It's Only Monday?

If it's only Monday, then why on God's Green Earth does it feel like a Wednesday?  Wednesdays are the WORST DAY OF THE WEEK PERIOD.  It feels like it's been a straight month of those nasty W-days.  But it is Monday.  The Hangout Festival is done - another file to move to the "past events" folder.  We went to gather our boxes today and the fences have vanished.  The smell of pot and body fluids has been replaced by fresh gulf breezes.  Traffic heading north on 59 was bumper-to-bumper.  Now that I've been here a year, I know and use the back roads to cut around the traffic.  I can't believe it's almost been a year.  The best, hardest year of my life.  The experiences I've had are priceless.  I can't sum up this job and people.  But I can tell you I've grown to love it.  I've gone through ups and downs, but I now see how precious time is. 

Nanny's been gone almost two months and I dream of her regularly.  In my dreams she is young, healthy and vibrant.  She holds court, laughs and drinks.  I wish I never deleted any of her voice mails.  I have two on my phone that I listen to when I'm afraid I forgot her voice.  In one message she's stoic - clearly in pain and suffering but denying it.  I inherited this trait.  We'll talk more about it another time.  In the second VM, she's inquiring about the weather.  "Call me back," she states before pressing the "end call" button.  I still am in denial.  I still can't believe one of my constants is no more.  But I have felt her presence with me often.   It's comforting and calming.  And it reminds me to close the bathroom door.

With Booty Camp on break, I opted for tennis tonight.  My little heart lit up when the wonder kid asked me to be her partner for Olympics (one of the cardio games we play).  Blake is about 11 and is a phenom in the scientific sense of the word.  I was over the moon excited.  So excited that I tripped on a ball, twisted my ankle and pulled some tendons in my knee.  But, like Nanny, I hopped up and shook it off.  This was fine throughout the rest of class.  Then I got to the grocery store and realized that I had no dog food or the ability to walk.  This was fine with the cart, but when it came to climbing the single flight of stairs to my apartment, I was a hot mess.  To top it off, the lights in the walkway are not working and I left the keys in the car, all the while it was storming.  Some times things just SUCK.  I have been doing kick-ass with my training and I hope this doesn't delay my progress.

That is all for tonight.  Do you watch Family Guy?  I love this shit.  Now I've said all there is to say.

On Death, Loss and Vodka

                In my earliest memories of Nanny, she’s wearing a rainbow colored muumuu, smoking, and drinking an adult beverage out of a highly etched glass.  I’m about five; we’re at the family home in South Huntsville, on Linbrook Drive.  A big pool fills the back yard; here we spend most of the day splashing and lounging.   Fast forward three decades and I’m standing at a podium, attempting to gain my composure.  The words on the yellow sheet stare back at me.  I begin to read:  I am the ninth descendant of my mom’s mom and consider myself fortunate to spend 38 years as her granddaughter.

                With a few deep breaths I completed the eulogy, returned to the wooden pew and cried.  My uncle placed his hand on my shoulder.  I cried harder.  Nanny was gone.  I was sad.  We were all sad.  We weren’t shocked.  Her death came slowly, the last year of her life filled with hospital stays and pain. 

                My aunt called on Sunday just after 3:30 p.m.  Twenty-six hours later I found myself at Nanny’s apartment as her body released its final breath.  We each kissed her forehead and wished her well on the journey ahead.  The next days were purely functional: airport trips, errands, laundry, and boxing up what she left behind. 

                Nanny wasn’t the kind of grandparent who sat you down and taught you how to behave, how to play fair, how to reach your goals.  She was stoic, independent, proud, and resilient.  During her life she married a soldier, saw the world, and raised five kids.  She was an avid reader and loved 24-hour news channels.  She knew I was stubborn and strong willed, but was absolutely proud of me.  I was hard for her to figure out and she wasn’t afraid to ask me questions about my life.  My most painful and cherished memory of her happened as we were driving over Four Mile Post to my aunt’s house.  We were talking about my guy friend and she asked, “How is it that you have all these guys as friends, but you can’t get a lover?”  I chuckle incessantly now.  Eleven years ago it ripped my heart apart.  Throughout our times together, she’d continue to ask colorful questions.  I both loved and hated this quirk of hers.  Now I miss it.

