I'm crazy, but I get the job done.
A couple of years ago,my therapist left Catholic Charities, and I made her a CD that organized my magical mental health in song form. I drew a human brain on the CD using Sharpies. I drew the brain in rainbow colors and loaded it with songs. I started off with the Johnny Cash version of "Hurt", moved along through such sad girl classics as "Save me" (Aimee Mann) and "Because of You" (Kelly Clarkson). The disc gets less depressing with songs like "In Between Days" (Ben Folds' cover, naturally) beforing ending with "Proud" (yes, the song from The Biggest Loser, a show I kind of despise for reasons I won't get into here).
"You made a mix tape for your shrink!" My friend Paul could barely get the words out, he was laughing so hard at the idea.
I like to think I take a creative approach to mental illness. Over the years, I've made my shrink cookies, crocheted her a hat and scarf, and passed along Hungarian recipes. She's helped me to realize that I can't change other people. Sometimes, I can't fathom changing myself, but I keep trying, at least where it matters the most.
A few years ago, I'd cry for hours if the cat got out. I once wept uncontrollably because I couldn't find my keys. Which were in my car's ignition. I don't do those things anymore.
I don't know that I always see the forrest for the trees. I'm trying to imagine the mortar, block and glass that'll be my city when I'm done. When will I be done? Are we ever really finished? Don't ask me. I'm crazy. But I get the job done.*
*Litter box cleaning not included.
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Ben Folds Project: Jackson Cannery
I'm starting a new project. I love Ben Folds. Why? Because he's a genius. His sense of humor, the brilliance of his piano playing, the plaintive keen/whiteboy whine in his voice....I don't know if Ben Folds is perfect as a musician, but he's the perfect musician for me.
I'm going to use his songs as jumping off points for blog posts. Some of the posts will have almost nothing to do with the songs. Some of the posts might describe the things I associate with the songs. No rules, just Ben and me.
#1: Jackson Cannery
(Track 1, Ben Folds Five, 1995)
Stop the Bus....Don't want to be lonely
I do lonely well. Better than I do almost anything else, or, at least, I do it more often than I do other things or other moods. I go to bars alone. I don't drink. I might meet acquaintances. I dance by myself. I watch pretty people mime intercourse and simultaneously envy and disdain them. I leave, alone. To my apartment, alone. To bed. Alone.
I go to the bookstore. I put on makeup. Maybe someone will talk to me. Maybe a man. Maybe I'll run into friends. It's happened. I talk to the barristas in the bookstore cafe. I know their names and college majors. I bring them cookies at Christmas. I've lived in Toledo for ten years. I've been invited to exactly two Christmas parties.
Odd that I love Chirstmas. I bake and give gingerbread men to friends. No one ever gives me cookies. My friends don't bake. Or host parties. They work. They date. They have children. I press my face against the glass and watch couples looking at wedding magazines. I see young mothers choosing picture books. Goth kids in little clusters, talking and laughing. I drink coffee by myself. I go home alone.
Weekends, I scramble. I call and text and e-mail. I chat. No one has time. No one wants to have coffee or see a movie or come to my place so I can make them a lovely dinner. No one feels like singing or dancing or talking. I go to the bookstore. I go to the grocery at 10 pm on a Saturday night. I think the place will be empty, but it's full of couples. Old, toothless men in wifebeaters with the wives I hope they're not actually beating. Yuppies giggling over the bottle of pinot grigio they're buying. A black woman in a sleeveless sundress, hair dyed platinum. She has to weigh 250 pounds, but there's a guy walking by her cart, carrying her purse. I buy ingredients to make risotto. I scale the recipe for one and go home alone.
Stop the bus. Stop it. Don't. Ben's right. Seconds pass slowly. Days go flying by. Just....stop.
I'm going to use his songs as jumping off points for blog posts. Some of the posts will have almost nothing to do with the songs. Some of the posts might describe the things I associate with the songs. No rules, just Ben and me.
#1: Jackson Cannery
(Track 1, Ben Folds Five, 1995)
Stop the Bus....Don't want to be lonely
I do lonely well. Better than I do almost anything else, or, at least, I do it more often than I do other things or other moods. I go to bars alone. I don't drink. I might meet acquaintances. I dance by myself. I watch pretty people mime intercourse and simultaneously envy and disdain them. I leave, alone. To my apartment, alone. To bed. Alone.
I go to the bookstore. I put on makeup. Maybe someone will talk to me. Maybe a man. Maybe I'll run into friends. It's happened. I talk to the barristas in the bookstore cafe. I know their names and college majors. I bring them cookies at Christmas. I've lived in Toledo for ten years. I've been invited to exactly two Christmas parties.
