The First Drunk

Did you ever stop to think about the first time in your life when you can say you were drunk? Though that state of mind holds no special fascination for me, I do drink and enjoy the mellow buzz of feeling when I can put my overactive mind on hold for a while. Here's the memory.

I was about 12 years old at the time and had just started going to the local dances at the Catholic church school. The lights were dimmed, a live rock band was hired, and it was the coolest place to be on a Friday night. My friend Mary and I loved to dance, and we both wished we could find boyfriends but, alas, we were too shy to even approach boys so we danced with each other and watched in the corners of the dance for the older boys who did not notice us. Well, before one of the dances we discussed the fact that perhaps if we were to get a hold of some alcohol, maybe boys would see that we too were cool and they might approach us. Mary's parents did not drink so it was up to me to "find something." What I found was a dusty old bottle of Noilly Pratt vermouth in the cabinet above the refrigerator. It was there for the rare occasion when my grandfather would visit and request a martini. At the time my parents only drank on special occasions so that was going to be as good as it would get. I washed out a peanut butter jar and poured the spoils into it and stashed it in my fringed hippie hemp bag. We got to the dance, and upon being dropped off went around the building to drink the vermouth. I had a half a jar of the vile tasting stuff and we took turns chugging until I thought I would throw up. Actually we couldn't finish it, and left the jar by the corner of the building. Once inside we waited for magic to happen as if, now, because we did something totally cool, everyone would know. As usual we danced our hearts out and still not one boy approached us. We went home crestfallen. I was met at the door by my Dad who had an uncanny sixth sense when it came to figuring out what I was up to. "Come here, he said as he took one look at my face, you've been drinking, I can smell you." Never one to argue when I was in the wrong I confessed to my stealing and drinking episode. " OK bigshot," he roared, "you want to drink, now your gonna drink!" With that he went to his closet and pulled out a bottle of Canadian whiskey and poured a tall kitchen glass full of it. "Now you sit there and drink that until it is finished!" My mother came into the room to see me in tears, gulping the burning whiskey and shot my dad a dirty look. He cut her off before she could protest and defended his action by saying "I'm going to teach her a lesson she won't forget." My mom left the room in disgust. I tried to sip slowly and sure enough, in the process my dad had to go to the bathroom. In his absence my mom appeared, grabbed the half drunken glass away from me and quietly finished it. She then handed it back to me and left the room, mumbling "he is such an asshole" under her breath. When my dad came back, I pretended I was taking the last gulp. By this time the whiskey was taking hold and I started laughing. Then I got up and staggered over to the little organ that I had gotten for Christmas. I felt wonderful and giddy and started playing "I Love You Truly" from the music by numbers book. I even started singing at the top of my lungs the song which I never heard before, but knew it was from my dad's era. "I loovee yooouuu truuuleeee, truleee I dooooooo." It was more than my dad could take and he ordered me up to my room. I accidently fell off the organ bench and crawled on my hands and knees up the stairs to my room still singing the offending song and laughing like a hyena. I got into bed and although the bed was rocking like a cradle, I didn't get the spins or the pukes as I'm sure my dad hoped I would, but slept soundly. Although I had a bad headache the next morning, I came down to breakfast as if all was right with the world and announced brightly, "I'm as hungry as a bear, how about some bacon and eggs." My dad looked away disgustedly. Lesson not learned.

Remembering My Vision of Hell

I have a lot of time on my hands, and I spend it wisely going about my chores as a domestic goddess, sharing my thoughts and images on my various blogs, and reading and researching. I am very thankful for my life and yet I have an unrest that I wasn't able to put my finger on.. til now. A memory flooded back from the time that I was studying for my BSN at Kean University that has come to surface. I was taking a world literature course and one of our assignment's was to read "Dante's Inferno." It was a chore, as I was not at all familiar with the politics of that time period and had no interest in the religious dogmas of the era either. But our professor posed a question to the class that sparked interest in this otherwise dusty old work, " What is your vision of Hell?" There was talk of zombies and devils and the usual images conjured up by what we have been taught from our collective religions... but I was an old-timer in a class of young people and I thought long and hard before I answered. I asked a question in place of an answer. " What if after you died, you realized that when you lived upon the earth, you had all the power to change the course of the world for a greater good through your words, and thoughts and actions... and instead you wasted that power in the pursuit of fleeting vanities?"

