Snap Out of It!

Some women use PMS as an excuse to behave like a bitch. I said "some," so don't send me hate mail. Yes, there are times when those fluctuating hormones really do make one lose control. I've had to apologize for things I've said while in the grip of spiking or diving estrogen more times than I'd like to admit. But with age comes recognition. I don't have to hear myself speaking too stridently about something and realize it's too late. I feel the intense anger at a minor annoyance and think, "Time to lock myself in the shed until this is over." Alas, I have no shed. But I usually manage to control myself, to simply not speak, to eat massive amounts of chocolate and wait for sanity to return.

And yes, it does feel like insanity (as far as I can guess what insanity would feel like) when my body rules my mind. PMS is a no-win situation. If I'm happy, and spending the day in a nice but normal way, with someone I like, doing something fun, I will likely feel like crying rather than laughing. Try explaining tears of joy to a guy who's taken you out for lunch. No, you can't. He'll think, "Nutjob!" and run for the hills. So, while you're out of control, you have to pull off a convincing acting job. "Oh my, I seem to be having an allergic reaction to something. You don't own a ferret, do you? They always make me tear up like this." Yeah, he's still not calling again.

If I'm not happy, for any reason whatsoever (I didn't hear from someone and wanted to, it's 77 freakin' degrees in January and I wanted to wear a sweater today!, etc.), I will either cry or become angry. Okay, angry, yes, angry generally edges out the crying -- at least at first.

For instance, earlier today I wasn't happy (see the reasons, above), and I went into the kitchen to get a bowl and spoon for some instant grits. Yes, I now know they're not the best, but I bought a box of 12 packets and I'll damn well eat them all. I share the kitchen with my extremely annoying landlord. The man's quirks have quirks. He can't stand it if I leave a pot or dish to soak in the sink before washing it. Perhaps it's a deep-seated fear of mosquitos, I don't know, but I will come back after leaving something and find that he's spilled the soapy water out. Since there is no logical answer as to WHY he'd do this, his reply when I question him is, "Just put it in the dishwasher."

I have tried to tell him that I don't use the dishwasher. Certainly not for a pot that I might want to use again later (when the dishwasher is run once every few days). I wash the dishes I use, by hand. John thinks that hand-washing is not good enough, unless he does it. He's a slob. If a surface is empty when he enters the room he will have it covered in under ten minutes. If something spills on the stove it will be allowed to harden and rot there until I scrape it off. Same thing when he messes up the counters, floor, fridge and microwave. He is a pig. But somehow he thinks no one but him can properly wash dishes. And here's the best part: he thinks the dishwasher "sterilizes" whatever is put in it. I can no more convince him that it doesn't than I can convince him that the flu shot doesn't give you the flu. The fact that I got a flu shot and did not get sick didn't make a dent in his thick skull.

So, today, I found that he had taken a bowl that I'd cleaned and left to dry in the dish drain, and put it into the dishwasher! It wasn't dirty. It was waiting there for me and my next bowl of instant grits. There were no clean bowls in the cabinet. I had to take a dirty bowl out of the dishwasher and re-wash it in order to use it. Obviously I looked for a clean-looking one, the one I'd already washed, but I couldn't trust that and so had to wash it again.

This, in the scheme of things, is not huge. So what, right? Took a minute and a half. But the hormones saw it differently. It took a lot of self control not to pull a couple of his favorite dishes out and smash them on the tile floor. The same amount of self control it took not to scream out loud all the profanity going through my head, possibly loud enough for him to hear all the way at the other end of the house. Over a dish.

No one wants to admit to a "weakness," especially a gender-based one (though, if you think about it, controlling ourselves while PMSing makes us stronger, not weaker). Yet I've used PMS as an excuse -- mostly for eating all that before mentioned chocolate. And for the most part I think it's real and it's something I can't control. I can try to control my reactions, but without Suzanne Somer's money I can't buy all the organic, specially made natural hormones that might make life smooth sailing.

So that's why what happened today confuses me so much. After the dish episode I moved on to obsessing about when something I ordered would be delivered. As I was dwelling on that, and becoming angry at a completely innocent UPS guy or postal carrier somewhere, I heard that a friend had experienced two losses today. She had to let go of her dear pet, a part of the family for years, and an admired friend also passed away. I felt so badly for her, and knew as I expressed my sympathy that there was nothing I could really do to help her.

