My Foot Hurts!

Ow! My damn foot hurts and I'm rather upset about it. I hurt it doing something innocent. I was trying to add money to my MARTA card as the bus was moving. That's not very easy, believe me. The bus drivers here in Atlanta do not wait for anyone to find a seat or to put money in the fare box before zooming down the street. It's precarious. I'm not elderly but I do have some issues with various parts of my body not wanting to operate properly, especially when I'm standing up inside a moving vehicle.

Anyway, the bus lurched around the corner and I was nearly thrown into the driver's lap. I'm not sure exactly how it happened but as I was trying to keep myself from falling onto the driver my right foot got bent at a weird angle and I actually heard something "snap". It hurt a lot. I made a face and said, "Something weird just happened to my foot!" and then I stumbled over to a seat so that my poor "wife" Jennifer could sit down also.

This is only a tiny bit about my foot. Sure, it hurts like hell. It's now swollen in the small spot where I did whatever I did to it. I'm not writing very well tonight. Sorry. I'm cold and tired and worried about Friday, October 24 2008. I get to plead my case for Social Security on that day. I have been worrying and worrying about this thing since October 3rd. I just pray that The Social Security Administration re-instates my SSDI or I am screwed. I have no money for my diabetes medication, my anti-depressant/sleep med, my stomach meds... and we haven't been able to pay our co-operative's "carrying charges" (just think 'rent', it's easier, even though we own our condo). Bills are piling up and today we used the last of any money we had. We're going to have to go to the food bank a few times before the end of October. I have done a lot of research on my case and am hoping that if I come to the appointment prepared with all the necessary paperwork plus all my research, there's a hope in heaven I'll get my SSDI back for November.

Until I hear from them, I'm not really going to be in the mood to spin any yarns from my vast collection of stories that reside in my muddled brain. And if their decision isn't good... I may not be writing anything in this blog for a long time. God, I hope this Friday I get my SSDI benefits back!

I have a song playing and playing in my head. It's called "Spiderdust" and the woman who sings it used to be in this band called Bel Canto. Her name is Anneli Drecker. She's from Norway and has this mysterious voice. She also sang backup vocals in Jah Wobble's song, "Becoming More Like God". I think she's sexy as hell. Anyway, because of OCD or whatever the hell is my problem, songs sometimes play over and over in my head for DAYS! And not the entire song, which is even more aggravating. Just snippets. So, I have the chorus of "Spiderdust" playing endlessly in my head: "Spider, Spider, something something something... (Norwegian, perhaps? Can't understand what she's saying at any rate!) something... Spiderdust, Spiderdust, Spider--something something something..." Catchy, no?

At least I have a few words. One time, last year when I was having so much trouble with insomnia and hadn't slept for three days, I had a bass line from a U2 song going through my head over and over and over until I wanted to throw myself in front of a speeding car! I love the song but the bass line, by itself was driving me crazy.

Well, on that mentally ill note I shall bid a farewell: "Spiderdust, Spiderdust, something something something something... eagle eye?"

All That Cheese, But No Cheesecake

I've always hated when strangers feed me some cliché and then smile with dubious sincerity. I try not to do that in my dealings with others. If I don't have something comforting to say, I try to keep my big trap shut. Now, I've said many an inappropriate thing, without thinking, but I don't believe I've ever resorted to lame clichés.

The first time I ever had cheesecake was when my dad died in 1975. He was fifty-six and he had a major heart attack. I was eight years old. I remember waking up on that day in September and hearing my sister Nina crying and my sister Kathy trying to comfort her. Confused and half asleep I asked what was happening. I heard strange men in the living room talking to our mom. Kathy said that something was wrong with Dad and that an ambulance had been called. I looked out the window and saw a white station-wagon type car with a large red cross painted on the side. I was scared and wanted to go out into the living room and find our mom. Kathy told me to stay where I was but to get dressed. I think I pulled on some jeans but kept my nightgown on. I remember sitting on my bed and listening to the voices of the paramedics as they moved around the living room. I don't remember things in any particular order that day. I do recall seeing the paramedics wheeling a metal stretcher into the house and trying to summon tears because Nina was crying and I thought that I should be crying as well. At some point, the paramedics went away and we crept out of our bedroom and into the kitchen. Mom told us that Dad had a heart attack and died. She was sitting at the kitchen table and said this without emotion. She was probably in shock. As I said, my memories of that day are disjointed and out of sequence. Dad's brother, Uncle Bud, showed up. Many telephone calls were made. My sister, Mary, came home from a friends' house where she had stayed the night before. I don't know where my sister, Amy was. Relatives and neighbors came in and out. I went across the street to the Curnow's house to play with Linda Curnow who was my age. She and her brother, Johnny had all the coolest Hot Wheels toys and an electric race-car track. Linda looked at me, wide-eyed and asked me about my dad. I calmly told her that he had had a heart attack, whatever that was and that he was dead. She looked at me with big eyes and wanted to keep asking questions but her mother intervened and asked me if I wanted to eat lunch at their house. I said yes, gladly. Linda's dad brought home a big bag of hamburgers from Jeno's, a hamburger joint that had rectangular burgers on rectangular buns which I just thought was the coolest thing ever.

Sometime around early evening I remember going back across the street and going inside my house. The kitchen table was crammed with all kinds of food and  my mother and Uncle Bud were sitting next to the table, smoking cigarettes. My Uncle Bud asked me if I wanted a "Sloppy Joe-Joe" and I told him that I wasn't hungry. I was kind of irritated that he used such a dumb term for a sloppy joe and felt as though I was being talked down to. I don't remember what I did after that. 