Someone in the class yelled out, " well then you'd just ask to come again and have a do over!"

Everyone laughed (including me) and was I happy to see a plug for reincarnation. My professor looked me square in the eyes and audibly whispered, "Good thinking." Since then, I haven't really given much thought to the idea of hell as a place to go, as I've been there in my thoughts a hundred times since... usually from tormented imaginings that probably stem from boredom.

But really... what if you could change the world just by changing your prospective from one of self absorption to one of compassion and consideration for others. How would you do that? Again, I don't really have an answer, but it begs the question, "What are you waiting for?"

Turkey Truck

I was scanning over all the pictures I took on our cross country trek to San Diego in early September and I had to post my commentary on this one... well before Thanksgiving. As the truck was passing us at about 80 mph on the Interstate, there were feathers flying everywhere as I gazed into the passing crated truck carrying turkeys (for slaughter?). Thankfully we had the music on, even though the truck tires on the road would have drowned out any protest from the poor caged birds. Some of them had lost so many feathers during the high speed delivery that I could see little bald patches of skin through the fluttering feathers. Most of them just sat there immovable, as if they knew where they were going and resigned to their fate. But what distressed me was one turkey who poked his head through the grate and seemed to be mouthing a call for help. It was as if he was the only one who in the realization of where he was headed, became frantic and horrified, and at the risk of breaking his neck was calling for attention. My stomach turned thinking of the golden roasted turkey that has graced our Thanksgiving table for as long as I remember. I felt so sad for those birds, and am sure if I saw a truck of cows or pigs and saw one of them looking so distressed, I would probably not want to eat one for a long time. Now I understand what prayers before meals are for... thanking the living creatures for their sacrifice for the sake of our nourishment. I know it's a long way off until Thanksgiving, and I can't be sure that this disturbing image will not haunt me, but if indeed I do forget the fate of the Thanksgiving bird and the suffering scene of the ride to the "turkey factory," I will at least say a prayer of thanks to our "food" as I drizzle the gravy over my vegetables. Will I ask to eat the drumstick as I normally do? I think not.

Cleaning Closets

The past two days have been spent do the major fall housekeeping, a ritual that is repeated every season in my home. There is the washing of windows and baseboards, vacuuming of ceilings, scrubbing and polishing of floors, furniture and knick-knacks... you know the list is endless. The most dreaded of my tasks is the cleaning of closets and yet this is also the most therapeutic. As all the hidden stuff is pulled out and assessed for it's necessity or usefulness, decisions are made to either keep it, throw it out, or give it away. Suddenly in the midst of these banal decisions I am hit with a doubt, or worry, or fret about something going on in my life. Like the junk in the closet, the cluttered junk in the mind usually surfaces while I'm focused on performing the closet cleaning tasks. I allow myself to really think about the problem or issue, I don't stuff it away and usually the assessments for it are the same as for the stuff in the closet. If it doesn't serve me well (like a worry) I throw it away. If it is a problem that doesn't really belong to me ( this is usually a fret) I mentally send it back to whomever it belongs. But if it an issue that demands my personal attention, belongs to me alone, and needs a home in my head, I keep it. Once the clutter is gone, the real issues can be put into focus and worked out. That's why to me, there is nothing as satisfying in the realm of the seasonal cleaning ritual as a tidy and spacious closet.

