Some people wonder why I keep coming to Al-Anon when I no longer have any alcoholics in my life.
Three years after my dad died, Mom decided to sell the house. My daughter LPR and I stopped by just before the first potential buyers were coming over. The realtor and Mom were in the kitchen signing papers, so I started nervously wandering around, cleaning, trying to set the house (and by association, my family) in their best light. As I rearranged stuff in the spare bedroom, my daughter said, “Mom, you’re really acting co-dependent.”
Of course, I am never co-dependent, but I told her, “Okay. We should leave before the buyers get here. Let me just close these closet doors…”
But the doors jammed. What was blocking the way? I looked and found…a half-empty bottle of scotch.
Oh my gosh! This must have been Dad’s hiding spot!
Now we had a crisis: What was I going to do with that bottle? Think of it: potential buyers, strangers, were coming over any minute. I couldn’t leave a bottle of scotch in the closet; they’d think my mom was an alcoholic. I considered putting it in the trash, but that would look worse.
My daughter suggested I pour the booze down the kitchen sink. But Mom and the realtor were in there. I could just imagine what the realtor would think if if I walked in, humming casually, then poured a bottle of scotch down the drain.
Finally I spied LPR’s old toy cupboard. No one would ever look in there. But my daughter had a fit: “I don’t want that disgusting thing in there with my toys.”
By now I was so stressed you could have strung me for piano wire. But good mother that I am, I screamed, “SHUT UP! IT’S GOING IN THERE AND I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANY MORE ABOUT IT!”
I threw the bottle into the toy cupboard, slammed the doors, and LPR and I rushed to the front door just in time say hello to the buyers and slink off.
The next morning I told Mom about the bottle. She said, “Oh, That explains it! I was cleaning the cupboard last night and thought, ‘What? LPR has a drinking problem?’ " (If you knew my daughter you’d understand why this gave everyone a good laugh.)
But as you can see, no matter how many years my alcoholic has been gone, his alcoholism—and my insanity--can still rise up and bite me in the...rear closet.
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
A Very Long Meditation on Failure, Writing, God, Terror, Erasmo, Drawing, Neurosis, and A Very Famous Writer
"Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"
Mary Oliver
I don’t know what God wants me to do about writing.
Years ago we had three women set up to give a talk for my women’s club. At the last minute one woman, in fact the best speaker, bowed out. She was “too scared,” she couldn’t speak in front of people. Despite all our reassurances, she bolted. For years she stopped coming to Lydia’s House at all.
Trying to get my manuscript ready to take to the writer’s conference this month, I am overwhelmed with the wretchedness, the amateurishness of my work. How can I possibly compete with the “real” writers and illustrators? I struggle and struggle with one especially difficult drawing where a boy shrinks. I think it looks like shit. People are bound to regard it (and me) with contempt. I start sweating. My fingers ache. I stand over the drawing, trying to bully it into line. Now the boy looks like a alien. A very boring, amateurish alien.
Finally, much like the Lydia's House speaker, I shut off the annoying soothing music I’d put on and stumble into the living room where I sit till midnight reading about Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour. (“Ah, the cost of unmitigated ambition!”) At least I didn’t light into a strawberry milkshake. But I feel ashamed: “Stupid, lazy fool!”
Maybe I should forget the whole writing thing. After all, one of the cats peed in both dining room and laundry room weeks ago and I still haven’t found time to clean it. Wouldn't it feel comfortable to just go back to being a little housekeeper? Isn't the life of a cat-pee cleaner as worthy as that of novel writer?
But, I argue, I’ve lived my whole life that way, hiding my light under the tiniest of bushels.
Twenty-four years ago a therapist bashed me for not having the courage to publish my work: “How would it be if I just counselled members of my church for free?” (Therapists, take note: this did not help.)
I remember a writers conference where A Famous Author tried to dissuade us all from the writer’s life. “Look at me!” she cried, pointing to her obese frame. “This is what writing did to me!” For thirty minutes she delineated all the ways writing is killing her. Everybody wished she’d shut the hell up.
I’ve written many times about Erasmo, the third grader who loathes reading because he knows he’s a failure. This week he begged me to let him read "a third grade book.” One look at all those big words and he shut the book like Freddy Krueger hid inside. Then wearily Erasmo took out The Fat Cat. I felt for him. Every week he takes home four or five of these books, which his sister informed me he never reads. Why do something that only reminds you that you’re incompetent?
I started my writing/drawing project as a surprise for Erasmo. He still has no idea I’m making something that he can read just for pleasure.(Imagine that!) If I think about nothing but that darling boy, the work flows. Aliens begone.
Slowly I drag out the old drawing board. Without the fear of failure, I work very slowly. Certainly I won’t finish in time for the writer’s conference...
"What is it to work…?
It is to weave the cloth with threads
drawn from your heart, even as if your
beloved were to wear that cloth.
It is to build a house with affection, even
as if your beloved were to dwell in that
house.
It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap
the harvest with joy, even as if your beloved
were to eat the fruit."
Kahlil Gibran
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"
Mary Oliver
I don’t know what God wants me to do about writing.
Years ago we had three women set up to give a talk for my women’s club. At the last minute one woman, in fact the best speaker, bowed out. She was “too scared,” she couldn’t speak in front of people. Despite all our reassurances, she bolted. For years she stopped coming to Lydia’s House at all.
