Good In Bed

 

I’ve never understood people who like to stay up late at night.

From the moment I get up, my entire day is basically just an exercise in getting me back into bed as soon as possible. My favorite part of the day is that moment when I’m climbing in between my ridiculously high-priced sheets and onto my highrise collection of mattress toppers that add up to a mortgage payment. But it’s not only these, I think I love sleeping so much, because it involves something I’m really good at…lying down.

In fact I love lying down so much that after I get up and get my coffee in the morning I go to the couch and lie down some more. My husband, Paul, generously refers to this as “my transition period.” He’d refer to it as “What the hell are you doing? You JUST got up!” but it would cost him significant luxuries around here–like a house–with a wife in it–so he has learned to find this quirky thing I do rather endearing (and because I told him it was).

To a regular person—and by regular, I mean “employed”– I might look like I don’t have a lot of responsibilities around here. Sure, I write a lot, but I’m well aware that unless you are bringing in a paycheck with your writing people call you “a writer” and give you an eye roll. When I manage to find a paycheck from this gig then I’ll be “a writer” and people will give me a cocktail–that last part I’m not really sure of, but I’m banking on it.

As Betty Draper’s father said to her in an episode of Mad Men once, “You’re like a house cat. You’re important, but you don’t really do anything.” I have a house cat. And she is important, but Betty’s father was right. She doesn’t really do anything—but sleep. Sometimes that analogy forces me to examine my own love of sleep more than I should probably admit.

Now I have gone without sleep before–after all, I did have three babies. Through the toddler years I’m pretty sure the only time my eyes closed was when I sneezed or was putting on eyeshadow. When I heard about other mothers having all those middle of the night maternal feelings as they got up to feed their precious newborns I felt a little guilty. I specifically remember having thoughts like “No wonder they find babies in trash dumpsters,” and saying things to my husband as I plopped a baby on his chest at 4 a.m. like, “Here. Take her. I mean it. I don’t want to see her again until she’s in the 5th grade!” Sleep and I were estranged during those months, and I hated every second of it. I honestly asked my mother one morning after pulling a grueling screaming-baby-all-nighter, “Why would any sane person do this to themselves?” But as all parents do, we survive the sleep deprived “I never knew I could have this much rage” years and eventually find ourselves in the teenage years with an entirely different type of rage.

My mother has a similar fondness for the art of lying down. Let me clarify here, my mother likes to sleep—at night— but she does not approve of “lying down during the day,” as she puts it. In fact that’s a proclamation that she makes proudly and often.

I think she must view napping as lazy or shameful.

Not me.

Years ago my friend, Shelly, and I would meet every afternoon at the bus stop to get our kids, yawning, and proudly wearing the pillow creases indented into our cheeks as badges of honor. We’d greet each other as members of a secret drowsy society, like two friends seeing each other at a liquor store at 9 a.m. (not that that has ever happened). You just agree to keep the secret, never mentioning it. Being a stay-at-home mom doesn’t come with a ton of perks, but sneaking a good solid nap in is definitely one of them.

And although my mom never naps, she does have strict rules for her night time slumber. The bedroom must be cold. Now I know what some of you are thinking, “Oh I like to sleep in a cold room too…”

No. You don’t know what I mean. People sleeping in my parents’ house might actually die.

We hold debriefings with guests before they go to bed at my parents’ house in which emergency procedures and extra precautions are reviewed and liability waivers are signed. It’s sort of like the kind of cross-check you might get before you climb Mt. Everest.

So not only does my mother’s room have to be cold, but her bedroom must be dark.

Very dark—like the inside of a cow’s stomach dark. The tiny little lighted clock that used to be on the VCR in her bedroom was so bothersome to her that for years my daddy had to cover it with a shirt or a towel at bedtime, because as he put it, “otherwise your mama will go blind.”

I can relate to some of my mother’s sleep demands. I do like it cold and dark in the bedroom, but I also have been deemed a bed snob with respect to anything on the bed as well. I spend an embarrassing amount of money on sheets, mattress toppers, mattress pads, and pillows only to get in bed and right back out again when I feel one piece of grit under the covers—how does that even happen? The struggle with the princess and her elusive pea might have been hard, but try to find one little piece of grit in your bed, and it happens every night at my house.

