Last night I ended up Watching Carlito’s Way instead of my Six Feet Under disc. Over the years I have written lists about just about everything, to do lists, grocery shopping lists, things to do before I die lists, goal lists, and dream lists. The two that have been the most fun over the past year have been the books to read list, and the movies to see list.

From time to time someone would mention a book or a movie and then express astonishment that I hadn’t seen it, or read it. I can’t count how many times I’ve heard, “You’ve never seen The Godfather?” or you’ve never read “ Crime and Punishment?”

I would get embarrassed sometimes and say nothing when I didn’t get a joke or a comment related to a classic. “Say Hello to my little friend” meant nothing to me. People discussed the brilliance of the genre creating “In Cold Blood” by Capote and I kept my mouth shut. I sometimes nodded while absolutely clueless.

I am not sure if I can really explain why I missed so many books and movies over the years. From the age of 15 through 19 I worked fulltime, after having made one of the worst decisions of my life to drop out of high school and get my GED. I can say that it took me a long time to recover from my abusive childhood and my father’s suicide when I was 12. I do know that the aftermath to his gift that keeps on taking was I found myself severely depressed and with a drug and alcohol problem by the age of 13. I can’t really blame him. Even at the time I knew I was making some fucked up choices and I didn’t have the self esteem to care.

In the late 80s early 90s my then boyfriend, now husband, Alex, saw that I had some VC Andrews books on my shelf so he started buying me the latest release as soon as it hit the market. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I wasn’t really interested in reading any of her work after the Flowers in the Attic series. I read every book he brought home, not wanting to hurt his feelings. When I found out she had died I was actually relieved thinking there would be no more books (isn’t that horrible?) But they hired someone to continue writing under her name and so the gifts continued. I finally broke down and told him that I didn’t want to read them anymore and he was surprised I hadn’t said something earlier. I don’t know why I was so afraid to tell him the truth.

With my pregnancy at the age of 18 I got sober, left my job as a pastry chef when my stomach made it nearly impossible to work at the speed that was needed for restaurant production, and threw myself into motherhood completely when Nate was born. Polly came along three years later and by that time I was up to my tears in Barney, Mr. Rogers, Sesame Street and Dr. Seuss. As completely absorbed as I was with being Mommy I neglected my needs totally.

Now I find it a pleasure to finally read all of those books I kept a mental tally of. Now I have a document on the computer of books I want to read and I add to it constantly.

The same goes for movies. My queue at Netflix has over 150 movies on it and I look forward to each one with a child’s Christmas morning anticipation.

I liked Carlito’s Way a lot more than Scarface, which I also liked when I saw it for the first time last weekend. On further reflection I think it’s because Carlito is a character I found myself sympathizing with, unlike Tony Montana. I totally wanted Carlito to catch that train at the end. I think the ability of a screenplay writer and a movie director to create a sympathetic character out of what should be a despicable unlikable one is a gift. This has been brilliantly done in Movies such as Goodfellas, The Godfather I and II, and Pulp Fiction. I also noticed this while watching the Sopranos. Not many writers/directors are able to pull this off but when it’s done properly, the results are memorable. The same holds true for Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov in the brilliant “Crime and Punishment”. I almost wish that I could go back and have those conversations with those who were talking about these things years ago now that I finally get what they’re saying!

Mothers, fathers, people, take time out for you. It is so important. Having little things that are just for me, whether it is a movie, a book, a bubble bath, a walk, or my garden has changed my perspective on life for the better.

Today ended up being a rather productive day. I cleaned the bathroom, the kitchen and the living room including the mopping of the floors. I also did ALL of the laundry. That’s right. For just this moment every bit of dirty laundry is washed, dried, folded, and put away, including fresh clean bedding for everyone. This will of course change as soon as someone takes a shower and then the next thing I know the hamper will be overflowing again, but for just this moment I want to enjoy the feeling of not being behind on the housework. The one job that I didn’t do that desperately needs doing is the cleaning out of the fridge. UGG. I’ll do it tomorrow. I hate cleaning out the fridge.

