Seldom have I looked forward to a New Year's Day with such relish as I do now, sitting here, clicking away on the keys.
Not because I'm looking forward to a New Year, New Me! - how many years have I been blogging? How many times have I touched upon this? I really abhor that particular marketing ply - targeting people's insecurities and making them think they need to be anything other than what they are, that the Old Them is anything less than fine exactly as is -
Well anyway - it's not because of that. It's not because I looooove winter or I have a skiing vacation planned or because there's anything to look forward to, particularly - I just want to get rid of this calendar with its copious reminders of how much has gone wrong in a twelve month period. Serious Seriously.
An optimist would tell me to focus on the good things. I have tried; there's a new baby cousin, a deepened relationship with another cousin, one of The Youngs has achieved success at school with his pharmaceutical cocktail, this was the first summer in forever I did not get a sunburn, and my clunky, rattly, squeaky old Family Truckster did not crap out on me or require any repairs more significant than a tire change. I did not die or sustain injuries when said Family Truckster blew said tire on a highway. Mom survived her heart attack and had a successful operation to treat the malfunctioning artery. The Man's cancer screening test came back clear again. We are in relative health. There is a roof over our head. There is much for which I am thankful.
A realist would tell me nothing but nothing is going to change tomorrow. The blessings will be there, intact, as will the problems. It's an arbitrary flip of the calendar page.
A pessimist - well - let's leave them out of it.
But I can't help thinking I want this twelve month block to go away and stop hurting me.
So, goodbye, 2014. Here's your hat, what's your hurry? Too bad, so sad, don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. Arrivaderci, f*cker.
Come on 2015, make with the good stuff. I promise to write nice things about you in a year's time.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Friday, November 28, 2014
The Rising
There is a hierarchy of shit in life.
I'm sorry, sometimes there's no other way to say that.
You have the low level stuff...paper cuts, forgetting your grocery list, bad hair days, stepping in a puddle and soaking the hems of your jeans when you have to stay in them for a while longer.
Then it escalates, bringing you to flat tires, reflux, arguments, forgetting to pay a bill.
From there, it shoots into another stratosphere full of malfunctioning body parts, bureaucracy designed to drown you in minutiae, familial dissolution, bankruptcy.
And then there's the really big stuff. Terrorism. Disease. Natural disasters. Suffering. Death.
This year has brought a little bit from each tier. More than I'd like from the last two, especially the death and dying.
ALL SET. WITH THE DEATH. AND DYING.
I've been absent for five months, not because I've been tooling around Europe, refining my French skills, learning Italian dialects, photographing the rooftops of Prague, clicking my heels (hahahaha) on the cobbled avenues of Bruges, visiting the British Isles in search of familial roots, not redecorating the country house or using Pinterest to plan my elopement, but because I've been busy trying not to go off the friggin' deep end.
In case the previous decades hadn't got the job done, for the record, may I just state that this year. Has kicked. My. Ever loving. ASS.
Again, there's just not a better way to express this.
The year began - on day one - with the death of a former schoolmate, which shook me to my core. January ended with a death which rattled me even further with the unexpected loss of a most beloved friend. Two more deaths between February first and March 31st. My uncle died in April after a years long battle with cancer. The hits just did not stop. Come November, and word of the death of another friend from High School.
Can it just stop for a little while?
Can the suckage just STOP for a spell?
I realize at a certain age, these things begin to happen to people the age of our peers, rather than our parents and grandparents. Or should I say, in addition to our parents and grandparents.
Apparently, this is that age.
I'm not enjoying it.
Because the wrinkles and the white - I say, WHITE - hairs, and the other physical indignities of aging belie my inner age.
Inside, I feel pretty much the same way I did at age 16. With a little more cynicism in the mix, maybe, and less wide-eyed optimism...certainly more worn patches on my psyche, and scars on my body, but mostly, still me. And no more capable of grappling with so much change, so much loss, so much worry any better than I was then. I might be a slightly better actor now, but when I lose the ability to act and hold it together, I REALLY LOSE IT and go entirely to pieces.
There has been a certain beauty in the raw honesty of losing it and having to rebuild, recreate, reestablish myself. But no matter how I shift or reshape my perspective in an attempt to better navigate the world, I am still me. The falling apart? Is going to happen.
I'm fortunate to have people in my life who will stick by me through the perpetual cycle. I'm sorry, incidentally, if they are reading this. I don't like being this way, but it is what it is.
It's all very phoenix-y. Getting ragged, smoldering, then bursting into flames, being comprehensively destroyed from the inside out then rebuilding from a tender, vulnerable renewed state.
Anyway.
Personally, my gains have been fragile; the losses have been robust. And I will not be sorry to see 2014 leave.
I'm sorry, sometimes there's no other way to say that.
You have the low level stuff...paper cuts, forgetting your grocery list, bad hair days, stepping in a puddle and soaking the hems of your jeans when you have to stay in them for a while longer.
Then it escalates, bringing you to flat tires, reflux, arguments, forgetting to pay a bill.
From there, it shoots into another stratosphere full of malfunctioning body parts, bureaucracy designed to drown you in minutiae, familial dissolution, bankruptcy.
And then there's the really big stuff. Terrorism. Disease. Natural disasters. Suffering. Death.
This year has brought a little bit from each tier. More than I'd like from the last two, especially the death and dying.
ALL SET. WITH THE DEATH. AND DYING.
I've been absent for five months, not because I've been tooling around Europe, refining my French skills, learning Italian dialects, photographing the rooftops of Prague, clicking my heels (hahahaha) on the cobbled avenues of Bruges, visiting the British Isles in search of familial roots, not redecorating the country house or using Pinterest to plan my elopement, but because I've been busy trying not to go off the friggin' deep end.
In case the previous decades hadn't got the job done, for the record, may I just state that this year. Has kicked. My. Ever loving. ASS.
Again, there's just not a better way to express this.
The year began - on day one - with the death of a former schoolmate, which shook me to my core. January ended with a death which rattled me even further with the unexpected loss of a most beloved friend. Two more deaths between February first and March 31st. My uncle died in April after a years long battle with cancer. The hits just did not stop. Come November, and word of the death of another friend from High School.
Can it just stop for a little while?
Can the suckage just STOP for a spell?
I realize at a certain age, these things begin to happen to people the age of our peers, rather than our parents and grandparents. Or should I say, in addition to our parents and grandparents.
Apparently, this is that age.
I'm not enjoying it.
Because the wrinkles and the white - I say, WHITE - hairs, and the other physical indignities of aging belie my inner age.
Inside, I feel pretty much the same way I did at age 16. With a little more cynicism in the mix, maybe, and less wide-eyed optimism...certainly more worn patches on my psyche, and scars on my body, but mostly, still me. And no more capable of grappling with so much change, so much loss, so much worry any better than I was then. I might be a slightly better actor now, but when I lose the ability to act and hold it together, I REALLY LOSE IT and go entirely to pieces.
There has been a certain beauty in the raw honesty of losing it and having to rebuild, recreate, reestablish myself. But no matter how I shift or reshape my perspective in an attempt to better navigate the world, I am still me. The falling apart? Is going to happen.
I'm fortunate to have people in my life who will stick by me through the perpetual cycle. I'm sorry, incidentally, if they are reading this. I don't like being this way, but it is what it is.
It's all very phoenix-y. Getting ragged, smoldering, then bursting into flames, being comprehensively destroyed from the inside out then rebuilding from a tender, vulnerable renewed state.
Anyway.
Personally, my gains have been fragile; the losses have been robust. And I will not be sorry to see 2014 leave.
Saturday, June 21, 2014
Food For Thought
I signed on with Weight Watchers last month. When I've done it properly, I've lost over 70 lbs in the past. When I've not done it properly, I've just paid a lot of money to feel guilty. I'm trying to do it properly this time. So far, I'm down 12 lbs. (Two rounds of steroids plus a hormone war in my body has slowed it down a bit, but down 12 is down 12. Only about 300 to go.) I qualify for bariatric surgery given my physical limitations, but I don't think I want it. So I'll Take Two of these.
While we're at it, how about the FDA in their boundless wisdom stop allowing crap like this in our food supply? And how about stopping all that GMO business? And why in the name of all that is holy is High Fructose Corn Syrup still permitted to be used in our food supply?
Look. I can't afford to buy all organic, though I would like to. I like McDonalds sometimes and I like Coca Cola and Mac&Cheese from the blue box and M&Ms and all that stuff. But the truth is terrifying and you can't un-ring a bell and now that I know all this - -well.
I've switched to organic iced tea from Diet Pepsi. We buy organic pretzels and lemonade mix which, while less than healthy, is at least not so much a chemical science project as the diet stuff we were drinking before. The bread has no HFCS in it, nor does the yogurt. I'm trying. And hoping the little steps in the right direction will have a big impact later.
If you aren't furious that the USDA / FDA are content to use you and your children as guinea pigs with little regard for the long term health of either of you, I'm not sure you clicked on or read through those links.
Listen to Robyn. Girlfriend knows her stuff.
While we're at it, how about the FDA in their boundless wisdom stop allowing crap like this in our food supply? And how about stopping all that GMO business? And why in the name of all that is holy is High Fructose Corn Syrup still permitted to be used in our food supply?
Look. I can't afford to buy all organic, though I would like to. I like McDonalds sometimes and I like Coca Cola and Mac&Cheese from the blue box and M&Ms and all that stuff. But the truth is terrifying and you can't un-ring a bell and now that I know all this - -well.
I've switched to organic iced tea from Diet Pepsi. We buy organic pretzels and lemonade mix which, while less than healthy, is at least not so much a chemical science project as the diet stuff we were drinking before. The bread has no HFCS in it, nor does the yogurt. I'm trying. And hoping the little steps in the right direction will have a big impact later.
If you aren't furious that the USDA / FDA are content to use you and your children as guinea pigs with little regard for the long term health of either of you, I'm not sure you clicked on or read through those links.
Listen to Robyn. Girlfriend knows her stuff.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Careless Whisper?
Somehow this is when the voices are the loudest.
(Not voices a la "wrap your head in tinfoil, mortals, lest they hear you" or "drown the cat, it's the devil" variety. Just to be clear.)
No. I mean the voices who whisper constantly, but almost in another language, or on another frequency. The ones like a crossed line in your own mind, the ones who you can't ever quite make out clearly. The nudgy little asides, impotent shouting, like someone in a foreign language trying to make you understand by raising the metaphorical volume, and the cacophonous whispers from deep within your mind which resemble nothing else so much as wind, whipping around your head, lapping at your hair, buffeting your ears, perfectly audible but incomprehensible.
Those voices.
Once the children have stilled for the night, slumbering in their beds, and the telephone lies dark and dormant, the television has been clicked into silence and the birds retreat to their arboreal rest - I find I am left with these swirling, wispy remnants of a thousand dreams, a lifetime of echoes, an eternity of concepts dancing through my poor, beleaguered thinking apparatus.
Is it any wonder sleep doesn't come easily or that I have busy dreams? I personally don't find any mystery in it but then again, I don't know anything about it really, and the voices, for all their persistence, aren't telling me.
(Not voices a la "wrap your head in tinfoil, mortals, lest they hear you" or "drown the cat, it's the devil" variety. Just to be clear.)
No. I mean the voices who whisper constantly, but almost in another language, or on another frequency. The ones like a crossed line in your own mind, the ones who you can't ever quite make out clearly. The nudgy little asides, impotent shouting, like someone in a foreign language trying to make you understand by raising the metaphorical volume, and the cacophonous whispers from deep within your mind which resemble nothing else so much as wind, whipping around your head, lapping at your hair, buffeting your ears, perfectly audible but incomprehensible.
Those voices.
Once the children have stilled for the night, slumbering in their beds, and the telephone lies dark and dormant, the television has been clicked into silence and the birds retreat to their arboreal rest - I find I am left with these swirling, wispy remnants of a thousand dreams, a lifetime of echoes, an eternity of concepts dancing through my poor, beleaguered thinking apparatus.
Is it any wonder sleep doesn't come easily or that I have busy dreams? I personally don't find any mystery in it but then again, I don't know anything about it really, and the voices, for all their persistence, aren't telling me.
Saturday, June 14, 2014
So Much To Say
My father is a long time dead.
He died the day before my birthday nearly 20 years ago.
It's ok. He was gravely ill, for a long time and it was a torturous existence with no quality of life and it was horrible for everyone to watch and endure. Things like that leave an indelible mark and you take it with you, everywhere, forever. While the end was terrible, it was also a relief - and that resulted in guilt, which was also terrible.
Also, it kind of resulted in a lengthy series of really crappy birthdays. I'm hopeful that I'll break the trend one day, but so far, no dice.
Then you have the anniversaries. The first year was the worst. Every first event , holiday, marker, signpost - everyone was like a fresh bludgeoning with a limb from the Harsh Reality Tree. I don't like that tree.
