I’ve decided to go self-hosted, even though the WordPress.com folks have been very nice and all. However, they don’t let me mess up my blog with plug ins. Even though I may look like this
on occasion (or most of the time), I still think its going to be a good idea. Possibly a fabulous idea. Most likely legendary.
A nice artiste helped me due to my technical incompetence (see picture above). Her name is Kelly and you can find her at OnThe Moon.ca She made my blog so pretty. Wait till you see it.
It won’t be hard to find me. Its not
Over the rainbow
Or anything.
In fact, its the same URL. But, remember when you subscribed to my blog? Yeah, that will all disappear. WordPress may be nice, but they don’t share stuff like that.
So… if you want to keep reading my words of wisdom and stuff, you’ll have to click here and subscribe again. I’m sorry 😦 to make you subscribe again.
Well, really, I’m NOT that SORRY, mostly because of the reason. Which is the fancy schmancy new blog that I have. Can’t wait to see you over there.. I hope you like blue, green, and smart people. I do.
Are you a best friend kind of person? I am. My whole life I’ve had a best friend. Not always the same one, but always there’s been that one special person. Or, as they Meredith and Yang say on Grey’s Anatomy, my person. I’ve had best friends that were boys, but those don’t seem to last (can men and women really be friends?).
A lot of people have the same person since childhood. Some just grow apart, and others have had best friend break ups. I’ve had both. But, with my current BFF, now I’m set for life.
My best friend from Grade 1 to Grade 3 was named Lisa. You can read her book if you want. She lived across the street from me, and we went to the same school. We did everything together, from playing Mother May I to Barbie Camper. There was a bump in the road when she and my brother decided to go in the basement and be boyfriend and girlfriend, indulging in a prepubescent game of Playboy Photographer, but we got through it. We both were devastated when her parents decided to move her family to California. We exchanged letters for a while, but being that I’m a total procrastinator and also rather forgetful and not the best complier, I forgot to write her back. Luckily, after stalking her on the internet for months, I found her on Facebook and if we ever see each other face-to-face, well, lets just say, the reunion could prove to be epic.
I had other best friends through the years. For years after Lisa left, I was tossed between two sisters who were a year apart . Our school had split grades, so one year I’d be the older one’s friend, the next the younger ones. We stayed friends till high school…but again…my keeping in touch skills being less than stellar, we lost touch. We’re friends again, but not in the same way.
Throughout High School I had a few very close friends, some whom I spent most of my time with. But, I had one bestie that ebbed and flowed from age 13 to my 30s. When we were ON we did nearly everything together. She was even present at the birth of two of my children. How did our friendship stall? With her, it wasn’t a lack of staying in touch, but a disagreement that took on a life of its own. Sometimes, friendship is like the Grand Canyon-so beautiful, but with chasms so deep they can never be repaired. You may be able to build a superficial bridge out of Facebook Likes and coffee dates, but the distance just grows to great to shorten.
Do I have a Person now? You betcha! It took years to find just the right one.
She’s bossy and pushy and fun and stubborn. She completes me, to the point where sometimes people think we’re sisters, and other times they think we’re each other. We laugh together. A lot. That is, when she’s not telling me what to do. We have had huge fights-once we didn’t talk for six months. it was horrible.
Sometimes I want to kill her, or she the same to me. Mostly I don’t, but she does more often than I do.
We like to lie in her bed or on my couch drinking wine and making fun of people on TV. My husband isn’t impressed with that particular activity as he doesn’t have a place in the proceedings.
The other night, after sharing a bottle or so of red wine on a school night, I wrote this list:
Why I love my Best FriendWe love all the same foods except I like movie popcorn and soup and she doesn’t.We just laugh and laugh. She makes me go to yoga when I’m too lazy.Sometimes she leaves her bra or her shoes at my house (don’t ask).
When her daughter marries my son we’ll actually be related. He likes to be bossed around, just like me, so its perfect.
She has candy at her house.
She loves latino men and as such isn’t trying to steal Robert Downey Jr. from me.
