“Welcome to Verizon Online. If you are calling about home DSL service, press 1.”
I was so excited. I just cancelled my EarthLink account. I cancelled after spending two weeks on the phone with their off-shore technical service because my DSL connection had ceased. No, wait, “off-shore” is too nearby. Let’s get accurate here. I had spent two weeks on the phone with their eleventh circle of Hell technical service. Better, much better. So yes, I cancelled EarthLink.
I shouted, “I cancel you! I cancel you! I cancel you!” Slam, slam, slam the phone down hard in its shivering cradle. Three times is the charm, as they say. Three times to divorce, three times to cancel.
“Welcome to Verizon Online. Please listen carefully to our menu options as they have changed. For orders, press 1. For billing, press 2. To cancel, press 3.”
Eager as a beaver, I pressed 1 again. A long message ensued, telling me the virtual history of Verizon, the origins of man, the fact that I’d dialed the wrong number if I didn’t have a Verizon phone line. Since Verizon owned my phone line, I stayed on the line. I continued to hang on even though ten minutes had already elapsed because I was so excited to get my brand spankin’ new DSL service.
“Hello this is Karen at Verizon DSL, how may I help you?”
“I’d like to order Verizon DSL! Hook me up, baby!”
“May I have your phone number?”
I give it. She asks, “What’s your name?”
“Adriana Bliss! That’s me! Adriana B as in boy, L as is lion-hearted, I as in I’m hooked on DSL, S as in super-Callafrajalistic, S as in super-excited-to-get-DSL!”
“I’m sorry, I have no record of you. Who is your telephone provider?”
“Verizon.”
“And your name is?”
“I just gave it to you.”
“Whose name is on the account?”
“My husband.”
“His name is…”
I gave it, knowing there’d be issues being that I still use my maiden name. “Look, Bliss is my appointed name. D is my husband.”
“Do you give us permission to look at your records?”
“Yes, by golly.”
“Would you like us to review your records to see if you have the best deal for your telephone service?”
“Not really, I just want to order Verizon DSL. Hook me up, baby!”
“I do need to look at your records as far as your order is concerned.”
”Fine, whatever it takes.”
“I see that you’re paying a little more than you should. For $44 per month you can have all these features and more, plus we can bind your regular service bill with your Verizon Wireless service. Would you like to do that right now?”
”Not now…just want the DSL, that good old-fashioned DSL.”
“Sorry for the inconvenience. Do you give us permission to look at your wireless records?”
“NO!!! Just give me the freaking DSL!”
“You don’t need to use that language with me, m’am.”
“I think I do, considering you refuse to take my order for DSL.”
“Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place?”
I said nothing, choosing instead to yank a thick lock of hair out of my head and rake fingernails down my chest. She then proceeded to spend the next thirty minutes taking down information. You know, the basics, my name and address. She entered it, then lost it, entered it again, lost it. Entered it a last time.
“Sorry for the inconvenience.”
We finally got to the section about equipment. “For $49.99 you can have the Gateway combination router and modem. How’s that sound?”
“Ohhhh…that sounds lovely. Yes, hook me up, baby!”
“Oh. Hm.”
“What?”
“Can’t do it.”
“Why not?!”
“Computer won’t let me.”
“Well, override it!”
“Can’t do it. Hm. Never seen this before.” She whispers to someone other than me, “Get me a supervisor.” Returns to me. “Sorry. Can’t do it. I’ll look into it.”
“Great,” I said, knowing the problem would die on the vine like a sad fungus-ridden tomato.
“We’ll just send you the regular modem for $29.99. Would you like that in one payment or three?”
“Oh hell, make it three.”
The kids by this time are mewing for food at my feet, licking my legs and kicking the hell out of each other, so I pushed hard to conclude our deal. She promised nothing, letting me know Verizon will be in touch as to the installation date. Within hours, I got an e-mail (because EarthLink hasn’t disconnected me yet) saying there was a problem.
A delay.
Next day I called because I couldn’t bear to spend any time immediately with any sort of agent of anything…and as soon as I dialed the toll-free number, a computer responds to me with my very own telephone number, asking if I’m calling from that number, which is strange because I have a blocked number. How can the computer know my number if my number is specifically blocked? Strange indeed. Anyway, I listened to a message that said, “You’re scheduled for installation on the 26th. This information is the most updated information any agent or I can give you,” meaning I don’t get to talk to anybody. There is no prompt to speak with a live person, just sends me to the main menu where if respond accurately, I’ll get to the same message again. I tried again. This time I’m clever and deny that the number I’m calling from is actually the number, deny that I’m calling about my DSL order, deny that I’m even interested in Verizon…finally reaching a live agent who shoves me off to her supervisor who informs me that my order has been cancelled.
Yes, you read that correctly. I was cancelled before I even got started.
“EarthLink has to release the line before we can check to see whether you can get DSL or not.”
“But I have DSL.”
“We need to check that.”
“I’ve been paying an ungodly amount of money for over two years for fast-as-fire DSL. So obviously I have DSL.”
“We need to verify that.”
“I’m verifying it for you!”
“My superiors in provisioning need to confirm that. So anyway, as soon as EarthLink releases the line, then we can check this and then we’ll get you started again. You’ll need to re-order.”
“RE-order?”
“Yes, re-order the day after EarthLink releases the line. Provided we can verify that EarthLink has released the line.”
My screaming had the man hanging the phone up delicately, saying, “Sorry for the inconvenience.”
I called EarthLink, demanding that they release the line. They said it would take ten to fifteen days. Sometime in mid-October. I tore into the agent who sent me to a supervisor, laughing as she did so, saying there wasn’t anything she could do, that I was in line, in a queue, to be released along with all the other people who were canceling EarthLink like the lemmings we are.
She transferred me to a supervisor, but not before keeping me on hold for ten minutes. After ten minutes she returned to inform me that the supervisors were very busy.
“And what am I? NOT busy?”
“I’m so sorry for the inconvenience,” she said before putting on the elevator music.
The EarthLink supervisor finally picked up and reiterated what the agent said, that it would take ten to fifteen days. Please be assured that I told them how absurd that was, how downright criminal that was to keep my line tied up after I cancelled them. He was silent. I did notice however that when I got off the phone and attempted to dial in that I no longer had dial-up internet access. EarthLink may not have released the line, but they certainly cut off my internet access.
I called Verizon and after fooling the computer into thinking my number wasn’t my number and I wasn’t calling about DSL or anything remotely related to the internet or even planet earth, I landed with technical support. The Verizon agent advised me that there was good news, that EarthLink was releasing the line on the 25th of September. Once the 25th passed, Verizon could check DSL and if I passed the check, they could install DSL on the 27th.
“Cool, so you’ll send me the equipment now? This way I’ll have equipment to hook up on the 27th, right?”
“Sorry. Can’t do that.”
“WHY NOT?!”
“We can’t send you anything until we know you can get DSL.”
“I GET DSL!”
“Would you like to speak to my supervisor?”
“You bet your sweet bippy, I do!”
“Here you go.”
Dial tone. She disconnected me. I dialed again, working like a snake, winding my way around the automated system which would otherwise send me to the recording that repeated my blocked telephone number and assured me that my installation date of the 26th was, “the most updated information any agent or I can give you. Thank you for using Verizon. If you have any further questions, please visit our website at www.verizon.com.”
Now…how can I visit their website if I don’t have any internet access?!
Well, I’m sure they’re speaking about people who have Verizon dial-up access. But what about for those who are just getting DSL, who don’t have any internet access at home? They offer the same information at their technical support prompt, the support for people who have trouble with their internet access, and are put on hold. While on hold, I sat through a repeating message about visiting their website. Sort of like rubbing my nose in it, mocking my complete lack of internet access. I hung up on technical support. I decide to call the sales department since my first call before I cancelled EarthLink had been so successful, my fishing call, the information call. The gentleman had been kind and knowledgeable. He seemed like a real person. So human.
“Wow, that’s quite a mess,” the sales guy said to me after hearing my sob story. “Unfortunately I can’t help you at all because we’re a third party vendor.”
Meaning the sales department for Verizon DSL isn’t actually Verizon. Which makes me think the technical support isn’t Verizon and neither is the billing department or the provisioning department or the installation department or the access department. Which makes me wonder, “What is Verizon?”
“It’s PEOPLE!”
Or some terrorist cell organization. One cell can’t know what the other cell is doing otherwise their push to take over the world will be sabotaged. Or perhaps it’s run by aliens. Or maybe the computer has finally taken over. There are no people behind Verizon. Instead, it’s one main computer gone amok.
I call the technical support number again. Lie to the computer. Technical support sends me to shipping. Shipping says I don’t exist and sends me back to technical support which sends me to a supervisor. I demand they send me the equipment but they refuse even though I begged them to please, PLEASE just put a modem in a box and send it to me so that when DSL gets installed I’ll have the equipment in place, all ready to go.
“We need to verify that you have DSL capability first. That’s how we do things here, that’s how the disintegrating memo we received last week told us to do it. That and the buzzing chip that was implanted into my brain sometime in the night when I first got hired on here at Verizon Pluto…I mean, Verizon. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
The 26th rolled around. I called Verizon. I said, “Today’s the 26th, hook me up, baby!”
The technical support agent that I reached after lying to the computer about my blocked phone number spends about ten minutes saying, “Hmm,” and “Mm hmm.”
She says to me, “I need to transfer you to sales.”
“Sales can’t do anything for me because it’s not Verizon.”
There’s no argument. She says, “Hmm.” Then transfers me to the toll free number. After I lie to the computer, I land in technical support once again. New agent. Not a supervisor.
She asks, “Can I have your number?”
“You know it, the computer knows it, I know it, and they know it.”
“Can I have your number?”
“Why am I here? Another technical support transferred me to you – I don’t want you – I want someone—”
“Can I have your number?”
Because it’s clearly a battle I cannot win, I capitulate. I give my number and demand to speak to a supervisor. She transfers me after putting me on hold for ten minutes.
I get one named Dennis.
“Welcome to Verizon where the customer is king!”
“Where’s my DSL equipment and when will my DSL be installed?”
“Ah yes…and you are?”
“Adriana Bliss.”
“But you don’t hold the account.”
“No.”
“What’s the address – just confirm it for me please.”
I do and we begin the dance again where I tell him what I want and he avoids answering like one avoids the plague.
“We have to wait for the go ahead before we can install.”
“And who gives the go-ahead?”
“The access department.”
“Who can I speak to there?”
“Well, they’re not really the deciders. They’re waiting for the provisioning department to give them the final okay.”
“Who can I talk to there?”
“Well, they’re not in charge of the actual line. The engineering department is.”
“Who can I talk to there?”
“Nobody ever talks to them.”
“Oh…my…god. So it’s like the Dark Brotherhood in Oblivion.”
“In what?”
“Never mind…so the engineering department, the group who actually checks the wire and gives the okay cannot be reached by anybody, you included?”
“That’s right. We wait for the go-ahead. And updating the consumer records with the go-ahead will take forty-eight hours.”
“Forty-eight hours for the engineering department to tell the provisioning department to tell the provisioning department to update the consumer records so that you can THEN tell me to order Verizon which will THEN allow you to mail out the equipment which will take five business days.”
“Five to ten business days.”
“So I won’t have a working internet until sometime before Christmas.”
He chuckles, “Oh I’m sure we’ll get it up before Thanksgiving.”
I slam the phone down, “I cancel you! I cancel you! I cancel you!”
The Yellow Pages must offer some other DSL options, no? Our country has not been eaten up entirely by Verizon. I call Adelphia for cable. They tell me it will be near $50 and will take ten working days to get someone to my house. I call DirectTV for the satellite option. After listening to the automated system and elevator music for ten minutes, I go into seizure and am forced to stop. I call a couple of numbers. One takes me to an adult entertainment outfit and another is residential number.
“Is this Freebie DSL Service?”
He sighs. “No, this is a residential number.”
“Oh, is this 555-7676?”
“Yes, but it’s my personal number.”
“You’re in the Yellow Pages, you know.”
“Yup, I know.”
“So sorry for the inconvenience.”
So here I sit, waiting for EarthLink to formally disconnect, Verizon to assure I have/had DSL, and then…to hook me up. And then…to wait for the equipment to get here. And you know, I don’t even know that DSL will work because…after all…the failed DSL is why I was calling EarthLink for technical support in the first place.
I laugh now. I laugh and laugh and laugh as I take a huge dose of Vicodin (thanks, Patrick!) and a shot of vodka to wash down those bitter pills. Then I straighten myself out at the podium for my lecture on Constitutional Law to my eager evening students. I end up ranting about EarthLink and Verizon. The overhead then fails. No connection, no signal, the computer tells me. I think about the shows TiVo is recording, thankful that something technological actually works. Besides my phone…my working Verizon phone that’s run by people-eating, alien terrorist-cell organizers.
See you next week, folks, the next time I can get access to some computer somewhere with an internet that works!
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Going Off Line
Well, well...Earthlink finally disconnected me after a "conversation" I had with a supervisor. BUT Verizon won't be up and running (let's all pray!) until next week. So...offline. I'll be internetless for a while other than logging on at school.
See you then. Thanks everyone for the comments...LOL. Eleventh circle of hell, I tell ya'!
See you then. Thanks everyone for the comments...LOL. Eleventh circle of hell, I tell ya'!
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Dialing In
The good thing about dial-up internet, for me, is that I tend to not dial up at all which has been fantastic for my computer video game skills. A and I have shot up in the Oblivion ranks since the Sunday before last – bring on the buying of houses and unlocking of very hard locks and the big, powerful weaponry. Now, if only I could use that weaponry in a dark, medieval alley while facing Earthlink technical support gurus.
[breathe]
Here’s a story for you. So one sunny day, the Sunday before last, after checking e-mail using the same connection, the same modem, everything the same, that I’d been using for nigh onto three years, I left the house to finally purchase a new computer. Bought a Gateway. Brought it home, hooked it up. Copied over old files from my backup drive.
Good to go.
Next step was the internet. Hooked up the modem that mere hours before I’d been using with my laptop. Tried to set up the connection myself.
Didn’t work. No DSL. No connection.
Called Earthlink, that down-home Pasadena company that grew from a little nothing into a big noth— okay, big company. Now, dialing Earthlink is no easy task. Really, it’s comparable to any far-reaching task on a medieval video game. I have to push buttons, wait, perform magic tricks, wait, dance the two-step, wait, and wait some more. After many sweat-provoking minutes, I finally reached the comforting, smart-sounding lilt of a Bombay accent. Technical support walked me through two steps before deciding to send me to the “level 2” technical support since the modem wouldn’t connect.
