skip to main |
skip to sidebar
It was the best of nights; it was the worst of nights. Saving the best for last, let's delve into what makes a bad night.
It begins by watching a psychological thriller with Deirdre who had her wisdom teeth removed the day before. She propped herself up on the love seat in front of the fireplace and filled her iPad screen with the movie. Sitting in the chair next to her, it was hard not to watch and soon the plot pulled me in. Afterwards, the scenes kept replaying in my mind waiting for the fire to die down and for Deirdre, now tucked into her bed, to drift off to sleep.
Finally getting to sleep myself, it didn't take long for the images and plot twists to wake me. After a bad dream, a person tries to think of something, anything, else. Alas, my mind raced to the financial paperwork waiting for me on my desk at work.
Time ticked by at an unknown speed. But it felt like eons before sleep came again.
Jackpot! Karma can be a bitch sometimes but not then. She doted on me with such a wonderful dreamscape.
Dazzling city lights, skyscrapers, uptown-quality street scenes. Like a modern-day, post-Woody Allen, opening to "Manhattan". Less of the naval gazing vibe and more of the astonishment vibe. A party in a modern, glass-walled penthouse restaurant. Delicious food. Direct phone line and immediate access to clothing stores and hair stylists. Mixing and mingling with the swells. Talking trade secrets with the chef. But time to leave the party for another restaurant in a sanitized ethnic part of town.
The car was a white convertible, waiting at the front door. Mr. Gaelic slid into the driver's seat as I sat next to him in the passenger seat. My hand rubbed his thigh as we pulled away. No more than a half block and it started to rain. He quickly pushed the button to close the roof and the rain lightly fell on the canvas top and covered the windshield. As the light turned green, we started through the intersection to new adventures and another restaurant with another party.
But, alas... I awoke before we had made it another full block.
Even though the exhaustion of originally not sleeping well still lingered, the contentment remained. Who knows where dreams come from? But however this one was produced for me, whatever my thoughts and actions were the night before, the nighttime visions were enough to replace the earlier nightmare with serenity and gratification.
[Title taken from this.]
Two constants in life are death and taxes. As any semi-regular reader of my blogs knows, death has struck many times over the years, everyone from my father to my priest's wife. But when death strikes and you can't comfort the grieved, you're at a loss.
Wednesday at work, the flu infected me to a degree that even my co-workers could see the progression over a few short hours. One scurried around the office with Clorox wipes disinfecting every surface I had touched during the day. Another insisted that I go home. NOW!
It was upon checking my cellphone for urgent office email on Thursday morning that my friend's email stunned me. Her niece committed suicide on Wednesday night. The girl shot herself. Her father found her.
The time stamp on my friend's email was 2:34 a.m. She had wanted to come over for a shoulder of support. The problem is that she is also the primary caretaker of her elderly parents who suffer from dementia (her dad) and a gaging reflex that requires a feeding tube for nutrition (her dad) to pneumonia (her mom) because of a stroke (her mom). The last thing she needed was to take my flu germs back to her parents just when both of them were out of the hospital.
So she wrote a lengthy email containing her pain and anguish and despair. And I was at a loss for words.
Of the two teenage suicides from my circle of friends, they were both gunshots. There are some sights that can't be unseen. Death, especially a tragic, traumatic, bloody death, is one of them. One that no father should ever have to see.
How does one go about putting together an intervention?
Last year at this time at a Christmas party, two friends and I were talking near the food table. One remarked that she needed to find the bar, that it had been a long week, and that she needed a drink. I cheerfully told them that I didn't drink. [However, after rejoining the paid workforce, my tee toting days quickly came to an end.]
A few days later, one of the women called me up for a coffee date. She peppered me with questions about why I stopped drinking. No, I didn't have a problem with alcohol. My doctor said my thyroid medicine would work better if I didn't drink. That was two years ago. [Well, three at this point.] In our conversation, my friend told me that she was concerned about our other friend whom she strongly suspected had a drinking problem.
