Opalescence – On The Edge

I was reminded today that being human takes practice and it is, thankfully, not as hard as propagating orchids. I did not know, when I headed to the Meijer Gardens Orchid Show, that I would learn that flowers grow in forms of glass, peat moss dreams, and human bonding–both casual and eternal.

Bonfire Peach 3
The Bonfire Peach – Not an orchid, but too pretty to feel insecure about it.

*

Sleepless after ill-conceived, late-night revels with the Princess Bride and Futurama, I staggered to Meijer Gardens Saturday towing a camera with a mostly-dead battery.*

Thank goodness for iPhones.**

My son dragged me to a corner and refused to budge while we both waited for salvation in the form of a fearless babysitter incentivized by college debt and the promise of at least a Benjamin to keep the orchid’s safe from harm.

Stained Glass
I so wish I were less clumsy…and hampered by morals…or I would have flower-napped this stained glass.

The minute my child disappeared with his sitter, I was off. My goal—to photograph as many blooms as possible before my teenager got bored and came back. So, basically, like the count down timer on a nuclear device–I was set to go!

iPhone camera in hand, I stalked exotically named flora.

I hadn’t hit my stride when I ran into a mother and her 26-year-old son. We were fighting to capture the same bloom without flashing each other to blindness.

The mom struck up a conversation as I waited my turn at the luscious fuchsia petals that somehow managed to be the stealth bomber of the orchid enclave.

Phal Unkonwn Hybrid 2
Phal. Unknown Hybrid – which basically means they don’t know who’s the daddy and mommy.

I was too focused on the flowers. I almost missed hearing that this well-spoken young man has Asperger’s. And like a flower turned to the sun, I lit up meeting him.

To his mom, I said, “My son has ‘classic autism’, he’s non-verbal.”

“I know. I saw you earlier with him.” She confided, nodding toward her son, “We reached him through his love of photography.”

Her son took a break from photographing the coveted blossom. We shook hands. He told me his name and then asked me for mine. I spelled my name out for the young man. He dutifully entered it into his phone—taking delight when I asked if he knew how to spell my last name—citing the Harry Potter – Salazar Slytherin reference. He showed me his phone and he had it letter perfect.

Unfortunately, in the hustle, I totally missed taking his name down. (The day was about photography not blogging, so my notes were whatever I could slap into my phone between pictures.) Looking later, high and low, I couldn’t find his name. If you know this young man, tell him I said ‘Hi’ and ask him to find me.

But, because I met him, my whole day changed. I wasn’t there just for the flowers, but to flower in the company of human experience.

And in writing about each person I met, I decided, I needed to invent an appropriate orchid name.

First, I met…

The Freckle-Dusted, Curly Charmer – a/k/a Rachel

Rachel - Freckle Dusted Curly Charmer
Blossoming in situ with a lovely display of Star Wars Fandom Memorabilia

In such a small space, it is not hard to run into people—several times even—at various stations.

I inadvertently stalked this couple throughout the gardens: Rachel and her very tall, camera-shy companion, Kyle—a smug owner of a Samsung Galaxy phone who taunted me periodically with the amazing shots he could take.

Not to be outdone–here’s one of the best I captured:

Phrag Besseae 4
Phrag. Besseae – My favorite at the show looked like an opera singer trying to hit the C two octaves above middle C.

We exchanged observations while snapping pictures.

Almost every plant had a ribbon—though some of them could be the floral equivalent of an ‘Honorable Mention’ participant award as far as I knew. I have a policy of admitting my ignorance up front—it saves time and effort.

“They all look so beautiful,” I told her, “I really don’t know how the judges could evaluate the merits of any flower.”

That’s when Rachel dropped her orchid bomb!

“I’m sort of a cheater.” She confessed.

When pushed to explain, she said, “I was a biology major at Grand Valley [State University] and I had this professor who showed us how to propagate orchids using a method of injecting genes to create new flowers. So, I understand a bit more about this than most.” ***

This whole time I’d been standing next to an orchid whisperer and hadn’t known it!

Columbine
When asked what she liked in a flower, Rachel confessed, “I like the weird ones.” So Rachel, this Columbine is for you!

Later, while trying to recapture what she told me, I tried to find an appropriate article on ‘gene splicing’ but failed. I did, however, stumble across an actual process to gene-test an orchid’s D.N.A. to discover its parentage: Orchid DNA

Basically, you can C.S.I. an orchid’s ass to find out ‘Whose your daddy?’ so to speak.

Octo or Squid Orchid 2
I missed getting the exact name of this one – but a search for ‘tentacle orchid’ turned up variations on an Octo/Squid Orchid that looked like siblings of this funny variant.

In our many encounters, I mentioned how rare it is for me to get out and interact with the world.

(True Confession Time: I was a bit giddy at the orchid extravaganza. I probably seemed a bit drunk with excitement—kind of like a deranged puppy with a floral fixation.)

I asked if I could take her picture for my blog—and tried to set a ‘privacy’ setting so her picture wouldn’t be plastered all over my feed. But the challenging wifi or vicious internet pixies played havoc with the Facebook options.

Rachel shrugged, saying she didn’t mind. This only encouraged me.

“It’s hard for me to go places sometimes.” I laughed and gave my iPhone a little shake. “So, I kind of live on Facebook. It’s weird, I can live so close to people I know but never get together with them. And yet, this summer, a friend from Japan is coming here and we’re going to meet at the nearby mall!”

Then Rachel said something profound.

“Facebook—it makes the far world closer and the close world farther away.”

It struck me as so true, I made her repeat herself so I could type it in my phone. Yes, I am that pushy.

Den Angel Kisses 3
Den. Angel Kisses – the closest you can find this side of heaven.

Every time I ran into Rachel and Kyle, we’d fall into conversation. Well, I babbled at them and Rachel willingly exchanged floral witticisms that I could not possible recreate here. You’ll have to come up with your own horticultural insights, I’m afraid.

Except, I can share one universal truth: “Crab grass is the bitch bane of gardening.”

Everyone I met was friendly, tolerant of my intrusions, polite and sharing. None more so than my next flowery friend.

Gratia Umbra a/k/a Elizabeth N.

