Today is the 22nd anniversary of my father’s suicide. I decided last night that I was going to spend the day trying to remember good things about him, rather than getting angry and depressed.

Here goes. I remember the way he used to look down at me and smile when I said something funny. I remember the way he would come home from work, change into more comfortable shoes and a cardigan sweater like Mr. Rogers did, lie down on his bed with his arm out, and let me snuggle into his arm so we could talk about our day while we waited for dinner to be ready. I remember how much pleasure he got from a good meal. Once I found a diary of his from the 50s and 60s. I was so excited to read it. I thought it would help me get to know the man who was gone. It ended up to be a travelogue of sorts, but instead of details of his road, rail and air travels all over the United States and Europe he detailed all of the meals he had. At first I was disappointed, but as I read it I found it to be a good read. I too love a good meal.

I remember how he used to tickle me under the chin and ask me if I was going to be his little Mathematician, his Chemist, or an Electrical Engineer like him when I grew up. I’m sorry Dad, I kind of fell apart after you died and I haven’t made it through school yet. I am trying to get well and to be a good parent to my kids and a good daughter and a good wife and a good sister. I have tried to take care of Mom for you since you’ve been gone.

I am sorry that you felt so down that you decided that death was your only option. I am sorry that you couldn’t find the mental health help that you needed. I know now that you tried going to doctors and you went to church everyday and prayed. I am sorry that you missed seeing your four kids grow up. I think you would be proud of all of us. You have nine grandkids that you never got to meet. I think you would have loved them all. I miss you. I did love you, even though I pretended that I didn’t at the end because I was angry. I couldn’t understand why you couldn’t stop drinking and yelling and hitting us. I understand now. I forgive you. R.I.P.

Your Daughter, Tammy

Yesterday when I picked up Polly from school I asked her if she would like to go out to eat. I knew that Nathan was going out for hamburgers with friends after school and that Alex had already eaten so I didn’t want to have to go home and mess with dinner for just the two of us. Plus, I like to take advantage of any opportunity to spend some time with my kids on a one on one basis.

We ended up going to a Mexican restaurant near her school that had opened recently. I am personally a vegetarian but everyone else in my family eats meat. I like going to Mexican restaurants because I know that I can find something satisfying and I won’t be stuck with a salad. Not that I have anything against salads. Salads are great, but in most restaurants they are iceberg lettuce with maybe a little grated carrot and a wedge of mushy tomato if you’re lucky.

Polly ordered a Caesar salad with grilled chicken and I ordered the grilled veggie enchiladas. I considered ordering a margarita but when I saw that they had sangria on the menu I decided to try that instead. I had never had it before and it looked so beautiful with all of the chopped up fruit in it. The meal came with those additive hot chips and fiery hot salsa. I sipped on the sangria to cool down my mouth and listened as my daughter filled me in on the goings on of life in junior high. When my enchiladas arrived I quickly released that they had been mislabeled on the menu. They were not enchiladas verde, they were enchiladas burnyerfuckinmouthoffa.

Ordinarily I have a high tolerance for spicy foods but these were mouth on fire; flames will come out when I breathe spicy. The atmosphere was festive. The drink refills were free. The Spanish music was blaring and I continued to nibble and sip and nod my head as Polly talked on and on. A smart person might have asked the waitress for some water, or horchata, or a flour tortilla to fold up and place on one’s wounded tongue as a bandage. I was not a smart person. I knew I was in trouble when I started to feel a bit woozy. I knew I was even more trouble when I started to think that I was not only fluent in Spanish and understanding the music, but that the song had very very funny lyrics. I ate some plain chips thinking it might soak up the alcohol in my stomach. I paid the check, used the facilities, and dreaded getting on the bus home.

