Mom-Up!

A friend of mine is being stalked by a mixed up ex-friend in college. 

The stalker has a history of troubles, and has been diagnosed, medicated, and locked up, but is currently off his meds, and on his own. In discussions of restraining orders and such, the conversation often turns to questions about his mother...

Where the hell is she and what is she doing about her son?

I feel for the mom. I had a paranoid schizophrenic uncle who blamed and tormented my mom all his life. Their own mother was dead, or I assume he would have blamed her instead. But my mom had to take her mom’s place. My childhood memories of my uncle’s calls and visits were of my mom’s helpless despair. 

That was when I learned that untreated mental illness was wildly contagious and could burn through an entire family, bringing the household to its knees. As a kid I only wished my uncle would get hit by a truck.

 

Every time my uncle got a new case worker, they’d call my mom wondering how any sister could be heartless enough to let her own brother wander around being so miserable and crazy. 

They’d barely conceal their contempt for her. 

After they’d tried to help him for a while, however, the accusatory calls would slow and eventually cease. There would be peace, until my uncle was either arrested again, or got a new case worker some other way. Then the shame and guilt inducing calls would begin again. Even the hospice nurses on his death bed judged us harshly.

So, where do I get off asking about this stalker kid’s poor mom? You’d think I’d take pity on her, and I do. But still, I believe there's a difference between sisterhood and mother hood.  

As my own mom once said; “You belong to your child from their first breath to your last.” There's no time off.

On one hand, I hate it that mothers get blamed whenever their kid does anything bad.

 On the other, I don't think moms are allowed to shrug and walk away. 
The stalker's mom doesn't get to say, "I tried, but this is hard and my kid is a mess, so I give up." Giving up on your kid is not an option.

Elsewhere in the news, (this may seem unrelated, but it's not) I recently had a gig teaching writing to "at risk teen girls." Today I learned that one of those girls, age 16, 17 at the most, has just become a mother.
  

To me this kid had seemed like an immature, semi-pathetic but not quite tragic girl with a crappy family and no particular skills or dreams. I know there are wondrous stories of people turning their lives around, but it’s hard for me to imagine this particular kid having what it takes to do much besides whine.

True, some moms leave their babies in dumpsters. Some species eat their young and there are times in every mother’s life when she totally gets why some moms run away from home. But for the most part, some super strength kicks in, and moms pull on their mom-pants, and do their best.  

I just hope my ex-writing student can Mom Up when needed. 

And I hope the mom of my friend’s stalker will, too.

xo Amy

By Self!

After my daughter's graduation I crawled into bed and watched home movies. On the screen, an earlier version of the same daughter fumbled with her chubby baby hands, determined to zip her own jacket. 

"By self!" she'd insisted in toddler duck-speak, shunning any assistance. "BY SELF!" 

As a broke, newly minted college grad, she'll now have the chance to do plenty 'by self.' Looking around, however, it's clear that many otherwise independent adults want the least 'by self' possible. 

 Pedicure from my point of view "Thuy!" by Debra Blake

Although we are well and capable, we hire people to wash and dry our hair. We pay strangers to file and paint our nails, to massage our naked flesh with oils, to pluck or shave or rip unwanted hair from our faces and bodies, to spray on our tans, to clean our homes, wash our clothes, sweep our walks, cut our lawns, and park our cars.

Eventually, many of us will have to hire strangers to feed, bathe and dress us, but I doubt we'll be all that proud or happy about it. I suspect that we'd much prefer to wipe our own asses, and in moments of lucidity  will long to proclaim 'BY SELF!' once more. 

From wee babes who insist on zipping their own jackets -- to befuddled elders flummoxed by button holes -- and everything in between -- aren't we quite the critter?

xo Amy

Mothers

I have nothing against motherhood -- it's the holiday that pisses me off.

Anne Lamott wrote more or less the same thing I was going to write for mother's day.

My point was gonna be that Mother's Day (like so many other holidays) causes more pain on average than joy, and that all days that are designed to leave people out, or make them feel like shit, would be banned from the world I rule.

Meanwhile, here's Ann's post:

http://www.salon.com/2010/05/08/hate_mothers_day_anne_lamott/

and that is all.
xo Amy

Seething-with-hatred blog

If you’ve ever waited for medical test results for yourself or someone you love... 

