Ah, Spring! Achoo!

Katie's homework for this weekend:

Go on a walk and use your senses to observe signs of spring.  What changes do you see taking place?  What do you hear, see, smell, taste, and feel during spring?  Complete the following sentences:

Katie's answers:

I hear birds chirping in the spring.

I see clear sidewalks in the spring.

I smell flowers in the spring.

I taste Benadryl grape medicine in the spring.

I feel a breeze in the spring.

As a fellow allergy sufferer, my favorite answer is #4.  I wonder if we can get Benadryl to pay for the advertisement?

The Taste of Lipstick

I am 42 years old.  When I was 13 I started wearing makeup every day.  I refused to leave the house without first "putting on my face".  I come from a long line of beauticians.  My mom's mom owned a beauty parlor.  My mom got her cosmetology license while she was still in high school.  Even my brother seriously considered getting his cosmetology license.  It was the serious part he couldn't abide, so he never made it official, but he colors his wife's hair and knows his way around a pair of shears.  My sisters, all three of them, take good care of their hair and know how to apply makeup like professionals.  Beauty is a big deal to my family.

For many years I went along with them.  My grandmother bleached my "mousy" brown hair when I was an anorexic eleven year old.  She thought I was sad that my once naturally blonde hair was darkening as I got older and that I had become anorexic to "get attention."  What better way to give a girl attention than to color her hair, she thought.

This is what I look like now.

Brown hair with natural blonde, red, and yes!--even grey--streaks.  No hair coloring.  No makeup.  I didn't even brush my hair.  I washed it with the most unsexy shampoo of all: Selsun Blue.  I did not condition it.  When I ran out of conditioner recently and I was too busy writing to go to the store to buy some, I discovered that I like the natural wave my hair takes when it's not weighted down by unnatural oils.  I washed my face and my body with Whole Foods' store-brand soap, Verve, because it doesn't make my rosacea flair and my husband gets a 20% discount for working at Whole Foods.  I put nothing on my face other than soap and water.  Lotions and makeup sting.  And even if they didn't, I've gotten to the point in life where I just can't be bothered.  I'm too busy to worry about my looks.

Will thanks me.  He says, "I never liked the taste of lipstick anyway."

I Am the Lucky Owner of David Sedaris’ Giant Pimply Ass

David Sedaris is a big ass writer.  

Sedaris’ latest book, to be released April 23rd, is a collection of essays entitled Let’s Explore Diabetes with Owls.  WTF?  What does that title even mean?  I don’t know, but it brings a smile to my face as I ponder its hilarious absurdity.  Quintessential Sedaris.  On Friday, April 19th, people will pay between thirty-eight and fifty-five bucks to reserve a seat in an auditorium in Salina, Kansas to listen to Mr. Sedaris read.  If you’d like to join them, visit The Stiefel Theatre for the Performing Arts’ website here: http://www.stiefeltheatre.org/

This brilliant man has figured out a way to get Americans to gather at the center of the country to listen to him read.  Read.  And pay him for the pleasure.  Social critics bemoan our culture’s collective crassness.   We watch too much TV.  We’re addicted to our stupid smartphones.  And yet it is in this dank atmosphere that David Sedaris has found his following.  In Salina, Kansas.  For fifty-five bucks.

I’m proud to say I’ve been a fan for years.  In fact, I am the lucky owner of David Sedaris’ Giant Pimply Ass.  And I got it for free.

I waited in line over an hour to have Sedaris sign my copy of his book, Naked. It was at the Barnes and Noble on the Plaza during the late Nineties.  I had dragged my friend Brent with me to the reading, but he refused to wait in line afterwards to get an autograph, so I stood there feeling dorky by myself.

There were probably fifty fans waiting to get their books signed.  Sedaris chit chatted with everyone.  Except me.  When it was my turn to approach the signing table, Sedaris asked for my name.
"Becky," I squeaked. Mousy me.
He said nothing, but he grinned for a long uncomfortable moment.  My heart felt like it was trying to push itself outside my body. I didn't know what to say. Sedaris began writing, his pen held so loosely in his hand it looked like he was doodling.
He handed me the book.  I managed a barely audible, thank you, and made my way through the crowd to the door.  The cold wind felt good on my hot face.  I found a spot against the building and cracked open the book to see what message this big ass writer left me.
And there is was.  A giant, pimply ass.

I laughed out loud and I didn't care who heard me. And that’s what’s so good about Sedaris. That’s how he draws crowds to Salina, Kansas. No matter who you are, or what situation you find yourself in, he’ll make you laugh. Out loud. Outside yourself. He’ll get you to pay attention to some detail in life that’s kind of embarrassing and definitely weird and always hilarious. He hands over a giant pimply ass when you least expect it and somehow, it’s exactly what you need.

