Sunday, November 16, 2008
Crazy Elevator Lady
While waiting for the elevator in my building, I heard Crazy Elevator Lady coming down the hall. She was saying over and over again, "What is it? What is it?" I thought she was asking the voices in her head what they wanted now. As she rounded the corner and saw me she said, "Oh! It's a woman. Okay, I can get in the elevator with a woman."
Monday, November 10, 2008
Happy Death Day?
November 10th, November 10th.
The date was nagging at me, but I couldn't remember exactly why. Was it the birthday of my first real high school boyfriend who later died in a freak newsprint factory accident? No, that's in October. Was it the birthday of one of my college roommates who used to organize her sock drawer because it pleased her to do so? No, that was last week. Was it the day before Veteran's day? Yes, but that wasn't it.
Then it dawned on me. It's my father's death day.
What do you call a day like that? The fifth anniversary of my father's death? Yeah, I guess so, but it's so cumbersome--the fifth anniversary of my father's death. That's just too many words. It's my father's death day. Well, it is. That's what it is. Five years ago today my father was driving down a straight stretch of highway in good weather in the middle of his shift with no other cars or stray animals around when suddenly his vehicle went completely out of control, rolling and flipping, throwing him out of the vehicle and crushing him.
He wasn't wearing his seat belt. This is a man who'd been a professional driver since the 1960s and wore his seat belt at all times, even before the law required it. He was the safest driver I knew. He was the only person my mother felt safe with in a car, besides herself, I would suppose. Trying to make sense of things, people wondered if maybe he had unclasped his seat belt to pick something up off the floor. While that's possible, it's highly unlikely. I'm sure he'd dropped things on the floor while driving and retrieved them many times in three decades without causing a fatal accident. His wife did remember that he'd almost called in sick, which he would only do for scheduled surgery or if he nearly lost an eye because the dolly crank on his Peterbilt cracked him a good one, which means he must have felt really really bad that day. The only scenario that satisfies my brother and I is that he was having a medical emergency, a heart attack perhaps, and took off his seat belt in a panic to relieve the pressure on his chest. Maybe he slumped over the steering wheel, thus causing the sudden veering on a straight road in good weather involving no other vehicles or stray animals. We will never know.
The hard part, aside from, you know, losing my dad, is knowing that he died alone. Same thing with my mom. She was getting ready for work one Monday morning and just keeled over from a heart attack. I hate that. I mean, I guess I'm glad I didn't have to watch them grow old and lose their minds and bladder control. They didn't die painful lingering deaths in a hospital racking up exorbitant bills that would require us to claim bankruptcy. But, damn if it wouldn't have been nice to, oh, I don't know, say goodbye properly.
I realize that my tone may sound a bit too flippant, cold and unfeeling for the subject matter. I apologize. I've cried so hard and for so long that it has just become a part of me, this loss. As much as I am Karin because I am my parents' daughter, I am Karin because I have lost my parents. If only I could remember where I put them.
We don't talk about death in this country very much. We don't know how. We don't allow loud processions of wailing. We no longer wear black for a year to signify grieving. We don't gather with our family members to have a party on the headstones of those we've lost. We spend one day, one day to memorialize and bury them or scatter their ashes. Work might give you three days, if they're feeling generous and compliant with the law. The airlines give a discount on airfare, but it's so miniscule it isn't even worth the call that requires you to tell them someone you love has suddenly died. No, we're just expected to go right back to work, because work will save you or at least distract you and because you have to pay the bills. Don't they know, in those early months and years, that we cannot be distracted, that all the minutiae of life is a distraction? Someone has died. We have to deal with it at some point. We have to cry, to scream, to sob into our journals, to make art to save ourselves from dying. If we don't, and maybe even if we do, we'll end up with headaches, obesity, drinking problems, whatever. Pain like this doesn't just go away; it has to manifest somehow.
