A Disorganized Mess!

I’m throwing papers in heaps on the floor; shifting part of one heap over to a fresh heap. Then starting a new messy pile that will escalate into an actual heap. Wildly I throw old papers into the trash bag, before clawing through the mess to retrieve the same articles as though I am some deranged crazy old lady. [No comments, please.]

I’m ripping files from out the bottom desk drawer, can’t find the right one. Damn, is the missing file in one of the storage boxes out in the garage? So angry at myself for being wantonly disorganized. Opening files, closing files, opening the same file again by accident, searching and searching for the — shit, damn! What am I searching for? I forget! I am really losing it. Why is it so difficult for me to put things back where I found them? Instead, my life is a constant treasure hunt; no, more likely a Wild Goose Chase. Oh, right, right, right: my assignment is to find our tax documents from last year. Where are they? My brain hurts. And now, I am feeling sorry for myself, so I go downstairs to pop a Klonopin. Wash it down with the wine left over in the kiss-stained glass from last night. I would really prefer a much stronger remedy to my anxiety, but sometimes you just have to make do.

Since I’m in the kitchen, maybe I should empty the dishwasher so I can fill it with this sink of dirty dishes. No, stay on track. This stupid document is crucial. My brain truly feels like it could explode. I always get this way when I can’t locate my keys or my cellphone or my very important tax documents. And then, this vision flashes: the photo of the skulls that I once saw, long ago, in a National Geographic magazine. These ancient skulls had quarter-sized holes drilled in them, perhaps to release the bad spirits that were causing severe headaches or behavioral problems, in much the same way that some modern irrational people, such as myself, would behave 2,000 years into the future. This drilling of holes was called “trepanning”. The point that most impressed me in this article was that several skulls had more than one hole drilled. The logical conclusion was that these primitive doctors must not have killed off all of their patients, and so some of these desperate, agonized clients came back for more.

There are times that I wish someone would drill a hole in my head to let loose the kraken.

But I snap back to attention and run upstairs to grab another file folder. I open this file and oh, my heart! I feel a smile advance across my pinched face as I drift down to the floor, sitting cross-legged and getting too comfortable, because this one file, incorrectly labeled “Banking Shit”, suddenly blooms with years of my kids’ school photos. Look at those beautiful faces, they were such gorgeous babies. Maybe I should finally put these into a photo album. The little boys are now grown men. It’s a mess that begs me to do something about it. I plead with myself: Not now! Focus. Jeez, that’s what gets me into these predicaments. Ping-ponging from one task to another is so exhausting. I just want to find the stupid forms and be done with it. No. I am certain that I can’t do this anymore. I quit. I’ll look for them again tomorrow, when I’m feeling more in control.

A Day in the Life.

In which my brother almost gets our dad arrested.

It was the early 1970’s and the family had tagged along with my father on his European speaking tour. We were three siblings, 14, 12 and 10 going through the throes of adolescence, which is never a pretty sight. I think I may have contributed to my mom’s constant eye twitch, because at that age everything elicited a seriously melodramatic reaction from me. [And as I was to later learn the hard way, Moms make the best target. Karma, you bitch!]

My father was well-respected in his field, and if the Rolls Royce waiting at the train station was expecting an American version of the Royal Family, well, the chauffeur and host were about to be sadly disappointed. We tumbled out of the train, looking mighty worse for the wear. I wore my angst on my face as a scowl, my brother had a gap in his smile from a lost permanent front tooth (how it came to be lodged in the head of a shorter classmate is another story). My sister was still pouting the absence of Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes in all of these obviously sub-par restaurants that should have been stripped of their Michelin stars for this abomination.

We had been staying in various Ritz-Carleton’s, not our usual Howard Johnson’s with a roll-out cot. We were soon deposited in a beautiful historic hotel in some old German city. My parents had a gorgeous suite and the children were relegated to the smaller room next door. We were ecstatic! Our own room? My sister began jumping on the bed while my brother went on a search and rescue mission, opening every drawer, every cabinet. On cue, I stared moodily out the windows, wondering who else had sat in that exact place over time and if their ghost was still hovering nearby.

