2013 is a new year and a new day. If I sometimes sound like a Weight Watchers' commercial it's because I am one. 2012 was the year I lost almost ninety pounds. I had the gastric the late summer of 2011, but 2012 was when most of the weight came off. I feel different. It wasn't just the weight although that was a big part of it. I wouldn't be able to pad down the hall in the mornings. My feet were too tender and it was like walking on needles. My knees were going out.
Our stairs were a problem. I kept on falling. The weight made my body out of balance.
The weight also made me emotionally off balance. I'm a mess I admit. But since the surgery food is no longer the panacea. Nor is alcohol. I have to deal with my emotion.
Like an adult.
When I was little, I thought adults were all powerful and all knowing. As an adult, I see it is all an act. We are all just pretending to be adults but are little children inside.
This new year my goal is to try and pretend more. A wise attorney once told me that pretending was at least half the game. He was right. I'm great at pretending in my work life. I love fighting for my clients in my role as an attorney. And it is a role I play well.
In my personal life, the same is not always true. I know I am a writer. But I have a problem visualizing it happening. The same with having a baby. Maybe I don't wanna grow up.
Yet I know I have to. We all do. Someday.
That someday for me, is less than a week away. 2013 will be the year of the book or the baby or both.
Panorama of San Bernardino
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now
There is an old Smiths song that goes "I was looking for a job and then I found a job and heaven knows I'm miserable now".
Please don't call me ungrateful. I know I have it good but life could be better.
I have a great job as a public defender. I spent years at large civil corporate law firms wanting to slit my wrists with a paper clip. It was only when I came to the Public Defender's Office that I found fulfillment representing the indigent. I love what I do. Fighting for the underdog makes me happy.
And I get six weeks of vacation and county paid holidays off.
Still I know there is more out there for me. I've been working on my memoir for six years since my father's death in 2006. His eulogy turned into one of the early stories in my book and that story is being published in a literary journal next week. I've come a long way. I've attended writing classes, week long workshops and started a blog. But still. Six years.
I wish I could spend one year writing and editing. We don't have kids so my only distraction would be my shih tzus and my mother in law (who gets up at eleven am and I get up at five am so we are set on that one).
To imagine it is to believe it can happen. I have had to convince myself that I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer. I click my heels and say it over and over.
My work has value is my other mantra. My stories need to be told. The story of a little girl and her two sisters growing up in a chaotic household with an alcoholic father and crazy mother. This is the stuff from which great memoirs are made.
I am going to keep telling myself that until I believe it.
Please don't call me ungrateful. I know I have it good but life could be better.
I have a great job as a public defender. I spent years at large civil corporate law firms wanting to slit my wrists with a paper clip. It was only when I came to the Public Defender's Office that I found fulfillment representing the indigent. I love what I do. Fighting for the underdog makes me happy.
And I get six weeks of vacation and county paid holidays off.
Still I know there is more out there for me. I've been working on my memoir for six years since my father's death in 2006. His eulogy turned into one of the early stories in my book and that story is being published in a literary journal next week. I've come a long way. I've attended writing classes, week long workshops and started a blog. But still. Six years.
I wish I could spend one year writing and editing. We don't have kids so my only distraction would be my shih tzus and my mother in law (who gets up at eleven am and I get up at five am so we are set on that one).
To imagine it is to believe it can happen. I have had to convince myself that I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer. I click my heels and say it over and over.
My work has value is my other mantra. My stories need to be told. The story of a little girl and her two sisters growing up in a chaotic household with an alcoholic father and crazy mother. This is the stuff from which great memoirs are made.
I am going to keep telling myself that until I believe it.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
My spoken words
I am a child of the 1980's. Wait, that's not right. I grew up in the 1970's and 1980's in a time of typewriters and cursive script. That's better.
I have never been technologically savvy so when I recently had to make a podcast reading of one of my stories for an online literary journal I was flummoxed. The editor sent an email, but the instructions sounded like some computer kid's ramblings in cypher code. It made my brain hurt. Thus, I procrastinated. The recording of the piece wasn't due for a couple of weeks, I had plenty of time.
