Home

Kids got back last night. We got Indian take-out, our dear fat Indian lady, standing in the dark in her restaurant holding two big brown bags of food. She looked grumpy, then saw us.
"Oh it's for you!" she said, and smiled. It was freezing outside. This cold place feels like a dream to me sometimes. I wish I'd stayed where it was warm, but I didn't have the money to really give the kids what they needed.
I had a meltdown in the airport when we got back to the U.S. The minute the plane touched down Jay called his ex girlfriend to talk to her daughter. I got pissed. I used to really lose it when I got pissed, now I just sort of freeze up. The whole time, I'm having this dialogue inside myself--shutup, just shutup now, stop talking. You've been too close. He had to pull something. We did get close, riding around on the moped, the sea to the left, bellies on the sand, eating ceviche and drinking la negra. I actually got happy for an hour or two. Then we got home, and the old traps close.
"You had to call her now? It couldn't wait til tomorrow?"
"Fine, I'll just keep all my private calls secret, since you're so jealous. I'll never call any of my friends ever in front of you again"
He always pushes me out on a limb like this-attaches some extreme generalization to what I've said.
So of course, I came back with the brilliant, pithy rejoinder: "You're such a moron." And then I cried.
"I'll give you period points." He said at last. I am in the middle of the usual torrent.
"Moron!"

So the next day, I was supposed to go to work, but I got called off, and he was going to go visit his children in Arkansas, which is about a 3 hour drive away from where we live. He had told me he wouldn't be home til 10. I felt bad about the fight and decided to suprise him with Thai food and build up the fire in the stove before he got there--went downtown--and guess whose car was parked across from the restaurant?
I picked up the food and drove out anyways. The house was cold and dark. I figured he'd probably gotten in a little early and was having a drink with Hunter or something.
I get a call: "Hey baby,"
"How was Arkansas?" I ask. I've been thinking about him all day, feeling bad, because the situation down there is so bad, and it's sad that his children and his family are so fragmented at Christmas.
"I didn't go." He says. "I just went out drinking with Hunter. The time just got away from me."
I just decided not to react to this. This was a test.
So appropriate guilty reactions followed--phone calls and apologies, but as I'm writing this, I'm still kind of disappointed and hurt by the whole thing. The weird thing about people not being straightforward with me is that I just turn off.
I don't think I'm going to go to Madurai with him. I think I'll travel alone next time. We'll see. Maybe this is just stupid couple shit. I think it's just stupid couple shit.
This year my resolution is to 1)Take refuge in my own good nature as frequently as I can
2)Not get any parking tickets. I spent something like $500 dollars on parking tickets. 3)Not have habits that are traps--like weighing myself every day, or playing bejeweled compulsively, or reading tabloids, you know--the things that are designed to fritter time and sap your life away. Make you wish you were someone else
4)Be sweeter.

Cozumel

I'm in Mexico. In Cozumel, sitting in the white washed kitchenette of the Tamarindo bed and breakfast. The computer is french as is the proprietress, so the keys are just slightly different. It's an object lesson about habit and attitude, the unconscious physicalities that shape our communication with the world. I finally gave up and started sitting around Jay. I feel self-conscious doing it, but oh well. There is a tiny blue balcony overlooking the mexican street outside. Every day, the same man has ridden by, whistling, early in the morning, on a red bicycle. The cars are a little noisier here, and as I sit on the ledge and breathe, I can hear them coming from a long way off, then they pass in a rush and I keep returning to my breath, and I think, that's just like any thought, any emotion, you can hear the smoke and rattle and then they pass and fade and you keep breathing.
I have not felt entirely easy here, for one thing, Jay came here a lot, not to this specific hotel, but here, to Cozumel, with his ex, Hali, and I think there must be a lot of memories here for him, he is really so decent and quiet about these things. He has tried so hard. We've made sweet but slightly uneasy love here twice--I'm having my period and I bled through onto the sheets, which was sort of shameful in a way, although I know that it shouldn't be.
Wheww. Wherever you go there you are. I also think he is uneasy about the money, that he came here mainly for me, and that he's worried about things, as am I, but you know as you get older, there are always things that crowd and hound you and you just have to push them away from your clearing and live and love your life as best you can in spite of the shadows and the rats running across the floor. Boo! Light a fire, grab the broom and keep breathing and dancing. We went to mass on Christmas day and I watched all the people around me and even though I didn't know the language, I knew the story by heart and I thought, we're all in this together aren't we?
That's all the time I'm going to take away from Cozumel for now on this. We're flying out this afternoon, back to the snow and ice.

Fog

So, it's foggy outside. Spent the night out at the farm. Didn't make it in to H'okukuan this morning. Seido probably thinks I've dropped off the face of the earth. But honestly, does it matter whether I sit in my basement or his? Pebbles is sitting across from me on one of the dining room chairs, twitching her tail and hissing. Who knows why? Now she has jumped up on the table and is nuzzling me and purring.
Psycho.
Driving back to the house from the farm was like driving on another planet--the whole town is covered in mist, cars and buildings suddenly appearing, as if conjured. Got up after being naked belly to belly with Jay all night long, I sleep so much better with him than I do by myself. It's this very basic thing with him--not overwhelming emotionally, although it sometimes can be and has been, but my body just physically feels complete when I am with him. Sort of like--oh, that's where that bony knob on my wrist fits, and that's what my hip is for--okay--got it.
I'm still all revved up though, in "mom" mode. It's hard to divest myself of it. I feel all wired and capable. Got up this morning and made breakfast. "I don't eat breakfast" Jay says.
"Yes you do."
He sat down and ate.
This is sort of new for me, this voice. The "do this now it's good for you and don't piss me off" voice. It works like a charm on patients with head injuries, cuts right through the cerebral edema and brain fog:"Stop that. Stop playing with your poop. Put your legs back in the bed." They do it! Try it sometime. Channel your inner harridan, it's one of the secret pleasures of losing your looks, you get to boss people around.
Today I'm going to babysit Hali's daughter with Jay--we're going to the library. I'm going to dip early so I don't have to deal with La Loca. I've decided I'm not participating in unhealthy situations unless I actually have to. I guess I have to give the little baggage a present. I actually really like her, we have a lot of fun. We put on fairy wings and fly around the house and jump on furniture and she loves to come over to my house. My house has a lot of things your average 3 year old finds fascinating--funny carved and painted furniture, ottomans shaped like turtles, a rocking horse, rugs with pictures in them, mobiles. I didn't realize how much it was like this until she came over and I saw it through her eyes. I never thought about decorating the house, really, but I think I never evolved much beyond 7 or 8 in terms of aesthetics. Lilly agrees. "It's like a little kid picked out all the furniture, you didn't realize that?"
I hadn't. "Will your house be different?"
"Yes." she says. "This wouldn't work in an Italian Villa..although.." she mused "I guess the rugs could stay"
That's my 1/2 hour.

Refuge

Christmas, for me, is officially over.
Just packed the kids off with my parents. Down to Florida they go.
Even though I've been sitting, my equanimity is pretty much out the window.
My father kept tromping in and out of the house, all over my persian rugs. "Why are there wet spots on my Qashqai?" I screeched.
"Because I'm not a frickin muslim and I'm not going to take my shoes off in your house!"
Lilly decided she didn't want to eat at MacDonald's, so she made herself a mug full of Ramen noodles and was sort of drifting around, shoving big dripping glops of them in her mouth, as she sat at the computer, this computer, my computer, in the brand new chair in the living room. My mother was right, I have to hand it to her---Jay has dropped by a few times (something he never ever used to do)...and he plops right down in the chair. The Man Chair.
"Stop eating in the living room! That's a rule that's been extant since you were three. What's wrong with you."
Eye rolling. She goes into the dining room. Not so much a room really, in this little house, more like an area.
Last night, in two hours flat, I bought a tree after going 3 different places to find one--I tried to buy a fake, pre-lit tree, but I couldn't bring myself to do it--set it up, decorated it, finished my christmas shopping, wrapped the presents and dressed for dinner. Two hours. Only a trauma nurse would be able to accomplish that. We even put Christmas music on and had fun. My folks came over and we all went to Macaroni Grill for Christmas dinner--my mother will only eat in chains. She doesn't trust local restaurants. Then we came home and opened presents I got the usual assortment of horrible clothing I will never ever wear--except she did buy me a black satin trench coat which is actually pretty cool--but I did get Yoga money--hooray!
We gave her a gift that really silenced her: diamond earrings. Okay, diamond chip earrings. But still. The good mood and the peaceful dinner was worth the money. No sniping, no nasty swipes, no fussing at the waiter, no complaining about the pets or our facial expressions. She just sat there and gleamed.
This morning it all began again--I have these cute velvet boxes I picked up for 50 cents each after Christmas last year and I planned to fill them with candy--this wonderful candy I found at this little store in town--really good stuff and wrapped in foil and shaped as fishes and stars and coins and hearts and presents. Not that terrible crumbly stale Christmas chocolate you get at the grocery store that tastes like it's been sitting on someone's back shelf for the last 10 years. But I underestimated the size of the boxes, and when I went to fill them with the candy I found I could only fill 3 of them. For 10 teachers. So I had to go to Hobby Lobby, where they're having a 50% off sale on ornaments, and buy $40 bucks worth of ornaments. I guess that's not bad. It adds up, though, and I don't think we go as over the top as some people do. I've probably spent at least 800 dollars on Christmas. $800 I don't have--but there's work, and there's the doctor and the orthodontist and the hairdresser and the postman, and the garbage man(I've lived through a major natural disaster--garbage got piled in the streets 10 feet high--your garbage men are just about the most important people in your world, even if you don't realize it. Dirty nasty job. Don't forget them). You know though, it doesn't average out to too much per person. About 200/person for the main people, and then $200 total for all the extraneous people. But you have to think--what if we as a society gave up Christmas, just for one year, and gave all the money instead to people who have nothing--how many of the problems would go away? Or would we compound them since the world functions on waste now. Would the economy crash? My shrink says it would.
And as I was handing out my little velvet boxes to people, my heart got happy and the pain in the ass aspect faded away. Jay came by last night with presents for the kids, something else he has never done, wearing a Santa hat and the scarf I knit him last year. So things were happy and good. And I was thinking that this is really the time of year we say "thank you" to everyone around us who is nice and keeps our community going, or just makes life a little more pleasant, and that, in spite of all the commercialism/social obligation--it's good that we've institutionalized a time as a society where we do this--we give cookies to the teachers and cards to our friends. I think most every one's hassled and harried and poor, but overall, however imperfect, setting aside a time to be grateful (and, happy unrepentant Americans as we all are--a time to make money!) is a good thing.
So be grateful. Be grateful for the dishes and the mess and the obligations. Be grateful for the social web that holds you in, holds you together. People are hassled, but they're largely kind. Be grateful for the driver at the mall who lets you turn left and the clerk who's still good tempered. I was reading an article by Sylvia Boorstein in Shambala Sun today. She said "I take refuge in my own good nature." What a great idea! Me, too. Blessings to all and stay warm.
That's my 1/2 hour.

