Dreams

I wanted a lot of things in my life.  One thing I never wanted was for my family to let me go to work with two different types of shoes on my feet.  I looked like a dementia patient and there will be a family meeting later today.  What has happened to the accountability of my husband and daughter?  But I digress.

During my Roy Rogers and John Wayne days, I wanted to be a cowboy.  Tubby smashed that dream; “You can't be a cowboy-you are a girl.” 

The joke is on him; medical science has caught up, and if I still longed to be a cowboy, I could be a cowboy.  But now, riding and roping and shooting bad guys just doesn’t have the appeal.  But I could. 

We went on a family outing a few years ago, as part of Lilly’s birthday tradition.  We always pick the most touristy thing to do in Las Vegas, and one year it was horseback riding at a mountain dude ranch.  We saw rattlesnakes, sagebrush, and coyotes.  The most interesting thing I saw was Lilly’s attempt to dismount at the end of the ride.  I almost fell out of the saddle because I was laughing at her.  Then I dismounted and remembered that I was in my sixties and every part of my body was afflicted with arthritis. Galloping across the sage while standing in my stirrups and shooting my pistol at bad guys would have required a week-long hospitalization afterwards. But I could.  

The next big dream was during my Gunsmoke years.  I wanted to be like Miss Kitty, the saloon owner.  I didn’t understand her other source of income, so that was never a dream.  I wanted a pool table so I could have a real saloon.  In my teens, Dad bought a pool table and set it up in our basement.  I spent hours learning to play pool so I could hustle customers in my saloon someday. 

As an adult, I worked as a bartender in between real jobs, as my F-you job.  You know, “Well, I don’t need this job anyway, so F you!” 

I was old enough then to realize the liability involved, the endless hours, and the customer base were areas I did not wish to be involved in. 

I did once have the husband of one of the local brothel madams slap me on the behind while I was at work, and tell me, “Pretty good for an old girl.”

I think that is as close as I want to get to Miss Kitty’s other occupation as well.  Before you ask the inevitable questions about this encounter, let me pose this question. 

“If prostitution and brothels are legal in Nevada, don’t you think the people involved would also need healthcare?”

It was a long time ago, but I am going to hold onto that “pretty good” for the rest of my life.

I wanted to be on stage; that was an underlying goal for a long time.  I wasn’t stupid enough to believe I would be wildly famous.  I didn’t even believe I could sustain life with my talent.  But I was on stage.  I was on a PBS with a dress stuck on my head, during their taping of our local theatre group.  I’ve played in Vegas, baby.  Okay, it was a charity event, and I dragged out my tired old behind so that my daughter could see me on stage.  Since that was her dream, to see her mother do a tight seven-minute improv, I did it.  I have been on TV, on radio shows, in commercials, and in documentaries. 

I am always amazed when I watch myself on video.    I am still me.  No matter how much make-up and wardrobe go into the effort, I have yet to turn into Marilyn Monroe or Angelina Jolie.  That realization killed the dream for me.  What is the point of being famous if you are still yourself?

Don’t bother to tell me that with surgery and liposuction and Ozempic, I could still be someone else.  I just don’t have that ambition anymore.  I remember Diane Sawyer hugging me, and all I could think was, “Oh my God, this woman is the size of a canary, does she even eat?”

I don’t have that kind of commitment in me.  If beauty is pain, then my having to live on a diet for the rest of my life would surely cause me to inflict some pain on the people around me.

I wanted a pet monkey.  The perfect pet for a nine-year-old me.  Loving, kind, and devoted to me.  Mischievous enough for me to put my hands on my hips and say, “Oh, you little stinker,” at least a couple times a day.

I was a farm girl, and I knew animals.  My monkey would be a small chimp who would wear a diaper until I could fully toilet-train her. Her life span would be like mine; we would grow old together, just a girl and her monkey.  In our old age (forties), we would dress in giant hats and sit on the porch drinking tea and scaring small neighborhood children.

I never got a monkey.  Mom promised me I could get one: “When you get your own house, you can have as many damn monkeys as you want.”

