by Susan Lobb Porter | Family, Kids, Life |
Warning: Seasonal Blasphemy Alert
DaughterDearest and I went to Farmer Bob’s lot and picked out a Christmas tree today. A Nobel Fir, just like the one Mary and Joseph had–because one of us is a traditionalist, you see, and if oh! tannenbaum was good enough for the holy family then it’s good enough for ours. So says she-who-was-not-paying-for-the-tree. I, on the other hand, thought that maybe when the offspring sprung I wouldn’t have to do this anymore, that I could go back to decorating a few ailing houseplants (my houseplants are always ailing) and call it Happy Holidays.
Because if you want to get Biblical, I’m sure that’s what Mary did. Once her son left home and started hanging with the fishermen (What? No doctors???) I bet she was relieved she didn’t have to bake the birthday fruitcake and hunt down Farmer Bob’s great-great-great-great-a-thousand-times-great grandfather for a tree. Especially at those prices. And Joseph? I bet he didn’t care if they had a tree or not. Hey, wasn’t his kid they were celebrating. And fruitcake? Fuhgeddaboutit.
Who knew?
Fast forward a couple thousand years to now. My hopes of cheering up the dusty dracena with a couple of silver balls were cruelly dashed by my now grownup children. Who would’ve thought they’d want to come home for the holidays…. Go figure. Or move back in after college while wanting nothing more than to move out again. And a tree is part of the deal. Not a tree from the nearly eleven forested acres we live on. Most of them are Ponderosa Pine. Too tall. Unless we had a fifteen story atrium in the house. Which we don’t.
Although I might talk Mr. Spouse into building one when he retires. He likes to build things.
But back to the tree. My children are traditionalists. They want a tree from Farmer Bob.
And so we set out on the great tree adventure. DaughterDearest ran hither and yon through the lot, from one tree to the next. And the next. And the next. Greeting each and every one with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever with a bladder problem. Or a six year old on crack. She wanted this one. No! No! She wanted that one. But…but look over there! And off she’d go again.
While I trotted behind her, discretely checking the prices. Holy crap! Some of those suckers required my banker’s signature.
She totally charmed Farmer Bob. Was it the skinny jeans on the size 2 tiny hiney? Or the long blonde hair tucked under the Cal cap. Cal being short for I’m a freakin’ genius! I went to Berkeley!!! Which is like wearing your IQ on your head. Whatever, she was adorable. And yes, she is SMART.
In the end we picked a tree that met all the criteria.
Hers: It was the most beautiful tree ever!
Mine: Wouldn’t have to take out a second mortgage to pay for it.
The End
PS. Still no photos. One more thing for the fix-it ticket.
by Susan Lobb Porter | Family, Kids, Life |
Not with a bang.
It’s official. The docs are signed, the keys returned. The war-that-was-never-ever-declared-a-war-by-Congress is OVER.
I was on my way to work, driving down a steep country road when I heard the news. And that’s all it was, just news. Blah blah blah a story. Followed by other stories that I didn’t pay attention to because I was too busy thinking about the war that wasn’t a war.
The non-war that my son returned to three times over the course of four years. But he was one of the lucky ones. He survived. And any injuries he received were not important enough to tell his mother about.
Unlike the 4,487 American service members who didn’t survive. And the 32,226 who were injured severely enough for their moms to be told. And the hundreds of thousands of Iraqis either killed, injured or displaced. But they don’t count because, well, we don’t want to think about them.
It’s over. Maybe. Sort of.
We’ll see….
The question is, will anybody outside of the military even know? Because we, as a people, have been sheltered from the facts. The tone was set by our former leader (he-who-must-not-be-named) when he told us to show our patriotism and go shopping. Don’t worry our pretty little heads about what was going on over there. And then he told the bad guys to ‘bring it on.’
AARUGH!!!
Okay. Step back now. Breathe deep. Much better….
When I was formulating the idea for this blog I told myself it would be non-political. It’s about art and life and everything in between, right? Painting, not politics. But for a long time this war WAS my life, affecting everything I did. It’s why I stopped painting. Why I moved my elderly mother into my studio, ensuring I wouldn’t have a place to paint if I wanted to. Because if I couldn’t save my son, maybe I could save my mom. It’s why I quit my galleries and just let my career turn to dust. You can read about some of that here, written during deployment #2.
It’s why I was a crazy woman–absolutely bat shit crazy— for four plus years. Because being consumed by fear and rage and anticipatory grief will do that to a person. So will going to funerals of young men who are called heros for being unlucky enough to be on the wrong end of a bullet or a bomb. And writing condolence letters to the unlucky moms. Hundreds of letters, until one day I woke up–not that I ever slept–and said, “I CAN NOT. DO THIS. ANYMORE.”