Polly and I baked a cake together today, vanilla with chocolate icing. I was trying to cheer her up because she tripped and fell going up the basement steps and now she has a scraped knee, elbow, and a big bruise on her hip. I was right behind her when it happened and I didn’t catch her in time. That’s a pretty good metaphor for parenthood, really. Sometimes our kids will fall right in front of us and we can only be there to dry their tears and bandage their wounds. The cake came out pretty good, and I let her ice it herself. Nate declared the icing as tasting almost as good as that stuff in a can. For a former pastry chef, that stung me a bit. I enjoy scratch baking and would like to think my efforts are way better than some crap out of a can, but whatever.

I received my disc from Netflix today. Six Feet Under Season 2 Disc 5. I am so loving this show and I can’t wait to settle down and watch it. I am really enjoying having something that’s mine. I took me many years to realize the importance of taking time out for me. It’s something I still find difficult.

Friday we are taking a day trip with my Mom to a small town in Washington. With a sale pending on her house she is stressed to find a new place to live. I have tried to tell her not to buy in haste, she can always put her stuff in storage and stay with us awhile but she is eager to settle into a new home. I am not sure if Washington will be the right fit for her, but I wish her the best. Not having her so close will be different for us all. Real estate prices have skyrocketed here in Portland, making home ownership impossible for many.

I feel sad to think that not long ago my agoraphobia would have made it impossible for me to go with her. But now I am happy to say that I am looking forward to taking Nate and Polly and getting out of town, even for a day.

Why is it that I still think her parents had something to do with JonBenet Ramsey’s death?

Information from the Smoking Gun on the case.

The summer of 1994

My mother was throwing a birthday party on her front porch. I was expected to come, of course. The party was for my niece’s first birthday. A lot of people spent time preparing for that party, but I doubt that anyone prepared in the same way that I did.

You see, something had happened to me the Halloween prior, and I was never to be the same again. I remember the exact moment. I was asleep on the living room floor, my son beside me. A key turned the deadbolt in my front door. As I looked up, I saw my boyfriend enter the room. “You know River Phoenix?” he asked. “Yeah”, I answered, still half asleep. “He’s dead. He OD’d on a speedball.” He said, and then for a reason still unknown, laughed. The reality of what he had said hit me, and I asked him if he was serious. He was.

I was never a big fan or anything. I had seen “Stand By Me” and “Dogfight” and enjoyed both movies.  Maybe it was the thought of someone so close to my age dying or maybe it was the realization of my own dumb luck at having gotten out of my drug addiction alive.  I still can’t say, but at that moment, a panic attack so fierce and determined to rattle rose up inside of me that I literally couldn’t breathe. I gasped for breathe and found none. My heart beat with such intensity that I believed that I was dying. I splashed cold water on my face and stuck it out the window trying to calm myself down. Nothing worked.

So it began, my slide into the depths of panic disorder, a disease that I had never even heard of let alone been diagnosed with. I spent the days inside of my apartment riding a wave of panic that only deviated between bad and worse. I soon abandoned the idea of leaving the house as I met panic’s friend, agoraphobia. I would look out the window sometimes and notice the little changes. The neighbors across the street got a new car. Someone else put up Christmas lights. I tried using mantras to calm myself, and ended up reciting the alphabet in my head over and over to no avail. I would sit stiff and silent, gripped by a fear that came from out of nowhere and pray to a god that I had long before abandoned. I recited the Our Father and Hail Mary. I apologized to God for only coming to him in my time of need, instead of being grateful at the times when I should have been giving thanks.

My mother dragged me to my doctor in desperation, and she said that it was most likely post partum depression, and smiled as she left the room. I cried there on the little bed covered with paper that they rolled out like a window shade. My son was twenty months old. I knew that they would just discard me, just as they would discard the paper that covered the bed. I went home convinced that this was indeed what it was like to lose one’s mind. My family told me that those who were going insane didn’t realize that they were going crazy, so they surmised that I was just fine. “Just a bit of cabin fever,” they whispered.

I began a ritual of daily patterns that brought me no relief, but seemed to be necessities in and of themselves. I had to wash my hands seven times. I had to check the locks on the doors and windows repeatedly, and the stove valves.

When the following July rolled around it was time to take the walk down the stairs out of my apartment that led to my mother’s front porch. I knew that both strangers and friends and family would be there. I had dressed in a long dark skirt and a T-shirt. I wore no stockings and although I had been without shoes on my feet for some time, I decided to wear sandals. I brushed my long hair out and pinned it back. My face had long since forgotten that it had ever donned makeup, and so it was bare.

