you can't make this shit up

Sometimes my conversations with my mom are so bizarre that when I think back on them I feel as though I must have made them up.

The other day I spoke to her on the phone and mentioned that one of our trees was dead and I was going to have to have someone come to take it down.

Here's the conversation:


So mom, we're going to have to have one of the trees at the house taken down, because it seems to be dead.

Oh, really? Well it can't be that big, that won't be a problem.

Uh, no mom, it's taller than the house. It is going to be very expensive.

Taller than the house? No. Our tree in the front isn't taller than the house.

Well this tree in the back of my yard, is taller than my house. It's a Norway Maple. Right now it has these small yellow flowers on it.

Norway Maple? Never heard of it. Maples don't have flowers. It must be like the tree in front of our house. Ooh I hate that tree and all the little things that come off of it.

I'm pretty sure that it's a maple. I does have maple leaves. Those are distinctive. I'll make sure to ask the tree guy when he comes though.

Yes, you ask him, because it can't possibly be a maple. I've never heard of a maple tree with flowers before.

Uh, ok....


See what I'm dealing with?

I've told this story to several people in the past few days, and each time they ask if it's for real. And yes, unfortunately it is. But when I am alone, and I think back on it I feel incredulous myself. Can she possibly be that removed from reality?

This is nothing new in my relationship with her. In the past I would just give in to the bizarre nature of it and figure that I made it up, because, damn, it just does not make sense.

Oh, and the tree?

50 feet tall and a NORWAY MAPLE which ohmygod has FLOWERS.

In honor of Arbor Day

This is my tree


Stately, majestic,  potentially shade-giving.

Dead.

Well mostly, anyway.

Turns out that when the branches look like this


its not a good sign.

And when the tree only has twelve leaves - well the future does not look bright for this specimen of acer plantanoids.


And so with a bucketful of irony I need to get an estimate on just how much damage this dead tree will do to my pocketbook - on Arbor Day.

Just like you I had no idea tomorrow was Arbor Day until I started calling tree surgeons to get someone to come out and take a look at it.

One helpful women actually told me that she didn't have anyone to come out tomorrow because, you know, it's Arbor Day. Tree surgeons get to take the day off? Am I missing out on some festivities? Maybe ones with fried dough? Because I could really use some fried dough right now.

Clearly my environmentalism is only a charade, cleverly managed to keep up with Ed Begley Jr.

Updated to add: Arbor Day is different in every state! Who knew? No wonder no one ever pays attention to it! Tomorrow is New Jersey's Arbor Day. I think these guys need a better PR person.

The short good-bye

It was a little over a year ago that my oldest cat, Atreus was on death's door. 

I was so happy when he began to come around.

He perked up again, and it seemed that he would be with us for a long time to come.

And then, last Friday he collapsed.

I guess it was some sort of attack. He had been fine. Right up to when he collapsed.

He had been with me since I was 21 years old - and then he died in my arms.

It was all such a shock - I couldn't believe he was actually gone. I held him for the longest time just wishing that he would start breathing again.

When you live with an animal that long, the connection you have doesn't go away so easily. I know that I'll hold him in my heart for a long time to come - and it feels just like when he would cuddle up next to me at night.

I need to find a nice bush I can plant in the yard to bury his ashes under.

He was such a nice cat.

Goodnight, Atreus. I'll miss you, buddy.

rocks, birdbaths and white elephants

The movers came, our boxes are here,

blah, blah, blah....

I'm happy and all that, but hear me out about this...

Back when I first left my mother's house, she told me she would give me her dining room set, let's just say, my childhood bedroom set.

A nice gesture right?

Perhaps in some families.

This woman has held this bedroom set (bought at a yard sale) over my head since the day I left her house. Every time I moved she brought it up in a nasty way, about how I was snubbing her and didn't love her because I didn't take that bedroom set. I have never had room for it, not to mention the fact that it is big and cumbersome and space has always been an issue.

So here I am after 2 decades of staving off her hostile gift. Now I have a house. So I MUST take the bedroom set.

Except that once again I have no room for it. And I still have no desire for it either.

[I just checked out my  analytics account to make sure no one from my home-town is reading the blog. She stresses me out.]

I do sort of have room for it, though.  But when I just spoke to her and mentioned that I didn't think it would fit and that we should probably measure the pieces before I spend $200 to cart it here - she responded with the silent treatment.

I am almost 40. I feel like I should have a say as to what comes into my house. I don't want to browbeaten by her yard sale find from the seventies.

Actually, I don't want to be browbeaten by her at all anymore.

But if I come right out and say that I don't want it, then I know I'll have a huge "ungrateful brat" fight on my hands that could last for months. I was really hoping to finagle it so that she would realize that it won't fit easily in the house. Then it would be her idea and I would be let off the hook somewhat.

Except that I'm not dealing with a rational person, and this isn't about giving at all, but rather about having her stuff in my house so that she can tell me what to do with it and where to put it and how to use it. And about having something to use against me.

[As I'm writing this I have to keep getting up to go outside because my son and the neighbor are digging up the backyard. Right now they are making a "stream leading to a birdbath" which is a path of rocks from the gutter-spout to a hole in the grass lined with more rocks. It's very cute and they are having a blast, but they need me to keep going out to tell them exactly how much I like it. "I love it!" "Wow, I really love it!" "Gosh, you guys are like professionals!!"]

