If you're in or near Toronto and want to meet some cool moms (Your own blog not required), we're meeting tomorrow at Withrow Park. Details can be found here.
I gotta admit, I am apprehensive about such a public "outing". Revealing myself in the flesh to a larger group freaks me out. As usual I'll be totally honest -- what if I fucking hate these chicks in person? What if they hate me? What if meeting me ruins the illusion that I'm some hip chick and reveals the true geek that I am? What teh fuck am I going to wear? Are they going to notice that I need a dye job?
It's much easier to hide behind a web page. I feel like Lee in Curtis Sittenfeld's masterpiece Prep (Got to meet Curtis last week - that's a whole post on it's own -- coming next week.) -- I'd rather be an outside observer than to be fully engaged in person.
But the other part of me is curious. What are these moms like in person? Am I going to meet more kindred spirits? Because my dance card already seems pretty full with the fabulous bloggers I've met in the recent past. Women whom I now count as some of my closest friends.
The thing is, motherhood is isolation. And eventually you need other friends who are in the same shitpile as you. Anyway, I'm definitely going, so I'll let you know what I think after tomorrow.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
What Are You Good For?
First off, thanks for your awesome song/artist suggestions! And for making me see the light -- at least the Chicks have brains and a political voice, and we all know I have a soft spot for shit disturbers. The long weekend is upon us and I will be making a trip to purchase some new music. (I real would rather download for free, but with Ragdoll's husband in a band and all -- knowing what a musical family goes through, I feel guilty.)
My cross-country soulmate Kristin at D&D recently asked her readers to tell her a bit about themselves. I totally get the idea behind it. I mean, in some ways, blogging is one-sided. My friends, for example, will read from work and never comment, and they will know every detail about my life. But since blogging makes them feel up-to-date and as though they've had a conversation with me, I no longer get phone calls or email updates about them. Loads of people read me anonymously (a fact I highly respect now that I have become largely a lurker instead of a commenter), but I'm kinda curious -- not about who you are, but about your lives. So permit me this indulgence (you can answer anonomously via "Bring It/Brung It" below.) but I want to ask y'all a thing or two.
(directly copied from Kristin's site)
1) Are you a Mom? What else? (And if you're a man what propels you to come here instead of porny/star trekky/men punching men kind of sites?)
2) Do you believe that when we die we go back to the same place we were before we were born?
3) Do you check your ex-boyfriends/girlfriend's/friends email?
4) What are you good for?
5) (I'm adding a 5th--optional--question) How old are you and where do you live? (OK, that's two questions.)
I'll divulge first:
1) Yes. Also an aspiring writer, and an aspiring lady-who-lunches. Not doing so well on that last one as have married aspiring-filmmaker.
2) Yes and no. I believe that when we die, our bodies feed the Earth that so lovingly fed our greedy asses for decades. As for souls, I'd like to believe they go somewhere good to hang with souls we have loved in the past.
3) Nope, but I would if I knew how.
4) I am good for big hugs, a good laugh, writing clever sentences, and a mean fajita.
5. I'll be 32 in a week thanks for asking and I live in Toronto. (yeah, you knew that last bit, but whatevs.)
My cross-country soulmate Kristin at D&D recently asked her readers to tell her a bit about themselves. I totally get the idea behind it. I mean, in some ways, blogging is one-sided. My friends, for example, will read from work and never comment, and they will know every detail about my life. But since blogging makes them feel up-to-date and as though they've had a conversation with me, I no longer get phone calls or email updates about them. Loads of people read me anonymously (a fact I highly respect now that I have become largely a lurker instead of a commenter), but I'm kinda curious -- not about who you are, but about your lives. So permit me this indulgence (you can answer anonomously via "Bring It/Brung It" below.) but I want to ask y'all a thing or two.
(directly copied from Kristin's site)
1) Are you a Mom? What else? (And if you're a man what propels you to come here instead of porny/star trekky/men punching men kind of sites?)
2) Do you believe that when we die we go back to the same place we were before we were born?
3) Do you check your ex-boyfriends/girlfriend's/friends email?
4) What are you good for?
5) (I'm adding a 5th--optional--question) How old are you and where do you live? (OK, that's two questions.)
I'll divulge first:
1) Yes. Also an aspiring writer, and an aspiring lady-who-lunches. Not doing so well on that last one as have married aspiring-filmmaker.
2) Yes and no. I believe that when we die, our bodies feed the Earth that so lovingly fed our greedy asses for decades. As for souls, I'd like to believe they go somewhere good to hang with souls we have loved in the past.
3) Nope, but I would if I knew how.
4) I am good for big hugs, a good laugh, writing clever sentences, and a mean fajita.
5. I'll be 32 in a week thanks for asking and I live in Toronto. (yeah, you knew that last bit, but whatevs.)
Monday, June 26, 2006
Oedipus Shmeedipus
The punchline to my father's favourite joke of late goes (imagine Linda Richman Cowafee Toalk Jewish mother accent for effect), "Oedipus Shmeedipus. As long as you love yo mutha." Except, he says it with his accent and just repeats "Owedipus Schleedipus" over and over and laughs his hilarious high-pitched laugh. Oi vey it gets annoying, but it also makes me laugh just thinking about it.
Sometimes when I look at my son sleeping, I think, "I too have been loved like this." The feeling overwhelms me, like getting water up your nose when swimming. While wading though the fog of adulthood, we often find ourselves suddenly seeing the earnesty of our parents' early methods and intentions. Like most people, I find myself saying or doing things that they would -- with increasing frequency these days. When the shock and awe of this bomb dropping on me subsides, I feel very sad for the way I interpreted my mother over the years.
It's not that my mother tried to make us think she was perfect. Nor did she set out to reveal her weakness. It's just that growing up, I was brainwashed to believe my mother was a saint. Grown-ups were forever telling me, "Your mother's a saint for taking your father back after what he did to her." I often found myself uttering the words, "My mother's a saint," without fully believing them. It just sounded good. I wanted to believe the words were true, as fiercely as I wanted to believe that Jesus Christ was hearing the desperate, self-hating prayers of an overly-ardent, romantic 15 year-old.
But if I knew I would be like her, right down to marrying a man with similar personality traits and having virtually the same birth experience with my first child, I might have taken a bunch of my sister's heavy duty period pain pills. Because what teenager wants to be like her mother? Which of us does not wish to try altering Fate?
I blamed my mother for a long time for what happened between her and my dad. I thought she hadn't been attentive enough, that she'd focused on her kids too much, that she didn't have an education, or interesting things to talk about. And from my perceived high perch I thought I could see everything. And from my perceived high perch, I often looked down at her.
I hadn't told my mother about my mental health issues when I decided to hideout chez Mom & Dad this past "ovulation weekend." My mother had invited her siblings over to eat the first mulberries from the tree in her yard, a nostalgic reenactment of their childhood picnics in Istanbul. And since her siblings are pushing 80, I thought that I could handle some slow conversation about which type of eggplant most-closely resembles the aubergine from "back home." I decided that it would be the best place to go, rest, read and have other people help with my child. I knew I'd be too far out of the city to even entertain any peer pressure to attend Gay Pride festivities. I just needed a safe place to weather out the storm my mind could create. I felt like a Floridian, boarding up windows in anticipation of the inevitable hurricane.
I had been agonizing over whether or not to tell my mother. I think I just needed time to sort out my own feelings. But I was also protecting myself from what she might say. I feared that she would trivialize it or dumb it down to a mind-over-matter matter. "Don't be silly! You just need to tell yourself you're going to be OK. OK?" I worried that she would worry. That she would think something more horrible was indeed wrong with me, and thereby feed the hunger of my fears. "Did the doctor REEELY check everyting? Are you sure der was not more tests she could do?" I was worried she would think I was an incompetent mother. "If you lived here with us, I could take care of Nate and you could relax." The fact that she would already have a sense of what was going on, by sheer fact of my being 50% her genetic clone, only made matters worse.
The weight of not telling her became greater than the burden of the anxiety itself. After putting Nate to bed, I casually turned on the kettle. She hovered around me as she tends to do, and reached for a bag of Earl Gray tea. "I'll just have chamomile," I told her, "I'm trying to avoid stimulants." She was quiet, drawing me out (she has learned a thing or two over her 30+ years as a parent). "Lately I've been having some problems when I'm ovulating," I whispered, trying to be non-chalant.
"Like what?" She was quick, but trying to hide her eagerness at learning a secret. She loves a good secret.
"Um, you know, I'm tired and really bitchy... and you know, sometimes I get anxiety." I tried to make it seem as benign as possible.
Her tone was serious. "Well, if you have anxiety, you should go see a doctor. I had anxiety and it's not good."
Cue the record screech.
"When did you have anxiety?"
She looked at me slyly. She too had secrets. "Bring your tea to the front porch and I'll tell you."
We talked for hours. She told me that when we lived in the townhouse (are we the only family who tells time by which house they lived in?) she would have chest pains, at night when she was alone, meaning my father was working and the kids were in bed -- the only aloneness a mother gets. It was after her mother died of a heart attack and her father was in and out of hospital with his own heart problems (a broken heart, I always suspected). She would get the pain and think she, at 40, was having a heart attack too.
She woke the family doctor up one night to ask what she should do. "My dear girl," he said in a gentle tone, "Go downstairs, pour yourself some whiskey and try to relax." He indulged her by sending her to a cardiologist, who indulged her by sending her for a stress test, which all came back showing a healthy, young, child-chasing heart. She took meds for her anxiety for a while, but then realized she would have to learn to turn her brain off when it started to show it's ugly face.
I felt a gazillion times lighter after telling her. I told her so. "See," she said smugly, "Always tell your mother."
I'm not ready to open my windows, but there doesn't seem to be any signs of a category three storm this month. It's hovering over the coast of Mexico, threatening, scaring the tourists away, but so far I haven't felt more than a few drops of rain.
I love you Mom.
Sometimes when I look at my son sleeping, I think, "I too have been loved like this." The feeling overwhelms me, like getting water up your nose when swimming. While wading though the fog of adulthood, we often find ourselves suddenly seeing the earnesty of our parents' early methods and intentions. Like most people, I find myself saying or doing things that they would -- with increasing frequency these days. When the shock and awe of this bomb dropping on me subsides, I feel very sad for the way I interpreted my mother over the years.
