Friday I had a doctor’s appointment that I had planned on canceling but had forgotten. I got dressed and went even though I didn’t want to talk about my back, or my depression and anxiety, or my should I keep it? uterus. When they called my name I walked in and after passing through the doors I was immediately asked to step onto their large digital scale. I took my coat off as it was my heavy winter one still soaked with rain from the last downpour I walked through umbrella-less and I hung it and my purse on the hook. As I was slipping off my shoes I remembered what my Mom always says before she’s weighed; the joke about needing to take off her 100 lb. shoes. She did it every week when we were in Weight Watchers together and she’s done it at every doctor’s appointment and ER trip I have accompanied her on. My Mom has maybe a dozen lines like that which she laces into her conversations. Decades old and worse for the wear, they are the jokes I used to roll my eyes at and groan with embarrassment over, now I smile just because they are a part of her and she refuses to give them up, even though everyone has heard them all before.

The CMA led me back to the room and after I had sat down on the paper covered exam table she took my vitals. I apologized for wearing a long sleeve shirt, but the young girl said it was okay, she could put the blood pressure cuff over it because it was so thin. I studied the girl’s face as she carefully recorded the numbers. She looked to be about twelve, her hair in a ponytail, her face a mixture of perfectly tiny features that made up her sweet little face. I imagined that I could be old enough to be her Mom, if I’d given birth to her in high school. As she was checking my pulse the sleeve of the long sleeve shirt she wore under her pink scrubs slid up and I saw that her arms were covered with scars from cutting herself. I imagined that she had to wear long sleeves on even the hottest days, and I thought about her cutting into herself, wearing her pain on the outside too. She told me that I had to get undressed and that I couldn’t even leave my socks on. “When I go to the doctor, I always want to leave my socks on because it makes me feel more secure.” she said to me. I nodded in understanding and wanted to hug her but she was out the door, gone, not my girl to save.

My doctor had large dark puffy circles under her eyes. I had never seen them there before, but although she sees me naked, inside and out, we are not allowed to break through the doctor patient relationship and talk about her. She scolded me gently for not having done the two things she had told me to do, go to physical therapy, and get blood work done at the lab. I told her that I knew I should have, but when the woman had called bright and early from the physical therapy department I had listened to her chipper over enthusiastic voice and deleted the message without writing down the number. The doctor laughed at that. I have always been suspicious of people who are genuinely cheerful, especially so early in the morning, because I feel like I am in a Twilight Zone episode enough as it is without surrounding myself with constant happy banter.

The doctor gave me three new prescriptions and I showed her the zit that had sprung up on my chin. It was one of those that lingers, red and throbbing, but there is nothing you can do about it because it refuses to break through to the surface. I told her that it was my worry about going back to work zit and mentioned that I had read in a trash magazine that celebrities have cortisone injections to eliminate their pimples. She said that she had never done a pimple injection before and she wanted me to hold a warm compress on it three times a day.

She flipped through my charts after we had talked for awhile about my back and my crazy brain and exclaimed that I had lost fifteen pounds in a month. She asked me how I had done it and I, having not been aware of the weight loss, said that I had been drinking lots of water and walking my dog. I didn’t mention that I was trying to flush narcotics out of my system. She warned me again about the ramifications of taking any job that required lifting and I nodded solemnly as I thought about telling ChefHisName that I could lift up to one hundred pounds, no problem. She told me she wanted me to find another psychiatrist because she felt like what she was doing, the drugs she was prescribing me, the medication monitoring, she felt it wasn’t working. I knew she was right but I felt weary at the thought of trying therapy again. I told her I’d look for a doctor who was accepting new patients, and inwardly felt nauseated at the thought of sitting in another office with the stranger taking notes and the tissue box pushed closer to my seat as I was told to tell the story of my childhood. Again. Over and over again, just for me, just for them, until one day something in the wiring of my brain reprograms itself perhaps? Until I can retell the morning of March 27^th 1985, walking into a house to find my father had chosen to die, was I supposed to tell that story until I could tell it with dry eyes?

