In lieu of talking about boring old me yet again (I actually don't think I'm boring at all, and I've got the psychotherapy bills to prove it. I think I'm a train wreck of fascination) I'm going to talk about books. Because, if there's one thing we can do for the other members of our humanity-race-people-friends, it's share good books (and also talk about reality TV, but one thing at a time). I'm not going to go over my favorite books, because there's only one, and it's Toni Morrison's Song of Solomon, and if you haven't read it, then you should, right now.
OK, now that we got rid of those losers. Most of the time, I pick up a new book and read the first few sentences and think, oh, OK. This might be interesting. Sometimes I read them and think, oh, no, this is not for me. But every once in a great while, I read the first sentence and the feeling is of great relief. Like, oh, it's you! I'm so glad it's you! It's the feeling of sinking into an older, but still stable, couch, a glass of wine in one hand, pretzels on the table, and one or three girlfriends curled up around you. I have no idea what's going to happen, this feeling tells me, but I know it's going to go on for hours, and it's going to be enlightening, and funny, and sad. I'm going to discover things about my friends that I didn't know before, and through this I'm going to realize ME, TOO! And sometimes I'll tell them and sometimes I won't, but the feeling is foggy and warm, but not too warm. And suddenly we're not all disconnected amoebas floating through the fluid of the world-- we're all connected. We're not alone. When I walk out of this room, I'm going to feel fortified for life again.
I started a new book yesterday, Let's Take the Long Way Home: A Memoir of Friendship by Gail Caldwell, recommended by my professor and friend Michelle Herman, who has yet to steer me wrong (it's uncanny, really). I offer the first sentence as evidence: "I can still see her standing on the shore, a towel around her neck and a post-workout cigarette in her hand-- half Gidget and half splendid splinter..." (8). Oh, man. Commence sinking. And, as always happens when I find a great book (and by great I mean one that calls to me, I don't mean great in the sense of Moby Dick or Uncle Tom's Cabin), when I take a break from turning page after page, not even noticing that the pages are turning, I glance down and realize, Oh, no, I'm already halfway through! I have to stop! I have to ration the pages, because soon they'll be gone, and then what will I have? Months, maybe years of reading "smart" books, or funny books, or good books, or shitty books, before I find another one like this. But, of course, twenty-four hours later the pages are gone, and I can't get them back, and I don't even want to start another book because what's the point? It's a kind of grief. I'll go bike riding, or start a new cleaning project. I'll depend on something else for a while, because I can't pick up another book and know immediately that it's not good enough. Sometimes I try an old favorite I haven't read for a while, and it's great, but you can never get that feeling back. It's like a muted version of that feeling. Oh, yes, this book changed my life, at least for a little while. I remember. Those were good times.
I'm going to be honest, because it's not like a bunch of people are going to discover this-- I usually only love (and I mean this kind of love) books by women. This is totally inappropriate, and I shouldn't even say it, but it's true. I love books by men. I love lots of books by men. But it's a totally different kind of love. It's a good love-- it's a love that makes a difference in my life. But usually it's the kind of love I feel for a particularly precocious student. Man, that kid is smart. Funny, knows his shit, has some really jaw-dropping stuff to say. I'm delighted. But it's not the female-friendship love.
It's true (for me) that I have a lot of male friends, but they can't be my female friends. I can't describe why. I've thought about it. There's always this extra layer. The closest I can call it is sexual tension, even though that's not right, because these aren't male friends I'd ever sleep with, or even think about sleeping with. But there's something there that's different. Not bad different-- my best friend is a man-- I have lots of great male friends that I wouldn't exchange for a girl even on my worst hair days. But it's different. And, in my deepest core, there's something about my female friends, and my books by female authors, that sinks deeper into me. The conversations sink deeper. But don't tell the boys I said so.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Lesson One: Getting Hit Doesn't Hurt As Badly as You'd Expect
I've been working on a blog about liter-a-toure for a while, but it's not coming together, so I decided to write instead about violence. I actually have a semi-good reason, which is all I ever need to write about something. I've had headaches my entire adult life. Sometimes they're just headaches, sometimes they go on for days, and sometimes they slip into migraines and I end up in a dark room, shivering. I'm a big believer in the mind-body connection, and I know the headaches are usually induced by stress, but that's not what I'm thinking about today.
I had a CAT scan a few years ago when I started getting headaches every time I bent over. It turned out to be a combination of a small bleed in my brain and allergies, but in the discovery process the doctor asked if I had suffered a lot of head injuries in my life. I laughed (I always laugh at weird shit), because, yes, I have. But, for some reason, I started thinking about just how many head injuries I've had in my life and then I started to get freaked out. I'm like the civilian Ali. So, I decided to list them, from concussions to just run-of-the-mill head-as-club injuries. Because, first of all, I actually like to create lists. Secondly, I'm always interested in writing about the things I think I forgot, but it turns out I totally remember. I have no idea why I keep using italics. I think it's because I just re-discovered the control-I thing.
So, here goes, in no specific order except a loose time-line, because, well, why the hell not?
1. I was in my walker when I was an infant. The old fashioned kind with wheels that actually went somewhere. Someone left the basement door open. I think we can all see where this is going. My mother found me at the bottom of the stairs, in convulsions, my eyes rolled back in my head.
“Is this your first child?” the doctor asked disdainfully when my mother brought me in to be checked.
“No,” my mother answered. “Fifth.”
“You should know better,” he said. I don’t think people had a lot of respect for concussions in the late 70s.
2. My father shoved me down the stairs when I was three or four. We lived in a split level, and he shoved me from the top, causing me to tumble, tumble, tumble until the front door stopped me.
3. My sister put me on the handlebars of her bike when I was four. No one could have known that the brake line would go out. No one could have known that stopping yourself with the garage door with your baby sister perched on the handlebars was a bad idea.
4. All I’ll say is clean sliding glass doors are really hard to see when you’re running and your expectation is that when you’re running that fast no doors will stop you. Because they will.
5. Body, meet two wheeler bike. Bike, meet gang of evil eleven year old Schwinn biker boys. Face, meet ground. Boys, meet my very angry father. He’s a prescription drug addict with a rage problem. Good luck.
6. I was fifteen and my older brother was out of town. My older brother had gotten a car for his birthday. It was a stick, and I couldn’t drive a stick, but since I had no driver’s license anyway I didn’t think this should stop me. We stole my brother’s car, me, my best friend and two other girls, and we drove to Rock Island. Driving a stick is not so bad. As long as you stay on the highway and avoid even the slightest hill, it’s really quite easy. But Rock Island, an hour away from Iowa City, on the Illinois side of the Mississippi river, is a hilly kind of town.
We stopped at a gas station and a truck full of young men pulled up (literally, a pickup truck full. There had to be like fifteen of them). We commenced doing what young people do, but we quickly decided this truck-o-boys was not that great. So, we took off up the long hill, me carefully attempting to get all the way up to third gear without stalling the car and rolling alllll the way back down. Suddenly, the truck pulled up and veered in front of us, forcing me to slam on the brakes. But I forgot to hit the clutch, so the car shuddered to a stop there in the right hand lane.
A few of the young men jumped out of the back of the truck and came to my car window, which was already rolled down. One of them stood right outside my window. I remember he had on jeans and a black vest with no shirt. Which should have put me on my guard, but I was young and not the brightest bulb.
"Are you that desperate, you have to run women down?" I asked him. I don't know if he smiled or not-- I couldn't really see his face until he took a step back.
He started talking, and I still remember his monologue-- he said, "You all are going to visit Alex? Is that what you're doing? Well, he's a punk. And he would never do this--" and he raised his arm, and I saw, as his body twisted, that there was a black gun tucked into the waist of his jeans. He punched me in the side of my face, and I remember falling toward my friend's lap. I passed out and woke up thirty seconds later, fighting to sit up, not knowing who had their arms over my head. I woke up fast enough to sit up and see the truck pulling off in front of us.
A few days later another friend who had been in the car saw an article in the Quad Cities newspaper-- that same man had gone on to do a drive by shooting that night or the next day. He missed his target, but he killed a child on the sidewalk and wounded one other.
7. Head, meet crazy boyfriend that will take months to escape. Head, meet steering wheel the first time you try to escape him. Head, meet steering wheel a few more times. Drive, dammit. Just drive.
Escape attempt #2: A while later he held me hostage in my apartment with a bat, occasionally tapping me on the head with it.
#3: run to the bathroom to try to escape. He is a surprisingly fast crazy man. Escape fail.
8. I played catcher in softball and had a tendency to flip my helmet off a little too fast. It's no one's fault that my head met the bat a couple times. The batter was just trying to get on first.
9. Boyfriend #2. He didn't seem that crazy. But I guess I pissed him off. He dragged me down the stairs and ran my head into a wall. But it was just that one time.
10. Same boyfriend. Different time. We were at a bar and suddenly a huge fight of the chair throwing, punch wailing type got started. It continued outside, in a parking lot up from the bar, but it became clear that it was no longer a bar fight and was, instead, a bunch of men beating the crap out of one guy who was on the ground, pressed up against the fence that separated this parking lot from that parking lot. I knew (although I don't remember how I knew) that I knew the body pressed up against that fence. In fact, that body belonged to crazy boyfriend #1 (from whom I'd long since escaped thanks to a handy warrant he had to serve time on). I ran forward and began grabbing the men's arms who were beating him up. I just didn't feel that it was fair, that's all. To give the men credit, I don't think they realized I was a woman. It was dark, and late, and they were full of fire. When they did, they totally stopped punching me.
I feel like there's more, but I've run out of steam. I took a couple taps to the head when I kick boxed. It's important to me to be physically capable of violence, if necessary. I have not used that skill in many years, and I have no intention of using it (what do you mean you don't like my story? HA! TAKE THAT! AND THAT!) But if I'm ever walking to my car late at night, it won't just be the keys that the criminal gets. I remember a friend saying to me years ago that she'd never been in a fight, that she was terrified that she would ever have to fight.
