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It occurs to me, after reading the writings of Jared Loughner,
http://www.tucsonweekly.com/TheRange/archives/2011/01/08/the-crazed-internet-rantings-of-jared-loughner
that my Telephone rant is just one step away from crazy.
Make that two steps.
Okay, three - tops.
1/08/2011
1/07/2011
Telephone
I'm not much of a telephone-talker. I never have been. I remember back in junior high and high school when my friends would call and could have talked all night long if I'd been receptive to the idea. I wasn't. Those were the days before the fine invention of call-waiting; those ancient times of rotary dials and busy signals. Depending on who I was trying to call, I knew that busy signal could potentially last for hours. It wasn't only teenage girls who suffered this affliction, it was often their mothers, too - it's definitely a female predilection. Frankly, I never understood it. Thankfully my mom wasn't one of those incessant, yammering yakkers; I don't think either of my sisters were, either. I suppose there are some who might consider my phone aversion bordering on anti-social. Maybe so. I would counter that the diarrhea-of-the-mouth contigent are narcissistic and needy. So there.
I know most people screen their calls these days. I know most people don't answer when they don't feel like it. But there's always that nagging feeling one gets when the phone rings; as if one is required to pick it up. We had this discussion at a party the other night, and the consensus was that no one felt compelled to be held hostage to a ringing phone. Many confessed they didn't even bother to check to see who was calling, and some revealed turning off the ringer altogether. Wow! What mavericks!
If someone leaves a message that requires a return call, then of course it would be rude to ignore it. Otherwise, all bets are off. Our informal poll indicated phone calls are now primarily placed when they serve an actual purpose - killing time doesn't count. Well, what do you know - it turns out my family wasn't freakish after all. (If I had been at all concerned about this, just imagine how relieved I'd be.)
While there are still some old-school phoneaholics out there who think it's perfectly normal to call several times a day and are incapable of gabbing for less than twenty minutes a pop, it now appears those mind-numbing, inane conversations about nothing-in-particular have evolved into being reserved for chatting with long lost acquaintances, seldom-heard-from relatives, and like-minded individuals who share the propensity to blather. Thank goodness they have each other. The problem lies with those clueless people who are completely oblivious to the cues being given by someone who is vainly trying to get off the phone. Or maybe they aren't really oblivious at all and are so egotistical they've managed to convince themselves they're somehow entitled to our attention; that we owe it to them to listen. Phone bullies. Talk about being held hostage!
We all suffer from the delusion that we are infinitely more interesting than we really are, and that the world desperately wants to hear everything we have to say. In fact, some people think they're so damn interesting they actually start their own blogs as an outlet to pontificate. How pathetic can you get! Oh well. At least reading can be done at your leisure and if you find yourself bored out of your mind you can always disconnect at anyti
I know most people screen their calls these days. I know most people don't answer when they don't feel like it. But there's always that nagging feeling one gets when the phone rings; as if one is required to pick it up. We had this discussion at a party the other night, and the consensus was that no one felt compelled to be held hostage to a ringing phone. Many confessed they didn't even bother to check to see who was calling, and some revealed turning off the ringer altogether. Wow! What mavericks!
If someone leaves a message that requires a return call, then of course it would be rude to ignore it. Otherwise, all bets are off. Our informal poll indicated phone calls are now primarily placed when they serve an actual purpose - killing time doesn't count. Well, what do you know - it turns out my family wasn't freakish after all. (If I had been at all concerned about this, just imagine how relieved I'd be.)
While there are still some old-school phoneaholics out there who think it's perfectly normal to call several times a day and are incapable of gabbing for less than twenty minutes a pop, it now appears those mind-numbing, inane conversations about nothing-in-particular have evolved into being reserved for chatting with long lost acquaintances, seldom-heard-from relatives, and like-minded individuals who share the propensity to blather. Thank goodness they have each other. The problem lies with those clueless people who are completely oblivious to the cues being given by someone who is vainly trying to get off the phone. Or maybe they aren't really oblivious at all and are so egotistical they've managed to convince themselves they're somehow entitled to our attention; that we owe it to them to listen. Phone bullies. Talk about being held hostage!
We all suffer from the delusion that we are infinitely more interesting than we really are, and that the world desperately wants to hear everything we have to say. In fact, some people think they're so damn interesting they actually start their own blogs as an outlet to pontificate. How pathetic can you get! Oh well. At least reading can be done at your leisure and if you find yourself bored out of your mind you can always disconnect at anyti
1/06/2011
Another Stage
When Mom started hitting, kicking and biting, Dad was shocked. I explained to him this was all part of the disease; that it was actually a common behavior; that it wasn't MOM. He was acutely aware of his plight at that point, and he understood his diagnosis. He watched Mom go through various stages of decline as she succumbed to dementia, and he was fully cognizant of the fact he was witnessing a dress rehearsal for his own demise. So one day when Mom kicked me and tried to bite my arm for the umpteenth time, Dad suddenly turned to me with a stricken look on his face and very quietly asked, "I won't ever do that, will I?" I can only imagine the horror, fear and helplessness he must have felt – it broke my heart then and it breaks my heart now. I assured him he would never try to hurt me or anyone else like Mom had. He looked doubtful, but he so desperately wanted to believe me that I think he actually did. I wanted to believe me, too.
He is now hitting and kicking the caregivers where he lives. He hasn't gotten to me or my sisters yet, but I imagine it's only a matter of time. I wonder if this new development follows any sort of typical timeline. Mom became combative in September of 2005 and didn't die until February of 2009. Do you suppose this means Dad will live another 3½ years? Probably not. At least, I hope not. The thought of him suffering another 3½ years is more than I can bear.
The next step, of course, is to contact his doctor to see if we can get Dad some anti-anxiety medication. It worked pretty well for Mom in terms of ending the behavior – though it definitely ushered in the start of the zombie stage. That sounds harsh, doesn't it? Maybe it is. But it has been my experience that being a zombie appears to be infinitely less terrifying than being confused, angry, and tormented by everything and everyone around you because none of it makes sense.
