Humor

On Work and Children

/ Lauren H. / Leave a comment

The Johnsons were her first regular babysitting job, and Clarissa found the next-door neighbor twins quite challenging. 

It wasn’t their behavior as much as it was their appearance or their odor. They smelled like kids – like the starch that escapes a Cheerio after it’s softened in a pile of drool. Greasy tendrils of hair clung to their sweaty heads as if they’d just rolled out of bed at 4 in the afternoon. Each time they ran in or out of a room, a waft of tepid perspiration trailed behind them, twisting her mouth into an unmistakable frown.

And their bedroom … God, their bedroom. It served as a protective capsule, housing every fart they’d released since they were born. She dreaded that inevitable hour later, when she’d have to brave that invisible wall of funk to get them ready for bed. She prayed they wouldn’t make her read to them tonight. Last time she was treated to a thumb full of crusted oatmeal resting in the fold of the book jacket. 

“Gross, guys,” she’d muttered.

“GROSS GUYS! GROSS GUYS!” they’d chanted, jumping up and down in their red-and-grimy-white striped pajamas, wearing her disdain as a badge of honor. 

It was that night that she knew she’d never want children. 

This job was no longer the mark of her new teenage independence. She could now see this job for what it was – work. Something to suffer through long enough to be rewarded with cash. 

It was also the night that she knew she’d never want to work.

This is a little piece from my most recent writing class assignment. Try it yourself: Start with the line The Johnsons were her first regular babysitting job, and Clarissa found the next-door neighbor twins quite challenging. Lean in on descriptions using multiple senses.

Buddhist Tranquility: Unplugged

/ Lauren H. / 1 Comment

Drinking like a ladyIn 2007, I made an appointment with a reputable Manhattan therapist. While I sat in Dr. Andro’s zen-themed waiting room, I listened to the pitter-patter of the electric waterfall and felt at peace. It was the most soothing atmosphere I’d ever stumbled upon. It was a sign. Finally, I was going to be fixed. I daydreamed about what lovely little pills I’d be leaving with that would make me drink less, and maybe even lose weight as well! Oh, what a feminine little lady I was about to become.

Dr. Andro called me into his office and gave me a glance that could be described as “knowing” if only I’d had the ability to understand exactly what he knew. I immediately set off telling him what I was hoping to get out of this session. He cut me off with my least favorite question. “Exactly how much and how often do you drink?”

Even if I’d wanted to be honest, no response would have been truthful. I didn’t know. That was the beauty of drinking as much as I did – I never really had to face the memory of it.

“1-2 glasses of wine a night,” I ventured. He peered at me from under his glasses. He looked me up and down for what felt like an hour. I believe he may have even shaken his head and uttered a “tsk, tsk.”

“Ms. Hand,” Dr. Andro started as he set down his notebook and folded his hands in his lap.

Shit. I knew this talk. Good-bye little pills. Good-bye weight loss. Good-bye lady dreams.

“I cannot treat you, in good conscience, until you can be honest with me. And even then I’d be wary.”

“I don’t understand,” I felt my face get red with rage. “I need help and you’re supposed to help people.”

“I cannot help you, dear, until you’ve helped yourself. I will not see you again until you’ve removed all substances from the equation.” This prick. This fucking prick.

“It’s clear to me that you are dependent on substances, and I can only recommend long-term treatment or perhaps giving a 12-step meeting a try.”

I hated him for delaying the now-dying dream of beautiful prescriptions. “Yeah, ok, I’ll go to a meeting tonight. Now, about those prescriptions….”

“Ms. Hand, that will be $20 to cover the visit today, and please let me know how the meetings works out for you.”

I didn’t give him his money. I told him he didn’t do his job, which was to help me, so I didn’t owe him anything. I added that in fact, he hurt me, so he’d be receiving a bill himself, and hearing from the lawyer we both knew I didn’t have.

I thumped out of his office, through the passé manufactured-Zen waiting room, unplugging his stupid electric water fountain before I left.

Act As If

/ Lauren H. / 7 Comments

Seven years ago, I didn’t believe in God.

