treefroggirl

posted by Thomas on Nov 28

I was incredibly grumpy yesterday. The night before hadn’t been a home run and the plan was that I was going to cook a mini Thanksgiving meal for Stuart and I. (Basically just a chicken and some potatoes.) I really wasn’t in the mood and was mentally planning on heating up a pizza.

Luckily Stuart without my asking made a booking at Bodean’s so while I didn’t have a traditional meal, it was close enough that I was happyish.

After, we played a few rounds of hangman on his iPhone at the pub. I left around 9:30 so I could call grand’rents and ‘rents.

Yesterday was my maternal grandparents 66th wedding anniversary, which is really an amazing thing. More amazing when you consider my Grandfather turned 93 a couple of weeks ago.

They live in a small little town in Nevada about an hour and half from Reno. They moved there when they retired in the 70’s.

Whenever I call I talk to Coco’s first, (I call them Coco’s and Papa) and we’ll make small talk then she’ll hand me to Papa. I have a window of 30 to 90 seconds with him, as he really doesn’t like the phone. I think it is partly his age and that he refuses to wear a hearing aid and also he just hates the phone. I think when he was 50 he might have been the same way.

Cocos used to be really chatty, talking with you for about 15 minutes to a half hour but the last few years she’ll get off the phone with me after a couple of minutes.

I wouldn’t know why if I didn’t speak to my mother, but I do know why. I just don’t push it. Yesterday was the first real indication of what she is trying to hide.

“Hi Coco’s! Happy Thanksgiving and Anniversary!”

“Oh hello! What a nice surprise. Guess who is in the room with me?”

“Papa?”

“Yes. Seen him all day.”

“I would hope so.”

We laugh.

She continues, “Yep, saw him at breakfast and at church.”

“Well that was nice of him.”

We laugh some more.

“Let me give you to him, she says.”

I hear the phone being handed to someone, and then a male voice says, “Hello?”

“Hi Papa! It’s Nicole! Happy Thanksgiving and anniversary!”

“What?”

Hi Papa!! It’s Nicole!! Happy Thanksgiving and anniversary!!”

“I’m sorry, I’m—“

I realise immediately I am not speaking to Papa.”

“–their neighbour. Your Grandmother thought you were my daughter. Let me give you to your Grandfather.”

In my 90 seconds with my 93 year old grandfather we wish each other a happy Thanksgiving and make jokes about some jail sentences being less than his 66 years of marriage, tell each other we love each other and he hands the phone back to Coco’s.

I can tell she’s embarrassed by her mistake. “You know I’m old. I can get confused.”

“I know Coco’s. Don’t worry.”

“Well, I love you and we love that husband of yours. It would be nice if you could get over to this country with him and come visit.”

“I wanted to ask you that actually. I’m coming to LA in April. My drivers licence has expired so I’ll have to figure out how to get to you from Reno, but could I come to visit for a couple of days?”

“Sure. Sure.”

“Great! We’ll talk more about it after the New Year and a bit closer to the time.”

“Sure. And we may not be alive.”

I feign annoyance at her saying such a thing. I tell her to knock on some wood and we laugh, but I have no idea if we are laughing at the same thing.

This summer when my Mom went to see them, Papa hugged her and whispered, “You may never see me again.”

I’m more than a little worried that I won’t.

posted by Thomas on Aug 18

After three years in London, I still don’t get Celsius. Much like French where I can order a glass of wine and say hello or goodbye, my understanding of it is rudimentary at best. If someone says it’s 35, I know that is damn hot (by UK standards- not growing up in Las Vegas standards) but I wouldn’t know what that number translates into Fahrenheit unless I use an online tool.

It’s been warm here in Charleston and the humidity packs an extra one, two. A couple of nights ago Gary thought it was cool enough to not have the air on and just open windows and run fans and Stuart and I nearly died. The folks told us if we need to adjust the air con to feel free to do it.

Last night, it started to be rather chilly. I pulled one of the blankets around me and snuggled my toes up to Stuart while we watched TV. I just figured they had cranked up the air con because of night before. But then it got even colder.

We saw Gary go to the thermostat and mumble to himself. Stu turned to me with a small look of horror.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“I turned the air on and I think I forgot it was in Fahrenheit.”