She always sticks up for me, even when I’m wrong. Then, she still has my back but gives me shit in private.
She makes fun of my husband on my behalf.
She always likes my status on Facebook, even though she doesn’t read my blog. But, to be fair, its because she doesn’t actually know how to use a computer.
At my advanced grownup-ness, why do I feel the need to have a Bestie, especially since I have a husband?
My husband is awesome. He’s there, always when I need him. But he’s a fixer, not a listener. He likes to give OPINIONS. He’ll tell me the actual right and wrongness of a situation, even when it’s me who screwed up . Sometimes that’s not what I want to hear. Girls listen, they sympathize, they soothe, they write cryptic, passive aggressive posts on Facebook to further your cause when you’ve been wronged.
A husband doesn’t do that.
A husband cannot be a girlfriend.
Life’s got lumps. What you need is someone to smooth them out. My friend’s greatest strength, (and occasionally her biggest downfall) is her incredible sense of loyalty. Since I belong to her, she will go to the ends of the earth for me. Plus, we have matching Wine Drinking T-shirts. So, we’re sorta mated for life. Like Gibbons.
Today I ate an Egg McMuffin. My sister told me to (you can find her at www.itsnotthatserious.net) , as a remembrance for our father, who passed away one year ago today. But now, as well as sad, I feel totally nauseous. I never ever eat McDonalds, never mind anything with sausage patty inside of it or a hash brown next to it (because if you’re going to get it, you have to get the meal, right?) I didn’t even know my Dad’s guilty pleasure was a greasy Egg McMuffin. But, these things I do know.
He held my Bat Mitzvah party, a late night cocktail event, at Bersani & Carlevale, somehow sensing that what I really wanted was to feel cosmopolitan and grown up.
He introduced me to all kinds of tastes, textures, and international foods. Some of my best birthday dinners were at Scaramouche or the Boulevard Club. He got me to try tongue, and turned me vegetarian with sweetbreads.
He spent his weekends with anywhere from 2 to 5 kids trailing behind him, sometimes with a spouse, sometimes just on his own. He took care of us as he knew best, if you count teaching 6 year olds dirty jokes as childcare. He never, in his 70 years, changed a diaper.
When he made me cheese melted on toast (the only thing I would eat from age 3-6) he used extra old cheddar and fancy artisan breads, and he never covered the bread completely with the cheese.
When I had my wisdom teeth out, he came almost every day to visit, bringing books and surprises to cheer me up.
He bought me an Easy Bake Oven and sampled every delicious cake I cooked up with that light bulb.
He loved to wear blues and greens, which were the colours of his eyes.
His secretary had to write my letters to camp as his handwriting was unreadable. But he still wrote me at least twice a week.
He sent me a Valentines Box when I was at the University of British Columbia, somehow sensing how homesick I was. Inside were chocolates, several Valentines cards, a Marci Lipman Sweatshirt covered in hearts, a teddy bear, and an Olympics sweatshirt.
He had a glove compartment full of candies, especially jubejubes and black babies.
He took us on adventures. Everything with him was fun: sampling Sasparilla at country fairs, car breakdowns on country roads, art gallery visits, Stratford Festival, the Shaw Festival, and any other cultural pursuits he could find. He used to drive his BMW, laden with children, flying over a bump on York Mills Road, speeding and then going airborne, as we screamed, ‘Do it again. Do it again.’
He used to call my house and ask ‘Where’s ___(insert child’s name)?’ I’d answer and then he’d say, ‘OK bye.’ And that was it. He just wanted to know they were ok.
He took us seriously. He took our education seriously. He took our opinions, our actions, our honour seriously. He took not quitting seriously. When we were not happy, it truly troubled him.
He believed in giving back and never taking for granted. He supported Covenant House because he had 5 healthy children and 11 amazing grandchildren. He supported Sick Kids because they were incredible when his granddaughter (my niece) had Neuroblastoma.
He wasn’t shy to kiss and hug and tell people how he felt. He loved nicknames. He seemed silly at times, but that was his love of life shining through.
