Had it been anyone else but you I’m not sure what I would have done. I remember it very clearly. See, I really wanted a girl, a daughter that I could raise to be a strong independent woman. What did I know of boys. I came from a family of women. My dad died off when I was 8 and we tried our best to shed the men in the family. But the uncles came around and sometimes stayed too long. Still for the most part it was me, my mom and my sisters. So what did I know of boys? I knew that I didn’t like a lot of men. Most of them really, I didn’t understand the obsession with sports, fart humor, boobs and meat. And the aversion for introspection, nurturing, genuine kindness and gratitude. Sure the drive to breed made them more interesting as I grew older, but for the most part I’d rather be with my girl friends. So when I decided to get pregnant, I was pretty convinced I was going to have a girl. We would ride horses together, she’d travel across Europe in a baby back pack, I’d teach her how to make her way in life in a board room and on a mountain, and how to make a croque monsier but without the ham. She’d be independent, smart, funny, she’d run for office.
But once I found out I was having a boy, well I had to make a promise to myself that I wouldn’t leave you in the shopping cart at the grocery store and just walk away. I tried to find ways to cope. I secretly hoped that you’d be gay. You know how I get along with gay men, always have. Even little Bucky Parr in kindergarten who always had to be the wicked witch of the west when we played wizard of oz, but that’s another story. Anyway at some point, I realized I had an opportunity to raise a sensitive thoughtful young man. He didn’t have to turn out to be a frat boy. I reconciled with the situation, bought books, surrounded our home with stuffed animals and games and did my best to keep the guns and swords at bay.
But once you were here, it all changed. You became the center of my universe. Your wants and needs were more important than my own. I became a mother of a boy and with it all the trappings. I learned to appreciate sports. Spent more time at the ball park and little league fields that I’d ever had guessed. Even went to spring training, a few times. One of my most favorite moments in my life was when you and I were sitting in the bleachers in a light rain at spring training. I was blissful, just being there with you taking it all in. You were probably 8 or 9. You put your arm on my shoulder and said “just think mom, if it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t be here.” And you were so right. Yes I changed and all for the better. And yes I live with a frat boy who falls asleep to ESPN, loves a good fart joke, keeps a sports illustrated swimsuit edition next to his bed and even while living in a vegetarian household doesn’t count chicken satay or unagi as meat. And yes, I cannot imagine loving anyone else more than you.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Anyone Else But You - Kate Bueler
Anyone else but you might have been okay with your mom pregnant sitting next to you in your child sized desk and asking the girl next to you-will you be my daughter’s friend. No probably not. No one would bask in the glory of the embarrassment of a 3rd grader wearing the perfume of the anxious for the first day at school at a new school. Anyone else but you might have figured out a way to turn an awful shade of purple from embarrassment. In my head I thought- mom back off I can handle this. A mom trying her best to make sure I had friends. But anyone else probably would have let me fly solo on the first day. She wore her protective barrier around me, my wings not to ready to go, go at it alone.
So this girl, girl next to me did become my friend. Actually my best friend. We had a lot in common. Both our moms were pregnant, we were only children, so we were excited for another sibling to throw into the mix. Being an only child for 8 years is a long time to bear childhood alone. We both had bowl cuts and very 80 like fashion such as bright button down collared shirts, losts of gummy like bracelets, coolots, and probably keds without the laces. We were neighbors in class and in life. She lived down the street from my duplex home in her duplex home. We lived in F section me on Fall her on Francis. She lived 4 minutes from my house biking. Biking on my pink banana seat with a basket to carry books and the like. She lived 11 minutes away walking. And running running was about 6 minutes.
We basked in the glow of friendship. We both were in brownies or girl scouts. We both had a crush on the same guy. We were just the friendship, the beginning, the end. The embarrassment of my mother I found would be her’s too. Her mom did things that no one else would be okay with either.