“I am so sorry for the inconvenience.”
Then they disconnected me.
I dialed Earthlink again, waiting, waiting, waiting. Got technical support. “Hello, this is Sarna, how can I help you today?”
“I just got disconnected.”
“I am so sorry for the inconvenience.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No, yes, yes, no, I am so sorry. Welcome to Eart-link, the little engine that koood.”
“Koood?”
“Yes, koood. Can I have your Eart-link address?”
“I already gave it to the other guy.”
“There is no other guy, there is only me. I am your last salbation.”
“Salbation?”
“Yes, salbation. Can I confirm your name?”
“Fine, fine…Adriana Bliss.”
“I have no record of that name, vaya con dios. Please allow me the transfer to the sales department where you can get Eart-link at a discounted rate for new customers for six months. T-ank you.”
“No transfer!! My modem doesn’t work! Fix it!”
“Can I have your e-mail address?”
“Yes, fine, ABliss at Earthlink dot net.”
“APlist at Eart-link dot net?”
“No, A-B-L-I-S-S at Earthlink dot net.”
“That is A as in apple, P as in Paul—”
“No, B as in Brown.”
“Okay, Adriana at ABliss at Eart-link dot net. Let me pull up the notes. I see, your modem does not connect. You need a level 2 technical support.”
“Please don’t disconnect me.”
“I will make sure there is no disconnection. Thank you for using Eart-link technical support.”
I heard the music of two keys being punched in and then the nightmare of the dial tone. I’d been disconnected again.
I tried yet again, and got disconnected again.
I tried one more time (please note, by this last time, I’d downed two shots of Vodka and was laughing loudly, the lilt of my very own Bombay accent bouncing off the walls, through my darkened home), except this last time, the technical support advised me that there was no way level 2 would ever answer as they were closed and would not reopen until the next morning.
Wheeeeee!
The next day, Monday, Earthlink advised me through a level 2 technical support lady in India that most likely my modem died and thus for the low price of $25.00 they would ship me the latest in technology. I should get the new modem by Friday.
Friday came. I plugged in the modem. I tried to connect and it failed.
“Error: Remote computer doesn’t answer.”
I rang up Earthlink. Waited, danced, performed the magical tricks, etc. After getting disconnected only once, the support tech in India said, “We need to have Verizon check the line. This will take three days.”
I slammed the phone down, like five times, sending children and a husband to my side. I fainted. They put cold towels on my head and M cried by my side. When I reawakened, my husband handed me a shot of ice-cold vodka. Smiled. Said, sorry for the inconvenience.
Verizon came out while I was at a soccer game on Saturday, surprising the hell out of me. My husband called in a panic, “I don’t know what to say! Where do I send them?! What’s a modem?! What’s a DSL?!”
“Lemme talk to him,” I said, “lemme at him!”
“Hello this is Vernon from Verizon DSL. DSL works fine. Must be the internal wiring in your house.”
“Can you check that for me?”
“Can’t do it. You don’t have Verizon DSL which you could have for only $17.99 a month with a twelve-month commitment.”
“No, I have Eart-link.”
“Well, call them and tell them they have to check the inside wiring.”
“They say they’re not responsible.”
“Who owns your phone?”
“Verizon.”
He checked with his boss. “So sorry, but there’s no record of you at Verizon.”
“So how does Earthlink think I’m getting DSL?”
“Whatever it is, it’s not Verizon DSL. Call Earthlink. They’re responsible for the connection from the outside of your house to your computer.”
A ball flew past me, hitting a small child. Blood splattered, parents panicked, grass flattened, I cried.
I called Earthlink, sitting through that outrageous voice mail system and talked to a technical support.
“Verizon said they’re not responsible for the internal wiring, you are.”
“Who owns your phone?”
“Verizon.”
“Call Verizon.”
“I DID!! There’s no record of me!”
“I am so sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Wait…wait…tell me this what does your computer say as to how I’m receiving DSL? Wait, wait…how would you know how American phone systems work?”
“I took a class. Let me explain to you.” After some gibberish, he assured me that I needed to contact my local Verizon and/or a private company. “Homeowners are responsible for their internal wiring and phone jacks.”
When I got home, I called the local Verizon which said they could check the inside wiring with regard to the regular phone but not for DSL. They referred me to some other company, a private company in San Fernando Valley. I pulled out my Yellow pages. Reached Jesse at a local telephone/DSL/computer/networking/communications company. He said he could be here Monday afternoon at 2:00 p.m.
He got to my house at 6:00 p.m.
After fiddling with some multi-colored wires and hanging on the side of my house, he then advised me that my modem did not work (no shit!!), that the DSL was not working even when they hooked my modem directly to the end of the Verizon wire.
“But Verizon said it worked.”
“You have Verizon DSL?”
“No, Eart-link.”
“Geez…why don’t you have Verizon DSL? It’s like $17.99 a month. How much you pay?”
“Lots.”
He shook his head, “I’ll talk to Verizon, but your modem doesn’t work. Call Earthlink. Okay, my visit was $45.”
I wrote a check. Then I called Earthlink.
Jason from Bombay answered and after pulling up notes said, “Your modem doesn’t work because it’s the latest technology. Your Verizon wire however is the oldest DSL technology. It needs to be changed from frame rate to ATM. Once we change, your modem will work.”
“How long will that take? And why on God’s green earth didn’t anyone notice this a week ago when you sent me the latest technology modem?!”
“I am so sorry for the inconvenience. Changing the transfer will take two to three weeks.”
I slammed the phone down. Several times. I banged my head against the desk. I cried. Yelped. Sassy pooped in my office.
The next day…no, yesterday, I called Earthlink and cancelled my account. I contacted Verizon DSL and am currently waiting for new home installation kit. Of course, there are delays.
See, I have to get Earthlink to disconnect me first. Then it will take Verizon five days or so to process and get DSL turned on…
Wheeeeeee!!! Where’s the crack pipe when I need it?
[breathe]
Here’s a story for you. So one sunny day, the Sunday before last, after checking e-mail using the same connection, the same modem, everything the same, that I’d been using for nigh onto three years, I left the house to finally purchase a new computer. Bought a Gateway. Brought it home, hooked it up. Copied over old files from my backup drive.
Good to go.
Next step was the internet. Hooked up the modem that mere hours before I’d been using with my laptop. Tried to set up the connection myself.
Didn’t work. No DSL. No connection.
Called Earthlink, that down-home Pasadena company that grew from a little nothing into a big noth— okay, big company. Now, dialing Earthlink is no easy task. Really, it’s comparable to any far-reaching task on a medieval video game. I have to push buttons, wait, perform magic tricks, wait, dance the two-step, wait, and wait some more. After many sweat-provoking minutes, I finally reached the comforting, smart-sounding lilt of a Bombay accent. Technical support walked me through two steps before deciding to send me to the “level 2” technical support since the modem wouldn’t connect.
“I am so sorry for the inconvenience.”
Then they disconnected me.
I dialed Earthlink again, waiting, waiting, waiting. Got technical support. “Hello, this is Sarna, how can I help you today?”
“I just got disconnected.”
“I am so sorry for the inconvenience.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No, yes, yes, no, I am so sorry. Welcome to Eart-link, the little engine that koood.”
“Koood?”
“Yes, koood. Can I have your Eart-link address?”
“I already gave it to the other guy.”
“There is no other guy, there is only me. I am your last salbation.”
“Salbation?”
“Yes, salbation. Can I confirm your name?”
“Fine, fine…Adriana Bliss.”
“I have no record of that name, vaya con dios. Please allow me the transfer to the sales department where you can get Eart-link at a discounted rate for new customers for six months. T-ank you.”
“No transfer!! My modem doesn’t work! Fix it!”
“Can I have your e-mail address?”
“Yes, fine, ABliss at Earthlink dot net.”
“APlist at Eart-link dot net?”
“No, A-B-L-I-S-S at Earthlink dot net.”
“That is A as in apple, P as in Paul—”
“No, B as in Brown.”
“Okay, Adriana at ABliss at Eart-link dot net. Let me pull up the notes. I see, your modem does not connect. You need a level 2 technical support.”
“Please don’t disconnect me.”
“I will make sure there is no disconnection. Thank you for using Eart-link technical support.”
I heard the music of two keys being punched in and then the nightmare of the dial tone. I’d been disconnected again.
I tried yet again, and got disconnected again.
I tried one more time (please note, by this last time, I’d downed two shots of Vodka and was laughing loudly, the lilt of my very own Bombay accent bouncing off the walls, through my darkened home), except this last time, the technical support advised me that there was no way level 2 would ever answer as they were closed and would not reopen until the next morning.
Wheeeeee!
The next day, Monday, Earthlink advised me through a level 2 technical support lady in India that most likely my modem died and thus for the low price of $25.00 they would ship me the latest in technology. I should get the new modem by Friday.
Friday came. I plugged in the modem. I tried to connect and it failed.
“Error: Remote computer doesn’t answer.”
I rang up Earthlink. Waited, danced, performed the magical tricks, etc. After getting disconnected only once, the support tech in India said, “We need to have Verizon check the line. This will take three days.”
I slammed the phone down, like five times, sending children and a husband to my side. I fainted. They put cold towels on my head and M cried by my side. When I reawakened, my husband handed me a shot of ice-cold vodka. Smiled. Said, sorry for the inconvenience.
Verizon came out while I was at a soccer game on Saturday, surprising the hell out of me. My husband called in a panic, “I don’t know what to say! Where do I send them?! What’s a modem?! What’s a DSL?!”
“Lemme talk to him,” I said, “lemme at him!”
“Hello this is Vernon from Verizon DSL. DSL works fine. Must be the internal wiring in your house.”
“Can you check that for me?”
“Can’t do it. You don’t have Verizon DSL which you could have for only $17.99 a month with a twelve-month commitment.”
“No, I have Eart-link.”
“Well, call them and tell them they have to check the inside wiring.”
“They say they’re not responsible.”
“Who owns your phone?”
“Verizon.”
He checked with his boss. “So sorry, but there’s no record of you at Verizon.”
“So how does Earthlink think I’m getting DSL?”
“Whatever it is, it’s not Verizon DSL. Call Earthlink. They’re responsible for the connection from the outside of your house to your computer.”
A ball flew past me, hitting a small child. Blood splattered, parents panicked, grass flattened, I cried.
I called Earthlink, sitting through that outrageous voice mail system and talked to a technical support.
“Verizon said they’re not responsible for the internal wiring, you are.”
“Who owns your phone?”
“Verizon.”
“Call Verizon.”
“I DID!! There’s no record of me!”
“I am so sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Wait…wait…tell me this what does your computer say as to how I’m receiving DSL? Wait, wait…how would you know how American phone systems work?”
“I took a class. Let me explain to you.” After some gibberish, he assured me that I needed to contact my local Verizon and/or a private company. “Homeowners are responsible for their internal wiring and phone jacks.”
When I got home, I called the local Verizon which said they could check the inside wiring with regard to the regular phone but not for DSL. They referred me to some other company, a private company in San Fernando Valley. I pulled out my Yellow pages. Reached Jesse at a local telephone/DSL/computer/networking/communications company. He said he could be here Monday afternoon at 2:00 p.m.
He got to my house at 6:00 p.m.
After fiddling with some multi-colored wires and hanging on the side of my house, he then advised me that my modem did not work (no shit!!), that the DSL was not working even when they hooked my modem directly to the end of the Verizon wire.
“But Verizon said it worked.”
“You have Verizon DSL?”
“No, Eart-link.”
“Geez…why don’t you have Verizon DSL? It’s like $17.99 a month. How much you pay?”
“Lots.”
He shook his head, “I’ll talk to Verizon, but your modem doesn’t work. Call Earthlink. Okay, my visit was $45.”
I wrote a check. Then I called Earthlink.
Jason from Bombay answered and after pulling up notes said, “Your modem doesn’t work because it’s the latest technology. Your Verizon wire however is the oldest DSL technology. It needs to be changed from frame rate to ATM. Once we change, your modem will work.”
“How long will that take? And why on God’s green earth didn’t anyone notice this a week ago when you sent me the latest technology modem?!”
“I am so sorry for the inconvenience. Changing the transfer will take two to three weeks.”
I slammed the phone down. Several times. I banged my head against the desk. I cried. Yelped. Sassy pooped in my office.
The next day…no, yesterday, I called Earthlink and cancelled my account. I contacted Verizon DSL and am currently waiting for new home installation kit. Of course, there are delays.
See, I have to get Earthlink to disconnect me first. Then it will take Verizon five days or so to process and get DSL turned on…
Wheeeeeee!!! Where’s the crack pipe when I need it?
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Hurry, hurry...update...wait...wait some more...
So in addition to my computer crash woes, my DSL modem died. Hahahaha...yes, life just gets better by the day! Out of desperation I plugged my brand-spankin' new 'puter to the phone line.
And here I am.
Nothing but school is happening at the Bliss household, school for me, school for D, school for the kids. J's doing a little better with the tics but he's still not where he has to be in order to get back into the classroom. He's off the Keppra - too much medication with nearly no alleviation. So we're down to Zoloft and a mood stabilizer. Oh and the clonidine patch. I like having him at home, in truth. It's fun to pick up lunch for him after my class. I like having him near me, so I can keep an eye on him. He battles schoolwork, but he does manage to get through the assignments without breaking much of a sweat. Not to sound like him, but I do think he'll be back at school before the semester is over. I have a feeling he'll not be thrilled. He REALLY likes not having to wake up at seven in the morning. Nine works for him just fine.
M has had a delayed reaction to attending kindergarten. Cried on Monday morning. Begging for me to work in the classroom a few days. Really, in truth, she'd rather me pick her up at recess. Morning recess.
A has flown into the routine of school with his usual agonizing misery. Homework hell has officially started. It's to the point where we're going to have to hire a tutor, an older student, to do his homework with him. For some reason he just feels too comfortable fighting D and I as "teachers."
Mmm...well, I'm beat. Just thought to check in. Let you all know I'm alive.
And here I am.
