The Magic of (Redacted)

Dear Mommies and Daddies (in whatever combination you are),

I was reading a blog by a seemingly perfect woman, who is raising her children perfectly with perfect manners, perfect grades, perfect posture, and, I am sure, perfect punctuation.

Already cringing, I was captivated by this unexpected line in her blog:

We (because she is pat of a perfect couple raising her perfect children) have decided to tell our children there is no Santa Claus.

GASP! SHUDDER! WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO THE WORLD????

She backed up her reasoning by saying she does not want to "lie to her children thus creating an atmosphere where they will lie to her (or them) in return."

Ooooookay.   So kid turns 16, lies about its gender nuetral whereabouts and when questioned will not be able to say, "Oh yeah? Well YOU said there was a Santa Claus!"

Mommy Blogger also said "They would be telling the children the gifts came from them."

Do they want the temporary gratitude of gifts received?

My children were raised with a Santa Claus, an Easter Bunny, and a Tooth Fairy.  As was I.

Sure as I grew up I did the math and figured out there was no possible way Jolly Ole Saint Nick could make it to all the children in all the world in one night.  (I was under the belief that everyone had Santa and did not know Santa was only for some religiously based families).

I watched all the claymation shows I still love and adore.  I would lie under the tree and look up at the lights. I had a favorite ornament that I got to put on the tree every year. (I still have it).

As I grew up, my friends and I would talk about Santa, about how each of us in our own way waited for him, tried to sleep, tried to stay awake to hear him, worried about the fire in the fire place.  It was magical.

I believe in a magical childhood where children can believe anything they want to believe.

Okay so that ended up with one trip to the ER when my daughter believed she could fly and leapt wholeheartedly off the front steps.  To be fair she DID fly, she just also landed.

For one of my daughters, we used to put tea cups filled with sugar water out on her windowsill for the fairies to drink.  Her bleary eyes trying to see them as she fell asleep.

Years later when I hung sugar water for hummingbirds, she watched and said it reminded her of the fairies and thought it was beautiful.  She did not go into a fit about why I lied and told her about fairies to begin with, much less set out water that only attracted ants.

My grown children all tell stories of how I was able to get them to do chores without fighting because "Santa was watching."

I often heard them say it to each other.

On Christmas morning as a parent I loved to watch as each child rushed up to me to show me what Santa had brought them.  I did not expect a thank you -- seeing them so excited was enough.

Maybe I am just Saturday Evening Post and Radio Flyer optimistic.  But if you are going to tell your children there is no Santa, be sure to get all the facts right and tell them, the tree is Pagan, it is the celebration of the Winter Solstice, and Jesus was born on or about April 17th.  A Pope decided to set His birthday closer to the solstice to get the heathens in line and stop with their Pagan nonsense.

(You can bring that up again for Easter.)

My children dreamt not of sugarplums, but something very similar -- Hershey's Kisses and Chanukka gelt.  So as you stuff your stockings with Fair Trade gifts, and candy bars that taste like cardboard, look back to your own childhood.

Did you believe in a Santa Claus?  Was your heart so broken when you realized there wasn't one that you decided to take away any magic from your own child?

I hope my children take all of our traditions and pass them down to their own children, so they can experience the joy of remembering and the joy of watching it again with their children.

As for Perfect Mommy Blogger out there, enjoy telling your children you had to stand in line and wait two hours for that perfect toy that they will have forgotten by next Christmas.  What memories are you making with them?

Happy Festivus.

My Mother's Eulogy

There comes an age when the natural order of death takes place.  We lose our parents, friends, relatives.  For some of us that age has come too soon, when we were too young to understand or even fully know who the person was that we lost.

 The word Eulogy means, A piece of writing that praises someone highly.

We mostly associate the word to those that have died.  Had I known the meaning of the word before, I would have written this while my mother was alive and we would have celebrated her life with her.  Let’s face it who else but my mother would enjoy an evening of compliments bestowed upon her? 

She was a woman who never grew tired of hearing how beautiful she was.  And she was.  But it was not her outer beauty that defined her.  It was her actions in life that  made her beautiful.

 The way she loved our father and was able to remain friends with him until his own death.

The way she found the true love of her life, Morty and blended a family of wild teenagers.

 Her beauty came from the beauty she saw in life, the art she admired and collected.  The way she looked through a camera lense and could see things others didn’t.

On one vacation I swear she took an entire roll of film on a piece of driftwood.

Ann Marie Jonas taught everyone here how to celebrate, how to live, and let people make mistakes.  She raised her children in what some would call an unconventional way.  We had freedom to succeed and to fail.  No matter what the outcome, she was there to love and inspire.

She was a woman who had no fears in speaking her mind, or offering her advice.   I asked her once what the happiest time of her life was.  She said when we all lived in Mountain Lakes.  She told me she  loved the activity and chaos of the house.  Many people will tell stories about her that all begin with, “Well I was sitting in the kitchen with your mom…”

She loved that time I realize now because it was so full of life and adventure.  She never knew what she would be coming home to after a day at the gallery.

If you walked in the house, you were family.

She welcomed everyone in to her house, and in to her heart.

Having raised five children, there were a few times when I would call her for parenting advice, and more often than not she would listen quietly and then pause before saying, “You wanted to have all these children.'

Mom was a Jonas woman.  To be a Jonas is to be loving, accepting, always getting their way and having a laugh that is unlike any other.

My mother had many pieces of advice that the family called “momisms”  If you do whats right, you never go wrong” was probably the most often stated.

She also called her Evers children, Evers Achievers.  She believed in us, she believed we would all find our paths.  She believed that of everyone.

Earlier yesterday I was laying down and I could hear my cousins laughing.  It sounded just like my mother’s laugh and it made me smile. 

So rhetorically I ask how do you say goodbye to a woman who was a mother, sister, aunt, grandmother, daughter, lover?

The answer is simple.  You don’t.  You do not need to say goodbye to someone who lives on in all of us.

In the faces and mannerisms of our children, in the love that last almost 40 years with Morty.

In the laugh heard by cousins. 

Ann Evers truly was a beautiful woman, but it was her heart that she gave willingly to all of us.  It was the time she spent listening, observing, loving.

She would not want you to stand here and eulogize her.  She would want you to eulogize and celebrate your own lives.

There was another thing my mother always asked everyone.  She would say, “So tell me, are you happy?”

That was what she wanted most.  For everyone to be happy.

Be sad now because it is right to feel the loss of someone so larger than life.

But after this, to truly celebrate the life we now mourn, do what is right, and be happy.

 

Do that for her.

Meow

Writers tend to be readers.  One of the most annoying and delightful things is when a writer finds another writer who is brilliant.

Oh the jealousy and delight of reading something and thinking, "why didn't I write that?! She is so brilliant.  I love her.  I hate her.  I am funny too.  I have depression too!"

Do I start writing about my my struggle to lessen my under arm flap to maybe the side of a large ferret?

Do I write about the insanity I feel when invited to go somewhere outside of my comfort zone (my house, or possibly even my bed)?

No.  I will be writing for a magazine about fashion and music.

Believe me any writer is happy to get a gig.  See? Already using musical terminology!

I am excited about this new venture.  It not only means writing, but also immersing myself, and interviewing people.  I love getting people to talk about themselves.

I will go to fashion events, of which my not so small city has an abundance of.

