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

39-year-olds Gone Wild.

I’d like to blame the following on my 39-year-old gorgeous, hilarious friend who was visiting from Denver last weekend. 

But we all know that I would be lying.

Picture this:

Downtown Toronto. 11 p.m.

Clubs recently open.

Frickin cold streets clambering with joint-carrying hipsters and 21-year-old sex pots.

And. Two 39-year-old women dressed like the cover of a Costo circular, looking to relive a bit of their past after a shared bottle of wine.

These two.

Yes, they did.

They chatted it up with these joint-smoking hipsters. 

Yup.

And then the ones with the joints tried to lose the two hot 39s.

To no avail.

In-shape 39s can run in chunky heals. Unlike the sexy hipsters who wear the skinny ones. Silly girls.

Line ups at club entrances? No problem.

Free entrance for two retired hotties? Check. For entertainment? Perhaps.

Line-up for inspection of purses? Yabsolutely.

As I opened up my 12-pound arm luggage, the 40-ish year old woman cop (searching for weapons? maybe illicit drugs? nice pencils?) must have been oh-so-disappointed when she discovered the Wagon Wheel that I had stolen from my children earlier that day. 

Entre.

Bar, two beers please. Dance floor, empty.

Thus began the release of two beautiful 39-year-old souls. The abandonment of every propriety we had forced upon ourselves. Finally, an audience to witness that dance we had been perfecting on our kitchen floors for years.

There were appendages swinging like fly swatters. 

There were hips thrusting as violently as they were while stuck in stirrups during the pangs of childbirth.

There was uninhibited laughter that women only have when they’re knocking on 40.

But. There was no communication over the thump, thump, thump of the club. 

After yelling into each other’s ears failed, we resorted to texting. One of us may or may not have texted to the other: “I keep farting!”

And there were boys wanting piggy back rides. Young boys. Even 19-year-old boys, here in Canada.

And then there were two nervous 39-ers finding walls to protect their weathered and well-seated bottoms. 

Don’t worry. The tired 39-ers all made it home safely. We and our bottoms. 

And our Wagon Wheels for that late-night snack.

Zeligs and 10 year olds

I am a Zelig. 

It looks like this: I can “mirror and match” most humans: body language, topics, facial expressions, tone, pet peeves, and even thoughts, be them shallow or cynical, pathetic or poetic...

Examples: 

The intellectuals: I can lean back, listen and nod. I can ask good questions. And even throw in a good vocabulary word every now and then (a beneficial side-effect of teaching high school English). 

The materialists: I can talk Prada and Nordstrom and fashion with most, but I am best at lamenting my own lack of style. Self-deprecating brings out the sympathy of these types, and they love a challenge (and flattery, don’t we all). 

The athletes: I have just enough knowledge about most sports to be a little dangerous. I can drop one good line and then come up with an excuse to leave the room shortly afterwards. 

I am my best at first impressions. I’m a “wooer” according to some experts.

And I’m dangerous. 

I know a little bit about a lot of stuff. But I don’t know a lot about...anything.

I was bragging about this particular quality of mine to a friend once, and she busted me. 

She asked, “Then who are you, really?”

And that question has bothered me for almost a year now.

Maybe a better question might be, “Who were you?” 

As in, who were you before you started trying to please everyone around you? Before you started bowing down to the most important person in every room? Before you started comparing yourself to everyone else around you and always found that you fell short? Before you signed yourself up for this contest that you have always perceived yourself as losing? 

And this goes back. Way back. This must go back to before I was 10 years old.

Back then I was joyful. I was curious. I was vibrant. And I smiled a lot. I only dressed for utility and ate to sustain. And drank only water or milk. I read for pleasure and played with gusto. I skipped and ran and hunted and dug and swam... and slept in peace.

This world does some horrible things to us women. It tries to strip us not only our clothing, but our self-respect and our worth. Our potential and our self-esteem. It tries to create a gauge in us that always lacks. It tries to convince us that we are a fixer-upper in need of repair.

But I don’t want to be a victim. I will not blame the world for doing this to me. I did this to myself. I chose to believe the messages sent to me from every magazine cover, every whisper from my own brain, every TV show, every comment made to shame me, every criticism... I blame not the world, but my own lack of courage to kill my little self-doubter long ago.

I want to kill it now though.

This voice that reminds me of all of my past foibles and failures. 

This echo of all those things I have done that I should not have done.

This memory of the raised eyebrows and hushed snickers.

This question of whether or not I have the ability or capacity to achieve.

The replaying of all those things I said. Those idiotic things I said.

I want to kill these, but I don’t know how.

Do I line them up like a firing squad? Or do I drown them all with my tears...or in a bottle? Do I stomp them underneath my runners? Or do I lecture them to death and try to reason them away? 

I do not know. But I want them dead. 

I want to be 10 again. I want to move ahead fearlessly without worrying about what every eye (seen and unseen) thinks about my movement. I don’t want to care about those eyes at all. And I want to feel absolutely perfect and beautiful, even when I look like this:

Clearly, I felt beautiful here. And I knew so little of hurt here. In spite of my mother's poor choice of hair dressers and eye glasses.

bacon tears

Thys sobbed in my arms tonight. He bawled in the way that happens when you release all composure (which six-year olds don't even have yet) and give in to your visceral instinct: his little body shook, tears raced down his cheeks, and his voice tried to contain itself (but I could sense its longing to release).

It all started over bacon.

You see, I was supposed to make bacon for breakfast this morning.

But I forgot to get up early.

And I forgot to thaw it last night.

This did not go over well.

