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”

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

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

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

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

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.

Jean Asks: Tell me how it feels to be a baker….do you feel like you’re an artist or is it a job? What’s your favorite part of the job - or your favorite thing to create?

It just feels like a job to me, honestly. I don’t feel like an artist. I’ve enjoyed the places I’ve baked for that gave me some creative freedom more than the ones that don’t (like this one). Maybe eventually I’ll earn that right. Two of the other bakers are now able to bring in recipes and see if they sell on the menu. My favorite part of the job so far has been shooting the shit with the men I work with. They are funny guys and I enjoy talking to them. My favorite thing to create is bread. I am still in awe of the simple process and its results. Sweets get old very fast; bread never has.

Mary asks: Please tell us about a time when you succumbed to temptation.

Damn, this one is difficult. I was pretty much succumbing to temptation on a daily basis from the day my Dad died until I became pregnant with my son. How about this: When I was 15 Alex broke up with me to date this girl he “had to have” (his words at the time) and I started a new school. I had always been in Catholic school so starting public school was a huge shock for me. One day when we were alone in his classroom my teacher wrapped his arms around me from behind and whispered in my ear, “I had a dream about you last night.” I was stunned and I had no idea what to say. After a couple of weeks of flirting I decided to take him up on his offers to take me out. I still think of him when I hear that Police song, “Don’t Stand So Close To Me.”

ie asks
Is there something you regret doing in your childhood? Or: What’s your favorite color and, why?

When I was a girl I can remember watching my sister Maria sitting next to my mom getting her hair brushed out and rolled in curlers. Maria and I had always been very close and she looked out for me in every way. At this moment though, I can remember being so filled with rage. I felt that Maria was always so good and I was so naughty. I saw her as the personification of all that was holy and myself as truly evil. I got up and walked across the room and punched her as hard as I could. Her face crumpled into tears and I immediately regretted what I’d done. My dad came into the room and smacked the shit out of me for a good long time and I remember knowing that I deserved it.

Favorite color? When I was a little girl my favorite color was yellow. My mom used to use our favorite colors to differentiate between her three daughters; Monica was red, Maria was blue and I was yellow. I started hating yellow and I kept telling my mom ,”I don’t like yellow anymore” but it was too late. Now I don’t have a favorite color. I stick to black, gray and white. I found out a few years ago that I am color blind. I get my blues and greens mixed up and my reds, purples and browns. When Alex found out he started trying to get me to take a bunch of tests but I wouldn’t do it because when I first found out I was color blind they all laughed at me (Alex, Nathan and Polly) and joked about it for days even though it was clearly upsetting me. I hold grudges forever, apparently.

la says:

Guest fee $7.50? Um, guest fee? I think this means if you want to bring a hooker back to your room but maybe I’m too cynical. I wonder how much it costs if you want to bring a hamburger back. That’s something for you to find out!

I immediately thought of prostitutes being brought back to the hotel when I saw the guest fee, but then I wondered about other scenarios. A prostitute getting a room for the night and then having to pay 7.50 every time she brought a john back, for example. Or one person renting a room and then bringing someone else along for the night, and extra $7.50. That hotel is pretty sleazy; I am surprised the powers that be haven’t put it out of business yet. Of course they’ve also been unable to do anything about Old Town /Chinatown either. That area is a complete and total haven for drug dealers, addicts, prostitution, homelessness, etc. I don’t even feel safe there during the broadest of daylight.

Cynthea asks: I love love love looking at the city through your pics. I miss downtown. I used to go to college at PSU. I haven’t been to Pioneer Square (those were the bricks you were walking across, right?) in years. I swore I’d never live in the suburbs and contribute to single person vehicles, and now look at me. Hmmm …
What’s your very favorite building? And why. Here in Portland, or wherever.

The bricks were on a sidewalk down near 2nd and Alder. Some of the sidewalks downtown are brick and I don’t remember that. Now I wonder if they always were, and I just didn’t notice it? I used to love this building downtown that had gargoyles around it. Now I can’t remember where it was. I love the old US Bank down on SW 6th and Oak, I think. I tend to like the old, detailed buildings. I also like the Central library downtown. I’ve spent hours of my life in that library just reading or writing and getting in from the cold rain. Of course they put a Starbucks in it and now I don’t feel the same about it as I used to. I also love old churches. I am not a religious person, but I like to look at the buildings.

Mary asks: Have you ever been to Collins Beach?

Yes, twice. For those who don’t know, it’s a nude beach. I’ve never been one with particularly high self esteem, but I did some topless sunbathing there.

