Category: Uncategorized

trigger.warning.

sunset

 

Grief is fluid. Yeah, there are five stages of it, everyone who has taken Psych 101 knows that. But what they don’t know, if they’ve never experienced it, is that sometimes the stages melt into each other, dissolve, disappear for a while, then reemerge and start all over again.

The word trigger has gotten a bad rap lately–or maybe it’s just been overused to the point of obscurity–but it’s true that there are things in a grieving person’s day that can cause her to get tripped up, freeze her in place, make her wonder why she’s not been grieving continuously and needed a reminder of her loss.

I have said many times that one of the hardest things to deal with after my mom died, was never seeing her name/number pop up on my phone again. I missed hearing the phone ring, looking at it, and seeing MOM flashing on the screen. Seeing her number. For a long time after she died, I couldn’t delete her number from my contacts. I liked scrolling through and seeing her there. She only disappeared when I bought a new phone and couldn’t bring myself to put her into it, knowing how pointless it was.

Another thing I missed was getting emails from my mom. When I was in college, before the age of texting, she would email me throughout the day with important information I might need to know. Upcoming events at home. News about my brothers. I never deleted any of them, but at some point, I did get a new email address and started using that more frequently. At some point, I must have let the new email transfer all my old contacts from the old email… and then allowed LinkedIn to scour my contacts for people to connect with while job searching… because yesterday, as I was going through my new notifications, the website presented me with people I should invite to join LinkedIn. And there she was, my mom. Her email address.

I hadn’t seen it in years.

And I know that all I would have to do, to never feel that lump in my throat and dramatic thump in my chest, is send the invite knowing no one will ever respond. Or delete her, finally, from my contacts.

It would make the trigger go away.

But the thing about triggers, is that sometimes you need them. And sometimes they remind you to slow down and sometimes the hurt is necessary and beneficial even if it’s unwelcome.

Sometimes, you can’t feel better until you feel worse.

purple.socks.

purplesocks (2)

 

When your husband–the one who used to willingly get into a cage and fight other grown men for fun, and who, when cut or sliced or otherwise maimed at work usually just tapes up his wound with whatever is closest–calls you at work and says, “I did something stupid. I cut myself and I need you to come get me and take me to the hospital,” you don’t ask questions. You flee your office, barely explaining why to your boss, and go home to see what in the hell kind of stupid thing your husband did that necessitated him calling you in the first place.

In case you’re curious whether or not I actually fled or if I’m just using that term for dramatic effect, I will tell you this: I left a full 24 oz. cup of piping hot coffee on my desk.

Yeah, that’s some serious shit.

On the way home, which, luckily for him, is only about half a mile away, I wondered what I might walk in on at home. I’m not what you’d call steel-nerved when it comes to things like blood or vomit or other bodily fluids. He hadn’t told me where he cut himself, what if he was passed out by the time I got home? What if he couldn’t walk? What if his finger was in a plastic bag full of ice? What kind of stupid thing was he even doing?

There was little time to worry about a lot of these hypotheticals because as soon as I pulled up to the house, he was opening the front door and hobbling out, a towel wrapped tight around his lower leg. I know I have an over-active imagination, but it was a huge relief to immediately know he wasn’t passed out in a pool of his own blood in the living room.

He had no shoes on but there was no time to get him any, because he was bleeding everywhere and let’s be honest, I don’t even think there are clean matching socks anywhere in my house right now, so barefoot seemed like the easier/better option. Who wants to be the wife who tells a eulogy that starts thusly, “It was a real shame that I spent fifteen minutes trying to find two matching socks in the fourteen laundry baskets of clean clothes we keep in the basement. If I hadn’t had to do that, he may not have bled out.”

So off we went, him barefoot, me trying not to look anywhere in the general vicinity of the source of the blood. We were on the road before he told me what had happened, which was this: The remote control airplane he’d been building with our son had turned on while he was, ironically, trying to set the safety for the throttle, and the propeller turned into his calf, slicing it. In case you were wondering, this plane isn’t some tiny little drone thing that can fit in your hand. It’s a plane with a five-foot wingspan.

