In Advance of Mother's Day

I spent the Sunday before Mother’s Day working in my garden—my first big spurt of gardening since the fall. I spent half the day hacking back the neighbor’s overgrown ivy from our fence and aggressively pruning our own outsized, overly exuberant bushes. The rest of the day I devoted to carefully planting iris rhizomes—not too shallow, not too deep, but at just the right level. It occurred to me—not for the first time—the dichotomy of cultivating a garden. It necessitates having both nurturing and destructive capabilities. Oftentimes they are called into play on the same day.

When I’m in full-blown (or even shallow-breathing) gardening mode, I can’t help but think of my mom. And with Mother’s Day looming, thoughts of her are more haunting than ever. Weekend after weekend, in her infamous and inglorious gardening moo-moos, she enslaved herself, and with less regularity, her daughters, (thankfully we were spared the humiliation of wearing moo-moos) to yard work. In addition to a painstakingly maintained rose garden, Mom had the best bearded iris collection around.

Bearded iris at the old house.

In what might be deemed hereditary solidarity (and with prompting from my husband who seems to feel roses are floral essentials) I made my last residence a spring/fall iris spectacle and rose grove to behold. I’ve recently taken the bulbous iris outcroppings from the old garden to propagate in our new garden. We’re starting anew with the roses since I couldn’t justify digging up the old bushes. They seem to like life in their current location. If Mom were still around to see her legacy of gardening activities, I think she’d be delighted. And when I survey my work, I acknowledge it as an homage to her.

My "old" rose garden--not yet in full bloom.

She died a little over seven years ago from complications and consequences of being morbidly obese—the state in which she spent the greater part of her adult life. I wish I could report it was a “good” death—whatever that consists of—that she was fulfilled and satisfied with her 70 years on the planet. I’d like to tell you she went easily and calmly, that she was at peace while she took her leave. Nothing could be further from the truth. Dying isn’t often easy. When you’ve spent a lifetime abusing yourself with food, inactivity and other destructive behaviors, departing can be—and was for both of us—torturous.

The only positive thing I can say about her death is that she was ready. In fact, my mom had been ready to depart this world for as long as I can remember. This manifested in some—shall we euphemistically say—self-destructive habits. There were three crises which occurred around the time I was between the ages of three and four that highlighted her injurious propensities. I vaguely remember all of them but required prompting and rehash from my sister (a year and a half older) and my father for the details. The three emergencies happened over the time span of a year or two. No one seems sure about the exact timeline anymore.

One incident involved the doctor—Mommy’s beloved Dr. Foster, a psychiatrist who became her unwitting knight in shining armor—coming to the house. She was very sick. My father explained to my sister and me that she’d taken too many pills. I don’t know if he used the word “accidentally” or not but I instinctively understood that it wasn’t an accident. My father took her to the hospital where they pumped her stomach. Apparently, this was a relatively benign aspirin O.D.

In a repeat episode (and this involved a lot of fill-in from my dad) she again took too many pills. This time things were more serious.  Apparently she’d been stockpiling the sleeping pills (tuinal) my father cautiously doled out to her, to save up for the big event. He found her in bed barely breathing. A call was made to the aforementioned Dr. Foster. This time her hospital trip involved not only a stomach pumping but an overnight stay in the psych ward. She demanded to be let out the next day and was released AMA—against medical advice. Luckily, too many pills had turned out to be not quite enough to achieve her goal.

The third misadventure is what I call the “Where’s Mommy?” night. I recall this somewhat more vividly than the other two events, which makes me think it happened later on in the timeline. She left the house in only her nightgown sometime after dark. As my dad tells it, he called the intrepid and by now nearly sainted Dr. Foster and a close friend to help him scour the sleepy streets of Los Gatos in search of his errant wife. My sister and I, also in our nightgowns, were wakened out of beds, put into the backseat of our black and white, 1957 Chevy Bel Air and told to look for Mommy.

We didn’t find her until we got back home. Decades later I found out why when Mom recounted the story to me. With weirdly perverse pleasure, she described how she’d slipped out of the front door in nothing but her nightie and hidden in the bushes next to the house. While we were out trolling the roads, looking for Mommy, she went back inside. Twenty plus years later she laughed at how she’d pulled one over on my dad. She made no mention of her two young daughters being hauled out of bed when they should have been sleeping. She offered no apology for making us worry. But man, she had a good laugh at my dad on that one. Hilarious.

Obviously, she never was successful at a full-on sayonara; otherwise she wouldn’t have lived to see her 70th birthday. But you get the idea. These goings-on set a certain tone of anxiety. Growing up, I couldn’t help but feel very worried about my mom. Apprehension and daughterly devotion were my overriding sentiments about her.

In those initial decades, the pitch didn’t change much. There was the divorce from my father. There were numerous bouts of her drinking too much. There were hysterical crying jags. There was a completely wrong-on-so-many-levels, marriage to a man who should never have been allowed to visit our home, much less move in with us.  This person mentally and occasionally physically brutalized my sister and me. I don’t call him my stepfather and have not kept in contact. Luckily, she divorced him, too. However, that spiraled her into further depression, a recurrence of drinking and much time spent abed.

