The movie was, from the get go, funny, schmaltzy, overwrought and full of predictable plot twists, but as soon as a group of geriatric Brits get to India in the hopes of starting their lives over, I started crying and couldn't stop. It's the first movie my mom's been able to get to since November.
She and I used to engage in "Manic Movie and Madmen Mondays" and I missed them. Even that day, her strength was waning and we weren't sure she could do it, but she was determined. Ma and Jim were a few rows behind my aunt and me at the theater, and for that I was grateful - I didn't want her to see me melting down this way. I am home this weekend for for my monthly trip and this last month along with the month before had felt lightening quick with a move to a house and a new job tutoring, yet I also felt like I hadn't seen her for an eternity. These last few visits, more than before, there are more and more changes which is an irritating reminder that she really is still dying. This week marks the official 3-year anniversary of her diagnosis, and a quick search of Wikipedia states only 5% of people with the disease can boast that kind of survival rate.
To wit, we've taken to calling my 65-year-old Ma "The Miracle Baby" for her ability to both still be here, and to bounce back from any slumps she's had along the way, slumps so bad that we are all often on the phone tree murmuring, "It's happening, it's happening, she's really going this time, I think we really need to prepare ourselves....." And then, well, she doesn't.
But she will. This I still forget sometimes, and crying in the theater was a two-day late reaction to what happened Thursday night. The day before, I'd flown in, and there was some vague talk that Ma was having trouble swallowing. We'd been told all along that this is what eventually happens along with more and more sleeping and then difficulty going to the bathroom, and then, I imagine, the end. Jim, as he's want to do, sort of thought the nurse was "leading the witness and therefore this isn't really happening" and I didn't have a change to register what any of it meant, to ask what to do if she was choking and couldn't get her breath, what we needed to be most careful about. Also, she seemed good. So I went out on Thursday, with a couple of my girlfriends and had a fabulous time until I get this text from Jim at 10:10: "Mom is choking and coughing and can't breathe and she wanted you to know."
It is vintage Jim not to pick up the phone and call me about this, mainly because he is the last to accept any changes that are happening - it's his primary coping mechanism - total denial - but I don't hold it against the man. It's the only way he can be present and take care of my Mom the way he has day in and day out for all these years. At any rate, he was fairly calm when I called, as she'd been able to breathe a bit with a fair amount of morphine, thanks to a call to the hospice advice nurse. I wasn't in a panic either for whatever reason, but of course I went home.
I don't think either of us realized in the moment that she could have simply stopped breathing in the middle of this episode and choked to death. I now know another term I never wanted to, along with commode and compression hose and palliative care: aspirating, which means you don't swallow correctly and fluid is pulled into your lungs, which is what happened to Ma. It can also cause pneumonia. Lovely. It is also one of the side-effects of brain cancer if you live long enough with it - because this cancer can't kill you by eating away your organs like other cancers, because if it starts in the brain, it never metastasizes anywhere else.
By the next day, although exhausted and a little freaked out, Ma was fine. And so was I, mostly, until The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. Seeing all those retirees in India overwhelmed me with what it must have been for she and Jim to travel there together in 2008, just months before her diagnosis. I wept for the fact that she will not be able to go back to this place she feel in love with, and for the fact the two of them won't be living out the next 20 years together. I wept because I wanted to travel there with her, to feel the heat and the noise and the colors and the people. I wept because she could have died two days before and because she's going to, there's just no getting around it.
When we left the theater, I was trying to hold it together, but she saw that I wasn't. "Woah, Woah," she said, and took my hand. I squeezed it, unable to say much besides, "Yep. Yep. Yep." So we woah'd and yepped our way back out into the evening, and when I finally looked at her, I knew she understood exactly what I was feeling.
The movie was partially narrated by Judi Dench's character, a woman whose husband died of a heart attack after 40 years of marriage. Going to India was the first thing she'd ever done on her own. She's writing about her experiences and says at one point something like, "India is like a giant wave. If you fight it, you will drown. The only way to survive is dive right in."
As one of my loveable grad school teachers, Mark Richard would have said (in a sweet Southern accent), "That's a bit on the nose, isn't it?"
And it is, completely, but I love the line despite myself. It's the same way with her illness, and everything that's come with it. There's no way around the wave. All I can do is keep swimming through.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Monday, May 07, 2012
Scenes from a Glioblastoma
A new piece on The Nervous Breakdown, complete with a photo of Ma from India.....
http://www.thenervousbreakdown.com/amims/2012/05/scenes-from-a-glioblastoma/
Check it!
http://www.thenervousbreakdown.com/amims/2012/05/scenes-from-a-glioblastoma/
Check it!
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
The Arc of My Redemption
This one is dedicated to all of you who've heard me use this ridiculous phrase again and again. I think I figured out (mostly) what it means.
My latest from The Nervous Breakdown:
www.thenervousbreakdown.com/amims/2012/03/the-arc-of-my-redemption
My latest from The Nervous Breakdown:
www.thenervousbreakdown.com/amims/2012/03/the-arc-of-my-redemption
Sunday, February 12, 2012
The Rumpus!!!
I am thrilled to have an essay up at the fine literary mag, The Rumpus. A piece about me, my mom and Joan Didion - a writer who had a profound effect on both of our lives.
