February 19th, 2010 Essay for the Blog
Who's gonna come to your funeral? Why are they gonna be there? What are they gonna say? Think? Feel? For real?
Will they celebrate your life? The things you've accomplished, lives you've touched? It's important to me only because my answers suck. Most of the guys I know who've died in the last fifteen years or so? I doubt they had much of a memorial service. Especially since they don't give convicts furloughs to attend homeboys' funerals.
Only the good die young, so my body's gonna be a wrinkly bag of bones, believe me. I always thought I'd die young. Once I hit twenty-five, I figured longevity was part of the punishment.
The part that tears me is that my life, leading up to now, has left me with a bunch of awareness of what I'm not. All the things I don't have, haven't achieved, or lost the chance at forever.
Stress is a way of life for me. Insecurity, doubt, fear, self, whatever . . . I wasn't always this way. I used to be good at meeting people, comfortable with my own skin. In other words, if I'd have died before the age of eleven, I'd have been all good. Standing room only at the 'planting,' ya know?
Thirty five is too old to try and learn how to live. Too old to have nothing. To realize there won't be many people going through changes to get to my funeral.
It's not that it matters in the grand scheme, I suppose. It's that, for so many years I saw no good in myself, and only after total immersion in pain & torture did I glimpse some [good in myself], finally. Finally.
Yet here I sit, in jail, awaiting transfer to a mental hospital, no less. Six months to life reads the penal code. Beaths the hell outta prison.
I have a circle though. Tiny, but tight. Real. It's not common, or easy to make friend in this life. The ones you often think are, or will be, turn out to have no concept of the word, or its value.
Technology makes it another degree of separation. Why put in the work when you can just delete someone & make no more with the touch of a button?
I don't know. I do know that it's a double-blessing to make friends with someone you're related to. Probably more & more uncommon, too.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
Thank You, Begrudged
Dear Used-But-New-To-My-Husband GMC Yukon of the Champagne Shade :
Though I consider you 'the other woman' I find I am yet able to like something about you. So, boo-yah! But let me get past a few things first.
He Googled you repeatedly, cruised by you often, showed you off to our son and our neighbors, bragging on your fine qualities and overlooking how high-maintenance you were likely to become on all fronts! He ogles me repeatedly, took me cruising often, showed me off to his family and friends, tells me I am of fine quality and overlooks how high-maintenance I AM on all fronts! While I was in Savannah with my Earth Divas for my first ever girls' trip, he brought you to our house; I found you there, lurking in the shadows as if I wouldn't spot you, but I played it cool and made no mention of your undesireable presence.
You're built like a brick house - literally. Maybe he thinks of you when that funky song fills the cab as you escort him to and fro. I can handle that because though you may have more 'up top' shall we say, I THINK my man still prefers the view of my backside best. You get him for a solid hour, alone, each work week morning freshly showered and each work week afternoon glad to be leaving; he's tired on both ends of the day when we are together but at least WE spoon. Oh, and though he lets others drive you around, he does NOT share me . . . 'nuf said.
But thank you for keeping him safe from those dangerous blind-spot-lane-changing 18-wheelers on the highway. Thank you for bringing him safely home to his wife of 21 years each and every weekday. Thank you for reminding him that while owning one's dream automobile is a dream, it can't fill every mid-life void and who'd really want that anyway? And, finally, thank you for hosting our road trip to New Orleans this year. Don't let your head gasket swell up when I tell you that those 20 hours I spent with my husband and you were better than our time of food and fun in The Big Easy. Hands down.
You made my anniversary trip.
Though I consider you 'the other woman' I find I am yet able to like something about you. So, boo-yah! But let me get past a few things first.
He Googled you repeatedly, cruised by you often, showed you off to our son and our neighbors, bragging on your fine qualities and overlooking how high-maintenance you were likely to become on all fronts! He ogles me repeatedly, took me cruising often, showed me off to his family and friends, tells me I am of fine quality and overlooks how high-maintenance I AM on all fronts! While I was in Savannah with my Earth Divas for my first ever girls' trip, he brought you to our house; I found you there, lurking in the shadows as if I wouldn't spot you, but I played it cool and made no mention of your undesireable presence.
