Grace and Dignity

There is a phrase called "hate read" and I totally do it. There are blogs written by people with whom I vehemently disagree. I read their blogs anyway, even though the more I read, the less I respect them. Or each blog post that I read makes me want to send them a long email detailing my stance on whatever topic they wrote about. You might ask why I read if I hate. There are two answers. One is that I have a lot of downtime at work where I need to appear busy. The other is that I don't only want to read about things I relate to and people I agree with. I want to see different ways to think about things. I want to understand why people think about certain topics the way they do.

There is a blog I read written by a woman who could not be more different than me if we tried. Opposite ends of the country. She works from home, is a former drug abuser and alcoholic (personally she comes across to me as a dry drunk, but who knows if that's accurate?), grifter, etc. Anyway, her mother recently lived with her for the better part of a year, through some medical difficulties. This week, the mother moved out.

Throughout this experience, the blogger wrote about her difficulties with her mother. Including feeling like she couldn't have sex with her husband because of her mother being in the house. Which I didn't really understand since she made it clear the bedrooms are on a separate floor upstairs and the mother was living in the basement. And since the mother went places during the day while both this woman and her husband ... well he doesn't work, but they're both home during the day. They could have fucked worked it out.

The most recent blog post is about the relief felt now that the mother is out of the house. Like many (all?) of the blog posts mentioning the mother, it's painful to read how much she hated having her mother there, and equally painful to read how relieved and happy she is to have her mother finally gone. It's cruel to the mother. It's sort of cruel to all the people whose mothers have died and would put up with any inconveniences to have a bit more time with their beloved relatives.

I didn't realize this until recently, but here is what happened in my house between December 1994 and August of 1995.

1. My grandmother died unexpectedly. 
2. I spectacularly failed out of college and had to move home.
3. Golden Boy moved home after being away for four years.
4. My grandfather, devastated by my grandmother's death, moved in with our family.
5. I fell ill, with difficult symptoms that included passing out, unexplained rashes and screaming in pain, then needing to be taken for medical tests numerous times via backboard and ambulance. 
6. My father was working at a job almost two hours away from home (each way).

That's what my mother was juggling in 1995. I was stuck in my bedroom, and each night around 11pm my mother would bring me a bowl of cereal so I could take the really strong pain killer that let me sleep for a solid four hours on good nights. She would sit in the rocking chair near the foot of my bed and tell me all the things my grandfather, her father, did that annoyed her. He wanted the thermostat turned up higher, he wanted dinner to be before my father got home, he wanted to put garlic in his oatmeal for breakfast and microwave it which stunk up the house (I didn't smell it, but I never left my bedroom).

For Father's Day my parents solved the garlic problem by gifting my grandpa with garlic pills. My grandpa, despite being quite good to me, always viewed and treated my father like an evil son-in-law. I have never once heard my father say anything cruel about my grandfather. As frustrated as both my parents got with my grandfather, even while dealing with one sick kid and one boomerang kid, they never would have done what this woman does had blogs existed then.

Spinach Tortellini - Good as Eating Spinach

If you'd guessed what I'd turn out like as an adult based on how I was as a kid, you'd have never in a million years come up with Type A. Every single thing has a place, and every single thing has a well-thought out reason for that place. As a kid my room was a total and complete wreck. My idea of cleaning my room was to squish the clothes on the floor into a smaller pile and then throw an unfolded shirt over the whole thing. Wow, kids are so stupid. (What? Just me? Oh, okay.)

I was forever being sent to go clean up my room. At one point in fifth grade, my mother decided I was allergic to jelly and forced me to take plain peanut butter sandwiches on rye bread to school for lunch. I may or may not have thrown a few of those into the depths of my closet. I may or may not worn gloves and run screaming through the house to the garbage pails in the garage to throw out those sandwiches when my parents found and demanded I dispose of them.

My parents tried everything to get me to clean my room. Every time they sent me though, I just sat around reading my books or writing. They tried telling me firmly. They tried yelling. Threatening. Fining. Oh yes, my mother would charge me $2 or whatever every time she walked by my room and saw it messy. I argued this (and to this day, maintain that I had an excellent argument) but my mother would just randomly fine me. I claimed this was completely unfair as my bedroom was at the end of a hallway. It was physically impossible to stand on either side of my doorway, let alone walk PAST the door to ascertain whether my room was clean or dirty. Solid logic, right?

One day, when I was ... some older age but not yet moved out, I was cooking pasta while my mother was reading in the kitchen. She asked me to not pour boiling water over the wooden spoon used to stir, when I was pouring the pasta into the strainer. She claimed it wasn't good for the spoon. I nodded, and said I'd try to remember. I did try, and forgot sometimes, but remembered more than I forgot.