I went downstairs to fill my prescriptions and the café next to the pharmacy was packed with lunch eaters. After comparing prices between the café and the vending machines I bought water from the vending machine, letting that be an opportunity to use up all of the nickels in my purse. I sat staring at the numbers on the pharmacy screen. It currently read 71; the piece of paper in my hand read 85. There was a woman in a wheelchair telling everyone and no one that she had lost her husband of thirty years to cancer. People moved tables to avoid her, and she maneuvered her motorized scooter, carefully zipping up rows in between the groups of patients and employees trying to eat their lunches. Everyone seemed to be avoiding eye contact, not wanting to get caught up in someone else’s grief, and I looked directly at her, committing her face to memory, noticing the long thick grey whiskers growing from her chin. She didn’t come near me. She forced her pain on the other people, the people in the circle that I actively tried to sit outside of.

Finally, unable to stand sitting a moment longer, I made my way outside to the one bench that has been designated as a smoking section at the hospital. Rushed employees trying to hurry and inhale as quickly as possible linger there, as do patients who come outside to smoke, some with their IV poles still attached to their arms, some with oxygen tanks hooked to their faces that I imagine to be flammable.

As I lit my smoke I remembered my cell phone, which I had turned off due to hospital regulations. I turned it on, wondering if ChefHisName had called with the appointment time for my UA. I pressed the 1 on my speed dial and his voice was there, different than before.

“Hi, sorry I haven’t gotten back to you sooner. Uhhhhhhh…….After giving it, uh, further thought, I uh, have decided to uh, um, go with someone less experienced, so ah, um, the position has been, uh, filled with someone else. I, um, uh, will, however, keep your resume on file, and it will, uh, be the first one I pull if I am looking for a Chef or a Baker.”

I hit the 4 button on my phone and listened to the message again. I felt a pang of disappointment, then a rush of anger. He had told me the last time we spoke that the job was mine; I just needed to take the test. Pride came to my mind and joined regret and anger in the party and my ego said, “ChefFucker, you just made a huge mistake not hiring me.”

As I stood there and studied the sky, the people taking advantage of the free valet parking, the old people bringing their even older looking parents into the hospital, (at least they were parent child in my imagination), and the most amazing thing happened.

Usually I am prone to fretting and fussing, over thinking every scenario until it’s beaten to death, bloody and limping, feeling and feeling some more. This time? This time I just let it go. I let it all go, and I actually felt the weight of it leave me. I wondered if that was the secret of the chipper people I so try to avoid, the ones whom I feel so irritated around, the ones who can put on the face and pull out the happy voice.

I walked back inside and the number board read 84. I was next.

After I’d gotten both kids off to school this morning I started to prepare the items I’d sold on Ebay for shipping. My Mom called and asked what I was doing ;I told her and she offered to come and take me to the post office so I didn’t have to carry all of the boxes of books on the bus and then she wanted to go out for coffee. I finished with my packages and called ChefHisName. As soon as he said hello I realized who he reminded me of, that guy who plays Dr. Cox on Scrubs. That helped me feel less nervous. After I’d gotten off the phone I took a shower and kissed and cuddled Maggie until it was time to go.

My Mom was telling me about her upcoming trip to Australia and after I spent too long in the post office (are they always busy?) I went back to the car and my Mom asked where I wanted to go for coffee. I thought it might be a nice treat to actually sit down somewhere instead of drinking in the car so when she was finished talking I told her of a Starbucks up ahead. I decided to go ahead and tell her about the conversation I’d had with ChefHisName. I told her about how I had called him and he’s asked me to come down tomorrow for a drug test and after that and the criminal background check the job is mine. She looked away from the road at a red light and placed her hand on my leg. “Oh, Tammy. I am so proud of you.”

Something had been nagging me in the back of my mind all morning and I hadn’t talked with anyone about it, so I told her that I was worried that the drugs I’d been given in the ER and for a few weeks after I injured my back were going to make me test positive because they were in the opiate family, you know the family that actually works when you’re in severe pain. She snatched her hand away and said “TAMMY!!!” in that voice that makes me feel so little again, that voice that shows me just how disappointed she really is.