Mom’s bad financial decisions stacked on top of each other like a slow-motion, chain-reaction, freeway pile-up. There was a house foreclosure—the home we grew up in—at a time when foreclosures were not only rare, but shameful. Both my sister and I, by then in college, were afraid for her during this particular time, and rightfully so. We were acutely aware that her “way out” was a default for suicide. If she didn’t like how things were going she could always just take her ball and go home. I honestly, believe that’s how she saw it. Her daughters had learned by then we weren’t supposed to feel responsible. We were just supposed to sadly wave goodbye and not give voice to the fact that we wished she’d stuck around longer.

You’re thinking: That’s not how it works.

True. But you couldn’t get her to understand that.

Empathetic and excessively concerned for the first three and a half decades of my life, my feelings about Mom gradually shifted.  Being around her became more and more a horrid chore. I still worried about her but the intensity of the worry was supplanted by resentment and exasperation. By this time I had my own child who needed and depended on me.  The obvious questions I’d kept in the depths started bubbling up like a toxic potion. Why couldn’t she be trusted her to take care of herself? Why couldn’t she be good to herself? What was wrong with her? What I once saw in soft focus as her weak and wounded spirit fell into sharper, harsher definition. A person more beset with terminal self-loathing, I’d never met.

Not surprisingly, around the age of 50, Mom was diagnosed with diabetes. Her decline was dawdling, occurring in bits and pieces, encroaching in fits and starts. Escalating ailments related to obesity closed in on her. Her once desired goal—to be dead—was taking a drawn-out, tedious and agonizing route to fruition.  I removed myself even more from her during this time. I know that sounds bad. It was. Your mom needs you as she becomes more and more ill and you pull away?  I did.  My sister did too.

Mom asked me about it—confronted me, really—and I told her the truth. “I can’t stand watching what you’re doing to yourself. You’re hurting yourself. You’re killing yourself right in front of me and there’s nothing I can do about it. You won’t do what you need to do to get better. You just do things that make it worse. You can’t expect me to enjoy spending time around you.”  

It’s extremely hard to care for a person who doesn’t care for themself.

Instead of keeping her weight down, being physically active, monitoring her blood sugar and insulin, she helped the disease and her girth along by downing bakery goods like a greedy, deprived child. She refused to believe in the circulatory problems associated with diabetes. Her mother, also a diabetic, had never lost her vision, or a limb, or her kidneys, and therefore it wouldn’t happen to her. In a vague sense, Mom was right. She didn’t live long enough to go blind, or lose body parts. She lived just to the point where she decided to take her ball and go home.

A week after she turned 70, she had enough. With a final heart attack, and protracted hospital stay, her abilities to walk and live on her own were extinguished. Rehab attempts did not amuse or arouse her. Threats of moldering away in a nursing home did not inspire or motivate her. She was ready to go. She asked me in front of my son who was ten at the time, to put her in the car and drive her to Oregon where they allow assisted suicide. “Mom. It doesn’t work that way. You have to have been a resident already. You have to be diagnosed with a terminal disease. I can’t. I’m sorry.” “Please,” she begged, “You have to help me.”

She died not so many weeks later of septicemia which began from bed sores—a direct result of her immobility and her decreased circulation. The doctors advised us to let the infection progress. Mom had a DNR (do not resuscitate) order placed on her file and the doctor was taking it more seriously than we would have on our own. Shocked and resigned, my sister and I agreed.

It took days—maybe a week. Between regular pain relief shots, she suffered loudly and indignantly. Finally, I pleaded with Kaiser to put in an IV to allow a steady supply of drugs. They were concerned. Did I know this would hasten the process? Well, no, I didn’t. But if that were the case, I wondered, why didn’t we do this immediately? Wasn’t that the point—to help her on her way as comfortably as possible?

A call came from Kaiser early one morning—around 4:30. Mom had finally passed. When would I be coming to the hospital? What should be done with her body? At her request, she was taken into the care of the Neptune Society. A month or so later, I took her ashes home with me.

There was relief. There was sadness. There was regret. There was emptiness. As I write this I understand that there was also irony. She’d been so intent at various times on taking her own life and in the end it had to be done for her with medical intervention. Yes. There was that.

I don’t miss my mom the way I presume most people miss their deceased parents. What I miss is the person I think she wanted to be. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say I miss the person I wanted her to be. I’m not so sure how similar those two people are to each other. Mom certainly had good intentions—having a marriage and a family—she just wasn’t always great on follow-through. And I have to wonder if I should be missing her at all or just be happy for her. She finally got what she wanted—that one-way ticket most of us dread. At the not-so-ripe age of 70, her heart’s desire was finally fulfilled with the help of her daughters’ consent and a team of healthcare professionals.

So when I’m tilling the soil, maniacally slashing back the overgrowth, tenderly planting seedlings, ripping up weeds, nurturing blooms, pruning off dead wood, or coaxing healthy, new growth, I’m thinking of Mom.  She was, in her way, a garden. The first part of my life I spent cherishing, loving, and fretting over her. In later years, I wrongly believed she should be able to take care of herself. At the end, her diabetes and weight evolved into a kind of rampant ivy, taking over her body and pulling her down. It was not a thing over which I had control. She was not a person over whom I had control.  Finally, the best thing that could be done was to agree to speed her on her way. The decision—both lethal and compassionate—was the most benevolent conclusion we could offer our mother after a lifetime spent trying to hurl herself over the garden gate.