I know this type of medication will result in Dad being even more unsteady on his feet than he already is, and I know he'll fall even more often than he already does. But giving him no relief at all is not an option – unless you're a cold, heartless bitch. So the doctor will prescribe something, eventually we'll get the dosage right, and inevitably he will fall. If the fall should only injure him – if he breaks a hip – then undoubtedly he will end up being wheelchair-bound or bedridden. If the fall should kill him – well, what if it does?
I try to picture my dad walking and talking and laughing. I try to imagine what he would say to me if he could. I try to remember what he was like when he was still himself.
I can't.
He is now hitting and kicking the caregivers where he lives. He hasn't gotten to me or my sisters yet, but I imagine it's only a matter of time. I wonder if this new development follows any sort of typical timeline. Mom became combative in September of 2005 and didn't die until February of 2009. Do you suppose this means Dad will live another 3½ years? Probably not. At least, I hope not. The thought of him suffering another 3½ years is more than I can bear.
The next step, of course, is to contact his doctor to see if we can get Dad some anti-anxiety medication. It worked pretty well for Mom in terms of ending the behavior – though it definitely ushered in the start of the zombie stage. That sounds harsh, doesn't it? Maybe it is. But it has been my experience that being a zombie appears to be infinitely less terrifying than being confused, angry, and tormented by everything and everyone around you because none of it makes sense.
I know this type of medication will result in Dad being even more unsteady on his feet than he already is, and I know he'll fall even more often than he already does. But giving him no relief at all is not an option – unless you're a cold, heartless bitch. So the doctor will prescribe something, eventually we'll get the dosage right, and inevitably he will fall. If the fall should only injure him – if he breaks a hip – then undoubtedly he will end up being wheelchair-bound or bedridden. If the fall should kill him – well, what if it does?
I try to picture my dad walking and talking and laughing. I try to imagine what he would say to me if he could. I try to remember what he was like when he was still himself.
I can't.
12/20/2010
How's Your Father?
Occasionally some long lost acquaintance of dad's will come out of the woodwork and ask, "How's your father?" The politically correct response is, "As well as can be expected, I guess. He's hanging in there." This banal reply will usually suffice. I'm always poised for further inquiry, but no one wants to know more - to be perfectly honest they don't really even want to know that much, but they have to ask. It's only polite.
How's my father? He's miserable. He struggles to do the simplest things. He can barely form a sentence. He doesn't know who anyone is and he doesn't remember his past. He is only truly at ease sitting in his chair in his room, for that is the one space left that he still understands. There are no surprises there, no perplexing unfamiliar faces, no unusual disorienting surroundings, no mind-taxing stressors. His world is so small. I could easily make the mistake of thinking I should try to broaden his horizons if I didn't recognize this is the only place he feels safe. The joy he used to feel on an outing has been replaced by anxiety.
How's my father? When I tell him I'm his daughter he looks surprised. When I tell him he has three daughters he looks distressed. The conversations that used to bring him pleasure now torment him because he knows he should know. Recounting tales of our family's antics once served to jog his memory and make him smile - now those same stories upset him. I'm not sure he even believes what I'm telling him. I suppose if I had no memory of an event and someone insisted I was there, I wouldn't believe it either. He is alternately suspicious, sad and distraught. It's hard to comfort him; I can no longer rely on snippets of history to make him happy.
So, I have adapted. Instead of spending time trying to coax him back into reality, I now concern myself with cleaning his fingernails and his ears; dismantling and washing his electric shaver; restocking his diaper and toilet paper supply. When that's done, my mission is no longer to try to engage, it is to placate. We (meaning I) talk about the weather. His "outing" consists of being pushed in his wheelchair through the hallways of the building. It is the same level of interaction I would have if I visited a nursing home and took a complete stranger on a walk. I am nothing to him. Therein lies the problem - because he is everything to me. I'd give anything for just one day - one hour - with him as he used to be: full of life and humor and wit. Just one hour when I could talk to him and he would know who I am and remember that he once loved me.
Maybe next time I see him I'll get lucky and he'll be better - it comes and goes. Mostly it goes. I know the time is fast approaching when his mind will be completely gone. Once he reaches that point, I wonder how much longer his body will continue to function. Months? Years?
How's my father? Languishing. Has been, is now, and will be until the day he mercifully dies. Thanks for asking.
How's my father? He's miserable. He struggles to do the simplest things. He can barely form a sentence. He doesn't know who anyone is and he doesn't remember his past. He is only truly at ease sitting in his chair in his room, for that is the one space left that he still understands. There are no surprises there, no perplexing unfamiliar faces, no unusual disorienting surroundings, no mind-taxing stressors. His world is so small. I could easily make the mistake of thinking I should try to broaden his horizons if I didn't recognize this is the only place he feels safe. The joy he used to feel on an outing has been replaced by anxiety.
How's my father? When I tell him I'm his daughter he looks surprised. When I tell him he has three daughters he looks distressed. The conversations that used to bring him pleasure now torment him because he knows he should know. Recounting tales of our family's antics once served to jog his memory and make him smile - now those same stories upset him. I'm not sure he even believes what I'm telling him. I suppose if I had no memory of an event and someone insisted I was there, I wouldn't believe it either. He is alternately suspicious, sad and distraught. It's hard to comfort him; I can no longer rely on snippets of history to make him happy.
So, I have adapted. Instead of spending time trying to coax him back into reality, I now concern myself with cleaning his fingernails and his ears; dismantling and washing his electric shaver; restocking his diaper and toilet paper supply. When that's done, my mission is no longer to try to engage, it is to placate. We (meaning I) talk about the weather. His "outing" consists of being pushed in his wheelchair through the hallways of the building. It is the same level of interaction I would have if I visited a nursing home and took a complete stranger on a walk. I am nothing to him. Therein lies the problem - because he is everything to me. I'd give anything for just one day - one hour - with him as he used to be: full of life and humor and wit. Just one hour when I could talk to him and he would know who I am and remember that he once loved me.