Click here to read!
Click here to read!
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Coming Home
I'm home for the first time after officially moving to Northern California in December, and it's both comfortable and alien at the same time. Or maybe it was only alien before I got here, before I remembered I would know what to do when I saw my mom, and how to take care of her. I spent the day or two before coming home incredibly anxious about it all, but not really able to understand why. I know my mom is dying, she's been dying for two and a half years, and I was there for almost every day of it, so it's not like I would be walking into something unfamiliar or unknown. But there have been changes for her since I've left, more changes than have happened in a short period of time up until now. Or so it seems. Being away from it, I've realized how hard it really is to gauge accurately what's happening - although being close to it may be just as hard, as it's difficult to realize what is changing, if the changes are permanent or if this or that change (from sleeping to eating to speaking) means that this is it, it's happening, she's really dying. Really, really, dying, which seems to me different from what she's been doing the last few years, which is more like a slow fading while living, not exactly dying. But of course, she's dying all the same.
However, it's hard to deny at this point that things really are changing; she's sleeping more, talking less and/or just not struggling as much to talk, more easily overwhelmed and a bit more exhausted by the small things, like getting dressed. My stepdad, Jim, has very diligently kept me in the loop, letting me know there has been a handful of rough days recently that aren't like the other rough days we've seen. This is especially poignant to me, given that Jim is a master of the gloss, as in glossing over a bad situation and making it seem like everything's fine. Best example? When he flunked at EKG so badly a few years ago that the cardiologist immediately stopped the test only a few minutes in. Just afterwards, Jim appeared at the door to his hospital room where we were all waiting, with a frozen smile that seemed to say everything was fine. Sometimes it is difficult to to discern exactly what smile he's wearing, given his psuedo Sam Elliot moustache, but the "everything is actually fucked" smile is one he holds for a longer period of time, and then it dawns on you that holding a smile for that long isn't quite natural. At any rate, he was admitted for surgery that night - his "widow maker," a major artery of the heart that someone in the medical field decided to give that lovely name, was 80% occluded and he could have had a massive heart attack at any time.
Now, I've been here for a few days, and I'm entirely comfortable being home and happy to give Jim some hours to himself everyday. I've been thinking about those days before I flew out, how my anxiety rode backseat until I was curbside at the airport and saw Ma and Jim drive up, Ma waving and half-smiling, adorable and sweet in a white poncho sweater. I think part of the anxiety was that in the last month, I'd acclimated to having my days alone (for the most part, although many mornings were just plain strange with no one to talk to but the cat) no one to take care of, and suddenly I was headed back into that world. Or as Matt put it, "Of course you have anxiety! You're going home to see your mom, who is dying. That's not exactly fun." I guess he has a point, although I love her so much that I assumed that would wash away any other issues I might have.
I know Jim and Ma have a had a nice month together in my absence, not to mention a small return to the privacy of their marriage and living in their house alone, together - but several caregivers have either been injured or on vacation, so Jim hasn't had a lot of help. As in, he hadn't really left the house for more than 20 minutes at a time since I'd been gone. They need to hire help, and so when the two of them picked me up from the airport, I didn't even ask how they were - or maybe I did, and then I launched into my caregiver campaign.
"Well, we've done fine. I'm fine," Jim said, smiling that frozen smile.
"I know," I said. "But you can't keep doing this for months on end."
He shrugged, and then I told him I was interviewing a potential caregiver and that he really needed 8-10 hours a week of help, and it wasn't really a suggestion. He shrugged again. That was all I needed to understand that he was giving in, because if he wasn't, he would have fought me tooth and nail and hammer and screw.
Sidebar: As my boyfriend, Matt, pointed out before I left, "I know Jim will miss you and your help, but you've got to know he is the tiniest bit relieved to not be bossed around anymore." Me? Bossy? Yes, it turns out, incredibly. Especially when it comes to Ma. Within minutes of arriving, I was right back into my caregiver/advocate role and trying to control and organize everything. Trust me, it's for their own good. (And, it's working, the new, lovely caregiver, Ray, started this week.)
While it's taken me two years to leave Ma, and many false starts and claims of, "In six more months I'm going, no really, I'm going" by finally leaving and spending an extended time away, there has been a feeling of relief and freedom. However, these feelings come with them more than a twinge of guilt; as in, shouldn't I miss my mother so much that I can't eat or sleep or think? What is wrong with me?!? Shouldn't I be worried all the time, and sobbing intermittently throughout the day instead of merely teary every once in awhile?
I know Ma would shake a finger at me for feeling guilty, and probably eek out an empathetic, "Please!" but I didn't expect to feel this way. I think part of why I do is because I have a gut-level knowledge that I made the right decision -- and it's what Ma and I agreed upon. Plus, we Skype several times a week, which helps with the angst quite a bit. Then there is the sort of giant fact that I'm finally with the love of my life after two and a half very long years. It's great, but let us remember the wise word of Maroon 5, "It's not all rainbows and butterflies, it's compromise that moves us along," and this is especially true given my crumb-bly habits and/or the fact that he feels I eat rice cakes like the Cookie Monster, and that I'm know to use a "grotesque" amount of toilet paper, but there have also been diamond earrings, a book tree, beautiful meals and many lovely, lazy days together as we both adjust. (His cat, Miles, is still adjusting, but for the record, she did curl up and sleep on my lap one night when Matt went to bed. This is nothing short of HUGE.} It is not easy when two almost 40-somethings move in together, but at moments, it's hilarious in it's utter absurdity, as anyone who's ever had to live with another person can understand.
