I'm about to become a pot-smoking cat-killer.
The pot-smoking is fairly straightforward. My headaches get ever worse, which I really didn't think was possible, as they seemed pretty damned bad before. I have exhausted all the legal options and I have depleted my admittedly fairly scanty emotional and spiritual resources. That leaves medicinal marijuana.
Of course, it's not actually all that straightforward. I live in Louisiana, where pot in all its forms, medicinal or not, is illegal. And I've never smoked pot. I've never smoked anything, in fact (the result of growing up in a household of cigarette smokers--it was truly vile: one of my most vivid childhood memories is my disgust at having to wash dishes because my dad and brothers would stub out their dinnertime cigarettes on the plates. . . those crumpled butts, squished down into leftover puddles of ketchup and meatloaf grease. . . and then there was the horror of car rides in the winter, all the windows rolled up, the cigarette smoke swirling around my head like a thick woolen scarf). So, I don't know how to smoke. And I don't know how to get pot, other than to ask certain of my sons' friends, which of course I cannot do. Good lord. Can you imagine: "Hey dude, tell your mom I got a new supply in and it's really sweet"--??
But I will surmount these problems and I will score some medicinal marijuana and I will, at last, find relief from the pain. And I will live a happy and successful and productive life.
Except for the cat-killing.
I wrote in a previous post about our peeing cat. All cats pee, of course, but this one pees on the sofas and beds. Constantly. And I just can't take it anymore. I have tried everything. Really. Truly. I'm a historian. I research for a living. I have researched peeing cats. I do not believe in discarding animals because they are inconvenient, but. . . this is beyond "convenience." As Laurie, my very wise nail lady said to me on Saturday morning as she clipped away at my cuticles, "We're talking about your home here." And my home reeks of cat piss. But the cat has no claws and couldn't survive outside and is not exactly adoptable. Who wants an incontinent indoor kitty?
But if I have my cat "put down," aka killed, I will also become a liar of the worst kind. Because Cleaning Sarah, who has cleaned our house, babysat our kids, petsit our dogs and cats, and basically been a solid part of our family life for 20 years, will never speak to me again if she knows what I've done. So I will have to lie. A really Big Lie. One I will have to think about, concoct and then sustain for years to come. It will be like a Victorian novel. It will go on and on and on.
So the Scripture text in church this morning was the famous passage from Jeremiah about God sending the prophet to watch the potter at the wheel and saying, "Look, go tell Israel [or is it Judah?], you've all really fucked up and I'm going to throw you back on the wheel and start all over." (Yes, the "fucked up" is in the original Hebrew. . . OK, not really, but you know it's what God wanted to say except He/She/They knew there'd be all those kids listening in.) And I'm sitting there in the pew and I'm thinking, "Oh geez. I'm 50 and I've got a headache and do I really need to be reminded that I more and more resemble a lumpy, squishy, lopsided pile of clay?" And then there's this continual reshaping, this constantly-on-the-wheel thing, round and round and round and round. . . . I mean, no wonder I have headaches. But I gotta say, the shapes this funky cosmic Potter comes up with--well, they are surprising, to say the least. I truly never expected to be a middle-aged, weed-toking, cat-killing, cleaning-woman-deceiver. I mean, couldn't I be a nice, graceful salad bowl? Or perhaps a butter dish with pleasing lines? Or even a gravy boat?
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Saturday, September 4, 2010
I used to be better
Today I bought a Dyson. Vacuum cleaner, that is. Not the roller ball kind, as I couldn't justify the extra $100 just so I could zoom around corners. It's not a race car, for pete's sake.
Today I also purchased ridiculously expensive black jeans from J.Jill. And I got a pedicure and manicure.
Can you tell it's been a really bad week?
When did I become a person who indulges in Shopping Therapy? Good lord. I used to be better than this. I used to be, you know, sane.
Today I also purchased ridiculously expensive black jeans from J.Jill. And I got a pedicure and manicure.
Can you tell it's been a really bad week?
When did I become a person who indulges in Shopping Therapy? Good lord. I used to be better than this. I used to be, you know, sane.
Tax Holiday
So this Labor Day weekend is the "Second Amendment Tax Holiday" in Louisiana.
Yep. No state or local taxes on purchases of guns or gun accessories.
You couldn't make this stuff up. Tho' God knows why you'd want to.