Trying to get my manuscript ready to take to the writer’s conference this month, I am overwhelmed with the wretchedness, the amateurishness of my work. How can I possibly compete with the “real” writers and illustrators? I struggle and struggle with one especially difficult drawing where a boy shrinks. I think it looks like shit. People are bound to regard it (and me) with contempt. I start sweating. My fingers ache. I stand over the drawing, trying to bully it into line. Now the boy looks like a alien. A very boring, amateurish alien.
Finally, much like the Lydia's House speaker, I shut off the annoying soothing music I’d put on and stumble into the living room where I sit till midnight reading about Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour. (“Ah, the cost of unmitigated ambition!”) At least I didn’t light into a strawberry milkshake. But I feel ashamed: “Stupid, lazy fool!”
Maybe I should forget the whole writing thing. After all, one of the cats peed in both dining room and laundry room weeks ago and I still haven’t found time to clean it. Wouldn't it feel comfortable to just go back to being a little housekeeper? Isn't the life of a cat-pee cleaner as worthy as that of novel writer?
But, I argue, I’ve lived my whole life that way, hiding my light under the tiniest of bushels.
Twenty-four years ago a therapist bashed me for not having the courage to publish my work: “How would it be if I just counselled members of my church for free?” (Therapists, take note: this did not help.)
I remember a writers conference where A Famous Author tried to dissuade us all from the writer’s life. “Look at me!” she cried, pointing to her obese frame. “This is what writing did to me!” For thirty minutes she delineated all the ways writing is killing her. Everybody wished she’d shut the hell up.
I’ve written many times about Erasmo, the third grader who loathes reading because he knows he’s a failure. This week he begged me to let him read "a third grade book.” One look at all those big words and he shut the book like Freddy Krueger hid inside. Then wearily Erasmo took out The Fat Cat. I felt for him. Every week he takes home four or five of these books, which his sister informed me he never reads. Why do something that only reminds you that you’re incompetent?
I started my writing/drawing project as a surprise for Erasmo. He still has no idea I’m making something that he can read just for pleasure.(Imagine that!) If I think about nothing but that darling boy, the work flows. Aliens begone.
Slowly I drag out the old drawing board. Without the fear of failure, I work very slowly. Certainly I won’t finish in time for the writer’s conference...
"What is it to work…?
It is to weave the cloth with threads
drawn from your heart, even as if your
beloved were to wear that cloth.
It is to build a house with affection, even
as if your beloved were to dwell in that
house.
It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap
the harvest with joy, even as if your beloved
were to eat the fruit."
Kahlil Gibran
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Notes From My Travels In The Deep South
(From my travel journal)
Sign outside a Louisiana restaurant: “Eat here are we both go hungry.” (Yes that's are.)
Another Louisiana restaurant sign:
Daiquiris and Beer
Drive through
In New Orleans
Huge neon sign over a restaurant:
DAIQUERIS
[below, very tiny print] fresh seafood.
In a store window:
Children’s Books
Voo Doo Dolls
Another store window:
Formal Wear Rental
Bike Parts
You see lots of signs in the south advertising “Deer Processing.”
On Alabama hotel marquee: “Prayer Works We have Dippin' Dots”
In restaurant menu: “Our special light breading will make your tongue slap your gums.”
It was very difficult to find healthy food. Some menus contained almost nothing that wasn’t fried. A few especially interesting menu items:
Fried alligator
Fried potato salad
Fried dill pickle chips
Fried corn kernels in tapioca
[on a breakfast menu] Fried Bananas Foster Cheesecake
At a Ft. Morgan State Historic site, signs referred to the Civil War as “the War for the Freedom of the Southern States.”
On a Florida restaurant menu, in four languages: “In the United States waiters and waitresses are paid a substandard wage. For this reason we suggest a tip of 15%.”
Sign outside a Louisiana restaurant: “Eat here are we both go hungry.” (Yes that's are.)
Another Louisiana restaurant sign:
Daiquiris and Beer
Drive through
In New Orleans
Huge neon sign over a restaurant:
DAIQUERIS
[below, very tiny print] fresh seafood.
In a store window:
Children’s Books
Voo Doo Dolls
Another store window:
Formal Wear Rental
Bike Parts
You see lots of signs in the south advertising “Deer Processing.”
On Alabama hotel marquee: “Prayer Works We have Dippin' Dots”
In restaurant menu: “Our special light breading will make your tongue slap your gums.”
It was very difficult to find healthy food. Some menus contained almost nothing that wasn’t fried. A few especially interesting menu items:
Fried alligator
Fried potato salad
Fried dill pickle chips
Fried corn kernels in tapioca
[on a breakfast menu] Fried Bananas Foster Cheesecake
At a Ft. Morgan State Historic site, signs referred to the Civil War as “the War for the Freedom of the Southern States.”
On a Florida restaurant menu, in four languages: “In the United States waiters and waitresses are paid a substandard wage. For this reason we suggest a tip of 15%.”
Saturday, January 9, 2010
What Does This Cartoon Have to Do With Our Current Vacation?
Years ago I went to an Al-Anon assembly with my sponsor Barbara. When we checked into our hotel, we discovered they’d given us a smoking room. That wouldn’t do, so she and I went back to the front desk. Our new room turned out to be miles away from our friends and musty-smelling besides.
I figured, “Okay, we’ll have to live with it.” But Barbara marched us right back and demanded a room near our friends.
There followed one of the most embarrassing twenty minutes of my life. The clerk kept saying, “Sorry, we have no other rooms,” and Barbara kept insisting he look harder.
BUT after much pestering on her part, they magically found us a non-smoking room that connected to our friends'room.
Barbara turned to me and said, “You’ve got to ask for what you want.”
