Category: in the car

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Remembering

When I first came back to San Diego after that last mental hospital stay and integration, I was so frustrated to be so far away from them. They were 2 and a half hours away from me! That’s 150 minutes of driving from one house to the other where I willed the traffic to go faster and hated every car in my way.

But, I saw them every other weekend for 2 days straight. It was 6 hours round trip from door to door and it was hours and hours of glorious time spent squished together in my car that was too small for five people with the windows rolled down since we had no air conditioning. We talked. We screamed at the top of our lungs for the count of five to relieve the angst and listened to the radio at eleven. Even the tape deck barely worked in that car.

I miss those days.

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Three Car Rides (1 of 3)

Mehdi had been driving passengers at all hours for three days. Being woken up by the phone at 3:15am after a scant one hour and ten minutes of sleep was torturous. To say his eyes were bleary would be an understatement of such great proportions it was laughable. He face was a caricature of himself, the dark, red lines outlining the deep bags under his eyes, cutting deep shadows across his cheekbones and making his dark eyelashes stand out like frames on paintings. But it would all be worth it when he got the paycheck. The holidays were just around the corner and every penny counted. His two young girls deserved the world and he would get it for them.

The woman had called the night before giving detailed instructions and the address of her destination. Had he been more awake a few hours ago, he would have remembered to bring the map and the directions he had downloaded from the internet. But he wasn’t and he didn’t. But he was sure that he would be able to find where she was going. It was a small town they were going to, after all.

The drive of 45 minutes was one of the longest drives of his life. He willed his eyes to stay open, almost missed the exit, took a few wrong roads but aptly avoided collision a number of times. The woman at one point asked him to please call into the office and have someone there tell him the directions because she was not sure she could find the way in the dark in the middle of the night. He scoffed, telling her no, sadly, they are all sleeping and there is no one there to speak to. This is not true, of course, but he does not want the shame of admitting he was too tired to remember to bring the directions.

Mehdi thinks to himself that the woman in the backseat is too much of a chatterbox. Why does she insist on speaking to him non-stop about unimportant topics such as annual precipitation and the Seattle Seahawks and Huskies? He has no care for those kinds of things. Getting people from point A to point B is his concern and right now, he is not so sure he can find point B. Perhaps, he thinks in his unawake and groggy mind, perhaps she knows where she is going and can tell me the way? Perhaps she is always awake at 3:45 am and this is why she is so chatty? Perhaps I can put her mouth to good use and have her tell me which way to go? In these small hilly areas, the addresses are so hard to find. But after a time he realizes that clearly, she is not going to be much help. The sounds of her voice are annoying like a buzzing bee but, he admits grudgingly to himself, they are all that is keeping him awake.

Miraculously, after some time and a few wrong turns and with going 10 miles out of the way, (because surely there is a faster road if he only would have known it) they have found it. He looks up and realizes that he has no idea where he is. He has no idea how to find his way back down and through the hills. It might take him hours.

Mehdi asks the woman if she could go in the house and ask her relations the way back down the hills. They could surely tell him. She tells him that sadly, they are all sleeping so there is no one to speak to.

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Sassy Girl

My daughter takes voice lessons. She has a great voice and one of my favorite things is to listen to her sing At Last or Ava Maria. One of my not-so-favorite songs is the latest called I Enjoy Being a Girl.

Some of the tasty lyrics include:

When men say I’m cute and funny
And my teeth aren’t teeth, but pearl,
I just lap it up like honey
I enjoy being a girl!

I flip when a fellow sends me flowers,
I drool over dresses made of lace,
I talk on the telephone for hours
With a pound and a half of cream upon my face!

and finally:

When men say I’m sweet as candy
As around in a dance we whirl,
It goes to my head like brandy,
I enjoy being a girl!

When I hear the compliment’ry whistle
That greets my bikini by the sea,
I turn and I glower and I bristle,
But I’m happy to know the whistle’s meant for me!

Now, what mom wouldn’t want her daughter to sing that song? You know, though, that I try to be as supportive as I can. I know she has to sing it week after week and that she didn’t pick it and that she really has no control over the situation, but I guess she could tell it was driving me crazy because this afternoon on the way home she started singing it like this:

The men say I’m very smart
I dance around them in a whirl,
They know I have a great, big heart,
I enjoy being a girl!

I don’t care if I’m short or tall,
I like me the way I is,
My whole life I’m going to have a ball
My size is not your biz!