And my PMS vanished. It's not just hiding temporarily, too ashamed to cause problems in the face of real tragedy. I now feel like myself again. The carb craving is gone (well, never completely, but it's not screaming), there's no voice in my head spewing illogical reasons for and solutions to any of my current concerns, and I don't want to smack anyone. PMS usually goes away overnight. I've never had it shocked out of my system before. This is both strange and encouraging. Maybe the next time I'm battling it, and it's not always the same degree of bad so sometimes it's merely a skirmish, I can remember to think about what's truly important, literally remind myself of the difference between life and death, and shock it into submission.

I'm sure the scientific types will say that spiking or diving hormones can't be manipulated with thoughts, and tell me that I happened to level out just as I heard my friend's news. But I'm a believer in the improbable being possible, and I don't believe in coincidence. So today's sudden turnaround makes me very hopeful about the future. Not hopeful enough to believe I'll never be bothered by PMS again -- I just don't have that much faith. :-)

 

My friend assures me that sharing stories I wrote a decade ago will be fun.  Not embarrassing.  We'll see.  Here's one:

DETOUR

I could no longer feel my feet.  It's a strange sensation to know that they're there, but have no physical proof of it, without looking.  I visualized myself climbing Mt. Everest.  The view from the top of the world would make  disappearing feet worthwhile.  But I was not on a mountain, I was in line at the bank.  The only cold thing I could see was the look on the loan officer's face as he talked to old Mrs. Ennis.  She wasn't getting good news.

The line hadn't moved in three months and I'd been on my feet for at least that long, maybe longer.  I worked double shifts at the diner.  The more money, the better, and the faster, the better.  I don't like waitressing; pretending to be eternally cheerful, lying about where the pies are baked, the smell of scorched coffee in my nose.  But it was a quick way to make money.

     Not as quick as stealing.  The guy who took my cash took my heart first, and left me in this nowhere town.  Now I wanted to get away from the kindness of strangers who weren't strangers anymore as much as I wanted anything else.  I wanted to see the world, and I'd been saving up to leave since my excuse for a boyfriend left me.  I was almost ready.  It's a big world, and I didn't want to get stuck somewhere worse, so I was still saving. 

     Mrs. Ennis, who came into the diner every day for the early bird special and had taken to “grandmothering” me, said I was making excuses.  She brought me library books on world travelers and gave me lectures on living my dream.  Just yesterday she’d said, “Do I look like I belong here?” and both of us turned away from each other before any tears could make the trip from our eyes to our chins.

Just as I was thinking that the bank might close before I ever got up to the teller, a tall man wearing a fake beard walked in.  He was dressed in black and had what looked like a CB radio duct taped around his waist.  In one hand he held a very large gun which he pointed at the security guard, who immediately peed his pants and dropped the weapon he’d pulled from its holster.  In the other hand was a shopping bag.

"If you hit the silent alarm I'll hear the call on this scanner," he shouted to everyone behind the counter.

  I saw that on a TV movie once.  I remember thinking that if any criminals hadn't thought of it themselves, Hollywood was giving them a good idea.  He and I must have watched the same show.

"Everyone get down on the floor!  On your bellies, and put your arms straight out in front of you.  No one has to get hurt, if you all cooperate."

  We all obliged, though I practically fell over, from not being able to feel my feet too well.  I thought my klutziness might get me shot, but it didn't.

I could see Mrs. Ennis trying to do as he'd said, but having trouble getting her bones to go along with the program.  She was pushing 80 and probably hadn't been down on her knees, no less her belly, in quite some time.  She sat on the carpeted floor, her back against the front of the loan officer's desk, and asked the robber if she could stop there.

"I cannot seem to assume the position, young man.  Either I die trying or you shoot me.  The bullet would hurt less."

"Shut up lady and don't move around."

"I'll take that as a reprieve," she said, then looked terrified as he swung the gun in her direction.  She stopped talking.

The bank wasn't very big.  Mostly a rectangular shaped room cut in half by the counter that separated the tellers from the public.  The loan officer's desk was at the end of the counter.  The only office you couldn't see from the main area was the manager's, and he was standing right next to Cindy, a teller, out in the open with the rest of us.  I didn't think there was anyone conveniently hiding under his desk, calling 911 and telling them the robber had a radio.  But I was praying I was wrong.

