Pandora’s Pill Box
Went to my GP today to see if he could give me something to help me sleep and take the edge off my anxiety. I really didn’t think this was such a big deal in this day and age of a medication for everything and everyone on medication. I hadn’t been to this particular doctor for years choosing instead to hit the local clinic around the corner for common colds and the like. He was my GP through Junior High and High School as well as my grandfather’s doctor after he moved to Houston. In fact, this is the man who had my grandfather briefly committed to a psych ward. How would you like to put that on your family medical history?
He tells me he doesn’t want to prescribe anything until I have seen the psychologist upstairs because he doesn’t want to give me something that in six months we realize wasn’t correct. Okay, but all I really want is something to help me sleep. We’re not talking Lithium or Haldol here just a mild sleep aid. His nurse called the man upstairs and sets me up to go back at 1:30 to see him. The whole thing was starting to have a dream like quality at this point.
I go back at 1:30 sit down with the shrink and let him know I am having trouble sleeping. I haven’t always. In fact, I used to sleep like the dead. He wants more. Do I have mood swings? Yes, but again this not a new thing. Do I drink? Yes, socially and we are very social animals. Family history of depression? Yes, several members, almost too many to count, are currently taking one antidepressant or another. Appetite? Yes, too much of one as a matter of fact, which is one reason I do have to be depressed. Do I think I’m overweight? No, I think I weigh as much now as I did when I finished my first semester of college and quite frankly it sucks. On and on the questions went. Where did we live? Why did my parents divorce? What are their moods like?
At the end of the forty minute speed session he tells me he can’t make a diagnosis without more information. He thinks I may not be a black and white case of bipolar disorder but clearly my universal reference points are skewed. Why is it I have friends who have been prescribed Lexapro, Zoloft, Paxil, Ambien and everything else under the sun when they’ve gone to their doctor with similar problems but I feel like I’m being led by the nose towards a padded room? I just want to sleep but now I’ll have to lie awake wondering if I do in fact have a gray case of bipolar disorder although I know damn well I don’t.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Maybe I think too much but somthings wrong.......
I’ve been putting off this post for a few days. In fact, I’ve gone over and over it a million times in my head. What do I want to say? What am I feeling? My emotions are all over the map. A friend called Friday night at 12:30 a.m. She was at a bar with her husband and had run into another friend that we haven’t spoken to since March and the last correspondence received was back in July. Friend A was calling to tell us Friend B is now engaged.
The call only lasted about 5 minutes but I’ll be damned if I didn’t lay there in bed for another hour, staring into the dark, thinking how hurt my feelings were that I learned this from a third party. I thought of things we have done together in the past; vacations, sitting by the pool with a stash of cheesy entertainment rags, going out, staying in, births, deaths, holidays and camping trips. I was overwhelmed with sadness that we no longer qualify as friends you would call with news of an engagement.
Quickly I moved on to the why emotions, then the anger and now it’s just this resolve that I/we have been dismissed. Erased. I know this is all part of life, growing together, growing apart but does it have to hurt so bad when it happens? Maybe I am making a bigger deal of it than I should. Can you really be that close to someone you haven’t seen since last December, spoken to since March and e-mailed since July? If you asked me right now I would say no, but give me another few minutes to get back on my emotional roller coaster then ask me.
I’ve been putting off this post for a few days. In fact, I’ve gone over and over it a million times in my head. What do I want to say? What am I feeling? My emotions are all over the map. A friend called Friday night at 12:30 a.m. She was at a bar with her husband and had run into another friend that we haven’t spoken to since March and the last correspondence received was back in July. Friend A was calling to tell us Friend B is now engaged.
The call only lasted about 5 minutes but I’ll be damned if I didn’t lay there in bed for another hour, staring into the dark, thinking how hurt my feelings were that I learned this from a third party. I thought of things we have done together in the past; vacations, sitting by the pool with a stash of cheesy entertainment rags, going out, staying in, births, deaths, holidays and camping trips. I was overwhelmed with sadness that we no longer qualify as friends you would call with news of an engagement.
Quickly I moved on to the why emotions, then the anger and now it’s just this resolve that I/we have been dismissed. Erased. I know this is all part of life, growing together, growing apart but does it have to hurt so bad when it happens? Maybe I am making a bigger deal of it than I should. Can you really be that close to someone you haven’t seen since last December, spoken to since March and e-mailed since July? If you asked me right now I would say no, but give me another few minutes to get back on my emotional roller coaster then ask me.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Let Me Call You Sweetheart
Yesterday was the anniversary of my grandfather’s death. I did not remember, terrible as I am with dates but my mother reminded me this morning. It was three years ago, on a Friday and my mother called me at the office to tell me to come by the hospital on the way home. I didn’t even know he was in the hospital. I was still getting over the sudden death of my father’s father who died on the 8th. I also didn’t take it too seriously when my mother said this may be the end. Maybe I didn’t want to believe it or maybe I just couldn’t fathom another loss so soon.
Carrie came with me to the hospital. He was in the hospice ward. If you’ve never been in one, hope you never will. They tried to dress it up like a park. A porch swing with fake vines crawling up lattice behind it sat in the hallway. It was a nice gesture but plastic greenery on hospital walls makes the whole experience somehow sadder than the sterile white of a regular ward.
I was not prepared. I don’t think anyone could be prepared for what we saw. My grandfather unconscious with one leg cocked at the knee, every breath rattling like bubbles in a fish tank. I lasted approximately half a minute before running to the porch swing, reduced to great heaping sobs. My mother said she was staying the night. I told her I couldn’t. I don’t have the constitution to watch a loved one die. So I went out and got as drunk as I could. I woke up the next morning to the sound of my mother leaving me a message on our answering machine that he died.