And clean sheet day? Well it’s right up there with my birthday in terms of joy.

At my last job I worked with a young man whose parents lived in India and on his return from visiting them once he was telling me that every night it took his family about thirty minutes to prepare for bed. They each had to roll out their mat on the floor and then lower each person’s mosquito net which they kept anchored to the ceiling during the day. He went on to finish his story which involved something about being bitten by a rat that was running around them as they slept—I don’t really know the ending, because I passed out somewhere between “the mat” and “the rat.” Forget that scene in Poltergeist with the scary clown in the bedroom—tell me I have to sleep on the floor on a mat with something biting me during the night if you really want to horrify me. Remember? I’m the one who’s still just trying to get that one piece of First World grit out of her bed…

Although I do adore sleeping, and I welcome a good nap when it overcomes me, sadly I sometimes have to trick my body into actually sleeping at night. Sleep can, like some boyfriends of my past, play hard to get. My mind is just too weird…I mean too wired to turn off.

I lie there thinking of something I need to write about—like this blog post about sleeping, or how I need to get my life in order—something that never seems to bother me at 2 o’clock in the afternoon (probably because I’m napping). So several years ago I experimented with an over-the-counter sleep aid. Shortly after I discovered its wonders I mentioned it to my daddy who asked,

“Well what are you gonna do if you get addicted to it?”

“Uh, K-e-e-e-p taking it.” My smart-ass-self answered. I have no shame, and I value sleep that much.

If I forget and run out of my sleep aid, I’ve been known to frantically rummage through the bathroom drawers, old purses and suitcases in my closet at midnight looking for a stray pill like some kind of desperate crack whore. Again, I have no shame when it comes to sleep.

I’ll admit that my love of sleep has a lot to do with the bed I have. Years ago I was having some unexplained shoulder and neck pain that was interfering with my sleep and after having tried everything I could think of I began to blame our old mattress for my discomfort. I complained enough and finally wrestled my husband into a mattress store to purchase a new one.

The mattress store. All those beds...

I almost teared up from delight just thinking of the sleep that was soon to come my way.

I lied down on everything in that store except the sales guy–Firm, plush, extra plush, pillow top. I was so thorough. I would have made Goldilocks proud. I’m pretty sure I didn’t put that much thought into picking out my husband, but quite frankly, I spend more time with the bed than I do with him. I even tried the mattresses that come with a dial to set the bed for a certain firmness by picking a number, but I don’t have a fondness for numbers, and I’m not getting tricked into doing math in bed.

I finally found a bed I loved and shot my husband that “I don’t care how much it costs” look. You know that look. Women use it all the time. But I can honestly say I’ve only seen the “I don’t care how much it costs” look on my husband’s face one time in 30 years of marriage—when we were driving on a long stretch of lonely highway in the middle of the Mojave desert, and the only bathroom we could find anywhere was a “pay toilet.” But I’ll save “Missy and Paul’s amazingly luxurious vacation” for a blog post at another time..

I lied on that bed while Paul paid and scheduled the delivery. I lied there so long I heard the sales guy, “Sir, you can’t leave her here,” and looked up to see my husband coming back in the exit door mumbling, “Oh yeah, her.”

Funny thing is– I didn’t care. At that point the bed and I had fallen in love. I got my new love home and began adorning it with the array of aforementioned goose down mattress toppers, quilted mattress covers, pillows and the sheets worth a king’s ransom. I lie about how much they cost, but you can look them up online—just type in “highwayrobbery.” Afterwards, I had to have a foot stool made so I could actually get up on top of the bed, and if I ever fall out of it I’ll most definitely suffer a spinal cord injury. All the new bed did was encourage my love of sleep even more. It’s my big, soft, cushy, seducing, pillow-topped enabler.

But how can you not love to sleep? You actually spend a great portion of your life in bed, and I ask why do something halfway when you can excel at it? There’s a saying, “when we’re asleep in this world, we’re awake in another.” If that’s the case, then I must be some real kick-ass overachiever somewhere.