“Oh no. What did you turn it to?”

“19.”

I laughed.

“What is that for ours?”

“Something like zero.”*

“Oh God.” Stuart stood. “Errr. . . Gary?”

* It is actual C -7.2

posted by Thomas on Aug 17

The parentals back yard is on the largish side as I mentioned. All sorts of wild beasties are in it. You may recall that they have raccoons.

Yesterday was a big day for seeing creatures.

Charlotte loves the garden because she bounces around like a thing possessed and barks and digs at anything that moves. A few months ago she was bitten by a copperhead and had to go to the vet. It hasn’t really slowed her down which was proven when she started barking at a little tiny snake yesterday. We think it was just a garter snake but we stayed away from it.

They also have moles. I’ve never seen a mole until yesterday when Charlotte ran into the garden threw something up into the air that I thought was one of her stuffed animal toys until I realized with horror that she was playing with a dead creature.

It was a little thing, four to six inches long with a down turned nose, you couldn’t see any eyes and little rat like paws.

I suspect if it was my garden, I wouldn’t feel so bad about it.

Late in the afternoon, I was sitting finishing reading the 2nd book that I brought, watching a cardinal hop around in the trees when Charlotte started going nuts barking at something at the rear fence. My mom went to investigate and discovered a little turtle about the size of my hand. We let it out in the wild area behind the back gate far from the dog.

We’re going to the beach today so if we see and or are eaten by sharks, I would not be completely surprised.

posted by Thomas on Aug 15

One of the nice things about going to my parent’s house. . . I get to play with the dog and the cats.

The dog is Charlotte, a black lab mix thing who while is a couple of years old, has a puppy mind and throws her body around when she is excited. When we first arrived, she jumped up on the bed as we were unpacking, which normally might be a annoying but given that Stuart had just put his arsenal of electronic equipment on the bed could have been disastrous. I tried to pull her down while he cradled his iPhone and looked terrified.

We’ll be keeping the door to our bedroom shut.

Their pool was just finished and nearly every time we let Charlotte out yesterday, she had to show off her swimming skills by gingerly stepping into it and swimming to the other side.

She’s funny and like many children, is fun to play with and you are rather glad you can give her back to her parents when she starts crying.

The parentals have a screen porch that is a pleasant way to sit outside but not really be outside because you don’t get eaten alive by bugs. You look out at their enormous garden and it is really relaxing. The size of their garden is not hyperbole. You could seriously fit a football pitch inside it and still have room for the pool.

Last night I sat there with a glass of red, reading a magazine and wrote a short scene. The cats, (George, my baby they adopted from me, Jake, Zack and Miss Sophie) were hanging out with me as well and once in a while one would come and say hello and then go back to their chair or shelf and blink and be cattish.

I don’t know what my parents have been feeding George because he has lost his girlish svelte figure. Perhaps like all of us he has gotten old and just decided to let himself go. He’s always been a solid kitty, but now when he kneads his paws into you, he has some serious bulk behind his kitty shiatsu.

I think perhaps when I come visit, is is as much to see the zoo as it is to see my folks.

posted by Thomas on Aug 13

Soon I will be floating in my parent’s pool or in the ocean.

Stuart and I leave tomorrow to visit my folks in Charleston, where I will be doing very little other than cause myself serious skin damage.

I’m all packed. I am now a master packer. When I go on business trips I even just take a carry on. I still take a ton of stuff, but instead of five pairs of shoes I take two.

The last two years at this time we have gone on a road trip. Last year was Spain and the year before was France. Both years we had an amazing time but it was go-go-go-go-go-go-go-go and this year I really just needed to have some sun to help get me through the approaching darkness.

When I lived in California, I had no idea. I mean I knew the weather was good. I lived in Seattle for two years before LA, but after a year you forget. You think it’s normal to wear a short sleeve dress in April and to crank up the AC.

Not to say the weather is that bad here. It really isn’t. It’s not Russia or Chicago. It just isn’t Maui, but then again few places are.

So we’re off. Off for some sun and cervaza and food and hanging out with the parentals.

