Funk calls her "a skydiver afraid of heights"--someone who figures out how to spend a cost-free summer in Europe, arranges it all, but when it's time to leave, has an anxiety attack walking out the door. In this first volume of her humorous, sharp-witted, and brutally honest memoir, Gloria pushes past her fears, spends the summer abroad with her family (living far outside her comfort zone) before setting up a campaign office, and eventually, without any experience, helps Funk cross the finish line--only to learn that being Kansas City's First Lady will be much more difficult than she could've ever imagined (but those stories are saved for later books). In sharing her story of courage and becoming her New and Better Self, Gloria hopes to inspire you to also step out in faith, to make a difference where it counts, and to stand up for others ... and yourself. Despite spending years in Nashville, Kansas City, and Washington, DC, Gloria Squitiro is still a New York Italian girl at heart, who can't--and won't--stop voicing what most of us know but are unwilling to say.
"A bundle of ideas" --The Wall Street Journal
Funk calls her "a skydiver afraid of heights"--someone who figures out how to spend a cost-free summer in Europe, arranges it all, but when it's time to leave, has an anxiety attack walking out the door. In this first volume of her humorous, sharp-witted, and brutally honest memoir, Gloria pushes past her fears, spends the summer abroad with her family (living far outside her comfort zone) before setting up a campaign office, and eventually, without any experience, helps Funk cross the finish line--only to learn that being Kansas City's First Lady will be much more difficult than she could've ever imagined (but those stories are saved for later books). In sharing her story of courage and becoming her New and Better Self, Gloria hopes to inspire you to also step out in faith, to make a difference where it counts, and to stand up for others ... and yourself. Despite spending years in Nashville, Kansas City, and Washington, DC, Gloria Squitiro is still a New York Italian girl at heart, who can't--and won't--stop voicing what most of us know but are unwilling to say.
"A bundle of ideas" --The Wall Street Journal
May Cause Drowsiness and Blurred Vision: The Side Effects of Bravery
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May Cause Drowsiness and Blurred Vision: The Side Effects of Bravery
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Overview
Funk calls her "a skydiver afraid of heights"--someone who figures out how to spend a cost-free summer in Europe, arranges it all, but when it's time to leave, has an anxiety attack walking out the door. In this first volume of her humorous, sharp-witted, and brutally honest memoir, Gloria pushes past her fears, spends the summer abroad with her family (living far outside her comfort zone) before setting up a campaign office, and eventually, without any experience, helps Funk cross the finish line--only to learn that being Kansas City's First Lady will be much more difficult than she could've ever imagined (but those stories are saved for later books). In sharing her story of courage and becoming her New and Better Self, Gloria hopes to inspire you to also step out in faith, to make a difference where it counts, and to stand up for others ... and yourself. Despite spending years in Nashville, Kansas City, and Washington, DC, Gloria Squitiro is still a New York Italian girl at heart, who can't--and won't--stop voicing what most of us know but are unwilling to say.
"A bundle of ideas" --The Wall Street Journal
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781732721609 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Gloria Squitiro Publishing |
| Publication date: | 05/14/2019 |
| Series: | C'Mon Funk , #1 |
| Edition description: | Softcover ed. |
| Pages: | 260 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.55(d) |
About the Author
Gloria Squitiro is the birth mother of Tara and Andrew, and the cosmic mother of Alex, Nick, Pipo and Anna. She has been married to her husband, Mark Funkhouser ("Funk") for over 40 years.
Squitiro has an INFJ personality (introverted, intuitive, feeling, judging): An advocate and dreamer who takes concrete steps to realize goals and make a lasting, positive impact. Helping others is her purpose, but not through charity work. Her passion is to get to the heart of issues so people need not be rescued at all.
