Wednesday, April 28, 2010

For your age

For the first time in my adult life (please stand by for a full definition of adult) I purchased a bed for myself this evening. Now, like all self-sufficient (see earlier blog post) women who pride themselves on being tough and immune to pain and suffering, blah, blah, blah, I went into the mattress store with one thing in mind, the very same thing that my father had in mind when he purchased his first mattress.
"I want a good firm mattress, not too pricey, and a box spring, again, not too pricey."
The sales manager, who could've been the love child of Brad Pitt and a garden gnome, gave me a knowing smile.
"That's what my mother would say," he said. I wanted to punch his face in but I was too tired.
"Well," he said, "We have a couple of different models." He led me to a queen bed in the corner of the store.
"Go ahead, give it a shot."
I lowered myself reluctantly on to the bed. No trumpets blared, I did not have an orgasm nor did I see the likeness of Christ in the shadow of the ceiling.
"This one's good." I shrugged my shoulders and flashed a one-sided, eyebrow up smile.
"Can I just say, that I think you need a softer mattress?" This little guy was persistent. I allowed him to lead me to a "mattress" tester. Of course, there was a little survey I had to fill out before the machine analyzed my "mattress type."
"OK, Nichole, how old are you?"
I mumbled my age.
"Wow, you look amazing for 43!"
"I said 33."
"Oh, well," he said with much less enthusiasm, "I had you pegged at 30."
Douche.
After going through the age, height and, you guessed it, weight details, we moved on to pain.
"Do you experience any pain when you sleep?"
I wanted to put my head on his tiny shoulder and weep. Do I experience pain when I sleep? Of course, the options on the survey had nothing to do with bleeding souls, gnashed hearts or eyes gouged by tear-salt.
"Mostly my back, all of it, my shoulders, both, and my neck."
His eyes got really wide.
"I was in a car accident," I could feel him judging.
It was time for the machine to tell me what the f*ck I should be sleeping on for the next 50 years.
Guess what? Soft mattress. And so, after trying out a few (I got playful by the fifth one, jumping a little, giggling. He laughed nervously and reminded me that I still had my cowboy boots on and could I be mindful of that) I settled on a mattress, just for me.
It's coming on Saturday.
I wonder if the mattress will make me a softer person. It's a lot of pressure for a mattress, I know, but here's to hoping!
As an aside, I moved some of my furniture today, into the new place, the home. I was sweeping sh*t off the table, tearing sheets off the bed, frenzied as usual until my friend Nick, who was kind enough to help, said, "Nichole, relax, there's no rush."
Simple words from a smart man.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Oh so real

Some nine years ago I had my first baby. It was cold and snowing on the night she was born. In the midst of pure chaos and urgency, I sat propped in a bed in ICU listening to the whirs and beeps of machines that would somehow tell the night nurse whether I was living or dying. The baby, whom I begged to be brought to me, lay cradled in my left arm (the only limb without a needle stuck in it) as I dozed in and out of sleep. Her hair and her eyelashes were the color of deep night.
Three days later, when all possibility of the tragic had passed, I was bombarded with paperwork. The baby never left the crook of my arm.
The first order of business was the birth certificate. Nurses politely nudged me to fill out the "father" portion of the birth certificate. I did. They asked me when he would be in to sign the paper. I couldn't tell them, "He's somewhere in Boston," I said, looking at the baby. A few hours later, a social worker came into the room with the incomplete certificate in hand.
"We can't include the paternal information if he's not here to sign it," she said briskly.
"Then it's done," I mumbled, scratching out the information with a dying pen.
"Do you have adoptive parents for the child/" she asked, taking up a clipboard.
"What the hell are you talking about," I said, the drowsiness gone.
"I mean, are you planning on keeping the baby?"
I laughed a hard mean little laugh. "Does a bear shit in the woods?" She left then, the sound of her shoes clicking on the floor echoed through the hallway.
Some nine years ago I had my first baby. She was the most tangible and intangible thing that has ever come into my life. And still, by some strange twist of morals and mores, she is known as illegitimate, somehow on the outskirts of life. This poem is my answer to that kind of thinking.

Those black massy curls never grow down
"Gravity-defying hair" is an affectionate term
So is "coffee and cream" and "stinky pits" and "baby cakes"
Such beautiful skin on this child, and eyes and lashes,
Could make a churchwoman cry.
Folks exclaimed and proclaimed, "ah such a beautiful child"
They wanted a piece of her, smelling her curls and stroking her chubby cheek.
But still, on that half-yellowed piece of paper
(Calls itself a birth certificate)
There is no sign of life, your life
Just some dashes where "father" should be
As if somehow, the dust from it
Would cling to your dress forever.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

What the f*ck do you know?

