I wanted to start this by answering some of the comments I didn’t have a chance to respond to.

Susan, I can think of no higher compliment than you taking your time to read through my archives. Thank you.

Kristen, the fact that you left a comment, “Haunting, beautifully so. ” is amazing, especially considering that’s how I feel about your writing.

K, you have been reading from the almost beginning, and I am lucky we found each other. I will hold my father’s letter close to my heart.

Bokker, I am happy to hear that you found me, especially through Thursday.  I appreciate your comment , “Thanks for writing- I know how hard it is to articulate loss, but I think it helps people.” A lot of people have questioned me for speaking out through my writing, but the world is a lonely enough place without thinking there’s no one out there who can relate. Do stop back in if you wish. I’ll put the kettle on.

Josh, I don’t know why woman have a thing for gnarly looking men. I like men to look like they’ve lived. If that involves a bad case of acne and alcoholism, so be it. I’m thinking of Charles Bukowski here. Very handsome man. As for penises, I hate to think men wouldn’t take the extra seconds to wash if they’re not circumcised, but I know better. So I am not going to think about it. Lalalallalalala. Has anyone heard any good songs lately???

***

One more statement about why I choose to write about my father’s suicide and the effects it has had on me: I have seen this from both sides now. I have been that 12 year old child who lost her father and I have been a depressed mother thinking about suicide. My point is this: The pain for the survivors never goes away. The guilt, the feelings that you should have saved the person, loved them better, all still there. For me it has lessened, but it’s in there, and sometimes I feel that sharp pain in my heart, that feeling of not being able to breathe, and it comes back. My Dad gave me life with my mother, and then over and over again in showing me the consequences to families when someone takes their life. I credit my mom for holding us together in the only way she knew how.

***

I have been working the day shift and the night shift. On the day shift they have a meeting every single morning before the restaurant opens. I realize that it is a good time for the kitchen staff and the servers to get together so the specials of the day can be described. The one part that gets more than a bit old is when the managers talk about the wines and beers. The good point of this is we get to sit down for a minute and they offer samples of different drinks so we can try them. The down side is the descriptions of the wines and the beers are so lengthy, including an at depth discussion of food pairings , that I find myself wanting to get back to the kitchen so I can get finished and go home. I would like to offer my services for this part of the morning meeting, even though I do not fit the wine connoisseur label. I would be straight to the point, “This is a Pinot Blanc from California. It is a very dry white wine. Too dry, in fact. (sips water) It is being offered at $9.50 per glass, and they don’t even fill that thing the whole way, can you believe that? You should know what to pair it with, you’ve been working here for months. Otherwise, just let the customer pick, because they’re paying after all.”

Anyway, work is good, even though I am getting bored. I need to make something new. I never want to see another hoagie or hamburger bun for as long as I live. The only thing that looks promising is that I can create artisan bread every week, the flavor is my choice, as long as we have a white and a wheat or rye variety because it looks better on the plates, and the promising thing is it’s pumpkin time. I saw that the cans of pumpkin were in and I hope I will be allowed to create some dessert specials for Fall.  I also have some sweet potato recipes that would work well.

I had my 90 day review, two months late, and got a raise and a lot of kudos. I was also told what I need to improve on. This is the first company I have worked for who has had the official reviews where I have to fill out paperwork listing my strengths and weaknesses. This was way harder than I imagined it would be. I fretted over that stupid paper and even asked my boss if I could punch out, have a beer or two, and then fill out the papers. I was that nervous. Apparently they pay you to fill this shit out so I sat down with a smoke and a coffee and just did it.

This entry isn’t getting any longer, despite my having started it days ago, so I am going to post it and try again soon.

Currently listening to: Joni Mitchell.

For whatever reason, I wish for this to be mostly a stand alone entry. I would say to those of you who haven’t been longtime readers, or those who weren’t willing to pick through the archives (and I can’t say I blame you. I tried to do it once and almost decided to delete 99% of it) that it might help to read this entry first.

Anyway, I’ve been off work for a few days so I have been trying to tackle a portion of the paper that exists in my life. I started with the cleaning of the side of the desk that I share with Alex ,to the drawer I have in the file cabinet. I use this drawer frequently, mostly by opening it, shoving papers inside, and shutting the door. I did this the year my mom decided to give each of her children a copy of her new, updated will for Christmas. I glanced at the front page and then shoved it into the drawer.

