Giving Thanks

Many, many, MANY years ago, when I was in college (don’t ask when, that’s none of your business), I was in a classroom on the Wednesday before the Thanksgiving weekend, eyeballing the clock, waiting for 1:30 to tick by so I could get the fuck out of there.  Traffic’s a bitch the day before Thanksgiving.  Also, there’s food to be ate and booze to be drank.  There’s no time for all of that fancy book learning the day before Thanksgiving.  One thirty came, and I put my notes in my backpack (that may be an indication of how long it’s been since college, I still wrote notes there),  Along with 30 of my classmates, I stood up and got ready to walk out the door.  That professor was still standing at the podium, though, clearly not ready to let us leave.  So, we all sat back down, one eyebrow raised, real indignant, hateful looks on our faces.  Dr. Boileau stood silent for a moment.  The discontent  grew with every tick of the second hand on the clock.  Finally, he said, “you all have somewhere to be right?”  Uh.  Clearly.  “So, what is it that you are excited for?  Seeing your friends, your family?  Eating more food than you should?  You all looking forward to going to the bar tonight when you get home?  You know that the night before Thanksgiving is the busiest bar night of the year, right?”  We may not have known that at the time, but we did know that the traffic on the beltway was only getting thicker with every question he asked.  We also knew that the longer we sat and played 20 questions, was postponing time until we could belly up to the bar with people we only got to see once a year. 

Now, let’s be clear, I really liked that guy.  I learned a lot of shit from him.  The world of academia applauded him for his contributions to social and interpersonal communication.  As all of his students did.  However, at 1:35, none of us cared to indulge him in reindeer games.  We just wanted to go.  A few people actually walked out.  But, mostly, we stayed out of respect  for the man and his position.  Finally, he said “so, tonight when you get home and you hug the people you haven’t seen in a long time, tomorrow when you sit at dinner with your families, Friday, when you stand in line at Kohl’s, to get all your holiday shopping done, and Sunday when you drive home, remember what’s important.”  Again.  Nothing.  We had nothing.  We really didn’t care.  Finally, Dr. Boileau said “Remember what the holiday is about.  It’s about giving thanks.  It’s about gratitude.  It’s about remembering why you are fortunate.”  More silence.  He said nothing else.  That took seven minutes.  The longest seven minutes of our lives.  Until we got on the beltway, and sat in all that traffic.  There was plenty of time to think about what he had said there.  As I cruised along at 3.5 MPH for 80 miles, I remember thinking “Ohhhh….this guy’s fucking good.” 

When I finally pulled into the driveway in Chesapeake, 8 hours after I had left Fairfax, normally a three hour drive, I had thought a lot about what he said.  More than I should have.  But I had an extra five hours to think about it.  I did all of the same things.  I walked in.  I hugged.  I laughed.  I went to the bar.  I stole the Peyton Manning DirecTV poster before I went home.  I mean what would a holiday be if I didn’t take home a bar memento?  (I have three Peyton Manning posters, BTW.)  Anyway, the next morning, I woke up and still couldn’t shake those words:  “…It’s about remembering why you are fortunate.”  I woke up early, before anyone else, and I went to the computer.  I composed an email to the people I was most grateful for.  There were eight.  And I told them all how much they meant to me and how they made my life better.  I felt really good about that email.  So, I made it a tradition. 

Every year at Thanksgiving, the first thing I did, was write an email to the people I was most grateful for.  The people who made me smile.  The people who gave me guidance.  The people who were always honest and helpful and inspirational.  The first year there were eight.  The next year there were eleven.  Every year, the number got bigger.  My first year back in California, there were 45.  I remember writing that email and thinking “maybe 45 is too many.”  Maybe the message looses meaning if you tell everyone you know that you are grateful for them.  I kept going, though.  And every year, there were more people I was grateful for.  Pretty awesome, right? 

Until this year, when I composed an email and I wrote down everyone I was going to sent it to.  More than 150.  Again, I thought “maybe that’s too much.”  Then I read the email and I wasn’t real comfortable with it.  It’s pretty much the same email every year.  Thank you for helping me.  Thank you for sharing yourselves with me.  Thank you for giving me perspective and direction.  Thank you for the last 15 years.  Thank you for the last five months.  Words.  Stuff.  Does it mean anything anymore?  So, I didn’t sent the email today.  Today, being the day before Thanksgiving.  The same day that I have sent the same email for more years than you will ever dare to ask me.  (it’s none of your business.) 

Again, I told you this story to tell you the next story.  Today, I was down in the warehouse.  I walked my old friend’s office.  It’s a big office.  We even joked about how big it was.  I’m gonna get him some better art work though.  It’s real sterile there.  But the office is big.  I walked in and I said “look at you and your big , fancy office.”  Embarrassed, he laughed and gave the stock response:  “well, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m a pretty big deal.”  Yep.  I’ve heard.  I smiled and sat down on his big couch, kicked my feet up and we just talked.  The last time we had talked was on Monday.  I was real pissed on Monday.  Anyone who saw me on Monday knew that I was fucking pissed.  After we got the pleasantries out of the way,  the first thing my friend asked was “are you feeling better?” 

Nope.  Well, maybe.  Kinda?  Then I laid it all out.  I told him the entire story of why I’ve been so angry.  I told him where my hostility stems from and everything I’ve done to make it all right with the universe.  Then I laughed and told him he should have closed the door before I walked in.  I laughed again.  He didn’t’ laugh.  He just said “why do you think that other people don’t want to hear your story?  Maybe you don’t always have to put on the ‘tough bitch’ show.”  EEEEGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!  I was so terrified of not being accepted, that all I could say was “I just don’t want to burn people out.” 

