In the spirit of "The Sound of Music," and positivity as I move forward in a sad time, I am choosing to talk about things that are happy for me. It's a cop-out blog, in literary terms, but you know what, I have this day left to do whatever I want...so, BOO.
I love:
1. My husband...oh my Lord, how I love my husband. He is the best, most perfect (to me) person I could've ever gotten hooked up with, he lets me be crazy, he never asks me to change myself, as myself is what he fell in love with, he deals with my crazy, Prozac-soothed, monkey and midget-obsessed, bad dream-having, can't-watch-scary-movies-or-anything-with-blood-or-gore-or-I'll-have-nightmares personality. He, when bad weather happens, watches the meteorologists as much as possible, has a contingency plan, such as moving the shower curtain back to allow me to get in the bathtub more easily in the middle of the night, he has a weather radio, he buys staples like mayonnaise and mustard and toilet paper in such quantities as we will NEVER run out of these things, and he has cleaned my car, which as some of you may know, requires a biohazard suit at times. How I love this giant, bald man who has long eyelashes and the best legs on any man I've ever seen.
2. Watching my nieces and nephews interact. All of them...Claire and Jillian and Drew and Alyssa and Matthew. These children make me ache in my lady places for children, even when I think, "but if I have kids, I can't sleep late anymore." They seriously make me reconsider. Claire is my first niece ever, and she is 20!?! And she has that lovely, perky body I think I once had a looooong time ago, and she is dealing with those things you deal with at 20, and I find it nostalgic. But she'll be okay...Jillian and Drew and Alyssa and Matthew are another story. They delight me with their silliness and video game obsession and princess obsessions, and Jillian made me play "Let's Dance," on Wii and I made a complete jackhole of myself. My brother-in-law threatened to video me and put it on You Tube. Thank God, that didn't happen...or I would've killed my brother-in-law.
3. Singing. I love singing so much. I won like one talent show when I was about 7 or 8 because my mother made me sing "Tomorrow" from "Annie," which strangely, did not deter me from wanting to sing. She kept making me do that and take horrid singing lessons, but nonetheless. I always had this dream of singing in a band. In high school, college, and even after, I had so many friends that had bands and played instruments, and I was so jealous. I have a secret desire to be discovered at karaoke belting out "Hit Me With Your Best Shot," or the song I haven't worked up my nerve enough to sing my money-shot song "Joey," by Concrete Blonde. I ROCK that out in the car...I swear. Perhaps, one day, you will experience the beauty.
4. Sleep. "To sleep, perchance, to dream." Actually, I prefer not to dream. I have messed up dreams that require a team of people from Sweden or somewhere to interpret. However, I love to sleep. Give me a free afternoon, and there is a nap involved. Tell me I don't have to be at work until 11, and I will do calculations on how much I can sleep if I go to bed at 11 pm, 12 pm, etc....I seriously love sleep. I'm like the guy in "Green Eggs and Ham," I can sleep in a boat, on a moat, in a plane, on a train...seriously..I almost leveled a guy on a train from DC to Philadelphia because he was on his stupid phone and was being so loud, I kept being awakened. He was talking about the most mundane crap, it made me angry, and he kept waking me up, so by the time I mustered my courage, blessedly, his phone battery died. I believe I said, "Oh, that's too bad," when I wanted to do a little dance in his face, in his seat, on his head....I don't like hearing personal conversations.
5. TV....TV is so much dumber than it used to be...it really is...And me, as a consumer of stupid TV, I love Grey's Anatomy, American Idol, all Housewives of Bravo (except Atlanta, I'm sorry, I just can't get involved). I'm not even sure why I like the OC, NY, NY Housewives. Their lives are so disconnected from me, it's not funny, but it's like a train wreck. I am powerless to look away. I am on Team Bethanny in NY, because Jill is a super bitch, and as far as American Idol goes, if Crystal Bowersox doesn't win, there is no tomorrow.