Deep down in the archives of my years I came across a folded piece of paper. It gave me pause immediately. It appeared yellow with age and perhaps a slight bit stained by water. I have no idea how it came into my possession, no recollection of ever having read it before. It was written by my Dad.

“Tammy is eight years old. I am her dad home from work and very tired. She tells me of her day at school. How Sister, her teacher, has some prayers for her to learn. I hold her list as she recites. She reads from her book and I learn how Africans spend their day. I look on as she does her Math. We talk of our fishing trips and of her thrill at using my pole. I hope that next time she will catch a fish. We play a card game called Fish. I try to make sure she ends up with more books than me. She snuggles next to me nearly asleep. I feel good and not tired at all. Now it is time for her to go to bed. I watch her slowly slowly fall asleep. How beautiful she is to me and how great it is to be a Dad.

.4 (152/16 + 2 100) = .4 (9.5+1.32) =.4 (10.8) = 4.32

5 long sentences”

You see, Pammy Sue, it’s not always sad. But it’s always there inside me, somewhere.

Currently listening to: Beck “Nobody’s Fault But My Own”

Polly wanted to make sure I gave her credit for this photo.

I haven’t been even a tenth of the writer I wanted to be here. I had made a vow to also be a reader, to read and reply to my comments and emails, to reach out, to give back. I have been comforted by each of your words, and grateful that you took the time to leave them here.

I noticed immediately after the aforementioned incident with Chef Medium Cheddar that my anxiety level hit a high I haven’t seen in years. I dreaded going to work; I dreaded the hour he would arrive. I think I’ve mentioned before that I work with a group of guys, all of them seeming like boys really, except for one man, Joseph, who is closer to my age at 30. When I returned after the incident where I was yelled at I started to work immediately and he asked me what was wrong. I tried brushing him off and smiling, but he knew. We have had a few opportunities to talk alone since we started working together and we have opened up and shared just enough of our respective stories to know that we have struggled and why, although I must admit when he calmly told me his, a story filled with abusive stepfathers, a mother who abandoned him and the horrors he and his brother lived through in various foster homes, I could have wept for the little boy he once was. On another note, we both suffer from clinical depression and panic disorder, although his panic attacks were only recently diagnosed and treated. The similarities pretty much end there. He is strong and vocal and takes absolutely no shit from anyone, no matter what position they hold.

When I finally told him the condensed version of being yelled at he immediately asked why I hadn’t stood up for myself. When I told him that it was someone who is our superior there he was adamant, “I don’t give a fuck who it was. You respond to that kind of treatment with a demand for respect.” His voice softened quite a bit and he spoke to me softly, “I know that it is hard for you, but you are going to have to learn how to stand up for yourself. The first few times you do it it’s going to be real hard, but it will get easier. Soon enough people will learn that you won’t tolerate it and it will stop. And if you do get fired, you can walk out with your head held high.” I knew he was right in the same way I knew it was going to be something I may never master.

I did talk with Alex about it, and he said that if something similar happens again to bypass all of the cheeses in the kitchen and to head straight upstairs to the office that holds the head cheese of the whole operation where I am to calmly request a meeting regarding the incident. One of the reasons I clung to Alex from such a young age was the fact that he takes no shit from anyone. There is truth in what both Joseph and Alex said to me and if history is any indication, this will continue to come up until I can learn not to flee, not to cry, not to hide.

I haven’t written about my children in some time. Nathan had a wonderful visit to LA with my cousin. My only complaint would be that he came back whining about the weather here in Portland and bemoaning the fact that he wasn’t raised in LA. This type of griping gets old fast and so I have pointed out to him that he will be 18 soon, and at that point he can move himself to LA where everything is “perfect” , as he puts it. He is otherwise doing well. He decided to obtain his GED and is now starting college at the end of this month. He actually consulted me on his course selections and I told him to make sure to take at least one class that would be fun. He seems excited to be moving on and my heart is full as I watch him forge ahead. For a long time I was so afraid for his future. He has mellowed considerably and his anger doesn’t often get the best of him anymore.

