fear of things falling

My parents moved into a new house a few years ago. Because my mother is the nesting sort, I was required to come and visit and help her come up with a design scheme for the interior. I’m pretty sure I disappointed her greatly because despite the fact that I used to watch Trading Spaces (I know), once I approach a wall of paint chips, I freeze up, melt down, and pick either the ugliest color available or a very boring palette that doesn’t even really go together.

She decided that the kitchen would be “Tuscan” themed, which apparently means “hemorrhaging grapes.” She bought a wine rack and a few bottles of Sonoma “just for decoration” because neither of my parents really drink (though they did serve one bottle to friends that came over for dinner, and then my mother refilled it with pink-tinted water and set it back on the rack), and proceeded to cover every available surface with grapes, grape vines, and signs that say “Vino”.

It’s awful, simply awful, but she seems content.

The rest of the house ended up looking like their old house because she had to match the new design scheme to the accessories she already had. The only other conundrum was coming up with something to hang behind the bed just over the headboard. She agonized about it for days and I suggested every single thing that I could think of: The series of pictures of her beloved children that had been displaced by the signed Ronald Reagan picture hung prominently in the AMERICA themed living room, my dad’s running medals; finally I suggested that she get a long shelf and put knick-knacks and trinkets on it since she had run out of shelf space for many items and they weren’t grapey enough for the kitchen.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to do that,” she said emphatically, “I don’t want things falling on me when I sleep.”

My mother has lived in the Midwest her entire life– she’s never lived anywhere where there are earthquakes or any kind of seismic activity that would cause items to fall off of shelves onto her as she sleeps. For about a year, we lived very close to the railroad tracks, but I don’t recall anything scarring happening in that time except my brother almost sleepwalking out his bedroom window. Eventually, she settled on one of those bundles of decorative sticks that middle-aged women seem to love saying, “This is light enough that it wouldn’t really hurt even if it did fall.”

I didn’t point out the risk of getting ones eyes poked out, or choking on the tacky silk flowers and ribbons– it wasn’t worth it.

I asked my brother about this and he informed me, “Yeah, mom is totally worried about things falling on her when she sleeps, and why not? You wouldn’t want that to happen to you– makes sense really.”

“Are you afraid of this as well?”

“Well, I have seven foot longhorns hanging above my bed, so, no, but I made sure that they’re bolted in very securely.”

Now I’m in the throes of a decorating crisis as I have acquired the greatest item of kitsch that I’ve even seen, but I don’t know what to do with it.

The walls in my living room are very odd in that there seems to be a layer of metal just under the surface so nails go in about 1/8 inch and then bounce– clearly not deep enough to secure such a large piece of art. I’ve been toying with the idea of hanging it over my bed, but my mother’s irrational fear seems to planted itself in my brain, and I know that I would not be able to sleep with a black Jesus above me just waiting to crush my head.

eternal mystery

My parents and brother are visiting me for a few days, and I’m reminded again how much my parents baffle me.  They’ve already been to Tim Horton’s more than once– standard, they’ve complained about walking to and from sights, then gone for walks just for leisure, and immediately upon arriving at my apartment, my dad poured himself a glass of milk and ate a handful of dry-roasted peanuts– just like I predicted he would.

The odd thing this time, is that they drove out here.  They had a detailed itinerary for the trip out– Lincoln museum in Springfield; visiting friends in Ohio; Gettysburg; Chocolate in Hershey, PA; Baseball Hall of Fame, Ben & Jerry’s factory– and then when they got here– nothing.  No real plans were made except I guess we’re going to Maine on Sunday. I don’t know what we will do once we get there, but I suspect the real reason for the trip is because my father has never been, and this will be his 48th state.  What I said before about him having no interest in Alaska or Hawaii seems to have been right on, but maybe he’ll start planning a trip once Maine is officially checked off.

Today, I am at work, and they are in Providence doing who knows what, probably going to Tim Horton’s and going for walks.  They came to Newport yesterday and I showed them around the library where I work since it’s beautiful and historically significant– they drifted off and read the paper.  I plan on taking them to Waterfire tonight cause it’s kind of pretty, and old people seem to love it, but I suspect they’ll complain about the walk.

