Grandma Cora

I meditate frequently. I find it peaceful and soothing and it takes me out of my crazy, chaotic, Christina brain to places that are much more adventurous, much more exciting, and, sometimes, much more safe.

One of the meditations I learned begins with choosing a place—any safe place. The idea behind the deep breathing and thinking about this “place” is to find comfort--to go to that one place, or those places that we have often found soothing. A quiet forest, a tranquil stream, an open meadow filled with wildflowers and a soft breeze.

My safe place has always been and will always be Grandma Cora’s. Grandma’s house seems forever etched in my memory. And when I close my eyes and wait patiently, Grandma Cora comes to me.

She sits in her recliner, partially-crocheted mittens in her lap (always a mint green yarn), her Carlton cigarette burns in the ashtray next to her. It is always winter in my mind—the snow deep and dangerous and the wind fiercely swirling atop the mountain where she resides. The windows in the kitchen are partially covered in a thin layer of ice but Grandma and I are warm. The wood stove blazing hot, I am physically, spiritually, mentally and emotionally warm. Grandma’s house is like that. It warms me to my core. My breathing slows and I forget that I am sad.

My meditative mind wanders around the house. Faded yellow counters, a refrigerator full of outdated salad dressings (she will NEVER throw out), a variegated blue/green carpet, and Grandpa’s coffee Nips on the end table next to his rocker remind me that nothing changes at Grandma Cora’s. Here is where I can always find unconditional love, sour cream cookies, and a scolding when need be. I inhale deeply and no longer am I here in “this world.”

Grandma never wears shoes in the house—only open-toed, pastel slippers—blue or pink with rubber-soled bottoms which she isn’t afraid to use on your rear end when called for. Her soft brown curls amaze me—no gray—never any gray—I like that Grandma doesn’t have gray. I like so many things about Grandma. I like that she speaks her mind. I like that she is nosey—I get that from her. I like that she knows everybody and all the sordid and wonderful details of their past. I have come to find comfort in our conversations. My eyes closed I talk to Grandma. I don’t realize the chaos has left me.

We watch her soap operas together. I see her hands—olive skin, wrinkled with years of determination, and long fingernails I always wished I had inherited. I smell her roast cooking and potatoes boiling. I hear the tinkling of Grandma and Grandpa’s spoons in their coffee cups early in the morning when they think I am still asleep on the sofa. I taste her Spanish rice—always served in the Red Poppy bowl she left me. And I touch her. Grandma is here with me. She is always here with me. It’s as if she never left.

I miss you Grandma Cora.

Baby Got Vac

Seriously. You ever have one of those days?

So, my daughter was kind enough to give me a used sofa. She delivered it, my Mom stored it in her garage, and I figured maybe I’d give it a good steam cleaning before the actual venture to our home in Liberty and up to the narrow hallwayed-second floor-apartment. And thus, dear con-artist reader-my saga begins.

I find mom’s steam cleaner, fill it with hot, hot water and ammonia and take it out to the garage. Try to turn on the lights in the garage, but they aren’t working. Hmmm. Check the cords, everything plugged in properly, follow the extension cord that supplies the garage with electricity to the back of Ma’s house—all plugged in. Damn it. Call mom at work, ask the receptionist for “Laundry”—no answer. Decide to wait a bit—maybe she’s on break. While waiting, realize the attachment hose isn’t on the steam vac. Go back into house and find it in Ma’s “Junk room” closet. Take it out and attempt to figure out how to hook it up. Seriously confused. Oh well, I’ll ask Ma when I call her. Decide to remove the cushion covers and wash them in the washer. Crap, there are two zippered compartments—not just one—and I know when I go to put them back on its going to be a helluva fight. OK, anyway, I remove all the sponge innards, set them aside, fill the washer with hot water, use some extra shout on each cushion and get the wash started. After about 20 minutes, I call the nursing home where Ma works and ask for Sandee Hall. Ma says maybe the reset button on the outlet needs to be hit again and when I ask about the hose attachment she gets a little scattered trying to explain. At that point I hear someone in the background say something—must be a smart ass comment because Ma yells “shut up!” Ma says to plug the one end into the little cubby and the other end goes in the part that you take out for dirty water. OK, I say, I’ll figure it out.