That’s the truth. I don’t want to burn people out.  I don’t want them to be so aggravated with my emotion that they never want to see me again.  I don’t want to be that girl who is always screaming about how life isn’t right.  Mart and I talked about a lot of other things.  We talked about children and jobs and the future.  I walked out of his office and he said “you need help taking the toner to the car?”  That’s what I was there for.  Toner.  And I yelled from the front door. “Pretty sure I’ve got it!’ And I smiled as I walked to the car.  That was fun. 

As I was driving back to from Mart’s  office, I thought about that email I was going to send today.  The email that has become tradition.  The tradition that Don Boileau originated, without even knowing he had.   I didn’t send the email.  It was too stock.  It was too generic to send to the people I love.  An email can’t say thank you for being genuine.  An email can’t say thank you for reminding me of where I need to be.  It won’t ever say thank you for making me laugh or holding me or listening to me.  Emails won’t ever say I’m sorry for cussing your existence because you recounted my inadequacies.  An email will NEVER say Thank you for making me better.  Or I love you for being you.  Or thank you for loving me.  Even though I’m a hateful bitch. 

Don Boileau made me think about what I’m grateful for.  And I’m grateful for a lot.  What are you grateful for? 

-Inner Peas

Happy Place

I’ve been thinking a lot about happiness.  A lot about it.  There’s been a lot said about happiness.  Is it a place?  Is it a destination?  A direction?  A journey?  Is happiness the manifestation of love and success?  Google “happiness.”  See what happens.  A lot happens.  A LOT.  Every scholar, philosopher, psychologist, blogger  to ever walk the planet has made a poignant statement about happiness and how to achieve it.  With all that free advice out there, you might think that we wouldn’t me the most miserable group of human beings to ever walk this planet.  Yet, still, we are culturally and socially, not to mention, individually, wretched and despondent.  And it’s a really good thing we are, because we are making mother fuckers RICH with our misery. Homebuilders.  Car manufactures.  Tobacco companies.  Distilleries.  Internet dating websites. Therapists.  Drug companies.  There is A LOT of money to be made in discontent.  All of these businesses are capitalizing on our infinite sadness.

You aren’t happy because you live in a home that isn’t yours.  Well, good news, KB Homes is there to give you cookie cutter house that you can call your very own.  That way you can raise your children in a neighborhood where everything is the same, and if, by chance, your children aren’t the same, they will develop feelings of inadequacy.  You don’t like that you’re driving an eight year old beater?  That’s good.  There are an endless number of banks who would love to put you behind the wheel of a car you can’t afford.  But you’ll look damn good in it.  Probably, even, your colleagues will secretly envy your new luxury ride.  If that won’t make you happy, I don’t know what will.  Until you lose your job or someone in your family gets sick, and the car you couldn’t afford in the first place gets hauled off by the repo man.  Maybe he’ll even come at work.  That way, your once envious co-worker will see you publicly shamed by your misfortune and marginal decision making techniques. 

So, now your bummed out because your “perfect” neighborhood has permanently scarred your children and your new Audi is on the impound lot.  You’re a little stressed about your job and your ailing parents.  Don’t worry, Five o’clock will be here soon enough.  You can go home, light up a Marlboro menthol and pour a 7 and 7.  And that will make you happier.  A nicotine calm and a Seagram’s buzz makes you feel better.  Not a lot, but enough to dull the ache of unhappiness.  I personally have never understood menthol cigarettes or distilled liquors.  I’m a gold pack girl myself, but to each their own.  Anyway.  You’re sitting there slurping up your gin and juice and you realize that you’re pretty lonely.  So, you cruise over to match.com and fill out a profile.  It would be nice to have some companionship.  And an orgasm.  But orgasms come with reality, they come with fantasy.  So, instead of honestly answering the questions your virtual match maker is asking you, you dig real deep to find the most appealing half-truths about yourself.  You write that shit down and shell out $150 for your new image.

Then, when desirable potential mates start paying attention, from their mothers’ basements, you know you’ve found it.  HAPPINESS!!!!  All for a hundred and fifty bucks.  Then shit get’s real.  You’ve met the one.  You know who’s also happy you found your soul mate?  The restaurants.  The florists.  The jewelers.  Dating is real expensive.  But it makes us happy.  So we do it.  Until you catch the he or she of your dreams collecting your toenail clippings.  Well, that didn’t turn out as well as we had all hoped, huh?  On the bright side, your sister sees an amazing therapist, who has promised to heal your emotional suffering in no less than 12-15 months.  For a nominal fee.  Of $125 a week.  After everything you’ve been through, that’s kind of a bargain. 

A year and a half of intensive therapy.  You walk out of your shrink’s office, feeling accomplished.  You made it.  You’ve found yourself, you’ve made right with all the demons of your past, and you start to smile.  Walking to your car, you are overcome with emotion.  Wait.  What is this?  You just spent half a year’s income to not feel anything anymore, and now, suddenly, you are feeling something?   Oh jesus.  This isn’t good.  You let the emotion go for a little while.  Because you don’t really know what the emotion is.  But you are definitely feeling something.  Now that you are done with therapy, you don’t have anyone to tell you how to feel about that emotion.  You left therapy though.  You got tools there.  You can figure this out.  You just can’t figure it out though.  So, you call your doctor and make an appointment.  As any good patient would, you show up 20 minutes early, only to sit there in silence for another fifty minutes.  Fifty minutes you sit there in silence, questioning not only this emotion, but also your emotional stability.  When you get in to see your doc, you look at him and you say “I just don’t understand this feeling.  It’s making me really uncomfortable.  I’d really like to not feel this anymore.”  He looks at you, concerned, and offers you a solution for feeling, on a prescription pad.  Hopeless, you take the prescription to CVS and have it filled.  GlaxoSmithKline thanks you for your emotion.  Likely, it wasn’t even sadness, but  you just forked out $200 to cure your depression.  Now, you are committed to paying $200 a month for it.  Forever.  Those drugs don’t make you happy, they make you numb.  But when all the other emotion is too much to handle, numb seems to be the best option. 

