Everything we do, every morsel we eat, every thought we think is alleged to impact our health and the length of time we have on this planet. But sometimes I think that there is really nothing we can do to stave off the ravages of living. Bodies simply fall apart. Like houses. You get something fixed and then something else falls apart. Sure, preventive measures work - for awhile. But not for long. The question is - when do we stop trying? And would we be happier just doin' what feels (or tastes) good?
Remember Jim Fix, the runner? Ten mile a day Jim. He was the prototype for selling physical fitnesses to the masses - until he dropped dead of a heart attack (in his thirties) while running. So much for running. Then there was Adelle Davis. She ate nuts and berries and tree bark and died of cancer anyway. And lets not forget Euell Gibbons - the king of pine nuts and Grape Nuts Flakes, the wizard of wild food - who died of malnutrition. Yea - they were great examples of healthy living. Their polar opposites,people like Bette Davis and George Burns ate "badly", smoked and drank,and, dagnabit, lived longer. Explain that. If you can.
I'm convinced it is all about our genes. If our parents and grandparents lived long lives - then our chances are better - unless we get hit by a truck. Nobody does well when they get hit by a truck. Look at your family. In my family most of my Mom's brothers and sisters, as well as my grandparents, died from some form of the Big C. The "boys" - my uncles - died from bad hearts. I don't know much about my Dad's side - but they lived long - miserably, but long. We will all live a bit longer because medical science knows how to coax more miles out of us. But I believe our fates are sealed.So why deny ourselves the pleasures of life in order to squeeze out a few more weeks? Not appealing to me. I'd rather eat junk, sit on my rather nicely shaped ass, and be merry.
Up until two years ago my health was great. I walked a lot - because I like walking.I ate what could be considered a healthy diet. Lots of green and yellow things that popped out of the ground. Some fish (I have a thing about fish bones - they scare me) and some meat and chicken. My preference has always been carbs - I am a carb lover and proud of it. bring on the pasta...and then chase it with some gooey sugary sweet thing and I am in heaven. I see God in pasta. He talks to me through pasta. I believe the Creator is in the carbohydrates. I don't drink, I do occasionally smoke (at the Casino mostly or when my son is in trouble and about to go to jail). I'm not a big fan of fried foods (although I lived in the land of fried food). On a scale of 1 - 10 I am probably a 7 in terms of healthy living.
Could I do better? Sure. Do I want to? Not really. Three years ago - without warning- I developed a digestion thing. The worst of it lasted 2 years. Things I used to love tasted bad. I was often nauseous. It was crappy. Tests showed nothing. I lost weight and went down 2 sizes...so I guess in some sense it was worth it. New clothes are nice to have. Beside s that, and out of nowhere, my joints began to ache. My muscles would hurt (not from exertion I assure you). I increased my exercise and felt worse. I developed a scalp condition that flares up when I get my hair dyed. My eyesight sucks. I have arthritis (thank you Mom and Dad) in my hips. I just stand here and like an old house my shingles fall off.
There's also the "visible signs of aging". I can count the rings around my neck and determine my age. I could hide small pine nuts in my laugh lines. The tiny lines around my lips look a bit like a sunburst - without the sun. The "freckles" earned from years of tanning with baby oil, iodine and a reflector, are no longer cute.
It all sucks...and to make it worse I am reminded of the lecture I once gave my Mom to grow old with dignity and stop whining. If there is an afterlife of any sort I'll bet she is peeing in her pants laughing at me. Sorry Mom, I didn't know.
Advice is plentiful: "Exercise more" I do. "Do yoga" Too boring. "Become a vegetarian" I want my hamburgers!" "Meditate" My mind is never quiet. "Increase your intake of (are you ready?) B vitamins, D, C, Fish oil, antiinflammatories, calcium blah blah blah" Did it. I don't feel any better. I spend $75 a month on supplements. I exercise with the Mormons (a cool exercise show on BYU broadcasting), I walk on my treadmill. I used to take 1200 miligrams of calcium a day (but now they think that causes heart issues)but now take a little less. I take 2,000 units of vitamin D (but they think that causes cancer) I still take it because in Wisconsin we don't see the sun for 6 months a year. My chiropractor suggested an anti-arthritis diet which basically would eliminate everything from my diet except celery and apples. And celery and apples are staples in my turkey stuffing which, of course, is full of BREAD.
I am declaring war on healthy living. I shun it. Deprivation is not an ingredient in my happy life. None of it works anyway. Like my house, I will stand here in the middle of the frozen tundra and let what happens happen. I will be slathered in moisturizer, eating a hamburger, eyeing a chunk of chocolate cake all while sitting on my size 4 butt and reading a good book. I might not die old;I will die happier.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Just shut up
"It must be awful to take your kid to jail," she said to me. ""How wierd."Yes," I reply, "It sucks and it's sad."
I should be a pro at this. I've been taking my son to jail, off and on, since he was 14. But you know what? It doesn't get any easier. You don't feel any less sad, or worried or defeated. You feel awful for him and for you. And unless you've been there - you don't get it. And if you're the parent of a "normal" kid - you'll never get it. Ever.
So in case you ever find yourself talking to a friend whose child (adult or otherwise) is going to be a guest of the county for several months, you're probably better off not saying anything. Because most of what you say is hurtful - well meant, but hurtful.
Here are some things you should not say:
"At least you'll know where he is at night."
"Maybe this time he'll learn his lesson and change the way he lives." (Note: people with personality disorders do not change. This is not a possibility)
"This is probably for the best." (Seriously?)
"Too bad you don't have other kids" or (if you have other kids) "Thank goodness you have other kids." (Do you really think having other kids would mean that I wouldn't hurt? Or worry?)
"At least you'll get a break from him." (sigh)
"You need to just let him go. Don't let him back in the house when he is released." (Oh, do you think I'll sleep better if I know he's jobless and homeless?)
It goes on. Same rules apply to things people might say when someone dies:
"At least he is with God." (Well, maybe I don't want God to have him just yet)
"Now he's an angel and he's watching over you." (Um hmm...what are you smoking?)
'She was just too special for this world." (according to whom?)
"You've got to move on. S/he would have wanted you to be happy." (Grief does not have a timetable people...and how do you know what s/he would have wanted?)
"Thank god you have your other children." (see previous paragraph)
"I know just how you feel." (No, you don't.)
A hug. A kind word. An offer to "listen" - those things have great value when people are hurting. Most of the other stuff doesn't.
If you can't hug, or listen then shut up and leave me alone.
I should be a pro at this. I've been taking my son to jail, off and on, since he was 14. But you know what? It doesn't get any easier. You don't feel any less sad, or worried or defeated. You feel awful for him and for you. And unless you've been there - you don't get it. And if you're the parent of a "normal" kid - you'll never get it. Ever.
So in case you ever find yourself talking to a friend whose child (adult or otherwise) is going to be a guest of the county for several months, you're probably better off not saying anything. Because most of what you say is hurtful - well meant, but hurtful.
Here are some things you should not say:
"At least you'll know where he is at night."
"Maybe this time he'll learn his lesson and change the way he lives." (Note: people with personality disorders do not change. This is not a possibility)
"This is probably for the best." (Seriously?)
"Too bad you don't have other kids" or (if you have other kids) "Thank goodness you have other kids." (Do you really think having other kids would mean that I wouldn't hurt? Or worry?)
"At least you'll get a break from him." (sigh)
"You need to just let him go. Don't let him back in the house when he is released." (Oh, do you think I'll sleep better if I know he's jobless and homeless?)
It goes on. Same rules apply to things people might say when someone dies:
"At least he is with God." (Well, maybe I don't want God to have him just yet)
"Now he's an angel and he's watching over you." (Um hmm...what are you smoking?)
'She was just too special for this world." (according to whom?)
"You've got to move on. S/he would have wanted you to be happy." (Grief does not have a timetable people...and how do you know what s/he would have wanted?)
"Thank god you have your other children." (see previous paragraph)
"I know just how you feel." (No, you don't.)
A hug. A kind word. An offer to "listen" - those things have great value when people are hurting. Most of the other stuff doesn't.
If you can't hug, or listen then shut up and leave me alone.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Holiday Traditions...my a--
It's that season and once again I find myself focusing on my abject failure to comply with the spirit of the holidays.I am not a holiday person. I wish I were a holiday person because then I would have something monumental to look forward to....going into debt, eating too much, feeling depressed, wearing a butt ugly Christmas sweater. Yea, I long to be that "holiday person". Clearly I am missing out on a lot.
My personal disdain for the holidays transcends the usual complaints. It springs, not from the "people have forgotten what Christmas is about" school, but instead from the "every freaking November and December something crappy happens to me/us" school. The approach of Christmas and Thanksgiving is cringe-a-fying.
Don't get me wrong - we do have traditions. They begin in November when I start whining my holiday mantra: "I HATE the hoidays..I hate the holidays". Now you might feel like pointing out that I create, or even invite, holiday miseries. Believe me I don't. By late Novemember I allow myself to begin to think that maybe, just maybe, this year will be different. Still waiting.
Things usually begin to fall apart right before Turkey Day. Most often this involves my son. He has a knack for messing things up but since we are not genetically linked, you can't blame this on me. But you can try. Go on. I can handle it.
Something happens to his brain in late fall...it usually ends up with him being in some awful kind of trouble...which often results in costing us $$ and landing his sorry ass in jail. For the last 3 years he has missed Thanksgiving dinner because he was mad at us. He is usually mad because we have uncovered a lie, found valuable things missing or are waiting for the court to lock him up (the first and third items apply to this year). He isolates himself in his room, refuses to eat and then gobbles up all the leftovers once we've gone to bed. The first few times this happened I begged, cajoled, pleaded and even cried. This year, weary of the monotonous routine, I took away his place setting and we ate quite well without him. It was pleasant. Next year I'm not cooking - I can still make reservations with the best of them. And he won't have anything to eat while we sleep. So there.