After running into the second friend at a local Mexican restaurant, that assumption rings true. My friend's sentences seemed off. Her eyes looked dilated. And there were two shot glasses on the table, one empty, one full. Her dining companion was her 20-year-old daughter. Unless she's buying shots for her underage daughter, my suspicion is that she does in fact have a drinking problem.
Should I invite her for coffee and tell her that I'm worried about her? Should my first friend and I talk to her together? Should I talk to her daughter whom I watched grow up and who is a close friend of my daughter?
My timidity stems from a prior intervention that several female friends and I tried with another friend whose husband was physically abusing her. We tried to convince her to leave him. Instead she left us. They eventually divorced but the rifts between the female friends still exist.
Is speaking up the best option?
[Title taken from this.]
Recently Deirdre pulled out the photo albums in search of a baby picture for the high school yearbook. Deirdre is a senior this year and needs a "before" shot to go with her senior portrait. It's amazing how much they change. And how much they were always the same.
Out came the older albums from when Yours Truly was a baby. It's funny. Deirdre remarked that my baby pictures look like a mix of Finola and Maeve. On the next page, she claims that she's looking at herself in my baby picture.
Maybe that's why I have a difficult time remembering which our my babies' picture I'm looking at without checking the date. The females' looks in my family are strikingly similar. My children look like me. I look like my mother. My mother looked like her mother. If there were an extant picture of my great grandmother, she would probably look just like the rest of us.
A distant cousin sent me a photo he found in his mother's things. His note was short, "Guess who this is in the picture." I wrote back, "I know that's my grandfather. But based on the date, my mother wouldn't be old enough." He answered, "It's your grandmother." Once when at my maternal aunt's house, she was showing photos from some event. I swear the woman in the picture was my mother. Except that she had red hair. My mother was the one with brown hair. My aunt has red hair.
There are photos of my parents in my living room. First-time visitors always want to know at what Old Timey Photo Shop we had them taken. Now even my husband is beginning to look like my father at a younger age. There is truth to the old wives' tale that the longer people live together the more they resemble each other. And apparently their in-laws in Mr. Gaelic's case.
[Title taken from this.]
What is it about Southern Gothic? The characters are all tortured souls. It is my belief that most Southern authors are tortured souls as well. And that an author can't write well about a place until he leaves it. It's like unrequited love. There's some nagging itch of a feeling that must be put on paper or a memory stick. That need to write.
I had a need to write. I had several stories that I longed to tell. Coming of age tales, stories of love and loss, yarns of deceit and redemption. For a while, I couldn't go a day without writing. Hours would disappear as if mere seconds as the words flowed onto the pages. But then something happened.
My muse, that itch to write, vanished overnight. She had been my constant for several years. But suddenly she was gone. And the strange thing is that I don't miss her.
Her leaving coincided with the culmination of a class that Mr. Gaelic and I took. Oddly enough, it was only in learning how to truly communicate everything we needed and wanted of each other that I no longer needed an expressive outlet.
Mr. Gaelic might not appreciate my candor, but we spent almost a year with a coach doing individual and joint homework assignments in learning why and how we react to each other based on our life experiences. The homework and classwork was emotionally difficult at times. But in learning how to express ourselves in a manner that the other was receptive to, we learned that we had never really opened up to each other. Twenty years of marriage and we finally learned how to talk to each other so that the other person actually heard, not only with their ears but with their heart, what we had to say.
When you know without a shadow of a doubt that you are heard by the person you love more than life itself, finding a replacement muse is moot.
[Title taken from this.]
Comedy is funny because it has a kernel of truth in it. So when a friend posted a joke recently, it wasn't just funny. It was hilarious. Because it's so true.
It's about things women say. Through the years and different relationships, I have used the examples listed. In fact, most women have used and probably still use them. So guys, word of warning. Read this joke and know that it's funny because it hits the bull's eye of truth.
And another warning... When a woman answers "How are you?" with "Fine", it's actually an acronym for "Fucked-up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional". And it usually means, "Stay the fuck away!"
Mr. Gaelic is a techno-geek. For example, one night recently he sat at the library desk with the desktop computer, his laptop, his iPad, and his iPhone uploading several albums from the home CD collection to the cloud. Not satisfied when the album cover was omitted from the upload, he found sites to copy a picture of the cover to download.