In the beginning, after my mother died, I dreaded the monthly anniversaries of her death. The first year or two were the hardest. I was surprised and dismayed the first time the anniversary of her death rolled around and I didn't remember until it was upon me. Was I somehow a bad kid? No, it was just that the pain was sometimes subsiding just enough for me to finally focus on the minutiae of my life. Thinking big was still a ways out, but being present to my life again was new and it was
enough. Eventually the intense pain was mostly gone and reared its ugly head less and less, making it possible to think beyond getting dressed, brushing teeth, eating toast. At some point, dreaming and planning became possible again.
So, here I am at the fifth anniversary of my father's death. His death day. He had a birthday and then, 63 years later he had a death day. It goes the same way for all of us. No way around it. I'm just saying it like it is.
I love you, Dad. I miss you.
The date was nagging at me, but I couldn't remember exactly why. Was it the birthday of my first real high school boyfriend who later died in a freak newsprint factory accident? No, that's in October. Was it the birthday of one of my college roommates who used to organize her sock drawer because it pleased her to do so? No, that was last week. Was it the day before Veteran's day? Yes, but that wasn't it.
Then it dawned on me. It's my father's death day.
What do you call a day like that? The fifth anniversary of my father's death? Yeah, I guess so, but it's so cumbersome--the fifth anniversary of my father's death. That's just too many words. It's my father's death day. Well, it is. That's what it is. Five years ago today my father was driving down a straight stretch of highway in good weather in the middle of his shift with no other cars or stray animals around when suddenly his vehicle went completely out of control, rolling and flipping, throwing him out of the vehicle and crushing him.
He wasn't wearing his seat belt. This is a man who'd been a professional driver since the 1960s and wore his seat belt at all times, even before the law required it. He was the safest driver I knew. He was the only person my mother felt safe with in a car, besides herself, I would suppose. Trying to make sense of things, people wondered if maybe he had unclasped his seat belt to pick something up off the floor. While that's possible, it's highly unlikely. I'm sure he'd dropped things on the floor while driving and retrieved them many times in three decades without causing a fatal accident. His wife did remember that he'd almost called in sick, which he would only do for scheduled surgery or if he nearly lost an eye because the dolly crank on his Peterbilt cracked him a good one, which means he must have felt really really bad that day. The only scenario that satisfies my brother and I is that he was having a medical emergency, a heart attack perhaps, and took off his seat belt in a panic to relieve the pressure on his chest. Maybe he slumped over the steering wheel, thus causing the sudden veering on a straight road in good weather involving no other vehicles or stray animals. We will never know.
The hard part, aside from, you know, losing my dad, is knowing that he died alone. Same thing with my mom. She was getting ready for work one Monday morning and just keeled over from a heart attack. I hate that. I mean, I guess I'm glad I didn't have to watch them grow old and lose their minds and bladder control. They didn't die painful lingering deaths in a hospital racking up exorbitant bills that would require us to claim bankruptcy. But, damn if it wouldn't have been nice to, oh, I don't know, say goodbye properly.
I realize that my tone may sound a bit too flippant, cold and unfeeling for the subject matter. I apologize. I've cried so hard and for so long that it has just become a part of me, this loss. As much as I am Karin because I am my parents' daughter, I am Karin because I have lost my parents. If only I could remember where I put them.
We don't talk about death in this country very much. We don't know how. We don't allow loud processions of wailing. We no longer wear black for a year to signify grieving. We don't gather with our family members to have a party on the headstones of those we've lost. We spend one day, one day to memorialize and bury them or scatter their ashes. Work might give you three days, if they're feeling generous and compliant with the law. The airlines give a discount on airfare, but it's so miniscule it isn't even worth the call that requires you to tell them someone you love has suddenly died. No, we're just expected to go right back to work, because work will save you or at least distract you and because you have to pay the bills. Don't they know, in those early months and years, that we cannot be distracted, that all the minutiae of life is a distraction? Someone has died. We have to deal with it at some point. We have to cry, to scream, to sob into our journals, to make art to save ourselves from dying. If we don't, and maybe even if we do, we'll end up with headaches, obesity, drinking problems, whatever. Pain like this doesn't just go away; it has to manifest somehow.