Katie's Adventure with The Legend of Zelda Continues

Epona in Hyrule Field by Katie Carleton

  

Katie reading The Legend of Zelda Ocarina of Time Vol 2 by Akira Himekawa

Link and Katie Are Best Friends by Katie Carleton

Shulamith Firestone: There But for the Grace of My Social Support System, Go I

The New Yorker published this amazing tribute to radical feminist writer Shulamith Firestone, who was found dead face-first on her tenement floor last August.  Crazy.  Starved.  Alone.

How could this happen?  Where was her family?  Where were her friends?  How could someone who influenced social change have ended her life with such shitty social support?

I read the story, thinking the whole time, there but for the grace of my social support system, go I.  

I am so thankful for Will.  I am so thankful for Katie.  I am so thankful for my loving family, my supportive friends.  Sisters...and brothers.  I am thankful for you.  You have no idea how easily I could be this woman--crazy, starved, alone.  Dead,  flat on my face, forgotten.

This last part, referring to Firestone's funeral, kills me:

Firestone was buried, in a traditional Orthodox funeral, in a Long Island cemetery, where her maternal grandparents are interred. Ten male relatives made up a minyan. None of her feminist comrades were invited. “At the end of the day, the old-time religion asserted itself,” Tirzah said. Ezra gave a eulogy. He lives in Brooklyn, where he works as an insurance salesman, but he hadn’t spoken to Shulamith in years, and he broke down several times as he told how she, more than anyone else in the family, had tended to him as a child and taught him compassion. He recalled a story she told him when he was a boy, about a man on a train who realized that he had dropped a glove on the platform and, as the train left the station, dropped the other glove from the window, so that someone could have a pair. Then he lamented Shulamith’s “tragic” failure to make a “good marriage” and have children “who would be devoted to her.”

When Tirzah’s turn came to give a eulogy, she addressed Ezra. “I said to him, ‘Excuse me, but with all due respect, Shulie was a model for Jewish women and girls everywhere, for women and girls everywhere. She had children—she influenced thousands of women to have new thoughts, to lead new lives. I am who I am, and a lot of women are who they are, because of Shulie.’ ”

We are who we are because of the people who love us.  Shulie won't be forgotten.  Firestone left behind her creation, her writing, for us to absorb and pass on to the next generation.

Bless you, Shulamith!  Rest in peace.

Pop Culture Illiterati

Before you start leaving an argument in the comments section below, let me share this video clip of an excellent BBC interview with theoretical physicist Dr. Richard Feynman so you can understand where I'm coming from:



Dr. Feynman: "I might think about it a little bit and if I can't figure it out, then I go on to something else, but I don't have to know an answer, I don't feel frightened by not knowing things, by being lost in a mysterious universe without having any purpose, which is the way it really is so far as I can tell. It doesn't frighten me."

It doesn't frighten me either, the not knowing.  Feynman sums up how I feel about most philosophical, scientific, and spiritual questions.  I prefer murk to clarity.  I have many devoutly religious friends and family members who believe that the Universe was created by God as described in the Bible.  I also have many irreligious friends who think that the universe was created by an explosion described in modern scientific literature.  Over the course of my life I've gotten into several arguments with people I love and respect who have tried to convince me to agree with them on either side of the issue with absolute certainty.  I don't.  I don't know how the Universe was created.  And I'm perfectly fine with not knowing.  It doesn't affect my appreciation for spiritual guides such as Jesus who commanded us to love each other.  It doesn't affect my appreciation for scientists who find ways to help humanity progress.  I'm less interested in how we got here than I am in what we can do while we're here.  So I really don't have an opinion on the origin of the Universe.  I'm open to many different interpretations.

Regardless of my personal beliefs, it's my job at the public library to help people find information about whatever makes them curious.  So even if I were a staunch believer in Creationism, it's my job to help people find information about scientific explanations of the origin of the universe, just as if I were a firm proponent of, for example, The Theory of Evolution it's my job to help people find information about biblical explanations of Creationism if that's what sparks their curiosity.  My personal beliefs and thoughts should not influence my ability to answer people's questions.

The problem is, my personal taste and interests often do influence my ability to understand what the heck some people's questions are.  It's a good thing I prefer murk to clarity.  Here's an example from the other day:

A patron called on the phone.  He calls the library all the time with questions.  I've spoken to this man at least once a week for the past few years.  He's usually pleasant and gracious and thankful for my help, even when we don't understand each other.  But this time he laughed at me.

"This is Becky.  How may I help you?"

"Hello, Becky!  Thanks for taking my call!  So, I was having a conversation with an atheist the other day and I said to her, 'Now if what you're telling me is that there is no God, how do you explain how the universe was created?'"  He let out a big jolly laugh.

