me and the therapists

I was raised by Sonny who believes everyone should pull themselves up by their bootstraps although none of us have straps on our boots. He can be an old cold turd but he never found himself in the throes of a full blown postpartum depression with three small children and all my friends away at school.  The doctor who diagnosed me back in the 70's called it the housewife syndrome and prescribed  Valium, hello Valley of the Dolls. I took a couple and felt the same as I did drinking beer so I didn't see the point and the pills went down the toilet..

The next doctor zonked me out on Wellbutrin  and I told my husband to tie a string around my ankle so he could pull me down from the ceiling each night, his little wife high as any hippie stoner. I changed doctors and meds and got a little counseling this time although the new doc kept calling me Sandy.  He asked what things I liked to do and I rattled off reading, gardening, swimming, hiking.  Alarmed he responded, but those are all solitary activities. He then proceeded to tell me how he and his wife looked forward to Sundays because they would make a game out of who could pick up the most dog turds in their back yard.

About this time I went back to school, left my husband and that counselor and got a job. And after nine years I found myself  in a relationship with another jerk and back on the couch again. I knew I was in trouble when the new counselor opened his calendar book and there were Biblical sayings on each little square.

I dumped those chumps and now Big Dave sits at my dinner table every night but I am still making appointments.  Dave has PTSD thanks to a purposeless war and I just don't like being married even if it is the logical place for me right now.  I need some adjustment cues and I think I'm going to like Laurie, the new therapist on the block.  She is a self-named loner married to a neurotic doctor.  At first I thought she was too perky, I don't do perky and I was irritated by the "what the hecks" and "gosh darns" that peppered her conversation, but I got over it. I just might stick around for more than two sessions.

dead people everywhere

 I am doing my morning walk through the cemetary and I see Joy Berry's grave sideways as I stoop and drink from the water faucet, 1909 - 2009, a hundred years, good for you, Joy, whoever you are, lucky girl. I read the obituaries in the newspaper, people older and younger than my mother, and I go to an Asian restaurant and am surrounded by 95-year-old healthy women having lunch with their daughters.

I have  a doctor's appointment this morning in a building next to the hospital where my mother died a year ago.  I park in the same spot, view the same water-starved bushes, walk the same walk as I did waiting for her to die.

It has been a year since I spoke to my mother.  That is a significant amount of time but I remember those last days with complete clarity.  The call came right after midnight, my brother at the hospital, her shrunken, bruised body had finally let go.  My husband and I racing through the hot July streets, I wanted to be there while she was still warm, still looking like life and talk to her one more time.

 

I can't say my grief  has lessened. The confusion is less prevalent, the heaviness remains and I haven't had a day when I could honestly say, I am joyful.   Whenever I approach my father's house I am slugged in the gut, she will not be there. I do not want to be in her house by myself. She comes at me in waves and I need to be outside.  My father has tucked aways keepsakes, a funny little vase with a cracked face.  She put  toothbrushes in it but Sonny decided he preferred a regular kitchen glass and now the vase sits on the closet shelf.  My fingers run over the painted surface and there is that familiar crazy tug in my belly.

Sometimes I look above my oak tree to the blueness and my sadness takes me strongly.  Most of the time I get myself back up and find something productive to do.  She would want that.

.

wet puppy

Holy Toledo, it's freakin' Florida out there and I'm talking 96 degrees.  I am the only customer in the Indian restaurant and I think their air conditioner died.  There is a fan on the floor pointed away from me and I would rather have hot air blowing on me than no air at all.  My glass of Diet Coke arrives with a few wimpy ice cubes which will be gone by the second swig. And here is my palak dosa and I arrange the three bowls of seasoned sauce like the chef showed me - gingery spicy, buttermilk creamy and something brown and watery with green stuff floating in it.  I tear off a chunk of spinach crepe and dip three times, three bowls.  Ya gotta love a culture that eats with their fingers.

Yesterday was my first grandchild's twelfth birthday.  Twelve years ago his uncle and I braved the hospital waiting room chairs scrunched up and trying to sleep hoping the door would open and the smiling nurse would bring the good news.  Doctor said midnight.  Midnight came and went.  Doctor said 2 a.m.  Came and went.  Doctor said 4 a.m., you get the idea.  Ethan Randall was born at noon, I could have told that doctor my daughter was not the punctual type.  Finally, we are allowed in her room and everyone huddles around the baby, a howling little wet puppy.  I check on my baby, my Carrie, and she is exhausted, barely able to talk or move her head. 

Yeah, they really don't give you the whole story in those Lamaze classes.  It was my turn to view that precious kid and I say to his father, "he looks just like Joe (my ex-husband.)"  I know, Joel rolls his eyes.  The one person that will spend the least amount of time with the child and that's who he resembles.  Kids, if you forget everything else I tell you, remember this, the world is not a fair place.
Happy birthday, my sweet boy. Could you slow down this growing -up process a bit?

goose poop AND Senator Franken, what a great weekend

It is time to leave Minnesota, the land of goose poop and Senator Saturday Night Live.  We actually saw Al Franken at the Pride parade, we love that guy. Those geese were hissing at me during my morning walk because I had the audacity to share the sidewalk with them for a few brief seconds.  I thought what now, last year a dog bite, this year beak indentations in my leg?

