Oh, and it's my sister's birthday

Today is my Rosie Anniversary. A year ago today (GBFF extraordinaire) Mattie and I attended Rosie’s book signing in Framingham, MA where we not only met our childhood hero but also where, upon hearing that we would be at Cyndi Lauper’s True Color concert that night in Boston (a show which Rosie played the drums in), Rosie invited us onto her tour bus after the show. I throw that all in a single sentence but a larger day I have never lived.

It’s a story I haven’t told, a story I’ve held closely---a joy that felt too sacred to reveal. But this blog is a start in living from a place other than fear (fear of showing my writing, fear of speaking my truth). So while I want to push past the fear in this case, the actual telling of the story needs a little work. (I can’t work it up like that and then deliver some crappity crap, you know?)

But I can say this:

How often can you really say a dream came true? May 31 will forever be my anniversary for dreaming. A day to check in and make sure I’m still in touch with my heart’s truest desire. May 31 is Live Your Dream Day in my world. I wanted to invite you (all nine of you) to celebrate with me.

An excerpt of an interview in Rosie O’Donnell’s "Celebrity Detox" (and the page I chose to have her sign):

“Barbra is my best self. My ideal. Part of a spiritual practice may be to develop and ideal, which is not necessarily the same as idolizing. Idolization can be blind, but it can also be an expression of your highest hopes for yourself, and a reminder of what you need to strive for. After Barbra’s tour was finished, I flew back to Nyack on the plane. And I was crying. Why was I crying? I was exhausted---doing The View, being a wife and mother, all at the same time. I was moved, emotionally. I kept thinking of her seeing my things, my life, the real Roseann O’Donnell, and the world felt less lonely. I used to love hide-and-seek as a kid. The thrill of finding a secret niche while someone counted to ten, waiting, crouched really low down. I was so good at that game. I developed a strategy of hiding in plain sight, and it was amazing how hard it was for someone to find you when you were right in their line of vision. And I remembered how odd it was for someone to look straight past you, to literally not register you. It’s the same creepy feeling I get when I go into a restroom and use the automated sensor-driven soap dispensers. Sometimes, for me, those dispensers don’t work. It’s like I’m not there. And then I am. The soap spurts out. Or the person suddenly realizes there’s another person in their path, and you are caught. You are got. On the plane, flying back, that’s what I felt. I felt sensed. I felt seen. I felt that this, perhaps, was what I needed to do for those who come to me---simply seem them. Simply say, ‘I found you in your hiding place. You can come out now. Game’s over.’ And maybe they will. I will hold out my hand and do the best I can.”

An excerpt from my conversation with Rosie O’Donnell on her tour bus after the show: (It should be noted that at this point we had already hugged, chatted and I told her that we would someday be working on a project together---we will---so the physical contact wasn’t totally inappropriate.)

“Rosie O’Donnell,” I say. “I have to look you in the eye and tell you something.”

She looks up from where she is signing my blue Rosie.com Peace t-shirt with black Sharpie. My hands rise and settle on her shoulders as we stand there, inches apart, eye-to-eye.

“Okay…” she says.

I go on for a bit, telling her about the little girl she affected, about what it was like to see a strong, funny woman telling it like it was. My hands are still on her shoulders.

“You made me believe in things I never thought I could. You made me hope for dreams beyond what I thought possible.”

She stares back at my tear-filled eyes.

“Let me tell you something,” she says. “What you see is a mirror. You are looking at a mirror of what is already inside you. It’s in you. I’ve seen enough people, I’ve met enough people to know that what you see in others and what you strive for is already inside you. It’s a reflection. This is a reflection of what you already possess.”

It still leaves me breathless.

Happy Live Your Dream Day everyone!

No, this article wasn't helpful. Thanks for asking.

   A bunch of people (millions, really) have told me that they've been unable to comment at the end of posts and it's in-fucking-furiating mainly because I know nothing about computers and therefore have no idea how to "troubleshoot" this little problemo. I poked around on the Blogger website to see if there was anything I could do and the article I found made me want to "troubleshoot" myself in the fucking head. (Sorry, we swear here. Especially when the computer is being a smartass to the human.)  I tried to post an excerpt of the article here but apparently all those numbers and letters mean something to the computer so it was read as code instead of as a Bingo card. Basically, the article went all Good Will Hunting on my ass.  Stick with me though, folks. I'm going to go out and buy "Blogs for Assholes" and hopefully we'll make some progress. Please keep trying though (c'mon, you know that's my favorite part) and also let me know if you continue to have problems so I don't develop a complex...I mean so I can resolve the problem.  For now I'm going to hand this glitch off to the IT Department (Dan) who is the sole reason at this point that this blog has any line breaks at all.  My boy's wicked smart.

"PBS always has its hand out."

 

 

After my grumpy old man husband whined about PBS always seeking funding from, well, the public ("It's always Pledge Week!"), we watched a great Victor Borge documentary. Yeah, a PBS documentary on a Friday night...Whatever, this is why I got married.