I, on the other hand, am not an early adopter. It took me years before relinquishing an old cell phone for a smart phone. Music for me comes most often from the radio or CDs. There is no sense of urgency in having the latest and greatest since it gives them time to work out the bugs and come down in cost.
It reminds me of a friend who passed away a couple of years ago. His children are my children's ages but he never wanted to be on any social media websites. He always said that he could be relevant without Facebook.
Are we relevant without social media, without our blogs, without constant connection, without instant gratification? Can we still be relevant in an ever-increasing technologically driven world?
[Title very loosely based on this.]
Some people are better at breaking people's hearts than others. Kim Kardashian comes to mind; she of 72 days. Or Britney Spears; she of 55 hours. But even people still stuck in dating mode sometimes do a piss-poor job of ending things. The best approach is to just tell the other person.
If you live in New York City, Zagat's has come up with a list of the best places to break the news.
"BierHaus: One cardinal rule for restaurant/bar break-ups is to choose a place where you will never return in case things get ugly (and they will). Luckily, one evening at this Bavarian-style hall is enough to last twelve lifetimes (even sans a runny-nosed dining partner). It’s so loud that no one around you will be able to hear you say things like, “It’s not you; it’s me,” and “You have horrible taste in pants.” Live polka music versions of classics like Total Eclipse of the Heart mean there’s no danger you’ll be staying a second longer than necessary. Plus you can order your beer in a two liter boot, and no one can get that mad at someone drinking out of a plastic shoe.
"Go here: If you don’t care whether your ex never speaks to you again (712 Third Ave.; 212-867-2337).
"California Pizza Kitchen: This immense chainlet is as un-New York as you can get, which is good if you want to avoid memories of your first kiss on the Highline, first Valentine’s Day at One If By Land, Two if by Sea and first fight at Gristedes. Other pluses include well-spaced out tables that will prevent strangers from silently judging, teenaged servers who will be too terrified by the ugly crying to ask whether you need another apple martini and bright lighting that will ensure you don’t rethink your decision.
"Go here: If you’re afraid you might wimp out and need the soundtrack of shrieking children to strengthen your resolve. And if you love a good BBQ chicken pie (440 Park Avenue South; 212-685-6700).
"Jekyll & Hyde: Unless up till this point your relationship has existed in Second Life only, odds are the second you propose this place, your soon-to-be ex is going to know something is up. But if you’re expecting over-the-top hysterics, dining among animatronics and freaky servers who say creepy things might be your safest bet. Good luck to you.
"Go here: If you foresee danger and want to make absolutely certain you won’t know a single person inside (1409 Avenue of the Americas; 212-541-9505).
"Beauty and Essex: Though this trendy LES hotspot might seem a curious choice – it’s filled with people who aren’t miserable, its menu is geared toward sharing and it’s not exactly wallet-friendly – it still has a lot going for it: the dark lighting means potential break downs won’t be on full display, you can soften a difficult conversation with a variety of delicious cocktails and the civilized environs may keep things, well, civilized. Plus, the ladies room has free champagne, which is good whether you’re the dumper or dumpee.
"Go here: If you’re a multitasker and want to meet someone new the same night (146 Essex St.; 212-614-0146).
"Tortilla Flats: Avoiding romantic places is another break-up rule. Enter this Village cantina with its kitschy interior, bachelorette parties galore (caution: this is bad idea when breaking up with a fiancé) and premade vat of margaritas. Sensitive choice it isn’t, but between the hula hoop contests, sauced clientele and chimichangas, there’s no way a serious conversation can survive.
"Go here: If you have a mortal fear of other people’s tears or if you can really rock a hula hoop after emotional distress (767 Washington St.; 212-243-1053).
"Balthazar: When your emotions are running more red-hot than blue and you want to break up in spectacular fashion, head to this always-crowded SoHo brasserie where throwing a martini in your ex’s face and storming out is guaranteed an audience. For maximum embarrassment, stage your performance before the check comes so your ex has to stay there and pay the bill.
"Go here: If you are mad and want revenge, Sex and the City-style (80 Spring St.; 212-965-1785).