We lived in friendship bliss until one day. Anyone else but you might not think the worst. The worst when you saw two girls you think are friends whispering and laughing about you. Anyone else but you might not had thought the worst. But I thought the worst. My mom had purchased me a green turtleneck cotton with embedded stripes in the fabric and matching leggings from the expensive boutique we couldn’t afford anything from. I was so excited to get an outfit from izzy kids- it was the talk of Rohnert park 3rd graders at Hahn school.
I thought it was beautiful and I wore it at Christmas and then school. Then the whispering. My green lily pad of outfit was only cool on my pond. I thought the girls including my bf were whispering about my parents. My parents getting a divorce. I was crushed. Crushed because I had told her in the secrecy of my scared 8-year-old ass. As I smiled wearing that suit of acceptance. They just whispered that I looked like an alien. She hadn’t outed me. But I didn’t know that then. Anyone else but you might not have thought the worst. Alienated from my friends in losing my family was all I could think. Really it was the stupid outfit. But our own fears, fears are stronger than the bond of a budding friendship and are stronger than the cool outfit we think we have on.
So this girl, girl next to me did become my friend. Actually my best friend. We had a lot in common. Both our moms were pregnant, we were only children, so we were excited for another sibling to throw into the mix. Being an only child for 8 years is a long time to bear childhood alone. We both had bowl cuts and very 80 like fashion such as bright button down collared shirts, losts of gummy like bracelets, coolots, and probably keds without the laces. We were neighbors in class and in life. She lived down the street from my duplex home in her duplex home. We lived in F section me on Fall her on Francis. She lived 4 minutes from my house biking. Biking on my pink banana seat with a basket to carry books and the like. She lived 11 minutes away walking. And running running was about 6 minutes.
We basked in the glow of friendship. We both were in brownies or girl scouts. We both had a crush on the same guy. We were just the friendship, the beginning, the end. The embarrassment of my mother I found would be her’s too. Her mom did things that no one else would be okay with either.
We lived in friendship bliss until one day. Anyone else but you might not think the worst. The worst when you saw two girls you think are friends whispering and laughing about you. Anyone else but you might not had thought the worst. But I thought the worst. My mom had purchased me a green turtleneck cotton with embedded stripes in the fabric and matching leggings from the expensive boutique we couldn’t afford anything from. I was so excited to get an outfit from izzy kids- it was the talk of Rohnert park 3rd graders at Hahn school.
I thought it was beautiful and I wore it at Christmas and then school. Then the whispering. My green lily pad of outfit was only cool on my pond. I thought the girls including my bf were whispering about my parents. My parents getting a divorce. I was crushed. Crushed because I had told her in the secrecy of my scared 8-year-old ass. As I smiled wearing that suit of acceptance. They just whispered that I looked like an alien. She hadn’t outed me. But I didn’t know that then. Anyone else but you might not have thought the worst. Alienated from my friends in losing my family was all I could think. Really it was the stupid outfit. But our own fears, fears are stronger than the bond of a budding friendship and are stronger than the cool outfit we think we have on.
Anyone Else But You - Melody Cryns
"I just can’t do anymore!” Megan flung herself onto the ground dramatically in front of the apartment building we’d just been thrown out of in Mountain View. She lay in the soft green grass. “I’m just too tired!”
“I’m tired too,” I shouted back as I walked down the flight of steps for about the millionth time with yet another box of something or other – an endless sea of boxes. “Hey, I know we’ve all been working really hard, but the job has gotta get done.”
“But I can’t DO anything, please Mom…” Josh and Pyke, who’d been like supermen just the day before when we moved all the furniture out and a bunch of boxes as well, lounged by the curb and smoked cigarettes.
“C’mon, just a few more boxes…we’ve gotta get everything out…” I was sore too, in places I didn’t even know existed. It’s your fault we have to move, so everyone get up and get going.
I’d just picked up my niece, Merehuka, from San Francisco International Airport, driving around in circles several times looking for my beautiful niece whom my brother had just decided out of the blue to send to me for an undisclosed amount of time. The timing couldn’t be worse, but who knew we’d have to move yet again? Merehuka said she traveled for around 24 hours straight and hadn’t slept at all, so she fell asleep in the car while all this craziness happened. My good friend Emily was cleaning and Debby’s truck was all ready to go.