After that...it did get ... not better, exactly, certainly not nicer or more pleasant, but easier insofar as we'd learned to adapt to life without him and the sting lessened over time.
My father was not what you would call an easygoing man. He was not easy to get along with. He was not easy to please. He was not easily placated or accommodated or anything else, but he was my father, and what you realize as you get older is that you only ever get one and even if they didn't do the award-winning job they (probably) tried and (probably) wanted to do, it is likely that they did the best they could. Forgiveness lies at our feet; waiting to be picked up and bestowed upon them when we can, for whatever wrongs were committed.
And there were plenty of those. But I'm not going to discuss the specifics because those are between him and me, or between him and others, or between him and G-d, and that's where they are going to stay.
I'll tell you this; I know some people whose fathers are saintly, pillars of the community, about whom nobody can find a bad word to say, but friends, that was not my dad. My father took great pride in pissing people off, stirring the pot, causing trouble, disagreeing - loudly and in the most unconventional way possible - as often as possible. I'm not sure where my tendency to avoid confrontation comes from.
But he was funny. He fought for me to get the best orthopedic doctor in the best hospital in Boston when I came into the world with a pretty raging structural birth defect, and got me mostly put back together the right way. He put me on to the Three Stooges and Paul Simon. He let me watch Eddie Murphy movies when I really shouldn't have been allowed to, and let me practice driving far before I was ready (legally, mentally, emotionally) and went to school and yelled at a teacher who gave me a ration of crap on a regular basis for having the temerity to be alive and not up to snuff in her view. Regrettably, he took me with him to witness this, which resulted in a totally traumatic experience for me the following day. Hi.
It wasn't all bad.
It's almost easier to remember the bad things though, because I don't miss those. And when I'm thinking about them, I don't miss him either.
When I think about the good things - when I think about how he did his best and succeeded, when he tried and hit the mark, I do miss him. And it hurts all over again.
I don't have a dad.
I don't have a grandfather.
My one remaining paternal uncle and Godfather lives far away and has his own kids, and in laws and grandchildren.
My other two unles; one is far flung and not overly interested, and one is closer but still not overly interested. I mean granted, he has two small granddaughters and I'm fo- um...I'm old enough that I shouldn't be on his mind as someone who needs looking after.
My marriage - kaboom, flames, debris - I'm glad we can get along for the most part now, and I always make sure to honor the day with the boys for him - we make breakfast or dinner and make sure he has a gift or some little treats.a
And my boyfriend lives 3,270 miles away. Not that he's a father figure to me or my boys, but he is that piece - that adult male figure we can rely on and lean against, because he is a rock. A really far away rock.
Father's Day is tomorrow and it's really kicking me in the pants. Everybody is uploading snaps of their dad or pictures of them with their spouse and their kids, or what-have-you... and I'm over here... hi... I have a rabbit...and the Autistics and I are hanging out eating Cheez-Its (because we're on a Cheez-it kick) trying to get some mulch spread before winter comes around again, and I'm trying to call it a successful day if nobody fights too much and no blood is shed and everybody wears pants. Yay, parenting. But I'm not a dad. I can buy the mulch, point to where the mulch goes, but I can't spread it. (Physical limitations.)
I can tell them how to use the grill but I can't tell them how to build a fire.
I can't tell them how to bravely kill a bug.
I can't tell them how to change the oil.
I can't tell them how to pee in the damn bowl.
I can't tell them how to be a guy.
I can't even show them how to be a guy.
I can kind of tell them what I know about being a decent person, regardless of gender.
And whatever limited technical stuff I know, I can teach them.
So. Limited.
But I can't stop kicking myself for not surrounding them with better role models, or more role models or role models who have better longevity. I don't feel up to the task of being both or filling in the gaps their dad leaves, due to his own condition. You want to know about ancient history? He's your man. Japanese culture? All day. Comic books? Yes. Carpentry? Sure.
I just feel like I can never be, or give, enough to those children.
Maybe my dad felt like that too.
Maybe his departure was a relief for him too.
Anyway, this has got a bit rambly.
My point is, it's Father's Day tomorrow and I'd really just rather pretend it weren't, because I don't care if it is the 21st century and if I'm a largely independent, competent woman, sometimes you just miss having a father, or the idea of one.
He died the day before my birthday nearly 20 years ago.
It's ok. He was gravely ill, for a long time and it was a torturous existence with no quality of life and it was horrible for everyone to watch and endure. Things like that leave an indelible mark and you take it with you, everywhere, forever. While the end was terrible, it was also a relief - and that resulted in guilt, which was also terrible.
Also, it kind of resulted in a lengthy series of really crappy birthdays. I'm hopeful that I'll break the trend one day, but so far, no dice.
Then you have the anniversaries. The first year was the worst. Every first event , holiday, marker, signpost - everyone was like a fresh bludgeoning with a limb from the Harsh Reality Tree. I don't like that tree.
After that...it did get ... not better, exactly, certainly not nicer or more pleasant, but easier insofar as we'd learned to adapt to life without him and the sting lessened over time.
My father was not what you would call an easygoing man. He was not easy to get along with. He was not easy to please. He was not easily placated or accommodated or anything else, but he was my father, and what you realize as you get older is that you only ever get one and even if they didn't do the award-winning job they (probably) tried and (probably) wanted to do, it is likely that they did the best they could. Forgiveness lies at our feet; waiting to be picked up and bestowed upon them when we can, for whatever wrongs were committed.
And there were plenty of those. But I'm not going to discuss the specifics because those are between him and me, or between him and others, or between him and G-d, and that's where they are going to stay.
I'll tell you this; I know some people whose fathers are saintly, pillars of the community, about whom nobody can find a bad word to say, but friends, that was not my dad. My father took great pride in pissing people off, stirring the pot, causing trouble, disagreeing - loudly and in the most unconventional way possible - as often as possible. I'm not sure where my tendency to avoid confrontation comes from.
But he was funny. He fought for me to get the best orthopedic doctor in the best hospital in Boston when I came into the world with a pretty raging structural birth defect, and got me mostly put back together the right way. He put me on to the Three Stooges and Paul Simon. He let me watch Eddie Murphy movies when I really shouldn't have been allowed to, and let me practice driving far before I was ready (legally, mentally, emotionally) and went to school and yelled at a teacher who gave me a ration of crap on a regular basis for having the temerity to be alive and not up to snuff in her view. Regrettably, he took me with him to witness this, which resulted in a totally traumatic experience for me the following day. Hi.
It wasn't all bad.
It's almost easier to remember the bad things though, because I don't miss those. And when I'm thinking about them, I don't miss him either.
When I think about the good things - when I think about how he did his best and succeeded, when he tried and hit the mark, I do miss him. And it hurts all over again.
I don't have a dad.
I don't have a grandfather.
My one remaining paternal uncle and Godfather lives far away and has his own kids, and in laws and grandchildren.
My other two unles; one is far flung and not overly interested, and one is closer but still not overly interested. I mean granted, he has two small granddaughters and I'm fo- um...I'm old enough that I shouldn't be on his mind as someone who needs looking after.
My marriage - kaboom, flames, debris - I'm glad we can get along for the most part now, and I always make sure to honor the day with the boys for him - we make breakfast or dinner and make sure he has a gift or some little treats.a
And my boyfriend lives 3,270 miles away. Not that he's a father figure to me or my boys, but he is that piece - that adult male figure we can rely on and lean against, because he is a rock. A really far away rock.
Father's Day is tomorrow and it's really kicking me in the pants. Everybody is uploading snaps of their dad or pictures of them with their spouse and their kids, or what-have-you... and I'm over here... hi... I have a rabbit...and the Autistics and I are hanging out eating Cheez-Its (because we're on a Cheez-it kick) trying to get some mulch spread before winter comes around again, and I'm trying to call it a successful day if nobody fights too much and no blood is shed and everybody wears pants. Yay, parenting. But I'm not a dad. I can buy the mulch, point to where the mulch goes, but I can't spread it. (Physical limitations.)
I can tell them how to use the grill but I can't tell them how to build a fire.
I can't tell them how to bravely kill a bug.
I can't tell them how to change the oil.
I can't tell them how to pee in the damn bowl.
I can't tell them how to be a guy.
I can't even show them how to be a guy.
I can kind of tell them what I know about being a decent person, regardless of gender.
And whatever limited technical stuff I know, I can teach them.
So. Limited.
But I can't stop kicking myself for not surrounding them with better role models, or more role models or role models who have better longevity. I don't feel up to the task of being both or filling in the gaps their dad leaves, due to his own condition. You want to know about ancient history? He's your man. Japanese culture? All day. Comic books? Yes. Carpentry? Sure.
I just feel like I can never be, or give, enough to those children.
Maybe my dad felt like that too.
Maybe his departure was a relief for him too.
Anyway, this has got a bit rambly.
My point is, it's Father's Day tomorrow and I'd really just rather pretend it weren't, because I don't care if it is the 21st century and if I'm a largely independent, competent woman, sometimes you just miss having a father, or the idea of one.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
I Want It All (And I Want It Now)
Where are the comments??? Is this because nobody's reading, despite the page views and number of dots being on a steady increase? Or is it because of the word verification issue? Or the fact you need to sign in? Tell me. Because the newspaper column I write is wonderful and I get fan mail. Sometimes it's actual mail - on paper and everything. More often by far, it's an email. And I really like that. Probably too much.
Blogging is like that, or it used to be, but with the little treat at the end of instant gratification.
Let me say this about that: Gratification is a little freaking thin on the ground around here.
So while nobody is compelled to comment and say things good, bad, or otherwise - I suppose I'd prefer silence to banalities - I'm curious why people aren't commenting when, on my last several blogs, the comments came thick and fast.
What's the haps, people? (As my 12 year old would say - what's the haps...seriously...wth...)
Blogging is like that, or it used to be, but with the little treat at the end of instant gratification.
Let me say this about that: Gratification is a little freaking thin on the ground around here.
So while nobody is compelled to comment and say things good, bad, or otherwise - I suppose I'd prefer silence to banalities - I'm curious why people aren't commenting when, on my last several blogs, the comments came thick and fast.
What's the haps, people? (As my 12 year old would say - what's the haps...seriously...wth...)
Monday, June 9, 2014
Ring of Fire
A strange thing happened today.
Whilst perusing the aisles of the supermarket with two poorly children in tow - because we were out of crackers, and popsicles and gingerale, due to their mother's rampant slackerism - I ran into someone from a previous life...my life B.C.. Before Children.
I ran into my former boss. We didn't used to get along at all, and I mean at all, but over time, he softened and I matured and proved how good and reliable and smart and loyal I was, and we became friends. The time I worked for him was difficult for a lot of reasons - it was during that season of my life where you learn a lot of lessons about loss and disappointment and disillusionment and grief and shock and a whole bunch of really crappy stuff. Some of it did help forge a bond between us, because honestly, when you go through a significant volume of ...stuff... with someone, you can't help it. It's just the nature of things. He saw me through my father's death, my marriage (start to finish), three pregnancies, two births, and a scorching case of postpartum depression. I saw him through empty nestism, the loss of a parent, a friend, and a host of medical issues and illnesses. We went through an awful lot of stuff related to work - not typical stuff, either, but CSI / Law & Order stuff - and it's just how it is. Throw some metal in the fire and it somehow solders itself together. Even after time, when the metal cools, weakens and separates, there's always a little lip or notch where the break took place and those two pieces, when rejoined, will fit back together just so.
And so it was.
I didn't have my glasses on as I trudged through the market with my sulky brood, but I saw him from about a hundred yards away. I recognized his pace immediately, his loping gait, his posture. It had been a couple years since I'd seen him and I found my heart fluttered delightedly to encounter this familiar figure from my past. With him, I'd done a very Bostonian thing and gone from worst to first in the pecking order of office favor. Well. If not first, I made the top three. (I always found ways to get on his very last nerve and aggravate the ever loving monkey crap out of him. As one does.) Also, with him was the last time I felt like The Golden Girl on a daily basis. It was a good feeling and I miss it. The children aren't keen on pumping up parental self regard, and it isn't their job to do so, but dang, what a letdown.
He stopped when he saw me, and it took a moment for it to register - the passage of time, the absence of context - and then we both smiled broadly as the pieces of snapped metal slid back into alignment.
We hugged hello and chatted briefly about each other's health, the children - his, mine - work, hobbies, family well being. The children have a vague memory of him and shook his hand, all smiles - resentment over the lack of appropriate snack food for boys with turbulent tummies now long forgotten. They danced around performing a little bit, telling him about their favorite foods, telling him what grade they're in, how old they are now, what they get up to, how much one of them likes being taller than me, how one of them aspires to be taller than me, and how I am mean and won't buy them Oreos. (Because, child, I will eat them. ALL. OF. THEM. I can't have them in the house. I'm an Oreoaholic. And I'm not proud of that.)