Rough Grace

On-call again today. It's 13 degrees outside. I'm sitting in the coffee shop, the Dakota lonely hearts club. "Time it was and what a time it was/a time of innocence/a time of confidences..."is playing. Lilly has a biology final today. She studied so hard--I hope she does well. She was listening to Enya on the ipod on the way to school today, as Margaret, the Mercury swung and slid on the ice to school--she does okay in the snow as long as you never apply the breaks, so we pray for green lights and just pretty much barrel through the stop signs. Elka, my 89 Saab turbo convertible does pretty well in the snow, but the windshield wipers quit working--so that's a problem. I told Lilly it was funny she listened to so much of the stuff I listened to in college (although, to be truthful, I never liked Enya very much) because I didn't like my parents' stuff...but here's Simon and Garfunkel at the Dakota proving me wrong, because I know every word.
This morning, it was Postal Service around the house. I swear, if our lives had a soundtrack, it would be that album. Swimming in November. Last week I had the strangest dream/that everything was exactly how it seemed...
What a relief that would be!
Making it up. Pretending things are okay. There's a strength in that, as long as you don't fool yourself.
My patient yesterday was an 85 year-old man. Severe abdominal pain, respiratory distress, pancreas had a pseudocyst--massively enlarged. He dumped 2 liters of bile out of his stomach once we got an NG down him. He helped us put the NG down. He was so good-humored and stoic. His brother had died last year of pancreatic cancer, so he knew what was up. I was working with our new nurse, Lela, the one from South Beach. I've been kind of avoiding her, because she seems to know a lot of the same places I knew, and you know...I just don't want to go there. We always end up talking about Miami, and I am so different from the person I was then...but I end up remembering things. I loved Miami. I loved my life there. But it was pretty seedy and carny for Little Dixie. I feel that I'm barely hanging on to middle-class and respectable by my bloody bitten fingernails--and I want to keep it that way. No more strangled cats for me. That's a story for another time.
So anyways, we're taking care of this man, and he's crouching on the commode after his second enema (he hasn't had a stool in nine days) shitting blood, his massive, distended cancerous abdomen hanging between his knees, like the devil's in his belly, and I'm squatting beside him, patting his back, like I would with Nick or Lilly, Lela is in front of him, holding his hands which he is squeezing tight, because he is in so much pain. He's vagal-ing, so the right side of his heart is saying "hola jesus" and throwing PVC's, and desatting, and in the midst of all this, he looks at me and says, "You know, even though I'm 85, I can still have sex. I had sex 2 weeks ago."
"With your wife?"
He starts laughing.
Lela says: "No wonder she drives seven hours every day to see you."
"Next time," he says, between cramps, "we're just going to pull the curtains and lock the door."
"We'll leave you two alone." I say.
"No--we'll lock the door so she can't get in! Just be us."
"Conno" Lela says. Christ, I think. Haven't heard that out of anybody's mouth except mine in almost ten years--well, Lilly used to say it, but I made her stop. I can't do the n right on this blog--it's pronounced "connyo" and it's a very bad word.
"I can dream, can't I?"
Rough grace, but grace nonetheless.
Had a dream about Wiz. Ugly old Wiz, with his worn yellow teeth and wrinkled carp-like face, of all people. I astonish myself. Nothing happened in it. He tried to kiss me in the dream. It was summer and we were walking down North Boulevard in our town. He was carrying a paper sack with condoms and chocolate. For some reason there was a beach at the end of the street, even though in real life, it ends at the freeway. "Aren't you married?" I asked him.
"Yeah--is that a deal breaker?"
"yeah."
" I thought it might be." he said. We were sitting on the beach. It was the beach near my first apartment in Miami, the one where the old woman in the Sari would come to feed the gulls at sunset. A small, wild, empty part of the beach. Kind of blighted in its way. The woman was standing with her hands raised up, the sun was setting and the birds were swirling around.
In the dream I started tenderly stroking Wiz's close cropped fish head, patting his cheeks, tracing his wrinkles. 'I'll just pat you." I told him. "that's okay, I think."
Then I woke up.
It's 13 degrees outside. Quiet nights with Quiet Stars is playing now. Another song of my parents I forgot I used to listen to.
That's my 1/2 hour and the phone just rang--calling me in back to the twilight ship.

Christmas Band Concerts

I'm exhausted. Had staff meetings last night, then Lilly's jazz concert. She sang Sitting on the Dock of the Bay by Otis Redding. She did a good job. Got a little nervous and lost some of her fluidity--but that's to be expected. Her friends all came to hear her sing, even though they're not in band. Some of them even live 40 miles away. We've got some nice people around us. I hope I can live up to them.
Last year's concert was better overall, I think. They combined everybody this year, and it was terrible. The only decent music they're making at Lilly's school is in the jazz band. The orchestra and choir just stink. This year they decided to combine all the recitals, so I had to sit through all this terrible stuff. They also changed the venue. Last year's was in Senior Hall. Lilly's school is held at a small local girl's private college My grandmother went there and my aunt (but she got kicked out for inappropriate behavior), and one of my best friends. Senior hall is a big, beautiful old house and one of the meeting rooms has a little platform in it. The feeling was a lot cozier, and I liked sitting there thinking about my grandmother being there in the twenties. This year they held the event in a regular auditorium, one of those cold institutional creations they made in the 60's. I gave Jay a pass on this event, which he took greatfully. My parents were coming, and they can be a little difficult. They arrived late, after the concert had started. Nick and I had saved seats for them, but a woman came and sat in one of them, just simply moved my coat out of it and sat down. I thought that was a little weird, since there were plenty of seats, but I didn't want to say anything. Sometimes people do things that are so rude I am just flummoxed. So my folks got in and sat 2 rows down from us. I was glad of this later, because during the orchestra performance, my dad started tittering and my mom started saying nasty things about them in this stage whisper which can frankly be heard to the far end of creation. The problem with my parents having known each other since they were eleven is that they act eleven with each other. My dad has this laugh, "hoohoohoohoohoohoohoo" that just sort of goes on and on quietly. The headmaster was sitting on the other side of Nick. I didn't know what to do. I mean, the auditorium wasn't that big, and at every wincing screeching note, his giggle would sort of rev up. He was the only person doing this. I mean, we're all adults right? We all know that what's going on is just terrible. Everybody in there is holding on to the edge of their seat and gritting their teeth to get through this nicely. Can't they behave? All the zen meditation really helps in situations like these--I just focus on my breath, or I internally watch the laughter, but I don't let it out. I think about other things, like how nice it is that we're all alive and here together on this snowy night and how sweet and young the screeching children look as the stage lights shine on their gleaming hair. I try to think--well--this isn't an experience about sound--it's about everybody dressing up, it's about supporting our kids. But then they launched into pachabel's canon, and I really had a hard time. "Oh, boy," Nick breathed. "I wish grandfather would stop giggling, I think people are noticing."
The words to the canon go 'In the silence of our souls oh Lord we contemplate thy peace...' what better opportunity to meditate on those words...what better way to fortify the soul than to find your soul's peace even in the midst of those awful violins. Breathe in, breathe out. Hunter was there with Sybil. They looked like they were about to be shot.
Then it ended, and my mother turns around and looks at me and makes this crazy face, sticking out her tongue, and my father doubles over, shaking with silent glee.
Nick and I just sit there, stoically. I am very proud of Nick, sometimes. I mean, how did the parents of those kids feel watching my parents act like that?
Oh, god...
That's my 1/2 hour.

