One of Those Nights

I love nights like this.  Quiet nights.  After questionable days.  Nights like this are when I find solace in the dark.  Nights like this, I sit in the lone Adirondack chair on the back porch and I look up at the sky.  Most nights at Holly Heights, I can look up at the sky and see the stars.  I love the nights when I see stars.  I see the constellations.  I can see the blur of the Milky Way.  I can see the dark space, in between.   I love the nights when I can see the stars.  But those nights are common.  The nights when the stars hide behind a blanket of clouds are rare here.  The nights that there is no moon, and I can put my face into the Bodega breeze and can look up at an open, hazy ceiling are the nights I’ve come to cherish. 

As much as I love the stars and the bright night sky, I love these nights because they are a relief.  They are a relief from having to look up and question what is out there; what will come next.  Cloudy nights make you realize that you don’t have to have a clear vision.   You don’t have to have a plan.  Cool evenings remind you that not everything is a hot issue.  These nights come to make sure you remember the value of clarity.  At the same time, they make sure you appreciate that, sometimes, life is ambiguous. 

Nights like this, I don’t have to worry about finding my place.  Nights like this, I don’t have to worry about solving the tomorrow’s problems.  Nights like this, I don’t have to worry about what’s next.  Nights like tonight, I only have to worry about what is mine:   My child.  My home.  My relationships.  My actions.  My life.  And on nights like this, when I am protected by a cloudy night sky and greeted by the welcoming Pacific wind, I am alright with everything that is mine. 

Nothing Ever Happens...

I read this book to Radley almost every night before bed.  His choice.  But I love it.  He may be a little young to understand the meaning, but with little people, it's all about repetition.  Let's be honest, it's all about repitition with big people as well.  Nothing Ever Happens at the South Pole is a great reminder to "pay attention to your surroudings", as my dad would say.  Also, this penguin very relatable.  I usually feel like that when I write, too. 

 

Nothing Ever Happens at the South Pole

By:  Stan & Jan Berenstain

 

Oh, boy!  The mail! 

The mail has come!

There is mail today,

and I got some!

 

It's a book! 

A book for me!

A book to write in-

now, that's for me!

 

I cannot wait t

to start my book.

Something might happen.

All I have to do is look. 

 

 

It does not matter which

way I go.

Something is sure to happen

in all of this snow.

 

Hey!  Something Happened!

I made a snowball!  Look!

I can write that down

in my new book!

 

 

No!  That is no good-

I made a snowball.  Look.

That is not good for my new book.

 

A giant snowball would be good.

That I could write about-

Yes, I could.

A snowball that wend round and round

and smashed some baddies

to the ground. 

 

But that snow back there

was much to thin

for anything good to happen in. 

 

This snow is thick

and full of lumps.

Lumps like these

would make good jumps!

 

One, two, three, four-

this is really great!

I'll keep jumping-

five, six,  seven, eight-

 

until I've jumped

a hundred jumps

from lump to lump

on all these humps. 

 

I'll write that down.

It will say-

I jumped a hundred

jumps today!

 

No.  I jumped a hundred

jumps today

is not a good enough thing to say. 

 

It might be good

if they were jumps

on some big monsters

with lumpy humps!

 

 

Some big monsters

got in a fight

and rolled around

from day to night.

 

That is something

I would like to write.

Something like that

would be great, all right!

 

But nothing will happen

back there today.

Too many lumps

are in the way. 

 

Now here is really

something to see-

stepping-stones made

of ice for me.

 

A little step here,

a giant step there-

it may be dangerous,

but I don't care!

 

I'll put that down!

I'll write and say-

I did a dangerous thing today. 

 

 

Not bad!  Not bad! 

It is the best yet!

How much more dangerous

can you get?

 

No.  That was not

dangerous enough.

There should be something

BIG and TOUGH!

 

Something big

and something tough

might do something

BIG and ROUGH!

 

Yes, that's it!

I'll look and see

where something really

BIG might be.

 

Say!

That's a pretty big eye

looking at me!

 

Something big

will happen now

when I punch that

big thing's eye--POW!!!

 

That was no eye for me to sock. 

It was just as snail, on a hunk of rock. 

 

This place is nothing

but rocks and snails

that look like

great big eyes of whales. 

 

If a whale that big

had an eye that high

he wouldn't ever

let me get by.

 

He would open his mouth

like a giant cave

and swallow me down

like a giant wave. 

 

A thing like that

would be great to read,

but a thing like that

I do not need!!!