It's not that my mother tried to make us think she was perfect. Nor did she set out to reveal her weakness. It's just that growing up, I was brainwashed to believe my mother was a saint. Grown-ups were forever telling me, "Your mother's a saint for taking your father back after what he did to her." I often found myself uttering the words, "My mother's a saint," without fully believing them. It just sounded good. I wanted to believe the words were true, as fiercely as I wanted to believe that Jesus Christ was hearing the desperate, self-hating prayers of an overly-ardent, romantic 15 year-old.
But if I knew I would be like her, right down to marrying a man with similar personality traits and having virtually the same birth experience with my first child, I might have taken a bunch of my sister's heavy duty period pain pills. Because what teenager wants to be like her mother? Which of us does not wish to try altering Fate?
I blamed my mother for a long time for what happened between her and my dad. I thought she hadn't been attentive enough, that she'd focused on her kids too much, that she didn't have an education, or interesting things to talk about. And from my perceived high perch I thought I could see everything. And from my perceived high perch, I often looked down at her.
I hadn't told my mother about my mental health issues when I decided to hideout chez Mom & Dad this past "ovulation weekend." My mother had invited her siblings over to eat the first mulberries from the tree in her yard, a nostalgic reenactment of their childhood picnics in Istanbul. And since her siblings are pushing 80, I thought that I could handle some slow conversation about which type of eggplant most-closely resembles the aubergine from "back home." I decided that it would be the best place to go, rest, read and have other people help with my child. I knew I'd be too far out of the city to even entertain any peer pressure to attend Gay Pride festivities. I just needed a safe place to weather out the storm my mind could create. I felt like a Floridian, boarding up windows in anticipation of the inevitable hurricane.
I had been agonizing over whether or not to tell my mother. I think I just needed time to sort out my own feelings. But I was also protecting myself from what she might say. I feared that she would trivialize it or dumb it down to a mind-over-matter matter. "Don't be silly! You just need to tell yourself you're going to be OK. OK?" I worried that she would worry. That she would think something more horrible was indeed wrong with me, and thereby feed the hunger of my fears. "Did the doctor REEELY check everyting? Are you sure der was not more tests she could do?" I was worried she would think I was an incompetent mother. "If you lived here with us, I could take care of Nate and you could relax." The fact that she would already have a sense of what was going on, by sheer fact of my being 50% her genetic clone, only made matters worse.
The weight of not telling her became greater than the burden of the anxiety itself. After putting Nate to bed, I casually turned on the kettle. She hovered around me as she tends to do, and reached for a bag of Earl Gray tea. "I'll just have chamomile," I told her, "I'm trying to avoid stimulants." She was quiet, drawing me out (she has learned a thing or two over her 30+ years as a parent). "Lately I've been having some problems when I'm ovulating," I whispered, trying to be non-chalant.
"Like what?" She was quick, but trying to hide her eagerness at learning a secret. She loves a good secret.
"Um, you know, I'm tired and really bitchy... and you know, sometimes I get anxiety." I tried to make it seem as benign as possible.
Her tone was serious. "Well, if you have anxiety, you should go see a doctor. I had anxiety and it's not good."
Cue the record screech.
"When did you have anxiety?"
She looked at me slyly. She too had secrets. "Bring your tea to the front porch and I'll tell you."
We talked for hours. She told me that when we lived in the townhouse (are we the only family who tells time by which house they lived in?) she would have chest pains, at night when she was alone, meaning my father was working and the kids were in bed -- the only aloneness a mother gets. It was after her mother died of a heart attack and her father was in and out of hospital with his own heart problems (a broken heart, I always suspected). She would get the pain and think she, at 40, was having a heart attack too.
She woke the family doctor up one night to ask what she should do. "My dear girl," he said in a gentle tone, "Go downstairs, pour yourself some whiskey and try to relax." He indulged her by sending her to a cardiologist, who indulged her by sending her for a stress test, which all came back showing a healthy, young, child-chasing heart. She took meds for her anxiety for a while, but then realized she would have to learn to turn her brain off when it started to show it's ugly face.
I felt a gazillion times lighter after telling her. I told her so. "See," she said smugly, "Always tell your mother."
I'm not ready to open my windows, but there doesn't seem to be any signs of a category three storm this month. It's hovering over the coast of Mexico, threatening, scaring the tourists away, but so far I haven't felt more than a few drops of rain.
I love you Mom.
Love Me Some Lists
People who live in big cities are always complaining about how expensive it is. So here's a recent list of the world's Top 10 Most Expensive Cities. Places where a cup of mid-range coffee costs $6 (I ain't talkin' half-caf, non-fat, lactaid, mochafrappucino either). So if you don't live in one of these locales -- shut up already.
Top 10 most expensive cities
1. Moscow
2. Seoul
3. Tokyo
4. Hong Kong
5. London
6. Osaka
7. Geneva
8. Copenhagen
9. Zurich
10. Oslo, New York (tied)
I've been to Oslo. A club sandwich in a so-so establishment costs $20. One of those adorable hand-knit Norwegian sweaters for a baby or toddler? Got $300? I had a dinner in NYC with my sis in Soho where her hand was shaking as she set down her credit card. Have you been to any of these cities? Bring on your international expensive stories!
Top 10 most expensive cities
1. Moscow
2. Seoul
3. Tokyo
4. Hong Kong
5. London
6. Osaka
7. Geneva
8. Copenhagen
9. Zurich
10. Oslo, New York (tied)
I've been to Oslo. A club sandwich in a so-so establishment costs $20. One of those adorable hand-knit Norwegian sweaters for a baby or toddler? Got $300? I had a dinner in NYC with my sis in Soho where her hand was shaking as she set down her credit card. Have you been to any of these cities? Bring on your international expensive stories!
Thursday, June 22, 2006
I'm Not Ready to Make Nice
OMFG I like the Dixie Chicks. When the fack did this happpen? It started with admitting to like a bit of Kelly Clarkson, then Jack Johnson and that damn addictive Curious George Soundtrack. Suddenly I'm a generic radio hit-loving whore. OK, I've always loved pop, but I used to be able to balance it out with some sore-neck-inspiring baddy rock like White Stripes, some deeply-haunting esoteric mood shit like Sigur Ros, and some proper hip hop like The Roots. Now I'm getting goosebumps on my neck when the string section kicks in and Natalie Maines belts out the climax of the song. Say what!?!
Oh God, help me now. Anyone have some current CD or song suggestions? Save me before I end up in Goo Goo Doll hell!
Oh God, help me now. Anyone have some current CD or song suggestions? Save me before I end up in Goo Goo Doll hell!
Monday, June 19, 2006
Let the Debate Begin!
Slate magazine has rapidly become my favourite read. (Thanks to Ragdoll for turning me onto it.)
While surfing--ahem--doing research for work, I came across this editorial piece that is sure to light a fire under everyone's ass.
Emily Yoffe's My Mommy War is a follow up to a response she wrote to a reader who was considering not having children. As the subtitle says, "The reader said she didn't want children. I urged her to reconsider. Here's what happened next."
Of course, people went apeshit. People who don't have kids often obsess over the freedom they will lose once they become parents. Some childless people think that they are doing the world a favour by not having kids (If only Britney fell into this category), that the world is too awful a place to bring children into. Some people feel that they've had poor role models in their own parents and just won't be any good at it. At the end of the day, no matter what the excuse, parenting has a bad rep.
I had my first true taste of this at a party recently. It was a BBQ/Housewarming. Over emails leading up to the party, I was encouraged to bring Nate. Normally super social and a good mingler, I found myself spending the whole party with Nate. No one was talking to me. Then, upon further analysis, I realized that I was getting the "Why would you bring your kid to a party?" vibe from the childless crowd. OMG! Before I became a mother, I had given the same vibe countless times. How dare you offend my drunken eyes with the site of your child, you disgusting breeder? That's just not cool, I would think to myself as little Billy would spread a babaghanoushy hand on my dry-clean only slacks. Now the tables had turned and I was the offender.
I touched on my own downplaying of the mother role a bit when I wrote Part-time Mom. No matter how much Burberry we put our kids in; no matter how quickly we get back into our Seven jeans; no matter how often we go out for martinis, being a parent will never be seen as a cool thing. As soon as you hit puberty, the idea that Mom and Dad are the awesomest people in the Universe goes out the window.
A lot of this is our own fault. It's kind of like when you're talking about your spouse to your friends and all you do is bitch about the bad stuff. Then they start to hate him, thinking he's a total yutz. (not Jewish, but love me some yiddish here and there.) Same goes for parenting -- people think it's a lifestyle of "whining and sniveling and mini-vans." As Ms. Yoffe says, "In our society parents do a wonderful job of portraying the difficulties of having children: the financial burdens, the time drain, the guilt, the exhaustion. But we do a lousy job of getting across something else about parenthood: It's fun! When you are experiencing parenthood from the inside, there is an overwhelming pleasure in the funny, fascinating things your children do." We are taught to cloak our happiness and to conceal it, so as not to "rub it in" to those who may not have what we do. Or in ethnic cultures, so as not to draw the attention of the Fates or the dreaded Evil Eye. But I think after growing up in a world that views parents as an un-cool who stay at home all the time watching Deal or No Deal, many people who have kids also believe that being a parent means your life as a person with interests in adult things is over.
Instead we should be celebrating the pleasures of parenting, putting a cool face on the culture of motherhood and fatherhood. Sure, there are shitty days (no pun intended Marla), but more often than not, parenthood is peppered with the funny, love-filled and wondrous moments that can't always be captured on film or in words. We shouldn't lie about the fact that it sucks sometimes, but as parents we should to more to spread the word about the good stuff, without using barf-inspiring cliches like, "It's the most amazing thing you'll ever do."
