Edgy Mama

Because I got grief last night from Ash and Ash’s Dad (see comments under Beauty and the Beast) about not posting this weekend, I’m going to post whenever I am so moved today (and can we talk about incestuous blog flirting?).

Old Hoss, my buddy out in the Old Folks Home in Oregon, has spent the past several days listing and describing all the b**gs he reads (around 100, I think–oh, and he considers the word “b**g” a four-letter word, so be careful).

Of course, between pee breaks, Hoss has a bit more time than many of us–and he has lots of girlfriends to keep happy. And, he gave Edgy Mama and my new novel a shout-out this weekend, accompanied by a cool photo of my favorite Roman god, Janus.

Thanks, Hoss. Love you too.

As if anyone is going to be swimming in the Gulf these days. Thanks, Chall, for the link.

I know there have now been eight times as many pieces of paper as there are pages in the novel written about HP and the Half-Blood Prince, so I’ll keep this short.

First off, as a writer, I’ve decided that You-Know-Who’s brilliance lies in the fact that she’s figured out how to write the same book six times, but make each one seem unique with intriguing plot twists, the protagonist’s aging, and the occasional spectacular character death. Yeah, she’s brilliant. And richer than Oprah for it.

Second, I’m just sick of Snape. I’m sick of the whole, do we trust him, do we not trust him debate. I’m sick of Harry being all righteous about Snape’s evilness. I’m sick of Snape’s predictable cardboard villiany. But I know he’ll be back. Regardless, I’ll buy Book Seven and read it. And maybe, just maybe, ole Severus will surprise me.
Thirdly, the whole idea of horcruxes is way cool. That creative plot device, and Dumbledore’s speech about tyrants, were the highlights of Book Six for me.

Finally, can Harry just get laid? Please? I think it would be a better venue for his spurting testoterone levels than this whole vengeance plan. I mean saving the wizarding world from the big V. will be great, but can’t Harry get some action in the process?

I am both. At the moment, I’ve just finished being the beast. First, let me provide the setting…

E-spouse has a home office. When he’s not traveling, he spends most of his day in a small room upstairs in our home (rather grandly known as The Sustainability Institute’s Southeast Office). Because almost none of his work is in Asheville, he spends most of his office time on the phone.

Every once in a while, one of Enviro-spouse’s clients or colleagues makes a grave error, a fatal mistake: he or she calls our home phone, during office hours.

This is the conversation I just had:
“Hello?”
“Hi. Is Drew there?”
“He’s at work. Do you have his work number?”
“Well, I left a message on his voicemail and he hasn’t called me back.”
Long silence.
“Oh,” she finally says. “I guess he’s on the phone.”
“I imagine he is,” I reply.
Giving in a bit, I ask, “Is it urgent?”
“No, I just need blah, blah, blah…”
As if I care…
“Well,” I say. “I’m sure that when he gets off the phone, he will check his messages and call you back.”
“Could you tell him that BLANK called?”
“Sorry,” I say. “Gotta go.” I hang up.

Do I look like my spouse’s secretary? If you are not willing to answer that in the negative, do NOT answer. If his office was downtown, would people call him at home during business hours? NO. NO. NO.

A local environmental director, for whom I used to do publications work, used to call on the home phone all the time. He knew that it pissed me off, though, so he would pretend that he had something to talk to me about, even when I wasn’t working for him, before asking for E-spouse. Finally, one day, I suggested that he have E-spouse’s work number tattooed on his left hand. He hasn’t called back.

…and because sometimes, just sometimes, late at night, I miss having a baby. And because I’m reading Peter Pan to my kids, and Peter says: “ When the first baby laughed for the first time, the laugh broke into a thousand pieces and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies.”

In downtown Enterprise, Alabama, stands one of the strangest statues imaginable. A woman, who bears an uncanny resemblance to the Statue of Liberty (flowing robes and all) stands on a pedestal, holding up a giant, ugly, black bug. A boll weevil, to be exact.

Why, you ask? Didn’t the boll weevil, that muncher of raw cotton, decimate the Southeast and Alabama, in particular, at the turn of the 20th century? Oh yes. Why, why then would this evil insect be so glorified? Hint: look again at the name of the town.

The city of Enterprise erected the statue in 1919, to honor the boll weevil for wiping out cotton crops and forcing farmers to switch to peanuts, which still drive the economy of the Southeast’s LA (Lower Alabama).