 

I must write SOMETHING!

It's almost night.

There is just one thing

for me to write.

 

It is the only thing

I can say...

NOTHING HAPPENED HERE TODAY. 

 

Nothing ever happens at the

South Pole-

But I will look again tomorrow, anyway! 



The Unattainable

Defeat

We have all loved someone who will never love us back.  Usually, we just graduate from High School and go on about our lives.  But, sometimes, some of us will love someone who will never love us back.  But you will love them forever.  You can’t ever really put your finger on why you love them.  You can’t rationally explain why you let your heart hurt over something so futile.  You can’t justify to your girlfriends, much less yourself, the senseless heartache.  Because we all know that love is a choice, right?  You can choose who you love.  You can choose who you don’t.  Right?  Yeah, sure.  Tell your heart that.  Or your pituitary gland.  Or whatever biological function controls irrational behavior. 

So, now, be honest.  Have you ever loved someone who was never going to love you back?  If you are still aren’t convinced that it can happen.  Let me tell you…It can.  And it is excruciating. 

First Love

Joey McIntryer.  New Kids on the Block.  Circa 1990.  I was ten.  That was the first time I realized that it was possible to be in love with someone who will never love you back.  My heart ached for Joey.  When was I going to see him?  He had to be coming to Ventura…We have a great mall.  That’s where teen pop stars hang out, right?  I went to the mall every day.  But Joey never came.  My heart was shattered.  Then, a few months later, still at the age of ten, I moved on.  I couldn’t wait for Joey forever.  Even a ten year old knows that. 

There were more fleeting loves in my life.  I was always sure they were the one I would love forever.  Johnny Depp.  Marky Mark.  Kenny Chesney.  Wow.  All those guys are still around.  But they are no longer the man I’ll love “forever.”  Unless they knocked on the door tomorrow.  Then, yes.  I would love anyone of them FOREVER.  There are some real men who have been the love of my life, too.  For the sake of privacy and in the interest of saving time, I won’t mention them all here.  But there have been a lot of men that I have loved.  They come.  They go.  They move to Guatemala with some enchanting Latin princess.  Point is, they all move on.  And so do I.  Eventually. 

Loving the unattainable

We love to love people who we can’t capture.  It gives us a sense of adventure.  We all love the thrill of the pursuit.  Then, if we are lucky enough to seize that which we desire, we often loose interest.  At best, we become complacent with what we once cherished.   Once the unattainable becomes ours for the taking, we only want more.  We want more love.  We want more passion.  We want more hot sex.  We WANT more!  More.  That’s what you get when you finally conquer your desires.  You want more fulfillment of your desires.  And that is unattainable. 

Loving a hero

Not too long ago, I had a conversation with a girlfriend about what it’s like to love a hero.  She does it.  Every day.  And it’s not easy.  But she does it. She told me:  “Angela.  They aren’t easy to love.  And you can’t stop yourself from loving them.  Even if they don’t want to be loved.   Somebody needs to love them.  Do you want to do what they do?  I know I don’t”  And I thought for a minute.  Nope.  I don’t want to do what they do.  But, also, I don’t want to love someone who will never love me back. Hero, or not.  That was what I thought, logically.  Realistically, however, I am in love with an emotional retard.   But how much longer will that be OK?  How much longer will I be able to deal with all of his baggage?  How much longer will I have to deal with being the keeper of his secrets?  How long until he will love me?  Reality says, I should have given up on him a long time ago.  But I can’t. 

Last night I had a dream.  An awful dream.  There was fire and blood and water and screaming.  I woke up curled in a ball, sobbing.  And the first thing I did was call my hero to make sure he was OK.  Because when you love a hero, your nightmares manifest your fear of reality.  You fear losing what you will never have.  He is his own entity.  He cannot love or be loved.  So, he has nothing to lose.  He is a hero.  That’s not why I love him, but that reminds me why he so hard to love.  Heroes are unattainable. 

 

AAAAGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

Inner Monologue

What does your inner monologue sound like?  Mine generally sounds like this:  AAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!   AAAAGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME???????   AAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

That’s the inside of my head.  Every day.  Let me give you a brief glimpse into my day. 

0510:  First alarm.  It’s not loud.  It’s not obnoxious.  It’s just early.  And even if I’m up, I still turn it off.  I hate it.  I HATE 5:10. 

0530:  Next alarm.  Really?  So soon? 

