You Tube pulled a stream, video, film, whatever they're called that features powerful words by JFK, Martin Luther King Jr. and presidential candidate Ron Paul. The poster was given no reason for the censorship, though he has written to You Tube many times.
Please watch and post to your sites. Spread the message of someone in public life--thank God!--advocating for the Constitution and an end to preemptive war.
Clinton and Obama certainly aren't. When asked, both said that they would continue the illegal and unconstitutional practice of signing statements, in which Congress passes a law and the president signs the bill into law, but then issues a signing statement, picking and choosing what aspects of the law the executive will abide by or negating the law entirely. In this manner, Bush has made a regular practice of the unitary executive, a means by which the judicial and legislative branches of government are nullified and the executive reins supreme. Hmmm...isn't that the definition of a dictatorship?
Wake up, folks! Wake up! Write and call your representatives. Tell them, like I have done many times to Sens. Barbara Boxer and Diane Feinstein, "Why are you such cowards? Why don't you stand up for the Constitution? You're acting as if Bush is a Mafia boss who will have you rubbed out if you cross him. For god's sake, save this country. Do something. Otherwise, history will l look back at you as cowards, absolute cowards."
Well, and of course, history will look back at each and every American who did nothing, said nothing, just as history has harshly judged the German people for the atrocities of the Nazis. If you are doing and saying nothing to save the Constitution and to demand the rule of law, then you, too, are a coward and history will look back at you with scorn.
As Helma, the mother of my deceased boyfriend Mike and someone who lived in Nazi Germany, told me, "This is exactly what happened with Hitler. This is how it started."
How do you want it to end?
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Where Were my Fellow Americans Today?
Some 60 percent of Americans now feel it was a big mistake to attack Iraq, and presidential candidates Clinton and Barack are fighting for the prize of whose more anti-war. Yet where were these millions of Americans today, almost five years to the day after the start of the Iraq invasion? Why weren't they marching in the streets with me?
This was my 20th or so protest, post-9/11. Each time I attend a march, the crowds get thinner. This time there were somewhere between two and 10 thousand, depending on if you believe the police or the organizers. But even if you go with the high figure, that's only one out every 2,000 Southern Californians. I guess the other 1,999 were watching TV or drinking or shopping instead.
Or maybe they were scared. Actually, the sheriff department's presence certainly could have deterred some citizens who may have thought of exercising their First Amendment rights. The Blue Line station on Willow Street sported a paddy wagon and five patrol cars, as well as 20 or so officers on the platform. I asked one what this heavy presence was about. She said it was because of the march. "But we're peaceful," I said. Then she came up with a reason: They were making sure that no one carried a stick on board, the kind that's used to support a protest sign. She said these are considered weapons. Oh, my gawd! If that were true, why not have a lone officer stationed at the entrance to the platform to tell any protesters that they could not carry sticks on board! This was intimidation, pure and simple.
My favorite sign of the day--and, yes, unfortunately, I forgot my camera--was "I Love America, But I Miss the World's Respect." Amen to that. Now when I look at my world-map shower curtain--and I do so several times a day--I often think, not "Where would I like to go?" but more "Where can I afford to go?" Afford, not just in terms of the deflated dollar, but in terms of safety and a friendly reception.
Another good one: "I Love America, But I Think We Should Start Seeing Other People." Amen to that!
So, yes, I'm overall disappointed by my fellow Americans, dispassionate, lazy, uninformed, self-absorbed, or scared as they seem to be. But I was also encouraged by the number of young people who took to the streets of Los Angeles today. Perhaps there is hope. As anthropologist Margaret Mead said, "Never underestimate the power of a few committed people to change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has."
And yet, it sure would be nice if it were a big group of committed people. Yes, that would make things happen a whole lot quicker.
This was my 20th or so protest, post-9/11. Each time I attend a march, the crowds get thinner. This time there were somewhere between two and 10 thousand, depending on if you believe the police or the organizers. But even if you go with the high figure, that's only one out every 2,000 Southern Californians. I guess the other 1,999 were watching TV or drinking or shopping instead.
Or maybe they were scared. Actually, the sheriff department's presence certainly could have deterred some citizens who may have thought of exercising their First Amendment rights. The Blue Line station on Willow Street sported a paddy wagon and five patrol cars, as well as 20 or so officers on the platform. I asked one what this heavy presence was about. She said it was because of the march. "But we're peaceful," I said. Then she came up with a reason: They were making sure that no one carried a stick on board, the kind that's used to support a protest sign. She said these are considered weapons. Oh, my gawd! If that were true, why not have a lone officer stationed at the entrance to the platform to tell any protesters that they could not carry sticks on board! This was intimidation, pure and simple.
My favorite sign of the day--and, yes, unfortunately, I forgot my camera--was "I Love America, But I Miss the World's Respect." Amen to that. Now when I look at my world-map shower curtain--and I do so several times a day--I often think, not "Where would I like to go?" but more "Where can I afford to go?" Afford, not just in terms of the deflated dollar, but in terms of safety and a friendly reception.
Another good one: "I Love America, But I Think We Should Start Seeing Other People." Amen to that!
So, yes, I'm overall disappointed by my fellow Americans, dispassionate, lazy, uninformed, self-absorbed, or scared as they seem to be. But I was also encouraged by the number of young people who took to the streets of Los Angeles today. Perhaps there is hope. As anthropologist Margaret Mead said, "Never underestimate the power of a few committed people to change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has."
And yet, it sure would be nice if it were a big group of committed people. Yes, that would make things happen a whole lot quicker.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
You Look Good for Your Age
Last week I drove to LA to meet Aaron and his new girlfriend, Regine. We had dinner at a retro restaurant, the HMS Bounty. Complete with large, upholstered booths, nautical paraphernalia, and red-glowing buoy lights, the Bounty is adjacent to the Gaylord Apartments, the ample lobby of which sports photos of '20s and '30s film stars and display cases of memorabilia, presumably of those who once graced the rooms of the establishment
On Sunday I saw Aaron again, and he told me that Regine had said I look good for my age and that her father, whom he met last week for the first time, looked good too. I looked at him and said, "Well, Son, and you look good for your age too."
"Thanks, Mom," he said with a bright smile and so the following banter, so typical of our interactions, began.
Aaron: Maybe we should start saying that to young people, you know, like to 16-year-old girls. Just when they're feeling insecure about their bodies.
Heidi: Well, Son, that would take on a whole different meaning. "You look good for your age" would mean "Oh, I see that your breasts are fully developed."
A: Yeah, I see what you mean. How about "You look good for your age." (As he said this, he motioned with his hand as if to include the entire milieu.) Like say that to someone from the Middle Ages.
H: Yeah, like: "Everyone else of your time looks like shit, living as they are in cold, damp, rat-infested hovels, eating moldy bread and rotting meat, and fighting off the plague, but you, you look good for your age."
I just love these insights into the language, these plays on words. What fun language is!
On Sunday I saw Aaron again, and he told me that Regine had said I look good for my age and that her father, whom he met last week for the first time, looked good too. I looked at him and said, "Well, Son, and you look good for your age too."
"Thanks, Mom," he said with a bright smile and so the following banter, so typical of our interactions, began.
Aaron: Maybe we should start saying that to young people, you know, like to 16-year-old girls. Just when they're feeling insecure about their bodies.
