I think December makes me acutely aware of that from which I feel trapped. It’s place in the evolution of the calendar year nudges us to look back and forward. Both directions bear weight.
I am grateful for significant moments memorialized thanks to a picture. The featured picture was taken by my ex-husband. Our daughter, Bridget, and I were chewing ice cubes and talking…
It was three-plus hours of cardio, that made my heart pump and sing.
“Momma, momma, I think something bit me,” my daughter yelled. My inquiry was shushed as she pulled the sleeve of her sweatshirt back from her wrist, and exposed a large…
My greatest accomplishment will become a teenager tomorrow.
Within minutes I thought these men could be women. I never heard men talk about the same things as women do.
Venturing out into the digital dating world means we all come from a place of vulnerability. But, being vulnerable doesn’t mean you can’t be confident.
“You aren’t stuck on this,” she said.
Because she was a child once too.
But I do know that being open to the change, wanting and welcoming that change, was my invitation to the world that I was ready to bring life into our universe.
Do you renounce Satan? I do, the other congregants and I said in unison.
I told them they were on their own. My daughter was startled, her one friend gasped with excitement and the most sensible of all of her friends volunteered to be the mom friend. Without hesitation, I let them go.
I remember living like that many times throughout my life. Worries and fears stood tall and proud at forefront of my mind and tongue. Chronic anxiety resulted, evidence of the illness was seen in my entire physical and emotional state that I allowed to be hijacked by worry that was born out of fear. Xanax helped quell it, but it didn’t stop it.
I even promised not to use the f-bomb until after midnight. My friends laughed at that vow, given my proclivity for swearing.
Once we got situated, it took about 20 minutes. I worked it out and brushed her hair until all of its caramel-color shined through, her long locks were as smooth as my satin bedspread.
The movie disturbed me for days after. It was chilling. I felt that grief and anger watching Three Billboards yesterday with Bridget, and without saying it out loud, the thought “My God I pray that I die before you” was omnipresent. I touched her knee, physically connecting myself to her, looking at her, reminding her that she is a part of me.
And writing through this, I realize that it’s not the moon that really frustrated me, it’s the hour and twenty minutes that I spent listening to the President last night. I watched him use American heroes, victims of crimes, ambitious and loyal Americans to prop up his own agenda.
Every day Bridget and make at least one comment about the stench or frequency of their farts. I imagine an intestinal version of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate factory churning away emitting poisonous gases. Speaking of it now, I think that the Department of Defense should jar their farts and use them in combat. If you could intensify the odor, you’d likely knock down a whole country.
The final scene ended with the women announcing their claim against the EEOC at a press conference where they faced a room packed wall to wall with all male reporters, then the screen turned to black. At which Bridget yelled, “That’s bull shit”.
Melancholy. Numb. Ambivalent. Nothing good in those words. On most days I can flip those words inside out and find a bright side or silver lining, but today it’s just not there. Last Tuesday my friend had a bad day. She woke up angry. She could not put her finger on it. She thought maybe she was letting too many people manager her time. She went to read her usual pick me ups. She tried to journal. Nothing worked. I told her she was having an “I’m so bitchy I can’t stand myself” kind of day.
We need gray, rainy Mondays for without them we’d never appreciate the brilliant, sunny days. Yesterday, a winter thaw set in, the melted snow uncovered a shit ton of landmines in my backyard. Rose-colored glasses would neither camouflage dozens of newly revealed dog poops or mask their smell.
I told her I don’t want her to live in a world where her vagina is a liability. How can a person who is essential to bringing life into the world be treated so poorly? This is a country where her gender means she makes 28-cents less than her male equivalent. A country where “equality” is a hollow word filled with adjectives like homophobic, racist, misogynistic, supremacist, narcissistic, ugly, evil, and wrong.
Fridays signal the end of the work week, and it’s always in the same place sandwiched between Thursday and Saturday right near the end of the calendar week. Friday’s arrival comes with a sense of relief, accomplishment, and anticipation. There is a reason why we say TGIF, because Fridays are a great reminder of new beginnings.
My opening quote struck a chord with me this morning because when I read it I didn’t think of myself at first, I thought of two women who I shared the evening with last night. I think they are both courageous.
The truth is other than shocking the people in the car at the thought they almost struck a blind person on a bicycle, I don’t remember much, other than the laughter.
Just like in Improv, it’s not always easy to roll with the line, though. But it’s better than killing the scene. In life, when we accept what’s put in front of us, the outcome, at least in my experience is healthier. Acceptance sure works better than Pepcid, TUMS, and Zantac. It’s cheaper, too. Denial had me drinking alongside the alcoholic, ignoring the problems, and in a constant state of resentment. It sucks to be perpetually disappointed. Saying goodbye to denial is a great relief to the mind and liver, too.
“Momma you have to tell me why you’re crying!”
I waved her off in a futile attempt to silence her. Using the collar of my t-shirt, I wiped wipe my tears, mumbled and pleaded between sobs, “I will, I promise, please just listen, Bridget, just listen.”
God didn’t abandon my Grandma when Ellen died. He surrounded Dorothy with the likes of her mother Ellen, strong women, kind women, determined women, who together made her the woman that she was.
On this last day of the year, I could focus on the worst parts of 2017, but that’s foolhardy. Who wants to look at life half empty, when it is so full of promise? Not I. For that reason, I’m going to say goodbye to this year with love and admiration for the friends and family who brought me so much joy, so that I could return it. As I look ahead to 2018, I know in my heart and mind there is nowhere to go but up.
I’ve always wondered without journalism where we would be? What if no one photographed Pearl Harbor, Vietnam, or September 11, no one documented the Civil Rights Movement or Women’s March, nothing to intricately connect our shared experiences like fine Irish lace? Outside of our those shared experiences, each family needs its own history keeper. Each family should know its own truths. Who knew that when my mother gave me a Christmas ornament 24-years ago that its meaning was not so much about the trajectory of my career, but more about my role in this family, its history keeper?
When I was home, I was on my phone, or computer, always occupied with the past and the future happenings of my work, rarely ever savoring the “quicksilver moments”.