This House is For Lovebirds Only

My mom hates the house we live in. It was built by my grandfather; it's where my dad and his four brothers all grew up. I'm pretty sure when they were teenagers my uncles grew pot in the room my parents now sleep in. We moved in eight years ago to stay with my grandmother, who had Alzheimer's. Now that she's gone, there's really no reason to stay, except we don't really have the money to move out.

For maybe a decade now, it's been my parent's dream to move out to the lake. We own a piece of land - just the land, with nothing on it - and my parents have been vising and revising a house plan since before this millennium. But my dad has always told my mom it wasn't time to build. The economy was bad, or there wasn't enough money, or it was senseless since after 2012 there wouldn't be a planet Earth.

(I was on the phone with an AT&T operator last week talking about my cell phone plan; it lasts until the end of 2011. She asked me if I wanted to extend it, and I told her I didn't really see the point, since the world was ending the year after. She actually laughed. Then I told her Mr. Trumbo was my father, and to call me Cass - but then I had to explain that Mr. Trumbo was actually my father, and I wasn't the primary account holder.)

Maybe two weeks ago my mom got a plumbing bill she didn't recognize. She took it to my father, and when he told her not to worry, she became suspicious. She investigated - that's where I get my mystery solving gene from. My mother. As it turned out, my dad had been building a house for two months without telling her. The plan was to have the entire framework up by her birthday in early May. When she asked why he didn't tell her, he said, "Because you didn't ask."

For Easter we took a picnic lunch out to the lake. My brother Harlin and I set up a card table on the concrete slab that will eventually be the dining room, and my mom laid out dishes on a 2x4 she used as a buffet line. We ate lunch in a windy breakfast nook with a beautiful view of the lake, and then my mom made Harlin and I compete in an Easter egg hunt. He is a senior in high school, and I am about to graduate college. It was relatively harmless until my mom said, "There's only one egg left." While we were looking for it, Harlin stole an egg out of my basket, so I slapped the basket out of his hands and stomped on his eggs. I now have Reese's cups all over the sole of my nice birthday shoes.

Before we left, my dad took us around to each room and explained what would be installed. At the end of the tour my brother and I looked at each other, and then I let him ask the question we were both considering. "Where's our rooms?" he asked. "You don't have any," my dad said. "This house is for lovebirds only."

Happy Anniversary

My parents had their 30th Wedding Anniversary this past Wednesday. We held a surprise party for my mother; I was in charge of greeting people before my parents arrived, and I had no idea - not even far fetched conjectures - on who some of the faces were. As it turns out, my dad invited a young man he plays basketball with at five in the morning on Tuesdays and Thursdays, as well as my mom's aerobics instructor and her husband. It was an odd crowd.

As a tribute, my dad asked his children to all produce something for my mom. My sister painted a canvas (she always tried to give me canvases for my birthday, and I would say, "Hell no, Tanner, don't come back till you've bought me a comic book"), and my brother and his friends (who live at our house) made a suptefying music video. Quick explanation: it was supposed to renact moments from my parents marriage, but in place of my mom, my brother made one of his really short, really tan friends stand in and wear a dress. And they almost kissed.

I wrote a poem. I don't do this often, but I thought I'd post it here, since this is the place I hide thing if I don't want anyone to read them. It's a slam poem, so when you read it, be sure to wave your hands around.

I don't know what it's called.

my hair smells like grease
i've been told this at least
thirteen or fourteen times a week

that's okay
that's just me
i'm not into hygene
and let's be straight on this issue
i don't have to use
shampoo
or soap
or water
it's not a bother
plus i've found
that i can't smell the smell
though it's possible to tell
when it's around

my brother's hair smells like scalp
i've smelled it myself

and my sister
who knows
rainbows
shoot out of her nose
so her hair
probably smells like solar flares
or oberon's flower
love-in-idleness

but each time we come home
my mother wants to smell our hair
don't ask me why
i won't say i haven't tried
it but it's weird like a fetish
and i'm not really ready
for my mom to be crazy
so if you think this is normal
please raise your hand

well you're lying and so are you
this is not something normal people do
i can respect eccentricies
but this is beyond interesting
it's downright bizarre
to get out of your car
and have your mom grab you by the top
and put her nose in your crop
and tell you it reminds her
of when you were in the third grade

i have read
that a person's smell
it doesn't change
it remains
consistent
it stays the same

and a story is told
of a man long ago
maybe forty years old
who after two decades comes home
transfigured by war and the ocean
and his dog is the only one who knows him
when it smells him, it gets the notion
that his master once again is a boy
unbroken
and clean
full of expectancy
for what life could bring

his dog, who was blind
it rolls over and dies
as if it's only dream
was to smell his master alive

i believe
that twenty years from tonight
coming home from far and wide
i will meet my mother in the drive
and she will smell my hair another time
and she will see me when i am nine
wearing a uniform of red and blue clothes
for the first day of third grade at st. joe's

this is why my mom smells her children
to remember us in a time of innocence
where there are no images
of wrongs we commit
or sins against
just small hands that fit
in the pockets of her dress
she can smell the version of us which is best