Getting My Memories Back

When I started this blog, I described, in the About section, my confusion about the meaning of my 25 years of memories.

On Friday the 13^th of this month, my ex was lucky enough to have a heart attack in the right place at the right time. A rare syndrome known as “Stokes-Adams” occurred when he was surrounded by physical therapists and Y personnel. The doctors at the hospital had never met a survivor of Stokes-Adams. When the electrical activity of the heart suddenly stops, the victim is more likely to be at home sorting socks or watching Wheel of Fortune than surrounded by CPR experts.

Our niece and I got him through at the hospital. He is now staying with our daughter and me here.

In the hospital, it all came back to me. I love this person. Inhaling his breath. Talking about this and that.

On Saturday night, here, he brought up the topic of the incident that broke us up. He is adamant in his position and won’t change. I told him I will always love him, but he doesn’t see me, our daughter, or anyone else. Until he sees other points of view, he will be stuck.

We love each other, and our knowledge that this won’t get solved has made the thing a non-issue for our status of good friends.

I love him, but I can’t love me with him.

He is enjoying my heart-healthy cooking, and I will continue, over the phone, to help him with his eating even when our daughter and I move to NJ. We call each other “Hon” and say “I love you.” I’ve talked to our daughter. She knows I can’t be married to her dad, but she sees that we love each other and that, even if you won’t tolerate someone’s behavior, you can still love and help the person.

And the memories? I thanked him for giving their meaning back to me. We love each other and spent 25 years of living together.

All the pictures and videos are as beautiful as they seem.

 

I’m in the Monolith

Like Dave in 2001: A Space Odyssey, everything is coming at me all at once. I am being bombarded with meaning. I hope to reach the room at the end soon and post.

 

Generation Y: Too Sophisticated for Hippie Thinking

Me: When I was your age, I wanted to change the world.

My daughter: The world isn’t really that open to change.

 

Cutting Up In Class: It’s Not Just for Kids

I could have a separate blog about my dysfunctional workplace, but I try to avoid giving out too much negative attention.

So let me sum things up. My boss is technology coordinator for an organization of 150 people, but she asks me every day for help attaching files to email, what folder her scans went to, etc. I show her. I will show her a few times this coming week. She is OK with the salary that goes with her title, while I get less than half of hers to cover her butt. Fine. I know how real life works. I’m 58.

However, during committee meetings where we’re trying to actually get things done, she won’t shut up and she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. The classic attention whore.

Friday, we were attending what was supposed to be a hands-on training. My boss was the only one not following along on a laptop; she remained comfortable in the organization’s cherished pen and paper world, scribbling notes and making speeches. How is she going to learn how to do this if she doesn’t even log on? During one of her lengthier soliloquies, my friend, who was sitting next to me, got up to get some refreshments, and on her way back put a little sprig of grape branches in front of me. Since she and I have running food-type jokes, I decided to top it with my chewed gum. She whispered “Ewwww” so I put the sculpture in her empty cup.

Sharon, do you have something to add? This is very important.”

What the f**k? Are we in a 1950’s classroom? I guess I’m the bad influence parents warn about. Of all the people in our organization, Sharon has contributed the most in trying to move us technologically. She had been contributing verbally throughout the whole training. She handled our boss’s little hissy fit with an appropriate answer in a firm voice.

We all work for a non-profit, and, despite our boss’s bullying, many of us are trying, trying, trying…

The people that are doing most of the work have side conversations, varied perspectives, and, yes, light moments. We endure her pursed lips and the angry flash of her eyes when we try to interject a comment that will help the organization. Can’t you be OK with us giving you rapt attention 99% of the time?

But most are afraid of disagreeing with anything she says. And those are the ones The Queen wants surrounding her in her court.

So when the shit hits the fan, who will know what to do? The handmaids will do the only thing they know. They will all pleasantly smile at The Queen.

Then the Queen, all eyes upon her, won’t know how to clean up the shit.

And meanwhile, the ones who are getting things done need a little recess.

 

Running on $0.00-a-Gallon Gas for a Day-and-a-Half

After a pleasant New Year’s Eve, I was ready for a great 2012. Everyone was wishing me one, so I began to expect one. But then again, there was talk of that Armageddon.