So what can we learn from the lesson of the BW?

Good can arise from what, initially, looks like evil.

Rolling with change can provide unique opportunities.

And, pesticides are not always the answer. If DDT had been around back then, we’d all be eating a lot less peanut butter.

Here are the responses I received from my dear cousins, Libs and Woze, in response to yesterday’s post (also, a thoughtful reply from Woze’s better, uh, worse, uh, equal, half):

From Libs: There are many titles in life that I strive for…”blog stars” has never made that list. However, since “Come On Over ‘Cause We’re Not Gettin Up” took off, we have learned to tolerate paparazzi, so I guess we can tolerate being blog stars as well–although we still don’t understand what a blog really is. Wozie thinks she found one in her chili at the Varsity not long ago though.

First of all, Sophie wants you to know that she is no Paris Hilton’s pooch. Sophie would never accept being carted around in a Kate Spade bag, especially when her Godmother,Wozie, has promised her Chanel when she stops having accidents (really, it happens to the best of us!). Sophie is a very down-to-earth girl. She keeps her accessories (not her person) in an LL Bean bag. Of course, her LL Bean bag is moss green and cocoa–her colors of choice. Such sophistication in a dog is truly unparalleled.

Second of all, all this talk of Birkenstocks for Wozie simply will not do. (Unless of course, they have some with a fabulous little black strappy heel.) Please do not continue to speak of this as any talk of “comfortable”
footwear is enough to send Wozie to her bed with a migraine.

And finally…do not bash tiaras until you have tried one. This year for Mother’s Day, Wozie and I checked into The Hotel Intercontinental. Upon our arrival, they immediately asked if I would need a safe for my tiara–good
service follows diamonds. Carpool goes much smoother when wearing a tiara. The respect one receives at a soccer game when wearing a tiara is unbelievable. And do you know there are no late fees at Blockbuster if you
wear your tiara?

As for you, my dear granola cousin, there are days when Wozie and I wonder where we failed you. (It could be that you suffered some minor brain damage when I ran over you in the go-cart.) Just when we are ready to throw in the towel, you surprise and delight us. Everyone knows that you are somewhat wardrobe-challenged, yet you showed up at our friend Megan’s wedding looking like a million bucks. (O.K., you needed a little shoe help,but …baby steps). And Wozie and I can be a little granola too. We can camp–we once stayed in a Holiday Inn and then went camping again when we visited you in London.

Bottom line, we give you a lot of grief, but you know we love you. The Glenn Mafia is a very special family. We can trash our own, but by God, don’t any of the rest of you try it!

P.S. OOOOOOH….you’re gonna be in trouble….I am only 2 months younger than Woze.

From Woze: Dear Cuz: I do think you misunderstand our entire outlook on life (at least I speak for myself). There are certain things in life that you simply would not pay someone else to do. I would not, nor could not, pay anyone to have a massage for me, or take a trip to Europe on my behalf. It would be unthinkable to send someone else shopping in my place, or have who knows who sit at the best table when “Party of Woze” is called. Truly, I am not lazy. I simply pick and chose how to exhaust myself and ALWAYS look to have a good time doing it! When are we invited back to the Caribou Club???

From Woze’s love: As Husband of Woze (sounds like a film title, doesn’t it), I can attest to the “Payback is Hell” comment. When I am In Hell, which I seem to find my way into a good bit, the only way out of Hell is to pay. A lot. Usually to Neiman Marcus. Or Saks. Or to whatever store we should happen upon that carries the latest in Prada. I never could figure out why Woze gets handwritten notes from stores in NYC, Phipps Plaza, or personal notes from the shoe salesman at Neiman’s. Now I understand. She is the only woman I know who waves at sales people in stores as she passes by as if she actually knows them. Who knows, she probably does.

Her comment “you are soooo lucky you married me” resonates in my head on a daily basis. She is truly special.

From Woze to Libs: See I knew we were rubbing off on her. She truly loves us. I can’t believe, however, she would think I would buy anything as gauche as a red Porsche Boxster–it’s silver, sweetie! Also, and I do hate to bring it up, but Mama said your name should appear in print only twice in a lifetime: wedding and obit. You are a bit of a granola head, but you’re OUR granola head!

