Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Which would bring me to the subject of family, and why I have been away for 10ish days: my own completely insane family. It was a fam'ly fam'ly weekend, and it was, um, odd. But it's over now, and I'm on vacation, and both of my kids are home, and so I can't use the computer, because M. got Halo, and Battlefield 1942: Secret Weapons of 1942, and some other very famous expensive game II for Christmas, and as a result he has only barely left the keyboard to eat and sleep. Actually he's mostly eating at the keyboard. A. got Sims 2, which you can't use without a DVD drive; this was a dumb buy on her mother's part. Bummer tunes.
These things happen, and so do eccentric 76 year old pothead aunties who turn out to drink like fish. I thought the big substance abuse issues were all on my father's side of the family, but turns out I'm way wrong. Auntie A. got so drunk at Christmas dinner that she took out my pinecone wreath; granted, she's been smoking what she quaintly refers to as "tea" since 1947 on a daily basis and being deprived for the weekend was rough on her. This is the aunt who said to me (in the early 90s) in complete seriousness: "Oh wow, you don't have enough bread to get a better pad? That is heavy. Here, smoke a little tea." I thought she was the most awesome person on the planet when I was a teenager, but (cue music here) I'm an adult now, and I can see why my brother complains now and then about living in the same city as Auntie A. She did, however, have an affair with Franz Kline. This rates some major cool points, after all.
Christmas dinner in general somehow didn't work out quite right. I'm not sure what happened, whether it's the fact that my mother thinks my house is crawling with plague germs, the number of barking dogs, the drunkenness of the aforementioned auntie, the mountains of wrapping paper, or what, but somehow, it wasn't what I had envisioned. I thought it was going to be this wonderful evening, full of family love, maybe some deeply meaningful things would get said, the fire would be snapping away, great food, candlelight, conversation - you know, the whole deal. But dinner wasn't anywhere near ready when they got there, I had to keep running back and forth to the kitchen, which was a horrifying disaster mess which made my mother turn pale and sort of swoon, at which point, or maybe it was later, she tried to lean on the papasan chair and fell over, chair and all. That made my brothers leap to help her, which naturally set the dogs off. Auntie A. had another vanilla vodka and tonic (all I had in my liquor cabinet was Jamesons, tequila, and a fifth of vanilla vodka somebody left at a party last summer) and my AA brother drank a Michelob light by mistake. My other brother, who has a bleak sense of humor somewhat akin to my own, decided at that point that he wasn't going to drink - or talk - just sort of stand back and watch the chaos mount.
Probably telling the whole family about the big dog crisis that had happened right before they got there was also a bad move: Theo ate an entire big plastic candy cane full of Hershey's Kisses. We called the vet when we discovered this, not sure whether to worry more about the chocolate or the tinfoil it was wrapped in. The vet said he would probably be okay (keep in mind that this is the dog who ate a Lexapro last week with NO, I mean NO, discernible effects whatsoever) but to feed him 1 millileter of hydrogen peroxide per 10 pounds of body weight to induce vomiting anyhow. So A went off in my car for hydrogen peroxide and M and I attempted to weigh the dog. This was more difficult than it sounds, because we have this digital scale that starts to freak out if you move it around too much, and handing a large and unhappy dog to a 13 year old who keeps doubling over in hysterical laughter while trying to stay on the scale qualifies as moving it around too much. Eventually we determined that Theo weighs 48 pounds, and then A. got back with the hydrogen peroxide, and we discovered that noone in this family has the faintest idea what a millileter is, or what it might look like. We called the vet back, and he said nearly a tablespoon, so we put nearly a tablespoon in the turkey baster (took it right out of the turkey) and took Theo outside. We congratulated ourselves on thinking of the outside part, or at least I did, because my initial idea was to do it in the bathroom, which clearly would have been a very, very bad idea. So I squirted the turkey baster into Theo. He didn't seem to mind much, and we all waited, while he licked the turkey baster happily. Nothing happened. Nothing ever happened, as far as we know, since we left him outside for a while, but he seemed completely fine. Nearly a tablespoon of hydrogen peroxide is as nothing to a dog with a stomach full of hershey's kisses, tinfoil, and turkey grease. He came in and licked the garbage can. Still, telling our guests of this adventure seemed to cast kind of a pall over the evening, since they kept eying him nervously. Not that that's unheard of, since if you sit down in my house, you have to kind of expect Theo to immediately get into your lap and lick your face, and some people take this better than others.
So then we got dinner on the table, and everybody ate, and all was cool, except for the part where I had to make new gravy, since the original gravy was heinous, and the part where Auntie A. fell off her chair, and the part where my lovely daughter A. suddenly allowed her inner sullen 15 year old to spring forth. . . but then, thank the gods, dinner was over, and my whole family beat a hasty retreat. I personally retreated to the fireplace, where I smoked a lot of cigarettes and drank up all the wine they had brought for dinner, which resulted in a truly classic hangover on Sunday: I didn't even get out of bed until 4:00.
