As I mentioned in my last entry, I watched The Pursuit of Happyness this weekend. Personally, I really liked it. Skip this paragraph if you haven’t seen it. I don’t want to spoil it for anyone. Anyway, that will to go on in the face of great adversity, I can relate to that. The intense love for your chil(ren), hell, they’re the only thing that keeps me going most of the time. It occurred to me while I was watching it that a great many people face challenges in life like the main character did, but it’s not often we hear their story unless they make it big or die in some bizarre way.

My 22 year old nephew has a new job working as a bartender. I hadn’t seen him in ages so Sunday night I went down to see him. I thought that I knew where he worked as he had told me the street name and number. I walked into this smoky, dark dive bar half filled with 20 something year old hipsters who all seemed to have coordinated their outfits beforehand. I felt like an idiot but I sat down and ordered a gin and tonic. When the women handed me my drink I asked her if Daniel was working. “There’s no Daniel working here.”

My first thought was that my nephew had lied to me about having a job. I am a bad aunt. Then she added, “But there’s another bar next door, you might try there.” Another bar. I hadn’t noticed it. I finished my drink and walked back out into the sunlight blinking wildly after sitting in the dark. I peeked into the window next door and saw my nephew behind the bar. My heart leapt; I was so happy to see him.

I must’ve looked like I was crying because my eyes were all watery from the smoke filled bar. He walked over and gave me a hug and introduced me to all of his coworkers. “This is my Aunt Tammy!” Most of them didn’t believe him because I was only 12 when he was born but whatever. It felt good to have someone happy to see me and not embarrassed to introduce me. My kids are at that age where they would rather not have me around when they are acting oh so cool in front of their friends.

I sat at the bar and had a beer and we talked and talked. The place wasn’t very busy. It was good to catch up with him. He was telling me about college and his girlfriend and the music he’s been listening to. We talked about politics, the war, whether or not we feel gay marriage should be legal, all sorts of things. Usually when I see him it’s with a large group of family members so it was nice to have him all to myself. When I got up to leave I tried to pay but he wanted to buy the beer for me so I just over tipped him when he wasn’t looking. He has been a part of my life for so long. It has been such a joy watching him grow up and I feel so proud of his accomplishments. I am not supposed to have favorite nieces or nephews but the bond I have with him is different, stronger.

For the past two days I have been working in our garden pulling weeds and planting seeds. I have never been big on seeds. I am an instant gratification kind of person and I am not very patient when it comes to waiting. Usually what happens when I plant seeds is I water them daily to encourage them to sprout. I do this for a period of time until I decide that they won’t sprout and then I give up. Soon after that they do sprout and I am always surprised. I hope that they’ll sprout, but I don’t really think they will. And that, I think, is the difference between hope and faith. Hope I have. Faith, nada.

I took Polly to a play at her school tonight. After the three hour play and drinking a large bottle of water I needed to use the restroom. I walked down the hall to the facilities. When I exited the stall there was a little girl there, maybe four years old, washing her hands at the sink. When she was finished she reached for a paper towel to dry her hands on and her mother exclaimed, “No, Experience, No! Remember to let your hands air dry. Save the earth!”
The girl walked out with her hands shaking in front of her as she tried to get the water off of them.
My first impression: Experience? What kind of name is that? My second impression: Save the earth by not drying your hands? Give me a break. I used two after I’d finished washing mine, just because.

I am off to watch The Pursuit of Happyness. I’ve heard that it’s good so I am really looking forward to it. I hope that everyone is having a good weekend.

I bought a scale yesterday because they were on sale and I haven’t had one since my kids jumped up and down on it and broke it. I found out from my doctor that I have lost some weight and I have been trying to lose some more. Apparently it was very important to me to find out how much I currently weigh because when I realized that the scale didn’t come with a battery I eagerly ripped one out of a smoke detector without my possibly fiery death giving me pause.

Happy to see that I hadn’t gained any of the weight I lost back I placed the scale in the bathroom and forgot about it.

