Boondock Ramblings

The Barbershop

This Small Town is full of the touching, the humorous, the unusual, the bizarre, history, progress, backward ideas and people, love, family, faith, and honor. It is worthy of putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard to write about from time to time. If it isn't worthy, then it is at least of interest -- albeit morbid curiosity in most cases. These are the stories of the small towns I grew up in and now live in.

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The spinning red, white and blue signifies that the barbershop is open for business. Inside, the atmosphere is calm, laid back, slow even, but not slow in a bad way; slow as in the way life should be.

There is time to talk here, catch up on the family, find out how the new job is going. Voices mingle with the soft clip of the scissors, the gentle hum of the clippers. In this small town there are six barbers open for business on any given day. They start early, some around 6 a.m., and some work late, up to 9 p.m.

Inside the first shop I visited for the day, the one barber was suspicious. "What are you doing this survey for?" he wanted to know.

"It's not a survey!" the other barber shouted at him. "She's doing a story! A STORY! For the PAPER!"

The other barber eyed me with an air of disgust and turned back to his work. When I left, after speaking to his 70-something-year-old business partner, I couldn't help but laugh.

If the distrust in the one barber wasn't enough, the comment by the first barber that: "The Beatles practically put barbers out of business." sent me over the edge in a fit of giggles.

The next day I was giggling again, this time as an old-time barber expressed disgust at a fellow barber who used modern cutting equipment.

"You have to be careful, being so close to the brain and all," he told me.

Later he added his brain had taken it's own trauma a few years back when a car ran over him while he was on his motorcyle.

"When somethin' happens to your brain, it's just not the same from then on," he said.

Oddly enough, I understood what he meant.

Hosted by Cecily and Sue

The Ying to my Yang

It's the new Black Eyed Peas song and I want to dance. I turn up the radio and groove from side to side. It's dark out. Who is going to see me? No one but my 3-year old who seems horrified in the back seat.

"Mama! Nooo! he cries. "Stop!"

He's so embarrassed. I'm not allowed to dance, sing, or be silly with this kid. He's definitely his father's child. I'm left wondering if we ever have another child if she or he will be more like me -- more willing to cut loose and have fun, even if you look stupid doing it.

It isn't that Hubby is boring. He's just . . . reserved, serious about some things, and shy uptight shy. He doesn't like going out just to go out. He enjoys spending weekends on the couch reading a book. He doesn't enjoy too much "tom-foolery."

To be honest, I can very much imagine him using this phrase without batting an eye.

With him, bath time is at this time and bedtime is at this time and there is very little room for negotiating. If the toddler tries to derail the bath time train with a good, old fashioned naked romp around the house, involving giggling and kicking of heels, the air grows tense with Hubby's displeasure.

"No. It is bath time. Bath time, Jonathan. Bath.Tiiime. Now."

Hubby doesn't yell. He isn't mean. He speaks firmly and matter of fact. Also, Hubby doesn't give the child his bath. Don't misunderstand. Oh no, that's mommy's job. Always has been, always will. As is bed time.

Hubby does his part, though, being all serious and scolding so that the child "allows" mommy give him his bath and put him to bed.

I'm not saying Hubby's way  is wrong. He simply looks at things differently than his lazy, slob of a wife, who floats through life like she's riding on a cloud, rather than holding a death grip on reality.

Hubby and I are ying and yang, but we balance each other out beautifully -- most of the time. In some ways, I'm more uptight. OK. Fine. In a lot of ways I'm more uptight. I'm uptight about illness and wondering if our child is OK and if I should take him to the doctor and . . . blah, blah, blah. Hubby is uptight about time frames, like "He needs to brush his teeth RIGHT NOW," or "He needs to listen to me RIGHT NOW." or "I need a Pepsi RIGHT NOW."

But in other ways, Hubby is very calm and assuring. He often has to talk me off one of my imagined ledges, slap me a few times back to reality, and shake the paranoia from my brain. I'm amazed, at times, he hasn't run screaming into the woods away from my spontanity, my panic attacks and "emotional uptightness."

Where Hubby is uptight, to me, is in everyday little things. Like when he comes home from work, it takes him forever to finally take his shoes off and just relax. Then there is how he never farts in front of anyone. I should be grateful for this, but seriously, I sometimes wonder if maybe he is actually a robot and not human. It makes it that much more embarrassing for me because I'm not quiet and demure when it comes to flatulance.

Hubby and I drove four hours one time, before we were married, and he didn't fart once. In fact, he later told me that when he got inside the front doors of the office where he was going to interview for an editor job, he let all the gas out. He wasn't about to fart in front of me, he said. To this day I think he's only farted once in front of me and he was sick at the time. Curse him and his tight little sphincter muscles.

