It’s hard, asking for things, isn’t it? At least, for me it is.
The word my mom always used to describe me is “self-sufficient.” She was amazed that a baby could have internal resources. She used the example of cleaning the sun room, which served as a toy room, when I was a baby. She’d dump all the toys from my brother and sister in the middle of the room, and then start sorting them away. I’d sit and play with whatever was left. Eventually, she said, I’d be sitting there, contentedly playing with dustbunnies and a clothespin.
Mom loved this story and I find it illustrative, but not in a “poor pathetic me” way. Oh look at me, the baby on the floor of the sun room, playing with dirt. No, that’s not how I see it, but I have a hard time articulating exactly how I do see it.
Asking for things.
I asked my mother for three things. A small bisque doll from the Shackmans catalog when I was five, like a tiny Bye-lo (it was just like this one). I tried to demand this and it didn’t work. I remember the tantrum I threw. Mom was adamant, but the doll showed up on my sixth birthday, and I remember internalizing the lesson. Things are given. One does not demand. One displays the need, the preference, and one is granted, like magic, what one desires.
I put this strategy to work with the next thing Mom said I asked for; a set of Raggedy Ann and Andy books that would come in the mail, like a book club. I brought her the flyer, talked with her about how I would happily share them with my older sister, how much I wanted them. And asked respectfully if we could at least sign up to get the free book. And miraculously, my mother agreed.
You’d think, having learned how to ask, I’d have tried again. But it wasn’t my nature. The bisque baby tantrum was an aberration in my childhood behavior, and not rewarded. But the book club request was also an aberration, and even though it was rewarded, it wasn’t repeated.
The third and final ask.
I didn’t ask for anything else until I was thirteen. I was at this cool boutique in Bozeman, and I found an alpaca cape trimmed with llama hide. It was a true 1973 leftover hippy wonder garment, and my sister and I wanted it. But I was the one who told our mother about it, I was the one who went home and described it and it cost forty dollars, do you have any idea how much money that was in 1973? I knew I would never get it. My dad made 11K a year as a forester, if that gives you any idea. From somewhere, Mom got the money and bought it for me. It seemed miraculous.
On the way home she explained, “It’s that you never ask for anything, Karen.” And she was right. I didn’t. I think those three things were it, as far as asking my mom for anything at all. She offered plenty and she gave plenty, but it wasn’t because I asked.
When asking backfires.
When my friend Jay was still alive, back when we were still friends, he said, “You don’t ask for much. Hardly anything, to be honest.” But I do ask for things, I really do. I actually lost my friendship with Jay because I asked for one week off from hearing about his problems with a friend of mine. I was so tired of hearing about it that I asked them both for a week where we talked about anything else but their breakup. She completely understood. He ended our friendship. Look, I wanted to say to him, look what happens when I ask for something. But of course, I never said that to him, and he passed away, so that was that.
Asking for something carries risk, then. There is the risk of rejection, of disappointment, of denial.
Still, I continue to ask. I ask for space. I ask for quiet. I ask for respect of my intellectual boundaries, the uninterrupted time I need to live in my head so that writing can come out. I ask for less engagement, less conversation. Sometimes I ask for conversations about dogs or TV shows, rather than emotions or disappointments. I ask for time to go away and be alone. I ask for weekends to myself. I ask for rain checks.
I ask for things that make people feel rejected. Because even though I love them, what I’m really asking for is less of them.
Asking within the marriage.
Everyone else wants more time, more contact, more conversation. I am atypical. And when I admit this, I see how much of the estrangement in my marriage was my fault. Because my ex is a man who needs more. More time, attention, affection and affirmation. Even now when he stops by, I set up my little fences, look at him over my glasses, over my laptop. Sorry, I say. Not a good time. Go talk to your girls.
I remember that he expressed this when we were married. He said, “You never make a fuss over me.” And I said, “What do you want, a one-man-band in the living room every night playing the ‘you are special’ song? A little party to celebrate you?” I also said, “What do you ever do to make me feel special? Ever?” He had no answer, because he basically didn’t do that (as a side note, whenever someone calls me nice, I crack up).
I’m not very nice, and I don’t need anyone to make me feel special. I don’t require it. I’m at times embarrassed when people make me feel special. There will be a birthday or the like and everyone will be so nice and giving and sweet and I’ll become completely flustered, unsure of how to graciously accept the attention. I do like it, once in a while. I just don’t need or want it most of the time.
I’m not like the other girls, you see.
I didn’t understand that. I didn’t understand that with my emotional self-sufficiency comes a lack of empathy for the millions of normal people who aren’t emotionally self-sufficient. Not everyone else is a self-repairing emotional robot. Not everyone wants to go live in their head and make up people and stare at a monitor and type until their fingertips go numb and their eyes bleed. I think anyone who doesn’t is missing out on the one true and real joy of life, but there you have it. Not everyone goes through life listening in on it, recording it for later use in the illustration of some basic emotional truth. Not everyone is interesting in observing life rather than living it.
This is why it shocks me when people say I’m a good mom. I’m not. I’m far too self-involved. I love the interior of my head and I adore my own company. I’m also not a very good friend because I forget people and I don’t make time and I pull away when I want to write or when I’m sad, tired, or overwhelmed by stress. That’s maybe ninety percent of the time. And yet I’m told I’m a good friend, too. I already know I’m hopeless as a wife or girlfriend and have periodically withdrawn myself from that market, though I appear to be doing a good job at the present time. But we are on our second go-round. He knows me. He knows how weird I am. He loves me anyway.
That is a wonderful thing, to ask for acceptance and love, and to receive it.
I guess I never really understood how strange I am until I started thinking about this. I think I should have to wear a sign. It would say, “Faulty wiring.” It would warn the world that I’m not quite the norm in the head, but I like it in here, anyway.