I have a lot of friends who shop on Black Friday because it is a family tradition. some say it is how they get in the holiday spirit. So, in the off chance that it would work for me, I tried it one year with my niece. The temperature was 14 degrees, the wind chill was minus whatever,shoppers were grumpy,lines to check out remninded me of the snaky lines at Disney World. I was hungry, loopy from no sleep and not up to fighting over a "limited supply" of sequined thongs. (Wouldn't those sequins hurt?) I never tried it again. I still shudder when I think about it.
Christmas creates other issues. Like decorating the house.I have fantasies of putting up a tree with my husband and son. I have had these fantasies for years; they have never materialized. No one cares about trees, or sparkly shit, or wrapped boxes. Back in the 60's and 70's when I chose to embrace my Jewish side, decorating was not an issue. When I decided that my Italian side might have more fun, the urge to decorate emerged. Like my mother before me (she was Italian) I experimented with theme trees, monochromatic trees, angel trees and animal trees. Like bad gas, each of these phases passed away quietly...and yes, some of them stunk. A few years ago, sick of trying to ressurect and assemble the artificial tree by myself, (I have spatial issues...my fake tree always looked wrong)I went out and bought a small aluminum tree, pre-lit, no assembly required. Loved it.
Still no help from any one in the house. No enthusiasm. With each ornament I hung I would grow progressively angrier. This anger became so obvious that the little aluminum tree was given a name, "Mandy's fucking silver tree". It's box is labeled that way - in case you ever need to locate it. Pride of ownership.
Aside from family lethargy Christmas has always been a holiday I associate with my Mom. It was her favorite. She proved that by crying from Dec 1 until Christmas night. She missed her mother, she missed me, she couldn't afford to buy gifts, she hated living in the south, she missed snow....well - you get the picture. Then, as if by a decree from the universe,and after 13 years of struggling with Alzheimer's she became quite ill one year - the week before Christmas. We put her in a hospice on Christmas day. There isn't much humor in that - even for me...but the staff did decorate her. Really. They put burgundy ribbons and fake holly berries in her hair and painted her toenails bright red. I would not have been surprised to find a string of mini-light attached to her urine bag. Those hospice nurses have a compelling need for fun.
Opening gifts. Well, I'm married to a wonderful man with an emotional range from 1 - 2 on a scale of 1 - 10. You can't expect much enthusiasm from him. My son, mister passive-aggressive, wouldn't give anyone the pleasure of seeing him happy or excited either. My ex husband, a permanent guest on all holidays, is able to display a little more emotion - but only when compared to the other two characters. My dogs are probably my best holiday partners. They love the tree - it's just the right size for leg lifting. They love the gifts - did you know that a puppy can rip open a gift box in under 30 seconds??
My neighbors go caroling at Christmas.(Who feels like singing when it's 15 degrees and you can't feel your feet?) I have friends who stuff the family into the SUV and drive around looking at holiday lights. Some get together and bake. I don't bake (see earlier blog entry). If I have any tradition I associate with the holidays it's probably watching A Christmas Story wherever I can find it on cable. I still want that leg lamp. It might be nice to find a real tradition, create one I mean. But I'd have to do it with my dogs and they'd rather nap. Come to think of it...a Christmas nap might be the one thing I can successfully pull off and look forward to.
So as I crawl through the plastic merriment of this holiday season I will watch others around me having fun - or pretending to. I have been spared the agony of receiving gifts from distant friends and relatives by instituting a "liberal" tradition of donating to food banks in other people's names and asking that they do that for us. Last year my brother and sister in law bought a goat in our name to give to someone in Africa. I adore goats, so this was doubly meaningful. I wonder if the recipient makes goat cheese, cause I LOVE goat cheese. Hey - I guess that IS a tradition. At least I can be proud of it. Someone is eating instead of opening a box filled with Snuggies or chia pets (although the Obama one is tempting....)
This season will pass. By New Year's we'll all be focused on the hope that 2011 will bring better things. I highly doubt this because Dick Cheney and Carl Rove are still alive, Sarah Palin is growing richer and more awful by the second, Ann Coulter still sells books, and the Republicans are in charge in Congress. Hard to imagine any of that turning out well. But, who knows. One thing is for sure, I won't be in debt, I'll still be a size 4, my son will be in jail and the Wisconsin Badgers will probably be in the Rose Bowl. Gotta be thankful for some things, ya know.
My personal disdain for the holidays transcends the usual complaints. It springs, not from the "people have forgotten what Christmas is about" school, but instead from the "every freaking November and December something crappy happens to me/us" school. The approach of Christmas and Thanksgiving is cringe-a-fying.
Don't get me wrong - we do have traditions. They begin in November when I start whining my holiday mantra: "I HATE the hoidays..I hate the holidays". Now you might feel like pointing out that I create, or even invite, holiday miseries. Believe me I don't. By late Novemember I allow myself to begin to think that maybe, just maybe, this year will be different. Still waiting.
Things usually begin to fall apart right before Turkey Day. Most often this involves my son. He has a knack for messing things up but since we are not genetically linked, you can't blame this on me. But you can try. Go on. I can handle it.
Something happens to his brain in late fall...it usually ends up with him being in some awful kind of trouble...which often results in costing us $$ and landing his sorry ass in jail. For the last 3 years he has missed Thanksgiving dinner because he was mad at us. He is usually mad because we have uncovered a lie, found valuable things missing or are waiting for the court to lock him up (the first and third items apply to this year). He isolates himself in his room, refuses to eat and then gobbles up all the leftovers once we've gone to bed. The first few times this happened I begged, cajoled, pleaded and even cried. This year, weary of the monotonous routine, I took away his place setting and we ate quite well without him. It was pleasant. Next year I'm not cooking - I can still make reservations with the best of them. And he won't have anything to eat while we sleep. So there.
I have a lot of friends who shop on Black Friday because it is a family tradition. some say it is how they get in the holiday spirit. So, in the off chance that it would work for me, I tried it one year with my niece. The temperature was 14 degrees, the wind chill was minus whatever,shoppers were grumpy,lines to check out remninded me of the snaky lines at Disney World. I was hungry, loopy from no sleep and not up to fighting over a "limited supply" of sequined thongs. (Wouldn't those sequins hurt?) I never tried it again. I still shudder when I think about it.
Christmas creates other issues. Like decorating the house.I have fantasies of putting up a tree with my husband and son. I have had these fantasies for years; they have never materialized. No one cares about trees, or sparkly shit, or wrapped boxes. Back in the 60's and 70's when I chose to embrace my Jewish side, decorating was not an issue. When I decided that my Italian side might have more fun, the urge to decorate emerged. Like my mother before me (she was Italian) I experimented with theme trees, monochromatic trees, angel trees and animal trees. Like bad gas, each of these phases passed away quietly...and yes, some of them stunk. A few years ago, sick of trying to ressurect and assemble the artificial tree by myself, (I have spatial issues...my fake tree always looked wrong)I went out and bought a small aluminum tree, pre-lit, no assembly required. Loved it.
Still no help from any one in the house. No enthusiasm. With each ornament I hung I would grow progressively angrier. This anger became so obvious that the little aluminum tree was given a name, "Mandy's fucking silver tree". It's box is labeled that way - in case you ever need to locate it. Pride of ownership.
Aside from family lethargy Christmas has always been a holiday I associate with my Mom. It was her favorite. She proved that by crying from Dec 1 until Christmas night. She missed her mother, she missed me, she couldn't afford to buy gifts, she hated living in the south, she missed snow....well - you get the picture. Then, as if by a decree from the universe,and after 13 years of struggling with Alzheimer's she became quite ill one year - the week before Christmas. We put her in a hospice on Christmas day. There isn't much humor in that - even for me...but the staff did decorate her. Really. They put burgundy ribbons and fake holly berries in her hair and painted her toenails bright red. I would not have been surprised to find a string of mini-light attached to her urine bag. Those hospice nurses have a compelling need for fun.
Opening gifts. Well, I'm married to a wonderful man with an emotional range from 1 - 2 on a scale of 1 - 10. You can't expect much enthusiasm from him. My son, mister passive-aggressive, wouldn't give anyone the pleasure of seeing him happy or excited either. My ex husband, a permanent guest on all holidays, is able to display a little more emotion - but only when compared to the other two characters. My dogs are probably my best holiday partners. They love the tree - it's just the right size for leg lifting. They love the gifts - did you know that a puppy can rip open a gift box in under 30 seconds??
My neighbors go caroling at Christmas.(Who feels like singing when it's 15 degrees and you can't feel your feet?) I have friends who stuff the family into the SUV and drive around looking at holiday lights. Some get together and bake. I don't bake (see earlier blog entry). If I have any tradition I associate with the holidays it's probably watching A Christmas Story wherever I can find it on cable. I still want that leg lamp. It might be nice to find a real tradition, create one I mean. But I'd have to do it with my dogs and they'd rather nap. Come to think of it...a Christmas nap might be the one thing I can successfully pull off and look forward to.
So as I crawl through the plastic merriment of this holiday season I will watch others around me having fun - or pretending to. I have been spared the agony of receiving gifts from distant friends and relatives by instituting a "liberal" tradition of donating to food banks in other people's names and asking that they do that for us. Last year my brother and sister in law bought a goat in our name to give to someone in Africa. I adore goats, so this was doubly meaningful. I wonder if the recipient makes goat cheese, cause I LOVE goat cheese. Hey - I guess that IS a tradition. At least I can be proud of it. Someone is eating instead of opening a box filled with Snuggies or chia pets (although the Obama one is tempting....)