Every month Oprah publishes a little ditty at the end of her magazine. It is usually some cheese ball one-pager about what she "knows for sure" about life, liberty, the pursuit of money, blah, blah. I got about three months in before I realized that I couldn't stomach the 2-dimensional little quips of wisdom that her editor probably spoon fed her before she put pen to paper. IF she put pen to paper. Maybe, like most life observations, it's not real enough for me to appreciate. And not gritty like I thought Oprah was. It's vague, it could be any one's life, and as you know, I am not interested in any one's life. I want the deep, dark sh*t that everyone is thinking but few dare to say because they think their Momma is reading. Or their husband. Or their wife.
So, thanks to Oprah for inspiring me to contemplate what it is that I know for sure about life as it steams on the plate before me.

1. You can't polish a turd, plain and simple. It's still gonna be a turd no matter what you do to it or how much Chanel you spray on it. So quit trying.

2. You may have to accept that you or someone you love IS that turd. Good luck with that.

3. Your mother was never perfect, no matter how many cookies and costumes she made. You aren't perfect either, but if someone loves you enough, it won't matter.

4. Love doesn't let you pitch in the towel. If you can do it, then it isn't love.

5. There is no shame in having a good f*ck now and then. Why women hate themselves for being good lovers and for needing pleasure is beyond me. Bruise some lips, scream a little (or a lot) and don't go home wearing the coat of shame.

6. When someone says that an emotion is frivolous or unnecessary then they are either 1) envious of your capability of even having emotion or 2) too uptight to read any further. Who the f*ck thinks they can tell you how to feel? It's hilarious.

7. The most fragile people I've known are the ones who seem the strongest and most intelligent.

8. Crying until you're dry actually happens. So does a broken heart.

9. If you're "too good" to laugh then it's too bad for you. The darkest, most ironic moments in life deserve the biggest guffaw. When you're ready, of course.

10. It's OK to show your disdain for other people's pets, especially dogs. You're not impressing anyone if you let a dog jump on you or spend an excessive amount of time near your crotch. Refer to #1 on shedding feelings of shame for hating the dog smell in a house.

That's about it for now. There are more, but these seemed to be the most important for the time being.

Monday, April 19, 2010

Nothing to fix

I optimistically (and stupidly) purchased a curling iron last summer. I guess I thought that somehow heat and chemicals could change the landscape of my features. I mean, why not, heat and chemicals have changed the landscape of everything else, right? So, it was with great hope that I took the curling iron home (and a bottle of hairspray), plugged it in, and set about making my entire life different.
It should be noted here that I have never, ever, in my entire life, had even a hint of curl in my hair, not even in the middle of a raging storm, on the deck of a sinking ferry on the Irish sea. Not even at a table enshrouded by acid mist at a sidewalk cafe in Paris. Not even in the breezeless, dead, wet heat of the Everglades.
So, it is beyond me why I purchased the curling iron. A girl can dream, I guess, but a smart girl knows better than to think the dream will somehow become the reality. Even as a child, for years, I had long thick braids nearly to my ass. And on the rare occasion that my hair was out of braids, it lay like a lead apron across my back, heavy...and straight.
Needless to say the curling iron worked marvelously...for about 2 minutes. I caught a glimpse of my movie-star alter ego, big curls, sunglasses, red lips, and foolishly thought I could maintain this look all day, maybe even into the next day.
Sure, Nichole, sure. The hair fell, the hairspray dried, and I was left with a nappy mass of brunette and red, straight on top, frizzy on the bottom, and burned from root to tip. And a whole day ahead of me.
I brushed it out and put it in braids for the rest of the summer.
I can't remember why I even bought the thing. What inspired me, a rational, modern, know-myself-better-than-anyone else kinda girl to buy a f*cking curling iron. I'm an indian for Chrissakes. Ever seen a Cherokee with a perm? It ain't pretty.
The iron is now lost in the back of the linen closet. Lost for good, I'm sure, a reminder of my last attempt at trying to fix something that was never broken to begin with.

Saturday, April 17, 2010

What people are really saying...