I was horrified. I could never, never do that.
Fast forward to last Wednesday.
JR and I board our train for New Orleans and find that Amtrak has put us in a bedroom downstairs . This is terrible. We always get an upstairs room with beautiful views. Now we’re stuck with views of the railroad cut.
Something makes me seek out Julie the car attendant. I ask, “Is there any way we can get an upstairs room?”
“Only if somebody doesn’t show up.”
As soon as we leave, I find her and point out three empty upstairs rooms.
She says, “We have to make certain the missing passengers don’t show up at the next stop.” (This means waiting an hour.)
As soon as we depart the next stop, I’m back, gently pestering Julie.
She says, “I have to call and get approval for the room change.”
“Okay, we’ll wait.”
There was a time when the most important thing was to not bother anybody, to not make a fuss.
But nowadays I feel like Ginger in The Far Side cartoon, doggedly ignoring all those discouraging words.
The moral: As I write this, we’re happily enjoying the view from our upper level room. Thank you, Barbara. Thank you God. Thank you Ginger.
Of course the next day I think,
“Gee. I kinda like the downstairs view better.”
Monday, December 28, 2009
Erasmo and Mia
I haven’t written anything lately about Erasmo, the kid I tutor. He’s finally reading on a first grade level. When I started working with him two years ago he didn’t even know the sounds of all the letters of the alphabet. This year he’s mastered silent e. He can even decipher compound words like “snowball.” And thanks to my bribing him with art and puzzles; he always comes in, sits right down, and reads for half an hour, sometimes more if it’s a Clifford book.
This year he pitched a small fit when he found out I’d also be tutoring a girl named Mia. “I don’t want you to read with her. She’s mean to me; picks on me all the time.” He told me to scream and yell at Mia and spank her.
I said, “I'm not that kind of person.”
Okay,” he said, “but don’t you do any art with her. And no puzzles either.”
When I met Mia I could see what he was talking about. Erasmo is the sweet, insecure kind of boy that other kids love to pick on—much like I was at his age. Mia is pretty and popular, just the type that made my life miserable in school. (Though in a way I almost can’t believe it. She’s so sweet with me, always giving hugs and small gifts.)
For two weeks Erasmo constantly reminds me how much Mia hates him, and that I should be mean to her. “What books are you giving her? I don’t want you giving her any Clifford books.”
The third week, I arrive at Mayfair School and guess who run up together, arm in arm? They both sport gold plastic rings in their noses. “Look,” Erasmo tells me, “Mia gave me a nose ring.”
They show me they’ve been trading books. “Ooh, Mia,”says Erasmo, “You’ve got Wall-E? I loved that movie.”
“Here you can have the book.” She passes it to him, then I stand waiting while they give each other big hugs.
"See you later, Erasmo," Mia says, eyes sparkling.
When she and I are alone, Mia confides, “Erasmo gave me a Clifford book.” She says it like it was diamonds he gave her. I can only laugh.
This year he pitched a small fit when he found out I’d also be tutoring a girl named Mia. “I don’t want you to read with her. She’s mean to me; picks on me all the time.” He told me to scream and yell at Mia and spank her.
I said, “I'm not that kind of person.”
Okay,” he said, “but don’t you do any art with her. And no puzzles either.”
When I met Mia I could see what he was talking about. Erasmo is the sweet, insecure kind of boy that other kids love to pick on—much like I was at his age. Mia is pretty and popular, just the type that made my life miserable in school. (Though in a way I almost can’t believe it. She’s so sweet with me, always giving hugs and small gifts.)
For two weeks Erasmo constantly reminds me how much Mia hates him, and that I should be mean to her. “What books are you giving her? I don’t want you giving her any Clifford books.”
The third week, I arrive at Mayfair School and guess who run up together, arm in arm? They both sport gold plastic rings in their noses. “Look,” Erasmo tells me, “Mia gave me a nose ring.”
They show me they’ve been trading books. “Ooh, Mia,”says Erasmo, “You’ve got Wall-E? I loved that movie.”
“Here you can have the book.” She passes it to him, then I stand waiting while they give each other big hugs.
"See you later, Erasmo," Mia says, eyes sparkling.
When she and I are alone, Mia confides, “Erasmo gave me a Clifford book.” She says it like it was diamonds he gave her. I can only laugh.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
That Is Not News!
It probably was twenty-five years ago. Mom and Dad were eating dinner on TV trays while watching the local news. A story came on about a little lost dog. My dad, three sheets to the wind, suddenly growled, “THAT! IS! NOT! NEWS!” and hurled a jar of garlic powder at the TV.
KER-BOOOM! The whole tube blew up.
Mom just sat there, thinking, “Well! Now I’ve seen everything!”
To her credit, she let the TV sit there, the jar of garlic powder stuck in it, till finally my dad called the repair shop. (But Dad conveniently made sure he wasn’t home when they arrived.) The repair man told my mom, “You wouldn’t believe how often we get called to fix these kinds of things.” He did ask if he could keep the screen “to display in our shop window.”
That story has become famous, one of the great mythic tales of our family. We mostly tell it in the context of "how impossibly difficult Dad was."
But this year I find myself relating that story more and more. I was telling my daughter, “You know, lately I understand where Grandpa was coming from.”
I mean, did we really need non-stop coverage of Balloon Boy or Michael Jackson or Tiger Woods?
All I can say is, ”Somebody get me some garlic powder!”
KER-BOOOM! The whole tube blew up.
Mom just sat there, thinking, “Well! Now I’ve seen everything!”