I had started tuning her out as soon as I realized what song she was practicing. I made a left turn and then a right turn. I went over the grocery list in my head. And then right about the time I started merging onto the freeway and thinking ‘soy milk and plain yogurt with no artificial sweeteners’ she sang ‘I like me the way I is’ and I started laughing. And laughing. That girl. That twinkle in her eye. Her giggles and laughter. Kills me. I am slayed.

7smile
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I'm This Charming

One of the benefits of becoming integrated is that most of the odd things that you used to do, routinely and/or compulsively, fade or become minimized. For example, if you were compelled to eat exactly 18 french fries with every meal (I really did know someone that did) then post-integration you may be able to eat a few meals sans fries or at least be able to change the ‘must ingest’ number to 8 or 23. You normalize on many fronts, possibly some you never thought possible.

One compulsion I’ve had ever since I can remember being alive is drawing with my fingers. I draw the shapes of everything. And when I say everything, I really mean it. When I’m watching TV, I’m also drawing the shape of the TV, the shapes on the screen, the shapes of the entertainment center, the shape of the wall, the plants, the window – everything. When I’m walking, it’s the sidewalk, the houses and whatever else I’m looking at. The only time it’s not happening is when I’m writing, painting or shooting photos, but some might argue that I’m still doing it even then, just in other ways. Also, when I drive a car, most of the time I’m not, but if I’m stuck in traffic or on an easy stretch of road, that is where my mind immediately goes.

The other morning, while being the passenger, I wondered if this was a problem. If it was anything I should worry about or try to change. Why didn’t it go away when I was integrated? Does it matter that almost all day, every day I’m drawing lines and shapes with my fingers? I spent the rest of the drive trying not to. I wondered what it would take to sufficiently trick my mind into just looking at what was in front of me, without drawing it. And I found I could not.

The drawings can become quite complicated. Most lines and edges have a left and right side that must be drawn. Large areas of color must be filled in. In my mind, my fingers can become very small drawing utensils or very large and wide swathes of color. There is an example of the double sided line in this very simple drawing.

11:11 is a theme that seems to run through my mind even when my eyes are closed. I tend to draw that one over and over and over when there is nothing else to draw.

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Precious Moments

Sometimes when I’m with my children, I just can’t believe how lucky I am. I look around the room, or as is the case yesterday, the car via the rearview mirror, and I’m almost unable to breath, I feel so lucky. We were busy running to and fro and to and fro and fro again getting all the kids signed up at their respective schools, changing schedules, picking up books and doing all other manner of getting ready for school activities. There were peals of laughter, good-natured ribbing and their beautiful voices combining in song:

When you’ve got no place to go
And you feel it in your toes
Diarrhea
Diarrhea

When you’re wearing a white dress
And you feel a lumpy mess
Diarrhea
Diarrhea

When you’re standing in the trees
And you smell a stinky breeze
Diarrhea
Diarrhea

When you’re right next to a pole
And it’s coming out your hole
Diarrhea
Diarrhea

When you’re squatting in the hut
And it’s coming out your butt
Diarrhea
Diarrhea

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Today I Am Here

I’m drove Joe to work, then Alex to see friends, then back to see Joe for lunch, then back to get Alex, then back again to get Joe and go home. Here is the drive on the map.

The coffee shop has free wifi and checkers.

checkers

There is lots of this stuff between Ojai and Fillmore.

prickle2

But it sure is pretty in parts.

2trees

She looks happy, no?

alex_friends
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Hair

My daughter is sitting in the car, telling me all the things about her hair that she hates. She’s pointing out this strand and that strand, discussing color, highlights, non-existent split ends and the terrible, terrible length. Obviously something must be done. And done quick to avoid catastrophe before people see her later that night at the coolest party ever.

I suggest we drop into the local haircutting chain which rhymes with Poopercuts because they are cheap, close and cheap. You have never seen a look of such distain and disbelief in your entire life. She wailed and gnashed her teeth exclaiming that no one there would even have a real hair cutting license and that if one of them touched her hair it would never, ever look good again because they don’t know what they are doing and then she would be ugly and have no friends and it would ruin everything for ever and ever. And then she spontaneously combusted *poof* leaving only a charred mark on the passenger seat of the van. I told her we could go check the place that is more expensive and where there seems to be all manner of importantly tanned women with long, fake and shiny nails encrusted with jewels toddling around on high heels two sizes to small*, talking on their cell phones and carrying their tiny dogs in little purses. Why must this rant include small dogs? I don’t know, but it does.

After 2 hours and an unmentionable amount of money, of which she paid half because there is just no way I can justify paying that much for hair, she had the hair she had always wanted (for the past entire morning) and she gushed and looked at herself in the mirror all the way home pointing out how it was just exactly how she had always dreamed hair could look. I was pleased to have been able to facilitate this momentous occasion for her. And also, world peace.