I thought to myself uh oh, I don't want to get into an argument with this guy.   I remained silent and let him continue.

"So she tells me that there are some theories about how the universe was created without God," he laughs again like it's the silliest thing he's ever heard.

Uh oh.  Where is this going?

"So, I ask her about them," he continued, "And she tells me I can find some books about them at the library."

Whew.  Ok, that's kind of a concrete question I can answer without divulging my personal beliefs.

"So you're looking for some books about The Big Bang Theory?" I asked, cutting to the chase.  I wanted to steer the question as far away from my personal beliefs as possible.  Books?  You want books...sure, I can find you books...

But instead of nipping the conversation in the bud like I wanted to, my question only further befuddled this normally nice man.

"What?" He laughed again.  "What does The Big Bang Theory have to do with it?"

"Well, um...so...um...you're looking for information about how the universe could have been created without God?" I asked to clarify.

"Yes.  She said I could find some books at the library about it."  He laughed again.  A very literal ha-ha-ha, as if to say, isn't that ridiculous?

"OK.  Well, one theory is called The Big Bang Theory--" I didn't want to sound condescending, I mean, come on, how could a grown man not know about The Big Bang Theory, but you never know and it's not my job to assume people know anything.

He interrupted--"The Big Bang Theory?" He laughed and laughed.  "You mean like the TV show?"

The TV show?  Uh oh.

"The TV Show?" I asked.  "I'm not familiar with that--"

"What?" he interrupted.  "You've never heard of The Big Bang Theory?"  He sounded astounded at my vast ignorance.

I felt like an idiot.  I also felt like saying Well, yes, I have heard of The Big Bang Theory, but evidently not the same Big Bang Theory you're talking about.  But, you know, job, customer service, treating others respectfully...that kinda stuff kept my mouth shut.

What can I say?  I'm not a big TV watcher.  I loved TV when I was a kid in the Seventies.  I have fond memories of watching The Mary Tyler Moore Show and All In the Family with my family when I was younger.  It was a luxury to get to watch Sesame Street and The Electric Company in the morning when my older siblings were at school and my dad was at work.  When I sift through the elementary school work I've saved over the years, there are copious references to Three's Company and Eight Is Enough.  By my early twenties I was a big fan of Northern Exposure.  When that show started going south its last season, I gave up regular TV viewing for the most part.  Most TV bores me.  I'd rather sit at my laptop and watch YouTube videos and read blogs and online news media, where I have more control over what I pay attention to.

But it's a problem at work when people ask me questions about current TV shows.  I have to hurry and google the name of the show they're talking about so I figure out how to help them.

I went straight to The Big Bang article on Wikipedia so I could figure out how to help this patron, and there it was at the top:

"Big Bang" and "Big Bang theory" redirect here. For the American TV sitcom, see The Big Bang Theory. For other uses, see Big Bang (disambiguation).

OK.  I thought.  So there really is a TV show called The Big Bang Theory.  Huh.

"Uh...uh...yes, I see it here in this Wikipedia article." I stalled long enough to quickly glance at the TV show entry.  

"But you've never seen it on TV?" he asked.

"No, I don't even have a TV that broadcasts shows.  We just use our TV to watch DVDs from the library," I explained.

"Ooooh, I see," his voice got slower and higher, like he was talking to a crazy person.

"Here, let me read to you what this Wikipedia article says about The Big Bang Theory--the scientific theory," I clarified before he started laughing again and talking about the TV show.

"The Big Bang theory is the prevailing cosmological model that describes the early development of the Universe," I read from the article.

"Oooh," he said, sounding surprised.  "You don't say?"

"So do you want some books about that?" I asked.

"Sure, if you've got 'em.  I'd like to see what they say.  I just can't imagine how the Universe could exist without a creator."  He laughed again, ha-ha-ha.

I can't imagine how a grown man could exist on this planet without at least having heard of The Big Bang Theory, the scientific theory, not the TV show.  And yet I'm the one getting laughed at and treated like some sort of pop culture illiterati.  

Visiting Mrs. C's Office: First Grade Do-Over

I've been thinking a lot lately about what I self-teasingly call my yeller aura: my tendency to lose my shit and start yelling when things don't go my way.  But it's no joke.  I have a serious problem with losing control of my anger and yelling at whoever is around, usually someone I love very deeply, usually Will.

I'm good at controlling my anger at work.  I understand that I'll get fired if I yell there, and then what would I do?  I'm completely unqualified for any job outside the library.  In August 2001 I stupidly decided to quit the library and move with my then-girlfriend Kristin to St. Joseph, MO and work in a dental lab.  Me.  The person who breaks a light bulb when she screws it into its socket.  The person who can't stand to do crafts or puzzles or any tedious thing with my hands.  The person who drops a frozen pizza onto the hot electrical coil at the bottom of the oven when she tries to move the oven rack with the pizza still on it.  I am a wordsmith, not a dentalsmith.