Maybe next time I see him I'll get lucky and he'll be better - it comes and goes. Mostly it goes. I know the time is fast approaching when his mind will be completely gone. Once he reaches that point, I wonder how much longer his body will continue to function. Months? Years?
How's my father? Languishing. Has been, is now, and will be until the day he mercifully dies. Thanks for asking.
12/18/2010
Not Forward or Back
If I allow myself to think of her
nothing is bright
What used to be
what could have been
none of it fulfilled
She spent her life trying not to fall
off the edge
Fighting to balance
not forward or back
Too long in that place
Colors faded to grey
Maybes stopped
Somedays stopped
Everything lost
trying not to fall
nothing is bright
What used to be
what could have been
none of it fulfilled
She spent her life trying not to fall
off the edge
Fighting to balance
not forward or back
Too long in that place
Colors faded to grey
Maybes stopped
Somedays stopped
Everything lost
trying not to fall
12/14/2010
Dream
I had the best dream last night! I was walking down a marble staircase into a ballroom filled with hundreds of tables. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and a full orchestra was playing in the balcony. Men were dressed in tuxedos; women in beautiful long gowns. I was walking towards the center of the room when it suddenly occurred to me I wasn't supposed to be there. This must be some sort of mistake. Why would I be invited to such a lavish affair? I felt like an idiot and started to leave; hoping to escape unnoticed before I was forcibly removed like the party-crashing Salahi I obviously was. At that precise moment, Prince Charles put his hands firmly on my shoulders, turned me around and started guiding me back to the tables. He was trying to find the place card with my name on it, and we kept walking and walking and walking. We passed tables filled with entertainers, actors and actresses (both living and dead). I was wracking my brain trying to figure out what I was doing there. Had I written a screenplay or something? No. I was sure I would have remembered if I'd done anything noteworthy.
I was about to explain to Prince Charles that I had happened upon this fete quite by accident, when much to my amazement, he found my name. Sitting at my table was Cher, Madonna and Lady Gaga. Good god. Why on earth was I here? Would I be able to bluff my way through the evening? I started to sit down when I noticed the occupants of the next table: Ricky Gervais, Conan O'Brien, Larry David, Martin Short, David Letterman, and Steve Martin. There was one empty spot at their table with a place card belonging to someone whose name I didn't recognize. I quickly swapped that card with my own, and took a seat. (Not that sitting with Cher, Madonna and Lady Gaga wouldn't have been entertaining, but given my druthers...) As I sat down I was waiting for these six men to tell me I didn't belong, but for some inexplicable reason they didn't seem to find it the least bit peculiar that I was there.
The night began when the master of ceremonies took the stage. It was John Boehner - Weeper of the House. He started to speak and immediately began crying. It got so bad he had to be removed from the podium, and in his place stepped Johnny Carson. Johnny Carson!!! Between Johnny and the men at my table, I was laughing all night long. I can't ever remember feeling so... light. (What's really weird is that even though it has been hours since my dream, I can still recall that feeling. It's hard to put into words. It was as though everything else just melted away and I had a temporary pass to pure happiness.) As we were talking and laughing in this grand ballroom, I kept thinking the only thing missing was my dad - my dad from 20 years ago. (I wish I could have summoned him from my subconscious and put him at the table with us. He would have been in his glory.)
My newfound friends and I made plans to meet the next day; they were going to help me find a place to live. (I'm assuming it was Los Angeles.) I couldn't wait to move someplace warm and make a fresh start; I had something wonderful to look forward to! We sat there talking until it was time to go; though mostly I was just listening to the conversation and laughing.
I think I woke myself up by laughing out loud. Seriously! I don't know if such a thing is actually possible, but I do know I've woken up crying before, so it stands to reason one could wake up laughing. As I slowly regained my senses, I realized it had all been a dream. My happiness evaporated as I was thrust unceremoniously back into reality; what a terrible disappointment. It was only 3:30am so I tried desperately to fall back to sleep in the hope I could continue the dream and recapture the joy I felt - as if that could ever happen. (I'm here to report it cannot.)
I'm not sure what this dream meant - if in fact dreams are supposed to mean anything at all. I only know that for those few hours I had the best time! (I wonder what that translates to in real time - a few minutes?) I suspect it's probably not a good sign that a fantasy world provides one's happiest moments, but it's better than not having those moments at all, isn't it? (Well, isn't it?)
P.S. Where was Camilla?
P.P.S. I can't explain why I was privy to such a remarkable, joyful, vivid dream. I've been taking a lot of guaifenesin and sudafed lately; maybe that had something to do with it.
P.P.P.S. I never saw myself. I wonder what my dress looked like...
I was about to explain to Prince Charles that I had happened upon this fete quite by accident, when much to my amazement, he found my name. Sitting at my table was Cher, Madonna and Lady Gaga. Good god. Why on earth was I here? Would I be able to bluff my way through the evening? I started to sit down when I noticed the occupants of the next table: Ricky Gervais, Conan O'Brien, Larry David, Martin Short, David Letterman, and Steve Martin. There was one empty spot at their table with a place card belonging to someone whose name I didn't recognize. I quickly swapped that card with my own, and took a seat. (Not that sitting with Cher, Madonna and Lady Gaga wouldn't have been entertaining, but given my druthers...) As I sat down I was waiting for these six men to tell me I didn't belong, but for some inexplicable reason they didn't seem to find it the least bit peculiar that I was there.
The night began when the master of ceremonies took the stage. It was John Boehner - Weeper of the House. He started to speak and immediately began crying. It got so bad he had to be removed from the podium, and in his place stepped Johnny Carson. Johnny Carson!!! Between Johnny and the men at my table, I was laughing all night long. I can't ever remember feeling so... light. (What's really weird is that even though it has been hours since my dream, I can still recall that feeling. It's hard to put into words. It was as though everything else just melted away and I had a temporary pass to pure happiness.) As we were talking and laughing in this grand ballroom, I kept thinking the only thing missing was my dad - my dad from 20 years ago. (I wish I could have summoned him from my subconscious and put him at the table with us. He would have been in his glory.)