The sorry excuse for a human's only disguise was a fake beard and a baseball cap.  I was sure he was going to kill us all so we couldn't identify him.  As if to prove me right he fired at the one, lone video camera.  I know I screamed and I think everyone else did too, though the sound of the shot wasn’t as loud as it always is in the movies – more of a dull pop.  He told us to shut up (robbing banks being like golf, I guess; he needed quiet), and dumped folded up cloth totes out of the shopping bag.

  He told the tellers to fill his duffels fast, and with hundreds, not twenties.  He warned them about putting dye packets in with the money.  He said he was going to pick one of them to go with him and if he found any dye packets he'd kill them.  The guy had thought of everything.

I thought about how different things looked from the floor.  I sometimes have fantasies about what I'd do if I were in a hostage situation or had made the mistake of buying milk at a convenience store late at night.  I'm always the heroine.  I jump the bad guy, when he foolishly turns his back on little ole me, and grab the gun with one hand while twisting his balls off with the other.  I'm very violent and very brave in these scenarios.

The reality was that I could barely take in oxygen.  I could only see a couple of the other customers, besides Mrs. Ennis, from my position on the floor, and neither one looked like he had any dreams of being a hero.  Gary, who fixes cars at the gas station, looked like one of those Himalayan cats.  All white with black trim.  I don't think their hands and nails are ever really clean after they choose that particular job.  I had seen the other man in the diner on occasion, but didn't know who he was or where he lived.  From the gray color his face had taken on, and the sweat that was pouring off him, I thought a nitro pill would help immensely.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.  I wasn't supposed to die before I'd accomplished anything worthwhile.  How could I write best-selling travel books about exotic places if I was dead?  I thought about my friends back home seeing a picture in the paper of me in a pool of blood, wearing a white waitress's uniform.  They'd say things like, "How horrible.  Did you know she'd gone out west with some loser and ended up waiting tables in a dive?  What a shame."  My tenth grade English teacher would be just sick about it.  I couldn't let myself consider what my parents would go through.  I almost did for a second, but the room started to spin.  First my feet were gone, then I had to hold onto the floor to keep from falling.  It just wasn't supposed to happen like this.

After what felt like several hours, but was only a couple of minutes, the scourge of the Earth had enough in his duffle bags.  He looked up and down the length of the counter, apparently deciding on which teller to take with him.  One of them threw up.  We all heard it, then a moment later, smelled it.  I buried my nose in the carpet pile to avoid following suit.  It was one way to keep from being picked.

The lowlife decided quickly on Cindy and told her to come out with one of the bags, while the manager was to hand the other one over the counter.  I could hear her dragging the heavy bag, bumping into the swinging door with it, while the manager pleaded to change places with her.  Instead of thinking that we might have a hero after all, I thought that he and Cindy were probably having an affair.  I just couldn't see this guy risking his life with chivalry as his motivation.  Dogshit wouldn't consider it.

"If you've followed orders and there aren't any dye packets in here, she gets to live, and come back to your fine town,” he said as she took the second bag from the manager and left it in front of him.  “But maybe we'll party for a while first, me and CindyLou," he said, putting his face close to her nametag and pantomiming licking her breast.  To the manager he said, "You're just not my type, friend."

The Arctic Express blew down my spine, and I realized I could feel the chill to my toes.  My feet were back.  A small war broke out inside my head, with half the troops wanting to charge the dirtbag.  Pillaging was one thing, but rape another.  The survivalist camp was having no part of it, though.  Staying so still that I looked dead already was their plan.

While the debate raged, the psycho told Cindy to take one of the bags and put it in the trunk.  Then she was to sit in the passenger seat and wait for him.  He handed her the keys.  The collective hope and fear in that room was that she'd run.  I'm sure we all wanted her to get away, but didn't want to have to take her place.  Especially me.  I was pretty sure I was the only other good-looking, non-vomiting young woman in the bank.  But he knew what he was doing.  Casually, just as she was pushing open the door, he said, "If you don't do as I say, your lover will really open up to you, babe.  Literally."  As he laughed at his own sick joke and kept the gun leveled at the manager, I realized that this nutcase had had the same impression that I had about Cindy's love life.