Bangs

I'm hungry.
I haven't been hungry in 3 weeks.
I got my hair cut today. It's been over 6 months. Embarrassing. My hairdresser, Shirin, went overboard, because she knows she won't see me for another season. I hate it. She gave me bangs. I told her that I just wanted little wispy tendrils to escape from my braid and soften my features, and she gave me these full-on bangs that I hate. I look like a wrinkly seventh grader. That's probably why I'm hungry--I need to eat to take away the pain. Maybe I'll drink instead.
Shirin is getting married. It's been a long haul.
I met Shirin 9 years ago. At that time, I had a beautiful little 3 color process blonde bob that needed care about every six weeks. This Japanese girl was cutting my hair--sort of. I never thought she was that great, but in this town she was the best I could find. I had to cancel appointments occasionally--something was always coming up--my kids were young and and I was newly single. One day, as I was making my next appointment, she came up to me and said that if I canceled this appointment she would charge me the full amount and she would never schedule another appointment with me again. I thought this was a little grandiose--I just laughed "what are you, a shrink?" I handed her $150 (a lot for a haircut in Little Dixie) and said, "please consider my next cut and color canceled. Here's some cash in advance for your trouble. " Then I looked at the receptionist, a fat queen staring at me open-mouthed, and said "Harold, please make an appointment for me with someone who understands single-motherhood."
He gave me to Shirin. Harold, by the way, became a good friend--he ended up working at the nursing school. He still talks about that incident. "Oh my god, it was like a movie or something. You just slapped that cash down. You should have seen her face. She was so arrogant..."
So I got Shirin who was a single mom herself. Of course, I have been left in the chair with foils half in and wet hair as she ran out of the shop to go pick up a sick kid--but all in all, the relationship has worked out. And the hair has been generally good--except today. I mean, I guess I suppose it is good, I just haven't learned to appreciate it. Sometimes Shirin takes my appearance into her own hands.
Shirin has been dating her guy 5 years. He's very sweet and boring, but they did have one terrible break-up over a coffee maker. About 3 years ago, she thought the relationship was moving steadily toward marriage. He was staying over at her house 5 nights out of seven and she thought it was just a matter of time. She had a very expensive coffee maker--some sort of beautiful $1000 brass Italian thingy. He just loved it.
Well, around Christmastime, they were shopping in St. Louis, and he bought the exact same coffee-maker. "Why are you buying a coffee maker?" she asked. "We already have one."
"You have one." He told her. "I don't. I want my own."
Oops.
She thought that was a bad sign and dumped him.
They got back together.
I'm glad. She has had kind of a nose for bad guys--like future denizens of the federal penitentiary.
One guy turned out to be a bank robber. A very charming bank robber, one who had had leads in all the high school plays around here. "I kept wondering why he kept all his money in cash in a gym bag!" she said.
Ah. Bad sign.
He was dating another friend of mine at the same time, Lark, a former beauty queen. Lark and Shirin would both tell me stories about this terrific new guy they were seeing--and I'd think--'wow, that sounds exactly like something Shirin's guy would do' or vice versa--and I was even kind of jealous. They were both dating this terrific, charming guy. Then they told me his name and I realized they were seeing the same person. I didn't know what to do.
So one day, I just casually said, "Wow, that sounds exactly like the guy Lark is dating. Does he have a brother or something?"
Shirin stopped cutting my hair. "Lark is obsessed with him. She calls him constantly and follows him around. You can't believe anything she says. She's crazy."
And then Lark would say, "Shirin is so desperate. He wants to break up with her, but she calls him all the time and follows him around. She's crazy. He doesn't want to hurt her feelings, so he hasn't officially broken it off--but they're not having sex."
Women. We're all so desperate.
But they got wise eventually. Sometimes I'm glad I'm kind of plain--I escape the notice of these lotharios.
"I don't understand how you could have fallen for him..." I said to Shirin, once.
She shrugged.
Then to change the subject, I started talking about movies. The Royal Tennenbaums was just out, and we started talking about that.
"I like Rushmore better, "I offered. If you recall, Rushmore is my favorite movie. I've watched it probably 200 times.
Shirin got sad. "That was his favorite movie. He had it on tape. He would watch it over and over again."
I gasped. "I do that."
Shirin put my head between her hands, leaned over me, face next to mine, side by side in the mirror. "You would have fallen in love with him, too, Haley Patton."

Near miss, I guess.

That's my 1/2 hour.

Christmas Shopping

2nd snow day in a row. I was supposed to go in to work but got called off. It's funny, I like the extra money, but I like the time more. So of course, I stayed home, locked in with the kids and spent money. One of the night shift nurses gave me the Vermont Country Store catalog and I decided for once to buy everything in it that I wanted. It came to 163 dollars, which is pretty good I guess. I got no-slip thingies for my mom to put on her shoes, a bunch of embroidered handkerchiefs, those little chocolate candies from Holland shaped like wooden shoes, a reproduction vintage Nancy Drew for my mom, some Nurse books--I forget the name--Army Nurse! Student Nurse! Cherry Hanes? Is that it? I'm too lazy to go into the dining room and get the catalog--and a flannel nightie. With a square neck. I hate buttons. I'm always intrigued by the perfumes they have in that catalog--"Evening in Paris" etc. I want to try them--I have the deep inner conviction that every single problem in my life can be solved by finding the right perfume and moisturizer.
I finally have a wrinkle. 2. One on each eye. They're real They're small, but they stretch to my hairline, as if I've drawn the line on. It's the convertible, I guess. I wasn't as rigorous about wearing a big hat this summer, and I drove around in the Saab a lot. Since I turned forty, I've gotten a lot less rigorous about the sunscreen. I also finally took off the last five pounds I've been trying to lose, and with it went my wrinkle padding. What an ugly dilemma--do I want a fat ass or wrinkles? Choose!
Wiz has been making a big deal of this at work. "Better watch that pie, Patton, you don't want to put that weight back on."
Sunday he brought baklava for everyone--in specimen cups--except me. He handed me a small baggie with a tea bag in it.
"It's mate. No calories. La Maja was thin."
"La Maja threw herself into the river!"
One of the greatest blessings in life is to have someone in it who has read as much as you have. Most of the hours of my life, I feel sort of locked in. I don't have anyone to really talk to about things I like to talk about. My best friend from college, Myrtle, can do it, but she's also crazy now, so it's kind of off and on. My kids are getting there--especially Lilly--but I have to do a lot of arbitration still (no, you need to get out of the bathroom NOW) and Jay I have to "manage" which is exhausting in it's own way--is he getting emotionally hemmed in? am I distant enough? am I close enough? There are a lot of things I see very plainly about him that he is simply not ready to face, and, really, at 52, he may not ever cop to them. People don't change. And I worry about him. Jay's in the circle of worry--along with kids, pets and parents and close friends. So I like working with Wiz. He'll just say one word or name. "Comte de Guise" and I'll mostly know what he's talking about. Cultural references both high and low. It's like swimming to shore, sometimes. Ahhh.
I think I'll go back to Creme de la Mer. I quit using it because I decided it was all hype, but my skin's gotten worse. I hate to spend the money.
Jay and I are going to Cozumel over Christmas. We had a big fight. Big for us. We never fight. He had brought up the trip a few weeks ago, and I found cheap tickets. He was supposed to order them but when I got home from work he hadn't.
"Why not?"
"Well, I couldn't find a room, and I couldn't reach the hotel I usually stay at..."
So I'm thinking, okay, he doesn't really want to go. There may be too many memories of Hali there or maybe his money situation is worse than I thought, or, I don't know, he's just not that in to me--so the only thing to do when you sense that is to BACK OFF AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE.
"Oh, okay. That's cool. No worries. We'll have fun here."
But I was disappointed, and I guess it showed. And he got mad at me for it. And then he told me he was mad at me for a bunch of other things--"I'm 87 per cent mad at everything else, but I'm 13 per cent mad at you--your job schedule sucks, you can never spend enough time with me, and you had a bad reaction to the cozumel thing."
Here's what I think: people who get mad at you because they feel guilty for treating you poorly suck. Men who are mad at you for earning a living but offer you no alternative are cads. I know, my heart is like a piece of old, chewed hide. It is my best friend in that it now shuts down whenever I am fed this kind of crap by a guy. Even one I adore. And anyone who serves you anything but milk and honey after you have been out in the snow and ice, working for 14 hours needs to be left alone.
So I got up, put on my shoes, hat and coat and headed out the door.
"don't you want a burrito to take with you? You've been working 14 hours."
We made up.
And the next day I got a message:"I've got tickets to Cozumel."
So good. What precipitated this, I guess, is that Jay showed up at Hali's house yesterday evening. Our town does something this time of year called "Living Windows" which is kind of fun. Downtown is lit up and the shop windows have tableaus featuring living mannequins. He had the bright idea of taking her daughter to see the windows, so that Hali and Carlos could go out by themselves, or something. But Carlos was like, "No. I'm taking my daughter and my wife downtown."
This upset Jay. Imagine that.
"You mean, the fact that her father wanted to do something christmassy with her upset you?"
Silence.
Weirdness.
That's my 1/2 hour.

Neuro Checks

3 days. I'm off today--it was supposed to be my overtime shift. We are encased in ice. I walk on it and don't even dent it, it forms a plastic, samsonite luggage like dome over everything--my yard, the cars, the parkinglots. The dogs go skidding on it. Winter is here.
I've parked illegally every day, pulling into the CEO's spot in the parking garage--they haven't even ticketed me. I guess they're just glad staff made it in. Inside the ICU is a feeling of cold quiet, like we're in hibernation. I feel cool inside, and far away from things. There's a lot less flirting and joking, and the residents seem cranky, more inclined to blame nurses. I had to bark at Baggins the other day for it.
The only person who seems lit by this weather is Wiz, of course, who never works the way other people do. He's walking around singing.."you can hedge a bet on a clean corvette" His meds must be working.
I had good patients this weekend--patients who actually got better. My patient last weekend died. Not on me, thank goodness, but the next day. His family withdrew care. But this week, I had 2 head injuries--one an old man with alzheimers, and the other a woman. Head injuries require neuro checks every hour, which can be disturbing for family members--both patients started off vented, but my little old man was extubated the first day. My woman stayed intubated throughout the weekend. Every hour, you go in and you shout at the patient, and ask them to follow commands--"Squeeze my hand!" I say in my loudest, most shrewish tone. If they can't do that, I rub their sternum or pinch their toes with hemostats to get them to respond. You watch how they respond--do they try to fight you off? Do they curl their hands and toes in? (posturing-bad sign) I run a q-tip on the lower lid of their eyes to see if they have a blink reflex. And I deal with the neuro docs. Who are awful. Peremptory, demeaning. "We need you in here." the medical student accompanying them tells me. The neuros-I call them the neros--are in with the woman. The neuro attending is from Africa, with skin as black as wet bustelo espresso grounds. I have never seen skin so dark. He always wears a double breasted suit and he expresses all his opinions in a heavily accented shrill voice and all his opinions are expressed as commands. One time he told me, "Patients should never be intubated unless they have trouble breathing."
"That is very true!" I told him. "You are absolutely right!"
So he is standing in the room with his residents, all equally unpleasant.
"Why is this patient intubated!" he says. Like it's my decision.
"I believe because she has a paO2 of 66%. "
"She should not be intubated."
"Well," I say patiently, "the primary team is in the conference room. Dr. Spratz is attending on call this weekend. Would you like to discuss options with them?"
"That will not be necessary."
He proceeds to do a neuro check.
With the propofol running. Propofol, otherwise known as the "milk of dreams" is a very heavy sedative.
"She is not responsive! Has she been responsive for you?"
"Well, it is seven in the morning, and I have just walked into the room, so this is the first time I've seen her---so I can't answer that. The night nurse did get her to localize pain,(localizing pain is the nice way of saying the patient tries to hit you when you hurt them)"
"She is not doing anything."
"Would you like me to turn the propofol off?" I ask pleasantly.
"That will not be necessary!"
His Fellow, a stringy miserable looking polish guy tries his hand at an examination. I decide to shut the propofol off anyways. Instead of a sternal rub, he opts to twist her right nipple. Hard and nasty.
Fucker.
But she reaches for him. I hope she knocks his teeth out.
"Localizes pain,"he says triumphantly.
"What an innovative approach, doctor." I say.
The attending turns to me. "She needs to be extubated!"
"Dr Spratz is just down the hall...I can go get him..."
"Never mind!" He turns on his heel and walks out.
"they are all like that up here," I overhear him say to his Fellow as walks out.
Yep.