I'm not going to lie and say I have no opinion on whether or not people should have children. Becoming a parent is definitely a challenging, life-changing experience. "18 years. 18 years! You have one-a her kids, got you fo 18 years!" as Kanye schools us. I honestly don't think it's for everyone. I also don't think that giving birth is a necessary component in becoming a parent. But I've known marriages that were built while the couple was in their 20s, where not having kids was agreed upon. Then you get into your 30s, then your late 30s and suddenly somebody changes their mind. Maybe you realize that your paper-pushing job was not quite the legacy you had in mind. Maybe you wake up at 40 finally fed up with formerly fabulous weekends of cocaine and random hand-jobs. Maybe our innate biology plays tricks with our sensible, selfish heads. I have to agree with Ms. Yoffe: Don't rule out the possibility that you may change your mind.
The opposite does not work. You thought you were going to "wait" on the child issue, but then get drunk on your husband's birthday and have an "oops moment." You have a baby 40 odd weeks later. Holy fuck Batman. You can't change your mind about that. But you may, after the shock of it all, find yourself elated from the high of a hug or a kiss from your child. No mountain or ocean I have seen compares to the way I now view the streetcar through Nate's eyes. No free goody gift bag, no good gossipy story from a fab party ever compares to opening your eyes each morning to the most beautiful smile you have ever seen, a smile that appears because YOU have come into view.
While surfing--ahem--doing research for work, I came across this editorial piece that is sure to light a fire under everyone's ass.
Emily Yoffe's My Mommy War is a follow up to a response she wrote to a reader who was considering not having children. As the subtitle says, "The reader said she didn't want children. I urged her to reconsider. Here's what happened next."
Of course, people went apeshit. People who don't have kids often obsess over the freedom they will lose once they become parents. Some childless people think that they are doing the world a favour by not having kids (If only Britney fell into this category), that the world is too awful a place to bring children into. Some people feel that they've had poor role models in their own parents and just won't be any good at it. At the end of the day, no matter what the excuse, parenting has a bad rep.
I had my first true taste of this at a party recently. It was a BBQ/Housewarming. Over emails leading up to the party, I was encouraged to bring Nate. Normally super social and a good mingler, I found myself spending the whole party with Nate. No one was talking to me. Then, upon further analysis, I realized that I was getting the "Why would you bring your kid to a party?" vibe from the childless crowd. OMG! Before I became a mother, I had given the same vibe countless times. How dare you offend my drunken eyes with the site of your child, you disgusting breeder? That's just not cool, I would think to myself as little Billy would spread a babaghanoushy hand on my dry-clean only slacks. Now the tables had turned and I was the offender.
I touched on my own downplaying of the mother role a bit when I wrote Part-time Mom. No matter how much Burberry we put our kids in; no matter how quickly we get back into our Seven jeans; no matter how often we go out for martinis, being a parent will never be seen as a cool thing. As soon as you hit puberty, the idea that Mom and Dad are the awesomest people in the Universe goes out the window.
A lot of this is our own fault. It's kind of like when you're talking about your spouse to your friends and all you do is bitch about the bad stuff. Then they start to hate him, thinking he's a total yutz. (not Jewish, but love me some yiddish here and there.) Same goes for parenting -- people think it's a lifestyle of "whining and sniveling and mini-vans." As Ms. Yoffe says, "In our society parents do a wonderful job of portraying the difficulties of having children: the financial burdens, the time drain, the guilt, the exhaustion. But we do a lousy job of getting across something else about parenthood: It's fun! When you are experiencing parenthood from the inside, there is an overwhelming pleasure in the funny, fascinating things your children do." We are taught to cloak our happiness and to conceal it, so as not to "rub it in" to those who may not have what we do. Or in ethnic cultures, so as not to draw the attention of the Fates or the dreaded Evil Eye. But I think after growing up in a world that views parents as an un-cool who stay at home all the time watching Deal or No Deal, many people who have kids also believe that being a parent means your life as a person with interests in adult things is over.
Instead we should be celebrating the pleasures of parenting, putting a cool face on the culture of motherhood and fatherhood. Sure, there are shitty days (no pun intended Marla), but more often than not, parenthood is peppered with the funny, love-filled and wondrous moments that can't always be captured on film or in words. We shouldn't lie about the fact that it sucks sometimes, but as parents we should to more to spread the word about the good stuff, without using barf-inspiring cliches like, "It's the most amazing thing you'll ever do."
I'm not going to lie and say I have no opinion on whether or not people should have children. Becoming a parent is definitely a challenging, life-changing experience. "18 years. 18 years! You have one-a her kids, got you fo 18 years!" as Kanye schools us. I honestly don't think it's for everyone. I also don't think that giving birth is a necessary component in becoming a parent. But I've known marriages that were built while the couple was in their 20s, where not having kids was agreed upon. Then you get into your 30s, then your late 30s and suddenly somebody changes their mind. Maybe you realize that your paper-pushing job was not quite the legacy you had in mind. Maybe you wake up at 40 finally fed up with formerly fabulous weekends of cocaine and random hand-jobs. Maybe our innate biology plays tricks with our sensible, selfish heads. I have to agree with Ms. Yoffe: Don't rule out the possibility that you may change your mind.
The opposite does not work. You thought you were going to "wait" on the child issue, but then get drunk on your husband's birthday and have an "oops moment." You have a baby 40 odd weeks later. Holy fuck Batman. You can't change your mind about that. But you may, after the shock of it all, find yourself elated from the high of a hug or a kiss from your child. No mountain or ocean I have seen compares to the way I now view the streetcar through Nate's eyes. No free goody gift bag, no good gossipy story from a fab party ever compares to opening your eyes each morning to the most beautiful smile you have ever seen, a smile that appears because YOU have come into view.
My Pussy is OK
Thanks for all your concern and kind comments. The cat is out of the tree and home safe. We paid the hot tree guy $100 to get her down and she's been resting at home since Friday evening. Sorry I didn't update sooner, but my computer was wonky all weekend.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Walk the Plank Bitch!
At 2 am last night Scout had gone up another 10 feet to the tallest, skinniest branch there was, until the Alsatian owner took his dog in for the night. Well, your thoughts and prayers must've helped, because this morning she was down to a far safer level (about 20 feet lower than she was), but I fear that if the Alsatian is let out again, Scout will climb back up.
The Dog noticed she'd come down a bit and climed as far up the tree as he could get without safety gear. He tried to get her to jump into his arms, but cats are called pussies for a reason and she wouldn't jump the two feet into his arms. The enighbour offered him a plank of wood, which the dog jammed between two branches to offer her a walkway to a lower part of the tree, but she won't fucking use it. Cats are such assholes sometimes.
Her food is at the bottom of the tree, beckoning her to come down for a meal, but no dice. So I await the tree climbers. BTW, if you ever need someone to look at your trees, I highly recommend Erik from Viking Tree Service -- if only because he is a mega hot daddy. He has that blunt Scandinavian way about it him that one could mistake for rudeness, but in person... well a woman could use her trees looked at once a season at least, no?
Anyway, I'm calmer now, if only because the cat is just pissing me off at the height she's at now. Argh.
The Dog noticed she'd come down a bit and climed as far up the tree as he could get without safety gear. He tried to get her to jump into his arms, but cats are called pussies for a reason and she wouldn't jump the two feet into his arms. The enighbour offered him a plank of wood, which the dog jammed between two branches to offer her a walkway to a lower part of the tree, but she won't fucking use it. Cats are such assholes sometimes.
Her food is at the bottom of the tree, beckoning her to come down for a meal, but no dice. So I await the tree climbers. BTW, if you ever need someone to look at your trees, I highly recommend Erik from Viking Tree Service -- if only because he is a mega hot daddy. He has that blunt Scandinavian way about it him that one could mistake for rudeness, but in person... well a woman could use her trees looked at once a season at least, no?
Anyway, I'm calmer now, if only because the cat is just pissing me off at the height she's at now. Argh.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Treed
My cat has been missing since Tuesday. I know, I know -- my life sucks right now. I have seriously pissed off some higher ups in another life, or perhaps made mortal enemies with someone in this life--someone who happens to know voodoo.
So today after work, we found her. Yay! Her cries lead us to her. 50 fucking feet up in a tree. No ladder can get to her -- we tried. We've all seen the same Saturday morning cartoon, so called our friend the firefighter. He told us that if we called the fire department, all they would do is laugh at us. So we called the Humane Society. They told us to call the animal rescue, who told us to call a tree service. I left word with every tree service in the yellow pages. It's 9:30 pm and I'm still waiting for them to call back.
In the meanwhile, Scout is climbing higher and higher up the tree. She is practically at the tip of the branch she is on. All she can do is cry. Look at me and cry. The scary Alsatian that frightened her up there in the first place? Well his owners refuse to put him in the house so we can coax her down. She's more than 4 stories up right now. There is nothing I can do. I am basically waiting for her to fall to her death and then be eaten by the Alsatian.
I really need a break folks. I feel like Scout. So frightened that I'm climbing higher and higher up a shaky branch, crying, knowing no one can help me other than me, and not finding the courage to come down.
Please pray for my little kitty tonight. Because if the worst happens, I may also find myself plumetting down rapidly, knowing I can't land on my feet.
So today after work, we found her. Yay! Her cries lead us to her. 50 fucking feet up in a tree. No ladder can get to her -- we tried. We've all seen the same Saturday morning cartoon, so called our friend the firefighter. He told us that if we called the fire department, all they would do is laugh at us. So we called the Humane Society. They told us to call the animal rescue, who told us to call a tree service. I left word with every tree service in the yellow pages. It's 9:30 pm and I'm still waiting for them to call back.
In the meanwhile, Scout is climbing higher and higher up the tree. She is practically at the tip of the branch she is on. All she can do is cry. Look at me and cry. The scary Alsatian that frightened her up there in the first place? Well his owners refuse to put him in the house so we can coax her down. She's more than 4 stories up right now. There is nothing I can do. I am basically waiting for her to fall to her death and then be eaten by the Alsatian.
I really need a break folks. I feel like Scout. So frightened that I'm climbing higher and higher up a shaky branch, crying, knowing no one can help me other than me, and not finding the courage to come down.
Please pray for my little kitty tonight. Because if the worst happens, I may also find myself plumetting down rapidly, knowing I can't land on my feet.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Sowing the Seeds of Psychosis
I have been mulling over the things I discussed with the homeopath today, letting them marinate, and then ready to serve them up. If you're tired of me going on about this, wait until I'm ready to be funny again. The best part of blogs are that they are your own space and you are in editorial control. I can write whatever I fucking want.
