Mother's Rap

She spread the slats apart and squinted through the narrow opening. The north facing window was hazy, opaque with sun glare, rain spots and cobwebs.
"What are you looking at?" I asked as I forged for last night's leftovers in the fridge. Without breaking her concentration, mom waved behind her, "Hand me the phone. Fast."
I pinned a piece of cold fried chicken between my teeth, tucked a two-liter bottle of Orange Drink under my arm and handed her the cordless phone.
"I can't believe you still have an answering machine. Seriously, mom." Twenty years of dust was caked into the seams of the antiquated electronic. The recorded greeting was at least that old. "Ssh!" Mom urgently blasted me to keep my voice down. I defiantly asked with my 'inside voice', "what are you doing, anyway?"
"I have to call 911."
My cold fried chicken shed some of it's congealed coat and the camouflaged crumbs dropped to the speckled vinyl floor below. I didn't have to look to know that she was still at the window. Watching. Her paranoia didn't impress me anymore.
"Why do you have to call 911?" More crumbs fell out.
"Because! There's some..." She paused to find the most dramatic, least offensive, urgent descriptive she could come up with."...there's gangster raps outside!"
My laughter heaved a bolus of fried chicken into my esophagus, launching me into a fit of gagging and choking. "What the stink is a 'gangster rap?'" Now she had my attention and I looked up. Mom was in the same crouching tiger pose at the window, motionless, spying the 'gangster raps'. She lowered her voice to a whisper, "Thugs, gang kids!" She positioned her thumb on the '9', ready to dial.
I poured flat Orange Drink into a coffee mug. "What are the gangster raps doing?" She stared harder through the tiny opening in the wooden blinds. "They are standing around that car across the street."
 "So, they aren't actually doing anything?" I confirmed her observations but she didn't answer. "Mom. It's not   911 Prevent an Emergency. Put the phone down." She continued her surveillance, waiting for the gangster raps to do something-anything-litigious.
"What's mom looking at?" Lis swiped the last piece of chicken from my paper towel plate. "She's watching some gangster raps, and waiting for the shit to go down." Mom raised her voice above a whisper, "Don't swear in my house!" Lis stood beside her and looked over mom's shoulder into the street. "Oh, I graduated with those guys. One of those kids was in Student Council I think, and that other kid was in my Honors class."
Mom stepped back and put the phone on the counter beside the sink. "I want you girls to clean up all those crumbs you dropped and throw away your trash. I mean it." She was heading upstairs when the phone rang. "Will one of you brats get that?" Mom hollered from the landing where she had resumed her neighborhood watch crusade at the upstairs window.
"Maybe we should keep the line open, mom, just in case? The machine will get it."

Cardioship

Relationships are hard. Romantic relationships, friend and family relationships. Neighbor and work relationships. They all take a toll on the heart.
Relationships can make you feel good about yourself and horrible about yourself. Love, doubt and dislike yourself. Never mind how they can make you feel about the other person in the relationship.
Oy.
Some relationships are worth the never ending investment of mental and emotional sweat. Some are better left severed and walked away from.
But no matter where they end up, all relationships have to go through the heart before they go anywhere else; making the heart a sort of filter, a sciv to let the love through and keep the crap out.
Like any machine, hearts are fallible. They aren't perfect. Sometimes they fail. Sometimes they even break. And that is the part that makes us human.
That is what makes our heads kick in and make up the difference when the heart falls short.
And then it's anybody's game because that's where all the crap goes that the heart once filtered out.
That's when we draw on past experience to help us make choices. Decisions. Mistakes.
That is when we have to count on the other person's heart to do what's right and hope that their heart isn't broken too.

Mutiny on the Body

There are so many things that are much easier said than done. Perhaps the one most difficult for me to do is, "Listen to your body."
Listen. To your body.
Most days, my body whines, cries, nags and even screams at me. And I ignore it like a child having a tantrum in the Market.
Shut up, body. I don't have time for you. Your needs are embarrassing me.

I know you are hungry, you don't have to keep telling me. I know you are tired. I know you want to sit down. But we must. Keep. Going. Things to do, people to see. Problems to solve.