So anyway, I'm screwed. I don't want to get into it with her, but I don't think there is anyway out of it. I guess I've just been delaying the inevitable all these years.

She's so god-damned DRAINING.

I'm going outside to dig up rocks with my kid.

we are here

in the new house with our bare essentials.

And all our pets.

Just a few more days until the movers come.

Daniel is doing better and has gone back to his routine of worrying incessantly about school issues before bed.

Yes, actually this is better. We talk, he tells me what the problem is, I write a note to the teacher, and then he goes to sleep.

The big news today was that he had a meltdown in class and the teacher didn't notice and he was able to get over it by himself by lunchtime.

Daniel and I talked tonight about the concept of growth through adversity. He told me he understood what that meant, but he wasn't sure that he liked it. I tried to explain that I thought his teacher was giving him the space to grow, even though it might be hard at first.

Did I ever mention how much I adore his teacher? What do you give a teacher who cares enough to push for growth - but not too hard?

It feels good to be sleeping here, in our house. Even without furniture. I feel calmer.

Neighbors have been stopping by. Glad to see this house that was empty for so long, now occupied. I have to say, It's very weird to have the neighbors come over to say hi. All those years in apartments, no one ever stopped by. Plus I have friends with houses, and their neighbors all end up being cling-y or creepy or both.

How can I tell which neighbors are the crazy ones? Are they the ones who are super friendly? Or the ones who glare from a distance?

It doesn't matter, soon enough they'll all know that WE are the crazy ones.

And for my always patient husband... a photo from this time last year:

see?

This is what happens when you write via blackberry.

What are there? 42 copies of that last post?

And it won't let me delete them because I'm not Java-enabled!

So anyway, as soon as I can get some signal (Starbucks? Then I'll be Java-enabled) I'll delete all the rogue posts.

Until then, sorry.

desperate for the internets

We have no internet.

That's in addition to not having any lamps.

I don't mind the lack of lamps as much as the lack of internets.
Plus,
My fingers are way too big for this blackberry thing-a-mah-whatzit.

Moving is proceeding as planned with much drama and muscle soreness.

Daniel is doing better. Not so helpful with the packing, perhaps, but not suicidal - and really what more can you ask for?

Man, I really hope this blackberry-blogging thing works, It's taken an entire episode of iCarly to write this.

When therapy "clicks"

Yesterday Daniel had art therapy.

I had called ahead to let the therapist know what was going on, so she was ready when we got there.

She used music and movement and drawing to pull Daniel out and get him to talk, but not in the way that psychologists do. She talked to him about how hard it was for her when her students don't listen and act up in her class, and she talked to him about how it made her feel.

When she asked Daniel if he knew what she was talking about, his eyes lit up and he joined in - telling her how it made him feel like fire when the kids misbehave and how he hits himself and tries to shush them but it doesn't work, it only adds oxygen to the fire.

They used drums to express how it made them feel, and the whole time Daniel talked and talked.

This is significant because he had not been willing to talk with his psychologist.

He spontaneously drew a diagram showing how he would like to feel (relaxed), how he feels most of the time (mildly to moderately anxious) and how he feels during conflicts at school (tense, "on fire" out of control)

He said he's only felt relaxed one or two times in his life.

I'm a fly on the wall during these sessions, listening but not interfering unless he calls me in. Several times yesterday I was near tears listening to him and his eloquent descriptions of how he feels. He holds so much in his brain, absorbing everything and then when it comes back out through his filter it is just amazing.

He got carried away comparing his feelings to those of a giant gaseous planet orbiting too close to it's star. (I think this is what he's talking about, but who knows) Updated to add: Here is the actual link to what he was talking about. Proud parent Howard looked it up so that you would have the "correct" information.

He couldn't simply end with the comparison, he had to fill her in on all of the pertinent minutiae, so that she could properly understand his reference.

Sometimes it's like he has to give you the contents of his brain so that he can have a conversation with you.

At the end, the therapist challenged him to be a little easier on himself for the next few days, and not feel responsible for the behavior of the other children in his class, and gave him a mantra to repeat to himself when he starts to get "wound up". He wouldn't promise her anything, because he can't commit unless he knows he can succeed, but he said he might try.

It was nothing short of beautiful.

And when he climbed into the car, he told me, "I love her."

"Me too" I said.

Me too.

Update

Things are a little better here.

Partly because of Valium.

And also because I've been bending over like a Cirque du Soleil act to keep Daniel as calm and anxiety-free as possible. (The contortionist act is made easier by Valium)

So I'm picking him up from school, taking him out of school early, and generally being as helpful and chipper as I can muster. That's not saying very much, really because I'm in that part of the packing cycle where I burst into tears randomly. But he seems to be a little better. At least he hasn't handed me any "I WANT TO DIE" notes in the last 36 hours.

So that's an improvement.

Oh! did I tell you? My basement stairs are one inch too narrow for my washer and dryer to fit.

Does that sentence even make sense?

I have to get a saw and carve up my beautiful finished basement stairway so that the movers will be able to get my washer and dryer into the basement.

I am not happy about that. Mostly because while I am confident about my demolition abilities, I have no f*@&ing clue how to hang sheet-rock and make it look pretty again.

Oh crap, here come the tears.

***********************

Ok, better now.

Well, I have to go back to the packing. The moving company is coming tomorrow to give me an estimate and I think they like to see stuff that is actually in boxes and not just thrown on the floor.