Month: December 2004

  • It gets worse. 


    I called my brother first thing this morning and told him what happened.  He lives around the corner.  So he says he’ll call his next-door neighbor, who is best friends with Doug’s mother.  He says the guy’s a deadbeat, but that he’ll call me back with more details.


    He was casing the joint, because he’s one of those meth/crack addicts.  You people in Oregon, did you see those faces on the front page of the living section Tuesday?  He doesn’t have sores on his face.  Actually, he’s pretty good looking. 


    And I guess he’s not supposed to be drinking, either.  He was fired from his last job, AT THE GAS STATION, for stealing money.  He lives in a trailer near here and he must not have a car because this neighbor of my brother’s is going to drive him down to the beach house to be with his parents for New Years.  I thought that was happening today, but I see his is still over there.


    I can see him but he can’t see me.  I am sitting here in the dark, with only the light of the screen.  Well, maybe he can see me.  I was gone most of the day and when I got back, just after dark, I turned all the lights off on the main floor.  He’s in the garage, working on this truck that he’s fixing for someone.  My brother told me he was doing that.  I guess he’s supposed to be real smart and a whiz with cars.  Great, he’s probably good with electrical stuff, like messing with my security system.


    I never should have taken him in the living room, because from what’s in this part of the house, I don’t look like I have much.  But he must have thought he hit the jackpot when he rounded the corner.  I figure it’s just a matter of time.  I just hope he does it while I’m gone. 


    And what about my girls?  I’m worried about the youngest one’s car.  For Christmas I bought her new tires for the play car.  So her good car is parked in my driveway, just waiting for him to come get it. 


    I don’t want to move my computer because then I’ll have to tell my kids why, and they are already so resistant to driving over here.  If I tell them I’m waiting for a meth addict to break in, I’ll never see them again.


    So here’s the plan.  My brother is having his neighbor say that I am all upset and that if he ever comes over here again, the mother’s going to have to hear about it.  And he is dependent on her so he won’t mess with that.  He’ll assume that I’ve been told about the drugs and the stealing.  This is my brother’s plan, I don’t know how great it is. 


    It is just infuriating how much of a chicken-shit this puppy is.  There was a noise outside and the older dog started barking like crazy.  The puppy tried to crawl up my leg, shaking and whining.  Besides, they love Doug.  When he breaks in, he’ll probably bring them a treat.

  • I’ve been working on Part II, but I can’t really concentrate.  Somebody’s watching me, and his name’s Doug.  There was a knock on the door Christmas morning, and this disheveled man said he lived next door and that he’d lost his cat.  Well, I’d met the wife so we introduced ourselves and he told me about their missing cat.  He seemed quite distraught and reluctantly left.  I wondered later if he had wanted to go in the back yard and search around.  My back yard goes back quite a ways.  So later I went over and told the wife they were welcome to come over and look around.  She said if the cat were that close, she’d come home, that she could jump the fence.


    So, tonight, there is a knock on the door, and I yell, “come in.”  I thought it was my brother.  Well, it was Doug again.  But his hair is combed and he has nice clothes on.  He pulls out a beer for me, and acts like we’re long-lost friends.  There’s something about him that is familiar.  He’s one of those people who are just comfortable to be around. 


    He follows me into the kitchen, with the beers, and I get the opener out.  I am pulling a quiche out of the oven and ask if he’d like some.  He says, “sure.”  So we take the beers over and sit down.  The dogs are pretty excited and he loves dogs.  I have lots of questions about the previous owners and he has lots of questions, all of them leading me to believe he is interested.  One of the first things out of my mouth is that I have no breasts.  Boy, does that come in handy sometimes.  It didn’t just come out of nowhere, he’d asked about the column I write.  So I tell him I’m working on a book and he says, “Yeah, I see you sitting at the computer all the time.”  He must have mentioned three different times about how he looks over and sees me. 


    Okay, so we finish the beers and I get up to get the quiche when he says he’d really love a tour.  I thought it seemed forward, but I can see he’s one of those people who doesn’t worry about that.  He wants to snoop around.  I ignore it and we sit down to eat.  The downstairs is divided in half by my wonderful new dog gate.  The room I’m sitting in now, while he no doubt is watching, is open to the kitchen.  And he could see into the dining room, but he wants to see more.  So after he takes my plate to the kitchen and washes it, making himself right at home, he reaches for the dog gate saying, “Don’t I get a tour”?


