That to Which I Perspire

The temperatures have been rising into the 90s this week in Vermont. Here in the Northeast, where no one seems to appreciate central air conditioning, the heat tends to creep into the house like a fog that doesn’t lift for days on end. I have never been one for summertime, with the breath-sucking humidity, the shocking brightness and the unbearable scorch of the sun. I dread the scourge of biting insects and colorful outdoor event invitations that accompanies the first May heat wave. “Come languish in my backyard for the better part of the afternoon!” “Join us for a dip in our wonderful new (urine-filled cess)pool, with singed meat and boisterous conversation to follow!”

I am the Scrooge of summer.

As a child, I would play outside all day long, despite suffering from “heat migraines” on particularly sweltering days. Occasionally I would come inside, dirt on my bare feet and calves like a henna tattoo, for glasses of ice water to cool off, but most days my mother had to call and call for me to come in at dusk. My grandmother’s house had no air conditioning, and I spent countless hours with my face pressed against the metal grill of the electric fan, or twirling a wet washcloth in the air and then pressing it to my eyes and forehead. There, the preferred activity of my cousins and me was to “play in the hose pipe.” We started off filling a baby pool with water, which was sufficient enough for a half an hour of splashing around, until the Southern sun would begin to poach us like so many dressed hens. A fresh stream of cool water was soon necessary, so we would turn the hose back on and lay back and let the warm water overflow the sides all around us until the pool felt fresh again. Then, after another half hour, when we grew tired of simmering in a cartoon-covered pool now filled with dirt and grass clippings like a broth of cooking herbs, we turned the hose on full-time. We covered the nozzle with our thumbs and power-sprayed each other in the face. We would arc the water into the sky to make rainbows, put the hose down our bathing suits, lean over and let water flow into our mouths and fall out again, spray down the windows and all the cars, the dog…until the entire backyard was flooded with wasted water and mud. Then, in the tamed heat of the late afternoon, we would bike and scooter and dig in the dirt until our bathing suits were dry.

As an adult, I find no such novel remedy when the temperature rises. Now, like then, I am cursed in the heat with a very, very red face. Extremely red, like my cheeks might break out into blisters at any moment. I cannot escape this, and no cool cloth or iced drink will remedy it. At the slightest bit of physical exertion in summer weather, I begin to feel my heartbeat in my face, like mercury surging through a thermometer, my head the red, bulbous tip about to burst for lack of an outlet. I become physically drained, sometimes nauseated, and have the constant sensation of someone breathing on me, hot, hot breath all around me. My one objective these days is to lessen the time I spend between my air conditioned car and my air conditioned bedroom. In the afternoon, after walking the dogs in the direct sun, I want only to retreat upstairs, toss my damp clothing into a pile, and sprawl out underneath the ceiling fan. Luckily, in Vermont, snow flurries are always right around the bend!

But Scrooge is meant, at the end of the story, to find some level of appreciation for that which he has come to detest in his jaded old age. And since I am the Scrooge of summer, it was only a matter of time before I had my own Tiny Tim moment. Last night, because we felt like cockroaches being bombed out of our own mega-hot home, we decided to dine out on the back deck, which is shaded by the shadow of the house in the evening time. The temps were still in the mid-80s as I stood over a hot grill to prepare two very delicious small pizzas (tomato/garlic/basil/asiago and pesto/sundried tomato). My feet were swimming in my Crocs. My face was a glistening crimson, of course. Sweat was permeating every inch of my clothing and cascading down over my temples like a Mad TV skit. But at some point, the eastern sky turned a brilliant golden color. I looked out over my yard—weeds are taking over everywhere—and felt the most gentle breeze. I questioned whether it was a breeze at all, certainly not something to move the hair matted to my forehead, but it was definitely not “hot, hot breath.” As beads of sweat rolled downwards from my fiery face, I was filled with a sense of myself and my body. I felt a tickle on the nape of my neck and in the small of my back. Perhaps in a heat-driven delusion, the ghosts of my past, present and future rushed over me. I appreciated where I had been and where I am headed. Two days before, this yard had been graced with its own plastic pool, and my friends’ toddlers laughed with delight as they dipped toes and faces into the water. I envisioned my own children someday muddying the yard and spraying down our unsuspecting pugs.

Matea and the dogs appeared at the sunroom window, and a feeling of satisfaction and contentment for the present moment came over me like a gulf stream of fresh water from the hose. We slid the cooler, still filled with ice from the weekend barbecue, between two opposing camping chairs and ate the grilled pizzas and watermelon as the sun set. I didn’t smack one mosquito, and never once sighed with exhaustion. I knew, when the winter comes, I will long for the intimacy of sweat evaporating into the summer night.