This season will pass. By New Year's we'll all be focused on the hope that 2011 will bring better things. I highly doubt this because Dick Cheney and Carl Rove are still alive, Sarah Palin is growing richer and more awful by the second, Ann Coulter still sells books, and the Republicans are in charge in Congress. Hard to imagine any of that turning out well. But, who knows. One thing is for sure, I won't be in debt, I'll still be a size 4, my son will be in jail and the Wisconsin Badgers will probably be in the Rose Bowl. Gotta be thankful for some things, ya know.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
I have loved you always...a note to my son
Do you remember coming into my life? Probably not. You were almost two. In the frantic buzz of the International Terminal at O'hare, with people crying, and cameras flashing you just stood there and took it all in. I knelt down in front of you and extended my arms. You walked towards me and I wrapped my arms around you and said, "Welcome Home." You were the only Korean baby who wasn't crying. I thought, "wow...am I lucky". And I remember thinking "I will always love you. You will never be alone."
Do you remember your nightmares? I doubt it. Every night for a year, after you'd been asleep for a few hours, you would start screaming. Your Dad and I would rush to your room and find you backed into the corner of your trundle bed. Your eyes were open - but not seeing. You'd cry out "AMA" over and over again. Your arms extended towards some invisible person or thing. We could not touch you because it made you scream louder. Tears would pour from your dark brown eyes. Sometimes you trembled. Sometimes you just screamed and sobbed. I would stay with you until it was over. I did not want you to be alone.
Do you recall the day I fell apart in the bathroom? You'd only been with us a few weeks..The parent thing was harder than I'd imagined. You'd wet your pants - again. And I fell apart. I sat on the floor in front of the toilet and sobbed. You watched me and then reached out your tiny hand and patted my head. This made me cry harder. It made you try harder. You put your arms around my neck and patted me over and over until I stopped crying. At some level you "got it". You didn't want me to feel alone and scared.
Do your remember your first day of Kindergarten? You might. You were scared but proud. Unsure about the bus ride. I made you a deal. I would follow the bus in my car and you could look out the window at any time and see me there. And not be scared. And I did it. Like a stalker, I followed the winding trail of the big yellow bus up and down our streets. Periodically your beautiful little face would appear in the rear window. We would wave. You would smile. I blew kisses. When the bus arrived at school I parked the car and stood discreetly behind a tree waiting to see you get off. Needing to be sure that someone would greet you and help you find your way.I didn't want you to feel alone or scared.
Do you remember kindergarten? I'm sure you remember some of it. The way Mrs. Jackson saw "potential" in you...when others didn't. The way she tried to teach you how to be a friend and how to play nicely. She tried, you failed. Except that time when you and Eric seemed to get along well. He did anything you told him to. He got in trouble. I remember that night when his Dad called me and said, "I don't want Eric playing with your son. he is a bad influence." I was speechless. You kids were five years old. I secretly prayed that something awful would happen to Eric's Dad. It didn't. Instead, he won 35 milion dollars in the lottery. There is no justice.
Do you remember your friends when you were little? Of course not, you didn't have any. No one wanted to play with you. No birthday party invitations, no sleepovers, no friends over after school. You didn't seem to notice...or if you did, you didn't let on. I was your friend. We did everything together. I filled in the blanks. I remember being with you at the playground watching you interact with another child. He wasn't from here. He didn't know you. You were bossy and tried to control the play. He walked away. "Who was that?" I asked you. You grinned and proudly said, "That's my friend!". "What's his name?" "I don't know," you replied. You had no idea what a friend was. But I loved you and I was your friend.
Do you remember the first time you took something that was not yours? You were in day care. You may recall this because it was traumatic. I asked you "where did you get these?" You said you found them. I continued to question you. Eventually you admitted that you took them. So I drove you to the police station and we parked out front. I told you the toys in your pocket had to be returned and that you had to tell the police. You cried. We didn't go in...and I thought you got the message loud and clear. You had to know there were limits to what I would tolerate from you. Lying and stealing were not acceptable, I loved you but I was also responsible for turning you into a decent human being. Or die trying.
Do you remember the principals at your schools? I'm sure they remember you. How many afternoons did we sit with guidance counselors, principals, special ed teachers and school psychologists trying to figure out how to re-direct your behavior? Bet you don't want to remember this. "Your son threw a waste basket across the room." "He won't sit at his desk", "He bothers the other children." And as you got older the infractions grew exponentially. Special ed, private psychologists, psychiatrists, evaluations, medications...on and on for years and years. There was only one thing on which they all agreed. You were sweet, polite and kind. I already knew that.I remember a day when the principal of your last elementary school called me in utter frustration over some infraction. I listened to her rail on and on about how impossible you were. When she was done I simply replied, "Well, I can only think of one thing that we haven't tried." "What's that?" she asked, "I will make arrangements to have him put to sleep." I understood that you were difficult. I was doing everything in my power to help you. I loved you and I was going to stay in your corner as long as I had to.
I told you about the divorce while we sat in my car one afternoon. I don't think this is something you want to remember. Neither do I. I watched you fold into yourself. You said nothing. Then you cried. And I assured you that no matter what was happening between Dad and me, you were loved and we would make your life as nice as possible.Nothing would be that different. We would both love you. But we would love you separately. Who was I kidding? You changed the subject and I vowed to love you doubly as much to fill in the gaps. I don't think that worked very well.
Remember the first time you met John? I know you do. You and he bonded instantly. He seemed to know how to reach you. He was my "friend" but, more than that, he was your best friend. It was, I think, the first time I'd ever seen you so animated, so happy. With him you seemed better, more focused. And when I made the decision to end my relationship with him, I never considered what that would do to you. How crushed you would be. "Why did John leave me?" you asked. And I wondered how you explain to an eight year old boy that John and I left each other...and no one meant to leave you. You were mad. You were hurt. And for years you refused to speak his name. An unintentional abandonment. A loss of love in your life of loss. I am so so sorry I let that happen.
When I introduced you to Bob you were not happy. You certainly remember this. He had a son your age...a child you didn't like. And worst of all, he was taking a part of me away from you. You did not want this on any level. So you fought it. I think sparks flew between the two of you from the first day. It grew worse when I told you he and I were getting married. He was the "other man" in our relationship. It was an act of war. I tried to balance my love for him and my all encompassing love for you. But the sides were drawn. The fight was on. It didn't matter that i loved you...it only mattered to you that I loved him too. I did not mean to betray you.
In the years since then I have watched as you dismantled every opportunity that was given to you and hurt everyone who loved you. Yet, despite the drugs, the arrests, the jail time, lawyers and shrinks you were still my sweet, helpful loving boy. A boy who seemed to only feel comfort in chaos.
You are no longer a boy. Technically you are a man. And still your childhood life pattern continues. Is this what happens to adopted children? You were broken when you came. Nothing I could do could fix you. Love really isn't enough. I wish only that you could go back to being the beautiful baby boy that your Korean mother held and loved for eighteen months. I wish she could have found a way to keep you and keep you whole. I am sure she imagines you living in America and having a wonderful American life. I know that is what she wanted for you. It's what we all wanted for you.
I don't think this is ever going to happen.
But, oh, I cannot tell you how much I love you. How much I hurt for you. And for me. But I can tell you that I will never give up on you. I never stop loving you. I will never stop hoping that you find your way.
Do you remember your nightmares? I doubt it. Every night for a year, after you'd been asleep for a few hours, you would start screaming. Your Dad and I would rush to your room and find you backed into the corner of your trundle bed. Your eyes were open - but not seeing. You'd cry out "AMA" over and over again. Your arms extended towards some invisible person or thing. We could not touch you because it made you scream louder. Tears would pour from your dark brown eyes. Sometimes you trembled. Sometimes you just screamed and sobbed. I would stay with you until it was over. I did not want you to be alone.
Do you recall the day I fell apart in the bathroom? You'd only been with us a few weeks..The parent thing was harder than I'd imagined. You'd wet your pants - again. And I fell apart. I sat on the floor in front of the toilet and sobbed. You watched me and then reached out your tiny hand and patted my head. This made me cry harder. It made you try harder. You put your arms around my neck and patted me over and over until I stopped crying. At some level you "got it". You didn't want me to feel alone and scared.
Do your remember your first day of Kindergarten? You might. You were scared but proud. Unsure about the bus ride. I made you a deal. I would follow the bus in my car and you could look out the window at any time and see me there. And not be scared. And I did it. Like a stalker, I followed the winding trail of the big yellow bus up and down our streets. Periodically your beautiful little face would appear in the rear window. We would wave. You would smile. I blew kisses. When the bus arrived at school I parked the car and stood discreetly behind a tree waiting to see you get off. Needing to be sure that someone would greet you and help you find your way.I didn't want you to feel alone or scared.
Do you remember kindergarten? I'm sure you remember some of it. The way Mrs. Jackson saw "potential" in you...when others didn't. The way she tried to teach you how to be a friend and how to play nicely. She tried, you failed. Except that time when you and Eric seemed to get along well. He did anything you told him to. He got in trouble. I remember that night when his Dad called me and said, "I don't want Eric playing with your son. he is a bad influence." I was speechless. You kids were five years old. I secretly prayed that something awful would happen to Eric's Dad. It didn't. Instead, he won 35 milion dollars in the lottery. There is no justice.
Do you remember your friends when you were little? Of course not, you didn't have any. No one wanted to play with you. No birthday party invitations, no sleepovers, no friends over after school. You didn't seem to notice...or if you did, you didn't let on. I was your friend. We did everything together. I filled in the blanks. I remember being with you at the playground watching you interact with another child. He wasn't from here. He didn't know you. You were bossy and tried to control the play. He walked away. "Who was that?" I asked you. You grinned and proudly said, "That's my friend!". "What's his name?" "I don't know," you replied. You had no idea what a friend was. But I loved you and I was your friend.
