The Mellowsky Spew

I cancelled today’s lesson too

2012-02-24T08:30:00.002-05:00

I didn't want to chum the waters.

Yes, the shoulder is still bugging me. But more than that I had to call in “lady problems.” Just the typical once-a-month situation. Fuh real. This isn’t I-have-cramps-and-want-to-get-out-of-gym-class (an excuse I never used; yet still I managed to fail gym at one point). I was just like, nah, let’s not chance it. I’m sorry to disappoint---and, really, to have provided information that you just don’t need to know---but I gotsta be honest. A Band-Aid at the bottom of a public pool is one thing. A situation involving this is quite another.

Awkward lady talk aside, I also wanted to let you know that I am heading down to Miami tomorrow afternoon. We planned the trip about a month ago to have a visit with my Aunt Gail and also with the hopes of visiting my grandmother, who’s been growing sicker over the last year, one more time. Sadly, we didn't make it in time and she died last Thursday. A couple of my sisters and I were down there last March and she was still her vibrant self then, so I’m glad to to remember her that way. We’ve been going to visit Mavis (and my late grandfather, Poppi) down in Miami since before I could walk and my grandparents’ home has always been a special haven for my sisters and me. Gail took care of Mavis all year so we are looking forward to gathering and creating a little love pocket for her to rest in for a bit.

I bet you feel bad now for wanting to give me shit about skipping my swimming lesson. I hope to write---or at least show you video of wild parrots flying overhead---while I’m down there but we’ll see. The tribe is gathering and I may need to unplug. (And, yes, perhaps work on my swimming.) But I wicked love you all and have had much fun with you over the last couple of weeks. Off to pack---those bombs aren’t going to hide themselves. (I feel very ambivalent about posting that joke, even in my own home.)

We’re coming for you, G.Bird.

Fare thee well, my peeps.

Fare thee well, my Mavis.

March 2011

MELLOW, MAVIS "MAYBELLINE" 87, of Miami, FL passed away Thursday February 16, 2012 at 8:30am. Born in Mississippi, Mavis struck out early for adventure, landing first in Chicago before moving to Miami with her beloved husband, the late Jay "Poppi" Mellow. The two were forever honeymooners, dancing their way through 45 years of marriage, Lucy and Desi style. Mavis was the definition of hot ticket. With her red hair and impeccable style, she was the picture of glamour while her sweet Mississippi accent gave her a great southern warmth. She was beauty and she was love and she will be greatly missed. Mavis leaves behind daughter Gail Urban and grandson Bodhi, son Barry Mellow and granddaughters Tara, Becky, Katie, Cherie and Laura, five great-grandchildren, Molly, Ben, Savannah, Evangeline and Waverly as well as her loyal Basset, Beatrice. Graveside services will be held at Mt. Nebo Kendall Cemetery on Tuesday, February 21st at 11am. In lieu of floral bouquets, please contact Denise of Mt. Nebo at 305-274-0641 to contribute to a casket spray of Mavis' favorite flowers. View this Guest Book at www. MiamiHerald.com/obituaries.

I cancelled tomorrow’s lesson

2012-02-21T17:20:00.004-05:00

That's really me.

It's not a stomach ache! It’s the swimmer’s shoulder, I swear! After practicing yesterday morning (on my own! all by myself! without anyone telling me I had to be there!), I spent the rest of the day icing it and then went to bed with a heating pad (which is, by the way, delightful). I never know if it’s heat or cold that fixes all bodily woes so I opted for both. And still I woke up this morning feeling like I had pitched nine innings and totally wished I had one of those badass ice sleeves to make me feel like a real athlete. (Maybe I should buy one of those.) I think it was racing the water walkers that did it. They're fast! They didn’t know I was racing them and I’m sure I was very subtle about it except for the one time when I yelled, “Eat that, blue hairs!”

There was an older woman there yesterday---I know gyms are "judgement free zones" but go with me here---who was water walking a couple of lanes over from me and she was rocking a full face---a very thick, full face---of makeup. Also, the hair was very high and layered and teased and stiff. She caught me staring---I was just so impressed with the control---and I tried to pull off the I’m-not-staring-I’m-smiling thing, but she wasn’t having any of it. So I splashed her. (Almost. I really almost did.)

That’s me not being judgy.

But in my defense, I’m sure Ethel and Dottie were laughing it up at my expense last night at Meat Loaf Monday over at the senior center.

“Not only could she not make it the length of the pool,” said Ethel, bits of loaf flying out with each word, “but at one point her little booby came out and homegirl [Ethel calls me homegirl] does not have a rack to be proud of. My Stanley wouldn’t have looked twice at that little she/him.”

That Ethel is such an exaggerator. Stanley loved my rack. But there is truth in her tale. I looked down after an especially vigorous lap yesterday (dog paddle) and, like the world’s smallest lobster buoy, there I was floating on the surface. This is why I’m a writer who hides inside all day. I really do make a fool of myself wherever I go. It’s not a complex. Sweats on backwards and then the jug slip---it’s only a matter of time before I get caught up in a pant leg during my post-shower speed changing and take the curtain with me as I fall ass-up in front of everyone. And I bet I’ll be wearing bad underwear that day. And that Ethel...she would really make shit out of me then.

But my shoulder---this is where I was going---it hurts! I’m sure I’m doing something wrong to be in this kind of pain. I called my instructor and left her a voicemail letting her know that I had to cancel tomorrow’s lesson.

”Hey Coach, it’s me. [She teaches several people but I said just ‘me’ ‘cause she’ll know.] Listen, the shoulder is really wailing today so I think it’s best if I give it a couple of days to rest before hitting Ol’ Blue. [That’s the pool...it’s swimmer talk...she’ll know.] I sure hope I’ll be ready for the big meet Saturday against East Valley. I know you said the scouts are going to be there looking to see if I have what it takes to swim at the college level and finally get out of this podunk town. Remember when you told me about the scouts coming? When we were in the shower that one time?”

That’s an exact transcript of the message I left her.

And she left me one back! And there was concern in her voice. Nobody sleeps when the star athlete is on the fritz. (“On the fritz” is definitely a phrase people use to describe injured athletes and not damaged appliances.) She wondered what was going on ("I wonder what's going on," she said, with what I'm pretty sure was restrained panic in her voice) and she agreed that we should postpone the lesson until Friday so I can take a couple of days to recuperate. I’ll probably do some soup-can-curls to get my strength back. Coach told me we could cancel Friday too if still hurts at the end of the week, so I’ll keep you posted. I’m pretty sure the town is putting together some kind of website so people can know how I’m doing...no big deal.

And I’m in good hands. Dan will be waiting on me hand and foot.

Maybe I should buy a bell.

I have a confession.

2012-02-20T17:42:00.003-05:00

"I peed in the pool, Father."

I’m just going to come out with it. I started taking swimming lessons. It’s been over a month and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I mean, is this not why we gather here? To sort through the awkward minutiae of just this type of torture? But I only just decided this week that I am definitely not going to quit. Definitely not. And yet---maybe. Maybe I’ll still quit.

My reasons for engaging in this chlorinated hell span the emotional, physical and mental.

Emotional: My mom was the strongest most beautiful swimmer I ever knew and I want to feel her while I’m in that water.

Physical: I think I’m turning the arthritic corner (and am taking it verrrry slowly). I can’t explain it, but you’d think I just ended my NFL run for how banged up I feel. I figured I’d go low-impact for a while (as opposed to all the triathlons I’ve been up to). But, get this---I think I have swimmer’s shoulder. Or swimmer’s arm. Or swimmer’s wussiness. Whatever it is, I’m gonna put ice on it.

Mental: As we know, exercise helps me stay on the not-so-Black-Swan side of sanity.

These were all my hoped for results. It was supposed to go swimmingly (I’m sorry) and I’d be all---hip, hip, hooray, I found my sport! And it was supposed to be easy.

Not so. Not so!

I know if I had told you I was thinking of doing this, you would have warned me.

You would have said, “Lola, you know it’s the middle of winter, right?”

And I might have said, “Oh, yes, that’s true isn’t it?”

You might have said, “Are you sure you’re going to want to stuff your raw chicken skin into a bathing suit this time of year?”

And I would have said, “Well, you have a point there.”

And you most definitely would have given me a stern “No, Lola. No!” when I told you I scheduled these lessons for 6:30 in the morning.

Dan did not say these things. It’s kind of his fault in that way.

I can’t pinpoint what pisses me off more---setting my alarm for 5:50am or the skinny gym types (those toned-assed sprites!) who are working out at that hour. Did you know that even in this most mild winter, our cars still have frost on them at 6:30 in the morning? My lessons are on Wednesdays and the night before every one---every one---I am like a despondent kid whose parents are trying to discern why their child seems to get a stomach ache every Tuesday evening.

But I push on (because Dan refuses to let me quit since he’s kind of a smiley sadist) and get to the gym locker room for 6:20am. Oh, the naked. SO MUCH NAKED! As always, I am entirely uncomfortable with this and wish people would keep their nakedness to themselves and their dentists. I, of course, have everything on beneath my sweats (which sometimes look remarkably like pajama pants and maybe are). I rock board shorts and a tankini top for the lesson---a mid-winter’s stomach reveal? No suh.

The reason I opted for 6:30 lessons---the only reason---is because I figured nobody else would be there. But, guess what? That’s when the real swimmers show up. So there I am chugging along on my little kick board like a motorized bath tub duck while Greg Louganis is doing the fancy flippy tumbly thing off the wall in the next lane.

Now, I do know how to swim; the kick board is for length strengthening. The floaties? That’s a matter of safety. I’m actually a pretty strong swimmer despite the fact that I inexplicably started to avoid the ocean, pools and clogged tubs at some point in my teenage years. But if there is any sport I can say I’ve done since I was a kid, it’s swimming. Yet this is suuuuuch a stretch. I was a hack, a beach kid---not the goggles and swim cap type. More the you’re-lucky-if-you-get-suntan-lotion type. Saying that swimming was my sport as a kid is a little like saying I was the captain of the Tag Squad or that I was a born Hide and Go Seeker. Still, the fundamentals are there. Though, last week we did work on breathing and floating so apparently I’m not quite gold medal material just yet.

The first thing I have to do once I get there---it’s a gym rule---is rinse off in the poolside shower so that people don’t catch my grossness. The shower water is really hot so I tend to linger because going from the steamy shower to the tepid pool water is entirely unpleasant. They say they keep the pool between 82 and 84 degrees but I’m pretty sure they’re stupid lying liars. I was so reluctant to get in the water at my first lesson that the instructor asked me if I felt safe enough to go in alone.

My instructor---oh, she is so lovely. But sometimes I have to hate her because every time I see her it’s 6:30 in the morning and she’s in the same room as I am. She is nothing but supportive and patient and kind but the moment I first get into that pool I feel such an urge to grab her by the head and dunk her. Thankfully for both of us she stays outside of the pool and stands along the edge for our lessons. This is my favorite part because it makes me feel like an Olympian except she doesn’t have a a stop watch. Maybe I should buy her a stop watch. I like pretending I am a real athlete and she is my coach even though it is nothing like this whatsoever. I keep hoping she’ll do coachly things like lecture me about steroids or ask me to join her in the shower after practice.

We work mostly on my crawl stroke. I am apparently missing some technique. I strain my neck. My breathing is inconsistent. I point my hands down which causes my body to follow therefore making me strain my neck to take inconsistent breaths. Basically I swim like a dying whale with goggles. (Yep, goggles. Cuz I’m fuh real.) My instructor spends much of our lesson trying to figure out new ways to help me understand things she has already explained several times.

“Like you’re climbing a ladder,” she says, trying to reiterate how I should reach and then push through my stroke.

But in my head it’s all--- “I wonder if it would be weird if I said, ‘See ya, Coach,’ at the end of our lesson today.”

I also get to work with all the fun pool tools that I should be too embarrassed to use. In addition to the kick boards, we also work with those foam dumbbells that make me feel like The Rock and rubber flippers which make me feel like a newborn mermaid with cerebral palsy.

And then our half hour is up and I make my way through The Frigid Hall of Doom. This is the hallway which connects the giant, echoey pool area to the locker room. And it is cold. And when you are wet, it is glacial and could make you cry. And then your tears would freeze and weigh down your cheeks and you would look like Droopy. That’s exactly what The Frigid Hall of Doom is like. So it is absolutely necessary after The Frigid Hall of Doom to pop into the sauna. I’ve only ever been in the sauna alone and I pray it stays this way. I’m just not the “let’s take a steam,” type of gal and don’t even get me started on how I would react to a naked infiltration. I go in there because I think it’s supposed to open my pores or or increase my blood flow or just do something that benefits me while all I do is sit there. (This is my favorite type of self care.)

But then it gets ugly. Shower time. There’s no way around it. I am wet and I am cold and a shower is what the circumstance necessitates. Fortunately, we are dealing with a stall situation. It is entirely private and since there is a small changing area before the shower stall, there is a two-curtain barrier between me and any potential passing human. My walls are fortified. I wear flipflops---because my mama raised me right---and I even use their “Luxury Shampoo” which is also body wash, a concept that has always baffled me. I dry off in my private stall and dress in my private stall (because that’s where such things should be done!) as quickly as I can. Last week I was in such a rush to get dressed---lest I be naked for one second more than necessary---that I put my pants on backwards and walked out of the gym with my drawstrings swinging behind me. Lola “so cool it hurts” Mellowsky at your service.

Before I know it, I’m home with a well-earned latte in hand. And like the kid with the belly ache, I roll in to our apartment so enthusiastic and proud of myself for what I’ve done.

And Dan says, “See? Now that wasn’t so bad was it?”

And I say, “No! I was so brave!”

But today is Monday and tomorrow will be Tuesday. And I’m certain I feel a plague moving in.

Dear Mom

2012-02-13T19:43:00.001-05:00

I miss you today. So much. I want to know what you’d think of Whitney Houston’s death. Would you have cared? I just want to have a superficial conversation like that. Are you going to watch Idol? Have you had lunch with any of your friends lately? Any run-ins with old classmates of mine at the grocery store? You know, the kind where someone tells you to say hello to me but you can’t for the life of you remember what his or her name was. I want to hear you laugh when I make fun of you for this.

I want to see you at the kitchen table having your coffee. I want to see you with your glasses low on your nose, flipping through cards and receipts stuffed into a too-small wallet. I want to see a purse strap over your shoulder and your uneven gait walking to your car. I want to see your socks scrunched down to your sneakers. I want to see your painted toenails in flip-flops. I want to watch you watch the river. I want to see you lick your finger before turning the pages of a gardening book. I want to see you jotting down notes. I want to see your notes, your handwriting--- “birthday card to Cherie”, “breakfast with Betty.” I want to see you chatting with Dan, the way you guys loved each other. I want you to chat with me, the way you loved me.

I want to tell you your eyes are beautiful. I want to tell you I love your smile. I want to hear you say, “My girl, my Laura.” I want to smell you. I want to see your hair wrapped in a towel after the shower. I want to watch you brush your hair in the bathroom mirror. I want to see you rinse foamy tooth paste down the drain. The way your hand cupped the water before splashing it around the rim. I would watch your hands all day. Then mascara, then lipstick---the way you put on lip stick, the hollowed curve in its middle and thinness at the tip.

I want to see you bend to pick up a sock and sit down to sew a button. I want to see you hose off the deck on a hot day. I want to see you close all the windows before a heavy rain.

I’m waiting for you to tell me the crocuses are popping, the tiny blooms of violets rising through heart-shaped leaves. Where will we do Easter this year? You never did like ham. Remember when you, Dan and I spent the whole day on the newspaper’s Easter word scramble? Wanna do that again this year?

I want to see you on the floor playing with your grandkids.

I dreamt of you the other night. Two nights in a row actually. One night we hugged. The next you asked me what I love so much about you. More than everything, Mom.

I miss you being of this earth. On this earth. I like thinking that you’re out there but I get so scared that you’re not. That you’re gone forever---your face underneath dirt and grass---and I will have to live an entire life without you.

I don’t know why today. Why today is a harder one. Usually it comes at night---it’s early today. I heard someone say that when you think of your lost loved one---when a little thing reminds me; graham crackers and milk---that it’s you putting the thought in my head. Your little,"Hello, my girl. My Laura."

When I cry, like now, I think of you watching me.

“I’m sorry you’ll have to miss me,” you told me once.

Are you standing by me now, sad that I am sad?

“You’ll feel me holding your hand,” you said.

I search my palm for you.

My husband, FDR

2012-02-09T10:16:00.000-05:00

It's embarrassing how impressed I am with myself.

2012-02-06T19:03:00.007-05:00

But let's be honest, Dan is responsible for most of the artistry.

The formative stage:

Indeed, this is the heath bar cake I made for Dan's birthday a couple of years back. He brought it in to work today so I had nary a bite but he said it all went before the end of the day despite the array of leftover treats that others brought in. I won! I won!

I'm glad not to be one of those people whose mood plummeted after the Patriots screwed the pootch. Let' be clear, I didn't miss a Pats game all season. I have deep and abiding go-to pocket fantasies about many of the players. But I'm not batshit---it's just football. Still, the Super Bowl is a big whoop in our household and the reason extends beyond the binging which transpires in its honor. When I was a kid I was the only one in my household of six females and one male who cared at all about football. (I would argue that my dad cared even less than any of my sisters and they cared about it not one bit.) My mom knew I liked it though, so each year when the Super Bowl came around she would make it a special night for me. She'd buy all my favorite snacks---pepperoni slices topped with chunks of cheddar, a plate of nachos just for me, Hostess cupcakes---and set me up with a tray table in the family room where I was able to watch the game without interruption. I love this little memory now because I see it as her way of celebrating my individuality---not an easy thing to do with five kids.

So it reminds me of her now, Super Bowl Sunday. And in her honor, we celebrated. And ate.

And drank:

Classy bitch with my plastic minis of red, eh? Dan picked them up because I never seem to finish a bottle of wine before it goes bad. (For all my talk, I'm really not a very accomplished drinker.) I'll give a bottle two nights and then I'm sketched out and afraid that because I have such an unsophisticated palate I won't know if it's bad or just wine. So Dan picked up these little guys and you know what? Not bad.

Kick-off apps:

Dan makes the best guacamole this side of Mexico. The beer---Leinenkugel's Sunset Wheat with an orange wedge, my fave.

Then, on to the main course:

Meatball subs and pulled pork sandwiches. Dan and I couldn't decide which sandwich we wanted so we had a half of each. Note beer number two: a Shock Top Belgian White

Those are my mama's meatballs. With some help from GiG in the kitchen yesterday, I stirred up some of her homemade tomato sauce and fried up some of her meatballs. Just a few months before she died, she walked me through making them. It was the same day she came out of the bathroom crying and said, "Okay, Laura, I'm starting to lose my hair. I need you to hug me." And in the middle of the kitchen I held my mom as tightly as I could and smoothed her hair and told her that I loved her and loved her and loved her.

And somehow we ended up laughing.

And then we made meatballs.

At first she was in the kitchen next to me, guiding me through the sauce. But then she felt tired and I started rolling up the meatballs as she offered instruction from the couch. Even though I had watched my mom roll meatballs my whole life , I brought them to her in the family room to be sure they met her approval. Yesterday it was like I spent the whole morning with her. I felt her with me offering warm encouragement, warning me not to be too be too perfectionistic (as she knew I can be), and gently nudging me to not overwork the meat. While not quite GiG's meatballs, I'm getting there. I could feel my hands becoming hers as I made them.

The star of the day, however, was Dan's pulled pork. I don't think he'll mind if I post the Anne Burrell recipe he worked from. (We're big Anne Burrell fans in this household mostly because we love the way she growls a deep and throaty "BIG MEAT!" every time she works with a slab.) You guys...you guys. Wowza. Good stuff. Dan tinkered around with the sauce a bit, cutting it with more tomato paste (and some this-and-that) to diminish some of the apple cider vinegar's potency, but otherwise he stuck to the recipe. Do yourself a favor and get up on this pulled pork. Fair warning---you will be dealing with a piece of meat that looks remarkably like an actual pig, skin and all. Would you believe it? A pig!

Dessert:

Much hoopla has been made over Dan's fudge and of course his peanut butter balls. I'm hear to tell you that his brownies take the cake.

Okay, there's actually nothing finer than the first three pieces of the season's fudge enjoyed with a glass of red wine. (After three though, your sugar buzz turns into a crash that will leave you feverish and scratching your arms up 'til your next next fix.) Still, his brownies are fantasmo and this from a person who normally would not look twice at stupid fucking brownies no matter how prominently they are featured on the dessert table. They're usually dry and flavorless and burned and so disappointing that a pouty, "stupid fucking brownies," always follows my trying them. But with Dan's, it's a different story. All I know is that there are fudge packets involved plus a healthy portion of chocolate chips. And he bakes them for the perfect amount of time---a numeric figure that he must have gone all Good Will Hunting to figure out ("Whatever it says on the box," he's told me)---so that they come out rich and moist and chewy and not remotely resembling a charcoal briquette. We ate them with vanilla ice cream and then I thanked Gawd for inventing brownies and inventing Dan.

I remember lots of food. I remember lots of drinks. I remembers Madonna's soldiers and the Pats blowing it. After that, my friends, it's all a little hazy.

Apparently Dan was alert enough to keep tabs...at least he didn't draw on my face.

How could I possibly say no?

2012-02-03T18:23:00.001-05:00

Left on my computer this morning by Dan...

Does it kind of look like I'm inviting you to our clothing optional reading party tomorrow morning? (And did I ever tell you about the time I was propositioned by the female half of a couple whom I knew to be swingers to join them some Sunday morning to read the paper in the nude on their patio?) (The gall! Newsprint smudges!) While I'm not inviting you (you can exhale now), I do encourage you to have your own reading party. Here's how it works: books, coffee, bed, waffles (optional) until noon (the earliest). If you have kids, skip soccer practice and let 'em join the party! (Clothing is not optional in this scenario*.)

Is there any better way to spend a Saturday morning?

*Lola Mellowsky Enterprises strongly discourages nakedness as a general practice and is not responsible for any life scarring and/or mental health issues that result from naked family reading parties. Please do not be naked in front of your kids ever. And if you choose to, at least put on some clothes first.

My Name is Lola and I Beat my Husband

2012-02-01T11:45:00.001-05:00

I punched Dan in my sleep the other night. Like, a real punch. I know how to punch. I’ve never actually used this skill for anything other than dead-arms but I can duck and jab in a pinch. When I was a kid, my dad taught me how to extend just so from my bicep to snap a real punch. It’s not as exaggerated and sweeping as it looks in movies, a real punch. It is quick and hard. And a real punch is what I gave Dan. With my right hand. On which sits an awfully spiky ring---my mom’s engagement ring which has three protruding tines that could cut a bitch. And it hurt him. And it hurt me. The ring, not the punch. A proper punch should not inflict pain on the puncher though, as I said, I’ve never thrown a battle punch and imagine that connecting with a face---no matter how precise you land it in order to break the punchee’s nose (also proper technique)---would hurt your damn hand.

The worst part is that I was dreaming about punching Dan as opposed to some hulking dream bully---so it didn’t feel entirely innocent. In fact, as I punched him---I awoke mid-punch---I apologized, knowing exactly what I had done because I was dreaming about doing it. (Actually, in my dream I had thrown a few frustrating hits that got me nowhere, which is what I think led me to reach across my own body to connect with his arm as he slept peacefully to my left.) Normally there’s some lag time between whatever slumber crime I am committing and my realization that I am doing so. Dan has had to wake me before. I yell a lot. I get in big fights with whomever I am too scared to confront in real life (where I am so articulate and quick-tongued that So And So better watch it!). Sometimes I am defending and covering myself. Sometimes I cry. Rarely do I punch. Though, while I can’t remember the details, I know have done it before.

I’m not proud of it (but Dan and I have always been mildly amused by my antics.)

Now, it’s possible that I went to bed mad despite that stupid adage which warns against doing so. Gasp! Going to bed mad! What’s next, heavy sighing? Resentfully stomping around the house, making as much noise as possible while hanging up Dan's coat, putting away his shoes and picking his pants up off the bedroom floor because apparently HITTING THE FUCKING HAMPER TWO FEET AWAY IS FAR TOO LABORIOUS! So, yes, it’s possible I went to bed mad about some mundanity that pissed me off just enough to require my sleeping it off versus arguing. In fact, I know I did. I don’t think this is a recipe for disaster. I’ve fallen asleep mid-fight before as has Dan (can you imagine how much that pissed me off!) and that doesn’t seem like a better alternative to having a little anger in your heart upon falling asleep.

Was I mad enough on this particular night to hit him? No. Was I frustrated enough to shake him? Yes. But I wouldn’t and didn’t. Although Slumber Lola apparently couldn’t help herself. For the record, I apologized profusely post-hit, then again in the morning and again when he got home from work the next day. I would not have felt half as guilty were the dream punches not directed at him in the first place. But as he was the intended victim, and the crime was actually committed, it feels as though my subconscious and conscious worlds had a little too much overlap for comfort.

I’m kind of wondering if I’m an abusive spouse. Sometimes Dan will hurt me. Now, he doesn’t mean to do it. For years I’ve called him Lennie from Of Mice and Men because all he wants to do is “tend the rabbits” yet he is sometimes unaware that he is bigger than I am and thus ends up snapping my neck. Or just accidentally pulling my hair or shoving me a bit harder than he means to when he is trying to give a playful hipcheck as we are walking down the street together. But it’s my reaction to this that so concerns me. I hit him back. In the arm. I can’t help it. It’s not exactly reflex though, which is something Dan is always quick to point out. It’s not like he hits me and---BOOM!---my arm extends like some Rock ‘em Sock ‘em robot. No, I get mad first. I get injured, which quickly turns to a flame of anger ignited by this wrongdoing (accidental as it may be), and then I injure him in return. It’s a tinily premeditated act of revenge. It occurs in a matter of seconds this chain reaction of pain-anger-violence, but it happens. And Dan always laughs at me, not because he is amused by the punch (he agrees that I know what I’m doing), but for the hesitation which precedes this violence. That quick moment he observes of my boiling.

“I can’t help it!” I tell him. “It’s instinct!”

“It’s not instinct!” he argues back, laughing. “There’s a pause! There’s a pause! You get mad and then you do it.”

And I know he’s right. He’s totally right. The recognition that I’ve been harmed comes over me (and let’s be clear, I have been wounded), and then a wave of anger at the injustice and then, well, revenge.

Do you see why I’m scared to have kids? What if I beat them in my dreams too?

