Today's Rave: Random Stories

My boss has a gift for storytelling, and he hones his craft by telling stories about himself, the same ones over and over and over again.  I am so lucky and happy to have this job that I don't mind one bit.  "You know, years ago," he'll begin.  His remarks are always a valuable lesson in business or human nature or how to be a mensch.  Often he'll preface them with something like "You know, years ago, when I first started this practice . . ." or "It was November of 1963  . . . " and off we go.

You know those word ladder puzzles where you change one letter at a time to turn one word into another word?  My boss plays a similar game with ideas, even though he doesn't realize it.    He begins with one thought, and little by little, with no real conscious understanding of what he is doing, ends up somewhere else.  And by "somewhere else," I mean "light years away from where he started."  

We are in a staff meeting to discuss the progress of various audits.  My boss looks at the agenda and notices that we will be discussing the Smith case.  The file number is 1812.   He inhales deeply and leans back in his chair.   He matches up the fingertips of each hand and brings them to his lips.  Looking at the ceiling and then off to the corner of the room, he is lost in thought.  I check my watch.

"1812, 1812.  Yes.  Isn’t that interesting.  That reminds me of history class my sophomore year in high school.   The War of 1812.   Do you like classical music?  You ever hear that piece?  I think it's Tchaikovsky.  Or is it Stravinsky?   No.  <long pause>  Stravinsky wrote 'The Firebird.'  I think that's a ballet.  I don't know anything about ballet.  <long pause>  I hate ballet. "

(I nod with understanding.  It's not for everyone.)

"Where was I?  

(I point to the client file.  Staff meeting.  Case status.)

"Right.  The War of 1812 Overture?  The one where the cannons go off.  What was up with that?  Anyway, I heard this piece once at the San Francisco Civic Auditorium.  Back in the day.  You know, years ago, they used to have classical music concerts.  God.  This would have been--wait, how old are you?"

(I dutifully tell him.  For the third time.  Today.)  

"Right.  Well, this would have been the year you were born. 1963.  I was in middle school.  And my school, Herbert Hoover Middle School, you know it?  This was back when it was still called 'Junior High.'  Stop me if I've told you this before."

(I would never.)

"In any event.  See what I did there?"

(So proud.   I taught him that.)

"We were kids in junior high--excuse me--middle school.  Whatever.   And we would come downtown for these events the Symphony would do, Concerts for Kids."

(I try to contribute to the narrative.)  "They still have those, my kids go all the time."

Undeterred, he continues.

"Years ago, God, I guess it would be . . . . <very long pause>  . . . .  I guess twenty years now.  Has it really been twenty years?  There was this promoter by the name of Bill Graham.  Big deal in the music industry, brought lots of bands to San Francisco, worked almost exclusively with the Grateful Dead.  You know that band?"

(Yes.  Vaguely familiar.)

"Yeah, I remember when I saw them at the Cow Palace.  What a great name for a concert venue, huh?  The Cow Palace?  Remind me to tell you the story behind that one some time."

(Mental note.)

"So this was in  . . .  <longest pause so far>  . . .  1970.  Forty years ago. More.”

He stops and smiles wistfully.  Helplessly.  "Long time ago, huh."

I smile too.  Encouragingly.  But I can't resist the impulse and I tap my watch with my pencil.  Ever so slightly.   Tick-tock.

He continues to smile.  And looks down at the files in front of him.

"Okay.  I guess we should get started."  

I have hurt his feelings.   I want to make it right.  Before I turn to my spreadsheet, amid the rustling of papers,  I ask him, “What should we do about lunch?”  He smiles and waves his hand airily.  “Let’s get some sandwiches and go over some stuff.”  I nod.  He’s appeased.  More stories at noon.

Pomp and Circumstance

She hadn’t known she would be getting an award.   “Mom, I got an invitation, but idk what’s really going to happen.”  She says the letters. Eye. Dee.  Kay. I want to jump up and throw my arms around her when she does that.   Because she knows it’s funny.  My kids are so cool.  You’re probably going to say it’s because they have a mom like me.  But you’d be wrong.  It’s because my kids are so cool that I even stand a chance.  

Even though she is reluctant to have me there, I go anyway.  I know she must be winning some kind of award or she wouldn’t have gotten an invitation.  When she does, she will feel sheepish that she told us not to come.  

The Senior Awards Night event is being held in the theater.  I wait in my car until after almost everyone has gone in.  If I slip in late, I don’t have to sit alone waiting for it to start.   I will stand in the back. Happy just to stand there. Not taking up a seat.  Easy escape if necessary.  All the way at the back means there is no one behind me.  I take up no space and no one sees me.  There is nothing to see.  I am not here.

I might get through this after all.  The ceremony continues, award after award is announced and bestowed.  The degree of mawkishness varies.  The severity of my scorn ebbs and flows.  The lacrosse scholarship gets visible lip curling.  The first in his family to go to college gets a nod of respect.  Past and present are swirling together.  I got lots of awards in high school.  National Merit Finalist.  Outstanding Achievement in Music and Theatre.  But it’s not about me now.  It’s about my daughter.  Who has gotten here through her own choices.  What she valued.  No one else’s expectation of her.  Except that she please herself and do her best in equal measure.  That’s what we’ve always said.   Sometimes I envy her for the way she is being raised.   Is that irony?  I'm never sure.

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

“You’ll be fine.  Really.  You will get through this and then you can go home and have an enormous drink.  And chat with me. You are going to be fine.”  

She reads the text surreptitiously.  This is the part she had been dreading.   The graduation ceremony is not in the theatre.  It’s on the football field.  There is no wall to back up to, no sneaking in late, there are no lights to dim.  It’s the other parents she wants to avoid.  Always comparing herself to them, finding herself lacking.  Turning that inadequacy into scorn.   Easy to do from the safety of her car.  But now it’s time to get the mask on, time to nod and smile.  She used to be good at this, working a room, mingling, small talk.  But as she’s gotten older, she’s drawn herself inward.  The inner voice she used to try to shake off, to drink away--she doesn’t tap dance for it any more.  She listens to it, and that voice is calling bullshit.