Do you remember the first time you took something that was not yours? You were in day care. You may recall this because it was traumatic. I asked you "where did you get these?" You said you found them. I continued to question you. Eventually you admitted that you took them. So I drove you to the police station and we parked out front. I told you the toys in your pocket had to be returned and that you had to tell the police. You cried. We didn't go in...and I thought you got the message loud and clear. You had to know there were limits to what I would tolerate from you. Lying and stealing were not acceptable, I loved you but I was also responsible for turning you into a decent human being. Or die trying.
Do you remember the principals at your schools? I'm sure they remember you. How many afternoons did we sit with guidance counselors, principals, special ed teachers and school psychologists trying to figure out how to re-direct your behavior? Bet you don't want to remember this. "Your son threw a waste basket across the room." "He won't sit at his desk", "He bothers the other children." And as you got older the infractions grew exponentially. Special ed, private psychologists, psychiatrists, evaluations, medications...on and on for years and years. There was only one thing on which they all agreed. You were sweet, polite and kind. I already knew that.I remember a day when the principal of your last elementary school called me in utter frustration over some infraction. I listened to her rail on and on about how impossible you were. When she was done I simply replied, "Well, I can only think of one thing that we haven't tried." "What's that?" she asked, "I will make arrangements to have him put to sleep." I understood that you were difficult. I was doing everything in my power to help you. I loved you and I was going to stay in your corner as long as I had to.
I told you about the divorce while we sat in my car one afternoon. I don't think this is something you want to remember. Neither do I. I watched you fold into yourself. You said nothing. Then you cried. And I assured you that no matter what was happening between Dad and me, you were loved and we would make your life as nice as possible.Nothing would be that different. We would both love you. But we would love you separately. Who was I kidding? You changed the subject and I vowed to love you doubly as much to fill in the gaps. I don't think that worked very well.
Remember the first time you met John? I know you do. You and he bonded instantly. He seemed to know how to reach you. He was my "friend" but, more than that, he was your best friend. It was, I think, the first time I'd ever seen you so animated, so happy. With him you seemed better, more focused. And when I made the decision to end my relationship with him, I never considered what that would do to you. How crushed you would be. "Why did John leave me?" you asked. And I wondered how you explain to an eight year old boy that John and I left each other...and no one meant to leave you. You were mad. You were hurt. And for years you refused to speak his name. An unintentional abandonment. A loss of love in your life of loss. I am so so sorry I let that happen.
When I introduced you to Bob you were not happy. You certainly remember this. He had a son your age...a child you didn't like. And worst of all, he was taking a part of me away from you. You did not want this on any level. So you fought it. I think sparks flew between the two of you from the first day. It grew worse when I told you he and I were getting married. He was the "other man" in our relationship. It was an act of war. I tried to balance my love for him and my all encompassing love for you. But the sides were drawn. The fight was on. It didn't matter that i loved you...it only mattered to you that I loved him too. I did not mean to betray you.
In the years since then I have watched as you dismantled every opportunity that was given to you and hurt everyone who loved you. Yet, despite the drugs, the arrests, the jail time, lawyers and shrinks you were still my sweet, helpful loving boy. A boy who seemed to only feel comfort in chaos.
You are no longer a boy. Technically you are a man. And still your childhood life pattern continues. Is this what happens to adopted children? You were broken when you came. Nothing I could do could fix you. Love really isn't enough. I wish only that you could go back to being the beautiful baby boy that your Korean mother held and loved for eighteen months. I wish she could have found a way to keep you and keep you whole. I am sure she imagines you living in America and having a wonderful American life. I know that is what she wanted for you. It's what we all wanted for you.
I don't think this is ever going to happen.
But, oh, I cannot tell you how much I love you. How much I hurt for you. And for me. But I can tell you that I will never give up on you. I never stop loving you. I will never stop hoping that you find your way.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Oh You Shouldn't Have,,,No, Really You Shouldn't Have
Gifts. Not a big fan of getting them, but love to give them. If it's your birthday, or Christmas, or Opening Day and a gift is needed, I'm your person. I have a knack for finding or making the perfect gift. But getting gifts, not so much. Knowing I am getting a gift (or worse, being surprised with a gift) sends waves of terror through me. Why? Because I have been the recipient of so many really bad gifts that I fear I will someday be unable to feign pleasure or surprise. Someday I will actually exhibit signs of total disappointment, disgust, or reveal how much I dislike what I have been given. I feel the day of reckoning is closing in. Then what?
Like most of us I have had my share of bad gifts. Well-intentioned, but bad. Fortunately I have found ways to control this and reduce my disappointment. How? When someone asks me what I want, I tell them. (Imagine that) This works particularly well with my husband. I give him a detailed list. Color, size, viscosity, model number, shelf life, etc. Not only do I give him the list, I tell him where to find it and, when possible, give him its exact location in the store. Providing pictures cut from a magazine or a sales circular also works. Now, this technique is not foolproof. Even though he is a left-brained, linear thinker who basically sees the world in black and while or yes and no he occasionally gets adventurous and improvises. (naughty naughty boy) For example, he will change the color ("I thought you'd like the purple one!"), or the quantity ("When this one wears out you'll have a spare!")and, sometime he buys something off-list. As a result of his off-list adventures I own such treasures as a fancy knife sharpener ("You always complain that the knives aren't sharp!")a vibrating foot massager (could be useful if my regular vibrator has dead batteries)and a really BIG ugly Coach bag that has never seen the light of day.
My ex mother in law, the Queen of Crafts, once made me a seaside scene that featured crab shells she had rescued from my dinner plate. In an effort to outdo herself she later made me two paper mache heads of a Granny and a Gramps, individually mounted on slabs of driftwood and sporting rusted chain links to ensure that I could easily hang the happy couple on my wall. How special is that?
My brother (back when we actually had a relationship) used to be the King of Kitsch. Totally unable to walk past a pre-Christmas display of useless gifts (pre-wrapped, of course)He once chose me to be the recipient of a Walking Hand. This little device featured a white hand, palm up, attached to a motorized based that enabled the hand to slide across the "bar" and deliver a drink. wow. As an extra bonus gift he also included another table device that featured drops of colored oil that fell at measured intervals on to a ladder-like gizmo - the point of which was to mesmerize me. Mesmerize is not the word I would have chosen.
In college I dated this wonderful guy who kept talking up the birthday present he was having made for me. He talked about it all the time. (Note: this is NOT a good sign)I only knew that it was some form of jewelry and that it contained a stone that was important to him. He told me repeatedly that once he gave this to me that "everyone would know how much he loved me". Of course I envisioned a ring with a nice shiny stone. Yea, right. When the big day came I was beside myself with anticipation. The box was small - that was good. And when I popped open the top I was speechless. It was definitely not a ring. It was, well, I guess you could call it a charm. He designed it (thank God he did not go into jewelery design)and I hated it on sight. Imagine a gold disk, slightly larger than a quarter. in the center was a smaller raised disk (are you yawning yet?)and inside that was a shiny black stone and an itty bitty diamond chip. On the back he engraved "Love, ---". I wore it on a chain around my neck but I would have preferred to shove it someplace else. That's okay cause this guy, after dating me for 2 years, went home one weekend, met another girl, dumped me and married her two months later. I never asked him what was so important about that black stone. Maybe it was a kidney stone - one he passed while experiencing excruciating pain...yea, I kind of like that idea. It gives much more meaning to the stone.
I don't want to gloss over the good gifts I've received. There have been many. But they have been random. And while random is fine for numbers, it is not so fine for gifts. My favorite random gift was a long sleeved black tee shirt emblazoned with the words "Mrs. Banderas". It was from my friend Judy. Judy gets me. That is why she is my friend. (I still wear this shirt because I am convinced that someday Antonio Banderas will leave Melanie for me. Someday.) Two years ago my ex-husband bought me an Ipod for Christmas. This was an extraordinary acknowledgement that he had actually heard me everytime I whined about not having one. (Whining is too subtle for my real husband...he just hears the whining part)I'm not sure he would have heard me if we'd still been married. A divorce perk, I guess. A former boyfriend surprised me with a gorgeous garnet ring I had been coveting. So, yea, there have been good gifts.
You're probably thinking that I'm selfish and rude. Or that I should remember it's the thought that counts, not the gift. I would probably agree with both of those. But lets face it, sometimes it's hard to discern the thought behind a Walking Hand let alone a shiny kidney stone mounted on a 14k gold quarter.
Like most of us I have had my share of bad gifts. Well-intentioned, but bad. Fortunately I have found ways to control this and reduce my disappointment. How? When someone asks me what I want, I tell them. (Imagine that) This works particularly well with my husband. I give him a detailed list. Color, size, viscosity, model number, shelf life, etc. Not only do I give him the list, I tell him where to find it and, when possible, give him its exact location in the store. Providing pictures cut from a magazine or a sales circular also works. Now, this technique is not foolproof. Even though he is a left-brained, linear thinker who basically sees the world in black and while or yes and no he occasionally gets adventurous and improvises. (naughty naughty boy) For example, he will change the color ("I thought you'd like the purple one!"), or the quantity ("When this one wears out you'll have a spare!")and, sometime he buys something off-list. As a result of his off-list adventures I own such treasures as a fancy knife sharpener ("You always complain that the knives aren't sharp!")a vibrating foot massager (could be useful if my regular vibrator has dead batteries)and a really BIG ugly Coach bag that has never seen the light of day.
My ex mother in law, the Queen of Crafts, once made me a seaside scene that featured crab shells she had rescued from my dinner plate. In an effort to outdo herself she later made me two paper mache heads of a Granny and a Gramps, individually mounted on slabs of driftwood and sporting rusted chain links to ensure that I could easily hang the happy couple on my wall. How special is that?
My brother (back when we actually had a relationship) used to be the King of Kitsch. Totally unable to walk past a pre-Christmas display of useless gifts (pre-wrapped, of course)He once chose me to be the recipient of a Walking Hand. This little device featured a white hand, palm up, attached to a motorized based that enabled the hand to slide across the "bar" and deliver a drink. wow. As an extra bonus gift he also included another table device that featured drops of colored oil that fell at measured intervals on to a ladder-like gizmo - the point of which was to mesmerize me. Mesmerize is not the word I would have chosen.
