here's the thing.... i always think i'm going to get off light. i always think the worst is over just before it hits. in the immortal words of crosby stills and nash, its always darkest just before the dawn and i always think i can see the dawning from where i sit, think i am already in the dark, and then, it gets darker.
every time.
my freakin' shoulder hurts. they told me it would. but then, he pulled the pain pump out and told me i was probably through the worst of it, but shit man. it may have been the worst of it, but i had the pain pump in. see? So i get all hopeful, and think i'm on the happy road, and wham! the party starts in earnest. Now, the good news is that this may mean i am not a pessimist afterall. it may mean i am easily seduced by the carefully chosen words of physicians. it may mean i'm rebecca of sunnybrook farm or an idiot. you decide. so, i hurt. but it is a healing kind of bone pain, not the torture that came before.
anyway, asia from deconstructionist came by and brought me thai food which was yummy. Jill brought me roses and a young women's fashion magazine called Jane which was thoughtful and maybe a little edgy. Jill's a little edgy --alot, really-- and she thought it wasn't "too gap". in reference to the store i think. But it looked a little gap-ish to me.
Lorretta just wrote. my old house in talent is empty. that breaks my heart. you should have seen the kitchen. i designed it myself, with open shelving and tile countertops with terracotta colored grout. it was perfect. and a dishwasher and garbage disposal for the first time in my life. that is one thing i did give up to get married and still want. And while i miss my little cottage in talent, it was an empty sanctuary at the end, and i hope whoever lives in it loves it like i did.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Sunday, February 26, 2006
breathing
i cannot capitalize with one hand.
it is sunday morning on clinton street, as everywhere, but this is where i am. my husband is fishing on sauvie's island and i am healing slowly, staying ahead of the pain which is the center of my world for now. it is a footrace i am sure to win. healing is a beginning, and if i abandon my traditional apathy and wax philosophical for a moment, forgive me.
i will do yoga. i will do something. i am willing, at long last, to move, to bend, to stretch, to inconvenience myself, in hot pursuit of a more comfortable future. i am INTO comfort, and it seems that long term ease requires routine periods of physical distress (exercise). i don't like it. i don't like to do what i don't like. and in the past, the next phrase of that logism would have been: i don't do what i don't like. but i believe it is that very thought, that single attachment to short term comfort, that has, with lazy hands, placed my aging body under the surgeon's knife. my bones have been whittled on, and the resultant ache, deep and unreachable, was utterly avoidable. it was, on a deeply important level, an elective surgery. had i NOT been so utterly deconditioned, sid would not have yanked my arm from its socket so easily or with such far reaching effects.
i've wanted to do yoga for years. many years. i've wanted to do tai chi. i actually LIKE to lift weights. it is a gift i have the power to give, and yet, for reasons weak and transparent, i withhold it. i am an episode of oprah. i have misused the whole female talk show ethic (be good to youself) to my detriment. and it is a lack of self worth, not time, that denies me any attachment to the maintenance of my physical body. of many, many trite sayings, one that so often rings true is this: awareness without action is insanity. now i know a bit about insanity. a good bit. and as i lay in my sick bed in the middle of my wonderful life, i hope i can remember this moment... that as i heal and life normalizes once again, that my resolve does not dissolve -- that i make time to be better in the one way i refuse to face: the physical. bob earl said it best. "my mind thinks it can kill my body and go on." now granted, he was speaking about addiction, but this is an addiction: to ease, to laxity, to passivity, to pretending it doesn't really matter.
so, don't indulge me. don't tell me to put the bat down. don't tell me to take it easy. i have. i could, perhaps, be less dramatic, but what fun would that be?
enough. time will tell. for now, i heal. back to the couch.
it is sunday morning on clinton street, as everywhere, but this is where i am. my husband is fishing on sauvie's island and i am healing slowly, staying ahead of the pain which is the center of my world for now. it is a footrace i am sure to win. healing is a beginning, and if i abandon my traditional apathy and wax philosophical for a moment, forgive me.
i will do yoga. i will do something. i am willing, at long last, to move, to bend, to stretch, to inconvenience myself, in hot pursuit of a more comfortable future. i am INTO comfort, and it seems that long term ease requires routine periods of physical distress (exercise). i don't like it. i don't like to do what i don't like. and in the past, the next phrase of that logism would have been: i don't do what i don't like. but i believe it is that very thought, that single attachment to short term comfort, that has, with lazy hands, placed my aging body under the surgeon's knife. my bones have been whittled on, and the resultant ache, deep and unreachable, was utterly avoidable. it was, on a deeply important level, an elective surgery. had i NOT been so utterly deconditioned, sid would not have yanked my arm from its socket so easily or with such far reaching effects.
i've wanted to do yoga for years. many years. i've wanted to do tai chi. i actually LIKE to lift weights. it is a gift i have the power to give, and yet, for reasons weak and transparent, i withhold it. i am an episode of oprah. i have misused the whole female talk show ethic (be good to youself) to my detriment. and it is a lack of self worth, not time, that denies me any attachment to the maintenance of my physical body. of many, many trite sayings, one that so often rings true is this: awareness without action is insanity. now i know a bit about insanity. a good bit. and as i lay in my sick bed in the middle of my wonderful life, i hope i can remember this moment... that as i heal and life normalizes once again, that my resolve does not dissolve -- that i make time to be better in the one way i refuse to face: the physical. bob earl said it best. "my mind thinks it can kill my body and go on." now granted, he was speaking about addiction, but this is an addiction: to ease, to laxity, to passivity, to pretending it doesn't really matter.
so, don't indulge me. don't tell me to put the bat down. don't tell me to take it easy. i have. i could, perhaps, be less dramatic, but what fun would that be?
enough. time will tell. for now, i heal. back to the couch.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
stillness
Home. I wouldn't have to be rich to just stay here, day after day, watering the plants, sweeping the floor, folding the laundry. It may get old after awhile, but I am a homebody. Haley was telling me of her teenage angst, her wanderlust, her desire to hop trains and hobo her life away. My son wanted to travel, to see Australia and Amsterdam and any other place he perceived as permissive, any place but home. But all I've ever wanted was to make a home and stay in it. I've worked, always, and God knows I've moved my share, but home is where my heart is. I think if it were not for work, I wouldn't know how much I appreciated these periods of downtime, these episodic failures of body and mind that make it impossible for me to leave home for awhile. When I got here -- two years ago now -- I didn't work for months, seven, and I was so wrapped around getting settled and finding my way around that I never did relax. And now, pain denies me full appreciation of time to myself, but I am home, and it is still, and I am happy to be here, watching soaps and feeling no guilt at all.
The pre-op guys just called with all the pre-op questions and surgery looms ever closer. I have a coupon for a free milkshake at Burgerville and will stock up on Vanilla Swiss Almond Haggen Das, or plain vanilla. Did you know that Haggen Das means nothing? It isn't a real word or name or anything.
So, one more day and my arm will be repaired and I will do my therapy like a good girl and get my life back.
The pre-op guys just called with all the pre-op questions and surgery looms ever closer. I have a coupon for a free milkshake at Burgerville and will stock up on Vanilla Swiss Almond Haggen Das, or plain vanilla. Did you know that Haggen Das means nothing? It isn't a real word or name or anything.
