Newscoma

“It’s so curious: one can resist tears and ‘behave’ very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer… and everything collapses.” –Colette

I’m going to talk about what I want to right now. Look at this picture of an aardvark if you want to walk away because I’m going to talk about death, loss and the holidays.

There is navel gazing in blogging. So I get my turn today because I can.

I miss my mom.

She died 11-years ago and I damn well miss her. It’s the holidays and this is always a messy time for me. I found myself profoundly sad last night about Thanksgiving and the entire Christmas season. Now, no worries, this happens for a lot of people and I believe it’s best to talk/write about it. I think significant events like the holidays bring up certain memories for people who have suffered a loss. Although time heals many things, there are reminders and triggers that bring up that loss, that invisible, gaping hole which nothing can fill.

My mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer one week before Christmas in 1996. We knew something was wrong before we “conned” her into going to the doctor because she hated doctors horribly. By the time we got her there, the tests were pretty conclusive and the doctor told me in the hallway that it was bad.

She lived for 14 more months after that and every day we watched her slowly fade away. The worst part is that she knew she was fading away as well and that is something I wouldn’t want my worst enemy to experience or to see. It’s a little bit like hell on earth watching someone die a little piece at a time.

Fast forward 11 years to now. Traditions have changed in my family. My dad remarried, my sister has two daughters who are enmeshed in their own lives which are filled with school, sports and friends where the holidays send her to visit her husband’s folks away from Hoots and my extended family, although large, never really spent holiday times together. So the smells and tastes of Thanksgiving have changed and I’ve been fortunate enough to have a place to hang my hat on Turkey Day. I do, however, get nostalgic and sentimental though, missing those years of family bonding.

Her turkey and dressing, experimenting with different foods, the fact that my dad doesn’t really like turkey (he’s having Japanese this year for his Thanksgiving dinner which I think is fabulous) or how that we would literally starve on the Wednesday before the big day because my mother always forgot to get any additional things to eat (this was a running joke in my family.)

The year her dog, Girl, ate our dinner. The time we had a huge cactus as a Christmas tree and put little red balls on it to celebrate. The year she planted a Christmas tree in the yard and named it Rufus (I get my weirdness honestly). Staff Christmas dinners at my dad’s old company where we would all dress us and have a great time. My mother laughing at me when I would make dressing sandwiches (carbariffic). How she always burned the rolls (every, single Thanksgiving and Christmas.) How my father wanted (and still does) to go to Wal-Mart if it’s a holiday. The movies we went to on Thanksgiving. How my mother never really recovered from her own mother’s death from breast cancer and where she felt these same things during Christmas, which my grandmother loved more than anything. How she could never smell Chanel No 5 without seeing the bottle that my grandfather gave my grandmother every year without crying. I feel the same way when I smell a hint of Youth Dew, which only my mother could wear successfully (it makes me sneeze when other people wear it these days.)

How she wasn’t afraid to give us a hug and tell us we were her everything. And, you know, she meant it.

I remember the joyful things. And I miss them. I have made new traditions but I still become a nostalgic ball of mush thinking about my mother.

I heard through Twitter because Scout saw it that my niece was a rock star and Homer was great.

I got tied up and, it’s decided, I hate my job. (Oh, campers, you didn’t have my day.)

And this didn’t help.

Also, after this day where it was not of the good because of petty poo, I also hear this from the eyes and and the ears of the lovely Scout.

Ace, you did great. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to see it.

She is a rock star.

Eleanor Roosevelt said “Nobody can make you feel inferior without your permission.”

I love that statement.

I do.

I know quite a few people that act like the world is out to get them and suck the oxygen out of the room when they enter it. I have felt that way before myself during down periods. Yes, we run into brick walls sometimes. We deal with unpleasant people who build themselves up by breaking others down.

Why is this on my mind this morning? I think it’s because, as I guess you can see by the changes on this blog, that I’m undergoing a transformation. And I’ve tried to surround myself with people who are comfortable in their own skin and who are not only empowered but empowering.

I get tired of people thinking they aren’t good enough, because THEY ARE.

This line of thought started this morning when I was talking to Homer about the incident last week. We were discussing, after a I did a bit of digging, that this has happened to other children and after a bit of raising hell, I think it will be dealt with appropriately.

Everything has a root system. I feel like everything is connected in some form or another. It’s my way.

But the difference of me being a woman who turns 43 years old in three weeks and a child is that I have learned through years of stops and starts that Roosevelt was right. Children don’t know these lessons unless they are taught them but it’s also a matter of just living.

My mother, the wise sage that she was, used to say “Never give someone not worthy free room and board in your head.”

Because our heads lie to us sometimes. So, what do we do?

Well, we learn that we are human. That we are capable of forgiving ourselves for mistakes we make. That no one else is responsible for our state of mind except ourselves.

Growing older is a wonderful thing, really. I’ve learned that if other people are talking about me, then they are giving someone else a break. I even make up rumors about myself sometimes to see how it goes viral in my town just to amuse myself.

You see, the bottom line is that I hope that I can teach my niece that she is not responsible for other people’s asshattery. That she is above that and those people are inconsequential. I tell her that they are fun vampires, sucking the fun out of a room. She has one life. Live it. Do something every day that scares you. She smiles shyly, but I know she is listening.