I truly appreciate the nitty gritty elements of life "behind the scenes." Maybe it's because I am an observer and I write what I observe, maybe it's because I have a sick sense of humor and have literally no interest in the sanitized version of people's lives.
Maybe both.
And so, I spend a lot of time and attention scrutinizing and memorizing interactions with friends, family and even complete strangers. I go to bed laughing to myself when the room is utterly silent and even the rain doesn't dare fall. In fact, I've grown so accustomed to reliving these hilarious moments that I rely on them to fall asleep at night. There are a lot of for instances but I'd like to point out a few from the past week that have floored me and continue to make me laugh. My hands are shaking right now as a matter of fact!
For instance: I have a friend whom we shall call "Squared Away," or SA for short, who works with some of the most f*cked up kids on the planet. His demeanor is very calm, I am imagining that his blood runs evenly and serenely through every part of his body, even down to the forgotten fingertips. Yet, when I was peering into the backseat of his car I noticed a plethora of clothing unfitting such a tidy, SA kinda guy.
"What's with all the T-shirts? You on your way to the laundromat?" I was half-joking when I said this.
"That? Oh no, those are for when we do take downs. Sometimes the kids end up ripping my shirts."
Take downs?! Are you serious? This giant of a man, with even-flowing blood and the personality of a shaman has to do take downs? And so many, in fact, that he has spare shirts to accommodate violent ripping incidences?
Did I mention how calmly he relayed this information while sipping an iced coffee (with a straw) right before he went to work?
For instance:
Journalists are generally pretty witty people. We meet a lot of folks doing a lot of things and there are some stories that grab us and some that we want to grab and choke with our bare hands...or something like that. I had to do a story recently that involved talking about pets.
I hate pet stories. To the point where, once, when my editor asked if I was interested in covering a cat rescue story I emailed her with a simple "F*ck no." To my boss. That's how much I hate pet stories.
So, before I interviewed the pet lady (oh yes, she wrote a book all about her pets, and yes, I'm being deliberately vague right now) I told my very dry, astute writer friend about the impending story. His response, "So, if you were stranded on a desert island with Lassie and Rin Tin-Tin..which one would you eat first?"
I almost died doing that interview. I had all kinds of "alternate" questions in my head. Barely made it through. Yet, it's midnight now, and I'm laughing my *ss off right before sleep. Never fails. I love the other side.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Need to know basis

My nine-year-old has been pushing some serious limits. I can handle that sh*t at the house, but now her attitude is spilling out into the school realm. Of course, the sneaky little sh*t won't ever tell me when she's been sent to the office for screaming at the recess para. Nope, I ask how her day went and she just smiles and says, "Oh it was great, Ma. We had art today. I love making papier mache puppets."
Smooth as glass, this one, slick as a turd on linoleum. She may be able to fool the others (especially my mother who thinks that the reason my little angel is sassing teachers is because she's bored at school. Give me a f*cking break, Mom) but I've got her number and told her so today.
"Principal called me today, Anna. Anything you want to say, girl?"
"Um, well, whatever I say you're just going to be made at me, even if I tell you the truth. So what's the point?" Huff, huff, huff

"You're goddamn right I'm gonna be mad at you, I just need to know how bad your punishment is going to be, just figured I'd give you a chance to explain yourself before I sell your iPod on ebay."
"You can't do that, it was a gift from Pa."

That's when the beans spill, all over the damn place. Yes, she sassed, yes she's been to the office more than once, yes, she's been swearing at the boys on the playground. Geez, any of this sound remotely familiar?
Maybe her name should be Nichole.
She must get it from my mother. The other day we were in the car about to pull out of the Cobble. Mom was bitching about how her doctor doesn't listen to her and doesn't believe that she has chronic Lyme.
"I told her that my massage therapist sees a lot of these same symptoms in her other clients," Mom said. "Course I didn't tell her that her other clients are usually horses."
I wish I had a picture of the look on my face when she said this. Horses, eh? Are we any different? Eh, who knows.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Cross over