When Polly got home from school she wanted to weigh herself. She is going through an awkward, preteen chubby phase and I wasn’t sure if I should encourage her to step onto the scale or not. She finally did and then announced she was having only salad for dinner. I had hoped to not pass on my issues with my weight and food to my daughter but apparently I haven’t succeeded.  Or maybe she’s feeling the effects of going to school with groups of girls who weigh barely 90 lbs. yet constantly talk about how they need to diet to lose weight. Or maybe I can blame the media; I don’t think I’ve blamed them for anything this week.

Later Polly came up to me and asked, “Mom, do you know what I learned from watching Jerry Maguire?” I was trying to recall when and where she had seen that movie because I have no memory of her watching it when she burst out, “The human head weighs 8 lbs.!” I had idea what she was getting at until she smiled and said, “So, I can minus off 8 lbs. from my weight because my head doesn’t count.”

OK darling, if you say so.

After having had a rough week last week with a panic attack that started Tuesday and hadn’t quite reached its final climax by Friday morning I decided to take advantage of the welcomed lack of rain to mow our lawn.

Before I could start I needed to go to the gas station to get fuel for the mower. Usually I take my one gallon can up to fill but my Mom had given me a larger one when she was preparing to sell her house and she found five gas cans in her basement.

As I’ve never been a driver and only recently did I buy the mower I am woefully ignorant about gas.

I looked at the side of the can and it read 5 gallons. At the station I approached the man with the kindest eyes and held out the can to him, “I’d like five gallons please.” His eyes were twinkly blue underneath his cap and he responded, “Don’t you mean four and a half?” I stammered, “I, uh, um…”

“Gas expands”, he explained to me. I, feeling stupid, allowed that I guessed I wanted 4 and a ½.

As I watched him carefully placing the nozzle into the can he looked up, smiled, and asked, “Did you have a breakdown?”

The sky began to fall down on me and I felt weak and dizzy, no doubt due to the state I have been in lately, riding a rollercoaster of anxiety, and the fact that I always breathe deeply at gas stations because I love the smell.

My mouth wouldn’t work. He had confirmed what I had long suspected. My mental instability has always been clearly written all over my face.

“Your car. Did it break down?”

“Oh, no. I am just getting some gas for my mower.”

“Well, I hope you live close by, this is very heavy.”

As I walked home I remembered that little rhyme I had learned as a baker, “A pint per pound the whole world ‘round except when measuring …”

I couldn’t remember the exclusions. Oil? Molasses? Honey? Certainly not gas?

After using the pint per pound method for years I later found out that the rhyme isn’t even correct. Actually, a pint of water weighs 1.04375 pounds.

So that means that four and one half gallons of gas weighs enough for me to at least get a good laugh out of myself.

I went out to lunch with my Mom today. She is leaving tomorrow for a three week trip. As we laughed and chatted over our meal she was telling me what was up with various friends and family members. Sometimes she’ll add her own interpretation of what she thinks is wrong with a person, such as, he seems to have Autistic tendencies. I usually listen to these ideas of hers with more weight than I would give to just anyone because she worked in Special Ed for over 20 years. Today a thought occurred to me and I said, “Hey, this is fun! Now diagnose me!”

She looked at me with that little grin she gets, folded her napkin, wiped her mouth, placed it back in her lap, and said, “Oh, I know exactly what’s wrong with you.” Long pause. She loves times like this. I lean forward, waiting. Finally she breaks into a large smile and says, “You’re just bored.”

I start to protest, thinking of the panic attacks, the depression that I can’t shake off, the horrible mood swings, but then I realize she’s right in many ways. I’ve been bored for years, but I haven’t done a damn thing about it. I don’t think there’s a pill for bored.

Tuesday my Mom and I went to pick up my daughter from school. She rushed out of the doors all excited about free cone day at Ben and Jerry’s. Seeing how important it was to her I did what any good Mom would do, I offered to take her for ice cream at Coldstone or Baskin and Robbins or anywhere but Ben and Jerry’s. You see, we have done the free cone thing twice before, and waiting in a line that wraps all the way around the block for over an hour for a free cone just isn’t worth it to me. I would rather pay for a cone and get in and out quickly. She of course started whining, and all of her friends were going and my mom did the whole, “Oh Tammy, you have to let her go.” I caved. We ended up sitting in my mom’s car parked where I could keep an eye on her in line.