    What the hell.  I say, “sure,” and take him into the living room.  He looks at the tree and says, “I can see your tree, too.”  FUCK!  What else can he see?  So now I’m getting weirded out and head back through the dining room while he heads for the stairs. 


    At that point I say, “well, there’s not all that much to see.”  He’s lingering at the foot of the steps saying, “Don’t I get to see the upstairs”? 


    Now I want him out of the house.  How did it get this far?  I’m thinking:  Is he casing the joint?  No, you don’t steal from your next-door neighbor.  Does he think I’d have sex with him?  He has no reason to believe — And at this point I’m wondering what I’ve done, sitting in this chair that would lead him to believe I’d take some stranger upstairs to my bedroom. 


    In a firm way, I say the bedrooms are a mess and walk back out here.  He follows and walks over to the French doors, looking outside.  I start picking up stuffing from the dismantled animals my two dogs destroy while I write.  He has been dismissed and knows it, but is not leaving.  He finally turns around and says, “What are you doing tonight”?  I rattle off five things like “washing my hair, paying bills,” that sort of thing.


    He says, “Well, okay,” like I give up.  I practically push him out the door and stay away from the window.  But after a while, you know, I want to work on Part II so I sit down, knowing he’s watching. 


    Euuwwwww!!!!!!!!!   Creepy.


    PS  I forgot to add that after a while I figured out it’s his mother and stepfather who live next door and he spends a lot of time there.  I got to thinking, maybe he is looking for work. 


    The window is this huge, round thing set in brick.  So curtains our out.  But I will look into the tinted glass.  Thanks, Mahet.

  • The Ocean Calls


     


    Part I


     


    Safe and snug inside, there looms, outside, a thunderous crashing, a far-off warning.  The roar of the ocean dims, as the wind dies down.  The sea calms to a whisper in the dark, and the ocean beckons.  Come outside.  Come watch the dance and spit of waves breaking in the night. Listening to the roar, too far to see, is like standing on the porch of my old house, listening to the invisible noise of I5.


     


    I barely made it down to the beach, in time for the sunset.  I was almost there when I noticed the lights were on, at my favorite garden shop.  Remembering they have a screwy schedule, I decided to go back and make sure they were going to be open tomorrow.  Seeing “Closed Tuesdays” on the door, I parked and went in.  I mentioned choosing his shop, over the sunset, and as I surveyed the beautiful things, he surveyed the horizon.  “You can still make it,” he says, as I pay for the small trinkets I find:  Two clay, painted lovebirds, which have clamps.  They will perch, from a fir bow, over my fireplace mantle next Christmas. 


     


    I raced to the motel, checked in, and practically ran down to the sand.  Making my way to the water’s edge, there is still a band of orange, between the clouds and the sea.  It narrows and is the perfect backdrop against the spray, which spits and falls, dancing above the waves.   I could feel my solar plexus unclench.  My whole body relaxed, by degrees, as I stood there taking in the power and the beauty.  I feel so close to God here.  You know, up close and personal.  And I tell him whom I’m worried about.  I visualize them as they are, and then I ask for help in making them well, and I visualize them back to normal. 


     


    As I stand there praying for this special person, I am reminded of how insignificant I always feel, against all that water, and how comforting that is.  Being such a worrier sets me up for being a busybody.  Knowing my children’s affairs, when I probably shouldn’t, puts me at risk for intruding.  You see my comments.  You see how freely I offer advice; always sure I know what’s best.


     


    Standing before God, I am acutely aware of how little I should influence another.  My children will grow up to be the women they want to be, and the best thing I can do for them is to set a good example.  That’s really where my responsibility ends, as they get older.  And, as for all of you, please take my comments for what they’re worth.


     


    I walk back up to my room, wishing I had drinkable water.  Time for a run to the store.  On my way, I see a movie theater so I get a candy bar, too.  Snickers is my brand.  The movie is Spanglish, and I liked everything about it.  It was just the kind of movie I wanted to see tonight. 


     


    When I got back to the motel, I stood out on the patio, with my tea, looking down at the water.  It’s what I love about this place:  the close proximity to the water, that and the price.  The vintage is good, too.


     


    I stood in the dark, just outside my door, watching and listening.  I could hear those big waves crashing, too far out to see.  What I could see were the gentle waves lapping at the foot of the sand, edged in white foam.  I look up in the sky, behind the motel, to find the source of light.  It’s almost a full moon shining down, spotlighting the waves.  Looking back down, I see what look like three tiers of a skirt, edged in lace.  I’m off to bed now, to dream of dancing under a full moon wearing petticoats trimmed in lace.