In 2006, Gloria became Funk's campaign manager by default. She has the rare distinction of being the only First Lady in America to have a City Council legally ban her from the Kansas City, MO City Hall office where her husband was mayor. Good Morning America, Fox and Friends, NPR, The Wall Street Journal, NY Times, USA Today, The Washington Post-even Great Britain's left-wing The Guardian and America's right-wing Rush Limbaugh-did stories about her.
They can throw her out, but they can't shut her up!
Squitiro has a bachelor's in psychology and is published in Harper's Magazine. Her memoir, May Cause Drowsiness and Blurred Vision: The Side Effects of Bravery, is the first in her three-book C'mon Funk series. She lives in Washington, DC with Funk, surrounded by some of their flock.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The Funks Go to Europe
KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI
22 May 2006
It all started when I was born. And everything leading up to this point was just the culmination of the previous forty-seven years that I'd had on Earth. And let me tell you, it wasn't easy living inside of me. Leaving home for a nine-week European extravaganza was almost more than my soul could bear. Everything in me screamed that I should turn around and go back, but as had always been the case, something bigger was pushing me forward.
But my body was rebelling — pulling out all the stops to keep me from going. By the time I boarded the train, I looked like a refugee from an insane asylum. My tongue was red, swollen, and cracked, and my back was spasming in new and different ways. I was getting a canker sore on my lip, even though I'd never had one before. Making things scarier, I was fighting off a cold. Of course, all these ailments were intensifying my normally anxious state tenfold. Yet miserably, there was no turning back. However, being trapped on the train for the next thirty-five hours did give me plenty of time to berate myself for spending the previous eighteen months planning this godforsaken trip.
I stared out the rectangular window and tried recalling what the hell I'd been excited about. I'd read one travel journal after the other, envisioning the day when I would get to live among the locals and become one of them. I, too, wanted a house in Tuscany to renovate! Yet here I was — at the day I'd been excited about, and I was so afraid of leaving home, that I couldn't give two shits about those past daydreams anymore. Honestly, who cared if I got to live in someone else's house for a summer? I liked my house. I wanted to keep living in my house. That was the reason I bought it, wasn't it?
To get myself under control, I tried summoning up all the joyful things that initially fueled the trip. Oh yeah — I would be with foreigners, and I loved foreigners. But now I could see how ridiculous that idea was, as there were plenty of foreigners in New York City, and I loved New York City, and New York City happened to be on my continent, and if I was simply going to New York City, I could easily get back home within twenty-four hours if I really needed to, and the food was good there, and I still had relatives and friends who lived there, so ...
Why the fuck didn't I just plan to go to New York City for nine weeks? Or to the mountains? I loved the mountains. What was I thinking? I could be on my way to the mountains, and for a hell of a lot less money. And if I were on my way to a rejuvenating nine-week stay in the countryside, I probably wouldn't be in this agony right about now. Christ. Perhaps everyone was right. Maybe there really was something wrong with me.
NEW YORK CITY
23 May 2006
We arrived at Penn Station just before noon. Since I couldn't carry anything with my back doing acrobatics, I was told to wait outside by the taxi stand while the rest of the people I'm related to went to fetch our luggage. Sixteen pieces, to be exact. But not all of that was luggage. There were seven suitcases and an assortment of backpacks, briefcases, purses, and my pillow.
My husband, whom I call Funk, the-hick-from-West-Vagina, or My Big Mistake, shouted at me to stay put near the perimeter of the taxi area, and then left me standing in a gale-force wind that was blowing at just the right speed and temperature to elicit a warning signal in me. Leaning into the air, I ruminated on all the things that could go wrong if I continued standing there.
Since I was well-versed in Oriental medicine, I knew that if I subjected myself to this weather for long, my chi would start leaking out of me and onto the streets of New York. And if my chi got depleted, I would definitely catch that cold. And given that I was quite familiar with every terrified nuance of myself, I knew that if I came down with a cold, all bets would be off, and I really would lose what was left of my sanity.