I wish she were here to see my new garden go in, but I think she’s happier being on the other side of the gate.



The first iris in my new garden



Tribute to an "old" friend.

Preamble:

I wrote this in response to Kirstin's request. She very sweetly is putting together a book of memories for her mother's (Bit's) fiftieth birthday.

Bits and I became friends sophomore year of high school. Given the fact that I'd meanly maligned her to another student during a spring concert freshman year and that her mother overheard me, it's sort of miraculous that we ever managed a friendship. But chance stepped in, slapped us in a class together—Geometry, Mr. Ephraimoff with the really bad cow-pie comb over—and my unfair,  preconcieved notions about her fell away.

Bits was always bursting with juice: gossip, humor, schemes, drama--the essential elements of fun. While I had other gal pals to make michief with (toilet papering, crank calls, late night carousing—the usual shenanigans) when I was with Bits it seemed that things were more likely to go haywire or not according to plan—as if there ever was one. There was something daring about her, and at that time, I was a girl who needed a little dare to keep things interesting.

That being said, it's not like we ever did anything really bad or criminal, (although as I write this, I have to admit I'd forgotten about the shoplifting), but there were a couple of events that I shake my head and wonder about. Was that really Bits? Was that really me? Good to remember that the stuff you get up to in high school doesn't define you as a person. It just means you had your chance to be a hairbrained high schooler and you took it.

Here is the letter I wrote for my dear friend. 

"Perfection" being a subjective word of course.

Dearest, Bits, aka, Elizabeth, aka, one of a few of my high school partners in crime, aka, current day media personality The Reluctant Therapist:

I was honored to be asked to dig deep down into the memory banks—back to the olden days of the mid-to-late seventies, back to the time of goofy, cut-throat high school politics, self-involved teenage angst and boy-centric diffidence. I’ve unearthed a few items I thought you’d enjoy and perhaps a few you’d prefer to forget. Because what’s the good without the bad? Be glad I don’t have a spring-trap brain that clings to every remnant because I’m quite sure I’ve forgotten lots of stuff—probably for very good reasons.

Some noteworthy gems:

·         Your mother overhearing me say unflattering things about you at a school concert before we were friends and to my absolute horror, having the story repeated back to me by you. Have I ever told you how much I appreciated your forgiveness? My big, occasionally obnoxious mouth thanks you as well. Given our tender ages that could have so easily caused permafrost. I’m so glad it didn’t. And if I didn’t do a good job apologizing at the time, let me say again how sorry I am. Insecurity can be an ugly thing.

·         Rotating birthday parties. Surprise sweet 16s, being kidnapped for breakfast and having to go to school in pajamas—was that for 17? It began with me in January, then Denise in February then you in March.

·         Sleepovers, sleepovers and more sleepovers!

·         Monterey Dunes.  The hot tub.  Jamie’s wet jockstrap landing on my face.  Jamie, WTF?

·         Breaking up and getting back together. You and I. Several times.

·         Sophomore year I started it, then you took it up, and Denise finished it: sequential crushes on Sean Trippi. As I recall, Denise won that prize; he certainly seemed like a prize at the time. I’ve gotta be honest, I got over it then and there, but I still remember the sting.

·         Our junior year road trip to Fresno State and UCSB. Remember stopping at Anderson’s Split Pea House, Casa de Fruita, and how terrified you were of my driving? Remember your dad warning us about the dangers of Pacheco Pass? Your dark green Camero survived and so did we. Of course we did. We were 17 and invincible.

·         Being included in enough Weissenborn family gatherings to wish I was a relative rather than a friend.

·         The Dwyers. I wonder from time to time how they’re all doing. Would love to see what those boys-turned-men are up to these days. I envision Brian struggling, Billy gliding, and both of them still not liking each other very much. Reminds me of another couple of other siblings I know but I’m not naming names. Ah… Some things never change even when you wish they would.

·         A story I wish I could forget or better yet, have expunged from the record: Altos Oaks. How exactly the whole thing transpired I can’t explain. It was then and still remains completely out of character for me and for you too—to my knowledge.  In retrospect, it seems like I only watched the movie but, no, we starred in it. Leading lady, Lyn Nave, in the back seat playing tonsil hockey with two boys a year younger. Leading lady, Bits Weissenborn, with you-know-who (at least he was in our class), practicing her lip-lock and padding her make out resume. I’m blaming you, because I cannot for a second imagine such a thing happening with any other friend of mine. As far as I know this tale never made the gossip rounds—thanks be to God. I still cannot believe it was us in that car. Strangely enough, this is one of my husband’s favorite stories about me from high school.