To her credit, she let the TV sit there, the jar of garlic powder stuck in it, till finally my dad called the repair shop. (But Dad conveniently made sure he wasn’t home when they arrived.) The repair man told my mom, “You wouldn’t believe how often we get called to fix these kinds of things.” He did ask if he could keep the screen “to display in our shop window.”
That story has become famous, one of the great mythic tales of our family. We mostly tell it in the context of "how impossibly difficult Dad was."
But this year I find myself relating that story more and more. I was telling my daughter, “You know, lately I understand where Grandpa was coming from.”
I mean, did we really need non-stop coverage of Balloon Boy or Michael Jackson or Tiger Woods?
All I can say is, ”Somebody get me some garlic powder!”
Saturday, October 17, 2009
A Few Entries from My Travel Journal
(Last week I travelled to Michigan to visit my brother and his wife.)
Oct 7
Flying into Lansing, I thought about all the people down below, affected by the noise of our plane. Maybe some wouldn’t notice. Maybe some would be annoyed: “I have to stop talking because I can't be heard over the noise of that plane.” Little kids might look up and think, “Crash, crash.” or folks like me might pray for our safe landing. Thus I felt a connection with all these people I'd never know and who'd never know me.
Oct 8
At the Lansing Days Inn the elevator had a handmade sign posted inside: “If the door doesn’t open, push Door Open (Bottom Button).”
Oct 9
At Village Market, they put our groceries in an orange plastic bag decorated with pumpkins and bats and this message: “Use this Bag for your Halloween Treats”
On the other side of the bag, sideways, in the tiniest of print: “To avoid danger of suffocation, keep this plastic bag away from children.”
Oct 12
Driving with my sister-in-law, we passed a cemetery. Robin said, “The people who live around here can’t be buried in this cemetery and do you know why?”
“No, why?”
“Because they’re not dead.”
Oct 13
Sign outside a store--TAKE OUT CHICKEN ICE CREAM CONES.
Oct 14
Back at the Lansing Day’s Inn, they offered a free breakfast. JR went down to get some, but came back disgusted.
JR: The coffee sucked and when I tried to get juice, only water came out. They had plenty of cereal, though, provided you like Raisin Bran.
Later I went to check out, and the lobby was empty except for a woman wearing plastic gloves and a man in a suit (the manager?) I heard him complaining to her that the juice dispenser didn’t work.
She got all mad: “Well I put juice in there! This is what happens when Irene doesn’t show up.”
(She saw me and asked what I wanted.)
Me: I’m ready to check out.
Lady:(pleasantly) Oh I can do that for you. (As she processes the papers) How was your stay?
Me: Fine, except my husband tried to get juice out of the dispenser this morning and he only got water.
Lady: (mad all over again) “Well, I put plenty of juice in there!”
Oct 7
Flying into Lansing, I thought about all the people down below, affected by the noise of our plane. Maybe some wouldn’t notice. Maybe some would be annoyed: “I have to stop talking because I can't be heard over the noise of that plane.” Little kids might look up and think, “Crash, crash.” or folks like me might pray for our safe landing. Thus I felt a connection with all these people I'd never know and who'd never know me.
Oct 8
At the Lansing Days Inn the elevator had a handmade sign posted inside: “If the door doesn’t open, push Door Open (Bottom Button).”
Oct 9
At Village Market, they put our groceries in an orange plastic bag decorated with pumpkins and bats and this message: “Use this Bag for your Halloween Treats”
On the other side of the bag, sideways, in the tiniest of print: “To avoid danger of suffocation, keep this plastic bag away from children.”
Oct 12
Driving with my sister-in-law, we passed a cemetery. Robin said, “The people who live around here can’t be buried in this cemetery and do you know why?”
“No, why?”
“Because they’re not dead.”
Oct 13
Sign outside a store--TAKE OUT CHICKEN ICE CREAM CONES.
Oct 14
Back at the Lansing Day’s Inn, they offered a free breakfast. JR went down to get some, but came back disgusted.
JR: The coffee sucked and when I tried to get juice, only water came out. They had plenty of cereal, though, provided you like Raisin Bran.
Later I went to check out, and the lobby was empty except for a woman wearing plastic gloves and a man in a suit (the manager?) I heard him complaining to her that the juice dispenser didn’t work.
She got all mad: “Well I put juice in there! This is what happens when Irene doesn’t show up.”
(She saw me and asked what I wanted.)
Me: I’m ready to check out.
Lady:(pleasantly) Oh I can do that for you. (As she processes the papers) How was your stay?
Me: Fine, except my husband tried to get juice out of the dispenser this morning and he only got water.
Lady: (mad all over again) “Well, I put plenty of juice in there!”
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Adventures, Travelling with My Mom.
FYI: When you agree to catch a 5 AM flight, it means your mother calls to wake you at 2:30 AM.
We rushed like crazy to get to the airport by 3:45 and found...the check-in clerks hadn’t come to work yet. A very long line of tired-looked passengers stood in the dim light. Nothing was open, not an employee in sight. I worried. Would the airline clerks ever show up? Had anyone notified Someone In Charge that all us customers were waiting to check in for our flights? But I did nothing, just stood waiting stupidly like all the other Zombies.
My only comfort was watching a longer line of people forming behind us.These were the folks who slept in till 3 or 3:30: A red-headed couple shivering in Hawaiian shirts. A huge Cambodian family. A plump young woman applying mascara.