First the same taste in television movies, now this.  For some reason, knowing that I'd formed the same conclusion as him was upsetting in the extreme.  Another man I had things in common with, who’d be attractive if he weren’t a bank-robbing, rape-threatening lunatic, and he was going to blow town with cash he hadn’t worked for.  Déjà vu all over again.  My stomach churned at the comparison to my ex-boyfriend.  Or maybe it was just all that stress.  I didn't get a chance to dwell on it.  I heard the thunk of the trunk lid closing just outside the door, and a car door opening and closing.  God, this was it.  He was either going to kill us all or be satisfied with Cindy.  I wanted so much to close my eyes, but they seemed frozen open.  I didn't even blink.

The cretin lowered the gun slightly as he grabbed ahold of the duffel bag to pick it up.  In what seemed like slow motion, I saw Mrs. Ennis reach into her purse, pull out a pistol, aim and fire.  One shot to the heart and he was down.  No one moved for a second that stretched into forever, then an acrid odor wafted into my nose, bringing me around the way smelling salts would.  Someone was sobbing behind the counter. 

Mrs. Ennis calmly got up, as if arthritis wasn't in her vocabulary, and said, "Will someone hit the alarm, please?  And tell Cindy that everything's okay now."

I sat up, staring at her with my mouth hanging open.  "There is no point in owning a gun and knowing how to use it if you can’t pull the trigger when it’s called for,” she said.  “I saw my chance and took it.  I'm not sorry.  Get up now, dear."

I got up.  And as the screaming sirens closed in, and we all avoided looking too long at the blood soaking into the carpet around the body, I decided that the world wasn't as big as I'd thought.  I had money enough, and it was time to go.

The End

You Are Who You Eat With

You know how "you can't afford a negative thought?" How the law of attraction says that we increase what we focus on? How you are what you eat? Is there one about how you become your environment, or something like that? Because that was brought home to me tonight, as I headed back from another enjoyable day with my peeps at the Oxnard house.

When I was a child responsibility was instilled in me early. All the neighborhood kids would do something we all knew we weren't allowed to do, like play in the swamp. Yeah, it was said to be over 20 feet deep in places and we could've died. We didn't, so it's one of those "Back in the day, we managed to ride our bikes without helmets and survived" memories. But if any of us had tragically drowned, it wouldn't be funny that we regularly disobeyed our parents and risked our lives. Anyway, upon being busted, my mother didn't just yell at me. She said, "You should've known better. You're smarter and it's your job to keep the others from doing such stupid things." Why? Why was I smarter and why was it my job? She didn't know my IQ or the other kid's either. But she was my mother and she said I should've known better. So the guilt ruined the forays into the previously exciting, shadowy depths of the swamp. I couldn't enjoy balancing on a log and making it to a patch of dry ground because, if any of the other kids didn't make it and got hurt, it'd be all my fault.

It was the beginning of a lifetime of being the responsible one, the trustworthy one, the dutiful one. My only "rebellion" was running away to join the military, rather than go to college as everyone expected. Cutting off my nose to spite my face is the cliché that comes to mind for that decision.

After a stint in the Navy my parents asked me to move in with them in order to keep my sister from doing it. We're so dysfunctional. My sister wanted to move into their spare room and have them take care of her and her children for an indeterminate but certainly lengthy time. The kids would've been welcome, but my sister -- not so much. So they got me to move in first, hence no "spare" room. And the workload for the family appraisal business was so heavy that they really needed me to go to work for them, rather than do anything else that I might want. I wasn't sure what I wanted, so I went along. And the door on the trap slammed shut.

I eventually moved into my own place, I occasionally took other, temporary jobs when the real estate market was slow, but I was tethered to the family business and the family. I was a "change of life" baby for my mom, so the folks were older than if I'd been born first in the order of sibs. My brother and sister were out west, and therefore had "lives of their own." I was it. I was it unless I wanted to leave them to their own devices. But my father was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease, and couldn't drive himself around the state doing the appraisals himself. And he couldn't afford to hire someone to do that and be his assistant. Because anyone else but me would require a decent salary, and he could use me and "stay in business, which is all that keeps a roof over your mother's head." I couldn't leave my mom to my father's devices. Duty. Guilt. I just couldn't. There was no one telling me I was important, that my time and my happiness mattered. So I didn't believe it.