Heidi: Well, Son, that would take on a whole different meaning. "You look good for your age" would mean "Oh, I see that your breasts are fully developed."
A: Yeah, I see what you mean. How about "You look good for your age." (As he said this, he motioned with his hand as if to include the entire milieu.) Like say that to someone from the Middle Ages.
H: Yeah, like: "Everyone else of your time looks like shit, living as they are in cold, damp, rat-infested hovels, eating moldy bread and rotting meat, and fighting off the plague, but you, you look good for your age."
I just love these insights into the language, these plays on words. What fun language is!
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Gnomeland Security T-shirt Perfect for Your Next Trip Through Airport Security
Don’t be tense. Wear a t-shirt from gnomesense. Gnomesense.com, that is.
Order your Gnomeland Security t-shirt today! Perfect for your next trip through airport security. 100% spun cotton. S-XL $19.99 Be sure to visit www.Gnomesense.com for the whole story. |  | For more information, please contact: Heidi, Business Director, Gnomesense.com Aaron, Artistic Director, Gnomesense.com |  |
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
I've Given Birth!
Last night I gave birth. Not to a kicking, screaming, diaper-wetting baby, mind you, but to a business that I have been struggling to launch for almost a year. Last night it finally made its Web presence known to the world. Finally, finally, finally, after much hang-wringing, a whole lot of time, and approximately $4,500 in hosting fees, Web design, business cards, an ad on the back of my truck, and T-shirt printing costs, gnomesense.com has entered the world.
I had the idea early last year to start a business with Aaron using his artwork for artsy, edgy T-shirts. So I brainstormed ideas and came up with a bunch of good ones. But I wanted to launch the business with Gnomeland Security, an authoritarian-looking gnome with his hand in his pocket ala Napoleon. A spoof on the whole Homeland Security bullshit. My way of chiseling away, if ever so slightly, at the fear that has gripped this country. Yes, I am a big believer in calling your congressional representative and the White House comment line and in marching in the streets, but sometimes humor is even more disarming. This is my way of telling the government that I will not buy into its comic-book drama and manipulation.
So, I am asking each and every one of you who reads this blog to please visit gnomesense.com and order a T-shirt or two. That would mean so very much to me and my "baby."
Saturday, January 26, 2008
The Magic Lamp
I flew to Wisconsin on Wednesday to sell my mom's car and the rest of her furniture and to pack up what was left. While I was there, I also shipped the toilet seat with safety bars that she wants in her new place, the framed map of the United States that had always hung over her desk, and the brass floor lamp with a night light in its base that I considered a magical world when I was child, playing on the floor in its glow.
Well, truth be told, I still consider it a magical world, and so I fretted and stewed over that lamp more than anything else that I had wanted to keep from my mom's household. I wanted to check it as luggage on one of my plane trips to California, but the dimensions exceeded the maximum 62 inches. I thought of asking my former mother-in-law to store it for me. I even thought of driving my mom's Camry back to California just so that I could transport the lamp. The pictures of the lamp and me that are featured in this blog were taken by Aaron when I thought I might never see my lamp again. That was before I hit upon the idea of unscrewing the top and the arm, duct-taping them to the pole, and shipping the lamp via UPS.
I felt so good after I made arrangements for the lamp. There are very few things in my childhood worth remembering, but for some reason, that night light in the base of that floor lamp captures a sense of wonder and mystery that I did not want to give up. I told Aaron of the fondness I had for the lamp, but he brushed it off. He thought I was wacko for wanting to drive 2,000 miles just to provide for its safe passage.
I made my strongest case to this scoffing son of mine: "Some day you'll have kids who will play on the floor in front of this lamp. They'll turn the night light off and on and peer into the slits at the base of the lamp where the light shines through and they'll think, too, that this is a magical world. How can you deprive your future children of that wonder, that adventure, Aaron? What the hell is wrong with you? What kind of a lame-ass father are you going to be?"
That, of course, made him smile widely and say, "I guess the kind of lame-ass father who doesn't let his kids get obsessed with night lights."
But you just wait. When I get the lamp in my apartment, guess who will be sitting on the floor, drinking a beer, and turning the night light off and on. Only he probably won't do it when I'm around. Only when he has a few of his beer-drinking friends over when I'm not there. I bet they'll all be switching the light off and on and wondering about the wondrous world contained within the base of my magic lamp.
And some day, some day, Aaron's kids will come running to me, shouting, "Grandma, Grandma, get down on your belly and look while I turn on a magic world for you." That's right. That day will come, for sure.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Mom Fantasy
Strange thoughts have been popping up in my head lately. Not often, but once in a while, I get this flash: Perhaps Mom was saved from the grips of death in order to have time to develop the relationship with me that we have never had.
I get these images of her and me spending the last few years of her life bonding like we never have before. She is a different person, open to new ideas, interested in other people, ready to have fun.
I have not nurtured this fantasy; I simply observe it when it arises in my brain. Whether it will manifest in reality is yet to be seen.
I get these images of her and me spending the last few years of her life bonding like we never have before. She is a different person, open to new ideas, interested in other people, ready to have fun.
I have not nurtured this fantasy; I simply observe it when it arises in my brain. Whether it will manifest in reality is yet to be seen.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Spiritual Experience at the Museum of Jurassic Technology
My very favorite place in Los Angeles is the Museum of Jurassic Technology. For its strangeness, its eccentricity, its wonder. It's hardly a museum at all, if by "museum" one means a place where one goes to find out about the world. You see, in this museum not everything is to be taken as a fact, or it might be some fact, some whimsy, or just that someone had too much weed when he was writing the copy for the information plaques. You never really know.
First off, you have to be buzzed into the museum; you can't just walk through some grand entrance. The exhibits don't change, but that's OK because you have to keep going back to soak it in. There is an exhibit about folk remedies, like eating mice--fur, tails, and all--on a slice of toast to ward off bed-wetting. Then there's the Napoleon library and the wing devoted to the cat's cradle, yes, that string game you may have played in elementary school. Miniatures figure prominently, micro-miniatures, to be exact, teeny weeny sculptures balancing on the eyes of needles and delicate crystals fashioned into baskets of flowers that can only be seen under a microscope. And don't miss the trailer homes of the mid-1930s with two maps of the world that are lit up where trailer parks and trailer-home manufacturing operations were located in 1936, or so the map contends. If you didn't know, there was one of the former in Greenland and one of the latter in Mozambique. Hmmmm...this is precisely what I was mentioning earlier--authentic-looking photographs from the era showing families happily preparing meals within their tin homes juxtaposed with fabulist maps.
Upstairs is the Russian tearoom, complete with silver samovars and staffed by a Russian woman in her mid-30s. Next door is the theatre, which shows bizarre flicks, and between the two is a beautiful water closet with a toilet that has a silver handle that you pull in order to flush it. When I was at the museum last night, I used the toilet, only to find that others who had gone before me did not know what the silver handle was for.
Last night at the museum was a spiritual experience for me. I heard, along with friend Bob Martinez, a concert by Aurelia Shrenker and Eva Salina Primack, two beautiful young women who were backlit by candlelight and sang like angels or gypsies, take your pick. Bob and I sat in the front row, near enough to touch them. On my right sat two ladies adorned in costumes of the 1800s with touches from other time periods thrown in. Aurelia played the dulcimer, and Eva, the accordion. Both sang Georgian, Albanian, Greek, Corsican, and Appalachian tunes, some so painfully sad and beautiful that I was close to tears.