This is all reminding me of a conversation I recently had with a co-worker at my other job.  I’ve complained, at length, about the lack of good Mexican food in this part of the country.  Thankfully, there is a Chipotle not too far away, so I can get a decent fix when I need it.  Recently, I arranged for this Chipotle to donate burritos for one of the teen events at the library.  They gave us a ton of food, and were incredibly nice and easy to work with.  Unfortunately, the teens didn’t really like the burritos because they had never had anything like them before, and found them strange and slightly scary.  I was a little bothered by this, but happy because there were lots of leftovers for the staff to take home.

I hauled ass back to the breakroom and sequestered three of them for myself immediately, planning on taking more, once fewer people were watching.  A few of my co-workers were baffled as to this bounty because they had never heard of Chipotle before (the one I got these burritos at was only 10 minutes away), and didn’t seem to understand burritos.  Who cares, more for me.

As I was leaving that night, I walked out to my car with a different co-worker, and asked her if she had gotten a burrito.

“I don’t really like burritos.” She told me. There was a slightly awkward silence, and she followed up with, “I like Del’s.”

This confused me because we had been talking about burritos, and Del’s is a soft-frozen lemonade drink which couldn’t actually be less like a burrito, but good for her.  Then there was silence until we reached our cars.

So I’m not sure what the story has to do with my parents, but I feel like it sums it up somehow.  The thing that most baffles me is that I feel like they’re doing all of this adventuring when my back is turned, then when I make myself available, they crap out.  It’s like imagining that your toys get up in the middle of the night and play without you.  I’m glad I didn’t realy take any time off work because I guess they have more fun without me trying to shepherd then around.  Thankfully, I’ve never been to Maine (and I stressed that bit of information), so I can just give them their head and follow; but I feel like I should bring a guidebook or something just in case.

I think I’m becoming eccentric

A while ago, I met a friend at the mall for a movie. I have a firm rule that I will not patronize a movie theatre that serves Pepsi products (which is why I was so excited to find the greatest, Coke-serving movie theatre ever), but my friend had gotten us free passes, which supercedes the no patronizing rule since I’m paying nothing.

I got to the mall early because traffic was light and decided to treat myself to Taco Bell. Yes, Taco Bell is a treat for me. I realize that the food is horrifyingly close to being plastic, and the guacamole and sour cream are dispensed with weird guns– but I think it’s delicious, and I’ve had very little luck finding decent Mexican food in Rhode Island.

I picked out a table near the window, took my book (Diary of Anne Frank) out of my bag, emptied out the 15 packets of hot sauce onto the burrito wrapper, and tucked into my delightful meal. I finished my small, free cup of water quite quickly, but had a water bottle of tepid water in my purse. I poured that over the remaining ice. Then, when I was done with my burrito, I pulled out a squished but still edible fruit and nut bar from my purse’s inside pocket to have for dessert.

Then I realized what I had done was a little odd, and a little like something that a crazy person might do. I wondered what I would think if I had been another person in the mall food court watching me do what I had just done.

Moments ago I looked into my purse and smiled with satisfaction as I saw the medium-sized box of Kleenex that I stole from the hotel in Montreal nestled in its depths. I mentally congratulated myself for being so smart as to take it.

I’ve started reading Babysitter’s Club books again– picking up where I left off when I was a kid.

I need to get a new piece of duct tape to repair my jacket but am reluctant to buy duct tape as I never use it fast enough and it gets all goopy-sticky, which I find extremely annoying.

I hoard food, and have no qualms saying to people “I hoard food” like some people say “I’m a soprano” or “I speak French”, like it’s a hobby.

I’m very excited to visit the National Plastics Museum

I’m shipping $125 worth of underwear to a friend’s house because my neighbors steal my mail, and because it’s been about 7 years since I bought underwear and most pairs have holes in them. I prefer to get it all done in one fell swoop so I don’t have to think about it.

In the past 4 months I’ve gotten banned for life from a diner and picked a fight with the curator of the National Diner Museum (because it’s not a real museum, and its website is poorly written!).

