Yet another reason why I should probably be in therapy

Me: “Yeah, so…don’t forget that David will be here this weekend. I guess we can all go to lunch or something.”

My Mother: “Well, Allison…you know I can’t eat Chinese food. All that MSG aggravates my asthma.”


The above snipit of a conversation with my mother clearly illustrates why I’m slightly nervous about the mentioned potential lunch date for this coming Saturday. David (who lives in Austin, by the way) will be meeting my parents for the first time. My nervousness stems solely from the fact that my mother and father are not the most socially graceful people you could spend an afternoon with. Lovely, they are. Sweet. Laid back. Non-threatening. But both kookier than Jerry Lewis when he’s missed his dosage.

The explanation of the snipit is as follows: David is from Singapore. While my mother believes this to be incredibly intriguing and pleasant, she is somewhat confused about how his heritage and ethnicity correlates with his personality and daily life. i.e. The assumption that, since he’s from Singapore, all he eats is Chinese food. “Chinese” food at buffet-style, American-owned restaurants, at that. “Yes, Mama. That’s all he eats. Ever.”

I’ve explained to her, in detail, more than a couple of times that David’s English is impeccable. (he’s been speaking it since infanthood, and his English is better than that of most native Louisianans, thank you very much) I keep having horrific visions of her meeting him and speaking slowly; exaggerating her syllables to make sure he understands her. Or of her asking him what he thinks of American television. Or attempting to explain to him what a microwave is.

My mother is not a complete idiot. I don’t mean to paint her as such. She’s just…well…a bit naïve. Yes, naïve. That’s a nice way to say it. She’s a classic example of someone who thinks primarily in stereotypes. These stereotypes cover the areas of race, culture, age, gender, religion, geographic origin, sexuality, profession, eating habits, and hobby preference. If you make “good money”, then you’re most likely pretentious. If you drink alcohol, then you’re most likely an alcoholic. If you’re thin, then you’re most likely suffering from an eating disorder. If you’re a black woman, then you’re almost certainly very funny and very loud. (And watch out…she’ll refer to you as her “black friend” in EVERY story she tells about you.) She’s always surprised if someone turns out to NOT match her predetermined stereotype. She’ll say things like: “Her husband is a lawyer, so they’re pretty rich. But she doesn’t seem stuck-up at all!!” or “He’s gay, but, can you believe I’ve never even seen him wear flowers!!”

Yes. So, I’m praying that she behaves herself….that she doesn’t reference her future grandkids or “jokingly” mention that she wants to have a say-so in how the mother-in-law suite is decorated. Or, …that there won’t be extended periods of awkward silence in which she just stares, giggles, and says repeatedly how cute we look together. Most people in my situation always fear the inevitable naked baby picture display. But, as you may recall, my mother has lost my baby pictures. So, at least there’s that.

"Thread Count"...A Measurement of Love

One of the many things I'm a tad bit obsessive about is my bed linens. First off...I have way too many of them. Most people have ONE comforter/bedspread/quilt (whatever), along with coordinating sheets and pillowcases that they use until they all fall apart. Or, at least until they go out of fashion. I have 4 or five sets, all completely different, that I rotate seasonally. I don't just rotate them seasonally, really. Sometimes I rotate them to accommodate my mood. I even have certain scents of candles and linen spray that I use to specifically compliment the colors and textures of each respective bed outfit. Secondly...I'm very particular about how my sheets are tucked in and arranged on the mattress. You know how some people sleep all messy and their sheets are never tucked and all the covers just lay balled up and twisted and they never care to straighten them out? (You're probably one of them, aren't you?) I CAN'T STAND THAT. Seriously, I can't handle it. It makes me want to scream and claw the air like a rabid mountain lion (that's quite the image, huh?). If I mess the covers up, it is imperative that they be amended before I get into bed again. Thirdly...sheets must be clean. We all know that it doesn't take a lot of imagination to picture the types of things that go on in our sheets and the types of cooties that, therefore, reside on our sheets. Yes. They must be clean and, more importantly, smell clean.

So, last night I was stripping my bed down because it was time for a sheet rotation. I spent a ridiculous 15 minutes obsessing over which ones to use next and ultimately decided to change everything. And it had to be done right then, or else I wouldn't have been able to think about anything else all night long. I put a lot of thought into this...as I always do. "What feel am I going for?" I asked myself. I settled on coolness and comfort.

