I did actually paint some today, but I'm sleepy, and not really into it. My dandelions are looking sad, and I think I want a different type of brush. I have round brushes, but I want to get a fan brush and something with a bit of a point. Sooooo, I think I have a trip to the craft store in my very near future.
Now, I know that I promised some tales from my time in Old Blighty, however the other night at our favorite bar, I was exchanging tales with the girlfriend of one of my husband's old friends from school, and I realized I have a horrible, terrible, awful, shameful story to tell, that's pretty hilarious.
Let me set the scene: It was 94 or 95, and it was my birthday. I honestly can't remember if it was my Sweet 16, or my 17th birthday, but it doesn't really matter. My grandmother had allowed me to invite a lot of people over to the house for a BBQ, and we had minimal adult supervision. We were pretty good kids, most of us, and so there wasn't any alcohol at the house (a few may have been drinking a head of time, but none were drinking on location). However, my best friend from High School, we'll call him Seamus, was a cheeky fucker. He was frequently stoned, and would get high and listen to Phantom of the Opera, and debate with me the nuances of meaning of various operas and musicals. Our favorite was Sweeney Todd.
Anyway, he brings over as my birthday present a small jelly roll cake, and he's grinning. With a cartoonish wink he tells me it's a "Special Cake", and that I should share it after the party has died down. I knew this meant it was loaded with pot, and that he intended for us to listen to an opera (probably "Die Fledermaus ") after we'd eaten some. This was a typical weekend for us when we hung out actually. Not your kids next door, for sure.
Awesome plan, man. I'm down. But let's go eat burgers and hangout with friends first, kay? Kay.
About 2 hours later, we get inside to bring out more soda pop, and my gramma has just taken the last bite of a large slice of the cake. HOLY SHIT! I know my face must have looked amazing, because my gramma told me "Well, I didn't eat ALL of your cake!"
"No, it's um.. no problem Gramma. So, uh, how do you feel?"
"I'm fine, except I ran out of medicine*. Your mother is running to get me some, so you behave for me while it's just me here."
Seamus finally recovers and says "Of course Gramma. You know I think things are wrapping up here soon anyway, we'll just go keep an eye on things."
Outside we loose our minds. I know if I say anything, I will be in for a world of hurt, and I don't want to get Seamus in trouble. He's ready to throw himself under the bus and confess, but I decided to wait and see how things went. I was ready to confess to everything the minute anything seemed to be wrong with Gramma, because she was (still is) very important to me.
We sort of quietly managed to get everyone to leave without incident or suspicion after a little while, since it was Easter break and most of my friends had to get back to family stuff anyway. So finally it's just Seamus and I at home with my Gramma and mom. Seamus had packed away as much of the cake as he could, so there wouldn't be anymore accidental casualties, and we're watching tv with my folks waiting to see if the shoe is going to drop.
I'm grinding my teeth, and scared. Not really for myself, because though I'd get in trouble, it wouldn't honestly be MUCH trouble. My mom is sort of a hippie, and believed in child-rearing by positive reinforcement. (read: I ran wild, and was never ever punished). But my Gramma... I would never forgive myself if anything happened to her. I was filled with dreadful visions of anaphylactic shock, or overdose, and it would all be my fault. I had just decided that if my Gramma became really sick because of me, I would commit dramatic seppuku as penance, when she stood up and walked purposefully to the kitchen. Worried, I followed.
I pretneded to be interested in a drink of water and casually asked her "Whatcha doing Gramma? Anything I can help with?"
"Oh no.. I'm just REALLY hungry. Gosh, I just have this feeling like I need to snack on something!"
My face... I wish I could have seen it. I'm sure it was hysterical.
So my Gramma proceeds to decimate the remains of chips, and regular birthday cake, the whole time marveling at how hungry she is. I know I gave Seamus this look at least once:
I eventually (10 years later)confessed to my Gramma exactly what had happened that day, and what she had eaten. She laughed and told me that now she wanted to try to get her doctor to prescribe her medical pot because that was the best she had slept in ages.
*My grandmother calls her whiskey "medicine". She takes a single shot of it before bed, and the occasional small sip after dinner. She claims it's to help her sleep, and now that she's 95 years old, no one wants to argue it with her.
So there's a look into my life. I wasn't a bad kid, I never got in trouble with the law, I never hurt anyone, and I never disrespected anyone's property. But I wouldn't say I was a good kid either...
Till next time!
Adolescents are not monsters. They are just people trying to learn how to make it among the adults in the world, who are probably not so sure themselves. ~Virginia Satir, The New Peoplemaking, 1988