Thursday, July 15, 2004
The road taken
For the most part, I've turned off the memories of my less-than-perfect past. My almost-perfect life these days means I don't have to dwell on what came before. Now and then, though, something pulls me back.
Yesterday, it was Highway 9.
For those of you not in Oklahoma, Highway 9 runs east and west, from Arkansas to Texas. For me, it runs from Norman to a turnoff for Harrah and McLoud. To Shawnee. And on towards Calvin and Stuart. It runs from my present to my past. It's a road filled with mistakes.
I frequently drove -- or rode -- down 9 my freshman year in college. That first semester, I was desperate to get back to Jason, my high school love. He was two years behind me, still in McLoud, though we'd talked about him transferring to Norman so we could be together more often. He made the opposite drive just as often, his back seat filled with OU tickets from parking illegally on campus.
I didn't do a lot of things I should've my freshman year because I was too involved in looking back. First, at Jason. Then, at my family as my mom begged for money to get out of one scrape after another. I was flush with scholarships and loans and tossed it genially her way. It was a long time before I broke that habit. And I'm still paying for it. Literally. I write a hefty check once a month to Sallie Mae.
Only four McLoud students came to OU (about a dozen of us went to college in one form or another, mostly JCs), and I was the only girl. The three guys were suitemates in my dorm, and I drank a lot on their floor. One of them regularly gave me rides home, in exchange for homework help and a little more, continuing our "only if no one knows" high school pattern. It was pathetic. I was pathetic. (Despite being high school quarterback and salutatorian, though, he now delivers furniture for a living. Guess I won that one.)
A year later, I was making that drive down 9 on my own, in a 1973 Dodge Dart. David put a kicking stereo under the dash -- didn't want to run the immaculate original look -- and woofers in the back floorboard. By the end of my sophomore year, Mom and David were again on the outs. I started the homeless summer of no shame with her driving me back up 9 for my first spring final. We'd been up all night the Sunday before and I was in no shape to take myself. I wasn't in any shape to take the final either, but I passed.
The Dart would do 120 mph on 9 later that summer. I met Jerry, one of a string of guys with Mom at the Midway -- a bar in the middle of nowhere -- and we started hanging out. I've got a scar from my first motorcycle ride with him: I was way too drunk to be on the back of his bike and let my leg rest against the pipes. All summer the wound oozed and leaked. I got the better deal, though. A month later, he was dead.
A couple weeks and many rides after our first one, I met Jerry's brother, Billy. And started seeing him, instead. I'm not sure why I was surprised at the family rift it caused, but I was. A dramatic little saga that didn't end well. I was illegally tending bar in Stella -- a nothing of a town half a mile from 9 -- one night when Jerry came to visit. I popped open beer after beer for him as he railed about dating Billy. He sprayed me with gravel as he rode off, wobbly, at 2 a.m. and I turned off the bar sign.
Ten minutes later, I drove up on his wreck. He'd hit a semi head-on.
Billy was staying in Tecumseh, 20 minutes down 9. The Dart and I flew, hazards blinking, down the highway to fetch him and back up the interstate to the hospital. We're lucky we didn't die. Jerry wasn't.
Billy and I barely lasted the summer.
When the fall semester started, I didn' t have a home to go back to. Mom stayed where she could. I stayed off 9. And got my life together.
As Adam and I graduated, I made what I thought would be my final trip down 9 for a while. My grandparents were living in Stuart, in eastern Oklahoma, and we visited at Christmas to tell them goodbye. The next time I saw Grandma Bessie, Alzheimer's had set in.
A year away from my family proved to be just what I needed. A life of my own, with Adam. Therapy. A professional job. So when we moved back to Norman, the pull of the highway -- the guilt and regrets -- wasn't as strong. We traveled it now and then to see my grandparents, and my mom, who was playing nurse, lived nearby. I couldn't stand the squalor their lives had become (though it wasn't that different from before, I was), and visits were scarce. My grandma died, confused, after being lost for years. My grandfather wasn't that far behind.
I last saw my mom in November. I drove her halfway home -- her boyfriend met us in Seminole. She called last week and left a teary, "I can't stand you being mad at me anymore" message on my voice mail at work. I didn't answer, and I'm not going to. I'm not mad anymore. I just don't want her in my life.
Emma and I ventured onto 9 yesterday for the best of reasons. There's a kickass kids' museum in Seminole, and we had a great time. Her chatter kept me laughing on the drive that I could make in my sleep. In fact, I used to have nightmares about being lost in salvage yards on Pink, along the highway. Last night, for possibly the first time after a drive on 9, my mind was clear.
Yesterday, it was Highway 9.
