Trip Rehash (A little Optimism Goes a Long Way)

Alright, I admit it - it wasn't a bad trip. It was actually a really great trip, and being somewhere else had the effect of removing a ton of bricks from my chest, even if only temporarily. Here in the Cackalackies summer is still hanging on with a sticky vengeance, but Autumn was in full swing as we headed up through West Virginia and Pennsylvania to Western New York, and the shore of Lake Erie. The maples and the sumac were incredible shades of coral, scarlet, crimson and russet, especially in upper PA and NY. (None of which, of course, are in this picture, but it's still a good shot of what Western NY looks like)We filled the back of the pickup with apples and cider, kielbasa and pepperoni, horseradish mustard and rye bread, peanut sticks and hard white cheddar; a cornucopia of all the things that mean home to us. We bought our apples at The Red Barrel, out in North Boston. We went to Schwabel's in West Seneca, to have Beef on Kimmelweck and German potato salad, because they've been serving it since 1837 and I think they're still the best. This is their cash register:We went and visited with my aunt, who is now at 65 pounds, but hanging on - she had more energy than I'd seen in her since she had the operation, over 4 years ago, and while one good virus could still carry her off, it gave us hope that maybe, somehow, she might just be able to get better.

I was worried that going with my dad to see his sister, and his friend who is in frail health as well, might tip him (and me!) over the edge into Dark and Twisty-ville - it has to be tough to see your peers passing, one by one - but he surprised me with his resilience. We talked about everything under the sun on the drive up and back, sometimes getting so engrossed that we missed our exits! It was a bonding experience for us both, I think, which can only be good. I think it helped that we went to Oil City and had dinner at the Yellow Dog Lantern, because the ladies who work there love to flirt with my dad, and he loves to give it back in kind. They sat down in the booth with us and told him if he weren't married he would be going home with one of them, couldn't believe he was 77, thought he must be only in his early 60s, and you know he loved that!The drive up to New York from Oil City was eventful - Route 8 ended abruptly above Union City (we were talking and missed the detour signs) so we took a dirt road or two and somehow ended up in New York, near Findley Lake. The Ace Hardware store was in Union City - I love the old bike and the ad for tux rentals in the windows!I missed the guys while I was away, but the rest of the shite, as posted before, yeah, not so much. I know I can't control how other people behave (as much as I might like to, as much as they might be begging to be disciplined), so my task now is to try and forget, or at least to ignore the flingers of bullshit - it's their problem not mine. Now I have to repeat that about a hundred times whilst looking severely at myself in the mirror - it's not my mess, I'm not going to clean it up!

Thanks to you all, who came and left a little moral support!

Picture below: the tribal lands where my mother swears they touch her cheek and ask, "What tribe are you?" Yeah, sure they do!

Kinda Eyore-ish

Okay so you're not in my head (and wouldn't a therapist love to scrutinize that!) so you wouldn't know that the reason I haven't been writing is pure depression. I did feel like I was getting kind of hackneyed in the blogosphere, but that was just the tip of the iceberg that I slid off into the arctic sea of Fuckitall.

The kids are both in middle school now, so I have my mornings to myself again, which kind of makes me feel like I'm not pulling my weight, and of course I'm not feeling any inspiration to paint, which adds to that feeling of uselessness, though I have kicked up the home-made goodness as a result, which nobody is complaining about, except maybe my ever-expanding gut.

I find myself still mourning Mrs. Puff, probably because it was so unexpected and horrific, the way she died. I know there was nothing we could have done in the face of an avalanche of hemorrhagic strokes, and maybe that's what haunts me - that sense of complete futility.

