Posted by Deafmom on November 23, 2003, at 16:45:28
Muhammad Ali once said, “If they can make penicillin out of moldy bread, they can sure make something out of you.” So, naturally, this morning, as I was cleaning out the almost bare pantry and pulled out a moldy, green plastic bag of hot dog buns with a smell that challenged the strongest of flatulence, I thought about my life. Don’t see a connection? Give me a minute.
Yesterday was a day like most other days. The only exception was that my husband had that day off and was able to be there with me, most of the time. So, yesterday morning I arose with both a feeling of reluctance and a feeling of relief. My oldest daughter, "M", was having an activity at school for the parents and student to do together. We were all supposed to meet in the cafeteria (which doubled as their gym) and make wreaths from the student’s handprint. This was decided to be my responsibility. Hubby planned to take the other two rugrats with him to painfully give his Plasma, rendering us the $20 dollars we’ve come to depend on to buy us the finer things in life: a slice of bread (without mold, please), a drink of watered down juice, maybe, if we’re lucky, even a morsel of corn or some other type of nourishment. So he was going to go save the family, but who was going to save me? You want me to walk into a school alone and complete a project of which only "M" would be available to explain how to complete (I'm stone deaf)? I actually said, “OK,” like I do every so often until that day actually arrives and I squeeze myself out of that narrow corridor leading to fuzzy thoughts and bright red cheeks. And that’s exactly what happened yesterday. I was successfully able to debate my husband until I could prove to him that he could indeed find another Plasma appointment and I drastically needed him there with me. I think he expected this to happen, but that didn’t stop him from showing a small flicker of eye-rolling disappointment that makes me feel like I’m a bad mom, but then I really don’t care at that time—I just don’t want to go out alone.
So my hubby and I ventured to Straight Elementary School. This old, brown building, which consists only of preschool, kindergarten and 1st grade (Mollie is one of the seniors here), was buzzing with activity. Filling the café/gym were moms, dads, and grandparents of every shape, size, ethnicity, and, most likely, religion. Boy was I thankful when the project was done. I would not have had the slightest clue as to what I was supposed to do. My husband took charge like the man he is and I drank juice and watched him, like the woman I am. The entire time, I knew I was sitting at the table with the chairs that are attached like benches, but looking back, I can’t remember anything else. I see myself drinking juice. Now, I don’t mean I remember sitting there drinking juice. Oh, no, no, no. If only things were so simple. No, I mean I see myself, facing front, drinking a box of slightly sour, red delight Hawaiian punch with the scrunchy plastic straw and the box that collapses with your last, mighty slurp. I might as well have been one of the teachers looking around the room. I didn’t experience this festivity of felt and scissors and way too much glue first hand. I watched it. And I must say it was rather dull.
The rest of the day must have gone all right. I can’t quite make out what occurred, but I do know that Hubby got to his suction-headquarters in time to make a deposit and that I was alone. I think I cleaned. Of course, if I did, there’s no mystery in why I blocked that out. Who wants to experience the slightly scary, absolutely disgusting, month-old pieces of fruit one would find under our couch or hiding on the bookshelf behind "Curious George Goes To A Restaurant"? Certainly not Curious George and definitely not me. At any rate, I made it through the day in one piece and that, my friends, is success at it’s utmost. But the next memory I have is where I begin to equate myself with moldy bread.
No one else was home. I was all alone, but I sure wasn’t dressed for the occasion. “All alone” renders moose slippers and my favorite black flannel pajamas with little penguins on sleds all over them. Nope. I was in a scratchy sapphire blue blouse and black pants that appeared to be formal and dressy, but were really something I could easily fall asleep in. Next thing I know, there is a pretty, friendly, black woman walking into my living room. Who is this woman who so casually let herself into my home and why on earth would she choose here of all places? That’s when things went psychedelic.