And had the business day end with no one bothering to call you with those results... 

And if the next day no one returned your messages.

And the office closed, without word... 

Than you know how frustrated and furious I am.

How dare they be so cruel?

So cavalier?

So utterly unthinking?

I know it’s not fair to judge the entire medical establishment by a few utter shit-balls... 

And I suppose it is remotely possible that some people in medicine might not be reprehensible assholes... 

So, instead of wishing slow, writhing agony on all of them...

I restrict this curse to every doctor, technician and nurse who ever left a patient dangling, frightened and powerless... 

prolonging their patients' suffering...

I dearly hope they soon find themselves stuck for a nice long time in that patient’s place of extended emotional agony and uncertainty. 

That’s fair, isn’t it?

Amy 

World Book Night II

Dears, I HATE to miss it, but I'm outta town this year during WBN. So, am posting a rerun of last years WBN blog in case you're interested.
Lots of Love, Amy

Here's all I knew about World Book Night, when I applied on-line to be a book giver --  I'd be volunteering to hand out 20 copies of one of 30 titles especially printed for this event, authors foregoing royalty, publishers foregoing profits, everyone just spreading a love of reading to people who don’t normally have easy access to books. The idea was to hand out a half a million free books, in 6,000 towns and cities across the country, all on the same day.

On the application I said I’d leave the books on park benches and bus stops & I chose to pick my books up from Vroman’s, an independent book store where I teach. Picking the book was a little harder, it was a great list.  

I decided not to do a teen book, because that was too close to my real life. So I chose Tim O’Brian’s brilliant Vietnam novel The Things They Carried, because I could remember exactly where I was when I’d read and loved it many years ago, and for a compulsive reader like myself, that’s saying something.

I’d asked a few friends if they wanted to give away books with me. Many said they’d love to, but it ultimately whittled down to one pal saying she'd try to join me for an hour or so in the late afternoon, and my husband agreeing to go with me at night.

I pictured one of us driving the get-away car, trolling the streets, slowing by a park bench and idling while the other one pops out, places the book at a tempting angle, and we zoom away.

That brings us to World Book night - day.  It was rainy as I drove to Pasadena to pick up my box of books. I figured I’d stop on the way back and get plastic bags to wrap each book in.  In my minds eye, however, they looked a whole lot less tempting in bags on soggy benches.   

At Vroman’s will call, I was given a small black pin with white letters that said, World Book Night, Book Giver, April 23, a xeroxed thanks and congratulations, a sheet of hints and reminders of no significance, and, ta-da! My box of books!

I tore it open the second I got back to the car. Then pulled out of the parking lot, suddenly so giddy, that I rolled down the window and offered a book to the first person I saw. 

“Want a free book?” I called out through the drizzle to a guy waiting at the light. His eyes darted for a second, but then he shrugged, “Sure,” and stepped closer to take the copy I was waggling out the window. 

“It’s World Book Night!” I shrieked in explanation.

I pulled away, thrilled with my first triumph, until I realized he'd been wearing a snazzy bright green jogging kind of thing and was probably a rich Cal Tech student with more books in his library than I had in mine. 

I had to be more selective. But really, my adrenalin was pumping and I suddenly knew how Santa must feel with his big bag of presents. 

So, too excited to wait, never mind my plans to take people with me later, I immediately got on the freeway and headed straight for Skid Row. 

As I drove, ok, sped, I decided two things. 1.) I would pace myself and only give out 10 of my remaining 19 books down town, saving eight for my originally planned park benches and bus stops.  And 2.) There’d be no more impulsive giving to people who might possibly be rich.

But as I got off the freeway at Hill I had to stop myself from rolling down the window at every light and hysterically hurling books at whoever passed by. I did let myself give one out at a light in China Town, but then I took myself firmly in hand and sternly reminded myself to face the grim reality of already being down two books. 

I found a parking meter a block and a half before the mission on 6th. I only had enough change for 15 minutes, so I hastily stuffed eight books in my purse and two under my arm, and hit the street. 

A few dampish folk, sitting beside their blue-tarp tents said, “no thanks,” or “I’ll get it next time,” but others accepted my books with pleasure. Some looked a teeny bit suspicious, one asked if the book was of a “biblical nature.” But in no time my ten books were gone.  I hadn’t even made it all the way to the mission, where a crowd of rain-soaked people were waiting outside. 