Odd that I love Chirstmas. I bake and give gingerbread men to friends. No one ever gives me cookies. My friends don't bake. Or host parties. They work. They date. They have children. I press my face against the glass and watch couples looking at wedding magazines. I see young mothers choosing picture books. Goth kids in little clusters, talking and laughing. I drink coffee by myself. I go home alone.
Weekends, I scramble. I call and text and e-mail. I chat. No one has time. No one wants to have coffee or see a movie or come to my place so I can make them a lovely dinner. No one feels like singing or dancing or talking. I go to the bookstore. I go to the grocery at 10 pm on a Saturday night. I think the place will be empty, but it's full of couples. Old, toothless men in wifebeaters with the wives I hope they're not actually beating. Yuppies giggling over the bottle of pinot grigio they're buying. A black woman in a sleeveless sundress, hair dyed platinum. She has to weigh 250 pounds, but there's a guy walking by her cart, carrying her purse. I buy ingredients to make risotto. I scale the recipe for one and go home alone.
Stop the bus. Stop it. Don't. Ben's right. Seconds pass slowly. Days go flying by. Just....stop.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Late
Late at night, when I can't sleep, I sometimes read his blog. The one with the halitosis. The one with the twin bed and the artsy, smoky roommates. Him. And I wonder how it is that a man who had breath like an unflushed toilet, a man who expressed fear of soup and who had never eaten a strawberry before I fed one to him, I wonder how a man like that can have a girlfriend when I'm alone.
And I look at pictures of the other one. The one who called me a whore because he was terrified I'd write about him. The last guy who kissed me. I wonder if he's the last guy ever. I really hope not.
What have I learned? Tall isn't a good personal quality. Nice isn't enough. I need to remember to brush my tongue.
It's something, no?
And I look at pictures of the other one. The one who called me a whore because he was terrified I'd write about him. The last guy who kissed me. I wonder if he's the last guy ever. I really hope not.
What have I learned? Tall isn't a good personal quality. Nice isn't enough. I need to remember to brush my tongue.
It's something, no?
Monday, August 31, 2009
Death, Birth, Phlegm
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.
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.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
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.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Blade of Glory
My hometown paper, the Toledo Blade, ran an interview with be about the book. There's a really nice picture -- I look borderline thinnish. The reporter did a lovely job. I'm always amazed when people like me, even after all this time and all the work I've done towards being a fine, funny and likable person.
The reporter did say I went to Boston College. I did not! I went to Boston University. Go terriers. I don't know where to, but go...someplace.
Anyway, here's the awesome Blade story.
It'll be linked to the right as well. Along with, of course, the link to the book at Amazon UK. I've heard it runs about $20 including the shipping. If you buy a copy, feel free to find me at Borders Toledo. I'm there a lot and will happily sign the book for you. I will allow you to buy me coffee, too, should you desire that special privilege. If you want to make sure I'll be around to sign the book, feel free to e-mail me through the blog.
The reporter did say I went to Boston College. I did not! I went to Boston University. Go terriers. I don't know where to, but go...someplace.
Anyway, here's the awesome Blade story.
It'll be linked to the right as well. Along with, of course, the link to the book at Amazon UK. I've heard it runs about $20 including the shipping. If you buy a copy, feel free to find me at Borders Toledo. I'm there a lot and will happily sign the book for you. I will allow you to buy me coffee, too, should you desire that special privilege. If you want to make sure I'll be around to sign the book, feel free to e-mail me through the blog.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Pawning Obama
I walked two miles to see Barrack Obama speak. I stood in line with hundreds of other Toledoans, all of us trying to chug our bottled water or turn on cell phones (so they wouldn’t seem like weapons) or remove metal items from our pockets. I saw a thin man with grey hair holding a sign about not voting for baby killing Muslims. I gave him the finger for a solid two minutes before making my way to the metal detectors.
The Seagate Center held two thousand of us, all hopeful, or at least intrigued by the idea of Change we can Believe In. Ohio politicians took the stage, one after another, to tell us about clean coal, solar panels (locally made!) and the black hole of evil that is the George W. Bush administration. The crowd booed and cheered in all the right places.
A tall, thin man, resplendent in a three-piece suit, made his way to the podium. Because he was black, the audience stood and cheered before realizing the man was not, in fact, Obama, but a campaign staffer intent on adjusting the podium mike. The nervous laughter of a thousand suburban white people filled the cavernous hall, a space not unlike a high school gym, before a local auto worker took the stage to perform the final introduction.