0547:  Two minutes after third alarm.  AAAAGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!  Ok.  I’ll get up.  I’ll go get in the shower, but I’m not making any promises for the rest of the day.  I hate 5:47.  I want to sleep until the next 5:47.  Asshole. 

0607:  Get Radley out of bed.  My very favorite part of the day.  I love it when a five year old tells me he doesn’t want to go to work. 

0618:  The sixth time I have to tell Radley to brush his teeth.  Every morning.  For the last three years. 

0628:  “RADLEY!!!  Get in the car!!!  We’re going to be late!!!”

0631:  For fuck sake!!!  This is my last pair of hose.  WHY IS THERE A RUN???????

0640:  “Radley, why aren’t you buckled in?”  “I can’t do it, mommy.”  Ok.  It’s cool you did it every day for the last two years when we AREN’T going to school. 

0654:  At school.  “Radley, Why aren’t you getting out of the car.  Radley  why aren’t you getting out of the car.  RADLEY!!!” 

0659:  Pass ITC Ingham on the way out of school.  “So, Ang, I see you won’t be on time for work again.”  You’re right, Todd.

0706:  Walk past chief with head down as he giggles “Sorry, I’m six minutes late.  Again”

0707:  Walk past Green with head down:  “Sorry, I’m six minutes late.  Again.”  Dave will say “No problem, gorgeous, here’s your coffee.”  Thank God for Dave. 

0708:  Log in. 

0716:  Finally logged in. 

0717:  IM reads : “Hey, can you tell me this person’s duty status?”

0717:  IM reads:  “I need an appointment.”

0717:  IM reads: “has my student made it up there yet?

0717:  IM reads:  “Are you going to run the 5k?”  WHAT???? NO!!!!!!  When have I ever run a 5k???????

0718:  Phone rings:  “Hey Ang.  I need an appointment for a guy who got busted for DUI over the weekend.”  Good news, I just logged in. 

0720:  IM reads:  “Do you have a memo for some crazy obscure condition that isn’t even a medical function?”  Of course I do.  Give me a minute.

0800:  Patient walks in:  “I broke my arm three days ago and I drove here 60 miles, after I passed four hospitals and six urgent care clinics.”  ……….  Uh…………….

0802:  Smoke pit.  Thank you smoke pit. 

0813:  Phone rings:  “Hi Angela.  It’s your favorite…”  Please hold. 

0814:  Phone rings:  “Can you please connect me with TRICARE?”  No.  They are a walk in service center only. 

0815:  IM reads:  “So, what was that duty status?” 

0821:  Forwarding health records, until there’s a shadow over my shoulder…Shadow says “Ms. Angela, do you have the number for…?”  Sure.  I’ll get it out of global.  I see your outlook isn’t working. 

0830:  To myself “Is it too early for smoke pit again?”  Yes.  Forward more records.

0909:  Smoke pit again.  Thank you smoke pit. 

0915-1059:  More of the same.

1106:  To lunch or not to lunch.  No, it’ll be quiet.  I’ll stay for lunch. 

1107:  Oh look, a crisis.  I should have gone to lunch.

1148:  Smoke pit.  Thank you.  Again.

1158:  IM reads:  “WHERE IS MY MEMO??????”

1159:  Email: Fwd:  MEMO.

1200:  Forward health records.

1259:  Email:  “Please block my 02AUG”

1301:  Email:  “Yessir.  02AUG blocked.”

1320:  “I think I have chlamydia.”  Excellent.  This is new.  Well at least newer.   “Sure, let’s get you an appointment for that.  Also…Don’t have sex with anyone until after your appointment.” 

1330:  Duty picks.  Oh no.  Did I really miss 1330 smoke pit?  AAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

1334:  My uncontrollable sobbing is relieved by a kindhearted relief.  Smoke pit.  Ahhhh…..

1400:  Forward health records.  Ok.  Just do it. 

1402:  “Do you have any records for me to QA?” 

1402:  “Can you find the number to…”

1402:  “Who’s the corpsman in…”

1402::  “Where is the MUNRO at now?”

1403:  Forward health records.

1420:  There comes a point in every day when you know you won’t get anything else done.  This is my point.

1421:  Forward health records.

1422:  IM:  “Have you seen my radiology report?”

1422:  OMeffingG

1423:  Forward health records.  Unsuccessfully. 

1535:  Time to get my kid.  Fuck it. 

1537:  At the car,  I think about what I need to do tomorrow.  DAMN IT!!!