  • Lest I leave you with the impression my holiday was a total disaster, I should note that Christmas day, at my house, was a hit.


    I was a little miffed when, because I live further away from their dad, our Christmas morning turned into Christmas afternoon.  He has this tradition where he goes to dim sum on Christmas day, something I always thought seemed an odd choice.  I think it was his way of deChristmasizing the day, early on.  We would open stockings and presents, and then he’d pick them up a little before noon.  Then they’d come back and we’d go to dinner at my sister’s.


    So when the oldest called the night before and said they weren’t coming until three, I was pissed.  Well, hurt.  I said, “Fine.  I guess I shouldn’t make the cinnamon rolls.”   And she said, “Yeah, I guess not.”  I got off the phone in a huff, but I called her back and apologized.  I could see it made better sense.  I could also see that I’d get more time with them. 


    I suspect, from the way they were stalling, they were anxious.  And not in a good way.  I think kids get vested in tradition, and it’s hard enough to do Christmas in two households ( pretty rough having to get two sets of presents) but when I keep moving I think it adds to their anxiety.  They didn’t seem to want to go in the living room.


    But I had the Messiah on and the tree was so pretty.  They sat on the same furniture they sit on each year, and opened the same stockings.  And pretty soon it was like old times.  Miraculously the presents were the perfect sizes and colors, and everybody was thrilled with their small pile.


    I made the rolls anyway and we went out and frosted them.  It was a wonderful afternoon, ruined only by leaving.


     

  • Savor the moments, like the day pina_la_nina spent making angels in the snow with her daughter, cause when they’re in their early 20s, it’s all they can do to humor you by letting you take them shopping.


    Granted, she is in a precarious place.  We spent two hours in the grocery store, there was not one thing in the apartment to eat.  I went over to Tuesday Morning and found some pots and pans.  This child has been eating at Burgerville I guess.  Now that things are a little dicey I can get in there and make like a mother.  I took a casserole over this morning and a warm sweater for the one from California.  They were getting on each other’s nerves already.  These are the two who are 20 months apart, and complete opposites.  They were best friends their whole entire lives, up until the younger one moved to California.


    So tonight, as I had my tea out by the tree, I left the Christmas music off.  I wanted to play their words back, music to a mother’s ears. 


  • Watching my boss, with one of the nurses, I noticed they had that same depth in the eyes, the kind of eyes that have seen a lot of suffering and taken it home.  These are kind, compassionate girls, old beyond their years.


    I sit and wait while she reads the chart.  We are on the fifth floor, meaning the patients are metastatic.  Normally I visit patients, by myself, on the third floor.  They are usually just there overnight, after a lumpectomy or mastectomy.  The woman I saw today had her husband with her, because she was ready to go home.  It’s rarely a good time to talk when the husband is there.  She was one of those people who will go home and pretend it never happened. With those patients you have about three minutes to make an impact.


    But back to the patient up on 5.  We came in and she was sitting up in bed eating lunch.  Her back was to us so I took the chair and my boss sat on the window ledge, directly in front of her.  The patient was black, 74, and on oxygen.  She disagreed with her Dr’s diagnosis.  She was sure the cancer in her lung had nothing to do with the breast cancer.  And I could see,  when she said, “a woman knows her own body,” she was in touch with hers.  She was gesturing with the hand, still holding the IV, paying no mind to it.  She had this air about her that was impenetrable.  You know, like she would dismiss information she didn’t want to hear.  She would need to start chemo soon and my boss was trying to get a feel for what kind of support the patient had.  She got cagey with the woman.  People like that don’t want you messin with their lives.  They say they’ve got it all covered, but when it came down to it, she was gonna be all alone.


    We were on our way back to the office, when we spotted Mr. and Mrs. Clown.  Every year they dress up and hand out little stickers that say free hug or something.  They don’t talk, they mime.  My boss is telling me about Friday night when she got a call asking her to stay late to see this woman’s little boy.  She wasn’t supposed to live much more than a couple weeks, and was real anxious that my boss meet with her boy.  She works with kids, does a family support group.  So she waits for the dad to bring him and finds out the next day that the mom died that night.  She’d just been waiting for her little boy to have someone to talk to.  She’s telling me this as the cart goes by playing jingle bells.  The driver is dressed up in a costume and his cart is decorated for Christmas.  I started to tear up, you know I never cry, and she said, “Oh, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”  I assured her my tears were over witnessing so much beautiful humanity. 


