Hands Wide Open

AUGUST 28, 2020

Sometimes I make lists of all my lovers. They all cry at the end. Big sad little boy tears. “I will always love you” they say. I cry too. For a different reason. I cry grief at yet another failed relationship. I am profoundly sad and in deep emotional pain.

 How do you stop loving someone? Yet each time I manage to stop my love. To see only the bad, the disappointments, the dysfunctional ways in which the right person was the wrong person.

My repetition compulsion—no matter the exterior disguise my subconscious can lock onto the wrong person, even when he masquerades as Man Alright. Man Evolved. Functional Man. Emotionally available Man. Communicative Man. The last Man Wrong really had me fooled. I was so direct. So open. Point blank gave him a million opportunities to exit.  Each time our relationship was about to go deeper I’d ask, how are you feeling about us? Are you okay?

He was the run-away groom. Having proposed to more than a handful of women in his life, always calling things off at the last minute. “I stayed because I loved her dog.” I didn’t want marriage, and while he did love my dog but he also loved me. “Move to NY with me, Sweetie” he said. An offer I couldn’t accept. We didn’t even live together here, how can moving to NY and living together there be a good idea?

He held an overly romanticized vision of us in Manhattan. Never mind that we had two homes in LA. Plus friends and community in LA. I also had family and my medical team. Not something to easily walk away from. He is on the road 3-4 days during the week. Why would I want to be all alone in NYC? I joke and ask are we going to get two apartments 4 miles apart?  He says we will be together. Okay I say, how about a trial? I will live with you here for 30 days and see how it feels for both of us.

Part of me hoped he would be happy and it would work for him. I knew I could be there. But for him, at age 58 and never finding the right woman to commit comfortably—I knew I was pushing him. A week later he called me to say he couldn’t do “this” anymore. He was more comfortable being single. I said he couldn’t end our nearly three years over the phone. He had to come over, sit face to face to discuss like a man. The next night he showed up with all my stuff. Neatly wrapped, packed, lovingly folded all in bags. My makeup packed in individual zip lock baggies.  He cried his eyes out over how much he loved me and how he would always love me. I cried too. I knew I would not always love him.

I told him I don’t do breakups and get-back-togetherings.  I gave him back his keys, and he asked if he should hang on to mine in case I needed help or something.  You are not my person anymore I say.  If I need something I will ask someone else. 

My heart was breaking, I loved him for so long with my hands wide open.  No friends could understand what I meant by that, but I understood it, and I knew it was the only way to be with him.  And then he started the “move to NY Sweetie” nonsense, and as he started to pull away my hands clutched closed. In the weeks that followed, I focused on how in 58 years this man could never find the right woman. And that thought helped me to know it wasn’t personal. 

I don’t want to love with my hands wide open.  I want to be free, to love someone who can accept and feel my love, arms open or wrapped tightly around him. 

Slow Motion Moments

JULY 20, 2020

It took me over six months of weekly therapy, to work on my hysteria at the thought of walking my daughter down the aisle. I was so overcome with emotion, never expecting to get to see that moment. The last thing I wanted was to sob the whole time.

During my toast to my beautiful daughter and handsome son-in-law, I relayed a story about having some slow-motion moments. Moments when time slowed way down. In that freeze frame, I was flooded with feelings of deep love and gratitude.

One of those times, was shopping for wedding dresses with my daughter. I sat where the waiting mothers sat, waiting for her to ‘round the corner in one of several gowns she was trying on.  As she came walking out in one dress in particular, I knew it was THE dress. A slow-motion moment, my emotions choked me as I looked at my daughter as a beautiful bride. 

Looking absolutely gorgeous; the expression on her face said it all. Her eyes reflected all the magic of a little girl wearing a fairy princess dress, and at the same time her face as a grown young woman admiring her own beauty in this gown. I could see the child within her absolutely sparkling. And I could see her the young woman with the glow of a bride.  I took a deep breath as I was flooded with feelings of love and gratitude. 

 She asked me what I thought, and I asked her back the same question, what do you think? She said she loved it but it was expensive. I said I loved it too and I had an empty credit card just waiting to hold that dress. 