Sleep and I are made for each other. We like the same things. We enjoy our time together, and really look forward to seeing each other at the end of the day. The demands we make on each other are simple—we just show up every night, and we don’t let anyone get between us and that bed. It took a long time to finally hone my lying down skills to this feline level of proficiency, but I did it. A professional race car driver shouldn’t have to drive a golf cart, and an important house cat like me shouldn’t have to sleep in a box under the stairs, because well, what can I say? I’m just too good in bed.

 

Thank you, Queen Anne…

Every time spring rolls around, with its budding daffodils and hyacinths popping out like the guests who arrived too early to the party, I think about the women in my family, their excitement for the season, and their love of gardening.

Growing up, I can’t remember a female in my big southern family who didn’t know the name of every flower, tree, shrub—or even weed—that one could find in any manicured garden anywhere or on the side of a quiet country road. They were botanical know-it-alls. The kind you wanted on your team if playing Trivial Pursuit when you got asked the “Science and Nature” question—yes, we’re one of those families who still play that game. If the question had anything to do with any flower, tree, or wild critter in nature, then the other team could throw up their hands, for your victory lap was as good as made.

My great-grandmother, Idolene, (who we called “I.E.”, because “Idolene” was too hard for my mother to say as a toddler) was at one time the matriarch, the “grande dame of the garden,” in our family. By the time I knew her, she was a widow and lived with her daughter, my great-aunt Emma, in a big brick house on Dresden Drive in the Brookhaven area of Atlanta. My grandparents, Dot and Papa–for you non-southerners, that’s pronounced “Paw-Paw”–lived next door, the two properties separated by a shallow creek..

I loved those yards as a child, and I spent hours of imaginary playtime in them jumping over the shallow trickle of water in the creek bed, swinging from the low lying branches of the magnolia tree that grew on the creek’s edge, or at times, letting one of the many yellow ducklings that Dot gave me for several Easters paddle about in the shallow water. Grandparents, especially mine, did things like buy little kids Easter ducks back then without even a thought.

I.E., five feet tall, adorned with her big hat and gloves and dressed in a smocked apron that was certain to have shriveled tissues in the front pockets, was always hunched over in some corner of her yard. Her prized azaleas made a colorful parade of magenta, pink and white around the perimeter of her front lawn and bordered the entire walkway onto the front porch with their panorama. The first half of April her yard was so magnificent it hurt your eyes to look at it, and at least one third of our family’s slide projector presentations when I was young were narrated, “Oh, there’s I.E.’s yard, look at those azaleas.” But those photos were something I just couldn’t fully appreciate as an eight-year-old.

My mom, I.E., and Me

When the house and its big yard finally got to be too much work for I.E. and Emma, they moved into an apartment on Peachtree Road. Thankfully, I.E. had a tiny backyard there to continue on with her love of flowers. When you stepped out of the back door of the modest apartment, it was as if you stepped into an English garden fantasia. The walkway from her back door to the sidewalk was lined with flowering perennials of every color and size imaginable. I remember trying to get to that sidewalk, having to dodge the butterflies and the bees who flew right in my face, drunk from their floral ambrosia. I hated those bees. They were probably the reason I never fulled valued my great grandmother’s garden like I should have—I was just trying to get past that frightful “buzzing” unscathed.

Her neighbors, like the Bledsoe’s who were famous for dropping off cheese straws and Mrs. Bledsoe’s lemon poundcake at Christmas time, were her biggest groupies. They would walk by I.E’s garden daily and marvel at its display, complimenting her as if they were first time visitors. Her tiny garden behind that apartment continued to be an overgrown floricultural masterpiece until sadly she died of a sudden stroke when I was thirteen. We may not entertain ourselves with family slideshows anymore but, “she sure could grow a garden too,” is still said by my mother every year at the Thanksgiving dinner table– right after “How’s the oyster dressing? I.E. could always make the best oyster dressing.”