And now, I’m off to play with my dustbunnies and clothespins.
Yes, I’m going to make a book announcement about The Iris Files. Yes, it’s actually going to be called The Iris Files: Notes from a Desperate Housewife. Yes, I’ll talk more about that book in a minute. But first, I want to talk about…
I never wanted a yard, but I have one. I wanted a big house on a small lot, but my ex-husband wanted the reverse and he won. But then he left, and here I am on this junior acre, twenty years later. My yard is TERRIBLE. Various broken stragglers lean here and there like emaciated beggars in a third world city, begging to be pruned or moved or just dug up and put out of their misery. I’m not a yardwork person, and so this is just how it’s going to be until I give up and buy a condo.
As I mentioned, I still live in the house I bought with my ex-husband. He was my second husband, and I have this tendency to call him my ex-husband, instead of my second ex-husband. It’s embarrassing to have two of those, and since he is the father of my children, he’s the ex-husband who counts. So he is heretofore referred to as my ex-husband.
Back when we bought this house, it had minimal landscaping. It was basically Kentucky Bluegrass (a terrible choice for Oregon) bordered by long channels of red lava rock. Like a military base. The only flowers were bearded irises. MASSES of bearded irises, rising in a long line up the walkway. Yellow, purple, maroon, with a few of the purple and white, blooming madly and emitting their toothpaste smell as I went to my front door. They were not my kind of flower—I prefer the more delicate wild iris—but the bearded blooms have a certain acromegalic majesty. Our iris display was dramatic enough to draw commentary from passers by.
More Yard Nonsense
Over the six years that my ex and I shared this home, we tried valiantly to find plants and flowers that would thrive in the horrible clay soil of our yard. We added some rhodies, which still wither in the reflective heart of the driveway to this day. We tried roses, which have somehow survived the heinous neglect I have subjected them to. Neighbors gave us gorgeous white calla lily bulbs, which did fine for years. But of course, like irises, lilies must be unearthed and divided now and then. Guess who didn’t do that after her husband moved out? That’s right. The death of the irises is all my fault.
But not all the Irises have died!
Some years after my divorce, I wrote a book about a woman named Iris. It’s about a failing marriage, and I probably thought it was too personal to publish. No, my name is not Iris. I do not have five children, nor do I have four dogs. But in too many ways, it is the most personal book I will ever write. And it is going live soon.
The Iris Files: Notes from a Desperate Housewife
The Iris Files is coming out for these reasons:
- Because my progress with the new Orcas book is slow and steady, even after my co-author’s magnificent SFWA reading of the first chapter had them roaring with laughter the other night.
- Because it is Sue’s favorite.
- Because I am impatient with a much larger project, basically my life’s writing project, that will hopefully arrive this fall. I needed an interim project to give my mind something to work
onover like a bone.
- Because I can.
I will soon have a cover and a link for preorder and all the things one must have in order to make a book real. Until then, read something else and pray for my yard. Thanks.
A first person account of a day spent thrift shopping–written probably ten years ago. I’m putting it up because, aside from being alone as much as i want these days, it’s still that same feeling to go to a thrift store.
I’ve spent today doing what I like to, instead of what I have to. This is because I am alone. Me, alone. I am never alone. Imagine me, alone. Just imagine you’re me, and you wake up and you know you’re going to be alone.
Union Gospel Mission
I start the day by dropping off Oldest at a long rehearsal, and then get myself some coffee and go to the Union Gospel Thrift Store. It’s always been a waste of time to go to Union Gospel. They have the worst crap ever. I go for sociological reasons, I tell myself, I go to see the abandoned detritus of every pointless garage sale in my neighborhood, arranged and priced as if anyone anywhere would ever buy it, and the secret hope that any thrifter has, which is that she will find treasure.
First, there’s the building. I believe at one point this was a waterbed store. Do any of you remember waterbed stores? Well, I do, I remember the waterbed as you will all remember the futon when everyone abandons those. At least waterbeds were comfortable. The building is concrete-floored and hangar-sized, with high, bright florescent lights that buzz unmercifully and a back loft reached by two staircases made out of what looks like heavily bolted waterbed wood. This is one sturdy building, which makes sense when you think that at one point they probably had a hundred full waterbeds on display.
I love to think of those days, the heyday of the waterbed, all burnt-edged and mirror-hutched. I spent them drinking too much and finishing high school, completely unaware of what my life was going to be. I lived in the moment. But those days are over, along with feathered hair and perms and aviator-shaped wire rim glasses and A Smile and Gelato pants and disco dancing. We are back to the present, we are not in a waterbed emporium, we are at the Union Gospel Thrift Store, facing life after the End of Waterbeds. And I am the only customer in this enormous building.
Contemporary Christian music blares out over the junk, and the walls are hung with Praise banners. There is also a big sign telling me that there is a sale going on, in which everything over the price of five dollars is half price. Wow. I look around, and realize it won’t make a lick of difference. No one is going to buy anything. Union Gospel is one of the few thrift stores that will take old sofas, and so they always have lots of those, sagging, flattened, faded, filthy sofas with price signs that say “10.00 Flat!” on them. What is “flat”? Even the books are bad, because they won’t sell anything supernatural or racy, due to the overwhelming religious sensibilities of the Union Gospel Mission. For this same reason they will not sell anything Halloween-related.
I carefully, slowly, langorously inspect the offerings, which are too pathetic to describe in any detail. It is a graveyard of ugly clothing, spotted mattresses, rejected dinettes, early American wood veneer hutches, and wall art that is too dated to grace the bathroom wall of a Grocery Outlet. But I look at it, because, you know, there might be treasure. I inspect the television cabinets, hoping one will be right for my personal papers, but of course they are all wretched. I even look at the luggage, looking for an old piece of Samsonite, you know the kind, with the satin pouches and grogain ties inside. But no luck. No treasure.
