Getting There
Today’s post is an entry in the third Blogging For Books contest being held over at The Zero Boss. I encourage you to visit Jay and check out all the entries. This month’s theme is Adaptation.
I held an instructional packet of information in one hand, and grabbed the strip of photos as they scrolled out of the booth’s slot with my other. Panic was rising in the back of my throat and I stole a look at the photos while trying to act casual. Wow, and here I’d thought my student ID was the worst picture of me I’d ever seen. These were even less flattering. I looked glazed, exhausted, and confused. All of which I was, come to think of it. I’d never had jetlag before and wanted nothing more than to stretch out on a nearby bench and go to sleep. Instead, I took a deep breath and walked back over to the ticket window.
“Hi, ummmm,” I looked down at my information sheet again, “I’d like… uhhh… a student pass…” I trailed off and pushed my photo strip and some money into the tray under the window while consulting my guide. “Zones 1-4, please.” The man behind the glass looked at me over the top of his glasses. My accent had tipped him off, of course, and now a quick visual once-over confirmed what he’d heard; I was an American student. I worked up a tired smile and he glanced away as if affronted. He passed back my identification card and transit pass without even looking at me. Welcome to London; please have correct change ready and keep to yourself.
A semester abroad sounded amazing. Despite having been raised in a small town and then going to college just an hour from home, I really did want to see more of the world. And the London program in my chosen area of study was superb. The fact that I didn’t need to know a second language was certainly a draw, too. At 19, I wanted something different and exciting, but I was also lazy. England! Perfect. Different and exciting, yet easy.
Except it wasn’t. I had previously lived a life of walking and driving, and had never once partaken of public transportation. A sturdy intellect in most other areas notwithstanding, I was somewhat legendary amongst my friends and family for my ability to misread maps, forget oft-travelled routes, and generally get lost in ways that most people wouldn’t consider possible. London, it turns out, is a gigantic city. One of the first suggested tasks–after getting out of the airport and checking in at the hotel–was procuring a transportation pass to ride the subway and the buses. I followed all of the given directions and mentally checked off each item as it was completed. But it was slowly dawning on me that for the duration of my stay I was going to have to navigate on my own, and live at the mercy of the train schedules and locations. The map of the London Underground my disgruntled ticket-seller had handed me may as well have been written in hieroglyphics.
To add to my uneasiness, I was in one of the first groups from my university to travel after Pan Am Flight 103 blew up over Lockerbie with 35 of my fellow students on board. The travel abroad division at my school was now standard-issuing “safety measures” guides in our packets, and there had been several bomb scares in London train stations before we arrived. I’m not so great in swarms of people. I’m worse in swarms of people, underground, where there might be explosives. And despite strict adherence to the suggested guidelines (“Don’t wear college sweatshirts or other paraphenalia,” “Don’t walk around with a map in your hand”), people always seemed to know I was American even if I never opened my mouth. I felt lost; exposed; constantly on edge.
In reality, the Tube is easy to navigate. For anyone smarter than me, that is. I agonized over every trip, in the beginning. I watched people feed their passes through the readers on the turnstiles as if it was second nature, yet I seemed to always put mine in upside down or otherwise get it stuck as I slammed into the unyielding turnstile bar. The larger, multi-lined stations activated my fear of crowds, and I would challenge myself to count each measured breath in and out as I scoured the walls for clues of which staircase led to which train or tried to peek a look at the map stuffed in my bag. Once in my haste I ran down multiple staircases only to discover that I was on the platform for the correct line, but the wrong direction. Running back up, across the station, and down again (just in time to watch my train pull away without me) was lesson enough to keep me from repeating that mistake.
