David:
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
The Last 10 Ten Days, Days 2 and 3
We all got settled in and prepared for the great wait. We didn't know she'd hang on 10 days, though, and the entire time we thought it would be any day, any minute, any breath. Daniel slept in the living room, N in the red room, my dad down on the couch in the basement, David, Grace, and me in my parents' room, and Kate right there beside Mama the whole time. K with Hospice spent many hours with us in the white room talking about everything under the sun, but Kate was truly the one who nursed Mama. She administered the pain-killers and orchestrated all the elements of Mama's care barely leaving her side.
We didn't have anywhere to go so we basically camped out in the white room talking to Mama (we were told the hearing is the last to go), talking to each other and listening to a Joanie Madden cd, "Songs of the Irish whistle." that would later serve as an anthem to that time.
People brought plenty of food but no one felt much like eating. I take that back. My dad seemed to enjoy the endless supply of nourishment that kept appearing at our doors. The phone rang a lot and we took turns giving family and friends updates. We knew the end was nearing we just didn't know exactly when the end would come. As hard as it was being right there, it must have been even harder for our dear family members across the states who had only those brief and not very conclusive telephone updates on which to make sense of the very sad situation.
Mama rallied once to say, "I love everybody," and we made out that she had "a wish" for Daniel. We can only assume that her wish was for him to give faith a fair try as I believe she believed he wasn't a believer. She also called for David, specifically, and that makes sense because she loved him as her own. David met my mom post-diagnosis, so he never knew her cancer-free. It was 1994, and I was two weeks into my year as a VISTA volunteer in DeFuniak Springs, FL when I got the news. David, my brand new friend, was the first person I told. Thankfully, most of the following eight years were full of lots of living and doing and laughing, and not the devastating sickness that we all encountered those last 10 days.
Kate is haunted much more than I am with the horrors of Mama's deterioration that she witnessed first-hand. In fact, much of it has been blocked out. We all want to think that Mama wasn't in pain at the end (at least I do), but she was, and only Kate knows the truth about how bad it got. Kate was our hero, taking on the physical duties and never leaving Mama's side. I didn't feel jealous or resentful towards Kate for taking on this intimate role, but I did yearn for my therapist, as I felt she was the only one to whom I could tell my innermost thoughts and feelings. We were all dealing with our loss in our own way, and no way was the right way.
So we circulated in and out of the white room sometimes having alone time just to be with Mama, sometimes being with her with a roomful of others. During my alone time with Mama as I lay beside her, I said my last peace. I hope she heard me.
We didn't have anywhere to go so we basically camped out in the white room talking to Mama (we were told the hearing is the last to go), talking to each other and listening to a Joanie Madden cd, "Songs of the Irish whistle." that would later serve as an anthem to that time.
People brought plenty of food but no one felt much like eating. I take that back. My dad seemed to enjoy the endless supply of nourishment that kept appearing at our doors. The phone rang a lot and we took turns giving family and friends updates. We knew the end was nearing we just didn't know exactly when the end would come. As hard as it was being right there, it must have been even harder for our dear family members across the states who had only those brief and not very conclusive telephone updates on which to make sense of the very sad situation.
Mama rallied once to say, "I love everybody," and we made out that she had "a wish" for Daniel. We can only assume that her wish was for him to give faith a fair try as I believe she believed he wasn't a believer. She also called for David, specifically, and that makes sense because she loved him as her own. David met my mom post-diagnosis, so he never knew her cancer-free. It was 1994, and I was two weeks into my year as a VISTA volunteer in DeFuniak Springs, FL when I got the news. David, my brand new friend, was the first person I told. Thankfully, most of the following eight years were full of lots of living and doing and laughing, and not the devastating sickness that we all encountered those last 10 days.
Kate is haunted much more than I am with the horrors of Mama's deterioration that she witnessed first-hand. In fact, much of it has been blocked out. We all want to think that Mama wasn't in pain at the end (at least I do), but she was, and only Kate knows the truth about how bad it got. Kate was our hero, taking on the physical duties and never leaving Mama's side. I didn't feel jealous or resentful towards Kate for taking on this intimate role, but I did yearn for my therapist, as I felt she was the only one to whom I could tell my innermost thoughts and feelings. We were all dealing with our loss in our own way, and no way was the right way.