“I’ve been laid off fourteen weeks so far this year,” he told us. “I just want my four children to have coats this winter.” He made some less depressing, more crowd pleasing exhortations, and we all leapt to our feet to chant “O-Bam-Ah, O-Bam-Ah” as the candidate finally made his way across the stage, smiling broadly and waving.
Barrack Obama expressed concern about the state of the economy (“in the crapper,” my mother, the amateur economist, had put it just hours before).
“Your 401-K might be a 101-K,” the great man quipped. “The question isn’t ‘Are you better off than you were four years ago’, but ‘Are you better off than you were four weeks ago’,” he solemnly intoned, shaking his head presidentially.
I feel his pain, or, rather, the pain of other similar middle class people. My college friends have prospered, and they worry about investments. The last guy who dumped me (“I can’t do the boyfriend/girlfriend thing,” he told me as we snuggled together in bed) drove three hours to Columbus so he could rescue his money from Charles Schwab. I have no 401-K. I have no mortgage and am lucky to have rent money about half the time. As a self employed person who struggled with disability my entire adult life, I had -$200 in the bank as Barrack Obama stood before me, promising to help me send my (non-existent) children to college.
Walking home from the speech, I passed a pawn shop, doubled back, and sold the gold necklace I’d put on that morning on the off chance that I might appear in news photos or in television footage of the crowd. The pawnbroker counted a fifty and a hundred into my palm, and I deposited most of the money, bringing my total net worth up to an awe-inspiring -$87.
As I passed homeless shelters and free stores run by churches, I thought about the speech, the man, and the words he’d spoken. One thought had pierced the thick bubble of my self-pitying bemusement. Obama told us that we could aspire, as our grandparents had, as his grandparents had, to greater things. Just as the man denied his rights by a poll tax had dreamed of his son or grandson running for congress, for the senate, for the presidency itself.
Somehow, the hope a politician offered up seemed real to me, useful. My feet ached, and I touched my throat, surprised momentarily by the absence of the necklace. I shrugged, shook my head, and walked slowly toward home.
The Seagate Center held two thousand of us, all hopeful, or at least intrigued by the idea of Change we can Believe In. Ohio politicians took the stage, one after another, to tell us about clean coal, solar panels (locally made!) and the black hole of evil that is the George W. Bush administration. The crowd booed and cheered in all the right places.
A tall, thin man, resplendent in a three-piece suit, made his way to the podium. Because he was black, the audience stood and cheered before realizing the man was not, in fact, Obama, but a campaign staffer intent on adjusting the podium mike. The nervous laughter of a thousand suburban white people filled the cavernous hall, a space not unlike a high school gym, before a local auto worker took the stage to perform the final introduction.
“I’ve been laid off fourteen weeks so far this year,” he told us. “I just want my four children to have coats this winter.” He made some less depressing, more crowd pleasing exhortations, and we all leapt to our feet to chant “O-Bam-Ah, O-Bam-Ah” as the candidate finally made his way across the stage, smiling broadly and waving.
Barrack Obama expressed concern about the state of the economy (“in the crapper,” my mother, the amateur economist, had put it just hours before).
“Your 401-K might be a 101-K,” the great man quipped. “The question isn’t ‘Are you better off than you were four years ago’, but ‘Are you better off than you were four weeks ago’,” he solemnly intoned, shaking his head presidentially.
I feel his pain, or, rather, the pain of other similar middle class people. My college friends have prospered, and they worry about investments. The last guy who dumped me (“I can’t do the boyfriend/girlfriend thing,” he told me as we snuggled together in bed) drove three hours to Columbus so he could rescue his money from Charles Schwab. I have no 401-K. I have no mortgage and am lucky to have rent money about half the time. As a self employed person who struggled with disability my entire adult life, I had -$200 in the bank as Barrack Obama stood before me, promising to help me send my (non-existent) children to college.
Walking home from the speech, I passed a pawn shop, doubled back, and sold the gold necklace I’d put on that morning on the off chance that I might appear in news photos or in television footage of the crowd. The pawnbroker counted a fifty and a hundred into my palm, and I deposited most of the money, bringing my total net worth up to an awe-inspiring -$87.
As I passed homeless shelters and free stores run by churches, I thought about the speech, the man, and the words he’d spoken. One thought had pierced the thick bubble of my self-pitying bemusement. Obama told us that we could aspire, as our grandparents had, as his grandparents had, to greater things. Just as the man denied his rights by a poll tax had dreamed of his son or grandson running for congress, for the senate, for the presidency itself.
Somehow, the hope a politician offered up seemed real to me, useful. My feet ached, and I touched my throat, surprised momentarily by the absence of the necklace. I shrugged, shook my head, and walked slowly toward home.
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