blaugra

Random bits of family closeness

My parents and my brother were without electricity after Hurricane Sandy hit, and I was amazingly with electricity and without any uprooted big maple trees, so they came over to my house for the day.

I didn't want my brother sleeping over, and my parents refused to sleep over (my housekeeping? I don't know!) so after they left I called up some powerless friends to see if they wanted the guest room. They did.

I have a very hard time being around my brother for longer than an hour. He's more manic depressive than I am, with even more assorted problems. As we sat down to eat lunch in my warm electrified home, I laid down the house rules:

1. Close the door when you go to the bathroom! (yes, I had to tell a 40-something man that)
2. No smoking in the house.
3. Wash your hands.

The brother listened attentively and then obeyed. I think he just needs structure.

I still can't stand him.

Still, I was told to be more sensitive toward him. "Be more understanding, he has a hard time processing these big weather events." 

Like, doesn't everyone? Especially this time around? No - "Especially him."

My dad was watching this reporter on CNN. 

"She has the most captivating eyes. Look at them! They're bedazzling! I mean, the makeup job is good, but her eyes....I'm riveted!"

My mother had to watch the same footage of the rollercoaster in the ocean at Seaside Heights, NJ, over and over again and we sat around remembering all the day trips or weeklong stays down the shore and how it would never be the same again.  Yep, the roller coaster hasn't moved since the last time the camera showed it. Still there. Some say its destruction is demonstration of God's wrath for the show Jersey Shore.

The family's routines had been disrupted. Dad couldn't go to his Walgreens, he wasn't comfortable in his cold house and he missed his own TV.  I tried to put things in perspective and talk about how lucky we were.  We've been inconvenienced and forced to spend time together.

It didn't help smooth out all the edginess in the room.

My mom and dad argued about salad mix and whether or not to stop at the only grocery store that had the best salad mix. Dad sighed and said, "Your mother really wants to stop for salad mix, so we'll be doing that on our way home. It's the best salad mix.  I mean, you have your Chevrolet salad mix, your Buick, and your Cadillac. She likes the Cadillac of lettuces so we have to get that specific kind."

Then Mom walked into the room and yelled his first name as she often does. "I do not need to stop for salad mix! I never said I wanted salad mix! Stop saying we're going to stop for salad mix!"

I don't know if they stopped for the salad mix.

I haven't a clue how we would have fared if we were in Staten Island or someplace like that because this stopping-for-salad-mix thing seemed to be a pretty big deal.

Shiny Shiny

Salty D. went to the florist to purchase a gift to send to me. He stood in line behind some ridiculous woman who was inquiring about prom corsages for her daughter, but she wasn't going to buy the corsages or even order them, she just wanted to talk about the corsages. She wanted them in a coral color, and had to explain to the counterperson that coral was like a cross between pink and orange, because the counterperson at a flower shop didn't know what "coral" was.

Apparently this went on for some time because D. was so frustrated that he left the shop, knowing what he wanted to send to me but unable to purchase it because of Ms. Coral. How frustrating.

He later returned to the shop, which was filling up with more prom corsage purchasers. Must be the worst time of the year for florists and hair salons. I mean, great for the bottom line but I know from my hair stylist that prom clients are the most demanding.  I believe she said, "Worse than brides!"

Just the fact that he withstood this rigamarole gives him extra points in my book.

Salty D. picked out a basket of flowers and dictated how he wanted the card to read, and the whole line of prom corsage purchasers heard him and the girls all went, "Awwwwwwww!" as the counterperson wrote down the message.

The next day, I was surprised by the flowers, which were delivered to me at work. I was psyched because there was a little butterfly on the basket handle which really set it off. No, I'm serious. I love butterflies.

Then I opened the card and it read:

To the only girl who can shine Ramona

Huh? I know you're thinking, what the fuck is that supposed to mean? 

Who's Ramona, and why would Salty D. allow Blaugra to shine her? And why would this message be considered romantic or cute by a flowershop full of young girls, who might be thinking that Ramona is an ex-girlfriend or something?

First, it's important to know that Ramona is the name of Salty D's beloved motorcycle, and she is very chromey and shiny.

I knew he meant to say "outshine," because what kind of idiot would tell his loving wife to go shine his bike?  Here are some flowers, now git your shine box and go polish my ride.

This card was like the florist version of Cake Wrecks. I was very touched.

Salty D. was PISSED when he saw the card. "What a freaking IDIOT!" he exclaimed.

But I couldn't stop laughing. I hung it on the fridge. Perfect.

"Is it smashed blueberry or blueberry smash?"

I sat on the train from New York to Boston, looking out the windows at the boats on the sound.

I love this train ride. Even though it's stressful, taking a bus from home into the big city, and then getting to the train, and then rushing to find a seat that is not a foursome around a table (I hate those because I tend to be anti-social when I travel,) when the train starts moving, I start to relax immediately.

