Macaroni

Chapter 9

Bebe brought hot cocoa to the store on Wednesday morning and she and Scottie listened to election results on the radio. Scottie was ecstatic that certain propositions had or hadn't passed, and Bebe was reticent to discuss the election at all. Between the election and her time listening to Rush with Scottie, Bebe was all mixed up in her head. She didn't know how to communicate with her children, how to talk to her friends anymore. She was a registered democrat and a marcher for women's rights and she was finding herself wondering if she was really pro-life.

That night, when the kids went to bed, Bebe called her mother. Joan was a lifelong republican, and both of Bebe's parents were happy to talk about politics, except Bebe was usually the one who changed the subject. She had convinced herself that they all disagreed, and that any discussion of politics would end in a fight, so she stopped every conversation before they started and this made any conversations stilted and halting.

"Mom, I think I might be becoming conservative and I don't know what to do."

Joan laughed. "Honey, tell me all about it. What's going on?"

Bebe continued. "Well it started in college. I went to school and I got really excited about politics, about being different from you and Dad. I went to rallies and meetings and signed up for clubs, and I felt great! I felt like I was making a difference, making calls, volunteering, marching. And I got sick seeing the anti-abortion signs on the quad that the religious people brought in. I figured I was through and through progressive, liberal, whatever, and that you and Dad had brought me up and I'd just gone a different way. When Casey and I got married, it seemed like he was attracted to that part of me, like I was a rebel, and I liked that. Now I'm rethinking all of it. I'm feeling disconnected and sick of myself. I wore a vagina hat! I marched for women's rights! Now I'm feeling like a fraud. That's not who I really am, Mom. And I don't know what to do about it."

Joan sighed. "Sweetheart, it's normal to want to challenge where you come from, to try to set off on your own and be different. Me and Dad saw you doing that and we hated it and it was your choice. I wish I'd said something sooner. I was scared that I'd step on your toes. You're an adult. You're a wife. You're a mom. The least I can do is support you in what you believe. I absolutely believe that we raised you right. We made plenty of mistakes, but all in all, I believe we did what was best for you."

Bebe rolled her eyes. She felt like they were communicating, in part, and talking over each other too. They ended up talking for thirty minutes about the election, and the kids, and then Bebe got off to go to bed.

Macaroni

Chapter 8

Bebe was baking. Snickerdoodles, fudge, brownies, peanut butter cookies with Hershey kisses, chocolate chip cookies, white chocolate mint bark with peppermint candy cane topping, pumpkin bread, poppy seed bread, lemon cookies. She kept baking, even when it seemed like overkill.

The kids were enjoying the baking. Bebe let them help whenever she could, and let them package the goodies into Christmas tins lined with wax paper, layer upon layer. Crystal, two, liked the peanut butter chocolate cookies, and Bebe found a pile under the couch in the family room where she was hiding them. This was a problem, because of the dog, and Bebe had a long talk with the kids about things dogs couldn't eat, and food that we have to keep off of the floor. She doubted that Crystal understood, but she felt better, like a good mom, for having done it.

And even though she didn't want to, Bebe called her mother, once a week, on Sunday nights. They talked about the kids. They talked about the antique store. They talked about the baking. LouAnne emailed Bebe recipes that they'd made together when Bebe was a kid. LouAnne wished for more. Bebe was stretching to have that much of a relationship with her mother.

Scottie was enjoying the baking. Ever since Emma died, his Christmases had been less festive, and he didn't get as many treats as he liked. They set up a little tip jar with Christmas treats and hot coffee on the counter and they split it 50/50, because Scottie made sure the coffee stayed hot. The bark was a big hit.

Bebe told Scottie one morning about her mother, and he listened attentively. Bebe had felt like a tomboy in her mother perfect feminine shadow her whole life. LouAnne could have won awards for home decorating, and cooking, and baking, and being a good wife. And here Bebe was doing everything she could to get away from being a mother and she certainly wasn't a wife with Casey halfway around the world, so she figured her mother was judging her incessantly.