But at 1800 on Sunday, I got her to squeeze my hand in response. Then I got her to squeeze her daughter's, too. Lots of tears. She's going to be okay.

That's my 1/2 hour.

Cast of Characters-again

Cast of Characters-- revised
Me--Haley Patton. trauma nurse, single mom, confused episcopalian, zen buddhist (sort of...), liberal arts casualty, former party-girl searching for redemption and relevance
Wiz--Clinical Supervisor. One fucking great nurse. My partner on the floor. 50's. Polish. mysterious past, short, bald and carp-like, with an obsession for music and french literature.
Nick--my 16 year old son, dear and dorky
Lilly--my 15 year-old daughter, busy being 15, 5'9" and built like Miss October, whom I'm trying to get through her teen years without incident and who generally fills me with panic on a daily basis. They both fill me with panic on a daily basis. I am filled with panic on a daily basis. Enough.
Jay--my boyfriend, documentary filmmaker and legendary rock climber with the sweet simple soul of an eleven year old boy. And the tact. ahem.
Soupy--the local medical examiner and favorite rumpled pet of a friend, 70, terrible dresser, looks like Albert Einstein
Talen--the tattooed, butt groping waiter at Ernie'sErnie's--the diner
Hunter--Jay's frog-like best friend, local pitt bull lawyer and casino owner.(In Monte Carlo! Can you believe anyone around here in Little Dixie actually owns a casino in Monte Carlo?)
Sybil--Hunter's beautiful grifter girlfriend--used to be Jay's girlfriend 20 years ago.
Baggins--our short, hairy ICU Fellow (that's an MD, top of the residents) Former nurse and army medic, gulf war veteran (the first one). Only dates teenagers.
Mark--hipster night shift supervisor
Alice--one of my best friends, an MD, missed a diagnosis on a child who ended up a vegetable as a result, now wanders the woods communing with plants. ("I talk to the trees..but they don't listen to me..." She does not find this amusing when I sing it to her.)
Staci Roberts--the best musican I know, but a little 'Jerry Springer' if you know what I mean...
Elizabeth--Another clinical supervisor, late thirties, 5 kids, a husband dying of leukemia
Lois--her Core.
Tonks-the lhasa apso at the center of all our lives.
Heather-my best friend from high school, who never speaks to me, except when she's in crisis
Xavier-my crazy rich Cuban artist/party promoter, etc. ex, who was institutionalized with schizophrenia
Madonna--Nick's heart's desire, xylophone player, charming chubby 16 year-old girl
Hali Cordoba--Jay's ex of 15 years who left him for and married a professional salsa dancer is weirdly enmeshed in our lives and never shaves her armpits (or wears a bra) and calls us at 10:30 at night.
The Hennessy's--Frances, Big Frances, Linda, Catherine, etc--the Irish-Catholic family who took me into their home and hearts in mean ol Miami
Dartmouth--the college on the hill

Snow

It's snowing. Big thick splats of it. We were supposed to go out to Jay's farm to cut down the tree, but Nick got nervous.
"I don't think we should go out in this." he said. "I have a bad feeling about this."
So, I'm all about honoring caution, and we stayed put. I tried to drive downtown to go to yoga, but after nearly losing control of the car twice, turned around and came home. It was Nick's first time driving in the snow, and I think it made him really nervous. Good.
I was really pushing to go--I thought it would be a fun family thing to do and I want to involve Jay in more of our family stuff, but as I was watching Lilly put her boots on, suddenly the image of the girl we lost on the unit popped in my mind and seemed to me I could see Lilly in her place, her limbs bloated and pale, face expressionless as we worked hopelessly over her. I had to sit down.
I saw the picture of Hawkins, the teenager who murdered all the people in Omaha yesterday, and he looked so much like Nick, or any of Nick's friends. Bespectacled and pimply, hair too long. How do we lose people? How do they fall out of our hands? There were people around him who loved him and who tried for him--Sometimes I think there is this undercurrent of hopelessness in America and it geisers forth in violence in some of our weaker members. We seem to take everything so lightly--all the obsession with celebrities, all the reality shows. My grandmother used to say "you can sell your family once, but then you can't sell them twice." Everything's for sale, these days. Our privacy, our souls, our children. We're slathering to let the cameras in--it's like you don't exist until you get press. And our attention is so scattered that we don't come together as a people to address the things that need solving. We split into factions--Red and Blue. I know the blues will blame the lack of gun control ('If guns were outlawed that kid could never have done that much damage') and the reds will probably blame liberal values or whatever, but the fact remains that, over and over again this year, we have had members of our society who were so disenfranchised they took weapons and turned them upon others and then finally upon themselves, as if the blood would make it real. What are we looking for?
I became a nurse because I felt my life wasn't real. I felt that I was just gliding along in a dream, insulated from the realities of the world. Are we all too insulated, maybe? Have we lost our fellow feeling? Do we not teach our children empathy these days? Are there too many of us, maybe? I don't know.
Then I turned the page and read about Guantanamo and how there have been prisoners there who have waited 6 years for a hearing. 6 years! I know they're not citizens, but they're humans. "We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal..."that doesn't specify citizens, right? It says all men. That's the line of thought the constitution sprang from, right? It was a rethinking of humanity. So what's up? Why can't those guys have a hearing? Why are we torturing them?
I don't know, folks. I'm a feminist, but I think everybody's acting like they don't have mothers, and someone has to get back into the home and stop chasing the next big thing and just focus on the babies. I realize I'm rambling, but it all seems connected to me.
Okay, think about this: everyone says, you can't save the whole world. Well, why on earth can't you? I mean, humans aren't so complicated, right? I'm one, you're one. Babies all need the same thing--shelter, food, love. Then you can move on to things like equal opportunities and justice. There's a finite number of beings on the planet--it's not like it's an infinite amount. Surely we can find a way to get everyone what they need somehow.
I think we should all stop what we're doing and just work on that. Get that taken care of. Then worry about the rest.
Well, that's my 1/2 hour. Regina Spector's on the stereo singing her version of John Lennon's Real Love. Hope everyone reading this finds it, and gives it, if they can't find it. Be Brave!

Sisters

On Sunday, I ran into my preceptor from nursing school, Wanda Grass. At the end of nursing school, they stick you with one nurse in a unit for 3 months and they basically guide you and mentor you and hopefully, at the end of it, drop you out onto the cookie sheet a fully-formed nurse. Wanda was mine. She did a lot for me. She's my age, maybe 60 pounds overweight, fundamentalist and politically conservative. I took one look at her and thought, 'She's going to hate me. Women like this can't stand me.'
I didn't give her enough credit. She guided me every step of the way. She was the most knowledgeable, affirming, kind woman I have ever come across. She drop-kicked me into adulthood, really, resolving issues of self-doubt and esteem I thought were forever lost. I owe a lot to to Wanda. If I'm ever 1/4 of the nurse she is, I'll be happy. She didn't agree or condone any of my political beliefs or way of life, but somehow, she liked me anyways. I love her. We became friends afterwards, even though we're so very different. Everybody needs someone like this: someone who points out your flaws and gives you shelter at the same time. I guess that's what a mother should do.
"You need to wear makeup." Wanda said, without preamble. "You look like hell." Wanda has moved out ot the ER to Stat Nurse--that's a nurse who takes patients to where they need to go--OR, CT, MRI, so the unit nurse can remain with their other patients on the floor.
"No I don't."
"Well, you'd be prettier with makeup. There are doctors around."
"I'm too old for them, and I have a boyfriend."
"Trust me. They're doing all this administrative stuff with you. Put some makeup on."
I put some lipstick on.
"Better?"I ask when I see her later.
"Much better. Here's the name of my foundation. Go get some. Your hair's messy, too."
Wiz hears this, rolls his eyes. "It's better than it used to be."
"I'm wearing it in a braid, now!" I protest. It is much better than it used to be.
"It's all wispy." Wanda says.
Wiz says : "just be happy with the lipstick." Wanda laughs. She has this fresh, generous, unaffected laugh. As if she really does find whatever she's laughing at amusing.
And because it was Wanda, today after my psychiatrist appointment, I find myself in the Merle Norman store handing the clerk a slip of paper with the foundation name on it and asking for help matching it.
I sort of look down on Merle Norman--it seems like hillbilly beauty to me. I was raised on Erno Lazlo and it has served me well, I think. But whatever Wanda suggests, I do. This is an interesting thing about nursing...women like other women in this profession. There's a strong tradition of mentorship and guidance and support. One of my best friends is an actress--was an actress. Now, at 40, she's a voice professor at a midwestern university. A good fate for an aging B movie actress who never quite made it, although she did keep on getting work. She hates younger women. "They're so callow and snotty and self-involved." she tells me. "don't you just hate working with younger women?"
No, actually, I don't. I really like younger women. They're fun and open and remind me not to stop dreaming. Some of them make me want to, to quote Clarissa Pinkola Estes, "put my head between my paws and howl" but I don't find them so bad. I guess I don't feel much resentment towards them because I had as much fun as I think it is probably possible to have when I was young, and I doubt any of them are having a wilder, weirder, more glorious time than I ever did--so I'm cool about them. And I kind of get adopted, like my Nana did. I give good advice and I'm honestly not jealous. I had my time, and I'm still ok. So. There. The kind of relationships nursing engenders between women are the kind that make it possible for Wanda to say--"put some make up on" with the result that instead of being offended, I go straight to the Merle Normal counter on my day off and buy her foundation brand.
The woman behind the counter, as she is putting on my foundation, tells me that she would have an easier time if my skin weren't so rough.
She's trying to sell me exfoliant, of course. But I'm pissed off. What a tactic! There are many things about me that are sub-par in the looks department, but my complexion isn't one of them. I have great skin. My dermatologist once pulled his resident in and said, "look at this skin! This is what skin should be! This is what skin can be!"
"My skin is not rough." I say indignantly.
I look in the mirror and just see shiny, translucent, clear wrinkle-free me. It's the one thing I like about my appearance! How dare she.
She backs down. "Oh, I'm sorry. I guess it was just the cotton from the pad."
Damn straight Jeannie.
And I bought the foundation. And it is a hillbilly brand, but it's a very good match--I can't even tell I have it on--and it's not thick or yucky and Jay didn't notice I had makeup on.
Lesson: Know what's weak about you and know what's strong and take help that's offered, but don't let anyone prey upon you. People assume women are vulnerable about their appearance and they will use it to sell you anything. Stick to your guns.
Maybe I'll get a haircut.

