Strange days in the building where I work.
First, there was that hammering and sawing just beyond the little door to nowhere.
Then, the wooden chair that sits to the left just inside my office
apparently moved itself...
I left the office, locking it and walking away for 20 minutes or so.
Upon my return, I could not get into my office because that chair
had moved over so that about 1/2 of it was somewhat wedged in front of the door.
Inside the office.
Dunno how the hell that could happen, but it gave me the willies.
And finally, last night, 3 of my clients and I were sitting outside in our "back yard".
We all heard someone walking around just inside the building,
but when we went in - no one was there.
We double-checked all 3 floors and found nothing.
Down in the basement, where it is super-spooky (circa 1885),
there were a few areas that were just overwhelmingly...weird.
There was one area where the air seemed peculiarly 'high-altitude' -
and uncomfortable to breathe. Near by, there was a section of wall
that was oddly faded and all scratched up in a vaguely circular pattern.
When I walked by that wall, I had such an overpowering, total feeling of despair
that I almost burst into tears. My heart was pounding, I was nauseated
and all the tiny hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end.
I tried to appear calm (I was readying to leave for the night and
didn't want to abandon my herd in a state of panic) - but I felt, for a moment,
as though I was breathing another's breath, or being forcibly resuscitated
while still breathing on my own.
My face must have blanched, because the 3 women with me shouted WHAT? WHAT!
swiveling their heads around while running toward the stairs in a mad panic.
The melancholy I felt in that basement was so singular and vast
I cannot even begin to explain it.
I just knowI was disturbed by it all evening,
and the feeling lingers today.
Strange days are also upon the people living in the building.
There is much about the lives of the women I work with
that I sense, but never really see.
They struggle daily, they are haunted by their pasts -
and I, in turn, am haunted by them.
Behind the carefully arranged faces they show to the world,
each harbors a spectral child, whose face sometimes drifts forward
to gaze at out at me with such wistful longing
I feel my heart might stop.
Oh,the weight of history.
The shape of regret.
Ghosts.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Update
In our last episode, Brown Shoes turned 50...
and while the vast nothingness recently available
on this blog might make you think otherwise -
I did not curl up and die.
Much has happened since I was last able to sit down and write,
but now that I'm here, attempting to do so,
I feel incapable...
afflicted by a curious combination of - oh hell, you do the math:
guilt + perfectionism x resistance + desire - ability = ...
when I add it all up, I'm left with a peculiar paralysis
that leaves me sitting at my keyboard, feeling like a moron.
So, while it may be a cop-out (heh heh),
I'm going to get a little Robert Stackian here and do a simple update:
Trip to Utah in late August - fabulous.
Highlights: windmill fighting with my sister's beagle,
eating the best mole negro on the planet,
and T and I laughing ourselves sick over boxes of hideous family pictures.
New fridge: check. (and this one works!)
New leather couch and chair: ordered in May, arrived in late September.
They are chocolatey and buttery and a little bit intimidating.
Feels odd, as if someone else with taste and cash moved into the house
while we weren't looking.
The Inferno: I have been solo staff member since the first week of September
(my co-worker abruptly left her position),and while I would usually argue
this statement vociferously - one of me is NOT enough.
Highlights: new baby born late August. Another resident in false labor (twice!).
5279 pieces of paperwork - one set of hands.
The flu.
Somehow pissing off the maintainence guy, which has resulted in him launching
a bizarre vendeta against me. Most recent volleys: writing his name on things in my office that belong to me, removing a poster from the wall because he thinks it's ugly, adding his own passive-aggressive quotes to our soberiety-only quote board.
The flu redux.
The ghost: making creepy hacking and sawing noises directly outside the weird door
that goes nowhere (OLD building, crazy remodels over the years left us with a door
that opens onto a 20 foot drop-off).
The rats.
The tattoo people: they apparently imported several bales of supertough pot and
have been hosting smoke-a-thons in an old van that sits directly ouside our back door.
The smell is UNbelieveable.
The other neighbors: Squatters have moved into a vacant building across the alley from us.
They have become best friends with both the tattoo people and all the regulars from
Methder Rogers place.
Things are going to hell in a fertilzer-lined handbasket. In a hurry.
The vibe is changing from annoying and loud to truly frightening.
Pray for peace.
Home: My 19 daughter has moved back.
D. has begun construction of an art studio for me off the back of the house.
My son spent a week here working on it.
Dysfunction junction, but pretty damn cool.
Me?
Overwhelmed.
Overworked.
Exhausted but strangely happy a good bit of the time.
And, as of September 8th - 3 years sober.
Missing all of you, and hoping you are all well and content.
Off to work - again.
bs
and while the vast nothingness recently available
on this blog might make you think otherwise -
I did not curl up and die.
Much has happened since I was last able to sit down and write,
but now that I'm here, attempting to do so,
I feel incapable...
afflicted by a curious combination of - oh hell, you do the math:
guilt + perfectionism x resistance + desire - ability = ...
when I add it all up, I'm left with a peculiar paralysis
that leaves me sitting at my keyboard, feeling like a moron.
So, while it may be a cop-out (heh heh),
I'm going to get a little Robert Stackian here and do a simple update:
Trip to Utah in late August - fabulous.
Highlights: windmill fighting with my sister's beagle,
eating the best mole negro on the planet,
and T and I laughing ourselves sick over boxes of hideous family pictures.
New fridge: check. (and this one works!)
New leather couch and chair: ordered in May, arrived in late September.
They are chocolatey and buttery and a little bit intimidating.
Feels odd, as if someone else with taste and cash moved into the house
while we weren't looking.
The Inferno: I have been solo staff member since the first week of September
(my co-worker abruptly left her position),and while I would usually argue
this statement vociferously - one of me is NOT enough.
Highlights: new baby born late August. Another resident in false labor (twice!).
5279 pieces of paperwork - one set of hands.
The flu.
Somehow pissing off the maintainence guy, which has resulted in him launching
a bizarre vendeta against me. Most recent volleys: writing his name on things in my office that belong to me, removing a poster from the wall because he thinks it's ugly, adding his own passive-aggressive quotes to our soberiety-only quote board.
The flu redux.
The ghost: making creepy hacking and sawing noises directly outside the weird door
that goes nowhere (OLD building, crazy remodels over the years left us with a door
that opens onto a 20 foot drop-off).
The rats.
The tattoo people: they apparently imported several bales of supertough pot and
have been hosting smoke-a-thons in an old van that sits directly ouside our back door.
The smell is UNbelieveable.
The other neighbors: Squatters have moved into a vacant building across the alley from us.
They have become best friends with both the tattoo people and all the regulars from
Methder Rogers place.
Things are going to hell in a fertilzer-lined handbasket. In a hurry.
The vibe is changing from annoying and loud to truly frightening.
Pray for peace.
Home: My 19 daughter has moved back.
D. has begun construction of an art studio for me off the back of the house.
My son spent a week here working on it.
Dysfunction junction, but pretty damn cool.
Me?
Overwhelmed.
Overworked.
Exhausted but strangely happy a good bit of the time.
And, as of September 8th - 3 years sober.
Missing all of you, and hoping you are all well and content.
Off to work - again.
bs
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Reefer Madness
It's official.
Sears (Satan's Evil And Repugnant Servant) has won.
The new refrigerator returned last night to the hell from whence it came,
and we feel much better about not having a fridge
now that we really don't have one sitting in our kitchen anymore.
I seem to recall a few moments of bliss, way back when the thing first arrived.
It was so roomy and functional and well lit that just looking inside
made me feel organized and capable.
And the freezer-on-the-bottom concept was both a pleasing nod to the old days
and a modernization that made me feel...well, modern.
But all that was before we realized that we had purchased the devil's workshop
and hauled it home to the heart of our house.
I'll spare you the gory details and the ugly epitaphs we've hurled -
and just admit that we're back to square one - older, wiser
and armed with holy water
as we depart the castle in search of a working refrigerator.
It's been slim pickins at Chez Shoes for the last month.
When you're not sleeping on the ground surrounded by wilderness
cooking out of a cooler is more annoyance than challenge.
My best friends?
Top Ramen and cereal, with an occasional visit
from funky salad greens
and spongy cheese on toast.
However, I realize that I am still so very lucky, sitting here on my ass,
grousing about inconvenience beneath the safety of my intact roof.
I could have it so much worse...
there are so many who do.
bs
Sears (Satan's Evil And Repugnant Servant) has won.
The new refrigerator returned last night to the hell from whence it came,
and we feel much better about not having a fridge
now that we really don't have one sitting in our kitchen anymore.
I seem to recall a few moments of bliss, way back when the thing first arrived.
It was so roomy and functional and well lit that just looking inside
made me feel organized and capable.
And the freezer-on-the-bottom concept was both a pleasing nod to the old days
and a modernization that made me feel...well, modern.
But all that was before we realized that we had purchased the devil's workshop
and hauled it home to the heart of our house.
I'll spare you the gory details and the ugly epitaphs we've hurled -
and just admit that we're back to square one - older, wiser
and armed with holy water
as we depart the castle in search of a working refrigerator.