In the beginning, after my mother died, I dreaded the monthly anniversaries of her death. The first year or two were the hardest. I was surprised and dismayed the first time the anniversary of her death rolled around and I didn't remember until it was upon me. Was I somehow a bad kid? No, it was just that the pain was sometimes subsiding just enough for me to finally focus on the minutiae of my life. Thinking big was still a ways out, but being present to my life again was new and it was
So, here I am at the fifth anniversary of my father's death. His death day. He had a birthday and then, 63 years later he had a death day. It goes the same way for all of us. No way around it. I'm just saying it like it is.
I love you, Dad. I miss you.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Ah, Friends!
Some friends came up from California and we partied like it was 1999. I drank more last week than I had in my whole life put together (don't get too excited, that ain't saying much). Woot!
Moon Over Morrison: A Story in Collage
Moon Over Morrison: A Story in Collage
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Maybe It's Just Beer
So, this six pack of 
Corona has been sitting in my fridge for weeks now with four bottles remaining. They just might last me through 'til Christmas.
Corona has been sitting in my fridge for weeks now with four bottles remaining. They just might last me through 'til Christmas.But Lemon Drops are my new best friend! Let's hear it for Girls' Night Out and Lemon Drops!
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Speed Scrabble Fast Write
I played Speed Scrabble with a friend tonight and then used the words I'd formed to create this li'l story.
Our bored queen won't plan her oval tomb at the appointed acre until she is cured of the sin with the goat and the ox. She cannot concentrate, what with the din of the people rioting about the taxes.
"Will she lower them?
"Aye!"
"Nah."
Our bored queen won't plan her oval tomb at the appointed acre until she is cured of the sin with the goat and the ox. She cannot concentrate, what with the din of the people rioting about the taxes.
"Will she lower them?
"Aye!"
"Nah."
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
My Morality is Slipping
I've only had one ever (and that on my recent birthday), but I've decided that my new favorite thing of summer is a Corona with a slice of lime.
I keep thinking I'm going to have more, but then I don't want to actually go buy beer for the first time in my life. I'm sure the Jesus police will come out and say, "Tsk, tsk. Do you really think that's such a good idea? WWJD?" To which I should reply, "He'd say, 'Don't forget the lime!'" Why do I still give a rip what anyone thinks? It's not like the Fred Meyer on NE 20th and Burnside is filled with the church-going Jesus freaks of Newberg who I assumed watched my every move. This Fred Meyer is filled with strung out meth heads who seriously do NOT need the case of beer they're dragging through the express lane. Yet, I'm sure someone would look at me as if to say, "Don't you realize it's only 6pm on MONDAY?" And they'd be right. It's too early in the week to start drinking. It's a school night! Besides, I live alone now, how pathetic would that be to sit at home alone with a beer on a Monday night?
It could be that my "morality is slipping" as I was warned might happen during one of the two divorce recovery meetings I went to, even though I'm only separated and not entirely sure that was a good idea, separating. Yes, it could be that my morality is slipping and that I could go so far as to, dare I say it, “try al-co-hol” as one person in the hideous video series shamefully admitted to doing. He struggled so much to admit it that I had expected him to say he'd experimented with heroine or engaged in a series of meaningless bisexual threesomes or done something scary to his genitals, but no, just alcohol, which clearly left a bad taste in his mouth.
It was the evangelical nature of the divorce recovery video that left a bad taste in my mouth. The squeaky clean divorcees spoke with a thick Southern drawl about the importance of God in your life. Now, anyone who knows me even a little knows that I wouldn’t have a problem with this at all. I have a spiritual path and actively cultivate my relationship with God. I even used to be a bible thumper, very evangelical in my faith, so convinced that what I believed was right and good that I wanted everyone to reap the blessings, too. I didn’t particularly care if you already believed something else right and good, because I was certain that what I believed was righter and (oh, how I want to say gooder) better.
