Something Approaches

I can hear an ominous buzzing. It's the sound of flies, masses of them, a sound that will stop you dead in your tracks in an open field as you scan for a body. I've looked for the source of this sound for days, peeking over the hill into the ditch behind our house, searching for the telltale swivel of a buzzing fly that will lead my eye to the carcass. There isn't one. Maybe a corpse will float up in my life somewhere else, then. Something I had forgotten for a long time, rising reeking to the surface.

More painting, more spots on the floor dabbed up with my fingers. I'm green today.


We spent a nice afternoon at the pool yesterday, and Gavin dunked himself for the first time. He struggles to escape us now, certain he can swim like a fish if we would just let go. We compromise and set him loose on the stairs, where he crawls on his belly through the water and jumps in deeper and deeper until he clings to the wall and dangles. We returned home to find the neighbor girl pressed up against our screen door. That child is bored, and I can't say I like our family privacy invaded on a daily basis. I'm learning to manage her.

Attacking the kitchen

Today we started some renovations. Mike got up bright and early to haul our old couch to the dump and pick up a new TV stand - one made from wood rather than particle board. He was supposed to return with a borrowed table saw, but failed, as his friend was not home. Instead, he ripped off the cupboard doors while my mother and I drove into town to buy paint.

In the middle of all this, my aunt dropped by with my small cousin, Chris. I had a very unpleasant few hours of barking orders and physically restraining the boys as they hit, pushed, kicked, wrestled over toys, and lobbed rocks at each other. Gavin decided that if Chris could screech like a Nazgul, he could, too. Charming. Most of it was still on Chris' side. He is so relentless with his boundary-pushing that Gavin started getting overlooked while I was busy yelling, "Chris, no! Put that down, Chris! No throwing, Chris! I said NO! Chris, you get back here!" And what do children do to get attention if all the focus is on the rotten kid? They behave rotten as well. It's a horrible cycle, and I dread it when my aunt comes over with Chris. I would really like to have warmer feelings for my cousin, instead of restraining the urge to punt him. (On a side note, my aunt bragged about how he's talking in full sentences and having conversations now, and he demonstrated his brilliance by yelling "buh-buh!" a hundred times while running in circles.)

So tomorrow we paint the kitchen. I emptied out the pounds of plastic grocery bags we had guiltily stowed under the sink, and I donated them to the supermarket recycle bin, with a few giant roaches thrown in for good measure. The purging feels good, and already the living room looks so much better without the Dreaded Orange Couch and with a proper piece of furniture for the TV and stereo. Gavin expressed his appreciation of the arrangement by dragging down some couch pillows and lounging naked on the floor. 

Peace again.

The War Begins

(It seems I have a lot to say today, doesn't it?)

Last night I heard a scrabbling in the kitchen. Silence. Scrabble. Rustle. Bang. Movement in the corner of my eye. The cats looked worried.

I crept into the hall nervously, hand twitching slightly as I reached for the light switch. Something was moving. Lots of somethings. The kitchen was writhing in the darkness. Pat. Rustle. Whirrrr.

I flicked on the light and gasped, the cats at my heels leaped backward and ran away in terror.

No less than fifty enormous, black, scrabbling B-52 cockroaches covered the kitchen. Easily 3 - 4 inches long apiece, they were on the ceiling, on the counter, skittering across the cabinet fronts, in the sink, flying through the air. All were frantically crawling over each other, knocking over cereal boxes, opening cupboard doors, and eating with our cutlery. When they saw me, half a dozen lit off and flew straight at my head, fluttering like chickens. I ducked and wielded my weapon, a feather duster, smacking them out of the air with tiny muffled thwacks. One clung to the feathers and ran for my fingers, but I flung the duster, roach and all, into the jaws of our bravest cat, the fearless Headlights the Kitten.

The first blow has been struck. Now we go to war. We have tried poisons, we have tried starvation, but I have found that the most effective means of disposing of roaches is to place empty cans of soda strategically about the house, and then simply throw them away in the morning when they are full of heavy, scratching, trapped roaches.

I don't know where they go during the day, but at night they hold a cockroach jamboree, which would be absolutely magical and delightful if they were fairies instead of giant roaches. Life is not fair.

This is Harry, one of our actual cockroaches (in actual size):

checkup

In Gavin news, he has been trying to pronounce "house", and it is the cutest thing. It is no longer a "how", is a "houf". He makes a scrunchy "f" expression with his lips while saying it. He also said "die-dah" when I held up his diaper. Unfortunately, my name is still "dada", which is his favorite term for everything. Mostly he communicates through body language, beckoning, pointing, or posing with jazz hands. He had a checkup yesterday, and the doctor said he is very tall, very healthy and heavy, very serious, focused, and quiet. She warned me of the evils of co-sleeping, and I laughed at her. I seriously doubt he'll still want to sleep with us when he's 16, so I'm going to enjoy his company while I can. He handled his vaccinations with only a small wail, and when offered a sticker for his troubles, I neatly avoided the one with a tank on it (which the nurse was prodding him toward) and picked him a glittery silver one instead with the unfortunate word "Sweetie" across it in pink cursive. He likes shiny, so never mind the words. 