Under one set of stairs, I see a painted booth erected for trying on clothes. It has a latch and a mirror and a sign about not bringing merchandise other than clothing in, while trying on. Since the stairs are just treads, not risers, it has a ceiling on it. I cannot imagine trying on clothing in it, even on the off chance that I found something worth trying on in the racks. It looks like an outhouse. But I never look at clothes at thrift stores, so it’s only an object of passing interest.
I walk up one of the wide, sturdy waterbed furniture staircases, and I look at the books, which are as bad as usual, though I note with interest that they have separated the “Man authors” from the “Woman authors” and alphabetized accordingly. Is this a new thing, the sexual segregation of reading material? Whose idea was this, I want to ask? But the ragged man slamming videos into the table that is already stuffed with videos (Uncle Buck, Curly Sue) doesn’t invite conversation about the sorting methods utilized there at the Union Gospel Mission Thrift Store.
I can’t even find the housewares, which I am only trying to find because I’m hoping there will be a super-heavy vintage Revere soup pot, the big size. Oldest ruined mine a couple of years ago and I still haven’t gotten over it. I finally find what appears to be the kitchenwares corner, but it’s predominantly filled with airpots for hot beverages. I count 14 of them there in the corner. 14 airpots, and not one vintage Revere soup pot.
I go back down the other massive wooden stairs, and make my way to the front of the store, where the woman who works the cashier desk is making the popcorn while singing along to the song on the PA system, which I have never heard before. This music is as meaningless to me as the buzzing of the lighting. “Bye,” I say to her, and “Have a good day,” she replies. Which she seems to mean, so it makes me smile.
I make my way down the highway to Value Village, because I have no treasure. None. And perhaps I’ll find some there.
Value Village used to be a Safeway, and it is large, clean, well-lit, with nice booths for trying on clothing and a clean bathroom. They used to sell popcorn, but they don’t anymore, which is fine. Popcorn breaks my teeth. I have a definite circuit in Value Village, which is: dishes, housewares, furniture, books. They never have any books. Value Village (or “Savers,” if you live in another state) buys their stuff by the ton from Goodwill, and I think Goodwill is not letting them buy books anymore, so I never find anything there. But I find two glasses that match my glasses, which is great because my glasses are always disappearing, so I snag those, and then I find a pretty throw pillow for my pretty bed (my bed is really pretty, if I haven’t already mentioned this ten times, it’s very pretty), so I snag that.
And then while perusing lamps, I see a vintage typewriter and it’s really cool, and it makes me think about a lovely chat friend turned blog friend who adores typewriters, but the truth is it weighs a ton and I have nowhere to put it and if I move this fall, I’ll have to move this. But it’s a good price, and a cool thing, so I make myself a deal. I will advance it until I have to use the return lever, and if it dings, I’ll buy it. The dinger does not ding. So I leave it there for someone like my friend to find, someone who really loves it and wants it and will know how to fix the dinger, as opposed to someone like me who recognizes that it’s wonderful but does not really want to own it.
And then I cruise past the luggage, always hoping because well, you never know, and yes, there it is. The treasure. It’s a large mottled ivory piece of real Samsonite. I set down my glasses and my throw pillow and I swing the suitcase up on a pile of mattresses to pop the shiny brass latches, you know the kind, they are pointed at each end and you pull the lower point towards you and they pop out and up, and they both work. There is a Samsonite shield near the lock, and the initials of the original owner, AFC, as well. The interior is intact, all the taffeta lining, the ruched divider, the side pockets with their ruffles and elastic, the plastic bar to hold things down. It’s perfect and lovely and it’s marked at 6.99.
SIX NINETY NINE!!!!
Salvation Army Boutique
A find like this can keep a woman thrifting for hours. A find like this is what drew me out to the thrift stores, to be honest, because I’d stopped by the Salvation Army “Boutique” after work last night, hoping to find a vintage jewelry box for my sister. I didn’t, but I found an old frame for an old photo I already have of a towheaded child with a Prince Valiant haircut dressed in white lawn and kid maryjanes (the first name is written across the bottom of the photo–“Cleo” something–I still can’t tell if Cleo is a boy or a girl, but I love the photo), and then I found another framed sepia photo of a small graduating class in 1920-something, three rows of somber boys and girls holding rolled (I think grade school) diplomas, and then I found three old wind-up alarm clocks, three, all ivory painted metal and faded brown dials with a million keys and levers on the backs, for 3.99 each, and I bought all three and brought them home and it’s the lingering memory of last night’s finds that has brought me out today, and it could keep me thrifting all day, it’s what keeps the slots-player plugging in the coins after the jackpot has been hit, the card player meeting the ante after a spectacular hand, it’s the desire for another hit, and I could circle thrift stores all day hoping for another find like this suitcase or that Big Ben and its two lovely wind-up companions, and never find one more thing worth buying.
But I am saved from this fruitlessness by a call from Youngest. She’s awake and where am I and would I please bring her a biscuit? Of course. And so I leave the treasure hunting for the day, and return home to give her a hug and a biscuit, and listen to her make fun of her hair and hear about a very lame party she went to the night before, and then I watch her leave, leaving me alone in my home, alone, alone. I am blissfully alone to listen to music, sort out my jewelry box, work some more on my new short story, listen to CDs at any volume I like, eat Brussells sprouts for lunch, mend the broken legs on a horse netsuke, and prepare two big quiche for Sunday dinner tomorrow.
