AND, IN THE END...

So this whole RAPTURE thing that’s supposed to hit – what, tomorrow at 6:00 p.m.?   Sharp?  I dunno.  Maybe it will, maybe it won’t – who’s to say, really?  Some people get really annoyed by the whole thing, or upset or whatever.  But I think it’s kind of exciting.

I mean, we make fun of these Christian Scientists or whatever they are.  Actually, who’s responsible for this, anyhow?  I’m woefully uninformed.  But it’s a certain Christian sect.  I say “certain”, because I know an awful lot of Christians and they are not buyin’ it. 

Honestly, I could never deal with the religiosity thing.  This whole fear-based,  punishment-laden, heavy, threatening mess.   And in my soul of souls, I honestly put no credence whatsoever into the END TIMES crap.  But I have to admit,  I am fascinated by it.  And today I found myself actually fantasizing about IF IT REALLY WERE TO HAPPEN…

So because I love you so, I shall generously share herewith the view from my brain, as imagined by me, according to my current plans for tomorrow, which is May 21, 2011:

* * * * * *

MAY 21, 2011

11:00 a.m.:  Roll outta bed.  It’s a semi-sunny, oddly muggy morning.  Dogs need walking.  Me and Chris, Ellie and Herman hit the McDonald’s Drive Thru in Glendale for iced coffees and I do believe I will have one of those oatmeal-n-fruit cups that they just started carrying for us HEALTHY folk.   Then we head up to The Dome, where doggies can get their park on and we can sit and enjoy our breakfast.   This kills about an hour and a half.  Sky is clouding all the while.

1:30 p.m.:   We come home and put on a record.   Today is actually my parent’s 51^st wedding Anniversary so we have 6:00 p.m. (!!!!!!) reservations at Belmont Steaks to celebrate with them.  My two brothers will be joining us as well.  And for the record, tomorrow (May 22^nd) is me and Chris’ 12-yr. wedding  anniversary.  So who know what the hell THAT means.

But anyhow, we put on a record and take turns showering.  I get the dogs and the cats fed and then we put on another record and maybe lay down for a little bit and read and cuddle or whatever and then before you know it we get up and get dressed and it’s TIME TO GO TO DINNER.

5:45 p.m.:   We leave the house, and I’ve had to give Herman an extra dose of PET CALM because he’s super-upset because for some reason he hates when we go out in the evening.  Daytime is not really good for him, either, but EVENING LEAVINGS – oy vey.   Plus we all have it in the back of our minds that tonight might be The Apocalypse so nobody’s real happy about that, either.

6:00 p.m.:   For the entire 15-minute drive to the restaurant, the sky gets darker and darker.  Also, the wind picks up violently.  We nervously try to laugh it off.  I express the wish to go back home, the hell with the restaurant, but Chris talks me down.  I realize I am being silly.  Right?

We arrive at Belmont Steaks and I can see thru the window that my parents are already seated.  My mother waves to me sweetly thru the window, Edith Bunker-style.  My dad is wearing one of his John Gotti shirts, as I call them.  As usual, he looks serious but pleased to see us.  Always that light in his eye.  Not too many people in the place.  Maybe 3 or 4 tables of patrons, couple of people at the bar.  Sky is black now. 

My brothers are here, too.  Both are grinning, but their eyes look big to me as we approach the table.   We look at each other, and as the wind hammers against the large front window of the restaurant we are reading each other’s thoughts as siblings do:

 “Is this crazy, or what?”

And that’s it.

* * * * * *

CRUCIFIXION - PT. 3

As soon as I get the 911 operator on the line, things start looking up.  She just sounds so calm and lucid - as if plunging a knife clear thru my hand is a perfectly reasonable thing for me to have done on a fine Thursday evening at home.

I’ve already given her my address …

Me:  “… and now I have a dishtowel duct taped around my hand…but I feel kinda dizzy…”

911:  “…Okay, that’s good. (???)  What you need to do now is sit down in a chair and hold your hand up - as high as you comfortably can.”

Me: “Like, up above my head?”

911:  “Above heart level is fine.”

Now why the hell didn’t I think of that?  As soon as I elevate my hand, I can feel that the blood stops gushing almost immediately.   The 911 broad stays on the phone with me until the EMT dudes ring the buzzer.   I thank the nice broad, hang up and buzz  ‘em into the building. 

Two youngish EMT dudes make their way up the stairs.  I’m standing there in my doorway waving my bloody-soaked dish-toweled right hand in the air while struggling with Ellie - who has become a squirming a football - under my left armpit.  

Dude # 1:   “What are you doing?”

Me: “What do you mean, what am I doing?”

Dude #2: “Why are you holding that dog like that?”

