“Oh, You Can Make That!”

When I was a girl, I grew up in a fairly large family of small means. My father was an electrician and my mother was a stay-at-home mom who baked, did laundry, cleaned, sewed, and took care of other people’s kids for pocket money.

I never had a lot of toys like kids today do and whenever I wanted something in a store, my mother would look it over and say, “Oh, you can make that!” It didn’t matter what it was—doll furniture, clay, or whatever—her stock answer was always: “Oh, you can make that!”

I came to realize it was her roundabout way of saying, “No,” and I sure got sick of hearing her say it, too.

So I became a creative kid. I made things. I painted. I drew pictures. I made things out of clay. I sewed my own doll clothes. I made cradles out of oatmeal boxes a la Captain Kangaroo in which to rock my baby doll. I wrote poems and stories. I even made mud pies with live grasshoppers baked inside in the hot Las Vegas sun that I fed my two younger brothers. Ah, yes, I was a creative kid and a creative cook, too.

Then I grew up and went into journalism, one of the lowest-paying professions and a dying one at that. So my mother’s words became my mantra each time I went shopping. I made clothes for myself and my babies. I made my own Christmas ornaments. I wrote stories. I made useful things out of clay. I baked things from scratch sans the mud and the grasshoppers. I didn’t hire out painting, papering, or refinishing of furniture; I did it all myself.

Last winter, I decided I wanted a painting for my dining area but couldn’t afford any of the ones I admired at a local art gallery. So, I did what any good daughter would do and painted one myself:

Not much has changed over the years. Not much at all, and I always know that when I want something bad enough, I either can make it or make it happen.

Truth, or Suffer the Consequences

There used to be an old television game show called Truth or Consequences when I was growing up. I don’t really remember much about the show, because I truly hate game shows. They are nothing more than mindless pap for the masses. I hate them so much, in fact, that I tell people that my idea of Hell is being shackled to a chair and forced to watch Wheel of Fortune, The Price Is Right, and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire simultaneously for eternity.

The reason I titled this blog as such, however, is because I’ve been thinking a lot about truth, trust, lies, and consequences lately. Most lies are based on a modicum of truth, that is, the liar usually laces a bit of truth in with the falsehood to make it more believable. Sometimes people think that you are saving others a lot of heartache by not being entirely truthful, but this is not so. There is a saying, “Break my heart with the truth before you lose my trust with a lie.” There is nothing worse than lying to erode trust, which is not easily built and is the foundation for all solid relationships.

Is there such a thing as being too truthful? Yes. Sometimes you don’t have to tell somebody everything you know if you know they are incapable of dealing with the truth emotionally, which brings us to another saying: “Some things are better left unsaid.” So how do you know when too much truth is enough truth? Hard to say, but I think you have to assess that individually and be tactful.

There is not much that rankles me more than a liar, I will say that. I make my living based on telling the truth, or at least the truth as it has been revealed to me. When I discover someone has lied to me, it does not come without consequences. Usually, I have to erase that person from my life because they are of no use to me.

A liar is a liar is a liar. It is that simple.

Words to Live By

I thought it fitting to start out the new year by writing a little about sayings that affect me in some way. I have blogged about this a little in the past, over on MySpace, back when it was still a MySpace and not an AdSpace. (Note to self: Why do I keep a profile over there? Answer to self: Because your publisher wanted you to.)

Anyway, a male friend on Facebook (which I also have because my publisher wanted me to have a Web presence) posted a status today that kind of tied into my Senior Dating blog. Here is what he said:

"Once in awhile,

Right in the middle of an ordinary life,

Love gives us a fairy tale."

--Unknown

Simple, to the point, and true. I once wrote a poem called "When Love Finds You." I probably blogged about that over on MySpace, but I'd be lucky if I could ever find it there anymore. (Have I told you all lately how much I hate what they have done to MySpace?) The gist of the poem was: Would you know love if it bit you on the ass? Some do; most don't, however.

I have several sayings that I keep on a running marquee on one of my computers. Most are inspirational, some are funny, some just plain blunt. Here are a few:

"Nipples to the wind."

--Texan saying

"Fuck 'em if they don't know it's good."

--Willie Nelson

"I'm a lonesome heart in a big, bad world."

--Doug Tetreault

"Birds fly because they think they can fly."

--Virgil

"Same shit, different guy."

--Lily Burana

"If you can't get laid on your birthday, it doesn't bode well for the rest of the year."

