46. ‘Roid-Writing’ — Part Two
It’s still Saturday.
Okay, I’ve had my coffee. I’m still in my recliner and those of you who made the reckless decision to tag along are tumbling about inside my roid-filled-head. I suspect you’ve taken a liking to my rambles and, therefore, have read the blog where I said lovely things about my sister-in-law, Kathy — the scarf-twisting, blood-stopping, world-traveling, superhero nurse.
The one who is now at the top of my shit list.
She Devil
I got a text message a few days/weeks ago — I haven’t any idea because I’m riding a roid-wave and have lost track of time. Anyway, the text from Kathy contained rows of yellow, green, and gray squares. Hmm, I thought. Is that the Irish flag? I could have sent a text to the Irish One to ask, but that could have ended badly, so I asked my sister-in-law, the she-devil who sent the odd text, what it was.
Me: “What is this?” I asked upon receiving the first text.
Kathy: “It’s a game called Wordle. There’s a new word every day and it only has five letters. Started in the UK. Go online, check it out, and let me know what you think. I have Adrienne and Arianna hooked on it. My brother Joey does it with me daily. It’s good because it’s only once a day. You only have six tries to solve it.”
Me: “Perfect. Just as my brain is turning to mush. It sounds like fun.”
I really wanted to say — are you out of your effing head?
But.
Over the course of the next few days a few more yellow, green and gray texts came — like really early in the morning.
“Huh. She probably does them while she’s having her morning coffee. She’s in Florida, though. I’d be looking at the ocean, but whatever,” I mumbled — which is becoming a whole new thing with me.
Anyway, I sent a smiley emoji, then went back to the things I’m currently working on – like my blogs – and my death march – and I successfully ignored the pull of Wordle.
And. Then. This. Happened.
I sent a text of my own.
Me: “I sort of hate you for dragging my demented brain into this torture game. Just wait until the next blog.”
Well we’re here! At the next blog.
Hellooooo Kathy!
So, the line of bullshit she fed me — it’s good because it’s only once a day — you only have six tries to solve it — sucked me in and then tossed my ass out into the PITS OF HELL! When I went online, I found Wordle — the archive edition. It has about a trillion puzzles to lure you, torture you, and when you’re ready to cry UNCLE, you’re already a bloody, battered heap off in a corner somewhere, singing the alphabet with certain letters missing.
So, instead of writing a blog one day —
I went online and went Wacky for Wordle!
Six hours later, I’d Wordled my ass through 30 ‘games’ — what actually happened was this: I’d lost 30 consecutive effing games of Wordle. A word game. Consider this for a minute: I’m a damned wordsmith. I earn my livelihood by draining Tim’s bank account — cause I sure as hell don’t make money stringing words into sentences, into paragraphs, into pages, into chapters, and into books. But still, that’s how I earn a few bucks here and there, so given that I spend my days and nights with words, one would think I ought to be able to Wordle with the best of them. Right?
One would be wrong.
Beyond my dedication to writing, I have had a love affair with words for more than five decades. For fun, I used to take a dictionary to bed, open it, point to a word, read the definition and when I found a word I didn’t recognize, I’d find it in the dictionary, read the definition and continue playing MY game until Marjorie came into the room and did the whole bed-untucking-sheet-shaking-spider-scouting-linen-tucking-ass-sliding routine.
Apparently my devotion to words helped me Not. One. Bit. with Wordle. I called my sister-in-law in a huff, spewed about the damned game, and laughingly teased that I’d get her good.
I meant it. Here’s your Wordle of the Day, Kathy.
B __ T __ H
Could be BATCH.
Could be BOTCH.
Could be BUTCH.
Have fun playing!
Love you!
Mr. Thoughtful
As many of you know, Kevin Mullaney, bestie of my Mr. Wonderful, did the most thoughtful thing for me and nearly stole my husband’s moniker. But since Tim really is Mr. Wonderful in so many ways, I’ve given Kevin his very own nickname. Mr. Thoughtful. It may not be original, but it is spot-on.
For those who don’t know, I am a diehard Red Sox fan. I have been a fan f.o.r.e.v.e.r. As a kid, I used to sit outside on the stoop while my grandmother, Meme, sat in a lawn chair beneath the shade of a gigantic limb that hung over a fence separating our yard from our neighbor’s yard. Whilst Meme listened to the game being called on a transistor radio, she’d have her house dress pulled to her knees and her feet resting in a basin of cold water. On occasion she’d ask that I add some water from the hose. I would, then I’d sit my ass back down and listen to the game.
Years back, my mother gave Tim and me a really cool antique-looking, table-top radio. It looked like it came out of the 60s with a pull up antenna in the back, and a big round dial on the front, and it was made entirely of metal like the ones from days gone by. This radio, however, is state-of-the-art and could probably tune into China’s airwaves. On many days, I’d have Tim tune the game in so I could listen to the announcers call the plays just like I did with Meme.