So we circulated in and out of the white room sometimes having alone time just to be with Mama, sometimes being with her with a roomful of others. During my alone time with Mama as I lay beside her, I said my last peace. I hope she heard me.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
The Last 10 Days, Day 1
I'm not always good about keeping my cell phone charged and with me and on and stuff like that. I had it with me that day when Daddy called. I was at work down in the research room when he called. He was calling to tell me he thought that "this is it" and he thought I should come home. The day was February 26, 2003. It was Wednesday.
I burst out crying right there at work and was glad that J was there to help me get out the door. I usually kept to myself and didn't get too personal with J--she had a bit of a rough edge that wasn't entirely pleasant to be around. But at that time I was glad she was there. Crying, I told her that my mom was dying and that I'd be leaving and didn't know when I'd be back. She helped me put my paperwork away, turn my computer off and put my jacket on. She kept saying, "Just go" and I kept saying, "Sorry, I'll try to keep you posted."
Kate is the first person I called. I remember I hadn't even made it to the first stop light yet. I was devastated that I might not make it back in time. She said just to get here safely and that she would fill me in on what was going on with Hospice, the nurses, especially K, with whom Kate was especially impressed. Kate sounded strong and I was glad because I wasn't.
I called David next and told him to please help me get my things and Grace's things together. He asked no questions and was ready to go when I got back from work. I was quiet on the drive to Boone, not crying or talking, just thinking. Hoping that I'd see my mom alive at least one more time. I was so glad I'd stayed the extra night on Sunday and that David covered for me in the nursery at church. And that he'd taken good care of Grace. She was 18 months old. On Sunday, N, Kate and I washed Mama's hair in the living room and then we all watched "My Big Fat Greek Wedding." It was funny, but I didn't feel well. I had a mild fever when I got back home on Monday and remember talking to Mama on the phone that night. She hoped that I'd feel better.
On Tuesday I called Mama from work and I remember her saying something about just wanting to be normal. I'm sure she did in some ways, especially if normal meant in its most basic definition being healthy and alive. But Mama was far from being normal.
I'd been going to therapy for at least a year and I knew the end was near. My therapist and I were working through ways to have that final conversation with my mom that was right up there with the most difficult things I've ever done. The previous Saturday when I was visiting my mom in the hospital, I mustered up all the courage I had and tried to bring up saying goodbye. I'll never forget the look in her eyes...beady, scared, but unflinching. She just didn't want to go there. I made the very best effort I could but it wasn't good enough. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry for back-talking and being snippy as a child, as a teenager, and even as a grown-up, and I wanted her to tell me it was ok, that she forgave me. I wanted to tell her how much strength I got from watching her battle this eight-year illness with every last ounce of fight in her until the bitter end. I wanted her to know how much our road trips to CO meant and that how I found it an honor when people told me I looked like her. I wanted her to be proud of me and I wanted to hear that from her. I desperately wanted her to know that I would bring up Grace Elizabeth knowing about her Grandmama, and also the baby growing in my tummy for whom I silently wept for I knew they'd never meet.
My mom looked at me and told me her stomach hurt and she wanted to talk about cute things Grace was doing lately. I left the room in tears telling N and Mrs. C. that I didn't think she knew how sick she was. Looking back, I think she knew.
On February 26, 2003, I made it back home in time to see my mom alive. She was already back in the "white room" decorated with soothing sights, the most soothing of all, the quilt that S made. My mom's eyes were open, but barely. I stood beside her, held her hand, and smiled and said, "It's Bird, Mama. It's Bird. And Grace and David are here too." My mom said very softly--so softly I wasn't quite sure she said what she said. She said, "Bird Seed." It made me smile. Those were the last words she ever spoke to me.
I burst out crying right there at work and was glad that J was there to help me get out the door. I usually kept to myself and didn't get too personal with J--she had a bit of a rough edge that wasn't entirely pleasant to be around. But at that time I was glad she was there. Crying, I told her that my mom was dying and that I'd be leaving and didn't know when I'd be back. She helped me put my paperwork away, turn my computer off and put my jacket on. She kept saying, "Just go" and I kept saying, "Sorry, I'll try to keep you posted."