Yep. No state or local taxes on purchases of guns or gun accessories.
You couldn't make this stuff up. Tho' God knows why you'd want to.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Baghdad of the Heart
Owen left today for his second year of college. Of course, despite much parental encouragement and a healthy dose of maternal nagging, he left all his preparations til the last minute and so his room resembles a Baghdad marketplace after an insurgent bombing--I wouldn't be at all surprised to find a bloody limb or hunks of flesh somewhere amidst the debris.
He's planning to stay in Portland next summer and I figure that's it--he'll never again be at home for more than a week or so. Who can blame him? No sane person with an option elsewhere would stay in south Louisiana for the summer and besides that, Owen doesn't exactly fit into the culture of the Deep South. "You did this to yourself, you know," a friend of mine said. "You raised him this way." Hmm. It's true we raised him to question the parochialism, the endemic racism, the "oh what the hell" attitude toward the environment. But that doesn't mean we raised him to be a foreigner in the land of his birth. He was always that way. He never liked Mardi Gras, which is just plain weird and certainly not our fault. And when he was four, he asked for a sled for Christmas. We pointed out that 1) it never snows in Baton Rouge and 2) there are no hills. He replied, "That's ok. I just want to put it in the corner of the kitchen and look at it." When he was five, he packed mittens in his lunch box every schoolday, "just in case." By middle school, he had immersed himself in indie post-punk culture, completely at odds with Southern country. And in his early teens, he decided to be a vegan, which makes daily life in seafood-crazed Louisiana somewhat problematic.
So no, Owen won't live at "home" again. And yes. In the piles of musty clothes and torn receipts and broken cd cases that litter his abandoned bedroom, you probably won't see any severed limbs or mangled body parts, but without too much searching, you will find the pieces of my shattered heart.
He's planning to stay in Portland next summer and I figure that's it--he'll never again be at home for more than a week or so. Who can blame him? No sane person with an option elsewhere would stay in south Louisiana for the summer and besides that, Owen doesn't exactly fit into the culture of the Deep South. "You did this to yourself, you know," a friend of mine said. "You raised him this way." Hmm. It's true we raised him to question the parochialism, the endemic racism, the "oh what the hell" attitude toward the environment. But that doesn't mean we raised him to be a foreigner in the land of his birth. He was always that way. He never liked Mardi Gras, which is just plain weird and certainly not our fault. And when he was four, he asked for a sled for Christmas. We pointed out that 1) it never snows in Baton Rouge and 2) there are no hills. He replied, "That's ok. I just want to put it in the corner of the kitchen and look at it." When he was five, he packed mittens in his lunch box every schoolday, "just in case." By middle school, he had immersed himself in indie post-punk culture, completely at odds with Southern country. And in his early teens, he decided to be a vegan, which makes daily life in seafood-crazed Louisiana somewhat problematic.
So no, Owen won't live at "home" again. And yes. In the piles of musty clothes and torn receipts and broken cd cases that litter his abandoned bedroom, you probably won't see any severed limbs or mangled body parts, but without too much searching, you will find the pieces of my shattered heart.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
A Conversation
Cleaning up Hugh's room the other day, I found some more porn pix that he'd printed off the Web. Pretty timid, on the whole--no animals, no violence, no sex acts, just sultry blondes with laughably huge boobs and impossibly trim waists and thighs. But still. I figured we'd better have a conversation, about responsible use of the internet and the way pornography exploits women and more effective ways to deal with his sexuality. You know, one of those conversations Good Parents have with their teenagers.
I am not a Good Parent. I do aspire. I do try. But I do not succeed.
Trying to make a point, tho' exactly what point it was I'm no longer entirely clear, I said something along the lines of "Real women do not have those boobs and real women do have pubic hair." To which Hugh responded, "Not if they wax the way they're supposed to!"
Supposed to? Supposed to? "It's not a requirement, you know!" I said indignantly. "Well, no. . . she can shave," admitted Hugh. GAHHHH! So there I was in Bizarroland, where no Good Parent ever goes, arguing with my 15-year-old about whether women should have pubic hair.
I remember once, long ago, attending a parenting seminar with Keith, and the perky social worker who led the session saying, "It's ok to let your child win occasionally." And Keith and I just looked at each other in astonishment. Letting Hugh win was never an issue. He always won. And he continues to do so. Somehow I emerge out of every encounter with him feeling out-of-date, woefully behind the times and beside the point, a hairy throwback from another era.