For years and years and years, my environment was ruled by old people, by people whose dreams were long dead and whose hope was nonexistent and where negativity ruled. The occasional comments by friends didn't stand a chance against my daily dose of "That won't work," and "You're too old to start something like that now." It may have been human nature, the need to keep their helper and eventual caregiver close, but it was bad parenting nonetheless.

I still have those negative, self-defeating thoughts in my head. I'm 50. It's too late for this or that, I've wasted too much time, the fact that I didn't have kids means I'll die alone (eating cat food -- have you priced cat food? not as cheap as you might think). Even living with Gwen and John didn't help much. Through no fault of hers, Gwen was tired all the time. It was the amyloidosis, though we didn't know it for months, that made her come from work and need a nap. John is 75 and probably has arteries that are so clogged it's a wonder he can function, so his daily naps are no surprise. He has the same, "It can't be done, you'd be a fool to try that, what makes you think you can do that when you've never done anything like it before" outlook as my father. So I was once again in a household of old, tired people. On the few occasions when Gwen tried to give me a pep talk her heart was in it, but her delivery was lacking.

Now I try to interact with John as little as possible, and spend a lot more time with young, more optimistic people. Okay, I often have no idea who they're talking about when it comes to singers or gaming or certain action movies. But they willingly explain it to me and never suggest I'm too old to keep up. They may mock me, but they don't assume I can't learn something new.

My friend Kathy* says things like, "Why on earth aren't you trying to sell your book? What do you have to lose?" My friend Logan, who is in his twenties, just assumes that doing anything and everything is possible, and therefore it is. He's back in school and writing and coming up with one entrepreneurial idea after another. And he doesn't see me as having waited too long or wasted too much time. He just says, "Write the synopsis, Mary." As if I'll actually do it. Well, after he told me that I didn't have to follow any preconceived notions about what a blog is, I managed to start this one. So, yeah, I can look for a job and go over the manuscript again and get that synopsis written and work up the nerve to share my old short stories and write new ones and begin the sequel to the finished book and do the Zumba workout (and die and be resuscitated) and anything and everything else I might have on my to-do list.

Because now my environment is one of positive people who believe in possibilities, and "not" has been replaced by "why not?"

Maybe I'm easily influenced. Maybe this all sounds like a big blame game and cop out for potential not fully achieved. But I honestly believe that our surroundings play a large part in who we become. There are plenty of examples of good, strong people who overcome backgrounds that are horrid and go on to greatness. I admire them, but I don't know how they do it. In the past I've claimed to be too empathetic, but maybe it's closer to the truth that I'm a chameleon. And I'm finally in a bright, sunny environment, practically glowing a golden hue.

*Name changed because my friend didn't like being named in my blog.  Not this post, but I like to be thorough so am editing all that she's mentioned in.

Ins and Outs of Control

When I brought all my worldly goods out to Cali last year I put quite a few of them into a storage unit. I rent a room, and it's not big enough for all my stuff -- not comfortably, anyway. I shopped around, trying to find a place in a safe area that wasn't too expensive. I'd been here three months at the time (had to make a trip back to Florida, rent a truck, and drive my stuff out here), and I'd driven Gwen to work many times. Many times.

As I muttered about how much these various facilities wanted for the smallest units, Gwen said, "Have you checked out LM? I think they've got the best rates around."

"What is that? Where is that?" I asked.

Gwen shook her head, gave me the "bless her heart, she's dim but she means well" smile, and said, "It's the company that's on either side of Lauterbach & Associates. You pass it every time you come to the office."

Oh.  That LM. Geez.

Gwen went on about how I was a writer, and one of the most observant people she knew, and how darned funny it was that I'd never noticed a storage business, especially when I needed one, blahdoshutthehellupblah.

I took her to work in the morning (you couldn't hold a grudge against her) and went over to ask about LM's rates. And, as an aside, their name really ought to be L&M. LM just doesn't roll off the tongue and seems wrong to me. But, whatever. The woman said a 5x10 (their smallest) was $59. a month. It's not climate controlled, but that is the best deal around. I rented one.

