Category: Life

Man on the Bus

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A true story.

The man needed to take his cat to the vet. She had stopped eating and was starting to vomit. All the time. He had her in a carrier. He had a carrier for his cat, but no car for himself. His cat came first, always. So he took a bus and took his cat to the vet. Cancer, they said. Nothing we can do, they said. They did not charge him. So the man left to take his cat home. Went to the same bus stop he got off from. When the bus pulled up he slowly climbed aboard, holding his carrier more carefully than before. A cat dying of cancer needs more care. He took his seat with a sigh.  “No animals on the bus” the driver said looking up in the mirror. What do you mean no animals? But, that is how I got here, the man replied. “I don’t care. No animals on the bus.” The bus driver was louder now, glaring back at him in the reflection. “You’re holding up my schedule. Get off my bus.” But, this isn’t your bus. The man argued back. So, I’m not leaving. The bus driver, furious now, ordered everyone else off the bus and called the police. The man with the cat stayed where he was.
When the police arrived they questioned the driver. The man with the cat looked down on the interrogation from his high bus window. The police officer’s arms were folded across his chest. The bus driver was gesturing wildly. Soon, the officer climbed onto the bus and headed back to the man with the cat. “What seems to be the problem here?” he asked. No problem, the man answered. I just want to take my cat home. She’s sick. “It’s a law – no animals on the bus.” The police officer looked at the cat. You will have to arrest me because I have no other way home. Take me in handcuffs, the man replied. And that is what the officer did.

But, the story doesn’t end there. On the ride to the station the man with the cat and the cop got to talking. The officer mentioned he had a cat. The man with the cat mentioned he was bipolar and relied on the goodness of strangers to help him cope with his disease. The officer mentioned his sister was bipolar. Soon they were exchanging stories about the ups and downs of illness, human and feline. Instead of taking the man with the cat downtown he asked him where he lived. Then, he took the sick man and his sick cat home.

I am Not Who I Say I am

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I am not who I am say I am…or rather my mother isn’t who she says she is. At least not last Monday. I now know where I get IT from. Those closest to me will know exactly what I mean when I say, “I just had IT a minute ago!” or “I can’t find my…[fill in the blank]!” I am notorious for losing things despite having them in my possession moments before. I’ve mastered the ability to lose things so well it’s become an art form for me. No one is surprised to see me dig through a bag for minutes on end looking for misplaced keys; wander around the apartment looking for shoes; search cabinets and counters for lost cups of coffee. I think that’s the real reason I don’t wear a watch.

But, here’s the thing. I now know where I get it from. I always had my suspicions it was a genetic thing – handed down from matriarch to daughter. Now I have the proof. This weekend my mother came to visit. Managed to get herself here by bus without an ID. Sweet talked the bus driver in little ole Maine, I’m sure. Somehow she got herself here without having to prove who she was to anyone. Her excuse? She left her ID in “the other bag.” My words exactly. I say that all the time. I could have been standing before her and admitting the same thing. We had a little laugh over the forgotten ID, added an eye roll and an “Oh mom!” and forgot all about it. Until Sunday night when mom asked, “Now, how do I buy a ticket back?” Ummmm….Errrr…Hmm. I don’t know.

We ended up doing the old bait and switch. I have never been one to be tied down to identity. A name doesn’t mean all that much in my view of the world. So when mom became me and I became nobody it was if I had been born to play the part. I handed the ticket to the driver. I got on the bus. And someone else drove away.

To Hell With It

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If only I could be in a video game...
If only I could be in a video game...

Somehow I knew this would happen. I celebrated too early. Wished well too quick. Happiness not. I ended up being wrong. To push out my anger I turned to the tread. Not to walk. To hell with that. I turned to the tread to do what I do best; to do what I have sorely missed. I turned to the tread to run. Simply run. Screaming to ‘Paint It Black’ and angry sirsy songs and songs about Stupid Mouths I pushed my tired body and seething heart to pick up the pace and pick up my feet. I’m out of shape. I’m way out of touch with what it means to really movemovemove. It hurt. I hated. I should have had something to bite down on. Bear my teeth and draw blood. Instead I looked at a purple sticker and thought about the pain. A 12 minute mile soon became 11.5 and then 11. Still slow as molasses, but able to stick with it for three measly miles 35 minutes later.