                As I write this, it’s been two weeks and two days since she passed away.  I understand this, that she is gone.  I completely get it.  I was there and saw her go.  But I cannot believe she is gone.  I have swung through the traditional phases of grief, only to land back at the starting point: denial and disbelief.  I’ve found myself laying in the quiet only to have my inner voice state the obvious:  Nanny is gone.  She’s not there in her apartment, with the TV on too loudly, hooked up to oxygen.  She is gone, on to the next phase, reunited with her husband, youngest son, sisters, and parents. 

                All I have left are two rings, a book on singles of the Bible, and four bottles of vodka.  The rings were in a white envelope with my name written across the front.  The book was uncovered as we cleaned the house and I insisted on stealing it as a joke.  The vodka doesn’t even represent half of what she had left in her stash.  I will keep with me the traits I inherited: saying the wrong thing, being independent, and watching too much news. 

                I miss her.  My heart aches for the loss.  But at night, when the voice in my head comes to break the silence to remind me of her absence, I’ll quickly follow it up with a few words from my heart: she was so proud.  That will wrap around me as I travel through grief and keep me safe, just as she’d wish.

The Fun in Dysfunctional

For work, we drive a lot.  Have I mentioned this?  I rarely drive my personal car, instead opting for one of three pool cars.  My favorite is the 2102 Taurus.  It is a powerful, comfortable car.  My other option is the Dodge Caravan.  It sucks.  In the Ford, I look sleek and sophisticated.  In the van I look like a granny.  In the Ford, awesome music always plays.  In the van, it's non-stop commercials, John Tesh, and REO Speedwagon. As I wrote this, four of us were in the van, heading to a chamber of commerce meeting. Even after working in a chamber of commerce for four years, I now spend more time in chamber meetings and luncheons.  We each were tired; everyone seemed a little grumpy and irritated with each other.  To counteract this, I sang along to the music:  Center field.  Put me in coach, I am ready to play, today.  I can be center field.  I won.

____
After work, I got home and took the boys on their walk before I went to class at the gym.  Poncho and I had the following conversation:

P:  Where are you going?
Me:  To class.
P: I want to go to class.
Me: What kind of class?
P:  Philosophy.  Architecture.  Cooking.
M:  Why do you want to take those classes?
P:  I have a lot to learn and some times feel like I'm being left out of conversations.
M:  Who do you have conversations with about philosophy, architecture and cooking?
P:  I just watch a lot of TV when you're not here.
_____

I go a lot of classes.  Yesterday we discussed tennis.  Tonight's class was super cardio.  I've dropped about 23 pounds since moving here.  I have about 30 more to go, but it's just one mile at a time.  At class tonight, there was the girl who made me cry a few months back - made me cry because she commented on how much I sweat.  Well.  Ever since then, she's reminded me of her comment by pointing out how much I sweat and how little she does.  One day, I was telling my trainer about this.  And informed me that she has some mental development issues.  Probably some glandular ones, too!

Today, my trusty black work pants have been laid to rest.  As I was wearing them, and continually pulling them up, I noticed my thong was hanging out of my pants - all over, not just in the back.  It's also time to let this particular thong go.  I've had it for years (or is it them?).  Anyone who has done my laundry can tell you that I have tons of underwear options.  This is because that I always buy new ones before I go on a trip AND some times, I go on trips and forget to bring panties.  In the case of forgetting panties, I go get cheap things at Wal-Mart.  My preferred brand comes from Target - silky cotton things of which I now own at least 25 pairs. 

Oh, and in case you're wondering, no one does my laundry.  However, if there were classes to teach dogs how to do laundry, I know one pup who'd be signed up in a heartbeat.

Oh, Really?

Who am I?  It's 16 minutes before 10 p.m. and I'm watching Justin Beiber on The Voice.  All four facts listed in the previous statement are absolutely true.  Two of them are a little unbelievable.  I am really watching Justin Beiber on The Voice?  Ugh.  Who am I?  I committed to watching this show on accident.  It comes on before Smash, my most favorite new show.  I stuck with The Voice.  I have no reason.  It is what it is. 

I spent part of the day on the road.  This is what I realize:  life is like drving.  Just get the fuck out of my way and we'll all be okay.  Don't lollygag in front of me.  Move the fuck over.  Aren't familiar with the term lollygag?  It was one of my nanny's words.  She also said you were telling "gollywoggles" when you made up stories.  But her favorite saying was, "Who's picking me up?"  It's been about five weeks since she's passed away.  I do miss her deeply.  Every few days she sends me a sign that she's right next to me.  I always told her give me a sign and she's kept true to her promise.  I can't wait to see what other kind of trouble she stirs up.

