I found a new blog I like:
I like the writing style and the content.
BzirkWorld
No, this is not a personal journal
Looking for the Money Shot in Iowa
I remind myself constantly that cameras – while they may not lie exactly – only reveal snapshots. How many times have you been questioned about the look on your face at a particular moment, “Are you mad?” “What are you thinking about?” In reality, your nose was itching, you remembered a forgotten task, you had a foot cramp, or actually, you have no idea why your mouth turned up or your forehead wrinkled. Looking at photos of my own self, I often wonder, What Was I Thinking??
Cameras hyper-focus an audience on the face and body language of its subjects. We have these two-hour time frames during televised debates to stare at (and listen to) people talk and display a whole range of emotion, physical reaction and thought. What looks like an arrogant smirk may well be the result of holding back a fart. These are, after all, human beings. Farts and all.
Televised debates are incredibly powerful influencers because we are so visual and so vain and so attracted to perfection and so fickle- always looking for that one tell-tale moment when the candidate reveals the whole Monty with that one expression (the money shot?).
Or, maybe I’m just shallow.
I think these GOP (and most) candidates are courageous and patriotic and ultimately, love America. I had a moment last night while watching the debate when I was overcome with patriotism. I watched these people on the stage in various camera angles, up-close-and-personal, and I just felt so strongly about all of them. I was proud and touched by their courage to be up there. I was overcome with gratitude to be an American and I thought, for a minute, that these candidates are all mostly good, or want to be, and mostly trustworthy and mostly meant, or wish they meant, everything they said. It was weird.
All of that, I think, is a result of ‘seeing’ the people instead of just hearing them. I can’t help but wonder how much that affects my opinion and I am trying hard not to let it. I often wonder how just ‘hearing’ and not ‘seeing’ the campaigns of 2008 would have changed the result.
Like so many other people watching, I am listening for ideas, platforms and issues that speak to me directly and that represent my exact vision of my country. Therein, of course, lies the real debate. What, exactly, is my vision?
I am certainly not liberal but I am also no longer a strict conservative. Libertarian ideas appeal to
Here.. put this on...
me but I refuse to try on Ron Paul’s tin-foil cap – although I have toyed with the idea. Other than the isolationist concepts, he has some pretty appealing platforms.
I want to like Bachmann. After watching the debates (so far) I am starting to warm back up to her, although, she seems a bit high-maintenance for the job. How long exactly, does all that make-up take her to apply everyday? I know, I know. Shallow. I don’t like any kind of religion in my politics but I do believe that we should base decisions on goodness and justice. All of that goodness mostly comes from God, doesn’t it? Whole ‘nuther subject there. Extremism scares me.
I like Santorum. I actually, probably, like him the most. But – there’s that whole religion thing again. I just don’t really give a shit what gay people do. Get married, don’t get married. I don’t care. I do believe in a strong family unit and I don’t think it is affected by what gay people do or don’t do. Either you are gay – or not. Period. I’m not. My family unit looks pretty typical. I don’t mind if my neighbor’s does not.
Huntsman ‘appears’ to be a bit smug and over-confident. Maybe he just has gas. I generally like his platforms, although, honestly, I have not studied him much.
Romney. I like him. He does not appear to be basing business decisions on any weird, cultish, Mormon philosophy. He just seems like a regular Christian guy who is smart and decisive and a savvy business man. He does make stupid faces while he listens to the other candidates. I bet he never farts.
Perry- I just don’t know. Hard not to like a cowboy from Texas. He seems a little slippery. I worry about international affairs with him on the throne. Is he smart enough? Would he be true to American values or be another bumbling goober like our current president? Texas is one of the only states that is still thriving. That says something.
Ultimately, Gingrich appears to be the wisest, smartest and most qualified. He does have that baggage and there is something lurking there.. for me.. that keeps me reserved a bit.
I think I would be fairly comfortable with any of them. Except Ron Paul. I would be okay with him as VP, although Biden has proved that office to be fairly useless.
