The Blog Project

YAY.  Something new!  Something original!  


(But it's about all those old blogs I've been posting.  Sorry.)  


I decided to save the "best of" my old blogs in the event that the space where they were living closes my account for lack of logging in or because it might eventually succumb to the Church of Google.  Now, of course, they live permanently on a Google-hosted website so we're good, right? No midnight visitors named Larry?


Picking the "best of" required me to read through all of my old blogs and it was an odd experience.  Remember how in high school when you were a junior and you'd look back at your freshman class picture and think, "WOW, I was a dork.  Thank beans I'm SO much cooler now."  And then you look at your junior high school picture when you're a freshman in college and it's Cool Deja Vu all over again?  It was kinda like that.   


But, because those old shades of me have come to rest in my shiny new word outlet, it's a strange merging of my selves.  I think this is a good thing.  My writing tends to happen in spurts and there are often years between spurts.  And then, I look back and it feels like I'm reading the diary of someone I'm intimately familiar with but don't actually know.  And then and then (that was intentional), it all starts to feel somewhat mental illness-y.  That in and of itself is not so much an issue but I'll be damned if I'm going to wake up one morning in a cold sweat demanding to know just how many me-'s are out there.  So, here's my attempt to avoid The Three Faces of... Me-eve (*snicker*).  Rejoice.  


I leave you with one of my favorite poems: 


Roses are red,
Violets are blue, 
I am schizophrenic
And so am I.  

  

Goodbye to Gram

<Originally posted on March 4th, 2007>

The trip out here was tedious.  I detest flying and it seems like a secondary punishment when I'm already on a mission I'd rather not complete.  The flight was long but Edward and I were lucky enough to get three seats to ourselves so we weren't crammed into the personal space of others (something else I hate about travelling). 

Right before boarding, I got a call from my stepdad saying that Gram was now in a coma.  They couldn't treat the stroke damage because the medication was hurting her heart.  She was in no pain, but she was also no longer responsive.  I knew at that moment that she was really gone and I'd never share an amaretto sour with her again.

Mom and her husband picked us up from the airport and aside from a quick stop for food, we went straight to the hospital.  Making the trip through the glass walkway into the hospital was almost surreal.  The sunlight washed over us as we walked solemnly into the lobby.  Only two visitors were allowed in ICU and as soon as I stepped into Gram's room, I drew in my breath and clamped my hand over my mouth.  My eyes welled up with tears as I saw my Gram laying there..  looking so helpless and small.  Part of her face drooped from the stroke and her mouth was caved in because she wasn't wearing her dentures.  She looked like a faint shadow of the cigarette-smoking cursing Grandma I've known and loved.

For several moments, I couldn't even approach her.  It was too painful.  My mom and I sat and cried together for a bit.  When I felt slightly more composed, I asked for some alone time to say goodbye.   

I pulled a chair up to her bedside and quietly held her hand.  I remembered when I would stay over on Friday nights and we'd watch Falcon Crest.  I remembered how she'd also let me "do" her hair since she always had a hair appointment the next day and her stylist would say "Your granddaughter is staying over, isn't she?" because Gram's hair was a mess from my handiwork.  I remembered how she always called me "punkin".  I remembered how much she used to fawn over the letters and pictures I sent.  I remembered how annoyed she used to get when driving and complain about "the goddamn old people."  I remembered how she would order in Italian at one her favorite restaurants and how they always brought her a drink right away because she'd been going there for years.  I thought about what a spitfire she was and how glad I was that some of that rubbed off onto me. 

I told her how very much I loved her and how much she would be missed.  I told her that it was okay to go because I  know how much she missed Grandpa and wanted to be with him.  I told her that we all understood and we wanted what was best for her.  I told her that I couldn't say goodbye because that sounded a little too final.  I know that she'll always be with me... in one way or another.  I kissed her on the forehead and left the room. 

We headed over to Grandma's house to meet up with my cousins and uncle to start going through papers and collecting her valuables.  Grandma had left us something of a treasure map - we were to look in her manicure box for one set of papers and in a secret panel in her closet for another.  We had just started the process when the hospital called Mom.  We were all summoned back to the hospital and even though they weren't allowed to tell us, we all knew why we were going back. 

