Pain in the Neck

I visited a chiropractor for the first time today, and I will not be returning to her. I had a free consultation, compliments of the St. Kate's Alumni Association Reunion 5K I ran last weekend. I figured, free consult? Why not?

The chiropractor's first words to me, after introducing herself, were, "GOD created your brain so your body could heal itself."

Oh, that's lovely, self-healing and--what? God comes into chiropractor appointments? Isn't that inappropriate? Doesn't God have more important places to be, like oppressive religious institutions and twelve-step meetings?

I let it slide. (In all honesty, I was a little distracted by her yellow eyeliner and gold eyelashes.)

She went on to explain to me what a healthy spine looks like. She showed me pictures of healthy vertebrae and told me what happens when your spine is out of line. "GOD didn't intend for your spine to be crooked," she said, gravely. Every time she said the word God, she would accent it by elongating each letter so it was the most powerful word in the sentence.

Now I was feeling...really uncomfortable, and my internal crap-radar was starting to buzz. Doctors and health care providers aren't supposed to talk about GOD. They are not supposed to guilt you into using their services by claiming that your spine, your literal backbone, is wrong in God's eyes.

I really wanted to ask her to stop with the God-talk. I really wanted to get out of the room. But, being me, instead of speaking up, I just didn't comment.

She did a computer scan of my neck and took a somber breath. "Oh, this is bad," she said. "This is almost the worst we can see."

I turned to look at the computer screen. There were red bars surrounding the virtual image of my neck. "Red is very bad," she said.

"Well, what does it mean?" I asked.

"We won't know until we take your X-rays," she said.

I looked to the giant X-ray machine just behind me and panicked. Radiation! Toxic! No! "Is it necessary to take X-rays?" I asked.

"With this sort of computer scan, absolutely," she said.

And me, being the trusting, agreeable girl I am, agreed to X-rays. It was for my spinal health. God didn't want my spine to show up with red bars on a computer screen. I mean, this sounded urgent.

So she took the X-rays and then said, (before seeing the X-rays, since she wouldn't be able to look at them until later), "You will need to come in for an adjustment right away. First thing tomorrow."

I said, "Oh, I can't tomorrow, I am busy. What about Monday?"

She shook her head. "It has to be tomorrow."

"Um...I really don't think I can make it tomorrow."

"What are your plans?"

At this point, I should have (obviously) said, "My plans are none of your damn business." But instead, because when I am frightened, I default to believing that other people have every right to know every last detail about my inferior life, I said, "Well, I have plans to spend the day with my partner. We don't get to see each other very often."

She looked very disapproving. "F....'family' is important," she said, choking a little on the word "family" as though it was hard for her to spit out, "But this is even more important. If I told you had cancer, I bet you would come in tomorrow."

What I should have said was, "You might as well tell me I have cancer, since you just blasted me with your radiation machine!"

But, being me, I just said, "Look, I can't make it tomorrow. What about Monday or Tuesday?"

And she kept pushing. ("What if I told you you had a tumor? You have to come in tomorrow, first thing. Yes, I know it's Saturday, but you have to come in......" etc, etc, etc.)

At this point, my internal crap-radar was sounding a high-pitched alarm. We're talking surprised soprano top-range tessitura. I mean: A) all the God talk, and B) this non-budging insistence that I had to make an appointment for tomorrow morning. And C) did I mention the quiz I had to take in the waiting room? I actually got quizzed on my knowledge about the spine before I was allowed into the office.

It didn't add up to me. I believe that my spine is out of line. But I do not believe that I want to work with a chiropractor who is pushy about my schedule, who forces God into the exam room, or who insists to know what my Saturday plans are.

I looked at the exit door, which she was standing in front of. "I need to go," I said.

"I really need you to make an appointment for tomorrow morning," she said.

Bursting at the seams with frustration, I said, "I. CAN'T. MAKE. IT. TOMORROW."

She finally backed out of the way and walked me out of the room. "I am going to call you with your X-ray results," she said. "And then you need to make an appointment as soon as possible."

"Fine," I said, having no intention whatsoever to ever return to this awful place. She took one last cheap shot by handing me a sheet of paper with pictures of horrifyingly bent, disfigured, out-of-line spines and said, "Do you see how awful these are? What if your spine looks like this?"

I was curiously filled with the same feeling I get when I hear stories about women who go to Planned Parenthood and are intercepted by the Pro-Lifers, with pictures of how awful this could be for your baby. What if this was your baby? Would you do this to your baby?

Angrily, images of disfigured human bones in hand, I walked out of the office.

But not before hearing...what kind of music is that? Is that the Evangelical Christian station?

