The bad, the ugly, and the good

The only good things about the Thanksgiving weekend trek that (1) I was with Bob, and (2) we got to visit with relatives. Oh, and (3) we took a trip to March Field Air Museum, a place where I feel strangely at home. We drove 1,100 miles, from San Francisco to Nuevo, then Indio, then Santa Barbara, and back to San Francisco. We were exhausted and cold-ridden when we returned. I'm sneezing as I type and contemplating which cold med will decongest me enough so I'll be able to sleep tonight. Whine, whine. On the good side of things, my Christmas present (early) is a bazillion more sessions with the trainer. Woo! Another sizable bit of good fortune is that I received a story written by my dear friend and mentor, and I can't wait to tuck into it.

Discouraging

I heard the other week that one category of submissions that always makes publishers cringe is loss-and-grief manuscripts. Word is they're almost always pitched into the toss or sendback pile. This is not encouraging news, since I'd planned to compile my journal entries and emails into a journal-style book about my mom's death. On top of this, I face spoken and unspoken criticism from writers I know who think laboring over fiction is somehow more legitimate than the writing project I plan. Of course, I'm beginning my work. But as I go, I'm struggling to not feel like just another hack.

Personal environment

I have two visits to go with my personal trainer. The effects of all my iron pushing started showing up a few weeks ago and continue incrementally. I have better muscle definition and I'm starting to lose a little body fat. It's a huge relief to be in shape again, and now I know how to use the free weight section of the gym, which used to intimidate me. Now I shoulder past the big, sweaty men and take my place at the cable machine or on the weight bench and go through my sets. It feels good. I'm sleeping more. Writing more. And have a generally cheerier outlook. Marred, currently, by the fact that an idiot skipper ran his container ship up against a Bay Bridge support and spilled a crapload of fuel oil into our bay. The sludge has encircled Alcatraz, coated untold thousands of birds, and is washing up on various beaches. Nightmare.

May His Memory Be Eternal

My friend R.D.'s father died on Monday. I just learned about it tonight, a few moments ago, which doesn't bother me in and of itself. I understand the chaos that happens and the weird time warp one enters when a loved one dies. But I wish I could have been there sooner for my friend. He's exhausted, naturally, and grieving. I'm bitter that lung cancer has claimed another victim. My mom would have adored Mr. D, who was a wonderful jazz musician. I'll call my friend tomorrow and see how he's doing.

How Am I? "Miserable, darling, as usual!"

I'm constructing a Cruella de Vil outfit for Halloween. Here's how it's working out:
- From home I'm using a long slinky black skirt and a sleek black tank.
- From TJ Maxx I bought a pair of red pointy flats.
- From House of Humor, a local costume shop, I bought a cigarette holder, a pair of elbow-length red gloves, a white wavy wig, and some black spray-on hair color. I'll spray half the wig black.
- From JoAnn fabrics, I bought four yards of white fake fur and four yards of dalmation-print lining fabric, four packets of red bias tape, four large black buttons, four large snaps for under the buttons (I don't want to bother with making bottonholes in fake-fur fabric), and 2 smaller red fabric buttons.

I drafted a pattern for a wide-collared white "fur" cape that'll be lined with the spotted material. All seams will be bound with red tape, to go with the red gloves and shoes. I'll do dramatic brows and red lipstick. I wish I had the movie so I could study the character, but I'll have fun regardless.

Back to the cape: I spent a good deal of time measuring and drafting, then cut out the pattern pieces. Tomorrow I'll cut and begin pinning and sewing. I figure Monday evening will be devoted to doing the trimming (sewing buttonholes on the inside tabs that'll make the cape close into "sleeves" when needed). I'll buy red lipstick on Tuesday, then be all ready for Wednesday's big Halloween party at work.

This is the first creative project I've been really interested in since my mom died. For some reason, the wedding planning interests me deeply, but not consumingly so. But a good Halloween costume...now there's a craft worth obsessing over at least a little.