He wasn’t perfect. He was congenitally late. He sometimes let me down, or went back on a word he shouldn’t have given. He was infuriating at times. He’d lecture me for hours, or would obsess on one detail. He left really long messages on my voicemail.
I didn’t even know that my Dad liked Egg McMuffins. But I did know that he loved me.
Today is Halloween. Everybody else is writing a nice Halloween post. However, since its already 2:30, its a bit late for a Halloween post. Plus, I’d be a bit of an imposter if I wrote a Halloween post since:
a) I don’t have a pumpkin yet
b) there’s a slim to none chance I will be getting a pumpkin since trick or treating starts in 4 hrs.
c) my kids have abandoned me to teen-dom and either aren’t dressing up or have forbidden my husband to follow them (‘them’ being my 12 year old) around while ‘they’ trick our treat with ‘their’ friends (‘following’ being hiding behind bushes and generally stalking in a not-creepy however appearing extremely creepy sort of way)
This pumpkin-less situation brings me to the actual reason for my post.
I know it’s shocking news, but I’m a procrastinator. In other words, I’m a do-it-later-er. As in ‘why do it now, when you can do it later?’ Sometimes, when I can’t decide if I want to do it now, I let my car decide if its going to turn, and therefore do it now. For example, I guess my car didn’t want a pumpkin as it didn’t turn into a lot to buy one. Seriously, the pumpkin, or lack thereof is an inelegant segue/metaphor into my newest attempt to crush the procrastination demon and turn myself into a time maximizing whirlwind of activity. (Chances of that happening? Well, I’m not good at math, but I wouldn’t want to take the book on that wager…) Anyways, I’m totally into self-improvement, plus, I’ve also got another major character flaw, totally related to the procrastination beast, called the ‘start-stopper’. I have many great intentions, but large projects or new activities tend to beat me down, and then I just avoid them. For more on my failings, look here.
Which brings me to….the badge at the top of this blog. Maybe you know what it is, maybe you don’t. What it means is that I’m participating in NaNoWriMo. Its a Writing Festival. A Writing-a-Thon. A Writing Bonanza. In honour of National Writing Month, basically you write a 50,000 word ‘novel’ or chunk of one in 30 days. That’s approximately 1,700 words per day. That’s a lot of writing. Every day. And it’s public. My name is on their website, with a WORD COUNT. And now, I’ve written it here too. On my happy place. That means I have have to do it. Right?
Did I say that I’m taking on a HUGE commitment to write FIFTY THOUSAND WORDS IN THIRTY DAYS. What a way to tame the procrastinator start-stopper beast!
Its a known fact amongst those who know me that I’ve always wanted to be a writer. There’s a book stuck in my sternum. So far, pieces of 500-700 words have been just the right length for me. The shoebox full of Chapter Unos is a testament to that fact, as well as to the character flaws as clearly outlined above. NaNoWriMo is how I’m having a SLACKER / PROCRASTINATOR / START_STOPPER BEAT DOWN.
Apparently, a beat down that involves a lot of words. DID I SAY FIFTY THOUSAND WORDS?
Cuz, ya know what they say…GO BIG OR GO HOME.
Stay tuned for periodic whiny posts about my project. (If you want to stalk me on the NaNoWriMo website, my user name is ChickyMara)
ps, apparently it was advised that I write a outline and notes, as well as doing research to facilitate the 50,000 words to be written in 30 days. Do you think I did that?
Today is Yom Kippur: The Day of Atonement. Its a day where Jewish people reflect on their missteps from the year previous, and commit themselves to being better in the coming year. Its not a sad day, but rather meant to revel and recognize in the amazingness that life has to offer if you live it as your best self. Its a day where we fast, not to punish, but so that our thoughts and minds can focus on thought and prayer, and not on food.
In Judaism, only you can judge your behaviour, and you report only to those who’s lives your actions affect, as well as to G-d (or another higher power, wherever your belief system takes you).
