I find myself with a lot to say and no real time in which to say it. When did that happen? Much of my carpal tunnel problems and almost immediate numbness when I go to write by hand on paper (a way around not having access to a computer, at least in days past) are attributable to endless writing sessions. Staying up late while my son was young, even though I’d known he was an early riser and that I was going to have to drown in coffee, both at night and in that early morning, to stay awake ~ I had to get my thoughts, my stories, my observations, (dare I call them witticisms?) on paper. Nowadays I go MONTHS, literally, without the slightest word on my blog. Instead I keep a list of topics that I write about in my head driving home from school nights, or riding the bus from work or some other such contemplative time. Home has become a sleeping, eating, dressing/undressing, and homework place. I relax through on-line pursuits, like Facebook, taking Harris Polls, and the occasional Solitaire game. (I don’t play Free Cell anymore, I couldn’t do it without keeping track of the games I’d already played, and couldn’t stop playing a game until I’d beaten it. Got that out of my system, doesn’t hold any charm for me anymore)
But I have a lot to say. I want to talk about how blackberry picking was the highlight of my summer, ab out old friends, new bicycles, lunches my mother packed for me as a child, my lifetime hospital experiences, how my partner and I discovered Bariactric Donuts this last year, how this Fall has been one of the most beautiful, colorful shows of natural wonder and glory I’ve seen in many a year; how pets and their owners begin to resemble and behave like one another, about what it was like working the graveyard shifts for the first time in my life (though balloons used to happen all night, we just didn’t get extra pay or any kind of breaks, but that in and of itself is a NOVEL, not a blog entry). I want to talk about the noises the car makes, how I believe my parents only really loved my two oldest brothers, what the “Deaf Expo” was like, and what my theories are about my Mother and the way she treats me and my son. I want to get up on my “soapbox” and go OFF about elderly drivers / “scooters”, the smells and racket-noise on a job site, and the abysmal failure of the American election system.
Question is, what do I start with? Do I go with what’s immediate, the stolen elections, the fund-raising that could SO be better spent on real causes like medical research, homeless help, health care for the poor, and finding alternative fuels and actually putting them into action? And then work backwards toward summer? Or do I start with blackberry picking, smiling, the sun warm on my shoulders, the bees buzzing around us, my wrist numb from holding the bucket for such a time (more evidence of repetitive strain injuries), and then work my way forward to present day?
What about random stuff from years ago? My highly unusual ballooning experiences, working in an industry that didn’t exist before us, doing it first and from the tender (cocky, selfish, immature) age of 12 – on. I have a wealth of stuff there. What about stories from Chad’s growing up? I’m the vessel of those stories, they will die with me if I don’t write them down (again, in some cases ~ many were lost in the fire) someplace! What about funny stories about my childhood growing up largely alone and often very lonely? Or perhaps I can launch into the sad, uncomfortable stories that shaped my youth and ultimately who I am today, the demons I battled, feeling sure the experiences I’d had were not anyone else’s, and made me purely unlovable, undesirable, and surely would be the deal-breaker should they surface at ANY time during the relationship, friendship, etc, with ANYONE. What about that?
Instead, I pose my quandry, in over 600 words, and wonder how it is that anyone gets anyone else to read their blog and comment on it. Does one have to use words like President-Elect Obama? Saudi Arabia? New Orleans? I don’t know why that’s even necessary or desirable, except for my constant and sad need for approval by and acceptance from others, even strangers. What’s THAT about?
I will say I miss my father, I love my son, I’m terribly sad that my son doesn’t get the love and attention from a father-figure, I miss my Aunt Gloria and my Grandma Peters (Americanized version). I wonder if I’m ever going to FEEL like an electrician, and not someone wearing a costume, a fake, an imposter to be discovered and shamed and shunned. I wonder if I will ever get to see Kory again, and how I will ever be as wonderful to my life partner as she has been to and for me. I miss my house in Minnesota, I miss Loring Park, the bookstore, the cafe, and especially the mighty Mississippi River. I don’t miss the danger, the dearth of happiness in my job then, the back-biting and secretive old boys club that was Graybar Minneapolis (and probably still is,) though a couple of people were trying to help me, give me a chance, encourage me, and break the bad cycle. I still miss the grocery stores and the parks, if that isn’t too dumb. Downtown Minneapolis, Foshay Tower and the “Birthday Cake Building.”
