It's Kind of a Long Story... about LLOYD COLE (Part III)

They say we shouldn't even know each other

Hey Drama Goblins,

I went to a second Passover Seder this week, which is a good thing because I needed a double dose of the reminder to reject the comfort of slavery.

To recognize the Egypts within me that hold me back.

To face the fear of freedom.

To accept the consequences of having choices.

Change and making changes is hard, even when the changes are objectively good. So often we’re drawn to what’s familiar. To cling to what we know to our detriment.

In this time of rebirth, may your darkness find light. May you shrug off what shackles you. May you grow.

I’m so glad you’re here,

Lara

Drop me and I'll fall to pieces

Short Story:

What I hoped would be a promising date went south fast, and turned into a 45-minute trauma dump that only a cookie could help me recover from.

Long Story:

The date with Bumble Dave didn’t start well. He refused to wave back to me when I was directing him to our meeting spot. He didn't pick up on my jokes. He was horrified at the idea of sending food back at a restaurant, even if it wasn’t what was ordered.

We eventually settled into a typical first date conversation, where we’d lived in the Bay Area, books and movies, TV shows. At one point he said something about a birth mother, and I said, “Oh, are you adopted?” 

“It’s kind of a long story.”

“I would like to hear it.” 

And then he laid down Samsonite showroom of baggage on me. A forty-five minute trauma dump. It was a lot. A. Lot.  It wasn't just the stuff that had happened to him, it was the way he talked about it. The words he used. It all made me very uncomfortable. At one point I found myself thinking, "I'm glad this guy doesn't know where I live." 

So much baggage…

He referred to what most people call a private adoption as being “bought and sold.” He said, “My mother bought me. My adoptive mother sold me.”

The story was his adoptive parents had two children and couldn’t get pregnant with a third, and were turned down by adoption agencies because his adoptive mother was crazy.

His sister became pregnant as a teenager, and told her doctor that she was afraid her mother was going to steal her baby and raise it as her own. The doctor said he had another pregnant teenage patient who wanted to place her baby for adoption, and that he would connected them so the sister could keep her baby.

His adoptive mother and birth mother had one lunch, an agreement was signed and some money for her care was exchanged.

His described his adoptive mother as abusive and unstable and his growing up as unhappy. He said his father was decent and did his best.

As an adult, he was able to find his birth mother, and waddaya know, he described her as crazy too. She went on to have two more sons with his birth father, who were both drug addicts and criminals.

All of that is tragic, and not his fault, but what was creepy and unsettling, is that he held his birth mother responsible for not recognizing his adoptive mother was “crazy” and letting her adopt him. He asked her, “How could you have not seen that she was unfit?” His birth mother told him, “She seemed nice.” I could hear the hurt and incredulity in his voice.

I just nodded, but I was thinking to myself, “Your birth mother was a pregnant teenage girl in 1965 who didn’t want to be pregnant. She had an opportunity to easily place her baby and get some financial help and she went for it. She didn’t have the maturity or experience, or maybe even the interest, in interrogating this older woman who was already a mother. She looked like a mom and that was probably good enough for her.”

He said he mostly dated engineers and mathematicians who didn’t ask a lot of him emotionally. On Christmas, he would tell his girlfriends he was going to visit his family - which he wasn’t because they’re “crazy” - and just sort of wander the streets all day until he could come home. 

Merry Christmas, from Bumble Dave!

He referred to his breakup with the girlfriend he moved from the City to the East Bay with as, “she left me.” Not that they broke up, but “she left me.”

After his breakup he started psychedelic therapy with a woman therapist who he said “molested me.” I have no idea what transpired between them, but a 57-year old man referred to it as being “molested.” 

Where was the funny, clever guy from my phone I had been texting with all week? Who was this weirdo?

He was still sketchy on his work and how he spent his time, but he eventually said he sued the molesting therapist and won a lot of money, and inherited some commercial property from his father that he managed.

That explained why he had so much time on his hands, and the big, remodeled house.

And as for Lloyd Cole being his good friend? One day he was floating in his pool high on mushrooms and thought, “Wouldn’t it be cool to have Lloyd Cole play at my house?” and looked up his web site. Turns out Lloyd will play house parties and said, “How about in two weeks?”