Oh, it’s a nice day. When it rains I feel cozy, and then the sun breaks through, I feel euphoric. I have listened to Brandi Carlile, and William Topley, and Mindy Smith’s newest, and now with the Ryan Adams. And you should see the suitcase.
It’s treasure, I tell you, treasure.
How are you sleeping? my friends and I ask each other with honest concern. We don’t just mean how well are you sleeping, we want to know the exact mechanism by which sleep is attained. Because we are all crazy for sleep right now.
I’ve shocked myself by sleeping steadily for the last three nights. I have a sick little dog, and she’s been waking me up for over a month with various needs and tiny but terrible episodes (she is a tiny but terrible dog, that one). But for the last three nights, she’s slept soundly. So have I.
I have waltzed into work each morning and bragged about it like a total sleep whore. Some people brag about promotions, grandchildren, vacations, sex. I brag about sleep. “I got such amazing sleep last night.” Of course, my friends are actually envious. Sleep is so elusive and alluring.
just one of the gang
Most of us have severely disrupted sleep. Much of the time it’s cats. Snoring is another culprit, our own or that of our bed partners. Then there are the hot flashes. And once we’re awake, going back to sleep is impossible. Our lives are full of midlife worries and woes that keep us up when the dreaded awakening comes at 3 or 4 AM.
One of my friends does a mental shopping trip when she can’t sleep. She imagines going through the aisles of a store, and finding things by alphabet. Like, Apples, Benadryl, Coloring book, and so on. I have tried this but I invariably start to worry about how much it’s all going to cost, just like in real life.
I have a breathing trick I do. You can read about it here: How to Fall Asleep Right Away I forget about this trick sometimes, and then remember it and think, “I might as well give it a try.” The entire time I am breathing and counting, I’m thinking how stupid this trick is, and how it will never work, and why do I even try these dumb internet things anyway, and right about then I fall deeply asleep and there you go.
insomnia and ambien
I went through a time in my life when insomnia had me in its grip. This was ten years ago, and I made the decision to start taking Ambien. Ambien is a miracle, at first. You take it and stay asleep for eight hours. For a single mother in her forties gripped with the stress of work, finances and children, that’s unheard of.
EIGHT HOURS OF SLEEP.
The problem is, of course, you can’t vary your schedule. You have to plan movie times and leave concerts early to make sure that you won’t be driving less than eight hours from when you take the miracle drug. You start arranging everything in your life so that you’re in bed with the pill on your tongue by 9:30 PM. And you get suspiciously grumpy when anything stands in your way.
There’s also the fact that you become completely addicted to this little pill. To fend this off, doctors are only allowed to prescribe you 11 pills for each 14 day period. I actually remember standing in the pharmacy tech and whining, “What am I supposed to do on the other three nights? Just not sleep?” in this horrible, crabby, mean way. It took about a month to become a complete Ambien addict, shambling around the drugstore in my yoga pants and UGGs, scowling, waiting for my scrip.
After four or five months of this mess, I decided it was time to go off. Maybe six months. So I took 2/3 of a pill each night for a while, and then I took ½ a pill, and by gosh I made it down to ¼ of a pill and was sleeping fine. I told my doctor I took ¼ a pill and she huffed, “That’s placebo effect. Go without it, you’ll be able to sleep.” And she was right.
outliving one’s usefulness
My sleeping was fine again until 2014, when I became some kind of wild-eyed hot-flashing menopausal cliché of a person. For over a year, I had ten hot flashes a night, bad ones that woke me up. I didn’t think I needed sleep so much as I needed euthanizing. Really. I would lie there and think, “Why do I need to go on? I’m clearly useless and just a drain on the world’s resources. I’ve done my part, I’m in the gene pool. Can’t someone push me over a railing and put me out of my misery?” But no one ever did.
This is a good thing, as all that passed, and I have slept decently since. Unless some little dog needs something. Or I have heartburn. Or the man snores too much. Or the moon is too bright. Or I’m in an unfamiliar bed. Or I forgot to apply my Carmex. Or…you get the picture.
As I said, none of my friends sleep well. I have friends who take Ambien, and friends who take ZQuil, and friends who take Melatonin. I have friends who swear by smoking pot, and others who swear by exercise (what is wrong with those people? the exercisers, I mean). Others drink red wine to go to sleep, which is just courting some kind of hot flash heartburn nightmare, in my book.
How about you? Are you sleeping? How are you sleeping? Tell me, friend. I care.
Poem up! A coming-of-age poem set on the Squaw Creek Ranger station outside Gallatin Gateway, Montana.
Hope you like it. Spire Rock
Oh you lucky dogs, two blog posts in one week.
We made a quick trip to Las Vegas last week. We flew out on Thursday afternoon and flew home Saturday morning, like some bizarre weirdos because who leaves Vegas on Saturday besides bizarre weirdos? Well, we did, and I was so happy to do so (see my previous post on introversion). Las Vegas is not an environment in which the introvert generally flourishes. The dinging, blinging half-life of the casino gets old fast, and creates in me an intense longing for a window that looks out on greenery.
Still, the trip was awesome. It was awesome because I was traveling with my own personal Vegas expert, who planned and executed the entire trip to rectify an omission in my life. A serious omission. A nearly inexplicable omission.
The story of that omission begins on a Montana ranger station in 1973.
That’s me, folks.
Me in all my 13 year-old glory, me with my self-cut bangs and my big-legged jeans covered with patches and embroidery, and of course, me in my tank top, because that was my favorite outfit. Jeans of enormity and texture, and as little top as possible. There were also some giant sweaters, one with a frayed heart appliqued on it, and moccasins that were somewhat too large, and a chambray shirt worn to shreds.