On the way to the hospital, my loving husband told me details I didn’t need to know. Like how, when it happened, and before he’d really processed that he’d just been cut, it sounded like he’d spilled a cup of water on the floor. And how now there was so much blood all over the living room it looked like a crime scene. And how he maybe thought he had even seen a few chunks of flesh (I think he just threw that detail in to gross me out. He likes to do that). But then he started to feel dizzy and in pain, which probably wasn’t helped by the fact that I was driving in a way that could maybe be described as a sorta cautious maniac.

When we pulled up, I told him to get out and I’d run in to see if they’d let me bring a wheelchair out, instead of making him hobble barefoot up the walk. In the ER lobby, I told the receptionist that my husband had cut himself and I needed a wheelchair. She pointed to where the wheelchairs were and asked if I needed help. After I said I could handle it, she asked what he cut himself on. I panicked, not wanting to go into some long-ass story while he was waiting for me, and just said, “Airplane propeller!” on my way out the door.

This seemed to cause some confusion, but it did end in nurses being called immediately to come inspect his leg.

“So uh, what exactly did this?” was the question of the day. We quickly clarified that the airplane propeller was attached to a remote control plane, and not a real airplane. To which one nurse said, “Ahhh okay. I was wondering how he’d even have a leg left…”

So let that be a lesson to you kids. Clarity is important, but sometimes being vague gets you seen faster in an emergency.

They got him back into a room and I still refused to look directly at the leg because, you know, I’m a giant baby. The doctor saying, “Ooooh no, I need to go get more supplies” was enough to evoke certain images in my brain that I didn’t want to see. Nurses kept coming in and asking questions. One winked at me and said, “Mine’s a big kid, too.” But mostly I think they were just disappointed that an actual airplane hadn’t cut my husband’s leg.

My husband was just embarrassed and kept saying so. But everyone assured him that they’d seen much more embarrassing things in the ER. I reminded him that we’d been in the ER for more embarrassing reasons. But he was just concerned with the state of his toenails and the fact that he wasn’t wearing any socks or shoes, and hadn’t had a shower yet.

Eighteen stitches later, he was all fixed up and ready to go. The nurse who had confided that her husband also loved giant toys came back and laughingly asked (as we were getting ready to leave), “Do you want me to bring you some of the socks with the grippy bottoms so you don’t have to be barefoot?” And he said yes. When she came back, she had giant purple socks, which isn’t a thing I’d ever be able to get my husband to wear, but this nurse had the magic touch, I guess. He put those suckers on, and I walked my maimed husband out to the car. And that is the story of how my husband got his very first pair of purple socks.

 

Mary. Poppins.

I’ve never been a fan of movies with Mary Poppins endings. You know the ones, the stories that end with all the broken people being put back together again while the person who did the fixing disappears silently into the ending credits?

As a child, I had questions.

Questions such as:

Did the children ever see Mary again? What about on Christmas or Easter? Did she send them postcards to tell them about the other children she was helping so it didn’t sound like a bullshit excuse to hightail it the hell out of their lives? (okay maybe I didn’t think that last thing in those exact words as a child, but it was close).

And what about that Pete’s Dragon? Whatever happened to him? Did he find another little nearly-orphaned boy to take care of? What if he didn’t? What the hell happened to Elliot?’

And did Poppins ever get a hard case she couldn’t crack? Did she ever stay years at a house, and in the end, the daughter ended up hanging off a pole showing fat old businessmen her tramp stamp? Did Poppins ever have to sneak off to the pub and drink herself silly? How far does this Practically Perfect nonsense really go? And are there really people or magic beings who can detach themselves from others so much as to leave them forever, even when they were solely responsible for these people’s happiness?