You're built like a brick house - literally. Maybe he thinks of you when that funky song fills the cab as you escort him to and fro. I can handle that because though you may have more 'up top' shall we say, I THINK my man still prefers the view of my backside best. You get him for a solid hour, alone, each work week morning freshly showered and each work week afternoon glad to be leaving; he's tired on both ends of the day when we are together but at least WE spoon. Oh, and though he lets others drive you around, he does NOT share me . . . 'nuf said.
But thank you for keeping him safe from those dangerous blind-spot-lane-changing 18-wheelers on the highway. Thank you for bringing him safely home to his wife of 21 years each and every weekday. Thank you for reminding him that while owning one's dream automobile is a dream, it can't fill every mid-life void and who'd really want that anyway? And, finally, thank you for hosting our road trip to New Orleans this year. Don't let your head gasket swell up when I tell you that those 20 hours I spent with my husband and you were better than our time of food and fun in The Big Easy. Hands down.
You made my anniversary trip.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Somewhere Between Degas and Renoir
I made one of those curious discoveries which at once intrigues and delights. In this case, it also amuses.
Though I'm certain I purchased the weighty THE IMPRESSIONISTS: THE GREAT WORKS AND THE WORLD THAT INSPIRED HIM coffee table book on clearance at Barnes & Noble (the sticker residue is still on the lower-right corner of the front cover), how do I account for the Christmas greeting card stuck between its center pages? At first glance, the handwriting seemed familiar. Perhaps I stowed an errant card from my annual pile during a quick clean-up? Or, maybe one of the kids tucked it in there without thinking?
A quick study of the contents, skimming down to the signature, created not an answer to my questions, but instead generated more questions: who are Adelaide and Grampa? From where did this frankly written, quirky little missive come? And, why have I not actually read this handsome picture book before now? (Because if I had, surely I would have caught this scribbled interloper more than a decade ago, as the contents reveal a significant century change!)
I think I would have liked this Grampa character. He does not mince words or dramatize situations. Per my leaning toward length, I am an instant fan of his brevity. Is he still alive? Did his wife have #6 and was it her last? I hope his business picked up and grandkids once again opened holiday envelopes from gramps to discover dollars mixed in with his updated well wishes. And lastly, who was this mysterious recipient of many moves and locations, this person who was obviously an object of Grampa's stern affection?
Unless you know him, it all stops here. But, I rather feel I do know him. At least on cardstock.
"Grampa here: This is not a normal xmas. I'm at zero because of entrepenurial needs. I'll make up for it in time. Let's hear how things are going and theres high hopes your luck is good for a change. Hope the address is a good one. You change addresses like I change socks. Grama had #5 and is moving on. The big one is long overdue and it will be a blessing when it happens. The next four weeks may have a lot of turmoil with Y2K, terrorism and the start of depression. Lets just see if I am perhaps right in my guessing. Bless you all -- Adelaide, Gramps and the rest of the family
Though I'm certain I purchased the weighty THE IMPRESSIONISTS: THE GREAT WORKS AND THE WORLD THAT INSPIRED HIM coffee table book on clearance at Barnes & Noble (the sticker residue is still on the lower-right corner of the front cover), how do I account for the Christmas greeting card stuck between its center pages? At first glance, the handwriting seemed familiar. Perhaps I stowed an errant card from my annual pile during a quick clean-up? Or, maybe one of the kids tucked it in there without thinking?
A quick study of the contents, skimming down to the signature, created not an answer to my questions, but instead generated more questions: who are Adelaide and Grampa? From where did this frankly written, quirky little missive come? And, why have I not actually read this handsome picture book before now? (Because if I had, surely I would have caught this scribbled interloper more than a decade ago, as the contents reveal a significant century change!)
I think I would have liked this Grampa character. He does not mince words or dramatize situations. Per my leaning toward length, I am an instant fan of his brevity. Is he still alive? Did his wife have #6 and was it her last? I hope his business picked up and grandkids once again opened holiday envelopes from gramps to discover dollars mixed in with his updated well wishes. And lastly, who was this mysterious recipient of many moves and locations, this person who was obviously an object of Grampa's stern affection?
