I was famous

I was famous.

I just woke from a dream in which I was frantically trying to get ready for a stage appearance, 30 minutes to go, in a strange room with no clothes that fit and a very athletically-strong woman hovering, yelling at me to hurry up. At first some friends were there, trying to help me pull something together but then they all abandoned me. I was left with too-small clothes, finally trying to create an alternative, kooky look, or the sexy librarian look. It worked for me in my early 20’s, at speech and debate tournaments. It was not working now, in my late 30’s with an entirely different body. I was getting hysterical, pulling on gaping shirts and skirts meant for third graders, the “entirely different body” fighting for freedom in all the wrong places.  Is this how a famous author looks when she gets in front of an audience, a cross between Rosie O’Donnell and Courtney Love?

Well, thank god I don’t have to deal with this in real life. True, I can barely decide what to wear to the market without having a nervous breakdown, trying to avoid my two biggest wardrobe pitfalls, looking pudgy or looking old – but I’m pretty sure no one cares except me. I certainly don’t have thousands of adoring fans critiquing my wardrobe.  Sometimes one of my high school students might mock the dog hair, the hole, the out of date turtleneck, but who pays attention to a kid dressed like Kevin Bacon in Footloose, wearing lime green bands on his braces? And Andre can equally be ignored since he has on more than one occasion worn mismatched socks and a paisley patterned dress shirt (he has rescued it from the Good Will bag a number of times).

No need to worry about socks or uncouth clothing choices here on Lembongan. I have three tshirts, one pair of shorts, two skirts, a pair of linen pants, a long sleeved shirt, three bathing suits and a light cardigan (If you know me at all, you know I could not travel without a cardigan. And, yes, I’ve worn it.) The biggest problem is timing. The laundry next door (three ladies, two washing machines, one big system of drying ropes) usually takes 1-2 days to return clothes, so I have to carefully choose what I can live without for a 48 hour period.  For instance, how long am I willing to go without underwear? Only I know the answer to that question. And the laundry ladies.

Andre is still on another island, surfing and kiting his brains out. SusieJo, Auggie and I will meet him back in Ubud on the 31^st.  (Looking back over those two sentences, I just realized my name is pedestrian compared to my family: Holly vs SusieJo? Holly vs Auggie? I have a stripper’s name. Andre has the name of a lord. Actually, he is a lord. But that is a story for another time.)

A funny thing happened last night.

SusieJo called me into the kitchen, sure that the roof rat, Patrick, was in the cupboard. I checked it out. Nothing. Then SusieJo tentatively stuck her head in the cupboard, looking about. I couldn’t help it: I grabbed her arm and yelled “rat!” She screamed, springing away from the cabinet with the agility of a 16-year-old.  I whinnied like a horse, laughing, while she punched my arm two or three times. (It hurt. She’s a tough grandma.) Unfortunately for her, Auggie had emerged from the bedroom just in time to see her hitting me. Not realizing the context of the event, he instantly went Kamikaze, hurling himself at SusieJo, pelting her with windmilling fists of fury.

“Auggie, no!” I was trying to stop laughing, not wanting him to think it was ok to hit grandma. I had to physically restrain him, make him look me in the eye. He was furious. “Auggie, Auggie! Grandma was just playing! We were laughing. I promise, grandma was not hurting me.”

He wasn’t buying it. He glared at SusieJo.  He was standing stiff, seething, sure his mommy had been harmed. The only harm, however was to Grandma Susie, emotionally wounded after having been tackled by the grandson she adored.

It was not okay he physically attacked someone and I felt bad SusieJo was disheartened. But, because I am a weak person, I was secretly flattered to have someone love me so much that, without thought of consequence, he launched himself into the fray to protect me. Granted he was taking on a 5’3” 60-year-old -- but she is one daunting, physically-fit elf. I hugged his angry little body to me and carried him off to bed, cuddling my pint-sized savior. As we lay in bed, reading, Patrick looked on from the ceiling beam, a smug grin on his rat face.

 I’m well aware that this confession speaks volumes about me.