I know that was a lot to get here, but this is my point:  if we aren’t happy, we feel as though we must be doing something wrong.  I’m starting to question all of this talk about happiness.  I think that maybe we have disillusioned ourselves with this idea that we can all be happy.  We just need to work really hard for it.  Or travel the right road.  Or make the right decisions.  Or have the right car or neighborhood or partner.  Those things will certainly make us happy.   It’s like we feel that happiness is an entitlement.  And if it’s not there, then we have failed. 

I had this friend once.  A woman so smart and beautiful, you would have thought she was a child of sun.  She always would say “Angela, you can’t rely on other people to make you happy.  The only person who can make you happy is you.”  But my dear friend had never known happiness in her entire life.  And one day, while we were talking about her most recent relationship disaster.  I held her in my arms and I said “Karen.  The only person who can make you happy is you.”  She looked at me like I had just cut her.  We never spoke after that.  I guess in theory, we all know that we are solely responsible for our own happiness.   However, being able to put that knowledge into practice is hardest thing we will ever have to do. 

-Inner Peas

Weight

“Introspection will kill us all.  I swear it.” –Jessica Katelyn Clark

Awakening

The other day, I wrote some explicitly angry and hurtful things.  Don’t look for them now, they’re gone.  Essentially, though, I lost my shit on the internet.  That’s not very becoming of anyone.  It’s particularly embarrassing for me.  I have made a very conscious effort not to point fingers at other people.  The whole point of this writing is to find solace in my life; to make sense of uncertainty.  Even the most novice philosophy students understand that perpetuating anger and bad feelings is the antithesis of spiritual tranquility.  I would like to say that I have genuine remorse targeting individuals in my profanity laden diatribe about the permanent state of volatility that is my employment status.  I’m not though.  I’m really not.  While the internet isn’t the appropriate venue for airing all of your grievances, I got some pretty insightful feedback from that post.  Two people who have never made any qualms about loving me for who I am, or maybe, even, despite of who I am, responded with words that were very awakening. 

Train Wreck

My dear friend, of almost half of my life, made a comment about how I’m an “emotional train wreck.”  Bravo, Sir.  You’ve known that longer than almost anyone else.  I would never take offense to someone saying that about me.  I reinforce it all the time.  But my friend elaborated on those words in a way most others wouldn’t think to.  He said “I already knew that about you, so from now on I’m going to call it passionate intellect.”  I like that.  Passionate intellect.  Makes me sound like some sort of emotional scholar.  I’m putting it on my business cards.  When I get business cards.  Or have a business.  Anyway, my friend said a lot of things, and mind you, this is the only man who has ever heard me scream profanities in his face, aside from my last husband, so he clearly knows me well enough to know what buttons to push.  I hate that about him.  On the other hand, I love that he loves me enough to know when my buttons need pushing.  That’s not a sexual innuendo, by the way. 

Anyway, he said some things about moving mountains and networking and how my heart makes me crazy because my brain gets in the way.  Or maybe it was the other way around.  Regardless, he said a lot of shit that I would only expect Karl to say.  Probably a lot of shit that he would only expect me to appreciate.  Then he said “I pray for anyone who tries to get in your way.”  Most people would laugh at that.  I cried.  I guess that’s further proof my emotional pileup at the train depot.

Stability

When Karl was done recounting the state of my mental and emotional well being, my little, hippie sister immediately countered.  Let it be known that this young woman has more experience and wisdom than her 22 years could ever reflect.  Sometimes she says shit that leaves me without words; digging through every possible resource I can find to understand how she is so consciously aware at an age, when so many of her peers are not even conscious.  She isn’t just an old soul.  She is a brilliant woman.  I always marvel at her awareness.  So, Jessica said “because you are emotional, doesn’t make you a train wreck.  It makes you expressive.”  Clearly, she’s an artist.  Not many people outside the realm of occupational creativity recognize the fine line between “crazy” and “fucking over it.”  Also, as an aside, I recently learned that “crazy” is a label that we like to place on things we don’t understand or want to try to understand.  I’ve been watching Dexter.  By the way, how come nobody told me about that guy?  Awesome.  Anyway, I have never been afraid of crazy.  I have never been afraid of being crazy.  I don’t see it as a hindrance.  I see it more as a way to channel emotion.   Some people eat.  Some people drink.  Some people watch video games.  I just act crazy.  That makes most people think very carefully about their next move with me.  Not Jessica though.  Jess knows me.  So instead of indulging into all of my craziness, she related to it.  She said “Forgive those who are emotionally detached.  It’s a side effect of stability.”  Her words.  Not mine.  But for the record, I had no response.  What do you say when someone is right?  About everything. 

Volatility

I didn’t respond to either one of them.  I just deleted the post, and spent the day trapped in a terrible sadness.  I got a cheese steak and a giant Dr. Pepper and thought about everything that got me to this point.  In the dark.  Because that was all I wanted to see.  The darkness.  My life is volatile.  Not just my job.  My WHOLE life.  Let’s be clear, it’s not volatile because  I’m a victim.  It’s volatile because of my choices.  I’m not blaming anyone.  I chose to stay in a job that will never respect me.  In fact, I fought very hard to be repeatedly mistreated by my employers.  I knew that was coming.  I also chose to not be married anymore.  It was an unhappy marriage, but it probably could have been salvaged for the sake of children and finances.  I didn’t choose to rescue it, though.  Instead, I chose poverty.  I chose to distance myself from my family because I was tired of never being what they wanted me to be.  I could have chosen to conform, but I didn’t.  There are very few left who love me for me.  Karl and Jessica are among the last.  They believe in me; they want to save me from me.  I love them for that.  But the truth is, I could have chosen a lot of different roads.  I didn’t.  If I had, I might not live in uncertainly, everyday.  My own free will got me here.  And it will get me where I’m going next. 

