Beth stood in her room, gently jamming her clean clothes back into the hamper that she'd used to bring them home in. It was a normal amount of laundry, but it was puffing out of the top because she hadn't folded it. Her mother watched her from the red bean bag chair that Beth had inexplicably left at home when she moved to the dorm one and a half semesters ago. Maria was annoyed at first, seeing her daughter's exodus to college as a great opportunity to get rid of things, but she'd come up to Beth's room two weeks after the girl's first class away and sat in it. There was no duct tape on it but there would have to be and fairly soon- Maria had sat and picked at a seam, missing Beth, until the threads had decided to just stop holding the canvas panels together, unsewing themselves as she watched. The bean bag chair was much more comfortable than it had a right to be. Maria had grown attached to it.
"Well I haven't made any final decisions about it, but I'm going to. Monkey lied about taking my stuff, so Monkey's got to go." Beth was still calling her dorm mate and recently deposed best friend Monkey instead of her given Christie, so that was a good sign, thought Maria.
"You can just finish the semester out." Maria was worried about this in a way that Beth wasn't, which worried her. the girls had been friends since they'd both joined the Math Olympiad team as part of the extra-curricular program, decreed as necessary to receive a college prep designation in the high school. They both hated this, and continued to hate it for their remaining two years there, despite the obvious benefit that came from joining. Maria usually described said benefits as academic ones rather than social ones; the few times she'd pointed out to the girls that they had met in the Math Olympiad team, one of them (Beth) said "Besides that, Mom" while the other (Monkey) made a dismissing wave gesture with one hand, not bothering to use both. Maria's observations rarely deserved a two-handed dismissal. This was true for pretty much everything: that they should shower more, or less, depending on how their skins looked that week; that objects of one's affection could be counted on to be slippery and intimidated when confronted with unanswered love notes; that they would freeze their skinny adolescent asses off if they left the house like that. Maria had riled with each denied proclamation for most of their sophomore year, and still did, but less often and now with a sense of place every time she encountered a smart rebuttal and rolled eye. Monkey had slightly protuberant eyes, and could do a spectacular eye roll.
"I need to drive Candy to the doctor tomorrow, so I can have the truck?" Beth was driving a family friend who'd been ill to the doctor's every day she was home since she'd noticed Candy coughing and not recovering well at a holiday party they were hosting. The day after, Maria had assumed that Beth meant to drive their neighbor once. Beth made a point of calling Candy before she came home to arrange it, which effectively meant that she just radiated Yes to Candy and didn't ask until the night before, as if Maria didn't have her own chauffers' obligations (she didn't, since her changing eyesight made her feel insecure behind any steering wheel.) Maria never protested the imposition or the total apathy regarding the gas tank- she would just be getting a diminished amount of the money she'd already given to Beth for necessities: it was as if her daughter was a very inefficient money laundering scheme- because she was too proud of her to bring it up. She knew she'd become teary if she tried to look in her daughter's eyes and tell her that she was doing a good, a wonderful thing.
"Of course." Maria smiled and held it until Beth turned in her direction and saw it. She scowled back.
"I can't believe she would do that. I couldn't believe it, I guess, but now I have to, so..." Beth's eyes were red from the crying Maria knew Beth had cried in the car and in the bathroom, doors locked. "She knows I love that jacket, she knows it. And she takes it, and I don't know- she said she didn't. I'm attached to it, I can't help it." Maria had no idea what jacket she was talking about, but she tsk'd in the appropriate pauses. Beth looked directly at her mother. Maria was just a little shocked when she saw these new, shared tears. She fought the urge to heave herself upward onto her feet so that she could rush Beth and just hold her for a short while.
"Did she call you back last night-" Maria started, working hard to be casual, but it backfired and Beth couldn't hold herself still. Maria did hoist herself up then, went to the bed, and stupidly picked up some laundry and put it back down again.
"She didn't! She never called me back, Mom! What the hell did I do?" And sob, and sob again. Maria put down the handful of panties she was not-folding. "I guess I have to find another roommate, which is going to be hell right before the mid-terms. Fuck."
It was the cursing that decided it. She knew that Beth was rich in cuss words, because she and Beth were Facebook friends, which meant that about once a month or so she got to read Beth's foul exclamations about the party she and her girlfriends had been to the night before. The cursing was the same no matter what kind of time they'd had. Once the Saturday night party had been boring, and that elicited the same amount of garbage-mouthed chatter from her and her friends as had a truly terrible party the previous weekend. However, she was considerate and smart enough to not curse in front of neighbors or visiting relatives or her mother. So: the tears were bad enough, they were horrible- but the slipped obscenity was what tore it. Maria was certain of her words. She was confident that this was the right time. She recognized this as the parenting moment she'd been grimly but resolutely waiting for- and she took that moment and made it stand still for some mug shots.
"Elizabeth. My honey." She walked over to her girl and touched her shoulder. "Monkey was in the wrong, she definitely was. I think you should basically hunt her down and sit on her until she tells you why she would take it, and I think you should stay there until she explained why the lying about it. That's the hardest bit, I think." Maria paused, checking her words to correct any overly passionate tone. "I think you should keep yourself open, though. Friends are hard things to lose. Remember when Linda and I fought and then I wrote her that break-up letter? I still think about her. So losing her didn't solve my- feelings about it. If you know what I mean. Ok, ah, you don't know what I mean." Maria drew a deep breath through her nose and slowly blew it out of her mouth, tongue pressed firmly upward like she'd learned in her meditation classes.
"I think that's horrible..." Beth couldn't continue. She was clearly tired of crying but her body wasn't done yet, so her mother stood with her arm around Beth until she could continue talking.
"It seems like things would be fixed if you could throw her out, right? But they aren't fixed by things like that, and people are human and fuck up. We fuck up a lot. We do, she does, everybody does, woo hoo. Just leave it open. No matter what you try your friends are going to disappoint you, and then you're going to disappoint them, because that's how it works. If you leave your head open to letting her get back in with you, you'll be happier. Seems weird, but that's how it works." Maria resisted another urge: she wanted to bow. She tried the breathing, but Beth had grown silent and still and all her mother could do was wait.
Finally she looked up. She looked calm and miserable. Maria suddenly thought that she looked somewhat like her father. "I'm going to go downstairs and bake now." It was a good sign, maybe a good sign, Maria thought. "Do we have vanilla? Last time I wanted to bake we were out."
Maria nodded, and they left the undone packing where it lay.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Point Taken, Part 1 of 3
This mom, whose name was Maria (named after no one in particular: her parents had both been confined within the tacit expectations of having a family name so they'd named her Maria even though neither of them was Italian,) was getting out of the car with her child. She was thirteen. Maria found her difficult.
In this instance, the child was listening to music on Maria's phone, draining its' already anemic battery. This was after she'd drained the battery in her own device (it had been a long, car ride to the home of an aunt they rarely saw and whose name neither of them could recall; it had been a ride filled with the weak dread only visits to marginalized family members can produce,) and she'd asked Maria if she could use the phone. Maria was pleased with the manners her daughter employed and handed over her phone. The child forgot to thank her, but it had been good enough. Maria made sure that her radio's volume was soft so that it didnt' interfere with the phones' borrowed, barely tolerable mom-music. Then they'd arrived, and they'd parked, and Maria had gotten out of the car but the child sat and listened. Maria had to yell and push on her shoulder three times before there was a response.
"Yes?" Maria's daughter said. Her tone was less than terrific.
"We're here" said her mother, and stood there looking at the girl with the classic expectant expression that all children instinctively loathe.
"And?" she replied, and looked at her mother with the equally classic teenager's glare, unnecessarily emphasising that she thought her mother was stupid.
Maria had had enough. "Give me my phone" she demanded, and when it was proffered snatched it and checked the battery. Predictably, it told her it was just about to shut itself down for lack of a power source, and she cursed because she had left the charger in the other car.
"Nice language for Aunt Dorothy, Mom." The child tried to duck around Maria and casually race to the safety of the aunt's front door and the subsequent blame-free attention, but Maria went to her local YMCA for Boot Camp Fitness three or four times per week and easily blocked her..
"This attitude is really grating on me, Beth. Do you think you should do something here? Is there a better way to speak to me?" Maria had named her lovely child Elizabeth, because it meant gentle or welcoming or some other laudable personality trait. For most of her life the name had been a good fit. But Beth just stood there and looked hurt and then defiant and then hurt again. It was had to tell which of those feelings was the more accessible feeling, the one most open to some gentle chiding, so Maria made the executive decision to go with the hurt part. "Listen: you have to play nicely here, ok? You have to be on that good behavior, because Aunt Dorothy-"
"Aunt Lucretia," Beth interrupted. "I think. I think it's Lucretia, Aunt Lucretia."
"Right, thank you, Aunt Lucretia- an she's family, and we don't see her much but Grandma does. So if you're going to be a punk about this day, Grandma's going to get no end of grief and bullshit from Aunt Lucretia." Maria found it harder and harder to hold back the occasional curse word around her daughter; mostly it was when she was ranting to another parent about something having to do with their children's environs and Beth was well within earshot, but lately she'd slipped when speaking directly to her. Instead of deepening her sarcasm, though, it softened the girl up, her reaction exactly as if she were a pre-schooler being promised something mildly scandalous, like a second snack.