My job in the lab was to manage the front end.  I thought that meant typical office work.  Clerking, secretarial stuff.  Instead I discovered it was my job to "prep" the denture molds mailed into the lab.  Dentists shipped us molds of their patients' teeth so we could make dentures for them.  It was my job to take the molds out of the packaging, put them into a tray with the correct paperwork, and do the rough filing.  Rough filing involves using a tool that sands down the molds so the real dental lab technicians don't have to waste their time doing this task any first grader could be trained to do.

Apparently I need to go back to first grade.  I broke three molds in the four weeks I worked there.  The first two times my boss was pretty cool, but when he discovered the third mold I'd broken he literally threw the tray at me.  I quit, went home, called my previous boss at the library and begged for my job back.  I started back at the library on September 10, 2001 and I have no intention of quitting again.  The bosses at the library are not prone to throwing books.  In fact, in my twenty years at the library I am proud to say I have never broken a book.  Not even a book spine.  Not even a tiny pencil.

Needless to say, I found my calling in the written word.  So I know I need to mind my Ps and Qs and control my temper while I'm at work.

For some reason I lack that control at home.  Which is ridiculous because relationships with the people I love are just as important, far more important in fact, because although I joke I'm not fit to work anywhere else, even I know I could always get a nanny gig or clean up dog poop for a vet or something like that.  I'm suited to more jobs than I'm suited to romantic partners.  In other words, I honestly can't imagine myself in a loving, committed relationship with anyone else but Will.  So why don't I treat my relationship with him with the same respect I give my job?

I should.  And now that I've written it down, hopefully I'll be more mindful of the problem, and it will be easier for me to work on it.

I owe it to Will to stop yelling at him.  He does not deserve it.

I also owe it to Katie.  Lately we've been getting emails from her teacher.  She yells in class when things don't go her way.

At first I tricked myself into believing it would be an easy issue to solve.  If I could learn to quit yelling at the dogs, then Katie would model my behavior and quit yelling at her peers in class.  Easy peasy, right?

Wrong.  It has been surprisingly easy for me to quit yelling at the dogs--in fact, I have only yelled at them one time since I shook hands with Katie and agreed to try to stop yelling at the dogs if she'd try to stop yelling at her classmates.  Once in several months is pretty good considering I used to yell at them every day, whenever they'd bark too much.  But we're still getting the emails from Katie's teacher.

Just a heads up.  She blew up today...

She said she was tired.

She said she doesn't like April Fool's Day.

She said so-and-so was bossing her around.

After the last email a week ago, Katie sat in my lap in our rocking chair and we talked about it.

"Yelling is not allowed at school.  You know hitting is not allowed at school, right?  Yelling is like hitting someone with your words.  Sweetie, trust me: I know.  It's hard for me to control my anger sometimes too.  It's hard for Daddy to control his anger sometimes.  Everyone has a hard time controlling their anger from time to time.  But we must keep trying.  If I yelled at someone at my work, I'd get fired.  Yelling is inappropriate at work.  It's inappropriate at school too.  When someone bosses you around and you turn around and yell at them, instead of them doing the wrong thing and you doing the right thing by talking to them calmly, you're both doing the wrong thing.  You must figure out a way to control your temper when you feel yourself getting angry.  I must too.  It's something we both have to work on."

When I talk that much, it usually means I'm talking to myself more than the person on the receiving end of my lecture.

Katie and I had a good discussion, despite my rambling.  I asked her to list me some things she can do to try to control her anger: take deep breaths, count to ten, say her ABCs, walk away, talk about how she feels when she's calmed down.  I let her know I was keeping this list inside my own head so I can refer to it when I feel like I'm going to start yelling.  Hopefully my honest admission of my own failings will help Katie understand that no matter how hard we try, we all sometimes mess up and yet we still deserve forgiveness so we can move on and try to get better instead of wallowing in our sorrow over our mistakes.

It was decided among Katie, her teacher, the school counselor Mrs. C, and I that Mrs. C would introduce herself to Katie and let her know she can come talk to her if she wants to.  Katie's behavior is not quite problematic enough that we feel she needs a regular meeting with Mrs. C, but we want Katie to know she's there for her if she need her.  I'm pleased with this plan, keeping our options open.

Last night at dinner, Will, Katie, and I were discussing how both Katie and I have been having trouble controlling our anger these past couple of weeks.  During the course of the discussion, Katie set down her fork, popped her eyes open dramatically like a silent film star and said, "I know, Mama!  If you ever need to talk to someone about your anger you can visit Mrs. C's office!"