As I was telling her my problems, she quickly jumped in and said, "You need to have another kid." I found this interesting, because the shrink of another friend who suffers from anxiety keeps tell her the same thing. We both kind laughed. "Oh, you mean so I'll be too tired to worry about the inconsequential?" I offered.
Her answer was no, and I'll paraphrase. She explained that having another baby would break this addiction (for lack of a better term) I have for Nate. In simpler terms, it's like my sister said to me the other day. "You need a sibling so you have someone to make fun of your mother with." With another child, I won't be placing all my hopes and dreams on just one kid. Instead the nuttiness will spread around.
Nate calms me down. Holding him gives me peace. Smelling his hair fills the giant growing hole inside me. The hole I have tried to fill over the years with the most gluttonous foods, the wrongest boys, and a delicate balance of drugs, alcohol and over-spending. But I am turning into a sMother. I can feel it. When I'm bummed I need to drink him in. No amount of too-tight squeezes and kisses on soft cheeks will suffice. He squirms under my grasp, aching to be independent, to have me watch from the sidelines. But I just hold him tighter. So the Dog wasn't super off-base when he accused me of being obsessed, he just worded it wrong. I'm not obsessed with my child, I'm addicted to him.
The Homeopath (hereforth known as "my Homey") explained that the seeds of anxiety had been planted in the basement of my psyche a long time ago. By my own mother perhaps, or by events I experienced growing up. But she pried deeper, asking what had happened last fall to fertilize these seeds of anxiety, causing them to flower and grow, bringing them into "the living room of my consciousness."
I thought long and hard. Though I was private abut it on the blog somewhat (for fear of who may be reading) last fall and most of last year I was consumed by the fear of having to face my (now-former) employers after maternity leave. I knew they had found out what I said about them, and I was embarrassed to face them. Embarrassed to face the reality of the monster I'd become in 2004. The deep anxiety over having to return back to work may have been the catalyst for this growing problem. Reason #2000 for not putting work before your health.
It's not for certain, but it's the only thing I can think of. I'm sure I need to delve even deeper to get to the root of all this, but I feel like I'm on the right track. Thank you all for your support. I think it's all going to be OK.
As I was telling her my problems, she quickly jumped in and said, "You need to have another kid." I found this interesting, because the shrink of another friend who suffers from anxiety keeps tell her the same thing. We both kind laughed. "Oh, you mean so I'll be too tired to worry about the inconsequential?" I offered.
Her answer was no, and I'll paraphrase. She explained that having another baby would break this addiction (for lack of a better term) I have for Nate. In simpler terms, it's like my sister said to me the other day. "You need a sibling so you have someone to make fun of your mother with." With another child, I won't be placing all my hopes and dreams on just one kid. Instead the nuttiness will spread around.
Nate calms me down. Holding him gives me peace. Smelling his hair fills the giant growing hole inside me. The hole I have tried to fill over the years with the most gluttonous foods, the wrongest boys, and a delicate balance of drugs, alcohol and over-spending. But I am turning into a sMother. I can feel it. When I'm bummed I need to drink him in. No amount of too-tight squeezes and kisses on soft cheeks will suffice. He squirms under my grasp, aching to be independent, to have me watch from the sidelines. But I just hold him tighter. So the Dog wasn't super off-base when he accused me of being obsessed, he just worded it wrong. I'm not obsessed with my child, I'm addicted to him.
The Homeopath (hereforth known as "my Homey") explained that the seeds of anxiety had been planted in the basement of my psyche a long time ago. By my own mother perhaps, or by events I experienced growing up. But she pried deeper, asking what had happened last fall to fertilize these seeds of anxiety, causing them to flower and grow, bringing them into "the living room of my consciousness."
I thought long and hard. Though I was private abut it on the blog somewhat (for fear of who may be reading) last fall and most of last year I was consumed by the fear of having to face my (now-former) employers after maternity leave. I knew they had found out what I said about them, and I was embarrassed to face them. Embarrassed to face the reality of the monster I'd become in 2004. The deep anxiety over having to return back to work may have been the catalyst for this growing problem. Reason #2000 for not putting work before your health.
It's not for certain, but it's the only thing I can think of. I'm sure I need to delve even deeper to get to the root of all this, but I feel like I'm on the right track. Thank you all for your support. I think it's all going to be OK.
Homeopathward Bound
OMG! How awesome was that? Just spilling my life story to someone and having them diagnose me based on ME? That was a pretty pair of shoes I just paid the Homeopath, but I feel better spilling it all out already. She gave me 4 tiny pills (I kid you not, dollhouse size pills) that I'm supposed to take next time the crazies come on. I have to keep detailed notes on how the pills help/don't help and then see her in two weeks' time. Homeopath kicks Naturopath's ass!
Having to pay with my credit card did make a much debated point clear to me: In Canada, whether we like it or not, we already have a two-tiered medical system. Because if I want to have a health service provided that doesn't fall under the umbrella of Western medicine, I gotta pay out of my own pocket. Accupuncture, Osteopathy, Chiropractic, etc -- maybe if you have insurance, you just might get some of it covered. But poor Joe Schmo on welfare doesn't get that option. I can barely afford this treatment, but it's my health, and I think it's about time I put my health before a cute pair of shoes. It just sucks that not everyone can do that, especially in a country that claims to have such a fair healthcare system.
The Homeopath also made a good point. When I asked her why all these women in our generation are on meds, she looked at me matter-of-factly and said, "It's like the 50s. Back then it was Valium. Women were feeling overwhelmed by having a family and getting dinner ready and having the pillows just so. They would go to the doctor and say, "I'm overwhelmed!" And the doctor would write them a prescription for Valium. They were like Stepford Wives."
So let's hope her magic pills work. Because much like Julie Kavner in the guiltier-pleasure-than-the-original Revenge of the Stepford Wives, it would take a lot of Prozac to make me fit in with this crew.
Having to pay with my credit card did make a much debated point clear to me: In Canada, whether we like it or not, we already have a two-tiered medical system. Because if I want to have a health service provided that doesn't fall under the umbrella of Western medicine, I gotta pay out of my own pocket. Accupuncture, Osteopathy, Chiropractic, etc -- maybe if you have insurance, you just might get some of it covered. But poor Joe Schmo on welfare doesn't get that option. I can barely afford this treatment, but it's my health, and I think it's about time I put my health before a cute pair of shoes. It just sucks that not everyone can do that, especially in a country that claims to have such a fair healthcare system.
The Homeopath also made a good point. When I asked her why all these women in our generation are on meds, she looked at me matter-of-factly and said, "It's like the 50s. Back then it was Valium. Women were feeling overwhelmed by having a family and getting dinner ready and having the pillows just so. They would go to the doctor and say, "I'm overwhelmed!" And the doctor would write them a prescription for Valium. They were like Stepford Wives."
So let's hope her magic pills work. Because much like Julie Kavner in the guiltier-pleasure-than-the-original Revenge of the Stepford Wives, it would take a lot of Prozac to make me fit in with this crew.
Ways to Avoid Going Crazy
I've been having a lovely week. It's my sane week. The week I am happy and not afraid of terrorists and plastic water bottles causing cancer. Next week I'll be in full PPMD mode, so I'm trying to savour the moments while I can.
I am going to see a homeopath today. Still not sure of the difference between the Homeopath and the Naturopath, but Shantih called me from Montreal to suggest that I see this woman, so I'll give it a shot. I am quite certain she is going to tell me to go off stimulants (caffeine, alcohol, sugar) and she may as well hand me a noose while she's at it. Even though I know these things are not good for me and that I'll be better without them, I have a hard time with the idea of giving stuff up. It's not like a have a crack addiction -- and regardless of how I paint myself, I am so far from being an alcoholic. But I am also aware that I have food sensitivities, which I choose to ignore because I'd rather be stuffed up all the time than to know a life without Brie.
Anyway, I'm going to try the natural route before I pop the pills. Just for a month. If I see no change, then I will be forced to take the pills. Because full blown panic attacks are not fun.
One great way to stave off the crazies is to make light of it. I have downloaded Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy" which promises to be the "Hey Ya" of 2006, only better. What an awesome track. I believe the song is about schizophrenia, which one of the two members of the band may have. Anyway, if you play it over and over, shouting the refrain, "I think I'm crazy" you can put your nutty self in a pretty good mood. So get the song already, you bunch of psychos!
Off to the Homeopath. I'll let y'all know how it goes later.
I am going to see a homeopath today. Still not sure of the difference between the Homeopath and the Naturopath, but Shantih called me from Montreal to suggest that I see this woman, so I'll give it a shot. I am quite certain she is going to tell me to go off stimulants (caffeine, alcohol, sugar) and she may as well hand me a noose while she's at it. Even though I know these things are not good for me and that I'll be better without them, I have a hard time with the idea of giving stuff up. It's not like a have a crack addiction -- and regardless of how I paint myself, I am so far from being an alcoholic. But I am also aware that I have food sensitivities, which I choose to ignore because I'd rather be stuffed up all the time than to know a life without Brie.
Anyway, I'm going to try the natural route before I pop the pills. Just for a month. If I see no change, then I will be forced to take the pills. Because full blown panic attacks are not fun.
One great way to stave off the crazies is to make light of it. I have downloaded Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy" which promises to be the "Hey Ya" of 2006, only better. What an awesome track. I believe the song is about schizophrenia, which one of the two members of the band may have. Anyway, if you play it over and over, shouting the refrain, "I think I'm crazy" you can put your nutty self in a pretty good mood. So get the song already, you bunch of psychos!
Off to the Homeopath. I'll let y'all know how it goes later.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Because I had enough of crying last week
Thanks to my sis for putting me onto this SNL Digital Short. (Fingers crossed the link works)
White boys rapping ain't new, but nerdy white boys doing hardcore geek rap, well that just may be the next new genre.
White boys rapping ain't new, but nerdy white boys doing hardcore geek rap, well that just may be the next new genre.
