When Good Sons Do Bad Things

I love it when I can steal projects from other sites. I found my latest project Ihere. I’ll let you know how it goes later today. My guess is the results will be similar. Besides, teasing the dog is way more fun and interesting than accomplishing what I need to accomplish today. And I have 37 months to finish Beav’s scrapbook which is still in the visualization stage because As God as my witness: my younger child will have an actual baby book and not a bound volume with crap stuffed into like I had. And it’s only 75 or so today versus the triple digits on my last day off. And it’s not like I can accomplish anything until I actually put things away and clean things up because right now it looks like a crazy person on their way to being featured on “Horders” works down there! Because there are still a few DNA strands from my father’s good solid hard working Quaker ancestors: I have made a deal with the studio: I will clean you if it rains today. Which is a step towards the whole scrap booking thing. A step much like Tom Kelly’s when he thought to himself: “I’m gonna make a car for the moon!” The back porch and the back yard at this point are much more seductive.

I did complete a project lurking in the basement today. A couple of weeks ago I started infusing olive oil with some of our herbs and drying a mix of herbs to be grr-ed by the food processor. I had to laugh because the herb mix looked more like pot than it did culinary herbs before I attacked it. While growing marijuana would be easy in my garden, I‘m not Nancy Botwin and prefer my life to be led on this side of the law. The olive oil thing is a lot less glamorous than it sounds. It’s mostly messy. So messy, it takes longer to clean up after myself than it does to triple strain the olive oil and make the labels. The more accurate name for this project is Cleaning The Kitchen. Cleaning the kitchen is on my chore list in Hell.

After I finished patting myself on the back for finishing something on this beautiful lazy day, I remembered the cup of peach yogurt I had put in the frig freezer and this would be the time to reward myself for a Job Well Done. So I sang my little tra-la-la song (like Pooh’s honey song only pitiful because I’m a middle-aged woman and not a cute, ageless, cartoon stuffed bear) and opened up the freezer and reached to the place I had put it.

Nothing. Not there. Just a bag full of vegetables, a bowl of ice, hot dog buns and dinner rolls. I looked on the door: nope, not under the little bags of lime juice, lemon juice or egg whites…I looked again, repeating the steps several times, my heart sinking to my toes. I did find the top secret mango sorbet but there was only enough for a wee bit and I was saving that for The Girl. I was incredulous!! Who ate my yogurt? My yogurt that I put in the freezer specifically for my own enjoyment. I know it wasn’t TG because she doesn’t like peach yogurt. And I know it wasn’t Kipper because if he had access to the freezer the only left would have been empty bags; and I checked him this morning and he still hasn’t--much to his chagrin--grown opposable thumbs.

Jesus wants me to say I didn’t have revenge in my heart as I thought of my two “Little Angels” asleep in their beds; all cozy and peaceful in their boy smell…sleeping the morning away…ONE OF THEM WITH A BELLY FULL OF FROZEN YOGURT. But I resisted the temptation to awaken either of them for two reasons: even I’m not that psychotic and --most importantly--chances were great I would then have to drive someone somewhere and I really couldn’t muster up the energy to actually put on something other than my pajamas, brush my hair and leave the house before afternoon. And damn! I thought I had it hidden better than that, too. I was counting on the blight they share with every man I’ve ever known. The dreaded “Male Pattern Blindness” means I can pretty much count on things like ice cream, sorbet, or chocolate chips to be under the peas or behind the mixed veg packs because why the hell would you pick up anything or move anything to find something. It must not exist if it isn’t in your immediate line of vision, right? Hah! We fooled them for two weeks and they didn’t discover the caramel ice cream in the back. I had it so well hidden that they would have only discovered it if one of them had made themselves vegetables to eat and boy howdy that ice cream would have been satisfying on that particularly cold day in Hell.

I must refine my hunting and gathering skills. The enemy has breached my food stores. In the meantime it’s time to see just how retarded Kip is while I’m waiting for my strawberry yogurt to freeze.

Hamburger Gravy

What a glorious spring day! After taking a sleepy Beav to school and working out at the gym, I managed to get Wally out of bed and into the yard this morning and we turned some mulch and raked up multiple bags of needles from the stupid evergreens. I hate, loathe and despise evergreens. They are messy and the acid in the needles is a threat to my lovely lawn and make my ornamental rocks look messy. The only thing I hate more than evergreens (aside from a few politicians and a couple of political commentators) are aspen trees. Aspen trees are stupid unless you live at about 7-8 thousand feet and then they are large enough to tower and quake like…you know…aspen trees. Otherwise at just under a mile elevation, they are small and look like trash trees. Besides looking like trash trees they become trash trees and throw out suckers through out the yard and your neighbors yard and your neighbor‘s neighbor‘s yard. Twenty years ago I was waging war on our next door neighbors‘ aspens and threatened to water kill them with Calcium carbonate. (OMG I didn‘t do it!!!). Give me a big oak tree, a messy cottonwood or a larch any day of the week. Because of my nemesis’ evergreens my yard work warm up was an imaginary tantrum, complete with foot stomping, swearing and genral bitching about the tasks. But as I moved from raking to gathering, the sun warm on my back and defrosting my late winter blood. I could feel the seratonin swell in my blood stream and I didn’t mind it so much. It felt good to be moving and outside without a coat or even a sweater this morning. Once Wally was awake and outside for a few minutes he was actually almost enthusiastic as he started the poop scooping. I was amazed how fast we knocked out the winter clean up and sort of disappointed we didn’t have more to do. When Wally bounced up to me and asked what else there was to do and I was tempted to hand him clippers and tell him to trim the dead stuff from the perennials. But it’s too early for that sort of thing and the tender green stuff peeking out from beneath the spent leaves would suffer when we have our next--and inevitable--snow storm. This evening when I asked Wally to be home at a decent hour his response was: “Sure! we Have stuff to do in the yard tomorrow!” (All I can say is God works in mysterious ways because I have a heck of a time getting this one excited about anything and in view of his enthusiasm I‘m inviting stuff for us to do tomorrow)

After we finished working in the yard and I had retrieved Beav from school I spent an hour or so sitting in a lawn chair, face to the sun, listening to a This American Life pod cast I didn’t finish at the gym earlier today. Heaven.

Until I had to go inside and fix dinner. Yuk to the twelfth power of five thousand and eight.

Fortunately I had planned a quiche for tonight which is the only thing I like to make besides reservations (ba-dum bump) It’s quick, simple and can be cheap. And we need cheap because we are having a “hamburger gravy” week at June’s house. Hamburger Gravy is something we would eat when I was growing up and I referred to it as “Depression Food” because it was sort of greasy and gray and pathetic. Everyone loved it but me. In fact, the other night The Girl and I were having our usual: “What do you want for dinner…“ conversation and I quipped out of the blue and from a long forgotten memory:
“Not Hamburger Gravy. “
“Oh God, I know what you are talking about and don’t worry, I hate that stuff.” was her rocket fast answer. We had a good laugh over the fact her family had their gravy over potatoes and we had it over white bread. (TG’s family was deemed “fancier” in this instance) When I remembered this particular “delicacy” it made me wonder if we didn’t have it when Mom was running a little short just before payday because someone needed shoes or glasses or the dentist. I kind of like this turn of phrase: “Hamburger Gravy Week” and I think it will become part of the family lexicon (along with “too many hands”, “hairplane” and putting a “y” at the end of each kids’ name). Someone asks for a new pair of jeans or a video game? All I have to do is look them dead in the eye and sagely intone: “Dude, Hamburger Gravy Week.” and the inquisitor will know their desire/request will have to wait a few days or longer unless they are naked, ill or starving; something that wouldn‘t happen unless it was Ditchwater Gravy Week.


Gravy isn’t all together a bad thing, it’s usually associated with an abundance of something (like meat drippings and fat) or an additional or superfluous but treasured something or extra money which makes the whole saying extra appealing to me, what with my love for all that is ironic or satirical.

Today really was a gravy day, with the warm sun and youthful enthusiasm for a stupid task coupled with a warm night with windows open, a full moon and one more precious day off:

It’s all gravy.