By the time I owned my own house, I had a toddler.  Her lifespan will exceed mine; she wore a diaper and was eventually trained to use the toilet.  Instead of sitting on the porch scaring small children in my forties, I was stumbling through my life, saying “oh shit, what will she do next?” several times a day. 

The best part is that we dressed up as dinosaurs for Halloween and walked through the neighborhood handing out candy and scaring small children.  Much better than a monkey, there is no way the monkey would have worn an inflatable T. rex costume.

I wanted a motorcycle.  Not the little dirt bikes that Dad picked up second-hand in one of his deals. A big honking Harley Davidson, black and leather motorcycle. I could start my own club: “Not dykes but still have bikes”. 

Then I became a nurse and learned the term “donor-cycle.”   I saw way too much to ever want to ride a motorcycle anywhere that had traffic, wild horses, coyotes, mountains, dogs, or rain.  Lilly inherited a dirt bike from her great-uncle.  Once in a blue moon, when I forget I am not eighteen anymore, I ride up and down the street in front of our house.  Lilly stands on the lawn yelling at me to put on a helmet while I yell back,

“Remember, if the paramedics say I am asystole, tell them Mama is getting on the bus, let her go.”

I wanted siblings my own age.  Not that I don’t love Donna and Tubby &Cathy, but they were adults in my eyes for my entire life.  And bossy, they thought they were the boss of me.  In their defense, on a busy and dangerous farm, they were the boss of me.   I wanted someone I could giggle with, argue with, have drama, swoon over boys, be silly, and be friends forever. 

Unfortunately, Mom and Dad refused to cooperate.  I watched The Brady Bunch. I was willing to sleep on the top bunk if I had to accommodate, I promised. 

Then one day I grew up, and I realized I was surrounded by siblings my own age for my entire life. Kristy, Liz, Brenda, Joyce, Brenda C., Donna S., Donna B., Jane, Toni, Kathy, Jodi, Jackie, the list could go on forever.  We were friends and enemies; we loved each other and fought like feral cats some days.  We shared experiences and adventures.  As I got older, we drifted apart, and I found new siblings, siblings that were my age and, in my life, some forever, some only a brief shining moment.  Murphy, Lori, Joss, Bridget, Russ, Sharon, Greg, Karen, and many more.  It was incredible!  Wherever I went, I had siblings to fight with, to argue with, to love and laugh with, to reach out to when my soul needed comfort.  My parents could have given me one sibling, but the world gave me hundreds. 

I wanted to be a drug and alcohol addiction counselor.  I achieved that dream.  I wanted to work with the elderly and society’s vulnerable; I achieved that dream.  I wanted to work in mental health.  I achieved that dream, and today I have a job where I can work with all three categories in a single day.  Sometimes, in a single meeting. 

As I got older, my dreams became less materialistic. My dreams changed to making a difference in other people’s lives.  To have a sense of purpose and accomplishment. 

I had our facility’s annual licensure survey last week.  We did very well on the survey. 

One of the surveys said they thought my building would be a great place to work: “I walk around, and people are smiling and laughing, the staff and the patients are actually happy to be here.” 

“I have to warn you, sometimes the laugher is tinged with a wee bit of hysteria,” I replied. I never could take a compliment. 

“But you have the toughest population to work with.”

“All the more reason to smile and laugh and enjoy your job, because otherwise it would be a miserable place to work, wouldn’t it?”

My biggest dream of all was to have love.  To feel loved and cared for and valued.  A basic human need in all of us.  I do work with a difficult population, the mentally ill, the substance dependent, the homeless, and the ex-convicts. I see what a lack of connection and love can do to a human soul; it will wither and die.  

Each day, I come home to a family that loves me.  We laugh every day. My daughter invites me to improv classes and Shabbat with her friends so we can spend time together. 

My husband’s co-workers ask my name when they meet me.  “He never says your name, he always calls you ‘my beautiful wife,’” they tell me.

Mom always told me when I came to her with a wish or a dream, “Shit in one hand, wish in the other and see which one gets full the fastest.”

The joke's on you, Mom. I have gold in both hands.