Maria had paused to let that sink in to her very low reservoir of personal strength: she'd made Beth turn her frown from down to parallel with the ground (not "upside down," as the expression normally went, but improvement was improvement,) and she wanted to let it settle with her before she spoke some more, which she knew she must. She thought of her Beth and what she hoped for the girl: friends, status, a compassionate tone to her voice, a lack of body image issues. These following words had to be golden. She immediately squashed an impulse to bring up Beth's overly lavish use of mascara.
She started: "Honey, I resent the time we have to take to do this. I do too, I do. I can think of a hundred and three things that I'd rather be doing. Some of the stuff, I'll be honest, is on my list, like old chores that I never get to and some paperwork that the state wants from me. I was thinking how sad it was that I want to get some chores done instead of being here at- at Aunt Lucretia's? I think you're right- and I was also thinking that it must be worse for you. The stuff you'd rather do. You're right, and frustrated."
Beth was looking at her sidelong and, it seemed, not thinking about her escape from between her wily mother and the car. Maria saw the finale, and she dropped and pinned it. "You should do the music and your clarinet and the walking around with friends now. It's your time to do it; it's my time to pay the bills. But while we're here- and we have to do this, I really mean it, it's just a thing that you do for your family and good friends, it makes them feel comforted, for some reason- you have to take some of that time and focus it on your aunt or your grandfather or whatever. Then you go back to your friends and hobbies and my phone. It's just being kind. The kindness is what makes everything work." Maria was fairly panting by the end of this.
"Everything how?" asked Beth. For the first time since she'd been eleven she looked fully intrigued by something her mother had said to her.
"Can we talk about it on the car ride back? I really need a drink. A beer. I need one of those." Maria was parched and didn't want to continue for fear of getting nodes and having her daughter reject her wisdom once her voice changed into that of a heavy smokers'. Also she knew better than to over-reach. Beth didn't smile at Maria, but when they turned to go into the aunt's house together she took her mother's hand like she'd done many times before, except for lately. Maria had the presence of mind to not make a bid deal out of it.
"I'll try nice," said Beth, and after a pause, "don't expect me to be perfect about it." Maria turned her head just a little and smiled, out of Beth's field of vision.
In this instance, the child was listening to music on Maria's phone, draining its' already anemic battery. This was after she'd drained the battery in her own device (it had been a long, car ride to the home of an aunt they rarely saw and whose name neither of them could recall; it had been a ride filled with the weak dread only visits to marginalized family members can produce,) and she'd asked Maria if she could use the phone. Maria was pleased with the manners her daughter employed and handed over her phone. The child forgot to thank her, but it had been good enough. Maria made sure that her radio's volume was soft so that it didnt' interfere with the phones' borrowed, barely tolerable mom-music. Then they'd arrived, and they'd parked, and Maria had gotten out of the car but the child sat and listened. Maria had to yell and push on her shoulder three times before there was a response.
"Yes?" Maria's daughter said. Her tone was less than terrific.
"We're here" said her mother, and stood there looking at the girl with the classic expectant expression that all children instinctively loathe.
"And?" she replied, and looked at her mother with the equally classic teenager's glare, unnecessarily emphasising that she thought her mother was stupid.
Maria had had enough. "Give me my phone" she demanded, and when it was proffered snatched it and checked the battery. Predictably, it told her it was just about to shut itself down for lack of a power source, and she cursed because she had left the charger in the other car.
"Nice language for Aunt Dorothy, Mom." The child tried to duck around Maria and casually race to the safety of the aunt's front door and the subsequent blame-free attention, but Maria went to her local YMCA for Boot Camp Fitness three or four times per week and easily blocked her..
"This attitude is really grating on me, Beth. Do you think you should do something here? Is there a better way to speak to me?" Maria had named her lovely child Elizabeth, because it meant gentle or welcoming or some other laudable personality trait. For most of her life the name had been a good fit. But Beth just stood there and looked hurt and then defiant and then hurt again. It was had to tell which of those feelings was the more accessible feeling, the one most open to some gentle chiding, so Maria made the executive decision to go with the hurt part. "Listen: you have to play nicely here, ok? You have to be on that good behavior, because Aunt Dorothy-"
"Aunt Lucretia," Beth interrupted. "I think. I think it's Lucretia, Aunt Lucretia."
"Right, thank you, Aunt Lucretia- an she's family, and we don't see her much but Grandma does. So if you're going to be a punk about this day, Grandma's going to get no end of grief and bullshit from Aunt Lucretia." Maria found it harder and harder to hold back the occasional curse word around her daughter; mostly it was when she was ranting to another parent about something having to do with their children's environs and Beth was well within earshot, but lately she'd slipped when speaking directly to her. Instead of deepening her sarcasm, though, it softened the girl up, her reaction exactly as if she were a pre-schooler being promised something mildly scandalous, like a second snack.
Maria had paused to let that sink in to her very low reservoir of personal strength: she'd made Beth turn her frown from down to parallel with the ground (not "upside down," as the expression normally went, but improvement was improvement,) and she wanted to let it settle with her before she spoke some more, which she knew she must. She thought of her Beth and what she hoped for the girl: friends, status, a compassionate tone to her voice, a lack of body image issues. These following words had to be golden. She immediately squashed an impulse to bring up Beth's overly lavish use of mascara.
She started: "Honey, I resent the time we have to take to do this. I do too, I do. I can think of a hundred and three things that I'd rather be doing. Some of the stuff, I'll be honest, is on my list, like old chores that I never get to and some paperwork that the state wants from me. I was thinking how sad it was that I want to get some chores done instead of being here at- at Aunt Lucretia's? I think you're right- and I was also thinking that it must be worse for you. The stuff you'd rather do. You're right, and frustrated."
Beth was looking at her sidelong and, it seemed, not thinking about her escape from between her wily mother and the car. Maria saw the finale, and she dropped and pinned it. "You should do the music and your clarinet and the walking around with friends now. It's your time to do it; it's my time to pay the bills. But while we're here- and we have to do this, I really mean it, it's just a thing that you do for your family and good friends, it makes them feel comforted, for some reason- you have to take some of that time and focus it on your aunt or your grandfather or whatever. Then you go back to your friends and hobbies and my phone. It's just being kind. The kindness is what makes everything work." Maria was fairly panting by the end of this.
"Everything how?" asked Beth. For the first time since she'd been eleven she looked fully intrigued by something her mother had said to her.
"Can we talk about it on the car ride back? I really need a drink. A beer. I need one of those." Maria was parched and didn't want to continue for fear of getting nodes and having her daughter reject her wisdom once her voice changed into that of a heavy smokers'. Also she knew better than to over-reach. Beth didn't smile at Maria, but when they turned to go into the aunt's house together she took her mother's hand like she'd done many times before, except for lately. Maria had the presence of mind to not make a bid deal out of it.
"I'll try nice," said Beth, and after a pause, "don't expect me to be perfect about it." Maria turned her head just a little and smiled, out of Beth's field of vision.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Letting Things Happen
There is so much bad stuff that would happen if I just let it. And letting it happen is easy, so easy, easy enough that I'm usually doing just that before I realise it and three or four things have already trundled off on their merry, very bad way. For example:
This morning my hands were malfunctioning in a very basic way and I dropped a knife, a napkin, and a glass of milk. The milk went everywhere- on the seat, on the floor, on the bills that were sitting there minding their own business and exuding that adult, responsible aura that unmailed payments exude. I was frustrated and a little teeny bit mad at myself, so I let the nanobots that I got for my husband's birthday out of the plastic baggie to clean up the mess. (I know what you're saying to yourself: "Christ, Jenn's gifts suck" and "that was just awful that she opened it before he got home from his business trip, she can't wait eight days? Who does that?" and "Next X-mas remind me to suggest to Jenn that we never exchange gifts again, ok?" These questions are all right and just, but read me out.) I figured that the nanobots were engineered to clean things- or that they should be- and so would learn from the experience and be the best nanobots that ever a wife bought for her husband on eBay. (If you want to get some of these fantastic nanobots for yourself- which I wouldn't if I were you- just search "insane stuff that shouldn't be for sale on eBay" at the website.) Ok, so- barely perceptible robot cleaners, milk spill- piece of cake, right?
I'll tell you what's not a piece of cake: getting the nanobots to stop making so much noise that they wake the whole building. Milk is like grain alcohol to nanobots- something the general public does not know, and a good explanation for why nanobots aren't sold at Target. For such a bunch of bitty pieces of advanced machinery, the bots can really raise a ruckus- and none of it is very palatable at 7:30 in the morning (I'm a stickler for those sorts of etiquette rules- things like "One must begin using the silverware at one's place setting from the outside in" and "One should never bring up donkey-on-person sexual positioning before noon." Those nanobots are raunchy.) So there I was, shushing a bunch of nit-sized cleaner nanobots who'd drunk all of the spilled milk and were moving en masse to the kitchen in search of more milk and/or some goalposts to pull down, when my phone rings. It's my daughter's school.