1546:  Pick Radley up at school.  “I thought daddy was coming to pick me up.”

1600:  “Mommy can we please stop at the ice cream store?”

1601:  Where is my wine?????????????????

I just can’t go any further.  Tonight anyway.  That’s why the inside of my head always sounds like this:  “AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!”  

I’m grateful for every second.  EVERY SECOND.  Because if I didn’t have a day like that, I would wonder what was wrong.  I would wonder what my purpose is.  If I didn’t have to answer to someone or explain myself to someone or account for someone, then my life would be meaningless.  I would have no inner peas. 

Weeds

Weeds

I just spent two hours pulling weeds.  They are so obnoxious.  And they are hideous.  And they are constant.  Weeds are a perpetual eye sore.  They are also a lot of work.  And as I sat there pulling weeds, just as I did last month, and the month before, I remembered a conversation I had recently.  A conversation about weeds.  My girlfriend said something to me about how weeds are nature’s purest form of adaptability.  She said that flowers wilt and die, but weeds remain, season after season, weeds are always there.  “Be a weed”, she said.  “They’re survivors.” 

Flowers

My mom has this flower garden.  It’s amazing.  It’s full of color and life.  I have no idea how she got so many different types of flowers to grow together in the same climate.  Those flowers are her life.  She does right by them every day.  She’s up at five in the morning to water and sing.  She shelters them from the weather.  She’s back out there at seven at night to water again.  She shades them.  She feeds them.  She houses them.  They are like her children.  And when one of them suffers, she cries.  Her flowers are beautiful and they thrive.  My mom always says about her garden, “I just give them water and love, God does the rest.”  I love that about my mom.  She gives everything she has to something, only to give the credit for her efforts to someone else.  But let’s be honest, she is right.  It is the universe who has the final say in what lives and what dies.   And flowers die.  It’s just a fact of life.  But weeds…weeds never die.  EVER. 

Dichotomy

Culturally, we have found a way to compare women to flowers.  We name our little girls things like “Rose” or “Iris” or “Lilly.”  We liken beautiful women to bright, vibrant blossoms.  But those blossoms dwindle if they aren’t adequately tended to.  Weeds, on the other hand, require no special treatment.  Weeds don’t demand lavish meals and expensive shelter.  Weeds just grow.  And when somebody pulls or tugs at them, they come back shortly after.  They are versatile.  And as much as I hate them in my garden, they serve a purpose.  They remind me to protect that which I have invested in.  They remind me that everything that is beautiful is worth fighting for.  They remind me, that adaptability is perseverance.    

I’m a Weed

As I sat defending my flowers from their mortal enemy, I looked up at the rest of my yard.   I saw the zucchini that I sowed from seed back in February that is now bigger than my child.  I looked that the grape vines that I pruned to the stump in April that, since, have taken over the entire fence line. I looked at the blackberry bushes that I couldn’t kill with bleach and fire if I wanted to.    I looked at the hydrangea that I was protecting from the weeds I was pulling.  I realized that everything I am surrounded by is strong and resilient.  Then I started thinking past the yard...Turns out that everyone I am surrounded by is the same way.  The people I love are fighters.  They have overcome adversity.  They have had to find a way to grow, despite being stifled.  They are weeds.  And so am I.  Then, I remembered that even weeds blossom, from time to time.  In that moment of clarity, I realized that even though weeds are often cursed, and at best, they are considered a pesky eye-sore, they are also survivors.  I’d rather be a weed than a flower.  Not only is the life expectancy longer, the quality of life is better when you don’t have expectations of being taken care of. 

Boobs: Revisited

Introductions

From now on, when I meet someone and I am not in the mood for bullshit, I will lie topless on a table with lubricant all over my chest.  That’s how I met my Radiologist, Dr. Lomax.  I have never actually met a radiologist before.  I’ve worked in the field for a long time. And I’ve NEVER met one.   I kind of assumed that radiologists were mythical creatures who sat in dark rooms and waited for images of the inside of the human body to pop up on the wall, then dictated their findings to into a microphone and, suddenly, three or four days later, a radiology report showed up on the fax machine.  That or they were hiding from malpractice suits.  After all, radiologists are number ONE on the list of medical specialists sued in malpractice claims.  Number one.  I’d hide from that, too.  

