ImPerceptibility

Archive for January, 2009

This morning, when I woke up, there was a tiny little fruit fly swimming in the pot of tea I made last night. I stuck my finger in and scooped her up. She was waterlogged but still alive. I blew the tea away from her and watched as she slowly dried out. After a few minutes she started crawling around but her wings were still too wet to fly. I held up my other index finger and she crawled onto it. I was waiting for her to fly away. I wanted her to fly. She walked about ¼ an inch across my finger then she stopped moving. I waited a few seconds but it was clear. She had died. I tapped my finger on the side of the pot that holds my dwarf lime tree. She disappeared beneath the leaves.  It was the only fruit plant I had and it seemed right.  Then I went and made a new pot of tea.  MyHusband sat on the couch and scratched his head and grinned at me.  Apparently that’s why he loves me so much.  Who knew?

I’m writing another post about a birthday party. I didn’t start this blog to talk about going to birthday parties. But it seems that birthday parties are taking up a good deal of my time right now. Bonne Anniversaire! So be it. Who am I to judge? Yet, judge I will.

I didn’t like him when I saw him but that happens sometimes. Not very often but it does happen. I put a “watch him closely around the kids” note in the back of my head and went on with socializing. The kids and the instructor went into another room to play games and I slipped into the back to watch. I don’t think he knew I was there. It wasn’t long before the incident occurred.

The game was like tag. The instructor had a set of foam noodles like kids use to float in a pool. He chased the kids around. If he hit them with it they were out. Simple enough until one little boy, about 11, walked up to the instructor during a break. The instructor took the noodle and smacked him on the side of his head. It wasn’t a playful smack. The sound echoed off the walls and the little boy started to cry.

“I was trying to hit you on your head, not your face” he said.

I waited for him to ask him if he was okay. I expected him to tell him he was sorry but that didn’t happen. He hovered over the kid like the big tough guy he was and told him to stop being a drama queen. He said he had already told him he was sorry. When the boy didn’t stop crying he made him go sit out on the side. That’s when he noticed me off to the side watching.

I guess he wanted to teach him a lesson, make a man out of him, teach him to respect authority. The emotions and thoughts that went shooting through my brain were not fit for polite society. He was a bully. The worst kind of bully and I despised him. I knew I couldn’t do much harm to him but it didn’t stop me from wanting to. I pursed my lips squinted my eyes and made sure he knew exactly what I was thinking. Every bit of anger and outrage I could gather came shooting out of my eyes at him. He went back to the “game” and I went to the little boy. I don’t think he liked me questioning his authority. I didn’t care.

I knew it was for my benefit when the instructor reminded the boy that he had knocked another child into a heater a few days ago. He mentioned a few more things. They all sounded like normal kid things to me. I knew the instructor wanted me to know that the sweet little boy with dark thoughtful eyes and blond curls that danced on top of his head when he ran was a bad kid. The child deserved it. That was what he was trying to tell me by listing the childs faults in front of the class. I glanced at the instructor then turned my head to dismiss him. There was nothing he could say to make me see things any differently.

I asked the little boy if he was okay and looked at his ear where the bully had hit him. It was red and looked tender. He stopped crying and I asked if he wanted me to get him a tissue. He said no then wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve. I leaned in close so no one would hear.

“I don’t care if you knocked someone into a heater. He shouldn’t have hit you like that. He should have said he was sorry. I know you’re a good kid…Aren’t you?” I looked at him quizzically.

He grinned a bad boy grin and nodded his head. I winked at him when the bully called him back over. If I had a son I’d want one just like him I thought. I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for those “bad boys”. They’re the best. But I hate bullies. I really, really hate bullies.

“Hi Hon – Man with Jesus shirt and one with huntin’ shirt. I’m a little out of place here.”

I stood between two men. One had a “Jesus is my rock star” shirt and the other had a huntin’ shirt. I was wearing a teal shirt. It was just teal, dark teal, and it looked good with my eyes. I wasn’t advertising anything but pretty eyes. There’s no crime in that.

I backed out slowly and sat down alone. I had placed myself carefully in the back of the room near the door. I felt safe there. I wasn’t in the mood to socialize. I was in the mood to observe. More realistically, I was in the mood to judge. It didn’t take me long to start. I started with judging them; I ended with judging myself. Then I put Hayes Carll on repeat and texted observations to MyHusband. They weren’t very nice.

