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Every Once in a While

29 Aug

Sometimes I don’t want to brush my teeth, sometimes I don’t want to wash my face.                                                                                                     But cavities and zits I never do want, so brushing and washing it is.

Sometimes I don’t want to talk, sometimes I don’t want to smile.                                                                                                                                             But hurting ones feelings I never do want, so my mouth keeps an upturned display.

Sometimes I want to run.  To a place far, far away.                                                                                                                                                                            But being a deserter I never do want, so I stuff it and here I do stay.

…I went to bed, last night, with the above nonsensical rhetoric running through my mind.  I awoke in the middle of the night, creating more stanzas.  And this morning I cannot seem to escape the monotonous drone of the opening, “sometimes I don’t…”  Yet the way my mind works, which is a way that always connects music and lyrics to my thoughts, I now cannot stop singing the song, by The Cure titled, Charlotte Sometimes.  And even though you might expect me to leave a video clip of the song, because I often share ‘YouTube’ videos of music, I am obstinately not doing so.  Only because we both expect me to….oh the rebellion within!

This piss poor attitude, from whence does it come?  An overstressed mama, an emotionally tired mama, and a worn out mama. Period.  And last night I abstained from the facial wash and the brushing of teeth…my reckless abandon.  I reckon it a fairly sad story when the product of rebellion lie only in a hygienic form.  But hey, it’s all I’ve got at present.  Oh, and writing useless poetry of a repetitious nature.  Let us not forget the above stanzas.

The full and complete details of how I have gotten to this place are unnecessary to the message at hand.  Thus I will control the evil tongue, or in this case, computer keyboard to keep certain happenings under wraps.  It is more the results of  said, ‘mystery happenings’, in which I care to illuminate.  The results being fear, hives, more fear, and more hives.  They aren’t real hives, for there is no sign of rash.  Only incessant epidermal itching.  And fear, is never to be indulged in by offering it a title of “real”.  Yet fearful thoughts are weighing me down.  One such thought, “will the energy and emotional strength I invest into the life of my son eventually prove to be a worthless endeavor?  After the countless hours of pouring forth love, compassion, care, and time into his well being, will he still choose to throw in the towel of life?”

Itch, itch, itchy, itch

After the many hours, days, nights, and years invested into the teaching and encouragement of my children, will they still rebel against the good path?  Itch, itch, itchy, itch. (Oops, I just rubbed yesterday’s eye makeup into my eye ball…the detriment of rebellion.)  This type of questioning is not profound if connected to unfounded doubt, but my thoughts are not unfounded making the doubt quite profound.

My son, last week, dropped a familial A-bomb off in our life–and the next day left town to visit with family for four days.  The emotional fall out is wreaking havoc upon my tired soul (not to mention that of my husband as well).  The bomb?  A grudge against his father he confessed to holding onto for roughly ten years.  Now granted, his intent for sharing is to cleanse a relational roadblock with his dad (he and I were unaware it existed).  And sadly, the details of his ten year mental strife are concretely based.  Now how do I take this filth and get to where I want to go with this writing?  Well similar to the charred ground at the site of destruction, the chosen ammunition wiped out the living species within its midst.  All living species, or in our case, living memories.  The good and the bad.  My husband’s only question, as he undertakes full responsibility for the injurious effect of his own fear-based actions which inflicted the emotional pain for our son, is: “but weren’t there some good times as well?”  The answer of course is “yes”, but a bomb was dropped and nothing lives in its wake.

Thankfully we are not so daft as to miss out on the understanding that with a charred soil comes new opportunity.  And in the case of a parent-child rift, having a new opportunity to plant new seeds–together, and forge new directions–together, is a gift of goodwill bestowed upon the undeserved.  A gift given from our son, for which my husband and I are (more than) profoundly grateful.  Funny thing is, at the start of this year, our ‘Bent Motto’ has been “fear begone!”  It dons on me now, as I write, that our motto is in motion.  Why else would our son feel safe enough to divulge his angst?  Because fear is being ‘taken down’ and we are battling against its control.  Which is why my own insecurities, rooted in fear, are not allowed to flourish.  Not on this new waste land expanse.  Not in this nutrient deprived soil.  Not now.

…my son is lying on the couch next to me, sharing the details of his current physical experience, as he is detoxing from the prescribed anti-anxiety medication and narcotics.  Amidst his utterings he says to me, “I’m so tired I am just going to sleep until noon.”  To which I reply, “Good.  Then please stop talking to me so I can write!”  We laugh together at the ridiculous exchange between us.  And it dons on me once again, as I write, that my son feels safe.  He is weaning from the mind numbing effects of the meds that he felt he needed to keep him calm.  His choice.  An action which reflects there are nutrients present in the soil.  I am encouraged by the possibility of new growth.  I am not in a waste land after all.

“Fear begone.  And come again no more.  Not even sometimes.  Not even, Charlotte Sometimes.”  …I am back to square one, The Cure, though the mysterious hives have subsided for the moment.  Thank you, my readers, for providing me a therapeutic path.  A ground of expression, a medium of release.  I am grateful.

 

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Not So Common Courtesy

18 Jun

As I was in the middle of preparing tonight’s dinner (or supper, depending on the region you belong to), the phone rang.  The area code was one which I recognized, and which I anticipated a call back from, so I answered the call.  My “hello” was met with a fast paced presentation about solar energy and the “absolutely free cost for installation” provided from the government, should I qualify.  The man on the line then said, “Now I’m going to ask you several questions.  First…”  At that point I went in for the kill!  “I need to stop you right there!  What did you say your name was?  Well Mark, I do believe the appropriate way to proceed, before telling me you are going to ask me questions, is to first ask me if I am interested in being a candidate.”  To which I said, after he asked, “No”.  And he said, “Well … we are supposed to…”no?”…well then goodbye!”  —CLICK—

I’m thinking that Mr. Mark has never had a lesson in courtesy.  At least that is the idea I have decided to land on.  I was honestly ready to give him a good lesson, but he was so confounded by my interruption of his script, or re-direction rather, that his best response was to hang up.  No matter to me.  I was cooking and prepping food which is always nice to do two handed (instead of holding the phone with one hand).

