One foot in front of the other
My mother-in-law’s funeral was lovely. I know people say that—“Oh, wasn’t it nice!”—and it always seems weird to me because what exactly is nice about a body in a box? But it was the perfect mix of respectful and irreverent. I think she would’ve approved.
We flew home first thing on Friday morning, and drove straight from the airport to the hospital. Half an hour of paperwork later, Chickadee was free and clear. She hugged us and chatted on and on and bounced through most of the ride home. Once there, we sorted through a week’s worth of mail while Chickie began digging around in her room for… I’m not sure what, really… until I reminded her that her friends were coming.
The mess was stuffed back into her dresser and closet, and we went to the grocery store to pick out a few gallons of ice cream. The bouncing continued. Back at home, pizzas were ordered, paper plates unearthed, and not too long after, the house was filled with the shrieks of teenage girls. Otto and I withdrew to the living room while the girls swarmed the porch, the kitchen, and then later, upstairs. We let them have their time. It was only when the girl who faithfully wrote to Chickie at the hospital was in the kitchen, alone, getting more ice cream, that I dared to sneak in and murmur to her, “Have as much as you want. In fact, you ever need ice cream this year? You come on over any time. I mean it. You are always welcome here.” read more…
Underwater ballet
I am 41 years old, and my experience with death of loved ones is remarkably scant. My parents are still alive. My grandparents’ deaths were long ago and I was mostly shielded from whatever rituals were executed after their passing. I have a relatively small family and a small group of friends, and the fortune of not having lost anyone from those circles in adulthood. Until my ex’s father died, I had never been to a funeral. (I tell people that and they think I’m exaggerating or joking. No, really. The first funeral I ever attended was for my then-father-in-law, and I had no idea what was going on, and being forced to spend several hours in a room at the wake with an open casket about did me in, because DUDE THAT IS CREEPY.)
In a sense this week is easier, because this time I know what to expect, and also because Otto’s family holds both “alcohol” and “inappropriate humor” in their arsenal of grief-coping mechanisms (neither were acceptable in my former marriage), and these are methods I can get behind. Although there have been tears, of course, there are also toasts and a lot of laughter (both of which are frequently followed by someone adding “cue the lightning bolt!”) and I think Otto’s mom would mostly approve. Even if she didn’t, I think she would shake her head and chuckle.
Still, it all feels fairly surreal. read more…
Dear 2012: Uncle.
My mother-in-law claimed not to like dogs, which was just about the only time I ever heard her claim to not like any living thing. But it turned out that Licorice absolutely adored her, and she loved Licorice right back.
This was not a surprise to me, because 1) Licorice is adorable and 2) my mother-in-law was a gentle, loving soul. Even when she was so sick, this last time, whenever Otto called her, she would always ask first how Chickadee was doing, how Monkey and I were holding up, and then—if he was lucky, ha—how Otto himself was. This woman accepted me and my children into her family effortlessly, considering my kids her own grandkids without a second thought. We were lucky to have her for the time we did.
She passed away last night. We knew it was coming, but of course there’s really no preparing. Otto and his siblings sure could use any spare prayers you might have right about now.
(This year is almost over, right? RIGHT??)
Contrast
The following is offered for your consideration, without further comment.
A voicemail received on my cell phone from a blocked number:
Hey, I’m looking for a Ronald? And if I’ve found you, I just wanted to let you know that I found out some disturbing news. And, um, you need to tell the little bitch that yer livin’ with that she better leave my man alone. Because I just found out they’re seeing each other? And I don’t fuckin’ like it. Let me catch her ass out somewhere, she’s mine.
The other night in bed, after yet another tearful discussion of the mess our lives have become:
Me: I just don’t even know why you’re still here. WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE?
Otto: Well… this is where all my stuff is.
Otto: OW! Hey!
Otto: Um. I love you?
Me: Jerk.
Otto: What??
Me: I said I love you, too.
To sleep: perchance to dream
First: A thank you, which feels inadequate, but is necessary, because y’all are nice and I love you, man! And I don’t even want your Bud Light. You are all lovely and I appreciate you so much.
Second: Please know that my intention in indulging in a bit of woe-is-me “Why do people DO THAT??” whining is just… venting. Wallowing. Many of you were quick to jump on the SCREW THE BASTARDS train in response—and I get that comes from protectiveness and caring and kindness—but in my logical non-hurty-emotional mind parts I know that in general people do not hurt us on purpose. In specific for the situations I mentioned I know this even more; the people in question are not evil or bad or even (most of the time) inconsiderate. Things happen by accident, sometimes, and people end up wounded. It doesn’t make the folks doing the wounding villains—it makes them human. I get that. Thank you for letting me vent. Now let’s please stop bagging on people for being human.