As they sang, I fell in love with them, there's no other expression that describes the way I felt. They were so beautiful and their souls, which poured forth through their music, were so beautiful, and I wanted to be as close as I possibly could to that beauty. Isn't that a good definition of "being in love"? I hugged and thanked both of them afterwards and told Aurelia that this had been a spiritual experience for me. Bob and I then wandered about the museum, but returned for the 10 o'clock concert to hear the same songs once again.
Ah, what a magical evening! Two angels at my favorite place in LA. It just doesn't get much better.
First off, you have to be buzzed into the museum; you can't just walk through some grand entrance. The exhibits don't change, but that's OK because you have to keep going back to soak it in. There is an exhibit about folk remedies, like eating mice--fur, tails, and all--on a slice of toast to ward off bed-wetting. Then there's the Napoleon library and the wing devoted to the cat's cradle, yes, that string game you may have played in elementary school. Miniatures figure prominently, micro-miniatures, to be exact, teeny weeny sculptures balancing on the eyes of needles and delicate crystals fashioned into baskets of flowers that can only be seen under a microscope. And don't miss the trailer homes of the mid-1930s with two maps of the world that are lit up where trailer parks and trailer-home manufacturing operations were located in 1936, or so the map contends. If you didn't know, there was one of the former in Greenland and one of the latter in Mozambique. Hmmmm...this is precisely what I was mentioning earlier--authentic-looking photographs from the era showing families happily preparing meals within their tin homes juxtaposed with fabulist maps.
Upstairs is the Russian tearoom, complete with silver samovars and staffed by a Russian woman in her mid-30s. Next door is the theatre, which shows bizarre flicks, and between the two is a beautiful water closet with a toilet that has a silver handle that you pull in order to flush it. When I was at the museum last night, I used the toilet, only to find that others who had gone before me did not know what the silver handle was for.
Last night at the museum was a spiritual experience for me. I heard, along with friend Bob Martinez, a concert by Aurelia Shrenker and Eva Salina Primack, two beautiful young women who were backlit by candlelight and sang like angels or gypsies, take your pick. Bob and I sat in the front row, near enough to touch them. On my right sat two ladies adorned in costumes of the 1800s with touches from other time periods thrown in. Aurelia played the dulcimer, and Eva, the accordion. Both sang Georgian, Albanian, Greek, Corsican, and Appalachian tunes, some so painfully sad and beautiful that I was close to tears.
As they sang, I fell in love with them, there's no other expression that describes the way I felt. They were so beautiful and their souls, which poured forth through their music, were so beautiful, and I wanted to be as close as I possibly could to that beauty. Isn't that a good definition of "being in love"? I hugged and thanked both of them afterwards and told Aurelia that this had been a spiritual experience for me. Bob and I then wandered about the museum, but returned for the 10 o'clock concert to hear the same songs once again.
Ah, what a magical evening! Two angels at my favorite place in LA. It just doesn't get much better.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Friday Night with Heidi, Rudolph, and Special Banana Bread
It's been a long, hard couple of weeks. I needed a break, so I watched the DVD I had ordered from Netflix prior to Christmas but had not been able to view because of the mom drama. "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" was tonight's fare. Yes, you heard right.
How many years--nay, dare I say decades--has it been since last I saw "Rudolph"! But recently I had heard a segment on NPR about a puppeteer who had rescued the original Rudolph from the trash bin and was restoring him to his former glory. This prompted me to put the DVD in my cue.
What a perfect complement Rudolph was to a few slices of "special" banana bread. This, too, was supposed to have been enjoyed on Christmas Day, but instead I froze it, knowing it would not be a good idea to pack it in my luggage. Those darned, working-overtime German shepherds!
I noticed things about the movie that I had not noticed as a child. Top of the list is that the male elves wore coats but no pants. And these coats covered their bums alright, but they were cut high in the front, revealing not only their crotches but the bottoms of their tummies too.
If you don't recall, the major theme is "Misfits have a place too." Remember, there's Rudolph whose nose precludes him from participating in the reindeer games but whose blinker comes in handy during a blizzard on Christmas Eve. Then there's Hermie, the elf who longs to be a dentist, and Yukon Cornelius, the prospector who never finds silver or gold. And there is the Island of Misfit Toys, a sad assembly of boats that can't float, a jack-in-the-box named Charlie, a bird that can't fly, and a train with square wheels--all abandoned by children who preferred conventionality to novelty. Even the abominable snowman is a misfit who finally finds his true calling--placing stars atop Christmas trees without the aid of a ladder.
All these misfits got me thinking: Why is it that the misfit story in all its multitudinous machinations is so common when there are truly so few misfits in our conformist society? It seems every coming-of-age story is about a misfit who saved the day and was embraced by his fellows for his inner beauty and his courage against the odds, yet, truly, how often have real misfits been so lauded? Perhaps after they're dead, sure enough, but when they're breathing? It's hard to come up with a single example.
Well, maybe this is all just the banana bread talking.
How many years--nay, dare I say decades--has it been since last I saw "Rudolph"! But recently I had heard a segment on NPR about a puppeteer who had rescued the original Rudolph from the trash bin and was restoring him to his former glory. This prompted me to put the DVD in my cue.
What a perfect complement Rudolph was to a few slices of "special" banana bread. This, too, was supposed to have been enjoyed on Christmas Day, but instead I froze it, knowing it would not be a good idea to pack it in my luggage. Those darned, working-overtime German shepherds!
I noticed things about the movie that I had not noticed as a child. Top of the list is that the male elves wore coats but no pants. And these coats covered their bums alright, but they were cut high in the front, revealing not only their crotches but the bottoms of their tummies too.
If you don't recall, the major theme is "Misfits have a place too." Remember, there's Rudolph whose nose precludes him from participating in the reindeer games but whose blinker comes in handy during a blizzard on Christmas Eve. Then there's Hermie, the elf who longs to be a dentist, and Yukon Cornelius, the prospector who never finds silver or gold. And there is the Island of Misfit Toys, a sad assembly of boats that can't float, a jack-in-the-box named Charlie, a bird that can't fly, and a train with square wheels--all abandoned by children who preferred conventionality to novelty. Even the abominable snowman is a misfit who finally finds his true calling--placing stars atop Christmas trees without the aid of a ladder.
All these misfits got me thinking: Why is it that the misfit story in all its multitudinous machinations is so common when there are truly so few misfits in our conformist society? It seems every coming-of-age story is about a misfit who saved the day and was embraced by his fellows for his inner beauty and his courage against the odds, yet, truly, how often have real misfits been so lauded? Perhaps after they're dead, sure enough, but when they're breathing? It's hard to come up with a single example.
Well, maybe this is all just the banana bread talking.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Looking for a Place for Mom
During the past few days, I have been visiting assisted-living facilities in Long Beach. I have stepped into places that each one of us pass on our way to the office or the store or a bar, but never venture inside. It's a world I knew existed but never cared to explore.