And then there’s Dan. I’d come home and he’d be all---

"I’d pet ‘em, and pretty soon they bit my fingers and I pinched their heads a little and then they was dead—because they was so little.”

Two diaphragms tonight. Two.

One more try...I didn't know how much I loved you.

2012-01-31T10:29:00.000-05:00

Does anyone besides me remember that song? To my ear, it's the early 90s and middle school dances and peppermint-flavored tongue kisses (a term I don't enjoy but which is really quite fitting for the awkward oral jamming that went down). None of this, however, has anything to do with this blog entry so let's move on. (But, here's the link in case you need to go there with me. Silky, right? If I'm being honest, it may have lent itself to a little hand-on-butt action.) Onward...

Oh, 2012, you little bitch.

That’s where I stand 31 days into this hairy ass crack of a year. I came into it new year’s resolutions a blazing; clearing some muck, my soul’s only yen.

But it’s been a yeast infection of a January with the promise of gonorrhea’s imminent arrival. (STD metaphors---Class. Act.)

In other words---I’m GREAT how are you?

I’m sorry to be all Negative Nancy on you guys. (And I’m sorry to Machestaaa whose first name, Nancy, it may seem I’m besmirching here---no connection, I just like alliteration.) But I gotta keep it real, yo. I couldn’t explain my absence here without at least proffering some explanation, though what I’ve written thus far will really be the extent of the details. I’m sorry for being so cryptic but it’s the call to be made. You just gotta believe that 2012 is a cranky little douche and go with me on it. I can tell you I’m writing this in a curtains-drawn bedroom still PJed up---a sexy combo from the 2012 winter line consisting of Dan’s boxer shorts and a t-shirt; all this indicative of depression having settled in for a mid-winter stay.

I know I sound whiny---I KNOW---but, well, fuck...it’s been a buttfuck of a year so far.

Perhaps you’re thinking---But Lola, I thought you were taking medication to stave off this type of thing. And I am. But, you know, the meds don’t make me Samba around our living room or jump on the couch in uncontainable glee. (But the wine does!) From what I’ve observed, anti-depressants only ever bring me to a place of “even”---where I am sometimes capable of taking a walk or otherwise participating in my own stretch for mental health. And only sometimes. I’m just never really sure if the drugs are working, which makes me think they may not be.

I have had some interesting side effects though, most notable among them being an inability to urinate. Oh, how strange and distressing to down a pot of coffee only to realize that there is a brain to bladder communication gap. Another fun one was not being able to “finish” what I started in the boudoir, if you know what I’m saying. With the latest med though, I am side effect free. And also possibly benefit free.

Who knows? Maybe I would be crying into my bowl of cereal (okay, three bowls of cereal in a row) were I completely unmedicated. And nothing is helped by the fact that I’ve been waking up at 3:30 every night. Like, for the day---just up and at ‘em in the quiet darkness of those ungodly hours, reading or trying to count my inhalations in an effort to fall back to sleep. Sometimes I pray, ”Mom, please help me fall back to sleep tonight. Please help my brain rest,” to no avail.

I know I’ll bounce back. I’m fortunate that I even know this; not all with depression do and the hopelessness is sometimes the biggest mind fuck of all of it. But it’s snowing out (I’ve opened the blinds) and the gratitude I feel for such a simple beauty tells me I’m not as far down as I was. Also, I’m back---at least today---to the page. Writing, like exercise, is a key to my sanity so when the words aren’t flowing---when my brain and body are too exhausted to work in tandem long enough to at least empty The Spew---I fall deeper.

Maybe this entry will mark the start of my ascent. There are fits and starts though so I never know if I’m climbing until I’m further up the mountain. And of course the aforementioned gonorrhea that looks to be sweeping in could set me off course again. (I am not proud of this crass and nonsensical mixed metaphor.)

But for now, "even" seems attainable which is all I can ask for.

I know it’s neither uplifting nor perhaps particularly interesting to read about a person’s trudge through depression but it’s fuh real and it’s here and it’s why I’ve been gone. Now hopefully we can push on through this and get back to a little laughin'...or at least chattin'. That is, if the itchy redness abates.

Winner Winner, Chicken Dinner!

2012-01-03T16:04:00.000-05:00

Well guys, the Pats destroyed the Bills and, thanks to all of you, I destroyed my husband. (Did I really start my first post of 2012 with a football reference. Yes. Yes I did.)

Final Score:

Dan: 18
Lola: 51*

(*Score may not reflect the significant amount of cards which were sent to both of us. Eff that.)

You guys came through! You guys are funny! Thank you for playing with me! Some of you sent multiple cards. Some of you sent them from your children. Dan sent himself several. And ALL of you cracked me up. You filled up our beams.

Ignore the mess on the table. Just ignore it.

And you filled our December with such fun and joy. Every night Dan and I so loved going through all the new cards which came in. It really was an incredible feeling to have this little blog deliver such merriment to my mailbox this season. Truly. I feel such gratitude for all of you and I hope you know it. You have all given me so much---your cleverness and sense of humor, your time, support for my writing, support through my mom’s illness and death, two Dutch ovens (!), an invitation to a cookie swap, oodles of Christmas cards. This blog started off as such an experiment (back in May of 2009...can you believe it?) and it has brought so much to my life...specifically all of you. So thanks and thanks and thanks.

Now I’ve just got to share some of these cards.

As soon as they started coming in, we decided we would each get a pole. Dan stuck this in the middle and called it the 38th Parallel:

The fun started at the envelopes:

And then some of the cards just cracked us up:

Some of you were very much concerned with my winning (you're my favorites):

From Rob on sending this card: "...the first I've sent since X-mas '69 when I was in Viet Nam and thought it'd be kinda funny because they were locally made by VC with no concept of Santa other than what they'd seen on a Coke can..."

From my friend, Lynn ---one of my summer camp writing friends! (Another pal from my writing retreat, Tracey, addressed her card to Dan and His Two Wives because Trace met Laura on the island and then discovered this whole other Lola person afterwards...not that they're entirely different---they?---but I now get how it must be weird for people.)

And some of you were your gentle, diplomatic selves:

Jarvino and my sister Katie, two of the kindest souls I know, sent cards expressing the same sentiment. They are both dead to me now.

Some of you were concerned with Dan's self-esteem:

Can you believe it---Straight Up Stranger sent a card!

Dan was also concerned with his self-esteem. He sent the following:

Half the fun was seeing the array of characters who sent cards:

Thank Gawd Straight Up Stranger thought of me too!

As I mentioned, Buffster McDavey was taking Christmas cards that had been sent to her and throwing them back in the mail to me.

From Jordan Marsh of course.

This is a riot. Mr. Jordan is a character my mom invented. When she would give us baths as kids she would duck her head down and then reemerge talking in this funny deep and throaty voice as "Mr. Jordan" which would crack us up. I thought she created it for us but then my aunts told me that she used to do it when she would give them baths as kids too. It's just the sweetest thing to me.

I smell a bumper sticker.

Hysterical, right?

When this one came in, I had no idea who it was from.

And then let out a "Holy shit!" when I saw.

I first mentioned 2nd Grade Teacher But Not Yours---her Spew handle which I love so---in a post I put up shortly after my mom died . She and some other teachers from my elementary school showed up at my mom's wake and the kindess nearly knocked me down. Then I found out that she reads The Spew which is of course SO FUN! Getting a card from her, from Straight Up Stranger, from the Spew Crew just sums up everything that was so great about The Battle of The Christmas Cards. You're out there! You care! Let's have more fun together! (Or sometimes depressing rambling...) The fact that you guys played along with me is really so much more special than I can even say.

And then there's Dan.

Admit it, you all love Dan. Everyone does. I do. One of the most enjoyable things about my mom's wake---because to my great surprise and relief there were many enjoyable moments---was the amount of people who said that they felt like they knew and loved Dan because of The Spew. He loves his Spew persona. I paint a nice picture of him...and it happens to be entirely accurate. He's just not a dick. Sometimes he may have dick leanings, but I'm much more of a dick than he'll ever be. The point is that it's not always easy to have a wife documenting your life and who wages Christmas Card War on you, but he's just the best sport about all of this. (And I hope he remains this way because I feel like it's just going to get worse.)

So I'm thanking him now (in cyber versus BJ form) and I'm thanking all of you. What fun and joy you brought me! I am more grateful than I can say.

Finally, here is our Christmas card to all of you. (In GiG style, I am getting it out late.)

Kind of creepy how it looks like us, right? (Dan's doing of course.)

And Dan's yearly poem:

'Twas the night before Christmas
and all through the land,
the elves were all stirring---
they were taking a stand.

It had been a long year.
The economy was rotten.
And in all the upheaval,
the elves were forgotten.

Elf unemployment was rising
while prices skyrocketed,
and with all the new taxes,
less income they pocketed.

While back in his castle,
Santa lived high on the hog.
He took puffs on his pipe
and stoked his Yule log.

The Elves had been pushed,
they had had quite enough.
They filed into the streets
and sat down on their duffs.

“My dear tiny friends,”
cried out one Elven gent,
“We are being repressed
by the rich one percent!”

“We do all the work.
We carve all the toys.
We pile the sleigh high
for all girls and boys!”

“But, alas, in the end,
who gets all the fame?
That fat, bearded baron,
Santa Claus is his name!”’

“It’s time to stand up,
leave behind not a soul.
We must all band together
and Occupy North Pole!”

So they gathered in masses.
They would not leave; not ever.
They stood united for justice.
Solidarity forever.

Santa was worried
about all the bad press,
so he called up his cronies
to share his distress.

He had Rush on the line,
who said every elf was a commie.
He tried to get help
From Newt and Mitt Romney.

He thought he could turn
to his pal Herman Cain,
who was gettin’ down with the ladies
out on Santa Claus Lane.

To the bankers and tycoons
he went for advices,
but all that they cared about
were stocks and their prices.

He turned to the Easter Bunny
with hope for support.
But in the spoils of riches,
the bunny preferred to cavort.

He asked everyone for guidance,
from Charlie Sheen to the Pope.
But with no help being offered,
Santa began to lose hope.

But then on his sleigh ride
in the skies over Topeka,
the answer, it came,
and exclaimed he, “Eureka!”

“My dear Elven friends,
I understand what you’re saying.
You just want a chance
for good jobs that are paying.”

“You don’t want a Bentley,
You don’t want a mansion.
All you want is a world
that you might have a chance in.”

“No oppression from the rich,
towards justice you’re driven!
Affordable health care -
why can’t that be a given?”

“This is an outrage.
I hear all your hollerin’.
Let’s fix this inequity
and share all that dollarin’.

And with Santa’s revelation,
the elves cheered in delight.
They stepped up their efforts
and readied Santa for flight.

Santa upped the elves’ paychecks.
On himself, he laid the onus.
And though it meant no new yacht,
he forewent his Christmas bonus.

Santa saw the truth
about the plight of the masses.
They were looking for fairness,
not hoping for passes.

So to all my friends,
the rich and to the poor---
may the new year bring wisdom,
good fortune and more.

May the holidays bring hope,
and an end to your wearies.
My one wish for the New Year?
That the Yanks win the series.

What a guy.

What a you all.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Merry Christmas, Mama

2011-12-30T09:15:00.000-05:00

If I should ever leave you whom I love
To go along the Silent Way, grieve not,
Nor speak of me with tears, but laugh and talk
Of me as if I were beside you there...

And when you hear a song or see a bird
I loved, please do not let the thought of me
Be sad...For I am loving you just as
I always have...You were good to me!

There are so many things I wanted still
To do---so many things to say to you...
Remember that I did not fear---it was
Just leaving you that was so hard to face...

We cannot see beyond...But this I know:
I loved you so---'twas heaven here with you!

-Isla Paschal Richardson

Mattie is coming to visit today!

2011-12-23T11:02:00.000-05:00

So I had to quickly clean up. I can't believe I got everything in there; all those years of playing Tetris finally paid off. The Spoffice closet doors will likely remain closed long after his departure.

Also, on a totally unrelated note, I made something in my Dutch ovens (I used both!) and wanted to share. Corie (the babysitter), I made your recipe the very next night!

Except I used too much wine so we ended up making a creamy white wine sauce to serve with it. (Read: Dan ended up making a white wine sauce while I flipped out about fucking the whole thing up.)

Looks good though, right?

And of course Dan had to have his fun along the way.

Tonight's dinner

2011-12-20T22:08:00.004-05:00

Fuh real.

Dan made up this little plate for me to enjoy while wrapping (which apparently became blogging). I bet you're wondering, "Hey, Lola, what's in the bowl?" And I shall tell you---it's cookie cereal. Or cookie soup. Whichever name you prefer. We took a bag of all our treats from the cookie swap last week to the Cape to enjoy in our room (because what's a romantic getaway without cookies to gorge on?) and they got crushed amidst our purchases on the ride home. "Don't throw them away," I said calmly (or maybe screamed), "We can add milk and eat it with a spoon. It will be fun!" And fun it was. And tasty. And I feel pretty brilliant. Win, win, win.

In other news:

I'm posting the following picture because the whole scenario made me laugh. The other day after enjoying a breakfast of steak fajitas (yup) (and, no, I'm not pregnant---I just eat like this), Dan alerted me to the fact that I had food in my teeth. (We all know I'm a sexpot.) I handled it as best I could without having to go to all the trouble of flossing and used my tongue to work it out. Then I got in the shower. When I stepped out (and wrapped myself in a towel, so we're clear) this is what was on the bathroom mirror.

He does this kind of shit every day:

I fell to the floor laughing. I so look forward to Dan making me laugh like this when we're cute old people.

Until then---we're still at war.

The Battle of the Christmas Cards score is as follows:

Dan: 10

Lola: 31

I almost feel bad now. Except I love it. Except I feel bad. Except I don't.

We've decided the contest will go until January 1st to give people plenty of time to get their cards out (and send me oodles). I'll give you the highlights then (or sooner if I feel like it) but I'm psyched to report that some people---Spew Crewer Sassy and good friend and "Punkin Chunkin" champion Buffster McDavey--- have sent multiple (four apiece!) cards. Sassy sent a leftover card from 2007 featuring a picture of only two of her daughters because the third hadn't been born yet! And two of Buffster's cards were ones that she received and then slapped my name on so I now have season's greetings from "The Flemings" and "Ken" (which also made me hit the floor laughing).

This has brought much joy to the season. Despite getting trounched (and let's hope for no Hail Marys), even Dan is enjoying it.

Which makes me feel bad.

Except it doesn't.

I'm sure it's just another thing we'll laugh about when we're cute old people.

Round Yon Virgin Mother and Child

2011-12-19T11:28:00.001-05:00

They really do remind me of mother and daughter.

I'm in red heaven.

Can you stand it?

This time it was my Aunt Gail who made a Christmas dream come true. I am awash with gratitude.

She gave me the Dutch oven from her own kitchen...which was given to her by a woman who made luscious tomato sauces in it for 30 years before gifting it to Gail. It is browned and marked by meals past and this gives me such joy.

I love that one of these ovens comes with its own story and personality and the other is for me to create. And there will be feasts. Oh there will be feasts. I feel a strong need to use these vessels to pass on the generosity and love and sacred human connection with which they were sent to me.

So stay tuned for pictures.

And, my dear, dear G.Bird, my heart is swollen with you.

I just can't take it.

Right this minute---All is calm, all is bright.

I don't mean to rub it in but we even got snow...

2011-12-18T10:34:00.001-05:00

...and room service because it was just too cozy to go traipsing about in the cold. I'm just not sure it gets much better than this.

Here's a fun e-mail to get on a Friday afternoon

2011-12-17T11:00:00.006-05:00

From: Danny Boy
To: Lola
Subject: Crazy Idea

When I get home, let’s take off for the Cape. We will stay tonight and Saturday---Christmas shop, get cozy, do Christmas Cards and relax. No plan – let’s just go. What do you think?

What do I think?

What do I think?

Well, I'll be honest. Because I sometimes tend to have an Aspergian reaction to change, I was taken aback for a minute. I had already planned some of our weekend---the Farmers' Market, pork chops, a movie. But I "recalculated," set my brain to its spontaneity setting and off we went, arriving in Chatham last night at 10pm.

It's gorgeous here---beaches everywhere, pink roses still in bloom, white lights adorning some of the most beautiful homes I've ever seen. Our room overlooks a big sandy beach, ocean and then long sandbars further out. It's a great big room so we're not on top of each other and there's a fireplace which of course ups the coziness factor. When we got in last night we poured a couple of glasses of wine (oh, you know it) and I read my book under a blanket by the fire while Dan worked on Christmas cards. Because life is sometimes perfect, I even saw a shooting star when I went to take in the night sky from the deck. This morning I got up extra early and went and had my coffee at the main inn, alone in this stately room decked out with Christmas trees, red and white Poinsettias and a whole gingerbread village. My favorite part was the deck railings made out of white chocolate covered pretzels.

Now we're readying to head out for a little shopping in downtown Chatham, an adorable little town. I've been to Chatham one time before and fell in love with the place. I have little desire for a life more complicated than that which Dan and I are currently living but if a windfall were to hit, this is where I'd land---in a sweet little cottage with a boat.

My mom always said that if she was going to live anywhere besides Rhode Island that it would be on the Cape and I feel her all over this place; it was where she came for her last weekend getaway just two months before she died. I'm glad she got to experience this one last time. I keep looking around and feel so fortunate to be around such beauty. My mom would love the whole idea of this Dan and Lola Christmas weekend and I keep hearing her telling me to relax and enjoy it.

And so we will.

And so will you.

Monologues With a Drunk: A Dialog

2011-12-15T09:45:00.027-05:00

Photo courtesy of Danny Boy. (Impressive, right?)

A winter’s evening in New Hampshire. A redhead who doesn’t look a day over 20 sits in her apartment pondering her therapist’s suggestion that she give up drinking for a couple of weeks.

Me: I think I’m going to have a glass of wine. I really need a glass of wine.

Asshole Inner Voice: But you should at least think about not having it. She only suggested you give up drinking for two weeks ‘just to try it.’

Me: Yeah, but it’s December 14th. Nobody gives up drinking on December 14th.

Asshole Inner Voice: You can’t even go the night?

Me: I didn’t drink last night!

 AIV: Yeah, but that’s because you were still drunk from the night before. It doesn’t count.

Me: (Huffs) If I wanted to skip a night of drinking I totally could.

AIV: Then why don’t you?

Me: Because it’s December 14th! WHO GIVES UP DRINKING IN THE MIDDLE OF DECEMBER? WHO, I ASK?

AIV: Getting awfully defensive aren’t you?

Me: Well you’re being a total fuck!

AIV: I’m just saying, I don’t think people without drinking problems have conversations like this with themselves.

Me: That’s ‘cause they do meth and their inner conversations are about that!

AIV: It’s just one night.

Me: But I’m feeling edgy. How about just a small glass?

AIV: Ah, the bargaining stage of alcoholism.

Me: You really are a fuck.

AIV: Why don’t you just take a bath?

Me: Who takes a bath without a glass of wine?

AIV: Why don’t you just go to bed early and read your book?

Me: Who reads in bed without a glass of wine?

AIV: Are you hearing yourself?

Me: Are you hearing yourself?

AIV: I’m you.

Me: Yeah, the lame part. DORK!

AIV: Don’t you understand that when you insult me you’re insulting yourself.

Me: (In whiny mocking voice) Don’t you understand that when you insult me you’re insulting yourself.

AIV: Real Mature.

Me: Real Mature.

AIV: Ugh, you are such a child.

Me: (Opens and closes hand while mouthing blah, blah, blah.)

AIV: I don’t need this. Have your wine. Kill your brain cells.

Me: I knew I’d break you.

AIV: You realize this is a problem, right?

Me: (Pouring wine) Add it to the pile, biotch!

AIV: I can’t believe you couldn’t go one night.

Me: I can’t believe you’re still talking. (Takes first sip, swallows, closes eyes and smiles.)

AIV: Well, what are you going to do with yourself now?

Me: I’m going to write!

AIV: You should have said that in the first place! Who writes at night without a glass of wine?

Me: (Glug, glug, glug.)

Asshole Inner Voice and Me in unison: It’s our artistic temperament!

In the spirit of Christmas---I'm kicking Dan's ass!

2011-12-14T16:30:00.009-05:00

And the Battle of the Christmas Cards score is:

Dan: 3
Lola: 12

Wassup now, Danny Boy?

There is no game on the planet (okay, except Scrabble) where I beat this guy and while I hate to get ahead of myself, I smell candy cane-scented victory.

Keep sending 'em, kids. Every little bit helps.

So I've been getting some shit for not posting more regularly and all I can say is---I am a temperamental artist and sometimes my temperament forces wine, cookies, and sweatpants on me and allows for nothing more.

For instance, yesterday I was as hungover as I've been in years and I simply couldn't move beyond drinking water and reading my book all day. (I'm hoping that the opportunity for vicarious living makes up for how annoying it is to hear that I actually spent an entire Tuesday recovering from a hangover. And I did. By God, I did.) (Also, next week when I am in a panic because no holiday tasks have been completed, I give you all permission to point and laugh.)

Why the hangover? Well, peeps, the blog and outside world converged on Monday night when I was invited to a cookie swap over at Spew regular Sassy's beautiful home. There is a Spew Crew---Sassy, Manchestaaa!, and Dammit Janet (formerly known as Just Janet and before that BFYNM: Best Friend You Never Met)--- who became followers of this blog via my sister Bec and who have been as supportive and enthusiastic of it as family...but we didn't really know each other outside of here. I had crossed paths with Sassy and Manchestaaa! a handful of times back when I watched my niece but the first time I ever met Dammit Janet was at my mom's funeral (which is when she changed her Spew handle from Best Friend You Never Met to Best Friend You Finally Met). I hadn't seen any of them since then but Sassy invited me to her party (and Danny Crocker contributed six dozen peanut butter balls for the swap so I could play) and it was a most fantastic time. Apparently cookie swaps are just awesome holiday parties that dudes aren't invited to (except for Sassy's hubby, of course, who surprised everyone by serving up Kahlua and Baileys in sugar-rimmed glasses and should therefore be invited to every party ever). It was fantasmo and so great to spend some time with these ladies---I got to actually learn about them which was such a treat.

Yet another way this blog has brought me joy...

I never take it for granted that I get to connect with all of you lovelies so even though I take sabbaticals and try to get away with posting songs or pictures as Spew filler, please know how appreciative I am that you show up here. I'll try to do better...I'll try!

Normally, I never really have to think up what I'm going to post here. It usually just comes Spewing out and (if my temperament allows it) gets caught on the page. The truth is that it's the editing that keeps me from posting. I've written so many entries that just never made it up because I didn't have time or the temperament to clean them up for posting. Temperament (which I have spelled incorrectly each time I've typed it so far in this post---you complete me, Spell Check) is now going to be my scapegoat for all things. I wanted to clean the Spoffice but my artistic temperament would not have it. I wasn't going to drink tonight but my artistic temperament was thirsty. The point is that the actual writing doesn’t usually require much effort.

The reason I bring this up is because right now I’m working for it. Right now I am not Spewing; I am faking it. (The first part was real, I swear. Only since the last paragraph have I been faking it. And all the other times before this were real too---don't go getting a complex.) I'm just a little jammed up. I've written about this before--- how my brain freezes like a computer with too many programs running when I've got a lot on my mind and that's what's going down right now. And before you say it, yes, if I didn't spend entire days nursing hangovers I would probably have a better grip on life. (But, as I see it, we deserve to be rewarded for drinking bottomless glasses of wine. And it was not so much a reward as it was---I cannot go anywhere or do anything today without dying so I will move as little as possible and hope the dying wanes.) (Wanes, Rob. Wanes.)

I’m trying to get ahold of my brain though because I told myself I just wouldn't do holiday stress this year. Really I just I can't . My body can't afford the energy depletion and my brain cannot take any more frazzle. Last week I showed up an hour early to my therapy appointment---which has been at the same time for the last two years---and was so oblivious to my mistake that I actually called my therapist from the waiting room and left a message asking what’s up with this shit (as nicely as I could). When I figured out I was early---Dan reminded me after I started sending him angry texts about the situation---I left another message explaining my mistake and then apologized for the negative psychic energy I sent her way. My brain is fried and there is no hustle to my bustle. I collapsed after we finally got our tree up the other day not from a physical fatigue but an emotional one. I felt a longing for my mom with every red ribbon loop and wire hook I hung from the branches and while in the end it was beautiful and I was glad it got done, I couldn't go on. I told Dan that was all I could muster this year in the way of decorating---if he wants the stockings up, he'll have to hang 'em himself.

And I'm not alone. I went to a holiday grief support group the other day where women told stories of how for years their one effort at "celebrating" the season was to go out to the backyard, grab a pine tree branch and throw it in a pot of soil. Many of the women there felt, as I have, that sometimes they seemed to the outside world that they are through with grieving when of course this isn't true. It's something I've talked about with my sisters too. You smile, you say I'm fine and then you go home and remember that a piece of you is dead and nothing will ever be the same. The other night I got a text message from one of my sisters late into the night which explained the agonizing emptiness that had just come over her as she remembered my mom's goneness. She didn't want me to do anything, she wasn't holding a knife to her wrist, she just was in immense pain and wanted someone to know. I got it. Not everyone gets it (though all of you seem to) and that can be hard. You feel like they expect there to be some sort of expiration date on your pain and of course there isn’t.

I thought that I had gained little from this support group---other than writing material, of course---but I'm recognizing now that it helped to be in a room where there were no such expectations. To be around a group of people who understand why I’m still having thoughts like, "Oh, I better call my mom, it's been a while since we talked," only to remember she’s gone and then feel so stupid and sad that this is still happening. That's what put me down the other night. I wanted to call my mom and tell her I put my tree up. I wanted to just chat with her and see if she had decorated her tree yet and ask her how her shopping was going.

I just want to go home to her.

And then today my therapist suggested that I give up drinking for a couple of weeks.

I actually laughed.

And just so we're clear, although I certainly do like my wine these days, I really don't have a drinking problem. I have plenty of problems, most of which I've admitted on here, why would I start lying now? The suggestion to abstain from alcohol was more about maximizing my energy by avoiding the depressant properties of booze. Fuh real, I can quit any time I want...just not in the two weeks before Christmas. Just not.

And like that, I'm Spewing. I can tell because I have no filter and told you about the drinking thing.

Apparently my artistic temperament doesn’t know what an inside thought is...

So, this happened.