·         And never to be forgotten (although I know you wish it would): the flaming popcorn/exploding beer babysitting event of senior year. In short story form the title would be: “How to do Nearly Everything Wrong on a Babysitting Gig”. Thankfully, at the end of the night everyone was OK, if more than a tad bit frightened.  I can still hear that little boy asking, “Is my refrigerator going to catch on fire?” And weren’t they the same Altos Oaks boys who invaded the house playing football with a can of beer? OY! The last thing any parent wants is to come home to a house smelling of liquor, burnt popcorn, and Lysol. We did the only thing reasonable—told the truth. Talk about your crunchy moments. Oof.

Darling, beautiful, friend—

Isn’t evolution a wonderful thing? With age comes all kinds of excellent things: wisdom, patience, acceptance, and ability to see things from beyond our own perspectives. I’m so glad to have had the chance to see life through your eyes from time to time.

Just remember, you hit fifty; fifty did not hit you. Be sure to keep that as your goal in the many, wonderful years to come.

In closing, I’m including the blog posting I made when I made the 50 milestone in January. You can run but you can’t hide.

Hello? Fifty's Here

Today you are 50. Five decades. Half a century.Two score and ten. No matter what you call it or how you slice it, 50 is, well...let’s say it’s substantial. It's got some heft. It packs a punch and cannot be sidestepped. It means business. Fifty knocks on your door bold and brash as life itself, because that’s of course what it is, and you have no choice to but to answer it.

I propose that turning 50 is like a knock, knock joke.

“Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Fifty.”
Your head rushes as your heart gives a funky double beat. Holy shit! Fifty?! How did this happen?you wonder. You try to gather yourself and hesitate before responding with your gut reaction.
“The person you’re looking for is not here.”
“Oh, please! Don’t be coy. YOU are the person I’m meeting today.”
“Uh…Could you come back some other time? I’m really not ready for you today.”
“Sorry, ma'am. Today is the day, YOUR day, the day you turn officially middle-aged.”
“I, uh…could you just give me a little time to spruce up and get myself together? How about tomorrow? I could meet you tomorrow.”
“Today is YOUR day. Don’t worry. I know what you look like and how together you are and are not. Just open up. I promise not to hurt you.”

You gasp. Is it possible you heard a garbled “much” at the end of that last sentence? You fear this is the case. You calm yourself by taking deep breaths and consider logically what to do. After some reflection, and seeing no escape, as much as you really don’t want to, you determine that you will meet Fifty on your own terms. You decide if you have to do this—and apparently, you do—you will do it graciously. You have your shoulders back and head held high when you open the door and look Fifty straight in the eye.

The big Five-Oh looks decidedly older than the less significant Four-Oh and somewhat more fragile and out of shape. Five-Times-Ten doesn’t seem to be bothered by the thickening of her waist or embarrassed by the dark splotches that have begun to show on her face, although you find these changes rather disconcerting. It's been a while since Ms. Fifty has been to the hair dresser. You can tell because the gray and mousy brown is showing in her part and at her exposed temple. You notice Ms. Half-Century has brought you a copy of AARP magazine, the publication which will from now on grace your mail box every month; it’s there in her jacket pocket.

And by the way, that jacket—oof! Fifty needs to get a better stylist because plaid corduroy wasn’t a good look even fifty years ago. You think you might do her a favor by mentioning this and suggesting a nice medium weight charcoal gray wool blazer instead, but you’re distracted from saying anything because you’re not sure but you think you can hear Fifty’s joints creaking just a teeny bit as she shifts from foot to foot. Her sensible shoes—Naturalizers—make you blink, trying to clear the vision. At best, the footwear can only be described as beige, frumpy and cankle-inducing. There is a definite whiff of cantankerousness emanating from the enlarged pores of her slightly sagging skin and you wonder if she’s noticed the faint budding of jowls on either side of her once charmingly dimpled chin. The chin cleft doesn’t reach the alluring depths it used to because it's been filled in with a substantial layer of subcutaneous fat. Whatever sex appeal Fifty may have possessed hit the skids at least a year or more ago. You hold back a shudder, not wanting to hurt her feelings.

She looks at you triumphantly with a certain tinge of smugness thrown in that you suppose is meant to keep you humble. You shake off your dread, tell yourself that despite any appearances to the contrary, you are an adult and will act accordingly. With a deep breath of resolve you try to make the best of the situation by smiling, extending your hand and saying,

“Thank you. Thanks so much for coming, Fifty. You’ve brought a lot of changes with you. I want you to know I appreciate the wisdom you’ve shown me in the last decade. You've offered me a deeper perspective and broader understanding of life and how it works. I have more tolerance, am less judgemental and am trying to keep an open, questing mind. There is still so much I need to learn. I want you to know I am truly grateful for your time.”

Instead of shaking your optimistically offered hand, Madam Fifty deposits the wretched AARP magazine into your proffered palm and says,
“You’re supposed to say, ‘Fifty who?’”
“What?!” You’re confused. Here you are trying to be a good sport about all this and Two-Times-Twenty-five is ignoring your good intentions. What in the hell is she talking about?
“You’re supposed to ask me ‘Fifty who?’ That’s how the joke goes. Remember? Knock, knock?”
“Oh. Right.” You want to show Fifty that despite her disenchanting presence you are still in possession of your well-developed sense of humor. You play along. “OK. Fifty who?”
“Fifty, your new decade.Geeze, woman! Pay attention. Have you gone senile already?”

