Childhood Games

Posted on 1/28/2011 by cheesefairy

I was watching my kids play in the courtyard yesterday with Athletic Boy and Sidekick. Athletic Boy was doing mind-blowingly fast circuits on his scooter on the path that surrounds the grass. Sidekick was attempting to race but kept getting shoved off the road, Car Race Style. My kids just stood on the sidelines, being the audience. Wow! Wow! Look how fast he goes mommy, look! Look!

Yeah. Wow. Exciting. Like I’ve never seen a dude go fast on a scooter before. Excuse me if I don’t bow in homage. It’s cold out.

I didn’t say.

“So, what are you playing?” I said.
“We’re watching Athletic Boy,” said Trombone. Like duh.

Athletic Boy and Sidekick (age 5.5 and 6.5, respectively) have three games: race the scooters. Hide and Seek. Wrestling. Once they’re done playing those games, they usually bug the shit out of each other and get separated and sent to their respective homes. Yesterday was no different. In the meantime, though, I had to supervise the wrestling to make sure Trombone didn’t get his neck broken, and stick around outside during hide and seek to make sure no one lured Fresco out into the cul de sac. And while I was supervising, I was thinking about my favourite games as a kid.

Granted, I only remember the ones after a certain age, when I was old enough to play unsupervised with my friends and we made our own fun. Prior to that I believe I made a lot of mud pies, played “circus” (we pretended my puppy was a lion and we were taming him), and I remember spending a lot of time sitting on the front steps of the house, waving at cars and getting excited when the people in the cars waved back. Yes, that’s the whole game. I miss back when.

But top three games for the middle school years:

Spying:

Like many kids I took “Harriet the Spy” to heart and sat perched in the big-armed tree just outside my gate, watching people go by and writing things down in my little notebook.

The Glamorous Movie Star Game:

I think this was around grade 6 or 7? One of us pretended to be Elizabeth Taylor. One pretended to be Marilyn Monroe*. I believe the third, if there was a third friend present, had to be a reporter. And then we staged elaborate intrigue scenarios on the top floor of my house, which had three rooms and several spacious closets; one movie star would disappear but leave notes behind as clues to her whereabouts. I believe the reporter had to find the movie stars. Using glamorous accents was important.

* I have no idea how or why I became obsessed with Marilyn Monroe at a certain age, but I did. I didn’t watch any of her films but I read her biography and I thought she was just fabulous.

Hopping Asteroids

At the front of my elementary school there are nine trees spaced a few feet apart from one another (and a tenth, at the opposite end of the block). In 6th grade, we were studying the solar system in science and one day at recess my friends and I decided that the nine trees each represented one of the planets. Hopping Asteroids was a game of tag / musical chairs, where each player started on her “home” tree (mine was Mars) and then attempted to hop to another tree before the person who was “it” could tag her. You had to hop on one leg, though. That was the tricky part.

The tenth tree we named “Planet X” and also “The Mustard Tree” because it had little bits that it dropped that, when you squished them, made a sort of yellow dust. It also had prickly, holly-like leaves. When Hopping Asteroids caused a major rift between me and my best friends, I stopped playing and decided Planet X was a witch’s tree. I cast elaborate spells on my former friends. You had to use the prickly leaves to carve the person’s name into the trunk of the tree, then rub it all over with the yellow dust, then fold up the leaf and stuff it in the ground near the tree trunk. ONLY THEN would your spell come true.

What were your favourite childhood games?

Posted in | Tagged , , , | 10 Comments

The Black Cat

Posted on 1/27/2011 by cheesefairy

I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living, it’s a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope. Which is what I do, and that enables you to laugh at life’s realities.
Dr. Seuss

The black cat stood in the middle of the living room and mr-ow-ed at his humans. They stared at him and scowled.

“What do you want,” said the female one. She had the perpetual brow-furrow of a much older woman. Once she had been soft and loving towards him, understanding of his special requirements (solitude in the bathroom, company at the breakfast bowl) but since the small people had arrived, she mostly frowned at him and kicked him out of bed. And her toenails were sharp, almost as sharp as his claws, not that he would ever use them on her. Except for that one time when he was sleeping on her feet and dreaming he was a jaguar chasing gazelles across a hot, sandy plain. That time had been an accident but she had still reacted as though he was trying to kill her.

She didn’t want an answer, the black cat knew. She was asking what he wanted not so that he would answer, but so that she could somehow diffuse her anger. He didn’t know why she was so angry with him. Today he decided to answer.

“A little respect,” he said, recalling a pop song by the same name, must have been at least ten years ago. The black cat had no real sense of time.

The female and the male exchanged glances. The small people laughed.

“He talked!” said the smallest one.
“No, it must have been Daddy,” said the bigger one.
“Uh, wasn’t me,” said the male.
“Did you just talk?” said the female to the black cat, “Did you just quote ERASURE to me?”

