Conference clapping (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Tiny pink dancer
toes point, eyelids flutter, joy
clap, people, my girl
***************************************
Clappety Clap Clap
Goes the Jamaican Rhythm
Smile, dance, laugh. Our way.
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A self-portrait of the Bloggess, also known as Jenny Lawson, an Internet blogger. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I didn’t even have to think about this for one minute, the answer is
easy. I would trade blogs with one of the funniest people who I feel I
know. She’s my friend ( in my mind at least ) and I respect her and
laugh with her and think she’s a very clever and amusing person. The
only person that it could be, in my world, is Jenny, The Bloggess. If
you haven’t heard of her, where have you been living? I have to say that
she is downright honest, a little crazy, (those stuffed, dead animals
she collects ( taxidermist??) creep me out a little but hey, she lives
in Texas and she learned some stuff from her dad.) I’m a complete city
girl but I’m not judging. So NOT judging. She’s open, honest and funny
and if you get offended by some of her comments or language just move on
and keep going, don’t come back. I think this woman, this writer is
the type of person that will put on paper what you will try to come up
with ten minutes later.
I too, keep Xanax in my pocketbook for anticipatory anxiety, Jenny,
and I’ve got your back. For real. I’m so proud of her success that I
could burst and that has nothing to do with my blog whatsoever. BELIEVE
ME. I am happy for HER. Jenny started a Christmas program for people in
need, a few years back, and that was one of the nicest things anyone in
the world could have done. It still brings tears to my eyes when I think
about it.That’s heart, people, true heart.
Old Couple (Photo credit: Up Your Ego)
Smiles brighten, eyes lit
Our sun, our kids, beam, sparkle
As we fade away
*
Old, wrinkles, deaf, pain
Hands, well-worn, lined with velvet
Earned gray, silver, hair.
*
We are all the same
A steady glance, a soft touch
Loving who we love.
Deutsch: Lesbische Zweisamkeit im Bett (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Image by ChuckHolton via Flickr
“As I Was Lying In My Bed…”
As I was lying in my bed, alone, I heard the wind howl through the windows, I felt the drafts, like snow drifts on my entire body. I couldn’t get warm, no matter how many blankets I piled on top of me. My dog was lying at the foot of the bed, off to the side, not even she would come warm me. I missed my husband lying next to me; every few hours I would unconsciously reach my arm across his side and try to feel him there; all I felt was his absence. In my sleep I sometimes forgot that he was back in the military again and when I became conscious I was heartsick from loneliness and despair. Of course I was wildly proud of him, my sweetheart, but I was counting the days until he was coming home for a five-day visit, fifty-seven more days to go.
Image via Wikipedia
November 13th is my dad’s birthday, he would have been 88. He passed away almost 9 years ago but the pain on holidays, birthdays, Father’s Day, is the same raw pain as the day he died. It’s a pain that is hard to describe for people who have never lost a parent. Believe me, I know.
Instead of wallowing in depression this year I am going to try to remember and honor the man I loved so dearly. His blue-gray eyes, child-like qualities, generosity, pep-talks and his warmth. I miss the soft yet sturdy hugs as if a limb of my own had been amputated. I miss the familiar smell of his after-shave cologne that he sprayed with enthusiasm. My dad and I were very similar; he and I had an amazing connection and a strong emotional bond. We thought alike and we completely understood each other. The day he died, my heart was gauged with intense pain, my heart missing an essential beat.
My dad and I had so much fun together when I was younger. We traveled to Vienna, Austria, where my grandparents lived. We ate sugary-sweet meringues that were shaped like delicate white swans and sipped hot chocolate with “schlag” (whipped cream). We ate exploding red-berry sweet and sour tarts in Viennese cafes. My grandmother would fry up her famous wiener schnitzel, served with plump lemon wedges every single night.
I was in first grade when my mom couldn’t come to open school day but my dad came. I think he was the only father in the class and I was so proud, so happy that he was there. I remember sharing my milk and cookies with him and I felt so important. At a shared birthday party with a friend he surprised me by coming home from work early, sneaking into the party like a secret surprise. It was a joy so innocent and so intense that I remember the feeling to this day. I was shocked and delighted as I wrapped my arms around his tall legs like a clinging, furry animal. Back then dads’ weren’t as involved in their children’s’ lives as they are today but he always had time for me; his little one, his mouse, his baby.