I'm having the old recurring issue with living in this part of the world; being a yankee by birth (I have lived in the south for over 40 years, but I'm still a yankee - how about that shit?) and not christian (and I refuse to capitalize such a travesty of a word) is two humongously indelible marks against me in this small, backward-thinking town. Apparently all you have to do for social acceptance is give lip service to being the same religion as everyone else and talk through a mouth full of marbles. I kid you not. It doesn't matter if you're committing adultery, are an abusive parent or abusive spouse, or a dead-beat parent who leaves their kids to fend for themselves - if you profess your faith loudly enough, no one will care what you do behind closed doors (and these aren't stereotypes; every example I listed is someone I know, in all their sanctimonious hypocrisy, who treats me and my family like lepers). Being a kind and decent human being doesn't count for doodly without that "got jesus" lobotomized seal of approval. (Please note: I have nothing against Jesus himself, or what he had to say. My problem is with the trash that insists on using his name to legitimize their petty fear and hatred of anything that doesn't fit into their limited awareness.) I know there are people who are truly good christians - I know 2 personally, but there are so many of the other kind. Aren't they calling themselves the "Tea Party" these days?

So, on top of those delectable tidbits from the fantastic pile of shit that is permeating my existence on a daily basis, I have a trip to make, starting tomorrow. I'm headed up to Buffalo, with my dad. He's going to see his sister and an old friend, both of whom are in very frail health. He hates death, is even kind of phobic about it, so this isn't going to be a pleasure jaunt. I'm a little amazed that he's even going. I have to confess, I'm not sure I'm up to this myself, treading water in my own murky sea of personal bullshit, but I said I'd go. I'm going to take a composition book and try to do some journalling - angst is good for writing, right? I'm also going to try and carpe diem; to take it one day at a time and try, TRY to find some good in there amongst the craptastic chaff.

And at the least there will be apples - lovely crisp New York apples and cider to look forward to, right?

Sowing Different Seeds

Maggie's new site dedicated to domestic violence has me looking down rabbit holes that go deep down into the past.

I don't really consider myself to be a victim of abuse, though I guess, technically, I am. I grew up in the days when it was considered perfectly okay to spank a child, or yell at them, presumably carte blanche. We were spanked, slapped across the face, told we were liars, even when we told the truth, told we were stupid, and none of that seemed excessive, compared to other kids we knew, and their family life. The thing that seemed really out of hand, really frightening, was the fighting between my parents.

My father was a walking powder keg of rage in those days, and my mother never bothered to read the signs before she jumped all over him, only to lie down in the face of his rage and allow one of us to bear the brunt. It was a toxic combination, and we learned early to disappear when they began their dance. Their fighting caused us to draw closer together, to depend on each other, and I think that was our salvation, but all that rage still took its toll on each of us individually. They crippled us with their words of worthlessness, they convinced us we could only fail at whatever we tried, so why try at all? Even worse, they pitted us against each other with their petty favoritism, undermining what little strength and comfort we had with the lure of being that exception, the favorite.

As a child of eight or nine, I would quietly escape into the silent dark of night, and looking up to the stars, I would pray earnestly for my real people to come back and find me, to rescue me from this place that surely, I didn't belong in.

It was a different flavor of teen angst to realize that this was where I came from, where I belonged, what I was destined for. Might as well indulge in teen-aged drinking, and hey, it's the 70s, let's experiment with a few drugs. Who cares if you fail school? They sure didn't, so why should I?

For a really long time I screwed up everything I ever tried to do in my life, because that's what little self-fulfilling prophecies do. I can't say that I've turned my life around 100%, because I don't think I'll ever feel like that's the case, but I did make a conscious choice to not emulate my parents' disastrous dynamic in my own marriage. And when I became a parent, the shoe, so to speak, was on my foot, and I was damned if my children were going to grow up feeling only conditionally loved, or lacking in potential, or frightened of their parents. I know I'm not a perfect parent - is there really such a thing? I lose control of my temper, I yell at my kids, I make bad calls; but I also apologize when I'm in the wrong, and allow them to voice how they feel without censure. We have a rule in this house: no name calling, and it applies to everyone. Respect is a two-way street - I can't expect it from my children if I don't practice myself.

I can't change or rectify every mistake I've ever made in my life - there is no going back. I may never recover belief in myself, I may always be damaged internally, but I can refuse to inflict that same fate upon someone else. I can stop the cycle. I can't change my parents, but I can try to understand them, and recognize that they were once undamaged too. I can focus on their good qualities and ask them to recognize their negative ones when they surface. Sometimes they cling to their denial, but other times they surprise me with their open regret and desire to rectify. It's rare, I'll grant you, but it does happen, and there is great healing to be had from those moments.