"The first thing you have to know to be a successful fighter," I told her, "is how to take a hit. The most surprising thing-- the thing that still surprises me, is that getting hit doesn't hurt that bad. Once you know that, it's all gravy. Just let somebody hit you and try not to be afraid."
I had a CAT scan a few years ago when I started getting headaches every time I bent over. It turned out to be a combination of a small bleed in my brain and allergies, but in the discovery process the doctor asked if I had suffered a lot of head injuries in my life. I laughed (I always laugh at weird shit), because, yes, I have. But, for some reason, I started thinking about just how many head injuries I've had in my life and then I started to get freaked out. I'm like the civilian Ali. So, I decided to list them, from concussions to just run-of-the-mill head-as-club injuries. Because, first of all, I actually like to create lists. Secondly, I'm always interested in writing about the things I think I forgot, but it turns out I totally remember. I have no idea why I keep using italics. I think it's because I just re-discovered the control-I thing.
So, here goes, in no specific order except a loose time-line, because, well, why the hell not?
1. I was in my walker when I was an infant. The old fashioned kind with wheels that actually went somewhere. Someone left the basement door open. I think we can all see where this is going. My mother found me at the bottom of the stairs, in convulsions, my eyes rolled back in my head.
“Is this your first child?” the doctor asked disdainfully when my mother brought me in to be checked.
“No,” my mother answered. “Fifth.”
“You should know better,” he said. I don’t think people had a lot of respect for concussions in the late 70s.
2. My father shoved me down the stairs when I was three or four. We lived in a split level, and he shoved me from the top, causing me to tumble, tumble, tumble until the front door stopped me.
3. My sister put me on the handlebars of her bike when I was four. No one could have known that the brake line would go out. No one could have known that stopping yourself with the garage door with your baby sister perched on the handlebars was a bad idea.
4. All I’ll say is clean sliding glass doors are really hard to see when you’re running and your expectation is that when you’re running that fast no doors will stop you. Because they will.
5. Body, meet two wheeler bike. Bike, meet gang of evil eleven year old Schwinn biker boys. Face, meet ground. Boys, meet my very angry father. He’s a prescription drug addict with a rage problem. Good luck.
6. I was fifteen and my older brother was out of town. My older brother had gotten a car for his birthday. It was a stick, and I couldn’t drive a stick, but since I had no driver’s license anyway I didn’t think this should stop me. We stole my brother’s car, me, my best friend and two other girls, and we drove to Rock Island. Driving a stick is not so bad. As long as you stay on the highway and avoid even the slightest hill, it’s really quite easy. But Rock Island, an hour away from Iowa City, on the Illinois side of the Mississippi river, is a hilly kind of town.
We stopped at a gas station and a truck full of young men pulled up (literally, a pickup truck full. There had to be like fifteen of them). We commenced doing what young people do, but we quickly decided this truck-o-boys was not that great. So, we took off up the long hill, me carefully attempting to get all the way up to third gear without stalling the car and rolling alllll the way back down. Suddenly, the truck pulled up and veered in front of us, forcing me to slam on the brakes. But I forgot to hit the clutch, so the car shuddered to a stop there in the right hand lane.
A few of the young men jumped out of the back of the truck and came to my car window, which was already rolled down. One of them stood right outside my window. I remember he had on jeans and a black vest with no shirt. Which should have put me on my guard, but I was young and not the brightest bulb.
"Are you that desperate, you have to run women down?" I asked him. I don't know if he smiled or not-- I couldn't really see his face until he took a step back.
He started talking, and I still remember his monologue-- he said, "You all are going to visit Alex? Is that what you're doing? Well, he's a punk. And he would never do this--" and he raised his arm, and I saw, as his body twisted, that there was a black gun tucked into the waist of his jeans. He punched me in the side of my face, and I remember falling toward my friend's lap. I passed out and woke up thirty seconds later, fighting to sit up, not knowing who had their arms over my head. I woke up fast enough to sit up and see the truck pulling off in front of us.
A few days later another friend who had been in the car saw an article in the Quad Cities newspaper-- that same man had gone on to do a drive by shooting that night or the next day. He missed his target, but he killed a child on the sidewalk and wounded one other.
7. Head, meet crazy boyfriend that will take months to escape. Head, meet steering wheel the first time you try to escape him. Head, meet steering wheel a few more times. Drive, dammit. Just drive.
Escape attempt #2: A while later he held me hostage in my apartment with a bat, occasionally tapping me on the head with it.
#3: run to the bathroom to try to escape. He is a surprisingly fast crazy man. Escape fail.
8. I played catcher in softball and had a tendency to flip my helmet off a little too fast. It's no one's fault that my head met the bat a couple times. The batter was just trying to get on first.
9. Boyfriend #2. He didn't seem that crazy. But I guess I pissed him off. He dragged me down the stairs and ran my head into a wall. But it was just that one time.
10. Same boyfriend. Different time. We were at a bar and suddenly a huge fight of the chair throwing, punch wailing type got started. It continued outside, in a parking lot up from the bar, but it became clear that it was no longer a bar fight and was, instead, a bunch of men beating the crap out of one guy who was on the ground, pressed up against the fence that separated this parking lot from that parking lot. I knew (although I don't remember how I knew) that I knew the body pressed up against that fence. In fact, that body belonged to crazy boyfriend #1 (from whom I'd long since escaped thanks to a handy warrant he had to serve time on). I ran forward and began grabbing the men's arms who were beating him up. I just didn't feel that it was fair, that's all. To give the men credit, I don't think they realized I was a woman. It was dark, and late, and they were full of fire. When they did, they totally stopped punching me.
I feel like there's more, but I've run out of steam. I took a couple taps to the head when I kick boxed. It's important to me to be physically capable of violence, if necessary. I have not used that skill in many years, and I have no intention of using it (what do you mean you don't like my story? HA! TAKE THAT! AND THAT!) But if I'm ever walking to my car late at night, it won't just be the keys that the criminal gets. I remember a friend saying to me years ago that she'd never been in a fight, that she was terrified that she would ever have to fight.
"The first thing you have to know to be a successful fighter," I told her, "is how to take a hit. The most surprising thing-- the thing that still surprises me, is that getting hit doesn't hurt that bad. Once you know that, it's all gravy. Just let somebody hit you and try not to be afraid."
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Pickles
I'm settling into a routine-- get up at six-fifteen, drink as much coffee as humanly possible, wake the girls at seven, fix breakfast, ladidadi, take them to school, then write (ok, fine, revise-- I'm not producing anything new. It's the story of my life that once I decide to put together a short story collection all I want to do is write nonfiction) until 11:30, then ride my bike to Weilands to buy lunch and anything we need for dinner.
If you're not from Columbus (or maybe even if you are), Weilands Gourmet Market is a really expensive grocery store where you can find lots of random stuff you never knew you needed, plus some amazing stuff that you know for a fact you don't need. But the other day I discovered their deli kosher pickles, and now that's become my reward for revising for three hours every morning instead of watching reruns of Jersey Shore (Do YOU! No, you do you! No, I'm doing me!)
I have a pickle problem. No one else in my house likes pickles, but I love them so much. When I lived in Iowa, my friend and I would go to Stringtown Grocery and pick up bulk goods for my mom, then run over to the Kalona Cheese Factory (right down the street) and buy cheese curds, 7 year aged cheddar cheese, and kosher pickles. And, ps, we were usually hung over. So wrong. And then we'd eat all this nastiness on the way back home-- probably 15-20 miles of hilly country roads. So, so wrong. But so good.
Stringtown Grocery is the official name. Really, it's the Amish store. It's this tiny bulk foods store with no electricity. They sell these weird, old beauty products, local baked goods (almost always burnt and dry, and yet I rarely don't buy some), and bulk foods. I mean like bulk noodles and fruit preserves, not like Sam's bulk foods. Everything comes in huge, clear plastic bags labeled with the store name. And it smelles funny in there. I'm not saying Amish people smell bad. I'm just saying it smells funny.
The Kalona Cheese Factory is a place where they make cheese the old fashioned way, and they have a store built into this cellar-type room. You can stand at a foggy, dirty window and watch them make the cheese, and see the cheese curds being run back and forth by these huge hand-like machines. And they have an off-brand soda machine where you can buy orange-orade pop for twenty cents.
The Amish girls are very sweet, and they don't talk much. They stare, though. And who can blame them? Generally, my friend and I were dressed in tank tops and shorts, our tattoos hanging out (among other things). Or, more likely, we had pajamas on (which I would totally still do if I could pull it off).
So, there's no Amish store in Columbus. And today's pickles from Wielands weren't as good as expected. Boo. Boooooo.
If you're not from Columbus (or maybe even if you are), Weilands Gourmet Market is a really expensive grocery store where you can find lots of random stuff you never knew you needed, plus some amazing stuff that you know for a fact you don't need. But the other day I discovered their deli kosher pickles, and now that's become my reward for revising for three hours every morning instead of watching reruns of Jersey Shore (Do YOU! No, you do you! No, I'm doing me!)
I have a pickle problem. No one else in my house likes pickles, but I love them so much. When I lived in Iowa, my friend and I would go to Stringtown Grocery and pick up bulk goods for my mom, then run over to the Kalona Cheese Factory (right down the street) and buy cheese curds, 7 year aged cheddar cheese, and kosher pickles. And, ps, we were usually hung over. So wrong. And then we'd eat all this nastiness on the way back home-- probably 15-20 miles of hilly country roads. So, so wrong. But so good.
Stringtown Grocery is the official name. Really, it's the Amish store. It's this tiny bulk foods store with no electricity. They sell these weird, old beauty products, local baked goods (almost always burnt and dry, and yet I rarely don't buy some), and bulk foods. I mean like bulk noodles and fruit preserves, not like Sam's bulk foods. Everything comes in huge, clear plastic bags labeled with the store name. And it smelles funny in there. I'm not saying Amish people smell bad. I'm just saying it smells funny.