Nothing but school is happening at the Bliss household, school for me, school for D, school for the kids. J's doing a little better with the tics but he's still not where he has to be in order to get back into the classroom. He's off the Keppra - too much medication with nearly no alleviation. So we're down to Zoloft and a mood stabilizer. Oh and the clonidine patch. I like having him at home, in truth. It's fun to pick up lunch for him after my class. I like having him near me, so I can keep an eye on him. He battles schoolwork, but he does manage to get through the assignments without breaking much of a sweat. Not to sound like him, but I do think he'll be back at school before the semester is over. I have a feeling he'll not be thrilled. He REALLY likes not having to wake up at seven in the morning. Nine works for him just fine.
M has had a delayed reaction to attending kindergarten. Cried on Monday morning. Begging for me to work in the classroom a few days. Really, in truth, she'd rather me pick her up at recess. Morning recess.
A has flown into the routine of school with his usual agonizing misery. Homework hell has officially started. It's to the point where we're going to have to hire a tutor, an older student, to do his homework with him. For some reason he just feels too comfortable fighting D and I as "teachers."
Mmm...well, I'm beat. Just thought to check in. Let you all know I'm alive.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
A Thirteenth Birthday Party
I've invited over family, and J's invited a few friends to celebrate his teenagehood. The middle-schoolers will hang out, we'll eat, the little ones will play. D and I debated over the entertainment, deciding in the end to just go traditional. Let the kids entertain themselves. Maybe we'll throw in a Sponge Bob jumper just for kicks.
The other night I found an IM left up on my screen - J was asking a buddy if he wanted to come to the party and as enticement, he said, "There's going to be a big fucking bouncy house."
If that doesn't represent someone in between worlds, I don't what does.
Happy Saturday, everyone.
The other night I found an IM left up on my screen - J was asking a buddy if he wanted to come to the party and as enticement, he said, "There's going to be a big fucking bouncy house."
If that doesn't represent someone in between worlds, I don't what does.
Happy Saturday, everyone.
Friday, September 08, 2006
"What a woman!" Updated
That's one of my favorite quotes and it comes from Disney's "The Aristocats". And...wow...what a woman! An over-50 nurse strangling a bad, bad intruder with her bare hands. Even the BTK killer found choking as a means of death difficult to do because of the strength needed. I keep trying to imagine the event and find myself sort of chuckling, rather darkly I know, at what had to be pure shock on the part of the intruder. "This can't be happening, this CANNOT possibly be happening. I have a hammer AND a penis! Why meeeeeee?!"
***
Hectic week - getting up early every morning to get the two younger kids to school by eight o'clock, coming home to get J set up for his morning with breakfast and his assignments from the home teacher, then jamming to the college to teach my morning class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Wednesdays and Thursdays are tough because on those nights I've got late classes to teach - the school shortened the semester and decided to tack on additional minutes of teaching to the class hours so they want us to hold the students twenty more minutes than we had to last year. I now don't get home until after 10:30. And I never can go to sleep right away - I always find myself awake beyond midnight. Stress can push it to two. Makes getting up the next day for the kids doubly hard.
M decided to entertain D last night while I was at class by jumping off a little puffy chair and spraining her ankle badly. Yeah. She got to experience her first sick day and got us a lovely afternoon at the doctor's office and radiology department. Fun, fun, fun! Wait, wait, wait!
***
Sassy took off out the door AGAIN, after her visit to the groomers that revealed her mad itching wasn't caused by bad skin but by fleas.
***
J loved his iPod. I've had to fight him for computer time, as he works to transfer his favorite cd's over.
***
Lost the internet a couple of days thanks to my modem going wonky, forcing me to use the college's computer to check on e-mail.
***
My desktop's hard drive is kaput. The money I spent for after-warranty customer service and "recovery disks" was a complete waste. I'm pulling the last dollars of my inheritance money to buy a spiffy new computer, the rest of which is still paying for J's and A's doctor. Who's been billing me lately every time we have a phone session that he set up to monitor J's progress on the Zoloft. I appreciate the attention (the neurologist hates dealing with us because J's not responding so well to the treatment, and don't doctors hate that?), but not the charges which our Blue Cross won't pay for.
***
Problem with kaput computer is I will have lost all of July's and August's pictures due to my being lazy and not backing up since late June. And to think that right before the Great Crash, the night before, I had said to myself, "Self, you better back up the drive."
Ahhh...hindsight's a beautiful thing.
At least I hadn't spent the summer finally completing the Great American Novel that was sure to win the Pulitzer.
***
I'm at a creative low.
***
M's hopping all over the house, avoiding putting weight on her injured ankle, and she's quite proud of her skill. I have to say, I don't hop. If I injured my ankle, I'd take the crawling option, probably settling for the lying-down option. Oh, oh...I feel it, I sense it, the sleepiness is coming back, the wish to sleep through my life rather than engage.
***
Lately, whenever I post on the blog, I publish, then republish, then republish again. The bloglines folks must think I'm nuts. Or unsettled. Or uncommitted. Or scatter-brained. Or fluid.
Update: Another tale of a woman taking care of business.
***
Hectic week - getting up early every morning to get the two younger kids to school by eight o'clock, coming home to get J set up for his morning with breakfast and his assignments from the home teacher, then jamming to the college to teach my morning class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Wednesdays and Thursdays are tough because on those nights I've got late classes to teach - the school shortened the semester and decided to tack on additional minutes of teaching to the class hours so they want us to hold the students twenty more minutes than we had to last year. I now don't get home until after 10:30. And I never can go to sleep right away - I always find myself awake beyond midnight. Stress can push it to two. Makes getting up the next day for the kids doubly hard.
M decided to entertain D last night while I was at class by jumping off a little puffy chair and spraining her ankle badly. Yeah. She got to experience her first sick day and got us a lovely afternoon at the doctor's office and radiology department. Fun, fun, fun! Wait, wait, wait!
***
Sassy took off out the door AGAIN, after her visit to the groomers that revealed her mad itching wasn't caused by bad skin but by fleas.
***
J loved his iPod. I've had to fight him for computer time, as he works to transfer his favorite cd's over.
***
Lost the internet a couple of days thanks to my modem going wonky, forcing me to use the college's computer to check on e-mail.
***
My desktop's hard drive is kaput. The money I spent for after-warranty customer service and "recovery disks" was a complete waste. I'm pulling the last dollars of my inheritance money to buy a spiffy new computer, the rest of which is still paying for J's and A's doctor. Who's been billing me lately every time we have a phone session that he set up to monitor J's progress on the Zoloft. I appreciate the attention (the neurologist hates dealing with us because J's not responding so well to the treatment, and don't doctors hate that?), but not the charges which our Blue Cross won't pay for.
***
Problem with kaput computer is I will have lost all of July's and August's pictures due to my being lazy and not backing up since late June. And to think that right before the Great Crash, the night before, I had said to myself, "Self, you better back up the drive."
Ahhh...hindsight's a beautiful thing.
At least I hadn't spent the summer finally completing the Great American Novel that was sure to win the Pulitzer.
***
I'm at a creative low.
***
M's hopping all over the house, avoiding putting weight on her injured ankle, and she's quite proud of her skill. I have to say, I don't hop. If I injured my ankle, I'd take the crawling option, probably settling for the lying-down option. Oh, oh...I feel it, I sense it, the sleepiness is coming back, the wish to sleep through my life rather than engage.
***
Lately, whenever I post on the blog, I publish, then republish, then republish again. The bloglines folks must think I'm nuts. Or unsettled. Or uncommitted. Or scatter-brained. Or fluid.
Update: Another tale of a woman taking care of business.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
School's in Session! Updated (spoiler!)
Took the babies to school today, the first day back. A off to fourth grade, M off to kindergarten. Beaming faces, neat outfits, clean shoes. Ran home and got J set up for some preliminary lessons - a little Algebra, a little English. Something to do while I taught my day class. 1:30 and 2:00 came much too soon - time just to catch my breath, to snack, in time to arrive at the school...to a flat tire in 105 degree heat. D to the rescue, with AAA. Took the babies home to corral them while the home teacher spent an hour with J.
Soon? Bass lesson, dinner, baths, bed, preparation for my own class tomorrow night. Trip, stumble, get back up...skip, skip, skip. My it's hot these days.
Update: Since I'm writing a saga about the newly-intensified Tourette's of J, I thought to mention our little...incident this past weekend. We'd been at a party at my brother's place, a little USC football celebration (whooo we won!) that ran until ten o'clock or so with lots of swimming, drinking, eating, and socializing. When we all hobbled in through the door, we played our messages. Lo and behold, some children thought it would be funny to call our machine and leave a message imitating J's vocal tics. A prank call in the truest sense of the word. A very painful prank. We handled it as best as we could, after telling J that his desire to beat up the message-leaver wasn't the best move. We said the kids probably thought it was just something funny to do, that J is so cool with his TS, that they maybe really didn't think he'd mind. It was the best we could do to alleviate such a humiliating and disturbing moment. We finished by saying, "Kids are mean, and dumb. They do things without thinking of the consequences. We're so sorry that happened."
The next night, as I was watching a movie, as J was heading to bed, I overheard him tell D, "I think the noise is going to fade away tonight. I bet you I wake up in the morning and all I'll have is an eye thing, or a bit of a shake. I really think so, dad."
I couldn't sleep after that. All I could think about was how I wanted that, too, when my father had cancer and my mother got ill. "Tomorrow morning, this whole nightmare is going to go away. Tomorrow I'm going to wake up and everything will be just like it was before, better."
Tomorrow's his birthday. I bought him an Ipod. I asked the girl at the shop, "Which one do all the kids buy? Which one would a 13 year old boy buy? Black or white? The one with the screen, right?" I didn't want to make a mistake. Didn't want to buy the wrong one. I put it on our credit card. Went into debt because I can't fix anything for him, because every time I put a pill into his mouth, nothing changes. But I can buy him something fun, modern, all the rage. That and telling him a story at night, telling him I love him. Listening to him, watching him skateboard and drum, when he wants me to watch.
Tonight we saw "House" and J emerged from the office right at the end when the doctor sticks a paralyzed guy with one shot and cures him. The guy stands up and voila! The family cries and all is good. J laughed and said, "That doesn't happen in real life, does it?"
"No, honey, it's pure fiction."
"You mean, pure bullshit!"
"Yeah, that's the word."
Soon? Bass lesson, dinner, baths, bed, preparation for my own class tomorrow night. Trip, stumble, get back up...skip, skip, skip. My it's hot these days.
Update: Since I'm writing a saga about the newly-intensified Tourette's of J, I thought to mention our little...incident this past weekend. We'd been at a party at my brother's place, a little USC football celebration (whooo we won!) that ran until ten o'clock or so with lots of swimming, drinking, eating, and socializing. When we all hobbled in through the door, we played our messages. Lo and behold, some children thought it would be funny to call our machine and leave a message imitating J's vocal tics. A prank call in the truest sense of the word. A very painful prank. We handled it as best as we could, after telling J that his desire to beat up the message-leaver wasn't the best move. We said the kids probably thought it was just something funny to do, that J is so cool with his TS, that they maybe really didn't think he'd mind. It was the best we could do to alleviate such a humiliating and disturbing moment. We finished by saying, "Kids are mean, and dumb. They do things without thinking of the consequences. We're so sorry that happened."
The next night, as I was watching a movie, as J was heading to bed, I overheard him tell D, "I think the noise is going to fade away tonight. I bet you I wake up in the morning and all I'll have is an eye thing, or a bit of a shake. I really think so, dad."
I couldn't sleep after that. All I could think about was how I wanted that, too, when my father had cancer and my mother got ill. "Tomorrow morning, this whole nightmare is going to go away. Tomorrow I'm going to wake up and everything will be just like it was before, better."
Tomorrow's his birthday. I bought him an Ipod. I asked the girl at the shop, "Which one do all the kids buy? Which one would a 13 year old boy buy? Black or white? The one with the screen, right?" I didn't want to make a mistake. Didn't want to buy the wrong one. I put it on our credit card. Went into debt because I can't fix anything for him, because every time I put a pill into his mouth, nothing changes. But I can buy him something fun, modern, all the rage. That and telling him a story at night, telling him I love him. Listening to him, watching him skateboard and drum, when he wants me to watch.
Tonight we saw "House" and J emerged from the office right at the end when the doctor sticks a paralyzed guy with one shot and cures him. The guy stands up and voila! The family cries and all is good. J laughed and said, "That doesn't happen in real life, does it?"
"No, honey, it's pure fiction."
"You mean, pure bullshit!"
"Yeah, that's the word."
Monday, September 04, 2006
Labor Day
Thirteen years ago, around...oh...say, 1:04 p.m. I gave birth to J, a beautiful (really, truly, the most beautiful baby I'd ever seen in my entire life! No, no, no, really!) bouncing (not too bouncy, after all he was only 6 pounds), baby boy. We were thrilled. My father was so excited, he could barely stand. My sister was in the room and at the emergence of J, swore on her life that she'd never have children...oh ever.
"No, no, no!!! Not going through that!!! That is an act against all decency and basic physics!!! I'm off to a frat party now! Have fun with your baby!! And that gigantic episiotomy that stretches from your nose down and up to the back of your neck!!"
My mother stayed all afternoon, my brother, friends and in-laws. For the next week our house was Grand Central Station, with every cousin, friend, and co-worker dropping in for a great amount of ooh'ing and ahh'ing. We had so many people that when my second son was born, dearest A, truly bouncing at 7.5 pounds, D chased everyone away and we were more akin to recluses who gave birth to an alien as opposed to a child. We ended up rather lonely at that time.
So tonight, even though we're not exactly on his birthday, we're having ribs, beer, and corn (well, I'm having the beer...a few of them...by the end of the night, the children will be traumatized and dragging their drunken, singing mother off the couch to the shower...okay, that won't happen, I promise. I've seen the cautionary Lifetime Movies!). We'll tell tales of the birth, of the manic drive to the hospital, of Papa in the room at 10:00 saying, "In just a couple of hours we're going to have a baby!", and of all the first baby lessons parents learn (such as never leave a jaundiced baby near a window on a sunny day lest the puppy think he's a chew toy!). No that last thing never happened. Just kidding.
Oh yeah...I'm giddy with recall. Oh those days. Those lovely days before two more children came along, when D and I were in love and we had our little house and everything was bright and rosy.
Happy Almost Birthday, J.
"No, no, no!!! Not going through that!!! That is an act against all decency and basic physics!!! I'm off to a frat party now! Have fun with your baby!! And that gigantic episiotomy that stretches from your nose down and up to the back of your neck!!"