Polly is in 8th grade this year. She is still avidly taking photographs and drawing. I am still trying to resist the urge to be way more overprotective with her than I am with Nathan. She has really come out of her shell at this school she is in. She has a solid group of friends and her calendar of events is too hard to keep in my head so I had to create a document for it on the computer to keep everything straight. She is still a voracious reader, something that pleases me to no end, and I can only hope that she knows how much I love her, as she is doing the pull me close push me away thing that is normal, but oh so painful as a parent.

I will try harder to write more. My laptop broke, and Alex can’t fix it, so I need to take it in for repair. I should have paid for the extended warranty. I always figure Alex can fix everything, but sometimes, no. I was actually happy that the damn laptop decided to die when he was using it. I hate being the one with my hand in the cookie jar when it shatters, every damn time.

Why is it that my daughter Polly finds slugs disgusting, yet she will hold a snail and declare how cute he is and can she keep him? I mean, does the shell make one cute? Would a cute little turtle be ugly without his shell? Never mind, I just answered my own questions. Turtles aren’t cute, and I think I remember seeing Franklin without a shell during the days when I had to read the same books over and over to my kids until I thought I’d scream and he wasn’t cute either. Of course I could have said no, but back then I was very worried about being a wonderful mom. Now I am just hoping In Treatment comes back on soon because I want Gabriel Burne , sexually. I am like one of his patients, except I am not a doctor.

Speaking of doctors, a coworker of mine had an asthma attack the other night at work and then he started having a panic attack because he couldn’t breathe. I snapped at him, asking where his inhaler was. He replied that he kept it at home because he didn’t want to rely on it. If I had asthma I’d have an inhaler around my neck on a dog chain. I’d probably carry another one in my purse in case of malfunction.

I told him my CPR was rather rusty and he laughed and I offered him a Klonopin. I probably made the right decision when I decided not to go to Nursing School.

Speaking of shells, this would be a great time for a “to circumcise or not to circumcise?” fight in my comments. I personally agree with the idea of letting your son make the choice himself. As for looking at penises, I am indifferent. I don’t really have much interest in looking at penises. When I was in second grade my eldest sister took me to Plaid Pantry and led me to the Kool-Aid section. I thought she was going to buy Kool-Aid and I was all excited because my Mom only gave us juice, water or milk. Or tea, or beer. Pop on special occasions.Forget it, I was writing about penises. My sister reached way back and pulled out some magazine and opened it up to a naked man. He was sitting there looking off to the side with that expression on his face, who me? I am not sitting on this chair naked. I screamed when I realized what I was seeing and pointed at the picture and yelled out, “Oh my god! It’s a slug!” My sister shoved the magazine back as she clapped her hand over her mouth to cover the laughter.

The remains of the former brewery, Henry Weinhards, that they tore down to “revitalize the Pearl District”, here in downtown Portland. Certain parts of that brewery are on the historic registrair, so they were required to leave them.

My cousin has moved from Australia to LA. He flew up last weekend for a visit and took my son Nathan back down with him Tuesday. Nathan will be spending a week there and from what I’ve heard from him he is loving California and wishing we would move down there. Even though I spent a great deal of time preparing for Nathan to leave I was still in a panicked rush the morning of his departure. I realized that I hadn’t really been properly preparing; I had just been worrying. I have never been able to turn off that part of me, the part that can never seem to calm down enough to enjoy the now and to stop spending so much time fretting. I had several moments of sadness over my son leaving, although I knew he would have a lot of fun and would be well taken care of. There’s just something about him being 16 and knowing that his life plans don’t include living here with us forever.

Polly is fine. She has started the full fledged whining about boredom now that August has arrived. I found some sites online where she could practice Algebra as that is the subject she struggles with and she actually did homework, in the summer. I have tried hard to organize activities for her to keep her busy but it’s never enough. I don’t remember my mom entertaining us as children; that was our job.

Tina asked about how I deal with the fact that I don’t drive and the subsequent questions. I will write more about that later, but those of you who suffer from anxiety issues and/or depression please remember what it took me too many years to learn: Your accomplishments may be different from other peoples, but they are accomplishments nonetheless. I went from having a case of agoraphobia so severe that I couldn’t check the mail because it seemed impossible to be able to open the front door to slip my hand in the mailbox. Now I am holding down a full time job and traveling around Portland by bus no problem. Never give up hope and keep trying.

I need to catch some sleep before I work tonight so I’ll head bed ways and try not to feel bad about the fact that I can’t spend as much time here writing as I want to, and the fact that I am behind on my email . Please know I am reading your comments and emails and they all mean a lot to me.

