Happy Appreciate Your Mother Day

Mom died five years ago today.

I don't like the world nearly as much without her.

Anytime I sit and think about it, I'm so grateful I got a chance to say goodbye and to tell her how much I love her before she left.

Take a moment and tell someone you love just how much, even if you think they already know.

The less regrets in life, the better.

Happy Mom's Day

November 7, 1940 - February 22, 2006.

A Brief Respite from the Hilarity

Dear Friends,

Holly, my newly-minted stepsister-in-law† has been Hodgkin's-free for 13 years.

Mom had Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma before she died nearly four years ago.

In a fit of bonding and in honour of the big ol' empty space where Mom used to be, I'm walking on Holly's team‡ in Light the Night on October 1 in Wash Park here in Denver.

As my uncle, the motivational speaker§ says, "If you don't ask, the answer is always no."¶

I ask that if the cause speaks to you and the timing is right, please click the giant Light the Night button over there on the right and use me as a conduit to donate.

I'll be thankful if you would like to participate and utterly unruffled if you don't.

Thank you for your time. Now go ask someone to tell you a good priest/rabbi/bar joke.

XOXO
M

p.s. -- next week I *promise* pictures of Dr. Doom and a completed knitting project.#


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): One of the not-evil ones.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): The cleverly-named "Holly Holly Hodgkin's Free"

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): I am not making this up.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Though I don't hesitate to point out to him that sometimes it's better to beg forgiveness than ask permission. In that case, the whole "no" question is moot.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Because it's been well established that knitting pictures make everything better.

I Hate This Time of Year

Every day when I wake up and realise she's not here, I still can't imagine how I will possibly make it to the next day. Dad can get a new wife. I'll never have another Mom.

Break a Leg

No, don't.†

At least that's what Mom always used to tell me when I'd start a day's skiing.

"When we were in Gunnison,‡ the broken legs always started coming in around 5:30 because those skiers had to get one. last. run. in before the lifts closed and they were too tired. You don't need to take that last run."

If Mom was watching me knit lace, she'd probably say the same thing.

[SUMMARY: Holidays bring out the Mom in me.]

I swear it's two steps forward, one back.

Or sometimes one forward, three back.§ Depends on how late I'm lace knitting.

[SUMMARY: Maths. It sounds like maths.¶]

See, it's a 10-row pattern. I try to always work five rows at a time so I know where to start when I pick it up again.

Except sometimes I'm all groovy and rhythm-addled and I think I should finish a whole pattern or start a new one at, say, 10:00.

That's where the trouble starts.

Currently, I am ignoring the Purple Prose scarf, as I appear to have dropped a stitch that ran down three or four rows and I haven't had the motivation or presence of mind to sit down and figure out where the YOs are and where the k2togs are so I can pick it up all pretty.

I also haven't been able to bring myself to frog and tink my way back to pristine ground.

I *really* need to start a mindless knitting project so I have something to do after ten o'clock that won't land me in the metaphorical ER.

[SUMMARY: Deep. Very deep for a Tuesday.]

Anyway, just thought I'd let you know I'm still knitting.#

XOXO
M

*************

Cabaret - Grès (edp)

Marin says: This perfume is confirming and solidifying an internal game I play with myself.% You've played along too, but maybe you didn't know it.

There are scents that are remarkably similar, only I *think* most people wouldn't agree. I can't think of any off the top of my head, except... this is supposed to be a woody rose or a rose chypre,†† depending on who you read, but I get a remarkably transparent patchouli.

Patchouli was my first guess,‡‡ and when I read roseroserose§§ all over the Innernets, I closed my eyes, breathed deep and said, "Oh, yeah. I can see that."¶¶ Some roses do have that itchy, sharp, camphoresque smell like patchouli. But this one isn't as thick and wet as "other" patchoulis -- it's dry and, yes, woody. Like rose and cedar, maybe.

Which, by the by, smells like a remarkably transparent patchouli.

It starts in camphor, spreads out into a dry, pencil shaving cedar with a hint of something sweeter, then brings the powder up from the rose as the amber rounds up from the depths to finish it off.

I rather like it.^ And it falls in the increasingly rare category## of "wearable" for me.

Grès says: Michel Almairac, the famous perfume creator, has pursued his vision to create a new classic based on rare natural materials. The result is a truly exceptional woody-floral fragrance with an ambery inflexion.

Hans says: I'm losing it. They're all starting to smell alike. Unless... is this a popular thing? [yes] It smells familiar. That's what I have to say about it. It's familiar. What is it? [well, I get a lot of camphor, so it's probably patchouli]. Yeah! I get camphor too. You can tell them I get that too. [You know I quote you directly, right?]†††


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I have some weird theatre-skiing continuum scrambling my clever cortex right now. I need an Advil.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Ski college town. Hatching ground of your dear ol' AntiM. And where I went to college. Legend has it it's where I must go to spawn and die.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): I'm very suspicious there's a lot of four in there, actually.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): And fours.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Which makes this... still a knitblog!

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Raise your hands: who went all twelve on me there? Besides the playing with myself thing, this also marks the taking of my little perfume hobby to a whole new level: decanting and swapping perfumes. This is in a batch of perfumes recently swapped with my very worst influences. Yay, obsession!

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): And if I had bothered to brush up on chypre *before* I linked it for your convenience I might have noticed three things:

1. Chypre is French for cypress, and cypress is a sharpish scent that, according to some very welcome knowledge laid upon me by the inimitable Nathan Branch, may have some aesthetic common ground with camphor/patchouli, being sharpish,
2. Modern chypres may include patchouli, and
3. Saying "woody rose" and "rose chypre" is a little like trying to distinguish between a cheese sandwich and bread with cheese.

I'll do my research up front next time. You're welcome.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): And it may have to do with having just read Nathan's (yes, I feel we're on a first name basis) email on benzoin vs. camphor vis-a-vis patchouli. Hey, if I wasn't a slave to the power of suggestion, I wouldn't be so enthralled by Limited Edition! Limited Quantities! Goodie bag for the first fifty attendees!

§§FOOTNOTE (spiralling petals): That one's for you, Mary Kay.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (like stoppers in a flacon, so are the days of our lives): Um... smell that.

^FOOTNOTE (careted): And I love the bottle, as pictured on the website:




##FOOTNOTE (there's my pounds of flesh): You know how people tell their kids some things are for holding and some things are for looking? Well, the more I smell, the more I think some perfumes are for sniffing and some are for wearing. And those that are for sniffing aren't all bad -- just not our kind, darling.

†††FOOTNOTE (triple dipping): All this took place before I did my research, of course. Hans has been subsequently educated.

The Zen of Fried Things

TTHFCIF

I was listening to XM Comedy on the way in this morning, and Jake Johannsen was riffing on toilets in China that are, for all purposes, porcelain holes. He speculated that there is a factory in China that makes... holes.

It took me back suddenly† to the first time I heard of doughnut holes. I was nine, Brother was four. Mom had driven to Tomball during the school day% to pick up a paycheck‡ and she was telling me that Brother had sat at the counter of the Woolworth's§ and eaten a dozen doughnut holes.

I laughed and laughed. First I thought it was some kind of expression, like, "tilting at windmills."

"Oh, that kid. He could sit and eat doughnut holes by the dozen."

Then I thought she was pulling my leg.¶ Hey, I'd heard the Burl Ives song. A doughnut hole is nothing. It's the place where the doughnut isn't. It's air. It's a zen koan of a lack of doughnut.

[SUMMARY: I was young, I was naive in the ways of doughnut holes.]

But the point is not doughnuts.# The point is nature vs. nurture.††

Dork is like gay: you're born that way. Nobody can make you a dork, nobody can make you *not* a dork. You are or you aren't.&

[SUMMARY: How zen.]

The doughnut or the hole.‡‡

*************
BPAL - Seraphim (sin & salvation)

Marin says: For an oil, this isn't bad at all. It's strange how much I like the very banal, very classic^ rose and sandalwood in the middle of this scent. It starts -- like most of them do -- with a very heavy incense smell.@ After a half-hour or so, it's very rosy, tempered by a good dose of sandalwood. I think I'd like it better if it was a bit more rose and a bit less sandalwood, but I kinda dig it. After a couple of hours, it fades to an old-lady aura. Not a bad smell, just not sexy or compelling.