They did however give us some really fabulous gifts. My younger brother gave me books on raising chickens and goats in your backyard! and my older brother gave us all gift cards, always terrific, Auntie A. gave cash in envelopes printed with a somewhat shaky hand, and my mother gave me LL Bean boots and a pair of, I kid you not, black fleece overalls, which will come in handy for feeding those chickens I'm going to go out and get, now that I have the book, and we gave them some great and wonderful things as well. I gave my younger brother a porcelain Chinese acupuncture head, and M. gave him a big standing water bubble tube complete with plastic fish. A. gave my older brother a book on heroin and the CIA, which he quite liked, and gave my mother a book about Jackie Kennedy's clothes. Present wise, I think we did very well this year. I gave the kids socks and underwear, and $50 bills in their stockings, and M. got a pirate laundry hamper from Archie McPhee and an Indian poster on bad behavior for boys, and A. got moonstone earrings and clothes and a gourd candleholder I made. She brought me beautiful jewelry from the store where she works and two pairs of slippers, and my friend J. brought me pink slippers with martini glasses on them. All in all I got two robes (M. gave me a big fleecy one) and three pairs of slippers, so I guess we pretty much all accept the fact that I only leave the house to go to work these days.
So it was a nice Christmas, all in all, and thank the gods it's over.
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
There were feathers in the kitchen, too, and feathers in my room. I know what this means. This means that Barbieri has caught another bird. The last time he did this my friend D. had come home with me to fix a kitchen drawer, and thank the gods he was there in all his reassuring maleness, because when I walked into the kitchen it looked like an avian abattoir. It was horrible; 3 inches of feathers all over the floor and an artistically laid out bloody wing complete with entrail portions by the door. D. cleaned this up for me, which is as it should be, because for one thing he owes me like $300 and also I cook vegan meals for him, which is over and above the cause of friendship.
Tonight there seem to be nothing but feathers. This has also happened before, and I'm not sure what it means. I really really hope that the rest of the bird isn't somewhere, dead or maybe dying, but basically I approach this problem by not thinking about it. At all. I decided to leave the feathers where they were. I was mad when I got home anyway because there were no packages on my porch. I have ordered all these Christmas presents online and they should be here by now, but, of course, they aren't. This is a drag, because M. is coming home tomorrow and half these packages are presents for him, and he is totally, completely, incapable of ignoring a package on the porch. At the least he will shake them to smithereens and more probably he will open them; he won't be able to resist. Damn you, Oriental Trading Company, Archie McPhee, and REI! You all suck!
However, because M. is coming home tomorrow, I had to get Christmas presents for his houseparents today. I got them two okay looking if cheap handmade mugs from the Appalachian Craft Center and a pound, well 12 ounces, of organic fair trade coffee, because, well, they are just those sort of people. So after work, I bought the mugs (while I was there I also bought an awesome face mug for Auntie A., the Queen of Bohemia, which is great except it was expensive as shit, like $32, and now I have to get something else for my mom, so that the balance of power doesn't shift too far. If anyone is trying to square all this spending with my oft repeated tales of financial woe, all I can say is, Citibank was dumb enough to give me another credit card, and I was dumb enough to accept it. My current plan is to pay Christmas off with my tax refund in April. Yeah, right. Anyway.) and then I went to the gym, since I'm on a big health/fitness/alcohol free/hardly smoke since it's too damn cold to go outside/use special wrinkle reducing moisturizer every night kick. Then I went to Earthfare, where I enriched the hippies by some 100 of Citibank's dollars, and got some hippie food. Then, of course, I came home. It strikes me that this whole paragraph is stupid and inconsequential to the main point of this post, which is, of course, that I can't find the fucking Christmas cards!
About 10 years ago or so I bought a couple packages of Christmas cards. They have a beautiful moody photo of some wintry trees on them, by some Japanese artist. Very minimal, stark, tasteful - obviously not me. Possibly the me I would like to be, but not, actually, me. So I have never sent any of them. This is due to three main causes: 1) I feel guilty sending anything but homemade cards (after all, I am, theoretically, an artiste). 2) I am not really organized enough to send Christmas cards, let's face it, and 3) I can never, ever find the damn things in the winter. I find them every summer, sure, in July when I'm rooting around for oil pastels and watercolors, I find them behind the art supplies. I look at them, think, wow, those are gorgeous, this Christmas I'm sending those, fuck this handmade shit. Then December rolls around. December 14, to be exact, today, when I need a tasteful Christmas card to tuck into the tastefully wrapped, ecologically friendly, local artisan supportive gift I have just gotten ready for M.'s houseparents. The Japanese cards would be perfect. Can I find them? No, of course not. I found a bunch of last years cards, which were a hideous color xerox of a very scary Christmas drawing I did incorporating collage elements of all the freaks in the Weekly World News (the tattooed wolfman, the reptile king, the world's fattest transvestite) saying Happy Holidays. I sense this would not be the right card for the houseparents. I sense that they already think I'm deeply weird. There was that little contretemps over the Anarchist's Cookbook. . . namely, that I have no problem with M. owning it, since I have total faith that his intrinsic laziness will win out over his fondness for explosives and thus prevent him from ever actually concocting one of the recipes.