I didn’t consider this to be a problem. In fact, I thought that people who believed in God were naive; just nodding little bobble-heads and never questioning what they’d been taught. And for those who not only believed, but relied on this “thing” they felt was a Higher Power observing the human race, judging all of our actions and behavior, forgiving us for our wrongs, and ultimately orchestrating every petty instance to crescendo to One Big Beautiful Plan – well, those people were just fools. Taking the easy way out by claiming “there’s a reason for everything” instead of dealing with the pain of a loved one’s death or the disappointment of not landing a dream job. Weak, I’d think, every time someone force-fed me a fact-lacking line of religious bullcrap.

And then I found myself struggling. At a time in my life when I’d lost the majority of my friends, came to the scary realization that it was time to stop partying, and feeling like an empty human shell without those two constants in my life – childhood buddies and beer.

“Pray,” suggested one of my few remaining friends. “You need to pray.”

I rolled my eyes, swollen with tears over whatever crisis I’d imposed on myself at the time. I grunted a dismissive laugh. “Yeah, OKAY,” channelling the disrespectful pre-teen brat version of myself.

“You don’t pray?” she asked, concerned.

“No, Betty. I don’t pray. I wouldn’t even know who to pray to.”

She stood up – her petite little 5 foot frame not much taller than when she sat – and shuffled across her living room. She reached to retrieve something from the bookcase. Oh God, I thought. Here comes another self-help manual.

Even worse, she came back with a porcelain f*cking angel. Wings, a gold halo, and all.

“Put this on your shelf,” she instructed, “way up high.”

“Uh-huh,” I humored her.

“Do it,” she insisted. “Get up every morning and look up at this angel. Pray to it.”

“You want me to pray to an object.” I just wanted to make sure she was hearing her own absurdity.

“I want you to pray to something,” she corrected me, “until you see that it works.” She put the angel on the table in front of me and took my hands into hers. She looked me in the eyes – hers were warm and gentle. They always twinkled, like she was a real live Disney princess, but Greek. And a smoker.

“ACT. AS. IF.” She tightened her grasp on my hands, as if trying to transfer her faith through the power of touch. “Eventually, you’ll believe.”

She named that angel “Betty 2,” which I found to be hilarious. Her reasoning was if I could talk to her about my problems, I could talk to an extension of her in ceramic form.

The next morning, still miserable, I clopped out of bed and made my way to the bathroom. The figurine protruded from my purse. I giggled, imagining Betty in my bag. I freed it and placed it on my shelf, more out of my sheer amusement of the whole idea. “Hi, Betty 2,” I placated my friend, who was already hounding me “So, did you try it? Did you??” in our future imagined conversation.

And as ridiculous as it felt, I continued this every morning. I told Betty 2 what I was feeling, asked for protection, and eventually began thanking this little inanimate statue for things that I had, by habit, started to become grateful for throughout my week.

I can’t say when I eventually came to believe, but at some point over the course of the time I spent chatting with Betty 2 every morning (which had then increased to every night, as well), I felt a presence of something greater than me. I stopped scoffing at spirituality and abandoned my best reasoning. I knew, because I felt it, that there was a God.

This belief only strengthened – by way of practice – over the years, to a level of trust. And eventually, on my best days, a complete, unabashed reliance on that greater being. An actual relationship with the most important thing in my life – that God I was so adamant didn’t exist.

Today, I received the devastating news that Betty – Betty 1 – passed away. I don’t know what I could possibly write here to express the sadness I feel. It doesn’t seem real yet, though I know that’ll come. She did so much for me – for so many people – and I’ll never be able to thank her for that.

But tonight, when I pray for her family’s peace, I can count her, and her encouragement to find the faith that she had, as one of my many blessings. And I can pray right to Betty 1. No porcelain required.

I’ll miss you, Betty. And thank you to infinity for the greatest gift that anyone has ever given me.

The Power Button

/ Lauren H. / 2 Comments

The definition of insomnia is the inability to fall asleep or stay asleep as long as desired.