There is a shift of power that comes, when your parents reach their geriatric years. In many ways we become the parent to their aging child. There is a temptation to pay back those childhood debts, in some sort of twisted tit for tat, but whatever karmic debt they have accrued, it is my hope that I will be a better, kinder parent than they were.

Appended to add: I thought about this post a lot; whether to write anything at all, how much to say, how others might react to this. I tossed and turned all night, fretting it. I'm not happy with how I've skimmed this topic, but I don't feel that I can be more in-depth; partly because it isn't just my traumatic childhood, partly because I have dealt with a lot of my anger, and I'm not estranged from my parents or family. Not yet. I sent this post to Bea, with the title, "Is This going To Ruin Christmas?" She agreed that there is a choppiness to this post, a series of omissions to the tale, a glossing over of the darker details, but she also agreed that there is good reason for that. It isn't just my tale, but more saliently, I don't consider myself to be a victim, primarily because what I have written here has been said aloud, to my parents, my siblings. We are not a family of well-kept secrets, rather, the dynamic might better be compared to running the gauntlet. My aim in writing this is not to dredge up a lot of past flotsam, but to point out that, just like Cary did, in the DV post, that abuse occurs everywhere, we all carry scars. It's what we do with those scars that makes the difference.

And I'm still wondering if I've explained myself fully.

Meet My Hamster (aka, The Long Downward Spiral And It's Wherefore)

Other than to tell you about his predilection for shrieking "Galaxy Quest" quotes, I've never really introduced my little hamster, have I?

How remiss of me!

As you may have surmised by now, yes I have a tiny little furry rodent who lives in my brain and keeps me up at night. More often than not, it's after I've had the evening cup of coffee, or pounded a Coke Icee at the movies, but even without Demon Caffeine to poke the hamster, he's a bit of a night owl. He's the one who has to hash and re-hash, over and over all those skeletons banging about in my mental closet, muttering commentary in my ear on things that cannot be changed.

It's really annoying, and usually, just a sign I need to stop drinking coffee at night, or (eek) deal with the real stress factors, because let's face it - my ruined love life in 5th grade really isn't the problem in the here and now - it's just a well worn groove of "Should-a Could-a Would-a"** that's easier to traverse than the actual crap keeping me up at night. I think, I worry - it's what I do.

But lately,I'm overwhelmed by a darkness that sends my little hamster into hiding. This darkness follows me, blocking my view of the ever-hopeful sun, wringing out my joy by the gut-twist-fuls. I know it's name, I know I have no power over it, and that, I think, is what pushes me to the edge.

Four states away my aunt is dying of esophageal cancer. A year after her surgery, the cancer is back, and there is very little that can be done for her, hovering at a near-skeletal 80 pounds. They can't do chemotherapy, because she's too weak, and she can't seem to gain weight or strength.

I wanted to go and see her while I was up in Pennsylvania this past June, not knowing just how bad off she was, but my father pooh-poohed the idea and we didn't go. Now I'm kicking myself for listening to Mr. Ambivalent, and wondering if I'll ever get to see her once more, if only to say goodbye. I'm afraid of being a selfish jerk, wanting to hover at her bedside just to net myself some closure. I wonder - do the dying really want us to come and cry at their bedside? Does that help them? It seems sort of gruesome, to mourn someone's death before they've even passed on. I'm not sure what consolation I can offer my cousins - life hasn't exactly handed them a fair deal (genetic bullshit with a name I can never remember, but it boils down to them all having ticking time bombs in their heads, and its a gift that keeps on giving, from one generation to the next.) and now they have to lose their mother, their rock? It isn't fair and there's no "moving in mysterious ways" that's going to make it any more reasonable.

To further complicate the scenario,the two families are not particularly close, the causes being schismatic differences in religion, lifestyle, geographic location, and let's not forget the ever present legacy of my grandmother - ambivalence. But I love my aunt, and I enjoy her company, whether we believe in the same dogma or not. I see pieces of myself in her, albeit arranged differently, and I will feel an emptiness in my life when she's not there anymore.