So all of that helps in the wake of leaving Ma. Not to mention I have someone who almost every night tells me it's going to be ok, no matter what happens, and that I can go home whenever I want, for however long I need to. (This may, however, just be a rouse so that he can have his weekends back to watch football and not have to leave the house. Whatever the case may be, he is one of the only reasons I'm surviving any of this, and being with him every day is just the sort of balm I need.)
I think I struggle against or feel guilty for being relieved from my caregiving duties because I never felt oppressed during the time I took care of her -- I knew I was doing what I should have been. Not that I didn't get antsy or feel as if someone had pushed a pause button on my life; but that would be for an hour or an afternoon and then I'd have some moment with her that would remind me of why the pause was important, why the pause was the exact right thing.
I've grown so used to being with her that now, having my days to myself feels indulgent. I vaguely remember living this way several years ago, although I can't really recall then what I did with my time. Tried to write, I imagine, waited tables, daydreamed about finally meeting someone, worked out and was amused by my terror of a pug, Wally. My days are not so different now, except Wally's gone (RIP, buddy) and I no longer wait tables and I know I'm coming home to the person I've always wanted to be with. It is the only thing that would somehow make it ok to not be coming home to Ma. I lucked out.
This first trip back, I've stayed longer than I planned because Jim needed the help, and I'm glad I have. With all the changes happening, it occurred to me that maybe I should just stay, as it feels palpable to me (although I've said it before god knows) that her clock is winding down. But to stay is to go right back to where I was for two years, on permanent pause, exactly the place I know Ma doesn't want me to be. All the same, I had to ask her just to be sure. She's managed to communicate that she feels things are shifting, that she's changing, so I asked if she had any sense of the timing of when she might go, and if I should stick around.She said she didn't know for sure, but that this phase could go on for awhile too.
"But I feel guilty for leaving," I said.
"Whoah, whoah, whoah," she said. This has become her favorite phrase as of late and it can mean anything from joy to shock to excitement, but I took this one to mean, "Jesus Christ, you have to be kidding me."
"I do, though, you know?" I said.
"Really. Really," she countered. This is her second favorite phrase, and sort of means the same as the whoahs, and I also took this to mean, "Jesus Christ, you have to be kidding me."
"Ok, Ma, I'll go," I said. "I mean, I'm not going to miss it, you know? I'll be here when it happens."
"Really, really," she said, laughing.
So it's settled, and I'm going back Thursday. Back to my future, you might say. Back to where I'm supposed to be.
However, it's hard to deny at this point that things really are changing; she's sleeping more, talking less and/or just not struggling as much to talk, more easily overwhelmed and a bit more exhausted by the small things, like getting dressed. My stepdad, Jim, has very diligently kept me in the loop, letting me know there has been a handful of rough days recently that aren't like the other rough days we've seen. This is especially poignant to me, given that Jim is a master of the gloss, as in glossing over a bad situation and making it seem like everything's fine. Best example? When he flunked at EKG so badly a few years ago that the cardiologist immediately stopped the test only a few minutes in. Just afterwards, Jim appeared at the door to his hospital room where we were all waiting, with a frozen smile that seemed to say everything was fine. Sometimes it is difficult to to discern exactly what smile he's wearing, given his psuedo Sam Elliot moustache, but the "everything is actually fucked" smile is one he holds for a longer period of time, and then it dawns on you that holding a smile for that long isn't quite natural. At any rate, he was admitted for surgery that night - his "widow maker," a major artery of the heart that someone in the medical field decided to give that lovely name, was 80% occluded and he could have had a massive heart attack at any time.
Now, I've been here for a few days, and I'm entirely comfortable being home and happy to give Jim some hours to himself everyday. I've been thinking about those days before I flew out, how my anxiety rode backseat until I was curbside at the airport and saw Ma and Jim drive up, Ma waving and half-smiling, adorable and sweet in a white poncho sweater. I think part of the anxiety was that in the last month, I'd acclimated to having my days alone (for the most part, although many mornings were just plain strange with no one to talk to but the cat) no one to take care of, and suddenly I was headed back into that world. Or as Matt put it, "Of course you have anxiety! You're going home to see your mom, who is dying. That's not exactly fun." I guess he has a point, although I love her so much that I assumed that would wash away any other issues I might have.
I know Jim and Ma have a had a nice month together in my absence, not to mention a small return to the privacy of their marriage and living in their house alone, together - but several caregivers have either been injured or on vacation, so Jim hasn't had a lot of help. As in, he hadn't really left the house for more than 20 minutes at a time since I'd been gone. They need to hire help, and so when the two of them picked me up from the airport, I didn't even ask how they were - or maybe I did, and then I launched into my caregiver campaign.
"Well, we've done fine. I'm fine," Jim said, smiling that frozen smile.