Jane and Jill come by hospitality naturally but I can't say the same for their two cats who stared me down until I got out of bed and then sniffed at my breakfast cereal. When will I find peace with the animal kingdom?
I used to have cats, I say, I used to have cats.



Lady Cricket



It was good to read a real newspaper and see a movie that wasn't produced by Walt Disney or Pixar, thanks, Jane, for the invite.


Sir Rugby





We are on our way back home and will rendezvous with Dave in the little Minnesota town of Harmony. I am lounging on a bench on the main street admiring the 19th century architecture when I see the man walking towards me.  Dave is wearing shiny turquoise athletic shorts, a green t-shirt that says: "Beer - Helping White Men Dance Better Since 1862," white tennis shoes and black work socks. And this is the reason I cannot stay away too long as my husband immediately will start taking giant strides towards becoming a dweeb. Wow, I tell him, you got here fast.  And he would have been even sooner if he hadn't been pulled over by a state trooper outside Garnavillo.  The cowboy passed a car at eighty miles per hour in a fifty-five mile speed zone.  A bit excessive, wouldn't you think, at least Officer Kevin thought so.

A piece of strawberry rhubarb pie and glass of milk at a local cafe help nurse away some of the pain.  The county will be $114 richer thanks to Dave's blunder and the law's observation.

Jason illuminated

I especially love this picture of my oldest son.  He rarely smiles for the camera preferring to stare me down with the expression of a cretin.  He was not aware the camera was aimed and clicking so we have a recording of his mirth preserved  for all time. The second picture shows a more accurate depiction of what we usually see glaring back at us through the camera's eye.

Jason has a sense of humor, it's just  hidden inside a complex intellect seeping out when dry sarcasm is required.  A few years back he had missed my birthday and a Mothers' Day, well, a phone call happened but I can't get across to my sons that I want a card, something with a little snippet of a poem on it, perhaps a good joke, a funny cartoon, something that was chosen, signed and envelope licked. I want a card.
 So on my next birthday I received a postcard from the son being discussed.  It was white with black block letters and said simply, YOU NEED A BEER.  On the back he scribbled, "I just watched a documentary on TV about leeches," and he proceeds to tell me the process of leech-eating-human-decayed-tissue on unfortunate Portuguese volunteer patients. Oh, and happy birthday, love and the rest. Got my card, now didn't I?

Jason's third grade class was instructed to write an autobiography. So he wrote the assignment and  he referred to me, the woman who birthed him, by saying  "my mother wishes I would get a sense of humor."  So maybe he did listen to me, jeesh, everything backfires.

a matter of Pride, or dikes on bikes, take your pick

I wake up in this shady suburb of Minneapolis and the household is slow to rise on Saturdays. I have the rare pleasure of reading in bed before I brush my teeth. It is good to be in the home of two adult women.  Matters flow smoothly and we go about our personal business without someone expecting a meal or a shirt ironed.

It is Pride weekend, a two-day event of which I will never see the likes in my redneck town of  farmers and pool hall customers. And Jane and I check it out.

And baby, is this a party or what and even Mardi Gras will have trouble matching this kind of manic festivity. No faction of human society is more imaginative, more inventive, more humorous than gays for tragedy is truly the root of comedy and tragedy they own.  Glitter everywhere and women in crew cuts with t-shirts announcing "Boobies are Great" and "Lesbian Recruiter" and men in their skivvies and do you think that's a rolled-up sock in there, Jane wonders.
It's easy to like Minneapolis.


Later I take my walk on a nearby hiking trail and no one makes eye contact, big cities are great for their anonymity.  Back home strangers would try to lure me in, start a conversation, want to introduce me to their dog, jeesh.  

salmonella poster boy

Browned some chicken breasts and then headed out the door to pick up  grandchildren and redistribute them to different locations around town according to our crazy summer vacation schedule.  I come home to find Big Dave actually washing out the pans, thankful that I finally cooked something and two of the chicken breasts had gone missing.  Knowing they were still raw enough to walk out the door I realize their destiny was my husband's belly. "They weren't cooked," I announce, good gawd, they were 87% raw and I am wondering if this is the last sentence I will ever say to him.  "Yeah, I thought they were kind of different."  I think he's looking greenish.

I hope he doesn't expire anytime soon as I have plans for the weekend and he is involved.  I'm heading north to Minneapolis to visit my friend Jane and he needs to drive half of the commute.  Jane will pick me up at a Sunshine market in Chatfield, Minnesota as I do not do highways.  Nothing that involves speed has ever agreed with me and that reminds me of my first and last horse ride, barreling down the hillside and I am clinging sideways to Old Bessie, my arms and legs wrapped around her belly and back, my face buried in her shoulder.  I was twelve years old and I knew I was about to die and my friend, Mary Agnes who slapped that mare's butt and got it all going, is laughing so hard she wet her pants.  I am still uncomfortable around large animals.

Jane is the one person who understands my addiction to fountain diet Coke in large unbiodegradable cups filled with luscious, crunchy ice.  It's what friends are for - they either share your addictions or allow you them without judgment and Jane qualifies for the first group.