"Jealousy-Proof" by Kim Brittingham
Current mood: thirsty
Category: Life
I just don’t get jealous.
Seriously. And I know it’s a perfectly normal human reaction. I also know jealousy and envy can be destructive.
So I was wondering what it is that makes me so different in this regard, so in case anyone wants to become jealousy-proof, maybe I can lend a hand and share my secret.
All I can tell you is this:
If I see that somebody has something I want, two things happen.
One, I feel elated for that person. And it’s an elation in two parts.
In the first part, I’m living vicariously through that person’s gain; I feel their thrill. In the second part, I recognize that if Wonderful Thing X can happen to them, it could also happen to me. This other person’s good fortune has proven to me that the dream is possible. And I love possibility.
Two: the inevitable. I acknowledge that this person now possesses that which I wish to possess. But this is a purely intellectual observation. I don’t "feel" anything black or stormy or sickening. I know what jealousy and envy feel like; I have memories of those sensations in my body. But these emotions haven’t been a part of my life since I was a teenager. My reaction these days is pretty bland and practical. I just shrug and think,
"Well, if I’d wanted Wonderful Thing X badly enough, I could’ve given it higher priority, could’ve worked harder. But I didn’t. I guess my focus has been elsewhere."
If I don’t have what you have, I only have myself to blame.
And I believe anything’s possible. I believe I can make anything possible.
So can you.
But it’s up to you where you choose to apply your energy. You’re the captain of your life. You can go anywhere you want, or you can stay in port and go nowhere. But if you are going to lift anchor, you need to pick a destination and map your route. I don’t know about you, but I absolutely thrive on plotting adventures.
I guess on some level, deep beneath the day-to-day frenzy of getting things done, beyond the wild whirring of my imagination, there’s a quiet, steadfast faith that my day will come. That all my many days will come, as I make each dream happen in time. It just takes effort. Movement. Purposeful movement, one step at a time.
And if you give up along the way, one thing is guaranteed: you’ll never get where you were going. But if you keep moving, eventually, you’ll find yourself someplace new.
My ships do come in, and they’ll continue to. Sometimes they’re brightly-painted rowboats I’ve been watching from the shore since they were distant specks on the seas of my imagination.
Sometimes they’re puttering little bathtub boats that arrive unexpectedly and make me giddy for a day.
Sometimes they’re messages in bottles I almost miss in the froth if I’m not watching closely.
Other times they’re bigger vessels I’ve had to tow into shore myself, with a rope thrown over one shoulder -- heave, ho! Heave, ho! Heave, ho! -- laborious, exhausting tugs on rope that leaves my skin raw. And the sweat is always worth it.
And every now and then, the Queen Mary appears on the horizon -- I can just barely see her! -- and I look forward to the day when she finally responds to my winking signals from shore, and rolls on in.
I can’t be jealous of anyone else. I can only be frustrated with myself. And even that’s wasted energy. I’m workin’ on it.
I will own up to this, though: I wish I had Paris Hilton’s money.
When it comes down to it, if you want to be a writer, you've just got to write, period.No excuses.
And no fancy equipment is necessary, either.I mean, my god, look at Shakespeare.They didn't even have electricity in his day.Dude had to work on a manualtypewriter.
Nevertheless, I believe in making it as easy as possible for myself to write.Ironically for me and just about everyone else who writes, it's all too easy to avoid doing the thing we love doing most, in favor of Ghost Hunters, an Erik Larsen paperback, or scrolling through cute animal photos of the week on Yahoo.
When I enter my apartment, my desk is not the first thing to greet me.No. That would be the sofa.Big, beckoning, comfy, L-shaped, it's-OK-to-eat-spaghetti-on-me-because-I'm-a-cheap-piece-of-IKEA-crap sofa, with its snug corners, extra cushions and plush fleece blankie.
The desk?I need to go out of my way to get to that.And by the time my early-rising commuting workaday butt gets nestled into the sofa, it's hard getting motivated to move camp.Especially on a bone chilling New York night.My desk sits in front of an eight-foot-tall uninsulated window, installed in 1901.It's very La Boheme, typing in fingerless gloves, but at 37, I'm so over the romance of that.
So, I thought about how I might make my sofa itself an inviting writing environment.It's already comfy enough.I do have a serviceable laptop and an ideally-located outlet.All I needed was some kind of platform – a sofa desk, if you will – to aid my process.
And this led me to imagine other places and other positions in which one might write.I thought, maybe there are other writers out there who would turn more of their time into writing time if they knew about some of the neat-o, enabling tools that exist.
I did a little research, tried some things out, and I bring the results to you now, in:
Kim Brittingham's Great Lap Desk Trial of 2008
For The Esthete: The SurfACE 1.5
By far, this is the funkiest, most chic of all the lapdesks I found.Its design cleverly allows for flexible configurations, and if you've got an imagination, it can be as much fun as a futuristic building set -- like the ones you see in those pricy little smart kids' toy stores, with the rock tumblers and potholder looms and Revive-Your-Own-Cadaver kits from Bavaria.
The desk is primarily made of three acrylic pieces – a large desktop (19.55" wide, 10.5" deep) perforated with half-inch holes, and two smaller acrylic wing pieces (about 8.8" x 9.25") with two holes each.