So, one more day and my arm will be repaired and I will do my therapy like a good girl and get my life back.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
closer and closer
The time for surgery is approaching. I will go to one of those new, same day, outpatient surgery clinics at 6:30 in the morning and pop out, oh, say noonish, all stitched back together. McSurgery Drive-thru. I am looking forward to the beginning of healing, and the end of this endurance contest that has nearly gotten the better of me. It hurts.
I have new jammies. I have more soup recipes than I can count. I have solicited the support of my mother-in-law. I am planning what I can and leaving the rest to the four winds and hydrocodone.
Just to give you some indication of my perceptions these days..... I live a block from Nature's. Wild Oats. Its one of those higher-end green grocers with shiny food and big pricetags for votive candles. And I bow to my lack of grocery knowlege in general and admit that most green grocers are good to their employees and that paying a little more to forestall what seems inevitable to me: global warming and all that bad stuff that this blog declines to acknowlege let alone address, is not a bad thing. It is, after all, the corner grocery store, and from time to time I have picked up produce or a can of tomato sauce that I didn't find at Winko. I hate Winko.
So anyway, I went up there last night because K ate the last chunk of good sourdough bread and I am on a french-onion soup kick. I HAD to have it. So I wandered up the street and over a block, and the store was dark. And I thought, Ah, president's day. This thought is followed closely by a second: Since when do hippies give a shit about president's day? Then, I looked through the windows, noticed empty shelves, and thought: Oh, they're restocking one side of the store. And I get to the front of the store and there was no sign, and nothing in the store, and the store was pretty much gone. And I thought, why didn't I know this? How could the store close that fast? So, I consulted Gwen, the only grocery expert I know, and she said it has been a 30%-40%-50% discount thrift store for awhile, and I know I have slept through this winter.
It is unacceptable to me that the world passes me by. I lived the first half of my life in a coma,and I refuse to miss even one more springtime. There is much to do, and healing is the first thing.
Here's a poem about that:
What It Was Like To Be Drunk In The Country For Years
it was like comin' home
beer bottles stacked on the porch
lolling around in the dust of a hot day
not a hundred yards from the river
sweating pure whiskey
too busy drinkin' to jump in the water
sleeping face down in brown grass
missing the spring
and the summer
and the fall
and spending the winter
planning all those things we're gonna do
when the sun comes out
j
I have new jammies. I have more soup recipes than I can count. I have solicited the support of my mother-in-law. I am planning what I can and leaving the rest to the four winds and hydrocodone.
Just to give you some indication of my perceptions these days..... I live a block from Nature's. Wild Oats. Its one of those higher-end green grocers with shiny food and big pricetags for votive candles. And I bow to my lack of grocery knowlege in general and admit that most green grocers are good to their employees and that paying a little more to forestall what seems inevitable to me: global warming and all that bad stuff that this blog declines to acknowlege let alone address, is not a bad thing. It is, after all, the corner grocery store, and from time to time I have picked up produce or a can of tomato sauce that I didn't find at Winko. I hate Winko.
So anyway, I went up there last night because K ate the last chunk of good sourdough bread and I am on a french-onion soup kick. I HAD to have it. So I wandered up the street and over a block, and the store was dark. And I thought, Ah, president's day. This thought is followed closely by a second: Since when do hippies give a shit about president's day? Then, I looked through the windows, noticed empty shelves, and thought: Oh, they're restocking one side of the store. And I get to the front of the store and there was no sign, and nothing in the store, and the store was pretty much gone. And I thought, why didn't I know this? How could the store close that fast? So, I consulted Gwen, the only grocery expert I know, and she said it has been a 30%-40%-50% discount thrift store for awhile, and I know I have slept through this winter.
It is unacceptable to me that the world passes me by. I lived the first half of my life in a coma,and I refuse to miss even one more springtime. There is much to do, and healing is the first thing.
Here's a poem about that:
What It Was Like To Be Drunk In The Country For Years
it was like comin' home
beer bottles stacked on the porch
lolling around in the dust of a hot day
not a hundred yards from the river
sweating pure whiskey
too busy drinkin' to jump in the water
sleeping face down in brown grass
missing the spring
and the summer
and the fall
and spending the winter
planning all those things we're gonna do
when the sun comes out
j
Saturday, February 18, 2006
dog wear
We are up, making a sweatshirt for Sid. Nicole is a seamstress and is carving up an old gray sweatshirt and Sid is a reluctant model. Any time we ask him to hold still, he seems to think we are going to cut his toenails. He really hates that.
It is nearly over now -- the weekend. Sid's unfinished doggie-cape sits in a pile amid the recently re-organized sewing supplies we have pulled together in the past couple of days. We have many sewing boxes and tins and baskets --Me and him. Me and them. Us. Since move and marriage, the numbers of boxes has dwindeled, but it has been a slow melding, like butter and sugar over low heat. We are caramel. I rarely order anything online, am still a bit of a chicken about all that, but needed a basket for sewing stuff, and I know they exist but I shopped far and wide and could only find an old-lady tapestry covered easter basket with little plastic liners. I'd rather have a good tackle box, and frankly, had one in hand at Bi-Mart, but K talked me out of it. He wanted me to have the real thing. I couldn't agree more. But neither of us knew where the real thing was. So I went to Jeeves and typed in "sewing basket", which elicited the response "Do you mean sewing caddy?" which I did. Which in turn provoked my husband to rent Caddyshack, but that's another story. So I said okay to Jeeves, and went for the caddy idea. Tap tap tap and there it was: a three-tiered wooden box on legs that folds out like a two-sided tackle box like the big boys have, and I ordered it. And it arrived, and I am not yet a victim of identity theft. I would hate that.
So I got the caddy, and it is full and organized, and the girls know where to find a needle, and, more importantly, where to put it back so it doesn't stick someone in the eye while they are rolling around on the floor with the dog or the husband.
There is a point to all this.
As I have whined about since mid-december, I am having shoulder surgery next friday. The day is nearly here, and since I will be down (but not out!) for the count, I figured I needed a hobby. I decided to learn cross-stitch. Needlepoint. I can do it with one hand immobilized and it passes the time, of which I will have much. Well, the same amount, but it will seem different. Already does: It is sunday night and I'm not suicidal. I just don't think I was meant to work. Do you?
So, me and the girls (the girls and I) moseyed over to Michael's hobby shop because if I have a hobby, they need one, and Haley got a bunch of embroidery floss to make string bracelets and Nicole got a set of those knitting hoops and some yarn. .... Yarn. Wow. There is some trippy shit out there these days. I've been watching women working on projects (thus the cross-stitch idea) and they have any manner of string projects they are weaving into any manner of winter clothing. Not me. I'm afraid of string. Knots kill me. So, I'm sticking with the smaller version: thread. I never did take up macrame, when every hippie chick worth her salt had plant hangers and wall art made of tangled rope. No way. But there is yarn that looks like animal hair and angel feathers and disco sparkles and vomit. You can get anything.
Anyway, all of this is in preparation for the aftermath. A hobby and good pajamas. Pyjamas. Whatever I buy needs to be easy on and easy off. I should just get some mumus but I am absurdly fashion conscious. Pain will dictate fashion rather than the other way around this time.
And soup. Asia will bring me Tom Kar Mushroom. The girls will cook me whatever they can on lunch break, and my hubby will treat me to his cuisine in the evenings like he used to. He makes great spaghetti. Tonight I made french onion soup. I have been wanting it since Valentine's day. We went to Montage and I had heard they have excellent french onion on their menu. But they don't anymore. "Sadly," said the Maitre d. A convincingly forlorn metroboy.