The black cat sighed. She was still angry. He had revealed a bit of himself, some of his deepest self, and she was still angry. Someone like that is determined to be angry, the cat recalled. His shelter mate had told him that. Oh, what was that cat’s name. Blinker, Binker, Binkie. Something asinine like that.

The black cat stood on his hind legs and crossed his front legs in front of his chest. He knew this was the appropriate body language to use when confronting someone.

“I am so much smarter than you,” he said, his eyes locked with the female’s eyes. “I know things about you you don’t even know about yourself. Shall I list them?”

There, just a bit of panic in her face now. Just a slight realization that she was not as contained, or as tidy, as she thought.

“You, you, and you,” the cat went on, uncurling one paw to point his knife-like claw at each of the small people and the male, “you at least try. You at least treat me like a sentient being, even if you do force me to eat off the floor, a floor none of you would eat from. You don’t attempt to entertain me or please me, but you don’t treat me like a stone covered in fur. Not the way SHE does.”

The female refused to meet his gaze. Good.

“You have food,” she said to her feet, “you have water. You have a clean litterbox.”

As though listing the things he had would somehow make him feel better about the things he didn’t.

“You,” he countered, “have love. You have smiles. You have someone to warm your body against at night. You have someone to scratch behind your ears if they’re itchy. You –”

“I am a human,” she interrupted.

“That is where you’re wrong,” the black cat replied, “I happen to know that underneath all that human meat is the soul of a chicken.”

“A…what?” said the male.

“A…what?” said the small people.

The black cat enjoyed his audience. He took a deep breath and took a moment to groom his left shoulder. That one spot had been bugging him for a week.

“A chicken,” he went on, “a barnyard chicken. The kind that pecks and pecks and pecks at stones to find a speck of grain. The kind that clucks mindlessly for hours when she could be making plans for escape. The kind that enjoys her captive life because every morning the eggs are retrieved and the relief is so great she forgets she will lay more, have them taken, lay more, have them taken.”

Shock. Good.

“I entertain the thought that you will someday come to see your own failings, realize that I am your superior in so many ways. And then, I remember that you are not smart enough to even understand how stupid you are.”

She began to weep. It hurt the black cat, more than he thought it would. He hadn’t seen her cry in such a long time. He remembered seeing her tears dropping on the naked head of the bigger small person. He had sat, alert, watching her from the other side of the couch, waiting for her to ask for his help. She never did.

The cat dropped to all fours again and walked over to brush against her leg. Instead of shoving him away, she stroked his back.

“I didn’t know,” she said.

The black cat opened his mouth to reply, but changed his mind. Instead he just purred.

This goes out to our own black cat, Seamus, who knows more about me than just about anyone in the world and keeps his mouth shut, thank god.

Posted in | Tagged , , , | 7 Comments

Moving Sidewalk To Nothing

Posted on 1/26/2011 by cheesefairy

I read a book last week called The Heart Does Break, a collection of essays about grief and grieving. The collection was edited by George Bowering and his partner Jean Baird, whose daughter died suddenly. The broad spectrum of the essays; dead mothers, dead fathers, dead children, dead siblings — made the book especially meaningful. We all die. Slowly or quickly, expectedly or suddenly. We are all on a moving sidewalk to nothing. Which is OK and awful, depending on where your brain is at on a given day.

Anyway, the other day I was driving home from somewhere, alone, thinking about how when I finally remember to make a doctor’s appointment, I will surely be diagnosed with a sleeping, rare disease that will kill me in the next six to eight months. And instead of casting this maudlin thought aside, I went with it.

You know how sometimes it just feels good/bad to torture yourself with horrible thoughts? No, really, do you? Or am I the only one.

“Snap out of it,” I said to myself in the car, because I needed to make a left turn and I would rather die in six to eight months from a rare disease than instantly, in traffic, two blocks from home.

It felt somehow necessary and right to indulge in mourning myself. Of course when we die, it is the people who are left who mourn us. But up until the day we die, we must mourn ourselves. I mourn the eventual loss of me. Not all the time. Right now, for example, I am trying to tie this semi-dark post into a bow and somehow link it to today’s prompt, which was not “death” but “aging.”

But isn’t that aging? A long, drawn-out mourning of our selves? It isn’t a bad thing. It isn’t like we are sad all the time that we aren’t what we were, but we acknowledge it. We can accept and love who we are, while still mourning who we were and wondering who we will be, right? That’s what I mean.

Here is my governing principle. I call it the “Like It Or Not” (LION) principle. I have recently started applying it to those aspects of parenting that I can not or should not attempt to control, to great effect.