When Rabbits Play

My little bunny rabbit Otis, (a blue and white dutch dwarf) is such a great pet and has brought my husband and I far more laughs and pleasure than we ever imagined. I really just wanted a cute furry animal that I could pet and coo at and didn't expect that rabbits could actually do very much in the way of tricks and people interaction, but boy was I wrong! Otis sits guard in his big indoor cage all night and guards the front door with the seriousness of a London guard. No matter what time I wander down at night he is wide eyed and seated at perfect attention. I keep a set of jingle bells in his cage and when he is ready to come out he will grab them in his teeth and shake them as his cue to "let me out." His favorite times of the day are early morning and early evening when he really get rambunctious and will do his tricks and maneuvers. After a breakfast of 5 blueberries (which he eats with his eyes closed in deep enjoyment), he is raring to go. He'll sprint out of kitchen into the foyer faster than the eye can see, and then do a series of shiver jumps (about a foot off the floor) and then 360 degree spin jumps... just to show off. When we are sipping at our morning coffee he will hop full speed ahead into the TV room and take a flying leap on the couch next to his Daddy for his morning pet. It is alarming the speed at which he charges us before leaping into the air for that soft couch landing. If you stop petting him, he will coax your affection with little licks of his tongue on your hand and then look at you as if to say, "Alright you got your kisses, my turn now." He just adores being pet and will even allow kisses on his little furry face. Before Daddy goes to work, Otis can sense that it's time for his snacky snack and will run into the kitchen and hop figure eights through Gerry's legs until the puffed vegetable snack is produced. His big trick is standing on his hind legs with upturned nose to reach the treasured snack. Once snagged, he hops away with a pronounced kick of his hind legs as if to say, "shoo, let me be with my treat." He does need supervision though, as he likes to chew things he shouldn't. Wires are my biggest worry, and like having a toddler in the house, most wired things are unplugged and hidden when he is freely hopping about. When he starts chewing furniture, books, mouldings, or houseplants a clap of the hands and a holler are usually enough to make him stop. When that fails, placement in his safe haven (the gated kitchen ) is his punishment. He will hop in his straw box and munch on his hay and then flop on his side as if to say, "fine then, I'll just ignore you." The tantrum doesn't last long... his memory is keenly short term. At night, when he knows it's time for kibble and cage, the game of hide and seek often ensues. He knows just the right places where it is hard for us to reach him... under the dining room table, the computer table, or just scooting under the couch. Lately though he has gotten a bit chubby for the space under the couch and once there will scratch furiously until we have to lift it to allow him to escape. He is smart enough to know that at bedtime, a snacky snack means cage and you just can't lure him with that trick at night. But rabbits, although very quick, tire fairly easy and after a couple of games of tag, and hide and seek, will usually settle down and let us catch him. Here is is sitting in one of his favorite hiding places... he is such a smart rabbit!

A Healing Smile

There is a little old lady whom we frequently see while shopping at our local supermarket. I noticed about a year ago that she had what appeared to be a noticeable growth on her upper lip that she covered with a Band-aid. She walks to the store for her groceries and seems to be in pretty good health otherwise, and is the kind of little person that seems almost invisible in the hurried world of the Saturday shopping crowd. Alarmingly, I have watched that lesion grow to the size of an orange on her lip and fear it might be some kind of malignancy. It is so grotesque at this point that other people upon seeing her immediately look away with disgust or horror as if she is some kind of freak. I'm saddened to think that perhaps she could not have this removed because of a lack of insurance or maybe for some reason it is inoperable. I certainly would not have the nerve to approach her and ask... it's really none of my business. As others had done, I avoided looking at her when she approached, mostly out of pity. But last week as I saw her pushing her cart towards me, I felt somehow ashamed to look away. I decided I would meet her gaze and just say hello. She approached and I smiled and to my astonishment she looked straight at me and her eyes lit up with a smile when I said hello. I could barely see her mouth as the lesion which was covered with a huge band-aid almost covered her mouth, but in her eyes I saw such a light that touched me deeply. I said a quiet healing prayer for her. It dawned on me that this brave woman with a disfigured face was going about her life as if nothing was wrong. Suddenly I felt very humbled that I had been the recipient of a smile from someone incredibly courageous who remained joyful in the face of adversity. Yesterday, I again saw my little angel woman and when we met and gave our smiles and hellos of recognition I again said a silent prayer for her healing. It seemed the natural thing to do, as she had given me dose of healing that I never saw coming.