As part of the whole process of handing over my credit card, understanding what declining insurance might mean (that I save $8. a month -- no further thought necessary), and being given a number to operate the electronic gate with, the woman explained to me the importance of keying out. Out. The importance of keying out. I'm not repeating it nearly as many times as she did.

She explained to me that if I followed another car in through the gate they'd just opened, that was fine. But if I followed another car out through the gate they'd just opened, that would be very bad. Because, and she was rather strident about this, if I'd keyed in, but then didn't key out, their computer would show that I was still on the property. And, when they closed for the night, it would look as if I were there. And then someone would go looking for me (to throw me out, though she politely didn't put it that way), and if they couldn't find me they'd have to call, etc., big pain, etc. It was very clear to me how important it was to key out. I got it.

I go to my storage unit frequently. I get things out, I put things in, I basically treat it like a closet, albeit one that takes 10 minutes to drive to. One time there was a man at the bigger unit across from mine. He was nice, not an ax murderer, and wanted to sell me a hand made butcher block. It was lovely but way out of my price range. Anyway, for the most part I'm alone when I go. But one day I happened to drive in just as someone else had keyed in and opened the gate. I followed them. Without keying in. Because, of course, that wasn't the important thing to do. Right? You can see where this is going, I'm sure.

After I picked up whatever it was I went there for, I headed out. I got to the gate, entered my code, and instead of the sickly sweet tone that goes along with a printed message of, "Thanks for your business, Mary! Paid in full for this month," I heard a sort of reverse of that tone and the message said, "You are not recognized. Please see manager in office." Of course I entered my code again. Tell me you wouldn't do the same. The machine calmly repeated itself. I didn't feel calm at all.

There was nowhere to put my car while I walked to the office, unless I backed up and parked down one of the aisles of units. And I was in no mood, old unrecognized/being sent to the manager's office me, to be helpful to the next person. I put the Saturn in park and left it right there. In the way. No, of course no one else had to get out. But I'm sure you can picture my internal sputtering about how it'd be just too darn bad if they did.

I went in, I very nicely told the woman (a different woman than the one who'd lectured me originally) that the gate refused to open, and she said, "Well, did you forget to key in when you arrived?" She should've known better than to attack the memory of an obviously perimenopausal woman. But I remained outwardly calm. I said, "I didn't forget. There was another car going in and the gate was open."

She tsked at me. TSKED. AT ME. By that time I was talking to God, (silently, of course), asking why I had to suffer fools, and rude fools at that, and that if He knew all, he surely knew that nothing was ever going to teach me patience. Ever. The old hag (see what tsking at me will get you when I describe you later?) said, "You always have to key in or the computer doesn't know you're here. So how can it know to let you out? You can leave without entering your code, but you always always always have to key in."

I opened my mouth to tell her what the other woman -- the pretty, young, intelligent, caring woman -- had explained so sweetly, and to point out that very reassuring part about not getting locked in overnight by accident, but what came out was, "I'm sorry. I obviously remembered the instructions exactly backwards. Will you open the gate for me now?" I even smiled. She gave me the schoolmarm attitude. That "you should've known better and this'll teach you" dismissive nod that I could only hope would hyperextend her neck and cause a pinched nerve (yes, yes, yes, all these bad thoughts go on my permanent record -- I know).

I walked back to my car, hurrying to get it started and get through the gate that she'd immediately opened (on purpose, to make me rush?). And I drove home preoccupied by my reaction. That woman had to let me out. Even if I'd been nasty, even if I'd told her all about how the other employee is deranged and making up fake rules that offer a false sense of security, even if I'd told her what she could do with that tsking tongue of hers that was far from polite. She would've let me out. But I did the smart thing. I did the most expedient thing. She royally annoyed me, but I let it go. I typically don't do that. Sure, I regret my outbursts after the fact. But I react.

I think most people would consider this ability to suck it up and let it go to be a good thing. It wasn't the first time I'd wanted to react strongly and had kept it bottled up (I had a big scare a few months ago, one that motivated a friend to give me self-defense lessons, but I refused to escalate the situation that scared me). But here's what I thought: Waaaah! I'm getting old! Seriously. But then, THEN! I realized that if my reaction to my reaction was to whine like a baby, just how old could I be, after all? And I felt better.

