census or self analysis?

This morning a gentleman from the census bureau knocked on my door.  I refer to him as a gentleman because his grey hair was combed back nicely with just the right amount of gel.  He wore khakis with just enough pockets to make them questionably cargo pants, and his name badge hung over his blue, zip up fleece top.  The apparel was pretty standard “comfy-casual” for this neck of the woods.  But like I said, the hair made him a gentleman.

After he grabbed his laptop with its giant U.S. Census sticker on it I invited him in.  I didn’t offer him coffee as that seemed too friendly an invitation for someone I wasn’t quite yet positive wouldn’t be murdering me in the next 5 minutes.  He asked me the standard census questions, but as this was my first home visit I wasn’t quite yet sure what to expect.  I fumbled on my husband’s birth date, first correcting myself on the day (“seventh, not seventeen”) and then letting it slide when I realized I also gave him the wrong year (“my husband was born in 1988?!”).  I also over estimated my yearly income, choking as I secretly vowed to brush up on my mental math skills.  I imagined myself sitting before a jury some time from now being questioned as to why I gave so many wrong answers.  I also thought about how ashamed I would be the next time I read some sort of national population statistic, knowing that my answers were slightly off.  “Accurate to the best of my knowledge” hopefully applies to my poor memory for birth dates and horrid math skills.

Even more concerning was the fact that this man was possibly judging me as he sat in my two room home (“if I sleep in the attic does that count as a second room, and does it count as a bedroom?” was my answer to his 8th question).  The upside down patio chair laying next to the couch, the dirty floors, the long, white cat hairs strewn everywhere like confetti.  I watched him type in between questions wondering if he was taking observational notes.  “Fidgets as she answers questions regarding numbers,” “Says she has husband but incredible amount of cat hair appears to prove otherwise,” “Bird seed on kitchen counter – she possibly eats birdseed???”  In my mind I see these notes being sold to retailers, ad agencies, and local mayors, maybe even Russia who would use them to calculate the stupidity of their frenemy.

I am an annoyingly clean person, or at least my husband thinks so.  To have someone come into my house while even just one item is out of place causes a self evaluation of the highest scrutiny.  I don’t spend countless hours every evening after work dusting cat hair, organizing my desk, and sweeping each square inch of my small home so that someone can stop by unannounced and find my home in a mediocre state.  As I sat across from the gentleman in his barely cargo khakis I wondered what it would be like to have his job and see so many homes.  I also wondered if his office was hiring.

Oh the excitement of stopping by other people’s homes unannounced and seeing what items may be out of place or what other people did while home on a Wednesday at 9am.  Maybe my barking lap dog was a breeze to a man who probably stopped by a lot of homes filled with small children and blaring day time talk shows.  The perspective one must gain by showing up at strangers houses unannounced!

As he left, the gentleman (who never once tried to murder me by the way) called back at me from his black Buick “you have a great place here!” and I thanked him, knowing he must be referring to the sunshine and tweeting birds flying over his head.  And as he drove away I thanked myself for cleaning the dog poop from the yard this morning.

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census or self analysis?

forced rest

The pile of tissues next to me blocked the framed photo of my husband and I.  From where I lay all I could see was the gold frame holding fall leaves which haloed the white mound of crumpled up tissues.  On my other side my husband slept deeply, his breathing so heavy I wondered if he was catching the same bug I had.  It took me a week and a half to feel somewhat normal again.  And by normal I mean back to my non stop cleaning and organizing.  If I am not being productive I feel like a failure, so being sick is, well, my worst nightmare.

The dishes only got half way to the ceiling,  the laundry spilled over the hamper, and the inside of the fridge became the only space that didn’t feel cluttered, its lack of contents making it appear clean and tidy.  Because of this I put off going to the grocery store knowing that at least somewhere in my house there lacked cat hair and dirty plates.

Being sick had this affect on me.  It caused a craziness that could only be tamed by realizing there was nothing I could do.  If I wanted to get better, if I wanted my nose to cease running and my throat to stop screaming in pain, I had to rest.  My to-do lists were put out of sight, and I tucked myself into bed early with a quick swallow of medicine to ease my cough and mind.