ETA: But... OK, so with the oils, I dab a bit on my inner elbows and I put a healthy drop on my wrists.§§ Then I drip a little down my cleavage. Right this second,¶¶ the waft from my cleavage is intoxicating. To me, at least. I think the scent that doesn't get bruised on the wrist wrests## doesn't get so powdery.

I am so in love with myself right now.

Black Pheonix says: A perfume sacred to the highest of the angelic hosts: calla lily, wisteria, white sandalwood,$ Damascus rose$ and frankincense.

Hans says: That smells like baby powder.* You writing this down? Baby powder.
*************


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): With a ripple of the horizon and Wayne's World beedledeedledee noises.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Just to explain why I wasn't there myself.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): She stopped working when I was two, but was never one of those happy SAHM types. Dad wanted to provide, she wanted to nurse. She won.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Remember when Woolworth's had lunch counters? Remember Woolworth's? God, we're old.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Our family is known for its teasing, taunting ways. I come by it honestly.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): It rarely is.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Seriously.

&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): I am Dork Yoda.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): I'm not committing to which part of dork/not dork is the doughnut and which is the hole.

^FOOTNOTE (careted): Not always the same thing, but in this case, classic seems banal.

@FOOTNOTE (atted): Is that frankincense?

§§FOOTNOTE (swirling from betwixt my boobs): When I use an EDT, I generally spray it all those places, then on the back of my neck, right near my hairline. Mostly because it's a very sensitive place for me and if anyone is going to nuzzle me, I want them to nuzzle me there.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (two little decants, all in a row): One o'clock in the afternoon... about six hours after application.

##FOOTNOTE (pounded like the M on my keyboard): Kim! The glow-in-the-dark pig with 42 hearts smells like a French whorehouse! In a good way!

$FOOTNOTE (right on the money): Ha! Got one!

*FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Hans usually doesn't get to the scents until they've been fading for a few hours. He skipped the rose and went straight to the old lady.

Famine to Feast

Ain't that just the way it goes?

Nothing to say,† no wisdom to impart,‡ no pictures to share, no good news, no nothing... then *BAM! *

Something!

And on a short week! When I spent the first blogday§ in Wisconsin! Eating Swedish meatballs!¶ When I should have been catching up! It's not even news anymore, people!

[SUMMARY: I'm late, I'm late for a very important date...]

So I'm putting myself on a very strict schedule:

1. Tuesday: brief mention of Wisconsin, birthday recap


2. Wednesday: Nintendo party (with pictures!)


3. Thursday: knitting#

...then I won't be too far behind†† going into the holiday weekend and Lake Week. And then I won't have to sweat and panic and worry about protocol and how do I do this and can I combine and is this boring or important or funny or think of the children and...

[SUMMARY: This is what the inside of my head looks like every night when I try to go to sleep.]

Most birthdays are disappointing in some lingering way.

It seems there's always something I really wanted I didn't get or someone who cancelled on my party at the last minute or I don't even get a birthday cake or a bad day at work.‡‡

Etcetera.

Despite my lifelong commitment to "please don't fuss," I do like acknowledgment.

You know Dante's constant refrain in Clerks? Well, there have been a lot of birthdays where I really wanted to whine a birthday version of, "I'm not even supposed to be here today!"

For many of my childhood birthdays, none of my friends were in town, so a birthday party was impossible.

When I turned eight, I'd lost a bunch of school library books and Mom told me I could either find a way to pay for them myself or forego a birthday party that year and have her pay my piper.§§

When I turned fourteen,¶¶ Mom made me pick strawberries in the backyard for dinner.

For one, I absolutely hated picking strawberries: dirt, hot, spiders... hated.

For two, I never heard her stick her head through the back door to say, "Your brother and I are going to run some errands. We'll be back in a little while."

So when I got finished with my horrible drudge strawberry duties, I went inside to find I'd been abandoned.

Abandoned.

On. My. Birthday.

[SUMMARY: I'm not even supposed to be here today!]

I was grounded for my sixteenth birthday, in serious Mom-not-speaking-to-me trouble for my 21st, cancelled upon in a most last-minute of ways by my stupid boyfriend for my 24th, nursing broken ribs and a nasty black eye by the hand of my roommate for my 25th, too hot to bake a cake for my 40th... and after Mom died, nobody called at midnight anymore to sing me happy birthday.

[SUMMARY: see, "‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed)," below.]

This birthday was as close to perfect as we're likely to see in our collective lifetime.&

I got Secret Pal's package.

I got acknowledgment-without-fuss at work.

I got Kim's cranes.

I got the lovely comments right here from all y'all.

On the way home, I listened to Secret Pal's CD. Holy cow, can that girl sing. And she did... she sang me a Marin birthday song with my name and angels and everything. It ranks up there with the coolest birthday gifts EVER.%

*************
NOTE TO SECRET PAL: Yes, you pronounce my name correctly. I love the disc and as I got deeper into it, I thought, "I'll have to tell Secret Pal about The Duhks.## I bet she'd like The Duhks."

And then there were Duhks.
*************

When I got home, my dad had called mid-morning to sing Happy Birthday to me on my voice mail.^

I met Bag Lady Kathryn at the Coral Room for dinner and wine, which was lovely all by itself. She brought me flowers and a card.†††

And they'd had a wine tasting dinner on Tuesday that hadn't been as popular as they'd hoped, so they did a mini version Friday -- three courses, each with wine. That's what I had.

And I got a birthday card from the Coral Room signed by all the waiters and bartenders and dishwashers and all the people I know and love at my favourite bar.

And Brother showed up and had a couple of glasses of wine with us. I told him we'd be there and to drop by, but I figured being sans wife as he was, he probably had all sorts of bacheloresque activities with his single friends planned and I never, ever would have bet a single dollar he'd show up. But he did. And he was charming.

And Kelley came and we had some drinks. There were shots.

And my pheremonally-charged‡‡‡ vampire§§§ of an ex-boyfriend¶¶¶ took me home and I got laid on my birthday for the first time ever.###

[SUMMARY: Ringing in my own personal new year right.]

When I got home Saturday morning, an orchid I was sure I'd maimed for life and would eventually have to throw out had budded. I'm pretty sure overnight.

It's going to bloom again.

[SUMMARY: *WHAM!* Don't let the symbolism catch you upside the head.*]

When I got to the Coral Room for Saturday brunch, I had SuzyQ all to myself for awhile and there were special cocktails and free food and... it just wrapped everything up so nicely.

[SUMMARY: Birthdays need not be constrained to a single day. I like Birthday Season.]

I'm still all glowy and content -- like those Buddha statues@ people put in their Feng Shui decor. I feel just how they look.

If you can swing it,$ I highly recommend getting laid on your birthday.

Double points if he smells like burnt sugar and almonds and will rub your feet while you watch War Games.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Not that that stopped me from babbling on.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I'm not necessarily including the extensive Rush slurp in the "wisdom" thing, though I clearly think it counts.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): That would be Monday, for those of you who haven't caught on to how little commune I have with a computer on weekends.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Entire menu: Baked chicken (skin on) with festive parsley flakes, Swedish meatballs, mashed potatoes, corn, white rolls... a tiny bowl of pasta salad with bits of peppers and onions amid the pepperoni (a Wisconsin nod to 5 a Day)... dessert bars... a choice of coffee, water or whole milk (it *is* America's dairy land, after all). Thank goodness for my new Door-to-Door Organic delivery service. I need food that's not white.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Because I am. And this still is.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): So much for




If you're obligated to yourself, is that OK?

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): I know, I know, there are starving children in Third World countries who don't even have birthdays.

§§FOOTNOTE (so hard to make a decision!): At twenty-five cents a week allowance, me paying my own bills was a pipe dream... you'd think I'd have more sympathy for the working poor now. However, you can also see where the beginnings of my loathing of libraries began. This was apparently a weird bookmark in my psychological makeup.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (beat the drums slowly): I think. Coulda been fifteen. Coulda been twelve. Twelve might explain my devotion to Brainless Twelvehood. As shallow and whiny as this post is, it might be a great treatise on the psychology that is Marin. Apparently, my whole life has been dictated by birthdays.

&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): Not that I'd discourage you to keep from trying to make next year's birthday even better. Just sayin'.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Like with the Great Ticket Birthday and the Dovetail skull mug.

##FOOTNOTE (pounded like the spankéd ass of an elderly birthday girl): For those of you not Secret Pal or myself... as in Daffy and Donald. Quack.

