Reverse Gap

I know that we've been gone from Denver for a long time now because my memories are fading.

Prior phone numbers are hazy.
Names of acquaintances, all but gone.
What did I used to eat for dinner?
Old routines, disappeared.
What did the sushi used to taste like?

Obscure details are fading like the use of hymnals in a Church--no more wrestling over who gets to hold the side of the hymnal, no more awkward struggle to decide who needs to turn the page.

Public singing is itself, fading.

One of my students asked me where I went to Church on Easter Sunday. I told him I went to a Christian Church. He asked me if we all sang songs together. I said yes. He giggled. As if this ancient practice were as out of date as MySpace.

My memories are reversing just like my thighs. Growing in the wrong direction.

The latest trend is the "gap" between the legs. If you have a young girl in your family, you have likely heard of this. And been very afraid. If you have a young girl in your family, I know that you are on your knees in prayer more than we moms of boys. I wish you the best.

It looks like this:

I looked at myself in the mirror and saw that I have the exact opposite of that. I call it my "reverse gap." When I told my husband, he laughed in a way that sounds like he agrees, but will adamantly protest that I am wrong.

Mine look like this:

And I refer to them as affectionately as I used to refer to my "girls." Now I say things like, "Look. That chocolate Easter Bunny just traveled straight to my reverse gap." And if I'm in public I just say "reverse." I usually say this just to hear that laugh. That one that says he knows, but is pretending he doesn't. As Shakespeare once penned: "I do believe [him] though I know [he] lies."

I never was good at getting into reverse gear in my stick-shift Chevy Cavalier.

It can be a sticky, grinding gear. It isn't natural.

I am that old.

Another student of mine has a screen saver of a sexy supermodel. When I saw it, I gave my best disgusted, gutteral sound, and asked him why he needed to have a picture of me on his computer since he sees me every day. He went with the joke. He thought it was funny too. Too funny. At one point, he went with it as if it was as far fetched as my boys not wanting to play hockey, or as outlandish as Tim Tebow playing in the NFL next year.

Then he went way too far. He said "Look, it's Mrs. R in 1993!"

The assumptions underlying this seeming compliment were wrong on too many levels.

As if there's no return. As if I couldn't possibly recover my smooth skin (okay, I never, ever had smooth skin), or my reverse gap, or my perky girls, or my pimple-free thighs, and who am I kidding, pimple-free everywhere. That they've been gone for at least 20 years.

According to him, I suppose it was a compliment that he recognized that they ever even existed.

We grieve the loss of our young, perky bodies like we grieve many losses.

Things are gone. Things are fading. We are in reverse.

Holy Texting

I'm all for utilitarian texting: "Don't forget eggs,"or "Feed the children."

Or out of laziness like when I text my husband from upstairs: "Goodnight."

But a holy holiday somehow, in my mind, precludes utility.

Someone in Denver texted me on Easter Morning: "Happy Easter."

Yup.

That was it. It was enough to set me to tears. Days of them.

I thought about it for a long while before I texted back. I carefully and thoughtfully crafted my response: "Thanks. You too."

Because it wasn't what I really wanted to hear on Easter morning.

I mean, c'mon, Jesus rose from the dead, can't we just be honest for a day in honor of that?

And since I can just fantasize with my keyboard here, this is what I really wanted to hear, preferably in person, voice would've sufficed, text would have been the last choice (and really long to type):

"We miss you terribly. Holidays are not the same without you here. We all sit around and cry all day missing you and recollecting memories. Like the time you made us all laugh when you claimed to know something, or the time you beat up your little brother in your favorite game of verbal sparring... The absence of your presence is notable. I wish you well on this day of celebration that our sins are indeed forgiven since our savior conquered death. Happy Easter."

And thank God He did.

I have been demoted to a holiday text message. How quickly we're forgotten.

Yes, I could've called. But impressive and hindering is the weight of sadness.

And lest you worry that I'm just busy feeling sorry for myself here, I have a new companion. She too has recently been displaced, far away from her parents, and her siblings, and her home.

Her name is Juno, after the Roman Goddess, the protector of women.

And though she bites me sometimes, and is still learning to pee outside, we are enduring our sadness together.

The Half of Pi

I dreaded that my first-born might be born on The Ides of March. Such an ominous, murderous day.

Perhaps this is why I pushed so hard on the eve of it.

And so, I delivered my Pi baby. Born on 3.14 (04)

You can do the math. If you like math.

Or, I'll just do the meaningful part of it for you here:

We have survived the first nine crying, messy, stinky, clingy, demanding, yet so beautiful years.
They are over. 

Pi has survived them. We have all survived them. Somewhat in tact. At least with all our limbs still attached.

There is a death to be acknowledged here. Those first nine years swallowed his childhood. Never to be repeated. Oh how I wish I could redo moments. So many moments. Some to relive the joy. Some to say things differently, to act differently, to show more patience, or to be more present. 

