Some days, you just gotta have a breakdown. It keeps you human.
It helps to repeat that mantra, over and over, when you're having one. It also helps not to say things like, "I can't have a breakdown right now." Because a breakdown will most certainly follow.
Trust me.
My grandfather died, and I can’t get the image of his empty body out of my head. I’ve never believed in ghosts, but I now feel haunted. At the time (11:40PM, to be precise), going in his hospital room was the only logical thing to do. I had to go in and get his things. I had to see him – someone had to see him. Didn’t they? Surely my grandmother and mother couldn't go in; neither of them would survive seeing his body just waiting there, empty. It didn’t occur to me maybe I couldn’t handle it either.
It’s funny how we think people look dead when they’re really sick. My sister and I discussed this during the week we watched my him waste away. My sister thinks she’s a Horrific Experience Team Member. But the truth is, I visited a completely different world. The horrible state we saw him in all week didn’t even remotely compare to the yellow cocoon he left us with in the end. It’s jarring how fast someone’s color leaves their body, even when they were pale to begin with.
I was too terrified touch him. I mean, who am I to be terrified in a moment like that? I wanted to want to hold his hand -- knew I should. Still couldn’t do it. Now I wish I had at least touched him. His head. Anything. He ought to have been hugged.
Instead I stuffed those moments full of tasks and officious behavior. I called the Mortuary and made arrangements. I prayed in the hall with the others and monitored my grandmother. I called people to let them know. There was so much to be done and I decided to do it all. Which is amusing since I'm pretty sure that, generally speaking, I'm barely even qualified to take care of myself. But throw me into a crisis situation and I could probably run a small country. I suppose when I'm forced to think about something other than myself, I become significantly more effective. At the very least, I like myself better.
The truth is, we were all stunned. We’d had more warning than we knew what to do with, but somehow we were completely underprepared. You can say goodbye to someone; you carve out your last hours with them in a way you never have to regret, but it’s impossible to believe they’re actually going anywhere. How could I? Since I began drawing breath on this planet, he’s never not been here. It’s experiential. We’ve worried about him before, suffered hospital bouts, discussed the inevitability of death, but not once did he actually disappear. It’s impossible to wrap my brain around his permanent absence, even now. Even though I thought I already had.
My grandma didn’t want to go to bed the night he died. She and Mom and I stayed up for a few hours, but she categorically refused to leave her recliner. Finally, I offered to stay in the bed with her, and to my surprise, she said "okay". Called my bluff. I haven't the foggiest idea how to comfort her. I know my grandmother better than most, and I am supposed to be the sensitive one in the family, but I'm only good at the small stuff. I have no earthly idea how to fix something this big.
People seem to think I do.
I laid next to her, smelling my grandfather on the pillow, thinking that only a week ago his head was in this same spot, thinking thoughts and breathing breath and emitting warmth. I told my grandmother some of the jokes he used to tell; I told her the funny stories I could remember and I held her hand. Is this helping? I wondered, feeling awkward as I squeezed and talked. I felt utterly useless. I knew there was something more I could do -- something people raised in functional families do. Something my ex’s new girlfriend does instinctively. Behaviors that will forever make up the divide between where I am, and where the happily married couples live with their children in their suburban homes.
But finally, in my alien failure, I just let her sleep. I couldn’t think of anything else to put between her and the pain. I was out of material.
My grandmother, quite simply, didn’t want to survive him. And I knew it. Somehow, I already knew what was coming when she had her stroke the next morning. There were a million excuses; the house was unusually warm, she’d hardly eaten or slept in the last week, and she was emotionally drained. But mostly, all I could think was that I had failed her miserably. That trying doesn't really count for anything.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Saturday, October 10, 2009
The Boxer
It seems I do not respond well to being punched in the head.
I know. Weird, right?
My gym recently imported a boxing instructor straight from South America. Apparently, he is some kind of high-faluten professional fighter. Well whoop dee doo buddy. Don't you know you're not supposed to hit women? We have all kinds of crazy laws about that. Folks also get wildly bent out of shape when you beat children.
Yeah, we're really no fun at all.
As one might suspect, in boxing classes at my gym, we generally only hit the bags (just to be clear "bags" is not code for "each other's heads"). That concept was lost on the South American. He wandered around the room inspecting our combinations and shouting in heavy Spanglish. Then, for reasons probably related to Karma, he singled me out and ordered me to do the combination on his mitts.
This is where we come to the "oh crap" portion of my day. I can be quite outgoing at times, but I abhor being singled out and watched. My terror was interrupted by "Heet! Heet the hands!" as the South American nodded to his mitts. So I heet. And just after my second cross...right before the left hook...a mitt snapped out and whacked me upside the head. HARD.
I know. Weird, right?
My gym recently imported a boxing instructor straight from South America. Apparently, he is some kind of high-faluten professional fighter. Well whoop dee doo buddy. Don't you know you're not supposed to hit women? We have all kinds of crazy laws about that. Folks also get wildly bent out of shape when you beat children.
Yeah, we're really no fun at all.
As one might suspect, in boxing classes at my gym, we generally only hit the bags (just to be clear "bags" is not code for "each other's heads"). That concept was lost on the South American. He wandered around the room inspecting our combinations and shouting in heavy Spanglish. Then, for reasons probably related to Karma, he singled me out and ordered me to do the combination on his mitts.
This is where we come to the "oh crap" portion of my day. I can be quite outgoing at times, but I abhor being singled out and watched. My terror was interrupted by "Heet! Heet the hands!" as the South American nodded to his mitts. So I heet. And just after my second cross...right before the left hook...a mitt snapped out and whacked me upside the head. HARD.
Monday, September 21, 2009
The Day the Weather Got Biblical on My Ass
We had a little weather fiasco today...storms, hail, lighting, tornadoes, flooding...I was waiting for locusts and 7 horsemen, but alas, it seems God may not be tired of us just yet.
My typically level-headed father, bless his heart, was freaking the fu@k out. I think this sprung from the fact that he was at home in Florida watching DVDs of the TV show "24". It just had him all wired up. He was alternately watching the show, monitoring the weather satellite on his laptop, and speed-dialing me to make sure I was okay and give me updated information. I wanted to tell him if I needed an update, I could just turn my head to the left. It's all right there out my window.
But I decided not to burst his adrenaline-laced bubble.
So he calls about a half-hour into tornado warning #94 to tell me I need to "get downstairs, pronto!". I live on the second (and top) floor of the most shoddily constructed apartment building you've ever seen. No, seriously. Two weeks ago part of one of the concrete steps literally crumbled beneath my feet as I went downstairs. I may not be as lean as I once was, but this is supposed to be CONCRETE. Naturally, my Father now wanted as much shoddy construction as humanly possible between me and a swirling, sucking, 150MPH vortex.
I decided to call my friendly apartment managers and inquire after our Disaster Plan. Every building in Texas has a designated "shelter", but I've been remiss in asking about ours. Do you know what our Assistant Manager, Jeannie, said when I called? She told me to get to know my downstairs neighbor. THAT'S your plan, lady? Make new friends?? That's a Girl Scout motto, not a plan! You only get to call it a "Plan" if it requires 5 or more minutes of dedicated thought.
Jesus. It's going to be a long Spring in tornado alley.
Not surprisingly, my phone call with Jeannie was interrupted by another directive from my very alert father. "Get upstairs! You need to get upstairs now! I've been watching the satellite, and it's the flooding that's going to be your biggest problem! Flooding is what kills the most people!" I let him know that, while I appreciate the statistics, I am a fine swimmer. It's the flying I'm not so good at. Think I'll take my chances down low.
Did I mention I miss home? I can handle a little rockin' and rollin'. It's being sucked up by a giant Hoover and deposited somewhere east of the Mississippi I can't hack.
My typically level-headed father, bless his heart, was freaking the fu@k out. I think this sprung from the fact that he was at home in Florida watching DVDs of the TV show "24". It just had him all wired up. He was alternately watching the show, monitoring the weather satellite on his laptop, and speed-dialing me to make sure I was okay and give me updated information. I wanted to tell him if I needed an update, I could just turn my head to the left. It's all right there out my window.
But I decided not to burst his adrenaline-laced bubble.
So he calls about a half-hour into tornado warning #94 to tell me I need to "get downstairs, pronto!". I live on the second (and top) floor of the most shoddily constructed apartment building you've ever seen. No, seriously. Two weeks ago part of one of the concrete steps literally crumbled beneath my feet as I went downstairs. I may not be as lean as I once was, but this is supposed to be CONCRETE. Naturally, my Father now wanted as much shoddy construction as humanly possible between me and a swirling, sucking, 150MPH vortex.
I decided to call my friendly apartment managers and inquire after our Disaster Plan. Every building in Texas has a designated "shelter", but I've been remiss in asking about ours. Do you know what our Assistant Manager, Jeannie, said when I called? She told me to get to know my downstairs neighbor. THAT'S your plan, lady? Make new friends?? That's a Girl Scout motto, not a plan! You only get to call it a "Plan" if it requires 5 or more minutes of dedicated thought.
Jesus. It's going to be a long Spring in tornado alley.
Not surprisingly, my phone call with Jeannie was interrupted by another directive from my very alert father. "Get upstairs! You need to get upstairs now! I've been watching the satellite, and it's the flooding that's going to be your biggest problem! Flooding is what kills the most people!" I let him know that, while I appreciate the statistics, I am a fine swimmer. It's the flying I'm not so good at. Think I'll take my chances down low.
Did I mention I miss home? I can handle a little rockin' and rollin'. It's being sucked up by a giant Hoover and deposited somewhere east of the Mississippi I can't hack.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
I'll Have One McDoucheBag and a Diet Coke, Please
I was going to go on a date with the Snowboarder. Really.
Well, technically we were going on a hike. So I guess it was more of an activity likely to include flirting…then again, if one of us turned out to be significantly more beastly than the other, likely not.