“Okay.  But will you text me?  Maybe around 6:20? 

“I don’t know if I can, babe, but I’ll try.”

Okay.  At least someone out there knows what she’s up against.  Strangely comforting that someone she doesn’t really know is out there to help her.  Better than trying to rely on those around her.  Even if she could get their attention across this chasm, even if she wanted to, she’s pretty sure they wouldn’t understand.

They are not late, but not early enough to get a good seat.  She spies a row of clearly empty chairs.  Not about to play the awkward “is this seat taken” dance.  Of course the seat is taken, dear.  We were smart enough to get here early.  Rules like “no saving seats” don’t apply to us.  She settles in and tries not to look around.    Busily begins to peruse the program.  Her phone buzzes vigorously in her hand.  Her blogging buddy.  He jokes with her the whole way through Pomp and Circumstance.  Elgar's Earworm.  She remembers made up lyrics from long ago.  My reindeer fly sideways, your reindeer fly upside down.  She stifles a giggle and opens the next message.  Suggestive phrases that make her smile.  Industriously, she texts her replies.  She realizes that she has missed the excruciating opening remarks and gotten halfway through the diplomas.  Why didn’t she know about this decades ago?  She looks at her phone and reads.  Hold the phone in your lap and I’ll text you at random intervals.  Call me and let it ring, she replies.  She used to chide the kids for this.  No texting at the table.  But Oh Em Gee, she thinks.  This is awesomesauce.

She looks up suddenly to see that the ceremony has concluded.  People begin to mill around, looking for their graduates, stopping to hug and shake hands. People she has known for decades now seem unfamiliar and hostile.  She strides off purposefully, looking into the middle distance, pretending to be on a mission to find someone who doesn’t exist. Stopping at the goal post, she looks at her phone again.  This time she is reaching out to a real person.  She wants to see her daughter, her graduate, the reason she has sucked it up and done visualization and doubled up on her meds and texted her way through the ceremony.  

“Where are you?”

“I’m with Kelsey and her mom.  Look for the huge sign her boyfriend is holding.”

Almost done now.  A few arduous photos where the tension of this ordeal will play on her face despite her attempts to relax and smile.  A few more hugs and handshakes.  Deflecting the questions about work and life.  Mutely nodding at the insistent reminder that they must get together soon.  Almost done.  Like the dentist says right before he drills for another quarter hour.  

With relief, she sees that they are back at the car.  Going on rote must have blocked out that last few minutes.  The graduates have left for an evening of festivities.  Her son and daughter are eager to go out to eat.  Her husband wants to get home to catch up on the ball game.  Thank god for DVRs.  She starts the car.  “I thought that was very nicely done,” she says.  Mentally pats herself on the head.  And the phone in her purse.  Is that irony?  She is never sure.

**********

I hear stirring at my daughter’s door.  God bless her, she just got up. The school has an all-night party for the graduates and they stay out till 5 am. It's to keep them from going out drinking and driving after graduation. The side benefit for me is that I neither have to throw nor attend a party of my own.  Ell Oh Ell.

Just listening to her talk about the party is energizing. She has such an engaging way about her when she tells stories. Her laugh is infectious. I keep tearing up and blaming it on allergies. But she is too intuitive for that. She watches me try to shake it off and smiles ruefully at me.

I sit with her and watch her eat. She tells a hilarious story of the hypnotist's show that was part of the evening's entertainment. I try to soak up as much of her as I can. I had been anxious and agitated all day. Sometimes Klonopin has a wicked backfire. But then she got up and made herself eggs florentine for breakfast at four in the afternoon.  She set herself down in the middle of everything and told her stories and wove grace throughout the house.  I relaxed for the first time in 24 hours.

There is an open house tonight, given by a friend's parents. We are meant to attend in the loose way that open house invitations are issued. Bless her, she knows before I even prepare what I am going to say. "I know, Mom, it's okay."

And I say "If it were really important to you, I would suck it up and figure out a way to go and I would enjoy it. If you really want me to. Please tell me and I will."

And she said, "No. Mom. It's not that big a deal. I don't even know who else's parents are going. Maybe no one. I'm not worried about it."  And she looked at me with benevolent understanding. I guess I taught her that much. The child mothering the mother.  Is that irony?  I'm never sure.

Stuff and Nonsense

"Are you sure the 5 x 10 space will do it, then?  The 10 x 10 isn't that much more, you know?  It's easier to fill up than to pare down."

She smiles ruefully.  "Yeah, I know, but that's what I'm trying to do.  Pare down, I mean.  The more space you have, the more likely you are to fill it.  I'm just trying to get to the bare essentials."

"Whatever.  It's totally your call."  The manager doesn't have time to philosophize.  "Okay, now it's a dollar for the first month, that's the promotion.  Then each month after that is 80;  You can cancel any time, but you'll pay for the whole month if you end it early."  (How about that, she thinks.)  He rips off the contract off the screechy, old-school printer.  "Sign here and here," he indicates with X's. “Annnnd, initial right here where you decline the insurance."

She follows his instructions by rote, her mind on the boxes she's packed.  How long she's thought about doing this, how many miles she's trotted on the trail, planning, deciding what to bring, how to sneak it away unnoticed.  

She can't leave.  But her things can.  They can live in this tiny, windowless room.  She'll put a chair in here, and sit with her books and papers.  There might be room for the fold-up card table.  She'll pretend she lives alone for two hours at a time.  

