Rightly Drowned

I should have flown 

out over the salty surf into the milky threads of clouds 

chasing the siren song of the dolphins,

enshrined in the scattery splash of the osprey's shallow dive.

I should have waltzed with fate

fluttering conspicuously close to the flinty eye of the shark

watching jaws dangling open for the fishy prize of her watery sprint.

But I remained on the shore

harbored

contented

in the halo of golden grains.

And where I thought was stillness and safety, 

a grenade churned from the heavens and earth 

and blew onto the beach.

It overcame me.

Cantaloupe over poppyseed.

Carnelian over obsidian.

House-a-fire over hot charred ashes.

And I rightly drowned. 

#mushroomtumbler

Day 22/24 : Things I Won't Be Buying Today

Well, it's August 1st and that means Halloween candy has officially taken over the seasonal aisle at the local grocery store. 

All the 'Beach, Please' and 'It's 5 O'Clock Somewhere' parrot and palm tree'd koozies are 75% off and smushed together unforgivingly into a dirty looking plastic box at the end of the aisle. They've been orphaned in favor of Fall. 

Because, you know, it's only 97 degrees today and my drink definitely won't be sweating, or requiring a koozie or anything. 

So, seriously. Candy and pails for candy collection on Halloween night are everywhere. Also, Halloween Peeps...shaped like pumpkins...which shouldn't even be a "thing". 

A PEEP is a BIRD SOUND, people, not a PUMPKIN SOUND. 

However, those folks who prefer their Peeps STALE A.F. will be thrilled to glimpse them this early on the shelves. By October they'll be bicuspid-breaking rocks. Here's a hint. Just say no to that stupid bird-name flat-assed marshmallow dunked in glittery orange sugar put upon the shelf today and pick up the 75 percent off marshmallows on the opposite end of the row, near the Hershey bars and the graham crackers - part of the summer clearance s'more sale. 

'Cause, ya know, it's AUGUST and I guess S'MORES are COMPLETELY DONE.

Even if I bought the Reeses Franken-Cups which caught my eye with their Swamp Thing-esque green bottoms they'd be a petri dish of muck in the back of my hatch by the time I got them home; gooing themselves all over my lawn chair and pool float that I haven't taken out of car and put away... 

BECAUSE IT'S SUMMER. 

SUMMMM 

MMMMMER.

So, enough of the 9-week Halloween preview before you cram the last three overly commercialized holidays of the year together into something we now call Hallothanksmas.  It's lunacy. 

Can you let us just enjoy summer while it's summer?

Two teachers looking over my shoulder at the candy display began making snorting noises like mating warthogs in aisle 4. They, too, apparently hate the idea of rushing summer in favor of Halloween candy, though presumably for an entirely different reason than I. The idea of flying through August at warp speed and starting school was flipping them both out. Like, flippin' FLIPping. In fact, their collective strife made one of them start yelling. 

"HALLOWEEN? It's AUGUST!" she howled. "AND I'm a teacher!!!!!!"

It'll be okay, Miss Crabtree. Just don't buy it. Instead, grab yourself an end of summer koozie on the way out. 75 percent off!

#mushroomtumbler

Day 21/24: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

I got a pop up ad for a Care Bears fanny pack cooler this morning. I have to admit, I clicked and admired it from all angles, captivated by the colorful ombre zipper and amusing rainbow print. 

My Moo Moo bought me a tan plush Care Bear with a heart on his belly when I was twelve. One of the original ten Care Bears, "Tenderheart Bear" was cute as all get out, however, I distinctly remember, upon opening him on Christmas, that I was too old for a new stuffed animal. 

I had a boyfriend. My favorite author was Stephen King. After softball practice, my friends and I would roam the woods looking for overgrown spots to squat and drink our Molson Goldens.  What was I supposed to do with a bear with a brown plastic heart for a nose?

But because my beloved Moo Moo gave him to me, (along with a Jordache purse and a mood lipstick that was Witch of the West green in the tube but changed to a beachy shade of coral on my pout) I put him on top of my pillow after I made my bed in the morning, sandwiched between Pooh and Paddington, my ratty old-time favorites.

I never saw a Care Bears television show, though I recall that being a thing. I don't remember ever doing anything particularly notable with that heart belly bear who reclined on my pillow, but every morning I'd plop him there and every night, I'd take him off and gently put him on the floor next to my yellow twin bed. 

And I'd look at that big red heart on his soft tawny belly and smile for a moment, thinking of my grandparents and how much they loved me. 

