the oil tank is full.

The oil tank got filled today.  Filled.  It is metaphorical really because the state of the oil tank mirrors the state of my life a lot of the time.  I think about a time where the thermostat was set to 55F because it had to be or else we wouldn't make it through the winter.  Tracy and I rented a farmhouse in Burrville and raised our children in the country like we always wanted to.  In the summer it was peaceful, starry nights, swingsets, big dinners, room to run, pet the cows.  In the winters it was cold and we were reminded that we could be doing better or at least if we could walk around our house without a blanket then we would be doing well.

I did not grow up in poverty.  I grew up more in the realm of latch key, salvation army, stand up for yourself or get walked on, and how to make something out of nothing.

It is funny how certain perspectives take place given some situations.  After having Luke and raising him by myself, we scrapped by most of the time with not a lot.  I was worried that Luke would know how broke we were, it was bad enough that he was a boy with only a mom, but add in poor and I would just feel down right guilty.  This all changed one day when he brought home a boy from school for a sleepover.  He was showing this boy our house and I overheard him saying "yeah, we are rich.".  I did a double take in my head and kept listening, Luke was telling the boy that we had a large house and I made good dinners.  It was the first time I was clued in to what Luke thought about our life and I was kind of shocked.  My view was half empty, his was half full, or, all the way full...

So, fast forward back to now, the oil tank is full.  It is cold out and we are no longer scrapping.  I think Luke still believes we are rich, at least that is what I assume from how many times he asks for money every week.  I am just going to bath myself in the words that bring me great comfort and satisfaction in this life...the oil tank is full.

the stylist.

I used to think that no matter what, there was no such thing as a bad haircut.

I had never seen one, so it just didn't exist.  Remember, this is the 80s and early 90s, so mullets were commonly accepted as a decent (business in the front, party in the rear) haircut.

I had been trying to grow my bangs out forever.  I basically wanted hair that resembled the girl on "Fast Times at Ridgemont High"

For the record, this hairstyle still appeals to me, braid and all.  

So it goes that I am trying to grow my bangs out so my hair is all one length and I share this with my younger sister, Jaime (11 years old at the time).  Jaime confesses that she too, would like to have hair that is all one length.  At this time, she has a longer style hair with bangs that reach the middle of her cheek.  I convince her that if she allows me, I could take matters into my own hands and give her the hairstyle that she desires.

I get the scissors, she sits.  I cut.  I cut more... I cut a lot more.  I do, eventually, create a hair-due that is all one length.  I stop and look at my handy work and cannot prevent my body from reacting with spasms of laughter that cannot be contained.  She hasn't noticed, the spasms are getting stronger...then laughter erupts from my mouth.  Jaime immediately reacts with a look of horror because she knows... I have created a haircut that would be categorized as bad.  I am not sure that I could have made Jaime look anymore unattractive.  

Now, this is where I attach a picture of Jaime from that time, but alas, you will be disappointed.  I am convinced beyond certainty that Jaime and my mother have a pact to destroy all evidence of that time in Jaime's life.  I know, for sure, that there exists somewhere, a school picture with Jaime and...the haircut.  I have searched high and low through my mother's boxes of pictures to no avail.  It is like the holy grail of old pictures.  Let's all say it together..."release the picture.....".

Anywho...Jaime obviously never let me cut her hair again and that was that.

Seasoned Travelers.

Alex and I decided to get out of town today, destination Canada.  Although the plan was to go around 11am, we didn't get out of town till around 2pm (booster seat issues).  One tension bridge and a smooth customs experience and we found ourselves cruising down the Canadian highway.  Kingston, Ontario was the plan.

I love Canada for dumb reasons.  A few being:

• When an ambulance has its lights and sirens on, everyone takes pulling over very seriously, no one seemed to capitalize on the fact that the person in front of them was slow reacting and used that to gain a few car lengths by speeding around them before they decided to resume their journey (which drives me crazy).
• McDonald's happy meals have really cute little tiny yogurts in them.  We discovered this when Alex dipped his hand into his happy meal box and came up with a spoon, to which he proclaimed "uh oh, I think I got the wrong order".
• Can we say no litter?
• In Kingston there are more sailboats in the water than there are cars on the road.  On a beautiful day like today, it is a super duper sight!
• Wolfe Island (which is rather close) has a gazillion windmills, no one seemed to mind what they look like, and there was not one sign that demonized harnessing the wind. (I, personally, love the look of windmills)
• The parking meters didn't seize up when I put American change in them, even better they registered as money and gave us time on the meter.
• Guess what?  My awesome sauce little prius has a button that you can push that changes the speedometer to kph in mere seconds :)

