Coping skills

As those of you who’ve kept up with this blog are aware, My Beloved One’s son now lives with us.  He’s taken to molesting the cat with stifling attention as he was once taught to do with a service-dog at Parry Center.  Only, our cat is not a dog, and he doesn’t seem to have the slightest interest in being a service-cat.  So, while the boy cradles the cat, the cat stretches his claws, contorts his back and tail into strange shapes, and goes a wee bit cross-eyed, wondering what on earth he did to have the life hugged out of him.

“Don’t torture the cat” we say.
“It’s a coping skill!” the boy points out.

It’s difficult to find an argument for that.  Will the boy feel the same about coping skills when the cat copes with the violation of overzealous affection, and sticks a claw in the boy’s eye?

“The cat flippin’ scratched me!” I imagine the boy shouting, as he kicks the cat.
“It’s his coping skill!” we could say, defending the cat, but then the boy might kick us.

Our coping skill for this situation has been to keep the cat shut away in the bedroom, safe and sleeping, during the boy’s hyper.  It was yesterday morning, during this sort of ‘keep them separated’ moment, that I—still foggy from waking only seconds before—tried the three step method: 1. open the bedroom door quickly, 2. walk through it very quickly, and 3. shut it behind me quickly so that the cat doesn’t get out.  Thus, I would have done my duty of keeping the cat away from the boy, and the boy away from the cat.  All would be well; the cat would still have a tail, the boy would still have two eyes, and I would be staggering on my way to the kitchen for my morning meeting with the coffee pot.

Alas, I failed the three step method.  As I opened the door to shoot myself out, I shot my foot into the door frame instead of into the living room.  Of all the petty annoyances to put up with first thing in the morning!  I’ve simply got bad luck with feet, in general.  When I was Nine I jumped off of the monkey-bars and broke my foot.  When I get a new pare of shoes—as walking is my means of transportation—they last about two months, then I’ve walked a hole into one or both of the soles.  Thumb tacks, nails, and metal coat hangers have all taken turns lodging in one foot or the other, and I stub my toes curiously frequently.  But I could tell—even before the sound of my foot meeting the door frame registered—that something was somehow out of order.

“Good God that hurt!” I thought to myself.  Though, I’d already scrambled to the kitchen and made a cup of coffee when my Beloved One pointed out I’d broken my wee toe, and hopefully not part of the foot its attached to.  Ahah!  That made sense of the strange circumstances of my wee toe; why the bottom side was bleeding, and the top side was starting to swell and compete for prominence with the intendedly big toe at the other end of the line up.  That’s why it felt as though my foot was being beaten repeatedly by a sledge hammer I couldn’t see.  It explained—perfectly—the new, strange, and annoying pain from such a small part of the body.  Small part of the body, small pain, but a strange sort of pain that’s actually pissed me off a bit!

I spent yesterday split between to modes.  Half spent fussing over my wee toe, icing it and elevating it.  The other half spent ignoring it, grunting, and hobbling around to get things done, the logic of which I tried to explain to the boy as we walked to the store to get groceries for dinner…

“Is it broken?”  he asked, sweetly.
“So it seems,” I confessed.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re still walking!”
“There are things that need to be done.  Life doesn’t stop because of owies.”

I was hoping he’d say something sage-like (for a boy), such as “I think I get it”, or even “that sucks!” but such a response never came.

This morning the swelling seems to have gone down a wee bit.  That is to say, whilst it is still swollen, it no longer looks like a glow worm finger puppet.  What’s new this morning is some spectacular polka-dotted bruising.  One purple stripe down the wee toe, and a blue smudge near the toe next to it.  My Beloved one keeps urging me to go to the Doctor, but as I have no insurance, I don’t see the productivity of doing that.  It’d be one thing if I’d accidentally cut off half a leg with a chainsaw, but with something like this, what’s the point?  Why go to confirm that something is wrong, without actually being given anything to improve it.  I’m sure they might wrap it to the toe next to it, and give a prescription for a crutch or a cane to help the wobbles, but a prescription doesn’t really help me.  No insurance, and not enough to fill the scrip, let alone pay the overstuffed doctor’s bill in the post a month from now.

