Feta Face

Our home is filled with smells. Candles, baking cookies in the winter, maybe a nice dinner in the crock pot.
And the smell of my boys. Of course by boys I mean my redneck husband and our son. My son refuses to wear socks with his new "big boy" shoes. He picked them out himself, and has decided it's a fashion statement to either wear just one sock, or none.
I love the shoes. They're skater shoes with a skull and cross-bones on the toe. Very grown up. And so is the smell. Wearing no socks is not a good thing for a boy, apparently. We were driving in the car the other day when he kicked off his shoes. I seriously almost fainted. Jasen didn't even notice the smell, and I'm driving with my head out the window like the neighbor's dog.
I shouldn't have been shocked. He takes after his father. Not that my husband has stinky feet. In fact, he has the softest, best-smelling feet ever. It's just not fair that a man has such silky feet. But when he eats butter, it's a different story.
My husband could grown a full beard at age 14. I kid you not. I took him to my junior prom and people called him Grisly Adams. The man has hair on every inch of his body. Now he has a goatee.
Butter and goatees do not mix. When they do mix, it creates a smell just like that of feta cheese. I know this, because my husband gets what we call "feta face" after eating artichokes dipped in butter, buttered corn, basically anything that would allow butter to get on his hair.
We coined the term a few years ago when we were newly married. He'd never tried artichokes, and I love them. We had a great night, and snuggled in on the couch for some kissy-face. And then we smelled it. I was scared it was me, he was scared it was him. We ignored it for a few minutes, but just couldn't stand it. Both of us blurted out in unison "WTF is that SMELL?" He smelled my hair, I smelled his shirt. We smelled everything around the couch. We couldn't figure it out. Until we kissed again. It was his goatee. His friggin goatee smelled like feta cheese.
Today we have found no remedy for feta face. Dove, Pantene, rubbing alcohol. Nothing washes or strips the smell away. And it's only real butter that does it. If we use a spread, feta face doesn't show himself. So no butter will ever find itself on an artichoke, corn or any other food that could cover his hair. And if my redneck husband does decide to indulge in that wonderful buttery dip, my lips are off limits. Feta Face is not someone I'm big on making out with.

The Worst Pickup Line Ever: Did I Crap my Pants?

My husband is not the most romantic man in the world. Don't get me wrong...he buys me more diamonds than I can wear in a week. Before we got married, he'd bring home roses for no reason. He picks out wonderful cards. But I'm pretty sure rednecks aren't allowed to be but so romantic.
With that said, I remembered one of our first dates and couldn't help but laugh. He was taking me to dinner. Of course he was driving his obscenely large F350 teal dually. I'm thinking he must have eaten some sort of Mexican fare for lunch, or some other gassy cuisine, because he just couldn't hold it in.
Now that we've been married for six years, he thinks nothing of burning my nose hairs with his ass. But at the time, he tried to keep things smelling pleasant.
So we're driving down the road, and he says to me "I've got to pull over for a minute. I think I just crapped my pants." I reply "are you kidding me?"
Obviously not. He pulled the truck over, stuck his butt in the air, and asked me if his jeans had a spot.
Of course he didn't crap his pants. He's an adult, and adults don't crap their paints, right? Wrong.

Fast-forward about two years. We're newly married, and lying on the couch. I had my head in his lap, and smelled something funky. Being newly married, I didn't say anything, and in the back of my head worried if it was me.
The next night, I took my spot on the couch, my head again in his lap. And there it was. That smell. What the heck is that smell? Again, I went to bed and tried to not think about what it could be.
The next day I was sorting laundry, and came across the offender. His comfy flannel pants that he wore at night. Apparently, someone had crapped their pants several nights ago, and never realized it.
How can an adult NOT realize crapping their pants? To this day I seriously have no idea. What I do know is that I gingerly picked them up by the pant cuff and ran to the outside trash can. That night I started laughing uncontrollably when I explained the smell, my reaction, and my discovery.
And my redneck husband proceeded to ask me why I threw the pants away. "They were really comfortable," he said. Yea. Too comfortable, if you ask me.