I stalled until the very last moment to get ready. Of course. That’s my ingenious way of ratcheting down the pressure. Don’t think about the date, don’t fuss over it. Which works well until the very last moment when I realize I have forgotten about it and am about to be late. Then pressure hits critical mass and I fly around the house trying on layered clothing, random beanies from 1995, and other bizarre items that have no place on a first date – or really anywhere in 2008. All the while I frantically send text messages that I’m stuck in traffic, whilst chugging down coffee, and hunting for the last lint-covered piece of gum in my purse. Makeup happens in the car (sorry fellow drivers! I'm that woman!). By the time I arrive I’m flushed red, getting honked at and flipped the bird by other drivers, and I’m a complete mental circus.
Yet somehow, this whole routine persists.
My sister said something profound to me the other night. Profound in the way only a sister can say, in the way you immediately tell her to fu@k off, but then realize she’s right and you’re an idiot and you’d better pay attention. I lamented my struggle with Mr. Ohio, to which she said, “Hang on, Mr. Ohio? I thought we were done with him?”
I sighed and relayed the new developments. Told her about my epiphanies and revelations. “He’s a great guy and I like him. Do you know how rare that is? Can’t it work out for me, just this once? Why does it have to be so difficult and painful?”
I could literally hear the roll of her eyes. It was as if I was a kindergartner, she was my teacher and I was eating Playdough. Again. “When you’re ready to be done with this, you will be. You’ll stop wasting time. You’ll spend 6 seconds on Mr. Ohio and realize he’s a douche bag…not 6 months.”
Hey, screw you. It’s not as simple as that…I really LIKE him, and we click…
Oh.
Shit.
Hang on a minute. Something got caught in my mental wheels - a little fiber of good sense. I don’t like it, but nonetheless, it glows with real-ness like the headlights of an oncoming truck. Just because I like him, it doesn’t mean he’s not a douche bag. Or at least acting like one, which might as well be the same thing.
Awww crap.
Oprah’s “Aha! Moment" happens. I see flashes of the things I’ve been doing, putting up with, and perpetuating for 6 months. No, for 28 years. Everything becomes so clear. I’ve been choosing this? Well of course I have, or it wouldn’t be happening! I'm free to walk away and date a nice guy who’s totally into me at any moment. But what am I doing? I'm hanging on to this box of broken parts.
Fortunately, once beyond the shame, these thoughts are incredibly empowering. Unfortunately, these thoughts are the precursor to actually having to do something about your shit.
There’s a platitude about holding on to destructive things because they serve a purpose in our lives. It’s not my favorite platitude but, if you’re noticing the trend here, grownup thinking never is. It's the mental and emotional equivalent of eating my vegetables…and I’ve been on a McDonald’s drive-thru diet. Wish me luck, it’s not gonna be fun.
Well, technically we were going on a hike. So I guess it was more of an activity likely to include flirting…then again, if one of us turned out to be significantly more beastly than the other, likely not.
I stalled until the very last moment to get ready. Of course. That’s my ingenious way of ratcheting down the pressure. Don’t think about the date, don’t fuss over it. Which works well until the very last moment when I realize I have forgotten about it and am about to be late. Then pressure hits critical mass and I fly around the house trying on layered clothing, random beanies from 1995, and other bizarre items that have no place on a first date – or really anywhere in 2008. All the while I frantically send text messages that I’m stuck in traffic, whilst chugging down coffee, and hunting for the last lint-covered piece of gum in my purse. Makeup happens in the car (sorry fellow drivers! I'm that woman!). By the time I arrive I’m flushed red, getting honked at and flipped the bird by other drivers, and I’m a complete mental circus.
Yet somehow, this whole routine persists.
My sister said something profound to me the other night. Profound in the way only a sister can say, in the way you immediately tell her to fu@k off, but then realize she’s right and you’re an idiot and you’d better pay attention. I lamented my struggle with Mr. Ohio, to which she said, “Hang on, Mr. Ohio? I thought we were done with him?”
I sighed and relayed the new developments. Told her about my epiphanies and revelations. “He’s a great guy and I like him. Do you know how rare that is? Can’t it work out for me, just this once? Why does it have to be so difficult and painful?”
I could literally hear the roll of her eyes. It was as if I was a kindergartner, she was my teacher and I was eating Playdough. Again. “When you’re ready to be done with this, you will be. You’ll stop wasting time. You’ll spend 6 seconds on Mr. Ohio and realize he’s a douche bag…not 6 months.”
Hey, screw you. It’s not as simple as that…I really LIKE him, and we click…
Oh.
Shit.
Hang on a minute. Something got caught in my mental wheels - a little fiber of good sense. I don’t like it, but nonetheless, it glows with real-ness like the headlights of an oncoming truck. Just because I like him, it doesn’t mean he’s not a douche bag. Or at least acting like one, which might as well be the same thing.
Awww crap.
Oprah’s “Aha! Moment" happens. I see flashes of the things I’ve been doing, putting up with, and perpetuating for 6 months. No, for 28 years. Everything becomes so clear. I’ve been choosing this? Well of course I have, or it wouldn’t be happening! I'm free to walk away and date a nice guy who’s totally into me at any moment. But what am I doing? I'm hanging on to this box of broken parts.
Fortunately, once beyond the shame, these thoughts are incredibly empowering. Unfortunately, these thoughts are the precursor to actually having to do something about your shit.
There’s a platitude about holding on to destructive things because they serve a purpose in our lives. It’s not my favorite platitude but, if you’re noticing the trend here, grownup thinking never is. It's the mental and emotional equivalent of eating my vegetables…and I’ve been on a McDonald’s drive-thru diet. Wish me luck, it’s not gonna be fun.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Snapple Deception
I found myself staring at a Snapple bottle today. I was simply trying to avoid eye contact with my depressed friend, for fear he’d notice my glazed-over expression. Does he really need an audience if he's just going to whine “I don’t understand why she doesn’t care about me!" over and over again?
Look, I don't know! Maybe she doesn't care because you whine like a bit@h. Just suck it up and go sleep with someone else...that’ll show her…
Okay, back to my Snapple. On the front of the bottle was the phrase "Made From the Best Stuff on Earth". Cool, I think. That makes me healthy. And that makes me happy. Because I like drinking Snapple, and it's a damn sight easier than getting on a treadmill.
Sadly, that’s not the conclusion of this story. My curiosity usually leads me down the path of destruction, and this was no exception. I made the mistake of examining the ingredients on the label (because reading words like phenyoynealene was still more interesting than listening to my friend).
I should’ve settled for ignorance.
Do you know what's in this stuff? Of course you don’t! Because if you did, you’d be out picketing Snapple headquarters and beating that tubby Snapple lady with her own arm, instead of reading this. Among the ingredients? Acesulfame potassium sweetener, phenyoynealene, and red dye #12.
I realize with pollution and overpopulation we're depleting the Earth's resources, but is this really the best we can do? Is phenyoynealene the "Best Stuff on Earth"? Doubtful. How many times did Granny call you down to eat your phenyoynealene so you could grow big and strong?
But forget about Snapple, because my brain bounced to something new and equally irritating. Something my sister did last week. Apparently something HUGE was going down at her office that had her stressed out and working overtime. She reported that everyone was up in arms, freaking out over this Big Thing that had happened…but she couldn’t tell me what was. It was top secret. My sister, I should mention, does not work at NASA. Not for the NSA or any other governmental body. She works for a nonprofit foundation that has the classification level of, say, Tele-Tubby Headquarters. Also, my sister tends to think ridiculous things are secrets, like the color she’s planning to paint her kitchen (mauve), or the name she has chosen for her future child (Aubrey). So it’s probably safe to assume the Big Thing is someone in her office stubbing a toe, shouting an expletive, or receiving written discipline from HR.
Problem is, she keeps bringing it up. Every conversation now includes her making reference to this Big Thing…the Toe-Stubbing Fiasco of 2008 or whatever.
She knows me well enough not to share confidential information (see above disclosure of salacious secrets about her kitchen and child). I’m 27 years old and I still ruin my own Christmas every year by peeking at my gifts. I also tell my loved ones what I got them the minute I buy their gift. I have the mental discipline of an orangutan. So don't bring secrets to my doorstep! Tell your stoic, type-A, accountant friend if you want a respectful reaction. Tell your coma-bound Aunt Marge. Tell your lawyer. Tell Oprah. Do not, do not, do not, tell ME.
This is up on my list with folks who say, "hey, can I ask you a question?" They generally execute this move when you’ve not a moment to spare -- at work, where you have to be not only efficient, but nice. (Unless, of course, you work at the Post Office where employees receive bonus pay for each act of asshole-dom...but that's an entirely different category on my list, so let's not digress). Anyway these people walk up, ASKing if they can ASK you a question. Well, you just did, so there's one, dipshit. Got another? Cause the clock is ticking. And hey, if I don’t answer, will you just sit there waiting for me to grant you permission or will you boldly go forth with something resembling an interrogative phrase? How long must this whole process take for you to be satisfied?
Somehow, I manage to get through about 50 questions in my head before they can roll through one out loud. It’s astounding.
And with that, my bitch-fest is over.
Look, I don't know! Maybe she doesn't care because you whine like a bit@h. Just suck it up and go sleep with someone else...that’ll show her…
Okay, back to my Snapple. On the front of the bottle was the phrase "Made From the Best Stuff on Earth". Cool, I think. That makes me healthy. And that makes me happy. Because I like drinking Snapple, and it's a damn sight easier than getting on a treadmill.
Sadly, that’s not the conclusion of this story. My curiosity usually leads me down the path of destruction, and this was no exception. I made the mistake of examining the ingredients on the label (because reading words like phenyoynealene was still more interesting than listening to my friend).
I should’ve settled for ignorance.
Do you know what's in this stuff? Of course you don’t! Because if you did, you’d be out picketing Snapple headquarters and beating that tubby Snapple lady with her own arm, instead of reading this. Among the ingredients? Acesulfame potassium sweetener, phenyoynealene, and red dye #12.
I realize with pollution and overpopulation we're depleting the Earth's resources, but is this really the best we can do? Is phenyoynealene the "Best Stuff on Earth"? Doubtful. How many times did Granny call you down to eat your phenyoynealene so you could grow big and strong?