I  returned to my car and dealt a few more books out to people passing by. One woman pulled the book she was reading out of her cart to show me that she was almost done with it. Another told me he didn’t want a Vietnam story, “Vietnam was boring.”

Good! I thought. I'm giving way too many out down here anyway. But trying not to give any more away, was like trying to save the last few cookies for later. Ha! The next guy who passed wanted one.  And then, there were only two left.

I’d wondered earlier if it would be considered stealing for me to keep one commemorative copy, since this was a special one time printing, and the first World Book Night in the States, and all... But fate answered for me, as the last book left my hand. 

My parking meter hadn’t even run out, and all I had left was my Book Giver pin, which I hadn’t even put on yet, and an empty cardboard box that I’d bequeath to my Guinea pig as a new hidey-hole when I got home. My World Book Night -- over by noon!

xo

amy

P.S The WBN facebook page is full of great stories. 
 https://www.facebook.com/worldbooknightusa

Garden War!

I woke with a constellation of scabby, pustules oozing across my face.  A ghastly scroll through google image showed that rashes exist on a continuum, from a scattered few bumps to a full body take-over of icky raw hideousness. 

Am I using a new soap? No.

Shampoo? Laundry detergent? Lotion? No. No. No.

Did I eat something weird? No. 

Not that I can remember what I ate or where I went yesterday... 

Oh wait. Yesterday I worked in 

(cue ominous music)

THE GARDEN!

Was there some misunderstanding?

Did my plants read my puttering ministrations as a slashing sap-bath of horror? 

Could they, in their photosynthesizing-paranoia, interpret my weeding and re-potting as going hostile with the trowel? 

Is this out-break on my face their REVENGE seeping pure hatred from my stinging pores! 

If so --- Hear this, you spiny spiteful cacti & flesh-eating succulents: 

While you plot my itchy demise and plan for the glorious composting of my flesh, know that even poisoned and disfigured 

this is a desert and I control the HOSE!

Amy   

The Bad End

I seem to have a blog-rant against books with lousy endings on a five month cycle. I guess that's how long it takes for my reading toxins to build to rupture, as a reader, as a writer and as a writing teacher. 

So many books begin with great premise, interesting characters, compelling situations... But no matter how much fun we have splashing around in dialog and plot twists, eventually we’ve all got to put our pants back on and get out of there. 

Why is it so hard to do so with grace?

When a real-life relationship ends, the other manifestations of life go on. Even broken-hearted, we continue our involvement with breathing, with the production of mucus, with blood circulation. These activities may be affected by the ending of the relationship; We can’t eat -- or can’t stop eating. We can’t sleep -- or can’t stop sleeping, but still, we continue to pee. 

When a reader's relationship with a book ends, however, everything must cease. Even the indulgence of an epilogue must eventually stop peeing. 

But how?

We can’t just stop writing, and pretend the dog ate the last few pages. 

The main character’s suicide or murder isn’t the universally appropriate conclusion. Nor can we always end things with a tsunami, apocalypse, or catastrophic coronary event even if foreshadowed by the character’s poor diet and slovenly life style...

Many otherwise competent writers opt for selecting one of the Ever-Populars from the Auto-Ending list:  It was all a dream, or the ugly duckling / swan thing, or a revealing death bed confession of all missing facts, the radical personality transformation from good to evil... Or, a hail of bullets / backing out with guns blazing to ride into sunset, or, the tried-and-true cliff hanger.

BUT to quote myself from my November 7, 2012 blog rant:

A gift from Sally!

And I agree with myself to this day;  Shitty endings unravel all the charming character construction, clever world-building, and compelling insights, and leave the reader PISSED OFF. Resentful of any emotional involvement with the characters, regretting the time invested reading to the end, wishing revenge on the author who cheated us out of a clean, believable honest end.

A good book DESERVES / CRIES OUT FOR / DEMANDS -- a good ending. Not a punchline, but the inevitable ending that the author had been building toward, steadily and invisibly from the novel’s first breath. 

Is that too much to ask? To read such an ending? To write one?

Sigh. 

And yes, ending a blog with a sigh is crap, too.

xo

Amy