I don’t think about those minutes at the hospital when I think of him. I think of how he always slept under an electric blanket. When I would stay with him I would crawl in under the blanket with him and we would watch The Odd Couple together, laughing our hearts out. He was obsessed with a bargain, clipping coupons weeks ahead of my visits so we could walk to Peoples Drugstore to buy twenty four packs of toilet paper on sale. It was one per customer so I would stand in line by myself with my money and coupon then wait for him to make his purchase after me. When we returned to his apartment we would have to wrestle the new purchases into the hall closet filled to the brim with past bargains.
He loved horse racing. Anyone who knows me and reads this knows that his love for the races is alive and well in my mother and me. The day that Secretariat won the Triple Crown my grandfather and my uncle were there at the finish line. At my grandfather’s funeral I couldn’t help but smile at the horseshoe shaped arrangement covered in Blackeyed Susans. He and Margo, my grandmother, had taken one of there friends to The Preakness Stakes. They were sitting at a table when my grandfather saw some friends of his from the liquor distributing business. He went and chatted with them for a moment then came back to the table and told his friend he had arranged for him to watch the race from the finish line.
My grandfather loved life. He loved cocktail hour, pretty women, dirty jokes and music. One of my favorite photos of us is me sitting in his lap, both of our mouths opened in song. We were performing for anyone in the room. It is a song we sang countless number of times to countless people at countless gatherings. The tune is from “Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you…” but we are singing about a Chevy. “Let me call you Chevy, I’m in debt for you…” I have no idea where this version came from. I don’t know if he made it up or heard it somewhere, but he taught me every word and I loved sitting on his lap and belting out the words, my screechy eight year old voice competing with his.
Wherever he is now he is sipping a tumbler of Scotch, telling dirty jokes to anyone who will listen and singing. One day I will stand at his side and we will do it together but for now I will make due with seeing his face in my own features when I look in the mirror.
Yesterday was the anniversary of my grandfather’s death. I did not remember, terrible as I am with dates but my mother reminded me this morning. It was three years ago, on a Friday and my mother called me at the office to tell me to come by the hospital on the way home. I didn’t even know he was in the hospital. I was still getting over the sudden death of my father’s father who died on the 8th. I also didn’t take it too seriously when my mother said this may be the end. Maybe I didn’t want to believe it or maybe I just couldn’t fathom another loss so soon.
Carrie came with me to the hospital. He was in the hospice ward. If you’ve never been in one, hope you never will. They tried to dress it up like a park. A porch swing with fake vines crawling up lattice behind it sat in the hallway. It was a nice gesture but plastic greenery on hospital walls makes the whole experience somehow sadder than the sterile white of a regular ward.
I was not prepared. I don’t think anyone could be prepared for what we saw. My grandfather unconscious with one leg cocked at the knee, every breath rattling like bubbles in a fish tank. I lasted approximately half a minute before running to the porch swing, reduced to great heaping sobs. My mother said she was staying the night. I told her I couldn’t. I don’t have the constitution to watch a loved one die. So I went out and got as drunk as I could. I woke up the next morning to the sound of my mother leaving me a message on our answering machine that he died.
I don’t think about those minutes at the hospital when I think of him. I think of how he always slept under an electric blanket. When I would stay with him I would crawl in under the blanket with him and we would watch The Odd Couple together, laughing our hearts out. He was obsessed with a bargain, clipping coupons weeks ahead of my visits so we could walk to Peoples Drugstore to buy twenty four packs of toilet paper on sale. It was one per customer so I would stand in line by myself with my money and coupon then wait for him to make his purchase after me. When we returned to his apartment we would have to wrestle the new purchases into the hall closet filled to the brim with past bargains.
He loved horse racing. Anyone who knows me and reads this knows that his love for the races is alive and well in my mother and me. The day that Secretariat won the Triple Crown my grandfather and my uncle were there at the finish line. At my grandfather’s funeral I couldn’t help but smile at the horseshoe shaped arrangement covered in Blackeyed Susans. He and Margo, my grandmother, had taken one of there friends to The Preakness Stakes. They were sitting at a table when my grandfather saw some friends of his from the liquor distributing business. He went and chatted with them for a moment then came back to the table and told his friend he had arranged for him to watch the race from the finish line.
My grandfather loved life. He loved cocktail hour, pretty women, dirty jokes and music. One of my favorite photos of us is me sitting in his lap, both of our mouths opened in song. We were performing for anyone in the room. It is a song we sang countless number of times to countless people at countless gatherings. The tune is from “Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you…” but we are singing about a Chevy. “Let me call you Chevy, I’m in debt for you…” I have no idea where this version came from. I don’t know if he made it up or heard it somewhere, but he taught me every word and I loved sitting on his lap and belting out the words, my screechy eight year old voice competing with his.
Wherever he is now he is sipping a tumbler of Scotch, telling dirty jokes to anyone who will listen and singing. One day I will stand at his side and we will do it together but for now I will make due with seeing his face in my own features when I look in the mirror.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Harder Than a Rubik’s Cube to Figure Out
When I brought the mail in yesterday I was so excited to see cards and a letter mixed in with the junk mail. I opened the cards first as they were addressed to Carrie and me and that way I could read them then pass them on. The letter was, curiously, addressed only to me. More curious was the name and return address was no one I recognized. I opened it thinking it was a piece of mass mail that was printed to look like a hand written letter.
No. Not exactly. It was a letter from a girl I went to high school with apologizing for mean things she said to me SEVENTEEN years ago. She wrote that recent events led her to think about what she did and she wanted to apologize in case she hurt me. I was more than a little shook up. For starters how was I supposed to remember her amongst the 500 or so other students who taunted me in high school? I was the class reading-while-walking-open-about-my-homosexuality outcast. Maybe if she’d poured pig’s blood on me at the prom I would remember her but saying a few ugly comments isn’t going to stick out.
I couldn’t let it go. Who was this person? I got on classmates.com. No photo but her name listed under my high school did confirm that she indeed go to my high school. I googled her. I image googled her. I looked through archives of the local paper by her maiden and married name. No luck. Finally, I called her. She seemed a little shocked that I was calling. I guess other victims of her apologies have received the letter and moved on with their lives in silence feeling warm and fuzzy inside.