Kate is the first person I called. I remember I hadn't even made it to the first stop light yet. I was devastated that I might not make it back in time. She said just to get here safely and that she would fill me in on what was going on with Hospice, the nurses, especially K, with whom Kate was especially impressed. Kate sounded strong and I was glad because I wasn't.
I called David next and told him to please help me get my things and Grace's things together. He asked no questions and was ready to go when I got back from work. I was quiet on the drive to Boone, not crying or talking, just thinking. Hoping that I'd see my mom alive at least one more time. I was so glad I'd stayed the extra night on Sunday and that David covered for me in the nursery at church. And that he'd taken good care of Grace. She was 18 months old. On Sunday, N, Kate and I washed Mama's hair in the living room and then we all watched "My Big Fat Greek Wedding." It was funny, but I didn't feel well. I had a mild fever when I got back home on Monday and remember talking to Mama on the phone that night. She hoped that I'd feel better.
On Tuesday I called Mama from work and I remember her saying something about just wanting to be normal. I'm sure she did in some ways, especially if normal meant in its most basic definition being healthy and alive. But Mama was far from being normal.
I'd been going to therapy for at least a year and I knew the end was near. My therapist and I were working through ways to have that final conversation with my mom that was right up there with the most difficult things I've ever done. The previous Saturday when I was visiting my mom in the hospital, I mustered up all the courage I had and tried to bring up saying goodbye. I'll never forget the look in her eyes...beady, scared, but unflinching. She just didn't want to go there. I made the very best effort I could but it wasn't good enough. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry for back-talking and being snippy as a child, as a teenager, and even as a grown-up, and I wanted her to tell me it was ok, that she forgave me. I wanted to tell her how much strength I got from watching her battle this eight-year illness with every last ounce of fight in her until the bitter end. I wanted her to know how much our road trips to CO meant and that how I found it an honor when people told me I looked like her. I wanted her to be proud of me and I wanted to hear that from her. I desperately wanted her to know that I would bring up Grace Elizabeth knowing about her Grandmama, and also the baby growing in my tummy for whom I silently wept for I knew they'd never meet.
My mom looked at me and told me her stomach hurt and she wanted to talk about cute things Grace was doing lately. I left the room in tears telling N and Mrs. C. that I didn't think she knew how sick she was. Looking back, I think she knew.
On February 26, 2003, I made it back home in time to see my mom alive. She was already back in the "white room" decorated with soothing sights, the most soothing of all, the quilt that S made. My mom's eyes were open, but barely. I stood beside her, held her hand, and smiled and said, "It's Bird, Mama. It's Bird. And Grace and David are here too." My mom said very softly--so softly I wasn't quite sure she said what she said. She said, "Bird Seed." It made me smile. Those were the last words she ever spoke to me.
Monday, February 25, 2008
What a Week
I haven't posted since last Monday...the start of a quite memorable week. But out of respect for all involved, I've decided not to post the details here. Let's just say that I have my material if I ever decide to write a novel.
I said: I've got a fundraiser luncheon to go to that starts at 11:00, but maybe I can swing by on my way there for a cup of coffee.
She said: Yeah, and maybe we can watch a movie. A scary movie.
She said: You don't have to lift that box down the steps. You can slide it down.
I said: Oh, you're right. You've obviously done this before.
I said: I'll buy dinner tonight. What would you like?
She said: Sesame chicken. And could you pick up some wine coolers?
I said: I've got to make an important conference call. Please excuse me.
She said: Can I paint your toenails while you're on the phone?
I said: Maybe you can give me some pointers on how to accessorize my bedroom.
She said: You're going to flip when you see your kitchen.
I said: I kind of feel like Thelma and Louise minus the murder and getting to sleep with Brad Pitt.
She said: You are really a good person. I hope David realizes that. I'm really going to miss you. You'll have to visit me. We'll go to Baja, Mexico.