Just before 4, a harried-looking man rushed in and set up the system. (I imagined him getting up at 2:30 every morning of his life, rushing down in the dark to deal with several hundred people who hadn’t had their morning coffee.)
The long line inched forward. When we were about ten people away from check-in, Mom asked me to help her get her driver’s license out of her wallet. I said, “You don’t need it yet.”
She kept fumbling with her wallet. “They’ll want us to take these out.”
Finally I said, “Here give it to me; my fingers are younger than yours.”
At that point a clerk said something. I couldn’t take the license out and listen at the same time.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“Everyone who didn’t check in online needs to move to this other line.”
Before I could budge, everybody—shivering Hawaiian shirts, Cambodian family, Mascara Girl-- rushed into the other line. We, who’d almost been at the front, were now at the back of the line!
I wanted to scream at Mom,” If you hadn’t been so stubborn about getting your stupid license out, I would have heard the clerk and we wouldn’t have lost our place.” She stood clutching her license like it was a life jacket.
Mascara Girl was now right in front of us, chatting with her girlfriend, obviously glad they were ahead of us losers. I thought, a decent person would notice me and say, “Oh you were in front of us, why don’t you go ahead?” But she didn’t, which made me want to yell at Mom all the more.
At some point I realized the real problem: every time I go on vacation, I get scared because I'm leaving my safe home and going off into the unknown. (Mustn’t make a mistake or we are doomed.) When Mom gets anxious it reminds me of my own anxiety. Damn.
(As always, once I connected with my stupidity, I felt a peace and calm undreamed of in normal life.)
Well, the good news is we finally got to check in, we made it onboard on time. Now I sit peacefully in our quiet little cabin in the Michigan woods. Life, Life, you silly old thing.
We rushed like crazy to get to the airport by 3:45 and found...the check-in clerks hadn’t come to work yet. A very long line of tired-looked passengers stood in the dim light. Nothing was open, not an employee in sight. I worried. Would the airline clerks ever show up? Had anyone notified Someone In Charge that all us customers were waiting to check in for our flights? But I did nothing, just stood waiting stupidly like all the other Zombies.
My only comfort was watching a longer line of people forming behind us.These were the folks who slept in till 3 or 3:30: A red-headed couple shivering in Hawaiian shirts. A huge Cambodian family. A plump young woman applying mascara.
Just before 4, a harried-looking man rushed in and set up the system. (I imagined him getting up at 2:30 every morning of his life, rushing down in the dark to deal with several hundred people who hadn’t had their morning coffee.)
The long line inched forward. When we were about ten people away from check-in, Mom asked me to help her get her driver’s license out of her wallet. I said, “You don’t need it yet.”
She kept fumbling with her wallet. “They’ll want us to take these out.”
Finally I said, “Here give it to me; my fingers are younger than yours.”
At that point a clerk said something. I couldn’t take the license out and listen at the same time.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“Everyone who didn’t check in online needs to move to this other line.”
Before I could budge, everybody—shivering Hawaiian shirts, Cambodian family, Mascara Girl-- rushed into the other line. We, who’d almost been at the front, were now at the back of the line!
I wanted to scream at Mom,” If you hadn’t been so stubborn about getting your stupid license out, I would have heard the clerk and we wouldn’t have lost our place.” She stood clutching her license like it was a life jacket.
Mascara Girl was now right in front of us, chatting with her girlfriend, obviously glad they were ahead of us losers. I thought, a decent person would notice me and say, “Oh you were in front of us, why don’t you go ahead?” But she didn’t, which made me want to yell at Mom all the more.
At some point I realized the real problem: every time I go on vacation, I get scared because I'm leaving my safe home and going off into the unknown. (Mustn’t make a mistake or we are doomed.) When Mom gets anxious it reminds me of my own anxiety. Damn.
(As always, once I connected with my stupidity, I felt a peace and calm undreamed of in normal life.)
Well, the good news is we finally got to check in, we made it onboard on time. Now I sit peacefully in our quiet little cabin in the Michigan woods. Life, Life, you silly old thing.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
A Writer’s Day: Saturday, 7-11-09
Woke--Meditated, prayed, affirmed
Met a friend in order to give her confidence for a presentation she's doing next week.
Went to Al-Anon. Told how I hired someone to motivate me to write, then rebel against her, thinking, “She can’t tell me what to do.” Everyone laughed.
Took call from a friend who's feeling ashamed for going off her diet. Calmed and encouraged her.
Fed cats.
Lunch.
Stepped in cat barf.
Cleaned up cat barf.
Started writng an Easy Reader.
Felt anxious so made some 5-minute ice cream
(see Posting 3-9-09)
Did another chapter of Easy Reader
Felt anxious so went ouside and pulled weeds. Thought how Shakespeare's lines "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player who struts and frets his lone hour on stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing" match my life exactly.
Felt anxious re wasting time. Ate rice cakes
Turned on computer so I could write my blog. Instead looked at photos of Michael Jackson, Farah Fawcett, and Karl Malden
Thought I heard kids vandalizing the school behind our house. Got a ladder to spy on them, but couldn’t see past the trees lining our fence so pulled more weeds.
Came inside and tried to think of something to blog about. Turned off computer.
Went outside and pulled weeds. Thought how I should be writing.
Called husband to see what time he’d be home.
Pulled weeds and thought, “If I was a successful writer, what would that look like?”
Fed cats. Put cat outside so she can step in her own barf.
Journalled, mostly about how I can’t take it any more.
Wrote blog.
Husband came home.
Posted blog.
Dinner.
Wondered if anyone will read blog and whether they will find it interesting or boring.