First off, these places ain't cheap. Not by a long shot. To get anything decent and private, you're shelling out between $2,500 and three grand a month. That includes three meals and three snacks a day, emergency pull cords in every room, and more activities than you ever had at summer camp. Exercise classes, yoga, current events, shopping trips, breakfasts and lunches out on the town, church services, card games, bingo, crafts, sing-alongs around the piano, book discussions, excursions to the Getty Museum and to Catalina.
But looking at the sign-up sheets for these events, I saw few names. Most residents, it seems, choose to nod off in the lounge or hang out by the front door. Are they waiting for a daughter or son who never arrives? It's a chilling thought I couldn't get out of my mind.
One place I visited yesterday, the Crofton Manor Inn, reminded me of cheap motel. Everyone from the housekeepers to the director to the woman who grabbed my hand and wouldn't let it go seemed a bit off-kilter. The carpet was worn, the halls were dark, the rooms were even darker. The "deluxe" one-bedroom looked down onto a wall of razor wire and vibrated with rap music coming from the apartment building next door. My tour guide also showed me a studio shared by two women whose beds were lined up, headboard to footboard, against one wall that barely left room to walk to the toilet. I couldn't leave this establishment fast enough.
In the end, I have decided on Healthview's Pine Villa. The staff are friendly and professional. Everyone from the maintenance man to the cook to the director seem genuinely happy to be there. The dining area looks like a restaurant. And best of all, my mom's room is sunny and cheerful. As it's the model apartment, it's nicely furnished, and the director said she would let my mom use everything that's there at no extra cost, since she's moving from Wisconsin and doesn't have any furniture. She'll have a small bedroom with a twin bed, dresser, and night table; a breakfast nook/kitchenette with table, chairs, microwave, and fridge; and a living room with couch, end table, and rocking chair. Both the bedroom and the living room have an eighth-story view of downtown and a slice of the ocean. If this apartment were in a non-senior building, I sure wouldn't mind living there. Though it's $400 more per month than my second pick, the room is so warm and inviting that I am hoping this will make my mother's transition easier.
Each day I talk with her on the phone, she seems more and more anxious, frenetic, yet the physical therapist tells me she's doing well. I wonder if this anxiety is part of the whole getting-unhooked-from-the-pain-meds syndrome. She's basically going through withdrawals. My mother is the only junkie I've ever had close contact with, so I'm not sure about all this, but it sure seems that's what's going on.
The only subject of concern now is whether the skilled nursing home where she is currently residing will mark "dementia" on the forms that must be filled out and faxed back to Pine Villa. If that's the case, then my mother will be confined to a locked floor and given a roommate. No sunny, cheerful, private room. No privacy. And another $600 a month. I would hate to see this happen to her. Surely, it would be the death of her.
First off, these places ain't cheap. Not by a long shot. To get anything decent and private, you're shelling out between $2,500 and three grand a month. That includes three meals and three snacks a day, emergency pull cords in every room, and more activities than you ever had at summer camp. Exercise classes, yoga, current events, shopping trips, breakfasts and lunches out on the town, church services, card games, bingo, crafts, sing-alongs around the piano, book discussions, excursions to the Getty Museum and to Catalina.
But looking at the sign-up sheets for these events, I saw few names. Most residents, it seems, choose to nod off in the lounge or hang out by the front door. Are they waiting for a daughter or son who never arrives? It's a chilling thought I couldn't get out of my mind.
One place I visited yesterday, the Crofton Manor Inn, reminded me of cheap motel. Everyone from the housekeepers to the director to the woman who grabbed my hand and wouldn't let it go seemed a bit off-kilter. The carpet was worn, the halls were dark, the rooms were even darker. The "deluxe" one-bedroom looked down onto a wall of razor wire and vibrated with rap music coming from the apartment building next door. My tour guide also showed me a studio shared by two women whose beds were lined up, headboard to footboard, against one wall that barely left room to walk to the toilet. I couldn't leave this establishment fast enough.
In the end, I have decided on Healthview's Pine Villa. The staff are friendly and professional. Everyone from the maintenance man to the cook to the director seem genuinely happy to be there. The dining area looks like a restaurant. And best of all, my mom's room is sunny and cheerful. As it's the model apartment, it's nicely furnished, and the director said she would let my mom use everything that's there at no extra cost, since she's moving from Wisconsin and doesn't have any furniture. She'll have a small bedroom with a twin bed, dresser, and night table; a breakfast nook/kitchenette with table, chairs, microwave, and fridge; and a living room with couch, end table, and rocking chair. Both the bedroom and the living room have an eighth-story view of downtown and a slice of the ocean. If this apartment were in a non-senior building, I sure wouldn't mind living there. Though it's $400 more per month than my second pick, the room is so warm and inviting that I am hoping this will make my mother's transition easier.
Each day I talk with her on the phone, she seems more and more anxious, frenetic, yet the physical therapist tells me she's doing well. I wonder if this anxiety is part of the whole getting-unhooked-from-the-pain-meds syndrome. She's basically going through withdrawals. My mother is the only junkie I've ever had close contact with, so I'm not sure about all this, but it sure seems that's what's going on.
The only subject of concern now is whether the skilled nursing home where she is currently residing will mark "dementia" on the forms that must be filled out and faxed back to Pine Villa. If that's the case, then my mother will be confined to a locked floor and given a roommate. No sunny, cheerful, private room. No privacy. And another $600 a month. I would hate to see this happen to her. Surely, it would be the death of her.
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Caring for a Mother Who Never Cared for Me
When I was a child, my mother never told me she loved me. A few years back, when she saw how alone she had become, she began saying she loved me in a whiny voice that pleaded to me to say the same back to her.
I have never had a good time with her. No spontaneous hugs. No silliness. No belly laughs. No connection. Everything has always been about her. She doesn't even know what I do for a living, though I've told her hundreds of times.
During my childhood and young adulthood, her distance and disconnection upset me. But once I came to grips with who she was and what she would never be, I eased into a relationship of duty. Sending her greeting cards and flowers to cheer her. Visiting twice a year. Calling several times a week. Somehow it's much easier to know that she will never know anything about me, and by knowing this, I can give up vying for emotional intimacy.
But now that she is helpless, bonkers, zoned out on pain meds, deemed incompetent, I am now the best thing in the world because I am the only thing in her world. I am the life raft, and she's drowning.
This is not a pity-me diatribe from a 49-year-old slighted daughter. It's just that now that my sense of duty has to come into full swing, I sure wish that a loving bond or at least some good memories came along with the package.
So on Monday, the day after tomorrow, I'll be winging my way home to find a home for my mother.
I have been in Wisconsin now for almost two weeks, getting rid of her things, closing up her apartment, sorting through the mountains of unpaid bills and paperwork. I've seen her deemed incompetent and put in a skilled nursing home, where she is receiving rehab.
I am stressed, as this whole job is placed in my lap (though my dear son was here for a week to help). My brother in Milwaukee, just 25 miles away, wants nothing to do with her. He hasn't called or visited during these past two weeks. I also feel financially burdened, as I had to fly with Aaron out here on a moment's notice. Also, when she moves to Long Beach, I'm stuck there once again. My plan was to leave So Cal in May and begin anew. Now that doesn't seem to be in the cards. I feel trapped.
