Off to Grandmother's House We Go

Mary Margaret is a Ph.D. student at the USC, Keck School of Medicine, located in downtown Los Angeles. For four years she's done due diligence as a teaching assistant and research assistant in brain cancer, writing her dissertation and preparing to receive her degree.

For the past year her boss has been increasingly moody and distant and dissatisfied, so much so that he did not prepare her properly for the screening exam. Mary Margaret failed. It would be a year before she could take it again. All he had to say was that he was sorry. And, he said this to the department head, not to Mary Margaret. She heard it through the grapevine.

He ignored her questions, disregarded her experiments and subsequent analysis. When he did acknowledge her or her work it was unpleasantly critical.

"I'm stuck. This is so unfair," she wailed to friends. "I've always wanted to do brain cancer research, but there's no one else in my department available to take me on. He was a great boss when we started. I don't know why he changed and now I'm at the mercy of this yahoo."

"Let's get married," her boyfriend said. "I won't have any free time for five years once I start my residency. Please marry me the week I graduate medical school."

"I will. I love you," Mary Margaret said. The ring of her dreams was designed, the date set, a stunning gown selected, the hard work and intricacies of putting on a traditional Catholic wedding unfolded. There were a few arguments with parents but everything fell into place.

Her boss rarely came to the lab now. Rumor had it he was having family problems. Mary Margaret emailed him that she wished to put her work on hold for the month of the wedding and honeymoon. She sent him a wedding invitation. He did not respond. 

The wedding was beautiful, the honeymoon delightful, and then the happy couple packed up and moved to a city half way across the country. Her husband started his residency.

Mary Margaret readied to finish her degree. She emailed her boss. "You went AWOL," he emailed back. "No degree." Her university account was discontinued. She set up a personal gmail account. "I've done all the work. I deserve my degree," she pleaded via the new account. "I was getting married. You knew that."

"I don't care," he emailed back using his personal yahoo account. "You were %^*&^." (we won't give his words dignity in print)

She contacted the department head and her other professors, she offered to return to meet with him. They agreed, he was behaving in an unprofessional manner. Under pressure, he relented. She could receive a Master's Degree, the PH.D. was history. Mary Margaret would receive this reduced degree only after an in-person transfer of papers and his final approval at a later date at his discretion. 

Exhausted and distressed, Mary Margaret and her husband drove 4 hours one holiday weekend to visit her grandmother. They looked at old family photos, ate Campbell's tomato soup with saltine crackers. Grandma listened intently to Mary Margaret's troubles.

Let's read "'Gulliver's Travels Part IV: A voyage to the county of the Houyhnhns, Chapter VII'," she said. "He meets all kinds of yahoos. Did you know the definition of the word 'yahoo' is rude, unsophisticated, and uncouth?" 

Mary Margaret's grandmother read to them until it was bedtime. "I just stumble along as best I can. You'll understand better when you get to be a poor old thing like me," her grandmother said just before they went to sleep. "That's a quote I read some where. Live and learn, tomorrow's another day, do the best you can...it's that sort of thing. Good night. I love you." 

And that's the truth. To some extent.

Imperfection

Thanksgiving is Beth Holly's birthday this year. She's turning -it's-no one-business...how old. The Botox and Juviderm, good hair, dash of make-up, yoga practice and vegeterian diet have taken off at least 10 years. Her life is happy. She's fashionably dressed, well-married, devoted mother, traditional and gracious in manner, educated, and socially involved.

Just home from yoga class last Saturday, she stretched out on the navy/green/beige Egyptian living room rug and balanced a cup of hot tea on her stomach. She'd done it a hundred times before. The tea cooled a bit while she thought out the rest of her day's schedule. Then the dog barked. The cup of tea slid down her side and spilled onto the carpet.

The dog barked again.

"Please don't bark, "she pleaded. "You spilled my tea." She stared at the tea stain on the beige areas of the rug. A dishtowel would soak it up. She grabbed a couple from the kitchen drawer and got down on her hands and knees pressing her hands atop the towel, feeling the liquid.