While digging through my linen trunk, I came across a pair of sheets that I had forgotten I had. They were my grandmother's. I smiled with nostalgia upon seeing them and held them close for a moment. The cottony fabric is soft and so worn in places you can almost see straight through it. Staring at the swirly pattern of lime and aqua flowers, I noticed a corner where the colors, at some point in time, turned an orangy yellow. Hmm. I had forgotten about that corner. I like that corner.

I feel the same way every time I'm around my grandmother's linens. Sellers...that's what we called her. That's what everyone called her. When I was little, one of the things I liked best about visiting Sellers was sleeping in the bed she'd have made up for me. I don't know what it was, exactly, that made it so special. I remember being anxious to see what sheets she'd have pulled out that time. They were usually mismatched, but I liked them that way. Funky stripes (some in gold....from the 70's, and some just like them in purple), pretty florals, a weird geometric diamond pattern...I can see them all. I would climb into their welcoming, cuddly embrace and be soothed by the aroma of Downy and...sugar. Like spring-fresh, just-out-of-the-oven cookies. I always wondered how she got them so soft and fluffy. Even in my adult years, I've never been able to get my sheets that soft.

Reminiscing about bedtime at Sellers' house makes me think about all the other things that were so wonderful there. Grits and cinnamon toast and Tang for breakfast. Butterbeans and mashed potatoes at supper (she called it supper). The Coty powder box with the black and yellow flowers that she kept on her dresser. The little bookcase in the hallway that displayed all of Pappy's knickknacks; including the ceramic grandpa in the armchair and the flamenco dancer figurine my father brought home from Spain while he was in the Navy. (I have that bookcase in my bedroom now.) Family photos on the walls. The crayon box, coloring books, and hoola hoop she kept for me in the coat closet. Her Pyrex dishes. Her pretty little feminine hands. I would hold them and ask her where her "age spots" came from and make her laugh. Her melliflous voice telling me the story about the goat on the front porch that I asked her to tell EVERY time I saw her.

As I made my bed last night, I thought of all these things and I missed her so much it made my chest hurt. Over her beautiful old sheets I laid a thin, white, chenille bedspead. The bedspread isn't old, but I bought it several years ago because it LOOKS old...and it made me think of her when I came across it in a store. I set up a box fan in the hallway and let it blow towards my bed. The loud humming sound of a fan or window unit air conditioner reminds me of Sellers, too. Reminds me of sleeping in her house. On her sheets. Surrounded by her love. The Downy smell and the cool air danced around my pillow as I fell asleep and it made me feel small and young and safe. It was a good night.

I'd Be a Willow Tree

I was with my aunt at an outdoor nursery recently. We had spent the past (mind-numbing) hour looking at an assortment of ready-to-plant trees. Palm trees, magnolia trees, pine trees, bonsai trees….you name it. As we were leaving, I asked my aunt in a loud, excited voice, “If you were a tree, what tree would you be?” I thought it would be funny. A man just happened to be getting out of his truck next to me and overheard my question. Apparently, he broke into stifled giggles behind my back (my aunt could see him even though I couldn’t). Had I realized this, I would have promptly turned and asked him if he considered himself closer to a daffodil or a petunia. I was sorry I missed the chance to experience such intimacy with a stranger. Anyway, the exchange embarrassed my aunt to extremes. She went on and on about how humiliated she was, but all I could do was laugh.

This from a woman who moons her teenaged sons’ friends with no hesitation.

if only throwing it over my shoulder would help

My parents have asked the same exact question at the beginning of EVERY meal my mother has EVER prepared...."Does it need salt?" As dishes are being served and plates are being helped, I await with annoyance to hear it. They both wait until I...or whoever else is present...have taken a first bite before belting out this inevitable inquiry.

This annoys me on several different levels. First of all, I RARELY add salt to anything after it's prepared. So, my answer to them is always indifferent. They've never accepted this as fact, for some reason. Secondly, it makes me want to punch them in the teeth that they can't just taste the damn food on their own and determine for themselves what seasoning is needed. Thirdly, no matter what anyone else's opinions are, they always add salt, anyway....and always before they've taken a single bite.

I know nobody cares, but I needed to vent. This is one of the many issues I'll bring up when I finally have my day on Oprah to blame everything on my upbringing.