Books and other ways to avoid housework
I have had my head in the sand this past week, working almost every day and brushing up on books of authors whom we had to interview this past weekend. I learned so much from all the writers whose presence I had the fantastic fortune of being in: the mystical Diana Gabaldon, the warm Anita Rau Badami, the intense Kevin Patterson, and the friendly newcomer Robert J Wiersema -- who reminded me of a literary Kevin Smith. I was so inspired after my weekend that I actually began my novel. A few pages in my notebook, but a definite start. I have begun the journey with my characters. I hope I do them justice.
So I was at Book Expo all weekend -- a convention and conference for booksellers, publishers and authors. A lot of talk from the people at Google, MSN and Amazon about the need for publishers to step into the 21st century and the general consensus that the printed book is going the way of the dodo bird.
I guess with the advent of iPod style eReaders, the desperate need for trees to clean our filthy air, and the cost of printing books, this may hold a grain of truth to it. I think it will take a while, but if you told me 5 years ago that I would read the newspaper online everyday, I would have shaken an ink-smeared finger at you and called you a psycho.
Yet at the same time, I spent the weekend snuggling under the covers with books. The sensuous feel of the paper, the sound of turning pages, the faint smell of the print. How can we ever live without these things?
I remember a director talking about the smell of the Steinbeck machines they used to cut film -- actual cellulose. Now a generation of filmmakers and editors smell only Starbucks and hear the whirr of the Mac as they "cut" their films on a computer. I remember people talking about the smell of a vinyl pressing, or even my early days of tearing cellophane off a cassette tape, and then my first CD. Now an entire generation will be obtuse to the joys of cover art, and discovering that song that never makes it to the radio, podcast or online top 40 list.
As our media becomes smaller, more customizable and portable, I realize that a book has always been all these things. So why the need for change? As I sit under the shade of one of the last remaining elm trees in Toronto, I can think of one good reason. As I look at the stacks of books collecting dust on my shelves, and possibly mildew in my basement, waiting to be given a good sweep of my wand, I can think of another. The idea of having your entire library in your hand is appealing. (No more hiding my less impressive guilty pleasures) But oh, how I will mourn the bookstore and the library. Since my childhood they have provided me a place for meditation and reflection, a quiet home for my early scribblings, as well as a tome of knowledge, available to everyone.
Nate's in daycare and I have the day off. I have finished the book I was reading, wiped the last of my tears and completed this blog post. Laundry and dishes await. I'm sure that next decade, they'll be putting computer chips in our brains, so we can read internally while ironing. *sigh*
So I was at Book Expo all weekend -- a convention and conference for booksellers, publishers and authors. A lot of talk from the people at Google, MSN and Amazon about the need for publishers to step into the 21st century and the general consensus that the printed book is going the way of the dodo bird.
I guess with the advent of iPod style eReaders, the desperate need for trees to clean our filthy air, and the cost of printing books, this may hold a grain of truth to it. I think it will take a while, but if you told me 5 years ago that I would read the newspaper online everyday, I would have shaken an ink-smeared finger at you and called you a psycho.
Yet at the same time, I spent the weekend snuggling under the covers with books. The sensuous feel of the paper, the sound of turning pages, the faint smell of the print. How can we ever live without these things?
I remember a director talking about the smell of the Steinbeck machines they used to cut film -- actual cellulose. Now a generation of filmmakers and editors smell only Starbucks and hear the whirr of the Mac as they "cut" their films on a computer. I remember people talking about the smell of a vinyl pressing, or even my early days of tearing cellophane off a cassette tape, and then my first CD. Now an entire generation will be obtuse to the joys of cover art, and discovering that song that never makes it to the radio, podcast or online top 40 list.
As our media becomes smaller, more customizable and portable, I realize that a book has always been all these things. So why the need for change? As I sit under the shade of one of the last remaining elm trees in Toronto, I can think of one good reason. As I look at the stacks of books collecting dust on my shelves, and possibly mildew in my basement, waiting to be given a good sweep of my wand, I can think of another. The idea of having your entire library in your hand is appealing. (No more hiding my less impressive guilty pleasures) But oh, how I will mourn the bookstore and the library. Since my childhood they have provided me a place for meditation and reflection, a quiet home for my early scribblings, as well as a tome of knowledge, available to everyone.
Nate's in daycare and I have the day off. I have finished the book I was reading, wiped the last of my tears and completed this blog post. Laundry and dishes await. I'm sure that next decade, they'll be putting computer chips in our brains, so we can read internally while ironing. *sigh*
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Stick and Stones
Why the hell did we ever get taught that as children? Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.
Yeah, right. I think we all learn the power of words in less time than it takes Britney to get preggers. (I kinda think it's sad that we've been reduced to a society where the mere mention of the name Britney evokes the same image for everyone. It's a given. I don't even need to link! So gross.)
First off, thanks for your kind and ultra-honest comments and emails. I cannot believe the amount of support that's come in from all over the world. It's been a tough week, but thankfully I'm not ovulating, so I'm back to being all smiley. This is the point in the month where I usually think I'm OK, that I've conquered the thoughts, that I don't need any help. If you could feel the dramatic shift in my thinking and behaviour, you would be ready to down some happy pills too (some of you already know and do). Anyway, I could not have gotten through this without the kindness of strangers. Strangers who are friends-dot-com, as GGC would say.
I haven't been able to write since, because what I need to write will paint my husband in a bad light. And I love him a lot. And he's a good man. A good father. A good husband. But even good people can say hurtful things sometimes.
My husband reacted as I knew he would. When he saw me sobbing because Nate fell from my arms he got scared. He realized how helpless he is in this situation, how he can't get inside my head and fix it. But he didn't really understand what was happening to me. I think subconsciously he thought it was somehow my fault.
On Friday night, we took off in order to hole up for the weekend. No calls, no friends, no extended family. Just the three of us, a rare event on the weekends. We didn't go anywhere glam. My in-laws are out of town, so we went to feed their cat and decided to stay for two nights. After Nate was in bed, we started talking about things. Just sat across from each other on the sectional couch in the cosy basement family room, looking at one another and talking. It was familiar and foreign at the same time. Wow, I thought, we haven't done this in a long time.
The conversation veered towards my need for the prescription. "I have to be honest with you," the Dog started. It's never good when he begins a sentence like that. "I think that we should not have another child if it's going to make you crazier. I mean, we just have one and look how hard it is. If you can't handle that, then we shouldn't add another child to that."
I sobbed. What else could I do? My husband thinks that I am in no condition to parent one child, let alone two. How could he say that? He told me he thinks I should take on more days at work, so I'll be "less obsessed with Nate." Wha?? OK, I'm his mother. I love him. A lot. Who here doesn't love their child at that intoxicating level? But I have a lot of "me time" and I think the fact that I take "me time" is proof that I'm not obsessed with Nate. But this is semantics, there was something he wasn't saying.
"I think you'll use any excuse not to have a second child because you don't really want one!" I retorted.
"Not true, I do want a second child. But I'm afraid of what it will do to us. That you'll be more overwhelmed, that you'll pay more attention to them than you do to me. I don't know."
Well, when you put it like that, these are all possibilities. We both agreed that talking about it would help to combat it. Somehow I didn't get too offended by his comments and moved on.
The next day was spent puttering about with Nate. It was raining, so our plans to visit the zoo were kaiboshed. Nate took a three-hour nap, while we watched Pedro Almodovar's La Mala Educacion aka Bad Education. Almodovar is honestly one of my top 5 directors when it comes to watching movies. Two of his other films, All About My Mother and Talk to Her, are huge faves of mine. Anyway, Bad Education can only be described as a tranny film noir. The subject matter is very dark, but trannies can be funny and there are fabulous twists and turns. It's got ultra hot Gael Garcia Bernal in it (who makes a hawt woman BTW), and it's WAY better than your average Hollywood schlock. Rent it. It'll make you want to have sex with your husband (or similar facsimile) -- oh, unless two gorgeous men kissing doesn't do it for you.
OK, where did I go? Oh yes, movie, then an afternoon at a suburban mall buying towels and summer clothes for Nate. Then back home for dinner, Nate to bed and more talking. We decided to try to work out the chore issue, since clearly we haven't hired a cleaning person yet. I had printed off a calendar and we were negotiating who would do what task on which day. I thought we were on the same page. But then the Dog decided to play devil's advocate and push some buttons.
"So what happens if I wake up on Sunday and want to play with Nate instead of doing the floors?"
"As long as you get them done by the end of the day on Sunday, or promise to do them the next day it's fine. But Doggy I really think we should stick to this schedule, because if we start messing with it, everything is going to fall apart."
"But the schedule is not realistic. We're parents." He started to get pissy, I started to get aggravated.
"Yes," I sighed, "I get that, but that's the system we've currently been using and it's not working for us. We are living in filth (slight exaggeration). We need to commit to this so we can change our habits."
Voice raised: "You're not getting what I'm saying here!"
Some interrupting each other back and forth. He never raises his voice but I got a "WILL YOU JUST LISTEN TO ME?"
"OK," slightly bitchy, implying he doesn't know what he's talking about, "Wuhhat are you trying to say?"
Furious now: "I'm saying what happens if this doesn't go according to plan? Are you going to freak out? ARE YOU GOING TO NEED MORE FUCKING PROZAC?!?"
I tried to keep my face neutral. I tried for a millisecond not to let him see that he slapped me with the malicious utterance of "Prozac." But I could not protect myself from shattering. I slammed my hand on the table, and attempted a strange laugh. "Huh-ha! Night's over." I ran down to the basement and started blogging about the PMDD diagnosis.
I was shaken, but I focused on the words I was writing instead of the ones that were ringing in my ears.
The Dog came downstairs with his tail between his legs. "I'm not ready to talk to you," I told him without looking at him.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. It just went too far."
"You are never allowed to do that again," I stressed. "Never. You can never use the Prozac as a swear word." I was surprised that I was not crying.
He apologized profusely. Then I cried as I tried to explain things to him. I told him he broke my heart. I told him I knew he would use this against me, that he would see me as weak and incapable of "sucking it up." But it wasn't my fault. I had to get help. I couldn't do it alone. That he needs to be on my side or we'll never get through this. We both realized that it would not be OK that night, but it was as OK as it could be.