I wanted to know what she said back then but she never let on and I was too chicken to ask. What happened isn’t really what’s bothering me. It’s the fact that I can’t even conjure up the slightest guess as to who she is or what she looks like. Or how she got my address for that matter. That’s a lie. I am dieing to know what happened but am also too afraid to ask for fear that memories of my four hellish years of high school will come rushing back. I lived through them once. I don’t think I could do it twice. Still, I’m going to have to find my yearbooks and look her up because the suspense is killing me.
When I brought the mail in yesterday I was so excited to see cards and a letter mixed in with the junk mail. I opened the cards first as they were addressed to Carrie and me and that way I could read them then pass them on. The letter was, curiously, addressed only to me. More curious was the name and return address was no one I recognized. I opened it thinking it was a piece of mass mail that was printed to look like a hand written letter.
No. Not exactly. It was a letter from a girl I went to high school with apologizing for mean things she said to me SEVENTEEN years ago. She wrote that recent events led her to think about what she did and she wanted to apologize in case she hurt me. I was more than a little shook up. For starters how was I supposed to remember her amongst the 500 or so other students who taunted me in high school? I was the class reading-while-walking-open-about-my-homosexuality outcast. Maybe if she’d poured pig’s blood on me at the prom I would remember her but saying a few ugly comments isn’t going to stick out.
I couldn’t let it go. Who was this person? I got on classmates.com. No photo but her name listed under my high school did confirm that she indeed go to my high school. I googled her. I image googled her. I looked through archives of the local paper by her maiden and married name. No luck. Finally, I called her. She seemed a little shocked that I was calling. I guess other victims of her apologies have received the letter and moved on with their lives in silence feeling warm and fuzzy inside.
I wanted to know what she said back then but she never let on and I was too chicken to ask. What happened isn’t really what’s bothering me. It’s the fact that I can’t even conjure up the slightest guess as to who she is or what she looks like. Or how she got my address for that matter. That’s a lie. I am dieing to know what happened but am also too afraid to ask for fear that memories of my four hellish years of high school will come rushing back. I lived through them once. I don’t think I could do it twice. Still, I’m going to have to find my yearbooks and look her up because the suspense is killing me.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
When Nothing is Black and White Anymore
First came the knowledge that I need to wear magnifying glasses at work and while reading. Then to add insult to injury I am washing my hands at the sink this morning and what do I see? A gray strand of hair staring back at me. Anyone who knows me will ask, how did you see it through the highlights? To this I say, it’s been since July since my last touch up and gray hair stands out against dark roots. Ugh!
I dug out a tuft of hair and separated the offending strand. Pluck! There in my hand was my first gray hair. I held it up to light, turning it this way and that, making sure it was indeed what I thought it was before I rushed out of the bathroom to tell my coworker. She hated to point out with the recent recommendation of glasses and now a gray hair it is time I face my aging. Ugh!
I came back in my office to call my mother. I’m not sure why since she is still laughing and calling me four eyes. She seems to take great pleasure in my age anxiety. This little tidbit of news started her laughing all over again as I sat there on the phone holding up the hair to anything black in my office, willing it to be blond not gray. Mother reminded me that when I was four years old or so she would sit on the floor in front of the couch while we watched television and I would scour her head plucking any gray hair I found. Well now it’s her turn.
The symbol of my rite of passage now rests in an envelope in my desk. I thought about labeling it in the event anyone goes looking for an envelope to send correspondence to an unsuspecting client but I couldn’t think of label that wasn’t too weird. “Jacqui’s First Gray- Do Not Open”. “Personal and Not So Confidential-Do Not Touch”. I’ll need to throw it away before days end but I’m just not ready. First I’m going to call my hairdresser and make an appointment to get these roots done. Any longer and who knows how many of the suckers I’ll find.
First came the knowledge that I need to wear magnifying glasses at work and while reading. Then to add insult to injury I am washing my hands at the sink this morning and what do I see? A gray strand of hair staring back at me. Anyone who knows me will ask, how did you see it through the highlights? To this I say, it’s been since July since my last touch up and gray hair stands out against dark roots. Ugh!
I dug out a tuft of hair and separated the offending strand. Pluck! There in my hand was my first gray hair. I held it up to light, turning it this way and that, making sure it was indeed what I thought it was before I rushed out of the bathroom to tell my coworker. She hated to point out with the recent recommendation of glasses and now a gray hair it is time I face my aging. Ugh!
I came back in my office to call my mother. I’m not sure why since she is still laughing and calling me four eyes. She seems to take great pleasure in my age anxiety. This little tidbit of news started her laughing all over again as I sat there on the phone holding up the hair to anything black in my office, willing it to be blond not gray. Mother reminded me that when I was four years old or so she would sit on the floor in front of the couch while we watched television and I would scour her head plucking any gray hair I found. Well now it’s her turn.
The symbol of my rite of passage now rests in an envelope in my desk. I thought about labeling it in the event anyone goes looking for an envelope to send correspondence to an unsuspecting client but I couldn’t think of label that wasn’t too weird. “Jacqui’s First Gray- Do Not Open”. “Personal and Not So Confidential-Do Not Touch”. I’ll need to throw it away before days end but I’m just not ready. First I’m going to call my hairdresser and make an appointment to get these roots done. Any longer and who knows how many of the suckers I’ll find.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Dilateus Permanitis
Yesterday I went to the eye doctor for the first time EVER. It was a bit like Disney World in that they are constantly moving you from one room to another so you never quite feel like you’re being made to wait. I almost cried when they put the numbing drops in my eye (BEFORE THEY TOUCHED IT!) but I didn’t which I had to remind Carrie of lest she feel the need to further cement everyone’s view of me as a wimp.