 The first time I had this slow-motion experience with my daughter, was when she was born. She was a very tiny baby, and her birth was easy. As they put her in my arms, everything and everyone ceased to exist except for me and her. Time stopped and was silent. Flooded with love and emotion, I knew in that one moment I’d give up my life for her in a blink, no questions asked.  As they cut the cord I realized cord or not, we would always be connected. Basking in that slow-motion moment, motherhood spilling from my eyes.

Sometimes my slow-motion moments, are as simple as the joy I feel while watching the dogs play.  There are more videos than photos of my dogs. I can recall visiting my son in law’s family in Temecula. They have a home on a stunning five acre spread. Everyone brought their dogs that day, and at some point, I was playing with all the dogs. Time stopped for a moment and I said out loud “I love dogs”.  And then I laughed at myself and how grateful I felt to be playing with this pooch pack.

Once in a while, while I’m having a great dance, I will also have a slow-motion moment. Feeling the dance, feeling my partner, and not thinking. After the song ends, I leave the dance floor close to tears.  Grateful for the dim lighting as well as the slow-motion moment. Grateful that I learned to dance, and grateful that I have this community, comradery and ability in life.

Sometimes I look around at my house, and I can see all of its charm, all of its beauty, I see the home I’ve created and I feel that familiar stopping of the clock. A slow-motion moment, filled with love for my home. And appreciation.  Truthfully, that is the rarest of my slow-motion moments since my home is a never ending to do list, and more often than not, I feel the burden of living there alone.

I’ve spent the better part of a year, adjusting and anticipating my impending death. Dealing with a very harsh chemotherapy, which is working and now it looks like my death is less impending. I have had zero slow motion-moments this year.  Adding in the pandemic, only served to accelerate my anxiety.

 My goal now is to get back to living in a way that I can find myself again. I’m finding ways to connect with friends and some family, using social but not emotional distancing. I’ve taken some time off from chemotherapy and it’s allowed me clarity.  Along with days of feeling well. I’m using this time to get back to me.

Slow motion moments; I’m waiting.

Mentors & Menstration

OCTOBER 27, 2020

Mentors
Men-Tor
Tor, Toro, the bull
Bulls, bullies, bull-headed
There have been many men-tors in my life.
Earliest was my dad.

He taught me the value of hard work, of being honest, and having a good sense of humor.
I believe he was the earliest recorded metro-sexual to hit Baldwin Hills, way back in 1962, when being gay was called being fey. Or worse, feygellah. And my dad never said he was gay, but he sure would have been called metro-sexual by today’s standards. And we have a lot of gay men on that side of the family. So gay, fey or straight, he was metro and of that I am sure. That’s why I’m attracted to tall, thin, clean, metro-sexual men with a great sense of humor and a gorgeous smile. I was a daddy’s girl, until I became a “woman” at age 13.

Ma, I yelled, I think I got my period! She came into the one bathroom we all shared, she slapped me across the face and said Mazel Tov! And then she kind of laughed and kind of cried. And when I said, ARE YOU INSANE? She laughed harder and said “I don’t know, that’s what grandma did to me.”

She then proceeded to pull out a large wrinkled brown bag stuffed way back in the ugly blue vanity drawer, a heavy old wood drawer that you had to coax and wiggle open. The bag was a thousand years old. Had she saved this bag all 13 years of my life, waiting for this moment? Inside was a lace “belt”, and several large safety pins, the actual SAFETY type pins that you used for a diaper back then, along with a giant box of Kotex. These Kotex could stop a brain hemorrhage.

I was a wild and juicy skin-tight-white-jeans kind of girl back then. Fully developed, curvy, tall, thin and had great tits - at least that was the buzz on the school quad. (No one had touched them yet). I was in 7th grade, Junior High and I wasn’t a baby anymore AND now I was a woman. I had my period. My “friend.” Along with an old brown bag of special supplies.