This forced rest is usually just what I need to gain perspective on my daily goals and habits.  Priorities can become painfuly detailed as my lists get longer and longer. But as I lay my head on my pillow and look over at the mound of tissues covering the photo, I remember to just let go.

forced rest

last words

I listen to my german shepherd snore as I lay face up on the bed staring at the ceiling.  Cold season (isn’t that every season in rural towns?) has hit me hard leaving my voice to nothing but a whisper.  The tv is on but somehow the snore trumps the fast paced, endless conversation at my feet.  I switch to watching my little, old poodle’s chest rise and fall with his sleepy breathes.  I imagine what it would be like to see him die, the breath stopping as I watch, so I stare even more intently.

It’s a disease; not the sore throat and stuffy head that’s keeping me in bed all day, but the constant infatuation with death and the realization that it could happen at any second.  When I hit my thirties and realized that the open book was slowly closing shut I started thinking about the end a little more every single day.  This being the third day in a row with a hoarse to non exsistant voice I start to go through the list of all of the people I know (or heard of in this small rural town) that were fine one moment, fell ill the next with a common ailment, and then died.

It’s morbid I know (and I don’t mean the sore throat) but the silver lining is that realizing life is short makes me cherish every moment.  I imagine this is what being on the verge of death feels like (and I imagine that moment a lot).  Those last fleeting breaths are something I don’t want to feel for a very, very long time to come so focusing on the silver lining keeps me in check.  Or maybe it makes me think of death more, but either way I am living life to the fullest.  Even as I lay here voiceless, watching my elderly dogs take what could be their very last breaths.

last words

beauticians’ lament

When I was young I would spend weeks at a time with my grandma in Wisconsin.  She was a beautician (as it was called back then) and owned her own salon.  The salon was in the same building that housed a gas station, but from inside it looked like any other small town salon in the 80’s.  I was very young, under the age of ten, but a well behaved child and proud to spend time with my grandmother all day at the salon.  She would keep my occupied by sorting perm rods or by letting me sit at the tall front desk where I would pretend to be the receptionist.  After a particularly stressful day for my grandmother I remember her pulling me aside, looking me in the eyes, and telling me to never become a hairstylist.  I heeded her words as if they would keep me from making the biggest career mistake of my life, forgetting for 20 years to ever question what this ultimate secret was that made doing hair the worst job ever.

Around the time that my grandmother’s second husband, a terribly unattractive person, large and with hair that looked severely fake, was gambling his life’s savings away, I was wondering whatever happened to that close relationship my grandmother and I had had.  And I was also contemplating going to cosmetology school.  When her husband died of cancer my grandmothers alcoholism worsened and dementia, diluted with a cheap jug of wine, came sweeping in. She was half in the bag when I announced I would be attending cosmotology school, and I was surprised when she didn’t tell me I was making a big mistake.  Because I have very few memories of my childhood I had assumed that the one about her telling me  to never be a hairstylist was important.  But while considering the career choice I argued the voice in my head, saying it had recently occurred to me that I had put too much stock into the words of someone who routinely made poor choices with men and alcohol.  Looking back, this argument probably came from a place of anger and confusion as I was watching my grandmother waste her life away.  And plus, how could I trust one childhood memory to dictate my future financial stability?

By the time I had finished cosmotology school my grandma’s dementia was ever more noticeable.  She was happy for me and said that it only made sense that I would follow in her footsteps.  A short time later, at my first salon job, I received a phone call from the receptionist at my grandmother’s eye doctor’s office.  It was not an approved phone call but she felt I should know that my grandma had not only driven herself to the office but had also ordered an abnormal amount of contacts.  I hung up, wondering how I would balance work and taking care of my grandmother.

Around the time I started to realize my hair coloring skills were not improving my mother was realizing the state of my grandmother’s mental health.  We were taking turns checking in on here, cleaning up after her drinking binges, and planning to take her keys away.   My mother eventually stepped in as her full time caregiver, and I went back to wondering if I had taken the wrong career path.  With each new hair coloring disaster the anxiety grew.  Every time a client stopped returning my heart sank.  While sitting with my grandmother at the assisted living facility I would confide in her that I didn’t feel like I had the nerves for doing hair.  Despite her infrequent memory she somehow remembered exactly what I was talking about and it was that feeling of not being alone that kept me pushing forward.