A slender blond with an elegance that matched the floral occasion, Elizabeth carried with her a functional camera and used it like she knew what she was doing. So, of course, I asked whether she was planning on posting them online and could I ‘friend’ her to see them.

She politely accepted.

If I were to name her using floral taxonomy, the Latin to describe Elizabeth would be A Shade of Grace or Gratia Umbra.

To Elizabeth, who got the shots I could not make. Thanks for sharing.

Elizabeth's Orchid 2
Stolen with permission from Elizabeth N. Admire those sideburns!

I could not conclude this story without letting you know of the absolute perfect ending that almost didn’t happen. A providential duo I would regret not knowing.

Defining them by a flower name that accurately tells you who they are is impossible. But I’ll try. For this couple, you absolutely have to use a crossbred variety. Match a shy, subtly engaging flower with a showy, over-the-top genus to create an utterly unique new combination. I give you:

Painted Hearts x Mirrored Souls

Sometimes, you just know. You look at a couple and know they are meant to go together  So it was when I met Nick and Oberon.

I was done photographing the official orchid exhibit. But there is an arboretum that is part of the Meijer Gardens that is a glassed-in heaven in January.

I almost didn’t go. But, rare is my chance to visit the gardens and luxuriate in the peace it brings. And I’m so glad impulse led me to meeting a very special couple.

I wandered to the wall of orchids and sniffed to try and find the one that exuded a glorious, heavy smell that was sweet just to the point of being overpowering.

One of the garden volunteers—the human variety, not the plant kind—corrected me when I told her I loved a particular flower for its heavenly perfume.

“Smell this.” Is all she said.

She thrust a small pot under my nose–tiny fringy leaves with even smaller white flecks you could mistake as dots among all the greenery.

Those dots were actual orchid buds, so small, you had to pay attention to see them.

I did as instructed.

It was like being punched in the nose by the goddess of spring. This confirms a long-held suspicion and I told her so.

“I think the smaller the blossom, the stronger the smell.” I nod in satisfaction. “To make up for not being so showy and bright.”

Saying nothing, she put the pot back and I moved on my way.

Without knowing it, this was the perfect segue to my last encounter of the day.

Getting ready to depart, I was stopped by an incongruous sight.

IMG_6158
NO! Not these self-described ‘Blue Birds of Happiness.’

Among the elderly wanderers, nodding white heads in appreciation of the wonderful view, the families with children, grandparents, and photo-happy parents, there sat a glaring anomaly—a tattooed duo dressed as if headed for a punk rave or a New York grunge art review. Ready for something, anything, more hip than an arboretum.

IMG_6153
Nick and Oberon – The Perfect Hybrid

To Nick and Oberon—for the story about the beehive ink alone—I am indebted. The explanations of a clamshell with the number 13 drawn on your wrist. The laughter and the stories too personal to share here. The tattoo review was the most unique floral exhibit of the day. So if I had to pick flowers to represent you, it would have to be these two–so similar and yet so different, and perfectly matched.

You opened up to a stranger, one arguably stranger than most. You shared your origin stories like the super heroes you are. You let me take pictures that said a lot more about you than words could.

You let me remember what it was like to be young, in love, and filled with the adventure of it all. Thank you.

And yes, I will happily descend upon you the next time I’m in Chicago. I’m dying to color in all those black and white tattoos. Let’s find out if you are brave enough to hand me a needle to try.

And to my final floral tribute – the young man who made it all possible.

Mysterious One
To my Velvet-Petaled Open Invitation, I hope we meet again.

You invited me to be part of the human race instead of just an observer. At 26, you understand that connecting with people is more important that getting a perfect shot. I will remember you always and name you for your warm spirit as well as the small bits of fuzz that dotted your baby face.

My Velvet-Petaled / Open Invitation

You are not in my notes, my phone, my email.

I’ve looked for you everywhere.

You are the one who caused me to look up.

To put the camera down.

Hopefully this will find you, somehow.

To the autistic young man at the flower show.

You reminded me to be as well as see.

Thank you.

 

I dedicate this blog post to you, for without you it would not have happened.

You will forever be a gentle poem in my heart:

________________________________

And for those curious as to the title of this post, it was the flower name I most identified with. We should all be opalescence on the edge!

Opalescent - On The Edge 2
I claim this as my spirit flower–Opalescence on The Edge

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:

*If you ever catch me with a fully-charged device, assume I’ve been kidnapped by aliens and that this is a clone doing research for the impending invasion of Earth. Act accordingly.

**Curse you, Kyle, and your fancy Samsung with those neato photo features. Smugness does not become you!

***This quote is from memory. So, take it with a large grain of salt that I got this at all right.

 

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Don’t Lick This Card…

I started this post about ten days ago…but caught the flu so bad, I couldn’t finish writing it. I kind of collapsed instead.  I am finally crawling back up on my personal hobby horse–the bedeviling holiday traditions that trap you in a tinsel choke-hold and won’t let go!

 

***

 

I won’t say that I am single-handedly keeping Hallmark alive, but of my entire family, I am the only one I know who sends holiday cards because I have to and despite the fact that I lost all religious affiliation years ago.

I have never been diagnosed with OCD (?Overly Cheerful Demeanor?), but it’s the only explanation I can find for why I put up a Christmas Solstice Tree, bake and decorate a bajillion festive cookies and, of course, send out the ubiquitous holiday cards.

It’s a sickness really.

I waited too late this year though. The holiday came and went (a Day Early) and I had yet to write out a single card. You’d think this was a sign! Maybe this year would be the year? Can I break the cycle?

Turns out…no. I can’t.

Four boxes of holiday cards at the ready—espousing nicely generic season greetings—printed family photo montage highlighting 2017 high (and low) points ready to go, festive stamps at hand, I sat at a table and manically wrote out a personalized greeting to everyone on my list.*

Did I mention I was suffering the worst plague at the time and, maybe, started hallucinating about half-way through the pile?**

To say some of my cards were a bit weird…well…I really wish I had taken pictures of some of the better entries. Fortunately, friends were willing to send me a few as proof of madness friendship.  Seeing them now, they don’t sound nearly as weird as I thought they were at the time.