"Starbucks: For a simple, no-frills solution, we suggest firing up your laptop, ordering your favorite coffee drink and sending an email. No muss, no fuss.
"Go here: If you met online and have been on less than seven dates. Or, you are a spineless robot coward. Note to spineless robots, don't think you can plug yourself in and sit at that table all day. People are waiting!"
[Title taken from this.]
I need to fill you in on the EMT's pink shirts. It turns out that, yes, they are supporting breast cancer. They're not quite as brave as Marshall Moneymaker. But they're showing their support.
And in other news... I'm on a pet peeve tear. Consistency! Why aren't people consistent? Being inconsistent can come across as hypocritical in some cases.
An acquaintance of mine is very gung-ho in wanting everyone to follow what the Bible says. She wants to make sure that gays and lesbians are never allowed to form civil unions. Because "the Bible doesn't approve of gays and lesbians." Now, this is the same person who divorced her husband under a no-fault divorce law.
Growing up in a very conservative Southern Baptist household, we weren't supposed to dance, play cards, or drink. My divorced grandfather lived with us because he already had a wife, according to his Biblical interpretations. He never remarried and I never met my biological grandmother until after my grandfather died. Because she had remarried and was considered an adulteress.
This is the same community that my acquaintance grew up in. She was schooled in this same Biblical tradition. Yet she doesn't see that in her own life she doesn't practice what she preaches.
When are people going to be consistent? If you're pro-life, then be pro-life until death. No assisted suicide even for someone with an excruciatingly painful terminal disease and no death penalty. If you're pro-choice, then let people decide whether they want to end their lives with the help of a family member, friend or doctor and realize that the state can end a life as well.
If you're going to quote the Bible about other people's marital statuses, then let your marital status be a shining example. Something about "let he among you without sin be the first to condemn" keeps running through my mind. Now where did that come from?
[Title taken from this.]
"I'm not joining today."
"But why, my child? I've prepared the feast just for you."
"I have anger issues that I haven't finished dealing with."
"I know. I know everything about you. You even admitted your anger a few minutes ago. But I forgive you. All I ask is that you forgive."
"But she hurt Deirdre with that letter she sent. She blamed Deirdre for her bad decisions and didn't accept any responsibility for her actions."
"I know. I know Deirdre's pain. You're like the lioness protecting her cubs. I chose a good mother for Deirdre. Perhaps it's yourself you need to forgive. Now come to my table."
"I thought that if I partake when you and I aren't in communion that the bread and wine can do more harm than good."
"That's an intriguing thought."
.
.
.
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Aren't you supposed to tell me what to do?"
"You already know."
.
.
.
"I'll come to the table but not partake."
"Go on."
"Today."
"And?"
"I'll come to your feast next week."
"Is that all?"
"Who are you? The Wizard of Oz and I'm Dorothy? And 'if I ever go looking for my heart's desire, I won't look any further than my own back yard. Because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with!'"
"Hahaha. But you didn't finish."
"I know. My work as a mother isn't finished. It will continue. Your task for me is to raise Deirdre with an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works."
"Yes. I chose Deirdre's mother very well. See you next week?"
"See you next week."
.
.
.
"One other thing."
"Don't worry. I'll be beside you tomorrow too."
"Even if I don't remember to talk to you?"
"Even when you refuse to talk to me. You'll never work alone. Because I love you."
[Title taken from this.]
"Pick a number between one and six then read your email," I text Mr. Gaelic.
"Four," he texts back.
Our date this weekend will be an early morning outing to watch the planes land while drinking coffee and reading to each other. He then gets to pick six books and I pick the number.
"Five," is my reply text.
We'll be reading Without Feathers by Woody Allen. Maybe there will be a cold snap by this weekend and we'll have to cuddle under a blanket on the hood of the car and drink our coffees from an old glass vacuum aluminum Thermos bottle.
What are your "date night" plans this weekend? (Doesn't everyone have date night once a week?)
[Title taken from this.]
