Just One Thing I Need

It is bittersweet to wrap presents for your kid the first Christmas where they no longer believe in Santa. But I got the few things I selected for him done this morning, after he left for his dad’s. He’ll be back late in the evening on Christmas Eve, after the big family celebration his dad’s family has each year. I kind of miss those gatherings. They have a huge family and there was tons of laughter, food, joy, funny stories, and then the excitement of each person there getting a present and all of us watching and ooing and aahing while they open it.

We had big family celebrations like that at my grandmother’s on Christmas Eve growing up and when she died, it left a hole. We all missed those gatherings, but everyone was so spread out and then folks started dying such that it became impossible for there to be a single place everyone would agree to gather. Going to my ex’s family celebration was like bringing back that old tradition. I’m glad it’s something my kid has access to, and I hope he has fond memories when he grows up like I do of going to my grandma’s.

We have started a tradition in recent years of joining friends at their house for their Christmas party, and it’s a lot of fun. Everyone is nice to my kid even if he’s the only kid there (sometimes there are several kids, sometimes not) and there’s plenty to eat, lots of old friends, and a mix of ages and people each year such that there’s always someone new to talk to. People asked about my leg, we had some conversations about aging and life, and shared in our own merriment. I let the kid stay up way too late and everyone had a nice time.

But I teared up wrapping presents this morning, thinking about how we used to go to Macy’s right after Thanksgiving each year with his letter for Santa and put it in the big red mailbox that goes to the North Pole. I’m glad I did it every year, and I got pictures at the mailbox as often as I could when we went there. I knew it would be for a very limited time. Last year, his heart wasn’t really in it, and his letter was half-assed at best. I knew he knew. He finally told his Dad just a couple days before Christmas that he knew, and that was that. The Santa stuff was already procured so he still got a ton of stuff.

On the positive side, with no Santa, it’s way cheaper, as I no longer have to buy two sets of presents, one from Santa and one from me. Since I got divorced that cost doubled for both me and my ex as we both had to buy Santa presents each year, so this is a savings. But there are many fewer presents. The last couple of years, I was fortunate to have a couple of secret Santa sources helping me continue the Santa lore since I couldn’t afford the complete shebang after losing my full-time job. Now that it’s just me and there’s no Santa, I feel like he’ll think he didn’t get enough gifts.

I know, there’s no such thing as “enough” gifts, and this is just my own baggage from growing up poor.

I was one of the poorest kids in my school, and from the first day of kindergarten, I became best friends with a girl who turned out to be one of the richest in school. Kids truly don’t know or understand class differences unless you point them out. She once came over and found my mom cleaning out the planters on the porch and she asked why we didn’t have our cleaning person do that, because that’s who did it at her house. My mom just laughed. She once asked my mom how come she didn’t display her wedding china. My parents didn’t even have a wedding, they just went to the courthouse and got married, right before my sister came.

Christmas was the toughest time to be her friend. We would call each other late on Christmas morning and she would run down the list of amazing, wonderful, dazzling gifts she got each year. I remember when she got diamond pendant necklace, real gold earrings, a trampoline, an Atari gaming system (yes, I’m old), a pool table, cashmere and angora sweaters, and so much more. I was so jealous of everything she got, and then she’d ask what I got and I’d be like well I got a new hairbrush and an orange, or I got a knockoff portable radio with headphones that was like the Walkman’s ugly stepchild that you could buy at Big Lots, and a pair of gloves that were too big. She got a pet rabbit and I got a Carhartt jacket from my mom’s boyfriend, who was big into hunting and fishing. It was hard being her friend sometimes. And was a lesson that I didn’t learn for a long time about how you can be grateful for what you receive until you compare it to other people’s lives. I mean, I enjoyed the hell out of the Simon game I got one year, and Boggle was endless fun, but then when you friend has an Atari and a trampoline, you feel less than. It took me a long time to learn those lessons, and I imagine it will take my son a long time as well.

Still, I am grateful to be alive, to share another holiday with him, and for the love surrounding me and my kid in our lives. I shall focus on love this year, as that’s what’s really important.

 

It’s Alright

Irish coffee. Lots of whipped cream.

Highlights of a Thanksgiving holiday:

 

My sister and I in the kitchen, cutting dough for homemade noodles, with my 10 year old son hanging out, and all of us singing along to Lizzo’s “Truth Hurts” and we all knew all the words.

Playing Song Quiz with everyone in the fam. I won almost every game, no matter the decade (scores across the board were MUCH lower past the ’90s, but I still won).

A few taped episodes of Jeopardy, a family tradition. My sister always adds little insights about her one appearance on the show when we watch together.

Going to the movies with my boo. It’s physically very difficult for me to get anywhere right now because the boot I’m supposed to wear compresses the skin around my scar and it’s SUPER painful, but the reclining seats in the theater made up for it.

There were cheesy potatoes (aka funeral potatoes, depending on where you’re from), and I didn’t have to make them.