Alex and I had five possible places in mind that we could visit depending on how interesting they looked.  The most interesting (surprisingly to me) was the Canadian Penitentiary Museum.  I could see how this would appeal to Alex.  He loves Army things, guns, bad guys, good guys...the whole idea of being a policeman.  So, after lunch we head to the Canadian Penitentiary Museum.  This place is huge and on the water, there are look out towers at every corner, barbed wired fencing, and free parking (wooot!).  Alex and I are getting excited about how much there could possibly be to explore (I am thinking about all the steps I am going to fit in on my fitbit, he is probably fantasizing about locking his mom in a cell).  We pull in the parking lot and it strikes me how they are going all out to make this look real.  There is a sign that says they can search your car at any given moment...and a sign that says 'authorized personnel only'.  The only thing I cannot find is the freakin' entrance.  Alex and I are walking around the structure looking for an in.  We start trying handles and knockin' on doors, pretty much nothing.  I am kind of getting irritated at the lack of guidance (clearly poor customer service here).  We have one more door to knock on when I nab a grandpa looking passerby to ask for his assistance finding the entrance.  He just looks at me and starts laughing.  He says "Lady...this is a maximum security prison.  The museum is across the street.".  ooooops.

We high tail it back to our vehicle (parked in the prison parking lot), drive across the street to the REAL museum only to find that it closed 45 minutes before.  At this point I say to Alex, "honey, maybe we should head home and come back next week....", his reply was "ooooh mom, I'm not ready to go back to America.".  We drive around a bit more and then head to Gananoque.  In Gananoque, we buy Chinese food and books, by this time Alex was ready to go back to his home land.  We are trying for the Penitentiary Museum next week :)  wish us luck.

The Secret Keeper.

When I was growing up, I always had the innate desire to do the right thing.  I loved my childhood, my family, and school.  I never wanted to be in trouble and I never wanted people to be upset with me.  Which brings me to this tale, a dilemma between doing what was right and doing something that would please my dad.

Christmas in our house was a regal affair.  My parents pulled out all the stops, only to be outdone by themselves (and only themselves) the next year.  We had a huge living room in my childhood home and it would be completely wallpapered with gifts from floor to ceiling.  It was our holiday, completely magical.  My parents also included us children in the purchasing of gifts for each other, making us feel special to be in on the secret.  They would try to bring the element of surprise into their relationship with crazy Christmas presents that would be filled with humor and love.

It was in 1979 (I believe), when my mother purchased my father a sword for Christmas   This very medieval looking sword in a blue velvet sheath.  It was curved and pretty darn cool.  This sword was so long and so strangely shaped, that my mother had to create a customized box (made of several boxes taped together), and then she wrapped it and put a big bow on it.  I tried drawing this out and this was the best I could do:

This was such a big deal in our house.  My mother hemmed and hawed over this present, making sure everything was just right.  She loved the anticipation of my dad wondering what was in the box and having something to hold over him for the last five days prior to Christmas.  I, personally, loved being in on the secret and was just as excited as my mom.  So, a few evenings left before the eventful day, my mother set the box out under the tree.  As expected, my dad carried on and on about the strange looking present and what could it possibly be?  My mom just laughed and walked into the other room.  At this point, dad and I sat looking at the present, looking at the tree.  He turns to me and says, "Bridgie, what is it?  What is in the box?", I am playing this back in my mind in slow motion (my voice sounds like Andre the Giant) "It's a swooooorddddddddddd.".  My dad blinks, kind of dumbfounded that I actually spilled it so easy.  He grins and says something along the lines of the secret would be between us.

EXCEPT, it hits me the next evening when we are sitting down to dinner.  I start to have an anxiety attack.  I tell my mother I don't feel good and make up some excuse about hurting my thumb or something along those lines, something to cover up the true reason that I am teary eyed.  Finally I just say it... "I told him.".  My mother says "Hm?", and I say it again, "I told him.  I told dad his present.".  Now dad just sits there looking bewildered and somewhat innocent.  My mother starts to have a bit of a meltdown, "WHAT?!?!?!?  You told your dad about one of his presents?!?!", and then she follows that with something that only my mother would do.  She starts listing off everything she bought dad for Christmas  one by one... "The monopoly game? The robe?  The backgammon set?...", I just keep shaking my head no.  Mom spills the list in it's entirety and then, the very last thing she says...in a quiet voice.."The sword?", and I shamefully nodded my head.  In this moment, this interrogation period, my anxiety level fizzled like a balloon slowly losing air.  I felt better, my mother at some point traded her June Cleaver look for something a little bit more Cruella De Vil.  

I don't recall whether or not my mother was cautious about including me in on future "secrets", but the lesson was learned.  The only other recollection of this I have was walking into a conversation my dad was having with his brother on Christmas morning, laughingly describing my confession and my mother's spilling response.  That was my first experience with guilt.  It felt like crap.

taking the wheel.