We had adventures, the two of us. My mother worked a great deal, she traveled the world being a tour director and translator. One night my father and I went out to a Spanish restaurant and sipped sangria, with glistening, beaming chunks of bright oranges and green apples bobbing in the rich, red wine. We toasted people we knew with every sip we took. The more we sipped the stranger the toasts were. I remember we toasted a wall -paper hanger guy that never showed up to our house, people we barely knew and random people from the past.
We went to the bagel store together, early on a Sunday morning and the store was closed. However, the fresh, warm, doughy bagels had already been delivered to the store in huge paper sacks. My dad happily took some and we left, an experience a teenager doesn’t forget! We would go grocery shopping at a huge Pathmark store with my mom and he and I would find the biggest size jars of silly things: three-pound troughs of peanut butter and dill pickles, tubs of mandarin oranges and hide them in the cart as a joke. My mother would roll her eyes and shake her head, clearly not amused, but my dad and I would laugh hysterically. Often, there would be open boxes of cookies or candy and we would help ourselves to free samples. Back then, we weren’t worried about poison or germs or anthrax.
My father spent his entire life working for TWA, getting free airline tickets for our family. My father, mother, older sister and I flew to: France, Greece, Portugal, Israel, Switzerland and Germany. First class seats were a mere eight dollars extra but that was a lot of money years ago and a very special treat.
This Saturday on my dad’s birthday my husband and I are going to visit my mom and take her out for lunch, we don’t want her to be alone. I know that spending the day with my mom would make my dad very happy. He loved my mom more than anyone else in the world. Later, that night, my kids and I will remember him with his own, signature and messy concoction, “Papa’s game”: a “mixture” containing little bits of everything that is leftover on our plates and in our glasses, swirled together with a spoon and a smile. This year, I will toast to his memory.
Kids grow up so quickly these days, one minute you are holding their hand at the bus stop for the first day of kindergarten and the next, it seems, you are handing over the keys to your car. They are connected to you, and they will always need you but it changes as they get older. It’s a transition, for everyone. I never thought that it was possible but you do get used to your children/young adults separating from you. You have no choice; it happens quite naturally; although, believe me, I still sing “Sunrise, Sunset” at every opportunity.
The quick-dash of our 17-year-old son flying out the door so he can play whiffleball with his best friends, a game they have played for many years. They built and designed the playing field with lighting that could attract a Madison Square Garden concert, with bases that the Yankees would be proud to play in. The initiative to do it on their own, drive to Home Depot a number of times, to thoughtfully design and build it; that made it special; that made it their own and they will always have that, in later years, they will have their memories.
They talk these days are about colleges, SAT’s and AP tests and how school is “technically over” with the exception of finals. The summer brings a much-needed refuge from exams and adult decisions and the dreaded common essay. These group of friends will be entering their Senior year of High School in the fall and things will proceed full speed ahead from then on, and yes, it will be different. The posse will be going in all different directions for college but I have no doubt that they will always be friends.
Topics around our house include talk of the Volunteer Ambulance Corporation and how our son felt the rush of adrenaline when he was able to do compressions on a sick adult man. The fact that his EMT complimented him on his technique was, to him, the highest compliment ever and he was ecstatic. “If I ever had any doubts about Medical School, I don’t now, wow, what an adrenaline rush!!!.”
That young, empathic, compassionate boy that he was is now grown and channeling his inner gifts to want to help others. He has his goals set on being an ER doctor or a surgeon; I tell him he has plenty of time to decide. He may not be the best athlete on the whiffleball team, he may even be one of the worst players, I don’t really know but it doesn’t matter to me.
He calls, after his game, to ask if I want anything from the ice cream store. He walks in, fifteen minutes later, dusty and tired and grinning, bearing a scoop of vanilla cake batter ice cream for me, his mom, with rainbow sprinkles. In my eyes, he is, one true champion.
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