The Call Of Shame

I should not be blogging right now. There are easily 8-trillion other things that I should be doing besides blogging, and yet... I'm blogging. It's one of those gotta-do-it-while-it's-still-fresh things, or at least that's what I'm telling myself, as I sit here knowing that I have a ridiculously early morning tomorrow, and (again) 8-trillion things that need to be accomplished before my oh-so-weary head meets my BFF/pillow.

I love the spring-- not as much as I love the fall, or winter, but I love it, never the less. It's the flowers, I think, and the excitement of being able to finally wear all of those end-of-season summer clearance items I bought months ago and nearly forgot about. Don't mock me-- that's serious business. Well, when you're me, it's serious business, anyway. I also admittedly have a weak spot for the Easter holiday, because it gives me the excuse to go out and buy an extraordinary, full-price dress, all in the name of Jesus, and let's face it-- nobody gets to argue with Jesus, especially me. Egg-dyeing, those scrumptious Reese's eggs, jelly beans, watching people get baptized at church-- all great stuff. Yes, I do indeed love the spring.

... Except for one thing. Mowing. Sweet mother, I hate to mow. I look back wistfully now on how I loved it once, back when my yard was something to behold, and I took great and careful pride in manicuring it twice-a-week. Now, I live in a weed-infested rental, and while I do so adore my house and its location, the grass (ahem... weeds) just about bring a tear to my eye. When you're me, and nothing you do can make your yard look like something on the cover of Better Homes & Gardens, you begin to, well, lose interest. Yes, I admit it. The weeds have beaten me down.

So, you can understand why I have basically ignored the fact that my yard has been turning into it's own miniature replica of the Amazon rain forest over the last few weeks, because why would I want to take more time out of my day (which I don't have) to do something that really accomplishes little more than allowing me to actually see where my dogs and children are when they are playing out in the yard? Uh, boring. No, I'd rather be taking pretty pictures, or eating those Reese's eggs, drinking ridiculous amounts of coffee, or surfing for Easter dresses I can't afford-- all a far better use of my time, in my opinion.

There comes a time, though, when the weeds grow tall enough that you begin to become paranoid about whether there is a small legion of garden gnomes using them as cover in their operation to penetrate your house and punish your dogs for leaving land mines all around their native country. So, for absolute fear of being ambushed by a jihad of lawn ornaments, I dragged the mower out this past weekend, secretly praying that it wouldn't start, in a vain attempt to thin out the jungle.

Okay, the moment of truth. Give it a few good pulls, and if it doesn't start, well, oh darn. You gave it your best, and you can go back in the house, pour yourself a cup of coffee, and resume drafting your marriage proposal to Jack White (since Josh Groban has been too busy to respond). One... two... three... PULL!..... Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle-- it started-- first pull. God bless those Honda motors. I shall write them a heart-felt thank-you note just as soon as the blisters on my hands heal up from shoving this contraption through a yard of 12-inch-tall weeds.

It. Was. Awful. Let me rewind slightly and inform you that the self-propel feature on this mower has not worked in two seasons. So, as if this mower wasn't heavy enough all by itself, sitting stationary, the Honda logo looking up at me with a very smug grin on its face, pushing it back and forth across a very lumpy and soggy backyard was no picnic. Oh wait! I also forgot to mention that it had rained for three days straight, prior to when my gnomophobia set it (an actual disease-- look it up, I dare you).

Brilliant! Swamp conditions and no self-propel to help boost me along. This shall require a different pair of shoes, I thought, and I literally put on my hot pink and black rain boots... to mow the grass. True story, and in my expert opinion, appropriate attire for the conditions at hand. Play the hand you are dealt, I always say. Had I really been thinking on my toes, (which I clearly wasn't, or I wouldn't have waited so long to mow the yard in the first place), I would've made a trip out to Bass Pro (just threw up a little in my mouth as I typed that) and purchased some snake-proof boots-- you know, to stay dry and protect me from gnome artillery (which I was fully anticipating), but truth be told, I really didn't have time, and decided to take my chances.

It goes without saying (although, I'm going to say it, anyway) that the mower got clogged up with soggy, stinky grass faster than I could say, "Peanut! Quit pooping in front of the mower." It took everything I had, throwing the full weight of myself against the mower handle, to propel that beast across the lawn. I don't know how many times I had to clean it out, but I do know that it took me entirely too long to cut a mere one-third of the backyard. After stopping the mower to pick up some mutilated tennis balls, I squished back over to it, and gave the cord a good, hard yank, only to have Honda look up at me once again, only this time, he looked sort of sheepish and confused-- as was I. How on Earth did this thing start up, first pull, after sitting dormant under the porch for months, but it won't start now? This is what I get. This is what I get for hoping it wouldn't start in the first place-- a partially scalped yard-- nothing to really show for my efforts. I. Want. To. Cry. So yeah, I stood out there in the yard, and stomped out a little mini-tantrum in my rain boots. Don't judge me.