Bed. Prayed, affirmed. Obsessed over not returning a call from someone I sponsor. Finally dropped off to sleep.
Met a friend in order to give her confidence for a presentation she's doing next week.
Went to Al-Anon. Told how I hired someone to motivate me to write, then rebel against her, thinking, “She can’t tell me what to do.” Everyone laughed.
Took call from a friend who's feeling ashamed for going off her diet. Calmed and encouraged her.
Fed cats.
Lunch.
Stepped in cat barf.
Cleaned up cat barf.
Started writng an Easy Reader.
Felt anxious so made some 5-minute ice cream
(see Posting 3-9-09)
Did another chapter of Easy Reader
Felt anxious so went ouside and pulled weeds. Thought how Shakespeare's lines "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player who struts and frets his lone hour on stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing" match my life exactly.
Felt anxious re wasting time. Ate rice cakes
Turned on computer so I could write my blog. Instead looked at photos of Michael Jackson, Farah Fawcett, and Karl Malden
Thought I heard kids vandalizing the school behind our house. Got a ladder to spy on them, but couldn’t see past the trees lining our fence so pulled more weeds.
Came inside and tried to think of something to blog about. Turned off computer.
Went outside and pulled weeds. Thought how I should be writing.
Called husband to see what time he’d be home.
Pulled weeds and thought, “If I was a successful writer, what would that look like?”
Fed cats. Put cat outside so she can step in her own barf.
Journalled, mostly about how I can’t take it any more.
Wrote blog.
Husband came home.
Posted blog.
Dinner.
Wondered if anyone will read blog and whether they will find it interesting or boring.
Bed. Prayed, affirmed. Obsessed over not returning a call from someone I sponsor. Finally dropped off to sleep.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Is Poe Good or Just Obsessive-Compulsive? You Decide.
People who walk head-down tend to have depressive personalities.
But we also find things. As a kid I profited while walking home from school by picking up treasures: small rocks, bottle caps, a bit of broken mirror, the metal letter O that had fallen off a Ford , a rusty spring, half a comb. Once I found a $10 bill and considered myself the luckiest girl in the world.
Since my hands could only carry so much, I stuck everything in my knee socks. Mom still laughs, saying I came home every day looking like I had big tumors on my legs.
Those who know me well are aware that I have never really grown up. In short, I am drawn to junk like a alcoholic is drawn to scotch.
An observation: When normal people go to the beach they pick up shells. I pick up trash.
Have you read about the mass of plastic (some say it's the size of the United States) floating in the Pacific Ocean? The plastic reacts to sunlight and salt water by leaching BPA into the ocean, poisoning the fish. Marine animals eat it and it clogs their guts and kills them
In keeping with Equal Time Laws: my daughter tells me, “There are only so many things you can freak out about in this world;” my brother Aurelius says environmentalists "just want [him] to put on a hair shirt."
When I walk on the beach, I take a bag and pick up trash, especially the plastic variety. It is way more fun than collecting shells, which always end up stuck in a drawer someplace; I don’t even remember where they came from.
That ocean pile may be the size of the U.S, but its growth has just been slowed a square inch.
But it’s not all sacrifice, folks. Yesterday I also found a golf ball and an unopened can of Dos Equis Beer.
In the olden days, when I took my godchildren camping, we’d see how much trash we could pick up. I’d tell them, “See? This is why Good is more powerful than Evil—one person with a plastic bag can undo the evil of hundreds of people.” And yes, some people would say, “And one person with a bag of trash can undo the good of hundreds of people.” To which I say, then more good people need to discover the joy of picking up trash. Join me, minions! Join me!
When I become Queen of the World, the aristocracy will be those who pick up trash. There will be no unemployment or bored teenagers--they'll all be cleaning up the beaches and parks. Best of all, you'll see beautiful billboards everywhere showing Queen Me saying, Liberty, Equality, Dos Equis.
But we also find things. As a kid I profited while walking home from school by picking up treasures: small rocks, bottle caps, a bit of broken mirror, the metal letter O that had fallen off a Ford , a rusty spring, half a comb. Once I found a $10 bill and considered myself the luckiest girl in the world.
Since my hands could only carry so much, I stuck everything in my knee socks. Mom still laughs, saying I came home every day looking like I had big tumors on my legs.
Those who know me well are aware that I have never really grown up. In short, I am drawn to junk like a alcoholic is drawn to scotch.
An observation: When normal people go to the beach they pick up shells. I pick up trash.
Have you read about the mass of plastic (some say it's the size of the United States) floating in the Pacific Ocean? The plastic reacts to sunlight and salt water by leaching BPA into the ocean, poisoning the fish. Marine animals eat it and it clogs their guts and kills them
In keeping with Equal Time Laws: my daughter tells me, “There are only so many things you can freak out about in this world;” my brother Aurelius says environmentalists "just want [him] to put on a hair shirt."
When I walk on the beach, I take a bag and pick up trash, especially the plastic variety. It is way more fun than collecting shells, which always end up stuck in a drawer someplace; I don’t even remember where they came from.
That ocean pile may be the size of the U.S, but its growth has just been slowed a square inch.
But it’s not all sacrifice, folks. Yesterday I also found a golf ball and an unopened can of Dos Equis Beer.
In the olden days, when I took my godchildren camping, we’d see how much trash we could pick up. I’d tell them, “See? This is why Good is more powerful than Evil—one person with a plastic bag can undo the evil of hundreds of people.” And yes, some people would say, “And one person with a bag of trash can undo the good of hundreds of people.” To which I say, then more good people need to discover the joy of picking up trash. Join me, minions! Join me!