I am not a Good Parent. I do aspire. I do try. But I do not succeed.
Trying to make a point, tho' exactly what point it was I'm no longer entirely clear, I said something along the lines of "Real women do not have those boobs and real women do have pubic hair." To which Hugh responded, "Not if they wax the way they're supposed to!"
Supposed to? Supposed to? "It's not a requirement, you know!" I said indignantly. "Well, no. . . she can shave," admitted Hugh. GAHHHH! So there I was in Bizarroland, where no Good Parent ever goes, arguing with my 15-year-old about whether women should have pubic hair.
I remember once, long ago, attending a parenting seminar with Keith, and the perky social worker who led the session saying, "It's ok to let your child win occasionally." And Keith and I just looked at each other in astonishment. Letting Hugh win was never an issue. He always won. And he continues to do so. Somehow I emerge out of every encounter with him feeling out-of-date, woefully behind the times and beside the point, a hairy throwback from another era.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Wrinkles in Time
I have eye wrinkles. Not wrinkles around my eye--I mean, yes, I have those, but I'm talking about wrinkles in the eye. The left eye, to be precise. And actually only one wrinkle, but big enough, considering that the eye is, you know, really small. (If you peer closely at my eye, you can see the wrinkle, by the way. It's fascinating, in an oh-ick sort of way.) Anyway, this big wrinkle in my small eye means I have to settle for 20/30 vision in contact lenses--"good enough," said the eye doctor. Clearly I've reached the age where "good enough" is as good as it gets.
Meanwhile, there are the more noticeable wrinkles around the eye. And scattered around the forehead. And clustered around the lips. But--not for long! Cruising thru Macy's on my way out of the mall Saturday, I remembered I needed blusher. Zipped by the Clinique counter. Got Super-Efficient Aging Saleslady with Frightening Amounts of Eye Makeup. She takes one look at me and says, "Now I'm sure you've heard about our new amazing wrinkle corrector."
Well, no, have to admit I've been slightly distracted by the temporary presence of college son. And the start of the school year. And the occasional yet increasingly frequent existential crisis. And the Gulf oil spill. And headaches. And my new commitment to pursuing life as a Total Sex Goddess. And the obvious conflict between those last two.
Of course I don't admit to Scary Saleslady that I haven't been keeping up with the latest breakthroughs in skin care. I just nod. So of course I'm doomed. I buy not only blusher but also a bottle of "Repairwear Laser Focus." Now, by the standards of department-store anti-aging cosmetics, "Repairwear" (not sure where the laser comes in, no obvious laser in the package) is not all that expensive. $40. But that's more than twice as much as I've ever spent for skin care.
Previously, that record was held by an English product: Boots' "Protect and Defend." No. That's not right. "Protect and Survive." No, shoot, that was the name of the English government's official civil defense campaign of the early 1980s--how to survive a nuclear bombing. "Protect and Perfect"! That's it. (I just think of it as "Lock and Load." )
Does it really work? Um, well, I admit that year by year, I look older. But I tell myself that without "Protect and Perfect," I'd look really old. I do have moments of sanity, however, when I recognize that all of this is about as useful as covering your windows with black paper and sandbagging your doorways so that you'll survive a nuclear holocaust.
The thing is, isn't it better to die deluded?
Meanwhile, there are the more noticeable wrinkles around the eye. And scattered around the forehead. And clustered around the lips. But--not for long! Cruising thru Macy's on my way out of the mall Saturday, I remembered I needed blusher. Zipped by the Clinique counter. Got Super-Efficient Aging Saleslady with Frightening Amounts of Eye Makeup. She takes one look at me and says, "Now I'm sure you've heard about our new amazing wrinkle corrector."
Well, no, have to admit I've been slightly distracted by the temporary presence of college son. And the start of the school year. And the occasional yet increasingly frequent existential crisis. And the Gulf oil spill. And headaches. And my new commitment to pursuing life as a Total Sex Goddess. And the obvious conflict between those last two.
Of course I don't admit to Scary Saleslady that I haven't been keeping up with the latest breakthroughs in skin care. I just nod. So of course I'm doomed. I buy not only blusher but also a bottle of "Repairwear Laser Focus." Now, by the standards of department-store anti-aging cosmetics, "Repairwear" (not sure where the laser comes in, no obvious laser in the package) is not all that expensive. $40. But that's more than twice as much as I've ever spent for skin care.