You muster a wan smile, shake your head and roll your eyes. Along with being a supremely snappy dresser, Fifty is clearly one bitch of a laugh riot.

The best is still to come. I truly believe that. Hoisting a glass in your honor: Cheers, dahlink!

xoxoxo,

Lyn

GHOST IN THE MACHINE




Looks pretty innocent, doesn't it? Cue ominous, foreboding music...

 
Despite the fact that I'm a scientist and  am not religious in the traditional sense of the word, I do in truth, believe in ghosts. It’s generally not a thing I blurt out for everyone to hear because I’m well aware that people tend to think you’re a crackpot when you say stuff like that. But in light of what I’m about discuss, I think it's fair you know this in advance.

I probably wouldn't be so sure about the presence of ghosts except for the fact that I’ve seen one. I was 21 when a ghost of unknown origin appeared to me in the middle of the night. It was not a hallucination. I was not dreaming. The reason I know I was not dreaming is because I was wide awake while she—the apparition—hovered at the foot of my bed, and I remained wide awake until sunrise finally melted me out of my petrified state many hours later. While she floated near my feet, my ghostess had both hands outstretched as if wanting something from me, but I didn’t know what she needed. I was pretty sure I didn’t have whatever it was, but I was very sure I wanted her to go away. She was opaque and slightly glowing in the classical way that ghosts are portrayed in cinema. Her clothes were turn-of-the-nineteenth-century, ragged and dirty. She appeared to be a beggar.

In response to her presence, I froze. An almost full-body paralysis overcame me. In that moment I knew precisely the meaning of the phrase “scared stiff.” The only things I was able to move were my eyeballs. I couldn’t turn my head, but found I could avert my eyes. So I looked away from her as far as I could. In my peripheral vision her image persisted. She remained levitating but still for maybe another 30 seconds, arms and hands beseeching. That half minute seemed like an eternity. She faded while I remained tightly clenched, an overwrought mound of panicked protoplasm.

When enough light infiltrated the curtains many hours later, I got up cautiously and with no small amount of trepidation, crept out of my room and told my mom about it. She’d been sleeping in another room across the hall and had neither heard nor seen anything unusual. For the next four weeks I slept in the same room and, thankfully, the needy spirit left me in peace. My mom, who lived in that house another year or two, never saw her or any signs of her.

Subsequently, I worried that maybe I was one of "those" people—the kind of person to whom ghosts feel the need to make their presence known. A few years after this event, I attended a neuroscience conference in New Orleans and was lodged in the French Quarter in what used to be slave housing. In modern times the place had been refurbished—Big Easy bungalows was how I thought of them. I figured if there was any place likely to be haunted, this was it. My week’s stay was uneventful and unmarred by anything that could remotely be described as eerie. In a town overflowing with voodoo and other supernatural fallderall, I felt a sense of relief. I must not be susceptible to ghosts after all. Whew!

Nothing paranormal happened in the next twenty-plus years so I stopped worrying about it. Although I had talked to two people who'd had similar experiences, (there is some comfort in hearing other peoples’ spirit stories—makes you feel less crazy) I didn’t dwell on my apprehension of apparitions. I was over it.

Then, about eight years ago, we took a family trip to Newfoundland.  It was Tim—my husband-to-be—his two kids, Katie and Mike, and my son, Theo. The kids were fourteen, thirteen and nine respectively. Turns out Newfoundland is bursting with ghost stories. I’ve never been to a place so heavily laden with tales from the crypt. We talked about, but didn’t end up taking a walking tour of the capital, St. John’s, which highlighted ghosts and haunted places. I bought a book of collected spook stories of the island. You could say we were immersed in the incorporeal.

On the last leg of our stay in Newfoundland we rented a house in the town of Trinity. Trinity’s claim to fame is that it’s where the movie, “The Shipping News” was filmed. In addition, Trinity seems to have more than its fair share of ghost legends, even for Newfoundland. There was a high incidence of drowning in Trinity Bay and the local sentiment is that those sodden souls cling to the area relentlessly. Admittedly, by this point of the trip my spirit sense was heightened.

The house we rented was old but had a clean, modern look and had been somewhat recently remodeled. It was simple, with two stories, three bedrooms and one-and-a-half bathrooms. We stayed for three nights. Every evening the wind picked up and I’d hear knocking against the outside of the house. On the second night I asked Tim to see what was making the noise. He reported and I verified: There was nothing near or touching the house that could be responsible for making the sound. Huh, I thought. Weird.

On the last night of our stay, we watched "Casablanca" on videotape. While the five of us watched, the channel on the TV changed all by itself three separate times. We changed it back and continued with the movie. Then again, without human intervention, the TV switched off. We switched it back on and were able to get to the end of the film. I went to sleep that last night hearing the ever-present knocking apparently emanating from nowhere.

I said nothing to the kids or even to Tim until we got back to the States. Once home, I brought up how extraordinary the Trinity events seemed. I told Tim I thought the place was haunted—not in an evil way, just a sort of eerie, annoying way. Then he told me something he’d not mentioned before. When the leasing agent walked him around the house and the rest of us were out of earshot, she told him that under no circumstances was anyone to go in the basement. Oh. NOW he tells me? We discussed it a bit more and agreed—there was something pretty strange going on there.