We started the meal in our usual family tradition, which is, a couple hours before before the meal was ready, everyone eats a tiny sliver of pie. This way, there’s never “no room for pie” after you’re full. Yes, we are geniuses, we’ve been doing this for a very long time.

More chapters of Harry Potter got read aloud – my sister even took a turn – and we are now almost onto the 5th book.

Stretch pants.

Memories and stories were shared. Tears were shed and hot flashes and insomnia weren’t just my problem here, for a change. I hit the official halfway-to-menopause milestone. Some amusing letters were read, which may be something I turn into a theater piece. For a couple of days, I didn’t worry about the constant chasing of work/money/inability to pay bills, couldn’t do anything about what people had to eat and drink since I’m still hobbled, and I let other people do things. My son kept me constantly exasperated and then laughing and then exasperated again. The dog provided much-needed emotional support. And I tried hard to let go of the things I can’t control. I didn’t even obsess about my article that was supposed to run, and didn’t, and now may not as it was Thanksgiving-related. Nothing I can do about it, so I released it from my thoughts.

We continue to grieve for my niece. Nothing will ever be ok about it, but I let my sister set every single tone and had her dictate every single activity and the pace and flow of the couple of days she was here. She said absolutely no Christmas music, ZERO, and I accommodated that, even fast forwarding through some segments of the Macy’s parade. When she wanted to talk about her daughter, we all did, and shared some poignant memories and funny stories, and lamented that her short journey in life abruptly halted her ability to make and share in more stories and memories. My mom tried really hard to take part in everything, but she is in so much pain from her arthritis, and tires very easily. It’s hard to see her aging with such difficulting, which I think was scary and upsetting for my sister, since she doesn’t see her all the time like I do. She’s angry with her for not having tried harder somehow to fight deterioration with exercise and weight lifting when she was younger and better able, yet I know and understand my mom’s journey a bit more thoroughly.

I didn’t correct her or debate about it. We didn’t argue at all, in fact. About anything. However someone wanted to do things, that’s how we did them. We slept in, and had our meal much later than we planned, and didn’t do everything we wanted because there just wasn’t enough time, and between my leg and her bone-crushing fatigue – something she’s been carrying a long time, but which increased exponentially since her child died – we just didn’t feel like doing that much. We just existed, all together, like we all wish we could do more regularly.

I’m grateful for the moments of screaming laughter, for our very full bellies, for my son’s hyper nature being an endless distraction, for my fiance’s vaulting into even higher overdrive than his usual helpful self, taking my mom home when it was “late” so she wouldn’t have to drive, as she was way too tired to be safe on the road, doing endless dishes, getting laundry done, and generally being an all-around fucking awesome dude.

Hi.

They say when a cardinal visits, it’s a lost loved one stopping by. This guy stopped by the day my sister arrived, and I like to think it was my niece, somehow trying to tell us that if she couldn’t be a part of our time together, to please try to make it good.

I hope I did it right.

 

Fade To Blue

Photo by Serge Kutuzov on Unsplash

And so we’ve lost Ric Ocasek, and a few days prior, Eddie Money. I read something not too long ago that indicated that if you’re part of Gen X, which I am, there is a Grim Reaper bloodbath coming. We’re going to lose all our darlings. I know it’s coming. I’m grateful for the indelible gifts of music of those who have been painful to lose, including deaths I’m not and may never be over like Prince’s and Glenn Frey’s. But it doesn’t make it any easier, knowing it’s coming.

Most people who knew their music liked the Cars. If it wasn’t the music of your era, that’s ok, but they really were a solid, amazing group who produced a great body of music and you should check them out if you’re unfamiliar.

While their first two albums were packed with great music, Heartbeat City was released at a key time in my life. My parents had finally finished their nasty divorce and custody battle with me, my mother and I were plunged into poverty, and I was coming into my own as a person. I started high school in 1984, the year of the album’s release. The summer between 8th and 9th grade was rich with pool-rat life and Heartbeat City blasting from everyone’s boom box at the pool. Pool parties and kissing and my body was still not developed, because I was so late to everything. I was still tiny and bony and skinny, a body I still miss to this day. When everything exploded into massive curves and big boobs later that year, my body ripped apart like an earthquake and was covered everywhere with angry red stretch marks – behind my upper arms, on my calves, all over my inner and outer thighs, my stomach, my chest. At opening day of the pool the next year, a boy I knew said, “What happened to you over the winter, dang, did you have a baby or something?” I was still a virgin. It was a cut I’ve never forgotten, and the beginning of the shame of my body that I still live with today.

The Cars were a timeless cool, with a retro, 50s aesthetic paired with a modern, punk-rock look. Ric’s gangly, tall, awkward look was almost ghoulish, and yet by the time he came into the public eye, he had begun a relationship with the beautiful supermodel Paulina, which would last for 30 years. It was a message for us nerdy types, that you can be cool no matter what you look like, that you could find happiness in your own style.

That was a message I very much needed as I entered high school and decided to formally reject my previously unsuccessful, repeated attempts to fit in and be friends with a popular group of girls—any group. I was done trying to get people to like me, done playing by everyone else’s rules, and would forge my own path with fists and anger and weapons of my own choosing; my cutting words, my fuck-you attitude, my school fights, the knife I carried.