2011-12-09T14:50:00.014-05:00

I wrote a blog on Saturday about how owning a Le Creuset Dutch oven was my dreamiest of Christmas dreams. I might as well have been writing about wanting a Benz, the thing seemed so far out of my reach. And I wrote it because it was really just a funny little scenario going through my head---the family members of Le Creuset employees going, “Oh great, another fucking pot,”----while I so covet the things.

Four days later---four days later!--- it arrived and an actual smile rose on my face as I lifted the heavy package from the front porch. I made my first meal in it that very night and it was tastier than anything I'd ever made because it was born in a red cast iron castle.

So, how did this come to be?

Well, allow me to introduce you Spewers to Rob, who is known by everyone in his life---his family, his friends, his clients---as Bob. Only my mom and thus all of her daughters and husband ever called him Rob. Even back in seventh grade when my mom and Rob first met, everyone called him Bob. I’m not quite sure why she christened him Rob, only that she did and then the friendship lasted for the rest of her life.

Rob has shown up occasionally in the comments section here, usually expressing a loving sentiment about my mom or a smart-ass witticism. Take this comment he wrote the day I was going in for my colonoscopy: “...I hope by the time you read this it will all be over and you'll be pronounced a perfect asshole.” He also sends me private “Gotcha!” e-mails every time I make a spelling or grammatical error on here and, with my mom gone, he is the first person I would consult for guidance in this area. (Actually, he probably doesn’t “Gotcha” me every time which my self-esteem appreciates.) But I work to keep a close eye on errors in large part to stay off his Grammar Nazi radar so you can attribute at least my hearty effort to post mistake-free entries, to Rob.

And you can definitely attribute every single “fuck” I’ve ever written on here to him too. Every fucking one. Growing up, Rob was like an uncle to my sisters and me and in addition to visiting often he was also my first real pen pal. And though I was probably not even 10 years old, though I was but a young and innocent fawn just awakening to the workings of our planet, Rob never shied away from dropping an f-bomb on me if the situation warranted it. (“Ah, fuck your sisters if they’re being mean to you.”) The swearing---in person he could do it in Donald Duck’s voice!--- along with his owning this Mickey Mouse phone

cemented him as the coolest guy ever.

I also somehow knew that he had written at least one novel in the years my mom had known him (though I think he totals more than this now) which made him the first real writer I knew and this of course upped my appraisal of him. ”Whoa, a novel,” sweet young Lola thought. “The guy wrote a fucking novel.”

Not only were his letters great---and typed!---but sometimes he even sent us packs of Garbage Pail Kids, the collecting of which I lived for at the time. One afternoon, delivered in a fantastic cardboard tube addressed specifically to Cherie and me, this arrived.

And now he was a God.

He also would often include funny little poems in his letters, poems which I can still recite to this day.

Little Miss Muffet
sat on her tuffet
eating her curds and whey.
Along came a spider
who sat down beside her
and she ate him too.

And also this:

Mr. Antiselli
had a pimple on his belly.
His wife cut it off
and made it into jelly.

I suppose I stored his writing tone somewhere in my brain without realizing it--- the irreverence and humor and of course all the fucks. In many ways, his tone and my trying to emulate it became part of the foundation of my writing style.

It was also this sense of humor that my mom, a woman born to laugh, loved about him. Rob’s story of their meeting goes like this: He was a year older than she when this cute redhead walked into his math class and because my mom was such a fox, he assumed she was stuck up. When the teacher sat her beside him in the classroom, in part so she would set a good example, Rob assumed my mom would never talk to him. The two ended up laughing their asses off for the rest of that school year, throughout high school and into adulthood. They dated briefly just after high school but the relationship was destined to be a friendship. They saw each other through years of new partners, counseled each other through hardships and, even during a large span of years when they lost touch, always kept a place open in their hearts for one another.

It’s a friendship I love hearing (and I think Rob likes telling me) about, especially since her passing. The stories of this time are magic for me. If I could go back to any moment in her history, I would position myself behind some tree and just watch her walk home from school. How did she walk? Did she carry her books or was a bag slung over her shoulder? What was her throaty laugh like then? Every time Rob paints a picture of my mom as a teenager or a twenty-something, he is giving me the gift of getting to know her then. So, though we’ve been in touch through e-mail for over 10 years, I think our correspondence means more to both of us now. I am his connection to her and he is my connection to a version of her I didn’t know, one which gives me an opportunity to understand her even more than I could when she was here.

When she died, Rob was the first one at the wake, sitting there---clearly broken---staring at her closed coffin. I hadn’t seen him in 12 years and left the reception line to sit next to him for a minute. I can’t remember what we said---what could we have said?---but I knew, undoubtedly, that his grief was as deep as mine. Though I haven’t been the most consistent pen pal he still checks in at least once a month and wrote me notes on my mom's birthday and the anniversary of her death. He also asks about my dad’s health and is always wondering how my sisters are holding up, how I’m holding up.

And he sent me a fucking cherry red porcelain-finished cast iron Le Creuset Dutch oven (which is much better than an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle). (Though he did say that my choosing a red one made me seem kind of whorish.)

“Yes, Virginia, I read the Spew and found that you want a red Le Creuset,” he wrote to me. “Aha...time to bring joy and cheerfulness to one who deserves much of it...”

Can you take it?

I could hardly take it.

In fact, when I told Dan about it I cried because the thoughtfulness and kindness and beauty of doing something like this just overwhelmed me. (I could almost hear him retching while reading the similarly-worded note of thanks that I wrote in response.) “Joy and cheerfulness”---man, did he bring ‘em. It’s not just that I have a shiny red new toy (but I do! I do!) it’s the whole gesture which just shook me. (Rob, I admit to having a "which" versus "that" problem. Help me.)

But seriously, can you take it?

Now, because I respect his desire to preserve the illusion of his being a cynical prick, I must mention that he insisted that I understand that it “is most assuredly NOT a Christmas present.” He loathes the exchanging of Christmas gifts and says that he has everything he needs “so I wind up getting meaningless crap that I make a point of throwing out disdainfully in front of the giver.” When I asked him if he wanted the complimentary red tea kettle that came with the Dutch oven, feeling a little greedy at this point, he answered only, “I need a red tea kettle like I need a second asshole.” (Can you imagine how much fun it was for little mischievous me to get these kinds of letters as a kid?)

Guys, I almost still can’t take it.

It was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. There I was just rambling about my kitchenware lust without even a thought---I swear, not even a thought----that anyone would read it with anything other than a sense of humor; and there he was reading it with a sense of tenderness and altruism. (It almost made me feel bad for making fun of the Jordan Marsh ladies.) (Almost.)

We’ve exchanged a few notes since---he says it’s just a fucking pot and I’ve told him that it’s so much more than just a pot.

See, of course this is a hard time of year. Of course it is. I know people expect the pain of losing my mom to have waned but the truth is that it hasn’t and is even more pronounced in the midst of this season...especially since my mom was practically, as Dan said it, Mrs. Claus. She is Christmas for me. Even as I got older---and this is something I am only recognizing now---the entire month was always about moving one day closer to my returning to her, to my returning home. If “home is where your mom is,” I must admit that I'm a woman lost. So I was getting cynical about the season. $52 billion spent on Thanksgiving weekend---what the fuck is wrong with this country? The song “It’s The Most Wonderful Time of the Year” felt like it was taunting me. “Oh is it? The most wonderful, huh? The MOST FUCKING WONDERFUL? I call bullshit on you, holiday radio!” (You see Rob’s influence, right?)

But---and I’m sorry, Rob---despite his declaration that this gift did not come carrying even an iota of seasonal cheer, that’s exactly what it brought me. Holiday fucking spirit. My mom would have loved this story. She would have loved to have done this for someone and she would love that Rob---that guy from her math class all those years ago, the guy with whom she road around all night on the Staten Island Ferry at 18 years old---did this for her daughter. And so through this gift, through Rob’s generosity, I feel loved and I feel her. And fuck me for even writing the following Lifetime movie line---but it helped me feel Christmas. (Vomit, vomit, vomit.) The rest of the season will still be difficult, I’m sure of it. But it’s already better because of this red Dutch oven and the reminder it brought of what's real about this season---the love that connects us all even when we're not all here.

Rob, I am quite certain that this entry is error-laden (and I expect a list of my mistakes) but I wanted to get it up as quickly as I could because I am just so grateful. For the Dutch oven. For the Garbage Pail Kids. For showing me that the word “fuck” could be a tool of this writing trade---a trade which I’d always hoped, in large part due to our letter-writing---to pursue. For the stories of my mom. For the friend you were to her. For loving her laugh as I did. For reminding me that if you can get past the onslaught of Advertising and Assholes (I smell a carol) there really can be Divinity in giving and receiving and in this whole season, something my mom was always in touch with. The gift you gave, hiding in that red Dutch oven, was a glimpse of the realization that someday I'll settle a bit more into the idea that even just remembering her means going home for the holidays.

Thank you for that.

God (GiG) bless us, every one. Especially you, you old fucker.

And I'm on the board!

2011-12-05T17:26:00.016-05:00

I just love this picture too much to take it down. Unless something else fun comes to me, it may stay up all month.

Thanks to Mattie's parents---who are always my first card of the season (holla atcha Pat and Henry!)---we have ourselves a tie game.

Dan: 1

Lola: 1

I fear that this contest is going to expose how few holiday cards Dan and I get compared to the rest of you.

Oh well. When baby Solomon is born someday, we'll up our game.

Dan feels very threatened by this competition. He told me that I am mistaken and that I win The Battle Of The Christmas Cards (title pending) every year due to my large extended family. While it's true that my family would beat his family in a tug of war, he has more adult-y friends with kids and everyone knows that it's the child population that brings the numbers up. Also, he has consistently sent out Christmas cards for like 15 years (have I mentioned he's waaaaaaay older than I am?) where as I have been, well, less consistent, so that works for him too. I used to send handwritten cards to the people with whom I wanted to connect around the holidays (like both sides, long-ass letter kind of cards) but eventually e-mailing throughout the year made more sense. Not so romantic, I know, but fuck, I got 'em out. It's family lore---and I think it really happened---that my mom once sent her Christmas cards out right before Easter. Love that lady. The fact that she still sent them...just love her.

Regardless of Dan's excuse-making and boot-shaking--- it's game on! (He tells me he has some tricks up his sleeve too.)

I also want to declare publicly---because I've held this secret in for far too long---that Dan writes and addresses and mails all of our Christmas cards. I choose to no longer be ashamed. He's just better at it and just generally more responsible and efficient than I am. For years and years (starting long before he met me) he's been writing these wonderfully funny Christmas poems that he sends out to all his loved ones (and now mine) and it's gotten to the point that people hold on to them and look forward to getting them each year. He's just so adorable...

...and also so much better than me on so many levels...

...which is why I really need to kick his ass in this contest!

If you send me a card, I promise I'll send you one in return! Er, Dan will. (And not to ruin his fun, but just wait 'til you see what he's come up with this year.) (At some point I'll post it just so those of you who don't want to send me a card---Jerkfaces!---can see.)

Scenes From a Mall Santa

2011-12-03T10:20:00.013-05:00

This really happened---a (half) family Santa shot in the middle of the day at the bleakest of malls---and it was glorious. Not pictured: Shiloh, Pax, Vivienne, Maddox, Knox and Zahara. (Also, Cherie who was not in love with this picture of herself.)

It's a little heavy in these parts these days so let’s just have a little levity, shall we?

Some holiday thoughts and observations:

--- I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” is in essence a romantic duet which recounts the tale of a cozy, fireside date rape.

--- I would like to marry or closely befriend an employee of Le Creuset. I bet that the family members of these people probably get whole sets of this cast iron cookware of the Gods for Christmas and I want in. I just know in my heart that I would be a better cook if I only owned a red, porcelain-finished Dutch oven.

--- I gave a go to holiday shopping the other day---I was getting new tires put on Dan’s car (Who’s a good wife? I am.) and had no choice but to mill about a shopping plaza while I waited. While it turned out to be a win for the economy (and a lose for our bank account), I grew so weary that at one point I parked myself on one of the leather couches in the Best Buy entertainment section and donned a pair of 3D glasses just to get a break. December 3rd prediction---not a chance in North Pole hell that I will make it through holiday bustle with any measure of efficiency or grace.

--- On the aforementioned shopping trip I overheard an older (though not elderly) woman telling her similarly aged friend that she wanted to go to “that store, you know that store over there…you know that store to get that movie.” (The store was Best Buy.)

To which her friend answered, “You mean Jordan Marsh?”

Huh.

“Yeah,” the first woman said. “I wanna get that move, you know that movie…that movie that was on HBO but first it was a movie.”

Quickly surmising that it was not likely that the two were going to come up with the name of the movie if they were of the mindset that they would be doing their Christmas shopping at Jordan Marsh (probably after hitting up the Woolworth's counter) I told them I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation and offered my help.

“Okay,” the first woman said, readying, I thought, to give me a short description of the film. And with all the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old during a guessing game she said, “It’s a movie I would like,” and then referring to her friend, “but she wouldn’t.”

Huh.

The first woman continued, “The people are in another world...you know they showed it on HBO...and they can’t breathe.”

And the second woman, who was clearly more of a cinephile than I gave her credit for, said, “That sounds like Avatar.”

“Yeah,” said the first. “And they speak another language.”

“That sounds likes Avatar,” the second woman said again. “Are the people blue?”

“YES! They’re blue! And it was on TV…”

“It’s Avatar,” the second woman said again.

“YES!” the first woman exclaimed. And then she added, “Now if only we could come up with the name of it.”

I was mostly silent for the whole exchange. I have never seen Avatar and I also felt like someone was playing a trick on me.

--- We got our first Christmas card the other day and it was from a friend of Dan’s prompting him to exclaim, “I’m in the lead!” This has become our yearly contest---who gets more Christmas cards. (We have mostly separate friend-sets so it’s easy to keep score.) I often lose. In the past, I’ve attributed this to my being waaaaay younger than him. “My friends are too busy with raves and hallucinogens!” I’d say. But this doesn’t hold much weight now that I’ve hit 30, so I’m using my online resources to wage war. I guess what I’m saying is, send me a holiday card! (For mailing info please contact my publicist, Becky Breslin...or me via Facebook or e-mail.) If the numbers aren’t too dismal, I’ll give you an update on the score as the season progresses. Currently it is Dan: 1 Lola: 0. Help the needy, would you?

And with that I bid you adieu. I hope to return to you soon but I have been experiencing more ups and downs these days than a bipolar elevator, so one never knows.

Happy Holidays, my friends. And if any of you work customer service at Le Creuset…let’s do lunch.

I love my nephew.

2011-11-21T17:48:00.003-05:00

And also I can feel my mom starting to get pissed about me posting that last photo, so I needed to get something else up. (She thought it wrong to even take a picture of someone wearing oxygen.) Because I can't seem to words together put nicely, my cute little Benny Boy will have to do for the moment.

Also, here is a link to a great post on my friend Amy's blog. Amy is a fairy of a human being.

Stay tuned: Depressing blog post of the year coming soon! Starring Brain Cancer, My Dad and Sally Field! Get the hankies!

Happy Thanksgiving, all you loves.

It was a Good Night, Mama.

2011-11-04T17:15:00.012-04:00

My mom would be sooo pissed that I am posting this picture. But I LOVE it! And would do anything to have her hand on my face right now. So, if you want me to take it down, Ma, you better show yourself to me somehow and say so! Otherwise, it's staying! You hear me, Gigi!

A year ago today I spent the last day I ever would with my mom. Having been up since 3am that morning---we had tea and split an English muffin in the middle of the night; our final tea party---we talked about how we wanted to nap the day away together. She’d stay on her couch, which she barely moved from in those last days, and I would take the hospital bed, she said. But things happened---a few visitors came, I had to try two different pharmacies and fight construction traffic to pick up a refill of liquid morphine, and relatively unremarkable hours of the day passed us by. By then I had the morphine administering down. Its conversion from grams to ounces, its equivalent dose in Oxycontin. I would fill the dropper, sometimes twice, and if it was a good day, my mom would get relief. This was not her worst day. Had it been, there would have been no visitors---even daughters---welcome.

There was no reason to suspect it was the last day of her life. Except for maybe every reason. We all thought we had longer. We were waiting for the stuff of comas and catheters and while I'm so grateful it didn’t get to that, those were the markers we were waiting for. Because they never came, we were all shocked.

It’s still light out so I haven’t died yet today. When it gets dark lately, I die a little and cry on my couch and wish I could just be asleep and unfeeling. I downloaded Little Women to watch tonight--- the movie my mom, Cherie and I watched this night last year. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to watch it or if I even want to. I’ve never felt so unsure of what I want or how to be. Settled in this pain or afloat in distraction?

Outside myself. Away from me.

We ate Halloween candy. My mom’s appetite had returned and though she couldn’t walk, or sleep lying down, or breathe without oxygen flowing at its highest setting into her nostrils, we saw her appetite as a sign of improvement.

You see what you can.

I told her I loved her. See, I didn’t know but somewhere I knew.

I slept on the hospital bed that night. She stayed on her couch. Around 3am I woke up, startled and surprised that we hadn’t been up yet in the night together. I brought all my blankets with me to the couch and sat beside her and covered us both. She was alive. I made sure our skin touched. Our arms. The outside of our thighs. I rubbed her back and neck. I didn't know. Somewhere I knew.

The sun is already west. Our day together nearly gone.

My head on her shoulder, I held her hand. She was barely awake and I suppose barely alive, but we held hands.

We took our nap together then.

And Now For Something Completely Different.

2011-10-21T19:31:00.009-04:00

Just two years ago...on a planet far, far away from the one I'm on now.

I can't remember if I ever posted this, but I just stumbled across it and it gave me a deep (and deeply needed) laugh. Mattie came to NH for a visit a couple of falls ago and this is the kind of shit we get into when we're together. All editing credit goes to Mattie. Dirty Chirl (sister #4) is on camera duty and Katie (sister #3) is on commentary. Bec (sister #2) provided the backyard and I'm sure Tara (sister #1) called at some point that day. I'm in charge of gravity (though some might argue Mattie had some responsibility there as well).

Let's all get a laugh at my expense, shall we?

P.S. Don't we all think Mattie should come back to the 'shire again soon so he can cheer me up and we can make more fun videos?

(Can I get away with the 'shire? I mean, can I?)

And fall used to be my favorite time of year...

2011-10-13T12:02:00.006-04:00

I’m enjoying a spiced pumpkin latte right now at my usual coffee shop. I haven’t been here in weeks, wanting to be mostly home these days. Even a coffee shop feels chaotic and overwhelming lately.

I sat in this exact seat last year when I returned to New Hampshire after spending October 10th to November 5th in Rhode Island. Only a couple of days after my mom died.

The crisp air brought sorrow this year. I hadn’t expected it to hit me this early but the wind changed and my body understood its meaning before my mind did. A limbic brain remembering the chilling fear that came with the chilling air; the falling hearts with the falling leaves. The anniversary of her dying is hitting before the anniversary of her death.

I am slipping into darkness, I can feel it.

Let me say this: I have safety nets in place. Medication. Therapy. Dan.

Still a sadness cloaks me so completely that I sometimes experience a sense of almost amnesic displacement---Who am I? Where am I? What am I to do? It's worst at night, of course.

I look for her everywhere. When Dan and I drive through new towns, I expect to see her walking out of stores. Like she’s hiding out and not gone. I found an old cell phone recently and when it worked and I saw that there were messages from her, I thought that I had found her. She’s been writing to me here this whole time! My heart swelled and deflated so quickly that it was in sharp pain, like when you turn your neck too quickly in a way it's not meant to go. My heart won't ever know my mom in the same way and it is straining to catch a glimpse of her.

I am looking out this coffee shop window now, hoping to catch that glimpse. I am imagining spotting her across the street and watching her look both ways before crossing towards me. Sneakers. Her brown felt coat. Her purse strap across her chest. Smiling. Laughing and waving to the drivers who let her pass. Beaming as her eyes meet mine in this window. “Here I am,” she’d say. “Here I am, my Laura.”

I can picture this so vividly---I understand now why they put these sorts of scenes in movies---that I am crying in this shop now, my face down and covered with my hand.

The memories of last October are haunting me. The fear. She began sleeping sitting up, falling asleep mid-sentence. Sometimes she woke not quite herself, speaking words that didn't make sense and scared because she was aware of it. I would tell her to ride it out, to not worry if she didn't make sense. Her fear haunts me most.

So, I'm not sure how much I'll be writing this month or even during the coming holidays. When I do write lately it's about these memories that keep flashing through me, in feelings if not pictures. The 911 calls, holding her hand through panicked, insufficient breaths---I'm not sure I can share those here. I mean just how much of a downer can this blog be? But maybe I'll want to. Hard to know anything for certain these days.

Who am I? Where am I? What am I to do?

Lots of laundry and cleaning and even cooking. Sometimes moving seems the only option. Sometimes not.

Which isn't to say there aren't moments of levity. My mom was laughing the night before she died and taught us how to always find the crumbs of joy even in times of famine.

The other night Dan painted my toenails in the most beautiful act of just being there that I have ever witnessed or experienced.

Modern Family has me laughing hysterically every Wednesday night. (Dan and I started this comfortable little tradition of watching it from bed because 9pm seems a reasonable---if not late---bedtime lately.)

I've had two nice lunches with my sisters and dad in the last week.

And then there's the wonderful warmth of this spiced pumpkin latte.

My mom would be glad for all of this. Still, particularly on rainy days like this one, I only wish she and I were watching a Lifetime movie in her family room, both of us falling asleep after having been up all night like we were last year. Even at its worst, I loved just sitting with her.

Sometimes when I close my eyes for a nap it feels like she is in the room with me.

My dad's health is uncertain to say the least and saying the least is what he'd prefer I do, a choice I understand and will honor. My family is in a sad transition of trying to relearn who we are to each other within the context of this broken version of our family.

It's just hard. Like I said, I hadn't expected it this early but then nothing has been as I anticipated.

She would love the orange leaves. She would love this rain.

And I would love her loving them.

This is where I am. Who I am. And there's nothing to be done other than acknowledging it is so.

How satisfying is this?

2011-10-01T09:33:00.005-04:00

I should be embarrassed, shouldn't I be?

But I'm not. I look at this and feel a really ridiculous amount of pride. We don't even have pets or kids! What would your sludge pot look like? Perhaps I could make a business of doing sludge pot readings.

My Mama's Rainbow is back and all cleaned up and purty and yesterday it had its first romp around the apartment. So...much...hair. Also, spiders. Our apartment is where daddy longlegs come to winter. This is extremely unsettling for those of us in this apartment who are certain that spiders mess with sleeping humans for sport.

I am cracked up by the amount of Rainbow loyalists that I've heard from since posting this. I feel I've tapped into some type of underground cleaning society. Perhaps we should all meet up and cross hoses.

So, apparently vacuum sales are born, in large part, from leads generated by users. For instance, when I told Brian that my sister mentioned hating her Kirby, he suggested I talk her into having him to her house for a 45-minute free demonstration on the latest model (which is apparently Rosie-from-The-Jetsons-good). I told him I'd see what I could do. This being my "public forum," I am mentioning it here because somewhere in my heart I feel this is an old-school good deed during hard economic times.

If anyone wants a Rainbow demonstration (I can't believe I'm writing this), let me know and I'll contact Brian to give him your info. Full disclosure: If I get him two demonstrations---without anyone purchasing a thing---I get a free Rainmate which is an air purifier that sounds like the porn version of Rain Man. I don't really need an air purifier but the idea of winning something is always delightful.

Did I mention that Dan has suffered from asthma since he was a young child.

I know Brian will travel anywhere in New Hampshire, which I assume means he'll likely cross a New England state border or two. Did I also mention that, "The Rainbow is certified asthma & allergy friendly™ by the Asthma and Allergy Foundation of America*."

So it's sexy too!

IF YOU CALL NOW, I'LL EVEN THROW IN THIS LIGHTLY USED PLUNGER!

WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?

I'm really not trying to break into the vacuum business here but I told Brian I would do my part and now I've done it.

Today Dan and I are going on a Target/Christmas Tree Shop field trip. Welcome mats, throw pillows, storage totes, oh my! I woke up excited about it which I find a bit depressing. Maybe we'll even have lunch at the Target food counter!

Vacuum referrals and weekend trips for household wares---it's all feeling very domestic around here. We'll have to have sex in a movie theater tonight to prove to ourselves that we're still a childless couple in our prime.

Or, we could take turns throwing random crap on the rug and vacuuming it up to see what it looks like in the Rainbow's water tank.

Tough call.

And now I'm in Dublin with a broken heart

2011-09-25T15:17:00.011-04:00

It’s 2011 and I just had a vacuum repairman in my living room on a Sunday morning. (Dan and I keep calling him the Hoover-Fixer-Sucker-Guy and singing the song from Once.)

He was here to assess my mom’s Rainbow. Just “My Rainbow” to her. It had been making an awful high-pitched noise and there was a terrible smell of burning last time I used it so I wanted to get it a tune-up. Since the shop is an hour away and he lives here in town, Brian, a third-generation vacuum repairman whose father owns the place, offered to come out and have a look. A new hose and some basic clean-up and the machine should be good as new.

Anyone who knew my mom well understood that this vacuum was her most valued possession. She never cared for cars or furs but---with five long-haired daughters and various cats, dogs, and litters of puppies along the years---a good vacuum was important to her. She would extoll the virtues of her Rainbow to anyone who was in the market for a new vacuum. So effusive was she, that the Rainbow representatives who came out to our house to repair or upgrade her models over the years asked her to work for the company.

The Rainbow, an R2-D2-looking thing, locked into a water basin which sat on a wheeled ring on which you dragged the whole apparatus. There was a long, elephant’s trunk of a hose and various wands and attachments for dusting and upholstery and crevices but the water basin was what gave my mom her sense of vacuum superiority. There was no risk of all the dirt and hair and dust and bugs she sucked up erupting out of an over-filled bag. The spiders were dead. The dust was drenched. It all whirled in a cyclone around the basin so at the end you were rewarded with a gruel of dark water and sludge.

As a kid I was mostly just annoyed with the noise of it. If I was watching TV, the sound of the vacuum's wheels hitting the linoleum as my mom turned the corner from the dining room to the kitchen sparked irritation in me, aware of the impending interruption that would occur when she reached the family room. It was loud and it was cumbersome and I got annoyed whenever I was asked to schlep it from one part of the house to another.