"I know," I said. "But you can't keep doing this for months on end."
He shrugged, and then I told him I was interviewing a potential caregiver and that he really needed 8-10 hours a week of help, and it wasn't really a suggestion. He shrugged again. That was all I needed to understand that he was giving in, because if he wasn't, he would have fought me tooth and nail and hammer and screw.
Sidebar: As my boyfriend, Matt, pointed out before I left, "I know Jim will miss you and your help, but you've got to know he is the tiniest bit relieved to not be bossed around anymore." Me? Bossy? Yes, it turns out, incredibly. Especially when it comes to Ma. Within minutes of arriving, I was right back into my caregiver/advocate role and trying to control and organize everything. Trust me, it's for their own good. (And, it's working, the new, lovely caregiver, Ray, started this week.)
While it's taken me two years to leave Ma, and many false starts and claims of, "In six more months I'm going, no really, I'm going" by finally leaving and spending an extended time away, there has been a feeling of relief and freedom. However, these feelings come with them more than a twinge of guilt; as in, shouldn't I miss my mother so much that I can't eat or sleep or think? What is wrong with me?!? Shouldn't I be worried all the time, and sobbing intermittently throughout the day instead of merely teary every once in awhile?
I know Ma would shake a finger at me for feeling guilty, and probably eek out an empathetic, "Please!" but I didn't expect to feel this way. I think part of why I do is because I have a gut-level knowledge that I made the right decision -- and it's what Ma and I agreed upon. Plus, we Skype several times a week, which helps with the angst quite a bit. Then there is the sort of giant fact that I'm finally with the love of my life after two and a half very long years. It's great, but let us remember the wise word of Maroon 5, "It's not all rainbows and butterflies, it's compromise that moves us along," and this is especially true given my crumb-bly habits and/or the fact that he feels I eat rice cakes like the Cookie Monster, and that I'm know to use a "grotesque" amount of toilet paper, but there have also been diamond earrings, a book tree, beautiful meals and many lovely, lazy days together as we both adjust. (His cat, Miles, is still adjusting, but for the record, she did curl up and sleep on my lap one night when Matt went to bed. This is nothing short of HUGE.} It is not easy when two almost 40-somethings move in together, but at moments, it's hilarious in it's utter absurdity, as anyone who's ever had to live with another person can understand.
So all of that helps in the wake of leaving Ma. Not to mention I have someone who almost every night tells me it's going to be ok, no matter what happens, and that I can go home whenever I want, for however long I need to. (This may, however, just be a rouse so that he can have his weekends back to watch football and not have to leave the house. Whatever the case may be, he is one of the only reasons I'm surviving any of this, and being with him every day is just the sort of balm I need.)
I think I struggle against or feel guilty for being relieved from my caregiving duties because I never felt oppressed during the time I took care of her -- I knew I was doing what I should have been. Not that I didn't get antsy or feel as if someone had pushed a pause button on my life; but that would be for an hour or an afternoon and then I'd have some moment with her that would remind me of why the pause was important, why the pause was the exact right thing.
I've grown so used to being with her that now, having my days to myself feels indulgent. I vaguely remember living this way several years ago, although I can't really recall then what I did with my time. Tried to write, I imagine, waited tables, daydreamed about finally meeting someone, worked out and was amused by my terror of a pug, Wally. My days are not so different now, except Wally's gone (RIP, buddy) and I no longer wait tables and I know I'm coming home to the person I've always wanted to be with. It is the only thing that would somehow make it ok to not be coming home to Ma. I lucked out.
This first trip back, I've stayed longer than I planned because Jim needed the help, and I'm glad I have. With all the changes happening, it occurred to me that maybe I should just stay, as it feels palpable to me (although I've said it before god knows) that her clock is winding down. But to stay is to go right back to where I was for two years, on permanent pause, exactly the place I know Ma doesn't want me to be. All the same, I had to ask her just to be sure. She's managed to communicate that she feels things are shifting, that she's changing, so I asked if she had any sense of the timing of when she might go, and if I should stick around.She said she didn't know for sure, but that this phase could go on for awhile too.
"But I feel guilty for leaving," I said.
"Whoah, whoah, whoah," she said. This has become her favorite phrase as of late and it can mean anything from joy to shock to excitement, but I took this one to mean, "Jesus Christ, you have to be kidding me."
"I do, though, you know?" I said.
"Really. Really," she countered. This is her second favorite phrase, and sort of means the same as the whoahs, and I also took this to mean, "Jesus Christ, you have to be kidding me."
"Ok, Ma, I'll go," I said. "I mean, I'm not going to miss it, you know? I'll be here when it happens."
"Really, really," she said, laughing.
So it's settled, and I'm going back Thursday. Back to my future, you might say. Back to where I'm supposed to be.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Ode to Waitressing Part 4: Wherein the Word Douchebag Enters My Lexicon Full-Time
Good God. I am so late with this final installment of the waitressing series, I don't even know what to say. So here goes. This is dedicated to all those who have asked me several times to complete this series. All 3 of you. You know who you are. Ok, so where were we?