"Oh, that's a wonderful idea, Sweetie.  Maybe I should go back to first grade for a do-over.  Then I could talk to Mrs. C and she could help me," I said, half-joking and half-serious.  Wouldn't it be great if life allowed do-overs?

"You should," Katie advised.

"Well, but I can't.  So I think I'll let Mrs. C be the counselor for the kids at your school and I'll find my own therapist so I'm not hogging all of Mrs. C's time," I said.

"What's a therapist?" Katie asked.

"A counselor.  A social worker.  A psychologist.  A therapist.  Those all mean kind of the same thing: a person who you talk to about things you want to change in your life and they help you figure out ways to make those changes," I said, speaking from years of experience.  I was sent to my first therapist when I was eleven.  I'm not one of those people who is ashamed to admit when I need professional help.  We go to the dentist when our tooth aches.  Why not go to a therapist when our emotions ache?

I can see "visiting Mrs. C's office" is going to become an on-going joke in our family, and I can't be more pleased that we're the sort of family that jokes about needing mental health professionals.  The other day when my alarm clock went off and I grunted and slapped the snooze button, Katie said, "The alarm clock needs to quit yelling or it will have to visit Mrs. C's office."

Yeller Aura

A good friend who I've only met in person once, who I've gotten to know through our mutual love of the healing power of words--I've read her novels and she reads my blog and we correspond via social media--sent me a book in the mail after she read a sad post I'd written about my dad.  The book is Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar by Cheryl Strayed.

I had never heard of the book, or the online advice column it came from, until my friend recommended it to me.  Just as having a child has taught me I don't know everything, that sometimes our roles get reversed and even though it's my job to teach my child about life I often learn just as much from her as she does from me, I'm amazed when non-librarians recommend books to me that are so spot on, so just right for what I need in this moment, and I'm grateful for these reciprocal relationships.

I'm only on page 31 and I can see already it's just what I need right now.  I suspect it's just what you need right now too.  Like this:

Nobody will protect you from your suffering.  You can't cry it away or eat it away or starve it away or walk it away or punch it away or even therapy it away.  It's just there, and you have to survive it.  You have to endure it.  You have to live through it and love it and move on and be better for it and run as far as you can in the direction of your best and happiest dreams across the bridge that was built by your own desire to heal.

I once had a wonderfully odd, homeless hippie guy in Westport tell me I had the yellowest aura of anyone he had ever met.  This guy was probably crazy, and definitely drunk, certainly depressed.  My cool friend Heather had a car.  She would drive us to Westport to hang out and be cool.  We were too young to drink, so we'd sit outside the bars and listen to the music and the drunk people talking through the open doors.  That's where we met this homeless hippie guy who read my aura out on the sidewalk one night.

I didn't know what an aura was, so I asked Homeless Hippie Guy to tell me what he meant.  He said it means I'm kind and loving and open-minded.  Think of sunshine.  He then took a swig out of his brown paper sack and told me about the 38 confirmed kills he had when he was in Vietnam.  I didn't know what to say.  I wished I could read auras and cheer him up by telling him he had a good one too.

I haven't been feeling very kind and loving and open-minded lately.  These last couple of weeks have been difficult and have left me feeling selfish and lonely and inflexible.  Reading Tiny Beautiful Things, reading about people who struggle and hurt and wallow in agony and think no one understands them reminds me of Homeless Hippie Guy.  I did some research on yellow auras and found this:

Individuals observed with yellow auras, are most vibrant, fun-loving and enjoyable. They are wonderful persons who are loving, humorous and intellectual. They love to please and seek love from everyone. They are extremely creative and imaginative. Person with yellow aura are genuinely happy, up-beat, friendly, positive, generous, social, optimistic and generous.

What a bunch of bullshit.

I got into a fight with my ex a few days ago.  She reminded me what an asshole I was to her twenty years ago and how the horrible things I did to her back then have contributed to her current misery.  She accused me of ignoring the pain I've caused her and pretending my life is so perfect now.  She said this, and it stung because it's probably true:  

Maybe some time when you're writing how you are all the perfect parent, partner, and human, maybe you'll think of our relationship and realize you are not perfect! Sorry, Becky I love you , but there is a darker past with you and I'm a part of it!

I told her I was sorry.  Once again.  How do you apologize to someone you've hurt?  I fucked up.  I'm sorry.  I'm trying.  How many years must pass before you can forgive yourself for the bad things you've done to other people?  At least I don't have thirty-eight confirmed kills haunting me.

I've gotten into several fights with my dad these past couple of weeks too, although he isn't aware of it.  They are more internal fights.  I long ago gave up arguing with him.  It doesn't help anything.  But my internal struggles with him continue.  Some people have recurring dreams.  I have recurring fights with my dad inside my head.  