The unit is shipped with approximately 40 interchangeable metal pieces that fit into any of the holes on the acrylic slabs, and the bits connect to each other. They connect the wing pieces to the main desktop, and they can be screwed together to create wand-like extensions to create rise or depth, depending on your configuration.You can also do what I did, and screw two metal bits onto the main desk surface about a foot apart, creating the perfect "rests" for the laptop, so it sits on an ergonomically comfortable slant.
If you're using the unit in a chair, the wing pieces rest on the arms of the chair, with the main desktop dropped lower in the center.The wings can each do double-duty as a mouse pad, but I found mine handy for keeping a small pad on-hand, allowing me to glance at notes. The opposite wing held a can of Coke Zero beautifully.
If you're using the unit on a sofa, you turn it "upside-down" (although that term is entirely relative), and join the wing pieces to the main desktop with four long legs, so the wings act like big feet keeping the desk hovering comfortably above your lap.
The holes in the desktop serve the additional purpose of providing ventilation, preventing the laptop from overheating.
To the maker of the SurfACE, I do suggest drafting clearer assembly instructions.They were a little vague, and I ended up abandoning them entirely in frustration and just approaching the pieces with a sense of play.This approach proved successful, and in under thirty minutes, I was able to assemble the SurfACE into two fun configurations and settle on my favorite.However, it might be helpful for SurfACE to include instructions that offer two or three suggested configurations, and give step-by-step instructions for each, because not everyone is as willing to play with their purchase as I was.
The SurfACE is an ideal tool for all you Ludlums and Lovecrafts of the La-Z-Boy, especially if you like your useful things equally beautiful.It's available in clear or white acrylic and sells for $149 at Edgeblur.
For The Minimalist: The LapWorks Futura
This is the lightest and most portable lapdesk I found – ideal for travel.Just one simple plastic piece that folds in half and stows easily away.Fully extended, it measures 10.75" x 22", fitting a wide variety of computer models.Folded up, it's a mere 10.75" x 11", and less than an inch thick.
A rubberized surface helps keep your machine in place, and plentiful vents keep the heat off your lap.
A sort of "kickstand" on the underside converts the Future into an angled desktop support for your machine.
It's not the most stable of all the lapdesks I tried, but I wouldn't call it unstable, either. And I wouldn't hesitate to take the Futura on a bus, train or plane -- and at $29.95, you don't have to worry too much about leaving it behind.To buy, visit LapWorks.
For The Minimalist With A Mouse:The Xbrand Lap Desk with Retractable Mouse Pad
The Xbrand Lap Desk is compact and lightweight, but with the added feature of a mouse pad extension, which flips out of the center and provides an optional surface.(Works nice for supporting small notepads, too.)
When the extension is in use, the doughnut hole it creates in the center of the desktop provides ventilation and guards against overheating.
The Xbrand Lap Desk also includes such thoughtful details as four padded disks on the desk surface to prevent your laptop from slipping, and a carrying handle molded into one end of the desk.The plastic is substantial without being weighty.
The Xbrand Lap Deskmeasures 11" x 14.25" with the extension tucked in.It can fit easily into most backpacks.
Although the Xbrand Lap Desk felt slightly less stable in my lap than some of the other products I tried, it still works well.(I attribute the mild tendency to wobble to the very flat design – it doesn't mold to your body, so sit still when using it, or at least sit up straight.)So, if you're looking for something that doesn't take up a lot of space, can travel with you easily or even hide behind a sofa cushion without being noticed, you'd do well to get an Xbrand Lap Desk.It retails for $29.99 at Xbrand.
For The Sofa Executive: The Instand Bean Bag Table
The Instand Bean Bag Table is for the lapdesk user who wants more desk in her lap.
I found that the majority of lapdesks intended for computer use were generally small -- but the Instand Bean Bag Table is refreshingly generous, without being cumbersome.The work surface measures about 14.5" x 18.75", allowing for larger laptop models and room to spare.I liked being able to multi-task from this desk, as it held a paper copy of my manuscript and my cell phone in addition to my laptop, all at the same time.
It even has a depression molded into the desk surface for holding pens, and a carrying handle.
The surface of the Instand Bean Bag Table is covered with two large patches of non-slip material – no skimping here! -- that help keep your computer in place, and the center of the desktop is slightly recessed to allow for airflow under your machine.
The Instand Bean Bag Table felt incredibly comfortable in my lap.It was very stable, thanks to the bean bag underside that contoured to my lap.The comfortable wrist rest along the bottom edge of the desk surface was a much-appreciated extra.
The InStand Bean Bag Table is an excellent desk-away-from-desk, and it works as well in bed as it does on the sofa.But if I could improve upon anything, I'd ask Instand to build in some mechanism to allow for working at a slight angle.There were moments I wished I had a foam wedge I could tuck between the desk surface and my laptop, just to create a mild slope.Maybe the bean bag itself could be shaped more wedge-like, a little higher in the back.It would feel a tad easier on the eyes, shoulders and arms.
Interestingly, I was able to remedy this with a product by Xbrand, whose lap desk I reviewed above.Xbrand makes a Cooling and Comfort Station that can be used on any surface, and there's plenty of room for it on the Instand Bean Bag Table.The Xbrand Cooling and Comfort Station is a compact piece that puts your laptop on an ergonomically comfy angle, with an embedded fan that keeps air circulating under the machine.The fan is powered by a USB cord connected to your computer, which tucks neatly away in a hidden compartment when the station is not in use.