There’s something to be said for making your own choices.  There’s also something to be said for stability.  Right now, I’m not sure that it’s possible those ideas can coincide. 

-Inner Peas

Rain

You know that sound?  The sound that makes you think more than any sound you’ve ever heard.  The sound of rain outside your door?  The sound of the wind in the trees?  The sound water beating against the sand.  The sound of snow gathering on your window.  Maybe it’s simply the sound of silence.  You know that sound right?  The sound that makes your forget all the other sounds. The sound that gives you peace.  The sound that defines you…Maybe not outwardly, but the sound that, inwardly, gives you solace.  We all have that sound.  The sound takes you back to a place.  That place consumes your thoughts, your emotions.  It takes you back to a time when life was simple…A time when life had the possibility of making sense. 

For me it’s the rain.  I have so many memories in the rain.  Running home from the bus stop, because I didn’t want to get wet.  Getting splashed by boys at school in a mud puddle, like that was the worst thing that could ever happen to me.   The first time I drove in the rain, terrified because the wipers on that old Plymouth Valiant, were also circa 1963.  I had a lot of scary times in the rain.  With that old Karmann Ghia.  Cruising the coastal mountains, from Willits to Upper Lake to Fort Bragg and back again. With water coming up through the floor boards.   I was never comfortable with the rain when I was growing up.  Then I moved to Washington state.  Hahahhahaa.  Not funny.  Came back to California.  Sat in the rain.  A lot.  Moved to Alaska.  Also, not funny.  Came back to California.  Again.  To the rain on the North Coast.  Hahaha.  NO!!!  Stop it with the weather.  The first year I was back in California, it rained more than I had ever seen before.  Anywhere.  Bellingham.  Kodiak.  D.C.  All of those places combined.  Ugh….

Well, this is what I have learned from the rain:  the reason we don’t like the rain is that it gives us a chance to sit and think.  We don’t’ want to think.  We just want to be.  We want to be without doing anything.  On the other hand, the sun gives us the opportunity to do a lot more f things.  The sun demands a lot from us.  It makes us get up in the morning.  The sun makes us want to fill the daylight hours because they are precious.  The sun demands that we mow the grass and pull the weeds.  The sun gives us more chances to live with vengeance.  And that is really scary. 

Tonight, I listened to the rain pour down.  I’ve been waiting for the rain.  I’ve been waiting for a time I could just sit and listen to the skies to relieve their angst, I’ve been waiting for a time that I could cry, and have my tears muffled by the universe.  I keep waiting for the rain to stop, but just as I can’t stop crying, the rain won’t stop falling. 

-inner peas

Mommy

As I’ve mentioned before, I grew up a little different than most.  Not all, but most.  I grew up in what is now referred to as “a broken home.”  Turns out, that’s not so different.  I was raised by two hippie parents.  Also, not so different.  My hippie parents weren’t necessarily the norm for hippies, though.  Last week, I told you about my dad, the war veteran who came home from Vietnam and decided that the fringes of society were more comfortable for him than the mainstream.  My mom, the other half of the equation, was also quite different.  She grew up VERY wealthy.  Her grandparents owned A LOT of shit in the central valley in the early part of the 20^th century.  They sent their only daughter to Stanford.  She married an Army officer.  They had three daughters, my mom being the last of them.  My grandmother married a foreign diplomat, after the father of her children left her.  After my grandmother died, of breast cancer, at 40, her three daughters were sent to live in a castle in Bethesda, with the diplomat and his next new wife.  Between all of the children, there were like 12 or 15 or something like that.  A ridiculous number of children, living under one roof.  Also being raised by people who should have been sterilized before they ever had the chance to procreate.  Cromwell was a sociopath and an abuser.  Vicki was a narcissist and…Well, actually, her only character flaw was being a narcissist.    But narcissism makes you victim to everyone else’s demons, therefore, it makes you guilty of those demons, too.  At any rate,  my mom lived in very lavish surroundings for many of her formative years.  Despite living with assholes and predators. 

It should be no surprise that she left Bethesda, by way of her right thumb, before she graduated from high school.  My mom hitch hiked across country, in the early 70’s.  She found her way to her grandparents’ house in Turlock.  There she told her grandmother what had happened to her, and her sisters, in Bethesda.  There, she watched her grandmother pick up the telephone and call the lawyer.  As my mother, in her hotpants and crocheted d tank top, listened to her grandmother, the suffragette, tell the lawyer:  “Cromwell Riches gets nothing from my will.”  As my mom relives the story, that was the end of the conversation.

After that, my mom made her way up and down the coast of California.  Many times.  Mendocino.  Eureka.  Back to the Central Valley.  Santa Barbara.  Always without a home.  Always without friends.  But she went anyway.  She made her home in Isla Vista.  That was where she was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis.  That’s where she worked with the disabled.  That’s where she rode her bike to work every day.  That’s also where she met my dad, the haunted Vietnam Veteran.  They drove up the coast one weekend, and there I started.  My mom and my dad have long since gone different ways and had different opinions, about very many things.   But they both like to talk about that weekend in San Simeon.  Anyway, nine months later, a little girl appeared in their life.  Neither one of them could have seen that coming while they traversed Hearst Castle, that many months earlier.  But there I was.  The child of a Vietnam veteran and a trust fund reject. 