That's my 1/2 hour.

Madurai

Nobody reads my blog!

I try to tell myself I don't really care and that I'm doing this for me and me only, but I guess when I started this I had this sort of very low key fantasy--all my fantasies are so pedestrian--that like,2 or 3 quirky people living in places like Prague or Orford, VT would read it--just pop in occasionally to see what was up and maybe chuckle or something--"oh, that's life--that's right--imagine, all that stuff going on in Little Dixie!" And then I had this other fantasy, that maybe things would start to happen...you know, there would be some romance or mystery that would start unfolding step by step in my blog, instead of it turning into this sort of navel gazing self-indulgent ramble. Oh, well.

I am going to do something exciting, actually--I'm going to India. About 6 months ago, I filled out an information sheet for Smile Train. Then I forgot about it.
Then I got an email from someone named T. Arulmony at Meenakshi Mission Hospital in Madurai, India inviting me to come work there for a week or two.
I forwarded the email to to Jay: 'Want to go to India?' I wrote.
He called me. "Of course I want to go to India!"
I figured we could go in the spring, when the kids went down to visit their dad for spring break.
T. Arulmony and I wrote back and forth a few times, I told him about my experience and exactly what I knew how to do and what I didn't know how to do.
Here is another difference between Jay and me: Next time I saw Jay, he knew everything about Madurai. 'It's called the Athens of India!' he told me excitedly. 'There's a large Tamil presence--you know, in Burma, that's a big issue--but we're not going to Burma.'
I stared at him. I hadn't even thought to look up Madurai! I had gone to the AHA and bought an ACLS manua and a PALS manual, since I figured I woud be working with children and am not that comfortable with peds--and I had gone through my textbooks trying to figure out which ones I should take with me. I started laughing. It hadn't even occurred to me to think about the surroundings--my whole being lives inside a hospital, now, I guess. Wherever it is in the world.
He looks all around him and asks questions--he sees the furniture and the trees and the whole picture--I just anxiously focus on what it is I am going to do and whether or not I will do it in the right way and what I need to learn/change/speed up to do it. He enjoys himself, and feels he has a right to do this. I just hope I don't fuck up.
So I mention this to Lilly, and she gets really mad. "You can't go to India without me! I'm the whole reason you're interested in cleft palates in the first place! You have to take me! I will never, never forgive you if you go without me."
I stare at her.
You know, most of the time, I forget Lilly has a cleft palate and all we went through to get her to where she is now. Of course Lilly has to go.
I tell Jay. "But how will we have sex?" is his first question.
But then later, sitting in the coffee shop, he says, "you know, going with Lilly is perfect. You can't leave Lilly. And I've been thinking, that would be a great documentary--coming full circle--going to India--I'm going to try to sell it and I'm going to film you guys, if it's all right with Lilly."
Of course it's all right with Lilly. I'm suprised at this, given how she feels about Jay.
So he shops the idea around and found a taker--a tv news magazine, I won't tell you which one-but they don't want to give Jay money to do it--they want to come along!
So it's just a big cluster now, and I'm going to go traipsing off to Madurai with all these people.
Argh.
I've been asking Indian people I know about Madurai...
The Indian lady who owns our favorite restaurant: "Madurai? I've never heard of it. Are you sure you're pronouncing it correctly?"
The Indian lady who appraised my house for my consolidation loan: "Madurai? Oh my god, why on earth would you want to go there?"
And Dr. Patel, who was in my ACLS class last Thursday. Dr. Patel is very beautiful and very arrogant, but nice, once you get past the bravura. She has a cloud of black, black, curly hair that she wears piled on top of her head. She speaks very fast and never makes eye contact with the nurses When I met her in the SICU, she walked into the room without introducing herself and said shrilly, pointing at me with every order "You will perform EKG and then you will inform me of the results. You will draw Troponin levels immediately and follow them up twice more, 8 hours apart."
I pointed at her and said, " I will do that right away!(point) But you will tell me who you are(point) and stop pointing at me (point, point)"
We got along after that.
So I told her and she got all excited. "Are you going to Meenakshi Mission Hospital?"
"Yes! How did you know?"
"My father worked there as a doctor. That's my name! I'm named for Meenakshi."
"You are?"
"Yes! It means 'punctuality' in Hindi."
I'm nonplussed. "Your father named you 'Punctuality'?" (What kind of a father names their kid "punctuality"? I mean, I guess it's one of the virtues, but still...especially since she had showed up for the class 2 hours late and had to look off my test to pass.)
"Well, it's also the name of a goddess."
"That's a relief."
"Madurai is the Athens of India," she informs me.

Ah.

And that's my 1/2 hour.

Differences

The kids got back last night at 8. Jay got back at 6. We went shopping, briefly. Jay found about 6 books he liked and kept standing next to them saying, "hint, hint" I found 3 presents for other people. This is the difference between us: when we go shopping together, I look for things to give other people and Jay looks for things he wishes other people would give him.
Grrrr.
Then we went to Macaroni Grill and had a glass of wine. I felt wonderful yesterday. Mark put me off on call--"I figured you were still feeling under the weather, even though you hadn't called in"--so I stayed home and recuperated all day--drank nothing but fresh vegetable juices and spring water--did yoga in the afternoon and, finally, when the sun went down, had a little bit of scrambled egg and some organic bread from our local bakery. I felt so good. I even felt happy and in a good mood. My best frame of mind usually is this: "I'm not screwing up. I've done everything I was supposed to do today." And that's about as good as it ever gets. I rarely get beyond that. But yesterday, I really did. For about an hour.
When I was so sick at work on Friday, Wiz said, "One good thing about being sick is that you stop caring about what everyone thinks about you. You're just like..so what. Screw it."
I thought about that for a moment. I was sitting at the unit clerk's desk waiting for a physician to return my page. "I'm never like that, Wiz. I never stop being self conscious. Only one time in high school, when a mirror fell off the wall in the bathroom and gashed my arm--I was actually spurting blood--that's the only time in my life when I can remember not being self conscious. Isn't that awful?"
"Not at all. I wish I had that kind of self discipline and self awareness. You must have worked hard for it, don't curse it."
In my life, I had never looked at it that way. But it's true.
I asked for it. I got it.
I really did...ask for it.
I used to go to this religious summer camp in North Carolina when I was a kid, and the priest who ran it taught us one summer about breath prayers and meditation. You picked a mantra, one specific request, in 7 words or less, and you were to sit silently and repeat it for 5-30 minutes a day for the rest of the year. Mine was: "Oh lord make me aware." I guess it was granted. Until that minute with Wiz after throwing up in the trash can, I had always seen my discomfort as coming from me, something I needed to fix, but it's really just the pricking up of my ears to what's going on around me--and that's almost never comfortable.
So Jay and I had our glass of wine. I had Riesling. It was fresh and sweet and we broke apart the delicious hot bread they serve there. That's a good chain. I never eat at chain restaurants, but Macaroni Grill is a good thing to spread around the universe, I think.
"So, " he asks me casually, "what do you think precipated your little emotional upheaval yesterday?"
Hmmmm....I think....what could I say? Possible (I just forgot how to spell this word, I think.) answers...

• You spend all your free time with your married, cuckholding, narcissistic personality disordered bra-less, hairy arm-pitted ex girlfriend's child--who is, admittedly, very winsome, but who nonetheless is being used by her mother to keep you in thrall and away from real intimacy you might create with someone else..i.e. me.
• I'm 41 and my children are growing up and pretty much ignoring me
• I've got an ivy league education that seems to only have informed my taste in the novels I choose to read on my days off from my blue-collar job
• You don't have any photos of me anywhere in the house
• You never say I love you except accidentally and then you always change it..as in "I love you....uh....when you're naked!"
• you bought me a fleece for my birthday

But I say instead, "I don't know....just blue...November....you know..."

"Isn't it about time for your...um....I know you hate it when I think this...you know your...special time?"

"Oh, yeah--you're right. I forgot."

"I thought that might be it."

That's my 1/2 hour.

Pebbles

Didn't sleep very well last night. Pebbles, the cat, decided she wanted to communicate with me. She does this by jumping on the bed and standing very close to your face while you're sleeping. Then she reaches out with one clawed toe and touches you on the cheek.
You swipe her away in your doze, thinking it's a bug.
Then she does it again, harder.
She keeps patting, gradually increasing the sharpness of the touch until you wake up.
"What the hell is it?"
Then she sits, staring at you with her black eyes."Meow."
"What do you want?"
"Meow."
She wanted under the quilt.
Sometimes she wants to go outside. Sometimes she wants food. Sometimes she just wants me to know she thinks I should be up by now, damn it.
Pebbles is a calico--all calicos are insane. She's very tiny and fat, and her coloring sort of peek-a-boos on her face, leaving it and her paws white. She's roughly the size and shape of a soccer ball. She's almost completely round.
Pebbles has issues. Xavier wasn't very nice to her when she was a kitten: he threw her against the wall a couple of times. To be fair, he was in the throws of his eventual complete break from reality as you and I know it, but try explaining that to a cat. For years she bit us every time we tried to pet her. She formed a relationship with Nick's green grinch slippers and slept inside them. When she got too big for the slippers, she adopted Lilly's stuffed tiger and pretended it was her mother, even sucking the fur into imaginary nipples.
Nick is the one who fixed Pebbles. He worked on her month after month, year after year. He realized, for example, that she would let you pet her if you used the back of your hand, and only very lightly. He fed her turkey baby food. He magically got her to stop pooping and peeing all over the house. Now she is almost a normal cat
Almost.
She still will crouch in the hallway some mornings and for no reason hiss and spit at everyone who goes by. If you ask her what's wrong, she will stare at you malevolently and snarl. When you open the door for her to go out, she will hiss and spit all the way out the door, running down the street as if you were chasing her with a flaming broom.
She also likes to tempt fate. She will lie in the middle of our street on her back with her paws in the air. She will not move, even when a car comes. The car usually has to come to a complete stop and honk. Then, and only then, will she roll over, very slowly, and stalk out of the way. Sometimes she will start to leave the road, then change her mind and walk back the other way. Sometimes she will not bother to get out of the way at all, but will merely roll over, look at the car and hiss at it. Then I usually have to come out of the house, pick her up, apologize to the driver and take her inside
Abuse does terrible things to people, even cat people.
What she is saying is, "I used to be pushed around, but you can't push me around any more! Even you, you big stupid car."
Abuse changes your perspective on everything. It makes you see threats that really aren't there, and it makes you underestimate and defy the threats that really are there. It screws up your gauges. Great way to ruin a personality.
Jay called last night. "Are you okay? Are you feeling better about everything?"
Yes. It helped that my ex fiance from college called. He recently was fired from NASA. He's an astrophysicist. Now he's trying, unsuccessfully, to make a living selling solar panels. It put things in perspective. We never really let go of the people we love. It doesn't mean we can't move on. It's not like he has the picture album out on the table. I went looking for it. I'm like Pebbles, crouching in the hallway, hissing at phantoms. So what if I'm like Hali. (She spells her name a little differently then I do). Jay's not so different from other men I've dated. Roughly the same social class, education, excels at a sport (weirdly, everyone I've ever dated is some sort of a jock, even though I'm a confirmed nerd) Yoga-ing, singing, rock climbing hippie chicks are a dime a dozen. I play the violin, so I do have some actual hard-earned skill--if you're attracted to one girl of summer, you're probably attracted to another. Our families have both been in Crockett County for generations--we probably even share genetic material. We have a mutual friend who told me "she's the earth side of your air coin."
It's hard to trust, you know? You're fresher and sweeter when you're young, you're more open and more vulnerable. I feel like I have so many shells, so many outer layers of protection, I will never be sweet and warm again.
But I am sweet and warm sometimes. Just like Pebbles. It's a gradual thing.
At least I'm not hanging out in the middle of the road.

