Fish on Land

A Broad Like No Other

God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another. -- William Shakespeare

My aunt Nancy was a wild but business minded broad. She lived in Nevada in the 1950’s and the family folklore whispers that, for a time there, she owned and operated a brothel with her husband Gale. Nancy was the first daughter but the second child born to my maternal grandmother. From the time that I was old enough to stand, I don’t remember a time when she didn’t have a lit cigarette in her hand and a genuine yet mischievous smile on her face. As a child, I adored her. She was loud, could curse like a trucker and had natural boobs that rivaled Dolly Parton. Her laugh could shake the chandelier and along with her lit cigarette, she usually also had a glass with whiskey and ice in it. Each year, she hosted a huge party at her house. She brought in regulation size craps and blackjack tables and hired real dealers to run the tables. I learned to shoot dice at her parties. I also tried vodka for the first time and brought my first boyfriend at the tender age of 15 to one of these parties.

When she was a young girl, Nancy had polio in her right leg. She suffered terribly and my grandmother spent nights placing alternating scalding hot and icy cold compresses on her leg. Nancy survived the polio but her leg remained shrunken forever the size of an 8-year old leg, a reminder of that painful episode in her life. She was teased at school, at a time when girls had to wear dresses, her misshapen leg so obvious to the world. As an adult, she never wore skirts or dresses and in many ways, she remained a frightened and hurt little girl, encased in a tough and tumble woman. She lived hard and, I think, never felt entirely loved by my grandmother, who left Nancy, my uncle Ted and their father in Ohio to run off to California and follow another man that she had fallen in love with. I miss her sometimes and think of her often, she was a role model for me in many ways. She apologized rarely and when she focused on you, the whole world melted away. She was full of opinions and had her way of doing everything. My appreciation of her, unfortunately, comes too late to express to her in person, but her direct approach to life remains with me to this day. 

Sinking

Talking to Mary, you know you don't have to shout

She can hear what you're thinking like you're saying it right out loud  

--Elliott Smith, lyrics from Talking to Mary

Instead of focusing on a lovely Thanksgiving dinner that we had at home, instead of admiring the Christmas tree that we bought and decorated the day after Thanksgiving, instead of congratulating myself for starting to clear out the garage this weekend, I chose to sink. Wrapped in half bedclothes, half street clothes, and finally just carrying a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, a portable bed if you will, from bed to couch and back again. I could barely keep my eyes open and just decided to let myself drift into the boozy slumber of a depressive episode. Waking each time reminded me how utterly perfect my sleep had been and caused me to crave it even more. Asleep, I can’t be prickly with my husband or grouchy with the dog. Asleep, I hurt no one. My sweaty cheek with hair plastered to it pressed hard into the pillow. Sweet relief.

I am quite sure that depression runs in my family. I believe that my mom suffers from intense depression, suffered many years before my brother was murdered. His death gave her depression a valid and physical shape. As a child, I remember playing in the living room while she slept in the bedroom in the middle of the day because she had a headache, every day. I often trip over trying to determine if I “learned” to be depressed and that’s why I sink or if I just inherited the faulty strand that carried the cocktail. I’m better today and will probably get better as the week takes its slow turn around the bend. This is a tough time of year for so many people. I never think of myself as one of the people who has it tough. Even in sinking grief, I found compassion and salty tears for others. I don’t like to focus on what’s wrong. In my depression this weekend, I started to fear losing my husband. During a glassy eyed TV spell, I acknowledged simply that he will die before me and that when he does, I will not continue. It was a clear sentence in my head. I will not continue. It’s hard to think with that kind of clarity now, awake and functioning.

Which Way is Up?

My way of joking is to tell the truth. That's the funniest joke in the world. - Muhammad Ali

With 2 minutes of sunlight left, I walk back to the office with my late lunch, a toasted wheat, peanut butter, jelly and banana sandwich and consider that, as honest and hard-working as I believe myself to be, I always end up pissing off my managers. To be fair, I’ve had some pretty uninspiring managers and pretty much let them know it in so many words. The tricky part is: what does it say about me? An aversion to authority is textbook. I don’t like being led by people with visible human flaws. I want an ideal, an advocate, a mentor, a sophisticated leader. Managing people is not easy, over 80% of managers in industry in the U.S. have had no formal people-management training. Many times they are promoted simply by virtue of remaining in one place long enough.