I think it’s important to note that I was such a fan that I didn’t date anyone (for very long) who wasn’t all-in on the Red Sox, and when I had children, I took my fandom seriously and raised my girls to love them. I scored a run with Hannah and struck out with Jessica.
A side step.
Debbie, you’ll remember this story. Jessica O’Brien was signed up by her parents to play T-ball at the local field. We’d signed Hannah up a couple of years before and she loved the game, sooooo we just assumed Jessica would follow suit. To put it mildly, we assumed wrong or wrongly — I don’t know — I don’t care.
Anyway, the rule in the OB house was if you joined in, you stayed in until the end. The reality in the OB house became this: getting Jessica to the field for practice was a skirmish — getting Jessica ready for game day was an all-out battle. But God love her, every Sunday she’d put on her green jersey, matching ballcap, and sneakers and go to Ty Cobb Little League field to strike out, and fall down, and run the wrong way around the bases, and throw dagger eyes, or wet eyes my way as she was having ‘fun’ on the field.
Debbie and I would cheer her on from the bleachers, then sit back and get what we knew we’d get. A strike out AT T-BALL. Hellooooo, the ball is on a stationary stand. You swing, you hit. That was not Jessica’s experience — EVER. Then, at the end of every game, Debbie and I would get what we knew we’d get — five-year-old Jessica stomping to the stands, her glove landing wherever and her ensuing spew readying on her lips, “I hate this game.” Off would come her green hat. “How many more games are there?” Off would come her green team jersey. “Can I go to the shack for a freeze pop?” Off she’d go.
On the last day of the season, Jessica took to the field when she was told to, stood at the T when she was told to, and sat on the bench whenever she was allowed to. And when the final play of the final game of the season was called, she pulled open the gate, raced to the bleachers, tore off her green stuff and proclaimed, “I can’t wait to play next year!”
“What?” Debbie and I simultaneously choked the word.
“But I only want to play if I can be on the red team. It’s my favorite color.”
I’m following my current brain dump, so I guess we’re all-in for another Jessica story — or two. These are my favorite stories because they showed me from a very early age that Jessica would make things interesting.
It’s the summer of 1992. Tim and I moved our family into our ‘starter’ home — I absolutely love saying that because we’ve never left our ‘starter’ home. Anyway, Jessica was outside with her sister and their cousins, Kerrianne, Matt, and Pat, playing in the front yard. I’d been on the front steps watching, but I needed to shut off the timer and whatever else, so I headed inside. Within a minute’s time, Jessica was crying and moving quickly into the house.
“What happened?”
“I hurt my toe!”
Up onto the counter she went, her boo-booed foot headed my way for an inspection. “You hurt this foot?”
“Yesssss. My toe. My toe.” Tears.
Off came the sneaker. Off came the sock. Mom went in search of the boo-boo. Mom sees nothing.
“My toe. My toe.” Tears.
“Honey, I don’t see anything. Which toe did you hurt?”
“The one that ate roast beeeeef.”
Like an ass, I stood there and sang the damn song until I found the toe that ate roast beef. I kissed the boo-boo I didn’t see, asked if she was better, put her sock and sneaker back on, handed her a freeze pop and sent her on her way, marveling at her clever communication style.
Last Jessica story — for this blog. “Jessica, stop jumping on the bed,” I called up the stairs.
“Okay, Momma.”
“Jessica Kathleen, stop jumping on the bed!”
“Okay, Momma.”
“Jessica Kathleen O’Brien, stop jumping on the bed,” I said as I climbed the stairs. When I arrived in her room, she was mid-flight. “Jessica! Stop jumping on the bed!”
“I’m not jumping, Momma — I’m landing.”
Gotta love her – I do.
Back to Mr. Thoughtful for a bit. The dude knows how to impress a girl — this girl, anyway. All it took for him to make me fall in love was for me to see my name on a big-ass green sign at Fenway Park. I still can’t believe he found a way to do it — that he took the time to do it — and that I lived to see it.
Yes, I know my name was up there because I have cancer. Yes, I know I didn’t do anything to warrant the attention lavished on me — but I am dying of the wretched disease the Red Sox Foundation has been trying to end through their decades-long fundraising initiatives for The Jimmy Fund out of Dana-Farber Institute. My Team has gone to bat year after year in support of those stricken ill with cancer. I am one of those who had her name on The Sign and it moved me beyond words. Someone thought exclusively about me, took the time to help me Feel The Love through a wonderfully grand gesture.
A few blogs back, I mentioned that living through my first goal of Christmas, my birthday, and the New Year left me with an overwhelming need to choose a new goal — a new date to try to reach in this battle I’m losing. I chose Opening Day of the Red Sox season as my new target date. You can bet your ass, I am energized to meet that goal. I am going to muster all I have to make sure I see my Team take to the field — and if I am unsuccessful, I hope you will all remember to Feel The Love on that day and every day.