Ahh The Brisk Smell Of Pencil Shavings

(TVland.com gave me the picture. Isn't it creepy how the Cleaver boys resemble my kids? Thankfully, my Wally doesn't have a creepy spray on tan and my Theodore is about a foot and a half taller)

I was chided yesterday for almost making Beav late to school. "Mom, we need to leave earlier because I didn't get to class until just before the last bell." I hope I didn't give him the WTF look I was feeling at that moment because that would have been rude. So I asked myself for about the 5000th time: who is this child? And where did this genetic drive to achieve come from? Not me, because all I want to do is hang out and sort of let life happen to me; and we all know it didn't come from his slacktastic asshat father! Somewhere across town there is a couple who are...I don't know...lets say they are a heart surgeon and a judge...wringing their hands and hanging their heads in frustration because their child is not like them: over achieving, motivated and an academic star. This kid across town has the Rasta-man approach to life. "When da' boat comes mahn, theen I do mah homework, don sweat it mahn, I get it done." I just hope the hospital doesn't realize their mistake. Even though this go round with high school is a big gear change for me; (picture slowly backing up and suddenly slamming the car into drive while jamming the gas pedal to the floor) it's not a bad feeling to have a kid who wants to be in his seat and ready for class when the final bell rings because his brother (and his mother)were thrilled if they were sliding into their seat as the final bell sounded. The Beav even had homework the first week of school! Wally didn't have homework until the last three or four weeks of the semester when he realized he was in danger of failing and decided it was time to do the work his teachers would assign all those last minute projects because that's how those teachers roll. (sure they do, honey. Everyone wants to grade a twenty page project the last day grades are due!) Do I really look that stupid? Do these pants make me look that stupid? Because my kids think I'm as dumb as a rock. I suppose I am as dumb as a small rock because when Beav announced he was doing homework last Wednesday, I was a little bitched up and commented: "You have homework on the second day of school? Isn't that a bit much? Your brother never had homework during the first week of school!" The look of utter disgust with the accompanying eye roll was almost warranted in this case. His brother--God love him, I know I do--wasn't an honor student. Even if he had worked really really REALLY hard he wouldn't have been an honor student. So he didn't bother to work at all and then suddenly in the home stretch he would make an effort and end up with a C. It. Drove. Me. Out. Of. My. Mind.

So now I guess I have to act like an Honor Student's mother. I'll need to practice saying things like: "full ride" and "financial package" and "Vida" and "admissions essay" and "loans" and "dorm assignments". I'll also need to work on my sniff and sympathetic smile after I breathlessly and thoughtlessly ask after Snively or Bratleigh (the IEP kids) when I'm quietly told Snively hates school and Bratleigh can't wait to start community college. What I won't do is make a judgemental remark about their parenting abilities or the effects of divorce on young children to our other friends when Snively and Bratleigh's mother is out of earshot. (Does high school ever really end?)

My only other experience parenting a high schooler was being the mother of a kid who had yearly IEP (Individual Educational Plan) conferences. What hell this was for Wally. One teacher, a guidance counselor, the psychologist and his parents gathered around a table to tell him the fourteen ways he was a great kid and the fourteen ways he sucked. No wonder he hated high school. He was the kid in the separate classrooms just down the hall from the big classrooms and he did horribly in them because he hated it so much. All he wanted to do was blend in with the rest of the kids. Of course this is what he wanted and it was completely appropriate. Only after he was mainstreamed in an honors history class (the honors part was a misplacement) did he excel. The teacher adored him and let him stay in the class and Wally even earned an A. You would have thought the kid brought home a letter announcing he was a Rhodes Scholar. I wept over that grade. Not because it was an A but because of what it meant to Wally's self esteem. Wally learned at a young age what it's like to work hard for something and fall just short. Wally also knows what it's like to work hard for something and succeed. This is what gives Wally his heart. The Beav on the other hand, is sort of set up to be a dilettante. He can do school with his eyes shut and his hands tied behind his back. This sort of ease doesn't teach the lesson of what it means to throw yourself into something mind/body/soul. If he decides he doesn't want to attend one of the academies and settles for a state college it will be because he doesn't want to make the supreme effort. But if he really wants to go to one of the military academies, it will be necessary for him to actually apply himself and not just do the bare minimium for an A but the extra steps it takes to make an A+. Even though he is rocket scientist smart he is not Einstein/Oppenheimer smart. You see, Beav made the mistake of confessing to me he didn't really work as hard as he could in middle school and now I know his dirty little secret and I have an excuse to ride his ass.

In some ways, It's back to school for me, too. After next Monday, Wally becomes a maggoty maggot on the shoe of a big mean drill sergeant and Beav returns to Alexis' show house, I will have two glorious full days of absolutely no commuting, no meal prep, no driving to Parkour or cross country or patient care or supervising anything besides my own projects. My writing project has taken a life of it's own and I was given a flash or insight via a dream Sunday night so I begged to take call Monday for the explicit purpose of writing. (I didn't tell them this) This absolute drive to write something down that minute is a new sensation. (my wish was granted, I was at home on call and I worked on the hot mess of a novel and my efforst were fabulous if I do say so myself) I get all bliss-out just thinking about next Tuesday and Wednesday.

When I was a wife and living in the Fabulous House In The Suburbs, one of the neighbors was renowned for having a gathering on the first day of school. Cocktails commenced at 0900. The idea of such a party amused me (cocktails at 0900 repulsed me). But I'm such a pragmatist and in many ways so close to my roots of Quaker farmer; I always "celebrated" by doing chores I had been putting off all summer and sorting out the boys' clothes. This year wasn't any different. I cleaned out Beav's closet and sorted clothing.

Yee Haw, Party on June!

Trivial Pursuits

Steam Reassures Him

My husband is watching me iron,
Steam reassures hm. The hiss of starch
The probing slide around each button of his shirt
Speaks to him of Solway Street in Pittsburgh.
As for me, the wicker basket is a reproach.
There is last summer’s nightgown,
And several awkward round tablecloths
Which refuse to lie flat.

My house specializes in these challenges.
Bags of mail I did not ask to receive
Choke the floor of my linen closet.
A photograph of me, holding a baby on a beach.
But which beach and, for that matter, which baby?
A Japanese chest whose bottom drawer has irresponsibly locked itself,
And who can remember where I put the key?

That night, waiting for sleep, I whisper,
I did only trivial things today.
And he asks, Why aren’t you painting?

Elizabeth Pierson Friend 1933-2003 ("Japanese Box" was painted by her in 1982 and taken from her website)

A few years ago, after I read this poem, I immediately sent it to Oldest Friend, no doubt in an email titled something like: "Because I was ironing your shirts, Dumb Ass" Stupid husband, she was running household with all it's drivel and he is hounding her to paint. Why wasn't he doing something to help so she could paint! Like...um...I don't know...iron his own shirts, look for the key, read the mail? I just knew OF would completely get the angst of this poem because she had been there so many times with her husband(s). I will never forget her first husband asking her when she was getting a job because all she ever did was write and that wasn't really much of a contribution. Mind you, she cooked, cleaned and laundered while she was working on her thesis. What he missed was WRITING WAS HER JOB. Over the last few years I have lightened up on the husband in the poem and have sat the responsibilty squarely on the shoulders of the woman. It wasn't like he said: "Too bad about that painting, today, cuz you're one talented little lady, y'know. So did you get them shirts all ironed for me, or what?" Now I read his tone as sympathetic and he does recognize the importance of her art to her essential self and her wellbeing. That doesn't mean I think the inequality between artists who are spouses is a thing of the past. Frankly, I think silencing the wife in these marriages is due to a fragile male ego. OF has run against this ego time and time again with her husband who is a writer. One would think he would get it...But again, writing is not her "real" work. Who is to blame for this blindspot? As much as I would like to place a broad stroke of blame over the entire male population on the planet, I can't. Women need to take resonsibility for claiming their creative selves and the act of making art is tangible work. However, we simply reaffirm this creative process isn't real work when we turn the other cheek and scuff our toe in the dirt and say things like: "well I guess I don't have time to make that picture or write that sonnet because I need to sew a button on a jacket or make lunch." To be succinct about this: Ishould take responsibility for claiming the value of creating. I don't even have a man telling me ironing takes precidence over writing.

