May 28, 2012

Today I stood at the edge of the ocean where I have stood 29 summers before... before I could have ever imagined your name... and thought of all the days that came later when I hoped and wondered if I would get to show you this place where I was a girl, a child, and now, your mother. The sun moved over my belly and you within it and together we went into the surf.

First, a pause.

Hello friends.  It's been a while.

I think I have something like fifteen or sixteen posts to my awfulsweetness name and all of it smattered over a short period between October something-th and now.  It's hardly worth a moment's contemplation compared to some blogs with far more dedicated writers who I have come to greatly admire.  To anyone (um, like me circa late September 2009) who flippantly assumes that they can just throw on some irreverent fashion, plop down in front of their laptop with a vodka martini, and bang out the next single gal's guide to the big city... go ahead.  Try it.

This writing for an unknown audience business is hard.  And even more so when you try to, ahem, keep it real.

I like you guys.  I like knowing that I can get out some feelings at three in the morning while Roseanne is on and maybe check back in at noon between classes and find that somebody, somewhere can relate.  I like that you comment and email.  I like that you're women all leading these topsy-turvy lives with careers and great shoes, husbands and children, dogs, ferrets, and even one chinchilla.  In my mind, I am sure that each of you is living at least one of my shoulda-woulda regrets (ie: law school, international humanitarian outreach, maintaining a clean and orderly house) and for some odd reason that makes them not like regrets at all. I'm impressed with you simply by virtue of being a part of this shared community.  And I've missed you all a little bit, I'm not ashamed to say.

So with that, I have something to share and it's part of the reason why I've been unexpectedly absent for a while.

No, I'm not pregnant.
We are not moving.
I did not graduate or get a new job.

In fact, this news isn't even my news at all.  My good friend's husband just recently died at the age of thirty two.  32.

My own husband is 34, I say as I shake my head at the unfathomable thought...

I met Carla in school this past summer.  We got lost together on campus looking for the security office.  We vowed not to let the other gain weight this year.  At last count we were both up seven pounds.  Her husband Wes worked in the same industry as my husband.  Two Mondays ago we were making plans to get the boys together.  They have a two year old daughter and looking at pictures you can see nothing in that man's eyes to suggest that he did not have every last intention of someday walking that beautiful little strawberry blonde down the aisle.

Last Sunday morning, Wes had a massive heart attack.  He was an accomplished gymnast during his younger years, handsome and fit to the day.  Carla woke up and got their daughter situated.  She came back in to the room and noticed that Wes' breathing sounded funny.  She put her hand to his head and he felt cold.  The digital thermometer read eighty-six.  Wes was unresponsive and Carla called 911.  Carla's sister had spent the night, and not wanting her daughter to hear or see the ambulance, Carla yelled for her to take the little one to McDonald's.  That was the first thing to make me cry.

Carla had to do chest compressions on her husband for what she estimated to be about seven or eight minutes before the paramedics arrived.

Sit completely still for just one minute, in silence, and see how long that feels.  Now multiply that times seven and imagine, for that entire time, that you are, quite literally, holding your husband's life and breath in your hands.  Slamming away on his chest, hoping and praying that blood is reaching his brain.  The man you fell in love with, married, the father of your child, walker of the dog in the rain, carrier of the heaviest groceries, maker of the jokes when you're sad.

By Monday afternoon, the doctors told Carla that Wes had no brain function, no activity.  He was an organ donor and according to Carla this was something that was very close to his heart.  She actually said that... close to his heart.  They waited to take him off life support until his brother had arrived from New York.  Wes was pronounced at 12:30am Tuesday morning.

I haven't known Carla long, but we all have those people in our lives who don't require years of awkward growth spurts to reveal how truly special they are.  She is someone who could have been in my life all along.  I wish I knew more of her stories, had been there for her baby shower, known her even before she met Wes. She is a good soul.

The viewing was Friday and the funeral Saturday morning.  I overheard so many memories, saw so many smiles as family and friends looked over the countless photos framed and taped over every surface in the room.  I know I missed out by not having met Wes.

This is a site put together by family and friends.  The letters to their daughter Ava are lovely.

I would write about priorities, getting over one's self and the like, but that really hasn't been the effect.  The past several days have just been overwhelmingly sad, in part because having priorities won't keep your husband's heart from stopping at an age not even half his anticipated life expectancy and that is a bitch you can't shut up.  I've been reaching over periodically throughout the night, making sure Mike is there and breathing.  I'm still seething with rage due to his leaving the frying pan to rust in the brand new sink, but that aside we have plans yet unrealized, new mortgages still to pay.  He promised to be here with me, to be the person I brush my teeth with at night - bitterly of course, as we are still suffering with only one sink between us.  If he left me here to face the world alone.  Well friends, I have a confession.  That is something I don't know that I could do.