I've got to find a way to make this mountainous task a bit easier. I have no pleasant memories to reflect back upon, and her current state does little but produce pity, impatience, stress, a sense of being manipulated and used, and, yes, anger in me. I keep all this under wraps, of course, under the polite smile of duty. I am duty-bound to care for my mother, but, oh, how I wish my care for her were rather based on the love I have known for my son and he for me. But the opportunity for that was lost long ago.
I have never had a good time with her. No spontaneous hugs. No silliness. No belly laughs. No connection. Everything has always been about her. She doesn't even know what I do for a living, though I've told her hundreds of times.
During my childhood and young adulthood, her distance and disconnection upset me. But once I came to grips with who she was and what she would never be, I eased into a relationship of duty. Sending her greeting cards and flowers to cheer her. Visiting twice a year. Calling several times a week. Somehow it's much easier to know that she will never know anything about me, and by knowing this, I can give up vying for emotional intimacy.
But now that she is helpless, bonkers, zoned out on pain meds, deemed incompetent, I am now the best thing in the world because I am the only thing in her world. I am the life raft, and she's drowning.
This is not a pity-me diatribe from a 49-year-old slighted daughter. It's just that now that my sense of duty has to come into full swing, I sure wish that a loving bond or at least some good memories came along with the package.
So on Monday, the day after tomorrow, I'll be winging my way home to find a home for my mother.
I have been in Wisconsin now for almost two weeks, getting rid of her things, closing up her apartment, sorting through the mountains of unpaid bills and paperwork. I've seen her deemed incompetent and put in a skilled nursing home, where she is receiving rehab.
I am stressed, as this whole job is placed in my lap (though my dear son was here for a week to help). My brother in Milwaukee, just 25 miles away, wants nothing to do with her. He hasn't called or visited during these past two weeks. I also feel financially burdened, as I had to fly with Aaron out here on a moment's notice. Also, when she moves to Long Beach, I'm stuck there once again. My plan was to leave So Cal in May and begin anew. Now that doesn't seem to be in the cards. I feel trapped.
I've got to find a way to make this mountainous task a bit easier. I have no pleasant memories to reflect back upon, and her current state does little but produce pity, impatience, stress, a sense of being manipulated and used, and, yes, anger in me. I keep all this under wraps, of course, under the polite smile of duty. I am duty-bound to care for my mother, but, oh, how I wish my care for her were rather based on the love I have known for my son and he for me. But the opportunity for that was lost long ago.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Caroling in Carroll Park
After much cajoling, I succeeded in getting a caroling party assembled--the dear son, his friends Tyler and Bryant, and myself. After a few photos around our Christmas tree--a sprig of evergreen rising triumphantly from a vase--and a little bit of alcohol at home, we headed out to spread good cheer.
Our first stop was Leonard's apartment. His Christmas lights were on, but he didn't answer the door. Next up, was the mechanic in the apartment below the laundry room. He offered us ten bucks before we even opened our mouths, but I refused. But when we sang our brandy verse of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," he poured Malibu coconut-flavored rum into our mugs.
We proceeded down Molino Avenue to the homes of strangers. Some offered fudge and cookies. Others gave us beers. Two cute girls in a lovely craftsman-style house brought out a bottle of red wine that one of them had recently purchased in Spain. A friend of a friend in an apartment that looked like it had been the site of many a holiday party gave us vodka. Another family served Jim Beam.
A middle-aged couple and their friend joined us in "Silent Night" and even humored me by listening to my solo of "Stille Nacht." Then they gave us hugs! Yes, hugs between strangers! Does it get any better!
At Portfolio, the home of snobby baristas, we sang to anyone who would raise his gaze from his laptop screen. The ennui of the bored youth behind the counter persisted, but one patron said into her cell phone, "I'll have to call you back. There are carolers here." She hung up and joined in for a few verses. Outside we met with a merrier crowd. One young gal, who gave us all hugs when I told her of the hugs we had previously received, said of my photo-taking: "I know that will end up on a blog somewhere." And indeed it has.
One boy, maybe four years old, was our biggest fan. He stood by the door, dumbstruck, awestruck, bright-eyed, smiling. Decades from now, he will remember that night like a dim vision of Santa on the rooftop or sleigh bells as he drifts off to sleep.
As we walked and encountered pedestrians, we circled them and filled them with good cheer as well.
And lest I forget the couple with the Beemer parked out front. The woman offered us whiskey before we even asked, and when her husband/boyfriend said they had been at a party the night before and no one knew the words to an old carol, I immediately jumped in with "Here We Go A-Wassailing." That had been the song he had wanted to sing! And so the six of us sang, "We are not daily beggars/That beg from door to door/But we are neighbors' children/Who you have seen before/Love and joy come to you/And to you your wassail too/May God bless you and send you a happy new year/May God send you a happy new year."
Definitely a Christmas baby was conceived at that house last night. I could just image the woman saying, "Oh, honey, wasn't that magical!" And so would begin some magic of their own.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Anyone for Caroling?
Every December I begin my let's-go-caroling chorus. Every year I am met with nay-sayers and pooh-hoohers. What's wrong with the world? Caroling is one of the most fun things around. It's just that no one wants to give it a try.
Decades ago, years before Aaron was born, back in the days when I was a young, married woman, I cajoled my brother, Tim, and then-husband, Rod, to go caroling. Rod and I were living in Chicago at the time, and we were visiting our families in Wisconsin. Sure, it was colder than a witch's tit, but I suggested that we bring mugs and sing for brandy. This warmed the men up to the idea--somewhat.
So, off we went, knocking on the doors of strangers and singing to them--the standard fare of "Rudolph," "Come All Ye Faithful," and "The First Noel." At one house, after we had sung "Silent Night" in English, I cleared a space for myself in a dramatic flourish and gave a solo performance of "Stille Nacht"--"Silent Night" in German. Young parents and their children were aglow and gave us cookies. Older shut-ins were transported back to their childhoods, when people actually did what we were doing. And, sure enough, some people brought out the brandy.
Now we didn't ask for booze at every house. We didn't hit up the elderly or those with young kids. But at most houses, especially if the residents seemed playful, we'd close with "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." Instead of singing about the figgy pudding, I made up the verse:
"Now bring us a cup of brandy.
Now bring us a cup of brandy.
Now bring us a cup of brandy.
And a shot and a beer.
We won't go until we get some.
We won't go until we get some.
We won't go until we get some,
So bring it right here."
We laughed and held out our mugs while we swayed to and fro to the music.
One couple brought out Chivis Regal Scotch Whiskey. The good stuff. And an unopened bottle. They had received it as a gift that year and told us that they didn't drink. They poured it as if it were coffee.
Twenty years later, on Christmas Eve 2004, I made a surprise visit to Wisconsin. Now long since divorced and mother to an 18-year-old, I once again cajoled my brother and my son, too, to join me in mirth. Once again, it was colder than hell, but once again, we brought our mugs.
We met with a few sourpusses, I must admit. One girl who sat watching TV as we sang and never bothered to answer the door, though she occasionally looked at us as if we were on another channel. And, yes, there was the Jewish woman, who we hadn't known was Jewish until her neighbor informed us. She had listened patiently, but when I did my solo number, she screamed, "How dare you sing to me in German!" and slammed the door in our faces. Ouch!
