let God. I have to take that angry, sick, disgusting tone out of my voice. I have to center myself and concentrate on who I really want to be in this world--not on what I deserve or what he deserves. I can't keep taking on the role of judgement. It's too much of a responsibility.

Not to say that I suddenly let him back into my heart and we're best friends and I'm loaning him money and letting him take Issac all the time and stuff. No way. I know my limits and my boundaries and what needs to happen for me to be comfortable. I'm also not going to do anything to jeopardize what I think is best for Issac. I'm not going to let Mike manipulate me again. Oh, no no no. But, still, I have to find a way to forgive him, because if I can forgive him, maybe I can find a way to forgive myself.

He asked me what it would take for me to trust him again, and I told him it would take five years of him not fucking up. And it really will; the past is the best indicator of the future.

In the end, our conversation went like this:

Me: So what I'm saying Mike, is that we can either go to court and have the judge decide if I can take Issac out of the country, or you can gift me with this incredible opportunity, and begin to make up for all the crap you've put me through. I'm a damn good mom to your son, and here is a chance for you to thank me for that.
Him: So, basically you're saying that I need to kiss your ass if I want your forgiveness?
Me: That's exactly what I'm saying.
Him: Okay, then that's what I'll do. Fine, go to Costa Rica.
Me: Thanks. See, it's working-- I like you better already.
Him: You are so shrewdly stubborn.
Me: I know.
Him: Do you remember when that horse bucked you off three times in a row, and you kept getting back on?
Me: Yeah.
Him: Oh gosh, I'll never forget that. It was good talking to you.
Me: Yeah, but not at first.
Him: I know you'll never be able to forgive me all the way.
Me: You're probably right.
Him: Well, God bless.
Me: Yeah, God bless you too.


Costa Rica, here I come!



Sunday, February 20, 2005

Katie Dicamillo


Who? After graduating from the University of Florida in 1985 with a B.A. in English, she couldn't find a "real" job. Despondent, she ended up moving back to Orlando and working as an usher at Epcot. She kept writing, though, waking up every morning at five am to put pen to page. Years and years passed. Her mother endured telling all of her friends that her daughter "the writer" wasn't actually writing much. I'm sure people scoffed.

Now, however, after more than 500 rejection slips, she has been published, and just recently she won the coveted Newbury Prize for Best Children's Literature. Her two books, The Tale of Despereax, and Because of Winn-Dixie, are favorites of my young cousins.

Here, folks, is a glamour story. From rags to riches. From sweeping sidewalks to sweeping one of the most coveted awards in literature. She's freaking rich and famous. Because she believed in herself and refused to give up.

It helps that she had talent, too, of course.

The point is that there is hope for English majors and aspiring writers--even if you have to run the risk of working at Epcot for the rest of your life in order to maybe achieve your dreams.

I guess this is inspiring in a mild, sort-of-helpful way.

Saturday, February 19, 2005

Bed-Wrestling

*Ouch!* Egad! * &*^$!

When Issac manages to crawl into my bed at 5:30 am, I am far too lazy to get up and put him back where he belongs. He is only two years old, but he is the ultimate bed-wrestler (far my superior--and I can get blankets away from ANYONE). I'm not entirely sure what his goal is: to comfort himself? To ensure that I don't "escape?" To cause the ultimate amount of pain with his minutely small toes and fingers? My goal is to position myself on three inches of mattress and hope that I can fall back to sleep before he pushes me off the bed or kills me, whichever comes first.

He has become quiet the contortionist. Here are a few of his favorite bed-wrestling moves (I've named them):

A. The Heel-hook: Lying on his stomach, he rotates one leg 90 degrees and hooks it over my side, fiercly digging the heel of his foot between my ribs.

B. The Shuffle: Lying on his stomach or his back, he lifts both legs, and leading with pointed toes, he inserts them between my thighs. Then, once his feet are "in," he moves the foot to a 90 degree angle with his leg and proceeds to pantomime (with his feet) the motions of pedaling a bicycle.