One part of the Yom Kippur observance is participating in a Yizkor service. In the prayers of Yizkor, we ask G-d to remember and look over the ones we have lost. We light a Yahrzeit candle in honour of them, which is to burn for the full 26 hours (from the first rays of the sun going down, to the last rays of the sundown the next day.
Yizkor Candle
This is the first time that I lit a Yahrzeit candle for my father. It was another milestone in this first year without him. I didn’t think it would bother me. But it did. Most terribly. There is a big knot in my throat, that no amount of baking, fasting, or sleeping can dissolve.
Just like his life ended far too soon, the Yahrzeit candle burned out after only 18 hours.
Tomorrow, I will move past what I’ve lost, and give thanks for what I had yesterday, for what I have right now, and for what I will have tomorrow. But, today, I miss my Dad.
Missing you is like empty
Your name on my lips
I see your face in my mind, but its not you
Its fading; no longer real
I don’t feel your strength
Hear your voice, see you smile
as you say my name
Missing you is like empty
Your words in my ears,
guiding, cajoling, laughing, praising
I feel your hand on mine,
but its not really there, disappears
Memories, photos, this candle I light
They’re not you
You’re not in there
They just make
Missing you like empty
As Sally Field said, ‘I like me, I really, really like me’.
Previously I wrote a post where I disclosed some of the things about myself that I cannot change. That post was all about self-acceptance. It’s apparently healthy to admit the challenges in your personality. I was thinking about the points I made in that post while I was at Yoga today. (Which is a no-no actually, since I’m supposed to be focusing on my breath, but this is actually what happens when I’m at yoga.) And I realized that, not only did I forget some important items, it’s also healthy to publicize my strengths To Toot Your own Horn? To broadcast my accomplishments.
So, here goes. These are the things that I like the best about myself.
1. I‘m a very good sleeper. I can sleep through babies crying, horns honking and bombs blowing. I can sleep till 10:00. I can fall asleep and then stay asleep. I am also a very good sleep-faker. I can fake sleep while children are vomiting, alarm clocks are going, and lights need turning off. Usually when I fake sleep, I actually fall asleep.
2. I’m a good writer. I fancy myself to be potentially a great writer. I’m a good storeyteller. I have a unique voice, and once in a while I’m really funny. At least in my own mind, and in the minds of the three other people who read my blog.
3. I’m unique. As I get older, I’m working hard at that. And I’m not going to apologize for it any more (I’m double tooting that one)
4. I’m a good mom. My somewhat pragmatic parenting style may not be agreeable to others, and all jokes aside about ignoring my kids (sometimes I’m not kidding about that. Yes I am), my kids have turned out pretty darn ok. Actually incredibly awesomely ok. (Notwithstanding that they are spoiled and don’t know how to do laundry, they don’t lie, cheat, steal, or do drugs.)
5. I’m a good cook. No, scratch that, I’m a great cook. And I don’t need a recipe to make good food. I’m like the hobo in Stone Soup-I can make a meal from an empty fridge. I don’t care if my food doesn’t look pretty, it tastes good. Ask anyone.
6. I’m a fantastic friend/wife/daughter/sister. I love my husband, my family, my friends, and I’ll do anything for them, even if they aren’t inclined to reciprocate. I just really like being a good friend/wife/daughter/sister. I really like seeing people happy and having a hand in their happiness. That sounds sappy, but it’s totally true.
7. I’m actually nice, not pretend nice. If its in my power to do it for you, I’ll do it. I try to think of others before myself. I’m not malicious. Ever. Well, almost ever (there is one person-actually, maybe two, or three, tops-that I actually hate and would trip if they were on crutches) When I do things for people its always usually not so I can get something back. If I speak inappropriately, its because I have a big mouth, not because I mean it.
8. I’m not a liar. I really try very hard not to lie. I’m uncomfortable with falsehoods, and believe honesty is the best policy.
9. I’m a buck-taker. I hate buck passing. I take responsibility for my mistakes, try to learn from them, and I never, ever, never, ever pass responsibility for my screw ups on other people.