“C’mon, let’s go.” I felt like a drill sergeant or something – I really wanted to get it done…all we’d done for the past week is pack and move and I was tired, dead tired, and I didn’t want to do it anymore than those kids did.
Finally, they all started moving, Josh, Pyke and Megan, trudging up the steps looking lost and forlorn as if I was ending them on a perilous journey.
No one said a word this time – no excitement like the day before when both Pyke and Josh made it down the stairs with three or four boxes of books at a time.
“You’re mean Mom! Josh’s knees hurt and Pyke has a sprained ankle!” War wounds from moving, yes I knew those all too well. It was hard to explain the grief I felt at having to move out of our apartment, even if it wasn’t the best apartment in the world. There’s something disconcerting about being forced to move out of one’s homes, for whatever reason. Sometimes I felt sorry for myself – if it was just me and I didn’t have to live with a teenager who had so many friends, I’d probably get to stay here as long as I wanted to, or not, whatever worked.
But, then again, I wouldn’t have it any other way…we were moving to a house in San Jose which also had its issues. The commute to work was only around 20 minutes, which isn’t too bad. And, well, it is what it is…
“I’m tired too,” I shouted back as I walked down the flight of steps for about the millionth time with yet another box of something or other – an endless sea of boxes. “Hey, I know we’ve all been working really hard, but the job has gotta get done.”
“But I can’t DO anything, please Mom…” Josh and Pyke, who’d been like supermen just the day before when we moved all the furniture out and a bunch of boxes as well, lounged by the curb and smoked cigarettes.
“C’mon, just a few more boxes…we’ve gotta get everything out…” I was sore too, in places I didn’t even know existed. It’s your fault we have to move, so everyone get up and get going.
I’d just picked up my niece, Merehuka, from San Francisco International Airport, driving around in circles several times looking for my beautiful niece whom my brother had just decided out of the blue to send to me for an undisclosed amount of time. The timing couldn’t be worse, but who knew we’d have to move yet again? Merehuka said she traveled for around 24 hours straight and hadn’t slept at all, so she fell asleep in the car while all this craziness happened. My good friend Emily was cleaning and Debby’s truck was all ready to go.
“C’mon, let’s go.” I felt like a drill sergeant or something – I really wanted to get it done…all we’d done for the past week is pack and move and I was tired, dead tired, and I didn’t want to do it anymore than those kids did.
Finally, they all started moving, Josh, Pyke and Megan, trudging up the steps looking lost and forlorn as if I was ending them on a perilous journey.
No one said a word this time – no excitement like the day before when both Pyke and Josh made it down the stairs with three or four boxes of books at a time.
“You’re mean Mom! Josh’s knees hurt and Pyke has a sprained ankle!” War wounds from moving, yes I knew those all too well. It was hard to explain the grief I felt at having to move out of our apartment, even if it wasn’t the best apartment in the world. There’s something disconcerting about being forced to move out of one’s homes, for whatever reason. Sometimes I felt sorry for myself – if it was just me and I didn’t have to live with a teenager who had so many friends, I’d probably get to stay here as long as I wanted to, or not, whatever worked.
But, then again, I wouldn’t have it any other way…we were moving to a house in San Jose which also had its issues. The commute to work was only around 20 minutes, which isn’t too bad. And, well, it is what it is…
Black Coffee in Bed - Maria Robinson
Ben made the black liqueur that he and Elizabeth called coffee on Saturday mornings at 9:23 am. The morning after the weekly crash into each other after the week's absence. The morning after the long night of chattering at high speed at the Moroccan restaurant, and then whispering gently after they'd made the frantic love of catching up. The morning after always held the ritual of Turkish coffee with cane sugar and croissants from Marly Patisserie on Harvard Square.
They sipped and slowly swallowed the nutty bitterness of the brew every Saturday knowing that only 28 hours remained of their reunion.
