Airing of Grievances 2014 - A LOT of Problems

Festivus:  A holiday invented by Frank Costanza, a character on the hit 1990s sitcom Seinfeld. Its symbol is the aluminium pole. Traditional Festivus activities include the Feats of Strength (typically ending with someone in tears) and the Airing of Grievances (also often ending in tears).

While I have erected a Christmas tree and shopped for things people don't need and participated in the Baruch Atah Adoni-ing and lighting of Hanukkah candles, I haven't an aluminium pole. This year has felt like a Feat of Strength so there's that.  All I have left to accomplish is the Airing of Grievances. Buckle up.

Facebook posting of disgusting images. Bugs unearthed from human bodies. Dead deer posed to appear as if they were delighted to have been slaughtered. Recipes involving Velveeta. Abused animals. Taylor Swift's eyebrows. Where the fuck is the decency?

Buzzfeed quizzes. One was entertaining. Two were silly, but okay. Three or more means you don't understand how the internet works. You don't have to punish us all by posting all of your results on Facebook? Lord. It's like pooping or masturbation. Everyone does it sometimes, but we don't need to read about it every single time.

Life hacks. Life is supposed to be complicated, weird, and difficult. And sometimes a toilet paper roll is just a toilet paper roll.

Denying injustice. If you're doing this, you need to experience a little yourself. That usually brings people around.

Politicizing everything. I heard a guy at Kroger accuse a woman of being a crunchy, tree-hugging Jesus hating liberal because she had the temerity to ask where the Greek yogurt was.  "What?!" he screamed. "Isn't American yogurt good enough for you?" I rushed to her aid, tossing her the Black Cherry Chobani, hitting him with my bag of organic apples and informing him that Jesus was a liberal.

The Marshmallow World. Thanks, Target. Way to ruin a song.  Also, you're not helping my desire to cut the demon sugar from my diet because just the word marshmallow turns me into Homer Simpson.

Shaming of today's youth because they spend too much time indoors staring at screens.  Oh sure, you played with sticks and ran around barefoot and got spanked and you turned out just fine. And today's kids are horrible because they have iPhones and tablets and video games and never suffer any punishment? Spare us. Ten year olds aren't issued AmEx cards. They don't ride their bikes to the Verizon store to purchase their expensive, sunshine and fresh air-depriving toys. Their parents won't let them ride their bikes out of the neighborhood for fear of strangers snatching them.

If today's kids are a mess, it's our fault. We've failed them not the other way around.

Corporate media.  We broke up a couple of years ago, but that hasn't lessened your influence on the world and hence me, damn it. Stop frightening people. You're making us impossible to live with. We fear each other, hate each other and believe that corporations want what's best for all of us. We're dumber, poorer, sicker, and more hateful. Congratulations. You have a wretched audience. That must feel awesome.

Faux country music. Did you just sing Hey, girl again? Put down that Bud and climb on down from that tailgate.  Dolly Parton wants to deliver a nice, ring-encrusted punch to your nutsack, bro.

Posting items to social media without vetting them or even reading them.  This is so simple. Read the article you're linking. Check its date. Google can provide an assist in not looking like a moron. So can Snopes.com. So says the woman who repeated the Jay Cutler fired hoax article, but hey, I didn't post it for all the world to see so I can still wrap myself in this swell fur of sanctimony.

Pharmaceuticals. I listened to the book STATION ELEVEN and one scene contained a description of a young woman going cold turkey off Effexor, the anti-depressant I took for over two years. I flashbacked to achy joints, brain blasts and the frustration of counting out capsule granules to wean myself off that poison. It comforted me to know that my experience wasn't just my imagination. If that author could so accurately describe those reactions, it must be true. We're pumping these chemicals into our children's bodies (guilty as charged) without much thought about how it will all end.

Oversimplification.

Pumpkin, pretzel, and other food fads.  No more pumpkin spice toothpaste, pretzel bread waffles, or kale. Shut up and let me eat my two tablespoons of coconut oil in peace.

Taking umbrage at the wishing of seasons greetings and happy holidays. As long as no one is tacking on you asshole, you really should just get some perspective. The person wishing you happy holidays or seasons greetings is being inclusive not insulting. I wished someone a Merry Christmas and he thanked me for "saying it right."  I repeated myself with a huge grin. "Merry Christmas, you asshole."

Bad Grammar. Spoken is bad enough, but if you are lazily reposting shit on Facebook that has grammatical and punctuation errors, it is time to reevaluate your life.

Death. You've shown up too many times this year. We're giving you 2015 off.

Pictures of your cat on the internet. This is said while standing in front of a mirror. Also, this is not a euphemism. Although it could be.

Potato chips. What are they putting in them now? Meth? I spent my first 48 years jonesing almost exclusively for sugary treats and now I've become a craver of the salt and grease? Life is so unfair. And while I'm at it - Wheat Belly, Wheat Brain, and this horrible Wheat Cellulite. I'm paunchy, stupid and dimply.  Hawt.

Dystopian anything. Please stop. You've got me considering the benefits of becoming a Prepper and I doubt I could last a day without my Roku. I consider my pour-over coffee pot roughing it. The best place for me at the end of the world will be ground zero.

Social media in general. Clearly, I need to walk away, but then what? Talk to my family, my boyfriend, my co-workers? Sit for 45 seconds at a stoplight without being entertained? And what about seeing things simply for what they are instead of imagining them with a Lo-Fi filter and tilt shift? I'm getting hives.

Jerks who want to dictate what should and should not be on social media. Yeah, I'm looking at you, Lisa.

Me. I'm the biggest problem I have. I'm in my 50th year and can't pull it together. I hope to spend the next 50 years not crashing about like a mental and emotional ox and instead do some good, let go of ridiculous expectations, be less insecure and judgmental, more direct, and relaxed.

The truth is I'll settle for becoming less bothered by grammatical errors and year end lists.

Your turn. Let loose.