So I have a hobby, jammies and soup. I'm ready.
My fucking shoulder hurts. It probably wasn't a great idea to go see Buddy Guy last night and stand for four hours bouncing to the blues, but we had tickets, and sometimes moving is better than sitting still with this thing. But it was so loud, and I was really hurting. And this guy, some aged hippie with gray hair to his waist, decided to dance. And it was crowded, and he was feelin' it, and had to get his groove on. And it had to happen in my immediate space. And he was seven feet tall with big hair and I shoved him at one point. Because look... I can stand there and be in pain, but don't bump into me. Okay? I had no effect on him. He just kept on dancing. I was so annoyed.
That's the weekend update. I'm not working tomorrow.
It is nearly over now -- the weekend. Sid's unfinished doggie-cape sits in a pile amid the recently re-organized sewing supplies we have pulled together in the past couple of days. We have many sewing boxes and tins and baskets --Me and him. Me and them. Us. Since move and marriage, the numbers of boxes has dwindeled, but it has been a slow melding, like butter and sugar over low heat. We are caramel. I rarely order anything online, am still a bit of a chicken about all that, but needed a basket for sewing stuff, and I know they exist but I shopped far and wide and could only find an old-lady tapestry covered easter basket with little plastic liners. I'd rather have a good tackle box, and frankly, had one in hand at Bi-Mart, but K talked me out of it. He wanted me to have the real thing. I couldn't agree more. But neither of us knew where the real thing was. So I went to Jeeves and typed in "sewing basket", which elicited the response "Do you mean sewing caddy?" which I did. Which in turn provoked my husband to rent Caddyshack, but that's another story. So I said okay to Jeeves, and went for the caddy idea. Tap tap tap and there it was: a three-tiered wooden box on legs that folds out like a two-sided tackle box like the big boys have, and I ordered it. And it arrived, and I am not yet a victim of identity theft. I would hate that.
So I got the caddy, and it is full and organized, and the girls know where to find a needle, and, more importantly, where to put it back so it doesn't stick someone in the eye while they are rolling around on the floor with the dog or the husband.
There is a point to all this.
As I have whined about since mid-december, I am having shoulder surgery next friday. The day is nearly here, and since I will be down (but not out!) for the count, I figured I needed a hobby. I decided to learn cross-stitch. Needlepoint. I can do it with one hand immobilized and it passes the time, of which I will have much. Well, the same amount, but it will seem different. Already does: It is sunday night and I'm not suicidal. I just don't think I was meant to work. Do you?
So, me and the girls (the girls and I) moseyed over to Michael's hobby shop because if I have a hobby, they need one, and Haley got a bunch of embroidery floss to make string bracelets and Nicole got a set of those knitting hoops and some yarn. .... Yarn. Wow. There is some trippy shit out there these days. I've been watching women working on projects (thus the cross-stitch idea) and they have any manner of string projects they are weaving into any manner of winter clothing. Not me. I'm afraid of string. Knots kill me. So, I'm sticking with the smaller version: thread. I never did take up macrame, when every hippie chick worth her salt had plant hangers and wall art made of tangled rope. No way. But there is yarn that looks like animal hair and angel feathers and disco sparkles and vomit. You can get anything.
Anyway, all of this is in preparation for the aftermath. A hobby and good pajamas. Pyjamas. Whatever I buy needs to be easy on and easy off. I should just get some mumus but I am absurdly fashion conscious. Pain will dictate fashion rather than the other way around this time.
And soup. Asia will bring me Tom Kar Mushroom. The girls will cook me whatever they can on lunch break, and my hubby will treat me to his cuisine in the evenings like he used to. He makes great spaghetti. Tonight I made french onion soup. I have been wanting it since Valentine's day. We went to Montage and I had heard they have excellent french onion on their menu. But they don't anymore. "Sadly," said the Maitre d. A convincingly forlorn metroboy.
So I have a hobby, jammies and soup. I'm ready.
My fucking shoulder hurts. It probably wasn't a great idea to go see Buddy Guy last night and stand for four hours bouncing to the blues, but we had tickets, and sometimes moving is better than sitting still with this thing. But it was so loud, and I was really hurting. And this guy, some aged hippie with gray hair to his waist, decided to dance. And it was crowded, and he was feelin' it, and had to get his groove on. And it had to happen in my immediate space. And he was seven feet tall with big hair and I shoved him at one point. Because look... I can stand there and be in pain, but don't bump into me. Okay? I had no effect on him. He just kept on dancing. I was so annoyed.
That's the weekend update. I'm not working tomorrow.
Friday, February 17, 2006
valentine oversight
oops. I am so married. I forgot to post valentine's day.
Here's my favorite valentine poem. It was sent to Cooky by her first husband, Sherman. She'll never get a blog so I'll publish for her:
If I give you amphetamine
Will you be my Valentine?
Simple, to the point. Appealing. The sixties were a simpler time. I would know. I was 12.
We had dinner at Montage and are going to see Buddy Guy at the Roseland Saturday night. A valentine's week. I had never been to Montage. The pasta was good, but the gooey butter cake was memorable. The perfect combination of sweet and salty and mmmmm. Montage is messy and loud and there were people in sweats and in red-velvet valentine hair-dos, long sculpted curls that did not move, would not move in this morning's arctic blast.
Arctic blast my ass. Where is it?
Here's my favorite valentine poem. It was sent to Cooky by her first husband, Sherman. She'll never get a blog so I'll publish for her:
If I give you amphetamine
Will you be my Valentine?
Simple, to the point. Appealing. The sixties were a simpler time. I would know. I was 12.
We had dinner at Montage and are going to see Buddy Guy at the Roseland Saturday night. A valentine's week. I had never been to Montage. The pasta was good, but the gooey butter cake was memorable. The perfect combination of sweet and salty and mmmmm. Montage is messy and loud and there were people in sweats and in red-velvet valentine hair-dos, long sculpted curls that did not move, would not move in this morning's arctic blast.
Arctic blast my ass. Where is it?
Thursday, February 16, 2006
ahhhhhhhhhh
Me in the middle, walking down Eliott Creek Road, November 2003.
its over. I didn't keep the car that was behind door number three. Everything about that job was fiction. And it is over. Behind me. I got up this morning and didn't. Didn't get dressed, didn't scrape ice off the windows of the car that isn't mine anymore. Didn't drive to Mc-fucking-Minnville. Didn't.
Ahh.
I am sipping coffee, not on my front porch, which is my preference, but at this small desk, weather news in the background.
Once it was cold (view from the porch 2003:
It's gonna get cold. That's the news. I know, I know. I'm always whining about the weathercast. But it is february for crying out loud. Coldest month of the year. This is not news. But in the absence of something like the vice president shooting someone in the face, its all we have.
Dontcha love Dick Cheney? Isn't he just the epitome of power? When I behaved as though the rules didn't apply to me, I got arrested. Clearly not every time, or I'd still be sitting in jail, and I'm not suggesting Cheney should be arrested, but that guy really flies above it all. He just doesn't have to play nicely like the rest of the kiddies on the yard.
Well, enough political commentary for a non-election year.