So, I guess it goes without saying, that things didn’t work out between them.  My parents that is.  Both with troubled pasts, both with independent thoughts.  So, when I was two, they went their separate ways.  Not without struggle, though.  I made sure of that.  After years of custody issues, I moved with my mom to Stockton.  I feel nauseous just thinking about Stockton.  But that’s where my mom met the love of her life.  That’s where my mom and Gene looked at each other and said, “uh…maybe we shouldn’t raise a child here.”  That’s where we moved to a small town nobody ever heard of before.  A lot of very important things happened to me in Nice.  I learned what family meant. I learned what friendship meant.  I learned that getting what I wanted meant going to work.  That’s also where I learned that my mom was sick.  

I would come home from school, excited to tell her about my day, and she would be in bed.  I wanted to see her at my games, but she never came.  She apologized every time.  Every.  Single.  Time.  I was actually surprised when she showed up to my high school graduation.  And we had a graduation party.  I didn’t see the effects of that party on her, because two days later, I left for boot camp.  But after I left on that plane, she spent the next week in bed, unable to move.  All because she left the house and hosted a small party in her home. 

After that, the only time I went home was when I absolutely had to.  I moved back to California a couple of years later.  When it was only a three hour drive, it was easier to cope with seeing how sick they were getting.  Then, on Mother’s day weekend, 2003, I had finally gotten comfortable with going “home” again.  That was the weekend that Gene died.  It was a Friday. I brought a bucket of chicken and everything to make enchiladas on mother’s day.  I was excited to be there.  Until my mom called me in the hotel room early on Saturday morning.  She said “I called an ambulance for Gene this morning and the hospital just called and they won’t say why I need to come.”  I knew why, though.  And as I drive to pick her up, all I heard was white noise.”   As we drove to the hospital, ;we didn’t say a word.  She knew.  I knew.  We both knew.  The man who had consumed 17 years of our life was dead.  The man who clothed  us and housed us and had protected us (many stories to tell in the future.) and knew MOPAR better than most MOPAR guys, was dead.  I walked into that hospital room with my mom, and she didn’t weep when she say his gray, bloated body.  But I did.  Then I pulled it together and called my Auntie and she was there in minutes, despite the 200 mile that separated us.  That's when

I looked at my mom, and I saw her start to die.  Not like what the disease did to her.  If it was only physical, she would have never made it to that minute.  I watched her start to die, in a manner that only a woman who has lost the love of her life, could start to die. 

I never worried about my mom’s life before that.  She had many surgeries.  She had many hard times.  She spent many days in bed.  But I never feared she would die.  Not until Gene died.  After that, I found myself spending more time with her in hospital rooms than anywhere else.  I went to college on the east coast…I flew back three times when she was in the ICU.  I moved to Alaska, the two times that I went to see her, she was very sick.  One day, my ex-husband got a call at work from her doctor.  The power was out everywhere else on the island, somehow, my MOTHER’s doctor found the number for my husband at his job.  I knew that must have been the end.  But Dr. Gierke just wanted me to know that she was OK.  And “no, don’t catch the next flight out.  We’re all dying Angela. Just not today.”  That’s what he told me when I finally talked to him. 

So, I came back to California.  I live three hours from where my mommy lives.  She’s made an incredible recovery.  I’ve been to see her many times.  More importantly, she’s been to see me and Radley many times.  She has come here, ON THE TRAIN!.  She has taken Radley to the grocery store and the zoo.  She’s in remission.  Things I never would have imagined her doing, she did.  Movies.  Animals.  Babysitting. Baking pies.  With my son!!!  She was supposed to be dead  by now.  She fought back, though. 

Tonight I got a call from her friend.  I don’t accept calls from family anymore.  Because they always have very bad news.  So, when I saw my mom’s   BFF calling, I started packing my bags.  Then I listened to the message:  “Angela, it’s Shelly.  You’re mom’s in the hospital.  Please call her.” 

My mom is supposed to be in remission.  She’s supposed to be making train reservations.  She’s supposed to be planning our Christmas dinner.  She’s supposed to be past the worst of it.   Instead, she’s lying in a hospital bed, weaker than I’ve ever heard her, telling me she needs me.  Where are my inner peas now?

Service

I am proud to tell you that I am a veteran of the United Stated Armed Forces.  I am also proud to tell you that I am the most recent veteran, in a long family history of veterans.  Because this history is so long, I will keep it to the last century.  So, briefly, my dad’s mom was an army nurse.  She met a strapping young chaplain in World War II (please reserve your laughter for later.)  Anyway, the Army nurse and the Chaplain fell deeply in love.  They produced two sons and two daughters.  First a daughter, then a son.  Then another son, then another daughter.  The first born daughter became a nurse.  The first son joined the Army.  The second son joined the Marine Corps.  The last daughter went to college and got her master’s degree in public administration, and became a social worker.  So, I guess you could say that all four offspring were public servants.  All four are veterans. 

So, two WW2 veterans, produced two Vietnam veterans.  One of those veterans was my father.  David.  When his parents returned from war, they were met with a hero’s welcome.  My grandfather completed seminary at Emory University.  After many moves and birthing many children, my grandmother was offered a medical administration job in Port Hueneme.   My uncle joined the Army, my dad couldn’t join the Army because he was color blind.  So, he walked to the next door.  The Marine Corps door.  My dad joined the Marine Corps in 1967.  After he left RCMD in San Diego, he hugged his mommy, and boarded the first flight to Honolulu.  From Honolulu, he took his sea bag, and tugged it up the ramp of a C-130, headed to Nagasaki.  From Nagasaki, he humped every possession he had to some place in the Vietnamese jungle.  Where he lived for many, many months. 