Fast forward to the next morning when I pick her up from her friend’s house where she spent the night. She is tired from all the antics and lack of sleep. And then she asks me if I notice anything different about her. Now, I know that this is a historically bad question and the bane of the sexes in some circumstances. I’ve been asked how old I think someone looks and how much I would guess they weigh before creatively turning the conversation towards something safer like, oh I don’t know, penguins. Or Monopoly. But this is my first experience hearing it from my own daughter.

After a lengthy and uncomfortable pause, during which I’m trying to figure out how to remain calm when she tells me they snuck out last night and got matching tattoos with the words ‘Tiffany + Alex = BFF 4EVR’ across their hips, she interrupts me mid-nightmare-thought with, ‘My hair, mom! Look at my hair!’

Since I’m driving, and people that know me, love me and have my best interest at heart, Alex included, know that me just paying attention and going forward and staying within the dotted lines is sometimes as much as I can handle, she quickly follows it up with, ‘Wait. Look when we get to the light.’

The mile between that comment and reaching the light was very looooong. And when we got there, I turned slowly to look at her. And looked at her. And saw…..nothing.

She says, ‘So, after you dropped me off last night, we were getting ready and M told me that my hair was, like, totally, totally great except for that my bangs were too long and I needed some more layers right here? in the back? so she and T, who are both, like, totally into hair and going to be professional hair cut people when they get out of high school, are, and I’m not even kidding mom, genius with hair. So they gave me some more layers in the back and fixed my bangs for me. Don’t I look great?’

*The other day I was out and about and noticed a plethora of people walking around in sandals because, hello? it is hot. But more than half of all the people wearing sandals, flip-flops or other manner of toe-exposing shoes were allowing some part of their foot to touch the ground as they walked. A big toe here. A little toe there. And heels of all kinds. I think that is odd. They must go home and find that they have a mostly clean foot with only the usual wear and tear on it and then that one part, that slice, that is completely covered with black tar and sidewalk filth.

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In San Jose

And I think I’m the only Her blogging. (Get it??)

The hotel is crazy busy and only one building has an elevator. They charged me $5.50 for a beer. I’m tired and a little sweaty from driving all afternoon and evening. But I’m glad I’m here.

I stopped to get gas about midway and went into a Foster’s Freeze. I haven’t seen one in a long time and I remember liking their fries when I was little. Plus, I had to use the ladies. When I walked in and saw that the place was empty, I was all, ‘Cool! The place is empty! No line in the ladies!’ But when I walked in to the bathroom, it was sans toilet paper, so I walked right back out and asked for someone to fix that situation. While I was waiting for the one and only girl to go in and add some TP while the guys all kind of stood around and helped, um, no one, since there was no one to help, I ordered some fries, an iced tea and because I knew I’d probably need some protein, a burrito. It wasn’t until a few minutes later when I was washing my hands that I thought is was odd that they even had a burrito. I didn’t remember any burritos when I was little. But, what the heck. A burrito.

I walked back out into the deserted dining area to sit down and wait and noticed that I wasn’t really all alone after all. The table next to me had two flies on it. So I walked to the next table. It had three flies on it. So I just kept walking around the room, passing table after table of flies having dinner, until I had completed one lap and then stood next to the counter, hoping against hope that all the flies were, for some reason, more apt to be on one side of the counter than the other. Sadly, I was wrong, and the flies by the warmer and dancing on top of the drink station seemed to be having quite a party.

My feet frozen to my spot, but keeping my arms twitching and my head swaying lest I look like a good landing spot to a fly, I heard a ding and I thought, ‘Phew! My flies, I mean, fries are done!’ But alas, it was not my fries but instead my burrito getting pulled out of the deep fryer. My fries were under the warmer becoming a fly family of 9’s appetizer.

The young man grabbed the fries, shoved them and the burrito in the sack, handed me my iced tea and asked if I wanted ketchup. I KNEW I wasn’t going to eat them, and FYI, I never eat ketchup on my fries, but for some reason, I said yes. He threw some in and handed me the sack. I walked outside and into my car and sat there for about 3 minutes in silence wondering why I didn’t demand my $6.01 back.

Instead, I grabbed the burrito, mostly because I was fascinated that they had put in in the deep fryer (??) and cracked it open. It was filled with chili.

Huh.

So, I threw it all away in the trashcan in the parking lot and went back to the gas station and bought a water and a bag of pumpkin seeds. That and this beer is dinner. Nutritious. My mother would be so proud.