Thanks everyone for the questions. This job is kicking my ass. I only seem to be working and sleeping and trying to get caught up on the housework. I was thinking about buying one of those tiny little laptops so I can type on the bus on the way to and from work. I really miss writing. I have been jotting ideas in a notebook from time to time, but like I said, so tired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Flashback Sequence in Italics

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

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

One day, sitting alone, enjoying my cigarette, I envisioned the strangers. I thought of the people I saw on the sidewalks everyday. I imagined them coming into the salon and me having to dye their hair, scrape their feet. I felt sick. I realized then that I couldn’t touch strangers. I was only having fun because it was family I was working on. The various bowls of facial concoctions I had in the fridge developed a sickening impenetrable crust. Everyone ignored them until they were eventually thrown away. I was done.
******************************************************************************

The light changed. She took off like a wind up toy that had been made to wait by the hand of a playful child. I walked slower, nowhere to go in a hurry. I dipped into my medium size purse and extracted a cigarette and lighter. The rain came. The wind picked up. My hair flew about, wild and out of control. The pinstripe girl has ducked into a phone booth. I stop, turning away from the wind and trying to cup my hand around the flame. I have a callous on my thumb from turning the wheel. The pinstripe girl is looking through her portfolio filled with photos of herself. She looks to be 18, maybe 19. She is nervous. The pieces come together in my head right there on the sidewalk. I continued on, inhaling, exhaling, finally arriving at my bus stop.

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

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

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

DANCING GIRLS WANTED!

NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY!

AUDITIONS DAILY!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Been a Son- Nirvana

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you for your responses to my latest query. I saw a little of myself in everyone’s comments. I especially enjoyed the vision of Cynthea’s husband carefully selecting his coins for each day.

I realized lately that I can learn a lot about where I am presently at with my anxiety level based on which bag I select to leave the house with. I have a large Timbuktu messenger bag that holds everything I need and then some, a medium size Kipling bag that holds everything that I need but not some of the stranger things I feel that I must have when I am particularly panic ridden, i.e. a complete change of clothes, a large water bottle, several different choices of reading material etc., and a small purse from The Sak that is tiny but if I am feeling very good and not so dependent I can tuck in ID and bank card, cash and coins, lipgloss (I have a thing for lipgloss, especially the sets. I can never have enough varieties and when I flip through the Sephora catalog I go crazy with lust for the sets of different colors), keys, cell phone, cigarettes and a lighter. I am Goldilocks and the three bags, but it depends on the day which one is just right.

Basically my number one security item is the Klonopin tablets that I photographed for the header of this site, although the pills pictured are .5 mg and I am now carrying 1mg. tablets; they are green. I always carry these in the pill holder Alex bought me and I keep them in my pocket. I have had my purse stolen three times ,so when I select a purse for purchase it must have a long strap so I can wear it over my head. The purse snatching might sound alarming but the first two times it happened were a direct result of me being out in public and under the influence of death-be-awaiting quantities of alcohol and drugs. I was wasted to the point that people were able to rob me and I didn’t notice until later. I blame myself for those incidents.

The third time I was preparing to leave the house for the first time with two children instead of just Nathan. I was a bit daunted by all that I had to carry for a simple trip to the store. I had Polly’s diaper bag packed; Polly was in her infant carrier; Nathan was ready to go. I carried out the diaper bag and my purse and set them on the swing on the front porch and then went back inside to get the kids. When I came out my purse was gone. I was so stunned I sat down on the front steps and just stared at the sidewalk as Nathan ran back and forth asking when we were leaving. Not even 15 minutes passed before a young man approached my house, looking from my ID card up at the numbers on the houses.

The man spoke. “I was walking by the empty lot around the corner and I saw a purse with things strewn out everywhere. I collected the items and followed the address to return the purse.” His voice seemed shaky and I felt bewildered until he said, “I, um, saw your, um, things, um, everywhere, and I, um, picked them all up for you.” I was confused until I realized that I was still bleeding from Polly’s birth. I had shoved a large quantity of pads into my purse and he felt uncomfortable calling them by name. He probably felt uncomfortable picking them up too, but he did it. I felt embarrassed that he knew. I thanked him and smiled, relief washing over me as I realized I wouldn’t have to replace all of my cards. I wondered if I was supposed to offer him some sort of award or something but he just asked me if I was OK and walked away when I said I was.

That morning when I was getting ready I had shoved $200 I was planning on bringing with me to the store into the pocket of my jeans. I don’t know why I did that because usually I placed it in my purse. This was 1995, before Alex and I started relying on debit cards and only carrying small amounts of cash. The thief had gained about two dollars in coins for their efforts. I imagined this person throwing super sized maxi pads around in anger. I gathered my things and went to the store as planned. I never felt the same about my front porch again, realizing that someone could and would travel the fourteen stairs to steal something from me in less than two minutes. I imagined them waiting, watching for me to slip up again, but I didn’t know where they were hiding. I just knew that they were out there, somewhere.