I tried explaining it to her, the pain, the not being able to walk, the you just drove by Starbucks but she was just cruising on down the road. I pointed in a direction and said, “There’s a little coffee shop down that way that’s nice.” As I snuck a look her face was set, her lips gone, her eyes facing forward. “”What time is it?” she asked, “I have a lot to get done today.” We rode the rest of the way to my house in silence. I was sorry that I had trusted her with that, kicking myself for thinking that she would understand.

When I got home Alex was still awake. I hadn’t told him about the call either and so I crawled into bed beside him and told him that I was afraid that I was going to fail the piss test. He told me about the drug tests he’s taken and how they ask him if he’s on prescription medication first. I imagined writing out the list of medications I am taking. I imagined ChefHisName, or ChefCox, as I think of him now, reading the list and shaking his head at his foolishness. He actually mentioned something today about a position where I would be a supervisor [oh my god I haven’t had to keep track of kids who aren’t my own in three years] and now this fear in my head after I’d told him I’d have no trouble supervising a crew. “No Problem!” I had replied.

Anyway, Alex talked me through my fears and when I asked what about a hair follicle test he said with a straight face as he eyed my hair hanging all the way down to the middle of my back, “Hair Follicle? You’re fucked!” There was something about the way he said it and then the way he rubbed the top of my head afterwards. We laughed and I wondered aloud if I should Sinéad O’Connor it right now. He doesn’t think that would be a good look for me, somehow.  As he spooned me I whispered, “What if I don’t get the job?” and he whispered back, “Then you will get another one.” and it was all OK then. I should have gone to him first, not to my Mom.

You were all very sweet in the comments and I want to answer everyone but I can’t right this minute so I will just say thank you for now and hope you know that I truly felt those good thoughts coming my way and it was very important.

The test is tomorrow at 1p.m. PST.

I have had a few interviews now. I have applied for so many jobs that I can’t keep them all straight and sometimes when someone calls and says ,”Hi, this is Jude” and then starts talking away I am wondering,  “Jude from where?”

I should have kept records. Anyway, I am liking the over the phone interviews. I think that in many situations time can be saved on both sides with a preliminary phone interview. Case in point: the woman who asked me if I wanted a position on call, rotating shifts. The money was very good and the benefits package was better than anything I’ve ever had but the truth is that the job is 90 minutes away by bus and since our buses don’t run 24/7 I had to answer honestly when she asked me if I could jump up and rush to work at a moments notice if she called at say 3 a.m. I thought that even if it was bus accessible I would be a nervous wreck with an on call job. There is no one in the world I want to talk to at 3 a.m anyway. Sometimes I miss the days when only drug dealers and doctors had cell phones or pagers. Now we are so accessible.

I had an interview last week, I can’t remember the day now. Anyway, I was on the phone with the boss/man who called and I had gone up to Alex’s and my bedroom to try to get away from the kids and the pets for a bit of quiet. Alex came upstairs and heard me refer to the man as ChefHisName. When I hung up the phone Alex made a crack about it. I told him that it was something I’d encountered before and it didn’t bother me. Certain chefs will demand to be referred to as Chef whatever and others don’t care. There is also the whole thing in kitchens about who gets to wear which uniform and who gets the big hat and the in between size hat and who gets no hat at all. I have actually witnessed arguments amongst cooks when one feels that the other is wearing a hat he hasn’t earned. It’s sort of like the Catholic church and the priests, bishops and the pope. It’s all in the special hats. Look next time. I personally don’t need a hat so I just put my hair in a bun with a hairnet over the top.