That's my 1/2 hour. 29 minutes, actually. My kids finally called me. Turds. "I'm sorry," they said, "we just got caught up in stuff."

Crumbling

I got sick.
Sort of sick.
And with it came all the crumbling hopelessness of sickness. I'm such a terrible patient.
Just a 24 hour thing people always say. But when you're in the middle of it, it's terrible. I went home early from work, which is the first time I've ever done that. But after throwing up 4 times, once in a patient's room, I decided not to be an idiot machita and just call it a day. My poor orientee. Abandoned. I lurched back to Jay's house, crawled into bed and shivered for the rest of the night. As a final coup de grace, at 3am, I shat myself. I made it to the bathroom almost in time, but my underpants were a mess. Fortunately it was all lovely watery mucousy stuff. I hid my underpants like a little kid. I'm not sure how hardy Jay is in the face of some of the grosser realities of life. Maybe I'm underestimating him. How horrible. I hope my patients aren't aware when they do this. I hope they don't feel this terrible sense of shame. My patient yesterday had alzheimers, and he did the same thing to himself while we were standing him up to transfer him to the wheelchair. I didn't feel very patient with him, and when he pooped, I vomited. I couldn't make it to the trash can, because I was holding him up, so I just kept it in my mouth. My orientee, a beautiful african american woman my age, hailing, of all places, from South Beach, chose that moment to ask me a question.
"Mmph mmmph mmmh" I reply
"Oh, no."
We got him back onto the bed, I quickly let loose into the trash can. Then we cleaned him up.
"You need to go home."
"I know."
"do you think that he saw that?" My orientee, Lela asks.
"I hope not, but since he's been mistaking you for Sharon all day, I think we're safe in thinking he won't take it to heart." Sharon is a white, 300 pound nurse on our staff about a foot shorter and a decade older than Lela.
"that's true. "
At Jay's, we watched Family Man. Jay cried, and I wondered if he would love me more if I looked like Tea Leoni. Then I threw up.
My fever broke in the morning and I woke up drenched in sweat, but feeling a lot better. Jay took off in the morning to go down to visit his kids. They live about 3 hours south of us. They're older--20 and 21--and things are a little strange and sad. Jay's daughter tried to kill herself last year. She was hospitalized for awhile, and now she's out and living on her own. But her behavior is still erratic and contact with her is always iffy. I've met his son, but not his daughter.
To be fair, he was really nice to me last night.
And then, after he left, I did something really stupid. I went through his photo album. It's not like it's hidden. But it got me upset. There are all these pictures of his ex--I guess it makes sense--I mean, they were together 15 years. Of course the photo album contains lots of pictures of her. But there was a card tucked in it with a picture of him with her new daughter and it said "I couldn't do it without you--and I wouldn't want to. Love, Us."
Fuck you.
And I just sat in that dirty bleak little house out there in the middle of the fields and I looked out at the grey november day and thought, why am I here? why am I giving time to this? I'm a ghost in this place, in this relationship. I don't get three dimensions. He doesn't even have any pictures of me in the house. He finally took down her picture in the bedroom last year. I'm a replacement. I'm as close a replacement to this woman as he could possibly find--with a few little improvements: I'm younger, truer, better educated, have family money and stable employment. We even have the same first name, for heavens sake. He's even making me into a climber. I just cried and cried.
Then I flipped a coin. Call him and yell? Heads yes, tails no. Heads.
Called him.
"Hey, baby, what's wrong."
"Nothing."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm a ghost," I wheeze incoherently,"I'm just a ghost,"
"Oh, baby, is this anything we can't leave til Sunday night to deal with?"
Asshole.
Well, obviously I can't tell him I've been snooping through his photo album and have decided that he doesn't really love me.
"I miss my kids." Which is true. The little bastards didn't even call me. "It's lonely out here."
"Don't I know it. It's terrible out there alone. They'll be back soon, honey, I know the holidays are hard on you, but remember you get their lives. You're just feeling bad, sweetie. It'll get better."
I got off the phone quickly hoping I hadn't dumped too much psycho energy on him. As most women go, I am not of the psycho variety. I am only rarely emotional. Usually after something like labor, or being up all night with a fever and throwing up for 24 hours and shitting on myself. So, you know.
Man. How did I get here? Choice by choice.
That's my 1/2 hour.
I'm sorry. Forgive me. I love you. Thank you.

The River Rock

My shoulder hurts, left one, at the base of my neck. It's from belaying. Jay and I went climbing yesterday on the bluffs by the river.
I like myself when I'm climbing more than I do at any other time ever. Except maybe when I'm windsurfing. I like climbing more than I like sex.
The weather held again yesterday, beautiful and balmy. We rode our bikes 10 miles down the gravel river road to the bluffs, hardly saw anyone at all. No one but a very beautiful older woman with short, glossy brown hair in a pink and orange harlequin patterned one piece running outfit. "Hello," she said to Jay, in a faintly russian accented voice as she passed. Women are shameless. Women always flirt with men I date, right in front of me, as if I'm not even there. I think it's because I'm sort of mousy looking and I always end up dating these adonises. I mean, I'm not bad. I'm in good physical shape (a little squishy around the belly thanks to Nick and Lilly--but I'm skinny and squishy, if you know what I mean) and I'm well-groomed, but that's about it. I don't consciously choose gorgeous guys, I just think maybe gorgeous guys aren't necessarily looking for gorgeous women.
So we get to the bluffs. Jay put up most of these routes. He knows them like the back of his hand. "This is my favorite place in the world." he tells me. He's told me this before. It's funny, because it's always been one of my favorite places too. I used to come here all the time on my own, before I knew Jay, before I knew climbers liked to climb these places. The John Crows like this section of the bluffs and the Indians used to call this part of the river the great mother, and they thought that this particular section of bluff was the place from whence all creation had sprung. I used to sit at the top of the bluffs and the John Crows (vultures) would come flapping next to me, and I would think about my friend, Chet Alexander and how he said that these birds were the most noble of all the animals, because they didn't waste. So it's funny that it's one of Jay's favorite places, too.
He picks out a nice easy route--a little 5.6, which is right within my range. I'm not very good yet. He wants to work on my belaying, because he doesn't feel very secure with me on the ground. There's this technique, where you sort of fold your arms up together, pinch off with your left hand and slide down with your right. And I can't get it. I get hopelessly confused. There's another way I think would work, but he's adamant that I not do it any other way, so we've been arguing about it. I'm left handed, though, and I keep getting confused. Finally, I just say, "would you please just let me try it my way? I think it's basically the same thing, but left handed." So he does, and lo and behond, it works. I'm belaying smoothly. Although it looks all wrong. He takes a small practice fall, to see if I can hold him, and that's the last we speak of it for the rest of the afternoon.
He leads. He's so beautiful when he climbs. I don't know how to express this. I just want to munch on him. His legs look so good when he's up there, like a dancer, and he just looks absolutely in his element. It's like watching a seal or an otter. It's a little harder than he remembered. I watch how he goes up, but I never watch him too closely, because I can always find my own weird way up something. "Hmmmm.....I never thought about doing it that way," he'll say. Besides, he's about a foot taller and 70 pounds heavier, so what works for him physically will not work for me.
Then it's my turn. I'm seconding for the first time, which means I'm removing the carbiners--and I know any climbers reading this will probably correct my vocab--I don't have the jargon down at all, in spite of hearing about it night and day for the past 2 years. After climbing for the first time last thanksgiving, I spent last year working on my upper body strength, and I have to say there's a lot of improvement from last year. I can trust my arms a lot more, something I've never been able to do in my life til now. It's a little unnerving removing the safeties and clipping them to my belt. And I'm doing okay until about 3 feet from the top, when all the sudden, I can't think of what to do next, and I temporarily panic. It's funny how suddenly this comes on. I'm just humming along--phht, phht, phht, like a little monkey and then all the sudden I'm like, "holy crap." it's like I come to 60 feet above the ground on the side of a bluff. I'm terrified. I want to pee myself. The rock seems absolutely smooth, unforgiving, offering no quarter. I suddenly don't trust anything about my body--my feet, my legs. Do you remember Watership Down and how the animals go "tharn" when confronted by danger? That's where I am on this rock. Tharn. Jay knows this. I can feel the rope, loose til now, not even noticed, tighten.
"You can come down, if you want." He says.
Ah. Saved once again by my inner "fuck you"
"no, I'm good," I say casually. I start humming, which is what I do at the hospital during traumas and I'm panicking and I run my hands over the surface of the rock, up and down. And I find a surprise. The rock only looks smooth. Below my waste, where I wasn't even looking or reaching for, I find a tiny little ridge, maybe 1/2 an inch out, sort of lipped over. It was hiding from me, I'm able to grab it with both hands, hold myself in close to the rock and inch to my left, where i'm able to find a foot hold and a friendlier hand hold above me.
"Nice!" Jay calls from the bottom.
So, grasshoppers all, keep going. There's always a hold somewhere.
That's my 1/2 hour.