The day truly began with disappointment.

(Don’t all days end up with this sooner of later? Sometimes better to get it out of the way, I say.)

The announcement about the lack of bacon was greeted with vehement protests.

I wanted to yell: “Stop crying! Like you always do! I am so tired of it!” 
I wanted to slam a door. Or kick something.
I wanted to reason the tears out of existence: “Do you have any idea how good you have it in life?”
I wanted to appease: “Fine! I’ll make your fucking bacon!”
I wanted to hurt back. I confess. I did want this. I have little patience for irrationality.
I wanted to squelch the bacon tears with reality: “Really? We’re talking about bacon, for God’s sake, which is about the stupidest thing to cry about. Couldn’t you pick something important, like the Middle East or Kate Middelton’s baby?”

But tonight, when the bacon memories came back and he started crying all over again, all I could do was hold his little head in my arms and kiss his soft cheeks and whisper in his ears while his voice pounded, “uhhhhhh, uhhhhhhhh” in unison with his pulsing body. And. All I could say: “It’s okay baby...you’re okay...you’ll be okay...” 

And when you hold another trembling human, you have no choice but to soak in a bit of the pain, even if you don’t understand it. 

But you wonder about it.

And you wonder where it comes from. And if it’s a community pain. Or a generational pain. If it's a pain of longing. Or one of sadness. God knows it cannot be a pain of shame. Not yet.

But it certainly cannot be all about the bacon. At least I don’t think so.

true stories

My life today:

1. My boys woke up crabby.
Me: "Here's your breakfast (that I got up earlier than you did to make for you)."
Boy: "I don't want that; I want waffles!"
Me: "Go back to your room until you can come out with a different attitude."
Slamming doors. Grunts. Disgust.
Me: "And all I'm packing in your lunch today are leftover oatmeal and carrots and celery!"
Me again: "And maybe a little ham if you're lucky!"

2. I got home from work 30 minutes early, so I thought I'd grab a quick run before I picked up the crabs. I changed, grabbed my phone and left.
I got home 45 minutes later with the boys:
Hubs: "Where were you?!?! (he works from home)
Me: "Run."
Hubs: "Sheesh, I thought I heard you, but when I looked, you weren't here. And all your stuff was here, I was so confused."
Me: "Sorry."
Hubs: "God, I thought the Rapture had happened!"
Me: "Yikes."
Hubs: "And then I thought, 'why would you be gone instead of me?'"

3. I got mail.
A letter from my mother.
It says: "Happy 40th!"
And my birthday is not until November.
Apparently, telling her that I am celebrating all year connected with the wrong synapsis.

water bottle disaster

At a Pampered Chef party I recently attended I encountered a woman with her two-year old in tow. She immediately struck me as someone who was highly cranked on coffee, or possibly meth, with her loud voice, overly forced facial expressions, and huge arm movements... she brought a lunch box full of tupperware containers of fruit and vegetables for her young daughter to eat. She also struck me as the type of woman who says Happy Anniversary to her husband on Facebook.

She was fascinating. I couldn’t help but watch her and wonder what she would do next:

-She adamantly proclaimed that she needed all her meals “on the go,” since all she does is drive her kids to ballet and ice skating and guitar lessons and karate classes...clearly she had not recently received enough accolades for her extreme parenting measures.

-She also praised her daughter for being so smart because she sorted the pistachio nuts (she put the shells in the shell dish). Genius.

-She also thumped her butt up and down on the couch and yelled repeatedly while trying to answer the hostess’ questions about the product being displayed...

Then, she spotted her two-year old drinking out of a water bottle.

Her response to this event was akin to someone responding to a cancer diagnosis ... If you had simply watched the fear and the anger surging through this woman, you would have sworn her daughter had just been impaled on the paring knife.

“Whose. Water. Bottle. Is. This?” she franticly asked every person in the room. Three times.

For at least five minutes, I watched her. At one point I thought she was going to cry; her body was shaking.

She discovered through her thorough investigation that the only grandmother in the room had broken the seal of a brand new water bottle that the tiny girl had brought to her (because she wrongly assumed that it was hers). The shame. The grandmother was scolded and rebuked by frantic mom for not checking with her first. The grandmother apologized. Then she was then subjected to Parenting Tips. It was like listening to my six-year old give ice-skating advice to Wayne Gretzky.

I must not have disguised my fascination with her all that well because at one point she looked at me and said, “I’m sure you think I’m crazy.”

And all I could think to say was, “Is your daughter not supposed to drink water?” in a nice voice.

And she hunched her shoulders over and said, “That’s not it... it’s just that...this water belongs to someone else.” And then the desperate plea of, “Whose water bottle is this?” began again.

And I was terrified to think how this woman would respond to an actual tragedy. 

I had so many questions I wanted to ask her:

-what is wrong with you?

-are you worried that someone in this house has a horrible disease?

-is this the first time you’ve taken your child out of your home?

-did you forget to take your medication today?

-would you like some vodka?

It wasn’t until after I left that I thought of some nice things I could have said to her. Sometimes I believe that we are too shocked to consider polite gestures. At least I am. Because I do remember those days when you’re doing all that you bloody can to keep your child safe and healthy meanwhile keeping yourself somewhat sane. With no sleep in your system to support those efforts, a tiny mishap can indeed throw you over the edge. I’ve been there. And I should have empathized with her. 

It’s a strange mirror to look into when you find yourself looking back at who you were and see yourself so ridiculous. 

Up next: Why I’m secretly hoping Kate Middleton’s child is born with a Cleft Lip.