This might come across like reading my twitter, if I had a twitter, but here goes anyway.

I absolutely loved reading your comments and I am not just saying that. I always get very excited when you lovely people comment and I read my comments over and over. Feel free to diagnose me accordingly ; today I am feeling rather good. I had my first appointment with my new psychiatrist yesterday. In case I didn’t mention it, or you forgot, my primary care physician insisted I see someone and then told me she would no longer prescribe psychiatric medications for me, just to give me some “I’m out of Klonopin!” nerves and “I’m running low on Paroxetine! Side effects of withdrawal will be hell!” jitters. I was surprisingly not angry with her for this. I know she knew it was the only way I would go and she used it and I say well played, if her intentions were good, and I think they were. Anyway, I was originally unhappy because there were so few psychiatrists accepting new patients so I got stuck with a man when I had asked for a woman. Now, I love men. I usually get along with them better than women, truth be told. But I have had male doctors in the past and I thought I would be more comfortable with a woman. Plus, this guy’s office is far away from my house and after I wrote down his name and the appointment time Alex googled him and he got his degree from the University of They Have Universities in That Country!?!? I know that sounds horrible, but if I named the country you would know what I mean, as it’s associated with dire poverty, starvation, and death. Angelina Jolie is expected to swoop down in her private jet and adopt a child from that country any minute just because it’s that bad there. Plus, I was worried that he would have an accent I wouldn’t understand and then I’d have to either tell him, “I’m sorry. I am only catching every third word here.” or I’d have to shoot for context and just nod and hope my responses were correct. I don’t have the best hearing and it has become increasingly clear that I need to get a hearing aid or at least a Miracle Ear implanted but I haven’t even wanted to deal with any of that.

I spent yesterday morning fretting and filling out the forms they sent weeks ago. I actually had to attach another sheet of paper to list all of the medications I take. When I got to the family history part I was worried because the first thing on there were the questions about my parents, their ages, are they living, and if not, cause of death. I actually considered lying about my Dad. I feared that as soon as I wrote “Father, Death in 1985 at age 57, Cause: Suicide” that would be the primary focus of the appointment.i went ahead and told the truth, figuring it would be in my medical records anyway. My mom offered to drive me. At first I resisted, but she had a compelling argument; she’s only seen me once since she returned from Australia, and she knew I was going to be taking a bus to a hospital I am not familiar with and she has been there several times. I agreed and when she insisted she would wait until my one hour appointment was over and drive me back home I asked if she would like to go out to lunch, my treat, and then maybe visit a plant nursery. She was excited about the nursery idea, and she knew one that she thought I would like in the vicinity of the hospital.

When we arrived at the hospital and found the wing that contained the doctor’s office I started to have a panic attack in the elevator up. I didn’t say anything but I was considering reaching for my last few Klonopin and popping a couple when my mom reached out and squeezed my hand and smiled. I knew then that she wasn’t there because I was unfamiliar with that part of town, or that hospital. I felt like a big, dopey kid trapped in the body of a thirty five year old woman. I decided against the pills, partly because I thought it might be beneficial for the doctor to see me in the panic state I live in most of the time, but mostly because I was almost out and what if he didn’t give me any prescriptions?

My mom lead the way off of the elevator, knowing somehow the exact ways to turn, as I followed carrying racing heart, churning tummy, and a dizzy head. After I’d checked in with the receptionist I looked through the stacks of magazines and pulled out some that I knew my mom would enjoy. I stared down at my dirty clogs and realized that I should have cleaned the dried flour off of them before I came, but I hadn’t thought of it. My mom read bits and pieces aloud from a magazine, some article about saving thousands at the grocery store. A dark skinned man in a well cut suit entered and walked through the waiting room and through the door. My mom was excited like a school girl, bouncing in her seat, “That’s him! That’s your doctor! He’s so cute! Isn’t he handsome? Oh my!” I felt awkward sitting there in jeans and a T shirt, clogs still dirty from baking at work, my face free of makeup, my hair pulled into a ponytail with bobby pins slipped onto the sides of my head to catch those wisps of hair that always slip out and curl around my face.