That’s it. So simple.

But that’s not the insomnia with which I’ve become familiar over the majority of my adult life. The insomnia I know could be more accurately defined as a raging f*cking bitch.

Here I type with trembling fingers in reach of an untouched mug of coffee. The morning after. The involuntary muscle twitches and a level of neurosis any addict knows well. The sun offensively forcing its way into my kitchen through misaligned cracks in the blinds.

Every line of text stopped short by my inability to remember its intended ending. Jumping with paranoia at the subtle sound of the refrigerator waking from rest mode. This must be how that Coney Island “dancer” feels each time his bundle reaches its end. My insomnia pats me on the toosh as I’m sent off into a day-long stretch of depression and anxiety.

Friends have joked that they’d love to have a sleep disorder; they’d get so much done with just a few more hours in the day. But for me, those added hours are anything but a breeding ground for productivity. They’re packed with crippling, vivid memories of my wild years.

I cringe remembering those early mornings before work – trapped in purgatory between college and adulthood – when the birds chirping outside represented proof that yet again, I’d f*cked up. So many sunrises served as now-or-never moments in which I’d have to decide if showing up at the office was still an option. I’d instinctively run through the excuses I’d exhausted in recent weeks, each becoming more and more outrageous as I reached to justify another potential absence. The list of deceased imaginary relatives was growing in the hundreds. The well of food poisonings, gas leaks and stalkers had been tapped out years ago.

These early morning hours now come with a strong association to an unmanageable life. Outrunning my last lie hand-in-hand with bad decisions. I was perpetually chasing the slightest relief from the pain that lived inside me, like an inoperable cancer. And even though that phase of my life is long behind me, just the reminder of those sleepless nights sends me right back in the thick of it.

I’ve been trying to outpace my sleeplessness for years, not allowing myself to be alone unless I’m unconscious. Peeking out of my window hoping to see light coming from any nearby apartment windows. The bachelor across the street is still watching TV. Ahhh. There’s still time. I’ve got company.

And then he rises from his black leather couch and crosses the room I shouldn’t know so well. With the touch of a power button, I’m on my own again.

My mind hooks onto a thought and it’s off. Doctors have labeled this “the onset of racing thoughts” but that description never rings true. My thoughts keep a steady pendulum beat – perhaps they’re lazy or just uninterested their own speed. No, my thoughts don’t race. But they persevere.

It’s time to review anything in my life that feels a bit “off.” Is she mad at me? Why has she been acting so weird? I must have said goodbye the wrong way. But wait, I ended my last text with multiple explanation points!!!!! That’s the ultimate display of kindness. How could she respond with an unappreciative “K”? Hold on a second – I should be mad at HER. And now I am.

Enter the fears – any and all. Fear that I’m not talented. That I’m ugly, stupid or a joke. The tape starts playing: Former bosses commenting on my lack of intelligence and creativity. Men who defined my role in life with a passive mention of another girl. Learning I was nothing more than a fat kid from various classmates in Junior High.

Miley Cyrus’ tongue.

I grapple for any feeling of hope that can pull me out if this. Comfort, comfort, find some comfort. My dog. Always there for me. Yes, that’s it. My puppy can save me.

How old is he now? Oh my god, could he be… 11? How long do dogs live? 12? SHIT. He’s going to die soon. And I’m not going to have spent enough time with him. Some way to treat a best friend. I suck.

And what about my family? We’ve suffered the blows of untimely deaths. I’m paralyzed by a haunting curiosity: “Who’s next?”

Suddenly I find myself mourning my parents while they’re still alive and well.

My late-night head is a bad neighborhood that no one visits on purpose. Landing here is the punishment of a wrong turn and a lost GPS signal.

But then it’s 5:30 a.m. They’ll all be up soon. They’ll come back to life, joining me again, unaware of the damaging impact that their well-working body clocks have on me. But I’ll forgive them instantly, just happy that they’re back; like a dog who instantly forgets he just spent the better part of the day locked in a crate after pooping on the rug.

