Grief

20 years ago yesterday, my first boyfriend died. He was no longer my boyfriend, in fact he was in love with and the boyfriend of someone else, but I was still shattered. Not only because he was dead, but because everyone around me was shattered too.

I had just dug myself out of a deep depression that plagued my freshman year of college and I became obsessed with figuring out why he had died. I felt like knowing whether he'd done it on purpose or by accident would make the grief easier to bear. It wasn't that we'd talked, away at our separate colleges before cell phones and Facebook. It was just him not being there, him not being a possibility in my future, him not off doing amazing things, that I couldn't handle.

Now my friend has been gone longer than he was here.

There's a tiny part of me that's still shattered. Not for myself, but for his parents, his girlfriend, his best friends and all the people who didn't get to know him. And for him, most of all.

That's the thing no one ever told me about grief. It shrinks, yes, but it also morphs. Maybe into a grief that's more bearable, maybe into art or anger or whatever. But I guess I'd always thought that someday it would shrink so much that I couldn't feel it anymore. But on the 20th anniversary of my friend's wake, I know that's not true.

Lucky Hooker

That's what I really want to name my blog. In fact, that's what I really wanted to use as my internet name. I was exhausted when I chose to leap from a now-defunct writing community to my own place in the bloggy world and all the names I liked were already in use. Except "Lucky Hooker".

But I chickened out.

I was already feeling brave enough by NOT including "mommy" in my title. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I originally started writing on the internets before I had kids. Too bad I wasn't knowledgeable enough to start my own blog back then. Instead I wrote for the defunct writing community and before that, Blogit. Anyway, I guess I saw blogging as MY thing, my "me" time and I wanted a name that described me.

But I wasn't quite brave enough to choose "Lucky Hooker", possibly because a lot of the first mommy blogs I read were of the "my kids are so adorable and my husband's perfect and I love scrubbing the floor with this homemade organic soap I made" variety. Since I already knew my blog was going to be different, I was too afraid to just brand myself that way.

Not that I really knew about branding.

Anyway, you may be wondering why I even considered calling myself "Lucky Hooker" at all. Generally, hooker's not exactly a compliment. And if you'd ever met me - even when I was skinny and going clubbing - you would know that I could never be mistaken for any kind of actual hooker. Too unpolished to be high class, too conservative to be of the street variety. But back when I was a single teacher, I had these friends. Well, I mean, most of them are still my friends but we no longer work together and very rarely get drunk together anymore. Anyway, we called each other "hooker" all the time.

I don't know why. Maybe we were subversively reclaiming the word for feminism. Probably we just thought it was funny. The "lucky" bit came later, when one of us saw a t-shirt with the words "lucky hooker" on a fishing show. We made our own shirts soon after.

To be a lucky hooker, you had to have a big sense of humor and a small sense of propriety. You had to be able to do a shot and dance on a table. You had to be able to laugh at yourself. You had to like sex and like talking about it almost as much. Oh, and while you could look fabulous, you never quite managed to look perfect.

I am still a lucky hooker at heart. Okay, I'm in no shape to dance on a table, but I danced on enough of them at the time to earn me lifetime status anyway. I miss my lucky hookers every day, even though there are definitely some in the blog world.

Aren't there?

Ruminating

When I was nineteen, a dear friend from high school died in a car accident. What I remember most about that time is the disbelief. The wake, the funeral, the gathering at his parents' house - they all felt surreal. The pain came eventually - the grief for what he would miss, what I would miss and what his family would miss.

And now another friend from high school is dying. We weren't close, more friendly than friends. But I remember the last time I saw her and the way her face lit up when she talked about her little boy. Now she has a little girl too. And no treatments are working on her brain tumor. And the grief is immediate: every time I think about her family I want to cry.

My own life won't be affected by her death, not really. We spoke no more than every five years and didn't even really communicate on Facebook. But when I think of her kids, of how she will not get to see them grow up and of how they will be without her. . . it breaks my heart. Part of it is selfish, I know. I can't think about them without thinking of my own kids. Without thinking about how I would feel.