There's a Crouton in the Mashed Potatoes

Have you ever been to one of those "buffet style" restaurants? There are those of the quaint variety....mostly elderly people....a line of workers behind glass shielding help your plate as you make selections. You can start off with the green jello salad before moving on to the corn on the cob and sliced roast beef. Everything looks fairly sanitary and well organized. Everyone is calm. Everything is how it should be. Yeah, those aren't the type I'm referring to. Normally, I try to stay away from these places. My experience the other night at the local Golden Corral reminded me why.

When I was a kid, my dad was a corporate interior designer. One of his many ongoing projects was the Ryan's Steakhouse chain. Apparently, this was one of the first popular buffet joints. It actually was a pretty nice place to go....15-20 years ago. Anyway, I suppose in support of my dad's creative efforts, our family dined there often. To my brothers and I, the smorgasbord set up before us was the epitome of excitement. It was almost too good to be true. My mother always kept us on pretty regimented diets. We weren't allowed to eat fun, kiddy cereals. Only the boring, no sugar kinds. We had balanced meals....vegetables and fruit were always included. And desert was allowed only if we cleared our plates first. But at Ryan's we were allowed to let loose with reckless abandon. There was always a sick contest to see who could make the most trips for seconds; thirds; or even fourths. This contest was never fair, of course. I was no match for the boys.

It was on one particular visit that I set my mind to becoming the Champion All-You-Can-Eat-er. You've all heard the expression "eyes too big for the stomach", right? Sometimes those sayings aren't crap, after all. I had become so focused on the finish line, I didn't stop to evaluate the progression of my fullness. When it finally became clear that I absolutely COULD NOT win, I dropped my fork with a bitter hesitation. I sat in silence as the rest of the family finished their runny ice cream and stale brownies. Slowly, menacingly; with a panther-like stealthness; a rumbling began in my tummy. Before I knew what was happening, I was vomiting onto the cleared plate that sat before me. My parents and brothers, who had obviously stopped eating at this point, stared at me....mid-chew....motionless. When the awful wretching was over, I looked around me and immediately broke into tears. Quickly "shooshing" me, my parents covered the puke with a thin layer of cheap cloth napkins and herded us out of there as if rabid turkeys were attacking nearby tables. Good thing we paid BEFORE we ate. We never returned to that Ryan's, but I've always felt sorry for the bus boy that must have cleared our table after we left. Poor bastard probably turned in his resignation that very night.

So...when I was invited to tag along to Golden Corral the other night, I wasn't very excited. Since the Ryan's incident, I've only gone to restaurants of this type when forced. (i.e. various bus trips in college when buffets would be quickest for the 30-ish people aboard) Upon entering, it became immediately clear to me that I wasn't in the necessary mindset to enjoy the upcoming meal. I sat down at our table with the tray and silverware that had been handed to me; and was almost nervous to begin my food-finding. Nobody else in the restaurant seemed to be experiencing the same feelings. The scene resembled the giant goldfish ponds you see at zoos and parks. You know the kind.......you drop bread in the water, and dozens of fish swim all over each other; all with their big slimy lips opening and closing in unison; all intensely focused on the one morsel of bread; all oblivious to the other fish. It's a sight that disgusts and frightens me, to be perfectly honest.

Even though I am QUITE the sophisticated socialite (and WAY above such establishments), I eventually did dive into the pond, if you will. As I strolled around to check out the available food choices, I was disappointed. Confused. Nothing looked palatable. In fact, not much even looked edible. But people were rushing from one bar to another in a rushed panic. I was bumped about a half dozen times by individuals wanting nothing more in life but another scoop of mashed potatoes or another drizzle of ranch dressing on their wilted salad. I made it back to my table with a small helping of macaroni and cheese and a piece of "roasted" chicken.

As I sat and ate, I was totally distracted by everything around me. There were plates piled high on each table...people were stuffing themselves silly just because they could. I watched as children, adolescents, and adults alike cleared helping after helping of fried okra, cherry pie, buttery rolls, chili covered nachos, and then back for more pie. I noticed that many of the families/couples/etc. weren't even making conversation with one another. They were eating in silence; eyes fixated on their silverware. A large man in Harley t-shirt with the sleeves cut off sat near me. He had two plates of barbecued ribs before him. His wife and little daughter attempted to talk to him, but to no avail. Their heads could have caught fire, and he would have kept on shoveling it in; stopping only to gulp Dr.Pepper from the giant cup that the server refilled every 5 minutes or so. He had barbecue sauce in his beard and on his shirt. Irrationally, I wanted to yell at him, but I wasn't sure why. I forced myself to look in another direction, and spotted a large group of kids clamoring around the salad bar....digging in with their fingers....eating straight off the line and licking their fingers as they went. Nobody seemed to mind this but me. This was the last straw. I could take no more. I apologized sincerely to my dinner-mates and high-tailed it out to my car. My senses were on overload....and not in a good way. Any more stimuli, and I would have been gathering napkins once again.