I was dreading this appointment because no matter what routine exam I’m going to have I invent 100 different freak accidents that could occur. So when the doctor was walking us to the counter and I asked if anyone’s eyes have ever stuck this way, it was no wonder she looked at me a bit cross eyed.
“Like how?”
“You know. Dilated. They never went back to being undilated.”
“No. Not to my knowledge.”
What you don’t see in the above exchange is the completely mortified look on Carrie’s face that I asked the question or the look of sympathy the doctor gave her when she revealed that I was indeed serious.
Yesterday I went to the eye doctor for the first time EVER. It was a bit like Disney World in that they are constantly moving you from one room to another so you never quite feel like you’re being made to wait. I almost cried when they put the numbing drops in my eye (BEFORE THEY TOUCHED IT!) but I didn’t which I had to remind Carrie of lest she feel the need to further cement everyone’s view of me as a wimp.
I was dreading this appointment because no matter what routine exam I’m going to have I invent 100 different freak accidents that could occur. So when the doctor was walking us to the counter and I asked if anyone’s eyes have ever stuck this way, it was no wonder she looked at me a bit cross eyed.
“Like how?”
“You know. Dilated. They never went back to being undilated.”
“No. Not to my knowledge.”
What you don’t see in the above exchange is the completely mortified look on Carrie’s face that I asked the question or the look of sympathy the doctor gave her when she revealed that I was indeed serious.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Tootsie Roll Pups
I walked in today to find the equivalent of a Labrador Kegger. First were the guilty faces staring back at me. Then, barely visible over the brown and blond fur, an EMPTY brownie pan. Blood pressure: Elevated. One step into the sun room revealed what was left of THE UNTOUCHED BY HUMAN HANDS pound cake that last I saw it was resting nicely on the kitchen counter this morning. Blood pressure: High. To add insult to injury when I rounded the corner there on the bathroom floor, as if they were looking for a tissue to wipe their choclately, sugary snouts, were the contents of the bathroom trash can. Blood pressure: Somewhere over the rainbow.
As a side note, the photos you are about to see in NO way absolve my dog from guilt. He's just too stupid to look at me with a guilty face!
I walked in today to find the equivalent of a Labrador Kegger. First were the guilty faces staring back at me. Then, barely visible over the brown and blond fur, an EMPTY brownie pan. Blood pressure: Elevated. One step into the sun room revealed what was left of THE UNTOUCHED BY HUMAN HANDS pound cake that last I saw it was resting nicely on the kitchen counter this morning. Blood pressure: High. To add insult to injury when I rounded the corner there on the bathroom floor, as if they were looking for a tissue to wipe their choclately, sugary snouts, were the contents of the bathroom trash can. Blood pressure: Somewhere over the rainbow.
As a side note, the photos you are about to see in NO way absolve my dog from guilt. He's just too stupid to look at me with a guilty face!
Friday, October 13, 2006
LBD
She's sleek and a vixen. My girlfriend and my dog love her but who loves her the most? Her mother who has to keep herself from calling in any 24 hour period to ask how she's doing. Our answer has always been the same: "She's fine. Driving Isaac crazy. Kicking all of the pillows off the couch. Well, tonight we all say see for yourself......
Ed would be proud of the last two. I am personally jealous of how good she looks in my fur wrap. See you next week.
J, C & C
She's sleek and a vixen. My girlfriend and my dog love her but who loves her the most? Her mother who has to keep herself from calling in any 24 hour period to ask how she's doing. Our answer has always been the same: "She's fine. Driving Isaac crazy. Kicking all of the pillows off the couch. Well, tonight we all say see for yourself......
Ed would be proud of the last two. I am personally jealous of how good she looks in my fur wrap. See you next week.
J, C & C
Sunday, October 08, 2006
The Ranch
Carrie and I go to the ranch almost every weekend. We have been doing this for almost the past two years. It is a place full of everything. Hope: every sunrise brings the promise of a new day and an unsurpassed view of cattle waking to the new day to begin to graze. Anticipation: each calf crop brings with it the excitement of speckled babies bedded down in the grass as new mothers stand guard nearby. Love: the love we bring for each other to this environment as well as the love of animals who trust you to feed them and scratch them behind the horns now and then. Trust: they trust us to care for them, we trust them to provide that love mentioned above. Dread: when a calf falls ill and you spend the following days hoping it will make it through. Thanks: for the rain, for the wind, for a cloud covering the beating sun, for fresh air, for the ability to bask in the joy that is the ranch. Regret: I would love to say there is none but at times we all think we waited too late or did too little. As a part of human nature and mother nature I feel the need to include regret although we all try not to dwell on the past. The ranch is the circle of life in its purest, most basic form and every Friday night I am hopeful, full of anticipation, in love, and trusting there will be no dread or regret. If there is I accept that it is the circle of life and we all have to sit back and enjoy what we can. There is also sharing. Share in my experience with the photos below:
Carrie and I go to the ranch almost every weekend. We have been doing this for almost the past two years. It is a place full of everything. Hope: every sunrise brings the promise of a new day and an unsurpassed view of cattle waking to the new day to begin to graze. Anticipation: each calf crop brings with it the excitement of speckled babies bedded down in the grass as new mothers stand guard nearby. Love: the love we bring for each other to this environment as well as the love of animals who trust you to feed them and scratch them behind the horns now and then. Trust: they trust us to care for them, we trust them to provide that love mentioned above. Dread: when a calf falls ill and you spend the following days hoping it will make it through. Thanks: for the rain, for the wind, for a cloud covering the beating sun, for fresh air, for the ability to bask in the joy that is the ranch. Regret: I would love to say there is none but at times we all think we waited too late or did too little. As a part of human nature and mother nature I feel the need to include regret although we all try not to dwell on the past. The ranch is the circle of life in its purest, most basic form and every Friday night I am hopeful, full of anticipation, in love, and trusting there will be no dread or regret. If there is I accept that it is the circle of life and we all have to sit back and enjoy what we can. There is also sharing. Share in my experience with the photos below:
Friday, October 06, 2006
Who Is That Masked Girl?