I take out the water tank and dirty water receptacle, get the one end plugged into the cubby OK, but can’t for the life of me figure out the other end. Sighing, I decide to just look it up on the internet. Go BACK into the house, check the internet—crap—forget to look at the name of the vac. Go back to garage and find name “Hoover Steamvac Spinscrub” got it. I recite the name all the way back into the house, find the Hoover website, type in Hoover Steamvac Spinscrub and am linked to a place where I can find and download (of course) the entire instruction manual. OK, I type in Steamvac Spinscrub—again—but am advised I need a model number. Out to the garage find the model number—recite it all the way back in, but forget it as soon as I go to type it in. Go to kitchen get a pen and paper, go back out, and find model number. Back into the house—the dog is now looking at me like I seriously need meds—and type in the model number—TO WHICH THE WEBSITE EXPLAINS THEY ARE SORRY BUT NO LONGER HAVE THAT MANUAL!!! Slight twitch. Big Sigh. I type in various things hoping to find other results. Lots of questions like mine, but the answers are vague and complicated. 3 more times I go back to the garage and attempt to follow some of the written directions, but to no avail. Bigger twitch. Bigger sigh. Swear. Find a website with video instructions and click on that. Careful not to get ahead of myself I watch the entire video to make sure I know what I’m doing. OK, I got it. Go back to garage—struggle for about a minute but get it hooked up. Start to steam clean the couch—although now the water is pissy warm-- and immediately discover that it really isn’t the tool I need to clean the sofa after all. What I need is a bucket, a scrub brush, and some elbow grease. Complete facial distortion, kick the steamvac, swear at everything and the dog, sit down, count to ten and compose myself. Go BACK into the house, grab a bucket. Turn on the hot water faucet---to find THERE’S NO HOT WATER because I used it all cleaning the goddamn sofa cushions in the washer.

Sit down, say a prayer and meditate for 5. Consider all my options. I really need this sofa. It really is in good condition. I love the color. It has to be cleaned, though, cause Katie’s little guys are rough and spill a lot. I think about my life. I give myself credit for raising a good daughter, making it through a difficult divorce, working my recovery and more, and make what I feel is the right decision—Fuck it—I’m going to take a nap.

I Bet Cary Grant Didn't Have Skid Marks

I sat watching a Cary Grant film the other day. And, as is true with most Cary Grant films, he portrayed the epitome of an eligible bachelor. He wore dark, well-tailored suits—always with a jaunty tie, drank martinis—always after work, had the most modern furniture (although a blonde coffee table and console TV might not seem modern today, by Cary Grant’s standards they were right on the money). Cary also employed an elderly, slightly curmudgeoned maid with just enough wit to keep him in line, wore two piece pajamas to bed at night, and smoked a pipe with such sex appeal that I actually got moist. Man, he had it going on, y’know? So, what I want to know is where these bachelors are now?

I’ve been dating pretty much since 2007. And although this is in no way intended to sluttify myself, I’ve dated all shapes and sizes of bachelors. I say this only to qualify myself in the matters of bachelors and their lifestyles. I’ve dated fat men, skinny men, tall men, and short men, men with college degrees and men with GED’s. I’ve dated men who played soccer nationally and men who—well—just played. I’ve dated men I’ve liked, lusted, and—currently—love. But I ain’t ever dated a bachelor who didn’t live like they were not only members but Presidents of Phi Delta Disgusting.
Unlike Cary, these bachelors dress haphazardly—preferring to choose dirty clothes from the hamper rather than a suit and tie from a hanger. They have a strange habit of sporting the newest athletic shoes—Adidas, Nike, Converse—always name brands-- and paring them with the free t-shirt they scored last week at the radio-thon that reads “WFRT—we blow the others away.” Today’s bachelor dresses based on a simple olfactory examination—if it doesn’t burn their nose hair when they sniff it, they think they can wear it. And can anyone tell me why shoe-tying is suddenly optional?
The bachelor’s I’ve dated have never drunk or even ordered a martini. They like Red Bull, coffee, or old coca-cola they’ve found under the front seat of the car. They serve ketchup in tiny packets, drink from jelly glasses, and possess a plethora of steak knives they’ve stolen from various steak houses. They don’t cook at home—as a rule—unless it’s like canned—and they own more take-out menus than underwear. Mis-matched plates, cups, 2 forks and 1 frying pan have always been considered the standard.

Today’s bachelor has furniture—if you call one lazy boy recliner and a blue tote for an end table a living room set. They sleep in apartments that look like frat houses, bedrooms that look like Oscar Madison threw up, and beds that look eerily like they’ve seen more action than Arnold, Sly, and Bruce Willis combined. They never possess salt and pepper shakers, vacuum cleaners, or, it seems, the common sense to desire these items. There is no hired maid—and I’m pretty sure they simply rely on the girl current relationship to serve in that capacity—killing two birds with one stone and all. They control the TV if you please, and even if you don’t, and always while they play Double Down on the computer. They believe we love to see them naked—anywhere and anytime—their penises flopping lazily from side-to-side while they explain the virtues of Chip Coffey and Paranormal Activities to you, and aren’t opposed to facing the world skivvy-less and in flip flops. They burp a lot; gag a lot—seemingly having a never-ending supply of hair balls caught in their throat—and fart.

Ah yes, the bachelor fart. Tell me why? Why? Why does a man need to be married or in a relationship and harassed into withholding intentional farts? I simply do not get it. And what’s with the smile that seems to accompany all of them? It’s not funny….it’s not funny at all. They lift their legs to fart, point their asses at you to fart, bend slightly at the waist and push to fart, and regale you with stories of farts. So very unCary Grant like, don’t you think?

I want to go back…if only for a day. I want the Cary Grant sort of bachelor to swoon over me and dance with me and have no intentions of sleeping with me at the end of the night. Which inevitably leads me to believe, perhaps those bachelors were gay??