Becky Lyn Rickman's Blog: Maniacal Musings

Not the Vincent (van Gogh) of song fame, but the Vincent D’Onofrio that I have been following since I saw him in his tight jeans and long blond hair mistakenly i.d.’d as Thor by a young Thor devotee in Adventures in Babysitting. Yea, how many of you knew that he played that bit part? Snaps for me!

Lately I have been craving not Vincent himself, but his Det. Goren persona on Law and Order, Criminal Intent. I can generally only do a few episodes in a sitting because they keep me awake at night worrying about being carried out in a body bag and quite frankly, I had enough of that in my first marriage. But it is that intellect that draws me back. That omniscient knowledge of everything. And it is the intensity with which he fulfills his role. The same sort of intensity he drew out of himself as Abbie Hoffman.

I have been analyzing why I am drawn to his character and I recall a statement made by the clinical director at a residential drug and alcohol treatment center I worked at. I was registering a concern with him about a co-worker who was making odd comments and creeping me out. He told me very emphatically that the only difference between us and them was that we had keys.

I believe that Det. Goren has that same sort of “right on the edge and fully capable of committing the very crimes he solves with the same sort of criminal intent that the perpetrators he tracks down possess”. That’s what makes him so good. So bravo to Vincent D. for his brilliant portrayal of this masterfully-written and well-defined character.

By way of disclosing even more intimate details about my personal life, it might interest you to know that when I play Hearts on my computer, I do not play with the standard issue North, South, East and West. I play with Vincent D’Onofrio, Jim Halpert (John Krasinsky’s character on The Office) and Gregory Peck. How loud does that scream, gun-shy divorcee holed up on her small flat with her Maine Coon/Ragdoll, who, btw, is named Mr. Reginald Fitzwilliam Darcy after my other boyfriend from Pride and Prejudice.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, it may take a good deal of chamomile to get me to sleep tonight.

I was born Becky Lyn Rickman at Mary Rutan Hospital in Bellefontaine, a small town in south central Ohio. I mention the name of the hospital only in passing as it does have some notoriety.

My mother once called me. “Becky Lyn? Are you watching (insert the name of some talk show here)?

“Yep, just turned it on, why?”

“Do you see that nice-looking gentleman on there?”

“Yes. Why? What’s up?”

“That guy, that sweet man on there, was mis-diagnosed at birth as a girl. He was raised as a girl. Dolls, dresses, the whole 9 yards. Then when he was around 12, they found the mistake and that he had this membrane covering his whatchamacallit and then they removed it, the membrane that is, and from then on he was a guy. He had to completely convert his way of thinking and his whole life. Can you imagine?”

“Wow, that’s something. I can’t imagine being raised as . . . “

“Now, Becky Lyn, I don’t mean to interrupt, but there’s something you need to know. He’s all adjusted now and has a wife and kids and everything’s as it should be. But . . . “

“What is it?”

” Well, I don’t know how to tell you this, but he was born in the same hospital as you on the same day.”

“And . . . “

“Well, sugar, if they can make that mistake once, they can do it twice. I want you to go upstairs right now and get naked and take a good look.”

Pregnant pause.

“Mom, I have 3 kids, you know.”

More silence.

“Mom, I’m a girl. I’m pretty sure. I’ve had periods and children and sex with a man. I think I’m good.”

We both laughed until we nearly wet our pants.

Just another affirmation womanhood.

There are a few notorious symptoms of menopause or perimenopause (as in dancing around menopause, but not fully committing to it). Hot sweats (see: power surges), night sweats (like a dip in a hot spring without actually leaving your bed), irritability (What do you mean by that ?!?), and mood swings (Dr. Jeckyll and Mrs. Hyde). But there are so many others, you can’t even imagine. I was shocked one day as I was training to be a library volunteer. I went back to the employee area to put my thigs in a locker and saw this print-out posted on a pillar for the amusement (or disgust, depending from which side of “the change” you were looking) of all those in the place  who possessed ovaries, or all those in the place who ever knew anyone in possession of ovaries. Here is a tiny portion of that seemingly endless list:

Rogue hairs (see: waxing, bleaching, depilatories)

Insomnia (see: afternoon naps

Air hunger, or a sudden need to inhale deeply (see: 1969)