The Kalona Cheese Factory is a place where they make cheese the old fashioned way, and they have a store built into this cellar-type room. You can stand at a foggy, dirty window and watch them make the cheese, and see the cheese curds being run back and forth by these huge hand-like machines. And they have an off-brand soda machine where you can buy orange-orade pop for twenty cents.
The Amish girls are very sweet, and they don't talk much. They stare, though. And who can blame them? Generally, my friend and I were dressed in tank tops and shorts, our tattoos hanging out (among other things). Or, more likely, we had pajamas on (which I would totally still do if I could pull it off).
So, there's no Amish store in Columbus. And today's pickles from Wielands weren't as good as expected. Boo. Boooooo.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Hysterical Chlamydia and Other 18th Century Ailments
While doing research for this blog (research that mostly consisted of talking to my girlfriends on the phone while burning dinner. Burning spaghetti, it turns out, is quite an accomplishment) I realized that hysterical Chlamydia is far more widespread than I originally thought. I believed that it was mostly caught after a night of bad decision making, usually involving a bar you would never otherwise go to and an encounter that can best be described as not quite as satisfying as an evening at home, reading Jane Eyre.
A few days later I received a phone call from a friend with whom I had discussed my thoughts about hysterical Chlamydia.
“I went to the doctor,” she said.
“You did?” I asked.
“Yes. And after I told him that I hadn’t had sex since my relationship split up over two years ago he said ‘probably not Chlamydia.’ But he said it with a straight face, which tells me this disorder is far more widespread than we first believed.”
I suffer from hysterical asthma. Like the hysteria of 18th century literature. Hysteria had more street cred back then. People often hear me, in tense classroom situations or at question and answer sessions that turn snarky, sigh loudly. And they laugh. They think this is who I am—the jerk who will sigh loudly, exasperated, when the world turns off center. I let them believe that. The truth is far sadder. I have hysterical asthma. When people, particularly men, but really just anyone, get too close, I can’t breathe. It’s not a feeling like, oh, I do believe I might be having a little difficulty catching my breath. I cannot breathe. My chest is caving in, my lungs are sinking against themselves, my ribs suck closer, and soon, probably in the next three seconds, I am going to start screaming for help before I can’t scream at all. So, in order to harness my hysteria, I sigh. I sigh when someone says something I am really interested in. I sigh when someone makes a point that strikes too close to home. I sigh when the teacher walks in the room (I can’t help it. No matter how old I get, I’m still a student at heart, and I just want the teacher to like me in an A+ kind of way.) I sigh to prove to myself that, no matter how it feels, I can still breathe.
So, I organize my world so that people don’t get too close. I rarely ride the bus (closeness, generally, is not optional). I carry a big bag, one so large it requires its own seat in auditoriums, you know, the seat between me and you, if that’s ok. I smoked during almost all outside conversations so I had an excuse to back up a few steps, turn to the side. No one, not even fellow smokers, wants second hand smoke blown in their face. When I sit on a couch I sit with my feet up (much like second hand smoke, people have an aversion to feet). And, embarrassingly, when faced with my partner’s family, a massive clan that takes every goodbye as an opportunity to hug it out (to the point where I plan thirty minutes for goodbye saying), I spent many years saying, “I have to pee,” and then, after taking as long as humanly possible in the bathroom without raising awkward questions, waving from a corner, protected on two sides by walls. Do not hug me, thanks. I promise, I’ll be back. Dear God, I will come back if only you don’t touch me.
I’m getting better, I think. I hugged someone (actually, two someones) the other day, and I even initiated it. Sigh.
A few days later I received a phone call from a friend with whom I had discussed my thoughts about hysterical Chlamydia.
“I went to the doctor,” she said.
“You did?” I asked.
“Yes. And after I told him that I hadn’t had sex since my relationship split up over two years ago he said ‘probably not Chlamydia.’ But he said it with a straight face, which tells me this disorder is far more widespread than we first believed.”
I suffer from hysterical asthma. Like the hysteria of 18th century literature. Hysteria had more street cred back then. People often hear me, in tense classroom situations or at question and answer sessions that turn snarky, sigh loudly. And they laugh. They think this is who I am—the jerk who will sigh loudly, exasperated, when the world turns off center. I let them believe that. The truth is far sadder. I have hysterical asthma. When people, particularly men, but really just anyone, get too close, I can’t breathe. It’s not a feeling like, oh, I do believe I might be having a little difficulty catching my breath. I cannot breathe. My chest is caving in, my lungs are sinking against themselves, my ribs suck closer, and soon, probably in the next three seconds, I am going to start screaming for help before I can’t scream at all. So, in order to harness my hysteria, I sigh. I sigh when someone says something I am really interested in. I sigh when someone makes a point that strikes too close to home. I sigh when the teacher walks in the room (I can’t help it. No matter how old I get, I’m still a student at heart, and I just want the teacher to like me in an A+ kind of way.) I sigh to prove to myself that, no matter how it feels, I can still breathe.
So, I organize my world so that people don’t get too close. I rarely ride the bus (closeness, generally, is not optional). I carry a big bag, one so large it requires its own seat in auditoriums, you know, the seat between me and you, if that’s ok. I smoked during almost all outside conversations so I had an excuse to back up a few steps, turn to the side. No one, not even fellow smokers, wants second hand smoke blown in their face. When I sit on a couch I sit with my feet up (much like second hand smoke, people have an aversion to feet). And, embarrassingly, when faced with my partner’s family, a massive clan that takes every goodbye as an opportunity to hug it out (to the point where I plan thirty minutes for goodbye saying), I spent many years saying, “I have to pee,” and then, after taking as long as humanly possible in the bathroom without raising awkward questions, waving from a corner, protected on two sides by walls. Do not hug me, thanks. I promise, I’ll be back. Dear God, I will come back if only you don’t touch me.
I’m getting better, I think. I hugged someone (actually, two someones) the other day, and I even initiated it. Sigh.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
I Don't Play
When my kids were little(r), one of the biggest struggles I had was when they asked me to play with them. I had various responses-- you wanted a sister. Now play with her... I can't right now...or, most often, Let's do crafts! People would say, I can't believe all the creative stuff you come up with for your kids to do! I would nod, but what I really wanted to say was, don't you know that if you don't keep them busy they'll want you to play with them?
My daughters painted, they colored. In the winter, I'd fill spray bottles with cold water and food coloring, and they'd paint the snow. In the summer I'd buy huge amounts of butcher paper and they would create collages that I'd then tape to the garage door. On Halloween we'd make all of our own yard decorations. We built race cars out of boxes, masks out of paper plates, Christmas presents out of clay. All so that they would forget to ask me to play with them.
I played when I was little. We moved nearly every year when I was in elementary school, but the one belonging I had that I made sure I kept with me was my box of Barbies. It was an old cardboard box, falling to pieces, filled with every Barbie doll I owned. We lived close enough to bike to the house of the Doll House Lady, an old lady who got the dolls that were donated to Goodwill and fixed them up and sold them on her back porch. Every time I had two nickles to rub together, I would ride my bike to the Doll House Lady's house and buy a Barbie. It was the most delicious feeling of my childhood.
I spent hours on the floor of my bedroom, or on the big bed I shared with my sisters, playing with my Barbies. I had a lot of them, but they were all embroiled in dangerous, highly dramatic lives. And every time I walked into the room, I could pick them up and know all of their stories. I knew which story needed to be dealt with first, and I knew who all the players were. The whole story clicked into place in my brain, although I never knew what the ending was-- the story unfolded as I played. And I played alone. Luckily, my sisters were too old, and my brother... well, if you don't have a brother, I will tell you now they are useless when it comes to Barbies. GI Joe, GI Shmoe. I never wanted to play with anyone else. Other people ruin the story.
I remember being probably twelve (and still playing with my Barbies) and coming to the realization that adults don't play. I remember being overtaken by chills. This was nearly as bad as when, later that year, I realized that people died. I remember thinking, that will never happen to me-- I will never stop playing with my Barbies. Although, of course, I did. But I quit playing with Barbies to, eventually, become a writer, so I'm not so sure I quit playing entirely.
Not too long ago my oldest daughter had the same realization. Adults don't play. She didn't seem as struck by panic as I was, but she's never been much for playing on her own, anyway. She plays mostly as a way to advance or establish social heirarchy, not as a release for the stories in her brain. As she gets older (10 and a half now, whoa), I see her play switching to the kind of play that will serve her well in a few years when she tells me to go to hell and I suddenly become public enemy number one: she does her hair, she tries on outfits, she breaks into my makeup. She'll still engage in a bout of imaginative play if her little sister comes up with a really great proposal, but long gone are the days when I would hand them a canoe paddle and send them out into the backyard with the instructions to play. I don't mourn the loss of play as much as I mourned the passing of the years of magic (Santa/Tooth Fairy-- those were great years. I've never had so much fun in my life as when I created a Tooth Fairy template for Tooth Fairy/Tooth Loser correspondence, or watched as my nephews grew up and took the baton and began creating elaborate almost-Santa-sighting on my sister's property in Iowa on Christmas Eve).
Adults don't play, it's true. At least in my case. I'm down for wandering bike rides, sloppy hikes through the woods, catastophic messes in the name of crafting. But I don't play. I haven't for a very long time. It's my one thing-- the thing I was never willing to share.
My daughters painted, they colored. In the winter, I'd fill spray bottles with cold water and food coloring, and they'd paint the snow. In the summer I'd buy huge amounts of butcher paper and they would create collages that I'd then tape to the garage door. On Halloween we'd make all of our own yard decorations. We built race cars out of boxes, masks out of paper plates, Christmas presents out of clay. All so that they would forget to ask me to play with them.
I played when I was little. We moved nearly every year when I was in elementary school, but the one belonging I had that I made sure I kept with me was my box of Barbies. It was an old cardboard box, falling to pieces, filled with every Barbie doll I owned. We lived close enough to bike to the house of the Doll House Lady, an old lady who got the dolls that were donated to Goodwill and fixed them up and sold them on her back porch. Every time I had two nickles to rub together, I would ride my bike to the Doll House Lady's house and buy a Barbie. It was the most delicious feeling of my childhood.