So, in my quest for the cards, I have emptied out the junk cabinet, finding 3 polaroid cameras which may or may not work (noone will ever know since the film is so ungodly expensive,) untold envelopes of negatives, a big box of oil pastels, my college sketchbook, more of that glow in the dark paper (that's a good thing, this year's Christmas card is glow in the dark collage), two xeroxes of an article on Arts & Crafts architecture, a xerox from a 16th century Islamic book on astrology, a bunch of faded construction paper, the blank watercolor cards I was looking for last summer, and on and on. It's all on the floor now, in merry little piles, except for the cut out Japanese prints from an old calendar that I've been looking for to glue on the bookcase, which are now on the table, on top of the wrapping paper, on top of the cut paper elements for the new Christmas cards, on top of the pine cone debris from the pinecone wreath I made last weekend in a moment of total madness and on top of the African violet I'm repotting into a high heeled black pump that belongs to my friend J, and which my dog Theo ate the mate of one evening. I think this will be a thoughtful Christmas gift, although she'll probably brain me with it. She was very understanding about the other pump, but it's possible this will revive sore memories. Yet art must out, right?
I called my daughter and said, where are the Japanese Christmas cards? Behind the art supplies, she said. No, I said, they're not. Then they're in that cabinet full of junk, she said. At that point I decided to leave everything on the floor and write this, and so, now it's 40 minutes and one long phone call later, and I still haven't found the Christmas cards. And the bathtub is still full of feathers.
Do you think it would be unimaginably weird if I got Auntie A. a dime bag or a couple joints for Christmas? I mean obviously not to open in front of the whole family (now THAT would be worthy of its own short documentary film) but as a sort of auxiliary gift? I have no CLUE what to get her but I am assuming that she is still a total stoner?Would it get her busted flying back to NY or do they not care about pot in domestic travel, just explosives?
and he sent me back this, which caused me to practically ruin my keyboard by spitting coffee all over it.
Gee, haven't you heard? Why, George Bush has legalized pot for anyone travelling on planes, especially senior citizens! His new "Get High Before You Fly" campaign is really taking off (pun intended)! Gosh, do you live in a cave? I mean the sign before you go through security has an X mark through tweezers and nail clippers, but a smily face on a pot leaf that says "THC AOK"...you must not have flown in ages. Why airport security would never think of throwing an old woman in jail just for a few joints. No, they'll save that for old women who justy look at them funny. "Stoned, maam?" the guards usually ask. "tee hee, a little" is the reply. "Have a nice trip," the guard answers, ushering her through. I must have seen this on countless occasions. So, sure, feel free to load A. up with pot--hell why stop at a dime bag, line her clothes with the shit--while your brother escorts her through security. I really want to spend my holidays bailing my aunt out of jail.
P.S. Look, if you really want to be like mom and stock up on stuff before we arrive, make sure there's beer in the fridge.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
TMI but at the moment I am in the middle of my cycle, and by the time I got off work tonight all I wanted was a beer or 6. So I went out for a couple of drinks with my friend D and then my friend J met us there - at the New New - and I drank, over the course of not so very many hours, 5 beers. Which is not moderation no matter how you want to cut it.
And it wasn't okay, because I took the drunken opportunity to tell J the grisly truth about her horrible boyfriend. He IS horrible, and I am so tired of hearing her defend him, when all that is happening is that she is making like the proverbial rug and he is dutifully walking all over her. It groweth, forsooth, old as shit. But I said some stuff I would just as soon as not have, being that I am a conflict avoider of major proportions, and the stuff I said was incendiary, since I told her that he comes on to any woman within eyesight, including me. It's true, of course, but probably I shouldn't have said anything. Now she will go home and tell him what I said and he will deny it and she will believe him and then he will call me and ream me out and then she will call me and ream me out and all in all it isn't worth it. I shouldn't have said a word. She hasn't believed me yet about any of the foul, utterly foul, things he has done and said, so I should just learn to keep my fool mouth closed.
And sitting there in the psychiatrist's office it was actually kind of obvious, as M. by degrees turned himself upside down, juggled balls, made cathedrals of his fingers and peered through them, wiggled his shoes off his feet, and on and on. Stuff I have always chalked up to him just being a boy, or just being M., or just, well, just. The shrink asked, well, what was he like as a small child? And I said, wonderful, he was wonderful, except of course that he never stopped moving, climbed everything he saw, was a small tornado moving through all environments. I laughed and said, this is the kid I found on top of the refrigerator when he was 10 months old and he couldn't even walk yet, this is the kid who climbed before he could crawl, who did this and this and this - all stuff I am absurdly proud of - and I watched, then, the shrink scribbling notes and exchanging glances with the coworker and realized, oh. This is ADHD.
Of course, I've had people telling me this since he was 3 and I've refused utterly to listen; is my current determination to agree to call it ADHD and say it can be treated just the obverse of my stubborn then refusal to call it anything? Maybe there's some happy medium here I'm missing entirely? And what about the health food store stuff; I did try some of that when he was in 2nd grade and the teachers were saying they couldn't have him in their classrooms anymore; it maybe helped or maybe it was just that he agreed to try so hard. . . he was miserable all that year, it was horrible for him, trying as hard as he did and not, really, getting anywhere. ANd, of course, it was 3rd grade, the next year, when they started all the testing and discovered the learning disabilities.