^FOOTNOTE (careted): I do love it when someone will sing to me. With all the musicians I've dated, you'd think it would have happened more often.

†††FOOTNOTE (are we heading into triple-doubles?): Which said I was the queen for the day, but she got to be Vice Queen. VQ for short. Which I think is very, very funny.

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (the primrose path of dalliance): That boy always smells like burnt sugar and almonds and if I nuzzle the back of his neck I get just a little high. The Universe clearly wants us to reproduce, so why couldn't it give him the ability to keep a date?

§§§FOOTNOTE (oh, my curly head!): Throat, chest, belly, arms, neck... I am a marked woman. Sorry, Brother.

¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (golf clubs, seal clubs... that was an inside joke only two people in the world would get): The Boy, for those of you scoring at home.

###FOOTNOTE (man, did that spankéd ass take a pounding. Sorry, Brother): This is NOT little brother approved.

*FOOTNOTE (staid, conventional asterisk): I'm not talking about The Boy. I'm just talkin' about me. I figure some of you may be worried about that.

@FOOTNOTE (I just can't bring myself to go to four): And did I mention that's where the resemblance between me and those statues ends? I believe my post-surgery water blob has dispersed. I got into my normal-sized pants for my birthday. Can I get a w00t-w00t!?

$FOOTNOTE (money shot!): Pun!

Redundant Redundant Redundant†

How to Tell if You're Mom's Favourite

I maintain this is why Brother has no hair.

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Redundant because I think I've emailed it to everyone who knows my brother. You may have received it. Hell, your sister may have received it. Random strangers whose emails I made up on the spot may have received it.

I think I'm *that* funny.

This is also ironically funny because my mother's crazy sister very seriously insists that Brother was always Mom's favourite because she (my mom, not the crazy sister. That would be too weird, even for this family) was in labour with me for 36 hours.

Aw, C'mon... Just a Little Slurp

I have some pig-licking good tidbits today... and a whole slew† of pig-licking photos for tomorrow!

[SUMMARY: You are so excited!]

*************

I heard a stoopid classic on the radio yesterday:

The news break on The Ride Home‡ included a story about how an advocacy group is calling the US Mint discriminatory against blind people because all US paper currency is the same size.

There was a sound bite from a spokesperson explaining that the US is the only country with prejudiced paper money.

Then the news caster said,§ "Proposed changes include making bills differents sizes and different colours."

[SUMMARY: Revel in the bad joke.%]

*************

Patrick Carroll's, current home turf of Drunken Knitting, is under new management.

Cute Christopher left at the end of April to assist with the opening of a bar for which he'll be general manager and part owner, leaving Shylin in charge of the PC.

Shy sat down with me for a moment last night and told me she's thinking of making Tuesday Ladies Night.

I suddenly feel very powerful.

[SUMMARY: Continuing delusions of grandeur.]

*************

When I was just a little girl, my mother caught me talking to myself¶ in the corner of our empty dining room# one day.

"What's your name, little girl?"

"Marin."

"Marion?"

"No. Marin."

"Marilyn?"

"No. Marin.

"Mary Ann?"

"No. Marin. Rhymes with Sharon and Karen."

"Oh... Marin! That's a pretty name."

"Thank you."††

I still go through a small version of this now and then, but the current version is people who pronounce it Mahrin‡‡ even though they've never seen it in print.

Think about it: if you meet me, and our mutual friend Sue introduces us...

"Dave, have you met Marin? Marin this is Dave."

And then you never got an email or a letter or saw me on the wall in the post office or anything and suddenly started calling me Mahrin... why? Why make the giant leap from the phonetics you know to the wild and unexplored land of potential spellings and BACK to a mispronunciation?

[SUMMARY: Dave's birthday party was hard on me for more than just flirtopause.§§]

*************

Thanks to Mary Kay, I am now aware of a Canadian game show¶¶ for kids called "Don't Lick the Pig."

[SUMMARY: There is nothing new in the world.]

*************

From Google Analytics keyword searches:

billboard installation
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pillars of the earth sex scenes
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compulsion by calvin klein
where is the tuaca bar located at the pepsi center

[SUMMARY: I'm clearly out of content here.]

*************

I'm out. Happy Wednesday, ev'rybahdy!


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Slough?

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): With Dave and Lois.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): I am not making this up.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): If I may be the voice of reason here (shut up), all stupidity around the colour issue aside, how long would it take to get all the current homogenously-sized currency out of circulation? I'm not unsympathetic, but blind people have been coping with this one way or another for ages and there is just no practical solution on a US Mint kind of level. Think of how much it would cost us taxpayers to put such a measure in place... only to have it largely useless until all the old currency is gone.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Two thoughts: If it had been twenty years later and if my mother had been so inclined as to keep up with horror movie trends, she might have had some concerns of a sort of Damien/Poltergeist/Village vibe with a tiny blonde child talking to the corner of a room. Second: You may draw your own conclusions from the fact that Mom wasn't actually worried about me talking to myself, just curious what I might be saying.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Until about 2000, we never had anything in our dining rooms except the piano. We ate in the kitchen. In 2000-ish, Mom found a table on sale at American Furniture Warehouse that she simply couldn't pass up, so the dining room got a horizontal surface on which to store books and clothes and stuff.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Note how polite.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): As in "mar." As in "scar for life."

§§FOOTNOTE (I am SO confused): Yes, Ange, that is a white girl problem.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (two mints in one!): Allie, I'm disappointed. As my number one Canadian, I count on you to educate me about these thing.

Here, Piggy, Piggy...

A luscious little lapping of lickable pig today!†

*************

I live in fear.‡

Brother's boss§ is a little... anal.

I like sitting at his desk before he arrives in the office and skewing his stapler just a tiny bit out of true just to watch him put it right when he gets there. Then he systematically touches and arranges everything on the desk just to be sure nothing else got fucked up while he wasn't looking.

I've dealt with worse, but he definitely teeters toward that end of the spectrum.

Yesterday, I had chicken fajitas for lunch while I was in his Littleton office. And I got a tiny, annoying shred of chicken stuck between my teeth. Brother's boss reached a toothpick down for me,¶ and I attended to the chicken and went on to groom my other teeth because... well, if nothing else, I kinda like chewing on toothpicks.#

I woke up this morning all groggy and warm and with a cat purring in my ear, then sat bolt upright, heart pounding like a footnote,†† suddenly aware I couldn't remember throwing the toothpick away. Try as I might, I can't visualise when or where I may have thrown it away and that means it could be anywhere.

It could be sitting in the middle of his desk.

Or chair.

Or dining room table.

Not only would this be disgusting and an abuse of toothpick privileges, but it would annoy him more than it would annoy most people. And he'd never let me forget it.

[SUMMARY: The petroleum industry: no country for odd women.]

*************

They've gone to a new recycling program here at Patrick's dad's office.‡‡

We used to have individual paper recycling in our offices, with similar, larger recycling bins in the copy rooms. And there is a recycling can in the kitchen for aluminum and plastic.

Under the new system, they've taken away our individual recycling boxes and our trash can liners. We are supposed to use the trash cans for recycling and they're supposed to provide us a "piggy back" to attach to the side of our trash cans to put trash that can't be recycled.§§

For one, I fail to see how this is better than the old way. It's certainly more of a pain in the ass because, for two, our recycling boxes and trash can liners have already disappeared, but the mysterious "piggy backs" have yet to be installed.

I know the dedicated enviroweenies are too caught up in the beauty of recycling to realise that the PTB basically expect us to live without trash cans.

And it may seem like a small thing to whine about, but if you are rolling your eyes at me right now, I challenge you to get rid of the trash can in your office for a week and see how you like it.

[SUMMARY: This may be kharmic payback for leaving my disgusting, chicken-blobbed toothpick on John's desk.]

*************

I knitted a monkey this weekend. No pictures, no details, I'm just thrilled to be able to utter that sentence.

Camera work to follow.

[SUMMARY: Non Sequiturs¶¶ backwards-R Us.]

*************

There is a new plague.

It seems like everybody's getting it -- Hans, Genius Sarah, Bag Lady Kathryn... and I thought it was the same thing I had from mid-December until some time the first week in February, but it appears it may be an entirely different animal. In which case, I'm probably not immune.

In fact, I'm a little headachy and tired today and that's apparently how it starts.

