I'm listening to Coast to Coast. I've made the adjustment and am accustomed to the new host, Mike Segal. When Art left it felt like a small death. But Cydniey reminds me that change is painful, and my life is always changing. Is it that way for everyone? It must be.
It's just that as an adopted person, I've spent my whole life searching for a family. Looking for someone who will love me like a mother and not let go. I've clung on to friends with tenacious devotion, adopting their friends and families, whether I truly liked them or not. Forming little groups of pseudo families and then dying inside when they break into pieces. So many little intimate groups of people I've come to love and depend on, and it's always just when it starts to feel familiar and comfortable, that something has to change and they're gone.
I do this with housekeeper-pals. I can't even call them housekeepers for fear of seeming bourgeois and uncaring. I remind you that my Mother always insisted on uniforms and rang this little silver bell at table when she wanted service. Still, to this day, when she wets her pants and needs help from the car, at this level of intimacy, she eats here, and they eat there. It never changes. They will be changing her diapers and blending her food and still she will consider them beneath her.
Me, I take them in. Make them my confidantes. Look on them as sister friends. I listen to their troubles and am careful to treat them with kindness and respect. I buy them presents and am an aunt to their children. But I fail to notice when they are being deceptive or taking advantage of me. I ignore all the evidence until it mounts up like a delicate house of cards, or a room full of dominoes. I lose my boundaries and transgressors don't know the end is coming until it is way too late. A friend, who was not a friend, once told me that I was like Germany, and that you don't even know you've crossed the border, and are deep into enemy territory, until the Nazi Soldiers pop out from behind trees, and start firing at you.
This flu is hanging on for all it's worth. I'm sprinkling it liberally with echinacea and goldenseal, zinc, and vitamin C, elderberry, water and rest (well I'm not very good at the rest) and every analgesic I can get my hands on, and still it hangs on. Little fucker.
I've wanted to check in but needed to devote my energy to getting well and getting over being sad. I miss my little cat. She left a little kitten shaped hole in my heart when she died. I miss Coco. I'm perfectly codependent, my mother designed it that way. All alcoholics, addicts, and assorted wounded people are the magnet to my metal. You're screwed up, woomp, I am too, let's bond.
Tonight Beau showed me the Live Long and Prosper hand sign and told me it was Korn's special sign. I thought, waaaaah, that's not Korn, that's Spock. He likes Slim Shady too, (Don't Fuck with Shady, cause Shady will fuckin' kill you, picture your ten year old surprising you with this song), and told me that he has to take an opera class once a week in school. "Opera sucks!" and since the teacher said that anyone who screws around in class will get kicked out, he thinks he's going to have to use the screw-around-method to excuse himself, from what he thinks is a total waste of his precious school time. He says his teacher has a weird sway back and makes him wave his arms around and be energy. He thinks this is really lame. He doesn't want to be in an opera about a bakery.
I spend an hour in bed with him tonight singing my favorite song's from operas and translating them. I tell him about Madame Butterfly. I describe big stages, wonderful singers, huge sets, beautiful costumes, the big box that hangs across the top of the stage and translates the words into English. I tell him that I used ti think opera was lame too until I started to open myself up to them. I told him that great art conveys great feelings and that when I go to the opera the vibrations of the music make me cry. He looked at me and said, "Opera sucks, I hate it. It will never make me cry. It's totally lame. Will you write me a note that says I don't have to do it?"
Oh, and his scary friend Stephen started a secret "rap club" at school. You ahve to know at least two bad words to join. "But Guiermo doesn't know any so we gave him some of ours." He told me not to tell anyone, hah, hello, I tell all on Livejournal.
I told him I was worried they'd be writing a bunch of angry songs with bad words and he said, "Not all rap is full of angry-bad words Mom, duh." Then when I picked him up at school, he had to go back inside and get something, and his binder just flew out of his backpack, jumped into my lap and opened itself to the very page where he had written his first rap song lyrics. It went, and I'm not exaggerating here by any means, "Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck You Motherfucker! Fuck Fuck Fuck You!"
When he came back to the car and I asked him what this was, he said, "Oh that's just the lyrics to one of our songs. I'm the songwriter," and Stephen, his friend, is going to be the star. "Ummm weren't you supposed to be doing your homework, son?" I say, the blood having only just begun to return to my stricken face. "You should have seen Stephen's song Mom, he's so cool. I'll sing it for you, it goes, Dah dah dah, dah dah dah, bleed bitch bleed, you've got to bleed bitch bleed."
I was on the phone to our family therapist as soon as I got home. "Waaaaaaa, what have I done wrong, blubber, blubber blubber, sob, sob, public school, bad kids, MTV, waaaaaaahhhhh, I'm a terrrible mother, it's my fault, I know it, I swear too much." Eighty dollars and a full can of coke later and I'm on the phone with Stephen's mother. "Stephen says he doesn't know what you're talking about, he never did anything like that, although he did have that cartoon strip I found, with the picture of me with my eyes crossed out and that gun pointing to my head, hmmmmm, maybe I'd better look in his binder."
Secret rap club closed. Scary Stephen and his mother held at arms length. Things change quickly in his little life. Now he's forming a yo-yo club, nope no one wanted to join. Now he's forming a Roller Coaster Tycoon Club, but they have to share cheats.
I forced him to go with me to see Duets as punishment for these infractions. I'll buy tickets to an opera next.
Coco does not accept my terms, she's determined to have her job back. The phone rings incessantly. I take it off the hook and toss it in a drawer. I learn the code to disable call waiting so she can't boot me offline anymore. Go away Coco, go away, it hurts too much.
I don't want to be fat anymore. I think of taking drastic steps to remedy this. After all I live just blocks from the hospital where the doctor who pioneered the surgery has his practice. It worked for Roseanne and Carney and, and. But what if I die and leave my little boy with a broken heart and a useless shit for a father? But I want to like the way I look and be able to go horseback riding again without feeling sorry for the horse.
I finished my erotic article on Burning Man and sent it off to the editor. Despite inclement weather, and the presence of two children, I had wild, nonstop, orgiastic sex for seven days, she says ingenuously. Twenty-two pages long when they asked me to write at least two. Shit. Can you say overcompensation, for what, a failure of the heart, on my birth-mother's part?
My favorite line in Duets;
"You have little hidden corners."
Oh, and the worst thing that happened in my little long house village this week, was when my sweet friend found the courage to get back on his feet, after his band split up. He signed on to do an acoustic set at a local club, while he had the flu, and this guy in the back yells, "You're just a fat white guy and you can't play guitar man." Is it my fault that certain people make me want to kill them? Didn't Billy Jack used to take off his boots and "just go berzerk"?
Hey at least my Mother isn't honking her horn for me since the last time she hit me with her car.
Has anyone else around here been having a bad week?