I said: I'm not as perfect as you might think I am. Trust me. We'll still keep in touch.
She said: I'm not going after all.
I said: I've got a fundraiser luncheon to go to that starts at 11:00, but maybe I can swing by on my way there for a cup of coffee.
She said: Yeah, and maybe we can watch a movie. A scary movie.
She said: You don't have to lift that box down the steps. You can slide it down.
I said: Oh, you're right. You've obviously done this before.
I said: I'll buy dinner tonight. What would you like?
She said: Sesame chicken. And could you pick up some wine coolers?
I said: I've got to make an important conference call. Please excuse me.
She said: Can I paint your toenails while you're on the phone?
I said: Maybe you can give me some pointers on how to accessorize my bedroom.
She said: You're going to flip when you see your kitchen.
I said: I kind of feel like Thelma and Louise minus the murder and getting to sleep with Brad Pitt.
She said: You are really a good person. I hope David realizes that. I'm really going to miss you. You'll have to visit me. We'll go to Baja, Mexico.
I said: I'm not as perfect as you might think I am. Trust me. We'll still keep in touch.
She said: I'm not going after all.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Love in the Time of Chaos
Dear David,
It's not about a Hallmark Card; It's about making our bed every morning so that at least one part of our home is in order as we come and go in all directions.
It's not about roses; It's about letting me drive your brand new car, the one that still has temporary tags, to pick up the guest speaker at the aiport because I failed to get the crack in my windshield fixed, clean up the stain that Johnny's slime left on the passenger's seat, and vaccuum all the dropped cashews, pieces of rice cake, gum wrappers and lollipop sticks.
It's not about jewelry; It's about spending your free time designing a flyer promoting a Literacy Council event because you know the committee needs one and doesn't have money to pay a professional.
It's not about chocolate; It's about cutting your work meeting short so you can pick Grace up on early-release-day, even though I forgot to warn you until that morning.
It's about ironing my clothes for me when I'm in a hurry; agreeing to run out to buy chips for the Valentine's Day party because I forgot; giving the kids a bath when it's really my turn; taking on many more childcare shifts on the weekends while I study; speaking up to let the kids know it is not ok to disrespect me; putting on your best pants and jacket to escort Grace to the annual Father/Daughter Dance; asking me if the food I'm about to put in my mouth is on my diet--but not because you want me to look better in a bathing suit-- because you want me to feel better.
It's about looking forward to that one-on-one date that's so overdue...even if that date ends up being watching Superbad together in our livingroom. It's about knowing that even though we're often like two ships passing in the night, we're on the same team, partners in it for the long haul, with our eyes on the same prize.
I love our chaotic life and I love you.
It's not about a Hallmark Card; It's about making our bed every morning so that at least one part of our home is in order as we come and go in all directions.
It's not about roses; It's about letting me drive your brand new car, the one that still has temporary tags, to pick up the guest speaker at the aiport because I failed to get the crack in my windshield fixed, clean up the stain that Johnny's slime left on the passenger's seat, and vaccuum all the dropped cashews, pieces of rice cake, gum wrappers and lollipop sticks.
It's not about jewelry; It's about spending your free time designing a flyer promoting a Literacy Council event because you know the committee needs one and doesn't have money to pay a professional.
It's not about chocolate; It's about cutting your work meeting short so you can pick Grace up on early-release-day, even though I forgot to warn you until that morning.
It's about ironing my clothes for me when I'm in a hurry; agreeing to run out to buy chips for the Valentine's Day party because I forgot; giving the kids a bath when it's really my turn; taking on many more childcare shifts on the weekends while I study; speaking up to let the kids know it is not ok to disrespect me; putting on your best pants and jacket to escort Grace to the annual Father/Daughter Dance; asking me if the food I'm about to put in my mouth is on my diet--but not because you want me to look better in a bathing suit-- because you want me to feel better.
It's about looking forward to that one-on-one date that's so overdue...even if that date ends up being watching Superbad together in our livingroom. It's about knowing that even though we're often like two ships passing in the night, we're on the same team, partners in it for the long haul, with our eyes on the same prize.