I asked Polly if she might like to walk awhile before getting on the bus, thinking that a breeze in my face would snap me out of the wine induced fog. She looked at me like I was crazy and said, “Nooooooo.” The bus came immediately and I saw with dismay that it was packed. We fortunately found seats and Polly quickly asked if she could listen to my Ipod. I handed it over and used the breathing techniques I use for panic attacks and labor and delivery. Always being one to ruin what could have been just a slightly more amusing ride than usual, I started to obsess over the little things. Had bus rides always been so wobbly? Did every driver drive really fast and then slam on the brakes mere seconds before a stop so your whole body is thrown forward? Was everyone on the bus staring at me? Did I smell like wine? I began to feel queasy. I considered the ramifications if I had to grab Polly and exit the bus in a mad rush before I vomited. I envisioned her retelling the story over and over again on a therapist’s couch. I knew that I was having a panic attack but I didn’t want to add a Klonopin tablet to my already altered state. How many glasses of sangria had I consumed? I couldn’t remember. Was it just wine, or did it have some sort of liquor in it?

My daughter continued listening to music and peering out the window while I tried to deduce whether I felt less drunk with my eyes open or closed. Finally we reached our stop and walked the few blocks home. I had one of those selfish conversations with God that I only seem to have when I am in great distress, “Please God let me get home without incident and I will never ever drink again.”

At home Polly quickly grabbed the phone and headed off to her room. Nathan was still out and Alex was still asleep, fortunately. I was embarrassed. I crawled onto the couch and took a nap. When I awoke Nathan was coming in the front door and I saw that a couple of hours had passed. I felt better, much better. I was a bit wiped out, as if I had spent the afternoon exercising for the first time in years, but other than that I felt fine. I went to the kitchen and started the dishes and Alex came down the stairs. “What’s up with you? You look funny.” was how he greeted me. “Nothing” I replied, placing the clean dishes in the cupboard with a shrug.

The purchase of the house fell through because the seller put on a large addition without permits. We had the city do a walk through and it is not up to code. Fines will be issued, liens might be placed. We refuse to buy someone else’s problem. That fucker lied on the disclosure statement. No wonder he cried every time we saw him. Ah well, we keep looking. I sure was excited about moving.

if I am still breathing, eating, drinking, moving, cooking, cleaning, talking, recycling, taking the garbage out, feeding the kids and cats, going to the store, replacing the toilet paper when the roll runs out, loading the washer, the dryer, the dishwasher, answering the telephone, the e-mails, the kids, the mom, the husband, reading the newspaper, watching the news, making sympathetic head tilts and appropriate noises over sad news, chuckling over funny things, taking my daughter to school, picking her up again, thinking about the future, wondering if I’ll ever amount to anything, wondering if I have amounted to anything, growing tired of wondering, watching movies I’ve been waiting to see (Babel, Factotum, Stranger Than Fiction), planning what book to read next (Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas),bathing, brushing teeth and hair, dreaming, remembering Birthdays, planning a garden, mopping the floor, remembering to get the mail, pay the bills, sign permission slips, pack lunches, play board games, pull weeds, pop pills each day. I must be okay then.

First, thanks to http://misscrankypants.livejournal.com/ for the link. It’s very much appreciated. Also, thank you to the readers who have e-mailed. I love e-mail.

The sewer scope didn’t go well. The owner was there as well as the tenants of the house who refused to leave. Or as the woman screamed, “I don’t pay 600 hundred fucking dollars a month to be told to leave my own bedroom!” After I got over my surprise at the screaming I thought, Wow. $600 is cheap for a four bedroom house. Plus, they were given four days notice that they needed to be out of there that morning for one hour. Not feeling too sorry for the tenants.

The scope man couldn’t get his tiny little camera down the pipes because they were only two inches thick.(Is it just me, or does that sound naughty in some way?) They ended up pulling off a toilet and the pipe there was only two inches as well. I know little about plumbing, but I fear we’re going to have some backed up toilets and sinks if this sale goes through. Two inches?