We are heading out of town this afternoon (again). We worked half the cows on the ranch last weekend saving the really mean ones for this weekend. I thought I should pick up on this blog again since after tomorrow I may be short an arm from one of them slinging their heads in a tight space making future blogging highly unlikely.
Carrie had four new tires put on her car yesterday. She had taken it in for a routine tire rotation and balancing. Routine for A-type anal retentive people like her, rare occurrence for change your oil only when told to people like me. They called to tell her all of her tires had splits in the sidewalls and would need to be replaced. I immediately attributed this to her careless, break neck speed, driving but apparently it was just a defect. The tire man did say however that it could have been really dangerous if she had had a blow out. “Really dangerous” because we would have been going 95 to 100 miles per hour. That is miles per hour not miles per day.
This very scenario is what I think about for two hours and fifteen minutes every weekend on the way to and from the ranch. I imagine the sound of the blow out and then my life flashing in front of my eyes in my final moments. My stomach is a hard ball of wax the entire trip, flipping and turning circles. Carrie says there’s medication for my condition. In lieu of medication she and Alison have also suggested putting a dog mask on my face for the duration of the trip that they found in, thank you, Bark magazine.
We are heading out of town this afternoon (again). We worked half the cows on the ranch last weekend saving the really mean ones for this weekend. I thought I should pick up on this blog again since after tomorrow I may be short an arm from one of them slinging their heads in a tight space making future blogging highly unlikely.
Carrie had four new tires put on her car yesterday. She had taken it in for a routine tire rotation and balancing. Routine for A-type anal retentive people like her, rare occurrence for change your oil only when told to people like me. They called to tell her all of her tires had splits in the sidewalls and would need to be replaced. I immediately attributed this to her careless, break neck speed, driving but apparently it was just a defect. The tire man did say however that it could have been really dangerous if she had had a blow out. “Really dangerous” because we would have been going 95 to 100 miles per hour. That is miles per hour not miles per day.
This very scenario is what I think about for two hours and fifteen minutes every weekend on the way to and from the ranch. I imagine the sound of the blow out and then my life flashing in front of my eyes in my final moments. My stomach is a hard ball of wax the entire trip, flipping and turning circles. Carrie says there’s medication for my condition. In lieu of medication she and Alison have also suggested putting a dog mask on my face for the duration of the trip that they found in, thank you, Bark magazine.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Striking Her Silent
From time to time our office receives marketing, promotional items from companies that we deal with. Today we received two large golf umbrellas. My first thought was we could pass these along to a couple of clients who play golf regularly. Then for no reason at all I started thinking that having an umbrella that large on a golf course on a wide open fairway is like having your own personal lightening rod.
Only once have I been on a course when it started raining and all teams were brought inside to the cart barn to wait out the thunder and lightening. I was part of a foursome which included Carrie and two of our best friends at the time. None of us are all that spectacular at golf but our bags contained a full bar so we were happy. After a few minutes of sitting around waiting everyone was getting restless.
The caddy for the course insisted that we did not want to go back out until all threat of lightening was gone. He went so far as to say that a lightening strike was how he lost his own leg. Not one to be taken advantage of easily, one of my teammates told him “Suuure you did. Prove it.” He promptly pulled up one pants leg on his coveralls revealing a metal prosthesis. She turned as red as the Bloody Mary she had been sipping and didn’t say another word. Back on the course we could hear her muttering to herself every time she teed off “Suuure you did. Prove it. Ugh!”
From time to time our office receives marketing, promotional items from companies that we deal with. Today we received two large golf umbrellas. My first thought was we could pass these along to a couple of clients who play golf regularly. Then for no reason at all I started thinking that having an umbrella that large on a golf course on a wide open fairway is like having your own personal lightening rod.
Only once have I been on a course when it started raining and all teams were brought inside to the cart barn to wait out the thunder and lightening. I was part of a foursome which included Carrie and two of our best friends at the time. None of us are all that spectacular at golf but our bags contained a full bar so we were happy. After a few minutes of sitting around waiting everyone was getting restless.
The caddy for the course insisted that we did not want to go back out until all threat of lightening was gone. He went so far as to say that a lightening strike was how he lost his own leg. Not one to be taken advantage of easily, one of my teammates told him “Suuure you did. Prove it.” He promptly pulled up one pants leg on his coveralls revealing a metal prosthesis. She turned as red as the Bloody Mary she had been sipping and didn’t say another word. Back on the course we could hear her muttering to herself every time she teed off “Suuure you did. Prove it. Ugh!”
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Times They are a Changin’
My sister turns 9 on Sunday (if you don’t know already she is my half sister and there are 27 years between us). My parents are having what they refer to as the family party that day and then on the ninth she will have another slumber party. The family party consists of my father, my stepmother, my grandmother and me. Sometimes I think he separates the two so he can have two cakes. I feel for my stepmother because my father tends to go a little overboard every year. Year before last he planned make overs, panning for gold, swimming, make your own pizza, and movies among other things as activities for the slumber party. Are kids that much more difficult to entertain these days? When I was ten I had a slumber party but all we did was eat pizza and sit around giggling. No make up, no panning for gold, no swimming. Last year it was rock climbing then swimming then on to the house for cake and ice cream before the slumber party started.
I called her Monday night to see what she wants for her birthday. Last year it was Neopets. If you don’t know, look them up. They are these creepy Pokeymon looking things with the weirdest names and they are hard to find. This year she tells me that she has made a list of movies for family members to buy her. Her friends it seems have another list. So I asked which movies. My dad maintains the family gift list so he got on the phone and gave me the following:
“Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”
“The original?” I ask.
“No the new one”
“Shaggy the Dog”
“The original?” I ask again.
“No the new one”
At this point I am beginning to see a pattern and I can honestly say I do not like it very much. These are classics! I guess much like everything else her generation needs more special effects to enjoy. What are we teaching them by over sating their desire to be entertained? I can’t help but think that imagination is going to be loser in the long run.
