November 12, 2003
Having negotiated the perilous minefield of the grocery store, I have returned with my bags of pre-culinary trophies, most triumphant! My kids are jubilant, cooing and awwing over the fresh fruit, the yogurt, the pretzels. I'm cooking dried noodles in chicken bouillon for their dinner, which is one of their favorites.
As I've mentioned a few times before, I've developed a recent, but deep affection for the show, "Judging Amy" (although as I've been making my way through the reruns - Jared is not yet dead, I've found that Amy is really starting to piss me off), particularly for Maxine Gray (Tyne Daly), Amy's social worker mother. I want Maxine to be my mother. I love her. She is so discerning and wise and able to make mistakes without having them wreck her life or change the way she defines herself. She seems very in touch with who she is and meets the changes life brings to her with occasional confusion and ultimately, acceptance and adaptation. I adore her. Some of my favorite Maxinism are here:
Maxine: "If you do it with him, it
could be fatal. He could have another heart attack. You could kill him."
(Maxine is referring to a man who Amy is considering as a suitor who has had a previous heart attack)
Amy: "But you see, Mother, the way I do it, no one has to die."
Maxine: Then youíre not doing it right.
Amy: One day Iím going to find a man who thinks Iím the meaning of life.
Maxine: Amy, donít be drippy. The best you can hope for is a man who
doesnít think about the
meaning of life when heís with you.
I also recently had the pleasure of rewatching the movie "Practical Magic." Delena saw the trailer for it and wanted to see it, so we watched it together and I remembered that I am completely infatuated with the aunties in that movie and very much want to grow up to be them. They are played with magnificent glory by Stockard Channing (who probably cringes that most of us remember her fondly and most easily as Rizzo from "Grease") and Dianne Weist (who probably cringes that most of us remember her fondly as the hapless mother in "The Lost Boys.")
I want to wear big hats and live a totally magical life and have brownies for breakfast and midnight margaritas. It feels really good to have a target to reach toward rather than just stumbling blindly into the future, unaware of what's out there for me. Their names are Jet and Frances... how cool is that? My granny's name was Mary Frances. I could be a Frances if I wanted. Maybe I'll finally be "Kat." I've hated that name forever because the people who insisted on calling me that even after I asked them not to were always people who fucked up my life in some profound way. The name does NOT have positive associations for me. >:<
Along those lines, I've met a really interesting friend. I mentioned him before (the guy who was a Merry Prankster - look it up on Yahoo) and he has continued to be a lovely accessory to our life. He has attended a couple of our circles and everyone enjoys his presence very much, including Eric. We love listening to Arnie's stories of the life he has lived. He's 72 and was a strong presence in the Haight-Ashbury scene in the late 60's as the administrator of the free clinic there. It's a period of time that has never failed to fascinate me and I love hearing about The Grateful Dead performing at his second wedding and the year he spent living in a Buddhist monastery. Again, it's nice to not be the oldest person in the bunch and to hear someone else's stories for a while.
Arnie has also been one of the "ravens" who has been taking care of us. Every time we have a tough time, I've told Eric not to worry, we'll be fed by the "ravens," which is a reference to a story in 1 Kings wherein the prophet, Elijah is fed scraps of bread and meat by the ravens after challenging King Ahab.
When things are getting really rough, little bits here and there tend to show up to keep us going. Arnie works for one of the food banks in town and recently, he has started dropping off items that they can't carry over another day and it has helped to supplement enormously.
Eric and his partner learned today that two major projects they were bidding on couldn't be awarded to them because they live too far away from the site for the insurance to support it (or something like that). He's very disappointed, but they've been able to get together a few jobs a week pick up a couple of dollars here and there. I'm completely confident that it's all going to come together like a patchwork quilt to keep us warm. :) It's said that the best indicator of future behavior is past behavior and I have no indication in the past that we won't have everything we need. I really do believe that life works toward our greatest good and this is all just a piece of it. I really appreciate the letters of encouragement I've received from all of you. Thank you so much!!