My newfound friends and I made plans to meet the next day; they were going to help me find a place to live. (I'm assuming it was Los Angeles.) I couldn't wait to move someplace warm and make a fresh start; I had something wonderful to look forward to! We sat there talking until it was time to go; though mostly I was just listening to the conversation and laughing.
I think I woke myself up by laughing out loud. Seriously! I don't know if such a thing is actually possible, but I do know I've woken up crying before, so it stands to reason one could wake up laughing. As I slowly regained my senses, I realized it had all been a dream. My happiness evaporated as I was thrust unceremoniously back into reality; what a terrible disappointment. It was only 3:30am so I tried desperately to fall back to sleep in the hope I could continue the dream and recapture the joy I felt - as if that could ever happen. (I'm here to report it cannot.)
I'm not sure what this dream meant - if in fact dreams are supposed to mean anything at all. I only know that for those few hours I had the best time! (I wonder what that translates to in real time - a few minutes?) I suspect it's probably not a good sign that a fantasy world provides one's happiest moments, but it's better than not having those moments at all, isn't it? (Well, isn't it?)
P.S. Where was Camilla?
P.P.S. I can't explain why I was privy to such a remarkable, joyful, vivid dream. I've been taking a lot of guaifenesin and sudafed lately; maybe that had something to do with it.
P.P.P.S. I never saw myself. I wonder what my dress looked like...
12/13/2010
12/08/2010
Blow by Blow
- 5:20am - Check email for interview offers. None.
- 5:25am - Let dogs out. Little one doesn't want to go because it's cold. Have to push him out the door with the toe of my fuzzy slipper.
- 5:40am - Can't find my reading glasses anywhere. I just had them; it's driving me crazy.
- 5:44am - Find reading glasses on my head.
- 6:00am - Drop shampoo bottle on my foot in the shower. Bend down to pick it up and the conditioner bottle falls on my back. (Note to self: keep bottles on bottom shelf in future.)
- 6:40am - Take son to school for baseball meeting. Pick up his friend on the way, which is odd because he has his own car. When I ask why he's not driving I learn he got a speeding ticket for going 27 mph over the limit. (Note to self: time to prepare a lengthy diatribe about the privilege and perils of driving - which my son will promptly ignore.)
- 7:10am - Go to McDonald's drivethru for a large coffee with 2 creams. In the time it takes to drive from the cashier to the order pickup, I suddenly can't remember how to lower my window. I keep pushing a switch and it keeps locking and unlocking the car door. Decide I'll just have to open the door to get my coffee. Can't get door open - it's locked. Press switch to unlock car door - we've established at least I know where that mechanism is located. Get coffee. (Note to self: should I get tested for the Alzheimer's gene?)
- 7:15am - A few blocks from home I see an enormous bald eagle swoop down 30 feet away from me and grab a rabbit. Wingspan appears to be 8 feet across. Stunning, awesome, amazing. (Note to self: must go outside with dogs from now on and stand next to them while they pee - possibly armed with a broom.)
- 7:30am - Go online and search 7 employment websites. Tailor resumes to fit positions and send out 13 applications. Get automated response from each one: "Thank you. Because we receive hundreds of replies we don't have time to contact you. Don't call us, we'll call you." Not holding my breath.
- 11:47am - Off to doctor. Waiting room is packed with people who are undoubtedly carrying a variety of deadly infectious diseases. Get in line to sign in and watch man in front of me sneeze, blow his nose, then pick up pen. Dig through purse for my own writing implement. (Note to self: would it be too Howard Hughesian to wear latex gloves next time I have to go to the doctor?)
- 11:51am - Finally take a seat. Simple woman sitting beside me strikes up conversation about kleenex. I try to appear to be immersed in a 4 month old Sports Illustrated magazine. It doesn't work - conversation progresses from kleenex to mucous.
- 1:56pm - Drop off prescription at Walgreens. Old man in line in front of me doesn't understand why he can't get his medication. Turns out he forgot he picked it up yesterday. He laughs, shakes his head and walks away. Twenty minutes later while I'm waiting for them to call my name, the old man shows up again and tries to get his prescription. I wait to see if pharmacist does anything. She doesn't. I ask the old man if he's with anyone. No. He drove himself. His memory isn't what it used to be. (No shit.) I ask if he needs any help. He looks at me like I might be a serial killer and leaves. I could follow him to see if he gets home alright (no doubt confirming his serial killer fears); instead I hang out by the door and watch until his car pulls away. Did I wait because I wanted to see if he could drive or did I wait so he'd be long gone before I hit the road? (Note to self: initiate legislation requiring annual driver's test starting at age 80.)
- 2:48pm - Son home from school. He's not wearing his coat, hat, or gloves. Want to comment on it, but bite my tongue. No sense starting World War III. I wonder at what age he'll be smart enough to dress for the weather.
- 2:49pm - Ask son if he has much homework. He grunts and rolls his eyes - his patent response. Then, my fatal mistake: I ask a second question. I ask if all the kids from last year's baseball team were at the meeting this morning. He goes ballistic and screams, "I'm sick of you asking questions! I'm not going to sit here and go through all the names of the kids at the meeting!! So don't ask me!!! It's none of your damn business!!!! Why the hell do you care??!!!!!" I know it's a rhetorical question, and I fight the temptation to answer. Yikes. I don't know why that set him off. Seems like everything sets him off these days. As long as we don't speak to each other everything is just dandy - shades of his father. It's hard to balance my parental responsibility to demand that he behave like a decent human being against the desire to walk away and avoid escalating the conflict. What's worse - letting it go, or inciting a riot? Probably letting it go. The problem is that somewhere along the way I lost all authority. I wish he was still a little boy; I could simply pick him up and put him in his room. He's bigger than I am now, and it is clearly evident that civility and respect are inversely proportionate to height. If he grows another foot he'll be shooting a high power rifle from a bell tower somewhere. On the bright side, he's the model of decorum in public, and people regularly comment on what a great kid he is. Apparently temper tantrums are reserved strictly for mothers. Come to think of it, I was horrible to my own mother when I was a teenager - in a snotty yet decidedly less volatile way. Can't help but think she'd be relishing this comeuppance.