I actually didn’t look like that when I arrived in Montana in seventh grade. Before that, we’d been living in a tiny town in Booneville, Arkansas. I was a fairly normal seventh grader in Arkansas, wearing normal clothing, getting straight A’s, part of a family of good singers who were welcomed and utilized in choir, and called to perform at patriotic rallies and the like. Teachers seemed to enjoy me, despite my need to argue at length about why McGovern should win with my Social Studies teacher. I was liked by most of my classmates because I was funny, and pursued by older boys because I was physically mature. I was happy in Arkansas, and I liked who I was when I arrived in Montana. But a few months there turned me into someone else entirely.
How did we get there?
My dad was a forester, and his assignment took us from Arkansas to Montana. We lived in a little log house up the Gallatin River from a tiny town called Gallatin Gateway, on the Squaw Creek Ranger Station. The name has since been changed to something else (let’s all be glad together), and our little log house is gone. But Gallatin Gateway is still there.
Back then, the people who lived there called it Gateway. To me, it seemed that the adult residents were all some configuration of Christians, alcoholics and ropers (what they called themselves instead of cowboys). Whatever their children’s dreams might have been, the rigid suffocation of conservatism and poverty meant that their children were in training to be the same.
Just looking at the photo above, you can see that I fit in splendidly, yes?
But my appearance was a result, not a cause. I have never in my life been as scorned, mocked and hated as I was in Gateway, and it drove me to extremes of rebellion. I can talk about that in another post (though I probably won’t), but for now, just look at that girl and marvel that she was able to survive anywhere, let alone in a tiny K through 8 grade school of eighty kids in the mountains of Montana. How did I do it? A sweet, wise, deeply intelligent friend named Merry, and…
I had my own music, of course, leftover from teen idol worship of one longhaired guy or another. But my sister and I were outgrowing The Partridge Family and Jack Wild. We were ready to move on. We tried out where to go next with 45s galore and the occasional LP. When it came to albums, we had Cat Stevens, mostly. I was bewitched by his bearded male beauty. Whatever it is in me that loves a suffering man, it was incubated in his tortured, emotional voice.
But soon, I had a better source. My older brother was in art school in Minneapolis, and he brought home record after record. And such records they were. David Bromberg, John Prine, Jackson Brown. Joni Mitchell’s Ladies of the Canyon, Blue, Todd Rundgren’s Something/Anything, Runt, A Wizard A True Star. He would bring them home to share with me, and then he’d just leave them. Maybe he knew he’d be back home after a year. Or, just maybe, he’d watch me put a vinyl LP on the turntable of my dad’s expensive stereo, wrap those giant headphones around my ears, and escape my painful, difficult adolescent nightmare. My brother was not about to take away my magical door.
That was the year he brought home this record.
This began a love of Bonnie Raitt that has stretched through my entire life. I have almost every record she’s ever released. The first five records + Fundamental are so deeply ingrained in my brain stem that I can sing every syllable. My brother and I had a trifecta: Woman Be Wise, Give it Up, and Love Me Like a Man, him playing guitar and me singing, performed more times than I could possibly count.
I have sung her songs at karaoke and coffee shops and in acting class when we had to do some silly exercise about not breaking character. I have sung them in the shower and on my way to work and on my way home. My daughters will confirm that even though they had their own tastes and preferences, Bonnie sang the soundtrack of their childhood because I picked the music on car trips.
I bet you’re wondering about the point, here.
The point is, I mentioned to my conversational partner that I’d never actually seen Bonnie in concert. There was no reasonable explanation for it. Everyone else had seen her. People who didn’t love her nearly as well as I loved her had seen her. Sometimes, I would actually fib and say that I had seen her, because it was embarrassing that I’d never managed to see her live after all these years.
Since this was a conversation, he replied, “She’s playing at the Palms in Vegas in February. Let me do a little checking.”
This is how, last Friday night, I found myself in a nice-sized concert arena inside the Palms Resort and Casino in Las Vegas, Nevada. This is how, after forty-three years of listening to and loving Bonnie Raitt, I finally saw her take the stage for the first time. And oh, how she takes a stage.
She’s 67 years old, tiny, trim, with that silvery streak in her big red mane. Her voice is as strong as ever, her guitar work as magnificent. She did new stuff, old stuff, good stuff, fantastic stuff. She reached way back, sending me sky-high with delight with one of my old standbys, “Woman Be Wise.” She also sang the saddest song ever recorded. It’s the song my then-husband heard on his way to work that made him pull over and cry for twenty minutes because when he heard it, he understood that it wasn’t my fault that he didn’t love me anymore. It’s a song that’s almost too painful to endure when you’ve had your heart broken, but you endure it because it hurts you so beautifully.
We have all had to forgive Bonnie for that song, and we should all thank her for it, too.
And I got to see the show thanks to, and alongside, my personal Vegas expert, my conversational partner, my guy. There is no one on earth who would have made it happen so well or so fast. And there is no one in the world I’d rather have shared this experience with. Here’s a little something about my guy. He has what my friend Grant calls “tells.” Little moves and sounds that give him away completely. When Bonnie started to sing this one, my sweet man was all tells.
So sweetie, here you go. You picked it.
And for those who thought my dream-come-true might be a Vegas wedding, nope. It was Bonnie.
Introverts are rarely bored when they are alone, and often bored when in the company of other people. What interests an introvert are the contents of her own head; ideas, memories, mildly obsessional interests and crooked musings. This is why introverts all have blogs.
Introverts invented blogging. Extroverts ruined it.
The introvert has grown up hearing that she is ”aloof,” ”uncaring,” ”self-absorbed.” She is none of these and all of these. She probably bridles at being called self-absorbed, because she doesn’t think of herself as all that interesting. She doesn’t think anyone else is all that interesting, either.