Now my grandmother is in a nursing home.  On her good days she remembers that I am a hairstylist.  She no longer tells my husband, like a broken record, about how I would go with her to the salon as a child.  She doesn’t seem to remember that I would sit at the desk with my crayons or that we shared that very fleeting bond over the anxiety of doing hair.  Three years into doing hair and I am still unintentionally turning women’s bangs blue, not getting all of the dye properly washed from the hair, and routinely crying in my car at the end of the day and wondering how I got myself into this.  And it turns out my grandmother was right.  But maybe not for the secret reasons I assumed she knew.  Maybe the reason all along was the anxiety that we both suffered from and the tole it would take on us at work.

beauticians’ lament

nursing ailments

When my husband was in nursing school I heard it said that when you are a nurse people come to you with all of their health questions.  Around his last semester of school my mother and sister would ask my husband’s opinions on things such as absurd health news they read on social media or diet fads that were preached on blogs.  He would cooley give his opinion, a mix of amateur knowledge and level headed sensibility.  When my nephews got  a boo-boo I would send them to their Uncle and watch as he gave them their prognosis and then send them on their way wearing a cartoon decorated bandaid.  This would only be the beginning of his off hours nursing.

Each semester of nursing school armed my husband with more knowledge, meaning each semester of school I was diagnosed with another ailment.  When complaining of a headache I was quickly assessed for a heart attack.  When my daily stomach ache flared up my mother asked my husband if I could be suffering “leaky gut” to which he declared I was missing three symptoms and therefore fine.  When he learned about labor and delivery and the complications that can occur our decision to not have children was solidified. When he told me that if I got pregnant at this late of an age that I would be considered an “at risk pregnancy” I stopped initiating sex.  By the time graduation rolled around I was regularly suffering from “heart attacks,” and  my husband had moved on to diagnosing our dogs.

With diploma in hand, and the dogs being cleared of epilepsy, our acquaintances were dropping like flies with my husband’s new favorite – borderline personality disorder.  When the heart attack diagnoses had all but ceased I couldn’t help but wonder if I too was now recieiving his secret psychological labels.  When my stomach aches got worse and the shooting pain in my arm lasted more than a day I was branded a hypochondriac, and he turned to ignoring my daily complaints.

In the beginning I was nervous to ask him about my female issues – periods, cramps, infections.  Just saying any of those words out loud made me wonder if I had crossed a marital line that one should never go near.  In my first marriage we never so much as mentioned the word “fart”, and I had preferred it that way.  My second marriage being different on many levels (and my digestive issues worsening) we openly passed gas in front of each other, and I prayed this openness was the key to marital bliss that my first marriage lacked.  So when I asked my first question about my menstrual cycle the awkwardness only lasted but a minute and the hypochondriac in me relaxed knowing this was a union that would last.

Every now and then I have an ailment that even I cannot ball up the nerve to have him assess.  I’ll be standing in the bathroom, naked, post shower, sweating from the anxiety that I may have just found something and hoping that he will accidentally walk in and find me.  He will give me one of his matter-of-fact responses: “you’re fine,” “stop being a hypochondriac,” or “well call your doctor if it’s bothering you.”  But his interruptions are never that timely, and I am left to my own anxiety. Maybe I should push him towards becoming a doctor.

nursing ailments

fish liver as jazz

I am trying to get into this new-to-me genre of music called avant-jazz.  The first song in and it seems one could almost accurately describe it as a child alternately smashing on a piano and a toy drum set.  It sounds like what I imagine a modern small plate meal with ingredients such as octopus, burnt sage, grapefruit, and barley would taste like; mostly muddled texture with odd flavors that somehow collide in an almost appropriate way.  Towards the end of the song I start to recognize what sounds like a few lines from a classic rock song.  It makes my ears perk up in the same way a bite of grapefruit amongst a piece of white fish and risotto would.  For a minute I feel like I might be understanding this genre.  And then song two starts.