When I become Queen of the World, the aristocracy will be those who pick up trash. There will be no unemployment or bored teenagers--they'll all be cleaning up the beaches and parks. Best of all, you'll see beautiful billboards everywhere showing Queen Me saying, Liberty, Equality, Dos Equis.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
The Many Loves of Lyttie Poe, Episode Two
I was raised atheist; in fact we were fundamentalist atheists. (Our bumper sticker would have read: “There Is No God, Only Ignorant, Superstitious People Believe In Him, And That Settles It.”)
If I had any notion of a Higher Power, it was picked up from neighborhood kids who were always saying, “God’ll get you for that.”
I pictured God, if he existed, as a mean old man up in the sky watching me all the time with a very angry expression on his face: “Hmmm she lied to her mother.” “Hmm she didn’t brush her teeth.” If knew when I committed enough “sins”--Pow! Right straight to hell. Scared me to death. Who’d want to believe in something like that?
Years later when I got into Al-Anon, I could see that the people who were making positive changes believed in some kind of god, even if it was only the power of the group.
They said I could come up with any higher power I liked. So I started experimenting. The problem was I really had no concept beyond that SOB in the sky. Who was my higher power anyway?
Then I read about a lady whose higher power, a kindly old grandmother, came to her in a dream. I started telling myself, “Tonight I dream about my H.P.” over and over just before falling asleep. After three days, I was rewarded:
I dreamed I was walking through a vacant house. Suddenly I knew that my Higher Power was about to pass outside the window. Oh boy! I ran to look and who should pass by but….
Popeye the Sailor?!
Oh for heaven sakes! What kind of higher power is that?
But some days later I realized, Wait a minute. What does Popeye say?
“I yam what I yam.”
The more I considered it, the more I realized the profundity of it all.
At age five, I was in love with Popeye and wanted to marry him. Although terrible jealous of Olive Oyl, I was a lot like her--gawky and skinny and kinda dumb, always getting in some kind of trouble. I’d love to have been able to yell, “Help, Popeye, heeelp!” and have him eat his spinach, his muscles get huge like pyramids, and then POW! he socks the bad guy all around the earth and into a pig pen. I throw my arms around My Hero as he sings and goes poop poop on his pipe.
Now I won’t tell you I belong to some kind of Popeye-worshipping cult (though I do love spinach). That dream helped me develop a Higher Power who is, like Popeye, strong to the finich, ready to come to my rescue, and, if he is watching me, it’s only because he thinks gawky, stupid me is the most beautiful thing in the world.
If I had any notion of a Higher Power, it was picked up from neighborhood kids who were always saying, “God’ll get you for that.”
I pictured God, if he existed, as a mean old man up in the sky watching me all the time with a very angry expression on his face: “Hmmm she lied to her mother.” “Hmm she didn’t brush her teeth.” If knew when I committed enough “sins”--Pow! Right straight to hell. Scared me to death. Who’d want to believe in something like that?
Years later when I got into Al-Anon, I could see that the people who were making positive changes believed in some kind of god, even if it was only the power of the group.
They said I could come up with any higher power I liked. So I started experimenting. The problem was I really had no concept beyond that SOB in the sky. Who was my higher power anyway?
Then I read about a lady whose higher power, a kindly old grandmother, came to her in a dream. I started telling myself, “Tonight I dream about my H.P.” over and over just before falling asleep. After three days, I was rewarded:
I dreamed I was walking through a vacant house. Suddenly I knew that my Higher Power was about to pass outside the window. Oh boy! I ran to look and who should pass by but….
Popeye the Sailor?!
Oh for heaven sakes! What kind of higher power is that?
But some days later I realized, Wait a minute. What does Popeye say?
“I yam what I yam.”
The more I considered it, the more I realized the profundity of it all.
At age five, I was in love with Popeye and wanted to marry him. Although terrible jealous of Olive Oyl, I was a lot like her--gawky and skinny and kinda dumb, always getting in some kind of trouble. I’d love to have been able to yell, “Help, Popeye, heeelp!” and have him eat his spinach, his muscles get huge like pyramids, and then POW! he socks the bad guy all around the earth and into a pig pen. I throw my arms around My Hero as he sings and goes poop poop on his pipe.
Now I won’t tell you I belong to some kind of Popeye-worshipping cult (though I do love spinach). That dream helped me develop a Higher Power who is, like Popeye, strong to the finich, ready to come to my rescue, and, if he is watching me, it’s only because he thinks gawky, stupid me is the most beautiful thing in the world.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
From "The Many Loves of Lyttle Poe"
The story you are about to read is guaranteed 100% true. Only the names have been changed...
I thought turning sixteen meant I’d be like the teens on TV: happy, popular, riding around in cars with boys, having the time of my life. Instead, sixteen wasn’t much different from fifteen, or twelve for that matter. I desperately wanted a boyfriend, but nobody was remotely interested in me. The reason seemed clear: popular girls had straight hair, tiny noses, and soft southern drawls. I, on the other hand, was stuck with curly hair, a fat nose, and an obnoxious Yankee accent
I would gladly have dated any boy in town, but I especially dreamed about a boy named Malcolm. All us hippie wannabees loved him. His main qualifications were that he had long hair and had once been hospitalized for an overdose. I thought if I impressed him with my cleverness and wit, he’d ask me out. But like everyone else, he studiously avoided me.