The only option is to dig into the front yard and cut through a pipe there. The owner offered me $6000 at closing if I would skip the scope. I told him I wanted to have the sewer scope. The house is very old and there are a lot of trees on the street. I have known people who have had problems with sewer lines that cost 10s of thousands of dollars. As far as I am concerned the seller should not be communicating directly with me anyway. He should talk to his realtor who then speaks to mine who then calls me. Like some sort of functional phone tag. This man has started crying twice on me already. I know all about his job, his divorce, his son. I brought my Mom with me this last time because she has a lot more experience than I do. The seller has also not produced the permits and the final walk through papers that we asked for when we made the offer. He built a very large addition on the house after he bought it and if he can’t produce those permits I am not buying it. With our luck it would all be illegal and it would cost a fortune to fix it. So basically I signed something with my realtor that gives this guy a few days to produce the necessary papers and allow us to do the scope or we’re walking. I looked at a couple other houses yesterday just in case. One of them was beautiful but when my realtor called on it it had just had two offers accepted (one was a back up). The market seems to be pretty hot here in the under $300,000 range.

The whole thing really sucks because we are already packing and getting ready to move and I wish Alex didn’t sleep days because he’s much better at dealing with situations like this. I end up getting silent and just wanting to leave. Did I say the man’s face was buried in his hands as he wept? My Mom got up from the table and we left. I know this man is going through a rough time but oh my god. He should really send his realtor to do the talking.

Blah. The kids have been sick. Just a virus, according to their doctor. I have been looking around for a job and have even submitted a few resumes. If I can find something that’s doable with the bus schedules here in Portland, and something that isn’t graveyard shift, I will be happy. That’s about all for now. I am going to go drink a beer. Sorry this is a snooze of an entry.

Where there’s smoke there’s, I don’t know…

Yesterday evening I went out to our front porch to smoke a cigarette. I immediately smelled a strange burning odor and heard a loud beeping noise. I ran out front and saw that black smoke was pouring out of the chimney of the house next door and I could hear what sounded like every smoke detector in the neighborhood going off. A vacant house on the block down from us was recently the victim of an arson fire and seeing how the house next door is also vacant I did what anyone would have done. I ran inside and yelled up the stairs to Alex who was resting before he had to go to work on the graveyard shift. “What?”he responded, all pissed off sounding. “I think the house next door is on fire!” I yelled back. He ran downstairs and outside and looked and called 911. I had thought of calling 911 too but I had this vision that I was going to hear something like, “Smoke is supposed to come out of chimneys, and that sound you thought was smoke detectors? Crickets.”

The fire engines arrived quickly. Four of them. At this point I was hoping there was a fire. I felt a little bit nervous explaining things to the fireman who approached me. “Smoke, pouring out of the chimney. But not normal smoke, thick black smoke. And it smelled funny. And I heard smoke detectors. And no one has lived in that house for a year so I thought…”

They tried to kick in the door but gave up after three kicks and shattered the glass oval in the middle of the door and reached in and unlocked it. The firemen ran in there with masks on and hoses. Is there some sort of rule that says firemen have to have mustaches? Anyway, Nathan and Polly were by my side, all excited. This was, I guess, better than what they had been watching on TV. Alex was walking around outside, smoking. Smoking and walking and looking, right next to where the action was. Me, I was afraid to smoke in front of the firemen. I figured that when they searched for the cause of the fire they would call some David Caruso type man over and he would take one look at the nervous looking woman with the shaking hands and the lit cigarette and say, “Yeeeeeeees. I do believe I know what happened here.” And then I would be handcuffed and taken away. Without my Klonopin. My Klonopin and me, we’re buddies. We go everywhere together.

Soon they came out with their houses and went in with fans. Big ass fans. Fans I could hear blocks away. Fans people would pay big money for when the temperature exceeds 95. Alex went inside to get ready for work and one of the firemen approached me. “Are you the one who called 911?” Unsure as to where this was going, I just nodded. He asked me where I lived and I pointed at our house. I briefly considered blaming my husband but instead I told the story of the smoke, the strange smell, how thick and black the smoke was and the sound of many smoke detectors. He nodded and said soothingly, “You did the right thing.” Whoosh. Anxiety attack over.

