The Chronicles of Marge

Not in My Backyard

There is this moment in Steel Magnolias where Ouiser enters the scene and proclaims, "I am in hell." I don't remember why—haven't seen the movie in years—but I felt that way earlier this week, and being the Southern lady that I am, my indignation came while I was digging in the dirt in the garden and enjoying a perfectly pleasant evening at home.

I was prepping some of our raised beds for a planting of arugula and mixed greens. I noticed that something had been digging in the soil and figured it was a rabbit—we have one who lives in the neighborhood and enjoys the vegetation in our yard. So as I was raking the soil and smoothing things out, I came across a clump of what I thought was good 'ole North Carolina clay. But when I picked it up and inspected in, I found that it was not the usual red or gray that is common to our soil. It was more like a mustard color. And then I realized what it was and pitched a fit in the backyard. I was in one of my versions of hell. I hope none of the neighbors were watching because they would have seen a woman yelling at the air, stomping into the garage, exiting with cage wire and needle-nosed pliers, and banging out a garden protection system that doesn't accommodate the size of a cat's ass.

It's as if my raised bed had a sign on it that said Cats Welcome: Empty Bowels Here. Seriously, people, if you have a cat and live in town, provide it with the proper waste disposal area and a little bit of training. Maybe I am a bit naive; maybe I am overreacting; maybe I am spoiled because I grew up in the country, a place where animals know when and where to take a shit. I mean, I never saw piles of dog or cat poop anywhere near the yard when I was growing up and we had dogs and cats aplenty. They took that show on the road, and granted, my current neighborhood cat is taking its show on the road too, but where I grew up, the show was out of sight, out of mind, and not in my effin' arugula. Thanks.

A Senior Discount

I received some good feedback from my post last week about not wanting to be a mother and feeling insecure about that. I just want to clarify one thing: it's not so much that I am sitting around wondering what other people would like me to do with my life—I think anyone who knows me well enough knows that I do a pretty good job making decisions for myself—but it's more that I don't know what the right decision for me is on this subject, and equally important, my spouse also hasn't a clue. So there we are: two cerebral beings who can't make a decision. If only God would descend from the heavens and tell me what I should do, but I know life doesn't work like that.

Speaking of God... I saw Jesus Christ Superstar last weekend when it rolled through Durham. I've never seen it before and really enjoyed the show, but I've got a critique: what was up with the old Jesus? I mean, this guy sounded like he was struggling through a bout of emphysema courtesy of 45 years at a pack a day, and he looked like he could qualify for the 4:30 p.m. senior discount at the local K&W. (Which reminds me of my estranged uncle and a Jello-O dessert dabbed with a bit of whipped cream—you know, the kind from the plastic tub. I haven't been to a K&W in more than a decade, but I sure remember all those cubes of Jello-O and trying my darnedest to make that dab of whipped cream last the whole bowl, an effort that always failed and left me with a half empty bowl of green gelatinous disappointment. And who said said Jello-O never taught anyone a life lesson.) Anyway, I shouldn't have judged Jesus on his appearance or age, but I was kind of in the mood to see a young, hot Jesus, you know, one who didn't need assistance when he laid down for the evening and one who didn't have man boobs. Yeah, that's right: Jesus had man boobs.

So after the show, one of my girlfriends dropped me off at home and I realized that I had locked myself out of the house and Jason was in Raleigh. It was 80 degrees out, so I decided I would just hang out in the yard until Jason returned, but then I really had to pee and decided that maybe I could break into the house. So I found a stepladder and a wooden platform in the yard, and I positioned them under our bedroom window. The contraption put my head just above the windowsill, and from there I peeled the window screen back and reached into our bedroom. I swear, if any of the neighbors had looked out their back windows, they would have seen a skinny woman in sandals and a strapless bra, with her head trapped between the window frame and the window screen, hanging on for dear life and making a poor showing of her breaking-and-entering skills. (Needless to say, I also wore pants and a tank top, but saying that a woman is breaking into her house in a strapless bra and sandals just sounds much more interesting.) Anyway, after succumbing to the fact that I lacked She-Ra Princess of Power Biceps and that my efforts would most likely end in my impalement on a stand of nandina, I gave up and just waited in the yard until Jason got home. I also promptly took the stepladder into the house so that when He-Man visits Durham, he won't be tempted to break into our house through the bedroom window and steal all of our special treasures. You know, that collection of VOGUE magazines is worth a lot.

Not a Cruise Ship Type of Girl

From a conversation earlier this week between two spouses who will remain anonymous:

Wife: Do you look at me and think bad things about me because I don't want to have a baby?

Husband: No. I look at you and think bad things about you for other reasons.

Needless to say, I have convinced myself that the foundation of a strong marriage rests on honesty.