Tonight I was cooking pasta, and watched the boiling water flow into the strainer as I held the pot in my left hand, spoon in my right. Can't help but wonder if my room would have gotten cleaned if my mother had just come up with an equally logically reason for why I should do it.

Probably not...

Swallowing

Sometimes it's hard to describe something that's not tangible and that you also don't have concrete proof of.

Sometimes I'm bad at letting things go. Like after my grandpa died and we cleaned out his apartment like less than a week after the funeral, in a few hours. We just took laundry basket after laundry basket of his things out to the dumpster. Really all that was kept was pictures and I think that's it. It was too sudden for me, and there were too many people and everything was moving too fast, and even though my parents had said I should just speak up if there was something I wanted, I couldn't.

Golden Boy was able to say he wanted one specific picture that my grandparents had had on their wall in Queens, and then took with them to put on their wall in Florida. So he got it, and rolled it up and he and my dad went to buy some tubular thing to transport it across the country, and my brother was all set.

Some of the things I wanted, I couldn't figure out how I'd get across the country and couldn't afford to ship. Some of them weren't practical. Mostly though, I just was really upset at throwing out all these useful things. My grandpa had glass jar after glass jar filled with nails and screws for "just in case." My grandma always had a big stash of plastic bags - she even carried one or two in her purse (or maybe that was just when I was around because we'd go to the library and she'd let me check out more books than I could carry). So I couldn't see them having wanted their things to be thrown in the garbage.

But my father just wanted it done. He and my mom seemed to be in this outrageously huge rush to list the condo for sale. I understood that, but not why they couldn't just arrange for Goodwill or the Salvation Army to come by in a day or two to pick up all the kitchen stuff that was in perfectly good condition.

Over the last year or two I brought this up to my father several times. That we did it. That these things could have gone to a family rebuilding their lives for whatever reason. Abuse or homelessness or something. It just seemed like such a waste, and it really bothered me. I kept raising the issue with my father and he'd never quite give me a straight answer, a reason for why it was done the way it was.

In October when my parents were visiting, I raised the subject again. My father started to get angry and I interrupted him before he got going to point out that I keep bringing it up because every time I do, I don't get a straight answer. Words are said in response to my question, but they're not an actual answer. So my father answered.

I still wish those things weren't thrown out. But my father had a reason, and I can accept that, and drop the issue. I like to be able to tell people when they've done something that bothers me.

This temp job is bothering me. Today I hurt myself futzing with the fucking files, so badly that I had to stand there for a few seconds making sure I wasn't going to cry. The girl I work most closely with saw my face, and asked if I was okay. I could feel it all about to come out - how angry I am that the temp agency didn't warn me about the position involving being able to carry heavy files (in big law firms if you have to move heavy files, you can call someone in Office Services to do it for you). How frustrated I am by how bitchy the paralegals are, and unfriendly the attorneys are. How annoying it is that the possibly pregnant office manager wears patchouli daily, the most offensive smell on the planet.

I swallowed it all down, and just let the other girl know I'd hurt my elbow. She enthusiastically told me all about the time a file clip pierced her finger open and she had to get a tetanus shot, as if we were bonding over our work injuries. I swallowed down the big difference - that she has the luxury of health-insurance and worker's comp and short-term disability, whereas if I break my elbow, I'm fucked.

If I had the opportunity to tell the guy at the temp agency I was upset he didn't warn me, I'd feel better. Even though nothing about the situation now would change - I'd still have taken the position. I just like people knowing how I feel, and it really burns me up when they don't care.

Help When Needed

Recently, a girl I know from high school was complaining about being hot on Facebook. It seemed she had a window air conditioner but was too afraid it would fall out the window if she put it in herself, so she needed help.

I knew for a fact that she has a good relationship with her parents and is often at their house (not too far away from where she lives) doing laundry, sleeping over, having dinner, etc. So I asked if she could ask her dad to come by and help. If my dad lived as close to me as her dad lives to her, I'd ask for exactly that type of help. But she said she couldn't ask, as "my parents still live on Long Island, and I'm in Queens." Um, Valley Stream is like, the last town before you HIT Queens. WTF? But okay.

I felt bad for her though. Because my dad would absolutely come over to help. He's the type who, on the very first warm night in early May, would say that the following weekend he would put air-conditioners in. Now, my parents got central air before my brother and I moved out. My point is, my father would help. I felt bad for this girl that she was so scared of accidentally killing someone that she was sweating her ass off in her oven of an apartment. Because, for whatever reason, she couldn't ask her father to help. Yes, maybe her parents don't have a car (although, everyone living on Long Island has a car). Or maybe her dad only has one arm. Or a bad back.