 Worlds to conquer.

  I worked out today. When I came home, I walked the dog a mile and a half in 96 degree heat. I took a shower, and then in a moment of mutiny, my body did something it has never done before: it hit me.
I told my body that after the shower, it was time to vacuum, do the morning dishes. Mop, scrub, fold. Write, drive. Show up. And my body knocked my ass out.
 "I give you everything you ask for. Energy. Strength. We are stopping," my body said. And I listened.
 I laid down in bed, the fan whirring overhead. The room was dark and cool, the music turned up far too loud for a nap. And yet I fell hard, hard asleep.
After thirty minutes, I woke up in a panic, certain I had missed the whole afternoon. What do you know, the day was still there, the sun was still in the sky.  All the chores were still there. All my problems, all my worries, all the demands were still there. Even the World, was still there. Nothing died, nothing came to a screeching halt. Anarchy, apocalypse, famine, locust? Nope.  No one fell apart as a result of me listening to my body.
Not even me.

Blessings on the Greener Side

On a recent Facebook status update, I went on for far too many lines complaining about what a long and tiring day I had ahead of myself. Errands, kids,working out, driving, cooking, cleaning, walking the dog. Home repairs, grocery shopping and of course dinner, homework and the night shift.

I'm busy, we all get it.

These are things I do every day, but on that day it just felt like I was touching everything twice. With every click of my seat belt, every time I touched the gear shift, every time the dog jumped on me, a neighbor knocked, I felt like energy and motivation were being sucked out of me. And then it was time to pick someone up at school or turn over the laundry.

As a Homemaker, I find that I am in motion about 15 hours a day. My SUV is in motion for half of that.

It's exhausting. It's thankless.

My friend made a comment on my status implying that I was bragging about my to-do's, the Daily's that he dreams of in his single life. The hustle, the bustle. The chaos of married life. What I considered a long list of complaints, he considered bragging. The idea gave me pause.

My single friend can work late, go out late, drink, play, party. Have girl friends, have guy friends. Leave messes, leave the seat up, leave town any time. Text in the middle of the night. Come and go. No kids to baby sit, no dog to board. No bottomless baskets of laundry. Money can be spent on anything the single person desires. Not handed out as allowance, tooth fairy funds, daycare, field trips, Easter basket building, Halloween costumes. No school supplies and immunizations. No bombarding for snacks, pencils for homework (which all need sharpening of course). If he doesn't make it to the market for a while, that's ok. No one is going to be malnourished except him. A diet of peanut butter from the jar and an over ripe banana is a perfectly balanced meal in the single person's food pyramid.

It's a textbook case of "The Grass is Greener" theory.

Being married with children is a lot like enduring a difficult workout. It burns, it hurts. Sometimes, you even want to quit. It gets hard to breathe, it's uncomfortable, painful even. It's challenging, exhausting. It feels like it will never end and at times it can be a lonely place when you feel overwhelmed by the burden. But all of this could easily be said for the life of a single person, too.

It's uncomfortable. It's painful.

I've been single. I've been married. They each come with their own rewards and disappointments, like anything in life. It's hard no matter what side of the fence you are on. But it's your pasture and you were put there for a reason. As difficult as it is sometimes to exist there, once and a while it's a good idea to take off your shoes and walk around barefoot to remember how good it feels to be there. To connect with the roots and know you are growing, right where you belong.

I read my Facebook post again. Was I whining or celebrating? Giving up, or taking it all in? Would I trade my day for someone else's shade of green? Would my friend?

It's not easy. It's not like anyone else's.

It's perfect.

Say Again?

I sincerely wish I could learn to shut up.

But, since I have tried without success for years to shut up, I sincerely believe that I should have been wired with a DELETE, BACKSPACE or REWIND key. At the very least, I should wear a roll of duct tape on my wrist so I can intercept my own mouth from spewing whatever the hell it feels like.

In lieu of having actual hardware at my disposal to over ride my impulses, I must learn to accept what God gave me. Or didn't give me, in this case, self control.

I know there is a timeless adage used the world over; which is fitting for my projectile word vomit. It was something about being 'slow to think and slower to act,' or something like that. Think before you open your soup cooler.