Anyway, I was laying there on that sterile table with my boobs hanging out when Dr. Lomax walked in.  The radiology technician had just finished shooting no less than 40 images of my breasts  when she said,” I’m going to get the doctor.”  You never want to hear that when you finish with a mammogram and an ultrasound.  What you want to hear is “Call your doctor in three days.  She’ll have the results by then.”    But because of all the anxiety, and the fact that I didn’t believe that radiologists actually existed, I didn’t bother to sit up or, for that matter, cover up.  Then he walked in.  I looked at him and he offered me his right hand.  He said “Hi Angela.  My name is Scott.  I’m one of the radiologists on staff here.  I’m just going to take a look at what we’re doing.  Is that OK?”  I didn’t even shake his hand.  I was naked from the waist up on an exam table.  All I said was “Look Doc, this has been the most excruciating month and a half in my entire life.  I just want to finish up and go back to work.”  So, he grabbed that ultrasound wand did his job.  I didn’t look at him.  I didn’t look at the monitor.  I just held my breath and prayed for it to be over.  Finally, he said, “Ok.  Look up here.  Do you see that?  It’s a cyst.  You have fibro-cystic condition.  It’s not a disease.”  Finally I breathed.  Then he said, “Two of them are what we call ‘complicated,’ because they have ruptured, but they aren’t actually complicated.  We’ll check it with an ultrasound in six months to put your mind at ease.  Or we can biopsy it right now, if it’ll make you sleep better tonight. “  I didn’t have any words.  Did a doctor, a radiologist even, just tell me how it is without even batting an eye?  No bullshit.  No pretense.  No malpractice concerns???  Huh. Is it possible this guy’s legit?

IT’S NOT CANCER!!!!!!

That’s what I was thinking as I forked over the $400 for the mammogram and the ultrasound.  But at that moment it was worth it.  And as I drove, a little too fast, back to work, that’s I’ll I could think.  I knew it wasn’t cancer.  At least, I wanted to think it wasn’t cancer.  Because I do have a family history, and that makes me high risk.  On the other hand, though, I’m young and small breasted.  I was probably OK.  But the statistics show that it does not MATTER what your age or cup size is.  We are all at risk.  Anyway, I drove back to work, finally breathing without hyperventilating.  The first stop I made was to the schoolhouse to see my besties.  I had to tell them.  And when I say I had to tell them, I had to tell everyone.  So, as I walked down the hallway, I stuck my head in every door and I screamed “IT’S NOT CANCER!!!!”  I didn’t have to yell, they were all sitting less than five feet away from me.  Everyone came out of their offices and hugged me and I started talking.  I talked about the experience.  I talked  about the pain.  I talked about the embarrassment of not having health insurance.  And the discrimination that comes with being uninsured.  And they all listened as I talked.  Because they are well insured and it was an eye opener that someone they know, love and work with doesn’t have health insurance. And I felt accomplished because I had an audience.  And I felt like a warrior. 

Broken

Then I talked to one of my nearest and dearest sisters on the other coast.  One of those women who have been with me every second of the last six weeks…no, scratch that…one of those women who have been with me every second of my whole life.  And she recently had a similar experience.  Only she was insured.  So she didn’t have to fight for a mammogram.  She didn’t have to struggle for a doctor to take her case.  She didn’t have to wait for results from her biopsy.  She got it all.  And she took it on the “good” advice from her respected health care professionals that slicing into her breast was the best treatment plan.  So, instead of terrifying a radiology tech into talking a radiologist out of his hole to explain to circumstances of a fibro-cystic condition, she was made to believe that the best possible treatment was $6,000 worth of procedures.  At the expense of her body. 

So, somebody.  Please tell me that the system isn’t broken.  Somebody tell me that the weeks of heartache and humiliation I spent only to fork out five hundred dollars, start to finish, to have a mystical image reader walk into a room and tell the truth about my condition is Ok.  On the other hand, tell me why my friend who didn’t have to pay a dime out of pocket for six thousand dollars’ worth of diagnostics had to forego a part of her BODY, her identity to get the same results.  System’s not broken though, right? 

I don’t think we’re done here

I know this isn’t a very enticing threat, but I promise you, this conversation is NOT over.  For tonight, I will take solace in a good outcome.  I will revel in the fact that I didn’t lay down for this.  I will be grateful for an honest doctor.  I might even sleep more than two hours.  But I will not forget how humbling the experience has been.  I will not forget the people who stood by me.  And I won’t forget to remind you how the system is busted.  Because inner peas requires a little spunk. 