Me: “What?  Why can’t I hold my dog?”

Dude # 1: “It just looks strange.”

Me: “She’s just a puppy.  If I don’t hold her, she’ll bolt down the stairs.  YOU wanna chase her down the stairs?  Because I’m pretty busy bleeding to death here.  I don’t really feel up to dealing with that, too.” 

Dude # 2: “Okay, let’s just get you inside…”

So we go into the living room, since the kitchen in that apartment was the size of a storage closet.  I put Ellie down and I sit on the couch.  The one dude starts removing the dishtowel. 

Dude # 1:  “Wow, how’d you DO this?”

Me: “Death by candle holder.”  Meanwhile…

Dude # 2:  “THIS IS YOU?”

Me: “What?”  I look up.  Chris is an artist and our apartment is wall-to-wall oil paintings.  The dude is staring up at one painting in particular – a huge portrait of a voluptuous and utterly naked woman splayed out on a table.  It’s one from his early art school days.

Me: “No, that’s not me.”

Dude #2: (sounding dejected): “Oh.”

These two finally buckle down together, swab and re-wrap my hand.  I have to stay seated throughout, hold it up high or else the blood starts pumping out again.  Then it’s time to hustle me off to the Emergency Room. 

I put a protesting Ellie into her crate and grab a jacket and my keys but as we’re leaving it dawns on me that Chris will be home soon and he’s gonna come into the apartment to find bloody mayhem all over the kitchen and one hysterical, incarcerated puppy. 

Me: “Listen – give me a second, guys.  I have to just leave my husband a note.”  The dudes are waiting for me in the hallway.

Lucky for me, I’m a lefty.  I JUST start scribbling a note when I hear one of the dudes say: “ARE YOU THE HUSBAND?”

And then I hear Chris’ voice: “Uuuhhhh…yeah….?” 

I can tell exactly what he is thinking just by the sound of this interaction:

Oh, god…what has she done now?  Has she actually killed herself in anticipation of failing as a dinner hostess for my parents? 

And I’m sorta right, because in the after-aftermath of all this, he admits to me: “I had no idea what to expect.  Just being called THE HUSBAND in that way sent shivers of pure dread thru me.” 

Which, well it should because ACTUALLY – later on at the hospital, while my hand was being FLUSHED FOR PARTICLES (OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW) , Chris was being relentlessly interrogated by the hospital detectives as to whether in fact it may have been THE HUSBAND who committed THE STABBING. 

We got home from the hospital very late – actually, it was about 2 or 3 in the morning when all was said and done.  I did manage to have one more rather significant melt-down when the x-ray technician went “on break” JUST before it was my turn to get x-rays and I’d already been waiting for over 2 hours.  I was threatening the staff, getting kinda loud.  CAGED HEAT  kinda stuff.  Hey, it was a rough night.  At any rate, by the time I was finished up over there, I don’t think anyone had any more doubts about who had committed their very own stabbing.  Chris was officially off the hook.

Just before I collapse into bed, exhausted from my own hysteria and high as hell on painkillers, I hear my mother's voice floating in from the other room - on my answering machine: "LYNN WHERE ARE YOU.  ME AND YOUR FATHER ARE VERY WORRIED.  CALL US NOW.  We want you to CALL US RIGHT NOW."  And then, mercifully, everything goes BLACK.

The dinner party was postponed exactly one week and it was an unmitigated triumph.  Somewhere there are photos of me raising my wine glass with one hand, beaming and waving cheerfully with my other big, giant, bandaged mitt.

So this was a real fun adventure.  And as always, I’ve enjoyed dragging you all into it with me.  And I came away from it very lucky because while there is some nerve damage, it is extremely minimal and it has not affected my life as a musician or otherwise. 

I do still get that little tingly sensation occasionally, tho’, if I move the hand just right.  And it serves as a useful reminder to always try to keep my wits about me.   Because ANXIETY KILLS.

Or in the very least, it can sure hurt like hell.

* * * * * *

CRUCIFIXION - PT. 2

…So anyhow, there’s an awful lot of stuff on display atop my old piano.  Lots to clean and shine…

But that’s OKAY!  With my task clearly mapped out, I experience a surge of newfound confidence, poise and… dare I say ?…panache!   Industriously, I fill up a cardboard box with all of the crystal candleholders and shlepp the works into the kitchen, plunking it down next to the sink.   I fill the sink with warm, soapy water and pick out a favorite crystal votive as my first candidate.   TIME TO GIT TA WORK!