Pack some boxes surreptitiously.  No one will notice.  In all the clutter what's one box more or less?  Or three.  Or five.  She gathers things up periodically to take to Goodwill.  Once in a while she could drive right past Goodwill and stop at the storage place instead.  If she ever decided to leave for real, she could do it on a moment's notice.  The few things she cared about would already be gone.  As it is, she has an overnight bag stashed in the car, disguised as a gym bag, an emergency kit.  A few days' worth of meds, some toiletries, cosmetics, a change of clothes and so forth.  It would be quite easy, really.  Given the amount of time she has spent envisioning it, it would be smooth as clockwork.  Like a diamond heist in the movies.  11 Harrowhouse.  The Italian Job.  Score.

She sighs resolutely.  Crumples the paper with the code to the gate and drops in the bin on her way down the rickety steps.  Already put it in her phone.  What would she say if she were discovered?  The truth?  Hardly.  Who could stand to hear that?  I don't love you, I don't want to be here, I need a place of my own that we can't afford, so here is an office I've created for myself in a storage locker.  I'm leaving you in fantasy so I won't actually do it.  Games she learned from the books on raising toddlers.   How fitting.

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

They moved into an RV in the driveway once, for five days while they had the floors done.  Packed up as for a trip.  They smirked about their "staycation."  Clothes for five days for two adults and three kids.  Sleeping space for all and tiny places to tuck things away.  An awning.  A picnic table.  There was a small kitchen area, but they ate a lot of take out.  It was just five days.

Now she runs with the dog on the path to the bay.  There is a trailer park--sorry, a mobile home community.  Some of the parking spaces are filled with RVs and she thinks longingly of that time when she only had to deal with a limited space, a discrete amount of stuff.  Paring away to essentials.  She could do that again.  By herself this time. 

What would she need, really?  The laptop, her few business clothes, a couple pairs of jeans.  Even the books she would need, she could get at the library.  Return them when she's done with them.  Nothing outstays its usefulness.  She's camped before, not real backpacking, but gear to make a tent cabin feel homey.  Strings of chili pepper lights, a checked vinyl tablecloth.  A few candles.  Things she doesn't think to do at home now because there's already too much clutter, other people's possessions.   When you come right down to it, everything she needs is right there in her mind anyway.   

Irony is both sad and funny.  A solitary person, petrified to be alone.  Who surrounded herself with noisy people and lots of chaos.  Only to learn, too late, that to be alone in silence was what she liked best of all.

Today's WTF: Saving a Life on Facebook

The internet is a powerful thing.  Disconnected people come together and feel connected.   At the same time, people are disconnecting from their real lives to connect with friends they make on Facebook. 

I have a Facebook page that over 12,500 people like.  Sometimes they are known as "fans" or "followers."  I back away from those terms because I am neither a celebrity nor a leader.   I just say “likers” with ironic air quotes and leave it at that.  Mostly I see they are people who enjoy my humor and maybe recognize themselves in some of what I joke about.  It is ridiculously gratifying and I take enormous pride in how witty they see me.  I’m kind of a big deal.  On the internet to people I don’t know, but it feels like I do.   So much so that I feel comfortable enough to bare my very soul in some very personal writing.  

When Timeline came around, I said I was worried about the "message page" feature.  I was all worried that the Nutjobs would be messaging me to send them bales of hay in FarmVille  or to read their poetry or promote their video of a canary tap dancing across their sleeping dog or whateverthefuck thing they need me to do.  

“So, just turn it off,” said my page admin friends.  If I turned the messaging feature off, I might keep the bombardment at bay.  And I do turn the feature off, sometimes.  Sometimes I get crap from people who probably don’t even realize how what they are saying sounds.   I have to shut that out.  My tough talk is just an act.  I’m a very fragile Nutjob who can read criticism into the morning weather report.  

But what I came to tell you is this: I saved a life on Facebook!   I can’t believe my restraint.  I waited *five* paragraphs to get to the only thing I wanted to say.  I fucking *saved* a life on Facebook.  A woman was sick and hurting and alone and maybe going to hurt herself.    I chatted with her for a bit, but she started getting vague and scary.  I didn’t know what might happen.  So I fucking looked up Emergency Services in her town and fucking called them up.  I said “This is going to sound really weird but there is a woman in your town and she is sick and she gave me her address and I am a time zone away but I wonder if you would go check on her.”  And of course they wanted to know all kinds of things like who I was and how did I know her and why did I think this was happening and I just said, “I’ll be happy to chat with you while you drive to her house, but really, don’t you think you should hang up now and head on over?”  Then I hung up and chewed my nails and wondered what to do next.  But it was late and I have to take care of myself too so I took my head meds and went to bed.

When I woke up the next morning, I wanted to know what had happened but at the same time I didn’t.   I just kept my fingers crossed that if she really needed help, she was able to get it.  I didn’t want to think about any alternatives, including the one where she was totally fine and maybe now a little irritated with me for getting all dramatic.  I didn’t really know what to think.  

Then my cell phone rang and I didn’t recognize the number.  I just picked it up and said my name in my usual business-like manner.  There was silence for a moment, then a voice began speaking.  It was the woman I had phoned the night before, the dispatcher from emergency services.  She wanted to let me know that they *did* go out to that woman's place to check on her, and she *had* been in trouble and alone and they *had* brought her in and she was okay now in the hospital.  She would be going home in a day or so.  She didn’t want to talk to me, but she wanted the staff to make sure I knew and to thank me.  

“How do you know her, again?”  The woman seemed incredulous at the way the whole evening had gone down.  “You’ve never really met, but you have a blog and run a page on Facebook and this woman reached out to you and you phoned us from another state?”  She kept repeating these phrases and I could see her in my mind, shaking her damn head as she thought about it.  “That is really amazing.”  I agreed.  I was shaking my own damn head and getting chills at the thought of what would have happened had I not pushed past my fears and called.  I saved a life.  My page and I. Saved. A. Life. 