On my way out, I passed the kids devouring the salad bar. The tallest boy in the group had a mouthful of sesame seeds. Placing my hand on the nape of his neck, I slammed his head against the heat lamp and laughed as the seeds flew out of his mouth and into the peach syrup. It made the whole experience worth while.

Believe me....I was freakin adorable.......

So, I haven't written in a while. That's due to many factors....stress, illness, lack of inspiration, coworkers breathing down the back of my neck, a nasty fungal infection on my fingertips which prevents typing.....You all know how it is.

During my absence to the blog, a festering of annoyance and dissapointment has been infecting my very soul. Sounds serious, huh? My parents recently (like 8 months ago...if you can call that recent) moved into a new place. Mr. and Mrs. Packrat are the royal couple of disorganization, and their moving process was apparently quite a fiasco. In the year or so preceding their move, I had been slightly aware that my mother couldn't find my baby pictures. I am the youngest child of three, and, as is typical for youngest children, my parents weren't as concerned with archiving my childhood as they were my brothers'.

The lives of most baby girls are memoralized in cutesie pink and white gingham baby books with sentamentalities like "First word" and "First food eaten" and "First steps" and "First time drunk" filled in on the pages. I didn't have one of these. I remember seeing little blue ones all filled in for my brothers, though. There were goofy pictures of little boys with baseball bats and puppies running with their ears blowing behind them and Tonka trucks all over the vinyl covers. I was more than a little bit jealous of the care that had been taken to put these together.

The last time I recall seeing my baby pictures, they were all tucked inside a white paper bag. I had previously bought my mother a set of matching photo albums in hopes that she would be encouraged to organize the evidence of my young life. It didn't work, by the way. I'm not sure when or how the white paper bag was misplaced, but, alas, it happened. I inquired about its whereabouts many times, and my mother would blow me off. "Oh, they'll turn up. Calm down."

So, (going back to the aforementioned move) as my parents began packing and preparing for their move, I was sure my baby pictures would be found. My brother traveled to their home one weekend to help them pack, and, from what I understand, threw a great deal of items away with mad fervor so that our mother wouldn't decide that she needed to keep every issue of Redbook from the 80's....even the one with Mel Gibson (who then sported a facial feature closely resembling a uni-brow). It was a smart move on his part, but it seems that many would-be keepsakes were done away with in his rush. I fear that my pictures were one of them. My parents didn't see them once during the whole process.

What infuriates me the most is that neither of my parents consider this a signicant reason for upset. Last time I saw them, I was nearly in tears about the situation, and they both laughed at me. "Allison. Stop it. We have your pictures.........somwhere.............probably." That was all the consolment they could bring themselves to muster.

I lapsed into an emotional soliliquy about how my place on our family tree will be looked over when future generations can find no photographical evidence of my existence. I won't have the opportunity to pretend to be humiliated when future boyfriends meet my parents, and no naked bath-time shots are dragged out. My (currently) unborn children won't be able to see that mommy dressed up like a hobo when she was two; wearing a fishing hat and pushing around a tiny plastic shopping cart. No laughter will fill the room as people see me crying after smashing my face into my first birthday cake or holding an armful of newborn kittens on my grandmother's ugly green chair when I was three. Ugghhh......countless memories all gone. Is ANYONE understanding my devastation here?????


A torturing amount of salt was poured on the wound of my lost several weeks ago. I was sick with an exhausting strep-throaty, fluish plague. I made it through most of my week only half-awake; stammering in a four day-long NyQuil hangover. I left work early one day, and, after pumping myself full of Gatorade and Tylenol Flu, my kitty and I nestled into the couch for some mid-afternoon programing. Ellen Degeneres was interviewing Jennifer Love Hewitt. Or "Love", as her friends and family refer to her. Love was perkily recounting the story of her recent 26th birthday party. Something about McDonald's and Strawberry Shortcake decorations. I wasn't really paying attention. But then the bitch had the nerve to pull out the gift her mother had made for her. It was a carefully constructed scrapbook full of every birthday photograph from her childhood. Every party, every cake, every happy face......all displayed with loving care. As if being rich and generously busted isn't enough...she has all her baby pictures, too. I hate her.