10. I’m naive. I know this one was on my other list, but I’ve decided that it’s a plus. I like looking for the best in people, even if I get disappointed. I love getting excited and looking at the bright side and figuring that everything is going to turn out ok, even if it doesn’t end up and I get sad.
This is my absolute, hands-down favorite picture of all time. Look at my Dad’s face. It says, ‘This girl is nuts, and I love her with all my heart.’
I was about 18 years old. I guess someone wanted to take a picture, so he grabbed me and pulled me close. He probably said something like, ‘Get over here Little Chicky’ (or Mara Bara, or just MB-he definitely was one for the nicknames).
The last time I saw my Dad, he was pretty much sleeping all the time. Right when I got up to leave, after sitting there holding his hand for about an hour, his eyes fluttered open, and he said, ‘I love you MB’. Then he smoochy faced me (like air kissing but with meaning), and closed his eyes again.
I called my husband and told him what happened, and I said, ‘If I that was the last time, then I’m ok.’ And it was the last time. But of course, it wasn’t ok. Those were brave words from a girl about to lose her Daddy.
Today would be my Dad’s 71st Birthday. I’m thinking about you Daddy. About all the happy and silly times we had. About the crazy things you did with us kids on our weekends. About how you introduced me to the beauty in art and the art in food. How you taught me dirty jokes (to which neither of us can ever remember the punchlines). About how you passed on your affinity for hot sauce to your Mini-Me, Little J (as well as your incredible brains).
About the wise words you said to me that I was never ready to listen to, but that now I’m just hearing. About how you frustrated me, pushed me, and challenged me to be a better person. About how I glowed when you told me I was a wonderful mother, and excellent caregiver, the best cook. About how I melted when you would squish me tight and tell me ‘I love you.’
Happy 71st bday Daddy. We love you, we miss you. Your cake is in the doggie bag, ready to take home for later.
ps: I’m shaking my Keppel curls*, just for you.
*Keppel: Yiddish slang for head. When I was little I had what’s commonly referred to in movies as a ‘jew-fro’. Whenever my Dad would pick me up on weekends, the first thing he’d say to me was: ‘Hey Chicky, Shake those Keppel Curls’. And I’d give a little wiggle of my tush, then shake my curls like it was nobody’s business.
I’m a klutz. There’s no doubt about it. From a young age, I have been a klutz.
Cases in point: You know how they say that once you learn how to ride a bike you never forget? Well, I did. My Dad had to teach me every year how to ride a bike. And, at the tender age of 42, I still cannot ride and change gears at the same time.
When I was 6 years old, I was playing with my Dad’s toupee and twirling it in my fingers, I dropped it right in the toilet.
When I was eight, I was at sleep over camp, and I was pretty much just walking on the gravel road and I took a flyer and scraped up my entire face. That scab was attractive, let me tell you. I was pretty cool, that’s for sure, with my war wounds and all.
When I was 12, I was running up the stairs, and well, I fell UP the stairs, tearing all the ligaments in my foot. I mean who does that?
When I was 14, my family was skiing in Vermont. I mean I don’t like to ski at the best of times, as in ever…but they made me go anyways. First, I got off the chair lift and lost control and ski’d into the forest. Next time around, the ramp looked really icy and I refused to get off completely, going all the way around. Finally, the next day, I was really tearing up that hill, or so I thought, until I ski’d RIGHT OVER someone who had fallen down, elegantly doing a quadruple lutz and nearly breaking my leg. (Upside to that story, the ski patrol was pretty hot).
As a matter of routine, I break drinking glasses, plates, eyeglasses. Thank goodness I’ve never broken a kid. However, I have broken: a washer/dryer, and several fridge drawers (by overloading them).
In addition, I have dropped on the floor: 2 blenders, 4 coffee maker glass carafes, 2 entire coffee makers and a food processor.
