Thank you, Mattie

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

In the wink of a young girl's bloodshot eye

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

‘Sup?

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

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

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

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

No. No, I can’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excels at drinking.”

“Stares out windows.”

How would you grade yourselves?

What comments would you give?


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

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

I noticed

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

And a donor has been found!

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

The most recent article.

The original story which ran in January.

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

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

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

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

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

Mwah.

Hanging in my Aunt Gail's kitchen.


Miami by the numbers:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fruits of the combo platter...

I cancelled today’s lesson too

I didn't want to chum the waters.

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

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

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

We’re coming for you, G.Bird.

Fare thee well, my peeps.

Fare thee well, my Mavis.

March 2011

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

I cancelled tomorrow’s lesson

That's really me.

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

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

That’s me not being judgy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe I should buy a bell.