The ongoing rollercoaster of M. Who is, by and far and large, the sweetest, coolest, most genuinely wonderful kid you might ever hope to meet.
For me, it will forever be the memory of arranging my father's funeral - before he was dead. My younger brother and I were sitting in the funeral home, waiting for the funeral guy to show up, and when he did, took his seat behind his desk, and said, in his total funeral voice, I'm so sorry, when did your father pass? It was all I could do not to break into a) manic laughter and b) total Monty Python: He's not dead yet! I couldn't look at my brother because I knew the same damn scene was playing itself out in his head, and I knew if I looked at him I would be lost, we would both dissolve into hysterical laughter, and, obviously, you can't do that in a funeral home. But there we were, arranging a funeral for somebody who was still clinging, albeit tenuously, to this mortal coil.
My friend D, whose mother is dying, is in this boat right now.
Maybe it's just possible that objectively things are a bit bleak around me at the moment. Perhaps overdrinking is, in fact, a rational response to my current environment. Go figure.
Saturday, December 04, 2004
My boss' mother came by the museum to pick some things up a couple weeks ago, when they were first beginning to acknowledge that he was going to die, that the fight was coming to an end, that it was time to take away the machines. I spoke with her briefly and she said that it was harder on P (my boss) than it was on her; that it's different to lose a father than a husband, and also that P and her brothers had not been around their father 24/7 and thus hadn't realized how weak he had become. Emphysema . . . *she types, sighs, considers another cigarette*
It is true, it is different, obviously, to lose a parent rather than a partner. And when you do lose one, you join a club, the orphan's club, or the half orphan's club, and nothing is ever really the same again. You cross a line. And this is true whether, like P, you have a great relationship with your father, or, like me, you have a not so great and in fact sometimes downright shitty relationship with said parent. But all this I think is missing the point: the point has to do with age, and our differing perceptions of death and loss at different ages.
I think that when you are in your 60s and 70s you begin to accept death. He goes from being a stranger, a terrorist, someone to be feared and avoided to being a neighbor, someone you know. Death starts coming over once in a while for snacks. He plays croquet with you, he hangs out for a beer. You get to know him. Your friends get to know him. And you begin, for the first time in your life, to really grasp the inevitability of this death thing, that one day he will come and take your hand and you will walk away with him forever. You recognize that fighting him is not valiant anymore and that sometimes it's downright stupid. All you can hope for is a good death, a dignified exit: you don't want to draw out the curtain call. Dylan Thomas ceases to reverberate for you: forget raging against the dying of the light, you want to go gently.
I've watched this process with my mother, now 77, and it has scared and astounded me, because, you see, I'm not there yet. I'm 40 and I still want to rage, I still want to fight, I still refuse to acknowledge that inevitably Death will be my partner too. My father died of liver cancer; he refused treatment after the diagnosis, and he stayed home, and at last he slipped into a coma and died. There were things that could have been done: feeding tubes, respirators, more chemo and radiation (he had a bout a year before with throat cancer) - it would have availed nothing, we could have dragged the whole thing out longer, but we didn't. It was awful, it seemed so incredibly wrong to at the end not even offer water, just listen to his harsh breathing which finally, finally stopped. It flies against all your instincts, everything that you believe in your 20s and 30s and 40s and 50s. But it isn't wrong, it is right, it is a basic and inalienable right, to die with dignity, on your own terms; to let yourself go.
I don't know, of course, if any of this is really true. My mother thinks it is, but I won't know it, can't know it, can't feel it in that deep down way that you recognize things on an instinctual level, for a while. And yes, we're the lucky ones, the ones who get to find this out, who get to go through all these stages, reach that age where Death comes for tea, to hang out and watch a movie, becomes a companion before he is a consort. I hope I'm right, that age and time will prove me right, and that I'll get that chance to find out. You do find that about other things: that gray hairs aren't the end of the world, that the beginnings of menopause, while not wonderful by any means, aren't unthinkable, that not having any more children is okay. We move through these stages as surely as anything on the planet, chrysalis, reproduction, rebirth: rings on a tree.
So my heart is sad for P, and for me, for one more irrevocable step into another world, the orphan world, where you begin to recognize that life ends for all of us.
At any rate though, I didn't fall far enough away from the wagon to have a hangover, although my head did hurt at 4:00 am when I had to get up and let Barbieri in. I wish he wouldn't tomcat around outside all night but he is, after all, a tomcat. If a somewhat poofty one since his, um, operation.
Thursday, December 02, 2004
So I signed up here where they don't, unfortunately, have a forum. They have an email list, so I signed up for that, and now, in two short days, the format is driving me completely insane. I'm getting, like, 60 emails a day, and I can't keep track of any threads. I tried it in digest version and it was just as bad if not worse. So I think I'll drop that, which is a pity, since I like the concept and I'm hoping it works. I am going to try not to drink until Christmas. . . I may or may not succeed, but I'm treating it like a diet: if I fall off, I'll just get back on. And I will try not to fall too far. I wish someone would make these people a forum, or a community blog, or something, but that person is not going to be me.
