Saturday, September 26, 2009

Scooter Girl

Hell is FM radio.

Absolute hell is listening to FM radio while trapped in a car on the highway for two hours.

All the roads look the same and if you've seen one Hess station, you've seen them all. My father drove us home to the tune of "Saturday Night Seventies" on 101.1 WCBS-FM. It was either that or a dismal Long Island radio station. We last heard the awful, awful song where the lead sing blurts out "Mazeltov" before Dad changed the station. "Thank you," I said. "That is the worst song I ever heard." He was not amused either. Half the time you can't even understand what the singers are saying even though they're speaking English.

Tonight I will rest and order a salad to be delivered because I don't feel like eating. I had a plate full of grilled vegetables and the birthday cake today. We celebrated my aunt's 85th birthday with a family reunion at Lombardi's on the Sound. She is in good health and shared the event with 75 family members.

My cousins were there and we posed for a group photo. The guys were all above 5'10" and even my female cousin was taller. I was the shrimp. One of my cousins talked about the scooter he uses to pick his son up from school. It's a real Buddy. I was instantly envious and decided that I would like to get a Buddy sometime in the future. You could call me Scooter Girl.

As we said our goodbyes at the end of the day, my cousin urged, "Get yourself a scooter." I would if the building I live in has a parking garage. I'm not sure it does. There's always the possibility I could park it in one of those underground lots you pay a monthly fee to park in. Would my mother want me to be riding a scooter all over the place? I doubt that. However: I can't let go of the dream of owning a Buddy now. Could I ever be that fearless to ride a scooter? I'll see. Right now I play a movie in my head and I'm riding a Buddy down the street.

My cousins all have children. It saddens me that I can't have kids however that is the choice I made living with schizophrenia. We exchanged e-mails and that was nice because it was expected that everyone would have e-mail accounts.

Two days later: I received the photos via e-mail. I will try to save them to a CD and print them up at the drug store. I liked most of the photos because I looked good in them although the cousin who sent them claimed everyone looked better in person. We joked that we looked good because we were Italian. She commented that everyone was gesturing with his hands in the photos. In one picture where you see me in profile I have my hands outstretched palm up in front of me. Another cousin had her hand with the tips of her thumb, index finger and middle finger touching each other as she waved. The classic Italian gesticulation.

Will print up the better photos this weekend and place them in my album which is rapidly filling up with family pictures. I will also insert a photo of D. and me.

The song with the lyrics about Vegas run through my head now and I'm not even a fan of Katie Perry. Isn't she the one who sings that song? It is overplayed on FM radio along with the song where the lead singer blurts out "Mazeltov" which I feel is insensitive because the cheer is taken out of context and has nothing to do with the other lyrics. Then too Katie Perry kissed a girl and she liked it as if that was nothing when in reality if you kissed a girl and liked it you're not necessarily hetero so to claim that in a song is also insensitive because liking a girl isn't something you can turn on and off. So along with incoherent or unintelligible vocals you have artists doing things for shock value and that is a turn off to me. By the way, cherry chapstick is not an aphrodisiaic folks as Perry belts out. Or is it cherry lip gloss she's talking about? I couldn't imagine liking the taste of cherry anything on someone's lips. Gosh, you think I am. Well I told you I was. To each her own.


Two days later.

I lay in bed for a half hour before I left for work. On Tuesday mornings after I come home from the cognitive therapy I have two hours before I have to go to work. Waking up in Brooklyn is better than waking up in Vegas plus it's cheaper. Though I had to pick up the clothes at the tailor and the drycleaning which cost a bundle. Sunday I will see if D. can meet me so we can go shopping and have dinner. I want to get a belt or two plus pick up the book I ordered, The Way of Thomas. I wanted to have that book on hand to refer to for ideas about how to practice my faith.

My friend was proud of me for admitting I'm Type A in the spiral-bound notebook I read to her from. Nature, nurture, my Type A striving and my perfectionist tendencies all swirl around in the chemical soup that the schizophrenia is a part of too. She felt what goes on is not a symptom and I felt better about that because I understood my worry stirs the soup and I'm just like anyone who's committed to working on changing her life.

So I would urge anyone going through something like this to consider cognitive therapy. So far it's been helpful and I've had breakthroughs each week after meeting with the therapist. He is intelligent and can describe what goes on in direct and clear terms.

This is the most I can tell you about this.

Right now it comforts me to play the movie in my head where I'm riding a scooter down the street. It builds me up to imagine a fearless outgoing mod girl dressed stylishly as I ride the Buddy to the market so I don't have to lug two heavy cloth bags full of groceries home.

Waking up in Brooklyn: priceless. Riding a scooter: glorious.

I will go sign off now and leave you to enjoy this beautiful day.