I do need to clarify that I am the only person in my life who gives me the message "your writing isn't valuable". I am fortunate to be fully supported in my endeavors and this support is not feighed hairpatting or half assed. Given this, it is now up to me to make my art real and declaring it an important focus in my life; not something which amuses me after the ironing is completed. Last night, when I reread this oem, I read it as an internal dialgue between my higher self and my lower self:

"Why aren't you [writing]?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I'm frightened. Perhaps I'm frightened what I have to say is uninteresting and people will read and then laugh in all the wrong places for all the wrong reasons. Perhaps I'm afraid I'm wrong and I don't have anything of merit to say. Maybe it scares me that I will never write literature as meaningful and evocative as LaMott or Niffennegger."

"So you aren't writing because you are certain it won't transcend time and have great meaning for many? Great excuses. But the icing on them is this: you don't want to write unless it sings out like LaMott or Niffenneger? Because everyone knows Time Traveler's Wife was published in first draft form. Egomania much, June? Well I guess this takes care of the whole writing thing. If you don't write, you won't fail. You won't succeed either. It's a good thing great writers have never failed...sheesh just shut up and write."

I litter my life with so many things in lieu of sitting in front of the screen that giving the people I have conjured becomes secondary. Trivial pursuits are my excuses. I have filled the last four days with more or less trivial activites rather than fulfilling a self made promise to write a few hours each day I'm home. Not only are my actions avoidance behavior but they also reaffirm this whole writing hting isn't real. I mock myself when I ask: "Why aren't you writing."

Late summer is here and this is the time of year I kick start projects or reach big decisions. The transformation I'm seeking this August is creating the discipline of writing. It wasn't enough to say, "on my extra day off this summer, I will write." The days I have worked at my writing--over and above the blog--have been deeply satisfying, and to put it simply, fun. I need to own this feeling and recognize the special value writing has for my life. Hell, even if it's just a hobby that doesn't render it meaningless.

Leaving behind my excuses is problematic in some ways. If I leave them behind, someone will need to tackle the sack of mail, the mysteriously locked cabinet and the misshapen table cloth. I have a story to tell.

And all this time, I just thought I was lazy!

Isn't this the most awesome book cover ever? Mommy and Daddy are having cocktails their little darling has thoughtfully prepared for them. My kind of kid, this one! Such a prodigy, mixing martis at the tender age of three. Shoot, I was the ripe old age of 14 when my parents taught me to tend bar for their bridge parties.

Did you hear the collective sigh a couple of weeks ago?? It's the sigh of a million parents realizing the age of "Child-centered Parenting" is over. And I am feeling especially edgy because as a member of the prenatal Mozart therapy-family bed-four or more activities after school-generation of parents I refused to participate. I'll never forget the tsks and pearl clutching because my kids didn't have any after school activities aside from playing with their friends. The horror! Call CPS! In fact, I'm such a maverick when everyone was rolling around in acres of money even if I had wanted to take the effort to shepard two kids between six activities, I couldn't afford them! Like the parents today! W00t!

The pendulum has swung back to the middle. I can freely admit I thought piping Mozart to my fetus was an incredibly stupid waste of time and breastfeeding was boring and a pain in the neck.

The real pioneer in all of this is one of my heroes: Marion Winik. What a sage when she confessed way back in the 1990's she was exhausted by the process of mothering and everything she had to worry about when our mother's had martini'd and Marlboro'd their way to the delivery table.

So let's have a cocktail, let's have several! In fact, Jr can mix 'em up for us and keep 'em coming because it is now the era of the hands off parent! Mothers every where now have permission to let go of the guilt, wooden toys, enrichment classes and organic bananas. Bring on the cardboard box forts, impromptu games and Pop Tarts!

My laissez faire parenting style is now the rage. Boundaries are in.

It's about damn time, don't you think?

Sitting On The Fence

photo by Jeff Greenburg date unknown


This week my horoscope mentions

It's a ripe time to revise and rework your past, Pisces. I'll trust you to make the ultimate determination about how best to do that, but here are some possibilities. 1. Revisit a memory that has haunted you, and do a ritual that resolves it and brings you peace. 2. Return to the scene of an awkward anomaly that remains unsettled, and finally do a duty you neglected. 3. Make your way back to a dream you wandered away from prematurely, and either re-commit yourself to it, or put it to rest for good. 4. Dig up and contemplate a secret that has been festering, and come to a decision about what you can do to heal it.

I spent at least five figures in therapy so I’m not haunted by memories; I haven’t a clue what he means by an “awkward anomaly”; I don’t do secrets, so the only thing festering is what I’m giving TG for Christmas next year. By process of elimination, my job this summer is revisiting a dream and moving aside the fear of putting together a fiction written in no less than three notebooks and one dream journal over the last twenty plus years. I have wrapped months of energy around my fears.

The first and foremost fear is the whole thing sucks and I’m wasting my time with this old idea. Next out of the basket is I subject my closest friends with readings and they feel bad when they have to tell me it sucks. Years ago, I participated in a disasterous workshop with part of this piece. The writer guy--a real Bukowski type--hated it; thought it was a piece of crap; basically told me this would be on the list of things he is condemned to read in Hell. The criticism was particularly painful as he salivated over the other woman’s piece. She was one of those wispy women prone to wearing long flowing scarves and equally long flowing hair; her voice soft but emphatic when she read. Her piece was a story poem, a phantasmagorical fruit salad of magic realism meets surrealism meets Jane Austen. I thought it was a mess against my straight up piece of narrative. I think it was just a few months ago, I realized Bukowski workshopped with his dick. Perhaps he would have liked my story better if I had been more like Jori Graham‘s disciple: young, pretty and eager to get stoned with him. In hindsight I can’t believe I let this sorry old man wannabe Beat poet take away my pen and my notebook . Leave it to me to be silenced by an old and lecherous hippie.

Aside from this blog, emails, Facebook updates and random chat on Table Talk (link) I don’t write much. I can use the time sucks as excuses. I can use my kid as an excuse. I can use the house and the endless chores as an excuse. But I’m out of excuses. The only thing Beav needs me for is my driving, banking and cooking skills; the big house projects are done (!) and the nuts and bolts of house work takes maybe four hours a week.

My other excuses rest in the end product. This will all be a waste of time because print is dead and the only people being published are writers like Nora Roberts and that chick lit Shopping/dating/I’m a fabulous wreck of a Gen Y woman. This will be a waste of time because ultimately, it will suck and no one would read it anyhow. Ok, my family might read it and say: “Well at least you tried hard” or some such platitude which ultimately means: “don’t quit that day job cuz you need to eat!” Finally, why would anyone give a shit about this yarn I‘ve been spinning in my head. But my very favorite excuse: someone wrote a lovely book and used part of my title(link). The title I've imagined for twenty years. People will see my title just before her’s on the Amazon list and will think: “That woman copied Azar Nafisi’s lovely title!” (as if it’s already published, see excuse number one)

The fence was already getting uncomfortable before Rob told me the stars were aligned just right. Before the star’s blessing I had promised myself the next four months of habitual writing. Not daily, that’s a recipe for disaster. The only things I do consistently every day are brush my teeth and whine. Rather, I have set aside time three days a week to write in four hour blocks. If our patient census remains low like it did last year, I’m devoting my call days to writing. Writing what could be a doomed novel is more productive than sitting on my hands waiting to be called into the hospital. Hell, with all those notebooks to combine, I have enough material to edit this summer without generating any new ideas.

September I will evaluate if it’s time to put this dream on the shelf or proceed onward. Years ago, during my other lifetime, I read Canfield’s The Aladdin Factor and I learned an exquisitely simple formula: If I ask for something there is a 50/50 chance the answer will be yes. If I don‘t ask, the answer is always ‘no’.

