September 14: Laura Boss, "Waiting for Ed McMahon," Laughing, "Ives" Dip, Adventures of Stickman

I have selected Laura Boss as my Poet of the Week.  I chose her because, as I was flipping through her poetry collection, Arms, I came across a poem that literally made me laugh out loud, and I haven't done that spontaneously for a while.  The poem was titled . . .

Waiting for Ed McMahon

by:  Laura Boss

Ed McMahon, today is January 24th and I am sitting here waiting for you.  I am waiting for you to bring me ten million dollars.  You sent me a letter two months ago with my name on the envelope in two inch letters saying I was a winner--or at least that's the way it looked until I read it a second time.  But then it seemed that I still had a really good chance of your giving me ten million dollars if I would just get my envelope back to you on time--especially if I affixed the gold sticker with the number 10 million correctly though it was hidden among all the magazine subscription stickers and to even further my chances I took a subscription to a magazine I didn't especially want, and Ed McMahon, I stuck that sticker on so carefully and even checked that I wanted my payment in one lump sum rather than monthly installments, and yes, I checked that I'm willing to be televised when you hand me that check for ten million dollars.  And because I was getting my letter back to you so fast, Ed McMahon, I stuck the bonus Jaguar sticker on its special card in my choice of green though I hesitated for a few seconds over the red one.  And I left my calendar free for today--no free lance workshops (not that I have them everyday though I wish I did so I wouldn't be waiting so desperately for you today, Ed McMahon).  Ed McMahon, I am sitting here waiting for you.  I am waiting for you to bring me my ten million dollars.

Now, you have to admit that's funny.  It's funny because we've all done it--filled out the form, affixed the stickers, ordered subscriptions to magazines that we will never, ever read.  All for the possibility, the hope, the dream, that the doorbell will ring one day and, when the door is opened, a man will be standing on the front step, holding an immense cardboard check for ten million dollars in one hand and a fistful of balloons in the other.

I don't want to be serious tonight.  I'm tired of being serious.  This morning, when I woke up, I picked out a pair of black pants, a black turtleneck, and black socks.  After I got dressed, I looked at myself in the mirror and said, "You have got to lighten up."  So, Laura Boss's poem is my attempt at levity.

I'm sitting in my office right now, waiting to pick up my daughter from dance class.  It's her first night back at the studio.  She's got hip hop and ballet this evening.  I'm sure she's going to be famished by the time she's done.  That means I will be stopping at some fast food restaurant on the way home.  Usually, she wants deep fried cheese curds and frozen custard.  I will be pushing for Dairy Queen.

Now that my sister's funeral is over, I have this drive to get back to the business of my life.  Teaching.  Writing.  Working.  Picking up my daughter from dance.  Tomorrow, I will be driving to a little town on the shores of Lake Superior to receive an award for a nature essay I wrote.  Last year, that would have described the sum total of my life.  My normal.

That normal sort of feels like a pair of pants that I can't quite get buttoned.  It doesn't fit me anymore.  I have to find my new normal, and I'm not quite sure what it will be.  I do know that walking into the medical center where I work (and my sister used to work) every day makes me incredibly sad.  I'm not sure how to change that.  I'm more tired in the morning when I get up.  During the day, I'm a little more irritable than usual.  I don't like being around myself too much at the moment.

So my Ives dip question is this:

Will I feel "normal" again soon?

And, flipping through the pages of Mr. Ives' Christmas, my finger lands on:

Annie and Caroline laughed and confided all kinds of things to each other in a way that made Annie feel young again.  Later, having floated off on a cloud of sweet glory, Annie would catch herself in the mirror and begin to discern in her broadening figure, widened calves, and fleshier face the fact that she was changing into an image of her own mother, from whose face she had once believed she could run away.

There really isn't any running away.  Annie Ives realizes this.  She can't escape her heredity or her life.  Dead son.  Depressed husband.  That is Annie's "normal," and she learns to accept it instead of fight against it.

Saint Marty thinks that's pretty good advice.

Adventures of STICKMAN