Regular Happy Day

Here we go. No kids for 7 days. I don't know what to do with myself. I'm sitting in the basement blogging and eating cheezits, the new "Cheddar Jack" kind. Lilly was home yesterday. We had a good day--we all went to Ernie's at 6:30 in the morning, drove Nick to school, went to the library, went to yoga. Then we went out to the local state park and hiked around in the woods, which was really beautiful. We split a chocolate malt afterwards, picked up Nick from school and went to get his glasses fitted. $240.37 for glasses. It was so beautiful and warm that we put the top down on the convertible. It's really lovely driving on these small country roads, with the leaves blowing into the car and the wonderful grassy smells of fall all around. Just a perfect day.
"Oh my god--" Nick says, "I can see individual leaves on the trees!" He was twisting his neck around, staring at things, really entranced, reading signs out loud.
I felt really guilty. For some reason, I haven't taken Nick seriously when he complains about his eyesight. I mean, his grades are pretty good and he reads all the time and doesn't seem to have any trouble playing video games, etc. Finally, at the drivers license bureau, when he was taking the visual test and kept getting everything wrong, I decided that maybe there was something to it. Nick, to be fair, can be somewhat of a hypochondriac. But guess what--he really does have eyesight problems. Oh well, better late than never.
They took off in the afternoon. I really worry about them being on the road. I think it would be safer in a plane, but my folks, who write all the checks, refuse. And I certainly don't have extra money for tickets.
After they left I went to a staff meeting at work (it's kind of a pain in the ass that you never really get a day off from the hospital--there always seems to be a reason to have to drop in)--'just an hour' but it kind of screws up your whole day, you know? I mean, you have to dress up and say the right things to the right people and I don't know about you, but I need like 24 hours at a time when I can just retreat into my schleppy myself, you know--not worry about stray chin hairs and ragged fingernails or matching socks and ironing things. This is probably why I'm not married....
The meeting only lasted an hour, but it was still a pain in the ass. I made innocuous conversation about my dog, bought everybody chocolate. Argh.
Then I went out to the farm. Jay's back from a hunting trip, and he looked pretty rough. He's filming a hunting show for tv now--he didn't actually hunt. "animal snuff films" he calls them. But he had a good time on this one, I think. We fell asleep at 9. Then we woke up about 3 hours later and made love.
"Wake up," Jay said, "the moon's up."
And it was, filling the room with magic light. You could have read by it. So we tried to live up to it. Tonksie, my little injured dog was in bed with us, because I didn't want to leave her alone at my house, and in the middle of all the action, she decided she was being left out, so she engaged in some surprise strategic licking, which made Jay yelp and me almost fall off the bed laughing-but it all turned out okay. With a happy ending, as they say in the biz.

And that's my 1/2 hour.

Call

Oh, magic--I got called off yesterday. It's the kids' last day in town--they're going to their father's for thanksgiving. My parents are driving them. I don't understand why we can't just put them on a plane, but my parents are terrified of planes. The kids are getting really tired of driving to Florida every holiday, especially since my mother's a little hard to deal with. I mean, really hard to deal with--constantly angry and critical. This endless litany of wrongdoing. One time I taperecorded her, just to prove to myself that it really was that way. She once talked an hour and a half, just this rant against me, without interruption. My ex husband, used to do that. I think it's a form of abuse--I see the tendency in Nick, sometimes, and it really scares me. We've worked with him a lot on his temper. He now takes a walk when he starts yelling. I don't do that--I don't go on and on. I'll discuss something, but I keep it short. Hammering somebody doesn't ever help, it just makes them want to chew off their own paw to get out of the cage.
So yesterday went beautifully slowly. The weather is really good--almost balmy--and the leaves are still on the trees--it's the most beautiful fall I can remember. Lilly had spent the night with her friend, Samantha. Samantha's family is like ours--a little dysfunctional, messy, intellectual, kind. Her dad, George, used to be a nurse, but he had a nervous breakdown and now he stays at home with the kids, puttering around the house, playing his guitar and undertaking really strange home improvement projects. (the latest: 8 foot tall copper poles circling the house--something to do with keeping the house safe from lightning--he's decided their house is at high risk for being struck by lightning). His wife, Nan, is a dentist, and she just takes it all in stride. But he's fun to talk to, if a little bleak. I picked Lilly up and hung out a little bit playing guitar in their living room. Then we went home. Nick was marching in the holiday parade, so we drove him out to the school to get his uniform, then we went into town for lunch. He refused to get out of the car. "I look ridiculous." So Lilly and I went into the bakery to grab him something. Then, as we were scooting around to the parade drop-off, Nick says,
"um, we have to go home."
"Why?"
"I forgot something."
"What did you forget?"
"Just something."
"Well, if it's no big deal, you can just deal with it."
"It's a big deal."
"What did you forget?"
"Just take me home, okay?"
"No."
"Okay. My trumpet."
It was so funny, I couldn't even get mad, I just laughed. Of course, the route home was the parade route, which was already completely blocked off, so getting home was interesting. But we made it back.
Nick's band was 19th in the order, so I figured we had a long time to wait for him to appear. Lilly and I went to the coffee shop to kill time. She sat reading Beowulf, and I was reading the ACLS trauma manual. After about 15 minutes, we walked up the street to watch the parade and wait for Nick.
The Holiday Parade in our town is actually kind of low rent. The newer fundamentalist churches all have floats--if you can call them that--and a lot of businesses have representatives wearing santa hats. The skinny peaceniks march, trailing clouds of patchouli and throwing no candy, of course. Then the young republicans and the shriners follow--and they throw lots of candy. And this to me in a nutshell is why the liberal left will never gain any ground in the heartland--because they overlook the basics here--we eat fried chicken and we like candy. I mean, I religiously honk for peace when I drive past them standing on the corner with their signs--they can't spring for tootsie rolls at the holiday parade? What? We're just supposed to envy their skinny fit hairy bodies? And they feel so superior to the rest of us--and it so shows.
Arghh. Enough. So Lilly and I stand for this a little bit--then I think, more than 19 groups have gone by, where's Nick's school? "Where's Greenway?" I ask her. "You think they changed the order?"
"Oh," a woman says, overhearing me, "they changed the order. Greenway went first."
"Crap." Lilly says. "We always do this."
"Don't say crap. It's coarse."
"We're going to have to lie, now." she says.
"We didn't do it for either of the homecoming parades this year." I point out.
"Yeah, I guess we're getting better."
Nick is sitting on the curb by the post office, waiting for us.
"How did you like it?" he asks.,
"You looked great!" we assure him brightly.
He seems satisfied with this.

Herpes

I had a dream last night about Ayhan. It was a very sweet and simple dream: I was walking down the street in the evening in a strange small town somewhere on the coast. It felt like Cape Cod. It was winter, and even though it was early in the evening, it was dark. Suddenly, up ahead of me, I saw someone else walking. As I caught up to them, I realized it was Ayhan. He looked at me, but didn't say anything. We sort of walked together in silence--I guess we were going the same direction--and then I thought, 'this is ridiculous.' so I said, "Hi, how are you?"
and he said, "I don't want to talk to you."
"Don't be silly," I told him. "I just want to know what you're up to." And then we started talking, and I woke up.
"Were you dreaming?" Jay asked me. I mutter a lot in my sleep.
I didn't tell him about the dream. I asked him about his dreams and he launched into a big long story. He always forgets his questions if you get him to talk about himself--it's sort of funny how well it works.
But I started thinking--it's strange that Ayhan and I both live in this small town and know the same people and like the same things, and in almost three years we have not run into each other once since our breakup.
Ayhan was the best boyfriend I have ever had. We went out a long time. But he lied about something essential. I tried to forgive him and get over it, but in the end, I couldn't make a future with him. It was too big of an obstacle. It was sad, because I really cared for him. People thought I was just crazy for breaking up with him--if you met him, you wouldn't be able to imagine a better man. Beautiful. Looked like Armand Asante. People would come up and ask for his autograph. Courtly. Kind. Always remembered birthdays and occasions, always dressed beautifully--Armani suits, linen handkerchiefs, handmade shoes. But he had herpes. He knew it, but he didn't tell me about it, and so, after a few years, I got it, too. Looking back, I see that he tried not to give it to me, but he didn't try hard enough, and, most importantly, he didn't give me any choice about getting it. I should have been smarter, I guess, but we went out a long time, and frankly, when you go out with someone a long time, you relax on some things--like always using a condom.
The funny thing is, if he'd told me, our relationship probably would have slowed down--I would have had to back off and consider whether I wanted to get involved and take the risk--but you know, he was lovely and when you get older, something like herpes isn't really the big deal it would be if you were in your teens or twenties. I would have respected him for being honest, and we probably would still be together.
I didn't realize how awful not telling me was until I met Jay. Jay started out being my friend--I knew him through some other friends--and then, when I realized he was romantically interested in me--I felt absolutely compelled to tell him. We hadn't even kissed. But I didn't even want to lead him on a little bit--I didn't even care for him that much yet, it was just the right human thing to do. In fact, it was impossible not to tell him. How could Ayhan not do the same for me? And of course, he backed off, and I thought I'd lost him, which was really disheartening. But he came back about 6 weeks later. So when I get frustrated with him and start comparing him to Ayhan--which happens sometimes--I just remember my valtrex prescription--and how Jay makes jokes about it but still wants to make love to me anyways--and I feel really grateful. But I always have this little nagging voice that says, "you're icky, you're diseased" and I know that, even though it's not my fault, it's mine to carry always. And that's a horrible thing to give a person, this little daily frisson of shame, and it is unforgivable and intolerable that a potential mate would foist it on you unchosen.
So anyways, back to now, Jay's out deer hunting this weekend, Nick's at a debate tournament, and Lilly and I were on our own, so we went to the Macaroni Grill, which was really okay. Lilly's facing the door and suddenly she says, "Oh my God, guess who walked in!"
"Ayhan." I guessed.
"Aren't you going to turn around and look?"
I thought a moment, thought about my nice dream where we got caught up. "Nope."
And then I put him out of my mind. I mean, I really did. I went back to dinner and enjoyed it and had desert and coffee and focused on Lilly and had a good time.
This probably isn't very buddhist, or christian for that matter, but sometimes, you just have to be very solidly in your own camp, and when someone wrongs you, don't waste another minute on them. Men being stupid men you can get past--erratic phone calling, doing stupid men things, being weird about commitment, etc. But you can't let someone be dishonorable. It hurts you and it hurts them. I hate to sound like a gangster, but that has to be IT. Wiz says, "when someone reveals themselves, believe it."
Believe it. And move on
And that's my 1/2 hour.