The graffiti strewn cityscape facing the train tracks eventually gives way to the sun sparkling on the water.

Whatever music I play -- the Bee Gees'"Nights on Broadway,"  Kate Bush's "Breathing," or the Dum Dum Girls' "Bedroom Eyes" -- always matches the rhythm of the train rolling on the tracks.

The best part of this train ride is that my BFF is at the end of it.

And this visit I needed her more than ever to feel normal again. Not to cry over shit but to cry together about the fall of Penn State and child abuse. Not to cry over shit but to explore a museum and have coffee under a blinking chandelier in a really cool modern space. And again not to cry but to indulge in lobster guacamole and shoe shopping, beers and laughter.

So went the "Nudes, Foods and Shoes" theme weekend.  It's OK to click on that link to the Degas exhibit at the MFA in Boston. It just means so much to be able to get out of town and twist the perspective for a little while.

The weekend also included indulging in a brunch-for-lunch of amazing French toast and bacon at a great diner with her family, and the pleasure I don't feel so guilty about: seeing Footloose.

I love Boston and I love feeling like I could breathe more clearly and have some fun for Pete's sake.

Because the zombie revolution is coming

Salty D. has decided to look into purchasing a gun. When I first heard this, I said, "Now why would you bring a gun into the home of a person with occasional suicidal tendencies?" It scared me.

Therefore part of our deal is that we would have a gun safe to which I do not have the key.

Unfortunately this also means that if D. is not home and we have a zombie home invasion, I would not be able to get to the gun. But, that's OK because I don't know if gunshots thwart zombies. I could probably use an axe to sever their heads instead.

Now he is looking into applying for a permit, because he's not aspiring to be an outlaw biker. These are some of the questions the application asks:

Of course that's almost illegible.

"Are you an individual who is an habitual drunkard...?"

"Is your character and reputation such that you would be likely to act in a manner dangerous to public safety?"

Now, what kind of idiot would answer "yes" to those questions? If they were that self-aware, they would probably just illegally carry.

This also scares me. Then again, I'm really naive.

I've never fired a gun before. I guess I'll add that to my life list.

"The hell he is getting my Klonipin!"

This is a true story, as told by Little Spot and Rainbow. I made it and posted it earlier this year but thought I would bring it back for you because it cracks my shit up. Please to enjoy.

No regrets.

I called my aunt who is sick with the cancer.

Through it, I had one of those realizations that death is far more difficult for the living than the dying. I forget that sometimes.

She assured me she was not in any pain. She said she had no regrets in her life, that it was a good life, that she had seen all the places she wanted to see. And that was comforting to hear. We should all be so lucky to feel that way at the end of our life, right? And to have the strength to comfort our own families. Wouldn't that be nice.

My aunt is hanging out in hospice, with at least two dozen visitors a week wishing her well.

We shared what we were reading. Me, pathetically trying to get through a trashy magazine. Her, reading some 1000-pager on her Kindle. She was a librarian, so of course, she recommended a book to me.

I've already forgotten the title. Dammit. But according to her it's about the relationship between the French and the Jews post-WW2 and she said Colin Firth is going to be in the movie version? I can't find anything on this and I can't believe I didn't write down the title. Did I misunderstand her? Was she confused? Her possible last words to me and I forgot them. So if you can clue me in, I'd appreciate it.

We're not that close, this aunt and I. She has lived in Kansas for most of my life, while I'm here in eastern Pennsylvania. I've never been to Kansas. I thanked her for inspiring me to read and explore, and she said she wished she would have spent more time with me.

Later, I visited my friends' bookstore and told myself I have to read more. Just more. A lot more.

How do you say goodbye?

One of my aunts is dying of cancer.

Downer, I know.

The situation just sunk into my brain over the past day.

She was just transferred to a hospice and people are saying their farewells. 

A few years ago I lost my colorful uncle suddenly.  I wrote about him and that experience a little bit here.

But I've never said goodbye to anyone and I need to do that now because time is getting short. 

My emotions run very close to the surface so I have scheduled a time that I know is good for her, that is also good for me, meaning, so I don't bawl uncontrollably into the phone. She doesn't need to hear that shit. For the love of God, she's dying and she knows what's going on, I don't want to upset her.

In order to keep my shit together and not start blubbering, I'm writing my thoughts down. Yes, a script. What will I say to her?

I'm asking you, what will I say to her? 

She feels like crap and I can't say "Get well soon!" because she won't. She's not eating so we won't talk about the food in that place. 

Someone advised me, "Say thank you for the things she did for you." I thought that was a really good start, if there can be a good start to an end.

Put the knife down.

"Are we assholes?"

I asked Salty D.  after we got word that our home renovations were scheduled.

Our house was built in the 1950s. They don't make 'em like this anymore. She's built like a brick shithouse. A bomb shelter. A charming bomb shelter.