"Stop it!" Scottie said. "You're overthinking all of this. Just stop it right now. None of this is necessary. You are making all of this up in your head. You're a neurotic mess. This is so unnecessary. Just stop it already!" Bebe tried to convince him that her worries were justified, to no avail. Scottie just continued telling her that she was wrong (in the kindest way he possibly could).

Macaroni

Chapter 7

Bebe and Scottie were preparing for the holidays, for Christmas. Every morning Bebe was at the store, she and Scottie worked on more booths. They had red and green bows, lights, and Christmas artwork. Scottie had a whole back room full of Christmas antiques that he stored up during the year, and brought them out in November. They changed the entire front window to Christmas decorations and Christmas antiques for sale.

Bebe was unexcited. Her mother was great around the holidays and Bebe felt like she could never keep up with the lineage and the nostalgia that welled up inside of her every November. Her motivation was low to make things cutesy; that was just who she was as a person. Bebe had never been cutesy and she and her mother clashed on that, and had for years. But when she saw how much the customers liked it, and how they flocked to the shop, she felt a little Christmas sparkle well up in her heart.

Now Fridays were filled with Christmas music instead of the usual Open Line Friday with Rush. Scottie liked to mix it up, so they played pop, rock, classical, whatever seemed right. Bebe liked classical best. Scottie liked Taylor Swift and Brittney Spears. They both sung along, and decorated, and made the occasional sale.

Bebe was finding that Mondays and Wednesdays weren't big days for sales, but Friday mornings were the beginning of the weekend, and weekends were busy. The rest of the week, they spent their time fussing around the shop, keeping busy, finding things to do. Bebe sometimes wished she could work weekends, just to see what it was like.

Today, Scottie was playing Mariah Carey, I don't want a lot for Christmas... was blasting through the store. Bebe started to think about her mom, and how her mom baked for a month and gave cookies to all the neighbors. Bebe longed for those days, when someone else was in charge, and making the baking decisions, and the decorating decisions. She realized that Scottie was right about being a mom all the time. She was a mom all the time, and she'd been shirking her duty. She could still have a job and be a mom. That was where things got murky. She had three children and she was their mother. Even if she wasn't the decorator, baker extraordinaire that her mother was, it didn't make her less their mother. She was 100% their mother.

So she sang along with Mariah and smiled.

Macaroni

Chapter 6

"So what's the deal with you wanting to be away from your kids?" Scottie asked the question on everyone's mind. It wouldn't have been weird if Bebe talked about her kids, or showed pictures. But she acted like they didn't exist. She mentioned the babysitter and paying the babysitter, and calling the babysitter. But never the kids. And Scottie thought that was odd, or off, and it bothered him.

"I want to not be a mother for a few hours a week," Bebe answered, and that wasn't the answer she wanted to give. She wished she could flower it up, make it sound better, make herself out to be the better mom she imagined herself becoming some day. "I want to pretend like I have no children, like my life isn't the way it actually is. I want to not be a mother." And she started to cry. She felt ashamed, and sad, and proud of herself for being so honest with another person when she spent so much time lying to herself about how tired and miserable and missing her husband she was all day every day. She wished she could communicate all of those feelings right now to Scottie, and she tried, and then started to cry harder.

Scottie nodded his head. "You're overwhelmed. That's normal. I've met a lot of young mothers in my life and the early years are the hardest. They're the best and they're the hardest. And it's normal to want to get out and pretend like you're a different person, create a new personality even! And it seems you've done all of the above."

Bebe took a deep breath, and Scottie handed her a box of the good Kleenex, and she blew her nose several times, and made a nice pile on the countertop.

He continued. "But above all of your personality issues honey, you are a mother, and you don't get to quit being a mother, ever. You are a mother every moment of every day for the rest of your life, whether you like it or not. You don't get to take a break from that. You can be here, and work here, and do your very best here at the antique shop, but you don't get to use this place to pretend like you're something you're not. I won't allow it. That's not what I hired you for."