My grandmother, Dot, carried on her mother’s great love for things in the dirt. She too had a yard full of beautiful offerings. In her early 50’s, Dot, being somewhat of an eccentric character, had an epiphany one day that being a wife and mother were no longer on her “to-do” list, so after thirty something years of marriage, she suddenly divorced my Papa. Years later, however, Dot did remarry and moved onto four acres of property in Powder Springs, Georgia. Her second husband passed away shortly afterwards, and Dot was left alone to manage all four acres by herself—the mowing, the planting, the tree trimming, the gardening—she did it all.

I spent several weeks in the summer time and many spring breaks with her out at that house in the country. With so much land, there was no limit to what she could grow. Her flowers were breathtaking, and her vegetable garden was spectacular. I remember rows and rows of collards, tomatoes, and cucumbers. I think we must have eaten pickled cucumbers every time we sat down at the kitchen table at her house, and I know I ate drippy tomato sandwiches one summer until my mouth broke out from the acid of those salty, mayonnaise-laden delicacies—still, to this day, it’s the best sandwich on earth in my book.

One June day when Dot and I walked down the road from her house to look at Sweetwater Creek, (because that’s just what we did, “look at it”) I noticed a beautiful, but weedy flower growing wild along the shoulder of the road.

“Queen Anne’s Lace,” Dot was quick to identify.

“That would make a pretty wedding flower,” I said, looking at the white filigreed pedals that were everywhere.

Then Dot announced it like it was a rule, “Well you better get married in June then ’cause that’s when it blooms.”

Ten years later I got married on June 11th carrying the most beautiful bouquet down the aisle adorned with big clusters of Queen Anne’s Lace, remembering that very conversation with my grandmother and providing me with a very special memory. To this day, every time I see Queen Anne’s Lace growing on the side of the road with its frilly white flowers and the purple dot in the middle of the blossom where legend has it Queen Anne of England lost a drop of blood from pricking her finger, I think of that walk with Dot, and I’m thankful.

Dot in Powder Springs
Me, Dot and my mom, Joan

My grandmother passed away a few years ago, but my mother, Joan, adopted the same obsession with flowers, and is currently the reigning Queen Mother of the garden. We have entire phone conversations about what color some bush is, what’s blooming, or if the predicted late frost is going to kill something that we have been anxiously awaiting. This happens almost every year and causes devoted southern gardeners to take to their bed. When my grandmother was still alive, she would begin a phone chain of alarm if the weather report predicted a late frost. First she’d call my mother, then me, then my uncle and so on…and we’d jump into action covering our precious azaleas or hydrangeas with anything we had, even if it meant we had to rip it off a bed.

I will admit I’ve used “the good sheets,” with the hand-stitched lace along the border, to shield something in my yard from a frost, and had not a twinge of guilt over it. To be honest, I probably like my azaleas better than some people who have slept on “the good sheets” in my guest room anyway.

Southern women are serious about their flowers. My mother still tells the story of when my teenage cousin, Stan, was staying with us one summer, and in an effort to get the barbeque grill’s fire going decided to douse it with “a little gasoline” catching pretty much everything in the backyard and on the patio on fire, including my mother’s precious peonies. Poor Stan was thankfully not injured, but he never lived that one down, and my mother kept a little mark on her nephew’s record for the rest of his life. To this day, when she tells the story and gets to the part where she has to mention her scorched peonies she still takes a moment of silence and shakes her head in pain like the event happened yesterday.

Joan was even protective of her plants and flowers that were in the house. At one point in the 70’s, when terrariums were all the rage, my mother had a huge one in our formal living room. It was a monstrous, clear plastic dome full of tiny versions of house plants and african violets. She would take the lid off and fuss over it like it was a newborn that had just come home from the hospital.  It sat on its own base that was a bit unsteady and stood next to the window for sun. I do not remember EVER walking into that room as a child that I didn’t hear my mother’s voice behind me, “Be careful! Don’t you knock over that terrarium!” I always wondered what would happen to the person who knocked over the terrarium…luckily I never found out.  

To this day my mother will come to my house and “inspect” my plants like she’s an agent from the United States Department of Agriculture. I see her walking over to the table in my kitchen, and I tense up because I know I’m about to get chided.

“This orchid is dry as a bone,” she’ll say as she removes her finger from its soil. “And what happened to this poor thing?” 

