thorvalson.net : babble ether

Rorschach Enchilada Sauce

A Hundred Belching Assholes?

Duh.

Click me.

Oh yeah? :

Equation of the Day, sponsored by Thorvalson Psychology for the Mathematically Inclined®:

+
=

Internet hugs all around!

Shut Up and Look Pretty

The tricky thing about taking three photos a day is that two of my subjects are nearly always either a) not at home, or b) moving. Maddie doesn't sit still, 'cause she's six; Greg won't sit still 'cause he hates the fact that I've chosen him as a muse.

But I'm only trying to love you... It's for my art... Through me, thou shalt be immortal...

Alright. Cuttin' the crap.

But seriously. Fucking sit still, people. Day Seven and my track record with you two is pathetic.

Somebody (ahem, Jason) Clean My Computer So I Can Have Photoshop, Too!

I finally re-enrolled for my "pro" (ha - they use the term loosely) account on Flickr. Which means I'll be uploading more. Specifically, every day. I've joined the 365 Days pool, which means I need to take a self-portrait every day for a year. Just for kicks, and outside of the pool, I'm extending the photo-a-day goal to include pictures of Maddie and Greg. 'Cause, ya know, why add one thing to my list of things to do every day when I can add three. The 365 Days rules dictate that my self-portraits must include my physical self (or my shadow) to be included in the pool, but for Maddie and Greg, I'll be simply representin'.

Three new photos a day at my Flickr page! Stay tuned.

Not to change the subject, but...

I heart gardening with Maddie.

Fly Boy, Revisited

Note: I've changed some names in this article out of respect for the living, who are still grieving.

A few days ago, Maddie asked me again about my dad, who she refers to as Grandpa Steve, despite having never met him. In lieu of answering the same questions with the same answers yet again, about his cancer, why she didn't meet him, etc., I offered to show rather than tell her who he was by throwing in a DVD I made for my family for Christmas a few years ago starring Dad, circa 1967-2000. Every time I watch that video - which isn't often - I notice something different, I react differently. When I made the video, it was all tears and smiles, but buffered by the focus of editing it together in time for the holiday. Now I tend to see it as those for whom I made the video saw it the first time - objectively. I'm annoyed by my own influence in it at times. And this time, when I saw it again just two days ago, it was Dad who annoyed me. Dad, with his drinking too much, panning women's bodies with the camera - namely, bodies belonging to his cousin and his best friend's wife. It sounds horrible on paper - er, in cyberspace - but my dad truly had this enfuriating charm that enabled him to whistle at teenage girls on the street and comment on his best friend's wife's ass without actually offending anyone. As though he were truly only appreciating their beauty, with no threat of any kind to either the object of his musings or to the people associated with them. It usually went something like this:

Dad: "Hey, baby! Why don't you swing that thing over here where I can see it!"
Mom: "Steven."
Dad: "What?"

And then he'd bust out laughing. He honestly didn't see anything wrong with what he'd said. And once you figured that out - that his intentions were truly innocent - you had to just roll your eyes, maybe apologize on his behalf to the person being embarrassed, but in the end, just let him get away with it.

Twice in the movie, he pans our friend Margaret. Once in 1967, and once thirty years later. I repeat, thirty years later. A whole generation of people grows up in front of this man's eyes, the women's breasts have begun to sag, and still he's ogling these women like a teenager, trying to brighten their day. In his own, patented, crudely affectionate way. Unbelievable.

I talked to Margaret on the phone last night for the first time since Dad's funeral six years ago. Her husband was my dad's best friend for 30+ years, until they had a falling out that they never quite got around. Attempts were made, but there was this stubbornnes, this unwillingness to just let it go. They did bump into each other once, shortly before Dad died, and while their meeting wasn't the tangle of hugs and tears and "I'm so sorry"s we'd all been hoping for, it was two grown, stubborn old men's way of calling a truce. A sad, late-in-coming truce, but they made a kind of peace as best as they could at the time. John passed away about three years ago, and I think I've mentioned before on this site that, through the grapevine, I'd heard that one of the only lifetime regrets vocalized in his last days was not forgiving my dad sooner.

When I originally called Margaret after watching the video, I got her answering machine, which still announces, with that uncomfortable tone that says "I'm talking to a machine...?", that you've reached the home of John and Margaret. She told me - rather, admitted to me - when she called back last night that all of his clothes remain where he left them, in their dresser drawers.

"I know it sounds sad."

