Monday, December 25, 2006

Get Your Merry On 2006, Part I

Christmas Eve

12:06 PM—It’s 5 O’clock Somewhere

I’ve had my first sip of alcohol. I am driven to drink at such an early hour because Kristy and I are failures and Stacy is perfect. I feel like I’m reliving Christmases past. I feel like I am a kid again being scolded by both my parents.

Despite the fact that I have been driving for fourteen years in this little section of Connecticut, on the way home from the mall today my father decided to scold me for trying to get off the exit into Farmington “because it’s going to be way backed up.” Then when I continued on 84 toward the 72 exit that is the next closest to our house, he directed me to take the Route 6 exit instead and made me drive all the way down route six, effectively going 10 minutes out of our way to avoid (nonexistent) traffic.

I got home and started to prepare the shrimp because my mother and Stacy were not home yet, having left the mall 30 minutes before the rest of us. (They make secret side trips all the time.) The shrimp was still frozen because someone had not removed it from the freezer early enough, so I ran it under cold water. Yes, this is not an ideal method of thawing shrimp as it loses some nutrients and flavoring but given that it is noon and we are supposed to be at the Grandmonster’s right now, prepared shrimp in hand, I chose the only method that won’t take another 24 hours.

Kristy made the ziti last night. She cooked the pasta and the sauce so it would require only warming today. She preheated the oven.

Then in stroll my mother and the Wonder Sister. At this point, I am already in the basement preparing my drink because I must get buzzed to deal with the Grandmonster anyhow. As I come back upstairs, I hear the water being turned off and ask my dad, the culprit, to turn it back on. No, he informs me. My mother told him to turn it off. “Look,” she shrieks. “The shrimp is losing its flavor! You can’t do it this way!” She brandishes a raw, half-frozen shrimp in my face as proof.

“Ah, but you see, mother,” I say, “the shrimp are still frozen." She has no answer for this, so she goes on to search for the pasta.”

“Is Kristy cooking the pasta?” she asks. I inform her that Kristy is warming it in the oven. She opens the oven triumphantly to reveal to me that in fact I am wrong because there is clearly no pasta in the oven, so I point out that the oven is still preheating and that Kristy will insert said pasta into the oven when it reaches a temperature much greater than 145 degrees.

It is at this point that she realizes Kristy cooked the pasta last night. She starts a rant about how the pasta needs to be cooked now and mixed into the sauce. Yesterday was wrong. The pasta will be too soggy. But it’s already been done last night, I try to reason with her. “IT HAS TO BE DONE NOW,” she practically screams. “THE PASTA NEEDS TO BE MADE NOW AND MIXED IN WITH THE SAUCE!”

I tell her in a restrained voice that it is too late for that now and decide to walk away before my control snaps. I know she has cancer and I know she’s in pain and on a lot of drugs, but this—this is the old Mom that I used to butt heads with constantly. This is the judgmental, harsh woman that I fear turning into as I age.

As Kristy comes up the stairs, and I am heading into the living room to have my first sip of rum and Coke, I stage whisper to her:

“You and I are both screw-ups.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

4:36 PM—Peace On Earth, and Goodwill to Men

Okay. One rum and coke, two glasses of wine, and a delicious meal later, things look better. We visited the Grandmonster, who was pouring Pinot Grigio. While I prefer reds, this white is not bad at all. Also visiting were my Uncle Jack and Aunt Maurie, my father’s older (half) brother and his wife. They call each other Mom and Dad and talk incessantly about how well they eat and how much they will have to exercise to burn off whatever naughty thing they have been enticed to eat by us. They see it as their personal mission in life to show fat people the way to being skinny. The wine helped get through that one, and now here we are back home with some wrapping and cooking and cleaning to get done for the evening, nothing overwhelming.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

11:50 PM—'Twas the Night Before Christmas...

At 6:10 tonight, my niece informed me that she had asked Santa for Butterscotch, the Furreal Friends pony that is 3 feet tall and costs three hundred dollars. Now, not that we have the money to get such a thing for a 10-year-old who is as irresponsible with her things as Victoria is (or that we would have the money to get a super responsible 10-year-old this toy anyway) but at this time, all stores including Walmart have been closed for at least ten minutes. Shit. This is the year she finds out the truth, I thought. I have been upset about this all evening because I know that she is at about the age when most kids no longer believe, but I can tell that she really still wants to believe, that she wants to be proven right about his existence. With everything going on in her life—her grandmother and primary caretaker sick with cancer, her parents totally unfit and she getting old enough to realize this about them, being made fun of at school—she really needs to believe at least for one more year.

I expressed my dread at her finding out to Kristy, who didn’t think it was that big a deal. Kristy was about that age when she stopped believing, she told me. I was too; I know that. But my life was like heaven compared to this kid’s. I talked to Stacy about how this is upsetting me, and she said that if Vicky wants to believe, she still will. I’m not so sure. She doubts too much in her life right now, and while she wants to believe, she needs just a little bit of help to do it. I told my dad. I told him how much it upsets me and how important I think it is to give this kid just one more year of being a kid.

