The junk in my trunk (and my life, thus far)

As I sit down to write this post, I notice a barely used scanner on my desk. It’s one of those handheld ones shaped sort of like a wand, with a control panel of buttons on one side and couple of slits on the opposite, business end where the scanner takes its images. It costs $99, plus tax. I’ve only used it twice.

And now that I’m in the thick of writing, I am starting to see even more of the crap that I’ve accumulated in the three short months that I have lived on my own. I can name a few more that are lying around, and these are just on my desk:

1. A USB gamepad that I took from my parent’s house to play games on my PC, but never used it because most of the games I wanted to play don’t support the thing.
2. Several caps from jars of various moisturizers and creams I use to combat my psoriasis.
3. A stack of cards, which includes expired driver’s licenses, a Dave and Buster’s Power Card, to a MyPanera card that I totally thought I had lost.
4. The first four books of George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire saga. I’m glad to say that I’ve started A Game of Thrones and I’m totally digging it.
5. Birthday cards from my birthday/housewarming party last October. I have yet to use the Best Buy gift card that my good buddy, Robert, had given me.
6. Several post-it notes containing names of pop culture icons, and some containing freakish drawings that I can only guess were created in a state of drunkenness. I have yet to put them up on a memory board so I can remember how awesome that party was.

I know comedy usually works in three’s, but there is so much stuff worth mentioning I am barely able to restrict myself to just six. 6 = 3 X 2... so maybe that means my list is twice as funny? Doubt it. At least I get to show the extent of how messy my life has gotten.

It’s my mess, though. It’s nice to see how I’ve naturally gathered things that say, “This is who I am, and this is what I’m about.” When I lived with my parents, even with my own bedroom, I still felt like my identity was at odds with the other strong personalities in the house. I’m glad I finally have a place where my ego can stretch out a bit. Hell, I might even grow from this. 

That’s too positive of a statement, I think. Positive statements give me the willies. But, it’s kind of a fun feeling to have, this personal growth thing. I feel like this junk kind of represents the experience I’ve collected in this stage of my life. Still, I better learn to organize, or all of this experience (and stuff) is going to overwhelm me. Also, my girlfriend would appreciate being able to walk through my apartment without tripping over something. 

As for me... I like an unexpected fall now and again.

Is there a lotion for apathy?

Thank goodness I’m not susceptible to paper cuts. I've lucked out on the genetic lottery, with a skin that’s tougher than average. This is probably due to its tendency to wrinkle in thick layers. It’s definitely saved me from a lot of close calls with the copier. Granted, I also end up with skin texture that is somewhat smoother than a dried peach. But, I'm less likely to moisturize myself with my blood, so I’d say that’s a win.

Still, my workstation is full of loose paper - ready to cut through my natural armor with their ragged edges. Logic would suggest that I could reduce the chance of harm by organizing my area. But my will to do that is weaker than my capacity to reason. It's also way flabbier than my rough, dermal exterior.

But I'm working on the Craft of Effort. I'm finding myself celebrating small achievements, like waking up on time or going for a walk. It's these little things that count. Working on this blog post deserves some self praise, even if I don't finish it. It's all about doing anything that will make me feel productive.

It's these little things that will kick the more damaging cut of depression.

I know I'll need a lot of time and a lot of rubbing against my own resistance. It's kind of like a callous, actually. But, this callous is all mental - meant to protect against self-defeat and lethargy. It's gonna have to be a thick barrier but, as long as I keep going, it'll likely get there.

This one's for my mom.

I've mentioned my sister, Joan, here a few times and anyone who has known me knows what all that entails. There's no doubt that her condition has been very difficult for myself and my family, as would any family that had a member that required constant care.

This isn't about my sister, though. This one is about my mother, Josie.

While I was a student at UC Riverside, I had a conversation with a visiting professor to which the subject about my sister and how my family came up. As the conversation got rolling, to the point where we had ended up in his office and sitting in chairs, I told him about my mom, and how she took care of her.

He responded by saying, "Your mother is a saint."

I can agree with what he said, in the sense that my mother is wholly selfless when it comes to my sister. She's over fifty, and she takes care of what is essentially a toddler in a 27-year-old's body. She will move her from her bed to the bathroom, then back. She grooms her. She talks to her in playful ways that embarrass me. Even as I write this, my sister groans loudly, and my mom responds with her own playful sounds. "Ooy," she says at this moment, "What iiis it? I will beeee there, daarrling."

In better days, when my sister was more mobile and could eat solids, the rest of the family helped share the burden of her care. But in my sister's current state, only my mom and my dad know how to operate her g-tube. I think I do a decent job with the suction machine, used to remove the saliva that Joan can't swallow.

Still, it's my mother that does most of the work, despite her own disabilities. She once had a job at the INS doing paper work (she even processed Martin Short's papers) until her constricted spine, that she had since birth, finally damaged some nerves, almost paralyzing her completely. With time, she is able to walk, but if she needs to move for long periods she has to take a cane with her.

"I see this as a blessing," she once told me, "because now I have more time to take care of Joan." See? Selfless.

Still, she is my mother, and has all the quirks and annoying ticks that any child notices about their parent. She's very judgmental, and emotional to boot... a deadly combination. She mothers me way too much, even when I don't want the help. And her stories (not the ones about her first experiences in the US, they're amazing [and the inspiration for my book/a few stories]. No, just the mundane stuff, especially any kind of gossip) are boring, and she takes way too long to get to the point. Looks like I take a bit after my mother. Sigh.

Regardless of how I or my other two siblings (I obviously can't speak for them) feel about her at her worst, I have to give my gratitude to her for everything else. Though I worry about how her caretaker duties are affecting her own sanity and health, there's no doubt that my family would have fallen apart if she had not stepped up. Also, there is no doubt that Joan would not have lived as long as she does without my mom's constant attention and expressions of love. And, for me, I don't have to focus my worries to my sister, and instead turn it on my own life.

Thank you, Mom.

Update:

Now, with an audio recording!


Update #2:

Apparently, there is no audio recording now!