The sun is out, my coffee's cold, and the most exciting thing I'm doing today is getting my teeth cleaned at 1:00. My shoulder is awful, still, and I hear surgery is a bitch. I am simultaneously embracing and dreading the idea. My arm hangs from its socket by skin and muscle, unaided by ligament, which is a real unsung hero in my world right now. Really, it isn't quite that serious, but it feels like it, and is the center of my thoughts most days, and spring is coming, and I can't use my shovel and that pisses me off. I'm planning to re-do the back yard so there is a pad for the pool (pavers) and sod for Sid to shit on. (say that three times fast: she sells seashells at the seashore...) and there is much to do. I understand that I will be out of commission for a couple of months, really, and the therapy is killer. But here is my plan: have surgery, get well, kick opiates, start yoga. It has been a long winter and I'm achin' for springtime.
What is the sound of one hand gardening?
The garden: post-hedge, pre-fence circa 2004
the garden midway taking the hedge down. This was the view into the neighbor's yard. Picture the cast of Deliverance.
The back yard in 2004 I think.
its over. I didn't keep the car that was behind door number three. Everything about that job was fiction. And it is over. Behind me. I got up this morning and didn't. Didn't get dressed, didn't scrape ice off the windows of the car that isn't mine anymore. Didn't drive to Mc-fucking-Minnville. Didn't.
Ahh.
I am sipping coffee, not on my front porch, which is my preference, but at this small desk, weather news in the background.
Once it was cold (view from the porch 2003:
It's gonna get cold. That's the news. I know, I know. I'm always whining about the weathercast. But it is february for crying out loud. Coldest month of the year. This is not news. But in the absence of something like the vice president shooting someone in the face, its all we have.
Dontcha love Dick Cheney? Isn't he just the epitome of power? When I behaved as though the rules didn't apply to me, I got arrested. Clearly not every time, or I'd still be sitting in jail, and I'm not suggesting Cheney should be arrested, but that guy really flies above it all. He just doesn't have to play nicely like the rest of the kiddies on the yard.
Well, enough political commentary for a non-election year.
The sun is out, my coffee's cold, and the most exciting thing I'm doing today is getting my teeth cleaned at 1:00. My shoulder is awful, still, and I hear surgery is a bitch. I am simultaneously embracing and dreading the idea. My arm hangs from its socket by skin and muscle, unaided by ligament, which is a real unsung hero in my world right now. Really, it isn't quite that serious, but it feels like it, and is the center of my thoughts most days, and spring is coming, and I can't use my shovel and that pisses me off. I'm planning to re-do the back yard so there is a pad for the pool (pavers) and sod for Sid to shit on. (say that three times fast: she sells seashells at the seashore...) and there is much to do. I understand that I will be out of commission for a couple of months, really, and the therapy is killer. But here is my plan: have surgery, get well, kick opiates, start yoga. It has been a long winter and I'm achin' for springtime.
What is the sound of one hand gardening?
The garden: post-hedge, pre-fence circa 2004
the garden midway taking the hedge down. This was the view into the neighbor's yard. Picture the cast of Deliverance.
The back yard in 2004 I think.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
monkeys
Curious George is dead. Somebody killed Curious George. I don't know his name (the author) and it shouldn't make me any sadder than any other random death, but it does. I loved those books as a child, and have one of those monkeys in my truck. And the curious George lunchbox, and the Curious George-in-the-box the girls got me for christmas.
I love monkeys. I got a white one at a yard sale last summer. An odd looking homemade one. We have a collection of old stuffed monkeys my husband had as a child and one somebody left on the porch with a strange note taped to his overalls. I have one that sleeps on my shoulder, ever vigilant to a single missed step.
Here's a poem about that:
Junkies
Here’s to all you old junkies
still out there
keepin’ the home fires burning
the monkey on my back
only slumbers
light sleeper
my skin tightens
and leather begins to show through
my Eddie Bauer sweatshirt
on the other side of the other side of town
his porch is a minefield of
rotten wood and rusted nails
back seats from big cars
a water-stained curtain moves
slightly to one side
the smell of cooking heroin gags me
and I taste metal in the back of my throat
like a mouthful of cold pennies
syringes like tiny rattlers lay
ready to strike
veins like garden hose
hardened from unuse
give in
holding my breath
blood flags in the tiny cylinder
blossoming into
the warm brown liquid
like a dark rose
breath leaves me in contented release
and
just like riding a bike
I am home again
Anyway, I guess Curious George was co-authored. Look it up, I could be wrong. Sad day in the monkey world.
I love monkeys. I got a white one at a yard sale last summer. An odd looking homemade one. We have a collection of old stuffed monkeys my husband had as a child and one somebody left on the porch with a strange note taped to his overalls. I have one that sleeps on my shoulder, ever vigilant to a single missed step.
Here's a poem about that:
Junkies
Here’s to all you old junkies
still out there
keepin’ the home fires burning
the monkey on my back
only slumbers
light sleeper
my skin tightens
and leather begins to show through
my Eddie Bauer sweatshirt
on the other side of the other side of town
his porch is a minefield of
rotten wood and rusted nails
back seats from big cars
a water-stained curtain moves
slightly to one side
the smell of cooking heroin gags me
and I taste metal in the back of my throat
like a mouthful of cold pennies
syringes like tiny rattlers lay
ready to strike
veins like garden hose
hardened from unuse
give in
holding my breath
blood flags in the tiny cylinder
blossoming into
the warm brown liquid
like a dark rose
breath leaves me in contented release
and
just like riding a bike
I am home again
Anyway, I guess Curious George was co-authored. Look it up, I could be wrong. Sad day in the monkey world.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
sweet endings
I was going to title this post "bitter endings" but it is sweet, really, to be leaving this job. As difficult as it is to fling myself out over the crevasse of unemployment, I will be better for it.
Anyway, the synchronicity of my shoulder surgery reminds me of a force beyond my own, beyond my knowing, that protects me from bad things. And the job was a bad thing. Bad for me. I lost my confidence, more than anything. The 15th will be my last day. I'm interviewing, but nothing yet, and I don't care. I just don't.
Anyway, the synchronicity of my shoulder surgery reminds me of a force beyond my own, beyond my knowing, that protects me from bad things. And the job was a bad thing. Bad for me. I lost my confidence, more than anything. The 15th will be my last day. I'm interviewing, but nothing yet, and I don't care. I just don't.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
and the beating goes on
I am so sick of feeling like this that I am going to rant about it. No, I'm not. Second thought, I'll just write. You all know my arm is hanging by a thread that seems to be connected to every pain-related neuron in my body. Typing is beginning to hurt, and that is truly unacceptable. Work? Who cares. But writing, now that is important.
a. sent me the film of bennet, the smoking dog, which is always good for a laugh. this one made me laugh, but will piss off my peta friends, although I don't think the moron that made the film thought it through. He sounds regretful in the soundtrack.
We went clamming yesterday (what is the sound of one hand clamming?) and got skunked. We got one. a clam. one sixty dollar clam. (8 dollars each for shellfish tags, and gas.) the clams won. So we came home and had chicken instead. We timed it right, though. It was beautiful. A high and angry sea, any shade of gray, blue sky and white clouds, rain in the offing, sun setting through the clouds with rays like heaven behind it all. Since I was a one-armed clam bandit, I spent more time appreciating the scenery than looking for clams. They weren't home anyway. It takes a fairly good minus tide to find them, and low tide was at 5:30. We got there around 3:30, and clammed until just about sunset, but 5:30 was after dark or just at, and we didn't have light. I did purchase a set of waders last year, the kind that are lightweight overalls with nice, stretchy straps and footies made of foam that slide easily over whatever I am wearing and keep all water out. Out. I can do anything if I am relatively warm and completely dry. We went up to Mt. Hood last weekend and the snow blowing straight in my face exceeded my comfort levels. I am INTO the appropriate equipment. You should see the seat on my bike. It looks to have been made by John Deere. Comfort. That's what its all about.