“One too many times I fell over you
Once in a shadow I finally grew
And once in a night I dreamed you were there
I cancelled my flight from going nowhere…” (Photo by Daan Stevens on Unsplash“

I began seeking out boys from other schools, who weren’t so full of judgment about my looks and my clothes. My best friend at the time, Sarah, was in a relationship with a boy from a rival school around this time. I remember all of us going to a trailer park one night after a double date. Lying there in the dark with my date, a boy with very tight jeans, blonde hair and a sneer like Billy Idol’s, trying not to listen while Sarah and the other boy had sex. My date gave me his red and silver class ring to wear after that night. I wrapped it in yarn and painted it with nail polish so it wouldn’t fray, and proudly wore it to school. Finally, someone had accepted me, and I had proof. Heartbeat City played everywhere.

I taped their other, previous albums from records Sarah owned: Shake It Up, The Cars, Candy-O. I was in love with their sound, and then, suddenly, I wasn’t. I needed something that better identified with the angst I felt, the anguish of struggle at and away from school. The shame of my mom on food stamps. The nervousness on Sunday nights, waiting with Sara in the long line outside the massive, art deco nightclub that had a weekly teen night, smoking cigarette after cigarette, buzzing from the alcohol we had downed in the car before queuing up, wondering if anyone would dance with me, coming home sweaty and smelly, my clothes bathed in fog machine vapor. The anger of fighting with two other girls for the attention of a guy I liked at school, who couldn’t make up his mind. I couldn’t see then that it was he who was at fault, not the other girls. So much perspective, when enough time passes.

By the time I graduated and they released Door to Door, I was off to college and had moved past their groove. I was into New Wave, and had opened the door to my journey downwards and backwards deep into the classic rock vault, where I still reside.

The Cars left an indelible mark on me and so many others. Heartbeat City in particular represents such an important time in my life. A time where I forged my independent streak and broke away from trying to be like everyone else, trying to be liked, trying to fit in. It had finally sunk in that they would never accept me, and so I created my own weird, learned to revel in the ridicule, and left my small town to find the other weirdos of the world. Lucky for me, I found them.

 

Fortune Falls

My last blog was March 9th. So much has changed since then, it seems like a lifetime ago, even though it’s only been a month and a half since that date. It was snowing then, winter still angrily still blowing in and trying to hang on even as the sun grew stronger each day. There has been an enormous amount of rain since then. Today is the first, clear and truly warm day (over 70) we’ve had.

I got engaged, which is a lovely thing. There wasn’t a big, elaborate proposal with professional dancers and elaborate staging, which is not my way, nor a diamond, which is also not my way, but long-discussed and agreed-to promises were formally announced and for that I’m both lucky and grateful. I never thought that out of my past—more than 30 years ago past—would come a man who is not perfect, but is perfect for me in every way. We lived together but a single year on the same floor of our dorm in college; the Fine & Professional Arts dorm. I was a theatre major, he was studying partying and beer and girls I guess—I mean, Architecture—but left after that year and I didn’t see or talk to him again for decades. There was no email back then, no cell phones, people left and went their separate ways and you just never saw them again. We were not involved in college, but there was something there. He was too shy to act on it and I was too impatient to wait for him to act on the openings I provided. Very long story short, we’ve both lived an entire lifetime apart, and the people we have come to be fit together. He’s someone old and new at the same time, and we are both happier than we thought we’d ever be at this age and stage of life.

 

Three days after the engagement was St. Patrick’s Day. My kid was with his dad and we made plans to avoid the crazy downtown scene this year and instead went to a smaller, neighborhood type bar a couple suburbs away.

At the bar, St. Patrick’s Day

We had a lovely time, until we didn’t. We managed to snag seats at the bar before it got really crowded. I ate a sandwich, we had a couple beers and shots. It got more crowded and lively and everything just got away from me. I remember some French dudes coming in who spoke very little English. They were in town for some kind of temporary work and we were both desperately trying to communicate to them about who we were and what we do and so forth. Between trying to use Google and hand gestures and the increasingly loud, crazy bar scene, it ended up being mostly us buying each other drinks.

Short version: I took a very bad fall, and broke my leg to smithereens. Both sides of it are broken at the bottom, around the ankle, and my ankle was all out of whack too. I was in the ER for more than 20 hours and was finally admitted for an overnight stay the next night, woken at 7am and taken straight to surgery.

I have so much hardware in my leg I think I’m bionic now, what with the screws that were already in both feet from bunion surgery, and the staples that are in my abdomen from my ulcerative colitis surgery in ’95. It’s going to be a very, very long and iffy recovery process because the break was so bad.

Mah laig. Scary, no?

Life has always given me something and then taken something away as payment. Good things have been accompanied by bad things in equal measure. You can say this is just the way of life, or it is karma, or just my luck, whatever. Perhaps that explains why I am always waiting for bad news, for the next shoe to drop. Why I am hesitant to openly wish for good things to happen, knowing payment will be extracted in a fashion not of my choosing. I hope for the best and prepare for the worst—that’s pretty much my life motto.