It's been slim pickins at Chez Shoes for the last month.
When you're not sleeping on the ground surrounded by wilderness
cooking out of a cooler is more annoyance than challenge.
My best friends?
Top Ramen and cereal, with an occasional visit
from funky salad greens
and spongy cheese on toast.
However, I realize that I am still so very lucky, sitting here on my ass,
grousing about inconvenience beneath the safety of my intact roof.
I could have it so much worse...
there are so many who do.
bs
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Mid August
For anyone still checking back here from time to time,
I have not fallen off the face of the earth.
Those angry tweakers never delivered on their promise to whip my ass,
the heat of summer cooked (but did not kill) me,
and though I often fear I can't -
I am surviving my expanded work week fairly intact.
So why,
you might ask,
don't I write?
I wish I knew.
There are a million little things I could try to use as excuses;
chief among them the notion that this blog is utterly meaningless
in the greater scheme of things.
Yet - it matters to me.
I have made connections with people here
whose thoughts and opinions also matter to me,
so I apologize for my lengthy silence,
and hope it has not been interpreted as anything more
than the major-league fugue it has been.
Thanks to those who have asked about my nephew -
he is doing better, but it will be a slow recovery for him
and there may be some permanent damage.
Turns out he had a blood-alcohol level of .29 when he was admitted to the hospital,
which certainly explains why he "just suddenly" lost conciousness.
Of course, depending on which family member you talk to,
there are reasons for such a reading and they range from medical error
to slow metabolism to total denial that blood levels of any sort were ever checked.
oh,
alcohol....
Otherwise, life continues on.
I am working 4 nights a week now, and still loving my job.
The angry asshat I wrote about a few weeks ago ended up
serving 2 days in jail for trespassing on our property.
He was contrite when he reappeared, but that only lasted until
he got trashed again and then he was back to being a nuisance and a threat.
Luckily for me, he chose to harass the tweakers next door
instead of coming over to the Inferno, and last I heard he was far away,
recovering from bruised ribs and a broken nose.
Gotta love that meth.
The new fridge is slated to be repaired sometime today.
And yes, if you are doing the math,
it has been a few days since it stopped working.
To say that I loathe and detest Sears would be putting it mildly, but I will leave it at that, because to say otherwise would have me complaining for the next 5 or 6 weeks minimum.
Besides, if all goes as promised, in the next 24 hours we'll actually have a place to put perishables again, and that will be a very good thing indeed.
Other positives currently on the horizon:
D has finished demolition on our old back porch and is beginning the remodel/addition
that will eventually be my art studio.
I am battling some guilt over this, because I don't always feel it's totally justified,
but secretly, I am also crazed with excitement about the whole idea.
And, because I will be hitting the big 50 in a few days, I will soon be enjoying
an entire week off work, which I will spend in Utah with my sister,
doing as much nothing as I possible can.
And that, fellow blognosticators, is my story at the moment.
I hope you are all well, and that the rest of August brings you
more good days than bad.
bs
I have not fallen off the face of the earth.
Those angry tweakers never delivered on their promise to whip my ass,
the heat of summer cooked (but did not kill) me,
and though I often fear I can't -
I am surviving my expanded work week fairly intact.
So why,
you might ask,
don't I write?
I wish I knew.
There are a million little things I could try to use as excuses;
chief among them the notion that this blog is utterly meaningless
in the greater scheme of things.
Yet - it matters to me.
I have made connections with people here
whose thoughts and opinions also matter to me,
so I apologize for my lengthy silence,
and hope it has not been interpreted as anything more
than the major-league fugue it has been.
Thanks to those who have asked about my nephew -
he is doing better, but it will be a slow recovery for him
and there may be some permanent damage.
Turns out he had a blood-alcohol level of .29 when he was admitted to the hospital,
which certainly explains why he "just suddenly" lost conciousness.
Of course, depending on which family member you talk to,
there are reasons for such a reading and they range from medical error
to slow metabolism to total denial that blood levels of any sort were ever checked.
oh,
alcohol....
Otherwise, life continues on.
I am working 4 nights a week now, and still loving my job.
The angry asshat I wrote about a few weeks ago ended up
serving 2 days in jail for trespassing on our property.
He was contrite when he reappeared, but that only lasted until
he got trashed again and then he was back to being a nuisance and a threat.
Luckily for me, he chose to harass the tweakers next door
instead of coming over to the Inferno, and last I heard he was far away,
recovering from bruised ribs and a broken nose.
Gotta love that meth.
The new fridge is slated to be repaired sometime today.
And yes, if you are doing the math,
it has been a few days since it stopped working.
To say that I loathe and detest Sears would be putting it mildly, but I will leave it at that, because to say otherwise would have me complaining for the next 5 or 6 weeks minimum.
Besides, if all goes as promised, in the next 24 hours we'll actually have a place to put perishables again, and that will be a very good thing indeed.
Other positives currently on the horizon:
D has finished demolition on our old back porch and is beginning the remodel/addition
that will eventually be my art studio.
I am battling some guilt over this, because I don't always feel it's totally justified,
but secretly, I am also crazed with excitement about the whole idea.
And, because I will be hitting the big 50 in a few days, I will soon be enjoying
an entire week off work, which I will spend in Utah with my sister,
doing as much nothing as I possible can.
And that, fellow blognosticators, is my story at the moment.
I hope you are all well, and that the rest of August brings you
more good days than bad.
bs
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
laboring under a dark and twisted star
Up too early after a fitful night of sweaty half-sleep.
Fortunately, I have a steaming mug of coffee to snap me out of the fog I'm in.
But, wait just a minute...my coffee tastes...strangely foul.
Upon checking the milk, I realize that our brand spanking new fridge - the one
we had to rush out and sell our souls to get after the old one died on one of the hottest
days of the year - is not working. On another of the hottest days of the year.
But while F#@* all annoying, this is not the worst thing that could happen.
And it is not, in fact, the worst thing that has happened today.
My oldest sister called this morning to tell me that my nephew had been having
dizzy spells, possibly related to some hypoglycemic issue.
A few days ago, as he was walking from the street to a friend's house, he fainted.
He fell straight backward, hitting only his head on the concrete curb.
His skull is fractured from the back of his head around to the orbit of his eye,
and there is another fractured area at the base of his brain.
There is bleeding in his brain, and blood and cranial fluid in one of his ears, and he has
lost the majority of his hearing, as well as his sense of smell.
He also has short term memory loss, speech issues,
and they are continuing to test for additional problems...
This is just devastating news for my entire family.
Even though it has been 21 years since my brother J's accident, the words 'brain injury'
still pack an enormous wallop, and bring back memories that are traumatic and sickening.
But, it's still early.
Who knows what the day will bring.
bs
Fortunately, I have a steaming mug of coffee to snap me out of the fog I'm in.
But, wait just a minute...my coffee tastes...strangely foul.
Upon checking the milk, I realize that our brand spanking new fridge - the one
we had to rush out and sell our souls to get after the old one died on one of the hottest
days of the year - is not working. On another of the hottest days of the year.
But while F#@* all annoying, this is not the worst thing that could happen.
And it is not, in fact, the worst thing that has happened today.
My oldest sister called this morning to tell me that my nephew had been having
dizzy spells, possibly related to some hypoglycemic issue.
A few days ago, as he was walking from the street to a friend's house, he fainted.
He fell straight backward, hitting only his head on the concrete curb.
His skull is fractured from the back of his head around to the orbit of his eye,
and there is another fractured area at the base of his brain.
There is bleeding in his brain, and blood and cranial fluid in one of his ears, and he has
lost the majority of his hearing, as well as his sense of smell.
He also has short term memory loss, speech issues,
and they are continuing to test for additional problems...
This is just devastating news for my entire family.
Even though it has been 21 years since my brother J's accident, the words 'brain injury'
still pack an enormous wallop, and bring back memories that are traumatic and sickening.
But, it's still early.
Who knows what the day will bring.
bs
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
"I think everybody's nuts" - Johnny Depp
Whew.
The past few days have been utterly hellish.
105 to 99 and not even the hint of a breeze.
At home, even though we are up in the woods,
it has been miserable and hard to sleep at night.
And in town, especially up in the Inferno, it has been brutal.
Mercifully, today promises to be much cooler, which should
help prevent the meltdown that had been threatening our
fragile peace there at The In.
Speaking of threats to the peace, we had an uncomfortable
experience over the weekend at my workplace.
A friend of the tweaker-neighbors
came over to our house and tried to make trouble.
There is an outdoor area that connects our place
to the one next door, but the boundaries are well known
and have always been respected.
So when this big guy showed up in our area, drunk and high,
we were all a little on edge -but we were trying to enjoy
the tepid night air and did not want to be driven back
into the soul sucking heat of our building.
Long story short - the guy was agitated and became more so,
making derogatory and threatening statements
and trying to physically intimidate me and the other women.
He kept getting up close to my face and saying things like, "Oh yes,
I'm just so sure this is a clean and sober living facility...why?
