Egg Hunts are Scary

My oldest nephew no longer believes in the Easter Bunny. Turns out Santa and his elves are fake, too. When the bubble burst, my mother was most devastated. "I hate to see the kids growing up," she said, more than once and more than twice. "It's just no fun any more when they stop believing." Still, we upheld the tradition of an egg hunt, and this year I found a few bonus items on my search:

• A stream of cobwebs, thick enough to hold a light fixture in place.
• A thank you letter, written and illustrated by my sister 32 years ago.
• A container of used razors, soaking in soap and dirty shower water.
• A stack of old music - crumbling but playable - from my Grandmother's days.
• A bottle of Wasabi sauce - expiry date June '04.
• A patch of lilies, waiting to burst open.
• A capsized lamp post that will actually make sense at Hallowe'en.
• A bottle of vodka, waiting for a glass (thankfully, vodka never expires).
• A Christmas towel that hasn't moved from its rack for 8 years running.
• A basket of eggs - fresh, gourmet, adult chocolate eggs.

Growing up is hard, and it would seem that letting go of old ghosts is just as difficult.  Maybe that explains the bottle I found hidden in the freezer, and maybe my Mom would like us all back at home - young & innocent - so that she doesn't have to witness the loss of childhood fantasy in her family. For whatever reason, my Mom holds on to things until they are dingy, dirty and disintegrating - but her house is full of the past and its voices. Not a bad trade-off, after all.

People are Pets Too

Poor Zara was a six pound bag of farts when she took her last pill. She died in my mother's arms - wrapped in her blanket, I imagine, tongue flopped out to the side, all dry and pasty from months of pain meds. I wasn't there for Zara's final moments, but the vet took great care in making my mother comfortable in Zara's final days. My mother was suffering, so it took time to work out a plan of exit for Zara. Time to convince my mother that the damn dog was rotting from the inside out and it was time to let her expire.

Don't get me wrong. Zara was a family member. Often, I was her babysitter and dedicated caregiver when my parents travelled. More than once, that dog barfed on my carpet and ate my homework - literally. When a meal of pillow stuffing took us to the emergency vet for pets, I held Zara in my arms, determined that she would not die in my care. So, we fixed her up, fed her boiled rice & chicken for a few days and shipped her home - no harm done.

It was Zara's back troubles that did her in. A mini-Dachsund who looked more like a rat, Zara had a long spine that simply couldn't handle its 8 pound load. She was coddled in her blanket and carried out to pee, but she did not get better. Now, Zara's ashes sit on a shelf in the basement and maybe some day my Mom will reveal her intentions for them. I have a horrible feeling she wants us to mix her ashes with Zara's and hold a sprinkling ceremony at the zoo.

For now, there are no pets to replace Zara. Only a 4 year old grandchild, who is frequently wrapped in a blanket, coddled and stroked between the eyes. Zara's favourite spot, naturally.

Sex Talk

I have some very horny neighbours who need approaching before I lose more sleep. But I don't know what to say. Maybe I don't have the words because Sex Talks with my Mom went like this:

On the Matter of 'Your Changing Body':

Mom: You know that bra & pantie set your Auntie V. sent for Christmas?

Me [headvoice]: You mean the hot pink set that looks like it came off a Barbie doll? The one that humiliated me when I opened it and everyone cooed at how cute, bla bla bla?

Me [out loud]: Yeah.

Mom: Maybe it's time you started wearing it. You're starting to develop. [The phrase 'starting to develop' fell on me like an anvil.]

Me [headvoice]: Can I go now?

Me [out loud]: Um...it's kind of ugly. And won't it show through my clothes? Do I have to?

Mom: It's time. Besides, it's cute and I don't think we'd find anything small enough for you. It's perfect for now.

Me [headvoice]: Shitballs. Trapped. I am *not* wearing that overstetched Barbie crap. It has a picture on the crotch, for fuck's sake! A little bit of childish scenery I'd rather not sport around, thanks.

Me [out loud]: Sure. Okay.

I never wore the pink bra & pantie set. What normal 'budding' 12-year-old would? So, instead of taking me shopping, two white training bras appeared on my bed as a gift. Bras which took several months for me to try on. Bras which I wore long past their expiry date. My Mom never said a word about bras & panties again. After the hot pink set and the training bras, I somehow waded into the complex world of fitting my boobs with the feeling that I should keep the fact that I have breasts a secret.