My mother stayed all afternoon, my brother, friends and in-laws. For the next week our house was Grand Central Station, with every cousin, friend, and co-worker dropping in for a great amount of ooh'ing and ahh'ing. We had so many people that when my second son was born, dearest A, truly bouncing at 7.5 pounds, D chased everyone away and we were more akin to recluses who gave birth to an alien as opposed to a child. We ended up rather lonely at that time.
So tonight, even though we're not exactly on his birthday, we're having ribs, beer, and corn (well, I'm having the beer...a few of them...by the end of the night, the children will be traumatized and dragging their drunken, singing mother off the couch to the shower...okay, that won't happen, I promise. I've seen the cautionary Lifetime Movies!). We'll tell tales of the birth, of the manic drive to the hospital, of Papa in the room at 10:00 saying, "In just a couple of hours we're going to have a baby!", and of all the first baby lessons parents learn (such as never leave a jaundiced baby near a window on a sunny day lest the puppy think he's a chew toy!). No that last thing never happened. Just kidding.
Oh yeah...I'm giddy with recall. Oh those days. Those lovely days before two more children came along, when D and I were in love and we had our little house and everything was bright and rosy.
Happy Almost Birthday, J.
Friday, September 01, 2006
Bubbling Up
Computer's still on the blink. I'm working from my aged laptop with the slow processor that I didn't notice was slow until I hooked up to the internet. We're talking molasses slow, curse-causing slow. Why oh why did I not spend the extra $200 for a faster thingamabob?
Attended M's kindergarten orientation this morning. Watched her sit in the circle with her new teacher and hang to the side of the playground when I picked her up after the parent meeting. Something in the way she stood at the fence reminded me of J when I dropped him off at a new preschool. Later, D drove by to check up on him and there was our J, crying at the fence. Three years old. A most horrible memory for my husband - I'm glad I only heard about it. That memory slid into another, one of me as a preschooler that never went to school. I have this vision of being in a treehouse of some sort. Girls in a group at the sandbox. A fancy doll in my lap. My mother told me she tried to get me to play with the girls, that they tried to talk to me. She said I refused to speak - I held my doll, ran and hid in the treehouse. Watching them from afar.
Today, I was part of the "been there, done that," group. The parents who've already put one or more children through kindgarten. We didn't ask many questions, we filled out the information sheet quickly, we didn't have cameras. Tuesday I will. I'll snap the shot of M by the door with her teacher. I'll sign up for the field trip to the zoo. I'll offer to staple papers or cut shapes at home. I already checked with Mrs. SuzieQ to arrange for M's birthday cupcakes in January instead of December (her birthday falls between Christmas and New Year's Day). After is better than before. I don't want her birthday to be lost in the craziness of public school Christmas break preparations.
I'll miss M being at home - I miss her already. Funny though because J will be home. We've confirmed the home teaching - a teacher will be here every day in the afternoon for an hour. This takes a little pressure off of us. Sure, we'll have to make sure he studies and does the projects, but this way, he'll be keeping up with his class at school. This way, he'll be able to slide into place when the tics are under control. Funnier, J seems happy. He says he doesn't feel angry anymore. He thinks the tiny green pill is doing the trick. Last night he asked me to tell him a story before bed...like when he was younger, before things changed, "Come on, Mom, tell me about Sam and Jam. Tell me about how Jam's a skateboarder and Sam's a drummer."
I laughed. My J, talking from the top bunk. I launched into something silly, something short. He giggled, but didn't stick with the story, asking something off-topic, talking about his birthday party. When I said goodnight and walked away, I heard him tic a little, a short, violent burst of a hum. In the darkness, I knew just where he was, lying on his side, facing the door. A shout of presence, of being.
Don't forget me.
When he was in kindergarten, I worked in my own law office, a sole practice. I have no memory of how or when I picked him from school at 11:00 every day. A whole year went by and I cannot remember what I did, not clearly. I think we had him in daycare after school a couple of times a week. I think maybe he sat in the office with the secretary until D picked him up. I picked him up maybe and took him to my mother's place, where we'd have lunch, after which we'd drive home, me, J, and A. I went to the zoo with him, his big field trip. I didn't help the class much. I was glad when he went to second grade because I didn't have to worry about the early pick-up. By then A was in pre-school a few times a week. The years are blurry. The greyness blows up with my mother's death. Clarity comes. M leaves her infancy. Our days are clear in my head, exact. Years of M and me.
J shouts now. I can here him across the house, one end to another. I always know where he is - the bedroom, outside skateboarding, in the office on the computer. I always hear him. He's shouting for me, a constant reminder of my barely-there-ness. I listen, thinking on how to fix it, thinking on the goodness of it.
How funny when M goes to kindergarten, the beginning of her independence, J is home with me. How strangely ironic, how noisy, how bright.
Attended M's kindergarten orientation this morning. Watched her sit in the circle with her new teacher and hang to the side of the playground when I picked her up after the parent meeting. Something in the way she stood at the fence reminded me of J when I dropped him off at a new preschool. Later, D drove by to check up on him and there was our J, crying at the fence. Three years old. A most horrible memory for my husband - I'm glad I only heard about it. That memory slid into another, one of me as a preschooler that never went to school. I have this vision of being in a treehouse of some sort. Girls in a group at the sandbox. A fancy doll in my lap. My mother told me she tried to get me to play with the girls, that they tried to talk to me. She said I refused to speak - I held my doll, ran and hid in the treehouse. Watching them from afar.
Today, I was part of the "been there, done that," group. The parents who've already put one or more children through kindgarten. We didn't ask many questions, we filled out the information sheet quickly, we didn't have cameras. Tuesday I will. I'll snap the shot of M by the door with her teacher. I'll sign up for the field trip to the zoo. I'll offer to staple papers or cut shapes at home. I already checked with Mrs. SuzieQ to arrange for M's birthday cupcakes in January instead of December (her birthday falls between Christmas and New Year's Day). After is better than before. I don't want her birthday to be lost in the craziness of public school Christmas break preparations.
I'll miss M being at home - I miss her already. Funny though because J will be home. We've confirmed the home teaching - a teacher will be here every day in the afternoon for an hour. This takes a little pressure off of us. Sure, we'll have to make sure he studies and does the projects, but this way, he'll be keeping up with his class at school. This way, he'll be able to slide into place when the tics are under control. Funnier, J seems happy. He says he doesn't feel angry anymore. He thinks the tiny green pill is doing the trick. Last night he asked me to tell him a story before bed...like when he was younger, before things changed, "Come on, Mom, tell me about Sam and Jam. Tell me about how Jam's a skateboarder and Sam's a drummer."
I laughed. My J, talking from the top bunk. I launched into something silly, something short. He giggled, but didn't stick with the story, asking something off-topic, talking about his birthday party. When I said goodnight and walked away, I heard him tic a little, a short, violent burst of a hum. In the darkness, I knew just where he was, lying on his side, facing the door. A shout of presence, of being.
Don't forget me.
When he was in kindergarten, I worked in my own law office, a sole practice. I have no memory of how or when I picked him from school at 11:00 every day. A whole year went by and I cannot remember what I did, not clearly. I think we had him in daycare after school a couple of times a week. I think maybe he sat in the office with the secretary until D picked him up. I picked him up maybe and took him to my mother's place, where we'd have lunch, after which we'd drive home, me, J, and A. I went to the zoo with him, his big field trip. I didn't help the class much. I was glad when he went to second grade because I didn't have to worry about the early pick-up. By then A was in pre-school a few times a week. The years are blurry. The greyness blows up with my mother's death. Clarity comes. M leaves her infancy. Our days are clear in my head, exact. Years of M and me.
J shouts now. I can here him across the house, one end to another. I always know where he is - the bedroom, outside skateboarding, in the office on the computer. I always hear him. He's shouting for me, a constant reminder of my barely-there-ness. I listen, thinking on how to fix it, thinking on the goodness of it.
How funny when M goes to kindergarten, the beginning of her independence, J is home with me. How strangely ironic, how noisy, how bright.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Blogging My Life
[Hysterical laughter is heard.]
My desktop computer crashed.
Hahahahaha!
Hahahahahahaha!
[She quietly goes to the bathroom with a noose and a Bud Light.]
My desktop computer crashed.
Hahahahaha!
Hahahahahahaha!
[She quietly goes to the bathroom with a noose and a Bud Light.]
Fear
Have I bared too much of myself in this blog? I think so. The blog has become a judge in my life, a mother having listened to my exposed truths - so many eyes, so many opinions, dangerous holders of power over my tentative groundedness, my fragile sense of control.
When I was a teenager and in love, I complained to my mother of the faults of this lover. I said, "He was mean to me, he did this and he did that." Then when he left me, I cried to her, I said, "He hurt me, he cut me right through the core of me." Then when my lover and I made up and I was giddy, my mother stood with her arms crossed and forbade me to see him again. "He hurt you," she said without regard to my passions, "he's a danger to you." She would not forget what I said about him, about his misdeeds. She would not let me forget what I said.
I felt something like that last night. All chaos broke loose, leaving me a shred of a woman. D and I stood firm on a decision regarding J and he lost control. When he was done, D and I collapsed on the couch, collapsed into one another. Drained. We talked late into the night - insomnia gripping me. I found myself caught up in the words of a drive-by poster whose comments I chose to delete because I didn't want that sort of meanness, "objective" meanness, in my "home" of a blog, but there I was wondering if what she said was true. Maybe our chaotic household is my fault, our fault. Perhaps everything I have on my hands is karmic justice. Yes, that person would say. Of course it is. everything would be fine, but for you.
I'm questioning all our choices with the boys - perhaps we should dump all the medications and start from scratch, perhaps we should pick up and move to another state, another town, get a fresh start, perhaps...perhaps...perhaps. Guilt pulls me down, deep under. Sadness, agonizing self-pity. Why is this happening to me? To my family? Why isn't our path one of sweetness, one of bliss? What will become of my beautiful boy? Of all three of my beautiful, energetic, non-academic children? Where did I read recently a quote, who said it? Tell me who said it? "When they least deserve your love, they need it the most."
Lord give me the strength to love an angry, burdened child. Let me be strong the way I'm supposed to be, and not weepy the way can be. Let me be part of what he needs to be upright, not a further weight that crushes him.
I should cut posts. I should slash away at all the exposure. Delete, delete, delete. Don't look, all. Just...don't fucking look. Pass me by, pass the mad lady at the side of the road, talking to herself and waving at demons and cursing the sky and the dusty ground she walks upon. Don't hand her anything, don't talk to her.
I find myself afraid of the very next moment. Paranoid. I cover that up. The kids battle each other now - I turn to them and ask that they get dressed. Choose a book and read quietly. I'm make a big lunch, feed them through their stomachs since I'm coming up short on the emotional food.
This morning, dreams haunted me. My mother was too busy for me. She moved from activity to activity throughout the cabin and I could not corner her to talk to her, to get comfort from her. She finally left and I was in tears. My father's second wife stood next to me and said, "I told you I'd always be here for you." A lie. My sister believes the dream was only a reflection of our reality - in fact, the second wife lives and in fact my mother does not. I woke up crying, feeling the pain of her loss and then just as suddenly as it had come on, I stopped. The mourning passed.
D had already left for work and when he called I was still in bed. Breathe, I tell J, breathe through the tics. Breathe, D tells me. Breathe through the fear. Believe. Be confident.
"Okay, honey."
When I was a teenager and in love, I complained to my mother of the faults of this lover. I said, "He was mean to me, he did this and he did that." Then when he left me, I cried to her, I said, "He hurt me, he cut me right through the core of me." Then when my lover and I made up and I was giddy, my mother stood with her arms crossed and forbade me to see him again. "He hurt you," she said without regard to my passions, "he's a danger to you." She would not forget what I said about him, about his misdeeds. She would not let me forget what I said.
I felt something like that last night. All chaos broke loose, leaving me a shred of a woman. D and I stood firm on a decision regarding J and he lost control. When he was done, D and I collapsed on the couch, collapsed into one another. Drained. We talked late into the night - insomnia gripping me. I found myself caught up in the words of a drive-by poster whose comments I chose to delete because I didn't want that sort of meanness, "objective" meanness, in my "home" of a blog, but there I was wondering if what she said was true. Maybe our chaotic household is my fault, our fault. Perhaps everything I have on my hands is karmic justice. Yes, that person would say. Of course it is. everything would be fine, but for you.
I'm questioning all our choices with the boys - perhaps we should dump all the medications and start from scratch, perhaps we should pick up and move to another state, another town, get a fresh start, perhaps...perhaps...perhaps. Guilt pulls me down, deep under. Sadness, agonizing self-pity. Why is this happening to me? To my family? Why isn't our path one of sweetness, one of bliss? What will become of my beautiful boy? Of all three of my beautiful, energetic, non-academic children? Where did I read recently a quote, who said it? Tell me who said it? "When they least deserve your love, they need it the most."
Lord give me the strength to love an angry, burdened child. Let me be strong the way I'm supposed to be, and not weepy the way can be. Let me be part of what he needs to be upright, not a further weight that crushes him.
I should cut posts. I should slash away at all the exposure. Delete, delete, delete. Don't look, all. Just...don't fucking look. Pass me by, pass the mad lady at the side of the road, talking to herself and waving at demons and cursing the sky and the dusty ground she walks upon. Don't hand her anything, don't talk to her.
I find myself afraid of the very next moment. Paranoid. I cover that up. The kids battle each other now - I turn to them and ask that they get dressed. Choose a book and read quietly. I'm make a big lunch, feed them through their stomachs since I'm coming up short on the emotional food.
This morning, dreams haunted me. My mother was too busy for me. She moved from activity to activity throughout the cabin and I could not corner her to talk to her, to get comfort from her. She finally left and I was in tears. My father's second wife stood next to me and said, "I told you I'd always be here for you." A lie. My sister believes the dream was only a reflection of our reality - in fact, the second wife lives and in fact my mother does not. I woke up crying, feeling the pain of her loss and then just as suddenly as it had come on, I stopped. The mourning passed.
D had already left for work and when he called I was still in bed. Breathe, I tell J, breathe through the tics. Breathe, D tells me. Breathe through the fear. Believe. Be confident.
"Okay, honey."
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Poetry-Fiction from 2002: Illicit - part 1
Soccer season is back on for the children. They've been doing it a long while, each year at a local church league that I like because it's less pressure. The children can either excel or chase butterflies and either way, they'll get hints on how to improve and a trophy at the end of the season. The place swarms with smiling parents and red-faced girls and boys, the place oozes a perfect cover, leaving me to wonder about underlying secrets. This series of poetic efforts came out of a single moment of observation of a man and woman, unrelated, giving each other a subtle glance before blending into the sea of flawless families.