So that happened. My sister got breast cancer at 28 and I moved to Bainbridge Island, Washington to help take care of her. It was terrifying, exhausting and all-encompassing, but there was a personal freedom in it that I had never experienced before: I no longer worried about what I was going to do with my life. What was the point? What mattered was making sure my sister didn't die, and is there any higher calling than taking care of someone you love? This is a dangerous game, however, as the problem becomes this: what in the hell will you do after? Whether they live or die, you still have to move forward. Our lives couldn't continue on the in the cocoon that had formed during her diagnosis and treatment once she was better, and that was a huge adjustment. Also, two weeks after we moved together to Portland after her treatment, she was in love. Two months later, she was engaged. It was a lot, to say the least. What was I doing in the meantime? I was back to waiting tables, this time in a man's shirt and tie, working one double after the next. A "double" is perhaps the most innocuous term for one of the most depraved thing that exists in the restaurant industry- that is, you work the lunch and the dinner shift with a break in-between that is too short to actually get anything done and long enough to be really fucking annoying. Then there was the shock of being on my own again with no life to go back to as my sister sprinted into a whole new one without me (remember, I had just left LA and moved home, all primed for my sabbatical at 32, and then my life became about saving hers) was almost more than I could take. To put it simply, the situation was complicated and as a result, I wrote a whole memoir about it, so I won't prattle on about it here.
I will say it was one of the darker times in my life, working doubles at Harrison, a new and fancy restaurant downtown, decorated with a smattering of avant-guarde art, blue velvet booths that needed constant crumbing and a seemingly endless supply of crystal glassware that I spent the better part of my days polishing. Then there was its completely insane manager, a man named Sam, who looked as if he never slept and although a diabetic, rarely ate. He lived in that restaurant and expected everyone else to do the same.
"I need you to work 9 shifts this week," he would say, and before you could answer, he would for you, intoning, "Please and thank you." He'd even clap his hands together, like everything was a done deal, maybe shake yours, and there you were, pouring ice tea for businessmen in the afternoon and wine for them at night, and none of the day or night was yours anymore.
If I'd actually had any free time, it remains vague what I would have done with it. I didn't really want to go home, as my sister and I were still living together and any time I came home to her and the boyfriend, they were doing something annoying, like giggling and making nachos. And then I just wanted to be alone, forever alone. I couldn't write to save my life. (Hell, I could barely get out of bed. Also, I had planned to write a memoir about the miracle of my sister's survival from a wicked cancer and the spiritual journey our whole family was involved in, the Hindu mysticism that guided us and they way my sister and I sort of fell in love with one another when she was sick. Now, however, none of it was exactly true. We sort of couldn't stand each other, and it was nearly impossible for either of us to see the others point of view. "You both certainly have your perspectives," Ma said, during a period where she refused to discuss any of it with either of us.)
What I remember most from those months were buckets of red wine and running. It was the running that saved me, runs through the neighborhood in the dark, in the pouring, sideways rain, blasting Liz Phair and Pete Yorn and The Garden State soundtrack and, embarrassingly, Maroon 5. That first album was pretty decent, right? Right?
Anyway, I recovered and gained some semblance of a life. I managed to get out of Harrison just before it closed and secured a sweet gig cocktailing at O! (The name has been changed to protect me from random internet searches, etc., but I think we all know what we are talking about here, at least anyone in Portland). The best thing about O! is that if you work in the bar, they let you run with more tables than anyone is allowed to outside of a third world country, and therefore, lots of money can be made.
I guess O! was where I was finally on the other side of that glass, inside the cocktail lounge, with all the beautiful people. But 18 years ago, there was no such thing as a Douchebag. Apparently, they are multiplying so quickly now, that they spring from the sidewalks in the Pearl if you pour enough Mojito down certain cracks. I'm sure you are all familiar with this species, born sometime after 9/11, right around the time our country rediscovered irony. Ours are the old school versions, (pre-Jersey Shore) with terrible designer jeans and huge pointy McShiny shoes, tight, air-brushed and bejeweled tees. They crammed themselves into the bar for years, hitting on that certain breed of girl who thinks a belt can double as a skirt and orders either a "skinny girl" margarita or a Mojito that's "not too sweet."* I can't say for sure when the Cougars officially marked out their territory all over God's green earth, but now, they and the DBs make O! into big, fat, hot mess.
I ask you: Do I need a woman who is only a few years older than me, in white jeans, a matching white vest with only a tank top underneath, orange skin and spider legs for eyelashes snapping her fingers at me because she simply must have her fundido right now? No, I do not. Ditto her "date" for the evening, the douche who, after 3 or 4 Grey Goose and sodas, informs me that what he is drinking is in no way Grey Goose, who, when I inform him that he is indeed drinking Grey Goose he refutes me? Is it any wonder when I take his drink away and bring him another, that I am forced myself to drink the one he has barely sipped? No, it is not. Once however, on what is termed First Thursday in Portland -- a spring break for Cougars disguised as a high-brow gallery walk -- I got to express my frustration to one Douche in particular. The above occurred and when he ordered his umpteenth drink, he made sure to tell me, "Hey, hey, Grey Goose and soda." I actually looked at him and said, "No shit, dude. No shit." It was immensely satisfying.