I watched as fat people gorged themselves with pizza that was covered in more meat than I’ve eaten in the last year. They offered me a slice. I thanked them, then politely declined. I didn’t make excuses. I didn’t tell them why. I didn’t feel the need to explain myself to a fat man wearing a US flag T-shirt. It was obvious those colors didn’t run, he had sausage grease on his double chin. I started to feel lonely. I started to wish I fit in. I wanted to be able to shove my beliefs away and pretend. Like I use to. I use to pretend all the time. It used to be easy. But now, I look at my children and I can’t. Or maybe, I won’t.

The racist comment came while the kids played musical chairs. I guess hip-hop wasn’t a good choice for music. I stopped myself from suggesting that Jesus loves both gangsters and rock stars. I considered explaining that the devil plays a fiddle when he’s looking for souls to steal. But that kind of talk could have gotten me into some serious trouble. I was in the mood to judge, not cause problems for my daughter. So I judged them silently and I judged them harshly. They deserved it.

I was happy when they ate the cake. Almost giddy as the presents were opened. My patience was wearing thin and my fight or flight response was kicking into overdrive. A woman handed out the goody bags and I was finally free. I had my daughter tell them thank you, and then we left. We walked slowly to the door then our pace picked up. By the time we made it to our car we were running and giggling. “Let’s go listen to some music.” I told her. She cheered.

I took the corner out of the parking lot with the mommy equivalent of “on two wheels” (just a little faster than necessary). Then we raced downtown. I sat down beside MyHusband and propped my feet up on an empty chair. We listened to the blues and we listened to a multi-racial group of teenage boys play “We’re not going to take” on their electric guitars.

“We’re not gonna take it anymooooore” my youngest sang.

“And don’t you forget it” I mouthed to her and smiled. She sat on my lap and she stuck her fist in the air as she sang. We drank some Hi-C punch and ate a few Oreo’s. Everything seemed just a little better. Then I went home and ate bacon. I’m not sure why I did that. Perhaps it was an inappropriate reaction to stress. I may have a bacon related eating disorder. Or maybe being surrounded by archaic belief systems forced me to re-evaluate my own. Either way, it was good. Very very good. I’d do it again, some day. It’s good to break through self-imposed boundaries. If you don’t, you’ll end up like the people you’re trying to get away from. I’ve come too far to end up like them.

Hey, I’m back and I’ve kinda missed you. I know, I haven’t posted in almost a month. But I’ve been busy. No, not with the holidays. They came and went. We had a good time. Ate too much. Gave and received a bunch of stuff we didn’t need or want. Made memories. They’re over. Moving on to what really happened.

You may or may have not figured out by now that I tend to go off on tangents. About a month ago I realized that I really missed my sourdough starter. This was when it all started. I use to have the most awesome sourdough starter ever. I started it with a cup of white flour, some water, and some yeast. As time passed I fed it and stirred it. A little bit of buckwheat. A little bit of rice flour. Maybe a little cornmeal. One day I added some left over pumpkin puree. It began to take on a life of it’s own. I nurtured it and it bubbled. It was good stuff. I used it to make bread. Really good bread. But time passed and I began to take it for granted. After a few weeks of neglect I found it stinky and molding in the back of the refrigerator. I buried it in my compost pile. It deserved a proper burial.

Time passed and I had almost forgotten my sourdough starter. I focused my time on growing tomatoes and baking plain ole bread. I thought I was happy, but I wasn’t. I was lying to myself.

So, I started a new batch of sourdough starter. I was determined to rekindle the passion. It took a few days but before long I was once again baking scrumptious rolls and tasty loafs. The joy of baking was mine. I was a fully satisfied woman once again. Life was good.

But then, I started to want more. The yeast in my fridge was teasing me with its fermentation possibilities. I knew it could take me to new height of culinary bliss. It started out simply enough. I did a quick Internet search and my screen was filled with possibilities. I began to download recipes and read page after page of suggestions and advice. I wanted more. I needed more. It became almost an obsession.

Before I knew what was happening to me, I started to look at other fermentation possibilities. The sourdough starter I once loved just wasn’t enough. I spent every free minute with one hand on the keyboard and the other on my yeast container. I did things in my kitchen I am not proud of. I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life.

It was a twisted crooked road I traveled. When it was all said and done I ended up with a gallon of mead fermenting on my kitchen counter. I like to watch it as the little raisins float to the surface then fall back to the bottom. It’s like a little dance. A mead fermentation dance. It makes me happy.

If it all works out, this time next year I’ll have some fine mead to celebrate the New Year. I’m looking forward to it. I’m also looking forward to catching up with you. I hope you had a happy holiday and I send you my best wishes for the New Year. Bring on 2009.