The Weird Kid
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Clean Living
I have chosen not to talk much about my family on this blog. Because, frankly, no one wants to hear it anymore. Not even me. As much as I want to tell it, by god, I don't want to hear it.
And so, suffice it to say, my mother and sister went with me, on my own invitation, to central Oregon, to camp on the river I grew up next to. I had asked them because I was intimidated to do it alone, in the woods with dog and baby. And I was a miserable companion, because I swallowed down all the things I wanted to say, or scream, at them, and the mess was a bubbly poison in my stomach. I looked for any reason to be angry, to feel mistreated, to bleed the poison out on little things that didn't matter since the real stuff wasn't going to come out. And if I could not find a reason to be mad, I fell silent, and glowered.
But it wasn't just them. I was so tired. Smudge, my baby...oh god she was terrible. We hadn't been home in over a week by that point, her dad was gone, driving his grandparent's Mercedes across the country, and she was a little messed up because I had left her for a week. She was suspicious of my mother and sister and wouldn't go two whining, screaming paces from my side, unless it was toward the river, fire, or road.
The nights were 35 degrees and there was no difference in temperature inside the tent or out. I could feel my dog shivering at my feet. I didn't sleep well; the ground was hard and full of tree roots and I was never content with Smudge's warmth, trying to sleep while holding blankets around her ever-moving little body, whining even in sleep.
My only break came when my sister's friends came to visit. Chaz is a normal guy, but his boyfriend Flip, he's a cartoon. A near perfect imitation of the Hank Azaria gay housekeeper character from "The Birdcage." I once pulled into my sister's driveway to find him doing yard-work in tiny green short-shorts and a yellow mesh tank top.
He and Smudge sat in Chaz's convertible, the one Flip will never drive because his license was revoked (simply glorious gobs of DUI's) for half an hour, pushing buttons and giggling together. Afterwards he skipped around chanting "Pinata, Pinata!" while encouraging Smudge to hit him with a stick. A forty-eight year old Mexican who leaves fire in this footsteps (I think Leon gave me that expression) and his kindred spirit, enclosed in a 21-month-old girl. I should have kissed Flip for the break he gave me.
I want to go back, though. My soul does, my brain doesn't. But they've been doing their own things for years now.
And so, suffice it to say, my mother and sister went with me, on my own invitation, to central Oregon, to camp on the river I grew up next to. I had asked them because I was intimidated to do it alone, in the woods with dog and baby. And I was a miserable companion, because I swallowed down all the things I wanted to say, or scream, at them, and the mess was a bubbly poison in my stomach. I looked for any reason to be angry, to feel mistreated, to bleed the poison out on little things that didn't matter since the real stuff wasn't going to come out. And if I could not find a reason to be mad, I fell silent, and glowered.
But it wasn't just them. I was so tired. Smudge, my baby...oh god she was terrible. We hadn't been home in over a week by that point, her dad was gone, driving his grandparent's Mercedes across the country, and she was a little messed up because I had left her for a week. She was suspicious of my mother and sister and wouldn't go two whining, screaming paces from my side, unless it was toward the river, fire, or road.
The nights were 35 degrees and there was no difference in temperature inside the tent or out. I could feel my dog shivering at my feet. I didn't sleep well; the ground was hard and full of tree roots and I was never content with Smudge's warmth, trying to sleep while holding blankets around her ever-moving little body, whining even in sleep.
My only break came when my sister's friends came to visit. Chaz is a normal guy, but his boyfriend Flip, he's a cartoon. A near perfect imitation of the Hank Azaria gay housekeeper character from "The Birdcage." I once pulled into my sister's driveway to find him doing yard-work in tiny green short-shorts and a yellow mesh tank top.
He and Smudge sat in Chaz's convertible, the one Flip will never drive because his license was revoked (simply glorious gobs of DUI's) for half an hour, pushing buttons and giggling together. Afterwards he skipped around chanting "Pinata, Pinata!" while encouraging Smudge to hit him with a stick. A forty-eight year old Mexican who leaves fire in this footsteps (I think Leon gave me that expression) and his kindred spirit, enclosed in a 21-month-old girl. I should have kissed Flip for the break he gave me.
I want to go back, though. My soul does, my brain doesn't. But they've been doing their own things for years now.
posted by Imez at 9:30 PM
4 Comments:
I bet Smudge will remember this trip as one of her favorite childhood experiences, especially snuggling with mommy in the tent; all the reasons to whine forgotten.
Your voice is so unique, I keep trying to find a comparison, I touch on Tennessee Williams and Flannery O’Conner, but it's unique a wonder on its own.
Hell, i want Flip to come and live with ME!
Sounds miserable! I hate fall camping, though I love summer campouts :)
Lu- Flannery is my hero when it comes to narrating how miserable real life and the people in it are. I can only read one story at a time without curling up into a ball.
meno- the only thing I keep thinking when I look at your name, no matter how inappropriate the venue, is to ask, "How're you doing?"
You have a lot of blog to comment on, don't you?
4444- I, interestingly enough, dislike summer camping. Everything would have been fine if it weren't for the....Aby-Bay screaming, and the....Amily-Fay...breathing.
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