My normal self doubt comes in.  That evil little monster who thinks I deserve jiggly underarms and thighs permanently connected is laughing its little head off.

"YOU? Write about fashion?  You own 20 tank tops and 10 long skirts! You wear a pair of maternity pants and your baby is sixteen."

Okay so my evil creature has a point, but maternity pants are comfortable.  Oh God, the word no designer wants to hear!

Fashion is not comfort!  It is being fabulous and miserable at the same time!

I do own some high end pieces in my closet.  But because of my aforementioned love of my bed, I would only be wearing them for them for my cat.  Who would climb on me and make biscuits thus ruining the item.

Sorry kitty, I love you, but DO NOT TOUH ME!

Me? The currently (I still say currently even tho this has been my body figure for well over ten years now) plus size girl write about fashion?

You know that garment would not fit over your cankle.

But here is the thing about both writing and fashion.  Both are to be admired.  Both are pieces of art.

Both can elicit the same, "Damn I wish I wrote/wore that!" reaction.

I know a lot about fashion.  Not just because I was a Sex and the City fangirl, or wish Tim Gunn was my Uncle.

I have worked in it, styled it, bought it, drooled over it, obsessed over it, and even dream of it.

I am going to dress my evil voice in Gaultier to distract it.

 I don't really have cankles.

But I do have a killer Chanel bag, and yes I can spot a fake from a mile away.

I will get out more, I will say hello to familiar faces that I have stepped away from for a few years respite.  I will say, "Oh no I am not doing the hair and makeup for this show, I am writing about it."

I will hear, "I love what you are wearing! What is that?"

"Oh this? It's cat hair."

Does God Do Windows?

Next to sympathy the thing I am worst at is asking for help.

There have been a few times in my life when I have been forced to ask for help because I just simply could not handle things.

I remember every time I have ever asked for help, because it was so hard for me to do.

When my husband was sick I got better at asking for help.  After he died I reverted back to my own ways, and made some major mistakes by not asking for help.

Now that my mother is in the hospital and I am trying my best to be in three or four different places at the same time, I am still not able to ask for help beyond that of my partner.

People are sweet and offer help.  I never know if someone is serious when they say, "Can I do anything for you?"

If I am asked this my brain starts screaming, "YES!  I need someone to clean my house, go grocery shopping, I would love a home cooked meal. My child has not seen a vegetable in a month!"  My mouth says, "That is sweet of you thank you, but I think we got this."

No.  We don't "got this"

My idea of good parenting has turned into getting a Cliff Bar and some Naked Mango juice for my daughter.

Our refrigerator has empty pizza boxes and various rotting delivery cartons.  My pantry has a few cans of beans. and maybe some rice.

No.  We don't got this.

Meredith sits at the hospital while I drive around my daughter around, or vice versa.

We pass by the grocery store but instead turn into todays choice of fast food.

There is dog shit in the dinning room again, because no one was here to let them out.

Yet for some reason I can not ask for help.

A few days ago I sat in my car at the hospital and spoke out loud.  I said, "I do not know who to talk to...God?...Peggy?"  That made me laugh. Peggy is my mother in law and I think she would like to know that I spoke her name knowing that she would answer.  Still I did not pick up the phone to call her.

I have my brother coming in this weekend to help with mom.  Maybe we will be able to at least get groceries while he is here.

Why is it so hard to ask for help?

For appearances?  Not wanting to show weakness?

I would tell anyone else saying this to get over it.  I would reassure them that we all need help at times and we have to suck it up and ask.

I have always been terrible at following my own advice.

So if you see me and I have a dust cloud of Pigpen dirt around me, know I have not yet asked for time to shower.  

Chances are good that you won't see me.  Unless you are working at the hospital, or drive up next to me at a red light.  I will smile and wave, wanting to reassure you that I Got This Damnit!

I have baby wipes and deodorant in my purse, I can take on anything.

Only, I can't.

Now I fear this blog will elicit sympathy.

Be a Good Girl and Do as I Say

My life has become an informercial in my head.  You know the one with the plastic bags that you can fit a swimming pool in, turn on the vacuum and voilá! You have an ice cubed sized container.  You can nearty store it under your bed, and next year wipe off the cat pee, unzip the zipper and again, voilá!  Swimming pool, cabana boy and a floaties all ready for you.

I am a inside that bag and someone has turned on the vacuum.  Only at an excruciatingly slow level.

Each day I feel my world shrinking.

Normally I would prefer this, being the anti social-socialite that I am.  

Normally I would be in control of the vacuum and at what speed, and what I will or will not bring with me inside my clear (yet durable) bag.

Now I feel like I have been shoved in the bag and as I desperately cling to the things I want with me, they are being grabbed out of my hand.  Like a cruel parent taking away a baby blanket.

I have also been eating my feelings, trying to stuff them down even further, with  half a gallon of cookie dough ice cream on top.  Surely if I cover those feelings with enough food they will stay down?

Sadly, all this has gotten me so far is ten extra pounds and a lot of silence and anger building up inside of me.

A fellow writer friend of mine warned me years ago to be honest, but know that I will piss someone off with my writing.  Mostly that has been my family.

Not always pissed off, okay maybe once or twice, but usually a phone call saying I got the facts wrong, or the dates wrong. Or not owning up to my mistakes and being a sympathy seeker.  If only they knew how much a hate sympathy.  I am not good at receiving or dolling out sympathy.  It does not mean I am unsympathetic, I just feel awkward with it.

If they are my facts as I knew them, they remain.  I can't do anything about the timeline.  Too much partying in high school has taken away exact dates.

Today living with Mom is a challenge would be an understatement.  My brother had it right when he said "Brutal".  That was after a quick two day visit.  His take away was one word, "brutal."

Oh how right he is.

One family member suggested I watch I documentary about a person with dementia, which I will but do not want to.

To me that is akin to telling someone in the throws of labor pains during natural childbirth to watch a movie on natural childbirth.

I will eventually watch it.  Maybe during one of the long hours I sit with Mom.  Not during my precious little free time.

People have the best intentions for me, which makes everything even harder to swallow.  I feel an obligation to read the book, or see the oscar award wining movie about alzheimers, which has absolutely no baring on my life.  My life is not nearly as neat and tidy as the book (or movie).  The only resemblance is the person with the disease had her partner leave her, (conveniently glossed over in the movie.)

"Wasn't is great?  So sad right?"

"Umm yeah." Thinking I wish it was that easy for me.

To make matters in my life more shrinking into the durable life sucking bag I am in, I have had a multitude of suggestions of what I can do, as a caretaker, as a person, as a friend, as a "daughter".

As if people collectively got together and said, "Hey! wouldn't it be awesome if we took away any last thing that gave Amy any pleasure at all?  Oh and on top of that let's tell her she needs to go to confession for having an abortion when she was not yet fifteen, because "You were not properly punished for it."

Oy.  This person also wants me to take Mom to mass while I go to confession.  I understand the meaning behind him wanting her to go to mass; to try and stir up any memories.

It was a bit much to tell me I have failed at ever endeavor in my life because I was not punished for something that happened when I was 14.

My entire life has been failure because of that?

I feel the bag getting tighter now.