So… what are your thoughts?
Just Kill it and Walk Away
Blame it on the social network society- but I have become like a cat who plays with a mouse before I eat it and walk away, leaving its head and feet for my human to step on and scream. I’m not the only one. I see it more and more on Facebook and blog banter. I’m not sure I like it.
Let's play a little game..
This all occurred to me today when I toyed cruelly with an unsuspecting dumbass who attacked me on Facebook. I knew it was cruel because I felt nothing. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t defensive. I wasn’t hurt. I wasn’t afraid. I was, in fact, amused. I did what I had to do. I baited and re-baited the trap and watched it snap and snap and snap. And I laughed. The laughing was guttural and snorty, from deep in my chest and sinus. Not the wholesome kind of open-mouthed donkey laughing – like when somebody falls in a hole. It was just mean.
The best thing about the attack was that it happened as soon as I woke up and during my morning routine whereupon I have hot coffee at arm’s length, an ashtray with a burning hot cigarette on the wash stand (yes, I have a wash stand), and my phone in hand. Also, the radio on the AM band where I am learning to accept the new talking-head named Greg Something as he bellows and argues and taunts some rotten politician or rule or law that I generally also don’t like. The attack was timely. It started my day just right. I love to be attacked in the morning.
So there I was, sucking hard on a hot Winston, blowing satisfying plumes of grey smoke into the bathroom and just reaching for my steaming cup when the phone bloinked and vibrated on the hamper. Odd and exciting. I hit the Facebook icon and bam: Garrett Mikkelson slammed my FB email with a giant, ugly, hateful and most delicious email calling me a “…fucking retarded bitch..” Naturally, I reeled with pleasure. What a great way to start the day. And it just kept getting better.
Garrett is only a virtual acquaintance but I recognized him right away. A week or so prior I set out to troll some GOP candidate’s Facebook pages. I landed on the Gingrich page. I skimmed the usual fan propaganda - mostly boring and predictable and I agree with some of it. Then I saw Garrett, also trolling but with a very different agenda: Big Ron Paul Fan. Big, Crazy Ron Paul Fan. And angry. Kept spewing frustrations and venom at the Gingrich fans and suggesting that Ron Paul is the only real choice for Commander in Chief and all who think otherwise should die (or, at least, piss off),
“…Its some small things to what our nation needs to get back on our feet. Tell me thats stupid or wrong and you can piss off.”
Garrett made several other inflammatory and fairly goofy comments on the Gingrich page, most of which were either ignored or summarily dismissed using simple logic. I have gone back and secured some of the comments so I can enjoy them again at my leisure. Here’s a good one- in response to an obviously well-read, well spoken Newt fan:
“…you must not fly very much.. Warrantless searches of autos on highways, naked body scanners that cause cancer, participation in illegal arms trade, lightposts that record conversations. It’s essentially a headless beast with no elected oversight.”
Wait… light posts that record conversations?? I missed that one the first time. I guess I need to look more into Ron Paul and his theories. He may be more fun than I originally thought instead of just annoying as hell, as I originally thought. I know, I know. Paul is not tripping on the same brown acid as my new best friend Garrett. But still. Nothing funnier than an extreme conspiracy nut. <*Footnote* (aka: body note) Turns out there are reports of these lamp post listening devices being used in other countries. Not sure if I believe it. But it almost makes it funnier.>
Garrett continued his coitus interuptus of the Gingrich orgy, commenting about war mongers and despicable candidates like Gingrich who love fighting wars. He insisted that this is his Country too and that he has a right to not be drafted or fight in a war,
“America was the reason because of the attacks, im sure this whole entire war was a set up. Its terrible that it’s happened. But we must move, Ron paul is the most genuine candidate there is. Its sad that he doesn’t get more publicity, because he wins just about every single poll there is. But whenever Cain, Romney or newt win something they bust out the balloons and bring out the band for excitement. This all just makes me sick to my stomach, any you james, need to educate yourself.”
