From Uplifted to Hyperactive to Jumpy

Posted on January 27, 2003 in Cats Routine Writing Groups

Morning: I was psyched after my court appearance. I did well. Had quite the list of things that I did right. Made a mental list of clothing not to wear for the commissioner: headbands, short shorts, leather jackets, maroon hair, reebok t-shirts, etc.

An early stop at Tully’s to celebrate my good behavior. I buy a strawberry scone that has usually sold out by the time I get there in the afternoon.

Afternoon: Attempted to nap. Tracy kept whining all day. She goes into the bathroom, points herself at the opposite wall so her guttural call will reverberate, and goes at it. Either I must get up to see what she wants or clap my hands loudly so that she will shut up. Usual requests: she wants the latest water from the tap (empty out and refill her bowl); she needs to be scratched under the collar; she wants a snack; or she’s lost and lonely.

Evening: Writer’s group. I’m a little too hyperactive. Partly because of my court “success”. Partly because I’ve got myself involved in a writers’ potluck idea. Partly because I’ve got a half-written story inspired by my travels in Mexico that I want to share with the group. I give the group leader, Nannette, a Frida Kahlo postcard — one where she paints her head on the body of a deer which is full of arrows. At one point, Nannette teases me about wanting to lead the group myself. “No,” I laugh. “I want YOU to lead the group. I just want to talk a lot.”

Afterwards, I make a point to talk to Nanette for a moment. “I have a very low flake tolerance,” I tell her. “If you didn’t have depth, intelligence, and leadership, I wouldn’t be here. You’re one of the big reasons why I come.”

During the critique of Garnette’s work, questions come up about rape. One guy can’t believe that a girl who has just been raped would wait for the return of her rapist. I tell him about the rape victims I have known who have stayed with their rapists for some time, how I have seen chaste women turn into bar sluts after the event. The fellow has some good observations for Garnette, but I honestly wonder if he’s ever known abuse personally or, at least, known of someone who has suffered it. (Once you have, you will never look down on a bar slut ever again, I assure you!)

Idiot things: I drop Lanie in mid-conversation. I interrupt a conversation between Garnette and Andrea. Andrea puts me in my place. I back down! She’s right!

Enlist the help of Garnette, a young writer and painter, in the cause of delivering some court papers. It’s an easy job: she walks into the place where I need the papers delivered, drops them off, and comes out to sign the appropriate papers showing that she has served them. I make a bad joke: “You get lunch and you can ask for any favor except for sex.” “I wouldn’t want to,” she replies. Thanks Garnette. You made me feel old.

I comment that I love my lesbian friends because they aren’t making passes at me. A newcomer named Phoenix gives me a lecture about how I should be aware that gay men do sleep with women and lesbians sleep with men. Sometimes. It gets a lot deeper than I feel comfortable.

I rush home in the car. Hyperactivity has turned to jumpiness. I’m looking for cops, especially one particular one, hiding in the shadows. “I’ve got to do something about this mouth of mine,” I think. I yearn for .25 milligrams of xanax waiting for me at home. Two mouths need silencing: the physical one that runs so fast that words come out almost as fast as figures from a random number generator. The inner one which is capable of mimicking just about anyone. “Shut up, Joel” it says behind each re-enactment. Not bad advice that. In moderation.