In Memoriam 2009

Green globs of holiday cheer.

I'm in the coughing up couch-sized globs of mucus phase of this illness. I wanted to take a picture of one of these slimy wads that I keep catching in my tissues for a little show and tell, but even with my blurry boundaries that seemed like a definite over-share. Once, weeks after Dan had surgery for a deviated septum (read: nose job), he blew his nose and was so excited by what came out---a 10-gram post-surgery slithering eel of blood and snot that probably couldn't fit through the drainage hose during surgery---that he had to show it to me. (And I, of course, had to tell you about it.) The image is still with me and I have never forgiven him for it. (He still displays immense pride when speaking of it.)

It's now been a full week since I started feeling crummy and coughed up my first solid globule---a tiny green model earth---and there are no real signs of its waning. I don't want to go to the doctor. I just don't. Last year I finally found a primary care facility that I liked---very crunchy and founded in the principles of preventing illness versus simply treating symptoms; plus my caregiver was a nurse practioner, my favorite---but it just shut its doors for good. (I guess people want their pills...) So, while I know I could do the walk-in thing or even call a friend who manages a primary care office to see if she could get me in to see one of her doctors, I'm being stubborn. My sister, who is just getting over a bad cough herself, gave me some of her magic juice (vicodin-laced cough syrup) but it doesn't seem to be doing much. In the morning the cough is loose and phlegmy but by the end of the day it's tight and hacking and unproductive; the kind where the wheezing seems to travel the length of your torso and exits your throat in a thick, gravely, steam-like hiss. And you thinks it's over so you try to continue your conversation but it comes back with a tickle and then you're keeled over again hacking into your arm, but you're sure that it must be over now and you start talking again only it's not and you have a headache now from another round of hard coughing and everyone is handing you glasses of water which does exactly nothing for this type of cough. This kind hurts my chest and back. Eh, I'll see how I'm doing tomorrow.

It's resolution time so I have all sorts negotatiating to do with myself and hardly the energy to do it. (Fine, you can take the TV out of the bedroom and meditate every morning, but I'm keeping The Biggest Loser and not curbing my iTunes spending...) Plus, I'm trying to get all revved up for the positive changes I plan to make on January 1st (through January 8th) but my revving is more of a putter. Molly is down in RI for the week so in addition to full days of writing, I also plan to accomplish every single home-related task before New Year's Day. I'm cleaning out the cluttered kitchen cabinets, I'm organizing the book shelves by subject, giving away the clothes and shoes that never get worn, sprucing up the spoffice, cleaning up and sorting through all financial matters (this includes organizing all coins by year), and I will also write every letter, card, thank you, chain letter and ransom note that I meant to get out in 2009.

So, I have to go now. I will get all of this done or die trying! Wait, I could actually die trying. Dan will come home and find me on the rug surrounded by an embarassing amount of self-help books , a green snot-ball lodged in my throat. Hopefully he'll take a picture for you.

P.S. Merry (belated) Christmas everyone. I wanted to talk about this Christmas---which was actually one of the best Christmases (grammar club?) in recent history---but I'm much too busy and equal parts tired.

P.P.S. I e-mailed Dan to ask him if I could write about the infamous nose-blow (I ask for his permission all the time for those who think I just sell him out) and this was his response: "Of course – I’m still proud of that. I wish I had pictures."

Musings from a guest blogger

Miss Mellowsky is a little under the weather, so today’s Spew will be led by a substitute writer, Dan (her husband, for those of you who need an explanation). Please be nice to the substitute. No spit balls. No abusing lavatory privileges. No tacks on my chair. Don’t make me call the Principal!

Now, before I take on this assignment, I must admit that I will not be tackling any of the tough women issues that are normally so dear to Lola’s heart and blog. I am confident that I know less about women than I do about quantum physics and any discussion of these issues by me would begin to sound not unlike a Jerry Seinfeld routine (i.e., What’s the deal with all the toilet paper women use in the bathroom?).

Lola has a bad cough and she has been up all night. Her voice is slowly disappearing which is always the sign that Lola is sick. Right now, she sounds like Marcie from the Peanuts cartoon, so I keep having her call me “sir”, much to my own amusement. Here it is Christmas Eve, and we are looking for a very Brady Christmas miracle. Will she be able to sing “O’ Come All Ye Faithful” tomorrow at the Christmas Pageant? One hopes.

However, not only is Lola sick, but she is caught up in a typhoon of pre-holiday things to do. I’m beginning to think Christmas is not a pleasant time of year for someone who tends to be a bit anxiety prone. Let me paint this image for you:

Two days before Christmas, I wake up and walk out into our living room and find Lola sitting at her writing table, head down and immersed in her thoughts as she writes quickly to capture them all on her composition notebook paper. This is her ritual – what she does everyday to get her creative juices flowing. There is usually a bowl of oatmeal with flaxseed next to her.