From Edgy Mama: Maybe it is time to write that “novel.”

A few months back, I wrote about the explosion of plastic surgeries among my peer group. In the post I mentioned my first cousins, Libs and Woze, whom, in this arena at least, are much more liberated than I. Rightly so, my hilarious and beloved cuzs have caught the imagination of at least one of my readers.

As children, there were four of us: Woze, the eldest; Libs, nine months her junior; me, six months later, and John, six months behind me. We four spent many days and nights together at my grandparents’ house. As the elder princesses, Libs and Woze were always in charge. John and I were the young rebels. When he and I were nineteen, John was killed in a car accident.

In losing my compatriot, I became the younger sibling in the ongoing Libs and Woze battle for influence. Libs and Woze call me “Granola Girl.” The fact that I actually like to camp, occasionally wear Birkenstocks, and chose to live four hours from Buckhead drives them crazy. If I’m granola, they are clotted cream. These are the women who, when they walk around their ritzy Buckhead neighborhood, actually wear their rhinestone tiaras. Woze drives a red Porsche Boxster and Libs’ new baby is a Maltipoo puppy named Sophie, whom I’m betting already has a personalized Kate Spade carrying case.

Libs and Woze have been inseparable pretty much forever. They lived together after college, have both dated the same guy (though not at the same time) and since being married have lived within about a mile of each other. And as much as they drive me nuts, and as different as they are from me (they’re convinced I’m adopted), I adore them.

When Enviro-spouse and I were married, we were lucky enough to have our rehearsal dinner at Aspen’s exclusive Caribou Club (my celeb connections–sort of). The Caribou Club is just the kind of place that Libs and Woze adore. They found a big, beautifully upholstered sofa in the middle of the club, sat down, glasses of wine in hand, and held court. They then decided that they should start a talk show, set in the Caribou Club, called, “Come on Over, ‘Cause We’re Not Getting Up.” Oprah’s got nothing on these chicks.

I e-mailed Libs and Woze and asked if they’d consider writing the occasional guest blog for me. Their replies:

Woze: I don’t think I understand blogging, but I can always try. I guess I’ll need a new outfit for it.”

What happened next?

Not what you might think. Houdini, tense with expectation, did not pounce on Mr. Squirrel. Instead, Mr. Squirrel sat up, looked at Houdini and waved his tiny arms. Houdini, the big wuss, jumped backwards and then ran under the porch.

More proof that feistiness, not size, is the better survival aid.

I’m feeling introspective tonight–not witty. Sorry, folks. I’ve been reading through a journal that I started in 1981 (yeah, I’m old) of quotations that I’ve jotted down on the journey. So I thought I’d share a few with you.

“Who seeks, but does not take when offered, shall never find it more.” Shakespeare, Antony & Cleopatra

“The lunatic, the lover, and the poet are of imagination all compact.” Shakespeare, A Midsummer’s Night Dream

“It is amazing how complete the delusion that beauty is goodness.” Tolstoy

“I am a part of all that I have met. Yet all experience is an arch, where through gleams that untraveled world, whose margin fades, forever and forever when I move.” Tennyson, Ulysses

“To venture is to cause anxiety. Not to venture is to lose oneself.” Kierkegaard

“It’s one of those things a person has to do; sometimes a person has to go a very long distance out of his way to come back a short distance correctly.” Edward Albee, The Zoo Story

“The best lack all conviction, while the worse are full of passionate intensity.” Yeats, The Second Coming

“What you want is the magnificent abandon of life, the great free souls, the blazing butterflies, and not the little gray moths.” Jack London, Martin Eden

“Love lay on the mountain-tops beyond the valley-land of reason. It was a sublimated condition of existence, the topmost peak of living, and it came rarely.” Ibid

“I’m not omniscient, but I do know many things.” So saith Mephistopheles in Goethe’s Faust

And one entire poem by D.H. Lawrence:
Aware
Slowly the moon is rising out of the ruddy haze,
Divesting herself of her golden shift and so
Emerging white and exquisite, and I in amaze
See in the sky before me,
a woman I did not know I loved, but there she goes,
and her beauty hurts my heart;
I follow her down the night, begging her not to depart.

And, for the NC Pop the Cap groupies:
“I will make it felony to drink small beer.” Shakespeare, Henry VI, Part II