You can see why my hamster is in hiding, can't you?
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Later~
I made a decision, after talking to my dearest husband and my beloved Bea, and making a few phone calls. I'm taking the trip to go see my aunt, to spend a little time with her, and my cousins. I need to have that chance as my sage friend Ms. Q so eloquently put it, to say, "You have made a difference in my life, and I love you'". To spend a little time together, so I can maybe let go a little more gracefully when I must.

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And the hamster begins his laps again, on the squeaky, creaky wheel in my head...

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** a Peter Case song - I love that NY boy!

Muddy Waters

The phone call came today, from my friend whose mother died. I was afraid she would be brittle and unyielding in her coping; impossibly imprisoned in her fairy tale tower of protection, but grief had levelled her. On the phone, she sounded like the girl I knew so long ago, her older, more interior self. As we talked a million memories, some muddy and indistinct, others crystalline, bobbed to the surface of the silty depths of my mind.

Reaching for those memories down in the sludgy bottom of my consciousness, I hesitated. My fear of what might be lingering, lurking there in the sediment, forgotten, kept me from trawling through that dormant, long buried past. For now.

I think it's time to drain the pool, and clean out the debris.

We are getting together on Saturday to visit with each other, to reconnect. In part, to pay my respects, but also to grieve together, something I'm surprised to discover I need to do.

As much as I have vilified her mother, painted her as a narcissistic monster of selfishness (and she was), as an adult I recognize her impact on my life. I realize that my memories are colored in crayon, the memories of a child, and there were undoubtedly undercurrents and dynamics I was ignorant of that played into the scenes I witnessed. I owe it to myself and my friend to steel my nerve and dig into that past, if only to affirm our bond to each other as situational siblings, but maybe also to make some sense of the things that haunt us both.

Exploratory Soul Surgery

The elderly mother of a childhood friend died over the weekend, and I went to the reception/wake that was held for her. I hadn't spoken with my friend for a couple of years, partly because she moved out to Arizona, and partly because when she did come home to visit she always wanted to reconnect with 20-30 friends at the same time, in a celebrity/paparazzi kind of gathering, which, in my opinion, isn't really about reconnecting with any of those people - it's about stroking an ego and feeding an exhibitionist's jones for attention. Maybe I'm just inflexible, but I just can't stoke that bonfire of vanity.

Walking into that house took me back to 10 years old. I instinctively looked to see if there was still a curtain by the entrance to the screened porch to hide behind. The energy of her life, the deceased, was still palpable in every room, or maybe it was just my vivid memories. I stood testament to so much in that house. A stream of folks wandered in and out of the reception. I recognized some, but others were too transformed by time for me to easily recognize them. The big elephant in the house that day was the absence of my friend, at her mother's memorial. Her older sister made excuses for her absence, explaining she had to attend a yoga workshop out west, but her rolling eyes added an editorial I understood too well.

The story, the dynamics that set this scene in motion, go much deeper than a simple power struggle. Despite having several sisters, my friend was, in many ways, an only child. She was a post-40 Whoops child, and her sisters were all but grown up and out of the house when she came along, so she enjoyed and suffered the full brunt of her mother's attention and neglect. Her mother was a very bright woman, both academically and artistically, but she was also extremely competitive and often angry at the world around her. Her marriage broke up when my friend was about 3 or 4 and she never remarried, choosing to live and raise her youngest daughter alone.

I don't think I can effectively summarize the myriad stories of my childhood that played out at their house, that are part and parcel of my friend's no-show. Some are good stories. Little girls playing dress up with a box of antique petticoats, riding side saddle on almost as antique Schwinn bicycles, transformed by imagination into glorious steeds. Dazzling late night parties peopled by local celebrities and politicians, where we were introduced as a pair of precocious princesses, and oh, how we loved to play the part! I enjoyed a rarified upbringing in that house, exposed to books, art, theatre, politics, and the then burgeoning feminist movement, and I owe all of that to my friend's mother. But there are darker stories of her influence as well.