Damp Violets

That day started out like any other in my recently turbulent existence. I was back in Indiana for job interviews, working from the apartment and had hit pause for breakfast. The scent of sauteed mushrooms lingered as I forked the first bite of omelet into my mouth.

A text notification broke the silence. "Can you check on Kay? She didn't show up for work."

Kay is my neighbor. She's also The Electrician's aunt. The text was from her twin sister.

Sometimes you just know. Call it what you want - premonition, a sense, foreboding. I just knew. It made sense based on all the things you read, hear, see. Patterns mean something.

I knew.

I knew as I strode through the yard still damp with dew. I knew as I dragged the emptied trashcan up the driveway toward the silent house, I knew as I introduced myself to her friend who had been asked to check on Kay by another of the sisters.

Our banging on the doors and windows went unanswered. A phone rang inside. Over and over. Kay's friend called the landlord and got his voice mail, asked him to come by with the key. We knew.

We did what we had to do. We found a way in.

I climbed through the window and my first impression was that the room was empty. My sense of relief was overcome by reality as I stood up straight and looked over at the bed.

I knew.

Kay's friend knew.

Even though we knew before we saw, it was not enough to blunt the shock. Kay's friend wailed. I went numb. My hands shook as I dialed 911. It was the easiest call I'd make all day.

*************

The Electrician comes from a large, close-knit family. Even with blending, there's still a sense of belonging that comes with the connection. They take you in, almost absorb you. There are distinctions made. Favored, not favored, most favored. I've known these people most of my life. They know my family. It's a small place where we come from.

Grandma's farm became the hub of activity. Family converged, some flying in to be there. Arrangements were made, food arrived, like magic, at the farmhouse.

A mother cat and her baby boy appeared, mama cat hiding, her boy winding among the feet and legs to -ing and fro-ing from house to car, car to house.  He was undaunted by the activity.

*****************

The services were held, memories shared, meals eaten. We even attended church. Took up two entire pews in that country house of worship. It was both expected and appreciated. The minister mentioned during Kay's funeral - how happy it made Grandma to have us all there.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd been to church. I'd been living as an agnostic Jew since 1988. I whispered to The Electrician, "What should I do about communion?"

"Have you been baptized?"

"Yes."

"Then take it. That's what I'm going to do." Like me, he doesn't believe, doesn't know how to believe.

We shrugged at each other when it was over. We didn't choke. The church didn't come crashing down around us. There were no flames. My agnosticism was reinforced.

We were there for Grandma, I told my own astonished parents later. It was about family, community. We were there for The Electrician's father and his sisters, siblings now minus one. Grandma was doing the unthinkable.

**************

Mama cat died last week. Her little guy was still hanging around Grandma's house but she was afraid he'd get hit by a car. The Electrician, not a fan of cats, worried about what would happen when it gets cold. I mentioned how interesting it was that the cats showed up just after Kay died.

While he smirked at me, I could see the glimmer of what if on his face.

I'm not saying the cat is Kay, I explained. It's just that sometime animals appear at the right time. Are you sure Grandma doesn't need this cat right now?

"You don't know Grandma if you think she'd ever take an animal into the house. "

I nodded.

The Electrician knows I struggle with being alone so much. I went from a life bursting with people and things that needed to be done to the very stillness of this apartment. And he knows it's only going to get worse as he looks at new jobs on the road, even further from home and for longer periods of time.

Like the quiet of my life weighs on me, my loneliness weighs on him.

****************

I've learned a thing or two about non-cat lovers.  1. Let them name the cat and 2. Conversion is possible.

Meet Sonny Crockett, named by the man who wore a Miami Vice jacket for his senior picture.

Snow Globe

A couple of years ago my friend Sherry Stanfa-Stanley launched the 52/52 Project which is, in her words, "jumping the curb, taking a detour from the cul-de-sac to visit personally unexplored territories."

With clear-eyed intention, Sherry shook up her life, wrote about it and made me and her other fans laugh and think. Her experiences ranged from the utterly embarrassing (going to a nude beach with her 75 year old mother) to the touching (taking a homeless person to lunch). What struck me most about this was the fact that Sherry was doing this with intention. She planned her capers and carried them out knowing that she would likely learn something about herself in the process.

Contrast that with me - a woman who shakes up her life like a snow globe and stands back, mouth breathing while the faux snow almost settles before shaking the globe again.

I think the globe may have a slow leak, as well.  Ditto the woman.

So here's the shortish version of what in the heck is going on right now. A little of this story will go a long way.

I returned to Georgia in August, trading my glamorous job working for attorneys who got bent out of shape when the water cooler emptied for one that requires me to work twelve hour days pushing paper and never getting caught up. But hey, as we like to say in this new economy, it's a job and it's not at Wal-Mart!

When I took the job in Georgia, I was happy because I thought Mathman and I had agreed that I would live in the house with him and the kids and sharing expenses. I accepted the position and its pay with that understanding.

Then Mathman changed his mind.  He "wasn't feeling it."

His timing? Not so good. He waited to drop that bomb until after I'd quit my job in Cincinnati and accepted the position in Atlanta for a salary that isn't enough to pay the rent, the bills and my child support obligation.

I tried to use my inside voice, but failed.

So  I moved back to Georgia to Blanche Dubois it in the gorgeous home of my friend and her husband. They have been beyond gracious and generous but it's been two months and my situation isn't going to change financially. I only get to see the kids one day a week because I'm working ridiculous hours, have a typical Atlanta commute (think a hangover + diaper rash) and live an hour away from "home."

(Side note: expect some future posts about the concept of home)

It became clear very quickly that I would have to find a position with a higher salary to stay in Atlanta. And those are so terribly easy to find, no?

I lined up a couple of interviews back in Cincinnati because at least there I have a place to live. The Electrician and I still have our apartment there and are trying to make our relationship work.

(Side note:  expect future posts about relationships, unhealthy and otherwise)

And then it occurred to me that there might be another option so I took a(nohter!) risk and proposed to my current employer that I continue to work for them and live in Indiana.

The risk paid off. They agreed to give it a try.