Sad news from the east

My paternal uncle, the father of my dear cousins out in Boston, is gravely hurt and has been in the hospital for the past week. He was supposed to have surgery this morning, but at 6 a.m. today, his family got a call that their dad was back in the ICU, on a respirator, and they'd best all get down there as soon as possible. We'd all been praying daily for his recovery, and what a crushing setback we've gotten instead. Again, I'm left wondering (childishly, I'm sure) about the usefulness of prayer in doing anything besides making people feel like they're doing something at the time they're praying. Of course, I continue to pray, and in faith, but there's this weird little stream of thought going at the same time that says "pray all you want; it won't matter. What's going to happen is what's going to happen, and your prayers will have nothing to do with it." Maybe that's why a lot of people say we should pray for God's will to happen, and for ourselves to accept it with strength and with grace. I just want my uncle to pull through, so my aunt can have her husband and my cousins can have their dad for a few years longer.

My priest would not approve. Nevertheless...

Thanks to my cousin Wednesday42.

You are The Empress

Beauty, happiness, pleasure, success, luxury, dissipation.

The Empress is associated with Venus, the feminine planet, so it represents,
beauty, charm, pleasure, luxury, and delight. You may be good at home
decorating, art or anything to do with making things beautiful.

The Empress is a creator, be it creation of life, of romance, of art or business. While the Magician is the primal spark, the idea made real, and the High Priestess is the one who gives the idea a form, the Empress is the womb where it gestates and grows till it is ready to be born. This is why her symbol is Venus, goddess of beautiful things as well as love. Even so, the Empress is more Demeter, goddess of abundance, then sensual Venus. She is the giver of Earthly gifts, yet at the same time, she can, in anger withhold, as Demeter did when her daughter, Persephone, was kidnapped. In fury and grief, she kept the Earth barren till her child was returned to her.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

*honk*....*snrfl*...$&#@!!

Sick again. I had a few days to enjoy being over the flu and then a cold virus jumped me. Damn. I hate being congested; hate it with a white-hot hate. I don't get to go to the gym. I had to cancel two fun weekend events I'd really been looking forward to. *Sigh*. And I just IM'd with a friend whose dad's lung cancer, I found out this very moment, has spread to his liver and brain. Which makes me feel like an utter loser for complaining about a cold. Errggghgh.

Gave me fever

I came home on Wednesday feeling tired, strung-out really, and with my back tingling in that special way that means I'm probably coming down with something. But I went to 24 Hour Fitness to meet my trainer anyway, because (1) I'm bad-ass, and (2) I thought maybe a workout would kick-start my immune system. I was wrong on the latter count. As I warmed up, I was feeling pretty OK. Almost normal. But then Mr. Evil (my nickname for Mark, my trainer, who I really like) came along and started putting me through my paces. It's a given that at the end of each workout with him, I feel like an overcooked strand of linquini. But on Wednesday night, I thought I was going to either faint or hurl. I'm kind of stubborn when it comes to taking everything that guy can dish out, so I just kept my head down and did my reps on each exercise until my muscles trembled and threatened to fail. Normally I sweat like a dock worker when I exercise, but this night I noticed that no matter how hard I pushed, I didn't perspire. Finally, Mark looked at me and said "We'd better stop. You look kind of green." I crept home and took a long bath, and two hours later found out I was running a temparature. I ached all over and my eyeballs felt like hot marbles. My heart rate was 111 per minute, and it stayed there for hours. Flu bug anyone? Arghgh...I laid off of work for a day, napping and gabbing with friends on the phone. Old pal Ron called me up from Bozeman. He asked if I was feeling sorry for myself, and when I said "no," he said "Oh yeah--it's us guys who feel sorry four ourselves when we get sick. Women just start throwing kleenex all over the house." Ron cracks me up every time we talk. I drank juice and watched bad TV and scanned the 'net for weird news and slept more and let my fiance pamper me a little and I felt better by Friday morning. Whew! Just in time for the weekend.

Silence of the homecomer

I got a check in the mail yesterday. Which, I suppose, is better than having to put a check into the mail. This is a cash disbursement of one-fifth of my late mother's stock holdings. So. Money in the mail. Money I have to start a checking account for. Money I'd rather not have. But I'll bank it, and I'll use some of it, and invest the rest, and I'll work up some gratitude, eventually.