Bebe cried harder. She just got something good in her life and now it sounded like she might lose it.

Macaroni

Chapter 5

Bebe was up and running. She loved the antique store, bustling from 9-12 with window shoppers, Scottie's friends stopping by to say hello, and Rush Limbaugh playing the entire time. She wasn't so sure about the Rush Limbaugh, but she was open to it, and going with the flow. She was a self-pronounced socialist politically, which was a major source of contention between her and her husband, and she voted to raise taxes whenever there was a proposition to raise gas taxes, or park taxes, or monitor water usage.

She thought the government was a good thing, there to protect the people, make life better, control the money makers from taking over the world. She marched with the vagina hat wearers in women's marches and brought her children. She was proud to be a woman, proud to be a mother, and against anyone who was against those things.

But what she was finding between Scottie and his friends, and the ongoing radio chatter, was that Rush Limbaugh and conservatives were not against those things. They were pro-woman, definitely pro-family, and pro-keeping money to the people that knew what to do with it. Bebe had never considered becoming a business owner, but as she saw the ordeal that Scottie went through to deal with the business side of the antique store, she started to see that she'd been missing something along the way in her progressive socialist ways. Business was exciting to her, and the government dipping its hands into so many parts of it started to annoy her. She began to be annoyed with paying taxes with her tiny paycheck, and handing cash to her babysitter. She was definitely in the negative in her whole getting a job thing, and she began to dream about ways to make her paycheck bigger.

Bebe introduced these ideas to Scottie one day, explained how his conservative politics were influencing her, and how she wanted to make more money. Scottie was ecstatic. There was a booth waning in sales, and Scottie encouraged Bebe to consider that her booth on a trial period and see if she could get the sales up over the next month. Bebe took the kids to garage sales the next Saturday and got a bunch of new clothes for them, and some decorations for the booth.

When she unveiled the resdesigned booth to Scottie the next week, he grinned. "Thata girl!" She'd added vintage tea towels to the shelves, hung paper lanterns from the ceiling, and miniature white lights across the shelves with the collections. It brightened the place up. It drew customers to it immediately. Customers commented on how great it looked. And for whatever reason, more stuff sold from that booth over the next month, 50% more sales than the previous month. People even tried to buy the paper lanterns.

Macaroni

Chapter 4

"Why do you want to work at an antique store?" Scottie asked, delighted to be interviewing for his new position.

"Well, I love antiques. I love old things. I love the idea of keeping things from being thrown away." Bebe was also delighted to be interviewing. "So many people buy new things and then throw them away. I love the idea of participating in retaining the flow of retail into the good old years." She noticed herself saying the word old multiple times and wondering if Scottie was sensitive, then kept going because this is a freaking antique store! she reminded herself. "I just love antiques. I love antique stores. I love this antique store! And I'd love to work here with you." She noticed herself gushing. This was too much. Too much. No one needed to love antiques that much to work in an antique store and she didn't need to smother this old sweet man in order to get a job.

But Scottie was delighted at her enthusiasm. "When can you start? And I'm paying minimum wage. Are you ok with that?"

Bebe ran numbers in her head, still worried about paying the babysitter, and wondering if she'd break even. She explained her predicament to Scottie and he understood. He offered a couple more dollars an hour and she accepted. The deal was done. They planned for her to start the following week. Scottie was excited to have someone so excited to work with every day, and Bebe was excited to be in a mostly adult environment. There was even a note on the front door warning parents with small children to watch them closely or take them down the street to the local downtown park. Scottie didn't want small children breaking large amounts of inventory in one fell tantrum, and Bebe was ecstatic to work with someone who had appropriate respect for a mother of three while at the same time not once asking to meet the three little ones.