And I know she's handled things with grace and strength, working on bringing awareness to the problem and cherishing her time with family and friends. I'm in awe of her, actually.

And of course I'm also angry. It's not fair. I was angry when my other friend died too - but it was with him. This is being angry at the universe, about the unfairness of it all. And I resolve again to cherish what I have, to be grateful for the time I have with my family. It's the only way I can stop being angry.

Haiku Friday - Our Guests

Talked to Hubby

about our houseguest problem

but no fix just yet

we were blackmailed

and it seems so was Celia

Sam is an asshole

Hubby is loyal

guilty about Sam's childhood

sorry it was so bad

Sam reminds me of

my first husband, selfish prick

without bad childhood

Still, they are alike

I am physically ill

Hubby so stressed

Sam so demanding

he doesn't see it that way

doesn't get others

I refuse to leave

this is my house, my kindness

you never come back

Entertain yourselves

you'll pay for Hubby not me?

He's not going, jerk

I Got D'Issues*

I suck at email. Unless it's something that I can answer in one sentence or less, it can take me weeks to reply to an email. Last night I got this long apologetic email from L., an acquaintance that I'm hoping becomes a friend. She is one of the few people I've met lately that I really hope to become friends with. Anyway, we've been emailing and it took her a while to reply to me, for which she was very apologetic.

I, of all people, understand how email becomes low-priority. I owe people dear to me, like my best friend from high school and my beloved cousin, emails. I very rarely answer comments in email (though I do reply in the comments section, mostly) because I SUCK at email. Before I discovered blogging, I was much better about email. But now there's always a blog to read or write. And I LOVE to read and write blogs. So I didn't feel L. had any reason to apologize for taking a while to reply to my email.

But (and this would be the part that embarrasses me) I was afraid that L. hadn't replied to me because I had offended her. I was so relieved that she didn't hate me. Even though I am notorious for taking weeks to reply to emails that require serious thought, I assume that people will reply to me in a timely fashion. And if they don't I assume that they are upset or annoyed with me.

Clearly I am mentally ill.

And what's worse? I haven't replied to L. yet.

Is there a name for my emailing problem? Am I the only person afflicted?

*When I taught in the inner city, my co-workers and I used to talk about "issues". Whether it was a guy's commitment issues or a student's problem with math homework, we covered a lot of ground with the word "issues." One day my student Latisha was having a really rough day. She threw a huge temper tantrum and during it screamed what sounded like, "I got D'issues!!!!" And ever after that, whenever issues were very SERIOUS, we would call them "D'issues".

You're My Friend, Right?

I am a member of Meetup.com. It is how I found my mom's group and my book group - it is basically the source of my entire social life. And though I've met some great people through those meetups, I'm still searching for the PERFECT meetup. The one that's called, "Sarcastic Moms who like to blog, read and watch football, have a tight budget and only fit into their fat jeans." Or maybe, "Funny Women who are comfortable swearing, drinking beer and wearing sweatpants in public." Or possibly even, "Smart women who can talk about more than where they shop but still love trashy reality tv."

So far, no one has started one of these groups. And because I haven't entirely embraced my dorkiness, I am afraid to start one of these groups for fear that it will be listed and have the dreaded member number (1) next to it.

So I examine the manifestos of other groups, hoping to find another group with semi-compatible people. The newest mom group is The Hip Mamas. "Am I too hip for my mommy friends?" asks the group. Uhh. . .I don't think so. I'm sure there are a few mommies on farms in Wyoming that I may be too hip for, but generally I've given up describing myself as hip. (Is 'hip' the cool word again? I had no idea.) Most of the groups that look like fun (besides the other mom groups, of course) are for singles.

So how am I supposed to make friends? Anyone got any ideas? We've been here for nearly a year and all I have are acquaintances.

Haiku Friday - With The Girls

So on Sunday, I finally left the farm for my night with a few friends. Oy.



