Monday, February 11, 2013

Carry. On.

A little tribute to Fun.

Ever since I noticed their little nod to punctuation, I have secretly harbored a little crush.

And their ditty last night at the Grammy Awards?  (I wasn't there, btw, just watched it on TV. YES! I got CABLE! I know. I know. Somehow the hubs convinced me that our boys needed to watch NHL hockey to make them better players. WTF? I was merely looking forward to this Downton Abby show everyone keeps raging about.) Neverthelessly... I watched something live. I haven't done that since The Rodney King riots when I lived in LA.

Now that you appreciate the big deal this was, I can tell you how fun. it was for me to watch this new fun. band: Fun.

Here's a line from the song they sang last night:

"If you're lost and alone or you're sinking like a stone, carry o-o-o-o-on. May your past be the sound of your feet upon the ground. Carry o-o-o-o-on-on-on-nnn."

And. Then. I started to think these funky, high-pitched, choir-ish boys may know a thing or two about life. And maybe loss. Any maybe even leaving a past.

The sound of my past is not that sound. Not yet. Mine still rings in my ears and shouts at me. Through the silence. I imagine it beckoning me back. But I know I can't and won't listen to that.

To leave something behind is what I imagine detox to be like. Betty Ford style. I am in one of the rooms at the resort. I am okay. I am sober. I am proud and healthy. But. I remember (the way you remember warm weather) the buzz of close friendship, the entice of appreciation, and the high of being known. And the faces of those who knew me too well for bullshit. Those faces that filled those rooms where I was me. And I loved and I was loved.

There is a palpable wall that I hit at this, the 8-month mark of my absence. I am leaning on it. I think I'm in a corner. If it has a corner. It's a hard wall. I feel sort of stuck against it.

But. I must. Carry. On.

Fun. You're really not that fun. You're more real. than fun.

Friday, February 8, 2013

Crabby February

Dear Friend in Denver:

Thank you for checking in on me. No, I have not written much as of late. Mostly because my fingers are frozen most of the time.

Who was with me for my 39ers gone wild adventures? Well, it was Jennifer Aniston (shhh, she doesn't like me to tell people about her weekend adventures). Just kidding! It was Tina Fey. Hahahaha, why would that be so strange? Truly, it was a friend that is a combination of those two women plus her fabulous self. One who has made me laugh for over 20 years. One who sensed an urgency in my voice last December. She translated the trembling and knew I needed a friend from my past to help me integrate into my present. Or at least take a much-needed break from the strenuous work of trying to ingratiate myself to the natives.

I pray for many things for my children. High up on the list has always been that God will give them good friends. I'm not sure how else I would have been found when I was lost, or how else I would have stared down my demons. Well, except for all my therapists. But still. I pray my boys won't need those.

Am I still recovering from the 39ers weekend? Yes. Still a little sore. Mostly in my facial-laughing muscles.

Who was my gynecologist in Denver? Dr. Snyder. I think her name was Pamela. We weren't on a first-name basis, but we were quite close. She was blunt and quick. I loved her.

How have I been? Well. I hate February.

My neighbors are out of town. And every time I look across the street at their car that hasn't moved in a few weeks, I sneer and mind-curse them hoping they are suffering from sunburns or food poisoning or at least snarky, sleep-deprived children in whatever warm place they are.

Speaking of gynecologists, I had my yearly physical this week. My doctor told me (among other things like "your cervix looks great" to which I replied "Thanks. I've been working it out. Can you just polish it all up a bit while you're down there") that I need to make sure I'm getting enough Vitamin D. I asked him how. But I left out the "how the fuck am I supposed to do that here in this god-awful cold, sunless country?" He just shook his useless head.

How is work? This semester I have six students from Mexico, two from Jamaica, three from the hood, and one from good-ole small town Canada. It's a circus show--mostly prepositional acrobatics. Keeps me out of trouble though.

We received several tons of snow today. Again. I've only stepped out of my house once since February 7. To take a picture. Not of myself.

I never used to wear blush. I have found here that I must or I may be mistaken for a snow drift.

I am as pale as the torturer in Princess Bride.

My skin is cracking like week-old play-dough.

Yet there's a certain beauty in the nature-made ice sculptures that emerge around here:

This is me posing at the end of the pier.

The only thing that has been growing in this climate is my ass.

I hope you have a day that is as lovely as your daughter's dancing.

I love you with all my butt (it's much bigger than my heart).


Your Canadian Friend