The sun is lazily stretching over the houses across the street. The failing brakes of a distant garbage truck assure me that I got through the night; that I don’t have to be alone again.

Until tonight.

In The Red

/ Lauren H. / 2 Comments

A little over a year ago, something happened.

I can rattle off a handful of disappointments that one might think contributed to that “something,” but I’ve done that. Many times. And not even the sum total of all the little setbacks can account for the magnitude of the deficit, glaring at me in red numbers at the end of my metaphorical balance sheet.

I’ve heard others describe depression, and while I’m familiar with feeling low, I’ve never quite identified with the symptoms described. Any time I’ve been so down that just getting out of bed seemed impossible, I could directly trace it to a breakup, a loss, or some major life event that – with the support of others and the passing of weeks or months – drew further from my view as the emotional pain lessened. The desperation never felt permanent.

But this long period of whatever-it-was was different. I didn’t cry everyday. My heart didn’t ache. There wasn’t an acute and identifiable discomfort. I was simply numb. I could go through the motions of getting through the day. I could spend time with friends. I could meet my responsibilities; at least, as well as I did during any given year – the only exceptions to be attributed to my inherent laziness.

What was missing was my sense of self. I was merely a passenger on someone else’s train, slumped on a milk crate in the back of a boxcar, with no interest in where I were headed or when I’d arrive. My purpose was a mystery I had no intent to solve. I had lost my connection to humor and pleasure, though I didn’t really see it.

What I did see is my complete inability to write. To put anything on paper felt disingenuous, like the entire act of communicating was for somebody else – not me. Even when I tried, the ruled lines of my journal became occupied with someone else’s uninspired words; a steaming pile of self-pity and sorrow just plopped onto a page.

And then I changed. Not changed in the sense that I emerged from a cocoon and transformed into a beautiful new being, improved and more enlightened. No – I changed back. I came home. I shuddered open and was suddenly able to feel again. To laugh. To care about others. To listen. To talk.

Desire – the virtuous sort that I was born with, not the self-seeking urges that controlled me in adulthood – regained its roots. And with good timing, watering and sunlight, it bloomed.

Only now that I can write again, I clearly see the miracle, and recognize the irony in having no words to describe it.

 

The Ol’ French Mint

/ Lauren H. / 3 Comments

I always adored alcohol. I appreciated the way it enhanced my presence at any party. Rather than letting my extensive catalogue of insecurities keep me from being social, I’d accept help from my most generous friend, Jim Beam. With his support, I’d magically transform from an awkward geek into a breathtaking beauty queen, just in time to dazzle the crowd with my mastery of small talk. For hours, he’d blessed me with a pleasant disposition, a charming laugh, and a swanlike grace. And later in the night, when I’d reliably land face-down in a crosswalk with a broken heel and bloody knees, Jim was gracious enough to erase any recollection.

I remember my very first drink at Jess’s house during our sophomore year of high school. School had been dismissed early because of a phone call claiming there was a bomb planted in the Science wing. Thrilled, Jess and I headed to her house to study for our SATs, where we were greeting by a glorious silence and the realization that her mom was still at work. An empty house is about as good as it gets at 15. An empty house with an unlocked liquor cabinet is about as good as it gets, period.

We sat cross-legged on the dining room floor in front of the open cabinet, uncorking a bottle of crème de menthe.

“I think this means ‘French Mint.’”

And just like that, I wrapped my lips around the bottle, threw my head back with more force than necessarily, and poured the syrupy liqueur down my throat. I felt the molten liquid ooze down my esophagus, warm and gooey. It was like drinking cough medicine, which had always been my favorite feature of getting sick. I remember the concern on Mrs. Bailey’s face when I announced in my seventh grade Health class that, if forced to choose, I’d rather drink a bottle of Robitussin than have a week off from school.

In just four chugs, I finished half of the bottle. Immediately, I felt happier. Like the whole world had changed. Any worries I had been harboring emerged to the forefront of my mind and then dissipated, like shapes made out of cigarette smoke. Tommy Manning didn’t invite me to his Prom? His loss. I was failing Biology? I’d gain extra credit. Heather Haverford “pantsed” me in front of the entire school at last week’s Fire Prevention assembly? I’d burn down her house while her family slept inside. No big whoop.