Why are you like this, I just want to know. I mean, that makes you like,
like fucking vegetarians... or fucking Mormons or something."
After asking him 8 or 10 times to please leave, I got annoyed and called 911.
When two officers arrived, the guy became ridiculously angry.
He started mocking the cops and arguing with them
every bit as stupidly as he'd been arguing with me earlier.
At one point, when one of the cops told him he could be arrested for criminal trespass,
he said, "That's ING man: tres- pass-ING. Watch your tense, man."
After putting up with a full load of his shite, the officers escorted him away,
and we were all relieved to have him gone.
His absence however, was brief - in under 5 minutes he was back - this time
coming through our front door, up our stairs and into our kitchen area.
He sort of chuckled and was in the process of saying, "Ooops, wrong house..."
when the cops (he thought he'd ditched) slapped some handcuffs on him.
If he shows up again, maybe I'll lock him in my office - five minutes in that
sweatbox and he'll be a stain on the floor.
In other news,
the girlfriend from hell wants to have my brothers' baby.
Only problem: she's barren.
But don't despair my friends, Maylene has it all figured out.
She's going to have some of her DNA harvested and then transferred into a
donor egg, which will be fertilized and implanted in a surrogate womb.
I know,
I can feel you -
and believe me when I say that I am thinking the very same thing...
I swear, I don't know when I climbed aboard the AssHat Express,
but I want to get off.
Now.
The past few days have been utterly hellish.
105 to 99 and not even the hint of a breeze.
At home, even though we are up in the woods,
it has been miserable and hard to sleep at night.
And in town, especially up in the Inferno, it has been brutal.
Mercifully, today promises to be much cooler, which should
help prevent the meltdown that had been threatening our
fragile peace there at The In.
Speaking of threats to the peace, we had an uncomfortable
experience over the weekend at my workplace.
A friend of the tweaker-neighbors
came over to our house and tried to make trouble.
There is an outdoor area that connects our place
to the one next door, but the boundaries are well known
and have always been respected.
So when this big guy showed up in our area, drunk and high,
we were all a little on edge -but we were trying to enjoy
the tepid night air and did not want to be driven back
into the soul sucking heat of our building.
Long story short - the guy was agitated and became more so,
making derogatory and threatening statements
and trying to physically intimidate me and the other women.
He kept getting up close to my face and saying things like, "Oh yes,
I'm just so sure this is a clean and sober living facility...why?
Why are you like this, I just want to know. I mean, that makes you like,
like fucking vegetarians... or fucking Mormons or something."
After asking him 8 or 10 times to please leave, I got annoyed and called 911.
When two officers arrived, the guy became ridiculously angry.
He started mocking the cops and arguing with them
every bit as stupidly as he'd been arguing with me earlier.
At one point, when one of the cops told him he could be arrested for criminal trespass,
he said, "That's ING man: tres- pass-ING. Watch your tense, man."
After putting up with a full load of his shite, the officers escorted him away,
and we were all relieved to have him gone.
His absence however, was brief - in under 5 minutes he was back - this time
coming through our front door, up our stairs and into our kitchen area.
He sort of chuckled and was in the process of saying, "Ooops, wrong house..."
when the cops (he thought he'd ditched) slapped some handcuffs on him.
If he shows up again, maybe I'll lock him in my office - five minutes in that
sweatbox and he'll be a stain on the floor.
In other news,
the girlfriend from hell wants to have my brothers' baby.
Only problem: she's barren.
But don't despair my friends, Maylene has it all figured out.
She's going to have some of her DNA harvested and then transferred into a
donor egg, which will be fertilized and implanted in a surrogate womb.
I know,
I can feel you -
and believe me when I say that I am thinking the very same thing...
I swear, I don't know when I climbed aboard the AssHat Express,
but I want to get off.
Now.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Part Two
The dying process begins the minute we are born, but it accelerates during dinner parties.
-- Carol Matthau
For most of my adult life, the standard for awkward social situations
has been a hideous weekend with a friend of D’s way back
in the late seventies – and I would have been more then happy
to keep it that way.
However, life had other plans for me, and those plans arrived a few
weeks ago in the form of one Maylene Throckton: girlfriend from hell.
My brother J (either in spite of or because of his brain injury)
has an eerie ability to attract women - women who are, in one way
or another, needy, dysfunctional and very, very strange.
In the 21 years since his accident, he has gotten quite involved with
a number of these women and - because I am his sister/mother/
life coach/counselor/warden/herd boss/legal guardian - so have I.
First there was the high school sweetheart who felt that their love would
magically bring about a miracle, and punished us all when it did not.
And the nurse who had known him before his injury; she stuck around
until she realized that having a late-life baby with a profoundly disabled
guy was probably not a workable plan.
Next came the angry 460-pound social worker and her 87-year old mother,
followed by the 18 year old in a wheel chair and her angry mother.
Beth from New Jersey actually moved in with J, after creating such misery
with her incessant outbursts and complaints that he was evicted from his
former place. She brought with her a service dog the size of a pony, a boatload
of issues related to her brain injury, and a penchant for calling her lawyer
anytime things didn’t go her way (“He’s a shark I tell ya, a New Jersey shark!”)
Following Hurricane Beth, there was a merciful drought, interrupted only briefly
by Saralee, a retired forensic pathologist involved in animal rescue.
I met her only once, and after sharing with me her passion for dogs,
she returned to the tiny home she shares with 10 of them – never to be heard from again.
Lulled by the calm that usually precedes a storm, I allowed myself to think
that J had finally had his fill; that maybe we were finished with the awful meet-
and-greets that are de rigueur once he begins another doomed affair.
And I held fast to such wishful thinking until one recent night, when he phoned
around 11 pm to tell me that he was ‘entertaining company’ again.
According to J, the story goes like this:
He met her at the library, and after lunch and some coffee, they went
to his house and spent the rest of the day in bed. She is a movie producer
and director, currently filming a thriller she wrote about the ancient
Egyptians and some deep-space aliens.
She presently lives with her sister and her niece (who she is helping to raise),
but she is looking for a big old house where she can raise her own foster daughters (2)
as well as the triplets she recently went to Canada to adopt.
Total bullshit? Uh, yeah…however, (in part because of J’s short term memory deficits)
I was willing to try and suspend my disbelief, at least until I had a chance
to speak with Maylene herself.
I did finally manage a few conversations with her, and each was weirder than
the one that came before. Her voice sounded rather babyish and she spoke
in a singsong manner that made me long to get away from the phone and
rinse out the inside of my head. She echoed the stories J had told me, adding
more fantastic details, and then she made some assertions and assumptions
regarding J that I found a bit alarming, given the brevity of their relationship.
In the end, everything she said seemed slightly off, leaving me absolutely
certain of only one thing: we had a flaming nutbag on our hands.
Last week, my husband D and I decided it was time to face the music,
so we went to see J and meet his ladylove. It was J’s birthday, so we
brought along some gifts and an offer to take them both out to dinner.
Things were scary right from the beginning.
For starters, Maylene was behind the kitchen door when D and I arrived,
and she came out very slowly, like an animal emerging from a cave.
She whispered hello and thrust a folder toward me, saying brightly in her
tinny voice, “Here, I brought a copy of my script for you.”
Then she sank into J and began nuzzling and petting and cuddling him
as though they were alone in the bleachers at the junior high.
We gave J his gifts, and she grabbed them from him, opening each one
and chirping, “Thanks, we needed this.” And when we finally got in the car
to go to dinner, she continued her strange canoodling, while simultaneously
finishing all of J’s sentences for him and regaling us with stories about
meeting celebrities. “Johnny Depp, he’ll either talk to you or he won’t.”
And “When Steven Spielberg read my script he said go for it – so I am!”
Dinner was downright ludicrous, with Maylene cutting J’s food into
little bites and continually caressing him with her pudgy, pale hands.
She sat across from me and, while she looked fairly benign (think
bloated, middle aged Mia Farrow), every once in a while I saw her
taking my measure in a feral way that left me jittery and chilled.
At one point, when Maylene was gassing on about the “huge factory
high in the Ozarks” she bought so her brother would have a job, I
leaned over to D and whispered, “Hey, remember the Silver Pear?”
He nodded, and then he whispered back,” I’d do that ten times in a
row before I’d ever do this again.”
In the days since we endured our dinner with Maylene, I’ve had time to
read her ‘script’ and ponder the claims she’s made.
And while I’ve laughed about how totally bizarre she is, I am also concerned
that she could be a danger to J.
At best she’s a whack job, needy and sad; at worst a pathological liar and con.
Her conversations are peppered with dark comments about her mother,
who she refers to in the past tense much of the time, and vague statements
about the progress of filming her movie.
To date, J has never been to her house or seen where it is.
And even though she says things like, "The triplets just LOVE J - my foster
daughters are always asking when they get to go meet him!", J says he has
never met them- or anyone else in her life.
Her script is a jumbled, pathetic mess – it looks (and reads) like a 5th graders’
rush-job report. There are misspelled words (like ‘seen’ for scene and ‘rapped’
for raped) on every page and an angry, juvenile violence that seems much more
like memory than the plot of a sci-fi flick.
