Scene:

The kitchen, about two weeks ago.  The Mother is sitting at the kitchen table, most likely doing a Sudoku and definitely dying from a mysterious, wasting illness… TB comes to mind. Consumption, yes, could be. The Boy bursts into the kitchen, his face filled with both excitement and joy, a piece of paper in his hand…

The Boy : Mom ! I have a job interview  at Mickey D’s !

Mummy Dearest : Oh ! That’s wonderful ! When is it ?

The Boy : looking at the paper Uh… April 1st.  Oh no. April 1st.

The Mother and The Boy look at each other

Mummy Dearest : Get a calender. Ok, it’s a Friday, this could work.

The Girl just learned that starting in April, she will one of two Ijsmeisjes in Town.  This means that she is going to be The Ice Cream Girl.

This is something new and different in Town. She will be parked here and there, selling ice cream to tourists.

It pays well. She is very happy and we are very pleased and proud of her.

Sitting at the kitchen table, when she told me about it, I said, oh, that is wonderful, and asked for some details about the interview ( unfortunately, Julie is the other Ijsmeisje, but perhaps they will come to terms with their rather turbulent past, for they used to be the dearest of friends…I ramble).

And then I said, oh, I guess that you will meet a lot of new people ( read : guys). She agreed. And, I said, a fair share of dirty old men. She agreed.

The place that hired the Ijsmeisjes obviously wanted two young, cute and sexy girls. Not going for the wholesome milkmaid type at all.

Bravo, Girl.

So, we have these two , really big male dogs. One is an elderly Newf  ( do not let that sleepy face fool you- he is ready to kill in a minute… this is Elvis) and one is a 2 year old Pyr. Destin. Cute name for a Pyr. Sortof.

A Pyr is a Sheppard, ( some one tell me how to spell this..). Desty has started patrolling the house.  He prefers outside, but he does make his rounds inside. He watches that broken gate with an eagle eye.

Destin is really big. Not fat or fluffy, he is very tall and slim. I have worked on his weight since he entered Casa Kitchen… fat is bad for puppy that is going to zoom up to Neptune. Bad for his joints. I really do have to measure him one day …the road to hell and all.. I think I have to do this from the tip of his shoulders to, well, the floor. But everyone says, my, what a big dog. His sister is a European Champ, she and Desty look like clones, but Desty will never cut the grade. I think. And I no longer care.

Destin is much larger than Elvis right now, although Elvis is invulnerable, because of his thick coat of fur.  And we are getting the Alpha male shit.

Let me back pedal a bit …So, we have these two , really big male dogs.  And they have never had their balls sliced off. I could say neutered, but we are saying the same thing, just different words.

We have dog testosterone flying around here…

I am always at home with Elvis and Destin.  I like them in the kitchen. Comfy. Stinky, but comfy. But when they start the Alpha Male shit, it can be frightening.  I once got caught in the middle of this dog fight, and I was screaming for help. Really. No one heard heard me.

And then I remembered Destin´s Achilles´s heal … he is terrified of water. Squirt gun. It no longer has water in it, but the sight of that squirt gun stops all fights, be a good boy, Destin.

Destin is a very strange dog , he knows that I am sick. This bothers him. A lot. He is whining and licking me all of the time.

And both dogs know that I am a woman.

I suppose that I should be flattered, in some sort of way, after all, I am 53 years old.  But having these dogs licking the chair that I sit upon, the tiles beneath it and running after my crotch, non stop pisses me off. I cannot fill the water bowl without getting these two noses assaulting me.

I am still sick. I am cranky.  I need a nap. I should eat something…

I had checked out all of the spelling for a bunch of words and saved them on * Kladblok* . I think that that is Wordpad.

You can play a game and guess what I shall write, but I can indeed spell some things. And I may not use any of the following words :

episiotomy

ho chi minh trail

Stirrups.

Here we go.

The other day was The Girl’s 18th birthday, and that fool episitomy scar was bothering me.  I really thought- and still do- that this was a case of timing. For I received the mark of Zorro ( so I have heard) 18 years ago, delivering a 5 pound baby. In a closet. By a guy named Harry. He was panicking, we were all panicking. Why wasn’t he Dr. Harry ?

I asked Harry, who could have been a janitor for all I know and for all that I cared at the time, how many stitches do I have ? He refused to tell me.  In fact, no, not in fact, for this could not have happened, he asked me why I wanted to know ? Was this some sortof trophy thing ? Who has the most stitches ? This was definitely implied.