Then she saw it. Her white yoga tank top had tea on it. She rushed to the bathroom and pulled it off. It had to soak in cold water with liquid glycerin soap. It will be fine, she thought. Just give it time. "My tank top is stained," she shouted to her husband.

"What's going on? I'm busy," her husband answered. His Baritone voice resonated from the living room.

"I spilled my tea," she confessed, shivering in her sports bra as she came back in the living room. "It slid off my stomach."

"I can see the stain, " he said. "You didn't get it all up. Get another towel."

"I need a shower after yoga. My face will break out, if I don't," Beth Holly said. "And my hair is a mess. I'm getting really tense." She stood there, riveted to the spot. "Maybe the stain won't come out," she said. "I've messed up the rug."

"I'll take care of it," her husband said, shoving her aside. "Why did you spill it?"

"It was an accident. The dog barked." Beth Holly was shaken to the core."Maybe the rug was like that when we bought it. And, we just never noticed. Do you think anyone else will see it?"

"Just go take your shower," he said." You'll be a mess otherwise. Do you want people to see you that way? Where is your pride?"

She hurried to the bathroom, locked the bathroom door, and began to cry. How could this happen to her? A stupid stain on the rug. In the shower, she recalled a song her mother sang. "I'm going to wash that man right out of my hair," Beth Holly sang, "I'm going to wash that stain right out of my rug...I'm going to..." she cried harder. She scrubbed her head, soaped and rinsed her entire body twice, using the hand held sprayer to rinse everything especially well.

As she stepped into her robe, she looked in the foggy mirror. She'd even forgotten to turn on the fan. Better that I don't see myself, she thought. It's best that I stay home today. I can't let anyone see me like this. Beth Holly removed her wedding ring before she put the styling gel in her hair and scrunched it up for curl control. Wiping her hands, she looked at the ring on the counter, then put it in her makeup case.

Beth Holly's body literally shook, inside and out. She sorted through her books on the bedside table. O Magazine caught her eye. Settling in the pale pink chaise near the window in the bedroom, she scanned the ads then began to read the first article, "'Ten Tips to be Happiness' Number 1. Don't let the little things get to you. 2. Know what's important." She could not read any further.

I can make a good cup of tea, boil an egg, and give a good back rub, she thought. Tomorrow's another day. It's just another birthday.

And that's true. To some extent.

Changing Blog Address

To see my blog, go to The Truth to Some Extent

I've Been Tagged by Suzanne Lieurance, The Working Writer's Coach

Here are 7 facts about me. If you list 7 about yourself and send it on, and back to me, we'll get to know more about each other. You can read more about Suzanne Lieurance at The Working Writer's Coach

SEVEN RANDOM FACTS ABOUT ME: 

1. I studied acting with Lee Strasberg and met my husband in an acting class in New York City.

2. I've lived in Ohio, Wisconsin, Alabama, New York City, Los Angeles, and Texas. All in USA

3. My first job, after babysitting, was at the Georgetown Daily Gazette while I was still in high school. I also edited, illustrated and produced our high school year book.

4. I write at the back of my house with a lovely view of the garden, if the shrubs are kept trimmed (they are not now).  So, I'm working on the patio today.

5. I love Upcountry Maui and I'm lucky enough to have family there. I wish I could plan my life to visit on a regular basis. The beaches are nice, too. 

6. My favorite books are Lost Horizon by James Hilton, Portrait of Jenny by Robert Nathan, Russian novels in general, Oblomov by Ivan Goncharov in particular. And a story, The Necklace, by Guy de Maupassant. 

7. I have 5 half siblings, one that I love dearly, the others I don't have any contact with. I have 4 cousins who are as close and dear to me as siblings. 