Last night he held me and told me that he was on my side no matter what. That he had my back. That we'd get through this. Today I came home and to find him reading not only my blog, but your comments on that last post. It's a good sign. It means he cares and he's trying to understand. Sometimes you assume that the people who are closest to you will understand the most. Perhaps they are too close to see objectively, perhaps they are in denial that there is a problem. Whatever it is, they are blind to the truth. I expected too much too soon, but I'm glad that he's coming around.
I realize that there is no quick fix for this, but I'm fortunate to have someone like (oh I really want to use his beautiful name!) the Dog at my side. Argh. Cliche, cliche. I need a closing sentence! The Dog just walked in and suggested that I end with, "Oh my God, I'm tired. Goodnight. And besides my husband is very handsome." So that's that!
Yeah, right. I think we all learn the power of words in less time than it takes Britney to get preggers. (I kinda think it's sad that we've been reduced to a society where the mere mention of the name Britney evokes the same image for everyone. It's a given. I don't even need to link! So gross.)
First off, thanks for your kind and ultra-honest comments and emails. I cannot believe the amount of support that's come in from all over the world. It's been a tough week, but thankfully I'm not ovulating, so I'm back to being all smiley. This is the point in the month where I usually think I'm OK, that I've conquered the thoughts, that I don't need any help. If you could feel the dramatic shift in my thinking and behaviour, you would be ready to down some happy pills too (some of you already know and do). Anyway, I could not have gotten through this without the kindness of strangers. Strangers who are friends-dot-com, as GGC would say.
I haven't been able to write since, because what I need to write will paint my husband in a bad light. And I love him a lot. And he's a good man. A good father. A good husband. But even good people can say hurtful things sometimes.
My husband reacted as I knew he would. When he saw me sobbing because Nate fell from my arms he got scared. He realized how helpless he is in this situation, how he can't get inside my head and fix it. But he didn't really understand what was happening to me. I think subconsciously he thought it was somehow my fault.
On Friday night, we took off in order to hole up for the weekend. No calls, no friends, no extended family. Just the three of us, a rare event on the weekends. We didn't go anywhere glam. My in-laws are out of town, so we went to feed their cat and decided to stay for two nights. After Nate was in bed, we started talking about things. Just sat across from each other on the sectional couch in the cosy basement family room, looking at one another and talking. It was familiar and foreign at the same time. Wow, I thought, we haven't done this in a long time.
The conversation veered towards my need for the prescription. "I have to be honest with you," the Dog started. It's never good when he begins a sentence like that. "I think that we should not have another child if it's going to make you crazier. I mean, we just have one and look how hard it is. If you can't handle that, then we shouldn't add another child to that."
I sobbed. What else could I do? My husband thinks that I am in no condition to parent one child, let alone two. How could he say that? He told me he thinks I should take on more days at work, so I'll be "less obsessed with Nate." Wha?? OK, I'm his mother. I love him. A lot. Who here doesn't love their child at that intoxicating level? But I have a lot of "me time" and I think the fact that I take "me time" is proof that I'm not obsessed with Nate. But this is semantics, there was something he wasn't saying.
"I think you'll use any excuse not to have a second child because you don't really want one!" I retorted.
"Not true, I do want a second child. But I'm afraid of what it will do to us. That you'll be more overwhelmed, that you'll pay more attention to them than you do to me. I don't know."
Well, when you put it like that, these are all possibilities. We both agreed that talking about it would help to combat it. Somehow I didn't get too offended by his comments and moved on.
The next day was spent puttering about with Nate. It was raining, so our plans to visit the zoo were kaiboshed. Nate took a three-hour nap, while we watched Pedro Almodovar's La Mala Educacion aka Bad Education. Almodovar is honestly one of my top 5 directors when it comes to watching movies. Two of his other films, All About My Mother and Talk to Her, are huge faves of mine. Anyway, Bad Education can only be described as a tranny film noir. The subject matter is very dark, but trannies can be funny and there are fabulous twists and turns. It's got ultra hot Gael Garcia Bernal in it (who makes a hawt woman BTW), and it's WAY better than your average Hollywood schlock. Rent it. It'll make you want to have sex with your husband (or similar facsimile) -- oh, unless two gorgeous men kissing doesn't do it for you.OK, where did I go? Oh yes, movie, then an afternoon at a suburban mall buying towels and summer clothes for Nate. Then back home for dinner, Nate to bed and more talking. We decided to try to work out the chore issue, since clearly we haven't hired a cleaning person yet. I had printed off a calendar and we were negotiating who would do what task on which day. I thought we were on the same page. But then the Dog decided to play devil's advocate and push some buttons.
"So what happens if I wake up on Sunday and want to play with Nate instead of doing the floors?"
"As long as you get them done by the end of the day on Sunday, or promise to do them the next day it's fine. But Doggy I really think we should stick to this schedule, because if we start messing with it, everything is going to fall apart."
"But the schedule is not realistic. We're parents." He started to get pissy, I started to get aggravated.
"Yes," I sighed, "I get that, but that's the system we've currently been using and it's not working for us. We are living in filth (slight exaggeration). We need to commit to this so we can change our habits."
Voice raised: "You're not getting what I'm saying here!"
Some interrupting each other back and forth. He never raises his voice but I got a "WILL YOU JUST LISTEN TO ME?"
"OK," slightly bitchy, implying he doesn't know what he's talking about, "Wuhhat are you trying to say?"
Furious now: "I'm saying what happens if this doesn't go according to plan? Are you going to freak out? ARE YOU GOING TO NEED MORE FUCKING PROZAC?!?"
I tried to keep my face neutral. I tried for a millisecond not to let him see that he slapped me with the malicious utterance of "Prozac." But I could not protect myself from shattering. I slammed my hand on the table, and attempted a strange laugh. "Huh-ha! Night's over." I ran down to the basement and started blogging about the PMDD diagnosis.
I was shaken, but I focused on the words I was writing instead of the ones that were ringing in my ears.
The Dog came downstairs with his tail between his legs. "I'm not ready to talk to you," I told him without looking at him.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. It just went too far."
"You are never allowed to do that again," I stressed. "Never. You can never use the Prozac as a swear word." I was surprised that I was not crying.
He apologized profusely. Then I cried as I tried to explain things to him. I told him he broke my heart. I told him I knew he would use this against me, that he would see me as weak and incapable of "sucking it up." But it wasn't my fault. I had to get help. I couldn't do it alone. That he needs to be on my side or we'll never get through this. We both realized that it would not be OK that night, but it was as OK as it could be.
Last night he held me and told me that he was on my side no matter what. That he had my back. That we'd get through this. Today I came home and to find him reading not only my blog, but your comments on that last post. It's a good sign. It means he cares and he's trying to understand. Sometimes you assume that the people who are closest to you will understand the most. Perhaps they are too close to see objectively, perhaps they are in denial that there is a problem. Whatever it is, they are blind to the truth. I expected too much too soon, but I'm glad that he's coming around.
I realize that there is no quick fix for this, but I'm fortunate to have someone like (oh I really want to use his beautiful name!) the Dog at my side. Argh. Cliche, cliche. I need a closing sentence! The Dog just walked in and suggested that I end with, "Oh my God, I'm tired. Goodnight. And besides my husband is very handsome." So that's that!
Friday, June 02, 2006
Shoulda Painted My Doorframes with Lamb's Blood
...CONTINUED (meaning this is part-two. Read part-one HERE)
After the finger-incident, I showered and went to the doctor. I made the appointment because lately, I've been SUPER exhausted. Way more than usual. And Nate is sleeping through the night. And I think my craziness has increased to the point that my trying to use "mind over matter" is failing miserably.
In the waiting room I began reading a book that is not due to be published until the fall. OMG it is so fucking good. I was bawling from page one! All parents (and saps, and people who worry about random accidents) will be unable to put down this book. I can not tell you what it's called or the author's name (too bad, because I'd love to build buzz), but I'll definitely try to get some copies closer to the fall for a giveaway.
The doctor called me in. I quickly explained to her that when I ovulate:
* I turn into a fucking psycho, that I noticed it back in November, and that it's been getting worse. "Are you a... um... bitchy?" she asked me, bobbing her Dorothy Hamill hairdo. Um, yeah. "I wake up angry at my husband and go to bed angry at my husband. Does that count?"
* I have irrational thoughts and anxiety attacks. "Describe what you mean by irrational thoughts." This was very difficult to utter aloud. "Well, I listen to my body obsessively and then I become convinced that I have a brain tumour, or stomach cancer. Or I think that Nate and the Dog have been run over by a drunk driver on their way to daycare."
"OK, so you have unfounded worries." she scribbled.
* I've been having chest pains and shortness of breath and am convinced that I am having heart failure. She asked me if this goes away after my period. I told her that I'm like 85% when I get my period. She asked me a bunch more questions to which I answered yes. Then she hemmed and hawed and then got down to it.
"Based on what you're telling me, I think you have PMDD. It stands for Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder. It's more severe than your regular bout of PMS. Basically, your hormones fluctuate more than the average person's. The symptoms usually go away after your period. But because you said you are only 85% after your period, I think you may also be suffering from a mild case of depression."
Uh-huh. Alrighty then. A physician is telling me that I am indeed nuts. But at least I'm not dying. Which is good, because when you're sick in the head, it's hard to know when you're actually sick vs. when it's just in your head.
"Most women find they feel better with a mild dose of anti-depressants. Prozac or Paxil are usually prescribed over a two-week period, from just after ovulation to the time you get your period."
Did she just say Prozac? Holy fucking shit. I am certifiable. Tom Cruise will be calling me any minute now.
No wait. Other women I know and respect are on meds. And I like them. And they claim they are better now that they are on meds. They are still nuts, but I like them. OK, maybe not so bad.
OMG I'm going to be on meds! How did I get to this? How come I couldn't control it?
A wave of guilt washes over me. And the awareness that I will be judged from now on by those who know. I need to keep this to myself.
But no, I should tell people. Maybe they are also suffering in silence. Maybe they need to know that it's OK to ask for help. Whatever psycho bitch, get off your sanctimonious high horse. And say goodbye to your sex life.