Hmmmm….There’s a lot of built-up wax at the bottom of this baby.  Ridiculous amount, really – good thing I’m doing this important project because honestly, that much extra wax can be dangerous when burning candles…WOW… it’s really caked in there…

So I grab, what else?… a STEAK KNIFE and set about piercing thru the waxy buildup.  And I would say almost IMMEDIATELY, the brutal, serrated dagger powers RIGHT THRU THE BOTTOM OF THE GLASS and DIRECTLY INTO MY PALM. 

“Uhhhhhh……AAAAAAGGGGGH”.  I stare down at this mess in total shock.  The glass of the votive candle holder falls away, having split neatly into two halves.  All that is left is my hand with a steak knife stuck in it.  And here’s the best part.  The tip of the knife is actually protruding OUT of the OTHER SIDE OF MY HAND.  

In a sickly and horrific dreamlike state, I YANK the knife out.  OH, THE PAIN - THE PAIN - THE PAIN - THE PAIN.  But even worse…  THE BLOOD - THE BLOOD - THE BLOOD  - THE BLOOD - THE BLOOD. 

The blood the spurting all over the kitchen.  Hitting the walls, the floor, the dog, the cat. It’s like a bad Monty Python skit.  Without thinking (and what else is new?),  I plunge my hand into the soapy, warm sink.  The foamy water turns a deep, rich burgundy so quickly that I almost lose consciousness.  I am vaguely aware of my own voice coming from somewhere: “O no O god O no Ogod O no Ogod O NO….”

I have to admit that up until this particular incident, I was simply not well-versed in the area of home emergency first-aid, at least the art of performing it on myself while I’m bleeding to death all alone in my kitchen.   I mean, I’ve gotten pretty good SINCE then, but during THIS escapade, things were just not looking very good. 

However, why in hell I decide to call my mother (instead of 911) at this moment MUST have some kind of deep-seated psychological implications, honestly.  I mean, she lives clear across town, does not drive and quite frankly has a few panic issues of her own.  But CALL MOM I do, covered in my own gore and hyperventilating to the point of incoherence.

Mom: “HELLO?”  She already sounds really anxious, but that’s normal for Mom.   See, that’s the thing – Mom always answers the phone sounding as if she’s expecting the worst news.  In fact, I joke her about it.  So for a change, this time she’s way ahead of the game.

I’m trying to control my breathing, but I know what I sound like: “Ma….I stabbed myself…”

Mom: “WHAT?  WHO IS THIS?”  I’m her only daughter, but whatever…

Me:   “Ma, it's me.  I was cleaning a candle and I’m bleeding – the knife went right thru my hand…”  My voice sounds faint to me and I'm starting in with the tunnel vision.

Mom: “GO TO A NEIGHBOR’S HOUSE.  GO RING A NEIGHBOR’S BELL.”

Me: “What?  Our neighbors hate us.  They’ll turn me away.”

Which may or may not be true.  We lived in a 3-floor walk-up with (mostly) a bunch of Dominican people who really didn’t care for our late-night rock n’ roll jams.   And the rest of our “neighbors” were elderly people who also didn’t care for our late-night rock n’ roll jams.   I had a visionary flash of myself, weakly staggering into the hallway and rapping on their doors, and nobody answering as I eventually crumple into a lifeless heap on the cold, wet tile floor in a pool of my own sticky blood. 

Mom: “GO TO THE NEIGHBORS.  SOMEONE WILL HELP YOU.  GO NOW.”

Me: “I might faint…”

Mom: “DON’T  FAINT.”

Me: “I don’t want to.  But I don’t know if I’m fainting because of all the blood or because I’m just fainting…”

Mom: “RUN YOUR HAND IN THE COLD WATER AND THEN GO TO THE NEIGHBORS.”

I actually try the cold water thing, but that makes the blood start really pumping out in buckets.  So that can’t be good.  But I really am feeling like I’m just on the brink of passing out now, so…

Me: “Okay, I’m gonna go, Ma.  I better call an ambulance.”  Wow – took me awhile to figure THAT one out…  And I hang up.

I look down at Ellie, who’s been pacing around my feet, whining up at me mournfully.  I shakily pat her with my non-bleeding hand and tell her:  “Don’t worry, little bubby…I'm okay...”   Oy.  So far this one really lucked out in the Mommy Department…

I duct-tape a dishtowel around my bleeding hand and dial 911…

TO BE CONTINUED….

CRUCIFIXION BY DINNER PARTY

Ahhhh…how I’ve missed you all, my little Springtime Squirrels.  And I mean that in the most affectionate possible way.

Before life continues to have its way with me, I figured I’d pop in here with a little adventure story that came to mind for no particular reason as I poured over song lyrics this weekend. 

Well, actually, I do know why it came to me.  It’s because as I was working on some guitar chords, I felt an old familiar tingling sensation in the palm of my right hand.  There’s a straight, shiny ½-inch scar on the palm of this hand and it signifies my own personal mini-crucifixion.  So hey – this is almost like an Easter story!  Or something.