Then we have to come back and get cracking. Lots of things to get done. Work is going to heat up plus finishing the play plus exercising.

Winter is coming grasshopper. . .

posted by Thomas on May 31

Thursday night I wasn’t in the mood to go straight home, so I roped Al into going for just one. We left the pub at nine. All very civilized. I remember having three glasses of red. Al however said that there were four. Given what transpired next, I am inclined to believe him.

Three or four- That’s a lot of vino, but I can usually handle that. Not saying it’s a good idea- just that I can handle it. I usually however pace myself – especially when drinking wine. I will drink water between the glasses. Spread it out over six-eight hours. I also usually have food in my stomach.

But not Thursday. I drank four (large) glasses of red- basically a bottle if not more on maybe 350-500 calories. In three hours.

I woke up at 6 in the morning in bed. Naked. Luckily it was my bed and Stuart was lying next to me. I flipped the events of the evening Rolodex in my head.

Left the pub. Okay. Laying here in bed. Okay.

Left the pub. Bed.

Pub. Bed.

I was missing everything in between. This has never happened to me before.

Stuart had put a large glass of water and ibuprophen on the dresser for me so I took a couple even though I felt okay and drank half the water.

Stuart stirred and peeked his head over the duvet.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“You were lashed.”

“Yeah. I don’t remember anything after leaving the pub.”

“You came home at 9:30 singing the French national anthem.”

“I was singing The Marseillaise?”

“See. I didn’t even know it was called that.”

“But I don’t know the words to The Marseillaise.”

“Well, they’re in your head somewhere.”

“I think I’ve watched Casablanca a few too many times.”

“I tried to make you go to bed but you refused. I tricked you by saying you would be more comfortable in your dressing gown.”

Something was coming back. “You undressed me?”

“Yes. And you weren’t very accommodating. You kept rolling around. Then you screamed, ‘Stop hitting me!’ Then you giggled.

“That’s funny.”

“I’m sure our neighbours thought so. Do you remember talking to your mum?”

“I talked to my mom?”

“Yeah, something happened with you sister. She had to have a second surgery. I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yes. She’d called and left a message and you called back.”

“I called back?”

“At 12:30. You were sitting up talking really loudly and woke me up and I had to send you out of the room. I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

I can’t believe I can’t remember either. It’s rather scary. I did some quick research on the topic this morning and I found a really great article by Aaron White, PhD. Basically alcohol messes with your brain hitting the record button.

Alcohol primarily disrupts the ability to form new long-term memories; it causes less disruption of recall of previously established long-term memories or of the ability to keep new information active in short-term memory for a few seconds or more. At low doses, the impairments produced by alcohol are often subtle, though they are detectable in controlled conditions. As the amount of alcohol consumed increases, so does the magnitude of the memory impairments. Large quantities of alcohol, particularly if consumed rapidly, can produce a blackout, an interval of time for which the intoxicated person cannot recall key details of events, or even entire events. En bloc blackouts are stretches of time for which the person has no memory whatsoever. Fragmentary blackouts are episodes for which the drinker’s memory is spotty, with “islands” of memory providing some insight into what transpired, and for which more recall is usually possible if the drinker is cued by others. Blackouts are much more common among social drinkers than previously assumed and should be viewed as a potential consequence of acute intoxication regardless of age or whether one is clinically dependent upon alcohol.

There is one benefit of me not eating enough and going to bed without dinner. I was a pound and half lighter Thursday morning than I was on Wednesday. Maybe there is something with the whole starvation thing. (of course I am kidding. And anyone that knows me knows that would not be possible for me to ever do)

I told Al that I had a black-out.

He was surprised. “You must have been drunk!”

That made me feel mildly better that while my record button had been taped over, at least I was functional. . . to someone who had had four pints.

“How are you feeling?”

“I feel fine. Great. I’m hungry because I haven’ had breakfast, but other than that fine. Isn’t that terrible?”

“Are you kidding? That’s great. They should take your blood and study it. Do tests on you to find the secret to no more hangovers.”

While I don’t generally get hangovers, I really don’t fancy another memory gap.

Although, it would be rather fabulous, if deep inside me, are the words to The Marseillaise.

posted by Thomas on May 27

Me and Grey – Summer 1995Originally uploaded by treefrog girl.