But, I do remember a few choice comments I wrote:

“Dear Boston-Family,

Please remember on New Years Day to toss a roast beef out your front door before heading out. This is to feed the dragon perched on your gables. It need not be cooked—many dragons prefer a raw gift—but a nice sear is also appreciated.

Do not forget to watch for acid-spitting lizards though. They are much more temperamental and you’d be advised to crawl out a side window to avoid them…”

 

The longer I wrote, the more like a cry for help some of the cards started to resemble:

Dear Chicago Friends,

“I do not understand why or how this tradition started?! Nobody writes physical mail anymore! What is the point? This is going to reach you well past the New Year and, honestly, I’ll probably have babbled ten times equally dull daily complaints on Facebook. Maybe next year I’ll just do that. I’ll Tweet my greetings! Except, that I am a Luddite, and eschew Twitter. Not just because a certain member of our government has made it his bilious verbal diarrhea playground…but because I have standards. Dammit.

I practically accused my California cousins of outright smugness in their choice of vacating Michigan winters for the dubious joys of living on the San Andreas Fault:

 

christine-card-_li.jpg

Then there were the feeble attempts at humor involving the likely contagion I was spreading this season:

Dear Philly Friend,

“…can you catch depression when you catch a cold? Mostly it’s the fact that I had all of my cookie rolled, cut, baked and nearly all frosted when this cold happened. As a result, I didn’t dare send them to anyone…for fear of spreading the contagion…

Apparently, I’m less circumspect with card distribution. Don’t lick this card. You’ve been warned. Probably too late though. You’ve already licked it haven’t you? Sigh. Oh Well, swift recovery to us both in 2018!”

InkedDon't Lick This Card_LI - Erased image

Then I hit the wall I always hit after about four hours of writing inane holiday greetings (interjected with subliminal pleas for the madness to stop–see below). I start doodling to fill up the dreaded white space:

 

Holiday Card - Boston

I have a list of about sixty people to whom I send cards. I had enough holiday stamps for about half of the list…after that, you got a Wonder Woman or Star Trek stamp depending on your likeliest affiliation. When in doubt, I used one commemorating the eclipse!

The later on the list your name appears, the weirder the card entry you’ll likely get. Also, the more my dyslexia and spoonerisms would crop up.

I can only imagine what the person getting this one thought of it all…

Tingling Coccyx Greeting.
I am planning on writing a carol entitled: “May All Your Coccyges Be Bright!”

 

I have no choice. I have to send them. Then again, THEY have no choice, poor people, but to accept them. And secretly, I hope they like them and send me one in return.   It is the obsessive compulsive gift that keeps on giving!

In the end…only Hallmark really wins.

Booger Car Ride Signature

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes*:

*I cannot send a blank card. Really. Unless I am at death’s door, so a few of you may have one of these rare creatures. When I hit that marathon writer wall, I autographed a few and called it good. I’m still shuddering from the absence of ink though.

**I started to feel a little human, but the persistent cough worried me. So I went to a med center and caught a completely different virus. If this piece is unfinished, I probably died mid-sent…

 

 

Death Plague Victim
Erk…Ack…arghh…Aaaaaahhhhh….

Calendar Mom Drops the Holiday Ball

Crass Consumerism Lite Show
IT’S BEGINNING TO LOOK A LOT LIKE LIGHT POLLUTION….

 

 

 

Dear All,

I am spending Christmas Day writing cards to friends because, apparently, I am living the holidays backward. And it started off so promising too…

The cookies were baked and frosted in early December…ready to be handed out to teachers and neighbors instead of requiring exhausting shopping jaunts and wrapping to accomplish. Ta dah!

*She gloated and lo’ the gods of irony did take notice.* 

So, of course, the minute I added the last dragée sprinkle, I came down with the worst bubonic nasal funk, like, EVER. I didn’t dare hand out the frosted ones out to anyone…I liked.

We’ve been eating them all in lieu of chicken soup. (Note: I make something like 100 cookies each season.)

 

Cookies 2017
Over-sprinkle much?

 

As a result of the plague, all shopping was done last minute. Like on Saturday, or as I was calling itthe Eve of Christmas.

I gritted my teeth and plowed through the tinsel strewn madness in a frantic bid not to throttle my fellow man–just so I’d have presents to hand out at the family gathering.*

I stayed up all night Saturday wrapping the last-minute what-nots decorated with frills and furbelows and wondering why BBC America wasn’t showing the much-awaited Dr. Who Christmas special.

*A clue, she has not.*

Dizzy with a stuffy head, thrown by the fact I work from home and days are marked by whether I have to shove my kid on a bus or not, things are spectacularly wonky. Festivities happen in spastic fits and starts if they happen at all. To be perfectly blunt, I’m off! In fact, I am so off in my order of traditional holiday crapola, that we celebrated early.

LIKE…a DAY early.

I woke Sunday thinking that it was Monday because I saw a mail van delivering to the house next door. So, Santa came early. I made the traditional pop-n-fresh, cinnamon rolls from a Pillsbury can baked into the shape of a lumpy Christmas tree the way my mom always made for us when we were kids. My son happily opened his giant tube of popcorn and his Orville Redenbacher fun-fun air popper.

It is only after the morning is gone and all the presents are opened that I realize…oh, wait. It’s only the 24th.

Christmas Comes Early - Cinnamon Roll Tree
No…his shirt says “PUCK”…though I understand why you might be confused.

 

So, here we are, December 25th with nothing to celebrate. The snowy day precludes the emergency ‘road trip’ that I blankly promised my son yesterday with the caveat “If the weather is good.”**

And we woke to this…

Old Man Winter
Neon depiction of actual weather event – The Old Man Winter Blow-Out White Sale!

 

This wouldn’t be so all-fired tragic if it weren’t for the irony of it all.

My kid, the Calendar King, said NOT ONE WORD about the fact mommy was off by a day.***  I guess all kids dreams of Christmas coming early. This does explain the kind of puzzled looks he kept giving me when I told him to keep opening his presents though…

So, Happy Holidays to everyone… and I might as well wish you Happy New Year. I’ll be with you in spirit/s next Saturday as we toast farewell to 2017!  Because who in their right mind would put New Years on a Sunday of all things! Am I right?