The truth is that just about the time our children, for those of us who have them, and husbands, for those of us who endure them, are broken in and trained, we begin a new adventure. And guess what. It’s not so bad. There are a few new things to learn about and negotiate. But something else happens. A kind of metamorphosis. A beautiful transformation into a deeper relationship with life, both our lives and the lives of those around us. Music is suddenly more meaningful, touch is suddenly more important, the beauty of the world around us is so much more evident and moving. And as for most, this change takes place around the same time as other changes in our lives, such as suddenly finding ourselves with more time. Time to stop and smell the lavender. Time to sit and read. Time to take some classes and discover that we can retain more than water. And we may find ourselves with quiet. I can be in the bathroom without someone knocking on the door. I can watch a movie and not hit the pause button once. I can work in the garden without stopping to go pick someone up after school. And we may find ourselves with choices. I can make a spinach souffle for dinner without listening to any whining. I can choose the movie at the video store. I can set the alarm for when I want to get up, whether it be very early, very late or not at all. Many of us are late bloomers. That is not meant to diminish the work we did up until this point. I was a mother and a wife and a homemaker. All of those were and are beautiful words to me. But now, I have time to write. I love to write. I have that awful affliction known as verbosity. I love words.

And I don’t mind the “changes” that allow me to find my passions.

Have you ever had someone tell you something that they need to tell you but that you really just don’t want to hear. Eventually you may reconcile that it was the right thing to do . . . telling you. But when they initially say those startling words, its much like when someone hands you that can that is supposed to look like peanuts but it really doesn’t look very appealing and then you open it and it turns out to be one of those really offensive springy snake things that leaps out of the can and scares the pajamas right off of you and you feel like kicking yourself because you knew it really wasn’t peanuts in that can, but it made you jump anyway and just for a brief moment, no matter how close you are to that person, you really hate them for giving you the can of peanuts under the auspices of a gift.

That has happened to me a number of times, but two of the times stand out in particular. What does that say about me, that I continue to take the “cans of peanuts” and believe that they are what they say they are.

My first husband told me of some indiscretions he had allowed to happen. Though he seemed posed to tell me, and managed to put us in a public surrounding so that I would not get hysterical and start yelling at him and possibly committing battery on him, I was completely unprepared for that big springy snake. There we were, buying little heart-shaped boxers of chocolates for our 4 children the way we always did on Valentine’s Day when he handed me the can of peanuts. Out popped that awful serpent. It sprang from its can and began to bounce around the store out of control. What could I do? People were staring. How was I to react? How could I possibly get that snake back into the can? I didn’t want it. I didn’t want to touch it. I didn’t want to see it. But it just kept ricocheting around my head, out of control. I hated my husband in a way that I thought myself incapable of. The feelings were so dark. How could he give me that can and let me open it with no warning? Should I have seen it coming, that dreadful and offensive asp? I mean, this would be a stunt to pull on, say, Halloween. Or perhaps April Fool’s Day. But on Valentine’s Day? After a few moments, I began to understand that I could get control of that snake and get him back into the can. But I sensed that it wasn’t the right thing to do. That would allow him to do it again to someone else. Instead, I grabbed that snake and put it in my purse until I got home. Then, once we celebrated the day with our children and had them safely tucked in bed, I pulled that snake out and handed it back to my husband. He had persuaded me to open the can, thereby releasing the snake. Now it was his turn to deal with it. It was no longer my problem. But he would have to carry that snake around for the rest of his life and know that I would never by quite the same after that.

I have since opened that “can of peanuts” and each time I am gullible enough to open it and forgetful enough to be shocked and speechless as the snake leaps out at me. And though it hurts and takes time to get beyond the assault, I hope I never lose the abilithy to believe that someday I will open the can and find the actual ingredients that are listed on the label. Real nuts.

A man just came to pump out our septic. His name is Raymond. He does this for a living. Pumps human waste out of people’s septic tanks. The job is not glamorous to be sure. But the worst part about Raymond’s job today is the weather. It is sunny and beautiful today, from the window of my spacious warm home. But out there, it is less than 20 degrees. The wind is blowing. And this man is standing, the bitterly cold wind beating him like a prizefighter, his face red and wind-worn, attending to his job. His integrity will not allow him to leave his post. His integrity makes him beautiful to me.

If he were to slip into his truck for comfort, or come into my home for a cup of hot chocolate, an accident might occur. So, instead, he nobly, quietly, and with absolutely no fanfare, does his job. This is a job which many others would rather starve than do. This job that feeds him and pays for his ill-fitting jeans. It may even feed a family. And so, for no less than 20 minutes, he attends to his duty. Then, meticulously, he detaches the hoses and lifts them around the truck, systematially snapping them into place. He shuts the valve and contains the stink. This morning, before he did our septic tank, he did another family’s septank and after ours he will do still more septic tanks until is workday is finished. The, after an evening with his family or his cat or his television, he will get up tomorrow morning and do it again.

