Thank you, Mattie

I've been listening to this song nonstop since Wednesday when Mattie (friend since we were but wee 15-year-old babes) told me about it. Right now it is my prozac drip. I have great dreams of organizing a flashmob where everyone dances and marches---kids on shoulders, drummers, bright sun---through the center of downtown Portsmouth (NH). Throw it on your iPod and rock out in your car or your kitchen or down a bustling street.

In the wink of a young girl's bloodshot eye

Tina (our sista from anotha motha), GiG and Lola, age 17, (when, incidentally, I learned the truth). (Did that joke land?)

‘Sup?

Something is off right now, kids. I don’t know what to write about, that’s why I’ve been away. Usually I have some sense that I’m hiding from my computer because the subject that wishes to be penned feels too emotionally daunting to take on but I at least know what it is that wants to be written. Sometimes I recognize early on that the project I want to embark on requires too much work to see it to fruition---and have it turn out with the level of quality that it deserves---so, again, I hide. (I’m not proud of those days, but they happen.)

But today, I am just not certain where my mind is. There were points back in my high school days where I wanted so badly to escape that stale, brick building and run out into the sun that I nearly cried with longing. That’s where I am now. My head half in the game, half in the sun.

I would like to take this time to thank our Heavenly Mama for making this winter the most mild and bearable I’ve ever lived through. Maybe global warming played a part, maybe this means an early end to civilization--I am thankful just the same. I knew back in October---staring down at my already dry and cracking hands---that I would not be able to endure a doozie of a winter. I felt brittle before the leaves finished dropping. The fact that we were spared the 12-degree days and the icy winds that cut through our coats and slash at our cheeks---well, I’m kissing the crocuses with gratitude about it.

But none of this is particularly interesting, is it? Ultimately, this is really just a conversation about the weather and can I really write that kind of crap and feel like I’ve done my job?

No. No, I can’t.

And yet...it seems to be all I’ve got. I’m spacey with spring fever and am staring out the window just like I did in Trigonometry class all those years ago. I got caught once playing Tetris on my graphing calculator during that class---a pretty mathematical game, if you ask me---and got it taken away. It wasn’t my graphing calculator so I ended up pleading with the teacher to give it back to its rightful owner. Later in the year, this teacher---who was really a very nice woman---insinuated that I cheated on the final because not only did I get a high B (after performing somewhat meh all year) but I also got the same exact score as my then boyfriend who sat right behind me. I would like to go on record here as saying: I DID NOT CHEAT ON THAT TEST! (Nor did he...just in case his mom happens to read this blog---or was actually the one who pushed me to start it---and is wondering.) I don’t blame the teacher for thinking I cheated (I was as surprised as any by that B) but I didn’t. I really didn’t.

I was usually okay with earning an honest F or getting out of the test/paper another way---usually in the form of skipping class but other times more creatively. I took Anthropology my senior year and the teacher, a good guy, was a bit of a talker. On days that we were supposed to have exams I would start asking questions at the beginning of class---prompting his long explanations--- until enough time had passed that he couldn’t possibly administer the test. I want to say that I’m not proud of this, but I am. If someday little Lola Jr. comes home and tells me she did the same thing, I think I’ll give her a cupcake.

I’m doing the same thing right now. Filling the time so that you’ll get to the end of this entry thinking we accomplished something here. I might as well write: I am very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very unsure about what to write.

All of this glory days talk probably makes me seem like a worse kid than I was. I hate to paint myself as a leather jacket-wearing teen with a cigarette hanging out of my mouth when that wasn’t the case. Though, I did wear a black leather jacket (see above) and I did smoke cigarettes. And I drank and smoked pot (as did everyone). But I did a million and one extracurricular activities---student council, school newspaper, drama club---so I was definitely part do-gooder. I was the homecoming queen for fuck's sake.

So although I did sometimes fail tests and the occasional class---gym, for one---I was a pretty solid student until about 11th grade. If you were to look at my report cards from that time you would see the gradual eroding of my GPA. And, yes, budding young psych students, your inference that perhaps outside circumstances were affecting my school performance would be spot on. And though I don’t wish to be cryptic, it’s a long story. I can tell you that this is when I experienced my first real bout of depression (the pot didn’t help though I rejected the theory at the time) and it’s also when I went to my first therapist. ‘Notha story, ‘notha day.