In some cases, something might be worth thinking about for a long time before reacting to it. It might behoove someone like myself who is usually quick to act, to sleep on a matter and even think on it overnight. Overnight? Let's not get carried away.

In real life, I would never do that.

Because try as I may to hold back my initial emotions, I can't. I may tell my mouth that we are going to think rationally, reasonably, let cool heads prevail; but my mouth will almost always resist the effort.  It's the same reason I can't play poker or keep a birthday surprise. I just can't keep it in. I'm as transparent as Scotch tape.

It's a flaw that more often than not has gotten me in trouble, caused me a relationship or two, hurt someone's feelings, gotten me written up at work or ejected me from bars. My quick words have disappointed other people, and ruined opportunities. Letting my emotions come out in the form of words before my brain has had a chance to translate has rendered me embarrassed, regretful and vulnerable.

In my defense, I think this is largely because I instinctively trust my instinct. In 37 years, it has never failed me. My gut and I have an understanding, and my first feeling, my first instinct is usually spot on. And herein lies my conundrum...Because my instinct is not everyone else's instinct. Therefore, what I say, and even how I feel is not always right by worldly standards.

Sigh.

I am not always right. It was hard to put a period at the end of that sentence. I am not always right. Period.

So until the world becomes magically in tune with my ever-correct gut, or until I learn to think before I speak, please pass the tape.

Strange Magic

He was the first adult male I had a crush on. The forbidden, unattainable, unrequited love of my life.

Gorgeous. Rustic. If that's possible.

"Welcome to Natural Science, I'm your instructor, Terry Strange."

 I sat on the edge of the first seat in the front row. I batted my eyelashes, which were fixed on Terry Strange. His expensive, saggy jeans, his wire eyeglasses. Scuffed, heavy (but soft-looking) work boots. Terry Strange was a Lumberjack with champagne taste. Just the way I like 'em.

He rattled a list of expectations, rules, and the semester's agenda. He scribbled his office phone number on the board and I copied it into my notebook, covering the tiny hearts I drew all around it.

Sigh...


I noticed he was not wearing a wedding ring, but then I assumed that even if he was married,  a man like Terry Strange wouldn't wear jewelry except for the compass watch he sported on his left wrist.
He held most of our classes outside, and I loved that. When we went outside, Terry wore a felt hat that cast a beautiful shadow on top of his natural 5 o'clock shadow. So mysterious...

He referred to our notebooks as 'field books' and carried his own pocket sized field book tied with a leather string. He wrote in it with a wooden lacquer pen, the kind that twists open.

Oh Terry, you slay me with your avaunt guard  fashion sense.

Terry drove the white school van to the sight of our first field trip, the Nimbus Fish Hatchery.

The place smelled awful.

Fish eggs, fish packed in row after row of shallow tanks, fish food, fish waste, fish babies. Fish compost.

Somehow, Terry Strange made even the Nimbus Fish Hatchery fascinating and I hardly noticed that I had overexerted my gag reflex. I wondered how Terry would be spending the rest of the day after class. Would he go back to school and grade papers? Go out to lunch? Go home and make a hearty sandwich on seeded bread with dijon and pastrami? I bet he lives in a small mining community, in a big house with a dog. A Bloodhound, or a Lab. No, a Retriever for sure. The one that brought back the Pheasant he has hanging over his fireplace, the one he hunted. I bet Terry has brown leather furniture with brass carpenter tacks and whip stitching.

A petite woman was introduced as our tour guide. She was wearing a tan Fish Hatchery uniform and had her long, straight, brown hair pulled tightly back in a ponytail. Pale and bland, her big eyes were the only remarkable feature of her plain appearance.

She knew more about fish than anyone ought to, especially a woman. I noticed that Terry was smiling as he listened intently to the tour guide. The fish smell was again obvious, awful.

I tuned out the tour guide and the smell of fish and instead hummed our song, Strange Magic in my head.

"I'm 18, I can date anyone I want. I could drop out of Terry's class so he wouldn't have to worry about anyone chastising our love."
I love it when a plan comes together...I looked at Terry, who was standing at the back of our group. His hands were plunged deep into the front pockets of his fleece vest.