I am trying new things, partly because it makes me feel alive against the backdrop of a rural town, but also because I am in my mid thirties, winter dragging on, and in a boring, rural town.  My father would argue the word “boring” to describe this town, saying there is plenty to do and “why would anyone want to live anywhere else!”  And he does have a point.  I feel blessed to live in what the locals refer to as “God’s country”.  But how else can I explain my need to listen to such chaotic music?

Throughout the beginning of winter I was on a strange subconscious adventure to rediscover my roots.  Not the roots of my heritage or family history, but THE roots – my 20’s.  It hadn’t occurred to me that I was going down such a path until one day, as I sat cuddled up in a bright green Surget-shirt, pink pajama pants, twisting my hair into faux dreads, and listening to Dave Matthews Band did I take a good hard look at myself.  As the clouds of Nag Champa lifted it became clear that I had found my old comfort zone.  It suddenly made sense why women in their 50’s were still wearing shag haircuts and wispy bangs.  Why budge from the days of your youth when you can forever stay surrounded  by what makes you feel young?

As winter is winding down, the days getting longer and sunnier, the snow melting to expose muddy grass and moldy dog turds I realize that staying in one spot, no matter how familiar it feels, is not my style.   So I forgo the belief that a retirement savings will grow on trees and put some more grown up hippy pants on – the kind that look like what a gypsy or a bohemian stay-at-home mom/blogger would wear to a casual dinner party.  But to me they signal a different path – the kind that includes eating animal livers, listening to avant jazz, and trying to grasp new ideas of what it means to love people.

I didn’t like people in my 20’s and I’m not sure why a decade filled with divorce, moving across the country twice, and working with the general public would change that.  Maybe it is a hormonal, maternal instinct, or the desire to be more like my role models and less like the family members who came before me blazing their own destructive path of coldness and the belief that pushing others away was a sign of strength and the ultimate method to protect one’s heart. Just like the avant-jazz song Juice by something (a toddler possibly?) called Krokofant I start out thinking loving people could be doable; then as the song progresses, nearing an end that resembles what I can only describe as a flock of seagulls being murdered on a drum set by an angry elephant, I ask myself, “is there a point?”

I don’t want to live in that gushy, all talk-no walk, preachy way that is written about in so many books written by female pastors.  I just mean, maybe a smile?  I cool pat on the back? A “yeah, you’re not alone” look that requires no words.  You would think for someone that spent their 20’s in dreadlocks and an apartment full of Nag Champa that the whole genuine, non chelant love thing would come a little easier, but I was a hippy of the 90’s, not the 70’s.  My moods resembled more of a flexitarian’s diet than that of a full fledged vegan’s.  Fish liver anyone?

I can imagine that, come summer (or even this evening) I will be through and over my avant-jazz phase.  Miles Davis will be on a playlist with Dave Mathews and Nine Inch Nails or maybe I will have discovered something completely new and inspiring.  Maybe I will be using my Surge t-shirt to wash the car thinking of the good ol’ days that seem so far removed.  But should I decide to recall former moments, this one with the avant-jazz won’t be it.

fish liver as jazz

moving on

As I slowly unpacked two vintage sets of salt and pepper shakers, a half used roll of paper towel, and enough cheap toilet paper to last me the rest of the year I thought back to how fervently and emotionless I had shoved all of those things into the stained canvas bag just a few hours before.  This was the second time we had moved my grandmother, and neither time had I been prepared for the little moments that would consume me for days, maybe weeks, later.  The first time we moved my grandmother was when she went from her widowed, alcoholic apartment lifestyle to the shiny, brand new assisted living home just down the highway.  Things had become chaoctic shortly after I warned my mother that grandma’s memory seemed to be slipping and her fridge was always close to empty.  My mother’s way of handling stressful and confusing events was more of a survival method than it was a productive one.  Grandma, nude and nearly unresponsive, had peed on the couch in front of us for the second and final time when my mother decided it was time to look into other living options.  When it came time to move her she went with little resistance, and that was mostly due to diversion techniques and mild lying justified by our sole desire to see her safe and at least somewhat clothed.  It was my assigned duty to take her out to eat on the night of the big move while the rest of the family packed up her belongings and hauled several large pieces of furniture into her new studio apartment.  I had bribed her with alcohol to keep her occupied, but days later when sobriety hit her like a ton of bricks she realized the damage that had been done to her wild lifestyle.