I am blinking back tears as I type this.  You never know the effect you can have on people.  It is a blessing and a curse and a huge responsibility.  I cannot do this every day.  I have to turn the message feature off.  I simply cannot handle it.   Because we joke about it a lot on my page, my whole Ron Burgundy shtick, “I’m kind of a big deal.”  But goddamnit.  I guess I really am.  How great and terrifying and tear-inducing is that?  

Namaste, bitches.  We out.  With more love that you can possibly imagine.  For all of you bat-shit crazy Nutjobs.  Take care of yourselves.  Be good to one another.  <Imagine me ruffling your hair as I squeeze you so tight it might make it difficult to breathe>  Now get out of here.  Goddamnit.

It's a Rant, It's a Rave, it's Pantless Wednesday!

Tax season was over and I had a day off.  I called it "Pantsless Wednesday" and made a big deal about it on my page.  I *think* it was funny.  You never know how these things are going to go over.  But here’s the thing about Pantsless Wednesday.  It’s a metaphor <ed. note: Really!>  Yah, because it wasn’t really about not wearing physical pants.  I seriously could not do that.  Even if there were no one around.  I mean, I have leather furniture.  Sticky.  Like riding in a car on a hot day with shorts on and no AC.  No.  Pantsless Wednesday was about shedding the pants of everyday responsibility.  Do what I want to do when I want to do it, because goddamnit I’m entitled.  One fucking day.  Oh, poor me.  

But you knew that.  You knew it wasn’t about going around without pants on, though that’s funny to say and think about.  More just about not holding your stomach in, not answering the phone, flipping off the computer screen when you open up an email from the goddamn motherfucking PTA.   Please.   Just a day where you don’t have to think about anybody else but yourself and maybe your dog.  Because if you are going to make it through your life without opening a vein, you are going to have to have a day now and again to regroup.   

My next door neighbor actually uses that word with her two-year-old.  “Do you need to regroup? I think you need to regroup.”  Seriously?  He’s two.   I can’t decide if this is reprehensible or hilarious or both.  I may end up deciding that it’s very cool.  I haven’t got my neighbor figured out yet.  I have so very little figured out.  It’s troubling.  Anyway.  She says “You need to regroup” instead of “You need a time out.” Which is what we said to our kids fifteen years ago.  When I was a kid they didn’t say anything.  You just got a look.

I learned a lot on Pantsless Wednesday.    To wit:

There is a streetsweeper in my town.  That comes to my neighborhood on Pantsless Wednesday.  Cul-de-sacs too.  Even tiny ones like mine where the driver has to make a three-point turn to get all the way around the car that was thoughtlessly parked there by some dumbshit who didn't know there was a streetsweeper in her neighborhood on Pantsless Wednesday.  Oops.

On Pantsless Wednesday, the bike trail is pleasantly quiet at 10:30 a.m.    On Pantsless Wednesday, the same is true for the lap pool at 2:00 p.m.  But pants or no pants, two workouts in one day are  not as good for an aging body as they are for an aging soul.

On Pantsless Wednesday, I learned that my daughter's coffee is almost as good as mine, but also way better than mine.  I didn’t make it, she did.  That adds a dimension to the flavor that is indescribably delicious.   Even better, she left for school before I got up.  Thank you, baby.

On Pantsless Wednesday, I learned that apparently I mean a lot to the staff at my local Trader Joe's.  Three of them stopped to smile at me and ask me where I'd been for the last few weeks.  The guy in the liquor department was a little disappointed to see that he'd be working harder to keep the shelves stocked, though, now that I'll be a regular there again.  But in general, the mood was upbeat.  

Everyone needs Pantsless Wednesday now and again.  Everyone needs to shake off that squeezy feeling in their chest that something’s fucked up and people are looking at you and shaking their heads and wondering why you haven’t fixed it yet.  Everyone needs to run in the sunshine with their dog when the trail is not crowded.  Everyone needs to regroup.  Like a two year old.  Like a boss.  Like a two-year-old boss.

Today's Rant/Rave: Timeline

I may or may not have mentioned that I suffer (ed. note--suffer?  really?) from a mood disorder.  Basically I feel very strongly about a lot of things.  For example, I'll begin by liking something a whole lot.  Like right off the bat, it strikes me as a completely batshit crazy wonderful thing.  It makes me ecstatic and I get obsessed with it.  <cough Black Keys cough>   And then certain aspects of whatever it is bring me down and then I'm really sad.  And sometimes maybe angry.  Or small and weak. I haven't gotten to these stages with the Black Keys yet.  But I do swing up and down and back and forth a fair bit.  The Rollercoaster of Love.   <cue Ohio Players>   I mean, I'm told that my version of these experiences is more intense than normal.   Really?  Then maybe we should dial "normal" up two clicks because that doesn't sound very fun at all.

Oddly, though my moods are changeable, I don't handle change very well.  I don't relish it.  I fear it.  Case in point:  Timeline.  A new format that is wildly different from what I'm used to in my Facebook page is causing me great anxiety.   What will my page look like in the new medium?  How will I get my message across?  Will my wit and wisdom come shining through?  Or will the swirling chaos of the page overpower the swirling chaos in my mind?

People get ready, there's change a-comin.  Or maybe a train.  

My shrink says that chaos is not good for me.  (If my shrink knew how obsessed I am with Facebook and my blog, that would not be good for me either.)   I need structure imposed from the outside to corral the tangential thinking that can get really out of control at times.  Facebook as it's currently constructed works really well for me.   I look at the Timeline, though, and I get dizzy.  Where is my post going to show up?  What happened to the really cool blog I linked to last week?  Why is that photo still there after I deleted it three times?  There are no answers to these imponderable questions.  I like to think that once I settle in and work with it, I'll get used to it and come to like it.  But that seems to me like an arranged marriage.  I'll learn to love it.  What?  How about I find something I truly love instead of having to be taught?