Yesterday J told me that Maylene hates her mother and wouldn’t speak to her
if they passed on the street. Then he told me that they have the same name –
and a little warning flag popped up in my brain. He also told me that she is
pressuring him about marriage, and suggesting that they keep it a secret from me.
I am trying to get some dirt on her – but so far that has proved impossible.
And though I want to try and warn my brother, I have to move cautiously,
because if I even hint that I do not like her, he is likely to find her irresistible.
stay tuned.............
bs
-- Carol Matthau
For most of my adult life, the standard for awkward social situations
has been a hideous weekend with a friend of D’s way back
in the late seventies – and I would have been more then happy
to keep it that way.
However, life had other plans for me, and those plans arrived a few
weeks ago in the form of one Maylene Throckton: girlfriend from hell.
My brother J (either in spite of or because of his brain injury)
has an eerie ability to attract women - women who are, in one way
or another, needy, dysfunctional and very, very strange.
In the 21 years since his accident, he has gotten quite involved with
a number of these women and - because I am his sister/mother/
life coach/counselor/warden/herd boss/legal guardian - so have I.
First there was the high school sweetheart who felt that their love would
magically bring about a miracle, and punished us all when it did not.
And the nurse who had known him before his injury; she stuck around
until she realized that having a late-life baby with a profoundly disabled
guy was probably not a workable plan.
Next came the angry 460-pound social worker and her 87-year old mother,
followed by the 18 year old in a wheel chair and her angry mother.
Beth from New Jersey actually moved in with J, after creating such misery
with her incessant outbursts and complaints that he was evicted from his
former place. She brought with her a service dog the size of a pony, a boatload
of issues related to her brain injury, and a penchant for calling her lawyer
anytime things didn’t go her way (“He’s a shark I tell ya, a New Jersey shark!”)
Following Hurricane Beth, there was a merciful drought, interrupted only briefly
by Saralee, a retired forensic pathologist involved in animal rescue.
I met her only once, and after sharing with me her passion for dogs,
she returned to the tiny home she shares with 10 of them – never to be heard from again.
Lulled by the calm that usually precedes a storm, I allowed myself to think
that J had finally had his fill; that maybe we were finished with the awful meet-
and-greets that are de rigueur once he begins another doomed affair.
And I held fast to such wishful thinking until one recent night, when he phoned
around 11 pm to tell me that he was ‘entertaining company’ again.
According to J, the story goes like this:
He met her at the library, and after lunch and some coffee, they went
to his house and spent the rest of the day in bed. She is a movie producer
and director, currently filming a thriller she wrote about the ancient
Egyptians and some deep-space aliens.
She presently lives with her sister and her niece (who she is helping to raise),
but she is looking for a big old house where she can raise her own foster daughters (2)
as well as the triplets she recently went to Canada to adopt.
Total bullshit? Uh, yeah…however, (in part because of J’s short term memory deficits)
I was willing to try and suspend my disbelief, at least until I had a chance
to speak with Maylene herself.
I did finally manage a few conversations with her, and each was weirder than
the one that came before. Her voice sounded rather babyish and she spoke
in a singsong manner that made me long to get away from the phone and
rinse out the inside of my head. She echoed the stories J had told me, adding
more fantastic details, and then she made some assertions and assumptions
regarding J that I found a bit alarming, given the brevity of their relationship.
In the end, everything she said seemed slightly off, leaving me absolutely
certain of only one thing: we had a flaming nutbag on our hands.
Last week, my husband D and I decided it was time to face the music,
so we went to see J and meet his ladylove. It was J’s birthday, so we
brought along some gifts and an offer to take them both out to dinner.
Things were scary right from the beginning.
For starters, Maylene was behind the kitchen door when D and I arrived,
and she came out very slowly, like an animal emerging from a cave.
She whispered hello and thrust a folder toward me, saying brightly in her
tinny voice, “Here, I brought a copy of my script for you.”
Then she sank into J and began nuzzling and petting and cuddling him
as though they were alone in the bleachers at the junior high.
We gave J his gifts, and she grabbed them from him, opening each one
and chirping, “Thanks, we needed this.” And when we finally got in the car
to go to dinner, she continued her strange canoodling, while simultaneously
finishing all of J’s sentences for him and regaling us with stories about
meeting celebrities. “Johnny Depp, he’ll either talk to you or he won’t.”
And “When Steven Spielberg read my script he said go for it – so I am!”
Dinner was downright ludicrous, with Maylene cutting J’s food into
little bites and continually caressing him with her pudgy, pale hands.
She sat across from me and, while she looked fairly benign (think
bloated, middle aged Mia Farrow), every once in a while I saw her
taking my measure in a feral way that left me jittery and chilled.
At one point, when Maylene was gassing on about the “huge factory
high in the Ozarks” she bought so her brother would have a job, I
leaned over to D and whispered, “Hey, remember the Silver Pear?”
He nodded, and then he whispered back,” I’d do that ten times in a
row before I’d ever do this again.”
In the days since we endured our dinner with Maylene, I’ve had time to
read her ‘script’ and ponder the claims she’s made.
And while I’ve laughed about how totally bizarre she is, I am also concerned
that she could be a danger to J.
At best she’s a whack job, needy and sad; at worst a pathological liar and con.
Her conversations are peppered with dark comments about her mother,
who she refers to in the past tense much of the time, and vague statements
about the progress of filming her movie.
To date, J has never been to her house or seen where it is.
And even though she says things like, "The triplets just LOVE J - my foster
daughters are always asking when they get to go meet him!", J says he has
never met them- or anyone else in her life.
Her script is a jumbled, pathetic mess – it looks (and reads) like a 5th graders’
rush-job report. There are misspelled words (like ‘seen’ for scene and ‘rapped’
for raped) on every page and an angry, juvenile violence that seems much more
like memory than the plot of a sci-fi flick.
Yesterday J told me that Maylene hates her mother and wouldn’t speak to her
if they passed on the street. Then he told me that they have the same name –
and a little warning flag popped up in my brain. He also told me that she is
pressuring him about marriage, and suggesting that they keep it a secret from me.
I am trying to get some dirt on her – but so far that has proved impossible.
And though I want to try and warn my brother, I have to move cautiously,
because if I even hint that I do not like her, he is likely to find her irresistible.
stay tuned.............
bs
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Ground Control to Major Tom, take your protein pills and put your helmet on...
Once upon a time back in 1977 - before D. and I were married - he got a phone call out of the blue from an old friend he hadn't seen in 4 or 5 years. This guy had tracked D. down, and wanted to get together to "share some big news". Plans were made, but when the day of the visit arrived, D. discovered that he had to work, so I was left alone to greet his long lost buddy.
When the knock came at the door of my tiny apartment, I was a little uncomfortable, but D. had told me enough about the guy that I figured - hey, what could go wrong? We'd hang out and shoot the breeze and everything would be fine.
Except - when I opened my door, there was a 500 pound guy standing there.
I panicked, because noone had said a word about the guy being bigger than Andre the Giant, and my apartment was two rooms and a closet with nowhere to sit except the bed - which had a large wicker chest full of fragile stuff crammed underneath it.
The guy and I milled around for a bit, making really small talk in my really small kitchen - until he asked, "Can we just sit down?"...which we did, avoiding eye contact as the sound of breaking glass filled the silence in the room.
The visit went downhill from there; it was a 24 hour binge of bizarreness that included
meeting the guy's mistress in the evening, and his 18 year old fiancee the next day.
His mistress was 57 or 58 (he was 23); she was ravaged and hard, like an extra
from that Mickey Rourke movie "Barfly". And his fiancee was 18, straight out of an
ABC After School Special about that lonely girl who keeps making all the wrong choices.
Somehow, D. and I got trapped into an 'engagement' brunch for these people,
at a place called The Silver Pear - which is really where this post has been heading all along.
That dismal engagement brunch, featuring D., me, the fiancee and the giant,
took place in a dusty, dimly-lit place that felt more like a funeral parlor than
"the place you'll want to be when it's time to celebrate."
Hideous foiled wallpaper glared from every wall, and there was enough
gaudy silver plate to sink a battleship. Fake ivy, festooned with (you guessed it)
silver pears was draped and wrapped and crawling all over,
and I swear that even the grains of salt in the shakers were engraved
with a cloying plea to "let us create YOUR silver lining."
Somewhere between the staff's robotic peppiness
and our hosts incessant groping and wedding goo-goo-gooing ,
D. and I realized that we might be the only human beings there.
There was so little common ground (most of which had to be avoided anyway), that conversation began a slow, agonizing death that promised to go on forever.
Sitting there, on our ridiculously dainty wrought-iron chairs, eating damp little triangles
of wallpaper paste and toast, D. and I were like alien abductees; chained together in abject misery, frantic to return to planet Earth.
And until yesterday - that experience has remained my most awkward
social experience.
The pinnacle, bar none.
Tune in tomorrow for part two - Where brown shoes learns a painful life truth:
once an abductee, always an abductee....
