Redhead Renovation

Okay, so here's a story more in keeping with Write Night stories. I returned to the studio from school, where I had to meet with students for the final exam. When I walked into the studio, Mom, Dad, Jonathon, and Wes were sitting around a table, taking a break. I joined them, oohing and aahing over their progress. My eyes slid around the table as I smiled at everyone. My eyes slid past my mom, then stalled, and returned. She looked different. I studied her while keeping a smile in place, not wanting to alert anyone's attention until I figured out what was different.

"Her hair," I thought. "Something's different there." I couldn't figure out what though. Suddenly, I realized it had a reddish tinge. "What's up with that?" I wondered, studying her hair more closely.

"What?" she asked as she caught me staring.

"Your hair has a reddish tint," I said, my forehead wrinkled as I moved closer. "It looks good though." The red, however, didn't cover her head; it just occupied one large area.

"I colored her hair," my dad offered, pointing to his chalkline.

Mom grinned and agreed, "Your dad was on the ladder and gave me the bottom of the chalkline to hold. When he snapped it, it dusted my hair with red chalk. I tried to brush it out, but I ended up smoothing it around."

"Thank God she has a sense of humor," I thought, "and thank God I wasn't here for that scene."

Jonathon spoke up, "I noticed it, but didn't want to say anything." Wes added that he had the same reaction, both of them apparently silently agreeing not to attract anyone's attention to it.

The color was actually kind of cool, giving my mom a slightly punk appearance. That's my mom--the slightly punk missionary carptenter. And that's my renovation story.

Do-Over

Washing a last dish,
I think of the man that I love.

I think of the way his lips
Must have touched this glass
Just moments before he turned
To leave and closed the door
Behind him,

The way his hands must have
Moved over the doorknob,

The last gleam
Of his backward glance as
He edged toward the doorstep.

How many men have I sized up
By the way their fingers
Lifted a plate,
A utensil?

By the way their lips
Touched a coffee cup?

Each dish,
A memory,
Scrubbed clean.

Each piece of china,
An eternal symbol of
What each man meant.

Each sudsy bath,
A chance to
Do things over.

OK, do-overs. This is my first blog post, and I bet I'll want to call "do-over!" on it. But we'll see.

I went to grad school with a girl who was half Chinese. her name was Grace, and we thought she was snooty because she was a Creative Writing Major, which was the Sexy Major to Have. She wore lots of black and had those skinny black-rimmed glasses.

Grace and I both taught English 101 in grad school. I was, at the time, married to a man whose mother was Japanese, and when she was angry, her accented English became almost unintelligible. In kinder moments--which outnumbered the angry--she would offer me "shoo-limpu," my favorite seafood. "Shoo-lee," she would say, "would you like some shoo-limpu?"

Anyway, I had become skilled at imitating my mother-in-law's accent. One day, Grace asked me a teaching question. I opened our textbook and tried to find an answer for her, which I thought was ironic, given that she was sooooo much smarter than me. I couldn't find it, so I said, "Solly, Goo-lace!" The look on her face was so surprised and hurt and outraged. Although I was mortified, I giggled a little and told her I was just kidding and walked away. We avoided each other at social events and basically didn't speak again, but I imagined what she might be telling her Sexy Major cronies--that I was uncouth, racist, a bad teacher, tactless, and how could my students take me seriously when I walked around mocking accents like it was funny. "It wasn't even a Chinese accent," she might have said. "She couldn't even get that right."

My imagination has been paying for my faux pas for at least ten years now. I would definitely do that one over.

Do-over

Hi and good morning!

Late night....lots to do this late in the school year.

All right. Do over. One of those things you think about when something is going wrong (breaking) or the game isn't going your way (losing) or you shouldn't have eaten that (sick).
My most memorable do-over was on a motorcycle. You know, when you know better, but did it anyway? I had taken a jump in a testosterone driven moment, and had as a result taken it far too fast. As I left the ground, my mind darted ahead to my landing spot. In the crowd of spectators, most likely on this poor lady in a blue and pink sweatshirt. I remember the immediate regret, milliseconds after leaving the jump. I thought DO OVER!!!!!! but the time had passed. As a result, I landed wrong, hurting myself physically and emotionally.
The thing about do-overs is that usually life doesn't come with a rewind button. Sometimes I believe it does, however, come with a fast forward and an erase. I have tried to use that one on this particular time in my life, but to no avail.
Great to be bloggin' with you guys, and I am looking forward to the SI.

Joel

Career Renovation

I'm sitting here reading patiently--okay, actually, I'm watching videos of SNL celebrity jeopardy online--and thinking about renovation.

Unfortunately, all I can think about is Tobey Maguire as Keanu Reeves and Will Ferell as Alex Trebec:
"I know Kung-Fu."
"For the last time--no, you don't!"

Unfortunately, Tobey Maguire has become as much of a joke as Keanu Reeves was at that time, and we all know that Keanu Reeves can't even act like himself. I wonder if these celebrities would like a chance to 'do over' their careers. I speak specifically of people such as Ben Affleck, Britney Spears, or Jake Gyllenhall. (Jake, you were so promising back in your Donnie Darko days!) Of course, even at the very beginning, I had a hunch that someday Britney's flip-flop and chiuaua sporting upbringing would come back to haunt her. Then again, if a tree falls in the forest and no one's around, does anybody care?

This is a tricky topic for me. My first reaction is to say that I'd make some different choices in my life, but if I had, I would be somewhere different than where I am now. And I like where I am now, so I guess the road to here was all part of it. I'm also a person that believes that regardless of what decisions I make, I will probably reconsider my actions at some point along the way. That's not to say that I don't consider things carefully, but I am aware that no choice is a perfect one, and being content with my path will make my life much easier. Especially since we don't always have a lot of control over what road we end up on.

Now renovations...

With the baby on the way, and me having no clothes that fit, and deciding to not teach next year...our house looks like a construction zone. Maybe demolition, construction sounds like too much is getting done. That whole nesting thing where you're supposed to prepare your house for your child...I stink at building things, and a nest is no exception. I'm the bird with the nest made of scraps of trash and bubble gum--it'll hold, but man is it ugly. I keep trying to clean up, and I tell myself that it's a work in progress, but aren't works in progress supposed to make progress? And for some reason no one thinks that my stacks growing closer to the ceiling should count!

But if I could have a do-over...

Okay, I've started typing three times now, and each time, I end up deleting what I write. (This is why I always use a journal in the SI!) I start writing and realize that anything I would do over would change me, and call me conceite, but I kind of like me. There are things I'd like to do again because they were fun: road trips, fuzzy bandits, traveling different places, but I don't consider those do-overs. A do-over feels like you made a mistake and you want to fix it. All of those things were fun. Like Pumbaa, I think your behind belongs past you, and you should move on from it. Learn and keep moving. Most people don't analyze our mistakes the way we do. And I think the people that matter are more apt to forgive our mistakes than we may believe. And if they aren't, should they be as important to us as they are?

As you can tell, I can't find a good vein tonight. Little squirts, but no good blood. I think I have too much in my head to put it on the blog. On paper maybe, that way it doesn't matter how random it is, but you guys are reading this!!!

Renovate

My parents rock! I just need to say that first. They have been visiting for the past two weeks to help us get Wes's new studio ready. My dad knows how to renovate, construct, re-do anything. Mom assists him, finding the tools he needs and making his life easier, but she also assumes other projects, such as the break room, which she has painted a bright yellow.

We have the studio space pretty much ready--with a bright red wall, a white wall, and kind of a Tarheel blue wall. The process has been rife with comedic moments, particularly with physical comedy. Dad banged his head four times in one day, Jonathon tried to push his head through a glass shelf, and Dad attempted to put his coffee mug on a glass shelf despite the glass sliding door being closed. Mom thought Dad should saw off the end of the cabinet that kept knocking into Dad's head, and Wes misheard Mom, thinking she was urging Dad to saw off his head. (That reminds me of a story a former student and current friend wrote. His foot got caught in a tree he wasn't supposed to be climbing during recess. When the principal showed us with a chain saw, my friend thought the principal planned to cut off his leg.)

I can't wait for people to see the studio. (It's the old Giradin Jewelry building on Patterson St.) I want it to look good so bad that I spent part of today on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor with Comet to clean up scuff marks. I thought an advanced degree meant never scrubbing floors with that intensity, but apparently, I was wrong. I kept telling myself today, "Use this as writing material."

Some chatters stroll into Hildegard's and sit beside us--of course. But they're talking about stuff on You Tube, so that might be interesting. You Tube has renovated Internet entertainment options. Hmm, a weird sound erupted. I thought it was one of the chatter's cell phone ring, but no . . . that was part of the music. Weird.

Speaking of weird, I wonder who the guy is who has been walking around the block and sitting off to my right. He walks around the coffee shop periodically. I wonder if I'm supposed to know him. I do that quick smile that says, "Hi, I don't have time to talk to you." And I don't. I have to write!

I LOVE that I have scheduled time for writing--even if it's just once a month. That beats not making time for writing once a month. Lindsi had to move away to write. Her computer didn't like us. It needed juice, and we don't keep that stuff around us. Her computer was jonesing for a hit, so Lindsi obliged. Okay, yeah, I'm just having fun now.

The music seems a tad loud; the lyrics interfere with my thoughts, but the music makes my toes tap. This song turns mellow, slow, and my fingers slow as well. That's weird. I wonder if we could get students to write more if we played fast-paced instrumental music while they wrote. That might be an interesting project--to explore the connection between music and writing.

I think Andrea may do something with that for her teacher demo. The ideas for teacher demos I've heard thus far intrigue me. We're going to have a GREAT summer. I can tell.

I scratched my face and realized my hand smells like Comet. It's not a normal smell for me, but one that takes me back to childhood. We used Comet to clean the bathroom and the kitchen. I rarely use it now, but Mom told me it would remove scuff marks. She's right, but it's a tedious process. I'd rather mop, but I've mopped that room at least three times without making a real dent.

I've been to Hildegard's several times the past two weeks. I brought my nephew for ice cream twice last weekend, and we brought my parents for ice cream twice as renovation breaks--mostly just to get out of the building. I thought I'd eat here tonight, but I wasn't really hungry, so I settled for caramel pecan fudge ice cream--two scoops. After all, Lindsi's pregnant, so I needed to celebrate. Lindsi will have company this summer: Amanda and Sonya. That's awesome--our first BWP babies. They're going to be great writers and readers with all kinds of fabulous stories to tell. I can't wait to hear them.

For now, though, I'll settle for the stories/ramblings/incoherent thoughts of Lindsi and Vicki with perhaps more to come from our other long-distance pals weighing in a bit later.

An afternoon rewind

Okay, so you may be thinking...huh? But hang in there and have a good laugh with me.

I take my mother to the mall in the afternoons for exercise and maybe just a bit of shopping should the need arise. The need arose this past Monday afternoon. Our biggest gripe on our walks is the teenagers that crowd the place when school gets out. They are so loud and obnoxious. And the way some of them dress... I called mom to see if she wanted to come along, knowing all the while she would. I looked at the clock and said I would pick her up at 3pm. I thought to myself, "Great. School's out and the place will be crowded with all of the silly-acting teenagers. Oh well, I'm not going to let that stop me." So I picked up mom and off we went.

I still had that thought in the back off my mind which is like the back burner of a stove, simmering to a low boil at whatever the annoyance is at the moment. As we approached the Food Court, sure enough, regular as clockwork, the place was crawling with high schoolers. Loud, obnoxious. "I'm glad we didn't act like that when I was in high school," I thought and almost said aloud. And I paused to ponder that cliche.

Flashback to the Class of 1972, Valdosta High School. Hmmm. We didn't have any malls to hang out at after school; we went straight home or to an after-school activity or job, I'm sure. Hmmm. Or did we? I pushed the rewind button to 3:15 p.m.

Ringgggg! School's out. My class was the last class to graduate from the old VHS on Williams St. built in the 1950s. A beautiful red brick, three story building complete with hard wood floors, no air conditioning, exterior fire escapes which I hated because the boys would hang around underneath to look up the girls' skirts. Back then, girls wore dresses; no pants, jeans forbidden. The cool thing to do right after school let out was to go to Brookwood Plaza directly behind the school. That was our mall. We piled into Barnes Drugstore for a Coke. Not just any Coke but the old fashioned, soda jerk, fountain dispensed, Coke with cherry or vanilla flavoring if that was your thing. Mine was a Cherry Coke. They tasted better back then than they do now, but I digress. So picture a store infinitely smaller than the present day Food court jammed with high schoolers. The cool kids had their reserved booths and the counter had a limited number of stools, so the rest of us wanna-bees mingled, got our Cokes, hoping see and be seen and when the push of humanity was too much to bear, we went outside to wait on our rides to pick us up to go home.

Yes, we were just as obnoxious and just as loud. I'll be the older folks dreaded being caught in that milieu then as I did now. But note that I said that in past tense because along the way on that trip down memory lane, my thoughts changed. It was a special time in my life just like it is for these kids. I've had my go at it and it's their turn now. I don't begrudge them the robust revelry anymore. I just walk by smiling with a distant gaze in my eyes as I drift back in time to when I was their age and doing just exactly the same thing.

May Write Night

The topic for tonight (or tomorrow or next week or whenever you join us on the blog) is Re-Do/Renovate/Do-Over, whichever gets your pen moving or your fingers flying on the keyboard.

Wes is moving into a new studio, so we're in renovation mode, but people often re-do things: houses, rooms, themselves, their spouses. Others need a do-over sometimes. I miss the automatic do-over I got playing board games as a child. Do-overs proliferated then; now, not so much . . .

Anyway, I hope to see some of you in a few minutes at Hildegard's, and I look forward to seeing the voices of the rest of you on the blog.