OMG how am I going to tell the Dog? He is so "natural" guy and "suck it up" guy. He will never look at me the same. He will view me as weak and fragile and blame himself and withdraw from me further.
But I NEEDED help. I was drowning on my own. I was getting excited when the baby (he's 17 months, I need to stop referring to him as such) would wake up at midnight, so I could hold him and calm my fears of dying, and fall asleep smelling his downy hair. I was ready to walk out on my husband for not buying laundry detergent. I am not OK. And I will never be OK again.
But when have I ever been OK? I thought I was a typical teenager when I hid in my room writing suicidal poetry. Then I did the requisite three years of anorexia, followed by whoring, then complete abstinence, then falling madly in love, getting married, getting pregnant, and hating my job so much I gave my son a stroke. Now all I do is think about the fragility of life and how the people whose love my life hinges upon could die at any minute. Or worse. I could die and miss out on everything.
But instead, I found myself missing out on everything while alive. I was so busy thinking about death that I could not fully participate in the lives of my loved ones. I am absent, detached, withdrawn, distracted. I NEEDED to get help.
The prescription burned a hole in my wallet. I have been aware of it ever since I held it. I don't have to fill it out until I ovulate later this month. It all makes sense now: why I didn't have these thoughts when I was on the pill; why I didn't have these thoughts when I was pregnant. The eggs make me crazy. Correction: the eggs make me crazIER.
When I finally sat down alone in the car, I realized that I was in a bit of shock. That Friday's events were a lot to take in and I had been damaged by them. After all, you can never un-see something. That finger will haunt my mind's eye and my dreams forever. And you can't become "un-crazy". So, I tried retail therapy. I spent $250 (that I don't have) between Winners and Shoe Company, at a rate of approximately $125/hour, to make myself feel better. It didn't work. OK, it worked a wee bit.
I got home and snuggled my son. The Dog informed me that Gwen had been by to thank me for helping. And that they hadn't attached the finger. Ugh. I told the Dog about the meds and he was silent and sullen, but gave a supportive face. I explained it wasn't easy for me to admit I had gotten to this point, but that our marriage was suffering because I was so horrible to him for half the month. And that I don't want to be like that anymore. And that I miss feeling totally in love with him when I crawl into bed, and when I wake up. He agreed that we had a problem and said he was proud of me for getting help. (Don't gush yet. Wait for the next post.)
I held Nate tight while the Dog packed the car for our weekend away. As I held Nate and told him that I would never let him down on purpose, and that this illness wasn't going to affect my mothering him, he wriggled free from my arms and fell smack on the hard floor on his back. I was mortified. I fell into sobs on the floor. I cannot protect him from anything, even when he's in my arms. OMG I am not fit to be a mother.
But that's kinda the point isn't it? Who is? Anything can happen to anyone at anytime. It's all so random. Someone who doesn't have full brain capacity can lose a finger in an instant. Someone who does have full brain capacity can lose her ability to control her mind in an instant. What good does worrying do? I know this, yet am unable to control what my mind wishes me to think. I hope that the prescription helps me to find some balance. Because if it doesn't, I'm padding my bedroom and seeing if Stella McCartney does a straight jacket for F/W 06.
After the finger-incident, I showered and went to the doctor. I made the appointment because lately, I've been SUPER exhausted. Way more than usual. And Nate is sleeping through the night. And I think my craziness has increased to the point that my trying to use "mind over matter" is failing miserably.
In the waiting room I began reading a book that is not due to be published until the fall. OMG it is so fucking good. I was bawling from page one! All parents (and saps, and people who worry about random accidents) will be unable to put down this book. I can not tell you what it's called or the author's name (too bad, because I'd love to build buzz), but I'll definitely try to get some copies closer to the fall for a giveaway.
The doctor called me in. I quickly explained to her that when I ovulate:
* I turn into a fucking psycho, that I noticed it back in November, and that it's been getting worse. "Are you a... um... bitchy?" she asked me, bobbing her Dorothy Hamill hairdo. Um, yeah. "I wake up angry at my husband and go to bed angry at my husband. Does that count?"
* I have irrational thoughts and anxiety attacks. "Describe what you mean by irrational thoughts." This was very difficult to utter aloud. "Well, I listen to my body obsessively and then I become convinced that I have a brain tumour, or stomach cancer. Or I think that Nate and the Dog have been run over by a drunk driver on their way to daycare."
"OK, so you have unfounded worries." she scribbled.
* I've been having chest pains and shortness of breath and am convinced that I am having heart failure. She asked me if this goes away after my period. I told her that I'm like 85% when I get my period. She asked me a bunch more questions to which I answered yes. Then she hemmed and hawed and then got down to it.
"Based on what you're telling me, I think you have PMDD. It stands for Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder. It's more severe than your regular bout of PMS. Basically, your hormones fluctuate more than the average person's. The symptoms usually go away after your period. But because you said you are only 85% after your period, I think you may also be suffering from a mild case of depression."
Uh-huh. Alrighty then. A physician is telling me that I am indeed nuts. But at least I'm not dying. Which is good, because when you're sick in the head, it's hard to know when you're actually sick vs. when it's just in your head.
"Most women find they feel better with a mild dose of anti-depressants. Prozac or Paxil are usually prescribed over a two-week period, from just after ovulation to the time you get your period."
Did she just say Prozac? Holy fucking shit. I am certifiable. Tom Cruise will be calling me any minute now.
No wait. Other women I know and respect are on meds. And I like them. And they claim they are better now that they are on meds. They are still nuts, but I like them. OK, maybe not so bad.
OMG I'm going to be on meds! How did I get to this? How come I couldn't control it?
A wave of guilt washes over me. And the awareness that I will be judged from now on by those who know. I need to keep this to myself.
But no, I should tell people. Maybe they are also suffering in silence. Maybe they need to know that it's OK to ask for help. Whatever psycho bitch, get off your sanctimonious high horse. And say goodbye to your sex life.
OMG how am I going to tell the Dog? He is so "natural" guy and "suck it up" guy. He will never look at me the same. He will view me as weak and fragile and blame himself and withdraw from me further.
But I NEEDED help. I was drowning on my own. I was getting excited when the baby (he's 17 months, I need to stop referring to him as such) would wake up at midnight, so I could hold him and calm my fears of dying, and fall asleep smelling his downy hair. I was ready to walk out on my husband for not buying laundry detergent. I am not OK. And I will never be OK again.
But when have I ever been OK? I thought I was a typical teenager when I hid in my room writing suicidal poetry. Then I did the requisite three years of anorexia, followed by whoring, then complete abstinence, then falling madly in love, getting married, getting pregnant, and hating my job so much I gave my son a stroke. Now all I do is think about the fragility of life and how the people whose love my life hinges upon could die at any minute. Or worse. I could die and miss out on everything.
But instead, I found myself missing out on everything while alive. I was so busy thinking about death that I could not fully participate in the lives of my loved ones. I am absent, detached, withdrawn, distracted. I NEEDED to get help.
The prescription burned a hole in my wallet. I have been aware of it ever since I held it. I don't have to fill it out until I ovulate later this month. It all makes sense now: why I didn't have these thoughts when I was on the pill; why I didn't have these thoughts when I was pregnant. The eggs make me crazy. Correction: the eggs make me crazIER.
When I finally sat down alone in the car, I realized that I was in a bit of shock. That Friday's events were a lot to take in and I had been damaged by them. After all, you can never un-see something. That finger will haunt my mind's eye and my dreams forever. And you can't become "un-crazy". So, I tried retail therapy. I spent $250 (that I don't have) between Winners and Shoe Company, at a rate of approximately $125/hour, to make myself feel better. It didn't work. OK, it worked a wee bit.
I got home and snuggled my son. The Dog informed me that Gwen had been by to thank me for helping. And that they hadn't attached the finger. Ugh. I told the Dog about the meds and he was silent and sullen, but gave a supportive face. I explained it wasn't easy for me to admit I had gotten to this point, but that our marriage was suffering because I was so horrible to him for half the month. And that I don't want to be like that anymore. And that I miss feeling totally in love with him when I crawl into bed, and when I wake up. He agreed that we had a problem and said he was proud of me for getting help. (Don't gush yet. Wait for the next post.)
I held Nate tight while the Dog packed the car for our weekend away. As I held Nate and told him that I would never let him down on purpose, and that this illness wasn't going to affect my mothering him, he wriggled free from my arms and fell smack on the hard floor on his back. I was mortified. I fell into sobs on the floor. I cannot protect him from anything, even when he's in my arms. OMG I am not fit to be a mother.
But that's kinda the point isn't it? Who is? Anything can happen to anyone at anytime. It's all so random. Someone who doesn't have full brain capacity can lose a finger in an instant. Someone who does have full brain capacity can lose her ability to control her mind in an instant. What good does worrying do? I know this, yet am unable to control what my mind wishes me to think. I hope that the prescription helps me to find some balance. Because if it doesn't, I'm padding my bedroom and seeing if Stella McCartney does a straight jacket for F/W 06.
The Locusts Have Arrived
Strap on your seatbelts. Today was the day that the universe chose to show me it reads my blog.
Whenever one asks, "Seriously -- can it get worse?" the universe laughs and shows you that it can. What I am about to tell you may totally gross you out, freak you out, or make you feel sorry for me. Let me just say up front that it's OK if you laugh. In fact laughing about it this afternoon with CrabbyKate from TTLU was about the only bit of sanity I had all day.
I decided to stay in bed this morning. It should have been a sign. Even though I had the day off, Nate was scheduled to go to daycare and I begged the Dog to take him on his way to work, so that I wouldn't have to put clothes on before noon. I had a day of last-week's-laundry, possible brunch and a doctor's appointment planned. I woke up at 11 and realized that if I was going to shower and make my 12:30 appointment, I'd better leave the laundry for later.
I was having a quick chat with my mom, when all of a sudden I heard something that can only be described as the equivalent of 20 raccoons in a Royal Rumble. Then I realized it was coming from one person. Then I realized it was coming from next door.
Now I live in a pretty "upcoming" (read:sketch) part of town. So crazy noises are normal and, therefore, normally ignored. The next door neighbours, with whom we share a wall, are two middle-aged sisters, one of whom (Ivya) suffers from seizures and has the mental capacity of a 12-year-old. They are lovely people, but it is also quite normal to hear strange things through the thin joint wall.