Then I had a flashback to the Chivis Regal couple. I was convinced the house on the corner was theirs. (I have an uncanny memory for such details of life.) We gave it a try, and yessiree bob, same couple and same bottle of Chivis Regal. That's right--they had opened it for us 20 years ago and besides what had evaporated over those two decades, not a drop was missing. They invited us in to see their tree, told of how they had met in the Old Country, poured us stiff drinks and then refilled our mugs.
Even my cynical brother admitted that this was magical.
Two years ago, I organized a caroling party and we canvased the Rose Park neighborhood. Though I had invited several of my students, only Hector Perez shared my enthusiasm. In fact, he might have been even more nuts about caroling than me, if one can believe that. He kept saying, "Oh, Miss Nye, let's keep going." And so we did, "bringing joy to so many people," as Hector said in an effervescent moment of pure holiday bliss.
And so, this year, once again, I am looking forward to spreading joy. I told my son that he has to round up his friends. That this will be fun. And you can be damn sure it will be.
Decades ago, years before Aaron was born, back in the days when I was a young, married woman, I cajoled my brother, Tim, and then-husband, Rod, to go caroling. Rod and I were living in Chicago at the time, and we were visiting our families in Wisconsin. Sure, it was colder than a witch's tit, but I suggested that we bring mugs and sing for brandy. This warmed the men up to the idea--somewhat.
So, off we went, knocking on the doors of strangers and singing to them--the standard fare of "Rudolph," "Come All Ye Faithful," and "The First Noel." At one house, after we had sung "Silent Night" in English, I cleared a space for myself in a dramatic flourish and gave a solo performance of "Stille Nacht"--"Silent Night" in German. Young parents and their children were aglow and gave us cookies. Older shut-ins were transported back to their childhoods, when people actually did what we were doing. And, sure enough, some people brought out the brandy.
Now we didn't ask for booze at every house. We didn't hit up the elderly or those with young kids. But at most houses, especially if the residents seemed playful, we'd close with "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." Instead of singing about the figgy pudding, I made up the verse:
"Now bring us a cup of brandy.
Now bring us a cup of brandy.
Now bring us a cup of brandy.
And a shot and a beer.
We won't go until we get some.
We won't go until we get some.
We won't go until we get some,
So bring it right here."
We laughed and held out our mugs while we swayed to and fro to the music.
One couple brought out Chivis Regal Scotch Whiskey. The good stuff. And an unopened bottle. They had received it as a gift that year and told us that they didn't drink. They poured it as if it were coffee.
Twenty years later, on Christmas Eve 2004, I made a surprise visit to Wisconsin. Now long since divorced and mother to an 18-year-old, I once again cajoled my brother and my son, too, to join me in mirth. Once again, it was colder than hell, but once again, we brought our mugs.
We met with a few sourpusses, I must admit. One girl who sat watching TV as we sang and never bothered to answer the door, though she occasionally looked at us as if we were on another channel. And, yes, there was the Jewish woman, who we hadn't known was Jewish until her neighbor informed us. She had listened patiently, but when I did my solo number, she screamed, "How dare you sing to me in German!" and slammed the door in our faces. Ouch!
Then I had a flashback to the Chivis Regal couple. I was convinced the house on the corner was theirs. (I have an uncanny memory for such details of life.) We gave it a try, and yessiree bob, same couple and same bottle of Chivis Regal. That's right--they had opened it for us 20 years ago and besides what had evaporated over those two decades, not a drop was missing. They invited us in to see their tree, told of how they had met in the Old Country, poured us stiff drinks and then refilled our mugs.
Even my cynical brother admitted that this was magical.
Two years ago, I organized a caroling party and we canvased the Rose Park neighborhood. Though I had invited several of my students, only Hector Perez shared my enthusiasm. In fact, he might have been even more nuts about caroling than me, if one can believe that. He kept saying, "Oh, Miss Nye, let's keep going." And so we did, "bringing joy to so many people," as Hector said in an effervescent moment of pure holiday bliss.
And so, this year, once again, I am looking forward to spreading joy. I told my son that he has to round up his friends. That this will be fun. And you can be damn sure it will be.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
We All Have so Much
Though I live simply, I still have much more than most of the people in the world do. I have a roof over my head, a bed, food, clothes, a hot shower every morning--hooray for hot showers!--and a whole bunch of earrings.
I'm urging everyone to take stock of his or her blessings and then to rethink holiday shopping this year. Do you really need to buy another thing for friends and family members who already have so many things? Why not have a tree planted in their name instead? Or give them a pretty card that shows that you donated money to their favorite charity? Or that you sponsored a homeless family or a patient at a mental-health facility?
Holiday shopping is way out of hand. Let's all do our part to reign it in and remember that others have so little while we often have way too much.
I'm urging everyone to take stock of his or her blessings and then to rethink holiday shopping this year. Do you really need to buy another thing for friends and family members who already have so many things? Why not have a tree planted in their name instead? Or give them a pretty card that shows that you donated money to their favorite charity? Or that you sponsored a homeless family or a patient at a mental-health facility?
Holiday shopping is way out of hand. Let's all do our part to reign it in and remember that others have so little while we often have way too much.
Master Card Takes an Extra $5,000 of my Money
Let me state from the get-go that I am a rare American: I have never paid a dime in credit-card interest. I pay my bills in full and on time. There have even been years when I overpaid my Visa bill when times were good.
But, of course, that kind of customer isn't what the credit card companies want. They want people who are in debt, people they can charge Mafia-style interest. For me, I would rather live simply, buy what I need from yard sales and thrift stores, and not have debt stress.
I charge most of my expenses in order to reap the frequent-flyer miles, one or two miles for every dollar spent, you know the story. This past month I had more outlays than usual, what with an airline ticket to Wisconsin, a one-way ticket from Portland for my son, hundreds of dollars in medical and dental bills, and a bunch of business expenses.
Nevertheless, when I started getting statements from my bank that I was being charged for overdrafts, I knew something was amiss. Turns out, Capital One electronically processed a check I had sent for $1,871.11--payment in full--for $6,871.11, five grand more than I owed.
I called Capital One and got a man in India who had no authority to do anything except say he was sorry. Finally, I got his American supervisor who chastised me for not writing my numbers clearly, something I disputed. She pulled up the check and said there was a tiny pen mark at the top of the one that might have confused the data-entry person. I don't think that a tiny mark at the top of the one would have looked anywhere near a "6."
I also noted that the reason people write checks is so there is something to check the numerals against--the next line on which the check-writer fills in the amount in words. I had to repeat that several times before she understood. Then she told me that the data-entry people have to process checks so fast that they can't stop to make sure the amount is correct!
Credit-card companies are making more money than God, I told her. Why can't they pay to have the job done right? I'm sure they would still be making more money than God if they doubled their number of data-entry people.
She then said that Capital One doesn't process the checks in-house but farms them out--no doubt to India--so it has no control over how the checks are processed. I said, "You could exercise control if you wanted to. It's like if I wanted a swimming pool built in my backyard, and I contract with a firm to build the pool. The contractor sends out two guys to do the work, but I tell him I want four guys to do the job and I'll pay extra. Do you think he'd tell me, 'No, I can't do that'? You, too, could ask for more people to do the work--and to do the work right." This point went way over her head.
Finally, after an hour on the phone for something that was not my mistake, the supervisor said she would have the $5,000 wired back to my account. That was Friday morning. Yesterday afternoon I called my credit union. No transfer has yet been made. And the overdraft fees continue to arrive--six at last count.