I have tried to open discussion with Mike about moving to the mainland after I get my degree, but he refuses to talk about it. If it weren't for the fact that he enjoys winter so much, I wouldn't have gotten anywhere with him. He has agreed to take a road trip next summer. He's still heartbroken about leaving all his friends in New York, and seems reluctant to abandon his co-workers now. Maybe I'll feel the same once I make friends in grad school. Gavin could do worse than to grow up surfing and eating plate lunch, though.

The Heavenly Choir

The day got worse, then surprised us all. I received a letter from the university about the Children's Center. They wanted $2000 a semester for day care. Every day, from 8am - 5pm. I only need two mornings a week, I don't want him there all day, and I couldn't afford it anyway. Gavin does not turn 2 before September 1st, and couldn't be admitted, anyway. I crumpled up the letter and decided to move to Finland.

 My mother went to the dump with the crap from the back of the truck, in an effort to get the truck ready to ditch/sell/roll into the ravine. I gave up and plopped Gavin in front of Blue's Clues while I made dinner. The kitchen was hot, despite the rain. Just as I turned off the stove and called Mike down to dinner, the power went out. Mike wailed upstairs. I guess he didn't save his work. He came downstairs looking defeated. I dished him up a plate of beef curry. Outside, the neighbor children screamed and cried about the power because their video games crapped out. They flooded into the parking lot, instead. My mother came home to the powerless house, and we laughed a tired laugh and salvaged the beer and ice cream from the fridge. Mike picked up the bagpipe chanter and began his first lesson.And of course he took to it. He loved it. He worked through the lesson book. Gavin danced. It's just like Mike to be really good at things the first time he tries them. First the Scottish country dancing, then the Highland dancing, now bagpipes. The man is a Scot. 

When the power came on, I cheered and did a little dance. On cue, the cd player kicked on behind me to play a victory soundtrack, which made my mother laugh. Gavin clapped and danced along.

The truck is dead, the parking lot trees are doomed, and the milk is warm, but we've got all the important stuff (and leftover curry).

The 4th of July

Yesterday we had a very satisfying day. Inspired by the excuse to make something summery and special, Mike and my mother decided to dust off the ice cream maker and make some ice cream. We spent the first half of the day battling the hordes at the grocery store to purchase ice, salt, and cream, then sat around through the afternoon drinking beer to the soothing purr of the ice cream beaters. I mixed some potatoes, boiled eggs, bacon, mayo and avocado into a potato salad, put the fresh corn on to boil, and my mom grilled up some steaks. Mike was happy, because there is nothing he likes better in the world than meat, corn, and ice cream (throw in my famous potato salad and he's all smiles). 

Mike ran off to work with a full belly, while Gavin and I sat down on the curb outside to watch our noisy neighbors set off fireworks. Gavin was interested and concerned at first, but as soon as a spinning firework exploded into a shower of sparks which caused the neighbor kids to jump back screaming, he cried and pulled me by the thumbs back indoors, shutting the door behind us. For the rest of the evening, every time he heard a crackle or bang, he frowned and pulled us away from the windows. As he nursed to sleep, he whimpered sleepily and covered his eyes at every pop. Thankfully, he is a sound sleeper. 

Mike came home at around 1am, and woke early to attend an RSCDS meeting. As he measured the cupboard doors (one of the RSCDS members is selling us wood for new cabinets) he told me about a phone call he received at the theater. An elderly woman had called to ask about Fahrenheit 9-11, and had gone off about how deeply she loathed Dubya, ending a half hour later with the announcement that all politicians are actually lizard aliens (you can tell by the way they cock their heads while they talk) and that one day they will awake in their true forms and reveal themselves to us all. At least, that's what she prays every night. Mike likes his job sometimes.

The sweet song of revenge

Today a large box arrived at our door. Oh yes. The bagpipes are here. Two hours into our beginning lessons on the practice chanter, the neighbors looked severely worried. It was great. We can't wait to uncork the drones. What a malevolent phrase. Uncork the drones. 

Mike and I spent a rare afternoon together today. While Gavin napped under the watch of his grandmother, we drove down to Aikahi Theater to drop off Coke syrup for the concession. We felt like heroes, coming to the rescue with 5 gallon boxes of the sugar goo, but the theater was dark and empty.  From there, we took a scenic drive across the mountains to Honolulu, where Mike ran into the music store to pick up his new amp, his early birthday present to himself. We tried to swing by Costco, but it was a holy horror this day-before-4th of July. As we valued our lives, we swung around and returned home to eat low-fat hot dogs and high-fat potato chips. Gavin narfed 4 toddler "meat" sticks ('Unique stick shape is easy to hold!' says the label) and chased the cat for hugs before dragging his Grannie outside, where he is now amusing himself by sweeping the porch. Thinking about going to see Spiderman 2, despite the preview in which Tobey Maguire says that his suit gives him a wedgie. 

