The Unbalancing Act Read online

After about ten minutes and once my extremities were beginning to turn blue, I knew it was time to go back down and rejoin the family. I had recharged. I wasn’t even thinking about the phone anymore. As I placed one foot on the ladder, I immediately slipped on the ice and the ladder went crashing to the ground. Motherfucker! Luckily, I was still in a good spot on the roof, but there was no way to get down.

  I leaned over to look down, when I heard “Vada! Don’t jump!” It was Eric. He scared the shit out of me and I lost my balance and slid. It had happened so fast, the next thing I knew I was hanging on the gutter by my knuckles. I couldn’t speak or scream. I was so scared. My feet were dangling beneath me and my fingers were so numb I couldn’t even tell if I was holding on tight.

  “Vadie! I’m coming to get you. Hold on! Don’t let go baby!” Eric was coming to save the day.

  With the help of the stupid ladder and Eric’s superhero actions, I was alive and now my husband actually thought I had planned to jump off the roof to my death on Christmas. Really? I mean really or not? Maybe I was crazy. I tried to convince him of the truth and he finally said he believed me, but I know deep down he thinks I was trying to do the swan dive of death. I let him add that to the list of Vadie’s “concerning” behaviors. Oh well, at least he cared. I still can’t help but think that if I would have died that night, I bet he would have wished he’d at least gotten me an upgraded phone.

  An Idea

  After my half-truthed therapy session, I go outdoors to the courtyard. It is a beautiful day out here today. The flowers are all blooming and I can smell the lilac bushes every time the breeze blows through. I see a brunette lady my age wearing jeans and a camouflage sweatshirt off in the distance talking to a nurse, and for the first time I think I am witnessing a psychotic episode. I’ve always wanted to see one of these, not because I think it’s funny. I don’t enjoy other people’s pain, but I want to see and hear it, to compare it to my internal dialogue. Am I one of these? Do I have the potential to become one of these? I am curious. I nonchalantly pretend that I am just looking for some shade and I hunker down under the big weeping willow tree and pick at the grass.

  The woman is hollering something that I can’t make out. She looks like she is dodging invisible asteroids falling from the sky. The nurse is on her little walkie talkie thing and looks in a state of panic. The woman is now becoming louder and I can make out, “Nobody came! I sent out the invitations!” She is running in circles and throwing acorns. “Party Poopers! Shitheads! I don’t like clowns! There is no cake,” she yells, “where’s the cake, you fucknuts?” She belts this nurse in the face with an acorn. I’ve never seen anything like it in all my livelong days. Poor nurse, she got it right between the eyes. Two males and one female, all in scrubs, come running out and surround this poor lady. They take her slowly down to the ground and a short mustached man gives her a shot. She calms down. They get a stretcher and take her inside.

  Well crap, it is like in the movies. I realize at this moment that I have tears in my eyes. This person is somebody’s somebody. How sad they would have been to see her like this. I wonder what happened to that poor woman.

  “Bet you’re wondering what happened to that poor woman, huh?” It’s Jessalyn and she walks up by me and sits down.

  “Where did you come from and how do you know?”

  “I came from my evaluation, and I know because you are a worrier.”

  “Well forgive me for caring. I may be a worrier, but you are famished.”

  We both start laughing, and it’s strange that we are already at that point where we can laugh and make jokes about our problems. That’s how I have always dealt with problems, I make jokes.

  “You really wanna know about her?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Well, that my friend was psychosis. Her name is Lauren Sanders and from what I know about her, she thinks every day is her birthday. When her therapy team tells her it’s not her birthday she tends to flip her shit. I haven’t seen it this bad yet, but I can only imagine it will get worse. I sometimes don’t think these people have a clue how to handle crazy people.”

  “That’s so sad!” I say. “Why don’t they just tell her happy birthday and get it over with?”

  “I don’t know their reasoning, but I think they are trying to get her to accept reality. I mean, I’ve seen her go through this every day since I’ve been here, not this bad, but she’s always crying and telling people they forgot her birthday. For some reason, she calls everyone a shithead. I don’t know why. She’ll even call you a shithead if she likes you, so I don’t think she’s being rude on purpose.”