When he came to the door and called my name I stood on wobbly legs and followed him. We made out introductions but he didn’t shake hands. He led me into the smallest office I have ever seen in my life. It looked like a closet, seriously. There was enough room for a desk and two chairs and that’s it. I had brought a water bottle with me and when I asked if it was OK if I sat it down on the corner of his desk he said, “Yes, it’s OK, I will be drinking my coffee”, and then motioned to his Starbucks cup. I realized that he thought I was asking permission to drink and I smiled and said that I didn’t want to leave a white ring because of the condensation and he just waved that worry off, not the type to bother with coasters I suppose.

He asked for the history of the meds I have taken in the past and believe me, I had to pull out notes for that one. So many years, so many different pills. He asked the history of my depression and anxiety and a few other general questions. Happy marriage? Good kids? Work history? Etc. The only things that gave him pause to question me further were the facts that I admitted I have no friends, the fact that I don’t know how to drive, (he thought that to be absolutely stunning and questioned me in depth about how I’d managed that), and the fact that I admitted to worrying more about my daughter than my son, (he said he felt like I was projecting something from my own childhood onto my daughter). I imagine that I am not the only one who worries more about my teenage daughter than my teenage son (people help me out here, have you experienced this?) but I didn’t argue with him about it. He questioned the fact that my Mom was in the waiting room and took notes about the fact that she drove me there, but whatever.

There was a moment in that hour somewhere where he let an uncomfortable silence hang in the air. I wondered if it was a test to see how I’d react. I sat in silence for some time as I looked around the closet room and then I finally asked him, “So, I am guessing you don’t treat many claustrophobics ?” He looked confused for a few moments until he looked around his office and laughed large. I felt better because I always try to make my doctors laugh at least once and for damn near 200 dollars an hour he’d better find me funny every so often, or at least fake it.

Mostly he talked about anxiety and how much harder it is to treat than depression because anxiety is a normal human emotion and then he went into medications and an in depth account of how they work and although I have done a lot of reading about this myself over the years I didn’t want to interrupt him. He said that he would be happy to provide me with my prescriptions and wrote them out and told me to make a follow up appointment with the receptionist. Basically it was much easier than I had worried about and he gets mad props for not making me tell the whole story of child abuse and my dad’s suicide because I didn’t want to and I was afraid he would say he needed to see me three times a week but nope, just once a month.

Afterwards my mom and I went out for Mexican food even though my mom has this “If it’s wrapped in a tortilla it’s crap” opinion. She selected the restaurant. I ignored the margaritas even though I really wanted oneand we had a nice talk. When we were finished we went to a nursery where I bought a bunch of plants for my garden. When I got home Polly and Nathan came out and helped me plant them, and that my friends was the best therapy of all.

“Death is caused by swallowing small amounts of saliva over a long period of time.”
George Carlin

Thank you for the laughs George. I wonder if you’re finding out the seven words you can’t say in heaven.

I have been spending some of my time talking on the phone and emailing my cousin, the one I wrote about here; the one I didn’t go see when he was in Portland. We’ve had a magical ability to communicate with each other since we met in 1983, and I do believe him to be the only person who can say, “Cheer Up!” to me without making me either feel worse or making me want to snap and get homicidal. I wanted to apologize to him for my lack of civility when he was in the city but it didn’t end up even needing to be explained. This man, he is marvelous in the way he is fully able to just move on. It has been nice having someone to talk to. Honestly, Alex and I never had long in depth conversations, except of course for the time frame when we were using drugs that never wore off and we used to talk for hours, bonding over pharmaceuticals. Steve (my cousin) has always been incredibly supportive of whatever I am dreaming of doing, and it’s nice to have someone like that in my life once again.

Like most people I get moody and bitchy; sometimes I don’t feel like talking to anyone and I just want to be left alone. If I act like that for a few hours or a few days even it is inevitable that Alex will ask what is wrong. The thing that has always set me off, and we have lived together since I was 15, so that’s really a lot of times I got pissed off by this, is the way he asks me. He will say, “What’s wrong with you, anyway?” The tone of his voice, the way that the emphasis is placed on his enunciation of the word wrong, the whole thing always gives me a rush of anger and I usually answer with , “Nothing!” On occasion this will end it, but sometimes he will continue with, “Well, obviously something is wrong. You’ve been acting funny and…” I won’t pretend that I am an easy person to live with. My moods swing wildly, and sometimes I want a lot of attention and I get clingy and needy with him, and then other times I don’t want to talk to anyone in the world and I long for my own bedroom, one with a lock on the door, just so I can have the solitude I crave.