I’ve learned that I’m not motivated by money or status. I don’t particularly care what my title is or what cache it carries. My main motivation, I’ve learned after over 20 years of hard work, is being recognized and acknowledged for doing great work. That’s it. That’s my boat, cart, fiddle and caboodle. I’ve gone so far as to emphasize that positive reinforcement really works with me, hinting that a casual, “job well done” thrown in my direction is priceless. I hate those decoy meetings, where you think things are going smoothly and then a torpedo surfaces and your stomach lurches as you imagine taking cover. A casually tossed, “You’ve done everything very well, but you should have handled this or that differently,” or “I know that you’re working yourself to death, but can you move the launch date up 2 weeks?” or “You need to depersonalize your interpersonal interactions.” Are you seriously joking or truly serious? Unebe-fing-lievable. I am not making this up. I am also an expert at detecting hogwash. My BS radar starts a sonar alarm and all systems lock down. At best, I will implement a 3-foot-distance-at-all-times position and never take you into my confidence again. At worst, well, you get the point. However subtle, you have taken me for granted and lost my respect. I know I sound super harsh. I take my work seriously and I expect those around me to do the same. It’s a point of pride and it’s one of my truths.

Through the Looking Glass

Ignorance more frequently begets confidence than does knowledge.  - Charles Darwin

You never know what moments in life will matter. In love, family, work, art, ethics. What fantastic memories will be lost and what terrible memories will stick. Or vice versa. What behavior or comment will be used to judge you. And of course what you process to judge others. We have so little control over what people choose to cling to and discard. I’m just realizing this now. And it’s hard to accept. I’m a perfectionist. I despise mess and clutter and irrational behavior and rules that make no sense and I’m stubborn and I usually think that I’m right. I am loyal and dedicated and hold people up to a very high standard. I am confident. I am also afraid. Afraid of being undervalued, used, ignored. I trust people with too much and when they fail I lock them out and make it clear how they have failed. This is a pattern, I see it in myself and the years of disappointment are hard to look at with a clear eye. I’m not perfect after all. 

Chapter Deux Beginning Again

There’s no accounting for absences, so instead I’m writing with fever and avoiding any explanations to cover my tracks. It’s most definitely Fall in the Bay Area and I’m loving it – for the first time EVER. I’m actually ready for the cooler weather and a departure from sunburnt grass and sweaty underarms. Is it a sign of relinquishing my Los Angeles roots that I no longer miss the year round warmth of SoCal? Every year here I have a panic freak out about keeping warm. I pile the bed with enough blankets to suffocate us and I start to pull out all my sweaters and jackets and tights and boots and wooly scarves. It’s quite funny to see my husband sleeping in, one stray foot sticking out from all the covers, his head buried in the blankets and our dog lovingly licking that bare protruding foot. Ah yes, Fall is where it’s at for me.

Happy Birthday To Me

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. - T.S. Eliot

I appreciate...

unexpectedly warm days when the sun warms my skin
my sweet spoiled dog
seeing in color
pineapple
my asthma medicine
Peet’s coffee
great timing
Netflix
surviving loss
dark chocolate
seeing the bay every day
having both a book and street education
perfect songs on my ipod for my walks
matinees
seafood
smiling at a stranger and seeing them smile back
falling asleep next to my husband
Home

Music to My Ears

My little bro is competing today in a “drum off” for a chance to win a car. He’s a phenomenal drummer, smooth and cool, full of charisma and completely non-arrogant. This competition is symbolic in a lot of ways. It means that he’s coming out of the foggy gloom and paralysis that he’s been in most of the year. It means that he wants to socialize, that he wants to play in public, and that he’s willing to take some risks and be competitive. I see it as a debut of his blooming self, the sweet boy disappearing and the handsome man emerging. He’s 19 years old and I love him like crazy. I’m so proud of him. My sister Sarah calls him “an old soul.” He’s always been an easy kid, patient and quiet, but very stubborn and focused. He has enormous potential, but he’s lazy and he knows it. He rarely gets mad or angry. He just gets very quiet.