And now, almost two hours later, as I am writing about the stupid experience, my phone is ringing and ringing. Yes, she is calling me to tell me about my X-rays. What do you want to bet she says something like, "Oh, your X-rays were awful. You have to come back immediately. Right now. No, RIGHT NOW. ANSWER YOUR PHONE! God hates people who wreck their spines. Come back and pay me whatever I overcharge you because God tells you to. God made your brain to heal your body, and your sinful pagan lesbian spine is making God very angry....I neeeeeeeeed your moneyyyyyyy...."

Oh, Lizzy, another lesson learned. Never go to to a health service provider without doing some basic research first. And, when you hear the Christian station?

Run.

Free Beer

I deem this The Summer of Picnics in Parks with Various Children.

That may or may not be such a great title for a summer. It sounded much better in my head, before I typed it into solid text. Before, you know, I realized the potential...interpretations of such a title.

In any case, I am spending my summer mornings nannying for two different families. And they are polar opposites of each other.

In one family, the kids wake up early, eat a balanced breakfast of farm-fresh eggs (straight from the underbellies of the chickens in their backyard), brush their teeth, clean their rooms, and are prepared for a morning of interactive activity--tag, bike riding, beading, etc. In the other family, the kids wake up late, may or may not eat breakfast, and if they do eat "breakfast," it's some shoddily disguised starchy high fructose corn syrup concoction trying (just barely) to pass for cereal with watery milk, and then they watch a strange assortment of television shows allegedly targeting kids.

In one such television show, a character held up a sign that read, "Free beer."

The six-year-old sugar-induced beginning reader sounded out the letters. "F...r....ee...B...eee...rrrrr. Free beer!?"

I nodded, "Yes, good reading. It says free beer."

Later in the day, the same 6-year-old decided to play Legos. He asked me innocently if I would please play Legos with him.

"Just a second," I said, as I tried to finish a chapter in the book I was reading.

There was a pause before I heard him say, enticingly, "I'll give you free beer!"

Students' Siblings

1. I recently taught a piano lesson in which I spent the entire half-hour very aware of my student's little brother who was sitting behind me, in a big, overstuffed, comfy chair, his little four-year-old toes dangling far from the floor, his peanut-butter-smothered fingers quietly holding a pair of binoculars aimed directly at me. He didn't make a peep. He just sat there, quietly kicking his short little legs, sniffling from a recent cold, and held those binoculars steady. The. Whole. Time.

Talk about teaching under scrutiny.

2. Yesterday, as I was leaving a student's house, her little sister ran to the door with urgent information for me. I was just closing the door, and the chatty, tiny kid planted herself in front of the entryway so I couldn't quite follow through with the shutting of the door, on account of the tiny girl standing in the way. "Teacher Liz," she said, her eyes big. "Yesterday, I went poop! On the potty!"

Her intellectually way-over-my-head parents (with post-name credentials that span the entire length of the alphabet) stood behind her, chuckling at their cute potty-trained daughter, and I said the only thing I could think of to say: "What a great... location for that activity!"

I turned around and walked away, thinking, "Liz, what did you just say?"

Immune

Last week, when I came home from the Kindergarten Camping Trip, Stacia was lying in bed, surrounded by Kleenex and cold pills. She was feeling miserable, with a sore throat, aches, and a headache.

I consoled her by holding her close and giving her a big kiss. She said, "Don't kiss me--you'll get sick too."

"Oh, no I won't," I said. I went on to brag about my strong immunities. Working with kids and all. I talked smack about how I never get sick, how I can be around all kinds of viruses and not even sneeze.

And now, a week later, I have had to cancel all my lessons for today, as I lie on the couch with a down comforter, alternating between shaking with chills and sweating, with a 101.3 fever, a sore throat, massive body aches, and a headache.

So much for my strong immunities.

Hierarchy

There is a carefully constructed hierarchy at our house, and it's not exactly what I would have expected.

We have three pets: Nubia the Cat, Mama Schmee the Mama Cat, and Luna the 10-month-old puppy. Mama is Nubia's actual mama. They have been my cats since Nubia was born, four years ago (she is the same age as my sobriety--4!) These cats have been with me through multiple moves, at least two girlfriends, living on someone's porch, emergency evacuation from unsuitable living conditions, a few unsavory flings, and all these years of recovery. Schmee actually lived with me while I was still drinking (though she was not my cat at that time), so she saw me in all my glory. They love me a lot, and Luna is their second dog to contend with.

The previous dog was a former girlfriend's pug/pin, a little bouncy rowdy thing that was about the same size as my cats. Nubia befriended her pretty quickly, but Mama never adjusted. She kept her distance and neither provoked an argument nor partook in any anger arousal.

Now that Stacia and I have had Luna for, oh, five months or so, my cats are finding their bearings with this new addition to the household.

