Saturday, April 30, 2011

A year ago today...


Made it to 30 in one piece, mama. Love, your Laura

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

I didn't think I could show my face here ever again.


Before



After



So sometimes I throw ideas up here---Hey, I’m cleaning out my closet. Look at what a mess I’ve made!---with the thought that posting it will motivate me to see it through. I couldn’t possibly post pictures of the squalor I am living in as a result of having emptied my closet without later showing you the pristine order I manage to make of it. Solid plan, right? Right?

Well, no, it turns out.

Apparently, I can’t publicly shame myself into cleaning.

(Apparently, I have no pride whatsoever.)

(Apparently, it’s all your fault for not motivating me.)

I went down swinging guys, I really did. For 10 days I kept that closet empty, navigating boxes and totes to make my way to the desk. For 10 days I sucked the air out of vacuum storage bags, confident that it was all my puffy winter sweaters that were making this apartment so damn crowded. For 10 days I believed the feat was manageable.

And then...I didn’t anymore. Then I realized that my place was looking like something you’d see on an episode of Hoarders and that no amount of snapping was going to Mary Poppins that shit into order.

I would enter the Spoffice all ready to tackle an area---Oh, today I will go through the foot-high pile of magazine clippings that I’ve set aside for my future scrapbooking/vision boarding endeavors!---only to find myself paralyzed.

Well, I can’t put the clippings in that drawer because that’s where my manuscript (ha!) is going to go and maybe I could put them in a tote but I’m out of totes (and forbidden to do any more Target runs until I make some more progress) so that means freeing up a bin by going through our (2007) wedding pictures first and finally getting them into an album and oh what a job that is and I couldn’t possibly throw these magazine pictures out because the only thing standing between me and every dream I’ve ever had is completing a vision board which depicts all the treasures and satisfaction I am going to manifest by simply looking at them all glue-sticked onto a piece of cardboard. (Right Oprah?) (Glue-sticked?) Maybe I should hold off on this area for now but does that mean I’m backburnering my dreams and why am I always doing that?

A few days in row of this started really taking a toll on my mental health.

Seriously...it came up in therapy. I kid you not, my therapist told me to put the shit back in the closet. She said, “Put it in the closet and shut the door. Sometimes you have to do that. You know it’s there and when you’re ready to go through it, you will.”

Two notes on this.

1) Um, usually I’m not talking about household chores in therapy (c’mon kids, you know there are waaaaay bigger dysfunctional fish to fry here) but some whining about how “I can’t even finish cleaning my fucking closet,” may have occurred.

2) “Put it in the closet and shut the door”? I’m going to ride the hell out of that metaphor.

The fact is, I got overwhelmed. By the closet. By grief. By life. And tackling it all at once was unwise. And impossible. And driving me to drink. Yet, for a minute I felt committed to doing just that. (Committed to taking on every challenge at once, not to drinking...although I was pretty committed on that front as well.)

And here’s why: I’m turning 30 on Saturday so there’s been a rush order put on accomplishment.

I’ve attempted many a blog entry about how fucked up about turning 30 I am (and how disappointed I am in myself for being so fucked up about it) but suffice it to say that if all the other stuff that’s gone down in the last year wasn’t enough to get me reflecting on life (and it’s plenty...Plen. Ty.) then entering my thirties sure as shit is. And all this reflecting? That’s what turned me into a coked up cleaning lady, ravaging every corner of my home and soul with a dustpan and broom. I was going to enter my thirties with a clean closet and a detailed life plan which was to be all drawn up, laminated and framed by Saturday. Except, as with the apartment, trying to force order when I don’t even know half of what’s going on inside is unwise. And impossible. And driving me to drink.

(Isn’t this metaphor fun? I was hoping I would have some childhood memory of being locked in a closet that I could weave into things and really get good and deep but no such luck.)

