Blue Skies

The weather has been spectacular, thunder-and-lightning accompanied barrage of running water. This sounds like a good idea, given local drought conditions, but it’s a bit rough – the mood crushing gray skies and damp ground. I’ve retreated to a hot cup of tea, though my belly’s not great. It’s been a bad belly, for bad times and I’m treating it like a young and tender thing, maybe fresh out of a convalescence, and put a lot of milk in my tea. Almost “cambric tea,” as the old folks call it. I have delayed my writing here, as it feels a little unseemly, now that my life has turned into an Orestian tragedy put on by Mad TV.

National Women’s History Month is coming up and I’m working on drumming up that enthusiastic fire in the belly that celebrates all the Fortune 500 ladies, all the politicians who clawed their way through local elections and petty politics to become one of the big runners despite charges of either being too prissy or not being ladylike enough or just too bitchy to be likeable. I also like to celebrate all the entertainers who are still making contribution past their first five years and who didn’t self-destruct like that poor circus show, Brittany Spears. I think here of Madonna, Queen Latifah, Jennifer Lopez, Reba McIntire (and I realize that regardless of how much I admire her, I have no idea how to spell her name) Cate Blanchette, Sandra Bullock, Rosie O’Donnel, Felicia Rashad, Beyonce, Martha Stewart, and all those ladies who, like Oprah, now belong in a category all by themselves.

I really just want to lock the door, pull the blinds and watch old Firefly reruns with Connor while we play with that toy that has a blue and red half with cutouts of shapes and yellow squares, circles, stars and hexagons that you poke into it, then pull it apart from its yellow handles to try again. Connor’s caught on that this isn’t entirely about him, that this is a distraction – and possible obsession – of mine. He will drop in a couple of shapes to amuse me, let me applaud him, then go bang on the floor with the wooden spoon he stole three months ago.

Now I could go on about Firefly for a blog or two, about how I love Zoe and Kaylee as good, positive characters for a growing womanhood who will have to learn computer programming and/or myriad complicated electronics to be financially viable in a quickly changing economy. Or I could just look at Nathan Fillian’s butt. Or enjoy Jayne’s one-liners. It’s all comfort food now that Mom’s in serious trouble.

On the plus side Mom’s having a good day, and when anyone asks me about my heroes, I’ve always got my Momma’s name at the ready and can brag about her decisions to go into the department of justice, become an analyst, fall in love with four kids and marry a guy to get them, became a tax collector, and when that bored her, sail boats. It was in the San Francisco bay that she met the love of her life. He’s probably the first man who’s treated her decently in a long time and at least we get our happy ending.

That’s my ending line, and I’m sticking to it. The baby’s going to wake up in a couple minutes and I get one of his gap-toothed, wide-mouthed, shriek-filled smiles. It’s like going around the corner to see the new Baby M. He’s a sleepy, long-legged, long-footed sweet little baby and although I probably should have been writing on my article instead of mooning about at babies, he’s seven pounds of half-lidded reason to keep your chin up and celebrate the good stuff. As helpless as he might be right now, he’s also powerful in his newness to remember, just remember that there’s a lot of life out there and that though the fates take with one hand, they always give with the other.