So, I do not know how many stitches that I had to tolerate.  But I did go on to birth more babies and try to conduct chit chat in the  stirrups. I changed Doctors. A lot. If they hated Americans, I was out of there. ( That was a mistake. I should have tolerated him, but you simply can not do that. Not when you are in the stirrups)

And every new Doctor would go, sheesh, what happened to you ? And in my little Minnie Mouse voice, I would say, I have no idea. I have never seen this scar.  I can feel parts of it, when it bothers me, but it seems to be a  Ho Chi Mingh trail, around, well, my privates.

Let’s go back to Harry. Refresh the memory :

I asked Harry, who could have been a janitor for all I know and for all that I cared at the time, how many stitches do I have ? He refused to tell me.  In fact, no, not in fact, for this could not have happened, he asked me why I wanted to know ? Was this some sortof trophy thing ? Who has the most stitches ? This was definitely implied.

Now, I find myself wondering how many men have never, ever in their life pulled out a ruler or a measuring tape, and well, measured themselves.
I think only the liars.

And he would not tell me how many stitches I had to tolerate.

I found red Jello at the AH in Waalwijk… a while ago. I bought two boxes of this stuff.

Anyone ever eat this stuff out of the box ? You know, spitty finger ? It is not red anymore, not out of the box. And out of the box is the only way that I ever liked Jello.

I loathe Jello. My Mother ( God rest her soul) always made these fruit molds. I know that there is an art to making Jello and fruit molds. I know this. My Mother’s Jello molds… things.. have been in our kitchen for just a cootie’s age. I simply am too ignorant to appreciate the art of Jello fruit molds. Anyone else thinking June Cleaver here ? Aprons ?

Sorry, Mom.

So I have two packs of red Jello . And Baby wants us to make Jello.  Tonight. Together.I have made a lot of food with French names ( which always makes it sound much more complicated than it is- thyme always works in a pinch), I have baked bread from scratch. But I have never made Jello.

This is a science class. Measuring cup, the big one. Check. The little whisk ( it is also called a *garde*) , no, the little one. Wooden spoon, little plate to rest the wooden spoon and the whisk  on and save a mess on the stove. Got it.

You have your box ? Fine. At least one of us has to have the directions. The water is boiling. Here we go. Potholders, whisk.  You stir. I am really making this into D-Day.  I am measuring water into those Jello molds to see which size we will need. The Fish. Oh Gosh. The biggest one.

The heat is bothering Baby, as she stirs. Can you feel crunchy sugar ?  Oh, duh whah? We change places.

We are going to need a platter and tinfoil. We are going to put the Jello in The Fish, on the platter and it has to cool down.  We have to cover it with tinfoil, or else it will taste like onions, or something else. Got a spot in the fridge for it now.

Then, when it is *solid* we have to flip this over.

In my experience, I tell Baby- who is 11-  it usually takes 3 times before you can figure out how to get a recipe right.

We are on number one.

The Fish is in the fridge.

This is Jello.

Birdie died last night. Or perhaps early this morning.

Birdie was a male sparrow.

A note should be made of this.

I knew that Birdie was going down hill. I was going to let him cross that river and be free, this spring.  But I knew that Birdie was not doing well. I had called Bird Sanctuaries, last year, around here, but a sparrow did not hit  the top ten list. There actually is a waiting list at these places, and a sparrow does not cut the mustard.

Truth be told, no one is upset by Birdie’s death. That is just the way it is. I did not want him to die, but I am not crying. I am a bit surprised, I really did not expect this, so soon. But I did know that he was one miserable bird.

That is why I was going to let him go.

Within hours, someone asked me if I wanted a new bird.

I did not say this, but I do not buy birds. I give them refuge from the storm. I promised myself this. I would never, ever walk away from an injured bird again.  They usually die. And if they do not, you have to let them go once they are better.

I have to clean up Birdie’s cage and make sure that it is not tossed out. I am not walking away from an injured bird, ever again.

I promised myself this.

I have to keep quiet. I should not write, I should not talk. My mind is skewed right now, and I know this. It could be the fever, it could be the lack of oxygen, it could be the Ventolin.  I am not synapsing well at the moment. Not at all. I wonder what Ms. Melly died from .. this is a rhetorical question, we all know what she died from … Childbirth fever.

Raging sepsis.

