Paint fumes – can’t quite flubbity bok bok – oooh! black light posters are awesome!
This always reminds me of Dad. He and the Muppeteers probably did the same drugs.
Category Archives: Son Of Schmilsson
I’ve Come To Take You Home
Driving, windows open, radio playing.
Tata: There are a few things I’d like to do before I move. I’d like to bury Larry’s ashes. It seems pretty stupid to carry them around with me.
Pete: At your mother’s house, right?
Tata: Well, why not bury him where we live? Would you mind?
Pete: No, that’d be fine. You want to scatter your Dad’s ashes, too, right?
Tata: Yeah.
Pete: Have you picked a place? You were talking about the Shore.
Tata: I think so. I think the place where his grandparents had a house. His ashes would join the Gulf Stream and he could go around the world. He loved Europe and Iceland, and Japan was really good for him.
At the first notes of a new song I burst into tears.
Pete: What’s wrong?
Tata: Nothing. That’s what we’ll do. Do you believe in signs?
Pete: Sometimes.
Tata: I don’t think you could get a clearer sign than this one.
Yesterday, Today And Tomorrow
Friday.
Everything happened at once on Sunday and Monday. I couldn’t go to Virginia last weekend and the guilt was tremendous. Daria, Darla and Dara packed the up the house, though the packing never seemed to end, and on Sunday night, Daria had to leave to get her children to school Monday morning. Darla’s ex-husband drove down from Canada with a truck they packed all night. At about dinnertime yesterday, they closed up the house and Darla went home to Canada. Today, Dara went back to high school. We have said goodbye to Dad’s house, and to our life with Dad. For us, it is over. For Darla, a new life begins.
Yesterday.
Miss Sasha, Mister Sasha and baby Panky – now nearly four months old – are leaving their house in California right now. Miss Sasha reports the house is clean, the boxes are stacked in another truck they’ll drive to San Francisco today. They have a plan, places where they have to report to the Air Force, and sights to see on their journey to North Dakota. They leave behind a forwarding address for packages that did not arrive in time, which turns out to be important. The birthday presents I mailed a week ago did not arrive. Let’s hope weary travelers are greeted at their new home by felicitous gifts.
Today.
I am washing and drying crisp pinstriped sheets and luxurious bath towels at home this afternoon. Yesterday I had some dental work done, so this morning, I called work and said my head wanted to stay flat for the foreseeable future. When you sit up and your skull says, “No, no, you had it right the first time,” you go back to bed too, right? Even Blogger refused to publish until now in the face of all this. The windows are open wide and a breeze perfumes the apartment. Sunlight dances along the surface of the gold organza curtains. This day was always coming. I can only let it pass through me on its way to Long Ago.
The Din Of Our Rice Crispies
I. I am a genius!
We dismantled Dad’s kitchen and I ended up with a bigass container of dried black beans; by bigass, I mean a 7-quart Sysco restaurant container, and by beans, I mean of indeterminate age and/or magical power. For many long months, I stared at this container and waited for inspiration, which means breath of the gods and there’s just not enough Gas-Ex, thank you. One day, a plan came to me. Pete laughed out loud, uncertain I’d do it. Two nights ago, we filled a quart bag with beans and went for a walk. The plan:
1. On a rainy night, fling beans near chain link fences everywhere.
2. Wait.
3. Watch out for falling giants.
The possible results:
1. Planting.
2. Composting.
3. Feeding outdoor critters.
We enjoyed furtively peppering lawns, alleys, empty planters and scrubby gardens with prospective beanstalks, which process became more entertaining the closer we walked to the center of town and spectators. No one asked us what we were doing. No one said, “You’ve literally beaned me.” No. People watched as Pete and I walked by and I exhorted our little legumes to grow toward the sun, be free, be free! This public art project memorializing my father is called the Beany Benediction.
No cows will be harmed in the making of it.