Being the pleaser that I am, I will take Mom to Mass, I will not go to confession.  Not because the church does not want a lesbian, divorced, pro choice woman in its pews (which it doesn't), but because people think Catholics get a free "do not go to Hell card" when they go to confession.  They forget that one must be "heartily sorry for having offended thee and detest all my sins,"

I do not feel that.  I am not sorry, much less detest myself.  I am sorry for the little girl that chose a fast life and had to deal with some tough issues.  I have mothered that little girl for years.  So no, I will not ask for forgiveness, and no I have not failed at everything I have done in my life.

The bag is getting smaller now, like a little black dress that clings to everywhere, including my head.

Wait! before we zip up the bag, let's take away any free will.  Grab her cigarettes, grab her diet coke, grab her intellect and reasoning to choose for herself!

There, all zipped up.

What remains?  

Everybody is the Guru

"A woman on the radio talks about revolution
When it's already passed her by."

I often daydream about what it would be like to buy a gigantic ancient house in Italy or Spain.  You would be surprised how many of these there are available.

I would bring over my family and their partners or friends, and hopefully grandchildren and we would all live together.  There would be plenty of space for everyone to wander, to be and do as they please.

Everyone would bring their own talents to the mix.  There would be a garden, and large feasts set outside on a long wooden table.  No dishes or chairs matching, tapestries hanging in the trees.  The grandchildren would run naked, not afraid to pick up the errant lizard or paint themselves with mud.

A midwife would come for each new birth and we would light candles and all silently wait, or cook, or wrap our hands around beads to give them something to do until we heard the new cry of life echo through the walls of the tired house.

A tired house brought back to life stone by stone.  Laundry would hang on a line and let the Mediterranean air dry it with a smell of adventure.

My mother could let the dogs out the front door all she wanted because the grounds are safely protected by more stone rocks, once put in place to keep out intruders from wars, or famine, or plagues.  Now the old walls sit and relax into themselves not having to stand at attention.  They relax and witness an odd family that takes naps in the afternoon sunlight.  On the grass, in hammocks, in beds nursing their babies.

We have among our many chickens one named Lasagna, a nod to the fact that the chicken will never become its name.

"I was alive and I waited, waited
I was alive and I waited for this."

I was born too late.  These completely run down yet venerable and dignified estates sell now for millions.  Many are up for auction.  I cringe to think of the buyer who will tear them down all to have marble countertops.

I was born too late.  I want to wear flowers in my hair, and often do, but still I was born beyond the revolution of peace.

I can not even say this was some past life of mine, since I was alive, born just after the Summer of Love.
We lived in Los Angeles, during the time of the Manson era.  We lived just over the hill from the Manson house.  A few doors down was the Source Family house.

I can not say I blame my mother for packing up what she could after a particularly large earthquake and driving us across country where my father would eventually meet us.

I am aware that people aggrandize that certain time.  I know that if asked more people claim to have been at Woodstock than were actually there.  I know there was a war and it seemed to be a country divided. It was not an idyllic time.

But it could have been.  For the hermits, like myself, that in their twenties dove into books by Ram Dass, Krishnamurti, Timothy Leary.  I read about Buddhism, Mysticism, Hinduism.

I thought "YES!"

I raised my children with art and music and mud puddles.  But they were raised with the soundtrack to RENT.  They were raised in an era of the fading of AIDS being the biggest threat.  They took comfort from the Japanese and Pikachu, Charmander, Squirtle, Meowth.

"Bob Dylan didn't have to sing about
you know it feels good to be alive"

I am on a quest to find a feeling.  An elusive emotion that lives in an abandoned mansion in some distant country.

When I find it, when I feel it, when I live it, I will feel in place.  Was I born too late?

"I was alive and I waited, waited
I was alive and I waited for this"

The Filling

Watch any movie or TV show that has a woman giving birth and you will see: screaming, yelling, hurling obscenities towards the husband, swearing to never have sex again.  I assume this is always supposed to be humorous.  Or at very least some sort of abstinence lesson for people.

These scenes annoy me.

I have given birth a time or two, and I can tell you what you see depicted is not the norm.

I have been a birth partner for a friend and I witnessed her silently go to a place where she breathed and rocked through each contraction.

Watch any movie or TV show where someone is dying and you will see a loving family surrounded at just the right moment to hear the words of wisdom said in a pained whisper of the dying person, just before he closes his eyes an the machine goes flatline.  A nurse magically appears and shuts off the monitors, as the closest family member shuts the eyes of the departed.

Death is not like this.

Unless it is an opera, then the dying person has enough time for one last aria before collapsing of consumption.

Like birth, death is messy.

Birth and death can be slow or fast, never knowing the exact date or time of either.

People, including myself,  have put a lot of emphasis on both events.  One of joy, one of sorrow.

But what about the in between?

Do we not measure the myriad of events in our lifetime as eventful as a birth or a death? Are they not as compelling to make note of?

Sitting next to me my mother has read the Sunday paper three times already.  Fixating on folding the paper in just the right way to make her happy.  A simple repetitive act that brings her both frustration and joy.

No, it isn't a birth, or a death.  It is just an act.  Probably muscle memory, and yet she does it with so much emotion it must count for something.

When I lay in bed in the morning I can feel that the bed is so much more comfortable in the morning than it was a few hours previously when I crawled inside the sheets.  I wonder how the sheets became softer, the pillows more supportive, the blanket placed in just the perfect way to make me happy.  Complete joy.

Knowing I have to leave my cocoon is a dreaded task, I linger in joy as long as I can.

Will this be written about in my obituary?

"She loved her bed, especially in the cool crisp mornings of fall..."

Not very noteworthy is it?  But to me it is.

My mother has now moved on to removing leaves from my deck where we are sitting.  She beds and picks them up one at a time and gently throws them off the deck.  The leaves bother her now.

I want to go back to a time where leaves were raked pile high and  I would run and jump in them creating chaos and laughter.  My mother wants to organize them.

Between birth and death are so many small trivial moments that are often not even shared with others, and possibly not even noticed by the people doing them.  They are forgotten, discarded.

I was once told that my father fought his death to the very end.  I was not there.  The image of him boxing a figure in black always came to mind.  A match to the Death.

But what of his life?  I do not mean the items listed on a resume, or in an obituary.  He loved to sit with his mother on her front porch.  Much as I now sit with my mother.

What did he think about during those times?

Are our personal thoughts just as important as our actions that occur between birth and death?

I have been accused of "living in my head".  Maybe.  Does it matter if I stop what I am doing when a cool breeze passes?  Isn't it enough that I stopped and noticed it and maybe even recalled a time in my past when I felt a similar breeze?  Or do I need to document my thoughts so they take form and and matter and therefore my obituary can also say, "She used to stop to feel every cool breeze."

I had a friend who lived on a farm.  You could tell that her joy came from her animals, and the harvests she produced.  Physical actions that made up her life.  What was she thinking when she took from the earth what she planted?

I do not know what  I thought when I was born.  I do not know what I will think when I die.

I know that right now there is a breeze, a respite from the heat, albeit brief.  My mother and partner are laughing, I crack my knuckles.

We three sitting here, often in silence, or in convoluted conversations that make no sense at all.

This is life.  My actions, my thoughts, my bed, breezes, the babies I raised, the books I stopped reading because they bored me, the cigarettes consumed, the lovers I took and left, the trips to the emergency rooms, the muddy dogs I cursed at.

I do not think about the fashion shows I did, or the magazines I have worked for, or any of the things that would impress on the page of a resume.