Even today, when friends or lovers suggest that bras can be sexy, that lingerie is fun, I am somewhat shy. Sure, I have a drawer dedicated to bras - all plain black or white, all highly functional, and all purchased in haste and frustration. I have yet to step foot in a fancy bra shop (too much stimulus), but I hear it's a total turn-on. Makes you feel like a woman.

Hm. Maybe I should talk to my neighbour. Ask her where she shops for lingerie. From what I hear through the walls, she's having a lot of that fun I've been missing.

Great Balls of Fire

We wanted to name him Nolan, but my mother insisted on Trigvy. "I want at least one member of the family to have an Icelandic name," declared my mother. The compromise was Trigvy Nolan, but we yelled for Trig.  The only male child in the house, Trig's favourite sport was sprinting. When he broke out for a run, we piled into our green Ford Torino and drove around the court - slowly - with a piece of white bread as dog bait.

Trig ran like a pumped up rabbit and had us whipped like no other pet we'd owned. He was a real boy, a pure breed, destined to sire a great line of show dogs - until we cut off his balls. My mother took the position that Trig's forebears had led horrible lives and she was not about to see Trig suffer long hours of grooming and training. Trig's failure in puppy school after puking up a box of elastics (which my Dad stuffed neatly into his suit pocket) had nothing to do with my mom's decision.

When the time came, Mom took Trigvy off to the vet to be fixed. Just on the cusp of adolescence, I was more than interested in the mechanics of this operation and had great expectations about the changes I might notice. The best information I had from Mom was that Trig would "settle down" after the surgery. "He'll be less rambunctious," is how she put it. I took her at her word, but was hoping for something more dramatic. These were his parts, for God's sake, and I could only wonder what it might mean to have my newly sprouted breasts lopped off for the sake of behaviour modification.

Had we placed a bet on the outcome, Mom and I, I would have won. Trig came home more than a little stoned and took his position in the middle of the kitchen floor. Sprawled out on his back, Trig clearly needed air to cool the heat of his groin. His scrotum were like red baseballs, rolling casually over his white belly. Castrating the poor dude was a bad idea and, once the swelling went down, there was no difference in Trig's behaviour. I got my drama alright, but Trig was the ultimate victor.  One week later, we were out chasing Trig in the Ford.

Fire and Ice

When we visited Iceland together, my Mom told stories of the Vikings and volcanoes. Known as the land of fire and ice, in Iceland it is possible to sit on warm sulphuric mounds (or lava crust) and reach just a few feet over to grab a handful of ice. It's an incredible land, this country, one that puts you in your place if you understand the power of what lies very close beneath your feet. In Iceland, I walked on fresh lava fields, drank glacier water from a stream and bathed in milky blue hotsprings. This is where I decided that, in my next life, I would be a geologist.

On our trip, I took photos of a boiling pool that my mother had bathed in 12 years earlier. Now too hot to touch, I stood atop a crust of sulphur at the edge of this pool and felt the roar of water blasting out from under me. This pool sits at the base of Kafta, a volcano that has been ready to blow for some time. Now, the Eyjafjallajokull volcano has begun to rumble, and the worry is that an eruption at Kafta will be triggered in its wake. All I can think of are the pots of steam we saw all over the country and the houses surrounded by hardened lava.

Recently, Iceland has suffered economic collapse and its citizens just rejected a new plan by the government to pull the country out of crushing debt. And now this? If I learned anything on my trip to Iceland it's this: these people are survivors. They eat putrid shark and sheep's head, their museums display children's toys made out of bones, and they have only recently entered the modern world. The people of this country (only 320,000) will show the rest of us what it means to hold fast and make due.

Time to call Mom and see what she thinks.

Lurk, Lurk

When I think about growing up in my mother’s care, I have to wonder, was it really that bad? Close behind the question is a voice: "No, honey. It wasn't that bad, so what the fuck have you been complaining about all these years?" Well, then, this is my conundrum. Am I full of crap, or do I have a case?

Here's a primer from the archives of memory:

Mom [charging up from the basement]: Why did you vacuum the living room after school today?

Me [looking up from my homework]: Uh...

Mom: Do you know what your grandmother is doing right now?