Some are downright nightmares; cataclysmic storms of misplaced rage, apathetic neglect of both her child and her home. In my mind images of spacious rooms with elegant furnishings; a baby grand piano in a room full of windows, antique portraits of ancestors hung above family heirlooms, are juxtaposed against images of a refrigerator full of spoiled food, a basement crawling with almost sentient mold, and a woman whose variable moods and deadly temper made me grateful for my own batshit crazy parents, and the fact I could go home at 5 o'clock. We were never quite sure what would tip her off; a dirty towel on the floor, a broken ashtray, but we knew, once she got going it wasn't going to end until someone was shredded and in tears.

My friend told me once about a bad experience she had while partying - that she had all these really traumatic images of her mother and her grandmother boil up and she couldn't tell where it had come from. She thought it had all been a product of her inebriation, but as she described the images to me, I was horrified. They weren't fabrications, they were suppressed memories of her childhood. I knew what they were because I had been present for many of them, and it is not my luck in life that I can forget, though I wished I had, so I could have feigned ignorance for her sake.

I can't say with authority why my friend wasn't there at that memorial/wake/reception. All I can tell you is what I know of what came before, and even then, I feel like there is a ghost who wants to shut my mouth.

Thought Process, aka Procrastination

the women in this painting need faces. I've held off painting their faces because I knew they weren't going to look like the women in the photograph, but I wanted them to have some of the essence of the photo, nonetheless. It doesn't help that these are my grandmother and my great grandmother in this picture. Their own personal identities have been obscured by time and family dysfunctions. So whose face, whose essence do I paint into this picture?

The going has been slow, and I confess, I am easily distracted.

After doing a little thinking with a pencil in hand, I realize that their faces are pieces of myself.

I tried to remember how my great grandmother's eyes were large, and dark, though somehow empty when I met her. And I was little, so she was no doubt, a bit daunting. In my mind, she is alway sitting at the end of the flip-up formica table in my grandmother's kitchen. She is tiny, birdlike in her fragility, and she's hunched over, smoking perpetually. (There is something terribly wrong with the nose on this woman - I'm going to erase all my pencil marks and start over.) My grandmother, on the other hand, is obviously the protagonist in this picture. While sketching on her I realized that this affinity, or sympathy for who I thought she might have been like in her early married life, is the real subject of this painting. And while there may be aspects of myself in each of these figures, my identification with both of them becomes the hidden portrait in this painting. Hmm, food for thought. So there you have it - a glimpse into my painting block, and the annoyingly self-absorbed psuedo-self-analysis that goes along with figuring out where to go.

And it's only Monday!

Woof - who's up for a lunch break at Tacos Mexico? (this is the procrastination part, like you couldn't tell!)