I could go on...really....that's the beauty of my having a blog, I could go on and on and on, but try to limit myself to what the public might find interesting. Enjoy...thing about what your favorite things may be....write about them...if even to yourself...it makes you feel a bit better.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Only the good die young
My dad used to say that...yes, it's a cheesy Billy Joel song (that I LOVE), but he used to tell me whenever I tested my limits, I think as a way of making things seem a little better, "Only the good die young," which he also used to demonstrate the fact that he would never die or would be very, very old when he did. I dunno if 72 is old, I think the older people are that you speak to would say no, but I suppose it's subjective. When I think that yes, he died at 72, it seems as young as 15 to me, but if he were 15, I wouldn't have been born, so let's just use that as a metaphor.
It's funny, I'm mostly okay, but then I think about calling him or I have a dream where he's perfectly fine, only to wake up and realize that's not the case...which incidentally is why I'm not sleeping well at all, and then I'm incredibly not okay. I realize that death is a part of life, but when you actually consider one day the person is there, and one day, they're not, it's pretty ridiculous, actually. Like sex, when you actually think about sex, who thought of that? But I digress...
I think a positive thing that has come out of my father's death is that I really have taken stock and realized what's important and what is not. Pettiness, grudges, and harboring resentment are not good...duh. I was logically aware of that before he died, but I've realized since that it is so futile to hang on to all that toxicity. What does it do for you? Nothing, but cause ulcers and probably infected my gall bladder..(I'm no doctor, I'm just saying, negativity can manifest itself in ways we don't realize). I have learned to let go, I am Zen Emily once again. I examined some things and said to myself, "Self, we've got it good. We have a husband who truly loves us for who we are, we have loved ones and friends who care about us more than we know, and we've got good hair." I use the royal "we" when talking to myself.
Are there still things about my life I'm not ecstatic about? Sure, but I'm not going to keep myself up at night thinking about those negative things. I VOW, here and now, to work on self-improvement. I'm carrying the edict I gave Smitty after my dad died "I can do what I want for 2 weeks," to a new level. I'm not being selfish, but I need to focus more on taking care of myself and making myself the best Emily I can be...can you imagine? I need to stop canceling doctor's appointments because they're too early in the morning, I need to lose weight, I need to repair some damaged relationships, and I need to accept when I cannot change a situation. I need to sing more, laugh more, WRITE more and use the talents I was given to make a difference, rather than letting things and life pass me by.
If I mentioned any of this to my dad, he would snicker and call me a liberal, left-wing hippy, but he would understand the subtext of what I mean. He would also appreciate the fact that he caused me to get off my ass and make some much-needed changes. That's why I miss him so much it physically hurts.
It's funny, I'm mostly okay, but then I think about calling him or I have a dream where he's perfectly fine, only to wake up and realize that's not the case...which incidentally is why I'm not sleeping well at all, and then I'm incredibly not okay. I realize that death is a part of life, but when you actually consider one day the person is there, and one day, they're not, it's pretty ridiculous, actually. Like sex, when you actually think about sex, who thought of that? But I digress...
I think a positive thing that has come out of my father's death is that I really have taken stock and realized what's important and what is not. Pettiness, grudges, and harboring resentment are not good...duh. I was logically aware of that before he died, but I've realized since that it is so futile to hang on to all that toxicity. What does it do for you? Nothing, but cause ulcers and probably infected my gall bladder..(I'm no doctor, I'm just saying, negativity can manifest itself in ways we don't realize). I have learned to let go, I am Zen Emily once again. I examined some things and said to myself, "Self, we've got it good. We have a husband who truly loves us for who we are, we have loved ones and friends who care about us more than we know, and we've got good hair." I use the royal "we" when talking to myself.