I spent hours on the floor of my bedroom, or on the big bed I shared with my sisters, playing with my Barbies. I had a lot of them, but they were all embroiled in dangerous, highly dramatic lives. And every time I walked into the room, I could pick them up and know all of their stories. I knew which story needed to be dealt with first, and I knew who all the players were. The whole story clicked into place in my brain, although I never knew what the ending was-- the story unfolded as I played. And I played alone. Luckily, my sisters were too old, and my brother... well, if you don't have a brother, I will tell you now they are useless when it comes to Barbies. GI Joe, GI Shmoe. I never wanted to play with anyone else. Other people ruin the story.
I remember being probably twelve (and still playing with my Barbies) and coming to the realization that adults don't play. I remember being overtaken by chills. This was nearly as bad as when, later that year, I realized that people died. I remember thinking, that will never happen to me-- I will never stop playing with my Barbies. Although, of course, I did. But I quit playing with Barbies to, eventually, become a writer, so I'm not so sure I quit playing entirely.
Not too long ago my oldest daughter had the same realization. Adults don't play. She didn't seem as struck by panic as I was, but she's never been much for playing on her own, anyway. She plays mostly as a way to advance or establish social heirarchy, not as a release for the stories in her brain. As she gets older (10 and a half now, whoa), I see her play switching to the kind of play that will serve her well in a few years when she tells me to go to hell and I suddenly become public enemy number one: she does her hair, she tries on outfits, she breaks into my makeup. She'll still engage in a bout of imaginative play if her little sister comes up with a really great proposal, but long gone are the days when I would hand them a canoe paddle and send them out into the backyard with the instructions to play. I don't mourn the loss of play as much as I mourned the passing of the years of magic (Santa/Tooth Fairy-- those were great years. I've never had so much fun in my life as when I created a Tooth Fairy template for Tooth Fairy/Tooth Loser correspondence, or watched as my nephews grew up and took the baton and began creating elaborate almost-Santa-sighting on my sister's property in Iowa on Christmas Eve).
Adults don't play, it's true. At least in my case. I'm down for wandering bike rides, sloppy hikes through the woods, catastophic messes in the name of crafting. But I don't play. I haven't for a very long time. It's my one thing-- the thing I was never willing to share.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
I'm Kind of a Big Baby When it Comes to My Mom
My mom came in to town today to go back to school shopping for the girls with me. It's the first time I've seen her since she called to tell me she has cancer. My mom was clearly in pain, though she denied it when I asked her. After she left, my oldest daughter followed her outside, as she always does, and stood in the front yard, waving, until my mom was long gone. My daughter has always done this-- since she was able to wave. When she was a baby she'd sit at the window of our old house and tell my mom "wave up and down the hill!" I believe this was her first sentence. And my mom would. She'd open her car window, no matter how cold, or rainy, or icy it was, and she'd wave until she got all the way up the hill. And my daughter would sit on the back of the couch, behind the curtain, waving, her face pressed against the glass. "Bye Grandma!" she'd scream. "Bye!"
I was a terrible teenager. From about twelve on, I was overtaken by the devil of teenage-osity. I snuck out, I smoked, I drank, I dated all the wrong boys, I tried drugs (I wasn't very good at them, but I tried really hard). I was all the things mothers pray they won't have when they get baby girls in the hospital. And I despised my mother. I attempted to manipulate her (and succeeded quite a bit). I lied to her, I abused her, I took advantage of her generosity. If it was wrong, I did it. I had no interest in a relationship with my mom. I just wanted her to get out of my way.
But then I had a daughter. And I was a single mother. Except I wasn't, because my mom showed up. She rocked the baby, she held that baby, she bought that baby everything she needed, then some. She took the baby to church with her so I could sleep in. And my daughter loved my mother. I wouldn't ask, because I wouldn't like the answer, who my daughter loves more. It's my mom. And I'm so glad for both of them.
So, today when my mom left my daughter ran outside to wave up and down the hill. And I went into the kitchen and cried some.
"She's still out there," my partner said. "You can catch her."
But I didn't. I went into the garage and watched out the window as my daughter stood and waved, then just stood, staring down the street that my mother had long since turned off of.
I was a terrible teenager. From about twelve on, I was overtaken by the devil of teenage-osity. I snuck out, I smoked, I drank, I dated all the wrong boys, I tried drugs (I wasn't very good at them, but I tried really hard). I was all the things mothers pray they won't have when they get baby girls in the hospital. And I despised my mother. I attempted to manipulate her (and succeeded quite a bit). I lied to her, I abused her, I took advantage of her generosity. If it was wrong, I did it. I had no interest in a relationship with my mom. I just wanted her to get out of my way.
But then I had a daughter. And I was a single mother. Except I wasn't, because my mom showed up. She rocked the baby, she held that baby, she bought that baby everything she needed, then some. She took the baby to church with her so I could sleep in. And my daughter loved my mother. I wouldn't ask, because I wouldn't like the answer, who my daughter loves more. It's my mom. And I'm so glad for both of them.
So, today when my mom left my daughter ran outside to wave up and down the hill. And I went into the kitchen and cried some.
"She's still out there," my partner said. "You can catch her."
But I didn't. I went into the garage and watched out the window as my daughter stood and waved, then just stood, staring down the street that my mother had long since turned off of.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Needing is For Suckers
I've been feeling like my whole life is on hold while we wait to find out what my mother's treatment plan will be for her lung cancer. Will she have surgery, then go to Iowa for chemo? Will she have chemo in Cincinnati, then surgery, then go to Iowa for more chemo? Or is there some other plan I don't even know about, because once a person gets sick, their entire life is handed over to a bunch of overpaid doctors who may or may not give a rat's ass? Thank God I'm not bitter.
I have been known, once or twice in my life, to be a non-compliant patient. My sister, who has been in health field for years, occasionally likes to call me and scream "Non-compliant! Non-compliant!" then hang up the phone. It's true. There's nothing I hate worse than feeling like my life's plan is in some one else's hands. It's not that I doubt the wisdom of men and women who have studied medicine for many years. I know they're probably right. I just think they don't know me. If they knew me, they'd know I'm not going to wear a cast for five months when six weeks will do, thanks. I'm not going to take vitamins. I'm not going to "take it easy." Taking it easy is for suckers. Illness is for suckers, which is how I ended up, during my MA program, in the hospital with a leg swollen to three times its size after being forced into it by my office mates, who were so grossed out they kicked me out and I had no place else to go. Swollen legs are for suckers, as is mono, which is what it turned out I had.
I got this attitude, at least in part, from my mother. One of her classic lines: "I'm sorry. I just don't like sick people." Who does. They're all needy, and sicky and coughy and, well, yuck.
It sucks to be needy. It sucks to not be able to do for yourself. After I had a c-section with my daughter, I got in trouble with my doctor because I refused to just lay around in the hospital bed, waiting to heal. I wheeled her little plastic bed up and down the halls of the maternity ward.
I know there is sanity to healing-- to allowing your body to heal. I'm just not good at it. Healing feels bad to me. It's too needy. I've never been a fan of needing other people. I don't get warm fuzzy feelings when people do things for me. I feel indebted. In debt. I just want to do it for myself. Yes, I recognize that voice. It's the voice of a two year old. I can do it! I can just do it myself!
I have been known, once or twice in my life, to be a non-compliant patient. My sister, who has been in health field for years, occasionally likes to call me and scream "Non-compliant! Non-compliant!" then hang up the phone. It's true. There's nothing I hate worse than feeling like my life's plan is in some one else's hands. It's not that I doubt the wisdom of men and women who have studied medicine for many years. I know they're probably right. I just think they don't know me. If they knew me, they'd know I'm not going to wear a cast for five months when six weeks will do, thanks. I'm not going to take vitamins. I'm not going to "take it easy." Taking it easy is for suckers. Illness is for suckers, which is how I ended up, during my MA program, in the hospital with a leg swollen to three times its size after being forced into it by my office mates, who were so grossed out they kicked me out and I had no place else to go. Swollen legs are for suckers, as is mono, which is what it turned out I had.
I got this attitude, at least in part, from my mother. One of her classic lines: "I'm sorry. I just don't like sick people." Who does. They're all needy, and sicky and coughy and, well, yuck.
It sucks to be needy. It sucks to not be able to do for yourself. After I had a c-section with my daughter, I got in trouble with my doctor because I refused to just lay around in the hospital bed, waiting to heal. I wheeled her little plastic bed up and down the halls of the maternity ward.
I know there is sanity to healing-- to allowing your body to heal. I'm just not good at it. Healing feels bad to me. It's too needy. I've never been a fan of needing other people. I don't get warm fuzzy feelings when people do things for me. I feel indebted. In debt. I just want to do it for myself. Yes, I recognize that voice. It's the voice of a two year old. I can do it! I can just do it myself!
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
On being 30...something
I have the benefit of having sisters who are 9.5, 8.5, and 7.5 years older than me. When I was in my twenties they used to say "just wait until you are in your thirties. When you're in your thirties, everything makes a lot more sense. You just get a lot smarter in your thirties." I believe this is a lie. Kind of like when they told me it was safe to ride on handlebars.
I'm just as confused, if not more so, in my thirties. Maybe I'm just not thirty enough? Maybe they were referring to the mid to late thirties?
When I was in my twenties, I was raising small children. There wasn't a lot of time for questions. I just settled into the endless misery of diaper changing, potty training, pacifier confiscating. I just lived as best I could, stumbled, and fell more times than I care to count.
But now, in my thirties, I have little girls who aren't so little anymore, stepkids who made it (mostly) through their teenage years. I have time to ask the questions I never had the time to ask in my twenties. And I'm clueless as to what the answers are. I remember being a teenager and watching my mom fill out her taxes in the late hours of April 15. Surrounded by paperwork, smoking cigarettes by the handful as she sat at the dining room table, cursing eloquently (something my whole family really excels at. It's our legacy.) I remember thinking I will never understand taxes. I cannot accomplish adulthood, because taxes will always be beyond me.
