Moms, hairs, T-shirts and Honda Accords

Today's entry is a collection of four squares on one of the pages of 642 Things To Write About.  I'd tell you the page, but none of them are numbered.

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Something you never told your mother

My mother is, fortunately, still living, so fingers crossed she never checks my blog.  I doubt she does.  I love my mother, and I'm very much like her.  But sometimes I feel like I'm more her friend than her child, and I often feel she's too wrapped up in her own life to notice or listen to mine.  And that's okay.  We live an hour and a half apart, though she guilts me into visiting often.  She likes to revisit the past couple of weeks in humorous soliloquy about thirty seconds after I've set my suitcase down.

Anywho.  Confession time.  My mother assumes I was a virgin when I married my husband.  She never really asked, and I'll never tell her voluntarily.  He was the only one, though, and it was just six months before the Big Day--we were already engaged, and both of us knew the other wasn't going anywhere.  But as long as she keeps believing it, I'll keep letting her.

A missing body part

I, fortunately, have survived my first 20 years of life with all my body parts intact.  I do get a little sad, though, every now and again, thinking of the massive amounts of hair I seem to lose on a daily basis.  The hair catcher in the shower must be cleaned halfway through, or I'll be standing in ankle-deep water by the end.  I wonder, when I pluck a loose hair off my arm or shirt, if the little guy is sad to go.  I think of the foreign places I've been (that list is too short) where all I've left behind is the breath I'm finished with and a few stray hairs.  I wonder how long they last once they leave my head.

A piece of clothing you keep just for the memory

I actually have a gigantic collection of T-shirts sitting inside an ottoman in our spare room.  I tell myself I'll make a T-shirt quilt out of them one day.  Most of them came from high school--debate, band, theatre.  More often than not I paid for them with my own pitiful allowance.

The oldest item in your possession

It's my husband's car, really, but we've got this red Honda Accord that's older than I am and still running.  We call him Seabiscuit.  It belonged to my husband's mother's husband's mother (not Jacob's father, but the man we dislike enough to refuse to call him Jacob's stepfather), who hailed from Oklahoma and didn't leave the car to anyone in her will.  It's still in her name, but Jacob's mother's husband's brother (man, that gets complicated) sold it to us for dirt cheap.  It's a 1992 model, and on its last leg.  I think something's wrong with the transmission, so it's collecting pollen under our car port until we either (finally) get the title or get it impounded out of spite.  I'm fond of Seabiscuit, though.  We went on our first dates in that car, and I named him after a horse because Jacob is my Knight in Shining Armor.

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Well.  That was a lot of nonsense.  But now you know a bit [more] about me and I can stop saying it's been too long since I wrote something.