I'm living in Georgia for three more days. Beginning Monday, I will be working from home, telecommuting my twelve hours, but (can you feel the music?) not having to commute and commute and commute some more.

(Side note: expect future posts about how much I miss my kids, living alone, and drinking beer at the Legion)

So what's new with you?

Creep

Thanks to those of you who commented or emailed me. I appreciate your kind, thoughtful words. I spent two days considering what platform to use for the new blog before it hit me. This blog, with the invitation only setting, is the place where I can write what I want - when and how, without upsetting anyone.

So here I will remain. When/If I decide to make this blog public again, I'll revert the possibly offensive posts back to drafts and all will be right with the world. Or something like that.

Not writing has been so stifling that I fear that the next few weeks of words will be a deluge. Blogging was once my lifeline. That sounds dramatic but I can't even describe what I gained from putting my words together and hitting publish back in the days when I was home alone, unemployed and wondering how my life had reached that point.

My writing slowed when I got a job and it became apparent that blogging could be a liability there and, to make matters worse, my brain reached a calm, flat place as a result of anti-depressants that did what they were supposed to do if not fucking feeling anything was their purpose.

And then things went twenty different kinds of wrong and I was too ashamed to write about things with the emotional honesty I'd once tried to maintain. The combination of internal and external shame made it progressively harder to write and the longer I went without writing, the more difficult it became to start again.

So about that idea of pretending we don't know each other? Scratch that. But be prepared to not like me, if you ever did, because some of the things I'm going to write about will probably make you question my character. It's something I've done quite a bit of over the last two years and I would be surprised if you don't have the same reactions I've had to my antics. In fact, I'd question your character if you weren't questioning mine.

So now that I've hung us on that hook, deep breath.......

 

Black Cat

There's a bend in the road where the deer cross. I've been warned to be careful there so I slow a little which is probably why I noticed it in the first place. The feral black cat with half a tail and shocking green eyes. The spitting image of a rough life. It was by the side of the road pawing at something and stopped to watch as I passed by.

On my return trip, I saw the cat again. It had to be the same one, right? That half a tail and the split ear. This time on the opposite side of the road on the other end of the curve, shoulder deep in the late summer grass, stalking something.

Taking that route a couple of days later, I saw the cat. It - he? - she? was about half a mile from where I'd seen it before, just stepping off the road and into the brush covering the steep bank that sucks the road down its slope a little further with each passing year.

I puzzled over this. Was it a sign? Why have I seen this same cat three times? What are the odds? Black cats have been given a bad rap what with being equated with bad luck and all that.  But this is my little metaphysical fantasy and I'm switching things up.

I'm viewing this particular feline as a sign of survival. That cat right there, with its half tail, split ear, and sharp green eyes looks like it's survived its share of scrapes and has lived another day to paw and stalk and to serve as a sign that survival isn't always pretty, but it beats the hell out of the alternative.

What signs have you seen lately?

Not L.A.

What do you do when your heart is in two places?

You kick stones. You find your place at the bar and try not to pull that face. You stop and start and hope no one notices.

What do you do when the new groove resembles the old groove?

You dance because if you don't?  We all fall.  Down.

What do you when your options narrow to a trickle and the finger of blame points back at you?

You pinch that place above your nose where the headache centers and wait for things to pass.

What do you when you can't sing a note, but the song is there?

You turn it over to the talented ones because sometimes they can tell your story better than you can.

Winged

I've alighted again. For how long? It's anyone's guess.

I'm back in my hometown and happy to be here. Even so, most items remain boxed. The trunk of my car has become a weird closet holding bits of an old life. Root around in there and you'll unearth boxed shoes, pocketbooks in protective sheaths, a can of WD40, books, a ziplock bag of utensils.

I have no idea what I'm doing.  I could be on the lam without much effort, but don't have any firm plans to break the law. It's not exactly chaos though. Work is stable. Beer is stable. Exercise is consistent. (Pauses to consider the irony, shrugs, examines sore foot.)

Physically I'm recognizable. The hair is long and silver. The breasts too large. The hazel eyes are more feathered at the corners, but that's to be expected. It's been a long year.

In other ways, the cocoon has been shed. I spend enough time at the American Legion that the bartenders know my drink. I can tell you on what night you can shoot pool for free at the bar on Main Street (Wednesdays). I'm relearning Euchre. To great concern and the open consternation of MathMan and the children, I've taken to listening to country music. I hear whispers of intervention.

Life is exploding with characters. I want to collect them all, write them down, get their stories just right. I think of my own story and wonder when will it be not so damn raw? I poke and poke and come up with too much feeling, too little sense.

I spend most Wednesdays convinced that it's Thursday. I don't think it has anything to do with playing pool for free. It's because I'm twisting myself into knots wishing for the weekend so I don't have to answer the phones. Answering the phones means there's a damn good chance I'm about to invite someone's despair into my ear.

"Law office, may I help you?"

And then the words come. Sometimes faltering. Sometimes tear-stained. Angry. Afraid. The callers who want to know right off the bat how much this is going to cost are the easy ones.

Working in an office that deals mostly with divorce wasn't the brightest idea coming on the heels of busting up my own family. I have a genius for putting myself in ridiculous and painful situations.

So I'm listening to the audio version of Naomi Wood's Mrs. Hemingway and there's this line that goes something like this.....

Hadley, his first wife, to Hemingway:  You create these messes for material.

I listen, rewind, listen again.  This is Chuck to remind Bill to shut up.

I hear you, Universe. But I'm still looking for that compass.

Bad patient

There's never a good time for a panic attack.

Sitting at my desk at the office typing a dictation wasn't any better or worse than any other time. I went from clickety-click-click to holy shit, why can't I catch my breath? And why does my arm hurt?

I tried deep breathing but OMG I CAN'T BREATHE, MUCH LESS DEEP BREATHE.  I rubbed my arm, took a gulp of water. The old tricks weren't working. I hadn't had a doozy like this since 1988 when I actually had to leave a They Might Be Giants concert, in a small venue no less, because I felt like my chest was going to explode.