Well not old. Just not young.

The little monkey I am holding in this picture turned 13 four days ago.

Just got the e-mail announcing my 20th High School reunion.

My cousin that is my age e-mailed me with her son’s High School graduation announcement.

Sigh. . .

posted by Thomas on May 25

One of the things that I love about my sister is what a character she is. She is a universe of energy that can be a lot of fun when it is being used for good rather than evil. I suppose it’s the whole bi polar thing. It’s amazing that such a little person is so enormous.

Was chatting (listening) to her yesterday.

Some of what I can remember:

“You know how I have a cigarette every now and then? Grey HATES it. So for his birthday, can you believe he’s THIRTEEN? So for his birthday one of his gifts as a joke I bought him some of those candy cigarettes. I tossed them to him and said ‘SMOKE UP SON!’ HAHAHA! He is SUCH a little prude. Such a PRUDE. And he’s very serious. You know me, I was a happy go lucky kid. But Grey is so VERY serious. He’s more of a little arty serious kid. Like how you were!”

“I’m just so glad they finally diagnosed me with the hernia. The doctor asked me to set a date for the operation and I said September. And he said, ‘No, we need to do it now.’ So we were going to do it Monday and then I changed it. I had to! Mercury is in retrograde! But it is a BLESSING. I’m scared to go under the knife but this is affecting my navel chakra, which is all about emotions. Once I heal, I am going to be such a stronger massage therapist.”

“I just bought WONDERFUL car. I had bought this hunk of junk and put 1000 bucks into it then it turned out to have cracked engine. Then I had a dream. I saw myself in my friend’s car. So I called her. Told her that the UNIVERSE was telling me I was supposed to have her car so she sold it to me!’

She cracks me up. She’s like a rich chocolate torte laced with hallucinogenics. It’s fun to visit her world for a little while, but then I need to pull away and find gravity before I spin out of orbit into her normal of exploding stars.

You see- while she may be a toasted flake. . .she’s right. I always was rather serious.

posted by Thomas on May 13

I’ve always been a big reader. I don’t recall even learning to read. When I was seven and I got busted for not doing my homework, my parents took my books away to punish me.

Nana, my father’s mother is also a big reader. She would send my mom big boxes of novels that she had read when she was done with them.

I wasn’t allowed to read these books. The covers of the novels that Mom kept in big dusty boxes in the garage were the sort that Fabio would pose for. Bodice rippers.

Of course my not being able to read these books meant that I would of course read them and so I had my first introduction to porn for women when I was 11 or 12. Gentleman, if you see a woman reading one of these novels and then giving you stick about your videos and FHM, know that she is a hypocrite because these books are nothing but erotica dressed up as romance.

One of my favourites from the smut pile was Sky O’Malley. I tell myself that I got some history in between the good parts.

Reading these books was certainly titillating, but it did mess with my head I think. It took me a while once I was in the game to realise that everything didn’t. . . errr. . . work. . . as easily as they do in the books.

It wasn’t until years later, when reflecting on secret stash of girl porn in the garage that I felt a certain amount of -ICK- at the knowledge that I was getting off on the same books as my Mother and Grandmother.

posted by Thomas on Apr 18

When I was growing up, my father worked selling used auto parts. He may very well still do that. The shop he worked in was different from a lot of the places in that business in the 70’s. The showroom was clean and shiny with stacks of tires and hubcaps arranged artfully.The back where all the parts were, or in the shop, or the graveyard of cars in the pick-a-part lot was the typical greasy and dusty.

Whenever we came to see my dad, his boss would call out, “Helloooo boys!” which we loved because we weren’t boys. This was a world ruled by men.

The only women were draped on the hoods of the car calendars in the front office and in the stacks of porn in the shop. Now, looking back, it concerns me slightly that someone brought his porn in to work. Seems like an unusual place to find the time to appreciate it.

I could be making this up, but I have a memory of my sisters and I in 1977/78 spending the day at my dad’s work for some reason and finding one of the Playboys. We sat there like it was story time, us all of eight, six and five years old, flipping through the pictures and giggling.

Thank god it wasn’t Hustler.