Whining "help me" and "can you do it for me?" to my husband didn't help either. My husband has been working six days a week and has had a persistent cold. He ignored my pleas.
On the Friday the mp3 was due, I sat in my office at lunch trying to download the app on my iphone. Apple kept rejecting my password.
"Fuck," I yelled at the picture of Sid Vicious which hangs on my wall unframed (it is a Sex Pistols poster dammit, to frame it would be blashphemous). Lucky for me, cussing out loud in our office is no big deal. I sometimes find myself muttering a string of filthy expletives in an angry tirade as I walk down the hall. No one even notices. I have found a home.
Apple rejected my password a second and third time and wasn't allowing me to reset. I had wanted to make my recording in the quietness of an office with a shut door, but I would have to do this at home.
That Sunday evening, I was watching TV waiting for Dexter to come on and realized my mp3 was two days overdue. "Fuck," I yelled at my husband jumping out of bed. "It's late, it's late," I said sounding like the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland.
Apple finally prompted my password reset and I downloaded the app on my phone. By this time, I was downstairs and could hear the rat a tat tat of my husband's Call of Duty game upstairs.
I started recording my story with iaudition reading off my iPad. It was not pretty. I kept on jumbling my words. The dogs started barking. On my tenth try, I did a decent recording of the whole story but halfway through a car alarm went off outside. I played the recording and debated whether I should just send it and get this whole thing over with. It wasn't that bad, I thought to myself. The car alarm gave it a surreal feel.
No. I had to start over. And over. And over.
About twenty tries in, I was halfway through another reading and it was going well. I had a rhythm.
"What's for dinner?" Adrian yelled downstairs in a nasally tinged voice.
"Fuck," I yelled back at him. "I'm in my recording studio. Shut up!"
"What's for dinner?" he yelled again. "I'm sick."
I am not good at explaining how to go screw yourself when stressed so I just ignored him until his pleas for dinner went away.
Maybe I would have to learn to use the editing feature on iaudition.
I decided to try one last time and finally, bingo! Even though I stumbled on a couple words, I was pleased. It sounded dramatic and there was no car alarm in the background. My dogs sat like a quiet audience and watched me while I read. Golden Ponyboy. Golden.
I took it upstairs and Adrian and I listened to it together. I almost fell asleep to the lull of my own words. Was I dreaming? Was that really me? Did I really write that story?
It was a dream, my dream, come true in that digital audio file on my iPad just waiting to be heard.
I have never been technologically savvy so when I recently had to make a podcast reading of one of my stories for an online literary journal I was flummoxed. The editor sent an email, but the instructions sounded like some computer kid's ramblings in cypher code. It made my brain hurt. Thus, I procrastinated. The recording of the piece wasn't due for a couple of weeks, I had plenty of time.
Whining "help me" and "can you do it for me?" to my husband didn't help either. My husband has been working six days a week and has had a persistent cold. He ignored my pleas.
On the Friday the mp3 was due, I sat in my office at lunch trying to download the app on my iphone. Apple kept rejecting my password.
"Fuck," I yelled at the picture of Sid Vicious which hangs on my wall unframed (it is a Sex Pistols poster dammit, to frame it would be blashphemous). Lucky for me, cussing out loud in our office is no big deal. I sometimes find myself muttering a string of filthy expletives in an angry tirade as I walk down the hall. No one even notices. I have found a home.
Apple rejected my password a second and third time and wasn't allowing me to reset. I had wanted to make my recording in the quietness of an office with a shut door, but I would have to do this at home.
That Sunday evening, I was watching TV waiting for Dexter to come on and realized my mp3 was two days overdue. "Fuck," I yelled at my husband jumping out of bed. "It's late, it's late," I said sounding like the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland.
Apple finally prompted my password reset and I downloaded the app on my phone. By this time, I was downstairs and could hear the rat a tat tat of my husband's Call of Duty game upstairs.
I started recording my story with iaudition reading off my iPad. It was not pretty. I kept on jumbling my words. The dogs started barking. On my tenth try, I did a decent recording of the whole story but halfway through a car alarm went off outside. I played the recording and debated whether I should just send it and get this whole thing over with. It wasn't that bad, I thought to myself. The car alarm gave it a surreal feel.
