In which I surprise myself

Palm Beach sunset

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I love that little mobile. I picked it up for two bucks in Key West. Makes a lovely sound when the winds are fierce, like they have been the past few days.

It hasn’t felt like it’s been 91 degrees (which it has), thanks to the gale-force winds. Seriously, can a house drop on an evil witch and give me something to smile about, please?

An old colleague had a baby last night. I didn’t even know she was pregnant, although we did commiserate via Twitter a few months back how the moments after peeing on a stick are the longest of your life. I just didn’t have any idea that, while mine was negative, hers wasn’t. 😉

I give her credit, too, because I think she’s doing this on her own. (Her daughter? So friggin’ kyoot!) For all my, ah, promiscuity of years past and rebellion against family and tradition, I have to say that I probably would have had some spawn by now, were I in a functional relationship.

Lord — ME, traditional? *faints*

But yeah, when I inadvertently found myself in the “family” way almost exactly a decade ago, I thought about doing it on my own. For a minute. But really, even though I wasn’t ready to get married, I would have been willing if it were a two-person tag-team operation.

Unfortunately, the only person stepping up to the challenge was my mother, and the last thing I wanted was for her to be around every minute of every day. (Hah. Sometimes I wonder whether my current living situation is my eternal punishment for that.)

Alas, here we are a decade later. And I would be lying if I said I weren’t jealous of my friend. I am happy for her and happier still that I am not the one with the diaper and burp-cloth budget. But I would also be lying if I claimed I didn’t want the whole “happy family” thing. You know, with an awesome dude and a toddler-sized kid rather than a 53-year-old one.

I was thinking back to the years I was in social work, how I hated the fact that we were putting kids in kinship care … throwing them right into the fucked-up family lives that ruined their birthparents in the first place. Now, I’m eye-witness to the fact that parents who screwed up actually make for excellent grandparents. But I really resented being forced to seek funding for parenting classes for incarcerated birth moms when I was far more worried that the children were going to turn out like their parents thanks instead to their grandparents.

I’m not saying my mom is bad. But the same family situation that I FLED in 1992 is what I live daily now. Minus three other generations crammed into a rowhouse a fraction the size of my apartment, but still. Close quarters with people sharing your air doesn’t breed much beyond resentment.

But in thinking a bit about my grandmother, I remember more of the good things. She adored Elizabeth Taylor. ADORED. She owned her Passion perfume set. (I never liked it.) But then when Dame Elizabeth released her White Diamonds, my grandmother immediately bought me a bottle … which I LOVED.

I’ve since become a perfume connoisseur like my grandmother, because of that. And in my grandmother’s memory, I donated to the Elizabeth Taylor AIDS Foundation today.

Anyway, I don’t know where the hell this entry is going. First from babies, to families, to grandparents, to perfume and to fatal illnesses. Hm. Looks like a typical five minutes inside my brain. 🙂

I guess I’m telling the universe, in no uncertain terms, that I want more. A good man. Another residence for the extra-terrestrial being from outer space. A loving home. A cute dog. Money enough for classy perfumes. Non-batshit paycheck providers. And serene sunsets that precede peaceful evenings and even-prettier sunrises to which I can look forward.

Plus, happiness enough that if any of the above is missing, I won’t even notice.

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