My sister turns 9 on Sunday (if you don’t know already she is my half sister and there are 27 years between us). My parents are having what they refer to as the family party that day and then on the ninth she will have another slumber party. The family party consists of my father, my stepmother, my grandmother and me. Sometimes I think he separates the two so he can have two cakes. I feel for my stepmother because my father tends to go a little overboard every year. Year before last he planned make overs, panning for gold, swimming, make your own pizza, and movies among other things as activities for the slumber party. Are kids that much more difficult to entertain these days? When I was ten I had a slumber party but all we did was eat pizza and sit around giggling. No make up, no panning for gold, no swimming. Last year it was rock climbing then swimming then on to the house for cake and ice cream before the slumber party started.
I called her Monday night to see what she wants for her birthday. Last year it was Neopets. If you don’t know, look them up. They are these creepy Pokeymon looking things with the weirdest names and they are hard to find. This year she tells me that she has made a list of movies for family members to buy her. Her friends it seems have another list. So I asked which movies. My dad maintains the family gift list so he got on the phone and gave me the following:
“Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”
“The original?” I ask.
“No the new one”
“Shaggy the Dog”
“The original?” I ask again.
“No the new one”
At this point I am beginning to see a pattern and I can honestly say I do not like it very much. These are classics! I guess much like everything else her generation needs more special effects to enjoy. What are we teaching them by over sating their desire to be entertained? I can’t help but think that imagination is going to be loser in the long run.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Monday, August 28, 2006
Love Letter
Dear Nola,
Sorry to have not written sooner. It’s not that I’ve forgotten you but things have been crazy here this last year. Just after tragedy befell you, we dodged a bullet of our own. I thought of you as we awaited Rita’s visit. We knew we would probably lose power so we started cooking everything in the refrigerator in preparation. I was able to throw together your famous barbeque shrimp. Knowing what it is like to evacuate via water, we blew up all of our pool floats just in case the boats took awhile to get to us again. In the end our preparations were all for naught as Rita chose to visit our neighbors in the East instead.
I am thinking of visiting again for my birthday. I miss your food, your music and your culture. I want to wake up to sounds of laughter outside my window from people intoxicated on your never ending entertainment. I want to sit at Café Du Monde licking sticky, sweet powdered sugar from my fingers. I have thought of having Central Grocery UPS me muffalettas but know that eating them on a bench in Jackson Square cannot be beat. Later maybe we’ll stuff ourselves on oysters at Desire. Last time I visited the shucker behind the counter kept them coming until we finally surrendered, unable to eat another bite.
When I get there can you arrange street musicians to welcome me? In particular make sure the little boy who always stood outside of the drug store in the Quarter is there playing his spoons. Oh how I love to watch him dance and play. If he’s not available don’t worry, I’ll take any jazz or Dixieland band you can find. I promise to be generous with my tips.
I hope the weather is nice because I am really looking forward to strolling through Audubon Park and visiting the zoo. I heard how the animals were lonely for awhile so I am ready to lend them my ear for a few hours at least. When we leave we’ll be taking the streetcar from the Garden District back to the Quarter. I hope that it too is up and running.
Nola, do you remember the time Mom and I brought Uncle Phippy for Mardi Gras? I remember sitting on her shoulders screaming “Mister, throw me some beads”. I remember standing in line at Popeye’s to get free chicken with the doubloons we caught. Mother and I still laugh about her forgetting I was on her shoulders and grabbing at beads on the ground. I thank God that police officer grabbed me before I was crushed by a float.
Now I know you think I have lived in Texas so long I have all but abandoned you but I assure you my roots stretch from my home here in Houston to Zachary, Daddy’s birthplace, to Baton Rouge, the city of my own birth and right to your doorstep. To me you are a bloom on a big Magnolia. Your petals may be a bit bruised and brown by last year's events but you still smell just as sweet. I’ll see you soon.
Love,
Jacqui
Dear Nola,
Sorry to have not written sooner. It’s not that I’ve forgotten you but things have been crazy here this last year. Just after tragedy befell you, we dodged a bullet of our own. I thought of you as we awaited Rita’s visit. We knew we would probably lose power so we started cooking everything in the refrigerator in preparation. I was able to throw together your famous barbeque shrimp. Knowing what it is like to evacuate via water, we blew up all of our pool floats just in case the boats took awhile to get to us again. In the end our preparations were all for naught as Rita chose to visit our neighbors in the East instead.
I am thinking of visiting again for my birthday. I miss your food, your music and your culture. I want to wake up to sounds of laughter outside my window from people intoxicated on your never ending entertainment. I want to sit at Café Du Monde licking sticky, sweet powdered sugar from my fingers. I have thought of having Central Grocery UPS me muffalettas but know that eating them on a bench in Jackson Square cannot be beat. Later maybe we’ll stuff ourselves on oysters at Desire. Last time I visited the shucker behind the counter kept them coming until we finally surrendered, unable to eat another bite.
When I get there can you arrange street musicians to welcome me? In particular make sure the little boy who always stood outside of the drug store in the Quarter is there playing his spoons. Oh how I love to watch him dance and play. If he’s not available don’t worry, I’ll take any jazz or Dixieland band you can find. I promise to be generous with my tips.
I hope the weather is nice because I am really looking forward to strolling through Audubon Park and visiting the zoo. I heard how the animals were lonely for awhile so I am ready to lend them my ear for a few hours at least. When we leave we’ll be taking the streetcar from the Garden District back to the Quarter. I hope that it too is up and running.
Nola, do you remember the time Mom and I brought Uncle Phippy for Mardi Gras? I remember sitting on her shoulders screaming “Mister, throw me some beads”. I remember standing in line at Popeye’s to get free chicken with the doubloons we caught. Mother and I still laugh about her forgetting I was on her shoulders and grabbing at beads on the ground. I thank God that police officer grabbed me before I was crushed by a float.
Now I know you think I have lived in Texas so long I have all but abandoned you but I assure you my roots stretch from my home here in Houston to Zachary, Daddy’s birthplace, to Baton Rouge, the city of my own birth and right to your doorstep. To me you are a bloom on a big Magnolia. Your petals may be a bit bruised and brown by last year's events but you still smell just as sweet. I’ll see you soon.
Love,
Jacqui
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Special Delivery
My magazine arrived yesterday and by the way it did come in a slender, brown cardboard box stuffed full of Holly, Bridget and Kendra. No identifying marks on the return address. No averting my eyes from the mailman every time I see him. First thing I did was plop down on the couch with my magazine on my lap. I was awed by the sheer masculinity of it all, the ads, the music and movie reviews and obviously the pictures. I think the last time I looked at a Playboy magazine I had taken it from the stack my father had under his bed. Safely locked in the bathroom at my grandmother's house, I did a comparison study between my flat as a board body and the buxom blonds. This time I read the articles.
My magazine arrived yesterday and by the way it did come in a slender, brown cardboard box stuffed full of Holly, Bridget and Kendra. No identifying marks on the return address. No averting my eyes from the mailman every time I see him. First thing I did was plop down on the couch with my magazine on my lap. I was awed by the sheer masculinity of it all, the ads, the music and movie reviews and obviously the pictures. I think the last time I looked at a Playboy magazine I had taken it from the stack my father had under his bed. Safely locked in the bathroom at my grandmother's house, I did a comparison study between my flat as a board body and the buxom blonds. This time I read the articles.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Ghosts of Friendships Past
Old friends have been visiting me in my dreams. It has happened a few times the past week. I have been racking my brain to figure out what is triggering these visits. Am I repressing a need to relive my past and that need gets its only release when I lose consciousness? I wouldn’t mind so much if these dreams didn’t leave me with the most profound sense of loss the next day when I realize that I truly miss them.
My first ghost was the girl I called my “best friend” for years. Back when everyone had a “best friend”. Back when we weren’t too old to use the expression “best friend”. We met when I was thirteen after she stole my boyfriend and formed a close friendship that continued until I was twenty-five at which point we grew apart. Occasionally we call each other and catch up but ever increasing amounts of time have been wedging themselves between those calls. Before long I fear we will only see each other at funerals. What I miss about her is how well she knew me. It was a bond that had no need for verbal communication.
My second ghost was the opposite. We met when I began seeing Carrie eight years ago and for the first year she didn’t like me. It is always hard when your friends break up to see someone replace one partner or the other and besides, I am not the easiest person to get to know. Our friendship moved in baby steps until eventually we arrived at a comfortable spot. She has a wit that awes me and a sense of style I always envied. We didn’t so much grow apart as she went in a new direction. A journey she didn’t want to take too many of us from her past on with her. I miss her and the little ones she brought into this world. I consider calling but feel disappointed when we make plans that are canceled or changed or only promised that I shield myself from the possibility. Instead I wait to see them in a store or at a restaurant or any number of places you run into people in passing. If I never see them again at least they are visiting in my dreams and I guess that will just have to do for now.
Old friends have been visiting me in my dreams. It has happened a few times the past week. I have been racking my brain to figure out what is triggering these visits. Am I repressing a need to relive my past and that need gets its only release when I lose consciousness? I wouldn’t mind so much if these dreams didn’t leave me with the most profound sense of loss the next day when I realize that I truly miss them.
My first ghost was the girl I called my “best friend” for years. Back when everyone had a “best friend”. Back when we weren’t too old to use the expression “best friend”. We met when I was thirteen after she stole my boyfriend and formed a close friendship that continued until I was twenty-five at which point we grew apart. Occasionally we call each other and catch up but ever increasing amounts of time have been wedging themselves between those calls. Before long I fear we will only see each other at funerals. What I miss about her is how well she knew me. It was a bond that had no need for verbal communication.
My second ghost was the opposite. We met when I began seeing Carrie eight years ago and for the first year she didn’t like me. It is always hard when your friends break up to see someone replace one partner or the other and besides, I am not the easiest person to get to know. Our friendship moved in baby steps until eventually we arrived at a comfortable spot. She has a wit that awes me and a sense of style I always envied. We didn’t so much grow apart as she went in a new direction. A journey she didn’t want to take too many of us from her past on with her. I miss her and the little ones she brought into this world. I consider calling but feel disappointed when we make plans that are canceled or changed or only promised that I shield myself from the possibility. Instead I wait to see them in a store or at a restaurant or any number of places you run into people in passing. If I never see them again at least they are visiting in my dreams and I guess that will just have to do for now.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Monday, August 21, 2006
Snakes in the Water
It is too hot these days to do any big projects at the ranch. Lately we’ve been thinking of a couple of small things that need to be done, things that don’t take too much effort in the broiling sun. This weekend one of our projects was to remove the hay ring that has been sticking out of the pond for the past two months. I was selected to perform the task because I am a veteran in pond retrievals having recovered a skull from its murky water this time last year.
With no rain and the pond at a record low, the water is a greenish brown that you absolutely cannot see an inch into. I stepped in wearing my rubber boots, took a few steps then panic rose in a giant wave inside me. I ran back to Carrie who was waiting on the banks saying, “I can’t do it, I’m scared.” She gave me sufficient encouragement that I entered the water again. This time I tried to throw a ratchet strap with a hook on the end from about three feet away. Instead of hooking the ring, I released the whole thing watching as the strap sank from the weight of the metal hook. Turning around Carrie informed me that now I would be expected to get the sunken strap out as well. I once again retreated to the dry bank to regroup.
My third time in the water I reached the hay ring. The water was up to my chest and I was shaking from fear. My rubber boots were full of nasty water and all I could think was in a second I am going to feel something crawling into my boot. I grabbed the hay ring and started to rock it towards me trying to get it to roll along the muddy bottom. When the first couple of inches were exposed, on the other side of the ring, there were two snakes coiled around the metal staring directly at me. I began running for the banks screaming “SNAKES IN THE WATER! SNAKES IN THE WATER!”, while Carrie for her part started laughing so hard I thought she would pass out.
It took me two more attempts to shake off my fear and the snakes but eventually the task was accomplished. I don’t know if there is any truth to “they’re more afraid of me than I am of them” but at least they had the decency to swim away from me after uncoiling. If anything else goes in that pond it’s going to have to stay there. I am not tempting fate another time.
It is too hot these days to do any big projects at the ranch. Lately we’ve been thinking of a couple of small things that need to be done, things that don’t take too much effort in the broiling sun. This weekend one of our projects was to remove the hay ring that has been sticking out of the pond for the past two months. I was selected to perform the task because I am a veteran in pond retrievals having recovered a skull from its murky water this time last year.
With no rain and the pond at a record low, the water is a greenish brown that you absolutely cannot see an inch into. I stepped in wearing my rubber boots, took a few steps then panic rose in a giant wave inside me. I ran back to Carrie who was waiting on the banks saying, “I can’t do it, I’m scared.” She gave me sufficient encouragement that I entered the water again. This time I tried to throw a ratchet strap with a hook on the end from about three feet away. Instead of hooking the ring, I released the whole thing watching as the strap sank from the weight of the metal hook. Turning around Carrie informed me that now I would be expected to get the sunken strap out as well. I once again retreated to the dry bank to regroup.
My third time in the water I reached the hay ring. The water was up to my chest and I was shaking from fear. My rubber boots were full of nasty water and all I could think was in a second I am going to feel something crawling into my boot. I grabbed the hay ring and started to rock it towards me trying to get it to roll along the muddy bottom. When the first couple of inches were exposed, on the other side of the ring, there were two snakes coiled around the metal staring directly at me. I began running for the banks screaming “SNAKES IN THE WATER! SNAKES IN THE WATER!”, while Carrie for her part started laughing so hard I thought she would pass out.
It took me two more attempts to shake off my fear and the snakes but eventually the task was accomplished. I don’t know if there is any truth to “they’re more afraid of me than I am of them” but at least they had the decency to swim away from me after uncoiling. If anything else goes in that pond it’s going to have to stay there. I am not tempting fate another time.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Hello from Kampala!
We are opposites. She has a creativity and talent for writing I have never processed. She would write my grandfather poetry books that she illustrated herself with colorful paintings sharing the pages with her words. She is quiet at family gatherings while I consume too much wine and debate with the others. She graduated Princeton last month with highest honors from her department. Five mentions in the official programs. Five! All were properly tagged by her mother for easy identification.
I called her last month to say congratulations on her graduation and to see what we could buy her as a gift. She had not sent out announcements because she doesn’t like to be the center of attention. A friend told me on the phone yesterday when I told her about the lack of any formal announcement, “If I had graduated from Princeton I would have taken an ad out in every newspaper in the nation.” No doubt I would have done the same. That congratulatory phone call was my first real conversation with her. During the call I realized that I had let jealousy come between us for all of these years. I wanted to impress my grandfather the way she did. She in turn wanted to be close to my grandmother the way I am.
She asked for a water bottle to carry fresh water in because she was leaving for Uganda to work with the CDC and World AIDS Organization for a year beginning August. We bought her two and a couple of shirts that are supposed to keep the sweat away from your body. It was more than she asked for but again she is the type who won’t ask. She and I agreed that once she was overseas she would e-mail me every month. I would print them out and mail them to grandmother who refuses to get e-mail and make it easy on us all to stay in touch.
Today I received her first e-mail. Hello from Kampala! is the subject. There was a mix up with her fellowship while she was in Spain hiking the week before she flew to Uganda. It seems the CDC no longer has the funds to employ her but they are working that out so she can stay. While they work it out, she is exploring the city. There are women in brightly colored African dresses carrying plantains and tomatoes and storks which are as common as squirrels resting on top of her apartment building. She feels full of color and sound at the end of each day. I in turn feel full of pride and love for this cousin I have neglected for far too long.
We are opposites. She has a creativity and talent for writing I have never processed. She would write my grandfather poetry books that she illustrated herself with colorful paintings sharing the pages with her words. She is quiet at family gatherings while I consume too much wine and debate with the others. She graduated Princeton last month with highest honors from her department. Five mentions in the official programs. Five! All were properly tagged by her mother for easy identification.
I called her last month to say congratulations on her graduation and to see what we could buy her as a gift. She had not sent out announcements because she doesn’t like to be the center of attention. A friend told me on the phone yesterday when I told her about the lack of any formal announcement, “If I had graduated from Princeton I would have taken an ad out in every newspaper in the nation.” No doubt I would have done the same. That congratulatory phone call was my first real conversation with her. During the call I realized that I had let jealousy come between us for all of these years. I wanted to impress my grandfather the way she did. She in turn wanted to be close to my grandmother the way I am.
She asked for a water bottle to carry fresh water in because she was leaving for Uganda to work with the CDC and World AIDS Organization for a year beginning August. We bought her two and a couple of shirts that are supposed to keep the sweat away from your body. It was more than she asked for but again she is the type who won’t ask. She and I agreed that once she was overseas she would e-mail me every month. I would print them out and mail them to grandmother who refuses to get e-mail and make it easy on us all to stay in touch.
Today I received her first e-mail. Hello from Kampala! is the subject. There was a mix up with her fellowship while she was in Spain hiking the week before she flew to Uganda. It seems the CDC no longer has the funds to employ her but they are working that out so she can stay. While they work it out, she is exploring the city. There are women in brightly colored African dresses carrying plantains and tomatoes and storks which are as common as squirrels resting on top of her apartment building. She feels full of color and sound at the end of each day. I in turn feel full of pride and love for this cousin I have neglected for far too long.
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