The chaplain gathered us in her room and as soon as I walked in, I realized the monitors were off.  Grandma's chest was no longer pumping forcibly up and down by the breathing machine.  It was over.  Based on the time of death, I figured out that Gram had passed about a half hour after I left her room.  She waited for me.  I know she did.  And I am so thankful that I got here in time to have some last words with her.  I'm thankful I got to hold her hand and tell her I loved her one more time. 

And now comes the mess...  the wills, the bank accounts, dividing up the life that took 85 years to create.  I think services will probably be on Wednesday.  But I don't think I'm going to stay for that.  I've had my final moments with her and don't need to relive that in a public setting.  Thankfully, Mom is supportive of my wishes and has said it's okay if I go. 

So, now I sit...  tired and exhausted, relieved and overwhelmed.  I'm not looking forward to my first realization in the morning when I remember that she is gone.  Tonight, I wonder if she is finally at peace.  I hope she's gone to find Grandpa and that they are dancing the night away.  Grandma, I love you and I miss you already. 

Sifting Through The Past

<Originally posted on March 5th, 2007>

I woke up this morning feeling like I'd never really gone to sleep (although I did).  I was immediately aware of where I was and what I'm doing here.  It was a pretty sad awakening but I was glad Edward was lying next to me.  His comfort and support have meant the absolute world to me on this trip. 

We rounded up the troops and headed down to Gram's bank to deal with account issues, wills and safety deposit boxes.  Afterwards, we went back to her house to sort through more things and work on funeral arrangements. 

It was strange to be in her house.  It smelled like her.  It felt like her.  And it seemed almost unbelievable that she would never again sit at her kitchen table to do a crossword puzzle.  The table and chairs were still askew from where the paramedics worked on her (she was at her kitchen table when the stroke occurred).  There were wadded up paper towels on the floor and I saw the vent that caused two lacerations on the side of her head when she fell. 

  

Mom asked me to look through drawers, closets and clothes in search of anything she might have hidden.  The family has decided to display a variety of pictures at her service so I was to look for any pictures that might be appropriate for that.  I also picked out things that I thought she might want to go with her - the bible from Grandpa's funeral and the framed picture of her and I from my wedding (I know she loved that picture of us). 

It was morbidly fascinating to sort through her things.  There were times when I got caught up in looking through old cards and costume jewelry only to suddenly remember what I was really doing.  I found that Gram had saved every single school picture that was ever taken of me (Edward took one of which he was particularly fond).  She had enough pantyhose and knee-highs to clothe an entire nursing home.  She had many packages of brand new items that had never been opened.  I'm guessing this was Depression-era thinking. 

I found pages and pages of phone numbers of people she'd never mentioned.  Mom commented at dinner tonight that she knew a lot more people than we thought.  It is starting to look like Grandma actually had a much more social and active life than the one she described. 

My uncle's wife and I picked out an outfit for Gram to wear.  We had to keep running from the bedroom to the front door because it's always so dark in Gram's house.  We bustled around trying to find the perfect outfit.  Would she want a skirt?  Or slacks?  We finally settled on a white and navy blue pantsuit.  There were yet more decisions.  Jewelry?  Underwear?  Do dead people wear underwear?  We agreed on jewelry and some hopefully appropriate underclothing.  When I was younger, I sometimes helped Gram pick out outfits, but this was another experience entirely. 

I needed a short break so I sat on the stoop with J for a while.  I'll always remember Gram waving to us from that stoop every time we left her house.  Every time.  Today is probably the last day I'll ever spend at her house. 

Most of the family left for the funeral home to make the final arrangements.  J and I were on our way back to Mom's place when I remembered the sculpture park.  I spent a lot of time there when I was in high school and I wanted to enjoy part of day outside in the sunshine.  As we arrived, it occured to me that I'd also gone there after my great-grandma passed away.  I suppose it's a place of comfort and familiarity for me.

Despite the depressive nature of the morning, our afternoon at the park was rather enjoyable.  The sculptures are pretty awesome and not unlike things you'd see at Burning Man.  The sun was shining and there was a cool breeze... gorgeous weather.  Being there with Edward really helped me decompress from the grim tasks earlier in the day. 

When we were on our way back to the hospital last night, I suggested to Mom that if Grandma did pass, we should have a family dinner at Gram's favorite restaurant.  So, that's what we're doing tomorrow night.  It'll be a historical moment since it's the first time in nearly 20 years that we'll all be in the same room at the same time.  I'm only sorry that it took Grandma's death to make this happen.  Family shouldn't be that way. 