I have just emerged from a stomach virus, and while many of my readers know that I am not shy when it comes to details, I would actually like to spare myself the re-living of the last 32 hours.
Sweet Jesus Christ. In my frenzy to end the almost unbearable cramping I scalded my stomach with the hot pack. So, I do have actual scars from this event. They are symbolic.
And very unattractive.
Now I am feeling the breeze on my skinny neck, the sun is out, the air is hanging on to the sharp smell of dirt and cut grass, and I am reminded of other moments like this, where, I thought for certain that things would not get better. I'm sure everyone has multiple moments, even eras, of hopelessness, compounded by pain, or illness, or god forbid, both. But all of that angst and writhing must be worth something, and the older I get, the more assured I am that the other side is near and it is better than I imagined.
Who ever knew that a Coca-Cola and a pack of saltines would be a means for salvation? Or that a long embrace would re energize one's belief in compassion? Who ever thought that loneliness could kill you? Or that a cup of coffee with a sibling would allow you to smile for one more day?
I know these things now. I know them like I know all the expressions on my kids' faces. Last weekend, right as I was hitting one of my low moments (usually around 5 p.m. on a weekend night) I pulled over to the side of the road to watch the sun wash over a hay field. It was literally golden, something the Pharaohs must have seen in their own reflections. I breathed, and watched and then got back in the car and continued my trek up to Mt. Washington, where, at the top of the mountain, my friends were waiting for me with a beer, a lot of laughter, and the best goddamn catfish I've had since my grandmother made it over 12 years ago.
Amazing. I can still taste the catfish.

Monday, April 5, 2010

Where the heart should be

I am looking for a home. Or, first, rather it will be a place but I'm hoping as time goes by that it will be a home and that the kids will know it as such. Of course, I don't have 5k a month to spend on rent (or $800 for that matter, but who's counting) so "home" will have to be pretty simple and probably small. When I was growing up we lived in an apartment for awhile, and I never felt not at home there, so hopefully the kids will have the same experience.
If not, I'll tell them to be glad we're not in a shelter. At least for now. Sounds harsh, but it'll keep them quiet and maybe thinking about people other than themselves.
So, in the search for home, I've been thinking about what home actually means. Many of my friends either hated home or prefer rootlessness. "Home" has become a series of rental spaces where you're lucky if you get a place for a year, and even luckier if you like your roommate. I've had homes like these. Once, I lived in place for such a short period of time, I didn't even bother to put in a shower curtain. That's spartan living. But, I hope, those days are over.
I know home to be the place where you have a favorite coffee mug that no one else uses. It is the place where you know exactly what's in the pantry at all times. Also, it is the place where your shoulders drop, your smile lightens (or vanishes) and those who greet you expect nothing but to love you.
That said, my mom and I sat outside in plastic lawn chairs with our pant legs rolled up and a cup of coffee. We watched the kids try to kill each other with Badminton rackets and my mom turns to me and says in a heavy voice, "I could go to sleep right now. Wouldn't even have to try."

Thursday, April 1, 2010

Washing away

I used to live in New Haven. At the time I loved the place. My friends couldn't wait to get out on the weekends, they hated the place, said it was too small, to poor, to f*cked up. But, being rooted in rural life for 18 years, I loved the city, any city. I even lived in Worcester for four years, and I miss it still (although they did cuff a guy on my porch after a foot chase. I watched the whole thing crouched down in front of my window). Knowing life happens all around me is a comfort, more so than the utter silence of remote locations. I prefer the human mess to the false purification of nature.
Back to New Haven. I went to a Methodist church every Sunday, I was even in the gospel choir (yes, if you look at the pictures I am one of about 3 white folks, and the tiniest one to boot). I didn't go to make up for my Saturday night activities, which always involved booze and almost always involved an older post-doc man from a different country. I didn't go to keep face. I went because I liked the walk from my apartment to the church. Hardly anyone was on the street, the bums were out having coffee, my shoes made an authoritative sound against the cobblestone.
And I liked the people. Actually, I loved the people. In the week leading up to Easter that place was filled to overflowing with activity. The choir rehearsed every night for the Easter service, we baked sh*t in tiny kitchenettes, enough to feed hundreds of folks.
Amidst the bustle, and trying to negotiate my messed up life as a too-young grad student at Yale, I found the strangest peace. On Holy Thursday, there was an afternoon service and I went, having no f*cking clue what "Maundy Thursday" meant. About mid-way through, the ushers came up the aisles with tubs of water and towels. The man sitting next to me, a friend of mine who attended seminary, turned to me with the most earnest expression.
"May I wash your feet?"
And, despite my O.C.D. holy sh*t reaction, I said yes. And it was thus far the kindest thing that anyone has ever done for me. Here was a stranger, filled with enough compassion and patience, who saw my brokenness (and the chipped toenail polish) and tried to fix it, at least for that day.
It continues to humble me.