It’s scary to ask for what you want. Much like standing en point atop a picket fence.

photo by David Street 1998

To Be Continued

I've developed the habit of writing while I'm waiting. I keep a stack of index cards in my bag--Moleskins too fine for the likes of my hackery--and free write either what I'm observing or things weighing on my mind. The Beav graduated from the eighth grade yesterday and I was actually early for something so I seized the opportunity to write.

The Beav has successfully graduated from many things like sucking his thumb, sippy cups, diapers, kindergarten, lying about taking baths and the fifth grade. Today is another graduation referred to as a "continuation". This is my fourth continuation and Wally cheated me out of an actual graduation because he didn't want to be "bothered" with the ceremony and "sitting around just to hear my name". I feel alien to this White Mommy Daddy world so gatherings at the boys' schools make me a bit anxious. I am seated alone and not bothering to save places for Ward and Alexis especially after last night's Saga Of The Pants.[Ward was supposed to buy Beav some new pants and didn't. I got to do it at 8:30 on Monday night after a very stressful twelve hour shift which evolved into thirteen hours. Needless to say the conversation we shared was colorful]

The people around me are dressed in a sort of upscale casual and one woman in particular takes this continuation thing seriously, donning a lovely geen and white halter dress more suitable for an evening wedding. I can't image what she wears to weddings. Sparkles? But it suits her, she of the blond carefully exercised set. The type I see talking in a quick clipped cadence on wee phones as they pause between the hearth breads and chocolates at Whole Foods. Her resplendent dress is a relief, I thought I was overdressed in my flowy black linen dress, the sort of thing worn on a patio sharing drinks and sailing stories with people named Mimi and Biff.

So many familiar and well known faces in the gym this afternoon; many acquaintances for the last two decades a few of them were even friends. But having fallen out of their orbit they have forgotten me. Pity this, I'm a lot of fun to know and interesting company. Many of the mothers are easily ten or more years younger and this is probably their second big milestone with their kids. Most of us are watching from the jaded seat of having done this a few times before and know the real pay off will be when they graduate from high school.

I recognized one mom of a boy Beav played with when they were kindergartners. I still remember where I was standing and what I was doing when she called to tell me her boy was no longer allowed to play with Beav at my house. My first conclusion was she had heard via the grapevine I was lesbian. She gave me a self-righteous speech about how she didn't want Little Darling playing at a divorcee's house in the city. I was polite and gave her a canned speech about how we would miss Crown Prince. I wanted to ask if she was she afraid the ennui, dissatisfaction and final despair I experienced would jump onto her boy like a cold germ and then rub off on her hands as she scrubbed away the wretched city dirt after his playdate? Or was she already infected and couldn't risk further exposure in an effort to keep all the bad stuff dormant? "Is denying you are unhappy easier than admitting failure like I did?" Most of my days as a young mother were marked by unhappiness, frustration and helplessness. Years ago, Dear Abby poised the question "if you had to do it all over again, would you have children?" My resounding answer would be no. I have too much baggage to visit on defenseless children and I am far too selfish to be a good mother.

But this particular emotional mud puddle won't keep me from milestones like a Continuation. My regret and insecurity won't stop me from feeling joy and pride when Beav's name is called as an honor student. Beav is my pay back for watching the heart wrenching struggle and defeats his brother experienced in school. Regret doesn't prevent me from feeling cheated I'm not watching Wally walk across the stage after spending so many years symbolically dragging him through school.

Milestones like this lighten my dark and heavy heart because I have succeeded in continuing as a mother when so many days I just wanted to quit. The darkness doesn't dampen the joy I feel when one or the other succeeds at something, nor does it quiet worry when I see them making decisions I perceive as ruinous. Last week, Wally proved I had done something right. Nestled in the thorns of all of my bad parenting he has found his path . Wally made a life altering decision completely independently from me or his father. Isn't this what we ultimately want for our children the second they leave our bodies? Isn't independence the goal? But when I heard he had stepped away from the Navy and joined the Army I was angry. Over the thunder of my helicopter blades snapping the air as I lectured about commitment and seeing things through. Now I can see the root of my anger rests solely in not being consulted. My eldest is continuing without me. As it should be.

Image by Blake Flynn

Domestic Bliss /dripping sarcasm

The Girl is installing the kitchen floor and it's going to look grand. I helped cut the crappy vinyl and the fabulous Armstrong Solarium Linoleum underneath. I don't try to help with the tile and the grout, it doesn't go so well. We tried to demolish the old floor by hand for about thirty minutes and had peeled away exactly six square inches. Thankfully The Big Orange Store had a tool for the job and this proved the better plan. I can now include "operation of Linoleum cutter" on my resume in case maintenance is included in my job description.

In the meantime, I'm continuing to work in the garden and gathered my first bouquet this morning. First light is early and I love sleeping with the windows open so the light greets me early.

Despite the snow on the mountains, I think it's finally safe to say spring is here.

Poor Kipper is trapped inside the house while we work outside he suggests you stop by and rescue him so he himself on a walk.

Wally has exactly four more days of school and despite his best effort to NOT graduate, he will indeed possess a high school diploma. The Beav is on his way to high school and I never ever have to set foot in that stupid middle school again as long as I live. I'm considering having a beer in the parking lot next Wednesday after the Continuation just for the Hell of it because I'm really a fifteen year old with ODD.

Tomorrow I'm smashing plates and tiles for a mosaic counter top.

Bliss, it's bliss I tell you.

The Big Plan

When I was a little girl, I made elaborate schedules for myself and at eight, had I known what a algorithm was, I would have taken the self scheduling thing one hundred steps further and substituted this:

Get up
Brush Hair
Brush Teeth
Feed Cat
Feed Self

With some sort of schematic for what I was supposed to accomplish every morning before school.
(Seriously, this is what I posted--caps and all--on the back of my bedroom door when I was eight because I needed a reminder to feed the cat) I was very diligent with this schedule, too. I wish I still had that first list because it was the beginning of a compulsion: making schedules for myself in the form of to-do lists. Unfortunately, with age my lists have become more elaborate and if I were completely insane I’m sure I would have algorithms in place with arrows and lines as back up plans. Today has proven to be one of those “best laid plans. . .” days, where the to-do list looks like an algorithm what “oh God, what now! “ My day was supposed to look like this:

Get up (I find it necessary to include this forty years later in case I try to work out or take a shower while still in bed)
Gym
The Beav to school
Work in the yard
Write
Beav from school
Read (I’m such a freak I schedule my ‘recreation’) [this is also code for lay in the sun]
Dinner prep

This is what happened:
Don’t sleep
Get up in time to make sure The Beav is up for school
Decide he needs one more sick day (just a cold no H1N1) but should go to the doctor
Go back to bed for an hour
Make doctor’s appointment for the boy
Go back to bed for another hour
Shower
Run errands on the way to the doctor because the dry cleaner and the vet are on the way
Go to the Doctor
Finally do something on your to do list (this is where the arrow goes around to “write” on my dream list)

Lessee, I’m accomplishing one thing on my list so far.

I came up with my dream schedule while I was cleaning yesterday. This was going to be my day. No more cleaning, no more digging in the dirt or moving things around. My only real responsibilities were The Beav and dinner. In my defense, this slothful day was brought about after nearly a week of planting two large flower beds and a vegetable garden. Most people wouldn’t balk at being this busy. But I refuse to be overscheduled. And I loath people who are always: “Ohmygawd! I am so crazy busy! ” The evil people in my head want to say something like: for the love of God just stop doing whatever bullshit it is you do because it really doesn’t make you or your life more important if you are “too busy”. I strive at under scheduling my life and my housewife pals always admired my boundary setting skills. “You want me to bake something for the preschool that day? Nope, can’t do it. I already have something planned for that day and I don’t plan more than one activity a day! “ I must confess this penchant for avoiding over scheduling too much is not from mad boundary setting skills but sheer laziness.