- 3:45pm - Appointment for son's sports physical. As we walk into the medical building a man and woman are coming out. The woman is crying. I imagine all sorts of scenarios.
- 4:00pm - Spy a Highlights magazine at the doctor's office. Didn't know it was still around. Excitedly turn to hidden pictures page. All the hidden objects have already been circled in red crayon. Some things never change. I'm just as pissed about it now as I was when I was seven.
- 5:43pm - Make dinner. Dogs are standing under the cutting board hoping something will hit the floor. It'll never happen; I refuse to let them have people food. Turn to scrape contents of cutting board into pan, hit the side of the stove with the edge of the board and promptly dump red peppers, onions and garlic on the floor. Dogs move in for unexpected feast. I yell. Dogs back away, albeit momentarily, then creep in for more. I yell again, dogs scramble and run downstairs. Don't have anymore peppers. Used the last of the onion. Go to freezer and pull out two frozen dinners.
- 6:30pm - Son reports one of the dogs stinks. Upon inspection, I find several pieces of garlic embedded in the hair on dog's back. Put dog in sink for bath. During washing phase she makes a break for it, jumps out of the sink, slides across the countertop and leaps to the floor. She leaves a trail of water and soap in every room of the house and on every piece of furniture before I catch her.
- 6:56pm - While in the bathroom using hairdryer on dog, I knock a bottle of makeup onto floor. Glass shatters everywhere. Why on earth don't they use plastic bottles? How absurd. (Note to self: send scathing letter to all cosmetics manufacturers.)
- 6:57pm - Gingerly set dog outside bathroom and close door so I can clean up the mess.
- 7:00pm - Son shouts upstairs to report dog is still wet. Yes, I know.
- 7:05pm - Son lets dogs outside. I start to yell downstairs to explain the eagle situation, but it's too late. Have visions of dogs being carried away like Toto and the flying monkeys.
- 7:08pm - Son reports wet dog came inside covered in ice crystals. You don't say.
- 7:23pm - Bathroom floor is spotless.
- 7:30pm - I want to watch the Fran Lebowitz documentary. Son wants to watch string of mind-numbing "reality" shows ranging from car repossessions, to pet exterminations, to swamp people, to bounty hunters. We compromise and watch a basketball game and hockey game simultaneously. It occurs to me I have never seen my son watch a single show without changing the channel. Is this ADD? ADHD? Perfectly normal?
- 8:00pm - Son suddenly remembers he has homework. Yeah, right. I turn off the tv and pandemonium ensues. What should be nothing more than a minor skirmish becomes a major hullabaloo. (Note to self: might be a good time to take up drinking heavily every evening from now until son leaves for college.)
- 9:38pm - Son reports he needs plastic folder for paper due tomorrow.
- 9:45pm - Leave for Walgreens. Half expect to run into confused old man trying to pick up the prescription he already picked up. Don't see his car; probably just missed him. I arrive 5 minutes before the store closes and when I walk in the door the cashier shoots daggers at me. Part of me wants to be kind and simply get in and get out; part of me feels the urge to linger and start asking inane questions about various brands of moisturizer.
- 10:10pm - Deliver folder to son. Let dogs out. (Note to self: google "Do eagles hunt at night?")
- 10:36pm - Start harassing son to get to bed. Wonder at what age he'll be smart enough to go to sleep when he's tired.
- 11:31pm - Son is in bed. Remembers his favorite red shorts are dirty and wants to wear them at basketball practice tomorrow. Would I mind doing a load of laundry now? Yes, I'd mind. "Thanks for nothing." You're welcome.
- 11:33pm - Check email for interview offers. None.
- 11:38pm - Wash face, brush teeth, and suddenly feel pain in foot. Stepped squarely on 3" long shard of glass. As usual, appropriate sized bandage does not exist. (Note to self: send scathing letter to all bandage manufacturers.)
- 11:49pm - Clean bathroom floor. Again.
- 12:06am - In bed. Dog jumps up and lies next to me. Smells like garlic.
12/05/2010
In Retrospect
Act I
I'm not sure we really loved each other. To be perfectly honest, I can't remember. It was simply the natural progression of things - you date, you live together, you marry. It was expected. You get used to it - like an old shoe.
He wasn't an intellectual, but he was tall, dark and handsome and occasionally funny. He liked the things my father liked - hunting and fishing - which for some reason mattered to me back then. More importantly, he liked me. Most importantly, he needed me. And who knows when you're ever going to find that again...
At the time I must have figured it was going to be my only shot... or maybe I just didn't give it enough thought. The idea that I could ever have expected it to be a long-term self-sustaining relationship boggles my mind when I think of it now. I spent more time feeling embarrassed than anything else. It was dull and ordinary and stifling and lonely. Who to talk to? Who to share things with?
I offer no excuse for my decision to marry; I expect no sympathy; I knew better. Yet, oddly, when it ended, I wanted to die. I distinctly remember my shock when I discovered heartache was an actual physical feeling. I distinctly remember my shock when I discovered I couldn't sleep or eat for weeks on end. I'd always thought that stuff was a bunch of crap written in novels to drive home a point. I didn't know I would lose years of my life to it. Who knew?
Act II
No more boredom. No more thinking, "Is this all there is?" No more feeling like I was destined to spend a lifetime alternately correcting grammar and biting my tongue. Now it was time for FUN, FUN, FUN!!! Laughter, conversation, drugs, debauchery, bars, loud music, parties. He was bright. More importantly, he liked me. Most importantly, he needed me. And who knows when you're ever going to find that again...