Now, I figure I can look at this one of three ways:

In the glass half empty way, I am being punished for digressions both known and inferred.##

In the glass half full way, Job had to suffer plagues on his way to biblical stardom, right? And my primary resolution for 2008 is still to reach sainthood.

In the not-getting-the-cart-before-the-horse way, I'm not actually sick yet.

[SUMMARY: Inside my head is a swirling, volatile place. Watch your footing.]

*************

Remember the big ol' deadline I had January 31? Well, the buyer to whom we sold bought us lunch today.†††

That is not what this little porcine tongue tango is about.

No, I started giggling helplessly to myself -- but in front of all the key players in Patrick's dad's office -- because of a whole tangential story in my head.

**WARNING**

Please see previous summary for caveat. Not responsible for dizziness, headache, nausea or disorientation.

See, the nice delivery girl was setting up on the conference table. She wanted to put this red-checkered, disposable tablecloth on the table, but there was a conference call thingie in the middle, which couldn't be moved without an ethernet expert, so the consensus was to leave said conference call thingie and just throw the tablecloth over it.

Which took me back a few years to when my parents‡‡‡ had their roof replaced right before they went on their annual four-week vacation. The roof didn't pass inspection, so they asked me to handle what I could in getting the job done right while they were out of town.

So after the second round of inspection rejection, I called the roofing company to read them the latest litany of inspection woes, and I added, "And there's a big lump in the top, eastern portion of the roof at the front of the house that looks like you shingled over a squirrel." Which I didn't really know I was going to say until it was out of my mouth.

It caught me so by surprise that I started laughing. The customer service wench at the roofing company didn't think it was funny at all,§§§ which made me laugh harder. I excused myself and said I'd call back later.

When I saw the conference call thingie lumping under the tablecloth today, it reminded me of the squirrel bump in Brother's parents' roof.

And I giggled. And excused myself.

[SUMMARY: Some of us will never rise above our own dorkedness in this world.]

*************

Last but not least, stealing from Lyda once again:




[SUMMARY: That's what he said!]

Probably because I can spell "fellatio."


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I linked to the picture's source, but you may not want to go there. There are PIG RECIPES, and that seems a little wrong, like having Cat Foo Yung recipe cards at the desk at the Denver Dumb Friends League.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Good start!

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): We also occasionally talk about Brother's father, Brother's grandmother or Brother's cousin Tani.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): John is 6'2" or 6'3". I am 5'4". It's a math thing. Or a physics thing. Both. I couldn't reach the damned toothpicks and had to ask for help.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Until I get splinters in my tongue.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): That's pretty funny. Or at least self-referential in the extreme.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): See? Now Patrick's practically family.

§§FOOTNOTE (like two enviroweenies dancing in the glen): What can't be recycled? I quote: "We can recycle most items; here are the exceptions Kleenex tissues, food, gum, paper towels, styrofoam, light bulbs, plastic bags and garbage." [sic, mostly because I feel they're missing a period and a colon and have tossed in an ill-advised semi-colon]. I take great exception, much like Kraft claiming to have salad dressing with ingredients. As "ingredients" means nothing specific, "garbage" means fuck-all. It's like saying, "and other stuff."

¶¶FOOTNOTE (noses!): I can spell "non sequitur." Also? Take *that* elementary school readers!

##FOOTNOTE (pounding like a flu ache): Y'know... like, "I may not know why I'm grounding you, but YOU know why I'm grounding you."

†††FOOTNOTE (cross purposes?): Maggiano's, for those of you scoring at home.

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (bird tracks): Or, as we like to call them, "Brother's parents."

§§§FOOTNOTE (marching monkeys): In fact, she took me so seriously she wanted details of how I knew it was a squirrel and it took me a good fifteen minutes (when I called back) to talk her into the idea that I was just being flip and was pretty sure there was no squirrel involved, just a lump that suggested what it might look like if a squirrel had been shingled over.

November 7, 1940 - February 22, 2006

Welcome to day 371 without Mom.

What follows is my first ever blogpost, enshrined at Yahoo 360 and by invitation only. It took me nearly three months to write, not because of the craft of it, but because of the need to lie on the floor rather than face the dance of memories and bleak future.

It is poorly written. It is scattered. I can see places where I dropped my thread to go lie on the floor and never quite picked it up again. I see places I started in one direction and finished somewhere off to the right and a little behind. I see places I just didn't know what word to use and clearly picked the wrong one.

But it's my first self-medication in trying to understand my life without my mother in it. And I'm leaving it unedited.

These days, Mom mostly manifests as a sort of imaginary friend. You know how there are some stories (you think of them as "memories," complete with the negating quotation marks) from your childhood you're not sure actually happened, or happened remotely the way you think you remember them? Some days I almost call Dad or Brother to ask them to tell me I didn't just make Mom up.

Imagine how thrilled they'd be to get that call.

Some days, I go in the opposite direction. There are so many dream-like qualities to the whole thing I'm nearly convinced I dreamed it all and Mom's still here. We all have those dreams where we check our bank balance and we're somehow overdrawn and spend the early part of the waking day in a mild panic until we sort out what happened while we were sleeping and what's actually going on in the real world. Some days I almost call Mom to tell her about the weird dream I had.

Imagine how awful it'd be if I made that call.

What follows is a pretty accurate account of how I felt then. Time was warped. Everything came in as sound bites and flash images and brief shots of clarity and surreal waking nightmares and I don't know if I'll ever be able to really account for the two months when Mom was dying.

As I always do when Mom overwhelms me, I encourage you to call your mother, hug your daughter, tell someone you love how much. Not just because life if fleeting and you may not get the chance tomorrow, but also as a tribute to Mom's big heart. I'd much rather you did something loving in the name of Marin's mom than give me your sympathy today.

Caveat: you might not want to read this. It's histrionic. Its construction is shoddy. It's long. And it's perfectly OK with me if you skip this and check back in Monday.

But thanks for letting me wallow.

XOXO
M

*************

Toe in the Water
originally posted June 23, 2006




These are my parents. No matter how you slice it, your parents are two of the most important people in your life. Even if you're one of the unfortunates who would argue that, the fact that you're arguing it makes it true.

Mom and I have been known to drive each other a little crazy. My brother and father would occasionally listen to us arguing -- even fighting -- over some dumb girl thing and would be heard to sigh, "I'm so glad that's not me."

But we're shopping buddies. Gossip buddies. When one or the other of us has a particularly bad (or good) day, we call on the other to report, rehash and break it all down. I love my mom as much as a girl can.

********

October, 2005: I've been spending three or four nights a week (after work), not to mention large chunks of my weekends, carting Mom here and there. She went to Wisconsin in July for a family reunion and bent over to pick something up and felt something pop in her lower back. Ever since, she's had a hard time walking. Now she's going to accupuncture, chiropracty, the back shop at Wal-Mart... anything to fix what (she's sure) is a pinched sciatic nerve without going to a doctor.

"Either it will go away on its own, or the doctor will tell me I need surgery, and I don't want to hear it."

Nurses are notoriously bad about seeing doctors.

One night, I've driven her to Applebee's for dinner before we go shopping (if she can stay on her feet). I take a deep breath. I know I have a good point, but she's still my mom. Mom will always be a sort of authority figure, even though I'm rapidly approaching 40 years old.

"Do you really want to be hobbling around on crutches at Christmas time?" I cajole. Mom is a complete Christmas freak and I have no shame in manipulating her any way I can to get the job done. "You should go see a doctor. Besides, if you have surgery, won't they give you a handicapped placard for your car? Just think of the parking spaces we'll get for Christmas shopping!"

She laughs a little and says I have a point.

"And," I continue, sternly, "Dad and I have discussed it. If you don't go to a doctor soon, we'll drug you and carry you in if we have to when he gets home."
"You will, huh?" she says, laughing again. "OK, OK."

She calls me a few days later to say she's been to the doctor and has a CAT scan appointment in a few days. I agree to drive her to and from the appointment... and maybe go for dinner and shopping when she's done.

When Dad goes out of town, it's not unusual for Mom to call a lot, extending invitations to dinner or shopping, but it's been a little weird lately. She went so far as to call to ask if I'd look for the new Black Cherry Fresca, since she really wants to try it and can't find it near home.

I'm sensitive enough to know she wants some company but doesn't want to seem needy, so I track down some Black Cherry Fresca and stop by her house on the way to a Halloween party. Besides, I'm dressed as a dust bunny and I want someone to tell me how clever I am before I fall in with my friends.