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:

*I was shocked to find other people shopping and leaving me with no place to park but the butt-end of the parking lot. Seriously, why weren’t they all home with their families and snug in their beds?

**Note: all weather is good weather for travel according to my son. The roads could be melting with lava, hail could be denting the roof and Pteradactyls might be making a bid to return from the primordial ooze from which they sprung and he’d still say, “Car ride?”

***Yeah yeah. I know. Non-verbal autistic. But he could have pointed to a calendar or something!

2017 – A SUCKY Year in Review

I was going to title this 2017 – A Year in the Crapper and include an appropriate photo, but my friends tell me I overshare.

So, here’s my modified letter to the world:

2017 KINDA SUCKED

Like burnt-pan-of-forgotten-soup-boiled-dry SUCKED.

 

Recovery is Slow
How bad a cook am I? I burned soup, people. That’s how bad!

 

 

It took a whole year of bad things happening for me to put my finger on exactly what was wrong…

2017 – LIKE TREE-EATS-ROOF KINDA SUCKS!

Yeah, yeah. Having a tree drop on your house in a sh*t storm was a pretty big effing clue. But you could just chalk that up to really bad luck and shrug it off. If it weren’t for all those bad juju kinda things that kept happening.

I TRIED 2017. I REALLY DID.

I tried traveling to exotic locations and exploring for fun and adventure. I generally learned there is a diminishing return on happiness. The farther away we got from home, the more likely we were going to need an E.R. trip or an intervention. We are now circling the drain of 2017 and sticking mostly to home as a result.

Camp Cadillac
CAMP CADILLAC – For when you finally admit tent camping isn’t for you!

 

My son loves to go places and sleep outdoors.

Or so I thought.

 

Instead, what I found was photographic evidence that my son just likes a variety of places he can write calendars–or, if not writing them, he is contemplating it with a fistful of markers or crayons awaiting his next fix.

My son discovered a love of popcorn. That was a new obsession.

But despite the happiness campaign the people at Orville Redenbacher are pitching, popcorn can’t fix everything.

Calendar Man
If you squint you can make out my son’s favorite pastime. Hunting for calendars a thousand years from now.

 

Not even calendars can do that.

It also took me nearly a year of misery to realize something…

Happiest Places - Water
Gun Lake Reprieve – Momentary Bliss

 

Despite the occasional flashes of joy and happiness I managed to capture…

Pizza Man
Do you have any idea how hard it was to get him NOT to eat this cookie so I could take this fuzzy image? You can’t!

 

In most of the photos I took of my son…he was not smiling.

Camping Ceiling View
Seriously, he really did love this place. But his face doesn’t show it!

 

He was there. But he was an unwilling participant in:

Mommy’s Campaign for Happiness and Symptom Control.

Happy Place - No Smiles
Millenium Park only reached a tepid level of joy.

If 2017 were a fairytale–it was the Hans-Christian-Andersen-dark-with-a-side-of-maniacal-laughter kind. And it would have opened with this line…

THERE ONCE WAS A HAPPY BOY…whose mother tried to address his recurring rage-outs with a wave of pharmaceutical fixes.

 

Quiet Desperation
This was his most common expression–a mixture of Why? and Please Stop!

 

We tried several different combinations of psychiatric panaceas. If a drug caused a side effect, we gave a pill to fix the side effect – or in theory, that’s what it was supposed to do. Instead, it produced yet more side effects that, surprise, surprise, we’d try to address with more medication.

It was the loopiest, saddest, roller coaster of a year you can imagine.

There were the bids for happiness that ended in tears.

Not As Pictured
Ten minutes after this faux happy moment was taken, my son had a massive meltdown that had made me feel as if angry mammoths were stomping on my soul.

 

Then there was the reality check that bounced. HARD!

Part of me wanted to believe this was a transition year. That turning thirteen and becoming a dreaded teenager was the root of this particular evil. But after several incidents of biting in school this fall, I decided to stop the massively medicated merry-go-round–at least in part.

We backed off the majority of his drug trials. He is back on the two drugs that have the fewest complications and I just deal with side effects that only have him crawling up the walls and not sleeping instead of the combo-platter pharmacopeia backlash that produced jittery anxiety, biting, and head bashing, among other things.

I now take comfort in momentary joys–as rare as a solar eclipse and therefore exponentially more cherished in their singularity.

Eclipsed
Does he understand the significance of the earth’s shadow blocking the sun? I do not know. But he enjoyed a day out and that was good enough for me.

 

But when added up in seconds, the joys of 2017 could not outweigh the sorrows.

Unhappy Solar Eclipse
Yeah. His face says it all….

 

For every golden day in the sun, there were days that drained like pus from a wound.

In this year, I have watched my happy boy transform in a downward spiral of misery and depression, taking me with him.

The Face of Pain
THERE’S NO MAP TO A HAPPY PLACE FROM HERE!

 

Then I had to leave my job to take care of him. Because, once he outgrew his handlers, I was the only one who could get him off the bus.

I left a good place to work for a life of uncertainty and near-poverty that allows me to work from home in the hours that my son is in school.

The only upside to this stress?  I have spent less time developing an ulcer over the toilet tank of a government where The Great Evil and his Cabal of Cackling Soulless Ones are stirring a sh*t stew for the masses to swallow.

So, 2017–that’s it! I am out of it: Out of work. Out of patience. And now, out of time.

I AM DONE, 2017.

SERIOUSLY.

I AM DONE WITH YOU.

I am coasting the rest of this year and hope that 2018 has some upside that I just can’t foresee or imagine. But I doubt it.*

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:

*In a traditional end-of-year review, I usually take a light-hearted look at the craziness of my life. 2017 hasn’t been so much crazy-fun as it has been crazy-needs-to-be-committed. I’m not going to pretend otherwise and that’s my gift to you. Some years, all you can give is the honest truth…even if it is wrapped in a craptastic bow.**

**Seriously, though, being sick with cough and congestion this past week may have affected this year’s letter. Perhaps after I finish coughing up a lung, I’ll find my happy place again?