But forget about Snapple, because my brain bounced to something new and equally irritating. Something my sister did last week. Apparently something HUGE was going down at her office that had her stressed out and working overtime. She reported that everyone was up in arms, freaking out over this Big Thing that had happened…but she couldn’t tell me what was. It was top secret. My sister, I should mention, does not work at NASA. Not for the NSA or any other governmental body. She works for a nonprofit foundation that has the classification level of, say, Tele-Tubby Headquarters. Also, my sister tends to think ridiculous things are secrets, like the color she’s planning to paint her kitchen (mauve), or the name she has chosen for her future child (Aubrey). So it’s probably safe to assume the Big Thing is someone in her office stubbing a toe, shouting an expletive, or receiving written discipline from HR.
Problem is, she keeps bringing it up. Every conversation now includes her making reference to this Big Thing…the Toe-Stubbing Fiasco of 2008 or whatever.
She knows me well enough not to share confidential information (see above disclosure of salacious secrets about her kitchen and child). I’m 27 years old and I still ruin my own Christmas every year by peeking at my gifts. I also tell my loved ones what I got them the minute I buy their gift. I have the mental discipline of an orangutan. So don't bring secrets to my doorstep! Tell your stoic, type-A, accountant friend if you want a respectful reaction. Tell your coma-bound Aunt Marge. Tell your lawyer. Tell Oprah. Do not, do not, do not, tell ME.
This is up on my list with folks who say, "hey, can I ask you a question?" They generally execute this move when you’ve not a moment to spare -- at work, where you have to be not only efficient, but nice. (Unless, of course, you work at the Post Office where employees receive bonus pay for each act of asshole-dom...but that's an entirely different category on my list, so let's not digress). Anyway these people walk up, ASKing if they can ASK you a question. Well, you just did, so there's one, dipshit. Got another? Cause the clock is ticking. And hey, if I don’t answer, will you just sit there waiting for me to grant you permission or will you boldly go forth with something resembling an interrogative phrase? How long must this whole process take for you to be satisfied?
Somehow, I manage to get through about 50 questions in my head before they can roll through one out loud. It’s astounding.
And with that, my bitch-fest is over.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Satan's Dress Shop
Oh my God, I've been sent to Hell.
Except the sign at the entrance says Clara's Brides*. And here, Satan is a very stout, pushy woman who keeps yanking me out of my dressing room to a giant fun-house mirror, where she pokes at me and observes that the dresses are too tight. Oh really? I hadn't noticed. I'm turning purple and I just cracked two ribs, but thank you Master of the Obvious for discerning the problem.
The problem being that my rib cage is the size of a Roman War God's.
I'm sure at some point in my ancestor's history, large rib cages served a purpose (although what that purpose was, I cannot imagine). Here in the 21st Century, in a bridal store where all dresses are manufactured for Teri Hatcher, it is not so helpful.
Satan only carries sample sizes so I'm pretty much shit out of luck. Did I mention there's a heat wave, and Hell has no air conditioning? So now I'm sweating through the dresses like some kind of farm animal as I struggle in and out of torturous tea-length garments. All the while, the little woman drags me from dressing room to mirror and back, muttering "this one doesn't fit you either. You're much larger than you appear."
Horrendous colors I can live with. Big bows? Bring it. Hell, I'd dress like a circus clown if that's what my friend wanted. The only thing I ask is not to be stuffed in a dress like it's sausage casing.
I remember hearing somewhere that Raquel Welch had ribs removed to shrink her waistline. At the time it struck me as ridiculous. Standing in Satan's dressing room, it suddenly sounded brilliant.
But I've got to get a grip. This wedding has been a long time coming and I've committed to selflessness. She deserves to have a wonderful wedding from start to finish. That means everything from the perfect proposal, to a gorgeous location, to the exquisite folding of each individual dinner napkin. Besides, what kind of person worries more about a dress than her friend's biggest moment? Certainly not the person I want to be. I want to live in the moment, treat people with care, and prioritize things that are truly valuable.
I'm teetering on the edge of failure. But I'll be damned if these little torture units of chiffon and taffeta are going to beat me.
I beat my tears back, turned to the little fat woman and said, "you need to stop talking." It was either hurt this woman's feelings or ruin my friend's day with a mental breakdown. The little lady opened her mouth to protest, but I interrupted "No seriously. You need to stop speaking entirely."
Patrons stared and the little fat lady was silent for a long moment. Then something magical happened. She shut her mouth and walked away. Know what? I suddenly felt a hell of a lot better. The dress even got looser. Maybe I'm not the nicest person to everyone, but I think it's okay to start with my friend. I'll worry about everyone else later.
Except the sign at the entrance says Clara's Brides*. And here, Satan is a very stout, pushy woman who keeps yanking me out of my dressing room to a giant fun-house mirror, where she pokes at me and observes that the dresses are too tight. Oh really? I hadn't noticed. I'm turning purple and I just cracked two ribs, but thank you Master of the Obvious for discerning the problem.
The problem being that my rib cage is the size of a Roman War God's.
I'm sure at some point in my ancestor's history, large rib cages served a purpose (although what that purpose was, I cannot imagine). Here in the 21st Century, in a bridal store where all dresses are manufactured for Teri Hatcher, it is not so helpful.
Satan only carries sample sizes so I'm pretty much shit out of luck. Did I mention there's a heat wave, and Hell has no air conditioning? So now I'm sweating through the dresses like some kind of farm animal as I struggle in and out of torturous tea-length garments. All the while, the little woman drags me from dressing room to mirror and back, muttering "this one doesn't fit you either. You're much larger than you appear."
Horrendous colors I can live with. Big bows? Bring it. Hell, I'd dress like a circus clown if that's what my friend wanted. The only thing I ask is not to be stuffed in a dress like it's sausage casing.
I remember hearing somewhere that Raquel Welch had ribs removed to shrink her waistline. At the time it struck me as ridiculous. Standing in Satan's dressing room, it suddenly sounded brilliant.
But I've got to get a grip. This wedding has been a long time coming and I've committed to selflessness. She deserves to have a wonderful wedding from start to finish. That means everything from the perfect proposal, to a gorgeous location, to the exquisite folding of each individual dinner napkin. Besides, what kind of person worries more about a dress than her friend's biggest moment? Certainly not the person I want to be. I want to live in the moment, treat people with care, and prioritize things that are truly valuable.
I'm teetering on the edge of failure. But I'll be damned if these little torture units of chiffon and taffeta are going to beat me.
I beat my tears back, turned to the little fat woman and said, "you need to stop talking." It was either hurt this woman's feelings or ruin my friend's day with a mental breakdown. The little lady opened her mouth to protest, but I interrupted "No seriously. You need to stop speaking entirely."
Patrons stared and the little fat lady was silent for a long moment. Then something magical happened. She shut her mouth and walked away. Know what? I suddenly felt a hell of a lot better. The dress even got looser. Maybe I'm not the nicest person to everyone, but I think it's okay to start with my friend. I'll worry about everyone else later.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Oh Please
My (guy) friend just changed his Facebook status to "the barrier has been broken, and I'm upset I didn't do it first." Which sounded bizarre and vaguely sexual enough to require investigation.
When I asked, he informed me the barrier is "the L word". Okay, first of all if you're still calling it "the L word" you probably have no business using it. I'm just saying. And second of all? These two crazy cats have only been dating for three weeks.
And she lives in Switzerland!
So I'm gonna go ahead and call shenanigans. Far be it from me to downplay the power of love, but this is the same guy who's last girlfriend was a socially excommunicated, bitchy troll. (No, that is not an objective opinion. That is FACT) They too were using "the L word" almost immediately, and offensively, if you ask me.
There should be some kind of test people take to screen for emotional soundness, maturity, and independence before they can use "the L word". Like passing The Bar Exam or getting your driver's license. You can say it, but -- much like practicing law without passing The Bar -- it doesn't mean squat until you pass a test proving you know your stuff. And like driving, one would be ticketed for uttering without a license and/or abusing the privilege.
The barrier is broken. Please.
When I asked, he informed me the barrier is "the L word". Okay, first of all if you're still calling it "the L word" you probably have no business using it. I'm just saying. And second of all? These two crazy cats have only been dating for three weeks.
And she lives in Switzerland!
So I'm gonna go ahead and call shenanigans. Far be it from me to downplay the power of love, but this is the same guy who's last girlfriend was a socially excommunicated, bitchy troll. (No, that is not an objective opinion. That is FACT) They too were using "the L word" almost immediately, and offensively, if you ask me.
There should be some kind of test people take to screen for emotional soundness, maturity, and independence before they can use "the L word". Like passing The Bar Exam or getting your driver's license. You can say it, but -- much like practicing law without passing The Bar -- it doesn't mean squat until you pass a test proving you know your stuff. And like driving, one would be ticketed for uttering without a license and/or abusing the privilege.
The barrier is broken. Please.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
When I Grow Up...
...I want to be Anne Lamott. She is brilliant.
"I've heard someone say that our problems aren't the problem; it's our solutions that are the problem," Anne Lamott reflects. "That tends to be one thing that goes wrong for me—my solutions."
"I've heard someone say that our problems aren't the problem; it's our solutions that are the problem," Anne Lamott reflects. "That tends to be one thing that goes wrong for me—my solutions."
Monday, November 03, 2008
Its Official
I. Will. Never. Sleep. Naked. Again.
This morning, I woke up all productive-like on my day off and started with laundry. I dumped my clean clothes on the bed and folded them. I even went out of my way to pick up the big piece of lint I spotted on the bed.
Except, the big piece of lint came to life in my fingers and started squiggling around. I shit you not.
GIANT SPIDER!!
Yes. And oh, I freaked out so royally. I chucked that spider across the room (aerodynamic, indeed). It bounced off the wall onto the floor, where it lay for a full 5 minutes while I did the screaming idiot-woman dance.
There's something about not knowing it's a spider when you pick it up that makes the whole experience worse. It's like the scene in a horror movie when the killer silently watches his victim before attacking.
And then, of course, I started having a domino thought pattern that went: oh crap, that piece of "lint" has been there for awhile...I saw it when I first got up this morning and was just too lazy to throw it out. Oh shit, it was there while I was sleeping. Oh SHIT, I slept naked last night!
The places that spider may have been!