Overall, the Instand Bean Bag Table was one of my favorite lap desks.It sells for $29.95 at Instand.
For The Perfectionist: The iLap
I was really impressed with the iLap, and found myself reaching for it again and again. The iLap had the best overall stability and comfort of all the lap desk models I tried under 18" in width.
It's designed to put your computer on a gentle incline, which is optimally comfortable for typing.The angle is perfect -- I never had that weird sense of looking down at my screen.
A padded rear piece swivels to allow for ideal positioning on your lap or legs.As I moved, it moved with me, keeping my laptop as level as possible.
The actual desk surface kept my computer super-steady, because it's one solid piece of aluminum.They haven't failed to recognize the importance of heat control, however.The iLap is ingeniously designed to keep your computer cool because the aluminum plate draws heat away from the machine, and the desk design promotes circulation.It also comes with four rubber adhesive pads to help keep the computer in place, and mine didn't budge.
I bended and unbended my knees several times, crossed my legs, folded them -- and I never, ever felt like my laptop was going to slide backwards off the desk – a disconcerting sensation I occasionally experienced with some other models.
VERY COMFY black velvet wrist rest (which is removable for using the iLap on a stationery surface).
Plus, the iLap comes in seven different sizes to ideally suit different computer models.The iLap folks asked for the make and model of my PC and matched it with the best possible size iLap.The fit is perfect.
To buy your own iLap, visit Rain Design.Prices range from $49.90 to $69.90, depending on size.
For The Floor Walker: The Connect-A-Desk
The Connect-a-Desk is by far the most unique of all the desks I tried.It's designed to let you walk and type.So if you get your best ideas pacing the floors at midnight, now you can get your ideas into the laptop before they dissipate into the ether, leaving your true genius unrecorded.Get ready for greatness!
The Connect-a-Desk holds your laptop on a slab of plastic at belly-level, and it's secured to your body with straps that fasten around the waist, and a padded piece that hangs around the neck.The straps are adjustable, so you can customize how far you need to reach for the keyboard.It also comes with a foam rubber wrist rest.
It's very portable and lightweight -- just throw it in your tote or backpack and go.And I must admit, the idea of being able to stroll through the park or on the beach while writing is alluring -- although I haven't tried it yet.I'm waiting for better weather.I did my test walking across my apartment.
The Connect-a-Desk works just fine, although I do wish they'd beef up the desk surface a little -- it's super-thin and bows under the weight of my laptop, even without its battery.And the wrist rest isn't permanently attached to the desk, which was a pain in the butt.It kept slipping off.
And although the neck straps are quite comfy, there's one small stretch of belting at the back of the neck that was left unpadded and it's a tad abrading.I improvised by tucking a washcloth back there, but it would've been that much nicer if I didn't have to. If anything, I would've liked a little extra padding at the back of the neck.
Although the Connect-a-Desk distributed the weight of my computer comfortably and I was able to walk and work with ease, I kind of expected to have a sore back the next day.But to my delight, no such pain.
Despite a few kinks, the Connect-a-Desk is great fun, and definitely does what it's supposed to.Frankly, I'd like to see more people walking around using these things -- as long as they do it in an open field somewhere, and not on the street when I'm walking behind them!
To buy your own Connect-a-Desk for $34.95, visit Connect-a-Desk.
For The Long Haul: The AKP OfficePro/10
Penning a trilogy?Compiling a personal history of every American named Joe?You're gonna be at it a while.
You might consider investing in an OfficePro/10 from AKP.This is the most substantial of all the computer desks I sampled, and definitely a personal favorite.It's not for everyone, especially if you're looking to conserve space.But even in my tiny Manhattan apartment, I find the OfficePro/10 to be well worth the space it takes, because it's moveable and versatile.
The OfficePro/10 is on a wheeled base.Its surface is wide and curvaceous, with no uninviting sharp edges.It rolls comfortably up to your chair or sofa, and rolls just as easily away.
It's made to be used with a long side of the desktop facing the user.This provides more than enough room for even the heftiest laptop model, plus plenty of space for papers, snacks, and miscellany.This is how I used it when writing on a living room chair.Additionally, the OfficePro/10 has an adjustable height and tilt mechanisms.
But I found a second way of using the desk.When I was tucked into the corner of my L-shaped sofa, I pulled the table in as close as possible, so one short end of the table hovered perfectly over my lap.My computer fit nicely, sat steadily, and I worked in total comfort.And unlike any of the other desks I tried, I was able to merely push the desktop to the side when I needed to get up, and it glided easily away.It was nice for a change not to have something resting directly on my lap.
The AKP OfficePro/10 usually sells for $185, but for a limited time it's available for $129.95 plus shipping at AKP.
See?Even if you're a sofa spud, you can pen your memoir.Do it during commercials, bit by bit.
But give it a rest when that description of your grandmother reads oddly similar to Jared from Subway.
It's been a while since we've had a guest star blogging, but today, we've got a great one for you!