Anyway, he must have liked whatever I said on the phone because he asked to meet with me in person. I arrived early, even getting off a few stops ahead of the place so that I could have a cold drink, work on my breathing for relaxing as I get very nervous in these situations, and to have a cigarette (oh by the way Chantix isn’t a magic pill and you have to actually want to quit smoking and I really was more determined to cut down, not to quit, so I quit taking them after a month. )

I’m so frazzled lately I can hardly focus. I read my resume over few times because the jobs I did in the 80s and early 90s? I wasn’t so sure I’d remember everything. I decided to enter 20 minutes before the interview because nerves+ cold drink= must pee. The woman at the entrance greeted me and I told her that I was there for an interview with ChefhHisName and could she please point me in the direction of the facilities? I was only in there for a few minutes and when I walked out the door ChefHisName thrust his hand out and shook mine vigorously. I had this moment of panic that maybe my hands weren’t all the way dry. Maybe there was some moisture between my fingers and he had felt that when he shook my hand. Another woman in a uniform met up with us as we walked toward the breakroom and I noticed how fast the employees were all moving and I realized that I have been out of the professional kitchen for a few years and my speed walk has turned into a saunter.

After we had all sat down the questions began. I had carefully thought this out beforehand so I would be ready with the “Why did you take a break from working?” to the “What is your best feature” and “What is your biggest flaw?” I’ve always hated the questions they ask in interviews. I know that you’re supposed to flip the answer around to a positive i.e. “I am a perfectionist” but I hate that shit. I had also researched the place online in case they asked me questions about it but this guy caught me off my guard by opening the interview with, “Why are you applying for this position? You are way overqualified.”

I told him that I was attracted to the schedule. It’s a Mon-Fri gig on the day shift. I mentioned that when I was baking it was 18-20 hours a day during the holidays and then I was lucky to get 20 hours a week during the off seasons. He seemed satisfied with that and after he had talked with me awhile he let the don’tcallmechefwoman ask me her questions. The whole thing was pretty quick. The chef said he’d like to cross train me so I could fill other stations and I said that was fine. We talked about wages and benefits and the fact that if I am a felon I might as let them know because they were going to run and background check and oh by the way you have to take a UA. I said that was fine and he said that as far as he was concerned he wanted to hire me right then and there but they still had two more people coming in so call Tuesday (tomorrow) morning and he will give the yes or no.

I don’t know why but I have been extremely nervous about it. I am nervous that I won’t get it, and nervous that I will. I have kept on searching just in case and I have felt frozen when it came to trying to write. I am worried that my back can’t do this type of work anymore and fretting because I don’t know how to do anything else.

That’s all for now. I just thought it might be helpful to jot this down as it’s something that is difficult for me, this going out into the real world and hoping that I can control my anxiety and depression enough so that neither of them will interfere with my ability to do my job . As much as I believe that the stigma surrounding mental illness needs to be lifted, I don’t want to be a spokesperson or a poster child for it in a work setting.

Sorry I haven’t had time to write. I have been looking for a job and I am becoming frustrated because I haven’t heard back from anyone yet.

The last time that I was looking I had four job offers in nine days. I am trying very hard not to get discouraged this time but it’s not easy.

Anyway, I have some items up for sale on EBAY if anyone is interested in taking a look. I should have more things up by the weekend. Too much stuff and not enough $$$. AHHHH…

Think good thoughts for me please.

Thank you to my kind readers. I never understood it really when some online writers went on and on about how much they loved and appreciated their readers but now I do. Thanks everyone. It means a lot that you’re here, more than I can say.

“She should have stayed away from friends
She should have had more time to spend
She should have died when she was born
She should have worn the crown of thorns”

Been a Son- Nirvana

1982 was the year that marked, among other things, my Dad approaching me to ask if I would like to attend this series of classes he had heard about. It was called GI Joe’s Fishing Camp, and it was for parents and their children to learn how to fish together.

At this point in time I was still very much a daddy’s girl and what I wanted more than anything was to make him happy, having deduced that if he was happy, everyone would be happy and we could all continue to live together. When I gave an enthusiastic, “YES!” he pulled me to him and held me. My heart was racing with joy and I felt just the sting of tears at the corners of my eyes. His face was beaming and I had done that; I had put that smile there.