Teenage self, I would look back and say, No worries. You will be a teacher and a writer! You will never make enough money not to get the free turbo tax edition. PROBLEM SOLVED. Now take off that blue eyeshadow, and, for God's sake, stop perming your hair. And step away from the boys. They will be around in a few years, and that thing in their pants will not have changed.
A lot of my friends are childless. Some of them have entered into the great debate of the late 20s-early 30s and beyond: Should I have children? To them I say DO IT! Or, you know, don't. Either way. Same diff. I'm not exactly in the position to offer advice. Very soon after I became a full adult in American society, able to vote (which I didn't) and buy alcohol (which I did!), I used my great power to A. get drunk and B. get pregnant. I never debated if I should have children. I guess I must have debated whether to not have children, but not really. I was pregnant. Children (or at least child) I would have.
My children made my life (children I would have. Turns out I didn't learn my lesson the first time, because two years later I had another one. I have no idea how that happened). But I was the kind of young woman who would not live for myself. I wouldn't take life by the balls and shake it. I would not charge into my future. I kind of just hung out and hoped my future would ask me to dance. But for my daughters, I would charge. I made shit happen. Because I needed my little girls to believe in me as the fearless woman warrior (literally. My oldest daughter's name means "daughter of the warrior" in Gaelic). So, I became, on the surface, a woman warrior (inside I was still the quivering teenager waiting for life to teach me how to get funky, but that's another story).
My children saved me. But who knows, had I not had children, if I wouldn't have (eventually) saved myself. It might have been kind of cool to see who I would have been if I hadn't had children.
OK, if I'm gong to be 100% honest (which I never am, so this is a rare treat), I know I would be a better parent if I had waited til, say, now..no now, wait...NOW to have children. I don't think I'd sweat the small stuff so much. I mean, I knew intellectually in my twenties that everybody goes to kindergarten potty trained, but I didn't believe it in my heart. I knew in my brain that my kids would learn to read, you know, eventually. But I didn't believe it. I knew that laughter and joy is a much better diet for little kids than anxiety and fear. But I didn't believe it. But it's hard to tell if it's age or going through the fire that taught me all this. Or maybe a combination of both.
I'm in the enviable position of being a step-grandma. Yeah, thanks for that. Grandma at thirty. Except, I'm a step-grandma, so it doesn't count, just so we're clear. I'm actually not a grandma at all. So I won't think it's funny if you call me Grandma. She has a grandma. It's his ex-wife. I'm just a nice, pretty, very young lady who loves her a lot and buys her toys and takes her on cool vacations. Are we clear? OK, if we're clear. The point is, I feel no (or next to no) anxiety regarding this little kid. She's cute. She's two. She's smart. She likes books. She's mostly potty-trained, except when she pees on my stairs. Sometimes she throws a little temper tantrum, but it doesn't make my nerve endings hum or make me believe I am the worst step-grandma (again-- not a grandma at all. As a matter of fact, let's not even use the g-word. Let's just call me "lady") in the world. I just think she's tired, she's two, and maybe she's a little pissed off about being two, which, if you really think about it, probably sucks quite a bit. I think she'll turn out great.
I wonder if this perspective comes with age, experience, or just the knowledge that, in the end, it's not really my problem. I'm just mostly a spectator in this game. I'm the fan in the fourth row who offers coaching advice and occasionally stands up to do the wave in between beers and hot dogs. It's her parents who have to live with the crushing guilt every time she cries. Ha ha suckers. I told you to use condoms.
I'm just as confused, if not more so, in my thirties. Maybe I'm just not thirty enough? Maybe they were referring to the mid to late thirties?
When I was in my twenties, I was raising small children. There wasn't a lot of time for questions. I just settled into the endless misery of diaper changing, potty training, pacifier confiscating. I just lived as best I could, stumbled, and fell more times than I care to count.
But now, in my thirties, I have little girls who aren't so little anymore, stepkids who made it (mostly) through their teenage years. I have time to ask the questions I never had the time to ask in my twenties. And I'm clueless as to what the answers are. I remember being a teenager and watching my mom fill out her taxes in the late hours of April 15. Surrounded by paperwork, smoking cigarettes by the handful as she sat at the dining room table, cursing eloquently (something my whole family really excels at. It's our legacy.) I remember thinking I will never understand taxes. I cannot accomplish adulthood, because taxes will always be beyond me.
Teenage self, I would look back and say, No worries. You will be a teacher and a writer! You will never make enough money not to get the free turbo tax edition. PROBLEM SOLVED. Now take off that blue eyeshadow, and, for God's sake, stop perming your hair. And step away from the boys. They will be around in a few years, and that thing in their pants will not have changed.
A lot of my friends are childless. Some of them have entered into the great debate of the late 20s-early 30s and beyond: Should I have children? To them I say DO IT! Or, you know, don't. Either way. Same diff. I'm not exactly in the position to offer advice. Very soon after I became a full adult in American society, able to vote (which I didn't) and buy alcohol (which I did!), I used my great power to A. get drunk and B. get pregnant. I never debated if I should have children. I guess I must have debated whether to not have children, but not really. I was pregnant. Children (or at least child) I would have.
My children made my life (children I would have. Turns out I didn't learn my lesson the first time, because two years later I had another one. I have no idea how that happened). But I was the kind of young woman who would not live for myself. I wouldn't take life by the balls and shake it. I would not charge into my future. I kind of just hung out and hoped my future would ask me to dance. But for my daughters, I would charge. I made shit happen. Because I needed my little girls to believe in me as the fearless woman warrior (literally. My oldest daughter's name means "daughter of the warrior" in Gaelic). So, I became, on the surface, a woman warrior (inside I was still the quivering teenager waiting for life to teach me how to get funky, but that's another story).
My children saved me. But who knows, had I not had children, if I wouldn't have (eventually) saved myself. It might have been kind of cool to see who I would have been if I hadn't had children.
OK, if I'm gong to be 100% honest (which I never am, so this is a rare treat), I know I would be a better parent if I had waited til, say, now..no now, wait...NOW to have children. I don't think I'd sweat the small stuff so much. I mean, I knew intellectually in my twenties that everybody goes to kindergarten potty trained, but I didn't believe it in my heart. I knew in my brain that my kids would learn to read, you know, eventually. But I didn't believe it. I knew that laughter and joy is a much better diet for little kids than anxiety and fear. But I didn't believe it. But it's hard to tell if it's age or going through the fire that taught me all this. Or maybe a combination of both.
I'm in the enviable position of being a step-grandma. Yeah, thanks for that. Grandma at thirty. Except, I'm a step-grandma, so it doesn't count, just so we're clear. I'm actually not a grandma at all. So I won't think it's funny if you call me Grandma. She has a grandma. It's his ex-wife. I'm just a nice, pretty, very young lady who loves her a lot and buys her toys and takes her on cool vacations. Are we clear? OK, if we're clear. The point is, I feel no (or next to no) anxiety regarding this little kid. She's cute. She's two. She's smart. She likes books. She's mostly potty-trained, except when she pees on my stairs. Sometimes she throws a little temper tantrum, but it doesn't make my nerve endings hum or make me believe I am the worst step-grandma (again-- not a grandma at all. As a matter of fact, let's not even use the g-word. Let's just call me "lady") in the world. I just think she's tired, she's two, and maybe she's a little pissed off about being two, which, if you really think about it, probably sucks quite a bit. I think she'll turn out great.
I wonder if this perspective comes with age, experience, or just the knowledge that, in the end, it's not really my problem. I'm just mostly a spectator in this game. I'm the fan in the fourth row who offers coaching advice and occasionally stands up to do the wave in between beers and hot dogs. It's her parents who have to live with the crushing guilt every time she cries. Ha ha suckers. I told you to use condoms.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Some Thoughts From the Slow Kid in the Class
I was talking to my friend yesterday (about quitting smoking, yes, ok, it's the only thing I have to talk about. It's like the pics of my babies I used to carry around. I just keep pulling it out). I was wallowing in the sadness of quitting and she said-- the only thing you have to do is not smoke a cigarette. That's it.
Then I started bitching about the whole narrative of addiction, and my refusal to ever believe I am powerless over anything (addiction? I'll kick addiction's ass! I wish addiction WOULD say something to me. SAY SOMETHING) and she said (and I'm probably totally fucking this up-- she said it real smart)-- it's not about being powerless in the sense of not being able to do it. It's about saying I'm not going to DO this anymore. I'm disengaging. HAH, I found the chat log-- I'm just going to quote her (I warned her I would do this). "Saying you're powerless over something just means that you're done struggling. It's not you vs. cigarettes anymore. You're just reframing the narrative." I would add that it's also not about reframing the narrative into this sad tale of my friendship with cigarettes. Yes, acknowledge it, but don't wallow in it.
I know, I'm the slow kid. It's always the simple stuff I fail to understand. I've been in literature programs with some of the smartest people in the country, and it's rarely the complicated, theoretical stuff that mind boggles me (ok-- sometimes it does). It's the simple stuff I fail to comprehend. Being a good parent means getting up every morning and good parenting it up. It's not some deep problem that needs analysis. You mostly just split second decision it:
kid is driving me nuts. Beat kid?
No.
BEAT KID!
No.
I know, I know, you should beat the kid!
NO. DO NOT BEAT THE KID.
Problem solved-- you don't beat the kid. Bam, you're a good parent. Well, you're a good parent as long as you don't forego beating the kid in order to lock it in a cage or use your vast intellect to call it names. But it's really not that hard on the day to day, in the trenches sense.
A lot of my childless friends seem to marvel at my ability to parent (hey, I would too if I'd met me), and my answer is always, it's actually not that hard. Because, deep down, it isn't. You love those bad ass kids. You marvel at their amazitosity. Damn they're cute. They love you. They want a good life. You want a good life for them. You dance them around a little bit, you talk to them, you show them some cool shit. You make sure they know who Michael Jackson was. You read them a couple creepy-cautionary fairytales so they don't have sex with wolves but do kiss frogs. You make them some meals. You buy them a couple outfits. Done.