I had to leave off the slothful life because the flower beds were prepared and the calendar says it’s May. I was daunted by this task because I’ve never taken on such a huge gardening project. I had helped with a vegetable garden when Wally was a baby. Ward did the heavy lifting, I weeded a bit and harvested. The Fabulous House in the Suburbs had established landscaping and I did attempt one flower bed but it was an abysmal failure and led me to believe I had a black thumb. The “do you garden” question was always met with an apologetic shake of the head. However, the success of my seedlings (now out in the big world) and the many thriving plants in the beds for nearly a week, all surviving my hand are leading me to believe I might be a gardener after all. More telling, than week old plants, is the joy I felt working in the dirt. The only way I can describe the joy I feel when I look out on my flower beds is like the small child who has successfully built a miniture building from random blocks. Remember how they look when the complex and architecturally impossible structure was complete? My boys would sit back on their haunches, arms outstretched, eyes never leaving the towers and shout out a gleeful: “Ta-Da!!!” I want to stand in the front yard and shout: “Ta-Da!” Maybe I will in August when my lovely garden is blooming.

I loved working in the beds and it felt good to be dirty and sore. Part of me wishes I had more to plant; but until the fall, I must be content with watering, deadheading and weeding. I had always thought the whole: “just go outside and you will feel better” advice aimed at the depressed was some kind of pseudo hippy back-to-nature bladdy-blah. I found the dirt theory has merit; I felt rejuvenated by it and the fresh air. It even felt good to work in the damp drizzle for a couple of days. And had I known how meditative gardening is, I would have started years ago. At last an excuse to live in my head! I found myself composing letters to the long lost in my life. The letters were stories rather than self flagellating apologies which is the tone my spinning usually takes (link). At times I did have to pay close attention to what I was doing. The work was niggling and fussy when the roots of a few of my new plants (I’m looking at you Shasta Daisies) were matted and tangled in big clumps. The exercise of untangling the mass without breaking them, to separate the plants safely, reminded me of untangling and unwinding the small IV lines and life support tubes connected to my wee patients years ago in the NICU. Fussy work is not my favorite sort of work.

Transplanting the seedlings was fussy, too. As I transplanted the tendrils, I recalled a dream or a memory of helping my father when I was five or so. We had a big garden and my job was to stick my finger in the dirt making a small round hole where he would place the seed. My finger placing round holes with such diligence, I can still see my dirty and bitten nail as I pulled it from the loamy soil. I remember watching him coax the seedlings into the ground with the aid of an iced tea spoon’s long handle; the handle a sort of guide or crutch against the tender new born stalk. The mind works in such magnificent ways and I found myself doing just this with my own wee cucumbers; only then remembering the close heat and sun on my neck, the smell of the pine trees and how, when I looked up from my task, they made a gigantic fence around our yard. I know remembering the cloying heat helped me tolerate the damp chill the other day.

When I had decided to attack the new flower beds this week, I was going to catch up on Podcasts while I worked. But I forgot my Ipod and discovered the sounds of the crows, dogs and breeze, even the distant traffic, was friendly company. I can’t remember if it was quiet in the garden when I was a little girl. Chances are the silence was punctuated by birdsong which was then interrupted by construction noise. My favorite silence is the silence of the mesa in a snow storm. I have never heard such quiet as the sound of snow covering that vast emptiness.

So today, The Big Plan was flummoxed and thrown out the window and we went, instead to the dry cleaners, doctor and vet. The Big Plan hit the first wall last night at midnight when I still wasn’t asleep for worrying over the dog’s panting and labored breathing. I lay awake for hours listening to him; composing how I would prepare myself to find him miserable and exhausted this morning. It would be time for his last car trip. I rehearsed what it will be like to make the phone calls when it is time for him to leave us. Fortunately, the only one worse for the night’s troubled breathing was me. Kip awakened his merry self, wanting to go outside to have a big sniff and make sure all was right with his world. He was fine and would be with us yet another day. He felt well enough to woo-wooo-wooof at us for food and grrr-grrr-grrr when we wouldn’t let him outside to play in the sprinkler.

My perfect day stalled by life. Yet again, life having a more perfect day in mind for me. I was lucky enough to have an interesting conversation with The Beav that ranged from his persnickety math teacher who doesn’t believe in time to make up homework if you are sick (my question was: what if you are in a coma or your hands are burned?) to the labor reforms which came about after The Jungle was published. I still had plenty of time to fuss over this writing exercise; I’ll have time to hang in the sun for an allotted hour, water my plants; maybe even have a beer. But we won’t harsh my mellow with the gritty reminder I must cook dinner tonight.

Perhaps if I hacked up a lung, I could get out of dinner. Unfortunately, I can’t let that happen because it’s not on The List.

*the photo is from flikr Creative Commons by "A River Runs Through It" thanks to the generosity of such creative folks.

The Sawdust Did It

There is a fussy German frau living inside this haphazard housewife. Some days I can let the dust and the mystery ick in weird places go, others not so much and today was one of those days. I found myself mentally shaking a fist at the people who live here because they splash dishwater down the front of the cabinets, leave finger prints on light switches and the ‘frig; allow dust to build up on bathroom counters and splashes accumulate on the mirror. How could they do this to me? I have a laundry room to decorate: with paint, tile and hardware to select and wall art to create. I clean on Tuesday’s and it didn’t go so well today because I would rather be looking for tile and paint. So I half-assed it because I’m sick of doing it. Which will piss me off next week when the house is doubly hard to clean because it was half-assed to begin with. The truth of the matter is I love to clean but lately it’s become a big fat ugly chore. A chore like cooking is a chore. A chore like balancing the checkbook is a chore. A chore like anything-I-should-do-but-I-don’t-care-to-do-in-the-moment is a chore.

I blame the sawdust.

For a couple of weeks The Girl has tirelessly been building cabinets for the laundry room. So there has been a lot of sawdust scattered through the house. It’s driving me crazy. Our house was a blank page when we moved in almost two years ago to the day. A foreclosure, the realtor/developer came through with a paint sprayer coating every vertical surface with white paint; "updating the floors with the crappiest carpet and vinyl flooring imaginable.

If we had only looked at this house a week earlier undoing what "Ladies Man" did in an effort to move the house from 1969 Suburban Chic to 1990’s Slum lord would have been one of those bad daydreams you brush away with a shudder. Every goddamned room in this house needs or needed work. (to clarify, we nicknamed Fannie Mae's realtor "Ladies Man" after this character)

I thought any minute he was going to invite us over to his place for some Courvoisier so we could “discuss further the ramifications of my highly esteemed organization replacing the furnace that may or may not be faulty.” To say this guy pissed me off is an understatement. Thinking about him still pisses me off and raises my feminista hackles . But I digress.


It must be the sawdust.

Today, after I finished damning my family to a level of hell where they see the menace of dust but aren’t allowed to do anything about it; I started ruminating over the latest neighborhood I discovered in our Next Town; the place we will probably move after Beav finishes high school. One of my time sucking hobbies is partaking in real estate porn cruising houses on Realtor.com. The city we are looking at is considerably cheaper so it’s fun to do a dollar to dollar search. Next Town is in Bible Belt and people sort of freak out when I tell them where we are considering making a home. It's also my home town and a place I vowed never to return. I am choosing to egnore warnings it could be Redneckville and we won’t be greeted with open arms and a basket of muffins but something akin to: “Y’all sisters?…or what?…” cue ominous sound of a shotgun being cocked But really, who cares if Billy Bob and Dar Leene hate us because Jesus hates dirty homosexuals! We can afford a lovely house with a pool! Yeah! The pool will not only refresh us in the southern heat but will make a great place to extinguish the burning crosses. The unhealthiest part of the obsession with House Porn is when I dial down the price and discover the fixers in the same neighborhoods. I find myself swoony over the footprint and the bones of certain houses. Nightmares even more nightmarish than the one I live in. “Oh look at those cabinets they just need to be refinished. . .I bet that has hardwood underneath it. . .I could take that window out and put a door to the patio. . .a little paint would be perfect. . .and it’s so cheap we would be able to just pay cash and fix it up for next to nothing!” I found another one just the other day. It has an interior atrium to die for and a kitchen in such bad shape TG would jump off a cliff before she agreed to this house.