As well, I have completely jammed up my vacuum cleaner at least 3 times, and have had at least 4 stupid car accidents which include wrapping my car around a pole, getting my minivan stuck between two buildings (where the space was obviously too narrow), and most famously, rear ending a garbage truck across the street from my house.
I have lost/misplaced almost everything I have ever owned at least once, including leaving my wallet in a store, my purse in movie theatres, 100s of scarves, gloves, towels, hats, etc. Just as above, thank goodness I’ve never lost a kid. Although, I did try to a few times. But for once, I was unsuccessful.
Last summer, I was walking in front of my house and I tripped over the top of my flip flop and scraped up the front and back of my legs, and tore up my foot UNDER the big toe. How do you even do that? As well, when I was walking at work, my high heel caught in the cuff of my dress pants and I took a flyer in the middle of the office. I have also swan dived at multiple Bar and Bat Mitzvahs as well as sliding right across the dance floor at a cousin’s wedding. That WASN’T EMBARRASSING. Not at all. Last fall, I think I ended up on YouTube when I slow motioned fell right in front of the donut station at my friend’s son’s Bar-Mitzvah party. Even I thought that was funny. The year before, my BFF hip checked me at another party and I hit the floor so bad I bruised my ass. (Which was already damaged from the time I slipped on the wet floor in my own hallway and broke my ass)
My son has inherited my klutz gene. Except, his target is electronics. He has dropped his phone in the sink, the toilet, and if you can believe, a sewer. He also has dropped his iPod touch in the toilet, and has crushed it while playing football. My daughter doesn’t break anything. Little J just breaks limbs.
So, why am I telling you all this? Because, today is a sad day. I went to pee and my Torchie fell out of my backpocket, right into the toilet. Bye Bye Blackberry. The red dot of death appeared and that baby went dark forever. So now, I’m switching to an iPhone. How many ways can you break an iPhone?
I am not brave. I am a big, fat chicken. I live with a number of fears, the combination of which probably border on anxiety-based obsessive compulsive Jewish Mother disorder
I will not go on Roller Coasters. I don’t like that rush of adrenaline when you’re so scared your wig is going to fly off even if you don’t wear one. I don’t like that giddy feeling after you realize you didn’t go flying out of the rollercoaster and end up in someones lap with their diet coke straw up your nose. I have lined up for roller coasters. And left the line when it was my turn. I’ve even gotten on a roller coaster only to unbelt and take off right before it started moving. When my kids were small, I was forced to go on the Ghoster Coaster at Canada’s Wonderland, and I while I wanted to be brave for my kids, what I wanted to do was lay down and cry. In short, Rollercoaster + Chicky = not friends.
I don’t see scary movies or even thrillers. I don’t understand why people pay money to be scared. Again, I don’t like that pounding in my chest, and when I get that rush of adrenaline, I can’t decide whether I want to puke or pass out. When I was 5, my dad took me to see The Abominable Snowman and other Monsters, and I didn’t sleep for two weeks. When I was an 21, I saw Cape Fear with my brother. And that was the last scary movie I ever watched
I don’t go on the subway for fear of being trapped inside. (This point brought to you by Ativ
Some other things that brand me a wimp (or slightly insane, depending on your perspective)
I’m afraid of going somewhere and having no one to talk to (you know standing there awkwardly while everyone else socializes), of not being able to find my car in a large parking lot, and of missing my plane because a got the day wrong.
I’m scared my kids won’t get invited, I’m scared they will, I’m scared I won’t get invited, and then I’m worried I will say the wrong thing when I do (I often blurt out inappropriate things)
I’m afraid to ski because I don’t like going really fast. I’m very afraid to slip on ice (mostly likely because I usually do). I’m afraid of playing ball-based sports in case the ball hits me in the head (the ball generally hits me in the head).
When I was childbearing, I was afraid I couldn’t get pregnant. Then I was afraid I wouldn’t stop getting pregnant. Funnily enough, I wasn’t afraid of giving birth. But I WAS afraid of being a bad mother. Of course, I’m afraid of something happening to one of my kids (but that’s normal)
From that laundry list of neurotic fear, you can see that I’m a real-life scaredy cat. There’s no doubt about it. So, am I ever brave? On occasion. For example, today I think I was very brave.