Nubia has always been the shy one. She hides in the strangest places, like in any of my houseplants, which the plants despise and so do I.


With Luna around, Nubia hides under furniture, in closets, in Holly's room, and in places I will never know about because she is so well-hidden. But as time goes by, she is becoming more and more a quiet friend to Luna. I caught them touching noses the other day. I couldn't make a big deal about it, because they are both a little sensitive about the ramifications of their relationship.

When it comes to the hierarchy, though, Luna is one up on Nubia. Luna really wants to play with Nubia, and she will sit in front of her, tail pounding the floor, doing a play bow and basically begging for Nubia's attention. If Nubia runs off, Luna will chase her, as far as she can before Nubia will jump up onto some tall piece of furniture that Luna can't reach. I am sure that Nubia flirts with Luna--she will stroll past slowly, rubbing her tail against Luna's chest, as if to say, "Just try to come after me, Doggie!" And then the chase begins again.

But when it comes down to it, Nubia is a fraidy cat and hides while Luna tries to play with her.

Schmee, on the other hand, is not a flirt. She keeps her distance from Luna at all times, except when she thinks Luna is trying to provoke her. Then Mama will leap toward Luna and chase her as far as she can.

One day, Stacia and I were standing on the second floor landing, between steps going up and going down. Nubia came whooshing past, followed by Luna, followed by Schmee. The trio chased each other all the up to the attic.

That is how it is here, Schmee is the alpha and will chase Luna until Luna begins to whimper.

Not only will Schmee instigate terror, but she will also purposefully steal Luna's bed. Luna knows not to argue, so sometimes I will find the two of them sleeping in the living room, Schmee on the dog bed, and Luna on the floor next to her bed. She is too afraid to kick Schmee off of her territory. In fact, she try the trick she uses to get up onto our bed: if she wants to come up on the bed with us, she has to sit and wait to be invited. She knows this. So sometimes, when Schmee is on her bed, she will sit pretty and wait for Schmee to say, "Hup!" Which, of course, Schmee never says because she is a selfish lady.


Even now, as I write this, all three animals are on the couch with me. But if Luna so much as looks at Schmee, Schmee will growl like you have never heard a cat growl before. So Luna refrains from making eye contact with Schmee, and, as much as possible, she attempts to keep to her own business.

If Luna is coming in from outside, and if Schmee is sitting by the door on the inside, Luna won't come in. She will just sit pretty and wait for Schmee to say, "Go!" like we do when it's time to allow her to come in. But, of course, Schmee never says go, and I think she knows exactly what she is doing.

This is a cat who is certain that her actions will get her what she wants. She is ruthless and she knows exactly how to achieve her goals. Still, I love her. She is fuzzy like a teddy bear and she will curl up in my lap when I am reading, as if to say, "I love you, Liz, even if I don't love anyone else." How can you not feel special when someone like Schmee, a known rebel, a maverick loner, an unapologetic manipulator, loves only you?




And so I let this cat curl up in my lap, and I let her go outside if she wants to. Call me a pushover, but this is a love that is very special. It's like I am her tamer. I am the only one who can reason with her. And I take that as an important responsibility as well as a great privilege.

Pieces of You

Upon reading Swiss Cheese, a colleague of Stacia's asked if I was going to frump the violators. (I later learned that to "frump" someone is to "friend dump" them.)

Of course I didn't frump my mischievous friends. I would much prefer to strike back. And anyone who would frump someone over placing a Swiss flag in your front yard is, well, overreacting. It's more like I "frush" these women. Meaning, I openly have a friend crush on them and earnestly want them to like me.

Last week, Caity asked if I would learn a particular Jewel song to play at an open mic. She wanted to sign along (she's fluent in ASL) and have another friend sing the lyrics. It would be completely satirical and playful, to the soundtrack of a very serious song. I thought this sounded like heaps of fun and immediately agreed to what sounded to me like an excellent friendship-building activity.

When the time came around to actually learn the song, I was horrified to discover that the lyrics of this particular song are not only serious but quite provocative. Perhaps offensive. I text messaged Caity and told her I would accompany her on the guitar but refused to sing the lyrics.

When it came down to it, I backed out altogether. We arrived at a local cafe open mic, me in the lead with my bulky guitar on my back. I took one look at the serious, middle-aged folk musicians lined up to perform and spun around on my heels and walked back out the door.

"I will not do it," I announced, theatrically. It all came together for me at that point--why on earth would I agree to accompany a song for which I wouldn't speak the lyrics? Why would I risk offending someone, especially someone in this folk music crowd, which could potentially be a very lucrative networking scene for me?

Caity was horrified and, I think, very disappointed. I shoved my guitar into Megan's hands and said, "You play it."

She stammered something about not being able to play that song, and I said I would teach her, it's not hard. But I won't play it. End of story.

