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.

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.

“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.

Thanks to all my readers for such kind wishes. I am so physically exhausted that I’ve felt unable to post even the smallest update. Supposedly this week I am moving on to four ten hour shifts. Hopefully having a three day weekend will give me the rest I need as well as some time to get some other things done that have been waiting. (Hello, grass, yes I do see that you need to be cut.)

The job isn’t bad, as jobs go. I have already learned some new skills, i.e. pretzels and flatbreads, that might serve me well in the future. Either way, I wouldn’t hesitate to try them out at home as they are easy and would be fun to teach my children. Last week I trained on the yeast breads and pizza dough, this week I am supposed to step into training for the desserts, which look easy enough. The one difference is I am working for a restaurant this time instead of a wholesale/retail bakery as I was last time so the focus for the desserts is on the way that they look when plated. I was a bread baker/ pastry chef at a restaurant years ago, until I left in 1991 to give birth to Nathan, so I am not unfamiliar with the process of only baking for in house use.

I have changed a lot over the years. My body is older, of course, but my mind is very different as well. I don’t sweat small stuff, and the big stuff, well, I don’t sweat it much either. When there is a problem I try to fix it and if it can’t be remedied, which is something that needs to be deduced quickly, I start again. It feels strange to be the old baker. I have reached a point, I guess, where the fact that I have been in this industry since the late 80s and I haven’t achieved a managerial position looks suspect, or at worst pathetic. I wrestled with my ego a bit over this fact. I had achieved the status of manager by the age of 18. I gave that up to have my son and then my daughter and I do not regret that decision Alex and I made for me to stay home with our kids until they were older. I understand that option isn’t available to everyone or even desirable for everyone. I am not getting into the SAHM VS. WFHM argument. Every situation is different. We made a lot of sacrifices to ensure that I could stay at home with the kids and although some assumed that we were very wealthy at the time the truth is we were incredibly frugal.

I offered up two suggestions for items, one for a bread, one for a dessert. Both ideas were shot down, one as too expensive, the other as too played out. It stung a little but then I realized that I am not going to let it bother me. If my boss wants input I have a good eye for what will sell. If she asks for assistance when she’s trying to figure out why that certain dough keeps rising over too fast I won’t offer it up again only to be ignored. There’s a lot of ego in this industry. Some people paid big bucks to attend culinary school. I did my apprenticeships on the job, so I was in fact paid to learn. I am not going to look down on those who went to culinary school and if they choose to look down on me that’s cool. We’re making the same amount of money now, so it might make them pause but instead it seems to give an air of quasi superiority that they can enjoy at their leisure.

I am working downtown which is an area that I have been avoiding for the most part since they started a major construction project that has closed streets and detoured sidewalks. As I was telling my friend Cork, I am dangerously close to the large Powell’s book store now. Must avoid after payday.

I am looking forward to having my own income coming in. I only realized later in life that money can equal power in a relationship and while for the most part Alex has been good about sharing his money with me there have been times aplenty when I have felt less than because I had no income. I also felt as if I had less of a say in important financial matters. I am considering getting a dress made of dollar bills to wear around the house, just because it would be cool. Larger bills would be no doubt cooler, but I am not making that much money.

Anyway, thanks to you all. I have some photos waiting to upload and I am looking forward to finding a way to update on a regular basis. This is what I wish I could focus on, my writing, but it’s not in the cards right now.

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.

When I first started this site I imagined that it was going to be my way of reaching out to others who were living with depression and panic disorder. I thought that having lived with these illnesses for so long I would have something to say that might help others. I quickly realized that in order for me to cope, to function, to move on, I couldn’t spend a lot of time focusing on my symptoms. I needed to get busy doing other things or I would exasperate my symptoms and trigger new ones.

One of the side effects I haven’t really been too keen on divulging to anyone is the guilt I feel at my inability to function properly in social situations. About a week and a half ago my mom called to let me know that one of my cousins would be stopping in Portland for the weekend on his trip around the globe. She also told me of some friends of the family who currently live in New York who would be here in April. Before the weekend, which has since passed, I began to fret. I first started fretting about my appearance. I imagined that I needed a haircut and something had to be done about my fingernails with the ragged cuticles and torn hangnails. Then I began to fret about my clothes. I pulled out my skirts and dresses from where they hang forgotten and dusty and tried each one on, fretting over dry cleaning and ironing and oh my god I am going to have to wear stockings and I need a new pair of shoes because my best pair is caked with mud because I am always outside with the dog, in the rain.

After I had perused a few websites looking for shoes I can’t afford I came to the conclusion that I also needed a new dress because everything I own is black, and I realized my cousin’s visit fell on Easter weekend and I wouldn’t look very spring like.

I found the perfect dress and the prefect shoes. I found a control undergarment that promised to flatten my not so flat belly and I started to calm down imagining myself entering the door of my mom’s house dressed in the pastel hue of a freshly dyed Easter egg with my hair freshly trimmed and my makeup carefully applied.

Later that evening as I was undressing for my shower I glanced in the mirror. My roots, they are so grown out. I realized then that I wasn’t going to be able to go until I had my highlights touched up. As I lathered myself in the shower I tallied up my mental purchases and came to the staggering sum of 500 dollars needed for me to feel comfortable enough to be seen. It was only when I was faced with the dollar sign that I knew I needed to step back and look at what was really bothering me.

What I came up with, after much personal reflection, was I was afraid to be seen by someone who hadn’t laid eyes on me in so many years not only because I have low self esteem about my physical exterior, although that doesn’t help, but because I have never been able to shake the suspicion that people can tell that I am mentally ill just by looking at me. I fear that they will know that I am in the midst of a panic attack. I fear loss of self control, creating a scene, having to flee the party but having no way to get out because I have arrived in someone else’s car.