But mercifully, I noticed I wasn't going down. In an unexpected twist, my mind went the other way. Instead of becoming a sniveling mass on the ground, I found myself getting pissed from being fated with whatever Italian gene it was that predisposed one to self-terrorizing thoughts. And before long, the fear in me was replaced with anger, and that made room for the New Yorker in me to rise up strong. With newfound confidence, I defied my husband's order to wait until the luggage was gathered into a neat little pile and hustled over to the taxi stand to claim my spot in the long-ass line.
Fifteen minutes later, Funk emerged with the kids and luggage. I saw him staring at the place where he'd left me with a puzzled look on his face. When he finally located me, I noticed a fleeting look of disgust on his face. Dragging the luggage and the kids, he came to where I stood. I looked up at him brightly and said, "Funk, aren't you glad I didn't listen to you?" He didn't answer, just stared down at me from his six-foot-eight frame. Not letting the silence scare me, I informed him that if I had listened, we'd be waiting another forty-five minutes for a cab.
As luck would have it, it was soon our turn, and a van was next in the queue. It was the first large vehicle to show up since I'd gotten into the line. I took it as a sign. It was only because of my decision that we weren't paying for two cabs to carry us to our hotel.
24 May 2006
I woke up in my room at the Sherry Netherland to the cheers of people on the street. When I realized it wasn't going to stop anytime soon, I climbed out of bed to see what was up.
Standing naked behind the curtain, I pulled it back just enough to take a peek outside. The Early Show was taping on the street below us, right in front of the glass, underground Apple store. Man, I loved New York — there was always something going on here.
I let the curtain fall back into place, and as quietly as I could, I made myself a cup of coffee. Halfway through, I noticed I was jittery, but it was a kind of jittery that I hadn't experienced for a long time. Trying to identify the sensation, I realized that it might be excitement. I couldn't believe it. I expected to be crazed with fright right about now, but instead I think I was actually looking forward to the trip again. Holy shit. It must have been all the prayers and promises I made this morning while my family snored in their beds all around me.
Emboldened by the discovery, I decided to apply the seasick patch that Dr. Mizutani, my Oriental medicine doctor, had insisted I purchase.
I could hear her words playing in my head. "Gladia, you don't want miss one moment on ship sick in room. It unhappy away home sick. Only happy at home sick. Don't be sick. Everyone on ship wear patch. It veewy veewy mild. It no damage you. Stop worry. You be fine. I don't see anyone sick that wear patch. Don't waste one minute on sick."
Respectfully, I asked her, "Do you wear a patch when you travel, Reiko?" "No!" she scoffed. "I don't need. You need. Don't waste one minute, enjoy every second. Wear patch."
So, despite being allergic to most of what Western medicine offered in the way of drugs, I placed the patch behind my ear ... and then tried hard not to glance at the bright yellow warning stickers plastered all over the box. The ones that stated, CAUTION: May cause drowsiness and blurred vision.
For years, I had been fighting off adding hypochondriac to my arsenal of neuroses. And unwilling to give in to it now, I tried convincing myself that my body was strong and that I shouldn't let a warning meant for those weak in character to take me down that nasty path. To help myself, I woke everyone up and let the confusion of the group carry me away.
Shortly after, the front desk rang our room to tell us that our taxi had arrived ... forty-five minutes ahead of schedule. Rushing to gather our belongings, I decided not to be angry, as the chaos was exactly what I needed to take my mind off the patch that was currently burning a hole behind my ear. Just before walking out the door, I rummaged through my pharmacy bag that contained dozens of little blue tubes of homeopathic remedies and glass bottles of Bach Flower tinctures. I was searching for the Apis to counteract the side effects of the patch. With three little pills melting under my tongue, I made my way down the back steps of the hotel and onto the street.
Our driver of the day was a forty-two-year-old Italian mama's boy from Queens. He stood just a few inches taller than me and had the dark curly hair that stamped him true — and the querulous male disposition to match. Frumpy and round, he was arrogant in that there's-nothing-for-you-to-be-arrogant-about sort of way, pretending to be oh-so-busy as we struggled to get our luggage into his trunk. But he was a New Yorker through and through. And did I mention that I loved New Yorkers?