The only issue with sobriety, as far as I can see, is boredom. What do people who don't drink do all night? I have no clue how to socialize without alcohol or bars so I'm just staying home, surrounded by books (will update books list, you won't believe it, I can't help it, it's true) and going to bed early. This is working great so far - but I can see if I keep on like this I may get a little spooky, proverbial hermit in the cave kind of stuff.
M. is back at school, having tried to make me a carpal tunnel splint out of toilet paper, flame orange police caution tape and Q-tips. He played about 40 straight hours of Battlefield 1942 Secret Weapons and Warcraft, ate tons of turkey & sugar, so he went back to the hippies in good shape. All this kept me off the computer for about a week, which should have helped my arm, but doesn't actually seem to have done much. Damn.
I'm broke and it sucks, I haven't been laid in months and months and THAT sucks, so, in other words, same shit, different month. Happy December. Wahoooo!
Thursday, November 25, 2004
Friday, November 19, 2004
M said that, since any student who wanted to participate could, they all did. And he said,
"They kept on killing it. At first they were grossed out but then they got excited and just kept on killing it after it was dead."
"What about you?" I said,
"No, I left." he said
"Oh right," I said, "I forgot how much you hate animals being hurt. Did you leave before it happened?"
"No," he said, "I felt like I should watch it, but once they slit it's neck and the blood dripped down, and everyone else started yelling and stuff, I felt sick, and I just left."
I love this kid, I love love love love this kid. I will note, however, that when I said, whoa, just like Lord of the Flies, he had no idea what I was talking about. Mental note: buy about 10 copies of Lord of the Flies and donate to the school. Mental second note: Are you insane?
*this seems late to me. Aren't they supposed to hang for a week or something? I read some book where this guy drifts up on the shores of Japan and like, totally horrifies all the Japanese by hanging his meat for days and days. Do we not still do that?
Then I had a brilliant idea: bring the dog. Theo, the bouncy dog. The Looooove Dog. The dog who is Jim Morrison reincarnated: he has long hair, won't shut up, chews panties, and wants everyone to love him. Theo will break the ice, I reasoned. I will meet people with Theo there to jump on them and lick their faces! At least I might meet them between apologies. So I asked M's housefather if it was okay for Theo to come. Sure, he said. And if it's cold or raining, you can sleep in the house, we have floor space. And, I think, Theo will keep me warm wherever I am. He's mostly collie, he's like a walking shag rug.
So this afternoon I ran out of work, picked my car up from Red to the tune of about $350 I don't have. Red said, "You got you a right rear tire that's as smooth as my head young lady! And that ain't no good!" Terrific. Car needed some new belt, new tire, inspection & replace the taillight. (It is driving beautifully now) Then I went home, packed up the car, the tent, and . . . Theo.
Uncool. Exceedingly uncool, as became desperately apparent right away. He had to be on a leash and wasn't allowed into any of the buildings. Now I was prepared for the building thing but I thought he could just run loose around the place with the other dogs. Nope. Freedom from leashes is only granted to resident dogs, not visitors. So I had to tie him up. He doesn't like being tied up, and when you tie him up he barks without stopping until you untie him. He'll go on for hours and hours. He really will.
Cigarettes, it is also immediately apparent, are the other problem. This is, of course, a non smoking school. The only other parent I know, who isn't a current parent, since his kid graduated last year, acted like that wasn't a problem. I had forgotten that he's kind of an asshole and no doubt just smoked without asking or worrying. He's immune to criticism. Assholes often are. I lit up a cigarette & M got frantic. "Put that out!" he hissed, "This is a no smoking campus!" Bummer. 24 hours without a cigarette is not my idea of fun. I might just machine gun the whole school.
Oooookay. So there I am, unwelcome dog, no cigarettes, and my little tent looks lonely as hell in the middle of this big field. Apparently no other parents are camping. They must have read the information differently, or I'm out of the loop. Probably I'm out of the loop. I thought there would be lots of friendly Quaker hippy types camping. This was another way I thought I would meet people. Nope. Big empty field. Faaaaaaar away from anything. Dog on leash. Hmmmm.
So we go to the conference, which starts 45 minutes late. I'm afraid to just split and take Theo for a walk, since I think then I'll miss the conference and that would be bad. So, for those 45 minutes Theo, tied up, barks at the top of his lungs. The conference, having started so late, is cut quite short. That's okay. Basically we're covering the same damn ground: noone has any idea how M is doing academically since his astonishingly terrible behavior has ensured that he has done no discernible work in the past two months. The teacher, however, has been snared by the charisma and the charm, and is sure that M. has it in him to do all the work wonderfully. If M. was only so sure, he might actually do it. That would be novel. I'm not holding my breath. The bell rings for dinner.