The tour ended and Terry instructed the class to return to the van. Everyone went except me. I lagged behind to see if I could finagle some one-on-one time with Terry. Maybe I had a question about the gestation period of Rainbow Trout eggs? Maybe I had a question about the spawning period of Grunion?

Minnows leaped about in my stomach with anticipation until I saw them. 


Terry was hugging the tour guide in front of the Evolution of Fish poster. She rubbed his arm while he talked with his hands, pointed at his compass watch.

They kissed goodbye and as he walked towards the van they agreed, "See you at home."

Making a Scene

I'm writing my Memoir.
Ugh.
It's awful. That is, it's awful to write. It's awful to remember. It's awful to Memoir.
For a long time, I didn't think I should write it. I didn't think I had a story to tell. And, if I did have a story, it is surely a horror story, and, who cares. Everybody has a rough life. Right?
Surely, no one can take away anything from my story, it won't teach anyone anything. It wont evoke feelings, or entice anyone to read it. Who cares, I'm nobody.
I'm nobody, with nothing to say. Nothing extraordinary I have overcome. I'm not a hero. I didn't turn any tragedies into anything amazing. I just came out of it, quietly with no fanfare.

But, as I began to share parts of my story with 'normal' people on the 'outside', once I traveled beyond the comfort zone of commiserating with my brother and sister; I learned that people were actually intrigued by my story.
They wanted to know more.
They wanted to know how I turned out so nicely, in spite of all that trauma.


So, my story began to morph from a tragic reality into a story. I've hired a coach to guide me through the logistics of compiling my story. She is there to help me put it all together; build it. Make sense of it all.
Oh, if anyone could just make sense of it all.
I have pages of material. Pages of things that really happened. I didn't have to create them, I didn't dream them or fictionalize them. This week I sent about forty pages to my coach. I waited anxiously for her feedback, her direction. I waited for her to make sense of it all.

While I plugged away at still more pages, I was overcome with a flood of emotion. I suppose that's going to happen when you dig through the emotional shards of your past. Sooner or later, it will start to sting. Again.
I called my mom.
I don't know why.
I didn't want to upset her. I didn't want to tell her where I had just gone, in my head. I didn't want to tell her what I had just written. She doesn't need to know. She already knows. But, I needed her voice. Thirty years later, I needed her.

"What are you doing today?" she asked.
"I'm just writing. That's all I have on my agenda today. Just writing. And I worked out at the Studio-but now, I'm writing."
I thought I might tell her that the writing is hard for me at times. Sometimes, it breaks my heart to look back at what I just wrote, and not choke down tears. Not have a panic attack. I think she already knew that. She knows that I'm scared when I write these things...

We talked about my sister, my brother and  my kids. We talked about the wildfires, marriage.
 How fitting.
The next day, my coach sent back the responses to my documents. Forty pages of my darkest secrets and most nagging insecurities and fears, critiqued in the margin by a stranger.
"Wow! Very powerful scene." "This is horrible, I am really getting a sense of the narrator's conflict and struggle." "I'm overcome, you have done a great job bringing me in to the narrator's place, I can feel and hear everything, this is great work."

This is a powerful scene. This is great work. This is horrible. I can feel everything...

A powerful scene? I think that's all wonderful feedback. Great critique.
But, there was some shock to seeing someone critique, "My God..." about my story. In a way that expressed; 'I can't believe it. I want to look away. How could anyone go through this?' And it's about my real life.

And then it occurred to me. It is real. It was real. To me. It happened, in my real life. I didn't make this, this isn't work that I creatively fabricated to make an impression, or to move someone to unimaginable emotion. This happened. All I have done by writing it down, is simply document what happened.
Is there talent in that? Is there anything commendable in that? Is documenting the worst things that ever happened to you, praise worthy or vulnerable to a good critique? Is it possible to have a 'voice' about something that once took your voice away?

Seems odd.

Maybe all this emotion is part of the growing pains of writing a memoir about tragedy. About abuse. About growing.

Maybe this is all part of the next scene.