Bossman beamed at me, rested his hand on my shoulder, drew me in for a sideways hug, congratulated me on producing such attractive, clever, amusing children, and said my care and nurturing had paid off, was evident in spades. I choked up quite a bit and got slightly teary. He laughed, which made me laugh, and we lapsed back into talk about The Good Old Days (which most certainly were not always , or even usually, good).
And then it happened.
He said, "So! It's been a lot of years! Got a new ring on that finger by now?"
And then, without waiting, he added, "Well, I have to figure you must have one by now."
A whole different brand of tears welled up inside. Hot, prickly, shameful tears. I couldn't even make a real sentence. I just shook my head, no, and muttered, "No, sorry.".
Sorry? Wait, what?
Why am I sorry?
Then he was sorry!
"Oh, I'm sorry about that. It didn't work out with that guy?"
Um...well, yes, it did. Is. Does. It's working. Mostly. Apart from that whole monumentally bereft thing and the lack of a scheduling framework and the protracted periods of separation. I'm not sure what I mumbled, but it was something like that.
He stared at me, incredulous, and shook his head a little. "I can't believe that."
Well, believe it, Bossman.
Thankfully, Door #2 picked that moment to tug Bossman's elbow and show him that he had a blue tongue and was insisting on being referred to as a Blue Tongued Skink for the rest of the day.
We got back to ogling and admiring my delightful specimens and hugged goodbye and that was that.
I left the store $180 poorer and still forgot the damn gingerale.
So no matter that I have sustained a creative position for seven years in an industry and setting where layoffs come thick and fast, or that I'm parenting a uniquely challenging duo here, or that I've maintained an LDR under what can only be described as difficult circumstances or that I haven't wrinkled up much or any of that. What still matters at the end of the day to society in general is whether someone loves you enough to mark you as theirs and claim you with the socially accepted token of a ring. Any ring of precious metal and or stones. Not even properly a diamond solitaire engagement ring. No?
Cue noises like: Eesh. Ooof. And insert pained, sucking-through-your-teeth noise here.
Why does it matter? I don't know. It just does. I've tried explaining this. I've tried plainly saying, "I would like a ring.". I have shopped for one, found one on sale for not much money and posted it with a link to its sale page publicly.
Nothing doing.
And I guess that's ok, because you know? I've had a ring. And at the end of the day, it didn't mean anything. But when you don't have one, your perspective tends to shift and it looks - and feels - very different...to society and to the ringless.
My cheeks were hot all the way through the store. I felt diminished. Less than. Insufficient. And embarrassed. One of the children asked whether I'd been hurt, if I felt ok, if I had a sunburn.
Oh, I was burned, all right.
But not by fire; I'd been accidentally grazed by a figuratively matching piece of solder.
Time has seen the flames dwindle but I'd be lying if I said there weren't embers still quick to glow red with feelings of inadequacy and shame at not being wanted enough to warrant the socially accepted mark of another.
And the question comes unbidden: Why?
The love is there. It is real and powerful.
The commitment is there and unshakable.
The ring, as I said, doesn't mean much in itself at the end of the day... but ah, the gesture does, and the desire to make that gesture does.
My mind is abuzz with self doubt and questions I cannot answer and do not wish to ask. And my heart feels quite wrung.
Whilst perusing the aisles of the supermarket with two poorly children in tow - because we were out of crackers, and popsicles and gingerale, due to their mother's rampant slackerism - I ran into someone from a previous life...my life B.C.. Before Children.
I ran into my former boss. We didn't used to get along at all, and I mean at all, but over time, he softened and I matured and proved how good and reliable and smart and loyal I was, and we became friends. The time I worked for him was difficult for a lot of reasons - it was during that season of my life where you learn a lot of lessons about loss and disappointment and disillusionment and grief and shock and a whole bunch of really crappy stuff. Some of it did help forge a bond between us, because honestly, when you go through a significant volume of ...stuff... with someone, you can't help it. It's just the nature of things. He saw me through my father's death, my marriage (start to finish), three pregnancies, two births, and a scorching case of postpartum depression. I saw him through empty nestism, the loss of a parent, a friend, and a host of medical issues and illnesses. We went through an awful lot of stuff related to work - not typical stuff, either, but CSI / Law & Order stuff - and it's just how it is. Throw some metal in the fire and it somehow solders itself together. Even after time, when the metal cools, weakens and separates, there's always a little lip or notch where the break took place and those two pieces, when rejoined, will fit back together just so.
And so it was.
I didn't have my glasses on as I trudged through the market with my sulky brood, but I saw him from about a hundred yards away. I recognized his pace immediately, his loping gait, his posture. It had been a couple years since I'd seen him and I found my heart fluttered delightedly to encounter this familiar figure from my past. With him, I'd done a very Bostonian thing and gone from worst to first in the pecking order of office favor. Well. If not first, I made the top three. (I always found ways to get on his very last nerve and aggravate the ever loving monkey crap out of him. As one does.) Also, with him was the last time I felt like The Golden Girl on a daily basis. It was a good feeling and I miss it. The children aren't keen on pumping up parental self regard, and it isn't their job to do so, but dang, what a letdown.
He stopped when he saw me, and it took a moment for it to register - the passage of time, the absence of context - and then we both smiled broadly as the pieces of snapped metal slid back into alignment.
We hugged hello and chatted briefly about each other's health, the children - his, mine - work, hobbies, family well being. The children have a vague memory of him and shook his hand, all smiles - resentment over the lack of appropriate snack food for boys with turbulent tummies now long forgotten. They danced around performing a little bit, telling him about their favorite foods, telling him what grade they're in, how old they are now, what they get up to, how much one of them likes being taller than me, how one of them aspires to be taller than me, and how I am mean and won't buy them Oreos. (Because, child, I will eat them. ALL. OF. THEM. I can't have them in the house. I'm an Oreoaholic. And I'm not proud of that.)
Bossman beamed at me, rested his hand on my shoulder, drew me in for a sideways hug, congratulated me on producing such attractive, clever, amusing children, and said my care and nurturing had paid off, was evident in spades. I choked up quite a bit and got slightly teary. He laughed, which made me laugh, and we lapsed back into talk about The Good Old Days (which most certainly were not always , or even usually, good).
And then it happened.
He said, "So! It's been a lot of years! Got a new ring on that finger by now?"
And then, without waiting, he added, "Well, I have to figure you must have one by now."
A whole different brand of tears welled up inside. Hot, prickly, shameful tears. I couldn't even make a real sentence. I just shook my head, no, and muttered, "No, sorry.".
Sorry? Wait, what?
Why am I sorry?
Then he was sorry!
"Oh, I'm sorry about that. It didn't work out with that guy?"
Um...well, yes, it did. Is. Does. It's working. Mostly. Apart from that whole monumentally bereft thing and the lack of a scheduling framework and the protracted periods of separation. I'm not sure what I mumbled, but it was something like that.
He stared at me, incredulous, and shook his head a little. "I can't believe that."
Well, believe it, Bossman.
Thankfully, Door #2 picked that moment to tug Bossman's elbow and show him that he had a blue tongue and was insisting on being referred to as a Blue Tongued Skink for the rest of the day.
We got back to ogling and admiring my delightful specimens and hugged goodbye and that was that.
I left the store $180 poorer and still forgot the damn gingerale.
So no matter that I have sustained a creative position for seven years in an industry and setting where layoffs come thick and fast, or that I'm parenting a uniquely challenging duo here, or that I've maintained an LDR under what can only be described as difficult circumstances or that I haven't wrinkled up much or any of that. What still matters at the end of the day to society in general is whether someone loves you enough to mark you as theirs and claim you with the socially accepted token of a ring. Any ring of precious metal and or stones. Not even properly a diamond solitaire engagement ring. No?
Cue noises like: Eesh. Ooof. And insert pained, sucking-through-your-teeth noise here.
Why does it matter? I don't know. It just does. I've tried explaining this. I've tried plainly saying, "I would like a ring.". I have shopped for one, found one on sale for not much money and posted it with a link to its sale page publicly.
Nothing doing.
And I guess that's ok, because you know? I've had a ring. And at the end of the day, it didn't mean anything. But when you don't have one, your perspective tends to shift and it looks - and feels - very different...to society and to the ringless.
My cheeks were hot all the way through the store. I felt diminished. Less than. Insufficient. And embarrassed. One of the children asked whether I'd been hurt, if I felt ok, if I had a sunburn.
Oh, I was burned, all right.
But not by fire; I'd been accidentally grazed by a figuratively matching piece of solder.
Time has seen the flames dwindle but I'd be lying if I said there weren't embers still quick to glow red with feelings of inadequacy and shame at not being wanted enough to warrant the socially accepted mark of another.
And the question comes unbidden: Why?
The love is there. It is real and powerful.
The commitment is there and unshakable.
The ring, as I said, doesn't mean much in itself at the end of the day... but ah, the gesture does, and the desire to make that gesture does.
My mind is abuzz with self doubt and questions I cannot answer and do not wish to ask. And my heart feels quite wrung.
Sunday, June 8, 2014
Bangagong
Holy hair.
What have I done???
For years, I coveted bangs - the wispy, the side swept, the chunky, the feathered, all the bangs.
Having hair which is naturally extremely - and I mean corkscrew, porous, keratin-deprived, kinky hair, and having spent a lot of my teens and twenties trying to coax bangs into behaving, I knew what deliberately cutting my hair into a new fringe would mean.
It would mean a lot: A lot of time, maintenance, product, aggravation, disappointment.
However.
Temptation is a funny thing. Frequently faced with all manner of temptation, I score only so-so with resisting it. Food, in particular, presents too great a temptation too often. Ditto shopping. The rest of it, I can largely resist. But oh, the bangs.
I did it.
And by the power of the flatiron, they looked okay! A bit shorter than I wanted -- I was going for this :
Or this: 
But with red hair, and ever so slightly more body mass. Ehem.
As is the natural order of things, however, the newly cut bangs looked more like this:
Oh dear. They were a little too short, and once the hair has been combed out within an inch of its life, it is all *poof* and frizzy. And when I say frizzy, I mean fah-rizzy, like this:
But no worries. I figured once I got home and set about repairing things with my own products and styling tools, I would be able to rein it in and make it look presentable.
Hi. It's essentially summer here. The air? Is warm. Which means I perspire. Particularly along my scalp, where my hair is. That means the hair gets wet. Which means it goes BOING. And gets BIG. So I have to take a leap of faith, apply forty seven metric tons of product and flatiron that sh*t into submission.
Which brings us to my new summer look:
Hi. It's essentially summer here. The air? Is warm. Which means I perspire. Particularly along my scalp, where my hair is. That means the hair gets wet. Which means it goes BOING. And gets BIG. So I have to take a leap of faith, apply forty seven metric tons of product and flatiron that sh*t into submission.
Which brings us to my new summer look:
But. With. Curls.
It is not good.
I've tentatively arrived at the conclusion that maybe bangs can happen from October / November until May or June, and then, we have to let them grow out and comb them into the tumbly, curly wilds of my insane hair.
Because with hair like this... it's going to be a long summer.
Monday, June 2, 2014
Skeletons From The Closet
Well, now.
Maybe you're reading, maybe you're not. But somewhere in my addled grey matter, some little spark of conscience and accountability is alive and well and remembered that I'd mentioned the state of my closet and that someone else out there might remember and ask about it, or, horrors, ask to see it. My lovely, lovely closet.
When I moved into this house, I'd intended each child to take an upstairs room and I'd have the one on the lower level. But when I did the walk through of the property, I realized how large the upstairs rooms really were. And then - THEN - I saw the closet in what is now my room.
It was so large (whilst still empty) that I could have put a Louise IV Fauteuil Chair in there that I might sit amongst my clothing and gaze upon my accessory wall. I have an accessory wall! But no such chair appeared, and it's just as well, because what did appear was a multitude of wonderfulness - jackets, dresses - wraps, sheaths, tanks, fit and flares, skater dresses - cardis, tunics, skirts, boots, scarves, hats, shoes, sunglasses, turtlenecks, sweaters, oxfords, luggage - essentially, all the things I'd had packed away were allowed out. And then, after a little harmless thrift store slash consignment shop indulgence, I brought in new friends to keep them company. Harmless, I tell you.
(Well, it was harmless at first, for that first winter I was here.)
Then came summer.
When you move house, you have to literally touch everything you own. A lot of things were tossed out, per common sense and a ruthless (but wonderful) team of friends who, amongst themselves, decided I needed a clothing intervention. I can't think why.
As temperatures climbed higher, I found I needed a new basic white tee. And a black one. And pink. Turquoise, too, obviously. Perhaps an A-line skirt. A fold down yoga skirt. Capris. Summer whites.