But, of course, that kind of customer isn't what the credit card companies want. They want people who are in debt, people they can charge Mafia-style interest. For me, I would rather live simply, buy what I need from yard sales and thrift stores, and not have debt stress.
I charge most of my expenses in order to reap the frequent-flyer miles, one or two miles for every dollar spent, you know the story. This past month I had more outlays than usual, what with an airline ticket to Wisconsin, a one-way ticket from Portland for my son, hundreds of dollars in medical and dental bills, and a bunch of business expenses.
Nevertheless, when I started getting statements from my bank that I was being charged for overdrafts, I knew something was amiss. Turns out, Capital One electronically processed a check I had sent for $1,871.11--payment in full--for $6,871.11, five grand more than I owed.
I called Capital One and got a man in India who had no authority to do anything except say he was sorry. Finally, I got his American supervisor who chastised me for not writing my numbers clearly, something I disputed. She pulled up the check and said there was a tiny pen mark at the top of the one that might have confused the data-entry person. I don't think that a tiny mark at the top of the one would have looked anywhere near a "6."
I also noted that the reason people write checks is so there is something to check the numerals against--the next line on which the check-writer fills in the amount in words. I had to repeat that several times before she understood. Then she told me that the data-entry people have to process checks so fast that they can't stop to make sure the amount is correct!
Credit-card companies are making more money than God, I told her. Why can't they pay to have the job done right? I'm sure they would still be making more money than God if they doubled their number of data-entry people.
She then said that Capital One doesn't process the checks in-house but farms them out--no doubt to India--so it has no control over how the checks are processed. I said, "You could exercise control if you wanted to. It's like if I wanted a swimming pool built in my backyard, and I contract with a firm to build the pool. The contractor sends out two guys to do the work, but I tell him I want four guys to do the job and I'll pay extra. Do you think he'd tell me, 'No, I can't do that'? You, too, could ask for more people to do the work--and to do the work right." This point went way over her head.
Finally, after an hour on the phone for something that was not my mistake, the supervisor said she would have the $5,000 wired back to my account. That was Friday morning. Yesterday afternoon I called my credit union. No transfer has yet been made. And the overdraft fees continue to arrive--six at last count.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Mature Gals with Great Attitudes
During the past few days I have spent time with two women in their 70s--Bev and Carol. The first is a long-time friend, the other a massage client. Both are amazing gals and both look great. Bev recently spurned a 50-year-old lover, a man who is a quarter of a century her junior. Carol looks like she could be in her mid-50s. So what's their secret?
The answer is that both Bev and Carol don't let things bother them, and they don't dwell on the past. I am convinced that this attitude keeps them young.
Bev has been asked at various times in her life, "Aren't you insulted by what that person said to you? Aren't you hurt by what that person did to you?" She brushes such comments off as if they were specks of dust and says, "Maybe I should be upset, but I'm not. I don't have time to be upset. I've got too many other things to do."
And indeed she does. She's juggling a few guys, besides still working as a massage therapist. She lifts weights and takes long walks at the Newport Back Bay. She's active in a few churches that run the gamut from evangelical Christian to Science of Mind. She's also fascinated with Judaism and takes classes in alternative healing. Whew!
Carol, too, is very present-oriented. She is constantly going--golfing a few times a week, walking several miles with her friends each day, volunteering, attending concerts and plays, spending time with her boyfriend. She outright admits, "I have no interest in the past."
I have a great admiration for both these ladies, who have found the secret of youth--a positive, present-oriented attitude that allows no time for wallowing over past injustices.
Whenever I find myself rehashing what someone said or did or what I said or did or didn't say or didn't do, I need to give myself a good, hard slap and say, "I don't have time for this! It'll only give me more wrinkles!"
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Camper Shell Brings Sense of Security
A few days ago, my mother asked me what I am going to do when I leave Cal State in May. I had been going along, fairly satisfied with the New Agey thought that something miraculous would occur between now and spring, and I would be shown a clear, straight path to happiness, love, and abundance. But moms have a way of throwing a wrench into such thinking.
Since our conversation, I have started to feel a growing sense of dread. How am I going to support myself? (My pension from Cal State will be something like $200 a month.) Where will I rest my head? Will I be completely alone in a strange, new place?
I had always thought that certainly by now, after almost 18 years of divorced life, I would have a partner or at least a boyfriend or a lover. But, no, I'm facing another Christmas alone, my eighth in a row. It's possible that in the next five months I could meet someone wonderful who might also think I'm wonderful too, a man who would take my breath away. It's possible, but I can't bank on it.
I started fretting about isolation. I'm cut off enough as it is, here in Southern California, but in a new environment it could be years before I make any friends. Friend Heather moved to Denver not knowing anyone and within a week or two she was the most popular gal in town. But I know I'm not Heather. Will I be able to survive without my Sunday afternoon excursions with Aaron, who is sometimes the only social contact I have all week?
So, these are the kinds of fears that have crept into my consciousness since my talk with Mom.
Though I wasn't thinking of this as a means to combat these demons in my head, I did something this afternoon that I've been wanting to do for a long time--purchase a camper shell for my Tacoma. In the summer of 2006, I camped my way up the coast for a month, then met Aaron in Washington state, and he and I traveled to Wisconsin and back to So Cal together. The night before I picked him up at the Spokane airport, someone stole from the open bed of my truck the containers in which I had been storing food, clothes, medicine, toiletries, and camping equipment. That's when I started thinking about getting a shell, though it took me until today to do it.
Aaron and I are planning a trip up the coast to Portland for a week and a half following Christmas. It'll be cold and rainy, so we won't be able to sleep in the open bed of the truck like we've done in the past. We'll need the camper shell.
It's so amazing how the fears about the future that Mom placed in my skull have now dissipated. It's such a good feeling knowing that even if I am without a job and without a support system and without an apartment, I'll still have a place to sleep. That's such a comfort. I can live inside my truck if it ever comes to that, and I'll be OK.
I am always amazed when I ask people how they got to California, and they tell me of a cousin who offered them a place while they found a job or a good friend who had an extra bedroom in her apartment or her house. I take inventory of the people I know, and I don't think there's one among them who would be able to give me a place to crash while I settled into a new environment. They have kids or their places are small or it just wouldn't work for one reason or another. But I think there are a few who might let me park my Tacoma--with its spiffy camper shell--on the street in front of their abode and allow me to use the bathroom once in a while. That might just be enough.
Since our conversation, I have started to feel a growing sense of dread. How am I going to support myself? (My pension from Cal State will be something like $200 a month.) Where will I rest my head? Will I be completely alone in a strange, new place?
I had always thought that certainly by now, after almost 18 years of divorced life, I would have a partner or at least a boyfriend or a lover. But, no, I'm facing another Christmas alone, my eighth in a row. It's possible that in the next five months I could meet someone wonderful who might also think I'm wonderful too, a man who would take my breath away. It's possible, but I can't bank on it.
I started fretting about isolation. I'm cut off enough as it is, here in Southern California, but in a new environment it could be years before I make any friends. Friend Heather moved to Denver not knowing anyone and within a week or two she was the most popular gal in town. But I know I'm not Heather. Will I be able to survive without my Sunday afternoon excursions with Aaron, who is sometimes the only social contact I have all week?
