Ah-Haaa

Something very important happened today.  A patient I was seeing each Tuesday after her radiation didn’t stop by last week and I was a little concerned because I had broached the subject of pot being addictive.  I had also pointed out that alcohol doesn’t help the immune system, quite the contrary, and if you’re dealing with cancer, that’s really something to look at.  I was pleased to find that she had come in the day before and checked out a book on nutrition and a tape on yoga, along with a meditational CD. 

So I’m in my boss’s office asking if she had spoken with this woman while I was gone and checked out the books to her.  She said “no, why?”  I explained that I was pleased with the idea that I might have inspired her to make some healthy changes.  Well, that’s what I was thinking.  Of course I just acted like I was pleased that the patient was moving in a healthy direction.

Big red flag for my boss.  She tells me to close the door and I sit down.  She then explains that what she wants is a cozy, comfortable environment where the patient is safe to feel and say just where they’re at. This big light bulb is going off as she emphasizes the importance of not making judgments, good or bad.  She doesn’t want me saying “I’m so proud of you.”  She doesn’t want me inspiring them to be better.  “You’re not their life coach.”  I say, “But I want to be.”  She wants me to listen and spit back EXACTLY what they say.  I think she called it validative listening or something.

My sister calls me tonight, the one who’s getting divorced, and the church has set up a meeting to try to get her to see the error of her ways and go back home to her husband.  All my buttons are getting pushed and I can’t believe how hard it is to do this kind of listening.  I do it but she still hears all the screaming words I’m keeping to myself.  I can tell she wants to get off real fast before I relapse.  People like it.  They want it.  So I am going to try it on here.  I never realized how big a pain-in-the-ass I must be.  Because I LOVE giving advice, I guess I don’t have to tell you that.  I am making a blanket apology to all of you for not being a better listener and keeping my advice to myself.

PART II

I come home from the hospital and one of my notebooks is on the counter.  The youngest had driven over to get her hair cut but the oldest had a conflict so — This is on the phone, the youngest is telling me — she just hung out for a while and then drove back home.  I start leafing through the notebook, seeing if anything juicy is in there that I would regret.  Blah, blah, blah is what I see.  Oh, and sorry I keep switching tenses on ya but I’m looking at the bigger picture tonight.

Then tonight I’m reading BoureeMusique  and she’s talking about how when she blogs she wants to make it interesting.  Novel idea which had never occurred to me.  That’s how self-absorbed I am.  And I’m thinking about her writing and the quality it has, the kind of fun oomph she does so well.  That’s not a good description.  If you read her you know what I’m talking about.  For one thing — I was going to say she she’s always positive but that’s not it.  I mean she is but the reason her blog isn’t blah, blah, blah has to do with the lilt of it.  Which brings me to my point. 

I was thinking these two epiphanies were unrelated, even though I sensed they weren’t.  I was upstairs changing, trying to understand what they might have in common.  You’re probably going, “duh,” but it took me a minute.  Writing can become blah if you leave the reader out.  I’m excited now because I think this is a pretty big deal and I think I know how to do this.  I mean I do know how and I think it’s just like my boss was talking about.  If I can validate the reader’s reaction to the words, I’ve got ‘em.

What I need to be careful of is not getting so much into the story or the setting or the characters that I don’t give the reader a chance to interact.  Now that I type that it looks harder than my initial sense of it was.  Maybe it could be as easy as switching into second person.  Just for a sec, I know it’s a big no, no.

Yeah, I need another writing class.

Yes, I got the camera.  And I looked pretty good tonight because I went to another party so I went upstairs to the bathroom to take my picture and noticed toothpaste splatters all over the mirror.  Shit.  So then I went to find the cleaner and after that the counter looked noticeably dingier so I cleaned that.  Then the cat showed up thinking she was thirsty. 

I was able to take two pictures, neither of which I think I’d be satisfied with, when the camera said full card or something to that effect.  I think it’s affect, I can never keep those straight.  Anyway, I cursed the youngest for giving it back all used up and went down to the computer to load the pictures. 

When she gave me the camera back last night she said she needed to print off the pictures first so we went to Fred Meyers and got them put on a CD.  When she was unloading them off the camera she told me not to look.  So just now when all her pictures were loading onto my computer I didn’t know what to do.  I figured she’d already have gone to bed and they were so small that I thought I could just find the two of myself and open those. 