I bought my first car before I got my driver's license.  It was an 85 Plymouth Reliant, four door, beige...a grandma car.  Luke is talking about getting his license a lot lately, he has six months or so before he turns sixteen, I still got time to mentally prepare myself for a new breed of worry.

My Aunt Linda taught me to drive.  When I turned sixteen, she and I worked together at a vending company.  We went on "route" everyday, collecting quarters, stocking cigarette's, and changing 45s on jukeboxes.  It was a ton of fun, I loved it.  She had the patience to teach me how to drive the work van.  It was a tricky standard, but I got the hang of it.    Every morning, we would meet at the garage, pack up the van and head out for the next eight hours of route.  If I got there before her, I would try to get as much done as I could, before she got to work.  One day, I got to the garage early, I managed to get everything ready before Linda got there so I decided to start the van and wait.  It could have been 10 minutes or so, maybe more... I didn't hear her come in, but there she was with a bizarre look on her face.  I say "Hey!   Mornin',...I was just about to take a nap....", she says "I bet you were.  Next time you turn the van on, you oughta open the garage door.".

I am so glad we don't have a garage...the apple doesn't fall far from the tree and I could totally see Luke doing the same thing.  :-/  Maybe I should find him a 85 Plymouth Reliant for his 16th birthday... haha.

a one woman party.

Tracy says she is renting out an entire bar next year for her 35th birthday.  She is renting out the bar and hiring a band, all on a Friday night.  I say to her, "how much do you think that is gonna cost?".  She says, "don't know...don't care...I'll pay for it with my tax refund."  She is being especially particular about the location.  All I know so far is... it won't be at Joe's, Fatboys, Micks, any legion, firehall, or VFW...it won't be outside in a field, or pavilion.  The location seems to be as much a fantasy as the entire idea itself.

She says she might not invite anyone.  She may just keep it all for herself.  The funny thing is... I can see this.  I can see the band playing, Tracy standing there with a cigarette between her middle and pointing finger, eyes closed, shifting on her feet side to side,.... just listening.

The reality is, she will rent the bar, hire the band, make a list of friends...then spend the entire night manning the door, kicking people out of "her party".

She has threatened me with her "one woman party" if I keep putting the idea down.  I was thinking that there is no way this is going to happen...dad'll be there.

Here you go Tarcccccy (that is not a typo)

 

sister love.

I know i'm posting a lot about Danielle lately, I don't know why.  But here goes another...story.

ok so....our relationship, growing up, is always extreme.  Either extremely close, or extremely fighting.  If you ask me my earliest memory, I might be able to recall stuff here or there, but one thing I do recall is the first time Danielle felt the first pangs of anger, frustration, and possibly hatred for her loving, devoted sister....me.

The word worship doesn't quite encompass how I felt about my older sister.  I WORSHIPED her, in a stupid, ridiculous, stalkerish, kind of way.  I would do anything for her attention, and as she got older, the lesser interested she was in cultivating a sister-friend relationship with me.  I was the annoying younger sister.  This sparked a panic in me, a panic for her love, then approval, then just....any kind of attention.  The quickest way to get any kind of attention is just to tick her off as stealth and quick as possible.  She has a boyfriend over?  I will find pictures of her cuddling a doll to show him.  She wants to go somewhere?  I will pout and produce tears to force myself along.  I never stop and analyze her growing annoyance, anger, and sometimes hatred for my existence...

This is a short story.  I am recalling the first time I betray my sister.  I am four (I think...?), and I have developed a great idea and just want to test it out and see if I can get away with it.  Danielle and I are playing on the kitchen floor, mom is floating around cleaning or something.  I turn my head, drag up my sleeve, and sink my teeth into my forearm.  Not enough to draw blood (cause that would hurt, wouldn't it?), enough to produce a perfect, crescent shaped, row of crevices in my skin.  The tell tale signs of a bite mark, slightly red from the bit of suction I applied when producing the evidence.  Phase one...done.  Next, I start to imagine my mother saying that I can never swim in our pool again...really, if I want to cry I have to go for my own gut.  Good, plush, full tears fall from my lids.  Phase two....done.  Last, I walk up to my mom, tears in tow, and hold up my arm.  I didn't even have to say anything.  "DDAaaaNNIEeeelllLELLLLEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!".  oh goodness.  Scuffle, scuffle, slappppy-dapppy, Danielle is now sitting in timeout with her back to me in the kitchen.  I sense Danielle's surprise at a punishment undeserved.  She actually had no clue what was going on, but sitting there in that chair, I see the back of her head begin to rotate towards the side of the chair, then her face peers out in my direction.... for the first time ever, I witness, Danielle's evil, I totally hate you, face.  It surprised me!!!!  Didn't she know I didn't know any better???  Her eyes were slits, she could have been Asian to on onlooker, her mouth pursed into a perfect circle, and her face red....a special red that can only be born of betrayal.  It was the first time...not the last.