So, today the Care Bears fanny pack advertisement appealed to me like designer jeans and walking to middle school every morning with my good friend Missy from down the street and turning two from second base. The beer drinking twelve-year old me would have loved this, but pre-teen me is now getting on in years and Canadian beer tends to give me just ten minutes of pleasure followed by two hours of heartburn and the thirty dollars plus shipping that this fanny pack costs would be better spent putting gas in my tank, so I am going to pass. 

A difficult pass, it is. 

Nonetheless, if my Moo Moo were alive, and thinking of buying me a Christmas present, I would totally hope this this might be her choice for me. 

Throw a Molson in here and it'll stay cold in the dugout until we are ready.

#mushroomtumbler

Day 20/24: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

It's been a while since I wrote.

Quite obviously, I've been buying things.

Actually, I've been seriously uninspired and seriously lazy but today I had an experience which made me decide that I am not buying infant swimming lessons. 

And, I need to write about that. 

I don't have an infant but if I did, I would hold that little peanut and we'd get in a warm bathtub and we'd have soft lighting and some mellow tunes from a kinder decade. There would be supported floating and off-key singing and reassurance, along with eye contact, and head cradling. 

There would not be the boreal glow of florescent lights, the stinging bleach of chlorine, and glacial temperatures. There would not be an instructor holding my pumpkin beneath his armpits, facing him out into icy blue nothing, and submerging him without warning, his giant eyes stinging with disbelief and the tiny panicked 'o' of his mouth, upon being lifted to the surface, deafeningly breaking every mother's heart within earshot. 

This, I'm quite certain, I would not do.

There would be a gentle and careful passing of baby from me to my spouse, who would take the quiet, puckered bundle and wrap him in a fluffed up towel, patting his back and congratulating him on his brave acceptance of a few quarter cups of water purposefully poured over his little noggin. There would be a clean onesie, a heated bottle and a soft flannel blankie.

There would not be trembling limbs and breaths full of water laden with the urine of the other fifteen kids in lane one. There would not be terror so dreadfully exhausting that placing baby on the poolside cement after (ding!) fifteen minutes are up causes him to gasp like a reeled-in walleye in the bottom of a rowboat, tucking his chin and trembling for fear that eye contact with an adult might get him another round. 

This, I'm quite certain, I would not do.

There would be bonding. There would be toothy smiles and exuberant praise and an opportunity to learn words like "tub" and "water" and "it's okay, baby, you're safe, you're safe."

There would not be a black-masked instructor, devoid of half her face due to pandemic protocol, dipping baby backward into an unfamiliar place as he tensed and arched and wailed. 

This, I'm quite certain, I would never do.

 

 

Author's Note:

The swim instructor was following a safe protocol which, I believe, she has used for years to introduce tiny babies to water. She is a kind teacher and never, ever, were these children in any danger. 

My personal feelings about swim lessons are informed by years of my own, sometimes rough, experiences at a tender age learning to feel comfortable in water; ironically, in the exact same community pool. 

The concerned and helpless faces of the young mothers on deck today combined with the shrieks of their babies echoing off the dingy tiled walls brought out a lot of emotion for me. I tend to release emotion by writing.

I've always believed that swim lessons, for a lot of families, are an excellent way to achieve greater water safety but, the overall vibe I picked up from those little ones made me reconsider my feelings on the subject, particularly for babies so small. 

This piece isn't meant to invoke criticism of the program nor the instructor. These are simply emotions, which bubbled to the surface and overflowed for me, the casual onlooker. 

#mushroomtumbler

Day 19/24: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

 

One of the less physical things we had to do in order to earn a merit badge in Girl Scouts was to "begin a collection". Now, this was the 1970s and some of my troopmates already had collections. They collected neon-haired troll dolls, Barbies, Lincoln wheat pennies, comic books, and miniature football helmets. One friend even collected unusual soda cans and she had them glued on to a tall shelf, made by her father, expressly for said purpose. She had a grape Nehi, cemented front and center, that I adored.

Me? I began collecting frogs. Not living and breathing frogs, of course, but little frogs made of ceramic and clay and glass. Frogs with crowns balanced upon their heads were special favorites. A family I babysat for gifted me their frog collection so that my own shelf grew from three to fifty frogs overnight, sort of like when tadpoles hatch in the early summer. 

My frog collection currently lives in my basement in an old banana box strewn with yellowed newspaper. I haven't looked through the box in thirty eight years. I don't want to get rid of them but I don't want to display them either. That's sort of how old stuff is.