No, it opens the whole shebang and after a while a message came on saying there were too many to open and then it froze.  Now I remember why I gave her the camera.  I HATE IT.  Every time I try to get something onto my computer it’s a nightmare.  I’m technically challenged.  All I could figure out to do was zip the whole thing and then shut down the computer.  Sorry.  I’ll try again tomorrow.

Oh, And I talked to the oldest.  She called and told me pretty much the same thing the youngest described.  Her theory, and I thought this was astute, was that Grandma is taking out her angst on the older ones but really she’s upset with the youngest for not coming over all the time like she used to.  Grandma set it up so that the youngest could come over there instead of to my house.  We always had a rule that the girls needed to be home by midnight and the youngest was not happy with that rule.  She spent the weekends with me so when I moved over here that meant she had to start driving by 11:30 to get all her friends home first. Grandma decided that she was old enough to stay alone at Henry’s house when he was at the beach or over at her house, which was five minutes less of a drive than to my house.  She also thought the curfew was unnecessary.  Grandma smokes and seems to think it’s great that the girls do.

Henry and his mother talked me into giving up my nights with her so that she could sleep in her own bed or at her Grandma’s.  Now she’s spending the night with a new friend, an older friend who lives downtown.  Or she’ll stay alone at Henry’s.  For some reason she’s not driving over to her Grandmother’s much anymore.  I fucked up.  I never should have let her go.

Today’s one of those days when — Well, I don’t even know what to say about it.  I have been making really good progress remembering the parts I needed to call up for the story.  We’re talking 1997.  I went back to the beginning today and read what I had so far.  I’m pleased.  I wasn’t looking at fine-tuning the words as much as I was interested in nailing the emotional pitch.  If this guy in the story finds out I’ve written this book, and I’m beginning to think it’s possible, I want to be very sure I’m remembering things accurately.  So I get as far as I’m able, and then I have that feeling like I should go for a walk.  Stuff comes up for me when I’m walking.  I’ve never done this before but I took a pen and some 3X5 cards, and, sure enough, I used them.

So then I meet my youngest for dinner, and she says I should come back to the house because Henry called from the beach and is spending the night there.  She’s written a song with lyrics SHE IS GOING TO SING for me.  I about dropped my fork.  Plus she wants to show me this mahogany box she made in shop.  The kid wants to be a carpenter.  But back to the music. 

I seem to remember that, of the three, she had the best voice.  ‘Course it’s hard to remember since she hasn’t sung a note in over ten years I don’t think.  Somewhere along the line she decided she couldn’t sing.  And it was just so absurd but when I would tell her she had a beautiful voice and how nuts it was she’d get upset.  I figured one of her sisters must have said something.  Really, these girls have fabulous voices and it was always my dream that they’d sing together.  They think that’s hilarious.

So the youngest quit piano lessons after about seven years, give or take, and started working her way through the rest of the instruments.  The only time she wanted a lesson was when she took up the drums and that was in order to play for her best friend.  Normally the youngest would play piano but her friend played and sang.  Whoa, does she sing!  Between these two girls (mine had her own group and her friend played solo) they produced five or six CDs.  Two weeks ago they parted company.  On good terms and still friends, but my daughter came home and wrote this song about it, which she sang for me tonight.

First we went downstairs to her bedroom (the laundry room was filthy so she could show me the box.  After a little bit of stalling around we went up and sat in the living room.  She started playing but then said maybe I should go to another part of the house where I couldn’t hear her, while she warmed up.

That was fine by me, all the more time to snoop around in the kitchen.  That ass-hole has been using a pen on the kitchen wallpaper to keep track of phone numbers.  I always thought he liked that paper.  I had just moved to his study when she called me back in.  I have to say the living room looked damn good.  The fiance, Kate, as my mother calls her, has been doing some decorating.  There was a new rug under a black, lacquer very cool coffee table.  Two new ugly chairs in bone (leather, everything is leather) which he must have picked out.  Even the tree (skinny-assed) looked good.  It was a noble with lots of big things tucked into the spaces.  That’s her not him.