On one of my last visits, he drove me to the airport. It was pretty eye-opening. He is a cautious and courteous driver. He doesn’t speed and he signals when he’s changing lanes. I didn’t feel anxious or afraid one bit when he was driving. He doesn’t listen to music when he drives so that he’s not distracted. So smart! He truly is an old soul. Obviously, I’m nuts about him.   

Just like me, music is his passion. Unlike me, he chose it at an early age and devoted himself to it. He’ll be playing today at 6:00 pm PST, so send him good thoughts and I’ll let you know when he wins. He’s already a champion in my book. Check him out doing a super cool drum solo while practicing on his kit.

Listen to Yourself

I’m headed for some big changes. I’m learning to trust myself. I believe that this year has been the most productive, the most painful and the most eye opening for me. I’m really evaluating everything around me. I’m tired of many situations and people and feelings that I’ve been dragging around for too long. Only time will tell if my inner voice is bat crazy or onto something.

You know when you get kind of stuck? You may not admit it to yourself. This isn’t the wake up and kind of wish you could sleep in longer kind of stuck. I’m talking about the deep inside rattling of something loose. The quiet low-level depression that follows you around. I do believe that there’s a steady and clear vision that you have for yourself above it all. You know what makes you happy, even if you only allow it or glimpse it for a few minutes a day.

Honor yourself and listen to what you need. Don’t be afraid. Leave that behind. Trust that you will be OK because you will be. You’ll be better than OK.

Life Dream

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
- Edgar Allen Poe

She climbed trees bare handed and watched the ground disappear
and captured ladybugs in her hands.
She never thought to tear off their wings,
as her fleshy and loud next door friend liked to do. 

The years scattered like an open box of toothpicks dropped
She was comfortable in the sunken seat cushions of knowledge
There were times when sadness took her
And loneliness, a damp towel, never dried.

Tea leaves revealed some past hurt
and her feet were always cold to the touch
In her dreams she is a gypsy barefoot on the warm sand
smiling into the deep sunset, alone and unafraid.

Bowling

We went bowling on Saturday night with another couple who we really like and don’t see enough. Walking into the bowling alley, it was a wave of familiarity. I spent a lot of time as a pre-teen in bowling alleys. Every Sunday night, in fact. All of us, my ever-pregnant mom and my stepdad and me and sometimes my brother James, would pile into the car and head over for 6:00-9:00 pm Blue Chip Bowling. I had a crush on the awkward restaurant cashier, whose family, I was convinced, owned the place. He was really dorky but so nice and polite. My stepdad would walk in with his 6-pack under arm, tossing the empties into the trash. He liked to drink one or two on the drive over. We’d get our shoes and choose our bowling balls and drop all our crap on the bench BEHIND the lane. I was a runt and had trouble getting enough strength behind my rolls. I studied hard all those hours sitting on the bench, watching people drink and smoke and bowl and tell crude jokes.

This last Saturday was just like that again. I walked in and felt right at home. We got our shoes and picked out balls and settled in at the sleepy corner of the place. The lane that shared our semi-circle of space consisted of a gaggle of kids between the ages of 4 – 13. There were no adults. They bowled with the bumper lane up, so that they would never have a gutter ball. They were so quiet, and they didn’t have anyone to show them how to bowl. They watched us intently. When I put my hand on the air vent, the older of the girls asked, “Is that for luck?” I said, “Yeah, it’s for luck and for when my hand feels sticky.”

As they prepared to leave, the youngest girl of the bunch, she must have been 4 years old, with pink plastic clips holding her delicate corn rows and a shy smile, ran over and hugged me. Her skinny little arms outstretched and wrapped around my seated waist. I reached down and hugged her. As she pulled back, I didn’t want to let her go. She was so pure and loving and beautiful, as she stepped away she looked embarrassed. I was overwhelmed and flattered that she chose me to run up to and hug. On our way home, I kept asking my husband, “That little girl was so sweet. She just came up and hugged me. Why do you think she hugged me?” He was taken with her too. “The little pancakey, she was sweet and her face was very pretty. She must have felt safe with you."