That's just not the impression I got though. I got the impression she simply could not ask that of them - it is not one of the services they provide. Free use of washing machine? Yes. Hauling ass into Queens to lift something heavy? No.

Then, a different friend broke her foot. She needed to go to a hospital. She happened to be staying at her mother's house (also in Queens, and yes, had she not been broken I would have asked her to go help the high school friend put in her A/C because I'm too far away to do it myself). This friend told me the hospital she was planning to go to the next day. I was not pleased, and made a phone call to find names of better hospitals near her.

When I called her back with these hospitals, she got upset. She was at the mercy of her parents, and they were only willing to take her to this one crappy hospital. I was frustrated and upset. I was angry at her parents. Had my parents still been living in New York I would have asked my own father to go into Queens, fetch my friend, and take her to a good hospital. And you know what? He would totally do that. He's just that kind of person. And my mother would take her to the drugstore to fill whatever prescriptions needed filling and also buy her a lollipop.

In my family when people were so sick or injured that they were immoble, they were given a little bell to ring when they needed something. And everyone in the family checked on you. Multiple times. They brought you things to play with throughout the day and night. Sometimes they just came and kept you company. Once, when I was stuck laying on the floor, waiting for an ambulance, my brother gave me his Gameboy to use. The EMS guys arrived to put me on a body board and I was playing Tetris.

I didn't grow up with a tv in my bedroom, but the couple of times I had long illnesses, one was brought in. I have a very clear memory of waking up in the middle of the night, turning on the black and white tv my father had put on my dresser and watching a movie where Gary Coleman was an angel (strange timing, I know). You knew you were seriously sick when the tv was brought in.

We're not particularly mushy about medical problems. There's very little "Oh, you POOR THING! I feel SO BADLY for you!" But there is a shit-ton of practical help, with a big dose of realistic reassurance. So there's no "You'll be FINE, don't worry!" but there is a lot of "We can deal with whatever the new reality is, because we will research the shit out of it and find the best people to help."

When my friend got angry at me for suggesting alternate hospitals she could ask to be taken to, I was hurt, confused, angry and frustrated. In thinking about it, I realized that she felt frustrated too. Because not only did her trip not turn out the way she'd planned it in her head, but because she couldn't take care of herself, and she's fiercely independent.

I don't care that my friend lashed out at me in anger. I'm angry at her parents though. She didn't get dropped off in front of the emergency room doors. She wasn't made comfortable. One of her parents didn't even ask how everything went when she left the hospital.

Of course everyone is different and has different experiences. But sometimes it takes seeing how people deal with things to realize how huge the differences are. Hearing about my these friends experiences with their parents makes me that much more grateful that my parents could be counted on to help. I hope that I am the kind of person others can count on to help.

Just Proving My Point

A while ago it was my mom's birthday. That night, after I called to wish her a happy birthday, I called Golden Boy to remind him to do the same, figuring he might have forgotten since he's been working crazy hours lately.

He laughed and told me, "In true Golden Boy fashion I already called her this morning."

Of course you did.

My Hand Was Eaten By a Giant Snake and I Was Waiting For the Reattachment Surgery

What? That sounds like a hell of a better reason than "I can't think of anything good to sayyyyyyyyy." 

In a nutshell, my life still sucks, but I'm tired of bitching about it, thus leaving me little to talk about.

Did I tell you I went to Mexico for the wedding of Golden Boy and Crazy Girl at the end of April? No? Well. Hi, I went to Mex ... yeah. So anyway.  My mother knew I was some sort of special type of moron way back in elementary school, and she went through different phases regarding it.  Sometimes she tried to pretend I was just like all the other kids, but other times she admitted I couldn't run with the bulls and did things like fussing at the administration to make me foreign language exempt from middle school, on through high school.  

Now, I don't know if my lack of taking Spanish is why I am completely unable to say anything with a proper accent, but I doubt it, since all the French words I know courtesy of years of ballet also come out of my mouth without an accent.  

This means that gracias always sounded like grassy-ass when I said it.  The frustrating thing was that I'd hear it come out of my mouth that way, hear that it was wrong, and still not be able to say it with the correct pronunciation.  Thus, the little foreign language I know, I never used.  You would cringe to hear me say croissant.  Except that I never say it because I'm embarrassed at how it sounds coming out of my mouth. 

