Well, that was weird. I’m going to tell you the truth: last night I lost it. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m gonna be real. I’d been thinking about Lucille’s death, and worrying about money and this and that, and then my pricey and just-out-of-warranty printer jammed and I couldn’t do anything to fix it. I use it daily and was starting to panic. When stuff like this happens, I’ve learned to walk away from it for a while, till I feel calmer. But I was a woman on a mission this time, not to be thwarted. Eventually my frustration mounted and patience dwindled. Assuming I was alone in the house, I walked to my bedroom door and slammed it open—BLAM—just because it felt good in my rage, but unaware that Elana was still upstairs in the next room. The sound startled her and she called out, Are you okay? Embarrassed, I said I was (I wasn’t), pulled my door closed (gently) and got all teary, mostly from fury. For the past 52 days I’ve maintained almost total control of my emotions. And then this. With an unwitting audience, no less. How humiliating.
Growing up and into young adulthood, I used to get overwrought and reactive—to have what my family termed “nerve storms”—because I was “high-strung.” Our warm-hearted family physician Dr. Warren (who made house calls) advised my parents to “Just get a hand on her” to calm me down during these moments. I don’t remember whether or not that worked, but it wouldn’t now. I want to be left alone. Anyhow, I’m no longer as prone to such outbursts of temper. Maybe I’ve mellowed with age, but I don’t think that’s it.
Anyway, I finally got the printer working (after removing parts that probably shouldn’t have been removed and eventually picking the whole thing up and shaking it) so I’m okay again, for now.
This saga reminds me of the time my father, thinking he was alone in the house, let out the most creative string of obscenities I’d ever heard. He’d been working in his shop in the basement, and something he had labored over must have broken, or maybe he’d hit his thumb with a hammer. At age 16, I was thoroughly impressed. Not only did he rarely swear, and then only mildly, but his inventive language ended up inspiring my own teenaged profanity. Like me, his anger was generally directed toward inanimate objects, and himself. After his outburst he stormed up the basement stairs like a raging bull, and ran smack into me at the top. Now I know how he must have felt. His curse went something like this: DA DA, DAda-DAda, son of a blue-bearded bitch.
Needless to say, I was never allowed to swear in front of my parents. The only time I ever got away with it was that time I was riding a motorcycle behind Dad along a narrow dirt trail that he’d carved through the woods on his Virginia farm. Unbeknownst to him, he’d ridden over a yellow jackets’ nest, riled them up and rolled on. Ten feet behind him, I drove right into the swarm, getting stung 26 times (yes, I counted). My motorbike went one way and I another, shouting F**k as I brushed an angry wasp from my eyelid, where its butt remained attached by the stinger. Even afterwards, my father never said a word about my language.
Transition…
The second of six installments of jigsaw puzzle pieces has arrived. Now I’ve finished the border. At the top you’ll see a cat sprawled on… a mirror? This style looks familiar but I can’t place it. Not Beatrix, as I thought yesterday. Edward Gorey? Maurice Sendak? No. I must be wrong.
do i get to post a photo here? i have something to cheer you up. if i can’t here, i’ll email.
hang in there!
Well, I, for one, am impressed by how you worked out your understandable frustration — met it face to face — and successfully conquered it!
Only one nerve storm, in 53 days of worrisome unease, is rather remarkable. Go relieve tension and slam a door again — (but — a la Peg Mason — not a swinging door.)
Aw, thanks for understanding, Mommy-Ma-Small.
Marianna: I love the photo you sent. A miniature hand-knitted basket of penises was just the ticket.
Nerve storms have been a pretty regular thing around here the past two months. Feeling so impacted, yet powerless, and worrying about ALL THE THINGS is a potent brew.
Looking forward to chatting with you later today!
I agree with your mama! I can understand, but no need to be embarrassed. I’m grateful we can be fully human around each other in this casa – silly, sad, angry, joyous – Estoy aqui para ti! <3
I'm so very curious about what's underneath that cute kitty cat now…
Lila and Anonymous-Elana: Your empathy means a lot. THANK YOU!!! Lila: Ma says it’s bad for us to keep all this stuff bottled up, so your own nerve storms are probably good safety valves. At least, I like to think that. Elana: I’ll check the house to make sure you’re downstairs before I slam my next door. You’ll still hear it, but not so loud.
It’s OKAY to break down sometimes, my little squid. In fact, I would say that it’s much healthier to break down sometimes, than to keep it all pent up forever. Things are hard and scary and frustrating right now, and sometimes a thing (like the DAMN printer) is just the last straw. Know that I am giving you a big old hug in my mind!
I’ve heard the yellowjacket story before, but it still makes me wince every time. Yeeechh.
You are onto something with your guesses at jigsaw art style!
We are all allowed a few nervestorms these days…after 53 days, too.
Don’t beat yourself up–printers evoke nerve storms from me on the best of days.
Yes, Edward Gorey. Can’t wait to see the full puzzle!