I miss writing here. I miss my readers. I miss being able to answer every comment, every email. I miss keeping up with the blogs I love. I miss my family.

Work is still a hellish mess. In fact, I will be returning to that kitchen to bake more shortly. I have come to the conclusion that if two of my coworkers drank  56 pints of beer on the clock and were still there when the head manager and executive chef arrived they were celebrating the fact that they were planning on quitting anyway. There are cameras everywhere at my work. When the tapes were played and the amount of beer consumed was brought to light I must admit I was impressed not only by their ability to consume so much beer and still bake well over the amount of bread required for the next day but also by the fact that they had the liquid balls to tell the executive chef exactly what they thought of him. Had I not been off on the now legendary night things never would have gotten so far out of hand and I am certain that I would have gotten them out  the door before the arrival of anyone else. The bottom line is they made a decision and I am not responsible for the actions of two grown men. I do miss them both as we had developed a close rapport as coworkers. On the night shift with a small crew it is wonderful if I am surrounded by people I feel comfortable with. I can only hope I can develop that type of relationship with the freshly hired faces who will soon be heading through the doors.

I have been working an extreme quantity of hours. I had Monday night off, at long last a respite. Monday afternoon as I made my way home I stopped at a liquor store and purchased two bottles of scotch. I gave one to Alex and set the other aside for later. After a nap I awoke and looking forward to a night with my husband I drank from that bottle. We snuggled in the bed together and caught up on TV shows, Californication, Weeds, Dexter. I continued to pour by the light of the screen. I was very thirsty apparently because I drank an entire fifth alone. Alex, realizing that I had gone way too far, cooked me potato and tofu burritos and kindly filled my alcohol soaked stomach. As the room started to spin, he stayed by my side. Throughout my brief naps he brought water to my lips to ward off the oncoming dehydration. Fortunately both of our children were asleep and did not see me in that condition. I had been doing such a good job staying sober up until that night. I made a mistake. More important than the consequence of the hangover I have right now is the feeling of disappointment I feel today. I slipped and here I am, getting back up.

I need to get ready for work now. I have no idea what my schedule looks like for this week. I will try to check in here more often. Please know that I do read every comment and email and I appreciate you all.

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”

Starting at the top of my head, he softly ran his fingers across my skin, following his fingers with a trail of kisses and whispered words of my beauty. I closed my eyes and he kissed my eyelids, tickled the sides of my face with butterfly kisses as we both laughed at how ticklish I was. “What happened here?” His fingers traced the scars on my forehead, barely noticeable by then, signs of a little girl who didn’t listen when told not to scratch her chicken pox. He found the mole on my neck with fingers and tongue, traced the lines of my collarbone, and shushed me when I tried to stop him from pulling my nightgown all the way up and over my head. We had made love before, but I had always kept an article of clothing on, trying to hide my scars, the stretch marks on my breasts that had appeared seemingly overnight when my breasts had sprouted out so quickly as a young girl, my rounded belly, my full thighs, the birthmark that no one had seen except for family members, back in the days when I was still young enough to run freely in a swimsuit, to slip in and out of swimming pools without a thought of my body and its flaws.

“Even your fingernails are pretty”, he whispered, and he took the time to slowly rub his thumb over them as he held each finger in turn. I smiled in the darkness, happy that I had taken the time to paint them before he had arrived.

His hands didn’t linger on my breasts; instead they found my stomach and I tried pulling the covers over my midsection to hide. He pushed the blankets away and I replaced them with both hands. “I am….fat.” I said, and I could feel the tears spring to my eyes. “No”, he replied, gently removing my hands and replacing them with his, “you are soft and beautiful.” He stroked my stomach in slow circles, slipped a finger into my belly button, and ran his hands down to my thighs. He looked at my knees and then back up at my face, his eyes asking. “Roller skating down a hill in shorts, third grade.” It was getting easier somehow. My breathing had slowed and I was starting to relax. He almost had me believing what he had said earlier about wanting to really know me.

The part of me who couldn’t believe I was spread out naked on a bed while I let my first love touch every square inch of me was shushed by the other part of me who was intrigued by his desire to bend me this way and that way, to find out the story behind scars I had forgotten about, to listen and to reassure over and over when I would become overwhelmed with insecurity.