And then, my lovely closet was full to bursting. There was no space for the summer togs.
The two racks were jam packed with velvet hangers, dripping the dark, heathered, and jewel toned three-season clothes I'd already tucked away. The shelf above was full of bags - totes, backpacks, hobos, buckets, clutches, shoppers, duffels, messengers, shoulder and beach bags, evening bags, sorted by color.
The over-the-door shoe holder (as if one of those puny things could hold all the shoes - do be serious -) was stuffed instead with scarves - jacquard, pashmina, silk, cotton,rayon, pleated, infinity, printed with swirls, paisleys, lush summer flowers, tiny rosebuds, stripes, hombre fades, swaths of luxe fabric shot through with metallic thread. Also sorted by color, for the record.
Under the smaller rack, a laundry basket stuffed with pillows, my grandmother's handmade quilt, extra blankets... a nordic-printed basket full of winter accoutrements: Gloves (fleece, leather, knit, velvet), Scarves (yes, again - fleeces, knits,) and earmuffs. That's right, earmuffs.
My lovely pink, plaid suitcases, a gift from The Man, were nested against a wall next to the stack of sweatshirts, hoodies and massive, chunky knit sweaters for those snowy days which beg for the feel of a ski lodge nestled in the alps. Never mind that we live on a peninsula at the beach.
In the corner, a fabric storage bin atop white cubbies, filled with hosiery: Sheer stockings, tights silky with opacity, fleecy lined tights, trouser socks. In the cubby? Summer shoes - canvas, rubber soled, flip flops, haraches, thong sandals, open toed shoes, espadrilles. And beyond that -- the mother lode: A large white storage cube with partitions forming sub-cubbies for my real shoes. (The reader will note that my first batch of real shoes - pre pregnancy- were ruined, as they were stored in a damp basement... patent leather flats, Joan and David suede pumps - I can't even think about it - and then the pregnancies, which meant that after all was said and done, I went up a foot size, irrevocably...and that was before the broken ankle, which meant tossing anything with much of a heel or wedge or that could even hint at any possibility the wearer could slip, trip, slide, crash, fall and otherwise wind up in a crumpled, twisty heap on the ground with more broken bones. So this was Real Shoes, The Redux Part 2.)
No fair guessing - this is sorted by color too - dark to bright to neutral. Flats, mostly, some kitten heels, one or two chunky heels, a modest wedge; dark velvet, reds, beaded blues, hot pink, flowered, nudes, metallics - and boots. Ankle boots, riding boots, boots with buckles, scrunched boots, a very racy pair of high heeled booties with buttons and one scandalous pair of animal print heels so high I can't actually wear them unless I'm sitting down. On top of the shoe cubby, a bin full of hats (baseball hats, beach hats - straw, grosgrain, bucket), felt wool hats, and belts - beaded, braided, leather and rope.
It is a marvel, a kaleidoscopic array of lovely to look at, lovely to touch, clothing.
And it. Was. Full.
A secondhand, white wicker dresser was procured and pressed into service. Neutral shirts, red family shirts, blue/green family shirts... skirts, capris, and everything else. Lighter fabric folds up smaller and it all fit.
And there was much rejoicing.
This past March, I was afforded some time with The Man, which was, as ever, sublime. However. The separation? The parting? Facing untold weeks, months, with no date inked on the calendar when we could be together again? Nothing to look ahead to? NO PLAN? The horror...oh, the horror. It is difficult to bring myself to grapple with the daily grind in view of an emotional wasteland like that.
Dark thoughts along these lines superseded thoughts of all else - yes, even the clothes I'd painstakingly shopped for, arranged and stored so meticulously. It was easy at first; unpack the cases, toss the dirty laundry in a heap by the door, kick it down the stairs. Everything else...eh. Lay it out carefully on the chaise. Oh. More? Lay it, too, carefully on top of everything else on the chaise. What? The stack of lovingly piled clothing toppled? Ah, what a metaphor. Cue violins. Kleenex, stat. Exit stage left.
Did I mention that was in March?
It was June. JUNE! My lovely closet was decimated. Hangers sat askew, garments angrily tossed in on the floor... and out, on the floor...and on the computer chair...and the chaise...and the bookshelf. In short, the clothing was everywhere but on the velvet hangers I'd spent a Christmas gift card procuring.
I'm no neatnik, but I do like things in order. Not that my mind is particularly calm nor organized, but I find it difficult to find peace in a room or a space when it is a shambles. I'd done myself no favours allowing the entropy to flourish.
The funny thing, and it isn't actually funny, is that I would survey my surroundings - the tumult of my own manufacture - and lose all impetus to move forward with Project Pick Up Your Things. Instead, I would literally turn a blind eye, switch off the lights on that half of the room and lose myself in Law & Order or Say Yes To The Dress (because really, I needed to focus on excited, newly engaged women and more dresses). And it overtook me. And everything else.
Well last night was the breaking point and I wish I could tell you why, or what changed, or how the fire got lit under my Yes-To-The Dress-Saying behind, but it did get lit, and suddenly I was on my feet, flinging things into piles. Dresser, closet, other dresser - did I leave out mention of the gorgeous shabby chic dresser a friend gave me? The seafoam green, faintly whitewashed dresser with antique handles and a sublime patina? That's where socks and pyjamas, T-shirts and yoga pants live. And unmentionables, which, obviously, I cannot, will not, mention. Anyway - a pile by the door for laundry - fling, fling, fling! Eventually, it was all flung and tucked away in the appropriate places.
In the end, I was exhausted but - but! Order had been restored. I said yes to the dresses and the shoes and the scarves and the boots and the capris and the tees and the cardigans. I said yes to my room, which, insofar as a room can speak, was begging me to put it right. I said yes to resurrecting a peaceful environment, yes to transforming what had become my hidey hole into my retreat, my oasis. And my closet.
I can't stop looking at it. I just open the door and gaze upon it.
The room isn't perfect. It needs a vacuuming, some dusting, and some further decluttering but it's come a long way from where it was a week ago. I wish I were a long way from where I was a week ago too, but this is something, a good start.
I forgot how good writing can be for the soul; a creative, cathartic outlet which sort of, somehow or other, drew the skeletons out of my closet and motivated me to put the clothes back in it.
Maybe you're reading, maybe you're not. But somewhere in my addled grey matter, some little spark of conscience and accountability is alive and well and remembered that I'd mentioned the state of my closet and that someone else out there might remember and ask about it, or, horrors, ask to see it. My lovely, lovely closet.
When I moved into this house, I'd intended each child to take an upstairs room and I'd have the one on the lower level. But when I did the walk through of the property, I realized how large the upstairs rooms really were. And then - THEN - I saw the closet in what is now my room.
It was so large (whilst still empty) that I could have put a Louise IV Fauteuil Chair in there that I might sit amongst my clothing and gaze upon my accessory wall. I have an accessory wall! But no such chair appeared, and it's just as well, because what did appear was a multitude of wonderfulness - jackets, dresses - wraps, sheaths, tanks, fit and flares, skater dresses - cardis, tunics, skirts, boots, scarves, hats, shoes, sunglasses, turtlenecks, sweaters, oxfords, luggage - essentially, all the things I'd had packed away were allowed out. And then, after a little harmless thrift store slash consignment shop indulgence, I brought in new friends to keep them company. Harmless, I tell you.
(Well, it was harmless at first, for that first winter I was here.)
Then came summer.
When you move house, you have to literally touch everything you own. A lot of things were tossed out, per common sense and a ruthless (but wonderful) team of friends who, amongst themselves, decided I needed a clothing intervention. I can't think why.
As temperatures climbed higher, I found I needed a new basic white tee. And a black one. And pink. Turquoise, too, obviously. Perhaps an A-line skirt. A fold down yoga skirt. Capris. Summer whites.
And then, my lovely closet was full to bursting. There was no space for the summer togs.
The two racks were jam packed with velvet hangers, dripping the dark, heathered, and jewel toned three-season clothes I'd already tucked away. The shelf above was full of bags - totes, backpacks, hobos, buckets, clutches, shoppers, duffels, messengers, shoulder and beach bags, evening bags, sorted by color.
The over-the-door shoe holder (as if one of those puny things could hold all the shoes - do be serious -) was stuffed instead with scarves - jacquard, pashmina, silk, cotton,rayon, pleated, infinity, printed with swirls, paisleys, lush summer flowers, tiny rosebuds, stripes, hombre fades, swaths of luxe fabric shot through with metallic thread. Also sorted by color, for the record.
Under the smaller rack, a laundry basket stuffed with pillows, my grandmother's handmade quilt, extra blankets... a nordic-printed basket full of winter accoutrements: Gloves (fleece, leather, knit, velvet), Scarves (yes, again - fleeces, knits,) and earmuffs. That's right, earmuffs.
My lovely pink, plaid suitcases, a gift from The Man, were nested against a wall next to the stack of sweatshirts, hoodies and massive, chunky knit sweaters for those snowy days which beg for the feel of a ski lodge nestled in the alps. Never mind that we live on a peninsula at the beach.
In the corner, a fabric storage bin atop white cubbies, filled with hosiery: Sheer stockings, tights silky with opacity, fleecy lined tights, trouser socks. In the cubby? Summer shoes - canvas, rubber soled, flip flops, haraches, thong sandals, open toed shoes, espadrilles. And beyond that -- the mother lode: A large white storage cube with partitions forming sub-cubbies for my real shoes. (The reader will note that my first batch of real shoes - pre pregnancy- were ruined, as they were stored in a damp basement... patent leather flats, Joan and David suede pumps - I can't even think about it - and then the pregnancies, which meant that after all was said and done, I went up a foot size, irrevocably...and that was before the broken ankle, which meant tossing anything with much of a heel or wedge or that could even hint at any possibility the wearer could slip, trip, slide, crash, fall and otherwise wind up in a crumpled, twisty heap on the ground with more broken bones. So this was Real Shoes, The Redux Part 2.)
No fair guessing - this is sorted by color too - dark to bright to neutral. Flats, mostly, some kitten heels, one or two chunky heels, a modest wedge; dark velvet, reds, beaded blues, hot pink, flowered, nudes, metallics - and boots. Ankle boots, riding boots, boots with buckles, scrunched boots, a very racy pair of high heeled booties with buttons and one scandalous pair of animal print heels so high I can't actually wear them unless I'm sitting down. On top of the shoe cubby, a bin full of hats (baseball hats, beach hats - straw, grosgrain, bucket), felt wool hats, and belts - beaded, braided, leather and rope.
It is a marvel, a kaleidoscopic array of lovely to look at, lovely to touch, clothing.
And it. Was. Full.
A secondhand, white wicker dresser was procured and pressed into service. Neutral shirts, red family shirts, blue/green family shirts... skirts, capris, and everything else. Lighter fabric folds up smaller and it all fit.
And there was much rejoicing.
This past March, I was afforded some time with The Man, which was, as ever, sublime. However. The separation? The parting? Facing untold weeks, months, with no date inked on the calendar when we could be together again? Nothing to look ahead to? NO PLAN? The horror...oh, the horror. It is difficult to bring myself to grapple with the daily grind in view of an emotional wasteland like that.
Dark thoughts along these lines superseded thoughts of all else - yes, even the clothes I'd painstakingly shopped for, arranged and stored so meticulously. It was easy at first; unpack the cases, toss the dirty laundry in a heap by the door, kick it down the stairs. Everything else...eh. Lay it out carefully on the chaise. Oh. More? Lay it, too, carefully on top of everything else on the chaise. What? The stack of lovingly piled clothing toppled? Ah, what a metaphor. Cue violins. Kleenex, stat. Exit stage left.
Did I mention that was in March?
It was June. JUNE! My lovely closet was decimated. Hangers sat askew, garments angrily tossed in on the floor... and out, on the floor...and on the computer chair...and the chaise...and the bookshelf. In short, the clothing was everywhere but on the velvet hangers I'd spent a Christmas gift card procuring.
I'm no neatnik, but I do like things in order. Not that my mind is particularly calm nor organized, but I find it difficult to find peace in a room or a space when it is a shambles. I'd done myself no favours allowing the entropy to flourish.
The funny thing, and it isn't actually funny, is that I would survey my surroundings - the tumult of my own manufacture - and lose all impetus to move forward with Project Pick Up Your Things. Instead, I would literally turn a blind eye, switch off the lights on that half of the room and lose myself in Law & Order or Say Yes To The Dress (because really, I needed to focus on excited, newly engaged women and more dresses). And it overtook me. And everything else.