He was a drunk and I was going to save him. I wish I could say I was successful. I wish I could say my dedication, loyalty and perseverance made a difference. I wish I had been smart enough to know better. I distinctly remember my shock when I discovered women really do stay with men who mistreat them. I'd always thought that stuff was a bunch of crap in made-for-tv movies to show stupid damsels in distress. I didn't know I would lose years of my life to it. Who knew?
Act III
The antithesis of the tsunami that preceded it. CALM, CALM, CALM. Dead calm. Not a tranquil, serene calm; more like a dispassionate, detached, taciturn calm.
But he was bright. More importantly, he liked me. Most importantly, he needed me. And who knows when you're ever going to find that again...
I'm not sure if I disappeared because of postpartum depression or because I lived with a ghost. Probably a combination of both. I didn't know I'd lose years of my life to it. Who knew? But I got my son out of the deal, so it was worth it.
Act IV
What I've learned:
Act V
I'll let you know.
I'm not sure we really loved each other. To be perfectly honest, I can't remember. It was simply the natural progression of things - you date, you live together, you marry. It was expected. You get used to it - like an old shoe.
He wasn't an intellectual, but he was tall, dark and handsome and occasionally funny. He liked the things my father liked - hunting and fishing - which for some reason mattered to me back then. More importantly, he liked me. Most importantly, he needed me. And who knows when you're ever going to find that again...
At the time I must have figured it was going to be my only shot... or maybe I just didn't give it enough thought. The idea that I could ever have expected it to be a long-term self-sustaining relationship boggles my mind when I think of it now. I spent more time feeling embarrassed than anything else. It was dull and ordinary and stifling and lonely. Who to talk to? Who to share things with?
I offer no excuse for my decision to marry; I expect no sympathy; I knew better. Yet, oddly, when it ended, I wanted to die. I distinctly remember my shock when I discovered heartache was an actual physical feeling. I distinctly remember my shock when I discovered I couldn't sleep or eat for weeks on end. I'd always thought that stuff was a bunch of crap written in novels to drive home a point. I didn't know I would lose years of my life to it. Who knew?
Act II
No more boredom. No more thinking, "Is this all there is?" No more feeling like I was destined to spend a lifetime alternately correcting grammar and biting my tongue. Now it was time for FUN, FUN, FUN!!! Laughter, conversation, drugs, debauchery, bars, loud music, parties. He was bright. More importantly, he liked me. Most importantly, he needed me. And who knows when you're ever going to find that again...
He was a drunk and I was going to save him. I wish I could say I was successful. I wish I could say my dedication, loyalty and perseverance made a difference. I wish I had been smart enough to know better. I distinctly remember my shock when I discovered women really do stay with men who mistreat them. I'd always thought that stuff was a bunch of crap in made-for-tv movies to show stupid damsels in distress. I didn't know I would lose years of my life to it. Who knew?
Act III
The antithesis of the tsunami that preceded it. CALM, CALM, CALM. Dead calm. Not a tranquil, serene calm; more like a dispassionate, detached, taciturn calm.
But he was bright. More importantly, he liked me. Most importantly, he needed me. And who knows when you're ever going to find that again...
I'm not sure if I disappeared because of postpartum depression or because I lived with a ghost. Probably a combination of both. I didn't know I'd lose years of my life to it. Who knew? But I got my son out of the deal, so it was worth it.
Act IV
What I've learned:
- If you find you dread walking into your own home, it's time to get out.
- You can be infinitely happier alone than with someone.
- I'm an idiot when it comes to affairs of the heart. I'm not convinced I've ever even had an affair of the heart. I suspect it is a storybook myth.
- Marriage is entirely unnecessary.
- People who need you are a dime a dozen, and being liked and needed is not the basis for a relationship. Yes, it feels good to be needed, but it is not a measure of love. If your self-worth is tied up in it you will end up losing who you are and what you want.
- Love cannot cure addiction.
- The passive part of a passive-aggressive person can be even more devastating than the aggressive part. Either way it sucks the life right out of you.
- The old adage "turn the other cheek" is not always the wisest course. Once you've been hurt - once hateful words have been spoken and the line has been crossed - the relationship is forever changed. Whether it's your husband, your boyfriend or your next door neighbor, when someone loses control and you get a momentary glimpse of their true colors it is not an aberration, it is a warning. I now realize tolerance doesn't necessarily make you a good person (in fact it can make you a chump) and it is wise never to forget. Not in a bitter take-it-to-your-grave sort of way, but in a sad now-I-know-better-than-to-love-and-trust-you sort of way.
Act V
I'll let you know.
9/06/2010
Intelligent Life
Is there intelligent life on other planets? Probably. It seems likely that somewhere out in some other solar system there are planets which can sustain life. Why don't they get in touch with us? Either they aren't as advanced as we are and aren't yet capable of radio transmission, or they surpassed our level of intelligence long ago and self-destructed just as we're going to do.
I suppose it's possible some life forms managed to build a spaceship before their planet was destroyed, but if that's the case one would assume they're on a mission scouring the universe for the materials they need. If they find Earth, they'll have to wipe out the human population as quickly as possible in order to preserve what's left. There's nothing untainted on our planet so they better hurry. In fact, maybe those aliens have already passed by Earth, assessed the state of our resources, and determined everything was too defiled to use. Lucky us.
9/05/2010
News Flash
The headline reads, "Stephen Hawking: God didn't create the universe."
First of all, is this really news? Is this a stunning revelation to anyone with an IQ over 50? What's next? Is tomorrow's headline going to tell us we can't really rise from the dead? Be still my heart! The Bible isn't factual? Say it ain't so! The Gospels of the New Testament were stories created 60-125 years after Jesus died by people who weren't there and never met the guy? Blasphemy!
We will believe what we wish to believe despite knowing better, and we won't let the facts get in the way. We will believe what we wish to believe because it provides great comfort to those of us who cannot bear the thought of dying. To this end, the suspension of disbelief serves a self-soothing purpose -- it help us sleep at night; kind of like an infant sucking on a pacifier. Of course, there's no multi-trillion dollar industry built around worshiping the pacifier, and different pacifier users don't kill each other because they think their pacifier is the only right pacifier, and no one wrote a novel about how the pacifier provides eternal life. But, hey, other than those minor differences it's pretty much the same thing.