I love our chaotic life and I love you.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Van Halen Re-Do
On March 7th I am going to do something unlike anything I've ever done before and that is to go see Van Halen live for the second time in six months. It's unusual for me to go to high-ticket rock concerts in the first place these days, much less to the same act twice in one year. But Van Halen is not your garden- variety rock band and the circumstances surrounding these two shows are anything but ordinary.
Let's back up to the show on September 29, 2007 in Greensboro, NC, the second show of Van Halen's highly anticipated reunion tour, the first tour with David Lee Roth in over 20 years. I knew immediately that I wanted to go to this show if they came to NC, and with their second stop only an hour away, the deal was sealed. That night represented a convergence of my childhood past, my young adulthood past, my present, and my future, and its overall significance--more than the sum of its parts--continues to be revealed.
I could rehash the parts in detail, sure, like how they played all the hits I was hoping they'd play, how difficult it was to hear clearly from where we were sitting, or how elements of the evening were 'out of tune' both on and off the stage. More important and interesting to me, though, is an examiniation of how we all got there, how two of us are going again, and what it all means to me.
My childhood past
I've already mentioned here how I liked Van Halen growing up, thanks to an older brother, MTV visuals, and neighborhood hype praising the virtues of teenagers who could successfully play the intro to Jump on the synthesizer. When my dad turned 60, I orchestrated a life-in-music photo montage selecting only one song for each decade my dad had been alive. Jump was the song I selected for the 80's. Out of the hundreds, no thousands, of pop hits that personified the 80's, at least from my family's experience, none other worked better than Jump. I was ten, eleven, twelve, when I first started listening to Van Halen, only a stone's throw older than my kids are now. Kids that age inherently like pop music--and pop music that rocks, they like even better. Van Halen was our music, unlike the Beatles, Stones, Beach Boys, Dylan, Mamas and Papas, and Fleetwood Mac that my dad played at home and in the car. MTV was ours. Big hair, skin-tight pants, bandanas and Eddie Van Halen's guitar-shredding talent were ours. It doesn't matter what music came before or after, or how old we get, Van Halen belongs to Generation X. I owed it to my early-adolescent self to go to that reunion show in Sept. of last year. My older brother Daniel did too.
My young adulthood past
Like I just said, no matter how old Genexers get, or how old (or young!) we were ten years ago, an allure of Van Halen from1984 will always swirl. Already a college graduate and only a year away from getting married, I was at the Pink House party mentioned here, and, along with everyone else, waxed nostalgic about a David Lee Roth/Van Halen tour. If I thought it was fun fantasizing about seeing Van Halen live with some old college buddies at that party back in 1997, imagine what a big deal it is to me that four of us actually did go see Van Halen live together ten years later. We owed it to our young adult selves from ten years earlier; before marriages, kids, real jobs and responsibilities, dying parents; in other words, before the confines of real life. But the four of us, two spouses, my brother and his girlfriend--we did go. We made it happen. Because Van Halen was ours. Wrap your head around that.
My present
It is no secret that I have a penchant for looking people up from my past and getting back in touch and while we're at it, becoming friends with their wives; you know, connecting. And this internet thing makes it so easy. So yeah, I've done a lot of that in the last few years. One of my best friends has said about getting back in touch (via MySpace, Facebook or blogging, for example) that once you get over the actual period of catching up (where you work, if you're married, if you have kids, etc.), there's really not a whole lot else to say to some of these people from your past. I disagree. Maybe it's me, or maybe it's the people I'm back in touch with, but the Van Halen crowd is more relevant to me now than they ever were in the past. And who doesn't enjoy being relevant? Relevant because we have families and spouses, or wish we had families and spouses, and jobs and illnesses and real-life pressures that come along with being thirty-something. We also enjoy similar music (like Van Halen-duh) and Tarheel basketball, have wacky senses of humor and dreams for the future. And each other in the future.
My future
So here I am making plans to go see Van Halen for the second time in six months with the wife of an old friend. An old friend I feel I know better now, just like I know the others on the first Van Halen trip better now. An old friend's wife I've only laid eyes on four times ever yet feel sure will become an old friend herself. On March 7, the day before my birthday, the 5th anniversary of the day my mom died, I will be going to a Van Halen re-do. And why not? No one gets it right 100% of the time.