And so to honor this death, I will bury his blankie that he hasn't used in years (but couldn't sleep without for the first three), the forest of drawings of knights and monsters and two-legged heads, the mementos of cheap bracelets and plastic awards, of derby cars and lego creations, the teeth, the report cards, the first letters, then the first sentences, then the first of the real thoughts... 

I will bury these in a treasure chest. I hope we can sit down together years from now to sift through these random items. 

For pi explains the circle. And the circle implies a non-linear journey, one that recognizes a starting point. It offers a promise to return.

Alas.

We move on to the second half of his time under our roof. We brace for the next nine years to unfold.

We prepare for the battles.

I am not ready.

To hear the angst of confusion, and smell the stink of hormones.

To listen to doors slamming and witness confused tears.

To endure the horror of middle school and incur the expense of deodorant.

To wonder about the silences and feel the betrayal of loyalty.

To entertain snarky friends and share my child. 

At least during the first nine years, he was mine. No one else claimed his attention or company much.

It's a slow bandaid that tears off when your child ages.

Circle back to me, pi baby. I'm your biggest fan, always.

Cheers with a tampon for Int'l Women's Day!

Cheers to all you ladies today!

In honor of International Women's Day, I would like to pause and share with you a story.

I heard an interview with Shin Dong-hyuk this week. This man recently released a book that chronicles his life in and escape from a North Korean Prison Camp: Escape From Camp 14: One Man's Remarkable Odyssey From North Korea to Freedom in the West. The details of his life in the camp sound eerily familiar to the stories we've heard from the Concentration Camps in Europe during WWII.

After describing many horrors he endured, including watching his mother and brother get executed, Shin shared that he has a difficult time existing in North America. He is astounded at the stores here, and said that he gets especially sad when he sees the boxes and boxes of tampons and pads on the shelves. Which caused me pause--what man ever notices feminine products unless their girlfriend or wife won a bet?

But.

Then Shin explained that in the prison camp, 2,000 women worked in one of the many buildings each day. When these women had their period, they had no choice but to bleed through their clothes and drip blood onto the floors.

He sounded like he might cry when he described how he wanted to take all the boxes of tampons off the store shelves and bring them back to these women. He noted that they were lovely women.

As if their beauty makes their suffering even harsher.

And here I live with luxuries and dignity and ambition.

But.

Today I pause to think of so many women who do not.

Then I start to think maybe I'll mail a box of tampons to North Korea, perhaps with a message inside to Kim Jong-un to let him know... well, he's apparently got some nukes, so maybe I won't be so naive.

Settle Down February!

Some things I've learned as of late:

1. Unspoken cultural rules exist here in Canada, and they are escaping me.
I learned early that I need to remove my footwear when I enter someone's home. This only took two embarrassing confrontations (and has saved my footwear budget--no need to buy any here just to surrender them to waste away at someone's door!)
But.
There are certain social customs I fear I have violated. And nobody is telling me. Maybe they're whispering behind my back. Possibly laughing. Perhaps I'm completely delusional--cold months of no Vitamin D may have strange side effects. I'm not sure if I bring up inappropriate things at innoportune times, or if I talk too much or too little. Or if I have bad breath. Or if I'm scary looking because I'm so pale.

2. I do know this: I am tired of being on my best behavior in order to find friends. I just want people to surround me who love me for my bad and inappropriate and ridiculously awkward sides. I want to be crabby in public.

3. There's no such thing as new-old friends.

4. I had to delete this one. Even though it was good. It was, perhaps, a bit too honest. Sometimes even I self-censor.

5. Lately, I write articles for magazines. Then I submit them. Here's the problem: Even though I have been submitting said articles to magazines that I am confident have a demographic I comprehend, I have felt my limitation as a writer: I cannot write for a wide audience. My preferred audience is snarky, vodka-drinking, swearing, Jesus-loving, but Dobson-not-loving-, women who sometimes want to be sexy and smart and not have mom attached to their identity (but deeply love their children). That's a frickin long magazine title. I am about to give up on my limp dream of pleasing a wide audience and start writing here more, where the few of you who read this would buy that magazine, even with its long title. Which is why I love you.

6. I've also learned this: All we really need to survive is one person who really loves us.

7. The person who loves me most is a song-writer. He wrote me (and sang) this: "Hold on to me as we go / As we roll down this unfamiliar road / And although this wave is stringing us along / Just know you're not alone cuz I'm gonna make this place your home / Settle down, it'll all be clear / Don't pay no mind to the demons, they fill you with fear / Trouble it might drag you down, but if you get lost, you can always be found / Just know you're not alone, cuz I'm gonna make this place your home / oooohhhh, oooooooo, aaaaahhhh, aaaaa-ooooo-aaaaah, aaahhhoohhhaaaahhh, oooooohhh, aaahooooahoahoaohoaoahoaohoahoahoahoah... " And, no, I'm not married to anyone with any Phil in his name, but someone with a Phil somewhere in their name stole this, apparently, from my husband.

Cheers.

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.

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).


Sincerely,

Your Canadian Friend