When the knock came at the door of my tiny apartment, I was a little uncomfortable, but D. had told me enough about the guy that I figured - hey, what could go wrong? We'd hang out and shoot the breeze and everything would be fine.
Except - when I opened my door, there was a 500 pound guy standing there.
I panicked, because noone had said a word about the guy being bigger than Andre the Giant, and my apartment was two rooms and a closet with nowhere to sit except the bed - which had a large wicker chest full of fragile stuff crammed underneath it.
The guy and I milled around for a bit, making really small talk in my really small kitchen - until he asked, "Can we just sit down?"...which we did, avoiding eye contact as the sound of breaking glass filled the silence in the room.
The visit went downhill from there; it was a 24 hour binge of bizarreness that included
meeting the guy's mistress in the evening, and his 18 year old fiancee the next day.
His mistress was 57 or 58 (he was 23); she was ravaged and hard, like an extra
from that Mickey Rourke movie "Barfly". And his fiancee was 18, straight out of an
ABC After School Special about that lonely girl who keeps making all the wrong choices.
Somehow, D. and I got trapped into an 'engagement' brunch for these people,
at a place called The Silver Pear - which is really where this post has been heading all along.
That dismal engagement brunch, featuring D., me, the fiancee and the giant,
took place in a dusty, dimly-lit place that felt more like a funeral parlor than
"the place you'll want to be when it's time to celebrate."
Hideous foiled wallpaper glared from every wall, and there was enough
gaudy silver plate to sink a battleship. Fake ivy, festooned with (you guessed it)
silver pears was draped and wrapped and crawling all over,
and I swear that even the grains of salt in the shakers were engraved
with a cloying plea to "let us create YOUR silver lining."
Somewhere between the staff's robotic peppiness
and our hosts incessant groping and wedding goo-goo-gooing ,
D. and I realized that we might be the only human beings there.
There was so little common ground (most of which had to be avoided anyway), that conversation began a slow, agonizing death that promised to go on forever.
Sitting there, on our ridiculously dainty wrought-iron chairs, eating damp little triangles
of wallpaper paste and toast, D. and I were like alien abductees; chained together in abject misery, frantic to return to planet Earth.
And until yesterday - that experience has remained my most awkward
social experience.
The pinnacle, bar none.
Tune in tomorrow for part two - Where brown shoes learns a painful life truth:
once an abductee, always an abductee....
Friday, June 30, 2006
Alex, I'll take Haunting Questions for $1000.
I was so overheated tonight at work
that I actually thought I might faint.
After a full day of sun beating down on it,
our building was hotter than the hinges of hell,
and every moment I spent in my coffin of an office
seemed to last for five hundred years.
Right before I left for the night, I went out back
to check the walkways and lock the rear door.
Standing in the darkness, wishing for a breeze,
I could hear somebody running in the alley.
Whoever it was stopped for a second and then
yelled out very loudly, "Hey, hey - I just gotta know -
what's a man gotta do to get some tenderness in this world?"
that I actually thought I might faint.
After a full day of sun beating down on it,
our building was hotter than the hinges of hell,
and every moment I spent in my coffin of an office
seemed to last for five hundred years.
Right before I left for the night, I went out back
to check the walkways and lock the rear door.
Standing in the darkness, wishing for a breeze,
I could hear somebody running in the alley.
Whoever it was stopped for a second and then
yelled out very loudly, "Hey, hey - I just gotta know -
what's a man gotta do to get some tenderness in this world?"
Summertime, and the livin' is easy
Woah.
I just flew in from the coast, and man, are my arms tired.
Nyuck, nyuck, nyuck…
But seriously folks,
after working 8 of the last 10 night shifts, I am ready for a break.
It has been in the low 90’s here the past few days, so being in my “office”
(an airless box, sulking about midsection in a steaming heap
we’ll call The Inferno Building) has been absolute misery.
Summer has arrived in the Pacific Northwest, and the people are free
after eight long months beneath heavy cloud cover.
The spray-on tanners and the light bed users are out in force,
flaunting their head start in the sea of marshmallows and dough balls
now flooding the streets and everybody seems a little crazed by the sun.
From the front window of The Inferno, two floors up, I can see much of
what happens down on Main Street.
Little brown twigs in neon floss ignore the crosswalks, darting between cars
in schools of five or six, while pillowy mothers bunch together at the light,
spilling out of their tank tops as they wait for permission to walk.
Warmer weather has brought some complications to the women here at The In.
Sobriety is a winter sport; summer means fun – and fun means partying.
Our little ‘Safe and Sober Living Environment’ shares a small city block
with five bars, three rooming houses and a tattoo parlor, and all of them are
jumping by the time I get to work.
Live music pours from the pub down the street, mixing with the nightly
screaming from the tweakers who live next door. The tattoo guys have begun
to use the alley out back as their private living room, where they charcobroil
huge slabs of meat and share endless joints while their reggae music blares.
Across the street at the motorcycle bar smokers stand out front, their drinks in hand,
calling out to anyone who happens to pass by.
In the eye of this storm, struggling to stay clean, the women I work with are edgy.
There are spats over laundry, cigarettes and missing food.
The bathroom stinks of mildew and the kitchen fan won’t work.
Superheated air makes the babies sweat and fuss, and the phone –
always a bone of contention - has brought a plague of minor infractions
for ignoring the ten-minute rule.
I love what I am doing - don’t get me wrong - but sometimes I feel consumed
by the atmosphere I’m in.
I was just sitting at my desk, typing this out and gloating over the fact that I am
actually OFF for an entire day - when my phone rang. The other caseworker at
The Inferno has had a medical emergency and I am going back in less than 4 hours.
Shit.
Stay tuned....
bs
I just flew in from the coast, and man, are my arms tired.
Nyuck, nyuck, nyuck…
But seriously folks,
after working 8 of the last 10 night shifts, I am ready for a break.
It has been in the low 90’s here the past few days, so being in my “office”
(an airless box, sulking about midsection in a steaming heap
we’ll call The Inferno Building) has been absolute misery.
Summer has arrived in the Pacific Northwest, and the people are free
after eight long months beneath heavy cloud cover.
The spray-on tanners and the light bed users are out in force,
flaunting their head start in the sea of marshmallows and dough balls
now flooding the streets and everybody seems a little crazed by the sun.
From the front window of The Inferno, two floors up, I can see much of
what happens down on Main Street.
Little brown twigs in neon floss ignore the crosswalks, darting between cars
in schools of five or six, while pillowy mothers bunch together at the light,
spilling out of their tank tops as they wait for permission to walk.
Warmer weather has brought some complications to the women here at The In.
Sobriety is a winter sport; summer means fun – and fun means partying.
Our little ‘Safe and Sober Living Environment’ shares a small city block
with five bars, three rooming houses and a tattoo parlor, and all of them are
jumping by the time I get to work.
Live music pours from the pub down the street, mixing with the nightly
screaming from the tweakers who live next door. The tattoo guys have begun
to use the alley out back as their private living room, where they charcobroil
huge slabs of meat and share endless joints while their reggae music blares.
Across the street at the motorcycle bar smokers stand out front, their drinks in hand,
calling out to anyone who happens to pass by.
In the eye of this storm, struggling to stay clean, the women I work with are edgy.
There are spats over laundry, cigarettes and missing food.
The bathroom stinks of mildew and the kitchen fan won’t work.
Superheated air makes the babies sweat and fuss, and the phone –
always a bone of contention - has brought a plague of minor infractions
for ignoring the ten-minute rule.
I love what I am doing - don’t get me wrong - but sometimes I feel consumed
by the atmosphere I’m in.
I was just sitting at my desk, typing this out and gloating over the fact that I am
actually OFF for an entire day - when my phone rang. The other caseworker at
The Inferno has had a medical emergency and I am going back in less than 4 hours.
Shit.
Stay tuned....
bs
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Father's Day
3. If I'm walking the streets of a city
covering every square inch of the continent
all its lights out
and empty of people,
even then
you are there
If I'm walking the streets
overwhelmed with this love for the living
I will still be a blizzard at sea
Since you left me at eight I have always been lonely
star-far from the person right next to me, but
closer to me than my bones you
you are there
from 'Flight" by Franz Wright
I am missing you today Papa,
as I do nearly every day.
bs
Thursday, June 15, 2006
This, that and then some
Having no great fascination of my own to blather about,
I think I'll make do today with a few secondhand stories
and the ubiquitous complaint (or two).
Stolen moment Numero Uno:
So - you think you can dance?
Late last Friday night, my sister T. was home alone.
Walking into her dark kitchen to put a cup in the sink, she saw an eerie,
glowing light skittering around outside. As she moved toward the window
to get a better look, the light moved jerkily up off the ground, seeming to
'swish' sideways a bit and then settle closer to the ground. It was an odd
greenish glowing orb, and moved continually - out around the front of
her house and then off toward the side and her back door.
"Oh my god," she said aloud, "Mother was right - there ARE aliens!"
And then ran to make sure her back door was locked.
Just as she got to the door, she heard a noise that made the hair stand up
on the back of her neck. "Whssssshhhhh. Whsssssshhhhh."