Lately we have been so busy with both of us working too much and sleeping different shifts, rarely are we in the bed at the same time due to our work schedules. Sometimes when we go through stages like this I forget that we are just busy, tired, and stressed and I really believe that he doesn’t love me or give a shit one way or another how I am doing.

I have brought this topic up to him numerous times, this constant feeling I have inside of me that I am not loved by him. He has always listened to me when I try to explain what I imagine is missing when I say not feeling loved, but he struggles to show me his feelings, and I feel bad for not being satisfied when I know that he is just loving me to the best of his abilities.

One of the main reasons for my decision to try to end my drinking habit is the fact that my stomach has been bothering me for weeks now. It is a horrible burning sensation that I knew could be related to the fact that I was drinking mostly coffee or alcohol, taking my prescription medications on an empty stomach and not eating properly. I bought TUMS and those little individual pepto bismal tablets and I’ve been stashing them into my purse and into my pockets when I have to go to work so if I need something to try to ease the burning gut it is readily available. The pill holder that Alex bought me to stash my emergency Klonopin into seems too small these days. I need a medicine cabinet I can wear as a backpack.

I never mentioned to Alex that my stomach was sick or why I haven’t been drinking alcohol or coffee. The other night I was on my way to work and my cell phone signaled that I had a text message. I looked at it and it was from Alex. Usually it is something regarding the kids, or a request for me to pickup something from the store. This time though it was a question he’s never asked me.

Alex: Are you alright?

Me: Yeah, why?

Alex: Because your stomach has been bothering you for weeks and I was wondering if you are feeling better.

I was stunned, honestly, but more than anything I was touched. In one text message he was able to convey more concern than twenty years of living together has ever done. Gone was that anger I feel every time I hear, “What’s wrong with you, anyway?” Apparently, are you alright is OK with me. Maybe we should text to each other more often instead of talking.

“ Why must you always be around?
Why can’t you just leave it be?
It’s done nothing so far but destroy my life
You cause as much sorrow dead
As you did when you were alive”

SINEAD O’CONNOR You Cause As Much Sorrow

I worked the graveyard shift Saturday night. As I’ve mentioned before, I work with mostly men. A few of them are veterans, and hearing them tell their stories, if they even can, and seeing the consequences they are dealing with now as a result of seeing more violence in a few years than anyone should ever have to face in a lifetime is heartbreaking. One man told me not to come up behind him; he can’t handle it. I’ve tried to walk heavily when I am entering an area he’s working in. He told me of working as a medic in the combat zones and trying to come to terms with losing 80% of his men. He told me of shooting them with morphine when they were hit and holding their hands as they died because, as he put it, “no one should have to die alone out there.” I asked him if he was treating a fellow soldier with a fatal wound and that man asked if he was dying if he told them the truth, or no. He said he always told them they were going to make it, no matter what.

Another veteran soldier tells no stories, ever. He shakes his head “No” and walks away slowly. I wonder how they feel about the people who drive around with yellow ribbon stickers making statements “I Support Our Troops”. I know that they received training that they could parlay into other jobs but they hide on night shifts and don’t use their GI Bill for college, not yet anyway.

A couple of them have erupted at work, showing anger and frustration by throwing things, swearing, yelling. Me being me, with my own issues; I get scared when this happens. Saturday night when one man blew up I moved away quickly and tried to work in a far away area. There’s a new woman on the maintenance crew; she was on her first night. I was trying to breathe through a panic attack and fighting the urge to run out the door when she came up to me and asked, “What man did that to you in your life, made you afraid like that when someone yells?” I was a bit taken aback. We’d only been introduced once and her name had slipped out of my head as soon as I heard it.

“Your Daddy?” she pushed, and I just nodded, not wanting her to think I am in an abusive relationship now. She nodded back and smiled. “It’s gonna be O.K.”, she said as she walked away.

Later on we were all sitting outside on the patio chilling out and relaxing at the end of our shift. I decided to tell my coworker that it had scared me when he blew up like that. He looked surprised and then sad. “I’m sorry! Sometimes I just need to let off a little steam and then I am fine.” I nodded, but I felt better having said my truth.