That’s because, today was the first time I went to a funeral since my Daddy’s. I was really afraid. Of how I would feel, how I would react. My friend’s father passed away and I wanted to be there for her. So I went. And, you know what? It was hard. But it was ok. And I’m glad I went.
But, I can guarantee that I will not be buying tickets for Scream 5 anytime soon. Nobody changes THAT fast.
Snowstorms, seafoam green, Pasta Puttanesca, Vancouver, Cyndi Lauper. These will never been the same.
December 7th will never be the same.
Bear Hugs, the word Daddy, brisket, report cards, the Palm Treo, magazines. They too will never be the same.
Valentines Day, holiday dinners, dirty jokes, dental work, man purses, the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, Law and Order SVU . Not the same.
The Royal Ontario Museum, The Art Gallery, food, The Science Centre, The Stratford and Shaw Festivals. For sure, never the same.
When I lost my father, I lost a piece of me. I lost a giant point of reference by which I measured my accomplishments, my experiences, my life. Infuriatingly bossy, so full of love, extraordinarily and joyfully eccentric-those were ways to describe him. But right now, the only way I can describe him is gone.
But, just like any other day that comes after the one before, I need to try and remember that nothing ever is the same. That every day is an opportunity to create new memories to layer ontop of the old. Except, I don’t want to.
And so, in this, the first piece of writing I have created, other than business documents, since the night my father died, I pledge to recognize and embrace the fact that nothing will ever be the same. Is that a new addition to the stages of grief?
First I was in denial. I pretended he was on vacation.
Then I had the good old guilt. I didn’t tell him how much I loved him, how special he was to me, how he had shaped my life. We didn’t have ‘the conversation’. Then, I realized, we’d had that conversation. Throughout my life. Just because my siblings had summed it up in a final talk, and I hadn’t, didn’t mean it didn’t happen. And he did tell me he loved me, over and over in the last weeks. And he did tell me I was a ‘good little caregiver’ days before he left us. I’mworking on convincing myself that this knowledge is enough (guilt is definitely a work in progress).
Then, I was angry. So very angry that the last time I was supposed to see him there was a snowstorm and I couldn’t get to his house. And that he died while I was in Vancouver on a job interview. And that he’s not here. When I want him.
Finally, I guess there was acceptance. That happened a few times. Once, I went to call him when I was at the Science Centre with Little J. I started to dial then realized there would be no one at the other end of the line. When report cards came, I went to dial once again. And left a message for my step-mother instead. Another day, probably the hardest, I was cooking for my son’s birthday brunch and I thought ‘Oh, my Dad’s gonna love this quiche with leeks, mushrooms, goat cheese and dill.’ And then I thought, ‘Oh. He’s not coming. He’s dead.’
And now, I’m fixed on ‘Its never gonna be the same’. The place where he lives in me can’t be filled just by memories. His presence was too large. I need substance. But I’m not ready to fill that space with new experiences.
I said to my Step-father, ‘I want to boycott Passover.’
‘You can’t stop life’. He replied. Why not, I want to know. I’m just not completely ready to create new experiences.
My father’s death may be the first time that something has happened to me that I haven’t been able to joke about. That’s a weird feeling for me. Usually, I am a master at self-mocking. Plus, I’m actually known for making cringingly inappropriate comments at the most inopportune times. But I guess, that too will never be the same. I have found something that isn’t funny. But, maybe someday I will. After all my Dad would definitely want me to.
So, in the spirit of finding the funny, and to cheer both you and me up after this depressing, albeit cathartic diatribe, I give you Cindy Lauper Because my Dad, ever the rebel, named his ‘pussy’ (and yes, imagine him saying that with a filthy twinkle in his eye) Cindy, because she just wanted to have fun.
And as I recognize that things will never be the same, I will try to get my funny back and to encourage my kids to get up to all manner of mischief so I can entertain you once more.
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