Suddenly, a “WHAT????” was heard from my brother. Baby Sis and I went to join him, but he slammed the bathroom door in our face. “What did you find?” we squealed, but he was silent. Finally he opened the door and we could see that his face was frozen in shock. He slowly pointed to the opened cabinet drawers under the sink. There sat a pile of magazines. We gathered around them and our faces froze in similar shock: these were Naked Lady magazines!! Oh, my, goodness … or not. We laughed and giggled our way through the pages until we heard our parents knocking at the door.

“It’s dinner time, kids,” mom advised us.

“NO!” we responded in unison.

You could just see her and dad exchanging looks. Dad rattled the door knob, “Open this door now,” he demanded. He was tired and hungry and in no mood for sassy kids. So, my brother slowly unlocked and opened the door.

“What is going on in here?”

“Nothing.”

But mom had already looked over our shoulders and saw the pile of magazines. She started to walk over, obviously puzzled as to their origins. We screeched and ran to cover them up, but it was too late! “Where did you get these?!” and my brother explained that they had been in plain sight … if you crawled into the cabinet and scrunched behind the plumbing.

The General Manager was simultaneously notified, horrified and mortified. He came to apologize and to confiscate the pornography, but my brother refused to give it up. The rest of us were welcomed to take the soaps and shampoos for our souvenirs: but the magazines were his alone. My parents said they would deliver the magazines later, but let’s go eat dinner now.

~~~~~~

We were packing to leave, and Dad happened to glance through my brother’s suitcase. He thundered at him, “Are you crazy? Were you really going to try to sneak these magazines back home?” My dad was furious, confiscating the porn for good. He and mom were beside themselves: “Do you kids realize what would have happened to your father if he were caught TRANSPORTING PORNOGRAPHY INTO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA??” My dad was clearly traumatized at the vision of the newspaper photos showing him being led away in handcuffs for a crime he clearly hadn’t committed. And how close it had been to reality, had he not happened to sneak a peek into his son’s luggage. I think that was the last European vacation that we took as a family. In fact, I am positive.

Total, complete excitement!

This is a call for help! It is time for all bloggers to pull together and help a fellow blogger in need! I have just had a short essay published on Parent Co. and you get paid according to the number of reads, shares, likes, etc. My essay is about watching a meteor shower, one autumn night with my two young sons. Please check it out … I won’t earn enough to take you all out to a nice dinner, but you will earn my eternal gratitude. That’s pretty cool.

Thank you. Now, here is the link:

http://www.parent.co/waking-up-for-wonder-the-night-my-boys-will-always-remember/

My Hispanic Angels

Some people are born with certain skill sets. They have an ear for learning new languages, or are musical, or athletic. I was born with the ability to get hopelessly lost no matter how detailed the set of directions. It’s in my family gene pool.

One evening, I needed to drive a mere 29 miles from suburbia to dinner in Miami Beach, Florida. I don’t know what went wrong, but I somehow exited the highway and landed in an area where English was a foreign language. Every billboard, every sign was in Spanish. I located a gas station to ask for help. Neither the manager nor I had any command of the other’s language. I watched as he walked over to two cars of women filling up their gas tanks. They began talking about me, I surmised, because he kept pointing at me and saying, “oh Dios mio”. I knew then that I was in trouble.

The women left their cars to gather around me. I was so relieved to hear English, until I understood their message: “You are not safe here.” “Do not look at that truck with the smiling men. Do not look at them!!” “Bad men are all around here.” The leader said to me, “We are worried for you. Get in your car. We will take you to the highway.” I was amazed at their kindness, but they shrugged that women should always help each other. Then, we formed a caravan with one car leading me and one car following. They were not taking any chances of me getting lost again. Ahead was the entrance to the highway. They pointed and honked and waved, and made certain that I was safely on my way.

Mis ángeles hispanos. My Hispanic Angels. Thank you for taking care of this directionally-handicapped lady, otherwise, I would still be lost today.