And while we are being honest, here goes: I don't know if I want to be a mother, and I wonder if it makes me a bad person because I feel this way. I possess absolutely ZERO inclination to become a parent. And here come all of the parents of the world in one big collective response saying, "Parenting is the best! You'll never know love until you become a parent!! No one is ever ready; you just have to try it out and it will be great!!!" And to that I say: Quit using so many damn exclamation points already. Also, do you mean all the people out there who never procreate end up living sad, loveless lives that are basically worthless? Is that what you mean? Is that what will happen to me if I don't try out the functionality of my womb? Are all the Mothers of the World going to judge me forever because I don't feel maternal? And why don't I feel maternal? Can I blame this on my parents? Or do I blame myself because I actually think a lot about having a baby, which has led me repeatedly to the following very important question: Am I cut out for waking up in the middle of the night to discover my child huddled over in pain and then taking it to the emergency room just to be told by a stranger that it hasn't used the bathroom in 2 EFFIN' WEEKS and that for THE REST OF ITS LIFE it will have psychological issues when it comes to the toilet and that I will have to HEAR ABOUT IT UNTIL I AM AGED (please say that word with two syllables) because every time I phone my kid to get a status update on its now adult life, it will sound something like this: "Mom, my stomach is the size of The World, and no, it's not that size because I am pregnant. It's that size because I haven't used the bathroom in 4 days and I know you heard about this last week, but I will tell you about it again."

Seriously folks, I don't know if I'm cut out for it. I don't know if it's in my destiny. Yet I also feel like I've missed the boat on this one. I feel like the Holiday Cruise Ship to the World's Best Vacation has just left the harbor and all these parents are standing on deck with a sippy cup in one hand and a child on one hip looking at the poor, pitiful women who didn't want to have children and are stuck on the shore of Not Cut Out For It, and that they feel sorry for us because, even though we are still young, we have missed the ship and we won't get to see the special magic show on Deck 7 every night at 9 p.m. during which a strung-out middle-aged magician (father of three) with a comb-over pulls one million dollars out of his ass, which he then turns into a bouquet of flowers that smells like a newborn baby. And I'm not even a cruise ship type of girl, yet I still feel abandoned and alone and a bit abnormal.

But I have to remind myself that this is just the latest for me in a lifelong list of insecurities, which began with needing to feel pretty as a small child, being the first one in my class to wear glasses, being the last one in my class to wear a bra, wanting to be popular in school but not wanting to be a cheerleader to get there, wanting boys to like me when they didn't know I existed, struggling to find employment, feeling as if my job was not impressive enough, feeling as if I need to get a master's degree to prove that I'm smart and important, and feeling insecure because I don't want to be a mother.

And in 10 years, when I discover this post while hiding out in the bathroom with The Internets to escape my husband and our four children, who will all be named after LOTR characters or tropical fruit and none of whom will have bathed in days, I will really laugh. But I'll also be glad to remember that I had these feelings and that feelings like this will be just as important to creating the journey that is my life as the feeling of motherhood, if ever that may arrive.

As Long as It Takes

I think any fool with one eye and a pulse could see this coming: the coupling of James and Juliet. But let me tell you something that might surprise you: I like it. I like it a lot, and if Kate ends up messing this up, I will be one angry lady. People have put up with a lot of shit on that island and to finally see two people looking happy, healthy, and in love is great. So let me take this moment to say the following to Ms. Austen: 

Kate, you are a disaster. You have always been a disaster and you cause disaster everywhere you go. You also only seem to sleep with people when you are angry or in distress, so stay out of distress now that you are back in the presence of one James Ford (who, I might add, cleans up very well). Or maybe just get in distress around Jack, who is also a disaster and who I think you should be with because of this. You know, I really liked Jack initially, and I still want to like Jack because every time I see him I think of Charlie Salinger from Party of Five and it makes me feel all special inside and like I'm 17 again (which really wasn't a special time in my life, but I hadn't yet been introduced to cellulite, so we'll consider that age as retroactively special), but then I realize that Charlie had many of the same problems that Jack has, namely TELL THE GIRL YOU LOVE HER AND GROW A PAIR GOSH.

Now that I have that off my chest...I really enjoyed last night's episode. It was well executed, it was interesting, it was entertaining, and someone on the show finally verbalized what everyone in their livings rooms has noticed: that Richard Alpert wears a gross amount of eyeliner. Thank you, James. It was also great to see Sawyer in his element as a con man again, but there was something different to this con than before. He didn't become Jim LaFleur for selfish reasons, he did it for the people around him and the people whose return he anticipated. I think the development of this character—a long, steady evolution—has been a pleasure to watch, and if I write any more about it, I'm going to get choked up and have myself a good, happy cry, and do I really want the most emotional point of my week to be about a long-haired man in a khaki jumpsuit?

Also, Juliet as a car mechanic—respect.