She took the time to write him a letter before she went to sleep tonight, no small task for a kid that has a documented physical disability that causes her to be unable to write at the fifth grade level. My dad disguised his handwriting and wrote a letter back to her, telling her how very sorry Santa Claus is that he can’t give Victoria Buttercup this year and he hopes she can understand that there are a lot of poor kids in the world and he needs to be able to give a present to everyone. Santa Claus hopes that she will still like what he was able to give her, and he’s very proud of how she’s been doing in school.

It was the best that could be done. I hope it’s enough, the nudge she needs to be able to continue to believe in magic just a little longer. It was a small thing my dad did but it means the world to me that he listened to what was upsetting me and found a way to try to fix it. He believed in what I was saying and wanted to help. A little present to Victoria and me from Santa Claus, courtesy of my dad. Thanks, Dad.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Friday, December 22, 2006

Hartford Garbage Picking & New Mexican NASAns

In the suburbs in Connecticut, we have tag sales on Saturdays all year round unless it's absolutely frigid and there's a foot of snow on the ground. If you have junk to get rid of, you try to sell it first. Thrifty yankees and all that, you know. They say there are two seasons in Connecticut: Winter and construction season. That could be amended to winter and tag sale season very easily.

But here in Hartford, we don't have tag sales. We just put our old crap out on the curb before the weekend and by the end of the weekend, it's pretty much all gone. Of course, whatever's not gone will be picked up by the trash man during the week, but let me tell you, whatever is left by the end of the weekend is some pretty ugly crap. I saw an old armchair and ottoman from the 70's in Harvest Gold with tears in the cushions disappear this morning. Of course, what bothers me is when there is good stuff out there and I'm not in time to get it! I saw a great dresser, a little small for my needs, but it would have done until I could save up to buy what I really needed. An hour later, it was gone, before I had the chance to scrounge up the appropriate male to come help cart it up to my second floor apartment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The space shuttle should land tomorrow in Florida. There was talk of having to use this base in New Mexico, which hadn't been used since the early 1980's for a landing, because the weather has been poor in California and Florida. The news was all about how the New Mexico base was not a great place to land but they'd have to make do if necessary. It really looked like they'd land in New Mexico until this evening, when they announced that the weather will clear enough in Florida for the shuttle to land there tomorrow.

I feel really bad for those poor New Mexico NASAns. First, they get told on national television and radio and in the papers that they are definitely the last choice for the shuttle to land. Then they get their hopes up that the shuttle will land there for the first time in 20 years. "This is our chance," they must have said to their fellow NM NASAns. " We will show them. Third rate, my ass!" I mean, there are people who have spent their whole NASA careers at this shitty little New Mexico outpost and for like one day they had the glimmer of hope that they would actually see some action, have a chance to prove themselves, be in the national spotlight. I bet there are many Americans that didn't even know there was a NASA location in New Mexico.

And now that is all taken away. Their chance at 15 minutes of fame is gone, and they must go back to their sad little lives as NASA rejects, working at the worst outpost NASA could assign them to, hoping that in another twenty years the weather might be bad enough to force a landing in New Mexico once again. Poor NM NASAns. I feel like sending them a condolence card.

Monday, December 11, 2006

Fun Times with the Family Dogs

So my broken elbow was doing better until I went to visit my mother the other day.

My sister Kristy has a new dog, a spaniel mix she adopted from Puerto Rico. Katie is her name. Katie is young, maybe a year old. Having been a street dog, she doesn't have the whole concept of not peeing indoors down yet. She needs to be walked often until she is better trained, so when my mom was visiting my other sister, Stacy, for the weekend and Kristy was still away at school, I dog-sat Katie at my apartment.

She managed, in one twenty-four hour period, to piss on my hardwood floors once, shit on then twice, run away and make me chase her around the neighborhood once, and to puke on the couch, unbeknownst to me until I sat in said puke while wearing my brand-new rubber duckie pajamas. Fun, fun weekend, folks. Oh, and she barked at everything all night long.

So the other day, I went to visit my mother. Katie pees when people pet her, so I let her out onto the front lawn so she could pee on the lawn instead of the foyer when I greeted her. My dad's dog, Baby, followed her out, and my dog, Goober, was already outside. Goober is good without a leash; she always just follows me around. Baby is alright without a leash most of the time. Katie--not okay without a leash.

I let her pee and then dragged her back to the front door with my good arm. But, being one-armed, I had to let her go in order to pry open the door. She just sat there waiting for the door to open until a damn car drove by and she decided to chase it. And Baby decided to chase her. So then I had to chase Baby and Katie, which caused Goober to chase me. So there we were, an elderly cocker spaniel chasing a slightly overweight girl with a broken elbow chasing an anorexic Shit-zu with glaucoma chasing a hyper Puerto Rican mutt chasing a car around the neighborhood.