Maybe I’m not eccentric, I’m just interesting– maybe it’s all subjective.

Armchair Traveller

It’s that time of year again where I really, really want to go on vacation. As a result, my travel documentary watching has gotten a little out of hand (again). I was at friends’ house on Monday for dinner and the hosts were telling tales of far-flung locales and trekking up mountains. My contribution: “In Indonesia, for a nominal fee, you can watch a pack of Komodo Dragons eat a goat.”

Host replied “That’s true, have you been?”

“No, I just watched a travel documentary about it.”

Now, I don’t want to go watch Komodo Dragons eat a goat (certainly I wouldn’t pay for the privilege), but it would be nice to hang out in Indonesia (or anywhere, really) for a while. I know this time of year does always get to me because this is when I was in England two years in a row, and various spring break destinations other years– but it seems too, that I tend to surround myself with adventurers. That’s cool, I wouldn’t have it any other way, but it makes me jealous. So, Best Friend by Proxy (BFbP): I’m glad you had fun in Bali and Thailand; Boss lady: I’m glad Granada was lovely, Hosts from Monday night dinner: I loved being able to try a bunch of weird-ass food, and I WILL come visit you in Jakarta– try and stop me.

In other culture shock news, I now live in the most Catholic state in the Union– who knew. Also, not caring much for organized religion, who knew that it would affect me? Yesterday was St. Joseph’s day. I didn’t know there was a St. Joseph, but apparently he’s Mary’s husband– father of Jesus, makes sense that he gets a day. He’s the patron saint of workers and Sicilians (interesting combo). Presumably, he’s had this day as long as I’ve been alive, but not being Catholic, and not being one to learn about saints, I had never heard of him.

Yesterday, I got schooled in Italian pastry. Rhode Islanders love their pastry as evidenced by all of the Dunkin Donuts in the state, and the fact that they all seem to do brisk business, but Italians, apparently have pastry needs above and beyond that of the average Rhode Islander. On St. Joseph’s day, you must eat zeppole, which is a cream filled pastry (I have one sitting on my counter, but wasn’t hungry enough to eat it last night– I’m such a heathen).

I shouldn’t be totally surprised because I’m sure a lot of these people don’t know what lutefisk or lefse are… maybe. I honestly have no idea where the pastries I ate growing up even come from because my dad’s family is Norwegian, my mother’s is English, Irish, Swedish, and Bohemian, and Minnesota and North Dakota have a lot of Germans and Icelanders.

Maybe what I’m reacting to is just the fact that I came from the land of Germans, Norwegians, Swedes, and Icelanders to the land of Italians, Irish, Portuguese, and Cape Verdeans, or maybe I’m reacting to the fact that the bloodlines in this state seem to have mingled less and there are distinct communities. Although Mountain, ND is apparently the most Icelandic city in America, and I got schooled on Italian pastry by a woman who admitted that she is neither Italian nor Catholic, and she had also made Irish soda bread.

So, this week I have eaten, as far as food I had never eaten before: Irish soda bread (plain and with raisins); Kimchee; some fermented tofu that I don’t know the name of; a fermented rice dessert that I don’t know the name of, but the liquid tasted like sake (which makes sense), I have a zeppole at home, and a pot-luck on Saturday (who knows what I’ll find there!). I guess even though I’m not traveling abroad, I’m still experiencing new cultures and trying new foods– and watching tons of travel documentaries.

extracurricular listening

Years ago I visited the Roman baths in Bath, England and upon entering was presented with a large, awkward piece of plastic that looked like a quasi-futuristic telephone in a bad sci-fi movie.

“You’re all set.” The aloof, but still unfailingly polite in the way only the British can be, woman told me.

I puzzled over what in the world this thing was until I realized that it was talking to me. I pressed the thing to my ear and realized that the soothing voice was going to give me the tour of the baths. We all quickly realized that these “acoustiguides” gave a person entirely too much information resulting in the lot of us stranding around awkwardly trying to find a point on the wall to stare at while not being underfoot of the other tourists. We rejected the idea of acoustiguides and wandered around with absolutely no idea what we were looking at.

