Snow Buddies

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

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.

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...

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?

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...

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

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...