So, today, we are having shrimp. Purchased at Winco.
Here's a picture of Nicole and Sid.
a. sent me the film of bennet, the smoking dog, which is always good for a laugh. this one made me laugh, but will piss off my peta friends, although I don't think the moron that made the film thought it through. He sounds regretful in the soundtrack.
We went clamming yesterday (what is the sound of one hand clamming?) and got skunked. We got one. a clam. one sixty dollar clam. (8 dollars each for shellfish tags, and gas.) the clams won. So we came home and had chicken instead. We timed it right, though. It was beautiful. A high and angry sea, any shade of gray, blue sky and white clouds, rain in the offing, sun setting through the clouds with rays like heaven behind it all. Since I was a one-armed clam bandit, I spent more time appreciating the scenery than looking for clams. They weren't home anyway. It takes a fairly good minus tide to find them, and low tide was at 5:30. We got there around 3:30, and clammed until just about sunset, but 5:30 was after dark or just at, and we didn't have light. I did purchase a set of waders last year, the kind that are lightweight overalls with nice, stretchy straps and footies made of foam that slide easily over whatever I am wearing and keep all water out. Out. I can do anything if I am relatively warm and completely dry. We went up to Mt. Hood last weekend and the snow blowing straight in my face exceeded my comfort levels. I am INTO the appropriate equipment. You should see the seat on my bike. It looks to have been made by John Deere. Comfort. That's what its all about.
So, today, we are having shrimp. Purchased at Winco.
Here's a picture of Nicole and Sid.
Friday, January 27, 2006
pain
I filled out a silly little questionnaire about friendship yesterday. One of the questions was about pet peeves.
Currently, mine is pain.
Yesterday I was not in pain for the first time since mid-December. It was galvanizing. It lasted a day. One day. I got a cortisone/novocaine shot in my shoulder and for a minute, it seemed like everything was going to be alright. The sun came out (figuratively, we're in Portland, don't forget...), my mood shifted, and the drive to McMinnville wasn't quite so unbearable. But it is not going to be that easy. The pain is back this morning, and last night, and the monkey that lives on my back, the light sleeper, is up and screaming for breakfast. It is a tightrope I walk, the abyss beneath me with depths familiar and terrifying, looms in and out of focus. And I starve the monkey today, as long as I can hold out. Surgery is sounding more appealing by the minute. My arm hangs from a partially detached shoulder joint, stretching the muscles of my neck and arm simultaneously. Something's gotta give.
Currently, mine is pain.
Yesterday I was not in pain for the first time since mid-December. It was galvanizing. It lasted a day. One day. I got a cortisone/novocaine shot in my shoulder and for a minute, it seemed like everything was going to be alright. The sun came out (figuratively, we're in Portland, don't forget...), my mood shifted, and the drive to McMinnville wasn't quite so unbearable. But it is not going to be that easy. The pain is back this morning, and last night, and the monkey that lives on my back, the light sleeper, is up and screaming for breakfast. It is a tightrope I walk, the abyss beneath me with depths familiar and terrifying, looms in and out of focus. And I starve the monkey today, as long as I can hold out. Surgery is sounding more appealing by the minute. My arm hangs from a partially detached shoulder joint, stretching the muscles of my neck and arm simultaneously. Something's gotta give.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
nope
They didn't pick me.
Well, they did, but then some guy showed up who used to work for them and they gave the job to him. He's bald. That's all I know. He showed up just as my interview ended. If I was fatalistic, which I am not, I'd say it was meant to be, or not be, depending on your point of view. But there is no anticipating that. They want to hire me for another position. Okay. Whatever. Anything for a buck.
I'm hoping for a vacation between this job and the next, frankly. I may get it.
Well, they did, but then some guy showed up who used to work for them and they gave the job to him. He's bald. That's all I know. He showed up just as my interview ended. If I was fatalistic, which I am not, I'd say it was meant to be, or not be, depending on your point of view. But there is no anticipating that. They want to hire me for another position. Okay. Whatever. Anything for a buck.
I'm hoping for a vacation between this job and the next, frankly. I may get it.
Friday, January 20, 2006
the waiting
I could write a book about this process. I am sitting at home, too nervous, full of anticipation about this pursuit of a new job. There is so much more riding on it for me than for the organization, and I wait. And it is only a job. I have had others, many, and like pippi longstocking always said, "Don't worry about me, I always land on my feet." Or is that a cat?
Anyway....
The tough part about waiting is the re-thinking I should have said this or that, done this or that, worn this or that, been this or that. And they will or will not PICK ME. My readers, my friends, my compadres, are certain I am THE ONE. I am not so confident. I know what I know, and am who I am, and so far so good. If I had the poem "Disclaimer" at my fingertips, I would include it here. I'll try from memory:
Disclaimer
Now it is not the best of me
that glorifies the worst in me
and it is not the east of me
that contradicts the west of me
nor is it just the first of me
has changed to suit the last of me.
the last of me has not yet been
the worst has never given in
or given up
or ever will
or even can
or has the will
to go beyond
the who I was
and still may be
and without pause
I celebrate the rest of me
I celebrate what’s left of me.
Okay. That wasn't entirely from memory... I had to peek.
So, anyway, I am waiting for this phone call. All Known Life hanging in the balance. And I have given notice. So I am out on the proverbial limb. I have said to others in similar positions, risk. Get out there on that limb. (the hum of chainsaw on wood behind me) but I do believe this is where the rubber meets the road. Risk is life. I hope they choose me. They should.... but they don't know me like you do.
I am working at home today.
Yeah. That's what I'm doing.
Anyway....
The tough part about waiting is the re-thinking I should have said this or that, done this or that, worn this or that, been this or that. And they will or will not PICK ME. My readers, my friends, my compadres, are certain I am THE ONE. I am not so confident. I know what I know, and am who I am, and so far so good. If I had the poem "Disclaimer" at my fingertips, I would include it here. I'll try from memory:
Disclaimer
Now it is not the best of me
that glorifies the worst in me
and it is not the east of me
that contradicts the west of me
nor is it just the first of me
has changed to suit the last of me.
the last of me has not yet been
the worst has never given in
or given up
or ever will
or even can
or has the will
to go beyond
the who I was
and still may be
and without pause
I celebrate the rest of me
I celebrate what’s left of me.
Okay. That wasn't entirely from memory... I had to peek.
So, anyway, I am waiting for this phone call. All Known Life hanging in the balance. And I have given notice. So I am out on the proverbial limb. I have said to others in similar positions, risk. Get out there on that limb. (the hum of chainsaw on wood behind me) but I do believe this is where the rubber meets the road. Risk is life. I hope they choose me. They should.... but they don't know me like you do.
I am working at home today.
Yeah. That's what I'm doing.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
everyday halloween
We live in the Hawthorne. I think its why I like Portland. Now, I'm not much of a theme dresser--I wear black turtlenecks. I have 10. Three of them fit me. But I digress. We were walking driving riding down hawthorne last week, monday, Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and in all of the store windows were mannequins dressed as, well, beyond the fact that they are all nazi atrocities and testimonials to bulemia, the clothing was so whip-me-beat-me that I thought it was halloween all over again. Ground Hog's day. I don't object to the style, I just can't wear it. I am so grateful that I know what age-appropriate dress means. I see women my age in belly shirts and low-rise pants and cringe. But walking down hawthorne, we saw an 80 year old indian princess, two or three librarians (you know the type: black hair cut with severe bangs, horn-rimmed glasses with wings like a 1958 caddy, nets and striped long stockings with club-footed shoes), several sluts, poor single mothers with 5000.00 strollers that weigh 14 ounces, roll uphill and can accomodate a 500.00 shopping spree at Walmart.