No. I had to start over. And over. And over.
About twenty tries in, I was halfway through another reading and it was going well. I had a rhythm.
"What's for dinner?" Adrian yelled downstairs in a nasally tinged voice.
"Fuck," I yelled back at him. "I'm in my recording studio. Shut up!"
"What's for dinner?" he yelled again. "I'm sick."
I am not good at explaining how to go screw yourself when stressed so I just ignored him until his pleas for dinner went away.
Maybe I would have to learn to use the editing feature on iaudition.
I decided to try one last time and finally, bingo! Even though I stumbled on a couple words, I was pleased. It sounded dramatic and there was no car alarm in the background. My dogs sat like a quiet audience and watched me while I read. Golden Ponyboy. Golden.
I took it upstairs and Adrian and I listened to it together. I almost fell asleep to the lull of my own words. Was I dreaming? Was that really me? Did I really write that story?
It was a dream, my dream, come true in that digital audio file on my iPad just waiting to be heard.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
On meeting David Sedaris and other celebrity interactions
I have had bad luck with meeting celebrities. One of two things happen. I go all Lucille Ball on them and become a blithering mess and embarrass myself. Or, I shut down like a human clam and say nothing and stare at them in awed silence.
Last night when I met David Sedairs, the latter occurred and I became a mute. After his show in Rancho Mirage, I grabbed a spot in the book signing line while my sister Jackie bought our books. Jackie went first and David talked to her like an old friend admiring her shawl and talking with her about her experience with teenagers as a Special Ed teacher. Jackie told him her students loved the audio book of "Catcher in the Rye" read by J.D. Salinger himself. "That exists?" David said in a sweet whisper as he brought out a little notebook and wrote something down.
Jackie introduced me in the only way she knows how, "This is my twin." David smiled and I choked. Words caught in my throat.
I didn't tell David how hard his stories made me laugh or that I started writing memoir after reading one of his books. I also didn't tell him that I describe my memoir as the book that would result if David Sedaris and Judy Blume had a book baby. I didn't make him chuckle or even notice me.
When signing his book for me ("holidays on ice"), David took out a marker and started drawing a candy cane in red. I mumbled "candy cane...Santa land", an admittedly confusing reference to his famous story called the SantaLand Diaries which details his experiences working as a Christmas elf at Macy's. David paid me no mind.
About five years ago, I met another of my idols, George Stephanopoulos, at a corporate law event. That time, I drank too much and tried too hard and freaked him out by telling him we had coffee together every Sunday morning. I thought it was funny because "This Week" comes on at 8 a.m. every Sunday. From the look on his face in our picture together and the fact that he is pulling away from me, he must have thought I was his celebrity stalker. Which is a ridiculous assumption because if I was gonna stalk anyone, it would be Morrissey (who is number one on my must meet list).
Something similar happened with Mr. T at a party in Vegas in the 1990's. When I saw Mr. T, I started jumping up and down clapping my hands singing "There's Mr. T".
To me, Mr. T is a 1980's icon. As a child, I loved watching "The A Team" and Mr. T is in my favorite episode of Different Strokes.
To show my appreciation, I followed Mr. T around the party repeating, "I pity the fool" which I am sure he had heard before but cut me a break, it was an all you can drink of premium liquor kind of party. I took picture after picture with Mr. T and after a while, he suggested in a gentle voice that I stop pestering him. I stumbled back to Adrian who was looking on in horror and rubbing his temples.
And, due to my top shelf drunkenness (in those days my favored drink was a B52 on the rocks, a sweet mix of Grand Marnier, Vodka and Bailey's), I lost my camera with all of my pictures of myself and Mr. T.
Which is worse: embarrassing yourself in a memorable manner or not saying anything at all?
I no longer drink so maybe what shut me up with David Sedaris was the lack of my magic elixir. I suppose I will have to get used to it and get some real balls.
And if I ever meet another of my writing heroes, I plan on telling them just how much they move me in no uncertain terms. I am a writer too after all.