Are there still things about my life I'm not ecstatic about? Sure, but I'm not going to keep myself up at night thinking about those negative things. I VOW, here and now, to work on self-improvement. I'm carrying the edict I gave Smitty after my dad died "I can do what I want for 2 weeks," to a new level. I'm not being selfish, but I need to focus more on taking care of myself and making myself the best Emily I can be...can you imagine? I need to stop canceling doctor's appointments because they're too early in the morning, I need to lose weight, I need to repair some damaged relationships, and I need to accept when I cannot change a situation. I need to sing more, laugh more, WRITE more and use the talents I was given to make a difference, rather than letting things and life pass me by.
If I mentioned any of this to my dad, he would snicker and call me a liberal, left-wing hippy, but he would understand the subtext of what I mean. He would also appreciate the fact that he caused me to get off my ass and make some much-needed changes. That's why I miss him so much it physically hurts.
Thursday, April 08, 2010
It's all been such a frightful dream
I'm gonna warn you, this blog will be all over the place, but I have to get all of this stuff out before I pull a WASP-y, middle-class implosion, i.e., a nervous breakdown...although a mental institution or the Betty Ford Clinic doesn't seem like such a bad idea right now.
My father is dying. Not in the "existential, we all start to die when we're born way," but in the "he has double pneumonia and a stomach infection and will not see the beginning of May kind of way." I can't even describe accurately what I am feeling right now, and no one really wants to know anyway. I mean, people ask how you are, but I don't think anyone wants me saying back, "My father has days to live. Other than that, I'm a little hungry," although I may start to respond that way just to see what happens.
He's been suffering in one way or another for over a year now, and I really do know that he will be in a better place. He won't be encumbered with one leg, he'll be swimming and fishing and eating shrimp in Heaven. I fully expect him to let me in on the best places to go when I join him (hopefully, later rather than sooner), and I still find myself angry. I'm not angry at him, or maybe I am a little, but I'm angry at the situation. He's never been to Birmingham to see my house and never will, and he'll never meet my child, should I have one, and tell them dirty jokes. It pisses me off that at 32, I have to adjust to how not to have a father, when so much of him is wrapped up in who I am.
But in less than a week, I've been through the stages of grief. I mean, I suppose I started them when he had his leg amputated, knowing the survival rate for that and someone on thrice-weekly dialysis, and it is somewhat of a relief to think that he won't be in hospitals anymore, relying on strangers for treatment and cowering at the hands of lab technicians and nurses he refers to as "The Scourge of Satan."
On a bright note, because I refuse to wallow. I can't, or I will not come back...I am going to impart to you some things my father taught me...in no particular order:
1. He taught me how to whistle...I think a motivating factor for this is that my grandmother once said "Women who whistle are common," and he rarely has ever missed an opportunity to bother her, but it's one of those things that you once you learn it, you don't "unlearn," and that's pretty damn cool.
2. He taught me to love the written word. My grandfather had a hand in that as well, but Daddy taught me to truly appreciate a poem like "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," and loves that I want to get my master's in English, as he did. We both give the literature categories on Jeopardy a sound thrashing, and that will always sustain me.
3. He taught me how to be a smart ass. Even at times like this, humor carries me through. I can be a serious person, but at heart, I live with sarcasm and snark. That came straight from him. I can remember vacations and conversations where my mother was utterly lost at what we were saying or laughing at, because she does not have the impudent gene. But, we do.
4. He taught me about Humphrey Bogart...and Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly and Jack Lemmon and Cool Hand Luke and Clark Gable and Dead Poets Society and how a movie can inhabit you and change your outlook on things. He was never happier when somehow he convinced East Mississippi Community College to let him teach a film class. I can't imagine any other junior/community college that teaches film, but he did, and more than a few people I knew that took his class said he made them look at movies differently. Granted, that was if he shut the hell up about the symbolism in the movie and which actor slept with which actress, but it was truly an unrivaled experience.
5. He taught me that daddies exist for the whims of daughters. When I was sick, he took my temperature 72 times a day, which is probably why I do that now, much to the chagrin of Smitty, and he gave me my meds and brought me juice and made me soup. I remember leaving toys everywhere in the den once, and Mama telling me to clean them up, to which I said, "Daddy will pick them up if I ask him nice." HA. And I don't think he ever liked anyone I dated, ever, until I met Smitty...which warms my heart presently, that he knows that I am happy and well loved.