Disappointed in Honda, I sent him back under the porch to think about what he'd done, and went back inside to wash out the bits of grass and leaves that had become imbedded in my mohawk, and scrub off the grass and mud (I'm choosing to believe it was mud, because we all know that nobody likes a girl with dog crap on her legs and arms). My shower became a disgusting soup of all the things I had been avoiding for weeks, and now, I would have to attempt to tackle again at a later date. Yes, even the shower head could not wash away my disappointment.

Which brings us today! Wow, that was quite a little lead-in, wasn't it? Whatever, don't complain-- you're the one who read it, soooo.... Anyway, while sitting in the computer lab at school today, I made a firm promise to myself that I would do whatever it took to finish cutting the yard after school. This cloud had been hanging over me for weeks, and it was time to send it on its way before my weekend of complete debauchery started. Of course, things rarely go as planned at this house, what with three kids who will find any way possible to throw my carefully sketched-out itinerary into a tailspin. Sure, I could've used the kids' antics as the ideal excuse to ignore the jungle once more, but from the research I've conducted, garden gnomes like to make their attacks at night, and what kind of mom would I be if I risked the very safety of my own children, all for the sake of an afternoon power nap... with a fan blowing in my face... as I'm happily drooling on my BFF/pillow?

After having a few days to evaluate why Honda betrayed me in the first place on Sunday, I finally concluded that I had flooded his insides with gasoline by tilting him over so many times. Should be fine by now-- ready to go. Bet it starts right up, so let's get this done. Wow, this is the worst pep-talk ever. Just mow the darn grass already. One... two... three... PULL!... Hmmmmm.... Okay, okay, do it again. No biggie. One... two... three... PULL!... (cricket noises)... Hmmmmm... Okay, check all the levers and settings. Good? Yep, good. Okay, one more time. One... two... three... PULL!... WHAT. THE. FLAGNOG?.... This is crap. Honda, you are dead to me! Do you hear me? DEAD! Go to your room!

In case you were wondering, yes, I threw another mini tantrum, only this time I was in flip-flops, because the yard was not nearly so wet. Oh, and don't be one of those people who lectures me about wearing flip-flops when I mow, because let me just say (in my big, firm, I'm-not-gonna-listen-to-you voice), that I refuse to go drop $20 on a cheap pair of sneakers when I could put that money towards a stunning pair of kicks that I would actually wear in public. There. I said it. Now, back to the story.

So, there I was, frustrated and pacing (in my flip-flops) pondering how it was, exactly, that I was going to rectify this little problem, get the yard cut, and save my family from an inevitable gnome invasion. It has to be something simple. It has to be. It started fine on Sunday, and nothing weird happened. Is there a dead cat wedged up inside there, or something? Nope. Looks clean. Well, maybe I just need a new mower. This one WAS a wedding gift, after all (dear GOD, did I just say that out loud in my head?) Wow, geez. Okay, soooo, new mower? Perhaps, but unlikely. Mechanical? Well, it was never billowing smoke, so I'm guessing nothing serious. Still, Hill, you're hardly a rocket scientist when it comes to mechanics. You once plugged in a toaster and the plug exploded in your hand, turning your palm black, remember? And then there was that unfortunate incident with the microwave popcorn in college......

I knew I was going to have to contact someone with far more expertise than my own (which is basically anyone on the planet, including my three unruly children), to figure out what I needed to do in order to conquer the turf, and fly a flag of gnome defeat in my yard. Ugh, I hate doing this. This is SUCH poor, single mom behavior, and I am NOT a "poor, single mom". Crap-nuggets. So, I did the unthinkable-- the absolute most humiliating, most shameful, most I'd-rather-die-than-do-what-I'm-about-to-do thing-- I made the call of shame. I called the ex-husband.

As I dialed the number, I grumbled to myself. Ugh, WHY? I hate this SO much right now, and he will love it SO much right now, which makes me hate it even more. Don't get me wrong-- I am fortunate enough to have a pretty decent relationship with my ex, but there are just certain things that I don't like to give away, especially to him, and my pride is one of them. Good grief, he is going to eat this up. Sigh. He IS familiar with this mower though, and he's almost always right about this stuff, so if it gets the yard done, so be it-- let him have the satisfaction of feeling needed, and you can go back to your life as if none of this ever happened. The phone rang... and it rang... and it rang... and I was greeted with his voicemail message. Yes! Good! Okay, awesome. That works out, because I'd rather just ask someone else anyway. I have plenty of guy friends who can surely get to the bottom of this. Pride retained.