I sit down in the recliner (Dad's, but he's in Wyoming, working) next to her and say, "So... have you been a little lonely lately?" She starts to deny it, but gives a sheepish shrug and says, "Yeah. I guess I have." I tell her, "That's OK. You don't have to send me out for Fresca -- I'd be happy to keep you company just 'cause you're a little lonely."

We chat inconsequentially for a bit, then she says, "When are you going to be done at your party?"

"I don't know. Could be 10:00, could be 4:00. Why? Do you need something?"

"Could you come by when you're done? There's something important I need to talk to you about, but I don't want it to interfere with your party."

I wrack my brain for a minute. I've never quite gotten over the idea that if my parents want to talk to me seriously, I'm in some sort of trouble.

Nope.

No trouble I can think of, so I say, "Mom, I'm going to worry all night about this. You're going to ruin my party. Can you just tell me now?"

"...you're going to ruin my party." It's a phrase I'll regret for the rest of my life, I'm sure.

"I got the results of my CAT scan back."

"And?"

"I have lymphoma."

My heart stops. My stomach goes cold. I see stars. I find myself out of Dad's recliner and on my knees in front of Mom. "Can I... Is it OK... Can I just lay my head here for a second?" I lay my head in her lap and cry for just a moment. Probably 30 seconds. All the time, my mind is racing to the right thing to say, to the right course of action.

"So what now? Did they catch it early? What's the... prognosis?" It's a word I know, but one I don't think I've ever said.

"They have to run some tests, but they caught it early. I'll have to have chemo or radiation therapy... maybe both. But it looks good."

I heave a sigh. It shudders a little at the end.

"Good. So what do we do? I'm here for whatever you need. What do you know?" I'm so close to babbling, but I'm keeping it fairly calm.
Turns out she just told my dad. She's known for almost 48 hours, but wanted him to be the first to know.

"Please don't say anything to Bill and Elizabeth. They don't know yet and I want to tell them myself." I agree, of course. I need my brother and sister-in-law right now -- I need my dad. My heart feels like it could burst. But I get that cancer, no matter how big and all-encompasing that word is, is a very personal thing.

I go to my party and I so want to talk to someone... anyone. But I feel I can't. The family needs to know first. And I loathe the Tragedy Vampires, those needy souls who ride the coattails of any crisis that falls anywhere near their paths. I don't want to be That Girl.

Elizabeth calls me the next day. "Your mom wants to come over tonight," she complains. "She wants to talk to us. I was hoping she could just call and we could do it by phone..."

I understand. Elizabeth is trying to teach college algebra and work on her master's degree in applied mathematics. Bill is on the road a lot, so he's spread a little thin with work and he's also leaving the boys (my nephews, 1 and 5) with Elizabeth. And let's be fair: Mom has a history of random social brainstorms. At one time or another, we've all been caught with something that sounds important and turns out to be whimsical Mom tangent. I know Elizabeth has little patience for my mom's random social brainstorms at the moment.

I also know she'll understand completely when Mom tells them what's on her mind.
Months later, Elizabeth and I will confess to each other how poorly we responded to Mom's simple request for an audience. It didn't feel selfish or self-centered at the time, but in hindsight, it was so grossly selfish. We forgave each other and comforted each other with our own tales of impatience.

By the way, it turns out the problem my mom thought was sciatica was actually a fractured pelvis. Her dislike of doctors and high tolerance for pain had let her hobble around on a broken pelvis for three months. A shiver goes up my spine; if we hadn't hounded her into getting the hip and back problem checked out, it may have been ages before the cancer was discovered.

(let's switch tense, shall we? Present-speak is getting wearing and feels pretentious, but I don't want to go back and change it all now.)
Late in October, I'd decided not to buy the house I'd been renting-to-own for two years and found a place to buy. I was just house-hunting and beginning the mortgage process when Mom's diagnosis came in.

It wasn't sudden, but it was quick. Dad came home and carted Mom to weeks' worth of tests. Non-Hodgkins lymphoma: a high remission rate, but she'd never be fully free of it. That's OK. We'll do the chemo and the steroids and the radiation and whatever we need. Then we'll do it again in ten years if we need to. We love each other, we support each other. There has never been a better family in my book.

Mom had her first and second chemo. Just before Christmas, she was feeling great. She admitted it was probably the course of steroids they gave her right after chemo to boost her recovery, but she was feeling great. A trip to the doctor confirmed that she wasn't just feeling good, she was making amazing progress. She'd had (I think) six tumours when she started. Two were completely gone and the others had shrunk considerably. She was happy and so proud of herself for healing so well.

************

December 23, 2006: Dad's cousin, Jody, and her mother, Faye, long time gossip buddies, invited us to join them (along with Jody's sister and her four daughters) for a big, old fashioned, girly trip to the nail salon for festive holiday pedicures. I told Mom I'd drive if she wanted to go.

We got matching Christmas manicures, with glittery stars and Christmas trees, Mom's on a vibrant purple background and mine on deep red. Dad rolled his eyes when we got home, but Mom happy means Dad happy.

Dad had been leery of the amount of activity Mom was undertaking. The holidays are always busy, but for a Christmas freak with cancer, they seemed so much more so.
I knew of Dad's trepidation, but also knew Mom was feeling good and giddy about the holiday. Besides, I'd closed on my house and it felt so weird not having Mom involved every step of the way. Usually, me buying a house would be a good excuse to shop and have many arguments over many dinners about what colours to paint the rooms, what we could shop for and other chick-centric things Mom and I enjoyed.

So I extended an invitation: "If you want, we don't even have to tell Dad. I'll come and get you. But... do you want to see my house tomorrow? We can have brunch at my favourite brunch place. It'll be a nice start to the Christmas festivities."

I find I'm almost holding my breath. I think part of me is worried she'll tell me she's tired from all the goings-on and part of me is hoping not to feel rejected if she says no.

"Oh, yeah. I'd really like that. Let's talk to your dad..."

***********

December 24, 2006: Almost surprisingly, Dad agreed. They showed up at 10:00 the next morning. Now, my townhouse is very vertical. There's no way to get anywhere without going up stairs. I opened the garage so they could pull in, minimizing the stairs to the living room level.

Mom was beaming. She was happy for me and excited. True to form, I could see her mentally decorating and earmarking truckloads of housewarming presents to make my house a home. I was so glad to have her there -- it's like my house was finally a home. Like so many times in the previous couple of months, I heaved a big sigh. She didn't feel up to going all the way to the top level where the bedrooms were.

"It's only bedrooms up there. They'll still be there when you heal up and are ready to see them," I said.

We had Christmas eve, as always, at Mom's and Dad's. Mom could never wait 'til Christmas morning, so we've always opened presents on Christmas Eve over pizza, saving Christmas day for stockings and a big, homecooked meal.

*********

December 25, 2006

Elizabeth, Bill and I cooked Christmas dinner so Mom could rest. She was happy, but tired. By the time my brother and his family took off, I could see she was ready for a nap. I stuck around for an hour or so, leaving around 7:00.

The next morning, Dad called.

About 8:00 Christmas night, Mom started having... well, almost like convulsions. She was in enormous pain -- so much so, he couldn't do anything for her but call an ambulance. My brave, stubborn mother with the incredible tolerance for pain was delirious, out of her head with pain.

She lapsed into a coma that night. I learned so much about medical science over the next few days: nobody seemed to know exactly what was wrong, but they all had theories and tests. All their explanations, however, ended with, "We just don't know for sure."

She was never alone. We all took turns -- or sometimes overlapped -- sitting with her in the ICU, talking into her good ear (she was nearly deaf in her left ear for years), hoping for good signs, comparing notes on her progress.

*******

Later, that same week: One day, I think after four days or so, she came out of it. She was disoriented and Dad said she said, "Hi, Gruese! [the family nickname for me... short for "Gruesome"] with a big smile on her face, even though I wasn't there.
I was selfishly gratified that she was looking for me. Still am, to be honest. I could see her big, open smile, like I'd seen so many times walking through the front door of her house.

It turned out the chemo had weakened her immune system and she'd developed a staph infection that manifested as meningitis (one thing I learned, medically speaking, is that both "meningitis" and "staph infection" are far more general terms than I realised). It was nobody's fault, but to this day I know Dad and I both wonder if we could have saved her all that if we'd forbidden her from taxing herself so over the holidays.