I have heard countless times that when you have panic disorder your fight or flight response is skewed. I understand that, but my flight response only kicks in when I am away from home. My number one response is TO HIDE.

I tried to calm myself down in the days to come. I finally called my mom and told her that I would not be going. She protested heavily and ended by telling me that if I changed my mind I only had to call for a ride. As Saturday, the day of the party, approached my phone started ringing constantly. I let everything go to voicemail. My mom called and tried to convince me to go. Maria called and said, “I am here if you need someone to talk to.” I cried as I listened to her message because I knew she really meant it, but I didn’t call her back. Monica called and offered to come over and pick up my kids and take them to and from the party. I took her up on the offer because I didn’t want my kids to miss out because of me.

On Saturday my kids went and I stayed home. It was a beautiful day and I imagined everyone eating outside, my younger nieces and nephews running and playing in the grass. I spent the day with my puppy and my guilt. I thought about my sisters. Between them, they have been married three times. I missed all three weddings. I thought of the Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners I had avoided, of the birthday parties, the graduations, the school performances, the funerals I had skipped. I let myself think of all of these moments that I had hidden from and I let the shame wash over me. This is me, who I have let myself become.

When my kids came home clutching the gifts my cousin had brought with him from Australia Polly was filled with words about the day. She told me all about who was there and what they ate. She said over and over, “You should have come. It was so much fun. Why didn’t you come?” I couldn’t explain it to her in a way that she can understand now, at 12. She told me that everyone kept asking her where I was and why didn’t I come and it was then that I realized that by not coming I had brought more attention to myself than I would have by going.

I really wanted to be honest when I wrote this, even if I am opening myself up to ridicule. Yes, I know that my inability to function affects my children, my marriage and my extended family. I understand that my fear of driving has resulted in my family always planning on taking turns picking us up and dropping us off when the location of a family gathering is not bus friendly. I know all of this and so much more because even though I try to hide it way down deep I think of these things daily. I carry this shame and it is mine; I own it.

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?

For the past several days Alex has been on vacation. It was easy to feel as if I was on vacation too, except for the pesky things like dishes still piling up and the kids calling out that we were out of clean towels, again. I could really get used to having a second pair of hands around here. It was so nice to have the “what’s for dinner?” query of every night answered when I got home by Alex cooking away. I went several times to do the dishes, only to find that he had already done them, and wiped down the counters. When the kids were hitting me up with question number 2409 for the day I could say, “Go ask your father.” Trying to be a parent, a really hands on parent, is very difficult while working graveyard shift and sleeping during the day. I know; I tried to do it for years. It is easy to feel as if you are part of a different world as a day sleeper. Alex and I also were able to spend lots of time together, which was nice. We cuddled up and watched movies; made love, talked and just spent time snuggling. There are usually only a few times per month that we even share the same bed. We spent last week going to bed together, which was wonderful. It has been very cold here lately and I felt totally at ease stealing body heat. We did have a few nights where Alex would steal all of the covers from me and a resulting tug-o-war would ensue. He claimed total ignorance in the mornings. He isn’t used to sharing the blankets anyone. Now we are both saddened by the fact that he has to return to work tonight and we are back to the hustle and bustle and the separate schedules and the days when we have no time to talk .

Also, last week, as I was reveling in the goodness of a man who awoke earlier than I and made my coffee perfectly with a beautiful head of frothed milk on the top and delivered it to me one minute before my alarm was set to go off so I could relax and sip myself awake instead of being jolted awake by a horrible buzzing sound; we heard the news from Australia that my grandmother, my nanny, as I call her, was going downhill quickly. My mother quickly tried to get a ticket to NSW. Last minute tickets were in the $4000 range and my mom was so determined to go and sit by her bedside and so frazzled by the idea that she might not make it that she couldn’t even think straight. She went round and round over the planning until I reminded her of a travel agent friend she hadn’t spoken to in some time. My mom was hesitant, but she called her, and the lovely lady who also happens to be a transplanted Aussie like my mother was able to find my mom a ticket that was significantly cheaper. My mom booked it and started packing. Saturday morning her brother called to let her know that their mom had died.

My mom drove over to my house and we sat together. We talked and cried and remembered. We shared stories of this beautiful, strong woman who made it to the age of 96. We laughed as we both recalled that nanny always had more done before 7 am than we could ever accomplish in one day. It wasn’t that everyone wasn’t expecting this death, it was the fact that being so many thousands of miles away, we were all hoping for more time, and just one more opportunity to see her.

My grandparents came to visit us here in Portland in 1980. Neither of them had been on an airplane before. I remember Mt. St. Helens erupted soon after their arrival and my grandfather commented on the welcome party. My grandfather died in 1991. A lot of people thought my nanny would follow quickly, but she continued on, keeping busy with her art and enjoying her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

I had a photo of her that I wanted to share here of my nanny, but Alex’s computer died last night and most of our things were on there with no backup. Yes, we know how foolish that was.

My mom decided to cancel her flight after being notified that she wouldn’t even make the funeral in time. We are going to get together here and have a celebration honoring her life and a mass held in her honor at the grotto, which was one of her favorite places here in Portland. My mom is still dealing with the fact that she was unable to be by her side when she passed. I want to believe that she knew we were all with her in her heart, and that she knew how much she was loved. The day she died would have been her 77^th wedding anniversary. I can see why people turn to faith during times like these, as it is so tempting to believe that she and my grandfather and their son who died before both of them are all together now, sipping a cup of tea.