Mary rescued me
and brought me to Christen's house
after some errands

like the liquor store
OK, two liquor store stops
and we got food too

There were many hugs
upon our arrival there
it was wonderful

my old KC friends
they like to drink and party
I used to keep up

I don't party now
But I forgot on Sunday
you know how it is

So I did the shots
and had a vodka cocktail
maybe it was three

Rumpleminze is bad
more than one shot - really bad
I forgot - shots bad

I had so much fun
until I passed out cold
on the hardwood floor

I, apparently,
was very entertaining
I can't remember

It is very good
that I was sleeping over
poor,poor Christen though

there are two bathrooms
I was most ill, not hungover
or so it seemed

Jason took me back
to the farm on that Monday
and got the Hubby

They went out that night
and I tried to recover
no more shots ever

Just In Case You Missed It. . .

Merry at Mom and More is an amazing writer. Since I commented on her "gift" post, she wrote me an ode. To be sung to the tune of Hotel California by the Eagles because she is THAT cool. I am reposting it because I think it is THAT cool (and not even just because it's about me. Though that helps.) But really, you should go look at it on her blog.

An Ode to Jersey Girl


On the Internet highway, it doesn’t seem fair
Those blogs without merit get read more than their share
But I found a great platform, a place for mommy hood’s plight
My kids are screaming and my Vodka’s gone
Her blog can fix me up right
Jersey Girl has her own way;
With a story to tell
There’s no need to be by yourself,
Driving your broke down mini-van from hell
Jersey Girl has a fable and fun games for to play
So if you’re looking for something more
See what she has to say...

Jersey has a story just right for ya
Ironflower’s Grace
Matches Lovebug’s pace
What can I say, Jersey Girl, but I adore ya
Never should you fear, not that way, oh dear....

Her mind is silly and twisted; she’s got a wit that won’t end
She’s got a lot of funny, funny tales, that buck the trends.
If you’re looking for blog posts you won’t forget
Soap Opera Sunday, it’s not over yet.

So I visit quite often
To have a good time.
Parenthood dilemmas mixed in adult humor without the whine
If you’ve got a nasty mom ruining your day
Kids got up in the middle of the night?
Stop and vent away...

Jersey has a story just right for ya
Ironflower’s Grace
Matches Lovebug’s pace
She’s dishin’ it up at her blog each day just for ya
There’s no need for lies, or bad alibis....

For Picklestraw

Seventeen years ago today, my friend Picklestraw died. Though his life really ended, I believe, four days before when he drove his car into a tree. Or maybe it even ended before that, when he got into the car after drinking for hours and proceeded to go four times the posted speed limit through the streets of our hometown. We didn't do that, you see. We didn't race and we didn't drive drunk. I saw more people snort coke in high school than I saw fight, race or drive under any influences.

I met Picklestraw the summer before our sophomore year of high school and he died right before our sophomore year of college. In the scheme of things that's not a very long time to know someone. But of course those particular years are the crucial years, aren't they? To this day when I am with friends from that time, whether we've kept in touch or not, it's like all the time has disappeared.

We don't talk about Picklestraw much anymore. We've accepted that we'll never know what he was thinking. He wasn't alone in the car when he drove into the tree. He wasn't with any of our friends, or his girlfriend's friends, but I still can't believe that if he was planning on killing himself he would want to take anyone with him. He wasn't selfish and crazy like that.

He'd had a party that night. His parents were out of town and the old gang had gathered for a last Hurrah before we left for school. Picklestraw and I had gone from being the Sam and Diane of RHS (that's a Cheers reference, youngsters) to being cautious friends. He was in love with someone else and so was I. But we had been able to read each other so easily. Yet I couldn't read anything in his behavior that night, except that he seemed especially disheartened as people began to leave.

He invited M. to spend the night (a common platonic thing in our crowd), but she couldn't. She might even have had to drive me home. No one stayed, so Picklestraw went to the party down the street. Filled with people who were not friends. And apparently those not friends needed to go to the 7-11. At least, that's what I heard. No one really knows why they were driving, or why Picklestraw was speeding. The two with him were hurt but not killed.