Schlep it, not run it. She preferred to do the vacuuming herself than have us break her machine. You could borrow her sweater and stain it, you could shatter her favorite pitcher and my mom would have laughed. But I was scared of breaking her Rainbow. I once asked her if I could bring it up to NH to give my apartment a solid cleaning (the kind an electric broom just couldn’t handle), and though she let me, I saw a hesitation on her face that I had never before seen when I had asked to borrow anything. Of course before I could take it anywhere, I was first subjected to her Rainbow orientation speech which stressed, above all, the importance of not leaving the water basin attached after you’ve finished as condensation in the engine would prove fatal.

Thinking of her ambivalence now, I love it. I almost wish she would have told me no.

It wasn’t until last year when I was vacuuming her house every week that I finally understood the machine’s greatness, its efficiency and power. When I told her the floor attachment kept coming off she was stern----“That’s because you’re not putting it on right”---before showing me how to do it. It was a simple fix, you just had to know the machine. I took pride in the fact that I knew how to do it right. That she knew I knew. She was as grateful that I was cleaning her home as she was that I was respecting her machine.

She laughed when she saw me detach the water basin even just to take a bathroom break.

When she started losing her hair, I vacuumed twice a week if I could. The hair would amass in broad, thick webs on the couch cushions and floor and I tried to keep up with it all, protective of her pride. Once, after the hospice nurse had just been to the house, I eyed a small hair nest on the rug and grabbed it up with my hand, trying to be nonchalant about it so she wouldn’t see.

“Was that hair?” she said, missing nothing, and then she asked if I thought the nurse had seen it.

The day she died, after making arrangements at the funeral home, we came home to the family and friends who were still at the house and my mom’s hospital bed was gone, the furniture back in place, the floor vacuumed. The gesture was meant in kindness but I was disarmed by how gone it all made her. I missed even the threads of her scattered on the floor. Whenever I visited the house in the months following her death, I wished that I had vacuumed less and I would scour the rugs and floor, even around the toilet, hoping to find a little web of her hair.

Before she died, she told me she wanted me to have the vacuum, knowing I was the only one of her daughters who didn’t have a good one. But she had said this to only me and when my sister was moving into the house to help my dad out, it didn’t seem right to say anything or take it when there was still all that house to clean. My sister gave me her Kirby to use knowing I didn't have a solid vacuum.

“Mine is far superior,” was what my mom had to say of the Kirby when she was alive and she was right. I hated it. Fortunately for me, my sister and dad didn’t like the Rainbow and we traded back. I was ecstatic that I was actually getting it, but back in my apartment I found that its hose was ripped and had been duct-taped and it wasn’t working well. Then Dan accidentally broke the caddy for the extra attachments. Initially I felt intense irritation that it had been so mishandled and then I felt grateful for the chance to restore it.

The entire time Brian was here this morning, I fought a strange mix of tearfulness; I felt the pride a son might in fixing up his dad’s old Cadillac. The whole thing---a Rainbow man in my living room, my offering him coffee the way my mom would have---made me feel so much like her. She would be so glad that I’m putting the money into her Rainbow. “It’s a good machine!” she would say.

I told Brian I would be a Rainbow customer for life---one of those moments when I hear myself sounding exactly like her---but I wasn’t ready to spend $2,000 for a new machine.

I want to keep this one alive as long as I can, I told him.

I’m not even sure how old it is, though I think it’s the second one she owned. It could be over 20 years old. Brian said some people keep them running for 40. I’m sure somewhere my mom wrote down when she bought it. If it hasn’t been thrown out, there undoubtedly exists somewhere a manila folder held closed with an elastic band, which contains all documentation on her Rainbow complete with notes from the day she bought it jotted down in her warm scrawl. ”Brian---nice guy!” she would have written of today’s visit.

Walking in on me writing down my own notes after the appointment, Dan smiled. “Gig!” he said.

I kept writing.

9/25/11...Option to trade-in, refurbished models available...

But there was one piece of information provided that I didn’t need to write down: Brian’s warning about leaving the water basin attached when the machine isn’t running.

When he said it, I arched my eyebrows at Dan. He has been warned about this several times.

Lifetime Movies present - A Writer's Dilemma: The Lola Mellowsky Story

2011-09-14T16:50:00.012-04:00

I take every opportunity to post this photo. The power of visualization.

So, there I was---“writing.” When I put it in quotation marks it means I have the document on which I am supposed to be working open on my desktop but am instead engaging in “research”. ( For example, today it was integral to my “writing” that I watch the Jim Carrey/Emma Stone video ). (The Spanish subtitles made it somehow better for me.)

Then I got to thinking of the really important stuff.

I got to planning which, as any successful human knows, is something regular people think successful people do a lot of. (This is what I’ve heard. Being neither successful nor particularly regular, I can’t speak with any certainty.) So I’m sitting there and I’m doing my planning thing---if I write for a few hours before tomorrow’s dentist appointment and then return e-mails afterwards from the coffee shop then I’ll have plenty of time in the evening to check and see if Emma Stone made a response video (she really should). It was then that I realized that I have left the most important detail of my writing career---perhaps the most important detail of my life; perhaps the most important detail of all the details in the land--- completely unexamined.

What picture am I going to use for the book jacket of my as yet unwritten book?

HOW COULD I HAVE OVERLOOKED THIS?

This is way more important than unquotationed-marked writing.

Shall I hold a cup of coffee? French-pressed or cappuccino? Should I be snuggling with a dog? Do I need to get the dog now so it will like me enough by the time I publish to sit through the photo shoot? A well-bred black lab or an orphaned three-legged mutt with cataracts? Will a downtrodden dog upstage me?

Should I smile warmly from a riverfront porch or try for depth and intelligence against a backdrop of bookshelves and a Manhattan skyline? Do I put my chin in my palm? Should I be on a swing set laughing joyously in long braids? Should I start growing my hair out now?

Do I need to start working on my Blue Steel? Should I sleep with the photographer so he goes heavy on the air-brushing? Should I use a picture of Emma Stone instead?

Should I wear a vest?

Do you think vests will be in by the time I publish?

Are vests in now?

Should the caption under the photo say “The writer at her home in NH” or “The writer on a water slide” or the “The writer making a ham sandwich”?

And what of the “About The Author”?

This is Lola Mellowsky's first published work though she always wished she had come up with the idea for the Encyclopedia Brown books. She looks forward to embarking on her own young adult series, Thesaurus Blue.

And the acknowledgements?

I wouldn’t be here were it not for the generous spirit of a kind-hearted many who let me blow them to get published. And this book certainly wouldn’t have come together without the CVS clerk who let me blow him for the Scotch Tape.

Of course a shout out to my 11th grade PE teacher is in order for flunking me and thereby cementing my understanding that I would never play professional badminton but I was hoping to save that for my Oscar speech.

Now that I've identified this oversight I'll be sure to give it far too much undivided attention.

But not now. Now I must go and "write."

Thesaurus Blue isn't going to write itself.

Besides, I'm pretty sure I've found the perfect photo.

The writer after Nog-Bombs on Christmas morning.

Home stretchin'.

2011-09-07T11:18:00.005-04:00

I am now on my third leg of this Tour de Niece watching Molly Moo for the rest of the week and into a bit of next. I can handle the child with no degree of difficulty. I am going to murder the new family dog. She’s a puppy still at six months old and she is a giant pain in the ass---chasing the cat around, spazzily prancing from couch to chair, eating pillows when nobody’s looking. I am bottomlessly grateful that Dan is allergic to dogs and cats and this will never be my fate. (Also, I kind of love the little barking shit and am happy her sleep crate is in the room I’m staying in so we can engage in psychic snuggling. I would let her in the bed but it’s against house rules.)

Last night Dan and I helped Mol with a little homework project which had her cutting off the top half of a cereal box to be used in her classroom as storage for library books, folders and whatever other presumed crap a fourth grader acquires throughout the school day. After the adult-guided scissor portion of the exercise, Molly was to decorate the “book box” as she wanted. While the kiddo was out of earshot, Dan and I brainstormed potential decorating schemes. Swastikas and pictures of horse genitalia were our first ideas. Writing “White Power” in bubbles letters along its side was Dan’s next suggestion. We shall not soon be parents though I think I’ll take several birth control pills tonight just to be safe.

The niece-nuzzling time certainly has its rewards though. Last night Mol and I took turns reading aloud at bedtime and both of us performed the piece in animated British accents. Blimey, the little wanker is good! I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud of her than I was listening to her deliver a big book of animal facts as though it was a National Geographic documentary. The kid is funny which is really much more important than having manners or proper wiping technique ( both of which---I will clarify because she’s almost nine and it would be disturbing were it not the case--- she has). Bottom line, I just like the kid which soooooo helps when it comes to the whole not-beating-her thing.

The first night I stayed over Mol didn’t sleep in the bed with me which is a departure from my typical stay-the-nights which always have her asking me,”Lola, can I sleep in your bed tonight?” as soon as I walk in the door. I was sure to let her whenever she asked because I knew it wouldn’t last forever, and when she stayed in her own room that first night I was sure it was the end of our slumber parties. (Were she not the type who sleeps horizontally I might have been broken up over it.) But last night she returned to my side (as in, her feet in my side) and first thing this morning she asked if she could sleep with me again tonight. I won’t lie, I love it. There is such a peace to looking over from my book and seeing her sweet little freckly face.

Yesterday I drove Mol and a pal to dance class and realized I’ve been picking these kids up from school and schlepping them to that studio since they were three years old. On the drive over, Mol’s friend, A, told me she had been telling another fourth grade girlfriend how Lola was picking her up from school and that I was---and these are A‘s words---”so awesome.” She used her stretched arms to indicate just how awesome she explained me to be. To which Mol remarked, “Did you tell her she’s my aunt?”

Fourth graders---my target demographic.

When I dropped Mol off this morning and she showed me a flash of too-cool-for-Lola, I lectured her, “Remember, the girls are talking about me on the playground these days. Your aunt is sooooo awesome.” Then, after she jumped out of the car and was heading into school I rolled down my window and started shouting, “I love you, Molly! I’ll miss you! Have a good day! You’re the best little girl in the world! Be sure to use a napkin at lunchtime! I love you!” She laughed and smiled back at me.

Sooooo awesome.

Hopefully she still feels this way after the rest of our time together. I am as tired as it gets from all this house-hopping. No, this is not true. I just left a house where my sister was taking care of a two-year-old and a newborn...I could be a breastfeeding zombie, which I am not. (Not a bad idea for a Halloween costume though.) But it’s all catching up to me and l look forward to locking myself in my apartment for several weeks once all of this done. I suppose I’ve just recognized the rhythm of my life---surges of family and friend-focused energy and output followed by plunges into isolation. I guess that’s just how I do.

But just so we’re clear, I’m not leaving you guys hanging on summer camp stories. I've got something in the works though I may have to wait to post it until I get home again. I want the time and quiet to release it naturally and gently. But it’s coming, I swear. I need to relive it on paper to be sure it really happened.

Guys, it was sooooo awesome.

I beat the crotch!

2011-08-28T23:41:00.003-04:00

Though, in the end, I suppose the crotch was also a victor.

Evangeline Lynne is here. Katie and bro-in-law Gary waited a bit to settle on a name (though Dan spread a pretty far-reaching Facebook rumor that her name was Eunice Gertrude and that she was close to fourteen pounds at birth...she was eight pounds three ounces) but the kid came home a titled person. Despite my flight out of Boston being delayed an hour, and having only twenty minutes to sprint through the Atlanta airport to catch my connecting flight to Dayton, and a cab driver who didn’t seem to understand the significance of ten centimeters dilated and pushing, I made it to the hospital in time for the birth. Though Katie and Gary seemed shocked by this, given the fact that Katie had been in labor for four day and at the hospital since the night before, I was certain the universe was working to get me there in time. Between my telepathic directives to my unborn niece to wait me out and having a sense that Gigi was pulling all the strings, I just knew it was going to play out exactly as it did and, indeed, I was in the hospital room the moment little Eva Lynne inhabited a body and came to earth. Four days of labor is not a pretty tale no matter the ending, but Katie and Eva are healthy and well as is the rest of their crew. A family has grown in size and happiness.

Today I held my little bundled niece and wondered aloud, “Who are you going to be?” and it’s such a point of curiosity for me. Of course she already is, in many ways, who she is going to be---but who is that? Who just entered our lives to change and shape our world in her unique way? And what way will that be?

I’ve been a witness to two births and one death in the last ten months; the richest of years in sorrow and joy. Holding a newborn---a new person in the room where there wasn’t one before---feels like the closest proximity, the closest connection to that which we don’t know. That other world. But I have to say, I felt the same way about my mom dying at times. Like I was just as near to that which is---in a different way (or is it the same?)--- miraculous. The last night my mom spent at the hospital, about ten days before she died, laying in her bed in and out of sleep, she told me that she felt the presence of others in the room. She laughed even, saying I probably thought she sounded crazy but she felt them touching her fingers playfully. When I asked her if they scared her, she said no.

“They’re guiding me,” she said.

When I speak of a year rich with sorrow and joy, I’m not sure which category this story falls under. I feel as grateful to play with the little matchstick fingers of my new niece as I am to have seen my mom laughing about the unseen playing with her hands. Grateful to have been able to go that far with her.

It’s moments like these that I am remembering now. Those which were too painful to recount for some months. All I want now is to remember, so I’m going back even as things move along.

Katie and Gary are sleepless---balancing the needs of a two-year-old and a three-day-old with their own food, rest and showering requirements. I am equal parts envious and relieved that this is not my life. When the babies cry at the same time, that ratio shifts. I feed Savvy pad thai, empty the dishwasher and reheat Katie’s cup of coffee when I can, trying to make myself useful.

I’ll leave here Wednesday and have a handful of days to unpack, sleep with my husband (get your heads outta the gutta...or don't), and put a few things in order before heading to my sister Bec’s to stay and watch Molly for a stretch while she and Jeff are in Hawaii.

I feel like I’m heading from family member to family member right now---painting walls, reading books to nuggets, holding babies. I’m not patting myself on the back here; none of this is up to me.

I’m touching miracles again (my island retreat, the lips of a newborn) for one reason:

She’s guiding me.

Swaddling a miracle. (Mother and child photos are pending final approval so an auntie and child photo will have to do.)

Leaving on a jet plane.

2011-08-25T08:31:00.005-04:00

I should be ashamed of the lack of creativity here, but I'm boarding in ten minutes and I have to pee!

Been on a whirlwind tour since my writing retreat, so my apologies for holding out on camp stories (it was too wonderful for tidbits). I ended up staying in RI for five days, helping Cherie and bro-in-law Pete as they ready to move into their first home. I packed, I primed, I got sawdust in my eyes and Dan said I came home a little bit tougher now that I'm a laborer. It is such an exciting time for them and as long as Hurricane Irene doesn't screw things up, they will be in their new home by this Sunday. It was fun to watch a sweet little family heading into one of those rest-of-their-lives moments.

I'm at the airport now flying off to Ohio for another of these moments, as my sister Katie is due to deliver her second daughter any moment. She's been at the hospital since last night and my flight doesn't arrive in Ohio until 3:45, so I feel like I'm playing beat the crotch. I'm hoping to be there for the big moment, but what can ya do? They grow up so fast but I'm sure a few hours won't make much of a difference.

While all of it may be taking me away from my writing, it is also setting me at the center of life's truest elements---first homes, babies, airport stank.

These were Dan's suggestions for how I spend my week away:

Thing you should do while in Ohio:

1. Enjoy the moment for what it is.
2. Squeeze Savvy often.
3. Make some time for yourself (a morning walk, an afternoon drive, journal in the yard).
4. Talk to your Mom. She’s on your shoulder these days. I hope you can feel her.
5. Miss me. I’m adorable.

He's right---he is adorable. And I do feel my mom on my shoulder. She's the one bossing me around, having me romp about tending to all her girls.

While I can't promise updates since I'll be hanging out with two-year-old Savvy when not nuzzling a newborn or caring for my sister, I will try to get some pictures up.

Wishing you all more of these rich life experiences...and less of the stank.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

2011-08-18T07:43:00.010-04:00

I promise I will write all about summer camp soon. I've been home for only five days and now am heading down to RI for a three-day Ocean State jaunt. When I settle and finish the laundry, I will return to all you Spewers in full form. (I am, of course, a changed Lola after this week.)

Today, however, is a Gigi-post day. It is her birthday. I find myself wondering if the expression "another year younger" fits now. Like there's some Benjamin Button effect that has her aging in reverse out wherever she is. I like to think she's 42---the age I kept her at for years in my head---and that she's dancing and laughing her laugh and feeling proud of herself and her girls.

Mom,

If I could, I would rub your feet today. I'd make you coffee and we'd have it on the deck and then go to Reidy's for breakfast. We'd drink lemonade later. I'd make up a pitcher and we would drink it down in the yard and maybe we'd go in the river together. I wish I swam with you more. I would love you up. I would look in your wise blue eyes (gorgeous, those eyes) and say, "Thank God you're mine."

Thank God you were the mother I got this go-around because it's made life a gift. I get to see what you showed me. Real things, not distractions. I get to feel another's heart when I look at her face because you taught me how. I can open my body in laughter--freely, loudly--because you showed me and let me. Your laugh, Mom, I get it now. It was also your tears. It was also your life. Your joy. Your generosity. Your intimacy. Your gift. I will have it always and give it always because that's what you did. Thank God you were my mom.

Happy Birthday, Mama. I miss you, I feel you, I love you.

Your Laura

Alabanza!

2011-08-11T22:47:00.002-04:00

Me again, your substi-spew blogger. I am here to report that Lola is alive and doing well on her island writing retreat and she is actually having an amazing time. She is still fairly isolated out there and contact with her has been limited to a few random texts throughout the day and perhaps a brief phone call at night. But, every message from her has been so filled with excitement and joy about what she is doing, that I know this will be a week of her life that she will cherish forever. She deserves one.

If you wonder what you do in a writing retreat as I do, apparently, it seems you write. You write, and read, and revise, and write. Throw in some time for meals and perhaps a glass or wine of two, but otherwise, it’s all business. I will hear from Lola in the morning and she will already be writing (usually having her morning cup of Joe with the sun on her face). She writes all day with her group. Then she writes at night. I usually get a call as I am going to bed, and Lola is just finishing up. She’s writing and writing and writing.

My only fear that she is just filling up journals by continually writing, “All work and no play makes Lola a dull girl.”

But I don’t think so.

She is so pumped about the whole experience. She loves what she is doing. It has made her excited about doing more and is she is just relishing the supportive environment that her new writing friends provide. She loves the serenity of the island. She is overjoyed by the guidance of Joyce Maynard. She is appreciating every moment and all her surroundings. She is just soaking up every minute of this experience.

Alabanza.

That’s a new word that I fell in love with this week. For some reason, one day this week, I woke up singing the title song from “In the Heights”. It’s a Broadway show, one of Lola’s favorites, about a neighborhood in New York and the people. Definitely has a Spanish flair to it, but with a slight hip hop twist – my Lola can, and will, bust it out. But this day, the song got stuck in my head. So, I decided to listen to the whole soundtrack. That’s where I found “Alabanza.”

Alabanza is a word that Abuela, the grandmother of the neighborhood in the show, uses when she appreciates the small little blessings in her life (glass Coke bottles, breadcrumbs, a sky full of stars.) It means, as they explain, to raise this thing to God’s face and literally, to sing praise to this. The song has a sad tone to it, given the occasion upon which it is sung, but the word has such a subtle and profound beauty to it, that it keeps ringing through my head. How many things in our everyday life which we take for granted deserve our praises? We all need to cherish the blessings of our life.

So to this workshop and retreat that Lola is in the midst of, I say, “Alabanza!” I sing your praises. It’s a little gift to Lola to be where she is and to having the time she is having. It’s a blessing to have her feel the freedom where she can write all day, without worry, without interruption, without guilt. It’s just her and her pen. It’s a blessing to give her time out on a peaceful island where she can appreciate the rolling sounds of the surf, the squawk of the seagulls, the smell of the ocean. It’s time for her, time to feel her Mom with her, and time to breathe – deep and long – soaking it all in.

Alabanza.

Lola Heads to Summer Camp

2011-08-07T13:23:00.005-04:00

Well, Lola made it. She left the docks of Portsmouth, NH yesterday aboard the good ship Thomas Leighton en route to historic Star Island where she will be participating in a week long Write By The Sea workshop alongside writer Joyce Maynard. Among Lola’s parting words to me as we said our goodbyes was permission to guest blog for her so I could share with her online friends the adventures of Lola’s summer camp.

Star Island, just to give you some history, is the second largest island in a small group of islands of the coast of Maine and New Hampshire called the Isles of Shoals. It’s about ten miles from shore and extremely isolated. While I didn’t want to tell Lola the story, the Isles of Shoals are probably most noted for the notorious unsolved murders of two women in 1873 (the tale is told by Anita Shreve in The Weight of Water). However, the murders took place on nearby Smuttynose Island. Lola is on Star Island.

Star Island is privately owned and used as a conference center and retreat. It has close ties to Unitarian Universalism and the United Church of Christ (although Lola’s seminar has no religious affiliation). It has a large house and a few other structures (to call any of them a hotel would be a disservice to the hotel world). But it’s a shelter which undoubtedly has its charms in that rustic seafaring way. I have been there once, for a weird office outing event where, to be honest, while it was beautiful, I found it a bit strange (but perhaps that was because it was an office outing and there was no beer).

Friday was packing day for Lola where she was met with her first obstacle: only one carry-on and one bag not weighing more than forty pounds were allowed. I’m not sure if they think too much luggage would sink the ship, but these were the rules (which we later found out was ignored by everyone else on the dock). Now it’s a well known fact that any daughter of GiGi has slight issues with over-packing, and Lola is no exception. But, in Lola’s defense, packing for a week long trip on an island in the summer is hard (hot during the day, cold at night, rain). Needless to say Lola’s luggage was filled with everything from swimwear to gloves. And then there was the “other” stuff to pack: Toiletries, sun screen, bug spray, make-up and the whole cast of regulars. Then, because Lola had a small cut on her finger, my little GiGi packed a box of 50 Band-Aids. She packed a box of 50 tampons which she knew was too much, but brought extra because, “what if another lady needed one?” Food was the next important issue, because even though they provide you with meals, anyone who has ever taken care of a Mellow woman knows you need to keep them fed. So, Lola packed her backpack with nuts, Lara Bars, mango slices, gum, apples and more. Then there were her books and journals and writing materials. In the end, her luggage probably weighed 50 pounds and her backpack carry-on probably weighed 60.

Lola’s plan was to finish packing on Friday so Saturday morning would be relaxing. As they say, sometimes the best laid plans of mice and men often go astray and Saturday morning, while not totally weeded, Lola was still hurrying about with last minute things to do. The hardest thing to do was closing the suitcase which was akin to me putting on Lola’s skinny jeans. But with some team work and sacrificing a few items that we agreed could be kept at home, we got all the bags sealed and ready. We had to be at the dock by 1:00 and much to her credit, we left our apartment at about 11:00 and even stopped for lunch. When we arrived at the dock, we checked in and then they told us that the boat left at 2:00 and we could come back. So we did what everyone else would do, we had a second lunch.

When we arrived back at the dock, a crowd was beginning to amass. The ferry had just gotten back, so while Lola’s group was getting ready to board, the people on the boat were about to get off. I saw this as an immediate traffic threat, so I made the decision that it was time for me to leave. I made sure Lola had everything she needed, I gave her a big hug and kiss and then watched her saunter off into the awaiting crowd. She walked a little slow (she did have a 60 pound backpack on her back), but I could tell she was taking a deep breath as she was about to step into her new adventure. It was sad, but also exciting. I couldn’t be more proud of her.

I left, triumphantly beating the traffic, but decided I wanted to watch my Lola sail away, so I found a parking spot on a nearby street, and then walked back. Now I was amongst the travelers heading to Star Island, although I couldn’t find Lola. Turns out, there are also two other conferences on the island this week: one on Celtic Christian Spirituality and the other a Youth Conference on Changes. That explained the large group of hyper-active teenagers waiting on the dock and also the many guitars packed on travelers backs. Lola had found someone from her workshop as the writers in the crowd were no doubt gravitating towards each other (and away form the crazy Christians). I couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but no doubt that fun, small talk chatter that you have on the first day of camp (“I’m Lola, I’m from New Hampshire, I’m 30, I like Bukkake.”

They started boarding and soon Lola was in line, smiling alongside her new friends. She found a seat on the front of the boat on the bottom deck (finding the spot that would be least harrowing for someone with motion sickness was key, so I hope she found the right spot). She was sitting alongside her fellow writers, all eager to see where the week ahead would bring them. My last sight of Lola was her small little hand waving as the Thomas Leighton set out to sea.

So she’s off. She arrived safely. She has some cell phone reception if she stands on her toilet and leans due west, but other than that, she is out of touch for the week. Apparently her digs are very sparse, looking almost like a deluxe suite at Alcatraz, but with curtains. She has still yet to conquer her two main fears: going to the bathroom and taking a shower in the communal bathroom (she does have her own toilet, just no shower). But, it’s still early in the week. She was excited after her first activity yesterday – an exciting talk about writing. So even though I am sure she is filled with anxiety and fear, she is diving right into it. It will be a hard week for her, but hopefully it will be filled with reward (plus she might just discover that Jesus Christ is her lord and savior).

While I was helping her pack, I slipped a framed picture of her mom into her bag. I just wanted Lola to have her Mom’s smiling face looking over her out there. We all know that GiGi is watching her, giving her the strength to go in the first place. Lola will be thinking about her Mom throughout the week, and I can’t help think of the peaceful thought of Lola waking up early, grabbing her coffee and her journal and having her GiGi time sitting alone in an Adirondack chair looking out over the mighty Atlantic. That image will make me feel better that my love is so far away.

That's the boat. Lola is in the very front on the bottom deck, learning how to make a shiv out of a toothbrush.

Star Island lies dead ahead. Bring your own axe please.

Lola's room for the next week. She's already been warned by the RA to ease up on the keg parties.

Still so much love

2011-08-04T12:40:00.009-04:00

for the guy who taught me the difference between good tired and bad tired. Four years ago. We made it through high school...off to the real world now, bud.

Heading to my writing retreat on Saturday and am planning to disconnect entirely while on the island. Hopefully, I come back a better man and with stories to share. Happy first week of August, peeps.

P.S. The leaves are changing outside my window...

Eff the Cleanse

2011-07-26T16:10:00.007-04:00

It took me over an hour but I eventually got it down. (That's what he said.)

This is the start of a blog entry I wrote last week (or maybe it was the week before) and never posted.

