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.