I called Ginger who works across the lobby.  "Do you have any aspirin?"

Her gaze shifted from her screen to me. "What's going on?"

"It's nothing."

She didn't believe me.

After half an hour and much jackassery on my part about medical insurance, we were in her car which was clamoring for gasoline and gliding through one of the sketchier neighborhoods of Cincinnati.  Locals will know it as Over the Rhine or OTR.

Have you ever tried to buy gas in a rough neighborhood? Society and commercial enterprises do not cut those folks a break.

The line was too long and Ginger didn't want me to escape from the car and run pell mell through the cracked streets back to the office so we drove on.

All the while I was telling her I was fine, take me back to the office, it's nothing.

"And what happens when you have a heart attack at the wheel, crash your car, kill three people including yourself?" I love an optimist, don't you?

And there I was with a wristband, the dreaded hospital gown, a bruised arm (the fabulous nurse thought I was joking about my veins), and 3 plus hours to kill with one of the best friends a panicked chick could hope for.

Thankfully it was nothing, but the ER doctor was clear - women should not ignore their symptoms. Heart attacks in women mimic the symptoms of an ordinary (ha!) panic attack. It's always better to be safe than sorry. Ginger was right to force me to go.

If only we'd found the surgical masks.

Looking for heaven, found the devil in me

It's been too long again, but that's the way life goes these days. I work, I sleep, I engage in capers both gratifying and soul sucking.  There are actually moments when I turn over control to someone else and (gasp!) relax. While I still Instagram the crap out of life, I've been reluctant to blog about all that's gone down, down, down because I was afraid you would....

1.  Think I've gone insane. (Not an unfair assessment.)
2. Offer me advice. (Please don't.)
3. Label me a bad mother. (Get in line behind my kids.)
4. Not believe me.
5. Believe me.

So here I am, toes wiggling at the precipice of another change. The best laid schemes of this here narcissist went out and fell in love with tried to get laid elsewhere and the resulting behavior of yours truly was so unpleasant that now, not only do I get to see what it feels like to be on the other side of the fidelity fence, I also get to move house again. Too precious, I know.

While I'm feeling karmically relieved by my own comeuppance, I'm huffy about moving again so soon. The recently acquired place never quite achieved home status.  Now it contains so much bad juju I'm fixing to flee it like it's haunted by the ghosts of a thousand bad decisions.

Thanks be that everything I own fits in a Toyota Corolla, I've been heard to say quite a bit lately. The other thing I've been saying a lot lately?  I'm sorry. I think Mathman would like for me to stop it already. The voicemails, texts and face to face apologies were enough. The sky-writing in French may have been a bit over the top.

So while I pack my things and adjust to another new place and routine, here's a list of things I intend to bore you with in the coming days? weeks? whatever. Why waste all this perfectly good sturm und drang by not writing about it? At least that's what I keep telling myself. If I can't find purpose in this mess, what then?

Anyway.....

1.  My discovery of hiking and what is wrong with you people, why did you never tell me about how much fun it is?
2.  The divorce diet vs. the break up diet
3.  Training for a non-existent 5k
4.  The Truth and other lies we tell ourselves
5. How I've blown it as an absentee parent
6. Giving up sugar. Less a lament than a confession.

Until next time,

L.

Montage

At what age do you intend to grow up?

This question, posed Sunday afternoon by my aunt made my cousin holler "Mother!"

Nah, I said. It's okay. I know what she means.  When was I going to stop making a hash of my life? When was I going to become serious about things and stop wasting my alleged potential?

I smiled at her as I played over the montage of the day before in my head.  It was pretty much the typical post-divorce free at last! reel of all the pleasures one can have with their clothes on. 

Without hesitation I responded.  After being married for twenty-five years and helping raise three kids and working full time and making and killing a career and taking care of a household and rarely having the time, energy or money to have fun, that answer is easy.

Never. I already did that.

If by being grown up she means continuing my life of have to and not taking an impromptu wine tasting tour through scenic hills and not having drinks with friends and not dancing to loud music in bars with other mid-lifers living out their crises and not standing on the riverbank watching the water flow and not going to antique fairs and learning how to let go and enjoy without worrying about every damn thing, then the answer is most assuredly never.

This freedom has its downside, of course.  My retirement plan is an early death. I am happily taking care of my obligations and barely scraping by. Were it not for my good friend The Electrician, I wouldn't have a roof over my head. My children are, at best, ambivalent about me. MathMan and I remain friends, but I struggle with how much I hurt him.  My parents have given up hope and only wish me happiness while praying that I don't end up homeless, selling my kidney for cat food money. My siblings probably think I've lost my mind and, as my aunt said, it looks like I've lost my way, if it ever existed in the first place.

And yet?

Not to go all Oprah on you here, but maybe by losing changing everything, I've finally gotten what I needed.

Of course, were I Oprah, losing everything would mean I'd have to fucking kill myself because that is a lot to lose.  But you get my point.

Them what made me

Spotted in their home away from home.

I am a casino orphan.

Allow me to explain.

One of the reasons I moved back to Indiana was so that I could be near my parents who are, like the rest of us, getting on in years. To make good on my scheme to make their entire lives uncomfortable (just ask them), I am compelled to check in with them at least once a week to say hi and see what's in the refrigerator.  Here's what that looks like...

I pull into their driveway in my disaster on 4 wheels and assess the situation.  The closed garage door should be my first clue that they might not be at home, but I'm an optimist.

Press nose against the back door to see if Mom and Dad are sitting in their designated chairs. Seeing no signs of life, ring bell just for good measure. Press nose against the window again. Note that the lamp next to Mom's chair isn't on.

Good thing I know where to go next.

Drive the 1.4 minutes to the riverfront casino where my parents are part of a gang of hopeful hangabouts who wait for their names to be called so they can win something. Anything.  For the love of all things good and holy, let them win!