I'm getting into the groove again with the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge. Today's challenge:
16.A picture of someone who inspires you
Taking the easy way out isn't for me. The answer won't be Jesus, or Mother Teresa, or Gandhi. Those are all inspiring people. But too easy. To make it more difficult for myself, I remembered a sermon from several years ago about Pentecost.
What does Pentecost have to do with inspiration? "All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues as the Spirit enabled them" -- Acts 2:4. Spirit. Inspire. They both come from the root Greek spīrāre, to breathe. Inspīrāre, to breathe upon or into. So what breathes into me? Who makes me alive?
There are very few people who truly inspire me. Suzanne Farrell, the ballerina, for her endless love of dance to the point of destroying her hips and knees only to have them replaced with metal, for showing me that there can still be the love and desire of something so beautiful but dangerous even well into one's sixties. John Muir, the naturalist, for his devotion to nature, for teaching me that the land can be loved, and cared for, now so that future generations will be able to love it as we do. Julia Child, the early television foodie, for introducing me to roast chicken which can still be saved even when dropped on the floor in front of millions of viewers. And a friend who will remain nameless, for utterly breathing the spirit of creativity into my mind and creating new ideas and ways to view things, for making me look at myself as someone still growing, never accepting that this is all there is.
Having a friend with no name push me to push myself, to be myself, to be more than myself. That is true inspiration. The breath of life that creates new life within me.
[Title taken from this.]
Lazy usually doesn't describe me. Laziness didn't keep me from continuing my daily installments of the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge. Terror did.
Before the explanation of how terror paralyzed my blog posts, here are the past and future (daily) challenges.
The past:
1.A picture of yourself with 10 facts
2.A picture of you and the person you have been closest with the longest
3.A picture of the cast from your favorite show
4.A picture of your favorite night
5.A picture of your favorite memory
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day
7.A picture of your most treasured item
8.A picture that makes you laugh
9.A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most
10.A picture of the person you do the most ****** up things with
11.A picture of something you hate
12.A picture of something you love
13.A picture of your favorite band or artist
14.A picture of someone you could never imagine your life without
Today:
15.A picture of something you want to do before you die
The future:
16.A picture of someone who inspires you
17.A picture of something that has made a huge impact on your life recently
18.A picture of your biggest insecurity
19.A picture and a letter
20.A picture of somewhere you'd love to travel
21.A picture of something you wish you could forget
22.A picture of something you wish you were better at
23.A picture of your favorite book
24.A picture of something you wish you could change
25.A picture of your favorite day
26.A picture of something that means a lot to you
27.A picture of yourself and a family member
28.A picture of something you're afraid of
29.A picture that can always make you smile
30.A picture of someone you miss
The timing of Day Fifteen's request was poignant in that I'm still not completely cleared of suspicious cancer cells. Skin cancer. So "what do I want to do before I die?" has become a very real question.
Bucket Lists are fun to think about. But when the shit hits the fan, they're not all that realistic. Seriously? Sailing around the world? If it's really that important, make it happen now. When it can be enjoyed. Even when I posed the Bucket List question on Facebook with a caveat of only one thing, people's suggestions were too broad or grand for the immediate.
My "List" has been revamped. If you know me in real life, you've heard me say that if I were ever diagnosed with some terminal disease, I would climb Mount Everest. Because if I'm going to die, at least do something fun. But no more. I'm a wimp. I'm not an Alpinist; I have only recently rejoined the world of exercisers; and to top it off, I'd have some disease that could be a lethal burden to my fellow climbers. No, I would want to surround myself with all the love and comfort I could for as long as I could.
My "List" is quite simple. To be with the people I love in a place I love. My family, at home. No grand adventures, no thrill seeking, no fastest or highest anything. Just Mr. Gaelic, Finola, Deirdre, Maeve, Baby, Thing 1 and Thing 2.
And no regret that I never summitted Mount Everest.
[Title taken from this.]
30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge:
Day 14: A picture of someone you could never imagine your life without.
Two words: Mr. Gaelic.
Rule #1: Never blog under the influence. I only drink on special occasions. Last night with the gals from the office was a special occasion. But the beer tainted my words. Perhaps what was said should have remained unsaid. Before moving on here are the last three topics in the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge.
