The Chronicles of Marge

A Cat for Kat

My sister Katharine requested a tale, so this is for her, embellished, of course. A few weeks ago, I was gearing up one Saturday morning for a day of Productivity Like None Other. My first mission was to take some old furniture to the goodwill, which included a few pieces that had been left at our house by a variety of people who have asked us to store their stuff for safekeeping while they are doing really exciting things like moving to cool cities or traveling, but I’ve gotten tired of looking at it when I go into the bomb shelter area of our basement—because I am in there, like, all the time—and, really, I think a year lease is pretty fair. You know, if you haven’t inquired about your shit in a year, don’t imagine ever seeing it again.

Anyway, so I took the truck to the goodwill, returned home, backed the truck up to park it in a different location, and screamed in terror at the sight of a tabby cat lying where the truck had originally been. Y’all: it was totally dead. Granted, there was no blood or strange bodily fluids about it, but I think you can confirm death when a creature appears completely undisturbed by a fly crawling about its eyeball.

I didn’t want to touch it, but I had to move it, and I felt like I needed a consultation first. Jason was at soccer, which means I had more of a likelihood of falling into a black hole than getting in touch with him in my hour of need, so I called my sister Katharine, and the timing could not have been better.

You see, that was the same weekend that both of my parents were visiting her in NOLA, and at the moment I called, she was on the brink of frustration and had encouraged (some in the family have said forced) my parents to take a walk to get coffee (and give her a break). No one should be offended by this. I mean, I think it’s a rare family in which people can stand to spend 24 hours or more together at a time. I have about a two-night limit with my family members, and even then, we all kind of disperse and largely ignore each other—all we need to feel the special togetherness of family is merely knowing that we have the ability to just yell at each from another room. 

Anyway, so I was on the phone with Katharine, and we decided that I needed to at least move the cat from the driveway and then I could wait on Jason to do all the dirty work when he got home. So I got a shovel, but the shape of the shovel and the shape of a big, dead cat just didn’t work so well together, and I ended up pushing the cat around the driveway and merely disturbing the flies. So then I got a board, and I pushed the cat onto that, I put the phone between my shoulder and my ear, and I picked up the board and started running. Maybe it was the laughter coming from my sister or maybe I stepped in a vole hole in the yard, but all I know was that suddenly the cat went flying off the board and landed in the yard, seemingly unbothered by all the action—I guess rigor mortis lends to that. I decided then that it was best to wait for Jason to take care of the cat. Upon his return, he looked at the cat and the board and the fact that I only made it 20 yards, and was all, “WTF, woman?” And I was all, “Here’s the shovel,” which he took and used to dutifully dig a hole in which we discovered a bunch of glass bottles from, like, the late 1970s I am certain (which makes them ancient, people). We buried the dead, nameless, tagless cat, and then put those bottles in the recycling and felt GOOD about ourselves.

And somewhere about that same time in a small apartment in New Orleans, my sister attempted to talk to my parents about feelings and personal space issues. And we can all guess how that probably ended: my mother felt the need for a nap, and my father excused himself to visit the toilet.

Guess What Brandon Wore

I was going to title this entry “Yes, He Wore Man Panties,” but I think my sisters might boycott The Chronicles because of an overt use of the word “panties,” and I don’t want to scare them away from reading a story involving our mother. (Yeah mom, I’m writing about you and there is nothing you can do about it.) So on Saturday, I saw the SYTYCD Season 5 tour. If you were wondering, Man Panties were present. And let me go ahead and say that the physique of Brandon is no joke. You could have sat in the rafters and seen every mound of muscle on that man—and there were many. And let me also say that you see more in person than on TV and that his dancing energy is even greater in the flesh as well. Actually, I’d say the same for the entire Top 10 (plus Phillip and The Straight-Haired Sister) present for the tour. I said many times over the course of Season 5 that it was my least favorite season thus far, but seeing them in person…I have a whole new love and respect, even for Kupono.

Anyway, the back story is that Jason’s mom really wanted to see the show on tour, but none of the men in her life—one husband and three sons—were ever going to take her. So I decided to get tickets for her and my mother. Let me admit, I was nervous about this. The show was in Richmond, and thus I had decided to take two fairly different women on a 2½-hour road trip in a small car. I foresaw the following: my mom would be asleep within 20 minutes of departing Durham, and Doris would talk the entire way even when I put on some SYTYCD tunes.