First of all, is this really news? Is this a stunning revelation to anyone with an IQ over 50? What's next? Is tomorrow's headline going to tell us we can't really rise from the dead? Be still my heart! The Bible isn't factual? Say it ain't so! The Gospels of the New Testament were stories created 60-125 years after Jesus died by people who weren't there and never met the guy? Blasphemy!
We will believe what we wish to believe despite knowing better, and we won't let the facts get in the way. We will believe what we wish to believe because it provides great comfort to those of us who cannot bear the thought of dying. To this end, the suspension of disbelief serves a self-soothing purpose -- it help us sleep at night; kind of like an infant sucking on a pacifier. Of course, there's no multi-trillion dollar industry built around worshiping the pacifier, and different pacifier users don't kill each other because they think their pacifier is the only right pacifier, and no one wrote a novel about how the pacifier provides eternal life. But, hey, other than those minor differences it's pretty much the same thing.
9/04/2010
I'm Worried
I'm worried my son won't be able to go to college.
I'm worried my dad may have occasional moments of utter clarity when he's fully cognizant of every single ability he has lost, and that he realizes he no longer has one shred of dignity and despises us for allowing it.
I'm worried my son will be in a car accident.
I'm worried I should be selling my house.
I'm worried Justin Morneau will never play baseball again.
I'm worried that it's not the economy; it's me.
I'm worried I'm going to get Alzheimer's disease.
I'm worried that I live in a country where people like Michelle Bachmann and Sarah Palin have thousands upon thousands of supporters.
I'm worried that I live in a country where people protest building a mosque.
I'm worried that I live in a country where the general population is so ignorant they think Al-Qaeda is synonymous with Islam. Using that logic, the KKK is synonymous with Christianity.
I'm worried my car is going to quit working.
I'm worried I won't live long enough.
I'm worried I will live too long.
I'm worried my dad may have occasional moments of utter clarity when he's fully cognizant of every single ability he has lost, and that he realizes he no longer has one shred of dignity and despises us for allowing it.
I'm worried my son will be in a car accident.
I'm worried I should be selling my house.
I'm worried Justin Morneau will never play baseball again.
I'm worried that it's not the economy; it's me.
I'm worried I'm going to get Alzheimer's disease.
I'm worried that I live in a country where people like Michelle Bachmann and Sarah Palin have thousands upon thousands of supporters.
I'm worried that I live in a country where people protest building a mosque.
I'm worried that I live in a country where the general population is so ignorant they think Al-Qaeda is synonymous with Islam. Using that logic, the KKK is synonymous with Christianity.
I'm worried my car is going to quit working.
I'm worried I won't live long enough.
I'm worried I will live too long.
8/01/2010
Baseball
My son's summer baseball season is over. How it was able to completely consume my life these past months remains a mystery. Okay, so maybe it's not such a mystery -- lots of practices, lots of games, lots of driving, lots of laundry, lots of last minutes dashes to the store for bottled water and Gatorade, and I had the added pleasure of being the team secretary. (I'm not kidding; it truly was a pleasure... which probably says a lot more about just how exciting my life really is than I care to disclose.)
Everyone else referred to the job as being the team "manager" which is a laughable misnomer -- a gross exaggeration most likely created decades ago by some poor wannabe sap with an inflated ego. I managed nothing. I located fields, looked up directions, chauffeured, collected paperwork, parroted information given to me by the coach, and sent endless boring emails. I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess Ron Gardenhire's responsibilities as team manager might be a tad more involved.
Everyone else referred to the job as being the team "manager" which is a laughable misnomer -- a gross exaggeration most likely created decades ago by some poor wannabe sap with an inflated ego. I managed nothing. I located fields, looked up directions, chauffeured, collected paperwork, parroted information given to me by the coach, and sent endless boring emails. I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess Ron Gardenhire's responsibilities as team manager might be a tad more involved.
It's not that I wouldn't have liked to have had a role in setting the lineup -- but, strange as it may seem, my opinion was never solicited. What a shame, too, because the whole world knows a 51-year-old parent sitting in the bleachers is infinitely wiser than the coach when it comes to deciding who will play which position, who will be benched, and who will be the starting pitcher. Most importantly, it is an oft overlooked fact that a middle-aged mom who appears to know next to nothing about baseball has a much better handle on when it's time to remove a struggling pitcher and put in a reliever. Don't ask me why; that's just the way it is. Oh, the games we could have won if only I'd been at the helm! (Did someone mention a wannabe sap with an inflated ego?)
While it seems perfectly logical to me (and only to me) that I would have been a brilliant consultant sharing my expertise in roster decisions, I'll be the first to admit keeping track of the game was not my strong suit. (Though I contend I always had a general idea what was going on -- like whether we were winning or losing. What more do you need?) Yes, it's true; I seldom knew the score or the inning, but I was not alone. I missed a game once and sent a text to one of the parents asking for an update. The reply came back, "Some think it's 4-3, some think it's 5-3, and some think it's 5-2." Good enough. I asked what inning they were in, and the response was, "We don't even know the score; do you really expect us to know the inning?" (Had I not been a regular fixture in the brain trust on the bleachers, this ambiguous update might have been a source of consternation. As it was, I simply took the possible scores and computed the average. Duh.)
I learned a lot about baseball this season.
I learned a lot about baseball this season.
- I learned you don't scream, "Nice hit!" to the batter if his ball is caught.
(Apparently, technically, this does not qualify as a hit. Who knew???)
(Apparently, technically, this does not qualify as a hit. Who knew???)
- I learned you don't say, "The score is 3-2," when you're losing. You're supposed to give your own team's score first: "The score is 2-3." Duly noted.
- I learned people who know baseball find it rather annoying when you cheer for routine plays, and if someone catches a pop-up it might be viewed as overkill to give a standing ovation.