We're already late, so I tie Theo up again, right by the dining hall. Then I come in, almost last, stand in a silent circle holding hands, while Theo goes completely berserk, directly visible through the glass door behind me. As soon as circle ended I ducked out and put him in the car. I get back, M has thankfully saved me a place, we eat vegetarian food: bean soup, salad, bread. It was good, but I don't eat much. I'm shy, and stuff like this is really hard for me. I talk to M.'s housefather, to another staff member I know a little, and a little to my neighbor, a nice older lady, but I can't figure out why she's here. Community member? Grandmother? World leader on tour? I have no clue. She tells me she once had a one woman show at the museum where I work, long ago, she says. Many many years. She reiterates that a few times. Many years. She tells me they're building McMansions in her neighborhood in Charlotte, I tell her Asheville's just as bad. We commiserate briefly. Then she disappears and I don't see her again.
So I'm sitting there totally alone and decide, since dinner is obviously over, and I've helped clear the table, to go & check on Theo & smoke a cigarette to kill the hunger pangs. I do this. I get back and discover that, lo & behold, there are announcements going on. Noone told me there were going to be announcements. Damn. Everyone looks at me as I come in the door and a couple of them wrinkle their noses - double damn! Busted! They smell the cigarette! (How did I get away with it in high school? Did everyone smoke then so nobody could tell?)
I ask one of the staff members what I have missed. "Nothing much" he says, "Except that some hunters lost 7 bear dogs around here and they're not the friendliest dogs, so be on the lookout." Great. Wonderful. My mind instantly flashes to a news story from a couple months ago, where a lost pack of about 10 bear dogs killed a nice Lab in someone's yard. I think about my little tent, all alone. I think about my bouncy Love Dog in the tent with me. I think about Cujo. I think of all the feral dog pack horror stories I have ever heard. It's actually quite amazing how they all leap to my head at once.
That's when I conceived of the idea of just leaving. Packing up the tent, and driving home. It's only an hour, it isn't that far away. And the car is no longer in imminent danger of dying.
So I helped clean up dinner a little, there were lots of people who all knew each other, and me. I wiped tables and stacked chairs, and then walked over to see the play. The play was great, they did a fantastic job, and M had the teeniest part: he sat motionless & invisible in a box for an hour and then jumped out, grabbed his red electric bass, strummed some chords and did a total Joe Strummer leap off the stage. Short but cool. That's my boy. After the play, I told him I was leaving, and I did. Pulled the tent down, didn't even pack it up, just hauled it to the car & threw the whole thing, complete with sleeping bag & pads & all into the trunk. I second guessed myself all the way home.
I feel like a total chicken shit but the truth was I just couldn't face the whole next day, with this miserable barking dog, and me having no idea where to go, what to do, knowing noone. It was just too painful and too scary. I really am shy as hell; as a kid I was damn near catatonic in social situations. I've gotten over most of it with age and liberal alcohol - but stuff like this sends me right back into freaked out trance mode. And it's a self reinforcing cycle: when I feel like that, I start sending out the big Repell-O Rays, my patented Repell-O rays, and noone wants to be anywhere near me. I sat at one end of a row of chairs for the play; the room filled up around me, noone sat in that row until there was literally not one other seat left and some people had opted for the floor rather than sit next to the strange woman.
Finally M's roommate's mother sat near me. She's very nice and we discovered that her husband's great uncle and my great grandfather both worked at the Francis Marion Hotel in Charleston around the turn of the century. Thank the GODS for Southerners. If all else fails, talk genealogy. They had gotten a room at the Celo Inn (expensive) and the one set of grandparents were at a hotel in Burnsville (also expensive.) But there are some shithole dive motels in Burnsville and next year I will know to book a room and not bring the dog. Next year I will know what is going on and I won't be so scared and freaked out and unable to speak. Next year will be better.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow morning I'm driving back up there and I'll do the whole thing: dinner, auction, parent meeting. I hope it's better than today. I really hope so.
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
I've been getting good spam lately. It's so beautiful . . I can't bear to just discard it. So, here are three recent selections - poetry from Mars:
From Leila Yed to Cecil Kconnov: No Ruse......Real Ability! the such case of enquiry that set up another wonder specifics, has now established a radical herbal lozenge that can addition your penis volume by 3" to 5" in precisely a couple of short hebdomads! Just swallow 1 these tablets every solar day. . . It will create your phallus growth a huge 38%!
From Esther Cpupet to Isold Vrtoonm: Have you ever ruminate how much a common fellow hires for his medicament? Analgesics, tablets to meliorate the quality of life, mass trim down specific, and much more. Our company lead you the equivalent remedy, the vegetable reading - the equivalent choice, the equivalent formula at a greatly sensible price.
From Clarence Zbeqcy to Dave Hnrerc: A late survey displays that it requires usual of just 1.3drinkings to produce a hangover. But my tablets assistances you avoid hangovers and awaken sentient splendid from head to abdomen and everyplace else.