Felicia Sullivan's The Sky Isn't Visible From Here: Scenes From A Life, just came out from Algonquin, and it's drawing rave reviews. This is the book. You want it. You need it. You have to have it. Content-wise, I know some of you are going to relate, and writing wise, it's out of this world.
Felicia Sullivan's volatile, beautiful, deceitful, drug-addicted mother disappeared on the night Sullivan graduated from college, and has not been seen or heard from in the ten years since. Sullivan, who grew up on the tough streets of Brooklyn in the 1980s, now looks back on her childhood—lived among drug dealers, users, and substitute fathers. Sullivan became her mother's keeper, taking her to the hospital when she overdosed, withstanding her narcissistic rages, succumbing to the abuse or indifference of so-called stepfathers, and always wondering why her mother would never reveal the truth about the father she'd never met.
Ashamed of her past, Sullivan invented a persona to show the world. Yet despite her Ivy League education and numerous accomplishments, she, like her mother, eventually succumbed to alcohol and drug abuse. She wrote The Sky Isn't Visible from Here, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, when she realized it was time to kill her own creation.
AND HERE, without further ado (though you know we love ado), is her guest blog! Please let her know what you think in the comments!
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ALL STAR GUEST STAR BLOG 1 by Felicia Sullivan
INTRO
We celebrate Mother's and Father's Day – we give our parents adoration, flowers and cards made from construction paper – all in gratitude of them being wonderful parents, of making sacrifices so we could have a great life. But what happens when your parent doesn't know how to be a parent, falls asleep at the wheel, and suddenly you become the caretaker. Do you get the Hallmark cards? And what if your relationship with your parent was so painful, so unhealthy, you made the very difficult decision to sever all ties. Is your decision celebrated and supported? Or do you find yourself falling victim to the very grating refrain: you have to love and forgive your mother/father, because love is unconditional.
Well, I'm here to make the argument that sometimes keeping together a family falling apart by the thread, to placate societal norms and to quiet those confused about how you could ever break up with your parent (HOW COULD YOU??!!), is not worth it. This life you live and all the decisions you make for yourself are YOURS not some judgmental person who doesn't have to live in your house, in your skin.
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MOTHER LOVE NOT REQUIRED by Felicia Sullivan
We face one another picking apart our chicken cutlet parmesans. While my mother complains about the thieving coked-up whores in her diner, I assemble piles of mozzarella cheese -- eyes transfixed on the clock. I keep time; will it to pass by. It's 1996 and my mother and I sit through one of our semi-annual lunches, which consist of filler talk with minor variations. We dine in Long Island cafés rife with stale breadbaskets and tepid beef. Today, while my mother prattles on, it never occurs to her to ask about me, about my life, rather she talks about herself, how my stepfather and me ruined her life, how she's desperate to escape. Sometimes I think we do this, the lunches, simply to see how long we can endure one another. Whether she can break me.
Giggling, my mother reveals that she's leaving us for another man, one she met in a bar -- he's taking her to Disneyland! Disneyland! -- and could I not call her for six months, make that a year, because she's concerned that I would inevitably wreck her happiness. You always do. In the same breath, my mother tells me, Oh, the sex. You wouldn't believe. I start to shake because my mother is leaving us for a man and mouse ears. I look up at my mother, watch her scrape her teeth with her fork, slurp the last dregs of her piña colada, and I writhe. I hate her. I hate you.
Nine months later, on the eve of my college graduation, my mother calls me, hysterical. The man who bought her mouse ears tried to strangle her. She's been fired, living on white bread, and can still see the marks his hands left on her neck.
Could we take her back? Could life be the way it was?
I pause, wondering if it's possible to drown standing up. I want to be the dutiful daughter, the one who loves beyond repair. But I think about the way it was: the woman who never allowed me trespass to my real father, a mother who stole my childhood from me. I remember the years of neglect, rage and abuse, her decade-long cocaine addiction, the fear of angering her and the terror of wondering whether she would get even in my sleep, and the countless times she told me I wasn't worth her labor. I wasn't worth anything at all.
I told my mother that she made it impossible for me to love her. Her response was a cold fuck you.
A decade later at a party in a bar that resembles a cavern, someone asks me about the book I've written. I give broad strokes, don't bother with the details, but I say that it's a book about my relationship with my abusive, drug addict mother, and how love is not unconditional. That having a family for the sake of having one, no matter how painful the familial binds, is not the healthiest decision. That day in the spring of 1997, my mother asked me to make a choice -- between her and my mental health -- and the decision suddenly became so easy. I chose me. After I say all of this, the person replies, "How could you not love your mother? How could you not want to find her? She is your mother, after all." I close my eyes; it's as if I had been miming the whole time for this was not the first time someone has asked me this question and it won't be the last.
We live in a culture where parents routinely disinherit their children from marrying out of their faith, social standing, race and sexual orientation. When a friend from my high school came out, her parents changed all the locks, banned her from their home and excluded her from family gatherings; they haven't spoken in eight years. And while this is all heartbreaking, the stuff movies are made from, it's a practice routinely accepted. In response, we shake our heads and lament about the unfortunate situation. However how unfortunate, parents aren't shamed by their decision to disown their children, and it is typically up to the child to reconcile the family.