Ugh.
This morning, I woke up all productive-like on my day off and started with laundry. I dumped my clean clothes on the bed and folded them. I even went out of my way to pick up the big piece of lint I spotted on the bed.
Except, the big piece of lint came to life in my fingers and started squiggling around. I shit you not.
GIANT SPIDER!!
Yes. And oh, I freaked out so royally. I chucked that spider across the room (aerodynamic, indeed). It bounced off the wall onto the floor, where it lay for a full 5 minutes while I did the screaming idiot-woman dance.
There's something about not knowing it's a spider when you pick it up that makes the whole experience worse. It's like the scene in a horror movie when the killer silently watches his victim before attacking.
And then, of course, I started having a domino thought pattern that went: oh crap, that piece of "lint" has been there for awhile...I saw it when I first got up this morning and was just too lazy to throw it out. Oh shit, it was there while I was sleeping. Oh SHIT, I slept naked last night!
The places that spider may have been!
Ugh.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
The Russian
So yesterday my Neuropathologist (I know that sounds highly specialized. But truly he’s just a Russian with a lisp who taps on me in very, very strange ways)...
Anyway, yesterday he told me my back pain is caused by the fact that I repress my emotions. Uh, sure.
I’m (allegedly) so emotively challenged that my tailbone vibrates back and forth with fury. The Russian explained that tailbones traditionally sit still or slide sideways when pressure is applied. Mine? It bounces back and forth. Which he insists is hard proof I’m holding my feelings in.
Um, let me get this straight. You're reading my ass like Japanese tea leaves?
Fortunately, what came out of my mouth sounded more like, “Uh yeah, I’m a middle child…”
But see, that's the thing about The Russian. He'll say something I'd ordinarily dismiss as nutty…then he'll tap a certain spot on my elbow, make me close my eyes and bite a pencil or something, and magically, my pain will disappear. And I'll shut my cakehole and sit in amazement. If it’s trickery, I really don’t care. He could strip me naked, cover me in molasses, and ask me too moo like a cow. So long as it works.
And it does. So I think I'll continue getting tapped and shutting my cakehole...
Anyway, yesterday he told me my back pain is caused by the fact that I repress my emotions. Uh, sure.
I’m (allegedly) so emotively challenged that my tailbone vibrates back and forth with fury. The Russian explained that tailbones traditionally sit still or slide sideways when pressure is applied. Mine? It bounces back and forth. Which he insists is hard proof I’m holding my feelings in.
Um, let me get this straight. You're reading my ass like Japanese tea leaves?
Fortunately, what came out of my mouth sounded more like, “Uh yeah, I’m a middle child…”
But see, that's the thing about The Russian. He'll say something I'd ordinarily dismiss as nutty…then he'll tap a certain spot on my elbow, make me close my eyes and bite a pencil or something, and magically, my pain will disappear. And I'll shut my cakehole and sit in amazement. If it’s trickery, I really don’t care. He could strip me naked, cover me in molasses, and ask me too moo like a cow. So long as it works.
And it does. So I think I'll continue getting tapped and shutting my cakehole...
Monday, September 22, 2008
Someone please tell me what is wrong with men. No wait, first let me complain so I feel better. Then you can tell me what is wrong with men.
My best guess is that it’s a wiring problem.
There seems to be a set of men in the 24 to 30-year-old range who are a bunch gone bad. It's not a stereotype, it's a phenomenon. As if God, the cosmic baker, had an ADD moment and neglected to add yeast to this batch. Ladies, leave them in the bowl and as long as you want…they ain’t gonna rise. You can even put ‘em in the oven and crank up the heat, but you’re not gonna get a loaf of bread.
My ex, whom we’ll call…Mandrew, is a prime example. Mandrew recently broke up with his girlfriend of a year (whom he cheated on me with, ruthlessly grinding my heart under the heel of his preppy-ass loafer). Since the day he began fantasizing about their break up, I have heard from him more often than my own mother. I cannot log onto the internet without getting an email, friend request, or photo comment from him. I cannot have a span longer than 12 hours without an inquisitive, friendly text from him. What the hell?
When we were dating I couldn’t find this guy with two hands, a flashlight, and a SWAT team, but now he's like frickin’ American Express: he's everywhere I want to be.
It’s absurd.
I carried this guy up through not one, but two deaths in his family during our relationship. Because “we loved each other” (why yes, that is the sound of my eyes rolling). Can you guess what happened when my sister got married and I was the Maid of Honor? My dear boyfriend, Mandrew, bailed at the last moment and broke up with me in the process. Try giving that wedding speech. Of course, Mandrew realized he’d made a huge mistake, loved me immensely, and wanted me back. After some groveling and reparations we gave it a shot. Can you guess what happened when my grandfather passed away? Mandrew slipped into the ether, leaving only a brief, apologetic MySpace message and posted photos of him and his new girlfriend.
Classy.
Forget whether a person is ready for commitment…whether they see their relationship headed for marriage…that’s not the issue. The issue is: are you human? Because regardless of your issues, when you care about someone and they have an hour of need, you show up. You support, you listen, you comfort. Capiche?
You don’t show up 2 years later and try to cram yourself back into their somewhat sane, recovered life.
So to all my exhausted, disheartened female compatriots, I send empathy. And more importantly, I send you waves of hope and assurance that yes, we deserve more, and we will have it. Maybe not right now…and maybe not from the Mandrews of the world…but one day...
My best guess is that it’s a wiring problem.
There seems to be a set of men in the 24 to 30-year-old range who are a bunch gone bad. It's not a stereotype, it's a phenomenon. As if God, the cosmic baker, had an ADD moment and neglected to add yeast to this batch. Ladies, leave them in the bowl and as long as you want…they ain’t gonna rise. You can even put ‘em in the oven and crank up the heat, but you’re not gonna get a loaf of bread.
My ex, whom we’ll call…Mandrew, is a prime example. Mandrew recently broke up with his girlfriend of a year (whom he cheated on me with, ruthlessly grinding my heart under the heel of his preppy-ass loafer). Since the day he began fantasizing about their break up, I have heard from him more often than my own mother. I cannot log onto the internet without getting an email, friend request, or photo comment from him. I cannot have a span longer than 12 hours without an inquisitive, friendly text from him. What the hell?
When we were dating I couldn’t find this guy with two hands, a flashlight, and a SWAT team, but now he's like frickin’ American Express: he's everywhere I want to be.
It’s absurd.
I carried this guy up through not one, but two deaths in his family during our relationship. Because “we loved each other” (why yes, that is the sound of my eyes rolling). Can you guess what happened when my sister got married and I was the Maid of Honor? My dear boyfriend, Mandrew, bailed at the last moment and broke up with me in the process. Try giving that wedding speech. Of course, Mandrew realized he’d made a huge mistake, loved me immensely, and wanted me back. After some groveling and reparations we gave it a shot. Can you guess what happened when my grandfather passed away? Mandrew slipped into the ether, leaving only a brief, apologetic MySpace message and posted photos of him and his new girlfriend.
Classy.
Forget whether a person is ready for commitment…whether they see their relationship headed for marriage…that’s not the issue. The issue is: are you human? Because regardless of your issues, when you care about someone and they have an hour of need, you show up. You support, you listen, you comfort. Capiche?
You don’t show up 2 years later and try to cram yourself back into their somewhat sane, recovered life.
So to all my exhausted, disheartened female compatriots, I send empathy. And more importantly, I send you waves of hope and assurance that yes, we deserve more, and we will have it. Maybe not right now…and maybe not from the Mandrews of the world…but one day...
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Sing To It
At the end, he said, no metaphors! Nothing is like anything else.
Except he said to me before he said that, Make your hands a
hammock for me. So there was one.
He said, Not even the rain - he quoted the poet - not even the
rain has such small hands. So there was another.
At the end, I wanted to comfort him. But what I said was, Sing
to it. The Arabian proverb: When danger approaches, sing to it.
Except I said to him before that, No metaphors! No one is like
anyone else. And he said, Please.
So -- at the end, I made my hands a hammock for him.
My arms, the trees.
-- by Amy Hempel
******
I think this poem is so powerful...and a little heart wrenching. I found it weird when I showed it to people and they looked at me like, "yeah? And??". I guess we interpret poetry the way we want...
Except he said to me before he said that, Make your hands a
hammock for me. So there was one.
He said, Not even the rain - he quoted the poet - not even the
rain has such small hands. So there was another.
At the end, I wanted to comfort him. But what I said was, Sing
to it. The Arabian proverb: When danger approaches, sing to it.
Except I said to him before that, No metaphors! No one is like
anyone else. And he said, Please.
So -- at the end, I made my hands a hammock for him.
My arms, the trees.
-- by Amy Hempel
******
I think this poem is so powerful...and a little heart wrenching. I found it weird when I showed it to people and they looked at me like, "yeah? And??". I guess we interpret poetry the way we want...
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Stop Loss
Its scary how quickly and soundly 2008 crashed in. The holidays are always a particularly daunting chunk of time. The Big Battle this year was supposed to be Opa's absence. For the first time, in his own house -- a house he built -- we handed out presents and sliced turkey without his heavy voice setting the tempo.
He was our metronome.
Mom walked around with a giant hole in her middle where he used to be. The acid from that hole splattered on everyone during those days. For the first time since he died, and on Christmas morning, I put my foot down and said "enough". Not in those words, in much uglier ones, while watching Mom crumble onto the guest bed, a heaving mess of misery. Sadness spread like hot water through my chest. But it worked.
Some days I hate the spinning of the earth. Despise the persistence of our stupid clocks.
On Christmas, at midnight, my sister said she had news that was no big deal. The three of us -- her, Mom, me -- sat and listened as her words tumbled into a still, dark living room. Aunt Jone was coughing blood, just a little, but the x-rays say a 2x2 tumor sits on her lung. Likely benign. We would have tests and results and information soon. My brain worried, just like it is supposed to, but my heart knew it was impossible for my Aunt to be sick. This year was already full of stunning losses, surely we wouldn't be handed another. And anyway, my Aunt doesn't get sick. At 67, she's healthier than I am.