So I’m sitting there listening to this heart-wrenching song, which is probably the best thing she’s ever written and I’m looking around at the cozy room, sitting in the same spot I always did, just on a more expensive couch (leather and cold) and I pick up Architectural Digest which his mother always gave me for Christmas.  I’m having a great time which has not been my experience up to now.

Which brings us to his mother.  (What is it with me and which tonight?)  I always thought she loved me.  That is until I accidentally caught her and Henry’s brother in the kitchen one Christmas making fun of me.  It got worse after we had kids.  She started putting me down all the time, in a joking way.  And when my feelings would get hurt she’d say I took everything personally and it was just a joke.  She and Henry would act like I was nuts.  Well, tonight the youngest said she didn’t want to spend any more time at Grandma’s when her sisters were over there because Grandma had started “downing” them. 

I looked up at her and probably stopped chewing.  VALIDATION.  I haven’t talked to the older ones but I’ve never heard his mother EVER say anything unkind to any of the girls.  The youngest said she’s never talked that way to her and that this was the first time she thinks it’s happened.  I figured it out and the oldest is pretty much the same age I was when it started, maybe a little younger. 

So I think about my day and I can’t figure out what my reaction is.  I guess I’m not having one yet.

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I got this from abbyndc .  I’m no siren, believe me.  When I first put my picture up Marcie and her daughter said it made me look like some sort of “biker chick.”  Some of you have asked for pictures of things, like I’d like to show you my tree.  But the youngest won’t give back my digital camera.  I’m having dinner with her tonight.  I’ll have to remember to hit her up again.

Tonight I went to a lovely party; it was Teresa’s 50th.  Her sister-in-law has this mansion up on Portland Heights that they restored and registered.  It’s been in the paper and some type of Home and Garden magazine did a spread on it.  I liked it because it was clean. 

The food was great and it was fun to meet all of her friends.  Some I’d seen over the years but half of them I’d never met.  One of her sisters  made a scrapbook so it was interesting to see pictures of her growing up.  The cake was this incredibly decadent, seven-layer chocolate affair done by Papa Hayden.  Too much frosting, if you ask me. 

 I was really glad I’d made that wine run because when Teresa saw the label she oohed and aahed and said, “Oh, you’ll have to talk to Trish.  She just went there last week and was raving about this winery.”  L.O. women are really into that sort of thing.

Teresa’s daughter drove all the way from school — she goes to college up by Seattle — to be there so I had a nice chat with her, too.  That was the nicest part of the evening, to sit by the fire (they even had a piano that played all by itself) and watch Teresa’s mom with her daughters and granddaughter.  They come from good stock.  I know that sounds obnoxious but the grandmother grew up in Montana and there was a picture of Teresa when she was five, playing, with a ten-acre field of wheat in the background. Maybe that was after they moved to Spokane.  But my point is these are hardy women.  They are tall and strong and beautiful and they all look the same.  Three generations of independent women who radiate goodness.  There was royalty on that couch.

I got this from CapnK8.  Click here and plug in your name.

Discover the hidden meaning in your name

Wow, time for a reality check.  Sometimes I scare myself with the world I create in word and the world I attract, which mirrors it.  Maybe that’s it.  I just hope I’m not completely whacked by the time the book’s done.

Edited to add and on a totally unrelated and personal note: InkStainedFingers you need to check in.

I just got my tree up, and I do believe it’s the most beautiful tree I’ve had in a very long time.  One of the reasons is that it’s full enough on the bottom to require three strings of lights.  And it’s tall enough that the lights are spread out properly.  It’s a grand fir but they clipped some of the ends so it doesn’t look as interesting as it might [read furled].  I wondered if that would bother me but the ends must have darkened up because I can’t tell. 

The oldest had to come over and help me roll it off the top of the car where it spent the night.  I went back to this place up the street where they’d been so accommodating last year.  I remember it rained so instead of mucking around with a saw and no man I let those nice boys help me tie a delicate noble on top of the car. 

Yesterday I seemed to forget about the no-man part because, when he offered to cut the bottom off an eight-foot tree and sell it to me for $35, I jumped up and down and said, “I’ll take it.”  This was after they’d unwrapped three grand firs, looking for a six-footer with a big base.  None of those skinny-assed trees for me.

When he seemed to have trouble hefting it up onto the rack I said,

“How much do you suppose that weighs?”