I was still sitting on the toilet when my mom came into our small bathroom. She opened the bag and said here, you pull this belt on, and then put the ends of the JUMBO Kotex thru the belt clips, and then using these huge safety pins, you pin the ends of the “napkin” onto the lace belt. Okay, I got the pad, the belt, the pins and my underpants all pulled up. And when I pulled up my jeans, I started to cry.

I can’t wear this thing. This is like wearing diapers! I can’t wear this! I can’t go to school. I cannot leave the house. HOW OFTEN DO YOU GET A PERIOD? HOW LONG DOES IT LAST? No, this is completely unacceptable. I want to wear Tampax - give me your Tampax.

Tampax? NO, my mother exclaimed! You can’t wear a Tampax until after you’re married and have had a baby. Married with a baby???? I cannot wear this fucking thick diaper every month for the next 20 years. MA!!!!! My mom never discussed sex with me, and she was uncomfortable discussing menstruation. She never once in my life said the word vagina. "Schmunny" was as close as she came. And that was in context to cleaning, as in “don’t forget to wash your Schmunny”.

The next day I made her write an excuse for me to skip gym class. And I had her take me to the Guild Drug store. While she waited in the car, I went in and bought a box of Pursettes, tiny Tampax for 13-year-old virgin vaginas. At home I took the box into the bathroom and unfolded the “how to use” diagram, clearly the early work of IKEA. With one leg up on the toilet seat like the diagram showed, I tried to align my body with the light blue line drawing of a side elevation of my private parts. What was that loop? And where in the loop did the pursettes fit in?

It was confusing as hell. Why did one leg need to be up on the toilet? I went thru try after try, unwrapping and wasting more than half the box. I decided to lay flat on the floor, seemed more natural for insertion and FINALLY I got one of those little fuckers up there. But it wasn’t really up enough so while it was better than the pad, it was giving me a very painful pinch with every step and I definitely couldn’t sit down. After my mom saw my pained expression and limp, she finally said, “give it a good shove and push it up higher, and it will be comfortable!”

She was right! That was a real game changer. From that point on I became the Mentor, the Pursette’s Mentor.

Troublemaker

APRIL 17, 2020

“You’re such a troublemaker” a new dance friend says to me as I rotate through class, my turn to dance with him again.  I cannot contain my joy at being seen.  Yes, I am a troublemaker! That’s my inner child coming out to play. He starts a joke, and I as rotate to the next person, I can see his inner child as well.  Each time I rotate to dance with him there is a partial joke shared, and he warns me that I had better not get him in trouble.  That’s an invitation I can barely resist.  I try to think of ways to stir the pot without causing a ruckus. I decide to keep it to jokes for a while, I want to make friends not enemies.

Dance was fun, but my inner child was unleashed, how lucky to meet another inner child that matches mine so well, even if the man didn’t realize what was happening.  I did! I knew he was very smart, he totally got my jokes, but he did seem very uptight.  My playful mood escalated.

I couldn’t believe my good fortune, a room full of people who were allowing their inner children to play!  Next, I rotated to a partner who tells me he’s legally blind. I laugh. He says, no I’m serious. He’s one of the better dancers there, so I ask him to tell me how to be a better follow.  He says “always keep your hands available.  I need to know where you are”.  I tell him I don’t know what that means and right away he gives me a concrete example.  Remember when you did that free turn, you had your hands down at your side, instead of in “table top” and available for me.  I couldn’t find your hand to lead the next move.

Okay, I kind of understood and said, “so, I should keep my hands in my pockets or behind my back” and he said “exactly”.  We both laughed.  I liked this guy as well.  Nice and funny and such a good dancer.  And with or without 20/20 he was a caring partner. Hidden hands or not, I always feel safe. 

The dance teachers also cracked a lot of jokes, the mood of the class is light and playful. It’s a gathering of inner children.  In this playfulness people were learning different syncopations.  I mostly struggled.  I could easily feel the rhythm, I just couldn’t figure out how to move my feet. 

The beginning of the lesson would be doable; a starter step, a throw out, a right-side pass, a sugar-push.  But then a syncopation would be taught.  A back-hitch, a rock n’ go, a reverse whip.  I was lost. It was hard to keep my inner critic quiet.  Hard to stay self-encouraged to just do my best.  I loved to dance, but this was pure pressure and I worked hard to quiet the voice in my head.