I think about now.  Now is all I have.

Lauri Hove

"Today I woke up."  Those words were written in my very first diary.  A small one with a lock and key and Winnie the Pooh on it.  Those words began my unknown passion of being a writer, and observer.  I have had the fortune and misfortune of documenting my life, and as a result other people's lives.

I refuse to wax poetic on the recent and tragic life of a dear friend of mine, instead, I dug through my trunk and found a journal.  Just one year.  I will without comment or further preamble copy parts of these years1984- 1985.

December 28th, 1984 Thursday

In the car a song came on that Lauri and I always sing.  It's called "You and Me Against the World".  Just the perfect song for Lauri and I.  I can not wait for her to get home.

December 29th, 1984 Friday

I have to tell you, after I finished writing on the bus on the way back from the city I leaned back and listened to the music the bus driver was playing.  You and Me Against the World came on.  Weird  huh?  So I bought the album tonight.  I am going to sing it in the talent show, but not tell Lauri, I will tell her I am singing something else and surprise her.

January 13, 1985 Sunday

Bonjour! Ca va? How are you my dear sweet innocent journal?  Oh if only you could answer all my questions I would ask so many!  But I fear my purpose in life is to tell of my life and others as I try to figure out the answers myself.

Tomas and I walked over to Lauri's house and there we stayed for a few hours, she was cleaning her room.  She does that a lot.

January 21st, 1985 Monday

I cleaned my room again and Lauri came over, we laughed all night and then she slept over.  It was fun.

January 27th, 1985 Sunday

Hello Dear Friend! A very lazy weekend but I enjoyed every moment of it.

Friday night Tammy and Lauri came over and we watched a gross horror movie. Saturday, Tomas, Lauri and I watched another gross horror movie and we just hung out and laughed.

January 31st, 1985 Thursday

On a lighter side, Lauri came over after school and we got all dressed up, I mean DRESSED UP.  Then we went out and bought film and took pictures, it was so much fun!

February 10th, 1985 Sunday

Have I got a story for you!  Last night Tomas had a costume party.  Laura went as a dead Grace Kelly even with a steering wheel around her neck!  I went as Boy George (of course).

Tammy came over and we all got pretty drunk, but I was more drunk than anyone.  Laura walked me home and put me in to bed

(I want to interject here that I am going to skip a bit, no need to share everything just yet!)

February 21st, 1985 Tuesday

After school I went over to Lauri's and we had a really nice talk about life, parents, all that.  When I got home my mom and I talked for a long time.  Basically about the same things Lauri and I talked about.  I guess I just wanted a parent's perspective.  I really do love my mom more than anything else. She is my true salvation from whatever is bothering me.  She's really got it together.  I don't know what I would do if my mom wasn't here to help me out.

February 17th, 1985 Sunday

Tammy, Lauri came over.  For some reason Lauri and I got into a huge fight and she left. There was a dance at the high school and I went even though I cried the whole time.  I came home and called Lauri, we fought and she hung up on me.  I called her back, we fought an I hung up on her. This went on for about 45 minutes.

Then we finally talked it all out, thank God, so here I am happily crying on the phone.  We can't stay mad at each other for long.

May 6th, 1985 Monday

It is raining and thundering.  Laura is here and we turned off George Winston.  We decided we are in love with rain and thunder.  I guess it is weird to be in love with rain and thunder, but it is just so beautiful.  Laura said it is music that will never sound alike.

We decided we are backwards people.  We like Monday's, staying in on the weekends, and rain and thunder.

May 20th, 1985 Monday

Friday was one of the strangest nights of my life, it is way too complicated to explain.  I think I will keep this one as a memory.

(Side note, I recall every moment of that night, and am still keeping it a secret)

Lauri's little brother in 8th grade had a party and it was insane.  At around midnight it starting pouring rain.  Hard.  So Lauri and I decided to take roll up our pants, take off our tee shirts and go play and walk in the rain.  It was amazing.

I want to leave off on that note.  There are many many more stories and journal entries, but I like the idea of leaving this one on the note of us, young, stupid teenagers, playing in the rain.

It's you and me against the world.

A Friend Museum

While removing myself emotionally, I have been looking at "friendships".  I find the entire idea of them fascinating.  How we get them, how we maintain them, what we have to do to keep them, and many time how they are lost.

I do not in any means consider myself a social person.  I feel I am much more of a hermit.  I would prefer to stay home on any given night than be forced to socialize. My children are the only exception to this.  I always want to see them.

A number of years ago I was very much in an industry that required socialization.  It was pertinent to my career.  My cell phone was handed off many times with a blithe, "Here, add your number and I will find you on Facebook."

I acquired a mass amount of of friends rather quickly.  We worked together and commented on each other posts.  I made sure to comment on a "new" friend's Facebook page.  The act of securing the "friendship" so that I might gain work in the future.  It is an odd business, late night bookings made in clubs while waiting backstage.

"Can't wait to work with you again!" Shouted over the sounds of local music playing.

And then I left.

I stopped working in that business.

The phone calls dropped off, the names forgotten, the comments less and less until nothing from either one of us.

I was known, then I was not.

A ghost.

When you have a baby you gain friends, you find a community of like minded parents and become the very best of friends, nursing together in public while talking about nursing together in public.  Your children go to the same Vacation Bible School, you arrange car pooling, you pass your child off to your friend so you can take a nap, or do laundry, or clean the house.

Then your children grow up a little more, and realize they are nothing alike. They find their own set of friends, and you start all over trying to make friends with their parents.  By teenage years, the parents names become something in your phone "in case of emergency", not to call for coffee dates, or long lamenting conversations of the difficulties of raising teenagers.

There are many times in a life when you gain friends and many times there is a culling of friendships.

If your spouse is sick, you gain many friends.  If your spouse dies you lose more friends than you originally gained.

If you move out of town, or even to another neighborhood, you lose friends, and gain a few new ones.

If you take on a new spouse you gain friends by proxy and hope like hell you measure up to the ex that the same friends new and adored for years.  Secretly hoping you surpass the ex.  But these friends are not truly YOUR friends, they are a package deal, much like children are.

Time moves on, much to your consternation, and another culling occurs.

Again I feel the need to reiterate that I find this to more of a social awareness, I do not have any emotional attachments to it.  I did at one point, and there is one or two lost friends that I miss dearly.  For the most part I find it fascinating.

My latest perturbation arrived along with my mother.  I truly and finally let go of the career I was once so proud of.  A career my family knew little about, and even my mother in her lucid years did not care so much to hear about it.  I tried to show her the accolades I achieved and was met with a distant boredom in her eyes.  I gave up trying to achieve the accolades I thought I was rightfully due.

I feel the need to interject here that, yes I do have friends, I have a handful that I know would do anything for me, that would be there more faithfully than the US Postal Service.  Three of them I have known most of my life, more years of friendship with them than time spent walking this earth.

They just do not happen to live in the same state as I do.  None of my great friends live where I do, except for two, and they have been slowly disappearing from my life as well.

My mother arrived and life changed.  Another marker of time passing.  As she once took care of me, I now take care of her.

As a result, more "friends" have dropped off the radar.  I do not blame them, I am guilty of not keeping up with phone calls, and when I do I turn the conversation to them. ask them about their lives, tell me what it is like out there in the world.