Scottie told her the story of how he started working in the shop and all of his booths. They shared a laugh about all of the interesting things that people collected, old magazines, stamps, cows, artwork. Bebe made a snide comment about collecting small children and Scottie laughed. He and Emma had no children, and Scottie felt alone sometimes without generations to follow him. Sometimes he thought that's what his love of antiques was about - antiques allowed him to pass along his wisdom to other generations, younger generations. And here right in front of him was a younger generation to pass along wisdom to, and he was going to take that opportunity, by golly.

Macaroni

Chapter 3

"So this is what I've figured out," Bebe said, her voice shaking, not because she was scared of her husband, but scared of being weak and out of control, needing this, needing to be away from her children. And then not only did she need to be away from her children, but she was contemplating seeing a therapist for how crazy she'd been feeling, so there was another hour away from her children to tell her husband about.

"So this is what I've figured out...I'm going to find a part time job, just morning or afternoons or something a few days a week, and get a student from the college to watch the kids, someone majoring in human development or something child-based. What do you think?" Casey agreed that she could benefit from some adult away time, and making money at the same time would make it worth the childcare involved, probably make it neutral, but still it was a start. They agreed that she'd look for something nearby, something she really enjoyed, and something preferably with coworkers.

Bebe was through the moon that Casey approved, though she thought she might have overemphasized her mental instability to get him there. She started searching wanted ads, along with the wine after 5pm, and putting the kids to bed at 7, and dreaming of being away from them, and away from the house for a few hours, a big chunk of time every day. They lived in a college town, so people were used to hiring students, people for ten hours a week, and she found plenty of options for a 36 year old competent mother of three.

But the one she really wanted was a three day a week position at her favorite little antique store, and she called the owner and set up an interview for next Tuesday at 9am. She called her favorite babysitter for a couple hour job and started picking out her clothes, slacks and a wrinkled collared shirt she hadn't worn in years.

She found a coupon, splurged, took a pile of clothes to the dry cleaner, and dreamed of her new life as a part time antique store employee.

Macaroni

Chapter 2

Willard Scott or "Scottie" as the boys at the barber shop called him, worked weekdays at the antique store, Monday Wednesday Friday mornings. He had multiple booths, which he loved like pets, and nurtured like plants. He'd been doing it for fifteen years, since his wife died, and left behind too many collections to count. Scottie decided he would do it in her memory, or honor, or whatever, and sell tchochkes, and collections. He'd purchase pieces en masse from people who walked in or emailed him photos of their collections: cats, frogs, owls, perfume, dogs.

Scottie loved every collection. It reminded him of his wife. Her name was Emma and she collected pigs. She laughed at a pig at a thrift store one day while they were strolling downtown on a date, fifty years ago, and he started getting her pigs to make her laugh. He loved to watch her laugh, smile. Her whole face changed. She had a resting face that made people think there was something wrong with her, and a smiling face that made the world light up. It made his world light up, and the collections he worked with at the antique store kept that feeling close.

It was a small shop on a downtown street with several antique stores. Window watchers, shoppers, and sellers could walk through town and shop galore. Scottie had regulars. Some customers would buy one piece at a time, fall in love with another and pine over it for a while, and come back for more. One time, he had a collection of over 300 porcelain dogs and he sold them all to one person. He figured that person would go and sell them all one a time to even more collectors and that gave him a little jolt of Emma joy just to think about those little dogs traveling around the world one at a time, bringing smiles to resting faces in Australia, England, Canada, and across the U.S.

Scottie wanted help at the store when he was there. He was a partial owner, so he could make decisions about hiring staff. The past year had been lonely. He'd been lonely. He wasn't sure if traffic had been lighter or if he had been getting slower. He wanted a pal.

Macaroni

Chapter 1

"No more macaroni, I swear, if I see another box of macaroni and cheese, I'll scream! Macaroni and hot dogs. Macaroni and broccoli. Macaroni and stewed tomatoes. Macaroni and tuna. No more no more no more no more no more!"