Introverts greet the friendship advances of emotional extroverts, who initially bring a lot of caring and fun to the table, with confusion and some relief. These friendships can feel to the introvert like inclusion in a private, wonderful club.
The lack of emotional displays on the part of the introvert are too often interpreted by the emotional extrovert as an “all-clear” to stage some histrionics. The first time this happens, the introvert will probably fuss around and try to help. This is, after all, human nature, and polite. This gives the impression that the introvert is a good listener. The introvert actually is a good listener. She is listening to everything you say. She is also, unfortunately, listening to everything you don’t say.
Introverts are not nearly as patient as they have to be.
Eventually, if you talk about the same problem too often, the introvert will start a slight emotional withdrawal, marked by practical statements concerning your situation. The extrovert wants supportive statements. She is always confused by the emotional pragmatism of the introvert. The introvert is always confused by the conversion of friendship from spending time together based on mutual interests and enjoyment into a completely different kind of arrangement based on the introvert’s always “being there” for the extrovert.
There is possibly no one on the planet less interested in your pain than a bored introvert.
When an emotional extrovert feels inadequately heard, she might be spurred on to greater levels of agony in order to elicit a proper emotional response. This is a tactical error. While the tantrum takes place, the introvert quietly moves herself out of range. The extrovert’s pain become something happening elsewhere, an overemotional puppet show on a faraway stage.
Introverts are very good at being quiet.
What does it mean when an introvert is quiet? It depends on the introvert. Most of the time, when an introvert is quiet, it means she’s thinking. If she were interested in sharing what she was thinking, she’d probably have told you.
Occasionally, a quiet introvert is wondering what your deal is. This doesn’t mean she’s angry. If an introvert is mad at you, you’ll know. In fact, it might be scary, it will be so clear. Do not interpret silence or preoccupation as anger, unless it is also accompanied by a visible exercise of self-control. An introvert in this state is a ticking bomb and best avoided at all costs. Whatever you do, don’t try to ”talk about it.” Do not expect her to ”share,” do NOT ask what you’ve done wrong. Why? Because she will tell you.
Sometimes, when an introvert is being quiet, she’s simply thinking about how much she wishes you would be quiet. At other times, a quiet introvert is quietly studying all the exits. She is studying them in a metaphorical and a literal sense. She is also considering a tunnel. Whatever it takes.
If you are an extrovert and you notice a certain silence or wandering setting in with an introverted friend, you might think the answer is to amp up your emotional needs. I can tell you this with 100 percent conviction: whatever the answer is, it does not involve amping up your emotional needs.
Introverts enjoy quiet spaces. Extroverts fill those spaces.
Sometimes, while an emotional extrovert is rehashing an emotional event in which she perceives herself as the victim, the introvert will say something that seems uncaring. Do not ask for clarification. The explanation is bound to be even more harsh than the original comment.
Withdrawal signals what those in the introversion trade call a “sea change.” That means the introvert’s desire to be polite has been overridden by the introvert’s desire to not hear any more about the situation under scrutiny. Since the extrovert has never doubted that her emotional distress is top number one priority for the introvert, this withdrawal can occasion feelings of betrayal. Please do not take this withdrawal personally. It is simply that the introvert can no longer stand you and doesn’t know how to politely say so.
The introvert likes hugs when she’s happy, not when she’s sad.
Because the introvert is so emotionally self-contained, she is often mistaken for a person who has no emotional needs of her own. This is a misconception. The introvert has many emotional needs of her own, most of which involve you not bothering her with your emotional needs.
When an extrovert needs emotional tending, she will burst into hysterical tears and hyperventilate. When an introvert needs emotional attention, she will ask if you have any antacid. Other signs an introvert is in deep emotional distress include arriving with a bottle of wine and stressing over a misplaced back issue of the New Yorker that had a feature she wanted you to read.
Introverts almost always respond to life’s biggest blows with silent, stoic endurance. And they really, really wonder why extroverts don’t react the same way.
Once in a while, a friendship between an introvert and an extrovert survives their mutual disillusionment. It helps to live in different states. If you are an emotional extrovert who somehow has managed to remain friends with an introvert and she’s been through hell and she finally does want to talk, she does not want what she says about her life to make you cry. She also does not want you to hug her. She wishes you would knock that off and just listen. This is not about you.
Introverts can get lonely, believe it or not. This happens partly because introverts are often quietly slipping out of friendships with needy people as soon as possible, and partly because introverts are sometimes so self-contained that they forget to make friends in the first place.
Introverts have a built-in breed recognition. They are like wolves. Their packs are invisible.
Watching two introverts make friends is kind of sweet. It is a very quiet, gradual process, marked by awkwardness and the equivalent of parallel play in toddlers. When these friendship bonds finally cement, they are generally unbreakable.
A confirmed friendship between two introverts has the constancy of pi. Neither asks for much, but both would give anything. These friendships endure geographical separation and long periods of no contact. They generally take up right where they left off.
If an introvert asks you to return a book, you are dead to her.
And I am too sick at heart and full of grief to do it.
But I’m still here, plugging away at the work of my life while my country’s constitution goes up in flames. Writing, submitting poems, figuring out cover art for my next project, playing with the dogs, making dinner plans, getting snowed in and dug out.
Part of me wants to be like Achilles, to cut my hair and pour dirt on my head and drag a dead body around the city to demonstrate my grief. As much as I would like to, I can’t do it. It won’t help.
I will blog again soon. When I can bear to. Until then, hold your shield high, America.
Here’s a “beds” warning. I’m planning to offend you as gently as I possibly can.
The round bed
In a recent conversation about whether or not the kind of bachelor parodied by Austin Powers ever actually existed, I found myself discussing the round bed. In the sixties, it was the symbol of the swinging bachelor, an entirely average looking man with strange clothes who was surrounded by giddy, willing women with large hairstyles who wanted to join him in his big round bed. Was he real? My conversational partner and I remain doubtful, but round beds titillated and impressed us in our youth.