In college I dated this wonderful guy who kept talking up the birthday present he was having made for me. He talked about it all the time. (Note: this is NOT a good sign)I only knew that it was some form of jewelry and that it contained a stone that was important to him. He told me repeatedly that once he gave this to me that "everyone would know how much he loved me". Of course I envisioned a ring with a nice shiny stone. Yea, right. When the big day came I was beside myself with anticipation. The box was small - that was good. And when I popped open the top I was speechless. It was definitely not a ring. It was, well, I guess you could call it a charm. He designed it (thank God he did not go into jewelery design)and I hated it on sight. Imagine a gold disk, slightly larger than a quarter. in the center was a smaller raised disk (are you yawning yet?)and inside that was a shiny black stone and an itty bitty diamond chip. On the back he engraved "Love, ---". I wore it on a chain around my neck but I would have preferred to shove it someplace else. That's okay cause this guy, after dating me for 2 years, went home one weekend, met another girl, dumped me and married her two months later. I never asked him what was so important about that black stone. Maybe it was a kidney stone - one he passed while experiencing excruciating pain...yea, I kind of like that idea. It gives much more meaning to the stone.
I don't want to gloss over the good gifts I've received. There have been many. But they have been random. And while random is fine for numbers, it is not so fine for gifts. My favorite random gift was a long sleeved black tee shirt emblazoned with the words "Mrs. Banderas". It was from my friend Judy. Judy gets me. That is why she is my friend. (I still wear this shirt because I am convinced that someday Antonio Banderas will leave Melanie for me. Someday.) Two years ago my ex-husband bought me an Ipod for Christmas. This was an extraordinary acknowledgement that he had actually heard me everytime I whined about not having one. (Whining is too subtle for my real husband...he just hears the whining part)I'm not sure he would have heard me if we'd still been married. A divorce perk, I guess. A former boyfriend surprised me with a gorgeous garnet ring I had been coveting. So, yea, there have been good gifts.
You're probably thinking that I'm selfish and rude. Or that I should remember it's the thought that counts, not the gift. I would probably agree with both of those. But lets face it, sometimes it's hard to discern the thought behind a Walking Hand let alone a shiny kidney stone mounted on a 14k gold quarter.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Stalking the Hair on My Chinny Chin Chin
I am often reminded of fairy tale illustrations in which the old crone, or witch, or mean old lady is drawn sporting a large facial mole out of which grows a butt ugly hair. I am reminded of this when I look in the mirror. Fortunately I do not have the mole - but the hair- oh yea. What's up with this?
My life has become a continual quest to remove stray facial hair. I am so obsessed with eradicating the enemy that I own 7 tweezers and keep them in strategic locations. One in each bathroom. One in my car. My purse. My husband's car. And in the family room in a whatnot box. Like chocolate, a woman can never have enough tweezers.
I scan for stubble multiple times each day, running my finger slowly over my chin. I hate stubble. And when I find one or two protrusions trying to sneak out, I start picking at them. Pick pick pick. Hear this ladies, fingernails are not a good substitute for tweezers. Trying to pluck with fingernails increases stress levels - and leave red marks. If I ever have a stroke it won't be from high blood pressure, it will be from the stress of plucking chin hairs with my fingers.
When this madness began, the hairs were dark. That made them easy to spot, but no less disgusting. Over the years, however, they have changed. Most are thicker and white. WHITE!!! Like Santa Claus, but inexcusable. White chin hair is harder to yank and, considering that my eyesight is sort of mucked up, harder to see. (This is where that hourly sweep of the finger comes in handy.) Sometimes, when I think I've ripped them all out for the day, I find another one or two when I turn sideways, in bright light, and happen to glance in the mirror.(Yes it sounds like a contortion but it isn't...) If I let these little white guys go for too long, my profile in the sun would resemble a Chia Pet in it's first few transformative days.
I have considered laser hair removal (if I did this I would also do my "moustache"). But there are downsides. It's expensive. It is uncomfortable. And, the worst part, you have to let the hairs grow a bit before they can be removed. This is not an option. Unless I convert quickly to radical Islam and wear a Birka, I am NOT leaving my house with chin (or lip) hair. This leaves plucking and waxing as my only options.
I have a waxer...a professional one, because, after all, I am (among other things) a licensed Esthetician. It is hard to wax yourself, but I have develped ways that mostly work. They work on facial hair over the lip, under the brow and that downy crap that grows on our cheeks. Waxing does not work so well on pesky, white, Santa stubble. Most often I have to resort to the tweezer. My friend the tweezer.
I suppose it could be worse..and maybe someday it will be. I know I am not alone. I pluck and tweeze my friends' facial hair with some regularity. I believe this hormonally driven injustice is one of the many ways we are set apart from our younger, premenopausal sisters. They focus on their brows while they TWEET; we focus on our chins while we TWEEZE. Do you think Meryl Streep tweezes while she TWEETS?
My life has become a continual quest to remove stray facial hair. I am so obsessed with eradicating the enemy that I own 7 tweezers and keep them in strategic locations. One in each bathroom. One in my car. My purse. My husband's car. And in the family room in a whatnot box. Like chocolate, a woman can never have enough tweezers.
I scan for stubble multiple times each day, running my finger slowly over my chin. I hate stubble. And when I find one or two protrusions trying to sneak out, I start picking at them. Pick pick pick. Hear this ladies, fingernails are not a good substitute for tweezers. Trying to pluck with fingernails increases stress levels - and leave red marks. If I ever have a stroke it won't be from high blood pressure, it will be from the stress of plucking chin hairs with my fingers.
When this madness began, the hairs were dark. That made them easy to spot, but no less disgusting. Over the years, however, they have changed. Most are thicker and white. WHITE!!! Like Santa Claus, but inexcusable. White chin hair is harder to yank and, considering that my eyesight is sort of mucked up, harder to see. (This is where that hourly sweep of the finger comes in handy.) Sometimes, when I think I've ripped them all out for the day, I find another one or two when I turn sideways, in bright light, and happen to glance in the mirror.(Yes it sounds like a contortion but it isn't...) If I let these little white guys go for too long, my profile in the sun would resemble a Chia Pet in it's first few transformative days.
I have considered laser hair removal (if I did this I would also do my "moustache"). But there are downsides. It's expensive. It is uncomfortable. And, the worst part, you have to let the hairs grow a bit before they can be removed. This is not an option. Unless I convert quickly to radical Islam and wear a Birka, I am NOT leaving my house with chin (or lip) hair. This leaves plucking and waxing as my only options.
I have a waxer...a professional one, because, after all, I am (among other things) a licensed Esthetician. It is hard to wax yourself, but I have develped ways that mostly work. They work on facial hair over the lip, under the brow and that downy crap that grows on our cheeks. Waxing does not work so well on pesky, white, Santa stubble. Most often I have to resort to the tweezer. My friend the tweezer.
I suppose it could be worse..and maybe someday it will be. I know I am not alone. I pluck and tweeze my friends' facial hair with some regularity. I believe this hormonally driven injustice is one of the many ways we are set apart from our younger, premenopausal sisters. They focus on their brows while they TWEET; we focus on our chins while we TWEEZE. Do you think Meryl Streep tweezes while she TWEETS?
Monday, January 25, 2010
Due to Technical Difficulties...
My 85 year old Dad called me last week all excited about his new "toy" - a webcam. "You have to get one!" he insisted. "When you get one we can Skype each other and then it will be more like a visit than a phone call."
I was silent. Stunned. Six weeks ago my Dad was still struggling with the challenge of sending attachments with his emails. Now he was "Skyping". How could this happen? How could an 85 year old man who still uses Wordperfect have come this far in so short a time? What would I have to do to catch up with him...or could I?
Like many people of my generation, I am technically disabled. Trying to teach me to use features, programs or apps (whatever those are) is a lost cause. You might as well be speaking in tongues. No comprendo baby. This applies to any technology I use, computer, cell phone, GPS gizmo, iPod and almost anything involving hooking something up to the television.
The extent of my technology accomplishments are minimal. I can turn on my TV, I can actually set the DVR to record (although I haven't mastered how to stop it from recording reruns). I can call and receive calls on my cell phone. I recently perfected some arcane form of texting...but I don't think it's the right form. Doesn't matter I guess. I struggle to find the phone's camera function and then to locate the picture after I take it. Eventually I find the picture...but the discovery is always preceeded by a lot of cursing.(The manual doesn't say anything about cursing...how strange) I dropped my phone internet service because I just couldn't figure it out. We have a family GPS. I can follow it's instructions BUT I cannot program it. I also get mad at the GPS voice when she talks to me. Too creepy. She has attitude. It's personal. I believe I have mastered my iPod. I am very proud of this. Just don't ask me to plug it into my car and play it through the radio. My computer skills are a tad above the "basic" level but there are so many things I don't understand and cannot master that I often wish I could start over. It's hard to unlearn bad things.
Have you ever been sick as a dog, gone to the doctor and miraculously been cured in the waiting room? Then you can relate to this: I had a cell phone problem. I couldn't turn the damn thing off. (I pressed and pressed the little red phone icon and nothing happened. I had friends try; they failed. In the end my "fix" was to remove the battery to achieve silence. The first time it happened, I wrote it off as a freak occurrence. But it wasn't. Shutting the cursed thing off wasn't possible. With no desirable options left, I got in my car and drove to the AT&T store. Not looking forward to this visit. I would rather have a root canal without anesthetic than go to the AT&T store.