So there's that.  Fucking Timeline.  We have the luxury of complaining about our problems with Facebook, when, let's face it  (see what I did there?), they didn't *have* to make a social app that links over a half a billion people and gives self-absorbed latter-day hipsters like me an open mike 24/7.  They could (and probably do) sell my soul through the next seven rotations of the karmic wheel and I wouldn't *really* complain because I feel so damn lucky to have this beautiful obsession.  Woody Allen in the Catskills. Such small portions.

So you see how it works here at the Chron.  Why the rants have to share a page with the raves.  It is all part of the big chaos that swirls like Brownian motion through joy and hostility, guilt and rage, humility and terror, self-loathing and superiority.   How am I going to make sense of it all in the Timeline, which, like experience, isn't really linear at all?

Don't even get me started with Daylight Savings Time.  I'm pretty sure they are trying to kill me with all this superfluous change they keep throwing at me like the Christmas trees in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.  Don't be afraid to admit that you got that reference.  In my last post, I accused you of not being able to keep up.  But we both know better.  Embrace your randomness.  And buckle up.  Here comes Timeline.

Today's Rambling: Leap Day!

You guys.  I wrote this back in February, so I could post it on Leap Day (which was somehow very important in my mind but the reason escapes me now).  I took it down because it was mean to my husband but just now I re-read it and it's not THAT mean, at least not as mean as that other post and otherwise it's funny AND I haven't written any thing in a couple of weeks.  SO.  It's going back up.

This is a lame-ass blog post.  I just realized I wanted a blog post on Leap Day.  And I have a little over an hour.  So I’m just gonna spew random shit because I want it to say “posted on February 29” so that I can look back and say--”Whoa.  WTF is up with *that*!”

So.  Snips and snaps and puppy dog tails.  That’s what little Leap Day blog posts are made of.  I can write about:

1.  The time my daughter put granulated Splenda in the sugar bowl and didn’t tell me and of course I put a heaping teaspoon in my coffee and didn’t even notice that it was *bubbling* which is what Splenda does and I took a sip of that mother and threw my cup across the room.  Well, no.  I didn’t throw my cup across the room.  But wouldn’t that have been great?  That’s what a lot of my blog is--stuff that would have been great if it had happened.  Anyway, I woke my daughter up and made her *walk* to Starbucks to get me a latte to make up for it.  And that *did* happen because goddamnit that shit ain’t right.

(Watching the time now because I have to post this in the next half hour.  I have to cut it short because it always takes me extra time to figure out this goddamn Blogger.  I’m not that savvy about web design, which you can probably tell from the looks of this blog, but let’s face it, with writing like mine, the quality comes shining through.)

2.  I’m falling out of love with my husband which is a complete drag because on top of my growing disdain for him is the awfulness of never being able to tell him that he doesn’t turn me on any more because how much would that hurt him?  Tons, that’s how much.  And that’s a run-on sentence.  Followed by a sentence fragment.  The combination of the two cancels out the poor grammar.  It’s like a Hail Mary to atone for poor sentence structure.  I tend to be a real bitch about spelling and grammar.  It’s one of my few (many) flaws and I’m working on it but not very hard.  Some things are just woven into the fabric of your being, you know?

And  . . .

3.  Which is even more contrived than 1. and 2. because the writing teacher always talked about the magic of three.  So, yeah, Davy Jones.  I remember the Monkees so fondly because I was like *5* when that show was on and it was this huge privilege and thrill to be allowed to stay up till 8 pm to watch it.  Because it was a “school night” but for fuck’s sake it was kindergarten so who the hell cares.  I was already running circles around the other kindergarteners.  I wasn't going to let one night a week of late bedtime put a crimp in my awesomeness.   Has anyone else noticed that Davy Jones died at age 66 and the Monkees were formed in 1966?  Right up there with the whole Lincoln-Kennedy “OMG the similarities are so freaky!"  Except for not.  My favorite scene in the Monkees was them pushing that bed around on the street.  I doubled over with laughter every single time I saw it.  I still do.

So it’s time to post this because as I said I have some difficulty navigating Blogger.  Especially because I write in Pages which is this lame-ass version of Word that comes bundled with MacBooks nowadays.  Apple is so done with Microsoft.  They never really got over losing that lawsuit.  I know because I worked on that case.  A story for another time.

Namaste, bitches.  Happy Leap Day.  March comes in like a wildebeest and goes out like a salt marsh harvest mouse.  So suit up because you never know when you’ll have to accept a challenge.  If you think I’m random you might want to consider that maybe you just can’t keep up with me. 

Today's Rave: Delusions of Grandeur For the Win

I may have mentioned that I have rapid-cycling bipolar disorder.  What that means is sometimes I feel amazingly creative and funny and brilliant.  When I do, I write what I have been told are hilarious blog posts.  Then other times I feel pretty subdued and introspective.  But still brilliant.  When I do, I write what I have been told are painfully honest and finely crafted blog posts.  So like Forrest Gump and the box of chock-lits, you never know what you're gonna get.

But in any case, I write this blog, which I finally got the courage to start a few months ago.  It has been liberating and validating in ways that I'm not sure I can even express.  And that's something for a writer.  I have to say I couldn't have done it without the support and encouragement of a bunch of people I've never met, who also write blogs.   You can find a lot of their blogs listed way below on the left (or right or wherever it ends up because I still haven't gotten the hang of this Blogger shit).

A wonderful woman at mynewfavoriteday was kind enough to interview me and my blog-chum Unconventional Wisdom to get insights on what makes us tick (and blog).  If you are just joining us here at the Chron, this might be a good start on getting to know what goes on around here.  It's also a great way for me to get a blog post posted without actually having to write one.

So without further ado:  Me! Me! All about me! And a little about UDubs.