Intending to test the lock, she was reaching silently for the doorknob
when a loud voice cried out, "GOT 'IM!"
In a panic, she flipped on the outside light to find the kid from next door,
standing in her carport - holding a chicken.
Turns out that one of her neighbor's many kids is a senior in high school,
and had recieved a most unusual invitation to the prom: a chicken, with a
glow-in-the-dark bracelet around its neck bearing a note that read
'Don't be chicken, go to the prom with me'. The invitation, chicken attached,
had escaped and flapped all over - turning my sister's neighborhood into
Area 51 for a brief period of time.
Dunno if the invite was a success or not, but one has to applaud the effort.
Numero Dos - How do you say, "squeal like a pig?"
My son and some friends went camping, ending up in a remote
and sparsely occupied campground. Late their first night,
they built a fire and sat around it talking and telling tales.
After an hour or so, they began to be aware of little sounds,
off in the brush beyond the light of their fire.
The noises were intermittent, and so vague it was impossible to tell
what they might be, but bothersome enough that finally, one of the guys
turned from the fire and yelled, "Helloooo?"
Suddenly, lights blared on, illuminating 3 men sitting on ATVs.
"Oh man," my son's friend J said to me later, "It was like that movie."
"There was spookytooth boy and three-finger man and knife-wielding, torn shirt dude."
One of the men asked directions to some place in the area, and J said to him,
"Uh, that's hard to explain - you probably wouldn't be able find it in the dark."
The men mumbled and grunted, and then one replied, "You can find
all kinds of things....in the dark."
There was a long, awful silence, and then the three men slowly backed
into the blackness - and were gone.
"What did you do?" I asked my son, "You didn't stay there did you?"
"Well, we sat there for a minute, waiting for the banjo music to start,"
my son said. "And then we just hauled ass outta there."
"We're not stupid mom -we've all seen the movie"
And now - a complaint:
When, oh when can we stop hearing about celebrity babies????
Even when I'm minding my own, albeit it mundane business,
up pops this info on my hotmail site: "Woody Harrelson completes
"GoddessTrilogy with birth of 3rd daughter."
Enough.
Please.
STOP.
bs
I think I'll make do today with a few secondhand stories
and the ubiquitous complaint (or two).
Stolen moment Numero Uno:
So - you think you can dance?
Late last Friday night, my sister T. was home alone.
Walking into her dark kitchen to put a cup in the sink, she saw an eerie,
glowing light skittering around outside. As she moved toward the window
to get a better look, the light moved jerkily up off the ground, seeming to
'swish' sideways a bit and then settle closer to the ground. It was an odd
greenish glowing orb, and moved continually - out around the front of
her house and then off toward the side and her back door.
"Oh my god," she said aloud, "Mother was right - there ARE aliens!"
And then ran to make sure her back door was locked.
Just as she got to the door, she heard a noise that made the hair stand up
on the back of her neck. "Whssssshhhhh. Whsssssshhhhh."
Intending to test the lock, she was reaching silently for the doorknob
when a loud voice cried out, "GOT 'IM!"
In a panic, she flipped on the outside light to find the kid from next door,
standing in her carport - holding a chicken.
Turns out that one of her neighbor's many kids is a senior in high school,
and had recieved a most unusual invitation to the prom: a chicken, with a
glow-in-the-dark bracelet around its neck bearing a note that read
'Don't be chicken, go to the prom with me'. The invitation, chicken attached,
had escaped and flapped all over - turning my sister's neighborhood into
Area 51 for a brief period of time.
Dunno if the invite was a success or not, but one has to applaud the effort.
Numero Dos - How do you say, "squeal like a pig?"
My son and some friends went camping, ending up in a remote
and sparsely occupied campground. Late their first night,
they built a fire and sat around it talking and telling tales.
After an hour or so, they began to be aware of little sounds,
off in the brush beyond the light of their fire.
The noises were intermittent, and so vague it was impossible to tell
what they might be, but bothersome enough that finally, one of the guys
turned from the fire and yelled, "Helloooo?"
Suddenly, lights blared on, illuminating 3 men sitting on ATVs.
"Oh man," my son's friend J said to me later, "It was like that movie."
"There was spookytooth boy and three-finger man and knife-wielding, torn shirt dude."
One of the men asked directions to some place in the area, and J said to him,
"Uh, that's hard to explain - you probably wouldn't be able find it in the dark."
The men mumbled and grunted, and then one replied, "You can find
all kinds of things....in the dark."
There was a long, awful silence, and then the three men slowly backed
into the blackness - and were gone.
"What did you do?" I asked my son, "You didn't stay there did you?"
"Well, we sat there for a minute, waiting for the banjo music to start,"
my son said. "And then we just hauled ass outta there."
"We're not stupid mom -we've all seen the movie"
And now - a complaint:
When, oh when can we stop hearing about celebrity babies????
Even when I'm minding my own, albeit it mundane business,
up pops this info on my hotmail site: "Woody Harrelson completes
"GoddessTrilogy with birth of 3rd daughter."
Enough.
Please.
STOP.
bs
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
pasta al dental
I went to lunch with an old friend Monday -
we ate at a cool little diner called Irises.
The food was wonderful, the ambience comfortable
and the decor entertainingly eclectic.
As we sat there, eating our smoked mozzarella pasta
and curried chicken salads, conversing quietly and
and soaking up the atmosphere, an orthodontic convention
of two was taking place a scant few feet away.
Dr. Gingerhair was holding forth, both vigorously
and loudly, on all things dental-related
"Well, in my 14 years of ortho, I don't think I've EVER seen
a tooth CRACK like that. The person must have had cracked-tooth syndrome"
"Ya know, if you scrape the GARBAGE down deep below the gum line,
there's BOUND to be BLEEDING going on... I guess you can leave the build up
or you can go ahead and REMOVE it."
His enthusiasm was admirable - I would find plaque a difficult thing to truly embrace -
but I could have done without an in-service on teeth
while I was in the middle of using my own to ENJOY FOOD.
At another table, a very handsome man and his equally lovely girlfriend
were sitting quietly, their food untouched on the plates in front of them.
Suddenly, handsome got on his cell phone and began discussing
someone's surgical procedure. "You're okay then? Okay.
Be careful driving yourself home.
"Oh, Jean's with me," handsome continued,
"She says hello and send much love."
Meanwhile, Jean was looking at herself in a small round mirror -
and if she was sending love, it wasn't to the person on the far end of the cell phone.
bs
we ate at a cool little diner called Irises.
The food was wonderful, the ambience comfortable
and the decor entertainingly eclectic.
As we sat there, eating our smoked mozzarella pasta
and curried chicken salads, conversing quietly and
and soaking up the atmosphere, an orthodontic convention
of two was taking place a scant few feet away.
Dr. Gingerhair was holding forth, both vigorously
and loudly, on all things dental-related
"Well, in my 14 years of ortho, I don't think I've EVER seen
a tooth CRACK like that. The person must have had cracked-tooth syndrome"
"Ya know, if you scrape the GARBAGE down deep below the gum line,
there's BOUND to be BLEEDING going on... I guess you can leave the build up
or you can go ahead and REMOVE it."
His enthusiasm was admirable - I would find plaque a difficult thing to truly embrace -
but I could have done without an in-service on teeth
while I was in the middle of using my own to ENJOY FOOD.
At another table, a very handsome man and his equally lovely girlfriend
were sitting quietly, their food untouched on the plates in front of them.
Suddenly, handsome got on his cell phone and began discussing
someone's surgical procedure. "You're okay then? Okay.
Be careful driving yourself home.
"Oh, Jean's with me," handsome continued,
"She says hello and send much love."
Meanwhile, Jean was looking at herself in a small round mirror -
and if she was sending love, it wasn't to the person on the far end of the cell phone.
bs
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
coyote
Strange times, here at the house of shoes.
One day, I’m minding my own business
up in the silent, green woods, and the next
I’m ‘herd boss’ for a building full of children
and their struggling-to-stay drug free moms.
Of course, life being the ever-unfolding
story within a story that it insists upon being,
a new job (where I’m over my head in lives
torn to pieces by multi-generational addiction),
is simply not enough. So, for fun, throw
my sister into the mix – her and her second
trip down vodka-plus-vicodin boulevard.
Overwhelmed barely begins to describe
the state I find myself in today.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m ecstatic about my job.
To feel capable and deserving of any work outside
my own little world is something I’ve longed for,
and something I’ve worked hard to achieve.
And knowing my own experiences might help
other women takes the ugliest of my past
and makes it meaningful and worthwhile.
Yet, witnessing and documenting the dysfunction
of addiction is a bit like looking in a mirror – I
often dislike much of what I see.
My sister’s downward spiral weighs heavily
on me, and I can’t help seeing the many similarities
between my own family’s story and those of all
the women currently under my care.
It’s like we all fell into the same dark sea,
and while some of us know how to swim –
none of us truly recognize the shore.
I saw a trickster this morning, down near the cemetery,
all sinew and instinct and those calculating eyes.