What actually happened: my mother fell asleep 20 minutes outside of Durham and Doris talked the entire way.

But what also happened was this: we met my friend Michelle and her husband for dinner at a restaurant close to the Richmond Coliseum. We had a reservation, and at 5:45 they told us that the table would be ready shortly. Well the lobby quickly became crowded with other folks heading to the show. Thirty minutes later, still standing, Michelle asked to speak to the manager who told us we were the next table up but sent us to the bar for drinks. My mom and Doris each ordered a glass of wine and sat down at the bar. The next thing I know, the bartender is pouring my mother another glass of wine and she and Doris are having a good ‘ole time talking about who knows what but that doesn’t really matter when you are on your second glass of wine and it is on the house because the restaurant staff is unorganized and can’t hold a reservation because apparently they’ve never read the definition of that word in the dictionary. So I look at the bartender, and I say, “Please don’t pour her another”—you know, visions of assisting my mother into the coliseum were dancing in my head—and the bartender takes the quarter-full bottle of wine and sets in on the bar in front of my mother, and says, “Here you go.” When we finally got to our table, my mother took the bottle with her, and at one point, I look over and she’s got the bottle tilted up to finish it off, and I say, “Mom, it might actually pour if you take the lid off.”

Fortunately, it was an uneventful walk to the show. Then to my great surprise, unlike in previous years where I’ve been the oldest person at a SYTYCD event without a child, the place was filled with what Doris called “elderly people,” which in her vocabulary means anyone over the age of 55. Don’t ask me why she uses that term but she does, and it’s surprising because she is more physically fit and young at heart than most 35 year olds I know.

But you know what, those elderly folks, and the four 30-somethings that I knew for a fact were in attendance, had the best time in the world yelling at Evan and Jeanine and Phillip like it was 1989, we were all 11, and NKOTB was up there hanging tough and whatnot, while at the same time yelling at a Vision in Man Panties like only an audience filled with Mature Women could. 

Newman

My dad called about 45 minutes ago to let me know that our dog Newman died tonight, and I feel the need to grieve through writing, so my apologies if this is disjointed and hard to follow.

This was not unexpected. Newman was old and losing his faculties, but the circumstances I envisioned for his death weren't exactly as it unfolded. There was an accident, but no one was to blame, although it weighs heavily upon my father, and I could hear it in his voice, which reminded me of the first of only two times I have seen my father cry, when our dog Victoria died, oh, 20 years ago. 

Newman was probably around 16 years old. We retrieved him as a very young dog from a retirement center where his owners just couldn't keep him. He came to us timid, unsociable, insecure, and named Brownie. Needless to say, we took care of the last one pretty quickly. I think it took Newman a little bit of time to adjust to his new situation, but he soon discovered two things: he had a home, and he had the best companion ever in my father. I know people the world over love their animals, but I've never seen anyone quite like my dad when it comes to pets. Animals love my dad. My dad has this way with animals that is very unique. He loves them tremendously and cares for them exceptionally, yet he refrains from treating them as if they are so precious that he ends up stifling their natural curiosities and instincts. Animals that live with the Family Ryalls always get a chance to live, even if it means fighting with copperheads, contending with neighborhood dogs, and sleeping outside most nights.

Newman was accustomed to all of the above and was allowed his curiosity. He was fascinated by tools and the workings of machines. He would watch my dad intently as my dad changed the oil in a car or cleaned the chain on a chainsaw. It was almost as if Newman had done these things in a former life and thought if only he had some opposable thumbs, he could jump in and help out. Newman loved to reach out and give you his paw. He loved it when we told him he was beautiful in Turkish—Çok güzelsin Newman. He loved riding in the old blue truck beside my dad when they went to the dump to take the trash. He loved going to Lowe's and following my dad down the aisles filled with plumbing parts or electrical wiring. He loved walking to the river or up the pipeline and would stay right at your heel—if my dad was in the group, it was his heel that Newman followed. 