For example, if I harass Trombone while he is in the bathroom, he takes 15 minutes in the bathroom. If I ignore Trombone while he is in the bathroom, he takes 15 minutes in the bathroom. End result: kid takes forever in the bathroom. However: if I ignore Trombone while he is in the bathroom, I am much happier and can enjoy my meal.

Following this logic, struggling and fighting against my appearance changing as I age is the same as fighting aging, isn’t it? I think it is. I mean, people dye their grey hair because they don’t want to look “old” right? And they don’t want to look old because they don’t want to think about their lives ending?

So if I fight aging, by dyeing and nipping and tucking and botoxing and generally attempting to present to the world a Person Who Is Frozen In Time At Age 40, I will still die. Today or next year or when I’m 88.

And if I don’t fight. If I just go grey, and get wrinkled, and develop saggy skin and have perpetual eye bags, I will still die. Today or next year or when I’m 88. (And I’m talking about typical aging, not bodies that crumble due to chronic illness or injury.)

But in the latter case, I will have more money and energy to spend on vacations and wine and good food and gifts for friends and books and pretty earrings and dog food for my dog. Up until the day I die; today or next year or when I’m 88.

You can call me lazy and cheap – and in a few years, you might even call me ugly! – for not applying eye cream every night, but I believe in the path of least resistance. If you are going to end up in the same location, regardless of effort expended, why not save your energy and enjoy the journey.

Also: Life is a Highway. And: Everybody’s Working for the Weekend. Plus: We Built This City On Rock And Roll.

The end.

Posted in | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

Notes From Mother’s Journal: Toast

Posted on 1/25/2011 by cheesefairy

5:50 am: Wake up. Get out of bed. Dark. Raining. Again.

5:55: Stare at my computer for half an hour, waiting to be inspired by something. Anything. Write half a bad poem about darkness and rain.

6:40: Come downstairs. Check prompt book. Hate all the prompts. Decide to be honest and choose the one written on today’s date: “Your Worst Nightmare.” Write half a bad poem about nightmares. Write two paragraphs about my own death.

6:50: Fresco gets up. He cries because I might not let him take the bread out of the bag and put it in the toaster. Oh. I see.

7:00: Trombone gets up. Requests toast just like Fresco has it, with peanut butter, butter and honey on the side and a knife for spreading. Almost starts crying because he doesn’t see the honey on his plate. I explain that the honey is clear and it is on the plate and I am not trying to rip him off or anything.

7:30: While I am in the bathroom, the kids have a toast race, to see who can eat their toast the fastest.

7:35: Fresco wins the toast race! (including crusts! impressive!) Asks for another piece of toast.

7:40: Trombone finishes HIS toast! Declares himself winner!

7:41: Fresco has meltdown because HE wanted to win the toast race.

7:42: I explain that he did win the toast race. I explain that Trombone actually lost the toast race. Explain that now that he (Fresco) has new toast, a new toast race is afoot.

7:43: After some anger around losing the toast race, Trombone asks for more toast.

7:44: Anger recommences when I explain that Fresco got the last piece.

7:45: Retire to the bathroom for some time to myself while I ponder how I got to a place in my life where I am talking about toast races.Amuse myself by considering the other definitions of toast race: a people who are toast or otherwise resemble toast, politicians dressed as toast, toast marathons. Decide I am a very sad person for being amused by these things.

7:50: Who wants to watch some nice TV?

7:51: I stare at my computer some more. I read some clever blog entries and some news. I decide not to publish my half poems about death and rain and darkness. You are all welcome.

8:30 – 9:45: We go to Trombone’s room to play Toy Story, Star Wars, Kitchen Wars, and Throw Stuffed Animals in the Pretend Kitchen’s Microwave and Make them Explode and then Yell BOOOOOM.

9:46: I declare my intention to have a shower. My intention is met with strong disapproval. Trombone threatens to throw me in the pretend kitchen’s microwave and make me explode. I know I won’t fit so I just go on ahead with my shower.

9:48: Over the steady thrum of water on my head I hear shrieks and crying. I decide to ignore it. I consider the phrase “Calgon, Take Me Away” and ponder other marketing towards mothers that I never really appreciated until I became one. I try to plot a potential blog post in my head. It involves “Mothers love yogurt even more than other women because they’ve convinced themselves it’s a treat” and “Mothers will gladly pay a little extra for the body wash that makes them smell like they had a longer shower than three minutes.”

9:50: I ask the children if they need my help stopping. with. the. damn. shrieking and discover they are engaged in an elaborate role-playing game with Trombone as both the superhero and the villain and Fresco as the victim. Both children tell me they are fine. I proceed upstairs to dress myself.

9:55: I suggest the children dress themselves, that we might go get groceries. Trombone asks for a snack before we leave. I allow that it is snacktime and ask what interests him. He says toast. I explain that the reason we have to go get groceries is because we are out of bread. Among other things. He asks what other things. I tell him I have a list. He asks me to recite it.