II. I am an idiot!
As we prepared dinner last night, Pete asked if there might be garlic in my kitchen. This request surprised me. “I’m fresh out of fresh but I’ve got chopped, freeze-dried and a metric buttload of granulated. When I acquire Garlic In A Tube, I shall rule the Alium World. Mwah hah hah!” I cackled.
Pete sniffed the chopped and made a face. Pete stared at enough granulated garlic to temper the effects of beach erosion. Pete grabbed a freeze-dried chip slice and tossed it into his mouth. Five. Four. Three. Two –
Tata: What’s the matter with you?
Pete: That was disgusting! Omigod –
And even though I watched him scrape the insides of his mouth with his fingernails I popped a freeze-dried slice of garlic into my mouth.
Tata: I’m not certain but my teeth may be on fire.
I sat on a chair in my kitchen, evidently waiting for the return of either common sense or blood to my extremities, as garlic still in my mouth continued hydrating. At no time did it occur to me to lean three inches to my left and spit out the tiny flaming tidbits singeing my tastebuds. For the rest of the evening, Pete and I randomly burst out laughing and moved a few inches further from each other. This morning, I woke up and the first thing I smelled was my own rank breath.
At work, I handed out emergency Altoids and promised I’d never do it again.
The Time We’re Gone And We Don’t Know Where
The Earth It Moves Too Slow
Rock and rock and roll radio!
Pete and I unlocked the front door of Rancho Rococo just before 8 last night, so tired showering seemed both essential and overly ambitious. The drive back from Virginia, which can suck beyond belief if someone sneezes on Route 78, was evidently sneeze-free. We ate Sun Chips. We drank gallons of coffee. We surfed the airwaves and found songs we loved, liked and minded somewhat, but only once did we both reach for the radio in alarm. The words “Monday morning: The Billy and John Boy Drive Time Show – where Rednecks find a home” made us both blink, then shout about locking the doors on that home and issuing flea collars.
Previously on Poor Impulse Control: my dad died 1 April 2007 in a surprising flurry of admirers, ex-wives and current children. Last fall, we had a yard sale of his things and because he was a tremendous packrat we had another this past weekend. If you’ve joined this story in progress, I can sum this up in one little moment from the yard sale, then I have other things I have to do. I will catch up tomorrow, I think. Anyway, Saturday morning, on a lawn in Staunton, Virginia:
A man and woman walk around the yard, then circle the tables and casual ground-level displays of some small number of Dad’s thousands of books. Half a dozen other people wander around quietly. Daria, Todd and I don’t look like anyone else and we’re wearing canvas money belts. My teenage sister Dara looks a little more local. My step-mother Darla is standing near me when we discover the woman is paying attention.
She: Are you a family giving this garage sale?
Darla: We are.
She: Whose books are those? Who is the gourmet, who is the naturalist, who is the writer?
Tata: Those books belonged to one person.
Darla: They were my husband’s.
The woman turns to the only male personage in sight: my brother Todd.
She: Is that you?
Todd: No, I cook but I can’t keep up.
Darla: He died last year. These are my husband’s grown children. They came to help out.
She: He must have been an interesting person.
Tata: He was quite a character.
She: You must be interesting people.
Todd: It’s possible.
Daria: What I wouldn’t give for a grilled cheese…
No One Nice Again
We’re sitting at the kitchen table reading Dad’s antique Playboys. All the male models resemble Tucker Carlson and fuel-injected luxury Volkswagon cost $3300. A person might acquire a very respectable vehicle to do zero-to-fifty – yes, fifty – in 8.6 seconds. Todd looks up and says, “You could jog faster.” Our favorite ad so far declares, “Introducing the new home appliance that answers your phone!” For crying out loud, the page Daria’s reading features six people in some advanced stage of plaid gangrene, and she’s convinced the best-looking person is the dog. The 1974 Spring and Summer Fashion Forecast is truly something special. An orchestra seat for Pippin starring Ben Vereen will run the Broadway goer a big $12.