I could make new friends now, and instead of talking about breastfeeding, we can talk about how to get our parents to take a bath.  That would require effort beyond what I am willing to do.

My mother was, is, and always has been the center of attention, and so she remains, her audience is just a little smaller now.

She naps in the sun as I write this.  She asked me today where I wanted to go.  It was an odd question and seemed out of nowhere.  I replied "Everywhere."  She laughed and said, "Well, that won't happen."

It may be true.  She used to dream of going to Italy.  She never did make it there.

There has been a song rolling around in my head for the past few days;

Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
'Til it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

I would like to gather all my old and new friends on that parking lot and make it a paradise party.

For that I would leave my room and socialize with my past, present and future.

That Was Then...

If you know me, you know that I hate the month of August.  Only one day in the entire month do I like; the day my eldest daughter was born.  That's it.  That is all.

I do not like the heat, I do not like the memories of those that have died in this month.

I have tried always to find the good that lies within the bad, and recently I realized I was not looking hard enough.

I am one to point out the sky frequently to whoever happens to be near me.  My children will notice a beautiful sunset, some will wake earlier than normal to see witness the sun appear over the waves in the horizon, only to go back to sleep.

We take in nature as much as we can.  We baptize ourselves in the waters of a pool, lake, creek, and the occasional salty waters of a beach.

We witness the color of leaves as they change, and that is a hard feat to achieve in this part of Texas, as leaves tend to turn to brown and fall off out of boredom, or some sort of heat suicide.

When the children were young they played with Rolly Pollys.  Poor little bugs curling up in defense of our entertainment.

If a toad reaches our door we all go and look.

I have woken children up to witness a meteor shower, or just to see a full moon.

And should it snow?  That is certainly a reason to wake up a sleeping child and go outside and play!

Since my Mom has arrived to live here with us, it has been more like we are the ones living with her. We do as she wants to do.  Much of that is sitting outside.  I have spent more hours outside than I have within.

Mom will often look up to the sky and comment how beautiful it is.  I glance up, notice nothing unusual and say a half hearted, "Uh-huh" and go back to looking at my phone.  Anything to distract me from the heat.

I wait.  I wait for hours to pass so we can go inside, I wait for Meredith to come home from work so I can spend a precious few minutes in air-conditioning.

Day after day Mom will comment on the sky.

When the sunsets Mom has no desire to sit out back and witness it.

I try to coerce her.  She is perfectly happy where she is, looking up.  Looking for planes that will never take her back to what she once knew.  Looking up at birds, always looking up.

Yesterday I put my phone down and when she commented on the sky, I too looked up.  It was blue.  Cloudless and blank.

What does she see?  What am I missing?

Like a tornado it hit me.  I am missing the now.  

She sees infinity, she does not see blue skies of her youth, or of her child rearing years.  She does not see blue skies of the future.  For her there is only now.  She sees the vastness of the day, for her that is all exists.  Now.  Today.

I breathe in the now with her.  I see it.  For me it is fleeting, I am barely in the now with her.  I am in the past, the future, and yes the now, but the now of children with flat tires, to children who are angry at me, or meals that need preparing, to ice that is melting too fast.

I take her hand.  Together we sit in the now and look up.

And isn't it a beautiful now?

I am glad to have the now, because all too soon it will be then.

Novels novels everywhere

I sit on the front porch, or the back deck with my mom.  Day in and day out.  I follow her conversations, when I can.  Nod indifferently when I can't, hoping that is a satisfying response.

I start novels in my head.

"All Mama does now is sit on the front porch with my grammy.  Before Grammy came to live with us, Mama had things to do, places she went, she liked to go to to the lake.  Before Grammy, Mama took me places, to the store late at night, and we would giggle that we were in barefoot as we picked out pints of ice cream.  Now Mama rushes to make more sweet tea so Grammy has it when she wants it.

I can hear Mama mumble to herself, as my room is right off the kitchen.  She says things like, "I swear that woman is going to drive me to drink"
She used to say that about us kids too when we were all little, but I have never seen her take a sip.

Just her sweet tea, and her diet soda that no one else in the house is allowed to have.

Life was different before Grammy came here."

That is one book, told from my daughter's point of view, except my daughter would not speak like that.  She is an amalgam of many people.  Maybe of all my children.

I do feel like I have abandoned them in a way to take care of Mom.

The Catholic guilt runs deep and the imaginary Nun speaks looming at me.  Finger waving in the air "You should never abandon your children, or your spouse (clearly this Catholic nun has no clue my spouse is a woman) you must take care of everyone and everything!  You are selfish and needy and you will burn in hell!"

My Catholic Nun is different from my Jewish (fictional) Grandmother.

"What were you expecting?  You are the girl of the family, you have to take care of everyone.  Quit kvetching, and get on with it.  Did you think you would have a life? (she fake spits)  That is for other people.  The Gentiles that don't care about family and throw their mothers into "homes"!  What kind of a home doesn't have kugel on Sundays?

No Bubbala, that is not a life for you, now come help your Bubby out of this Fercockt chair.  would it kill you to get me a barcalounger?  The Grossman's got one for their mother, but you? (fake spit again) I have to sit in this!"

In reality it is not so colorful.

During the time it took me to write this, I fed mom a Lean Cuisine, in a bowl, passing it off as my own.  Got her sweet tea, twice, took her to the bathroom once, fed the dogs, and just now filled the dog bowl with water and started to walk out front with it to give to my mom.

Okay.  Stop.  Deep breath.  Dog bowl in kitchen on the floor.  Sweet tea on counter for mom.

It is okay.  It is all okay.

Mom is getting ready for bed, and the cast of characters in my head are arguing amongst themselves. It is amazing how  my fictitious characters all get along enough to gang up on me!

As I tuck my mom, and my cast in bed for the night I take another deep breath in.

And listen for silence.

Adventures With Sticky Things

Since my mother has moved in with us, we have had to make certain adjustments.  Not just the usual day to day care, but moving furniture a certain way, decorating a certain way, placing her photographs that arrive in care packages all over the house.  We want her to feel at home.

My house is not a large house and simultaneously holds a southern charm, and ranch style.  The front has a covered porch, just big enough for a few chairs and a small table.  I like to sit out there at night, and listen to the traffic.

The back has a deck, which overlooks the spacious backyard below.  We found a wonderful table and four large comfortable chairs to sit in, as mom prefers to be outside most of every day.

Another adjustment I have made is to wear a bra.  I am not a fan of wearing bras, especially on hot days when I know there is little to no chance that I will be leaving the house.

My mother, maintaining her fashion sense and great looks wears a bra every day without fail.  She has on more than one occasion asked why I do not.

I looked online and found the perfect solution.  They are sticky bras!  They look like chicken cutlets that clasp together to give some cleavage and lift.

The sticky strapless cutlets arrived last night, and I was anxious to give them a go today.  I can wear them with strapless dresses, I can wear them with just a tank top.  Everyone would be happy!

I applied them, gave myself and my new cleavage a once over and presented myself to mom.  She noticed and smiled approvingly.

We began our day on the back deck, reading newspapers, drinking sweet tea.

Mom prefers the front, she can watch the passerby's and comment on them all.  The only problem with sitting out front is mom has the misfortune of letting the dogs out.

We have installed a lock high up on the door so she won't let them out front when we are all inside, but walking out the door she often opens it wide enough to let them loose.