Mostly I was just all over the place. A’s and B’s when I wanted ‘em. C’s when I was phoning it in. D’s and F’s when I chose not to study or turn in papers. I just looked at one of my old report cards and the comments from my 11th grade English teacher went from “Shows sincere effort” to “Inconsistent in class work” to---and this quarter he offered two comments--- “Projects not completed” and “Excels in writing skills.” I got a D that quarter because I didn’t turn in a research paper. The kindness in the combination of the guy’s last two comments kills me. It’s like he would have written “She’s not a complete schmuck per se” were he not confined to the standard comments the computerized grading system offered.

There was also a lot of “Does not work to potential” scattered about. Were I being graded on life, this would probably be the comment that would show up now too.

I am still not working to potential. Projects are still not completed.

But this just might be who I am for now. Or who I was then. I was being graded on my school work then, not my coping skills. Maybe I was doing okay in that regard. Maybe I am now.

If I was to give myself a report card now, the comments would be as follows:

“Behaves appropriately given the suck-ass circumstances and the student’s wackjob disposition.”

“Excels at drinking.”

“Stares out windows.”

How would you grade yourselves?

What comments would you give?


P.S. I have to give credit where credit is due. This entry was born (somewhat unconsciously; I really didn’t know I was headed down memory lane) from a project writer Alice Bradley is doing on her blog Finslippy . Her blog is so fantastic and funny that I almost didn’t want to share it here because it will show how paltry mine is in comparison. But that seems awfully shitty and plus it was a reader here, Marianne, who turned me on to it so it seems only right to pay it forward (especially since I'm borrowing her idea). Anyway, Bradley is participating in the DonorsChoose Blogger Challenge . DonorsChoose is a charity which raises money for classroom teachers and when you enter the code FINSLIPPY at checkout any donation you make up to $100 will be matched. She’s posting funny school-related stories for the next two weeks while participating in the challenge and reading her tales of woe got me in touch with mine. Normally, I wouldn’t copy someone else’s idea---I DID NOT CHEAT ON THAT TEST!---because as a general rule, writers don’t like when you copy their ideas. Apparently, this is frowned upon. But I was reading through some of the comments on Finslippy and one of her readers--- “Alexandra/Empress”--- said she wanted to copy the idea to which Alice replied, “You must!” Now, assuming Alice Bradley and Alexander/Empress are not besties, the conclusion I drew was that she’d be cool with anyone playing around with the idea. So that’s where this came from.

But because I lack discipline---”Projects not completed” remember?---and am still waaaay all over the place, I am not sure I will continue writing about all these memories of yesteryear. Still, I would love for my one day of semi-pirating another’s idea to go to good use. Donate if you can!

I noticed

“I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don’t notice it.” Alice Walker, The Color Purple

And a donor has been found!

I know I've written about Jodi ---Goddess of Midwives and Lord of my Ladybits---here before but I have yet to mention what's been going on with her as of late. While I'll likely update you with news about fundraisers, etc., for now I will just post a couple of articles which have been written in recent months regarding Jodi's need for a liver transplant after over 20 years of living with an autoimmune disease called primary biliary cirrhosis. With ten years of under-the-hood inspections under our belts (my belt; it would be weird if it were both of our belts)---and you can be sure that Jodi is the only mechanic I've ever seen---I learned at my last visit that she is taking the year off from work to build up her strength before the transplant (which will likely happen this spring) and to recuperate afterwards. I feel so much for Jodi and her family but the lot of them seems to be brimming with fortitude and humor and what more could a family need to endure such hardship? A liver donor perhaps? Well, now they've got that too!

The most recent article.

The original story which ran in January.

And here is a link to a Facebook page created by her family to keep all of us---Jodi's concerned public (you know I wanted to write pubic)---posted on her status. Obviously, this latest news means that things are looking way up.

Suffice it to say that Dan and I will not even entertain the thought of baby-making until she gets back to the midwifery bid-ness.

In other words, we're saving ourselves for Jodi.

P.S. Save the date! April 6th will be the first of three Full Moon Madness events at Margaritas Restaurant in Portsmouth, NH from which a percentage of the evening's bar and restaurant sales will go towards Jodi's Liver Team. (The other dates are May 3rd and June 4th.) Margaritas is not only home to the delicious Tomato Garlic Nacho but it's also the site at which Dan and Lola's courtship began. Perhaps you will be enticed by a historic tour of the restaurant, including a viewing of the juke box that a drunken Dan struck with his elbow in an attempt to change the song a la Fonzie. I was defenseless against his charms.