He kept all of his clothes on. I can still see his hair falling into his eyes, his red flannel shirt open at the neck far enough to flash a fraction of his chest, his tight jeans straining to hold his erection, one he stopped me from touching every time I reached for it , his hands gently grasping mine and leading them away.

It was now time for my calves, summer’s reminder resting there in the marks left by mosquito bites I was told not to scratch but I could never resist. I recalled how it felt so good to finally dig my nails in and scratch until the blood ran. My mom tried spanking me, tried forcing me to sleep with socks taped onto my hands but even then I would rub at my legs, longing for relief from the itchiness, not caring at the mess that I made of my legs and the scars that were left there. I found myself feeling stupid in the retelling, and “No, I can’t remember where the scar on the sole of my foot came from.” I would hear the story from my sister years later, a “Don’t you remember that time you stepped on…” but by then he would be long gone.

He slowly turned me over and started on the other side.

***

I saw him at a party many years later. We both had children, were in relationships that appeared to be promising. He was drinking beer, avoiding eye contact, looking a little green in the face. He approached me later and offered me a beer but I was not drinking at that time; I was still breastfeeding. I shook my head and said, “No thank you. I don’t drink.” His eyes met mine and the corners of his lips turned up as he said, “I don’t believe you.”

I felt a flash of anger as I quickly walked away.

Later, I was sitting in a lawn chair watching our children play together in the grass and he plopped down easily into the chair beside me. I envied him the bottle in his hand. He was no longer green in the face but flushed with the slight red of alcohol. “Hey!” he said suddenly, “Have you seen my hand?” I turned toward him prepared with a witty comment about not having seen him or his hand in years but his eyes were earnest, almost pleading, and his hand is outstretched. I was uncertain what I was supposed to do with his outstretched hand so I lightly traced the scar with my finger and broke the uncomfortable silence by asking the first thing that popped into my head, “Did it hurt?”

I immediately wished I could go back and time and take back my stupid question, but he didn’t laugh. “No Tam, not too much.” And then he began to tell me his story, the accident, the hospital, his surgery and subsequent recovery. I listened and soon I was no longer angry at him, just emotionally exhausted. I listened and I wondered if he remembered that night so long ago.

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.

“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.

When my mom found out that I was still sleeping on the couch she became upset with me, because I am supposed to be in a bed, as it offers better support for my back. I explained to her that my back gets really stiff at night and I have this fear of needing to use the bathroom and not being able to get downstairs. She responded by bringing me over a urinal and a chocolate bar. I have been craving chocolate for weeks now and I am not sure why.

“It’s a male one”, she said, “but you’ll figure it out if you have to.” I thanked her.

Later that night I grabbed my pillow and my new vase and headed upstairs. I slipped the box under the bed and crawled in. It felt so good to sleep there again. After a few days she asked me how the urinal was working out. “It’s great”, I told her, and it is. I haven’t had to use it, but just knowing that it’s there makes me feel better.

It got me thinking about security. There are several items that I carry with me when I leave the house, not because I need them, but because I feel better having them with me. The list has gotten smaller over the years and so has the size of my purse, but there are still several things that I feel I must have with me. It made me wonder what items others keep close to help themselves feel secure, if any.

Yes, I removed my last post because I wrote it in a fit of anger and when I was able to look back at it I found it served no purpose at all. I was reacting to my daughter’s school sending home countless newsletters and then complaining over the fact that they are constantly short on copy paper. At the beginning of the year I brought 1000 sheets to the office, as instructed, and within two months they were begging for more. Meanwhile, half the crap they send home is useless. They sent home a note last week asking parents to “reduce their carbon footprint” and “feel free to help us reduce ours” so I granted myself audience with the principal and explained how they could reduce theirs.

1) If a family has more than one child in the school, just send the newsletter home with the eldest child instead of sending multiples to the same house.

2) Print on both sides of the paper (their copy machine does have that function) using a smaller font than the size they have now, which is set for the legally blind.

3) Consider having parents sign up to receive the newsletter via email to save paper.

4) Eliminate messages to the entire school that are only relevant to one classroom. i.e. “SHHHHHH! Teacher Suzie is having a surprise birthday party next week. Please join us in the cafeteria for refreshments and gifts!!!!!!”
I said, teacher Suzie already knows about your surprise party, she doesn’t need more apple paperweights, and I honestly don’t care because I don’t even know who teacher Suzie is, as she is not my daughter’s teacher.