Third: Here at Casa Mir we have been on a complete spending freeze for months while slogging through getting Chickadee approved for Medicaid on account of that whole “oh God we are going to end up broke and homeless” thing that wasn’t hanging over our heads. And that’s fine and all—it’s not like we got her Medicaid card and then ran out to party or anything—but of course we didn’t realize that wasn’t the end of the story. read more…
And so here we are
Left to my own devices, I don’t often find it hard to write. My head is always full of STUFF—some of it important, plenty not—and the STUFF gets tangled up with pesky FEELINGS and then there is something about the act of extracting those things from my skull and committing them to letters and punctuation and letting other people see it that helps me make sense of things. It helps me to make sense of ME.
That’s inherently selfish, and I know it. Then again, a lot of things are. I’m not convinced the way I’m compelled to write is any worse than anything else, but I know this about it. I do pay a lot of attention to how I involve others—my family, my friends, random people—when I write, and I am all-too-often aware that the human penchant for personalization means there is no avoiding pissing people off. That, too, is part of the territory. Most of the time I don’t mind; I am careful, and if you read something I didn’t actually write (or construct something I didn’t intend), that’s on you, not me.
During the last however many months of feeling like life would never, could never, be normal again, my normally crunchy exterior shattered and left me exposed to pretty much everything right when I most wished to be impervious to others. It would probably be a good time to shut up. read more…
Not actually a post
I kind of left you hanging, this week. I’m sorry. I would tell you all about it, but I’m currently still in the “I hate everyone and everything” phase on several fronts, so give me a few more days to return to some semblance of humanity.
In the meantime, here’s a dog:
She says she absolutely was NOT sleeping in the sun when I crept up on her, and she was NOT attempting to lick the drool off her whiskers when I insisted on taking her picture. Also, I love how even she is giving me the hairy eyeball. GET IN LINE, LICORICE.
What’s on?
Remember when getting a color TV was a big deal? And when getting a television with a remote was a big deal? Remember when more than a dozen channels was a big deal?
If you answered “yes” to any of these questions, you’re my people. (Of course, if you answered “no” to all of them, probably you should get off my lawn.) I cannot tell a lie: I grew up slack-jawed in the glow of the television, wasting countless hours of my life watching reruns. (Some might argue that not much has changed. Heh.)
As a parent, I limit screen time. As a person, though, I still have more than a few twinges of “I watched a ton of TV and it didn’t hurt me” going on. And now you know what I wrote about today over at Feel More Better, because TV is still one of my guilty pleasures.
Weekendishly
I always find myself looking forward to the weekend with a fervor that borders on religious, particularly by Thursday or Friday. It’s going to be SO NICE, I think, and I will SLEEP LATE and RELAX and RECHARGE. And then Monday rolls around and I am just as exhausted and cranky as usual. It seems unfair.
[Side note: I did finally make an appointment to see my doctor, on account of recent life stressors do seem to be taking a slight toll on my health, possibly. Weird, right? I mean, who knew that constant months of high stress might make you less than perfectly healthy or something? So I called my doctor in August to mention that hey, um, my hair is falling out, among other things. (Good thing I have a LOT of hair, even in its currently shorn state.) They gave me an appointment in October. I’m hoping to not be completely bald or, you know, DEAD by then.]
Anyway. The weekend. We spent most of Saturday with Chickie, which was lovely, and involved a lot of eating, seems like. (Hey, that Buy One Blizzard Get One For $.99 special at Dairy Queen is not going to EAT ITSELF, man.) (I know; when we take her out of the hospital for the day I always want to feed her something healthy, but then ice cream is the language of love, right? So healthy lunch, ice cream later. It’s a compromise. Sort of.) read more…
Lord of the Flies meets feminism
One of the things I love most about Hippie School is that it exists just about a step and a half to the left of flat-out Lord of the Flies when the kids are playing outside. (And of course they play outside for hours each day, unlike those good ol’ fifteen-minute-long recesses at public school; and come to think of it, as a middle schooler, there’s no recess at all, of course.) The kids have gardens and forts and sometimes they go fishing and for a while they were big into catching turtles and building habitats for them. (I confess I found this slightly confusing. “Weren’t they ALREADY in a habitat? Like, where they lived?” I am such a killjoy.)
Part of my delight here is doubtless because—prior to Hippie School—Monkey was not so much an outdoorsy kid. When you have a host of sensory issues and poor coordination, it turns out that the notion of just running around outside is maybe not so appealing. So we all watched with great delight, last year, as Monkey inched along in progressing from “It’s too hot/the bugs are bothering me/everyone is too loud/I hate this” all the way to “Can we go outside now? I have things to do.” It was an awesome transformation to witness on a philosophical level, but also on a physical one—he’s now stronger and more coordinated. (Take THAT, years of occupational therapy!)
Of course, none of us knew this would launch Monkey’s career in diplomacy. read more…