For five and a half long years I toiled in that bar, making more money than I would have thought possible without taking my clothes off, and despite so many more horrific customers and long terrible nights, I don't remember all that many specifics. It blends and blurs. I know, however, that there is a tiny bit of magic in a restaurant when you are slammed beyond belief, the whole place is, yet somehow, all the cogs in the wheel fit together perfectly and everything clicks and everyone survives it together - you have run your ass off, you have truly worked, you are worked, and you all come out the other side.
What I will remember and miss the most are the people who survived those five years with me, all the craziness, the late nights, the massive ups and downs, my mom getting sick and finally, meeting the love of my life. Here are some highlights and shout-outs to all of you.
Every 3 am night/morning at Touche, including: Lynsey constantly putting out my cigarettes, wasted on a half glass of wine, adorably oblivious to hot Russel's obsession with her, ditto Jeff's and every other dude at O!'s obsession with her, sweetly falling asleep on my couch with Wally curled up next to her. Katie making me stay for one more, just one more, I mean Mims, what do you really have to do in the morning, really, you don't have to do anything, and we will just stay for one, maybe two. But that's all. (Repeat this scenario at Fratelli's and Low Brow. Then repeat it again the next shift.) I drank more in my five years at O! than I ever had in my life, making up for the relative sobriety of my 20s and getting it all out of my system. This also includes bus boy and bartender crushes. And for that, everyone, I thank you.
Any shift worked with Lucas Bruckert. Could there be a man with a better attitude after working a year of doubles straight though? I literally would have killed a litter of puppies if I'd had to do the same. The kid was so innocent when he started at O!, he had no idea what he was in for. He had never worked in the industry and was the hardest working busser I've ever seen. And the funniest. (And later, the funniest waiter and manager.) No better audience for my jokes or sob stories in restaurant history. If I ever get this one-woman show together, Lucas had better be in the front row. I also adore him for latching onto the term, "Glorious!" and shouting it at inappropriate times during service. Ditto when he convinced Keith that a large party in the bar were actually a group of swingers who had come to O! several years in a row and that we'd caught a couple of them the year before doing in it the Havana bathroom. I will also never tire of his rendition of a certain monologue from A Few Good Men, which includes the phrase "faggoty white coat." For the record, this is exactly the kind of coat O!'s waiters wear.
The outrageous mouth and on-demand crying skills of Miss Katie Horley. She's an oxymoron, people, there's no doubt about that. She also forgets that I am *13* years older than her at any given time, so therefore she'll say things like, "That was so '06," which to her, is an epically long time ago. Or is a reference to college? I'm not sure, since I graduated in 1995. She has endeared herself to me completely, mainly by possessing a mouth bigger and more outrageous than my own, which is no easy feat. Crass, bitchy and incredibly sweet at the core, she is the only person I've ever known who claims to have been aroused by a bus boy's forearms. They were nice, however. I've gained a flower girl and surrogate little sister all in one.
The bartending skills and stupendous company of Chino Lee, not to mention Paul, Nitiya and the whole Fratelli gang. This was the place to go after a good shift, a bad shift or an in-between shift, where the bartender would never give you the stink eye if you sat for longer than was polite, reading a book or watching "Man vs. Food" on the flat screen above the bar, who let you have just a "scotche" (read: large splash) of wine and then another and another. Oh, and some Italian bread and olive oil and balsalmic. Or was that just me? Thanks to all the gang for putting up with the "Oba-dose" and for providing such a great place to hang. RIP Bar Due.
The kindness and general insanity of Jeff Colton** This is a man who, while wasted, went online one night and decided to change his name to Uncle Silky. Also a man I wanted to physically strangle at certain junctures in his O! career, but who's dedication to O! put the rest of us to shame. Not to mention his amazingly in-depth text messages about the cosmos and the books we should write and the (mostly) clinically insane women he dates. Amazing.
To my long-term fellow bar maid lovelies, Jenny, Kristin and Lynsey, I cannot thank any of you enough. (A shout-out here too, for less long-term lovelies Frank and Meghan.) For putting up with my once-a-month vacations to keep my long-distance relationship alive, for being there through the shitty-shit-shittiest moments with customers and management, the worst of the douchebags, the crazy, shit-show nights, for the talks over the bar and by the walk in, and for knowing that you always had my back. Hope you know I'll always have yours.
*Listen up, bitches. Enough. Mixed drinks are sweet and they all have a shitload of sugar in them. You sound like a jackass when you order them less sweet. Also? Booze will make you just as fat as sugar. So order a freaking vodka soda, pull that belt/skirt down over your ass, try not to fall as you teeter around the bar in your clear heels and just please, for the love of cocktailers and bartenders across the earth, shut the fuck up.
**Jeffrey, I'm sorry I was the worst "icing" victim ever. I mean ever. I'm not sure I've ever seen you and Katie's faces look more disgusted. And we all know that's saying a lot.
