boom, boom, boom, even brighter than the moon, ‘murica and all that sh!t

I really don’t care what you all might think but I hate the 4th of July.

Sorry.

No, not sorry.

I miss my brother. Today is his birthday. He should be here. But he’s not. Yeah, it’s been ten years, I know.

Whatever.

Grief is weird like that. It changes shape, but it never ends. Birthdays are hard. Birthdays are real hard. You bury your brother much too young then maybe you’ll understand. On second thought, I hope that you never do understand.

Thank goodness for my circus. They might not totally get the tears, the melancholy I feel when everyone else is waving the flags at the parades or boating and drinking or barbeque-ing or the blowing up fireworks because it’s ‘murica. But they do love me. They do care. That’s for real. We all should be so lucky to be surrounded like I was today…even when I was alone, sitting in my car at the car wash crying. I had this to come home to.

‘murica!

When I look to the sky something tells me you’re here with me
And you make everything alright
And when I feel like I’m lost something tells me you’re here with me
And I can always find my way when you are here

 

this time on my own terms

I have to confess that as much as I LOVE holidays, I kind of hate them too. They almost never fail to disappoint. Such is the life of a survivor I guess. No matter how scary, no matter how toxic, I have always held out hope that Christmas, birthdays, Thanksgiving, Halloween, Independence Day, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Arbor Day, ‘Any” Day would be warm and love-filled and absolutely, most definitely toxic drama free. That hope beat with my heart through my childhood and went on limping into my adult life. Yeah, but “hope in reality is the worst of evils because it prolongs the torments of man”. Thank you Nietzsche! You so totally rock…and suck just a little bit.

Still I remained ever the optimist with hope in my stomped upon heart because I am what I am and I continue to be so in spite every single drama-trauma that is often holidays in my life.

You gotta have hope, right?

But as Mother’s Day approached bitterness seeped in. Why hope for all the things everyone brags about every holiday on Facebook: being surrounded by the kids and their spouses and all the grand babies, showered with gifts galore which must all be shared on Instagram, the blowing of the bubbles, the kite flyings, the brunches on the beach, the surprise parties, the barbecues and on and on and on. Why wish for these things? Why hope that you would be invited and included when you know it won’t happen?

Fucking Nietzsche!

Reading Annie Lamott’s essay again certainly helped to add to the bitterness.

Dang!

Right?!

I can see some of the points Lamott makes. I mean, for me at least, it seems that holidays that are important to me have become a chore for others; as in oh geez, we better do something for mom or the wife here or she’ll be mad and when mom ain’t happy, ain’t no one happy…The last couple important holidays to me have felt exactly like that. Maybe that’s how they really were or maybe they were but a part of my own imagination. Still the last thing I wanted was a forced celebration because we have to kind of thing.

Then Bill’s grandmother passed away. And Mother’s Day was but two days away. And all I could think about was Bill’s mom, Hazel’s daughter, without her mother for the first time. And Mother’s Day was coming. And I was soured by the whole idea of this is my day. And…and… Saturday night I insisted Bill go be with his mother.

Sunday morning there were roses, waffles and mimosas and bacon…yes, bacon…a lovely hand-made card from my beautiful son, small gifts that are so me from some of my girls, bear hugs and sloppy kisses from my grandbabies, FaceTime from my daughter living in LA followed by an afternoon of mimosas and chick flicks while my darling husband was in Santa Cruz with his mother. There was even a text from my brother, yes, that brother, with Mother’s Day wishes and gratitude for me taking care of him when we were little. Dinner came later than usual after Bill came home with a delicious salad, roasted rosemary potatoes and a dirty martini prepared by me and a perfect medium-rare steak grilled to perfection by my darling husband.

Mother’s Day celebrated, celebrated mostly on my terms. No tears. No pain. No suffering. No drama. No trauma.

Mother’s Day on my terms.

 

laminated is forever

One of the perks of having your grandparents live across the street is you have a place to hide your Mother’s Day present that you made at school from your mom’s prying eyes. Her mom could never just wait for the surprise and clearly Hazel knows this. So it was hidden away safely in Auntie Abby’s room. Risky, I know because given the state of that room the potential of ever seeing it again was moderately high.But it was only for three days. A risk worth taking for Hazel.

Early this morning came a visit from the neighbors from across the street. No pictures because moms with bedheads but there were lots of hugs and kisses and “Happy Mother’s Day” wishes. Then Hazel ran upstairs to retrieve her Mother’s Day creation for her mommy. Abby kept it safe, praise be, glory, hallelujah!

Everybody now…Awwww!!!

Hazel read what she wrote on the back:

I love my mom, because
she give me hugs.
My mom is silly.
She taks me to the park.
I love you mom forever..
You are the best mom in the hall wide werld.

This kid is amazing! Yes, Hollie LOVED it. How could she not? Still Hazel felt compelled to point out a ever so slight imperfection because Mrs. N. laminated it. There might have been an eye roll as she pointed this out.

But laminated is good, Hazel.“, I offered. “Laminated means that your mommy can keep this amazing gift forever and ever and show it to you and your kids someday.

Hmmm…

How is it that she is a cynic even before her sixth birthday? Oh yeah, she’s her mother’s daughter. So to prove the point I run and grab one of the laminated Mother’s Day gifts that I have.

From Abby for Mother’s Day 2003 or 2004. I can’t remember. Still as perfect as it was the day she presented it to me because laminated is forever.

Everything she wrote ten years ago or so is pretty much applicable today because I do rock…especially because she says I do.

Happy Mother’s Day!

I’m going to now return to celebrating Mother’s Day on my terms.

 

pinteresting this week

I think this every time I hear people I know complain and snark about other people’s happiness. Even better they claim to be their friends. Friends like that? Um, no thank you. Just be super happy. It will drive the ugly people crazy.

What will I do with all those bobby pins after Jodie is done dancing competitively?

What nursing is…and what it is not…like no, we did not settle for nursing instead of becoming a doctor. P.S. Nurses Week is May 6-12 just in case you are wondering. We like coffee, wine, chocolate, massages, pedicures and always, gratitude and respect for taking care of you and yours.

This may or may not have been my darling husband last Saturday night.

My son will be needing this.

And my grandbabies will likely need these…maybe my kids…okay, me too!

And for my Zoë, who really doesn’t need map coordinates to find her way to Disneyland since it is her backyard and she is there every chance she gets.

Elizabeth Weinzirl (pictured in Minneapolis 1978) has brightly colored tattoos winding around her body from her neck to her knees. She says she loves her ink and got the tattoos because her husband wanted a tattooed wife “and I didn’t want to move out.” According to a 2012 Harris poll, 11 percent of those 50 to 64 years old and 5 percent of those 65 and older have tattoos.

Asparagus Egg and Bacon Salad with Dijon Vinaigrette – perfect for Easter dinner.

You know what is scarier than clowns? Easter Bunnies at the mall.

 

Word.