When I was little, and my dad would try to explain to me what he did in Vietnam, he would get really angry.  He would say things like ‘I had to shove the bayonet at the end of my riffle into bales of hay.  Bales of hay that honest people were trying to make a living off of.”  He would also say things like “I knew people like you in Vietnam.  I knew little girls who didn’t know the difference between war and peace.” When I was eight, that meant nothing to me.  When I was eight, Vietnam may have been a different planet.  When I was eight, the idea of a bayonet in a rice paddy was more foreign than Farsi on the menu at a Persian restaurant.  I had no idea what Vietnam meant. 

As I got older, I tried to relate to my dad’s experiences by reading books.  After I got out of the Coast Guard, I went to college, and I took classes, and I read books.  I read a lot of books about Vietnam.  One time, my dad came to visit me.  And, as an offering of peace, I said “I’ve been reading this book.  Wanna see it?”  I don’t’ remember the name of the book now.  But it was very popular and it was very poignant.  It was a compilation of essays by Vietnam vets.  And it was the only thing I had to relate to my dad’s experiences.  I was 23, and getting educated, and I wanted my dad to know that I finally understood what happened to him in South East Asia. 

I sat there and watched him read.  I waited for him to look at me and say “thank you daughter, for finally understanding.”  But he didn’t say that.  Instead, he pretended to read until I broke the silence when I asked him if he wanted to go to dinner.  He was ready.

We didn’t talk for Vietnam for many years after that.  I can understand why.  I thought I was trying to relate to his experiences, but really, what I was doing was trivializing them.  I read a book.  Maybe two.  And I wanted my dad to know that I got it.  But I could never get it.  I have never been to war.  So I DO NOT get it.  I don’t understand the idea of losing your two best friends to a senseless argument.  I don’t’ understand shrapnel in your knee.  I don’t understand a purple heart.  I don’t understand any of it. 

Since then, my dad has said a lot of things about what happened after he returned from Vietnam.  He has talked about the lonely welcoming.  He has about the hostile encounters with people who hated the war.  He talked about how he almost lost a leg, while he lay bleeding, near death, on a hospital gurney, after a motorcycle accident, because his hair cut told the story of his service.  My dad lived in a different time.  His parents were veterans, and they were revered for their service.  His daughter is a veteran, and she is, too.  I live in a time where the media demand that I am revered for my sacrifice.   But the media, conveniently, has forgotten my father’s generation.

More Vietnam veterans have died on the streets than any veterans that came before or after them.  More Vietnam veterans have suffered from addiction.  More Vietnam veterans have lived , and untreated for post traumatic stress disorder.  More than veterans from any other war, conflict, military intervention.  What does that say about that say about how we view our military men and women? 

My dad is a Vietnam veteran.  He suffers for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. After 40 years, he still can’t sleep at night.  He give sto charities.  All of them in Vietnam.  He has done humanitarian work in Southeast Asia.  He had done everything within his means to make right his indiscretions, and  make right the indiscretions of his country.  And he still can’t sleep at night. 

Thank you, Dad.  Thank you for your service.  Thank you for bearing the weight of the world’s poor decisions.  Thank you for being so wonderfully optimistic, despite the way society views you and your counterparts.  Thank you for coming home and fighting like hell to make the wrongs right.  Happy Veterans’ Day, Daddy.  

-Inner Peas

Hurt Feelings

Recently.  It’s been brought to my attention that there are some people who think that I’m a big meanie.  I’ll be honest, that’s a little surprising to me given that I spend my entire day doing things for other people.  Not just a few other people.  1,100 other people.  So many other people, that I have a hard time coming home and doing anything for myself.  Anyway, there are some people who think I’m not nice enough.  I know because somebody told me recently that my voice evokes anxiety.  I also know, because in the not too distant past, a couple people have made a very avid attempt at skirting the system, and when they were called to task about their behavior, their answers were the same:  “I feel like Angela hates me.” 

When I first heard those things, I was fucking pissed.  Not just marginally upset.  I was a lot of pissed.  I mean, come on.  I spend  my days giving hugs and sharing cupcakes and drying tears.  I’m not a dick.  I’m the proverbial mama bear.  If you can’t fix it, I will fix it for you.  If you need help, I will get it for you.  If you need to be an asshole to someone, call me, I’ll take it.  Then I’ll fix your shit, even if I don’t particularly care for the way you went about asking for help.  But really, you think that I hate you?  My voice induces anxiety?  You always get what you need from me.  That’s how it works.  Everybody knows that.  So, yeah, I was a little more than put out.

Then somebody told me “maybe you expect too much from people?”  Now this a battle I fight every day.  Because I always wonder if I’m being too hard on Radley.  I always wonder if I expect too much from him.  After all, he’s five.  He should have the benefit of enjoying his childhood without me projecting too many demands on him.  So, I thought, if it’s possible that I’m too hard on my own son, how might my expectations appear to other?  Especially since my filter is filled with gaping holes and my face shows every emotion I’ve ever felt.  It’s plausible that people may be offended by my honesty. 

That of course, led to a completely different train of thought.  I have had a lot of men tell me that they are uncomfortable  with my tone.  Not just spineless assholes.  Strong men.  Accomplished men.  Men with more backbone than most.  My ex-husband would tell me on a regular basis that he hated my accusatory tone.  Believe me when I tell you,  tone was never accusatory towards him.  It  may have been a lot of other things, but never accusatory.  Then, the second clinic supervisor I worked with would yell at me when I asked him questions.  Not because I was asking questions, but because, as he put it “I always think you’re pissed at me.”  I had a conversation with another clinic supervisor about how he felt like every time I talked to him, he felt like I was “calling him to task.”  I’m still not sure what that means, but I’m pretty sure he was trying to tell me that I’m a bitch.  Which is fine that he thinks that, but that’s never been my intention. 