A Week at the Beach

At last! The epic saga of our trip to the beach. We left Saturday morning and headed east. About lunchtime, as we were getting ready to pass through Williamston, I remembered that there used to be a barbeque place we would pass, coming from Greenville, back in our college days. We looked around and there it was! Of course we stopped - I love eastern Carolina barbeque! It's always a good sign that there's a brisk business going on, and even at 2 PM there were folks waiting in line for some of this barbeque. They didn't have hushpuppies, which IS kind of lame, and I have to take points off for that, but the 'Que was lean and vinegary-hot, as it should be. It didn't top my brother's barbeque, but then, when he cooks a hog, it's a work of art. And a hell of a party, to boot. But I digress... I love the old churches and houses that still cling to the roadside down east. I'm intrigued by the cemetery that lies beyond that fence. The economy isn't as brisk out here, away from the Research Triangle, and it shows. But on the plus side, the wonderful old buildings haven't all been razed to make room for yet another subdivision or strip mall. The raping of Wake County by carpetbagger developers is a source of great distress to me. It was a beautiful place, once. This old house isn't long for this world, I fear, but it has a wonderful spookiness to it. I could easily imagine it as a sentient creature, peering at us from its empty-eyed windows. It's places like this that make me want to stop the car and get out to take a ton of pictures. That would mean we would never get to the beach, so I had to settle for this shot. There have been wildfires burning down east lately, affecting the air quality as far west as Greensboro. I don't know if this was part of the actual wildfires that are plaguing Washington County, but it's the right area. Creepy, isn't it? I saw houses bordering on woods that had dug trenches along the edge of the trees; a precautionary measure, perhaps? At last we reached the beach! The traffic during the week of the Fourth of July is ungodly - it took us over an hour to go 20 miles up the beach - a serious detriment to going during this time of year, and a powerful inducement to go in September, when the crowds are thinner.
The guys couldn't wait to hit the beach in their new swimwear (the old suits were getting a bit indecent). The Bohemian poses for me - isn't he the quintessential surfer dude here? They discovered some boogie boards in the closet and had tons of fun riding the waves. The ocean was quite calm, which isn't always a given this far out into the Atlantic. I think the Gulf stream might have been the predominant current, as opposed to the colder and rougher Labrador that also lies offshore here and vies with the Gulf. We sure saw a lot of seaweed and jellyfish!
We took walks in the morning along the tidal pools, looking for interesting shells and sea life. The Bohemian attempts rather futilely to keep his shorts dry. It seems weird to me too - he usually is drenched from just playing in the creek, so why worry about it now? Kids...psshhh! One morning we found a hermit crab in one of the tidal pools, and the Bohemian was pretty excited about it. I'm not big on catching and keeping wild creatures - I think it's a selfish and ecologically irresponsible lesson to teach. So we looked at the crab, took his picture, and let him go. Isn't he cute? Can you see us reflected in the crab's shell? Very cool and totally unplanned! As a career vampire, I normally don't rise at dawn, but it's usually worth it at the beach. I got up one morning and found the wild horses right outside the house. The story on these horses is that they're the descendants of horses left here by Sir Richard de Grenville in the 1580s. I think the original Arabian genes have gotten a bit diluted over the centuries, but they're still a big tourist draw. People come up the beach in droves of tour jeeps to get a look at these guys, and I'm always amazed that the horses don't kick or bite anyone - you should see the amusement park-bred idiots that think they should put their toddler, or their pregnant wife right next to one of these for a photo-op. The literature on the horses specifically says you should keep a distance of at least 25 feet from them - guess some folks either can't read, or just think it doesn't apply to them. I worry that if and when a horse bites one of them, the poor horse will be held accountable. This stallion on the left was quite the alpha male. He actually came after us one morning, as we were trying to get back the house from a walk on the beach. I advised the hubman to "walk quickly, but don't run, and don't make eye contact", which worked, but man! I can't believe anyone would want to get up close with this guy, other than his baby, and his baby's mama, seen at the right. Cheddar and Stilton enjoyed the fresh air and practiced their samurai sword techniques every morning. (I know - what????) They may look cute and cuddly, but they are in fact, deadly foes. The sunrises were awesome! I'm always amazed when I take pictures like this. Have I mentioned lately that I love my camera?
I love the bird balanced on the back of this horse (yes, that's the bad-ass stallion he's sitting on - go figure!). He sat up there to escape being harassed by a flock of black-colored birds (I couldn't tell what they were). He's some kind of fishing bird - look at that beak and those feet! Of course I had to have a red drink, in honor of Bea. The briny-ness of using Clamato instead of tomato or V-8 is especially yummy at the beach.
Looking at the world with an artist's eye reveals wonderful surprises in the mundane. I love the patterns made by the fence, the grass, and the sun upon them both.
It tickled me no end that this horse was up on the dunes one afternoon, watching the people. The people on the beach never noticed her there.
We had a birthday while we were at the beach - my sister's French exchange student turned 16, and my mother made her famous Million Layer Chocolate cake for him. I call this "Two Jewish Mothers Light The Cake" - aren't they the epitome of motherly? I'm afraid that poor guy will never be the same after spending a week with this gang - my father only speaks the International Language of Obscenities, and my mother; well, let's just say she has a certain je ne sais quoi. No, really, I don't know what it is. I love her dearly, but I need an aspirin - are you with me now?
So we survived the week at the beach, more or less. The scenery was beautiful, but the people were everywhere. I did manage to not get sunburned, which is a vast relief to those who have to live with me, and now my sister and I know exactly what we've been missing, don't we baby? Next time, we will be like the little rabbit, and RUN!!