I park in the middle of nowhere because I don't want anyone to see me getting out of that wreck of a car and make the long schlep toward one of the grimmest places in the tri-state area for anyone under the age of 50.

After a visual sweep of the pavilion and sensing no parental vibes, I make my way onto the tethered riverboat through a wide, enclosed gangplank that reeks of what can best be described as Malboro Kotex.  Whoever thought you could mask cigarette funk with the flowery, powdery scent of a deodorant maxi pad is wrong. Dead wrong.

Once on board,  I head straight for the slots.  I know my parents. They like their pain a penny at a time.

I weave through the machines careful not to be distracted by the lights and dings and cha-chinging surrounding me. I glance at each person facing a machine, staring intently as the vision before them changes from an offering of  hope to a sad reality.  Another penny, quarter, dollar, fiver gone.

At that time of day, it's clear that at 48, I am bringing down the average age on board that boat by a couple of decades. I try to ignore the obvious - my hair color matches that of the oldest patrons inserting their gaming cards with quivering hands and willing the machines to do them a solid.

I forget that I should look first in the non-smoking area so I end up touring the entire facility with a visit into the games room just for good measure. Despite the cigarette smoke I've inhaled, I consider this time well-spent healthwise.  Steps taken, calories burned.

This method of parent tracking is hit or miss. Sometimes I find them later in the pavilion, tucked into a corner, strategically situated so they can watch the Reds game on the wall-mounted television, monitor the screen showing the names of the most recent prizewinners, listen to the music provided by some duo with a guitar and keyboard, and, most importantly, keep a sharp eye on the ebb and flow of the casino's patrons.  While it's true that the place has the feel of a disco nursing home, it's great for people watching.

Sometimes I never do find my parents, but am instead rewarded with chance encounters with various people from my past.  My first and sixth grade teacher.  The mother of the first boy I kissed. Another woman to whom I introduced myself, hand extended like a goon, only to discover that I once babysat for her boys while she attended a homemakers' club meeting with my mom.

Have I mentioned it's a little odd to come back here after being gone so long?

So this is new for me, the fact that my parents just hang out.  The fact that they hang out together is even more confounding.  As a kid, I thought they did so little together what with both of them working, my dad often on swing shifts at the factory, Mom working, but also volunteering and herding us from place to place. Who knew they might actually find contentment in one another's company? Contentment being open to interpretation, of course.

Yesterday I found them after clocking a few laps around the casino and took a seat at their little table in the corner. It was then that I discovered a few things:

1.  My dad makes up nicknames for everyone and doesn't seem to note the least bit of irony about dubbing someone else "Big Belly."

2.  My mother categorizes me as a cat person.  Imagine that.  When she introduced me to one of her friends, she mentioned that we had "that" in common.

3.  I'm really lucky to have this time to spend with my parents while we're all adults (mostly).  I know many people who never got that chance with their parents.

4. If the guy in the motorized wheelchair is wearing a Harley t-shirt and has a gleam in his eye, just do yourself a favor and step aside.

So it's one more round for experience

The change of seasons has me all stirred up. I'm the alarm that won't stop going off. The lighter that won't catch and burn. That ache in your shoulder that's not quite enough to send you running for the pills, but enough to make you moan "fuck" when you move a certain way.

My old therapy aka writing eludes me. Hateful muse.

I miss writing but can't latch on to a thought long enough or securely enough to mine it for anything meaningful or even funny.  Dig deeper?  Bite me. If I don't will most of my thoughts to glance off me like baby taps, I'd morph into a glowing ball of fury.

And as fun as that sounds to the casual observer?  No.

My new nickname is already The Door Slammer.

Even so, I'm going to show up here and get my chops back. I cannot keep not writing and expect anything to change, right? Come on. Convince me. Or don't bother because I am pretty hard headed.  In my hands, stubborn becomes a whole new weapon.

XO

The outlines of our lives

Life and its shifting dynamics are at work here. The writer in me went quiet and the navel-gazer in me let her because sometimes a good hushing up is just what I need to get straight. The inner turmoil that once fueled rapid keystrokes and even more rapid backspacing medicated into a sort of calm, I had an excuse for not looking too closely. At anything.

And then something stirred. Was it because I went down a dosage in my anti-depressants? Was it the reintroduction of Phentermine into the soup of my brain chemistry? Was it that suggestion of something new? How could it carry the mark of familiarity like a threadbare-at-the-elbows sweater, favorite pair of jeans, the worry stone in my pocket? It did. I'd heard that one before.

But that suggestion made something come loose, peeled back a layer. A corner of a layer. Just enough for a glimpse of a memory. It forced me to think, to remember, to take note even if I wasn't ready to write about it because that would put it down in black and white and the very grayness of it compelled me to delve more, to reveal something to myself.

Until the light was so bright it couldn't be ignored.

The telling part isn't coming easy so I turn to novels. Reading them, listening to them, thinking about them. But not writing them. Not even considering writing them. A consumer, not a producer. A taker, not a giver. A seeker of inspiration. Two or three at a time, barely pausing to take out the last CD from one audio book before inserting the first of a new one. Not time to digest an ending, just pushing on in a mad quest for words that help me show (not tell!) what's going on.

And there is much to tell, but I've lost my confidence to tell it. And then that nagging, glass half empty question - who gives a shit anyway? This life isn't the least bit interesting to anyone who isn't living it.

Cast your story out into the ocean. A message in a bottle would have just as much impact in the grand scheme of things, you silly woman with the tiny life who uses cliches like grand scheme of things.

And then I found myself feeling a little put out to read about the process of writing those novels, the writerly angst, the push and pull, the very extrusion of words onto paper, the utter fucking sausage making of it all.

I was becoming unmoored, cut loose and drifting from the anchor I'd gotten so used to that it felt like a part of me. The way I'd come to define myself, the community I'd been a part of were slipping away. Self-imposed exile how I love thee. Undefine myself, erase the box, delete, delete, delete.

Now what?