These conversations made me wonder.  If so many of the people I have had very personal relationships with cannot decipher the difference between my concerned voice and my irritated voice, how is it possible that people who only vaguely know me could?  And don’t misunderstand, just because I thought about it doesn’t mean that I’m going to change it.  Just like I’m not going to change the hugs and the Kleenex and the cupcakes.  But at least, I’ve thought about it.  I’ve also thought about the people who have said those things to me or about me.  And this is what I’ve come up with: 

I am not offended that you don’t like.  You are only one on a long list of many.  I am only a little offended that you think I hate you.  After all, at the end of the day, I don’t have enough energy for hate.  If you knew me, you would know that.  I am very offended that you think I won’t do everything in my power to help you.  Because that’s what I do best.  I help others.  Even if you don’t realize I’m trying to help you, I want you to know that I want you to grow into strong, independent women who do not feel entitled because you are unhappy.  I don’t want you to find short cuts.  I want you to go out and change your own fate.  I want you to be women who can deal with discomfort and, at the same time, can revel in contentment, as well.  I want you to hold yourself accountable, and do the same for the people around you.  And, if you feel anxiety when you hear my voice, know that I feel the same when I hear yours.  However, the reason you feel it, is more likely because you aren’t living up to your potential.  The reason I feel it, is because I’m afraid that I’ll see you not living up to your potential. 

That's not judgement, that's experice.  

-Inner Peas

Mirror, Mirror

I love the interwebs.  Just when I think I’ve seen it all or heard everything, the Google always provides me with a refreshing break from the monotony.  Even if I don’t know if what I’m reading should be classified as refreshing, at least there’s always something different.  So, today, I read this blog.  I do that a lot more now, since I started my own blog.  It’s a courtesy.  Mostly because there are a lot of good ideas out there that aren’t actually “good” enough to be printed.  Anyway, I was reading this blog, “Couples & Crap” or something like that.  The title of the post was “Man Successfully Sues Wife for Ugly Children.”  Despite your first thought, it’s an interesting read.  Google it. 

Did you?  Google it?  Ok, now, after you get over the absurdity of the story, how about the content of that guy’s post?  I admire his honesty.  Essentially, he said that when he looks at a woman, he sees her physical attributes and her potential for raising his children.  I can’t argue either of those points.  Anyone who tells you that character is the first thing they notice when they’re attracted to someone is fucking lying.  Also, in the event you actually want to procreate, you should ABSOLUTELY consider the parenting potential of prospective mates.  It’s just good planning.  So, this guy is honest and he has some very relevant points.  And I can appreciate that. 

Then I read, and re-read what he was saying.  It wasn’t the lawsuit that was bothering me.  It wasn’t the fact that he admitted to being shallow and self absorbed.  It wasn’t that he said, in more words, that he was looking for a woman who would make his children beautiful and successful.  It wasn’t even his point about women “objectifying” themselves more than men ever could.  Those were all genuine statements.  Even if I don’t agree with them, I revere the honesty in the sentiment. I think the reason I couldn’t stop reading, is because I wanted to make sure I wasn’t misunderstanding the value he placed on women.  The value was beauty, which is valid, but the beauty he described was very one dimensional:  Either you’re born with it or you’re not.  And if you weren’t born with it, then you have no substance. 

Now.  Prepare yourselves.  This is a secret, so don’t tell anyone, but I’m not a natural blond.  I have a girl who does that for me.  Another secret, my face doesn’t actually maintain a summer tan all winter long.  I wear a very expensive color-correcting primer under my foundation.  Also, the shoes that I demand you compliment , have deformed my feet with calluses and ingrown nails.   AND!  And, five years ago, I weighed 250 pounds.  I hated it, so I did something about it.  (By something, I mean Weight Watchers and the treadmill.)  I perform these measures of vanity for one reason:  I want to feel better.  Not because I want to objectify myself.  I just want to smile. 

The first 30 years of my life, I was afraid to look in the mirror, because I knew that the reflection was hideous.  Even though I grew up with two hippie parents who wouldn’t acknowledge physical beauty, I lived in a society that conceded to it.  I did everything to bust the stigma.  I was a cheerleader.  I was class president.  I got good grades.  But, on many occasions, I came home from school in tears because of some hateful comment about my looks or my potential.  Those comments always came from assholes with the same perspective as the guy who wrote that commentary about the Chinese man who sued his wife for not disclosing her “ugly” history.  Men who insist that only women who are genetically gifted with beauty, are worthy of bearing their children. 

Seriously, this guy compared hemophilia and downs syndrome to ugly.  That, in itself, is ugly.  And ignorant.  You can be as honest as you want; I’ll always give you credit for your candor.  But when your honesty only reveals your shallow nature, then FUCKYOUMOTHERFUCKER.  A pretty face doesn’t amount to good parenting.  And it’s nice that you try to cover your intentions with words like “healthy” and “maternal.”  But since you’re being honest, allow me to be as well:  You mean “sexy” and “submissive”  Again, I say, FUCKYOUMOTHERFUCKER.  I’ve had the misfortune of having sex with better men than you, and I’ve lived to regret it.  But still, I’m doing way better than the chosen beauty who will grow and raise your children while you sit back and revel in your trophy wife and the gifted children she raised for you.  By the way, this woman will grow to hate you so much, it will make her physically ill to have sex with you and your children won’t ever appreciate you for more than their allowance. 