For those of you not in Oklahoma, Highway 9 runs east and west, from Arkansas to Texas. For me, it runs from Norman to a turnoff for Harrah and McLoud. To Shawnee. And on towards Calvin and Stuart. It runs from my present to my past. It's a road filled with mistakes.
I frequently drove -- or rode -- down 9 my freshman year in college. That first semester, I was desperate to get back to Jason, my high school love. He was two years behind me, still in McLoud, though we'd talked about him transferring to Norman so we could be together more often. He made the opposite drive just as often, his back seat filled with OU tickets from parking illegally on campus.
I didn't do a lot of things I should've my freshman year because I was too involved in looking back. First, at Jason. Then, at my family as my mom begged for money to get out of one scrape after another. I was flush with scholarships and loans and tossed it genially her way. It was a long time before I broke that habit. And I'm still paying for it. Literally. I write a hefty check once a month to Sallie Mae.
Only four McLoud students came to OU (about a dozen of us went to college in one form or another, mostly JCs), and I was the only girl. The three guys were suitemates in my dorm, and I drank a lot on their floor. One of them regularly gave me rides home, in exchange for homework help and a little more, continuing our "only if no one knows" high school pattern. It was pathetic. I was pathetic. (Despite being high school quarterback and salutatorian, though, he now delivers furniture for a living. Guess I won that one.)
A year later, I was making that drive down 9 on my own, in a 1973 Dodge Dart. David put a kicking stereo under the dash -- didn't want to run the immaculate original look -- and woofers in the back floorboard. By the end of my sophomore year, Mom and David were again on the outs. I started the homeless summer of no shame with her driving me back up 9 for my first spring final. We'd been up all night the Sunday before and I was in no shape to take myself. I wasn't in any shape to take the final either, but I passed.
The Dart would do 120 mph on 9 later that summer. I met Jerry, one of a string of guys with Mom at the Midway -- a bar in the middle of nowhere -- and we started hanging out. I've got a scar from my first motorcycle ride with him: I was way too drunk to be on the back of his bike and let my leg rest against the pipes. All summer the wound oozed and leaked. I got the better deal, though. A month later, he was dead.
A couple weeks and many rides after our first one, I met Jerry's brother, Billy. And started seeing him, instead. I'm not sure why I was surprised at the family rift it caused, but I was. A dramatic little saga that didn't end well. I was illegally tending bar in Stella -- a nothing of a town half a mile from 9 -- one night when Jerry came to visit. I popped open beer after beer for him as he railed about dating Billy. He sprayed me with gravel as he rode off, wobbly, at 2 a.m. and I turned off the bar sign.
Ten minutes later, I drove up on his wreck. He'd hit a semi head-on.
Billy was staying in Tecumseh, 20 minutes down 9. The Dart and I flew, hazards blinking, down the highway to fetch him and back up the interstate to the hospital. We're lucky we didn't die. Jerry wasn't.
Billy and I barely lasted the summer.
When the fall semester started, I didn' t have a home to go back to. Mom stayed where she could. I stayed off 9. And got my life together.
As Adam and I graduated, I made what I thought would be my final trip down 9 for a while. My grandparents were living in Stuart, in eastern Oklahoma, and we visited at Christmas to tell them goodbye. The next time I saw Grandma Bessie, Alzheimer's had set in.
A year away from my family proved to be just what I needed. A life of my own, with Adam. Therapy. A professional job. So when we moved back to Norman, the pull of the highway -- the guilt and regrets -- wasn't as strong. We traveled it now and then to see my grandparents, and my mom, who was playing nurse, lived nearby. I couldn't stand the squalor their lives had become (though it wasn't that different from before, I was), and visits were scarce. My grandma died, confused, after being lost for years. My grandfather wasn't that far behind.
I last saw my mom in November. I drove her halfway home -- her boyfriend met us in Seminole. She called last week and left a teary, "I can't stand you being mad at me anymore" message on my voice mail at work. I didn't answer, and I'm not going to. I'm not mad anymore. I just don't want her in my life.
Emma and I ventured onto 9 yesterday for the best of reasons. There's a kickass kids' museum in Seminole, and we had a great time. Her chatter kept me laughing on the drive that I could make in my sleep. In fact, I used to have nightmares about being lost in salvage yards on Pink, along the highway. Last night, for possibly the first time after a drive on 9, my mind was clear.
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
Damn
The vending machine just spit not one, not two, but FOUR quarters back out at me. And I don't even have a dollar to offer it. No chocolate for me.
--
More proof Emma's about to be sick: much weeping and wailing at naptime. She was still crying when I left the house (though she was fine when I picked her up at school and through the sleep routine) and she's been calling Adam ever since. With any luck, she'll get a little sleep and nip this thing in the bud. Maybe I'll offer her a big glass of OJ as soon as I get home.