Work. Friends. The impossible commute. Family. The time warp that happens each spring as we race headlong and calendar-packed into the end of the school year. Baseball. Chloe's graduation. Friday lunches with friends and the laughter. How long had I gone without laughing, truly laughing, with friends?

It may have been a change that did me good. Out of my head and into life. Scary, of course, because it makes one vulnerable, but it's the bad with the good, right? Every good story needs both.

My observations turned outward because introspection was comfortably tucked away in a drawer somewhere. Tamped down through the miracle of modern medicine, safe distanced and secured.

I thought about the things I could write here.

The heron next to the pond I drive past every day on my way to work. The one day that another heron was there, too, dancing some sort of avian tango, long, narrow beaks pointed in opposite directions, wings outspread, parallel, slow movement to the right, up to the edge of the pond. I slowed down and watched for as long as I could.

Two tiny calves head-butting each other within a loose circle of other calves nursing on their mothers, a fog providing a backdrop, filtering the rising sun. That would have made a real keeper of a photo, but moments like that move too fast. Better to capture it in words. But I didn't. Not until now.

The lover, thinking that he's unobserved, burying his face in his lover's hair, breathing in her scent to hold with him until ----

The way a field of crimson clover looks like Georgia red clay when you view it at an angle. The way the world has suddenly greened up almost like it's been colorized by Hollywood.

The new stories, other people's stories, those nuggets of detail and even broad strokes, that you know you're already filing away for future reference, threads to be woven into the fabric of some story when you're ready to start writing again.

I think I'm ready.

Some people don't dance if they don't know who's singing

Source

When I used to work from home, was unemployed, lived in my little enclosed world, I was skeptical of the way the workplace was portrayed on television sitcoms.

Maybe I'd been working in tiny offices for too long. I mean, my last paying gig had its moments. Like the time I did a little breaking and entering for my boss. Or the time we had the tutorial on using Urban Dictionary to look up phrases to describe questionable sex acts. Yes, I'm judging.

Now that I'm working in a larger office with a cast of characters (several who will require pseudonyms at some point), I'm less skeptical.

Some of the pseudonyms are easy. For example, there's The Bossfriend and Monique. I work most closely with them. The Prankster shows up occasionally with his airhorn and duct tape. We have The Kid, Maxine, and Mr. Wholesome. We have the Former Mayor of Portland.

One of the characters, however, needs a name desperately and he seems to defy categorization. Recently, he had each of us sign a sheet of paper

I asked why.

"Can't I just get a little blind faith. Just this once?"

I signed. I hate to see a grown man cry.

Turns out he wanted to analyze our personalities using our penmanship. According to him, I'm creative, start strong, but have trouble finishing what I've started.

I swear, I haven't talked about my writing or lack thereof at the office at all, so maybe there's something to this signature analysis business.

Of course, according to him, we also have several staff with anger issues, short attention spans, too much work, too little work, trouble with the drink and one who would, in another life, be your sixth grade teacher. Such beautiful penmanship. A lost art really.

I couldn't deny how hurried and sloppy my signature is so I spent my lunch hour practicing new techniques like a girl in love doodling her boyfriend's name on her notebook. Well, that was a waste of a lunch hour. I didn't even come close to developing a signature signature. It still looks like

Lisa Gol(Ican'tbebotheredtowritetherestoftheletters).

********

People on Twitter and Facebook were oohing and ahhing over Shirley Bassey's performance during The Oscars on Sunday night. I had no idea who she was until someone tweeted that she was singing Goldfinger and then I remembered that voice. That voice.

So this got my attention this morning. It's rough and delicious and so very relevant. Micro and macro.

 

Is history repeating itself?

What does your signature say about you?

Caught in a landslide

Not a chicken, but I love his style.

Are these the chickens?

The little signs. The billboards. The shoe on the other foot? One shoe on the floor, the other about to ----

Withholding or absence?

Sandpaper on silk, tongue stuck on a popsicle.
A tango without steps. Without a lead. Fearless or otherwise.

Leaves falling in July. Green grass in December.

Is this the real life or is this just Fantasia?

Where did I put it? Where did you put it?  It's always something. First one thing than another. There you go. And there you are. There's that.

The John Deere in the haystack. The needle in your eye.

Nothing is easy.

Quick! Make haste! Vite! Vite!

Remove all flat surfaces. Depressions and resting places. Fill them with knick knacks and bric-a-brac.

Not here. No no no no. Not here. This is not your soft landing.

You let your mind out somewhere down the road

Links you can use. For good or evil. Links like a dandelion spreading its seeds on the wind,  links like sugar, Johnny Applelink, Malcolm Gladwell's Link.

You know, links you might find mildly or wildly interesting.

David Cay Johnston gives us a Tale of Two Healthcare Plans. Warning: contains graphs, charts and the mention of taxes.

Paul Krugman (who had a cameo in Get Him to the Greek, much to my surprise and delight because if I have to sit through a film featuring Russell Brand and a scene where his character demands that his handler smuggle drugs up his butt (the handler's not his own), then I'm going to need some sort of smartypants liberal elite elixir to provide some balance. One can't sue Hollywood for brain atrophy, can one?) Where was I? Oh, yes, Paul Krugman. His piece on obstruction and exploitation. Also known as <redacted>.

I'm trying to not curse. It's an experiment, an exercise in self restraint.

Which reminds me, I'm listening to the audio version of Frank Delaney's Venetia Kelly's Traveling Show: A Novel of Ireland and have laughed uproariously while driving to and from work. Which is saying something because lately I have been in one pissed off and holler mood. To crack this marble face takes some true comedic talent.

I bring this up because in the book, there's a character who seasons every sentence with a sulfuric dash of that oh so versatile word fuck. When the narrator reports any conversations he has with said cuss monster, his mother insists he use flock instead of the other very bad word.

To wit:

...why in the flock does she need a flocking ladder to get to the flocking flowerboxes when I flocking told her that I would flocking help her in a few flocking minutes.......

It is perfect, of course, with the Irish brogue.