It’s 6:10am. I’ve been up since 5:00 which is not totally out of the ordinary, though the fact that I haven’t had coffee yet certainly is. As evidence of my lack of caffeine, I offer this first draft of that sentence: I’ve been up since 5 which coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee. The morning of my endoscopy, I wasn’t able to drink anything except clear broths and liquids and since I don’t like my coffee like I like my funeral clothes---black and adult-y---I had to skip my joe. I was so far past the point of functioning by the time I left the hospital at 4ish, that I decided to ride the day out caffeine-free and I am now entering day three without coffee (or what Dan might call his third day living with Satan’s cunty sister). Rather than trying to come up with some clever quip to demonstrate just how difficult this has been, I’ll say this---my heady hurt and sentences tough to complete. But my clothes aren’t fitting right so I decided it was time to clean this body up. For three weeks (barring any family/emotional/philosophical/hormonal crises) I intend to completely avoid caffeine, gluten, sugar, alcohol and also dairy and meat.

This is a text exchange between Dan and me later that day:

Me: I'm drinking ice tea and it tastes like vomit....the guy next to me is eating pizza. Die mother fucker!

Dan: That's my Lola

And here’s how that day turned out:

I said eff the cleanse and got drunk on half a bottle of wine at a concert in the park.

As soon as I hit the picnic blanket, I knew it was over. Shawn Colvin will forever represent either my liberation from the far too stringent rules with which I am always trying to rein myself in or an utter lack of will power...not sure which. But it was a strange, wonderful night that showed me (once a-fucking-gain) that letting go versus holding on tighter is often the wiser path. Shawn Colvin was only able to get a handful of songs in between bouts of pouring rain as thunderstorms moved in and out, but Dan and I drank and nibbled on gluten-free crackers and hummus underneath our umbrellas and had one of the most romantic and enjoyable nights we’ve had in years. (I love wine.) I had almost canceled the whole plan, cranky as I was from lack of food and coffee, and was tantrumming right up until I got there about the parking and rain. But I sucked back that first glass, confessed all my woes to Dan (it had been a woe-filled day) and then just totally blissed out, listening to the music and watching this little blond-haired boy and a pack of braided girls in sweet cotton dresses dance in the rain on a summer night. They were on this raised platform that was just every bit a stage in their eyes and they waved their arms and held hands and jumped on and off like ducklings. I wondered what this night felt like to them. How they would remember it. How it must feel to move so freely, especially for that little boy. He was surely a jock-to-be but, my gawd, dancing up there to that music he was just so free. I thought about how he wouldn’t be able to move that way forever. And then one of the parents told the kids to stay off the platform and the girls immediately obeyed (as we often do) and jumped down. But that little boy, he just didn’t want to leave that stage. I watched as he pleaded to stay, trying to balance his longing to dance with his disappointment while still maintaining a bit of tough little boy edge. And then he kept lifting one foot off the stage like he was readying to jump, only to put it back down, unable to make himself do it. Unable to make himself physically disconnect from the joy he had felt up there. As if he knew that if he jumped down, it would be over. He would never be able to go back up. My eyes filled with tears.

And then the cops arrested the drunk lady staring at the kids.

So I got a little saucy and a little maudlin, it’s known to happen. But the wagon fall-off was so worth it because I realized that I had almost missed this moment by trying to do the “right” thing. I was trying to use the regiment of a cleanse to harness some control over life and almost skipped this concert in part because I was worried that I’d be tempted by delicious picnic-y food and red wine. And as I suspected, I was derailed. (Over the next days, wine became cheese...cheese became coffee...coffee became pepperoni pizza and so on.) And you know what? That’s how it needed to be. Because as much as I know how great I would have felt had I lasted those three weeks, right now, at this exact point in my life, in the midst of this year, I can’t afford to miss the joyful moments. (Nor can anyone at any time.) But even more than that, I can’t afford to make it any harder. This is just not the fucking time to play coffeeless hero. I decided that while I may add some things to my diet that will contribute to my health---juicing, etc.---I may not take anything away. At least not completely. Things are just still plenty hard without my making unnecessary demands of myself.

In keeping with this theme of not depriving myself, I’m also going back on anti-depressants. And it is in keeping with this blog’s theme of as much disclosure as I can handle that I’ve decided to even write about it. I’ve not really talked much about medication here mostly because I’m still trying to figure out how I feel on the matter. While I whole-heartedly believe in over-medicating children so that they’re quiet in restaurants or stay in school or whatever, I do worry about how medication will impair my brain (and also if eventually I’ll have three-eyed children). But what I ultimately decided is that my brain is pretty fucking impaired right now as it is. Last week, after thinking better about driving into a telephone pole, I found myself parked in front of my parents’ house late at night, looking for my mom in all her spots---on the porch, in the front garden, in the window---and crying so hysterically that I had to wait until I calmed down before continuing on to my sister’s apartment where I was staying for the night. That’s impairment and that’s when I decided it was time for me to go back on medication.

About a month and half ago when the med I was on at the time didn’t seem to be doing much, I went off of it thinking I could detox and juice myself to mental wellness rather than making a chemistry set of my body as my therapist and I tried to find a drug combo that worked. This was also a lurch for control. While I’m a huge believer in people maintaining their health to the extent that they can through exercise, nutrition, stress management, etc. (and of course, let’s be clear on this, sometimes people absolutely need medication regardless of how well they care for themselves), what I’ve learned about myself is that when I’m depressed I can’t access those tools which normally help me stay afloat and I spiral. And I’m spiraling. Lots of crying, weight gain, insomnia, difficulty concentrating, fatigue---just the whole damn depression checklist. Grief, yes. But depression too.

And I also am aware of this: There’s no saying that medication will help. I know things got worse since being off them but happy pills they are not. I’m still struggling with insomnia and lately I’ve been starting my days at 2:30am. (You would think this would promote productivity but really it just cracks me out.) I may end up deciding that meds aren’t for me and that I’m going to try to meditate my way through this. Or maybe I’ll come up with a plan to karate my ass out of the darkness. I’m just still working it out and while this ambivalence initially kept me from wanting to write about it here, I ultimately decided that this is exactly why I must. Since when do I only write about things I’m sure about? I don’t write because I have answers, I write because I’m still looking for them and the hope is that we can all share in that universal experience. (And then, you know, Kumbaya it up.)

Plus, I trust you guys with this and I think I owe you my honesty after all we’ve been through. I also think that no matter what people say, there’ still a stigma around mental illness and medication and while my moral ground isn’t always sound (I did use the word cunty just mere paragraphs ago) I have a hard time sleeping at night when I feel like I’m contributing to that kind of thing. Although I don’t necessarily have to speak to every shame-inducing topic on the planet (or maybe I do), I never want to be a part of the problem if I can help it. And to try to write an honest blog (I really am still trying to write a blog) about losing one’s mom without disclosing these lows feels untruthful.

What really got me writing is that I would never want someone to happen upon this blog and think, “ Jeez, my mom’s death has really fucked me up. How is she doing so well? What’s wrong with me?” I’ve had that experience so many times and I think it’s a disservice, these half-truths we reveal to each other. I'm hardly the only person who will ever have to go on anti-depressants following the loss of a loved one so why not just be honest about it? It’s not always possible to write the whole truth (not here, not now) while I’m still in the midst of it, but the fact is that my mom’s death has had a much greater impact than simply being the most painful thing that I (and so many of my loved ones) have ever endured. It’s affected our family dynamic. We will eventually find our way to whatever it is that will be born in its place (and I’m sure it will be rich with love), but the family I’ve known my whole life is irreparably damaged.

It’s affected my marriage. Dan and I still laugh a lot and I’ve written on here more about the happy moments that I have the hard ones mostly because there are more of them (and I might come off as a total douche if I told you some of the shit over which I’ve picked fights). But I would hate for someone who’s grieving or going through similar hardship to think that the loss of my mom and the chaos that’s ensued since hasn’t affected my marriage. I bet Dan would say that it’s really hard for him to know what to say to me sometimes. And that some days he doesn’t know who he’s coming home to. And sometimes Dan’s quiet nature makes me feel vulnerable and alone, emotions I don’t always express well. (see also Satan’s cunty sister.) I would hate for people to come here looking to see their experience reflected back, only to leave feeling more alone because they're struggling within their marriages and I’ve painted a not entirely accurate picture of a happy vacationing couple. Yes, our vacation had wonderful moments---beautiful, truth-filled moments---but I was also in the midst of going off the meds and was so far inside my head that it definitely affected our trip at times.

I just want to be straight with you, that’s all. I’m struggling to keep my head above water; that’s why I didn’t call. And really, as if my being on anti-depressants is some big fucking revelation. You guys are probably thinking, damn we hoped you were on medication back when you were stalking your neighbor.

Hard to believe that was a year ago today. I keep playing that game, A Year Ago Today. A year ago today on my blog I posted about my neighbor but in my journal I wrote about wanting to write something lengthier about my mom, wondering how she'd feel about it. Of course later she and I had conversations about this. “I thought you already started,” she laughed when I asked her directly. We talked a lot about the importance of people sharing their truths so that we can all feel a little less alone and learn from each other.

So, I guess the lesson in all of this is pretty clear: Do drugs and encourage your friends to do the same.

And if this post doesn't push you towards drugs then this song sure will.

We tried to take you with us.

2011-07-08T10:00:00.010-04:00

What a view! That restaurant had wings!

My luggage: The small purse within the bigger purse is a patented Gigi Mellow move that I felt proud to find myself employing throughout the trip.

On the first night of our road trip the hotel screwed up and gave us double beds instead of a king, so Dan said we had to play Rob and Laura Petrie for the night. (Which I totally dug because having a bed to myself is one of the biggest things I miss about being single. That and bukkake.)

You know when you’re playing phone tag with a friend for several months and by the time you finally get her on the phone, so much has gone down that you don’t even really know where to begin in catching her up? That’s kind of what I’m feeling right now. My usual technique in that situation---especially if the missed content is especially complicated, like an ailing parent or two---I’m inclined to gloss over things or deftly deflect if don’t feel like working that hard. That’s sort of where I am right now. So, rather than simply saying, “Vacation was great but how are you?” I’ll offer a bullet-point glance of things.

I went to Austin and the city and my dear friend, Jarvino, rocked and rejuvenated my soul.
I went to Pittsburgh, the Poconos and NYC and all I got you was this lousy blog entry.
It was also soul-rocking and rejuvenating in that unique way that cranial massages followed by Broadway shows can be.
Dan will be in charge of planning all vacations for the rest of our lives.
I finished my submission for the writing workshop I’m attending in August and am now able to once again inhale and exhale to fruition.
There’s an inexplicable onslaught of flies in my apartment and I don’t know why and it’s freaking me the fuck out.
I am having an upper endoscopy and biopsy on Monday to check for celiac disease. (I filled out my pre-op forms and specifically mentioned that I woke up during my colonoscopy so they know to put this bitch out good this time.)
I’ve had to eat a surplus of gluten in preparation for this test, which put 10 pounds on my ass and made me feel so ill and cranky that I picked 17.5 fights with Dan on our vacation
The half-fight took place in my head.
Dan still heard it.
I’ve decided to return to a gluten-free lifestyle no matter what the test says.
But first I’m gonna eat a spaghetti-stuffed burrito as a last hurrah.
My dad’s MRI came back clean which means any cancer left in his brain is microscopic at this point. This is what we had expected since the mass was removed during surgery but he has started chemo to keep it at bay for as long as he can.
My Spoffice is kind of a mess again.
I miss my mom.
Just a whole helluva lot.
I wish I could show up at her house with sandwiches and we could have lunch together.
I’m playing with the idea of taking classes at UNH.
I’m playing with the idea of attending the four-day Harry Potter movie marathon which is playing at select theaters leading up to the release of the final film (even more than I’m thinking of going to school).
I’m drunk right now.
Not really, but we have this beer that tastes like Fruity Pebbles and I kind of want to have it for breakfast.
I went mini golfing with Bec and her family last night despite a pretty firm stance of opposition to the entire sport (can we really call that a sport?), and though fun was had, I still believe it should be abolished.
I think that about covers it.
But at least we’re back in the game here.
How are you?

NO LATER than 10am

2011-06-25T11:39:00.004-04:00

Not totally my fault as Dan wanted to go out for breakfast. Also I thought it would be a good idea to wait until this morning to "finish" packing. So far moderately pleasant moods prevail for both husband and wife. Stay tuned...

Where I'll be in three days...

2011-06-24T18:30:00.012-04:00

You know I'll recreate this picture if I can.

Shit, you guys. I promised myself I would put something up here in the handful of days I had between getting back from Texas (Tuesday) and leaving for vacation with Dan (tomorrow) but my handful got diminished due to travel complications and now I am just so pressed for time with preparing for my next vacation so closely on the heels of my last one, that it's going to have to be a quickie. And while I'm complaining about things that someone should just slap me for, I need to whine for a minute about the fact that it's raining out and I just got a spray tan this morning and I have to do laundry which means going in and out to the laundry room at the back of our building in the rain and possibly doing damage to my painted-on tan. I know there are bigger problems in the world, but today that's mine. (P.S. You should see how tan I look...very scary. Very Lindsay Lohan.)

I started writing all about my fantastic trip to Austin and the wonderful visit with my very dear friend, Jarvino (Spewname), but all of a sudden there's more packing to do than there is time so I will have to postpone the Texas recap. Plus, I just got an e-mail from Dan saying that he wants to be out of here "NO LATER than 10am" tomorrow and he even got all yelly and capital-y like that, so I have to get moving. (But I must say this: Austin was awesome and my Jarvino gave me a week of love and friendship that I so needed and will never forget.)

I also wanted to be sure I got on here to say hey y'all. Miss ya like crazy and this is all shaping up to be one hell of a "How I Spent My Summer Vacation" essay for when I get back.

The itinerary for this next week is a scattered one. It starts with us taking off (by car) for Pittsburgh tomorrow to meet up with some of Dan's family and take in a baseball game (Sox at Pittsburgh---luxury box---holla!) on Sunday. From there we will heading for five days of bliss at a hotel and spa in The Poconos. Dan and I have both been struggling with admitting we're going to a spa in the Poconos because just saying it makes us feel like Dan has a drinking problem and a penchant for nannies and I occasionally ask Carlos, our gardener who's secretly in love with our daughter Muffie, his opinion of vaginal reconstructive surgery while striking a provocative position involving a Pottery Barn kitchen stool. That said, I am very excited for this trip and very grateful to Dan who planned the whole thing because he felt like this was the kind of vacation the year called for. I currently have two massages, a facial, and a "Lotus Cleansing" ---which Dan keeps referring to using his most airy, Zen, smelly Earth Child voice---on the books for our stay. I know how bratty that sounds and I know how fortunate I am (so I'll shut up about the rain and my spray tan). The resort restaurant is called Tree, for fuck's sake. Tree. Not The Tree. Not even Food Tree (which would be a terrible name). Just Tree. I might never wear underwear again after this, that's all I'm saying. Then on Friday we are headed into NYC to see The Book of Mormon and The Normal Heart both of which I am just so fucking psyched for that the words "so fucking psyched" are really the only ones that fit. Actually, the Poconos trip was born from the fact that we knew we'd be in Pittsburgh on Sunday and New York on Friday, so we were looking for a place that made sense geographically to head to in between. Pretty sure seeing The Book of Mormon, a musical which takes on organized religion, and The Normal Heart, a play which takes on the AIDS crisis in NYC in the 80's, restores my street cred after the whole spa in the Poconos thing. ('Cause, you know, street cred and Broadway go hand in hand.)

Doesn't that sound like a fan-fucking-tastic vacation? I mean, how lucky am I? Believe me, I get a little verclempt even now thinking of how grateful I am to have had the week I just did with Jarvino and now this week coming up with my Danny. And I could cry especially because I know how excited my mom would be for me. I'm trying to really appreciate the richness of each moment and every adventure for her. Towards the end she talked so much to me about all the things she would do if her body would let her so I have a real sense of taking things in on her behalf, particularly travel and exploration. But I'll have to work to stay present...which means getting some stuff done before I go so that I'm not thinking of it during the trip...which means I must be running along now.

If Dan and I have sack enough to steal someone's garden gnome on our road trip, I'll be sure to take and post pictures. Happy summer Spewheads! (Spewers? Spewites? Spewdents? Spewpils? Spewps?) Hope you're getting your lotus cleansed too!

Love,
Lindsay

Creepy, right? (It fades with the first shower.)

To Oprah Be the Glory

2011-06-02T14:00:00.011-04:00

Did I miss the Oprah boat? It’s been over a week, can I really start reviewing my favorite quotes from the show? (You know, the ones I copied down when I watched the episode a second time?) One of the tough things about a blog, at least mine, is that the idea is that it’s happening in real time. So, there’s not a lot of room for rewrites, editing, three-day ADD benders, if I want to deliver something here that’s timely. I know there’s probably more flexibility here than I give myself, but it's not like I spent the last few days polishing an Oprah essay anyway (an Opressay?), so there's no brilliant piece of writing that’ll just have to be tucked back in the drawer with my Charlie Sheen tribute blogs. Nah, even if months had passed I’d post a good Oprah entry if I had one and just tie it somehow to the present moment. This reminds me of a kid I went to high school with who once made a cardboard poster on El Nino for one of his classes and then somehow managed to use this exact poster to fulfill project/presentation requirements for several other classes. I had anthropology with him and I can remember the whole class laughing as he whipped out the by then infamous poster to explain how weather patterns affected evolution. I love a smart kid.

My point? If I had managed to craft my Oprah thoughts into a beautiful El Nino poster, I’d hang it here proudly. But for now it’s just a bunch of cut-out words from magazines that have yet to be strung together. This timeliness issue has held me back before. I once had an obituary started for my sister’s cat who, unless the entire body excluding its tail and hind legs are hiding out on a beach somewhere in Mexico, we can presume was killed by a coyote (pronounced ky-yote) last fall. But more than a week passed before I was able to get back to the piece so I let it go, as if you guys would be all, “Oh my gawd, Sassy, can you believe she waited ten days to blog about Becky’s dead cat---OLD NEWS!” This isn’t US Weekly...nobody’s scooping me on the inane stories of my own life.

I’m going to try to stop being such a perfectionist and just get what I want up here when I can. And I still want to talk about Oprah...so there.

  Did you watch? I have it Tivoed if you want to come over for a viewing. It was the most moving moment of television I’ve ever seen, including the SNL debut of “Dick in a Box.” Oprah’s last (network) gift was to encourage and inspire us to find our calling, “to figure out what that is and get about the business of doing it.” Part college lecture, part sermon, part chat with your most insightful friend, My Oprah implored us to believe ourselves worthy of as purposeful, satisfying, and divinely touched a life as hers; that it is our right, our charge, to follow our instincts to the blessings that are meant for us. I dig this message. Really, I dig everything she was saying.

“My great wish for all of you who have allowed me to honor my calling through this show is that you carry whatever you’re supposed to be doing, carry that forward and don’t waste any more time. Start embracing the life that is calling you and use your life to serve the world.”

I’m sure each person watching was taking in these words and digesting them as nourishment for his/her own specific dreams and goals and I am no exception. For me, this was, of course, all about writing. While I’m not sure I’m serving the world by writing about the perils of gym locker nudity, it’s the life that is and always has been calling me. But though I’ve been writing pretty consistently outside of this blog, I was struggling to show up here for a few different reasons. And I want to just get them out there so you know what’s up.

First of all, my mom died. Sometimes that just puts me on my ass.

Second, I’m working on a few things that have me sidetracked. One of the things my mom suggested I do to get through losing her was to write my way through the grief. So much went on in the last year that I couldn’t write about at the time, and I’m trying to get as much of it down now as I can before I forget. I don’t ever want to forget the fullness of the year I had with my mom before she died, the laughs in the waiting rooms, the ice cream cones after chemo. But it’s often extremely difficult and draining work. Sometimes I just weep over my laptop while I’m writing and that actually feels okay because my mom is worth my tears. She’s worthy of great depths of grief and I rather be sad thinking about her than not think of her at all. But it takes all I’ve got to do this writing and on those days I just haven’t the energy or the ability to switch gears into blog mode. Sometimes it breaks me down for a few days at a time. I hope you feel me on this.

I also have a deadline looming so closely that lately Dan has been going to sleep each night to the sound of the steady sawing of my finger nails across my skin as I scratch at my hives. Do you remember when I was lobbying for sponsorship money for a writing retreat in Guatemala? Well, this year Joyce Maynard (scroll down past the initial rambling for the article) is running this writing retreat on an island a few miles off the coast of New Hampshire (of all places!). I found this out shortly after my mom died and I just knew the universe wanted me to go. While the trip isn’t until early August, I have to submit a 2,500-word “excerpt from my manuscript” (manu-what now?) or free-standing piece by July 6th that I will want to workshop with the 20 other writers who will be attending. Gulp. 2,500 words? Not a problem. I churn out over 2,500 words of pointless drivel every day. Something I want to share with others, never mind Joyce Maynard? That’s a big, big problem. Huge. Gi-fucking-gantic. I don’t think the idea of the retreat is to ask a bunch of strangers to help me to improve my musings on all my crazy, gun-toting, finger-tease neighbors. And, of course, even though I’ve had all year to come up with something, I have left the task for the last minute and June is shaping up to be a busy one. I’ll be away for two of the four weeks and my sister is coming in from Memphis for a week, so it’s not exactly ideal nose to the grindstone circumstances. I really have no idea how this is going to turn out so stay tuned. But I have to focus on getting this thing done (maybe if it’s something I’m even remotely pleased with I’ll post it here) so that’s where I’m going to be for the next few weeks. I just wanted to keep you guys posted on why I haven’t been around and also why consistent Spew is still out of my reach.

And then there’s this: Sometimes I feel like I’ve met my downer-post quota around these parts, and last month (pre-sun and Harry Potter) was a rough one that could have only made for dark entries. Though, My Oprah had me thinking twice about even this.

“I understand the manifestation of grace and God so I know that there are no coincidences. There are none. Only divine order here.”

I’ve struggled so much in the last year with how to write about all that’s happened. Where is my line with what I can comfortably share? Where is your line with what you want to read and ingest? What about my family members' lines? Of all of it---my mom’s illness, losing her, the dying I’ve done since---this part, the what does everyone else want from me of things (and what is it I want from or for myself), has been the most grueling despite my knowledge that much of it is self-inflicted. But maybe these are the exact questions with which I’m supposed to be grappling. Maybe it’s no coincidence that I started a blog and my mom got sick and we lost her and then three months later my dad was diagnosed. Maybe it’s no coincidence that just as I started documenting my thoughts and life in a more public way, I experienced the biggest derailment I’ve ever known. Maybe this is exactly what I’m supposed to be writing about and maybe these should I’s or shouldn’t I’s are the questions I have to work through before moving on to the next phase of things. Friggin’ Oprah! Giiiirl, what am I going to do without you?

So, though I’ve thought about it many times, I’m not quitting yet. Two years and counting. (I’ve been so distracted that I missed The Spew’s second birthday! This might be reason 357 why Dan and I can’t be parents yet. I can just hear myself saying, “But we celebrated your birthday laaaaast year, Little Sally. Surely you didn’t expect this to be a thing.”) I hope to be here more often than not, but I figured I would let you know where I’ve been and where I’m going in case I’m out of touch for a bit.

Oprah never missed a day of work in 25 years. Huh. I’m not expecting that kind of attendance record for myself (it’s not like Oprah had anything else going on anyway) but the point of this, which I took very seriously, was how much she valued her viewers.

“But I showed up because I knew that you were waiting...You were waiting for whatever we had to offer.”

I value you guys too. I don’t take it for granted that you come here and read this angsty mess, which is why I always feel so bad when I drop out for a while. You guys always seem to get it though, and I want you to know I appreciate that, too. Oprah talked about how her viewers have been a “safe harbor” for her all these years. “Strange, I know, but you have been,” she said. And it didn’t seem strange at all to me. While this isn’t Her show and I’m certainly not Oprah, I’ve found you all to be very much a “safe harbor” during this grinding storm and I certainly never anticipated that when I started this thing. You guys have been here all along listening, offering support, and passing no judgement for all the “fucks” that seem to get sprinkled in more frequently with each passing day. Some of you wrote with your own stories, some of you sent poems. Some of you cracked me up and some of you said, stay strong. Some of you are related to me, some of you I’ve never met. Some of you knew my mom and found your way here through her, some of you know me well, whether or not we've ever spoken. And if you know me, then you know it’s much easier for me to write all this than speak it and I am forever grateful for your ear, your time and your words of encouragement.

I can’t yet know what role this blog will have played in all that’s happened in this last year and all that is still happening, but I know that in the story of my life you will always be tied very closely to my version of the story of losing my mom. And I appreciate all of you far more than I can say and far more than my absences indicate. And I promise, I swear on the soul of The Spew, that if I ever get to the point in my career where such a thing is possible: Lor, you get a car! Margaret, you get a car! Straight-up Stranger, you get a car! Sassy, you get a car! BFIFM, you get a car! Nancy M. (should we hold a contest to come up with a fun nickname for you?), you get a car! Ame, Jen, Beth the Anonymous, and Melissa (who I know reads but inboxes her sweet comments), you get a car! EllieB, you get a car! Mattie, you get a car (or you’re buying me one)! Benny, Big Chirl, and Katjak, you get a car! (T-Roxx will earn one when she starts to read/comment.) Talk2mrsh, you get a car! Second grade teacher but not mine, you get a car! Mart, you get a car! Those of you who follow along silently or post every now and then or wrote me on Facebook to say you actually read this thing, you get a car!

Everybody gets a car!

And in conclusion, that is why I believe El Nino is Oprah’s son. The End.

The Real Love of My Life

2011-05-27T17:00:00.009-04:00

I am sitting at my desk trying, trying, trying to put a cohesive sentence (paragraph/entry) together to no avail. It is just too damn nice out and I can't concentrate. I had forgotten this feeling. I'm in high school all over again, working to finish my 11th grade research paper so that I can pass English (of all fucking subjects) and make it to 12th grade. This was the best red pen moment of my entire school career. First of all, the paper was on the "hidden" drug references of Alice In Wonderland which gives you a little insight into what my interests were at the time and why I was struggling so hard with deadlines. And because I turned it in on the last possible day that I could for any credit, all I could earn was an F which indeed was plopped right at the top of the page with a note that it was "potentially an excellent paper..." Not too many F's come with that accompanying sentiment. The best part is that my Mattie, who is a year younger than I (which explains why I'm so much mature) turned it in for his 11th grade research paper the following year since he had a different teacher...and got a C! Considering the project was supposed to have taken most of the latter half of the school year to complete and I gave it maybe two weeks (and that's a big maybe) worth of effort, I stand by that C. And so does Mattie. (By the way, I just checked to see if I still have that paper---I do, which explains why the Spoffice is what it is--- and 16-year-old Mattie had crossed out the F and written in an A+ "3D's such dedication, determination, and desire. That's friendship.)

