Faithful followers of my “First Book Tour Blog” (all two of you) http://whatsinanafterlife.wordpress.com/ May remember …
I had a sizzling opening in L.A. It was 113 degrees out. Only incredibly faithful, intrepid, stupid or reptilian friends dared venture from the air conditioned lairs to the wilds of Pasadena. It was hosted by Ray Bradbury, but he could not come. Indeed many of the folks who tried to attend, melted en route, or got stuck to the interior of their cars.
Then, my two sisters, my niece, my mother, a semi-sister and I went to Malibu for a rather tense two days to celebrate my mother’s birthday.
Tolstoy’s oft quoted “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way,” sounds good, but I say, what happy families? I say all families are dysfunctional in their own way. Show me a “happy family” and I’ll show you a family you don’t know very well.
So… after a stressful two days, my long suffering sister Debby and I headed up the coast on book tour part I; San Francisco, Portland, Seattle and back again. My sister did not actually intend to be long suffering. She thought she was going to have a blast! It started well…We spent our first night at Pacific Grove, famed for its monarch butterflies. It was too early in the season for them, but no matter, Pacific Grove is lovely.
It was the second morning of our adventure when the proverbial shit hit the proverbial fan.
The pain set in. I should like to like to say it was a pain worse than I have ever know, but unfortunately I would be lying. I have known this particular pain many times. It happens when a tooth dies. Teeth never expire gracefully like Mimi in La Bohème. They are much more like suicide bombers. And they won’t wait. They don’t care if you are on Highway 17, one of the curviest highways in California… maybe even the world. They want ice and they want it now. While Debby drove, I sat next to her whimpering, whining and sniveling about needing ice. Ice, for those of you luck enough to be unfamiliar with the death throes of a tooth, is the only, and I mean only thing that cuts the pain. Vicodin does nothing, although that never stops me from taking it—and way too much of it— in the hopes that this time will be different. Kind of like a relationship. All Vicodin does is to make me constipated and unpleasant, very, very unpleasant.
I had been to a dentist in Pacific Grove. who had given me some Penicillin, the mother or perhaps Grandmother of all antibiotics. It kills everything. I’m surprised there are any trees left alive on Highway 17. He told me to take a double dose for two days, after which time I began to vomit… but I’m getting ahead of myself.
That night the reading, privately hosted in an art gallery went amazing well. The audience must have wondered why I keep sucking in ice at odd intervals, but hey, writers are quirky beings… At least I had no visible tics.
That night I drove to Tamar’s, a very dear friend whom I had not seen for years. Oddly enough, I thought she had dumped me, because I had not heard from her … But it turns out she had been trying desperately to track me down. As she pointed out, she had changed neither her name nor her location, and I had changed both. Hummm. Maybe I am weird.
So, after years of not seeing her, I show up late, clutching my mouth and stagger toward her freezer. I woke the family at about 2:00am when the penicillin hit my stomach. At 6:00am, I found a dentist who agreed to see me. He thought it was cool I had a book out. I thought it was cool he had Novocain.
He also gave me amoxicillin and Oxycodone, also know as hillbilly heroin. This was because I was soon going to have fewer teeth.
Oxycoton is the drug that got Russ Limbaugh in some trouble. Although oddly enough, for a man who railed against the weakness of drug addicts, when he wasn’t squealing about the fatness of feminists, the stupidity of health care or the evils of immigrants and environmentalists, his drug addiction seems to have made no impression on his faithful ditto heads. But please, don’t get me going on Rush.
Oxycodone is difficult to obtain. Most pharmacies won’t even carry it. So my now long- suffering friends spent all day traipsing around Berkeley finding me my meds.
That night in some different reality, I gave a fabulous reading! But in this world I stunk. I told my friends they sucked as an audience. I’m nothing if not grateful!
I don’t like oxycodone. It turns me into a bitch, although it does stop pain.
Fast forward about a month. I finished book tour part I. I was home for a month and managed to capture few of stories, true but mostly lies, which were crawling around in my head. I am now embarking on Book tour part II, Park City, Salt Lake City, Taos and Santa Fe.
Only now, am I getting around to writing a story, which Tamar told me. It’s not my usual fare. Most of my stories involve talking toasters, murderous GPS’ and houses that steal dreams. But this is a straight up story of parenting and survival in Galapagos.
I began writing it a few days ago and I’ve been researching the Galapagos and the Blue Booby. Blue Boobies live in islands in South America and Galapagos. Both parents care for the young, and because of this they lay and sometimes raise two or even three chicks. All other Booby species raise only one.
But there is some stuff that’s difficult to research. For example, did Tamar and her family see the Booby nesting and feeding from a boat or on land? Are you allowed to see a Booby nesting on land? Is it possible to see a Booby nesting from a boat?
I had called and emailed her a few times, but she always responded to other things.
Finally today I got her! We chatted, and after a bit I admitted I had an ulterior motive.
“I want some details about your trip to the Galapagos,”
“But Liz, I’ve never been to the Galapagos,” she laughed. Tamar has a lovely laugh.
“But you told me about it,” I persisted.
“Maybe it was someone else.”
“No,” I insisted, “It was you, two children and two chicks. It’s told from the point of view of the girl. She identifies with the smaller bird, because she’s the younger child.”
“Maybe it was something my son told you?”
“I remember our conversation. How you saw a hawk swoop down and take the younger chick. How the parents didn’t react. I asked if you discussed it and you said, ‘I just watched the shock in their eyes, I saw them take it in.’”
“Well Liz, you were on drugs… maybe you dreamed it.”
And that’s how I came to understand Rush Limbaugh.