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It’s My Sunday Night Ramble

Despite my body and brain’s best efforts, I went to yoga class tonight. My mind (and stomach) tried to get me to stay home to continue on my 5-hour spree of catching up on Oprah episodes while eating grated parmigiana out of a plastic container. But somehow I prevailed. Not that I didn’t enjoy my day – I rewarded myself for staying in last night and skipping drinking for sleep with a tasty everything bagel with smoked salmon, capers and cream cheese, washed down with some coffee and a Vitamin Water. Then I thought about cleaning up all the clothes I’ve let gather on my closet and on the bedroom floor while enjoying a couple hours of Wolf Blitzer talking about something important. I put some shit away. I listened to to new Band of Horses CD. I sat in front of my computer and checked Facebook 100 times, then I thought about downloading Britney’s new album and instead found all the IMs between me and my mom that I’d saved since she got sick and died. Then I read those a billion times and did some serious weeping. Then I discovered the cheese, Oprah, and archives of random blogs that I felt like reading. In my dark times of sadness, these three things are my father, son and holy ghost.

I really wanted to go to yoga tonight because I’m feeling extra teary and sad today, so I thought it would help me burn some of that depressed energy that digs a nice whole into my chest, like a bird bath waiting to be filled with rain. I ended up getting SO into class that I almost killed the girl on the mat next to me trying to get up into tripod headstand. I was all pumped because I was able to get up into the pose without resting my legs on my arms first, but was flying up from the core of my stomach and leg power alone. Exciting stuff for me! Even better, I was balancing without using the wall. Then I did it like 5 times. On the sixth try I couldn’t quite get to the wall and I toppled over to the left, crashing down on yogi girl next to me. I made such a thud that my teacher turned around (oh and the whole fucking class) to ask if I was okay. The girl was nice enough to talk to me for a minute to make me feel better about almost using my ankles to crush her skull, but it was still mortifying. I like to blend right into the floor in yoga class, so drawing attention to myself – especially the dorky kind like falling out of a pose and almost killing someone – really made me feel dumb. Tonight was a bad night for me to be that eager yoga nerd who couldn’t cut it.

Today it has been exactly 8 months since my mom died, which blows my mind, even more so because my mom lived for a little bit longer than 8 months after her diagnosis. I feel like I spend a lot of time dragging my feet against time. I don’t want it to be this long. I don’t know what I do want, but I know it’s not this. What’s that thing yoga people always say about trying to be content in the now, in the moment? It’s a lot harder to do that when your now sucks and your wallowing a lot in that suckage. Still sometimes I feel like an asshole for being so bogged down with grief. There are so many people facing so much worse – who am I to be so depressed when I have a wonderful family, fiance, job and circle of friends – and also a a really cute new shirt from Anthropologie?

A lot of people have very kindly told me that they like this blog and wish I would write more. The infrequent posts are a result of not wanting to clutter the internet with my tearful ramblings about my journey through grief. It’s both cathartic and embarrassing to put this stuff out there, and it often results in friends telling me that they’re sad that I’m sad, which makes me feel bad for making others feel sad – though I really appreciate the obvious love and concern my pals have for me and my wellbeing. Still, it has gotten me thinking about our culture’s relationship with sadness and grief and mourning. I find a lot of people want desperately (er, myself included) to not have me feel sad, when it seems to be the natural process of things. I’ve noticed when I fight the urge to feel sad or cry, it only makes it worse. So I’m learning that it’s probably better just to go through the sadness and really experience it, right? I’m not talking about depression – that’s a whole other ballgame – but rather straight up grief. I’ve got a lot of grieving left to do and it’s going to take me a while. I think I need to be more okay with that than I am.

The Things I’ve Learned From Staring at This Picture of Spencer Pratt

1. Spencer definitely watches when girls give him blowjobs.
2. Spencer has never given a woman an orgasm.
3. Spencer pees sitting down.
4. Spencer once threw his cell phone into a fountain because he saw Anne Hathaway do it in The Devil Wears Prada and then realize that it was a dumb mov(i)e.
5. Spencer has watched The Devil Wears Prada a total of 17 times, not counting that one time when he was drunk and watched it while Heidi was blowing him.