***
"Snack Bar"
Chocolate donuts, sprinkled, glazed,
Black coffee, creamer, sugar,
Pretzel twists in a bag.
Fifty cents in my sweaty palm,
As I see you.
Goatee, salt and peppered,
Hazel eyes looking directly at me,
You make me blush.
"Large coffee," your voice hits me,
A kick of the ball to the chest.
Wedding ring glimmers
In a ten o'clock sun.
Gold shoved into the pocket of my jeans,
Hidden like another bit of lint.
"Anything else?" I ask.
I know what I want.
You say nothing at first,
Shaking your head and grinning knowingly.
"A goal for the team would be good," you say at last.
"One for the team. Here's change."
You walk away.
Stop an errant soccer ball,
Throw it back in play.
*****
"Ladies Room"
Trembling hands, eager mouths, wetness.
An empty coke can rolls along the floor.
A break in the game,
Sounded by a whistle.
"I gotta get back," I pant.
Sticky skin rubs against mine.
I gasp - we gasp,
As I'm pinned against the wall.
"Stay to left! Go, go, go!!"
Water from a leaky pipe puddles beneath us,
We splash unconsciously.
"Goalie! Get it, get it, get it! YES!"
Slick fingers pressed into my mouth,
I taste myself.
The door ... someone's at the door.
Hurry now, hurry.
*****
"Aztecs versus Fusion"
Squinting, I watch the swarm
Zig-zag between guarded nets.
The ball leads, pushes, pulls,
My eyes tire at the work.
Squeals, hoots,
Hollers, chuckles,
Clapping enthusiasm,
Such blind sweet love.
Metal bleachers absorb the sun,
Too hot beneath me.
Lemonade-filled cup sweats beads of icy water,
not enough to cool me as I rub it across my cheek.
One goal, two. A tie.
The hour nears its close.
You lean forward,
An excuse to touch.
I don’t know your name,
I like the anonymity.
I hope to keep it that way.
I know it won’t last.
The heat is endless, isn’t it?
***
"Snack Bar"
Chocolate donuts, sprinkled, glazed,
Black coffee, creamer, sugar,
Pretzel twists in a bag.
Fifty cents in my sweaty palm,
As I see you.
Goatee, salt and peppered,
Hazel eyes looking directly at me,
You make me blush.
"Large coffee," your voice hits me,
A kick of the ball to the chest.
Wedding ring glimmers
In a ten o'clock sun.
Gold shoved into the pocket of my jeans,
Hidden like another bit of lint.
"Anything else?" I ask.
I know what I want.
You say nothing at first,
Shaking your head and grinning knowingly.
"A goal for the team would be good," you say at last.
"One for the team. Here's change."
You walk away.
Stop an errant soccer ball,
Throw it back in play.
*****
"Ladies Room"
Trembling hands, eager mouths, wetness.
An empty coke can rolls along the floor.
A break in the game,
Sounded by a whistle.
"I gotta get back," I pant.
Sticky skin rubs against mine.
I gasp - we gasp,
As I'm pinned against the wall.
"Stay to left! Go, go, go!!"
Water from a leaky pipe puddles beneath us,
We splash unconsciously.
"Goalie! Get it, get it, get it! YES!"
Slick fingers pressed into my mouth,
I taste myself.
The door ... someone's at the door.
Hurry now, hurry.
*****
"Aztecs versus Fusion"
Squinting, I watch the swarm
Zig-zag between guarded nets.
The ball leads, pushes, pulls,
My eyes tire at the work.
Squeals, hoots,
Hollers, chuckles,
Clapping enthusiasm,
Such blind sweet love.
Metal bleachers absorb the sun,
Too hot beneath me.
Lemonade-filled cup sweats beads of icy water,
not enough to cool me as I rub it across my cheek.
One goal, two. A tie.
The hour nears its close.
You lean forward,
An excuse to touch.
I don’t know your name,
I like the anonymity.
I hope to keep it that way.
I know it won’t last.
The heat is endless, isn’t it?
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Shhhh....
I'm babysitting my sister's beautiful kids this Saturday evening - brought two of my own to provide the entertainment. They're easy this way, fish in a fish bowl, bobbing in a quiet current, happy as they swim about colored rocks and swaying stalks of green. The littlest giggled loudly at the smallest things - so sweet Izzy is at age two, on a cool night, after a hot bath and a book.
J stayed home with D, chatting online, skateboarding outside, making plans for his 13th birthday party. Things are set for home teaching due to the still-severe vocal tics. I'm worried about him doing the work for me, worried about him getting lonely for a social life. We'll keep looking for that magic medication to turn the noise down - I feel so helpless in this regard. We're trying relaxation techniques, but they feel powerless to that terrible itch in his throat that's a tic, that makes him shout out. I want to grab him up into my arms and love this away but he squirms out of my grasp. There is novelty in the idea of not attending classes, but there will come a day when he watches his siblings leave the house, and hears of school gossip, and on that day staying home won't be so fun anymore and he will want to go back. I hope we'll have things "fixed" on that day.
School begins for me on Tuesday and my lectures are prepared. I find myself less nervous now that the books have been cracked open, that my mind has been smoothed and coaxed into thinking of the law and of assignments and quizzes.
Soccer season started for the kids - A and M. They ran and kicked and sweated in the early morning's sun. D and I sat with the other parents in our blue folding chair, sipping coffee, cheering each child on. In between games, I rushed M home for her to change clothes, to grab pancakes from McDonald's. Returned to the game, we sat back at the side of the field and cheered A as he ran like mad and kicked like mad and came up to us, asking for water to be poured on the crown of his head to cool him off. When we got home later, I chuckled when he said, "I wish the game was two hours long. It was so good."
Ahhh...the kids don't want to sleep. I have to go shush them, kiss them goodnight.
J stayed home with D, chatting online, skateboarding outside, making plans for his 13th birthday party. Things are set for home teaching due to the still-severe vocal tics. I'm worried about him doing the work for me, worried about him getting lonely for a social life. We'll keep looking for that magic medication to turn the noise down - I feel so helpless in this regard. We're trying relaxation techniques, but they feel powerless to that terrible itch in his throat that's a tic, that makes him shout out. I want to grab him up into my arms and love this away but he squirms out of my grasp. There is novelty in the idea of not attending classes, but there will come a day when he watches his siblings leave the house, and hears of school gossip, and on that day staying home won't be so fun anymore and he will want to go back. I hope we'll have things "fixed" on that day.
School begins for me on Tuesday and my lectures are prepared. I find myself less nervous now that the books have been cracked open, that my mind has been smoothed and coaxed into thinking of the law and of assignments and quizzes.
Soccer season started for the kids - A and M. They ran and kicked and sweated in the early morning's sun. D and I sat with the other parents in our blue folding chair, sipping coffee, cheering each child on. In between games, I rushed M home for her to change clothes, to grab pancakes from McDonald's. Returned to the game, we sat back at the side of the field and cheered A as he ran like mad and kicked like mad and came up to us, asking for water to be poured on the crown of his head to cool him off. When we got home later, I chuckled when he said, "I wish the game was two hours long. It was so good."
Ahhh...the kids don't want to sleep. I have to go shush them, kiss them goodnight.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Another Day, Another Dollar
So...the butter in the tub of butter went flying one way, and the plastic tub went another. I threw the tub. Across the kitchen and when I was done, I had to pick up the clump of Earth Mother buttery spread with my hand, grabbing up dust and one strand of white hair off my head. Plopped it all back into the tub.
A good role model, me. Throwing buttery spread as I screamed, "Don't you talk to me that way! You learn to control your anger, you...you...!!" Something, something vile came out my mouth at the close of those commandments that probably shouldn't be repeated. Ironic, hypocritical...such a good parent...me. I now see that my eldest, freshly-teen child has managed to crawl into that part of my brain that is cabable of collapse, a place only occupied by my mother, my brother, and my husband. Now J.
I've got a migraine. I'm at the computer, a Diet Coke at my side, M using a wet paper towel to wipe down my desk (water/wood, not a good combo, but whatever). D's watching "the Closer," J's skateboarding outside, A's nursing a bike-riding-wound ("I was riding on the grass and Sassy was biting my tire and I fell and look, something pinched me right here! See? Owwwww..."). I'm tired.
Got my hair trimmed today, got a little color to soften the blow of my intensely grey hair. Watched my shadowed, weary face in the mirror as my hairdresser chattered on about her life, about the parallels of our lives.
"You said that to J?"
"Yeah. After the butter thing."
"Oh honey, that's nothing. Two days ago I told mine to SHUT THE **** UP! DON'T THROW YOUR ****ING BULL**** AT ME YOU UNGRATEFUL ****!"
I laughed, cringed, "Ouch."
"How is it they drag you into the dirt?"
"So low, so deep into the mud, I don't think there's a way out."
She chuckled, "We've all been there. Ain't proud of it, but they have their ways of bringing it out."
They have a way alright. M got her hair cut, too. Trimmed the ends into a nice straight line. For months now she's been like a circus girl, the left side of her head, long hair, the right side, just below her shoulder. Don't know how it happened - I suspect she got creative with scissors. Either that or I got over-enthusiastic when I had to cut a chunk of hair that got caught up into some light-up, twirly toy. She's even now. Ready for school. Ready for all that hair to grow out again. A got his hair cut, too. J still sports his Glam-rock hair.
Afterwards I rushed home, straightened hair whipping in the open window's breeze, swept up the boys and headed out to Pasadena to meet with their doctor. A's doing well, J's obviously a little stressed. From there, we flew across town to the neurologist for the tics. They've decreased with the Keppra but we're still seeing spurts of real loudness. So...Zoloft's on our list now. Address the anxiety. Let's see if we can soften the blow of external stressors so he won't tic as often. Makes sense. He was nervous for the doctor and you could hear him outside the office.
"You might consider home-schooling until we get this sorted out," the doctor suggested.
"We thought so too."
"You mean, I don't have to get up in the morning? Whooo!"
The drive home was slow, traffic heavy, but the boys seemed strangly elated. Happy even. J had a good talk with the neurologist. The doctor answered lots of his questions. Told him lots of stuff about other Tourette's patients of his. Assured J that he's not the worst he's seen.
Oh, oh...D's up. Saying J damaged the plastic pool with his skateboard, but I intervene, "No, no, I saw it was broken last night. I think Sassy got to it."
Battle averted. Apology.
Bed for all. I've started prepping for school. Finished each syllabus for the three classes. Polishing up on the opening lectures. Tweaking the approach. Adjusting the tempo.
I'm ready for a change.
A good role model, me. Throwing buttery spread as I screamed, "Don't you talk to me that way! You learn to control your anger, you...you...!!" Something, something vile came out my mouth at the close of those commandments that probably shouldn't be repeated. Ironic, hypocritical...such a good parent...me. I now see that my eldest, freshly-teen child has managed to crawl into that part of my brain that is cabable of collapse, a place only occupied by my mother, my brother, and my husband. Now J.
I've got a migraine. I'm at the computer, a Diet Coke at my side, M using a wet paper towel to wipe down my desk (water/wood, not a good combo, but whatever). D's watching "the Closer," J's skateboarding outside, A's nursing a bike-riding-wound ("I was riding on the grass and Sassy was biting my tire and I fell and look, something pinched me right here! See? Owwwww..."). I'm tired.
Got my hair trimmed today, got a little color to soften the blow of my intensely grey hair. Watched my shadowed, weary face in the mirror as my hairdresser chattered on about her life, about the parallels of our lives.
"You said that to J?"
"Yeah. After the butter thing."
"Oh honey, that's nothing. Two days ago I told mine to SHUT THE **** UP! DON'T THROW YOUR ****ING BULL**** AT ME YOU UNGRATEFUL ****!"
I laughed, cringed, "Ouch."
"How is it they drag you into the dirt?"
"So low, so deep into the mud, I don't think there's a way out."
She chuckled, "We've all been there. Ain't proud of it, but they have their ways of bringing it out."
They have a way alright. M got her hair cut, too. Trimmed the ends into a nice straight line. For months now she's been like a circus girl, the left side of her head, long hair, the right side, just below her shoulder. Don't know how it happened - I suspect she got creative with scissors. Either that or I got over-enthusiastic when I had to cut a chunk of hair that got caught up into some light-up, twirly toy. She's even now. Ready for school. Ready for all that hair to grow out again. A got his hair cut, too. J still sports his Glam-rock hair.
Afterwards I rushed home, straightened hair whipping in the open window's breeze, swept up the boys and headed out to Pasadena to meet with their doctor. A's doing well, J's obviously a little stressed. From there, we flew across town to the neurologist for the tics. They've decreased with the Keppra but we're still seeing spurts of real loudness. So...Zoloft's on our list now. Address the anxiety. Let's see if we can soften the blow of external stressors so he won't tic as often. Makes sense. He was nervous for the doctor and you could hear him outside the office.
"You might consider home-schooling until we get this sorted out," the doctor suggested.
"We thought so too."
"You mean, I don't have to get up in the morning? Whooo!"
The drive home was slow, traffic heavy, but the boys seemed strangly elated. Happy even. J had a good talk with the neurologist. The doctor answered lots of his questions. Told him lots of stuff about other Tourette's patients of his. Assured J that he's not the worst he's seen.
Oh, oh...D's up. Saying J damaged the plastic pool with his skateboard, but I intervene, "No, no, I saw it was broken last night. I think Sassy got to it."
Battle averted. Apology.
Bed for all. I've started prepping for school. Finished each syllabus for the three classes. Polishing up on the opening lectures. Tweaking the approach. Adjusting the tempo.
I'm ready for a change.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Foreigners
The boots were made of a deliciously soft, worn leather with a bluish tint and boasted colored rhinestones on the pointed toe in a sweet diamond shape. The heel, a classic cowboy cut. They stood out among other boots and shoes – the shelves lit up in a bastion of modern style. Touching the boots, picking them up in my hands and caressing the uppers, I realized I couldn’t find the sticker. You know, the stickers all things for purchase have. Where was the sticker, for God's sake?
“How much are the boots?” I asked, giving up.
The salesgirl looked at me, confused, saying nothing. A security guard standing at the entrance’s metal detector glanced my way.
After an awkwardly long time, I repeated, “Excuse me, you, how much do these boots cost?”