While Garrett’s comments may seem almost too simplistic and benign for any decent person to even consider taunting – and to be clear – I did not taunt him in any way before this morning – he gets way, way more interesting. Trust me on this.
In spite of my intended troll-only objective, I could not resist a jab or two at Garrett and some others. I suggested young Garrett would defend his Country if it were truly his,
“Garrett Mikkelson if this were really your country, you would be willing to defend it. “
I replied to another Ron Paul Fan who is also an OWS supporter,
“Dxxxxx Brown Don’t you ‘occupy’ folks have a City park to clean up? Oh, wait.. that’s right.. working is for the 95% .. you know, the ones that fund all the losers and malingerers.”
And then I forgot about it. I got on with my day. My week. I worked. Cooked. Slept. Smoked cigarettes. I drank coffee. I celebrated Thanksgiving. I never once thought about Garrett or the other trolls. Then, I woke up this morning. Garrett Mikkelson formally introduced himself to me, up close and personal.
I’ll post the whole email from Garrett when I’m finished here. It’s short and violent. I posted part of it already on Ron Paul’s Facebook page. And the conspiracy shit-storm began. Ron Paul fan’s are a
Here.. put this on...
distrustful bunch, anxious to share philosophies on gold and silver and greed and minding our own damned business. It was like throwing a bucket of honey on a picnic table and the ants and flys swarmed it and became a little frenzied. The rapid-fire responses began immediately after my posting of Garrett’s email and they were urgent – but gentle. Generally lacking any recognizable grammatical rule, they eagerly list suggestions that I join them in the conspiracy party, maybe try on a foil cap and under no circumstance should I save paper dollars in a bank account.
One guy suggested that I may have ‘made the whole thing up, that the email should be reported to the police, not to Facebook,
“ What you are doing is lowering your credibility to the claim that anyone actually did send you that message.”
Others suggest I immediately call the police and let Zuckerberg know about Garrett’s email. Because Zuckerberg needs to know, they said. And I should get Garrett’s IP address and,
“… be sure to save the emails.”
I immediately received a friend request from a Ron Paul Fan. It was creepy and fun and I couldn’t stop for awhile. I’m still not finished. But I’ve got it all on hold until I can think it through and load my .38.
In the meantime, the following is the conversation that started my day:
Garrett Mikkelson: You’re a fucking retarded bitch. Calling occupiers losers?.. and your god damn right i would defend this country.
Me: huh?
Garrett Mikkelson: Next time watch what you say on public sites.
Me: or what?
Garrett Mikkelson: You’ve just proved your ignorance. Or else i’ll find you, cut you up into little pieces then feed you to my dog. Honestly people like you never cease to amaze me. Still living in Indiana?
He must have a pretty big dog.
Seven-year (B)itch. AKA: Anetha.
I’ve been waiting for seven years to be really, really pissed at T-mobile but it took me quite by surprise when it finally happened. I have been so accustomed to hanging up from calls with them knowing full well that I should quit them and get another carrier but their World Class Customer Service kept me all aglow and fluttery.
Extremely limited coverage, serious hardware malfunctions for months at a time – with high dollar phones that were meant to be state-of-the-art - (but released months before they were ready for the public: HTC HD2..need I say more?), no service at all in places I visit regularly and for that matter, very spotty service even from the recliner in my living room – yet, so overcome by the sheer joy of being treated with respect and feeling so appreciated by the techie talking me through whatever billing or hardware or glitchy error I have ..I hang up every time.. content. T-Mobile loved me so much – all that other bullshit was hardly worth mentioning. Hell, who needs reliable coverage anyway??
A lesson I should have learned when I was 18 years old: Using K-Y jelly when you bend me over every month DOES NOT MEAN YOU LOVE ME. But Still. Those phone calls were so satisfying.
I paid for cell service for seven years knowing full well that I could just pay a little more with another carrier and actually have a signal at my in-laws in BFE (where trust me, a cell phone is often my only salvation), at the campsite we frequent every summer and oh hell yes, even in my Lazy-Girl chair in the living room.