I remember staring into the mirror for a long time. I wondered if people would be able to tell that I was crazy just by looking at me. In my mind, I envisioned that I was going to panic at the party and create a huge scene, ruining things for everyone. I tried to remember to breathe. I reminded myself that the second that I felt a wave of panic I could just grab my son, excuse myself, and head back to my safety zone.

With my son in my arms, I arrived late. I so wanted to hold onto my baby for security, but he was up and running around, visiting people and playing with cousins. My mom offered me punch, and I numbly nodded my head yes. I tried to get it myself, but my hands were shaking so badly that my mom took the ladle from me and served my drink. As she handed the cup to me, I imagined her eyes telling me not to dare screw this one up for her.

During the introductions and the greetings, I was able to nod, smile, and find the voice to say hello. I soon sat down, and watched my son play and eat cake. “I’m doing alright,” I thought to myself. Sometime after that moment, I saw a woman lean over to my mother and say in a loud whisper, “So what is wrong with your youngest daughter?” I was all at once horrified and amused, as if I was watching a bad movie on a large screen.  I sat poised for the reply without turning my head. “ Tammy”, my mother replied, “has never been the same since her daddy died.” I couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t true, and besides, I was sitting not even ten feet away. Why were they talking about me as if I wasn’t there?

The urge to scream out the whole truth, which at that time consisted of not much more than my presumption of my own insanity, was overwhelming. I then saw with my own eyes my beautiful sister Maria lean over and say to the woman, “There’s nothing wrong with Tammy, she just sees things more clearly than the rest of us.” I almost laughed aloud as I stood up, took my son by the hand and walked back up the stairs to my apartment.

After some tumultuous teen years my Mother and I have become close friends. Over the course of the last sixteen months I have been going to her house five times a week to help her prepare it for sale. This has involved painting, cleaning, and sorting through almost forty years worth of stuff. Now that her house has been listed and it looks like she has a sale pending the need for me to be there so frequently has been eliminated.

I find that I miss the almost daily contact with her.

We do talk on the phone frequently, and today the topic of our respective gardens came up. She asked me if I had any ripe tomatoes yet, and I responded that I had, as well as peppers of various types and zucchini. She said that her tomatoes were still green and she had discussed the subject with my brother, himself an avid gardener with an enviable garden. After telling him that her tomatoes had yet to ripen he let her in on his little secret for beautiful, red, vine ripened tomatoes. According to him, he hangs red glass ball Christmas ornaments in his tomato plants and the green ones ripen because they want to keep up with the other “tomatoes” in the bush. He claimed it was a scientific fact that he had read somewhere and that it never fails him.

My first response was to laugh, certain that he was pulling our legs. My second response was to do a Google search on it to see if it was in fact true.

I ultimately decided that it was harmless to let my Mom believe this. I like the vision of her pulling out the packed away ornaments, digging through them for the red balls, and carefully hooking them onto her plants in hopes that it will cause a jealous rush in her green fruits to keep up with their brilliant competition.

I sincerely hope her tomatoes start to turn color now. After all, don’t we all need something to believe in?

Wayne entered my fifth grade class midway through the year. He was a tiny boy, with a squeaky voice and a little brown vest over his white shirt. We all wore the same colors, as uniforms in catholic schools dictate. Our colors were the hues of shit and milk, and I hated the brown, despised it. Wayne was a timid boy, with pale skin and mousy hair. He told the story of his childhood with an easy calm, you see, he was a boy in a bubble who had just been released. I never doubted his story for a moment, choosing instead to believe the tale of a boy so sick that the doctors just had to build him a bubble to keep him safe from the elements.

It was soon after he entered the class that we were given a test in Religion. Sitting directly across from me was little Wayne, and as I started in on the questions he leaned across and whispered to me, “What are the two testaments of the bible called?” I thought that he was kidding, I mean, that was the no-brainer question on the test, so looking up and seeing the teacher writing on the blackboard I whispered back, “The first testament and the second testament.” Later in the day, much to my surprise, the tests were returned and I saw that he had written that answer down. I felt guilty. His paper lay in front of him on his desk, an assault of red ink. He had gotten every question wrong.