It's moments like this, when I can share a 13-year-old memory with someone else who remembers it, that I am so grateful for our enduring friendship. (I just texted him to see if I could tell the story of the 11th grade research paper and he wrote back, "Of course you can...The truth will set me free!!!") The opportunity to see Harry Potter in the flesh is another perk of our love. The video above was shot last Friday at the Drama League Award in New York City. Mattie, the world's next great host, who will eventually push "Seacrest Out," flew in from L.A. to work the red carpet before the award ceremony and asked me if I'd come down to serve as videographer since it was a last-minute thing. Having never videoed anything ~~besides the occasional sex tape~~ before, I was terrified that I would ruin the whole deal but it ended up being a fantastic time and another fabu memory to add to our treasure chest. (And Mattie, fuh real, I apologize for going so heavy on the zoom button. I don't know what was going on there. I'll do better next time, I swear!) The whole event was incredibly interesting and it was just one of those days I would have never planned on living. The red carpet scene is so fast and intense (the other cameramen and hosts were only inches away from us...and those bitches kept hitting into my tripod) and while I was sweating it out, Mattie just worked it and was so at home with all the pretty people. He had thoroughly researched each nominee so that he was familiar with all of their stage work and could just talk so easily to them. My boy's a professional and I'm feeling mighty proud of him. He just launched his new website www.matthewrodrigues.com and I encourage you all to get to know him now so that he can get you seats at Idol 2012...and at the Oscars in 2013.

So while today I was planning to write and post something very deep and profound and important about our last hour with Oprah and how she got me blogging again, my ADD is winning the battle and instead I am paying tribute to the guy who presided over my wedding in 2007 and with whom I shared a "fake" make-out session on stage during the school musical in 1998. We've come a long way since Alice in Wonderland, my friend. Thank God we finally grew up...

Oprah's Farewell

2011-05-25T17:47:00.004-04:00

Gig and I watched together...

As I was laying on the ground trying to take this picture I had to say out loud, "Oh, Mom, I know you're laughing your ass of right now watching me do this." (The tulips in the background? Dan brings 'em home every week since they were Gig's faves...good man.) (The mountain of crap on the table? That's all me.)

I think Oprah may have inspired me to return to this blog. Long-winded explanation of my absence coming soon. (And if not, then there will be a long-winded explanation of the absence of the aforementioned long-winded explanation coming less soon...)

Happy Mother's Day

2011-05-08T08:43:00.001-04:00

Six months today.

2011-05-05T16:45:00.003-04:00

Mattie sent this song to me in an e-mail just days before...

There have been many times that I have used the phrase "I cannot express" to express something. I cannot express how thankful I am. I cannot express how stupid I felt. I cannot express how shocked I was. Had I worked a little harder, I could have probably expressed those things. And, as a writer, I probably shouldn't be writing that "I cannot express" anything and should instead be reaching for the words. That said, I cannot express, I cannot convey, I cannot even understand how disconnected I feel from the passing of time. It has been six months to the day since we lost my mom and I cannot express how untrue that feels. It was days ago to me. A week at most. Truly, that's how it feels.

Truly.

I woke up and she was gone. Sitting next to me, she was gone. It could have been yesterday. It could have been this morning.

I've heard (and tried to study without much success) about time not being a real scientific concept. Something to do with quantum physics and a fourth dimension. I have no comprehension of it and I'm certainly not going to try to explain it, I can only say that six months have passed since that morning and I don't know how I spent those months; I'm not sure that time actually occurred.

I wish I could tell you otherwise. I know people want to see and hear that time has been doing its healing thing. I can see it in their eyes. Make this easier for me, their eyes beckon. Tell me you're okay.

"I'm okay," I say.

I am okay. I'm breathing. I'm waking up and getting through my days. But I am also living with a constant and sickening sadness in my gut that, were I not bearing it, would seem unbearable. All my sisters are too. Sometimes we just bear it on our knees. And since time has stopped, since its passing is no longer real, this feeling has not dissipated. In fact, and my sisters and I have discussed this, things seem to be getting harder. Probably because it's spring and that means she's everywhere. Every popping crocus, every saluting daffodil, every brilliant tulip---they are her. They are reminders of the joy that spread over her face as the world found color. They are the joy and color of her.

I'm not seeking sympathy or even understanding (I would have never understood this before losing someone to whom I was this close) but I just have to be honest about it, at least here. She was just beside me this morning. Just last night, as I did the night before she died, I told her, "Even though I'm grouchy sometimes, Mom, I love you so much." And I hugged her.

"Oh, my girl, I know that," she said and hugged me back. I know that.

We (Cherie, my mom and I) were watching a movie at the time, Little Women, and as the March girls greeted and hugged their Marmee, I began to cry and said I was sad that I wouldn't be able to hug her always. That's what got me to rise and cross the room and go to her and she said so tenderly, "Oh, you're sad to lose me," and held me tightly. Less than ten hours later, she was gone.

She hugged me back. I love you so much. My girl, I know that.

I know how lucky I am that I had that. I know all who loved her wanted that hug and I hope in writing about it, I am sharing even a piece of it...

I don't dream about her with any consistency. As much as I've tried to meditate on the thought of her, running my fingers through the tassels of her blanket as I fall asleep the way she used to do, I can't bring her to me whenever I choose. But last night, she came. In the dream I was in my parents' house and all of a sudden she walked into her kitchen, beaming with the warmest smile. I said, "Mom, what are you doing here?" and I ran and threw my body into hugging her. She hugged me back. I know I am lucky for this too.

You think you're out of tears and then there they are. Today, I was texting with my aunt who had knee surgery this morning and got sick from the pain meds. I said I wished I could be there to hold her hair, rub her back and hand her a tissue. This was my routine with my mom, I told her, and she wrote back and told me that she knew of this routine...that my mom had told her. Even those little things, my mom appreciated. The tissue. The colors.

"My Laura," my aunt reported that my mom had said. My girl.

And there they are. More tears. Colors.

I couldn't have loved my mom any more than I did and all I ever hope for is that she knew. Even now there's something in me that is trying to communicate with her, trying to say, I will never stop thinking of you, I will always love you...I'm still waiting for you to come back if you decide, you know, maybe you want to. It's absurd, really. Dan and I always laugh about how when the power goes out it's like our short-term memory malfunctions. You go to turn on the light...oh yeah, the power is out. So then you walk into the kitchen and throw a piece of bread into the toaster...oh yeah, the power is out. That's what losing my mom has been like. A hundred little moments during the day when I say to myself, oh yeah, she's gone.

And it's like those hundred little moments are really just one moment. I wake up, I look beside me and she's gone. Oh yeah, she's gone.

Today, six months later, and it's still, oh yeah, she's gone. Time hasn't happened. Nothing has changed. Nothing has changed since everything changed, I mean.

But when I have a dream like last night's I want to believe she's visiting me. That she wants to bring me comfort. That she knows I'm longing for her still. Knows that I would do anything to have her back. That I wish I had loved her harder. I wish I had said it more.

That I wish I had woken up earlier.

And she is trying to tell me, I know that.

Oh, my girl, I know that.

A year ago today...

2011-04-30T19:46:00.004-04:00

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

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

2011-04-27T18:30:00.010-04:00

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.

No "after" shots just yet...

2011-04-17T09:00:00.003-04:00

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.

Don't judge

2011-04-11T14:51:00.021-04:00

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?

This rocked my world today.

2011-04-04T13:22:00.012-04:00

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!)

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

2011-04-02T09:45:00.004-04:00

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.

Mama, a visit tonight would be nice.

2011-03-07T19:50:00.008-05:00

Tulips were one of her favorite flowers so I pick them up whenever I see 'em at the store. A bloom this lovely feels like a gift she's giving.

Sometimes I go to sleep begging her to visit me in my dreams. A couple of weeks ago, the night my dad had his seizure, I dreamt that I got to hug her. (I always tell Dan that, more than anything, I wish I could just hug her again.) In the dream she laughed at me as I clung to her and asked me, "What is it you love so much about hugging me?" and I got to tell her about the warmth of her hug, the love of her hug, the feel of her arms. In the morning I felt like she came for a visit when I needed her most. I'm hoping she decides to make a habit of this.

Bad news today. The pathology report showed that the tumor in my dad's brain was a malignant high-grade tumor versus a low-grade one as they originally expected. This means that recurrence is not only likely, but could be quick. (Though I have no idea what "quick" yet means in terms of tumor recurrence.) Basically, it's a more aggressive tumor than they initially expected (a III on the I to IV scale). The neurosurgeon recommended that my dad start chemotherapy and radiation as soon as possible in order to hopefully kill those microscopic tumor cells that weren't removed with surgery and thwart/slow growth. An appointment with an oncologist has already been scheduled.

More oncologists.

My dad, like all of us, seems to be a bit shocked. He'll end his stay at the rehab hospital this coming Friday and then head home for out-patient occupational, physical and speech therapy three times a week. He's managing some longer sentences with effort and is able to express his needs but he's not yet capable of real conversation and is still struggling to express spontaneous thought. The doctor told us again today that it could take six months to a year for his speech to fully return.

Not much more to say on this front. None of us know enough about the specifics of this tumor to understand more than this. Questions bring more questions. I hate how fucking familiar that feels.

And I wish my mom was here to guide us through it.

Bit of a bummer, this entry, but I know some of you were waiting for the news...

It's 7:50 and I'm in bed...that's the kind of tired we're talking about here. An emotional fatigue that is just oppressive. I can't imagine what my dad is feeling.

No witty ending here...just a solemn what the fuck?

Fuh real?

2011-02-27T17:20:00.001-05:00

So, remember how this blog used to be (sometimes) funny (or at least aiming for that) and then last year we found out my mom had cancer and then all of sudden this turned into an account of her illness and then she died and I couldn't do this anymore and when I did finally come back I was inconsistent with posting and told you that I really didn't know the direction that this blog was going to go because I really didn't know what direction life was heading in?

Well, I certainly didn't expect to be doing any U-turns.

A new situation has arisen and the storyline rivals the most contrived of Lifetime movies.

Ten days ago, out of nowhere, my dad had a seizure.

Then an MRI showed that he had a tumor the size of a cell phone in his brain.

Then he had brain surgery.

Then he had complications from brain surgery which left him unable to speak.

Now he is at a rehab hospital in Boston hoping to reacquire verbal and language skills that will take two weeks to a year (from what I've heard from thee of the vague timeline) to return completely.

We're still waiting on the pathology report to get the story on the tumor though either chemotherapy or radiation will be the likely course of action.

All this in 10 days.

Less than four months after losing my mom.

To quote one of my sisters, "We've been leveled."

It's a situation that has not yet totally sunken in, so organizing my thoughts into neat paragraphs is not even an option. I just figured I would throw an update up to explain what may or may not be a Spew disappearance. The possibility exists that as things settle and we know what we are dealing with, keeping things up here will be manageable. But the idea of documenting another parent's illness (in addition to witnessing it...again) seems too daunting a task right now for this tired, broken body.

I'm not trying to dangle any carrots here, I just don't know what will be. Earth has gone and flipped on its axis (again) in the last 10 days so there's no knowing what the next 10 (the next five...) will bring.

This is the shit drug habits are born from, that's all I'm saying. So, whether I can keep up with this blog is an unknown.

For now I'll say that in ER/House terms my dad seems "stable." He is there mentally and can understand all that is happening but is working to learn how to "turn on his voice," and also express spontaneous thought according to the docs and speech therapists we've seen. That's the post-surgery story. We're still in the dark about the brain tumor. Brain tumor...fuck.

The Oscars are on tonight. Without Meryl Streep in the race, my heart is only half in it. (Also, the whole tumor thing.) Still, I'll tune in. It could provide a little distraction or even a shred of comfort. How could I possibly feel any connection right now to an orgy of back-patting Hollywood elite? Pretty easily. Sandra Bullock had a shit year, too.

A Will-You-Do List

2011-02-04T18:16:00.007-05:00

Will somebody come to my apartment and do my laundry? I’m down to only thongs for undies and this is not my comfort zone. I have two waist-high mountains of dirty clothes and not an ounce of motivation.

Also, will someone cook the pork loin that’s sitting in my fridge looking like horse genitalia and skeeving me out? If I don’t cook it today it’s gonna have to be tossed and generally speaking if I have to handle the meat, then I am unable to eat it later on. (That’s what she said.)

Also, could someone come over and balance our household budget so I know what my spending cap is for psychic readings this month?

And could someone come wash my kitchen floor? I ate sardines again today (no, seriously, they’re not bad) and some of the olive oil/lemon sludge that they’re packed in was flung onto various spots of the floor and I’m doubtful the half sheet of paper towel that I dedicated to cleaning it up really did the job.

Could you take care of the bathroom too? The other day I broke a glass bottle filled with beach sand and shells that sits atop the counter and though I took a hand vacuum to it, I’m pretty sure there are still shards of glass scattered on the floor. (I didn’t tell Dan this because I didn’t think he was at risk...I mean who walks around barefoot in a bathroom of all places?)

And could you go to the gym for me? It’s been a few days and I can see a rectangle Pop Tart protruding from my saddlebags.

I did manage my own showering today though...wait, no I didn’t. I actually thought I did and then realized it was an untruth. After the gym should be fine for that...please moisturize.

Also, could you vacuum, dust, clean off the kitchen table, write a best-seller, return my library books (yeah, I go to the library...wanna make something of it?), call my friends back, handle the e-mails, bring the trash bag of clothes sitting in the center of my bedroom to Goodwill, put the spoffice that I tore apart Sunday back together and pick up a birthday present for a 30th birthday party I will be attending this weekend?

Or maybe you could just do the laundry?

All good.

2011-01-31T19:00:00.010-05:00

I think I'd prefer a colonoscopy.

Just wanted to report that all went well and I seem to have no apparent assues that showed up on Colon TV during my exam. No cancer, no polyps, just a colon that "looks great" according to my gastroenterologist (and reported to me by my giggling husband).

In short:

1) The drink was bad but not that bad.

A friend advised that I channel my long-dead inner beer guzzler and down it went. (Thanks, Jarvino.) It's true that it's terrible---lemon-scented dirty fish tank terrible--- I think I just expected it to be worse.

2) The drugs were good but not that good.

They gave me the Michael Jackson death drug, Propofol, which was disconcerting when I first realized it was such, but proved effective. As I told Dan, I'll never be an alcoholic because I can't take the dehydration, but I could see going the prescription drug route. All I'm saying is that if I had MJ power and money, I might have a home doc give me a tiny nip of "mother's milk" before bed, too. When I confirmed with the anesthesiologist that it was, indeed, the MJ death drug, he said, "But this is how it's supposed to be used...and I'll stay in the room." This was intended to be comforting but given that he was hottish, I wished that he would be heading out before my colon was up on the flat-screen.

Also, unlike MJ, I woke up. I woke up, um, while it was still happening. Fortunately, things seemed to be finishing up at the time and I was still drugged enough not to scream, "BAD TOUCH!" but the perpetrator was still in the house. Funny thing is that my mom told me she had woken up during her colonoscopy and that I should let them know in no uncertain terms that I would not like that to happen to me...which I thought I did, just short of saying, "Pour me a drink like you hate your boss." (In general, redheads need more anesthesia...I swear, look it up!) Ultimately, though, I think the guy probably gave me the perfect dose because although I woke up with the vague knowledge that I was being violated (and who hasn't had that experience?), I wasn't in pain and it didn't take me long to de-drug afterwards.

I did get a little chatty though which is what I apparently do in these situations. I have a vague, unsettling memory from the last time I went under for something like this, of telling the nurse some anecdote about myself that ended with the words, "my dream threesome." So...I'm glad I didn't do that this time. (That's a true story...celebrities were named.) (Ugh.)

3) The emptying of my colon was fucking awful.

All those it's not so badders are lying! That part was terrible. I'll spare you the details but the biggest trauma of this whole event occurred in my own home. Every time I feel a rumble in my stomach now, even just from hunger, I get flashbacks. When the doc told me I'd need another colonoscopy at age 40, I said that maybe 11 years is enough time for me to forget what went down last night...maybe.

But it's done and now I know that death isn't hiding in my colon. The coffee and muffin one of the nurses gave me afterwards (you know I loved every single nurse there) were the best coffee and muffin of my life, though I'm still a little timid to resume normal eating. Maybe it's an OCD thing, but I like knowing that my colon is all Windexed and shiny clean and I'd like to keep it that way.

I'll schedule a follow-up appointment to discuss things further, but there's nothing write home about.

That was actually the hardest part of the whole thing...not calling my mom to tell her all went well. Not having her call me this morning to see if I was ready. She's the one who got me to make the appointment in the first place though, so I'm glad I followed through.

I know she'd be proud of me and my great-looking colon. (Especially since there was no talk of threesomes.)

I'm hungry! Hide your shoes!

2011-01-30T13:00:00.006-05:00

Discreet, isn't it? (And, yes, that's my green bathrobe being rocked. I may be in it all day.)

I haven't written because I've been in a state of hunger-based confusion for three days.

After scheduling the procedure and canceling it four times, barring any unforeseen states of emergency or surprise blizzards in the next 24 hours, I will be reporting to the hospital at 9:30am tomorrow to have a colonoscopy. And, hopefully, there will be live streaming.

Or not. (Actually, as much as I'd like to give you the play-by-play, I have no intention of killing my post-op buzz by breaking out the laptop. A little video might be fun though...)

Considering how impaired I've been these past few days from trying to get a head start on the prep, I can't make any promises. It all started with my doing too much research. See, I love researching. And I have a tendency, when facing unfamiliar topics/scenarios/humans to try to familiarize myself even slightly (usually obsessively) with the subject of which I am ignorant. When I learned that research is part of the work of being a writer, I cried rainbow-colored tears of Google joy. This curiosity has mostly served me in my life but all research and no living can can make Lola a crazy girl. (Early on in my mom's illness, Dan suggested that I give myself a time limit on this front.) But I would also also argue that we often go a little too blindly through the world, particularly when led by medical professionals, and that a baseline understanding of what's going on should be acquired before agreeing to take a pill with 76,000 side effects.

Or (and especially) when having a camera snaked up your ass.

So, I Googled.

I didn't delve into the frightening land of what could go wrong (though, generally my brain cuddles and dwells under the subheading of Risks and Complications), but instead focused on getting myself, my colon (MEMOIR TITLE ALERT: My Self, My Colon) prepared. Basically, instead of opting to simply abstain from eating one day before the procedure as the literature my doc's office sent suggested I do, I decided to start avoiding fiber a few days ago and thought I'd spend the last two before the colonoscopy on a liquid diet. What I soon realized was that my regular diet consists of 99% fiber (1% coffee) so really what I was attempting to do was not eat for four days.

While excitedly pondering how this would affect the number on the scale, I forgot to note that failing to eat turns me into a grouchy, whiny child before it freezes me into a stammering, staring pile on the couch in a perpetual state of forgetting what I was going to say, before revealing a psycho who knows exactly how she would catch, skin and roast the neighbor's cat, "you know, if ever it got to that." (I get a little Black Swanny is all I'm saying.)

The good news is: I failed.

But in the stupidest way possible. My research started on Thursday so after nuts and berries for breakfast and salad for lunch (a fiber-fest if ever there was!), I committed to a no-fiber diet and handled the rest of the day pretty well. I got through Friday with eggs for breakfast, yogurt, a bit of roasted chicken (bleh), sardines (surprisingly not bleh), and then it was 8am and what the hell else was I going to eat? (Some of what I read suggested reaching for white rice and pasta but my relationships with these foods? Well, It's complicated.) So I didn't eat anything else and then, because all logical thinking is lost when I'm hungry (and thus the knowledge that burning calories would only make me hungrier was absent), I went to the gym. There I dizzily huffed through an hour on the elliptical machine, soaking in sweat and saliva while watching Ina Garten make Jeffrey (that stiff fucker) a lobster potpie. (That potpie will haunt my dreams until I have it and I don't even really like lobster.) I made it all the way to 4 o'clock when I met Dan at the movies (with the rest of our 70-year-old peers) and decided that the hot tea I had brought to replace movie munchies would be best enjoyed with a box of Milk Duds. No, Milk Duds don't have any fiber in them. But with the goal being to get a head start on the emptying of my colon, I couldn't help but feel that swallowing down little globs of half-chewed caramel was counterproductive. Having ruined the day of healthy eating with the Duds though, I naturally had to follow the movie up with dinner of Thai food. As I ate the Pad See Ew (do yourself a favah and get this some time) and threw back the sweet, wide noodles (which, as we've already discussed, complicate things no matter what...but contain no fiber!), I attempted to avoid the veggies which, of course, felt really stupid and contradictory to everything I know about nutrition.

Saturday was supposed to be all liquid so between 7:30 and 3pm all I ate were two whey protein and milk smoothies. Things start to get fuzzy after this. I tried to satisfy my hunger with a cup of homemade chicken broth that Dan (when he came out from hiding under the bed) cooked up using the carcass from a chicken I had roasted a few days ago, but I resented that it didn't taste like cupcakes and was also not nearly as filling. Still hungry as we started into a Sons of Anarchy DVD binge (a solid show), I began fantasizing about the foods I would eat if I could. As I told Dan (during the many times we had to stop and rewind the show because I wasn't paying attention or couldn't process quickly enough due to starvation-induced dimwittedness), I thought my diet before this was pretty limited in that I try to avoid gluten, cheese, and hormone-pumped or grain/corn-fed animal products, but it's all relative. I would do anything (and I was much, much more specific than this) for an apple, I told him. The fantasy meal I decided on was bruschetta with grilled, olive-oil brushed baguette rounds and sweet summer tomatoes, a Leinenhugel's Sunset Wheat beer in a cold glass with an orange wheel, and then a soft-serve vanilla ice cream on a wafer cone. This meal would destroy my stomach but will be worth it...six months from now when such a meal can be enjoyed. (I. Want. Summer.)

As day became night, I finally said to Dan, "We have to shut off the windows and I need to eat."

("Shut off the windows" is apparently hungry-speak for close the blinds.)

Two homemade meatballs smothered in tomato sauce later (low-fiber), I was stuffed.

For five minutes.

Then I was starving again.

And so I broke my liquid fast yet again with my go-to (low fiber!) treat of a few tablespoons of peanut butter sprinkled (liberally) with chocolate chips eaten in a bowl cereal-style. (This is best enjoyed with a glass of red wine which I had to indulge in because certainly when they speak of not ingesting red, orange or purple beverages, they don't mean wine.)

Today, though, I can't break. Prior to this, the effort was for extra credit in terms of colon cleanliness. Today, I have been instructed to not eat anything other than clear broths and juices. I was allowed eggs early this morning and went for it because, fuck, this is going to be hard, but the tantrums have already started. Dan just looked in on me and I was punching the couch cushions because I accidentally erased a big portion of this and didn't fucking feel like fucking rewriting this fucking shit. Then he disappeared into the bathroom.

The worst part of all of this is that I no longer think I will be a good Survivor contestant.

I don't know if we've talked about this here, but being on Survivor is a dream of mine and I am always trying to prepare myself for the obstacles I know will be posed when I am cast on the show (after I decide I can handle wearing a bathing suit on television and audition). This past December, when I locked myself out of my apartment and out of my running car on a 13-degree day, I asked myself what I would do during the cold nights on Survivor and started pulling out the Jane Fonda workout moves to keep warm. Fortunately, AAA came before it was time for pelvic lifts. But, I am now recognizing that the hunger may be too much for me. I have new insight into why all the the women on Survivor go crazy so quickly and think the only logical solution is to steal their tribemates' shoes. I'm seeing double and it's only been six hours. Add coldness to this scenario and there would be some screeching unpleasantness, which is probably why Dan didn't say anything about my turning the thermostat up a couple degrees higher than normal this morning.

And also why he's not making eye contact with me.

Wait, is he getting ready for the gym? He is! He's going to the gym! He's just gonna leave me like this? What if I hurt myself? What if I break? What if I'm too weak to heat the chicken broth? What kind of husband leaves his wife in this state?

One who knows when his wife's got the crazy in her eyes.

Fucker.

So, my intention is to update as the day goes on but I may get too dizzy to type.

I also may get too bitchy to blog. You guys don't need to see that.

Wish me luck.

Love,
Not Fucking Ghandi

Greetings from Ohio!

2011-01-16T14:00:00.003-05:00

Love, Not a Deadbeat Blogger

Snow Buddies

2011-01-12T11:15:00.008-05:00

It actually says “blizzard” on the weather.com report. I was supposed to go to a couple of appointments this morning. Not happening.

So Dan and I are trying not get into a shoving match while working at home together. We love the idea of this but we’re never as efficient as we think we’ll be. He wants to play with me in my moments of deepest focus (a treacherous circumstance, as he well knows) and I try to talk to him when he’s trying to quickly finish something up. This has already happened a few times this morning so I suggested that maybe we could set up a time to chat (which is ridiculous because our apartment is so small than I could count the number of bites it took him to finish his omelet because I can hear every time the fork hits the plate from where I am in the spoffice (spare bedroom/office for those who need reminding) while he eats in the kitchen.

So, I’m working on Volume 2 of Lola Vs. The Gym, but my thought is that I’m not going to get it finished and posted by the time I leave for Ohio tomorrow morning (that is if today’s mess doesn’t throw everything off at the airports). My ever-generous brother-in-law, Gary (is this his blog debut?), is flying me out to have a visit with my sister Katie and my delicious chunk of a niece since he will be gone on back-to-back flights that will have him away from home for over a week at least. (He’s a pilot...have we reviewed this?) And though I promised myself I would keep travel to a minimum (and, thus, work to a maximum), I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to have coffee with my sister and to teach the little chub-nugget dirty words. (She’s just over 18-months old...you have to start them early when they are most able to absorb a new language).

(I just turned around from my desk, sensing something was going on, and Dan was silently dancing by himself outside my office door in an effort to distract me...this is a dangerous game he’s playing, friends. A very dangerous game.)

So, I’ll probably be away from here for a few days (flying back to NH next Tuesday barring any other blizzards...though I know I just fucked myself by even writing that) and wanted you to know so you didn’t think that I had abandoned you, the blog, the gym, all of it.