I stayed and stayed. Because they had World Class Customer Service. Had. Keyword. For seven years.
It ended the day I reached Anetha at T-Mobile Customer Care. Anetha did not Care. Her supervisor, Shantel, who finally took over when I explained to Anetha that I preferred not to speak to shitheads such as herself, also did not Care. Shantel insisted that TM provides World Class Customer Service and was extremely disappointed that I did not believe it anymore. Anetha, on the other hand, actually challenged my statement that this was the first bad customer service experience for me in seven years (Fo rea gir? No way!).
While waiting on hold for Shantel to take over, the piped-in music played the famous Rod Stewart song, The First Cut is the Deepest. Even the song was a remake, sung by some generic female vocalist in a wanna-be sultry voice that came off more whispery and lifeless. It made me a little sad.
Few companies are able to keep me loyal for as long as T-Mobile has. Normally I would tolerate the kind of poor coverage, limited hardware and typically shysty contract-renewal-scheming for about a day and a half. Somehow though, TM‘s World Class Customer Service kept me happy, if not a little embarrassed at my own willing acceptance that I was being schmoozed and plied. I actually believe T-Mobile had a genuine understanding of what consumers really want. Ultimately, understanding that they end up the big winner by just treating me with loads of respect and kindness is a simple concept that T-Mobile seemed to embrace.
I’m glad it’s over. It was actually too good to be true. At least for any longer than seven years.
The Engendered Species
Engendered Species: The result of groups of people with similar physical, socioeconomic or gender characteristics who have collectively formed a social & political vacuum, the likes of which have become the sole focus and purpose of nearly a complete life-cycle from adulthood to death. These humans are often thought of as intellectually stunted, egocentric, emotionally shallow and whose range of intellectual curiosity is limited to a perceived victimology based on events in the distant past which may or may not have had any direct impact on the human’s current circumstance.
I agree
It’s actually an engendered generation and I have become less and less trustful of the whole thing. Or maybe it’s that I am just bored with it. If an adult person’s life is consumed with how people treat them based on whatever.. skin color, gender, sexual preference, religion, then I have to ask; is it really about the offenders or is there something intrinsically wrong with the offended(s)? Not everybody with the same physical, social or gender characteristics are treated poorly nor do they feel victimized by every passing event or circumstance. So, what’s the deal with the others?
I suspect this group is also a bit of an endangered species. Regular people are less tolerant of the Engendereds and they are dwindling in population. That could mean one of any number of things: Either most of them stopped thinking that the world owes them a certain behavior and perhaps realized that their own behavior has more impact on nearly everything in their lives … or that maybe they just got busy living and stopped thinking (and talking) about themselves incessantly. Or they died. How refreshing.
The argument, of course, is that they are treated unfairly because they are female, of dark complexion, American Indian, homosexual or even fat (Fat being a choice where the others, I suppose, are not). Often these folks living in the vacuum of the Engendered Species act or speak in a way that is, if not offensive, at least obnoxious, drawing attention and stares, garnering a host of reactions from eye-rolling to taunting and in severe cases, arrest and imprisonment. The general consensus of the Engendereds is that people are critical of them not because of this obnoxious behavior but because – you guessed it - they are victims. I will admit that the characteristics which are a choice and not circumstance are, on some level, amusing. For instance, you take up a seat-and-a half on an airplane but you only want to pay for the one seat? I mean really?
In the 45 years following the U.S. civil rights act of 1964, all manner of evolution, change, maturation, progress, advancement, growth, an epiphanic come-to-Jesus-ish movement emerged in the United States of America (and for most of the rest of the world which is influenced by it). Talk about culture shock. Most folks over the age of 7 or 8 were aware, if not impacted by it. The rest of us were just kids. Mostly unaware. Mostly happy. Mostly color and gender and religion and sexual preference blind (We did still make fun of fat people though).