Prior to planting my ass on the couch, I went to cardio tennis.  I LOVE TENNIS.  I played for a few months about 10 years ago.  I have a coach I see every few weeks.  We work on swings and positioning.  But playing is where I come alive.  Tremendous improvement is apparent each class.  I love the sweat it produces and the stress it releases.

Well, the winner has been announced and I'd like to just declare that I called it.  I called it!  Now he's going to sing some R. Kelly.  The perfect way to wash that Bieber out of my ears!

Today, I cried. Err. Today, I sobbed, heaving sobs.

Eleven months ago, I made the decision to move from my family, my home, my friends, my life, and everything that was safe and dear and close.  Today I want it all back.  Today, for the first time in many months, I want to go home.  I miss my friends with an aching I can't describe.  I miss their laughter, their kids.  I miss how I never had to try.  I miss their homes, as they were always open to me.  I miss my sweet neighbor Mr. Vickers and how he always took care of me.  I miss my garage and my kitchen and my bedroom with my mural that I painted.  I miss the hardwood floors and the old tube television.  I miss my music, my dining room, my yard.  I miss my aunt's Sunday night dinners.  I am missing my Nanny's final days.

I miss everything with a pain I can't swallow.  I missed all of this at the beginning.  But I adapted.  I adjusted.  I lifted myself out of that pain and pushed forward.  Now I can't see through the tears.

I want little Sam to curl up next to me and play games.  I want to drink silly vodka drinks and laugh with his mom.  I want to be with that one person who is my safe place.  I want to listen to Hollie bitch about Starbucks coffee, talk about her wedding plans, and to be there when she ties the knot.  I want to laugh with Amy and be creatively inspired by Jules.  I want to sit with Alison, knowing she is my trusted confidant. I want a grilled salmon dinner with a kick-ass salad and homemade dressing. 

But they're all so far away.  And I am here.  And I made this decision.  And tonight I miss everything so terribly much.  I woke up in a sad mood.  Whether it was the weather or the hormones, today was a rough one.  Capping it all off, someone at the gym asked me "Why do you sweat so much?" Before the comment sank in, we were into downward dogs and crossovers.  Nonetheless, the tears started.  "Because it's just the way my body is," I thought to myself.  "Oh and it's 900 fucking degrees in here. And we're working our asses off, fucking fuck."  I kept my cool, making it to the car before the sobbing started.

Long before I made the decision to leave Huntsville, I knew it was time.  The months before the move were the darkest of my life.  Something had to change.  Did it ever.  Leaving behind everything for a year sounded easy.  One year.  At the beach.  Come home.  That one year mark is approaching and there is no end in sight.  It hurts.  The loneliness absolutely hurts.  It oozes freely out of my pores.  And like my sweat, it is mopped up quickly, in hopes no one sees it.  But tonight there is no holding it back. 

I miss everything.  I miss it all so much.  I want that to be known.  I know I can't take back this decision.  I'm here now.  I'm in this.  When the tears with stop, I'll take some deep breaths and push forward.  Much work is to be done and to that I remain committed.  I will be stoic and proud.  But, I'll still miss you.