Newman loved wearing bandanas around his neck and my guess is that the same brown one he's donned for months will go with him into the hole my dad dug for him in the backyard. And there he will rest with the other great friends who went before him—Amy and Detweiler, Daphney, Victoria, Joe, Freckles, and Rufus. 

You will be missed, my friend.

 

A Word or Two

Written last week and not posted until today: A belated word on the King of Pop.

I'm writing about this because the second I heard about Michael Jackson's death, I phoned my sister Katharine because I just had to talk to someone about it right then and there. Lo and behold, my sister Vern was calling Katharine at the exact same time, and through some wild advance in technology, Katharine got us on a three-way call and there we were, separate entities together as one, which is really the best way to describe the relationship I have with my sisters. We are all the same person, just split three ways. Anyway, it was the most exciting phone conversation I've had in years. Granted, it made me a bit sad because I hadn't seen Katharine since Christmas and I hadn't seen Vern since late winter and there's this corner of my being that hibernates when we are not together, but it was wonderful to talk and laugh with them and to feel like we were all in the same room together but with eyes closed. 

So the three of us shared in the death of an icon together and revisited that special time of childhood innocence and excitement, that decade that my generation was fortunate enough to experience through young eyes and hearts. We are the Children of the 80s. We are that generation that people keep wanting to group with X or Y but that falls more comfortably somewhere in between. We remember the silver glove and the moonwalk, which we tried to replicate on our little elementary school legs. We did not experience war as children, but we sure as hell remember the Challenger exploding and we remember images of the Berlin Wall coming down and knowing that something truly amazing was happening around us. We remember our parents being really concerned about something to do with Iran and Contras, but we did not understand because we were distracted by the fact that Pink 'N Pretty's head broke off and we had to force it back on to her now stump of a neck, but she didn't look right anymore because she had no neck and was all shoulders and head, and Ken just didn't think he could sleep with a woman whose head popped off spontaneously from time to time, so we cried a little bit and then we threw Pink 'N Pretty into the trash and we knew that it was THE END OF AN ERA because, after that, we moved on to Barbie and the Rockers and that gang did not come wearing a pink boa but was clad in spandex, or at least the '86 versions of Dana, Dee Dee, Derek, and Diva too. (And the fact that I still remember all of their names is sad, but Diva came with a cassette tape of the Barbie and the Rockers theme song, and you know I played that thing, like, all of the time because it was only one of three cassette tapes I had in 1986 and it fit really well into the rotation with Tina Turner's Private Dancer and Whitney Houston's self-titled album—you know, the one where she's in the toga and pearls and is saving all her love for you.)

And I think that's the whole point of pop culture sometimes. It's something that we can all have in common and that can bring us together, either in a moment of splendor or tragedy. So I'll remember the King of Pop through the eyes of a little girl circa 1984. May he rest in peace knowing that I still dance with reckless abandon every time Billie Jean is played.

Gettin' Out the Razor

We are going to a wedding in New York this weekend for Jason's cousin, and the question of what to wear has completely taken over my life—this coming from someone who is washing dishes in her bathtub and just discovered the mummified bodies of several dead mice between some studs in her kitchen wall. As if I have nothing else to think about. Anyway, it took me two months to buy the dress, one month to find a matching pair of shoes that I would actually wear again, and two hours with pliers and wire to make some jewelry to go with the ensemble. In addition, my aunt knitted me a shawl in less than a day and is mailing it to me as we speak, so you know it's serious when the whole family gets involved. I even went to the Super Target last night and bought makeup. Yes, that would be makeup for me. To put on my face. Yeah, you know Marge is having some type of life crisis when she applies something other than Oil of Olay SPF 15 to her face. The crisis escalated when somehow I managed to make it home with a lipstick that perfectly matches the color of my lips, and which I now can't return. I guess this is why people go to the makeup counter at Belk. I, personally, would rather vomit, so I'm stuck with lips this weekend that look exactly like the ones I already had.