You may be wondering why I’m bringing this up, because you know this preamble is leading somewhere. So here goes—

We moved into a new house last June. The house is only five years old and we got a good deal on it because it was a foreclosure. It’s modern, roomy and allows us to spread out and live large. We have loved the design of this house ever since we saw the model five years earlier. We feel extremely fortunate to have gotten the house “on sale” so to speak.

About a month after we moved in, Tim and I christened the master bath Jacuzzi tub. We lit candles, had champagne and enjoyed a bubble bath for two. The next morning at about seven a.m. the jets in the tub turned on all by themselves. I got up, stumbled into the bathroom and shut the thing down. We couldn't quite figure out how it had happened. Huh, we thought. Weird.

Since then things have been calm and normal—I say that even though I went through a major upheaval and changed jobs. We are settled in and loving our new house. We do wonder about the previous owner—I feel badly for him, losing such a beautiful home. Lately, we’ve been dealing with a shower leak we thought we'd dealt with in June, but other than that things are basically copasetic.

Last night we watched Paranormal Activity 2. To me, the family seemed vapid and shallow so I went upstairs before the end. Tim stuck it out to the finish and liked it. We went to bed around 11:15.

This morning at a few minutes after seven, the Jacuzzi jets powered on. Tim apparently recognized the sound right away. I heard the noise but couldn’t place it. I thought the garage door was going up. “The tub” he grumbled, as he elbowed me—apparently it’s my job to deal with anything involving the haunted tub. So I staggered out of bed and zig-zagged  toward the tub. I hit the power button and turned it off. No one has used the tub in probably two weeks. Huh, we think. Very weird.

So if anyone reading this has any idea as to what might be causing our tub to switch on by itself that doesn’t involve spirits, ghosts or poltergeists, I’d be happy—thrilled in fact—to hear about it. Please feel free to explain. I’d feel so much better knowing a power surge or lightening strike could have this effect. You have no idea how happy that would make me.

Anybody out there have any ideas about this tub?

Valentine's Day is Over. Time for the Antidote.

http://www.zwani.com/graphics/antivalentines_day/ By the way, this site has tons of most excellent anti-Valentine’s Day cards. February 15^th is the perfect day for checking it out.

As an antidote to Valentine’s Day this blog posting is meant to clear away any VD hangover symptoms you may be experiencing. Such symptoms may include but are definitely not limited to the following:

• ·         Although you got in the spirit of the thing yesterday by hauling out your one pink or red sweater, black is the only color that seems appropriate for February 15.
• ·         You’re suffering delusions of winged, hot pink hearts dive-bombing you and sucking your blood.
• ·         You’re sure Cupid’s arrow either missed you altogether (sob!) or sank a little too deeply into a vital organ and you’re feeling like you’re down a pint. Or maybe it was just those pesky vampire hearts.
• ·         The thought of chocolate and bubbly makes you nauseous and gassy—as if you were expecting anything else.
• ·         You dreamt your colored candy hearts had mean messages on them like “Give it up already” and “There’s someone for everyone—EXCEPT you” and “Good Christ. Are you still here?” and “How can I miss you if you won’t go away?”
• ·         You can’t stop thinking of that Willie Nelson quote, “Ninety-nine percent of the world’s lovers are not with their first choice. That’s what makes the jukebox play.” You think he was really on to something.  
  

The remedy I’m suggesting is this: Just go with it. Dive down, go deep, and inhale fully. Let your lungs fill with melancholy and allow despair to course through your veins. Let your arteries stiffen as they clog with gloom and heartache. Envision your blood going blue from lack of oxygen and your broken heart pausing, wondering if you’re planning to live or die. For one day, immerse yourself in the pain because, let’s face it, there is beauty in misery. Don’t be so afraid of it that you miss the sad splendor altogether.

And how do I get there? — you ask. How do I achieve such a level of wretched depression?

It’s easy. In fact, it’s super simple. I suggest listening to sad songs. 

I adore sad songs. They’re beautiful and gloomy at the same time. Most of us do like them—and please, you Pollyanna’s out there, don’t bother denying it. It’s evident every day at any time if you tune in the radio. If we didn’t love sad songs, those bluesy, wrist-slitting lyrics wouldn’t be sliding down the radio waves the way they always, always do. 

In fact, the most recent piece of evidence of love for sad songs just transpired this past weekend after I had the idea to write on this topic. Lady Antebellum won the Grammy in the best song and best record categories for their heartache song, “Need You Now.” It’s all about that person who’s not there anymore: “And I wonder if I ever cross your mind. For me it happens all the time. It’s a quarter after one, I’m a little drunk and I need you now.” The guy sings, the girl sings. On they go—yearning, bleeding out and not getting what they want—each other.  Classic heartbreak. What’s not to love?

To help you in this post-Valentine’s quest of morose inundation, I’ve compiled a list of sad songs. It is not exhaustive, in fact, it’s grossly incomplete. I am not putting myself forward as an expert. This is my personal list with help and add-ins from the Huzby who is also a big fan of sad songs.