I stuck to my guns about not attending the funeral.  My mom was disappointed (she changed her mind from yesterday) but she does understand.  I'm not entirely sure that anyone else understands why I'm not going but that's not important.  Gram and I had our time and as far as I'm concerned, that's enough.  What anyone else thinks about my absence is their problem.

I've surprised myself with how well I've handled this.  I've certainly shed my fair share of tears, but I'm not the walking mess that I expected to be (or maybe I just took care of that Saturday and Sunday).  I think it's fair to say the grief process has begun.  I keep running across old pictures of Grandma - she looks so vibrant and alive.  Even after the last two days, I still almost expect her to come into the room and ask what all the fuss is about. 

I forget who it was that said death is the grand leveler, but I have to agree.  This experience has definitely put me in touch with my own mortality.  I already work hard at surrounding myself with positive and rewarding relationships and this is yet another reminder that life really IS short.  I will work even harder to make every day count.  As Mom always says...  there are no guarantees in life - eat dessert first.  Amen.  

Spamalot

<Originally posted on December 3rd, 2007>


It's unfathomable to me that spam might actually work as a marketing tool, but I'm guessing there have to be SOME consumers or it wouldn't perpetuate as it has (kind of like my thought that McDonald's isn't really food but sheeploads of Americans pull up to the trough every day).  


My email account became overrun with spam a few years ago and I started using a spamblocker to weed out anonymous offers to sell me Viagra from my close friends who actually want to sell me Viagra.  I check my spam quarantine now and then in case emails get caught there by mistake or someone emails me and is afraid to hit reply when they get my white list request.  Many of the subject titles are boring, but quite a few crack me up.  Here are a few of my recent favorites:

Don't miss out!  Grow a monster in your pants for the new year!

Fuckstickmacroadela

You won't need to furtively put a sock in your trunks anymore.

Maze Cheap Rolex Leg

Please your wife with a really big shaft!

Do not be ashamed of your penis size.

WallopingPenisCyrus

The Volume of your Male Meat is Absolutely Essential!

MarianneSignificantDick

A guy with a small penis is the most unattractive thing ever

Turn your trouser mouse into a monster schlong in 2008!

Hilarious, aren't they?  But really, the uncanny thing is how these spammers KNOW that I'm ashamed of my trouser mouse and that my wife is unhappy.  I haven't told anyone about that.  It's a little scary to out myself like this but it had to happen sooner or later.  So there...  I said it.  I want a big scary monster schlong for Christmas.  And I'll sit on Santa's lap as long as it takes to get it. 

Radical Honesty or... Why I Think You Suck

<Originally posted on December 12th 2007>

In a world driven by an undercurrent of codependency and an innate desire not to be "that guy", I find radical honesty to be a refreshing concept.  For those of you that are unfamiliar with it, it's a movement started by Brad Blanton that encourages people to be completely honest in all relationships - both personally and professionally. 

I've heard someone comment that lies make the world go round.  And while that may true, I also think that perhaps we create extraordinary amounts of drama just because we're afraid to say how we really feel. 

I'm definitely an advocate of direct communication but sadly, I find myself also falling victim to the demands of diplomacy.  Telling the truth is scary, but it's also ridiculously liberating.  The people closest to me have the best chances of knowing how I really feel and being able to truly express myself can be intoxicating.  Everyone else is usually kept at arm's length and I play the political games that are both socially required and accepted. 

What if I refused to do this?  What if I popped the lid off of how I REALLY feel and suddenly became brazen about my feelings?  I'm actually tempted to articulate some of the many things about which I've bitten my tongue in the last year, but fear it would be perceived as passive aggressive (see?  there I go again). 

I think there is a fine line between being radically honest and simply being an asshole.  Blanton might argue that couching your feelings in diplomatic prettiness is just another way of avoiding honesty.  I would have to heavily disagree as I think most peoples' ideas of radical honesty would trigger all kinds of defensiveness.  It's important not to confuse radical honesty with constructive communication. 

There's a part of me that admires those who are bold and go into the world filter-less.  They were absent the day that diplomacy was handed out and they seem content to navigate the world without it.  I can think of several situations in the last year where radical honesty might have saved everyone involved a lot of trouble.  It certainly would have clarified things and everyone could have gone home knowing exactly where they stood.  Then again, it might have made an ugly situation even uglier.  Who knows. 