As a teenager, I began collecting Laurel Burch goldtone and silvertone artfully enameled earrings. Laurel began selling her designs in the 1970s and finally caught on in my small town in the early 1980s, quickly becoming a sort of status symbol for the waspy and well-heeled in our community. I received my first pair as a gift and was immediately smitten. I loved everything about them; the colors, the weight, the sturdiness. My second pair, which I spent four weeks of hard earned babysitting money on, was stolen from my gym locker the very first day I wore them to school, and the girl who (I think) stole them wore them repeatedly, flaunting them beneath her Jane Wiedlin-style pixie cut as she sat, alphabetically, two seats over from me throughout all of our classes together. 

During the pandemic, I started looking for more pairs to supplement my small but distinctive collection. Every pair I owned held a merry story. Laurel uses a lot of nature, birds and cats. I find solace in nature, birds and cats and I found plenty of solace available on eBay and other resale sites. After selling a few things to justify my spending, I bought some vintage pairs and now have over a dozen. I do imagine that's enough, though, and have since pumped the brakes.

A week ago, a friend on Facebook, during a moment of nostalgia, asked where everyone bought Laurel Burch earrings back in the day. I was about to grab the ceramic box I store mine in, snap an exceptional photo and reply with great gusto until someone else replied and referred to them as "crap". Crap? Oh my gosh. My special collectible earrings? This crap is symbolic of my adolescence, almost as much as bonfires, football games, summertime at the lake and weaving daisy chains on the porch. When I wear them (which is a lot) I'm happy. I'm young. And when I catch my reflection and see a violet-hued bluebird hanging festively from my lobe, I exhale gladness, recalling a time before everything got crazy and depersonalized and tinged with snarky hostility. 

I will not be buying any Laurel Burch earrings, but I did select and retrieve ones shaped like doves within a heart from their safekeeping today. They happen to be pink and green, our preptastic color scheme of the '80s. I will wear them and love them and when complimented on them, as I so often am, I will use them as a jumping off point for conversation with a like-minded stranger about a time when they symbolized the height of what we thought of as middle class opulence.

 #mushroomtumbler

 

Day 18/24: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

I have a confession to make.

Even though the subject of my 30 day blog is 'Things I Won't Be Buying Today', I've been buying everything that isn't nailed down.

In observance of Lent, I decided to restrict my food intake, from Ash Wednesday until Easter Sunday, for the first two meals of each day. Wanting to be pious and at the same time lose some weight, Lent serves as a fine motivation for lots of Catholics. It's a jumping off point for better habits and more thoughtful consumption. 

Over the last two years, stress, cortisol and the pandemic have served as my regular excuses for the expansion of my waistline but if I'm being honest, I should be touting my fondness for tortilla chips, alcohol and abject laziness. The 'Lead me not into temptation' Lenten fasting was going well until about ten days in when I began panicking. I started overeating at night and I started buying things online to fill what was becoming a dark hollow inside of me.

It's a pattern one of my friends (a shopper beyond compare) and I talk about all the time. Why do we skimp in one area and then feel as though we need to splurge in another? Are we simply creatures craving balance or does it go deeper? 

For me, I think it's because perceived lack and I don't play well together. 

Here in my comfortable home I have what I need at any given moment, but there are some deeply sown seeds in me that make 'lack' almost unbearably uncomfortable, whether perceived or real. When I feel a deep emptiness, I overcompensate in other areas. Lately I have been overcompensating by shopping online. A spring jacket here, a craft project there, organic coffee here, a few books I've been wanting to read there. My mail carrier used to be able to simply put my mail in the box but the last few weeks she has been wearing down a path from her truck to my door, brown cardboard boxes balanced on both hips.

This consumption makes me feel bloated and gross. It is not pious. And I'm certainly not losing any weight.

Today, tortilla chips in hand because my Lenten eating plan lasted only two weeks, I'm cleaning out emails when a few pairs of high platform 70s style sandals come to my attention.

Be still my disco heart. These are my absolute favorite kind of footwear. And for a moment I forget about how my spending totally needs to be hog tied. I forget about Lent. I forget about Karen the mail carrier and her harried expression as she limps up my driveway laden with packages.

 

 

 

I begin picturing them lined up in my closet...in all three available colors. I picture skipping this month's car payment so that I may buy them all, painting my toenails bright coral and slipping into them to the funky sounds of KC and the Sunshine Band. I see myself boogieing out to the driveway in them and telling tired beleaguered Karen she's not going to be delivering any more packages. I have found Nirvana in these shoes. They are all I need.