Digging In The Dirt

I am no stranger to depression - it's been my companion for far too many years. I recognize the symptoms as expertly as I would the symptoms of the flu or any other illness. It comes from years of living intimately with it. I've examined my personal causes, or triggers minutely, made a science of pinpointing the underlying reasons and how to exorcise them.

As a child, when the fighting between my parents would crescendo, or they had just vented their rage at each other on one of us, I would slip away from the house and look up at the night sky, praying for my real family to come and take me away.

In the teen years, unable to pretend I belonged somewhere else, I thought about suicide almost constantly. I wore black from the age of 12 onward, and sat in my room in the dark, writing very morose, very bad poetry. I stole prescription drugs from the medicine cabinet of my friend's mother and stockpiled them for my planned overdose. My parents would occasionally take their heads out of their self-absorbed asses to notice and their loving response was always, "Do we need to take you to see someone?" Not that they ever followed through - not that I would have talked to a shrink if they had. When you grow up in the house of a shrink and see just how batsa they are after hours, it makes it pretty much impossible to trust any of them.

I was actually lucky, in that I had brothers and a sister. I think we decided fairly early on that our parents were totally fucked up in the head and couldn't be relied on. No matter how bad it was, we had each other. My father likes to think he had a hand in making us such a close family, and he's right, but he's also way off base. He was never home, except on the weekends. My mother couldn't deal with four kids alone and saved both our punishments and her resentments for Friday night, and that's how she lost her authority as a parent. Their need to publicly vilify one another led us to form our own family dynamic - one that didn't include them.

As a young woman I tended towards relationships where I put my entire life's happiness into the keeping of another, and naturally, they always seemed to end badly. Then I would plummet into a pit of darkest, most desperate despair, only surfacing to pin my self worth on another poor unsuspecting schmuck.

I was about 24 when I had the epiphany that I was living my life like it was a Greek tragedy, and decided I was really tired of it. It was time to try living life like it was worth it. That was the year I met both Bea and my husband and you know how those stories went.

That's not to say I don't ever end up in that dank, windowless cell known as depression - I certainly do. The toddler years were hell, and there were times I literally hit my head against the wall, trying to deal. But I look at it differently now. I know there's a sunny day outside of that cell. I also know I'm not the only one who ever feels that way, and strange as it may sound, I find that comforting. It took some work to get to this place, in the form of confronting my demons, both personal and familial, but the dark days are fewer and further than they used to be.

How can we appreciate the exquisite joy of being alive, if we've never seen the other darker side as well? Life is a balance of both good and bad, I believe, and in the quest to find wisdom, or grace, or deeper illumination, we have to be able to embrace both sides.

*Note - I wrote this piece after reading of Ray's demise into the dark tunnel over at Nitro Vista. This isn't a solution to anyone else's depression - it isn't even a full confession of the things that set me off. This is simply what came up out of the bubbling swamp that is my mind after reading his post. I also want to say that as an adult I recognize there are no perfect parents and whatever botching of the job my parents may have done, they did their best with what they were given. Family dynamics and dysfunctions often go back many generations, and for what its worth, my parents did break out of their respective molds in many ways.

Crazy-assed, Cyclical Whirlings of My Brain

How can I feel so blah, so (dare I say it?) depressed?

Spring is here - school is almost over - family life has been on a fairly even keel for a while now - I even have a Girls' Weekend coming up.

What the hell is my problem?

I think I worry too much (Oh, and thanks for that legacy, Dad!)We've planned a few vacations for the summer, and the planning of them makes me anxious.

*Note - Please don't offer me platitudes - I'm a Solution Person - I always find a way to fix the situation, but sometimes it has to stew first.

The first vacation - a trip up to PA has actually been resolved, so I can stop worrying about it. The whole not having a reservation and/or a paper trail to show for our down payment was making me squirrelly, but the renters have finally gotten their fecal matter together and now I can just obsess on what to pack.

Again - don't try to make me feel better - have you read the title of this blog recently? That would be me, the tapdancer. Its all part of my stage act, see?