In our culture where mothers are sacrosanct, it is the ultimate taboo to sever ties with the woman who bore and raised you (save the rare cases of celebrity parents and enablers because while they are real people, they don't seem very real to us like our friends and neighbors), so while I understand how someone would question my decision to end my relationship with my mother, it doesn't make it any less frustrating and difficult to answer. In the 10 years since my mother and I have parted ways, while I long for the idea of a mother -- a mentor, a role model, a learned woman who serves as my career and life guide, a best friend, a blanket that offers comfort -- my mother was none of these things, and I have developed my own familial construct: a life inhabited by strong, supportive, loving people who couldn't imagine their lives without me in it (and vice versa).
But perhaps I should have answered with these questions instead: Why does love need to be unconditional? Why is a family member granted an unlimited supply of get-out-of-jail-free cards while friends and partners endure our fissures, breakups and divorces? Why is their only one definition of family? What I should have said is this: What is your decision won't necessarily be mine.
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So if my relationship strikes a chord in you, even just a fraction of what you've experienced as a child or an adult enduring a difficult and abusive parent, do realize that you don't need toxicity in your life. You can forge a family of your own. My family is a patchwork of close friends, a man who is not my biological father, but is better than any blood relation, and colleagues and mentors who make me feel comforted, safe and loved.
Essayists, get your butts there at noon SHARP, when audience members can compete in an on-the-spot "flash essay" contest. The winning mini-essays will be showcased between the afternoon's featured readers. And there are prizes to boot! To participate, don't be late!
Other featured readers will include:
Susan Henderson of LitPark.com, two-time Pushcart Prize nominee and author of the forthcoming novel "Rise" (St. Martins Press)
New York-based writer Carol Clouse, best known for her writings about her adventures in London, which are the basis for her forthcoming as-yet untitled memoir
Iranian-born Shoaleh Teymour, a belly dance instructor who came to the United States as a girl in the 1970s, will be reading from an autobiographical work in progress.
Admission to PAPER DOLLS is $10. The Bowery Poetry Club has a cash bar, tasty soups and sandwiches, mind-blowing coffee and teas and more. Those under 21 will be admitted, but no boozin' for you youngsters -- sorry!
Memoirists support Patry Francis!
Current mood: inspired
Patry Francis is a talented author who was recently diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. She's had several surgeries, and her prognosis is good. Her debut novel The Liar's Diary came out in hardcover from Dutton last spring. The trade paper release is today, January 29th.
Given that Patry won't have much energy to promote the release, a large number of blogging authors are banding together tomorrow to do it for her--which seems like a great idea to us! We at the MC thought we'd help out.
Check out Patry's book and send good wishes her way for a speedy recovery!
Listen to Kim Brittingham on NPR!
Current mood: pleased
Category: Life
Hey, everybody!
Our very own blogger Kim Brittingham was interviewed on National Public Radio's "The Bryant Park Project". Alison Stewart spoke with Kim about her essay "Fat is Contagious" as published at www.freshyarn.com!
And here's something for next month's agenda: Kim will be reading "Fat is Contagious" for the first time ever to a live audience at "Paper Dolls: Live Lady Essayists" on Saturday, February 16, 2008 at the Bowery Poetry Club in NYC. For more info, see www.myspace.com/creative_evolution
Over the years I've heard anecdotes about how actors make themselves cry on cue.
Supposedly, Shirley Temple's mother could get the kid sufficiently riled by pulling her aside on the set and harshly berating her "as if" she'd done something to displease Mommy. And I remember reading Melissa Gilbert's "Little House" tricks in Tiger Beat -- but sadly, folks, I can't remember what they were.
The ease with which I turn into a blubbering mess can vary a good deal depending on the time of the month. I teared up for "The Iron Giant", for God's sake! Not only was he a robot -- he was ANIMATED! But some other week, I might've rolled my eyes and mimed gagging.
But there's one thing that's 110% guaranteed to make me sob instantly. And I do mean instantly. Immediately, without hesitation, and hard.
Just show me an old person who looks helpless.
A couple of years ago, my friend Jim moved into a new apartment, and I was on my way to visit him there for the first time and christen it with a pizza delivery. From the taxi window I saw an elderly woman with a dramatic case of osteoporosis, walking completely stooped over, her head about 18 inches from the ground. She didn't even have a cane. She shuffled along the busy avenue, placing one foot tentatively in front of the other, slowly, and carried a plastic shopping bag from each gnarled hand. She wore a dirty pink raincoat, unbuttoned and flapping open in the cold wind because no doubt it wouldn't close properly around her bent body.
I started sobbing hysterically, on the spot. Why was she carrying those bags all by herself? Why didn't she have a walking stick or a scooter, or a decent coat? Where were her children, her grandchildren? Did she have far to walk? Did she have stairs to climb? Did anybody love her?
Arriving at Jim's swank high-rise, I approached the uniformed desk attendant. There was no point in hiding the fact that I'd been crying -- it was just too obvious.
The attendant was a mustached man in his fifties, with dark, bushy eyebrows and sympathetic eyes. He took one look at me and said,
"Miss, miss! What is wrong?"
"I...I just saw an old lady..." I stuttered, wiping the wet distortion from my eyes. "She was all bent over with a humpback and she was walking all alone and I know I look like an ass right now but I just feel so...so sorry for her!" I broke down all over again.
He didn't look at me like I was nuts. Instead, he nodded, a vigorous, knowing nod.