I would even go as far to say that I've put more effort into what I'm wearing to this wedding than I did to my own wedding. Hell, I should quit attending weddings, and instead just get married again every time because that experience for me was one of the least stressful in my life—and for those of you surprised by this statement, you've apparently never overdosed on laxatives in the middle of a 'effin cow pasture in New Mexico. Trust me, getting married is easy. Anyway, maybe my grand amount of effort stems from this nagging feeling of aging. I don't feel old or ugly, but I feel like the edge of the cliff is just there and that I could topple over at any time and end up some middle-aged woman in pleated pants, which reminds me of an interesting conversation I had with my mother-in-law over the weekend. She said that she was talking to a friend about how, as a woman, you reach this point in your life where you realize that no one is looking at you anymore. You used to be young and vibrant and could turn a head, but then all of a sudden, it passes, and it's kind of sad to realize that you'll never have that anymore—you'll never be that woman ever again. So maybe this is why I am obsessed all of a sudden. Maybe each occasion for dressing up that I have could be my last as a young, vibrant thing. I've never considered myself to be a head-turner or one of the pretty girls, but I've always felt young, and I've always felt like I could bring it if I wanted.

So why not go the extra mile for what may be the last time as an almost bright young thing. I might even shave my legs in the hope that all this effort is worth it—as in, please god, let there be an open bar!! I also hope I don't return with the swine flu, which I can totally envision happening to me. I mean, who doesn't feel a little bit like they've contracted some H1N1 after they've spent three days with their extended family anyway, regardless of how much you like them. But no worries. I'm taking the necessary precautions and am fortifying my system with so much echinacea that I'll end up growing a purple cone flower out of my ass before this is all over.

A Bit More Frequent

I have not written in forever. It's really hard to do when you sit at a computer for 8 to 9 hours a day and you come home and the weather is lovely and there are exciting things to do outside, like work with compost and stare at plants, without fear of mosquitoes. And because I've written that sentence, I'm sure that next week I'll be sitting indoors covered in calamine lotion and wondering what the hell is going on with the tomatoes because I can't get out there to them for the swarm of enemy combatants in my yard. Anyway, there is a lot going on outside and I can't miss out on that part of life just to write a bit about nothing—which is to say, I don't understand those people who update their facebook status every 33 minutes because it's really important that I know about their trip to the grocery store to buy a pint of Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia, which they consumed while watching Grey's Anatomy, and the fact that there are still dirty dishes on their kitchen counter, and I'm all like, "You are obviously inside, fool, so it shouldn't be hard to clean that shit up," and also, DO YOU THINK I CARE? And HOW DO YOU HAVE TIME FOR ALL THESE UPDATES? I should start adding my status. It would go something like this, "Margaret just drank a fiber drink and hopes to see results within the week." And my facebook friends are now relieved I never post a status update.

So my mom came to visit for the weekend, during which she took a long nap at our house. Jason finds the practice in my family of napping while visiting relatives strange, but really, it's the best way to say, "I'm comfortable in your space, and I don't have to worry about coming up with conversation that leads to questions like, 'Do you use a slow cooker?'" which I actually posed to my mother over the weekend because, apparently, I have nothing else to offer. In addition to the napping, I accompanied my mother on a quest for shoes and a dress, which took us to the mall and some stores that don't contain the initials H and M in their names. This could have turned out horribly, but I am proud to say that I maintained very good behavior while looking through the capri pants at Coldwater Creek and the elastic-waisted pants at the Chico's. One day when I can no longer suck in my stomach on command, I may have a different opinion about those clothes, but for now, hell no.

Anyway, my mom left this morning before 8 because she had to get back to the dogs. Sometimes I think she loves them more than she loves her children, but I really don't blame her. The dogs are still at home, there for her when no one else is. They've never moved away, never dated assholes, and never rejected her gifts of clothing. In addition, nothing builds that sense of unconditional parental love quite like having someone pee on your kitchen floor in the wee morning hours. And for those of you shocked at the ill-trained manner of my parents' dogs, please note the following: Newman is elderly, blind, and deaf; he has survived heart worms, a virus of unknown origin that took the life of another beloved dog, and being bitten by a copperhead twice within 2 weeks; he also moves his bowels now while walking because those muscles just aren't the same as they used to be. So the fact that he only pees on the kitchen floor is a blessing, and we have all started preparing ourselves emotionally for The Big Sleep that will happen one day soon and cause my father to cry. Let's just hope my dad isn't in Istanbul or some place equally exotic when it happens.