My favorite story of all time involves his wanting me, at age 5 or so, to ask if I could be excused from the dinner table. I didn't want to. I was a stubborn kid (imagine), and I just thought if he were asking me, it seemed like something I didn't care to do. We literally stared each other down for 2 hours until my mom finally told him I had to take a bath and go to bed. I never ONCE asked, "May I be excused?"
The next morning, which was a Saturday, at about 7 a.m., I wandered in his room, tugged on the sheet, and said, "Daddy, may I be excused?" He grunted at me, but this is a story, like we all have, that has been repeated no less than 30 times since then, because it was a battle of stubborn wills. (Pssst...I won)
I'm starting to get a little weepy, so I don't think I can elaborate much more, except to say, he taught me how to fish, and I have a wicked casting arm, he introduced me to Paul Harvey, and frankly, when he died earlier this year, I thought very much about my dad, he told me to never go to bed mad, he thinks I'm the smartest person ever (he is rather insightful..), he called me "Lil' Monkey" growing up, which is why I have such an affinity for the simians, and we played the "After While, Crocodile, See You Later, Alligator, See You Soon, You Big Baboon-game, well into my early teens.
He made up words like "fermer kemp," which means an idiot, his closest friends are people he's known since he was in his teens, and I've spent time with one of them recently: it was like spending time with a more robust version of my dad, the same cheeky sense of humor and intelligence, and as Smitty pointed out, the same eyebrows. I had the pleasure of spending time with him and his friends when I was 17 and we went white-water canoeing on their old camp stomping grounds/water. That is an experience I will treasure for the rest of my life.
I had never canoed before, I was in the front (I know there's a water term for the front, but I can't remember) and he was in the back, which I do know is the stern, and we had gone all the way through the rapids without falling out until the end when he misjudged where to turn and we hit a tree. I went flying out into the water, and he ended up holding on the tree branch. I endeared myself to his friends when I said my ass hit one of the branches at Mach 3, and I remember thinking once I landed in the water and located the canoe, "Oh, no, where's Daddy?" and relief washing over me when I saw the determination on his face as he clung to a tree branch, the current, rushing around us...and he looked at me, grinning, and winked. I carry that with me a lot and suspect that will be a comforting memory in days to come.
My father is dying. Not in the "existential, we all start to die when we're born way," but in the "he has double pneumonia and a stomach infection and will not see the beginning of May kind of way." I can't even describe accurately what I am feeling right now, and no one really wants to know anyway. I mean, people ask how you are, but I don't think anyone wants me saying back, "My father has days to live. Other than that, I'm a little hungry," although I may start to respond that way just to see what happens.
He's been suffering in one way or another for over a year now, and I really do know that he will be in a better place. He won't be encumbered with one leg, he'll be swimming and fishing and eating shrimp in Heaven. I fully expect him to let me in on the best places to go when I join him (hopefully, later rather than sooner), and I still find myself angry. I'm not angry at him, or maybe I am a little, but I'm angry at the situation. He's never been to Birmingham to see my house and never will, and he'll never meet my child, should I have one, and tell them dirty jokes. It pisses me off that at 32, I have to adjust to how not to have a father, when so much of him is wrapped up in who I am.
But in less than a week, I've been through the stages of grief. I mean, I suppose I started them when he had his leg amputated, knowing the survival rate for that and someone on thrice-weekly dialysis, and it is somewhat of a relief to think that he won't be in hospitals anymore, relying on strangers for treatment and cowering at the hands of lab technicians and nurses he refers to as "The Scourge of Satan."
On a bright note, because I refuse to wallow. I can't, or I will not come back...I am going to impart to you some things my father taught me...in no particular order:
1. He taught me how to whistle...I think a motivating factor for this is that my grandmother once said "Women who whistle are common," and he rarely has ever missed an opportunity to bother her, but it's one of those things that you once you learn it, you don't "unlearn," and that's pretty damn cool.