10:10: Downstairs, snacking on cereal.

(*omitted* I changed the most evil diaper of all time)

10:30: Trombone proceeds to the bathroom.

10:40: I apply socks and shoes and coat to Fresco and let Trombone, who is still in the bathroom, know we will be outside waiting for him.

10:41: Miraculous! He appears outside, fully dressed!

10:50: In the car.

11:05: Superstore! Trombone explains to me that the fish in the fish tanks are sad because they want to be free and also because they don’t want to be eaten. I tell him I agree. Good thing they don’t have pigs in the bacon isle.

11:30: The children are so well-behaved at Superstore, I allow them to touch all the toys for half an hour.

12:00: The man behind me in line is buying a colossal amount of no-name brand weiners and pork chops.

12:30: Home! I proffer the new bag of hard-won bread and offer the children sandwiches but they decline. I offer them toast. They want cracker sandwiches. Trombone eats his with ham and parmesan cheese and Fresco eats his with grilled cheese cheese, which is cheddar, but then he removes the cheddar and just eats the crackers.

12:45: Fine then. I eat toast. Cheese toast. With extra grilled cheese cheese.

Afternoon activities will include: making make-your-own chicken tacos. Sword play with bubble wands. And possibly a last minute trip to the liquor store for some booze. And darn it all, I forgot to pick up the Calgon.

Posted in | Tagged , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Why Did You Start Your Blog?

Posted on 1/24/2011 by cheesefairy

Today I am cribbing from the WordPress project, post a day, for my topic. Why did you start your blog?

I started my blog because I already had a website.

Why did I start my website? The history of torturedpotato.com goes roughly like this:

– one day, sitting at Taco Time, Michael, Sarah and I came up with my first hotmail address: torturedpotato at hotmail. So named because of the way a “Mexi-Fry” (Tater Tot) pops its fried head off and oozes potatoey goodness when you squeeze it. Also, now that I’m re-reading that sentence, not unlike a pimple. Just think, you could be reading at “whitehead.com”. Lucky you!

– a couple of years later, in conversation with Saint Aardvark, who had already been at this whole “personal website” thing for a while (check out his fictional – or is it? – history of “The Floating Head of Ayn Rand”) I decided to register the domain torturedpotato.com. It’s what we crazy kids did in the early-oughts.

– why did I do this? Because I could. And it was fun. And I had time on my hands (I was unemployed at the time), so I learned basic html and made hilariously bad web pages and changed the colours with a flick of my fingers and I felt like a magician.

– Look, see? There’s all kinds of business that predates the blog. Silly stuff about shoes and ducks and packages of candy from Superstore. No, not much has changed.

– There is tremendous power in creation, but the creation I generally engage in – nose to notebook, fingers on keys – doesn’t tend to yield results that one can see immediately. The Internet provided me that missing (addictive) link. I wrote things, I saved the file, I made a link to it, it was ON THE INTERNET. Like going from film camera to digital camera. Like the first time you send an email with your phone. Or an email at all. No stamps. No waiting.

– When I started reading blogs in 2002 or 2003? I started writing journal or blog-like entries on torturedpotato. I had already been keeping paper journals since I could write but it was a little different writing personal thoughts for public consumption. I didn’t install a weblog on my website at first because a) weblogs were so hip and I weren’t about to be hip like the hip kids b) it was my website. I do what I want. I also, like many people, started and abandoned many blogger / livejournal accounts.

– I am a Late, yet dedicated, Adopter.

– But then I realized it was hard to read my journal entries because they were just glopped on the page in html and I didn’t feel like learning more complicated web languages (by then I had a job so not so much time to sit around and teach myself to code things) and oh you know what, someone has written actual programs that manage your content for you. Thanks wordpress.

– The cheeseblog was born in 2003 to document my elimination of cheese from my diet. That elimination lasted 17 days. I kept writing, and eating cheese. I think the cheese thing – giving my blog a “topic” – was just an excuse to play bloggity with the big kids. All those arguments against blogging – personal blogging I mean, not those important people who write political commentary – are valid; it is self-obsession at its most heightened. It leads every schmo with an internet connection to think she’s a WritOr. At the time, those arguments made me nervous. I didn’t want to be self-obsessed. I didn’t want everyone to think I was someone who thought she was a WritOr, if you can follow that logic.

However, having done this for 7.5 years now and having seen how many wonderful things there are to read that I would never have read if not for blogging, not to mention how my own writing has improved because of the practice, not that you would know that by reading this sentence — will it ever end — I don’t think those are bad things, anymore. I think everyone deserves to gaze at his / her navel as much as possible. And if you want to call yourself a WritOr, go for it. It’s a big internet. So I keep doing it.

So, why did you start your blog? Or, why didn’t you start your blog?

Posted in | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments