My friend John had a heart attack a week ago today. I met him through a dating website, and our single date involved looking over crochet patterns and drinking coffee. He told me about his family. He hugged me goodbye because "Hugs are good." He reminded me of a polar bear. Not the real kind who would totally eat you but are probably starving to death because of global warming and Al Gore. The kind from Coke commercials. I could imagine John enjoying a Coke and sharing his treat with cute seal pups.
John had already found the love of his life, though. He and Carmela were back together, probably before my Starbucks cup hit the trash can as I waved goodbye after the coffee date and wandered toward my car. I forgave this lapse -- I didn't enjoy feeling like a backup plan, but John's kindness and gruff sense of humor eventually won me over. He ran a local open mic where I did the first readings from Butterbabe. He gave me advice about my last boyfriend ("Dump him. "Dump him. DUMP HIM"). I called him to check up from time to time. We always had funny conversations and I'd hang up the phone feeling a bit lighter and more cheerful than when we'd started.
John struggled with Type 2 diabetes his entire adult life. He spent most of the fall and winter last year having toes chopped off and recovering in a nursing home. He had a demented roommate who'd sit in his wheelchair in a hospital gown, spindly legs bare, knees wide apart. Carmela stayed with him as much as she could. I came by with a copy of the book, and for more boyfriend advice ("Seriously -- dump him. He's a douche.").
I last saw John at Artomatic 411, a sort of grand fleamarket of the arts that ran for three weekends in May and June. In a warehouse downtown, local painters and sculptors and writers and musicians and filmmakers put on a show. John looked so much better than he had in the nursing home. He'd lost weight, become engaged to Carmela and was making plans to finish his social work degree.
John had a heart attack a week ago today. I know I told you that, but I still don't believe it, and I feel like if I say it, I'll convince myself. I'd rather not believe it, but it's immutable and sad and terribly real now. John died a week ago today. He lived 47 years, all of them in Toledo. He wrote lovely, gritty, clever, poems that evoke this rusty little town by the Maumee and Michigan. He made the place softly forlorn, shaved the edges so that the city's oddball charm stood out, glowing softly like sodium lights in a steady rain.
Becca and I went to the visitation. We hugged Carmela and beautiful Caroline, the brilliant young woman John mentored and loved like a little sister or daughter. We met his mother. We left.
Becca's birthday was Saturday. She's 43 now. We had delicious food and a party in the park. There were gifts and songs and piggyback rides. I can't believe I can carry a 180-pound woman, but I used to carry a good 250 more pounds than I do now just in my own body weight, so I guess it makes sense.
And now I have a head cold and the phlegm keeps coming.
Better things are coming. Better days ahead. They have to be. My birthday is in six weeks. At least I've had another year.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Hitler!
Hitler! He ruined that mustache for everyone.
I saw Inglorious Basterds. Enjoyed it, but also came at it from a fairly unique perspective. The movie centers on the titular group of soldiers, Jews who fight a guerilla campaign and kill Nazis in occupied France. My father, a Jew who fought in WWII, was sort of a bastard, too. Note the correct spelling there.
My father died in 1996. We never managed to come up with a functional relationship. During his last days in the hospital, he went from gesturing inarticulately into the silence of a morphine coma. I never managed to forgive him and he never managed to express any feeling for me apart from a sort of bemused contempt. We didn't understand each other. He never told me about the war.
Every dark-haired young man in uniform, all eight original Basterds, reminded me of my father. In wartime photos, my father looks like the actors in the Tarnatino movie.
Inglorius. Kind of a bastard. My dad. I'm pretty sure he never scalped any Germans, as they didn't store many of those in New Guinea or Australia. And I still haven't a clue about who he really was.
I'd like to blame Hitler for this, too.
I saw Inglorious Basterds. Enjoyed it, but also came at it from a fairly unique perspective. The movie centers on the titular group of soldiers, Jews who fight a guerilla campaign and kill Nazis in occupied France. My father, a Jew who fought in WWII, was sort of a bastard, too. Note the correct spelling there.
My father died in 1996. We never managed to come up with a functional relationship. During his last days in the hospital, he went from gesturing inarticulately into the silence of a morphine coma. I never managed to forgive him and he never managed to express any feeling for me apart from a sort of bemused contempt. We didn't understand each other. He never told me about the war.
Every dark-haired young man in uniform, all eight original Basterds, reminded me of my father. In wartime photos, my father looks like the actors in the Tarnatino movie.
Inglorius. Kind of a bastard. My dad. I'm pretty sure he never scalped any Germans, as they didn't store many of those in New Guinea or Australia. And I still haven't a clue about who he really was.
I'd like to blame Hitler for this, too.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
He's got Bite
Tonight, I did laundry for my mother and hung out with her and her boyfriend. The boyfriend, Mike, has an African grey parrot named Crocky. Crocky is cute but unpredictable. He sometimes tries to attack my toes. I asked Mike if Crocky enjoys the taste of human flesh when he bites you.
"Crocky bites you because he wants to bite you," Mike said.
Weirdly zen and pithy, I thought. I'm keeping my toes to myself.
"Crocky bites you because he wants to bite you," Mike said.
Weirdly zen and pithy, I thought. I'm keeping my toes to myself.
Swimmingly
I have a scholarship to the Y. In Toledo, the Jewish Community Center and its giant outdoor pool are part of the Y.
I had a white bikini once. At six. The first and last I'd ever wear. I wore it to the JCC, where I swam in the shallow end with my mother. I grew up swimming at the J. I'd see how long I could stay under water. I'd climb the ladder to the high dive. Sometimes, I'd chicken out and climb back down, but most of the time, I'd leap. I ate malteds from the snack bar. I got lobster red sunburns and golden brown tans. I read books on the chaises longues.
Two years ago, after losing a couple hundred pounds, I returned to the pool at the JCC. I could finally get out of a pool using a ladder, and that meant I could swim laps in the deep end. The first time, I kept the line of my backstroke using a pine tree as a guide. I'd look at the tree to orient myself so that I wouldn't go off center and hit the lane dividers. I swam my first mile that summer, though my left shoulder started to give in the middle of the last full lap.
I got my scholarship letter last week, and am now a member of the Y again. Given the recession, I had to give up membership for about six months. I managed a few swims this summer using a cache of guest passes I managed to assemble from friends and strangers (thank you, Craig's List benefactress). I decided that if I got the scholarship, I'd swim thirty times before the pool closes in the fall.
Three swims down. Twenty seven to go. I almost think I can do it.
I had a white bikini once. At six. The first and last I'd ever wear. I wore it to the JCC, where I swam in the shallow end with my mother. I grew up swimming at the J. I'd see how long I could stay under water. I'd climb the ladder to the high dive. Sometimes, I'd chicken out and climb back down, but most of the time, I'd leap. I ate malteds from the snack bar. I got lobster red sunburns and golden brown tans. I read books on the chaises longues.
Two years ago, after losing a couple hundred pounds, I returned to the pool at the JCC. I could finally get out of a pool using a ladder, and that meant I could swim laps in the deep end. The first time, I kept the line of my backstroke using a pine tree as a guide. I'd look at the tree to orient myself so that I wouldn't go off center and hit the lane dividers. I swam my first mile that summer, though my left shoulder started to give in the middle of the last full lap.
I got my scholarship letter last week, and am now a member of the Y again. Given the recession, I had to give up membership for about six months. I managed a few swims this summer using a cache of guest passes I managed to assemble from friends and strangers (thank you, Craig's List benefactress). I decided that if I got the scholarship, I'd swim thirty times before the pool closes in the fall.
Three swims down. Twenty seven to go. I almost think I can do it.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
The Old Cat and the Litter Box
I spent ten hours cleaning last week. I cleaned for my mother and for a one-time client. My own apartment smells like urine.
Don't look at me -- I generally make it from the living room to the toilet without incident. My ancient, wizened tabby, Spenser, has taken to peeing outside the box. While some would commend him for his maverick ways, I cannot. I've had Spenser for fourteen years. I got him in East Lansing, where I spent a miserable couple of years flunking out of grad school. I came away from MSU with one good thing: a 12-pound silver tabby who loved me to pieces.
Spenser would curl up around my head whenever I was sick. He'd groom my hair and stay with me. When I weighed nearly 600 pounds and took a hard fall on a wood floor, he laid down next to me and wouldn't leave me til I'd righted myself (nearly an hour later).
Now that he's old and weighs about six pounds because his kidneys are failing (slowly), Spenser has become a crusty oldster with a limited sense of humor. He hates the kids and their music. He wants you to stay off his lawn. He has an autographed picture of Wilford Brimley and moons over cheesecake shots of the late Estelle Getty dressed as Sophia Petrillo on the Golden Girls.
My old man pees everywhere and on everything. He pees on my rugs. He peed on a pillow, soaking the sham I'd sewn and embroidered by hand. He pees behind the bathtub if I forget to close the bathroom door. He can't sleep with me. If I leave the bedroom door open, he pees on anything he can find on the floor. Like my clothes or bedsheets I kick off in my sleep. This means that my other cat, Siouxsie, can't sleep with me, either, despite her own fastidiousness about the box. She meows piteously outside my door every morning.
Spenser needs to go on one last visit to the vet. I don't want to take him. I have no idea how putting him to sleep will make me feel. Also, putting him to sleep will cost money I don't really have. I studied up on it online; do-it-yourself home pet euthanasia is a very bad idea. It's like the last twenty minutes of Blood Simple, only your cat is Dan Hedaya. I'm pretty sure I couldn't do that to any pet, let alone my sweet boy who still licks my face between trips to the corner to whiz under the radiator.
So. What to do? I'm thinking I could by him a copy of Final Exit. That could work.
Don't look at me -- I generally make it from the living room to the toilet without incident. My ancient, wizened tabby, Spenser, has taken to peeing outside the box. While some would commend him for his maverick ways, I cannot. I've had Spenser for fourteen years. I got him in East Lansing, where I spent a miserable couple of years flunking out of grad school. I came away from MSU with one good thing: a 12-pound silver tabby who loved me to pieces.
Spenser would curl up around my head whenever I was sick. He'd groom my hair and stay with me. When I weighed nearly 600 pounds and took a hard fall on a wood floor, he laid down next to me and wouldn't leave me til I'd righted myself (nearly an hour later).
Now that he's old and weighs about six pounds because his kidneys are failing (slowly), Spenser has become a crusty oldster with a limited sense of humor. He hates the kids and their music. He wants you to stay off his lawn. He has an autographed picture of Wilford Brimley and moons over cheesecake shots of the late Estelle Getty dressed as Sophia Petrillo on the Golden Girls.
My old man pees everywhere and on everything. He pees on my rugs. He peed on a pillow, soaking the sham I'd sewn and embroidered by hand. He pees behind the bathtub if I forget to close the bathroom door. He can't sleep with me. If I leave the bedroom door open, he pees on anything he can find on the floor. Like my clothes or bedsheets I kick off in my sleep. This means that my other cat, Siouxsie, can't sleep with me, either, despite her own fastidiousness about the box. She meows piteously outside my door every morning.
Spenser needs to go on one last visit to the vet. I don't want to take him. I have no idea how putting him to sleep will make me feel. Also, putting him to sleep will cost money I don't really have. I studied up on it online; do-it-yourself home pet euthanasia is a very bad idea. It's like the last twenty minutes of Blood Simple, only your cat is Dan Hedaya. I'm pretty sure I couldn't do that to any pet, let alone my sweet boy who still licks my face between trips to the corner to whiz under the radiator.
So. What to do? I'm thinking I could by him a copy of Final Exit. That could work.
Monday, August 17, 2009
More on cleaning...
The Salon essay conveyed a certain tone well, I thought. There were details that didn't make the final cut. I don't resent cleaning clients. I've had a few terrible ones. The regular and even the good one-of clients just aren't interesting enough to make the essay cut.
One story that missed the essay: I cleaned two week old vomit out of a bathtub once. My client had never cleaned the house in eight years of living there. There wasn't dust. There was actual grime. The bedroom was decorated in a Texas flag motif. I told my agent, Joanne.
"Puke in the tub and Texas crap? I don't know what's worse," she said. Joanne has a Long Island accent. She's not a fan of redneck chic.
Ironically, I was cleaning while texting last minute edits to my Salon editor. The house was gigantic and owned by Mormons. I didn't know there were that many paintings of Jesus in the world, let alone in one private home. Not paintings, really. Kinkade/painter-of-light schlock prints. I also didn't know Jesus was a Viking, but the shiny blonde hair and blue eyes in all that artwork told a different tale. I had to fight for my price. At the end of six and a half hours (mainly because they wanted all the woodwork cleaned -- not a standard service), the visiting grandmother who was paying tried to get me to take $50.
I told her that for six hours, I'd need $120. I rounded down, trying to be nice about it. She offered $100, which I took. She looked at me like I'd woofed up a hairball on the rug before opening a red leather wallet and peeling off a bill from the giant stack of hundreds inside.
My regulars know the drill. They know that cleaning people are there to dust, vacuum, mop, and to clean kitchens and baths. We aren't there to pick up children's toys, laundry from the floor or anything that comes out of pets. When I arrive, the regulars' houses are clutter-free and ready for cleaning. I'm thorough. I move furniture (I should say that I shove it over using my body weight -- I can't really lift anything all that heavy). I take all the tchotchkes off of shelves before I dust. I change linens and throw the old sheets into the washer. I've brought baked goods to regulars. They're decent and solid and not the stuff of essay writing.
So! I wanted to thank the Salon peeps again. You really made my day with all the comments. Even the weird ones (UK health system, bad driving guy) were good for a laugh.
One story that missed the essay: I cleaned two week old vomit out of a bathtub once. My client had never cleaned the house in eight years of living there. There wasn't dust. There was actual grime. The bedroom was decorated in a Texas flag motif. I told my agent, Joanne.
"Puke in the tub and Texas crap? I don't know what's worse," she said. Joanne has a Long Island accent. She's not a fan of redneck chic.
Ironically, I was cleaning while texting last minute edits to my Salon editor. The house was gigantic and owned by Mormons. I didn't know there were that many paintings of Jesus in the world, let alone in one private home. Not paintings, really. Kinkade/painter-of-light schlock prints. I also didn't know Jesus was a Viking, but the shiny blonde hair and blue eyes in all that artwork told a different tale. I had to fight for my price. At the end of six and a half hours (mainly because they wanted all the woodwork cleaned -- not a standard service), the visiting grandmother who was paying tried to get me to take $50.
I told her that for six hours, I'd need $120. I rounded down, trying to be nice about it. She offered $100, which I took. She looked at me like I'd woofed up a hairball on the rug before opening a red leather wallet and peeling off a bill from the giant stack of hundreds inside.
My regulars know the drill. They know that cleaning people are there to dust, vacuum, mop, and to clean kitchens and baths. We aren't there to pick up children's toys, laundry from the floor or anything that comes out of pets. When I arrive, the regulars' houses are clutter-free and ready for cleaning. I'm thorough. I move furniture (I should say that I shove it over using my body weight -- I can't really lift anything all that heavy). I take all the tchotchkes off of shelves before I dust. I change linens and throw the old sheets into the washer. I've brought baked goods to regulars. They're decent and solid and not the stuff of essay writing.
So! I wanted to thank the Salon peeps again. You really made my day with all the comments. Even the weird ones (UK health system, bad driving guy) were good for a laugh.
One clarification...
Someone on Salon accused me of SSDI fraud because I am physically able to clean houses.
It's a strange thing, given how my weight limited me, how physically painful some aspects of weighing over 500 pounds were, but I was awarded disability primarily because of depression. I take medication for it and see a therapist (which I pay for out-of-pocket because that practice doesn't accept Medicaid). My first depression diagnosis came when I was nine years old. I like to think that if I could find a job that offered a living wage and insurance, I could do it. I worry that the more severe depression would come back, despite the medical interventions I accept, and leave me without a job, insurance or any form of on-going income.
Cleaning houses is, at least, something I can schedule myself. SSI also allows additional income, though they will deduct from your cash assistance if you make more than a certain amount. I never have.