Well last night was the breaking point and I wish I could tell you why, or what changed, or how the fire got lit under my Yes-To-The Dress-Saying behind, but it did get lit, and suddenly I was on my feet, flinging things into piles. Dresser, closet, other dresser - did I leave out mention of the gorgeous shabby chic dresser a friend gave me? The seafoam green, faintly whitewashed dresser with antique handles and a sublime patina? That's where socks and pyjamas, T-shirts and yoga pants live. And unmentionables, which, obviously, I cannot, will not, mention. Anyway - a pile by the door for laundry - fling, fling, fling! Eventually, it was all flung and tucked away in the appropriate places.
In the end, I was exhausted but - but! Order had been restored. I said yes to the dresses and the shoes and the scarves and the boots and the capris and the tees and the cardigans. I said yes to my room, which, insofar as a room can speak, was begging me to put it right. I said yes to resurrecting a peaceful environment, yes to transforming what had become my hidey hole into my retreat, my oasis. And my closet.
I can't stop looking at it. I just open the door and gaze upon it.
The room isn't perfect. It needs a vacuuming, some dusting, and some further decluttering but it's come a long way from where it was a week ago. I wish I were a long way from where I was a week ago too, but this is something, a good start.
I forgot how good writing can be for the soul; a creative, cathartic outlet which sort of, somehow or other, drew the skeletons out of my closet and motivated me to put the clothes back in it.
Friday, May 30, 2014
I'm Still Standing
Well, let's try this again.
Since March, a lot has happened.
I managed to eke out a trip to see The Man. So that was great.
Regrettably, I developed a fierce case of plantar fasciitis and a bone spur, and couldn't walk around so I spent a lot of time sleeping, watching tv, and taking public transportation out to dinner. Really. Good. Dinners. It wasn't our usual sort of visit but it was wonderful nonetheless; that's the thing about your Person - it's always wonderful to be in their company.
Then I bawled my eyes out as I flew back to the myriad of schtuff awaiting my return at my post in the trenches on the frontline.
Well, anyway.
Nearly two weeks later, my uncle did indeed pass away. Horribly sad in and of itself, it triggered a whole chain reaction regarding loss and things left undone or unsaid, unchecked items on ignored bucket lists - - you get the idea.
Then Easter, and April vacation, and a lot of anxiety for me - more than usual - and then Mother's Day.
All those were okay - and then Weight Watchers.
Let me say this about that: I am not comfortable in my skin anymore. I was for a while, when I was young, until some clod told me I shouldn't be because I wasn't the right shape, size, and my appearance was objectionable. Even today - - without mirrors or cameras or society, telling me how inappropriate and horrible I am for not being the right size - - I feel ok in my own skin, but then , inevitably, you DO see yourself in the mirror or a photo and you cringe because of the disparity between your appearance and Sofia Vergara's. That leads to the glum-and-moodies which leads to sausage and green pepper pizza with wine and Coffee Coffee Heath Bar Crunch for dessert. I don't care what you say - I love vegetables (some of them) and I drink - even enjoy - water, but veggies and fruit are not satisfying. Water is not satisfying and drinking a bathtub full before meals does not make me less hungry, it makes me nauseated. So then I"m hungry and nauseated. Yayness.
So? There's exercise for that, I hear you saying. Yes. Yes there is. But it's miserable and I hate it. I do not get an endorphin rush, a full tide of seratonin, a wash of dopamine. Exercise pisses me off and makes me hungry, and not in the "Oh I'll have an orange" or "Yum, salad!" kind of way -- no -- more in the "Where's the closest Burger King" kind of way. Which is a real kick in the teeth, if you ask me. I have yet to meet a professional who can explain this to me. Further, if you had occipital neuralgia, trigeminal neuralgia, osteoarthritis, a bone spur and plantar fasciitis on top of an innate loathing of exercise and scorching depression, you wouldn't entertain the idea of serious exercise either.
I did Weight Watchers years ago , before Jack, and lost over 40lbs (3 stone for you UK types). Then Jack came, and I gained 22 lbs. Then Jack was born and I lost most of that...but then the postpartum depression grabbed me in its teeth, shaking me around but good, and then came Prozac and twenty five pounds of its friends. Then came William. I only gained 2 lbs - TWO! - with him, and let him sort of live off the land, as it were - - and the week after I delivered him, I was back in regular jeans - nice! ...except for the resurgence of Postpartum depression and the reintroduction of prozac, which resulted in more weight coming to the party.
I wish I were one of those people who forgets to eat, or is so stressed / sad / depressed / tired / happy that her appetite vanishes. But no. No. I wake up hungry, I go to sleep hungry, and I'm physically hungry - like, with a growling tummy - most of the day. Add stress or sadness or depression or fatigue or anything , particularly CONSCIOUSNESS , to the mix, and my appetite flares up in a major way.
I'm hungry RIGHT NOW.
But I digress.
Weight Watchers may take more time than Atkins or Ideal Protein or Zone or Paleo - but the fact is - when girlfriend here needs her chocolate? She needs her chocolate. Ditto wine, potatoes, bread, ice cream. Did I say chocolate?
So WW is the only plan I know which allows it. Nothing is off limits. And it worked before. And twice after that. I dropped 30 lbs after my marriage went down in flames and I dropped 20lbs again after that - it's the keeping it off which presents the biggest problem.
And now, lamentably, I am no longer 28. So am old and disgraceful and my self esteem is circling the drain. Before I wind up on My 600 Pound Life, I decided to try WW again. 3 weeks later, I am down 8 lbs. That's not horrible. So... eh.
Also, my nerves are breaking apart and I'm going to pieces. So getting kind of a lot of professional support at the moment in an attempt to get my shit together and be a Real Person who looks cute(ish) and gets compliments sometimes and doesn't cry when she gets overwhelmed in the paper goods aisle at the supermarket because she can't find her usual trashcan liners. This totally happens.
Well, and so. You're caught up.
I need a haircut, a vacation, a box of fifties, and a spa day. Also someone to walk behind me kicking me in the pants, away from the kitchen and through the entropy in my closet which, while lovely, has gone *boom* , spewing contents everywhere - and me without any wherewithal to manage it.
Just...really overwhelmed right now. Trying to keep perspective and forge ahead in the right direction. And I have come to the worrying conclusion that for now, I have to come first. Ish. After the children, obviously. Thing is, I am not at my peak performance or my highest heights, not at my best or strongest. I am here and I am still plugging away and yes, I'm still standing. But people better be prepared to meet me where I am for a while.
Allrighty then.
Since March, a lot has happened.
I managed to eke out a trip to see The Man. So that was great.
Regrettably, I developed a fierce case of plantar fasciitis and a bone spur, and couldn't walk around so I spent a lot of time sleeping, watching tv, and taking public transportation out to dinner. Really. Good. Dinners. It wasn't our usual sort of visit but it was wonderful nonetheless; that's the thing about your Person - it's always wonderful to be in their company.
Then I bawled my eyes out as I flew back to the myriad of schtuff awaiting my return at my post in the trenches on the frontline.
Well, anyway.
Nearly two weeks later, my uncle did indeed pass away. Horribly sad in and of itself, it triggered a whole chain reaction regarding loss and things left undone or unsaid, unchecked items on ignored bucket lists - - you get the idea.
Then Easter, and April vacation, and a lot of anxiety for me - more than usual - and then Mother's Day.
All those were okay - and then Weight Watchers.
Let me say this about that: I am not comfortable in my skin anymore. I was for a while, when I was young, until some clod told me I shouldn't be because I wasn't the right shape, size, and my appearance was objectionable. Even today - - without mirrors or cameras or society, telling me how inappropriate and horrible I am for not being the right size - - I feel ok in my own skin, but then , inevitably, you DO see yourself in the mirror or a photo and you cringe because of the disparity between your appearance and Sofia Vergara's. That leads to the glum-and-moodies which leads to sausage and green pepper pizza with wine and Coffee Coffee Heath Bar Crunch for dessert. I don't care what you say - I love vegetables (some of them) and I drink - even enjoy - water, but veggies and fruit are not satisfying. Water is not satisfying and drinking a bathtub full before meals does not make me less hungry, it makes me nauseated. So then I"m hungry and nauseated. Yayness.
So? There's exercise for that, I hear you saying. Yes. Yes there is. But it's miserable and I hate it. I do not get an endorphin rush, a full tide of seratonin, a wash of dopamine. Exercise pisses me off and makes me hungry, and not in the "Oh I'll have an orange" or "Yum, salad!" kind of way -- no -- more in the "Where's the closest Burger King" kind of way. Which is a real kick in the teeth, if you ask me. I have yet to meet a professional who can explain this to me. Further, if you had occipital neuralgia, trigeminal neuralgia, osteoarthritis, a bone spur and plantar fasciitis on top of an innate loathing of exercise and scorching depression, you wouldn't entertain the idea of serious exercise either.
I did Weight Watchers years ago , before Jack, and lost over 40lbs (3 stone for you UK types). Then Jack came, and I gained 22 lbs. Then Jack was born and I lost most of that...but then the postpartum depression grabbed me in its teeth, shaking me around but good, and then came Prozac and twenty five pounds of its friends. Then came William. I only gained 2 lbs - TWO! - with him, and let him sort of live off the land, as it were - - and the week after I delivered him, I was back in regular jeans - nice! ...except for the resurgence of Postpartum depression and the reintroduction of prozac, which resulted in more weight coming to the party.
I wish I were one of those people who forgets to eat, or is so stressed / sad / depressed / tired / happy that her appetite vanishes. But no. No. I wake up hungry, I go to sleep hungry, and I'm physically hungry - like, with a growling tummy - most of the day. Add stress or sadness or depression or fatigue or anything , particularly CONSCIOUSNESS , to the mix, and my appetite flares up in a major way.
I'm hungry RIGHT NOW.
But I digress.
Weight Watchers may take more time than Atkins or Ideal Protein or Zone or Paleo - but the fact is - when girlfriend here needs her chocolate? She needs her chocolate. Ditto wine, potatoes, bread, ice cream. Did I say chocolate?
So WW is the only plan I know which allows it. Nothing is off limits. And it worked before. And twice after that. I dropped 30 lbs after my marriage went down in flames and I dropped 20lbs again after that - it's the keeping it off which presents the biggest problem.
And now, lamentably, I am no longer 28. So am old and disgraceful and my self esteem is circling the drain. Before I wind up on My 600 Pound Life, I decided to try WW again. 3 weeks later, I am down 8 lbs. That's not horrible. So... eh.
Also, my nerves are breaking apart and I'm going to pieces. So getting kind of a lot of professional support at the moment in an attempt to get my shit together and be a Real Person who looks cute(ish) and gets compliments sometimes and doesn't cry when she gets overwhelmed in the paper goods aisle at the supermarket because she can't find her usual trashcan liners. This totally happens.
Well, and so. You're caught up.
I need a haircut, a vacation, a box of fifties, and a spa day. Also someone to walk behind me kicking me in the pants, away from the kitchen and through the entropy in my closet which, while lovely, has gone *boom* , spewing contents everywhere - and me without any wherewithal to manage it.
Just...really overwhelmed right now. Trying to keep perspective and forge ahead in the right direction. And I have come to the worrying conclusion that for now, I have to come first. Ish. After the children, obviously. Thing is, I am not at my peak performance or my highest heights, not at my best or strongest. I am here and I am still plugging away and yes, I'm still standing. But people better be prepared to meet me where I am for a while.
Allrighty then.
Monday, March 10, 2014
A Hazy Shade of Winter
I should have known better than to start, then publicize, a blog with so lighthearted a name as "The Glorious Whimsy". With a nod to some of my more enlightened friends and certain philosophies extolling the virtue of positive thinking and the laws of attraction and such like, I did, though.
Which is why I haven't posted for two months.
There goes my resolve to blog every day. There it goes for nearly sixty consecutive days.
I have my reasons, of course. Chief among them is the fact that of late, I have begun to feel like the Angel of Death. It's everywhere, and it's all the time. Four deaths in three months, and it will be five deaths shortly as a family member approaches the end of his battle with stage four stomach cancer.
Death is not new to me. It has been an all too frequent caller since I was seven - my grandfather... a few years later, my grandmother... a cousin... a neighborhood friend, a teacher, a classmate, my father, his parents, another friend, and another and another and another - the most bizarre deaths, too, not just your bog standard death-at-the-end-of-a-long-life-well-lived. There were a few of those; but truthfully, most were more remarkable. Death following horribly cruel and protracted illnesses, death following the sudden manifestation of a problem nobody knew about, a crash, a drowning, a murder, exsanguination, painfully early deaths - it just goes on like that.
While one never truly gets used to the idea that literally EVERY SINGLE PERSON YOU KNOW is going to pop their clogs one day - and no fair guessing, you can't know when - I previously thought I'd got comfortable with the concept.
G-d and I are good; I died briefly once myself. (To quote Monty Python, I got better.) It was at the end of an extremely routine surgery and the surgeon told me that I just...stopped. Flatline, no breathing, no pulse. They jammed the breathing tube back into me, pumped things up again and hey presto, back to life. You're welcome.