C. The Creeping Hand: Lying on his stomach, Issac extends his arm from his body at a 90 degree angle. Then, flattening his hand and leading with the fingers, he sticks his hand under my body. The hand is retracted and inserted several times to create maximum irritation. For variation, he sometimes aims higher and pokes my ribs.

D. The Fumigator: This one speaks for itself. He sidles up really close to my nose (1/16 inch), and then opens and begins breathing heavily through his mouth. He takes time to smack and cough for variation.

E. The Choke: The classic choke-hold. He takes one arm and slings it around my neck, then moves his wrist in towards his shoulder. He is absolutely relentless.

F. Sidewinder: He sleeps sideways on the bed, being sure to stretch his body to its ultimate length. He raises his arms above his head to take up maximum space. If I reposition him perpendicular to the headboard, he immediately resumes his horizontal position.

Sunday, February 13, 2005

So ANGRY!

I don't think of myself as a person who gets upset over little things. I usually don't. I'm really trying to be civil and let this one go, but I'm having serious issues.

I've been writing short little articles for my church newspaper. They're supposed to be cute and chirpy interviews with members of a ministerial search committee and I've been happy to do the job. Of course, the material is a little sensitive to the church so they want to look at the articles before they are published in order to maintain a little PR control. No problem. BUT DON'T EDIT MY WORK AND INTRODUCE ERRORS! IT HAS MY NAME ON IT!!!!!

Some of the editing they did didn't really bother me so much; they eliminated some phrases by changing the verb to a gerund, which seems like a good idea at first ("she's spent" to "spending"). But when changing verb form, you must be aware that you are sometimes changing verb tense, and then you loose parallel structure and sound like a buffoon. I was an English major FOR A REASON, PEOPLE!!!

But what really, really, really made me irate was when they capitalized the word president. President (and other terms of address) are never capitalized unless they come at the beginning of a sentence or they are being used as a direct means of address or identification (ie. "Thank you, Mr. President." "President Bush was at his Texas ranch last month.")

Here is how NOT to do it: "She was once President of the congregation."

Ugh. The article has a byline with my name on it. I feel so dirty. I may never show my face again.

[The up-side is that I now actually value my English degree. I've spent all this time feeling like it was a worthless degree, but now I realize that there are people out there who need people like me. I actually know something that others don't. They actually taught me something useful. Although, nobody who read the article today would believe this.]

Death of a Dog

The day was pleasant enough; the weather was warming after a few chilly nights and the sun was still on my shoulders, although it would be setting soon. I'd just finished running some circles on my brother's new horse and was walking up onto the porch to play with Issac, who was a little upset that I had gone off on the horse without him. A phone call came, but we ignored it. Dad was grilling hamburgers. "Hey Brad," Dad yelled out into the pasture. Brad was mounting the horse. "Jake just called for you."

"Okay," Brad said as he swung his leg over the saddle. My brother looked cute and grown up in his white stetson hat and blue work shirt. He flipped out his cell phone and rang back to his house, to Jake, across the street. I tossed a football to Issac, chatted with my dad. Then Bradley cried out and I looked over my shoulder and saw him dismounted with his head in his hand. "Melissa," he cried, desperately, as he dropped the reigns and staggered away from the horse. I thought he'd been injured. I jumped to my feet. "Melissa, can you catch this horse?" he asked. The horse was trotting off across the field.

"Are you okay?" I shouted as I started running to him.

"His dog got hit by a car," Chelsea said, coming up behind me. How she knew, I did not know. I heard stifled sobs as his truck sped past us.
... ... ...

I caught the horse and took off the tack.
... ... ...

Fifteen minutes later Brad pulled up into our yard, a dead dog in the bed of his truck. It was his three-year-old rottweiler, Princess. Her mouth was frozen in a snarl, blood was pooling under her cheek. Her legs weren't even stiff. She was still warm, but there was no life inside of her. Aside from the blood, there was no sign of vehicular impact. She was dead.
... ... ...