This move was a little different.  Alcohol had been prohibited at the assisted living facility, but the dementia hadn’t let go of its grip.  In just over a year her memory had faded enough to let her sit back and watch as we packed up her studio apartment.  This time I was assigned to packing.  My mom studied every article of clothing or decoration like it was a prized antique, when in reality nothing held any value and had only been acquired in the past sober year of my grandmother’s life.  I feverishly tossed things into one of three piles – trash, thrift store, and nursing home.  I moved from closet to cabinet to bathroom, working up a sweat and impressing my mom with my speed.  This wasn’t my first time cleaning through an elderly person’s belongings.  I had learned several years ago to work on a fine balance between emotional attachment and end of life clarity.  My mother was more of a hoarder, believing everything that had ever entered her home held a meaning so dear she would die before having to part with it.  I spent many nights laying in bed, in my immaculately clean and obsessively organized small home, thinking about the job that would be before me when my parents passed away and their belongings would need to be sorted through.  The anxiety gave me an ill feeling.

Walking into my grandmother’s nursing home room for the first time brought tears to my eyes so I set to getting the place set up like she would prefer.  We had spent a lot of time together when I was little.  My mother would let me spend weeks at a time at my grandma’s house when I was young, so when she would now introduce me as “like her daughter” I knew it wasn’t a dementia slip, but rather something closer to a miraculous memory moment.  When I was a junior in high school I moved into my grandmother’s apartment which was located on the second floor of her antique store.  The small three room apartment was set up like a dollhouse, and it was there that I fully absorbed and began my love for decorating.  As I attempted to set up the nursing home room to what I thought she would enjoy, I knew deep down that she when she moved in the following day she would put her touch on the space, the memory loss having not yet completely stolen her magical ability to transform a room.

There wasn’t a strong enough beer to take away the emotions from the day.  I had watched the slippery slope of alcoholism and knew to not count on a few drinks to make me feel any better or any less.  When I arrived home I immediately set out to unpack the canvas bag I had brought from the move.  In the moment it felt slightly awkward to take a few barely used dish cloths and her stock pile of toilet paper, but as I set the items out on my kitchen table it took everything in me to not start to cry.  While I am normally emotional to an almost abnormal level, I am not one for drama.  My husband carried in the lamp that I had fondly eyed while sitting in my grandmother’s apartment on those long afternoons when I was trying to coax her to eat and my husband cleaned up the alcohol mess in the kitchen.  Now the brass lamp sat next to my existing lamp – my husband wondering why we needed another.  I went into the bathroom and  shut the door knowing that tomorrow my grandma’s life would be the next level of different, and I would have to stare at the lamp wondering how she was doing.

When I unpacked the two sets of salt and pepper shakers I noticed one set looked familiar.  While sorting through all of her recently acquired grey tshirts and black elastic waist pants, through the plastic forks and paper plates she turned to after losing her full kitchen, through the simple decor she had tiresly rearranged day after day, I had somehow grabbed the salt and pepper shakers – possibly the only thing she had left from our time living together fifteens years ago.  I looked at them now on my own counter.  The memories of our midnight snacks in her tiny yet fully decorated kitchen, the conversations we had about her crazy flambouyant sister, her cooking us steaks on her George Foreman grill, it all came swirling back as the tiny S & P set sat staring at me.  Nobody ever tells you about this part of life.  All my years of elderly caregiving could not have prepared me for the emotions that were to surface, and as I reached for one of the many rolls of toilet paper piled high outside of my bathroom door I felt a bit of gratitude- gratitude for a grandma who passed on her love of decorating, gratitude for the relationship we shared, gratitude for the year we lived together, and gratitude for finding those salt and pepper shakers in the midst of this day.

moving on