Last night when I met David Sedairs, the latter occurred and I became a mute. After his show in Rancho Mirage, I grabbed a spot in the book signing line while my sister Jackie bought our books. Jackie went first and David talked to her like an old friend admiring her shawl and talking with her about her experience with teenagers as a Special Ed teacher. Jackie told him her students loved the audio book of "Catcher in the Rye" read by J.D. Salinger himself. "That exists?" David said in a sweet whisper as he brought out a little notebook and wrote something down.
Jackie introduced me in the only way she knows how, "This is my twin." David smiled and I choked. Words caught in my throat.
I didn't tell David how hard his stories made me laugh or that I started writing memoir after reading one of his books. I also didn't tell him that I describe my memoir as the book that would result if David Sedaris and Judy Blume had a book baby. I didn't make him chuckle or even notice me.
When signing his book for me ("holidays on ice"), David took out a marker and started drawing a candy cane in red. I mumbled "candy cane...Santa land", an admittedly confusing reference to his famous story called the SantaLand Diaries which details his experiences working as a Christmas elf at Macy's. David paid me no mind.
About five years ago, I met another of my idols, George Stephanopoulos, at a corporate law event. That time, I drank too much and tried too hard and freaked him out by telling him we had coffee together every Sunday morning. I thought it was funny because "This Week" comes on at 8 a.m. every Sunday. From the look on his face in our picture together and the fact that he is pulling away from me, he must have thought I was his celebrity stalker. Which is a ridiculous assumption because if I was gonna stalk anyone, it would be Morrissey (who is number one on my must meet list).
Something similar happened with Mr. T at a party in Vegas in the 1990's. When I saw Mr. T, I started jumping up and down clapping my hands singing "There's Mr. T".
To me, Mr. T is a 1980's icon. As a child, I loved watching "The A Team" and Mr. T is in my favorite episode of Different Strokes.
To show my appreciation, I followed Mr. T around the party repeating, "I pity the fool" which I am sure he had heard before but cut me a break, it was an all you can drink of premium liquor kind of party. I took picture after picture with Mr. T and after a while, he suggested in a gentle voice that I stop pestering him. I stumbled back to Adrian who was looking on in horror and rubbing his temples.
And, due to my top shelf drunkenness (in those days my favored drink was a B52 on the rocks, a sweet mix of Grand Marnier, Vodka and Bailey's), I lost my camera with all of my pictures of myself and Mr. T.
Which is worse: embarrassing yourself in a memorable manner or not saying anything at all?
I no longer drink so maybe what shut me up with David Sedaris was the lack of my magic elixir. I suppose I will have to get used to it and get some real balls.
And if I ever meet another of my writing heroes, I plan on telling them just how much they move me in no uncertain terms. I am a writer too after all.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Giving Thanks
Thanksgiving has always been a stressful day for me. Growing up, holidays always seemed to end badly. I would wake up on Thanksgiving with a sick feeling in my stomach waiting for the usual bomb to drop.
Something bad always happened. My parents fought, my sisters and I fought with each other or with my parents, things were thrown, cuss words were used and someone ended up crying in the bathroom. Those fighting type holidays are ingrained in me and the memories of those times is difficult to forget and too easy to perpetuate.
Until recently, I would try and sabotage my holidays by baiting Adrian to fight with me. My modus operandi was to scream and yell over anything, usually something petty. Adrian, who has taken twenty years of this foolishness, ignores it. If fighting was the soundtrack of my childhood holidays, then the soundtrack of my holidays with Adrian have been more of an instrumental (at least on his part).
My family and I have had mixed results with holidays as adults. Last year, Annie threw my twin sister Jackie and I a birthday party which was almost ruined when Jackie and I fought over what time she would arrive to help set up. Jackie and I screamed at each other as my mom paced and swore to herself in the front yard. Annie was crying and upset. Jackie and I resolved it within an hour, but the fight seemed to cast a shadow over the day that was all too familiar.
Last year, our Christmas Eve celebration seemed different. In a Mantz family first, no one fought, screamed or yelled. It was liberating to start a new holiday tradition of peace and goodwill toward one another.