We first saw a round bed in Casino Royale (but not with each other). There a point in this movie (I think it’s in this movie) where Peter Sellers presses a button and the bedspread lifts off his round bed. After that, I forever associated the round bed with that swinging bachelor who navigated his seductions with the pushing of many buttons, buttons that managed the closing of the drapes, the dimming of the mood lighting, the volume of the slow-jazz musical selection.
As a very young man (okay, a kid), my conversational partner associated the round bed with orgies. He wasn’t exactly sure about why or how the round bed would be involved. Perhaps people were arranged on it like spokes in a wheel? But did this really increase the possible points of connection? In truth he had limited understanding of anything about orgies at that age, but the association existed.
These were definitely bachelor beds. Occasionally, though, you walked into a friend’s parents’ room and they had a round bed, and you just backed out of the room in horror because you knew what that round bed meant. Horrible.
“…the Round Bed is definitely not for squares. But active playboys (and those retired) will appreciate the potential this House of Menna exclusive represents. Your bedroom will be the talk of the town.”
Okay. But what exactly is the town going to be talking about? What is that Round Bed “potential”? Can anyone tell me? I never personally experienced one. By the time I was sharing a bed with anyone, the round bed had been supplanted in suggestiveness by…
Ah, the classic waterbed. That burnt wood sin bin.
Many thanks to the Waterbed Doctor for this fine photo.
These were some mighty beds. Oh, the painful edges (unless you had padded rails), the gold-veined mirrors and round-edged shelves, the pedestal base with drawers on the deluxe models. It was astonishing in its rustic ugliness, but this was a real piece of furniture, and it was as just as rife with suggestion as the round bed. It carried so many 1970s seduction associations– component stereo systems, pot smoking, incense, candles stuck in wine bottles, Orleans albums and so on.
(Yes, that’s Jimmy McNichol. Please note his padded rails.)
The waterbed had quite a reputation for carnal gymnastics, but it was undeserved. It was just a big, bouncy bag of water. My conversational partner and I had both had waterbed experiences (though again, not with each other). We agreed that the problem was an inability to gain the necessary purchase to make anything happen. Was one supposed to just set the bed a-slosh and then ride it out, so to speak?
“Pleasure is…a waterbed.”
Not in our experience. But it was at least comfortable to sleep in, which made it so much better than what came after.
At some point, this happened. This bed of a monk.
Those slippers kind of seal the deal there, as far as being non-sexy (please note, I wear slippers like that).
No futon on which I have ever slept is this fluffy. They have been about a half inch thick, and full of hardened cotton lumps that press painfully into my aging body. And somehow, the futon became the bed of choice for nearly every man I dated in the nineties and aughts. Sometimes the lumpy futon sat on a little wooden frame with slats, and sometimes the lumpy futon sat on the floor. This was the new bachelor bed.
Now, even though I put them in the same category, I consider the futon to be a total about-face from round beds or the waterbeds. This cotton-stuffed sleeping mat has nothing to do with imaginary seductions accomplished in remote controlled mood lighting. The futon is as sexless as brushing your teeth after a rousing session of tai chi.
I rest my case.
The futon is humorless, organic and chaste. It fits nicely in a tiny home. Ads for the futon look like this:
How very yoga.
You would never flip a switch and lift a bedspread electronically from a futon. There is no hint of satin sheets or mirrored ceilings in the futon. If you were installing a bed in your custom Chevy van with airbrushed stallions painted on the side panels, it would not be a futon. And the futon is never going to offer you a bong hit, or give you a ride home in a Camaro.
How did we come to a place where THIS is the new bachelor bed? I shudder to think of what’s coming next.
I’m just home from traveling to Cambridge, Massachusetts, which was a WONDERFUL trip. And that got me thinking about how traveling has changed for me over the years. I remembered when a friend wrote me the following email about travel plans:
My husband has this habit of trying to sew up ALL loose ends in life before going on vacation. He goes into hyper-responsible mode. His anxiety about traveling results in him cleaning the freezer, going to the Salvation Army with old clothes, you name it. It completely sucks out one of my favorite things pre-vacation, which is anticipating reckless abandon. Last night as I was lying in bed he asked me what electronics I could get ready to recycle before we leave on Thursday. I mean REALLY? Are you kidding me?
This made me smile, and it made me think about traveling with men.
The Instamatic Years
My first husband was an uber-planner. We started taking trips together in the mid-seventies, back when our travels were a violation of the Mann Act. Our planning methods seem quaint and archaic to me now. He would stop in at the AAA office and get little plastic-bound triptych maps, very detailed flip-books with all routes traced out for you. He traced our actual route with a red pen.
In a small notebook, we recorded all gas purchases (amount, price per gallon, total charges) and odometer readings for eventual gas mileage reckoning. He was happy to be the planner, and I was happy to learn how the hell to read a map, estimate distances with the rule, figure out how to backtrack when he’d charged off on a wrong turn.
Wrong turns happened because he was an aggressive driver, passing and jockeying and speeding along to get past every single vehicle he possibly could, and then I’d announce I wanted to stop, and then we’d get back on the road and he’d find all those cars and get ahead of them again. This annoying, aggressive driving style seemed to contradict the cheerful ease with which he would stop at any and every wayside, overlook, local museum, you name it, he’d stop and look at it. We’d snap photos with our Instamatic and get back in the Duster and keep going.
We traveled a great deal and on the cheap, staying at Motel 6 when we could afford it, camping or sleeping in the car when we couldn’t. We grew up and outgrew each other, but the boxes of Instamatic photos remain. In the hazy, soft tones of those old square photos, I see a chronicle of my strange and rootless teenage years, my only security the young man with the wild hair at my side.