I was incredibly Zen. And this was before Being Zen was even a thing, so it was real. One thing I’ve learned over the years is that everything means more if you discover it before mainstream culture does. As soon as the masses get their grubby little hands all over your something – be it a music genre, diet craze, or feeling of internal peace – it becomes uncool, and also becomes grounds to berate others who didn’t know about your something any earlier. So, for proper reference, drinking crème de menthe on the floor of your friend’s parents’ house against their permission was completely and incomparably cool. You’ll never know anything like it.

It was as if all these years I’d been knocking on the door to the party, desperate to be let in, completely unaware that the key was in my pocket.

A Rose in Bloom

/ Lauren H. / 13 Comments

For the past few years, as gray strands have started to pepper my hairline and I’ve discovered I can throw out my shoulder just by reaching for the remote, I’ve become more and more aware of my own eventual expiry date. My impending finale is there – dark and omnipresent – shouting at me through every panic-inducing tick of my clock’s second hand.

“I’ll never get this second back. Oh God, now I’ll never get THAT second back. Holy Christ, I will never get all of the time back that I wasted by thinking about wasting time!”

Between working full-time and watching every episode of The Real Housewives of Pickanycity, I’ve got about enough leftover time in a day as it takes for me to brush my teeth. Floss?!?! Mr. Dentist, are you crazy?! Who has the time?

If my life hasn’t passed me by already, it’s surely breezing through my bangs as I type. And if this is how I feel at 32 and have a few productive years left, how will I feel when I’m 60? 75? Lucky enough for 90?

I’ve always had a soft spot for seniors, especially the gentle ones. And let’s face it – everyone looks gentle when you can kick their ass. And maybe that very fact that they could so easily be taken advantage of is what melts my heart every time I see one. Their determined little shuffle.   Their adorable tennis-ball-wheeled walkers. Their everlasting stunned expression, as if they’re seeing everything on their street for the first time and not the 32,687th.

The fact that they’ve endured so many years of suffering through the pain of disappointment, heartache, and losing loved ones. To me, that’s nothing short of valor.

So on New Year’s Day, when I watched an old man dining alone and lighting up at every opportunity to chat with his waitress, I wondered where his family was. Had his wife passed away years ago? Had he never had children? Did he spend last night watching the ball drop on TV alone, shaking his head at the sight of Dick Clark, who used to be so vibrant all those years ago? Or did he go to sleep long before midnight, looking forward to breakfast at his regular booth for one?

Who keeps this man from feeling lonely?

I cried. I mean, sobbed. Right there, across from the man I was crying for. I embarrassed my boyfriend. I embarrassed myself. Even my pancakes blushed in discomfort.

And that was the moment I knew I needed to donate more than an embarrassing display of tears in a diner. I went home and Googled until I found a volunteer program called Friendly Visitors, sponsored by  Sunnyside Community Services. I submitted my information, and soon after I was called for an interview / orientation. Much like a matchmaking service, Friendly Visitors soon paired me with a homebound senior in my neighborhood who simply needed a friend.

Now, the bright spot of my week is my hour-long visit with 91-year-old Rose. We talk about our favorite books, our families, Law & Order, and Judge Judy. Her mood improves tremendously from the moment I walk in until the moment I leave. Last night, I even made her belly-laugh by suggesting we pop one of her pacemaker batteries into her failing smoke alarm.

“You did it; you got the shot!” she chuckled, celebrating my silly joke.

As I left her apartment and stepped into the hallway, she called my name and asked me to come back. I obliged, and she leaned in to give me an unexpected fragile embrace. Then, the sweetest kiss on the cheek I’ve ever received.

And just like that, all of my self-centered luxury problems disappeared to reveal a mountain of blessings that no gratitude list could ever unearth.

Turns out volunteering does incredible things for the one who volunteers.