7.A picture of your most treasured item - Oui.
8.A picture that makes you laugh - Ja.
9.A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most - You're reading it.
This one is E-Z. This is the person who was with me during my mother's diagnosis of a brain tumor. The one who wiped my tears when she died. Who wrote her obituary. The one who held my hair back during a total of six months of morning sickness. (Two full months of "morning sickness" which was really "all-day sickness" times three pregnancies equals six months.) The person who sat with me as I watched my father die. Who wrote his obituary. The one who keeps me grounded but inspires me to soar.
Mr. Gaelic, of course.
Title taken from this.
Yesterday's blog was a crap out. It was supposed to be Day 8 of the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge. Instead, my brain wouldn't come up with anything. Before heading into today's blog, let's recap the last three.
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day - Yep
7.A picture of your most treasured item - TWO nights ago
8.A picture that makes you laugh - At Last!
Tonight after work, the Press Secretary had all the gals in the office over for Girls' Night. The conversation ran the gamut from genealogy to why some American men have a yen for Asian women. Beer and wine flowed freely. It's nice to kick back after a long week at the office.
So what part of that makes me laugh? Our Legislative Correspondent. She's the youngest of all the women in the office. During the past six months, her confidence level in herself as a person has really increased. During the first few weeks together as a new office, she tried to stifle her laugh. It's not a girly giggle. It's a snort. Her self-consciousness got in the way of truly expressing herself.
But her self-confidence has blossomed. She no longer holds back on her laughs, and snorts when she finds something really funny. Her laugh, uh, snort, is infectious. Hearing her makes me laugh. Well, maybe not laugh out loud, but smile broadly. At the same time, it makes me sad.
If my co-workers were to know that I'm even the slightest bit purple, they would probably not be as open and friendly as they currently are. I feel like I can't be myself around them. I'm hiding a major part of myself in order to keep a job. Although only one person in the office is openly hostile to people of the other party.
I wish I could tell them, "Hey, I'm not really a [insert party name]. I'm more of a liberal conservative or a conservative liberal or a Blue Dog [insert other party name]." But I feel like I would need to follow up with, "But I'm not a spy or a mole or a saboteur." I have a good friend who worked on the legislative staff of a member of the other party. Actually, I know several people like that. Of course, that was before 1992 when the climate on the Hill changed drastically. Until then, there had been comity and relationships across party lines. My former office was close to our next door neighbor who was of the other party.
Shortly after 1992, my former boss retired from Congress, as did his counterpart on their shared subcommittee. Neither of them liked the new atmosphere on the Hill. Things have only gotten worse over the last 20 years. People are more polarized and quick to judge others based on their political beliefs.
Even as the LC's snorting laugh makes me smile and laugh, not being able to fully share who I am keeps a cloud over that smile. As with most things in life, it's bittersweet.
Title taken from this.
Three guesses what the most treasured item is for a genealogist and family historian. Go ahead. Before you read any further. Make your guesses. The most treasured item is today's entry in the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge. As usual, here are the last three.
5.A picture of your favorite memory - Done.
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day - Check.
7.A picture of your most treasured item - Here!
It took me a while to figure this one out. Family heirlooms crossed my mind. Photos from the present to almost the earliest photographs. It was hard to narrow the list to one until I asked myself what one item I would save if the house was on fire.
So what are your guesses? An old portrait of a Civil War soldier in his dress greys? My grandfather's dog tags from World War I? A pocket watch? How about a Bible?
The answer is my great-grandparents' Bible. There are six generations recorded on the pages between the Old and New Testaments. Being my great-grandparents' Bible, they listed themselves on the main lines and both of their parents under, well, Bride's and Groom's Parents. As the children came along, they filled in the names and birth dates. And in some cases, death dates. They listed marriages and the in-laws' names.
After my great-grandparents' death's, the Bible became my grandfather's. He recorded the birth of his daughter and passed it along to her. My mother recorded my sister's and my births. She recorded our marriages and the in-laws' names. And she passed it along to me. Mostly because my sister had no children. I recorded the births of my children and am awaiting the times I will write the marriage dates and their husbands' names. Sadly, the job of noting my parents' deaths fell to me as well.