- I learned when you have a good group of kids who get along well, you'll find the parents are equally congenial. (Which is truly a gift if you've ever been in the presence of not-so-congenial parents.)
- I learned well-maintained fields, permanent bleachers, covered seating, bona fide bathrooms, real concession stands, and working scoreboards are more likely to exist in a city with a population of 5400 than a population of 29,000. Go figure.
- I learned Mapquest and Google Maps and Yahoo Maps and Rand McNally Maps all give different directions when you ask for the shortest route between two points.
- I learned that despite the fact we consider ourselves to be loving parents, we would be much quicker to pull the trigger on a pitching change than our coach who had no biological or emotional ties whatsoever.
- I learned that despite the fact we consider ourselves to be loving parents, when things were working well we were mystified (some might even go so far as to say aggravated) by the seemingly indiscriminate (and sometimes fatal) substitutions which were probably done purely out of the kindness of the coach's heart in order to give everyone an opportunity to play.
- I learned that despite the fact we consider ourselves to be loving parents, we are, where baseball is concerned, closet cutthroats.
- I learned that despite the fact we consider ourselves to be loving parents, we would be much quicker to pull the trigger on a pitching change than our coach who had no biological or emotional ties whatsoever.
- I learned that despite the fact we consider ourselves to be loving parents, when things were working well we were mystified (some might even go so far as to say aggravated) by the seemingly indiscriminate (and sometimes fatal) substitutions which were probably done purely out of the kindness of the coach's heart in order to give everyone an opportunity to play.
- I learned that despite the fact we consider ourselves to be loving parents, we are, where baseball is concerned, closet cutthroats.
- I learned on any given day any given team can beat any other given team.
- I learned when called upon to do so, I can outshout the most obnoxious mother from Mankato.
- I learned a dugout full of 16-year-old boys displaying poor sportsmanship by attempting to distract our pitcher during his windup, is no match for a bleacher full of angry mothers defending their young.
- I learned when called upon to do so, I can outshout the most obnoxious mother from Mankato.
- I learned a dugout full of 16-year-old boys displaying poor sportsmanship by attempting to distract our pitcher during his windup, is no match for a bleacher full of angry mothers defending their young.
- I learned after a month of games you yearn for the end of the season, and when the end of the season abruptly arrives you yearn for another month of games.
When the season began, no one had any great expectations. Through a series of unfortunate events, these boys were unceremoniously thrown together at the last minute and not much forethought went into the formation of the team -- it was more the result of who was leftover after the better team was designed. At that point no one would have guessed the "better" team wouldn't make it to post-season play and our scrappy kids would just keep on winning.
Our team was one win from going all the way. One win. If not for that last game, we'd be playing in the State Tournament next weekend. It wasn't one of those losses where the other team was a lot better and the writing was on the wall (though, frankly, it would have been more palatable if that were the case). We had beaten them previously so we knew it could be done, but on that Sunday afternoon it was not to be. It was one of those heartbreaking games where a couple of uncharacteristic errors led to frustration... which led to foolish errors... which led to that clarifying moment when you're reminded these boys are still just boys, and they allowed themselves to become so demoralized that they shut down with several innings left in the game. This was not a typical reaction for our team, but after playing seven games in less than 72 hours, they were psychologically spent. They fell behind and felt as though they'd already lost, and like any self-fulfilling prophecy worth its salt, that's exactly what came to pass.
So, we're done -- and it's oddly depressing that we're done. I felt like an idiot going through baseball withdrawal, but I've since talked to other parents and was relieved to learn it is a universal affliction.
In the words of my son: "I can't believe it's over. Just like that. No more baseball. All those games and suddenly nothing. I wish the top two teams advanced instead of just the top one. I wish we could keep playing somewhere -- anywhere."
Me too.
5/16/2010
Gay Marriage
Let me see if I've got this right. Some heterosexuals want to deny homosexuals the right to marry. Just out of curiosity, how does this affect them in any way? What are they afraid of? What business is it of theirs? How on earth did the United States of America end up being a country where one group of people needs the approval of another group of people to marry? We should be ashamed of ourselves. How is this blatant inequality any different than the dark time in our history when women weren't allowed to vote, and whites weren't allowed to marry blacks? Why does anyone care who anyone else loves and marries? More importantly, how can it possibly be considered legal under our Constitution and Bill of Rights - which touts equality for all - to prohibit marriage between two consenting adults?
The United States Supreme Court deemed marriage a fundamental right - for prisoners. That's right; prisoners. Despite the fact that prisoners have limited rights under the law, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled it is unconstitutional to deny them the fundamental right to marry. Fundamental right. Does anyone find it incongruous that a convicted murderer has the fundamental right to marry, and a gay man or woman does not?
I don't get it.
The United States Supreme Court deemed marriage a fundamental right - for prisoners. That's right; prisoners. Despite the fact that prisoners have limited rights under the law, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled it is unconstitutional to deny them the fundamental right to marry. Fundamental right. Does anyone find it incongruous that a convicted murderer has the fundamental right to marry, and a gay man or woman does not?
I don't get it.
5/14/2010
All That Matters
All that matters is love -- the love between a couple; the love between parents and children; the love between siblings; the love of friends.
Sometimes you can actually see love. You can see it emanating from a single person, or even from a room full of people. Sometimes when you witness love, you mourn the fact that it's not for you, and that you don't feel it more often. Sometimes you stop and wonder just how you can get your hands on some love. Sometimes you laugh at yourself for thinking love is something you can get your hands on. And sometimes you simply accept the fact that love is elusive and rare, and there is never enough.
Sometimes you can actually see love. You can see it emanating from a single person, or even from a room full of people. Sometimes when you witness love, you mourn the fact that it's not for you, and that you don't feel it more often. Sometimes you stop and wonder just how you can get your hands on some love. Sometimes you laugh at yourself for thinking love is something you can get your hands on. And sometimes you simply accept the fact that love is elusive and rare, and there is never enough.