This Thanksgiving, Adrian and I are taking a break from hosting. I met my sister Jackie for breakfast this morning. Jackie was sad that we are not spending Thanksgiving together this year which she expressed to me. Then she told me in a sweet voice how nice it was to have breakfast together. I stopped myself from saying something sarcastic because I knew she meant it. Sincerely.
And she had that same earnest look in her eyes that she always had when we were little. Looking at her face, I felt a stirring in my chest. It was the same kind of feeling that the Christmas Grinch must have felt when his heart started to melt.
Today I am giving thanks for my family and the goodwill we have tried hard to create with one another. The ice is thawing and I am hopeful for the future. I love you.
Something bad always happened. My parents fought, my sisters and I fought with each other or with my parents, things were thrown, cuss words were used and someone ended up crying in the bathroom. Those fighting type holidays are ingrained in me and the memories of those times is difficult to forget and too easy to perpetuate.
Until recently, I would try and sabotage my holidays by baiting Adrian to fight with me. My modus operandi was to scream and yell over anything, usually something petty. Adrian, who has taken twenty years of this foolishness, ignores it. If fighting was the soundtrack of my childhood holidays, then the soundtrack of my holidays with Adrian have been more of an instrumental (at least on his part).
My family and I have had mixed results with holidays as adults. Last year, Annie threw my twin sister Jackie and I a birthday party which was almost ruined when Jackie and I fought over what time she would arrive to help set up. Jackie and I screamed at each other as my mom paced and swore to herself in the front yard. Annie was crying and upset. Jackie and I resolved it within an hour, but the fight seemed to cast a shadow over the day that was all too familiar.
Last year, our Christmas Eve celebration seemed different. In a Mantz family first, no one fought, screamed or yelled. It was liberating to start a new holiday tradition of peace and goodwill toward one another.
This Thanksgiving, Adrian and I are taking a break from hosting. I met my sister Jackie for breakfast this morning. Jackie was sad that we are not spending Thanksgiving together this year which she expressed to me. Then she told me in a sweet voice how nice it was to have breakfast together. I stopped myself from saying something sarcastic because I knew she meant it. Sincerely.
And she had that same earnest look in her eyes that she always had when we were little. Looking at her face, I felt a stirring in my chest. It was the same kind of feeling that the Christmas Grinch must have felt when his heart started to melt.
Today I am giving thanks for my family and the goodwill we have tried hard to create with one another. The ice is thawing and I am hopeful for the future. I love you.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Game Time
From a young age, Dad taught us all the card games you can imagine (and some you have probably never heard of). His favorites were rummy, canasta (and double deck canasta), big casino/little casino and others. Dad was a very good teacher and patiently explained the rules. He would always say after his explanation, "Just play, you can learn as you go along."
Our family ritual was the weekly rummy game with my Dad and my two sisters. It was usually on a Friday night because the game would go late. Rummy is played for points and our games would get up to the thousands and last multiple nights. The older I got, the more I noticed how the winning point cutoff depended on how Dad was faring point wise.
For those of you who don't know, a "rummy" is when a player discards a playable card. If one of us girls committed such a grievous error, Dad would be waiting to pounce. He would slap his hand down on the table and bellow, "Rummy!” My sisters and I would jump out of our chairs at the kitchen table.
Sometimes, we would have to stop because one of us would be yawning at the table. Other times, Mom would get home from waiting tables around ten or eleven and we would still be playing.
"Time to stop girls. I am gonna make your mom something to eat," Dad would say. My sisters and I would groan, but Dad would pick up the scoresheet and put it in the drawer saving it for the next game night.
The memories of our card nights are so palatable and real that I can almost imagine myself there. I have no patience and it amazes me to think that Dad enjoyed spending his nights playing card games with his three little girls. I don't remember any annoyance or weariness around us during the card games.
There is no idealization here. If he could have, I know Dad probably would have been at the bar with his friends sitting on a bar stool, his glass waving in the air. But, Mom had to work and Dad always came home to watch us.