Oh. My. God. I need a twelve step program. Best friend Ms. A has a friend, Pilot, who came up with the idea of creating a Flippers Anonymous Program. Pilot has it bad, too. In the last three years he has done two houses. And he lives in them while he renovates. Sick, sick man. But I totally get it. I blame being a control freak. I have to make everything my own; put my mark on it. Like Kipper, only it’s paint not pee when I mark things. This also explains why (as hard as this is going to be for TG to hear) the idea of a turn key ready house is a terribly boring concept to me. I hate boring.

Which is probably why I’ve never had a proper laundry room (or adequate closets for that matter) because I am usually drawn to quaint little houses with big souls? The closest thing I have come to a laundry room was a designated area in the basement of Mrs. Ward Cleaver’s Fabulous House in the Suburbs. But it wasn’t a proper laundry room; it was where the hook ups were in the basement. A special room designated to cleaning clothes makes me feel terribly grown up. I think this grown up feeling is why, when we discussed redoing the laundry room one of my first questions was: “Can we have a chandelier in there? I think it would be a pleasant surprise to see a chandelier in the laundry room.” And wouldn't this fixture be adorable in a peach oned laundry room.

I wish I could blame the sawdust.

Tales From The Treadmill

Once upon a few months ago, I seized upon any excuse possible to avoid going to the gym. Hell, I even went to work one morning in an effort to avoid the gym. I would almost even cook, as an excuse to not work out. I blame my behavior on being overwhelmed by the prospect of getting in shape, coupled with my gawky unathletic demeanor and embarrassment for evolving into a dumpy middle aged woman. I also wasn’t sure where to begin. So I signed up for a few sessions with a trainer. This process has also given light to my inner masochist. I spent hard earned money to allow a miniature drill sergeant to make me contort my flabby middle section and my sagging ass in an effort to reduce and firm them up. (The trainer I worked with was about a foot shorter than me and a fireball who was indeed a retired army drill sergeant.) Who knew the simple act of walking like John Cleese in the “School of Silly Walks” sketch while bending my knees, holding five measly pounds in each hand would result not in an immediately hard and flat abdomen, but a hobbling gait resembling one of my ninety year old patients? But now the pain is gone and I can actually do a lunge without paying for it the next day. I can even do ten lunges without feeling the adverse effects. The trainer taught me how to use the weights and the machines and gave me a little program to do. Too bad the program doesn’t include my favorite 16 ounce Lone Star curl or the put the cookie in your mouth bicep exercise. I have hurdled over the whining stage of: “I can’t eat what I want and need to go the gym” to the place of “Yeah! I’m going to the gym! “I even miss it on days I work too late or need to take The Beav somewhere and can’t go. I’m not to the point of getting up at 4 am and going before work because that is just crazy talk.




When I started working out regularly a few weeks ago, twenty minutes of cardio almost killed me--heart throbbing out of my chest--now I can go forty minutes before I feel like I’m about to die. I don’t think it’s the endomorphines that make people go and go and GO on treadmills, stair climbers (oh there’s fresh Hell, no thanks, I‘ll save my Syphian punishment for after death) and the elliptical. No, it’s the satisfaction of knowing you just walked, ran, climbed or cross country skied at full speed for forty minutes and didn’t die. Like walking away from a plane crash.




I would also like to thank Steve Jobs for the Ipod. I can listen uninterrupted to This American Life, Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me and All Songs Considered. Without my little green pod, working out is hell. I am almost forced to watch CNN and the red ticker tape parade of bad economic news; or men’s basketball, or stupid fuckhead Rush Limbaugh or one of the other dumbass conservative pundits. On the days I have forgotten the pod, I close my eyes and chant positive affirmations to myself or I write in my head. I assure you, the stuff I’ve “written” while I’m on the treadmill is better than any of Anne Lamott's lovely musings. This genius also occurs while I’m singing in the shower and sound better than anyone on Broadway. Such a shame such genius isn’t…you know…real.




I am a voyeur and I like to watch people at the gym. Such a variety and different times of the day give me different sorts to watch. Of course, I make up stories for them. In the mornings--my preferred time to work out--the gym is filled with the retired and the unemployed. I love that these old folks are at the gym, doing “Silver Sneaker” classes and water aerobics because it keeps them out of my hospital and away from over prescribing doctors who often do more harm than good towards the end of life. I want to stand at the window just outside the group class room during the Silver Sneakers classes and cheer them on; especially the ones who are obviously modifying because they have joint replacements.

One lady reminds me of Linda Richardson. She wears the most outlandish outfits to the gym, like it’s too much trouble to change before going out to lunch with the grandchildren so she will just slip around to the gym and work out in her bedazzled cowboy hat and sequin trimmed sweater. I almost ran into a pole staring at his woman as she sat on an exercise ball, doing a sort of core strengthening bounce in her festive outfit. Imagine my disappointment when I saw she wasn't wearing high heels.

Another regular is a Russian woman who is maybe 3 feet tall and at least ninety. Every morning I am there I see her and she never fails to speak to me in her lovely Russian tinged English. The first day she spoke to me, I was standing on the scale and sighing over the big number that won’t get smaller. She tapped my arm and said: “Don’t forget to subtract your shoes, they must weigh twenty pounds! And if you have on pink underwear, that’s good for another five. Just a little game I play with myself, dahlink” I loved her immediately.

The gym seems littered with the young and unemployed, too. This gym is part of a big chain and it isn’t too expensive so I can understand how they manage a membership. It’s something to do and it’s cheap. But the neighborhood is hardly a “hip” place. One of the guys is definitely out of place at this gym. He has the “I wash my hair once a week” hipster hair style, wears indie band tee-shirts and retro high tops, tall and skinny, not too hard on the eye but certainly not the type of guy you would see who lives at the gym. A coffee shop downtown? Yeah. Gym in inner tier suburbia? No. I'm guessing he is a 20 something IT geek, graduated in the top of his second tier east coast university class, downsized on one of the coasts and now lives with his grandmother and grandfather because he hates his parents and they still live in Westchester. It would be too painful to be at the grocery store with his mom when his tenth grade English teacher stops and says something like: “Zack! Lovely to see you, visiting? What? Oh you live here now, with your parents in their basement…they had such hopes for you, too.“ it probably makes him shudder and he can hear her tongue clicking as she pushes the cart away from them. No, he is better off in Flyover land with Bubbe and Zayde for now. . .

The evening crew at the gym is totally different. Cube farmers who work Monday through Friday at some sort of soul-less job but they love it because they have the luxury of working. They look sort of boring and white bread. They think Josh Groban is hot, hope Brad and Angelina work it out and can deconstruct The Bachelor like Prime Time Derridas. One of the evening regulars is a women edging close to her sixties. She needs “I am a cougar and I want you boy!” tattooed across her forehead. Rather than a silly outfit, she has a silly body and is afflicted with the new malady I call “Madonna Arms”

Now I like women’s bodies. A lot. But I gotta say, I would trade the well defined grisly guns for soft not so defined arms on a woman. She also made a terrible mistake and didn’t wear her glasses when she went to the plastic surgeon for her boobs. They are almost under her chin and give her the appearance of someone about to topple over any minute. Besides that, they are way way too perky. No one’s boobs are naturally that perky. And she is proud of them too. She has this way of strutting around the gym that makes me want to either laugh out loud or kick her; depending on the kind of day I’ve had.

Another woman is terribly odd and eccentric. Her outfit looks something like this
and is accentuated with Uggs. Her workout consists of standing in front of the mirror dancing with jazz hands. She is probably a few years older than I am and about thirty pounds underweight. The bizarre is made of awesome. I’m not sure what the point of this workout is but everyone around her is immune to it, except me of course and I probably made an ass out of myself blatantly staring at her.