Well, it is sad. Losing someone is sad. And the things we do to hang onto the memory of them, to try to conjure them back into our walking and breathing lives are sad. Or the things we simply do without noticing that's what we're doing - conjuring. Like the fact that I suddenly noticed myself on the phone with her, drinking Pabst and smoking a cigarette in the backyard, just like Dad used to do. But these things are necessary. Part of the grieving process. And as long as you're not curled up beneath those dresser drawers every hour of the day, denying the fact that you still have a life to live, then it's okay. There's no time line on grief. And everyone has their one little thing they just can't let go of.

I told her that for me, it's my dad's Air Force jacket and a few of his old work jackets. They hang in my closet, right next to the clothes I sift through every day, as though one of these days I might throw one on over my own work clothes and apron. And I have once or twice. But for the most part, they hang in the closet. Three jackets that will more than likely never be worn by any human being ever again, and yet they hang, ready.

The first time I noticed my mother had moved my father's boots from the back stairwell to the front yard and filled them with soil and flowers, I knew she was letting go. And even she still has her treasured items, after six years of widowhood and remarriage.

"Listen to me," I said. "Whaddo I know. I've never lost a husband. He was my dad. It's not the same."

Margaret was surprised by the jackets, surprised that I'd hung onto such seemingly insignificant objects. Those jackets, along with a few other things - his watch, the coins he'd picked up along his travels as an Air Force pilot, the giant metal "T" that hung on my parents' house since at least the early 80s - aren't necessary for me to remember, but they help. No one becomes a saint until they've died, and I've tried my hardest to keep myself from remembering only the good things about Dad. I like to remember the not-so-good things, too, to keep his memory in check, to remind him from my corner of the universe that he may be dead, but he's still human (minus a body) to me. Because I'm stubborn. Because it makes the grieving easier. Because I'm just like him and he would be okay with that.

Margaret's working at the hardware store Dad frequented when he was alive. His last driving experience was to that store, in the dead of winter, jacked up higher than a kite on morphine but determined to drive - paaaainfully slowly, as my sister can attest to, like, fifteen miles an hour, and giddy about it the whole way - to pick up some lottery tickets on the off chance he would win millions just before kicking the bucket because he, in his wisdom, knew that God would get a big fucking laugh out of that one, and so would he. Illinoian man wins 6 million and dies instantly, leaving family to grieve... from the comforts of their luxury suites at the Fillintheblank Luxury Hotel in DAZZLING, BEAUTIFUL faraway private island! CONGRATULATIONS, THORVALSON FAMILY!

I told Margaret of how my sister and I struggled with the sale of our dad's house, how Jenny had asked me, "What're you gonna do - move back to Rockford?" And in my stubbornness, my unwillingness to just let it go (hey, wait a minute...), I'd said firmly and with conviction, "YES." Margaret laughed a bit at that, and then said in seriousness, "There's nothing to come back to. [Our old neighbor across the street]'s the only one left. All the other neighbors... I heard Lucille's going into a retirement home."

After getting over the initial shock that Lucille is still alive in that house with her tiny little dogs and the ceramics kiln in the basement - christ, she was old then; she's gotta be ancient now - and the realization that the dogs and the kiln are probably long gone, too, I agreed with her.

"I miss those guys," she said, and I could hear the choke in her throat as she said it, long and slow and painful.

She gave me her son's phone number and told me to check on him. He lives a few blocks away from where I work. "Don't tell him I put you up to it, though. He'll think I'm being nosy." Maybe not this week, but sometime soon, I'll call him up and pay for his dinner where I work, buy him a beer and exchange our stories and marvel and wince at how much we are like our respective dead dads.

***

There's a big metal "T" hanging on our back fence, and I don't know exactly where it's going to next, but I do know it's coming with me.

Garden work today. Digging in the mud created by last night's rain. Arguing in my head with Dad over how I'm not doing it right, how the hole needs to be bigger and there needs to be more potting mix in ratio to the soil, and ultimately winning the argument (the unsatisfying bittersweetness of arguing with the dead: you'll always win) with a triumphant, "Yeah? If I'm not doing it right, then why don't you do it yourself. Oh, yeah - that's right - YOU DON'T HAVE A BODY. TAKE THAT." And he laughs and says, "Alright, Squirrel."

Digging in the mud. Preparing for the next transition.

You can't take it with you. But a bit of soil sticks under the nails.