Buskers and panhandlers made me uncomfortable until I realized that even they more or less kept to themselves. The musicians left an instrument case open for donations and made music in the corner, at moderate volume. Beggars sat against the wall, holding a cup and staring into space. They sort of blended in and became part of the decor; larger stations had them, smaller ones, usually not. It didn’t take long to sense that I was much safer at night in this network of stations, underground, than I would’ve been walking around campus after dark at home. All trash receptacles had been removed from Tube stations after the last bomb scare (so as not to have places bombs could be easily hidden). It was something of a running joke that you always wanted to be sure to spit out your gum before you went through the turnstiles. But danger was a hard concept to grasp amidst that brightly-lit and tidy labyrinth. It all seemed too polite in there to pose any sort of threat to anyone.
Assimilation happened much like osmosis, and brought with it a confidence I’d never expected. I became just another regular at my favorite bakery, market, pub; I didn’t think twice about trekking into unknown territory to see a show or visit some attraction. As I steeped myself in the city’s culture I shed many of the things that made me stand out. I drifted into commonality. I stopped wearing my sneakers in favor of my sturdy brown shoes (I never saw a Brit wearing sneakers outside of a gym). I constrained my mane of hair in sleeker styles than I used to favor (although long curly hair was very common back home, most women around me either had short hair or wore long hair up). I swapped my backpack for a messenger-style bag I found at a flea market.
One day I realized that–more often than not–I was travelling with ease. When I wanted to be, I was invisible. The regular back and forth to classes was routine, and the nightly jaunts to this or that destination required only a quick map consultation before I set out. Where I’d first been overwhelmed, I now felt unlimited possibility. Claustrophobia had given way to welcome breaks in my day to sit and think of nothing at all as my seat swayed ever-so-slightly and the tunnels rushed past the windows.
I learned and experienced all sorts of wonderful things during my time abroad. At the end of the term I boarded my flight home, ambivalent about leaving it all behind. We took off and the flight attendants served tea and scones. I savored every bit–keenly aware that this was to be my last authentic tea–then tried to read for a while. My gaze wandered from my book and stared out the window at the blanket of clouds below. Eventually, I dozed off, and dreamt I was riding the train.
How to insult me
Apropos of nothing, I am sitting here thinking about my favorite insults from friends.
The incidence of people referring to me as “hussy” has increased exponentially since my divorce. Not because I actually am a hussy (alas!), but because the ex’s version of taking the high road was to make some reference to my perceived impurity at every possible opportunity. And so it has become something of a joke to call me that. Want to make me giggle? Call me a hussy. Want to make me snort? Call me a wanton hussy. Oh, the shame.
One night when I was bemoaning my idiocy over something or other to my true love Kira, I kept saying “I’m such a MORON” and Kira–in her infinite wisdom–calmly replied, “You’re not a moron, you just don’t always bring your brains to the table.” Truer words never were spoken. And the mental image of my brains accidentally left behind in the bathroom drawer with my hairbrushes and mascara doesn’t hurt, either.
And let’s not forget that I am the very meanest Mama in the whole entire world. I’m rotten! Dastardly! Inhuman! How my children have survived my horrible parenting will be a mystery for the ages. And it’s all worth it just to listen to them first accuse me and then harumph, “You’re not supposed to laugh when I say that!”
Two weeks ago I helped my friend Marcey paint her kitchen, and last night we finally put up the wallpaper border and finished the job. A border isn’t a big deal; in the grand scheme of all the work we did in there, it was inconsequential. But somehow we did seem to have more than our share of instances where we were both standing on chairs, wrangling dripping border and passing various tools (the level, an exacto knife, the smoothing tool) back and forth to the colorful commentary that often accompanies trying to hang something straight in a house which is not. About the time Marcey realized she had wallpaper paste in her hair, she exclaimed, “Well this is just great. This should be the easiest job in the world and here we are, Dumbass and Dumbassier, screwing it up!” I waited until we had the border up and then requested that she call me Dumbassier as often as possible because it has a very elegant ring to it.
I wonder if I can find a job opening for a Dumbassier Wanton Hussy Mean Mama Who Didn’t Bring Her Brains To the Table…?
