Random Acts

I believe that I have been conditioned in such a way that frequent grammatical errors fall on my ears like nails on a chalkboard.  I guess it was inevitable, growing up with my dad who was, for a brief time, the editor-in-chief of a popular technical magazine.  The only time he ever got angry with me was when I would make some kind of grammatical, numeric or verbal error…and when I smacked my lips, although I could never tell when I did and have always been uberconscious of it.  Now it even irritates me when other people do it, but that is not the issue at hand.

The issue at hand is this…  I don’t know how it happened, but all of a sudden there seems to be an epidemic misuse of the term “myself”.  I can’t even watch Survivor with Fruit anymore because the rampant misuse drives me to the brink of a murderous rampage.  I myself may do something….I may do something myself. But, myself has never done anything.  Someone and I may go somewhere…A person may take someone and me somewhere, but someone and myself will never go anywhere.  Why is this so difficult for people to grasp?  Even if you don’t happen to know that ‘myself’ is reflexive, you should know what does and does not sound right.  It drives geeks like me insane, and if this epidemic of ignorance continues to sweep the nation, we just might beat one of you to death with our collective dictionaries and thesauri.

If you can’t say anything correctly, don’t say anything at all.

This has been a public service announcement.

The girls woke me up early this morning…again.  Well, at least my little Nut did.  The first time was around five-ish, and I had been having an incredibly strange dream involving yachts and space travel.  I took her downstairs and came back to bed…only to be awakened an hour later by the same little pooch with all of the freshly folded clean socks she could cram inside her mouth.  I think it’s up to four pairs now.  This is my weekend routine.  Not dreaming about yachts and outer space, per se…but, certainly the bit with the dog and her worsening case of hamper mouth.

I got in touch with another old friend from high school.  It’s strange how much things can change in a decade.  I still picture them as fifteen and sixteen year olds…still slightly awkward and definitely a little strange.  I mean, you had to be to hang out with me.  It was a prerequisite.  Almost all of them have graduated from college with their bachelor’s degrees now…starting their careers and taking those steps in the real world we always talked about.  I did all that much earlier…and it feels strange to me to catch up sometimes.  I’m a married homeowner.  I don’t think any of us would have pegged me for such ten years ago.  I was going to be the one who bought a dilapidated ranch in Virginia…built a forge in my barn and became nocturnal for a year…living off of the income from my wrought iron creations and whatever else I could get people to buy.  I suppose that plan never would have worked anyway, but I don’t think any of us would have pegged me for stable…in every way but mentally.

I really wanted to drive to the cemetery in LA tomorrow, but I don’t think it’s going to happen.  Fruit mentioned that I would be driving up there the following weekend anyway, but I really wanted her to come with me.  It’s a whole ritual I do when I go.  I buy lilies, daisies and snapdragons.  Lilies because they were my grandma’s favorite…daisies because they seem appropriate for my Aunt Sharon, who I never knew because she died so young…and snapdragons for my other grandmother…because I don’t know what her favorite flower was, so I give her mine.  I go from the Jewish cemetery to the Catholic cemetery…where I spend the most time.  It usually takes me a horribly long time to find the unmarked grave.  I know it’s by a tree, and I vaguely remember the names of those buried around her.  Sometimes, I give up and give the flowers to someone in an unmarked grave who looks like they haven’t been visited in decades.  I don’t think my grandma would mind…because I still came for her.  I drive by her house on La Tijera.  Sometimes I’ll get out and sit on the steps.  They almost smell the same…except for the scent of fabric softener that always wafted from my grandma’s porch.  The newest generation of her cat, Tammy, will sometimes come to greet me.  It is uncanny how much they look like her…even if they have no relation at all.  The last time I did this, the woman who lives in that house now was almost frightened to see me sitting there.  I told her that my grandma used to live there and I was just reminiscing…but, she still seemed a little freaked out.  At least I didn’t ask to come inside.  I don’t think I could bear to anyway.  I prefer to keep the memories in my head intact.  I would be afraid that walking into the house now would tear down the walls in my head.  The piano against the pine paneled wall would fade away…the blue recliner and lamp/table would shatter…the sofa…her bedroom…the crisp smell of line dried linens would all cease to be and I would be left with nothing.