Here it comes.... I remember Marky's stroller. It must have weighed 25-30 pounds without him in it. He was one of those children who were simply reluctant to walk. I wouldn't say he was lazy (not until he was 16) but he just wasn't all that interested--takes after his mommy that way. And the stroller was one of the metal folding models. A goodwill find, probably free, and it got me through the first year. I was hitchhiking. That's how I got around in those days. Baby on one hip, thumb out, stroller full of laundry, groceries, garage sale treasures, you name it. Fold it up, get in the car. Get out of the car. Unfold it. Fold it up.... you get the drift. It was in the early days of public transportation in the Rogue Valley-- 1978-- But I didn't have any money. I had treasure... who needs cash? So, I was waiting for a ride, standing in the blistering heat of a Jacksonville day, sky as blue as a fair ribbon, too long in town, ready to head for the hills: my home. So an old chevy truck pulled up,'53 I think, so I unloaded my crap, and tried to fold up the stroller. It wouldn't fold. I tried and tried, exhaust billowing in my eyes, baby flailing around trying to get away. So I picked that stroller up over my head and flung it as far as I could into the Blackbird parking lot. That's when Marky learned to walk.
I also have to acknowledge the holiday just passed: Martin Luther King Day. Cooky and I were driving somewhere and she said, "Guess who's going to speak in Ashland for MLK day?"
I said I didn't know.
She said, "Martin Luther King, Jr. I heard it on the radio."
I said, "He's dead, Cook."
She said, "No, its his son. His kid. He's speaking."
I said, "Wow. That's amazing. I mean, here we are, in Southern Oregon, the last stronghold of the KKK and MLK's kid is coming here to speak?"
We sat there, together, for the longest time.
"Naw," I said. "That can't be right. MLK jr. IS MLK. He's already the Junior. His kid isnt' even named Martin or anything."
Cooky considered this. She started laughing, the kind of piss-your-pants laughter I miss so much about her. We laughed all the way to Ashland.
Each year I call her up and ask her who's speaking. Is MLK coming back this year? We laugh so hard every time. It never gets old. But we do.
Here it comes.... I remember Marky's stroller. It must have weighed 25-30 pounds without him in it. He was one of those children who were simply reluctant to walk. I wouldn't say he was lazy (not until he was 16) but he just wasn't all that interested--takes after his mommy that way. And the stroller was one of the metal folding models. A goodwill find, probably free, and it got me through the first year. I was hitchhiking. That's how I got around in those days. Baby on one hip, thumb out, stroller full of laundry, groceries, garage sale treasures, you name it. Fold it up, get in the car. Get out of the car. Unfold it. Fold it up.... you get the drift. It was in the early days of public transportation in the Rogue Valley-- 1978-- But I didn't have any money. I had treasure... who needs cash? So, I was waiting for a ride, standing in the blistering heat of a Jacksonville day, sky as blue as a fair ribbon, too long in town, ready to head for the hills: my home. So an old chevy truck pulled up,'53 I think, so I unloaded my crap, and tried to fold up the stroller. It wouldn't fold. I tried and tried, exhaust billowing in my eyes, baby flailing around trying to get away. So I picked that stroller up over my head and flung it as far as I could into the Blackbird parking lot. That's when Marky learned to walk.
I also have to acknowledge the holiday just passed: Martin Luther King Day. Cooky and I were driving somewhere and she said, "Guess who's going to speak in Ashland for MLK day?"
I said I didn't know.
She said, "Martin Luther King, Jr. I heard it on the radio."
I said, "He's dead, Cook."
She said, "No, its his son. His kid. He's speaking."
I said, "Wow. That's amazing. I mean, here we are, in Southern Oregon, the last stronghold of the KKK and MLK's kid is coming here to speak?"
We sat there, together, for the longest time.
"Naw," I said. "That can't be right. MLK jr. IS MLK. He's already the Junior. His kid isnt' even named Martin or anything."
Cooky considered this. She started laughing, the kind of piss-your-pants laughter I miss so much about her. We laughed all the way to Ashland.
Each year I call her up and ask her who's speaking. Is MLK coming back this year? We laugh so hard every time. It never gets old. But we do.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
interview questions
I'm still thinking about my upcoming interview.... Sorry. You'll have to endure my angst for a few more days.
I asked the corporate recruiter what the interview would look like -- questions they would ask, etc. and I thought you, my captive audience, could review my answers and it would give me an opportunity to express not only what i might say, but to also give voice to the truly unacceptable answers that might pop out if not given voice somewhere else. A vent, if you will, for impropriety. You know how I am, and underpressure, the whole "not caring" thing might get the better of me. I could decide halfway through the interview, for instance, that "fuck it" is the best I can do, and this would be based on a sideways glance that had absolutely nothing to do with me. An unrelated sigh. The wrong clothes. Somebody prettier than me. I throw in the towel for the most bizarre reasons.
So, according to Andrea the Recruiter, the questions may include:
1. What brings you to long term care?
A. A car.
B. I loved my grandmother.
C. No, really, this can be a short or long answer, and I think I'll try to keep it fairly short, (but I'll give you the full monty.)
In the early 70's I had been involved in a string of small robberies and was nearly caught. (Obviously, the statute has run out and I can tell you this without threat of incarceration.) So there I was, finally in need of legitimacy. A real job. Not drug dealing or petty theft. So Karla, this girl from downstairs, said, "Go to Hillhaven, they'll hire anybody." So, being anybody, I drove to the nursing home. It was a brief interview. "Can you take a temperature?" Mrs. Ingersol, director of nursing asked. I said, "Sure." And she said, "Be here at one." Then, as an afterthought, "Do you have any white pants?"
So, I showed up at one, in my white pants, and began my life's work. I wasn't serious. I didn't (as you know) care, even then. I was 19 or 20, and really an unfinished version of myself. Arrogant, drug addicted, but clearly on the cusp of something. So, they set me up with these two experienced aides who I was to follow around until I "got it." We went into this room and there was a man who, in my limited experience, appeared to be suspended from the ceiling by a series of leather straps. I hung by the door, staring, horrified at the circus geek in front of me. My trainers went to work on him, doing this or that, and ultimately, pulling a bedpan out from under him. I was horrified. They handed me the gigantic metal bowl full of human shit and I said, "Oh, so I get to do the good stuff."
And the man said, in a voice I will never forget, "Honey, if there was any other way...."
It is difficult to express the sudden onset of knowing that was contained in that moment: He became human, the job became real, and in my humiliation, I became part of who I am. His name was Gene Austin. He had been an army pilot and had the top of his head blown off in Korea, I guess. It left him quadraplegic, but his mind was intact.
And so it began. I have always treated arrogant young women who want to work in the industry with a measure of patience. I know what they can become.
Okay, question #2.
I don't really have that one figured out yet. It may be, "Why did you leave your perfectly good job last May and how do you have the audacity to come back grovelling for yet a second and better paying job???? Hmmm, biatch?" And you know, guilt may color my response just a teeensy little bit.