Do I feel guilty? No. That it took an act of congress to facilitate decent behavior is a huge, actually monstrously grotesque scar in the history of human beings in general. I get it, I agree, I know, I know. Everybody knows. Mostly though, I am fascinated and encouraged that the years following 1964 produced a species that not only adapted but embraced and celebrated the transformation of nearly an entire planet. Too slowly in some ways and apocalyptically in others. But it happened. That 45 years later there are still people stuck in a time-warp of hate and perceived oppression and self-pity is suspicious. What’s the motive? And, it’s boring.
When I do business with people who qualify themselves or their business (or for that matter, any topic discussed) as African American, Gay, Christian, female, Muslim or any moniker other than their proper name or business title, I am immediately inclined to do business elsewhere. Because, if it’s about that.. I worry that the services I need will take second or third priority. If I want my clothes dry cleaned or an insurance quote or a bank loan, I don’t actually give a shit whether the human that provides that service is gay, female or dark complected, Christian or Muslim. And I don’t want to talk about it.
Cavalier? Maybe. I blame it on the Engendered Species. I am a victim of the Engendered Species. And I’m bored with the lot of them.
Versatile Blogger? Like, Verbally Flexible?
I don’t actually think I can do this. But, since I was honored by a ‘mention’ and therefore nominated for an award and because I pretty much like to pay it forward and backward, I’m gonna’ try . Thank you Brandon, aka music.unrenowned.
While I am not new to blogging or writing exactly, I am new to WordPress (again) and new to looking for an audience. I have always written because I wanted to and if a reader stumbled on my work and liked it- well… let’s be honest.. it’s like a drug. So, I have recently reached out to other bloggers to find out what people are writing. And reading.
I discovered Tenbrokenrecords in my wanderings. I am old enough to be everybody’s grandmother so I come from a place of great exposure, if not experience with music. Landing on Brandon’s page was a treat. My favorite aspect of the blog is that its author is open to, and even requests content ideas and new bands and music to expose and critique. Bravo, Brandon. The site design is nice and weekly tweaking is fun to watch. Besides all that, turns out Brandon is a nice guy and I have taken an interest in his school progress.
Okay. I’m gonna play this. When I saw the email on my phone this morning about being ‘nominated’
Mine's bigger
for a WP award..well, I’m embarrassed to say I cut short my usual morning routine and nearly tripped on the ill-placed (but quite attractive) throw rug between the dining room and kitchen, where my old and rarely trusty laptop mostly sleeps on the (old) over-sized roll top desk (which takes up too much space in my kitchen but again, is quite attractive). I forced myself to resist running upstairs where my actual PC thrives and hums and always works like an ‘effing charm because I have a fear of jinxing all-things-good by getting too excited and thinking that maybe something good is about to happen.
In the three or so seconds it took me to race into the kitchen and plop into the ratty (but comfortable) rolling chair I had already dismissed any possibility that I had read the email correctly. As I landed in the chair, however, I began an urgent coaxing and begging and making little deals in my mind with God (please, please, please let this be one of the times this POS laptop isn’t battling some scripting error). I logged into WP to accept my nomination and thank, profusely, my nominator, Brandon.
I read Brandon’s nomination post and saw my blog link on his list of nominees and I thought, okay, this is great. This is good. This is.. pretty good. Well. This is, um. So…. when is the winner picked? How will I know? Who are the judges? What’s the deal here?
At about this moment in my cautious and slowly diffusing excitement, my husband, feigning indifference, ambled past the desk toward the coffee pot. He’s been pissed at me for about six weeks now (his fault) and I have responded with resolute apathy. But, I could not resist: “I was nominated for a writing award on WordPress!” His reaction was genuine. He was excited for me (for a second) and I’m a bitch but I’m not evil so I felt properly guilty (for a second). I shrugged off the excitement and guilt and he remembered he was pissed and ambled back outside to poke around and do whatever it is he does out there when he’s pissed and trying to ignore me.