So. So, it was only three miles but I stepped off the tread feeling vindicated, feeling somewhat stronger. I still have the hate and the hurt but the run has brought back the healing.

Coming to a Halt

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According to the time line we are almost at the end of the ride. This thing I’ve called roller coaster is finally coasting to a stop. We are nine days away from being home owners. Nine days and three steps closer to a new craziness. I’m okay with that because it’s different from the old craziness. Anything is better than the old craziness. All that is left is packing and signing. Packing and more signing. Three days and the ride comes to a halt.

According to the time line I can stop celebrating the craziness that was my landmark birthday. This thing I’ve called turning forty is finally finished. I’m now forty and a few days. Soon it will be forty and a few weeks; a few months. Old news. I celebrated with my husband hunting for house wares and making homemade brownies. I celebrated with the ladies and got to hear my favorite drum solo. I celebrated with my mom with steamed lobsters, chocolate whoopie pies and a big 4 candle. It was perfect – all of it – but now it’s time to move on.

There are other things coming to a halt in my life. Things that have run their course and run out of time. Promises made, promises broken. I should be bothered but I’m not. I’ve been here before. The path is not new. I don’t need a map. While it all makes me sad I am not surprised.

No Wine But Roses

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I didn’t get my wine last night. After working all day, stressing about the house (or lack there of), the upcoming accreditation, and going out with the girls,  wine never seemed right. I thought about it. For a second.

We got to the place and it was busy. Finding a table for four was a feat unto itself – until they made us a table right in the middle of the dance floor. Center of attention. A table that easily sat eight had half. Then we were told the table would be going away in 45 minutes…so eat fast. Great. No problem. Until they took forever to take our orders and even longer to deliver the goods. We decided it was my fanned pear salad that caused the hold up (either that or they had to make the bread for my friend’s grilled cheese sandwich).

Wine would have been impossible after dinner as well. Jostling girls in show-it-all- outfits, boisterous boys with big (beasty?) feet, loudloudloud music. When the band started I slipped away from my girls to watch my drums. A minute showcase was worth millions to me. Even thought there were two all I cared about was the talent of one. It was good to see smiles. Even better to see laughs.

Here’s the thing. Three beautiful women came out with me to celebrate a milestone in my life. We couldn’t share conversation. We couldn’t share a taste for the music. Hell, at some point, we could even share eye contact it was so crowded. But, they stuck it out for what matters to me. So, no wine but three perfect roses.

Besides Being Late, February Is…

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February is the Superbowl. February is forty. February is rock and roll and houses. February is family. February is putting the mourning behind.

For books, February is a lot of really fun reading. All of them are relatively short (as compared to last months):

  • The Cult of Personality by Annie Murphy Paul ~ in honor of National Psychology Month (nonfiction)
  • The Good Patient by Kristin Waterfield Duisberg ~ in honor of National Psychology Month (fiction)
  • Fool by Frederick G. Dillen ~ in honor of Friendship Month (TBEL)
  • The Color Purple by Alice Walker ~ in honor of Alice’s birthday
  • The Extraordinary Voyage of Pytheas the Greek by Barry Cunliffe~ in honor of Expect Success month
  • Inn at Lake Devine by Elinor Lipman ~ in honor of Massachusetts becoming a state in February (Lipman is a Massachusetts writer).
  • Bedtime for Frances by Russell Hoban ~ in honor of Russell’s February birthday

If there is time I will add:

  • Powers That Be by David Halberstam ~ in honor of Scholastic Journalism Month

And. Because I forgot to include this in the January Was post – I have read a total of 217 books since starting the project. Seven were in the month of January 2009.

Hellish Hope

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obsessiveBack in April I thought we had a house. I started thinking of knocking down walls and walling up old plaster. I started thinking about corner lots and corner cabinets. Back in April I heard the family ghosts welcoming me home. A little red house called home. I had hellish hope for a house.