In the spirit of radical honesty, I'm going to note that I suspect Brad Blanton might be a blithering idiot.  Or not.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

<Originally published on December 30th, 2007>

So I had a little hair mishap over the Christmas holiday.  My stylist Stuart once again agreed to devote an entire day to making my hair abnormally and delightfully purple now that I no longer face the threat of Mexican sun and salty ocean water. 

Last time we did my hair, we learned that how much color you strip with the bleach really does matter in terms of color retention.  We applied the bleach and continued checking the strands.  I apparently have several very stubborn locks of hair that refused to submit to the lemon yellow the box recommends so we left the bleach on for an awfully long time. 

Oopsie. 

It never occurred to me that the bleach would completely fry the ends of my hair.  And really, given the noxious fumes of it and the extraordinarily descriptive name of BLEACH it's really fucking obvious yet I failed to think of it. 

So, upon washing it out, we discovered that my healthy hair had taken a zip line far far away and I was left with broken ends that begged for mercy.  (The other hair trauma was that the base color was way more purple than I anticipated so the contrast between the two colors was barely noticeable.)

I did the humane thing and put the ends out of their misery by snipping them off.  Except for one rather important thing - I am not a hairdresser.  I am a personal trainer and as it turns out, the two professions do not have a lot in common. 

So, it was time to see a professional.  I made an appointment for a salon near my house to have it cut by a real deal hair person who hopefully knew what she was doing. 

I met the keeper of my hair-fate, Jennae, at approximately 10:53 a.m. on Friday morning.  She proceeded to call me "honey" and "sweetie" about 45 times in the next hour.  Jennae probably had about 8 years on me which renders the whole honey/sweetie thing ENTIRELY inappropriate.  If you have blue hair and haven't had your own teeth for ten or so years, you can probably get away with the honey/sweetie thing.  You're pretty much a walking fossil and about to die anyway so I figure you can call me whatever you like. 

On top of her annoying and inappropriate familiarity, she felt it necessary to mention several times that I really needed to "lay off the dye" and that I shouldn't attempt any more haircuts on my own. 

REALLY!?!?!  Really?  She felt it necessary to mention this?  Wow.  Could the obvious train have run her down any faster?  Thank you Jennae for bringing this to my attention.  My real intent Friday morning was to waste an hour of my life with a dipshit like you giving me advice that I clearly don't need as I'm sitting in your goddamn chair to fix the things I fucked up.  God, what would I do without sages like you in the world? 

While I had been waiting for her, I had looked through a few hair magazines to give her an idea of styles I liked and directions I might like to go since we'd have to probably cut it quite a bit.  I showed her a picture and she gave me every indication that her own bleach job hadn't permeated her skull and that she understood what I was looking for. 

The haircut she gave me wasn't EVEN CLOSE to the picture.  Not even a little.  I was rather stunned when she handed me the mirror to see how short she'd made the back.  All rather short layers.  I don't know what to do with short layers.  I can't round-brush worth a shit without a third arm and if I had a third arm, I probably wouldn't be wasting it on my hair, if you know what I mean. 

Upon getting home, I decided that I hated my hair and I wouldn't be leaving the house for a couple of months and if I had to leave, I'd follow Michael Jackson's cue and cover myself up with a blanket.  I was also PMSing which didn't help matters.  (Note that you should never make any important decisions, judgements or phone calls under the influence of estrogen.) 

I have since decided that dipshit Jennae actually gave me a pretty decent hair cut although I'm not sure if she could have accomplished that without the smug condescension of fixing a botched job of "home hair color" (which she actually said at one point to the neighboring stylist and client).  What is even more amusing is that she thinks I will actually come back to her.  I went ahead and let her think that.  Live the dream, you know? 

My haircut is okay, I think - it just wasn't what I wanted or what I was expecting.  I've gotten lots of compliments on it so I guess it's not horrible.  I'm still not entirely sure what to do with it and I was petrified to wash my hair yesterday because I wasn't sure if I could recreate hair magic on my own (it looked alright when I fixed it). 

The moral of the story is that bleach actually does what you'd expect it to and if you leave it on too long, you may be compelled to pull a Britney Spears and shave your whole head (which I considered multiple times as I fought to comb through my blond-but-not-lemon-yellow mess).  The other moral of the story is that Jennae will have quite the story to tell after I break into her house and assault her with home hair color and a very unskilled haircut...  HONEY.