“Oh, maybe 70 pounds.”

“Shit, what was I thinking?”

“Are you going to be able to get it down?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine.”

My oldest daughter called last night and volunteered to come help so we spent the afternoon decorating it while the fire crackled and the Christmas music I’ve drug out for the last 20 years played in the background. It was just like old times.

She looked up at the interesting top and I assured her it would be covered up.

“Oh, yeah, the angel with the skirt.”

“No, I left that for you guys.  I left all my Christmas stuff.”

She got it.  And it was so different from last year because I remember standing in front of that little noble asking her if she wanted to help decorate.  She picked up some ornaments I’d found at an estate sale and said, “I’ve never even seen this stuff.”  She declined.  This wasn’t Christmas to her.  I thought it seemed odd (not to mention, mean) since it was the same  “stuff” I’d been accumulating and using on the last four trees since I’d left.  But I think it’s harder on older kids because they have more memories; they’re more vested in memories.

She had a good time playing our old music and planning the Christmas dinner.  This will be the first time in her whole life we haven’t gone to my sister’s and endured a depressing dinner.  So we are looking forward to our new tradition.  I asked her what she wanted to serve.  One by one the old standbys made the list.  I guess the fiance likes a less traditional menu

I was driving to the hospital this morning, daydreaming on the freeway.  I missed my turn and I was already late.  I had some very harsh words to say to myself which I spoke out loud in a tone that alarmed me.  I wouldn’t go as far as to use self-loathing but I definitely heard scorn.  I warned myself about staying in the present.  And I reminded myself about what happens when you dwell in the past and fantasize about the future.

I started my article about the wine-tasting tour.  I like it.  It’s funny, because I remember thinking how fun it would be to write about travel but since I go the same places every year, and because they’re such predictable places, I didn’t see how that would work out.  And I’m scared this is so passe; that I’m the last person on the planet to go to “wine country”, that I won’t be able to sell the article anywhere.  But I’m having fun and it’s good practice so as long as I don’t go downstairs and start opening the bottles it’s all good.  Wow, I never thought I’d use that phrase.

I had a day today that just doesn’t happen more than once every ten years. And it wasn’t any one thing that was so spectacular; it was an accumulative effect of good plans, good weather, and good people.  I think it was even more than that because I did things I don’t normally do.

Initially, the middle daughter was going with me.  We were driving out to Carlton to some wineries.  Over the years, I’ve had friends plead with me to go on wine-tasting tours, and I promptly said no.  I’m not much of a drinker, and I avoid fashionable outings, but I got this idea that Carlton was a place I’d like.

It all started with FOODday’s review of Cuvee, a French restaurant on main street.  Then I saw a map of Carlton’s 36 wineries in the Holiday Guide to Oregon Wineries.  I avoided the big Thanksgiving tour and went today, without my daughter.

And that was a good thing I decided, as I ran back to the car for my notebook.  I met several people who were full of good information, and I took lots of notes.  As they talked I wished I’d gone on some of those tours so that I wasn’t a stranger to the wine lingo I was hearing.

Just after 4:30 I pried myself off the barstool at the Carlton Winemaking Studio, where Camille, the tasting room manager, was describing their gravity flow and how they were the first green-built winery, because I was due at a Tilth fundraiser at the Doug Fir.

That’s where I met Josh.  Five hours later I was sitting on another barstool writing up the notes of the evening, to submit to Tilth’s magazine (organic farmers).  Josh was with the record label who had recorded the last group who’d just played downstairs.  Tall, with lanky good looks, he ordered a beer with a shot of whisky. 

I was taken by his sincerity.  As he described the types of groups he was looking for, I admired the care with which he chose his words.  He was drunk but he was ethical.  He was versatile, too, because when I said I’d come from Carlton, he told me how he’d made wine there.  And, in fact, when I regretted not getting to talk to this guy named Ken, at the Depot, he told me he used to deliver wine there.  Josh answered some of the questions I would have asked Ken.

We talked about a lot of things we had in common, and, as I watched him articulate with his hands, I tried to come up with a daughter for him.  But the youngest one’s too young.  The middle one’s too chic, too city, and the oldest one is taken.  I stood to leave, shaking his hand good-bye, and all the way home I wondered about how I ended up in Carlton and on that stool next to Josh.