I think the hardest thing about right now is that I'm just not being entertained enough. I do require a certain degree of funnish things in my life and it's just not happening. Eric is a bit of a drag because he's always stressing out about his hunter-gatherer bullshit (he has yet to master the "tra la" method of problem management) and can't sleep and sits on the porch drinking tea and thinking deep thoughts. When he's not doing that, he's hogging my computer, writing out invoices and bids and researching the cost of equipment and irrelevant stuff like that. When my computer is in use by another human, I get extremely uneasy, regardless of what they're using it for or whether or not I need it at the time. It's like watching someone fondle my fiancť in front of me.
So I'm antsy and bored and looking for something fun to do. I can't get my writing mojo going much because I'm sound asleep by 9pm and up with kids at 6:30am, then trying to keep kids happy and house clean in the interim, having to relinquish the computer at a minute's notice, returning to have the magnificent writing bender I was on suddenly look like Greek. I need a cigarette holder, rhinestone cateye glasses and some big floppy hats.
Another thing that is seriously harshing my gig (in addition to the blinding toothache I get if I neglect to nurse off the Tylenol and Excedrin bottles every 4-5 hours) is that there is absolutely no routine in my life. I'm a creature of habit. It's a Virgo thang. We want predictability. Spontaneity = bad unless presents or lots of money or good food is involved. Then those things are only a bribe to make the spontaneous act acceptable or anything even remotely resembling entertaining. I liked it when Eric got up (before me, naturally), kissed me good-bye, trotted off to work, I got up a half hour later and got kids out the door to school, then settled into my computer for the day. I write to my heart's delight, then about a half hour to an hour before Eric is due home, I clean like mad, relight the incense and create a serene home for Monsignor to arrive home to, when I will exit the computer for a while, let Delena play on it for a while, then make a nice dinner, relax with the hubber, then maybe 2-3 nights a week, I get back on the computer around 9-10pm for some silent, solo writing without interruption. The weekends are spent taking the kids to Sunday brunch, going out to dinner with my sweetie or maybe having circle with the coven if it's Full Moon, New Moon or a holiday. The rest of the time, we relax, watch movies, write a bit and basically relax.
Now, I never know when Eric is going to work, for how long or when he'll be back. I don't know when he will go to bed at night, when he'll get up in the morning or which husband will come out of the cave when he does. Will it be the manically optimistic husband who is frantically looking for some hint or omen of good on which to hitch his wagon? Will it be the prophet of doom and gloom who is ready to douse himself in gasoline and beg me for a light? Will it be the anesthetized, numbed and dulled person, resigned to force himself begrudgingly through yet another minute of a day from hell that will never end and instead of a gift, is instead an albatross rotting around his neck that he's forced to endure for sins real, imagined or inflicted. I've worn out my "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" MP3 and minus the foxy bod to pull off a realistic, noncomedic seduction, I find that I am running low on tools of distraction. Left to his own devices, he's like a heat seeking missile, looking for tasks undone in the house to scowl about and add to his list of crimes against humanity (his). The poor man has heard "Pfft" more times than a tire gauge.
I'm not sure how, but I've got to find a way to get his zest for life on the move again. When I was a single mom and the electricity would be shut off, the kids and I would "play camping" in the living room with flashlights and Coleman lanterns. They thought it was great fun. Maybe I can convince Eric that we are craven wild folk who should dance naked under the moon and dress strangely and be as off the grid as you can get in urban Sacramento. I should create some weird cult that he and I are in where we don't give a fig about material bullshit and are all about the experience of life (...man...). We can live life moment by moment and head bang to "Sweet Home Alabama" and be Bohemian and wear our underwear backwards and spit when we talk. I can draw him into my madness, unencumbered by materialistic, capitalistic bullshit and live a life of spontaneous debauchery, of music and candle and incense and TV and dancing and weird shit!
I'm going to go draw up a list of crazy spontaneous ideas and schedule them out right now.
Sadly, after writing this, I'm a bit weary. Maybe I can schedule out the bacchanalian free for all tomorrow...
(Soon to be the "Eccentric Auntie Katrina")
(I think I must be channeling Sage or something)