"Oh yes, that is so, so very sad. But don't say you are an ass, no no no. That is a sad thing. It makes me sad to see it too. Here, miss, have a new tissue."
I pocketed the disintegrating scrap of snotty fluff in my hand and took his offering, and blew.
"Um, thank you. Uh, I'm here for Mr. Kloster, in PH2A."
He called up to Jim and gestured me towards the elevator.
"Go right up," he said sweetly. "And try to have a good evening."
He never forgot me after that.
It doesn't always take a bent back or a shabby coat to crush me, either.
I had a similar experience at a roadside buffet somewhere between D.C. and Philadelphia. I'd gone on a one-day bus trip to the capital with an aunt and a cousin.The buffet was part of the package.
There was a little old white-haired woman working in the dining room, clearing trays from the tables and wiping up with a soppy gray rag. She shuffled stiffly around the room in a humiliating polyester uniform with coordinating brown visor. The sight of her making her way from table to table carrying those ugly plastic trays -- with rounded back, thick orthopedic shoes, shuffle-shuffle-shuffle -- made me break down in my mashed potatoes.
"Kim...Kim, what's the matter?" my aunt asked.
"It's that old lady over there," I choked. "What's she doing working in a place like this at her age? She should be sitting on a porch swing surrounded by grandchildren, with an apple pie cooling on the window sill. Doesn't anybody care about her? Doesn't anyone love her? What a sad place to end up!"
My aunt looked at me like I was nuts.
Then she said, "Well, maybe she wants to work here."
"I know I know, I already thought of that," I said, looking around at some other oldsters doddering across the dining room in synthetic yellow and brown. "I hope she's here voluntarily. I hope she does this to stay active and be with other people. But if she's here because she has to be, that would break my heart."
I'm grateful that my own beloved grandmother was lovingly looked after right up 'til the end. One of my uncles lived with her for decades and waited on her, willingly and devotedly. She was never alone, and all her basic needs were met.
But until recently, except for the occasional emotional breakdown at the mere sight of a struggling old person, "oldness" wasn't a topic at the forefront of my mind.
Now I'm surrounded by peers whose parents have gone from middle-aged to completely dependent, incontinent, and infantile, practically overnight.
It's shocking how one slip down a short flight of steps can turn a freewheeling, stylish silver fox into a helpless little old lady. How in one year, an active senior Casanova can become a withered shell of a man whose dementia's turned him into the sort of demanding prick he never would've been in...well, "life".
It's everywhere I turn. Adults in their late 30s through 40s, having to deal with parents who are suddenly "old people". Old people who can't be left alone, who need constant care. Only a lucky few can afford to move to first-rate senior facilities akin to cruise ships that never sail, with multiple dining rooms and talent shows and a registered nurse for every other resident. How many kids can afford to quit their jobs and look after Mom and Dad? How many can afford to hire someone trustworthy to look after Mom and Dad so they can continue showing up for work? It's scary to think about.
It's also scary to think about getting that old.
I can certainly feel for those in physical pain and discomfort, but what bothers me most is seeing an old person in fear.
I saw that happen to my grandmother, even though she had care. After her dementia set in, there were times when her own confusion panicked her. She used to ask over and over again, "When am I going home?" and my uncle would repeat for the hundredth time, with saintly patience and tenderness, soothing her: "You are home, Mom."
There have been times when I swear I nearly forgot my own age ("Am I 37 or 38? What am I now...?") or forgot the name of someone I see all the time, or forgot the lyrics to a Duran Duran song (gasp!), and I felt a little jump of fear in my chest at having lost some small piece of myself. A piece of my world had dissolved while I wasn't paying attention. I thought it would always be there -- all of it. Frightening: concrete, stone, the earth itself, crumbled like a cheese puff between the thumb and forefinger of Time, and its dusty bits blown carelessly out into space, as though none of our personal shit ever mattered.
We used to laugh at our parents for calling us by our brothers' and sisters' names, and pout when at 7:00 they were already "too tired" to drive us to the movies. But now I'm there: at that inevitable place of understanding. I can see myself becoming old someday. It used to seem too far away to believe.
And admittedly, I'm concerned, not so much about dying, but about dying unhappy.
As much as I like to believe in a collective consciousness, and a place in the universe where that consciousness is perfect, contented and free, I'm dismayed when I see people dying painfully, miserably, alone, unfulfilled -- and I wonder, when they pass over, do they revert to that placid place of nothingness and home from before they were earthly-born and given a label, or do they carry on in some malcontent form, chain-rattling maybe, tormented as when they left off, joints aching, mind flickering, plagued with regret, mocked by their own disobedient bowels?
I'd like to believe that in exchange for life's crappy ending, when we're suffering and in total decline, that we get some reward on "the other side". If not a meadow of wildflowers with our loved ones frolicking in wait, then at least a place of numbness and silence.
I have no answers now. I don't know if I'll die alone and neglected with a sad lump of cat food in my belly.I don't know if I'll go peacefully in a warm fluffy pink aura, surrounded by well-dusted photo frames like old Rose in "Titanic".Nor do I know how my generation is going to cope with its elderly, or how we're going to pay for being old ourselves.
But if this blog sounds like a downer, never fear.There is a happy ending.