    It’s what I love about the hospital.  It’s like another world there, everybody taking care of each other.  People are at their worst, that’s why they’re there.  There’s no pretense.  In the rooms, people lay around half-naked.  Orderlies push unconscious patients on stretchers, past people on their way to lunch.  It’s crazy. 


    I think the reason I am so comfortable is because of the intimacy.  From the moment I step foot in the hospital, I have a big smile on my face.  I love to meet each new woman and hear her story.  It makes me feel so good to be able to put their minds at ease, point them in the right direction.  Breast cancer was the best thing that ever happened to me and I feel so lucky to be able to share what I’ve learned so that the women I meet can use this opportunity to change their lives for the better.


    The other thing I like is that everything is real there, very matter of fact.  It’s all about solutions.  I went Christmas shopping last night for two of the patient’s families.  I’ve always wanted to adopt a family and just never known how to go about it.  It was so fun picking things out.  I helped this Hispanic boy truck everything out to the van while his mother rested in my boss’s office.  He brings her because she doesn’t speak English.  He is the same age  my oldest daughter was when I did chemo.  I would have liked a chance to talk with him in more depth.  I think I should learn Spanish.


    You know how I said people were “at their worst.”  Well, I had that backwards.


     

  • After my last child was born I became obsessed with cooking.  I would spend an hour each morning, before the two older ones woke up, reading recipes.  If they looked good, I’d tear the page out.  Mostly I read magazines and Food Day.  Those would go into a folder.  Then once or twice a year I’d cut them out and put them into a notebook.  I have two notebooks, one for baking and one for everything else. 


    I went nuts over cakes.  I took a cake-decorating class and then practiced on the different types of cake.  At this point we were spending most weekends at the beach and fantasizing about having a restaurant.  I’m sure it was more my fantasy than his. 


    I’d say, out of all those recipes, I’ve made 10% of them.  Because I don’t follow recipes.  Now that I write this monthly column, which includes a recipe I’ve concocted, it’s really a pain to measure things.  Only with cakes do I measure.  And then I am frantic the whole time with the pressure of being exact.


    For some reason, about a week ago, I got the bug again.  Yesterday, I finally found a reasonable produce store, over here, and today I made this wonderful salad:


    Composed spinach salad with Chinese dressing


     


    1 clove garlic, minced


    equal amount ginger, minced


    juice of one Satsuma tangerine


    juice of ½ lime


    splash of aji-mirin


    (rice wine)


    1/3 cup vegetable oil


    ½ T sesame oil


    honey (to taste)


    I think I used 1 T


    Lemon pepper


    Garlic salt


     


    ½ red and yellow bell pepper


    bok choy


    sprouts


    green onion


    sesame seeds


    baby spinach leaves


     


    Make the dressing first so the flavors can marry.   Pour half of it over the spinach, and toss.  This is before you divide it.  Slice thin the peppers, bok choy, and green onion.   Put a bed of spinach in two bowls.  Layer the sprouts, red pepper, bok choy, yellow peppers and garnish with the onion and sesame seed.  Pour remaining dressing over each salad.


    I ate the whole damn thing it was so good, and I just threw everything in one bowl, but it was enough for two and it looked so beautiful it deserved to be composed.


  • I spend a lot of time thinking about walking my dogs.  The puppy just turned 16 weeks today, or maybe it was last weekend.  Anyway, I was supposed to wait until her last shot, at 16 weeks, before I took her around other dogs.  So I’ve had this great excuse.  But all this time I’ve felt guilty for not taking the older one out.  Except it’s all she can do to keep up with the constant chasing and tug-of-war antics that the puppy expects.  Plus her sleep time has been cut in half.  I feel bad for her but without her my life would be hell.  I’ve never had a German Shorthair before and I don’t know if it’s the breed or just this dog but she just never stops.  And she’s stubborn.  She’s smart as hell.  She’ll watch the screen while I type, watching the words form.  She doesn’t miss a beat, but I get so sick of the constantness of her.


    So today, after I read you all, and let me just stop a moment, from bitching about my dog, to tell you how lucky I felt this morning to be able to read some of you.  MotherAlbert wrote a poem called “Wisteria” which needs to be published.  I don’t know if you all are reading drunkpunches, but if you aren’t you’ll want to start.  And when I saw MoonAssension‘s poem, “Humility”  I decided to get my daughter to do it in calligraphy and frame it.  But I think the real capper was jerjonji‘s Christmas story.  There’s more but I’m wanting to talk about myself now.