She looked around, fixed her black hair (straight hair pulled up into a spiky bun) and smoothed her mismatched clothes. Sighed. Smiled, showing gums and teeth. Silver piercings glinted in the store’s canned lights. She spoke slowly. “The…boots…are…two thousand four hundred sixty-three dollars plus tax. They are original Floops.”
“Floops.”
“Floops.” She chuckled, “From Floopsters on Robertson. The one and only.”
“Do you take Discover?”
“Deez-cuh-beer?”
“Dis-cuh-ver.”
“Dees-cuh-ber?”
“DISCOVER! DO YOU TAKE THE DISCOVER CREDIT CARD?!”
The salesgirl straightened her slouch and cleared her throat, the security guard now right next to me. He looked like the guy from the Transporter. Cannily so. His face just as unreadable as the Transporter himself. He breathed heavily, and I could feel hot air on my neck.
“We only take Platinum American Express and the Fort Knox edition of Beverly Hills Bank.”
A wave of chuckles spread across the floor, other customers having tuned into our discussion.
“What about a check debit card?”
“Look,” the girl conceded, “we have some sale items in the back room if you’d like to have a look. Please leave your knocked-off, very-big purse at the front desk, with Blaine, our security guard.” She eyed my clothes from Target and smiled a sad smile. “On the other hand, if you get back on the…” She cleared her throat, clearly disbelieving the words she was about to speak aloud. “If you get back on the San Bern-ar-dino freeway and get off at Figueroa and turn right, you’ll eventually find the garment district of Los Angeles. There, among your people, you might find some bargains. The people will even...haggle. Maybe they’ll take this…Dees-koo-ber card of which you speak. They take all sorts of foreign currency, actually. You know, like pesos and rupees.”
There was nothing more I could do – D and I had crossed the border inadvertently. We’d left our San Gabriel Valley and had become aliens in a foreign land: Beverly Hills.
See, D surprised me with a weekend out of town. The babysitter came and spent the night while we got a top floor room with a view of Century City at Le Meridien hotel on La Cienega and went to the Hollywood Improv comedy club. We had dinner at the Stinking Rose. And shopped a little. Very little. We really did laugh at how fish-out-of-water we were, little hillbillies just off Walton’s mountain, just emerged from our double-wide on our lot by the pond where we swim naked and fish for dinner. My cute Kohl and Target special clothes, alien to the residents, drew pitiful stares. My Off Fifth sandals, strange brown leather straps wrapped around my sun-tanned feet…clearly from another planet. And my purse! Say no more. Is that from a swap meet?
Dees-koo-bert…burt…burr…barrrr….
The most spoken phrase, “We don’t take Discover, among a slew of other cards. What is that anyway? Can I see it? I don’t think I’ve ever actually SEEN a Discover card. I did learn about it in my social studies class though, right after learning of the Crustacean period.”
“But they take Discover in Upland!!”
“Up-Land? What about Down-Land? Or To-the-Side-Land? Hahahahaha! How funny the little girl in the funny green top speaks! Oh isn’t she cute in a chubby sort of way? Do you hear her accent? Come on, say Louis Vuitton again. Hahahaha!”
The comedy show was good, but not as good as the one in the stores we glanced through, not as funny as we felt, walking the streets and Beverly Center walkways where the rate of exchange is extreme to our single dollar – their two thousand bucks was like twenty dollars to them.
In the end, though, we had a good time. Definitely a very interesting, restful, over-night-stay. We'd do it again. If not for the homecoming alone. How glad we were to see our barefoot ragamuffins on our asphalt driveway, standing next to our 2001 Suburban with the dents and A's name scratched on the side, and our beloved dog rushing past us towards the street and into the creek without even a sniff. How happy we were when the kids clutched to their little chests the free hotel soaps and shower caps.
We love the San Gabriel Valley. There really is nothing like home.
“How much are the boots?” I asked, giving up.
The salesgirl looked at me, confused, saying nothing. A security guard standing at the entrance’s metal detector glanced my way.
After an awkwardly long time, I repeated, “Excuse me, you, how much do these boots cost?”
She looked around, fixed her black hair (straight hair pulled up into a spiky bun) and smoothed her mismatched clothes. Sighed. Smiled, showing gums and teeth. Silver piercings glinted in the store’s canned lights. She spoke slowly. “The…boots…are…two thousand four hundred sixty-three dollars plus tax. They are original Floops.”
“Floops.”
“Floops.” She chuckled, “From Floopsters on Robertson. The one and only.”
“Do you take Discover?”
“Deez-cuh-beer?”
“Dis-cuh-ver.”
“Dees-cuh-ber?”
“DISCOVER! DO YOU TAKE THE DISCOVER CREDIT CARD?!”
The salesgirl straightened her slouch and cleared her throat, the security guard now right next to me. He looked like the guy from the Transporter. Cannily so. His face just as unreadable as the Transporter himself. He breathed heavily, and I could feel hot air on my neck.
“We only take Platinum American Express and the Fort Knox edition of Beverly Hills Bank.”
A wave of chuckles spread across the floor, other customers having tuned into our discussion.
“What about a check debit card?”
“Look,” the girl conceded, “we have some sale items in the back room if you’d like to have a look. Please leave your knocked-off, very-big purse at the front desk, with Blaine, our security guard.” She eyed my clothes from Target and smiled a sad smile. “On the other hand, if you get back on the…” She cleared her throat, clearly disbelieving the words she was about to speak aloud. “If you get back on the San Bern-ar-dino freeway and get off at Figueroa and turn right, you’ll eventually find the garment district of Los Angeles. There, among your people, you might find some bargains. The people will even...haggle. Maybe they’ll take this…Dees-koo-ber card of which you speak. They take all sorts of foreign currency, actually. You know, like pesos and rupees.”
There was nothing more I could do – D and I had crossed the border inadvertently. We’d left our San Gabriel Valley and had become aliens in a foreign land: Beverly Hills.
See, D surprised me with a weekend out of town. The babysitter came and spent the night while we got a top floor room with a view of Century City at Le Meridien hotel on La Cienega and went to the Hollywood Improv comedy club. We had dinner at the Stinking Rose. And shopped a little. Very little. We really did laugh at how fish-out-of-water we were, little hillbillies just off Walton’s mountain, just emerged from our double-wide on our lot by the pond where we swim naked and fish for dinner. My cute Kohl and Target special clothes, alien to the residents, drew pitiful stares. My Off Fifth sandals, strange brown leather straps wrapped around my sun-tanned feet…clearly from another planet. And my purse! Say no more. Is that from a swap meet?
Dees-koo-bert…burt…burr…barrrr….
The most spoken phrase, “We don’t take Discover, among a slew of other cards. What is that anyway? Can I see it? I don’t think I’ve ever actually SEEN a Discover card. I did learn about it in my social studies class though, right after learning of the Crustacean period.”
“But they take Discover in Upland!!”
“Up-Land? What about Down-Land? Or To-the-Side-Land? Hahahahaha! How funny the little girl in the funny green top speaks! Oh isn’t she cute in a chubby sort of way? Do you hear her accent? Come on, say Louis Vuitton again. Hahahaha!”
The comedy show was good, but not as good as the one in the stores we glanced through, not as funny as we felt, walking the streets and Beverly Center walkways where the rate of exchange is extreme to our single dollar – their two thousand bucks was like twenty dollars to them.
In the end, though, we had a good time. Definitely a very interesting, restful, over-night-stay. We'd do it again. If not for the homecoming alone. How glad we were to see our barefoot ragamuffins on our asphalt driveway, standing next to our 2001 Suburban with the dents and A's name scratched on the side, and our beloved dog rushing past us towards the street and into the creek without even a sniff. How happy we were when the kids clutched to their little chests the free hotel soaps and shower caps.
We love the San Gabriel Valley. There really is nothing like home.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
The Family Trip
We sang Kumbayah, roasted marshmallows over an open fire, and had group hugs in the cool, fresh air. We hiked together, looked across amazing mountain peaks, prayed together, supped together, and had deep, star-gazing talks…
And then I woke up.
Hahaha…yeah, yeah, the family freakin’ trip with my sister’s lovely family to their cabin. I have to tell you, there were times on this five-day jaunt to Mammoth Mountain that I wanted to pack my single suitcase and walk to the airport a few miles down. The main culprit was my beautiful, shout-tic’ing (how DO you spell that word?), angry, almost-thirteen year old, J. Let’s see, in the five days, he repeatedly asked to go home, shouted at us no less than twenty times, kicked his bike, broke his skateboard, smacked a museum exhibit, and bugged every living soul in that cabin (except two-year-old Izzy – she always smiled at him and he always smiled back) until I was literally in tears.
In his defense, I understood his anger. Wherever we went, people would turn to look at him because he made loud Tourette noises, and many who turned would make loud comments. We had one woman glare at him every time he tic’ed. It was hard.
“Why does he make that noise?”
“Is he coughing?”
“What IS that?”
"That's a funny noise, huh?"
One athletic-looking lady turned to her husband and said, “It’s Tourette’s,” then turned to my sister and asked, “Right?” The husband, too, turned to my sister, saying, “Don’t they have medication for that?”
“Yes, but it takes a long while to figure out what medication.”
“Oooohhh…”
Exhausting. He exhausted me. The condition exhausted me. As a note, an early epilogue, the Keppra at a higher dose (2 grams a day) seems to be working, finally. Yes, he started doing it again just now, but there seems to be a window here. I’ll give it another week before setting an appointment with the neurologist, to demand that they fix this, before school starts because there is no way he can sit in a classroom shout-tic’ing.
We did have fun, though. No, really. We were surrounded by pure mountainous beauty, thinned air, and a sense of freedom. The best part had to be the wild mountain bike ride down Mammoth Mountain (on the “easier trail”), sliding and careening, on a shock-installed mountain bike (which is set in such a way that our knees were up much higher than we were used to making for quite the period of adjustment). While the ride was sandy, there was the potential for more experienced riders to catch air and hit higher speeds on the curves. We, on the other hand, cruised down the trail – I fell one time, got the bruise to show for it – in about two and a half hours (we were told it would take an hour). Sure, we had a six-year-old with us and he did slow us down (sweet TH, he was a good sport), but I’m not sure my sister and I would have gone all that much faster. My sons, though, and D (after J and D got over their mountain-biking discomforts), jammed down the trail, having to wait nearly half an hour for the rest of us.
The nights were chilled, a fantastic difference from here in the lowlands. The hiking around the campground gave us gorgeous views of a tumbling waterfall and the most peaceful, lapping lake. Fishermen spotted the water’s skin, a deep, wavy blue in the sun. The kids went jeeping with their uncle – all six of them piled into the old army jeep while DH rode like mad over trails to Lake Mary for a boat ride, or into town for a pizza lunch. One morning they went fishing – the boys in the fishing boat, the girls on the dock with D (who surprised himself by learning to bait the hook and cast the line). Our dinners consisted of margaritas, slow barbecues, and the sound of the kids playing on the rocks around the cabin. Our nights after the children went to bed, had the four of us chatting until late, until our sides hurt with hushed laughter, and our eyes just couldn’t stay open any longer.
Our one adventure – a flat tire on the way to the fish hatchery. Funny, that, D looking shocked, the sound of air from the tire, the sinking to the right of our black Suburban, the kids yelling with pure joy to see the flat tire. We all climbed out and DH grinned, nodded, determined to get the spare on way before the triple-A could even roll a truck out the driveway. The kids began wandering the open field surrounding us and I followed them, finding an obsidian chip which pushed them to hunt even more. They had such a good time hunting for the black, shiny rock they didn’t want to leave. We did though – we visited the hatchery, watching the hundreds of rainbow trout in their open tanks, hundreds that would be dumped into the lakes for the fishermen.
We were sad to leave – the five of us could have stayed longer but I opted for the drive down the hill along with my sister. I couldn’t bear much more of J’s upset. Also, the kids love being their cousins…left alone, just the five of us, sadly, I felt just wouldn’t be the same. There’s too much space between them. They seem like three only children, or three first-borns. They butt heads far too often.
So we’re down the hill, back in the Los Angeles heat. School’s around the corner. The day’s slow. I overheated a boiled egg in the microwave and it exploded much to our amazement…twenty seconds on high! Yellow pulp spread all over the inside of the microwave and on top of the stove’s burners. Like snow, like fine paint.
We’re home again, after such a short jaunt.
And then I woke up.
Hahaha…yeah, yeah, the family freakin’ trip with my sister’s lovely family to their cabin. I have to tell you, there were times on this five-day jaunt to Mammoth Mountain that I wanted to pack my single suitcase and walk to the airport a few miles down. The main culprit was my beautiful, shout-tic’ing (how DO you spell that word?), angry, almost-thirteen year old, J. Let’s see, in the five days, he repeatedly asked to go home, shouted at us no less than twenty times, kicked his bike, broke his skateboard, smacked a museum exhibit, and bugged every living soul in that cabin (except two-year-old Izzy – she always smiled at him and he always smiled back) until I was literally in tears.
In his defense, I understood his anger. Wherever we went, people would turn to look at him because he made loud Tourette noises, and many who turned would make loud comments. We had one woman glare at him every time he tic’ed. It was hard.
“Why does he make that noise?”
“Is he coughing?”
“What IS that?”
"That's a funny noise, huh?"
One athletic-looking lady turned to her husband and said, “It’s Tourette’s,” then turned to my sister and asked, “Right?” The husband, too, turned to my sister, saying, “Don’t they have medication for that?”
“Yes, but it takes a long while to figure out what medication.”
“Oooohhh…”
Exhausting. He exhausted me. The condition exhausted me. As a note, an early epilogue, the Keppra at a higher dose (2 grams a day) seems to be working, finally. Yes, he started doing it again just now, but there seems to be a window here. I’ll give it another week before setting an appointment with the neurologist, to demand that they fix this, before school starts because there is no way he can sit in a classroom shout-tic’ing.
We did have fun, though. No, really. We were surrounded by pure mountainous beauty, thinned air, and a sense of freedom. The best part had to be the wild mountain bike ride down Mammoth Mountain (on the “easier trail”), sliding and careening, on a shock-installed mountain bike (which is set in such a way that our knees were up much higher than we were used to making for quite the period of adjustment). While the ride was sandy, there was the potential for more experienced riders to catch air and hit higher speeds on the curves. We, on the other hand, cruised down the trail – I fell one time, got the bruise to show for it – in about two and a half hours (we were told it would take an hour). Sure, we had a six-year-old with us and he did slow us down (sweet TH, he was a good sport), but I’m not sure my sister and I would have gone all that much faster. My sons, though, and D (after J and D got over their mountain-biking discomforts), jammed down the trail, having to wait nearly half an hour for the rest of us.