Reunion Recap: We love you, Miss Hannigan

 Here's the thing: I'm too old to be recounting how drunk I get at parties anymore. It's not funny, it's not cute, but it is, however, pertinent to the telling of this story. In a rookie move I went into the reunion with only a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my belly. (If seeing so many faces from the past didn't bring me back, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich made on thin wheat bread with Skippy and raspberry jelly, wrapped in a paper towel for the road and tasting of nostalgia, would have.)

 

I can't drink much these days. I certainly can't drink a couple of pre-game glasses of champagne followed by four or five vodka drinks without getting Girls Gone Wild drunk. (While reports I've gathered since the evening, mercifully, don't paint me as acting any drunker than anyone else, I can assure you, I was.) I am actually quite frustrated about this because while I know it allowed for a really, really great time, I can't remember all of it. For the twenty-something in me who just needed a good night out, I feel I provided. As a writer though, I fell asleep on the job. I can remember bits and pieces of interesting conversations---Where were you on 9/11? When did you know you were gay?---but only bits and pieces. I want to remember them completely and am frustrated that Miss Hannigan (the name given to my drunken alter ego some years ago) took over.

 

Still, I suppose she needed a night out.

 

In actuality, the reunion had a comically small turn-out. There were maybe 40 people at peak occupancy from a class of almost 200. At one point, in an effort to make sure my friends who ran the shindig would be able to cover the cost of the location, I started calling former PHSers whose phone numbers I had in my cell phone to ask them why they weren't there. (Nobody picked up, but messages were left. Deep, deep regret here.) Despite its smallness, however, it still contained all that I thought a reunion would. At first it was like the Island of Misfit Toys with only a handful of representatives from each walk of high school life, sparsely scattered throughout the seemingly giant Elks Club. And then, of course, the Charlie in the Box and the Choo-Choo with Square Wheels started drinking. Eventually everyone was chatting and laughing and recounting old stories and crushes. Guards dropped even quicker than I thought they would.

 

My favorite moment of the night was just another hello that for some reason struck me as anything but. I was talking to a girl who I have known since elementary school. Despite having attended the same Chuck E. Cheese birthday parties as kids, I think she would agree that we weren't especially chummy later on, though always friendly. If I was a student council/drama and newspaper geek, she was a girl who ran with a "tougher" crowd. My God, there wasn't a warmer greeting of the night than hers. There wasn't a firmer hug. I knew she had recently lost her younger brother and I expressed my condolences immediately. She seemed so steady and spoke openly about his death. A bad heart. Drugs. She missed him, of course, but also said how the recent birth of her second child had helped her through her grief. I wasn't paying much attention to how anyone looked---10 years doesn't change that much---but her beauty struck me. Her eyes and smile were so bright as she told me how much she had been looking forward to seeing everyone, how she knew how much fun it would be. It just felt like such a genuine interaction---real life had happened here and we weren't pretending that it hadn't. I get tearful even now thinking of it.

 

I had so much silly anxiety leading up to this thing. The following is a paragraph I wrote a week ago as the day approached.

 

I’m looking for a book. Something of the instructional variety. Something that can tell me how to build a career, lose 10 pounds and procure a home by the ocean in time for my high school reunion which is days away. I’ll stick to a veggie stock diet. I’ll post affirmations on the bathroom mirror. Bring on the effing gratitude journal already, I’ll do what it takes. C’mon Oprah, what kind of energy massage do I have to do to ready for this?

 

And now this seems so stupid. Whether it was 10 years out of high school or 20, everybody will still just be trying to work it all out. Everybody will just be looking to have a little fun. As far as I could tell the bullshit of high school never even entered the building. I wonder if more people would have come had they known this would be the case.

 

Maybe I'll call them and ask.

 

So, so hurty.

Dan made dinner tonight. The theme: hangover.

I'm sorry but there simply isn't enough brain in the game today to write anything reflective about last night's par-tay. I can say, however, that ridiculous fun (and ridiculous drunkenness) seemed to have been had by all...

P.S. I Mellowsky Spewed three times.

Let's reunite already.

Exeter, NH---a view from my daily walk

I spent the early morning sitting at my little table by the window writing in my journal and drinking a cup of good coffee. Over the mourning doves and wind rustling through the new leaves, I could hear the train passing through my sweet New England town, a place I love and feel I "discovered." Ten years ago at this time I felt very lost when those around me seemed to know exactly what is was they wanted. When people asked where I thought I'd be in 10 years I would try to explore the thought and churned up mostly blankness. I couldn't have known it then---I didn't have the insight or perspective...or maybe I just didn't have the vocabulary---but all that time I thought I was so lost, I really wasn't. I just didn't know how to say that in 10 years I hope I'll be...exactly wherever it is that I am. And I can say, quite certainly on this particular peaceful Saturday morning (and maybe only for a minute), that I am there. P.S. It's a Christmas miracle---the sty seems to be clearing up. God's status has been downgraded from wicked prick to someone who deserves a good finger wagging.