Since Jonathan was born I have no sphincter muscles to speak of. Whatever is there to be released is released and in noisy fashion.

I like noise. Not that noise, but I mean, other noise. Hubby likes quiet. I like my music loud. Hubby likes his music soft. There is some music which is meant to be played loud. TobyMac needs to be played LOUD.

TobyMac - (11) - Burn For You

Nine Inch Nails -- LOUD. Superchick -- LOUD.

Don't lean over in the car and turn those artists down. Don't turn the base down. They need to be played loud. The base needs to be pounding. That's just the way it is. I can't listen to hardrock or rap with Hubby. He continually turns the music down or flips it off and puts in a Jazz or Country CD. Jazz is great. Country music is great. But I'm not always in the mood for it.

Sometimes I want something that rocks and when I put it in the CD player I want it LOUD.

I like his softer side, though and hopefully he likes my LOUD side sometimes. I suppose that old saying is right, "Opposites attract."

*If you push play on that MP3 up there, please, do me a favor, and play it LOUD!

Feeling "unprofound"

Lately I've been reading a lot of profound writing, good writing, writing that makes you want to be a better writer. Only it doesn't seem to be helping me become a better writer. Instead, I seem to be floundering in a sea of mediocrity, slipping further and further from a firm shore of successful prose.

I feel "unprofound." I lack profoundness. I am void of anything profound.

I've always been a writer -- even if it was to write "Brian O. is sooo cute!" in my small, brown diary with a lock on it. One would think that over time I would have gotten better. Instead, lately, I feel stagnant, stuck in a rut.

Being sick hasn't helped the situation at all. My energy has been absolutely drained -- emotional energy, physical and mental. Gone. All of it. I am left with slush and ooze and a strong desire to simply lay in bed and cry. Only crying would require energy and I don't have any, so I would probably lay in bed and just stare. Or just lay in bed. Like a slug. I'd like to be a slug right now. That seems like a good profession. Being sluggish is my area of expertise right now.

I'm hoping I can pull myself out of this funk soon and actually settle on something interesting to write about. Life is pretty slow right now, with all of the family being sick. There are things I'd like to write about, but hesitate to because I'm already in enough trouble with some of my family after a grumpy weekend of grunting and glaring.

I'm counting on all of you to write for me. Be profound, or don't be, but just write. And I'll read. Hopefully I can find enough mental power to also comment and say more than, "Wow."

Somedays are for being cranky

I'm cranky today. More than that, I'm still sick and pissed about it. This cough won't go away. It holds on and refuses to let go and that makes me mad. I'm missing out on quality time with my 3-year old because all I can do is sit, stare and scowl.

I'm missing out on time with my husband because everything he does drives me nuts and I don't know why.

I want to feel better. I want this junk in my chest to clear out.

I'm grateful my son clung to me most of the day and is feeling better, but I want to feel better too. I know, I sound like a toddler throwing a tantrum and I feel like one too. I want to throw myself on the floor, kick and scream and yell: "It's not fair! I want to feel better!"

I feel like I'm getting a panic attack from it all and that would be piss me off even more.

The only thing making me smile today? The fact my toddler no longer believes it is necessary to wear clothes. He pulls off his diaper, underwear, jeans, shirt and roams the house naked. Today he agreed to wear underwear, but not to sit on the potty. It was a fight to get him to do that and he ended up peeing all over the floor. No, he's not yet fully potty trained -- if you hadn't guessed.

After the drama of the potty he has since remained naked. I'm sure before long he'll be chanting what he was last night, "naked butt! naked butt!" while slapping his naked bottom and giggling.

*Updated: Removed the photo of Jonathan's bum. Did not think it was appropriate for my blog. Plus, when he gets older and sees that, he's going to flip out on me.

"I love you too."

You and I were both feeling feverish and achy. We popped in Wall-E, which Daddy and I had bought for your birthday.

We curled up under a blanket on the chair and Daddy went upstairs to update his status on Facebook and check his e-mail. You leaned your head against me.

"I sick," you said.

"I know. So am I," I said.

After battling a cough, fever and chills all weekend I was feeling like a truck had run over me a few times.

"Better," you said.

"You feel better?" I asked.

"No!" you said.

"You want to feel better?" I asked.

"Uh-huh," you said softly.

I kissed the top of your head.

"I love you Jonathan."

"I love you too," you said, your tone of voice similar to daddy's when he says the same words as if to say "Well, duh. Of course I love you."

My heart melted.

You'd never said those words back to me before, without being prompted.

Suddenly having the flu wasn't so bad after all.

Hosted by Cecily and JENNIFER

I have a post up about my new camera at Views Beyond the Lens.