As it turned out, this macho little pansy-ass entertained us the whole way to the pier just by being him. Within minutes of entering his cab, he must have decided that he liked us, and to show his affection, he went into tour-guide mode. He was really getting into it, too, excitedly describing each of the well-known landmarks he whizzed past, as if it were our very first time in the city.
Acting all official he said, "If you look to your left you can see the Statue of Liberty in the distance."
Thank God she was in the distance, as up close, she would have been all but a green blur at the speed he was going. But trying to be polite, I said, "Mmhmm, she's very beautiful. And quite green, too."
Encouraged by my awe, he continued, "And over there you can see where the Twin Towers used to be."
Why he had to bring that up when he knew we were trying to be on vacation was beyond me, but he did, and that was the precise moment he started getting on my nerves. He didn't notice my change in attitude, but that was probably my fault, as I hadn't put a stop to things by telling him to fuck off. He must have taken the omission as a sign of confirmation, as he became even more maniacal in his tour-guide role.
At one point, as we were hurtling across the Brooklyn Bridge, the little shit was practically sitting sideways, carrying forth as if we were just kicking back at a party in the middle of his living room, and halfway into directing our attention to the unmistakable mass of the Queen Mary 2, he almost drove us off the motherfucking bridge. In the end, I couldn't fault him too much, as he was only trying to get my worst fear over with already. But as the mama's boy had just informed us, he wasn't ready to die yet, so I guess I wasn't either.
CHAPTER 2Up the Gangplank
THE QUEEN MARY 2
24 May 2006
After we crossed the bridge, Mr. Tour-Guide zigzagged over to Pier 12 in the Brooklyn Cruise Terminal. He dumped us at the foot of the boat, and within seconds little ship-people surrounded us and began tagging our belongings. I was surprised at how nice they were. Not one of them said a word about the amount of luggage we had.
With claim checks in hand, we started up the gangplank, but I wasn't making much progress, as my feet kept putting the brakes on. It seemed my poor body was making one final attempt to turn me around, but alas, it couldn't overcome the invisible hand on my back shoving me forward.
Funk and I walked the kids to their windowless room deep inside the ship's hull, and then headed for our beautiful, balconied stateroom. I still had that long-forgotten excited feeling about me, but instead of being deliriously happy about it, I started getting nervous. To head off a meltdown, I approached my husband about the problem.
"Funk, why do you think I'm not nervous? I expected to be beside myself with fear right now, but I'm not. I think I'm actually excited and it's making me nervous that I'm not nervous."
Pushing past his quiet staring, I continued, "I'm afraid that if I buy into this excited feeling, then the axe is going to fall. In fact, I just know it will."
I could almost hear him weighing each response, calculating how best to answer my questions so that he didn't bring any pain onto himself. In the end, he played it safe.
"Gloria, stop being nervous about not being nervous."
Well, fuck. I should have known he'd go with one of his pat answers. Sometimes it was really boring living with my husband. Whoever was in charge in West Vagina must have decided to teach their residents just enough trite phrases to make it through a lifetime there.
25 May 2006
Yesterday I'd wondered what was wrong with me, as I hadn't been that nervous, but today was a different story. I could hardly stay awake, no doubt because of the anti-seasick patch, and I felt at loose ends.
All the things that I usually did at home each day, things I'd complained about never having enough time to get done, were things I couldn't do here. Like cooking, tidying up, grocery shopping, working out, going to therapy, and bitching that all I did was cook, tidy up, grocery shop, work out, and go to therapy.
I was sure that I'd eventually get into a groove, but for now, I didn't know what to do with myself. Funk said I was just decompressing after running full-tilt for more than a year, and I just needed to figure out how to do nothing.