And I know how to make peace with people. I can negotiate the choppy waters of The End of things - relationships, jobs, lives. I know how to grieve, I understand the process, I accept the universal truth of it. But it still rattles me. Every. Single. Time. Even when you expect it, it rattles the nerves and brings you spang up against your own mortality in an exceedingly unpleasant way.
And I'm not used it it. I'm not.
I'm sick of it. I hate it. I hate the unpredictability and the inevitability and the relentless permanence of it.
When you grapple with clinical (and I mean clinical) Anxiety Disorder, the idea that one day without any warning at all, people will be gone from your life (perversely, the good ones, more often than not) and there will be nothing you can do - no amount of crying or wishing or praying will undo it, there is no court of appeals - no undo button, no do over, nothing - checkmate, end game, full stop - well.
Every day becomes a special kind of hell. I find myself wondering whether it would be better to start culling people so the losses are fewer, because it may be preferable to not seeing someone to whom you are close ever again.
Until, of course - well - but - views on what happens AFTER vary widely. Mine are favorable and rather nice, really. But having some significant experience on long distance relationships with the living, during which you must go extended periods of time without seeing each other, I am none too keen on the extended period of time I must go without seeing or speaking with my beloved decedents. Then again, I'm not keen to join them, either.
And by this time in my life, you'd think - or at least, I'd thought - I'd be a bit more rooted, grounded, secure...tethered and fortified and able to deal with it all a bit better. But no.
No.
After my father died, and I mean really after - after the funeral and the cards and the flowers and the people all go home and get on with their lives while you're left to contend with the giant hole in yours... I remember choking on my own insomnia. I would fall asleep at one, two in the morning and wake up to see the first fiery sliver of sun appear in the sky. And I remember sitting in traffic, looking at the lights changing and everyone serenely driving through them.
And for the first time, I grasped the notion that the earth really does just keep turning. Night falls, the moon shines, the stars peek out, the owls call...the sun rises, and you are expected to get up and continue living.
I did, of course.
And I will.
The skies these days are full of milky sunlight, the kind which precedes the warmth of spring but gives one a bit of hope that it won't always be winter. Through the haze, sometimes I think I can feel the seasons shifting gears, can practically hear the shift in the trees, the wind, the ocean.
And now I clench up inside and wonder what changes they will bring. Who else will die?
It's no way to go through life, that.
So I'm trying to shift my own gears and ask a different question - will you live?
And I don't mean will you keep on with the breathing and the brain waves - I mean - will you LIVE? Will you embrace opportunities and go and do and say and really LIVE as much as you can? Despite the cruelty and horror and fear and ugliness that pervades this business of earthly existence?
As with the name of this blog, I will only know later if this will prove true, but for right now, right this moment, I choose to answer yes. Yes, I will.
Details to follow, I suppose.
Hm.
Yes.
Which is why I haven't posted for two months.
There goes my resolve to blog every day. There it goes for nearly sixty consecutive days.
I have my reasons, of course. Chief among them is the fact that of late, I have begun to feel like the Angel of Death. It's everywhere, and it's all the time. Four deaths in three months, and it will be five deaths shortly as a family member approaches the end of his battle with stage four stomach cancer.
Death is not new to me. It has been an all too frequent caller since I was seven - my grandfather... a few years later, my grandmother... a cousin... a neighborhood friend, a teacher, a classmate, my father, his parents, another friend, and another and another and another - the most bizarre deaths, too, not just your bog standard death-at-the-end-of-a-long-life-well-lived. There were a few of those; but truthfully, most were more remarkable. Death following horribly cruel and protracted illnesses, death following the sudden manifestation of a problem nobody knew about, a crash, a drowning, a murder, exsanguination, painfully early deaths - it just goes on like that.
While one never truly gets used to the idea that literally EVERY SINGLE PERSON YOU KNOW is going to pop their clogs one day - and no fair guessing, you can't know when - I previously thought I'd got comfortable with the concept.
G-d and I are good; I died briefly once myself. (To quote Monty Python, I got better.) It was at the end of an extremely routine surgery and the surgeon told me that I just...stopped. Flatline, no breathing, no pulse. They jammed the breathing tube back into me, pumped things up again and hey presto, back to life. You're welcome.
And I know how to make peace with people. I can negotiate the choppy waters of The End of things - relationships, jobs, lives. I know how to grieve, I understand the process, I accept the universal truth of it. But it still rattles me. Every. Single. Time. Even when you expect it, it rattles the nerves and brings you spang up against your own mortality in an exceedingly unpleasant way.
And I'm not used it it. I'm not.
I'm sick of it. I hate it. I hate the unpredictability and the inevitability and the relentless permanence of it.
When you grapple with clinical (and I mean clinical) Anxiety Disorder, the idea that one day without any warning at all, people will be gone from your life (perversely, the good ones, more often than not) and there will be nothing you can do - no amount of crying or wishing or praying will undo it, there is no court of appeals - no undo button, no do over, nothing - checkmate, end game, full stop - well.
Every day becomes a special kind of hell. I find myself wondering whether it would be better to start culling people so the losses are fewer, because it may be preferable to not seeing someone to whom you are close ever again.
Until, of course - well - but - views on what happens AFTER vary widely. Mine are favorable and rather nice, really. But having some significant experience on long distance relationships with the living, during which you must go extended periods of time without seeing each other, I am none too keen on the extended period of time I must go without seeing or speaking with my beloved decedents. Then again, I'm not keen to join them, either.
And by this time in my life, you'd think - or at least, I'd thought - I'd be a bit more rooted, grounded, secure...tethered and fortified and able to deal with it all a bit better. But no.
No.
After my father died, and I mean really after - after the funeral and the cards and the flowers and the people all go home and get on with their lives while you're left to contend with the giant hole in yours... I remember choking on my own insomnia. I would fall asleep at one, two in the morning and wake up to see the first fiery sliver of sun appear in the sky. And I remember sitting in traffic, looking at the lights changing and everyone serenely driving through them.
And for the first time, I grasped the notion that the earth really does just keep turning. Night falls, the moon shines, the stars peek out, the owls call...the sun rises, and you are expected to get up and continue living.
I did, of course.
And I will.
The skies these days are full of milky sunlight, the kind which precedes the warmth of spring but gives one a bit of hope that it won't always be winter. Through the haze, sometimes I think I can feel the seasons shifting gears, can practically hear the shift in the trees, the wind, the ocean.
And now I clench up inside and wonder what changes they will bring. Who else will die?
It's no way to go through life, that.
So I'm trying to shift my own gears and ask a different question - will you live?
And I don't mean will you keep on with the breathing and the brain waves - I mean - will you LIVE? Will you embrace opportunities and go and do and say and really LIVE as much as you can? Despite the cruelty and horror and fear and ugliness that pervades this business of earthly existence?
As with the name of this blog, I will only know later if this will prove true, but for right now, right this moment, I choose to answer yes. Yes, I will.
Details to follow, I suppose.
Hm.
Yes.
Friday, January 10, 2014
Who Needs Sleep
This girl.
And I got some. The good kind, with REM sleep. And dreams.
My dreams are usually pretty funky but these were wacky even by my standards, featuring a cousin, my father, my brother, some Soprano's type dude, a former co worker, my grandfather, and a whole bunch of wacky circumstances involving professional yard sale selling and a secret vault and a hidden key -
You know what? I think I need some more sleep. One night is not enough to counter chronic sleep deprivation - so I'm off. (This will get better. And easier. Probably.)
And I got some. The good kind, with REM sleep. And dreams.
My dreams are usually pretty funky but these were wacky even by my standards, featuring a cousin, my father, my brother, some Soprano's type dude, a former co worker, my grandfather, and a whole bunch of wacky circumstances involving professional yard sale selling and a secret vault and a hidden key -
You know what? I think I need some more sleep. One night is not enough to counter chronic sleep deprivation - so I'm off. (This will get better. And easier. Probably.)
Thursday, January 9, 2014
So Much To Say
And too busy to say it or think it through properly.
I have a column due; struggling on that front.
Laundry Hill growing into Laundry Mountain.
Adjusting to being two, easily, and trying to enjoy it instead of fretting about how quickly it goes by.
Children. Driving. Me. CRAZY.
Anyway.
I posted. Job done. Back again later.
I have a column due; struggling on that front.
Laundry Hill growing into Laundry Mountain.
Adjusting to being two, easily, and trying to enjoy it instead of fretting about how quickly it goes by.
Children. Driving. Me. CRAZY.
Anyway.
I posted. Job done. Back again later.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
(You've Got) The Magic Touch
Last night while I was waiting at the airport, I had some time to sit and indulge in some voyeurism.
People lined up at the gate and waited for someone. Parents..children...spouses...lovers, friends, brothers...
They fidgeted. They tapped their feet. They tapped their smartphones. They looked around. They sipped coffee and water, their faces betraying their anxiety, eagerness, impatience.
And one by each, as their loved ones came through the doors, wheeling their luggage or pushing a cart, their faces would change, muscles relaxing into smiles, laughing, shouting out to each other, some growing tearful - and I began to notice something.
As soon as they were able, every time - every single time - someone came through the gate to be met by someone else, they made physical contact. Handshake, shoulder clap, hug, kiss, high five, pat on the back - it didn't seem to matter. Men, women, children - the young, the elderly, the middle aged, the teenagers - it seemed like they were all compelled to achieve that physical connection as soon as possible.
They've done studies determining how important physical touch is - the impact it has on mood, self esteem, depression, health - not just for the huggee, but for the hugger as well. And at the end of the day, I guess we not only want it, but we need it. And somewhere in our collective consciousness, maybe we know it. Or maybe it's being largely deprived of touch during your travel and flight times, apart from the lucky few who are treated to a TSA grope or a handsy seatmate. But I really think it goes deeper than that.
We are affiliative creatures by nature. No matter how stodgy or badass or frosty or elsewise impervious my fellow airporters presented themselves to the world, they all wanted that touch. So consider the notion that while you might recognize how you benefit from receiving physical touch, you can also meet the inherent human need of others by simply by making physical contact with them.
It's astonishing and wonderful. And I found the whole thing rather...er... touching.
People lined up at the gate and waited for someone. Parents..children...spouses...lovers, friends, brothers...
They fidgeted. They tapped their feet. They tapped their smartphones. They looked around. They sipped coffee and water, their faces betraying their anxiety, eagerness, impatience.
And one by each, as their loved ones came through the doors, wheeling their luggage or pushing a cart, their faces would change, muscles relaxing into smiles, laughing, shouting out to each other, some growing tearful - and I began to notice something.
As soon as they were able, every time - every single time - someone came through the gate to be met by someone else, they made physical contact. Handshake, shoulder clap, hug, kiss, high five, pat on the back - it didn't seem to matter. Men, women, children - the young, the elderly, the middle aged, the teenagers - it seemed like they were all compelled to achieve that physical connection as soon as possible.
They've done studies determining how important physical touch is - the impact it has on mood, self esteem, depression, health - not just for the huggee, but for the hugger as well. And at the end of the day, I guess we not only want it, but we need it. And somewhere in our collective consciousness, maybe we know it. Or maybe it's being largely deprived of touch during your travel and flight times, apart from the lucky few who are treated to a TSA grope or a handsy seatmate. But I really think it goes deeper than that.
We are affiliative creatures by nature. No matter how stodgy or badass or frosty or elsewise impervious my fellow airporters presented themselves to the world, they all wanted that touch. So consider the notion that while you might recognize how you benefit from receiving physical touch, you can also meet the inherent human need of others by simply by making physical contact with them.
It's astonishing and wonderful. And I found the whole thing rather...er... touching.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Watching & Waiting
I've spent nearly 8 months watching the calendar and the clocks, and a while tonight watching the Arrivals Gate and waiting on The Man's arrival.
Been busy trying to make the house look like somewhere you'd want to stay and trying to hide evidence of my shopping, er, habit. (Fail.)
Not much time to write, as the day is nearly done but he is here and I am happy and I'll be back later. Play nicely, now.
Been busy trying to make the house look like somewhere you'd want to stay and trying to hide evidence of my shopping, er, habit. (Fail.)
Not much time to write, as the day is nearly done but he is here and I am happy and I'll be back later. Play nicely, now.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
I Want A New Drug
When I was growing up, I thought it was typical parental bullheadedness when they wouldn't buy a Ferrari like the one Magnum P.I. drove. "It's too expensive." Well, they said that about Nikes too, and dang if I didn't eventually get those, so what's the problem here?
It's hard for kids to sometimes sort out what's practical and what's parental stodginess and what's parental meanness - - exerting their authority just because they can. Not that I would know anything about that.