Previously, that record was held by an English product: Boots' "Protect and Defend." No. That's not right. "Protect and Survive." No, shoot, that was the name of the English government's official civil defense campaign of the early 1980s--how to survive a nuclear bombing. "Protect and Perfect"! That's it. (I just think of it as "Lock and Load." )
Does it really work? Um, well, I admit that year by year, I look older. But I tell myself that without "Protect and Perfect," I'd look really old. I do have moments of sanity, however, when I recognize that all of this is about as useful as covering your windows with black paper and sandbagging your doorways so that you'll survive a nuclear holocaust.
The thing is, isn't it better to die deluded?
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Individually wrapped packages
Am in the car, nearing the end of three days of a pretty much non-stop, searing, make-you-vomit headache. Not driving, thank God. Fifteen-year-old Hugh has his driver's permit; he's at the wheel and I am grateful. Really. He's a good driver, alert, careful, already probably better than me on a good day, let alone a Headache Day. We have been to the mall and I have bought him clothes so he's in a good mood. Me, I'm just barely hanging on.
And then I lose my grip and plummet downward. Don't know why--it all just adds up, I guess. Hugh is chatting pleasantly and I want so hard to listen, to respond well, to be a Good Mother. So many of our interactions are hostile, hurtful, fraught, and I long to appreciate this moment, to enjoy his company and the fact that we are Getting Along. But I can't. I just want to be home, in bed, alone, without light or sound or heat or expectations. And then, God help me, I start to cry.
Hugh's a cheerful, live-in-the-moment, it's-all-about-now sort of soul. He doesn't believe in planning or consequences or regret or apologies or any emotions, really, other than enjoyment and a fierce loyalty to friends. And I am sitting in the passenger's seat next to him, crying.
I blurt out, "It must be crummy, having a mom who always has headaches and feels rotten."
Silence.
Then, Hugh, quietly: "It's not so bad."
Me, through the tears: "Geez. It's gotta be. I mean, I don't like being with me, and I'm me."
Hugh: "Well, I think you should smoke pot."
I'm astounded. So he's been paying attention to my discussions with Keith about medicinal marijuana? Lurching into Unknown Territory--conversation with a sympathetic Hugh--I regress into total self-pity: "I don't even know how to smoke!" I wail.
"You can try a pipe," he suggests, helpfully. "I guess I could bake pot into brownies," I admit, and Hugh is exultant "Yeah! In Colorado, you can buy weed cookies! In individually wrapped packages!"
And suddenly, the pain recedes, just for a moment, and I am in a place of grace. "This is My body," in the form of individually wrapped packages of Colorado-produced cannabis cookies offered by my teenaged son.
And then I lose my grip and plummet downward. Don't know why--it all just adds up, I guess. Hugh is chatting pleasantly and I want so hard to listen, to respond well, to be a Good Mother. So many of our interactions are hostile, hurtful, fraught, and I long to appreciate this moment, to enjoy his company and the fact that we are Getting Along. But I can't. I just want to be home, in bed, alone, without light or sound or heat or expectations. And then, God help me, I start to cry.
Hugh's a cheerful, live-in-the-moment, it's-all-about-now sort of soul. He doesn't believe in planning or consequences or regret or apologies or any emotions, really, other than enjoyment and a fierce loyalty to friends. And I am sitting in the passenger's seat next to him, crying.
I blurt out, "It must be crummy, having a mom who always has headaches and feels rotten."
Silence.
Then, Hugh, quietly: "It's not so bad."
Me, through the tears: "Geez. It's gotta be. I mean, I don't like being with me, and I'm me."
Hugh: "Well, I think you should smoke pot."
I'm astounded. So he's been paying attention to my discussions with Keith about medicinal marijuana? Lurching into Unknown Territory--conversation with a sympathetic Hugh--I regress into total self-pity: "I don't even know how to smoke!" I wail.
"You can try a pipe," he suggests, helpfully. "I guess I could bake pot into brownies," I admit, and Hugh is exultant "Yeah! In Colorado, you can buy weed cookies! In individually wrapped packages!"
And suddenly, the pain recedes, just for a moment, and I am in a place of grace. "This is My body," in the form of individually wrapped packages of Colorado-produced cannabis cookies offered by my teenaged son.
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