Who is Crazy Enough to Shoot the Moon?

Today I am saddened and sickened by a news story on CNN presented as a tongue in cheek look at an event that will take place tomorrow morning. Out of nowhere it was announced that NASA will be sending a rocket to blast into the southern hemisphere of our beloved moon... not once, but twice. It's bad enough that our planet is under constant threat of someone trying to blow up stuff, we call them terrorists or combatants depending on whose side your on. It is a way of scoring points in wars that will never be won. People even take their children to view violent action films where the excitement comes from things crashing and blowing up, as they eat their popcorn and never think of the real life consequences of these senseless acts of aggression. But to those of us who revere the Moon, as the feminine light in the darkness, and whose face has always represented the loving shine of a Mother's face who inspires poets, dreamers, and children... this is a terrible tragedy. Supposedly the mad scientists are looking for water under the surface, but I think there is something more sinister going on here. Japan crashed an orbiter into the surface in June and just look at the havoc going on now... earthquakes, tsunamis, and oh yes a typhoon in Japan. China and India will also be getting in on the action in the near future with similar moon trips. Hmm, superpowers blowing up the moon in a show of "intellectual" superiority with the raw grit of a show off bully. We have plenty of water here on Earth even though we are doing our damndest to pollute it. Wouldn't the money spent on blasting the surface of the moon be better spent on water purification for impoverished nations? Or will the next designer fad for the rich and bored include designer bottled moon water, as the new cash cow for the over-privileged. Sorry, but I see NASA as a techno-terrorist group who is invading the symbol of our hopes and dreams. There is no need to blast a hole into the surface of the moon to check for water... would these same men shoot their mother in the mouth to check for a cavity. I just wonder.

Witness to a Marriage License

Yesterday I served a very honored and important purpose, I got to be the witness for Gerry's daughter Erica and her husband-to-be Davey. The three of us arrived at the municipal building in the little town they live in, and though the outside of the building was fairly new, the inside still had a feel reminiscent of the Norman Rockwell print "Marriage License." We wandered up to a windowed counter and a lovely woman of Hispanic descent, greeted us warmly. There was a moment's panic when she asked Erica and Davey for two forms of ID, and Erica lamented that she wasn't aware she needed two forms and only brought her license. The kindly woman sensing her dismay, explained that it was alright, she could bring it in when she picked up the final copy. Davey produced his car license and his crane operator's license, and luckily I only had to show my car license. Then the questioning began and it was my job to make sure that the truth was told. Most questions were simple enough and I nodded with their every answer. There was the question of residence, parents names (including mother's maiden) places and dates of birth, parents places of birth, place and date of wedding, social security numbers (though I certainly wouldn't have been able to tell if these were fabricated or not). Gone were the two questions I remember from my own first experience in getting a marriage license, "Are you an imbecile" and " are you under the influence of drugs or alcohol." I remember laughing so hard at those questions at 19 years of age, that it was a wonder they even granted my ex and I a license at all. Instead, the big question was, "are you two related." They both answered no, and I didn't even chuckle, just nodded that the answer was correct. I then got to relay the number of years I have known the couple, and although I couldn't do the math right then and there, my memory flooded back to the first time I met Davey in my backyard as a new friend of my son Dale. He was 7 at the time, and they were playing football. Back then I used to ask Davey to keep an eye on little Dale as they played together down at the brook, as he seemed so responsible for a young boy. I first met Erica when she was 5, when her mom brought her home from kindergarten, she jumped on my lap and told me that I looked like a fairy princes with my long blond hair. That little Erica now calculated the math instantly (+20 for both) and I felt very proud and nostalgic in the presence of these two very special adults. When the woman behind the counter realized I was the step mother, she asked if Erica was a good teenager, relaying the fact that teenagers could be most difficult to raise. Erica was quick to point out that she is now a good adult. I hugged her and replied, "she was a good teenager" and although we had our difficulties, they are far in the past. I added that yes, teenagers could be difficult, but if one remembers their own teen-hood with honesty, there is no use in throwing stones, it is a difficult time. We signed our names and she asked us to swear we were telling the truth. I answered yes, and she repeated, "Do you swear?" In my mind I found the repeat of the question funny, and thought, "shit yea I do!" Instead, being the adult that I am supposed to be, I demurely answered, "yes, I swear it's the truth." The woman then said Erica and Davey made a beautiful couple and she wished them much happiness. I couldn't agree more!