 

Tomorrow

He’ll be here tomorrow.  In the early morning, he’ll make the tedious 22 mile trek from his house.   He’ll complain about the fact he’s missing work for this.   He’ll show up three minutes early or three minutes late.  He’ll stare at me with those dark, piercing eyes until the tension becomes too uncomfortable for one of us.  He may or may not bring coffee.  Most likely, he won’t.  I’ll make a snarky comment about his punctuality and his failure to remember the two creams and the two raw sugars.  I’ll open the door, real dramatically, like it’s an inconvenience to walk out and give him a hug.  I’ll make one of the boys call me beautiful in front of him.   I’ll walk past him four times…of which, only three times he will actually look at me.  I’ll probably stop and sit with him for a little while.  I’ll ask about work and about his kid and talk shit about mutual acquaintances.  That’ll last about three minutes.  After that, I’ll have to go do something more pressing. 

Then I’ll go back to my business, face flushed and distracted.  My girlfriends will walk by and make idle conversation to see if I’m OK, without actually asking if I’m OK.  Within the hour it will all be over.  And I’ll walk him out to the car with something for him to drop off to someone at work.  I’ll look into the trees and hug him again.  Because who knows when he'll be back.  So, I will hold him a second or two longer than I should.  Then he’ll be gone.  Again.  I’ll be somber for a while.  And I’ll wonder out loud why he won’t ever love me.  Or at least why he won’t love me out loud.  I’ll tell my bestie at lunch that he’s really deep, he’s just a loner. A line she’s heard entirely more than she would like to remember.  A line she has gotten really good at not rolling her eyes at.  Then we’ll walk back to reality and tomorrow will suddenly turn into today and I’ll go back about my life.  Until the next time I have to wait for tomorrow. 

Honesty

Real Talk

I’m an honest person.  I don’t really have anything to hide.  I say what I mean and people don’t generally question my intentions.  They may, from time to time, think I’m a bitch because my thought to word conversion isn’t really a conversion…It’s more cognitive vomit.   But I never mean harm.  If I tell a patient at work “ignoring a broken finger is a terrible treatment plan.”  It’s because I don’t want that finger to become gangrenous and fall off.  If I tell Radley that he needs to brush his teeth or else he’s going to be the smelly kid, it’s because I want to save him from some of the emotional scarring that inevitably transpires during adolescence.  If I tell a girlfriend that her man is a worthless leach, it’s because I don’t want her to suffer any unnecessary heartache.    And if anybody understands unnecessary heartache, it’s this girl. Point being that my honesty is well intended.  It’s how I show compassion.  Backwards and twisted?  Perhaps.  But, most of us were raised to believe that honesty is virtue and it’s a good virtue to possess and maintain.

Or is it?

Open Book

That’s what I call myself.  The proverbial “open book.”  Because I have no secrets.  I have no reason to lie.  I’m not covering anything.  Or at least that’s what I thought when I decided to share my experiences with others in this obscure chronicle.  But then I realized that I was starting to hold back.  I was spending more hours thinking about what was appropriate to say than I was spending writing what I had to say.  After I had committed to being honest about my emotions, to sharing my experiences, regardless of whether anyone else found value in it, I had begun to question the significance of sharing my feelings.  Or maybe more appropriately, I have started to question the response other’s would have to what I say.   I didn’t want to appear angry or pathetic or hurtful.  So, I started thinking more about what I was saying.  Then, it became harder to write.  Suddenly, I couldn’t even justify my thoughts and emotions to myself.  So, I stopped writing.  And I dismissed myself as having lost the realism and the humor that accompanies it.  Then I had to overcompensate for not being funny.  I told myself “life isn’t always funny.  You don’t always have to make a joke.”  But that’s not the truth.  The truth is that I write like I speak:  no thought to word conversion.  It just comes out.  And if I can’t just let it out, then I have nothing.  Except lies and fallacies.  And that’s not really what I do.  What I do is talk about it.  All of it.  All the time. 

