Archive for the 'La Madre' Category

Chaotic

September 9, 2007 | Filed under: Humdrum, La Madre, The Great Moving Caper

“Housework, if it is done right, can kill you.” ~John Skow

Several weeks ago, I decided to embark on a little project called painting my bedroom. It should probably be more aptly named ‘a fantastic way for my head to meet the corner of a desk, over and over again’ because I about lost my damn mind. Patience is not a virtue and when a project requires roughly $200 in supplies and several coats of primer to get rid of the seizure inducing canary yellow color that the previous owner had put up, well then the mind; it is gone.

Mind that I did the requisite reading, hence the primer. But nothing prepared me for standing precariously at the top of a ladder in order to paint the very edges of the wall while lunging out towards the offending paint drops as Intense Teal paint falls on my brand new hardwood floors. And the cat tramps through to step in the paint, hiss, scratch me and then run away when I spray water on it as the dog eats the paint. I’m now wondering whether or not it’s possible for a puppy to pee blue.

Really it was just one big party-tastic weekend. The photo above is a good representation of how I’ve left my bedroom and high tailed it to DC (I’m writing this from my hotel with a lovely view of Dupont Circle) spontaneously. When my mother found out that I had to leave to go to DC, she volunteered to go to my place and finish painting while I’m away.

The above isn’t a sign of niceness or motherly love. It’s the sign of a woman desperate so very desperate to get her mooching daughter* out of her house that she’ll paint alone on a Sunday. This is a major step forward in our oft tumultuous relationship wherein we she says the sky is blue and I will fight her to the death that it’s actually green. I’m going to enjoy this moment of us finally agreeing that I need to get the hell out and for this moment of complete understand and bliss, I am so very thankful.

*Ok, if she’s ALREADY going to the grocery store, I don’t see why I should go as well. So I just tell her to pick up a few things. Necessities like fruity cheerios and three packages of veggie burgers. I just don’t understand the point of us both going there to spend money when she is doing it already.

I still maintain that it wasn’t my fault

May 22, 2007 | Filed under: La Madre, Oh The Stupidity You'll See

“The Act of God designation on all insurance policies… means roughly that you cannot be insured for the accidents that are most likely to happen to you.  If your ox kicks a hole in your neighbor’s Maserati, however, indemnity is instantaneous.”  ~Alan Coren, The Lady from Stalingrad Mansions

Last Wednesday, I was in a ‘minor’ fender bender. I place minor in quotes only because that’s if ‘minor’ means that big gaping hole where my right headlight once was. It’s still there, technically, but just a little off kilter. If by ‘off kilter’ I mean that it’s roughly six inches below where it used to be.

The normal reaction would be to question whether or not if I was missing an arm or any toes or whether or not my head was in the backseat after feeling the impact of a Murano vs. Sable. My mother, the wonderful woman that she is. She who is allowing me to live in her home even though I can probably afford to live alone and without her purchasing my groceries each week; responded differently. It was more of a shrieking noise and something about insurance and generally inaudible din. And then she asked whether or not I was still alive or if my shoulder was still properly in its socket.

How is it that mother’s, those who bore us and who nursed us along through life, manage to question the state of the vehicle or insurance premiums before wondering whether or not their child’s eyeball is still intact?

This is something that has always been and will always remain a mystery to me.

Moving in

May 13, 2007 | Filed under: Humdrum, La Madre

“Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” ~Elizabeth Stone

After lunch at Chef Geoff’s with Kimber and LB, I departed for Upstate NY. Approximately 20 minutes into the trip my eyeballs were falling out of my head and I was adjusting so that I was on top of the steering wheel in order not to fall asleep. So I stopped between DC and Baltimore and took an hour long nap in a Best Buy parking lot.

When I finally got to my mother’s abode, a mere six hours later, I walked in the door and bellowed: “Hello! I’m here! Forever! Happy Mother’s day”

She sighed heavily and looked crestfallen while I dragged seven suitcases inside: “I would have rather gotten an ipod.”