My children think I'm the Meanest Mother Ever. When they lob that accusation at me, I thank them and tell them that it's the best reassurance I have that I'm doing my job properly. Also, that the hospital made me sign a contract before I took them home, promising to make their lives miserable. After this there are dark looks and mutterings for a while, but I have come to enjoy it.
Anyway, I digress.
As an adult and a parent, I now understand why a Ferrari was a big "NO". Not only is it indeed too expensive, it's also ridiculously impractical. Where do the groceries go? The baseball equipment? The pet carrier? HOW DO YOU SEPARATE YOUR CHILDREN IN A FERRARI?
I'm about a million miles away from driving a Ferrari. I wanted a hip SUV - something sporty and 'up' a little bit, with heated seats and maybe a moonroof, with a great sound system, frosty a/c, three rows and lots o space.
What I ACTUALLY drive is a non hip, non sporty Family Truckster slash Grocery Grabber of the most mundane kind. The seats are not heated, there is no moonroof, the a/c is profoundly broken and the sound system, while operative, could never be called 'great'.
However.
There are three rows.
This is essential.
I can't overstate this matter; I need. NEED! To be able to separate my children while we hurtle along over the roads here, for the safety and mental wellness of all parties involved.
Most parents of more than one child know too well what it's like when the little darlings behind you set up howling about whether their brother is encroaching on their seat space or who's touching whose chicken McNuggets or what-have-you... and it is nearly inevitable that parents wind up flailing blindly, one arm swinging into the backseat hoping to make contact with someone and break up the mayhem.
No-one will, of course, admit to this. But we all have our limits and for some reason, these fools like to pick the car as the place to start Something.
Adding insult to injury, my children are not run of the mill kids. They both have High Functioning Autism, which is a lot like Rain Man Lite. There's clinically diagnosed Anxiety Disorder, OCD, Sensory Integration Issues, Emotional Dysregulation, Impulse Control and, in one of them, a scorching unspecified mood disorder. (To be honest, one of them has a condition called Pathological Demand Avoidance Syndrome which is a completely frustrating experience unto itself because, surprise!, it is not a condition recognized in the U.S., where we live, and yes, it is all EVERY BIT as fun as it sounds.)
This is more than a job. This is more than TWO jobs. This is a LIFESTYLE. And honestly, forget the damn Family Truckster slash Grocery Grabber, I should be driving a short bus. I'm not sure THAT would be big enough to keep them from kicking / throwing / yelling / looking at each other.
The point is this: There is medication involved now. The younger child has been on several highly recommended medications, 'well tolerated' and 'within established protocol for pediatric use' to try and curb his aggressive outbursts. The first one would seem to work...then not. So they'd increase the dose. Then it would seem to work. ...Then...not. So they'd increase the dose. Lather, rinse, repeat. FAIL. They tried another drug with more 'sedating' properties; mega, ultra, King Kong sized fail. Drug # 3, a different class of drug entirely, given the failure of the last two, has also proved an abject failure. Now we are on Drug #4. It will take a week or two for Drug 3 to leave the building, as it were, and we are approaching the end of week 2. Drug 4 is on day 2. (Could I make this any more confusing?)
The first day and a half of Drug 4 was a dream. My child reverted from a thorny, combative aggressor to his toddler self - a sweet, dreamy, affectionate, giggly boy who loved elephants and cuddling. I am desperately hoping this is the right drug for him because I fear for everyone's well being in terms of the psychic trauma being done all the time.
But by nighttime, my sweet boy had vanished behind this unspeakable hostility again; a barbed, unstable hostility with teeth in it, and entirely without logic or rationale he is able to explain.
Several tricks-up-my-sleeve later, he was back - giggling in his tub full of bubbles. He made me an apology skit using an app on his tablet, featuring dancing hearts and animated cats meowing, "I love my mama", "I didn't mean to be mean to my mama", asking for hugs, kissing hands, and his bedtime songs.
I am so glad to see this child again - and I wish there were a medication to keep him at the fore and better manage the other stuff. I hope this is it. Because THIS kid could probably manage an injury free car ride with his brother in the second row of the Grocery Grabber. And someday, possibly in a ferrari.
It's hard for kids to sometimes sort out what's practical and what's parental stodginess and what's parental meanness - - exerting their authority just because they can. Not that I would know anything about that.
My children think I'm the Meanest Mother Ever. When they lob that accusation at me, I thank them and tell them that it's the best reassurance I have that I'm doing my job properly. Also, that the hospital made me sign a contract before I took them home, promising to make their lives miserable. After this there are dark looks and mutterings for a while, but I have come to enjoy it.
Anyway, I digress.
As an adult and a parent, I now understand why a Ferrari was a big "NO". Not only is it indeed too expensive, it's also ridiculously impractical. Where do the groceries go? The baseball equipment? The pet carrier? HOW DO YOU SEPARATE YOUR CHILDREN IN A FERRARI?
I'm about a million miles away from driving a Ferrari. I wanted a hip SUV - something sporty and 'up' a little bit, with heated seats and maybe a moonroof, with a great sound system, frosty a/c, three rows and lots o space.
What I ACTUALLY drive is a non hip, non sporty Family Truckster slash Grocery Grabber of the most mundane kind. The seats are not heated, there is no moonroof, the a/c is profoundly broken and the sound system, while operative, could never be called 'great'.
However.
There are three rows.
This is essential.
I can't overstate this matter; I need. NEED! To be able to separate my children while we hurtle along over the roads here, for the safety and mental wellness of all parties involved.
Most parents of more than one child know too well what it's like when the little darlings behind you set up howling about whether their brother is encroaching on their seat space or who's touching whose chicken McNuggets or what-have-you... and it is nearly inevitable that parents wind up flailing blindly, one arm swinging into the backseat hoping to make contact with someone and break up the mayhem.
No-one will, of course, admit to this. But we all have our limits and for some reason, these fools like to pick the car as the place to start Something.
Adding insult to injury, my children are not run of the mill kids. They both have High Functioning Autism, which is a lot like Rain Man Lite. There's clinically diagnosed Anxiety Disorder, OCD, Sensory Integration Issues, Emotional Dysregulation, Impulse Control and, in one of them, a scorching unspecified mood disorder. (To be honest, one of them has a condition called Pathological Demand Avoidance Syndrome which is a completely frustrating experience unto itself because, surprise!, it is not a condition recognized in the U.S., where we live, and yes, it is all EVERY BIT as fun as it sounds.)
This is more than a job. This is more than TWO jobs. This is a LIFESTYLE. And honestly, forget the damn Family Truckster slash Grocery Grabber, I should be driving a short bus. I'm not sure THAT would be big enough to keep them from kicking / throwing / yelling / looking at each other.
The point is this: There is medication involved now. The younger child has been on several highly recommended medications, 'well tolerated' and 'within established protocol for pediatric use' to try and curb his aggressive outbursts. The first one would seem to work...then not. So they'd increase the dose. Then it would seem to work. ...Then...not. So they'd increase the dose. Lather, rinse, repeat. FAIL. They tried another drug with more 'sedating' properties; mega, ultra, King Kong sized fail. Drug # 3, a different class of drug entirely, given the failure of the last two, has also proved an abject failure. Now we are on Drug #4. It will take a week or two for Drug 3 to leave the building, as it were, and we are approaching the end of week 2. Drug 4 is on day 2. (Could I make this any more confusing?)
The first day and a half of Drug 4 was a dream. My child reverted from a thorny, combative aggressor to his toddler self - a sweet, dreamy, affectionate, giggly boy who loved elephants and cuddling. I am desperately hoping this is the right drug for him because I fear for everyone's well being in terms of the psychic trauma being done all the time.
But by nighttime, my sweet boy had vanished behind this unspeakable hostility again; a barbed, unstable hostility with teeth in it, and entirely without logic or rationale he is able to explain.
Several tricks-up-my-sleeve later, he was back - giggling in his tub full of bubbles. He made me an apology skit using an app on his tablet, featuring dancing hearts and animated cats meowing, "I love my mama", "I didn't mean to be mean to my mama", asking for hugs, kissing hands, and his bedtime songs.
I am so glad to see this child again - and I wish there were a medication to keep him at the fore and better manage the other stuff. I hope this is it. Because THIS kid could probably manage an injury free car ride with his brother in the second row of the Grocery Grabber. And someday, possibly in a ferrari.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot
To round out the first week of the new year, and because I simply cannot have enough fun at once, I came down with a fever. Yay nature.
I'm not stoic or brave; I'm not a particularly good patient...apart from having good pyjamas and exelling at being waited upon...in theory, at least.
So I've been to the blog, I've said my piece and I'm off to hunker down in my pillow fort with my Tylenol, a bottle of water and a pile of blankets.
And some cowbell. Definitely need some more cowbell: http://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/more-cowbell/n41046/
I'm not stoic or brave; I'm not a particularly good patient...apart from having good pyjamas and exelling at being waited upon...in theory, at least.
So I've been to the blog, I've said my piece and I'm off to hunker down in my pillow fort with my Tylenol, a bottle of water and a pile of blankets.
And some cowbell. Definitely need some more cowbell: http://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/more-cowbell/n41046/
Friday, January 3, 2014
10th Avenue Freezeout
Sorry, Bruce.
So, snow from yesterday. Also a klonopin before bed, hence an abrupt and fairly strange (albeit true) signoff.
Still snow today. Drifts and ice and an unwelcome reminder that age is not kind to us in a lot of ways. But we are shoveled out - and plowed out as well, thanks to some wonderful friends / neighbors. "Snow Plow" will soon be a line item in the winter budget because HELL YES, that made life so much easier.
Anyway.
Not a lot to say. I've got a vicious chill down to the bone, and can't warm up. I just want to go to bed, so I'm in flannels and fuzzy socks and under three blankets and the heat is set to 66. And I'm still cold. So I'm thinking sleep will be the kindest thing. Possibly the most sensible thing as well.
Meantime, I am sticking to my resolve.
However, my brain is stuck in an icy, snowflake frosted rut and I hope - really, really hope - that it thaws soon so I can come up with something more compelling and indeed, something worth reading.
I did suspect this might happen, so I took measures to protect myself from...myself, and the writer's block I come up against far too often.
I bought a book. Not just any book - a book of writing prompts. So when stuck, if nothing else, I can dip into the book, pull a prompt and at least churn out something.
Prompt: Write a poem about a tomato
Oh tomato, on the vine
How I wish that you were mine
Angry orange, red and frightful
You taste like sunshine; so delightful
My tomatoes grow so green
I water, fertilize and preen
And then, sans warning, they are dead
I stamp my feet and wrack my head
A mystery; I don't know why
they bloom upon the vine and die
They never color, never flourish
They drop to earth and turn to mush
I won't try tomatoes anymore
I'll have to buy them from the store
===========================================
So, snow from yesterday. Also a klonopin before bed, hence an abrupt and fairly strange (albeit true) signoff.
Still snow today. Drifts and ice and an unwelcome reminder that age is not kind to us in a lot of ways. But we are shoveled out - and plowed out as well, thanks to some wonderful friends / neighbors. "Snow Plow" will soon be a line item in the winter budget because HELL YES, that made life so much easier.
Anyway.
Not a lot to say. I've got a vicious chill down to the bone, and can't warm up. I just want to go to bed, so I'm in flannels and fuzzy socks and under three blankets and the heat is set to 66. And I'm still cold. So I'm thinking sleep will be the kindest thing. Possibly the most sensible thing as well.
Meantime, I am sticking to my resolve.
However, my brain is stuck in an icy, snowflake frosted rut and I hope - really, really hope - that it thaws soon so I can come up with something more compelling and indeed, something worth reading.
I did suspect this might happen, so I took measures to protect myself from...myself, and the writer's block I come up against far too often.
I bought a book. Not just any book - a book of writing prompts. So when stuck, if nothing else, I can dip into the book, pull a prompt and at least churn out something.
Prompt: Write a poem about a tomato
Oh tomato, on the vine
How I wish that you were mine
Angry orange, red and frightful
You taste like sunshine; so delightful
My tomatoes grow so green
I water, fertilize and preen
And then, sans warning, they are dead
I stamp my feet and wrack my head
A mystery; I don't know why
they bloom upon the vine and die
They never color, never flourish
They drop to earth and turn to mush
I won't try tomatoes anymore
I'll have to buy them from the store
===========================================
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Snow (Hey, Oh)
The forecast calls for snow, and lots of it.
School was cancelled, which honestly, was a relief because I simply have no internal resources remaining after the last <s>year</s> twelve days with which to constructively manage the early morning tug of war regarding who's going.
So really, dodged a bit of an academic bullet there.
However.
The absence of school means this was day thirteen of school vacation. THIRTEEN. That. Is a lot of consecutive days playing referee around the clock. I don't even have a whistle.
