They All Laughed at Edison and Also at Einstein

Today would have been our cat Prodigal’s 14th birthday. We held a little graveside ceremony. I set out an open can of cat food and we had a few moments of silence.

Then as soon as we were done I called our other kitties over to eat the food. Problem: they were none of them very interested.

So now I worry that flies will be drawn to it and that they will wander into our house.

But wait a minute—I remember an exciting piece of info I've been dying to share in this venue.

I know how to keep flies totally out of your house. I swear this really works:

Fill a sandwich-sized zip-lock bag with water, then tack it over your outside door.

I read this off the internet last summer, tried it, and we had not one fly in the house all year, where we usually have hundreds.

(I can just hear all the kids who bullied me in 7th grade. You think I’m insane, do you? Try it.
Every one of you will be sorry you harassed me. To a man(or woman), you will call to apologize and beg me to sit at your lunch table.)

Let's all sing! (to the tune of My Country Tis of Thee)

There ain't no flies on us
There ain't no flies on us
No flies on us
There may be one or two
Great big green flies on you
There ain't no flies on us
No flies on us.

Two Weeks in the Life

A particularly wretched two weeks: sleeping little due to horrid cold, bum knee, and one night about 2 AM discovering a lump on my tongue which I convinced myself was cancer (A rush to the dentist the next morning resulted in the following diagnosis: “I think you bit your tongue.”)

In other news, I found myself overeating horribly, got another rejection letter, tried to tell Trashy how much I enjoyed his sharing but he cut me dead. Set out to fix my laptop's wireless connection and wound up with nonfunctional laptop AND desk top AND printer. (These things should not bother me, but they do.)

On the other hand: I also met with four sponsees (an hour each)and was overwhelmed with what I can only call God’s love. Sitting in the presence of someone who totally trusts you, listening to their deepest darkest secrets without trying to fix them, just mirroring back that they’re normal, OK, just like me, is one of the loveliest experiences God ever gave me.

Last night--Cold gone. After my first full night of sleep in weeks, I got up, had breakfast with a sponsee, then came home and fell asleep like Dagwood on the couch. Three hours later, woke feeling cleansed. Now (My daughter fixed the computers while I was at breakfast) I’m listening to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Ah…

Follow Up on Two Previous Stories

Feb 14th Posting: I saw Kelly today. She got over 35 birthday cards. (She didn’t say how much ice cream money.) But she did say it couldn’t have come at a better time since she’s been overwhelmed taking care of her mother who has Parkinson’s.

March 7th Posting: I lied last week; I really wasn't "over" being trashed, but I thought the story needed some kind of happy ending. (Sorry) But this week I went to a meeting and, based on something a sponsee said, I imagined angels surrounding me. Suddenly I thought, “Everyone here loves me, even Trashy.” And I felt all safe again. (Crazy, I know.) Then he gave a beautiful sharing that brought tears to my eyes.
Now I’m really glad I didn’t put nails under his tires.

March 11, 1917

I miss Dad. His 93rd birthday would have been this week.

I imagine my grandmother pregnant with him, her first child. Waddling about in a Mother Hubbard, probably having heart burn, peeing every time she sneezed, breasts leaking. She could feel the baby kick kick kick and had no doubt assembled little sweaters and blankets and diapers.

And so many Unknowns for her: How much longer? How bad would labor be, anyway? And Boy or Girl?

All this amidst the 1917 news: Czar Nicholas overthrown. U.S. heading towards War. Woodrow Wilson inaugurated the second time. (Strange to think that well-read, politically-savvy Grandma wouldn’t have been considered competent to vote yet!)


On March 11th, I had a birthday party for Dad and invited Mom and LPR. JR made a steak with marchand de vin , bay roasted potatoes, and asparagus with Romesco sauce. (Just the kind of gourmet stuff Dad adored.) LPR and I made ice box cake, Dad’s favorite dessert. (Even in old age he resented the time one Stanley Bernstein came to his birthday and ate all it all.) I had two helpings and imagined Dad relishing it too. Then I made sure some was leftover so he (and I) could have some the next day.

Here's the recipe if you'd like a taste of heaven:

Ice Box Cake

1 pt. (2 cups) whipping cream, whipped
1 tsp. Vanilla
1 pkg. (9 oz.) Nabisco Famous Chocolate Wafers

Add vanilla to whipped cream; stir gently until well blended.
Spread 1-1/2 tsp. of the whipped cream onto each wafer. Stack wafers together, then stand on edge in loaf pan to make a log. Frost with the remaining whipped cream.
IMPORTANT! Refrigerate at least 4 hours or overnight. Cut dessert into slices to serve. Keep away from Stanley Bernstein!

Trashed Again

Last week I reminded a guy in Program that we Al-Anons aren't supposed to discuss politics during meetings. I thought he’d say, “You're right. Thank you for your diligent attention to Al-Anon's Twelve Traditions.”

Instead he had a screaming fit and started calling me names. I was able to smile and detach with love until he screamed, “YOU'RE ALWAYS PERFORMING!” Against my will, I felt shame shame shame.(You see, there's an element of truth to that.)

Later I thought of all the things I could have said to give him shame shame shame. Too late.
Now I want to place a big nail behind one of his car tires.

Okay, we won't do that. Instead let's analyze: why did I let him get to me?
Because abuse feels so homelike.

In my family, setting boundaries was never allowed. Once, after I got married, I told my alcoholic dad I didn’t want him to drink in my house. All hell broke out. The whole family was mad at me. Dad said he no longer had any feelings for me whatsoever. Mom called me “self-righteous.” Even my favorite aunt accused me of trying to break up my parent’s marriage. For three months none of them spoke to me.
I ended up apologizing to everyone and letting Dad drink in my home any time he wanted.

But now I'm in Al-Anon, I have tools to deal with this, I think.

Eons ago, when I taught preschool, the kids were always running up to me crying, "Mrs. Poe, Johnny said I was a dummy (or whatever.)" I always said, "He just says that because he thinks HE'S a dummy." and they'd run off, happy.

Hmmm.

You know, as I think of it, "Screamer" is always performing.

Isn't life interesting?

Hop Scotch

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.

I Want to Do This Next Year (modified from an article in the Fresno (CA) Bee)

After seeing sad TV commercials about homeless animals, 11-year old Hope Graef asked her mother if she could turn her next birthday party into a shelter fundraiser.

Heather gave up presents and instead asked family and friends to donate money to help save dogs and cats from being euthenized.

Brenda Mitchell, an SPCA educator, said children occasionally will donate birthday money or proceeds from lemonade stands, but “We don’t see a lot of kids who go to this extreme,” she said.

"Some of my friends thought I was crazy because I was passing up all my birthday gifts," Hope said.

The party drew about 20 children and 30 adults.

An S.P.C.A mobile unit educated the guests about animals and the great needs of the S.P.C.A.

Hope and her family sold raffle tickets for prizes including Wii games, gift baskets, and pet supplies. Pizza slices and sodas were sold for $1 each.

All told, Hope raised about $700 for the Central California SPCA.