Douglas Coupland offers some advice to writers. Specifically, to young writers, but who's to say what's young anymore? I'm not biologically young, but my writing is young. Anyway, it's a bullet point list so it won't wear you thin with paragraphs and contains some points I haven't seen elsewhere in my search for enlightenment about writing (a procrastination tactic familiar to writers the world over.)

Gwynne Watkins interviews Amanda Palmer.

Super8. Have you seen it? Sophie interrupted her own raving about it to ask me to watch it with her. I said I'd watch a few minutes and then probably get back to whatever it was I'd been doing. Two hours later, I was still glued to the television. It held my interest enough that I didn't multitask once during the entire viewing and it made an ELO fan out of Sophie.

Bra Recycling. Surprisingly, I don't mean turning bras into charming chapeaux. Although one could, I suppose, but let's leave MathMan out of this.

I'm reading Rachel Maddow's Drift: The Unmooring of American Military Power. Talk about taxing my ability to remain curse word free. I'm only up to the part about how Reagan funded the Contras in Nicaragua and have already worn out the phrases holy shit, motherfucker, Jesus Christ, What the hell? and I'll be damned.

Please just stop. For all that was good and holy in Mrs. Johnson's 7th grade language class, please. Stop.

And finally Fred Armisen on Alec Baldwin's Here's the Thing. Via the incomparable Bob Lefsetz. If you've been asking if you should keep chasing your dream, you must listen to this.

What's making you click these days?

This is Tara, Mr. Steinbeck

Mice, men, getting laid, having plans. Schemes on rye toast.

Want to guess what did and did not happen Sunday?

You don't need to guess. You know.

MathMan suggested that my book choice is the problem. It isn't compelling enough for me. Bless his heart. That is not the problem. I am the problem. I can't make myself focus. One thing turns into another. Wiping down the kitchen counter ends with me cleaning out a closet while phoning my father to find out what year he got his first pair of roller skates.

Things derailed quickly. Sophie announced she was hungry. I referred her to my blog post.

A few minutes later, she returned to my room sporting an expression I couldn't quite make out. Maybe it was  resolve. She was going to make pancakes. Pancakes sounded good to me, too, but without providing some level of sanitation supervision, I wouldn't want to eat them. I'd help if only to avoid taking a bite of pancake only to find a long hair in it, I told my inner control freak.

Okay, so pancakes. That was it. After that, I'd read.

But first I had to play Words with Friends with Sarah W. (she's kicking my butt!) and four other people (so are they!) because it would be rude to leave them hanging.

A great wailing from the kitchen alerted me to the absence of milk with which to douse the cereal the children would be having for three meals apparently. Such carrying on.

Okay. A trip to the grocery because we needed more than milk and no one else can be trusted to do the coupons correctly. Must make that list and remember the reusable bags.

After the store, I told myself, I'd read. There was still time.

The girls and I returned from the store. MathMan had made dinner so we had a meal together followed by a brief celebration of National Ice Cream Day. Oh, Ben & Jerry, we hardly knew ye.

I waddled upstairs, back into reaching distance of the novel. In a minute, I whispered to the stonyfaced dust jacket. I had to wash my face and apply an anti-aging mask. Oh, and tidy up my nails, fix the cuticles, file them, buff them.

And, oh for heaven's sake, can no one else ever scrub the damn toilet and sink? Better do that before my nails.

More Words with Friends, a quick check of Facebook and Twitter told me that everyone was retroactively having fun at Mitt Romney's expense and that would be Breaking Bad. See! That didn't take long. No celebrity deaths to clutter up the feeds with RIPs, no sports happening. I enjoyed a sense of smugness. I was all caught up even if I couldn't find a way to use that dang Z in my game with Sarah.

I returned to the bathroom to rinse the mask from my face. MathMan joined me upstairs. I thought he must not be feeling well. Turned out he was playing with his Atomic Fart app on his phone. Again.

I sat down with the novel and began flicking the pages. That would fix him for providing a long, squishy soundtrack to my trip to the WC. He and his phone could turn a quick tinkle into a severe gastrointestinal event.

MathMan doesn't like it when I flick the pages of any book. He says it's because it's bad for the book and the ghost of his mother the Librarian will haunt me if I don't stop. I know it's because he can't tune out the sound of it like he can tune out the sound of my voice.

He grabbed the spray bottle he keeps on hand to discourage the cats from getting onto our bed and aimed it in my direction. He is a crack shot. I stared at him hard and gave the pages a definitive flick.

This would not end well.

We called a truce. If I read now without flicking the pages, it would appear he won. If I read and flicked the pages, I was breaking the truce. I put the book on the night stand and sighed. We watched a third of an episode of Downton Abbey, one Foyle's War episode, and the new Inspector Lewis - Generation of Vipers (I have the worst crush on Sergeant Hathaway) before finally falling asleep.

Despite the fact that I read zero pages of the intended novel, the day was not wasted. I even managed to do somethings just for me. I ran an hour on the elliptical and finished off my manicure with a lovely shade of purple. I can live with that.

Taking the Scarlet O'Hara approach helps, too. It is another day. I have another chance to read to my heart's content.

I have the day off.

Are you a rifle or a shotgun?

Tell me did I go on a tangent?

Slices of life.

Like pie. Or cheese.

Needs a stronger prescription.

It's been hot, but hey, it's summer in Georgia (I don't know what to say for the rest of you sweltering away where you are.) Heat is to be expected. The real problem is the humidity. But then, that's expected, too. Expected, but still lamented.

I step out of the shower, towel off and I can't get dry. It's disgusting. And it makes pulling on those Fanx (faux Spanx) an unpleasant, curse-word laced activity. Before I even attempt it, I aim to rid myself of some of this moisture. And then there's the fact I despise under-boob sweat. One's chest should not be a swampland.

MathMan is still in bed with his eyes closed. I assume he's asleep. I quietly pick up the box fan next to the bed and hold it in front of me. The air feels deliciously cool on my skin.

"You can just stand there and do that all day."