Back in August I obsessed about a house. I started talking to my AnyoneWho WillListen. I started dreaming of treeshouses and tree swings; big back yards and big family cookouts. Back in August I thought I heard neighbors welcoming me home. A little white house with green shutters I obsessively called home. I had hellish hope for a house.

Back in November I held out an offering for a house. I started dreaming about 2,000 square feet of house. Big house. Lots of room house. I started planning master bedrooms and multiple bathrooms. Back in November I made deals with lenders who wanted to welcome me home. A little(big) grey house with no neighbors. I held out for the hope of a house.

Back in December I dreamed about a oldnew house. A haunting of what I dared dream of before. I started having visions of well stocked stockings hung by the fireplace; a Christmas tree with festive twinkling lights in the window; the Merrymen singing O’ Come All Ye Faithful. I wished and prayed for a golden, sunlit kitchen complete with breakfast nook and built-in cabinets. Back in December I dreamed of having a second chance at getting a first house. A little beige house with cute cape windows. My hellish hope for a house heated up. Again.

Now I am here. I dream of a house with a dragon bowl in the bathroom. I dare to dream yet again. The dream is so close to reality I am this close to nausea. I told my dearest friend I am sure to puke any day now. I don’t think I am up to all this wait and see stuff.

But, here is the thing. This is the one. I am past the little red house with the family name; beyond the white house. I have forgotten the grey house and gotten over the beige house (honestly, I have). I have moved on to a little green house on a big hill. Hellish hope yet again.

25 days and counting.

Had To

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Someone pointed out to me that I’m a sucker. She got in my face and said “a deal’s a deal.” Said I went soft on a bargain. She’s right. It’s not that I went back on my word. It’s more like I jumped the gun. False start. Penalty for pushing it. I made a promise before the ink was dry. Signing my life away before reading the fine print. Making promises I can’t keep.

I really admire people who are true to their word. Say something and mean it. Say something and follow through with it. Know what I mean? I think I admire them so much because I have trouble with that “just do it” attitude from time to time. I’ll buy gifts for people and then forget to give them. I’ll write letters to people and then forget to mail them. I’ll buy expensive goat cheese and forget to cook with it. I’d like to think I have good intentions, but if I don’t follow through it’s just as bad as not intending at all. At least that’s the way I see it.

I’d like to get back to that Just Had To – as in “Just had to send you this gift because it had you written all over it,” “just had to call you because…” “just had to say hi because I missed you.” Find that good intention and make good on it. Seriously. 

So back to that jumping the gun thing: See, so I admire those people who say what they mean and mean what they say. I really do. Those industrious, get-it-done people. I made a deal with someone, they fell short. Should I sucker up my end of the bargain because they didn’t mean it in the first place? What does it mean when a deal’s a deal yet there’s no deal in the end? Maybe they should find that Had To attitude, too.

Just had to ask. Just had to.

The Way It Should Be

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We spent forever initialing and signing until it was time to go home. All I kept thinking about were the trees. I mean, we are in the 21st century, are we not? Will we ever get to that paperless (or even less paper) society? Never mind.

When we got home it was nearly 9:30 at night and I was no mood to walk anywhere. Treadmill be damned. Training schedule be damned. I have been walking. Just not blogging about it. Nothing very exciting to say when it comes to walking, sad to say. Some days I care about mileage and I churn and burn. Other days I want to walk and read. Leisurely. Like this morning. This morning it was walk, read and drink coffee. My husband almost didn’t want to give me a cup until I reminded him, “honey. I’m walking.”

But, anyway. Back to last night. I got a phone call. And this is what I’m talking about when I say this is the way it should be. It should be this: a friend should be able to put it all into perspective without even trying. A friend knows what to say – exactly what to say – that makes it all make sense. Such is the conversation I had last night. I had residual drama on the brain. Things that were sort of bothering me in a lingering, lamentful sort of way. Not in an insomnial, oppressive, rant-on-the-way way, but still there nonetheless. Like I said, residual. Like smudges on a glass. I was eager to wipe the drama clean and when I was finished, without even trying, the conversation cleared the air. Everything took on a new perspective – the way it should be.