One day 'til the high school reunion...

I've watched Molly mostly full-time since she was just a year old. Best thing I've done in 10 years.

A belly full of Thai food and beer, it's doubtful I'll see 11pm. (In reunion speak that means I'm well-traveled and jet-lagged.) Dan (who is off the reunion hook and will not be accompanying me...because I'm that good a wife) is looking for an old yearbook to quiz me on faces as I have somehow gotten myself into a half hour of door duty during tomorrow night's festivities. Boo.

I spent part of today painting my six-year-old niece's toenails and letting her do my fingernails. (In reunion speak that means I was in meetings all day.)

P.S. I have a sty...because god can be a wicked prick.

Two days until I get my final chance to romance Mr. Dugan.

It serves to be a packrat. If you click on the images you may be able to read them a little better.

Hard copies will be on sale at third lunch in the cafeteria.

Three days until my friggin' high school reunion...

Do you think people would believe me if I told them I invented The Snuggie?

You've got to set goals.

With a high school reunion only five days away (yeah, we’ll get to that) and having recently celebrated my birthday (plus that whole “geriatric pregnancy” thing), I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting on how I have spent the last 28 years. Not one to wallow in the past (lie), I’ve decided to instead focus on the future. The following is a list of 28 things I would like to accomplish in my next 28 years of life.

1) Dabble in polygamy.

2) Ride a zebra.

3) Invent a cure for old people smell.

4) Win Survivor and use the money to start a clothing line for overweight pets.

5) Vote.

6) Catch and spread platypus flu.

7) Pick a favorite sister.

8) Taxidermy something.

9) Immaculate Conception.

10) Play Meredith Baxter-Birney in the Meredith Baxter-Birney Story on Lifetime.

11) Watch someone who’s dancing like nobody’s watching.

12) Drink like nobody’s watching.

13) Decimate a species.

14) Fake my death.

15) Rise again.

16) Develop camouflage gym wear featuring elliptical gray.

17) Change clothes in front of my husband.

18) Perfect my dolphin taco recipe.

19) Get a therapy referral from David Duchovny.

20) Carve my initials into an endangered tree.

21) Invent a swear.

22) Mount Woody’s head on my wall.

23) Take kazoo lessons.

24) Work on my Patronus.

25) Grow out my eyebrows for world peace.

26) Abolish the low-rise movement.

27) Sleep my way down the corporate ladder.

28) Retire at 29.

Rainy Sunday

(Totally not raining anymore but let's pretend it is, shall we?) Still in bed at 2pm reading a book called "Sex, Lies, and Menopause" by T.S. Wiley with Julie Taguchi, M.D. and Bent Formby, Ph.D while the husband naps beside me. Will blog about this book at length I'm sure, but for now just diving into the scary world of understanding estrogen. (For the past 10 minutes I've been looking at a chart which explains the moon's role in my bid-ness...I don't think I can really comprehend this without a mood ring and a head of long gray hair.) Despite the fact that I just read that "any pregnancy after the age of twenty-eight is called a geriatric pregnancy in the reproductive endocrinology textbook," I am grateful on this day to be childless in my jammies and not schlepping kids to their various destinations. Instead I'll just schlep my dead eggs to and from the bathroom, thank you very much.

How much wood?

I’m starting a blog. And with that sentence, I’ve started a blog. At this point (my third sentence in) you could say I’ve been working on a blog for some time. I wish the word blog didn’t sound so Star Trekkie. I’ve toyed with the idea of writing a blog for a while but ultimately put it off because this is my gift. (I could put off procrastination until tomorrow if I wanted to. What is putting off catching up on facebook to instead watch MTV’s The Duel if not procrastinating on my procrastination? )

I’m not really sure what I want to accomplish here or exactly why I’m doing it but I figured if I spent even half of the time I spend on facebook here, then I could maybe make something.

Just gonna jump in here. The above picture is of Woody. He was eating breakfast outside my apartment window this morning. I’ve seen him several times in the neighborhood (he’s a bit of loiterer) but have struggled to identify exactly what animal he is. Based on google pictures I decided he’s a woodchuck. Is a woodchuck a gopher? Is that the same as a groundhog? (If you know the answer to this, please tell me.) I’ve explained him to Dan (“No, it’s not a rat.”) but, until this morning, Dan had never seen him. I may or may not have barged in on him in the bathroom and then opened the blinds (Did I mention we live on the ground floor of our building?) to show him Woody in a rush of excitement. I may or may not have filed divorce papers had he done this same thing to me. I sat watching him and taking pictures for several minutes (Woody…not Dan) until our upstairs neighbor whose name is either Sharon or Sandra came home from a morning bike ride and scared him away. Bitch.

So there it is. Not exactly the stuff of enlightenment but I held off on making any woody/bathroom jokes. (And I was making soooo many in my head.)