A week later, she was a Stage 4, Adenicarcinoma patient with tumors on her spine, sternum, adrenals, and kidneys. The oncologist said preposterous things like "inoperable" and "maybe a year".
No, really. I'm not kidding.
Over the phone, I could hear my father staggering. For a week I had to wait to see his face -- but from California to Florida I could hear it. Our phone calls drowned in wordlessness. In inadequacy. It tore my heart and bent my brain. My cell phone started sleeping next to me in my bed like a tiny pet. I hoped for Dad's calls so I could stop imagining his sadness and know it hadn't killed him. Because really, who knows where this year will stop? Clearly, it has no boundaries or sense of fairness.
There's a movie that just came out about the war called Stop Loss. Apparently, 'Stop Loss' is a term for soldiers being sent back to the front lines after they're due to be discharged. They are supposed to get normal back, but instead finds themselves right in the thick of battle, carrying some ridiculous weapon that's been hurriedly slapped into their palms. Some feeble, tiny weapon in comparison to the giant tanks blasting cannons at their ass. The movie title resonated for that reason, but also because, with a comma added, it has become my motto. "Stop, loss". It is my command to the universe.
Dad flew in for a week. When he arrived from the airport he was so exhausted and pale -- I was afraid if I touched him, he'd fall away under my fingertips like a pillar of ash. Everywhere we went, I walked in front of him like a human barrier on the streets of Pasadena. Like a linebacker, heading off any contact that might send him scattering into the wind. I couldn't even bear for people to speak too loudly in his direction.
Our road trip to My Aunt's was immeasurably sweet and rewarding and painful. It was full of moments I wanted to hold in my hand and squeeze hard for a long time -- and awful ones just like that millisecond before a needle pierces your skin. I tried so hard to remember every granule of the experience Dad and I had in Santa Barbara relaxing, talking and reading. Of the words he shared about his childhood and the things he'd never told me before; things my sister would likely never hear. I felt selfish having it all to myself, but so lucky that I didn't care. The impossibility of sitting in each second long enough to hold onto for the day he's gone overwhelmed me. It was inexpressible and it is still.
There was good news too. (there is always some, somewhere in the mess) The good news is that the younger ones in my family have linked our arms in an effort to stop loss. The cousins and siblings of my generation - we have our elbows crooked together and our resolve is firm. Sometimes we bump into each other, but we hold a hard line and no man gets left behind. We attend funerals together, call with regularity, and love in very big ways. We plan reunions and take photos and express with abandon. We are not like the feuding generations before us, and we never will be. And in that, at least, there is victory in this season of loss.
He was our metronome.
Mom walked around with a giant hole in her middle where he used to be. The acid from that hole splattered on everyone during those days. For the first time since he died, and on Christmas morning, I put my foot down and said "enough". Not in those words, in much uglier ones, while watching Mom crumble onto the guest bed, a heaving mess of misery. Sadness spread like hot water through my chest. But it worked.
Some days I hate the spinning of the earth. Despise the persistence of our stupid clocks.
On Christmas, at midnight, my sister said she had news that was no big deal. The three of us -- her, Mom, me -- sat and listened as her words tumbled into a still, dark living room. Aunt Jone was coughing blood, just a little, but the x-rays say a 2x2 tumor sits on her lung. Likely benign. We would have tests and results and information soon. My brain worried, just like it is supposed to, but my heart knew it was impossible for my Aunt to be sick. This year was already full of stunning losses, surely we wouldn't be handed another. And anyway, my Aunt doesn't get sick. At 67, she's healthier than I am.
A week later, she was a Stage 4, Adenicarcinoma patient with tumors on her spine, sternum, adrenals, and kidneys. The oncologist said preposterous things like "inoperable" and "maybe a year".
No, really. I'm not kidding.
Over the phone, I could hear my father staggering. For a week I had to wait to see his face -- but from California to Florida I could hear it. Our phone calls drowned in wordlessness. In inadequacy. It tore my heart and bent my brain. My cell phone started sleeping next to me in my bed like a tiny pet. I hoped for Dad's calls so I could stop imagining his sadness and know it hadn't killed him. Because really, who knows where this year will stop? Clearly, it has no boundaries or sense of fairness.
There's a movie that just came out about the war called Stop Loss. Apparently, 'Stop Loss' is a term for soldiers being sent back to the front lines after they're due to be discharged. They are supposed to get normal back, but instead finds themselves right in the thick of battle, carrying some ridiculous weapon that's been hurriedly slapped into their palms. Some feeble, tiny weapon in comparison to the giant tanks blasting cannons at their ass. The movie title resonated for that reason, but also because, with a comma added, it has become my motto. "Stop, loss". It is my command to the universe.
Dad flew in for a week. When he arrived from the airport he was so exhausted and pale -- I was afraid if I touched him, he'd fall away under my fingertips like a pillar of ash. Everywhere we went, I walked in front of him like a human barrier on the streets of Pasadena. Like a linebacker, heading off any contact that might send him scattering into the wind. I couldn't even bear for people to speak too loudly in his direction.
Our road trip to My Aunt's was immeasurably sweet and rewarding and painful. It was full of moments I wanted to hold in my hand and squeeze hard for a long time -- and awful ones just like that millisecond before a needle pierces your skin. I tried so hard to remember every granule of the experience Dad and I had in Santa Barbara relaxing, talking and reading. Of the words he shared about his childhood and the things he'd never told me before; things my sister would likely never hear. I felt selfish having it all to myself, but so lucky that I didn't care. The impossibility of sitting in each second long enough to hold onto for the day he's gone overwhelmed me. It was inexpressible and it is still.
There was good news too. (there is always some, somewhere in the mess) The good news is that the younger ones in my family have linked our arms in an effort to stop loss. The cousins and siblings of my generation - we have our elbows crooked together and our resolve is firm. Sometimes we bump into each other, but we hold a hard line and no man gets left behind. We attend funerals together, call with regularity, and love in very big ways. We plan reunions and take photos and express with abandon. We are not like the feuding generations before us, and we never will be. And in that, at least, there is victory in this season of loss.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
The Rooster
Things here are good. Still waging an ongoing battle against legions of cockroach armies. Little fuckers. They generally only come out at night, when they look scarier and I'm too exhausted to mount a counter attack. Yesterday morning I had the exterminator here, who now thinks I'm certifiably insane. It's a damn good thing he doesn't work for the city. When he got to my front door I actually started to tear up, I was so happy to see him. (When you haven't slept, it's easy to get emotional.)
I made the poor exterminator guy spray everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I followed him around the apartment saying, "hmm, I think you missed a spot here," and, "oh, did you get right here? It's kinda hidden, but if you squint just right and tilt your head to the left, you can see there's a teeny hole right...HERE." He seemed to think I was a bit too intense. I asked if he'd come back tomorrow, just to be thorough. He said no.
The real kicker came when one of the little bastards crawled out of the corner and onto the stove. Talk about balls -- the exterminator was standing right there! These exoskeletoned little suckers just don't give a damn. I dove across the kitchen, kleenex in hand, shoved the extermintor guy aside, and squashed the living hell out of it. It kept twitching, and by then I was really into killing the little beast, so I began verbally abusing it. "Oh, you want some more?! That wasn't enough for you?! Yeah, you tell your friends what it's like in the daylight, you motherfucker!"
The exterminator clutched tighter to his poison gun & I saw fear in his eyes. I've officially become that lady.
I've also discovered I'm not in a "quiet neighborhood," like the ad described. I'm two houses away from "LA Cycle," which, contrary to my original belief, is not a quaint little bicycle store. It's actually a loud-ass motorcycle shop. Fun times. Loving those Harley's right now. They use my street for test drives and tricks...you know, like going 90 MPH and popping wheelies. No mufflers whatsoever. At least they're only noisy during daytime hours, which is more than I can say for the fucking rooster.
Oh yes, I said rooster. A rooster in the big city. It's like a Disney Adventure. And he lives right next door to me, as luck would have it. But this not just any rooster; this is a confused fucking bird. It starts cock-a-doodle-dooing at 5:30am, and continues doing so until 9:00am. No joke. Nonstop, full volume, with thin, cheap window panes as my only defense.
Who the hell has a rooster in LA?! And why do they want me to kill it?
Have I mentioned there's a guy upstairs who likes to shoot hoops? In his apartment?
No? I'll save that for later. I've got a rooster to kill.
I made the poor exterminator guy spray everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I followed him around the apartment saying, "hmm, I think you missed a spot here," and, "oh, did you get right here? It's kinda hidden, but if you squint just right and tilt your head to the left, you can see there's a teeny hole right...HERE." He seemed to think I was a bit too intense. I asked if he'd come back tomorrow, just to be thorough. He said no.
The real kicker came when one of the little bastards crawled out of the corner and onto the stove. Talk about balls -- the exterminator was standing right there! These exoskeletoned little suckers just don't give a damn. I dove across the kitchen, kleenex in hand, shoved the extermintor guy aside, and squashed the living hell out of it. It kept twitching, and by then I was really into killing the little beast, so I began verbally abusing it. "Oh, you want some more?! That wasn't enough for you?! Yeah, you tell your friends what it's like in the daylight, you motherfucker!"
The exterminator clutched tighter to his poison gun & I saw fear in his eyes. I've officially become that lady.
I've also discovered I'm not in a "quiet neighborhood," like the ad described. I'm two houses away from "LA Cycle," which, contrary to my original belief, is not a quaint little bicycle store. It's actually a loud-ass motorcycle shop. Fun times. Loving those Harley's right now. They use my street for test drives and tricks...you know, like going 90 MPH and popping wheelies. No mufflers whatsoever. At least they're only noisy during daytime hours, which is more than I can say for the fucking rooster.
Oh yes, I said rooster. A rooster in the big city. It's like a Disney Adventure. And he lives right next door to me, as luck would have it. But this not just any rooster; this is a confused fucking bird. It starts cock-a-doodle-dooing at 5:30am, and continues doing so until 9:00am. No joke. Nonstop, full volume, with thin, cheap window panes as my only defense.
Who the hell has a rooster in LA?! And why do they want me to kill it?
Have I mentioned there's a guy upstairs who likes to shoot hoops? In his apartment?