When the school calls this early, you know that something's up and you get nervous. It's a Pavlovian reaction that you were trained to do while you were sleeping off the labor and delivery of your future school-aged child, it seems. "Yes? HithisisJenniferwhatistheproblem?" I said, cool as a super-heated cucumber. "Hi this is Blah Blah School, everything's fine." The personnel are trained to say that, no matter what they're calling about, to counter-act your instinctive jittering. "It's just that we noticed you sent your daughter to school today without any clothes on."
I was silent for a time, because what else can you do? Deny your child's nakedness? "No I didn't" I said in as helpful a manner as I could. But alas, I had: they would have just given her clothes from their lost-and-found box, making do with the six winter hats, three mismatched gloves, one XXXL Ole Miss sweatshirt, and one tiny pink sequined purse, BUT she'd caught her left butt-cheek in the pencil sharpener and wouldn't leave the staff bathroom. "There are some staff members here who really need to use that washroom," the school person's voice said. "It's our one private bathroom, and students aren't allowed in there."
So I have to bring some clothes to my girl at school. There is some confusion about whether or not she gets to come home or if she'll be made to put on her clothes and then return to class. I'm deeply, deeply embarrassed by the fact that I'd let her leave the house naked, so intent on freeing the nanobots to clean up after me that I didn't notice my daughter's sleepwalking self hoist her backpack onto bare shoulders before I let her out the door, kissing the air around her head in a fog of cluelessness. It had been far too easy.
This morning my hands were malfunctioning in a very basic way and I dropped a knife, a napkin, and a glass of milk. The milk went everywhere- on the seat, on the floor, on the bills that were sitting there minding their own business and exuding that adult, responsible aura that unmailed payments exude. I was frustrated and a little teeny bit mad at myself, so I let the nanobots that I got for my husband's birthday out of the plastic baggie to clean up the mess. (I know what you're saying to yourself: "Christ, Jenn's gifts suck" and "that was just awful that she opened it before he got home from his business trip, she can't wait eight days? Who does that?" and "Next X-mas remind me to suggest to Jenn that we never exchange gifts again, ok?" These questions are all right and just, but read me out.) I figured that the nanobots were engineered to clean things- or that they should be- and so would learn from the experience and be the best nanobots that ever a wife bought for her husband on eBay. (If you want to get some of these fantastic nanobots for yourself- which I wouldn't if I were you- just search "insane stuff that shouldn't be for sale on eBay" at the website.) Ok, so- barely perceptible robot cleaners, milk spill- piece of cake, right?
I'll tell you what's not a piece of cake: getting the nanobots to stop making so much noise that they wake the whole building. Milk is like grain alcohol to nanobots- something the general public does not know, and a good explanation for why nanobots aren't sold at Target. For such a bunch of bitty pieces of advanced machinery, the bots can really raise a ruckus- and none of it is very palatable at 7:30 in the morning (I'm a stickler for those sorts of etiquette rules- things like "One must begin using the silverware at one's place setting from the outside in" and "One should never bring up donkey-on-person sexual positioning before noon." Those nanobots are raunchy.) So there I was, shushing a bunch of nit-sized cleaner nanobots who'd drunk all of the spilled milk and were moving en masse to the kitchen in search of more milk and/or some goalposts to pull down, when my phone rings. It's my daughter's school.
When the school calls this early, you know that something's up and you get nervous. It's a Pavlovian reaction that you were trained to do while you were sleeping off the labor and delivery of your future school-aged child, it seems. "Yes? HithisisJenniferwhatistheproblem?" I said, cool as a super-heated cucumber. "Hi this is Blah Blah School, everything's fine." The personnel are trained to say that, no matter what they're calling about, to counter-act your instinctive jittering. "It's just that we noticed you sent your daughter to school today without any clothes on."
I was silent for a time, because what else can you do? Deny your child's nakedness? "No I didn't" I said in as helpful a manner as I could. But alas, I had: they would have just given her clothes from their lost-and-found box, making do with the six winter hats, three mismatched gloves, one XXXL Ole Miss sweatshirt, and one tiny pink sequined purse, BUT she'd caught her left butt-cheek in the pencil sharpener and wouldn't leave the staff bathroom. "There are some staff members here who really need to use that washroom," the school person's voice said. "It's our one private bathroom, and students aren't allowed in there."
So I have to bring some clothes to my girl at school. There is some confusion about whether or not she gets to come home or if she'll be made to put on her clothes and then return to class. I'm deeply, deeply embarrassed by the fact that I'd let her leave the house naked, so intent on freeing the nanobots to clean up after me that I didn't notice my daughter's sleepwalking self hoist her backpack onto bare shoulders before I let her out the door, kissing the air around her head in a fog of cluelessness. It had been far too easy.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
What to Worry About
There are many things that bellow for one's attention. It's hard to prioritize; you make the attempt, but each of them are little children and have no concept of non-self, nor do they have any respect for whether or not you're drunk yet. These adamant, sticky-faced worries don't wait for you to finish your thought or drive in peace or poop. Our worries are the pre-schoolers of human emotions. Any of those who've experienced the overwhelming joyish happiness/unabidable profound suckage of raising a child can relate. Or perhaps it's me. I've been told a number of times that I'm more than a wee bit sensitive, which is a concern that comes back to me, like the burped-up taste of an omelet filled with slightly rancid meat (oh yeah, I wrote that metaphor. On purpose and everything. You're welcome.)
I can write, right? It's a panacea, but like anyone who's managed to come through the pre-school years alive, I have other stuff to do. It drives me mad. No, it makes me mad- that's more accurate. It doesn't make me spitting mad, because of the germs that would spread, but it does make me mad. I'm busy, I tell the wee worry that's looking up at me that quarter-second, but it just stands there with it's little round face and its filthy hair and the cat that it is miraculously and dangerously holding by its' tail (I have no idea what the irate cat represents, psyche-wise: shattered dreams? Fear of mortality? Rage at the generally exorbitant price of things?) So I employ my little-kid strategies:
Me: I was in the middle of something. When you want to say something, you should wait for a pause in the conv-
Worry Kid: I have this cat!
Irate Cat twists into ball of spinning danger-claws.
Worry Kid (con't): It made me bleed! It made me bleed! IT MADE ME-
Me: I see that there, yeah. That's a boo-boo, huh? I think you should hold up your leg.
Worry Kid: Then I would have to put down Angel, and I DON'T WANT TO PUT DOWN THE CAT. I. WON'T. PUT. DOWN. THE. CAT!
Irate Cat Named Angel suddenly clamps all four paws onto Worry Kid 2, who just walked up.
Me: Wow! That's just a- cat on your face, huh? Is that a cat on your face? Wow. Let's just get Angel-
Worry Kid: (hysterical) IWON'TPUTDOWNTHECATIWON'TPUTHIMDOWNSOYOUHAVETOPAYATTENTIONTOMECUZOFANGELCAT-
Worry Kid 2: (muffled under-cat voice) If you don't get this cat off my face I will tell Super -Ego that you didn't take the cat off my face, because you are bad. A very bad growd-up, very bad!
Me: Ha-ha! You're a smarty, aren't you? This reminds me of a song- why don't you two just listen and maybe Angel will come off your face, because- uh- it is a song that my Mee-Maw sang to me, and it came from--Turzistan, or something, where they have terrible great big face-cats that they had to sing off the faces of their friends all the time.
Worry Kid and Worry Kid 2 grow silent and still. Angel begins to pull claws from Worry Kid 2's forehead and Worry Kid 2 doesn't make a sound, which becomes creepy very fast.
A silence. Finally Worry Kid 2 whispers-
Worry Kid 2: You lied about the cat-face song. You never had a Mee-Maw, ever. There is going to be so much trouble! You're in the trouble soup!
Me: I could kill you both.
Worry Kid and Worry Kid 2 dance out of reach. Angel perches on Worry Kid's left shoulder.
Worry Kids: No you cant' no you can't- we're just representations and representations don't get caught, we just change into Worry Pets, la-la-la...
Me: (lifts vodka bottle; guzzling sounds)
FIN.
I'm seeing that kind of as a Sondheim/Coppolla/Tarantino joint venture. And hey, thanks for your time- I'll just leave the script right here. Yeah, I have to get back home- I have all kinds of other things to worry about today.
...
I can write, right? It's a panacea, but like anyone who's managed to come through the pre-school years alive, I have other stuff to do. It drives me mad. No, it makes me mad- that's more accurate. It doesn't make me spitting mad, because of the germs that would spread, but it does make me mad. I'm busy, I tell the wee worry that's looking up at me that quarter-second, but it just stands there with it's little round face and its filthy hair and the cat that it is miraculously and dangerously holding by its' tail (I have no idea what the irate cat represents, psyche-wise: shattered dreams? Fear of mortality? Rage at the generally exorbitant price of things?) So I employ my little-kid strategies:
Me: I was in the middle of something. When you want to say something, you should wait for a pause in the conv-
Worry Kid: I have this cat!
Irate Cat twists into ball of spinning danger-claws.
