Face Telling

We’re piled at the kitchen table, arms everywhere in a convoluted game of tabletop twister…reaching for the salsa, the Doritos, the ashtray, spinach dip, cheese please, my lighter, her chocolate martini, my beer….having one of those late night girl talks when Tami starts prattling on about her latest “good read”. …. A reference book about face reading, the art of profiling personalities based on facial characteristics. I’m a good four beers into this after-midnight conversation , thinking “are you kidding me?” You can’t profile someone on their Cyrano nose or endless eyebrows! Their double chin or goose neck! We’re born with these pups for crying out loud! And then, she said, “the real crazies are the ones that have white all the way around their eyes, you know … you can see the white on the top and the bottom….”

I bug-eyed her. Anyone can do that! She bug-eyed me back. Nope! White on the top. White on the bottom. But not on both. OMG! I’m sure my last boyfriend had a ring of white around his mud puddle eyes! Yes, I’m positive. I start rifling through the kitchen drawers, plowing through utility bills, old batteries, and garden seeds from 1998 hunting for the crumpled pictures…. “Where are they?” I check between the fridge and the pots and pans cabinet…..everything ends up lost in this little slot of nowhere land at some time or another…. I have to use the broom stick to fish it all out….. Two more utility bills, my driver’s license renewal form, 2004 W-2 , three bottle caps and a whole lotta cat hair…. No pictures of old whitey eyes! But I’m sure…..

If I could just find those pictures…

“I know. You’re father does that.” I blurt matter of factly to my eldest child. “ He has white all the way around his eyes!”
“No, No” she assures me.
“Then, your profiler is wrong” I mutter, stubbing out my cigarette and stuffing another blob of spinach dip down my throat.

Scrapbook House

Through my daughters eyes...


I guess you could say I was eavesdropping. I was in the next room chatting away on the computer. In the kitchen, my Mom and her friend sat opposite each other sipping hot coffee and chain smoking. Conversation bouncing back and forth between them like a volley ball game. They were good at this. They had been having kitchen-table-talks for years. They knew when to interrupt, when to change the subject, when to sit quietly and just nod. They were friends. Old friends. Honest friends. Most of the morning, their words just trickled by me, nothing more than background static, like the continuous hum of the ceiling fan. I wasn’t even aware that I was listening until the words that casually tumbled out onto the kitchen table began to break my heart. “You know, sweetie, if you ever sell this old house, someone will have to spend a fortune gutting it”. My Mother laughed aloud and their continuous bantering once again became background noise.

Very quietly, I gazed around the room. Gut it? Did she mean tear down the walls? Rip out the cabinets? Take down the doors? Gut it? Peel up the floors? Yank out the windows? Pull down the lights? Yes, I thought, that is what she meant. Craning backwards now, I peered down the hallway toward the bedrooms. Thousands and thousands of pieces of broken tile danced and swirled up the hallway walls, then snaked around the corners….a meandering mosaic that crawled up my bedroom walls, around the windows and back out my door again. Deep mysterious symbols are concealed in the intricate patterns. My Mother’s art. Grouted for eternity into the walls that divide our home.

My eyes are hurting. I have a headache, right there behind the part of your heart that you see with. I want to put on sunglasses. Rose colored sunglasses. Because I do not want to see our house the way other people must see it. I want to see it the way my Mother sees it. There are nineteen cabinets in our kitchen and seven drawers. There are green doors, lavender drawers, pink cabinets, yellow shelves, blue cupboards. Every inch of every surface intricately embellished with flowers and ribbons and cascading designs that either flow perfectly or abruptly end…as if she were stopped mid sentence. Pastel Pointe shoes , painted in honor of my first solo ballet, are tangled into the quirky design. The ratty satin ribbons blending into the background.
Our kitchen door is psychedelic. As is the laundry room door. The steps are painted. The doorframes are painted. The baseboards are painted. The cobblestone porch is painted. The garden gate is painted. Some of our windows are even painted. Carefully executed in reverse, with the good side to the world. Tiny voids of paint…the center of a flower, the eye of a storm…act as peep holes. At first sight, it looks as if someone has gone mad and collaged the entire house. There are archways of a zillion shells, all priceless treasures the tide was kind enough to share with my Mother. And amidst it all, there are words buried everywhere. I suddenly remember a remark a friend of mine once made: “Be careful what you say around here, her Mom will paint it somewhere”. It’s true. It’s called Graffiti. Our entire house is like the back page of a children’s Highlights magazine…find the hidden objects. I wonder now, if she envisioned this concrete scrapbook as one big blank canvas when she first discovered the “For Sale” sign in the tattered front yard. I take a slow breath and wonder if she’ll live to fill every page with color…if she’ll still be painting when I’m forty…if my children’s first heralded birthdays will be recorded here also.

I have grown up here. I turn around and my life is splashed onto every surface. The summer at Ballet Camp. My first boyfriend. Homecoming. My Mother’s tiled, glued, painted house are proof we have survived it all. I run my fingers down the baseboard.

Storyteller house.
Scrapbook house.
Home.