I was very worried that the Mexicans I would encounter would sneer at me and make me feel like shit for my shitty attempts at Spanish, and for reverting back to English after the greeting portion of conversations had been completed.  My brother reassured me numerous times that this would not happen.  That Puerto Vallarta is a resort area, that they want you to have fun and be comfortable.  That they all speak English, and if they don't, someone who does will always be close by (this was true also).  

The Golden Boy does not lie.  Everyone was so warm there.  Even the cab driver who fucked me over did it nicely (it was my mistake - I'd been warned to always ask a cab driver how much the ride would cost before getting in the cab, and I didn't think to do that, figuring it would cost the same amount to get back to the hotel as it had cost to get where I was leaving from).  

I pushed myself really hard to always speak in Spanish if I knew the words for what I was trying to say.  They must be used to that in a tourist town, and by the second day I had gotten pretty good at using a combination of Spanish, English and pantomime to get concepts across.  By the third day my grassy-ass had become a real gracias and all of a sudden the accent I could never wrap my tongue around had materialized.  

Which may account for why two weeks ago, when I found myself lost in the Mission and running late, I didn't hesitate to walk up to three men manning a garage sale, greet them and then ask where the street I needed was, all in Spanish.  They answered me in English, which to be honest, is good, since I would not have understood "You're very close, just two or three more blocks that way," in Spanish.  

As my friend and I walked on she said to me in amazement, "I didn't know you speak Spanish."  I smiled.  "I don't." 

No Midgets Involved (Though They Are Welcome)

Brandy put the call out to ask questions of people, and I answered. So, in the particular order they were asked, here are her questions and my answers.

1. Both of your parents recently friended you on facebook. Did you accept their friend requests, and would you rather give up facebook or twitter? (And yes, I know that's really two questions disguised as one, but let's not quibble about numbers).

After a careful review was done, their request was sent to the board, the board discussed it at their semi-tri-annual conference, a vote was taken, and the friend requests of both parents were accepted. My mother always told me as a child that she hoped we would be friends once I became an adult. Now all her hopes and dreams have come true. Or whatever.

If I had to give up one, I'd give up Twitter. I agree - quibbling about numbers is so bourgeois - let's quibble about letters instead.

2. Who are your role models?

I've never really been into the concept of role models or idols. There have been famous people whose careers I've enjoyed following, but there's something about it that strikes me as unhealthy. Both for the admirer and s/he who is being admired.

Having babbled about all that, the answer to your question that you'd like more is, my friends. They all have different things about them that I admire and strive to emulate. One friend told me once that she doesn't like drama in her relationships, and over the years I have seen her sidestep drama when it's come up. She is very direct in her dealings with people. This impresses me. Another friend once said what I consider the most brilliant statement of the 2000's, which is that people are not all good, or all bad. It's such a simple thing, but very important to keep in mind. Nobody is perfect. Expecting perfection from people sets you up to be disappointed. Someone can disappoint you and still be a good friend; they're just human.

3. Would you rather have to chew a sandwich left on the counter of a public bathroom, or gum you found under a seat on a bus?

This is a tough one. Gum found under the seat of a bus was probably only touched by one person, thus rendering it cleaner than a sandwich touched by a bathroom counter which was (hopefully) touched by many. My first instinct was to say I'd go for the sandwich, thinking I could just chew on the middle of it where it didn't touch public bathroom counters, but the gum would probably be cleaner.

4. What do you think your blog readers would be most surprised to learn about you?

I'm not sure. Maybe that despite how critical I am of how others dress, I tend to dress like a slob? Hard to say really, since I've written for a few years now.

5. If you could have any job in the world, what would you like to do and what would be your salary?

When I was a toddler, I wanted to be a bakery. Not a baker, but a bakery. Luckily I got over that before embarrassing myself even worse than I did on a daily basis in elementary school. As a child I once told my mother I wanted to open an "in-between store" which would be a clothing store for kids who were in-between two different sizes of clothing.

You know what? My ideal job would let me do a different job each day of the work week. I'd love to run a school for kids with learning disabilities. I'd love to be a liaison between doctors and patients, stepping in to explain to patients and their families about what's going on after the doctor delivers his/her rushed speech, holding hands of patients who are getting spinal taps, etc. I'd love to be a professional problem-solver in business settings. Also, I'm excellent at decorating and designing spaces, and would love to walk around a person's house and help them move furniture and knock down a couple of walls to maximize space and things like that.

A cool quarter of a million dollars each year would be fine with me.