VH-1 Behind the Music: Learning to Sing Joni

May for us was a month of focusing on one thing and forgetting everything else. Since we closed on the house April 30th and began renovating May 1st, everything from birthdays to anniversaries to dear friendships has gone virtually uncelebrated or unattended. We were literally more involved with choosing a toilet lever than we were in acknowledging our 14-year anniversary on May 30th. And, obviously, I have seriously neglected my poor blog, having spent too much time in work boots and not enough going barefoot. So, in a month when I slipped one year closer to “old age,” and my relationship progressed further into its teenage years, why not a retrospective on a time when “we” were teens and “WE” was in its infancy. Even if this “happy anniversary” to Matea is off schedule, at least it’s under budget!

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At some point in the late 80s/early 90s, my Dad decided to convert our family to a country music household. I resisted as much as I could at the time, holding firm to my beloved Debbie Gibson, Wilson Phillips, Whitesnake, et al; but after a couple of months of car trips featuring The Judds, Reba, and Travis Tritt, the twangy, story-telling tunes somehow managed to endear themselves to me. So by the time Matea and her family had made their way south from West Virginia, the year before we met, I was pretty much as honkey-tonk as they come. She says one of her earliest memories of me (other than my being generally obnoxious) was my singing Garth Brooks’s “Calling Baton Rouge” in the hallway of our junior high school. My earliest memory is having French class with her. My French name was Gabriella, and I think hers was Elise...Estelle...Monique? I can’t remember. But anyway, we were assigned to do a skit together on the topic of getting ready for bed. So we showed up that day decked out in pajamas and got up in front of the class to recite phrases like “je me brosse les dents, je prends une douche, je dorm,” etc. This initial collaboration somehow parlayed itself into a second later in the year. We were dismissed early from same French class to an end-of-year auction for participants in a program called Accelerated Reader. We had accumulated “dollars” over the school year by reading books and taking tests on the computer. Although I don’t remember our being the closest of companions at this point, we ended up pooling our resources in order to augment our bidding power. Who knew that would be our first foray into acquiring communal property? At the end of the day, I think we left with a Zip-Loc bag full of candy and a Santa Clause toilet seat cover which I gave to my grandmother. I was 13 then.

Nearly a year later, we had become slightly better acquainted. The passing of my grandfather in late November of 1994, however, had a profound effect on my life. It shocked me to realize that even family was not permanent. Matea was the first person I told about it at school, in English class. I wrote my first poems that December, and the period of angst and grunge had officially begun. Matea’s compassion during a tough time had galvanized our friendship, though, and I started walking to her house after school. My mom would pick me up around 5 each day, so for a good hour or two, we had time to eat frozen pizzas from the microwave, watch trash tv, annoy her sisters, etc. But mostly we listened to music. She had one Trisha Yearwood cd and one Garth Brooks greatest hits, but otherwise her collection was like a whole new world of unfamiliar musical territory. I had never been exposed to Little Feat, Steely Dan, Amy Grant (ha ha), Cat Stevens, John Prine, and especially not her favorite, Joni Mitchell. By this time, as necessitated by my new grungy modus operandi, I had begun listening to top 40 and alternative radio. Most of the classic rock was a familiar enough approximation to or amalgamation of the hair bands/pop country/alternative rock of my past and present. But Joni Mitchell, with her high-pitched singer-songwriter style, was enough to pierce my eardrums and send me running from the room. But as a much more mature 15-year-old, I learned to bear it somehow and began to break myself in on the folksy soprano, starting with “Big Yellow Taxi.” I sat in the floor of Matea’s bedroom listening to the track over and over until I got the words down. Sing-alongs were important. We routinely sat in front of the boom box for hours, belting out everything from Bonnie Rait to The Offspring. Over the next year or two, both Joni and Matea, had found a place in my soul. I had nailed the high-octave “Pleeeeease” at the end of “Big Yellow Taxi” and mastered most of the songs on both Ladies of the Canyon and Blue.

Fast forward: before we knew it, we were graduating from high school a year early and heading off to Clemson, then graduating and moving to Vermont, and now settling into our first house. Even after 15 years, it seems like we’re just getting started. We were lucky to have had so many years of practice, collaborating, pooling resources, helping each other through hardships. I have learned to have true compassion, conviction, and trust. But most importantly, no matter what we’ve gone through together since she first played “Big Yellow Taxi” for me, I’ve always remembered to savor the high notes.

“Oh, you’re in my blood like holy wine. You taste so bitter, and so sweet. Oh, I could drink a case of you, darling, and I would still be on my feet. Oh I would still be on my feet.”

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!