Wanting to make mom happy I agreed to sit in the front even though it is hotter at this time of day,

I held the two glasses of ice tea, the news paper, and my sanity in one hand.

The door opened and before I could tell her no, mom let the dogs out.

I yelled "ANNIE"  which caused both my mother and my daughter of the same name to respond.  I needed the younger Annie.  I through her a leash and we walked down the street, both of us barefoot.

Annie caught one dog and headed home, the dog I was after was more tenacious or stupid and would not listen to me.

I picked up my pace and along with that came sweat.  My feet hurt on the gravely street.  Mental note to keep shoes by the front door.

As I ran I felt something begin to slide, the right side of my sticky bra lost its suction in the heat and sweat, the left side held on for dear life.

Barefoot, dog finally on a leash I had no choice but to finish the walk with one fake breast hanging down my shirt.

I had to stop, catch my breath and boob and just laugh.  In the middle of the street dog in hand, breast dangling, I became the passerby people would comment on.

Finally arriving home safely, I put the dog in the house, ripped off the left sticky boob and threw them on the table.

I poured more ice tea, braless, brought it outside to mom who calmly asked, "Did you have a nice walk?"

"Yep"

"You really should wear a bra if you are going to walk in that shirt."

"Okay mom, I will look into that."

Wanna See a Dead Body?

I have never been much of a goal-oriented person.  If there was something I was wanted, I wanted it immediately.  Much like many people of my generation.  The MTV generation.  I am sure there is a letter linked to it, but I do not care enough to look it up.

My summers as a youth were for the most part lazy.  I lived by a lake, I swam, saw friends, was shipped off to sleep-away camp for many summers.  Nothing special. So it seemed at the time, camp for me would in my later years turn out to be one of the happiest times of my life.

Many of the stories people tell me or that I read involve a summer spent trying to attain a goal.  Endless visits to the lake to climb the tallest diving board, only to slink back down the ladder again and again until finally, as the summer comes to an end, the person walks barefoot across the board that stretches out in time and distance and leaps.  Their hair wet and heart pounding with as much fear as pride when they emerge.  Goal achieved.

The part of the lake where the younger kids and families went to in my town was simply called, "Island Beach."  I can tell you it is much larger in my memory than it is in actuality.  About 100 yards out is a floating dock.  Again my memory is increasing size and distance.  Maybe it was 100 feet.  Whatever the distance, if you were under a certain age you had to do a swimming test to get a little tag that would spend the rest of the summer pinned to your bathing suit.  This tag said, "I passed the swimming test and I can swim out to the dock if I want.  So there."

I passed that test more than one summer, but it was never a goal.  I had grown up with swimming lessons, so passing was no big deal.  And the mysteries of being able to hang out on the dock were not as mysterious once you were dry and realized you had to swim back.

Summers for me were a time to just be a kid.  Not a kid you would read about in a novel.  Not a kid who found a dead body, or bounced a ball for 79 hours straight to make it into the Guiness Book of World Records.  If I did have goals they were always to lose something, weight, my virginity, my brother teasing me, myself lost in a moment laying on the grass swearing I could feel the earth's rotation.

My youngest daughter and her friends have made this summer one with a goal.  One very specific goal.  This summer, this group of five girls have decided that they want -- no need -- they need to raise enough money to buy tickets for a concert that will not take place until next summer.

The plans and chatter are endless.  Selling old items, calling in to a radio show offering a cash prize.  Setting alarm clocks to remind them to wake up and call.  Making jam to sell for $5 a jar.  Car washes, baby sitting, and even begging to be paid to clean their own rooms.

They have a goal.  They have the ambition to follow up and the motivation to keep at it.  I watch, I listen, I offer ideas.  Mainly when I am not annoyed at the chatter, I am honestly impressed.

These are the kind of kids that are written about in books.  These are the characters that make up a good movie.  These are remarkable humans.  I see into their futures and I see the tenacity continuing to grow, the goals they will create and achieve.  I am slightly jealous.

If I am the one who instilled such stalwart values in my daughter it was by accident or default.  I can not even claim that I had the goal to raise ambitious children.  Just happy ones.

It is summer now in Texas and when I am not hiding away in my air conditioned happiness I will venture to take the children to the lake.  It is not a walk down the block as I had, but it is worth the drive.  The wood of the docks is such a familiar feeling, it is as if I am walking in my past.

I have become the mom who regales my children with, "Well when I was growing up there was a lake..."

My only goal for summer since moving to Texas has been to survive it.  Ignore it.  Avoid it.  And on the occasional trip to the lake, enjoy it.

How is it that I have nurtured beings who have goals while I remain floating without an anchor?  I am still the person who wants things immediately.  I have not learned how to plan, plot, work toward and ultimately achieve any goal in particular.

I am completely apathetic about this awareness as well.  I do not feel remorseful, or driven to pick up a sword.  I feel no shame or guilt. 

I am a watcher.  I am a thinker.  I prefer to sit on the dock and watch others attack the water over and over again trying to get the perfect dive.

Then I see that it is my children diving.  My children with ambition.  I am filled with unwarranted pride.  I smile.  I encourage.  I bear witness.  I may not achieve much else but deep thought and pleasure from what I have been given, but I am happy.  Happiness alone is a goal worth striving for.

Should I finish my book, that would be a goal achieved and yet my children will always be my greatest accomplishment.

There are Places I Remember

I awoke having a slight panic attack.  Another dream about the dead.  When I dream about the dead they are always still alive and just do not want to be part of my life.  This time it was my father.  I instinctively know to wake Meredith so I can have her calming words.

I guess I was so confused about everything that she felt the need to put me in the proper place and time.  Much the way I have to remind my Mom we are in Austin, Texas.

Meredith asked me who the vice president is.  My answers were : Mitt Romney, Al Gore and Tippy Hedren.

She coaxes an answer out of me, "Jooeee"

"BIDEN!"

She quietly gets up to make me some coffee.

Fully awake, I am more curious where I got Tippy Hedren from, than the fact that I could not get the answer right on the first, second, or third time.

I had to look her up on the internet.

The Birds.  She is also the mother to Melanie Griffith.  I did not know that.

Is this how my mom thinks all day long?  In a constant state of perturbation?  Almost like a kid with severe ADD, grasping at meanings and words.

Last night the three of us, Mer, Myself, and of course my mother, sat out front on the porch.  I had been humming  Beatles song, but for the life of me could not think of the lyrics.  I asked Meredith.  She looked it up and once the song began to play all three of us knew the lyrics completely.

This song is stuck in my head, but I now have the words to go along with the tune.

Everyone has deep seeded fears that we live with, some of us admit them and are aware of them, some of us try to pray the little demons away, some of us do not know they have taken over.

My deepest fear used to be, and still is to an extent, that I will go blind.  Photographs and faces mean so much to me.  I see things in a way I do not think many people do.

I am not boasting, I have simply been told on many occasions that people like the way I am able to see things, find beauty in the grotesque, or grotesque in the beauty.  My phone is always with me and I take pictures daily.

I keep a diary of one photograph for each day, and I have been doing this for over 4 years now.  Sometimes when I go back a few years to a certain date I can tell you exactly what that day was like, even if it is a photograph of a tree.

I can not, however, recall Vice Presidents names,  faces of people I went to high school with, or lyrics to a song until I hear it.

I vowed last night to play more music.