I confronted him on the playground and he explained that there hadn’t been a lot of bible study in the bubble. Of course, it made sense, and I ran off to play. I saw him trying to play with the other boys. Pop balls in kickball almost knocked him down. He couldn’t catch, he couldn’t throw. He tripped trying to kick the ball. I went and retrieved him. The school rule during recess was that all students had to be involved in movement of the proper kind, i.e. an organized game. I had learned years before to hide my lack of ability for any game involving a ball by playing hopscotch. And so it would be, Wayne would play hopscotch with me twice a day at recess so that we wouldn’t meet the more uncomfortable fate of being pulled by the ear into the office to be paddled by the big shoe. I’d had a few memorable run-ins with the shoe myself; the shoe was a combination of Mr. Rogers (in style) and Shaquille O’Neal (in size). Your underwear was lowered to your ankles as you were placed across the lap of the principal for the spanking. To add to the humiliation, all of the people that worked in the office would stay and watch, and if there happened to be a janitor or a parent or teachers in there too, well what the hell, they were invited too.

Throughout the two weeks that followed I defended Wayne against the schoolyard bullies. I tried to teach him the rules of the school that were necessary for our survival, namely, shut up unless the teacher calls on you and eat every bite of your lunch no matter what because nothing but the empty milk carton was allowed to be thrown away. Still the F’s were handed to him on a daily basis and he fidgeted a lot during class, tapping his pencil on the desk as the teacher talked, and making little squeaking noises as if there were a little mouse inside of him that just couldn’t be quiet.

One morning I entered the classroom as always and saw the desk across from me empty. The teacher started the day by telling us that Wayne had been moved to the fourth grade, as he was unable to manage the fifth grade work. I was shocked, having never seen this happen before, even to the boy in my class that could barely read one sentence, let alone a book.

Later that day, I was in line waiting for the teacher to march us to the toilets for our two-minute pee break. I saw Wayne in his line waiting to be marched somewhere else. I gave him a big wave reminiscent of Ronald McDonald, and he returned my greeting with a wave consisting of only moving the tips of his fingertips. I felt sorry for him, but he was also out of my reach now, as our schedules differed to the point where I couldn’t be much help to him. The weeks that passed saw Wayne moved to the third grade, and then finally he disappeared from the school all together.

Sometimes I wonder about my little friend Wayne, the boy who cam from a bubble, real or imagined, who touched my heart and made me smile.

http://www.superdickery.com/seduction/1.html

I was glad to see this site, because all these years I have been thinking it was just me reading something into it with my admittedly dirty mind.

I must stop my rambling trips down memory lane for a moment to announce my biggest accomplishments of the week. I took three different trips on the bus and didn’t have a panic attack on any of them! Why is this a big deal? Because I always panic on the bus and I had gotten so bad that I was avoiding riding the bus almost completely. This will not work in the fall when I need to take my daughter to school.
Maybe I am back on the road to being able to just ride the bus whenever I need to. I sure as hell hope so. I hate having to call my Mom when I can’t stop panicking and ask her for a ride, or just hiding in the house. I long to feel capable, self sufficient.

My husband got us each a cell phone a few months ago. He told me that if I wanted to get a game to put on the cell phone he would pay for it, just to choose one that didn’t suck up minutes. I looked around at what was available; not really thinking too much was going to come out of it, because video games have never been my thing. I found a game called Collapse. I played it online and liked it. I mean it’s not so complicated that it is going to take a whole lot of thought but it does hold my interest. Without even intending it to be, it ended up being a godsend for my panic ridden bus rides. I just turn off the sound and play my silly game of colored blocks until it’s time to get off. Also, my sister loaned me a book: Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides and I am enjoying it very much. I got a lot of reading done on the bus yesterday, and I feel good about that. Because with two kids I often don’t have the time to read that I desire.

All in all, I am feeling pretty good.

It was 1989.I had left my job at the Italian restaurant for a job at a health food store run by Seventh Day Adventists. “A geriatric insane asylum” one of the customers used to call it, motioning with his head at the workers. I couldn’t disagree with him, so I didn’t. I was hired for the register. I stood all day, banging those keys and trying to smile at the customers and greet them according to store policy. I was a phony and they knew it. I was good though. The second fastest checker and I hadn’t been there long. I remember one particularly busy evening, looking for a second at the long line at my register. It spilled down the aisle. The other cashiers had much shorter lines and as I hit the keys, I contemplated that. Then I overheard two women in my line talking about me. “Why are we in this line?” one asked the other. “Because she’s so gentle with my fruit.” the woman answered. Well it made sense to me. I had always hated going to the store, carefully picking my apples and other produce items and then having some one slam them down on the scale, bruising them all anyway. So gentle with the fruit was I.