I’m plagued with jealousy as I watch women my age effortless run for what seems to be hours at top speed on the treadmill. Last night one woman, a Mediterranean beauty with the body of a goddess, made me want to weep. It just wasn’t fair that I not be blessed with effortless beauty and a fabulous well-toned body. To make matters worse, she had intelligent looking eyes and was very kind to an elderly gentleman having trouble with his treadmill. Beautiful, fit kind and smart? I don’t even want to know she is the only person in America who didn’t lose substantial value in her stock portfolio because odds are, she is that person. My first impulse was to kidnap her, take away her moisturizer, keep her from the gym and force feed her Little Debbie snacks until she looks like me. Fortunately, I quelled that impulse and am not typing this from an undisclosed location. Chances are, I wouldn’t share the Little Debbie’s and she would become even more svelte and a hero for withstanding the torture of being held hostage by a crazy premenapausal woman obsessed by her weight and midsection. “Please be kind to my captor, she really just wants to be a size eight and weigh what she did before her youngest son was born. She didn’t mean to harm me.”

I’m in awe of the women I see who are struggling with obesity as they work towards a healthy weight. A few of them have become noticeably smaller these last few months. It humbles me, the work they are doing: I’m bitching about single digit inches and double digits pounds I want to lose and these women are probably trying to lose the equivalent of a person. I wish I could think of a way to say: “You Go Girl!” without sounding smug and I want to hug them so some of their discipline and resolve rubs off on me. These women deserve much more respect than the cougars who have invested too much money and too much time into their bodies.

Today when I’m at the gym I hope I see my Russian lady and I might get the courage to speak to Hipster boy--I really want to get his story--we usually row next to one another and will mumble hello to one another. And maybe just maybe that scale will budge below a certain number.

An Honest Day's Labor

Today I did real work.

I did exactly what I went to nursing school for: taking care of people. Lately, I’ve been feeling more like a facilitator than a nurse. Sometimes I am the “resource nurse” which simply means for 2 extra bucks an hour I oversee the care of about 20 patients and make sure nothing Bad happens. Juggling five balls in the air while typing on the computer and talking on the phone. I’m also in charge of making sure we meet the budget and don’t have too many staff members working if our patient census is low. Just looking at the description of it makes me want to simultaneously yawn and scream with boredom. Most days, when I am working as a bedside nurse I am in charge of five patients, their medications and their treatments; making sure the doctor’s orders are carried out; following up on lab and test results; following up on status changes. Referring to myself as a bedside nurse is laughable. Lots of computer time. A few months ago I guaged how much time I spent each shift charting at the computer and it was six hours. I spent a total of six hours documenting what I had done for the patient in twelve hours. But really, I had only worked with the patients for six hours. That’s terribly sad, isn’t it? I’m supposed to be a nurse not an administrative assistant. Oldest Friend tells me frequently: “you do real work, so few people can say that about their work life. “ Her words make me feel like a fraud because most days my work is rushed and I’m always always on a strict time based schedule. It’s rare--with administrative duties--I have time to do hands on work delegated to the nurse’s aid (aside from toileting and walks to the bathroom).

Today I worked as an aide on our unit. This sort of work is often thankless and always hard but I relished the difficulty. I had ten patients in varying degrees of healing and illness; a mixed bag of elderly, psychotic, young, brain injured and two living beyond the odds of survival. I have mentioned beforeI find the aid’s duties meditative and calming. My only time limits are making sure I complete blood sugars, vital signs and meals at the ordered times. Usually, everything I do is time sensitive. Without all of the charting, I eased through my day; no need to rush down the hall nor was I interrupted six times an hour with phone calls or requests for help or opinions or complaints. I worked my way down the hall; helping each of the patients with their baths or showers. Bathing someone is particularly intimate and I, being very shy about my own body, try to ease my own tension by talking to the patients’ about their lives.

Three of my patients were six to eight short years away from the century mark and each one of them had a unique story to tell. One grew up on a ranch and has entertained me for years with stories about the horses her father raised; another lived on a reservation and her grandparents had walked the trail of tears; and another was a hairdresser during the 1930’s. She explained the big Marcel wave device while I washed her body. I was rapt. Her memory was absolutely razor sharp and she could recall yesterday as well as an afternoon in 1930. This patient is particularly special to me because a few years ago I was privileged to help ease one of her beloved family members towards death. Attending someone at death is even more intimate than seeing to their most private bodily functions.

I’m sure the other nurses thought I was an extremely inefficient aid and out of my element because it took me at least 45 minutes to wash each of my bedridden patients. But one of these baths went quickly because she doesn’t speak. Diagnosed with schizoid-affective disorder for many years and living on her own until a month ago something snapped in her mind and she just sort of left this plain of existence and lives somewhere deep inside her own psyche.

She has been with us for a few weeks and slowly coming out of her catatonic place. She will follow you with her eyes and answer yes and no questions. It has been necessary for us to do everything for her because she wouldn’t move or couldn’t move. She doesn’t resist these ministrations; she is placid but she does look at us with huge round eyes and it is hard to interpret if she is frightened or confused. Today, her face was more relaxed and she did speak the word yes rather nod her head. Thankfully, the staff keeps her television off so her room has a monastic silence to it and only the ambient sounds from the hallway filter in. Usually mute patients make me feel a helpless and out of control but I feel a great sense of peace when I am in her room.

At lunch, I sat next to her bed, explaining to her what was on her tray and arranged bites. Her catatonic state is so extensive it is necessary for us to not only feed her but to cue her to chew and swallow. I had a container of high protein shake in my hand and she reached out for it. Deliberately. This woman has not spoken anything beyond one word and has not moved on her own for weeks. Finally, she made a need known. She was thirsty. I smiled at her and handed her the container and she drank deep droughts without being reminded to swallow. I looked at the spoon I was about to place on her tongue and returned it to the plate. Making eye contact with her, I asked: “Would you like to do this yourself?” She didn’t nod or speak but looked at the spoon for a few seconds, contemplating it, sussing out exactly what it was for and then she grasped it with a fist, like a toddler, raised it to her mouth and tentatively fed herself a few bites before she drifted away again.

I’m glad she drifted away because it would have embarrassed me if she had seen me wipe tears from my cheeks as I gave her those last few bites.

At last, an honest day's labor.

Packing

Tina Barney: "The Girlfriend Project"


As usual, it's Wednesday night and I'm up way way too late on a school night. My inner 8 year old whines about early bed time: "But I did housework and sewing and cooked dinner! I deserve to stay up late and play on the internets!" Of course I cave into the whining minx living in my head. I'm looking at fabric for a couple of chairs, lusting after a spring outfit, researching a project dealing with contemporary photography (which explains the Barney piece at the top and a Perez Siquier below). None of these things are pressing. I have clothes, I'm not recovering the chairs in the next week and I have project ideas coming out of my ears. What am I supposed to be doing? The last thing on today's "to-do list" was nursing research. I'm supposed to be researching anorexia and "refeeding syndrome" for my unit newsletter. Woo. Hoo. Fabric is so much more interesting than electrolyte derangement. Writing this week's blog? Riveting!

I also find myself straying to this place, saying my six more days mantra.

We will be just south of the northern most airplane symbol. And no, Wally and the Beaver aren't joining us for two reasons: School and I'm selfish. The latter being the most salient reason they are staying behind and "enjoying" two extra weeks of winter.

For a few days I will be the Whitest Woman In Mexico. The first time we met our favorite bartender--Sara--she sagely nodded her head, looking me up and down: "You just got here, didn't you." The other night we were watching House Hunters International and an English family was contemplating buying a home in the DR. The English people were whiter than I am. I live in a place which enjoys 360 days of sun; they live in a place where the sun might shine 5 days a year. Indeed, I am The Whitest Woman On The Planet. But in about a week I will look like this woman, sans the wig and white eyeshadow. Isn't she cool? I bet she had some great stories about the Franco family and Picasso. I hope she has sun screen all over her arms, those pits are going to be sore tomorrow morning! Perez Siquier: "Muneca"

We started packing on Sunday. I'm surprised the suitcases aren't closed and in the back of the car. We remind me of Kipper doing his leash dance when the word "walk" is uttered. The word "vacation" makes us giddy. You can see how giddy TG was in Texas last summer.
I'm so ready for this trip, my carry-on is packed. Years ago, my first ex-husband (yeah, I have two: call me Elizabeth Taylor) taught me to pack a change of clothes in my backpack. Brilliant. Emergency change of clothes equals shorts, tee-shirt, dainties, two pairs of shoes and a bathing suit. Because really that's all you need when you go to Mexico. Except in our case you need tongs, a cheese grater and saran wrap. Much like my obsession with taking at least six pairs of shoes no matter how long I'll be away from home; TG needs her favorite kitchen tools. I willingly pander to this quirk because she is a fabulous cook. I'm not sure why she panders to my shoe obsession. My guess is it's easier to tease me about it and work around all the damn shoes than try to talk me out of them.