*Hack*

*Hurk…Gag…Harrrung*

*Ptui!*

Or, maybe not.

Sunset Walks
“This is the end, beautiful friend. This is the End…of 2017!”

Freehand Meanderings of a Broken Mind

I have been off for a while now.*

NaNoWriMo had me in its greedy grip. I barely won the 50,000 word marathon which took two intense days of non-stop writing (no bathing or socializing) to catch up the nearly 15,000 word deficit as I fell behind.

I struggled daily to write anything coherent because…

mY SoN HaS sTOpPED SlEePInG

This doesn’t sound like the terrible thing that it truly is. It sounds innocuous and a charming reminder of the sleepless days when we first brought baby from the hospital without a clue as to the insomnia bomb we’d actually welcomed into our home…willingly.**

I’ve been planning on writing about stealing…no, liberating… uh…adopting, yeah, adopting a pet rock. I even have pictures of the day we unearthed it from a public park and lugged it home.

Too tired to share.

The visit to a restaurant in the middle of nowhere that just has to be experienced to be believed.

Can’t find the energy (or typing skills) to write that one either.

Then there was the whole time I nearly chopped my finger off. (Always with the exaggerations is this one…oh, my, that sure is a lot of BLOOD!)

So, instead, I will stumble like a drunk back onto the blogging stage and beg your forgiveness.

Until the doctor figures out the right tranquilizers***, I will be the babbling mess you are enjoying right now. Unfiltered and unedited and mostly unhinged.

You’re welcome.

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:

*I’m tempted to leave my post at that comment and call it good. But, I am just not that succinct.

**Now, whenever someone tells me they are having a baby, I have to muffle my snickering when I wish them well.

***Go to Amazon and search ‘Elephant Tranquilizers.’ It’s amazing what they offer as an option. Or go to the following link for one of the recommendations they gave me:

Elephant Tranquilizer Image

https://www.amazon.com/Bedtime-Originals-Express-Plush-Elephant/dp/B00GHAGGOG/ref=sr_1_fkmr1_3_a_it?s=grocery&ie=UTF8&qid=1512688534&sr=8-3-fkmr1&keywords=Elephant+tranquilizers

Fr-A-c-TuR-E-D…

My soul is tHe sound of brEakIng glaSs.

When MY son goes mad.

The sight of a bread macHinE thrown to the floor is Almost funny when it bounces.

Pounding fists, biting, scReaming.

HysTeria is catching.

ScreaMing is too.

9.1.1.

“What is your emergencY?”

The police are not the ones who can HElp…but they stAnd by, as helpless as I

HeaRTbeat crashIng, craShing, crashing.

Panic.

“Take this pill. Now this. And this.”

The doctor is a distant voice: “…he needs an inpatient mental health admission”

A long time coming

Following the amBulance thRough the rain…

Or maybe they are tEArs?

Hours waiting.

Nothing…nothing…nothing…

Questions without answers

“He’s just too strong for me now.”

Five people hold down my son for blood tests that reveal nothing wrong.

Vecta trance descends as digital projections swirl and spool

“We have no place for your son. He doesn’t fit the requirement of need.”

Home again, drugged complacence.

What will we do tomorrow…and the next tomorrow…and the next?

Every day is an undetonated hand grenade

You never Know when It will go off

You are grateful wheN it doesn’t.

Until it does.

I scrub blood from my sleeve and watch it swirl down the drain…

Along with the happiness the rest of the day promised.

The clock reads midniGht

It is a new day.

________________________________________________

The author is recovering. So her is son. Please be kind. I may not have the strength to answer any questions. Read between the lines above. It says it all.

For now, my son is home and doing as best as can be expected. He suffered no major physical injury. Nor did I. But I need time to recover anyway.

November is National Novel Writers Month. I typically participate and am trying to find the enthusiasm to do so. I may not have energy to respond, but that does not mean I do not appreciate encouragement and understanding.

I will bounce back from this…I am like my bread machine that way.

But not yet.

 

Traipsing the Grand Ledge…Hideout for Slithering Beasts and Carolina Reapers

If my child remembers me for anything, let him remember me for this…

*

Ledges 1

Friday is a dream day-come-true for my ‘little’ man. A half-day of school as a start to the mini-fall break weekend. Road trip, here we come!

We discovered “The Ledges” by joyous accident on a past excursion when we wandered east of our standard Exit 59 pitstop.

This time, we travel to Grand Ledge on purpose, hauling my Canon EOS Rebel XS with the intention of cataloging the experience.*

 

You can find a description of Fitzgerald Park at the park’s website.  But understand, no words can convey the simple pleasure in tramping leaf-strewn, mud tracks that wend along a slow-moving river. This will not stop me from trying, however.

Ledges - Leaves

Posting this humble shot to Facebook, a friend introduced me to  the true art of nature to be found in the ephemeral sculptures of Andy Goldsworthy.

 

The sluggish current is dotted with geese and ducks, fattening on late blooming bugs confused by the unseasonable warmth. Ignoring the catastrophic implications of global climate change, my son and I tramp the trail fantastic in search of adventure. Who knew it would end in the best darned French fries this side of Mackinac Island’s truffle fry extravaganza?

Ledges - Boy Under the Ledge
Between a rock…and a hard place…you will find a reluctantly posed teenager.

Walking leaf-scattered paths on a sundrenched day doesn’t present many dangers. One thing you can count on when charting a wooded trail is that generally nice people abound.

Everyone we meet is friendly, and after a moment, recognize my son’s quirky tendency to plop down in the middle of the trail to jot numbers as just another sight along the way.

 

Ledges - Tree Eating Rocks
Tree Swallows Rock – looking like the strangling coils of a wooden snake

 

Leaves crunch underfoot. My cane helps me balance across the footpaths where humus formed of decomposing plants and steep inclines make traversing the narrow passage challenging.

Ledges 2
The slope gets gradually steeper until you begin to have sympathy with yaks in the Himalayas.

 

I am calm in my repose, whistling to my son periodically when his goat-like surefootedness keeps him yards ahead. He disappears around a bend and I hail him to halt.  He waits impatiently for me to catch up. Aside from being short winded, I have nothing to fear. Or so I think!