  As I watch this poor lady get hauled away, I can’t help but think that this must be a miserable life. What’s so special about birthdays anyways? For my birthday this year, I got a yeast infection. I also had two kids throwing up with stomach flu and I got a bouquet of grocery store flowers with the eight dollar price tag still on it. Eric brought it home for me while picking up medicine for the kids. Happy fucking birthday to me! I almost sent him back to the store to exchange the flowers for a cactus so I could take my underwear off and sit on it. What a fun day. What a reason to celebrate!

  “Well, everyone here has a story, ya know? Someday I will find out yours.” Jessalyn sits twirling her hair.

  Changing the subject I say, “So Jessalyn, how was your evaluation? Are you gonna be leaving soon?”

  “I saw whatcha just did there, and I’m gonna let it slide this time, but next time you are gonna answer some of my damn questions. And yes, it looks like I may be going home soon. I gained six pounds and Rita is going to continue to sponsor me once I’m home.”

  “That’s great, lady!” I say. “Where is home?”

  Her hair is blowing in the wind and it’s obvious that this girl is model material. She looks like she’s doing a photo shoot or something. If I let my hair blow in the wind it would probably end up flat across my head and land in my mouth and I’d be picking it out of my teeth. She looks up at me and says, “I don’t know yet, maybe a friend’s place for a while. If I’m lucky I can make it to my grandfather’s ninetieth birthday party on Friday.”

  “Are you serious? He’s really having a birthday party? With like cake and ice cream? It’s not fair that he gets a birthday party and that Lauren lady doesn’t,” I say, and I’m only kind of joking.

  “Well, the rest of the family worships him. I’m telling you the truth. They’ve been calling here leaving me messages to tell me how important it is that I be there, it may be the last birthday he will ever have. Apparently, the old man is having some health problems. I say, see ya later sucka! That’s all. Enjoy hell, you old nasty bastard! There’s no way I am going to that party and it’s going to piss a lot of my family off, but I don’t care. Maybe I should just get online and send him a little doll with pigtails all wrapped up in a bow and he can go home and have his way with it, the pervert.” Jessalyn looks over at me expecting me to laugh. “Hey. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Jessalyn, I have an idea.”

  Blood and Charts

  It is three fifteen. I am sitting in Dr. Lipton’s office, and he is late. I am having a little eyeball foreplay with my chart and I wonder if he’ll be late enough where I can take a looksy before he gets in. Maybe it’s the anxiety meds, but I’m just more carefree than I usually am, so I waltz over to his desk and pick up the file. There are the words...the diagnosis: bipolar with hyper-sexuality. What the...? I am not a sex addict. My eyes roam the chart until I realize the name on the top is not mine. It belongs to someone named Mary Weaverton, age thirty-nine. Holy hell, it’s Mary, as in Bath Salts Mary. The door creaks. I drop the chart and pretend like I am coughing.

  “Are you alright, Vada?” Dr. Lipton walks over to me quickly.

  “Just need water,” I say still coughing.

  Dr. Lipton walks out. I can’t believe what I have just read. I have a problem; to take the chart or not to take the chart? That is the question. The
angel on the right side of my shoulder is giving me a warning glare, but the devil on the left is bent over and twerking. Before I have time to think, I see shadows of footsteps under the office door and I pick up the chart, fold it, and slip it down the back of my pants. The door opens and in walks Dr. Lipton. This was a bad choice. The corner of the folder is digging into my left ass cheek and it’s ridiculously uncomfortable.

  “Here is your water.”

  “Thank you!” I say, acting like I am still recovering.

  “Have you come down with something Vada?”

  “I think I have something in my throat. I’ve always had acid reflux. Who knows...(cough) I have had a cough on and off for a while now.” (lie)

  “Well if you do suspect an illness let your nurse know, there’s meds for that.” He writes something down on his clipboard.