No? I'll save that for later. I've got a rooster to kill.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Who's The Turkey Now
I had planned to make dinner tonight for my grandmother: cornish game hens with my famous cheese rice. By 4:00 everything was purchased, laid on the kitchen counter, and ready to go. Only one problem. At some point between the purchasing of poultry and the cooking of it, I managed to lose my mind.
You see, the cornish hens were so little. And cute. I don’t know why, but running them under water reminded me of bathing babies in the sink.
That idea pretty much did me in. The thought of cooking these little hens seemed akin to sticking a fetus in the oven, and I was bowled over by waves of nausea just thinking about it. I’ve cooked turkey a thousand times (just ask the firemen who’ve extinguished my flaming kitchen), but for some reason all I wanted to do with these little birds was wrap them in a warm blanket and give them names (Hansel & Gretel, perhaps?).
I know. I swear I’m not on any meds.
I tried to be rational - clearly, I was having a simple biological clock malfunction. I’m 28 and don’t have babies of my own. I’m transferring my emotions. Totally normal. I’ve developed a mothering instinct for anything small, including...dead birds. I hope to God we don’t have any mice in the house. Things could get ugly real fast.
Happily, I knew where to turn. My grandmother never had trouble paddling my cute little toosh when I was young, and just as I suspected, she had no problem popping the hens into her Oven of Death.
Knowing my place, I stepped aside and dedicated myself to some very plain, non-adorable, brown rice.
You see, the cornish hens were so little. And cute. I don’t know why, but running them under water reminded me of bathing babies in the sink.
That idea pretty much did me in. The thought of cooking these little hens seemed akin to sticking a fetus in the oven, and I was bowled over by waves of nausea just thinking about it. I’ve cooked turkey a thousand times (just ask the firemen who’ve extinguished my flaming kitchen), but for some reason all I wanted to do with these little birds was wrap them in a warm blanket and give them names (Hansel & Gretel, perhaps?).
I know. I swear I’m not on any meds.
I tried to be rational - clearly, I was having a simple biological clock malfunction. I’m 28 and don’t have babies of my own. I’m transferring my emotions. Totally normal. I’ve developed a mothering instinct for anything small, including...dead birds. I hope to God we don’t have any mice in the house. Things could get ugly real fast.
Happily, I knew where to turn. My grandmother never had trouble paddling my cute little toosh when I was young, and just as I suspected, she had no problem popping the hens into her Oven of Death.
Knowing my place, I stepped aside and dedicated myself to some very plain, non-adorable, brown rice.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
You thought I had a hilarious roller coaster of unfortunate events yesterday? Ha! Wait until you hear about today. Let me set the scene...
Two nights ago, Melissa's friend from jail, Gary, stopped staying at our place. (He had been here for a three-night stretch, which for him, is a LONG time out of the slammer). Because I am a rational human being with a healthy fear of death and/or mutilation, I'm relieved. Because Melissa is not, I try to casually feign curiosity about his absence. "Is Gary gone?" I ask innocently. Melissa assures me he's gone and out of her life because he has pissed her off irrevocably by displaying some unforgivable behavior (which I can only assume was an unprovoked display of normalcy and/or kindness.)
Now bear in mind, this kid has been to jail twice since our introduction a month ago. To be honest, I liked the guy. I've only seen him sober, a state which reveals him to be a bright, charismatic, well-spoken guy. The second time he went to jail was for domestic abuse. That's where I became sure I don't care what my impression of him was. I don't want to be around for the Dr. Jeckyl/Mr. Hyde performance. Several times now, Melissa has come home and cautioned me not allow him in the apartment because he's on PCP and "out of control".
Of course, just a day or two later he'll be back in her bed and she'll be in love.
So I have been getting pretty used to the cycle. (Translation: I've taken to sleeping with a knife under my pillow. My dates find it quite disconcerting.) This morning, I woke up and heard a man's voice in Melissa's room that, most definitely, was not there last night. I go to the bathroom and see the toilet seat up. Could it be Gary? No, Melissa is too mad at him. Right? RIGHT?
Around noon, Melissa stumbles into the kitchen and I whisper, "is Gary here?". She sighs. I think to myself, "oh shit, here we go again". And this is what happens next, I swear to God. Melissa tells me Gary got kicked out of his place at 3AM. Gary interrupts with a yell from her bedroom, presumably to defend himself. "I did NOT get kicked out, I f-ing left," he corrects. "I stabbed a big black guy, and then I left that f-ing place!"
Oh.
Okay.
You stabbed someone. Of course. Did that myself just the other day, and damn, I'm exhausted, so if you'll excuse me I'll just be going out this front door right here...
But now, unfortunately, I'm an unwilling hostage in a conversation with Gary, who wants to tell me the whole story. "Come in here!" he shouts from Melissa's bed. Oh hell. I'm f-ing in a spot now, aren't I?
In Melissa's room, he recounts how he called the big guy "bro" and can't understand why he got pissed. He confesses that he "hates all black people anyway", which I can't imagine worked in his favor. Apparently, Gary asked the guy to "shut up and go buy me some beer," (I like to picture this scene with Gary in a wife-beater, on an old, Southern, wrap-around porch...feel free to do the same). I can tell by the way Gary stops abruptly and darts a glance at Melissa before the word "beer" that the sentence used to be, "shut up and go by me some crack." Anyway, the big man voiced some kind of dissent. Gary (who is 5 foot 11, but is certainly not someone I'd want to brawl with) decides he should "take it outside" with this 6 foot 4 tattooed guy. Not a choice I'd have made, but what I don't know is that Gary has a pen...and a plan.
In that order.
According to Gary, they fought, broke some furniture, and then Gary punched him in the face with a pen protruding from his knuckles. First Point: Gary. The guy is now raging and throws a chair that hits Gary in the eye. Point Two: Large Angry Tattooed Man. After this, Gary holds tight to the pen, then cranks it into the guy's side, just beneath his rib cage. Where it gets stuck and breaks. HOLY SHIT. Game, Set, Match: Gary.
I can't believe I'm I really hearing this...in my own apartment, no less. Melissa is laughing. I look at her, unable to say anything intelligent or remotely resembling English. I comfort myself with the idea that I must be having a nightmare and can simply wake up and reach under the pillow for my knife.
"Look, here's the ink still all over my hand," Gary boasts.
Melissa smiles and shakes her head like you'd see a housewife in the mid 50's do when her puppy messes on the floor. “What, oh what, are we going to do with this little rascal?" she asks. Oh, I don’t know. Can we start by locking his crazy, motherf-cking ass out?!
Gary concludes his story with, "so then I left to go get a beer or something, to calm down. Seven Eleven didn't sell beer that late, so I grabbed a Mountain Dew. Drank it. Came here."
Wow. This guy's thought-pattern astounds me. He assured me there's no need to worry, because the police weren't called. Oh, fantastic. Good to know my only hope for survival has been wiped out. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go load my glock.
Two nights ago, Melissa's friend from jail, Gary, stopped staying at our place. (He had been here for a three-night stretch, which for him, is a LONG time out of the slammer). Because I am a rational human being with a healthy fear of death and/or mutilation, I'm relieved. Because Melissa is not, I try to casually feign curiosity about his absence. "Is Gary gone?" I ask innocently. Melissa assures me he's gone and out of her life because he has pissed her off irrevocably by displaying some unforgivable behavior (which I can only assume was an unprovoked display of normalcy and/or kindness.)
Now bear in mind, this kid has been to jail twice since our introduction a month ago. To be honest, I liked the guy. I've only seen him sober, a state which reveals him to be a bright, charismatic, well-spoken guy. The second time he went to jail was for domestic abuse. That's where I became sure I don't care what my impression of him was. I don't want to be around for the Dr. Jeckyl/Mr. Hyde performance. Several times now, Melissa has come home and cautioned me not allow him in the apartment because he's on PCP and "out of control".
Of course, just a day or two later he'll be back in her bed and she'll be in love.
So I have been getting pretty used to the cycle. (Translation: I've taken to sleeping with a knife under my pillow. My dates find it quite disconcerting.) This morning, I woke up and heard a man's voice in Melissa's room that, most definitely, was not there last night. I go to the bathroom and see the toilet seat up. Could it be Gary? No, Melissa is too mad at him. Right? RIGHT?
Around noon, Melissa stumbles into the kitchen and I whisper, "is Gary here?". She sighs. I think to myself, "oh shit, here we go again". And this is what happens next, I swear to God. Melissa tells me Gary got kicked out of his place at 3AM. Gary interrupts with a yell from her bedroom, presumably to defend himself. "I did NOT get kicked out, I f-ing left," he corrects. "I stabbed a big black guy, and then I left that f-ing place!"
Oh.
Okay.
You stabbed someone. Of course. Did that myself just the other day, and damn, I'm exhausted, so if you'll excuse me I'll just be going out this front door right here...
But now, unfortunately, I'm an unwilling hostage in a conversation with Gary, who wants to tell me the whole story. "Come in here!" he shouts from Melissa's bed. Oh hell. I'm f-ing in a spot now, aren't I?
In Melissa's room, he recounts how he called the big guy "bro" and can't understand why he got pissed. He confesses that he "hates all black people anyway", which I can't imagine worked in his favor. Apparently, Gary asked the guy to "shut up and go buy me some beer," (I like to picture this scene with Gary in a wife-beater, on an old, Southern, wrap-around porch...feel free to do the same). I can tell by the way Gary stops abruptly and darts a glance at Melissa before the word "beer" that the sentence used to be, "shut up and go by me some crack." Anyway, the big man voiced some kind of dissent. Gary (who is 5 foot 11, but is certainly not someone I'd want to brawl with) decides he should "take it outside" with this 6 foot 4 tattooed guy. Not a choice I'd have made, but what I don't know is that Gary has a pen...and a plan.
In that order.
According to Gary, they fought, broke some furniture, and then Gary punched him in the face with a pen protruding from his knuckles. First Point: Gary. The guy is now raging and throws a chair that hits Gary in the eye. Point Two: Large Angry Tattooed Man. After this, Gary holds tight to the pen, then cranks it into the guy's side, just beneath his rib cage. Where it gets stuck and breaks. HOLY SHIT. Game, Set, Match: Gary.