He rose out of some tall grass as if to cross the road,
but - thinking better of it, melted out of sight.
Was he the coyote of incessant demands,
a reminder of recklessness and impulse and greed?
Or was he bringing light, stolen from the stars,
an illumination in the darkness I keep trying to outrun?
bs
One day, I’m minding my own business
up in the silent, green woods, and the next
I’m ‘herd boss’ for a building full of children
and their struggling-to-stay drug free moms.
Of course, life being the ever-unfolding
story within a story that it insists upon being,
a new job (where I’m over my head in lives
torn to pieces by multi-generational addiction),
is simply not enough. So, for fun, throw
my sister into the mix – her and her second
trip down vodka-plus-vicodin boulevard.
Overwhelmed barely begins to describe
the state I find myself in today.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m ecstatic about my job.
To feel capable and deserving of any work outside
my own little world is something I’ve longed for,
and something I’ve worked hard to achieve.
And knowing my own experiences might help
other women takes the ugliest of my past
and makes it meaningful and worthwhile.
Yet, witnessing and documenting the dysfunction
of addiction is a bit like looking in a mirror – I
often dislike much of what I see.
My sister’s downward spiral weighs heavily
on me, and I can’t help seeing the many similarities
between my own family’s story and those of all
the women currently under my care.
It’s like we all fell into the same dark sea,
and while some of us know how to swim –
none of us truly recognize the shore.
I saw a trickster this morning, down near the cemetery,
all sinew and instinct and those calculating eyes.
He rose out of some tall grass as if to cross the road,
but - thinking better of it, melted out of sight.
Was he the coyote of incessant demands,
a reminder of recklessness and impulse and greed?
Or was he bringing light, stolen from the stars,
an illumination in the darkness I keep trying to outrun?
bs
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
crazy
...Yeah, I was out of touch
But it wasn't because I didn't know enough
I just knew too much
Does that make me crazy
Does that make me crazy
Does that make me crazy
Probably....
Update:
Sister’s visit a success.
Menu included (but sadly, not limited to)
cheese enchiladas, BBQ, bacon/bleu cheese potato salad,
spinach walnut salad with grapes, sun dried tomato/avocado spring rolls
with tamarind/saffron/cashew/honey sauce and vast amounts of chili verde.
Kitchen (and intestines) still recovering.
2 of 7 days spent with brother,
where weather put a damper on the festivities.
HEAVY clouds of guilt and sorrow hanging overhead
obscured any good view of joy, and the passage of time,
mixed with distance (both measurable and immeasurable)
left my sister with a nasty stain that even the best dry cleaners
back home will not be able to get out.
Brain injury – the gift that keeps on giving.
Highlight: Covert clean-up of the toxic waste site in brother’s cupboards.
5 trash bags full of bulging, weeping canned goods, including some
Campbell’s Cream of Chicken soup with a pull date of 1984.
Other recent occurrences:
Daughter’s graduates from high school - celebration limited
to huge amounts of pumpkin pie and whipped cream,
followed by an infusion of gifts, and some money.
Much joy all around regarding the end of high school,
compounded by the simultaneous completion of 2 years
of college through “Running Start’ program.
Pride and relief and fear vying for first place in heart of Mom
as plans for more college in Seattle gather steam.
Brown Shoes gets a JOB.
A real, send out the resume, fill-out-the-paperwork job.
First such job since 1988 (selling art, designing and maintaining gardens
and tending infants do not, while challenging and exhausting, qualify
as “real jobs” apparently. Must figure out why this is so…).
Official title – case manager for women and children
in transitional living facility.
Unofficial title, given by clients – “Captain Killer” –
hmmm, must be the tattoos?
Older sister hits rock bottom, loses job and makes
dreaded 11 p.m. ‘I can’t live like this anymore’ phone call.
Hilarity ensues.
And continues.
Further information will be made available
when the telephone is surgically removed from my ear.
How I have missed writing here,
and perusing my little community,
however questionable some might find
that definition to be.
bs
But it wasn't because I didn't know enough
I just knew too much
Does that make me crazy
Does that make me crazy
Does that make me crazy
Probably....
Update:
Sister’s visit a success.
Menu included (but sadly, not limited to)
cheese enchiladas, BBQ, bacon/bleu cheese potato salad,
spinach walnut salad with grapes, sun dried tomato/avocado spring rolls
with tamarind/saffron/cashew/honey sauce and vast amounts of chili verde.
Kitchen (and intestines) still recovering.
2 of 7 days spent with brother,
where weather put a damper on the festivities.
HEAVY clouds of guilt and sorrow hanging overhead
obscured any good view of joy, and the passage of time,
mixed with distance (both measurable and immeasurable)
left my sister with a nasty stain that even the best dry cleaners
back home will not be able to get out.
Brain injury – the gift that keeps on giving.
Highlight: Covert clean-up of the toxic waste site in brother’s cupboards.
5 trash bags full of bulging, weeping canned goods, including some
Campbell’s Cream of Chicken soup with a pull date of 1984.
Other recent occurrences:
Daughter’s graduates from high school - celebration limited
to huge amounts of pumpkin pie and whipped cream,
followed by an infusion of gifts, and some money.
Much joy all around regarding the end of high school,
compounded by the simultaneous completion of 2 years
of college through “Running Start’ program.
Pride and relief and fear vying for first place in heart of Mom
as plans for more college in Seattle gather steam.
Brown Shoes gets a JOB.
A real, send out the resume, fill-out-the-paperwork job.
First such job since 1988 (selling art, designing and maintaining gardens
and tending infants do not, while challenging and exhausting, qualify
as “real jobs” apparently. Must figure out why this is so…).
Official title – case manager for women and children
in transitional living facility.
Unofficial title, given by clients – “Captain Killer” –
hmmm, must be the tattoos?
Older sister hits rock bottom, loses job and makes
dreaded 11 p.m. ‘I can’t live like this anymore’ phone call.
Hilarity ensues.
And continues.
Further information will be made available
when the telephone is surgically removed from my ear.
How I have missed writing here,
and perusing my little community,
however questionable some might find
that definition to be.
bs
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Mighty Manfred the wonder dog
Huge excitement here at Chez Shoes -
My little sister is coming for a visit!!
If you had known us growing up, my joy over her visit
would leave you confused - we have not always been close.
Back in the day, she was a 'good' girl: cheerleader, social butterfly,
our mother's favorite daughter.
And me?
I was not.
However, as is perhaps the case with many sisters and brothers,
the alchemy of death and calamity and the passing of time
changed almost everything, and we now find in one another
that ideal friend who knows your entire past and loves you anyway.
Realistic sanctuary - a true gift.
This visit, though I hesitate to even say it, will be the first
one in years that does not revolve around a hospital,
a rehab center, or the dreaded funeral home.
If we can keep it that way, this week will be a lot of fun.
Our schedule currently looks like this:
1. Make cheese enchiladas
After that - who cares.
My sister's nickname is Mani (or festus),
short for manifest destiny - which was itself a bastardization
of the original Mighty Manfred, the wonder dog - (no idea why).
One might think that would make me Tom Terrific, but such is not the case.
I too am Mani, or Clem - which is short for nothing
but has cleared us a booth more than once in the
bars and restaurants of Wyoming and Colorado.
The ferry arrives at 1 p.m. -
I cannot wait!
bs
Oh - many thanks again for all the kind wishes re
'Operation Inner Sanctum'.
I am doing well, and appreciate the good thoughts immensely.
Yikes - I am in such a good mood it's almost sickening.
My little sister is coming for a visit!!
If you had known us growing up, my joy over her visit
would leave you confused - we have not always been close.
Back in the day, she was a 'good' girl: cheerleader, social butterfly,
our mother's favorite daughter.
And me?
I was not.
However, as is perhaps the case with many sisters and brothers,
the alchemy of death and calamity and the passing of time
changed almost everything, and we now find in one another
that ideal friend who knows your entire past and loves you anyway.
Realistic sanctuary - a true gift.
This visit, though I hesitate to even say it, will be the first
one in years that does not revolve around a hospital,
a rehab center, or the dreaded funeral home.
If we can keep it that way, this week will be a lot of fun.
Our schedule currently looks like this:
1. Make cheese enchiladas
After that - who cares.
My sister's nickname is Mani (or festus),
short for manifest destiny - which was itself a bastardization
of the original Mighty Manfred, the wonder dog - (no idea why).
One might think that would make me Tom Terrific, but such is not the case.
I too am Mani, or Clem - which is short for nothing
but has cleared us a booth more than once in the
bars and restaurants of Wyoming and Colorado.
The ferry arrives at 1 p.m. -
I cannot wait!
bs
Oh - many thanks again for all the kind wishes re
'Operation Inner Sanctum'.
I am doing well, and appreciate the good thoughts immensely.
Yikes - I am in such a good mood it's almost sickening.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Unfortunately, happiness isn’t a little cake which we can cut up to suit our desires.
Up a bit late, under the spell of "All This, and Heaven Too"
(perhaps one of Bette Davis' finest performances).