Let's back up to the show on September 29, 2007 in Greensboro, NC, the second show of Van Halen's highly anticipated reunion tour, the first tour with David Lee Roth in over 20 years. I knew immediately that I wanted to go to this show if they came to NC, and with their second stop only an hour away, the deal was sealed. That night represented a convergence of my childhood past, my young adulthood past, my present, and my future, and its overall significance--more than the sum of its parts--continues to be revealed.
I could rehash the parts in detail, sure, like how they played all the hits I was hoping they'd play, how difficult it was to hear clearly from where we were sitting, or how elements of the evening were 'out of tune' both on and off the stage. More important and interesting to me, though, is an examiniation of how we all got there, how two of us are going again, and what it all means to me.
My childhood past
I've already mentioned here how I liked Van Halen growing up, thanks to an older brother, MTV visuals, and neighborhood hype praising the virtues of teenagers who could successfully play the intro to Jump on the synthesizer. When my dad turned 60, I orchestrated a life-in-music photo montage selecting only one song for each decade my dad had been alive. Jump was the song I selected for the 80's. Out of the hundreds, no thousands, of pop hits that personified the 80's, at least from my family's experience, none other worked better than Jump. I was ten, eleven, twelve, when I first started listening to Van Halen, only a stone's throw older than my kids are now. Kids that age inherently like pop music--and pop music that rocks, they like even better. Van Halen was our music, unlike the Beatles, Stones, Beach Boys, Dylan, Mamas and Papas, and Fleetwood Mac that my dad played at home and in the car. MTV was ours. Big hair, skin-tight pants, bandanas and Eddie Van Halen's guitar-shredding talent were ours. It doesn't matter what music came before or after, or how old we get, Van Halen belongs to Generation X. I owed it to my early-adolescent self to go to that reunion show in Sept. of last year. My older brother Daniel did too.
My young adulthood past
Like I just said, no matter how old Genexers get, or how old (or young!) we were ten years ago, an allure of Van Halen from1984 will always swirl. Already a college graduate and only a year away from getting married, I was at the Pink House party mentioned here, and, along with everyone else, waxed nostalgic about a David Lee Roth/Van Halen tour. If I thought it was fun fantasizing about seeing Van Halen live with some old college buddies at that party back in 1997, imagine what a big deal it is to me that four of us actually did go see Van Halen live together ten years later. We owed it to our young adult selves from ten years earlier; before marriages, kids, real jobs and responsibilities, dying parents; in other words, before the confines of real life. But the four of us, two spouses, my brother and his girlfriend--we did go. We made it happen. Because Van Halen was ours. Wrap your head around that.
My present
It is no secret that I have a penchant for looking people up from my past and getting back in touch and while we're at it, becoming friends with their wives; you know, connecting. And this internet thing makes it so easy. So yeah, I've done a lot of that in the last few years. One of my best friends has said about getting back in touch (via MySpace, Facebook or blogging, for example) that once you get over the actual period of catching up (where you work, if you're married, if you have kids, etc.), there's really not a whole lot else to say to some of these people from your past. I disagree. Maybe it's me, or maybe it's the people I'm back in touch with, but the Van Halen crowd is more relevant to me now than they ever were in the past. And who doesn't enjoy being relevant? Relevant because we have families and spouses, or wish we had families and spouses, and jobs and illnesses and real-life pressures that come along with being thirty-something. We also enjoy similar music (like Van Halen-duh) and Tarheel basketball, have wacky senses of humor and dreams for the future. And each other in the future.
My future
So here I am making plans to go see Van Halen for the second time in six months with the wife of an old friend. An old friend I feel I know better now, just like I know the others on the first Van Halen trip better now. An old friend's wife I've only laid eyes on four times ever yet feel sure will become an old friend herself. On March 7, the day before my birthday, the 5th anniversary of the day my mom died, I will be going to a Van Halen re-do. And why not? No one gets it right 100% of the time.