I can't believe I'm I really hearing this...in my own apartment, no less. Melissa is laughing. I look at her, unable to say anything intelligent or remotely resembling English. I comfort myself with the idea that I must be having a nightmare and can simply wake up and reach under the pillow for my knife.
"Look, here's the ink still all over my hand," Gary boasts.
Melissa smiles and shakes her head like you'd see a housewife in the mid 50's do when her puppy messes on the floor. “What, oh what, are we going to do with this little rascal?" she asks. Oh, I don’t know. Can we start by locking his crazy, motherf-cking ass out?!
Gary concludes his story with, "so then I left to go get a beer or something, to calm down. Seven Eleven didn't sell beer that late, so I grabbed a Mountain Dew. Drank it. Came here."
Wow. This guy's thought-pattern astounds me. He assured me there's no need to worry, because the police weren't called. Oh, fantastic. Good to know my only hope for survival has been wiped out. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go load my glock.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
One Art
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
--
by Elizabeth Bishop
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
--
by Elizabeth Bishop
Saturday, March 25, 2006
The Point System
Friday, I recommitted to trying harder. The quest to be normal. The quest to be healthy and give up the ghost.
I’m like a toddler learning to walk, it seems. On my ass constantly, bruised beyond all recognition, just trying to get up and move forward. Not seeming to make much progress, but hoping my muscles and rote memory are on the verge of some kind of breakthrough.
So I put myself on a point system, just for the weekend, and it goes like this: I get a point every time I make a choice that is NOT my ex (we’ll call him The Engineer…because what I’d really like to call him will get me censored). I kept a date to run with my friend Adam on Saturday morning. One point! And when we returned to his apartment, his new roommate Eric was there. Eric, I can only assume, was sent by God to flirt with me. I flirted back and even accepted an invitation to go for drinks later. Two points before 10 AM! On a roll!
As the exhaustion and a whopping hangover set in, so did worry that my willpower would take a nosedive. I make a point of keeping my plans to meet Heather and Alex for coffee in Santa Monica…two points in one sitting. Well done. By the end of an hour though, I’m tired, cranky, and antsy. I agree to go back to Heather’s (really, all I want to do at this point is call The Engineer – CODE ORANGE) to see her place and chat. Here’s where the backslide begins. It started innocently enough…Heather and I bonded…and as a less harmful alternative to calling The Engineer, I inundated her with a tortuous dissection of my situation. Ooops. I’ve given The Engineer an audible presence. Minus one-half of a point. Hey, I can afford that if I’m up 4, right?
We fall asleep mid-conversation on the bed in her ridiculously hot apartment. The electric fan is on and it’s remarkably relaxing. We wake up and continue where we left off. Heather is impossibly wise, caring, and fair. She’s also a lesbian. I find myself distracted by the thought that she might hit on me, then I scold myself for being such an arrogant, homophobic idiot. Of course, I’m not hearing a word that comes out of her mouth. She touches my leg at one point while speaking, but she certainly doesn’t hit on me.
I hate my brain sometimes.
Once I get past my own hubris, I leave Heather’s in a hurry to get home, planning to bail on plans with my old friend Nate and my grandparents for the evening. I have to get home and clear my head. I’ll have to give up two, possibly three points if I execute my current bail-out plan, and that’s not even counting the notion I might try to see him. In the car, I argue with myself out loud. This, my friends, is the portrait of crazy.
But good crazy because I somehow manage to talk myself into turning the van around and pointing it in the direction of Nate and my grandparents. I figure I’ll let the drive take care of itself. I’ll just try to be where I’m supposed to and let God handle the rest.
I visit the grandparents, soothing my guilty conscience, and I talk to my old friend Nate. So far, I haven’t burst into flames or died of sadness, so that’s a plus. Nate & Co. have decided to go to an LA club tonight. Go figure. Right back where I came from.
I’m game though. After all, it is closer to The Engineer’s house. Yeah, I know, minus another point. I’m subtracting it already…
I get as cute as possible, deciding that tonight could turn out to be fun and I could be really glad I went with Nate instead of giving in to The Force. I choose an outfit and sign up for the Optimist’s Special by hitting Starbucks for an espresso…let’s at least be prepared for a long night, right?! Yeah, I want that damn point back now.
I meet Nate and one of his friends for an amusing dinner. Turns out, nothing has changed with us. We get along swimmingly and there’s no awkwardness. Well, I take that back. We’re both awkward, but not with each other. Case in point: I went flying across the (significantly overly-polished) wooden floor like a graceless hippo on our way out of the restaurant. You can wear the nicest Calvin Klein heels on the planet, but that shit just won’t matter when you’re splayed across a wooden floor in the middle of a busy restaurant. Without missing a beat though, and with both of us laughing hysterically, Nate helped collect my wallet, my keys, and my clumsy body up off the floor. We then enjoy a hysterical ride to L.A., exchanging life narratives and generous helpings of sarcasm in my Mom’s mini-van.
‘Cause that’s how we roll.
At the club, valet is $10. I’m poor. I do not like this. This club is also in the ghetto. I do not like that either. But I valet my mini-van for ten freaking dollars, and we make it in the door at 11:30. The cover is $20. Did I mention, I’m poor? The club is full of remarkably short, Asian teens, and it's dimly lit. Nate’s friends are total strangers to me. Good lord, what am I doing here? This place looks like the seedy opium den you see in almost every Steven Segal film. It’s called The Little Temple, for crying out loud. As we push our way in, I check each closed door for streams of blood trickling out beneath. The dance floor is sweaty and the lights make me want to stroke out. I look at my watch.
The three girls with us are sweet, but they’re all teeny and bouncing around like popcorn. All our little girls have rhythm, and as luck would have it, zero inhibition. I feel like I don’t belong here. Oh no, here comes that feeling…
Must…shove…it…back…down.
I check my watch again. Ten to midnight. I'm flying back to Texas tomorrow, and I haven’t seen The Engineer. I flew across the country, and soon I won’t be able to see him even if I want to. I’m sitting here in a strange, over-priced, uncomfortable, ghetto club. Nate’s Irish ass is attempting to dance and I’m trying hard to look comfortable perched on my stool. Neither of us are succeeding.
Okay that’s it. I’m not wasting this night here. I’m not wasting my cute clothes on this seedy opium den.
I take a deep breath and make a very sudden, very vague excuse to Nate & Co. I’m exhausted and need to catch an early flight, I say. They clearly don’t buy it, but are polite enough to pretend as if they do. Honestly, I really don’t care at this point. I need to get OUT. I figure I’m operating at a 50-point deficit now anyway, so what the hell does it matter?
The two things I cannot do quickly enough at the moment are:
1. Get in my damn car
2. Send a text message to The Engineer
He replies immediately that he’s still up. I call him, and the drink I had makes it easier to ask. Can I drop by? I’m not tired and his place is on my way back to Orange County. It would be good to see his face. Sure, he says. He almost sounds as if he’s okay with it. Almost.
Valet is too slow. Minivans are too slow. Jets are too slow. How long is this fucking freeway, anyhow?? What if he calls and changes his mind before I get there?
The phone rings. FUCK. I’m not going to look at the display…except I do. And it’s Heather. Oh, thank you God!
She does her best to be open-minded and trusting, but is seriously concerned about my decision-making at this point. Ha. Can’t imagine why. I’m just driving like a bat-out-of-hell, in a minivan, slightly drunk, toward my ex’s house at midnight. Heather’s worried this is the movie where I get my heart broken, not the one where I get the guy. She doesn’t know for sure though, because she’s missed most of the film, and because she likes to root for the underdog. She hopes for the best, and this is why I love her. I also love her because she knows how to accept the things she cannot change, like the fact that my steering wheel is locked. I’m a fucking minivan missile.
I hit some traffic and reprimand myself for not investing in teleportation technology years ago.
Finally, I’m here. A light is on. I see his red Honda in the driveway. Relief washes over me. Now I’m safe to ease into the driveway slowly. He’s here, right in front of me, and he’s not going to disappear. My heart slows down and I breathe for the first time in what seems like hours. Days. Weeks. I imagine this is the way a heroin addict feels, the same relief, when sliding a needle into their arm.
Love is a terrifying thing, no?
I’m like a toddler learning to walk, it seems. On my ass constantly, bruised beyond all recognition, just trying to get up and move forward. Not seeming to make much progress, but hoping my muscles and rote memory are on the verge of some kind of breakthrough.
So I put myself on a point system, just for the weekend, and it goes like this: I get a point every time I make a choice that is NOT my ex (we’ll call him The Engineer…because what I’d really like to call him will get me censored). I kept a date to run with my friend Adam on Saturday morning. One point! And when we returned to his apartment, his new roommate Eric was there. Eric, I can only assume, was sent by God to flirt with me. I flirted back and even accepted an invitation to go for drinks later. Two points before 10 AM! On a roll!
As the exhaustion and a whopping hangover set in, so did worry that my willpower would take a nosedive. I make a point of keeping my plans to meet Heather and Alex for coffee in Santa Monica…two points in one sitting. Well done. By the end of an hour though, I’m tired, cranky, and antsy. I agree to go back to Heather’s (really, all I want to do at this point is call The Engineer – CODE ORANGE) to see her place and chat. Here’s where the backslide begins. It started innocently enough…Heather and I bonded…and as a less harmful alternative to calling The Engineer, I inundated her with a tortuous dissection of my situation. Ooops. I’ve given The Engineer an audible presence. Minus one-half of a point. Hey, I can afford that if I’m up 4, right?
We fall asleep mid-conversation on the bed in her ridiculously hot apartment. The electric fan is on and it’s remarkably relaxing. We wake up and continue where we left off. Heather is impossibly wise, caring, and fair. She’s also a lesbian. I find myself distracted by the thought that she might hit on me, then I scold myself for being such an arrogant, homophobic idiot. Of course, I’m not hearing a word that comes out of her mouth. She touches my leg at one point while speaking, but she certainly doesn’t hit on me.
I hate my brain sometimes.