5) Consider printing out a half dozen pages with reminders of upcoming events such as PTA meetings and tape them to the windows on the doors where parents can see them during pick up and drop off instead of printing off 1000 sheets saying “PTA Meeting ! 6 p.m.”

Anyway, the principal was not receptive to my suggestions and I left in a shitty mood. O.K. I entered in a shitty mood. When Polly and I boarded the bus home it was almost full. There was a man sitting across from us who was visibly intoxicated and he leaned over and asked me if that was my daughter. I am used to this comment, as Polly and I hear it from many people, and I replied, “Yes, she’s my daughter.” I expected him to remark on our resemblance. Polly was gazing out of the window by then, her headphones on her ears, and the man began to go into graphic detail about what he would like to do to my daughter, sexually. By then the bus was packed with people who were standing. I felt this rage come up from my core into my mouth as I rose to my feet , certain that I was going to kill this bastard with my bare hands. He rose to his feet, rang the bell, and then started yelling to the driver, “I need to get off here!” He pushed his way out the back door and I sat down, my heart racing. Here I am walking with a cane now, when I can walk, smaller than that man, and for that instant I was blinded with my emotions. It was frightening in several ways.

It has been almost two weeks since I injured my back and I have acted horribly at times. I know about the pain = rage connection, but I have spent so many years of my life trying to swallow my anger, always equating it with violence. My inner bitch has been here all too often lately, and I feel ashamed.

My kids were so afraid when I fell off of the couch on the evening of February 19th. I was trying to get to the bathroom. I couldn’t get back up so they took it upon themselves to call someone. My mom was at the beach with friends, so they were debating between my two sisters, my brother, and 911. I begged them not to call anyone, especially not my brother who doesn’t even know where we live, to be totally honest. I tried to tell them I would be fine, it was just my back (again). They ended up calling Maria who has three kids under the age of nine. She said she would be right over. I begged for the phone and Nathan handed it to me. I called my sister and told her not to come, explaining that there was nothing she could do. I explained that our insurance doesn’t allow us to just show up at the ER without an ambulance ride unless we call our doctor and get approval. She told me to call my doctor and I promised I would. She waited for me to call her back.

The doctor on call was not someone I knew. She told me to put ice on my back, take 2400 mgs. of Ibuprofen, and call if I wasn’t better in 48 hours. I called my sister and told her not to come.

The next day I was in even worse shape.The pain was absolutely unbearable no matter what position I was in. Alex had two days off so he could give me a hand, and I still couldn’t walk which made trying to get to the toilet an issue. Finally, around six p.m., I was able to speak on the phone with my own physician who told me to get to the hospital immediately. I was going to call for a cab, but I didn’t know if they would be able to assist me in and out. I thought about it for too long before calling my eldest sister, Monica. She works full time as well as college but her kids are older and I figured it would be easier for her to drive me since she doesn’t have the babysitter worries. She said that she would, but she had to work late that night as she had patients coming in after five o’clock. And it would be late when she got to my house. She suggested I call an ambulance but I was afraid insurance wouldn’t cover it.

I called Maria again and she tossed her kids into car seats and was at my house in a flash. The kids were all crammed in the back and grumpy from a long day at school and daycare. They all competed for my attention by yelling out their important news and I managed to pat each one’s knee and say hello. Then the two little ones started hitting the eldest boy, Evan, in the head with the toys they were holding. Maria remained focused on getting me into the car.

The look on Maria’s face as she got me into the car reminded me of her face when she stood by my side while I went through labor and delivery with Polly. The pain in her eyes was so staggering that I apologized for having her there in the delivery room. It’s been almost 13 years since that day and I felt this need to explain that emotion to her and to apologize for having had her witness that pain. When I see my pain in her eyes I can only think that it would be easier for us to change positions. I couldn’t explain it.  She understood. I cried for a minute and she fed me pink tissues as she headed out into rush hour. Maria has been studying to become a licensed Acupuncturist. It’s funny, my sisters are so different; one works in Eastern medicine, the other has a career in Western medicine.

Maria told me about school and what she has been up to. She is taking Chinese lessons so she spoke to me in Chinese, which oddly made sense at the time. I knew that she was filling the spaces with words to distract me, the same way she and Alex tried to do crossword puzzles out loud during my labor. I can remember Alex asking for a five letter word starting with  S for indifference and I yelled STOIC! during a contraction. It’s funny now, not so much then.