Worry Kid (con't): It made me bleed! It made me bleed! IT MADE ME-
Me: I see that there, yeah. That's a boo-boo, huh? I think you should hold up your leg.
Worry Kid: Then I would have to put down Angel, and I DON'T WANT TO PUT DOWN THE CAT. I. WON'T. PUT. DOWN. THE. CAT!
Irate Cat Named Angel suddenly clamps all four paws onto Worry Kid 2, who just walked up.
Me: Wow! That's just a- cat on your face, huh? Is that a cat on your face? Wow. Let's just get Angel-
Worry Kid: (hysterical) IWON'TPUTDOWNTHECATIWON'TPUTHIMDOWNSOYOUHAVETOPAYATTENTIONTOMECUZOFANGELCAT-
Worry Kid 2: (muffled under-cat voice) If you don't get this cat off my face I will tell Super -Ego that you didn't take the cat off my face, because you are bad. A very bad growd-up, very bad!
Me: Ha-ha! You're a smarty, aren't you? This reminds me of a song- why don't you two just listen and maybe Angel will come off your face, because- uh- it is a song that my Mee-Maw sang to me, and it came from--Turzistan, or something, where they have terrible great big face-cats that they had to sing off the faces of their friends all the time.
Worry Kid and Worry Kid 2 grow silent and still. Angel begins to pull claws from Worry Kid 2's forehead and Worry Kid 2 doesn't make a sound, which becomes creepy very fast.
A silence. Finally Worry Kid 2 whispers-
Worry Kid 2: You lied about the cat-face song. You never had a Mee-Maw, ever. There is going to be so much trouble! You're in the trouble soup!
Me: I could kill you both.
Worry Kid and Worry Kid 2 dance out of reach. Angel perches on Worry Kid's left shoulder.
Worry Kids: No you cant' no you can't- we're just representations and representations don't get caught, we just change into Worry Pets, la-la-la...
Me: (lifts vodka bottle; guzzling sounds)
FIN.
I'm seeing that kind of as a Sondheim/Coppolla/Tarantino joint venture. And hey, thanks for your time- I'll just leave the script right here. Yeah, I have to get back home- I have all kinds of other things to worry about today.
...
Friday, January 11, 2013
Gun Control
Jackson laid newspapers on the floor in his rec room. The pages lay there apathetically, just waiting for some chance to blow away or get stuck on a shoe; Jackson opened his ladder and put it in the center of the spread. He climbed the two rungs and put his duster on the paint ledge that angled down. The paint ledge was clearly marked as such, claiming itself Not a Step. Jackson had no intention of stepping on it.
He looked up at the ceiling fan that he intended to clean. It was disgusting. He had let it go and let it go, and the months added up- and in summer the thing had been going full-speed three-quarters of the time he was awake in the house, and half the time he was asleep. The sleeping room had to be chilled, because of his asthma. He'd been warned by some young, concerned man in the ER that he'd driven himself to the last time he attempted to sleep in a warm bedroom. The concerned man had been very clear about an avoidance of an overheated, or sometimes just heated, sleeping room; he'd been adamant about Jackson taking medications- new medications that were in addition to his old baby blue inhaler- or risking another trip to the ER. This time in an ambulance, this time not so lucky- you could die, he'd said.
Jackson supposed he was taking his life in his hands every night he didn't turn on the AC. This was every other night, a system he'd concocted to more evenly balance the load on his power sources. He enjoyed telling people how much money he saved by using the ceiling fan, but he took his new medication with great attention to the instructions on the bottle, to the point where he set an alarm on his phone that whirred at him every six hours, and he would interrupt whatever he was doing- it could be anything at all - to take the dark blue pill. He was secretly gratified that his new pills and his old inhaler matched.
The ceiling fan had not cleaned itself while he was gathering wool, Jackson thought, trying to engage his normally healthy sense of humor, but the thing irked him. It was filthy, fringed with dust on the blades, one side of each blade furred with it. He hated this chore- no, he hated this type of chore: the thankless one, the invisible one, the chore that was necessary and needed attention far more often than it ought, the one that no one saw. And worse was the crick in the neck from looking up that needed two or three days to recover- that was just indecent. Jackson clamped his teeth together, and remembered to unclench them to avoid wear on his molars, which were already sloping upward in his gums from his bruxism. He looked at his nasty fan. It didn't move. He employed his duster, hoping that its' weeness and general lack of substance was not an indication of its' efficiency.
Naturally it was. Jackson and his duster had had many other ridiculous chores to do, and it was the same. It was no match for the ceiling fan. The ceiling fan practically laughed at the duster, though he didn't know if it was in derision or was ticklish (he had a good imagination.) Frustration clouded him, and while he was making up scenes of a sparkling and contrite ceiling fan he put his hand on the paint ledge and leaned, which was just a bit too much for the ladder. They tipped and then fell, and a bit of the dust in question fell with them, landing on Jackson's chest. He'd unthinkingly put on a new shirt that morning- nothing fancy, just a work shirt to replace an old one, but one that he'd taken time to choose and that had energizing colors- and the dust that fell was just a small clot, but the shirt was begrimed nonetheless. Jackson himself was fine. He'd turned mid-fall to land on his side and then half-rolled, careful not to tense his hands or feet, avoiding a sprain.
He left everything as it lay. He went to his study and approached his gun cabinet, which was gleaming from Jackson's care of it; because it was floor-level it was much easier to keep clean. He loved his gun cabinet- it was oak, and oak that had been harvested in a forest of older oaks, not from some sapling from one of the chagrined logging industry's environmentally improved tree farms. He had no objection to environmentalism on the whole, but in this case he'd made an exception: it was an investment. It was stained simply, an excellent work of carpentry, solid as a tombstone. He opened it with the key he kept on his key chain and took out his old hunting rifle. The gun was a 30-06 and the stock gleamed, though he hadn't been out to hunt or to the range in two years- he cleaned all of his guns on a monthly basis. He put the rifle on his desk and went to another cabinet that was across the room. He used the key that had been stored in the gun cabinet to open the locked drawer and took out the long, elegant bullets and the magazine, which held five of them. He took them into the room with the terrible ceiling fan.
From the doorway he aimed at the fan, gentling the custom grip, then brought it down again to load the magazine; everything worked beautifully, making all the reassuring noises: the clicking, the chunk-chunk sound of the magazine filling its' station. The first shot was precise, hitting the tubing that held the the fan's umbilical wiring. The second completed the severing and the fan fell on top of the ladder and newspapers. He shot each of the remaining three bullets at a blade and they each exploded in big sprays of dust and linoleum shrapnel, coating the couch and armchair with what looked like volcanic ash. Jackson's ears had started ringing unpleasantly after the second shot. It was quite different shooting in such a small enclosed space than in the woods or on the range. At the range he wore protective ear muffles, and in the woods there was greenery and space, which made shooting feel the most instinctive and right. Jackson wasted no ammunition on a hunt. He looked down upon hunters who didn't discipline themselves enough to refrain from making a bad shot. By the fourth shot it had occurred to him that he should have used his Luger.
The hated fan was all over the room, no longer a helpful household fixture. He surveyed the damage, rifle hanging empty, pointing at the carpet. What a mess, he thought. It was a much bigger mess than he'd anticipated, somehow. He was surprised. He stared at the remains and tabulated how much cleaning there was to do now that it wasn't the fan but the furniture, which was trickier. He'd not thought about thickets of dust and how difficult it was going to be to get it out of the upholstery. Jackson stood there, stymied, for a full four minutes. Finally he decided the first order of business would be to clean his gun and left the room.
He looked up at the ceiling fan that he intended to clean. It was disgusting. He had let it go and let it go, and the months added up- and in summer the thing had been going full-speed three-quarters of the time he was awake in the house, and half the time he was asleep. The sleeping room had to be chilled, because of his asthma. He'd been warned by some young, concerned man in the ER that he'd driven himself to the last time he attempted to sleep in a warm bedroom. The concerned man had been very clear about an avoidance of an overheated, or sometimes just heated, sleeping room; he'd been adamant about Jackson taking medications- new medications that were in addition to his old baby blue inhaler- or risking another trip to the ER. This time in an ambulance, this time not so lucky- you could die, he'd said.
Jackson supposed he was taking his life in his hands every night he didn't turn on the AC. This was every other night, a system he'd concocted to more evenly balance the load on his power sources. He enjoyed telling people how much money he saved by using the ceiling fan, but he took his new medication with great attention to the instructions on the bottle, to the point where he set an alarm on his phone that whirred at him every six hours, and he would interrupt whatever he was doing- it could be anything at all - to take the dark blue pill. He was secretly gratified that his new pills and his old inhaler matched.
The ceiling fan had not cleaned itself while he was gathering wool, Jackson thought, trying to engage his normally healthy sense of humor, but the thing irked him. It was filthy, fringed with dust on the blades, one side of each blade furred with it. He hated this chore- no, he hated this type of chore: the thankless one, the invisible one, the chore that was necessary and needed attention far more often than it ought, the one that no one saw. And worse was the crick in the neck from looking up that needed two or three days to recover- that was just indecent. Jackson clamped his teeth together, and remembered to unclench them to avoid wear on his molars, which were already sloping upward in his gums from his bruxism. He looked at his nasty fan. It didn't move. He employed his duster, hoping that its' weeness and general lack of substance was not an indication of its' efficiency.