I have been making a musical playlist of songs that my Mom knows so she can sing along.  Most of the songs hold memories for me as well, as they incorporate my own childhood.  I am digging deeper in to the music of her youth, however so far her early 30's seem to be the ones she knows the best.

I am not sure I could think of important songs from my early 30's.  I would have to look it up, again.

Amid the flurry of my dream where I confronted my Father for still being alive, I was helping my friend paint her kitchen slate grey.  I did not have the heart to tell her that her chosen color was no longer in fashion.

Fashion, like memories, and Vice Presidents are so fleeting, so let her paint it whatever she wants.

Mom is not awake yet, and I am enjoying the respite of my repetitive days.  Will today be a good day or bad day?  Much of that depends on me, and I depend on Meredith.

If the day is bad or good, I do know that tonight we will sit out front and sing some songs that we all know the lyrics to once the chords begin.

I asked my youngest daughter if she has a song that she knows she will love for life.  She had to think for a moment and finally said, "Not really."  I told her I had found "my song" when I was 15 and I love it today as much as I did the first day I heard it.   I do not need a lyrical prompt, I just know it.  I have cried to it, laughed to it, mocked it, played it for other people, and made sure I always had it play within reach.

My family, meaning my mother, father and brothers have a song.  Let it Be.

My family, meaning myself and my children have a song, Aint no Mountain High Enough.

I have songs for each one of my children.

Meredith and I have many songs.

If I play music while writing, it influences what I write about, so usually I write to the sound of silence.  Literally.

I am not worried that I did not know the Vice President, I am not worried that I could not recall the lyrics to the song last night, I am not worried when I do not know where my keys are.  These things are the little annoyances we all live with.

I worry that I may enter a fugue state and not return.  I am fascinated that the word fugue also relates to music.

If you look it up, the first meaning usually is musically related, the second is a mental disorder (according to the DSMV).   But both are linked.  We are taken away by music and for a few brief moments, we wander around inside our heads recalling moments, creating moments, living.

The turn of phrase, "That is music to my ears." is used in the most common ways.

What about, "That is music to my soul."?

People speak in lyrics all the time and do not realize it, I will be listening and if they happen to say something that is part of a song, I sing the rest of the verse to myself.  If I am with Meredith I say it out loud, and she instinctively knows which word to pick and choose another song with that word, then I must find a song with that word.  This goes on until one of us runs out of songs.

I love doing music memory with my mother.  She may not recall my name, but she smiles and laughs when we sing Stand By Me as I dance the silly motions of Ben E. King.

She claps her hands when the notes finally find their way to that part of her brain that still lights up and screams, "I KNOW THIS!"

I do not play music all day, as I am afraid not everyone wants to hear the soundtrack to RENT a thousand times, or the horrible rap songs that just make me laugh.

I will try to make music as important to me as my photos.

(If I ever lose my eyes
If my colors all run dry
yes, if I ever lose my eyes
Ooh I won't have to cry no more.)

Hold On Tight

As we cross the parking lot I naturally reach back for her hand.  Her slowness is slightly irritating as I want to rush through the store and get back out again, so we can go home.  It is almost time for her to eat.

We arrive home and I do not even bother asking what she would like to eat, I put o her favorite TV show and tell her I will be right back.

I make a sandwich as fast as I can and present it to her.

"Is this for me?"

"It's all yours,"

I sit next to her and watch the show.  I have seen this episode a thousand times, and my mind just drifts away to other thoughts...Will it be an easy night?  Will she go to bed early so I can relax a little?  I have laundry to do.  I better check her room.

"Get that away from me."

She is talking about the cat, or the dog, either way, I do as she asks and  remove the offending animal.

At night we sit outside and talk until it is bedtime.  Bedtime involves taking her to the bathroom, if she has had an accident I calm her down and tell her not to worry, I have it under control.

We go to her room and make sure the night light is on first.  Then I help her change in to what she calls her "night night shirt."

The bed is big for her and she seems so small in it.

When did she get so small?

She cleans the bottom of her feet as she always does and when she is in bed she positions the blankets so that her feet stick out.

Funny, I do the same thing.

She asks a lot of questions.  She asks them over and over again.  I can almost predict how the day will be by the first thing she says in the morning.

Sometimes she wakes up in the middle of the night and finds me and asks me to come lay down with her.  Or she wakes up too early and I put her back in bed and lay down with her and try to get another hour or two of sleep in.

Her skin needs lotion every day.  I try to remember this and gently massage lotion into her frail skin.

She dresses herself in the morning and I find this a great success.

We look for the same objects of security every day.  Sometimes we look more than once.  Sometimes I lose my patience.

She isn't reading so no books distract her.  Conversation distracts and confuses her at the same time.

She laughs, she is silly and funny.

She used a nail brush on her hair and loved it.  It is now her hair brush.

What ever works.

I know in my heart that she is meant to be here, she is meant to be with me always.

I know I will tame my patience and hire someone when I need a break.

My kayak remains dry and it is about mid summer.  I miss the lake.  I miss my previous life.

Still I would not let go of her for anything.

I ushered five children in to this world and out on their own, certainly I can spend a few years ushering one out.

I will not let go of her hand.

I will answer her questions.

I will lay down with her at night and stroke her hair, as she did for me many years ago.

She is my Mom.

Now it is my turn.

Sing, Sing a Song

Last night I pondered what my readers think of me.  Truth is, I do not always write for the readers, I write because it is what I do, who I am.  I write for me, and throw it out into the world.

In the past my writing has caused some familial controversy; I have pissed off family members without meaning to, or even thinking about what their reaction would be.  Being a writer of my kind, I often expose other people.  There are times when I can be crass or blunt and hurt someone's feelings, again not intentionally.

I also realized that my writing makes people cry.  While I am happy that I have moved someone to tears with my words, I am also sad that I have passed on my sadness.

Writing to me is akin to the good Catholic going to the confessional. Instead of telling one person all my woes and sins, I choose to do it in a public forum.

While thinking about my words from a stranger's perspective, I discovered that my life may seem bleak more often than not.  This really is not the case.

I have tried to be a pessimist, but it just does not stick.  No matter how much I grieve or feel various pains, I believe in my life and try my damndest to enjoy it.

Having said that, I would like to share some more intimate things about myself.

I am a complete spazz.  Recently I was in Atlanta staying with my brother and sister in law.  In the matter of three days I managed to break a candle; spill my soda not once or twice, but three times; back my brother's car into a tree; and, finally, while enjoying sitting outside by the fire pit, I fell to the ground as the camping chair gave way and I landed legs up  and ass down.

Hearing my sister in law laugh was awesome!  She has a great laugh that is infectious and all I could do was laugh along (which did nothing to help me get up and out of the broken chair).

I am equally a dork at home. I make jokes that only I seem to get and laugh at.  Explaining the jokes just makes it worse and makes me laugh harder.

In an effort to lose weight I have taken to running from one side of my house to the other, which has resulted in my pants falling down and me tripping over my pug (though that last may just be another part of the ongoing plot my pug has to  kill me).

I accidentally in half-sleep sprayed my lady parts with hair spray instead of the lady parts spray.

I would have said vagina, but I am thinking of my readers who may still cringe at that word.

Oh, and to those readers, get over it.  VAGINA.

The hairspray was super hold.  I was, in effect, painfully glued shut and no, I did not take the opportunity to try any new styles.