If so, how do I become one of them?

Convinced.

I am convinced that the universe needs me to be at a certain level of desperation on a daily basis in order for the galaxies to remain harmoniously aligned.

I am convinced that if I hadn’t recently freed myself of self-inflicted guilt about giving up on relationships that I clearly can’t salvage without divine intervention, I wouldn’t have old relationships seeping stealthily back into my days, bleeding guilt right back into the scrubbed-clean parts of my psyche.

I am convinced that if I hadn’t gotten so close to being caught up at work, we wouldn’t have had a surprise audit last week.

I am convinced that there are people in my life I need to spend more time with, and that if I hadn’t had the luxury of spending time with those very people recently, I wouldn’t be feeling so badly about the people I haven’t spent much time with.

I am convinced that if I hadn’t started cleaning my house as soon as I got home today– doing the dishes from last night, washing towels we used over the weekend, and scrubbing the shower that was still fairly clean from its last scrubbing–the sewer would not have backed up an hour ago and ruined a bunch of our laundry.

I am convinced that I’m cursed by a God of hilarity, humility, and all things in between.

 

 

ugly.delicious.

Everyone who has been overtaken with a passion to do well in a creative field knows the struggle. What you’re doing isn’t important. It doesn’t make enough money. It serves no real function. 

My husband is obsessed with cooking shows, chefs, exotic food, etc. And today while I was executing the ever-exuberant task of folding clean laundry, I thought to myself, “You know what? I could use some background chatter in the key of Dave Chang.” So I turned on his Netflix Original, Ugly Delicious. 

I can’t really think of a better title for his show, nor a better title for the creative process itself. Every time I watch a documentary about some other expert in a field other than writing, I’m struck by the commonalities, by the way they’re so inspiring to a writer even though their field affects completely different senses.

How many of us have taken what those who have come before us have handed down and tried to make it our own? How many of us have shunned what we knew growing up, only to come back to that very thing when we were older and wiser? How many of us have studied how our own passions have influenced or recorded history?

How many of us, at the later stages of our process, are discovering that we’re actually late to the party?

It doesn’t matter what the creative outlet is, we all seem to suffer from the same maladies: We want to change the world. We want to inform the next generation. We want to tell stories that matter.

And the next generation is looking up at us and saying, “We got this. Go to sleep, it’s past your bedtime.”

 

romantic.getaway.

Things You Want Out of a Romantic Weekend Away:

  • Fancy dinners with great food and drinks
  • Sitting close to your significant other in the back of taxis, laughing about something you may not have found as funny if you had kids with you and were in your Suburban
  • Concerts and museum visits you wouldn’t normally treat yourself to
  • Walks through the city that make you feel like you’re inside a snow globe
  • Late morning brunch
  • Long hot showers and a big comfy bed with sheets you don’t have to clean

Things You Do Not Want Out of a Romantic Weekend Away:

  • A drunk guy nearly passing out on top of your significant other as soon as you get to a concert
  • A group of four bros starting a mosh-pit directly in front of you
  • Your hotel’s fire alarm going off as soon as you get out of a long shower in the morning and you have to stand outside in 6 degree weather with wet hair
  • Going to brunch reluctantly at the café next to your hotel–with wet hair, no socks, no bra, and carrying your beloved laptop & four notebooks, because you can’t get back into your hotel until the fire department makes sure it’s safe to go back in
  • Having a taxi driver who has to open his door at every stop light to hock up a loogey and spit it onto the street
  • Walking into a snow-globe-like street where it feels as if a toddler is repeatedly throwing said snow globe up against a wall.

 

writing.stories.

writing.stories.

It’s none of their business that you have to learn how to write. Let them think you were born that way. 
~Ernest Hemingway~

 

We start learning at a very young age which sorts of stories work, and which do not. Who our intended audience should be, and what reaction we’ll likely evoke. Have you ever witnessed a toddler doing something she knew she wasn’t supposed to do? Like saying a bad word, or throwing her food at the dog? And instead of getting reprimands, the toddler is rewarded with laughter–sometimes stifled, sometimes not–so the toddler repeats it. For the laughter. The smiles. Getting away with being naughty.