Whoa

1. Both my parents friended me on Facebook.
2. I went to a tea party today for the first time in my life. I do not drink tea.
3. Sometimes I feel like I have no friends and am completely alone while other days I am overwhelmed by how much people reach out to me.
4. The other night while walking home I ran into the owner of a small business here in SF that I used to frequent when I had money. It's a nail salon, and as the owner locked up for the evening I asked how business was doing. The answer given was surprising. The owner told me that although he had to let a few people go, business was still maintaining. That since it was only $40 or $50, people are still making appointments. That it's important to continue to pamper yourself. Um, if business is so good, why did you lay people off?

Where Are You?

I could add to this, or I could just let it all spill out here. Since I haven't blogged in a while, we'll go with here. Here's where I am.

For the first time this year, on Thursday and Friday I worked. That'll get it's own blog post, because it was just that juicy. I'll just say now that I hate the way the firm is run, but if they had any job openings I'd apply faster than you can say "lawsuit" because there are no coins in my can to shake as people walk by.

My lease ends in July. Looking online, I saw that my apartment complex is advertising apartments just like mine for $500 less than I pay. On Friday evening, 9am told me commuting to San Mateo isn't working out for him, and he's moving out by March 1st. Each month I barely scrape together my rent of $1700 (oh yeah, that's right). So there's no way I can afford to pay both my rent AND his rent come March 1st.

You want to tell me to break my lease, and just move out now, I know. But I can't afford to move. To hire movers. And despite having more friends here than I did in Florida and New York, I don't have friends who would help me move. Just people who are friendly enough to say, "Wow, yeah moving sucks, good luck!" I can't afford a security deposit - the one I gave here was only for $99 because they were running a special. Plus, what landlord would rent to someone who has no income?

What about unemployment? Well, that runs out in about 11 weeks. Unless Obama's stimulus thing is going to stimulate unemployment benefits within the next two and a half months.

So as of March 1, I can't afford to live here. But I can't afford to move. I have nowhere to go. Oh wait. Except. Except that Friday night (I know, it's quite the exciting life) while on the phone with my parents, they said I am welcome to move in with them. In Florida. Land of Humidity.

You may see how desperate things are that I am considering this (no offense, Mom & Dad). I had a lot of questions. How would things work? How much rent would I have to pay you? Would you be treating me like your child or like a roommate who you just happen to know very well? How long do you intend for this to be? My parents had no answers. My father suggested I write out all my questions and e-mail them so he and my mother can discuss and present a united front.

I love living in San Francisco. As much as I complain about it, I love it. I've made better friends here than I've ever had in my life. I love that I went from not really "getting" why gay people were gay at all, to getting all teary when talking about why gay rights are so important. I love the Farmer's Market, even though I haven't gone in over a year. I love that (extremely) slowly, the bus lines are coming together for me. I love that I'm almost ready to buy clothing in a used clothing store. I love living in a city where you can meet up with a friend, go hiking, and come out of the woods to find yourself overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

And I don't care - I'd give it all up in a heartbeat. Really, I'd walk away from it and go South. I can always move back here later. I could deal with frizzy hair again, rain every afternoon, being surrounded by capri pants, and living in Jeb Bush Land.

Could I deal with being stranded in a house with my mother in the suburbs all day, every day? Could I deal with being asked where I'm going by my mother every time I get up from a chair? Could I deal with having to be present for my parent's fighting?

Yes. I do. Because I'd have to. What I'm not sure I could deal with is living there and having just as hard a time trying to get a job there as I'm having here. That is my biggest hesitation in saying I'm moving back to Florida. Sure, I wouldn't be paying $1700 in rent. I'll have stopped going as far into debt as fast as I am now.

I am severely depressed right now. My room is a wreck. Right now, on my bed there are two messenger bags, a towel, a sweater, a makeup case, a copy of a timesheet, a scarf, and me. There's a huge mess of papers and magazines on the floor that I can't seem to sort through. There's a stack of books to be donated to the library on the floor. I am having trouble eating. Not just because I have become permanently nauseous as of a few months ago. But I keep getting paralyzed by indecision and can't plan which meals to eat when in order to keep food from going bad. The battery on my watch died. I'm wearing it anyway, because I feel naked without a watch.

I flit around my apartment unable to tackle any one issue, overwhelmed by how many there are. I need someone to swoop in and fix it all, but there is noone. I have nobody. Each day last week I meant to go to the library. I never went. Why? Couldn't say.

Meanwhile everyone around me keeps moving forward. Planning and going on vacations. Buying new gadgets, new clothes, new whatevers. "What do you mean, you've never been to Tahoe?" they ask me. "Well where do you go for vacation?" I go to New York for open heart surgery, or Florida for a 90th birthday party for a man who will die three months later.

So I sit, looking out my window at the rain, waiting for somebody to tell me what to do, since apparently I can't make any good decisions, as all of mine have gotten me to this point.