The nights were chilled, a fantastic difference from here in the lowlands. The hiking around the campground gave us gorgeous views of a tumbling waterfall and the most peaceful, lapping lake. Fishermen spotted the water’s skin, a deep, wavy blue in the sun. The kids went jeeping with their uncle – all six of them piled into the old army jeep while DH rode like mad over trails to Lake Mary for a boat ride, or into town for a pizza lunch. One morning they went fishing – the boys in the fishing boat, the girls on the dock with D (who surprised himself by learning to bait the hook and cast the line). Our dinners consisted of margaritas, slow barbecues, and the sound of the kids playing on the rocks around the cabin. Our nights after the children went to bed, had the four of us chatting until late, until our sides hurt with hushed laughter, and our eyes just couldn’t stay open any longer.
Our one adventure – a flat tire on the way to the fish hatchery. Funny, that, D looking shocked, the sound of air from the tire, the sinking to the right of our black Suburban, the kids yelling with pure joy to see the flat tire. We all climbed out and DH grinned, nodded, determined to get the spare on way before the triple-A could even roll a truck out the driveway. The kids began wandering the open field surrounding us and I followed them, finding an obsidian chip which pushed them to hunt even more. They had such a good time hunting for the black, shiny rock they didn’t want to leave. We did though – we visited the hatchery, watching the hundreds of rainbow trout in their open tanks, hundreds that would be dumped into the lakes for the fishermen.
We were sad to leave – the five of us could have stayed longer but I opted for the drive down the hill along with my sister. I couldn’t bear much more of J’s upset. Also, the kids love being their cousins…left alone, just the five of us, sadly, I felt just wouldn’t be the same. There’s too much space between them. They seem like three only children, or three first-borns. They butt heads far too often.
So we’re down the hill, back in the Los Angeles heat. School’s around the corner. The day’s slow. I overheated a boiled egg in the microwave and it exploded much to our amazement…twenty seconds on high! Yellow pulp spread all over the inside of the microwave and on top of the stove’s burners. Like snow, like fine paint.
We’re home again, after such a short jaunt.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Back from Mammoth...
I was supposed to post a "Goodbye, see you in a few days"-post, but never got around to it. So here I am...back. More on the weekend later. Unpacking. Unwinding. Sighing.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Blogging Bud Light
I've drunk an entire Bud Light in a bottle in like ten minutes, deciding I'm going to blog the experience because...well, I always forget how nice it is to have a little alcohol with food, or while kicking back and reading in the sun, or while by the pool, or while in a bar with good friends, with family. My back space is busy because I keep adding letters, a j here, a w there, an extra e or too many a's. Now, Bud Light isn't my favorite but it's here and I don't mind and I still feel that sweet, all's-well-on-the-homefront, and isn't that person I'm with just wonderful, handsome, and all-around perfect? Oh! And it's my husband. To think he's so wonderful, and I married him. Oh me. Oh my.
I've got Orange Chicken on the stove, some basmati wild rice thing in a pot, and I've completely forgotten what I planned to blog. Perhaps it's that good feeling I wanted to blog about, or the massive crusges...sruches...crushges...crushes I have on the following bloggers I've run across on the internet:
**** and
***** and
long gone ******
and...oh yes... ******. Hahaha...I bet that one surprised you all. I bet you're thinking...I had no idea Adriana was a ********. Hahaha...just like at that party I attended back in 2001, recovering from my mother's death, letting loose...woweee! The hostess of that night reads the blog. In silence. Never posts. She could attest to the events of that night. Oh hell, I'll just lay it out for you. It started with 80's music and a whole bunch of Lemon Drops.
***
I know. It shocks you to read this.
[Edited because at the time this was written Ms. Bliss wasn't herself. She really ought not post when she's been drinking.]
So yeah, omg, what are you all going to say about me?! Innocent Bliss, dear devoted Bliss...she's deep inside, still a devoted mother after all. Doomed! I'm kidding, seriously.
I drank a Bud Light and I made some silly jokes and A laughed and so did M, and I was pleased to have let go a bit of the nervousness for the trip, the annoyance with D (isn't it always that way when a family departs for a vacation?), the anxiety about school starting in two weeks. My mother used to drink - she turned to the drink - and we hated when she did. She'd get very amorous with whatever man was around her, she was overly affectionate. She used to deny the drinking. Later, as adults, we chuckle over it. Back then, I just used to get angry.
Ahhh...well...so yes, the dinner's burning and I'm here blogging. Wheeeee! Scooby Doo is on the tube, J's gotten home, ticcing a storm, but he's good, he's happy. He says a girl likes him. Of course because he's a drummer. He's cute. He's quite accepted in spite of the noise. As I talk to D, I can tell he's suspicious of my easy-going-ness. He keeps looking at the bottle next to me. The empty bottle. I can also tell that the Tourette's thing is more a problem for the parents than for J. He's noisy - the pills do nothing - it's probably more evidence of his mood swings than pure Tourette's...or they're intertwined...hard to untangle where these things originate. But yes...while it bothers him, I think it bothers him knowing it bothers me and D. The more worried WE get, the more upset he gets.
So we need to shut up about it. We need to be as quiet we want him to be. We need to be.
We're leaving tomorrow night for Mammoth. Did I post that already? Yes, tomorrow after J's camp concert. We'll be coming back on Thursday, it looks like. Wow, a whole week without the blogspot at my side. I have a notebook. I'll have to take notes. I doubt I will. Hahahahaaaaa...like all my plans for the summer. Remember that post? Yes, it's all gone. Didn't accomplish a single thing, a single BIG thing I wanted to accomplish.
I suppose small things are good.
I was going to close with something brilliant, something wise. All I'm thinking is...darn it...nothing. I'm thinking nothing. My mind hasn't expanded in any way I was hoping.
Maybe the next time I'll have to try a Corona...or an Ale. Yes, an English, warm ale. Or maybe I should stick to ice tea because I think I'm gonna puke.
I've got Orange Chicken on the stove, some basmati wild rice thing in a pot, and I've completely forgotten what I planned to blog. Perhaps it's that good feeling I wanted to blog about, or the massive crusges...sruches...crushges...crushes I have on the following bloggers I've run across on the internet:
**** and
***** and
long gone ******
and...oh yes... ******. Hahaha...I bet that one surprised you all. I bet you're thinking...I had no idea Adriana was a ********. Hahaha...just like at that party I attended back in 2001, recovering from my mother's death, letting loose...woweee! The hostess of that night reads the blog. In silence. Never posts. She could attest to the events of that night. Oh hell, I'll just lay it out for you. It started with 80's music and a whole bunch of Lemon Drops.
***
I know. It shocks you to read this.
[Edited because at the time this was written Ms. Bliss wasn't herself. She really ought not post when she's been drinking.]
So yeah, omg, what are you all going to say about me?! Innocent Bliss, dear devoted Bliss...she's deep inside, still a devoted mother after all. Doomed! I'm kidding, seriously.
I drank a Bud Light and I made some silly jokes and A laughed and so did M, and I was pleased to have let go a bit of the nervousness for the trip, the annoyance with D (isn't it always that way when a family departs for a vacation?), the anxiety about school starting in two weeks. My mother used to drink - she turned to the drink - and we hated when she did. She'd get very amorous with whatever man was around her, she was overly affectionate. She used to deny the drinking. Later, as adults, we chuckle over it. Back then, I just used to get angry.
Ahhh...well...so yes, the dinner's burning and I'm here blogging. Wheeeee! Scooby Doo is on the tube, J's gotten home, ticcing a storm, but he's good, he's happy. He says a girl likes him. Of course because he's a drummer. He's cute. He's quite accepted in spite of the noise. As I talk to D, I can tell he's suspicious of my easy-going-ness. He keeps looking at the bottle next to me. The empty bottle. I can also tell that the Tourette's thing is more a problem for the parents than for J. He's noisy - the pills do nothing - it's probably more evidence of his mood swings than pure Tourette's...or they're intertwined...hard to untangle where these things originate. But yes...while it bothers him, I think it bothers him knowing it bothers me and D. The more worried WE get, the more upset he gets.
So we need to shut up about it. We need to be as quiet we want him to be. We need to be.
We're leaving tomorrow night for Mammoth. Did I post that already? Yes, tomorrow after J's camp concert. We'll be coming back on Thursday, it looks like. Wow, a whole week without the blogspot at my side. I have a notebook. I'll have to take notes. I doubt I will. Hahahahaaaaa...like all my plans for the summer. Remember that post? Yes, it's all gone. Didn't accomplish a single thing, a single BIG thing I wanted to accomplish.
I suppose small things are good.
I was going to close with something brilliant, something wise. All I'm thinking is...darn it...nothing. I'm thinking nothing. My mind hasn't expanded in any way I was hoping.
Maybe the next time I'll have to try a Corona...or an Ale. Yes, an English, warm ale. Or maybe I should stick to ice tea because I think I'm gonna puke.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
I can see September...
Actually, the date that's getting me anxious in a negative way is August 28 and it's just around the corner, the beginning of the fall semester. I enjoy teaching, I do, but for some reason -- perhaps laziness, or a mild fear of being inadequate, or feeling "teaching law" is too high a goal -- I've got a nervous stomach about it. Butterflies in my tummy, as M would say.
We're leaving for the mountains, to the infamous cabin, this coming weekend. J's camp concert is at 4:30 on Friday afternoon and then we'll hit the road right after at 6:00. This will give us three full days at beautiful Mammoth Mountain before heading back down the hill on Tuesday. I'm looking forward to it - our last days of freedom. Then school will start for everyone. Back to a routine, back to homework, back to getting up early.
I'm tired, sleepy, cranky just thinking about the start of school.
I've noticed that depression has snuck back. Today, I did nothing really. Lay in bed until 9 or so, went back to bed at 10 or so, got into clothes near 11 only because my grandmother knocked at our front door. I also noticed D's and my funny balancing act. When I'm down, he pulls up. When he's down, I'm the one pulling up. We have a classic see-saw relationship. He's been really optomistic, energetic even, today while I sit at the computer like a lump. He's got the vacation list in his hand and is starting to pull things down, getting them ready for packing. I hit the news pages on the internet. He's offering hints and supportive comments for me, telling me the beauty of being a teacher. I hit the blogs. He's on the phone now, chatting with fellow teachers, prepping for cross-country coaching. I flip on the tv to the soaps while munching on a low-fat mozzarella stick.
Yesterday, I had plans on getting a pedicure - never managed to get to the shop. I went to pick up J from music camp and the moment he got into the car, he asked to go places, asked about his person, how does he look, he must look good because girls were talking to him all day. He was talking at a high pitch, loud, clearly a bit hyper, and immediately a headache began. We stopped at my sister's place for dinner and ate pizza. Took pills for the pain. By the time we hit home, after battling the 210 freeway's traffic and M's whiny nastiness from the back seat, I had a full-on migraine.
My grandmother stopped by just a little while ago - oh yes, I mentioned that already - on her way to a doctor's appointment. She had cataract surgery some weeks ago and the healing isn't going well so she holds tissue to her eye and pauses conversation because her eye hurts, her left eye. I fed her, like she was one of my children. My grandparents are at that stage. They need a little something extra these days, a little extra care, a small plate, a little food. Since I'd already made hot dogs for lunch (turkey dogs...eh), I gave Mama one, too. She wanted it cut with ketchup on the side, the way M likes it. I put a little pile of raspberries on the plate. Brought her a glass of milk. Sent D to the market for Tylenol for her, because she was in pain, her eye swelling slightly and weepy. My grandfather has even less of an appetite - he only wanted cookies and milk. I put cookies in a small bowl for him and he was happy. Slowly ate his way through the cookies. The two sat at the kitchen table watching and chatting with M and A who were stamping and coloring on paper and my grandmother got into the act, too. I made grilled cheese sandwiches for A and me.
I felt like such a mother - sandwiched in between sets of children. I was reminded of my own mother. How I'd grieved the reality that I'd never get to mother my mother, that I'd never be sandwiched. Not true. Here I am...peanut butter. Oh that's sounds dumb, doesn't it? Bad writing. Which reminds me that A discovered Sassy likes peanut butter. He's been giving it to her just to watch her repeatedly lick her lips. He laughs a belly laugh whenever he feeds it to her, never failing to comment to me how much she loves the peanut butter.
The mother of A's friend called me last night and I never called her back. She wanted us to take her son today - just for a while please - just a little while as she's not feeling so hot from her surgery and the thought was too much for me. So I sit here, knowing I flaked and feeling badly about it. I'll have to call her and apologize. Tell her we'll have him next week when we get back from Mammoth.
The kids want me to play with them and I just can't, don't want to. I'm going to grab a book and let myself get sleepy, sleepier than I am now, so I'll close my eyes to everything and pretend I have months and months of nothing to do but focus on the noise J makes and my sun tanned feet and Sassy scratching her neck and D marching around the house as he puts clothes away from the just-done laundry.
There are so many more clothes to wash in summer. How funny that is.
We're leaving for the mountains, to the infamous cabin, this coming weekend. J's camp concert is at 4:30 on Friday afternoon and then we'll hit the road right after at 6:00. This will give us three full days at beautiful Mammoth Mountain before heading back down the hill on Tuesday. I'm looking forward to it - our last days of freedom. Then school will start for everyone. Back to a routine, back to homework, back to getting up early.
I'm tired, sleepy, cranky just thinking about the start of school.
I've noticed that depression has snuck back. Today, I did nothing really. Lay in bed until 9 or so, went back to bed at 10 or so, got into clothes near 11 only because my grandmother knocked at our front door. I also noticed D's and my funny balancing act. When I'm down, he pulls up. When he's down, I'm the one pulling up. We have a classic see-saw relationship. He's been really optomistic, energetic even, today while I sit at the computer like a lump. He's got the vacation list in his hand and is starting to pull things down, getting them ready for packing. I hit the news pages on the internet. He's offering hints and supportive comments for me, telling me the beauty of being a teacher. I hit the blogs. He's on the phone now, chatting with fellow teachers, prepping for cross-country coaching. I flip on the tv to the soaps while munching on a low-fat mozzarella stick.