He showed me the information that he had collected regarding these classes and wrote the times and dates down in his tiny little cursive. When the evening of the first class arrived I was all excited, imaging us flinging line into water and pulling out fish. When we got in the car he had no poles, just his wallet that he always studied carefully before he left the house. We arrived at a building and walked into a room full of fold out chairs. We were early as always and Dad seized that opportunity to grab good seats. He had difficulty hearing and even in the best situations he had to cup his hand around his earlobe and listen with a pained look on his face. We sat silently holding hands as we waited. Soon the room began filling up with fathers and sons and when a man approached the microphone stand dad gave my hand one last squeeze before he pulled it away to cup his ear.

I soon discovered that listening to a man talking about fishing was even more boring than church, where at least we were threatened with eternal damnation and called sinners and told to beg for forgiveness least we be sent to the fiery pits of hell. I pretended to be incredibly interested in the man with the microphone and when he set up a screen for a slide show I hoped it was getting better but a slideshow about fishing while a man talks is only marginally more interesting than him talking without the slides.

When we left my Dad pulled me along by the hand and praised me for being the best behaved child in attendance. This was an early lesson; I knew full well that the consequence for misbehaving was being taken home and beaten until I could only hope I’d pass out or even die, but I never did. We were beaten until he either grabbed someone else and started in on them or he tired. The only salvation I had was the fact that he often beat us in chronological order, so by the time he had finished with my Mom, my brother and both of my sisters and reached for me he was sometimes out of steam.

All the way home in the car my Dad talked about the new things he had learned and I sat nervously, hoping there wasn’t going to be a quiz. When he exclaimed about learning to fly fish, something he had apparently always wanted to do, I felt this nausea within me. When the weather was nice and my Mom opened the windows the flies would come in. My Mom would smack at them and with each successful hit she would exclaim, “I got Louie!” or Fred, or Stan, or Joe… I asked her once how she knew their names and she said she just knew. The flies were always male and sometimes, before she would wipe the remains away, I would look down at the smashed insect and wonder if he’d had a family, a wife and kids. Now I envisioned catching them and having to place them on hooks.

Dad and I attended a few more seminars before the big event, the Saturday we got to try out all that we had learned at a trout fishing pond especially stocked for the occasion. Before that Saturday Dad surprised me by taking me shopping for supplies. We stood in the fishing aisle and I pretended to understand why we needed this and that but not the other. When my Dad said that he felt it was time to get me a pole of my own I nearly fell over with excitement. It wasn’t Christmas or my Birthday; I couldn’t believe I was getting a present. My Dad selected the pole for me, carefully pointing out the fact that it was very expensive at $14.99. I couldn’t wait to get it home and open it. I imagined standing on the couch casting off into the shag carpet and reeling my stuffed animals in one at a time.

At home the pole was tucked away for safety with my Dad’s things. I waited for the day I would be allowed to hold it. When the Saturday arrived I eagerly helped him pack up the car. Upon our arrival at the pond I saw dozens and dozens of sons with their poles and their fathers. There were tables set up with free hotdogs and soda pop and I was excited because I had never had a hotdog before and now the day had arrived when I would bite into the mystery of the bun and the dog all covered in mustard.

We went directly to the water’s edge and my Dad finally let me hold my pole. He showed me how to slip the salmon eggs he had bought onto my hook. I was relieved that I didn’t have to touch any flies or worms. The salmon eggs were pink and pretty and I just pretended they were mushy beads. My Dad showed me how to cast out and then we waited. I asked him if he was going to fish too, but he said that this was my day. All around me the excited screams, hollers and chatter erupted from excited boys reeling in fish to the delight of their back slapping proud fathers. My Dad grimaced in disapproval over the noise. Patiently he stood beside me, guiding me in a whisper, watching my face closely as I waited for a nibble. Hours seemed to pass as I tried again and again, unsuccessfully.

When most of the participants were now wandering around eating hotdogs and chatting with the other fathers as their sons ran and played, the fish they had caught either strung up or in buckets, forgotten already, my Dad packed us up without a word. Grasping my hand again and pulling me along he finally spoke, “You didn’t want a hotdog, did you?”