Off to take a cold shower and get in bed. Hey, the comforter is pretty nice. I brought my own from home for nothing……

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Alpine Skate Park

In the interest of doing activities that are free and close by, the kids and I went to check out Alpine Skate Park in Ventura. It’s all housed within one building. They have a very large area to skate, a concert area, a gaming room and a place where the other people can hang out with some pretty great murals throughout. They also have a beauty parlor and a smallish store, but they weren’t open. They have free wireless. The evenings get quite hoppin with the odd and punk people in the area. Sadly, I had left but Devon reported that I would have loved it.

Devon took us there in his Thing. I haven’t been in a convertible anything in quite a while and it was fun for a short trip. Of course, I wasn’t in the back.
We ate at a nearby bar and grill where a man got kicked out for being disorderly during Happy Hour and trying to pick a fight. We ate Gator Eggs and extremely hot Hell-O sauce. The water tasted slightly of Sprite, which is so irritating. I want it to be either Sprite or water, not a sad, weak combination of both. The ice was the really good kind, though.

Tony and Tyler are both battling a bad and snotty cold. Today, both of their throats are yucky and they are hacking at each other and filling the entire trash bin with used tissues. So far this week we’ve gone through 5 tissue boxes. I’m kind of glad we aren’t traveling since they would be hating it, which means I would be hating it. But I’m still looking for something for next week. Something local-er than Oregon and Utah. Maybe Santa Barbara or San Diego. Hopefully something inexpensive due to someone else canceling at the last minute due to unexpected hardship. Not that I’m wishing hardship on anyone, Strike that. Let’s say they have to change plans because they just won the lottery and have so much paperwork to sign, they can’t possibly get away. Our vacation budget is quite small this year. And when I say small, I mean tiny. And when I say tiny, I mean pretty much there isn’t one. I mean, if you think about it, we can’t afford to go anywhere or eat out. Or for that matter, eat in.

Everyone, stop eating.

Because our vacation plans have been cancelled and changed about 20 times over the past week, I refuse to plan anything else ever again. Ever. I am not just a semi-planner. I am a Planner. I use an itinerary complete with maps, directions, phone numbers, approximate costs, highlights of the activity, expected weather and a packing list. And that is just the first 20 pages. I number the pages and create a Travel Book. This is so beyond just making plans. This is deep in the sad OCD place that drives those around me crazy. And because of the depths I go to to create these Travel Books, it is not a simple thing to just change plans. This makes me a pain. And I am sorry.

My daughter is….my daughter. She likes my Travel Books. She likes to see what we will be doing and who we will be doing it with. She would even like it better if I had the hours written down, but I only use generalized parts of the day, like ‘early morning’ and ‘after dinner.’ She is my spawn. She is the one hollering at everyone to get in the shower, to get out of the shower, to shower faster, to leave the door open so she can do her hair while they shower and to shut the door because the Axe in the air is killing her. She doesn’t mean to be bossy. She just knows the right way to do things and wants to help you to achieve your personal best. Huh. That sounds so familiar……

If we survive these two weeks with each other with no concrete ‘Vacation, Summer 2006’ plans and no money to do anything or go anywhere, we might just be translated and go straight to the Celestial Kingdom. And then I’d miss out on more of Alex with her permit, driving our huge and very heavy van in the same area as other cars. That are moving. Towards us. But, it’s a free activity, which makes it at the top of the list of things to do. Hold me.

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Weekend in Food

Friday
Left a little later than we wanted. Dropped off a painting donation to The Museum School. The poor guy has to come back to get it since it’s now 7:30 pm. As he gets out of his truck, we realize he is our across-the-street neighbor from when we lived on 21st street 2 years ago. Odd moment. Cool. Late Dinner with Matt and Margot. Instead of our usual, Turf Supper Club, we went to BJ’s so we could get giant potatoes the size of footballs to share. Sleep with Sparky and Baxter, the two best dogs evah. Baxter licks my toes THROUGH my shoes. That is how doggie his tongue is. Good times.

Saturday
Matt made taco salad for brunch. He has a secret ingredient. Awesome! He also makes the best tuna melts on the face of the planet. Went to Vons to get fish and salad for the BBQ at Jenn‘s house. Bought sushi from the deli for a quick protein punch. Bad idea and did not eat due to bad fishy smell. Had a great time with some old friends and some new ones at the BBQ. Tried not to eat roommate’s dog, Chico. Hard because he is that cute. Party games make me feel dumb. I don’t like to dance for you. I am not your monkey. Or, I am a party-pooper. Or both. Everyone else is having a great time. What is wrong with me?