So, left alone in my ratty chair I did some poking of my own. What is this ‘Versatile Blogger Award’ thing anyway? I found a forum (thank you TimeThief) and got the deets. I got the 411. I got the skinny. Okay (sorry), yeah, I figured it out. I put the laptop to sleep and brushed my teeth and got on with my day. But I was amped a little. I’m in sales. I know marketing. But still… I was nominated. And no, I did not tell my angry husband that there is no chance I am actually winning any actual trophy or anything.
Big Project
I worked on my Big-Back-Yard-Project and having determined The Project is one of the numerous reasons my husband is pissed, decided to enlist his help on the heavy lifting and electric tool portion of the job. He did the work without suggesting the correct (his) way to do the thing- which had to be excruciating for him – and he generally wallowed in the ‘I’m a big fucking martyr’ role all day and I found I rather enjoyed it. I, after all, had been nominated for a writing award.
Back at the laptop (which appears to be at peace with all incoming scripts), I debated whether I would continue with the award meme (yes, I looked it up. It’s a real word). I clicked on Brandon’s other blog nominees. I found some I liked. I checked out some of their blogrolls and found even more blogs I liked. On one of the blogs I liked, the author, Selah Aran, invited her readers to write her a real letter.. with paper.. and a stamp, which I did. It is still sitting on my desk with a stamp on it but I am going to mail it. I subscribed to her blog and a few others. I made some comments and ‘liked’ a few. Some of them looked back at my blog. I got a couple of ‘likes’ on my posts. And comments. So. Yeah. I win.
As for the seven things about me.. do I have to? I’m not really in to that.. besides, there are at least seven suggestions about me in the above blog post. Assume anything you wish. Clearly, I can tolerate being ignored, not liked, not appreciated, endlessly nagged and all my faults pointed out constantly – oh, wait- that’s not you - either way.. I’m not that interesting. I prefer to tell you the reasons I am nominating the following blogs:
- unremarkablecontradictions: Dry. Witty. Succinct. Funny.
- Beetches Love This Site: I don’t know why this site makes me laugh. I raised girls.
- Neva Paints: Hilarious. Smart. A work in progress but the blog posts are funny.
- Searing Education: Health. Spirituality (not religion).
- Shenanigans: Random anger and humor.
- FML: Not really a blog but it makes me laugh
- Burk Krohe: Good writing. A little uptight and always grammatically excellent but pokes enough fun of himself to make it interesting and ..funny.
- The Gypsy Paints: More of Neva Paints.. funny..
- Brainrants: Funny, funny.. is there a pattern here?
- Lisakusko: Funny and informative. There.. I do have a brain..
- Talker96: I’m not really sure what the deal is here but I kept reading and reading.. it was.. yeah, funny. And for some reason I like that guy..
- Flehman Response: .. yeah.. funny..
- I just can’t do this anymore.. It’s nearly 2:30 AM and tomorrow is punkin’ patch day. 10 is plenty. It has taken me a week to write this and find ten blogs I would actually read here.. not that there aren’t plenty of good blogs.. but I’m busy .. and since WP won’t allow click ads I still have to work sometimes.. So that’s it. Here are the rules if you should decide to play along.. thanks again, Brandon..
If you choose to accept the award, the following are the rules:
1. Thank the person who shared the award with you by linking back to them in your post.
2. Pass this award to 15 recently discovered blogs and let them know that you included them in your blog post.
3. List 7 things about yourself.
_________________________________
Okay, Now What?
From the World’s Worst Dancer…
My husband and I have a few indigenous dances we do regularly. One has to do with dinner and my need for him to give a full account of his reaction to whatever I cook for him. This one is pretty easy to figure out and only gets complicated because of obvious personality disorders.
I cook because it is the only thing that I can do for him that he can’t – or won’t – do for himself. He does many things that I cannot do. Changing the oil, putting on brakes, fixing random broken things, plunging out the toilet, all the dirty, heavy jobs. I can’t – and don’t want – to do any of that. When I see him carry out these unpleasant tasks, my heart is filled with a joy I cannot even put into words. Not because I appreciate him and his sense of manly responsibility, but because I am so, so, so glad I don’t have to do it myself.