My parents came to stay with me recently, and I was charged with the overwhelming task of finding ten days’ worth of family-friendly entertainment for them. I decided that touring the Newport Mansions was a good way to eat up an afternoon. We started at “The Breakers”, the Vanderbilt family’s summer home. It was big, and I didn’t see Anderson Cooper anywhere.

Then we went to Marble House. We walked in and the smiling lady ripped my ticket, then another woman hung a heavy, black, piece of electronic equipment around my neck.

“100 should get you started.”

I had been acoustiguided.

I quickly rallied, and once we were in the first room of the “tour”, a room that looked like Versailles, only much smaller, but with the same abount of stuff, I grabbed my mother, “You don’t want to listen to these things do you? These things are terrible. Let’s just walk through without them.”

She glanced over at my father, now fully absorbed in staring at an ornate fireplace that was hemorrhaging gold cherubs, “I think your father likes it.”

I tapped him on the shoulder, and he spun around with a dazed look on his face. After awkwardly fumbling for the pause button, he finally said, “what?”

“Do you really want to use these things, or should we just go through without them and read the placards?”

“No, this is really interesting. I want to do this.”

I glanced back at mom, who just shrugged. “Okay, but don’t listen to the extra stuff at all, just the basics.”

H acquiesced and then struggled to turn the acoustiguide back on. Finally, I reached over and the play/pause button for him.

Admittedly, this acoustiguided tour was much better than the one at Bath. I learned that whatshername Vanderbilt had chosen an Italian marble because it has golden tones in it and looks warmer. Frankly, if warmth is a concern, I’d say don’t build a house out of marble—but it’s too late for that. The dining room chairs were huge, and completely plated in gold, which made them so heavy, that the Vanderbilts couldn’t move them themselves, and the room was decorated with “scenes from the hunt” i.e. wild boars and stags, all in gold, and all completely creepy. There is nothing more disgustingly fascinating to me than extreme wealth.

Honestly, the one thing I can really appreciate about the acoustiguided tour, is once my tour of a room is over, moving to the back and just watching everyone else. The silence is almost eerie, and it’s like watching someone rock out to music only they can hear. Certain rooms had very ornate ceilings so I’d stand back and watch people’s heads swivel around and pause on significant decorations.

My newfound acceptance of acoustiguides was tested when we got upstairs. We saw the separate bedrooms that Mr. and Mrs. Vanderbilt occupied, heard an actress read from Mrs. Vanderbilt’s memoires addressing her divorce, and wandered into the trophy room bursting with sailing memorabilia. Mom and I wandered into the daughter, Consuelo’s room, taking in the austerity, and in my case, wondering why the hell this woman named her daughter Consuelo.

After leaving poor Consuelo’s room, we waited for Wayne to meet up with us. He didn’t show up. I ducked back into Consuelo’s room, but he wasn’t there. Finally we noticed that he was still in the trophy room, staring gape-mouthed at a giant painting.

“You’re doing extracurricular listening.” I accused.

He turned toward me looking sheepish, which quickly turned to indignation. He fumbled again for the pause button on his acoustiguide, finally, again, just letting me do it.

“Wayne, we agreed that we were going to stick with the basic tour.”

He pointed at the painting, “But, this is really an interesting story.”

“But we’re standing in a stairwell waiting for you.”

“Oh.” he said as if this had not occurred to him, “I’ll hurry then.”

I don’t know what I’ll do next time I encounter an acoustiguide. My biggest gripe with them is that it just seems so much like cheating. Either give me a guided tour, or give me placards that I can read myself.

 

Eek! a mouse! (for heidi)

I was never one of those little kids who told lies.  Yes, I exaggerated (like all kids do), and I relayed false information, but that’s only because I was and am a naively trusting person.  Grown-ups kept accusing me of lying and that’s when I decided that I would never lie because then I wouldn’t get trapped and if accused, I could honestly said I never lied.  Like that works.