The sweet man. Of course, I can't take a compliment. "Good thing you're not wearing your glasses. I'm so fat and gross."

"I stand by my statement."

Interactive

Don't you think we need some more word play based on Fifty Shades of Grey?

I mean, in this age of online reality, nothing is a phenomenon until it's been parodied four hundred and seventy-two different ways.

Here are is my attempts at Shading:

Fifty Shades of Kiss My Ass.

Okay, that's it for me. Do something with this. I know you're dying to.

Pointy


I'm listening to the audio book Jennifer Egan's Look at Me. (Salon review from November 14, 2001)

First - Egan is an excellent wordsmith.

Second - Egan was incredibly prescient or I have truly forgotten how deep we already were into the internet in 2000.

Third - I'm an impatient reader/listener. Although Egan's writing is beautiful, blah, blah, blah,  I am often thinking "Get on with it! Get to the point! Tell the damn story!"

Do you do this or am I just an asshole?

Holidaze
I'm going to take the month of August off from the internet. I've got some work travel coming up and a stack  of books to read. School starts back up and that's a busy time at Golden Manor.

All of which is to say, expect me to blog every single day next month because whenever I say I'm taking a break is precisely when life presents me with all sorts of writing material.

Crank it wide open and let your thoughts spill out, yo.

And this because I love the lyrics, that's why.

Don't wave no goodbye

Act one. 

About a week ago, I was sitting at my desk doing my part to make air travel a happy experience for the customer and world at large when my mobile buzzed. Chloe. The ambient sounds told me she was driving. She doesn't usually call while she's behind the wheel.

"Mom, there's a guy behind me flashing his lights and tailgating me."

"Call 911." It was the only rational thing I could think to suggest.

"Mom. Really? I don't even know how to give a description of his car. He's behind me."

"Whatever you do, don't stop."

"What if there's something really wrong with my car?"

As she talked, she must have slowed down because the other driver drew alongside her. Chloe shouted "What?" and waved her phone around.

He sped ahead and turned right at the next intersection. Chloe went on her way. I went back to protecting the flying public by sending out mass emails and posting documents on a website.

Act two.

I'm motoring south in the left lane of I-75. In my peripheral vision, I notice a vehicle on my right. It's even with me. Odd is my first thought.

I'm imagining it, I think, after Chloe's experience.

I speed up. The black truck next to me does too.

I don't want to look. I don't. I don't want to look.

I look.

The charmer behind the wheel - salt and pepper hair, a mustache, aviators and a cap - grins. A big grin. Wolfish. Ah. He has my attention and he's ever so pleased.

For goodness sake says the roll of my eyes.

My attention is back on the road and my audio book. Ignore him. He pulls level with me and stays there.

I look again and there's that grin. And a hand over his heart. Thump thump, he indicates, patting his chest.

I smile because I've been well-trained and shake my head. Go back to watching the road.

He honks his horn to get my attention. There is a car in front of me and one behind. I can't vary my speed by much or change lanes.

Stuck.

I glance in his direction and he points at his chest then at me then at his chest again. Fans himself.

Ah.

He's spotted the cleavage.

I roll my eyes southward. Well, hello there. With my hands dutifully placed at 10 o'clock and 2 o'clock, my breasts are smooshed in just a way as to create that cleft. The one that makes grown men act like ignoramuses. Frustrating for those of us with big breasts. Stacy and Clinton advise the big-breasted to not wear shirts with  fabric covering the chest because it makes one appear even larger. And a decent bra makes cleavage.

It's a fine line. Running right between your breasts and into imaginations.

He blows his horn again and I tug my shirt up to cover the valley. Again with the horn. I look his way and he tugs his shirt down.

I'm slow. I don't know what he wants. I wave him off.

He gets my attention again and points to me, then pulls the front of his shirt away from his body.

Oh. I see. He wants me to show him my boobs. For free.

Call me strange, but I do not get the thrill of begging a stranger to show you her body parts. 

That's not really what it's about though, is it? It's about power. Intimidation. Perceived subversion. Testing the limits. And I'm thinking, Dude, I used to have my boobs on the internet. Getting me to show you my tits is really not the special thing you think it is. Unless, of course, the real thrill is the fact that we're cooking along at about 75 miles per hour.

I think of my daughter who was potentially in danger because she'd committed the crime of being female while driving on an open road in a little white car. I'm getting angry.

I punch the CD button to stop the audio book. I've missed whole paragraphs. The car in front of me finally moves out of my way and I push forward. Black truck keeps up with me until he gets caught behind a slower driver and no way to switch lanes.

I change lanes a couple of times, still a few miles from my exit onto I285.

Black truck catches up with me again. He's on my left. He's behind me. He's on my right again.

He follows me onto the exit, still in the lane to my right on the long ramp that bisects at its end. I glance once more. He makes a sad face. Hands off the wheel - he's praying for my acquiescence. Please, he mouths. Please, please.

I push the button and the passenger's side window slides down. Anticipation makes Black Truck nudge his sunglasses down his nose.

I smile at him. Game on.


I point at my chest and shrug. He nods. Still hopeful. It's now or never. Come on, he mouths. The wind coming through the window is hot and smells of exhaust.


I go west. He goes east. I switch the audio book on and search for the spot where I stopped listening.

Find the hidden elephant

My mother had it wrong. People without a lick of sense or class are not shunned by society. Some even get their own TV shows.

Every online platform quickly becomes a place to market things.

Chewed gum carelessly wrapped in a tissue and left in a hot car for the entire day will quickly attach itself to every surface - animate and inanimate - you come in contact with after you grab that same tissue while sneezing.

Chewed gum is not so easy to get out of your nose hairs.

I should probably switch to breath mints.

The Vermont Country Store catalog is retro-lover's wet dream. And you can order something from it to clean up after yourself, too.

People who do Calculus to unwind before they go to bed are (fill in the blank).

There is no such thing as a comfortable underwire bra.

Clumpers on Facebook. Who else gets bored with this?

Over to you...