I AM TAGGING:

Diary of a Heretic

All for Blue

Chapin-Pinotti Learning Center

A WESTERN HISTORICAL HAPPENING

Poppens Thoughts on Writing and Stuff

The Real Cat Woman

The Pink Prom Dress

Micheline and Oscar have been living together in downtown L.A. since before it was fashionable. Their home is two large cardboard refrigerator boxes on skid row. A man and his dog sleep to their left. A old woman in purple flannel pajamas talks nonstop on their right. 

Oscar's a big husky man given to wearing long flowing gowns. He was wounded, his left leg, in the war (although he has never said what war) and he suffers from endless phantom pain. The only time it doesn't hurt is when  he sees himself in a beautiful gown in a shop window.

"Let's go window shopping," Micheline says when his pain becomes unbearable. "We'll look at your dress. Wouldn't you love that?"

"Oh yes," he says. Oscar pulls himself up from the sidewalk, leans against the wall and takes her arm. "Watch the curb," he says as they cross the street. "I don't want you to get hurt." He offers a smile and hello to all who pass, holding his head high, even as he winces in pain. With his free hand he lifts his gown a few inches from the street so as not to step on the hem.

At a shop window, they gaze intently. "This window is cracked," Micheline says. At the second shop, she shakes her head. "This window is distorted." 

"I think it makes me look good," Oscar says. "Just not quite right. My leg really hurts."

"You can lean on me while we walk," Micheline says. "If we don't like what we see today, we will tomorrow." She puts his arm around her shoulders.

"Oh, look over there," Oscar says, catching sight of a store window. "Perfect." 

In the reflection of the dusty shop window Oscar sees himself, strong, fit, and as beautiful as any woman he'd ever known. Micheline runs her fingers across his back until she's hugging him close. "We're a very lucky couple," she says.

"Yes we are," Oscar says. His pain has disappeared. They begin to waltz down the street, in a world all their own, gliding up-down, one-two-three. Then Oscar stops. He watches a young prosperous couple holding hands. He strides up to them. Micheline lags behind. 

"Hey buddy. Micheline's suit is at the cleaners and I left my money at home. Give me $10. We are late for the party already and no bubbly for our friends."

The man and woman stare at Oscar whose flitting left and right in his  pink chiffon prom dress that is a size too large.  

Micheline steps forward and speaks up for her friend. "He really wants to go. I want to go with him. And as you can see I'm not dressed for it. You may not know this, but he hurt his leg real bad in the war. He used to be a nurse at the Country Club hospital just up the street."

The man looks up the street. There's an apartment building. Country Club Hospital?  "That's the best story I've heard all day. You got it," he says, smiling, then pulls  a $20 bill from his pocket. "Have fun. You deserve it." 

"Thank you," Micheline says. "You're very understanding." She pulls a black comb from inside her thick matted hair and waves it at them. "I styled his hair. Doesn't it look fabulous?"

 

And that's true. To some extent.  

Zoom zoom

Stephanie is 27. She's a marketing executive for a major corporation. She's unmarried.  She's worried. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Her mother and father probe. Lovingly. Relentlessly.  She hears it in conversations with her married friends, too. It's a good-natured pressurized echo. What are you waiting on? Hurry up. Find someone. Why are you so picky, Stephanie? 

Stephanie knows it isn't about being picky. It's just that there is always something that just isn't right. Somehow when she starts seeing a man, there's something, some piece that doesn't work. It's been that way since high school.  

Wearing purple lace thong panties and a matching bra, Stephanie riffles through her closet. She's on the phone with a girlfriend.  "I don't know what to wear. I'm meeting Robert. I can't wear the same thing as last time."

"You're wearing your jeans, right?" the girlfriend asks. "The ones that look really good on you not the others." 

Stephanie twists around to check out her butt and thighs in the mirror. She stands on tip-toe. It doesn't help. Her legs are short. A tiny bit of cellulite marks the line where the elastic band on panties used to be. She rearranges her thong but there isn't enough to mask anything. 