Because in all our uncertainty, we do have one thing for sure:we have now.If you can get yourself out of bed in the morning, if you can carry yourself to and from work, you're lucky.If you can take a deep breath, if you can digest a taco, you're lucky.While you may be losing your youth a little more each day, take what you still have and enjoy it.Embrace it.Employ it.Run hard, speak freely, lick the spoon.
And as long as you've got an able body, use it now and then to help somebody less able than you.You just might get it back someday.
MC WRITER’S WORKSHOP 41 - Lisa Mae’s Rose-Colored Glasses, Part 4 of 7
Hi All -
I've been traveling like crazy and deep into meetings, so forgive the superslow posting.
Here's part 4 of Lisa Mae's memoir!
xo MC
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ROSE COLORED GLASSES by LISA MAE
A Trip to the Zoo
A memory just as clear as the scent of Mother's betrayal continues to haunt me. For most people, a trip to the zoo is an exciting and popular family outing. For me, it is an unwanted trip down memory lane. I haven't been to a zoo since I was eleven years old. Despite my affinity for animals--monkey cages and lion's dens remind me of being abandoned.
One morning Mom announced she was taking us on a rare outing to the zoo. The unexpected news excited me. We did not have much money so recreational outings was infrequent and surprising. I jumped up and down as Mom began packing a lunch of peanut butter sandwiches. She instructed us to get dressed quickly and we all barreled out of the kitchen in pursuit of the bedroom.
Wow! What did we do to deserve such a treat? There was a sense of urgency as Mom threw articles of clothing at us, and then searched for our shoes while we put the clothes on. We didn't mind that in her haste, she forgot to brush our hair or verify if our shirt matched with our pants. We were off to the zoo and that was all that mattered!
We lived only a few blocks from the zoo so we didn't mind the walk. I was anxious to be out of the house and see all the different animals. We had not had many opportunities to see real life animals, so it was like an adventure. Here we have a lion, and a tiger and a bear… We arrived a half hour later and the children and I stared in awe at the miles of land in front of us. Cages of animals spread out in a menagerie of discovery.As soon as I spotted the monkey cage, I sprinted toward them to see if they would make faces at me. Being eleven years old, I was very much fascinated with monkeys.
I am sure we made quite a sight! One young mother surrounded by her own private zoo of five unkempt children scrambling about like wild animals. I was disappointed when Mom led us away from the monkey cages and into the park area to deposit us with our sandwiches. Once settled on the grass, Mom said she was going to the bathroom and left me in charge until her return.I hope she doesn't take too long, because I want to go make faces at the monkeys again.
I am uncertain of how much time passed before I became sick with worry. We had finished lunch some time earlier and the smaller children were now upset and crying. The sun was losing its peak and the chill of the wind signaled that dusk was only a few hours away. I was afraid Mom had left us for good. She used to threaten to leave and often complained about us, so naturally I assumed she had run away. Mommy's not going to come back!
I gathered the children and together we scoured the zoo grounds in search of her. Walking passed the tiger dens which had fascinated me earlier, no longer held any interest. There was not the luxury of freedom to enjoy watching the animals anymore. Eyes were occupied with scouring the grounds for our elusive mother. Several hours passed between the time she placed us in the park and the time we caught sight of her. When we finally spotted her I stopped in my tracks and had to squelch the impulse to rub my eyes.
Ice-covered chills ran up my back and fought ferociously with the heat of shock from watching Mother. She stood at the other end of the zoo, her arms wrapped around a dark black neck and kissing a man dressed in military uniform. The five of us stared at her in open silence. I could feel my heartbeat in my neck. Thumping. What the heck is she doing with that strange man?
Without a thought my siblings and I pounced upon the happy couple. We formed our own little military and fired words of hurt and anger. We yelled as loud as we could, threatening the soldier with a beating from Dad. He is going to hurt you real bad! Our daddy is going to beat you up! I was a bit disappointed our words sounded weak. Was that the only ammo we had?
Failing that tactic we then directed our anger toward Mom. We are going to tell Dad on you! You aren't supposed to kiss another man!But Mom did not look as if she cared what we said at that moment. Her eyes were concentrated on the stranger who stared back at us with his mouth hanging open. How could she do this to us? The man--taken by surprise by the little army of brats fighting for their territory--began running terrified towards the exit. Mother tore like hell after him.
There we stood in the middle of a public zoo, five small children crying out loud for everyone to see. We stood in front of a small crowd where Mom left us on display while she ran after an unknown stranger. Who the hell was he? Who the hell cares? I thought we were the ones who needed to be consoled.I tried not to pay attention to the millions of eyes boring into my eleven-year old back. I tried to drown out the sounds of collective gasps rippling through the zoo and the quiet whimpering from my baby siblings.
How do you explain your mother's actions to several individuals when you can't find the words to explain it to yourself? I did not have the strength to pretend that what we had witnessed was just a movie or some figment of our imagination. That coping skill did not fit in this type of situation. There were too many witnesses and not enough excuses to cover this one up. I let the tears fall.
After some time Mom found her way back to us. I did not feel relieved. I did not feel anything. What can you possibly say after an experience such as that? Gee, that was interesting! You don't see that everyday! Let's go make faces at the monkeys again!