And that was lunch, another day, another empty day just like all of the others, filled with cleaning up macaroni on the kitchen table, waiting for the day to end so she could sleep, and be alone, and probably drink to get there. Wine after 5pm was the rule, and it was a stretchy rule. It was a sketchy rule. Should Bebe be drinking at all when she was the only adult in the house of three kids under five? But then she'd tell herself that it wasn't like she lived in the countryside. She had neighbors. She had friends. In case of an emergency, she had a plan, with a list of emergency contacts on the fridge like a good grown up. "I'm a grown up", she'd tell herself, and wash the dishes. "I'm a grown up", she'd tell herself, and pay the power bill. "I'm a grown up" she'd tell herself, and go out in the rain and unclog the gutters even though it was the city's responsibility and she had three kids under five and a husband half a world away who was handsome and successful and who would be proud of her for being a grown up.

So Bebe kept being a grown up even when she wanted to scream and cry and run through the grocery store dumping food on the ground. She had a fantasy that she'd get locked up overnight in a private jail cell for the mentally questionable and get some time to herself. She loved her children and she hated them. It was complicated, and too complicated to tell a therapist about, or her mother, or certainly her perfect husband, who wasn't really perfect, but absence makes the heart grow forgetful of husbandly defects. Bebe was convinced child protective services was outside the door when the  neighborhood voting canvasers knocked on the door on a lovely Saturday afternoon. When the dog barked at the mailman, she thought it was the police. She missed adult contact. Craved it. Dreamt about how to get it. Thought about picking a man up at a bar so she could get some attention, then castigated herself for days for having such an evil thought. What a mess.

Millie, the dog, lay beside her all night, quietly breathing, keeping the bed hot, her nose between her front legs, so cute Bebe kept looking over at her, watching her breathe. Up and down. Up and down. Millie's eyes opened slightly so that it looked like she was watching Bebe watching her, knowing she was being watched, raising her head to look around the room, readjusting into a similar position, and closing her eyes again.

Bebe spent hours at night watching television, long series she binged, not so much because she wanted television, but because she needed something to do, and watching television was something to do. She considered volunteering, like the neighborhood canvasers, or at a call center to encourage people to vote, but then she'd tell herself that the kids needed her. They hated being left with a babysitter, and she felt ragged with guilt every time she left them with someone else. Casey was saving lives somewhere and the least she could do was take care of three small children on her own, and be strong, and stay beautiful even though the mirror said something far different. No one 36 years old should look so haggard, she told herself. Because 34 looked a whole hell of a lot younger and even though it was pregnant with two small children, it felt a whole hell of a lot better.

Hi.

Antique Pink Floral Women's Jacket

Hi. I had a rush of "I want to write", and hurriedly got myself together to do so, only to find myself in front of a computer screen, terrified. I've written for years about the quirkiness inside my own brain. I've written from my oftentimes sociopathic "I don't give a fuck about anything" stream of consciousness. Writing has given me freedom. I can write without fear of consequence, because I write about nothing of consequence, nothing I really believe in. That way, I can dance around life without true commitment, and I'm terrified of commitment.

"Recycle Your Mom" is about redeeming what's been lost or thrown away. I stopped writing. I stopped dreaming or laughing or believing. And I've been too scared to write that down. I only know how to write what I'm thinking. And most of my thoughts over the past couple years have been dark, angry, and full of hate. I want the world to see one side of me, the happy, recycling-loving neurotic, and hide the other side.

So, in honor of holding things together that are hard to look at, I will try to write what is true from the dark angry hateful place. My store exists. I occasionally sell things. I work very little, and have little energy. I wake up most days and spend a couple hours willing myself to go on, meditating, visualizing, talking to myself to get the fuck out of bed and face the world, or face my messy house, cluttered with unpaid bills, Christmas decorations I'm too lazy to deal with, and a kitchen I clean once a week. I have strained every relationship in my life to the max, borrowed money to pay rent, taken a lot of people's time to cry on the phone without purpose or desire to change, and blamed everyone else for my problems. I have no kids, no pets, and very little responsibility, and a crock-pot made my dinner tonight.