Naturally it was. Jackson and his duster had had many other ridiculous chores to do, and it was the same. It was no match for the ceiling fan. The ceiling fan practically laughed at the duster, though he didn't know if it was in derision or was ticklish (he had a good imagination.) Frustration clouded him, and while he was making up scenes of a sparkling and contrite ceiling fan he put his hand on the paint ledge and leaned, which was just a bit too much for the ladder. They tipped and then fell, and a bit of the dust in question fell with them, landing on Jackson's chest. He'd unthinkingly put on a new shirt that morning- nothing fancy, just a work shirt to replace an old one, but one that he'd taken time to choose and that had energizing colors- and the dust that fell was just a small clot, but the shirt was begrimed nonetheless. Jackson himself was fine. He'd turned mid-fall to land on his side and then half-rolled, careful not to tense his hands or feet, avoiding a sprain.
He left everything as it lay. He went to his study and approached his gun cabinet, which was gleaming from Jackson's care of it; because it was floor-level it was much easier to keep clean. He loved his gun cabinet- it was oak, and oak that had been harvested in a forest of older oaks, not from some sapling from one of the chagrined logging industry's environmentally improved tree farms. He had no objection to environmentalism on the whole, but in this case he'd made an exception: it was an investment. It was stained simply, an excellent work of carpentry, solid as a tombstone. He opened it with the key he kept on his key chain and took out his old hunting rifle. The gun was a 30-06 and the stock gleamed, though he hadn't been out to hunt or to the range in two years- he cleaned all of his guns on a monthly basis. He put the rifle on his desk and went to another cabinet that was across the room. He used the key that had been stored in the gun cabinet to open the locked drawer and took out the long, elegant bullets and the magazine, which held five of them. He took them into the room with the terrible ceiling fan.
From the doorway he aimed at the fan, gentling the custom grip, then brought it down again to load the magazine; everything worked beautifully, making all the reassuring noises: the clicking, the chunk-chunk sound of the magazine filling its' station. The first shot was precise, hitting the tubing that held the the fan's umbilical wiring. The second completed the severing and the fan fell on top of the ladder and newspapers. He shot each of the remaining three bullets at a blade and they each exploded in big sprays of dust and linoleum shrapnel, coating the couch and armchair with what looked like volcanic ash. Jackson's ears had started ringing unpleasantly after the second shot. It was quite different shooting in such a small enclosed space than in the woods or on the range. At the range he wore protective ear muffles, and in the woods there was greenery and space, which made shooting feel the most instinctive and right. Jackson wasted no ammunition on a hunt. He looked down upon hunters who didn't discipline themselves enough to refrain from making a bad shot. By the fourth shot it had occurred to him that he should have used his Luger.
The hated fan was all over the room, no longer a helpful household fixture. He surveyed the damage, rifle hanging empty, pointing at the carpet. What a mess, he thought. It was a much bigger mess than he'd anticipated, somehow. He was surprised. He stared at the remains and tabulated how much cleaning there was to do now that it wasn't the fan but the furniture, which was trickier. He'd not thought about thickets of dust and how difficult it was going to be to get it out of the upholstery. Jackson stood there, stymied, for a full four minutes. Finally he decided the first order of business would be to clean his gun and left the room.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Some Shameless Grovelling
Hello good people. Thanks for reading.
This post- this particular post- is about a show I've written. Later I'll ask you for money, so if you're not up for this stop reading here. There will be another, non-show-related post soon, and hopefully you'll like that. Adios, and thanks.
Ok, so for the rest of you- the adventurers, the dreamers, the drop-dead beauties, the gentle people who will read my pandering and just smile knowingly- I thought I'd put up three different plots. It's your guess which one is my play, just about to be produced for the Curious Theater Branch's annual Rhinoceros Fringe Theatre Festival...
* The first is Howard!, a musical about the life and end-times of Howard Hughes. The story is told from the perspective of an E. Coli bacterium, who narrates, in song, the long wait for Howard Hugh's immune system to display any fatigue so that our E. Coli friend ("Ed," played with childlike glee by Thomas Mumphrys) and his friends, The Virusesses (sung in three-part harmony by Lakey McEvers, Julia Kylkylye, and Vanessa Williams.) While they keep their microscopic vigil, Ed pines for the lovely Streptococcal bacterium named Heaven (played with pert loveliness by Esther Fo) who lives at the end of Howard's longest strand of hair. The handsome and wicked Foster, an opportunistic microbe that causes Feline AIDS (played with a precise balance of lunacy and gravitas by Edward James Olmos,) intends to kidnap Heaven and turn her into a literal piece of shit, to be digested and then excreted by Mr. Howard. Will Ed be able to save her, and the Virusesses? Will Howard Hughes catch a cold, or will he die before Ed and the gang get a chance to proliferate? Only the music knows for sure in Howard!
*Next, I have a re-telling of the classic The Hairy Ape by Eugene O'Neill. My rendition takes in the societal changes that have become affixed to our national mind-scape and re-births them in the drama; it is done with our gender-Dystopian influences in full view as men appear as women, women appear as cultural archetypes, and apes appear as llamas. We have used the Prop Thtr space that houses the Rhino Fest to create a non-virtual three-ring whorehouse/industrial complex; this enables our audience matrix to include rotation of locale, involuntary participation, and inversion ("upside-downedness") scene experiences. "The Hairy Ape is an Oppidian Theatricals/Bad Breathe production gig, with artistic partners The Wooster Group, Larry Kaufman Inc., Blakke Bocks of the Upper Northwestern NJ Shakespeare Festival, Goodman Theatre, and The Puppet Bike (copyright 2009).
*The final offering is a short play that wants to make sense of the quiet and enervated distance between almost-dying and dying. Richard is a late-stage cancer patient who wants a burial mound built around him on his living room floor. Kari, his hired caretaker and possible friend, questions his sense and his sanity, but he has prepared: in the middle of the night, Richard had dug up a large quantity of large stones and put them in the cabinets. Kari tries to get Richard to focus on living. She'll do anything to get him shaken out of his own fatalism- but what she needs from Richard is much deeper than what her job description entails, and in her effort to fulfill both of these desires, there is a fundamental shift...
So, whaddaya think?
In all seriousness, I'm really honored to be part of the Festival. All of the people I'm working with here- folks you can read about by clicking on the link below- are fantastic: I couldn't have asked for better. Oppidian Theatricals is producing (thank God! I'm terrible at that stuff;) the cast is wonderful, the Director more so; and our crew is handsome and wily.
We, like everyone else, need your help to make this thing work. We've gotten some donations, and we're getting there- but, natch, we need more. If you can spare something, then many spiritual kisses for you; if not, kisses and a request to pass the link along to someone you know who might be interested. Please use the link below to make a donation or like us on FB, or Tweet us, or whatever your social media of choice provides:
http://rhinofest.com/shows/the_cairn.php (once for the money,)
http://rhinofest.com/shows/the_cairn.php (two for the show.)
By Googlin' Oppidian Theatricals you can see the website. The man in the picture is cute, don't you think?
Thanks again for being here. Next time: Explosions!!
This post- this particular post- is about a show I've written. Later I'll ask you for money, so if you're not up for this stop reading here. There will be another, non-show-related post soon, and hopefully you'll like that. Adios, and thanks.
Ok, so for the rest of you- the adventurers, the dreamers, the drop-dead beauties, the gentle people who will read my pandering and just smile knowingly- I thought I'd put up three different plots. It's your guess which one is my play, just about to be produced for the Curious Theater Branch's annual Rhinoceros Fringe Theatre Festival...
* The first is Howard!, a musical about the life and end-times of Howard Hughes. The story is told from the perspective of an E. Coli bacterium, who narrates, in song, the long wait for Howard Hugh's immune system to display any fatigue so that our E. Coli friend ("Ed," played with childlike glee by Thomas Mumphrys) and his friends, The Virusesses (sung in three-part harmony by Lakey McEvers, Julia Kylkylye, and Vanessa Williams.) While they keep their microscopic vigil, Ed pines for the lovely Streptococcal bacterium named Heaven (played with pert loveliness by Esther Fo) who lives at the end of Howard's longest strand of hair. The handsome and wicked Foster, an opportunistic microbe that causes Feline AIDS (played with a precise balance of lunacy and gravitas by Edward James Olmos,) intends to kidnap Heaven and turn her into a literal piece of shit, to be digested and then excreted by Mr. Howard. Will Ed be able to save her, and the Virusesses? Will Howard Hughes catch a cold, or will he die before Ed and the gang get a chance to proliferate? Only the music knows for sure in Howard!