I make it difficult. My past, my previous experiences, my fears. If you've talked to a kid, you know they're not that complicated. The little things amuse them. I make it hard. OK, I'm over simplifying. Lots of road blocks come up to try to keep you from good parenting it up. But, in my experience, the really tough ones there's no solution for. You just have to be brave and hold on and try not to lose any passengers. The rest of the problems don't take that much brain power (carrots or ho-hos? Ho-hos!). Thirteen year olds in the 'hood do it all the time.
Then I started bitching about the whole narrative of addiction, and my refusal to ever believe I am powerless over anything (addiction? I'll kick addiction's ass! I wish addiction WOULD say something to me. SAY SOMETHING) and she said (and I'm probably totally fucking this up-- she said it real smart)-- it's not about being powerless in the sense of not being able to do it. It's about saying I'm not going to DO this anymore. I'm disengaging. HAH, I found the chat log-- I'm just going to quote her (I warned her I would do this). "Saying you're powerless over something just means that you're done struggling. It's not you vs. cigarettes anymore. You're just reframing the narrative." I would add that it's also not about reframing the narrative into this sad tale of my friendship with cigarettes. Yes, acknowledge it, but don't wallow in it.
I know, I'm the slow kid. It's always the simple stuff I fail to understand. I've been in literature programs with some of the smartest people in the country, and it's rarely the complicated, theoretical stuff that mind boggles me (ok-- sometimes it does). It's the simple stuff I fail to comprehend. Being a good parent means getting up every morning and good parenting it up. It's not some deep problem that needs analysis. You mostly just split second decision it:
kid is driving me nuts. Beat kid?
No.
BEAT KID!
No.
I know, I know, you should beat the kid!
NO. DO NOT BEAT THE KID.
Problem solved-- you don't beat the kid. Bam, you're a good parent. Well, you're a good parent as long as you don't forego beating the kid in order to lock it in a cage or use your vast intellect to call it names. But it's really not that hard on the day to day, in the trenches sense.
A lot of my childless friends seem to marvel at my ability to parent (hey, I would too if I'd met me), and my answer is always, it's actually not that hard. Because, deep down, it isn't. You love those bad ass kids. You marvel at their amazitosity. Damn they're cute. They love you. They want a good life. You want a good life for them. You dance them around a little bit, you talk to them, you show them some cool shit. You make sure they know who Michael Jackson was. You read them a couple creepy-cautionary fairytales so they don't have sex with wolves but do kiss frogs. You make them some meals. You buy them a couple outfits. Done.
I make it difficult. My past, my previous experiences, my fears. If you've talked to a kid, you know they're not that complicated. The little things amuse them. I make it hard. OK, I'm over simplifying. Lots of road blocks come up to try to keep you from good parenting it up. But, in my experience, the really tough ones there's no solution for. You just have to be brave and hold on and try not to lose any passengers. The rest of the problems don't take that much brain power (carrots or ho-hos? Ho-hos!). Thirteen year olds in the 'hood do it all the time.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Notes on Memoir and Some Other Shit
I just read a blog that was quick to point out that it was NOT ABOUT THE WRITER. God, calm down, dude. I don't get it. So I stopped reading his stupid not-about-the-writer blog (plus he lives in NYC. I'm against any writer that lives in NYC. I don't believe in them. They really live in Oakdale, Kansas. I know this for a fact. Plus they have this attitude like, I'm from NYC, bitches. I'm the REAL THING. I say we all stop reading NYC writers immediately, for two days. It will be like a gas station boycott, or turning your headlights on for peace before we had to turn our headlights on just because the man said so.) I find it infinitely interesting to read other people's thoughts. OK, I don't find it infinitely interesting to read other people whining about their lives, or going on and on about their beautiful recovery/enlightenment/ah-ha moment(s), because mostly I think it's bullshit, but I think people are, deep, deep, deepdeep down, mostly kinda interesting.
But I also think I might be weird that way, since more and more journals are going the way of memoir-light (memoir-lite?), or memoir free. I don't know. I get it, I guess. I mean, nobody wants another crybaby account of some kid being locked in the closet his entire life, or raised by wolves, or drug addicts, or cult members, or republicans, I guess. Except, I do. I love that shit. The my family was really fucking crazy memoir (no they weren't. I'm going to read it just so I can be like, her family's not that crazy...Whoa, yes they are) The I had sex with a lot of guys memoir (no you didn't. Whoa, that is a lot of guys. This makes me feel better about myself!) The sex with my father memoir (HEY! I love that book. Of all the sex with my father books, it's my favorite). If it's well written, and not overly whiney, and it says something important, I'm down wit it. I think we should all love that shit.
But the good news is, I got my first review! "Read my blog," I wrote to my brother on Facebook chat.
"I did," he responded.
"No, you didn't. There's no way you could have read it that fast."
"I did."
"No. You didn't. Read it slower. Really savor it. Maybe journal about it for a while, then read it again," I wrote.
"I did too... It seemed amateurish to me, maybe even plagiarized."
But I also think I might be weird that way, since more and more journals are going the way of memoir-light (memoir-lite?), or memoir free. I don't know. I get it, I guess. I mean, nobody wants another crybaby account of some kid being locked in the closet his entire life, or raised by wolves, or drug addicts, or cult members, or republicans, I guess. Except, I do. I love that shit. The my family was really fucking crazy memoir (no they weren't. I'm going to read it just so I can be like, her family's not that crazy...Whoa, yes they are) The I had sex with a lot of guys memoir (no you didn't. Whoa, that is a lot of guys. This makes me feel better about myself!) The sex with my father memoir (HEY! I love that book. Of all the sex with my father books, it's my favorite). If it's well written, and not overly whiney, and it says something important, I'm down wit it. I think we should all love that shit.
But the good news is, I got my first review! "Read my blog," I wrote to my brother on Facebook chat.
"I did," he responded.
"No, you didn't. There's no way you could have read it that fast."
"I did."
"No. You didn't. Read it slower. Really savor it. Maybe journal about it for a while, then read it again," I wrote.
"I did too... It seemed amateurish to me, maybe even plagiarized."
Successes and Failures
I prayed last night for the first time in a long time. OK, maybe it wasn't a prayer, except by the loosest definitions. "God, grant me peace," was pretty much the extent of it. It was a plea for momentary peace from the kind of amorphous anxiety that sometimes overtakes me as I try to fall asleep. Anxiety about things that can't be changed, mostly. Anxiety about the forward motion of life, but also about the past that I cannot change.
I wondered yesterday, for the first time ever (I'm pretty slow when it comes to things like this) if maybe I can change the past. I'm a writer-- I don't believe in any story that can't be revised. I'm constantly thinking well, if I moved the ending to the beginning, that really reframes the whole story-- it changes everything. I'm well aware of how just a slight shift in perspective can change the entire tale-- can make it a story about something I never knew it was about.
My whole adult life I've made decisions based on fear-- I don't want to end up like my mother. GOD I hope she never reads this (prayer #2! I'm cooking with fire now!). I don't mean I don't want to end up my mother-- I think my mother is fabulous. I'd be blessed to end up my mother. I mean, I don't want to be with an abusive partner who controls me. Nothing else mattered to me when I chose, not at the deepest core where I make my split second decisions. I don't want to end up a single parent with a bunch of rotten kids (of all the rotten kids-- I was the rottenest. I mean the apple you find at the bottom of the fruit drawer in February, and when you pick it up it mushes into applesauce in your hand. That rotten). I don't want to be lonely. I am lonely-- I'm lonely a lot, but I choose to be lonely (in the way we choose our bad behaviors-- I don't mean I choose to be lonely like I'm a sociopath. Are sociopaths lonely?)
But yesterday I was thinking about this. It's the Eat, Pray, Love epidemic. YES I'm READING IT, OK? Yes, I find it annoying and a little boring, but every once in a while it is kind of interesting. Like a flash of lightning in an otherwise boring storm. Why do I choose, well into adulthood, to read my mother's story in this way? I don't think it's her interpretation of her story. I don't think it's even mine, if i really thought about it. I mean, yes, my dad was abusive, controlling, crazy, ladie dadie. But my parents have been divorced for twenty-four years. Longer than they were married. Not to mention my dad died fifteen years ago-- I mean, he's super-dead. Dead-dead. Deader than a doornail, if one would permit me. My mom has a great job, a nice house, a newish car, she travels to wonderful places at least once a year. She has dinner with a friend she enjoys every Friday night. Of her five children, one is a lawyer, one a successful businesswoman, an aspiring nurse, an entrepreneur, a writer (that's me!). Shit-- my mom's life is way better than mine. What am I afraid of? A good job? Freedom? Interesting friends? Successful, smart, good looking (that's me, too. The rest are ok) children? Whoo, I'm shaking in my shoes.
I make a lot of decisions based on stories from my past that I don't bother pulling out, dusting off, moving the end to the beginning, shit, giving it a better ending-- a happy ending (joking-- just joking. I would never give a story a happy ending).
Quitting smoking. Yeah, I'm working on it. Another story I've written that doesn't have the traditional narrative arc. It's a disjointed story. One with a lot of false starts.
I wondered yesterday, for the first time ever (I'm pretty slow when it comes to things like this) if maybe I can change the past. I'm a writer-- I don't believe in any story that can't be revised. I'm constantly thinking well, if I moved the ending to the beginning, that really reframes the whole story-- it changes everything. I'm well aware of how just a slight shift in perspective can change the entire tale-- can make it a story about something I never knew it was about.
My whole adult life I've made decisions based on fear-- I don't want to end up like my mother. GOD I hope she never reads this (prayer #2! I'm cooking with fire now!). I don't mean I don't want to end up my mother-- I think my mother is fabulous. I'd be blessed to end up my mother. I mean, I don't want to be with an abusive partner who controls me. Nothing else mattered to me when I chose, not at the deepest core where I make my split second decisions. I don't want to end up a single parent with a bunch of rotten kids (of all the rotten kids-- I was the rottenest. I mean the apple you find at the bottom of the fruit drawer in February, and when you pick it up it mushes into applesauce in your hand. That rotten). I don't want to be lonely. I am lonely-- I'm lonely a lot, but I choose to be lonely (in the way we choose our bad behaviors-- I don't mean I choose to be lonely like I'm a sociopath. Are sociopaths lonely?)