But that's what life is. It's cyclical. We are born, give birth, and die. And new generations replace us. I am a generation to be noted, just like my parents, and my grandparents, and great-grandparents, and great-great-grandparents. I have given life to the next generation who will bring forth the next.
Just one big circle of life.
The second installment of the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge is here. Before we get to today's topic, there needs to be some clarification about the daily requirements.
1.A picture of yourself with 10 facts -- Check
2.A picture of you and the person you have been closest with the longest -- You're reading it
3.A picture of the cast from your favorite show
4.A picture of your favorite night
5.A picture of your favorite memory
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day
7.A picture of your most treasured item
8.A picture that makes you laugh
9.A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most
10.A picture of the person you do the most ****** up things with
11.A picture of something you hate
12.A picture of something you love
13.A picture of your favorite band or artist
14.A picture of someone you could never imagine your life without
15.A picture of something you want to do before you die
16.A picture of someone who inspires you
17.A picture of something that has made a huge impact on your life recently
18.A picture of your biggest insecurity
19.A picture and a letter
20.A picture of somewhere you'd love to travel
21.A picture of something you wish you could forget
22.A picture of something you wish you were better at
23.A picture of your favorite book
24.A picture of something you wish you could change
25.A picture of your favorite day
26.A picture of something that means a lot to you
27.A picture of yourself and a family member
28.A picture of something you're afraid of
29.A picture that can always make you smile
30.A picture of someone you miss
Yesterday's blog contained ten facts. Today's blog is about the person I've been closest with the longest. Family members won't count for me. Too easy.
We met when we both were 14 or 15. August in the mountains of North Carolina at the Southeastern YMCA Leaders' School. He was from east Tennessee. I was from Alabama. Two southern kids with a passion for physical education and leadership.
Our friendship was immediate. For one week every year during high school, we were inseparable. We took classes together, sat together each night at vespers, hiked to the top of the mountain to watch the sun rise, shared a banana split on my birthday. (My birthday fell during the week-long Leaders' School every year.) And hugged and cried and hugged some more at the end of our yearly week together. It was the most physical platonic relationship anyone has ever had. He is my T and I am his Red.
During college, he was a varsity cheerleader for an SEC school. I was the sorority girl at a different SEC school who visited him during spring training. But things got in the way. Significant others took up all of our time. Slowly we began to lose touch.
Until we reconnected on Facebook.
We rarely comment on each other's status or pictures. Occasionally we'll email each other. Recently he was in town for a conference and we had lunch. It was as if not a day had passed. The conversation was easy and relaxed. We kidded each other, talked about our spouses and children, brought each other up to date on life in general. And reminisced about a photo he took of me our last summer together before graduation.
He caught me off guard early one morning before breakfast. Seated in an old rocking chair on the porch of the main hall overlooking the mountains, my face bore a look of concentration usually reserved for church services or SATs. The shutter clicked before his footsteps tore me from my thoughts. Back in Tennessee, the photo was entered in a contest, unbeknownst to me. It took first prize. He later sent me a copy of the picture with a sincere note of gratitude for helping him win the photography contest.
He's my oldest, dearest, closest guy friend. Through thick and thin. I'll always love him.
[*Title taken from this.]
Two words. Boombox scene. Okay here's another two words. Lloyd Dobler. Do you know the reference?
Swooning over John Cusak and a boombox was part of coming of age in the '80s. Who wouldn't give her right arm to have the man she loves serenade her with Peter Gabriel outside her window? Come closer and I'll tell you a secret.
We would still give our right arms for a serenade outside our windows.
Most often, rather than being serenaded, we have relationships without such drama until the flame goes out. The disappointment can be felt whenever a man leaves us. Or at least that's the way it feels to me.
What's odd is that feeling of loss and disappointment is rearing its head in my life again. No, it's not Mr. Gaelic. What's weird is feeling a major loss because the Legislative Director in my office quit. Our relationship is strictly professional. But he's the rock in the office. The sure foundation of my professional life. My boat has come unmoored and I feel adrift.
*Title inspired by this.