 

Facebook Creeping: A Case Study in Ambivalence

An online friend of mine had a run-in with an Facebook nutjob who decided to take his psychotic obsession with her *off* line.   It's been a big nightmare.  Those little buggers can be persistent.  But it got me thinking.   Who knows what goes through people's heads when they read my blog, when they visit my page?   But I think about it every time I click "share."  Really?  Share this madness with the outside world?   I founded The Klonopin Chronicles because I couldn’t be myself on my personal page.  But let’s face it, that page under my real name, what I fondly refer to as my “PTA page,” just wasn’t a big enough stage.   All about me, remember?  Delusions of grandeur, remember?

Why did I think this would be a good idea?

On the other hand.  I sashay around the internet, telling tales, cracking jokes, weaving words, but the inferiority complex is always lurking.   Rampant, paranoid insecurity.   "OMG I've been walking all around the club with TP hanging out the back of my skirt just like that poor soul in the photo I just shared about the perils of Jagermeister."   Fuck!   I put myself out there, warts and golf-balls-in-tube-socks boobs and all, and what if it's really just a huge colossal conspiratorial joke on me?  Like over 9,000 of you got together and decided it’d be fun to take Carrie to the prom.  Bucket of pig blood right around the corner.  So there's that.

Facebook creeping meets Facebook cruelty.  That stings.

Now.  I know I have Facebook haters.  Someone said, "If you don't have haters, you're doing it wrong."  Check and double check on that one.  Do I have Facebook creepers?   Possibly.  But they know I'm too wrapped up in myself to notice them unless they get vocal.  So they have to give up the very thing that defines creeper-hood. They're pretty conflicted overall, my creepers.   (It's like that commercial where the girl calls up her boyfriend to tell him that she's giving him the silent treatment.  I think that is brilliant. )    Anyway, creepers, I haz them, and like all good victims, of course I deserve them.  I brought it on myself.   "God, Klonnie, what do you expect when you're so crazy in your online persona?  No wonder some Nutjobs concoct wild fantasies about you.  You should have expected this."

Creeptastical Engineering

Yeah.   Very comforting.  Thank you for that.  Who would be saying this to me, anyway?   Who do I tell?  Who *can* I tell?  My family doesn't even know about The Klonopin Chronicles.  How would I begin that conversation?   "Um, so I have over 9,000 friends I've never met who like me because they think I'm funny as fuck and one of them turns out to be a Nutjob who took all my wild exaggerations literally and now we have to move.  All righty then.  Good talk."

So.   Between the wacky fun we have at my Facebook page (quick they are coming log out and pretend to be doing the dishes) and the sometimes painful writing I do here on the blog,  I can't tell anyone I know IRL about any of it.  It would kill my husband to know that our very private drama is playing out on a very public stage.  I don’t even show him my writing, let alone let him know that I am broadcasting it over the interwebs.   I'm going to have to wait until everyone I know dies before I can announce myself publicly.    People might ask why I "publish" my writing on the internet, given how hurtful it is.  All I can say is, better out than in.  Anonymity breeds bravado.

Again.  About the creeper.  Delusions of grandeur beat an inferiority complex every time.  And vice versa.  This leads to a lot of confusion for me and my many moods.  So I could have a creeper.  I'm awesome like that.  On the other hand, I couldn't possibly have a creeper because I suck the chrome off a trailer hitch.  No wonder no one comes to this restaurant, you can never get a table.  And such small portions.

That, my friends, is what you will see if you look up "rapid cycling bipolar Nutjob" in an Abnormal Psychology textbook.  Doubtless across the page from "sociopathic obsessive-compulsive with an Oedipus complex."  Yeah, our photos perfectly aligned.

So that we kiss when you shut the book.

Love, Anger and Indifference

Anger, unexpressed, turns inward but leaves a mark.  I pound my fists against my own chest in frustration and self-disgust.  Very efficient, two birds with one stone.  Once, looking down while changing clothes at the gym, I saw accidental bruises.  In embarrassed surprise, turning to my open locker door for a shield from prying eyes.   So that’s what happens when anger turns inward.   

The absolute value of x

But I don't want to write with my fists.  I prefer to write with my calm, measured fingers.  Writing that is clearly conceived through years of craft, that gingerly considers the double helix of  love and anger.   I have to admit that I still love my husband even now, in a limited, rueful way.  Restricted, neutral, arms held tightly at my sides between the two straight lines of absolute value.   Once upon a time I did love him. so intensely that I thought I would burst, heady days of early love, clawing lust, shortness of breath, manic nights where sleep was not necessary.   Looking into a benevolent mirror foggy from a steamy shower.  Sweaty picnics on the floor of the studio, drinking champagne.  Van Morrison murmurs poetry on the stereo.  Linden Arden stole the highlights.  T.S. Eliot joined the ministry, joined the ministry.

And then twenty years went by.  And now we look into a different mirror.  Harsh fluorescent cold tiled locker room.  Bodies sagging, failing.  Falling arches, ugly feet.  Stick legs.  Pot bellies and cellulite.  Faces unprotected by forgotten sunscreen.  Faces that have lived in the sun and wind, laughing, crying.  Faces that once felt love but now can only muster indifference, regret. 

He snores next to me.  Something called apnea can be quite dangerous.  I know that sympathy is required.  But I only feel stabbing annoyance that I telegraph with angled elbows and shaken shoulders.  Wake up, wake up, you are snoring!  Then, changing course, soothing, placating, please try to stop snoring, you need to breathe, you are not getting enough oxygen.  

But secretly I am pleased that there is something concrete to hate him for. Something he can't talk me out of when I complain.  Because I have a mood disorder, I can't be taken seriously.   I rail against endless injustices but I am dismissed airily with a wave of a hand.  How long since my last shrink appointment?  Have I had my meds adjusted? Surely that’s what my tedious and pathetic rantings are really about.  

So snoring is good.  Real, measurable.  I could record it if I wanted to and play it back to him.  I imagine his reaction, see his face go white, recognizing the truth of this accusation.  Doubt would play on his face.  The same face in response to the revelation that the kids are aware of his drinking, a story for another time.  Dawning acknowledgment that I am right after all.  Despite all the things that are wrong with me, I really am right.  Really really really.  For true and for serious.  