The last few weeks weren't easy. I found myself so deep under the water of grief that my best defense from it was to just try and hold my breath and live my everyday life. But that's about all I could muster. And so whenever most people asked me how I was doing, I'd say "fine" and leave it at that. But "fine" had been redefined. It no longer meant carefree. It simply meant I was still here; I was maintaining. The hunky scientist fiance and I have been watching recorded episodes of Ken Burns's "The War," and after seeing the images and hearing the veterans' stories, I began to understand why so many of them came back and never said much about what they'd experienced. What could those young men say to their relieved mothers, to the wives they'd grown up alongside in those loamy farming towns, to explain the shattering their lives had undergone in the bloody mud of far-off places with names like "Peleliu"? No words could begin to adequately explain, except to others who'd experienced a similar thing, and then no words would be needed.

i've never occupied a world where words have lost their power. But it didn't matter, as motivation for wordworking was in short supply. But I've come back above the surface and am back to writing, to the imperfect striving that at times brings me closer to grace. And I'm back to wedding planning. We moved our wedding date up by three months (no, I'm not pregnant), to late February, so there's a lot to do.

Come again no more

I spent a few days back in my hometown last week, celebrating my brother's 50th birthday and hanging out with family and friends. And though the visit was full of cheer and good times, it was difficult for me to go over to my parents' house (now ours). For starters, without our mom around to remind him of his chores, my brother has let the yard to go hell. The hedges have grown scrubby and skyward and weeds are pushing the bricks in the back walkway apart.

When my mom and dad first bought that house, we lived crowded into an apartment on the same street. The day they got the keys, mom and dad took us kids across the street and we waded into thigh-high weeds and started pulling them out, exposing good damp earth that would one day hold a lawn and flower beds. The place doesn't look as bad as it did that day, but it has never come closer to reminding me of then. That sight, as well as having to go through the garage storage in search of important papers, left me restless and angry, sad and weary. And today, I've been close to tears a number of times. I bought a used CD of appalachian music while I was there. It's called Appalachian Journey and features Yo Yo Ma, Edgar Meyer, and Mark O'Connor, with guest artists James Taylor and Alison Krauss. Track 3 is perfect for my sentiment today:

Hard Times Come Again No More
(by Stephen C. Foster)
Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears,
While we all swap sorrow with the poor;
There's a song that will linger forever in our ears;
Oh hard times come again no more.

Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,
Hard times, hard times, come again no more
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door;
Oh hard times come again no more.

While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay,
There are frail forms fainting by the door;
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say
Oh hard times come again no more.

Tis a sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave,
Tis a wail that is heard upon the shore
Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave
Oh hard times come again no more.

Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,
Hard times, hard times, come again no more
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door;
Oh hard times come again no more.

Draft submitted

I finished Draft 2 of the short story I finished over Labor Day weekend, and sent it off to the fiction group for dissection and review. It was the longest stretch I've spent writing in oh, I don't remember how much time. And it was painless. There were no itchy urges to mop, dust, straighten, hem, pluck errant eyebrows, or to do anything other than write, snack, write, browse for facts, and write. Whew.

Trapping myself into writing, with you the unwitting accomplice

I'm going to spend most of my Labor Day weekend writing. I have a short story to turn in before the next time my writer's group meets, mid-month, and I'm way behind. Gah! I'm feeling panicky. So on Saturday I'll work at my church's Greek festival from 11 til 3, come home and write, have a little dinner and resume writing. Then Sunday and Monday will pretty much be all about writing, with breaks to snack and run to the loo, plus two workouts of about an hour and a half each. I have to keep up the momentum on that. I'll report on Monday night or Tuesday about how much I accomplished. There. Now I have to write because otherwise I'm going to have to announce that I didn't. Which would never do.

Sore and exhausted

Tonight I completed the eighth out of 20 sessions with a personal trainer I go to at 24 Hour Fitness. By "completed," I mean I can still walk. The evil monster known as Mark led me through an hour and a half's worth of exercises that were so challenging that my T-shirt was soaked from shoulders to waist. I so wish I were one of those women who glow rather than sweat, but it's never been the case. Sweat actually drips off me when I work out, and my hair sticks to my head like moss on a stone. Oh, so alluring. Anyway, right now I'm so tired I can barely write. And my muscles are protesting in that special way that tells me tomorrow I'm going to be eating aspirin as though it were candy corn. The good part in all this is that I'm getting fit. Another benefit is that I'm sleeping regularly and deeply. The bad part is that my ass is still the size of a bus. I remember a time when the results of exercise didn't take quite this long to show up. Grumble grumble bitch bitch grouse and growl.