*How did my last name get dragged into any of this?
[Image: DListed]

My New Best Friend

I meant to post this a while ago, because after I saw this clip I immediately found MK Olsen to be the most charming little elf on earth. Seriously, once her beetle face starts moving she’s quite adorable. Combine this with the fact that she hasn’t been to rehab (okay, for drugs), takes her work seriously, picks up tiny acting jobs and doesn’t run with that ho Hollywood crowd, and I like her even more. She even does yoga!

We’re so destined for BFF-dom – one rich midget + one broke giant = forbidden love.

Parenting

Me & Dad.
photo-108.jpg

I think the scariest thing about babies is that they grow up to be you.

One Good Guy in NYC

He’s a good guy, and I’ll be sad to see Joe Torre go if Steinbrenner gets his way. I have a major soft spot for the guy and I kinda think he’s everything good about baseball, and maybe even this city.

That being said…YANKEES SUCK, BITCHES!

My Favorite Girls

If anything, this image alone should make Britney want to go to rehab.

I love me some LiLo! And obviously, so does LiLo. I do not, however, love this:

There’s a reason Britney looks forty, and it’s in her right hand. That and….everything else.

My Mom in Heaven

I am not totally sure yet what I believe about life after death. I’ve noticed that after the death of a loved one, people (perhaps in an attempt to make you feel better) will often tell you that the deceased is looking down on you. They’re making good things happen in your life. They’re with you in spirit. They can hear you talk to them.

I have private feelings about where my mom “is” now – I mean, besides being dead. Because, you know, the hard truth of it is – my mom is dead. And yes, that sucks and it is the worst. But sometimes I also think it is okay for her to just be dead. She doesn’t have to be some spirit floating around me all the time. My mom lived an amazing life, and sometimes I think that is just good enough.

But other times, I feel differently, and this week I had a nice thought about my mom in heaven. I had a particularly sad few days last week, for whatever reason some serious sadness just came on full force. By Tuesday I was feeling better, when my dad called to tell me that he was going to have to put our old little dog Simon to sleep that night. Simon was 15 and was a cranky little old man. He was kind of a crazy dog – he growled a lot and hated other dogs and was seriously territorial. There were many many times my family joked about how excited we were for his death (we are awful people!), and since we all kind of hated him my mom got stuck as his main caregiver. Even though the dog was a huge pain in the ass, my mom bent over backwards for the thing. He went to the best kennel (over an hour from my house), he was feed ground lamb. My mom took amazing care of the guy. And it paid off in the end, as over the last year Simon was the kind of dog we always wanted him to be – sweet, easy to be around, friendly. So when his time came I was sad, I cried, and I moved on in about twenty minutes. I’m getting pretty good at this death stuff.

But I had this thought that made me laugh. I imagined my mom up in her heavenly spot reading some sort of Dean Koontz thriller. She’s having a cup of tea and maybe the Weather Channel is on. And all of a sudden, Simon dies, and he pops up there at her feet in heaven. And my mom just goes, “Oh fuck.”

If anything, I hope my mom isn’t busting her ass watching over me. I’ll be okay because she did such a good job when she was here. I hope she’s relaxing with a good book, her birds chirping outside the window, the temperature a San Francisco-like 70 degrees. She has a bag of candy corn and a cup of tea beside her and the dog at her feet, still being a total pain in the ass in heaven.

I Know Fashion: Jessica Simpson

Everything about this outfit – aside from the person wearing it – works for me.

[JustJared]

Should I Eat Pray & Love?

Have you read Eat Pray Love? Did it make your vagina quake like Oprah claims it will? I have yet to read it (I am still trying to churn through Middlesex) and feel very proud about this. You know that annoying person who’s never watched an episode of Lost and for some reason thinks that this makes them better than you? It’s the same thing.

So should I give in and give this book a read (I can put Middlesex on hold) or remain the dark? I normally do whatever Oprah tells me to do. Disobeying her could be a horrible mistake.