I've said little. I'm a mess.

Be honest with all you've got.

Defeat.

Super cool original ceramic replica of a Polaroid Land Camera :)

"We shall find no enduring strength until we first admit complete defeat."

Twelve Steps, Step One

This inspired me this week, the idea that there is strength at the bottom, strength in brokenness. I struggle to hold on to his idea, even though I'm sure lots of people who know me would say otherwise, describing me as vulnerable. But the truth is, I like to look good. I talk big talk about trash and recycling, but deep down, I want people to think I have it all together and I want to look good.

I want to be a winner. I want to be the best. I don't want to admit my faults or flaws. I don't want the world to see the ugly parts of me.

It's easier to be vulnerable when deep down I think I have it all together, and the vulnerability is a nice persona. It's harder when it's the real thing, when the vulnerability is raw and needy and broken because that's where I am.

Defeat.

Quote of the day :)

She did not believe that she could ever stop hating Nicky and Lee, until her pastor told her that when God was going to do something wonderful, it started with something hard, and when God was going to do something exquisite, He or She started with an impossibility.

Anne Lamott, Blue Shoe

The generosity of strangers :)

St. Lucy's Day - December 13th in Advent

One of my favorite things in my reselling/dealing work is in unexpected emails from strangers sharing information about my items. To me, the above item was a pretty Christmas hanging, possibly of Scandinavian origin. But to someone more knowledgeable than I, it was a lovely homage to St. Lucy's day, a festival of light celebrated in countries around the globe on December 13th, often featuring young girls dressed as angels.

I've benefited from the kindness of strangers countless times. Yes, I occasionally post things on my blog (e.g. milk saver of not so long ago), but most of the time these things go unnoticed. I misspell Cathrineholm and someone lets me know, and tells me more about the lotus design and its designer, Grete Prytz Kittelsen. I have no idea what a painting is, and someone sends me an eBay message letting me know it's a famous landmark in Canada. What a gift!

Funny thing is, I saw a painting on eBay over the holidays of Notre Dame in Paris, France. I recognized it, and was so excited to be able to tell the seller something that might help them sell the painting for more! But I got no response, and the item went for very little :(

Of course I can't possibly know everything about everything (though I typically think I should - le sigh). I love being able to share what I love with other people who also love it. It's a hidden web of vintage lovers around the world :)

Doggie dog dogs :)

Vintage Boxer Framed Signed O.E. LARSEN Lithograph

All I want to do right now is eat cookies. Lots and lots of cookies. I prefer that they have milk chocolate. I'm kinda off the dark chocolate train right now. I love those peanut butter blossoms with milk chocolate Hershey kisses - those are amazing. I will eat them with milk. Right now I have soy milk. I like soy milk.

Vintage Painted Ceramic Whippet Figurine

Dogs also make me very happy. I think they make other people very happy too, so I often buy vintage dog stuff for my shop. Just think of how it feels when you see a dog's smiling face pointed in your direction. There are a lot of dogs in my life. When I'm feeling sad, no one makes me happy quite like a dog. Last night it was a skittish little chihuahua wearing a bow tie and a fleece sweater watching me make cookies. Ah, bliss.

I have nothing to say. I have nothing to write about that feels right to me. My store keeps going and my life keeps going, but I don't have anything to say. I will go running tonight though. That might feel good.

The drought.

Bridalveil Falls in Yosemite - very dry :(

I've been feeling like a dry tree aching for water these past few months. Most days I am reminded of this with three trees I see each day, one strong healthy oak tree sitting between two sad sick oak trees. The strong tree is watered regularly and pruned with intention. The other two are ignored; no one waters them. Their branches curl up into them like old shriveled people ready to die. I feel so sad when I look at them. I dream of climbing the strong oak tree, but I'm waiting to get up the nerve. It reaches its arms out to the sky, like it has no fear. It looks free and wild, and ready to take on anything. I want to be like that tree.