Who knows what the day shall bring.  The question of dinner for tonight has already raised its ugly head.

At least I had already arranged for both yesterday and today off.  It’s back to work tomorrow, and the five days following.

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2009.

Rough Red Meat Between Teeth

Dinner is done.  Corned beef and carrots and potatoes, courtesy of my Beloved One’s unpredictable and very Irish craving.  Quite tasty.  Nummy for my tummy, teasing on the tongue, and a royal pain in the anal cavity for my teeth!  But such is the nature of life as a human carnivore. 

And now I plop me down to rest in my red chair.  Pipe in my teeth, scrumpy at my elbow.  (I do hope I won’t knock it down and spill it.)  To my bloggery I go, for as much as I’ve become seduced by Twitter recently, I do suspect the truest twitterers tweet on the go from cellular gadgets.  I have no such gadgetry about me, so I’ll go about expressing myself in the modern age in the old fashioned way: with more than 150 characters on my blog.

. . . . .

The boy with the budding Buddha belly

 One of the commercials for the upcoming television show Parenthood says, “Parenthood is understanding why some animals eat their young…”  I appreciate that.

Sweet Wag—as I call the lad; Falstaff’s name for Hal—is keeping us company again.  What’s more, today it has been more or less good company.  My first impression of Sweet Wag came when I was talking with his Mother in her garage.  He inconspicuously passed beyond his Mother’s line of sight, and picked up a battery operated hand drill, striding tall and laughing towards one of the cats.  In those first months, I also saw him throw furniture at his twin siblings, beat his noggin against the wall until something other than his own will stopped the cadence, and set things on fire.  He’s come a long way since then.  He now minds his place to the extent that he knows how.  He gives us all random gifts at least once a day.  He apologizes for his anxious habits, and politely identifies what bothers him.  In the past he’d just say “I’m stronger than you”, and toss an Atlas at your head.  The biggest problems he brings to daily life are his phobias of immense things—like high ceilings or tall buildings—his wolfish thirteen year old appetite, and his (yes, I’ll say it!) rather off-putting lack of table manners. 

“I’m thirteen, mom!” he’ll say, when he wants to get his way.
‘Then why can’t you chew with your mouth closed, since you’re eating everything in the house?’ I’ll think to myself.

Yes, I confess, I’m a terrible fellow.  A grumpy, festering bastard who’s not quite so openhearted as the mayor of Munchkin city.  Be that as it may, Sweet Wag impresses me. 

Call me harsh and hard of heart, but he does.  There is no way around how far he’s come.  No denying either that some part of him recognizes it took effort to travel from there to here, from then to now.  And when considering that, in sight of the puzzle that he is; the mind of a nine year old trapped in a ragingly pubescent thirteen year old body; I can’t help but find the notion of ‘recognizing and respecting struggle’ hopeful.

. . . . .

From there to here 

It can be a long road sometimes, up and out of one’s hiding places.  Most of the time, there are false exits on that road.  You’ll begin to feel a bit better, and then just as you think you’re about to return from your underworld, it’s not unusual for something or someone to kick you back down into the bog. 

At the moment, I am feeling well.  I’m noticing my thoughts flowing more freely, my inhibitions and masks have shed a layer or two.  I’m taking more responsibility to get what I want, and exerting less patience for the petty things that bother me.  That is all good.  It means I’m far down the road to a lighter state, a more carefree and a jolly state, and I would welcome that.  I’m smoking my pipes again, as I did once upon a time when I felt a bit more balanced.  And I’m successfully over the two week mark of an existence without cigarettes.  That is also a good sign. 

I just hope we all continue in our climbs up toward the light.  I’ve lost my footing one too many times, to not fear the fall.

Oh piss it, look!  I’ve sneezed my emotions all over you.  I’d offer you a towel, but I’m not sure who you are or where you’re reading from, and my arm likely wouldn’t reach.  Forgive me? 

. . . . .