When I married him I chose not to remain an I.  That was a forever choice.  The part of me that was shunting dependency and future stakes away from my one-bedroom apartment heart was now permanently filled, patent, and flowing.  Now that I have learned to breathe the air, I could not live without it.

Dramatic?  Maybe.  But ladies, this is life.  LIFE.  Us chosen few here on Earth.

So here's to doing it.  And to Wes, may we all be blessed to be a part of someone else's happiness, for however long we're given.

A Lot Like Love

There was a time, nay, an altogether gilded age when it was just me and my precious dog Daphne, living the somewhat single gal's dream. Working in the big city by day, living in a cozy one-bed apartment by night. We had an adorable cherry red coffee maker, walk-in closet, and sometimes we both had Honey Nut Cheerios for dinner. On the sofa. In our underpants.

It was grand.

This was also around the time when the Ashton Kutcher classic A Lot Like Love was on TBS, FX, or some other equally fantastic repository channel for not even worth the senior citizen discount price when you were a new release movies that somehow magically turn into the greatest flicks you have ever seen once they hit the small screen. Daph and me, we loved this movie.

A guy and a girl meet when the guy is in that post-grad, on the cusp of greatness, yet painfully awkward to others in his self-confident exuberance phase of life and the girl was a bit angry, wearing sloppy black eyeliner and boots with safety pins. They have this frolic of a romp through New York City and then she leaves. He tries to stop her and she says, "Don't, you'll ruin it."

I think the movie has a time span of something like seven years. They meet each other in contrived ways which because of their growing friendship seem entirely natural and spontaneous. They have invested relationships with other people. She gets engaged. But really the everyday happenings in their individual lives are so secondary, and not just to the story surrounding the two main characters, but to the prevailing theme of the movie that no matter how many years have passed, when they do come together it's as if no time has passed at all.

I've had great friendships like that. Some became love stories, some continue on just as they are. One in particular I married.

There was a period when it seemed this movie was on every Friday and Saturday night, and being a bit of a housecat with a puppy to care for and willing to take any excuse to stay in and enjoy the sofa I bought with my very own money, I probably watched it the better of a dozen times. And then I moved in with my new fiance and it wasn't on anymore. Every once in a great blue moon I would catch the tail end or see that it would be on at some obscure time during the day, but those weekend night viewings came to an end and after a while I didn't even remember to miss it.

But it was on tonight. And with such perfect timing that I have to wonder - who's really in charge of television programming these days? Sugar cookies were out of the oven, husband had had his fill of baked goods and xbox gaming and was now passed out on the couch, blankie style. I made myself a cook's glass of wine and stretched out on the second favorite sofa of my life. My movie was on in all its glory and the memories of my apartment, girlishness, and a fuzzy-haired, puppy-breath version of my baby Daphne came flooding back. It made me want to relive days gone by, put on a bright green face mask and call my boyfriend from under my Rachel Ashwell Shabby Chic bedspread that marriage and compromise have since banished to storage.

Outside, the snow was glittery and still untouched and even the 27, almost 28 year old, married, and arguably full-blown headcase version of me had to agree...

...all was right with my world.

Let's lighten the load.

Affirmation of the day: There are darn good people in the world.

Thank you for the kind comments (and a few emails) in response to my last little journal entry here. Those were unexpected and very sweet and I felt a little kinship with each of you - so cheers to solidarity and getting back to the strong-willed little girl within!

I had myself a good cry and talked to my mama. The soul feels a little less bruised today - dare I say, even resilient? May be...

I even picked up the leftover Christmas paraphernalia. ::Hells bells Melanie!:: So things with hubs are looking up. I got one of those real hugs tonight. The I-just-realized-that-you-did-this-for-me-and-I-really-want-to-show-you-I-appreciate-it kind.

Heart melted right through my sweatpants.

So... shaking off the bad for tonight, reveling in the good, and I want to take it to lazy town. I'm watching Bachelor while perusing Etsy from the sofa sidebar and I'm just going to unload some goodies for goodies sake.

Take a load off with me and enjoy...

The White Room - Vintage Pearls and Rhinestones Flower Necklace and Earrings

Lirola's - Romantic Flower Top

Sweet and Light - Linen and Vintage Floral Shoulder Bag

Luxe Deluxe - Athena's Love Nest 14kt Gold Necklace

Luxe Deluxe - Forever in Bloom Cuff

Ladies - can ya feel me?

By Order of the Crown - Keep Calm and Carry On T-Shirt

On to the next day... Goodnight friends. ::winks::

When you feel you've failed a thousand times...

...congratulations - you're in a marriage. and an adult. and chances are, fatter than you were last year.