I love these. I want to awaken sentient splendid from head to abdomen, I want the vegetable reading and the tablets to meliorate my quality of life, and I want it all in a couple of short hebdomads. Oh yeah.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
This is the next morning. Today my son went in for what I thought was a psych screening. No! It was, in fact, an appointment to make an appointment. An appointment that could have been done over the phone quite well. An appointment that will probably use up my entire health insurance mental health allowance, so I will not be able to pay for the appointments (yes, two. You can't expect one highly paid doctor to do everything, now can you?) that were made at this appointment. This bites. But I'm out of outrage - I'm just tired. This is how they get you; not by malevolence, but by entropy and outrage fatigue. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Meanwhile, in other cutting edge financial news, I'm broke. At least, I think that's the technical term. I managed to overdraw my checking account to the tune of about $200 last week, how? I don't know. I knew it was close but I thought there was about $40 in there. And not only that, but I used my debit card at the post office to mail some packages for my job on Friday. There were three packages; each of them cost $3.85. I had to put my card in three times, since the machine wouldn't allow me to do more than one transaction per card reading. Well, I have something euphemistically called "overdraft protection" which means that the bank pays the merchant when my account is overdrawn - instead of letting it bounce - but they charge me $25 a hit and they don't tell me about it until days later. You guessed it - I'm out $75 for those three transactions of $3.85 each. Well, I'm out $50, because I went to the bank in tears and begged. They took one fee off. Big of them.
And, to top things off, my car has two lights, two odd squiggly lights on the dashboard that have lit up - they did it just as I pulled into my driveway tonight. I've been googling for a while and I can't find a list of Saturn ideograms to tell me what they mean. I think they mean that the battery & the coolant aren't working. This has a picture that looks like the one I got - the red one which it says is the cooling system and the blocky black one, which I guess is the battery. Now what? Do I go to the laundromat & the grocery store anyway? Or what? It never rains but it fucking pours. . .
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Christopher Moore, Island of the Sequined Love Nun (bwah ha ha ha! I LOVE this man!)
Eyes of the Calculor
Tony Hillerman, The Sinister Pig (not so good)
Diana Wynne Jones, The Homeward Bounders (okay, a kid's book, I was desperate)
Christopher Paolini, Eragon (another kids book, not great, also start of a series, boo hiss)
Kinky Friedman, Meanwhile Back at the Ranch (love Kinky, but his newer stuff is not as good as his older stuff)
Jennifer Roberson, Sword Singer & Sword Dancer (okay)
Wilson Rawls, Summer of the Monkeys (ditto okay, also kids')
Simon Green, Guards of Haven (okay)
Armistead Maupin, 28 Barbary Lane & Back to Barbary Lane (skipped the first Tales of the City part since I read that a year or two ago - I liked it up to the end where Mary Ann turns into the psycho bitch from hell, that was annoying)
Elizabeth Hand, Waking the Moon (a reread: now THAT is a GOOD book!! She rocks)
Emily Brighwell, Mrs. Jeffries on the Trail (I am embarrassed as hell to admit this, it ranks up there with cereal boxes)
Faye Kellerman, False Prophet (okay)
And I think that's it for the last two weeks in November, although at some point recently I reread most of William Gibson and Neil Gaiman, American Gods (awesome) but I can't remember whether it was after November 15 or not.
I heard from a friend who's SO's sister was a crackhead, desperately in need and in fact wanting help. There was none to be found - they had to get her to commit a crime to be helped. Yup, absolute fact. They took her to a department store and got her to obviously steal something in front of a security guard and then insisted that the guard call the cops. That was the only way they could get her into rehab, get her therapy, get her the help she needed. Very very very goddamn fucked up system.
At any rate my son is back at school tonight, and hopefully (oh please) everything will work out, he will get the help he needs, he will get an education, he will be okay. In the course of my telephone odyssey I spoke to a psychiatrist who told me that I was asking for too much, since I was unwilling to help. Apparently the fact that I am a single mother who works about 50 hours a week meant that I was unwilling to help my child. If I was willing to help my child, I would be home every minute that he is at home. Right. Uh huh. Has she checked into economic reality lately? I kind of think that if I quit my job than ADHD might be the least of our problems, but I guess I'm wrong. Yeah, okay, I'll quit, stay home - in a cardboard box on the side of I-40, I guess. God knows I don't quite make enough to live on as it is, but if I don't get a paycheck things will be infinitely worse. She was very helpful. Kind, too.
If you don't know, my kid's father opted out of this pain in the ass parenting thing about 11 years ago. No child support, no nothing. Sure, I could go after him with lawyers, guns and money, but since the last I heard he was homeless, drunk and crazy in West Virginia, it seems kind of pointless. Moral lesson? Don't get pregnant with sexy bluegrass guitar players. Actually, get pregnant with noone unless you get a full genetic screening. All I asked him for was an STD/HIV test. Getting married is cheap and easy. Getting divorced is expensive and hard, and the pain goes on forever.
Which brings me to the next part of this rant: my ex boyfriend, another bluegrass musician, has a new girlfriend. And my ex really important boyfriend not only has a girlfriend, but they have moved together to central America to start a new and wonderful life. And the guy I have a crush on? You got it - I hit the trifecta this weekend - he has a girlfriend now too. Nothing like hearing this from one to two to three, all in a row like the three fucking blind mice. They are my friends and I'm happy for them. Really. Any minute now this terrific happiness ought to kick in.