Unless you know him, it all stops here. But, I rather feel I do know him. At least on cardstock.
"Grampa here: This is not a normal xmas. I'm at zero because of entrepenurial needs. I'll make up for it in time. Let's hear how things are going and theres high hopes your luck is good for a change. Hope the address is a good one. You change addresses like I change socks. Grama had #5 and is moving on. The big one is long overdue and it will be a blessing when it happens. The next four weeks may have a lot of turmoil with Y2K, terrorism and the start of depression. Lets just see if I am perhaps right in my guessing. Bless you all -- Adelaide, Gramps and the rest of the family
Thank You Letters Second Series
Dear-Other-Ashley-of-the-Confused-Hit-and-Run:
A week ago, you pulled out of a parking lot in a hurry for somewhere and smashed your little truck into the side of my Ashley's vehicle where she was parked at a red light awaiting a left turn arrow on her way to work. You then left the scene for parts unknown but managed to call 911 for advice on how to handle the little situation. I want to thank you for not driving an overblown SUV or heavy double-cab pickup truck. I want to thank you for buying Geico with your money. I want to thank you for providing me with the opportunity to brush-up on my insurance knowledge. I'm even grateful for the impromptu visit to the ER. While awaiting medical treatment, me and both my girls squeezed in an afternoon nap and engaged in scintillating conversation to pass the slow ticking of minutes. And, all of us have enjoyed juggling our cars to fill the void left by the absent Pathfinder. The adjuster seemed like a nice enough fellow; I'm glad I don't have his job. You left me my daughter to live and fight traffic another day or several thousand. I am forever in your debt . . . and I'm genuinely relieved that you, too, are okay . We all have lapses in judgment!
You gave me pause.
Dear Witnesses-at-the-Scene-of-the-Accident:
The both of you were headed to your respective somewheres on that fateful February morning at the intersection of Broad Street and Medical Center Parkway. In fact, your attention was also focused on the arrow light awaiting a green-go-ahead left-turn order. Another second's pause and one of you could have been the blockage which thwarted the darting efforts of the smash-and-dash driver.
Mr. Military Man stationed right behind my daughter, you are a credit to your respective branch of the armed services as you swiftly ascertained the license plate number on that little truck as it slid down the side of my daughter's vehicle and dashed dazily on down the road. Thank you for checking on my first born and reacting with calm in the midst of instant drama. Thank you for putting such significant qualities to work for the good of our country. Thank you for expressing your willingness to be an on-the-record witness if ever she should need to call on you.
Miss Attitude who whipped her car right around and chased down the attack truck as it left the wreck in the opposite direction, you deserve an Oscar. (Oh! Is there still time to nominate you for this Sunday's awards show?) For your boldness in taking charge of the situation out of your innate sense of rightness -- thank you! For actually leaving the safety of your driver's seat and rapping sharply on the window of this escapee, "Excu-s-e me! Miss! You just hit somebody! You can't just LEAVE! Get back over there!" Knock, knock, knock . . . "Helloo-o! Miss, oh no you DIDN'T leave the scene of an accident!" -- both my admiration and my appreciation in equal generous measure. For returning to my daughter with the license number and whereabouts of the derelict dasher, thus allowing the police to retrieve her and place her back at the scene in person -- my thanks are not enough!
You gave me pause.
Dear Across-the-Street-Neighbor-Friend-Co-Worker-to-Ashley:
I was not the first on the scene for her.
I missed THE CALL from Ash because my silenced cell phone was not at my side. (This will come as a disbelieving shock to my friends who believe there is an umbilicus which extends from iPhone to my belly.) Fortunately, my husband happened to be in town on an errand that day; he was able to get through to me with the news. As he was without benefit of his hefty GMC Yukon (the very type of vehicle I am glad did not make contact with our 1995 Nissan SUV that Wednesday morn), the minutes of concern continued to tick on by until I had us both in the cab of our Chevy Silverado double-cab (yet another large-scale carnage-inflictor I'm grateful did not dent our daughter) and on our way to the scene. To drive up and find a familiar face there with our shaken and stirred girl . . . relieving her anxiety . . . conveying comfort . . . and ensuring her wholeness . . . thank you for hearing her call and answering. Thank you for always taking her under your wing. Thank you for understanding who she is and loving on her in such a Lordy way. I'm grateful for your back-up.