But after the shrieking subsided slightly, I heard Gwen, the (I hate to use the word) normal sister running up the stairs. Then I heard her say, "OH MY GOD! I'M CALLING 911!" I hung up with my mom quickly, put some clothes on and went next door immediately.
The front door was open. "Gwen, it's Nadine. I heard some screaming. Are you all right? Can I do anything to help?"
"Oh yes, come quick!" I race up the stairs. Gwen is on a regular phone that has about 30 feet of extension cabling on it. Remind me to buy her a cordless for Christmas. I realize she is on the phone with 911. It is all happening so fast. I see a blood trail leading to the bathroom, where Ivya is standing with her hand over the sink, wrapped in a towel, shaking and crying hysterically like a child.
"What happened?" I asked dumbfounded. "She cut her finger," Gwen replied. Oh, I thought, OK we can deal with that. But she wasn't done her sentence. "...off."
I was stunned silent.
"We have to find the finger," Gwen said, intermittently talking to 911. Faaaack. Why did I sign up for this again? OK, I went into autopilot as Gwen lead me into the bedroom. The spartan room had a desk, a TV and a twin bed with an old tan bedspread that was now soaked in blood. I tried to look around without touching the blood, and not looking too carefully because really, who wants to see a dismembered finger? "Um, I don't see any finger..." Maybe it's lost for good. Maybe I'm off the hook.
"Ivya, where's the finger?"
"In the windooooow." Crying, sobbing, crying.
Oh fuck. Yup, there it is. There is some skin sticking out of where the old window must've guillotined her finger off. She was trying to open it, but the sides didn't catch and it slammed back down faster than she could react.
"We have to get the finger," Gwen repeated, this time with more urgency. Oh fuck. By "we" she means ME! Oh dear sweet Jesus. I press the tabs on the window and lift. There it is. An entire tip of a finger, including the entire fingernail, right up to the first joint. I noted two things immediately: it looked fake, like a Halloween prop; and it oddly looked like a white woman's finger tip, even though Ivya is from Trinidad. It had been completely drained of blood.
"I'll need something to pick it up with and something to put it in," I tell her. She returns with a Ziploc bag (which may or may not have had bits of old sandwich in it) and some Kleenex. I was kinda hoping for stainless steel thongs. And maybe some gloves like Marg Helgenberger wears on CSI. No dice. I gingerly picked up the finger tip, careful not to feel it or have too much contact with it. I drop it in the Ziploc and hand it to Gwen.
I'm standing in the hallway. Ivya waves me over. "It hurts so much!" I rub her back and try to calm her down. "I was just trying to open the window. It's my right hand too, now I won't be able to draw anymore."
"It's going to be OK," I try to console her. "The same thing happened to the Dog when he was little, and they were able to reattach it. You're going to be just fine. Hang in there." It saddened me to think that one of this woman's few joys might be taken away from her. I think of Gwen, caring for and parenting this sibling that no one else would take in once their mother passed. I think about the bonds of love, the obligations, the duties, the hard work, the sacrifice.
The paramedic arrives and instructs me to get some ice. "Between you and me," he murmurs, "where this finger is cut, they won't reattach it." He is sardonic, but in a job where on any given day you might find someone who has been dead for 13 days, I can see why he is numb to the situation.
I did my usual cheerleader bit and tried to keep spirits up as best I could. The paramedic loaded Ivya into his car, as Gwen locked up and decided to follow in hers. With Ivya safely esconced in the car, he caught my eye, held up the bag with the finger, and shook his head and winked. I had to laugh.
TO BE CONTINUED... (yes, that wasn't the end of it.)
Whenever one asks, "Seriously -- can it get worse?" the universe laughs and shows you that it can. What I am about to tell you may totally gross you out, freak you out, or make you feel sorry for me. Let me just say up front that it's OK if you laugh. In fact laughing about it this afternoon with CrabbyKate from TTLU was about the only bit of sanity I had all day.
I decided to stay in bed this morning. It should have been a sign. Even though I had the day off, Nate was scheduled to go to daycare and I begged the Dog to take him on his way to work, so that I wouldn't have to put clothes on before noon. I had a day of last-week's-laundry, possible brunch and a doctor's appointment planned. I woke up at 11 and realized that if I was going to shower and make my 12:30 appointment, I'd better leave the laundry for later.
I was having a quick chat with my mom, when all of a sudden I heard something that can only be described as the equivalent of 20 raccoons in a Royal Rumble. Then I realized it was coming from one person. Then I realized it was coming from next door.
Now I live in a pretty "upcoming" (read:sketch) part of town. So crazy noises are normal and, therefore, normally ignored. The next door neighbours, with whom we share a wall, are two middle-aged sisters, one of whom (Ivya) suffers from seizures and has the mental capacity of a 12-year-old. They are lovely people, but it is also quite normal to hear strange things through the thin joint wall.
But after the shrieking subsided slightly, I heard Gwen, the (I hate to use the word) normal sister running up the stairs. Then I heard her say, "OH MY GOD! I'M CALLING 911!" I hung up with my mom quickly, put some clothes on and went next door immediately.
The front door was open. "Gwen, it's Nadine. I heard some screaming. Are you all right? Can I do anything to help?"
"Oh yes, come quick!" I race up the stairs. Gwen is on a regular phone that has about 30 feet of extension cabling on it. Remind me to buy her a cordless for Christmas. I realize she is on the phone with 911. It is all happening so fast. I see a blood trail leading to the bathroom, where Ivya is standing with her hand over the sink, wrapped in a towel, shaking and crying hysterically like a child.
"What happened?" I asked dumbfounded. "She cut her finger," Gwen replied. Oh, I thought, OK we can deal with that. But she wasn't done her sentence. "...off."
I was stunned silent.
"We have to find the finger," Gwen said, intermittently talking to 911. Faaaack. Why did I sign up for this again? OK, I went into autopilot as Gwen lead me into the bedroom. The spartan room had a desk, a TV and a twin bed with an old tan bedspread that was now soaked in blood. I tried to look around without touching the blood, and not looking too carefully because really, who wants to see a dismembered finger? "Um, I don't see any finger..." Maybe it's lost for good. Maybe I'm off the hook.
"Ivya, where's the finger?"
"In the windooooow." Crying, sobbing, crying.
Oh fuck. Yup, there it is. There is some skin sticking out of where the old window must've guillotined her finger off. She was trying to open it, but the sides didn't catch and it slammed back down faster than she could react.
"We have to get the finger," Gwen repeated, this time with more urgency. Oh fuck. By "we" she means ME! Oh dear sweet Jesus. I press the tabs on the window and lift. There it is. An entire tip of a finger, including the entire fingernail, right up to the first joint. I noted two things immediately: it looked fake, like a Halloween prop; and it oddly looked like a white woman's finger tip, even though Ivya is from Trinidad. It had been completely drained of blood.
"I'll need something to pick it up with and something to put it in," I tell her. She returns with a Ziploc bag (which may or may not have had bits of old sandwich in it) and some Kleenex. I was kinda hoping for stainless steel thongs. And maybe some gloves like Marg Helgenberger wears on CSI. No dice. I gingerly picked up the finger tip, careful not to feel it or have too much contact with it. I drop it in the Ziploc and hand it to Gwen.
I'm standing in the hallway. Ivya waves me over. "It hurts so much!" I rub her back and try to calm her down. "I was just trying to open the window. It's my right hand too, now I won't be able to draw anymore."
"It's going to be OK," I try to console her. "The same thing happened to the Dog when he was little, and they were able to reattach it. You're going to be just fine. Hang in there." It saddened me to think that one of this woman's few joys might be taken away from her. I think of Gwen, caring for and parenting this sibling that no one else would take in once their mother passed. I think about the bonds of love, the obligations, the duties, the hard work, the sacrifice.
The paramedic arrives and instructs me to get some ice. "Between you and me," he murmurs, "where this finger is cut, they won't reattach it." He is sardonic, but in a job where on any given day you might find someone who has been dead for 13 days, I can see why he is numb to the situation.
I did my usual cheerleader bit and tried to keep spirits up as best I could. The paramedic loaded Ivya into his car, as Gwen locked up and decided to follow in hers. With Ivya safely esconced in the car, he caught my eye, held up the bag with the finger, and shook his head and winked. I had to laugh.
TO BE CONTINUED... (yes, that wasn't the end of it.)
Thursday, June 01, 2006
You like me! You really like me!
Though this is the type of thing that kind of negates what I was saying in the post that lead to my being awarded a Perfect Post, I admit, I'm ecstatic about it. Because, yeah, I guess I kinda want to be noticed and appreciated. But just so we're clear, I want to be noticed in passing, not because of some obscene amount of blog solicitation. But a big thanks to Lisa at Niihaus for thinking I'm special. I didn't know her before this event, so clearly the PPA is not a case of friends nominating friends.
What the fuck am I talking about? Well, some blogging moms (Mommy K at Petroville and Lucinda at Suburban Turmoil) came up with the idea of a Perfect Post Award. People on the panel can choose a post that they read each month -- one that really stood out for them -- and give it a Perfect Post Award. Do you follow? I didn't get it at first either. It's a sort of filter than gives you the best of mom bloggers each month.
I wasn't trying to be provocative when I wrote my winning entry a few weeks ago, but I knew it would cause controversy in my circles. I had no idea that Blogging Baby (thanks Kristin and Jen!) would link to me in my moment of grumpiness and spark such a debate.
I'm glad I have touched a nerve with so many women and that I was able to say what I felt others must be feeling, but not saying out loud. My motto has always been to be honest (my tagline should read: I say "fuck" -- a lot.) and I felt my writing was getting skewed by the culture that was quietly starting to build. I am guilty of falling into it. It's no one else's fault -- I am aware of that.
My whole point of running this site was to document the things that no one told me about and help others in the process. I do believe that my Blogging Isn't Cool Anymore Post falls into that category.
Let me know what you think. Does the Perfect Post Award add to the whole cliqueyness of Mom Blogging, or does it serve to promote the Mommy Movement?
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