Except it needs a lot of work, the layout doesn't make sense for the modern girl, and the bathrooms are too small. Don't even get me started on the lack of closet space. 

OK, get me started.

Did people in the 1950's have less clothing? Really? They had poodle skirts and sweater sets and swingy coats to get them to the Shake Shack, The Frostee Palace, or Arnold's every night, how did they fit those fluffy clothes in my itty-bitty closets?  And didn't they wear a lot of hats? Because there is NO room for hat boxes, and I know this, because I have hat boxes. I dream of having a walk-in closet, while simultaneously dreaming of getting rid of all my shit.

Rather than turning one of our weird bedrooms into a giant closet, however (one of my twisted fantasies,) we made our bathroom the next home improvement priority, and in our heads we designed what we wanted to make our tiny bathroom beautiful and useful and efficient. Then we engaged a designer and a general contractor to do it right. We are failures at DIY and you don't want to mess around with a bathroom.  I don't even bother watching home improvement tv shows anymore, what's the point?

But last week I was cutting strawberries and I started to cry.  I asked D., "Are we assholes? For getting these renovations done now?" I could see in his eyes that he was bracing for me to say I wanted to bail on the job.  "No," he replied, "We're assholes for other reasons. But not for renovating our bathroom."

I continued to cut strawberries with a very sharp knife while tears welled up in my eyes. "There's just...so....much...need... in the world and we are spending our time and money on a fucking bathroom!"

Can you imagine being married to me? I bitch and moan for years about this gawddamn bathroom, then it finally starts to come together, and then I go and say something like that.

D. was smart though. He just stood there for a moment. Somehow I would work out in my head that even though I don't know what to do about all the need in the world I could still get my bathroom remodeled. Plus, I was hormonal, and holding a sharp object.

So, I'm not going to be an asshat and talk about tile and faucets, except to say that this is going to be our summer of love and tile and faucets.

Anchovy Surprise

I hear this is the year of the eyebrow. I could be wrong, it may have been 2010 that was the year of the eyebrow.

But when I ran into Viking Girl on the street I said, "It's the year of the eyebrow!" and she replied, "Oh, it's the year of the rabbit AND the eyebrow?" 

I was on my way to my favorite esthetician to do something about my eyebrows, which looked like shredded anchovies.

My hair girl Jewel-Lee had suggested I get them tinted because my brows were so light and didn't match my hair. I really have a thing about eyebrows because I hate my own but I don't know how to do them.

During the early 1990's. I had burgundyish hair. I dyed my own brows to match. 

That was pretty. All y'all who are now dying your hair sky blue and your brows to match, you little trendy monsters, please know YOU LOOK BAD, not rad.

Then at one point I bleached my brows. Maybe I was going for the Thompson Twins look? Thank you Wink at Me, I ripped off your photo.

So it was time to experiment and bring in the paid professional for my year of the brow.

She finished waxing and tinting and brushing and then I looked in the mirror. 

Um...wow. 

I went home to Salty D. and started talking about how I was going to try to make Panang Curry for dinner. (The curry turned out to be an unsuccessful experiment.)

He said, "Why do you look so surprised?"

"I'm not surprised. What? You mean my new eyebrows make me look surprised?"

He looked away. "No, no. Well, yeah, the shape of them looks like you heard something really surprising. Or maybe like you're upset about something."

Like when Elaine drew on Uncle Leo's brows with a Sharpie?  Dear God.

 

 

 

Sweet New Year

This year has been shitty for a lot of people.  If that's you, I wish positive change and peace for you, sincerely. 

I'm fortunate. I've had some great highs, a lot of lows, some real scares, but I feel like I'm stronger than yesterday. That's right, me and Britney and Artie.  My loneliness ain't killing me no more.

Silver and gold friends and family, and some fine pharmaceuticals and natural remedies have pulled me through.

Example.

I met up with a couple of girlfriends at a bar that some people call a total dive, but the steamed clams are amazing. They also visit this blog so they knew that December was sucking ass for me.  Upon hearing about the damn kidney stone (with another one on the way, btw) they said, OH COME ON!! 

So they surprised me with a survival kit of a bottle of white wine (because of this and this), some McDonald's bucks (because of this), a de-puffing eye mask (because of this), and a pair of fluffy socks:

 
 
Serenity now! The tag on the socks especially amused me:

"ALLOW YOURSELF TO LUXURIATE IN RELEASE."

"Serenity Spa slippers and hydrated footwear allows you to relax and find a point where the breath whistles through your body like a beautiful clear flute."

A FLUTE!? 

Anyway, I cried because I am so, dare I say, without sounding trite, blessed with friends who are strong and creative when I am not.

Now Salty D., who is as salty as ever on this New Year's Eve, and I are heading to the annual party where we'll see friends that we only see each year on this night.  Cheers!