The sales reps were converged at the back of the store, a single bundle of twenty-somethings hovered around a computer. Two boys, one girl. No grown-ups. I almost turned around and left. But, the girl spotted me. "How can I help you?"she asked. "I can't turn off my phone." I replied. "I've tried everything...I had to remove the battery." She stared at me quizzically and then turned and looked at her cohorts. I don't know if she rolled her eyes, but I am going to assume that she did (They always do). Then she asked me the DUMBEST QUESTION of the day, "Why do you want to turn it off?". Now I just stared at her, hoping she would say something to redeem herself. She didn't. This generation cannot imagine a reason to untether itself from an electronic device! How scary is that?! Anyway, she waited for my answer. "Uh...well people frown on ringing phones in the theatre, at movies, at church (where I never go - I just assume it would be disruptive) maybe even funerals..." "Oh," she answered taking the phone from my hand and touching the same damn red icon that I had touched, pressed, pushed and caressed...and the phone politely shut down. She returned it to me. She was smiling. I wanted to smack her. I didn't.
"You just press here," she explained. "I did," I replied defensively, "and so did a few others..it would not shut down." She again turned to her co-workers (eyerolling???) who were all grinning. She said nothing. "Is there anything else I can help you with, Mam?" she asked. "No," I answered. (That "Mam" thing really got to me...) I turned and left feeling dumb and dumber. Four hours later I tried to turn off the phone and (you guessed it) nothing happened. Over the weeks I studied the problem and figured out that there is an infintessimal spot on the tiny red icon where I have to apply pressure (sort of like the phone equivalent of the "g" spot)...if I don't hit the spot, nothing happens. It doesn't say that in the manual...and she didn't mention it either. Bitch.
I can't get help at home. At least not helpful help. My husband is worse than I am. He's out. I apparently did not teach my son patience and tolerance. No sir. He just doesn't understand WHY I don't get it right away. (Just like he doesn't understand why he doesn't get the money he asks for right away. Proof of life's yin and yang)He instructs me in a shorthand I don't understand, at a pace I can't follow, and with an edge of disgust in his voice. A mighty pleasant experience...mighty pleasant. Being a Boomer in the age of technology just isn't fun.
I fantasize about finding some gentle soul who could/would mentor me. Guide me. And most of all, have patience with me. Alas, this person does not exist - or at least I haven't met him/her. As I see it I fall a little further behind technically everyday. Catching up may never happen. There is a ray of hope though. At the rate my Dad is going he may be my best bet. Maybe I will get a webcam, learn how to Skype and ask Dad to.... Naw....I think I'll just hit the Genius Bar at Apple and order a strong drink instead.
I was silent. Stunned. Six weeks ago my Dad was still struggling with the challenge of sending attachments with his emails. Now he was "Skyping". How could this happen? How could an 85 year old man who still uses Wordperfect have come this far in so short a time? What would I have to do to catch up with him...or could I?
Like many people of my generation, I am technically disabled. Trying to teach me to use features, programs or apps (whatever those are) is a lost cause. You might as well be speaking in tongues. No comprendo baby. This applies to any technology I use, computer, cell phone, GPS gizmo, iPod and almost anything involving hooking something up to the television.
The extent of my technology accomplishments are minimal. I can turn on my TV, I can actually set the DVR to record (although I haven't mastered how to stop it from recording reruns). I can call and receive calls on my cell phone. I recently perfected some arcane form of texting...but I don't think it's the right form. Doesn't matter I guess. I struggle to find the phone's camera function and then to locate the picture after I take it. Eventually I find the picture...but the discovery is always preceeded by a lot of cursing.(The manual doesn't say anything about cursing...how strange) I dropped my phone internet service because I just couldn't figure it out. We have a family GPS. I can follow it's instructions BUT I cannot program it. I also get mad at the GPS voice when she talks to me. Too creepy. She has attitude. It's personal. I believe I have mastered my iPod. I am very proud of this. Just don't ask me to plug it into my car and play it through the radio. My computer skills are a tad above the "basic" level but there are so many things I don't understand and cannot master that I often wish I could start over. It's hard to unlearn bad things.
Have you ever been sick as a dog, gone to the doctor and miraculously been cured in the waiting room? Then you can relate to this: I had a cell phone problem. I couldn't turn the damn thing off. (I pressed and pressed the little red phone icon and nothing happened. I had friends try; they failed. In the end my "fix" was to remove the battery to achieve silence. The first time it happened, I wrote it off as a freak occurrence. But it wasn't. Shutting the cursed thing off wasn't possible. With no desirable options left, I got in my car and drove to the AT&T store. Not looking forward to this visit. I would rather have a root canal without anesthetic than go to the AT&T store.
The sales reps were converged at the back of the store, a single bundle of twenty-somethings hovered around a computer. Two boys, one girl. No grown-ups. I almost turned around and left. But, the girl spotted me. "How can I help you?"she asked. "I can't turn off my phone." I replied. "I've tried everything...I had to remove the battery." She stared at me quizzically and then turned and looked at her cohorts. I don't know if she rolled her eyes, but I am going to assume that she did (They always do). Then she asked me the DUMBEST QUESTION of the day, "Why do you want to turn it off?". Now I just stared at her, hoping she would say something to redeem herself. She didn't. This generation cannot imagine a reason to untether itself from an electronic device! How scary is that?! Anyway, she waited for my answer. "Uh...well people frown on ringing phones in the theatre, at movies, at church (where I never go - I just assume it would be disruptive) maybe even funerals..." "Oh," she answered taking the phone from my hand and touching the same damn red icon that I had touched, pressed, pushed and caressed...and the phone politely shut down. She returned it to me. She was smiling. I wanted to smack her. I didn't.
"You just press here," she explained. "I did," I replied defensively, "and so did a few others..it would not shut down." She again turned to her co-workers (eyerolling???) who were all grinning. She said nothing. "Is there anything else I can help you with, Mam?" she asked. "No," I answered. (That "Mam" thing really got to me...) I turned and left feeling dumb and dumber. Four hours later I tried to turn off the phone and (you guessed it) nothing happened. Over the weeks I studied the problem and figured out that there is an infintessimal spot on the tiny red icon where I have to apply pressure (sort of like the phone equivalent of the "g" spot)...if I don't hit the spot, nothing happens. It doesn't say that in the manual...and she didn't mention it either. Bitch.
I can't get help at home. At least not helpful help. My husband is worse than I am. He's out. I apparently did not teach my son patience and tolerance. No sir. He just doesn't understand WHY I don't get it right away. (Just like he doesn't understand why he doesn't get the money he asks for right away. Proof of life's yin and yang)He instructs me in a shorthand I don't understand, at a pace I can't follow, and with an edge of disgust in his voice. A mighty pleasant experience...mighty pleasant. Being a Boomer in the age of technology just isn't fun.
I fantasize about finding some gentle soul who could/would mentor me. Guide me. And most of all, have patience with me. Alas, this person does not exist - or at least I haven't met him/her. As I see it I fall a little further behind technically everyday. Catching up may never happen. There is a ray of hope though. At the rate my Dad is going he may be my best bet. Maybe I will get a webcam, learn how to Skype and ask Dad to.... Naw....I think I'll just hit the Genius Bar at Apple and order a strong drink instead.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Stocking Up on "Burn My Rump" red
Change happens. (So does s++t but who's keeping track?) It's a constant - like death and taxes - but not as awful. Seasons change. Faces change. Heck, even the change in our pocket has changed over the years. Thankfully, most change is gradual (look at your old photos and watch youself gradually disintegrate...now, that's fun)The worst change is the stuff that happens with no warning. Most of that just sucks.
The ability to handle change and rock 'n roll with the punches has a lot to do with the type of life you've led. When I first moved to the midwest I was stunned to discover people who were still friends with people they'd known in kindergarten! Friends they'd had for life. As a transplated East Coaster, the concept of living a consistent and fairly predictable life astounded me. (I was also jealous)I had not lived that life. The only constant I'd ever experienced was chaos and change. They were my friends. I was comfortable with them. My lifelong friends are named Anxiety and Uncertainty. But, meeting actual (as opposed to fictional) people who had lived in the same town (often in the same house)kept the same parents and the same lifestyle forever...well that was as foreign as wearing a Birka and being subserviant to men...simply not gonna happen to me.
I am comfortable with most change. I expect it. I get nervous when things stay the same too long. The longer things are steady and even, the more anxious I become. But some change is even too much for me. There are just certain things that I rely on or expect to remain a constant. When those shift and wake up my inner cortisol (the stress hormone) then you don't want to be anywhere near me.
Here's a great example: I cannot recall a time in my life when I wasn't consuming large quantities of Coke (the brown liquid, not the white powder). Sure it rotted my teeth and maybe packed on the pounds but I was dedicated and loyal and addicted. Because of me my dentist sent his kids to college and got his wife new boobs. This was a workable and symbiotic relationship. Then some jerk at Coke's headquarters, possibly threatened by the surge in Pepsi consumption (I'd rather drink pee), decided to ditch the old recipe and introduce "New Coke". For Coca Cola aficionados this was a sacrilege, a travesty, and a big freaking FU to long time customers with rotted teeth and flabby thighs.
I, personally, went ballistic. I wrote letters and made calls incessantly. In response to my tirade, the wise fools at Coke sent me coupons for new Coke! Infuriated, I maintained my letter writing campaign, returned the coupons (what were they thinking?) and began to do what any red-blooded American would do - I hoarded.
I scoured the stores, packed carton after carton of old Coke into my car. I built a Coke wall in my basement. Friends contributed, as did family. I had no "master plan". Let's face it, when my stash was gone I would be screwed. I drank the basement Coke judiciously. One a day...savored like an expensive and rare wine. I did not share. Want Coke? Get your own. In rather short time the Big Guns at Coke saw the error of their ways and returned to the old formula. Of course, I took personal credit for this.