We found out that she had had a stroke somewhere in the span from Christmas to coming out of the coma. It, or the meningitis, had left her deaf. Dad and I laughed about spending so much time doing the movie-of-the-week-worthy talking into her "good" ear, knowing coma patients often recall hearing things while they were ostensibly out.

It was up and down for the next week or so (I keep typing things like "...for the next month or so." Time is all screwed up for me in those hospital days). Finally, they released her to a nursing home for rehab.

She was chipper and talkative and eager to rehab. We spent lots of time writing our conversations to her and reminding her that just because she was deaf, it didn't mean her roommate was. So loud, but so gratifying to talk to her and have her talk back.

Sometimes, Dad would leave the room or I'd be there before he got there and she'd ask me things she didn't want to ask Dad.

"Was I really wild when they took me to the hospital?" she asked.

"Yeah. Dad was scared and we were all worried," I wrote back. "We're all so glad you're better."

During those private sessions, she asked a lot about Dad and how he was sleeping, eating, all that. I knew she counted on me to tell her the things she thought Dad wouldn't. I was honest, but gentle.

The nursing home time seems like months, but it was only a couple of weeks. We watched her beloved Broncos with her, brought her food she'd eat, sat with her while she slept. We hammered the doctors and nurses for information, but were thwarted at most every turn.

*******

February, 2006: Mom checked herself out of the nursing home and demanded to go back to the hospital for additional care. In one of her less lucid moments, she decided she needed to go home and fell out of her bed, fracturing her wrist. The hospital moved her to a room with three other people, all labeled as problem children for trying to escape, ripping their IVs or (I imagine) biting doctors. If I'd been there, I think I'd have bitten a doctor.

Gradually, she became less cooperative and less lucid. Over the longest three or four weeks of my life (time warp, again), the doctors gave up on her. We didn't. Dad and Bill and I had several pow-wows about the things we could do for her. Alternative medicines of all kinds were discussed and researched. Herbs were purchased. A hospital bed was rented.

We didn't believe she was dying, exactly, but with the insurance and medical options presented us, hospice seemed like the best bet. At least she could come home, which she'd wanted to do since the day she came out of her coma.

Over the next three weeks or so, all Mom's brothers and her sister came to visit. She so clearly enjoyed the company and recognised everyone, but it was hard on us. Airport pick-ups and drop-offs and out-of-town visitors can tax your resources in the best of times, but we were all strung pretty thin. It all made it worth the effort to see Mom happy, though.

We even found that she'd regained some hearing. I'd thought she did while she was still in the nursing home, but didn't have anything concrete. Then one day she started singing along with a CD playing in her room. You can't imagine the excitement we all felt.

The last sibling left and Mom deteriorated pretty quickly from there. There was a point when I was sitting with her late at night by myself and I talked to her. I told her all that was going on with me, stories about her grandsons... I told her it was OK to go if she needed to. I assured her that if she wanted to fight, I'd do everything I could, everything I could think of, to help her, but I didn't want her hanging on if it was only for my sake. I told her I'd take care of Dad and Bill and the grandsons and everybody... if she had to go.

I spent afternoons, mornings, late nights with Mom and Dad and whoever was around visiting and helping. Friends and family came and sat with her and sat with Dad and sat with each other. Meals were brought in. Love was abundant. Many a person left crying, but none of them was anything but cheerful when they were with Mom.

One day, Mom was difficult. She fought food and water and tried to tear her medical port (a sort of semi-permanent IV where her pain meds pumped on a timed, regular basis) out. She lashed out at people. She spat on me. She screamed in frustration and pain. It was the hardest day of my life by far. I didn't begrudge her spitting on me. It's a badge of honour to be there through the hard times.

It was the first time I thought Mom might not get better.

A couple of days later, I had the late shift, sitting with Mom until the overnight hospice nurse came in. When Sondra showed up at midnight, she told me Mom was close to death. Her skin was cool, her pulse and breathing iffy and her skin had taken on a greyish cast. Sondra insisted I call my brother and get him to drive out and wanted to wake my dad. I told her we'd wait for awhile and see what happened.

I sat, like so many nights, and held Mom's hand and rubbed lotion into her hands and rubbed her back. I helped Sondra change her and pumped extra pain medication into her when she seemed to be getting agitated. Finally, around 2:00 in the morning, I gave in and woke Dad. After another hour or two, he sent me to bed for awhile. I dozed fitfully, worried that Mom would worsen or die and Dad wouldn't wake me so I could get the rest he'd figure I needed.

Apparently, at 6:00 or so, Mom's colour pinked up and she started breathing better. Sondra was amazed. I almost hate to say it because it sounds so petty, but I knew Mom wasn't dying that night. I told Sondra we weren't going to wake anyone up because I knew she wasn't dying.

I came back that afternoon and Dad said we should probably address what to do if Mom really was dying. I told him I wanted to be there, and to call me, whatever the hour. I told Bill all about it and asked him what he wanted: "You did the right thing. Call me if she dies, certainly, but..." I understood. He has a wife and two young children, for one thing. And while we're very similar, he's wired a little differently emotionally. He's more likely to seek a solitary place to lick his wounds than to seek comfort. And we've had some different life experiences.

To explain: I've never forgiven myself for not being there when my dog, my childhood pet, was put to sleep. I was 200 miles away at college, and my dad would have done anything he could have to get me home, but she was in too much pain and too far gone, so they called me that afternoon to tell me. My mom is worlds ahead of my dog, so I knew that if I was so regretful of not being there for my dog in her final hours, I'd be that much more so for my mother.

February 22, 2006: The phone rang at 2:00 in the morning. I knew immediately what it is -- who wouldn't? Dad said, "I think this is it. Don't hurry. Don't get in an accident to get over here, but I think you should come."

I threw on navy sweats and a UWSP (University of Wisconsin, Stevens Point -- Mom's hometown) sweatshirt. A crazy little impulse forced me to brush my teeth so Mom's final memory wouldn't be tainted with my stale breath.

I drove fast, despite Dad's entreaty, but at 2:00 on Wednesday morning, there isn't a lot of traffic. My mind -- the same mind that keeps me up for hours rearranging furniture and rehashing conversations and worrying over little nothings -- was completely dead. I could barely force words through my consciousness.

Sondra left Dad and Mom and I to our thing. I held Mom's right hand, Dad her left. We talked little. What do you say in the presence of death? Her breathing was ragged. Sometimes, she'd stop for what seemed forever. I found a spot on her throat where her pulse was visible. Every time she'd stop breathing, I'd focus on that little flutter and hold my own breath.

As hard and horrible as it was, the next two hours passed remarkably quickly.
Sondra nudged me at one point because there was a tear running down Mom's face. I dabbed it away with the tissue I was using on my own runny eyes. I still wonder -- almost hope -- if a stray tear is a normal medical thing. I have terrible guilt feelings that Mom was crying because I was crying and I don't want to feel she went to her peace worried about me.

I was thinking love and apologies and good memories and prayers and hopes just as hard as I could, hoping that some Hollywood drama of psychic conection would kick in and Mom would be awash with my best. I was holding her hand in one of mine and hugging her crosswise with the other. My face was buried in her side. Suddenly, I felt a purely electric shudder go up both my arms and into my chest. My breath caught and I was blindly, mindlessly joyful for just a moment.

My father's voice broke through that. "I think she's free now," he said.
I don't know exactly what happened in the next few minutes. I think there was patting and hugging. Definitely tears. In a sort of fog, but clearer than crystal, I called my brother.

I sat with Mom for quite awhile, as the bureaucracy of death paraded through her room. Bill came and he and Dad and I held each other until I couldn't breathe. I swallowed a world's worth of panic when the man from the Neptune Society zipped her into a burgundy body bag and rolled her to his SUV.

I went home, showered and called my favourite cousin, Tani, who livef across the street. She's always a good person to have around, doubly so in a bad situation, immeasurably in a real crisis. She asked what she could do. I had documents for work that had to be dropped off downtown and I didn't know if I could drive.

And park.

Without smashing the first bad driver who frustrated me.

We've talked about it since, and she was as relieved to have something concrete to do as I was relieved to be able to ask for help.

I went to work that day. John, my boss, and Patrick, a colleague, were hundreds of miles away working in Utah. Maybe the western slope of Colorado. Doesn't matter. They were miles away. Mary, dear Mary, was in the office. I told her Mom had died that morning. She couldn't believe I was at work. She urged me -- pushed, even -- to take the day off. I knew then, as I know better now, that I needed to stay moving.
Even now, any time my heart and mind have too much time on their own, I cry.