--Janet Natale Cooksey

Of course, I could add some of my own quotations here, but you hear mine all the time. Feel free to comment with some of your all-time favorites. Meantime, have a great 2011 and may you know love if it bites your butt.

Senior Dating (or Why I Date Fresh Men)

Once upon a time there was a little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead.

For a fairly cute girl, she liked to read, and read she did. Every damn fairy tale ever known to womankind and published in the full set of the Book of Knowledge. The Book of Knowledge. What a misnomer that was. For the uneducated, the Book of Knowledge was an encyclopedic set that covered history to science and everything in between--including fairy tales.

I don’t think it is as much so today as when I was a girl, this believing in fairy tales, that either a handsome prince or a white knight would dash in to a young woman’s life and the twosome would live happily ever after with nary a woe. In fact, I don’t guess there is much of a market for fairy tales with today’s young girls. Fairy tales mislead girls to believe that there is one special someone out there who will love and protect them all of their days. Well, there is. He’s called your daddy. Trust me, that is the only man, and I mean the ONLY man who will ever love and respect a girl as she deserves to be. To hell with the rest of them.

Forgive me for generalizing here, but men, as it were, is a misnomer, too. When have you known a man to ever grow up? They don’t really, only if they sire a girl child, and only in respect to said child. I hate to be the burster of bubbles here, but men never grow up in respect to womankind. They always see themselves as they were at the peak of their sexual prowess, a virile young man, no matter how many nose and ear hairs you can count and no matter how little hair is on their pates.

Once, an older lady friend of mine emailed me a cartoon. It showed a fat, balding man looking into a mirror admiring the image of a studly body builder. In the next frame, it showed a good-looking woman, looking into a mirror with disdain at the image of an old hag. It kind of reminds me of that old Robert Burns poem, “O wad some Power the giftie gie us to see oursels as ithers see us.” Wouldn’t that be something? For either a man or a woman to see how others see them? Therein lies a fairy tale in itself.

As a woman who has been around the block a time or two or three or more, I can tell you this much, I’ve seen everything from a sweet gherkin to a beef stick to a pile of Jet-Puffed Marshmallows (my apologies to Kraft). You women out there know what I’m talking about even if the men don’t. Yes, I admit, I’ve been accused of being a cradle robber for having married and dated younger men, or in today’s parlance, being a “cougar.” And for good reason. Call it what you will, but younger men do have their benefits when you consider that the old farts never grow up and only gain in nose and ear cartilage and hair. Besides, what’s the point of dating someone your own age, especially if you are a reasonably attractive woman who desires the same in a man?

There is also a misconception that once a woman reaches menopause, she is no longer interested in the male of the species. It is true for some, but not all. For example, a famous female author friend of mine, who is approaching sixty-five and shall remain unnamed, told me not long ago: “I’ve sucked my last dick.” I love her frankness (no pun intended), but for me, I don’t think I’m quite there yet.

I fully understand that by posting this blog, I may be cutting off future dating opportunities with men my age and older, such as they are, but the damn fairy tale is over.

Now it’s all about slaying dragons.

Darryl Strawberry's Half-Brother

Some of my Facebook friends may have noticed a post my oldest son made to my page today. It simply said: "Darryl Strawberry's half brother." It was his Christmas gift to me to put a smile on my face.

Yes, of course, there is a story behind that simple post.

It happened one night in the fall of 1990 or '91, as I recall. I was sitting on my bed in my condo in Northern Virginia wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt, writing a letter to my boyfriend du jour, when I heard a man's voice in my living room. I thought it was the television at first. It was around 9 p.m. and time to get my two young sons to bed. So I got up, went into the living room to see my boys chatting with a tall black man with very small ears. Needless to say, I was shocked. Evidently, he had knocked at my door and my sons had opened it and invited him inside. They were chatting away as my mind was racing about how to get this man out of my house before there was an ugly scene that would scar my sons for life.

When the man saw me, he introduced himself and said he was selling magazines to earn money to attend community college in California. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'd heard that story before. I quickly purchased a year's subscription to the Village Voice in an attempt to shoo him out the door and give my sons another lecture on not letting strange people inside one's home. I wrote him out a check for said amount and told him I needed to get my sons, then about ages seven and five, or thereabouts, to bed. The man was ever so grateful and began to flatter me, telling me how good I looked in that T-shirt, etc. That is when I knew the trouble was about to begin.

"I'm Daryl Strawberry's half-brother, you know," he announced.