So I cook luscious meals for him that I know he could not figure out on his own and would not take the time to find a recipe. This is the one thing I can do for him that he can’t do. He loves food. Almost as much as he loves a cold beer on Friday night. He told me once that he worries about how much he loves food. It was cute and funny but I realized how powerful food really is for him.
The thing is, I can cook fairly well but I don’t care anything about cooking. So when I put a meal in front of him I need to know that it was worth my considerable effort. He knows this somehow. So instead of just saying, “Oh, my gawd, I can’t believe how good this is…how did you do this??,” he pushes the food around and talks about the mower or his job or the upcoming tractor pull (my mind shrieks like a siren here) or how he needs to change some oil.
What he doesn’t talk about is how much he loves the food I have specially prepared for him. It’s a game. He knows I want to hear it. He won’t say it. So I ask. And he says, “Yeah. It’s fine.” So I say, “You mean, um, like, ‘don’t make it again’ fine Or, ‘it’s so-so’ fine or, like, exactly, what do you mean by fine?”
“Yeah, it’s good,” is all I get the first go-round. But it continues until I get what I want. Which is to say, some form of, “This shit is so f*&*%&g good, you are a great – no- a remarkable- an unbelievable cook..” Well actually, it never gets quite that good but the concept is there. He really means to say all that stuff. He just needs me to beg. This goes along with his emotionally constipated personality, of which, he is a text-book example (More on that later).
But this is just the Food Dance. I need to be told my food is good and that I am a good wife for making it. And I am willing to beg to get it. Not so much because I need to hear it. More because I need to break through his control of the situation and force him to say the words. That may go along with my controlling personality. And, I like to win.
Tonight’s dance, though, speaks more to how boring and ill-suited we are to each other. He was supposed to be at a tractor pull and I was thrilled that, A. He did not ask me to go and B. I was going to eat Mexican food that somebody else, somebody who loves to cook, was making for dinner. But he didn’t go to the tractor pull. It rained. They canceled the tractor portion of the event. He didn’t feel well. And, to make things strange right out of the chute, he asked me to stay home with him instead of going to eat Mexican food. I can’t remember him ever doing that before, so, because it was so strange a request, I compromised. I went to eat but promised to be home quickly.
I got home as promised and that surprised him because I am not generally home quickly or early and sometimes not until very late. I think out of sheer gratitude he figured he would do something that I like to do for a change and play on the computer. He actually pulled up a chair and suggested we look at something fun on the internet. I assumed he meant porn so I tried to find some but he insisted he did not mean porn so I landed on – BIG ASS CHEVY TRUCKS WITH 10 INCH LIFTS on You Tube. He was thrilled. And felt so generous, I think. That he would actually sit here and play on the internet, like I like to do, and to be so very gracious and magnanimous about the whole thing made him feel especially pleased with himself.
I did not have the heart to tell him that THIS IS NOT HOW I PLAY ON THE INTERNET. And that watching big-assed Chevy trucks in-person or on You Tube is the equivalent of me asking him to help me sew buttons on a new doll dress that I made or for gawd’s sake read a book. For the record, I do not make doll dresses.
But, here we sat. Him hating the computer and the internet and me hating big-assed Chevy trucks – which apparently rate a whole 2 minute video if they can sit still and spin their tires long enough to create smoke and all kinds of shirtless guys in boots running around laughing and high-fiving. We spent 45 minutes watching this. It was excruciating. Possibly for both of us.
This is a new kind of dance. Our kids are all gone now so we keep finding ourselves alone in the evening asking,
“Wanna’ watch a movie?” Nah. “Wanna’ go fishing?” No thanks. “Wanna learn to crochet?” Um, no. “Wanna see if my tires will spin and smoke?” Seriously? “Want me to cook?”