My Mom and I started talking and she brought up the shootings at Virginia Tech. I didn’t really want to talk about it. These events don’t seem to shock me; they just sadden and sicken me now. Plus, it seems that the media turns the killer(s) into some sort of celebrity every time something like this happens and I try not to get caught up in the frenzy.

“He was from Korea” my Mom said. “Uh, huh”, I replied. “North or South?” my Mom asked. “I don’t know!” and at this point I shot her a look. “I guess he was a loner and nobody really liked him”, she continued.

“And they certainly don’t like him now!” I exploded. I mean what the fuck?

Yes, he sounds as if he was a mentally ill man who had been suffering for quite some time. Yes, possibly he could have/should have been helped, but where can you really lay the blame for that? He obviously had it together enough to plan out the massacre, film his videos, and mail them and to go forward with the shooting.

I think it was Dennis Miller who said, “When someone gets to the point where they get off by offing others it’s time for them to do the world a favor and just off themselves” and I agree.

My heart goes out to everyone who is suffering as a result of one man’s sick actions.

When Polly was little she went through this stage where we couldn’t get her to stay in her bed at night because she was afraid of monsters. I used to sit by her bedside and try to calm her down by softly whispering, “There are no monsters.”

“Do you promise?” she would whisper back and when I did promise I would think of murderers, rapists, pedophiles, kidnappers and the lot and wonder how on earth I was ever going to be able to feel safe letting my children out into this world alone. I still wonder.

I loved you when as children we met,
you in Levi’s with your hair slightly wet.
In your eyes, I found my long lost friend.

In each morning, we found the dawn,
a golden memory to latch upon.
It comes back to me now in moments of rare silence.

Those schoolyard boys they tried to own,
the gift I’d saved for you alone.
My virginity wrapped and tied up with a bow.

You on bended knee asked for my hand,
on my finger you slipped a band.
I had to sit for fear of losing footing.

The baby created with our love,
was sent to the heavens with all my love.
On a rickety table, I let them rip out the life.

‘Twas not to be, our wedded bliss,
lost in a moment of thoughtlessness.
You boarded that plane and went to live without me.

In a world of thoughts gone rotten,
my promise to you has been forgotten.
“I will never touch a man but you.”

There’s no such thing as happily ever after.
My painful cry echoes in your newborn’s laughter.
Another woman was fated to bear your son.

I want to tell you this right now,
that years ago I made a vow
to never let you break my heart again.

So don’t go calling me in the night,
asking to marry me and make things right.
For I have moved on to catch my breath again.

Thank you for the lessons learned,
the advent of a womanhood earned.
Once in a while I’ll stop and view the sun.

I’ve been feeling like such a pile of shit lately that I kept thinking that I would spare y’all and wait until I felt better before I posted again but, hahaha, yeah right. I’ll bet if I had the energy to go back and look through my archives I would see a pattern to these “I can’t go on a single minute” depressions but energy doesn’t come with my depression and if I ever get manic I’ll use the energy to scrub the bathtub or something.

Saturday I took Polly to spend the night at a friend’s house because she was driving me crazy with the “play with me” and “watch a movie with me” and no matter what I did with her she was still walking around bored, complaining of boredom. So when a friend called and asked her to spend the night I jumped at the chance even if it was the day before Easter. We took the bus over there. It’s not a good neighborhood, and not one that I am very familiar with either, and so after we got off the bus I promptly got us lost trying to find this girl’s house. Her house was on 59th and I could find 62nd, 60th, 57th etc. but no 59th. We walked around forever until I finally asked Polly to call the girl on my cell phone and ask her where she lived exactly. The girl didn’t know how to give directions and we ended up finding the house by chance. Chance meaning that Polly happened to turn her head and see this girl on her bike in front of her house. I waited for 50 minutes at the bus stop to get on the bus home. I was not in a very good mood when I got back but I kissed Alex goodbye and curled into bed to watch Infamous, which wasn’t as good as I’d hoped.