We Are All Britney Spears

Britney Crys Too.

I think about Britney Spears a lot. It is what I am paid to do, so I expend a lot of time looking at pictures of the singer, reading about every retarded move she makes. Yes, retarded. I know, I know, it’s a “bad word,” sure, but how else do you describe Britney Spears? She is beyond being a mess – she is of another mental capacity. A very small one.

So I think a lot about Britney, and how we’re all so hard on her being a fucking mess. I sit around mystified about how a woman with a yacht full of thousand dollar bills could 1. look like a fucking grizzly bear all the time and 2. not get her shit together. But then I noticed something scary in the pics I was staring at of Brit Brit guzzling Frappucinos in stained shirts. She looked a lot – a LOT – like me when my mom was dying.

A bit of a backstory:
When it became clear that chemo was not stopping my mom’s cancer from growing and she became too weak to continue trying new treatments, we decided to do hospice care at our house for the remainder of my mom’s life. There was never really any question about this from the beginning – my mom was always keen on doing hospice and dying at home and I don’t think the rest of us would have had it any other way. I had kind of thought (and hoped) that my mom would live for two or three months from the start of hospice, but she died just two weeks after we started, so things got very crazy and intense very fast.

Hospice basically provides the family with the tools necessary to care for a dying loved one at home (you can also go to a hospice facility where they provide palliative care for the dying). We had a team dedicated to my mom: a nurse, a social worker and a chaplain. When our nurse, Danielle, was not working there were on-call nurses available around-the-clock. In the end Danielle was visiting us every day for about two hours each visit. But most of the time there is no nurse present. They give you all the medicine you need and teach you how to administer it on your own, plus you also are doing everything else that goes along with nursing. This is when you truly become a caregiver to the person who is dying, and it is exhausting and all sorts of fucked up. I had never seen anyone die before, much less my mom, and so there you are working your ass off AND on top of it, you’re going through the most fucked up thing in your life. I will spare you the details (because I like to believe my mom can read this blog from heaven, where wireless internet is obviously free, and she would probably be pissed if I got into the yucky stuff. She was a private lady.), but it was the most intense, exhausting, difficult thing I have ever done in my life. Hands down. I would do it all over again in a second – I wouldn’t have my mom go any other way. But to call it grueling would be a gross understatement.

Anyway, you can imagine what I looked like at this time. Quite simply, I was a fucking wreck and I wore the same outfit for about two weeks: wool socks, pink Forever 21 sweat pants with CALIFORNIA written on the ass, an Old Navy Tank Top or a giant Red Sox t-shirt that had been my brother’s, and a Red Sox sweat shirt (with stains). No bra. Plus my hair was back in some sort of cotton sweat band and I wore my glasses. Showering helped nothing. We were up all hours of the night as medicine had to be administered every hour to two hours. So I was not sleeping. On top of this was all the emotional stuff that goes along with your mom dying – sobbing like a fucking lunatic all day long.

When I saw pictures of Britney Spears hysterically crying after some custody something or other, surrounded by the paparazzi, all I could think about was what if I had been photographed going to buy a bedpan for my mom, looking the way I looked back in February and March, surrounded by photographers. It would look eerily similar to the photo of BritBrit above. The thing I valued most about my mom’s dying and death was that we were able to go through it all privately. Family and friends gave us space; people left coolers of food for us outside our house without demanding to come visit. But what if I had to go through that experience with the world watching? I wouldn’t take the time to do my hair in the morning either – or ever. Granted, when my mom was dying I didn’t drive around to every Taco Bell in Massachusetts. Britney still does some seriously crazy crap in her time of crisis that I just do not understand. But it still kind of made her seem that much more human – and really, really sad.

I know we (okay, ME) are never going to leave Britney alone – I will be writing about her mom’s visit to LA this weekend at 8AM tomorrow at work. But I’m not so aghast when I see her out and about acting crazy. I’ve kind of been there – just without the Versace bag. Considering all the messed up stuff us humans go through, you probably have too.


October 2020
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