And I’m asking for your help. Yes, audience participation is what I’m hoping for. After looking at this list, see what I’ve missed and add it into the ranks. Let’s see if we can shake the Valentine’s saccharine-sickness and get our big bad blues on.  I challenge you: How low can we go?

• In no particular order I give you:
• ·         Crazy—Willie Nelson
• ·         Wichita Lineman—Jimmy Webb
• ·         By the Time I Get to Phoenix—Jimmy Webb
• ·         Bobby McGee—Kris Kristofferson
• ·         Hot Burrito #1—Gram Parsons
• ·         Love Will Come to You–Indigo Girls
• ·         River—Joni Mitchell
• ·         Little Green—Joni Mitchell (Very sad once you find out it’s about the daughter she gave up for adoption—get’s me every time.)
• ·         Blue Bayou—Roy Orbison
• ·         Love Has No Pride—Libby Titus and Eric Katz
• ·         Someone to Lay Down Beside Me—Karla Bonoff
• ·         Suzanne—Leonard Cohen
• ·         So Long Marianne—Leonard Cohen (Apparently Marianne really put a big hurt on LC.)
• ·         That’s No Way to Say Goodbye—Leonard Cohen
• ·         Diamonds and Rust—Joan Baez
• ·         Romeo and Juliet—Mark Knopfler
• ·         Another Grey Morning— James Taylor
• ·         Fire and Rain—James Taylor
• ·         Goodnight Elizabeth—Counting Crows
• ·         A Long December—Counting Crows
• ·         White Flag—Dido (Apparently she wrote this based on letters she found in her father’s stash after he died. Until then she’d never known there was a threat to her parents’ marriage.)
• ·         I Can’t Make You Love Me—Mike Reid and Allen Shamblin
• ·         Dimming of the Day—Richard Thompson
• ·         Angel From Montgomery—John Prine (The line about how a man can go to work all day then come home and have nothing to say reminds me of my first marriage. Nothing lonelier than a bad marriage.)
• ·         Candy’s Room—Bruce Springsteen
• ·         A whole slew of songs by Lucinda Williams (But I like ‘em better when someone else sings ‘em.)
• ·         Last Kiss—Everly Brothers
• ·         You don’t Know Me—Cindy Walker and Eddy Arnold
• ·         Do I Ever Cross Your Mind—Dolly Parton (Yes. I think of you and the twins every time I’m near the cantaloupe bin, Dolly.)
• ·         Killing Me Softly—Roberta Flack
• ·         Jagged Little Pill—Alannis Morrisette (True, she’s pissed but she’s also bleeding out.)
• ·         Blowin’ In the Wind—Bob Dylan
• ·         Don’t Think Twice It’s Alright—Bob Dylan(“You kinda wasted all my precious time…” I know just what you mean, Bob.)
• ·         Cat’s In the Cradle—Harry Chapin
• ·         Taxi—Harry Chapin
• ·         If You Could Read My Mind—Gordon Lightfoot
• ·         Leavin’ On a Jet Plane—Peter, Paul and Mary (I used to play this on guitar until my son, at seven, begged me to stop. It got him misty every time. I assume it was the lyrics and not my performance of them but I could be wrong on that.)
• ·         If We Meet in Heaven—Eric Clapton (This song about his dead son is wrenching.)
• ·         I Can’t Tell You Why--Eagles
• ·         Desperado—Eagles
• ·         Best of My Love—Eagles
• ·         Please Come Home for Christmas—Eagles
• ·         It’s Too Late—Carole King
• ·         Father and Son—Cat Stevens
• ·         Wild World –Cat Stevens
• ·         I Am A Rock—Simon and Garfunkle (And a rock feels no pain. And an island never cries.)
• ·         The Boxer—Simon and Garfunkle
• ·         Wild Horses—Rolling Stones (Huzby informs me this is about Keith Richards’ son.)
• ·         She’s Leaving Home—The Beatles
• ·         Cowboys and Angels—George Michael
• ·         The Sound of White—Missy Higgins
• ·         Red Dirt Girl—Emmylou Harris (Poor Lillian!)
• ·         My Antonia—Emmylou Harris and Dave Matthews (Died of a fever, wouldn’t you know?)
• ·         Just about every song by David Gates from Bread—Diary et. al. (Please pass the tissues.)
• ·         Hello It’s Me—Todd Rundgren
• ·         Wouldn’t Have Made Any Difference—Todd Rundgren
• ·         Need You Now—Lady Antebellum

Special note: I’d like to include Jackson Browne’s songs but beating up your girlfriend gets you an automatic expulsion from my list. Shame on you, JB.

From the wayback machine:

• ·         Streets of Laredo— Frank H. Maynard
• ·         Tom Dooley—Frank Warner
• ·         Red River Valley—Harlan and Nemha
• ·         My Darlin’ Clementine—Percy Montrose of Barker Bradford

Sad songs that are over the top, pathetic or creepy:

• ·         MacArthur Park (The Cake in the Rain Song)—Jimmy Webb (Man, and it looked good, too!)
• ·         Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me—Elton John (It’s gonna be OK, Elton. Just keep taking your Prozac.)
• ·         Most of Us are Sad—Eagles (The tune is entirely too dreary for my taste which puts it in the over the top category.)
• ·         Claire—Gilbert O’Sullivan (Yikes! Dude, she’s a little girl and you’re her babysitter. Can you say chemical castration? Won’t hurt a bit.)