So I learned a lesson. Even when things seem petty and unparticular it is always best to talk them out. In the light of a brand new day and put before a brand new ear persepctives can change.

It’s All Eggs

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Eggs. The word I use to sum up “half of one kind, six of another.” Eggs. Means makes no difference to me. One way or another it doesn’t matter. It’s the answer to ‘where do you want to go for dinner’ when the craving for something obvious isn’t there. Eggs. It’s my verbal shrug.

This weekend we found two houses and in my mind they are all about the eggs. In answer to which one I like more – I would definitely say they are eggs. Penny has glitz and glamour; “pimped out” as my realtor would say. Instant hot water in the kitchen. Fireplace. Deck. Pool. Surround sound. Granite. Cathedral ceilings. His and hers in everywhere. Appletree has a clean slate and lots of potential; “vanilla” as my realtor would say. White walls. Not a drop of color anywhere. Naked rooms. Empty kitchen. But, side by side Penny and Appletree are eggs. Almost same size. Almost same style. Almost same type of neighborhood. Almost the same price. Almost the same stubborn sellers. Lots of almosts. So, one is scrambled with herb cheese and chives served with crispy bacon and the other is poached with salt and pepper served in a dainty white cup with a side of dry toast. One is bring nothing but your attitude, the other is if ya got it, flaunt it – bring it all.

We went back and forth, forth and back. Trying to decide which eggs to order. Where would our appetites take us? Have we exhausted the menu and this was all that’s left? Neither of us thought so. That wasn’t the right attitude to take. These were good eggs. Worth their weight. We want to order both. See what happens.

So we shall. Try one. Then the other. See who satisfies this house-hungry appetite.

Bird Song

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Lone dad

It has taken me some time to come to terms with her passing. Doesn’t seem right. More than doesn’t feel fair. I’ll say it yet again – cancer just isn’t fair.
They came to the island as love birds; a dating, doting couple. Binoculars and a sense of biology, they came to the island year after year to love the birds. The years gave way to marriage, kids, property, and a dog. A sense of belonging to the community became so strong the island couldn’t remember a time without them. It was as if they had always been there.
I don’t remember the first time I met her. It was that long ago. I can only remember her as I last saw her four months ago. Feisty and forcing fresh baked cookies on us, she commanded from the couch. Slipping water through a straw she surveyed the world outside her kingdom. A huge picture window afforded her a priceless view. She smiled as she watched a pheasant family creep jauntily through the high grass. Father pheasant’s neck arched and stretched searching for bugs, pecking as he went. His eyes were bright, watchful and wary. He paused as if to say I know you are there and she paused, the glass lifted halfway to her lips, as if her stillness could keep him there.

Binoculars, books and Bean gear. She was always ready for the birds. She kept a journal of the season’s best spyings. A log of feathered friends encountered throughout the seasons. As she grew sicker, too ill to hike her ornithology conquests had to be counted from the couch. Her bird’s eye view of the birds was limited to the ones who came to her big picture window. Mostly it was the pheasants. Soon she could tell us how many families were in the area. How many babies were born that year. Always the pheasants. They became her friends. That is why when I see a family of pheasants I will always think of her.

Meditation Monday

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My sister gave me a book on awareness. At this current moment the book is nowhere near me and I’m too lazy to get it. So, I won’t be telling you the title at this time. But, I’ve added it to my January list of books to read and I will be “reviewing” it in my half-azzed manner.