*Next, I have a re-telling of the classic The Hairy Ape by Eugene O'Neill. My rendition takes in the societal changes that have become affixed to our national mind-scape and re-births them in the drama; it is done with our gender-Dystopian influences in full view as men appear as women, women appear as cultural archetypes, and apes appear as llamas. We have used the Prop Thtr space that houses the Rhino Fest to create a non-virtual three-ring whorehouse/industrial complex; this enables our audience matrix to include rotation of locale, involuntary participation, and inversion ("upside-downedness") scene experiences. "The Hairy Ape is an Oppidian Theatricals/Bad Breathe production gig, with artistic partners The Wooster Group, Larry Kaufman Inc., Blakke Bocks of the Upper Northwestern NJ Shakespeare Festival, Goodman Theatre, and The Puppet Bike (copyright 2009).
*The final offering is a short play that wants to make sense of the quiet and enervated distance between almost-dying and dying. Richard is a late-stage cancer patient who wants a burial mound built around him on his living room floor. Kari, his hired caretaker and possible friend, questions his sense and his sanity, but he has prepared: in the middle of the night, Richard had dug up a large quantity of large stones and put them in the cabinets. Kari tries to get Richard to focus on living. She'll do anything to get him shaken out of his own fatalism- but what she needs from Richard is much deeper than what her job description entails, and in her effort to fulfill both of these desires, there is a fundamental shift...
So, whaddaya think?
In all seriousness, I'm really honored to be part of the Festival. All of the people I'm working with here- folks you can read about by clicking on the link below- are fantastic: I couldn't have asked for better. Oppidian Theatricals is producing (thank God! I'm terrible at that stuff;) the cast is wonderful, the Director more so; and our crew is handsome and wily.
We, like everyone else, need your help to make this thing work. We've gotten some donations, and we're getting there- but, natch, we need more. If you can spare something, then many spiritual kisses for you; if not, kisses and a request to pass the link along to someone you know who might be interested. Please use the link below to make a donation or like us on FB, or Tweet us, or whatever your social media of choice provides:
http://rhinofest.com/shows/the_cairn.php (once for the money,)
http://rhinofest.com/shows/the_cairn.php (two for the show.)
By Googlin' Oppidian Theatricals you can see the website. The man in the picture is cute, don't you think?
Thanks again for being here. Next time: Explosions!!
Saturday, January 5, 2013
How to Tell if You're the One Being an Asshole
I should have realized that a reckoning was coming. Was here, actually.
This Reckoning was so accustomed to showing up, in fact, that by now it was fairly casual and would just bring reading materials with it so that it could sit on the couch and wait for me to catch up. Which I haven't, because fuck the Reckoning, you know? It had no idea- no idea- what it's like to be me; the pain, the fog, the unsureness and the aging teeth, not to mention everything I had done for the Reckoning that one time. Plus, this is how we did it when I was growing up. How did the Reckoning argue with it's parents when it was just a Firm Thought and still lived under the Roof of Righteousness with it's parents, Bill and Halle? I bet they were all forthright with each other. I can picture them getting angry and then standing around in their sunken shag-carpeted living room, telling uncomfortable truths to each other in respectful turns. That is not how we did it.
In our house, there was one person (Dad) who would be the one who eventually shouted us all down. That wasn't hard, because we weren't shouters by nature. So if one of us (Dad) became angry and we would not acquiesce, the shouting would stop things. There was a sense that the reciprocal shouting just wasn't worth the trouble: there would be hurtful feelings (Me) and perhaps things spit through clenched teeth (Mom) and something else that I didn't notice (Sister.) So that's how I play it, and I love it that way, and now here comes Ol' Reckoning in it's jeans and the smugness all it's stocking feet up on the coffee table. Reel it out like I do, friend, or there will be absolutely no communication betwixt us. Because you have no idea how hard it is, how much I toil, or the trouble I've seen-
Oh shit.
How to Tell if You're the One Being the Asshole:
1) You start informing someone about your hardship or circumstances or old grievances in list form. Any time you're in an argument and you feel the need to enlighten your anger-receptacle about things they certainly already know, you're the Asshole.
2) Using words like "Always" or "Never" How often do you hear yourself saying "You always decide it's a great idea to drag race in the alley behind our house at one in the morning. The fact that I'm performing incredibly delicate and harrowing neurosurgery at six in the morning never even crosses your mind, And don't you dare use my last pair of fresh fishnet stockings out there, because you never rinse them out!" You used those words, and even though you are in the right because the same thing happens every Easter and you're sick of the shameful visits to the ER to get glass picked out of your loved one's grimy tranny knee...you're the Asshole.
3) You stop listening to your loved one's ranting to roll your eyes/leave the room to get more whiskey/make a phone call. You do this in spite of, or because, it makes the loved one shut up. They know- oh, they know- they've been made to zip it, and they will begin the fuming and resentment and plots to hire the very next assassin they meet to kill you in a way that almost makes it look like an accident. Almost. So stop yourself the next time you feel the urge to roll/leave/make a phone call, or you may be the victim of a horrible and suspicious kitchen accident involving the food disposal - and all because you were the Asshole.
4)You shut up because of some ill-informed thing your loved one did during your brilliant oratory on why you are the one who understands and should be obeyed. The second you do that, the very second, is when you begin the plotting {see item #3.} And also you shouldn't start thinking about who you're going to go out and kiss once you and your impending ex-partner break up already. It feels great because you get to be as vindicated and king-or-queenly as you want in this fantasy, and you do it so you can get to the best part. That's where your ex comes back and admits to the current wrong and all the past wrongs and all the made-up wrongs and lies prostrate at your feet, begging for either your forgiveness or your signing of the papers for their execution. Guess what? You're the Asshole.
5) Your loved one tells you you're an Asshole.
Reckoning is nodding at me now, and that smug puss has just gotten smugger. It makes me want to do something awful to it, like spill some coffee on it's white button-down, but for right now I won't. I think we both know why.
This Reckoning was so accustomed to showing up, in fact, that by now it was fairly casual and would just bring reading materials with it so that it could sit on the couch and wait for me to catch up. Which I haven't, because fuck the Reckoning, you know? It had no idea- no idea- what it's like to be me; the pain, the fog, the unsureness and the aging teeth, not to mention everything I had done for the Reckoning that one time. Plus, this is how we did it when I was growing up. How did the Reckoning argue with it's parents when it was just a Firm Thought and still lived under the Roof of Righteousness with it's parents, Bill and Halle? I bet they were all forthright with each other. I can picture them getting angry and then standing around in their sunken shag-carpeted living room, telling uncomfortable truths to each other in respectful turns. That is not how we did it.
In our house, there was one person (Dad) who would be the one who eventually shouted us all down. That wasn't hard, because we weren't shouters by nature. So if one of us (Dad) became angry and we would not acquiesce, the shouting would stop things. There was a sense that the reciprocal shouting just wasn't worth the trouble: there would be hurtful feelings (Me) and perhaps things spit through clenched teeth (Mom) and something else that I didn't notice (Sister.) So that's how I play it, and I love it that way, and now here comes Ol' Reckoning in it's jeans and the smugness all it's stocking feet up on the coffee table. Reel it out like I do, friend, or there will be absolutely no communication betwixt us. Because you have no idea how hard it is, how much I toil, or the trouble I've seen-
Oh shit.
How to Tell if You're the One Being the Asshole:
1) You start informing someone about your hardship or circumstances or old grievances in list form. Any time you're in an argument and you feel the need to enlighten your anger-receptacle about things they certainly already know, you're the Asshole.
2) Using words like "Always" or "Never" How often do you hear yourself saying "You always decide it's a great idea to drag race in the alley behind our house at one in the morning. The fact that I'm performing incredibly delicate and harrowing neurosurgery at six in the morning never even crosses your mind, And don't you dare use my last pair of fresh fishnet stockings out there, because you never rinse them out!" You used those words, and even though you are in the right because the same thing happens every Easter and you're sick of the shameful visits to the ER to get glass picked out of your loved one's grimy tranny knee...you're the Asshole.
3) You stop listening to your loved one's ranting to roll your eyes/leave the room to get more whiskey/make a phone call. You do this in spite of, or because, it makes the loved one shut up. They know- oh, they know- they've been made to zip it, and they will begin the fuming and resentment and plots to hire the very next assassin they meet to kill you in a way that almost makes it look like an accident. Almost. So stop yourself the next time you feel the urge to roll/leave/make a phone call, or you may be the victim of a horrible and suspicious kitchen accident involving the food disposal - and all because you were the Asshole.
4)You shut up because of some ill-informed thing your loved one did during your brilliant oratory on why you are the one who understands and should be obeyed. The second you do that, the very second, is when you begin the plotting {see item #3.} And also you shouldn't start thinking about who you're going to go out and kiss once you and your impending ex-partner break up already. It feels great because you get to be as vindicated and king-or-queenly as you want in this fantasy, and you do it so you can get to the best part. That's where your ex comes back and admits to the current wrong and all the past wrongs and all the made-up wrongs and lies prostrate at your feet, begging for either your forgiveness or your signing of the papers for their execution. Guess what? You're the Asshole.
5) Your loved one tells you you're an Asshole.