As I was lying about on this too-warm evening, I realized that I have been
neglectful in not offering a single word about my early-birthday cruise.
I'll try not to bore you with too much information, but below is my assessment of the trip.
In a word: EXHAUSTING.
For a longer version - see below.
The ship is a 77,000-ton, 1,970-passenger vessel with 2 full service restaurants
and 5 other eating venues. There are 5 bars, a theater, a spa, a casino,
3 swimming pools and several hot tubs, as well as an art gallery of sorts,
a few fine jewelry and porcelain stores and both a golf and a basketball 'zone'.
There are nine (12?) stories accessible to passengers, and miles
(did I mention MILES) of deck and hallway.
My friend C is a veteran cruiser, and knew what to expect,
but my antiquated visions of lazing about poolside
while some loyal, besotted crew man hand-fed me grapes
died a hideous death after my first fifty mile trot to the bow and back.
The trip from Vancouver, B.C. back to Seattle was a lovely gesture on C's part,
and featured incredible scenery, unbelieveable people-watching opportunities
and a staggering amount of good food (anything you want/anytime you want it).
My faves?
Fresh pinneapple and cornflake-crumb encrusted French Toast ala James Beard
The crew represented over 300 countries, and every last one was
remarkably kind and friendly and cheerful. The song and dance routines were
so awful they were wonderful, and our private veranda was enchanting
but in truth, I don't think I am really cruise material.
I felt awkward being waited on 24/7, and a bit taken aback by the avarice
and the waste I saw all around me.
And I missed my stuff - the tools and materials to keep my hands and mind busy ,
since I wasn't much caught up in any of the entertainments available to me on board.
I loved talking, and sitting near the water in the sun, but I can do that at home.
I realize it may expose me as a dullard, but I must admit that my travel jones has faded.
I only want to journey if it's short and sweet and I can stay close to the ground.
I did love the train trip (Seattle to Vancouver) - it was every bit the way I remembered.
We wound along the water, and along the backside of every town we passed through,
so I had plenty of rusty, decrepit warehouses, decaying ports and hollow-eyed shanty dwellers
to keep me totally mesmerized. We also passed an eagle breeding area, where we saw
hundreds of eagles in all stages of growth. They were eating, flying, wading in the water,
resting on the rocks and generally being magnificent. Every person in our car was thrilled,
which was oddly touching - all those adults, chattering in their train seats like school children.
And that, my friends, is that.
In other news - Elliot has left the Idol, crushing my hopes for that rare,
deserving-underdog win. I have loved watching his confidence grow,
and his taste in music was refreshing. He managed to introduce Donny Hathaway
to some new listeners, which makes him a huge winner in my book.
On Invasion, it appears that that, if she lives, the ranger's wife will soon be a hybrid...
I wonder when we will get to see what happens next.
Over on the Sopranos, all things dark and ominous are hurtling toward New Jersey.
I am confused by the focus on Vito - but it's obvious that he is going to be a catalyst
for all sorts of merda to hit the fan. The threatening atmosphere of these episodes is
almost nauseating, with everybody exposing their nasty underbelly while they pretend
to love, honor and respect. The final denouement should be epic.
Speaking of epic - this post feels a bit lengthy...let's blame it on pain meds, extreme
cramping, bloating, vomiting and too much of the heating pad.
I had my surgical moment today, and so far all is just as advertised.
I don't remember much beyond getting undressed, putting on a hospital gown
and talking to D while the world spun away. When I woke up, I thought I was
in somebody's basement. I tried to sit up and and find out why I was there,
and someone called out "You're in recovery". From what, I wanted to know,
but I couldn't seem to stay awake to hear the answer.
My biggest horror - nothing from midnight Tuesday night until 1 p.m. today.
No coffee at 7 in the a. of m. No water at the crack of noon.
Nada.
But, I did get pineapple juice when fluids were again allowed.
2 fantastic little cans, beautifully chilled, with bendable straws cut short to fit.
At this point, I am just thrilled that the procedure (D/C, ablation and something else
I can't recall now) is over and I am at home in my woods where I belong.
And where I will now go attempt to sleep out from under
the strangely agitating effects of anesthesia and pain killers.
I only hope this tome does not prove to have the same effect on you.
bs
(perhaps one of Bette Davis' finest performances).
As I was lying about on this too-warm evening, I realized that I have been
neglectful in not offering a single word about my early-birthday cruise.
I'll try not to bore you with too much information, but below is my assessment of the trip.
In a word: EXHAUSTING.
For a longer version - see below.
The ship is a 77,000-ton, 1,970-passenger vessel with 2 full service restaurants
and 5 other eating venues. There are 5 bars, a theater, a spa, a casino,
3 swimming pools and several hot tubs, as well as an art gallery of sorts,
a few fine jewelry and porcelain stores and both a golf and a basketball 'zone'.
There are nine (12?) stories accessible to passengers, and miles
(did I mention MILES) of deck and hallway.
My friend C is a veteran cruiser, and knew what to expect,
but my antiquated visions of lazing about poolside
while some loyal, besotted crew man hand-fed me grapes
died a hideous death after my first fifty mile trot to the bow and back.
The trip from Vancouver, B.C. back to Seattle was a lovely gesture on C's part,
and featured incredible scenery, unbelieveable people-watching opportunities
and a staggering amount of good food (anything you want/anytime you want it).
My faves?
Fresh pinneapple and cornflake-crumb encrusted French Toast ala James Beard
The crew represented over 300 countries, and every last one was
remarkably kind and friendly and cheerful. The song and dance routines were
so awful they were wonderful, and our private veranda was enchanting
but in truth, I don't think I am really cruise material.
I felt awkward being waited on 24/7, and a bit taken aback by the avarice
and the waste I saw all around me.
And I missed my stuff - the tools and materials to keep my hands and mind busy ,
since I wasn't much caught up in any of the entertainments available to me on board.
I loved talking, and sitting near the water in the sun, but I can do that at home.
I realize it may expose me as a dullard, but I must admit that my travel jones has faded.
I only want to journey if it's short and sweet and I can stay close to the ground.
I did love the train trip (Seattle to Vancouver) - it was every bit the way I remembered.
We wound along the water, and along the backside of every town we passed through,
so I had plenty of rusty, decrepit warehouses, decaying ports and hollow-eyed shanty dwellers
to keep me totally mesmerized. We also passed an eagle breeding area, where we saw
hundreds of eagles in all stages of growth. They were eating, flying, wading in the water,
resting on the rocks and generally being magnificent. Every person in our car was thrilled,
which was oddly touching - all those adults, chattering in their train seats like school children.
And that, my friends, is that.
In other news - Elliot has left the Idol, crushing my hopes for that rare,
deserving-underdog win. I have loved watching his confidence grow,
and his taste in music was refreshing. He managed to introduce Donny Hathaway
to some new listeners, which makes him a huge winner in my book.
On Invasion, it appears that that, if she lives, the ranger's wife will soon be a hybrid...
I wonder when we will get to see what happens next.
Over on the Sopranos, all things dark and ominous are hurtling toward New Jersey.
I am confused by the focus on Vito - but it's obvious that he is going to be a catalyst
for all sorts of merda to hit the fan. The threatening atmosphere of these episodes is
almost nauseating, with everybody exposing their nasty underbelly while they pretend
to love, honor and respect. The final denouement should be epic.
Speaking of epic - this post feels a bit lengthy...let's blame it on pain meds, extreme
cramping, bloating, vomiting and too much of the heating pad.
I had my surgical moment today, and so far all is just as advertised.
I don't remember much beyond getting undressed, putting on a hospital gown
and talking to D while the world spun away. When I woke up, I thought I was
in somebody's basement. I tried to sit up and and find out why I was there,
and someone called out "You're in recovery". From what, I wanted to know,
but I couldn't seem to stay awake to hear the answer.
My biggest horror - nothing from midnight Tuesday night until 1 p.m. today.
No coffee at 7 in the a. of m. No water at the crack of noon.
Nada.
But, I did get pineapple juice when fluids were again allowed.
2 fantastic little cans, beautifully chilled, with bendable straws cut short to fit.
At this point, I am just thrilled that the procedure (D/C, ablation and something else
I can't recall now) is over and I am at home in my woods where I belong.
And where I will now go attempt to sleep out from under
the strangely agitating effects of anesthesia and pain killers.
I only hope this tome does not prove to have the same effect on you.
bs
Monday, May 15, 2006
Mother's Day
anniversary
having been the unexpected
stubborn
lump of coal
I outlasted your years of polish.
first in line to toss my handful of dirt
duly
I sang dust to dust
shaking
with relief.
now
in the free world
I find memory persists.
sometimes I see the pale stem of your arm
rising bravely through the morphine
your beautiful fingers
reaching out
for
me.
wiping sullen tears from my own daughter's face
I find it is your voice
that whispers
hush
hush.
only today
I found a box
filled with your hairpins and combs.
rising
as I lifted the lid
was the soft, familiar scent of your skin.
once
you must have
pressed against me
just because I was yours
needing to shape me
just enough
to fit
into your arms.
for Clara 1919 - 1988
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