Ah friends, it's been a hard two weeks. Right now I'm listening to the dogs whine and take out their restlessness on each other, reminding me that I haven't been giving them nearly enough attention. My husband is in a deep sleep with an aching back thanks to his tireless work ethic and refusal to say no to anyone, including me. I haven't talked to my mom since January 4th, and I miss her. My poor dad has been relegated to an afterthought.... which reminds me, I promised him an "us" dinner at Christmas.. and then forgot.

I am completely sick of myself today.

Sometimes I have to just tuck my tongue in cheek and laugh at what a ridiculous woman God hath made in me. The bright, worldly women reading this gab-rag will hear me when I say - I have the capacity to be brilliant, but I am.... I am flawed.

I was so smart once. So accomplished... unstoppable, focused, unafraid, unencumbered. I was eight. I had this big wooden desk with a matching chair and shelves that went to the ceiling, covered in books, geodes, a globe I bought with my own allowance, and at one time every single pastel paperback in the Babysitters Club series. I fancied myself a Stacey McGill, but at heart I was a Mary Anne Spier, complete with braids I slept in only to unfurl gorgeous crimped-out waves by morning.

(that was sarcasm)

My mom would make my bed with me and say, "Trust me peanut, this is a gift you give yourself." My room was where I kept my every thought, bigger and grander and full of as much wonder and enchantment as the grassy knoll of Catonsville High School where I used to lay with pink plastic, heart-shaped sunglasses and snowball-blue terry shorts, watching the summer sky go hazy with every color you could see, celebrating the freedom just to be.

I thought so then, but I know it now - I could have been Anything.

My mom and dad divorced, mom remarried, and both of my parents went through hard times. We thrice moved into houses built just for us, but the past inevitably filled the walls and clogged the drains. I tried to blend in to the tide of middle school in Jordache and baggy t-shirts. Sometimes they had hip-hop bedecked Looney Tunes emblazoned on the front, and also -this hurts- the back. Forgive me comrades, I was born in a transient time.

I never tried to understand my mother's choices and this, I must admit, was a weighty factor in our inevitable schism. I stopped wanting to be a nice kid. I wished my brother would grow up and help me. I remember kneeling beside my bed and realizing that it did not matter who was right and what was wrong. I was not forgotten, not depressed, no, something far worse - I was angry, and anger needs no further analysis to do its bitter deed. I had been the dependable outcome in my mother's life and the pure good in my dad's, the smart child who disappeared from birthday parties to read, and went on sixth grade summits for precocious preteens hellbent on meeting the governor. I had been the piece of universe at the finger of the prime mover, and somewhere in the milieu became a lonely drop of water that couldn't find its way out of a rock. I was unrecognizable and unresponsive to urging.

Husband and I have had a [sometimes] rough road. We have a love story but it is also blemished with bouts of ugliness. Fights I would rather forget about issues that deserved a more prepared audience and less hardened heart. I was growing and healing and trying to be with this man who came into my life at the worst and best possible time.

Today, I don't recognize a hair on my head. Memories of climbing into those crisp cotton sheets with braids to my shoulders and a flashlight under the pillow feel so far behind. I made the bed the other day and as I tried to tame the corners I felt as though the sheets would pull the finger from the nail. I thwarted failure by stuffing the excess under the mattress and then slumped, like a boneless cat, against the springs.

I have been promising husband for many days that I would do away with the remaining piles of empty Christmas packages and shopping bags full of ribbon bits and endless receipts currently crowding the already stinted walkway along my side of the bed. I've also been meaning to make sense of the pile of paperwork and last semester's outlines collecting dust and resentment on the coffee table. And these are just the symptoms.

We don't necessarily make each other better, I've realized in some of my moments of greater clarity. We exist in this marriage as flawed as the day we began, and I have never felt so engaged in all my life. Every day is a choice. To be here. Both for him and for me - I know it doesn't read well, but it feels just fine. To be chosen as his wife on an otherwise nondescript Wednesday.

My husband is so good, so resilient and unapologetic. I find myself expecting him to improve the person I am. But the truth, the story of us, is that my love for him, along with my respect and admiration, have absolutely nothing to do with me. I have never blamed him for my shortcomings nor credited him with my strengths. I love him in spite of what I offer; I love him knowing he may not love me back. He brings a depth and awareness to my life, and what is most glaring in that light is my desire to be better... for him. To do this one thing inarguably well. To make the choice tomorrow that much easier for us both.

Troubling facts, these. My becoming a good wife with any measure of consistency depends not on my love for husband or his for me, but rather on whether or not I will allow myself to recall the spirit of that eight year old girl. To get back to believing that in my room, or my house, I can be anything.

I hear stirrings from the next room. I am going to bed.