On Sunday, January 1, I was eating pasta al dente. Al breaking dente. This was the tooth with the deep filling I thought was taken care of in 7^th grade, but during Thanksgiving I lost part of the filling. On Sunday, I got this weird feeling eating the penne, and felt my tooth. Part of it wiggled—a feeling you’re only supposed to have when you’re a kid. It came right out. I didn’t think it was possible for it not to have created an exposed nerve. But even though I could actually feel part of the socket, it didn’t hurt at all. I still don’t know why, but I’m not complaining. I also don’t know why the dentist was open on Monday, the legal holiday, but I’m not complaining about that, either.

On Monday, my day off, I began to wonder if everyone is scheduled to have their own private Armageddon—billions of Little Armageddons in 2012. I thought it was going to be more of a social event. But there I was dealing with my own crap–an upsetting family situation had occurred that I was trying to handle before a trip to the dentist, possibly to have my first non-wisdom tooth pulled. And my first with only local anesthesia. On the way, I got my cheap gas. This is how it happened:

I put in my debit card, but the LED was unreadable. I think the sun directly hitting it was only part of the problem. I had to proceed from memory.  Zip code. Enter. This one doesn’t ask if you want a car wash. Receipt? Yes. Press “Regular” button.

I subconsciously noted some unusual beeping and a delay, but when it all went to zeroes I pumped away until 40 something dollars. The receipt didn’t print, but f**k it. I had more important things to deal with.

I took my daughter to pick up her car. I went to the dentist and it was a pleasant, pain-free, keep-the-tooth visit with follow-ups planned.

Yesterday, something was nagging me, so I pulled up my online banking. There was no pending transaction for the fill-up.

F**k! Am I the one that less-than-feminine-looking cop posted on all the pumps is threatening? Is she going to show up any minute in that khaki uniform buttoned up to her chin and read me my rights? What about my right to read the LED screen?

I called the gas station. I was told to call this morning when the manager came in. He said, yes, we had a “drive away” on Monday. “A woman in her 50’s…”

I turned myself in this afternoon on the way to a doctor’s appointment, and a person, easily seen, debited my card. I asked if anyone else was having problems reading the LED on that pump, and she said yeah, they had two yesterday. Maybe fix it?

Also, she said, after a certain amount of seconds, it will cancel your card info, so it would default to pay inside status. That happened yesterday to someone who lost track of that little time frame because she was concentrating on her cell phone call, I was told.

It sounds like there must be a dozen or so of us on the lam every week. Women in their 50’s. People on cell phones. All running from the cop on the pump and not even realizing it. All I know is, even if I’m running late, if the receipt doesn’t print, I’m going inside and getting it.

And in a couple of months I’ll be letting the professionals pump the gas– just another perk of moving to Jersey!

 

Just what is Jamie Lee Curtis expecting…

…on the Activia video diary?

 

I’ll make a brand new start of it NEAR old New York.

In 1989, after I’d lived in the South for a month and a half, everyone sounded the same. Whether it was your first time off the mountain or you time travelled back from a Dell tech support job in 2006, you sounded generic to me, like a radio announcer from nowhere. I guess this was my way of coping when I found I couldn’t understand anybody and I had to look for a job and knowing what a bad combination that was.

Only in the last few years have I been able to pick up my native Northern accent, which has never left my voice, in others. I never lived in NY, but my father’s Brooklyn influence gives my Jersey accent a little edge.

I’ve found, after pissing a couple of people off, that it’s better to ask the person where she or he is originally from if you think you’ve found a homie. That’s because it’s never good to assume someone is from Jersey, because they might be from New York. If they then say they’re from New York and you say you’re from Jersey, that’s fine. That’s like discovering you’re cousins. But if you ask them if they’re from Jersey, that’s like if you ask if they’re your sibling from that hick family of cousins south of the Capital of the World.

And, growing up in Jersey when we did, we just accepted that secondary status. I’ll never forget the first time when, driving to work where I live now, the traffic report discussed the highway I was near. In Jersey, you simply dealt with the local roads as they unfolded before you while the radio went into detail about the backup on the Long Island Expressway. Just shut up and wait for the next song. No one cares about the fifteen car pile-up you will drive around while you hear it.

Last night after the ball dropped and Auld Lang Syne led into Frank telling me to start spreading the news, I knew I had to wait until my daughter had her diploma in her hand on January 20 to safely hand in my letter of resignation. But let me tell you, that volume was cranked and I was dancing, because I knew in a couple of months, my little town blues would be melting away. Sure, there will be many new challenges and adjustments, and I will miss a few people and the natural beauty of where I’ve tried to make my home the last 22 years, but I will not miss the social climate and mindset.