2. He taught me to love the written word. My grandfather had a hand in that as well, but Daddy taught me to truly appreciate a poem like "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," and loves that I want to get my master's in English, as he did. We both give the literature categories on Jeopardy a sound thrashing, and that will always sustain me.
3. He taught me how to be a smart ass. Even at times like this, humor carries me through. I can be a serious person, but at heart, I live with sarcasm and snark. That came straight from him. I can remember vacations and conversations where my mother was utterly lost at what we were saying or laughing at, because she does not have the impudent gene. But, we do.
4. He taught me about Humphrey Bogart...and Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly and Jack Lemmon and Cool Hand Luke and Clark Gable and Dead Poets Society and how a movie can inhabit you and change your outlook on things. He was never happier when somehow he convinced East Mississippi Community College to let him teach a film class. I can't imagine any other junior/community college that teaches film, but he did, and more than a few people I knew that took his class said he made them look at movies differently. Granted, that was if he shut the hell up about the symbolism in the movie and which actor slept with which actress, but it was truly an unrivaled experience.
5. He taught me that daddies exist for the whims of daughters. When I was sick, he took my temperature 72 times a day, which is probably why I do that now, much to the chagrin of Smitty, and he gave me my meds and brought me juice and made me soup. I remember leaving toys everywhere in the den once, and Mama telling me to clean them up, to which I said, "Daddy will pick them up if I ask him nice." HA. And I don't think he ever liked anyone I dated, ever, until I met Smitty...which warms my heart presently, that he knows that I am happy and well loved.
My favorite story of all time involves his wanting me, at age 5 or so, to ask if I could be excused from the dinner table. I didn't want to. I was a stubborn kid (imagine), and I just thought if he were asking me, it seemed like something I didn't care to do. We literally stared each other down for 2 hours until my mom finally told him I had to take a bath and go to bed. I never ONCE asked, "May I be excused?"
The next morning, which was a Saturday, at about 7 a.m., I wandered in his room, tugged on the sheet, and said, "Daddy, may I be excused?" He grunted at me, but this is a story, like we all have, that has been repeated no less than 30 times since then, because it was a battle of stubborn wills. (Pssst...I won)
I'm starting to get a little weepy, so I don't think I can elaborate much more, except to say, he taught me how to fish, and I have a wicked casting arm, he introduced me to Paul Harvey, and frankly, when he died earlier this year, I thought very much about my dad, he told me to never go to bed mad, he thinks I'm the smartest person ever (he is rather insightful..), he called me "Lil' Monkey" growing up, which is why I have such an affinity for the simians, and we played the "After While, Crocodile, See You Later, Alligator, See You Soon, You Big Baboon-game, well into my early teens.
He made up words like "fermer kemp," which means an idiot, his closest friends are people he's known since he was in his teens, and I've spent time with one of them recently: it was like spending time with a more robust version of my dad, the same cheeky sense of humor and intelligence, and as Smitty pointed out, the same eyebrows. I had the pleasure of spending time with him and his friends when I was 17 and we went white-water canoeing on their old camp stomping grounds/water. That is an experience I will treasure for the rest of my life.
I had never canoed before, I was in the front (I know there's a water term for the front, but I can't remember) and he was in the back, which I do know is the stern, and we had gone all the way through the rapids without falling out until the end when he misjudged where to turn and we hit a tree. I went flying out into the water, and he ended up holding on the tree branch. I endeared myself to his friends when I said my ass hit one of the branches at Mach 3, and I remember thinking once I landed in the water and located the canoe, "Oh, no, where's Daddy?" and relief washing over me when I saw the determination on his face as he clung to a tree branch, the current, rushing around us...and he looked at me, grinning, and winked. I carry that with me a lot and suspect that will be a comforting memory in days to come.
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