A Note From the Eternal Applicant

In case you haven’t heard yet, we are closing on the Pleasant Acres house on April 30th! (If you have any empty boxes, send ‘em my way!) During this process, I’ve realized how much of my life has involved striving for acceptance. Even my rebellious teenage antics worked to grant me general acceptance among many high school peer groups, although I’d say I never achieved a “full membership” in any of them. I studied for 11 years in order to be accepted to college (and no one’s even heard of Clemson up here!!). Matea and I left the South in search of acceptance and inclusion, put our best selves forward in interviews in order to impress potential employers. And here we find ourselves again, relieved at having won the approval of our lender, keeping our fingers crossed also that the inspector approves of our home’s imperfections tonight. There’s a lot of impressing to manage! I honestly don’t know how people of faith can do it, to have that omnipresent judgment and ire “hanging over them,” as it were. Not that I wouldn’t “pass” in that regard, too, I suppose, but good grief.

Well, hope you weren’t expecting too much from this blog entry. Wasn’t in the mood to impress. If disappointed, unsubscribe now. ;)

Pleasant Acres

So we’ve begun the stomach-churning process of looking for a house. You have no idea how many spreadsheets we’ve made and pored over in the past two weeks. It looks like, if everything works out, we may end up making an offer on the first and only home we’ve actually taken a look at (pictured above). We’re going today to see some undoubtedly-inferior dwellings, just to be certain our liking of this house was really love at first sight and not just a one-night stand. The minute I envisioned myself getting tea from the fridge at midnight in my underwear, I knew it would be hard for another place to win me over. I know, the name makes it sound like we’d be moving into a retirement community, but from what we can tell, there are actually a good number of young families there. So, wish us luck that on our second date (we’re seeing the house again tonight) we don’t start noticing a bunch of wrinkles and belches.

A Snarky Remarky

Vermont’s governor, Jim Douglas, has recently proposed making the state’s motor vehicle inspection a bi-yearly, rather than yearly, requirement. Coming from a state that long since did away with such requirements, I think this is one good step toward eliminating a purely-unnecessary, revenue-generating, quasi-bureaucratic, corrupt racket that is sanctioned by this state. Here’s the story of my first VT state motor vehicle inspection.

In 2003, Matea and I were more than happy to get all of our official Vermont documentation, including driver’s license, registrations, tags, and anything else that meant we were bona fide residents of the state. After acquiring a boastfully thick folder of documentation, we had left only to inspect the two cars. Now, limping Matea’s Taurus named “Turtle” from SC to VT was a story of its own—I drove it from PA to VT with the brake lights stuck in the on position— but Matea had been able, quite amazingly, to make this repair by herself in our driveway. So we were certain that these two competent, well-traveled sedans would gain the good favor of any inspector who took a good look at their unmentionables. So, I picked the first authorized inspector in the book: A. Brown Automotive. Several hours after dropping the car off, Mr. Brown called me back to say that, prior to passing inspection, I would need several hundred dollars more in diagnostics to reveal the reason for my check engine light’s being illuminated. I politely informed him that I had memorized the entire inspection manual before bringing my car to him and that, according to section so-and-so, vehicles manufactured before 1996 are not subject to the engine light diagnostic rule. After a slight pause, this monumental a-hole A. Brown snarkily responded, “well, maybe you should become an inspector, then.” The nerve! I calmly asked him to cease and desist in working on my car and told him that I would be there promptly to pick it up. Now, in this state, even when the car “fails” inspection, you still have to pay for the time the highly-qualified master mechanics spent checking it out. Fair enough. But Mr. Brown’s snotty satisfaction with this fact soon turned to glowering disgust when I slapped down my $10 off phone book coupon to bring the total for my troubles down to a mere $5. Take that, A. Wipe!

My second attempt was with a chain I knew, Meineke Car Care (because I trust their spokesman George Foreman implicitly). I pre-paid my $19 and talked the engine light rule over with the lead mechanic. We were on the same page when I left the shop. Alas, several hours later I received the call of death. The clear plastic on the headlights was a little too cloudy for their liking. $600 for new plastic or we would fail again. Mind you, Matea and I came up here directly after college, with no jobs, living on nothing but love and fresh air. We didn’t have the money to go around to every shop in the state to find an honest inspector, let alone to pay for new glasses or exploratory surgeries for our auto-children!! So we left again with no yellow sticker.