  Well, you don’t say, Dr. Oz? There is? There’s meds for stealing people’s personal medical files so that I can read them for my own selfish purposes? What a cutting edge facility!

  “I’d like to start with a blog post of yours that I read. I have some questions for you about some things that concern me Vada. How is that?”

  “If that’s what you feel is necessary,” I reply sweetly, trying to squirm my butt around to avoid paper cuts. At least I’m in the recliner. Getting up will be the tricky part.

  “Okay then, let’s begin with your blog post from early January.”

  He pulls out a copy and begins reading...

  Doing the Mom Thing

  Hello fellow mamas,

  Today, I had the world’s most difficult shower. Let me begin by saying my kids sleep with me. I know, right? Shoot me in the face, right between the eyes. I should be laid to rest because I break the rules and let them sleep in my bed sometimes. But there are literally days when I am so tired that I would let them sleep in my dresser drawers or in my bed while I sleep in my dresser drawers as long as they will sleep. What an out of control mother I am!

  Now that we’ve got that part out of the way, my freaking neck hurt because I usually sleep with my head hanging off the bed. Also hanging off the bed is typically my left boob, left arm, and left leg. It’s not the most comfortable position. Well, waking up and cracking my neck is a routine for me now, and then I get a shower...if I am lucky, very lucky. I tried to run the water as hot as possible so that it would hit my neck and loosen it up. The boys were all still asleep, so it was my fucky-lucky day, or so I thought. The hubs had already left for the airport on a business trip, so it was just me and my hatchlings at home. I got the steamy water running when I heard a cry...I turned it off...silence. It was my imagination. I turned it back on and hopped in letting the water work its magic. I got my shampoo in a nice rich lather and BAM...a cry. Now this is a tough situation for me. I have let the baby cry before and found his leg stuck in his crib bars, so I don’t like to chance it. I turned off the water with sudsy hair, grabbed a towel, and scurried to check the video monitor. He was sound asleep. I realized that I was hearing phantom cries. My mind was screwing with me. Water on...heat on my neck, rinsing my hair. Conditioner...and then it was time to scrub the pink parts. BAM...cry...loud cry. I thought it was just a phantom cry, so I continued to scrub a dub and get all ph-balanced and fresh. But this cry...it didn’t stop. I had not yet rinsed the conditioner. I turned off the water and threw on a towel and put my soggy hair in a clip. I checked the monitor and the baby was still asleep...but I still heard a cry. I ran down the stairs to find Max, my five-year-old wailing in the living room. I asked him what was wrong and he said there was someone at the door, but he knew he wasn’t allowed to open it. I glanced over at the front door which has panel windows on both sides. I’ve been too cheap to buy window treatments for them, so anyone can see in. To my horror, there was a pretty young male thing at my door with green eyes, blonde hair, and a clipboard. He could see me just as well as I could see him. Mind you, I was in a towel with conditioner caked in my hair. I inched my body behind the door as much as possible and tried to wave him off like “it’s not a good time.” He just wouldn’t leave. What the hell is wrong with this delectable-looking brut of a man? Couldn’t he see that I wasn’t decent? I hid behind the door and barely cracked it open and told him politely, I didn’t want to buy anything. “Ma’am, I’m so sorry to bother you, but this is certified mail and I need you to sign for it.” What the fuck is wrong with this asshole? Why is he calling me ma’am. Am I that old? I discreetly grabbed the clipboard and did my best to sign it behind the door where he couldn’t see me. I was actually pulling this off pretty well. I passed the clipboard through the cracked door and he handed me an envelope. I realized this situation was thankfully over until Max yelled out, “Mommy...I can see hair on your girl butt, the one in the front!” and he lifted up my towel. The handsome fella at the door laughed his ass off (who could blame him) and I quickly shut the door. After being mortified, I ran upstairs where the baby was now awake along with Ben who was begging for breakfast. I looked at the envelope, wondering what the hell could be so important and realized it was addressed to the next door neighbors’ house. No joke. Fuck you air-mail delivery man, you prick! I threw on some sweats, put Jordan in his highchair and made breakfast. It wasn’t until after lunch, four hours later when the baby went down for a nap, when I realized my hair was still full of conditioner. I jumped back in the shower to rinse it off so quickly that I think I literally held my breath the whole time, just in case I heard a cry, or a doorbell, or a damned singing telegram for that matter. It’s a good thing I was quick because after holding my breath for too long, my kids would have found me drowned, face down, and naked in the shower. But even if they did, they would probably just laugh because they saw a naked butt.