Is that what love is? Because when I think of those card games, that's the feeling I get. Dad, my sisters and I, the kitchen table, and a feeling of safety and warmth.
Yes, that is love.
Our family ritual was the weekly rummy game with my Dad and my two sisters. It was usually on a Friday night because the game would go late. Rummy is played for points and our games would get up to the thousands and last multiple nights. The older I got, the more I noticed how the winning point cutoff depended on how Dad was faring point wise.
For those of you who don't know, a "rummy" is when a player discards a playable card. If one of us girls committed such a grievous error, Dad would be waiting to pounce. He would slap his hand down on the table and bellow, "Rummy!” My sisters and I would jump out of our chairs at the kitchen table.
Sometimes, we would have to stop because one of us would be yawning at the table. Other times, Mom would get home from waiting tables around ten or eleven and we would still be playing.
"Time to stop girls. I am gonna make your mom something to eat," Dad would say. My sisters and I would groan, but Dad would pick up the scoresheet and put it in the drawer saving it for the next game night.
The memories of our card nights are so palatable and real that I can almost imagine myself there. I have no patience and it amazes me to think that Dad enjoyed spending his nights playing card games with his three little girls. I don't remember any annoyance or weariness around us during the card games.
There is no idealization here. If he could have, I know Dad probably would have been at the bar with his friends sitting on a bar stool, his glass waving in the air. But, Mom had to work and Dad always came home to watch us.
Is that what love is? Because when I think of those card games, that's the feeling I get. Dad, my sisters and I, the kitchen table, and a feeling of safety and warmth.
Yes, that is love.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Road Trip
Today I have an appointment regarding my fertility. A forty something professional woman trying to get pregnant is a cliche I know, but here I am.
We waited too long to try and maybe the time has passed. "Those are negative thoughts, you have to think positive," my younger sister Annie told me when I expressed such feelings to her. "Read Joyce Myers," she counseled. She has kids and seems to think I can will it into reality.
There are so many things I want to do in the next year. I would love to finish my book. I will finish my book. It will be published and be a huge success. I can picture the book party. I am standing up reading before a large group of people and barely shaking at all. The Smiths are playing in the background. Adrian, my sisters and my mom are in the front row. The initial reviews for my book are splendid.
Why can I picture the book but not picture myself pregnant? Is it because I have less control over getting pregnant other than just trying (and we've been trying)? Or is it because I don't want to be disappointed?
I have written about this issue before but until now it was always theoretical. Now that I have followed through and finally made an appointment, it feels real and scarier.
What if they tell me it is an impossibility? What will I do? Buy another shih-tzu? Adopt? Cry?
It seems as if all I have are questions and no answers. And, as much as I want to sleep away the appointment, like I slept away my senior year of high school, I am getting out of bed, pulling on some clothes and getting in my car to drive to the appointment.
I will just wait and see what happens. If life is all about the journey then I am ready.
Hopefully, I don't run out of gas.
We waited too long to try and maybe the time has passed. "Those are negative thoughts, you have to think positive," my younger sister Annie told me when I expressed such feelings to her. "Read Joyce Myers," she counseled. She has kids and seems to think I can will it into reality.
There are so many things I want to do in the next year. I would love to finish my book. I will finish my book. It will be published and be a huge success. I can picture the book party. I am standing up reading before a large group of people and barely shaking at all. The Smiths are playing in the background. Adrian, my sisters and my mom are in the front row. The initial reviews for my book are splendid.
Why can I picture the book but not picture myself pregnant? Is it because I have less control over getting pregnant other than just trying (and we've been trying)? Or is it because I don't want to be disappointed?
I have written about this issue before but until now it was always theoretical. Now that I have followed through and finally made an appointment, it feels real and scarier.
What if they tell me it is an impossibility? What will I do? Buy another shih-tzu? Adopt? Cry?
It seems as if all I have are questions and no answers. And, as much as I want to sleep away the appointment, like I slept away my senior year of high school, I am getting out of bed, pulling on some clothes and getting in my car to drive to the appointment.
I will just wait and see what happens. If life is all about the journey then I am ready.
Hopefully, I don't run out of gas.
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