Monday, February 04, 2008
OCLC's First Annual Writers for Readers Author Luncheon
I have been on the planning committee for this inaugural event the OCLC is putting on. Somehow I've done it again and have agreed to be one of the author transporters (a job that's a lot of work but I find fun...all the juicy stuff gets said in the car in route to these big events). I don't know which author I'll be driving around, but I'm hoping it's Patricia Marx. She's a humorous novelist and has written for Saturday Night Live, The Huffington Post, Rugrats, the New Yorker, the New York Times and on and on. I better get a read-on so I can talk to her about her work. Also I better cough up $200 so David and I can attend the reception at the home of Erskine Bowles on Feb. 17th (his birthday. Guess what he's getting? Not much of anything else). Isn't volunteering fun?
Writers for Readers
Join us for the first annual gathering to benefit the Orange County Literacy Council Featuring authors: Kim Sunee/Trail of Crumbs, Patricia Marx/Him Her Him Again the End of Him, Roy Blount, Jr.,/Long Time Leaving & Dispatches From Up South & Sally Bedell Smith/For Love of Politics: Bill and Hillary Clinton: The White House Years
A special reception
Socialize with the authors at the home of UNC President, Erskine Bowles
6:00pm-8pm Honorary Hosts: Lee Smith & Hal Crowther Jill McCorkle & Tom Rankin Laura & Daniel Wallace Tickets $100—available from OCLC, 933-2151
February17, 2008
Writers for Readers Luncheon
February 18, 2008
At the Carolina Inn
211 Pittsboro Street
Chapel Hill, NC 11:00am-1pm
Master of Ceremonies: Daniel Wallace/Big Fish & Mr. Sebastian and The Negro Magician Tickets $35—available from McIntrye’s Fine Books, 542-3030
Benefit Chairs: Shannon Ravenel & Wyndham Robertson
Writers for Readers
Join us for the first annual gathering to benefit the Orange County Literacy Council Featuring authors: Kim Sunee/Trail of Crumbs, Patricia Marx/Him Her Him Again the End of Him, Roy Blount, Jr.,/Long Time Leaving & Dispatches From Up South & Sally Bedell Smith/For Love of Politics: Bill and Hillary Clinton: The White House Years
A special reception
Socialize with the authors at the home of UNC President, Erskine Bowles
6:00pm-8pm Honorary Hosts: Lee Smith & Hal Crowther Jill McCorkle & Tom Rankin Laura & Daniel Wallace Tickets $100—available from OCLC, 933-2151
February17, 2008
Writers for Readers Luncheon
February 18, 2008
At the Carolina Inn
211 Pittsboro Street
Chapel Hill, NC 11:00am-1pm
Master of Ceremonies: Daniel Wallace/Big Fish & Mr. Sebastian and The Negro Magician Tickets $35—available from McIntrye’s Fine Books, 542-3030
Benefit Chairs: Shannon Ravenel & Wyndham Robertson
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Was All This Really Necessary?
As tired and emotionally drained as I was Friday afternoon after class, I had to make myself go to the mall and pick up a birthday gift, a baby shower gift and wrapping paper. I was in Kerr Drug in U-Mall with just over $6.00 in merchandise and assumed it would be a breeze checking out. The clerk asked credit or debit, I said debit. When it was time to type in my PIN number (and I realize I didn't just need to write 'number' because now I've just referred to typing in my 'personal identification number number', but who cares) I had to do it with a stylus thing-y rather than just push the buttons. Those type machines can be too damn finicky and I've found myself many a time pushing my numbers over and over needlessly as in If I just try it one more time a LITTLE HARDER, maybe it will work. This was one of those times.