The people who pulled over to tell Jake that they'd hit a dog had said they knew Bradley, and that they were very sorry. Then they'd left.
... ... ...

We sat there and looked at this dead dog for a few minutes. Bradley's eyes were watering. I felt cold-hearted and uncomfortable, because I wasn't very affected. I felt sad for my brother, though. He kept petting her, as though it would bring her back to life.

The last dog that I buried was over six years ago. It's never really a pleasant situation, saying goodbye to anyone, whether it is a person or a pet.

Brad was beside himself with grief. After a few minutes he broke down into sobs. Again, I felt like an unfeeling person, but I didn't have a strong bond with the animal. I hugged my brother and asked if he wanted me to help bury her. I was surprised when he said yes.

We drove over to his house and picked out a nice place under a holly tree. The sun was setting in its final phases and by the time we were done digging the hole the sky was dark blue. The old pecan trees looked eerie and sad against the stars. The crescent moon glowed. My little brother kept downing beers. Sad country songs blared from the cab of his truck.

We stared at the dog's stiff body in the back of the truck. I didn't know what to say to make anyone feel better: I just wanted to get the dog into the hole. My brother was hesitating. We stared at the dog some more. He opened another beer. I ventured, "It just makes you realize how fragile life is, that you can be here one minute..."

"...and gone the next," he finished.

"I'm just glad that you and I are still alive," I said.

"Me too, sis."

We wrapped the dog in a soft mexican blanket. She'd been dead less than an hour but was already starting to stink. It was winter so we didn't have any flowers. My brother took off his hat and held it over his heart. We said some words at the grave site and then we lifted her in and finished the job.

I know it sounds corny: two grown people doing a burial ceremony for a dog. I thought people only did that stuff for the sake of the kids. But really, when do we stop being kids? The truth is my brother loved that dog and she was killed in a painful accident. He felt responsible. Guilt is the worst emotion, and its irrationality doesn't ease the pain.

But I still couldn't help wondering why I wasn't more affected than I was. I felt cold and steely, as though I was rushing to get the dog into the ground. Was I giving my brother enough time to process things? Was it better to wait and let him do it himself, or was it better to just get the job finished? My feelings were as though if I didn't propel and insist on the burial, the dog might sit in the truck for an indefinite period, and my brother on the tailgate, with his head bowed and eyes closed. It was awkward and uncomfortable for me to see so much emotion erupt from my brother.

The only thing I could equate it to is the death of a child or a loved one. I've been fortunate not to lose many people in my life. I don't allow myself to think of losing Issac. Maybe that is why I didn't cry: this time, I am a mother. A mother's life is filled with bracing moments: a steely side develops.

Compared with the thought of losing Issac, everything else pales.


The Gum-Shoe...


You know how it is. It starts out so innocent--just a piece-- right? It's only chewing gum. But before you know it, the kids are addicted. They're spending allowance money on two, three, four packs a week. Soon, they're robbing your purse and raiding your pocket change. And all that good-for-nothing-gum ever really does is get people worked up, cause fights and bad feelings. The kids will really lay it down for a taste of Zebra Stripe. Even better is Bubbalicious. They'd sell their souls if they had any. Why, just yesterday Sam had Quinn in a headlock over some Wintergreen.

Next thing you know it starts showing up in all kinds of places: under the bed, stuck on the bathtub; you step on it on the kitchen floor. It's stuck to the seats of your car, and then you're pulling it out of someone's hair with a greasy tub of peanut butter by your side and an ice cube in your hand.

It's only a hop, skip and a jump away to breaking your kids out of jail with a file and a pick.

Forget the white lightening: keep your kids off chewing gum.

Friday, February 11, 2005

A Day At the Farmer's Market...

A photo documentary. Nothing much more to say. Enjoy the show.





