Caddywhompus at the Moment

For several days now I've sat down at my computer to write my blog, but I have nothing to say. Nada. Zip. Zero thoughts. I'm blank. Still in my pajamas, with a cup full of Seattle's Best, and Maggie Mae napping on my lap, I wait for the inspiration. It doesn't come.

I've been sitting at my computer for an hour now. It's seven-thirty. Maggie is scratching at the door, my coffee is cold, and so far I've written eighty-five words just to say I have nothing to say. And there's so much to tell you, too. Tom's mother, who was doing so well in her new assisted living apartment, was rushed to the emergency room a few days ago with symptoms of pneumonia, and while she was there the staff forgot to give her her happy pills. "I'm leaving this place; ain't nobody gonna stop me!" she said as she yanked the oxygen hose out of her nose. Security had to be called on a ninety-pound, almost ninety-five-year-old woman. Really? Security? Without her little blue pill, Mom ain't happy and if Mom ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.  She's back at her apartment now, but Mom still ain't happy, so Tom has left for Florida, and he ain't happy about that, and Maggie Mae and I are just sitting here with nothing to say. Well, that's not exactly true. It's now nine and she's whining at her food bowl. She has plenty to say and she ain't happy.

Okay, Maggie has a full belly, I'm sipping on a second cup of hot coffee, and I still have nothing to say, and there's a lot going on. My ninety-one-year-old mother, who was doing so well in a nursing home, ain't happy. Her best friend and caregiver for eighteen years (he goes to the nursing home every day) is baffled by her unhappiness and the way in which she choses to express it. "Maybe she needs a happy pill," he says, but the nursing staff says, "If you think she's bad, you should see the residents in the west wing." Nope! Sorry. No happy pill for my mother who ain't happy, so I'm going to Indy this week, and I ain't happy about that.

My third cup of coffee is cold, Maggie's snoring on my lap, and I can't think of anything to write about, yet there's so much happening. The air conditioner is broken, the refrigerator is leaking, the clothes dryer won't heat, the land line is dead and my cell phone can't hold a signal for more than five minutes, the shower won't shower, and the upstairs toilet is drip, drip, dripping water into the downstairs bathroom. Tom is gone and I ain't happy about that.

Maggie is off my lap and scratching at the door, my body is vibrating from four cups of coffee, yet there is not an ounce of motivation to tell you that my decades-long friend and I have begun putting the pieces of our broken relationship back together after a Sunday spat a few weeks ago. Neither one of us knows exactly what happened. All I remember was sitting next to her and thinking, "Oh, my! She ain't very happy right now." And she remembers thinking, "Oh, my. Carol Louise ain't very happy right now."

The coffee pot is empty (did I drink a whole pot of coffee?), Maggie has disappeared with one of my socks, and I have no creative spark. I have blogger's block. I don't understand why because things are caddywhompus at the moment, and there is so much to tell you.  Have I mentioned that Anonymous wants me dead? He said that I and my fellow baby-boomers are responsible for everything that is wrong in this country and possibly the world and the sooner we all die, the sooner he and his generation can fix what we've broken. It was my post of a cartoon character "Bugging the Living Daylight Out of You" where he left the comment about wanting me and you (if you're over fifty) dead. Drawing a benign cartoon character did me in. Imagine that anger. Now that is really scary. Anonymous and awholelotta people right now ain't happy. What in the world (oh, don't get me started about this crazy world) is going on?

Maggie's scratching at the door again and she ain't happy.

Not Happy. Not Happy At All.

And everything was going so well, too. An early morning walk, a treat, the ball chase, a belly rub. But wait! What's that! Doggie shampoo? A towel? Running water? Oh no! Hurry, Maggie. Find a hiding place where you can see them, but they can't see  you.

I can see you.

Not happy. Not happy at all.

All better now.

Bugging the Living Daylight Out of You

Derailing the Message

Sometimes it's the distractions that derail the message.

From the book Raisin' Jason

copyright 2008

On the Lighter Side of Things

A Case of Mistaken Intent

(Read Meeting Anger Head On first, August 24 post)

Okay, so we were mistaken. It wasn't road rage after all. The man's flailing arms and yells were interpreted by Tom and me as anger. Yet, what he was trying to say was, "Your motorcycle is about to fall off your trailer." Oops! Tom handled the case of mistaken intent very well, but I reacted by meeting anger (or what I thought was anger) head on with some anger of my own.

