November 20, 2004


Oh, Thank You, Trevor. Emo turncoats of the world unite and take over.

My sister just said "What's your blog called again - The Tiny Acorn's Story?"

After nine days here, tending to my Nana's health, my sister and I head home. From here on out, we take turns, between our family and my uncles family, someone will be here til... whenever. Nana is back from the brink, so we are not so scared and mortality is not weighing so heavy on us and my nana is not using a walker - etc., and thusly my sister and mother and I are back to being annoyed with one another, as usual. My mom was imparting on us, in an overly stern manner, that Nana is to be given fresh fruit every day and then added "And by fresh fruit, I do not mean a cut up apple. I mean fresh fruit ." My sister turned to me and whispers, "If fresh fruit does not mean an apple, then what the fuck does she mean?" -- yeah, I think it's time we head home.

Tonight, Nana demanded that I was going to say grace at dinner, not her. Which was fine. Nana's table-prayers in the last week have been heavily informed by deathbed leanings, and lasted up to five minutes. Thanking the lord, tearfully, for each and every year, for material bounty, for college admissions, or imploring god to help guide the food to help us how each of us need in our bodies, and to help us understand that whatever will be, will be -- ending with "You know what to do lord. Amen" and a fierce squeeze of the hands.
Nana and everyone assumed that since I am the most religious member of my family, I would know some official grace, but I don't -- and I hate praying out loud amongst other people, so I freejazzed it. I thanked god for keeping Nana around and for the food and to please help my mom's bad attitude. Amen.

I wanted to also give thanks to my mom for moving out of rural Indiana, and giving me and Lauren a chance at bigger things than New Castle, Indiana would have likely allowed us, and freedom from the feminine mystique. The other day, as I was typing furiously, trying to make deadline, my uncle suggested that I am such a fast typist, I could of been a stenographer, as if that was a great, missed calling. My Nana, after my sister organized and filed a bunch of files and papers for her, suggested that my sister could be a secretary "for someone important, like the head of a company, or maybe the President." My sister asked "Well, why couldn't I just be the president?!". Thank you mom, for heading to the city, so we did not endure a life time of socialization into secretarial service of big men of industry.

Last night, as my sister and I walked a few miles at about 2am, sharing cigarettes and a diet sprite. Trolling past the groves, the huge sprinkler arcs and the renovated double wides and hurricane trash. Inspired by the child-lies up at, we started talking about lies and pranks we favored as kids. My sister told me that during sleepovers her and her friend would look up people listed as couples in the phone book and call them up, and based on whomever answered, they would confess, in either a man's or woman's voice, that they were having an affair with the other half of the couple. A terrible prank, though made hysterical by the fact that they were seven years old. Imagine getting that call, from a third grade girl, pretending to be a man, saying "I've been having an affair with your girlfriend."

Posted by Jessica at November 20, 2004 10:17 PM | TrackBack