Party of One - Published in Valley Planet, January 2012

The New Annual List

                We’ve rung in the New Year and let’s face it – you’ve made your resolutions.  You are really going to stick to it this year.  Good for you.  I’m not.  I’m not even going to make that list of what I’ll do this year.  I’m taking a new approach in 2012.  I’m making the opposite of a Bucket List.  While the name I call it in person rhymes with Bucket List, for this column, we’ll call it the Anti-Bucket List.  The following is a list of things I refuse to do this year and hopefully beyond.
                1. Noodling.  Have you seen this God Awful Adventure?  It is my version of Hell.  It is fishing for catfish using your hands.  I came across this wicked phenomenon while flipping through the TV channels.  It starts with a group of 4-6 strangers arriving in the rural South.  I am totally fine with that part.  Here’s where my version of hell begins:  the soon-to-be fishers sleep in camping trailers during this escapade.  The next morning starts with the group accompanying the hosts into muddy water (ughck), then they individually stick their bare feet (uhhgck) into caves in hopes of luring the catfish toward them.  Once they’ve lured the fish, the fisher sticks their hand into the muddy water cave and if the heavens have their way, the catfish chomps down on their limb.  At this point they pull their arm and attached fish above the surface to show off their catch.  Did I mention that throughout this excursion the hosts, who are teeth-impaired, have their hands all over the fishers?  And the water is so deep that the muddy liquid ebbs around their face and INTO THEIR MOUTHS?  No way.  Noodling, you and I will never, ever, ever, ever have the pleasure of meeting.  This is why you’re atop the anti-bucket list. 
                2.  Appear on America’s Got Talent.  I have talent.  My talent is knowing that the title of the show is grammatically incorrect.  But my bigger talent is writing.  Writing and the act of writing doesn’t translate onto American television.  This is the scene that is taking place right now:  I’m a bit stinky from my evening run.  I’m wearing blue, flannel pajama pants, a granny sweater, and a purple tank top.  My hair, which also stinks, is up in a pony tail; but my bangs are tucked behind my right ear.  I am sitting on my tan couch, with my legs propped up on the discount ottoman.  Modern Family is on the television and I’m belly laughing at it.  The laptop is on my lap and I’m easily distracted by the missions I’ve got to complete in Zombie Lane.  The Hoff would not buzz me through to the next round.  Now that Howard Stern is apparently judging the talent, I stand no chance.  This I know.  I’m cool with it.  I know I have talent. 
                3.  Lunch with a famous person.  We’ve all had dreams of lunching, dining or drinking with our celebrity hero.  I do not.  I’ve met famous people.  Through my current job, I’m meeting a few more.  But here’s the thing about really famous people:  most of them really just want to talk about them or listen to you talk about them.  No thanks.  If I’m going to get all gussied up for a meal with a stranger, it better be someone with whom I can have engaging conversation.  I’d much rather laugh, ponder, and opine with my dearest friends.  Famous people, you can have them.  I’ll take the real people.
                4.  A potpourri:  run a marathon; I’ve done eight half-marathons, that’s enough.  Post pictures of my naked self online.  Read self-help books.  Sleep on the street (this is important now that I’m so close to New Orleans).  Eat pâté.   Have low expectations.  Micromanage my future.   Never make references to The Office.  Give up television.  Wear pleather.

                This is just a brief list of what I’ll never do not just this year – but forever more!               

      

After Glowing ... Still

I checked the race results online today to assure myself of a few things:
1.  I really did win my age group
2.  I wasn't the only one in my age group

Yes, there were fifteen women in my group.  The second and third place finishers came in within two minutes (after me).  When the awards ceremony was held, I was the only female who came up to the stage.  See:

Yes, that's Olympian Johnny Gray in the hat.  Note the difference in my body and the male top finisher.  He's fit and fast.  Seeing this picture has inspired me to get my ass back to running daily.   I do want you to know that I did not run in that skirt.  I changed after the race because ... well, let's get personal here ... running makes you sweat.  I hate the smell of any bodily secretion.  Knowing that I'd have to stay after the race, I grabbed this skirt and granny panties on the way out of the house.  It was windy.  I am sure my hanes her ways were seen by those downwind of me.  Hate it for ya, especially since it blew up several times when I was in the food line.  Trying to balance a plate whilst pouring shrimp goodness over my grits of course brought on a massive burst of wind, thus forcing the skirt to fly.  At that moment, shirmp and grits outranked pride.

But here's the thing.  I always watch the beginning of seach season of Biggest Loser.  Because of this, I know what most people look like nearly naked.  The lyrca that holds their parts in place can't disguise the years of bad decisions that landed them on those scales.  Everytime I see an overweight person, I imagine them on those scales.  Their arms can't lay flat at their sides.  They waddle up the stairs.  Their bellies covering their fun parts.  Also, I live in a beach town.  So if my cotton skirt flew up, exposing my panties, so be it.  I'm sure we've all seen much worse on the shore and television.

I do want to thank my (only non-work) friend, Dianne, for taking this picture:

I saw her on the sidelines as we were waiting for the race - once I noticed the camera, I posed like I was some deseperate reality star.  Apparently so did #1130.  I think I pulled it off better, thanks to the hip pop.

I received a call from a publisher today, one day after I decided to write my book.  God's clearly got me on his "been nice" list.  I'll be getting in touch with them tomorrow to see what they have to say.  I guess this paragraph should really be the lead story, but the other stuff was so much more fun.