Inner Peas

That’s how I find my inner peas.   I talk.  I have real talk.  I talk loud.  I talk a lot.  I TALK.  So, if I can’t talk, I feel stifled.  The other night my hippie sister and I sat at the table, indulging in yet another decadent pizza and wine, and I told her “I just don’t think I can be completely honest anymore.”  And she spit her pizza on the table and looked at me like I was from a different planet.  Finally, with a straight face, and pizza all over the table, she said “There’s enough bullshit.  Just be honest again. That’s what you do. ”  And she’s right.  Because I can’t ever feel comfortable unless I say what needs to be said.  And for me what needs to be said often comes in the form of a painfully, awkward monologue that most people wish they could erase from their memories.  It’s just talk though.  And I talk about it all.  I talk about life and love and the road less traveled.   Then when I talk, I find that the road less traveled is actually a gridlocked freeway of the emotionally indignant.  Then I talk about child rearing and (mis)adventures in parenting.  Then I talk some more.  I talk about bad days and good days.  I talk about the people who have enhanced my life and the people I wish never darkened my doorway. I talk about bad sex, and infrequently, about good sex.  Sometimes I talk about the two years I waited for some douche bag to come around so I didn’t have sex at all.  He may or may not be coming around.  As always.  I talk about everything. Sometimes,  I complain when I talk because it always makes me remember how fortunate I am.  I talk about being fortunate because I know that I am.  I talk about my shortcomings because we all have them and remembering that they are a part of us makes dealing with them easier.  I talk about the women who get me through every day.  I talk about the grass and the table because I need to remember what home means.  I talk about the cute boy with a big heart because it gives me hope for humanity.  I talk.  It’s my inner peas. 

Grow up!

Getting Older

I’ve been thinking a lot about time and age and how we sometimes fail to notice that time has aged us.  I don’t know why.  Well, actually, I could probably venture a guess or two.  It could be because I am generally the oldest person in the room at work.  Or maybe because I am always the oldest person in the room at home.  It could be because I’ve been trying to revisit my formative years a lot to figure out where Radley is at, developmentally.   It could be because on my last birthday, my 33^rd birthday, a dear friend told me “you don’t look a day over 40.”  It might even because, the other day when Radley was sick, I turned on the Science channel and watched this show called “Into the Wormhole” with Morgan Freeman and it was about how the passing of time is an illusion that humans created to help explain life’s uncertainty.  It was way too far over my head for me to make any sense out of…but between the program content  and the fact that I was watching Science channel instead of MTV, clearly makes a statement about my age.  And it probably fucked with my psyche a little, too.  So anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about getting older. 

Glory Days

Several times this week, I caught myself talking about a different time or thinking of myself in that same time.  Yesterday I asked this guy “Hey, do you know ‘such and such,’ he was stationed there in 2007.”  There was silence.  Then he said “Uh…Ang…Nobody here now was here in 2007.”  Oh right.  Because that was SIX YEARS AGO???  Sometimes, I still think it might be 2007.   Or earlier, even.   Right now, Eve 6 is playing on iTunes.  For all I know, it’s 1997.  Anyway.   Later,  I was talking to someone else about a dive bar I frequented in my early 20’s.  I told him I was an icon there.  He asked “Is that place still open?”  [serious face]  “YES IT’S STILL OPEN!!!!!”  [internal sad face] “Is it still?”  That’s when I got quiet.  It hit me.  I am NOT in my twenties anymore.  And I am no longer an icon.  My day’s purpose is no longer getting out of work on time to have beer and wings at Scobies. My weekends of BBQs and concerts and sports have been gone for years.   My strategic plans to save the world have been replaced with ambitions of keeping my child clothed, fed and housed.   AND, in the off chance I do go to a bar, I have to pay for my drinks now.   What is that about?  When did it happen? 

Knees

I’ll tell you when it happened.  It happened the morning of my 30^th birthday.  When I got out of bed and fell down because both of my knees gave out on me.  I always give my friends a hard time when they turn thirty.  Because that’s when you notice your bones ache, you realize that you should be wearing your glasses, you drink twice as much coffee to stay awake in the morning and people actually start looking younger than you do.  It starts with your knees on the morning of your 30^th birthday, and every day after that, you realize something else that makes you feel old.  Like the kid who never heard of Top Gun.  I’m sorry.  There is no excuse for that.  These kids are growing up in the technological age.  They should know Top Gun.  And Gremlins.  And The Breakfast Club.  And when they tell me they don’t know what I’m talking about, I secretly can’t wait for them to have to grow up.  And by grow up, I mean I can’t wait until their knees fail them on their 30^th birthday.  Or for the day they read Smithsonian magazine instead of Maxim.  Oh wait, never mind.  They don’t teach reading anymore. 