Some mothers give the white glove test—mine gives the gardening glove test.

When I was first married my husband and I lived in San Diego. It was there that my own interest in gardening began to emerge. The weather was 72 degrees, sunny and breezy about 364 days out of the year, and the soil was nice, light and sandy. They were the perfect conditions for growing anything. If you planted a rose bush, it soon looked like a rose bush in a gardening magazine. If you planted a tomato plant you soon had more tomatoes than you could eat. Not knowing this, I planted four.

When the tomatoes started ripening, our kitchen looked like an episode of I Love Lucy had there ever been one where Lucy grew tomatoes. I had to teach myself canning so I could make salsa out of most of them just to use them all, and this was after eating as many tomato sandwiches as the pH of my mouth could stand.

I thought that successful gardening was so easy!

Then we moved back to Atlanta.

I quickly learned that between the dense clay soil, too much rain, not enough rain, oppressive summer temperatures, humidity, mildew, black spot, root rot, and fungi it was a lot more work to grow anything in the South. Not to even mention the critters such as June bugs, hornworms, and slugs eating everything you planted. And then, as you were trying to pick these off your plants, there were other pests trying to eat you. My attempts to grow anything in my yard the first few years was thwarted by any combination of these obstacles, and I didn’t even mention the four-legged creatures that do their part. Turtles LOVE tomatoes, just in case you’re wondering…

One summer I yielded one tomato. One.

I stood over the sink and in four quick bites ate the most delicious tomato sandwich made from that one small tomato. In the end I calculated between the bedding plants, tomato cages, stakes, soil conditioners, fertilizers, and time and effort that that one sandwich cost me roughly about $300. As anyone who knows me will tell you, I’m not good at math, but even I could calculate that those were four very expensive bites. Even then, as stubborn as I am, I still tried it another three or four summers before I admitted complete defeat. Now in the summer, I just drive to the farm stand by my house, talk myself through my envy, and bring home a bag of their tomatoes and everyone is happy –well, except for maybe the turtles.

My mom

As far as the rest of my yard, I’m still not giving up. I, like all other dedicated southern gardeners, have to herd the butterflies in my stomach this time of year, so I don’t get overly anxious and start planting too soon. I want to run to the nursery and load up on bedding plants and seeds. And while mentioning it, I’m pretty sure there is an official disorder for what I experience physically and emotionally when I’m at a plant nursery—it’s an odd combination of panic attack and euphoria that can drain my checking account like a gambling addiction.

As soon as March arrives, I want to sit around my mailbox and plant my smiley-faced little pansies and fill the old wash pot of Dot’s in my back yard with cyclamen and ferns. I can’t wait to greet my elephant ear sprouts with joy like an old friend I haven’t seen all winter long. But I.E. always said to never plant anything until after April 15th, and I know doing so only entices nature to have one last cold snap out of spite–and then there I am in the front yard, in my pajamas, covering everything with “the good sheets” again.

I’m grateful I have my inherited love of all things growing. I’m proud that when my grandmother announced, “Ewww-we, look at that forsythia. Id’nt it beautiful?” to no one in particular as we rode in the car that I listened to her and took the time to actually look at the sunny-colored bush with its leggy branches and make a note of it. It’s from such little comments by the women in my family that I learned the names of the trees and flowers that I love today and developed an appreciation of their beauty and the hard work it takes, by someone, to grow them. I have a forsythia bush in my yard now, and although it’s a young plant with years to go before it will impress anyone, every year at this time when its little yellow shoots emerge, I know my grandmother would be proud.

I have two daughters of my own now, and I can only hope that as they get older they will spend less time on their smart phones and spend more time with their hands in the dirt appreciating how fulfilling and satisfying it is. I hope that they feel excited when the cherry trees and the Japanese magnolias start budding and want to hurry up and plant their seedlings, but they remember to wait until April 15th. I hope their orchids in their kitchens are dry one day so I can point it out to them. And one day when they see a wild flower growing on the side of the road they will remember me naming it for them—and to their future Trivial Pursuit partners I say, “you’re welcome.”

“If You Don’t Know, Who Does Know?”