And so I pulled back and allowed some semblance of normalcy to creep into my life. I never for one minute stopped caring. But I had to start living my life again. My son was home. He was safe. For me, it was time to move on.
And now, this war-that-was-never-a-war is over.
But only for some. Because for those who lived it or died in it or came home missing something, or for those whose loved one is never coming home…this war-that-was-never-a-war won’t be over for a long, long time.
by Susan Lobb Porter | Life |
AARUGH!
Got a cold or some other nameless variety of cootie bugging me tonight. Came on just like that. No warning at all…one moment I’m fine, then the next thing I know I’m deep in whiney-land with a sore throat and chills.
Veg out time. HGTV. Watch people buy, sell, renovate houses. No plot to follow. Just be there for the final reveal. The last five minutes where OMG–I so want to live in that renovated basement apartment. Love the shiny glass tiles on the wall. And the furniture. But mostly I want to live there because it’s CLEAN. Not a dirty sock in sight. And look–a bowl of oranges on the counter. I like oranges….
That’s where my attention span is tonight. Somewhere on the sofa between a couple of dogs, fixating on other people’s houses.
And on-line solitaire. Greatest mind-suck of them all. Except for the distracting Frye boot ads that scroll up the side and catch my eye. Because every once in awhile I see a boot I have to have and click on it. Which screws up my game, totally. I lust after the distressed leather, because I go for the ones that look like they’ve been worn around a barn for years and years and I want them real bad. So bad I dare to click again to see if they have them in my size and color.
Fortunately they don’t. Which is good, really. Because otherwise I’d have some ‘splain’ to do when UPS delivers enough boots to shod a couple dozen feet.
And I only have two.
by Susan Lobb Porter | Uncategorized |
It was beginning to feel lonely in blog land. No comments, not a one, for close to two weeks. I wondered what was up. Did I forget to shower? Been eating too many onions? Or did I say something really STUPID and offend everyone?
Which, trust me, wouldn’t be the first time.
And then Donna contacted me on facebook. Asked me what was going on because her comments were not going through.
It was a Homer Simpson moment. A big “D’OH!” Or, in Oprah speak, “AHA!”
Turns out I had a SPAM filter run amok. The comment police working overtime. I was able to go in there and manually sort through everything. Marked your beloved words “Not Spam”. Then I had to find them in another folder and mark “Approve.” Then I had to repeat the process for my replies.
I’m not sure what the problem is but until I can fix it I promise I’ll check the SPAM folder daily. Your comments will appear the day you post them and I WILL answer every one. Because I love the conversation that’s been happening.
And I want to grow this blog into a community.
So bear with me while I iron out these growing pains. I will be blogging throughout the holidays although I might be posting through my ipad or phone while the computer is in the shop. Always an adventure. And I’ll look into using a different comment plugin.
And the big news–come January I’ll be taking a blogging e-class. I’m new to this and am open to finding the right direction and making this blog ROCK. I’ll share the details as they happen. And I’ll be posting the class info later.
Meanwhile, can anyone tell me–did I use the right ‘bear’ up there?
by Susan Lobb Porter | Life |
Oh nooooooooooo….
Been limping along with some computer problems lately. Even have a fix it ticket from Apple. The shipping box is sitting on the dining room table waiting for me to take some action. But parting with Mac for a week or more is (mentally) akin to parting with a limb. No, no–make that an organ. A vital organ. Like my brain.
It’s worse than when the kids left home. Then again, it was them or me by that point.
I’ve been able to cajole Mac along despite the infirmities but tonight she would not read the SD card. WOULD NOT. No matter how many times I jiggled that sucker. It could be I just need a new SD card. I’ll pick one up tomorrow and give that a try.
But there’s no photos tonight. You will just have to use your imagination. They were lovely. The best I ever took. Really. Award winning food shots if I do say so myself. You’ll have to take my word on this since, well, I can’t show them to show you.
The first was a heaping pan of beauteous chopped greens. Collard. Mustard. Turnip. Raw and glistening. Beautiful emerald green greens.
They were my dinner, or part of it. I really wanted potato chips. Just potato chips, nothing else. I deserved them after working out. And I was eating alone tonight so I could have whatever I wanted. But the greens were there and needed to be eaten.
The second was rather artsy. Greens peaking out through steam as it wafted above the pan. Like summer fields in the mist. Oh my. That was a rather poetic description. Maybe I don’t need photos.
The third was quite colorful. A deep orange yam surrounded by wilted greens on a gold colored plate. A few slivers of pale yellow butter. Flecks of garlic. Quite nice. A fork arranged artfully to the side.
And the fourth photo? The potato chips I had for dessert.