--
More proof Emma's about to be sick: much weeping and wailing at naptime. She was still crying when I left the house (though she was fine when I picked her up at school and through the sleep routine) and she's been calling Adam ever since. With any luck, she'll get a little sleep and nip this thing in the bud. Maybe I'll offer her a big glass of OJ as soon as I get home.
Knock on wood
Em's nose was running when I got home last night. And this morning, the whining -- "I don't want to go to preschool" -- reared its ugly head. (I kept her jolly on the car ride in with the crepe myrtle game. They're blooming all over Norman, so we raced to see who could spot the next one.)
My suspicion, though, is that she's about to get sick. Again. I'm sure her preschool director would repeat herself: "It's that time of year." Because Oklahoma is really known for its summer cold season, right? I'm sure it's always "that time of year" at school.
Emma's been a pretty healthy kid. Granted, I needed the nurse's line on speed dial when she was wee, as I called every time she sneezed or spit up an entire meal. (It took me a long time to learn the difference of normal spitup -- she often spewed the entire contents of my breast -- and actual puking.) And her pediatrician's office is usually of the mind that if you're worried enough to call, you might as well bring her in. So I heard a lot of, "Yup, it's a cold; nothing we can do. Call back if it's not gone in seven to 10 days."
By about four months, though, I became a better judge of whether those weird bumps would go away on their own or if they warranted a trip in. (Adam would always say not to take her, but given that she somehow caught weird things like hand, foot and mouth disease, my instinct about a visit was nearly always correct.) And I started phrasing my questions to the nurses better -- "I don't need to come in, but want your recommendation on how to treat this cough."
We've been very lucky, though. Even in the winter, she's rarely had that sick-kid string. You know the one, where just as he's wrapping up the antibiotics his ear starts to hurt again, or as the cough is waning her nose starts to run. She was only with one or two other kids during the day, and we all abided by strict illness policies. Even with trips to the mall play area and the library's storytimes, we've been spared.
I suspect that preschool is going to break that streak. Five bucks says she's got a full-on cold by the end of the week. With any luck, it'll all be wrapped up by the time we leave for California. But I dread the fall.
My suspicion, though, is that she's about to get sick. Again. I'm sure her preschool director would repeat herself: "It's that time of year." Because Oklahoma is really known for its summer cold season, right? I'm sure it's always "that time of year" at school.
Emma's been a pretty healthy kid. Granted, I needed the nurse's line on speed dial when she was wee, as I called every time she sneezed or spit up an entire meal. (It took me a long time to learn the difference of normal spitup -- she often spewed the entire contents of my breast -- and actual puking.) And her pediatrician's office is usually of the mind that if you're worried enough to call, you might as well bring her in. So I heard a lot of, "Yup, it's a cold; nothing we can do. Call back if it's not gone in seven to 10 days."
By about four months, though, I became a better judge of whether those weird bumps would go away on their own or if they warranted a trip in. (Adam would always say not to take her, but given that she somehow caught weird things like hand, foot and mouth disease, my instinct about a visit was nearly always correct.) And I started phrasing my questions to the nurses better -- "I don't need to come in, but want your recommendation on how to treat this cough."
We've been very lucky, though. Even in the winter, she's rarely had that sick-kid string. You know the one, where just as he's wrapping up the antibiotics his ear starts to hurt again, or as the cough is waning her nose starts to run. She was only with one or two other kids during the day, and we all abided by strict illness policies. Even with trips to the mall play area and the library's storytimes, we've been spared.
I suspect that preschool is going to break that streak. Five bucks says she's got a full-on cold by the end of the week. With any luck, it'll all be wrapped up by the time we leave for California. But I dread the fall.
Monday, July 12, 2004
Quit it already
I get lots of hits from strange -- and sometimes disturbing -- search queries, though I rarely post them here.
Some choice ones from the last week:
Where can I buy knee high boots for wide calves?
That's the opposite of my problem, so I'm no help.
Preteen boys Angel
I'm hoping the young boys are looking for a hero role model in David Boreanz.
Bug exterminator/lung cancer
Fairly sure the former doesn't cause the latter, but I'm not a doctor.
Mexican girls peeing DVD
Ewwwww.
Shaving her eyebrows.
I'm not yet that desperate.
Fatten bony elbows
If you find out how, let me know.
Coke addict effect.
Give me a call and I'll hook you up with my mom.