All of this could induce in him a justified bitterness. He could be spending his days bemoaning and recounting the injustices in life or the travesties of a thoughtless and uncaring government that have led to him doing this work. and those who heard this tale might agree with him and they might even sympathize. Or, they might, with inflated self-righteousness think to themselves, “I have my own cross to bear. You are here because you cannot do much else and you ought to be thankful to have this steady work.” All these thoughts are meandering through my mind as I stand and observe this man, this probably very good and tender man, doing his duty.

As I am lost in contemplation of what our conversation might amount to, he arrives at the front door. I asked him to come in and warm up a minute while he filled out the invoice. I want to give him something. I want him to know of my gratitude. I say to him, “Come in and take a break from the cold.” He thanked me and came in to do the paperwork and collect the money. I waited with greedy anticipation for his view on life. Would he complain about the cold? Would he whine about the stink and the awful state of the economy and his job and any number of things? Come, man, give me something. But all he said was, “This is beautiful country out here.” Then he thanked me. He thanked me for the opportunity to serve me by taking away the contents of our septic tank. He, to me, is a hero. This man does what he has to. There are millions and millions of Raymonds out there. People who get up each morning and do what they have to take care of themselves and their families and never complain about it. They are all heroes.

There is an art, recently given an actual name, explained to me by one of my daughters, and universally practiced by siblings and office mates throughout history. It is the art of dry snitching. Simply put, this is the ability to tattle without actually tattling. Here is a classic comparison of snitching and dry snitching. Note the subtle nuances:

Snitching: Mom, Johnny smoked a cigarette.

Dry Snitching: Mom, Johnny looks so grown-up when he smokes. I bet people who see him think he’s so much older.

Snitching: Dad, Becky had her boyfriend over while you were gone.

Dry Snitching: Becky’s boyfriend told the funniest joke when he was her the other night while she was babysitting us.

Snitching: I’m almost afraid to tell you. You’re going to be so mad. Sarah got a tattoo.

Dry Snitching: Sarah’s tattoo looks great with her hot new halter-top.

This last example illustrates a bonus dry snitch. In a single second, Tom put a halt to Sarah’s life as she knows it. While Tom gets extra snaps for subtly pointing out two infractions in the same simple statement, he will probably lose a sister in the bargain. This kind of double whammy often ends up in the dry snitched sibling turning state’s evidence against the perpetrator of the statement and the resulting regurgitation of unsolicited information can render event he strongest parental units looking somewhat like the subject of Edvard Munch’s The Scream, in a state of utter shock and despair, wondering where exactly they were when all of this youthful pandemonium was occurring. Kids, don’t try this at home!

Before you conclude that dry snitching is something only for youth, read on:

Snitching: Al, I saw your wife, Betty, down at the bar. She was hanging on some young stud.

Dry Snitching: Al, I didn’t know Betty had any relatives in town. I saw her with what must have been her nephew down at the bar. They appear to have a very close relationship.

Snitching: Alice, Jake just spent a fortune at the hardware store. My husband saw him and he said it looked like he spent about 6-months salary on new man toys.

Dry Snitching: Alice, you must have landed that big account! It was so sweet of you to let Jake spend it on man toys. There can’t be a penny of that commission left. My husband saw him and said he had the biggest grin on his face. What a good wife you are!

This is not an art to be practiced by the detail un-oriented or the meek or clumsy. It is a polished and refined craft that is only to be utilized by the very best tattlers. Stay out of deep waters if you can’t swim with the sharks. Either that, or make sure you have an arsenal of incriminating accusations that you can retaliate with in case the tables are turned back on you. Or, you could just . . . play nice.

Grandma Shepherd always had two things on her great front porch. Cacti and red geraniums. How is that for diametric opposition? The cacti, much like her, were armed with sharp needles for protection, but were so resilient that they could withstand months without nourishment. She was a woman with so much pain, she had to put out sharp barbs for her own preservation, but she was so tough that she could survive the long months without grandpa to give her emotional nourishment. Grandpa Shepherd worked the railroad and was so rarely home that she pretty much lived the life of a single mother.

One of her cacti was this behemoth creation with huge spines that she kept out in the middle of her front yard. Why she place this cactus in the middle of the area where all her children, grandchildren and eventually great-grandchildren played remains a mystery to me to this day. I guess maybe I don’t want to think why she might have put it there. But, predictably, there was many a large spine pulled out of many a throbbing and aching knee.