Sunday when Polly got home it was all about eggs! and Candy! and the Easter Bunny! until her brother made fun of her for wanting to dye eggs and I reminded him that he had dyed eggs with me last year, at 14! He went off to his room after murmuring something about not liking it when he did it last year.

Monday night Polly threw up, which is a fun way to wake up at 1 a.m. I kept her home from school Tuesday and she seems to be better now. A virus or too much chocolate? We may never know.

Nathan is doing well in school except for the fact that we got a phone call yesterday stating that he had used the word “boozy” or is it “boozie” ? in school and if he did it again they were going to give him a urinalysis.  His father and I exchanged what the fuck looks and thanked them for calling.

I have been considering calling my doctor and asking her to tweak my meds. She can’t up them because I am on the maximum dose of Effexor and I really don’t want to deal with it right now because crawling onto the couch and taking a little nap works wonders. For a little while.

My washing machine keeps going off balance and it is driving me crazy because every time I go down into the basement to throw a load into the dryer I see that the washer has stopped mid cycle. I end up standing in front of the machine redistributing the load over and over to get it to finish the spin cycle. It’s like giving a hand job to an impotent man.

Working means:

1. When I get home and no one has loaded the dishwasher (best purchase I’ve made in years) or folded the clothes in the dryer or started dinner and I think “Why can’t one lazy fucker do anything around here?” and then I realize, that lazy fucker is me, and I’ve been gone all day.
2. When I try to decide what to cook for dinner, soup and sandwiches sounds like the perfect idea.
3. There is money in my purse! And I earned it! Yeah!
4. Happy Hour sounds like the best idea ever invented. If only they would deliver cocktails.
5. I spoke with another adult and they kinda sorta seemed interested in what I had to say.
6. I feel as if my hard work and my ideas on how to get a job done are worth something.

Today I carried boxes around and helped sort through them, moved furniture from this room to that room, worked in the yard and (my favorite) cleaned out a crawlspace. You didn’t know that crawlspaces needed cleaning out? Yes, they do. Now go clean yours. I’ll wait. Don’t forget to lay down a vapor barrier.

I have to work again tomorrow. I have been trying to get a few things done around here since I got home. The couch is beckoning. The bed is beckoning. The TV whispers, “Hey, turn me on and tune out for a little while. You deserve it.” I am afraid that I might fall asleep too early if I stop doing something productive.

Did I mention that I have money in my purse, and I earned it? Best part of the day. Plus, I can’t remember if I mentioned this, but Polly’s school is right across the street from the house I am working at so it’s really convenient. And this woman doesn’t think I am a nut for not knowing how to drive. She said as she gets older the less she wants to drive anywhere. Maybe if I age enough I’ll catch up with the “I don’t want to drive” trend.

Today’s sign that I am not the best mother in the world: I didn’t even know Easter was on Sunday until Polly mentioned it. I knew Easter was coming, I just forgot when. I hoped for a second that she had outgrown the egg coloring thing but then she started going on about dying the eggs and asking if she could have two friends spend the night to dye eggs with us. I don’t know why, but I have always hating the dying of the eggs. As often as I could I have passed this joyful ritual on to Alex. Alas, this year he has to work. I almost miss the days when I was a kid and any religious holiday meant going to church, that’s it. No candy, no eggs, no hunts, no baskets, no fun; just church to hear about whatever significant moment in Jesus’ life and back to your regularly scheduled hellish childhood. Oh yeah, and you’re going to hell, sinner.

When I worked as a baker Easter was a hell of a lot of baking and worst of all, hot cross buns. They’re nasty, they are time consuming, and worst of all, crossing them with a pastry bag is carpal tunnel inducing. I do not miss Easter in a busy bakery.

Boycott Hot Cross Buns! Some overworked underpaid baker out there will thank you.

I must have passed the test because June has called me back to work again today. It looks like there won’t be rain, so it should be a good day to be outside. I’ll write more later.