My coffee has gone cold, and I’m almost out of creamer.  I’ve resolved to save what’s left for my Fruitpie…but I could sure go for another cup right about now.

Well, tomorrow is actually my Friday…and it’s been such a shitty week that I think it might have gone by a little faster.  Monday was absolute shit on stale toast.  My boss was the user from hell…the kind of user I would complain to my boss about…except, she is my boss…and in cahoots with HR.  I resolved to just listen to my iPod for the rest of the week while I’m there.  She can scream at me from her office all she likes, but she’ll have to get off her menopausal ass if she wants to talk to me.  The people who heard her most rude and vulgar outburst at me said that she should be “cut some slack” because her father died.  I think that’s a load of bullshit.  Having a family member die should not give one carte blanch to be a disrespectful asshole to her subordinates.  Then there’s always that voice in my head that asks what actions would have been taken if that were me in her position, yelling profanities at somebody because I fucked up my work.  It certainly wouldn’t be dismissed so easily.  But, that’s kind of the story of my life.

I asked my Fruit if we could go to L.A. this weekend to take flowers to my grandmother’s grave.  I’ve been wanting to do it for years…and I used to go there at least once a year when I lived closer.  I can hear her complaining to my mother about how nobody is going to visit her when she’s gone.  I guess her prediction is true…but, I’d hope it would be some consolation that there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about her.

The girls are sleeping on the floor…happy to have me home early.  I feel like I should be starting dinner, but I still have a good half hour to relax.  My Fruit will be on her way home after that…and I hope that I will be able to shake off this horrific sad, melancholy I’ve been feeling all day.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me…but my head is filled with some kind of strangeness that refuses to dissipate.

I was having really strange dreams again all night.  I think I must have taken my pills a little too late last night.  This time it was about my brother in a very roundabout way.  I was at this weird warehouse type commune with thousands of different art supplies and classes going on.  There were these cloth bound books…they must have been at least 48 x 24…maybe even by 36.  They had primed canvas sheets…like sketchbooks for paint fiends.  I was wandering around with this eccentric woman who was trying to talk me into buying supplies.  She pointed these out and I said that I would love one, but they cost a fortune.  My brother walked up out of nowhere with a wad of cash and said, “They really don’t cost that much”.  He bought one for me and I was angry about it.  I didn’t want to be in debt to him for anything, and I really didn’t feel like my art is really good enough to warrant that kind of expense anyway.  I felt obligated to follow him into his next class.  Neil Gaiman was teaching…and I found it annoying that my brother was taking a class taught by his friend.  Then I began to obsess, rather than pay attention.  I began thinking about how he is a friend of Tori Amos…who did the 5 1/2 weeks tour with Alanis that I had been obsessing about before my dream even began.  He noticed me in the class and gave my brother an inquisitively raised eyebrow.  He asked me to stand up and said, “This is Charles’ sister.”  The class replied, “Hey, Charles’ sister”.    I sat down annoyed again…because I didn’t belong there…because my art wasn’t that good…because I shouldn’t be hanging out with my brother.  After class, we went out for coffee against my better judgment.  My brother dominated the conversation…and suddenly we were in a coffeehouse in Berkeley where I almost moved with him.  They were talking about me as I sat there…about how quiet I am.  My brother was trying to remember something clever I had said earlier, and as they were both bantering about what that could have possibly been, Neil asked my brother to ask me since I was sitting there.  I sat quietly for a few more seconds trying desperately to remember what clever thing could have possibly escaped my lips.  I finally looked Neil in the eye and said, “What does Tori smell like?”

Aside from a mortified look from both men, followed by forced laughter, I can’t remember what happened next…and I haven’t a clue what it could possibly mean.  Maybe it means nothing.  Maybe it’s just a side effect of how late I took my pills.  Maybe there’s just weird shit going on in my head that I will never be able to piece together.  I haven’t spoken to my brother in two years.  Part of me wants to say that I miss him…but, the truth is that I never really knew him.  The closest we ever came to having a good relationship was the brief time I almost moved in with him at his place in Oakland.  I think there actually was a coffee house experience like that…although I don’t know what friend of his we met.  He did go on and on trying to figure out a clever thing I had said the previous day…and it happened to be something I didn’t find particularly amusing.   I think it was my observation on office work…that the morning consists of everyone talking about what’s for lunch and the afternoon is all about how it was.