Four-digit PIN number (I did it again) bump, bump, bump, bump. Easy right? But the machine wouldn't process anything I pushed. So I tried harder, slower, faster, softer, then harder again. Finally, the PIN number (and a third time) went through. It wanted to know how much cash I wanted back. None, $10, $20, or $25. I pushed 'none.' Nothing. So I pushed 'none' harder, then slower, then faster, then softer, then harder again. The clerk told me that a woman earlier that day had to take the stylus in both hands and jam it down really hard to get it to take. Was she serious? Two hands? I tried it. I wrapped both of my hands around the skinny little shit, I mean stick, looked around self consciously and started jabbing 'none.' I then jabbed $10, $20, and $25. It didn't matter, I'd take any of those amounts of cash, just to get the hell out of there. The women behind me were getting impatient too. There were three of them together, waiting to buy cigarettes and the one right behind me finally opened her tooth-missing mouth and said, "Just give her her stuff for free so we can get on with it." I think the clerk would have agreed to that course of action if she had known a way to cancel the sale. We couldn't re-start, I just had to keep trying all of the pesky cash back options. And I was stabbing. It was a joke!! I turned to the ladies behind me with a grin and asked them if any of them would like to give it a try, if they had anyone they'd like to pretend they're stabbing as they're helping me finish my transaction. They laughed and the woman with the missing teeth took ahold of the stylus and asked me how much money I wanted back. I told her it did NOT matter, just any of those options. PLEASE! She gently tapped $25 and on the first try it took and began to process. Of course it did.
We all cheered! She told the clerk that she should get her goods for free. I thought the waiting was over, until I looked down at the smug machine asking fake politely, "Is this amount correct? Press 'yes' or 'no.' OMG, the HORROR! Miss Missing Teeth took the stylus again and tried her gentle magic on 'yes' but did it work? 'NO!' She tried tapping 'yes' harder, then faster, then slower, then gentler, then turned the machine over and said, "How bout we try unplugging the pen and plugging it back again?" Yes, how bout we. She did it and it worked!! More cheering and louder cheering because the line was three customers deeper.
I asked to get my $25 in 'change' with a twenty and five ones. I asked Ms. Teeth how much her cigarettes were, $3? $5? "Actually," she said, "they're only .99" As I put my money back into my purse, I smiled, rolled my eyes, said thank you and handed her a dollar.
Four-digit PIN number (I did it again) bump, bump, bump, bump. Easy right? But the machine wouldn't process anything I pushed. So I tried harder, slower, faster, softer, then harder again. Finally, the PIN number (and a third time) went through. It wanted to know how much cash I wanted back. None, $10, $20, or $25. I pushed 'none.' Nothing. So I pushed 'none' harder, then slower, then faster, then softer, then harder again. The clerk told me that a woman earlier that day had to take the stylus in both hands and jam it down really hard to get it to take. Was she serious? Two hands? I tried it. I wrapped both of my hands around the skinny little shit, I mean stick, looked around self consciously and started jabbing 'none.' I then jabbed $10, $20, and $25. It didn't matter, I'd take any of those amounts of cash, just to get the hell out of there. The women behind me were getting impatient too. There were three of them together, waiting to buy cigarettes and the one right behind me finally opened her tooth-missing mouth and said, "Just give her her stuff for free so we can get on with it." I think the clerk would have agreed to that course of action if she had known a way to cancel the sale. We couldn't re-start, I just had to keep trying all of the pesky cash back options. And I was stabbing. It was a joke!! I turned to the ladies behind me with a grin and asked them if any of them would like to give it a try, if they had anyone they'd like to pretend they're stabbing as they're helping me finish my transaction. They laughed and the woman with the missing teeth took ahold of the stylus and asked me how much money I wanted back. I told her it did NOT matter, just any of those options. PLEASE! She gently tapped $25 and on the first try it took and began to process. Of course it did.
We all cheered! She told the clerk that she should get her goods for free. I thought the waiting was over, until I looked down at the smug machine asking fake politely, "Is this amount correct? Press 'yes' or 'no.' OMG, the HORROR! Miss Missing Teeth took the stylus again and tried her gentle magic on 'yes' but did it work? 'NO!' She tried tapping 'yes' harder, then faster, then slower, then gentler, then turned the machine over and said, "How bout we try unplugging the pen and plugging it back again?" Yes, how bout we. She did it and it worked!! More cheering and louder cheering because the line was three customers deeper.
I asked to get my $25 in 'change' with a twenty and five ones. I asked Ms. Teeth how much her cigarettes were, $3? $5? "Actually," she said, "they're only .99" As I put my money back into my purse, I smiled, rolled my eyes, said thank you and handed her a dollar.
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