So that happened. My sister got breast cancer at 28 and I moved to Bainbridge Island, Washington to help take care of her. It was terrifying, exhausting and all-encompassing, but there was a personal freedom in it that I had never experienced before: I no longer worried about what I was going to do with my life. What was the point? What mattered was making sure my sister didn't die, and is there any higher calling than taking care of someone you love? This is a dangerous game, however, as the problem becomes this: what in the hell will you do after? Whether they live or die, you still have to move forward. Our lives couldn't continue on the in the cocoon that had formed during her diagnosis and treatment once she was better, and that was a huge adjustment. Also, two weeks after we moved together to Portland after her treatment, she was in love. Two months later, she was engaged. It was a lot, to say the least. What was I doing in the meantime? I was back to waiting tables, this time in a man's shirt and tie, working one double after the next. A "double" is perhaps the most innocuous term for one of the most depraved thing that exists in the restaurant industry- that is, you work the lunch and the dinner shift with a break in-between that is too short to actually get anything done and long enough to be really fucking annoying. Then there was the shock of being on my own again with no life to go back to as my sister sprinted into a whole new one without me (remember, I had just left LA and moved home, all primed for my sabbatical at 32, and then my life became about saving hers) was almost more than I could take. To put it simply, the situation was complicated and as a result, I wrote a whole memoir about it, so I won't prattle on about it here.
I will say it was one of the darker times in my life, working doubles at Harrison, a new and fancy restaurant downtown, decorated with a smattering of avant-guarde art, blue velvet booths that needed constant crumbing and a seemingly endless supply of crystal glassware that I spent the better part of my days polishing. Then there was its completely insane manager, a man named Sam, who looked as if he never slept and although a diabetic, rarely ate. He lived in that restaurant and expected everyone else to do the same.
"I need you to work 9 shifts this week," he would say, and before you could answer, he would for you, intoning, "Please and thank you." He'd even clap his hands together, like everything was a done deal, maybe shake yours, and there you were, pouring ice tea for businessmen in the afternoon and wine for them at night, and none of the day or night was yours anymore.
If I'd actually had any free time, it remains vague what I would have done with it. I didn't really want to go home, as my sister and I were still living together and any time I came home to her and the boyfriend, they were doing something annoying, like giggling and making nachos. And then I just wanted to be alone, forever alone. I couldn't write to save my life. (Hell, I could barely get out of bed. Also, I had planned to write a memoir about the miracle of my sister's survival from a wicked cancer and the spiritual journey our whole family was involved in, the Hindu mysticism that guided us and they way my sister and I sort of fell in love with one another when she was sick. Now, however, none of it was exactly true. We sort of couldn't stand each other, and it was nearly impossible for either of us to see the others point of view. "You both certainly have your perspectives," Ma said, during a period where she refused to discuss any of it with either of us.)
What I remember most from those months were buckets of red wine and running. It was the running that saved me, runs through the neighborhood in the dark, in the pouring, sideways rain, blasting Liz Phair and Pete Yorn and The Garden State soundtrack and, embarrassingly, Maroon 5. That first album was pretty decent, right? Right?
Anyway, I recovered and gained some semblance of a life. I managed to get out of Harrison just before it closed and secured a sweet gig cocktailing at O! (The name has been changed to protect me from random internet searches, etc., but I think we all know what we are talking about here, at least anyone in Portland). The best thing about O! is that if you work in the bar, they let you run with more tables than anyone is allowed to outside of a third world country, and therefore, lots of money can be made.
I guess O! was where I was finally on the other side of that glass, inside the cocktail lounge, with all the beautiful people. But 18 years ago, there was no such thing as a Douchebag. Apparently, they are multiplying so quickly now, that they spring from the sidewalks in the Pearl if you pour enough Mojito down certain cracks. I'm sure you are all familiar with this species, born sometime after 9/11, right around the time our country rediscovered irony. Ours are the old school versions, (pre-Jersey Shore) with terrible designer jeans and huge pointy McShiny shoes, tight, air-brushed and bejeweled tees. They crammed themselves into the bar for years, hitting on that certain breed of girl who thinks a belt can double as a skirt and orders either a "skinny girl" margarita or a Mojito that's "not too sweet."* I can't say for sure when the Cougars officially marked out their territory all over God's green earth, but now, they and the DBs make O! into big, fat, hot mess.
Yep. That's about right.
I ask you: Do I need a woman who is only a few years older than me, in white jeans, a matching white vest with only a tank top underneath, orange skin and spider legs for eyelashes snapping her fingers at me because she simply must have her fundido right now? No, I do not. Ditto her "date" for the evening, the douche who, after 3 or 4 Grey Goose and sodas, informs me that what he is drinking is in no way Grey Goose, who, when I inform him that he is indeed drinking Grey Goose he refutes me? Is it any wonder when I take his drink away and bring him another, that I am forced myself to drink the one he has barely sipped? No, it is not. Once however, on what is termed First Thursday in Portland -- a spring break for Cougars disguised as a high-brow gallery walk -- I got to express my frustration to one Douche in particular. The above occurred and when he ordered his umpteenth drink, he made sure to tell me, "Hey, hey, Grey Goose and soda." I actually looked at him and said, "No shit, dude. No shit." It was immensely satisfying.
For five and a half long years I toiled in that bar, making more money than I would have thought possible without taking my clothes off, and despite so many more horrific customers and long terrible nights, I don't remember all that many specifics. It blends and blurs. I know, however, that there is a tiny bit of magic in a restaurant when you are slammed beyond belief, the whole place is, yet somehow, all the cogs in the wheel fit together perfectly and everything clicks and everyone survives it together - you have run your ass off, you have truly worked, you are worked, and you all come out the other side.