Whatever, I tried.

Since that warm greeting I’ve cleaned the bathroom and my desk off so that I’d have a place to sit on my ass and pick my ears and/or write. The process of deep cleaning drawers is a cathartic one. It’s like a mini treasure hunt for all things circa 1996. Which means finding my copy of Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing and an American Girls catalogue with the pages dog eared for all the cool accessories for Addy. She was going to be one tricked out Civil War era doll.

It’s always amazing the random things I once held near and dear to me, shoved away in a drawer and long forgotten. Things that I just had to have forever and now almost 10 years later, I look at a photo of Nsync on the cover of CosmoGirl!, and question just how many winecoolers had been imbibed for me to think that Lance Bass was hot.

Some things are being gently picked through, as if I’ll find that one thing that’s been missing for so long. Some things will just be dropped into a hefty bag. And some things will be stared at for several minutes. Looking at all of the details and then placed gently back into the drawer for another time.

Impromptu

March 2, 2007 | Filed under: Humdrum, La Madre

“A daughter is a mother’s gender partner, her closest ally in the family confederacy, an extension of her self. And mothers are their daughters’ role model, their biological and emotional road map, the arbiter of all their relationships.” ~Victoria Secunda

El Madre came down for meetings yesterday. Approximately two hours of meetings and one hour chasing me down Connecticut Avenue, in heels. While I stomped and swore and tried to keep my tights from falling completely below my ass. Which they did and I was wearing a wrap dress. And my does that early spring air feel good.

There was a miscommunication and she felt bad that she almost missed lunch but my anger was somewhat assuaged when she mentioned Raku and since I’ve had this insatiable craving for sushi as of late (Note to self: DO NOT get pregnant. Ever) I grumpily accepted her accord only to begin crying over salmon and avocado maki.

We’re talking deep tears here, people. The kind that have been waiting to make an appearance at some arbitrary time wholly unconducive to my life or schedule. She petted me and suddenly turned into full on ‘I’m going to kick those motherfucker’s respective asses’ mode. The woman who once shuddered at the thought of having her own children, felt protective and said she didn’t realize that I had been that upset. Not that I’ve been at all surreptitious about my misgivings on every facet of my sad and pathetic existence as of late. Clearly the phrase “I’m seriously going to lay in front of a bus on Pennsylvania Avenue and pray that it hits me” didn’t carry much weight for her.

But no matter. Tears were shed. Mothers show up at the perfect time and are equipped with rational behavior. They become understanding and equally as upset and frustrated. They can impart knowledge that despite the ‘take a number’ mentality, soon all will be right with the world.

And permission is granted and money shelled for random vacation sprees and a much needed sugar cane scrub*.

*that was for you, Marci.

Hot like me

February 28, 2007 | Filed under: La Madre

“Establishing goals is all right if you don’t let them deprive you of interesting detours.” ~Doug Larson

I had this rather garrulous literary masterpiece three quarters written about my propensity for being a lush, versus my roommate’s propensity for looking at me funny when I say “holy fucking hangover”. All of which went to the wayside when during the premiere of ANTM, there was a long preview for a new reality show in search of the next…great…PUSSYCAT DOLL. Almost like being the next…great…BEATLE, but with less clothing and more eyeliner and acrylic nails.

I watched in awe as girl after girl sat teary eyed and confessed that being a pussycat doll was what they wanted in life more than anything. How it would change their world forever and all carried signs that said “Live Pussycat or Die!”

I’ve had some crazy goals in life, ranging from neonatology to fictional novelist to Ballerina, which I know, right with the size of my ass. But never before nor will I ever, get on camera, in front of a million and ten people and announce that I, Heather B, have the aspirations to dance in my bra and boy shorts, with my ass cheeks hanging out, lip synching that I would love nothing more than for Snoop Dogg to push up on my buttons, baby.