She expressed to me during the ride that she had always wanted to see me doing something that I loved, something that would bring me great fulfillment. She asked me if I had ever felt as if I was really good at something. I told her that someone had once told me that I could become a millionaire as a motivational speaker, like Tony Robbins. I have no idea where that came from; I haven’t thought about that in years.

I glanced at her, her face contorted in confusion, and she blurted out, “Who the hell told you that?” “Um, Chaz.” I felt really stupid for a second and then we both started laughing. Not bad, it only took me six or seven years to get his sarcasm. I had almost forgotten the way she laughs with her whole body. When she laughs really hard she cries, huge warm droplets running down her face. We both laughed for the rest of the drive even though I begged her to stop because every movement was excruciating.

Evan started demanding that I tell him how an Etch-A-Sketch works and I had to admit that I wasn’t sure. I promised him I would find out before we saw each other again. I peeked at him turning the white dials carefully, shaking his head in frustration if he didn’t get it just the way he wanted it, shaking the lines away before trying again. I remembered how much I had wanted an Etch-A-Sketch as a girl and how my Mom couldn’t afford to buy me one. It’s funny how material things can seem so important for a time and then they slip away. I remember buying Nathan one before he was even old enough to use it, determined he wouldn’t be deprived of that all important toy. Neither of my kids seemed to like it much. They were too busy playing with their Magna Doodles.

Maria got me to the admitting counter at the ER and offered to stay with me. I looked at her standing with her little ones and knew it was their turn now. As much as I wanted her by my side, I had to be a big girl and ask for help alone.

Swistle wrote a post about the worst Valentine’s gift being a single red rose, and it got me to thinking. Alex and I have been together for so many years that I can’t even remember all of the different holidays we’ve spent together. I remember our first Valentine’s Day living together because we pooled our money together; bought an eight ball of cocaine and a pack of cigarettes, rushed home, dumped some of it out, and chopped out four fat lines, two for each of us. After we had each snorted one Alex looked at me over the mirror we reserved for such purposes and said, “I’m sorry I didn’t have any money left over to get you some flowers or something.” I said I didn’t care and I meant it. Cocaine or crank were the only things I wanted those days, as well as pot and alcohol to help me come down. We had bonded over pharmaceuticals. That would also be the last time we used cocaine, ever. When we ran out and started to get sick we made a vow to each other and to ourselves to never do it again. We held each other through the withdrawals. He hadn’t eaten in so many days that I cooked him cream of rice cereal, thinking he might be able to tolerate it, and he didn’t even complain about the lumps. He peeled me an orange and fed it to me, tiny segments at a time that seemed so dry in my mouth, telling me he was going to watch to make sure I ate every bite.

As the years went by we sometimes had lots of money to splurge on each other and other years Alex picked flowers out of our garden and placed them in a vase on the mantle, way up so the kids wouldn’t grab them. There were years of sex toy gifts for me, followed by hours in bed, and years when one or both of us had to work, and we barely had time for a rushed “Happy Valentine’s Day” and a quick kiss as we passed off the child watching responsibilities.

Looking back today and wondering about the worst valentine’s gift and what it might be, I thought that receiving a bathroom scale would suck pretty hard. Then it occurred to me, a valentine’s day I had forgotten about. I was visiting my sister Maria. Nathan was just a babe in my arms, so it must have been the early 90s. Maria’s boyfriend knocked on her apartment door and when she opened it, there he stood with a beautiful bouquet of a dozen red roses surrounded in a halo of baby’s breath. My sister’s face was overcome with joy as she reached her arms out. I don’t think she’d ever received flowers from a man before and I felt so happy watching her. Before she could take them in her arms he pulled away, reached into the bouquet, pulled out one single rose and handed it to her. “The other eleven are for my other special lady friends”, he explained. Maria kept her composure until the door was closed. She was absolutely crushed. She had truly believed that she had this very special relationship, this special bond that existed between just the two of them, and she found out in a horrible way that she was one of twelve. Maybe Swistle was right about the single red rose as a gift.

P.S. Off topic completely, but where would you guys like for me to respond to comments? In the comments, or in the next post? I am not sure if everyone comes back and reads the comments and I want to reply but then sometimes life gets in the way and I don’t get around to it for a day or two and then I feel guilty. Damn Tammy, raised Catholic much?