 I can’t remember for sure how old I was, let’s say 8, my dad brother and I had gone to the grocery store to pick up boxes for moving.  This was in Hallock, MN, a town where we lived in 4 different houses over the years.  This was not a major move for us, it was just the end of a 2-year period in one house. Tiemans are a nomadic people, even if it is only across town.  We were in the alley behind the grocery store going in the back door and grabbing boxes, which I thought was the coolest thing ever and must mean that we were in some kind of elite group.  Who else would be allowed in the back door?  I was waiting for my dad to come out with another load so I could help organize them in the truck of our Chrysler 5^th Ave., when I saw a mouse run behind the spare tire.

 Barely able to contain myself, I yelped, “Dad there’s a mouse in the trunk!”

“No there’s not.” was his immediate answer.

“But there is,” I insisted, “It ran behind that round thing.”

“That’s the spare tire.” He stuck his head into the trunk and looked around while notions of what a spare tire must be rapid-fired through my brain.  I decided that it was like some kind of horse-drawn carriage wheel, and pictures our car rolling down the street with three normal wheels and one wooden one.  Then I started to wonder how such a big wheel could fit into our trunk.

 Boxes loaded, trunk slammed shut, and we made out way to the house we were soon leaving.  I told mom my news.  She looked at my dad for confirmation and he shrugged “I looked and didn’t see anything.”  I reminded him that it had gone around behind the spare tire and he hadn’t really looked there, besides wheels had middles and the mouse could have gone in there too.  I was dismissed as some kid who apparently has hallucinations, which really should have concerned them a little bit, but didn’t.

 A week later en route to my Aunt Corky’s house there was an unmistakable squeaking sound coming from the trunk.  Pulling over and checking more thoroughly confirmed that yes, there was a mouse in the trunk, and now it had given birth to a dozen pink, blind, and disgusting mouse babies.  My parents did what anyone would do, once we got to Corky’s, they scooped them out with a garden trowel and threw them under an evergreen to die.  As my cousins, brother and I played in the yard that day, we successfully dared each other to poke the mouse babies at least three times, the first time with a stick, but as we got bolder, our bare fingers.  All this fun was curtailed when Aunt Corky saw what we were doing and started yelling about rabies.  My protests that the mouse babies couldn’t have rabies, they’d never lived outside our trunk, were not noted at all.

the Tieman grunt

About a year ago, I noticed myself making quiet grunting noises when I would do things that required small amounts of effort i.e. getting out of a sitting position or struggling to get my shoes off. I noticed this, but it didn’t really register. Since it was just happening independent of my conscious effort, I thought it was just one of those things. I was getting into my car one day and as I plunked myself into the drivers seat I let out yet another involuntary grunt–kind of like Maria Sharapova, but not nearly as loud or pointy. My brother, sitting in the passenger seat nodded knowingly, “Ah, the Tieman grunt, you have it too.”

All I could do was blink and ask, “Bah?”

“The Tieman grunt,” he insisted, “Dad does that all of the time, so do I.”

I was never aware that my dad was a grunter, or that this was some family trait. Also, why is my brother proud of this? Upon reflection, though, I can easily recall the sound of my dad grunting more than most. It can be handily explained away by saying “He runs ten miles a day, he’s always sore.” No, because when you run ten miles every day, you stop being sore after a while. This explanation is a complete lie, and an excuse for something that may just be “Tieman.” How else would I manage to pick up my father’s traits when I rarely see him? Is this something in my DNA? Can grunting be in a person’s DNA?

So that happened. It blew my mind. I’m more like my father than I realized. That fact was punctuated by my brother smugly asserting “You really are your father’s daughter, aren’t you?” Apparently, of all of the people in my family, I’m most like my dad, and my maternal grandfather.

So this grunting thing has gotten out of control. Now I feel like I’m grunting every time I move. Also, it’s not hard for me to move around. I don’t have arthritis, or any other kind of muscular wasting disease. There is certainly no reason to grunt when I turn on a light..but I do.

The grunting is really just then first indicator of a larger problem. When I’m home alone, I constantly make noise. I have whole conversations with Watson (cat). I sing in the shower, while I do dishes, and while I cook–basically, I constantly make sounds. Maybe I was initially only grunting in private and that made its way into the public sector of my life. What’s next? Am I going to be that asshole that sings constantly and makes everyone uncomfortable? Or the girl who uses baby talk and everyone just pretends it’s normal? Where does it stop?