"Yes. I have to hurry. I'll text you in a minute. End." Stephanie touches the cellulite and starts to cry. Still holding the Blackberry, she pulls out a pair of jeans, dark but not with a lot of stitching and tosses them on the bed. Then, she pulls out a cream colored cotton camisole, tosses it on the bed. Then a cream deep v-neck cashmere pullover.  

She texts: Wht d I wr w the jns & crem cami? Cash plvr V?  

The reply: Y  wht shoes?

She texts: boots

The reply: wch bts?

She texts: sde

The reply: rain?

She texts: no

The reply: G8t. hv fun. Call m ltr.

Stephanie checks herself in the mirror, this time from the front. Looks much better. Sideways. Good. Other side. Good. She wiggles into the dark jeans with very little stitching, sucks in her stomach and zips. The camisole slides over her head without so much as touching her hair or face. Then the pullover, same way.

A quick check in the mirror. Yes. She fixes her make-up. Her eyes are pink, but no one will know she was crying.

Then Stephanie pulls a pair of yellow striped cotton socks with green ivy on the scalloped rim from her dresser drawer, and puts them on. They are soft. She smiles and wiggles her toes. Next she shoves her foot, then jeans into one black suede knee-high four-inch heel boot and then the other.  

She stands in front of the mirror again. Each side. Good. Front. Good. She pauses and sighs. No more tears. Slowly, she twists her upper body to look at her butt. 

She texts: Im tkg coat.

The reply: ?

She texts: Bg Bt

The reply: K

Stephanie rearranges the sheer cream color deep v-neck sweater around her hips. She grabs a three-button black coat from the closet. She slings her extra large black leather bag with the buckles over her shoulder, and looks back at the mirror one more time as she leaves the room. The boots are perfect.

She hits send to call her parents. By the time she gets to the car, she'll be in a dead zone.

And that's true, to some extent.

You, and you, and you were there

Ana Maria Carmen and Ruben Sanchez sit at a very large elaborate banquet table. Maria sits to the right of God and Ruben sits to her right. They are nibbling on tiny green peppers as they talk. Ruben has a Dos Equis and Maria has a Margarita. God sips champagne.

"My mother said I could not get married until I was five feet tall, so I stood very straight and always wore two-inch heels," Maria said as she shrugged one shoulder. "I married my Ruben in a  white muslin dress with a flowing white Mantilla as soon as I was 18. You blessed us with a good life together."

"I was the luckiest man alive for 42 years," Ruben said. "Maria was my beautiful lady."

"Oh no," Maria said, stifling a giggle, "Our daughter, Giselle, is so much prettier than I ever was. She was always your favorite."

"You were a wonderful mother," Ruben said.

"Sometimes I think I loved shoes almost as much as I loved my children," Maria said. The giggle bubbles out. "I taught Elizabeth too well. She spends too much for shoes, and so many.  I worry."

"Our sons are good men, good husbands, and good fathers," Ruben said. "You don't have to worry about them."

"They yell at their children so much," Maria said. "And they work such long hours. I wish we could have done better for them."

"You had a lot to overcome," God said. "You had no education, no health insurance, you lived in a dangerous neighborhood.  Sadly, prejudice continues, even now." 

"I worked three jobs until all the kids were in school," Ruben said. "We lived with Maria's aunt in her big old house for so long she left it to us."

"Do you remember her antimacassars? She was so proud of them," Maria said. "It was so funny. Ruben went around saying something smelled bad." Maria covers her mouth with her fingers as she laughs. "I'm sorry. We're eating. I was embarrassed to admit I knew what they were."

"That smell stuck like smoke. I worked on getting rid of it for years," Ruben said. "Made the house into a nice inheritance for the children. Worth a lot more now than it was then." Ruben's belly jiggles over his big belt buckle as he laughs and pulls at his moustache.  

"This is just like Father Texerios said it would be," Maria said. "The food is delicious, family and friends are here, everything is perfect."

"Thank you," God said. "I appreciate your gratitude. I do so love providing this big party, lots of good food and wine. It's too bad those very things are what send so many here before I expect them."

And that's true. To some extent.