So that’s what I come out to every morning. It’s taken me a long time to learn it (and I still push my luck) but Lola in this spot is the sleeping bear. Don’t wake her. Don’t interrupt. Don’t say hi. Don’t whistle. It just pulls her out of the zone. So, and again this has taken me a long time to figure out, I do what I can to leave her be, although I always look in her direction to see if she wants to say hi. Often she gives me the warmest of smiles, which starts the day out right.

Two days before Christmas, I pop out of our room, look in Lola’s direction, and she looks up and yells, “WEEDS!”(as in “I am in the weeds” or “I have too much to do.”) I knew we were in for trouble.

We’re doing our best to make it through the holidays, but I am glad I have Lola around to keep me laughing, even though, I must admit, I am laughing at her holiday craziness. Last night we wrapped presents and watched “Love, Actually” (she fell asleep the first time around) in front of our Christmas tree. And even with the weight of all that needs to get done firmly resting on her shoulders (and a mouth full of hacking phlegm), Lola found some peace in the simplicity and joy of a cozy night. A Christmas miracle indeed.

She’s in the shower now. The cycle starts again. We are about to take a three hour car drive only to come three hours back. She is stressed about what we still need to do. She is still thinking about cooking. She is still thinking about shopping. She is still coughing like a 97-year-old man with emphysema. But I know that at the end of the day, we will have survived this holiday once again. Hopefully she’ll have lots to write about tomorrow and she’ll give me a smile too.

Who needs jewelry?

Under the Mellederer tree...

1. To: Bowels
Merry Christmas!
Love: Lola

2. The perfect gift for the person who has everything.

3. It's a little known fact that the fourth gift the wise men brought was prunes; a much more practical gift than Frankincense, Myrrh, and Gold for a woman who just gave birth.

4. Our version of coal. (The large intestine is the stocking.)

5. Dear Santa,
Sorry about all that cheese.
Love, Lola

6. Our chosen gift for the first relative to ask when we're going to have a baby.

7. Dan sure took that whole "only get what we really need" thing seriously.

8. Word to the wise: When asking for a gift to help promote productivity, be specific.

9. It's a step up from last year's Preparation H stocking stuffer.

10. Man, I was hoping for an enema.

Your turn...c'mon, it's not like you have anything better to do three days before Christmas.

The Little Drummer Boy was cheap.

Dan got this ornament in early December of 2006 knowing that he was going to propose and that it would be a Christmas we'd want to remember. Sometimes I want to eat it.

Okay, holiday weeds---blah, blah, blah. I'm at the point where there is so much to do that I can't do anything; not even compose a decent blog entry. So, since it's been a while, some

Random Chunks of Spew:

Not to ruin the song, but "Baby, It's Cold Outside" sounds a lot like date rape put to music. "The answer is no...Say, what's in this drink?..."

Christmas movies watched thus far include A Christmas Story, Love Actually, Elf, Home Alone and White Christmas. On the feel-good scale, this run of holiday classics far surpasses the line-up of documentaries Dan and I recently viewed: Sicko, Crazy Sexy Cancer, Al Franken: God Spoke, Tyson, and Roman Polanski: Wanted and Desired. Of the two, Tyson was by far my favorite rapist.

(Did I really just make two rape jokes in one entry? Tasteless.)

We're holding out on Food, Inc. and Grey Gardens until after Christmas. I'm hoping Food, Inc. will disgust and horrify me into a healthy 2010. (I'm hoping Grey Gardens, which deals with hoarding among other themes, will get me to clean out my closet.)

As an experiment and a little side business, Dan started packaging and selling his peanut butter balls this season. Since Thanksgiving there have been fresh peanut butter balls on my kitchen table every day. In related news, screw Dan.

Concealing the secret of Santa stresses me out. I look forward to Molly no loner believing because I'm just not up to the task of not robbing her of the joy and innocence of childhood.

Since when does RI get more snow than NH? What's next, Portsmouth gets a school day and Foster-Glocester doesn't?

(Does Foster-Glocester really exist?)

(RI humor offers the inniest of inside jokes.)

Dan got a Christmas bonus and I told him he should put it right in our savings account so we don't go blowing it on gifts for other people---'cuz that's the Christmas spirit.

After our landlord's henchmen woke me up at 3am last week while shoveling our walkway, I asked Dan if he thought they would take something off our rent if we did the shoveling ourselves. A week later (and after nearly three years of living here) she called us with this exact proposal. I told Dan it was the "Law of Attraction" but he's convinced the place is bugged and keeps turning up the music to talk like this is The Firm.