And I would have left the incident there, instead of bringing up here, but the topic of courtesy–or lack thereof–has really been heavy on my mind as of late.  For instance, today when driving up to Long Beach I had the unpleasant experience of having a car speed up upon seeing my indicator light flash, signaling my move to the next lane.  I had, upon depression of the switch, plenty of room to move over until the car sped up with intent to block my indicated lane change.  Now since I couldn’t drag the driver to the side of the road and give him a proper lesson in courtesy, and since I couldn’t legally disable his rear tire by way of assistance from a firearm, I was left with only one choice.  I moved into the lane I had indicated I was going to move into as if the discourtesy of the other driver was in no manner affecting my action.  In other words, I arrogantly moved over into the lane as if to say, “go ahead, hit me–you ass!”  I think my confidence (call it what you will, but I will hang on confidence), stems from driving classic cars…they can withstand a bumping into without sustaining significant damage.  The only problem–I wasn’t driving one of my classics at the time.  I was in a new fan-dangled plastic bumper-ed car.  And though, thankfully, I was not hit nor did I cause an accident of any kind, my action did force the other driver to hit his brakes because I (in a vehicle of course) was now in his face.

I realize that in both of my anecdota one could argue the infraction lies in my response…as I appear to be a little too tightly wound.  To which I concur (to being tightly wound), though I will not accept the title of, discourteous.  Let me explain.

The salesman, Mr. Mark, knowingly cold-called my number at the dinner hour.  Without knowing anything about who he was calling, he brazenly proceeded without gaining the proper introductions and permission to do so.  And truly, had Mark come across with an ounce of consideration, I would have heard him out or suggested a better time to try back.   Had the conversation begun something like, “Good evening.  I am sorry to interrupt your day, but may I have your permission to discuss an exciting opportunity for you to be given solar energy?”, I would have been more receptive to his information…honestly!

And as far as driving…

You can consider me the type of driver who doesn’t believe in speeds less than 65mph.  That is right, Sammy Hagar and his ‘I can’t drive 55’ has nothing on me, cause 65 is my minimum!  But even so, should you activate your indicator light to move over to my lane, I will make way for you.  And though I prefer my way on the road be uninterrupted and in a constant forward motion, I will change my lane or adjust my acceleration, in order to accommodate the understood request presented by either your right or left flasher.

To me, consideration of others is an action we are each obligated to bestow, and an action we are obliged to receive.  And because I do consider others while driving, or calling, or interacting; and also because I am wound super tight…I feel compelled to instruct by passive or not so passive means.  After all, the coined term is “common courtesy”…though today it is appearing to be ‘not so common’.

Oy vay, write about a subject of this kind and watch out! …I am opening myself up to having all of my ‘missteps’ listed out before me.  Bring it on, I say; bring it on.  🙂

 

 

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The Sourdough Loaf

6 Jun

Since I have declared myself to be living a gluten-free life, I have craved (almost daily) a slice of sourdough toast.  Oh to have the crunchy texture of the bread dripping with butter, smothered with a slice of white, cheddar cheese, and crowned with a cool, crisp arrangement of sliced bread-n-butter pickles on top…  The thought of this particular concoction has been calling to me.  And while I’m sure there are sourdough recipes out there for the glutenless, I cannot fathom that the texture resembles the San Francisco style treat to which my memory calls.  Even to have an elongated slice from an SF round, with only butter, is a treat in and of itself; add in honey from a local hive and Utopia is found–(not that I’m so interested in such a place, but the commonality of the phrase is a useful idiom within the context here).

Sourdough bread is such a favorite of mine that when I was in need of a new toaster, I took careful pains to ensure I only purchased a unit whose slice holders were long enough to support my particular love affair–the long slender slice of a crunchy on the outside yet soft on the inside–loaf.  Thankfully Cuisinart provided the match to my specifications.

My Toaster

Why talk sourdough?  Truly it is not the bread I am interested in discussing in this moment.  It is the longing.  The longing for something I have decided is off limits.  Now under normal circumstances, or let’s just say within groups where topics of discussion are probable, my desire for buttered toast and my self denial of it would incite the scoffer to aim his or her malice my way.  Understandably.  It is not as if I suffer a physical or psychological addiction to the favored munchie.  No, I am getting along just fine without it, though I smell and touch the loaves as I pass by them in the aisle of the supermarket.  I even pause to contemplate purchasing the two large, sliced loaves sold in Costco…but I keep walking, leaving them for another customer to consume.  But honestly I have to say, that having the desire for something that is ‘forbidden’ for whatever the reason, just plain stinks.  To make matters worse, tonight for dinner I made an old recipe from Bisquick called, “Chicken and Broccoli Impossible Pie”.  It is a favorite dish of my son and husband.  But tonight instead of using the, ever faithful, I substituted the flour mixture with a new, gluten-free, product.  And guess what?  My impossible pie was certainly that…impossible to eat!  It was awful.  And to make matters worse, or add insult to an already bad scenario, my potholder slipped and I burned my hand on the 400 degree, cast iron, pan.

So here I sit longing for something else, something like a real piece of sourdough toast…with butter.  But instead I am writing this meaningless fluff while applying and reapplying aloe vera plant to my wound.  Aaaahhh, the longing!

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