If I was turning 29 again (and maybe I’ll become that lady) then I would simply be depressed about going into this first birthday without my mom on the planet and that alone would be enough of a derailment. And it is. I will miss her homemade cake and frosting. I will miss my name written in her beautiful cursive on the front of a birthday card. And I never thought I cared about this kind of thing, but I’ll even miss her telling me that another year has gone by and she is proud of who I’ve become. (I hate to get preachy but next time your mom says something like that to you, really take it in.) I am sad that my mom is not here to see me turn 30. Indeed, that alone is enough to take on.

But because it’s 30, there’s another set of anxieties that come with this birthday---the “Am I proud of who I’ve become?” of things. This is when the drinking usually starts. In certain respects, I feel okay about it. I’ve loved as deeply and generously as I yet know how, I’ve tried to be brave when it felt easier to surrender, and I’m striving to, more than anything else, treat life as a gift. But on paper? I’m up six pounds and unemployed. Which parts do you think I’m choosing to focus on? Wisdom has a way of fleeing the scene when your jeans are cutting into your love handles.

I’ll be entering my thirties with a mess of a closet and plenty of unmet goals. Not what I envisioned (not that I had a clear picture in mind...or even a hazy abstract) but then who could have seen any of this coming? I think I’m doing okay (in that feeling mostly shitty seems appropriate) for a girl (please don’t tell me I have to start saying woman) whose mom died and whose dad was diagnosed with brain cancer only three and half months later. (He’s doing very well, by the way.) I feel so at the mercy of circumstance and emotion that even my inner control freak is throwing up her hands like, “Bitch, why you messin‘ with me?” But, then again, if you can’t fall apart in the months following the loss of your mom---when every single day the yearning of your heart is what wakes you up in the morning---then when can you?

A bit of advice (from a person who has no right offering any): Don’t wait until the last minute to cram for success, you never know what could happen. (I didn’t even manage to vanquish procrastination.) I’ve talked with my siblings and we all agree that it’s getting harder, not easier. All of our hearts are broken in a way we now know will never truly be fixed and it’s unrealistic to think that things are going to relax into some sort of steady, predictable rhythm just yet. Most of the time this life doesn’t even feel like my own anymore. It’s a sad chaos of despair and worry and sorrow and anguish (with almost as many laughs as there are tears thanks to Dan and some funny-ass sisters) and I simply can’t expect order right now as I never know what the day will bring. I have to get comfortable with the limitations that come with this even if it means not accomplishing everything I ever wanted to by Saturday...or even by this time next year. (Can I please have my shit together by 40 though? I mean fuh real...)

You know what I'm saying here, right? I have to learn to live with my messy closet. It’s too much to take on at once so I’ll have to go box by box and have little expectation when it comes to a timeline. Of course none of it is going anywhere. (Unless I get robbed; I don’t really know how the metaphor would extend in that situation but I’d hope to be able to use the phrase, “the missing bobbleheads of my heart.”) The fits and starts of crying and cleaning and writing, the inconsistent beats of joy and laughter followed by silent stretches of this deepest pain are the rhythm of things now and even though it’s a song I’ve never heard (“Bitch, I don’t like this music,” the control freak says) I’m going to have to get used to it.

The Spoffice is my sacred space again with most of the mess back behind closed doors. Dan walked in last night and said, “It looks nicer every time I come in.” Some days it does. Other days I’m sorting through an area and the piles take over the bed. Or I’m working on a piece of writing and there are scraps of paper everywhere, notebooks strewn about, plates of half-eaten food on the floor. Sometimes I fall asleep on the bed amidst the notebooks and piles, my reddened face on a wet pillow.

My therapist suggested I try spending a week in bed without showering to see how it felt. (Want her number?) Dan has said the same thing many times. You wouldn’t know it from the state of things, but I’ve kept busy. Sometimes I’ve just kept busy with telling myself I have to keep busy. I think they both just want me to sleep. I’m tempted to try it if only for the pictures I could post here. The worry, of course, is that there would be no “after” shots of that either and I would never get out of bed again.