Of course, that piqued my sons' interest being sports fans and got them very excited to have a somewhat celebrity standing in their living room. I don't recall the conversation that ensued too well, all I know is I was frantic to get this man out of my house before my boys were forced to watch the rape of their mother.

"I'd like to take you to see Jungle Fever, if you don't mind," he said.

I told him I didn't think that would be appropriate and finally led him to the door and let my aura, if you will, push him out the door. Then I clamped the deadbolt shut and warned my boys of the dangers of letting strangers into one's home, especially late at night.

The next evening, I got a phone call. Yes, you guessed it. It was from Darryl Strawberry's alleged half-brother. He had gotten my phone number off my check and was pressing me to go see Jungle Fever, a movie about a white woman dating a black man or something to that effect. I have not seen the movie to this day, so I couldn't tell you what it is about really. I informed the young man that what he was doing was unethical and could jeopardize his position with the publications company for which he worked. That was enough to end our conversation and I didn't receive any more calls from him after that.

Ever since then, that evening has become somewhat of an inside joke between my sons and me and Jeff always knows it is good to illicit a laugh from this lonesome heart.

Marshall Chapman Discusses Willie Nelson

Something good happened at the Southern Festival of Books on October 9, 2010. I got to meet someone whose work I’ve long admired, Marshall Chapman. She, to me, is the epitome of a true Southern belle. Stylish in her own right, she never makes a fashion faux pas in denim and pearls. I don’t want to come off as a gushing fan, but, oh well, what can I say? I am a fan.

During her 3 p.m. session at the War Memorial Auditorium in Nashville, I had the pleasure of being her water girl. She was about three-quarters of the way through her presentation for her new book, They Came to Nashville (Vanderbilt University Press), and her voice was beginning to give a little. “Didn’t anybody think to give us any water up here?” she asked rhetorically. I did a quick bag check, and saw I had an extra bottle so I ran up to the stage and handed it to Jill McCorkle, who had introduced Marshall and was moderating the session. She gave it to Marshall.

Later, when my friend Sue and I were getting our books signed, Marshall asked to whom she should sign my book, which Sue had kindly bought me as a gift. I held up my badge, since I, too, had spoken at an earlier session, and to my surprise she said, “Eileen Sisk. I know that name! You wrote the book on Buck Owens!” I answered in the affirmative and pointed out that the same photographer, Anthony Scarlati, had taken our photographs for our respective book jackets.

To tell you I was thrilled that Marshall Chapman knew who I was would be a gross understatement. I told her I was the one who had taken her the water and she said, “Ah, you know how it is then.” Oh yeah, I know. Nothing like having your mouth get dry or your voice waver and crack when you are supposed to be at your best.

After Sue and I thanked her for her work and signing our books, I wanted to see what Marshall had inscribed in my book. I took it out and this is what it said:

For Eileen –

Thanks for the water!

– Love on!

Marshall Chapman

Here’s a snippet of Marshall in action at her session:

Cinnabooks

When I was a little girl growing up in Las Vegas, my enterprising mother used to get up at 4 a.m. and cook a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, toast, and Sanka for my electrician father. She also would bake a gigantic batch of cinnamon rolls, which she would pack up in a box lined with wax paper, and put in the trunk of her old green Studebaker.

Then she would pile us kids in the backseat and drive downtown to JC Penney, her favorite store. Before we went inside, she would stick a few fresh rolls wrapped in napkins her pocketbook. Then, as soon as the store opened at 9 a.m., we would trail after her like baby ducklings, whereupon we’d go from the first floor to the second floor hitting each department in the store, the divine odor of her warm cinnamon rolls wafting everywhere we went. Inevitably, someone would approach us and say, “What is that wonderful smell?!”

That was all the encouragement my mother needed. She would open her pocketbook and show off her lovely rolls to inquisitive shoppers. “I have a whole trunk full of these outside in my car if you’d like to buy some,” she’d say.

Then she would go outside where the car was parked and sell the entire batch of rolls in about 15 minutes or less, then her purse would be filled with shopping money instead of buns.

The other day I loaded a box of copies of my new book, BUCK OWENS: The Biography, into the back of my car. Now when I am out and someone strikes up a conversation with me, the talk always seems to turn to my book and someone inevitably says, “I need to buy a copy.” That is my opener to say: “I just happen to have some out in my car if you’d like a signed first edition.”

The first time the words came out of my mouth, I realized I am my mother’s daughter.