Everything She Needs to Know She's Learning in Kindergarten

Yeah, so remember that stuff about Dumpster Day? I'm a bit sad to admit that my zen-like tendencies toward minimalism were nowhere to be found yesterday. I tried to get into it, I really did. But the feeling just wasn't there. I'm justifying this with the thought that I donate enough to the "CLOTHES AND SHOES" box outside the local gas station on a bimonthly basis that a once-a-year dump isn't really necessary for me. With relatively few things to get rid of, why march them ALL the WAY aCROSS the STREET when I could just walk them to my car at the end of the sidewalk?

I still haven't told Maddie of our plans to sell the house. It's not that I'm afraid to tell her. It's not in my nature to NOT tell someone something important out of fear. I'm usually the polar opposite: this is what's happening; now deal. Not only that, but I firmly believe that the key to a long-lasting communicative relationship between any two people - including mother and daughter - is hinged upon honesty. If we can't be open and honest with each other, then everything that follows is likewise. Not telling her of our plans is robbing her of the opportunity to have a say in them, and while final decisions regarding her will always be made by me, I'd like for her to at least be able to tell me how she feels about whatever decisions are being made. Whether we agree or not. Mothering small children = letting your children feel as though they have a say when, ultimately, they don't. Happy, shiny people holding hands. Led by their dictator.

My hesitancy lies in the fact that there isn't yet a confirmed Next Stop on the road map. I can't pull a rug out from under her feet - her nimble little feet, which will surely find their balance more quickly than I think - without spreading out some kind of picture of what is to come. Part of me thinks that "I don't know" is sometimes the only answer, and if that's the best I can do right now, then that's all I can do. But I'm still battling with the need to reassure her.

Life's a stark sheet of pulp, Maddie. No one really knows what's going to happen next.
Wear your seat belt.

Rollin' Down the River

I was all set to blog and then the mental image of Tina Turner associated with the above phrase instantly made me feel better.
Who doesn't love Tina singing that song? Nobody. There's your double negative dose for the day, folks. I should stop now, but I won't.

It's Dumpster Day in our quaint Ohio Park neighborhood, a day which comes but once a year, dotted with dumpsters around the circumference of the park to entice all of the residents here to get rid of all that shit in their collective basements. We will be participating. With feeling. Which brings me to the subject of today's post: the selling of our home. Nothing's been put into motion quite yet, but barring unforeseen and unlikely circumstances (i.e., winning a lottery that neither of us plays), I'm relatively certain it will be happening. Probably not anytime soon, especially considering the current market, but it will be happening. I've gone through a range of emotions about it over the last week and a half since the dreaded topic first surfaced, up to and including throwing myself on the pavement and beating it with my fists. I. Don't. Want. To. Move. But ultimately, the thing that matters most to me - the happiness of all of the members of this household - has become unquestionably threatened by the plain cost of living here. No four walls are worth joining the Rat Race. We have good jobs. One of us has good credit. We are healthy and able-bodied, and we are both passionate people whose tolerance for hamster wheel living has been worn to the nail bed. Truth be told, I haven't found much trouble in paying for our home. But my financial contribution is far less than his. So is my capability to obtain yet another job, more hours, etc.

So here we are. I feel good about our decision, I think it's the right thing to do, and when I focus on the temporary gains, like the thought of how much money we'll be able to sock away in the bank while renting, and how they'll add up to future gains, i.e., buying another home - with a down payment! - in a few years, it all makes glorious sense. I feel all grown up and healthy inside, and that makes me happy.

It's when I think of moving the coffee table, the same one that was in my parents' house and my grandparents' house before that, that I get misty-eyed. Or the garden. Most of all, telling Maddie, who is unaware of our plans but by some psychic coincidence is now telling me on a daily basis how much she loves this house and thinks it's sooo much better than the last two apartments and I can only imagine her heartbreak at my eventually telling her it's time to go.

So today is Downsizing Day. Going through the house, getting rid of all the crap we haven't touched since we first moved it box by box into these four walls, keeping in mind that the next four walls won't be nearly as wide and hanging on to the hope that the smaller space will only cement the bonds between the people nestled a bit snugly within them.

I worry that he'll feel cramped.

Big wheel, keep on turnin'.

Next Best Thing to an Orgasm

Hey, everybody! I can RUN!

Only for about two minutes at a time, interrupted by five-minute intervals of walking... and by the third cycle I'm about pooped, but...

I RAN! AND I DIDN'T DIE! Tracey didn't even have to pull the emergency stopper on the treadmill while I slid painfully from the track, chafing off half my flesh in the process! I RAN! Wheeee!