It could be that my "morality is slipping" as I was warned might happen during one of the two divorce recovery meetings I went to, even though I'm only separated and not entirely sure that was a good idea, separating. Yes, it could be that my morality is slipping and that I could go so far as to, dare I say it, “try al-co-hol” as one person in the hideous video series shamefully admitted to doing. He struggled so much to admit it that I had expected him to say he'd experimented with heroine or engaged in a series of meaningless bisexual threesomes or done something scary to his genitals, but no, just alcohol, which clearly left a bad taste in his mouth.
It was the evangelical nature of the divorce recovery video that left a bad taste in my mouth. The squeaky clean divorcees spoke with a thick Southern drawl about the importance of God in your life. Now, anyone who knows me even a little knows that I wouldn’t have a problem with this at all. I have a spiritual path and actively cultivate my relationship with God. I even used to be a bible thumper, very evangelical in my faith, so convinced that what I believed was right and good that I wanted everyone to reap the blessings, too. I didn’t particularly care if you already believed something else right and good, because I was certain that what I believed was righter and (oh, how I want to say gooder) better.
Then I spent two years in a West African country where everyone I knew and loved was Muslim and I realized that they were as likely to become Christians as I was to become a Muslim, which is to say--not gonna happen. They were happy. They were healthy. Why change? In fact, I was the one to change, not right then, but slowly, and that was the beginning of a major shift in my thinking. I began to espouse the radical idea that you can believe something completely different from me---and that’s okay. There’s room enough for all of us. Whatever way we find to connect to the Divine is right and good, I now believe, especially if this leads to peaceful thoughts and actions, as it very often does.
So you can see why it’s an especially big deal that the divorce recovery video alienated me. I learned several very informative things during my two (and only two) meetings. One, the only way to truly recover from a separation or divorce is to accept Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior. Two, I should safeguard myself against morality slippage by accepting Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior. Three, I should not drink, do drugs, swear or have sex for next 2 to 5 years while I recover (one year of recovery for every 4 years of marriage) lest I fall out of grace with Jesus Christ, my personal Lord and Savior. Four and five were issues raised simultaneously, homosexuality is to blame for the high divorce rate in this country (yes, someone really said that; I tried really hard not to laugh and nearly every one squirmed in discomfort) compared to other countries and that the lack of legal, social and financial support for women in many other countries to leave unsafe or unhappy life situations does not in any way contribute to lower documented numbers of divorce in other countries. And lastly, the video series they are using is the best series out there on divorce and that the facilitators are Christian, but are in no way trying to, and here the facilitator considered her words carefully so I expected her to say “change your mind”, but she’s so entrenched in Christianese that instead she said they are in no way trying to, wait for it, “win your hearts for Christ”. This she said twice, for emphasis. “We are not trying to win your hearts for Christ, but if you are interested in talking to someone, we would be happy to speak to you about it after the meeting.” So, when she said she is not trying to win our hearts for Christ, what she is really saying is that, in fact, she is trying to win our hearts for Christ. You know, I get that. I really do. She thinks that’s best and only way to heaven and she wants me there in the sweet hereafter. I get it, but here’s the thing. I was there to get divorce support. That’s what they said the group was for. That’s what I signed up for. I expected to be able to talk about what I’m experiencing and listen to other people share their experiences. I expected there to be crying and tissues, anger and pillow bashing. I did not expect someone to try to win my heart for Christ.
Man, I need a beer.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Smells Like Barn
Moth Ball Stroganoff Man. Chain Smoking Schizos. These neighbors got nothin' on me.
Tonight I created the most hideous smell of my entire life (not involving a bodily function). Even I found it disgusting. The strange thing is--I couldn't figure out why! It all started out like a normal cooking experience. This morning I was reading VegNews magazine's 222 Reasons to be Veg when I came across Reason #202: Tofu Scramble. Ah hah! Dinner plans.
Oh, I know tofu scramble is meant to be a breakfast, but never you mind. My momma taught me that the best time to eat a nice big breakfast is for dinner, with chocolate milk (or now chocolate Silk)!