Visions of Sugar Plums...and Dead Babies...in my Head

I've battled a fairly severe panic disorder for as long as I can remember. Pregnancy shoved my panic into overdrive.
Once Juni was born, my panic morphed. I didn't suffer from the never-ending attacks as much. But at night, rocking my new baby, my body aching from less sleep than anyone thought was humanly possible, my panic tortured me in a totally different way.
I began having visions of my baby, dead in my arms. I'm in the hospital, refusing to let him go. I know he's dead, but he's still warm. I can't let go. I can't stop crying. I can't stop talking to him. I can't stop stroking his skin. I can't let the nurses rip him from my protective arms.
Juni is three-and-a-half, and I still have the same vision, with me clutching his toddler-sized, limp body in my arms. It's the worst kind of panic attack. It's the kind no pharmaceutical company can develop a pill to cure. It's the kind of panic attack only a mother must suffer.

Burying Joe

We buried my husband's great uncle today. The same man who's home I searched for a will.
I met the man only once, but nonetheless cried. The graveside service was short and simple. No tears.
A french horn played Taps. Still no tears. The flag was folded, and my eyes remained dry. But then the officer began to present the flag to Joe's nephew, to whom he'd left everything. The nephew quickly directed them toward Jasen's grandfather, Joe's only living sibling, and presented the 85-year-old with the flag of his youngest brother.
A single tear slid from his eye, and I started to cry. He hadn't expected the flag, and I hadn't expected him to shed a tear. Buddy (Jasen's grandfather) stood after the service, bowed his head and placed his right hand on the casket. I don't know what he said, and it didn't matter. My throat was tight and the tears welled on the lower rims of my sunglasses.
He turned around, and said to his granddaughter that he was all alone; that he was the last of his siblings, and began to walk away from the grave site. He used the casket to steady himself on the uneven ground and clutched the folded flag to his chest. That was pretty much the end of my mascara.

I couldn't help but think of my maternal grandfather's funeral. He passed away almost 10 years ago, while I was a sophomore at Tech.
For as long as I can remember, grandad was dying. His first surgery cut out his prostate and bladder when my mom was pregnant. His chest looked like someone gutted him with a dull fillet knife and stitched him back together with shoe laces.
He fought that cancer for another 20 years. Even at age 80, they continued the surgeries, removing most of his stomach and intestines. Doctors placed him in a drug-induced coma because he became combative with the doctors and nurses. That lasted for almost two months when they began to slowly bring him to consciousness.
The day he died, he asked to see his wife, my Granny, who was flirting with the young doctors in the hallway. They helped him to a wheelchair, and pushed him next to her. He said he wanted a kiss, and she obliged. And then he closed his eyes and took his last breath.
I know it sounds like something out of a romance novel, but that's the story my mom told me, as told to her by my Granny. Completely true or not, it doesn't matter to me. What matters is the thought. That we all need one last kiss from our love before leaving.
At first I didn't want to make the trip to Arlington for his funeral. I'm glad I did.
I still don't think I understand the honor that comes with an Arlington funeral. His grave is within walking distance of the Pentagon, and I know he's loving that, the political buff he was. I still remember my Granny, frail and thin from his long stay in the Naval hospital. For the first time in my life, I realized I was taller than her. She looked so tiny, taking that flag from the officer.
I didn't cry until the horn played Taps, and they began the 21-gun salute. With each ear-piercing shot, his death became more real. The smoke cleared from the gun barrels, and it was over. He was gone.
I don't deal with death well. I don't understand it, I can't rationalize it, and my faith isn't strong enough to lean on. I'm hoping a better understanding and acceptance comes with age.
People who are left suddenly alone seem so small, no matter what their stature. They've been beaten and battered. They've had their spirit broken, and are left to redefine their lives.
I left the funeral today crying not just for Joe and Buddy, but for everyone in my life I've lost, and everyone in my life I could loose.

Juni-Isms

Maybe I puke tonight: He says this at least 12 times a day. He get's it from Jasen, who says this line after just about every dinner.

You be kidding me: He gets this one from me. I say "Are you kidding me?" at least 12 times a day either to him or Jasen. Jasen farts at least once during dinner every night and blames it on Juni... Are you kidding me? Juni paints the walls with blue Avon sunscreen... Are you kidding me? The calves get out and are staring at me... Are you kidding me? The paint I applied two days ago starts randomly coming off in huge latex-like sheets...are you freaking kidding me???

I want it already: pretty much this means he wants something now, and we're about to have a massive tantrum.

It looks like a dragon tail: his description of a gigantic poop.

I go wish you: I go with you

Is dat an idea?: This would be Juni's bargining tool - is that a good idea? If someone tells him no, he turns on his debate skills.