Picklestraw never woke up from his coma. And I never gathered the nerve to visit him at the hospital. I fantasized about going in there and yelling at him, ticking him off so much that he'd wake up. But I couldn't gather the nerve to try. I didn't cry until I saw his girlfriend at the wake. All I could do was imagine that her pain would be so much worse than mine, and mine was bad. The wake was the only time I cried that whole week - from the news of the accident to the final after funeral gathering at his parents' house.

Picklestaw's headstone simply says, "A Poet" under his birth and death dates. I think he could have been so much more. He was a great poet, but he was also smart, kind, funny, an actor, a public speaker, a confused, insecure adolescent. He loved Led Zeppelin and sometimes I imagine telling him about Ironflower's tantrums if she can't listen to Led Zeppelin in the car.

Maybe it's weird to still imagine talking to him all these years later. Maybe it's weird to wonder if I would have kept in better touch with some of our old friends if they didn't remind me of him so much. Maybe it's weird to be writing this blog at all. But I don't care.

Picklestraw, we still miss you.

Thank You, M.

The worst part of living in New Jersey has been my lack of friends. I miss my friends in Kansas City terribly. Most of the people I keep in touch with (or would like to keep in better touch with) from high school no longer live in Bergen County (take that as you will).

But on Sunday I went out to lunch with M. As M. pointed out, we are probably each other's oldest friends. I have known M. since tenth grade, which makes our friendship over twenty years old now (M. doesn't look like she has been friends with anyone that long, though, she looks just like she did when we graduated). M. lives about forty-five minutes away, which makes it even more challenging to get together than it should.

Anyway, M. wanted to take me to lunch for my birthday. Michelle is sweet and thoughtful like that. Our budget has been stretched so thin since we had the kids I can't remember the last time I bought a non-family member a gift. But M. wanted to take me out anyway. And she also bought me this lovely perfume just because she knew I'd never buy it for myself - when money's not tight we buy toys, of course. How sweet is that?

But even more than the material kindness was the way M. and I could just talk and talk and talk about anything, even though it's been months since we've seen each other. I had almost forgotten what it was like to hang out with a non-family member that I didn't have to be my "social self" for - it was so wonderful. But even beyond that, since I do at least talk to my KC crew pretty regularly, it was great to be with someone who knows all of my stories, even the ones I've forgotten.

So thank you M., for lunch and perfume and for being such a terrific, veteran (not old!) friend.

An Ode to Kansas City

I moved to Kansas City under duress. Most people, especially in the late '90's, did not move from Seattle to Kansas City. Prior to Seattle, I had lived in Portland, Boston and New Jersey. I was not a mid-western kind of gal. But my ex-husband's graduate school options were limited, to say the least. At that point, I still had vague hopes of saving my marriage, so I went along. Then he declared he wanted to have a trial separation upon moving to KC. I agreed, knowing that it would be the end of our marriage (no way would I return to living with him after the freedom of living alone). I went along to feel like I had tried my best - and because I had a teaching job there.

When I moved to Kansas City, I didn't know anyone. I had visited briefly for my job interview and that was it. I didn't know about 3.2 beer, that some people still didn't believe in evolution, that strangers apologized after bumping into you. I could only get from my job to my new apartment. By the following spring, I had friends who called me for directions. I had become a Chiefs fan and actually went to Royals games. I even started calling soda, "pop".

Instead of staying for the year it took my marriage to officially fall apart, I stayed for nine years. At the start, I was somewhat satisfied with my inner-city teaching job. I liked the early spring and the late summer (not to mention the days of sun, something that the Pacific Northwest sorely lacks). I liked the affordable housing. I liked how nice people were at the grocery store. I liked Chiefs games and the manageable yet impressive Nelson Art Museum. I liked Jerry's Bait Shop, Kennedy's Bar and Grill, shopping in Lawrence and Parkville, the preponderance of Targets and the fact that I always ran into acquaintances while I was out.

But I stayed because I made wonderful friends - the kind of friends that I didn't expect to make this late in life. Friends who put up with my moods, my wild bouts of drinking and my tendency to retreat. Friends who listened through my disasters of post-divorce dating, who braved my sad attempts at community theater and karaoke, who threw me baby showers.

I miss you guys more than I can say.