 

Daddy and me 1964

When I was young that was my daddy’s famous line when I was in trouble and he asked me, “Why did you do that?” or “Who did this?”  I’d look at my feet and cowardly mumble, “I don’t know” to which he’d reply rhetorically “If you don’t know, who does know?” The question was usually yelled, for my daddy was not one from the softer side of Sears, if you know what I mean.

He’d leave the room with a door slam and that stupid question would sit with me, lingering in the dust storm he had blown up. As I’ve been trying to develop my blog the last few months, I just keep hearing my daddy ask me that question in my mind over and over.

Dammit Daddy! I still don’t know!

I will wholeheartedly admit, right out of the gate, that the idea of writing a blog kinda terrifies me.

The platform itself is wide open. There are no guidelines, and there are also too many guidelines. No limitations. No set formats or rules to follow. You can totally make it up to fit whatever you want to achieve or go at it with nothing to achieve.

Crap. I don’t know if I can work like this.

Much like I don’t know where to start when I walk into an overcrowded dress shop—it usually means I’ll walk right back out empty-handed and feeling overwhelmed. I’m the person you can take on an all day trip to the mall who will usually come home with nothing—ok, cinnamon pretzels. I’ll come home with cinnamon pretzels.

Walk me into the most decadent designer bakery in the trendiest place ever, and I’ll probably just walk through and say it “smells good.” Too many choices and I do not make for a productive relationship. Give me a choice between just two cupcakes, two couches, or two men’s colognes…oh hell…just two men…and I can make a decision, but load me up with too many options, and I freeze up (did you just read “buttload” in that sentence too? And by the way, it’s a real unit of measure, I had no idea. Look it up).

So for right now I cannot tell you what type of blog this will be—again, too many choices.  And why must everything fit neatly into a box that someone else has designed? I don’t cook that way.  I don’t love that way.  I don’t think that way.  I sure don’t imagine I can write that way.

An artist hired to design for a company, but then told she can only paint or draw pictures of dogs isn’t going to flourish at that job. And although she loves dogs, and she might stay there for a while to pay some bills out of necessity, her soul will not be nourished, and she will eventually leave. She’s not being allowed to express the joy, the beauty, the sadness or the ridiculous sense of humor life possesses through her artwork.

The creative outlet to this process is just that, taking some simple observation or experience and finding a unique aspect to it that is often hidden to some, but to a writer—and especially to me—it can leap out like a little, eye-rolling smart ass. It’s just a good state of mind I think—looking for the outrageous in some of life’s ordinary. And the more you look for it, the more life delivers it.

And then there’s the gnawing little voice in my head that says “Isn’t it arrogant of me to think that anyone wants to read what I write?”  And I know that is what every writer in the world thinks.  And I also know I just have to get over it.  People will read it or they won’t. They’ll like it or they won’t.  None of that can influence me.

Just like I had to get over the fact that perming my hair in 11th grade was a bad idea, and that no matter how much of a delicacy it’s considered, if you put smoked salmon on something I will not like it, and the fact that I will never look good in little flat sandals—I have duck feet (I had Ancestry.com do my DNA, and yes I am indeed 47.6% American wigeon duck). So Dolly Pardon and I agree on this point —heels are the only way to go.

My closest friends think I have a rather salty side—personally, I prefer to think of it more as somewhat…brackish. I’m really not a negative person, but I do find great humor in the darker side of life at times. In fact over the years, that humor is probably the only thing that has kept me from ripping all my hair out with my bare hands and setting fire to it in the sink. See? Not negative.

A speaker at my writing club once told us that the best writers let their stories lead them, not the other way around. So here lies a leap of faith for me (imagine that little, eye-rolling smart ass again). By letting up on the reins, I’ll hope that life will lead me in the direction it wants me to write and provide me with the ability to draw out something entertaining or enlightening lying just out of view… please God…

There are writers who love to write, and there are writers who have to write.

My desire is that through the first, I will eventually become the second.

And if not, to my family and friends– you better watch out because I will have no other option but to write about you. I’m sorry, but if you didn’t want me to write about you, then some of you should have behaved better, including you Daddy.