It wasn’t a question. I tried not to cry as we hurried to the car. After we had packed up he placed his hand on my shoulder and looked directly into my eyes. “It’s okay that you didn’t catch a fish. I am proud of you for trying so hard. The fish were probably scared away by all of the people making so much noise.” He shot a dirty look in the direction of the pond as I tried to believe him. I wanted so badly to see the look of pride on his face that I saw on the faces of the other dads. I wondered if it was due to the fact that I was a girl. I thought that all of those hours I had spent in those seminars just pretending to listen while daydreaming had caught up with me. I vowed right then that I would become a fisher girl extraordinaire. I would do him proud, one day.

To Be Continued, as always. For those readers who requested more about Terri and Sophie, I haven’t forgotten. For reasons that will become obvious later, it was necessary to write this entry first.

The year was 1982. I was spending the night at my friend Sophie’s house for the first time.

Sophie was pretty much an outsider at the Catholic school we attended. She had arrived in third grade and she soon became the source of cruel child pranks. I stood next to her after gym one day as she cried over her shoes. We were to change into sneakers for gym and then dress shoes for class. Someone had filled her shoes with glue. The snot and tears ran down her face and dripped into the shoes as I awkwardly patted her shoulder. “My Mom is going to kill me.” A few days later word spread that the mom had insisted that the school buy her daughter new shoes. Sophie showed up in shiny brown leather and a smile.

Her mother Terri was 23 and she had three kids: 10 year old Sophie, 3 year old Jolie, and 1 year old Amy. There was no man in sight and the whispers weren’t even hidden behind their backs as Terri roared up to the school to pick up her daughter in an old white Chevy. She emerged from the driver’s seat sleek like a cat with her perfectly feathered hair and flawless figure in skintight jeans and a tube top. She approached the playground with a baby on one hip, a child holding her other hand, a cigarette dangling from her lips and yelled at Sophie to get her ass in the car. I was instantly enthralled and decided right then and there to befriend Sophie.

My plan worked and soon I was invited over for the night.

Her house was wondrous, not in its exterior, but in its contents. Terri raised angora rabbits for show and they had the run of the house. I snuck a quick feel as they hopped by me, immediately sold on the fur as it brushed across my palm. One wall contained the largest fish tank I’d ever seen in a house and while Sophie was giving me the tour of the house she showed me the puppy’s bedroom. They had a bedroom on the main floor with puppies. I wanted to stay in that room, but outside I was led, my animal loving mind going crazy with delight. In the back there were rows and rows of metal cages with rabbits in them. I asked Sophie if these rabbits ran around inside the house too, but she shook her head no and asked me to give her a hand with the carrots. The 50 pound bags were waiting near the hutches and we slipped the carrots through the bars and checked the water levels in each bottle. Sophie told me which bunnies were pregnant and when they were due and I wanted to hold them all but she said no. I gave the pregnant bunnies extra carrots.

Back inside the house her mother waved us toward the table. I sat across from Sophie and Terri pulled a pizza from the oven, slapped it on a plate, placed it in front of me and growled, “You’d better eat the whole thing or I’m gonna beat yer ass.” My heart started beating faster and my face burned hot. Sophie had an entire pizza in front of her too. I didn’t even know that you could bake a pizza in a home oven; I thought pizza came from Shakey’s. Terri went off to the living room to watch TV. Sitting there with no utensils I did it. I ate the entire pizza. I looked up to see Sophie standing there next to my chair with a diet Pepsi in her hand. On her plate remained a large portion of her pizza. “Wow! You must have been really hungry!” I told her that her mom was going to beat my ass if I didn’t finish and she ran off laughing to tell her mom.

Terri came into the kitchen laughing at me. “You didn’t really think I’d beat your ass did ya? I was just kidding.” I wiped the sauce from my mouth onto my sleeve and stood; Terri put her arm around my shoulders and led me into the living room. Amongst the dark paneled walls and the thick veil of smoke I sat on the overstuffed couch. I don’t remember what was on TV but we sat there surrounded by the softest bunnies who would hop away as I tried to catch one after another. The puppies were let out of their room to roll and play at our feet and her two little girls played with their toys on the floor. I wanted to live there with them forever.