That’s all I’ve got at the moment. I know I’ve left out a bunch of really good, really suicide-inspiring songs. That’s why I’m asking you to contribute in the comments section.  I’ll edit the list to reflect your suggestions as they’re made.  Please, don’t be shy. Step right up, and suggest away.

It’s the perfect time of year for sad song day. In fact I propose that February, 15 become an official day of sad songs. Songs to cry with, song to lament over, songs to open up the oven and turn on the gas to. No, no. I’m kidding.  Don’t take it that far.  Just wallow for a while and let the Valentine’s sugar coating dissolve.  Woebegone songs can set you free.

Of Life Insurance and Future Scenarios

Am I the only one who starts thinking morbid thoughts when the subject of life insurance arises?

If you have life insurance it has to cross your mind. You pay the bill every month so it cannot have escaped your notice that you're paying a premium on your own and your spouse's lives. Because chances are one of you goes before the other.

Maybe I'm giving this more thought because I just turned fifty or maybe because I've got a kick-ass cold at the moment, or maybe it's merely the obvious, that I'm strange. In those moments when the Huzby brings it up-- "I got a gazillion dollar policy on you and a  gazillion one on me. That way if one of us dies..." (Allright. I'm exaggerating. It's not a gazillion.)--in my twisted, morbid way, I cannot help but play the thing out to it's natural conclusion.

Me:  I just request that when you decide it's my time, I don't have to suffer too much or too long. Make sure whatever it is you have cooked up for me is merciful and quick. I hope that'll be enough for you and Candace to buy that second home in Cabo and you'll be very happy together.

This is all hallucinatory, of course. In the first place, I have never suspected  my husband of wanting to kill me--at least not for a sustained period of time. (Who can say what horrid notion flashes through his brain in a heated argument? Only he knows for sure...) And secondly, as much as I would want my husband to be happy and well should I pass first I don't want him living the high life with that bimbo, Candace, in Cabo. Does this make me selfish?

To my knowledge, there is no Candace (bimbo or not) in our lives but regardless of the facts, I imagine Huzby hooking up with some large-breasted, wasp-waisted, thirty-something-year-old who can't keep her feet on the floor. She looks like a Candace to me. I can't help it. Really. What am I supposed to say? I just start to internally squirm. It feels crunchy talking about it and yet it doesn't seem to stop the conversation from rolling right along.

Him (understanding that I'm being sarcarstic and yet kindly trying to reassure me): It's just so if something happens to either of us we can--you know--afford to stay where we are or at least be able to sell and find something smaller. You'd probably want to find something smaller, right?

Me (hating to picture the scenario but doing it anyway):  Yeah. This house is too big for me by myself. I guess you'd stay here, though, right?

Him: Yeah. I'd stay here.

End of conversation except for the fact that it plays on in my head.

Me: Right. There'll be plenty of room for you and Candy and all of her lonely, commiserating girlfriends who feel sorry for you and want to make you feel better because you just lost your wife.

Him: Sure. A bedroom each for the other three while I share the master bedroom with whoever it is who's keeping me warm and drying my tears that night.

Me: Wait a second. How come we never talk about me hooking up with someone else? It's always you who gets to be the swinging widower.

Him: OK. Your turn to be the wild, winsome widow. Who would you go for? Some twenty-five year old stud?

Me: Ugh. No. Twenty-five? Get outta here. That's way too young. He'd have to be somewhere in the neighborhood of my age. Otherwise, I'd feel too old. And I don't want to be someone's mother's age. Ick!

Him: So...who then?

Me:  Silence

I have no answer. I am totally stumped.

How can it be that even in a fantasy I can 't come up with my dreamboat replacement for the Huzby? Am I lacking in imagination? This is not usually a problem for me. Is the Huzby (aka Mr. Grumpy) just so perfect in every way that he cannot possibly be improved upon? Hmm...This is a tempting out but in fantasies, anything is possible, so I can envision a slightly sunnier Mr. G (Mr. Not Quite So Grumpy), but he's still the self same Huzby. I am unable to conjure up a novel stand-in. I think it comes down to so dreading the vision of finding someone else, I honestly cannot come up with a surrogate because I don't want to.

What this means, I suppose, is that I truly am the one who should go first and that way I'll never be confronted with the problem. Still, thinking of the Huzby and Candace and her three friends enjoying the pay out from my life insurance policy at their Cabo condo is certainly motivating. It motivates me to take my vitamins and supplements, go to the gym, get enough sleep, eat well and take good care of myself.

Sorry Candy, but by the time you get your chance, your boobs will be sagging down to your widening waist and your feet won't be quite as prone to flight as they once were. Let's face it woman, by then Huzby's taste in women will have probably not have changed. So prepare yourself. I foresee a Veronica, Serena, Raquel, Alicia, Cherie, Romy or Babette on the horizon who's not so long in the tooth. So sad. Too bad.

Sheesh. Life insurance. What a buzz kill.



We may be getting older but we're not dead yet.