In and out of the woods

I've been in the thick of grieving lately: quickly confused, easily upset, unexpectedly depressed, given to morbid mind-wanderings. And just when I wake up expecting to feel the same way I did the day before, behold a different mood. So some days are fine, others are excruciating. It's exhausting. I've taken up beading to keep my mind occupied. I'm trying to write, with limited success. A dear friend and mentor just sent me his manuscript to read, and doing that may give me a much-needed inspirational boost. Meanwhile, wedding planning continues apace. If you're interested in such things, you can read about it at my other blog.

Horribly Remiss

I've let this journal go for a while. Rather than blame myself (so distasteful), I'll blame a demanding workload, the need to make a birthday present for my friend The Wench, and wedding planning. This is not to say that I've been distracted. I've just been lazy about posting. I've been having a terrible time writing, also. This is likely because of the fact that (a) I have not assigned myself a set writing schedule, and (b) writing involves emotion and I've had enough of emotional processing for a while. It tires me out quickly. Still, those are just excuses. I have a story to turn in to my writing group, and so tomorrow I will write. Mid-day I plan to visit my nearly-99-year-old buddy at a retirement home a little south of where I live. This year has not been kind to her; she's complained of losing more vision, more balance, more bladder control, and her hands are getting shakier. That makes table manners a bit of a challenge. My friend is proud, so it's tough for her to "join the merry throng" in the dining room. She was reared in Britain, my friend, and so she says things like "join the merry throng." Betty calls herself "a pusher." That means she struggles on, despite her hardships. In the very first week we met, about five years ago, she taught me the words she lives by. I recently learned they come from a poem by Edmund Vance Cooke:

"Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce
Or a trouble is what you make it.
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?
You're beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?
Come up with a smiling face.
It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there--that's disgrace."

Lately Betty has been determined to get outside the assisted-living place and go do her shopping. This takes a lot of grit on her part, as getting around (even with her walker) is a very slow process. I'll take her to Walgreens so she can buy "biscuits" (cookies) to go with her afternoon tea, and any sundries she may need. And then we'll have lunch, and after a little while I'll come back here and fall again to my writing. In the evening, the Hunky Scientist and I will make some wild mushroom lasagne. It'll be a satisfying Saturday.

Another blog!

I decided to blog about wedding preparations and the insane weirdness of the wedding industry. You'll find the link to that blog, called 1+1, below right in my links listing.

A light for the pathway through

Yesterday I went to see a peer counselor at a place called Kara, located in Palo Alto. It's a non-profit whose focus is on supporting those who grieve. I'd been harboring a grim reluctance to go to this appointment. But afterward, I felt a measure of peace. The counselor Kara paired me with is a woman in her 50s who turned out to be a deeply empathetic listener. I told her about the flashbacks I have of my mom, movies that play in my head of scenes from when she was so gravely ill. I told her about how I try to ignore them, or push them away--and how doing so creates conflict because having a memory of my mom (even a distressing one) is better than not having anything of her at all. She asked me to tell her what it was like to care for my mom, and I didn't know where to begin. "Ask me some questions," I said. She did and in answering her, I found a way to start.