A U2 commercial on the television, sponsoring Blackberry.  I’m gonna go crazy if I don’t go crazy tonight…

Good juju.

 

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2009

All hands on deck!

I remember that on this day, one of these last years, (1st April, April fool’s day. . .) my beloved one woke me up in the morning and told me she was pregnant.  –  She stuck with it too.  A long conversation, through to the point where I said overwrought but supportive boyfriend things like, “This can be good, we can make this work!”  She then dropped the giggling “April Fool’s Day!!!!” bomb. 

I didn’t murder her, she’s still alive and well.  Moreover, for all intensive purposes it seems we are again, moving in together.  {Insert sighs of relief and exhaustion here.}  I say “seems”, yes, there are still a few chinkylinks to add to the chain before our heads are on the pillow.  However, we were given the keys earlier this afternoon, so, if “for all intensive purposes it seems”, it seems intensely, with some evidence. 

Those of you who know me a bit more personally, know that this apartment has been a long time coming…  And for the first time in my humble existence, I will not be living in Gresham, but bursting through the bubble and taking up residence in Portland. 

In some three months time, her eldest will be joining us.  Again, those of you who know Victoria and I more personally already know the story there.  If you’re not one of the lucky one’s who knows us more personally, well, I’m not going to go into it here and now, so it’s your loss, boo-hoo, have a cup of tea and walk it off.  Regardless, in some three months time, her eldest will be joining us, and we will be happy to receive him, for now, in this apartment, we have space to allow him to do his own thing, grow, flourish, and all that sort of thing that you want children to do.  Hopefully he’ll move fast to doing it, too!

During that three some months, however, it will be lovely to do things like cook meals with my old cooking equipment, make use my espresso maker, sleep in a bed instead of on the living room floor, hang pictures, take them down, hang them somewhere else.  I’m very keen to have those lovely nonsense arguments about how to decorate the place.  I can honestly say that yes, we both have good taste, it’s just that I consider my own a bit superior to her’s.  (Who doesn’t consider their own sense of taste superior?)  I want an orchid for the kitchen near the window.  Hopefully the cat won’t kill it.  (That’s a good question to pose to you, my unpopulated community of readers.  Have you cats and orchids?  Do your cast try to eat them?)  Yes, an orchid.  I want an orchid.  Orchids are such erotic flowers that even men can appreciate them.  I want an orchid.  We don’t have a balcony, and the windows don’t provide any lush unforgetable views I could write poetry about, so, I want an orchid.  

Apart from the excitement of discovering how my Beloved one and I can put our stamp on the place, I’m also very keen to get back to all of that spur-of-the-moment boyfriend/girlfriend business we’ve missed out on, what with sleeping in the living room of someone else’s house.  Even more blissful, I have concrete evidence she’s mad keen to get back to doing the same, so, lucky be we. 

It’s been quite rainy these past few days, hasn’t it?  Well perhaps not for you–you might be reading from your sun-tanning chair in the garden of Eden, for all I know.  However, here, where I live, in the Portland Metropolitan area, under the gray curtains of the Pacific Northwest, it has been!  I’ve noticed something that even I don’t understand about myself.  I carry my umbrella with me, as I walk out to work.  I like umbrellas, provided they’re not some god awful pink thing with flowers, I like ‘em, have a soft spot for their shape.  However, as I walk out and about, I never catch myself opening my umbrella up, and using it.  This, I think, is due to the fact that it’s windy, and it takes more effort than I’m willing to part with, to keep it poised against the breezes raping it.  Notice, I said, “it takes more energy than I’m willing to part with.”  –  That means, I honestly believe it takes less energy to do what I actually do:

Carry:

(a) briefcase containing laptop
(b) unopened full-size cane-shaped umbrella
(c) a full Starbucks’ cup of coffee
(d) a cigarette

Whilst:  (That’s “while at the same time”, for you non-anglophiles.)

(e) avoiding puddles because of holes in the soles of my shoes
(f) getting wet

Oh well, I suppose if we all walked around doing things that actually made sense, there’d be no reason for films, books, or music.   

Hold fast!

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009