A couple of weeks ago Will showed me this distressing yet fascinating episode of Anita Sarkeesian's YouTube series about women and sexism in gaming:



It pissed me the fuck off.

I had to go to work that day.  Six inches of snow had dumped onto my car and our driveway overnight, the third heavy snow in a month.  Will had shoveled the driveway the previous two times it snowed, and since he didn't have to work that day, I decided it was my turn to shovel the driveway.  Katie asked me why I didn't just "have Daddy do it."  I had just come upstairs to put on my long underwear after having just watched the Sarkeesian video.

I snapped at her, "Because I can do it.  I don't need Daddy to rescue me from the dungeon of my snow-covered car.  I'm the one who has to get to work so I'm the one who should shovel the driveway!"

She went outside with me so she could play while I shoved.  After about ten minutes of lifting heavy, wet snow my forearms began to shake and I began to cry.  Katie asked me what was wrong.  I gave up and told her to go ask Daddy to come help me shovel the driveway.

"Tell him I'm sorry, I just can't do it by myself."

I sobbed like a baby the whole time Will and I shoveled the driveway.  Not because it was hard.  Not because I'm lazy.  I sobbed because I'm a girl.

My mom and I have a very open relationship.  We don't always agree, but she's one of the few people I feel I can honestly say anything around and she'll still love me.  But an open relationship with Mom is a double-edged sword.  It feels good to be able to be honest around her, but sometimes she tells me things I would be better off not knowing.

When I was a teenager, after a particularly awful fight with my dad, Mom told me she had only seen Dad cry two times.  Once when his mother died and once when I was born.  At first I was touched.  He was so happy to have me he cried!  But no, he cried because I was a girl.

Dad had been married to another woman before he married my mom.  The other woman had RH negative blood.  My dad, like most people, has RH positive blood.  Back then, in the 1950s and 1960s, it was common for couples with opposite types of RH blood to suffer many miscarriages.  Dad and his wife were able to have my sister Glenda, but after that all their babies were either miscarried, stillborn, or died a couple of days after they were born.  Nowadays there is a treatment doctors can give patients so their babies don't die from the mother's antibodies attacking them.  There wasn't that treatment back then, so my Dad and his wife suffered three losses, two girls and one boy.

My dad and his first wife divorced and Dad married my mom in 1969.  I was born one year later, healthy and strong.  But I lacked something my dad wanted me to have: a penis.  He wanted a son to carry on his name or some such shit.  I don't know why he wanted a son.  All I know is he cried when he found out I was a girl and my knowing that my father was disappointed with me from the get-go has altered the course of my life in many negative ways.

So I'm outside shoveling snow with Will.  Feeling like a failed feminist.  I'm crying and cussing and throwing a big temper tantrum because I'm so upset that I'm such a pathetic, weak, frail girl I can't even shovel my own damn driveway and get myself to work.  Will and Katie both tried to console me, but all I kept saying was, "My dad's a fucking asshole!"

We got the driveway shoveled and I made it to work, putting on my best happy face to help the public.  When I got home that night, Will and I talked about the big fit I'd thrown earlier in the day.  He said he understood that it was much more than feeling helpless about shoveling the snow and that it stemmed from the deep sadness I carry within me related to my father's disappointment in my not being a boy.  Will is a guy, but he's a feminist too.  He loves women and he doesn't think women are the weaker sex.  He also knows his wife needs help.  I told him I was sorry for yelling at him and he said he understood and it was ok.

Then last night I got home from work and we got into another fight.  We're better this morning but I'm still sad about it.  Stupid extended family and financial bullshit.  A lot of it was my fault--my being too controlling.  My being too much like my dad.  Part of my problem too, I suspect, is that Benedryl is the only medication I've found that controls the massive snot production inside my head this time of year. Unfortunately one side-effect is it makes me go out of my mind with irritability and crushing depression. So I have to ask myself, Do I want to surround myself with fifty kazillion balls of wadded up Kleenex, or do I want to find myself curled up into a ball in the fetal position, yelling at people I love, unable to get out of bed?

After Will and I quit fighting last night, when we were both tired and calmed down enough to start genuinely talking and listening to each other, Will said, "I love you, Babe, but you have to quit yelling at me all the time.  I am not your dad.  And anyway, you've got to quit blaming your asshole dad for your problems.  You're a wonderful, caring person.  You are in charge of your own life now."

The sad thing is, I thought I was doing better.  I've improved so much over the years.  I was such an awful girlfriend twenty years ago, but I thought I'd improved and I'm a pretty decent wife now.  I thought I used to be a horrible yeller but I'd learned to get over it for the most part.  I try so hard to talk calmly and rationally to people, but evidently I've been fooling myself into thinking I've grown more than I actually have. 