Another change you can always count on dwells in the realm of makeup. To keep us buying and trying, the cosmetic companies wait until a shade or a product is doing well and then they drop it. Gone. Yep, you can stock up but face it, when your wall of Babycake Orange or Burn My Rump Red is gone you go back to the drawing board. Over the years I have waved bye bye to many great lipstick and foundation shades. When a product like this is discontinued, you are forced back to the department store to face those overly made up hags, dressed in black, who lurk behind the counter. I despise those women. Never had an encounter with anyone behind the makeup counter with whom I would like to have lunch.
A few years ago, while in Vegas, I stopped at Valhalla, or as you know it, Sephora. Sephora is a woman's paradise. Aisle after aisle of cosmetics, no one breathing down your neck, and the ability to try on anything and everything in the store - without pressure. I don't know who "Sephora" is, but I love her and I would like to have her baby. On this particular day my shopping reverie was interrupted by a young man wearing extreme makeup. (It's Vegas, remember) It's odd to be approached by a sales person at a Sephora store, but this guy seemed unusually exhuberant - and very made-up. He was there to demonstrate a new line. Would I like to have my makeup done? Uh, YEA! As he proceeded to scrape the existing products off my face he must have felt an overwhelming need to bond with me. He took my hand, looked into my eyes and said, "I am a drag queen at night.I know all about makeup." OK.... That's nice. Thanks for sharing. "Then get to it!" I replied in my cheeriest voice...and he did.
Now, I love makeup and I love looking good. Finding the right products at my age isn't easy. It's a challenge. Therefore I should have known, just by looking at HIS makeup, that this might not be a good thing. But, when in Vegas...
He started. He layered moisturizer, then primer, then mixed 2 shades of foundation (which he declared were a perfect match for my skin tone when combined). Then came the bronzer (to give me contours cause I guess my natural ones weren't good enough)and then blush and finally a powder to "set" all the other layers...maybe to keep them from falling off my face. I was beginning to feel a little heavy in the face...but his face was beaming! "Oh, you are looking gooood.." he exclaimed. Next he applied some outrageous green eyeshadow, dark black eyeliner, and a deep green mascara. Feeling like a freshly iced cake, I opened my mouth ever so slightly so he could brush on a pale shade of pink (PINK! I hadn't worn pink lipstick since 7th grade) He stepped back to admire his work. I glanced at a salesperson who'd been observing, she grimaced...And then he handed me the mirror. "What do you think!?" he asked. I was, probably for the first time ever, dumbstruck. I looked like him. I looked like a drag queen. I could probably walk down to the nearest casino and get a job as a showgirl (well, maybe not). I was ready to go onstage!! "Wow," I said, "that's really interesting...I look so...so..different..." I managed to say. "YES! You do look great," he declared and stepped back to admire me yet again.
He did not try to sell me the products but he did hand me a list of everything he'd used. Had I purchased it, I would have been $226 lighter in my wallet.Unsure what to do next,not wanting to offend him, and eager to get to the nearest bathroom to undo the new me, I actually bought the lipstick. I never used it. I still have it. They don't make it anymore.
The ability to handle change and rock 'n roll with the punches has a lot to do with the type of life you've led. When I first moved to the midwest I was stunned to discover people who were still friends with people they'd known in kindergarten! Friends they'd had for life. As a transplated East Coaster, the concept of living a consistent and fairly predictable life astounded me. (I was also jealous)I had not lived that life. The only constant I'd ever experienced was chaos and change. They were my friends. I was comfortable with them. My lifelong friends are named Anxiety and Uncertainty. But, meeting actual (as opposed to fictional) people who had lived in the same town (often in the same house)kept the same parents and the same lifestyle forever...well that was as foreign as wearing a Birka and being subserviant to men...simply not gonna happen to me.
I am comfortable with most change. I expect it. I get nervous when things stay the same too long. The longer things are steady and even, the more anxious I become. But some change is even too much for me. There are just certain things that I rely on or expect to remain a constant. When those shift and wake up my inner cortisol (the stress hormone) then you don't want to be anywhere near me.
Here's a great example: I cannot recall a time in my life when I wasn't consuming large quantities of Coke (the brown liquid, not the white powder). Sure it rotted my teeth and maybe packed on the pounds but I was dedicated and loyal and addicted. Because of me my dentist sent his kids to college and got his wife new boobs. This was a workable and symbiotic relationship. Then some jerk at Coke's headquarters, possibly threatened by the surge in Pepsi consumption (I'd rather drink pee), decided to ditch the old recipe and introduce "New Coke". For Coca Cola aficionados this was a sacrilege, a travesty, and a big freaking FU to long time customers with rotted teeth and flabby thighs.
I, personally, went ballistic. I wrote letters and made calls incessantly. In response to my tirade, the wise fools at Coke sent me coupons for new Coke! Infuriated, I maintained my letter writing campaign, returned the coupons (what were they thinking?) and began to do what any red-blooded American would do - I hoarded.
I scoured the stores, packed carton after carton of old Coke into my car. I built a Coke wall in my basement. Friends contributed, as did family. I had no "master plan". Let's face it, when my stash was gone I would be screwed. I drank the basement Coke judiciously. One a day...savored like an expensive and rare wine. I did not share. Want Coke? Get your own. In rather short time the Big Guns at Coke saw the error of their ways and returned to the old formula. Of course, I took personal credit for this.
Another change you can always count on dwells in the realm of makeup. To keep us buying and trying, the cosmetic companies wait until a shade or a product is doing well and then they drop it. Gone. Yep, you can stock up but face it, when your wall of Babycake Orange or Burn My Rump Red is gone you go back to the drawing board. Over the years I have waved bye bye to many great lipstick and foundation shades. When a product like this is discontinued, you are forced back to the department store to face those overly made up hags, dressed in black, who lurk behind the counter. I despise those women. Never had an encounter with anyone behind the makeup counter with whom I would like to have lunch.
A few years ago, while in Vegas, I stopped at Valhalla, or as you know it, Sephora. Sephora is a woman's paradise. Aisle after aisle of cosmetics, no one breathing down your neck, and the ability to try on anything and everything in the store - without pressure. I don't know who "Sephora" is, but I love her and I would like to have her baby. On this particular day my shopping reverie was interrupted by a young man wearing extreme makeup. (It's Vegas, remember) It's odd to be approached by a sales person at a Sephora store, but this guy seemed unusually exhuberant - and very made-up. He was there to demonstrate a new line. Would I like to have my makeup done? Uh, YEA! As he proceeded to scrape the existing products off my face he must have felt an overwhelming need to bond with me. He took my hand, looked into my eyes and said, "I am a drag queen at night.I know all about makeup." OK.... That's nice. Thanks for sharing. "Then get to it!" I replied in my cheeriest voice...and he did.
Now, I love makeup and I love looking good. Finding the right products at my age isn't easy. It's a challenge. Therefore I should have known, just by looking at HIS makeup, that this might not be a good thing. But, when in Vegas...
He started. He layered moisturizer, then primer, then mixed 2 shades of foundation (which he declared were a perfect match for my skin tone when combined). Then came the bronzer (to give me contours cause I guess my natural ones weren't good enough)and then blush and finally a powder to "set" all the other layers...maybe to keep them from falling off my face. I was beginning to feel a little heavy in the face...but his face was beaming! "Oh, you are looking gooood.." he exclaimed. Next he applied some outrageous green eyeshadow, dark black eyeliner, and a deep green mascara. Feeling like a freshly iced cake, I opened my mouth ever so slightly so he could brush on a pale shade of pink (PINK! I hadn't worn pink lipstick since 7th grade) He stepped back to admire his work. I glanced at a salesperson who'd been observing, she grimaced...And then he handed me the mirror. "What do you think!?" he asked. I was, probably for the first time ever, dumbstruck. I looked like him. I looked like a drag queen. I could probably walk down to the nearest casino and get a job as a showgirl (well, maybe not). I was ready to go onstage!! "Wow," I said, "that's really interesting...I look so...so..different..." I managed to say. "YES! You do look great," he declared and stepped back to admire me yet again.
He did not try to sell me the products but he did hand me a list of everything he'd used. Had I purchased it, I would have been $226 lighter in my wallet.Unsure what to do next,not wanting to offend him, and eager to get to the nearest bathroom to undo the new me, I actually bought the lipstick. I never used it. I still have it. They don't make it anymore.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Airports, Bar Stools and Epitaphs
Everyone has stories. Some are personal, some can be shared. Some are told and retold over eggnog and chili; others are passed down through generations, changing slightly with each telling. And some are so outrageous that they need to be shared with the world because they are too good to keep within the confines of family and friends. This is one of those stories.
My sister was born in 1956. The first child of my mother and her new husband, she was destined (or so they hoped) to be the golden child. At 9, I was slightly less than thrilled at her arrival. I had just been inducted into this "new family" and I hadn't quite found my place. But that didn't matter. She was here and there wasn't a darn thing I could do about it. (Although I did have evil fantasies about getting rid of her. As it turns out I probably should have. I'd be out of jail by now.)
To put it mildly, she was a wild child. Almost from the beginning. I remember my Mom telling me about a time when a woman approached her on the street, looked at my sister in her carriage, and said. "That child will bring you nothing but grief." Nice. (I would have left the carriage and run but then I'm not my mother). Mom wrote the woman off as nuts, but often recounted the incidentlater when the prediction came true.
At the age of two my sister fell over the back of a step chair that she used (that I had given her.) to help reach the bathroom sink. She didn't lose consciousness. Her chin was cut. The back of the step/chair smacked her in the solar plexus but she seemed fine. (Remember, in those days we weren't as frantic about every little thing....) Several weeks later Mom noticed that my sister was acting strangely. She would be playing and suddenly "freeze", her eyes would glass over, and she would make little grunting noises. Then as suddenly as it came on, it would end. It grew worse. And worse. Finally they took her to a doctor, who send her to another doctor and another. Five spinal taps later they diagnosed her with a mild form of epilepsy...the little freezing incidents were seizures. They prescribed a cocktail of Phenobarbital and Dilantin and unwittingly began her life of drugs.