Where I got my Tartan Skirt

Staff meetings yesterday. I got to dress up. I have this great couture Celine tartan skirt from the sixties--a hand-me-down from Mrs. Hennessy in Miami. It's so beautifully made--you can see the tiny handstictching on the pleats--it has a few moth holes now, but I don't care. She gave it to me when I was moving back to Missouri. "You'll have a chance to wear this--god knows we never do." She also gave me a green wool Valentino couture skirt and her wedding veil, a hundred-year-old white lace mantilla. I was getting married--or, I thought I was getting married.

What would I have done without the Hennessy's? They were my family in Miami. Beautiful, kind and ruined. Good people.

I was married then and living at the time in a very poor section of the beach, in a concrete 5 floor walk-up. The local park had broken crack pipes in the sand, so I decided to go cruising for another park. I decided to go for it, and drove into the richest neighborhood on the beach--right off Sunset Island--found a great park and began using it with my kids. Trouble was, it was in the center of an Orthodox Jewish neighborhood, so my little goyim stuck out like sore thumbs, and none of the other little kids were allowed to play with mine. (It's interesting to note that in the crack pipe park in my neighborhood, the Cuban and Nicaraguan and Haitian and Jamaican and African American mothers all actively encouraged their children to play with everybody)

One day, we were playing in the park and Nick (2) seemed to have struck up a friendship with a little girl whose mother wasn't snatching her away. Mom was not inside the fence, but was sitting on her car, an ancient orange porsche, watching. She had long red hair and looked like a thinner richer prettier version of me. Lilly was just a few weeks old and hadn't yet had her first reconstructive surgery (Lilly was born with a pretty severe cleft lip and palate). Hurricane Andrew had recently hit, so Miami was just a shambles. After a bit, the mom came up to me and handed me a birthday party invitation.

"Would you like to come to a birthday party?" she asked. "Catherine's turning 3 on Sunday."

I laughed. "Would you like to come to a birthday party? Nick's turning 3 on Saturday."

I happened to be hosting the party at the park--so no biggie there. Frances (that was the mom's name) was hosting hers at her house. She gave me directions.

That Sunday, my husband was out all day playing golf, so he wouldn't know about me going to the party, I loaded the kids in the Explorer and began driving, becoming progressively more and more intimidated as the houses became bigger and bigger until, finally, we were crossing the intercostal and going through iron gates and past a guard who already knew my name. Ah. A mansion. This was the real deal. There was no one around.

A wizened old woman appeared, deeply tan, with a badly repaired cleft palate. She was small and bent and dressed in men's bermuda shorts and a catholic schoolgirl's pink button up blouse. "hey!" she yelled, "Getthosedamnkidsoutofhere,"
"What?" her speech was hard to understand and I wasn't sure I'd heard her correctly. "We're here for the birthday party."
"Toomanyfuckingdamnkidshatethefuckingkidsgetout"she said.
I walked up, holding Nick's hand and shifting Lilly. The woman stared at Lilly. "that'smethat'sme."she said, coming close and touching Lilly's head.
She patted her a second more.
"Okaycomeonin."she gave me a toothy smile and led me in to the hall. The house seemed empty. Where was everyone? Frances' porsche was in the driveway, so I was pretty sure I was at the right place.
The little woman scuttled into a little room off the foyer--a butler's room, maybe? A big closet? It's only purpose now seemed to be to hold alcohol. Bottles and bottles. Mostly Jim Beam. She got a glass for me and filled it with Jim Beam. Nick stuck his finger in his mouth.
"Drink,"she said, grinning and nodding. "Drink!"
"I'm here for the birthday party." I said. "Do you know where the birthday party is?"
"Ilikeyouyou'remyfriendyou'renotanasshole."
"I like you too. But where's the birthday party?"
"Oh CHRIST!" came a voice over my shoulder, from the hall. "JESUS CHRIST! Linda, go upstairs. GO UPSTAIRS!"
"FUCK YOU!" the old woman spat. "FuckyoubigfrancesthisisMY FRIEND!"
A woman entered the closet, now there were three of us, all gathered around the tiny table.
She was in her late 50's, blonde, a little overweight, and someone who had clearly, clearly been a world class beauty but had done nothing at all to preserve it. She was wearing a stained denim mumu and men's loafers. Her eyes were circled by the remnants of maybe 3 days of mascara. In spite of all this, she managed to radiate the comfortable, aristocratic glamour of a woman who is used to being the center of everything. She had a tight jawed connecticut WASP drawl--"LINDA GET THE FUCK UPSTAIRS OR I WILL LOCK YOU IN THE ATTIC ALL WEEKEND DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"
"FUCKYOU!FUCKYOU!" Linda screamed, "THISISMYFRIENDTHISISMYFRIENDTHIS FRIENDISGOINGTOPLAYWITHMELOOKATTHEBABY LOOKATTHEBABY"
"NOW"Big Frances screamed. "GO NOW"
"you'reMYfriend" Linda said to me in a broken whisper, and then she was gone and I heard her running up the stairs.
"Hello," Big Frances said, as if nothing had happened. "You must be Haley! I'm Frances' mother, Francis. Everyone calls me Big Frances. Oh, look at that. You need ice." She was already putting it into the bourbon
I shook my head..."no...really...it's only 10am..."
"Oh, of course." she nodded and grabbed a bottle of soda water, which she poured into my glass, filling it to the top. "There you go. Follow me. Everyone's out back. You're the only decent one of the bunch, so thank god your here. We're so desperate for Frances to make normal friends. Drink up! I'll take the baby. God knows you look like you need a break. Just like Frances said. You're married to a real pisser, I hear." She said. I did take a drink, then, and followed her through the house, which as we went through it, seemed to be very dilapidated--peeling wallpaper, whole sections of the ceiling falling down, rooms piled with furniture. There were paintings and paint supplies everywhere and the entire place smelled like turpentine. I realized then that the stains on Big Frances' mumu were oil paint splotches. We went through the living room, which was filled with beautiful furniture with shredded upholstery. There were dogs everywhere--I counted at least 7. They all had various things wrong with them--missing legs, an eye here, bald patches. Strays, I guessed. Sleeping on the couch was a man who looked like Paul Neuman. We passed quickly through and ended up in a small room where bunch of people were gathered--I suppose it would be called the solarium.
The odd thing was there were no children. Only Catherine. The other people were sprawled all over the furniture and looked like they'd been up all night. They were club people, I realized. Some of them were still in their club clothes. Beautiful and skinny, the heroin chic look that was popular then as an alternative to grunge (grunge never got going in Miami--yuck, thank god. )Frances was standing in the middle of the room with a bewildered Catherine, proffering presents. The presents were mostly inappropriate--things club goers would pick up at Walgreen's at 4am when they remembered they were going to a child's birthday party. Things like a chess set. I had brought a stuffed bear. Dumb, I know, but safe.
Frances looked up. "Hi! Welcome to the party!" she said.
And that was the beginning of my friendship with the Hennessy's.

Well, that's way more than a 1/2 hour. I just got carried away by memory. I just talked to them on Halloween--Linda died a month ago. Got to get a card off. I'm sure I'll talk about them again.

Cast of Characters

I was thinking that I need to write up a cast of characters, so you know who's who. You. The one person a month who ever reads this. The person from Budapest who stumbles on this for like 10 seconds. Yes, YOU!

So--so far...

Me--Haley Patton. trauma nurse, single mom, confused episcopalian, zen buddhist (sort of...), liberal arts casualty, former party-girl searching for redemption and relevance
Wiz--Clinical Supervisor. One fucking great nurse. My partner on the floor. 50's. Polish. mysterious past, short, bald and carp-like, with an obsession for music and french literature.
Nick--my 16 year old son, dear and dorky
Lilly--my 15 year-old daughter, busy being 15, 5'9" and built like Miss October, whom I'm trying to get through her teen years without incident and who generally fills me with panic on a daily basis. They both fill me with panic on a daily basis. I am filled with panic on a daily basis. Enough.
Jay--my boyfriend, documentary filmmaker and legendary rock climber with the sweet simple soul of an eleven year old boy. And the tact. ahem.
Soupy--the local medical examiner and favorite rumpled pet of a friend, 70, terrible dresser, looks like Albert Einstein
Talen--the tattooed, butt groping waiter at Ernie's
Ernie's--the diner
Hunter--Jay's frog-like best friend, local pitt bull lawyer and casino owner.(In Monte Carlo! Can you believe anyone around here in Little Dixie actually owns a casino in Monte Carlo?)
Sybil--Hunter's beautiful grifter girlfriend--used to be Jay's girlfriend 20 years ago.
Baggins--our short, hairy ICU Fellow (that's an MD, top of the residents) Former nurse and army medic, gulf war veteran (the first one). Only dates teenagers.
Mark--hipster night shift supervisor
Alice--one of my best friends, an MD, missed a diagnosis on a child who ended up a vegetable as a result, now wanders the woods communing with plants. ("I talk to the trees..but they don't listen to me..." She does not find this amusing when I sing it to her.)
Staci Roberts--the best musican I know, but a little 'Jerry Springer' if you know what I mean...
Elizabeth--Another clinical supervisor, late thirties, 5 kids, a husband dying of leukemia
Lois--her Core.
Tonks-the lhasa apso at the center of all our lives.
Heather-my best friend from high school, who never speaks to me, except when she's in crisis
Xavier-my crazy rich Cuban artist/party promoter, etc. ex, who was institutionalized with schizophrenia
Madonna--Nick's heart's desire, xylophone player, charming chubby 16 year-old girl
Dartmouth--the college on the hill

And that's my 1/2 hour.