I awoke Sunday morning to Maggie’s cold nose gently prodding me, this is her way of saying, “Hey get up! I need to go pee.” It was around 6:30. After she had been outside and I had brought her in to prepare her breakfast I remembered that I was out of coffee filters. I was thinking about using a paper towel and cursing myself for not buying one of those reusable coffee filters when I realized that it was so cold in the house I could barely stand it. I went and turned the thermostat on 68 and eyed the couch. Maggie jumped onto it and curled herself into a circle. I decided to join her with a blanket and snuggle up until the house warmed up. Of course I fell asleep.

A few hours later there was a furious banging on the front door. Maggie was barking and spinning in circles and in my confusion I thought that it must be the mailman delivering a package. I always think that I am getting a package, even on Sundays, because I am self centered that way. I stumbled to the window to peek out; I am a paranoid sort who doesn’t open the front door often. I saw my next door neighbor with her two little girls. At this point she was screaming, “911! 911! 911!” I opened the door and she yelled, “Our house is on fire! It started in the basement and it’s spreading to your house. Evacuate now!” I don’t remember what I said to her. I slammed the door in her face and ran to Polly’s door and pounded at it yelling for her to get dressed and get outside. Next I ran to Nathan’s door and did the same thing.

My kids used to ask me if there were a fire in our house and I could only rescue one of them, which one would I rescue. I hate questions like that; there’s no way for a mother to answer them. I always stated that I would rescue them both. The truth was I always knew that it would be Polly who would need to be rescued and she proved that yesterday morning by following me around the house asking questions. “Why do I have to get out of the house? What about the cats; where are the cats? What is happening?” Nathan listened to my instructions clearly without questions. I ran upstairs to wake Alex. He had worked the graveyard shift the night before and was fast asleep in our bed. “Get up!” I told him, “The neighbor’s house is on fire and they say it’s heading for our house!”

He mumbled, “Why do we have to live next door to such stupid fucking people?” and slowly rose from our bed and sauntered out of the room. I was confused and having a panic attack and I literally spun around in a circle trying to figure out what to wear. Not in that “I have a job interview way”, but in the “I am wearing a nightgown what should I do?” way. I pulled on a pair of sweats underneath my nightgown, thinking that was faster than taking everything off and starting over. I grabbed my coat and saw Alex peeking out the window. He was quite literally sauntering around. I couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t running. “You need to calm down”, he said. I grabbed my purse thinking it had everything I needed, money, bank cards, cell phone, cigarettes, tampons, lipgloss, medication for a major panic attack…

We all ended up on the sidewalk in front of our houses, waiting. Alex looked around for flames and sniffed for smoke. My neighbor is chatty under any circumstances; a fire is a whole new world of talk. Speaking a mile a minute she blurted out that she loaded her dryer, turned it on, later smelled smoke and went to her basement to see that her fuse box was on fire. I reassure her that she did the right thing. Her mom walks out of the house, comments dryly on the fact that the fire engines are taking so long, saying, “It’s a good thing the house isn’t on fire or anything.”

I laugh, too loudly. I wonder if it’s OK to smoke while the neighbor’s house is on fire. I finally break down and pull one out. My neighbor sighs, “Oh thank god. Can I have one?” We all light up, except the kids.

The fire engines finally pull up, no sirens. Maybe sirens are reserved for those who live in nicer neighborhoods? Once things are clearly under control my neighbor apologizes for beating on my door like that. “I really thought that it was going to spread to your house!” “It’s OK”, I try to reassure her.

Back inside my house Nathan goes back to bed. Polly goes to pour herself cereal in the kitchen, and Alex is wide awake. Waking up someone who works graveyard is always a difficult call, but I thought that this time was easy. It didn’t even occur to me not to wake him. He asks me, “Did you look out the window before you woke everyone?”

Of course I didn’t! I was thinking that time was of the essence, for fuck’s sake.

Alex asks me if the neighbor’s husband was home. “No, he wasn’t” I remember her mentioning that he was out of town. “If he’d been here, none of this would have happened. Women blow things so far out of proportion.” Alex claims.

Now I am pissed. I tiptoe around all day so as not to wake him. I really believed that this was an emergency.

As he heads back to bed he says one last thing.
“Next time wait until the flames are licking the house to wake me.”

Oh don’t worry, I think. Next time I’ll wait until they’re licking your feet, and then I’ll think about it.

Is this a gender issue? Did I overreact? What do you think?