So, these are the kinds of fears that have crept into my consciousness since my talk with Mom.
Though I wasn't thinking of this as a means to combat these demons in my head, I did something this afternoon that I've been wanting to do for a long time--purchase a camper shell for my Tacoma. In the summer of 2006, I camped my way up the coast for a month, then met Aaron in Washington state, and he and I traveled to Wisconsin and back to So Cal together. The night before I picked him up at the Spokane airport, someone stole from the open bed of my truck the containers in which I had been storing food, clothes, medicine, toiletries, and camping equipment. That's when I started thinking about getting a shell, though it took me until today to do it.
Aaron and I are planning a trip up the coast to Portland for a week and a half following Christmas. It'll be cold and rainy, so we won't be able to sleep in the open bed of the truck like we've done in the past. We'll need the camper shell.
It's so amazing how the fears about the future that Mom placed in my skull have now dissipated. It's such a good feeling knowing that even if I am without a job and without a support system and without an apartment, I'll still have a place to sleep. That's such a comfort. I can live inside my truck if it ever comes to that, and I'll be OK.
I am always amazed when I ask people how they got to California, and they tell me of a cousin who offered them a place while they found a job or a good friend who had an extra bedroom in her apartment or her house. I take inventory of the people I know, and I don't think there's one among them who would be able to give me a place to crash while I settled into a new environment. They have kids or their places are small or it just wouldn't work for one reason or another. But I think there are a few who might let me park my Tacoma--with its spiffy camper shell--on the street in front of their abode and allow me to use the bathroom once in a while. That might just be enough.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
A Lesson Learned Again and Again
I have hurt someone. I didn't mean to. I didn't want to. But I have.
I knew this was coming from the very beginning. I knew that at some point I would be the one who would do the hurting, since I am the one who is interested in friendship and the man I have hurt is interested in much more.
Last night I didn't sleep at all, disturbed by how I had hurt him. I scrutinized my thoughts and realized that they fit a common pattern for me. Whenever I have some sort of hurtful or unfortunate social interaction, I think that perhaps I am not well-suited for interactions with people, interactions of any depth, that is. Instead I should confine myself to compliments about someone's cooking or outfit and light conversation about the weather. I always seem to get in trouble if I venture any further.
I recall the image that came to me once in a dream or perhaps it was in a waking vision. It was the 1940s or maybe the '30s. I was an attractive woman who lived alone in a cute, little apartment. I said hello to everyone I encountered, the green grocer and the newspaper boy, the old woman beating her rugs on the fire escape, the good-looking man who would tip his hat when I passed by. I was pleasant with my coworkers. I always had a genuine smile on my face for anyone I might see, and that smile was there even when I was alone. I went on excursions about town, and I cooked candlelit meals for myself. I enjoyed reading in my sunlit parlor and walking my dog or teaching my parrot to talk. I seemed very happy, yet I had no lover, no friends, no contact with family. I was just floating through this world, content to be alive and not disturbing anyone. This image returned to me today. Was this me in another life? Or is this my true nature--to be alone?
I think, too, of what my enlightened-being-of-the-north-woods friend asked me in the summer of 2006 when I was visiting her in northeastern Washington: "Why do I have to interact with people?" I gave her answers such as "You can only learn certain things through interacting with people" and "You are a person, so interacting with other people will help you learn about yourself." To this she replied, "What if I don't want to learn those things?" For that I had no answer.
And yet I would love to have deep friendship and deep intimacy, but perhaps I just don't understand the ways of the world. I missed school the day that relationships, friendship, and making one's way in the world were discussed. I've just got to muddle through without the benefit of notes.
This disconnect was so strongly brought to my attention one night decades ago. I was driving on Pacific Coast Highway and encountered a police officer who was signalling with his flashlight. I thought he meant that I should continue to drive forward, whereas instead he meant for me to stop. As I passed him, he yelled and slammed his flashlight into the side of my vehicle. I was shocked. Here I thought I was doing what was asked, but instead I was doing just the opposite. How often this has happened--I am traveling along, thinking I am acting in accordance with society's norms, only to be wacked into awareness of how far afield I am.
In the current situation, I was at fault for how the hurt unfolded. I made mistakes that I will not make again. But the larger mistake of thinking that a man could be my friend is one that I have often made in the past and I suspect, unless I live as the woman in my vision, I will make again.
I knew this was coming from the very beginning. I knew that at some point I would be the one who would do the hurting, since I am the one who is interested in friendship and the man I have hurt is interested in much more.
Last night I didn't sleep at all, disturbed by how I had hurt him. I scrutinized my thoughts and realized that they fit a common pattern for me. Whenever I have some sort of hurtful or unfortunate social interaction, I think that perhaps I am not well-suited for interactions with people, interactions of any depth, that is. Instead I should confine myself to compliments about someone's cooking or outfit and light conversation about the weather. I always seem to get in trouble if I venture any further.
I recall the image that came to me once in a dream or perhaps it was in a waking vision. It was the 1940s or maybe the '30s. I was an attractive woman who lived alone in a cute, little apartment. I said hello to everyone I encountered, the green grocer and the newspaper boy, the old woman beating her rugs on the fire escape, the good-looking man who would tip his hat when I passed by. I was pleasant with my coworkers. I always had a genuine smile on my face for anyone I might see, and that smile was there even when I was alone. I went on excursions about town, and I cooked candlelit meals for myself. I enjoyed reading in my sunlit parlor and walking my dog or teaching my parrot to talk. I seemed very happy, yet I had no lover, no friends, no contact with family. I was just floating through this world, content to be alive and not disturbing anyone. This image returned to me today. Was this me in another life? Or is this my true nature--to be alone?
I think, too, of what my enlightened-being-of-the-north-woods friend asked me in the summer of 2006 when I was visiting her in northeastern Washington: "Why do I have to interact with people?" I gave her answers such as "You can only learn certain things through interacting with people" and "You are a person, so interacting with other people will help you learn about yourself." To this she replied, "What if I don't want to learn those things?" For that I had no answer.
And yet I would love to have deep friendship and deep intimacy, but perhaps I just don't understand the ways of the world. I missed school the day that relationships, friendship, and making one's way in the world were discussed. I've just got to muddle through without the benefit of notes.
This disconnect was so strongly brought to my attention one night decades ago. I was driving on Pacific Coast Highway and encountered a police officer who was signalling with his flashlight. I thought he meant that I should continue to drive forward, whereas instead he meant for me to stop. As I passed him, he yelled and slammed his flashlight into the side of my vehicle. I was shocked. Here I thought I was doing what was asked, but instead I was doing just the opposite. How often this has happened--I am traveling along, thinking I am acting in accordance with society's norms, only to be wacked into awareness of how far afield I am.
In the current situation, I was at fault for how the hurt unfolded. I made mistakes that I will not make again. But the larger mistake of thinking that a man could be my friend is one that I have often made in the past and I suspect, unless I live as the woman in my vision, I will make again.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Never Knew Anyone Read my Blogs
My friends Heather and Alexi read my blogs, but I never knew anyone else did. Now it seems that someone has read a post about an old friend who has romantic feelings for me and sent it to him. He is insulted, and I have removed the post. I'm sorry and from now on, I won't write about anyone I know or I will dramatically change the particulars so that it is not clear about who I am speaking.
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