The conversation switched to Father’s Day and everyone reminded everyone else, “Call your Dad and tell him I love you and thank you!” I remained silent. The woman whose name escapes me said, “My father is deceased, thank you very much.” She glanced over at me and asked, “You too?” I nodded in the affirmative and she asked me how old I was when it happened.

“Twelve”, I answered, “I usually call my Mom and wish her a Happy Father’s Day but she’s out of town this year.”

“Me too! I call my Momma on Father’s Day too!” and then she rose and sat right down beside me, pulling out her cell phone. She texted her Mom so I could see, “Happy Father’s Day, Momma. I love you.” and the reply came quickly. “Thank you baby. I love you too. Signed Daddy Momma”

As she picked up her belongings and prepared to leave she told me, “Every bit of fathering I needed I got from my Daddy Momma, even before he died when I was 17.”

I know what she means and even though my Mom is in Australia right now and I have no way of calling her because she’s traveling about the country I sent her an email when I got home from work on the off chance she might stop into an internet café or something. It took me a few years, but I’ve finally been able to convince my Mom that she can check her email from anywhere in the world. She thought that it lived inside of her computer only.

***

Thank you all for your wonderful dessert ideas and opinions. I printed everything out and I look forward to getting back into the kitchen to try out some new recipes. I get bored making the same old things every night so hopefully getting to play around with the dessert specials will help. The comments that even took the time to say sweet things about me and my writing were a pleasant surprise. Maybe I should ask you all for advice more often. Do you think that now that I have hit the ripe age of 35 I should cut my hair above my shoulders? What about the color? Continue to get it highlighted at a salon even though I can only afford to do it once a year and I always have roots, or go back to doing it at home the way I did when I was in my teens and twenties?

***

One last thing, before I go. For those of you who have been following my stories, ChefHisName called and offered me a job. I actually considered it for a second because it would be a Mon.-Fri. day shift, but it’s several dollars less an hour and the benefits aren’t as good. Plus, and this really sealed the deal, the job was as a breakfast cook and the thought of cooking eggs for 200+ people every morning is more than I can stomach. It was nice to learn that he wasn’t just feeding me a line of bullshit when he said he’d keep me in mind for another position.

She had the most amazing ass I’ve ever seen in my life.

I was surprised that I noticed this. It is not a habit of mine. I was walking in my usual head down manner, IPOD headphones in ears, eyes alert to any broken lifted pieces of sidewalk that might trip me, and as I thought with amazement that I still like the Violent Femmes as much as I did in high school, I reminded myself to look up occasionally. She was about half a block in front of me. Her pants appeared to have been custom tailored to her body, hugging her hips and allowing the roundness of her backside to take center stage. Her pants were black with a thin yellow pinstripe; the pockets on each cheek had a flap and a button.

I wondered at what point my own ass had flattened, widened and dropped until it become more like a part of my thighs than a separate body part. I imagined it must have been after childbirth but really I can’t remember that time, age 19; I was thinking of other things, caring for Nathan 24/7.

Her long blond hair hung down her back all the way to the top of where her backside stuck out. It was perfectly highlighted in the $120 and up range. I became aware of my own highlighted hair; ends dry and crisp because I am in desperate need of a trim; roots of a dark blond color that have grown out three inches; my scalp felt itchy all of a sudden.

She wore black boots with chunky heels; her gait was strong, determined, and confident. Her shirt was black as well, tight and clingy material. Her hair swung side to side as she moved. She had a black portfolio under her arm that appeared to be made of leather and the tiniest purse I’ve ever seen, gold in color, matching the stripes in her pants. I wondered with my own breed of strange curiosity what her purse held. Was it a key, a tube of lipstick, a credit card, a twenty dollar bill folded into a rectangle, a single condom? If you had a purse smaller than your own hand, what would you choose to put in it?

She was eventually forced to stop at a light to let the cars pass. I caught up with her. We both stood at the corner staring at the sign with an orange palm glowing its do not walk warning. The wind picked up and there was rain in the air. I’ve lived long enough to feel it coming. I snuck a glance at her face. I’m not sure if my face registered my disappointment. She was a victim not only of the foundation turning her face a horrible orange color but of the not knowing my personal makeup mantra to blend blend blend. She had forgotten her neck. It was a pale ivory like mine, holding on top of it the orange mask, the streaks of blush, the overpowering blue eye shadow.