But who am I kidding? You-Know-Who would be all, “Bitch, not on my watch...”



There has been some progress. A few of the little bottles on the spice rack up top have Scrabble letters in them. The others have tiny sea shells or buttons...this delights me. Also, I think a future post will be dedicated solely to the painting of this desk. Pink? Not so much.



My favorite part. Hello, vision board! (Using the over-the-door shoe hangy apparatus for storage is a Becky Breslin Design.)



This is a kitschy hoarder's version of minimalist decor.



That's just good Chi.



My real favorite part. Those are our first baseball gloves...my mom's and mine.





Sunday, April 17, 2011

No "after" shots just yet...


And it might be a while.

It's just...I'm still surrounded by mess. My aunt, organizer extraordinaire, suggested a goal of two hours a day so that's all I can aim for at this point. I'm not gonna lie, I feel like shoving everything back in the closet. That's what I feel like doing but I won't...not yet. The overflow to the rest of the apartment is starting to take its toll on me. I wouldn't call myself a neat freak but I do require a certain level of environmental order especially if the goal is relaxation in said environment, which it usually is on the weekend. When Dan wants to hang on the couch and read books together but I can see messes shoved into corners, it's not good for me. I'll do it, but it's not good for me.

The sun is burning through the clouds now so a lazy Sunday seems unlikely (though don't count it out completely...Dan has power over me; he's the pull-you-back-into-bed type and I'm not always able to resist his snuggly magnetism). I am hoping for progress on the Spoffice front but I make no promises.

Dan and I used to have what we called "History Sundays" (I can't believe I'm admitting this) where we would spend a few hours (or an entire day) either watching documentaries about a period or event (think Ken Burns' series, "The War") or boning up on the geography/culture of a random place we'd pull out of the Sunday paper. It's been a long time since we've observed History Sunday but we discussed the possibility of hunkering down today and getting our history on. (Geek.) I think it's time I learned a little more about Libya though, let's be honest, I'm really just looking for an excuse to break out my colored pencils and geography coloring book. (You're really such a fucking geek.)

I don't know, it's 9am on a Sunday and I'm brainstorming here. I've got a blank slate ahead of me if I can manage to ignore laundry, spoffice implosion, groceries that need buying, e-mails that need writing, bills that need paying, floors that need vacuuming and washing, a world that needs dusting and a life that needs planning. If I can back-burner those trivial worries, then I'm quite sure the day is mine to fill as I see fit.

I find myself leaning towards History Sunday. I think I will find the unrest in Libya quite calming at this point.

Happy Sunday.

Monday, April 11, 2011

Don't judge


Where do you keep your snare drum?

So you don't think I'm totally full of shit, I've decided to provide photographic proof of the Great Spoffice Cleanout of 2011. Yes, it started out as just a closet project. But the closet is in the spoffice (spare bedroom + office for the newbies) so the whole place had to blow up in order for me to make real progress. In fact, the project is already creeping out of the spoffice and into the rest of the apartment which means the whole ordeal is beginning to get dangerous. See, I've been here before. I've emptied this closet before. It has vomited its contents into the other rooms of our tiny palace many times before now, only to be eaten back up and held once more in the sour bowels of those white closet doors. (I think I would eat and really enjoy some sort of deliciously tart candy called Sour Bowels.) But not this time, oh no. This time, I'm serious. This shit is getting gone. Since it seems my soul can't be Feng Shui-ed into a flowing model of calm or efficiency, my space must. I don't know that I've ever participated in actual spring cleaning but I think that's what's going down over here. I'm ripping the cling wrap off the windows and getting some air up in here. My methodology has involved 3-4 hours of writing followed by 1-2 hours of cleaning. Rinse and repeat. I'm not sure yet if I'm taking a break from the writing with the organizing or if I'm taking a break from the organizing with the writing but either way, exercise breaks are not being observed and Cadbury Mini Egg breaks are. I can't walk away from this fight anymore. I don't care that Dan just got us hooked on Season Four of Mad Men or that Idol has really taken an exciting turn with last week's booting of Pia or that it's getting nice out, I'm getting 'er done.