Maybe I need to stop listening to my Tori CD.  I’ve had it blasting in my ear every chance I get, and I’m sure it’s dredging up nostalgic sludge that is better off left in the bowels of my grey matter.

About ten years ago, one of the funniest supermarket incidents in my life happened at a Ralph’s on Canoga.  I was standing in the checkout line with my father, and a few lanes over was a sizable black woman with her young son.  He was sitting in the cart quietly when, seemingly out of nowhere he erupts, “My store!”.  This normally would not have phased me…a young child claiming ownership to something that was obviously not his.  However, as fate would have it and as many tired old friends of mine would attest, the humor came from his mother.  With equal volume an vigor, and possibly even a little annoyance in her voice she said, “No baby, this ain’t alberson’s!”.  I don’t remember what happened next, except that I was laughing until I could hardly breathe…until the blur of tears in my eyes gave way to my father’s raised eyebrow, which only made me laugh harder….and harder and harder all the way home.  I must have told my friends that story a million times.  I was always disappointed when they weren’t amused…finally putting the story away on the “Guess you had to be there” shelf just above “Perhaps I was hallucinating.”

So, today I was actually in Albertson’s.  I had an absolutely horrific day at work and decided to make myself feel better by getting my hair cut and buying some creamer for coffee tomorrow.  I guess I was already feeling a little better by the time I was in the checkout line.  I was minding my own business as I heard some arguing a few lanes away.  This time a sizable white trash mother with her gaggle of trashlets.  Crying baby in the cart…fidgeting little girl with a stain on her shirt…and a little boy, a few years older for good measure.  The mother had already had enough…and who could blame her?  She was white trash with three young children hanging on her…and she was grocery shopping at that.  The oldest child had apparently asked for one of the impulse items at the checkout…clearly an evil corporate plan to infuriate parents and fat people the world over…to make the fat fatter and the whiny whinier.  Again the humor did not come from the child, but from the voluminous outburst of the tired and annoyed mother.  “You put that back right now, junior!  Food don’t grow on trees, you know!”.

I snickered some as I made eye contact with the cashier.  I replayed it in my head to make sure I had indeed heard correctly.  She said, “You’d be amazed how often we hear things like that”.  I’m sadly not surprised.  But, I do have to wonder…where do they think food comes from?  Have they, perhaps, never eaten apples or oranges or bananas?  Have they been deprived of the odd peach or plum?  Should someone have taken her by the hand and shown her that some food actually does come in raw form…and that raw does not mean it’s still frozen.  I really hope it was a slip of the tongue…for the children’s sake.  In the mean time, I think this might be my new supermarket funny of the decade…but, I already know that you probably would’ve had to be there…and by there, I mean in my head.

These past few weeks have been unbelievably shitty at work.  I feel like I have a neon sign on my ass saying, “Come on in!” with a gigantic arrow pointing the way.  I know things will get better, I just hate feeling like this.  I don’t know if it’s my hormones or my general brain chemicals, but I have been so fucking irritable that I can’t even stand myself half the time…let alone anyone else.

I bought one of the Tori Amos collections for my iPod late last week and I’ve been blasting it in the car on the way to and from work.  It’s odd to me how my favorite songs can develop so much more meaning as I get older.  I don’t know if it’s just that I understand things better or that I’m finally listening on all thrusters.  Every once in a while, I will burst out laughing at my younger self when I think of my misheard lyrics.  There are so many on Tori’s albums.  I think it’s partially because of her singing style and the fact that some of them seem absolutely random and drug induced.  I remember singing Silent All These Years with a friend of mine at least ten years ago and hoping that she didn’t hear what I had actually sung when I realized the error of my ways.  “I’ve got 25 bucks and a cracker do you think it’s enough…to get a steak”.  I remember actually pondering these lyrics.  Of course it’s enough to get a steak…unless it’s a really good filet minon or something.  Maybe she wants to have alcohol with it, too…or possibly appetizers.  My other favorite was from Cornflake Girl.  I really thought she was saying, “Grandma, where’d you put the keys, girl?”.  Knowing the real lyrics, I think that grandma might still make a little more sense than “rabbit”, but I, of course, have to defer to Ms. Amos.