I savor the triumph even as it wanes. 

Today's Rant: Patience is a virtue. Don't honk at me.

Woman on the verge.  I am doing my motherfucking best to keep it together.  I get really really batshit manic at Christmas because I'm really excited about it all.  <getting shit done! bake shop wrap bake shop wrap drink drink drink drink drink>  Other times, I’m low at Christmas and it's all I can do to come out of my room.  We’ll set those times aside for now. 

This Christmas is the first time I have had a full-time job since my first kid was born 19 years ago.  Let me tell you it was a LOT easier putting Christmas together when I wasn't working full time.  (Outside the home.)   But I will tell you that my Christmases were pretty fucking far out when I didn't get to have to be away from home for almost twelve hours every day.   

I may have mentioned that I love my job, but it has definitely compromised my ability to put Christmas together in a timely manner.  And that’s . . . okay.  Gratitude moment:  I have several people who know how to shop, wrap and bake.  It is comforting to see my girls (19 and 17) learn to put Christmas together for themselves.  They get to decide what they think is important and do it.   They are getting along so well it's scary.  My oldest, always somewhat distant and scornful (hmm, I wonder where she gets it), has been downright loving, smiling, engaging.  The other night, they spontaneously jumped in the car to go on a shopping run for art supplies.  They even grabbed their 12-year-old brother, who was only too happy to be included.  I keep teasing them that they are replicants of their former selves, like in Bladerunner, and they just smile softly to themselves.  Tacit agreement.  They feel it, too.

I get off work early today.  Reluctantly, I am in my car by 2:00.  No excuse to dodge my chores, no defense of fatigue to avoid the inevitable.    The usual hour-plus commute home takes half the time.  Holiday traffic?  I guess they're not going my way today. 

Stop at the spa for a gift card for my sister.  Every year we go to have a hot tub and a sauna.  A side trip on her extended visit from across the country  I reluctantly exit the freeway to reach the chic-est part of the chic-est town.  I simply loathe everything about it.  Materialism pretending to be soulful and spiritual.  Indulgences for the new millennium.  The irony is thick, palpable, my scorn is oily and black.  I dodge what I know must be pitying judgment from the staff, who wear the right clothes and chant and meditate and anoint themselves with homeopathic unguents that smell of earth.   But I do love the wood tubs, the little rooms with New Age music piped in.   And the sauna, the annual challenge of besting the heat with stern resilience.  Ritual, galvanizing endorphins.   

On to my favorite grocery --Trader Joe's.  Whole Foods mentality at discount prices.  The racist versions of the brand name depending on the kind of cuisine.  Trader Ming, Trader Giuseppe.  Chalkboards with artsy lettering, glib descriptions.  My daughter longs to draw the labels.  She wants to get paid to doodle.  On quiet days I stop to consider the possibilities.   I am allowed to experiment.  If my choices fail to satisfy, I am entitled to return and refund.  But I would never admit such a defeat.  This failure would be my fault.  For example, I never liked goat cheese.  It's a flaw I freely admit.  

Today though (the Friday before the day before the night before the main event), the store is packed beyond my efforts to negotiate it.  My mental preparation to stay calm and in the moment dissolves within seconds of negotiating the produce aisle.  Still, I am nice.  Kind. Indulgent.  I let people cut in, I wait while they figure out which fucking kind of lettuce to buy.  Arugula is spicy, I want to tell them, but they haven't asked, so I will wait and see if they do.  I volunteer nothing.  I am an empty vessel, a blank slate.  I wear my serenity like a cloak.  I protect it as it protects me.

Repeat the mantras I have developed over time in my own personal anger management workshop . . . <everyone's doing the best they can, this too shall pass, we will get there eventually> . . . .  Follow the rules, cart down the right side, keep out of the way, smile and yield apologetically.  Inwardly grimace at the many (most?  all?) who don’t reciprocate.  Rules have always outlined my consciousness, irritation at those who don't feel that compunction shade the content.  

I hold it together till the checkout.  The clerk has a sense of humor, we border on flirting, but settle for banter.  Once again I have forgotten my bags.  I do the paperbag walk of shame as I wheel my cart past the bell ringers, gritting my teeth as I lie that I don't carry cash. 

At last I reach my car, which I have stationed in quite possibly the farthest spot in the section of the elephantine parking lot designated as Trader Joe's despite its proximity to Wal-Mart.  I transfer my brown paper bags from the cart to the hatchback.  I have hit the wall.  My husband calls and I answer.  He asks whether I've left and I tell him that I'm still in the parking lot, but I am coming home.  I need to be home.  I need to be done with this.  I need to touch base.  He understands.  

Seat belt strapped, I sit quietly for a moment before turning the key.  Verge of tears, deep breath, steady.  I only recognize the wall after I’ve hit it, just as I only recognize PMS after my period has begun.  In retrospect.  As if precognition would have helped.  I am destined to play out my Greek tragedy.  Unavoidable melt-downs.  Too little, too late.

I put the car in reverse and look over my shoulder.  Such a blind spot.  I slowly release the brake and roll backward out of my space.  The horn behinds me alerts me to my folly.  My heart jumps, my pulse pounds.  Not a friendly tap.  A hard palm leaning on the belly of the steering wheel.  I am backing out of a spot that the car behind me is waiting for.  Like an Escher print, we are caught in an infinite loop.  Of the two of us, only I recognize the futile irony.  He wants my spot, yet is unwilling to yield the space I need to make that possible.

I continue to roll back.  What should I do, I ask myself.  I need to get out.  He needs to get in.  Why is this such a problem?  I do not understand.  Blind confusion.  As I turn the wheel to pull forward, I hear a growl begin that ends in a sob.  “Fucking motherfucker!  What the fuck to you expect me to do?  Goddamnit!”  My window is half open; several shoppers overhear my spasm.  This is how I know that once again I have let the holidays break me. 