Were you expecting there to be a point? Sorry. I'm half talking to myself here on this blog, just to think out loud a bit about what's bugging me. I recently regretted a rude reaction of mine to something someone did. I wondered why I could control myself with some condescending stranger, but lost my temper with someone I love. Now I think I have the answer. You can only really get to me if I care about you. That wasn't always the case. Anyone could push my buttons in the past. So I suppose I'm finally maturing (hey, when you don't have kids, it's something you put off doing -- though few people will admit that).

My reaction to this revelation is, again: Waaaah! So, I'm good. ;-)

 

Talking to the Dearly Departed

{Just in case someone who doesn't know me might read this: I'm from New Jersey, I moved to Florida for a few years to care for my parents, and I relocated to California after my mom died in June 2010. I had nowhere I had to be, and two friends out here whom I wanted to see. One of them, Gwen, was a best friend/second mother to me when I desperately needed it. She lived with her boyfriend, John, and he asked if I wanted to rent a room from him in his house. It allowed me to save money (vs. an apartment or long-term motel), and to spend time with Gwennie, so I took him up on it. Then Gwen got sick. Then she got worse. On October 9th, 2011 she died from a rare disease called amyloidosis. And John, after Gwen went into the hospital, turned out to be a creep. But I'm stuck living in his house until I find a job and can move to a new place. Decent landlords tend to want you to have an income, not a dwindling savings account. Maybe this should go in the Profile info, and maybe I'll move it there. For now, I'm lazily leaving it here.}

I've lost people before Gwen. My grandfather and my brother Joe when I was 12. My other two grandparents died in a house fire when I was 13. Various older, not really close to me relatives over the years. And my other brother, Jim, when I was 37. Then my mom a year and a half ago. My father is still alive, but rather nuts and better off on his own.

That I know of, no one I've considered a friend has ever died before Gwen was taken, too soon, a few months ago. I say "that I know of" because sometimes we fall out of touch with people over the years. Things happen, life changes, and you don't keep in contact and don't know. My friend, Michael Seidman, was sick but doing okay (I thought), and now he doesn't answer emails and seems to no longer have the website he used to operate. So maybe he's gone, but it doesn't seem real as long as it's just a possibility.

Gwen is gone. Some days I wake up and start my day without thinking about that. But I never get through an entire day without thinking of her. It's not just that I have to deal with the man she loved on a daily basis. Even when he (blessedly) goes away for a week I still miss Gwennie. Anyone who knew her would probably say the same thing.

When she died we went to a Buddhist temple and participated in a ceremony meant to help her move on and reincarnate. While I believe in reincarnation, I have also come to believe that Gwennie is hanging out as a spirit, stubbornly refusing to choose a new life just yet. She was taken too soon, and understandably would want to stick around and watch her kids and grandkids grow up. And Gwen put no limitations, certainly not something as mundane as blood, on family. So everyone she knew, everyone she loved, was part of her clan. And she's keeping an eye on us all.

That out of the blue idea, that sudden motivation to do something that's good for me, that kind impulse isn't always coming from me. I know me. I know when an idea is mine and when it's "where the hell did *that* come from?" I know I've never thought, "Boy, broccoli sounds like a good idea about now." And, while I'm kinder than I typically let people see, I know that the urge to hand over money to the guy on the corner with the cardboard sign is Gwen acting through me -- as sure as Whoopie Goldberg got into Patrick Swayze in GHOST.

I talk to her. If she talks back, I can't hear it with my ears. But she manages to communicate on occasion, or I believe she does, with "signs." Gwen was a chaplain at a local hospital years ago. It was an important part of her life. Days after her passing, as I drove to Oxnard to "celebrate" her grandson's birthday with the family, I tearfully asked her if she was still around, if she knew that her boy had thoughtfully invited me to join them, and told her she should be proud of how considerate he was (knowing being with the group would ease some of my pain). As I told myself to get a grip, that if she whispered in my ear I'd probably crash the Saturn, a white car passed me. The licence plate read: Chapulin. Close enough! I whooped with joy that she'd heard me and sent a sign for an answer. Could it just be coincidence and all in my mind? No. This is my blog and I say no.