What got me thinking is the idea of mind over matter. December was an awful month because I let it be. My car was in the shop no less than five times. Ordinarily that wouldn’t be such a big deal. Kisa and I carpool all the time, but it sucked something out of me. A sense of independence was lost. I lost sensibility, too – trying to make plans without transportation was just plan stupid.
We “lost” three houses. Since we never really had them, technically, I’m overreacting. I’m making a big deal out of this real estate game. I’m letting my emotions get the better of me whenever the houses get away. I guess I make it emotional because it seems like we have been losing for so long.  
We lost two friends. That we did. When N died all I could focus on was 49 was too young to die. Her kids are teenagers – at that perfect age when mom just starts to become human, possibly even a friend. I couldn’t get to the point of relief that she was no longer suffering, no longer fighting a decade long battle. When T died all I could focus on was how stupid it is to be alive. Senseless and stupid. I’m angry because I’m selfish.
Death has had me mean. When someone blurted out “he’s just going to die anyway” I wanted to agree, I wanted to say, “I think you’re right” but I couldn’t . You don’t wish death on someone just because the statistics say it’s time. What is time to someone 22, 49 or 92?

December was an awful month for work, too. I vow to give reviews in November next year. To plan better. To direct better. The whining will stop. The whimpering will stop. I had a chance to talk to my boss one on one. He said the sign of a good leader is recognizing exhaustion; knowing when you are dangerously close to your breaking point and need a break. He ordered me to take the entire vacation off and do something a little less “urgent” with the time. It was the best advice someone could give me. He doesn’t need to know I didn’t refuse work from somewhere else!

So now I’ve meditated on most of what bothered me in December. Most of it was out of my control, but I let it get to me just the same. In the process I learned a valuable lesson. Let go. I didn’t send Christmas cards to people who have never sent me one. I’ve given my last gift to someone who never has the decency to say thank you. I’ve let go of superficial signs of sentiment. It’s time to pay attention to what really matters.

Just Have to Say

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So. Merry belated Christmas and all that happy hoohaw. I had one of those “nice” times. Eating lots of great food, watching one child open gift after gift after gift after gift…and did I mention the gifts? Well, you get the point. It seemed silly after a while. We left four hours later for a little while. I thought I would nap or run or something. Instead kisa made me open gifts. Knives and money – Lamson Goodnow knives and JJill gift cards. I’m not sophisticated enough for Jill, but I love their stuff just the same. I amsophisticated enough for the chef knives, though! Those, I do know how to use! Cannot. Simply, cannot wait to dice my way through some unsuspecting innocent vegetable. Funny, how I was just talking about knife skills at the staff lunch….weird. Anyway, back to the day. After trying to find graves in the snow we went back for more great food and…you guessed it…one child opening more and more gifts. Somehow she kept track of every bitty baby and barking furbie puppy. Four going on fourteen they all said.

Later still. Tried to call mom. Didn’t go all that well. Why am I the one holding the bag of guilt when I wasn’t the only one who went away? Every sentence was torturous and drawn out. Pulling answers from her mouth was worse than the proverbial teeth. Everything felt battle ready and weary. Long periods of silence on either end. Nothing to say. Nothing to make it better. Sorry I asked. Sorry I couldn’t say anything except Sorry I couldn’t be there.

Later still. Tried to find a friend. Found I was too late. Sighed and went to bed.

Too distracted to send cards this year. Each one went out as a reply instead of a greeting. Lame. I still don’t know what is causing this delayed reaction in me. I need to get over this Don’t Care attitude before 2009. Someone else claimed the new year for themselves. Yet, I say you have to share it with me. I just have to say you better.

When it Snows

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The past week has been a little on the hellish side, without the heat – if you know what I mean. Two major storms; one with weather and one in my personal life. I’ve managed to dig out from both.

Thank you to the students who were so appreciative of the extra library hours. Staying open an extra 5.5 hours for you was my pleasure. I had nowhere to go and, apparently, neither did you.

Thank you to my mother-in-law for braving the weather to see Miss Rebecca sing last night. I couldn’t have asked for a better pilot. Now that we know how parking works we should do it again.

Thank you to Rebecca for making the four hour trek to Northampton. You and your funnier than all get out father are amazing. Thank you for singing your heart out. I must insist that you stop saving ‘Hold Me’ as your last song. I couldn’t hold my camera steady thanks to the tears. I’m sure the video is going to reflect that grief. Don’t worry, I will blog about the entire thing…maybe even post a snippet of the video (depending on how shaky it is).

Thank you to my friend. I understand your absence. I missed you just the same.