They split the class to teach each part.  Phil, our teacher, would call, “Leaders up” and it would take me a minute to remember that in dance I’m a “Follower”.  The Followers would move to an adjacent area, and the more experienced would try to teach the newbies. 

Finally, it was “Followers Up” and Phil and his partner Mindia would demonstrate the syncopation, pointing out places to relax arms, how to change weight and they showed us how it looked when put to the music. 

Next, they called everyone back to class; music was started and we were supposed to practice the newly learned syncopation.  Every minute or two we changed partners, so we were all able to dance with many different partners in hopes of learning this new styling move. 

As the end of the hour class approached, my inner child got tired and cranky.  Finally, class was over and social dancing about to begin.  Social dancers began pouring in, the bar was filling up and the DJ booth started the music.  I was not ready to stay and social dance.  Maybe once I had mastered the beginners class and my confidence grew but certainly not anytime soon. 

I changed back to my street shoes, washed up and got out my hand-held mace for the short walk to my car. My inner child was asleep for the night, and grown-up Flori was back in charge.

###

Ode To My Thermometer

OCTOBER 18, 2020

October 18, 2020

Oh, childhood thermometer
I loved you so
In your weird old black plastic faux pen-case,
Where the top didn’t really tightly screw
and the base had a little hole in the tip
(to let out the air?)

 You were a loyal temperature-taker for as long as I can remember.

I smuggled you out of my mother’s house, when we cleaned out her hold-all cup, the one that sat on the telephone table next to her chair. You were jammed in there, among old ink pens and crossword pencils. Pencils so old their yellow bodies were textured with bite marks of thought, their erasers solid concrete.

Thankfully I didn’t need to use you too often. But that Friday night at 1:45 in the morning, boy was I sick. Awoke freezing and shaking. Still I managed to fish you out of my nightstand drawer. And shake you down; that was not easy. I had to really snap my wrist to get your mercury line below normal.

Even at 1:45 AM, freezing and sick, I managed to snap you down. The little arrow marking 98.6 normal. I shook you down and I placed you under my tongue.  Three minutes later I took you out and read over 101-- nearly 102!  Kind of a high fucking fever if you ask me. I groaned and forced myself out of bed, to get Tylenol and the heating pad.

In the morning, 6:00AM I shook you down again. And I put you under my tongue again. And I still had fever 101+. More Tylenol. Texted my doctor.  In the afternoon I added in some Advil, and finally started feeling better. I was worried that I had Covid. But with no other symptoms, it seemed I was just having a reaction to the flu shot I had Friday at 6 PM.  I drank Gatorade, to make sure I still had my taste buds. Very reassuring to have my sense of taste and smell. Gatorade was still putrid. Cloying. No sore throat. Probably not Covid.

It was now Saturday early evening, around 5 PM. Funky old thermometer, you were still laying on top of my nightstand, in your skinny black case. When I decided to tidy up my nightstand, somehow you went rolling slowly off the back.  I didn’t even think you would break; you were in your case, and you merely rolled off. There were many cords and plugs behind the nightstand that I figured you would be sitting on top of the tangle.

But when I looked I saw you had exploded! Sprung free of your case. I couldn’t believe my eyes! And I couldn’t believe that my childhood thermometer was gone! Just like that! Even before my temperature was normal. This was a disaster.  I got out my phone to look up how to clean up mercury.

Everything online recommended extreme measures; call poison control, wear hazmat gear, warned against the vacuum, warned against sweeping with a broom and instead suggested a painstakingly slow method of using a squeegee. The idea was to create as little motion as possible while slowly and gently coaxing the little balls of mercury into one larger ball.

I needed a second opinion. So, I jumped online and posted in my nerdiest Facebook group, and also on Twitter. Help, how do I clean up mercury from my thermometer?