There are worse things than a broken leg, I know this. There is a good likelihood that eventually, I will be able to walk again in some fashion, and even drive a car. Those things are very far away, but that’s ok. And R’s commitment to me was suddenly forced into overdrive, as he had to become not just blue-collar working dude but also complete caregiver for me whenever he is home, and stepdad to help take care of my kid on my custody weeks. Packing breakfast and lunch every day, taking him to school, making dinners for us each night, cleaning the kitchen, doing the laundry, running all the errands … he even took the kid to a birthday party at a jump place, and stood around with the other parents feeling vaguely uncomfortable and looking at his phone a lot, as one does. He’s had to bathe me and wash my hair, clean my plastic safety toilet that sits overtop the real one, serve me food, get my medicine in the middle of the night, fill my prescriptions, hold me when I’m crying (a lot). And somehow he still manages to tell me every day that I’m beautiful and, tears in his eyes, tell me how much he loves me and how lucky he is to have me, even though I think I’ve never looked worse. I haven’t been able to wear anything other than pajamas and sloppy tank tops since the accident, and I can’t shave because I’m doing blood thinner shots twice a day to help prevent dangerous post-op clotting. I smell a lot and am super moody and needy. But there are worse things. I tell myself that all the time, and it helps keep things in perspective. I know a lot of people who are struggling with worse—sick themselves, or sick family, or sick at heart, going through difficult separations or divorce proceedings.

One thing you learn when you have an accident like this is how many people have also done something just like this, which helps a lot. I’ve had great tips and suggestions from many friends who have also been down this road, and it helps me feel like eventually, I will actually get to whatever my version of better looks like. That type of solidarity helps.

It also helps to have the most amazing group of friends a girl could ask for, and even as I sit here typing in pain, I’m so grateful for all those people, near and far, who care so much about me. From cards in the mail and online check-ins to see how I am doing to care packages, home cooked meals, rides to the doctor and help with my caregiving, people helping out with my kid, to friends who pitched in and got me a knee scooter so I can get around a little better when I’m more healed, I’m a really lucky girl.

Maybe, just maybe, that even in the “bad” that came with the good, has come a valuable lesson. I am loved. I am cared for. I matter. I am valued. People have really stepped up to tell me and show me that although I haven’t achieved anything exceptional, though I don’t have a fancy job or a fancy car or a nice house, that I’m not some big time, famous author with a bunch of best-selling novels, somehow they like me. They think I’m awesome and they’re giving me more love than I ever thought I could have or deserve.

It’s wonderful.

Faithful Friends

I went to a friend’s house a couple of weeks ago for a party. She is also divorced with kids and is working at a new job. It has been a year of change for many of my friends, and she is no exception.

She and I got married the same weekend back in 2003. We met on a wedding planning board online, where I met many awesome women that I am still friends with today. Because she lives pretty far on the other side of town, I rarely see her but we always intend to get together more often, yet, as these things go, rarely do.

I made the trek over to her party with trepidation. My friend is beautiful and thin and a chipper, bubbly person, a runner a naturally positive gal. I am dark and obese and saggy and physically broken, always looking for the bad news of the day and anticipating the worst. I haven’t run since February because of a seemingly incurable foot problem, and working from home hasn’t been great for my waistline, where I can fix whatever I want to eat, whenever I want it. My friend also has very different politics than I do, though we never, ever discuss it.

Friend’s home looked like the “after” picture in an HGTV show, and I felt so bad about myself. I have been living in this shitty, dark, basement apartment for 15 years now. I’ve lived in apartments longer than I ever lived in a house in my life – all my adult life, save the year-plus I lived in Beverly Hills (which obviously was not my house). There are a lot of pluses to apartment living but a ton of negatives. I’ve never been able to decorate or afford to do anything to the place, and the cheap, crappy beige carpet is permanently stained everywhere, even though it’s been replaced once already. The walls are gross even though they’ve been repainted once during my time here. My decor and furnishings are more hippie garage sale than Chip & Joanna Gaines, and have mostly been selected on what was free, cheap, found at the Goodwill, given to me by a friend or relative, or was able to be purchased on a really long-ass payment plan from a furniture store. Nothing goes with anything else. There’s no theme. Nothing is pretty. I’ve had the same shower curtain since 1998, when I moved back from Los Angeles, and finally broke down on Black Friday this year and bought a different one, feeling guilty about spending even that little bit of money. I hate my bed. It is too small, the corners are very hard 90-degree angles that I constantly run into with my thunder thighs when changing the bed, causing deep bruises that last for weeks. Meanwhile, my friend had a table that looked like a display item at Anthropologie and a big playroom/gym for her kids off the beautiful main living room, with matching furniture and cute Christmas decorations everywhere.