Next week, if I can uncurl my fingers from around my beer, hoist my fat ass into the casita, I will blog about our first few days in Puerto Morelos. Hopefully, I'll be hearing from Molly because I won an awesome printer!

Adios Amigas y Amigos!

The last day

I’m waiting but I don’t mind waiting in the microcosmic sense of the word. Those short stints of waiting: in front of the school a few afternoons a week; in check out lines at the grocery store. I have a file of articles pulled from magazines to read in the car for the after school wait and I amuse myself reading tabloid covers at the store. If I’m waiting at home there is always some sort of ’net entertainment. I don’t like waiting in the macrocosmic sense. You know, waiting for the big stuff: like the end of the Bush era, or for vacations to start.

Why am I content to wait? I think it’s twofold: My job is terribly time dependent. Medicines must be given at scheduled times. Tasks and duties must be preformed within a prescribed time. They simply must.. Rather than being a clock controlled freak at home, I work at not over scheduling my life and if I have more than three things I MUST DO OR THE WORLD WILL STOP SPINNING on my days off, I‘m pissy and angry about it. Today for instance, is the last day of the year and the boys are with me. Wally stayed out until about God only knows when last night and is still asleep; Beav gorged himself on The Sims until about that time so they have both just now rousted themselves to a waking state at the bright and early hour of 1pm (hey, it‘s 0600 in New Zealand!). I was waiting on them to get up so we could do something together. Maybe see this movie . Maybe go to the mall so they could spend some of their Christmas cash

What did I do while I was waiting? I read a few blogs, chatted with friends; goofed off at facebook. I could have been in the chilly basement making scrap pages or revamping some frames I’m using in a home dec project. I could have even gone to my second favorite crack dealer--the fabric store--but I didn’t. The only thing on my To-Do list for today I’ve come close to tackling is writing a blog entry. The two more important things on the list involve thinking about nursing stuff and aren’t terribly interesting. They’ll get done. Eventually.

So am I procrastinator? I don’t think of myself as one because I have places in my life where things must be done. The boys must be places, I have to show up at work on time and preform my duties on time. When I was in school, I didn’t wait until the last minute to study for tests or write papers. If that had been my approach, I would be flippin’ burgers and living in a trailer park. I’m not smart enough to fake my way through school. My Quaker ancestors would think of me as a lazy but then that was the 17th century and I’m not growing my own food or clearing land or fending off Indians. So I have time on my hands to see what my invisible friends are thinking about today; bantering and/or arguing with them. What a lush life.

This being said, last week I made up my mind to be more productive in the new year because I’m about to morph into one of the a Wall-e character. I’m promising myself every day off I will do something physical. Physical beyond pushing the vacuum cleaner or opening the ‘frig door. This will require getting up earlier than 9ish. Working out, walking and going to yoga has been spotty for me but once I do them, I feel much better; my body and soul feel lighter. After the physical is accomplished, I will tackle the creative. The joy I felt those few days before Christmas when I made my sister’s gifts did more for my soul and my state of mind than hundreds of hours in therapy. She loved them by the way. Loved them! I have plenty of projects to occupy me without spending loads of money. Which circles my third goal to eliminate debt and save enough money to go here next year. My fourth goal, to develop a much needed habit of daily meditation and gratitude journaling will--from a metaphysical standpoint--bring me closer to the end of the debt and closer to Spain.

I know I can reach all of these goals. I’m mapping them out day by day. Besides, if I can quit smoking and wean off the nicotine patch the first six months of 2008 and I can do anything. It will take some adjustment to the daily
to-do list extending beyond two items. Fortunately, they aren't chores so it isn't like I'm resolving to poop scoop everyday!

But in the meantime, it’s still 2008 and I have time to check my email and poke around Craigslist before I get busy, right? The last day of my procrastinating life feels much like the last day I was a smoker who smoked cigarettes. Good. I am reveling in my hanging out. It feels good to wait. But unlike smoking I will be able to endulge myself now and again with hanging out and doing nothing. Unless I'm truly addicted to hanging out and doing the bare minimium and that would be bad.

Today’s passage from Manifest Your Desires starts with these words: “Be easy about all of this. Life is supposed to be fun, you know.”

It is supposed to be fun!

Reporting For Duty

Nineteen years ago, I probably looked down at my rounding belly and said: “In eight short months, you will arrive!” Today, I found myself saying: “In eight short months you will be leaving home.” And to be perfectly cliché, I then found myself musing out loud how the time had passed so quickly although their were moments in his infancy and boyhood that felt like years. The paradox of motherhood. One of many.

I’m not sure why it hit me between the eyes today that Wally will be shipping out in eight months. And it isn't like he will be gone for a week or two but for three months, then a year and after that? Who knows. He will belong to the navy. At first I thought he joined impulsively as some sort of revenge because I’m obviously a poor money manager and didn’t save 80 grand for the college of his choice. A school--I hasten to add--that wouldn’t accept him even if he were waving the cash outside their gates. Yea gods we had heated discussion about his lassitude in school. Wally isn’t a stupid kid, he just isn’t that into school. Over the last month he has finally accepted this and carefully considered all the military branches and chose the Navy.


How ironic we considered immigrating to Canada to avoid the United States military machine way back in ‘91. Now I’m proud he will be a part of the very thing we wanted to escape. Wally even knows what he wants to do after boot camp. He wants to work with the Marines and special ops as a corpsman as a medic. Of course, he is going for some testosterone Play Station job he couldn't’t be content with a safe Mom-friendly job, on a base, away from the shooting and bombs. Nope, he wants to “play in the sandbox with the Marines”. (I do know some of the lingo) He leaves in eight months. Leaves home. Goes away. Leaves.


I suppose the grief that is sitting in the back of my throat, threatening to spill out of my eyes and onto my cheeks at any given moment is in part due to my mother’s death. I must say good bye to my boy in eight months. How exquisite it’s almost as long as my pregnancy.

This morning, I was graced with the rare opportunity to spend time with him before school so we went to the very loud and very crowded Starbucks across the street from the school. That he wasn‘t embarrassed to be seen with me on his turf speaks to his new found maturity. I quizzed him why he was joining the military. I was afraid he was going to tell me he couldn't’t wait to get away from me because he was sick of my bitching about his deadbeat father. He spared me that humiliation and explained to me he knew the only school we could afford was the commuter college in town; he also maturely admitted even though he will be 19, he knows he isn't ready for college. And then he said these magic words: “No offense mom but I’m ready to leave home. I need to leave home. It’s time.”


The loudest Starbucks in the whole world was suddenly dead silent except for my son’s sincere intonation of those very important words. After taking a deep and steadying breath, I quietly explained to him how proud I was of him; how this was the moment healthy parents worked towards. “From the day we brought you home from the hospital, I knew and hoped we would have this conversation. Of course you are ready to leave home. As you should be.”



Although I have been whining how horrible he as treated all of us the last six months, I'm still sad. Until last Tuesday, I was counting down the days to his 19th birthday because I could legally inform his father "due to Wally's attitude and behavior, he was no longer welcome in *my* home." But he is a different boy man since he decided to sign his contract. Wally is calmer and seems at peace; no longer picking at Beav or treating me disrespectfully. He is holding his head higher, looking us straight in the eye when we speak to him. Wally has a purpose.