Finally I decided to find my own boyfriend--someone so desperate he’d never reject me. I noticed one boy who always hung out on the school steps with about three other guys, hands in pockets. A quick check of the yearbook told me his name: Chris Rigsby.
Here were his excellent qualifications:
1) I never saw him with a girl, so that meant he didn’t already have a girlfriend. 2) He was a sophomore, a year younger than me, which gave me some power over him.
3) He was homely, with a huge overbite, so he probably wouldn’t be too choosey.
4) He had long hair. (After all, I did have some principles!)
Thus I set out on a campaign to win him.
The problem was, how did you become girlfriends with someone? I had no opportunities to talk to him, and what would I say anyway? Newsweek magazine was reporting on something called Women’s Liberation, but every teen magazine warned over and over about the dangers of girls “chasing” boys. You were supposed to wait for him to notice you.
So my campaign consisted of me watching his every move. Conveniently my best friend set her sights on Chris’s best friend. She and I spent every available moment sighing over our “loves,” or sitting in her bedroom, singing songs like ”I’ll Get You in the End” and willing it with all our hearts.
Every day I wrote entries in my diary like:
“Saw my sweetie CR coming out of the auditorium. He had on bellbottoms. He is adorable!”
or
“Today I passed CR in the hall and broke into a grin which I couldn’t stop. I have a feeling he saw me.”
But I still hadn’t actually met him. I thought I had it made when a friend told me she was acquainted with Chris. (She incidentally had also slept with Malcolm, an act she described as “awful.”) I was awed by her sophistication and I begged her to introduce Chris and me.
So the next morning, she and I wandered over to his crowd on the school steps. But here’s all she said to him: “Oh Chris, was that your sports car I saw you getting out of? No? Well, I guess it must be your mother’s then.” I was furious with her when the bell rang and we had to go to class. “Well then, let’s go back this afternoon,” she said. But I told her no, it’d be too embarrassing.
Anyway it didn’t matter. By this time, my infatuation had grown to such astronomical proportions, I’d felt like I was standing next to one of the Beatles. My heart had pounded. I thought I’d faint. What if I made a fool of myself? Under the circumstances my only sensible option was to go back watching him from afar.
A few weeks later, one of the most popular boys in school overheard me telling jokes in the hall and laughed so hard he fell on the floor. Later he kissed my hand (twice!) and told me I looked like Barbra Streisand. After that I lost all interest in Chris--or Malcolm.
I thought turning sixteen meant I’d be like the teens on TV: happy, popular, riding around in cars with boys, having the time of my life. Instead, sixteen wasn’t much different from fifteen, or twelve for that matter. I desperately wanted a boyfriend, but nobody was remotely interested in me. The reason seemed clear: popular girls had straight hair, tiny noses, and soft southern drawls. I, on the other hand, was stuck with curly hair, a fat nose, and an obnoxious Yankee accent
I would gladly have dated any boy in town, but I especially dreamed about a boy named Malcolm. All us hippie wannabees loved him. His main qualifications were that he had long hair and had once been hospitalized for an overdose. I thought if I impressed him with my cleverness and wit, he’d ask me out. But like everyone else, he studiously avoided me.
Finally I decided to find my own boyfriend--someone so desperate he’d never reject me. I noticed one boy who always hung out on the school steps with about three other guys, hands in pockets. A quick check of the yearbook told me his name: Chris Rigsby.
Here were his excellent qualifications:
1) I never saw him with a girl, so that meant he didn’t already have a girlfriend. 2) He was a sophomore, a year younger than me, which gave me some power over him.
3) He was homely, with a huge overbite, so he probably wouldn’t be too choosey.
4) He had long hair. (After all, I did have some principles!)
Thus I set out on a campaign to win him.
The problem was, how did you become girlfriends with someone? I had no opportunities to talk to him, and what would I say anyway? Newsweek magazine was reporting on something called Women’s Liberation, but every teen magazine warned over and over about the dangers of girls “chasing” boys. You were supposed to wait for him to notice you.
So my campaign consisted of me watching his every move. Conveniently my best friend set her sights on Chris’s best friend. She and I spent every available moment sighing over our “loves,” or sitting in her bedroom, singing songs like ”I’ll Get You in the End” and willing it with all our hearts.
Every day I wrote entries in my diary like:
“Saw my sweetie CR coming out of the auditorium. He had on bellbottoms. He is adorable!”
or
“Today I passed CR in the hall and broke into a grin which I couldn’t stop. I have a feeling he saw me.”
But I still hadn’t actually met him. I thought I had it made when a friend told me she was acquainted with Chris. (She incidentally had also slept with Malcolm, an act she described as “awful.”) I was awed by her sophistication and I begged her to introduce Chris and me.
So the next morning, she and I wandered over to his crowd on the school steps. But here’s all she said to him: “Oh Chris, was that your sports car I saw you getting out of? No? Well, I guess it must be your mother’s then.” I was furious with her when the bell rang and we had to go to class. “Well then, let’s go back this afternoon,” she said. But I told her no, it’d be too embarrassing.
Anyway it didn’t matter. By this time, my infatuation had grown to such astronomical proportions, I’d felt like I was standing next to one of the Beatles. My heart had pounded. I thought I’d faint. What if I made a fool of myself? Under the circumstances my only sensible option was to go back watching him from afar.
A few weeks later, one of the most popular boys in school overheard me telling jokes in the hall and laughed so hard he fell on the floor. Later he kissed my hand (twice!) and told me I looked like Barbra Streisand. After that I lost all interest in Chris--or Malcolm.
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