Meanwhile, I haven't had a date in like, 8 months. Terrific. Wonderful. To paraphrase Richard Brautigan, if I was dead I couldn't attract a male fly. I could take my final vows: I haven't been this fucking sin free since my first communion. God is happy with me now; no lust - but okay, some serious envy. Some soul consuming envy. What exactly is it with me, what horrible personality disorder do I encapsulate that makes me so totally undateable? I don't know. I brush my teeth, I shower regularly, I work like a demon, I am a great cook and a caring friend, etc. And I'm not even fat. But apparently I cannot be in a relationship. It is forbidden, I broke some kind of crazed taboo, and it's all over. Okay. I could handle the fact that this now makes FOUR of my close male friends, three of whom are exes, who are all happy and shit with other women now, if I had anyone, anyone at all, to walk around the goddamn block with. All I ask at this point is that he breathe unassisted and have a working dick. But probably I am too picky. No doubt I am too picky. Maybe there's a homeless paraplegic schizophrenic convicted murderer with an oxygen tank whose dick was shot off in Vietnam somewhere who would date me. But I doubt it.
And I even got whistled at tonight. Great, terrific. I get whistled at (and believe me, I appreciate it, when you're as old as me, you have given up that faux feminist outrage at whistles you have when you're 20 and can't walk a block without being hassled) but go out for coffee? Nope. No way. Nothing, nada, noone, and I guess it will be like this for the rest of my life.
So, it's quite possible that tomorrow I will have a hangover to bring you. I have been busy being a good parent, inasmuch as that is possible without quitting my job, and I haven't been drinking much. Dag. Sucks, this high functioning alcoholic social drinker shit. But right now I'm going to go build a fire and drink in front of it, smoking up the chimney as always.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
It was one of those kind of buzzy hangovers that are almost pleasurable in a sick way, a little sleep depped, a little out of it, a headache threatening but not quite there, sleepy but a little wired.
The hangover evaporated and the headache took over though, when I got the news about the damn school.
So I'm sitting on my friend's back porch having a glass of wine and my phone rings, it's my 12 year old son's school and they want me to come pick him up; he's essentially been suspended. Since this is a super ultra hippy vegetarian experiential boarding school on top of a mountain, they don't put it like that. They say, he needs some time to examine his motivations, and his commitment to the community and the community's ideals.The problem is the same old problem: He's great on his own or one on one, he's great at home, he's great in a lot of ways, but in a classroom situation he's totally impossible. He isn't working, he won't focus, he's disruptive, he's disrespectful, and he's the ringleader of a gang of boys who are all trying to behave just like him.So I don't know what to do. I've never really known what to do. I picked him up and I yelled and cried, and talked and cried, and told him that he was getting his hair cut off - it's longer than mine, it's past his shoulders, so then he cried, then we both cried. Then he swore up and down that he would be better, and I said I wanted to believe that, and on & on & on. Tomorrow after the haircut I am going to try to get him in for an emergency psychiatric evaluation and I think maybe it's time to try drugs.
I have based a lot of my life as an educator & a parent on not believing in ADD/ADHD and in vehemently opposing the drugging of children. I think that there have never been longitudinal studies done of how years of ADD drugs can affect kids' livers & kidneys, I have heard of several deaths of kids on Ritalin following minor head injuries, like it makes the brain more vulnerable to bleeding, I am opposed, totally opposed. I think I'm about to put my own child, my darling, my precious, the most imporant person in the entire world to me - on these things that I oppose with all my heart and soul. Because I just don't think I know what else to do. The teachers said, YES! And looked relieved, that I had suggested it, and not them.
I have always believed that TV causes ADD - take away the TV, you take away the problem. And now that my son is in a completely TV free environment, vegetarian, no sugar - all that good hippie shit I believe in (well, the less cynical part of me believes in, anyway) and it isn't working. In fact, it's getting worse. And it's been getting worse every year since he was five.
This kid is so bright, so lovely, so charismatic and wonderful and special - and yet he has this dark streak, like his dad - and he sometimes seems to create failure for himself, to set himself up to fail, and he will just shut down and refuse to do anything at all - and it breaks my heart, and I'm so so damn afraid for him. I don't know what will become of him.
This school was supposed to be the thing that saved him, I'm mortgaging my soul and one hell of a lot of my mother's money for this, traditional schools weren't working, he was within a hairsbreadth of getting kicked out of the local middle school for this kind of behaviour - and this place seemed like a miracle. LIke the kind of education you always wished you had - the kind that every child should have - and it would make everything okay.
Fuck. Yet again, there are no fucking miracles, and the gods never relent.
Monday, November 08, 2004
My head hurts, my feet stink, and I don't love Jesus. Given the way the country's going, that ought to be enough to get me hung quite soon.
Anyway, it occurred to me that this was a hangover free weekend, what a novelty, and what a good time to start a blog called the Hangover Journals, which I've been meaning to do for, oh, about two years now - and now I am. Welcome. As it were. Or something. Should I post a picture of my cats now? Here's a link to one of my best friends' band www.countyfarm.net - now, give me a few days, and I'll make that look far cooler.