Monday, October 4
Indescribably Undomestic: this is a true story
This is not me. Neither is it my mother. My mother was a single parent and a teacher and a Habitat for Humanity board member and a church Deacon and a hundred other things. She was interested in teaching me about different cultures, about giving to others, about what it means to be a child of God. She cultivated my love of reading, my love of music, my love of tradition, my love of family.
She did not, however, teach me to clean. Anything. At all.
Our kitchen counters overflowed with snacks. You would risk your life (or at least your unbruised forehead) when you opened any cabinet. To me, "hall closet" is synonymous with "junk repository."
You get the point.
Our house was messy.
Tale is told that my no-nonsense, mink coat-wearing, alcoholic, benevolent grandmother blew into town from Chattanooga when I was around the same age my Ladybug is now. I was always my father's mother's favorite grandchild. She terrified and thrilled me. She painted my fingernails a bright hooker red once, after my mother specifically forbade it. She let no man, woman, or child tell her what was what. She was six feet tall in flats. She did the what telling.
"Momma, what's that?" I asked.