What I will remember and miss the most are the people who survived those five years with me, all the craziness, the late nights, the massive ups and downs, my mom getting sick and finally, meeting the love of my life. Here are some highlights and shout-outs to all of you.
Every 3 am night/morning at Touche, including: Lynsey constantly putting out my cigarettes, wasted on a half glass of wine, adorably oblivious to hot Russel's obsession with her, ditto Jeff's and every other dude at O!'s obsession with her, sweetly falling asleep on my couch with Wally curled up next to her. Katie making me stay for one more, just one more, I mean Mims, what do you really have to do in the morning, really, you don't have to do anything, and we will just stay for one, maybe two. But that's all. (Repeat this scenario at Fratelli's and Low Brow. Then repeat it again the next shift.) I drank more in my five years at O! than I ever had in my life, making up for the relative sobriety of my 20s and getting it all out of my system. This also includes bus boy and bartender crushes. And for that, everyone, I thank you.
Any shift worked with Lucas Bruckert. Could there be a man with a better attitude after working a year of doubles straight though? I literally would have killed a litter of puppies if I'd had to do the same. The kid was so innocent when he started at O!, he had no idea what he was in for. He had never worked in the industry and was the hardest working busser I've ever seen. And the funniest. (And later, the funniest waiter and manager.) No better audience for my jokes or sob stories in restaurant history. If I ever get this one-woman show together, Lucas had better be in the front row. I also adore him for latching onto the term, "Glorious!" and shouting it at inappropriate times during service. Ditto when he convinced Keith that a large party in the bar were actually a group of swingers who had come to O! several years in a row and that we'd caught a couple of them the year before doing in it the Havana bathroom. I will also never tire of his rendition of a certain monologue from A Few Good Men, which includes the phrase "faggoty white coat." For the record, this is exactly the kind of coat O!'s waiters wear.
The outrageous mouth and on-demand crying skills of Miss Katie Horley. She's an oxymoron, people, there's no doubt about that. She also forgets that I am *13* years older than her at any given time, so therefore she'll say things like, "That was so '06," which to her, is an epically long time ago. Or is a reference to college? I'm not sure, since I graduated in 1995. She has endeared herself to me completely, mainly by possessing a mouth bigger and more outrageous than my own, which is no easy feat. Crass, bitchy and incredibly sweet at the core, she is the only person I've ever known who claims to have been aroused by a bus boy's forearms. They were nice, however. I've gained a flower girl and surrogate little sister all in one.
The bartending skills and stupendous company of Chino Lee, not to mention Paul, Nitiya and the whole Fratelli gang. This was the place to go after a good shift, a bad shift or an in-between shift, where the bartender would never give you the stink eye if you sat for longer than was polite, reading a book or watching "Man vs. Food" on the flat screen above the bar, who let you have just a "scotche" (read: large splash) of wine and then another and another. Oh, and some Italian bread and olive oil and balsalmic. Or was that just me? Thanks to all the gang for putting up with the "Oba-dose" and for providing such a great place to hang. RIP Bar Due.
The kindness and general insanity of Jeff Colton** This is a man who, while wasted, went online one night and decided to change his name to Uncle Silky. Also a man I wanted to physically strangle at certain junctures in his O! career, but who's dedication to O! put the rest of us to shame. Not to mention his amazingly in-depth text messages about the cosmos and the books we should write and the (mostly) clinically insane women he dates. Amazing.
To my long-term fellow bar maid lovelies, Jenny, Kristin and Lynsey, I cannot thank any of you enough. (A shout-out here too, for less long-term lovelies Frank and Meghan.) For putting up with my once-a-month vacations to keep my long-distance relationship alive, for being there through the shitty-shit-shittiest moments with customers and management, the worst of the douchebags, the crazy, shit-show nights, for the talks over the bar and by the walk in, and for knowing that you always had my back. Hope you know I'll always have yours.
*Listen up, bitches. Enough. Mixed drinks are sweet and they all have a shitload of sugar in them. You sound like a jackass when you order them less sweet. Also? Booze will make you just as fat as sugar. So order a freaking vodka soda, pull that belt/skirt down over your ass, try not to fall as you teeter around the bar in your clear heels and just please, for the love of cocktailers and bartenders across the earth, shut the fuck up.
**Jeffrey, I'm sorry I was the worst "icing" victim ever. I mean ever. I'm not sure I've ever seen you and Katie's faces look more disgusted. And we all know that's saying a lot.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Grief, Briefly Interrupted (Redux)
Hey!
No, I haven't finished that last piece on my illustrious waitressing (I love that spell check doesn't consider "waitressing" a word) but I have posted another memoir piece on TNB!
Check it:
http://www.thenervousbreakdown.com/amims/2011/11/grief-briefly-interrupted/
No, I haven't finished that last piece on my illustrious waitressing (I love that spell check doesn't consider "waitressing" a word) but I have posted another memoir piece on TNB!
Check it:
http://www.thenervousbreakdown.com/amims/2011/11/grief-briefly-interrupted/
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