But yesterday I was thinking about this. It's the Eat, Pray, Love epidemic. YES I'm READING IT, OK? Yes, I find it annoying and a little boring, but every once in a while it is kind of interesting. Like a flash of lightning in an otherwise boring storm. Why do I choose, well into adulthood, to read my mother's story in this way? I don't think it's her interpretation of her story. I don't think it's even mine, if i really thought about it. I mean, yes, my dad was abusive, controlling, crazy, ladie dadie. But my parents have been divorced for twenty-four years. Longer than they were married. Not to mention my dad died fifteen years ago-- I mean, he's super-dead. Dead-dead. Deader than a doornail, if one would permit me. My mom has a great job, a nice house, a newish car, she travels to wonderful places at least once a year. She has dinner with a friend she enjoys every Friday night. Of her five children, one is a lawyer, one a successful businesswoman, an aspiring nurse, an entrepreneur, a writer (that's me!). Shit-- my mom's life is way better than mine. What am I afraid of? A good job? Freedom? Interesting friends? Successful, smart, good looking (that's me, too. The rest are ok) children? Whoo, I'm shaking in my shoes.
I make a lot of decisions based on stories from my past that I don't bother pulling out, dusting off, moving the end to the beginning, shit, giving it a better ending-- a happy ending (joking-- just joking. I would never give a story a happy ending).
Quitting smoking. Yeah, I'm working on it. Another story I've written that doesn't have the traditional narrative arc. It's a disjointed story. One with a lot of false starts.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
How Do You Pray?
I've been thinking a lot about prayer these last few days. I've prayed my whole life. I've been an emergency pray-er "Please, God, don't let my mom find out!" A hysterical pray-er "No, God, No!" and a ritualistic pray-er "Our Father, who art in heaven. Hallow-ed by thy name." When I was little and in bed (ok, and sometimes when I wasn't so little), I would pray in order, Hail Mary, Our Father, and Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep. I would pray the order a few times (ok, three-- it has to be three or it won't work!) and while I prayed I would see a blue force field building around my bed, to protect me from any dangers that lurked on the other side. Sometimes, if I was feeling particularly generous, I would pray extra to get the force field to also build around my whole house, but that was a seperate force field. Probably not quite as strong.
The force-field of Jesus prayers were the only prayers I ever prayed that worked. I've tried talking to God. The old "Hi, God. It's me, Mary." But then I think of Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret and I start thinking "I must, I must, I must increase my bust!" and then the prayer moment is broken because, like prayer, that stupid "increase my bust" thing never worked either, and I'm still pretty bitter about it.
I'd kneel in church during those moments before mass when you're supposed to be kneeling (someone, if you know, please tell me what we're actually supposed to be doing during that time. Cuz I don't know. It's really blank space for me). And I'd stare down at the back of the pew in front of me, and I'd try to talk to God. "Hi, God." "What up, God." "'S'up. S'up. S'UP G?" And then I'd start to get giggley, but I do think God thinks I'm funny. I think I crack God up.
I don't know how to pray in a way that makes me want to keep praying. I don't know the formula. I don't know why I should, but I feel like I need prayer in my life right now.
The force-field of Jesus prayers were the only prayers I ever prayed that worked. I've tried talking to God. The old "Hi, God. It's me, Mary." But then I think of Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret and I start thinking "I must, I must, I must increase my bust!" and then the prayer moment is broken because, like prayer, that stupid "increase my bust" thing never worked either, and I'm still pretty bitter about it.
I'd kneel in church during those moments before mass when you're supposed to be kneeling (someone, if you know, please tell me what we're actually supposed to be doing during that time. Cuz I don't know. It's really blank space for me). And I'd stare down at the back of the pew in front of me, and I'd try to talk to God. "Hi, God." "What up, God." "'S'up. S'up. S'UP G?" And then I'd start to get giggley, but I do think God thinks I'm funny. I think I crack God up.
I don't know how to pray in a way that makes me want to keep praying. I don't know the formula. I don't know why I should, but I feel like I need prayer in my life right now.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
5,762,000 minutes til death. And there better be cigarettes in heaven, or I'm not dying
I spent yesterday in bed, sick. I'm the kind of person who refuses to be sick until I'm sick enough to believe it is possible I could die. "Do you have a cold?" people ask me. "Yes. But it's not heart disease," I answer, which elicits some stares. I can't lay around because I have a cold or the flu. I can only lay around if I convince myself that my cold or flu is the first stage of brain cancer. Then I can lay on the couch and watch tv and wait for death.
No one told me that quitting smoking causes depression. I'd read that quitting smoking could lead to "depression-- a sense of loss, a feeling that you're missing your old friend" which doesn't sound like depression at all. It sounds like a bummer of a day. I don't get depressed when my old friend leaves. I get bummed.
My depression feels like the brain monster my grandfather used to make. He'd grab my head with his thick fingers and squeeze and release until tears came to my eyes. I was certain that my skull bones could not be thick enough to hold up against my grandpa's hands. In those moments when his fingers would press against my temples ("the brain monster is eating your brains") I would squeeze my eyes closed and live in the knowledge of crushing bone piercing my brain. That's what my depression feels like. That at any moment the brain monster (parenting, my job, my writing, my dishes, my hair, my kids, my dogs, my sad, broken down pos car) could crush my skull, and I would feel the pain of the bones pushing into my brain matter. So, there's nothing to do but wait for the monster to win. To lay and wait for the brain monster to eat my brains.
Had I known that quitting smoking would trigger this kind of depression (not the aw, shucks, I miss my cigs! depression-- why do they even call that depression?) I'm not so sure I would have quit. I don't feel like my cigarettes were my friends. I feel like I have no need for friends anymore if I can't be friends with my cigarettes.
Dramatic? Why, yes, I am. It's the flu-cold-brain cancer. It's the fear that it will always be like this. There's no end. There's no cure. There's nothing you can do but wait. There's no point in even trying.
No one told me that quitting smoking causes depression. I'd read that quitting smoking could lead to "depression-- a sense of loss, a feeling that you're missing your old friend" which doesn't sound like depression at all. It sounds like a bummer of a day. I don't get depressed when my old friend leaves. I get bummed.
My depression feels like the brain monster my grandfather used to make. He'd grab my head with his thick fingers and squeeze and release until tears came to my eyes. I was certain that my skull bones could not be thick enough to hold up against my grandpa's hands. In those moments when his fingers would press against my temples ("the brain monster is eating your brains") I would squeeze my eyes closed and live in the knowledge of crushing bone piercing my brain. That's what my depression feels like. That at any moment the brain monster (parenting, my job, my writing, my dishes, my hair, my kids, my dogs, my sad, broken down pos car) could crush my skull, and I would feel the pain of the bones pushing into my brain matter. So, there's nothing to do but wait for the monster to win. To lay and wait for the brain monster to eat my brains.
Had I known that quitting smoking would trigger this kind of depression (not the aw, shucks, I miss my cigs! depression-- why do they even call that depression?) I'm not so sure I would have quit. I don't feel like my cigarettes were my friends. I feel like I have no need for friends anymore if I can't be friends with my cigarettes.
Dramatic? Why, yes, I am. It's the flu-cold-brain cancer. It's the fear that it will always be like this. There's no end. There's no cure. There's nothing you can do but wait. There's no point in even trying.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
72 hours
Well, it's been 72 hours. The magical 72 hours after which, according to many, many websites written by fuck knows who, the nicotine will be out of my system. After that I will just have to deal with the "emotional addition." Yeah. Whatever. I have no idea what the difference is between physical and emotional addiction, and I can honestly say I don't care. Is it "easier"? I don't know. The cravings aren't as bad, I guess. But this is coming from someone who just drove to the gas station, bought a pack of cigarettes, took two puffs off one and then threw the pack away. I feel like I'm going to throw up.
I'm reading Mary Karr's new book Lit (which I was dumb enough to believe was going to be about literature). (Karr is famous for writing The Liar's Club-- the one autobiographical novel every single adult human being has read. If you haven't, well, I guess you're not human). I'm at the point in the book now where she has joned AA (um, if you haven't read the book-- news flash, an alcoholic writer joins AA. Another book ruined by my big mouth). She's talking about learning to pray, which I find really interesting. Late last night I swore I was going to try it out this morning. But then this morning I forgot. Karr makes a lot of good points (mostly through the dialogue of her sober-er friends) about praying not necessarily being about a relationship with God, but about my willingness to accept that I don't know everything, that I am not paying attention to the good things around me. That I'm not thankful. I can't deny that all of this is probably true. I'm not terribly thankful. Sometimes I am. Right now I'm not. I do know that when I'm not depressed-- when I'm happy, I'm thankful. So, can I take the reverse route? Can I be happier by practicing thankfulness?
This feels like Oprah-fueled bullshit to me. Thank you, Oprah. I'm thankful for Oprah. Today I am a failure. Thank you God for making me a failure.
I'm reading Mary Karr's new book Lit (which I was dumb enough to believe was going to be about literature). (Karr is famous for writing The Liar's Club-- the one autobiographical novel every single adult human being has read. If you haven't, well, I guess you're not human). I'm at the point in the book now where she has joned AA (um, if you haven't read the book-- news flash, an alcoholic writer joins AA. Another book ruined by my big mouth). She's talking about learning to pray, which I find really interesting. Late last night I swore I was going to try it out this morning. But then this morning I forgot. Karr makes a lot of good points (mostly through the dialogue of her sober-er friends) about praying not necessarily being about a relationship with God, but about my willingness to accept that I don't know everything, that I am not paying attention to the good things around me. That I'm not thankful. I can't deny that all of this is probably true. I'm not terribly thankful. Sometimes I am. Right now I'm not. I do know that when I'm not depressed-- when I'm happy, I'm thankful. So, can I take the reverse route? Can I be happier by practicing thankfulness?