It will all work out.  Sometimes life sucks and then it doesn't suck any more.  I just have to learn to be strong and flexible at the same time.  I need to get over my yeller aura.

Gifted

I think Dad is gifted.

Just as when I first came out as a lesbian at age 17 my gaydar began buzzing around everyone, since I discovered I'm probably gifted last October I now suspect everyone around me is gifted too.  I know deep down this is not true, that I'm simply projecting my innate traits onto those around me, but that doesn't stop me from thinking it.  I suppose I should do some research on narcissism next.

Before we go on, let me explain something.  When I say "gifted" I mean much more than "high IQ" or "high achievement" or "smartypants" or whatever most people think when they hear the word.  Sure, my IQ is relatively high: 134 if you trust the test I gave myself out of a book I borrowed from the library years ago.  The same test I gave my mom while she was doing two other things at the same time, sewing and watching TV, and she still managed to score two points higher than I did even though I shut myself into a quiet room so I could focus and take it seriously.  But I don't really care about IQ scores.  I'm much more interested in how a gifted brain might influence a person's emotional barometer.

Mom tells me Dad scored 120 when he was given an IQ test in high school.  He skipped a grade and graduated one year early, just one month after he turned seventeen.  When I was growing up I had such a lousy relationship with my dad, and because of my own emotional immaturity, it was impossible for me to think anything good about my dad.  Mom was the good parent, selfless, sweet, kind, understanding, funny, smart, open-minded.  Dad was the bad parent, selfish, mean, rude, impatient, dull, stupid, narrow-minded.  So when Mom told me dad had a pretty high IQ I was shocked.  How could that be?  He's such an asshole.

I've grown up a bit and I now realize my black-and-white thinking about my parents did me more harm than good.  Just because I got along better with my mom than I did with my dad doesn't mean Mom's the good parent and Dad's the bad parent.  Just because I like Mom as a person more than I like Dad doesn't mean I should embrace Mom's giftedness and ignore Dad's.

In fact, in many ways I think it's Dad's giftedness that's gotten him into the most trouble over the years.  Because he never learned to hone his talents for good.  He's being driven insane by his difference.

More than high IQ, to me gifted means an uncommon mind, unusual ability to think and understand, a love of the complex and a boredom with the norm.  And that has its downsides.  Sometimes life sucks and it's better to not think too hard about it.  Ignorance is bliss and all that.  Here's a good article by Stephanie Tolan on the subject.  This part especially resonates with me:

"It is vital to remember that giftedness (in childhood and beyond) is an internal reality, mental processing that is outside of norms. Achievement, as important as it is, is merely an expression of that mental processing.  Achievement may fluctuate depending on a student's immediate situation, his relationship with a particular teacher, the availability of courses of sufficient challenge and interest, even physical health. Giftedness does not depend on such variables. Whether or not it finds expression in achievement or unusual performance the internal difference remains."

"That internal difference is likely to include emotional intensity, unusual awareness and tolerance of complexity and paradox, and a potential for extraordinary moral development. During childhood and beyond these innate attributes may enhance or interfere with performance on various tasks, depending in part on how well they are recognized, understood and guided by the adults in the child's environment."

"The child who perceives typical rough and tumble competition on the playground as purposeless violence and connects that violence to persistent ethnic warfare on a global scale may become depressed and cynical about the future of humanity. He may withdraw and become a bitter, self-isolating loner. Or he may, instead, set himself the task of attempting to understand the roots of conflict, and commit himself to a life of peace-making and diplomacy." 

Here's another article by Tolan that's been helpful in my self-discovery.  This part especially:

"The experience of the gifted adult is the experience of an unusual consciousness, an extraordinary mind whose perceptions and judgments may be different enough to require an extraordinary courage. Large numbers of gifted adults, aware not only of their mental capacities but of the degree to which those capacities set them apart, understand this."

"For many, however, a complete honoring of the self must begin with discovering what sort of consciousness, what sort of mind they possess. That their own perceptions and judgments are unusual may have been obvious since childhood, but they may have spent their lives assuming that this difference was a deficit, a fault, even a defect of character or a sign of mental illness (Lovecky, 1986; Alvarado, 1989). Thinking independently may seem foolhardy or antisocial."

Could Dad's bitter, antisocial behavior stem from unrecognized giftedness?  If instead of getting beaten with a belt by his alcoholic Dad and shipped off to Europe to help with the cleanup after World War II, if Dad had gotten the proper guidance from caring people in his young life, would he still be the bitter, antisocial person he is today?  