Traumatic Brain Injury
The facial expressions of pain and human weakness I have read about for years in literature and could never really visualize, I can see now on the face of my friend. The mixture of fear, regret and barely controlled hysteria is too rich. It nearly makes me sick. Her freckled and pale face is deeply wrinkled and drawn and her normally green eyes have been swallowed by the black of her pupils. She looks her age. Her chin and neck are stretched in a constant state of cringing. She is afraid or unable to make eye contact and just as well. Her pain is raging in there and it’s easier for me not to look. Her back is humped like an old woman‘s as if protecting the soft center of her chest, where I imagine her heart beats and aches in a perfect, stabbing rhythm that is too deep to think about for more than a second. Tiny hands curl toward her center and she appears to be hanging on, barely. She is an old woman. She is my age.
Bleary eyed and still heavily drugged, her son turns his head toward her voice and may even recognize it. This is ‘tracking’ we are told. We don’t know. We know nothing. The brain is clearly functioning on some level. He can turn his head. The legs on this six foot-three-inch boy thrash randomly, violently. This is ‘neuro-storming’ we are told. He squeezes our hands. But what does he know?
A month ago he knew everything. Now his eyes are blank and dilated and he responds to questions with simple answers: rote memory. What is missing from this child’s brain and what is just bruised for now? We don’t know. It is a waiting game and nobody is guessing. Anything could happen.
The decisions that ultimately created this scene for my friend is a conversation for later. For now, we wrap his fingers around a fork and encourage him to navigate the food toward his mouth. And chew. And swallow. And, ‘do you want a bite of carrots or potatoes?’ Is he really hungry? We don’t know. At 20 years-old he must be hungry often, we reason. So we offer food. But we don’t know.
Occupational therapists and speech therapists and physical therapists and nurse’s aids rotate in and out and speak to him as if he is three years old. I cringe when I hear them. He is not three years old. He is a junior at Kansas University. A 4.0 Dean’s Honor Role student. A future defense attorney. A month ago he would have beaten them all handily in a game of chess. A gifted musician. Brilliant. He is not a three-year-old. He is handsome and humble and passionate about his world. He commands a long line of young women who are completely disarmed by his perfectly white teeth and brutal charm.
Two months after his accident, he is finally able to smile and laugh. It may be the most difficult part of his progress to see him affect what was once normal. His bald and scarred head is too heavy for his shoulders. He sits slumped and slack-muscled, drool suddenly rushing down his chin. He knows to wipe it off and the corners of his mouth are cracked from the constant drooling, wiping, drooling, wiping. But he laughs. I tease him about President Obama, his hero, and threaten to bring my bowling ball and take advantage of his situation by finally beating him at it. He laughs hard, his head bobbing. His teeth, now too big for his head, still beautiful and white, are fully exposed behind his grin. My friend beams from across the room. Her son is alive. He is smiling. It takes everything I have to not cry.
Death
Life is occasionally interrupted by reminders of the direction we are all going. Make no mistake, we are all going to the same place. whether you call it heaven or hell or just 6-feet under, we are all going there. Alone. And, as far as I can tell, for good. The world ends permanently for people, one by one.
When a friend dies, a heavy gray shroud wraps itself around your life for awhile. Eventually it may slide off your shoulders and your life reappears as it was before, minus the love and friendship of the deceased. Well, maybe not the love. The love stays here with you and you can drum up memories and emotions and be enriched by the love that stayed here when your friend left. And your friend may seem to be lurking around near you, laughing at your folly or giving you strength when you are weak. That may be the love your friend left behind.
When a family member dies the shroud is black and heavy and does not slide off as easily. When it is a child who dies, I assume the shroud is never removed. Possibly occasionally, briefly, but it never leaves you completely. This is not just an interruption. It is a life changer. There is no recovery. The longing, mourning, aching and even dread are surmountable, I suppose, but the darkness within the shroud, the grief, is so enveloping, so stifling and airless it may seem unending. And it is. It would be. For me.