There is no warning. No scary music. Though I sing a half-choked ululation when I am startled by the sudden appearance of a garter snake—or is it a ribbon snake?—dashing frantically away from clumsy feet stomping through its territory. I squawk like a demented chicken, hopping to avoid the tiny red, yellow, and green striped reptilian flag  whipping past. Its curving body signals a fervent desire to have nothing to do with me.

Garter Snake
I swear it looked like this–Northern Ribbon Snake by Nick Scobel. thank you for the loan. I was too busy shrieking to snap a pic.

 

A later search on the internet at The Michigan DNR website assures me that I was in no danger—but they fail to take into consideration the effect a small snake has on an unsuspecting woman, on a hill, with slippery, squishy, rotten leaves and rocks and roots to upset an already precarious balance. I’m lucky I didn’t fall into the river, is all I’m saying.

 

It was a truly idyllic while. We passed the trestle bridge (pictured above, on separate days) where we’d experienced the sound and fury of locomotion just weeks before. It is a quiet sentinel as we pass.

Ledges - And More Ledges
I see profiles in the cliff–faces carved by erosion. What do you see?

 

The famed ledges are rocky outcroppings where lichen and verdigris—the coppery extrusion that rusts to a gorgeous blue-green powder adorning many a Catholic cathedral—turn the mundane slabs of sedimentary strata into a magical realm.

Fairies and sprites no doubt whisper from moss-coated crevasses. And red and gold leaves mark a journey through streams of light, chariots with invisible riders steering the autumnal march.**

Ledges - Golden Fall with Beach Boys
Voices carry across the water, but we can only hear what the wind wants us to.

 

The trail ends for us at the juncture of West River and Harrison Streets in Grand Ledge and we face the choice of turning left, crossing the walking bridge to Island Park, or going right heading into town. I lure my son away from a moored pleasure boat with the promise of lemonade and a snack toward the option that would let me sit down for a while.

This is how we stumble onto the best d*mned French fries for a hundred miles, if not more.

Beer-Battered French Fries
Just try not to drool!

 

The Crossroads Barbeque is a most serendipitous discovery. The unassuming block-front, dark glass exterior doesn’t inform the prospective customer what delights are in store. You have to be on the lookout for such a dining experience—it is not to be missed.

BaCoN - Crossroads BBQ
The sign on the wall says it all: Ba Co N!

 

I am more thirsty than hungry, but travelling with a teenager means we stop for food on an almost hourly basis. I am so glad we did. And not just because we get to meet the nicest guys behind the glory: Lee Burmeister, co-owner, and Cam, “You can call me Hershel Frobisher,”*** who describes his managerial style as “Giving everyone a hard time.”

Inside Crossroads BBQ, a giant rectangle of space is marked along one side with tables and seating and an open, wood floor that almost has room for a small band and dancing. After meeting Lee Burmeister, co-owner, or as he referred to himself, “Pit Master” of the joint, I could imagine an after-hours crowd breaking out into impromptu two-stepping, or perhaps heavy metal thrash jams, filling the space with sound.

Menu 1

The walls are covered in my kind of kitsch, fire engine red walls interspersed with giant chalk boards scribbled with bright, handwritten menus make the space warm—no doubt an interior design nod to the spicy cuisine offered up.

A cast iron pig ‘oinks’ the daily special—which is what leads me to add an order of fried chicken to my son’s enormous French fry basket. I am not sorry.

Fried Chicken Friday

My son graciously lets me try a wing as he inhales the rest of the golden-crispy half of chicken that comes out. We’d already been bestowed a platter from heaven—a wholly satisfying mound of fries that suggests the magic of the Ledges walk leads to this particular pot of gold.

I did not come to Grand Ledge to write a blog post, travelling with autism has its limits. But sometimes, the discovery of delicious splendor demands a little improvisational review. I beg a scrap of paper—and am given a hunk of butcher block from a roll—to make my notes. I pepper the crew with questions, while my son explores and attempts to move a piano to find the secret behind a blockaded door. The proprietor is an understanding guy—letting me know he has a nephew on the spectrum. He is un-phased by my questions or questionable parenting.

The secret to the fries is easy—a beer batter coating and a bath in scalding soy oil—they are presented towering high in a thick pile. If you don’t think too hard about it, you can tell yourself these are a healthy treat. The chicken is about as moist as a bird can get without feathers. The secret, I’m told, is “high humidity.” I immediately picture the chickens sitting in a sauna before heading to the fryer.

chicken-sauna
I love the internet in its infinite weirdness. I feel almost normal.

 

The fries edge out the chicken by a crispy, salty bite. Then again, I tasted them first. I think I’ll have to go back again and try them in the reverse order. It may take a few taste tests to narrow down a winner.

Knock Your Boots Off - 2017

Lee is affable and proud to show off the winning trophies from regional and statewide chili championships—the latest being a sharp, neon glass sculpture—depicting a 2nd place victory at the BWL Chili Cook-Off in Lansing in September. It’s no surprise that they came a close runner up to “Hottest Chili” considering their claim-to-flame ingredient.

The secret to the hottest chili? The pepper of course. Feast your gaze upon this innocuous looking baby:

Carolina Reaper
Much like bikini swimsuits – the smaller the size, the greater the danger.

The Carolina Reaper  no doubt lives up to its name. A customer, curious about our conversation about the heat index of a chili so hot it comes with a disclaimer warning that the pregnant, nursing, or elderly might want to give it a pass.

Reaper Brisket Chili - Disclaimer

The cook serves up a portion of the diluted sauce and the man eagerly accepts the viscous, volcano-red serving—but one taste and he passes on the offer to try the unadulterated chili by itself.

You could not pay me to try one though. No amount of money is worth taste bud annihilation.

Mid-conversation, my teenager loams large dragging me toward the exit, but I managed one last question. “Do you need to wear protective gear—like an industrial painter’s mask—when preparing the pepper?”

Both Lee and Cam, hold up black, rubber-coated digits.

“Rubber gloves are all we need.” Lee eyes his thick latex mitts for a second, and adds, “But a mask wouldn’t hurt.”