The seizures affected everything - not the least of which was her behavior. She grew wilder. She was kicked out of public school and later out of private school. She appeared to have no impulse control, no judgement and no remorse. If there was a way to get into trouble or make trouble, she found it. Life was hell for everyone.
By the time she was 17, she had had 6 abortions, used every drug available, slept with anything and anyone who looked at her,dropped out of school,run away, gotten a few kinds of VD - and at 18 she had a baby. My parents raised him.
We used to think that when she got older she would calm down. But she didn't . Maybe she couldn't. She did have a few periods of what we would call normal, but they never lasted. She married twice and gave birth to another child. When that child was 5, she ran away with a Mexican migrant worker she had known for a few hours and vanished for a year. She did drugs, sold drugs,drank incessantly, lived in tents in Miami and mud huts in Mexico. Drinking and drugs sustained her. Once in a while she remembered she was a mother.
In the last years of her life, with her son grown and her eleven year old daughter living with friends, she began her final downward thrust. She hated me, but would call when she needed to talk, or when she wanted to remind me how much she hated me, or needed money. She was institutionalized twice and jailed a few more times. When things got really bad I contacted her probation officer for help. An arrest warrant was out. she ran. No one knew where she was. (Except my aunt and she wasn't talking).
I got the call one Spring morning. It was my aunt, crying. "Your sister is sick. the doctor needs to talk to a close family member." Now, I was hardly what you'd call 'close' but I knew where the 'closer" people were. "What doctor? Where is she?" "In Buffalo," my aunt replied, "She and BoBo (or Jellyroll or Bizquik) have been there for weeks. But she's sick and he (Jellyroll, or Bizquick or whatever) can't sign any papers.
I called the doctor. My sister was dying. Cirrosis and other organ failures.
I called my nephew, her son. He, along with my Dad (my Mom had passed away) and my brother arranged to fly to Buffalo. They arrived an hour too late. She was already dead. At 48...from drugs and alcohol. Party-on. They decided to have her cremated and so they waited a few days in Buffalo until she was ready to travel. My Dad said there is not much to do in Buffalo once you've seen Niagara Falls. They did what they could.
Eventually the ashes were ready (ready? did they have to cool down?) and she could fly "home". My nephew, brother and father arrived at the airport to await their flight. They waited quite awhile. Eventually they got hungry. "Let's go eat in the bar." my nephew suggested..."It's close and we can hear the flights being called." So they did.
They sat on bar stools, had drinks and sandwiches. Eventually the flight was ready and they boarded their plane. Everyone was silent. There wasn't much to say. It was sad...but at other levels it was a relief. I guess. My nephew had a window seat. My Dad, an aisle. Mmy brother had taken a different plane). Between them sat an elderly African American woman reading her Bible. The plane taxied and took off. And then, with a look of sheer horror on his face my Dad yelled out to my nephew , "OH my GOD I left your mother under the bar stool!!!"
The woman in the middle seat yelled out 'Lord have mercy!!"
"Are you sure?" my nephew asked.
"Oh my God," replied my Dad, "yes she's in a bag under the stool in the bar!"
"Dear Jesus!" cried the lady in the middle seat.
My Dad flagged down the Flight Attendant. "I left my daughter under the bar stool in the airport restaurant. I have to get her back!" he explained.
"Lord, Lord!!" said the lady in the middle seat.
"You left your daughter under a bar stool?" the flight attendant asked, confused.
"Her ashes," Dad explained, "I left her ashes under the bar stool."
By this time my nephew is laughing so hard he is unable to help. The lady in the middle seat is proclaiming the Lord, and my Dad is starting to crack up.
The irony of my sister's plight was lost on no one. What more fitting a final resting place could there be for her than under a bar stool.?
The airline was able to contact the restaurant, the ashes were found and placed on a later flight. They now sit next to my Mother's ashes on a shelf in my Dad's bedroom. (I won't talk about the urn, I made it, it's a hoot!)
I often think about how my sister would have laughed and laughed at this story. In some ways (but not many ways), I'm sorry she wasn't around to enjoy it with us. We tell this story as often as we can. I have had requests from friends to tell this story. It's a good one, you can't deny that.
My sister was born in 1956. The first child of my mother and her new husband, she was destined (or so they hoped) to be the golden child. At 9, I was slightly less than thrilled at her arrival. I had just been inducted into this "new family" and I hadn't quite found my place. But that didn't matter. She was here and there wasn't a darn thing I could do about it. (Although I did have evil fantasies about getting rid of her. As it turns out I probably should have. I'd be out of jail by now.)
To put it mildly, she was a wild child. Almost from the beginning. I remember my Mom telling me about a time when a woman approached her on the street, looked at my sister in her carriage, and said. "That child will bring you nothing but grief." Nice. (I would have left the carriage and run but then I'm not my mother). Mom wrote the woman off as nuts, but often recounted the incidentlater when the prediction came true.
At the age of two my sister fell over the back of a step chair that she used (that I had given her.) to help reach the bathroom sink. She didn't lose consciousness. Her chin was cut. The back of the step/chair smacked her in the solar plexus but she seemed fine. (Remember, in those days we weren't as frantic about every little thing....) Several weeks later Mom noticed that my sister was acting strangely. She would be playing and suddenly "freeze", her eyes would glass over, and she would make little grunting noises. Then as suddenly as it came on, it would end. It grew worse. And worse. Finally they took her to a doctor, who send her to another doctor and another. Five spinal taps later they diagnosed her with a mild form of epilepsy...the little freezing incidents were seizures. They prescribed a cocktail of Phenobarbital and Dilantin and unwittingly began her life of drugs.
The seizures affected everything - not the least of which was her behavior. She grew wilder. She was kicked out of public school and later out of private school. She appeared to have no impulse control, no judgement and no remorse. If there was a way to get into trouble or make trouble, she found it. Life was hell for everyone.
By the time she was 17, she had had 6 abortions, used every drug available, slept with anything and anyone who looked at her,dropped out of school,run away, gotten a few kinds of VD - and at 18 she had a baby. My parents raised him.
We used to think that when she got older she would calm down. But she didn't . Maybe she couldn't. She did have a few periods of what we would call normal, but they never lasted. She married twice and gave birth to another child. When that child was 5, she ran away with a Mexican migrant worker she had known for a few hours and vanished for a year. She did drugs, sold drugs,drank incessantly, lived in tents in Miami and mud huts in Mexico. Drinking and drugs sustained her. Once in a while she remembered she was a mother.
In the last years of her life, with her son grown and her eleven year old daughter living with friends, she began her final downward thrust. She hated me, but would call when she needed to talk, or when she wanted to remind me how much she hated me, or needed money. She was institutionalized twice and jailed a few more times. When things got really bad I contacted her probation officer for help. An arrest warrant was out. she ran. No one knew where she was. (Except my aunt and she wasn't talking).
I got the call one Spring morning. It was my aunt, crying. "Your sister is sick. the doctor needs to talk to a close family member." Now, I was hardly what you'd call 'close' but I knew where the 'closer" people were. "What doctor? Where is she?" "In Buffalo," my aunt replied, "She and BoBo (or Jellyroll or Bizquik) have been there for weeks. But she's sick and he (Jellyroll, or Bizquick or whatever) can't sign any papers.
I called the doctor. My sister was dying. Cirrosis and other organ failures.
I called my nephew, her son. He, along with my Dad (my Mom had passed away) and my brother arranged to fly to Buffalo. They arrived an hour too late. She was already dead. At 48...from drugs and alcohol. Party-on. They decided to have her cremated and so they waited a few days in Buffalo until she was ready to travel. My Dad said there is not much to do in Buffalo once you've seen Niagara Falls. They did what they could.
Eventually the ashes were ready (ready? did they have to cool down?) and she could fly "home". My nephew, brother and father arrived at the airport to await their flight. They waited quite awhile. Eventually they got hungry. "Let's go eat in the bar." my nephew suggested..."It's close and we can hear the flights being called." So they did.
They sat on bar stools, had drinks and sandwiches. Eventually the flight was ready and they boarded their plane. Everyone was silent. There wasn't much to say. It was sad...but at other levels it was a relief. I guess. My nephew had a window seat. My Dad, an aisle. Mmy brother had taken a different plane). Between them sat an elderly African American woman reading her Bible. The plane taxied and took off. And then, with a look of sheer horror on his face my Dad yelled out to my nephew , "OH my GOD I left your mother under the bar stool!!!"
The woman in the middle seat yelled out 'Lord have mercy!!"
"Are you sure?" my nephew asked.
"Oh my God," replied my Dad, "yes she's in a bag under the stool in the bar!"
"Dear Jesus!" cried the lady in the middle seat.
My Dad flagged down the Flight Attendant. "I left my daughter under the bar stool in the airport restaurant. I have to get her back!" he explained.
"Lord, Lord!!" said the lady in the middle seat.
"You left your daughter under a bar stool?" the flight attendant asked, confused.
"Her ashes," Dad explained, "I left her ashes under the bar stool."
By this time my nephew is laughing so hard he is unable to help. The lady in the middle seat is proclaiming the Lord, and my Dad is starting to crack up.
The irony of my sister's plight was lost on no one. What more fitting a final resting place could there be for her than under a bar stool.?
The airline was able to contact the restaurant, the ashes were found and placed on a later flight. They now sit next to my Mother's ashes on a shelf in my Dad's bedroom. (I won't talk about the urn, I made it, it's a hoot!)
I often think about how my sister would have laughed and laughed at this story. In some ways (but not many ways), I'm sorry she wasn't around to enjoy it with us. We tell this story as often as we can. I have had requests from friends to tell this story. It's a good one, you can't deny that.
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