I’m scritching Miss Samantha, princess and adventurous scrapper in a house full of larger cats. Pete, who should not lift anything, stayed home and whipped up a fantastic dinner of corned beef, latkes and cabbage, while we got up in the dark and had a yard sale of Dad’s stuff. By the time we arrived back at Dad’s house, we were ravenous and ready to bite each other’s arms. Fortunately: latkes! After we stuffed ourselves, we all fell down or cleaned up, and when I woke up later, three cows were walking around in the front yard. We don’t own any cows.
You should see the shoes.
When Kindness Falls Like Rain
This week, the temperature is supposed to be above 40 every day. This means I can walk to and from work again, which is grand news. I walked today and love what it does for my metabolism and morale. It makes all the difference between feeling confined indoors burning fossil fuels and getting out into springtime and new life. Today, I was sorry to read that Twisty’s father died last week. That anyone endures this now inspires a familiar ache for me. I want to say, “I don’t know how you feel because I am not you, but I know it gets better with time.”
This weekend, we have the final garage sale of Dad’s stuff. I expect we’ll cry all Saturday. But it gets better with time.
The Weather Outside Is Frightful
Drusy demonstrates exceptional flatness.
Yesterday, I dragged my new maroon bicycle down a small flight of stairs, across what passes for a lawn and into the street. Then I rode to work at the family store, pretending I didn’t look or feel like Angela Lansbury in the opening credits of Murder, She Wrote. No, no! I am far more rugged and burly! I am fierce! I am also smaller than I at first appear, so dragging the bicycle down a twisting flight of stairs inside the family store exhausted me completely. Anya, laughing hysterically, said, “Plainly the workout is when you get off the bike.” No kidding. She would not have enjoyed watching me walk the bike through her store full of beautiful things after closing, which I will never ever describe to her and hope she never sees.
Man, I hope I got all the little pieces!
Yesterday.
Last night, it started snowing. This morning, I looked out my front window and said, “No way, I’m risking my life for the unnamed university. This cowgirl’s going back to bed.” When I woke up twenty years later, I shaved and looked outside again. Oh, those kids with their rock music and snow plows! There’s a path out of the cul-de-sac by the river and Pete reports the roads aren’t so bad. Still, my laundry’s washed. As it dries it humidifies my arid apartment.
Today.
I’m making a shopping list. Cat litter, coffee, unbleached filters, hand soap, special overpriced shampoo for my overpriced hair, body wash, NyQuil, eggs, vegetables. It’s raining outside, turning the slippery layer of pressed snow into slush. I hate this step in the thaw but let’s be realistic. Siobhan and I have a date with Suzette for martinis tonight, and I am loath to get my paws wet. Staying dry will require ingenuity. I’m considering building my own diving bell.
Two days ago, Daria returned from Virginia with another carload of stuff that used to be Dad’s. This time, more jars for jarring spring fruits and vegetables. In a few weeks, we’ll stage a final garage sale, then our stepmother Darla will pack up and go back to Canada with her cats. I regard these new items with some nervousness. A time is coming when Dad’s death and all events rippling through our lives for the last year will smooth out into the flatness of History. I am not sure how I feel about that and I can tell Daria isn’t either. In the meantime, my grandmother’s, then Dad’s convection oven has a new home with me.
I do not know how to use it but I will learn that, too.
You Gotta Have Something
According to my brother Todd, this is the cooking show our Dad should have done: Cooking And Cursing With the Grandsons Of Italy. Dad, author of such remarks as, “The best thing about that dish was its temperature,” and “Constipation wasn’t as much fun as I remembered,” might have been a bit subtle for these brusque fellows. Moreover, Dad was no Goombah. He was foul-mouthed, hot-tempered, a culinary control freak and brilliant in a pinch. Still, these guys are pretty funny, and they have a point: Olive Garden in NOT Italian food. Don’t eat that!
Poor Impulse Control 