I follow the rules.  I give all the quarter I can.  I take prisoners.  I play nice.  And still I don’t get the break.  Still I don’t feel the love.  Every year at holiday time, every fucking day of the year for that matter.  I need you to hear this.  People of Earth.  Don't fucking honk at me as I pull out of the spot you are waiting for.  It’s not your fault.  You do not know what you are doing.  You do not know with whom you are dealing.  You don't know that I have a tire iron in my hatchback.  You don’t know that I would rather beat myself with it than confront you.   Enjoy your oblivious holiday.  That is all.  Carry on.

Today's Rant/Rave: Shopping

Life is short.  See Chagall first.

Most people are writing about Christmas right now, and of course, Christmas shopping is a good blog topic.  I hate Christmas shopping even more than regular shopping.  Basically I hate any kind of shopping.  I get "mall brain" before we've even parked the car.  "Mall brain" is like the shopping version of "museum brain."  That's a phrase I developed for that overload you get when you've taken the family on a Sunday outing to the museum and it gets to be 3:45 or so and you've just had it.  There's just too much art.  It's just too much to look at.  After a while it's not fun anymore.  So I always head to the moderns first, then the impressionists.  I'm sure you have your order as well.  For once my OCD does not require me to begin with the cave art and proceeding in chronological order.  

Where was I?  Oh yes, mall brain.  Shopping.  Right.  I hate clothes shopping and I'll tell you why:

  

1.  Three-way mirrors.  

2.  No money.  

3.  Nothing looks good.  

4.  Three-way mirrors.  

[Ed. note:  No doubt some of you love Marshalls and that is great for you.  When you write a blog about how much you love Marshalls,  I promise not to come over and comment about how much I hate Marshalls if you'll refrain from telling me how much you love Marshalls on my blog about how much I hate it.  How's that for a deal?  Better than the one you'll get at Marshalls, I daresay.]

Shopping at Marshalls is a battle.  First, I am already stressed before I set foot inside the place because there is some incipient life event that is necessitating this clusterfuck.  An alliance is forming (wedding, baptism, bris), an alliance is about to be formed (job interview), an alliance has ended (funeral).  And I suppose a bris is also ending the alliance between a foreskin and a penis.   In any case, there is a change in the human condition that is challenging my ability to accept it.  Mostly because it requires new clothes.  Cue Henry David Thoreau.  Head to Marshalls.

If there were enough lead time, I would have scored a deal at Goodwill, because I would have had the time and the patience required by that sort of shopping (fishing) expedition.  Don't ask me why I prefer the Goodwill experience, so similar to Marshalls, yet so different. Maybe it's the comfort of other people's clothes.  Someone chose this item once, someone thought it was a good idea.  Or maybe their mother did.  But times changed, waistlines grew and the owner moved on.  Their clothing ended up here.  For me to pass up or to choose to buy for 6.99.

This is what I see when I think "shopping."

At Marshalls, there is similar disarray, linoleum floors, multitudes of racks, horrible lighting.  Discount prices on brand name clothes, so the shoppers are aware of fashion, but at the mercy of the merchandisers.  They want name brands, but not at name brand prices, so that makes them both shallow and cheap.  Double fail.  And apparently they love to shop.  So we have absolutely nothing in common.

Shopping makes me feel stabby.

I paw through the clothes, the racks of ugliness.  Where is the plain cream-colored jersey shell that is all that stands between me and that job?  Where is the black wool dress in a size 16?  How could my uncle have the nerve to die on the East Coast in December.   I have no winter dress clothes any more because where I live it is never cold enough for that.  I push my way through the racks, slam the hangers down the poles, giving each item a scornful, cursory glance.  Begging the clothes to be what I want, fighting with them, disgusted by them.  Enraged that I have to be wasting my time on this futile, tiresome quest.  I could instead be running with my dog on the trail to the bay.  I could instead be howling the blues, slapping my guitar,  pretending to be Bonnie Raitt, or at least on tour as one of her back-up singers.  I could instead be having a Breaking Bad marathon with my teens because we love it so much and their dad would hate it if he knew that we watched it.  Because any of those things are going to do me way more good than looking for the blouse I will never find despite my nightmarish scavenger hunt through Marshalls.  Basically because situationally appropriate clothes I like in a size that fits at a price I can afford just. DO. NOT. EXIST. 

Turns out I was supposed to reinvent myself this week.  I completely fucking forgot.  And now there's no time because I can't afford Ann Taylor or Bloomingdale's.  So after a miserable hour, I heave a huge sigh and leave Marshalls empty-handed, just as I knew I would, talking to myself like the crazy woman waiting outside the store with her cat in a shopping cart.  Only she is dressed way better than I am. 

There *is* one kind of shopping I like.  In my view, the only good kind of shopping is food shopping.  Even if I can't afford it, I'm pretty sure no matter what I get, I will like it and it will be the right size.  Even if it's expensive, it's still a great price compared to what I am forced to spend on clothes I don't want, hate wearing, and can't wait to take off.

*Now* we're cooking with gas like Sylvia Plath

I love to shop for food.   I love the farmers market, the fancy cheese shop, the Chinese bakery, even the supermarket.  I draw the line at Costco, though.  Costco makes me feel anxious because there are so many other things to look at besides food.  For example--clothes.)

Food is my companion, my ally, my muse.  I love to think about it, to smell it, to taste it. I love to read about it (except on Facebook at Thanksgiving--check out my blog post about that).  I love to plan how I'm going to make it, what wine I'm going to drink with it, how it's going to look, how much the people around me are going to love it and love me for making it.

I don't get anything even remotely like that kind of gratification from clothes.   I infinitely prefer food.   And who could blame me?