Gotta love, Mr. Thoughtful. And I do.
Another side step.
I’ve often said that when you have more than one child, you become more than one mother or father. The way in which I parented Hannah wouldn’t have worked on Jessica because they are two very different individuals. Certainly, the parenting basics remained the same, but the finessing — the subtle manipulation — was completely unique.
Hannah, from birth, was a low-key kid. Put her in a swing or a crib and she’d entertain herself with fingers and toes for hours. Put her outside to play and she’d run the yard, skip, hop, jump, or whatever — and she’d do it without any need for anyone to join in. She was Hannah — just Hannah. She was easy — she was the reason Tim and I got tricked into having Jessica — the kid who never shut her mouth — the one who needed and wanted a playmate — every second of every day. The one who fascinated me then — and continues to fascinate me, today.
My very different daughters.
Jessica likes attention. Hannah does not.
So at the risk of cutting my life shorter than expected —
I’m telling you a Hannah story.
Hannah’s favorite animal is the sloth. She loves their whole vibe and if she were part of the Animal Kingdom — a sloth she’d be. Real-life Hannah has some slothlike tendencies. Sort of. She’s not the least bit lazy — in fact she is a hard worker at her place of employment, at her new home, and in her role of mother. But, dare I say, you’d never find a more laid back, relaxed, uncomplicated, cool chick than Hannah O’Brien. I know the word ‘chick’ is dated, and maybe not even appropriate anymore, but that’s how I see her. She’s just a cool chick.
Except for when it comes to my blogging about her, so I’m going to make this brief.
Hannah had an awesome teacher in third grade. Mrs. Brigham taught all subjects, but based on the papers Hannah brought home, I venture to guess Mrs. Brigham’s favorite subject to teach was language. She had a Literary Center the kids earned points to go to. Whenever Hannah brought home a borrowed book from the Literary Center she treated it with the utmost respect. Most often she chose stories about famous women in history, although her favorite story was about Elijah McCoy, an inventor who designed an oil lubricating system for locomotive trains.
Don’t ask how I remembered that.
Anyway, back to the Hannah story. Mrs. Brigham’s students were deep in the learning block of writing structure — beginning, middle, end. They had done several practice sheets in school where they organized sentences into paragraphs and then into short stories. You get the idea.
Hannah’s papers showed a clear understanding of the order of things — so imagine my surprise when I was asked to come to school for a meeting with Mrs. Brigham. I went into Ludlow after the morning bell — as I’d been instructed — and waved to Mrs. Brigham from the hall — as I’d been instructed — and while I waited she busied her students with busy work.
When she opened the door, she had a stern expression upon her face. I’d never seen it before and it unnerved me. Then she said, “Are you aware of the final writing assignment?”
“Yes.”
“The students had to write a short story, concentrating on organization and punctuation.”
“Uh, huh.”
“Did Hannah tell you what the students were instructed to write about?”
“No.” Oh, shit.
“They were asked to write about the thing that they would most hate to be in the whole wide world.”
Oh, shit.
Mrs. Brigham handed me Hannah’s paper.
I read the title — Toilet Paper. The thing I’d hate to be.
I read the paper. I got a really good laugh because my daughter presented a very good case.
Gotta love her. I do.
My favorite side step.
Hadley was over for breakfast this morning — it’s still Saturday, by the way. This morning she chose items for her Silly Saturday breakfast, “I want half an apple, and Gee can you peel it and cut it into long strips — you know, Apple Fries, and I want two pieces of chewy bacon, and a piece of pound cake topped with whipped cream, and a sprinkle of colored sugar crystals. Can I do the sprinkles?”
What do you think, folks? Did she do the crystals?
Tim set her at the kitchen table and she and I talked from one room to the other. At one point I asked her to come to the living room.
She skipped in.
“Hadley. Can you put the fan on, just on low.” I waved my hand in front of my face because I was having a major hot flash from the cancer pill. She turned on the fan, positioned it so the air was blowing toward my face, then asked me why I was sweating so badly.
“It’s a side effect of a medicine I’m taking.”
“Is it the same medicine that’s making you stay awake?”
“How’d you know about that?”
“I heard Mommy ask if you got any sleep last night and you said no.”
“I should have said not much. I did get a few hours.”
“But you can’t sleep because of the pill?”
“Yes.”
“Can you stop taking the pills so you won’t sweat and you can sleep?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Well, the pills are helping me stay alive.”
Pause. “Then you’d better keep taking them.”
Off she went to finish her breakfast. When it was time for her to leave, she did the whole lever thing, I gave her the requisite number of hugs (7) and off she went. The door slammed behind her and I watched her round the corner for home — then I saw her come back around, climb the stairs, and open the front door.
“Did you forget something?”
“Nope. Just wanted to remind you to take your lunchtime pills.”
Gotta love her. I do.