Reckoning is nodding at me now, and that smug puss has just gotten smugger. It makes me want to do something awful to it, like spill some coffee on it's white button-down, but for right now I won't. I think we both know why.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Dog Head
When I woke up this morning I had the head of a Shi-Tzu. My fur was all in a ratty halo from sleeping on it, and also because I was no kind of self-groomer. I presumed this when I looked in the mirror. My face was all smushed in, and after a second it looked more so because I was surprised, then annoyed. I wasn't alarmed at all. I was annoyed to think that someone had unwittingly (it had to be unwitting, because I could think of no earthly reason why someone would purposely do this) switched my head for a Shi-Tzu's, and now I'd have to spend my day looking for my own head. I pictured a little off-white dog with four legs and a tail and my head, which hadn't even had it's teeth brushed yet.
No one was up yet, so I called Tech Support. After the wait and the button-pushing a pleasant voice came on the line.
"Thank you for calling the System System's Technical Support." I had pushed in the numbers of my account while waiting for help, so she had the information in front of her. "May I please just have your street address and postal code for verification purposes now?" Her accent was barely noticeable- it sounded as if she'd gone to Cambridge after secondary school- but her syntax was off. I gave her the information. "I see from a screen here that you have the Head of a Dog."
"Excuse me?" I said. I pictured myself saying "excuse me" with the mouth of a Shi-Tzu- I'd spent most of the wait for Tech Support speaking in front of the mirror, the phone laying on the table in the dining room, sucking the battery like a fruit bat sucking an overripe tangerine. My jaw moved up and down, and I could smile like a dog, but words came out in a strange rubbery way, the canine mouth being no substitute for human lips.
"I am seeing that you've received the Head of a Dog as of Tuesday. How are you enjoying this?" Tech Support was smooth- it sounded as if she'd asked concerned System Systems's customers how they were enjoying using the Head of a Dog rather than their customary human heads for months.
"Well I'm not. I'm surprised- I'm alarmed, now. I'm really alarmed and that's why I called and waited for fifteen minutes to talk to a real person. Tell your manager to have the computer guys change that" I bark-said.
"I understand without doubt. Most of our customers that receive their Heads of a Dog believe them to be quite majestic."
"Hold on" I said. I trotted to the mirror in the bathroom again and relaxed my jowls, hopeful that a relaxed Shi-Tzu face was more commanding. It was not. "There is nothing majestic about this Head. It is smushed and my nose is sensitive but not sensitive enough. I can smell the individual items in the kitchen garbage can, but I can't smell the items in the dumpster which is just outside and one floor down. You would think..." I stopped to let her finish the thought on her own. I didn't want to offend Tech Support's sense of heightened intellect- a Cambridge education came with its' own sensitivities, I'd found.
"Yes, I understand that you would prefer some super-canine olfactory power. However, System Systems discontinued the Cartoon Dog Head offer because of its' difficulty with erasers and hard surfaces."
"Hard surfaces?"
"Indeed sir. When one's Cartoon Dog Head bumped or jarred with a hard surface- a kitchen counter or a door- as in any household accident, the external lines-"
"The outline" I said. I made a rolling forward motion with my hands as if that might speed the conversation along.
"Yes, thank you, the outline. The outline would disform- it would be rendered imperfect, perhaps many times, and this was difficult to our customers. We are finding that a real Dog's Head is suiting people better. Have you found it easy to drink or eat food?" She was past the script now and her voice deepened to the concerned inflection of the medical professional.
I looked at the almost empty cup of coffee that I'd literally lapped up, despite it being overly bitter. "Yes. It wasn't easy, though. This face is so smushed that I had to practically put my face in the cup to get anything."
There was some quiet from Tech Support. Then: "I have been looking into your account information. You have said that your face is 'smushed' twice, and I'm not aware of this word-"
"It's sort of pushed in, like a Cartoon Dog Head might look after it collided head-on with a wall. I'd imagine that's what it would look like, anyway." I was warming to Tech Support. She was clearly trying to help me with her details and definitions.
"Oh- I see. Yes, I'm writing this in your account now- it's s-m-u-s-h-e-d, correct?" I said yes, it was. "On a rare occasion a customer is given the inappropriate Dog Head. I believe that you were accidentally served with the head of a Shi-Tzu. Do you think that it accurate?"
"Exactly! You have it exactly. But how did you guess that? There are so many Dog Heads that have those sort of faces. I could have a Pug or English Bulldog or certain Terrier-"
Tech Support gently cut me off. "We have only a few Dog Heads to offer- they are considered the most superior Heads on the market today. There is Husky, Great Dane, Beagle, Corgie, Australian Wolf Hound, and Shi-Tzu. My colleague has knowledge of the faces, and he is saying that your Dog Head is certainly Shi-Tzu." She sounded pleased with her work, and I beamed into the phone, hopeful that she could hear it happening. "Would a different Head be more convenient for you?"
"I would love an Australian Wolf Hound Head, if there are any available."
"Of course. A System Systems's Head Installation Specialist will be able to switch your Head within seven to ten business days. I can waive our customary service fee, since you are dissatisfied with your initial Dog Head."
"Thank you!"
"The monthly one hundred and twenty-nine ninety-nine Promotional Dog Head fee will also not be charged for two months. Now, is there a certain time of day that would be more acceptable to you?"
"Well, I think mid-morning might be the best time. I think if it were earlier or later there might be neighbor dogs who are out for walks, and that might create a real ruckus!" I said.
"Of course" answered Tech Support. I realized that she probably didnt' know what a "ruckus" was, but I didn't offer the meaning- she was back to business, at this point. "I have put in the order right now, and you will be receiving the Australian Wolf Hound Head between nine and eleven AM within the next seven to ten business days."
"Excellent," I said.
"Sir, I would tell you that we at System Systems are very busy with customer's Dog Heads at the moment, and so I would be expecting that you will receive your Head at the later point of those seven to ten days" she offered.
"That's kind of you to tell me."
"Not at all. Is there anything else that System Systems's Technical Support can do for you at this time?"
"Well, you can stop calling me 'sir.' I'm actually a bitch. Woman, I mean." I couldn't help myself from chiming in with this. I was trying to extend our time together- she was so nurturing and thoughtful.
"I'm so sorry, ma'am. I did see that your have a female name, but your voice is very distinct. I apologize."
"It's the Shi-Tzu Head. It makes me sound like a teenage boy."
"This will be remedied when your new Dog Head arrives. Is there anything else?" Tech Support was distant now. She must be swamped with calls from the wrong-Headed, I thought.
"No. I appreciate your help. Tell your supervisor that you have a happy customer."
"Thank you, sir."
"It's Ma'am, remember?"
"Ok, goodbye." Tech Support hung up, which seemed against protocol- normally the callers hung up first, in my experience- but I didn't begrudge her this. She had really made what could have been a truly awful day into a merely terrible one, and for this I was grateful.
No one was up yet, so I called Tech Support. After the wait and the button-pushing a pleasant voice came on the line.
"Thank you for calling the System System's Technical Support." I had pushed in the numbers of my account while waiting for help, so she had the information in front of her. "May I please just have your street address and postal code for verification purposes now?" Her accent was barely noticeable- it sounded as if she'd gone to Cambridge after secondary school- but her syntax was off. I gave her the information. "I see from a screen here that you have the Head of a Dog."
"Excuse me?" I said. I pictured myself saying "excuse me" with the mouth of a Shi-Tzu- I'd spent most of the wait for Tech Support speaking in front of the mirror, the phone laying on the table in the dining room, sucking the battery like a fruit bat sucking an overripe tangerine. My jaw moved up and down, and I could smile like a dog, but words came out in a strange rubbery way, the canine mouth being no substitute for human lips.
"I am seeing that you've received the Head of a Dog as of Tuesday. How are you enjoying this?" Tech Support was smooth- it sounded as if she'd asked concerned System Systems's customers how they were enjoying using the Head of a Dog rather than their customary human heads for months.
"Well I'm not. I'm surprised- I'm alarmed, now. I'm really alarmed and that's why I called and waited for fifteen minutes to talk to a real person. Tell your manager to have the computer guys change that" I bark-said.
"I understand without doubt. Most of our customers that receive their Heads of a Dog believe them to be quite majestic."
"Hold on" I said. I trotted to the mirror in the bathroom again and relaxed my jowls, hopeful that a relaxed Shi-Tzu face was more commanding. It was not. "There is nothing majestic about this Head. It is smushed and my nose is sensitive but not sensitive enough. I can smell the individual items in the kitchen garbage can, but I can't smell the items in the dumpster which is just outside and one floor down. You would think..." I stopped to let her finish the thought on her own. I didn't want to offend Tech Support's sense of heightened intellect- a Cambridge education came with its' own sensitivities, I'd found.
"Yes, I understand that you would prefer some super-canine olfactory power. However, System Systems discontinued the Cartoon Dog Head offer because of its' difficulty with erasers and hard surfaces."
"Hard surfaces?"
"Indeed sir. When one's Cartoon Dog Head bumped or jarred with a hard surface- a kitchen counter or a door- as in any household accident, the external lines-"
"The outline" I said. I made a rolling forward motion with my hands as if that might speed the conversation along.
"Yes, thank you, the outline. The outline would disform- it would be rendered imperfect, perhaps many times, and this was difficult to our customers. We are finding that a real Dog's Head is suiting people better. Have you found it easy to drink or eat food?" She was past the script now and her voice deepened to the concerned inflection of the medical professional.