So Bumble Dave paid to bring Lloyd out and put him up and then scrambled to find people to come, because he had let a lot of his relationships and friendships slide after his girlfriend left him and he slid into poor mental health.

He managed to find people to come, and made them gift bags with Lloyd Cole CDs, but no one had any idea who he was and hadn’t seen Bumble Dave in a long time and it all sounded very awkward and strange. Not at all the image I had in my mind of two old friends connecting with more close friends for an intimate and special performance with fellow fans, all singing along.

I was getting increasingly creeped out, but when he said, “I’m thinking of doing it again in the spring. You’ll have to come.” I said with a laugh, “I’d like that, and I promise not to sing too loudly.”

“Oh no,” he said, “Lloyd hates it when people sing along.”

Gawd, is everyone a weirdo?

I glanced at my watch and no lie he had been talking for 45 minutes nonstop. I was grateful we were at lunch and not just “hanging out” as he had suggested so that the check would eventually come and I could get outta there.

As we walked to the corner he was talking more about mushrooms and psychedelic therapy which I have no interest in and we finally got to the corner and went our separate ways to our cars with a non-committal hug.

I had joked to my therapist that I wasn’t really in a place for a serious relationship. I was house-sitting with no idea when I’d be home again, and still recovering from a lot of ex boyfriend tsuris. I wanted some fun. Some flirty attention. To feel lit up.

I left the lunch feeling physically icky. The opposite of lit up. All the trauma talk was traumatizing.

I needed a cookie.

The cure for what ailed me

And, I needed to hang out for a while while my car charged. I was driving an electric car that a friend had loaned me after I had hit a deer the week before. It was a very generous loan, but there wasn’t a place where I could charge it at my house-sit, so I was dependent on the very slow public chargers.

So there I am. Sitting in the borrowed electric car. In a parking garage. Willing the gauge to move. Eating a giant cookie and thinking,

“What was that?”

and

“How is this my life?”

But here's the thing. A previous version of Lara, who had more than a carry-on and one checked item herself, was saying to me, "We all have our baggage. It's not fair to judge him by what happened to him. Everyone deserves love and compassion."

That Lara believed when she invited him to tell her about his trauma that made her responsible for holding it and not rejecting him because of it. She didn’t understand it was OK to put her needs first. She didn’t know she could say no. 

But her voice wasn't as loud as the current Lara’s, who has been through some stuff and older and wiser, and said, "Everyone deserves love, but no one is owed it. You do not need this in your life. You need to be lit up. You need fun and distraction. You need support and stability. You're allowed to say 'no' to what doesn't serve you." 

This Lara knew she invited him to tell her about his trauma because she wanted to know what she was dealing with. And if she wanted to deal with it. She didn’t. 

Lara Sez…

Listen!

80s Deep Cut of the Week! The title and subtitle of this week’s post come from the Lloyd Cole song Forest Fire.

And for those sick of Lloyd Cole already, I offer Every Word Means No by Let’s Active

Read!

The Known World deserves its Pulitzer. A gorgeously written book about enslavement and freedom.

Buy!

I used to have pretty bad dry spots on my skin, particularly a weird little patch on my ankle, but I’ve never been a fan of goopy lotions. This stuff feels great and keeps my skin soft.

Watch!

Big Mood on TUBI, starring the delightful Nicola Coughlan. It’s a dramedy (my favorite genre) about how friendships can (and can’t) survive mental health struggles.

Eat!

I’ve been putting espresso balsamic vinegar on ice cream and it is freakin’ delicious. I got mine from Del Olivia in Burlingame, but there are lots of companies that make it.

You can make an easy reduction by pouring some onto a shallow plate and letting it sit overnight. The water will evaporate and create a thick sauce perfect for ‘scream, veggies or meat.

Before I let you go…

I’ve been volunteering for The Postpartum Support Center for several years. They provide our low-income neighbors with diapers, wipes, formula, clothes and gear, as well as parenting classes and support groups.

As the Executive Director says, “Everyone wants to hold the baby. We hold the mother.”

May is mental health awareness month, and PPSC does so much to help new moms with postpartum depression, and the stress and anxiety of early parenting.

I’ve started a fundraiser for the 2024 Walk for Moms, and would be grateful for any contribution.