  From this story of chaos, I will find a bright side. My hair got a really, really good deep conditioning treatment. It was silky and soft and salon-beautiful...okay, maybe not salon-beautiful, but it was really soft. When it seems you can’t accomplish even the most basic of tasks, when you think you are failing at life because you can’t even get a proper shower, keep your chin up if your neck doesn’t hurt too bad. Oh...and if your neighbor’s mail ever comes to your house...just throw it in the fucking trash! It’s not your fault it got delivered to the wrong address.

  Thanks for reading!

  ~V Bow

  Dr. Lipton sets the print out in his lap and takes off his glasses. “Now Vada, explain this to me. What were you feeling when you wrote this?”

  Well genius, I think it’s pretty self-explanatory, but I’ll give it a shot. “It was a really funny situation that happened and I thought it was funny enough to blog about. I do have neck problems though, it’s always stiff. I think it was a funny post...what seems to be your concern? Is it my neck?”

  “Not at this particular moment, Vada. My concern is that you used the phrase ‘failing at life.’ Do you feel like life is pushing you down, Vada? You reference drowning. Do you feel like you are drowning Vada?”

  Umm...really? Did this guy get his degree online for crying out loud? “Well, sometimes, I just...uhh...I just meant that it’s hard to do simple things when you have children. I ended it on a positive note, didn’t I?”

  He looks at me sternly and almost disappointed. I want to flick him in the nose and call him an idiot.

  I take a deep breath and my words spew out like Rita’s supper, “Yes Dr. Lipton, I feel like I’m drowning. It feels like I am totally drowning and I need rescued.”

  A huge smile crosses his lips, “Good Vada, this is excellent.” Geez, I guess I said the right thing. He then continues his big blabber about coping and dealing and blah, blah, blah, and I am singing “God Bless America” in my head, because I need something that will drown out his voice. He finally finishes after questioning me one more time about whether I need cough or reflux medication. I tell him no. He then asks me how my neck feels today. I simply smile and say, “It’s always a little sore, but I’m okay.” He gives me a wave goodbye, puts his glasses ba
ck on, and turns back to his papers.

  I shut the door behind me. I have to hurry and get out of here before I get a paper cut on my ass.

  Janitorial Services

  Once I get to my room I pull the chart out of the back of my pants. What a dumb idea that was. I wish I had never seen it in the first place. What if I get caught? I’m sure this violates all sorts of privacy rules. I guess since I am already at risk of getting in trouble, I might as well read it. I sit down in the big floral chair and grab it off the table. To my complete shock there is a small streak of blood across the top of the manila folder. I check myself for paper cuts, but nothing. How in the world did this get blood on it? Then it hit me. It’s my heavy flow day. This is just fantastic. Absolutely perfect! That’s what I get for sticking it in my pants. The only time in my life I have ever stuck a stolen medical chart in my pants, I menstruate on it. That’s my life in a nutshell.

  The thought grosses me out so much that I take out the contents and throw the folder into the wastebasket in the bathroom. A shower sounds good anyways, but even better now that I have to wash away the guilt I now carry from being a thief. After tossing a fresh super absorbency plug up the sub-basement, I throw on a fresh pair of under-britches, baggy sweats, and a sleeveless top. I carefully examine the papers, which fortunately have not been affected during the incident. I dig for dirt. It says here that this is Mary’s second stay here at New Outlook. I know I should stop reading this, but I can’t. Mary was diagnosed with bipolar as a child, trouble with peers, and trouble with authority. It says she is currently taking a cocktail of drugs to help with sexual compulsions and on lithium for bipolar. Hmm...I read on.