It happened on a Thursday evening about 12 years ago. 

I am newly married to my second (and present) husband and my brand-new in-laws are scheduled to come for dinner the following night.  I could be wrong, but I don’t believe we’d ever had them over before.  Either way, our apartment totally looks like a bomb hit. 

Me and Chris are both extremely good at planning all kinds of things like straightening up, cleaning and shopping for refreshments.  But we’re even BETTER at spending our spare time hanging out in the park with our dogs, coming home to pop a record on, cracking open a frosty cold one and jamming on our instruments!  Usually followed by perhaps a movie OR -  a very popular favorite - taking a marathon nap.   

To say we are not prepared for company in less than 24 hours … much less IN-LAW company… well.  I am suddenly feeling the pressure.  We’re both working full-time, of course, so that’s always good for an excuse.  But not really when you extend the invite 2 or 3 weeks in advance, which we did.  

So I get home from work, my mind racing.  I’ve picked up some shrimp and wine on my way home and it seems like a paltry, pathetic attempt at normalcy.  I cannot believe how ghastly the apartment looks - it is literally in shambles.  Not FILTHY or anything, but suddenly it looks like a bohemian commune gone mad.  Had Rev. Jim Jones come in and handed me the Kool-Aid, I’d-a drunk it on the spot and asked for seconds.   My well-documented ANXIETY ISSUES kick into instantaneous high gear.

Our dog Ellie was just a little puppy then – still being house-trained.   She’s in her crate yipping frantically ‘cuz it’s been a pretty long day for her.  I attempt to get her over to the wee-wee pad as quickly as possible, but as soon as I open the crate she jumps out and EXPLODES all over the living room carpet - crapping, pissing - the whole enchilada.    My head explodes along with her bowels.  Standing amongst this ruinous sewage, I lunge for the phone to scream at Chris.

Because as always, Chris is not home yet since he always gets home well after I do.  I wait breathlessly until he answers, when I can start full-tilt with my conniption.

Chris: “Hello?”

Me (voice tight with panic): “Honey.  I am gonna lose it.”

Chris: “Uhhh...What...?”  (12 years later, he still gets that forlorn-yet-knowing inflection in his voice when he hears me winding up for the pitch…)

Me: “I AM GONNA FUCKIN’ LOSE IT BECAUSE THIS APARTMENT LOOKS LIKE A PIECE OF SHIT!!!”

Chris: “O, god…Lynn…it’ll be alright…”

Me: “NO IT WON’T!!!  HOW CAN IT possibly???  WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO?  YOUR PARENTS ARE COMING TOMORROW.  WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH US?”

Chris: “There’s nothing wrong with us!  We’re good, honey!  We’re golden!  You gotta calm down, please…”

Me: “I CAN’T CALM DOWN.  THE DOG SHIT  EVERY WHERE.”

Chris: “What?  In her crate?”

Me: “NO – ALL OVER THE FLOOR.  SHE PEED, TOO….THE RUG IS ALL SOAKED.  I BOUGHT SHRIMP AND THEY LOOK LIKE SHIT, THE GOOD SEAFOOD PLACE WAS CLOSED…”

Chris: “Alright, you are not making sense right now Lynn.  I will be home in an hour and we’ll get everything fixed up nice, I promise.”

Me: “THERE’S TOO MUCH TO DO.  THERE’S NO WAY.  I’M KILLING MYSELF NOW.”

Chris: “I’m going to hang up, okay?  Because the sooner I hang up, the sooner I can get home to help you.”

Me: “YOU’RE COMING HOME RIGHT NOW?”

Chris: “Yes.  Okay?  Are you gonna be alright?”

Me: “Okay.  Please come home right now.”

Chris: “Okay.   See you in a bit.”

Me: “Thanks, honey.  I’m sorry I’m insane.”

Chris: “I know you are.”

Me: “That I’m sorry or that I’m insane?”

Chris: “Both.”

I hang up, feeling a little better.  First things first – I set about cleaning up after Ellie, who has been staring at me with a face full of worry.   I feel terrible when I look at her sad brown eyes.   My big tabby-cat Benjamin is taking it all in stride, at any rate.  He knows me pretty well – he’s got a few years on Ellie.  I take a break and cuddle with the animals on the couch for awhile, just to get my bearings. 

I scan the room – where to begin?  I know.  My piano.  It’s truly the showcase in the tiny apartment, bearing on its mantle numerous ornate candles, various crystals and tchotchkes that I hold dear.  

Yes...yesss...I shall begin by cleaning and shining up all of my lovely goodies…it’ll be like therapy…

TO BE CONTINUED…