I really wasn’t up to this task, I felt very overwhelmed both at losing my beautiful old glass thermometer, and not feeling particularly well, and definitely not wanting to be on the floor cleaning up a hazardous mercury spill.  Why does such crazy shit always happen to me? I don’t feel good. I don’t want to clean up a mercury and glass spill. I am anxious about the process.

I’m wearing the big guns N95 mask and extra tough gloves and now the Internet is saying I should have windows open and not have dogs or children in the room. I send little Mini out of my bedroom. I get out my super LED flashlight and shine it slowly across the floor and then I see it; a large spray of mercury balls glittering across my area rug.

Like tiny lice nits, these little mercury balls are everywhere. I wanted to cry. Or maybe I was already crying. I decide I have to take the rug out. Carefully folding it in upon itself to contain the mercury, I slide it towards my exterior bedroom door.  The door is jammed of course, because I never routinely open it. And good thing there wasn’t a fire, only a mercury explosion. Because the door was really stuck. So, I struggle to get the door unstuck, and once opened I carefully and slowly drag the rug out. Leaving it in the backyard. Figuring I’ll deal with it in the morning.

Next, I get down on the floor, with the headlight on shooting the bright beam across the floor, and I see micro balls of mercury. They are everywhere. I clean up what I can, using two pieces of cardboard to gently coax the mercury into a single large ball. I’m wearing gloves, the N95, have trash bags and ziplock baggies. I have a paper plate with a wet paper towel on it.  I pick up most of the glass. I have several different zip bags, everything goes into the bags as I change gloves and get another N95 mask. I take everything and put it outside. And tomorrow I will put it in the trash.

I’m back in denial and I’m pacing around my bedroom and I’m trying to talk myself down. It’s not that big of a deal, I tell myself.  Just a teeny amount of mercury, I cleaned most of it up. It’s not going to get airborne and into my lungs. The windows are still wide open. But then I get anxious and I don’t want to deal with it. So, I leave the bedroom and slam the door. I sleep on the couch until nearly two in the morning. This time I wake up but I am not sick, I just want my bed. And in my denial and my quest for a cozy night’s rest, I go back into my bed. In the morning and in the light of day, I can see quite clearly there are many more micro balls of mercury sprayed under my bed, and all the way across the room, in front of the media cabinet. It’s a micro mercury murder scene.

I decide I need to throw the other area rug out, this one too big for me to handle alone. I call my son-in-law who lives close by. My daughter and son-in-law come over in the afternoon. I read them what the internet says. She waits outside with the dogs.

I give him the flashlight after I feel he’s properly fitted with a mask and gloves.  When he aims the light across the floor, he can see the million mercury balls, and understands why I’m so upset. He helps me get the door open and the large rug out and then we start the mercury cleanup process again.

We move the chair, then the bed and using small pieces of cardboard dipped in shaving cream we dab these little balls and finish cleaning up. It’s painstakingly slow but the Internet warns against sending the mercury airborne. So, we work slowly dabbing and cleaning. I know my son in law thinks I’m nuts. But I’m scared of inhaling mercury. Worried for the dogs and being very ridiculous.  But I can’t help myself. And I’m grateful he helps me.  And grateful that he’s kind about these situations, which occur more than I’d like to admit. 

All the while I’m dabbing mercury with shaving cream, I’m also feeling nostalgic for my thermometer. It was kind of my buddy anytime I was sick, an artifact of my childhood. I can remember my mom shaking it down, putting it under my tongue and sitting on my bed waiting. A worried look on her face.

I can remember when I learned that if I took it out of my mouth when she wasn’t looking and rubbed it really fast on the sheets I could make a fever appear for the days I didn’t want to go to school. I also learned that during the art of making a fake-fever you don’t want to make too high of a fever because then you would have to go to the doctor AND your mother would stay home from work as well. That was terrible and I might as well go to school. So, I learn exactly how many rubs on the sheet for a nice low-grade fake-fever. Nothing over 100.

As my son in law and I finish the last dabs of shaving cream ‘n mercury, I say a silent goodbye to my trusty old glass thermometer. I thank it for hanging out with me for over 50 years.

And I wish that someone could just shake me down to normal.