Naturally, Mom misdirected her anger and scolded us for ruining her afternoon. You should have stayed in the park like I told you to! You had no business leaving that area! I couldn't understand how we ruined things. Wasn't she the one who had just soiled the fabric of our family? Wasn't she the one who kept falling off the pedestal? She then proceeded to take our private little military down soldier by soldier, disarming us with placating words and promises.
You know what will happen don't you? She filled our heads with images of what would happen to her should we reveal the days events to Dad. Visions of black and blue bruises troubled my mind. I could hear the echo of thumps in the night and glass breaking. I shuddered at the images. How could I possibly live with being responsible for getting Mom into trouble? No, we would not tell Dad of this incident. We were going to remain silent.
It was another secret forced to be held.
He Said, She Said
Growing up in a family where each of your parents has their own secrets, you become accustomed to hearing excuses and denials. Mom and Dad each tried to present themselves as the perfect parent and each were hell-bent on convincing us that neither was involved in an affair. They happily pointed the finger in the other direction unaware we were growing wiser with each mistake they made.
Both were guilty of committing adultery throughout the marriage. Their attempts to conceal their affairs were far from ingenious. Mom failed on many occasions to be discreet. Her weak excuses included the popular phrase: Your father's having an affair on me! This must have been enough reason for her to do the same. Never would she acknowledge being guilty of the same thing--and vice versa.
I can agree Dad was not as obvious about his affairs as Mom was. Then again, he was not around for me to witness anything first hand. Dad carried on his affairs with women at his job, therefore having an excuse to "work late." He played basketball in the evenings, making it more convenient to conduct his nighttime activities. I was not likely to walk in on a late night dance routine with him standing in his undershirt.
Every week my ears were assaulted with a lot of 'he said, she said' nonsense. Your dad is seeing another woman! Your mom doesn't know how to take care of you! Daddy's sneaking around on me. Mommy left you alone for hours last night.Mom--in between her afternoon meetings and weak attempts at motherhood, was busy making sure all of us were aware of Dad's absence and fatal character flaws. See what I mean! He's not here again! That means he's not a good daddy!
Dad--in between his workaholic evenings, imperative basketball adventures, and drunken rages, kept us abreast of Mom's flirtations and misbehaviors. Your mom is nothing but a liar! She's messing around with my basketball buddies! We were likely to get an earful of examples of how Mom was a worthless mother and the unfortunate circumstances of being married to such a woman. You don't know what I have to go through children.
My parents were extremely hateful toward one another and yet, it appeared they depended on each other. Perhaps it was to provide a scapegoat for their personal imperfections, but they were more successful at convincing themselves of their integrity than they were to anyone else. We children were only concerned with whether Mom and Dad loved us or not, or whether there would be food on the table. We didn't care to be part of the Blame Game, yet every week we were involuntarily sucked in.
Sometimes, when Mom felt the itch to check up on Dad she would pile all of us in the car for an evening game of 'Where's Father?' She would creep into the bedroom and wake each of us out of a dead sleep and whisk us off to the car in our pajamas and bare feet. Half asleep, we would yawn our way out to the cold vehicle and huddle close to each other, shivering more from what we may find than from the chilly night air.
One particular night, I was spared having to go when Mom dragged Davina out of bed alone. For a brief moment, fear flashed across her eyes as Mom guided her out of the bedroom. Later, Davina explained walking in on Dad and a blonde lady at work.Dad was kissing that girl. Mother of course, became hysterical and combative, prompting Dad to physically drag her to the car and shove her inside. All the while my eight-year old sister stood by, no longer surprised by what would happen next. Dad followed Mom home to finish beating her.
All of this was related in hushed tones, and I could see Davina struggling to keep emotion out of the story. Only a flicker of pain--and then the mask was put on. Sitting packed in the backseat of the car I always prayed we'd never find Dad. Whenever she did happen to find him playing hooky with a female, it always ended with fighting in the next room and the sounds of screaming and bumping in the night. It was never worth playing the game--no one ever won.
The constant barrage of denials and contradictions were slowly deteriorating me. I had not reached adolescence and already I was becoming something of a nervous wreck. I could not keep up with what was real and what was imaginary. Did I really see Mother dancing with Dad's friend in the living room? My parents were so great at being able to manipulate the truth, that even when I thought I knew what was going on, I questioned my perception of things. Maybe it really had been just a figment of my imagination after all. Maybe I am overreacting.
This manipulation would cause me to become unstable with my sense of judgment as a young adult, forcing me to constantly second guess myself. Is it appropriate to feel this way? Am I overreacting? Should I worry about this? Should I question that?This uncertainty was a recipe for disastrous relationships. Eventually, I learned how to decipher reality from illusion, but it would be many years later, and after I had made more than my share of mistakes.
I am convinced Mom and Dad relied upon the Blame Game to fill a void. They needed to cover up the things they did not want to see of themselves. It is hard to look in the mirror when you don't like what you see. Would you do anything to avoid a painful past? Mom and Dad held strongly to their delusions, each afraid of letting go of the safety harness and tumbling into the sea of self-inspection and accountability--a fate I believe they feared worse than death. They were not attempting to assure us they were the perfect parents. Mom and Dad were desperate to assure themselves they were worthy human beings.
thirsty
selective
rockin
inspired
pleased
grateful