This is the hippodrome, one of the city's cultural centers. Posted by Hello


Inside, there is a bar, an art gallery, plays, and movies. Outside, there is a u-shaped plaza which is surrounded by nice restaurants and shops. Posted by Hello


Baskets for sale! Posted by Hello

Thursday, February 10, 2005


Before it gets too busy... Posted by Hello


Me and Issac walking around. It was a beautiful, warm day. Posted by Hello


This is from Terranova. They make great food.  Posted by Hello


Mmmmm. The best dips ever. Drool. Posted by Hello


Should I buy some jewelry? I bought Issac a bobby-head turtle knick-knack. Posted by Hello


Wow. Posted by Hello

Wednesday, February 09, 2005


My sugar snap peas. Yummy! Posted by Hello


Here is a little garden gnome. I'm going to use this picture on my webpage for "Archer Prairie," the in-home day care center I plan on opening in a few months. Posted by Hello

Monday, February 07, 2005


From the New Yorker. I needed a laugh. Cheers:) Posted by Hello

Saturday, February 05, 2005

Yech OR I'll Be Better in Three to Five Days.

It's...been...a...long...week. Suddenly, something in my life doesn't feel right. I can't put my finger on it, all of the external life factors are the same, nothing's changed on the outside. But for some reason, I don't feel like myself. Happy-go-lucky Melissa is gone. I've been afflicted with a terrible mood. Everything annoys me. I'm anxious and worried about things I usually never even consider. Suddenly, I'm mean and snappy to everyone, even though I try not to be. I don't like the person I am becoming. The words that are snapping out of my mouth are not words that I believe. I've been yelling at the kids, and rolling my eyes and grinding my teeth and I think, even, sneering at them. I'm minorly depressed. I feel like crap. I'm angry. I'm bored. I'm irritated. I'm think I'm WORTHLESS! I'm a FAILURE, A COMPLETE FAILURE! This creepy voice in my head is starting to say really mean things to me, such as, "You'll never amount to anything," and " Who are you kidding? Underneath, you're just a pathetic loser."

For the past week, I've been trying to figure out why I've been feeling this way. Has it been the fact that until today, the sun did not shine over Gainesville for an entire week? Maybe the damp, grey, wet air was making me miserable.

Is it the fact that the more I investigate teaching possiblities in Gainesville, the more I realize I'll have to get a freaking PhD in order to teach an English high school class? "You pretty much can't get hired in good counties these days without a Masters degree in Education," they all say. Ptooey. Why can't I meet just one teacher who thinks I could get hired with a Masters degree in English Lit or Creative Writing? (They're just jealous.) Still, it's hard to decide what path to take. I'm tempted to move to Bradford County or Miami. I bet I could get a job there.

Is it not having an concrete plan for what I'm going to do in May when I'm socked with $600 rent and hundreds of dollars of other miscellaneous bills? Maybe general "oh-crap-I'm-going-to-get-thrown-in-the-street" anxiety was getting me down.

But usually, these things can't stop me like this. I have the (bad? good?) habit of considering myself fortune's daughter. Somehow or another, I tell myself, things will work out. And they usually do. So what's the big deal? Hey, who wants to go to the beach? Who wants to go out for dinner, my treat?

No, none of those explanations make sense. None of them explain why I feel like I'm crawling out of my skin. None of them explain why I suddenly feel like a stranger in my own body. It's as though I woke up one day and everything was different.

But finally, just a few minutes ago, as I was writing this blog, and rubbing my back where I have a painful cramp, I discovered the --duh-- obvious culprit: PMS!

It never occured to me, becuase I usually don't "suffer" from PMS. I remember sometimes feeling a little "blah" around my period (I mean, who likes bleeding uncontrollably while in public? For an entire week? And carrying an arsenal of cotton wads everywhere you go? Not fun). But I never felt like this.

Pity those who do. Really. Seriously. Pity them. And then run. Far, far away.