When I was a kid and my parents were still married, often at family gatherings if you couldn't find my dad he'd be in his bedroom watching TV.  In fact most of my memories of my father are of him sitting in front of the TV.  He worked long hours, usually 6AM to 5PM, every day.  He came home cranky, wanting nothing more than to eat dinner and veg out in front of the TV before going to bed at 8PM and waking up and doing it all over again.  I loved TV when I was a kid, but by my early twenties I had grown tired of it and, for the most part, gave it up a decade ago.  I would not be a TV junkie like Dad.  I decided to embrace my own life rather than sit in front of a screen watching someone else's version of life.

So I was surprised when, yesterday at his birthday lunch, Dad said he can barely stand to watch TV anymore.  Finally, something we have in common.  I could totally relate when he began bitching and moaning about how horrible most TV is.  He even admitted to thinking of ditching cable altogether and just using his TV to watch the news and some DVDs he can check out for free at the library.

Weird.  When did Dad become me?

On the drive home, I said to Will I think the reason Dad and I fought so much when I was younger is because, I hate to admit it but it's true, we're so much alike.  We're cranky and moody and bitter.  We both get bored by most things other people find delightful.  We're intense and frustrated and angry.

The difference is I'm that, and more.  I'm also open-minded and funny and kind like Mom.  Sure, I have tendencies toward bitter self-isolation, but for the most part, I've learned to hone my gifts for good.

As we began parting ways after his birthday lunch, I gave Dad a big hug and I kissed him on the cheek.  It's all I've got.  I often feel like the Little Drummer Girl around my dad.    

I long ago gave up buying Dad a birthday gift.  He was never satisfied with what I got him.  Once his ex-wife even showed up at the public library where I work to hand over the shirt I'd given him at his party a few days before.  "It doesn't have a pocket for his pens and checkbook and all the things he carries around."

I should buy the old man a fucking purse, I thought.  Instead, I took the shirt back and said nothing.  After he complained about the seeds in the raspberry pie I got him hurting his dentures, despite my vivid memory of him sending me out to pick raspberries from his thorny fucking raspberry bush and him shoveling handfuls of those suckers into his mouth with delight when I was a kid, I gave up.  No more gifts for you, buddy.  

Both Dad and Mom have imbued me with this giftedness.  Too bad I can't figure out a way to give Dad some of the goodness I've honed from it.  A hug is all I've got.  It's up to him to embrace it.

Becky Number Two

I called Dad the day before his birthday to see if he wanted to come over for dinner.  I tried his land line first.  It was disconnected.  I tried his cell.  It went straight to voicemail.  Generic voicemail.  I left a message.

I called the next day, on his actual birthday, twice.  Both times same thing.  Land line disconnected.  Cell straight to generic voicemail.  I left a message two more times, for a total of three messages.  He never called back.

Finally, the day after his birthday, I contacted my sister and she gave me his current phone number.  I had been leaving voicemail messages on some stranger's phone.  My dad changed his number and didn't tell me.

Or maybe he did and I spaced it off.  Maybe he left me a message on my own generic voicemail and I never heard it.  I'm really bad at checking my messages.  In fact, I hate talking on the phone.  I dreaded calling him, my punctuality-obsessed dad, a day late for his birthday.

I took a deep breath and paced the kitchen floor.  I dialed his number and he answered, "Hello?"

"Hi, it's Becky," I shouted.  Dad is now 86.  He started to lose his hearing forty-one years ago, the year after I was born.  He is now quite deaf so it sounds like we're shouting at each other when we talk on the phone even though, since we no longer live together or spend much time together, we don't actually shout at each other like we did when I was a teenager.

"Are you coming over tonight?" he asked.

"What?" I didn't understand his question.  We hadn't made arrangements of any kind since I didn't have his current phone number.

"Are you coming over tonight so we can go to the dance?" he asked, sounding perturbed with my slowness.

"Dad.  This is Becky.  You're daughter." I sounded perturbed with his confusion.

"Oooooh.  I thought you was Becky my dance partner," Dad explained.

"Yeah...no...Dad, it's your daughter Becky.  Sorry to call you a day late but I wanted to wish you a happy birthday," I said, trying to make my shout sound cheery.

"Oh well.  Ok."  Dad wasn't bothering with fake cheeriness.

"Yeah, sorry.  I tried to call you the day before and yesterday but I had your old phone number," I explained.

"Yeah, I had to ditch that one.  The old phone broke on me and it was gonna cost more to repair it than to just get a new one."  No explanation for why he didn't call me to let me know he had a new number.

We made arrangements to meet for lunch, my treat.  We got off the phone.  I felt overwhelmingly sad and unsatisfied.  Dad and I have never gotten along, and yet there is this tiny sliver inside me that longs for a healthy Daddy-Daughter relationship.  But it's not that way nor will it ever be that way.  Our relationship plays second fiddle to Dad's dance.  I'm not even the first Becky in his life.  I'm Becky Number Two.