Whit's Wit

Okay, deep breath, here we go! I have the deep desire to blog again but am having technical difficulties. I could ask my sister or continue to wait for the online chatbot to show up but my desire is greater than my patience so I’m just gonna WRITE. this is me on the island of Maui a few years ago when I escaped the pandemic and an on and off again boyfriend to find some peace, begin to tackle my addictions and suck up some serious beauty. I was getting “Covid money” as my job as a caregiver ended along with my client’s life (I didn’t kill her) and since I was living with said “boyfriend” who taught piano lessons to children I pled the fear of cross contamination to Visiting Angels, my current agency (who were, in fact, angels) and they kindly let me go and let the government take over to the tune of $2,400 a month. Ahhh…those were the days. When I arrived in Paradise my current caregiver’s license wasn’t valid in another state so at the prompting of my then best friend, Lisa, I attended “Sir Larry’s Academy” where I re-learned how to wash my hands (as if Covid didn’t teach us how to sing Happy Birthday twice while scrubbing off Omicron germs and how to change an adult diaper). I graduated after forking out $2k and got a flashy laminated card that announced my accomplishment. The problem was, working as a caregiver in Hawaii was not like working in California. See, the Hawaiians are family oriented and take care of their own. What’s left are the old grouchy entitled white “Haoles” who drank too much and had strokes and heart attacks and pissed off their own families. My first and last day using my new license was caring for a man who used to be an artist and lived ON the beach in a house so grand it made me weep. And though I am a very nice person and have the ability to connect with nearly anyone anywhere he refused to talk to me. While I was cleaning up his bratty pregnant daughter’s dog’s diarrhea I overheard him saying (yelling) that he wanted her to call the agency and say he didn’t want old, ugly or fat caregivers (two of which I’m not). The agency called me and I snuck to the garage where they explained that it wasn’t me, that he was a “difficult client” (though not difficult enough for them to refuse the $10k a month he was shelling out). They said he would “let” me go pack and clean his other house, a studio with a koi pond and palm trees rustling in the tropical breezes. I put on my headphones and got to work. I cleaned his fridge where I found huge mason jars full of weed. And honestly I don’t think I took any. Silly me. But I feared there were cameras and I believe in karma, no matter how awful the person. After 5 hours of cleaning and packing and loading boxes into my van I threw my back out and quit. The Covid money was running out so I called another agency who was all too happy to send me to another training session. And luck of all lucks, the day before said training I got a call from the Surfing Goat Dairy that I forgot I had applied to. The next day I drove upcountry to Haiku to a gorgeous 10 acre farm stocked with 250 does and two 250 pound bucks, Smokey and Hemmingway, who were brothers. I met with the fat diabetic German man who liked my history of growing up on “half of Noah’s Ark” in the mountains of Santa Cruz, California. I worked as a tourguide, made cheese platters and milked goats. There was much mayhem from the goats as well as the other employees as the farm seemed to attract nuts. The head goat herder lived on the farm in a little Home Depot shed and drank whiskey after herding the goats. There are so many stories but I’m getting off track.

So why am I starting this blog again? Because I read all my posts starting in 2014 and remembered how much I love writing and how therapeutic it is. Because I was impressed. Because I don’t want to DoorDash forever, now that I’m in my 59th year of life and realize how short a time we have here. Because I need a longer term plan after living by the seat of my pants, raising 3 wonderful kiddos, struggling with addictions, pushing aside the pain and trauma and divorcing 2 husbands. Because my famous writer sister Leslie thinks I’m good and is a great example and role model, who once told me I’m as good as (or better than? oh my head is growing) the great David Sedaris (be still my heart). Because I’ve been writing since I could write and have boxes of journals that have traveled the world with me, that I read ceremoniously every decade to see what that girl went through (A LOT!!!) Because I’m off ALL the meds and trust myself and my body to know what it needs rather than Big Freaking Pharma. I’m ready to tell the truth. Because the truth is well, the truth, not my truth or your truth but THE truth, the way I’ve lived, the pain I’ve experienced, the lives I’ve touched (literally and figuratively). Because I can’t NOT write.

I guess I’ll stop here and do my best to be patient as I re-navigate the technology that has gone Matrix in the last ten years. My goal is to do it everyday, to get in another ten thousand hours and have a reason to wake up in the morning. And hopefully, to impart a little more kindness, beauty and truth in the world so when I finally publish my memoirs I will have a least a small audience. I’m ready. Let’s go!