(Is The Firm too old a movie to reference?)

(I think I may have just had my first official experience with "dating myself.")

I'm trying to decide if I should procrastinate exercising by doing Christmas cards or procrastinate doing my cards with exercise.

I've decided to procrastinate doing both with this blog.

I think I'll pour a glass of red wine now...could make for interesting Christmas cards.

And also pairs nicely with these.

That really is a pen in your pocket, isn't it?

Hubba-hubba.

Saturday night I danced at a gay bar in Boston until 2am, throwing around words like “best train ever” (and not talking conga lines).

Sunday night I donned a black vest and served as volunteer at the Portsmouth Music Hall, a small local theater, during the evening performance of the Holiday Pops.

So hungover my usher flashlight felt heavy, I had to laugh as I sat among a staff of mostly senior-citizen volunteers and watched a tall blond woman in a long red gown belt out an aria-style “White Christmas” and thought about how less than 24 hours before I was up on a club stage in a Santa hat belonging to one of a trio of Santas who stormed the bar and belly-bounced me between their stuffed red coats.

It was an interesting juxtaposition of evenings; one night I’m tangoing with a gay boy from Egypt named Hazem and the next Doris is telling me about her grandchildren while orienting me with theater seat numbers.

Though The Holiday Pops was a sweet show, Café Club was a far superior experience. (I hardly think Doris, Priscilla and Lorraine would have ended the evening on stage with me pulsing spastically to “Proud Mary” as my Mattie, Hazem and a bobbed blond girl had done the night before.)

Not that my going-out experience is so vast, but over the years the nights I’ve spent with Mattie dancing at gay bars ‘til the wee hours are among the best of my life. (I’m reminded of another lovely evening in NYC spent at a quaint little drinkery called “The Hole.”) For a married lady looking for a night of crazy, sweaty dancing there is no better place to be than in the midst of a crowd of gorgeous, sexy gay men. It is fun in its purest form because the dynamic between the men and women is such that we’re not trying to get into each other’s pants. It’s youthful fun. It’s boys and girls playing together without the divisiveness of cultural restrictions and hormones. We can dance---even dirty dance---and it’s still just dancing. At a “straight bar” feeling a bulge in my back makes me an adulterer. At a gay bar, a cock in the back is benign!

(When I explained this to Dan, he asked me, “What’s keeping straight guys from going to gay bars and pretending they're gay just to get close to the girls?”

“Um, having to go to gay bars and pretend they're gay,” I said.

Plus, in my experience, there’s no shortage of ass-to-crotch contact at any bars or dance clubs these days.)

To me, gay bars feel safe. There is no self-consciousness because nobody sees me. The gay men are looking at the gay men, the gay women are looking at the gay women (somewhat to my chagrin, gay women have never been into me) and I just get to dance around like a fool and ask the guys who they’re into. I don’t register sexually and thus barely register at all (unless someone wants to ask me about Mattie which is often the case). I’m not saying that it is usually my daunting plight to be ogled by straight men at bars. This is not, nor has ever been, my reality. I’m just saying that to be invisible is to be invincible. It’s empowering and freeing to be at a bar in which the man/woman tension is completely absent. (Plus, one guy said to me, “You’re super hot...and I’m gay,” and that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. I’ve certainly never been called “super hot” at a “straight bar” before. Or anywhere else. Ever. I told him he had just in that moment improved my self esteem.)

My first time at a gay bar was in NYC, again with Mattie, where I found myself a groupie of one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen; a transgendered goddess named Candis Cayne. I stood amidst her large following of adoring boys, worshipping at her feet as she sang and danced at a Greenwich Village bar. I was enamored, amazed and in love; she was more woman than I will ever be. After the show all these boys waited their turn to tell her how much she meant to them; she was their Rosie.(That's her in the header pic---surprised?)

The best part of that night? Being christened by the fellas with my own Steel Magnolias nickname. They called me Miss Truvy after Dolly Parton’s character (Bliss!) and we spent the night dancing and do dramatic reenactments from the movie.

“...I’m fine! I'm fine! I can jog all the way to Texas and back, but my daughter can't! She never could!”

And I knew then that I was home.

Sadly, such nights out are somewhat limited because (surprise) New Hampshire is not quite the epicenter of the gay nightclub scene that one might think. No White Mountman Inn that I know of. Too bad,I would like to enjoy their version of Holiday Pops...in the back.

Or. (It's like Choose Your Own Adventure here at The Spew.)

Too bad, I think Doris would love it.

Or.

I suppose I should be grateful...I might have to start looking for Dan there.

Naddafinga!

"My little brother had not eaten voluntarily in over three years." (I couldn't find one that wasn't spliced up. My apologies.)