I felt like a complete failure. I was extremely insecure at the party, and overcompensated by talking too much, trying hard to be funny, drinking way too much and forcing at least one of her friends into an uncomfortable (for both of us) “discussion” about being accepting of gender fluidity and LGBTQ+ individuals. I was glad I had made plans to spend the night there. When I woke up, hungover, early the next morning, and crept out before my host woke up, I drove home thinking about how terrible I feel about myself and how little I have accomplished.

It weighs on me extremely heavily. Especially after 18 months without a full-time job, and what with it becoming increasingly clear I will never work such a job again. I spend my days pitching and hustling for work, mostly low-paying. I dazzle half my clients and the other half hate what I do. I am running my own solo business now, which has never been something I want to do, and the thought of my tax appointment in a few months literally makes me break out in hives. It’s going to be so bad. Starting with the $400 I owe the county for unemployment overpayment earlier in the year, which they will take out of any return I might be due. I simply haven’t been able to pay it back and it’s gone to the state AG’s office for collection. Which also makes me feel bad, as I have always paid my bills.

This Christmas, in order to keep functioning, I have taken stock of the very many things I enjoy as a result of the generosity of my wonderful group of friends, who have literally and figuratively kept me alive, fed, clothed, wined and dined throughout the year.

The people who picked up the check for me when we went out, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. The folks that helped crowd fund me getting the best dog, who has become my constant companion and a wonderful source of non-judgy, unconditional love. The folks who mailed me cards. The MOMS of friends who mailed me letters and cards and gift cards – people I haven’t even MET. Those silent peeps who quietly mailed me a check and said I must cash it, but must keep quiet that it was sent. Those who have shipped me wonderful food and drink goods, who have cleaned out their cupboards and gone shopping for me and sent care packages. The girl who made me homemade cheese crackers and sent them from states away. The woman I’ve never even met who sent me emergency wine, because being out of wine sucks. The cases of toilet paper. The bags of vegetables. The grocery shopping trip where I could buy what I wanted and they would ring it up. Folks who referred me to people looking for a writer, and helped me get meetings, interviews, and even a little freelance work. Friends who always have a hug or are always there when I text, feeling desperate and bad, who understand, who love me. To everyone who has read my writing, liked my articles online, and bought my shitty little paperback/kindle book. To those who have stuck with me even if we disagreed, debated or argued about an issue heatedly.

You. You are my Christmas.

And I am so grateful.

We Are But A Moment’s Sunlight

I went to the big produce pantry today in Parma Heights. It’s once a month, and you get a lot of food, but it’s a big pain to attend, because people start registering for numbers as early as 6 a.m., when they open the church dining hall where everyone waits. The pantry doesn’t actually start until 9, but if you get there after, say, 8 in the morning, your number is going to be 200-something. Because that’s how many people are food insecure just in that zip code and the surrounding ones. Almost all elderly, this pantry posts signs in English, Spanish and Polish, as there is still a very high concentration of Polish people in and around Parma. A woman I sat next to at one point asked me what my number was in Polish, and I showed her. I don’t know Polish, but that’s what people ask each other there, and I know enough of other languages to be able to tell what she was asking. What’s your number, how long will we have to wait.

I set an alarm for 6:30 but just couldn’t pry myself out of bed and into the cold morning until 7:00. Then I had to take the dog out and feed him, and finally was on my way around 7:20. I hurried because I was late, and then got distracted by a police car that had pulled someone over for speeding and missed my turn for the church. This is just how my brain works anymore. I’m not as calm and organized in my thoughts as I once was. Call it depression, stress, whatever. I backtracked and found the road and was pleasantly surprised to see there were still parking spots available. Usually I have to park across the street by the Walmart and walk over,  but I got a spot near the entrance and quickly made my way inside. 108. Ugh. It was only 7:40 and would be a long wait. They have homemade soup, but I never eat it as it’s made with little to no salt for the salt-sensitive patrons, and I don’t care for it. But it smelled good.

Knowing to expect a long wait, I had brought a large coffee and a book. But it was particularly crowded and loud today because it was the pantry event just prior to a holiday, and there were many more people there than usual, so it was hard to concentrate on a book in another language that I’ve been trying to learn forever (Spanish). A second company, some other religious organization, provides big mystery boxes of stuff at the pantries right before Thanksgiving and Christmas. They were there today, and I remembered them being there last year and wondering what was in the boxes and how to get them. I had certainly hoped not to have to be at that pantry a year later, but there I was. No longer reticent about getting what I need, I went to the table and asked how you get their wares. They explained that after your number is called at the regular table and you’re all officially checked in, you come check in at their table and they put a sticker on your number that allows you to get the boxes after you get the produce.

A couple hours later, my number had finally been called, and I visited the second table and got my sticker. The pantry was getting ready to officially open, when they start calling numbers in small groups to file outside with bags and receive whatever they have to give. They call fairly small groups of 10 or 15 but it goes pretty quickly, so I moved closer to the door so I could hear what numbers were being called. I sat down on an empty pew against the wall so I’d be out of the way. A moment later, an elderly man sat down next to me. It was crowded even on the pew, so he had to squeeze in to sit down. He turned to me and jokingly said, “I promise not to hold hands until the second date.” Without missing a beat, I said, “Why wait? You never know when your time is gonna come. I looked at him and he looked at me and picked up my hand and held it in his, and I let him. We sat there for a minute, his skin dry and papery, the first time I’ve felt young in a long time, and I wondered how long it had been since he held someone’s hand.