PS  Since writing the above this morning, I was bitten six times by mosquitoes in the yard this afternoon and killed four of them. I immediately went inside the house, and curled up into a fetal position. I looks like I will be writing more frequently now.

Men in the Building

Last week, my sister Kat informed me that she had joined an indoor soccer league. Mind you, she has never really played soccer before in her life except for some noble attempts at running up and down the field in the direction of the ball with her head down (she said this method gave the appearance that she knew what she was doing). I think the only thing more entertaining—no offense, Kat— would be all three of the Sisters Ryalls playing soccer on a field together. It would be a graceless display of flying appendages and multiple injuries to other team members caused by very pointy elbows. Anyway, I told Jason about this and he was all, "That is a great way to meet guys." I guess he would know about this since he is on the field three times a week. (And my brain goes: maybe I should check into that. Or maybe I shouldn't. Or maybe..oh hell, leave it alone Marge.) Anyway, I called Kat last night, and the following conversation unfolded.

Me: Jason wanted me to tell you that soccer is a great place to meet guys.
Kat: But I joined an all-girls league.
Me: Damn. [now yelling] Jason, she joined an all-girls league.
Jason: [yelling] Why did she do that?
Me: Why did you do that?
Kat: It was the only one I knew about. [pause] There are men in the building.

And to that I say, wear a lot of spandex. It may get you places.

Can You Tie Them in a Knot

Discovered a wrinkle in my earlobe this week. A WRINKLE IN MY EARLOBE!! I guess it’s better than jowls, which I’m convinced I’ll have by the age of 40, but still, it’s not what I needed to find in February, at the height of being seasonally affected, which means I have the self-esteem of a sixth-grade girl who realizes that all of the other girls are actually wearing real bras now, and an undershirt just doesn’t cut it anymore because the straps don’t snap when someone pulls on them and you are all found out and everyone knows that you don’t have boobs, which any idiot could have realized by looking at your chest.

Anyway, the wrinkle in my earlobe has upset me a bit, merely because it reminds me of my grandfather’s earlobes, which reminds me that I cannot escape genetics. There are three physical characteristics I remember about my grandfather: 1) he had really long curly arm hair—I mean, this stuff stood up and out from the arm in a mass of curl and if you pulled on it, the length would increase by at least 2 inches; 2) I saw him once without his teeth and he totally called me out on it (I think he enjoyed still being able to put fear into small children, albeit later in life from the comfort of a recliner); and 3) he had really long wrinkly earlobes. These were earlobes that said, “Hi, we’ve lived through The Depression.” And World War II. And four children under the age of 6. And congealed salad on a weekly basis. And now I wonder if I’ll end up an 88-year-old woman with hears that hang low, wobble to and fro, can be tied in a knot or tied in a bow, or thrown over my shoulder like a Continental solider. Or maybe people will just look at me and say, “Yep, her earlobes lived through Those Economic Times,” which, 50 years from now, is something the MTV generation will reminisce about from the comfort of a Golden LL5000 Lift Chair with a built-in surround-sound system and bedpan.

Holiday Roundup

Oh, the holiday season has been so kind. When I last reported in on Christmas Eve, I had a fever blister on my lip and a sty on my eyelid. Today, a damn Kilaeua has erupted on my forehead that looks like it will attempt an archipelago. Great.

Pedaling backward: I spent Christmas Eve and the following four days in glasses, wiping the crust from my eye and applying Carmex to my lip in the hope that no one would think I had some other form of herpes. Instead, no one noticed or at least everyone was too afraid to comment on the Children of My Face for fear of where my answer might take them. Christmas with the Family Ryalls was good but fairly uneventful. My mother mentioned the need for a muscle relaxer. My dad made some fake mirror windows to put on one of his outbuildings so that we can all see ourselves as we go in search of an oil pan. Sister Vern showed off her new leg tattoo. Sister Katharine made some paper that almost caught fire while drying on the wood stove. And Jason vacuumed my mother’s living room. The man really has no equal.