It finally feels like Christmas. Cold. Snow. You need cold and snow. A couple of weeks ago on a 60-degree day, Molly asked me if it snows in December. In the old days it did, kiddo. And then it came. Twice. There is snow on the ground though not much due to the rains which followed the other day’s white-out. In all the Christmas movies depicting the coziness of the holiday season in New England---the chimney smoking, the mom in the window waiting for her grown children to come home, the frozen-over pond on which children skate (I will dedicate another entry to why ice skating sucks and how a cold, bruised ass and bound feet do not a happy person make)--- never once have I seen the cold rains and mucky puddles that follow the fluffy whiteness. I’m going write a holiday movie titled “Wintry Mix.”

Still, despite the rain, I could make a snowball if I wanted to.

Our home is decorated so that also helps bring the Christmas on. Our apartment is so small and our holiday decoration collection so vast, that the resemblance of our home to Santa’s Workshop cannot be overstated. While decorating, in a scene reminiscent of “A Christmas Story” in which the curly-haired wife breaks the Old Man’s fishnet-clad leg lamp, I knocked Dan’s 20-pound stone gargoyle off the top of a six-foot high book shelf and it plummeted to the ground, breaking both its feet in the fall. (Fortunately, the hard-wood floor sustained no injury.)

“What happened next was a family controversy for years.”

“You never liked that gargoyle,” Dan mock-yelled.

He’s right. I never did. I have expressed this multiple times. Not only does it weird me out (the gargoyle and also the realization that the man I’m sharing my life with is into such things), but I don’t think it has any place in a living room (unless you’re the Hunchback of Notre Dame). Find a place for it your five feet of man space in the spoffice, I say.

But I caved and it took a spot high atop the bookshelf where I would hopefully never notice it. Now that I think about it, I can’t remember why I caved. I think it must have had something to do with the stance I took against his hanging this picture in the living room:



A cool picture, yes, (and painted by an old friend of Dan’s) but what I want staring down at me as I engage in hand-to-mouth fudge shoveling on my couch? I think not. The gargoyle must have been the lesser of two evils on a day where I was trying understand the concept of compromise.

I was trying to put a Santa hat on the gargoyle (very cat lady-ish, I admit) when the accident happened. Rather than using a chair, I opted to try to maneuver a reach-and-throw technique which ultimately ended with the gargoyle being shoved off the cliff, er bookcase, into the cob-webby chasm which lies behind the kitty-cornered shelving unit.

I apologized repeatedly as Dan moved the bookcase from the wall to assess the damage and sweep up little stone toes. His quietness told me that he was irritated with my clumsiness (a fate he’s learning he will be eternally suffering) and I really felt badly*. The truth is that I probably would have been more careful had the possession been mine. How wrong is that? Had it been a stone Justin Timberlake statue (a much more suitable element of living room décor) and not Dan’s gargoyle that fell, I would’ve been not only crushed but also pouty about Dan’s carelessness. And, yet, after the short-lived silent treatment, he not only accepted my apology but also really forgave me. I think he even felt badly about my feeling badly (or bad about my feeling bad). Whatever the grammar, I’m convinced that it’s this ability of his to shrug things off rather than go nuts that has kept him looking young enough to still get carded and why people are genuinely shocked to hear that the guy is 41. (We’ll save for later the problem I have with a 41-year-old man---with whom I share a bed---owning a stone gargoyle.) It’s Dan’s calm nature that will give him all those extra years later on.

I’ll take early death and still get good and pissed once in a while.

Furthermore, there’s still a part of me that wonders if the repression of all this anger every time I break his toys, leave the sink full of dishes and take up 75 percent of the bed, is going to be break him and ultimately lead to my early death being at his hands. As we were unpacking our tree from its long plastic tote (allergies), Dan said, “This is where I would put your body…”

Nothing says Christmas like a little Scott Peterson humor. The screwed up part is that every time he makes a joke like this---and it’s a go-to joke for him---I laugh and laugh. It’s the funniest thing to me, this kidding about killing me. Once he asked me what picture I would want him to give to the police should I mysteriously disappear. (I’m laughing while typing it; soul mates.)

After the incident Dan asked me if I crossed the gargoyle off of my "to-kill" list.

I wonder who’s on his.

That’s it, no Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle for him this year.



*Grammar club---I know I’ve discussed this with a few of you privately, but it’s time to put it to the public: Does one feel bad or badly? I’ve read that since it is modifying the noun and not the verb, it is not an adverb and thus does not require the l-y. This same source said that to add the l-y would be to say that your ability to “feel”---that is the act of touching---is lacking. To not add the l-y make me feel weird. (Not weirdly.) Discuss.