“Psychedelic” is a good word for my life. Sometimes I think I must have really done some damage when I was very young because I’ve spent the remaining years thus far on a permanent acid trip. Remember that tomato-colored mother who was devouring a box of juice as if it were her last drink before the execution? Well, I don’t know where she went, but in her stead was a tomato-colored woman who made painfully unwitty jokes about herself and signed in flowing American Sign Language. Of course, I can sign, too, but this woman was a native signer.
I didn’t get to see much. Too many people in the way. Too many people inside wanted to see what was happening and I kept getting pushed back further and further until it was three hours later and I’m sitting in those too-die-far pajamas I mentioned before, drinking a margarita that I didn’t remember showing up and eating a way-too-big meatball sub sandwich with just enough jalapenos to make my nose twitch, but not too many that my eyes swell up in tears. That’s never fun.
So what happened? Who was this woman who so willingly opened my front door and when did I change my clothes? Not to mention that I missed half the sandwich and what kind of fun is eating if you can’t taste it? Who’s sticking food in my mouth and plumping up my body while I sip Diet Root Beer and eat salad with non-fat Thousand Island dressing? To top off the evening, and this part is actually a positive, I had $200 in my possession. Two hundred dollars!!! The last time I held $200 at one time I was a prostitute/masseuse at Free Spirit in Brooklyn, IL. Hmmmm Don’t suppose that woman was here for... Oh, perish the thought.
So, through lots of questions, excessively uncomfortable concentrating and way too much thought, I discovered that I (“I”?) taught a sign language class in my home last night and four women sat on my mismatched couches and watched someone (certainly not me) show them how to use their hands to express their thoughts and feelings. That was when I was formally introduced to The Teacher. An ASL speaking alter that evidently has the ability to share her knowledge while I cower in the corner.
And that’s where we get the moldy bread.
My life is moldy bread. It’s something that’s been left in the dark so long that, to actually have contact with it, in “real time,” would surely cause one to wince at the repulsive result that lay in front of them and wonder why it was still laying around and not disposed of, for a more appropriate result. A looooong time ago, I think I was put in a bag and stuck in some closet (probably literally from what I now know of my childhood) to rot. Once in a while, someone reaches in, looks at this bag of me, takes a whiff and quickly returns it to its darkness.
So when I read what Muhammad Ali said about moldy bread and penicillin, my eyes became alert. Why is he talking about me? And what does he have to say? “They can sure make something out me you.” Out of me? Come on. I wasn’t born yesterday. An alter might have been, but not me per se. And who’s “they”? The world? Nah. No thank you. I don’t want the worlds help any more. I’ve come to fear, hate, and dodge from the world. I’m sure Ali’s reference was a generalization, but I’ll take it for what I want to. I say “they” is God. So that would mean that, if a life-saving medicine can be made from moldy bread, God can make something out of me. But what? A soufflé? A dish to be devoured on St. Patrick’s Day? I suppose the specifics aren’t important. What Ali is saying, in his humble opinion (more humble now, I’m sure, than during his fighting years), no matter how much I might think myself as damaged goods: smelly, worthless, taking up space that could better be occupied; no matter how much I think that, God thinks differently. He doesn’t see damaged goods that can’t be repaired. He sees the ingredients He wanted to make me into the person I am. And with those ingredients, He has a recipe that He created specifically for me and me alone.
Now, of course, while I haven’t the slightest idea what it’s going to taste like when it’s finally completed (chocolate would be nice), at least I can know that there’s a plan for my completion in the works. Perhaps I’m in the baking phase. Maybe I’m in the yeast-rising phase. I feel like it’s more a broiler phase, but that was probably my childhood. Perhaps I’m a twice-baked potato in another life. I went through the fire once and, well, here I go again. Who knows. But if I am a potato, it sure would explain my addiction to carbohydrates. And with that, let our ponder my existence. Bon Appetite!
(Thanks for reading this short novel by a multiple with at least 38 alters)
poster:Deafmom
thread:282921
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/psycho/20031123/msgs/282921.html