Flashback Sequence in Italics

For a second I was transformed back to the girl I was in eighth grade; 1986, the girl who was on a personal mission to beautify those around her by teaching them how to care for their skin, to placing towels over their heads as I gently eased them down over a steaming pot of boiled water with herbs floating in it. No food in the house was safe as I smashed bananas and whipped honey and lemon juice with a handful of oatmeal into facial masks and spread it on the faces of my sisters, my mom, my aunt, and my two cousins who were living with us at the time. I told them that I had secret recipes that I had read somewhere that would beautify their skin. Truth? I hadn’t read anything; I made everything up as I went along. I went grocery shopping with my mom, who hated it with such a passion she had completely stopped going when my dad died. I wrote lists and clipped the coupons from the paper, watching for sales. She thanked me for taking over, said she couldn’t handle shopping or cooking anymore. I felt useful for once. I slipped boxes of hair color into the cart when she wasn’t looking, not that she seemed to care about anything anymore. I asked her questions but she was far away, grieving for her husband, dealing with her guilt. She stared off at nothing, not hearing me when it was time to pay. Sometimes I had to grasp her and give a gentle little shake. Sometimes I would come up behind her and wrap my mom in my arms and she would come back from that place she went to and she would let the tears come. “I’m sorry I killed your dad”, she would whisper to me and I would try to say no as I pressed myself against her body as hard as I could while trying to gently squeeze her back together, to make her whole again.

I dyed the hair of everyone in the house save my brother. I instructed those with oily T-zones to powder their noses. I turned the kitchen and dining area into my own personal beauty salon. Everyone sat in my special chair except my brother; he complained to my mom that all of the good food in the house was being spread on our faces or placed into one of the pots I kept simmering on the stove. My mom hushed him with a smile. She said, “Tammy might be a cosmetologist!” I searched the yellow pages for beauty schools, glad to have found my calling. My Mom told me tales of working as a manicurist in Sydney ,NSW. The drag queen clients were her favorites and I imagined them coming to my salon when it opened. Little did I know that less than a year later would find me deeply immersed in the gay and lesbian community here. Little did I know that they would be the ones to sit me in a chair as they shared their beauty secrets with me.

One day, sitting alone, enjoying my cigarette, I envisioned the strangers. I thought of the people I saw on the sidewalks everyday. I imagined them coming into the salon and me having to dye their hair, scrape their feet. I felt sick. I realized then that I couldn’t touch strangers. I was only having fun because it was family I was working on. The various bowls of facial concoctions I had in the fridge developed a sickening impenetrable crust. Everyone ignored them until they were eventually thrown away. I was done.
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The light changed. She took off like a wind up toy that had been made to wait by the hand of a playful child. I walked slower, nowhere to go in a hurry. I dipped into my medium size purse and extracted a cigarette and lighter. The rain came. The wind picked up. My hair flew about, wild and out of control. The pinstripe girl has ducked into a phone booth. I stop, turning away from the wind and trying to cup my hand around the flame. I have a callous on my thumb from turning the wheel. The pinstripe girl is looking through her portfolio filled with photos of herself. She looks to be 18, maybe 19. She is nervous. The pieces come together in my head right there on the sidewalk. I continued on, inhaling, exhaling, finally arriving at my bus stop.

I watched her, the young pin stripe girl. She tried to smooth her hair, her clothes. Her large breast stood up tall and full. She either had a great bra or she hadn’t experienced the effects of gravity yet. The building she stands in front of has mirrored windows where she checks her makeup, opens her mouth (is she checking her teeth for food and/or lipstick?) she practices her smile. I talk to her in my head. “Don’t worry; you won’t need that portfolio of glamour shots in there. They won’t be examining your face long enough to see your lack of makeup application skills. You will enter a room. There will be a man there, behind the desk. He will ask you to undress. Perhaps he will have you turn in a slow circle. It doesn’t matter if you can’t dance. You will get the job.”

She stood up straight and tall against the wind and rain as she reached for the handle of the door with the No Minors sign. I imagined she took one more deep breath before she pulled on it. I inhaled with her and then slowly exhaled as she passed through the entrance. She is gone now.

Attached to the side of the building is the sign that stays there 365 days a year.

DANCING GIRLS WANTED!

NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY!

AUDITIONS DAILY!

This is Portland, Oregon, strip club capital of the USA. Welcome.

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.