A. There was a car behind door number 2.
B. There was a car behind door number 2.
C. I wish I hadn't. I thought the job would be different. I didn't know where McMinnville was. Seriously. I just thought: free car, more money. But it is notable that I took a job without knowing where it actually was. I mean, I knew. But driving 99 day after day -- not so good. And like so many things that seem too good to be true: it was. The car wasn't free. The job wasn't anything like I was accustomed to. So. Here I am. Grovelling. Pick me. Everybody loves me, baby, what's the matter with you?
I hope they don't ask. It will be difficult not to be a tongue in cheek version of myself.
So, it is Sunday morning.
I asked the corporate recruiter what the interview would look like -- questions they would ask, etc. and I thought you, my captive audience, could review my answers and it would give me an opportunity to express not only what i might say, but to also give voice to the truly unacceptable answers that might pop out if not given voice somewhere else. A vent, if you will, for impropriety. You know how I am, and underpressure, the whole "not caring" thing might get the better of me. I could decide halfway through the interview, for instance, that "fuck it" is the best I can do, and this would be based on a sideways glance that had absolutely nothing to do with me. An unrelated sigh. The wrong clothes. Somebody prettier than me. I throw in the towel for the most bizarre reasons.
So, according to Andrea the Recruiter, the questions may include:
1. What brings you to long term care?
A. A car.
B. I loved my grandmother.
C. No, really, this can be a short or long answer, and I think I'll try to keep it fairly short, (but I'll give you the full monty.)
In the early 70's I had been involved in a string of small robberies and was nearly caught. (Obviously, the statute has run out and I can tell you this without threat of incarceration.) So there I was, finally in need of legitimacy. A real job. Not drug dealing or petty theft. So Karla, this girl from downstairs, said, "Go to Hillhaven, they'll hire anybody." So, being anybody, I drove to the nursing home. It was a brief interview. "Can you take a temperature?" Mrs. Ingersol, director of nursing asked. I said, "Sure." And she said, "Be here at one." Then, as an afterthought, "Do you have any white pants?"
So, I showed up at one, in my white pants, and began my life's work. I wasn't serious. I didn't (as you know) care, even then. I was 19 or 20, and really an unfinished version of myself. Arrogant, drug addicted, but clearly on the cusp of something. So, they set me up with these two experienced aides who I was to follow around until I "got it." We went into this room and there was a man who, in my limited experience, appeared to be suspended from the ceiling by a series of leather straps. I hung by the door, staring, horrified at the circus geek in front of me. My trainers went to work on him, doing this or that, and ultimately, pulling a bedpan out from under him. I was horrified. They handed me the gigantic metal bowl full of human shit and I said, "Oh, so I get to do the good stuff."
And the man said, in a voice I will never forget, "Honey, if there was any other way...."
It is difficult to express the sudden onset of knowing that was contained in that moment: He became human, the job became real, and in my humiliation, I became part of who I am. His name was Gene Austin. He had been an army pilot and had the top of his head blown off in Korea, I guess. It left him quadraplegic, but his mind was intact.
And so it began. I have always treated arrogant young women who want to work in the industry with a measure of patience. I know what they can become.
Okay, question #2.
I don't really have that one figured out yet. It may be, "Why did you leave your perfectly good job last May and how do you have the audacity to come back grovelling for yet a second and better paying job???? Hmmm, biatch?" And you know, guilt may color my response just a teeensy little bit.
A. There was a car behind door number 2.
B. There was a car behind door number 2.
C. I wish I hadn't. I thought the job would be different. I didn't know where McMinnville was. Seriously. I just thought: free car, more money. But it is notable that I took a job without knowing where it actually was. I mean, I knew. But driving 99 day after day -- not so good. And like so many things that seem too good to be true: it was. The car wasn't free. The job wasn't anything like I was accustomed to. So. Here I am. Grovelling. Pick me. Everybody loves me, baby, what's the matter with you?
I hope they don't ask. It will be difficult not to be a tongue in cheek version of myself.
So, it is Sunday morning.
dreams
I woke up this morning disturbed by dreams I can't remember. I know I was giving gifts to people and they were the wrong gifts. Big wrong gifts. My dreams are not usually too mystical. This one derives, I am certain, from the fact that I sent my son a ceramic drum for his birthday. In my distant memory, there was a time when he wanted one. They are called dubeck or something. Anyway, we found one at Goodwill in Lincoln City,and I mailed it to him, late, in a box stuffed with goodies and money. At least I know he liked the money and the cashews. He likes the drum, he says, but denies ever wanting one. But he says it looks good in the living room and is fun to pound on. Ah well, there is always next year.
The job thing continues. I just got an email from my former boss that I am the frontrunner. I do not feel confident at this point, not yet, but it helps to know that. I am still competing with someone already in the company and it helps to know that is what I am dealing with. Next week sometime is the showdown.
The job thing continues. I just got an email from my former boss that I am the frontrunner. I do not feel confident at this point, not yet, but it helps to know that. I am still competing with someone already in the company and it helps to know that is what I am dealing with. Next week sometime is the showdown.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
windows
Here is my Christmas Window, in pre-finished state:
Speaking of windows, the window of opportunity has not slammed shut just yet. Finally, I did get called for a third and final interview, a panel of judges, the corporate heads. ooooh. But now, I am competing for the job, hoping age and experience will win out over youth and beauty. But what do I know. I assume my competition is younger, and, by default, prettier. But as usual, I am making it all up in my head. I am studying, and making use of the time until the interview in ways other than shopping. For the last interview I spent about 400.00 on clothes and wore my black turtleneck. As usual. Its what I wear.
Working in the nursing home last year at this time, was gruelling, but a homecoming nonetheless. And working where I have been since May, I know that I should have stayed, and wish I had. And the reason I know this is because I was writing more then. That's my barometer of personal contentment. I may write shit, but I write. Just the opportunity to leave this job thrills me and makes it even more difficult to get in the car at the butt-crack of dawn and drive halfway to the coast.
I am quite ill, bronchitis, and my rotator cuff is still torn, awaiting MRI results and surgery. I am falling apart. And the related medication makes me feel dead.
So I remain just this side of oblivion and try to get a handle on what little I can (food) and control those parts of my life left to me. A woman at the nursing home where I worked last year just died. The cook. She was diabetic and ate badly. I've been eating badly for about a year, maybe. Off and on. And I was doing so well. Her death got my attention. It is a treacherous condition to have.
Isn't my window going to be pretty? we're still working out the final design of the side panels. The big square of glass in the middle will probably become different.
Speaking of windows, the window of opportunity has not slammed shut just yet. Finally, I did get called for a third and final interview, a panel of judges, the corporate heads. ooooh. But now, I am competing for the job, hoping age and experience will win out over youth and beauty. But what do I know. I assume my competition is younger, and, by default, prettier. But as usual, I am making it all up in my head. I am studying, and making use of the time until the interview in ways other than shopping. For the last interview I spent about 400.00 on clothes and wore my black turtleneck. As usual. Its what I wear.
Working in the nursing home last year at this time, was gruelling, but a homecoming nonetheless. And working where I have been since May, I know that I should have stayed, and wish I had. And the reason I know this is because I was writing more then. That's my barometer of personal contentment. I may write shit, but I write. Just the opportunity to leave this job thrills me and makes it even more difficult to get in the car at the butt-crack of dawn and drive halfway to the coast.