But see, the problem with having guy friends is that while they certainly don't achieve the same type of satisfaction as an ex-husband does when you call them with a stupid question, they do have the unique pleasure of being able to give you grief about it for years to come. As much as I wanted my lawn done, wrapped up with pretty pink paper and a sparkly bow on top, I was not quite sure I was willing to put myself at risk for years of heckling. What is worse is that most of my male compadres are all quite mechanical-- bike saavy, car saavy, computer saavy, and would mock me for ages for my sheer lack of technical common sense. But I can take pictures, and put cute outfits together, and bake really good cookies!, I'd insist, amidst their belly-laughs. Still, I had a feeling that my protests would go unheard, and I'd be left with the reputation of That Single Mom Who Everyone Assumes Is A Lesbian Because She Has A Mohawk But Who Still Can't Figure Out The Lawn Mower. No girl wants that.

Regardless, I sucked it up, and began texting a friend who I thought may offer the biggest wealth of knowledge with the least amount of heckling, and as I began to punch out my question, a phone call came in... from the ex-husband. Okay, Hill. What's it going to be? Humiliation by friend, or humiliation by someone who, at times, already has a low opinion of you? Tick-tock, tick-tock-- eenie-meenie-miney-moe. I chose to throw my pride to the wolves, and answered the phone.

Would you believe that there is this little thing called a spark plug in the front of the mower? Okay, before you start screaming at the computer because of my utter stupidity, let me clarify that I did know that mowers have spark plugs, but I never once paid attention to where, or what was required for these little gems to function. Apparently there is also this lovely little wire, with a cap that slips over the top of the spark plug so that the engine will actually fire! Whatdya know! Whoopsie-daisy, in all of my declogging adventures, I must've bumped that little cap clean off that spark plug, and lo and behold, poor little Honda would not start.

Fast-forward forty-five minutes later, and my grass was cut, and partially weed-eated. Yes, I say "partially" because the weed-eater quit about half-way through the backyard, and there is an actual, honest-to-goodness law that states you cannot make two calls of shame in one 24-hour period. As appreciative as I was (and am) of his knowledge and assistance, I cannot bring myself to inquire about Black & Decker's malfunction. It would be easier and far less embarassing to just go buy a new one. No lie. Besides, I believe that the source of the problem lies in that Black & Decker was not all that appreciative of how I treated her beau, Honda, and has decided to get her panties in a twist and go on strike. Little does she know that Honda and I have decided to go to counseling, so that misunderstandings such as these will not happen again. It will take effort, but I am sure these wounds will heal quickly for us both. They better, anyway, because as we all know, spring has only just begun, and heaven knows those pesky gnomes will be back before I know it.

Bullet #1

314-428-5462. My Grandma's phone number.

For as long as I've been alive (and that's a shamefully long time), it's been the same number. The same house. The same voice on the other end of the line. Even now, the same voice, on an answering machine message. The same message that I've called to listen to entirely too many times since she died. The same chipper voice that would tell me, "Well, I don't know nothin' else," at the end of every phone conversation.

Pretty soon, though, in the next few days, (or hours, for all I know), I won't be able to call 314-428-5462. The phone is going to be shut off, and while it shouldn't hurt the way it does, it does. It isn't as if she's going to be able to call me up. It isn't as if I'm going to be able to call her. It isn't as if I'm ever going to see her number pop up on my caller-ID again, and hear "Stardust" as her ringtone, and yet, there is something about turning her phone off that feels like someone is slamming my fingers in a car door.

Damnit, I hate this.

Independence Day

Back in 1993, Martina McBride released a song called "Independence Day". Now, while I'm not a huge fan of country music, and really paid very little to this song when it was a hit, this past year of my life has given that song new meaning, and those of you who know me best will understand why.

One year ago today, after nearly three years of playing a cruel game that nearly broke me in two, I got my independence day. I'll be honest, as I was filling box after box with almost thirteen years of memories, every one as vivid as the day they happened, carefully wrapping them up in a year's-worth of plastic Walmart sacks that I had accumulated in the garage, especially for that inevitable day, I felt far from independent. There was no joy or triumph that day. No pride. No enthusiasm. Only exhaustion, bewilderment, and a U-Haul truck full of fear and unknown, as I sat alone on the wooden steps of my then empty, echoing home, with a faceful of tears, screaming at the top of my lungs.

I stood up. I walked out the door. Closed it. Locked it. Drove away, and never looked back.

Across town, seemingly in another universe, was my new home-- our new home. The kids and me and the dogs-- all dumped into this 100 year-old house, along with a life's worth of cardboard boxes, all waiting to be dealt with. Half of the house was without electricity. The stove wouldn't light. It was bitter cold. The bathroom was dark. The shower curtain came down on me while I was showering (in the dark). Nothing about my "new life" was remotely encouraging.