“I’m Paul,” he said, and I noticed his Vietnam Veterans hat, which was decorated with small pins. I gave him my name, and he said he was pleased to meet me. “You served in Vietnam?” I said, indicating his hat and he said yes, and I thanked him for his service to our country. He thanked me for thanking him. “What’s the good word today?” he said, so I made small talk, about prepping for Thanksgiving, and how mom had come over yesterday to help me make the homemade noodles. “Fresh noodles are really good,” he said. I took out my phone and showed him a couple of the pictures, and he complimented me. I asked if he had plans for Thanksgiving, already planning on inviting him. He’s going to his daughter’s, he said, and we talked briefly about her and her family. “You married?” he asked, and I smiled. “No, I’m divorced,” I said, “I have a little boy who is nine.” “That’s a fun age,” he said. There was a lull. He said something about living alone, his wife was gone, and then someone came in yelling numbers. “Whaddyou got?” he asked, showing his, in the 200s. “108,” I told him. “Ah,” he said, “I couldn’t get here early enough for a good number.” “Me neither,” I told him.

I asked where he served, meaning geographically in the country. He said was an MP in the Army, some kind of supervisor, and that there were a bunch of guys underneath him; he was the oldest by several years. He seemed open to talking about it so I continued with gentle questioning. He and his men were in the Tet Offensive and he described some of their action. He said he told his men, “You’re all going home, I promise, and not in a box,” and he was so pleased to be able to say that he kept that promise. One guy lost an arm, he said, but everyone else under him was whole and basically physically well when they went home. He described how they kept in touch over these 20-plus years, and how he went to Louisiana last year to bury the last of his group that was still living, besides him. He’s the only one left. I breathed slow, so the lump forming wouldn’t get the best of me.

I told him about the multipart documentary I had watched last year about the Vietnam War, and how I learned so much about the war from it. That I was just a baby when everything was going on, and this had helped me to understand about the specific battles and the strategy and what we were up against. “They just used us,” Paul said somewhat bitterly. “It was futile, and they knew it.” I mentioned how so much was happening for so many years in that country before Americans were told and he nodded vigorously. “Most people have no idea what was going on over there,” he said.

I asked if he was welcomed home or, like so many Vietnam veterans, had not been well received, and he shook his head. “It wasn’t good,” he said, and I apologized for that, even though I was just a baby, and it wasn’t my fault. I felt like I was apologizing on behalf of so many Americans who wish they could, in retrospect. I explained that I am a bit of a hippie and a peacenik but also, a staunch supporter of the armed forces. That I come from a Navy family, with several generations of relatives serving our country, and I appreciate the dedication and sacrifice they put in, their dedication to preserving our way of life in America and their belief that they were doing the right thing, and he thanked me for saying so.

“Look,” he said, “Can I have your number?” I hesitated a second. I know he was hitting on me, even though we both knew that was silly. He saw my expression and said, “You know, just to chat, or whatever.” I patted his hand and said, “You know Paul, I’m gonna have to say no, but I appreciate talking to you and enjoyed it, and maybe we can talk more next month, if that’s ok?” He said sure, absolutely. So he wouldn’t feel awkward about being rejected, I pushed the conversation ball forward and we talked easily again for a few minutes.

They called my number, and I got up and said, “Well, see you next month, Paul,” and he said, “Sounds good, see you next month. And Happy Thanksgiving.” “Same to you,” I said, and we waved goodbye.

I decided when I left that I’ll give him my number next month. If it makes him happy to meet me for coffee sometimes and talk, well, that’s my way of repaying him for his service.

They Say I’m Crazy But I Have A Good Time

Today I tried to let everything go that I had to do, that I’m supposed to do, that I must do. Yeah, the kid was dropped at 10:00 a.m., right on time. We popped down to the grocery to fill the fridge in with some fresh produce and meat, things I cannot get at the food pantry. “Mom can I just get one thing that’s not on the list, something special?” my son implored, and I said ok. He had helped me unload the groceries onto the belt, took his seat at the bench at the end of the checkout lines like I want, so I can see where he is but he isn’t underfoot when I deal with payment and packing. He had selected a Hershey bar from the impulse purchase item section as his special. I put it in my purse after they rang it up.

We came home and I unpacked everything and made some homemade granola while he did his required reading for the day. I gathered up the laundry and we got dressed to go meet some friends for dim sum. That was pretty much the end of the “supposed to” portion of the day.

He’s never been to dim sum before. He is an adventurous eater, about a thousand times more than I ever was at his age, and will try anything. He honestly assesses whether or not he likes something, and doesn’t have a stigma associated with anything that would make it preternaturally seem “good” or “bad,” so he comes at food with an open mind. I wish I had that at his age, but I just didn’t. I was resistant to everything, controlled all my food, made everyone miserable if we didn’t go somewhere with something from the limited list of items I would agree to eat.