(I just got a text message from Dan saying, “I need attention!” It’s not even 11 yet, folks. Oy.)

I’m posting this link because I’ve been singing this song all morning and because the last few days have been ass-kickers in regard to how much I am missing my mom. I visited my parents’ house for the first time since the wrapping paper incident and, as this is where she lived and died and where I spent most of this past year with her (not to mention my first 18 years of life), it’s very hard to be there, to say the least.

The link is to a clip from the show "So You Think You Can Dance" which airs over the summertime and was a favorite of my mom's (and dad's...and sister Cherie's...and now mine). Spending as much time in Rhode Island as I did, it ended up being a weekly show that my parents and I watched together. My mom and I even watched it on the tiny TV screen in her hospital room during one of her stays there. This particular clip aired the night she got home from the hospital after her second week-long hospitalization, armed this time with oxygen tanks for at-home use. Cherie was there too and the four of us, all exhausted from the emotions of the week, sat and watched together, my mom falling in and out of sleep. The choreographer, Travis Wall, explained prior to the performance that his own mother had recently undergone some sort of extensive surgery and that the dancers were representative of him and his mother. Sorry to have to do this to you, but I wanted to get something up before I disappear for a few days and all I have been thinking about is this video. Grab the tissues and enjoy.

P.S. Dan’s making SpongeBob Mac ‘N Cheese right now. He has won...he has won.

I See Naked People, Volume One

2011-01-08T11:45:00.009-05:00

You might as well just inject me with MRSA now because I just joined a gym.

The papers were signed over a month ago, actually; the fees paid. But who joins a gym in the midst of the holiday season and actually goes? (Who friggin‘ joins a gym in the midst of the holiday season anyway?) So, let’s forget the fact that I signed up a month and a half ago and only went once in that time (thrice if you count the two introductory days one of the trainers took me through) and let’s say this whole gym thing just started.

I had been seriously pondering the idea for a while after doing a weeklong trial membership this summer and really digging some of the group classes, particularly Zumba. But, the summer being what it was, it didn’t make sense to join then and besides that, the whole thing is pretty costly. Because our gym is affiliated with our local hospital, it’s really well-maintained (read: not totally gross) and actually a very nice facility (read: not totally gross and also gets some natural sunlight), but you pay for it. I think it’s about $140 a month for both Dan and my memberships and this is on top of a pretty hefty sign-on fee. But, my normal walking routine is somewhat limited by the cold, I’ve grown to loathe all of the instructors on my workout videos (c-bombs have been dropped), and after my mom’s death, I knew that I needed to take measures in order to soften the blow of what, when it occurs (the risk is imminent), will someday be referred to by survivors as: The Perfect Emotional Storm. This is the culmination of three awful, life-threatening and terribly destructive circumstantial fronts. 1) Seasonal Affective Disorder 2) bottomless, unceasing grief that takes me down at the knees at least once a day and 3) the fact that I can’t watch the new Oprah channel because we still have lame, crappy, deplorable basic (like five-channel basic) cable.

We’re battening down the hatches (Dan’s hiding the booze), but the gym membership is intended to keep this dinghy afloat.

Now, a word on gyms. Ick. I have never been a gym person other than during a short period in my early twenties when I paid $10 a month for a membership at a place located a few shops down from the restaurant I was then working at. I went one time and was motivated solely by the fact that I had lost power in my apartment and I didn’t want to miss Ellen whose show I knew would be playing on one of the gym TVs. (I’m not sure about a bullet, but at that point I would at least take a treadmill for Ellen.) When I was younger, the only thing I knew about gyms was that some of my athletic friends went to our local one and all of them reported seeing, at one time or another, a few of the teachers from our high school...naked. The humiliation I would suffer if ever I encountered that scenario was enough to keep me from ever joining up. This brings me to my fundamental problems with gyms----they seem to be the shrines at which thee of extreme comfort with nakedness, worship. I cannot, I simply cannot, understand the ease with which women cross the room, stand at the mirror or engage in other casual locker room behaviors while partially or totally naked...like naaaaked. I’m practically walking into walls as I stow my coat, just trying to look down and avert my eyes from all the boobs hanging out all over the place. It’s like an episode of Scooby Doo when the lights go out and it’s totally dark except for pairs of eyes everywhere.

I don’t understand it.

I don’t understand how anyone can even handle being naked next to anyone else (other than in the obvious scenarios which necessitate nudity like with your partner or at the therapist’s office.) I don’t even understand changing clothes in front of other people which is a private-stall matter at stores, but public as a watering hole at the gym. Since when is it acceptable to engage in casual chatter while wearing only your underoos? (This is also my argument against bathing suits. It’s underwear! Bathing suits are simply bras and underwear that our culture has painted nylon, spandex and polyester and deemed acceptable for public consumption. It’s an emperor-has-no-clothes thing to me, this acceptance of bathing suits. And it’s not just women. If a speedo isn’t sexual harrasment, I don’t know what is. Burqas in the pool, I say!)

Now I know, in part, the problem is mine. You don’t need a PhD to know there are at least a couple of issues at work there. (Whatever, nakedness is a sin.) But Dan agrees with me that the gym culture of nudity is just bizarre (not that I advise validating your own neuroses with your spouse’s as common practice). That man has seen more old-man ass than a person should have to suffer in one lifetime and he’s as outraged as I am. (“Today I saw a guy holding a towel as he walked naked to the shower,” Dan reported. “Then I turned the corner and another guy was shaving at the sink, no clothes, his junk practically resting on the counter top.”)

So, besides the risk of contracting genital warts from the stationary bike, the nakedness and the mystery of gym culture that it represents, was another reason I was hesitant to join. Gym people are born gym people; you’re either in or you’re out. If you look cutesy or athletic in cropped yoga pants and Nikes, you know where you stand. Likewise, if your workout attire transforms you into a 14-year old with braces and your sneakers are the size of Ronald McDonald’s, you’re on the bench with me. Sorry, kid.

I was pondering all of this Monday as I walked in for my first gym visit of the new year. The ultimate selling point of this place is the unlimited classes offered. Not only is there Zumba (which is not a current interest; I don’t have the ease of heart to dance yet), but there are all sorts of classes for cycling, body combat, Thai Chi and a bunch of others including a variety of yoga classes in the “Mind/Body Studio.” I was headed in for “Gentle Yoga and Meditation for Beginners” and rather than anticipating my discomfort with the gym people, I was worrying about my discomfort with the crunchy yoga people.

I’ll say it before you have to: I know I’m the problem. I know my labeling of these people is akin to the exact judgement to which I wish not be subjected in these scenarios. I know I am the fireball of insecurity from which all others are trying to shield themselves with their walls of white light and breath-born energy shields. I am the darkness inside that yoga teachers warn people to release themselves from!

But at least I’m fucking honest about it. (And how much like a Spiderman villain did I sound like there? I am the love child of the Green Goblin and Kathy! MUAHAHA!) I am just stupidly uncomfortable in situations of pubic movement (speaking, and existing) and instead of just admitting that it’s due to my own self esteem issues, I blame everyone else. Is that really so wrong?

And not only am I worried and loathing you for what I fear you are thinking about me (not that you even care), but I am totally judging you! I totally fucking judge you! I go, “Wow, that woman is really strong. She can hold that position for so long. And look how close her toe is to her ear. How does a person even try that for the first time? I bet her husband is having an affair. That’s why she’s trying to get all into shape. I bet she does yoga every single day and doesn’t even feel guilt for it. I bet she had really supportive parents. I wish I could pull off cropped yoga pants.”

It is just such a childish sensibility that comes over me in these moments and I think I’m that much more aware of it because this wasn’t my sensibility as a child. Sure, I had things I was self-conscious about---that’s why god gave us padded bras---but I was not nearly as shy and antisocial as I am now and I can’t help but wonder what changed and how I can get back to feeling so unaware of what I'm feeling.

For example, a couple of years ago I went to dinner at a restaurant with a group of about eight or 10 ladies to celebrate the upcoming wedding of a friend of mine (who was already good and pregnant so for whom a par-tay would not have been suitable). There was a girl there that I hadn’t seen much of since high school who moved to my hometown in seventh grade. During the dinner she told me that her memory of her first day at school with us was that I went up to her, introduced myself, and chatted her up. I felt so proud of little 12-year-old me but was also well aware that times had changed. Were the adult equivalent of this scenario to play out now...I would watch her squirm. Not out of unfriendliness as much as fear. Who am I to introduce myself? I bet she wants to be alone and is psyched she doesn’t know anyone here. That’s probably why she came to this gym. I better not bother her. And how the fuck does a person look so good in cropped yoga pants?

You see what I’m saying don’t you? I’d like to think I would behave differently (and my inner Gigi tells me I would if tested) but it is not as instinctual as it once was and in the place of all that confidence is an insecure messiness that I’m trying to sort out by pushing myself to attend such classes or giving such things a real attempt before I count myself out. I’m here to tell you it’s not easy which is, of course, why I know I have to do it. F U COMFORT ZONE! This is all part of Operation Build Up Your Goddamned Self Esteem, Live Your Life and Get the Fuck on With It! (Is this one of the Oprah’s new shows? I wouldn’t know...)

What I’d really like is by the end of 2011 to have tried all the classes offered at this gym including, I shit you not, Aqua Zumba. (Though, as I told Dan, it is very, very hard for me to want to attend anything that takes place in something called a “warm pool.”) In fact, you wanna know what I ordered online last week and are in the mail on the way to me this very moment? D’yawannaknow? I can’t even believe I’m admitting this. Bathing suits. Two of them. IN THE MIDDLE OF FUCKING JANUARY! ‘Tis been a long, long time since I bought a bathing suit (because if there’s anything more vanquishing than trying on bathing suits, I’ve never experienced it). That’s how committed I am to shaking this fear shizzle once and for all (or even just once). That’s the kind of game-changing going down with this gym membership, I tell ya.

I thought this blog entry was going to be an account of that first yoga class---hence the hint about the sensual hip circles---but it became this other thing, which sometimes happens. I suppose that means there’s going to be a volume two? Maybe even a little running thing about this whole effort if I manage to really get it off the ground. (One trip to a yoga class does not a reform maketh.) Writing about it could give me the push to stay on track and disciplined. And, if nothing else, I know you guys will wholly empathize with me on this journey. Right? Or are there gym people amongst us? Despite what I said earlier ("I totally fucking judge you!"), you are safe here. And perhaps you can even help me out. Maybe you can answer this little nugget I've been tossing around in my head: Who...what type...what breed...of human being...participates...in Aqua Zumba.

Regardless, I’m sure I hate them.

P.S. New Year’s Resolution, cuz this whole thing is not of that variety and I thought I’d try at least one: Swear less. MUAHAHA!

Next time, I'm asking for a piece of the action.

2011-01-05T19:28:00.001-05:00

When I downloaded this picture, it was named on the site as "lady with nurses." That stings.

Yo. I'm working on something a bit longer (and not a wicked downer) for you guys (hint: it involves "sensual hip circles") but for now I thought I'd throw you a friggin' bone. I know I have posted this picture before but I failed to report that this is now featured on the Oncology Department's homepage off the St. Anne's Hospital website. Remember the little photo shoot we had? Well, now we're cancer stars .

I have to admit that when I first saw it, it pissed me off. I felt like we were the faces of cancer treatment propaganda. I have strong feelings regarding the businesses of oncology and chemotherapy as a result of all of this...even stronger than I had going into it. All my mom ever got was sicker at that hospital and while I recognize that this would have likely been the case regardless of any intervention (though I'm not convinced the chemo didn't speed things up), I’m hardly a proponent. However, almost every single nurse we encountered at that hospital---all the women in this photo as well as so many not pictured---were wonderful people who provided good humor and comfort and made what could have been a purely awful experience, enjoyable in a way. (This also speaks to who my mom was, of course.) Those nurses (and certainly some of the doctors) made my mom feel safe and except towards the end, her hospital stays were in many ways lovely because of them. The moment captured here was a good one (she was being discharged after a week in) so, instead of feeling angry, I’m just trying to focus on the good memory of that day and the people. It’s always about the people, isn’t it?

It does have me looking at brochures and hospital testimonials differently now though, I have to say. It makes me wonder how many of the people in all of the ads promising the best care and latest innovation are, well dead.

I’ll leave you with that mood-lifter for the day, how ‘bout?

Coming soon: Something that won’t make you want to drink yourself to sleep.

If you had told me this would be me on Christmas Day...

2010-12-29T19:24:00.016-05:00

I would have asked, "Who slipped me the roofies?" This picture reminds me of the Sweeney Sisters from 80's SNL. (Oh and, yup, that's a newborn baby in my sister's arms.)

To my surprise, I have to say Christmas Day ended up being somehow great in its way. Tears were definitely shed (photo books were gifted), but I had just enough resolve to get through the day (and just enough wine to close the evening with a "We Didn't Start the Fire" duet with my brother-in-law on my niece's new karaoke system... epic). I had a good time with my family. The thing about a big family is that there's always chaos and in this situation the chaos served to cover the massive, aching hole of my mom for periods of time (however small) throughout the day. Then, of course, it would hit---the fact that she wasn't sitting at the kitchen table saying, "How great is this, I get to just have my coffee while everyone else does the cooking?" (which was a relatively new indulgence for her on the holidays) or on the floor playing a board game with one of her grandkids---and in those moments, I wanted to collapse. We all wanted to (and did at times). But, on the whole, we made it through with much laughter and had a day I know my mom would have just loved, though there was definitely an "offness" to things, as I think there always will be now.

For me, the days leading up to Christmas and those just after were harder. After all the worry, I made it through Christmas without her but...she's still dead. And I'm wondering how long it will go on, this being stunned every time I re-remember it. Now that the big to-do has passed, a new type of sadness has settled. I missed my mom calling to make sure Dan and I were safe during the blizzard. And I'll miss her wishing me a Happy New Year. I even miss the promise of actually having a happy new year. This year will be many things, I'm sure. Significant. Entirely different than any I've known. Maybe even marked by achievement. But though I know there will be moments of it, I am doubtful happiness will be the overarching theme.

Not exactly merry and bright here, now am I? Maybe after you read this blogpost you can go and watch Terms of Endearment and really conjure that holiday spirit. Our holiday weekend viewing included not only The Wrestler (not quite as wholesome as Rudy), but also A Winter's Bone. The latter is an excellent movie, but heavy as Santa's gut. (Really, Santa's gut? No better simile I can come up with there?) We currently have a copy of The Family Stone sitting on top of the TV but I'm not sure I'm that masochistic. I can handle some pretty dark stuff and am not the type to try to counteract sadness with a Will Ferrell marathon, but I'm worried that movie will have me washing down a bottle of Ambien with a funnel of wine. Not sure I can even go there.

The past few days have been all about movies and books and I'm so digging the calm this week is offering. I'm pretending I'm on vacation (I'll be out of the office through Sunday) and with the exception of some fun organizational projects, I'm totally indulging in some at-home R and R. (Also, some C and C...cookies and chocolate). For three days in a row I've taken baths that have lasted so long the water got cold...that's what I'm talking about. Dan and I did make a reservation for dinner on New Year's Eve and that will be the only event on the calendar for the rest of the week. Word.

Writing here is sort of against my vacation rules (limiting computer time is good for my mental health, I've found) but, I don't know, I kind of wanted to check in.

Plus, a line like "heavy as Santa's gut" is really pretty time-sensitive.

Happy New Year my Family Spew!

Do you see what I see?

2010-12-22T16:15:00.008-05:00

Photo not by me.

So, I’m sitting in a coffee shop in downtown Portsmouth (NH for you 02871ers) right now...it’s 4:15, just dark. This town is the picture of New England Christmas and from my seat by the window, not only is there a view of the huge pine tree all lit up at the town center (star at the top and all), but what I’m observing of the passersby can only be characterized as “ holiday hustle and bustle.” Lots of scarves, lots of shopping bags slung over shoulders, giant wreaths with large white bulbs woven through their greenery hanging on lampposts. In the stream of headlights moving down this main strip, I can see the snow flurries that have been falling all day. (Does the fact that I can see the window of my therapist’s office, the lamplight indicating she’s still there, take away from the Rockwellian picture I’ve painted? For the record, I’m not spying, this is just my favorite coffee spot. I started coming here long before I realized that was her office window...too long, in fact. How did I not notice that earlier? Anyway, don’t put it past me to do something like spy on my therapist, I just happen not to be doing it now...though I do keep glancing up. Should I call her and ask her to wave to me?)

Nobody’s more surprised than me to see that I’m writing again so soon but (because apparently I’m so sensitive right now that even the wind makes me cry) my heart was just so swollen with love from the outpouring (I hate the word outpouring, I’ve decided) of support that came after yesterday’s post, that I had to write. Holy shit, you guys. I thought I was done thanking you mo fos.

I’m trying not to get overly mushed up here, mostly because I don’t want to cry in this coffee shop again, but there has been no more gratifying experience since starting this blog, than yesterday. It could be the most gratifying of my writing “career.” (Though the letter from Penthouse Forum rejecting my story for its “extreme racism” and because they “don’t publish stories about yaks, weirdo” still ranks.) Between the comments on the blog, Facebook, and the ones that came in with the Owl Post especially, I was just really overwhelmed with emotion and (yes, here it is again) gratitude.

Thanks for such a warm and enthusiastic welcome back. Thanks for saying such nice things not just about my mom and family but about my writing. Jeez, you guys really made me see just how lucky you are to have me! (I kid...too much?) Anyway, I can’t remember why we even broke up in the first place. Oh yeah...well, you made even that better for a minute anyway. Thank you.

There was a time when I thought I would never share any of my writing with anyone I knew. I was much more comfortable with the idea of strangers reading my stuff, much more comfortable with strangers “knowing” me. I had such anguish over what people would think if they really knew me (and that I do things like stare up at my therapist’s window...no, seriously, it’s just a crazy coincidence that her window sits directly across from my favorite table). I feared what I perceived would be a bad reaction so much that I didn’t show anybody anything (and barely wrote for that matter) for a long time.

But, "Holy Dumbass, Batman" on me! It has been so rewarding to be received by all of you as I have and it’s actually provided the support and self-esteem to keep me going. (You haven’t bested me yet Penthouse!)

(And, by the way, for a long time I thought I knew every single person who ever read this thing...um, wrong. At my mom’s wake, a second grade teacher from my elementary school who I haven’t seen in years---who wasn’t even my teacher---told me she reads The Spew...And then she asked her friend, who also taught at my elementary school ---and who was the first teacher to ever scold me for talking; she kept me in for recess---if I was one of her students, which I wasn’t. I’ll save for another blog a description of the exact strangeness and loveliness of seeing these women in addition to my kindergarten teacher moving through the line at my mother’s wake.) (And, by the way, some people on this things are straight-up strangers. How ‘bout them apples?)

I digress (‘cuz that’s what I do), but the point was that I was just really so touched by your responses yesterday and even if you’re just acting the supportive parent to your scribbling eight-year-old, I am grateful. So, again (and for the last time of 2010...maybe), thank you and thank you and thank you.

Now, I shop...

(The light just went out in my therapist’s office...I need to catch her at the door if I plan to keep up all night.)

I'll be home for Christmas...

2010-12-21T02:51:00.018-05:00

It was very hard for me to take the last picture off of the top spot but this one made me feel okay about it. She had hoped to see one last snow...

So, I’m going to try to just jump back in, okay? No long explanation about how/why I needed to just drop off the planet for a bit. How I needed space, privacy, time to just die a while by myself. How I’m not really out of that place and can’t promise I am back for good on this blog, but want to try because I feel like a bit of a shit for dropping off like that without any explanation (though I’m sure you got it). You should know that I’m sorry. I don’t flatter myself that anyone was losing sleep over my absence, but I don’t take it lightly or for granted that you guys show up here to read this stuff, so not writing for close to two months didn’t sit right. I’m sorry for not calling...it’s not you, it’s me.

More to the point, I really want to wish you all the happiest of holidays. You were with me through so much of this thing. There was such great support offered here and I drew so much strength from all of your words and I hope you know how deeply thankful I am. The kind of gratitude I feel for all of you---to those who wrote and followed along here, to all the people who showed up at my mom’s wake and funeral, to every person who told me a story of my mom that I had never heard, or expressed their love for her, or their memory of her laugh---this kind of gratitude is so much bigger than cursive letters stretched across the front of a note card. The words thank you feel too trite for the depth of this gratitude. In fact, the synonyms for gratitude---thankfulness, appreciation, etc.---don’t cover it. Gratitude, simple and vast, is the only word that comes close.

So please feel this gratitude and take it into your hearts while you’re celebrating the holidays with your families and friends. While you’re listening to Nat King Cole, when your stomachs and hearts are full, when you pull back from the table and feel grateful yourself for all that you have, please know that I will be feeling grateful for you. The grief is at times oppressive, the longing ceaseless, but when I reflect on all the love and thoughtfulness shown during my mom’s illness and after her death, I feel the joy of her and I thank you all for that (even though I just said I didn’t want to use the words thank you).

This season has been difficult, of course, and all month Dan and I have talked about jumping on a plane and going somewhere warm for Christmas. Just getting gone, really, it doesn’t matter where. When I think of trying to gather with my family, trying to engage in the spirit of this holiday that my mom planted and grew in all of us, the throb of her absence is unbearable (though I know I am bearing it...we all are). So I wanted to leave so that I would not feel it. So that my body would be so disoriented by foreign sights and smells that my mom’s absence Christmas morning would just be another of all these alien senses, perhaps even camouflaged in the mess. But I’ve since decided otherwise and will celebrate this year at my sister Becky’s house up here in NH, which she and her husband have generously opened up to all of us once again. (Will somebody tell Bec?)

It was a gradual shift, I guess. But the thing that really clinched it was stopping at my parents’ house on my way out of town last Friday night and seeing the long rectangular folding table my dad had set up in the middle of the living room, a roll of holiday paper stretched across it, a pile of neatly wrapped presents beside it on the floor. Alone now in a home he shared with my mom for close to 40 years (during which he probably never wrapped a Christmas gift), he set up this wrapping station where he toiled by the light of a tree he put up only for my nephew’s sake, because he felt my mom guiding him to buy and wrap Christmas presents for his family as she would have done. The sweetness and the sadness of this sight killed me and when my dad showed it to me and then turned back around to see what I thought of his little workshop, I started to weep.

I see my dad trying so hard to to do right by my mom, right by us, and though I know he would understand my going away---in fact, he totally got and supported it---something about this coping mechanism of his is just so loving that I want to try to receive it and reciprocate; same goes for all my family. (I didn’t understand this, however, until I just finished that sentence.)

(Also, I totally reserve the right to have a bipolar attitude shift about the whole thing...perhaps even later today...this happens a lot...Dan loves it and feels very secure in his home as a result.)

I suppose I’m also recognizing that I’m going to feel my mom’s absence no matter where I am and being around people who feel similarly might bring comfort. Or it might not. Part of me thinks that being around family---around women who look like her and a father who longs for her---will make the sadness that much more acute. But I’ve been swinging from one choice to the other in my my brain for weeks and a decision needed to be made. If I get to the house and suddenly feel the need to go home and return to my under-the-blanket den and watch some movie that’s deeply depressing for reasons which have nothing to do with dead mothers (like The Wrestler, which we just got in), the option is always there. So, as long as my family is okay with it (which they all seem to be), I’ll plan on spending the day with them with the caveat that if the want-to-die/cry/hide feeling becomes unbearable, I’ll head out. (Though, of course, my hope and expectation is to enjoy myself.)

I know my siblings are feeling similarly conflicted and displaced by the jarring of the universe that has occurred since my mom’s, our sun’s, death, but they all have children so the going on, particularly with Christmas, is demanded of them in a way it’s not of me. (Thank fucking god...I could no more get out a stack of Christmas cards right now than I could cure cancer.) But then it was this same childless freedom that had me by my mom’s side in the nine months following her diagnosis. I feel so blessed that I was able to be there---I would not change a single thing in that regard---but there are moments of my mom’s suffering, fear and despair that I cannot yet shake, moments of this experience that I keep going over and over in my head, including that of her death, and the fact that it's the holiday season doesn’t slow that down.

We’re all just doing the best we can is the point, I suppose.

And like that, we’re back in the game here on The Spew. I should warn you that I’m not sure where we’re headed. If you thought the shift from Neighbor Stalker Blog to Cancer Mom Blog was unsettling, I’m not sure Dead Mom Blog will be much better. Not that I’m sure that this is the direction things will take. The fact that I can write the words Dead Mom Blog suggests the return of a sense of humor, but the pit I feel in my stomach when looking at them, tells me not to expect consistency. I hope you’re all okay with this. Does it sweeten the deal if I promise no self-penned poetry? You have my word on that. On we go, okay? Maybe a little backwards at times because the recent past is so much a part of the present, but who knows? Last year at this time I had just finished my Bookish updates and vowed that 2010 would be the year I started meditating. Hardy fucking har. The point? I’m not going to even pretend that I have any idea what’s coming...in life or on the blog. (Though, here’s a little teaser: A NEW NEIGHBOR HAS ENTERED THE SCENE...and so far the relationship is entirely boring.)

So...

(I feel like I’m in one of those texting conversations when I don’t know how to end it.)

Merry Christmas (and Happy belated Hanukkah and Thanksgiving for that matter) to all of you. I hope the next couple of weeks are full of all your favorite aspects of life and that the time you spend with friends and family is rich with pleasure, frivolity and spiritual nourishment. If not, Mickey Rourke is just a ride to Blockbuster away...

P.S. Thanks to everyone who gave me the shove back here that I needed and for sticking with me. (And for those who didn’t, go screw! My friggin’ mom died...).

Mama Gigi YaYa

2010-11-05T13:12:00.005-04:00

Jeanne Marie Mellow August 18, 1949-November 5, 2010

Thank you all for your love and support. The wake will be held Friday, November 12 from 4pm-8pm at Connors Funeral Home. The last viewing will be Saturday at 10am and the funeral will be held at St. Barnabas Church in Portsmouth at 11am. It's a costume party...

Weekend Update

2010-10-26T16:53:00.010-04:00

This image is to coincide with our Weekend Update headline, plus it will make Lola smile as she will someday write a movie or Broadway show for these two ladies to star in (alongside Rosie O’Donnell).

Once again, I just wanted to update the Spew-Heads on the week that was. Lola will be back here soon, so don’t worry. She is really doing an incredible job at taking care of her Mom. She has such a grasp of all the medicine that is part of her Mom’s daily regime (and there are oodles of medicine) and is so on top of all the care her Mom needs that it’s clear that she could be a brilliant doctor or nurse. She is quite the caretaker.