Lately, though, I'm getting a slew of hits for Emma Watson. Someone wants pictures of her in a swimsuit. Another asks for shots of her "hot ass." (Ewww. She's Hermione, folks. And I haven't seen the latest movie, but I doubt she's turned hot just yet.) Still more ask for photos of her with her "fingers on her foot." And some hopeful thinks I might have her phone number.
Unless you're also 14, just stop it. You're grossing me out.
(Thing is, this post is going to get me even more hits. Especially given that I've never said her name here before -- but I have mentioned my Em and recently read a book by Larry Watson. I'm doubtful any of you are going to hang around ... but thanks for stopping by. If you're a teenager. If not, quit it!)
Some choice ones from the last week:
That's the opposite of my problem, so I'm no help.
I'm hoping the young boys are looking for a hero role model in David Boreanz.
Fairly sure the former doesn't cause the latter, but I'm not a doctor.
Ewwwww.
I'm not yet that desperate.
If you find out how, let me know.
Give me a call and I'll hook you up with my mom.
Lately, though, I'm getting a slew of hits for Emma Watson. Someone wants pictures of her in a swimsuit. Another asks for shots of her "hot ass." (Ewww. She's Hermione, folks. And I haven't seen the latest movie, but I doubt she's turned hot just yet.) Still more ask for photos of her with her "fingers on her foot." And some hopeful thinks I might have her phone number.
Unless you're also 14, just stop it. You're grossing me out.
(Thing is, this post is going to get me even more hits. Especially given that I've never said her name here before -- but I have mentioned my Em and recently read a book by Larry Watson. I'm doubtful any of you are going to hang around ... but thanks for stopping by. If you're a teenager. If not, quit it!)
Bits and bobs
For those of you who were taking bets, the next household item to die was my blow dryer. Thankfully, it wasn't a work day. Let me just say, I could sit in front of the fan for three hours and my hair still wouldn't dry.
--
I'm having a conversation with Adam in my head yesterday about how I'll justify purchasing a new shirt for Emma at Target (she has more summer clothes than she can wear): "Isn't it cute? It's Hello Kitty from the clearance rack -- 3 bucks, hon -- and Em really wanted it. She mentioned a couple times that she wanted one, because all the girls at preschool have Hello Kitty clothes and she has none. "
And then I realized what I was saying. Had I really just bought Em a shirt so she'll keep up with her 3-year-old peers? Oh, god. But it is damn cute.
--
I'm on a serious reading kick (in between episodes of Buffy and Angel, at least. But I can't watch those while Em is awake ...) of late. Check out my sidebar for deets, but it's mostly chick lit. And mommy lit, interestingly enough. Beach reads from my backyard.
--
Deciding to take Emma to see Two Brothers was absolutely my bad. She'll tell you now that she liked it, but she spent most of the movie saying, "This is scary. Can we go home now?" I'd done a lot of research about it, including here, and knew it had some violence. Parent tigers get shot, etc. But I really thought she could handle it. I also didn't think it would be as across-the-board dark as it was. Luckily, it doesn't seem to have scarred her for life or anything. But I guess if I just wanted a cool theater, Shrek 2 might've been a better choice. (Gotta say, there were plenty of moments in the first one that bothered me while watching with her, which is why I didn't pick the second.)
--
Two weeks and two days, and we'll be on vacation. I'm counting down, ya'll.
--
I'm having a conversation with Adam in my head yesterday about how I'll justify purchasing a new shirt for Emma at Target (she has more summer clothes than she can wear): "Isn't it cute? It's Hello Kitty from the clearance rack -- 3 bucks, hon -- and Em really wanted it. She mentioned a couple times that she wanted one, because all the girls at preschool have Hello Kitty clothes and she has none. "
And then I realized what I was saying. Had I really just bought Em a shirt so she'll keep up with her 3-year-old peers? Oh, god. But it is damn cute.
--
I'm on a serious reading kick (in between episodes of Buffy and Angel, at least. But I can't watch those while Em is awake ...) of late. Check out my sidebar for deets, but it's mostly chick lit. And mommy lit, interestingly enough. Beach reads from my backyard.
--
Deciding to take Emma to see Two Brothers was absolutely my bad. She'll tell you now that she liked it, but she spent most of the movie saying, "This is scary. Can we go home now?" I'd done a lot of research about it, including here, and knew it had some violence. Parent tigers get shot, etc. But I really thought she could handle it. I also didn't think it would be as across-the-board dark as it was. Luckily, it doesn't seem to have scarred her for life or anything. But I guess if I just wanted a cool theater, Shrek 2 might've been a better choice. (Gotta say, there were plenty of moments in the first one that bothered me while watching with her, which is why I didn't pick the second.)
--
Two weeks and two days, and we'll be on vacation. I'm counting down, ya'll.