9/11
Three years ago today, I forgot to do a “first day of school” picture of Chickadee before taking her in to meet her new teacher. She bounced off to her first day of preschool with hardly a backwards glance. Monkey had to be peeled off my leg amidst snuffling and whining, and embarked upon his first day of daycare.
I returned home, heady with the possibilities of this day: my first day without children or an office job. My first day to start my new career, to really try to make a go of writing.
The phone was ringing when I walked back into the empty house. My husband told me to turn on the TV. And so I spent my first day of “freedom” glued to the set. Later, I washed my face and debated whether I really wanted such an incongruous hallmark of the day… and decided that yes, tragedy notwithstanding, it needed to be done. I arrived to pick up Chickadee and made her hold a “My first day of school! September 11, 2001” sign while I feigned cheerfulness and snapped her picture.
Thanks to Karen for the pointer to this piece by Garrison Keillor. It seems appropriate, today.
Sunshine and bunnies and apple crisp
Hold me.
There is a swarm of little girls playing out a very complicated scenario at the dollhouse. There is giggling, and sometimes whining, and often yelling. Fortunately, I am deterred from intervening much by this 38-pound weight that has attached itself to my leg. Monkey gave up trying to get through the cloud of estrogen about 10 minutes into the playdate, and is now contenting himself with trying to break my ankle.
So, while I’m trying to go to my happy place, and thinking of fluffy bunnies and Godiva chocolate and true love and all that, I remembered that quite a few of you had asked for the apple crisp recipe. Typing it out will give me something to focus on other than the sound of my teeth grating together.
This recipe comes from The Joy Of Cooking.
Preheat oven to 375.
Pare, core and slice into a 9″ pie pan or dish: 4 cups tart apples.
Season with 2 tablespoons lemon juice or kirsch. (My note: Kirsch? Huh?)
Work like pastry with a pastry blender or with the fingertips:
1 1/2 cups crushed gingersnap cookies
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 cup butter
1/2 tsp salt (if the butter is unsalted)
1 teaspoon cinnamon
The mixtures must be lightly worked so that it does not become oily. Spread these crumbly ingredients over the apples. Bake about 30 minutes.
(My note: And for the love of God make sure you have vanilla ice cream on hand.)
Why do fools… mop the floor?
Chickadee will be getting off the bus in about ten minutes. Last week, she stayed to play with the neighbors for an hour one day after school. So of course we have to reciprocate. I invited the girls to come here, today.
Have I mentioned that these neighbors have twin 7-year-olds and an 8-year-old? All girls. So they are all coming here this afternoon. And Monkey makes five! Five children in my house. Four girls ganging up on my little boy, most likely. I can hardly wait.
And because I’m just not very smart, I cleaned the house. Because I don’t want the neighbor to think I’m a slob. But even as I mopped the floor this afternoon, I said to myself (“Self,” I said…) why am I cleaning when I’m about to have a swarm of small children descend upon the premises?
If I were a wee bit smarter, I would’ve waited until after the neighbor girls left and my kids go off with Fun Daddy for the weekend. Now the house is going to be an even bigger mess than it was before I cleaned it, and I won’t have any energy to do anything about it.
Woe is my foolish self.
The price of health
Meet my new boyfriend. Isn’t he dreamy? I just love a man in tights, with a really oversized square chin, and a life-size tube of eczema ointment. Oh yeah, baby. I’ve just been over at the Elidel website and have learned that I am oh-so-wrong, it is not Elidel, it is ELIDEL, because ELIDEL MAN is flying in to save the day, and non-steroidal ELIDEL is so impressive, you must say ELIDEL in all caps at all times! Otherwise, ELIDEL MAN stops doing that thumbs-up thing and kills you in your sleep.
Anyway, I went to the Target pharmacy today armed with two prescriptions. Then I did a quick inventory of all the little samples of ELIDEL the doctor had given me (five small tubes) and decided I could wait to fill that one. I would just fill the mystery ointment presciption for now. No problem. I dropped off the script and went to browse around, and came back to discover that my 5-day supply of mystery ointment would cost–after insurance–$35.