A very satisfying Saturday.

A Super Idea

As everyone knows, Christmas is practically on top of us. So naturally, I've found it is time to begin designing my holiday cards. I have been reading a book on the art of Alex Ross, and was inspired to create a design in a similar style, based on a super hero developed by my beloved web board. So I found myself in the bathroom, perched on a plastic stool wearing a swimsuit, a nursing bra, a pair of Supergirl underwear, and a towel tied around my neck, supporting a digital camera on my head. Upon the unfortunate discovery of the photos later in the day, Mike and my mother had the grace and tact to stifle their laughter before I poked their eyes out with my mechanical pencil. Gavin chose to draw on my new reference with a stump of banana, but as I am now completely out of printer paper, it will have to do anyway.

Michael, the innovative manager that he is, has taken it upon himself to paint the lobby and concession of his theater. He has organized the funds, rounded up victims to help paint, and today we took a trip to Home Depot in search of paint and supplies. There were handsome men everywhere, and I had a sudden, uncharacteristic urge to pinch bottoms. The employee in the carpet department was such an amazing example of muscle and chiseled classic looks that even Mike was impressed. We weren't sure why he would be working at Home Depot when he should be kicking Brad Pitt out of Troy or posing for comic book characters. I really must work on my home improvement skills. I can think of at least a dozen household projects that need to be done, each requiring a separate visit to the carpet department at Home Depot.

If any bottoms are to be pinched, however, I am lucky to have a good one at hand. Mike, having gained an astounding 5 pounds since high school, decided he needed to work out more often. We bought him a new pair of running shoes, a few pairs of new shorts, and off he went. There is hardly a nicer sight than Mike, fresh from his daily run, all sweaty with his hair in damp bronze ringlets. He complained that tourists stared at him, as though they had never seen a white person in Hawaii before, and I had to smile.

A pox on Financial Aid officers

The rain has been sweeping over the mountain all day. We left this morning to visit the Financial Aid office at UH in the hopes of shedding light on this loan process. In the past, the financial aid officers at UH have been utterly unhelpful and downright rude. The last time I visited, I politely asked about information on scholarships, hoping to apply for the next year. "You know its too late for this semester, don't you?" snapped the woman at the desk, not moving to hand me any papers. After ten minutes of defensively justifying my motives, I left with a thin pamphlet and a deep grudge. Today went no better. "I'd like some information about the loan process," I said. "You have to fill out the FAFSA," said she, turning away as though she wished I would leave. "I did, what now?" "Did they send you a letter?" "Not yet, what do I do when I get the letter?" "They have to give you a letter first." "OK, then what?" "Most people apply for financial aid when they apply for admission." "Well I didn't, so what's the next step?" "They have to process your FAFSA." At this point I throttled the woman. 

We left with no further information on the loan process, hoping that the mysterious authorities processing my FAFSA would make things clear in time for registration. We ate lunch at the food kiosk by the chemistry building. I poked quarters in the machine until a bowl of fried rice popped out, and we sat on a stone bench, surrounded by two dozen softly peeping doves and sparrows. An enormous white pigeon perched on Gavin's knee, which simultaneously horrified and delighted him. He gripped my leg for courage and slowly extended a hand toward it. After lunch, I watched him run through the grass, picking up flowers which had dropped from the trees, and I felt so proud. After a stop at the school book store, we came home with a bottle of spray fixative, a fine-tipped pen, a sheet of illustration board, and a parking ticket. A mix of contentment and frustration, but being on campus was so nice, and I can't wait to start classes this fall.

It begins.

I noticed recently that my actual pen-and-paper journal was filled entirely with horrific accounts of random events; I only picked it up to empty my misery into it. In fact, I'm not miserable at all, and I hope this journal reflects that.

This is the start. Last week, two significant events took place: I submitted my book to the publisher; and I was accepted into grad school. The rest of my life will be shaped by these two things, maybe. I can only hope for the best, but already I am so relieved and excited about the future.

Gavin is currently in love with a grungy old plastic dollhouse, which he insists must neatly contain a bed, a chair, a toilet, a little boy doll, and two dump trucks to wreck the whole of it. He has a small rash of bumps across his forehead as a result of last night's naked twirly time outside, where he spun himself around until dizzy, sprinted across the neighbor's porch, and took a head dive onto the concrete with a sickening smack. Great. He took a break from this to fling his plastic hammer to the ground, clap his little hands to his cheeks, and declare "oh dear!" about seventy times. It was devastingly cute.