We landed at dim sum, six of us all together with our friends, and the food started to arrive blam blam blam in rapid-fire fashion, as soon as our butts hit the seats. Spin the lazy Susan, and there’s tea. Dumplings. Some kind of translucent shrimp balls. Turnip cakes. Chopped, tangy duck with crispy skin. Amazing pork dumplings, in a steaming, slightly sweet-salty sauce. Meatballs and steam buns and custards. Sticky rice in lotus leaf. And more tea and more tea. Oh, we need those chicken feet. I pointed and the cart lady provided, and I plopped one on my son’s plate. “These are the best,” I told him, “Just gnaw on the outside, as there are a lot of bones.” One of the Asian servers stopped mid-service to look at him, going at the foot with gusto – it was undeniably tasty, and she was impressed with his aplomb. “He good eater!” she said to me, and I nodded and said yes, he knows what’s good. I took a picture of him gnawing on the foot and sent it to his uncle, who is Chinese, who was SO THRILLED, and said I am raising him right, praise I always want to receive.

He didn’t like everything, and that is fine. He ate enough, and tried everything, and the adults spun the tray and fed so well we were all quickly stuffed, and soon toddling out of the joint, getting the kids some fortune cookies on the way out. My son’s cookie had something about friendship, and I thought, yes, these are our friends.

The family had been to Europe recently and D wanted to go to their house and hang out, get re-acquainted, and I wanted to hear about the trip to Europe. So, unplanned, we went over and spent a lazy, unseasonably warm and beautifully fragrant late fall afternoon on their patio, the kids inside playing games, watching TV or down the corner at the playground, and the adults sipping adult beverages and running down life’s challenges, telling fun tales of adventure, and bolstering each other’s confidence to continue with all that life has put in front of us lately, which, for all of us, is no easy feat.

Perhaps we get through all this together, and that is the fortune.

I grew tired, it grew dark, and it is a school day tomorrow. I have an important meeting in the afternoon and must rise early to see the boy off to school, packing his breakfast and lunch. My friends have a busy week as well, one off to Vegas to stay at Mandalay Bay for a work meeting (imagine the mental challenge), and the other left to deal alone with kids and work for several days. I gave them my love and hugs and kisses. You never know when is the last time you get to see anyone anymore. I am so sharply aware of that, I cannot take anyone or anything for granted, or trust any expectations or assumptions.

My son and I raced each other to the car as the last bit of daylight began to dim, laughing ridiculously, and I blasted rock music the whole way home. A smattering of rain began as it instantly became dark, and I went to roll up the car windows, when I peered back and saw my son with his window all the way down and his arm full out into the wind and the rain, feeling this life as fully as one can. So what if you get a little wet. You have to feel everything.

And we did.

 

Sky Was All Purple

I’m on a longer than normal break from parenting, as the kid will have an extended stay with his Dad to stretch into spring break next week, and then I’ll pick him up mid-week. So I’m making plans, seeing friends, working on self-care, taking care of me and my shit and my life. That’s what I do when I’m not with the kid, which I feel makes me a better, more prepared and more focused Mom when I do eventually see him again.

Been spring cleaning, purging, throwing shit out and getting some newer, better shit at my apartment. Despite tomorrow’s return to freezing temperatures, yesterday it was 45 and today 54 so running outside has returned, mostly. And the birds and my sinuses both seem to know it is spring, so winter can only have a temporary hold on us going forward. My ankle is still not 100% better, but it continues to improve and I’m hoping to run the first race I usually run each year, which is a primarily trail running course the first weekend in June. I’ll be driving back from a long road trip vacation through the day before the race, so I’m not sure if I’m going to make it or not, so I won’t pre-register in case I’m too beat. I don’t expect any sort of impressive time. I think the days of 5Ks just under 30 minutes are gone, and that’s ok. I just feel lucky I can still run at all.

I had to take a break from yoga and lifting to try to heal up my shoulder, which was causing all kinds of problems. But I think I got it before it got really bad, and am working on building up strength again. It’s amazing how quickly strength you build up at this age disappears as soon as you quit strength training or yoga or whatever. But I persevere as it’s important. I want to be able to reach overhead or touch my toes for many decades to come, and life has shown I can’t count on anyone else to be there to help me, so I have to keep myself in shape.

Concert tickets have been secured for a couple of concerts to attend with friends this summer. I’ve locked down lodging for a vacation with the kid at the end of May. I got a hotel room for my THIRTY year class reunion this summer. In the immediate, exciting social engagements are in the cards this week, and I am looking ever forward.

Sometimes it is sad to move forward. Sometimes it’s exciting. Sometimes it’s a mix of both, or vacillates between the two, even hourly. But the goal is to keep moving, keep living, keep feeling, keep loving, and keep people around me who want to be there, and I with them. I’m working on all of that.

