Lola Heads to Summer Camp

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

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

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.

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

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...

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

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.