So, I tried decompressing. I went up on deck to look at the ocean. It was beautiful, indeed, but there were no trees anywhere, and I really liked trees. And I liked grass a lot, too.
And it would've been nice to see some passengers that were less than a hundred years old, and who weren't having multiple orgasms about the food they were eating on a continual basis. I mean, really, it was just food.
How could your whole day revolve around your next feeding? My dog did that. Ginny-Dog is her name. She started pacing at 1:30 in the afternoon and she didn't quit, nor did she stop staring at me, until after her scheduled feeding at 3. But it was one thing for a dog to do that, as it didn't have the wherewithal to do much else, what with being trapped in a house all day and not even able to read a good book or take a nice bath. But really, these people weren't dogs. And they were not so old that they couldn't pick up a book or soak in a tub for a diversion once in a while.
I guess I was homesick. In fact, I was homesick three days before I'd left home, but apparently the feeling hadn't left me yet. I supposed I'd have to try harder to decompress. I decided to make a plan. I liked plans. I found that I was happiest when I had something to look forward to. Okay, so tomorrow I was going to do some laundry. I couldn't believe I missed doing the laundry. And after that, I'd take a salsa lesson with Tara. A Native American is teaching the class. Go figure.
TURNS OUT, THIS WAS A VERY SIGNIFICANT DAY
26 May 2006
I took off the seasick patch last night, and I felt much better. Although I was exhausted from it, and I couldn't read my book because I still had blurred vision, I wasn't seasick, so I guess I didn't need it. As my hubby always said, "Self-inflicted pain, Gloria." I gave myself a lot of that.
One of the more annoying things about me was that I'd developed a fear of flying. It had happened after a terrible flight I'd taken when the kids were still small, which was why we were traveling by boat. Since my problem was with closed-in spaces, I was also afraid of elevators. So, after breakfast, I climbed the million stairs up to the library to get online. The minutes were expensive, but I was hoping for some news from my mother. She hadn't written, but there were a few emails waiting from couples who wanted to sign up for one of my fall childbirth classes. We'd moved to Kansas City so that I could be a stay-at-home mom, but I'd always had a side-hustle going. I'd started BirthWays in 1990, and had been teaching and attending births as a doula ever since. Given the cost of the internet on the ship, I quickly dashed off a reply to each couple, and then headed back down to meet Tara.
The salsa class was a complete sham. The Indian made the whole thing up. His plan must've been to round up a bunch of girls and decide which desperate beauty to spend the rest of the crossing with. When we walked into the event, a tea dance was going on instead. I left feeling confused about how I could've mistaken the time and place, and that was when we ran into Mr. Native American in the hallway. I got the picture the minute I saw the ancient boom box in his hand. When I told him the scheduling director said his class wasn't on the program, he looked at my forty-seven-year-old body and blandly replied, "Yeah, I was just going to do it in the hallway." Do it in the hallway? This guy was unbelievable. Later, Tara and I saw him at the ballroom dance class. You'd never believe it, but the guy couldn't even dance. And I'd bet you anything that he probably wasn't an Indian either.
Amazingly, I was beginning to find my groove. Not the titillating kind like Terry McMillan had, or at least like she had before she'd found out that her husband was gay. No, my groove was more like a well-honed rut: I slept, I woke, I ate, then I slept some more, ate again, and then I read my book until 2 A.M.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "May Cause Drowsiness and Blurred Vision"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Gloria Squitiro Publishing, LLC.
Excerpted by permission of Gloria Squitiro Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue
The Ritual
The Funks Go to Europe
Up the Gangplank
Seven Balconies
Never the Regular Way
Sitting on a Park Bench Outside the Carwash
Signs, Signs Everywhere
Of Course My Father Picked Now to Die
A Bump in the Night
Peekaboo Balls
Fitting in at 1 a.m.
The Real Italians
Of Rituals and Blood
Big Ben, Big Deal, I Wanna Go Home
The Sacred Bed
Our Little Secret
Acknowledgements
About the Author