So I came home, diced up a couple of potatoes and started them frying. I mashed up the tofu, added a little salt, a little pepper, a lot of nutritional yeast and put it in the pan on med/med low. Everything was going so well. It really was. I added a little sundried tomato, some fresh greens, a spalsh of broth and put a lid on it to let it simmer while I put dishes in the magical dishwashing machine. I've done this many times before. This recipe is tried and true. This is comfort food. I went back to the potatoes, gave 'em a stir, kept my on eye the scramble. All was well.
Then, while loading the dishes into the magical dishwashing machine, I suddenly found myself thinking of the place of my childhood in upstate NY where Rt. 32 and Rt. 23A intersect. It's a place with lots and lots of cows, lovely cows, but cows. And two silos that my citified aunt looked at and questioned, "Why does that farmer keep all those bananas in those tall things?" No, Auntie. Not bananas. A large family owned all those cows and the girl from that family who was my age once loved and adored one of them and named it Happy, like she was until it disappeared one day and her parents explained to her the facts of farm life and death and perhaps something about slaughterhouses.
So, there I was in my kitchen, loading dishes, thinking of a lot of stinky cows when suddenly I realized I was making that smell. I was the one responsible for this hideousness. It's bad enough to smell 5,000 acres of cow manure on a Sunday drive, but at least then you know that 1) you can balk at your over-dramatic passenger saying, "Oh, stop. It's natural." 2) you're driving and it'll be gone soon and 3) you didn't cause it. When it happens in your own kitchen, though, it's not natural, there's no escaping it, and it's all your fault.
Paul Reiser writes in Couplehood that he was in the habit of turning to his new wife on such a Sunday drive and saying, "Whew? Is that you?" Then he realized that, "Basically what I'm asking my bride is, 'Is that you or is that 5,000 acres of cow manure?'"
Yeah. That's me.
Tonight I created the most hideous smell of my entire life (not involving a bodily function). Even I found it disgusting. The strange thing is--I couldn't figure out why! It all started out like a normal cooking experience. This morning I was reading VegNews magazine's 222 Reasons to be Veg when I came across Reason #202: Tofu Scramble. Ah hah! Dinner plans.
Oh, I know tofu scramble is meant to be a breakfast, but never you mind. My momma taught me that the best time to eat a nice big breakfast is for dinner, with chocolate milk (or now chocolate Silk)!
So I came home, diced up a couple of potatoes and started them frying. I mashed up the tofu, added a little salt, a little pepper, a lot of nutritional yeast and put it in the pan on med/med low. Everything was going so well. It really was. I added a little sundried tomato, some fresh greens, a spalsh of broth and put a lid on it to let it simmer while I put dishes in the magical dishwashing machine. I've done this many times before. This recipe is tried and true. This is comfort food. I went back to the potatoes, gave 'em a stir, kept my on eye the scramble. All was well.
Then, while loading the dishes into the magical dishwashing machine, I suddenly found myself thinking of the place of my childhood in upstate NY where Rt. 32 and Rt. 23A intersect. It's a place with lots and lots of cows, lovely cows, but cows. And two silos that my citified aunt looked at and questioned, "Why does that farmer keep all those bananas in those tall things?" No, Auntie. Not bananas. A large family owned all those cows and the girl from that family who was my age once loved and adored one of them and named it Happy, like she was until it disappeared one day and her parents explained to her the facts of farm life and death and perhaps something about slaughterhouses.
So, there I was in my kitchen, loading dishes, thinking of a lot of stinky cows when suddenly I realized I was making that smell. I was the one responsible for this hideousness. It's bad enough to smell 5,000 acres of cow manure on a Sunday drive, but at least then you know that 1) you can balk at your over-dramatic passenger saying, "Oh, stop. It's natural." 2) you're driving and it'll be gone soon and 3) you didn't cause it. When it happens in your own kitchen, though, it's not natural, there's no escaping it, and it's all your fault.
Paul Reiser writes in Couplehood that he was in the habit of turning to his new wife on such a Sunday drive and saying, "Whew? Is that you?" Then he realized that, "Basically what I'm asking my bride is, 'Is that you or is that 5,000 acres of cow manure?'"
Yeah. That's me.
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