There was no time to assemble beds that day, so we took the boys' two twin mattresses, and Quincy's crib mattress, and pushed them together on the floor in the boys' room, and piled in with every blanket we could find (and two of the dogs). The kids (and dogs) were quickly asleep, as I wandered around the house, cold, drained, and overwhelmed. After giving up on the idea of even trying to begin unpacking that night, I shuffled back into the boys' room, where I saw something I will never forget. There was my family-- what was left of it-- sleeping in a pile, on makeshift beds, in a home that was a far cry from what we'd been used to, peacefully, despite the cold and chaos. I knew then that we were going to be just fine.

Standing there, absorbing that moment, I never could have predicted what the next 365 days would have in store for me. They have been, by far, the most... significant?... influential?... memorable?... of my life.

People lost. I had to face the day I had been dreading since I was a child, when I got the phone call that I never wanted to get, but knew was coming. I hung up, took the kids to their dad's house, came home, and began absently packing a bag to drive to St. Louis to bury my Grandma. I remember, standing there in the doorway of my closet, looking in at the color-coded racks of garments, thinking how dumb it felt to be standing there, in that moment, choosing clothes for the funeral of someone I wasn't sure I could live without. I love clothes, but in that moment, nothing felt suitable. Nothing would ever be right for that event. Choosing something to wear meant that I had to acknowledge that it was happening, and at the sake of sounding like a child, I thought, "You can't make me." The days that followed were a blur of tears, miles, vodka, and tattoo ink-- except for the smell of the flowers and the weight of her casket, hanging like the weight of the world in my left hand. Those are as clear as day.

People gained. Despite loss, this past year has graced my life with many new faces and relationships. People who have pushed me to work harder and be better. People who have pleasantly surprised me. People who have inspired me and made me enormously proud. People who have put me in my place. People who have made me laugh, and ones who have made me cry (and ones who have let me cry). People with whom I've shared talent, war stories, sushi, inside jokes, Oreo pizza, battle scars, conversations that lasted until the sun came up, the occasional coffee or drink, and great music. All wonderfully-enriching experiences that only these particular people could bring to the table that is my life. People who have reminded me that life lies in hope and change-- not in expectation.

People remained. I can't forget the ones who have been around for the long-haul, despite my many neuroses. It's stunning how, as we get older, our true circles begin to show themselves through the people who stick around, no matter what. No matter how scattered I've become over the last year, my "people" have patiently tolerated the growth of my new wings-- supporting me, cheering me on, and calling me out. I would be floudering, still, without them.

Professionally, I hit the jackpot. I wound up in a position that I truly love. Granted, that position has left me with a wicked scar on my forehead, bite marks, and bruises, but I can honestly say that I have belly-laughed every single day I've worked there, and not many people can say that about their jobs. Photography took on a life of its own and finally evolved into something that has forced me to take another look at where this once-hobby is taking me. There is a huge sense of responsiblility that comes with seeing and reflecting the beauty of the world, and I thank God every day that my life experiences have helped me grow into a person who can do that, and do it well.

Making money isn't what makes for a living. Before January 15, I had not truly been "on my own", since, well, I was 19. Crazy. Not that I wasn't prepared, but there came an odd and startling dichotomy of freedom and responsibility when I left my suburban marital home and settled into my much more urban surroundings. Truth be told, it's what I had always wanted-- An ancient house. A view of downtown. My rules. My design. However, exhaustion and sometimes overwhelming pressure to set up shop came hand-in-hand with the freedom and satisfaction of being on my own. Luckily, the thrill that comes with real independence has won out over being absolutely spent at the end of every day, and when I come barreling down the highway entrance ramp every morning on my way to work, and see the sun rising over downtown, I am happily reminded of how that gorgeous view was hard-won-- how I won.

This last year has been lived. On top of being surrounded by wonderful relationships and success:

-I was mere feet from Josh Groban.
-I was able to travel to all over.
-I got to watch loved ones get married.
-I was kissed by a drag queen.
-I had the privelege of witnessing an adoption.
-I stood in the inner circle at a U2 concert, with the Irish boys directly overhead, in 110-degree weather.
-I was fortunate enough to be able to help a family rebuild their lives after a fire.
-I got the news that I was going to be an aunt again.
-I adopted a turtle, a guinea pig, a puppy, and now a cat.

All within the span of a year. Hot diggity-dog.

Yeah, at this time, one year ago, I didn't know where to begin, what to think, or how to move forward. A year later, I don't know how to stop.

Now I ain't saying it's right or it's wrong, but maybe it's the only way.
Talk about your revolution, it's independence day.