There isn’t much I can do about the paranoid sociopath in the White House, or his not-so-merry band of uber-rich racists and bigots. I am still writing my letters, signing petitions, and occasionally making calls. But I need to work on what’s in MY sphere. Me, my kid, my life, who is in it and who isn’t, and what’s happening to make progress.

The blurry purple sky in today’s post was shot after a night out at a local dive bar a couple weeks ago when we had a full moon. It was a kind of weird night and this seemed the perfect end. It didn’t really look like that outside, but I loved what the phone did to the atmosphere and the picture, as my heart is often purple.

I have many friends struggling and hurting right now. Sending my purple energy out to them, and my love. My home is always open to anyone who needs to escape, laugh, create, sing, make music or dance or just drink some wine and bitch about how difficult the road can be sometimes. Keep moving.

 

I Ain’t Gonna Stop

It’s only the 25th of January, but my personal theme for this year has already emerged: STRONG.

This is informing everything I do, everything I am, everything I want to be. I wasn’t looking for it, but I recognize a theme when I see one, and so I’m embracing it and will weave it into my thoughts and actions and heart.

I am strong. I am getting stronger with more working out, weight lifting. I am not thin. My goal is not to be thin. It’s to be stronger, and I am consciously working on that. I will transform accordingly physically however I will transform. Slowly, so as to avoid injury. This is a journey, not a race.

I am strong. I am working on improving my writing, getting it closer to right the first time, and actively and passionately pursuing as many writing leads as possible so I can be published more frequently in 2017. That’s working so far – I have queried and been accepted twice already this year; one piece is going up within the next week or so. The other I have yet to write, but I will do that soon – the query was accepted by a nationally well-known site (to me, at least).

I am strong. I am accepting more invitations, changing my life up to accommodate unexpected visits, trips, happy hours, literary receptions, birthday parties, playdates, whatever. Life is too short to always say no, so I am working on yes, on showing up more and seeing people more. I am a social creature and I crave social interaction. I am entertaining more as well. Play date or wine night or whatever, it’s happening.

I am strong. Emotionally and mentally, I’m not letting life drag me down. I can’t have everything I want, and many things don’t go the way I would like, but I have many OTHER things, and am extremely fortunate. I recognize that and accept it. I am not interested in negative people, I won’t spend time with people who don’t respect me. I seek friendship and acceptance and love, and there is plenty of it in my world, and there are always avenues yet to explore. I am lucky.

I am strong. I have stepped up my political and social activism, which is sorely needed in this dark time in America. I will not shut up. I will not back down. I will not acquiesce my liberties. If you want to lie down and get fucked, go ahead. I will fight.

[photo credit: Thomas Ondrey, The Plain Dealer]

A Long Time To Get Back Up

Today I briefly attended the RNC and stood for others’ love, as I do not have any in my life right now. I staged a brief counter-protest to Westboro Baptist Church’s message of hatred with one of love, acceptance and peace. I kissed a girl to show that love is love, and we performed well and had fun, and did not get assaulted or shot, which is a very good thing. I believe in these things, and I was glad to have the chance to stand up for what I believe in. That was and is important to me personally.

I hope it is not a hollow message to stand up for love when you have none in your own life. Like giving parenting advice when you have never had any children. But ah, I have had love, so I can still speak to it. I think.

I hope it is not a false message to passionately kiss someone who does not have passion for you, nor you for them, only to make an emotionally political point. Our hearts and spirits were pure and filled with good intention. Yet as I reflect back this evening, I really don’t know.

I’ve not much to offer someone, and have every reason to be particular about who I spend time with. I will work to narrow that further. I no longer want to be in the company of people who in any way are not proud to openly be in my company, doing whatever it is we are doing. If you cannot tell your Mom, post it on social media, or share whatever time we have spent together with your best and closest friends, I will be spending little time with you going forward.

I simply have no more energy to give towards people who do not value me. It drains me and leaves my spirit shredded.

I just can’t chase anyone anymore for their time.

Each sunset reminds me how little time I may have left. Any night could be my last. Life is too precious and short to share moments with people who can’t be bothered with me.

Love is important. But cannot be forced or manufactured. It can be represented, but like walking on sandy ground, will give way if enough force is applied.

I tried to reclaim my thoughts and myself tonight as I stared out at the setting sun. The ground was still warm.

My son sleeps in his bed, well fed, exhausted from an after-camp trip to the pool.

He is on my wavelength. He awakened last night as I lied awake with insomnia at 2:00 a.m. He rarely wakes up unless there is an accident or  nosebleed. He quite simply asked if he could sleep with me, like he knew I needed human contact or else I would go mad. His tiny, tan bones settled right in to my big bed, and I smelled his hair and was so glad he was there. This morning when we stepped out, I thought wow, it looks like fall already. I did not say it out loud. Yet ten minutes later when we were on the way to camp, he asked me if this was the shortest summer yet because it looks like fall to him. I have to remember he has this shine to him, and try to shield him from some of what I think and feel, as it is not fair to burden him. He has so much ice cream to eat, so many miles to run in new shoes, so many drawings of animals, so much laughter.

I cannot tap into it. I can only pretend.