The best part of the job, other than lunch, breaks, and quitting time, was when they would release me from the register and let me stock the shelves. In to the back I would go, loading up my cart with boxes. To the front then to price them and place them on the shelves in neat little rows. It was an easy job that left my mind free to wander wherever I wanted it to go. One such day I was stocking the shelves and longing for my Grandfather. He was sick, dying of cancer and heart disease. I was stuck in Portland while his days were numbered in N.S.W. I knew that I’d never get back to see him alive, not working away my days for $6.00 an hour and eating the produce that they threw out, declaring it inedible for human consumption.

So I’m placing the cans on the shelf, cursing geography, when I see a man walking towards me. Not walking really, it’s more of a shuffle. He is thin and his face is heavily lined. His coat cracks me up. It is puffy and looks quilted. On it is a map of the world. It reminds me of my shower curtain at home. I watch him with his little red basket as I work. When he gets to the cereal he tries in vain to reach a box of this sugar free crap that is supposed to taste like Cap ‘N’ Crunch but actually tastes more like the cardboard that it is packaged in. He can’t get it. I walk over and take a box down for him. We begin to talk. He tells me that he is taking a break from work to get some shopping done. I am instantly curious; I mean he appears to be up in his ‘80’s. Where does he work? So I ask him. He runs his own business. “Really,” I reply. “What sort of business?” “Well, um, I, um, oh, you probably wouldn’t be interested”, he stammers. Interested I am. I mean, what this little old man could do that is making him blush. The possibilities! So his story was told as I stocked those shelves. He is 88. Single, with no kids. His name is Glenn. He owns and operates an “Adult Store” if I know what he means. I do. This is where he starts to really open up to me. He tells me where his store is, how it used to be mainly a male customer base he was attracting, although now the females are frequenting the store as well. “The ladies love to stop by late and pick up a video and a vibrator on their way home to their husbands.” I wonder to myself how many of them are going home to men, but it really doesn’t matter. I am called to check and to the front I go, leaving the old man that doesn’t remind me of my Grandfather any more behind. He pays in my line, reminds me of his store’s location once again, and leaves.

I don’t think of Glenn again that night. It is busy and the hours are spent at that damn register, banging those keys, smiling at the strangers and trying not to bruise any fruit. Right before closing I hear my name called over the intercom. I’ve got a phone call, line two. Not unusual, my boyfriend often calls me late to say hello, he misses me, when will I be home? I answer in an overly exaggerated sexy voice, “Hello Baby.”

“Hi, this is Glenn”, I hear. Oh Shit, I think. He continues, “I have a couple of plane tickets to Hawaii here. We can stop by my store, pick up some videos and sex toys and take off tonight.” I stand there in my 17-year-old body, speechless. Uncertain of what to say, I tell him thanks but no thanks, I have a boyfriend. He doesn’t care. We’re going to Hawaii anyway. We argue this point back and forth for awhile until I say goodbye and place the phone back in its cradle. I tell the manager not to take any more phone calls for me.

When I hit the time clock, I am scared. I think this man might be waiting in the parking lot. He is not. I walk home alone. Sitting here today in my 33 year old body, I wonder about Glenn. What ever became of him? The only thing that I’m certain of is this story would have been a whole lot different had I jumped on to that airplane that night, and flown through the sky, on my way to make love with an 88 year old man that couldn’t raise his arm up to get a box of cereal off of the shelf, and shuffled his feet when he walked.

Learning how to come up with blog posts has been challenging at times. I want to be able to just write about whatever I happen to be thinking about or feeling at the time, but I also would like to have an audience who wants to read me, who looks forward to reading me. I thought about a Bukowski quote that I had saved years ago and it seemed fitting.

“Somebody at one of these places asked me: “What do you do? How do you write, create?” You don’t, I told them. You don’t try. That’s very important: not to try, either for Cadillac’s, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It’s like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks, you make a pet out of it.” -Bukowski