Tomato Soup and Noodles

Well, it was certainly a fine fall weekend and I'm glad the "flu" was short lived. On Saturday I was able to march to Petsmart for Otis supplies and then to the grocery store. On Sunday, I did half my normal bike ride under the falling leaves and then it warmed up nicely and there was porch sitting time. Cocktails, poetry, music, and a dinner of chili con carne and a beautiful full moon. It was a happy night, and I tried to keep the party on moderation. Somehow that little snifter of Limoncello and a cherry Klondike bar topped off the night as a bit too much fun. I awoke at 3:03 AM and was wide awake in a pool of sweat, and so I got up, drank some water, and laid on the couch watching Weather Channel. I petted Otis and did not feel sleepy, mainly because I felt as if I was starving. Coffee made me feel worse... starving and jittery and so I had a cheesy muffin ( an English muffin with mustard and cheddar cheese on it). I dozed a bit and waited for the sun to come up. It was almost 7:00 before that occurred... I guess he had a good weekend too. At 10:00 I was starving again and so I heated up a bowl of chili and had a Fresca. I went about my chores like a zombie and by 11:30 I was again crazed by hunger. I was craving macaroni and cheese, but didn't feel like making it, and I don't stock up on the boxed variety that we ate as kids. But there was an old can of tomato soup, (Campbells of course) and an open package of those little skinny egg noodles that I purposely avoided checking the expiration date. Suddenly, I just had to have tomato soup and noodles... a dinner favorite of my childhood. I decided to jazz it up a bit and make it seem more like adult fare by adding a squirt of pesto paste. As the soup boiled and the noodles and pesto were added, I could hardly wait for the three minute timer to go off. This should take care of my voracious appetite, I thought, as I dumped the whole pot of noodle soup into a bowl, tucked a napkin under my chin, and ate it with a big old soup spoon. I'm glad no one but my bunny Otis was watching, as I slurped it down and slopped noodles on my well placed napkin. It was heavenly... I felt like a kid again... all warm and cozy. It wasn't so much the quantity I ate, but the memory of the smell and texture of the noodles that was so satisfying. I felt invigorated and energized like I was now ready to go out and play in the leaves. The housework became a labor of love and all was right with the world. Who knew that comfort food could have such power? It's now three o'clock and although I'm hungry again, I think a small handful of nuts and a cup of tea will do the trick in holding me until dinnertime. Of course I can't help thinking about the macaroni and cheese with peas on the side that I plan on making for lunch tomorrow. Mmm Mmm Good!

Which Flu?

Last night I didn't sleep a wink, and today I know why. After watching a TV special about the National Parks where Gerry and I hope to visit (as soon as we sell our house), I went to bed feeling wide awake and sort of strange. After an hour of listening to the familiar snoring and rolling around at least a dozen times until the covers were all bunched up, I got up and went to another room. I felt more tired then usual and yet I could not get to sleep. I tried every position of comfort, even ones I try to avoid because they cause my limbs to "go to seep" and I could not relax this agitation in my muscles and so I laid there all night just thinking, changing position, shaking my foot, and listening to the night sounds for some distraction. At 4:30 I finally got up, which is not an unusual time for me and then it hit me like a ton of bricks... I was sick. My throat, now sore caused my voice whisper, I developed a hard, dry cough which burns my lungs, glassy eyes, headache, sneezing, muscle aches, and the start of chills. Yikes, I can't remember the last time I was this sick. As I'm dizzy just writing this little post, I just have to wonder, which flu is this? Swine flu or seasonal flu or... oh well... too late to worry about a flu shot now.