Sunday
Late brunch with Mickele. Yay! Looks great as always. Smells like lavender. Yumm. Eat a pancake with bananas and whole grain. Very good. No syrup. Go to BBQ at Greg’s home. House infested with reptiles. Oh, wait. Those are pets. Also, ferrets and Skeeter, the best dog evah. We talk about channeling and quantum physics and existentialism. Greg also has a kazzillion cameras in his collection and LENDS ME A ROLLEI for a few weeks!! I get reacquainted with how a film camera works. My brain fizzes. *Pop* We leave late because I can’t stop watching the ferrets trying to hide the toilet brush up under the cabinets. Susan and Doug wait and wait and wait and then finally start dinner at Aqua Blu without us. (They have no choice. It was about survival at that point. Either eat calamari or each other.) Funny story – Aqua Blu is not The Oceanaire. Still good, but not the same. Note to Self – next time, when you make reservations for you and some friends, you might want to make sure you are making them for THE RIGHT PLACE. After a great dinner with S&D, Joe and I drive home in 2.5 hours. Awesome. I sidestep a woman that tries to hit me up for money and a ride at the gas station. We see a huge, freeway closing accident on the south side of the freeway and are so glad we are not going that way. As an after thought, we feel bad for the people in the accident thereby proving we are good people and only 78% dead inside.

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The Lingo

Question: How do you get an entire room fill of kids ages 11 and up to be quiet all at the same time?
Answer: Commit the worst parentism possible and try to talk to them using their lingo.*

I walked into the living room where all my four and a few additional kids were watching tv, on the computers, talking loudly and doing all other basic kid/teenager-y stuff. This is when I tried out their native tongue.

‘Whaddup, Sdog?’ I casually asked a friend of my son. Suddenly, the room fell quiet. You could hear the inner groaning of at least three of them and the rest were still in shock. I thought we might have to call in the medics. Did I stop there? No. Absolutely not. Because, once you’ve started something, well, you just have to finish it. ‘How’s my peeps? Everyone comfortable in the Hizzouse?’ Which, I swear, is how they talk to each other all the time and then they laugh and it’s so funny. I thought if I just kept going then at some point, it would get funny. I was wrong. I threw in ‘crib’ and ‘down’ something and even ‘fo sho’ and the entire thing was met with silence quickly followed with wailing and gnashing of teeth. Someone’s head exploded.

Having teenagers is fun.

Sdog, as he is called by my son, although no longer by me because I was on the receiving end of a stern talking-to (there was extreme mortification and at least one mention of dying, if I remember right), is a peculiar kid. And I like him. He’s the kid that wears the silky button down shirt with the abstract box pattern on it made of rich reds and browns over his Pink Floyd pig t-shirt. Of course, he’s hanging out with my son who wears a reversible bathrobe to school every day that I made him out of deep purple and gray silk** for History Day when he was Confucius a week ago. I’m sure that’s not getting old to his teachers.

Once when we were driving back and forth from house to house, out of the blue, Sdog piped in with, ‘You know, I really care about the environment. I really think about it sometimes.’ And I think it continued to be quiet for a few more long seconds since no one knew what to say after that and I was kind of trying to sing along to ‘Breakaway‘.*** I mean, what are you going to do with a kid like that except be a little jealous that they are so completely themselves and seem impervious to the types of torturous peer pressure you endured in middle school?

Sdog and Tony both do that thing where they can’t really finish the story they are telling because they are cracking themselves up so much and it’s hard to get the words out. And most of the time I have no idea what they are talking about and they are laughing and giggling and I’m laughing but I don’t know why and then after 10 minutes of that they all of a sudden say, ‘huh, well, anyway.’ and then stop. I didn’t know what we were laughing about and I guess I never will.

* Just by using the word ‘Lingo”, you know I suck if you are under 19.

** It’s a poly-blend, my peeps. What do you think – I can afford real silk??

*** Damn, Kelly Clarkson, why must you speak to me so? I’m a woman of age and should be listening to more grown up music like Celine Dion.****

**** I kid! Ha ha! I hate Celine Dion’s music! I would never make it through an entire album. I would be poking my brain with sharp sticks.***** Give me Paul Anka instead. My mom knows who he is. He must be grown up music. (and I love his Rock Swings album for reals. Hearing Smells Like Teen Spirit in an upbeat and swingy tempo is awesome. I can have my angst and smile and sing at the same time.)

***** Last night I was cleaning my ear with a Q-tip and accidentally hit that one place that turns a near orgasmic experience into a very, very sad and painful one. To say that I would do it intentionally would make me insane. I’m crazy, but not insane!