Dad moved to the neighbourhood where Bill and Elizabeth and the grandsons and I all live. He's mostly retired from the kind of work that offers a paycheck, but he gets up early every morning and takes a long walk -- sometimes two hours. Then he pushes himself through the summer heat digging up his new yard and hauling rock to it and anything else to keep him occupied until he's so exhausted he has to quit or until it gets too dark to work outside. Then he showers and goes to bed. He does this just about every day.

Some nights I drag him away from work for dinner or just conversation. I know that friends and family are doing the same, which makes me happy. Keeping Dad as happy as can be managed is one of my callings.

Anyway, we've talked about it, how he digs sod and hauls rock and how I work long days and weekends and fill my social schedule to the brim. When does it go away, we wonder. We acknowledge it will be a BIG step in our healing, the day we can sit back and muse without crying, panicking or feeling lost without her.

For now, I -- the girl who knitted every sitting moment, who read five or six or seven books aweek -- haven't finished a book since Mom died. I did, however, start knitting again a week ago. I'm not as obsessive or needful of the knitting as I was this time last year, but I consider it a good sign I want to knit at all now.

I didn't cry much the first week or two after Mom died. Since those blissfully barren days, I find myself crying most days. I'll be in the produce department at Whole Foods and wish Mom was there because it would be food AND shopping in a way she'd truly have enjoyed. I hear a song on the radio. ESPN talks about the Broncos' off-season. It seems every day is a new opportunity to realise what I'm missing, what Mom is missing and how much I miss her.

And this is part of my therapy. I've cried myself sick typing this out, but I can't help feeling if I can keep going through it, I can get through it and come out the other side. One of these days, this blog will be all about new restaurants, funny friend moments, good and bad movies, my nephews... For now, I need to wallow in Mom so I don't lose her or feel guilty or miss some important part of the grieving process.

I know you'll understand.

The AntiM Family Christmas Party

Saturday was our Family Christmas Party.

Thirty years ago my grandfather died right around Christmas. Legend has it his wake was the advent of the Family Christmas Party.†

There was probably tequila involved.^

There was definitely Mom involved.

These two factors in conjunction would generate a predictable outcome: when irresistible Christmas force meets unmovable margarita object, far-ranging traditions are born.

[SUMMARY: Your family does it their way, my family does it Mom's way.]

Besides, the family group had been a nice, manageable dozen or so, but branches of the tree were coming back to roost‡ and Christmas presents for everybody would be prohibitively expensive.

Besides, Mom *really* liked Christmas.$

So they% came up with the idea of (basically) an heirloom generator.

Each person would make a set of ornaments or a wreath or some such, then we would exchange them. Mom had been to a white elephant party§ and was champing at the bit to perpetrate that brand of chaos¶ on someone else.

Over the years, people have lost hair, sleep, dignity, humility and/or ego over their contributions. Four-letter words are the order of the day.

[SUMMARY: What goes better with Christmas than a little profanity?]

This year was no exception, since, as you may also remember, Father and Brother knit their projects.& And, as y'all know, knitting fully embodies the joys of lost hair, sleep, dignity, humility and/or ego and four-letter words.

And I helped.

I learned a lot about the male portion of my family this year.

Brother would misstitch, try to fix it, try to fix that, try to fix the result and finally put it down thinking, "I should probably stop before I fix it so much Marin can't fix it."

Father would pick up the knitting, think it looked wrong, place it carefully in its bag and call.

"Daughter, something's wrong. I can't figure out what it is, but something doesn't look right."

Brother would say, "I need you to fix my shit.

Father would email under the subject "@#$% knitting."

See? Four-letter words.

But they figured it would be worth it for the disbelief and awe when the rest of the family found out they'd *knit* their Christmas projects.

[SUMMARY: Is better to look good than to feel good, darling.]

Here's the actual true story -- in pictures@ -- of Dad's stocking at the Christmas Party:






He has a friend whose wife quilts and has one of those fancy embroidering sewing machines. She made the label.#




I came back from San Diego and Houston expecting, "Daughter, something doesn't look right," but when I called Dad upon my return, he said breezily, "I'm just about done with the leg. I'm just going to knit a couple more rounds, then I'll change colours and I'll be done."

[SUMMARY: I couldn't be prouder.]




And Brother... ah, Brother. The curse of the tight stitch is apparently hereditary. I got it from Dad, and Brother got it in spades.

As I've always told y'all, though, the only finite point in gauge is the tightest possible stitch. Everything else has room for variables, thus may not be so even.

How much more even can you get than this?††




He finished the thumb, felted it and embellished it with no Seester supervision whatsoever.

*sniff*

[SUMMARY: Knitting talent abounds.+]

Then there was my project.

[SUMMARY: Then there was my project.]

It was going to be a poinsettia, based on a watercolour of Mom's,* needle-felted to a lovely white felted bowl.

Waylaid by the felting incident, I decided to just take my practice piece from the needle felting class I took in November and frame it.

Only it's a wonky size and wouldn't work in a frame.

So I went total cheese and just strapped it to a bit of wood,‡‡ added a loop of yarn and called it a wall-hanging.




Don't adjust your monitor; it's felted. It's supposed to be blurry.




[SUMMARY: Fuzzy. In so many ways.]

As for the original felted bowl, here it is in all its blue-lint glory.






Bet you never dreamed you'd be looking at close-ups of lint this holiday season.

[SUMMARY: You're welcome.]

I believe my plan is to felt the hell out of the bowl, lint and all, and see if it will take on a nice, pebbly, seemingly-deliberate look.

Then I will give it to my SIL, who expressed a strong desire to own such a bowl.




Maybe this will be next year's Christmas card.

Bet you never thought you'd see someone get all artsy over a big ol' mistake this holiday season either.

[SUMMARY: Merry Chrismakwanzukkahstice to all, and to all a good knit.]


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Yes, that's capital Family, capital Christmas, capital Party.

^FOOTNOTE (careted): And Mom didn't drink so much (I don't know where I got it), so the tiniest hint of tequila would send her into a twinkle-light-and-tinsel fantasy world. Why that didn't disappear along with the margarita hangover, I'll never know.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Mixed metaphors can make for interesting mental images.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Y'all know -- where the gifts are placed in the middle of the room and everybody draws a number. The first person opens a gift, everybody oohs and ahs, then the second person is up. That person can either open a new gift or take the gift from the first person. Down the line, you can spend a half-hour or forty-five minutes trying to get back to the numbers while people steal from each other and go for replacement gifts.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): And by, "they," I mean, "Mom."

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Like some people *really* like to breathe.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): People go feral, sentimental dreams are crushed, small children cry... the quintessential Christmas spirit. When a gift has made its full three trades and is deemed a "keeper," the new owner does a keeper dance, ostensibly to express joy, but clearly to say, "Nya-Nya-N-Nya-Nyah." If nothing else, the Family Christmas Party raises thick-skinned kids.

&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): Funny side story: I was worried that once Father and Brother had a chance to knit their own items, they'd realise how relaxing and easy it really is and all mystique and awe would go out of Seester/Daughter-knit gifts. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

@FOOTNOTE (atted): Some of you expressed some doubt as to the existence of knitting pictures. Some of you may think you have reason to doubt, but some of you exhibit shockingly little faith. Stacey. :P

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Note the very clever obliteration of the last name.

+FOOTNOTE (plussed): For the record, complete virgin knitters executed a magic cast-on, colour changes, short rows, heel, i-cord bind-off and i-cord (Father) and ribbing, stitch holders, thumb gusset, decreases, thumb (Brother).

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): The answer you're looking for is, "None. None more even."

*FOOTNOTE (asterisked - imagine!): Thus:




‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Lovingly but incorrectly identified as a knitting needle. It's a bamboo shish kebab skewer.

The Prayers of Heathens

TTHFCIF

I've told y'all the story of how I couldn't knit after my mom died. I couldn't even knit when she was in the process of dying. For, oh, nine months or so, I'd pick something† up, knit a couple of stitches, go "meh," and put it down.

[SUMMARY: When good therapy goes bad...]

When I heard a childhood friend was fighting cancer, I decided it was excellent motivation to knit something and finish it. A prayer shawl seemed an appropriate choice, so I purchased some fuzzy suri alpaca from Knit Picks in a cheery blueberry shade and set to work on a simple garter stitch lap blanket on great big needles.