They sipped and slowly swallowed the nutty bitterness of the brew every Saturday knowing that only 28 hours remained of their reunion.
Black Coffee in Bed - Kent Wright
She would never even consider it; not Barbara. She had to keep to her “routine.” It is the rule she always told me when I tried to pull her back into bed. “No,” You know the rule,” she’d snap without even a tiny attempt to be nice about it. Off she would go always in the same awful get-up, gross unbrushed teeth and hair. Off to the desk which she never failed to reach precisely at 7am and where she kept her ample ass until 10am. She was a dedicated writer, and it was her mission, her attempt to honor faithfully that great ART. She was full of fear of the load she carried trying to live up the shrine, the calling, to the Lord she had sworn duty to at some ridiculously young age. Six days a week the routine was carried out during all the years I lived with her.
My needs are different, and have been since long before I met Barbara and her writing rules. I don’t go to my desk or tool bench before I have my coffee, and if I can get it in bed so much the better. Who brings me that strong, black brew is all the same to me – the neighbor’s wife, an internet hook-up, the kid out there mowing my lawn. I don’t care so long as they have two Bett cells that work and the strength to push down on my French press. I can even tolerate small talk while I sip.
My needs are different, and have been since long before I met Barbara and her writing rules. I don’t go to my desk or tool bench before I have my coffee, and if I can get it in bed so much the better. Who brings me that strong, black brew is all the same to me – the neighbor’s wife, an internet hook-up, the kid out there mowing my lawn. I don’t care so long as they have two Bett cells that work and the strength to push down on my French press. I can even tolerate small talk while I sip.
Black Coffee in Bed - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
After Reading P.G. Wodehouse
I hear the discreet knock on the door, tap, tap, tap. He enters my bedroom bearing a silver tray high with one hand. He sets it on the table beside the door put there for that very purpose and proceeds to the windows, covered with floor-length drapes of blue velvet, and pulls them open with one powerful swish of his black-clad arms.
``Good morning, Miss,’’ he intones with deep respect riding above an undertone of reproach. What had I done? I can’t remember, until I see one silver-strapped sandal lying by the dressing table and my green shawl tossed on the chair. Ah. I hadn’t called for Anna, my dresser, to help me to bed last night when I came in at 3 a.m., and my clothes were now in disarray that would require extra attention to restore them to order.
Where had I been?
``Where have I been, Wilcox? And where is Anna?’’ I ask. Wilcox is small and wiry, shorter than I am in my silver-strapped sandals, but strong and wears a twinkle. He sports a toupee in brilliant black. When he wishes to go incognito, he takes it off and passes out of the realm of recognition until he dons it again.
``I expect you went to the ball at Ombershire House, Miss, with Lord Bumbershoot’s nephew just in from America.’’
``No, wait, Willcox. I need my morning elixir.’’
``Right here, Miss.’’ He put the tray beside me on the bed and turned over the thin, china cup handpainted with red and pink roses and a gold band encircling the rim. It flared out in exactly the soothing line one wishes for in early morning after social exertions.
``Thank you, Wilcox.’’ I sat up and accepted the cup and saucer from him, allowed the fragrant steam to warm to bathe my nasal tissues and sipped. The hot restorative ran down my gullet like a mare streaming to the finish line four lengths ahead of the pack.
``Ah. That’s better. Now you can tell me.’’ I beamed at his kindly face that had been beaming back at me since I was a little girl.
``There’s nothing, Wilcox, nothing at all, like black morning coffee in bed.’’
I hear the discreet knock on the door, tap, tap, tap. He enters my bedroom bearing a silver tray high with one hand. He sets it on the table beside the door put there for that very purpose and proceeds to the windows, covered with floor-length drapes of blue velvet, and pulls them open with one powerful swish of his black-clad arms.