I looked at the almost empty cup of coffee that I'd literally lapped up, despite it being overly bitter. "Yes. It wasn't easy, though. This face is so smushed that I had to practically put my face in the cup to get anything."
There was some quiet from Tech Support. Then: "I have been looking into your account information. You have said that your face is 'smushed' twice, and I'm not aware of this word-"
"It's sort of pushed in, like a Cartoon Dog Head might look after it collided head-on with a wall. I'd imagine that's what it would look like, anyway." I was warming to Tech Support. She was clearly trying to help me with her details and definitions.
"Oh- I see. Yes, I'm writing this in your account now- it's s-m-u-s-h-e-d, correct?" I said yes, it was. "On a rare occasion a customer is given the inappropriate Dog Head. I believe that you were accidentally served with the head of a Shi-Tzu. Do you think that it accurate?"
"Exactly! You have it exactly. But how did you guess that? There are so many Dog Heads that have those sort of faces. I could have a Pug or English Bulldog or certain Terrier-"
Tech Support gently cut me off. "We have only a few Dog Heads to offer- they are considered the most superior Heads on the market today. There is Husky, Great Dane, Beagle, Corgie, Australian Wolf Hound, and Shi-Tzu. My colleague has knowledge of the faces, and he is saying that your Dog Head is certainly Shi-Tzu." She sounded pleased with her work, and I beamed into the phone, hopeful that she could hear it happening. "Would a different Head be more convenient for you?"
"I would love an Australian Wolf Hound Head, if there are any available."
"Of course. A System Systems's Head Installation Specialist will be able to switch your Head within seven to ten business days. I can waive our customary service fee, since you are dissatisfied with your initial Dog Head."
"Thank you!"
"The monthly one hundred and twenty-nine ninety-nine Promotional Dog Head fee will also not be charged for two months. Now, is there a certain time of day that would be more acceptable to you?"
"Well, I think mid-morning might be the best time. I think if it were earlier or later there might be neighbor dogs who are out for walks, and that might create a real ruckus!" I said.
"Of course" answered Tech Support. I realized that she probably didnt' know what a "ruckus" was, but I didn't offer the meaning- she was back to business, at this point. "I have put in the order right now, and you will be receiving the Australian Wolf Hound Head between nine and eleven AM within the next seven to ten business days."
"Excellent," I said.
"Sir, I would tell you that we at System Systems are very busy with customer's Dog Heads at the moment, and so I would be expecting that you will receive your Head at the later point of those seven to ten days" she offered.
"That's kind of you to tell me."
"Not at all. Is there anything else that System Systems's Technical Support can do for you at this time?"
"Well, you can stop calling me 'sir.' I'm actually a bitch. Woman, I mean." I couldn't help myself from chiming in with this. I was trying to extend our time together- she was so nurturing and thoughtful.
"I'm so sorry, ma'am. I did see that your have a female name, but your voice is very distinct. I apologize."
"It's the Shi-Tzu Head. It makes me sound like a teenage boy."
"This will be remedied when your new Dog Head arrives. Is there anything else?" Tech Support was distant now. She must be swamped with calls from the wrong-Headed, I thought.
"No. I appreciate your help. Tell your supervisor that you have a happy customer."
"Thank you, sir."
"It's Ma'am, remember?"
"Ok, goodbye." Tech Support hung up, which seemed against protocol- normally the callers hung up first, in my experience- but I didn't begrudge her this. She had really made what could have been a truly awful day into a merely terrible one, and for this I was grateful.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
New Year's Resolution, Of Course.
So it turns out that I may have something in addition to Fibromyalgia.
It has a name: UCTD, which stands for Uncalled-for Confusion To Doctors. No, no- it really means Unprecedented Clusterfuck Totally Dire. Ok, ok, I don't mean to alarm anyone- it's not Dire. UCTD means Unrepentant Collegiate Tad Diddled.
It really means Undifferentiated Connective Tissue Disorder. It's my doctor's way of saying that my body is attacking its' own connective tissues, and no I don't know why so please don't ask. The doctor is actually a good one- the kind you wait on for an hour in the practically magazine-less waiting room, and then wait for again in the exam room (absolutely no magazines there) for another ten minutes; then the doctor comes in and is really helpful and listens to your shit. That's the barometer of a quality doctor: it's not just the inordinate amount of time you wait for them, or the virtual dearth of magazines, it's the ratio of both of those things. I've only seen my doctor twice, so I haven't come up with the exact ratio yet, but I'll get back to you (HINT: those who know me understand that that's really unlikely, owing to my utter lack of interest in math.)
So some of the symptoms, besides being in pain and tired all the time, are:
*hands that turn fascinating and unwanted colors, such as bright red or eggplant purple or white. It's a circulation issue, and it makes you get frostbite in supermarkets from the cart pushing/freezer opening.
* a tight squeeziness in the chest from the lung's linings being irritated.
* a similar squeeziness in the throat, which makes it hard to swallow, even ice cream. Which is bullshit, no? If you have a throat yuck then you get to eat frozen dairy products and for just a moment your throat feels all better. Not so with UCTD. It's just so...dehumanizing. I can't really write any more than that <sob.>
* also feet (see "hands.")
* crouching around underground pools eating raw fish and muttering to oneself.
* weirdness with your heart, so that it flutters or murmurs or thunders or demands representation or some such. I thought that was "just stress". In fact, I'd been told that it was "just stress" by another doctor who, not coincidentally, I saw after five minutes of reading from a copious amount of waiting room magazines.
There was a red herring that I put in that list: you're right- ice cream makes everything better, period. But I have to say that having heard this not-quite-diagnosis, I feel comforted (yes! Comforted!) This was strange, because what the hell could be comforting about having a vague disorder that involves your own immune system getting bored and turning to vandalism? It's this: UCTD is two more letters than FM. And there's nothing that passes the day more than making up names for illnesses (or anything, really) based on their initials. FM- what more could I do with that? Ferocious Monkey-eye? Frequent Molester? In both of those the reader has no idea that the Monkey-eye represents the syndrome itself and the Molester means the neurobioligical pathology that creates Fibro's symptoms. Yawn.
UCTD has more letters. I'm going to have fun with that (Unthinkable Cantankerous Toad Disease, anyone?) I guess in 2013 I'll be getting twice as much use of my thesaurus.
It has a name: UCTD, which stands for Uncalled-for Confusion To Doctors. No, no- it really means Unprecedented Clusterfuck Totally Dire. Ok, ok, I don't mean to alarm anyone- it's not Dire. UCTD means Unrepentant Collegiate Tad Diddled.
It really means Undifferentiated Connective Tissue Disorder. It's my doctor's way of saying that my body is attacking its' own connective tissues, and no I don't know why so please don't ask. The doctor is actually a good one- the kind you wait on for an hour in the practically magazine-less waiting room, and then wait for again in the exam room (absolutely no magazines there) for another ten minutes; then the doctor comes in and is really helpful and listens to your shit. That's the barometer of a quality doctor: it's not just the inordinate amount of time you wait for them, or the virtual dearth of magazines, it's the ratio of both of those things. I've only seen my doctor twice, so I haven't come up with the exact ratio yet, but I'll get back to you (HINT: those who know me understand that that's really unlikely, owing to my utter lack of interest in math.)
So some of the symptoms, besides being in pain and tired all the time, are:
*hands that turn fascinating and unwanted colors, such as bright red or eggplant purple or white. It's a circulation issue, and it makes you get frostbite in supermarkets from the cart pushing/freezer opening.
* a tight squeeziness in the chest from the lung's linings being irritated.
* a similar squeeziness in the throat, which makes it hard to swallow, even ice cream. Which is bullshit, no? If you have a throat yuck then you get to eat frozen dairy products and for just a moment your throat feels all better. Not so with UCTD. It's just so...dehumanizing. I can't really write any more than that <sob.>
* also feet (see "hands.")
* crouching around underground pools eating raw fish and muttering to oneself.
* weirdness with your heart, so that it flutters or murmurs or thunders or demands representation or some such. I thought that was "just stress". In fact, I'd been told that it was "just stress" by another doctor who, not coincidentally, I saw after five minutes of reading from a copious amount of waiting room magazines.
There was a red herring that I put in that list: you're right- ice cream makes everything better, period. But I have to say that having heard this not-quite-diagnosis, I feel comforted (yes! Comforted!) This was strange, because what the hell could be comforting about having a vague disorder that involves your own immune system getting bored and turning to vandalism? It's this: UCTD is two more letters than FM. And there's nothing that passes the day more than making up names for illnesses (or anything, really) based on their initials. FM- what more could I do with that? Ferocious Monkey-eye? Frequent Molester? In both of those the reader has no idea that the Monkey-eye represents the syndrome itself and the Molester means the neurobioligical pathology that creates Fibro's symptoms. Yawn.
UCTD has more letters. I'm going to have fun with that (Unthinkable Cantankerous Toad Disease, anyone?) I guess in 2013 I'll be getting twice as much use of my thesaurus.
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