One quick group photo and we’re gone. With only a wafting odor of fries to remind us that Shangri La exists.

Masonic Pasty
If you know how to correctly pronounce “Pasty,” you might be from the U.P.! [Hint: don’t be hasty, think nasty!]

We scarper past the Masonic Lodge where a sandwich board outside informs us that pasties are the fundraiser of the day. It’s a shame we are too stuffed to take advantage.

Ledges - Grand Princess
We missed the color tour by one week. Try to explain this to a determined child!

 

For another hour, we cross the bridge we abjured earlier. We interrupt squirrels and Canadian geese, disturb a young lady fishing, and then my son tries–again–to break into the Grand Princess hitched alongside Island Park. It is time to leave.

We start the walk back and I am serenaded by demands for our next outing:

“Boat ride, boat ride, boat ride…”

All…the…way…home.

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:

*Intentions aside, I sadly neglected to recharge my batteries from the day before— where I photographed my son’s school field trip to Post Family Farm. Who would’ve thunk taking 205 pictures of pumpkins would drain a camera battery dead?

**You’d have to be soul dead not to find poetry in these woods.

***I’m not explaining this joke. I find it much funnier this way.

Storm Warning: Falling Hammers Predicted

My son is going through puberty, either that, or its some kind of neuro-toxic brain frenzy that can only be communicated via decimating household fixtures. He is a raging tempest of mass destruction. Not to mock anyone in Texas or Puerto Rico going through their own recovery efforts, but, I swear my son is a force 5 hurricane leaving ruin in his wake. I am suffering my own tropical depression as a result.

In the past few weeks, my son ripped the hand towel loop from the wall, broke the stairwell banister rail by kicking it senseless and lastly, this weekend, tore the shower curtain rod from the bathroom.

My hulking teen has declared war and there is no Geneva Convention to protect me from his intermittent rages. The house is the ultimate casualty. Due to financial constraints, I can no longer throw good money away hiring someone to undo the damage on the home front. So, instead, I try to tackle repairs myself.

Cue Maniacal Laughter…

As a result, I swear, my house is laughing at me. It’s a soundtrack that erupts in evil snickering whenever I hunt for elusive tools.*

I managed to get through reinstalling the towel rack—placing it just far enough away from the patch to expose my inept sanding job—I have blindingly bright towels to keep people from noticing.**

Well-Hung Towel
It is hoped that the next homeowner will never look under the bracket cap to discover the third hole…

The bannister was actually the easiest fix of all. Though, dragging a reluctant teenager on a Dora Explorer hunt for the replacement part wasn’t fun. We wandered the lonely, orange-bedecked Home Depot aisles hunting the rare and mysterious hook thingy that connects the bannister to the wall. I really wished a talking map would pop out of nowhere to sing me some directions.

 

Handrail Bracket and Flanges
This is called a handrail bracket, in case you ever need to find one. I’d advise you hire an experienced sherpa to guide you.

 

Wisely, I took the broken parts with me when I went to replace it. My ability to identify obscure fixtures by name is not a key skill set. Hell, I can’t even remember most people’s names, none less the crazy vernacular home repair people give to their doohickies and whatnots!

Me at a hardware store: “I need a thingamajiggy for the whosie-whatsit that holds the toilet floaty ball rooster in place!”

After tackling these minor household projects, I had unrealistic expectations that I could fix whatever came next.

Hanging Brackets - Take Two
Note: these can be installed in several directions…but only one of them is correct!

 

When the shower curtain came crashing down, leaving the bent remains of the bracket drunkenly stuck to the side of the wall, I was given an opportunity—to fail. It was a most ego-mashing, hubris-drenched experience. I would like to point out, my ultimate goal in this project was to do the replacement as easily as possible—to reduce my stress.

If you would like to take a moment and let that sink in…my goal was “Easy” and “No Stress.”

Okay, you may continue reading…

The War of the Shower Curtain Reenacted In Agonizing Detail.

I highly recommend you turn this into a drinking game and do shots whenever I do something boneheaded or death-defying that makes you laugh snot bubbles.

Dear Diary: It’s been five days I haven’t had a shower; things are beginning to smell.

I have purchased no less than four…COUNT THEM…FOUR shower curtain rods—two on the same day. Goldilocks wasn’t this frickin indecisive.

First Curtain Rod--Some Assembling Incomprehensible
Warning: Comes With Steep Learning Curve.

 

The first one had the wrong holes—they wouldn’t line up with the ones originally drilled into the wall. The second one (see above) had the right holes…but to hang it, they had to be drilled vertically, not horizontally. Did not figure this out until I got it home though. Back to the store I went.

On my third trip to Home Depot, I found the exact same pole as the original one my son wrecked. Brace yourself for the victory song of the misguided:

“Ah ha.” I said to myself, “This will be easy. This will take seconds and it costs next to nothing compared to the more elaborate options. Bingo, Bango, Bongo. Kiri for the Win!”

Then I got it home and this happened:

Third Curtain Rod
No, this is not a tension rod. I’m a moron, not an idiot.

I could have tackled this using my hack saw. I could have measured and asked the store to cut it down. I could have listened to several wise friends who point-blank told me, “Get a tension sprung rod and stop b*tching about this.”

I could have saved myself…but I didn’t.

Faced with the unconquered space of drilling and hanging something that absolutely required precise measurement—on opposite walls, no less—with an uncertain hand-and-myopic-eye coordination, I feared installing a curtain rod the way some untrained people might have qualms about performing open-heart surgery or tackling Mount Everest in a blizzard.

But I was on a suicide mission and no amount of reason or serendipity was going to save me. I was going to tackle this monster project if it killed me. It almost did.

I gave myself a home improvement pep talk:

“You are a curtain coward. You have hated that poorly hung rod for over a year. That awkward draping fabric that clings, molding to your naked torso in a taunting embrace, whenever you shower. F*ck that clammy liner sideways! You can drill that bastard a new one! You will level that line. Your plumbs will hang straight down!”

[I have mentioned I don’t have a clue what I am doing in this arena, right?]

So, unwarranted optimism in tow, I purchase a fourth curtain rod in three days and drag it home, like a dead, brushed-nickel deer, an impending trophy to be hung.