``Good morning, Miss,’’ he intones with deep respect riding above an undertone of reproach. What had I done? I can’t remember, until I see one silver-strapped sandal lying by the dressing table and my green shawl tossed on the chair. Ah. I hadn’t called for Anna, my dresser, to help me to bed last night when I came in at 3 a.m., and my clothes were now in disarray that would require extra attention to restore them to order.
Where had I been?
``Where have I been, Wilcox? And where is Anna?’’ I ask. Wilcox is small and wiry, shorter than I am in my silver-strapped sandals, but strong and wears a twinkle. He sports a toupee in brilliant black. When he wishes to go incognito, he takes it off and passes out of the realm of recognition until he dons it again.
``I expect you went to the ball at Ombershire House, Miss, with Lord Bumbershoot’s nephew just in from America.’’
``No, wait, Willcox. I need my morning elixir.’’
``Right here, Miss.’’ He put the tray beside me on the bed and turned over the thin, china cup handpainted with red and pink roses and a gold band encircling the rim. It flared out in exactly the soothing line one wishes for in early morning after social exertions.
``Thank you, Wilcox.’’ I sat up and accepted the cup and saucer from him, allowed the fragrant steam to warm to bathe my nasal tissues and sipped. The hot restorative ran down my gullet like a mare streaming to the finish line four lengths ahead of the pack.
``Ah. That’s better. Now you can tell me.’’ I beamed at his kindly face that had been beaming back at me since I was a little girl.
``There’s nothing, Wilcox, nothing at all, like black morning coffee in bed.’’
Black Coffee in Bed - Lisa Faulkner
Coffee in bed, breakfast in bed, romantic escapes for sexcapades are all better in the movies, in fantasy and dreams than reality. At least for me. Brian and I received bed trays for our engagement or shower. Two different sets, one white wicker and less romantic pair. We used them a couple times. But sparks never flew. Crumbs in bed really aren’t that romantic. And I eventually figured out that Brian isn’t really a fan of sticky foods in bed. And now I don’t eat any of that anyway.
Just like picnics. I love the nostalgia and romance of it all We received romantic, impractical versions of those picnic baskets too. Those got sold in yard sales. We still have a softsided cooler and one of those backpack picnic coolers. Weve used them. Carted one all the way to Hawaii, twice to be able to stock and take too the beach for a sunset picnic. And we have managed some romantic sunset picnics. Valentine’s day on Treasure Island once. We brought lobster burritos from Baja. The problem with some of the outdoor picnics is the weather and the bugs don’t always cooperate. Bees are Brian’s Krpytonite, so if they come along, the picnic will move indoors. We had a nice BBQ dinner outdoors Sat night. That was a success. cool, traffic not too bad. I wish we had a lush backyard. Maybe someday. I wonder if my dream came true with a gorgeous view of ocean or lake or even pool if the same would happen. Would the fantasy be better than the reality. I don’t know. Sometimes the fantasy is better or different but good. We watched a Sturgis documentary last night. I pulled out the scrapbook of our drive across the country. Brought back memories and smiles. The emerald green and red dirt of pictured rocks
Just like picnics. I love the nostalgia and romance of it all We received romantic, impractical versions of those picnic baskets too. Those got sold in yard sales. We still have a softsided cooler and one of those backpack picnic coolers. Weve used them. Carted one all the way to Hawaii, twice to be able to stock and take too the beach for a sunset picnic. And we have managed some romantic sunset picnics. Valentine’s day on Treasure Island once. We brought lobster burritos from Baja. The problem with some of the outdoor picnics is the weather and the bugs don’t always cooperate. Bees are Brian’s Krpytonite, so if they come along, the picnic will move indoors. We had a nice BBQ dinner outdoors Sat night. That was a success. cool, traffic not too bad. I wish we had a lush backyard. Maybe someday. I wonder if my dream came true with a gorgeous view of ocean or lake or even pool if the same would happen. Would the fantasy be better than the reality. I don’t know. Sometimes the fantasy is better or different but good. We watched a Sturgis documentary last night. I pulled out the scrapbook of our drive across the country. Brought back memories and smiles. The emerald green and red dirt of pictured rocks
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