Um, for $7/day that ointment had better cure the issues for which it was prescribed as well as remove cellulite and make my hair shinier, dontcha think? Hmph.
Needless to say, I was so bummed about this unexpected expense, that I had to make several other purchases to justify my bill. To wit: $35 for a medication when normally my copay is only $10? Let’s see. These two pillows are normally $20 each, but are on clearance for $5 apiece. If I buy them, I have effectively saved $30, so that balances out the excess cost at the pharmacy.
Yeah, I know. It made sense when I was standing there. And they are really nice pillows.
All of which brings me back to my new boyfriend. Given the outrageous cost of most pharmacueticals, the newer and shinier ones–such as new non-steroidal ELIDEL–often have money-saving offers on their websites. So I went over there looking for a coupon (which I found, yay) and found my Prince Charming. He says he doesn’t care if I have a job. He says I’m beautiful in spite of this itchy crud under my nose, and promises that he can make the itching and redness go away. He says the fact that I’m taking charge of my skin treatment needs is sexy.
I just hope ELIDEL MAN will be paying when I go in to fill the prescription.
Was it something I said?
Geez, a little idle chatter about your vaginal cuff and an imaginary cocaine habit, and all the commenters run away and hide. Well, except for my dad, and I guarantee you that post made him nauseous. But at least he loves me enough to comment. Or maybe it was that he needed to type something to distract himself from blacking out.
As predicted, I’m not feeling particularly pretty right now. I don’t know whether it was my doctor’s grotesque sketch of my nose and the location of the eczema patches, or maybe it was her comment about my discharge resembling pudding (“Thanks, now I will never be able to eat pudding again,” I countered), but either way, I’m humbled. And also, ikked out. But there you have it. Not pretty.
I have a prescription for some mystery gel, and a handful of Elidel samples in adorable little mini-tubes, and reassurance that my skin will someday look like skin again. So that’s excellent news, I think.
Now I think I’ve earned a trip to Wendy’s! Thanks, Jilbur! (Um, Dad? Don’t click on that link. You’ve been warned.)
Creeping crud
(Or, What The Hell Is Up With My Skin?)
So I mentioned my hair appointment that I had earlier. I always feel a little pretty when I leave the salon. But of course we can’t have a feeling like that lasting for too long, because then I might turn into a well-adjusted human with a shred of self-esteem, and then what would I write about?
Hmmmm. Now what could I do to make sure that I return to my normal, mutant-feeling self as soon as possible. Let me think. I know I know! I’ll go to the doctor to address all of my various bizarre and disturbing skin issues! Yay!!
I experienced the onset of adult acne (after a relatively oil-free teenage run) in my twenties. My one greatest hope for the hysterectomy–other than it not being cancer, and, okay, hoping that I would stop bleeding all the damn time, and all that–was that once my hormones were levelled out, my acne would calm down. I half got my wish. The acne situation has settled down significantly and for that, I am truly grateful.
But perhaps you remember my post operative check-up where I was told that my scar was healing abnormally, and furthermore, I had something called granulation tissue up in that region where I would really not like to have anything at all unless it is attached to a very handsome, very wealthy man. I was told to use scar sheets to smooth out the keloiding of my scar, and swabbed with some silver nitrate to treat the granulation. My doc then told me to see either her or my regular doctor if either situation hadn’t shown improvement in a month.
I have continued religiously shaving hair that should not be shaved unless your normal means of income is people stuffing bills in your g-string, so that I can wear these big funky oversized rubbery band-aid things that will supposedly smooth out my scar. So far the only change that I’ve noticed is that, oh yeah, I have less pubic hair. Which makes that nasty red ridge a lot easier to see. But at least I paid $27 for that box of scar sheets.