And I’m gonna keep dying my hair, too.  Because genetics gave me gray at 25.  I’m going to continue to get my eyebrows waxed, because I like two better than one.  I’m going to keep wearing skirts and heels, because it makes me feel better about myself.  Also, I’m going to teach my child discipline, but still not reprimand him for saying the eff word in appropriate situations.  I’ll do all because it makes a difference.  And also, I’ll do it just to spite you. 

-Inner Peas

The Best? Really...

It seems I’ve heard that a lot lately.  “We’re all just doing the best we can.”  I read it in books and in blogs.  I see it in movies and on TV.  I hear it from judgmental eyes, hiding behind sympathetic voices.  “We’re all just doing the best we can.”  I particularly enjoy when they add “with what we have.”  Because what we have, determines how we should live our lives.  Right?   The deeper I delve into single mommydom, the more I hear it and the more I try to understand it.  I appreciate that when you feel like you are at the end of your rope and you’ve exhausted every lifeline, that’s a good outlook.  It’ll keep your head above water, before you sink into a hollow, dark abyss.  I appreciate it for the survival value.  But, otherwise, I’m not sure I’m onboard with this philosophy.  So, let me get this straight, “we’re all just doing the best we can with what we have?”  Like it’s some sort of validation for living in mediocrity. 

But this is the thing.  If you are just doing the best you can, you don’t ever aspire to be better than what you can actually be.  You are only maintaining the status quo.  You are towing the line.  Which is good.  If that’s all you ever dreamed of.  But, if you have ever dreamed of doing more or being better or having a louder voice, then doing the “best you can” with “what you have” should never be the end. 

Today, I sat in a meeting.  I love meetings.  (insert sarcasm here)  Meetings are important.  Meetings are where “brain storming” happens.  Meetings are also where ‘group think” happens.  Anyway, today, in a meeting, I made a very clear point about how attitude and workplace climate are perceived and why. I aired my grievances.  I felt real accomplished.  After all, meetings are where you make your statement.   I said what I had to say.   The best answer I got was “she’s not happy, let’s fix that for her.”  The first thing I thought was “Wow.  Thanks guys.  For loving me enough to try to alleviate the pain” The second thing I had was “Wow.  That was nice, but this isn’t about me.  This is about everyone.” But the end result was still:  “let’s fix it for her.”

Every rational emotion I felt told me to scream out lout “NO!!!  It’s not about you fixing it for me.  It’s about me fixing it for me.”    I didn’t say that though.  Instead, I refused to make eye contact, while they discussed the ways to make my life better.  And, it occurred to me, as I sat listening to others try to make me feel better about my existence , that I can do better.  I also realized that those people could be doing better.  We should all be doing better.  We shouldn’t just be doing the best with what we have.  

Now, I’m not saying that life isn’t hard.  It is.  Really FUCKING hard.  But our choices, our experiences, our bruises are NOT excuses for complacency.  We only make it harder on ourselves when we lower our standards.  When others greet us with low expectations; when they want to save us from ourselves, we are only perpetuating the idea that we cannot do better.  That’s not doing the best we can with what we have.  It only  means we are doing the best we can to maintain mediocrity.  

Go out.  Do more.  Find better.  DO NOT LET OTHER'S FIX YOU.  Because nobody can make you better.  Only you can.  

Who's that Girl?

So, I was sitting here.  Writing something that read like the ramblings of a crazy person, trying to rub a thought or two together to make sense of all the noise that has set up shop inside my head.  Seriously, it sounds like a fourth grade band room in there.  It’s ridiculous.  You can’t find a steady beat or a rhythm to save your life.  Anyway, I was sitting here, doing everything in my power to make rational thoughts happen, failing miserably.  So, I picked up my phone and it said “FACEBOOK:  Two new notifications.”  Seemed like a legit distraction from actual thinking.  I figured it was probably a “like” for one of my very witty and insightful posts.  Maybe another snarky comment about rechargeable batteries.    But when I opened Facebook, something weird happened.  It was the past.  History happened.  Suddenly, all of the noise stopped. 

The notification said “Leisha Urban tagged you in two photos.”  Now, Leisha and I have been friends since before we could drink legally.  We have a pretty extensive past, so I was thinking maybe those pictures were our kids trick-or-treating together, or maybe, a picture of us holding up the wall when we were neighbors at the 405, or more than likely, some meme about wine and profanity.  But when I opened those pictures, I saw something unexpected.   I saw a different time, a different life, a different me.  Holy shit. 

That’s all I kept thinking.  HOLY.  SHIT.  Then I looked closer at the pictures, and I thought “I don’t think that’s me.”  One picture was a girl with a big smile with two of the guys I worked with, wearing pea coats.  The other was a girl with a carefree grin, sitting on the fantail of SHERMAN next to my boat bestie, Josh.  It made sense that I would be in both of those pictures, but the girl with that smile looked so very unfamiliar.  I must have looked at both those photos for ten minutes before I confirmed, to myself, that I was, in fact, the girl in those pictures.  If not for the way I held the cigarette in my right hand, I may have untagged myself from both pictures and chalked it up to a case of mistaken identity.  Leisha knows me though, so she wouldn’t mistake me for someone else.  But I sure did. 

That was supposed to have been the hardest time in my life.  Or, at least, that’s how I remember feeling then.  That life was SOOO hard.  But I looked at those pictures today, and the girl with the smile so genuine, she couldn’t fake it if she wanted, made me wonder.  Obviously, those weren’t the worst years of my life.  Clearly, I have seen harder times.  I wonder though, have my choices and my experiences damaged me so much that I can’t even recognize myself in a picture?  Not because of the 30 pounds between now and then.  Not because of the MANY years that have weathered my face and my outlook.  But because of the smile.  Your smile makes you unmistakable, not unrecognizable.  Shouldn’t that always be the same? 

-Inner Peas