Come join the fun, peeps, because it's basically a party in the bar and we're cooking up a lot of hoo-hoo themed fun. A "Placentarita" has been discussed.

Mwah.

Hanging in my Aunt Gail's kitchen.


Miami by the numbers:

Zero: The number of times I went swimming while I was down there.

Two: The number of Oprah magazines I made it through.

Way too many to count: The number of beers, glasses of wine, margaritas, mojitos, and freshly squeezed grapefruit juice and vodkas I drank.

While the drinks were plenty and the food even plenty-er, we were most nourished by each other while down in the Miami sun. My aunt, Dan, two nieces, two bros-in-law and two sisters; it was a holiday without the pressure. Every minute was different---ten days of love and sadness, laughter and sobbing, deeply painful reality and momentary departures from hardship.

“We really are so lucky," my Aunt Gail said during our tearful goodbye, "to love each other so much that it's physically painful to say good bye."

I have never known harder days than these ones but I know what she meant. I've often felt lucky to have loved my mom so much that living without her is so awful. Even as I am fearful lately of loving anyone too much, even as the concept of gratitude isn't always in reach---I know somewhere that we really are lucky.

Still, the post-vacation blues have settled in. I haven't been able to stop crying since we've been back. I know I sound like a spoiled brat---Who mourns a vacation?---but it's the truth. I knew we were coming back to bleak realities and sure enough the sadness has enveloped me. My dad's tumor is back and growing and he has some swelling in his brain. I talked to him yesterday on the phone and he said how strange it is to know he’s dying but to not know how or when it will happen. His illness over the last year---the effects of the tumor, surgery and later the chemo--- brought an intense and often unnavigable tsunami of emotion; particularly due to its occurrence so quickly following my mom's passing. We've all dealt with her death differently---he much differently than any of his daughters---and this, too, has presented much anguish and pain. I've spent weeks in suspended shock due to all that has transpired which is part of why it’s been too difficult to broach here. Still, just as he is understanding now that he is going to die, I am understanding how much I will miss him.

I am trying to thank him for what he has given me; a love of books, an interest in music which spans all genres, limitless curiosity, the solid advice to "choose what is most fun" when faced with a difficult decision. My dad has never been like other dads and I am grateful for this in many ways.

During our phone call we talked about how appreciating the beauty of the snow on the ground---a sight I was grumpy about returning to---is the best way to live a life. Appreciating that damn snow allowed me to kiss my life. My mom had hoped to see one more snow and wasn't able to (though a fresh layer of powder came just a couple of days after she died; an unlikely sight for early November as if she brought it to us). So I know better than to take it for granted. (Though I do reserve the right to boo hoo again should I get cranky. And also, it’s much easier to kiss a life that brings the 60-degree weather that today is.)

I've been thinking about all of this so much lately. How this moment is my life. How who I am now is who I am, period. It doesn't mean there won't be growth and change, it just means that this version of me is not to be cast off as temporary. I look at pictures of my mom at my age---that person was who she was; those moments captured were her life. Sitting here at this table with my laptop is a snapshot of my life, just as a walk later today will be. As will my tears in between.

“I finally figured out that I had a choice: I could suffer a great deal, or not, or for a long time. Or I could have the combo platter: suffer, breathe, pray, play, cry, and try to help people.”---Anne Lamott from Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith

I’m all up in that combo platter. Sorrow, anger, laughter, stillness, anguish, loathing, rage. It’s hard to fight to get back up knowing we will be knocked down again, so rather than fighting anymore I’m trying to wait myself out.

Maybe all things are occurring at just their right time. Maybe our trip to Miami was supposed to be in the weeks after my grandmother died rather than before so we could be there for my aunt rather than see my grandmother one last time. Maybe we needed to douse our cells with sunlight and our souls with energy so that we will have the strength for what’s to come.

Maybe it would have been too hard for my dad to have lived a long life after losing my mom.

Yesterday on my walk Ray Bolger’s version of “Once Upon a Time” came on and I cried right there on the sidewalk---grateful not just for the song’s beauty but more so for my dad who taught me to recognize it.

The fruits of the combo platter...