I told her about the 18-20 hour days, the days when every minute was taken up with medical appointments; meal planning and preparation; medicine fetching or dosing or planning; linen changing; laundry; sibling politics; housekeeping; working when my mom was sleeping; trying in the midst of it all to stay connected with my sweetheart and sometimes failing that. About praying to a God I didn't believe could even hear me and praying the next night anyway. I told her about the inexorable diminution of my mother; the terrible intimacy of knowing better than my siblings what my dying parent needed to soothe her pain or anxiety or breathlessness; the exhausting disorienting daily battery of new symptoms and new measures to keep those symptoms at bay; the tiny rejuvenating oases of normalcy that love and friendship brought; the terror and helplessness of being an untrained nurse in the home of a desperately sick person whom I loved and who was never going to get better. As I talked, I felt a familiar tug. It was part of my psyche taking the injured part of me by the hand and quietly saying "Come on. Let's go where it's safer." I know that place. It's a realm just a hair's breadth from now, a place just slightly removed from the actual present, a safe buffer away from the immediate; a damper of pain. But I resisted that old call and I stayed right there in the present and I told and I felt what I was going to feel. It was exhausting all over again and it left me dizzy. I had to sit in the car for a while afterward and let the color seep back into the landscape of my life. I'm supposed to meet with this counselor again this coming Monday, and the Monday after that, and every Monday to come until there comes a day when I realize I won't need to meet with her again. A part of me looks forward to this. The rest of me does not.

Independence Day

It's a little after 9 p.m. and instead of standing outside watching fireworks, I'm sitting at the dining room table eating frozen cherries and surfing the net. I was looking forward to 4th of July, until it got here. It's always been my favorite holiday. I love fireworks displays and small-town Independence Day parades with their cheesy floats and marching baton twirlers and banner carriers and convertibles full of waving vets. But it's always also been a family holiday for me some of my happiest memories of home involve being at the fireworks shows with my mom and dad. When I was little, they always got boxes of Cracker Jack for me and my siblings. I ate the popcorn and gave the peanuts to whoever wanted them. We noted over the years that the prizes inside got cheaper and smaller until they were made only of paper. When we were older, we'd take turns driving the family down somewhere near the beach and we'd walk the last several blocks with our blankets. Sometimes we got close enough to feel the soft tickle of ash falling from the starburst explosions. After I left home, I nearly always went back for this holiday. Now, I no longer have a choice. Everyone's doing their own thing: Frank decided he would stay in; Lisa and David said they'd catch the show in their little town; John's grumbling about traffic and lack of parking and undercover cops and no room at his favorite bar; Christine and her family are staying at their home. Their kids are too little to appreciate a fireworks display and so the parents are saving themselves the drive. And I remain here with my fiance, having decided I can't bear the idea of crowds and traffic, the bustle of other peoples' families out on this summer night with somewhere to go and somewhere to get back to. Outside, the finale is happening and the local peanut gallery adds its little chorus of screamers and fizzlers and plain old loud bangers. In the middle distance police sirens call, and out over the water huge burts of light crack into bloom. The overlapping booming reverberates amid the towers of this city and echoes down the memories that lie in the chambers of my heart.

Orphan in a bridal boutique

Today I went for the first time to try on wedding dresses. With me went two friends from church. We went to a small, cramped little store located in a small, mid-Peninsula town and started combing the racks (my instructions: No sequins, no strapless dresses, no overblown use of lace or beads. Simpler is better"). We dragged 15 dresses from the rack and into a dressing room, and I started trying them on. Or, rather, the girls took turns putting me into them. I haven't been dressed by someone else since I was a toddler. But it's nearly impossible to get into a wedding dress by one's self. I quickly discovered that both boat necklines and basque waists make me look as wide as a barn, and that halter necklines and empire waists transform me into someone who has a much nicer figure than mine. I also discovered that ivory looks better on me than stark white, but silvery white is also very complimentary. As I expected, I found that I felt silly in dresses with long trains (I kept saying "I could have this taken off and make a nice little jacket out of it!") And I found that nearly every time I came out of the dressing room there was another bride-to-be there, turning to see her dress from all angles in the mirrors. She looked to be about 24, and her mother was with her, straightening out hemlines, pulling bodice lacings tight, offering opinions. No matter how many girlfriends you have along with you, and no matter how much fun you're having, when you're 10 to 20 years older than most of a boutique's clientele and your mother isn't with you, shopping for a wedding gown takes on a bittersweet, lonely aspect. Still, I came out of there with two gorgeous, elegant, understated gowns in mind. I'm going to go back on a Tuesday when the owner is there and see what kind of savings I can negotiate with her. I don't plan to spend any more for my wedding gown than I would for any other nice evening dress. I'm not naive; I'm determined. If she won't cut me the deal I'm looking for, I'll just go somewhere else until I get what I want for the price I'm willing to pay. My mother would be proud.