For some reason, I still can’t listen to Winter without crying.  I don’t know why.  I just always have and it’s unbearably annoying.  Maybe I should switch CDs now…come back to the recent songs and stop delving into my past.  It’s odd, though, how music from those formative years can leave such a deep impression.  When we were talking at work about the music we wanted played at our funeral, I immediately began mentally filing through the old stuff.  So, if I die, I’ve come up with two.  Happy Phantom and the theme song to The Jeffersons…Movin’ On Up.  How could one not break out laughing with those songs playing at a solemn occasion?  I hope people clap their hands and sway gospel style…because I guaranfuckingtee that sight would keep me smiling all through the afterlife.

It’s getting late and I have so much to do before my fruit comes home.  I’ve been so tired lately…so tired that I can hardly get to sleep.  I just want the weekend to be here so I can sleep in and not have to worry about printers and servers and firewalls.

I’ve been having the weirdest dreams lately.  I would say that it had to do with my zoloft withdrawals, but it started a few days before that.  After the first one, I was reminded of those days on the couch in my former shrink’s office.  She was the best I’d ever had, and probably the reason why I’m reluctant to give another one a chance.  When I would tell her that I had a particularly bizarre dream, she would get this giddy look on her face and merrily collect her notepad and pen.  When she was ready to take notes, she’d furrow her eyebrow in concerned embarrassment and ask me if I minded.  How could a girl say no?  Lately, these have been dreams worthy of Wondershrink.

On Tuesday, I took a long nap in the morning.  I don’t usually dream very much during naps, but this one was a particularly hard sleep.  I dreamed that I was about twenty again, but I was still living with my parents and brother.  My mom and brother were on their own separate trips…my brother for work and I don’t know where my mother was.  I went upstairs to see my dad one afternoon, and found him dead in a chair with a book on his lap.  I didn’t know what to do, and thoughts went whirring through my head like a tornado.  The next thing I knew, I was on the side of my house furiously planting tulips over my father’s dead body.  I didn’t want to tell anyone what had happened.  I fell deep into a psychotic trance, telling anyone who called that he was busy or at the market.  When the rest of my family was due home, I called the police to tell them what I had done.  I was sitting outside the house rocking as the policeman told my mother that they found my father’s body under the flowers.  The dogs had partially eaten him, but my mother was convinced that he must still be alive because his St.Jude valve was still ticking rhythmically.  They were talking about what mental institution to check me into when I startled awake.

The next of the oddities was a trip to L.A. for one of my cousins’ Bat Mitzvahs.  My rabbi friend from the other hospice was doing the ceremony and my grandmother was angry with her for not dressing more traditionally.  She went in the back of the temple to change into rabbi robes, and my grandmother gave me a long lecture about needing to study for my Bat Mitzvah…that she was disappointed that I hadn’t converted yet because Judaism is in my blood.

The final one took place on Saturday night while I was fast asleep in a drunken stupor.  This is the one that would get Wondershrink’s pen scribbling furiously…because it’s just too easy.  It’s one of those that makes you want to give your psyche a talking-to for being so damned obvious.  I’m not sure where I was in the dream, but I had birthed a baby girl.  She was lying on a table beside my bed and everyone was fussing about her.  I was incapacitated for quite a while because it had not been an easy birth.  The people…nondescript family and friends…had named her Mary and taken control of raising her.  When I was finally feeling better, I would go over to her to try to see her, but they would not let me.  They would admonish me for wanting to hold her or even touch her.  I listened at first, sadly slighted, when it occurred to me that this is my baby and I could do whatever I wanted with her.  I picked her up much to everyone’s dismay and held her for the first time.  She looked to be about six months old at that point.  She smiled and hugged me, and I whisked her away.  While we were leaving, I scratched a piece of her skin off with my nail.  She didn’t flinch, but I knew it had to be painful…and I worried that it might be a sign that the others were right because I’d hurt her already.  I was sitting on a bench with an old lady who was somehow related and nursing the little nick on her side.  It had bled more than one would expect for such a small cut, but she didn’t make a sound until I started cleaning it up and bandaging it.  I shot up awake just after saying, “I know it stings, baby”.

I can’t wait until my subconscious goes back into the recesses of my grey matter where it belongs.