But then I burp from the chips and wake myself up and ask, when am I ever going to wear these? 

Fifteen years ago I had sandals like this. I had them in four different hues and textures. Yes they were high but who cared? My balance was perfect. I was strong. I moved like a young and unencumbered woman. But now, I am indolent and my footwear reflects how boring I have become. I like sneakers, yes, I do. I like the walking variety that doesn't rub too hard on the backs of my soft heels. And I like clogs for the occasions when the sneakers betray me and I become bloody and blistered. I own lots of flip flops, but these days they have a supportive arch. I have a perfect pair of wool mules for when I am in the house, which, during the last twenty four months, has been an awful damn lot.

But these? Oh my God, these ivory platform Saturday Night Fever shoes are my siren song. I see myself in faded bell bottoms and a gray t-shirt sporting the faded name of a college I've never attended. I want to layer southwestern turquoise bracelets on my wrists and slide silver chunky rings on every finger. This is my look, right? I am most like me when wearing things like this, right? 

Let's be real. I haven't worn stuff like this in a couple of years. And I miss it. And that makes me really sad today.

Far too content in my black yoga pants, gray wool slippers and my ancient brown fleece jacket, I am not funkadellic. I'm not even presentable. And looking at these sandals, for the last five minutes, I ask myself why. Why have I decided that it's acceptable to feel less like me? Why have I decided that a cocoon spun of fleece, spandex and wool is my fate? It might be comfy but it's certainly not captivating.

So, I won't be buying these sandals today but I won't be buying tortilla chips either. What I will be investing in is myself and my well being. I'll take a long walk and listen to a motivational speaker, one who tells me I don't need more of anything to be satisfied. One who tells me what I am, who I am, and where I am, is enough. 

#mushroomtumbler

Day 17/24: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

 

This is what I won't be buying today, but I can't promise I won't buy it in the future. I'm thinking it might be in everyone's best interest to learn a few more languages.

60 percent off? That's appealing, considering everything else we are buying costs at least 60 percent more right now.

Have you ever learned a second or third language? Do you still enjoy speaking it? I took great pleasure in and grew pretty proficient at French, having taken 6 years of it in school. I even began dreaming in French, which, people say, is an indication that you are becoming "fluent"... or maybe it means that you have eaten too much creme brulee before bed. Who knows?

My first foray into French was a well meaning sixth grade teacher who gave us all French names and taught us a vocabulary of about ten words like porte, chat, chien, and bonjour. Then, junior high French class was basically a room of thirty pre-teens giggling for forty minutes every other day about words that sounded strange and dirty, or actually were strange and dirty. Merde, coque, defoncer, and my favorite word, fourchette. My four foot four, late bloomer of a seatmate used to whisper, "full [of] shit!" every time we had to say the word for fork, eyes darting side to side with his chin planted surreptitiously upon his chest, shoulders heaving up and down with the witty weight of his cleverness. Madame Certain would glare as we, seated left and right, tittered into our fists and elbows, tears welling in our eyes either because we were trying so hard not to squeal aloud at this munchkin child saying "shit" (it was a different time, swearing in class could get you thrown out or worse) or owing to the fact that we were sitting squarely on our heels planted in just the right spot so we didn't wet ourselves holding back belly laughs after having drunk multiple cartons of chocolate milk at lunch.

Either way, watery eyes. 

And good times.

As we moved into high school, the teachers got stricter and the lessons got harder. It was sentence structure, past, present and future tenses, thick-ass textbooks, and real conversations. But, it all sort of rolled off the tongue with me, without a lot of study time, almost like music. Remarkably, I was also excelling at Algebra and Geometry, and I began believing in the notion of left brain/right brain balance and stimulation.  And wouldn't you know? Once I stopped the "real" math in favor of a guidance counselor-recommended "how to work the computer" Math class, the French wasn't as easily grasped, either. Weird how that happens.

So, would you like to revisit French with me? Should we grab a few Russian lessons, too? I definitely need some Italian. I'd like to travel and order mortadella on an aereo without it sounding like more-duh-del-uh on an air-ee-o. 

And, because our world appears to be getting smaller it might be nice to have the ability to say, "We are all in this together" in a variety of ways.

Just not today, friends. Today we buy groceries and gasoline...and we make charitable donations if we can and where we're able, to those who are feeling the pinch even greater than ourselves. 

Au revoir. Ostavat'sya v bezopasnosti. Alla prossima!

#mushroomtumbler