The next day was also a blur. We may or may not have gone to church. Mom was a stickler for going to Mass every Sunday but this was a very different event. I do distinctly remember that Nancy and/or Patti Smith, the next door neighbors, coming over with a pan full of blueberry cheesecake. They had made the refrigerated kind with cream cheese and a can of blueberries. When one of them handed the pan to my sister Mary, I remember thinking, "Ewwwww! Cheesecake? Cheddar cheese and blueberries? Gross!".  Thankfully, I never voiced this opinion out loud. When Mary and I went back inside our house, I said something to the affect of "I'm not eating a cake with blueberries and cheese! Ewwww!" I don't think any of us knew what a cheesecake was. That was a bit too exotic for us! Anyway, we unwrapped it and saw that it wasn't Cheddar or Swiss cheese. Cream cheese was a mystery to me. I had a piece and tasted it warily. Wow! It was so good! Who knew? I couldn't get over how great this stuff was. My sisters and I ate all that cheesecake happily. I was surprised that something that sounded so gross could turn out to be so delicious. 

That was my introduction to cheesecake.

Four years later, my mother died. She was also fifty-six. She died of lung cancer that metastasized into brain cancer. Both she and my father smoked cigarettes to beat the band. Dad had also been a pipe smoker. It's amazing the culinary wonders I experienced with the death of both parents. For Dad's death it was no-bake blueberry cheesecake. When my Mom died, Mom's friend who was also the mother of one of my classmates made venison meatballs. We had those with a big vat of spaghetti and sauce. I can't say that the venison was as big a hit as the cheesecake had been but it was the thought that counted.

I remember going back to school after the official, sanctioned mourning time for my mother was over. Some block-headed nun took me aside and after expressing her version of condolences:  "At least your mother was a good Catholic! Think of those Protestants that die and go to Hell!" 

and then said, "It was God's Will and we cannot fathom the mysteries of that Precious Will. We must be strong and trust Him." I didn't know what to say to this so I nodded and smiled slightly. I was highly irritated though. God's Will?! Oh, yeah? What a cop out!

I heard that a lot, during my childhood. It was after my mother's death that Catholicism and I began to part ways. Actually, I was beginning to think that Christianity, as it was being taught and practiced was rather silly and stupid. This whole idea of what constituted God's Will was the first thing that had me wanting to run for the exits. Many, many years later when I was much older and could form an opinion without worrying if I was being a "bad Catholic", I began to jettison many of the beliefs with which I had been indoctrinated. Well-meaning but clueless people who spouted the "God's Will" excuse at every opportunity used to make me seethe with rage. Was it really God's Will that my mother died? God supposedly raised Jesus to life again, but He couldn't be bothered with my mother? Or, more to the point, was it really God's Will that my mother smoked two cartons of cigarettes a day? Actually, for clarity's sake, I'm not sure she did smoke two cartons a day, it just seems that way. She did smoke a hell of a lot, anyway. Where in the world did Free Will fit into this whole deal? It was God's Will that my parents were alcoholics as well as smokers? Wow! What a great God we believe in, huh?!

Telling young children that bad events in life are God's Will is morally reprehensible and irresponsible. But I suppose if that's what you really believe, you're going to say that in your efforts to be "comforting". But, I think that if you really don't know the answers to the big questions, you should keep your trap shut and/or admit you don't know. Being uncertain about the big issues of life and faith is seen as a weakness, somehow? Why? You somehow think that throwing out the tired old line about "God's Will" is somehow better than admitting that you just don't know? That's a lot of crap. 

There are many things I'm not too sure about. I'm not sure whether Jesus really is God or just a human who was/is closer to God than anyone else. I'm not sure what I believe about a place called Hell. I'm pretty certain that it's not a giant lake of fire. I'm also pretty confident that God doesn't SEND people to Hell, they choose it by the way they live in this life. Not being sure whether Jesus is God has not stopped me from having a lifelong love affair with *Herself. S/He seems to still want me for a sunbeam (or a Proctor Silex). When my friends have asked me things about God I tell 'em what I think and believe. I have never trotted out that tired bullshit about God's Will. If I don't know, I don't make up something. Why do we feel as though we have to know everything? I guess faith in God means having faith even though one doesn't understand a lot of it. Does uncertainty just scare most people? Yeah, it does. I want things to be certain, too. I want to know for certain that the Earth isn't going to be blown up by all of us humans lobbing nuclear bombs at each other. I want to be certain that I'll someday have a close relationship to my sister Nina. We currently don't even speak to each other. I want to be certain that God knows what S/He's doing and that "all will be well, all will be well,  and all manner of things will be well", a quote that has been attributed to several mystics but I believe came directly from Julian of Norwich. 

Anyway, I am certain that God wants me to love those well-meaning slingers of "cheese", the crowd that crows about the Will of God. So, I shall take a deep, calming breath and send them blessings. I think I'll go to the store tomorrow and buy some stuff to make a refrigerated cheese cake!

*Herself: Father Andrew M. Greeley, an author and Catholic priest, often refers to God as "Herself". He frequently writes about a distinctly feminine form of God. You may think that's blasphemous, stupid, feminist claptrap, etc. I rather like it and will continue to use the Irish form of the feminine aspect of God. Deal with it.