Once I get past my own hubris, I leave Heather’s in a hurry to get home, planning to bail on plans with my old friend Nate and my grandparents for the evening. I have to get home and clear my head. I’ll have to give up two, possibly three points if I execute my current bail-out plan, and that’s not even counting the notion I might try to see him. In the car, I argue with myself out loud. This, my friends, is the portrait of crazy.
But good crazy because I somehow manage to talk myself into turning the van around and pointing it in the direction of Nate and my grandparents. I figure I’ll let the drive take care of itself. I’ll just try to be where I’m supposed to and let God handle the rest.
I visit the grandparents, soothing my guilty conscience, and I talk to my old friend Nate. So far, I haven’t burst into flames or died of sadness, so that’s a plus. Nate & Co. have decided to go to an LA club tonight. Go figure. Right back where I came from.
I’m game though. After all, it is closer to The Engineer’s house. Yeah, I know, minus another point. I’m subtracting it already…
I get as cute as possible, deciding that tonight could turn out to be fun and I could be really glad I went with Nate instead of giving in to The Force. I choose an outfit and sign up for the Optimist’s Special by hitting Starbucks for an espresso…let’s at least be prepared for a long night, right?! Yeah, I want that damn point back now.
I meet Nate and one of his friends for an amusing dinner. Turns out, nothing has changed with us. We get along swimmingly and there’s no awkwardness. Well, I take that back. We’re both awkward, but not with each other. Case in point: I went flying across the (significantly overly-polished) wooden floor like a graceless hippo on our way out of the restaurant. You can wear the nicest Calvin Klein heels on the planet, but that shit just won’t matter when you’re splayed across a wooden floor in the middle of a busy restaurant. Without missing a beat though, and with both of us laughing hysterically, Nate helped collect my wallet, my keys, and my clumsy body up off the floor. We then enjoy a hysterical ride to L.A., exchanging life narratives and generous helpings of sarcasm in my Mom’s mini-van.
‘Cause that’s how we roll.
At the club, valet is $10. I’m poor. I do not like this. This club is also in the ghetto. I do not like that either. But I valet my mini-van for ten freaking dollars, and we make it in the door at 11:30. The cover is $20. Did I mention, I’m poor? The club is full of remarkably short, Asian teens, and it's dimly lit. Nate’s friends are total strangers to me. Good lord, what am I doing here? This place looks like the seedy opium den you see in almost every Steven Segal film. It’s called The Little Temple, for crying out loud. As we push our way in, I check each closed door for streams of blood trickling out beneath. The dance floor is sweaty and the lights make me want to stroke out. I look at my watch.
The three girls with us are sweet, but they’re all teeny and bouncing around like popcorn. All our little girls have rhythm, and as luck would have it, zero inhibition. I feel like I don’t belong here. Oh no, here comes that feeling…
Must…shove…it…back…down.
I check my watch again. Ten to midnight. I'm flying back to Texas tomorrow, and I haven’t seen The Engineer. I flew across the country, and soon I won’t be able to see him even if I want to. I’m sitting here in a strange, over-priced, uncomfortable, ghetto club. Nate’s Irish ass is attempting to dance and I’m trying hard to look comfortable perched on my stool. Neither of us are succeeding.
Okay that’s it. I’m not wasting this night here. I’m not wasting my cute clothes on this seedy opium den.
I take a deep breath and make a very sudden, very vague excuse to Nate & Co. I’m exhausted and need to catch an early flight, I say. They clearly don’t buy it, but are polite enough to pretend as if they do. Honestly, I really don’t care at this point. I need to get OUT. I figure I’m operating at a 50-point deficit now anyway, so what the hell does it matter?
The two things I cannot do quickly enough at the moment are:
1. Get in my damn car
2. Send a text message to The Engineer
He replies immediately that he’s still up. I call him, and the drink I had makes it easier to ask. Can I drop by? I’m not tired and his place is on my way back to Orange County. It would be good to see his face. Sure, he says. He almost sounds as if he’s okay with it. Almost.
Valet is too slow. Minivans are too slow. Jets are too slow. How long is this fucking freeway, anyhow?? What if he calls and changes his mind before I get there?
The phone rings. FUCK. I’m not going to look at the display…except I do. And it’s Heather. Oh, thank you God!
She does her best to be open-minded and trusting, but is seriously concerned about my decision-making at this point. Ha. Can’t imagine why. I’m just driving like a bat-out-of-hell, in a minivan, slightly drunk, toward my ex’s house at midnight. Heather’s worried this is the movie where I get my heart broken, not the one where I get the guy. She doesn’t know for sure though, because she’s missed most of the film, and because she likes to root for the underdog. She hopes for the best, and this is why I love her. I also love her because she knows how to accept the things she cannot change, like the fact that my steering wheel is locked. I’m a fucking minivan missile.
I hit some traffic and reprimand myself for not investing in teleportation technology years ago.
Finally, I’m here. A light is on. I see his red Honda in the driveway. Relief washes over me. Now I’m safe to ease into the driveway slowly. He’s here, right in front of me, and he’s not going to disappear. My heart slows down and I breathe for the first time in what seems like hours. Days. Weeks. I imagine this is the way a heroin addict feels, the same relief, when sliding a needle into their arm.
Love is a terrifying thing, no?
Friday, March 03, 2006
Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridge to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions
back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and police at the back door
and the beatings on the stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you
with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is
--W.S. Merwin
we are stopping on the bridge to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions
back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and police at the back door
and the beatings on the stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you
with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is
--W.S. Merwin
Thursday, January 26, 2006
"D" Day
Today was "D" Day. The day no one wants to be a part of, the day no one wants to remember. A day no one wanted to be the boss. I never thought I'd see the day when my family members slunk docilely into the corners. But remarkably, when the time came to check Opa into a rest home, there wasn’t a domineering, controlling personality to be found. You could have put a child to bed by the sound of their voices. By the meekness in their tones.
Which is basically what it feels like we did today. Put a child to bed. Except there was more resignation; a giving up of hope. And, I think what ripped into everyone's soul was that, in a sense, they were giving up on themselves. His wife, his three children especially, saw what their own fate might be and were mortally terrified. They had to accept that this inevitable Beast, this "giving up", would one day come for them.
We like to think that we can fix anything. Using superglue, saline implants, or new slate tiles. Having heart and hair transplants. It's so human and safe and natural to solve problems...to fix and repair and reconstruct. To build. That's what my grandfather did for a living. He built, with plywood and nails and hammers, and his own two hands, at first. Then later, with shoddy wood and rations in his pockets; with the enemy firing and an infantry behind him. And still later, with a contractor and a crew and an entire company behind him. He was a man who created. A man who moved forward. A man who focused on what could be done, constantly casting aside what couldn't.
He was the same way with us kids. I thought he was a harsh disciplinarian, but now I think it was more that he was hopeful. He was an optimist who believed we could be changed; that we could grow and learn. He loved us and wanted us to thrive; being well-trained and successful because of it. Heavy-handed discipline was necessary because change isn’t easy. He knew that well. Even when we hated him for it, he made us internalize that lesson. A motto etched into our hearts.
I wish he could be with us the way he used to. I know he would tell us we did the right thing today...that it was most important to take care of Nona, and that we should put him out to pasture if he'd become old and feeble. But just the same, I wish I could have heard it from his mouth.
Which is basically what it feels like we did today. Put a child to bed. Except there was more resignation; a giving up of hope. And, I think what ripped into everyone's soul was that, in a sense, they were giving up on themselves. His wife, his three children especially, saw what their own fate might be and were mortally terrified. They had to accept that this inevitable Beast, this "giving up", would one day come for them.
We like to think that we can fix anything. Using superglue, saline implants, or new slate tiles. Having heart and hair transplants. It's so human and safe and natural to solve problems...to fix and repair and reconstruct. To build. That's what my grandfather did for a living. He built, with plywood and nails and hammers, and his own two hands, at first. Then later, with shoddy wood and rations in his pockets; with the enemy firing and an infantry behind him. And still later, with a contractor and a crew and an entire company behind him. He was a man who created. A man who moved forward. A man who focused on what could be done, constantly casting aside what couldn't.
He was the same way with us kids. I thought he was a harsh disciplinarian, but now I think it was more that he was hopeful. He was an optimist who believed we could be changed; that we could grow and learn. He loved us and wanted us to thrive; being well-trained and successful because of it. Heavy-handed discipline was necessary because change isn’t easy. He knew that well. Even when we hated him for it, he made us internalize that lesson. A motto etched into our hearts.
I wish he could be with us the way he used to. I know he would tell us we did the right thing today...that it was most important to take care of Nona, and that we should put him out to pasture if he'd become old and feeble. But just the same, I wish I could have heard it from his mouth.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
He
He grabs me with sense-shattering force
Hands firm, purpose, no distraction
It looks like surrender
It feels like the end of me
I pretend to be alive
In control
Fingers and nails digging the wall
my anchor, my confidante.
I whisper and it holds the words
burying them in the grainy, white paint
He wishes I were different
I know what he means
He wants a challenge
I am only shoes-glued-to-the-floor
Mind numb, useless
Body on its own
But none of it is as bad as the truth
The terrible, heaving, monster-truth
I'm afraid he will leave.
And then it's just me
sitting inside myself, unable to crawl out
thinking things that Grow Ugly
A dirty, huddled mess
Hands firm, purpose, no distraction
It looks like surrender
It feels like the end of me
I pretend to be alive
In control
Fingers and nails digging the wall
my anchor, my confidante.
I whisper and it holds the words
burying them in the grainy, white paint
He wishes I were different
I know what he means
He wants a challenge
I am only shoes-glued-to-the-floor
Mind numb, useless
Body on its own
But none of it is as bad as the truth
The terrible, heaving, monster-truth
I'm afraid he will leave.
And then it's just me
sitting inside myself, unable to crawl out
thinking things that Grow Ugly
A dirty, huddled mess
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
i carry your heart
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
--ee cummings
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
--ee cummings
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
anyone lived in a pretty how town
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did
Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain
children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her
someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream
stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was
all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.
Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
--ee cummings
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did
Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain
children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her
someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream
stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was
all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.
Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
--ee cummings
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