FOUR HOURS LATER…

Of my talents as a home project installer, the less said, probably the better. However, I shall impart some things I learned from my major effort of that fateful Tuesday:

    1. Before leaving the parking lot, check to make sure you already own all the tools you will need to install said product. When in doubt, buy that 3/16th drill bit just in case.
    2. After a second run to Home Depot to buy the missing bit, you will then discover that the reason your previous curtain rod hung funny is because it was installed crookedly. One of your shower walls is ½ an inch shallower than the other. It will take you 2 hours of repeat measuring to figure this out however.
    3. No online video will warn you of the ‘exceptions’ to installation. I at least did not attempt to videotape myself while drilling the walls. I’m not a complete moron. (I.E.–There is no proof that can be held against me in a lawsuit—or to undermine one if I decided to seek damages.)
    4. However, I was dumb enough to balance a hammer on a towel rack, set a tape measure, dry erase marker, and several other miscellaneous items on various soap-covered surfaces in the tub while I danced drunkenly along the ceramic balance beam twirling this way and that trying to find the center point where I would start drilling. I’m lucky I didn’t break my neck. No, I am not exaggerating
    5. If you get the bright idea to:

a.) use left-over window cling film to try and create a drilling template, be warned that,

b.) the blue hairspray you were saving for your Halloween Costume will bleed through said holes, leaving an indistinct mess on the film, and it will strip the color from the hardware that it touches, so, please, for the love of all that is holy. DON’T!

c.) don’t try this because it will turn out that, while ‘fake frosted window film’ does cling to surfaces, no amount of static electricity will keep that rubber disk from spinning out of alignment when the drill bit whirrs to life. (I am totally not making this up. This was my genius solution to the problems of installing level holes.)

6. If you leave the extension cord draped from the wall socket over to the bathtub and back, you will trip over the orange rip cord and bring the drill crashing down perilously close to impaling your foot and/or knocking a chunk of ceramic out of said tub. Flailing to avoid said impalement, you will knock the hammer off the precarious perch as homage to your Rube Goldberg reasoning skills.

7. If, against all odds, you do manage to get the mother-fracking $&@*! holes drilled correctly, you will discover upon mashing the screw anchors, and taking yet another trip to Home Depot, that they don’t sell the exact same size, frickin, anchors.

 

8. Once the entire ensemble is installed, and you are crowing that you managed to defy expectations and get it done right, you will find the last step—the simplest step–of snapping the mount cover in place does this instead:

 

I wonder what the recycling guy will make of the empty vodka and wine bottles in the trash?

Oh well…I can always buy more wine when I take the THRESHOLD 2-WAY MOUNT CURVED SHOWER ROD BRUSHED NICKEL FINISH back to the bedamned store where I bought it.***

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:

*Let the Great Phillips Head Snipe Hunt commence! Is there some rule of home repair that says whatever drill bit you need, that’s the one that is missing? ‘Cause sure as shinola stinks, even if you do own one, it won’t be in your tool box when you need it.

**Leading people to say, “That is one well-hung towel!”

***I’m thinking the ‘Bull’s Eye’ logo on the building is a clue that someone is about to get hurt shopping there.

It Is With Sadness…

 

What would you do if you had one week left…?

*

It is done. My time is up and I’m moving on…but to what? That is the bajillion dollar question.

If you are like me, you crave continuity, reliability, and a steady, if somewhat monotonous, source of income. I like knowing there is going to be a paycheck at the end of two weeks.*

Those days are over.

This summer, before a tree derailed my free time, my only daycare option—aka Grandma—indicated she’d actually like to enjoy retirement before my son drove her to drink or broke her into kindling. (Or words to that effect.) The countdown ticking off the hours I could still work outside the home finally clanged its leaden clapper.

“Ask not for whom the bell tolls…”

So, I did what any sane individual would do. I panicked.

I spent a few hours…well, days really…maybe weeks…okay, I spent a lot of time devolving into a gibbering hot mess of indecision and fatal thinking:

How will I make rent?

How will I feed the mammoth I gave birth to?

How will I give up diet cherry Coke?**

This is what I do before I am capable of rational thought and planning. I engage all my worst coping mechanisms: I late night binge-watch television; I avoid responsibility; and, above all, I deny that anything is wrong.

I apparently can’t skip this step, as much as I want to, or as healthy as making sane, grown-up decisions would be, I need to stew.

But the time has come to pull on my big girl britches.*** It is time to get serious.

But first…

It occurred to me that I could have a little fun before I left my job. What were they going to do? Fire me?

MondayI declared it official Scarf Day.

Scarf Day
Alternate Title: Bad Hair Day Monday

 

Tuesday was my Fifties Throwback Tuesday

Kiri at Conference
I’m a throw-back rebel–I didn’t put it on a Thursday.

 

Wednesday was a hastily pulled together Patriotic Send-Off because I couldn’t find the costume I wanted to wear.

Patriotic Kiri
This is my go-to Fourth of July outfit–which I misplaced this year. There is a sense of closure from this OCD moment.

 

Thursday was my pride and joy—I wore my Harry Potter-Themed costume.

Kiri as Witch
Bring on the sock fetishists!

 

 

Do you know who I am? Bonus points if you get the in-joke with the locket. Hint: my last name is a clue.

And finally,

Fridaywords do not do this justice, I think…

Blue Kiri 3
I’m feeling a little blue today…

 

It is With Sadness that I depart my place of work. May I be remembered kindly…if a bit weirdly…by those I leave behind. And hopefully the blue hair spray will eventually come out.

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:

*I’m funny that way.

**The original title of this blog was going to beSupport My Coke Habit–GoFundMebut I decided this might not translate well if people didn’t read past the introduction.

***Big girls do not wear panties—it cramps their crack style.

Booger 101 – A Letter to my Autistic Child’s Teacher

After sending my son’s teacher an email warning detailing his behaviors, I re-read it and realized I made my son sound like a monster. I am now taking bets to see if/when she resigns. I give her two weeks.

Here’s a snippet of what I sent—only slightly exaggerated. Enjoy


Continue reading Booger 101 – A Letter to my Autistic Child’s Teacher