Love is awesome,  love of family, love children, love of people here and gone.  Love and laughter combined are even more amazing.

If you see me in person, you will probably see me carrying a cup of diet coke -- you should probably stay a few feet away as I am probably going to spill it at some point.

If you see me in a downward dog yoga position, please call for help because I do not do yoga and I am not doing that on purpose.

I would say I should stay away from scissors, but cutting hair is one of the tasks where I excel. I do not hesitate to say I am a fantastic hairstylist, but I wear my own hair in the same way I did in 1982.

If I try to play pool, I will hit myself and others around me with the cue, but I will never hit the actual ball.

I cannot carry a tune, but I will sing loud and proud as if I can, more often singing the wrong lyrics without a care.  Madonna should have been more clear with her lyrics, because I will forever sing, "last night I dreamt of some bagels."

There will always be sorrow and sadness, there will always be losses, and I will continue to explore my feelings on them.

I am not one dimensional, I do not fit into any one box.

I may not wish on the morning star, but I do believe one day we will all find the rainbow connection.

And yes, you may end up being a person who inspires me to write, I may out you in some form, but never more than I am willing to out myself.

Lastly, to remove hairspray from unwanted places soap and water will work just fine!

Dying to Live

"The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven out of hell, a hell of heaven..." - John Milton, Paradise Lost

I have no idea if there is a heaven. I have no idea if there is a hell.

I find it  hard to imagine golden streets and a heavenly host of angels; frankly heaven can sound kind of boring.

I also find it difficult to believe there is a fiery pit and a ruler with a  spiked tail constantly punishing us.

I think we punish ourselves more than any devil could do.

I think we can find more joy than any gold street could carry.  Hold a newborn, laugh with your best friend until you can barely breathe, take a lover who knows you, watch a sunset and don't capture it with a camera, just watch it.  Feel the wind on your face, toes in the sand, a hug.  All of those things and so many more bring a heavenly feeling.

Hell is a panic attack in a public place, the loss of someone you love, the physical limitations of our bodies as we age, the mental torture we put ourselves through.

There is a special hell for people who have stay behind and watch our loved ones go. Sometimes death will be quick, other times it will drag out and we will watch the suffering not being able to do anything about it.

I have encountered a new hell.  Watching someone disappear, slowly, a little more each day.

One day she will not know me.  For now she does, but she has lost all our times together.  My best friend, the woman I aspired to be more than anyone, I am now terrified of turning into.  My Mother.

Her brain is being erased in a cruel and unknowing way.  She smiles and nods and tends to laugh to make us think she knows what is going on.  But she doesn't.

She no longer recalls our secrets, our inside jokes, the trips we took together, the times I would sit and watch her clean out her purse letting me keep all the change that fell out.  She has lost the way we related to each other.

Where is she going?  I want to know.  I want to be able to visit her there and see her again.  I want to introduce her to my love, who never met the real mom I had.

Her hair is white, her skin is porcelain as it has always been.  A stark contrast to my own.  She is already looking like she is fading away.

Is she in hell or is this hell just for all of us that have loved her?

I feel like a petulant child who wants her mommy back.  It is true.  I want her back and she is not even finished with her journey of going away.

One day she will look at me and smile because she feels that is the right response, but the truth will be that I will know the smile is fake and she does not know me anymore.

One of the most colorful women I have ever known is fading into shades of pale.

I search for the good in all this, I dig, I ponder.  I have no answers. I see no meaning.  Only cruelty.

I sat and watched the sunset tonight with my love.  We watched the sky change colors, we felt the breezes, and held hands.

Wherever my mom goes, I know that she can still look at a sunset and appreciate it.  She will forget it, but for one instant, just one, she will be there in that moment.

I will sit with her and hold her hand for as long as she will let me.

This life we each live is so often wasted.  I know I am guilty of not living, of not feeling alive, of living in the past or living with the dead.

I want to live in the moments with my mother, the small moments she has left.

Will this happen to me? Will I become what I always wanted? Just like my mother?

If so, I hope that my children come and sit and hold my hand and try to find me.

"You know I am dying to live until I am ready to die." - Johnny Lang

Are You Sure That Was Me?

Sitting in Atlanta at an Italian restaurant last night I was well reminded of why I adore my family.

Family has many aspects, but ultimately we are all connected.  This family consisted of my two brothers, their wives and my youngest daughter.

Having not grown up with sisters I do not have the memories of some of my friends.  Our fights, when we did fight, were hard core.  Often ended with me being hurt and probably tattling to our mother in some form.

We sat over bottles of wine, and food my daughter has not seen (being a true Texan that she is).  The Jersey in me came out.

Tales were told that more often than not ended with one of us saying, "Oh my God I did do that!"
It was almost a race of who did the worst thing.  My eldest brother held back, being the most reserved of the three of us, so my other brother and I took up the slack and told his stories for him.  I looked over and saw him laughing behind his antipasto.

Yeah, we were all young once, we were all kids.  We are held together by memories of old girlfriends and boyfriends, a few car crashes, a lot of parties, and general good times.  In our small town we grew up in our family was known.  I am not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing, but it is fact.

I looked at my brother and his grey hair and he is still the lady killer he once was.  My other brother with no grey hair and his wife are the picture of suburban living and health.

They in turn made me take a look at myself.  I was grilled on the way home why I do not, to this day, like to go out to eat.  When the reason turned out to be a bad mushroom trip from 30 years ago  my daughter piped up, "That is why you don't like to go out to eat?!"

We punish ourselves  more than anyone else will ever punish us.  Some of it remains, and lingers into our personality and just becomes part of us that we navigate.  When my brother showed light on it, I had to laugh because it does seem rather silly, but I am so used to it now, it is just part of who I am.

I love it when I find out my own children get together and go out, or stay in.  I do not have to be therm just knowing about it makes me happy.  Now I know why.

They are family.  They belong to a certain group, raised by me, and have shared experiences that I may or may not know about. And that is the way it should be.

Someday I may not recall all these memories that were tossed around last night like the buttery rolls.  I hope my youngest was listening so she can retell them.  I have the fortune of once being very close to our mother and hearing her stories that she did not want "the boys", my brothers to know.  They are old enough to handle them now, and I am old enough that I better tell them to someone before I forget.

My mom would have loved to have been there at dinner with us.  But would we have been so open and honest if she was there?  Absolutely.  That was how we were raised.  Very few secrets existed in our family, and if they did they were huge secrets worthy of being kept.

Last night I sat at the table and took it all in.  How we have all survived our adventures, and misadventures.

Last night I confessed to my daughter a few things, without a lot of choice.  Every parent must decide to let their children know more than just the parental side of them or not.  I have never really been one to abide by the strict parental role.  I love my children and want them to know me, and yes this comes with a past.

I also want my children to take some risks and create their own pasts.

One day I hope all five of my babies are sitting around a table sharing, wine, or margaritas and laughing over the shit they did when they were younger.

For now, they are younger.

For now, I get to enjoy the feeling of being with my family, my family of siblings.  It is one of the greatest feelings in the world to sit and laugh and know you are loved because of and in spite of my history.

Because with my family, we share the same history.  Only the view points change.

Pour the wine, tell the stories, embrace the family, close and extended.

You may regret some of your actions of your youth, but one day it may just end up a funny story that is part of a bond.