    You people rub off on me, I swear.  I worked on my book and it just flowed.  The sun was shining and the sky was so blue that I decided to risk whatever illness it is we were to immunize against and head out.  I drove to this new place I’d seen along the river.  Not Oaks bottom but close. 


    Part of my problem with walking is that I have been spoiled over the years.  I used to walk every day at Tryon Creek.  It was the perfect three-mile jaunt through some of the most beautiful woods I have ever seen.  Just enough hills to get the heart-rate up.  People were cool if you didn’t use a leash.  Don’t go gettin’ all worked up, now, I use a leash.  But I didn’t used to.  Anyway, that’s too far to drive so I’ve been walking from my house.  But this thing where half the walk is along a major road is not my idea of a good walk. 


    I get as close to the river, with my car, as I can and get the dogs out and leashed up.  The puppy, of course, is impossible.  She darts all over the place, and it’s all I can do to try and keep from falling down as she tangles around my legs, getting her leash mixed up with the other.  I almost take her back but I remind myself that a tired puppy will be a better behaved puppy. We walk along the coolest street.  On the river side it’s just this long strip of grass above the riverbank.  I walk on the sidewalk and the dogs manage short bursts in tandem, looking just like those runners you see with perfectly-synchronized, matching labs leading the way.  Every once in a while there will be someone sitting on a bench, looking out over the water.  Across the street are wonderful old houses, in good condition.  The street is quiet with lots of bikers and strollers.  The puppy makes choking sounds as she strains ahead but I try not to notice. 


    We find a trail that leads down to what must be Oaks Bottom.  I take the dogs off the leash and I am rewarded with a picture I will never forget.  The puppy is tracking.  She seems to have a better nose than the older one.  Soon she is bounding like a rabbit through brush, in full motion.  She is a working dog and this was her first day at work.  The old one used to do this every day of her life, but for the puppy the thrill of finding her way in the world was wondrous.  She is doing what she was created for and the initial hesitancy with which she followed the older one is replaced with a sureness of foot, as she sets out on her own, racing back to me when she gets too far. On the way back I watched for signs of mellowing.  The only change was a slight bounce to her step.  She thinks she’s hot shit now.


  • Today I went to lunch with some of the original members of my breast cancer support group.  We’ve never done this before (meet at a restaurant) but the nurse who co-chaired our group had just come back from the San Antonio Breast Cancer Conference.  She has represented St Vincents at these conferences, forever, and she has always been our best source for up-and-coming research.  She’s retired so that’s why we didn’t meet at the hospital. 


    I wish you could see the difference in these women.  When I first met them we were all in various stages of struggle.  Each of us has learned to care for ourselves in new ways.  We’ve all changed our lives so much, in positive ways.  We really don’t have anything besides breast cancer in common except for the way we’ve coped with it.  Looking around at the faces I admired, I knew what it had taken for us all to get here, to this place of being well.  And a few of them are still doing battle.  But talk about having your priorities straight. 


    It felt good to be in the company of women who know me intimately.  It’s nice to get together for the holidays but not have to listen to how great everything is and how well everybody’s kids are doing.  We are so real with each other, there’s no bullshit.  I am not feeling so alone now.  They may not be people I consider friends but we are tight.  And I feel more like myself when I’m with them.


     


  • You know you’re too old to get a job when you can’t read the type for the help-wanted ads.  I’m up to the Hs and it’s getting depressing.  Where is the ad for an attractive, funny, well-spoken, mature woman?  I have skills, too, but so far they haven’t asked for them.  I’m great in bed, I can sew or cook anything.  I have computer skills but no 10 key.  I’m about ready to fabricate a degree and job experience.  I’m old enough that I could make up businesses with bosses who’ve retired. 


    When they talk about multi-tasking, does nursing, talking on the phone, sautéing something in a skillet and threatening boisterous children count?  Because I can do that with my eyes closed, or at least I could when I was 30. 


    When they talk about good communication skills, will my obsession with blogging count?


    When I got to the Es and didn’t see anything about editing, I started to wish I’d followed up on learning how to do grant writing.  I think what a smart woman would do, in my situation, is find a job that looked reasonable, and then start grooming herself for it.  I should prepare a fictional resume that would please them.  Then go buy an outfit and try to pass myself off as that type of person.


    It sounds like so much trouble, for so little money.  If I just watch the market and plunge in with some buys and sells I could make the same amount of money, unless I pick the wrong stock.  Last month I did okay. 


    It would be so nice to have a job, though.  And it would set such a good example for the girls.  I’m going to run out of money when I’m 60 if I don’t figure something out.


     

ydurp

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