“Do you know the owners of this house?” he asked. I noticed he was chewing on a toothpick. I told him that the house had been bought by a company that fixes up homes and flips them for profit. He asked if they came to work on the house every day, or on any kind of regular schedule. I told him no. They just show up whenever. He said, “Well, we’ll just leave them a note then.” That struck me as funny. As he started to walk away I said, “Hey, what happened?”

He told me that it looked as if they had just painted and had turned on the oil furnace on to help dry the paint. The furnace had malfunctioned and filled the house with smoke. “They’re going to have to paint all over again” he said, and actually snickered, his mustache twitching around as his eyes twinkled.

Alex was ready to leave for work by this time. He asked me if I remembered the name of the company that owned the house and I gave it to him. He wanted to call them and tell them they needed to secure their property. He didn’t get a hold of anyone until this morning. They sent a truck over and started hammering a sheet of plywood over the door. Alex went out to talk with them. They were not so friendly, to say the least, and so Alex reminded me why I married him by saying to the guy, “Look dickhead, next time I’ll just let your fucking house burn to the ground.”

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On a different subject, the inspection on our maybe new house went well. Financing looks good. The man who did the inspection recommended a “sewer scope” based on the age of the house. I set one up for next Monday at 11:30. I have never seen a sewer scope before, and I honestly don’t ever want to. The inspector described it as fascinating, the realtor told me not to come with a full stomach.

Even though the financing looks good and the inspection is scheduled for tomorrow I feel sick. Obviously moving can be stressful, but I have a tendency to get way more stressed out than other people. Or maybe I just think that everyone else is doing just fine and I am walking around in a constant state of “What if?” worry. I’ve always envied people who just seem to go with the flow, their kicked back “whatever will happen will happen” aura surrounding them like an impenetrable shield.

I seem to be on the phone way more than usual with the lender calling, the realtor calling, the inspector calling and my Mom calling me too. Then I have to keep it all straight in my head and relay all of the important parts to Alex, who is in the aforementioned kicked back category.

Nathan and Polly both have dentist appointments this afternoon. Polly is scared and Nathan is calm. Ha! I wonder who each one takes after.

We found a lovely 3 bedroom 2 bathroom home yesterday and put in an offer on it. Our offer was accepted today and now we just have to wait for the inspection and hope the financing goes through. We have wanted to get out of the house we’re in for awhile. The neighborhood isn’t great and the schools here aren’t good at all. This home far surpassed our dreams. In addition to all of the regular things a home has it has a family room and a finished room in the basement. There is a patio out back for our grill and a yard in front and back for me to garden in.

For a long time I believed that we would never be able to own a home again. Alex tends to be very pessimistic as well. He says that way he’s never disappointed. Me, I am often disappointed. I am pessimistic with a swirl of hope I try to hide. This home is in a lovely neighborhood that would put Polly in a good high school when that time comes. It is closer to her current middle school so we wouldn’t have to spend as much time on the bus.

Nathan is doing great at his new school. When I asked him how his day was after the first day he exclaimed, “I love it!” I was stunned. This young man hasn’t loved school since they took away the toys and play dough and brought out the books. He has made new friends and even brought a couple home for dinner last week. This might not seem like a big deal to many of you but he hasn’t brought a friend home since third grade. He said that he likes the classes because they show you what to do and if you don’t understand it they take the time to show you how to do it. Imagine that! A small school is clearly what he needs and I am so grateful that he got in.

I go back and forth between bursts of excitement over the possibility of moving to a newer much nicer home in an area I love and waves of fear over all the things that could go wrong. So basically it’s a normal day with the addition of a maybe possible move.

That’s about all that’s new. I have been on a decluttering mission for the past week. I really want to have fewer things because it makes cleaning so much easier. I even managed to get Polly to donate several boxes to charity. When I told her that I could call and have the Vietnam Veterans Association pick up the items from our front porch she scrunched up her face and asked, “Why would the veterans want to play with my old toys?” I explained that they had a thrift store and they sold the items and then used the money to help the veterans. Or at least I hope they do. But in the end, whatever. Boxes of stuff are gone and it feels better.