Another time I asked her if she liked Mozart. We were talking about putting music together for the reception after her service and I was sure of Johnny Cash but not sure about Mozart. Less than a minute after I asked her, again while driving in my car, "Rock Me, Amadeus" played on the radio. Oh, come on! *Everyone* should agree with that sign.

But while I love these occasional communications from beyond, they don't compare to talking to her, and benefiting from her wisdom and endless capacity to love and forgive. Someone upset me badly last month. I lost my temper and I wanted so, so much to lash out and give as much pain as I got. Literally the only thing that stopped me was remembering what Gwen's friend (and son, as far as her heart was concerned), David said at the Buddhist ceremony. "I know I have to be a better person if I want to see her again someday."

It would've been so much more comforting to have had Gwen to talk to, to tell me all the things a friend tells you when your heart hurts, and to remind me that I wouldn't do well in prison. But the one who did me wrong was still saved by her, indirectly. And, of course, my anger subsided and the rational side of my brain asserted control. We're all only human, and we'd want to be forgiven if we did the hurting. This is as close as I will probably ever come to wisdom earned through experience. For the most part I'm stubborn and refuse to learn things like this. It goes a long way toward explaining why the universe keeps messing with me.

Today I wanted to talk to the person who did me wrong last month, to ask some questions that had me preoccupied, and perhaps to end up feeling better in general. But he didn't choose to answer my call. I said, out loud, "Hey, Gwennie, how about messing with him just a little? I mean, really, not even answering the phone? Caller ID shows it's me. Turn his radio on and make it play nothing but country music on all the stations." I was laughing at this point. "Oooh, oooh, I know! 'Misplace' his files on his computer just long enough to freak him out, then put them back. Flick the lights if you agree that they're good ideas." And, in this stupid old house where the lights dim if I so much as turn on the TV, the glow remained constant.

"Fine, fine, be all high and noble up there!" I said, again out loud. And just as I did, John walked by my room. He's hard of hearing, but he heard that. And he knew I was alone, and not talking to him. He went from a slight hesitation to hurrying along to the garage, where he stayed for a while though I'm pretty sure he only meant, originally, to throw a recyclable in the bin.

Not only contrary -- but scary! I couldn't hear it, but I'm sure Gwen was laughing up in Heaven.

Welcome

I "should" be spending all my time searching for gainful employment, since I currently have no job.  So, what am I doing instead?  Creating a blog, of course.  Something that has nothing to do with earning money and will not pay the rent.  You see why I chose the blog name that I did, right? 

I've been writing for years, but have never tried to publish any of it.  Fear of failure, fear of success -- I don't know.  I won third place in a limerick writing contest once, and got paid $50. for writing an essay on "Why I Write."  Neither were published. 

But here, bwahahahahaha, on this page, I make the rules.  I decide.  And I'm putting it out there, baby.  No, it's not great prose.  But I found it amusing when I wrote it, and there may be a friend or two who agrees now. 
 

Eating My Words

      I live in a round room.  Pacing seduces me on a daily basis, as I work for inspiration and my meals, in that order.  Today I had a terrible decision to make.  Rebecca had to die -- but how?  Bludgeoned, with a two by four?  Or would holding her head under water, as her body thrashed helplessly against too much strength, be the way to go?  Blood splatters could ruin a good suit.  Water works as well and washes out.  Rebecca's lungs filled with fluid and she sank.  She'd come up again, bloated, white, with the ability to make grown men turn green.

     A rap on the steel door startled me.  Time to produce.  I slipped the pages through the narrow slot, while the transom mocked me.  A menu slid through.  The wait never changed, only the choices.  Two pounds of Alaskan King Crab meat with drawn butter, twice-baked potato made with cheddar cheese and real bacon, and baby carrots swimming in melted brown sugar.  Dessert was always chocolate.  Mousse, custard pie, ice cream.  My weaknesses are well known.  The alternative to this nirvana remained as plain as the gray walls that circled ‘round and ‘round me: succotash. 

     "Gain experience, lose weight.  Live like a princess while doing it."  I fell for the lie. 

     The voice was not pleased.  I hadn't thought Rebecca's death through.  No blood, no DNA, no way to prove whodunit.  No dinner.  None that I'd eat, anyway.
      So, here I sit in my turret, staring at the wall, wondering if I'll finish the book before it finishes me.  And I'm hungry.  So hungry.  That's why I write.