And I will know my place. I want a little land around me, and I am not sophisticated enough to be a New Yorker. I will always be scared to drive in the city, and hating that it’s hard to find a bathroom. But New York City is the most interesting place I know, and she will be only 45 minutes away.

Close enough to visit frequently, to keep our minds open, and to put good bread on the table.

 

Tonight I will spend my first New Year’s Eve with no other human.

I will be spending the evening with my greatest source of unconditional love—myself. Sure, we’ve had our ups and downs, but I’m still with me—still hanging in there—still by my side—still there when I wake up in the morning. Joining me on Unconditional Love New Year’s Rockin’ Eve will be my loyal dog, Grover. And the cats if they’re around. Sometimes I hear cats in the barn practicing conditional love, and that would very likely take preference over me throwing a few Whiskas their way with Nicki Minaj singing backup. So, on the condition that there aren’t better parties to go to, they will give me unconditional love, too.

Comfy clothes. No makeup. Eat when I want to. Remote-access (as the term applies to a person who has lived with TV hoarders all her life). Call people if I feel like it. Not needing to watch my wording and phrase things a special way. Dogs don’t need: “When you get a moment, you might want to go fetch your Christmas toy.” or “Milkbone manufactured some biscuits. Would you care for one now or prefer to wait until the ball drops?”

I’m not a misanthropic bitch, but I’ve just had too much of catering to people’s agendas in 2011…2010…2009…I think you get the pattern.

It may not be the traditional way to celebrate, but it’s good for me this year.

 

Bowling with My Daughter

For Christmas, I got my daughter a bowling ball. No coddling—the 14 pounder. It’s a gorgeous purple. It came in a box, so unlike Darren McGavin in A Christmas Story, she was really surprised as she unwrapped it.

She couldn’t wait, so the next day we were at the pro shop getting it drilled.  Forty dollars later, the correct parts of the ball were removed so that my left-hander no longer had to contort around a right-handed alley ball and wing it somehow down the lane.

Her first ball, she threw a strike.

I had considered getting her a double bowling bag and two bowling balls, since she discovered that she’s able to bowl right-handed, too. I thought of a scenario where she could pick up her spares right-handed. But since then, I had occasion to mention this to a pro bowler, who told me that in league play it isn’t permitted. You have to bowl with the same hand. Pro bowlers, she said, are allowed to change. Kind of hard to get to that point if you can’t league bowl ambidextrously, but I guess that’s the law of the lanes.

With a couple of games with her new ball under her belt, we decided to go back to our Sunday morning $5 all-you-can-bowl sessions as much as possible, only to find out that what we’d been calling Atheist Bowling had been discontinued. I guess a lot of our congregation had been sleeping in, and this is what happens. Way to go, brethren. I can’t afford $5 a game.

I found a New Year’s Day special for $2 games, with the threat on their website that their overall rates will go up on January 2. The cheaper bowling alley nearer to us has been out of business for almost a year. This affordable recreation is becoming expensive.

Will they be trying to lure us back when the weather gets nicer? Because I have bocce, and I’m not afraid to use it.

 

I May Be Questioning the American Dream

Maybe I wouldn’t be in this situation if I had worn pantyhose and a sheath skirt and climbed the corporate ladder, which seems really perverted when I think about it. I think that was supposed to be the American Dream, but I bought into the rocking the cradle so I could rule the world version. My daughter is getting motion sickness and I can’t even rule myself, so I don’t think that’s going to happen, either. Besides, the world is so unruly. Who would want that job?

Maybe if half the marriages end in divorce, either my or my husband’s marriage was destined to fail.

Maybe it was easier having the American dream when people’s schedules accommodated a good 8 hours sleep each night. And reality keeps rudely awakening us so much nowadays, too.

Maybe I should be questioning why everyone was supposed to be dreaming the same thing. How many people have dreamt what I’ve dreamt? Do you want to hear about the dream when all the telephone poles on my street had Jesuses dying on them, or the Space Oddity rip-off when I made a wrong turn driving the tractor-trailer and was heading beyond the moon?

Maybe the chickens in every pot turned into chicken in buckets with a side of biscuits that turned to chick peas in some kick-ass hummus.

Maybe we can each live some kind of dream.