Once she learns how to speak, she can figure out the lines that’ll get her out of trouble, which ones don’t work on Mom, but will work on Dad. Which tall tales get her detention, which make her Teacher’s Pet. Trial and error, over and again, seeing which stories make new friends giggle, which ones makes them cry, and if she’s lucky, she’ll discern the best time to tell each.

That’s basically what writing is like, except it takes a hell of a lot longer for feedback.

Over the weekend, I visited the American Writer’s Museum in Chicago. The Ernest Hemingway quote at the top of this page was displayed on a screen there and I stood and stared at it a long time. I’d heard many of his quotes before, but not this one. I committed it to memory. An old-school, writerly version of Fake It Until You Make It. I’m not sure why, out of all the inspirational quotes I saw at the museum, that one stabbed at me the most, but it did.

I thought about it all day, wondered if some people really were born that way and never had to fake it.

Later that same afternoon we sat in a pizzeria, listening to conversations going on around us.

Okay, fine, I was eavesdropping. You wanna know where I get my dialogue? I eavesdrop all over the damn place and there’s nothing anyone can do about it (except maybe, you know, you all could talk a bit quieter when you’re in public. Seriously, the only people who give a shit about what you’re saying are those with ulterior motives, who wish to put you in a blog or story).

Anyway, a guy was sitting at a table next to us, by himself. He was maybe in his mid to late twenties. For a long time, he was too boring to pay attention to, so I’m not sure how, exactly, the conversation started up between him and the man sitting a table over. My ears didn’t perk up until I heard him say, “My girl’s in rehab. It’s been real hard, ya know?” and the second man say, “Oh, sorry to hear that, man. That’s rough.”

At this point, my Ulterior Motive Writer’s Ears switched on. (I keep meaning to ask my husband if my face glows when this happens. I feel like something Super-Powery should signal when my ears turn on.) The first guy–we’ll call him Tattoo Steve–said, “Yeah, she was drinking too much wine.” (This is the part of the story where I became dubious. Or in denial. I don’t know, whatever). And the second guy–Gullible Bob–was nodding in sympathy, and Tattoo Steve turned it up a notch. “Yeah, we’ve got a baby on the way, too. I’m just trying to get myself together for when she gets out.” Cue Gullible Bob coming in with more sympathy, words of encouragement, general shit you say to a person you don’t know who is inexplicably baring his soul to you.

Then my husband and I had to order our food or something obnoxious like that, and part of the conversation was lost on me. (There may have been a pint of beer somewhere in there, contributing to my distraction.)

Once our waiter was gone, and we’d held some conversation of our own to make it look like we weren’t trying to listen in on anyone else’s conversation, we tuned back in to Tattoo Steve being offered some of Gullible Bob’s leftover pizza, even though Tattoo Steve had his own pizza. They were fast friends now, chumming it up, Tattoo Steve spinning all sorts of stories that were tugging at everyone’s heart-strings. The pace at which he was leaving bread crumbs of his story was impeccable, it didn’t sound rehearsed at all, not like some sob stories you hear from pan-handlers or people who are accustomed to begging. This wasn’t some regurgitated script.

That’s what I thought until it came time for Tattoo Steve to pay, and he presented his bus card. To which his waiter said, “Well, uh, hey you can’t pay with a bus card.” As if Tattoo Steve didn’t know such a thing. I grinned wide at my husband. It was all a scam, that story-telling little shit was just making it all up (that was what my grin said, for those of you who weren’t there and couldn’t see it).

I was about to kick Hubs under the table and demand we pay for his pizza–the story-telling was entertaining enough to me to be worth it–when, of course, his new buddy Gullible Bob offered.