Let's be honest, I'm into it. Between the writing and the excavating, there's a lot spilling out of dark corners right now. I'm not saying it's all going to be put back perfectly, but at least I'll know what's in there.

The sour bowels

The bowels of the sour bowels.

Look closely---not only does one box contain "Lots of shizzle w/ wires" but another contains solely "Bobbleheads." Bet you don't have a box of bobbleheads in any of your closets. (Also, find and circle the clarinet from seventh grade.)

There's a door back there. Blocking our means of egress, totes filled with some of my mom's things that I couldn't let go of. This is what kicked off the Great Spoffice Cleanout, needing to find a spot for my mama's stuff.

Did I mention that I also brought home the desk from my childhood bedroom?

The bed provides interim housing.

Big plans for these shelves...not for Dan's bobbleheads.

That's a Leg Magic you see there. Jealous?

My desk is relatively clean...which proves I've been using it...which proves I've been writing...and not looking up Brene Brown on Facebook.

I've been in this space for nearly 10 hours. It's time to retreat and fortify. Where you at mini eggs?

Monday, April 4, 2011

This rocked my world today.



I am engaged in an extremely deep and quality writing project a massive closet clean-out (which I've started before only to ultimately shove everything back in...several times) and I watched/listened to this video Dan sent to me as I attempted to figure out what to do with the tank tops I broke out for the Miami trip. (Do I pack 'em back up because, let's face it, we're not there yet? Or do I keep 'em out because, let's face it, the idea of wearing them ever again makes me happy?) Anyway, this really got to me. (By the way, how 'bout the multitasking? Pairing closet douching with spiritual education? Get me while I'm hot, Oprah!)

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Water's so clear you can see to the bottom, hundred thousand dollar cars, everybody got 'em


That there's a conch fritter.

Okay, I’m back.

You guys, I was in Paradise and I simply could not bring you with me.

The last week was spent in the warmth of the Miami sun and then I returned just in time for yesterday’s snow.

MoFo.

My Aunt Gail and grandmother, Mavis, gave my sisters and me (Cherie and I met Katie down there) a week of poolside bliss and the only reason I am able to return here is because I was revived down there. Conch Fritters, massages, orange Creamsicles, cappuccino every morning, Ruben’s Cuban, movie parties, Twizzlers, M&M's and popcorn in bed (oh my), rugelach, trays of chocolate-covered toffees and raisins, heavy cries, Bossa Nova, Miami rainstorms, Gigi talks in rocking chairs and, of course, bottomless glasses of frothy, sweet, fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice which Gail fueled me with all week. I could feel my withered cells restore and bloat on Vitamin C and sunshine.

We booked the trip back in February and when my dad’s brain tumor was diagnosed shortly thereafter, Gail texted me, “Whatever you do, don’t cancel your trip,” knowing how badly we all needed the break and nourishment of vacation. And nourish us, she did. It was a weeklong resuscitation. I didn’t even know how much I needed it until the first day we were there I lay down on the patio, had a cry for all the memories of my mama and the Miami vacations of my childhood that surrounded us and, face to the sun, breathed as deeply and easily as I had in months. The sun and love warmed my soul and body back to life.

Now I am clinging with all my might to a post-vacation high (as opposed to post-vacation depression which sometimes greets me). I even have enthusiasm for all the order I am planning to achieve in these last cold weeks (and even gratitude for them in this way) so that I’m allowed to go out and play when it’s time.

The shit storm is still here, there’s no denying it. But, even if it’s only for this minute, I don’t feel pinned by its heaviness. If only for this minute, I feel like I’m riding the crazy waves it’s churning up.

Thanks G.