After Tom tightened the straps on his Harley and we continued our drive to North Carolina, I sat silent while a tag team of mind demons had their way with me. I was embarrassed; I felt silly and childish; my behavior had been irrational and immature.

It was the second time in a week that I had succumbed to behavior unbecoming of an adult, and the first encounter a few days before had resulted in the loss of a friend. And, not the kind of friend you meet in the candy aisle at Seven-Eleven, discover you both like Snickers (the ones with dark chocolate), and then you become friends on Facebook. Nope! This was a friend with decades of history. A friend who held me in her arms nineteen years ago when I discovered Perfect Number Six wasn't so perfect after all. A friend who moved her 832 pairs of shoes out of her guest bedroom to accommodate my three-month stay at her home, and she was that one special friend who had her own bedroom in my home. Who but a close friend would agree to spoon inside a black trash bag on a cold winter night at the lake cabin after I had told her that plastic keeps the heat in?  (It didn't keep us warm, but we laughed all night long.) My offbeat sense of humor fit perfectly with her zaniness, and while others may have thought we were crazy mad, we didn't care.  We loved and supported each other through happy times and sad, the good boyfriends and the "what-was-I-thinking" ones. I was the friend companion at her wedding, and she was with me in Paris when I married Tom.

So what happened? No one really knows for certain. The she said/she said details got scrambled up in the passion of the moment. A case of mistaken intent, perhaps? Like the yelling, flailing man who was only trying to help, had one friend's good intentions been misunderstood? And to what extremes does one go to save their friends from themselves? Where do you draw the line? Where's does the safe area end and the danger zone begin? Does the longevity of a relationship blur that line? Is it only natural that close relationships trade the cautious, polite courtesies offered in the beginning for a more direct, to-the-point approach later on?

There are two sides of the story, of course. There always are. The right side and the right side. Supporting both right sides were brutal honesty, explanations (excuses), past transgressions, indignation, pride, and anger. When it was over, it was really over.  At least that's what she said. 

Meeting Anger Head On

"What is wrong with him?" Tom said with alarm, which got my immediate attention. It was early yesterday morning, and we were driving back to North Carolina from Indy. For Tom, it had been a trip he had been looking forward to for months: Rusty Wallace race car driver one day, Moto GP (motorcycle races) spectator the next, and the remaining days spent riding his Harley and fishing. As for me, the trip started out well enough, but ended in disaster. Our intent was to stay until Saturday, celebrate my birthday with family and friends, and leave on Sunday. Instead we loaded Tom's kayak and motorcycle on to the trailer and left two days early.

"All I did was merge from I-465 to I-74. I did nothing wrong yet he's flailing his arms and yelling at me." I looked in the side mirror and saw a man in the car behind us waving his arms frantically. "Did you switch lanes and cut him off?" I asked. "No, I have stayed in the right lane the whole time." Then the man sped up and passed us going 90 mph. Cutting in front of us, he slowed down and began waving his arms back and forth again. "What could he possibly be mad about?" Tom said. The more the man exhibited his rage, the more confused Tom became. I wasn't in a good state of mind before we crossed paths with Mr. Road Rage, and his behavior brought out the worst in me. I met his anger with a little anger of my own and began waving my arms back and forth and vocalizing my displeasure with his antics. Tom--always a man of self-control and reason--reached over and touched my arm. I don't remember what he said but it was something like, "Let's not add fuel to the flames and make him madder," or "That behavior is not going to solve anything," or "Meeting anger head on with anger only makes things worse." 

Road Rage moved over to the fast lane, opened his passenger window, and slowed way down. Tom slowed down as well to avoid confrontation. He was calm. I was agitated. We did nothing wrong. Why is he taking his anger to such extremes? A fast moving car came up behind Mr. Rage and he moved back in front of us, and now his whole body (along with his arms) was waving back and forth. We were both going 40 mph. Cars were racing past us. I wondered how far this man was going to take his anger. Where would it all end? This man was really, really mad at us.

Post Road exit was a mile away, and I asked Tom to pull off so we could lose him. As we slowed down to make the exit, he slowed down too. He was anticipating our next move and was exiting with us. Oh, my. Not good. Not good at all. Then he abruptly pulled his car off the road and on to the shoulder, opened his window, stuck his head out and as we passed he yelled, "Your motorcycle is about to fall!"

Oh...