My hands had grown unused to the motions, but I quickly fell into the groove. As its lacy, haloed drape grew, I slipped into the meditative state that can come from gentle repetition.

[SUMMARY: It's the new yoga! *ducking*]

Nancy's condition worsened and I stepped up my efforts.

I finished the prayer shawl. The next day, I got the email she'd died.

[SUMMARY: Timing is everything.%]

The sense of failure was... immense.

Then came the news that Annie's husband's‡ mother had been diagnosed with a cancer of the immune system and she would be starting treatment soon. I felt a little surge of joy§ and sent the prayer shawl to her.

I got a very nice thank you note.

Isn't it funny how one can assume no news is good news?

[SUMMARY: "Never make an assumption. It makes an ass out of you and umption."¶]

I didn't hear anything more until this Wednesday at Book Club. Annie tells me Hector's mom is deteriorating.#

I'm sad to hear this. I believe I only met her once, but I have a soft spot for sick mothers and I certainly feel for Hector.

But I also have a wildly inappropriate desire to giggle over the Prayer Shawl of Doom. It's pretty clear to me my knitting kills people. I monologued a short play for Dad last night:

"Charles Manson, for crimes against the state and your fellow man, I hereby sentence you to be swaddled by the Prayer Shawl of Doom until dead. May God have mercy on your soul."

[SUMMARY: Oh, why did I choose to use my power of knitting for evil instead of good?]

The moral of this story: never let a heathen pray for you. It confuses the heathen and angers the gods.

Off to San Diego tomorrow, back on Monday, Houston on Tuesday, back on Sunday. Pray for me.††

If you're not a heathen, I mean.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Dad's rainbow socks. It took more than a year to finish the rainbow socks. Then some bimbo he met off Match.com looked at his feet one day and snarked, "Do you have another pair just like them at home?" He explained they were lovingly hand-knit by his daughter, she expressed the sentiment to him that she couldn't believe he'd go out dressed like that and he subsequently expressed the sentiment to me, "I believe that's about over."

Bless the man who puts hand-knit socks above sartorial splendour.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Speaking of timing... did I mention only 24 knitting days left until Christmas?

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Hector. Not his real name. Not because I'm trying to protect his anonymity, but because I've lost track of what they call him at home. He's a man of many names.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Not because she was in medical straits, you ghouls, but because the prayer shawl could go to some use.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Jeff Berry, 2007. Jeff and I may be the only two people in the world who actually think that's funny.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Annie also tells me she loves the blanket/shawl and wears it all the time. In all seriousness, that warms my heart beyond the telling of it. How much greater glory can simple craft achieve?

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): And maybe throw in a kind word for Hector's mom while you're at it. Heck, if you only have time for one prayer, make it Hector's mom.

Thanksgiving

Mom and Dad were married on Thanksgiving.

Dad was delighted because he knew he'd never be one of those husbands who forgot the anniversary. After all, they were married on a major holiday.

Let it sink in.

It'll get funny.

Books vs. Pointy Sticks

WARNING: the following is beyond unfunny. It's anti-funny. Don't worry, I can't imagine I'll be doing this very often.

Poor Juno. Stalking her at every turn.

But this time, it's a legitimate product of inspiration rather than scary-slurpy admiration.

Her post about reading unleashed all manner of wordstorm in my fuzzy head.†

I used to be a huge reader. Way beyond the pale. I read seven to ten books *on average* every week. Trust me -- there were anti-social weekends where I'd plough through my seven to ten in a couple of days and rush head-first into five or six more.

People who knew me would ask how long it took to read a particular book (usually one with a high page count) just so they could shake their heads in wonder.

When I got my paycheck every month, I'd stop at the bank, then head to Barnes & Noble. I had to get a basket to accommodate my shopping.

Part of this was ritual; I followed a methodical, predictable and repeatable path.‡ I visited certain tables, certain authors, certain sections -- some for specifics, some hoping for buried treasure.

I'd leave with a couple hundred dollars' worth of books.

This monthly trip, augmented by book gifts and loans§ from family and friends, kept me in constant literary¶ kinesis.

I can't tell you how lonely it was.

I was living in a gorgeous, vast and varied world of clever phrases and breathtaking scientific achievement and (admittedly) pure trivia, and I couldn't share. Even when I could get someone to read a book on which I wanted to commune, they were invariably slower and had a life to fit the book among.

Six or eight months later, my cycle of panting desperation and bright-eyed anticipation faded to resigned curiosity, I might ask if they'd ever read it.

Often not.

Sometimes, "Oh, yeah. It was good. Thanks!"

The best days brought, "I really liked the part where the little girl licked the pig and turned into an alpaca."

Some days I felt like I was the only person in the world who knew about the secret life of dust. Semi-comatose people who can hear and understand, but can't move or talk? They know what I felt like.

The two greatest literary confabs of my life:

1. When Brother, Dad and I realised we were reading the same book# at the same time for no particular reason. It was not the bestseller of the moment -- I think I may even purchased mine at a used book store. But we'd somehow all three of us got our hands on this book.


2. When Dad semi-retired†† and I packed up all the Terry Pratchett Discworld books‡‡, in order, and dumped them on his desk. For weeks, we traded lines and impressions and giggles and it was so *good* to be able to talk books en masse and in specific instead of in the abstract.

Somewhere in here, I started knitting a lot. I complained, half-jokingly, that knitting really ate into my reading time. At that time, I didn't know knitting groups existed. I hadn't discovered knitblogs. Knitting was almost totally solitary.

Then Mom got sick. It wasn't such a big deal at the outset. Cancer is a big word, but we like big words where I come from. When she had a seizure and a stroke Christmas night and fell into a coma... well, then things changed drastically. Even more when she came out of the coma... then fought her way back... then spiraled down and off the mortal coil.

For two months§§ I worked full-time and Mom was a second full-time occupation. From hospital to nursing home to hospice I went, meeting or passing various friends and family members, cooking, cleaning, crying, talking, arranging, transporting, fetching, shopping, sitting sitting sitting sitting... you'd think with all that sitting, it would be the ideal opportunity for knitting or reading.

I just couldn't.

I'd knit a couple of rows or a couple of stitches and have to stop. I'd read 12, 25, maybe even 50 pages in a book and... well, "meh" doesn't begin to cover it, but it's the only thing that comes close. Sitting with my hands fiddling in my lap and watching Mom deteriorate was taking me to the edge of my reason, but it was better than knitting or reading.

When she died, reading and knitting were all but out the window.

I worked like a demon when I could ("Please send me out of town"), but even *my* boss made me go home sometimes.

And then I'd go to the bar, not for the alcohol, but because I was in social limbo: I didn't want to be alone, but I didn't want to make conversation or even pretend to care about anybody else's chatter. At the Coral Room or Patrick Carroll's I could be by myself without being alone.

It was most of a year before I read a book all the way through, slightly less to finish a big-needle, big-square, garter-stitch piece. I fought each task every stitch, every page of the way, but completing them got me rolling again.

A little.

A gentle roll.

These days, you may have noticed, I knit far more than I read. Books seem more like old friends than constant companions. I tell tales of our glory days together, but it's not the same. It's so past-tense. It's so distant. It roughs up my heart some days.

I think I'm still a little afraid to be alone too much and knitting is just more social. I at least have the TiVi on when I'm knitting.

I miss my sluttish relationship with books. I don't miss the loneliness.

I don't regret or resent knitting. But I look in the mirror or stare at the ceiling and wonder who the hell it is wearing my skin.

I do get laid more. Not sayin' there's a direct correlation, just sayin'.

OK, I'm done. Have a lovely weekend, friends, family and others.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I don't think I can make y'all stand by while I lick the pig every day, so anything that brings forth more than four coherent sentences is a winner in my book.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Scientific Method, as applied to retail consumerism. And you can't imagine how discombobulated I'd get when they rearranged my B&N.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): The line was a little blurred on that sometimes. *ahem*

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): If not literal.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Robert McCannon's "Boy's Life," which is a delightful book, BTW. You should check it out.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Mom begged me to scour my library for Dad-worthy books. "He's reading two or three a day. I'm going to go broke trying to keep him out of my hair."

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Among others.

§§FOOTNOTE (double-curved): I can't adequately describe how much longer it feels. Sometimes I think if there's one thing I could get back from those days, it's a sense of scale.