Then there were the geraniums. Geraniums are so pleasing to the eye, with their bright, colorful blossoms. Hers were always bright red. But geraniums, for all their glorious showiness, are extremely delicate and frail. The petals bruise easily and then wilt when touched. They require fairly regular care and attention. Could this be the “she” that she dreamed of being? Stunningly beautiful, bright and cheery, admired by all who looked upon her, but requiring constant care and attention.

I remember most fondly those lovely geraniums. With those bright scarlet petals. We would pick up the ones that had dropped and squeeze them until they finally relinquished a few drops of bright red “lipstick” which we applied generously to our young lips. Grandma would tease us about being “painted ladies,” but in our blossoming minds, we were glam queens just waiting for the opportunity to attract prospective kings.

I guess if the truth be told, we are all part cactus and part geranium. We arm ourselves with spines to prevent emotional injury inflicted by others. But all the while, we are trying to use our beauty to attract and please others. Finding balance between our beauty and our barbs is one of our greatest challenges.

I know I am not alone in the fact that I struggle in a world where beauty is paramount and I esteem myself grossly unqualified. I get heartsick when I hear of children literally dying to look like those in the media. Maybe its time to let go of the prickles and re-define beauty. Someone I was chatting with online asked me if I was sexy. I hit him with a barrageof defensive parameters of real beauty, much like one of my favorite heroines from TV sitcomdom, Dixie Carter of Designing Women. She had the ability to formulate rebuttals in realtime. In contract, I divine the most eloquent and heartfelt rebuttals approximately 45 minutes after I should be sleeping, but am, instead, lying awake kicking myself for not being able to spew meaningful soliloquies “on demand.” Anyway, my reply was, “I am a single mother who has had a hand in raising over 50 children and now have a handful of grandchildren. I work full-time to support the remainder as they complete school. I cook our meals from scratch. I spend time with them. I laugh with them. I listen to them. I’m a righteous mother in Zion, chaste and striving for purity. I uphold the commandments of God as diligently as I can. I am a kind of sexy that you may never comprehend.”

So, for all those who struggle with cacti and geraniums, here’s to us. May we be more comfortable with our own beauty and try a little less hard to fit the mold that is presented to us at every turn. And may we find the men who will see it.

I very often get strange phone calls at strange times asking me strange questions. Not that they are really strange, but that they are of no particular importance except to the person making the query, who generally needs the answer right away, often because not getting that answer will either lose them money or their mind. An example:

“Becky, what was the name of Normy’s wife on Cheers?”

“Vera.”

“Oh, my word! That’s it! Dude, I owe you! Thanks so much!”

“My pleasure. Give me a call sometime when its not 3:24 AM.”

It’s not that I’m some kind of genius. It’s just that I have a head for absolutely useless trivia. Really important things like picking up the children after school, making the bank deposit or adding detergent to the load of clothes in the washer seem to get lost in there somewhere. I have the best of intentions, but sometimes fail miserably. But ask me that guitarist and singer was from Pink Floyd in the late 80′s and early 90′s and I can tell you David Gilmour (mainly because sometimes when its dark and I’m all alone in my bed, I think about what it must be like to be his guitar and I can’t believe I just disclosed this to people I don’t even know) or who composed the Peer Gynt Suites (Grieg, and I don’t just stop there; I have to drone on with even more useless trivia like the fact that it was based on  the play of the same name by Ibsen, and man, if you want to read a really raucous play about a man with an appalling lack of scruples that gets what’s coming to him in the end, this would be the one to read) or what the theme song from Breakfast at Tiffany’s (Moon River), I’m your gal!

A former husband called me one night from the fast food restaurant (can you really call a fast food place a restaurant?) where he was a manager and told me how out of it he felt because he didn’t know who the Ramones were and did I know. In his defense, if they didn’t sing We’ve Only Just Begun, he doesn’t know them. I rattled off some of their music and he was in awe. Well, not really in awe. More like “in ponder” of the person he hooked up with and what else didn’t he know about me.

My adult children are the most notorious for calling at all hours to ask me a real stumper. I sometimes wonder if it is to impress the friends they are with, to win a bet, or to trip me up. It hasn’t happened yet, but with the onslaught of middle age and its inevitable memory loss, I wouldn’t discount anything. But with the onslaught of middle age and its inevitable memory loss, I wouldn’t . . . wait a minute . . . didn’t I just write that?

I believe its time for me to join the millions who blog. There are probably a good number of bloggers who, like me, are frustrated as-yet unpublished authors who long to see their thoughts in print. I look forward to using this forum to express myself and who knows, maybe meet a few of you along the way. Good community. People who love words.