A lot of time today was spent doing productive pre-storm things like salting steps, arranging a snow plow for tomorrow, gassing up the family truckster, and washing Mount Laundry. We made fajitas, chowder, sandwiches, cupcakes and tea. We watched Modern Family and the children made, and promptly decapitated, a little snowman. (This is major; their sensory integration issues are so profound, I spent the first 7-9 years of their lives wiping snow off their coats and boots, because it made them weep to have specks on them - and woe betide she who allowed snow to touch their tender skin!)
And there were the bat-crap crazy escalations, meltdowns, freezeouts, and flailing-thrashing-shouting episodes. All the flappy, tearful, awkward stuff that comes with Autism Spectrum Disorders which most people will TELL you 'all kids go through' but I assure you, it's a whole other brand of kid. Autism is not a blessing. It's just how it is, and I accept it and even embrace it. I embrace it because it's my children's reality, and I love them beyond anything I could impart in words or art or interpretive dance. But it's not for the faint of heart. Regrettably, I am faint of heart. Apparently the Universe didn't get the memo.
So anyway, the blizzard is kicking up and the wind is howling and spitting snow at the house; as long as the power stays on, we'll be fine. We are well prepared. (Except that *someone* forgot to go buy wine; really?) Initially, we were due to get 4-6 inches. Maybe 6-8. Or...well, 8-10. Yes. A foot, max. Except that it might be 14 inches.
It just went on like that.
The current weather / storm warning for the coastal area is 24" of the freezy white stuff.
I know this isn't riveting stuff but I really do want to hold myself to the goal of writing every day. So bear with me; it's really been a very long 13 days. Did I mention it's been thirteen days?
Side Note:
Two words I love the sound of - Exculpatory. Frangible.
School was cancelled, which honestly, was a relief because I simply have no internal resources remaining after the last <s>year</s> twelve days with which to constructively manage the early morning tug of war regarding who's going.
So really, dodged a bit of an academic bullet there.
However.
The absence of school means this was day thirteen of school vacation. THIRTEEN. That. Is a lot of consecutive days playing referee around the clock. I don't even have a whistle.
A lot of time today was spent doing productive pre-storm things like salting steps, arranging a snow plow for tomorrow, gassing up the family truckster, and washing Mount Laundry. We made fajitas, chowder, sandwiches, cupcakes and tea. We watched Modern Family and the children made, and promptly decapitated, a little snowman. (This is major; their sensory integration issues are so profound, I spent the first 7-9 years of their lives wiping snow off their coats and boots, because it made them weep to have specks on them - and woe betide she who allowed snow to touch their tender skin!)
And there were the bat-crap crazy escalations, meltdowns, freezeouts, and flailing-thrashing-shouting episodes. All the flappy, tearful, awkward stuff that comes with Autism Spectrum Disorders which most people will TELL you 'all kids go through' but I assure you, it's a whole other brand of kid. Autism is not a blessing. It's just how it is, and I accept it and even embrace it. I embrace it because it's my children's reality, and I love them beyond anything I could impart in words or art or interpretive dance. But it's not for the faint of heart. Regrettably, I am faint of heart. Apparently the Universe didn't get the memo.
So anyway, the blizzard is kicking up and the wind is howling and spitting snow at the house; as long as the power stays on, we'll be fine. We are well prepared. (Except that *someone* forgot to go buy wine; really?) Initially, we were due to get 4-6 inches. Maybe 6-8. Or...well, 8-10. Yes. A foot, max. Except that it might be 14 inches.
It just went on like that.
The current weather / storm warning for the coastal area is 24" of the freezy white stuff.
I know this isn't riveting stuff but I really do want to hold myself to the goal of writing every day. So bear with me; it's really been a very long 13 days. Did I mention it's been thirteen days?
Side Note:
Two words I love the sound of - Exculpatory. Frangible.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Only The Good Die Young
The year began with a loss.
Actually, if we're splitting hairs here, the new year began with a rousing call of "Rabbit, Rabbit", a deep, purging breath to exhale away all the tumult that was 2013, and a solid plan for how best to use the day ahead.
But loss was the theme of the day.
It wasn't all bad. It started out okay, actually.
The first losses were deliberate, carefully orchestrated affairs, although I suppose they were not so much loss as forcible expulsion; two rubbermaid totes filled with outgrown jeans and household effluvia that needed to go. It was packed, driven across town and fondly shoved into charity donation bins. Result!
Then came the actual loss.
Loss of expectations: I had to toss those out the window of the extremely sexy family truckster as we spluttered around town doing glamorous errands; one child, thoroughly dysregulated, and one child lashing out at him in sensory overload. It was fantastic. Not.
Loss of moola: Sometimes, you just run out of e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g at the same time. That time, for us, was five minutes after Christmas was over. However, due to a very ill-behaved set of nerves (occipital & trigeminal, for the medically savvy or particularly interested), I wound up spending a few days in bed unable to move very much or very well. Erego - the running-out-of-everything-ness. You see what I'm saying here.
Loss of hope: This has been one of the longest Christmas vacations I can remember. I'd had great hopes for it, but between feeling quite poorly and the neurological misfiring, it was just grim. There were moments, of course - a stolen snuggle, a shared laugh, a cooperative venture between brothers, sans bloodshed - but it was a challenging twelve days. TWELVE DAYS. I don't think this is what the Twelve Days of Christmas are supposed to be about; on the twelfth day of Christmas, my children gave to me...Twelve nervous eye tics, eleven hopeless head shakes, ten fists a shaking, nine rounds of whining, eight consequences, seven thrown Skylanders, six (thousand) scattered Legos, fiiiiiiiiiiive ...tiiiiiiiime outs.... four rolling eyeballs, three crying tantrums, two unhappy boys, and a mother who deserves a glass of wine.
Moving on. Loss. After this DAZZLING Christmas vacation - the forecast calls for snow. Lots and lots o snow. Starting. Tonight. Which means...drum roll please... NO SCHOOL TOMORROW!!! There was much rejoicing in the playroom. In the kitchen, over the sink, less so. On the other hand, there will be no mad dash in the morning to get lunches made or find any one of the rogue underpants which have hidden from my 9 year old in the last couple of days... so a loss of ideals as well.
Then there is the to-do list. It loses. I know when I'm beat.
I had conceded defeat to the day. It just didn't go the way I intended. So - perhaps my lesson was meant to be compromise, flexibility, adjustment, collaboration. I can work with that.
And then.
We all have that friend who goes to bed early , and when they call you past their designated bedtime, you just know the news isn't good. And it wasn't.
A boy we'd gone to school with - a man, now, really - had died. Specifics unknown, and kind of irrelevant - it was the fact of this former football player with arms like Popeye and a Paul Bunyon chest, twinkly eyes and a GQ face, being dead. Dead? What? I listened to my friend and then we hung up, because I needed to tell another friend; my oldest friend, who had been utterly infatuated with the decedent for years. For. YEARS. We stalked him in the hallways, at the football games, and once she got her license, we did drive bys of his house; no simple thing, since he lived on a tiny cul de sac. For ages, he was the focal point of her life. And I had to tell her he was dead before she read it on Facebook.
But I couldn't call her, because I couldn't get my head around the facts. I called Early Sleeper back. GQ was dead? Really? Had I understood correctly? Regrettably, yes. I tried Stalker again. And again. And again. Her iphone had conked out. By the time it had juice again, I had blown it up with texts, FB messages, and God help me, an actual voicemail.
Not a lovely conversation to have.
It's terribly sad.
I had about two micrograms left of Infallibility from my youth. And just like that - they left the building.
2013 kicked me in the rear end pretty badly. I would like it a lot if 2014 was not all about loss. I like to start as I mean to go on - so I've been trying to absorb this shock to my already beleaguered system and spin it into a positive notion with which to lead the year: A reminder to live while you're here. A reminder to go for it, to carpe diem, to seize every chance. To live, live, LIVE! Live hard, live fully, live authentically. Live from the heart.
Because really, otherwise - - is it living at all?
This isn't exactly the glorious whimsy I'd hoped to start my blog with, if I'm being honest, but whimsy and whim are close enough and on a whim, I decided to write what was on my heart; the authentic, horrible reality.
Back tomorrow; hopefully with something less rending. I hope you'll be back as well. It would be a pity if, having resurrected my blog and attempting to write every day, nobody showed up to the party.
Party. Well. You know. This could hardly be called a party.
And this is why 'tangential musings' get to headline.
Actually, if we're splitting hairs here, the new year began with a rousing call of "Rabbit, Rabbit", a deep, purging breath to exhale away all the tumult that was 2013, and a solid plan for how best to use the day ahead.
But loss was the theme of the day.
It wasn't all bad. It started out okay, actually.
The first losses were deliberate, carefully orchestrated affairs, although I suppose they were not so much loss as forcible expulsion; two rubbermaid totes filled with outgrown jeans and household effluvia that needed to go. It was packed, driven across town and fondly shoved into charity donation bins. Result!
Then came the actual loss.
Loss of expectations: I had to toss those out the window of the extremely sexy family truckster as we spluttered around town doing glamorous errands; one child, thoroughly dysregulated, and one child lashing out at him in sensory overload. It was fantastic. Not.
Loss of moola: Sometimes, you just run out of e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g at the same time. That time, for us, was five minutes after Christmas was over. However, due to a very ill-behaved set of nerves (occipital & trigeminal, for the medically savvy or particularly interested), I wound up spending a few days in bed unable to move very much or very well. Erego - the running-out-of-everything-ness. You see what I'm saying here.
Loss of hope: This has been one of the longest Christmas vacations I can remember. I'd had great hopes for it, but between feeling quite poorly and the neurological misfiring, it was just grim. There were moments, of course - a stolen snuggle, a shared laugh, a cooperative venture between brothers, sans bloodshed - but it was a challenging twelve days. TWELVE DAYS. I don't think this is what the Twelve Days of Christmas are supposed to be about; on the twelfth day of Christmas, my children gave to me...Twelve nervous eye tics, eleven hopeless head shakes, ten fists a shaking, nine rounds of whining, eight consequences, seven thrown Skylanders, six (thousand) scattered Legos, fiiiiiiiiiiive ...tiiiiiiiime outs.... four rolling eyeballs, three crying tantrums, two unhappy boys, and a mother who deserves a glass of wine.
Moving on. Loss. After this DAZZLING Christmas vacation - the forecast calls for snow. Lots and lots o snow. Starting. Tonight. Which means...drum roll please... NO SCHOOL TOMORROW!!! There was much rejoicing in the playroom. In the kitchen, over the sink, less so. On the other hand, there will be no mad dash in the morning to get lunches made or find any one of the rogue underpants which have hidden from my 9 year old in the last couple of days... so a loss of ideals as well.
Then there is the to-do list. It loses. I know when I'm beat.
I had conceded defeat to the day. It just didn't go the way I intended. So - perhaps my lesson was meant to be compromise, flexibility, adjustment, collaboration. I can work with that.
And then.
We all have that friend who goes to bed early , and when they call you past their designated bedtime, you just know the news isn't good. And it wasn't.
A boy we'd gone to school with - a man, now, really - had died. Specifics unknown, and kind of irrelevant - it was the fact of this former football player with arms like Popeye and a Paul Bunyon chest, twinkly eyes and a GQ face, being dead. Dead? What? I listened to my friend and then we hung up, because I needed to tell another friend; my oldest friend, who had been utterly infatuated with the decedent for years. For. YEARS. We stalked him in the hallways, at the football games, and once she got her license, we did drive bys of his house; no simple thing, since he lived on a tiny cul de sac. For ages, he was the focal point of her life. And I had to tell her he was dead before she read it on Facebook.
But I couldn't call her, because I couldn't get my head around the facts. I called Early Sleeper back. GQ was dead? Really? Had I understood correctly? Regrettably, yes. I tried Stalker again. And again. And again. Her iphone had conked out. By the time it had juice again, I had blown it up with texts, FB messages, and God help me, an actual voicemail.
Not a lovely conversation to have.
It's terribly sad.
I had about two micrograms left of Infallibility from my youth. And just like that - they left the building.
2013 kicked me in the rear end pretty badly. I would like it a lot if 2014 was not all about loss. I like to start as I mean to go on - so I've been trying to absorb this shock to my already beleaguered system and spin it into a positive notion with which to lead the year: A reminder to live while you're here. A reminder to go for it, to carpe diem, to seize every chance. To live, live, LIVE! Live hard, live fully, live authentically. Live from the heart.
Because really, otherwise - - is it living at all?
This isn't exactly the glorious whimsy I'd hoped to start my blog with, if I'm being honest, but whimsy and whim are close enough and on a whim, I decided to write what was on my heart; the authentic, horrible reality.
Back tomorrow; hopefully with something less rending. I hope you'll be back as well. It would be a pity if, having resurrected my blog and attempting to write every day, nobody showed up to the party.
Party. Well. You know. This could hardly be called a party.
And this is why 'tangential musings' get to headline.
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