This whole phenomenon is irritating, and alarming, but mostly I just want to understand it. Am I desperately seeking attention? Validation that yes, actually, my life is challenging when a door is heavy and I must open it, and it’s hard to get up when sitting is easy and comfortable. Or am I just the victim or some idiotic family curse?

Knees

Yet another incident in my bizarre relationship with my father. The man just keeps shocking me. He called me up this morning and left a message that sounded full of purpose, so I called him back when I got up a couple hours later.

He is running the Walt Disney World Marathon in January. That’s not a surprise, he’s been talking about it for quite a while and he’s very excited. Now he has decided that he wants me to run the 1/2 marathon, and he’ll pay for it. He will fly me down to Florida, pay for the hotel, and pay the registration fee. We didn’t discuss whether or not he’ll feed me, but I feel like I can work something out.

This is unusual. I knew this whole me running thing would make him happy, but I never thought it would allow me to travel. I admit I’m intrigued.

Then he went on about my training and my knees. Apparently I have my father’s knees. This is fine, he’s been running marathons for 20 years and never had knee trouble, that’s a good thing. I keep telling him that, yes, my knees do hurt sometimes. This information generally gets ignored because it’s not what he wants to hear. He keeps describing my knees as “Big Knees” Just like his. Always “Big knees.” It’s unnerving when someone points out that a part of you is unnaturally large when you never noticed before. I’m not entirely convinced that my knees are that big.

I have to think about this for a week before he’ll let me make my decision, which is actually perfect because by then I should be able to gauge what’s going on with my ankle after my unfortunate plummet down the stairs. Thank god my knees are enormous, maybe they can compensate for my ankle.

Graduation

When I finished my undergrad about 2 years ago, my dad requested that I sit down and have a breakfast meeting with him. It wasn’t a casual “hey let’s have breakfast,” he actually said “I’m coming to town and would like to have a breakfast meeting with you.” So we met at Perkins, and I overordered so I’d have enough food to last a couple days, and he laid out his scheme for what I should do with my B.A. in English.

Basically, I would move to Bemidji, possibly live with him and mom, and apprentice myself as a Thrivant Financial Services for Lutherans… something (agent?). His plan was that I would do the necessary training and take the necessary tests that would allow me to work for Thrivant Financial. We would share an office, which after ten years, would be my office.

Dont get me wrong, I was flattered, and a little baffled that my dad thought I could work in sales and investments, particularly since investing terrifies me and I hate selling anything. Whatever. I’m sure, having a B.A. himself, he knows that potentially writing short stories is not a valid career option (although he taught English, which is an actual career) Basically, he saw no future for me in the field of English, and wanted to throw me a safety net.

I turned it down because I don’t want to work for a Lutheran company (seeing my atheism as a conflict of interest), investments are as easily understood by me as Arabic, and I wanted to not admit that I couldn’t find my own job before actually graduating.

So I went to Grad school instead, which confused my parents immensely. Why would I educate myself further on something I already know how to do? My mother, when I was in high school, actually hoped I’d become a plumber; That would make me a decent amount of money and I could write on the weekends, was her rationale.

So I’ve been in graduate school for 2 years and my parents have been undermining me the entire time. After year one, when they realized that they couldnt badger me into quitting, and that that would be a waste of money, they settled for disparaging and questioning my hard work. “What are you going to do with this again? Do you really need this? You realize youre going to have to take out a lot of money in loans, dont you?” etc.

Now with graduation once again looming, I find myself tensed and ready for another breakfast meeting. Apparently, now, they (or my father at least) have decided to embrace my decisions. We were driving to Don’s Car Wash yesterday and he suddenly launched into a story about a guy he knew who died recently, and how in life you can make choices, but often its the things that you have no control over that determine how you will live. It was all very philosophical, very passionate, and very much completely out of nowhere. Basically, my next meeting with my father is going to be him telling me all of the stories that he wants me to write because, he actually said this, “you’re the writer, but I’ve got a lot of stories.” I didn’t tell him that I write primarily satire, and I’ll probably end up ridiculing this guy who he admires so much.