You gave me pause.
A week ago, you pulled out of a parking lot in a hurry for somewhere and smashed your little truck into the side of my Ashley's vehicle where she was parked at a red light awaiting a left turn arrow on her way to work. You then left the scene for parts unknown but managed to call 911 for advice on how to handle the little situation. I want to thank you for not driving an overblown SUV or heavy double-cab pickup truck. I want to thank you for buying Geico with your money. I want to thank you for providing me with the opportunity to brush-up on my insurance knowledge. I'm even grateful for the impromptu visit to the ER. While awaiting medical treatment, me and both my girls squeezed in an afternoon nap and engaged in scintillating conversation to pass the slow ticking of minutes. And, all of us have enjoyed juggling our cars to fill the void left by the absent Pathfinder. The adjuster seemed like a nice enough fellow; I'm glad I don't have his job. You left me my daughter to live and fight traffic another day or several thousand. I am forever in your debt . . . and I'm genuinely relieved that you, too, are okay . We all have lapses in judgment!
You gave me pause.
Dear Witnesses-at-the-Scene-of-the-Accident:
The both of you were headed to your respective somewheres on that fateful February morning at the intersection of Broad Street and Medical Center Parkway. In fact, your attention was also focused on the arrow light awaiting a green-go-ahead left-turn order. Another second's pause and one of you could have been the blockage which thwarted the darting efforts of the smash-and-dash driver.
Mr. Military Man stationed right behind my daughter, you are a credit to your respective branch of the armed services as you swiftly ascertained the license plate number on that little truck as it slid down the side of my daughter's vehicle and dashed dazily on down the road. Thank you for checking on my first born and reacting with calm in the midst of instant drama. Thank you for putting such significant qualities to work for the good of our country. Thank you for expressing your willingness to be an on-the-record witness if ever she should need to call on you.
Miss Attitude who whipped her car right around and chased down the attack truck as it left the wreck in the opposite direction, you deserve an Oscar. (Oh! Is there still time to nominate you for this Sunday's awards show?) For your boldness in taking charge of the situation out of your innate sense of rightness -- thank you! For actually leaving the safety of your driver's seat and rapping sharply on the window of this escapee, "Excu-s-e me! Miss! You just hit somebody! You can't just LEAVE! Get back over there!" Knock, knock, knock . . . "Helloo-o! Miss, oh no you DIDN'T leave the scene of an accident!" -- both my admiration and my appreciation in equal generous measure. For returning to my daughter with the license number and whereabouts of the derelict dasher, thus allowing the police to retrieve her and place her back at the scene in person -- my thanks are not enough!
You gave me pause.
Dear Across-the-Street-Neighbor-Friend-Co-Worker-to-Ashley:
I was not the first on the scene for her.
I missed THE CALL from Ash because my silenced cell phone was not at my side. (This will come as a disbelieving shock to my friends who believe there is an umbilicus which extends from iPhone to my belly.) Fortunately, my husband happened to be in town on an errand that day; he was able to get through to me with the news. As he was without benefit of his hefty GMC Yukon (the very type of vehicle I am glad did not make contact with our 1995 Nissan SUV that Wednesday morn), the minutes of concern continued to tick on by until I had us both in the cab of our Chevy Silverado double-cab (yet another large-scale carnage-inflictor I'm grateful did not dent our daughter) and on our way to the scene. To drive up and find a familiar face there with our shaken and stirred girl . . . relieving her anxiety . . . conveying comfort . . . and ensuring her wholeness . . . thank you for hearing her call and answering. Thank you for always taking her under your wing. Thank you for understanding who she is and loving on her in such a Lordy way. I'm grateful for your back-up.
You gave me pause.
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