The Recession: A Love Story

I was angry all the time.

I hated my job. The big boss picked on me.

I knew Bill had a ring, but he was waiting until he had a secure job to propose.

I saw a therapist. She told me the job was crazy, not me. I had a feeling I was going to get laid off.

I got laid off. 

I wanted to blow things up.

I got really drunk and vomited gyro all over a brick road. Bill took care of me. I slept on the floor.

I was really sad and drank a lot, and then my computer crashed. Then I drank more.

I folded Bill’s laundry and set it by his dresser. A week passed and the laundry basket was still sitting there.

I was angry and put his clothes away for him. I found a ring in the drawer.

I tried it on and put it back in the drawer.

I tried it on again and wore it around the apartment when I was alone.

I told Bill that I found the ring.

I told Bill that he needed to find a job.

I went to New York to buy some fabric and visit some friends. It was fun, but Bill said that he would never be happy living there. New York is too expensive. My severance pay was almost up.

I bought a new computer on credit. I needed it to get a new job.

I started getting unemployment checks. It was only enough money to cover my rent and health insurance.

I went into debt.

I didn't have enough money to afford my medication, so I stopped taking it. I stopped paying for health insurance too.

I was anxious and sad all the time.

I realized that I had gained a lot of weight. Then I got more sad and anxious.

I did a few projects.

I had a few interviews.

I had to buy a bunch of bridesmaid stuff for a wedding. The wedding was terrible. I had two panic attacks and soaked the shoulder of my brother’s dress shirt with tears. The wedding was outdoors and it was really hot.

I gave a sweet toast, even though I was disgusted with the bride and groom. I got really drunk and vomited lasagna and wine into the shapes of the Hawaiian Islands. Bill took care of me again.

I got a job offer in Cincinnati, so Bill and I moved into his parent’s basement in the country. 

I lived out of a box. 

I started a new job.

I told Bill he needed to get a job.

I started taking my medication again.

I moved into an apartment in the city with Bill.

I was happy when he got a job nearby.

I still drank too much.

I lied about it.

I was angry all the time.

I went to a couple of AA meetings. I met some kind people there, and realized I'm not an alcoholic. I needed therapy.

I had a long talk with Bill about the last few years.

I went to see my old doctor in Clifton. She told me to stop drinking. I did. She told me to me to exercise and take vitamins. I did. She told me not to resent Bill for things he can't control. She told me not to resent myself for things I can't control.

I felt better. 

I started listening to Bill's stories again. 

I laughed.

I realized life is not all about me.

Bill and I started to be happy again.

The Many Moods of Grandma’s Radio

Growing up, my mom’s parents lived a short drive away on a farm at the fringe of Lebanon. Some of my most fond memories were in that old farmhouse. I remember the way the wood step to the kitchen was worn smooth from use and the way the light filtered through the sheer curtains at the bay window. I could hear crickets and the occasional lull of a car passing by.

It was quiet.

For my paranoid schizophrenic Grandma, this lack of sound was unsettling.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=so7WUf6hMk8

In the front room, hidden behind a door and a curtain, stood what appeared to be a mid century modern buffet. This unsuspecting piece of furniture was Grandma’s secret weapon to combat the isolation, for it contained a built in radio. It released a constant stream of 1960 quality sound and melodic voices that had a way of bringing Grandma back to reality.

For me, being the obsessive-compulsive germ-o-phobe, my favorite past time at the farmhouse was dusting. Grandma would hand me a rag, a bottle of Pledge, and let me go to town while she lounged on her bed. All the while, The Turtles and The Beach Boys were droning softly in the background. I would take extra care cleaning the crevices of the carved wooden box on Grandma’s dresser and at times her fuchsia Clinique lipstick would ‘accidentally’ find its way onto my face. When I finished cleaning, she would give me a paper bag of loose change and a stack of penny rolls. Sometimes my pay out was a couple of cents, but every now and then I got some serious dough. This was how I afforded my most prized Barbie accessories.

As she lay in a daze while I scurried around her, I could sense Grandma’s sadness. I observed as the sounds emitting from the antique speakers altered her mood. I learned that songs like Purple People Eater made her giggle, anything by Dickey Lee left her in a pseudo catatonic state, and Elvis ALWAYS made her happy. To cheer her up, I would get a running start and slide across the hard wood floor with my blankie wrapped around my small frame like a caplet. Raising it up with a simultaneous lip curl and my best Elvis impression, I would perform, ‘Thank you. Thank you very much’. This always made Grandma smile.

And so was born my love of music. No memory is complete without a soundtrack. I can assign a sound to my most vivid memories as a child, my father singing me to sleep, car trips filled with silly songs, and even the days in the countryside, when ambient sound filled the silence.