This feels like Oprah-fueled bullshit to me. Thank you, Oprah. I'm thankful for Oprah. Today I am a failure. Thank you God for making me a failure.
65 hrs
I quit smoking because I found out my mom has lung cancer. It strikes me that some relative of mine might accidently stumble across this blog and be hearing this for the first time, since my mom hasn’t gotten around to telling everyone yet. To those people I would say, JOKING! J/k! But you should call my mom.
Looking back (you know, all two and a half days later. Ah, the perspective of time), I realize that I quit in a moment of Jesus- hysteria (Jesus, if you save my mom I’ll do anything, I swear to God, I’ll stop swearing, I’ll even stop fucking SMOKING!) And it worked. I make miracles. Because the surgeon informed my mom yesterday that it’s stage one lung cancer (that it’s not a return of her earlier uterine cancer), that it’s probably not going to kill her (he better be right, OR ELSE). I hope he doesn’t mean “well, this won’t kill you because you’re already so close to death…There’s simply not enough time!”
So, my quitting saved my mom’s life. Therefore, I cannot start again. If I smoke, my mom dies. It’s very simple. It’s crazy people math.
I called my mom while driving, lost, in my truck yesterday, because all the websites I’ve been reading give answers like this:
withdrawal from quitting smoking can include the following:
nausea (2-4 weeks)
chest pain (2-4 weeks)
nervousness/irritation (2-4 weeks)
So, since my mom is quitting (not for the first time), I decided to call and ask her. OK, so I got that the irritation can last for 2-4 weeks, but how long does the HOMICIDAL FUCKING RAGE I SWEAR TO GOD I HAVE BODIES IN THE BASEMENT, WANNA JOIN THEM? last?
“How do you feel?” I asked her.
“I go for walks,” she said. “I’m angry. Depressed. Irritated.” And, my mom suggested that I didn’t have to quit cold turkey. “Just limit yourself,” she said. “One at 8am, one at noon, one at three”
“Mom!” I said. “Is that what you’re doing?”
“No, no,” she answered. “I quit.”
I got off the phone. Mom, you quit when they told you you had lung cancer. I swear to GOD you better not be smoking.
Good news: I gained five pounds in two days. If you don’t know how a person does such a thing, you should try a little thing I like to call Nutella. By the jar. With a spoon. Or graham cracker.
I almost ran out of gas. I probably will tomorrow. There’s no reason to get gas if you don’t need a pack of cigarettes.
It’s weird—I do not feel like myself at all. First of all, I’m more than a little on edge. I’m mean. The thing—the gate—that kept my snarkiest comments in has come down. It’s not just open—it no longer exists. This morning, I saw a girl slip in the mud on the side of the road and I laughed. The worst part is, I already hated her before she slipped in the mud. And I only felt guilty about laughing because I didn’t feel bad AT ALL. Cigarettes have kept my mouth shut. I’m scared at what comes out. I’m not just witty (aka mean on the inside). I’m mean on the outside now, too.
Funniest thing read on an anti-smoking website today: don’t try to replace smoking with exercise, because then what happens when you break your ankle?
I won’t replace smoking with exercise. No worries there. The only time I breathe is when I remind myself. The only time I unclench my jaw is when I’m eating or when I tell myself to. The weirdest side effect of not smoking? A constant lump in my throat. What IS THAT?
Looking back (you know, all two and a half days later. Ah, the perspective of time), I realize that I quit in a moment of Jesus- hysteria (Jesus, if you save my mom I’ll do anything, I swear to God, I’ll stop swearing, I’ll even stop fucking SMOKING!) And it worked. I make miracles. Because the surgeon informed my mom yesterday that it’s stage one lung cancer (that it’s not a return of her earlier uterine cancer), that it’s probably not going to kill her (he better be right, OR ELSE). I hope he doesn’t mean “well, this won’t kill you because you’re already so close to death…There’s simply not enough time!”
So, my quitting saved my mom’s life. Therefore, I cannot start again. If I smoke, my mom dies. It’s very simple. It’s crazy people math.
I called my mom while driving, lost, in my truck yesterday, because all the websites I’ve been reading give answers like this:
withdrawal from quitting smoking can include the following:
nausea (2-4 weeks)
chest pain (2-4 weeks)
nervousness/irritation (2-4 weeks)
So, since my mom is quitting (not for the first time), I decided to call and ask her. OK, so I got that the irritation can last for 2-4 weeks, but how long does the HOMICIDAL FUCKING RAGE I SWEAR TO GOD I HAVE BODIES IN THE BASEMENT, WANNA JOIN THEM? last?
“How do you feel?” I asked her.
“I go for walks,” she said. “I’m angry. Depressed. Irritated.” And, my mom suggested that I didn’t have to quit cold turkey. “Just limit yourself,” she said. “One at 8am, one at noon, one at three”
“Mom!” I said. “Is that what you’re doing?”
“No, no,” she answered. “I quit.”
I got off the phone. Mom, you quit when they told you you had lung cancer. I swear to GOD you better not be smoking.
Good news: I gained five pounds in two days. If you don’t know how a person does such a thing, you should try a little thing I like to call Nutella. By the jar. With a spoon. Or graham cracker.
I almost ran out of gas. I probably will tomorrow. There’s no reason to get gas if you don’t need a pack of cigarettes.
It’s weird—I do not feel like myself at all. First of all, I’m more than a little on edge. I’m mean. The thing—the gate—that kept my snarkiest comments in has come down. It’s not just open—it no longer exists. This morning, I saw a girl slip in the mud on the side of the road and I laughed. The worst part is, I already hated her before she slipped in the mud. And I only felt guilty about laughing because I didn’t feel bad AT ALL. Cigarettes have kept my mouth shut. I’m scared at what comes out. I’m not just witty (aka mean on the inside). I’m mean on the outside now, too.
Funniest thing read on an anti-smoking website today: don’t try to replace smoking with exercise, because then what happens when you break your ankle?
I won’t replace smoking with exercise. No worries there. The only time I breathe is when I remind myself. The only time I unclench my jaw is when I’m eating or when I tell myself to. The weirdest side effect of not smoking? A constant lump in my throat. What IS THAT?
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Fifty three hours after I quit smoking
I quit smoking cigarettes fifty three hours ago. Some people said I should start a blog. I didn’t want to. I don’t like people who write blogs unless they have extraordinarily good reasons. But then again, I don’t like people who don’t smoke, either.
Several websites noted that quitting smoking is often termed “the most difficult thing” an ex-smoker has ever done. Clearly, I thought, these are especially weak ex-smokers. I, on the other hand, have given birth to an eleven pound baby. I walked on a broken leg for a week before I got it x-rayed. I used to kickbox. I’ve had eight concussions for fuck’s sake.
QUITTING SMOKING IS THE HARDEST THING I’VE EVER HAD TO DO. I’d give birth to seventeen eleven pound babies right now if someone would give me a fucking cigarette.
I’m not a particularly pleasant person when I am smoking. Not smoking, I screamed, “You are ruining my life, you asshole” at an old man who was driving slow, making it hard for me to turn.
“Oh, my god, Mama,” my ten year old daughter said. “He can hear you!”
“Well, sorry,” I responded, slipping the old guy the middle finger, pretending to brush some hair out of my face so she wouldn’t know.
My two daughters and two dogs watched on from the back seat, where I had dragged and placed them after screaming, “put some shorts on now, right now, and get in the car because I CANNOT TAKE THIS ANYMORE” and driving to a park to sludge through the river.
“She’ll follow, or she’ll die out here” I told my eight year old when she asked if we shouldn’t pick up the Chihuahua and carry her through the deeper water.
I’ve had some extremely insane moments in the last fifty three hours. I’ve wondered if it was cigarettes that kept me just barely on the other side of Crazytown. The verdict is still out.
From an email to my sister: you stink. Grass stinks. Dogs stink. Papers stink. Why the fuck does the world SMELL SO BAD? Why does everything have such a strong fucking SMELL? FUCK YOU STANK ASS WORLD.
Smoking cessation. Day three. The pacifier really helps to focus me on my deep psychological issues.
tHE MaChINE gUN IS mIGHTiER tHan thE sWOrD.
Several websites noted that quitting smoking is often termed “the most difficult thing” an ex-smoker has ever done. Clearly, I thought, these are especially weak ex-smokers. I, on the other hand, have given birth to an eleven pound baby. I walked on a broken leg for a week before I got it x-rayed. I used to kickbox. I’ve had eight concussions for fuck’s sake.
QUITTING SMOKING IS THE HARDEST THING I’VE EVER HAD TO DO. I’d give birth to seventeen eleven pound babies right now if someone would give me a fucking cigarette.
I’m not a particularly pleasant person when I am smoking. Not smoking, I screamed, “You are ruining my life, you asshole” at an old man who was driving slow, making it hard for me to turn.
“Oh, my god, Mama,” my ten year old daughter said. “He can hear you!”
“Well, sorry,” I responded, slipping the old guy the middle finger, pretending to brush some hair out of my face so she wouldn’t know.
My two daughters and two dogs watched on from the back seat, where I had dragged and placed them after screaming, “put some shorts on now, right now, and get in the car because I CANNOT TAKE THIS ANYMORE” and driving to a park to sludge through the river.
“She’ll follow, or she’ll die out here” I told my eight year old when she asked if we shouldn’t pick up the Chihuahua and carry her through the deeper water.
I’ve had some extremely insane moments in the last fifty three hours. I’ve wondered if it was cigarettes that kept me just barely on the other side of Crazytown. The verdict is still out.
From an email to my sister: you stink. Grass stinks. Dogs stink. Papers stink. Why the fuck does the world SMELL SO BAD? Why does everything have such a strong fucking SMELL? FUCK YOU STANK ASS WORLD.
Smoking cessation. Day three. The pacifier really helps to focus me on my deep psychological issues.
tHE MaChINE gUN IS mIGHTiER tHan thE sWOrD.
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