The Sum of a Life

I spent much of today rummaging through a distant relative's townhouse. Jasen's grandfather's brother passed away. They didn't get along, but his grandfather is now the final living sibling.
This man lived his entire life alone. He never married, although from what I gather he had his share of women. He was in the Navy. He was a recovering alcoholic. And everything he owned was in this house.
Jasen's grandfather assumed he would take care of his brother's estate, and wanted to find a will. He asked me to help. When I got to the house there was blood on the counter and carpet. He'd suffered respiratory failure, and didn't have anyone looking after him to call for help. He crawled to the phone three days after not being able to move his legs.
This man chose to live a solitary life. I only met him once, and the first think he said was how "fat" my husband had gotten. But I can't help but feel sorry for an 80-year-old man, bleeding and crawling to the phone to ask his partially estranged brother for help. He died five days later in an ICU filled with people on the verge of life and death.
When I arrived at the hospital he was still in the bed, covered with a sheet. There are no doors in the ICU, and he was the first bed on the left. Everyone entering and exiting the ICU walked past this dead man, his life barely out of his hands. And I'm assuming most people had no idea. It happens every day.
I reached his home and searched through his bills, gathering accounts to cancel and services to disconnect. I looked in closets, trying to find a file cabinet or safe that could hold his wishes.
The safe was in a utility closet, sitting atop an old coffee table and under a box with a piece of green outdoor carpet inside.
It took me two hours to find the key. I looked in shoe boxes in the closet, and found veteran papers, love letters, Christmas cards, even a picture of his father lying in his coffin after he shot himself in the family's garage. There was ancient jewelry, presumably his mothers and antique cuff links. A sack of gold coins, Christmas decorations and newspaper clippings of obituaries.
Desk drawers, end tables, dresser drawers; they were all filled with the junk we place in our lives. A deck of cards and old dice. Dog tags from his service. Pictures of an old lover on every mirror and on the phone receiver. Manuals for every piece of appliance thinkable. Dirty magazines. Faded shirts. Vinyl records. Spare change and pocket knives. Things that represented everyday life; pain and happiness.
The key was tucked away in the back of some random drawer.
His safe held his most important documents. Cash from overpaid taxes that he never deposited and never spent. His mother's will. His brother's death certificate. A pocket watch and belt buckle. Diamond rings and pearl necklaces meant for women he never married. And under it all sat an old white envelope with "last will and testament" written on the front in his unsteady handwriting.
There was a piece of paper with the grave plot information. The will was simple. He left everything to a random nephew. Jasen's grandfather's job was done. His brother wanted him to do nothing when he died.
It seemed odd to me that this man left everything he had to a single nephew, but people do strange things every day.
What's haunting my mind now that I've had time to think about my day is what this man left behind. Paid bills from 20 years ago. Dusty gallons of Jim Beam. Old clothes. Old jewelry. Older furniture. A Buick sitting in his parking space. Things that have no sentimental value to anyone except him. And now he's lying in the morgue. His body is all that is physically left. And empty shell.
Did this man leave nothing behind? He lived his entire life alone, and in these last years didn't leave his home much. These possessions will end up at the estate sale or in some pawn shop or some thrift store, looking for a new home. Looking for a new meaning; a new spot in someone else's drawer.
I sit on my couch and wonder what someone would think of me if I died tomorrow and they had to search my home, trying to find out what I'd wanted. I wonder what people would think of my now-divorced parents love letters to each other. The photos of family. The old clothes I can't come to part with. The paintings my grandmother created. I wonder if someone could ever know what these possessions meant to me; what memories they evoke.
I know this man left more behind than what was in that townhome. He left memories in other people's minds, he left a mark on people's lives. But in the end, only a very select few of us leave any tangible evidence that we ever existed. Successful writers, artists, politicians, maybe. But the average person living their average life in their average townhome? That average person, made from the miracle of human existence, leaves nothing.
I carried my toddler son up the steps to his bedroom tonight and I couldn't help but think of this man, 77 years ago, in his mother's arms. What did she hope for him? Is she proud of what he became? I know I will leave something for my son. Hopefully I will leave memories. But if I died tomorrow, would he remember my face 10 years from now? Would he remember our time together? I don't think so. I don't think he would ever know how much I love him, and that's the worst thought that's ever entered my mind.
Hopefully I will live long enough for my son to have endless memories. And with any luck my son will have children, and that small genetic link to me will continue. But I don't know what mark, if any, I will leave on this world. I don't know what purpose I'm here to fulfill.
I do know that I want the sum of my life to be more than what's in my home. I want the sum of my life to mean something to someone other than myself. I want the sum of my life to have met it's purpose.