This guy was excellent. He had perfectly picked his target and waited patiently, trusting in his story to do what it needed to do.

I thought, maybe some people really are born knowing how to tell stories. I mean, sure, you have to learn where commas and periods go (maybe), and figure out style and syntax, and maybe a few more of those other grammar rules over-and-above comma placement (perhaps), but telling stories? Maybe sometimes it can’t be taught in a classroom or workshop or on a YouTube channel. Maybe it can only be conditioned into you by years of throwing food at your dog and seeing who laughs, who screams, and who gives you more food to throw.

 

 

 

smudged.sky.

smudged.sky.

Sometimes you have to be late to dinner for reasons outside of your control. Like your kid covers herself in yogurt, or your husband can’t find his shoes, or you can’t find your car keys.

Other times you have to be late to dinner because the sky is a smudge of colors so astounding you can’t believe they’re real. And not just real as in, you can see them, but real as in they’re up there in the sky and the pictures of them are not photo-shopped or filtered at all.

So you obviously have to drive past your destination because there are too many cars and hills and buildings around for your kid, who you’ve told to take a picture of said sky, to get a good shot. You drive past your dinner destination, a little away from town, back into town up a big giant hill and pull over onto a picturesque, cobblestone road you’ve been on many times for this thing: to take a picture from above, of the sky and river and marvel at the way they meet, the way they’re never the same colors or shape.

Luckily, in the time it took you to get away from all the cars and buildings, the colors didn’t dissipate too much. They’re still there and brilliant enough to warrant such a thing as going off-course to take some pictures in six degree weather. You bail out of the car with your daughter, snap a bunch of pictures, then get back in. Drive to your grandparents’ house.

Your daughter says, “We can show these to Grandpa.” And your son says, “Yeah maybe Grandpa can paint it!” And you smile because, yeah. Maybe Grandpa can.

Then you get to your grandparents’ house and explain that you were late because you were chasing the sky. And of course that’s okay with them. They’re the ones who taught you to chase the sky in the first place.

adult.friends.

There should be a dating app for adult friendship. Like Tinder but with no inappropriate exchanging of pics. Finding friends as an adult is hard. Harder than hard. Because even if you find a person you really like and want to hang out with, they probably already have a group of awesome friends to work around. Or their kids are in a totally different developmental age than yours, or maybe they don’t even have kids so their idea of a night out is something like, going out for appetizers at 9pm and not getting home until 4am. And how many times can you do that before your husband divorces you?

I don’t want to find out really. My husband’s pretty cool.

So what if you could design an app with different categories such as:

Stay-At-Home Mom (SAHM) looking for other SAHM’s to commiserate with about how to get home-made slime out of my carpet, hair, the dog’s hair, etc. and who also won’t judge me for drinking wine at 10am.

OR:

Full-time Working Mom (FTWM) looking for other FTWM’s to make up after-work meetings with and really go to Happy Hour or Karaoke Night before heading home. Must enjoy singing in the car, fart jokes, and random movie quotes hidden in everyday conversation.

OR:

FTWM looking for crazy-ass single friend who will remind me that I haven’t always been an uptight bitch and can still hang with women a decade younger than me as long as they go out before midnight. (Disclaimer: I probably cannot actually still hang with women a decade younger than me, so this person needs to be cool with having to cart my drunk ass to her car and carrying up my front stairs and leaving me on my porch).

Or you know, other descriptions that other women can probably come up with that are more relevant to their own lives.

Remember when it was easy? Remember when you would just catch sight of someone across the playground wearing green shoes, and you’d run over to them and hit them with a rock and proclaim, “Green is my favorite color! Wanna be my best friend?” and they were just like, “Um yeah, just don’t throw another rock at me, okay?” and then you were best friends?

I miss those days. Adulting is hard. And sorta lonely. Let’s buck the system and make 2018 the friendliest year ever. Now can one of my readers make some sort of Friendship app?