Then Katie found a neighbor's beagle on its front lawn on a lead and decided to play with him. She ran around and around the neighbor's front yard and I ran around and around after her and Baby until finally Katie ran over to me and rolled over onto her back so she could get some belly rubs! I was so angry but all I could do was pick her up in my good arm and not scold her since she had finally come to me. I turned around and called Baby but she wouldn't come because she was still enthralled with the beagle. I had absolutely no choice but to scoop her up in my bad arm and carry her home.

But wait. Goober, who always follows me everywhere, was not following me. And why not? Because she was too busy shitting on the neighbor's front lawn! And my hands were too full to pick up after her, so I did the only thing I could--I ran away. Goober eventually followed.

Thursday, December 07, 2006

Superman: The Dark and Scary Stuff

Away message: Crying. Sometimes it just needs to be done.

Lyrics playing:
It may sound absurd but don't be naive
Even heroes have the right to bleed
I may be disturbed but won't you concede
Even heroes have the right to dream
It's not easy to be me

Up up and away from me
It's alright
You can all sleep sound tonight
I'm not crazy...or anything

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I know Superman is a silly pop song but that is my anthem when things get like this. I went to school this morning. I had a meeting with my supervisor for my graduate assistantship. I've been meeting with her once a week this semester, and at the beginning it was me doing work and reporting to her. Then it was me not doing work because I was so busy working on Ned Lamont's campaign and telling her that as soon as the campaign was over I'd make up the hours. Then it was me telling her I wasn't doing my work because my niece was having issues and my brother is not a parent so my mother and I have to deal with her and oh, by the way, my mom is sick again and down to 98 pounds because she won't eat so I have to cook for her and have my niece over half the school week, which, by the way, is during my school week when I'm trying to complete the last three weeks of the semester as I work on two Master's Degrees and try to make up the work I've missed while taking two weeks off to finish the campaign. That we lost.

This week it was excuse me for not doing my work because I cracked the bone in my elbow last Thursday night by falling down a hill backwards (while drunk; I'm allowed to have a bit of fun, I figure, in amongst all this, and this is how I am punished for said fun), went to the ER a day later when it wasn't better, caught what I am still praying is a cold and not bronchitis, to which I am prone, from being in the ER, and found out that my mother has another tumor on her other arm now. And then of course there is the fact that at about 11 pm on Tuesday night, a night I planned on staying up all night to complete one of six 10 page papers I have due in the next week and a half, my computer broke. So yesterday I went to the Mac store and they tried a bunch of stuff and said yup. It's broke. Fix it by reloading the start up disc. Which, I might note, I spent all of yesterday searching for unsuccessfully. And now I've taken an incomplete for one course and am really really trying to not have to in a second course. And yes, the disc was finally found late last night by my parents. Phew. Light at the end of the tunnel. I can fix my computer after I go to this Graduate Assistant meeting today.

Nope, that's not the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. It's the other proverbial light--that of an oncoming train. Because while I was driving over to school my mother called. She's got another tumor on her back now. And do you know why my mom is calling me? Because I am the one. The one to whom she confides all the ugly things about having cancer. I am the strong one that can take it when she tells me about how bad the pain really is. She doesn't have to coddle me and make me feel better the way she has to with Stacy and my dad. Kristy's sort of like me, but still, I'm the one that hears the worst of it. And do you know what? I am honored. My mother has always--always--favored Stacy. This is not a jealous sibling rivalry, but fact that has always been so obvious that third parties comment on it. So now this is what my mother and I share. This is the tie that binds us.

I am strong enough. When I'm with her. But the result is pesky times like this, when I spend days crying at inappropriate times like during Survey Research class and when I'm having a meeting about my work (or lack thereof) with my supervisor and when I'm walking through the department to check my mailbox. And when I am ordering coffee at Dunkin Donuts. I just look at the clerk through blurry tears and in a calm voice order a medium french vanilla (cream only) (I used to take it black before the ulcers) and pay her and leave.

I finished the meeting and I know my mother called me because she wanted to tell me all the dark and scary things today. I will go there. I will listen calmly and offer words of encouragement or just a kind ear and a shoulder as needed, while I fix my computer so I can spend all night tonight doing the first 10 page paper that is now two days late, and I will not cry. But first I needed to come home. I needed to be in my own apartment and cry and sing along with the sad songs and have one glass of wine and cry. When I am done with this, I will wash my face and go to my mother's house. I will ask her if she needs me to tell my sisters and father for her so I can deal with them instead of her. I will do whatever it is that needs to be done. But for right now, I need to cry. All by myself. I just need to cry. And then I will go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm more than a bird, I'm more than a plane
More than some pretty face beside a train
It's not easy to be me

Wish that I could cry
Fall upon my knees ...

It's not easy to be me