The granulation tissue has been a bit more of a mystery, as I don’t spend a whole lot of time contemplating my vaginal cuff. (Truly, prior to the hysterectomy, I had no idea my vagina had a cuff. But I’ve been enlightened and now you all will suffer the consequences.) But there are a few telltale signs that are even more gross and disgusting that the usual Too Much Information sorts of things I share here, and suffice it to say that I’m certain that this “overzealous healing” is still plaguing my nether bits. And lo, there was granulation; and verily, I say unto you: it was ikky.
These two things are cause enough to visit the doctor. But because I take such excellent care of myself and furthermore, have had just such heart-warming experiences within the medical profession of late, I was prepared to continue on with a strict regimen of denial. Can you see my granulated vaginal cuff? Do I have to display my pubic hair to anyone other than the spiders in the shower? No, and no. Out of sight, out of mind; and there’s a $15 copay saved, to boot. I am nothing if not economical.
But you see, dear ones, my mutinous skin has betrayed me once again. Clearly enraged that I would not take my abnormalities to the doctor post haste, my cells held a meeting and decided that if I had just one more malady, perhaps I would cave.
And so it came to pass that I developed a tiny patch of eczema on the inner wrist of my right arm. No biggie. It itched, a little. I found myself taking my watch off, more often than not, so that nothing would rub against it. It would flare, then fade, then flare again. It flared and itched maddeningly and I scratched it raw, and still I held firm! I can cope with this! I do not need to see the doctor! Skin changes are often to be expected in post-menopausal women (natural or surgical), and I will triumph without medical intervention!
I could’ve done it, too. But then, you see, the fates pulled out the Big Guns. A second patch of eczema. On my face. Specifically, under my nose.
Hi, I’m Mir, and I seem to have a little bit of mystery eczema action going on here right in the middle of my face. Or, perhaps, I’m a sloppy cocaine addict. Your call.
So, yeah. I can’t be having that. I fought the good fight for several weeks; I applied Aquafor and Eucerin and Neosporin (when I couldn’t help scratching it and it got gross-looking) and switched to sensitive skin facial products and resisted the urge to use cover-up except for interviews (because, um, it’s hard to land a job when people think you might be snorting coke or picking your nose or both). It’s not improving.
Tomorrow morning, I’ll inflict myself upon my doctor, and insist that she please fix all of the things wrong with my skin before I have a nervous breakdown. Bonus points if she can give me just one ointment for all three deformities, but I’m not counting on that. I hope to emerge from my appointment on the road to some sort of healing. That seems like a reasonable expectation, and an acceptable trade-off, for what is likely to be another episode of Really Not Feeling Even A Little Pretty.
Dude! BlogSpot is bummin’ my flow!
I spent about two hours, this morning, rending my clothing and trying to get BlogSpot to publish my posts. I finally left for a hair appointment that ended up being longer than Titanic, and when I came home, my screen was still flashing the dreaded yet cheerful:
Percentage of your blog which has published:
0% (HAHAHAHA you sucky loser with the free trailer-trash blog!!)
So now, in addition to being slightly high due to the fumes still circulating my head in the name of beauty, I am seriously cranky.
And it’s raining. As it nearly always is on days when I empty my checking account at the salon to have the poodle frizzies yanked out of my hair.
And I have to go stand out in the rain to get Chickadee at the bus stop, because, well, it would probably be mean to leave her there to find her own way home, even though that would be the logical hairdo-saving measure.
And I still haven’t heard from Big Company. Don’t they know how pretty I just went and made my hair, for them? I go to all this trouble, and they can’t even be bothered to call me once in a while. Bastards.
My newest get-rich-quick scheme: Chocolate covered Xanax! In a pretty box, with an enclosed coupon for a free edition of Movable Type! Who’s in?
Monkey Wisdom
“Mama, milk is very cold.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“And milk can be made into ice cream!”
“Yep. Yummy.”
“And that is why ice cream is cold.”
“Ummmm… well… uhhhhh… okay.”
“I’m smart!”
“You certainly are. And cute, too. Don’t forget cute.”
“Yep. And you are cute, too, Mama.”