Growing up

Life was advertised  to be different.  When you were a child, you were taught that by the time you hit a certain age, you are grown.  You don’t have to worry about any of those awkward growing pains anymore.  You just get to do your own thing.  And you will be happy doing your own thing.  Because it’s yours…You get to make the rules.   I wish I had a buzzer from one of those old 80’s game shows to buzz right now.  Because that is wrong.  You don’t ever get to do your own thing.  You don’t ever get to be your own boss.  If you are going to be a responsible member of the community, you always have rules to follow.   You have to accept the consequences of too many late bar nights, too many squandered opportunities, and too many debts to pay.  However, you also get to enjoy the benefits of experience, knowledge, the humility that only time can teach.   I don’t know if it’s a fair tradeoff, but if you are aware, you realize that your only option is to keep growing.  Even if it hurts (your knees).  That’s where we have to find our inner peas. 

 

Humor

Laughter

When I started writing here, I was in a pretty dark place.  I really needed an outlet for my emotions, and the written word has always served as a relief for me.  This was a medium to talk myself through the crisis of the day, and even laugh at how trivial or ridiculous my “crises” are.  Ultimately, writing was supposed to be the place I went when I needed to laugh at myself, and I wanted other’s to laugh with me.  Or at me.  Whatever.  We don’t have to delve into the semantics of humor right now.   Point being, writing was therapeutic because I could always crack a smile by the end of the story.  And let’s be honest, I’m fucking hilarious.  That and things like shattered glass doors and bald tires and three feet of grass in the back yard need to be laughed at.  Because they are all a part of life.  And because life needs to be laughed at.  Essentially, this small corner of the internet was the perfect vehicle to remind me not to take everything so seriously. 

What happened to the laughter?

I laugh a lot.  I have been counseled in the workplace on several occasions about laughing too much and too loud and too often.  But usually, those counseling sessions end in laughter.  Again.  There’s all that biological data on how laughter is releases endorphins and makes you feel better and it really is the “best medicine.”  That’s not bullshit.  We all want to surround ourselves with people who make us smile, and with people who we can make smile in return.  Laughter saves us from ourselves.  It saves us from being too serious or self-involved.  Laughter saves lives.  So, what happened to mine?  And what happened to my humor?  Where did all that go?  It’s gotta be somewhere.  Because you don’t just go from being hilarious to being devoid of all humor.  You just don’t.  So, where is my laughter?  Anyone? 

“Keep your head up…It’s all going to work out.”

I love clichés.  Even though I was taught, in no less than 20 college English and Communications classes, that they have absolutely no literary or academic value, I think that they serve a purpose.  They are very reflective of reality. They wouldn’t be cliché if they weren’t.  With all of that said, I have heard every cliché for staying positive recently.  “You have to keep beating the pavement, Angela.”  “You aren’t the first person this has ever happened to.”  “If it doesn’t kill you, it’ll only make you stronger.”  And my new personal favorite:  “It’ll all be alright in the end.  If it isn’t alright, it’s not the end.”  Now, on the receiving end, I FUCKING hate cliché.  They make me want to scream profanities at the people I love so dearly who are trying vehemently to help keep me from drowning in my own self-pity.   That’s why I don’t scream at them.  Because they love me despite all of my wallowing and hopelessness.  And, truth be told, I need that.  I need people to tell me to “get back on the horse” or “you aren’t a quitter” or “if anyone can do this, you can.”  If I didn’t hear it, I might actually give up.  Or I might forget that there are people I love who need me as much as I need them.  And hearing cliché is better than hearing the despair and helplessness in the voices of the people I love the most when they have to tell me “I really don’t know what to say.”    

So, why did the chicken cross the road?

To get to the other side.  After all, the grass is greener over there.  See, that was joke and cliché all rolled into one captivatingly witty remark.  You may now marvel at my knack for the written word and my gift for restating that which has already been said.  But seriously, that’s all I’ve got right now.  It’s really bumming me out.  I’m not funny.  I don’t laugh a lot.  I just kind of sit here and think about how I’m probably a contender for most pitiful existence ever.  But that’s kinda not how I roll.  And it makes me feel really uncomfortable.  And it’s very unbecoming.  Actually, it’s pretty pathetic.  And more importantly, it’s interfering with my life as a comedic genius.  So, as my eternal quest for inner peas continues, I’m just going to do less.  Think less.  Worry less.  But I’m also going to do more.  Laugh more.  Love more.  Because as my mom likes to remind me daily “worrying won’t get you anywhere, Angela.  Usually, it’s followed up by some quote about love and laughter being our most precious gifts.    

I think I’ve exhausted the clichés for this evening.  More to follow…accompanied only by laughter.