So many things were so long ago, it’s hard to remember. It’s why I think I should start recounting things that happened today, and work backwards, because I do not know how much I will retain about ANYTHING this far from it. So far it makes for a really disjointed, and probably to the reader, very unsatisfying, but to me it’s the kind of stream-of-consciousness that really helps me. Some things are so very clear, from years ago, that it seems as though they just happened. Pieces of things come back to me, and I have to write down some stuff because it’s really not something I can squeeze into conversation anywhere. Interesting, just not really relevant or pertinent to the shopping list, to Grounding and Bonding, to gas economy, human rights, the tallest building in town, or coffee grounds.
I chose the title because I never got out, never got “around” even when youth was on my side. I stayed home nights, in front of TV, yes, I drank alone, I didn’t like talking to people on the phone on my own time when I started working at Candela in the mid 80s because it was so constant in my work day. Later my phone exposure was less, but I really enjoyed writing letters. My letter writing skills were honed writing to my Aunt Gloria and Grandma in New York as a kid. I wrote to Julianna Williams as she traveled all over the country. I used letters to further my career, to talk with civil servants about snow removal responsibilities, to get stuff done, and to convey love, and obsession, which filled my closeted little life for most of my youth (my youth, I estimate, ended at about 30) Not that I’m old, I’m just in-between. Once you’ve had a baby, worked for about 17 years, own a house and drive a minivan, the youth just isn’t there, not in spirit, not for me anyway. It’s not to say I never sowed any wild oats, either, because I sowed a few. I have friends still who will attest to it. And other things no one will ever know about, they will die with me, and that’s just fine.
I don’t get around much, don’t get to the Saturday dance, don’t even get to the movies out more than a couple of times a year. My vacation this year was broken up in the middle by the death of my Dad, and though the people we were visiting were awesome, I can’t say it didn’t take some of the shiny off of it for me. I was having such a good time, relaxing for the first time in such a while, and our hostess was amazing. I just felt at sea. I still do. My Dad was my only connection to California, to what was going on, what the family was up to, doing, achieving, marrying, divorcing, etc. It’s like when you go for weeks without any messages on your answering machine, you know? It’s kinda sad, kinda depressing, and kind of telling.
Perhaps I just really never wanted to get around much. When I went to the Saturday dance, my social ineptitude glared so badly that I drank myself sick. I don’t remember a fun time that was a sober time, except for a couple of times going places with my freshly-sober alcoholic brother, but those times didn’t feel so much fun as they felt like a sort of obligation. Maybe because what I really wanted was a girl, and where we went, there were only boys for me. The relationship between my brother Whit and I could fill several volumes of text, so I best only strum that string for a moment, lest I am writing all night.
So I’m happier at home, I have the grrrl I was secretly hoping for, I have the kitties I always wanted as a kid, I get to eat what I want, watch on TV what I want, listen to Swing Time music Saturday nights, read what I want, wear, for the most part, except at work, what I want, and come and go as I please. Perhaps the happy up-beat tempo of the song excerpted in the title chosen is more telling than I realized. On the other hand, maybe a cigar is just a cigar.
Peace to you all, unless you are gay, you are not allowed to have peace, as you are less human than any other people in America. Yes, I’m bitter and pissed off that I still belong to one of the last accepted, allowed minorities to legally and socially be discriminated against in this country. I know, trying to conclude this gracefully, and yet launching into another heavy topic on which I have a LOT to say. Still, think about that while I await another opportunity to blog, which, at this rate, may either be over the holidays, or sometime in February. In the mean time, I will be at home, fireside, with a kitty in my lap, a song in my ears, and likely a book or magazine in my lap, my partner by my side, my son probably out getting around, because he’s much more social than I EVER was. And that, my dear readers, is how it should be, in MY life.