I felt awful for flaking out at the last minute.

You would have changed your mind when you saw that crowd too! Or perhaps you would have said no from the very beginning. You wouldn't have even considered the possibility of performing a song that would make everyone in the room uncomfortable. But you have clearer boundaries than I do, you with your healthy resistance to peer pressure, and I am learning.

So, in classic Liz style, I didn't make the decision until the very last possible moment, standing at the entrance the open mic room, with gray-haired men and women singing cheeky songs about animals and lovers staring at me, wide-eyed and frightened with a guitar on my back. And, in classic Liz style, I dramatically whirled my body around and marched back out of the cafe and purged an ocean of justifications for why I couldn't do this, not here, not now.

Megan agreed to learn the song, immediately. It was starting to rain, and she couldn't learn the song in the cafe, since the folk scene was rendezvousing over swiss water decaf lattes and cookies, so we took over the nearby bus stop shelter. After making the obvious busking jokes about how we could just sing the song here and hope for some change, I handed my guitar to Megan and showed her the opening d minor finger-picking pattern.

She learned the song quickly (I secretly suspect she knew it all along and just wanted to see if I would actually go through with it), and as we were rehearsing, it suddenly began to downpour. Sheets of water smashed against the roof of the bus stop shelter, and thunder exploded everywhere. I protectively whisked my guitar away from Megan and packed it up safely in its case, away from any blowing rain. "We can't leave until it lets up," I said. "I'm not taking my guitar out there in this rain."

And poor Megan, shoved into playing this ridiculous song, and now trapped in a bus shelter with a neurotic flaking accompanist, just began to laugh. We both realized what a ridiculous situation this was.

How many bizarre events must transpire in order for one to find herself stranded in a bus shelter in the rain with a guitar, a friend new enough to still feel slightly awkward but old enough to have impersonal collective memories of a former activist group, and an offensive folk song?

However we got there, we escaped relatively unscathed, as the rain outburst was short and Caity pulled around in her car.

Plan B was to go to the local lesbian bar and just ask if we could perform one song.

So we drove to Pi, parked in front and waltzed into Happy Hour. Caity fearlessly approached the bartender, and moments later she was buzzing back to us with excitement that they would turn down the music so we could play one song.

I still refused to participate in any way except for videotaping the performance. Caity, her friend Howie, and Megan all went outside to practice, and shortly they returned.

The music was quieted. All eyes were on them.

Megan began to play the opening d minor finger-picking pattern, and Howie began to sing. Caity faux-emotionally began signing the words with broad, delicate hand motions.

All in all, did people think it was funny? Did they get the humor of singing a Jewel song with an entourage of interpretation? Did they find irony in the fact that they were singing a song that is supposed to be about tolerance and love but kind of comes off sounding offensive?

I was looking through the viewfinder of the camera, so I can't attest to the stunned looks on people's faces or the laughter from those who got it. I can't tell you whether our friend Sarah's eyes were huge and round with horror or if she wore a smile. I can't tell you whether that bartender was tapping along to the ambiguous duple/triple meter or whether she was considering calling off the performance.

What I can tell you is that I was laughing. It looked pretty funny to me. Maybe the funniest part was realizing how ridiculous I would have been up there, with my serious guitar playing and inability to act.

When it was all over, people clapped. One person came up to us and said she loooooooved the performance. Most people just went back to what they were doing before, like enjoying their first-date dinner or appetizers.

Considering this from the next-day perspective, I am glad I chose not to perform the song. And I am glad I got to experience the performance as an audience member.

It turns out that I'm just not as brave as my deviant friends. It's not that I am scared to make people uncomfortable with things like international flags decorated with permanent marker cartoons tied to their front stoops or well-intended badly written songs, it's just that it makes me uncomfortable. And maybe that's okay. Maybe I can just be the one who laughs at the outlandish and hilarious things my braver, social-norm-challenging friends do as I shake my head and say, "I could never do that." Not that I am a social-norm-follower, either. But I am okay being exactly who I am, without stepping too far outside my comfort zone. On the other hand, pointing a toe over the comfort line is probably good for me now and then. And I am convinced I had a whole leg out there last night, before I dramatically flung myself back into my cozy shell.

And that open mic with the folkies? I'm going back there next week, to sing my own, safely inoffensive, predictable, solidly in one-meter-or-the-other folk songs.

Mashed Potatoes

I often write down the crazy things kids say while I am sitting with them at their lessons. They probably think I am writing their assignment for next time, but really I am directly quoting their ridiculous outbursts.

I recently found a small sheet paper folded up in a pair of jeans I hadn't worn for a while. This is all it said:

X: My fingers smell like mashed potatoes
Me: Did you eat mashed potatoes?
X: No. I think our soap is old.