More about my private, glamourous writing life. If we had national health care, if I didn't need to rely on my status for insurance, I'd try to have a job, even a bad one. Maybe because I'm not strong enough to ignore the judgement some people throw my way for living on the guv'mint tit.
It's a strange thing, given how my weight limited me, how physically painful some aspects of weighing over 500 pounds were, but I was awarded disability primarily because of depression. I take medication for it and see a therapist (which I pay for out-of-pocket because that practice doesn't accept Medicaid). My first depression diagnosis came when I was nine years old. I like to think that if I could find a job that offered a living wage and insurance, I could do it. I worry that the more severe depression would come back, despite the medical interventions I accept, and leave me without a job, insurance or any form of on-going income.
Cleaning houses is, at least, something I can schedule myself. SSI also allows additional income, though they will deduct from your cash assistance if you make more than a certain amount. I never have.
More about my private, glamourous writing life. If we had national health care, if I didn't need to rely on my status for insurance, I'd try to have a job, even a bad one. Maybe because I'm not strong enough to ignore the judgement some people throw my way for living on the guv'mint tit.
Toilet!
My Salon piece is out.
Never thought I'd see so many letters -- mostly positive. The readers have been so kind and supportive. I'd kiss al of them on the mouth, but I don't know where they've been. Kidding! Of course. As usual.
Ironically, I was cleaning a giant McMansion for Mormons while texting my editor at Salon about that essay. I was a gift from Evil Mormon Grandma who had come from the home planet to help with the birth of live young. I cleaned for seven hours. Grandma (black haired, botoxed, wearing jaunty capri pants and a lot of mauve lipstick) tried to pay me $50 for this. She purposely misunderstood my pricing structure. I told her I could clean for $50 - $70 if I just did a few common areas and we set a time limit. They wanted the whole 3,000-square foot house cleaned. Four bedrooms, two and a half baths, a basement, plus blinds, woodwork and the doors. Seven hours later, I reminded her that I charge $20 an hour. She offered $100, which I accepted. It really wasn't enough. It should have been $40 more. I felt bad for a second -- no idea why -- until she opened a wallet stuffed with hundred dollar bills and fished one out for me.
Before dusting the many Kinkade-esque portraits of him in that house, I had no idea Jesus was a Viking. There were many busts of Brigham Young and Joseph Smith. I felt a little let down at not seeing any magic Mormon underwear. The boys' bedroom featured large prints of ancient Mormons fighting Indians. Good times!
This weekend, I relaxed with much swimming and ethnic festing and a zoo concert at the outdoor amphitheatre. I feel almost able to take on my own apartment, which is full of bad things that come out of old, sick cats.
Never thought I'd see so many letters -- mostly positive. The readers have been so kind and supportive. I'd kiss al of them on the mouth, but I don't know where they've been. Kidding! Of course. As usual.
Ironically, I was cleaning a giant McMansion for Mormons while texting my editor at Salon about that essay. I was a gift from Evil Mormon Grandma who had come from the home planet to help with the birth of live young. I cleaned for seven hours. Grandma (black haired, botoxed, wearing jaunty capri pants and a lot of mauve lipstick) tried to pay me $50 for this. She purposely misunderstood my pricing structure. I told her I could clean for $50 - $70 if I just did a few common areas and we set a time limit. They wanted the whole 3,000-square foot house cleaned. Four bedrooms, two and a half baths, a basement, plus blinds, woodwork and the doors. Seven hours later, I reminded her that I charge $20 an hour. She offered $100, which I accepted. It really wasn't enough. It should have been $40 more. I felt bad for a second -- no idea why -- until she opened a wallet stuffed with hundred dollar bills and fished one out for me.
Before dusting the many Kinkade-esque portraits of him in that house, I had no idea Jesus was a Viking. There were many busts of Brigham Young and Joseph Smith. I felt a little let down at not seeing any magic Mormon underwear. The boys' bedroom featured large prints of ancient Mormons fighting Indians. Good times!
This weekend, I relaxed with much swimming and ethnic festing and a zoo concert at the outdoor amphitheatre. I feel almost able to take on my own apartment, which is full of bad things that come out of old, sick cats.
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