My second husband and I jumped feet-first into parenthood within months of getting married, so we didn’t do much traveling the first years of our marriage. It took six years for us to get up the nerve and the money to start traveling, and I’d missed it. It was also quite a different undertaking, traveling with a man AND children.
For this, I had three jobs. The first job was every speck of the planning, reserving, deciding, purchasing. The second job was all the packing for myself and three kids. To do this, I kind of took a note from my first husband’s obsession with gas mileage. I would make comprehensive lists of each day’s activities and decide on outfits for each, making sure that each (somewhat matchy) group of three outfits had shoes and hair doodads to match. Outlining a novel has nothing on this.
My third job was all the child-wrangling. For the actual plane/train/automobile part of it, that meant packing special trip backpacks with books, art supplies, games, toys and snacks. All that was done to convince myself that they would be entertained on the plane, that it was actually possible to divert your children adequately so that they didn’t whine, kick, bicker,complain, cry, knock over the coffee of the person beside them, throw their dolls over the back of the seat to land in the lunch of the person behind them, wet their pants and generally make the trip into a living hell (they really weren’t that bad) (most of the time). Managing that hell was my job, as was taking care of all three kids for every minute we were at the actual vacation destination.
My second husband also had three jobs, as far as traveling. His first job was to pack his own stuff the morning of our departure, generally using as many suitcases for himself as I had used for myself and the girls combined. His second job was to haughtily and continuously complain about every single decision I had made concerning airlines, flight times, hotel reservations, and clothing worn by anyone but himself. And his third job was to take lots of breaks. Breaks for conversation with other adults, shopping, Scotch in the hotel bar, cigars by the pool, and whatever else he needed to do in order to take care of himself and make sure he had a good time, because he found traveling so stressful.
After divorcing my second husband, I discovered the joys of traveling alone.
Going solo was completely effortless, like entering a no-gravity zone. I packed light, knowing that if I forgot something, I could buy it somewhere. I drifted weightless as a cloud into airports, on and off planes, out to cabs or shuttles. If I missed a connection, I bought a cup of coffee and read a book. If I forgot to bring something, I bought it. I went to whatever restaurants I chose, and the tabs were tiny. I dawdled in museums. I slept in, stayed out late. I had forgotten that it was possible to relax on vacation, but like riding a bike, it all came back to me. Buying one theater ticket instead of four, bypassing the American Girl store entirely, spending the afternoon in bed if I was too tired to sight-see. What a luxury it was. Eventually, I actually missed my girls. That might have been the greatest luxury of all.
I also learned how to travel with my daughters. Not long after the divorce, I took the girls to Disneyland, and we had a blast. Then, they got older and could pack for themselves. If one of them didn’t bring the right thing, she could borrow it from a sister. The girls usually slept all the way wherever we were going–something magical that happens in the teen years–and they exercised autonomy and free will as far as activities once we arrived at the destination (which tended to be a lake, so, they could just go to the dock and do whatever it is teenagers do at the lake) (I didn’t need to know really) (no one ever drowned so it was fine).
And I could, as a last resort, level one of my stony gazes at whichever of my children was complaining about boredom or a sibling or the lack of a can opener and say, “You know, this is my vacation too.”
Travel with me
As I age, I find that sitting jammed into a plane seat for six hours is pure torture. The occasional offer of a glass of ginger ale and a bag of “savory snack mix” does nothing to alleviate the pain of enforced, cramped immobility, and any man who travels with me must endure my shifting, stretching, groaning.
I’m aware that I’m a sissy.
I prefer to travel in a car. Stopping at clean motels with soft beds. Listening to music I like. Enjoying the peace of the road. Conversation should be minimal and pleasant. And I will not stay in motel rooms that are creepy or gross. Don’t ask me to define “creepy and gross.” I know them when I see them. I will draw myself up with the horrified snobbery of the Dowager Countess if expected to stay in a room that is either. And the BED, what about the BED, what if the BED is HARD. A HARD BED is my worst nightmare.
And once we find a room that is to my liking, I will insist on keeping it ultra-tidy for the duration of our stay. I will talk in my sleep. I will snore. And in the morning, I will get up waaaaay too early.
I am aware that I’m impossible.
The test of travel
I believe that traveling together is a test, a crucible.
Some years ago, I went out with a man who lived up in Washington. He rode a Gold Wing, and he was incredibly funny in an entirely inappropriate way. Every weekend, we found somewhere to go. These trips flowed like long shots in movies, smooth and unbroken and entertaining. We saw each other for an entire summer of jaunts, and the ease with which we traveled together disguised the fact that we had almost nothing in common. We were both funny and tall, and that was the sum of what you could call compatibility. In case you think I exaggerate, he ripped the sleeves off his shirts, chain-smoked, enjoyed Larry the Cable Guy, and collected coffee mugs from all the events he attended for his sobriety program.
But the travel was fantastic.
I’ve had relationships cement themselves into serious, and I’ve had relationships completely fall apart on trips. The close quarters, the sheer duration of contact. It’s a killer. It’s not just men who are under examination during travel. I’m being tested, and failing.
A friend of mine took a girlfriend somewhere exotic, like Bora Bora, where they slept in open tiki huts on the beach. In HAMMOCKS. I don’t actually remember where they went, just the horrifying details, like communal meals, questionable bathroom accommodations, no WALLS, what the holy hell? He was so excited about a trip that sounded absolutely awful to me, and I kept ribbing him about it. They had a blast. He came home shouting his love for this woman to the stars. And they got married. And they are still married. Years and years later.
Whatever future travel test I have to pass, I only hope it does not involve sleeping in a hut.