Me: Uh ...watching T.V.? ...knitting? ...hissing at the cat?

Mom [spitting swords]: She's downstairs talking about how hard you work.

Me: Uh...OK...

Mom: So what? Are you trying to make me look bad in front of your grandmother? Huh? You little shit...

[Shit flew with such force out of my Mom's mouth that I nearly left a slick of the stuff on the kitchen chair.]

Me: Uh...

The end. Mom made a nice clean break for it and headed back down to the red dungeon. I, on the other hand, had Calculus to massacre and a buzz of adrenaline so strong I nearly stroked out. At the time, though, I did a fine job of biting my stiff upper lip. Nothing penetrated this bitch (Yeah, right) 'cause I was an Ice Queen in the making. Impervious to slings & arrows, I was not at all ruffled by this tantrum. Not one bit.

Alright, fine. Maybe I was a little ruffled, and maybe there are a few daemons in this girl's memory chest looking to escape. And, while I'm no drama queen, let's just say I've never invited my dark side out to play (Okay, once...and I liked it). Perhaps it's time I grabbed some toys and got going. Memory, after all, is a persistent playmate. Wouldn't you say?

One Horrible Thought on an Otherwise Perfectly Lazy Sunday

Oh boy. I am more like my mother than I thought.  Two clues have set me all a-flutter today: (1) I dumped clean sheets on the bed and didn't bother to make it - why now when later is sure to arrive? (2) I just realized my Christmas lights are still up - and the garden furniture is still out. Crap. Why do these blasted moments of clarity creep up on a person so stealthily? I've avoided housework all day, and now that I've finally got the dust rag out, I have this little revelation to face. Poop on this Sunday.

Here's the thing.  My mother's house is a disaster.  And, while my place appears to be all perfection and shine, there are signs, my friend. Signs, I say! Big freaking signs that say You Have Not Escaped. In part, I know a visit to my parent's house requires careful navigation of last week's newspapers (which I sift through and read), never mind the impossible situation in the kitchen (beautifully renovated into complete dysfunction). To cook in my mother's kitchen is to risk injury when cupboard contents tumble forth; to dress a burger from my mother's condiment collection is just bad-assed risky behaviour. The old joke about making penicillin in the fridge ain't so far off in this offspring's case. Until this blog began, I thought I was better than all of this.

But alas, it's in me.  I have spent all of today begrudging the stale-dated leftovers in my stuffed fridge. I need to purge, but can't get off my butt to do it. I've even done my taxes to put off the task, for crying out loud.  How bad can it be to haul out the garbage can and dump? Funnily enough, I secretly toss things out of my mother's fridge when I visit, and I am ruthless at work. Office mates who leave long-expired yoghurt, fossilized pizza slices and fuzzy oranges in a shared fridge should simply know better. Didn't their mothers teach them the basics of cleanliness and mutual respect? So, here I sit, confused about the lessons I learned.

Clearly, I did not grow up in an ordered and meticulously kept household, so where did I get my tight-assed attitude about how a person ought to keep their personal space? The first, most obvious answer lies in a theory of opposites: when we live in one set of conditions, we aim to break out and create another, more enviable (envied?) environment. I wanted nothing more, as a young girl, than to invite my friends over after school without wondering if there would be a big green bag of garbage sitting in the kitchen. Would this be our greeting to snack time? Usually. Rarely did I invite anyone home.

As of today, I think it's time I dug deeper. What does my battle (the need for clean vs. the need to relax already) really mean? What was so bad about the mess? To be brutally honest with myself, I have to fess up on some things...take a hard look at why cooking and cleaning were far from priority 1. Check it out:

Instead of living in an ordered household, I got art and music.

Instead of having an empty waste basket, I wore hand-made costumes in the school play.

Instead of building a proper hope chest, I learned to fend for myself.

Instead of eating pancakes & syrup, I learned to tell time (another blog, another time).

Instead of learning to cook & clean like a good girl, I earned an education & an independent life.

Already, I am admittedly humbled. It's time I gave dear Mum a break and swallowed some of my stiffly guarded pride. What do I take from this little refelction, after all my self-righteous fist pumping? Take a load off, honey. Enjoy a Sunday, unburdened by agenda and expectations of getting things accomplished. Let the garbage fester and allow a little chaos into the mix of life. After all, has it hurt you any in the past?