Nobody Knows the Troubles I’ve Seen, With Apologies to Rod Blagojevich


It is raining today!  The skies are gloomy and the wind is frigid and I just, like, want to die because I’m going to have to walk all the way to my car if I want to get to yoga.

My life is truly hellish.  How can I survive this?

But then, I think of Solzhenitsyn.  (You know, the Russian dude who wrote all those long books I always intended to read, but haven’t found the time for, since I am, you know, quite busy.)  Like me, he battled icy winds and frostbitten hands when he was imprisoned in Siberia, which is evidently located in a not very desirable part of Russia.  He may not have even had a car!  Think of that.  He probably had to walk everywhere.

Well, that does it.  I am inspired and strengthened.  If Solzhenitsyn can do it, so can I.  We are fellow sufferers in this abysmal vale of tears.  (Note to self: Find out whether Colorado ski resort of the same name — Vale — was ever visited by Solzhenitsyn.  This would make a good literary tie-in.)


Oh, God!  When does it ever quit?  Never, that’s when!

Today, I am being tested once again.  Yes, you guessed it.  I have cedar fever.  My nose is red and bulbous, spewing and leaking snot all over my new cashmere sweater (although I’ve now decided I don’t like the sweater and may have to return it first thing tomorrow, if I can find the tags).  I sneeze, I cough, I tickle, I am a veritable human cesspool and a fount of misery!  (Note to self: Is this mixing metaphors?  Remember to call writing coach this afternoon to find out.)

Oh, but I’m not feeling sorry for myself.  Au contraire.  As usual, I am thinking of others.  Frida Kahlo, in this case, who is artistic like me, but not nearly as good-looking.  I think she got run over by a bus or something and always kind of walked funny after that.  So yes, of course, I identify with Frida Kahlo!  Like her, I will take the pain of my relentless allergies and meld it into great art!  I will not be taken down by pollen!  I will thrive and survive!


So, I was sitting in my Land Cruiser, waiting for little Trevor to come out of day care, and some anorexic named Heather in a pink yoga outfit and a new red Cayenne comes up and pounds on my window and accuses me of cutting in the day care carpool line!  She is, like, I am not kidding you, liberal with rage.  I try to smooth it all over by telling her I’m in a big hurry since I’m late to pilates and Trevor’s nanny is AWOL (something about her mother dying in Guatemala.  I said, “What are you trying to tell me?  That you’re not a Mexican?”  When she gets back, I’m going to check her green card again).

 But Heather was all, I don’t care about your stupid schedule, we all have problems, honey, which made me think this is so what’s wrong with the world.  We don’t care about other people’s pain.  But I do!  Being busted by Heather, just because she had a bad yoga class and can’t keep her shit together, I felt just like Rosa Parks.  Remember her?  She had to go to the back of the carpool line, too.


I am tired of keeping my journal this week, sick of all the hassles and problems and sorrows of the world.  I’m just surrounded by so much negative energy that I am going to have to go to a spa to detox for a few days.  I want to be thin and calm and quiet, like Gandhi.  Unfortunately, I can’t afford to go to India like him, so will have to settle for the Golden Door.  Ciao!

(Copyright 2009 by Ruth Pennebaker)

3 comments… add one
  • Or, you could come back to L.A. for some sunshine and drinks with a blogging friend!

    Gotta watch out for those anorectic rageful yoga people!

  • M A Link

    Yeah, but I think Frida Kahlo managed with hefty doses of addictive analgesics (morphine?)…

  • jmobx Link

    But Ghandi didn’t get to eat.  He had to make all his clothes on a spinning wheel.  And then he got shot.

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