The second vacation - OY! Let's just say that my mother is the one who thinks she planning that trip, and that should sum it up. I love her - I really do - but she can't plan for shit, child, and god help the fool who tries to tell her that. No, no - "these things must be done delicately". The plus side of this trip is that my sister is also going on it, so together we can handle her, I'm sure. We were talking about it the other day and we confessed to each other our sense of dread, our secret thoughts of "is it too late to cancel?", which strangely, made me feel better. I think its just a knee jerk reaction to taking a trip with Mom-zilla, but we are mighty in our solidarity, right? Right?

See, now would be a good time for the soothing platitude! Oh, wait, I said not to, didn't I?

The third vacation is my very own fault and I can't blame anyone else for the insanity of it. I'm supposed to take a trip up to NY with my mom later this summer. I signed up for it in a moment of weakness (I think a shipment of NY rye bread was involved), and as much as I have tried to find ways to weasel out of it, I think I'm going to have to do it. I have a sneaking suspicion that all is not well with my mother. She won't tell us anything, she won't go see a doctor for any of the myriad issues she's been having, and she's taken up smoking again with a vengeance. Maybe I'm just over the top paranoid - I would really like for it to be just that - but I have this terrible feeling there's something wrong. So maybe this trip up to NY has to be this year - maybe there won't be another chance to have a quality moment with my mother. Maybe its all in my head and she'll be here for another 20 years, driving us all to the brink of insanity. Either way, I think this is one of those Carpe Diem things I have to do, so that when I'm standing by her deathbed I can say goodbye with as little conflict or regret as possible.

Hey! I never said I wasn't toting a dufflebag of batsa! I freely admit my logic may not hold up under another's scrutiny, but ultimately, we have to do what we think is the right thing, don't we?

And really, once I stop to think about it - life IS good!

Ludicrous Beauty

Should I tell you what he was doing, or do these pictures tell their own story?


Parents, without a doubt, and even the best of them, will drive you batshit at each and every chance they are given. But then, there are those moments where you look at them in action and have that instant sense of identity. Where you realize that your crazy-assed apple didn't fall or roll that far from the tree, and that's perfectly okay.

This would be one of those moments.
I love you Dad!

Sunday Denial

I admit, Sundays in the backyard are kind of sacrosanct to Bea and myself, so we were a little dismayed at the notion of leaving it. But it was a family birthday party, which means Mom was making her famous Million Layer Chocolate and Coffee Cream Cake, and we are nothing if not flexible partiers, so we put together a few nibblies, mixed up a couple bottles of "hooch" and headed out. (Did I mention this meant no cooking dinner? Always a perk!)

The weather was most accomodating and the view from the back deck was pretty nice:

The kids got out some Legos to play with, and a few made it out to us. I couldn't resist trying one on for the Grand Inquisitor look:

Our gracious host, the birthday girl, and our lovely hostess:

I worry every day that my parents will discover my blog and all the fun of posting pictures of them will end. See, he has no idea this is going to be published!

Bea and her buddy realize yet again they have matching shades and share a contemplative moment digging the funky warp power of this most awesome eyewear.
The kids managed to have fun too,
though the Professor did splay himself most convincingly out from the slide,
and the Bohemian sustained a rotator cuff injury, but what is the price of fun, people?
There were a few sweet moments in between the mini-dramas.
We gathered and sang Happy Birthday as only this crowd can do - well, us and Ethel Merman, if that tells you anything. (If it doesn't, you are woefully ignorant of American Stage Icons and its not my problem - go look her up in Wikipedia, for crying out loud!) I do think the birthday girl enjoyed her serenade, though its doubtful her hearing will ever be the same! (Mmm, cake...!)
No pinatas or Blind Man's Bluff for this crowd, but a rousing game of Bocce was enjoyed. I'm just sorry Ms. Q. wasn't there to quote from "Splash" - she would have relished the opportunity, I know. I think the birthday girl has just thrown out her arm in this picture, but look at the serious concentration on these guys faces!
The Bohemian wonders what all the fuss is about.
The moment of truth in measuring the distance of the thrown balls looks a lot like someone has just lost their keys or a contact.
We had a great time and managed to get our drink on, both figuratively and physically. The physical wearing of the rum drinks was done by yours truly, and you better believe I spread it around - I was awfully glad I was wearing Crocs, so I could just rinse them off afterwards! Hope you had a great weekend too!