I had become frustrated, exhausted, cheated, decapitated...wait... I realized that I was at the mercy of “state-authorized” inspectors whose true first objective was to make money on questionable repairs. Twenty-four dollars in the hole, I made a few more phone calls and found one last shop that had cheap hourly labor rates. I crossed my fingers that they would not be such money grubbing criminals as the last two proprietors I had visited. To my utter joy, after just 30 minutes in the waiting room, I was informed that my baby had finally received the gold star of acceptance. I had but one hurdle to cross before she could don the brilliant yellow number 8 like the rest of her peers. Her front license plate had been riding in the back seat for weeks, as there was no holder for it on my front bumper. In good ole SC, we didn’t have a front license plate required by the state; although, if you loved Jesus, college football, or bass fishing, there did seem to be some requisite plateage for that. But here in Vermont, they like to have every chance at catching the bad guys (I think there are actually 6 bad guys in this state), so we must attach the reflective green identifiers to both ends of our vehicles. So rather than forking over another $15 for them to attach it for me, I knelt down in the greasy gravel of the Burlington Muffler and Brake parking lot and drove two large screws through my pristinely virgin front bumper. This was surprisingly difficult, given the fact that I had no starter holes and I was using a “chubby” (i.e. 3-inch-long) screw driver. Some of you know how red my face can get when I’m very hot or aggravated, so by the time I got back to my feet, front license crookedly but acceptably installed, the combination of the two had brought my cheeks to a hue much like Tammy Faye’s Sunday morning lipstick. Nevertheless, my zippy ‘94-model 626 and I were finally all official-like and on our way home for some much-needed r&errr...vodka. (Tip: I now patronize Champlain Valley Auto on the corner of Williston Rd. and Industrial Ave., where they give quick and trustworthy fifteen-dollar inspections.)

So, in case this entry isn’t already long and boring enough, and in case you all need my perspective on a few more VT driving nuisances, here are a couple of others that come to mind. Is it a law that Vermont parking lots have only one or very few exits? I have been trapped in these asphalt labyrinths for minutes on end before finally finding my way out. For instance, there’s only one exit from Price Chopper on Shelburne Rd., one way out of Linen’s N Things and the Hannaford-Bed Bath and Beyond complex in Williston. If they’re going to make exiting retail outlets so difficult, they could at least be as courteous as the British and throw in a couple of signs that say “Way Out.” Also, why can’t the state trust me to turn left at an intersection with a light? I often find myself idling, alone at the intersection, in one of two situations. The left-hand turn arrow is red but the straight lanes of traffic on my side are green, with no traffic coming in either direction. Or, the lights in all four directions are red, seemingly forever, while the pedestrian walk light chirps cheerily, presumably for all the lost (and blind) ghost men of our childhood kickball games, since there’s no visible human within a mile radius of the crosswalk. If I can use my judgment in turning left along the rest of a 4-lane road, why not at a green light, too? I don’t need a little arrow to tell me the next fleet of on-coming Subarus is still 600 feet away!!

I hate to gripe (actually, you all know I love griping more than almost anything) but really...oh, and one more thing: who’s ever heard of a “jug handle”?

P.S.
This is a much longer story that I’m sure none of you wants to hear (much like the post above), but I thought I may as well issue a caveat emptor while I was on the subject of cars. I am much enamored with my Belle, a 2005 Malibu Maxx LT. I wouldn’t say I was overly-thrilled to be purchasing a Chevy as my first new car, but Belle is special, and everyone who rides in her comments on her mien and temperament. Anyway, to make a long story short, I had a still-unidentified problem with the transmission and neither Chevrolet nor the dealership that did all of my warranty work would stand by the car. After hours and hours and hours on the phone and in person, I (i.e my mechanically-knowledgeable father) got the dealership to cap my financial obligation at $400 (I should have paid nothing). So, my warning is that Chevrolet will not stand by its product. But in particular, Shearer Chevrolet on Shelburne Road has the worst, most incompetent service writers and mechanics that I have ever encountered (they once left a piece of pizza on my engine block during a simple oil change). I believe they outright lie, and I would not purchase a car there if you can help it. Ok, enough car talk.

Gay Tax We Paid This Year

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One thousand, eight hundred dollars.

Thanks, federal government!

Embarrassing Admission #49

When I was 11, my family built a house and moved from our kid-packed neighborhood out to the middle of the country. Before we began construction, we spent countless, intolerable hours (for a kid) “visiting the property.” I suppose my parents were surveying the 38 acres for a perfect building spot, etc., but my brother and I cared nothing for those details. We explored all the woods and streams there were to see and tried to keep ourselves occupied. We shot fire ant hills with our sling shots. One night—I don’t know where Charlie was—out of boredom, I thought it would be a good idea to play with the mace in my mother’s purse. Pretty soon…yes, you guessed it. It ended the only way it could have, with me accidentally spraying myself in the face. I have to give it to myself, though. I bore it in silence, and my mom didn’t find out until many years later.

I suffered other impunities while waiting around there at “the property,” but those shall be revealed in future entries.