Jason and I concluded our holiday season with Christmas at the Family Mathes on New Year’s. Our time spent there included a lot of wine and a lot of domino playing, which I won, thank you very much. It also included a family walk through the woods, during which I stepped into an invisible hole and ended up face down on the ground. I was embarrassed, yet pleased with my physical resiliency and ability to hold back tears. I was about to think that my holiday season would end up on a better note than it started, but after the festivities were over, and Jason and I found ourselves heading back to the Real World of 2009, known as “My Womb and I Will Be 31 This Year—Yeah, We Know, Bitches,” I found myself in tears on a long country road somewhere in Chatham County. Luckily, I wasn’t on foot thumbing for a ride to Durham but in the passenger seat of the Margemobile II in the midst of a spousal argument that was rooted in the main reason that spouses fight: FOR ABSOLUTELY NO REASON AT ALL. Jason decided to take his frustrations about life and other people out on the only set of ears in his life that he could find not attached to his person—those belonging to his wife—and I was struggling with emotional fragility and the fear of never using the bathroom again, which I realize now was all caused by PMS and eating massive amounts of brie.

However, please fear not for my mental health—although come February, the fear may be quite strong. I’m going to take the advice of a friend who told me today that in this season of gray, miserable weather (weather that refuses to produce snow or a collection of hot, 20-something men who work the checkout at the Whole Foods) that I should count my blessings. So here we go: I have my health; I’m working my way through a bag of Ghirardelli bittersweet chocolate chips, which I can do almost guilt-free because I burn more than 1500 calories a day by riding my bike to work; my husband brought home a bottle of red wine; and finally, my mother gave me a bottle of Oil of Olay Age-Defying daily renewal cleanser for Christmas to remind me that it is NEVER TOO LATE TO START DEFYING MY AGE, which is such a blessing. But now I remember that Kat and Vern each got a bottle too and I realize that my mom found these in a three pack at the Sam’s Club or someplace. I tell you what: my mother cannot resist a three pack for her daughters. I swear, if they sold Fleet enemas in a three pack, each of us would have gotten one in our Christmas bag too, and then I would have had even more to be thankful for in this post-holiday season of funk.

Deer and Dishwashers

Sitting here having a really dead moment at work. Not actually thinking about death or the large-ass dead deer in the bike lane that I had to maneuver around on my way to work this morning, which caused me to be all, "Oh my gosh, that is gross." But then it made me think about supper.

Anyway, it also reminded me of the story my sister Kat once told of driving on the interstate through the Deep South—Mississippi or Alabama or somewhere similar and desolate—and witnessing a man who had stopped in the median and was skinning a dead deer that had been hit by a car. I shit you not. These people exist (and considering the fact that my dad brought home a dead fox in the trunk of his car once means that I'm also RELATED to these crazy fools. I can just see the headlines now: Woman on Bike With Dead Deer Strapped to Handlebars Pleads Genetics in Case of Misdemeanors Involving the Removal of Roadkill from the Highway).

So what's new, you might ask? Not much. I haven't seen the sun since Sunday—it is Thursday now. And although it has been pretty balmy out for December, I feel like my vitamin D level has dropped to an all-time low and will require a vacation in the Caribbean to recover. Or the arrival of spring, which is the more likely option.

The other news: the kitchen remodel has begun. I don't even think I should call what we are doing a remodel—I mean, where do the thin lines between renovate, remodel, and DESTROY AND REBUILD exist? Yeah, this will be a phoenix project for sure—or at least we hope something great will arise from the ashes. It may also begin the waltz down the aisle of divorce for me and Jason. I know, I shouldn't joke about divorce (and if you are worried or hopeful, please note that we aren't getting one and never will—as my mother so thoughtfully reassured my childhood self on more than one occasion, "Your father and I will never get a divorce; we can't afford it," yes my mind is at ease now, mother), but nothing puts the topic on the conversation radar quite like disconnecting your dishwasher from the In-Sink-Erator and ending up with a vomit-type liquid that smells like decomposing intestines on your kitchen floor. Yeah, we wondered why the defunct dishwasher would spontaneously fill up with a puddle of gray, putrid fluid, and we now know where that came from. Give us a couple of months, and that accursed garbage disposal will end up where the dishwasher now resides: In Our Driveway.

I don't know why, but there's something rather comforting and nostalgic about broken appliances taking up residence in the yard—wait. I know, it reminds me of my childhood. Thanks mom and dad.