I accosted this elderly gentleman in town the other day. I have talked to him a number of times. He is very frail, with fine features and a dowager´s hump. And he is even more deaf than I am. I started talking to him last November, he is our neighbor, and we ended up sitting next to each other on the bus to the Big City. Chit Chat is not my forte. But, I said, tomorrow is my Husband´s birthday and I have to buy him a present. He says that all he needs are socks. Sir laughed, for …apparently this is what he always told his family. Socks.

I call him Sir, in Dutch of course. The Dutch do have a very formal way of speaking which I am very weak in. But it is there, it is most likely a dying language. But I really try.

I saw him the other day in Town. He was wearing russet corduroy  pants. A Mason´s pin once lead me to accosting another elderly gentleman.. a famous artist no less… I had to know.  I went up to Sir and asked him, Sir, were you ever a Professor , or a teacher. It is the pants, Sir. They are very Professor, and, well, very 60´s.

No, although he did take on some students, he was, is a psychiatrist. He chatted with me. Somehow, he asked a me, in that uber polite Dutch, a question and the answer was that I had been an archaeologist. And then he asked me if I was sick. I said, yup.  I said.. in my crappy Dutch, that I have a lung infection. This covers anything from the common cold to pneumonia . He asked me if I was on antibiotics and I said, yup.

I have to keep quiet, I am intruding into personal space, my curiosity will indeed be the death of me. I am being rude and that is all that there is to it.

But I still find it fascinating, the way that we judge one another.  I knew when I said archaeologist, he was thinking Leiden. This is a world of secret signals and hidden handshakes. I know what one has to do to become a psychiatrist. And he assumes .. correctly.. that I am …was…a classic Archaeologist. I am also, somewhere, certified to do contract work.

And yet, we are both walking through this two pony town, shopping bag in hand.

There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man’s fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone.

I took a nap today. I did all of the preps for The Girl’s big hoo- hah dinner, 18th birthday and all. And then I took a nap. My magic pills ( penicillin) are not working as quickly as I thought they would. On the other hand, if I have a virus, I could just as well be downing Tic-Tacs. Or perhaps I was overly optimistic. There are many variables.. Self pity could be one.

All that I am sure of is that I got everything ready for this dinner ( I was counting in a major way) – I even put Mom’s *good* dishes on the table-and then I took a nap. And when I woke up, I was in another dimension. I have no idea which dimension is true, pre-nap, or after nap.

Believe it or not, most people in this house were very angry with me because I did not kick start the dishwasher and so there were not enough clean glasses for the big hoo-hah dinner.

This cannot be true. This is too stupid for words. I am missing something here.

The only person who thanked me for my efforts was The Boyfriend. A very pleasant and polite young man.

It was a good dinner.

I no longer work.  My choice, right now, would be to lie in my dirty sheets and sweat. I kid you not. Or if I had more body strength, to pull out all of those green weeds. I cannot do this right now. This eco shit is killing me. Today was garbage day, and tonight is paper day. I am on my death bed and I have to separate garbage.

This is an aside.

I really wanted to enjoy being sick-sick. But this is not going to happen. That garbage has to be dealt with. And The Girl turns 18 tomorrow, and The Father is coming home. Tomorrow. I cannot be Camille, not now. And, she whines, I am sick ! But this does not fit into the time frame. At all. As well as me talking to another old guy in town ( give me a muzzle) because he was wearing corduroy pants. I really have to stop talking to people in town. Although it was very interesting. I have to keep my mouth shut.

Close your your eyes. I asked him in Dutch ( rather loudly, for he is quite deaf) if he had ever been a professor.  I cannot believe that I did this. I shall make it worser and worser : in the 60′s. All because of a pair of  corduroy pants. I can give the answer, but that is another story. And I really have to keep my lips zipped. I am the village idiot.

But something terrible is going on in my old work – work.  If I was was still doing it, I could figure it out. I am good at puzzles. But there is definitely something rotten in Denmark  and I cannot get close enough to solve it.

I have to arrange a big dinner for tomorrow. The Girl turns 18. We are all f*cking sick here. Baby is home, and I told The Boy that he could stay home as well, he is really sick as well, but he took off, in fear of the Dragon Lady. So is The Girl. I have made all of these lists of what to buy. I am The Wallet.

All that I want to do is sleep. But I have to shop. And take that pill. You know, penicillin.

Cast

The mother,wasting away, you know

The Boy

Location

The Mother’s room of her own

The Boy : She wants *space*

The Mother says nothing. She knows what this means. In fact, The Mother would like space right now, and clean sheets, far, far away.