I think it’s safe to say that when it comes to her Mom, we have drifted away from good days and bad days to good moments and bad moments. The truth is, no day with this cancer is all that good. It was a rough week with GiGi. Her pain continues and there is difficulty in trying to find the right solution to her pain. More drugs, new drugs, old drugs, combination of drugs – it’s a crap shoot trying to find the right mixture of prescriptions that relieves our friend of her pain. The hourly question to GiGi is “What’s your Level?” meaning level of pain on a scale of 1 to 10. We are not hearing any 0’s or 1’s. However, in true GiGi fashion, the question makes her laugh. Don’t you love Gigi’s laugh?

The problem with the pain meds is that it has an effect on her breathing, and Gigi is already short of breath (and that sometimes causes brief pangs of anxiety for Gigi which makes her breathing even more labored). It’s scary to watch especially when you know the strain her lungs are already in. To make their Mom more comfortable, Lola and her sister Becky have been taking overnight shifts with her Mom, sleeping on the floor by her side for those moments when GiGi wakes up at night and she is in pain, restless, scared or just awake. These are the moments that this cancer has created.

In the good moments department, GiGi seemed to be in good spirits over the weekend. She was holding court in her family room – talking, laughing and even eating a little. Her pain had somewhat subsided (about a level 4) and we all got to share in her smiles and laughs. The family gathered on Sunday for Barry’s birthday, and everyone seemed happy to be together – at least for those brief moments, and celebrate something.

And then came last night. Lola was going to take a quick jaunt home today to tie up a few things in NH before heading back to RI. So, as I was furiously cleaning the apartment before work today in anticipation (yes ladies, that’s what guys do) when my phone chirped with a new text message. It said, “Rough night. Not sure how today is going to go.” When I finally spoke to Lola, she said her Mom had a really bad night and was having trouble breathing. They felt an ER visit was imminent. To add another small dose of terror to this nightmare, GiGi did not remember talking to her nurse the day before. Through it all, GiGi’s mind has been razor sharp, so the thought of even the slightest bit of forgetfulness scared the crap out of everyone.

When I heard from Lola next, they had decided to take her Mom to the ER. When they started to move her to the car, GiGi became winded. The more short of breath she became, the more scared GiGi became which made breathing even more difficult. They decided an ambulance was needed. The call was made, the ambulance arrived and GiGi and Barry drove off to the hospital with Lola in tow in her own car. We think she will be admitted, but I haven’t heard back yet to confirm.

In fact, I haven’t heard anything yet. So, like you, all we can do is wait. In the bad moments department, this is right up there.

UPDATE: GiGi had fluid drained from her lungs and is feeling a little better. She is admitted for at least the night, so stay tuned. Lola said that they drained "like a forty of beer" from those lungs. Lola's keepin' it real for y'all.

UPDATE 2: Another rough night at the hospital. Lola stayed the night and made sure she was there to comfort her Mom when needed. Leaving her Mom's side when she was so afraid was not something Lola was prepared to do, so they pulled up a recliner, gave her some sheets and let her stay. The bad news was GiGi's roommate, who was preparing for a colonoscopy, was having major blow out throughout the night (what a lullaby). The plan is for GiGi to come home today. Barry was back at the hospital bright and early and Lola went home to rest. If all goes as planned, GiGi will be sleeping at home tonight, although she will likely still be in pain and short of breath. We'll keep you posted.

There is no substitute for the Spew

2010-10-19T13:38:00.010-04:00

Attention Spew Readers - Coming this Christmas for a Limited Time Only - Spew Shirts!

Settle down class. Ms. Mellowsky could not be here today, so I will be substituting for her today. Don’t worry – I’ll be brief and liberal with my hall passes.

Lola is, as she has been for a while, by her Mom’s side this week and sad to say, it’s been a rough week. Gigi just can’t seem to catch a break. On Friday, Team Chemo was all packed and ready to go to St. Anne’s for GiG’s next dose, but when they go there, her “numbers” were off so they had to scrap the Chemo plans for that day. Forgive me, I don’t have Laura’s grasp of the medicine behind all the cancer (and few do), but I know the numbers being low was not a good thing. They battled this with a blood transfusion and more meds for the pain. My god – they gave her blood to make her feel better!

Over the weekend, GiG was pretty wiped out. Between the medicine for pain, nausea and breathing, it’s hard to do anything but sleep. And, with family monitoring her constantly, that is what she did. She tried to eat, but could only keep a few things down. As the day wore on, her strength came back a little and she would hold court in her room (of course she had to put on lipstick first). She was even able to eat some of Becky meatballs, but she grows tired fast and soon we all left her to the peace of her slumber, always a daughter (or husband) on hand to be there when she woke up. They never had days like this on The Brady Bunch. When I left them all on Sunday night, GiG was feeling a little better, although still sleeping so I didn’t get to say goodbye.

But the nights seem to be the hardest for our friend and Monday morning was a different story. She was in pain, trouble breathing and just feeling like crap. When her blood gases fell below a certain level (again, I am not sure if I have that right – I just know the numbers were bad), the decision was made to go to the hospital. Monday was spent in the ER. She was given some pain meds that gave her some relief and they were also able to take a CAT Scan which was scheduled for later in the week. She was there until after dark, opting to come home for the comfort of her home rather than trying to sleep in a noisy hospital. In true Mellow fashion, they all came home and had a hamburger feast in the kitchen (GiG ate a little).

My first text from Lola today was that it was more of the same – a rough night (up all night) and a trip back to the hospital seemed imminent. But, a call later gave a little better picture. GiG was sitting up and visiting with Our Tina. They were trying to feed her a little something and she seemed in good spirits. After I was bratty and told her she needed 2 ML of Ringer’s Lactate Stat (My only medical jargon learned from years of watching television), she even spouted back, “If you are not quiet, you’ll get a Compezine suppository.”

So that’s where we are – more of the same. There are more details that I didn’t get into and even more tears that I will save for Lola to pass along to her devoted readers. As you know, Lola knows her Spew fans like updates, so I am giving the update. Lola will be back soon to bring smiles to all the faces of her Spew-heads (just like she does to mine every day).

Today's post is brought to you by the letter B

2010-10-14T06:30:00.008-04:00

I keep my phone turned on and by my bed when I'm in Rhode Island in anticipation of an "I've fallen and I can't get up" call from my mom who's on the other side of the house.

I'm thinking of investing in Walkie Talkies; I would be sleeping right now had my sister Becky not texted me shortly before 6am to check on my mom. She has been forgiven and now given credit for supplying me with the handful of minutes (that's not an expression) I needed to scrape together today to update.

Most important, I still have a virgin colon (and am resisting all sorts of jokes there...).

I did end up canceling the appointment but not because you all frightened me with your tales of fecal woe (which you did!). Dan's uncle, a man of legend in his family and community (as it sounds from the turnout at the funeral) passed away this past Friday night and I canceled my appointment in order to attend the funeral. Though it is always sad to lose one of the world's great souls, his death was not unexpected and hopefully brought the man some relief as he was in his 80s and had been ill for a while. Dan said the funeral was a great tribute and also quite the service with Archbishop of Connecticut delivering the mass as Dan's uncle was a priest. Though I wish I could have been there, I did not end up attending as my mom has been struggling more than ever these past few days and it wasn't the time to leave her.

As always, she is fighting the battle of pain and vomiting, both of which are stripping her of strength and energy (not to mention joy). We are trying to find the right combination of medications to alleviate her suffering but have learned that it's not as easy as simply taking a pill as what works for one person does not work for another. Also, the body gets used to pain meds pretty quickly such that the the dosage needs constant evaluating and upping. For my mom, who has always been weary of over-medicating, this is an adjustment. The other part of the balancing act is finding the medication and dose that will stop the pain but also keep my mom's brain sharp and aware and here with us. So, that's the journey. This morning, as every other, I wake up hoping that today she has a better day.

Last night she did finally find relief from the pain but it wasn't until 8pm (and after a bout of vomiting). As soon as she finds relief, her face changes. I can actually see her eyes shift from strain to warmth and she is able to smile which the pain usually prevents (a robbery felt by everyone). I felt sad that the best part of her day was at its ending, but grateful it came and I am hopeful that it carried her through the night. That's the start of my usual line of morning questions I ask when I go to greet her up in her bedroom:

How was the night?

Did you throw up?

How are you feeling this morning?

Can you eat anything?

Where's the pain?

And so on. And throughout the day this same line of questions cycles around as we try to help her find comfort as the hours go on. It's been a tough few days and I can't say otherwise. Still, there have been moments when my sisters and I have hung out on her bed, or sat three of us on the couch, my mom in the middle, watching Lifetime movies and I don't have to wait until later to cherish them.

While I obviously don't want my mom to suffer, I said to her the other night, "I feel kind of selfish because I want you to be here."

She said, "I want to be here too. We want the same thing...And when I don't want to be here and you want me to be here, that's okay too."

Profound moments like this are happening every day now. I watched my mom say goodbye to her visiting sisters, most of whom live out of state, and recognized that this goodbye was the hardest any of them have ever had to say.

It's intense, to say the least.

So, now my handful of morning has passed and it's time to see how Gig is doing today...

Sometimes I just shout it out midday while looking up at the sky, arms pleading, "Give her a break today, will ya?"

Feel free to join me.

Have you seen my boundaries?

2010-10-08T19:22:00.000-04:00

So, with things being what they are, it's been a long time since I've written one of those uber-personal posts where you guys get that kind of squirmy uncomfortable feeling because you're learning something about me that you probably didn't need nor want to know. (The words "Raise Head," my response to Dan's getting a pay increase last year, come to mind.) Well, WAIT NO MORE! This will be the KING OF THE OVERSHARES! In fact, you better look around now because you don't want any co-workers or family members catching a glance of your computer screen over your shoulder and realizing what kind of sick-o you truly are.

Today's topic:

I'm having a COLONoscopy. (That was for your nosy cubicle neighbor.)

You have no idea how badly I wish I could go all Katie Couric with this blog and bring you guys into the room with me. We could have a little counter on the screen for all the inappropriate ass jokes I make before going under.

(Just so we're clear, I recognize that colonoscopies are very common and thus not as much of a source of embarrassment as I made it seem---it's not like I'm having genital warts scraped off in high def (too much?)---but I am talking about colons here, my colon in particular, and that kind of feels like a lot.)

The story is this: I have ass issues. Assues, if you will. Nothing crazy, nothing terribly debilitating, nothing we have to go into detail about...but enough consistent irregularities (if you get my drift) that I had to check into things. Given my family history---both my maternal grandparents and an aunt have had colon cancer and other family members have had polyps---the gastroenterologist to whom my GP referred me, thought we should dig deeper (oh, this is such fun for me).

Judy and I just firmed up the details of the appointment today and it's all going down next Wednesday. (Judy and I had great phone rapport. However, as we figured out a day and time that worked and she said that the doctor does procedures from 7am right through to noon and I said, "And then she has lunch?" Judy didn't quite get my joke.) So, that's that. I will have to fast on Tuesday and drink some kind of magic brew and then Dan will deliver me to the hospital Wednesday morning. (I'm pretty sure the prep is worse than what I'm stating here but I've purposely avoided reading about it...though I did read something that told me to avoid red jello which gave me a helluva laugh.) I'll have to go under for the procedure and thus won't be able to drive home so Dan's taking the day off to care for what will be his very sedated wife. (They say redheads require more anesthesia than most. Yes, Dan has already started making jokes about taking advantage of me...what with the doctor's head start and all. Too far?)

When I went to visit the gastroenterologist (a woman...the only way for me) and she suggested the colonoscopy, I was initially fine with the idea. Only hours later did I start to wonder what the hell I had signed up for. Most people don't get colonoscopies until at least 40 and some doctors won't perform them on people any younger because of the risks involved which include bowel perforation (let's pray that the blog title the day after the procedure isn't "Raise your hand if you have a perforated bowel!") or other complications that come with this kind of intervention. Normally this would dissuade me but, again, the family history means I have to be that much more vigilant. I started rethinking things, however, when today on the phone I was asked if I had a living will or a medical power of attorney.

Pardon?

I don't have either, so this will have to act as my will:

I, Lola Mellowsky, hereby declare that should I die during my colonoscopy (which I would not want written on my tombstone...please come up with something quippier or else use a Salt-N-Peppa lyric of your choosing) that I would like the following orders carried out:

1) Don't even tell anyone I died during a colonoscopy. Tell 'em I was found handcuffed to a hotel bed...that would be way less embarrassing.

2) Please bury me next to JFK.

3) Under no circumstances should Sarah McLaughlin be played at the funeral. (Salt-N-Peppa is fine.)

4) All attendees should be required to capture their tears in a graduated cylinder which is to be turned in at the end of the service. Anyone who turns in a contribution of less than 200mL will be locked in the church until they can cry the requisite amount.

5) I don't want a church service.

6) Radio City Music Hall should work.

7) Mr. Dan Lederer will be required to sign a contract stating that he will never remarry or else risk eternal haunting.

8) My rubber band balls are to be distributed evenly among my siblings.

9) My favorite sister should get the most.

10) Please donate all my journals to the most remedial English As A Second Language classes.

***On a final note, I would just like to say thanks to all you FB peeps who wrote such nice things about The Spew today. I absolutely was not gonna show up but seeing what you guys had to say made me remember how fun this can be. Thanks to all of you and to everyone else who keeps showing despite my lack of consistency which is due to a motivational/inspirational rut among other things. I truly appreciate it. Thanks for pushing me out of my funk...That...is...a...what...she...say.

Join us on the chemo train, won't you?

2010-09-30T22:55:00.002-04:00

Taken last week...

How much do you guys hate the Real World San Francisco cast after looking at that picture all week? Could've been worse...could've been Las Vegas. (Does anyone beside me even get that? Has anyone---besides my sibling---watched this show in the last 10 years?)

I just want you to know that every single day I am writing blog entries in my head. Someday, when handsfree thought-to-page technology is developed, I will be extremely prolific. Until then...

So, here's where we stand: The last two weeks have been among the hardest since my mom was diagnosed in February. The pain and vomiting have increased and for a few days it was so bad that she didn't leave her bedroom. As I write this though, she has taken an upturn and is presently sitting at her kitchen table with her sister and a friend of theirs from Pelham, NY where the three of them grew up. I am elated to be able to report that. I don't know what tomorrow will bring and the days certainly do vary, but if she can get a visit with loved ones in, she's still living a life.

She did end up doing chemo last week. After weeks of saying she was done with the stuff, a gut feeling ultimately had her choose otherwise. During the drive to see the oncologist on the day she made the call, she asked my dad and me if we would be "terribly disappointed" if she decided to continue with the chemo and we, of course, told her we would support her no matter what. The bottom line is that her oncologist said that she thinks it's her disease causing the pain and the chemo could help. Since the pain cropped up before the last big dose of chemo that was administered during her hospital stay and also continued afterward, there really seems to be no way to know what is what. A gut feeling is about as close to a definitive as one can get in this game, it seems. Oddly, I too, had a strange change of gut regarding the chemo. I've probably been the most skeptical of anyone regarding this course of treatment along the way (though I've learned that all there is to do in this scenario is follow my mom's lead rather than asserting my opinion). Even when she was in the hospital and the doctor gave her the three months or chemo ultimatum, I questioned whether she should go forward with it. But in the weeks following, I felt something shift in me and I felt myself leaning towards continuing with the chemo (though I didn't really voice this either). My mom came to it on her own; it was what she felt she needed to do.

Now, one could argue that this is how any cancer patient or family member is talked into chemo; when the alternative is to do "nothing," of course a person would find a renewed faith in chemo or any treatment for that matter. I recognize that it could be my desperate desire to have more time with my mom that subconsciously shifted my stance. Maybe the same goes for my mom. But what can you do? Time nor certainty are luxuries we are afforded, so you do the best you can. Do I ask myself every day whether I will have regrets regarding the decisions we have made? Yes, every single day I question every single thing and imagine the sickness of regret that will undoubtedly show up, but the only choice is to make impossible decisions while trying to discern whether time or quality of life is of the essence.

But, the idea of the current chemo treatment is to alleviate symptoms and I have thrown myself behind my mom and that plan. May this treatment shrink her tumors and may shrunken tumors make her more comfortable. Please, please, please. Prior to my mom's diagnosis I questioned the idea of palliative chemotherapy. I thought it a torturous measure demonstrating our culture's inability to accept death as a natural part of life. But, again, when it feels like you're out of options and everything is on the line, you do what you, I've since learned. Still, if I'm being honest, having witnessed how sick my mom is as a result of the chemo, I'm not sure it's something I would do were the cancer mine...specifically lung cancer. I should also state here that there are obviously many stories of people (including lung cancer patients) who have had success with chemotherapy and I certainly am not trying to minimize or discredit that. However, with stage IV lung cancer, chemotherapy is not considered a curative measure which is why there is such debate regarding whether its side effects are worth the benefit. We're banking on the benefit at this point. The goals now---it will probably take at least one more session before we know if it's working---are pain management and also keeping my mom eating (despite the vomiting) so that she can maintain her strength. They upped her meds yesterday and she's been pain-free all day, a huge feat, and also hasn't been sick since this morning (and thus kept two cups of soup, some fruit and a little jello down) which is also huge. Fingers crossed for tomorrow.

A nurse from the local Visiting Nurses Association came to the house today. My mom is enrolled in what they call "bridge," which is a bridge to hospice program that suits her needs since she is currently not considered end-stage but has a "terminal diagnosis." A nurse will come twice a week to assess my mom's health and help manage her meds as the combinations may change as things go along. I liked Carolyn very much and feel glad that my mom will be getting this kind of consistent care. Still, when I really think about the the fact that she's in a pre-hospice program (which I try not to do), the stark reality of everything sets in and I want to scream "How the fuck did we get here?"

And then I change the subject because there is another focus of life right now and it's not to be overlooked; that is celebrating my mom and helping her to enjoy each day as much as she can. Such words are the stuff of graduation cards and self-help books, but it is a literal goal we are all trying to help her achieve (and still I---and probably you---strive to embrace that one need not be facing death to work towards such a thing). And there have been wonderful moments. Last Friday night, most of my sisters (and a couple of husbands and a nephew) made it to the house for a big Italian dinner around the dining room table, a bowl of spaghetti passing between hands. At one point when I was taking the trash out, I could hear the sports announcer from the high school just up the street providing a play-by-play of the Friday night game. As I lingered in the darkness, the voices of the crowd and later the band carrying over the quiet of the fall night as it had when I attended that high school, and my sisters before me, it felt like a different time, another life.

I was bone tired as we sat and talked around the table after the meal, having been at the hospital all that day for chemo. My mom, plenty of sedative drugs still in her system, was closing her eyes at the table.

"Mom, do you want to go lie down?" I asked her.

She looked around the table at everyone and then gave me a smile that said she was grateful for my concern but also not interested in taking my advice.

"Not yet," she said tenderly.

And I got it. She rather be asleep at that table than anywhere else in the world.

That's the plan we're really supporting.

MTV smut has its value.

2010-09-22T16:58:00.000-04:00

This was the first cast that hooked me...and it's been helping me avoid my problems ever since. Thank you Bunim/Murray. (I just read that Mary-Ellis Bunim, co creator of The Real World and Road Rules, died of breast cancer at 57. Huh.)

You guys, I know...

But would it make it better if I admitted that the reason that I'm not writing a lengthy post right now is because I need to watch Real World New Orleans on my sister's supah Cable while Molly, the niece's pieces, is at gymnastics?

Long story short: Last Friday, instead of staying put in NH for the weekend as planned, I ended up speeding down to RI after having a conversation with GiG on the phone and hearing the struggle in her voice. As I headed down 95, I actually found myself praying, "Please let me see her one more time. Please let me see her."

And, of course, I got to and, of course, I will again. She had a rough week though. Lots of pain, lots of throwing up, lots of hair loss. One night I woke at 3:30am to find her sitting up on the couch unable to sleep due to the pain and the two of us stayed awake watching movies and waiting for it to pass, which didn't occur until nearly 12 hours later. It's excruciating to watch someone you love in that kind of pain...I can't even imagine how hard it is for her. Chemo was called off last week and tomorrow's appointment with the oncologist will likely determine whether it's called off for good. She has some good days and some terrible ones, but the big decisions are still looming. That's the CliffsNotes version.

Right now, however, I'm up in NH watching Mol while Bec is on a trip for work. It makes my world that the kiddo still asks to sleep in the big bed with me when I stay over. As much as she kicks, I love waking up and seeing her in the middle of the night and it's always fun to play house and do the breakfast, ponytail, send the nugget off on the bus thing. I just dropped her off at the gym, a place I first took her to five years ago when she was only three. Then, I had to hold her hand and walk her down the stairs in order to get her to join the rest of the class. Now, while she waits for class to begin she pretty much ignores me in an effort to up her badassedness ranking within the gymnastics community. (I totally get the move, though I expect that in a few years time---at the most---she'll realize the riches of cool aunt with which she is spoiled.)

So, that's the story.

The true story...

The Real World: Incompetent Blogger

Prescription Television

2010-09-15T18:52:00.009-04:00

The white streak is dried Fluff. Ben. Der.

So, the picture above sums up why I haven't been blogging. I've been in a spoonful-of-peanut-butter-and-pile-of-chocolate-morsels-in-a-bowl-kind-of-place. I got back from RI on Monday night after several emotion-dense days (which may or may not have been influenced by PMS...same goes for the chocolate and peanut butter binge) and it was just too much to narrate at the time. That just seems to be how things are feeling lately.

As I type, just to catch you up, my mom is enjoying a nice getaway in Chatham on the Cape with my Dad. She's been vomiting steadily and her pain came back with some intensity, but after managing it with medication, my parents decided to skip town. She seems to be fighting a bit of cold (hopefully, that's all it is) so I'm not sure whether chemo is in the cards for this Friday, though whether or not my mom will opt to continue treatment is still a topic of much discussion; a discussion that my mom, dad and I sat tearfully around the table talking through while I was down there; a discussion that, sitting outside it for just this minute, I can't believe we are in. But, right now, she is taking in an ocean-view and I have retreated to my couch and decisions are second to life.

I find I'm beat when I get back to NH after my visits to RI. I have a cold sore (and, perhaps, a second one on the rise), what feels like a sty coming through (sexy, I know) and that scary tickle of sickness in my throat. (And just so we're really clear, every time I fall off the nutrition wagon as I have over this last month---EVERY. TIME.---it ends in illness.) So, I'm trying to recharge and treatment in this case has come in the form of back-to-back episodes of Mad Men. I had never watched this show (crappy cable, remember?) but we pushed through the first season in less than 24 hours and are just starting its second (via Netflix). Dan and I were both hesitant, skeptical of the hype as we often are, but it's a fantastic show. While feminism and sexual freedom are practically synonymous with the mid to latter half of the 1960s (and have been depicted to death on TV and in movies), Mad Men look at the sprouting seeds of these themes in the early 60s (and under the poodle skirts of women everywhere). It's a orgy of cigarettes, adultery, repressed homosexuality, alcoholism, sexism, sexiness, sexual awakening, sexuality in advertising and all the other makings of any seedy underbelly...I could write like 15 high school essays on this show. (All of this takes me away from cancer for a minute. We tried to get into the show Breaking Bad but as its main character is afflicted with terminal lung cancer, it didn't exactly provide the same service...and I had to shut that shit right off.)

There have, however, been other EXTREMELY IMPORTANT things going on.

First, and I can't believe I've been holding this one back, the neighbor is moving out. (I did it, guys. I pushed her away to save her from further hurt later on.) I got the news from another tenant in our building. (The one whom I once saw packing rifles into the trunk of his car...not to be confused with the one we saw skinning a deer outside our kitchen window. Two totally different people.) He also told me that our landlord's sister will be moving into her place which feels kind of like I'm getting stuck with the room next to the chaperones during the eighth grade Washington trip. I haven't crossed paths with the neighbor in weeks and at this point I'm hoping she will slip away silently in the night so we can avoid any awkward good byes and empty promises to keep in touch. Though, I do have a Bodyguard-like scene playing in my head where, instead of stopping the plane, she puts her Hyundai into park, and runs out to give me one last hug before driving away. (By the way, she's only moving to Portsmouth, so the chances of our running into each other again in life are pretty strong...what if I find out where she lives and this sick little game continues...it would be for my art!)

The second big piece of news, and I'm sure you're all aware of this by now, is that The Oprah Farewell Season has begun! That means I only have 127 chances (episodes) left to get on. (I'm okay with debuting on her new network though. I've gotten comfortable with the idea.) I have to say, I like the feel of this season; very nostalgic. I'm weak for depressing music and video montages so Ms. O is doing me just fine so far. I'll check in on this matter as the season progresses.

Other than that, I'm just breathing in the fall air and getting on with it. Splashes of reds and yellows are showing themselves in the trees and Dan has already started rolling out the fall menu: last week it was the creamy chicken and rice soup, this week it's "stained glass windows": a confection which involves rolling melted chocolate and mini marshmallows into a log (and rolling that in shredded coconut) and then freezing it. When you slice the log, the chocolate circles and marshmallows have the appearance of stained glass windows. Delicious, of course, but isn't it a little early for holiday baking? As I say this, I am noticing the makings for fudge sitting on my counter. God give me the strength.

Dan is home and Don (Draper) is calling my name (though it should be said that the red-headed secretary is the hottest one on the show and this is not me being biased...) so I am off because

If I should stay,
I would only be in your way.
So I'll go, but I know
I'll think of you every step of the way.

And IIIIIII will try to blog soon.
III will try to blog soon.

In joy.

2010-09-09T23:50:00.000-04:00

Great night tonight. Mattie's in from Cali and he, my mom and I spent the night talking and eating outside on this very cool, very fall night. We started with coffee and tea on the back deck and then moved on to warm bowls of Dan's famous creamy chicken and rice soup. (Good batch, bud!) After that we headed down to the river and had hot chocolate while watching fish jump for bugs as the sun set. We didn't walk back up the yard until after dark and then the three of sat eating chocolate heath bar cake (yeah, the cake) and chatting some more.

I know I'm a slacker in these parts, but it's felt good to just step back for a minute. Gig is doing really well this week. Despite throwing up every day (which she says she doesn't really mind as she's "good with throwing up...") she's logged some time fishing at the beach with her grandson, visiting with friends and family and even gardening out in the yard.

Big decisions coming up---to chemo or not to chemo---but for now she's just enjoying the minutes. And we're all enjoying her enjoying them.

And nobody enjoys like Gig...