Yesterday, I had plans on getting a pedicure - never managed to get to the shop. I went to pick up J from music camp and the moment he got into the car, he asked to go places, asked about his person, how does he look, he must look good because girls were talking to him all day. He was talking at a high pitch, loud, clearly a bit hyper, and immediately a headache began. We stopped at my sister's place for dinner and ate pizza. Took pills for the pain. By the time we hit home, after battling the 210 freeway's traffic and M's whiny nastiness from the back seat, I had a full-on migraine.
My grandmother stopped by just a little while ago - oh yes, I mentioned that already - on her way to a doctor's appointment. She had cataract surgery some weeks ago and the healing isn't going well so she holds tissue to her eye and pauses conversation because her eye hurts, her left eye. I fed her, like she was one of my children. My grandparents are at that stage. They need a little something extra these days, a little extra care, a small plate, a little food. Since I'd already made hot dogs for lunch (turkey dogs...eh), I gave Mama one, too. She wanted it cut with ketchup on the side, the way M likes it. I put a little pile of raspberries on the plate. Brought her a glass of milk. Sent D to the market for Tylenol for her, because she was in pain, her eye swelling slightly and weepy. My grandfather has even less of an appetite - he only wanted cookies and milk. I put cookies in a small bowl for him and he was happy. Slowly ate his way through the cookies. The two sat at the kitchen table watching and chatting with M and A who were stamping and coloring on paper and my grandmother got into the act, too. I made grilled cheese sandwiches for A and me.
I felt like such a mother - sandwiched in between sets of children. I was reminded of my own mother. How I'd grieved the reality that I'd never get to mother my mother, that I'd never be sandwiched. Not true. Here I am...peanut butter. Oh that's sounds dumb, doesn't it? Bad writing. Which reminds me that A discovered Sassy likes peanut butter. He's been giving it to her just to watch her repeatedly lick her lips. He laughs a belly laugh whenever he feeds it to her, never failing to comment to me how much she loves the peanut butter.
The mother of A's friend called me last night and I never called her back. She wanted us to take her son today - just for a while please - just a little while as she's not feeling so hot from her surgery and the thought was too much for me. So I sit here, knowing I flaked and feeling badly about it. I'll have to call her and apologize. Tell her we'll have him next week when we get back from Mammoth.
The kids want me to play with them and I just can't, don't want to. I'm going to grab a book and let myself get sleepy, sleepier than I am now, so I'll close my eyes to everything and pretend I have months and months of nothing to do but focus on the noise J makes and my sun tanned feet and Sassy scratching her neck and D marching around the house as he puts clothes away from the just-done laundry.
There are so many more clothes to wash in summer. How funny that is.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Lost Words
I lost an essay of mine about tea cups, saucers, cracked china and blood, an essay about my mother. After searching my computer archives and another online journal, I’ve come up empty. It may have been something beautiful and poetic, full of pain and missed opportunities – perhaps I just wanted it to be. There wasn’t much about my mother’s death that was beautiful and poetic.
***
The woman in front of the room was past seventy years old, and she wore a print flower dress with an eyelet bib and a sparkling broach. She’d brought her collection of china tea cups and saucers and had them spread across the linen covered table. Flower centerpieces and books about formal tea filled in the empty spaces. Tea pots and tea cozies and pretty paper napkins and placemats and invitations reflected her pride and she leaned forward into the microphone to make sure we heard every word she said, “After everyone hears my story, you all should be ready to hold your own tea party.”
Next to me a woman in pristine Sax Fifth clothing, pearls highlighting her ivory skin and hair, skin nearly translucent with years on this earth, said, “If a tea’s that much work, I’ll stay in bed, thank you very much.”
The tea party woman continued, “And if you break a tea cup, don’t worry. Mismatched tea cups and saucers and tea pots are all the craze.”
I wondered when she’d get to her story, the real one she wanted to tell.
“Flower arrangements don’t have to be expensive to be beautiful – just stick freshly picked flowers into one of those broken tea cups and you’ll be all ready to go. You can also put candies into a tea cup and send those home with the guests.”
Sax Fifth Avenue grumbled, “If I had any desire to send gifts, I’d just order off the internet.”
“Another thing that’s wonderful are these little sugar cubes shaped into flowers and such. People never want to use them, though. So when the tea is done, I collect them, save them, and wait for my next tea party.”
The tea lady clasped her hands and breathed into the microphone, “And with every sip of tea, you sip the love of the Lord. Let me tell you my story about finding Jesus.”
Ah, the story. I leaned back in my chair, scratching an itch on my head, wondering if Sassy finally brought home fleas, damning those worthless Hartz collars, and listened to the tale of the tea lady and Jesus.
“I was raised in the church,” she said in a deep, melodramatic voice, “and spent every Sunday in Sunday school. I worked hard for the church and memorized many bible verses. But I never felt the love of Jesus, not personally.”
“If I wanted to feel the love of Jesus, I’d just lay in bed and watch Billy Graham.”
Wait, I thought, isn’t this the Christian Women’s Lunch? I bent and whispered, “Aren’t you a Christian?”
“No, I’m a Republican. I worship nothing. Oh…no…I worship Visa and Mastercard and my Arco shares. Can you please pass the butter?”
I checked my tea after I passed the golden pats on a plate. I wondered if someone slipped a peyote button into my white china tea cup. My cell phone buzzed in my purse and then began to sing the blues, a lady in a large blue hat glaring at me, shaking her crucifix necklace at me. I clicked the phone off.
The tea lady began to weep, part of her speech having skipped over me, lost in the air and my buzzing phone, “And then my husband died from a bad case of syphilis he caught from a toilet seat in Rio de Janeiro while on a mission for God. Too much pain after having watched my daughter get run over by the MTA bus as she chased her black beast of a dog across the street. I knew I was missing something in my life.”
“If I knew I was missing something in my life…”
“I know, I know, you’d have just stayed in bed.”
“Yeah…getting the high hard one from my husband. Don’t you know women want to be fucked to God?”
I drank all my tea down. Blinked and stared at the tea lady on her knees and praising…something. “It was horrible! I had no personal relationship with Jesus! So I joined a prayer group!”
Someone tapped my shoulder and I got scared, thinking it was Jesus. I shook my head, no, no, I’m not ready to die, I’m not ready to meet my maker, I don’t want to sit at the feet of the Lord!
“Are you Mrs. Bliss?”
“Yes,” I said, turning around, getting glares from all over now, a bunch of crucifixes and tiny black hotel bibles being shaken at me by a bunch of ladies in hats. “That’s me…Mrs. Bliss-going-to-hell.”
“I have your daughter in my dance class,” she hissed, trying to be quiet, “And may I ask why she insists on screaming at my students if they don’t wear matching clothes? Is she autistic?”
“No, she’s just pre-bipolar. It’s okay, I’m starting her on pre-bipolar medication in order to prevent the full onset of the disease, you know, like prenatal vitamins that you take before you’re pregnant?”
The ballet teacher just stared at me and then walked away from me, backwards, “You are a monster!”
I turned in my seat and smiled to everyone else just as the tea lady got back into position at the podium, “Please order my book, ‘Tea and Jesus and Purple Sugar Cubes’. Thank you so much for the invitation to speak.” The room stood for a full standing ovation and an envelope was pressed into my hand by another lady in a hat, “Give to the children.”
“Of course,” I said, digging into my purse for a few dollars and a coupon for a free Filet-o-Fish. A woman began to sing in an operatic voice, a Disney song about finding something, and I could have sworn it was a rainbow and a leprechaun she’d found but I might have heard wrong thanks to the peyote in my tea. I walked with the crowd, noticing space around me. My phone buzzed which I thought was strange since I’d turned it off and I picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Hello, this is Satan.”
“Of course it is…silly me.”
“You’re expected at home. The boys want ribs but M wants you to pour her cereal and a cup of chocolate milk.”
“And you’re not just whipping this up for them…why?”
“Because only YOU can salve the wounds of your children.”
“And they are wounded….why?”
“They haven’t found Jesus yet.”
“Great…just great.”
As I breathed in the last few moments of my freedom, putting my phone away, shutting it off for the second time, the Saks Fifth lady sidled up to me, “That’s a terrible purse you have. Here, have a credit card application. Shop your heart out. Now THAT’s true love.”
The tea lady was packing up her stuff and I told her what a wonderful speech she’d given, “Really, nicely done. A fine little circle of a tale.”
She looked confused and wished me luck with my autistic daughter, “Word gets around.” She handed me an order form for her book and a little mesh bag of chocolates the label on which read, "Melting for the Lord." I took them and walked out of the conference hall into the hot, sunny day. My phone rang and it was my husband. I ignored the call and grabbed my keys. When I looked at my hand, there was blood. A stigmata.
I zipped home. Touched by...well...something.
***
No, that wasn’t the essay I’d written. Damn it.
***
The woman in front of the room was past seventy years old, and she wore a print flower dress with an eyelet bib and a sparkling broach. She’d brought her collection of china tea cups and saucers and had them spread across the linen covered table. Flower centerpieces and books about formal tea filled in the empty spaces. Tea pots and tea cozies and pretty paper napkins and placemats and invitations reflected her pride and she leaned forward into the microphone to make sure we heard every word she said, “After everyone hears my story, you all should be ready to hold your own tea party.”
Next to me a woman in pristine Sax Fifth clothing, pearls highlighting her ivory skin and hair, skin nearly translucent with years on this earth, said, “If a tea’s that much work, I’ll stay in bed, thank you very much.”
The tea party woman continued, “And if you break a tea cup, don’t worry. Mismatched tea cups and saucers and tea pots are all the craze.”
I wondered when she’d get to her story, the real one she wanted to tell.
“Flower arrangements don’t have to be expensive to be beautiful – just stick freshly picked flowers into one of those broken tea cups and you’ll be all ready to go. You can also put candies into a tea cup and send those home with the guests.”
Sax Fifth Avenue grumbled, “If I had any desire to send gifts, I’d just order off the internet.”
“Another thing that’s wonderful are these little sugar cubes shaped into flowers and such. People never want to use them, though. So when the tea is done, I collect them, save them, and wait for my next tea party.”
The tea lady clasped her hands and breathed into the microphone, “And with every sip of tea, you sip the love of the Lord. Let me tell you my story about finding Jesus.”
Ah, the story. I leaned back in my chair, scratching an itch on my head, wondering if Sassy finally brought home fleas, damning those worthless Hartz collars, and listened to the tale of the tea lady and Jesus.
“I was raised in the church,” she said in a deep, melodramatic voice, “and spent every Sunday in Sunday school. I worked hard for the church and memorized many bible verses. But I never felt the love of Jesus, not personally.”
“If I wanted to feel the love of Jesus, I’d just lay in bed and watch Billy Graham.”
Wait, I thought, isn’t this the Christian Women’s Lunch? I bent and whispered, “Aren’t you a Christian?”
“No, I’m a Republican. I worship nothing. Oh…no…I worship Visa and Mastercard and my Arco shares. Can you please pass the butter?”
I checked my tea after I passed the golden pats on a plate. I wondered if someone slipped a peyote button into my white china tea cup. My cell phone buzzed in my purse and then began to sing the blues, a lady in a large blue hat glaring at me, shaking her crucifix necklace at me. I clicked the phone off.
The tea lady began to weep, part of her speech having skipped over me, lost in the air and my buzzing phone, “And then my husband died from a bad case of syphilis he caught from a toilet seat in Rio de Janeiro while on a mission for God. Too much pain after having watched my daughter get run over by the MTA bus as she chased her black beast of a dog across the street. I knew I was missing something in my life.”
“If I knew I was missing something in my life…”
“I know, I know, you’d have just stayed in bed.”
“Yeah…getting the high hard one from my husband. Don’t you know women want to be fucked to God?”
I drank all my tea down. Blinked and stared at the tea lady on her knees and praising…something. “It was horrible! I had no personal relationship with Jesus! So I joined a prayer group!”
Someone tapped my shoulder and I got scared, thinking it was Jesus. I shook my head, no, no, I’m not ready to die, I’m not ready to meet my maker, I don’t want to sit at the feet of the Lord!
“Are you Mrs. Bliss?”
“Yes,” I said, turning around, getting glares from all over now, a bunch of crucifixes and tiny black hotel bibles being shaken at me by a bunch of ladies in hats. “That’s me…Mrs. Bliss-going-to-hell.”
“I have your daughter in my dance class,” she hissed, trying to be quiet, “And may I ask why she insists on screaming at my students if they don’t wear matching clothes? Is she autistic?”
“No, she’s just pre-bipolar. It’s okay, I’m starting her on pre-bipolar medication in order to prevent the full onset of the disease, you know, like prenatal vitamins that you take before you’re pregnant?”
The ballet teacher just stared at me and then walked away from me, backwards, “You are a monster!”
I turned in my seat and smiled to everyone else just as the tea lady got back into position at the podium, “Please order my book, ‘Tea and Jesus and Purple Sugar Cubes’. Thank you so much for the invitation to speak.” The room stood for a full standing ovation and an envelope was pressed into my hand by another lady in a hat, “Give to the children.”
“Of course,” I said, digging into my purse for a few dollars and a coupon for a free Filet-o-Fish. A woman began to sing in an operatic voice, a Disney song about finding something, and I could have sworn it was a rainbow and a leprechaun she’d found but I might have heard wrong thanks to the peyote in my tea. I walked with the crowd, noticing space around me. My phone buzzed which I thought was strange since I’d turned it off and I picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Hello, this is Satan.”
“Of course it is…silly me.”
“You’re expected at home. The boys want ribs but M wants you to pour her cereal and a cup of chocolate milk.”
“And you’re not just whipping this up for them…why?”
“Because only YOU can salve the wounds of your children.”
“And they are wounded….why?”
“They haven’t found Jesus yet.”
“Great…just great.”
As I breathed in the last few moments of my freedom, putting my phone away, shutting it off for the second time, the Saks Fifth lady sidled up to me, “That’s a terrible purse you have. Here, have a credit card application. Shop your heart out. Now THAT’s true love.”
The tea lady was packing up her stuff and I told her what a wonderful speech she’d given, “Really, nicely done. A fine little circle of a tale.”
She looked confused and wished me luck with my autistic daughter, “Word gets around.” She handed me an order form for her book and a little mesh bag of chocolates the label on which read, "Melting for the Lord." I took them and walked out of the conference hall into the hot, sunny day. My phone rang and it was my husband. I ignored the call and grabbed my keys. When I looked at my hand, there was blood. A stigmata.
I zipped home. Touched by...well...something.
***
No, that wasn’t the essay I’d written. Damn it.
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