I am quite ill, bronchitis, and my rotator cuff is still torn, awaiting MRI results and surgery. I am falling apart. And the related medication makes me feel dead.
So I remain just this side of oblivion and try to get a handle on what little I can (food) and control those parts of my life left to me. A woman at the nursing home where I worked last year just died. The cook. She was diabetic and ate badly. I've been eating badly for about a year, maybe. Off and on. And I was doing so well. Her death got my attention. It is a treacherous condition to have.
Isn't my window going to be pretty? we're still working out the final design of the side panels. The big square of glass in the middle will probably become different.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
New things
I was up late so am up late. Clinton street is already alive and happening. There was a huge party last night across the street and hopefully some of them stayed put, didnt' drive home. It was a quiet night, a good night to be home. We watched the original King Kong and it was so much better than the new one. I did like the new monkey, though. This one, the original 1933 model, was such a cartoon of itself, and I know that at the time he dazzled audiences and struck fear in the hearts of children. We have come a long way in the movie biz. Too bad we don't bring such monumental change to politics.
Not to change the subject, but who the hell is going to be the next democratic frontrunner? I am always concerned at this stage, waiting for something like the Christ-child to be born in Bethlehem to lead us away from this mire. I don't think he/she will or can. I think they are all the same. I heard maybe Tom Hanks and Bill Cosby as the ticket to beat, but don't want to throw political commentary out there ahead of the pack. I don't know shit. There's always Hillary.
I think Jack Black ruined King Kong. I really do.
Well, it is a new year, and in the spirit of all that, I will remind you that I don't really do the whole resolution thing. They are all the same: Lose weight, exercise more. I would like to stop saying FUCK when I'm annoyed, but I never do. I try to stop cussing, but sometimes there simply isn't a more succint way to get my point across. My (tiny, asian, female) doctor says, "Whatever you eat, eat less; whatever you do, do more." Great advice. I hate her. The Christmas 10 sits on the hips of the Thanksgiving 5, and I sit on both.
My shoulder hurts. My arm hangs like a deadened limb in need of pruning. I had an MRI last thursday and should know the cause and cure on Tuesday. Probably a rotator cuff tear and subsequent surgery. I hate surgery. I mean, who doesn't, right? But I can speak with some authority. When my appendix blew up in July, I was really hoping that would be the last time somebody carved me like a ham.
I also had my big interview Thursday and am anxiously awaiting their response. Anxiously.... very. I met with two women, talked for nearly 2 hours, and came away feeling good about it. But time passes and I lose my confidence, and can't imagine anyone hiring me for anything. I should write for a living. I should paint. I am not fit for public consumption. Poor me. But truly, I will quit my job no matter what. I will jump out on the limb and trust. That may be a bad idea, but I am considering it. Driving to Mac every day is not okay.
My shoulder hurts. Did I mention that?
As to my life, I received a letter from my cousin Reed on Thursday. He is an honestly sweet man, first cousin on my father's side: the somewhat saner side. Actually, both "sides" are fairly sane. It was just that my family was the anomaly. The black sheep family of many fairly well adjusted families. But I'm sure you know what I know: scratch the surface and they're all a mess. Some just cover better. We didn't even try. We wore our wounds like badges of some unconveyed honor: the proud, the poor, the mad.
The Drunk.
So, my sweet cousin writes: "You have disappeared from the family."
I have. Effectively. And I am a happier woman for it. It is terribly convenient that I fell dead-set in love just after burying my brother, just after buring my mother, and deciding unequivocally that I would not see to the final events of my drunken sister's life. I was done. I am done, still. Done being the family social worker. And I don't know how to explain this to dear sweet Reed. I guess I could direct him to this diatribe and let him ferret out the reasons for himself. I am transparent as glass. No secrets here.
I think disappearing at 50 is a great idea. Become someone else. We live too long anyway. Have a couple of lives. Have three.
But whatever you do, have a happy new year. And I think: the whole year? Be happy the whole freakin' year?
Okay. I'll try.
Not to change the subject, but who the hell is going to be the next democratic frontrunner? I am always concerned at this stage, waiting for something like the Christ-child to be born in Bethlehem to lead us away from this mire. I don't think he/she will or can. I think they are all the same. I heard maybe Tom Hanks and Bill Cosby as the ticket to beat, but don't want to throw political commentary out there ahead of the pack. I don't know shit. There's always Hillary.
I think Jack Black ruined King Kong. I really do.
Well, it is a new year, and in the spirit of all that, I will remind you that I don't really do the whole resolution thing. They are all the same: Lose weight, exercise more. I would like to stop saying FUCK when I'm annoyed, but I never do. I try to stop cussing, but sometimes there simply isn't a more succint way to get my point across. My (tiny, asian, female) doctor says, "Whatever you eat, eat less; whatever you do, do more." Great advice. I hate her. The Christmas 10 sits on the hips of the Thanksgiving 5, and I sit on both.
My shoulder hurts. My arm hangs like a deadened limb in need of pruning. I had an MRI last thursday and should know the cause and cure on Tuesday. Probably a rotator cuff tear and subsequent surgery. I hate surgery. I mean, who doesn't, right? But I can speak with some authority. When my appendix blew up in July, I was really hoping that would be the last time somebody carved me like a ham.
I also had my big interview Thursday and am anxiously awaiting their response. Anxiously.... very. I met with two women, talked for nearly 2 hours, and came away feeling good about it. But time passes and I lose my confidence, and can't imagine anyone hiring me for anything. I should write for a living. I should paint. I am not fit for public consumption. Poor me. But truly, I will quit my job no matter what. I will jump out on the limb and trust. That may be a bad idea, but I am considering it. Driving to Mac every day is not okay.
My shoulder hurts. Did I mention that?
As to my life, I received a letter from my cousin Reed on Thursday. He is an honestly sweet man, first cousin on my father's side: the somewhat saner side. Actually, both "sides" are fairly sane. It was just that my family was the anomaly. The black sheep family of many fairly well adjusted families. But I'm sure you know what I know: scratch the surface and they're all a mess. Some just cover better. We didn't even try. We wore our wounds like badges of some unconveyed honor: the proud, the poor, the mad.
The Drunk.
So, my sweet cousin writes: "You have disappeared from the family."
I have. Effectively. And I am a happier woman for it. It is terribly convenient that I fell dead-set in love just after burying my brother, just after buring my mother, and deciding unequivocally that I would not see to the final events of my drunken sister's life. I was done. I am done, still. Done being the family social worker. And I don't know how to explain this to dear sweet Reed. I guess I could direct him to this diatribe and let him ferret out the reasons for himself. I am transparent as glass. No secrets here.
I think disappearing at 50 is a great idea. Become someone else. We live too long anyway. Have a couple of lives. Have three.
But whatever you do, have a happy new year. And I think: the whole year? Be happy the whole freakin' year?
Okay. I'll try.
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Endings
Amateur night.
We are safely at home, toasting one another with Martinelli's after a morning spent watching the spouting horns in Depoe Bay, salt spray in my mouth and on my blue Nevada hat. We probably missed the worst of the storms, but got to stand by the sea as it proved point after point: I am not in charge. I am small. I am here.
Happy New Year.
We are safely at home, toasting one another with Martinelli's after a morning spent watching the spouting horns in Depoe Bay, salt spray in my mouth and on my blue Nevada hat. We probably missed the worst of the storms, but got to stand by the sea as it proved point after point: I am not in charge. I am small. I am here.
Happy New Year.
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