She is going to be just fine.

Eleanor was right. We have to take ownership of our own psyche.

This is your early morning dose of middle-aged Zen.

I have been playing with ringtones.

I’ve never really had one because I had a craporrific cell phone for years and now I have a new groovy one I’ve been playing with. Freezertroll and I have entertained ourselves while being cooped up in the conference room at the corporate offices by downloading free ones while we’ve been waiting on phone calls for very non-fun stuff that has to be done.

Yes, FT and I have learned how to communicate without speaking we have spent so much time together recently. Been working on something, you know how it is. And we have taken a moment here and a moment there to act like we are 12 year olds.

Now, Homer, the sister, has a really weird name in the non-virtual world (weirder than Homer if you can believe that) which is very unusual. I’ve never heard another girl with her name.

And I got her a cell phone ringtone that delights me to no end.

And it’s her name.

Yeah, it’s this.

And every time she calls me, that’s what I hear. Tickles me to no end.

She is only tolerant because we demand it of her.

Sorry, it just makes me laugh.

A story that says so much.

To the outside world, they were roommates – keeping separate bedrooms for appearances.

To each other, Barr and Mary Frances Piercey were the loves of each other’s lives.

They felt incredibly grateful to have found each other, and incredibly lucky to have spent more than four decades together.

Barr and Piercey also felt that theirs was “the love that dare not speak its name.”

Both grew up at a time when people didn’t talk openly about their sexual orientation. “Coming out” as a lesbian just didn’t happen back then, Barr said.

Loraine Barr is 88 years old. A lifetime of living in the shadows but with a great deal of love. Her partner died several years ago, and now she’s talking about it.

With an exquisite power and grace, she is being brave about things she thought she could never be brave about.

Read the rest here.

Some fine writing today that made my eyes well up.

Out of Memphis, Lindsey explains understanding parents and especially her mother:

She does this because she loves me and she doesn’t want to burden me with problems that aren’t explicitly mine. It’s an amazing trick, really, to take all that hurt that’s churning inside her and push it down deep so that no one’s made uncomfortable by it. But it’s a trick I wish she didn’t pull so often, because no vessel can hold a limitless amount. Everything has its limit.

I love reading things that make me feel.

To quote Tammy Wynette. Although I’ve never had to stand by my man, so to speak, other than my father. I’m assuming my dilemma is the same for men, quite frankly, on some levels but not all of them.

As this week as been filled with such manic-depressive fervor, from very high-highs to incredibly devastating lows, I have been thinking about aging. I talk about that sometimes, but it really hit me last night as my tooth split in two and my face swelled up like a four-day old bloated, dead possum on the side of the road that I see quite frequently in our little burg.

It ain’t pretty, campers.

When my parents were around my age, I think they had it going on in some respects much more than I do now. For my mother to be a musician, she was incredibly shy. She was, however, very much on top of things. My father, Big Daddy, worked like a dog to make sure that Homer, the sis, and I were taken care of. My mom was pretty cool about wanting us to face reality, but she did instill the dreamer in both my sister and I.

Sometimes I just don’t think I’m as together. My fervor for politics has waned recently as I’ve just been so disappointed to the point of throwing my hands in the air. My job is what it is. My life isn’t bad, but sometimes I just don’t think I have it “together.”

Know what I mean.

Last night, as I was eating and my tooth cracked in two and I’m trying not to swallow the damned thing, it made me very reflective. I looked like a cat hacking up a hairball. But it hit me, I’m getting older. At 41 years old, I try to remain playful and passionate about my life, but the fact is, and dang it all, I’m not getting any younger. As an unexpected and completely unnecessary expense hit on Wednesday that needed immediate attention that hammered me financially and I realized that I’m never going to be in the same financial place that my parents were when they were my age. I cheated recently on the cigarette plan but I’m still doing better and I keep trying.

So many things swirling in the cranium.

But the tooth was significant for me, and yes, it hurts like a muttha. It was significant because it represented a great deal of things that I’m having trouble grasping my hands, and my brain for that matter, around. This past year, I’ve had the hystie, a deadly bout of bronchitis and some other things that made me realize, “Hell, ‘Coma! You are going through a mid-life crisis.” And I had my first hot flash sitting in my office at work where I felt like I was being microwaved from the inside-out, this also floored me. One of my employees thought I was dying. In reality, I was desperately trying not to throw up in my garbage can.

“I’m having a HOT FLASH!” You gotta be kidding me

Now, this revelation of what might be going on hit me about 9 p.m. last night. Wow. I mean really.

I’m so busy making myself busy that I didn’t understand this but I’ll be damned if that isn’t what it is.

I’m not a brain surgeon, but here are some of the characteristics I lazily looked up over at Wikipedia:

• search of an undefined dream or goal
• desire to achieve a feeling of youthfulness
• acquiring of unusual or expensive items such as clothing, muscle cars, jewelery, gadgets, etc. (Coma Note: Now this isn’t happening.)
• paying extra special attention to physical appearance
• need to spend more time alone or with certain peers
• a deep sense of remorse for goals not accomplished
• an underlying desire to initiate new sexual partnerships

Well, that sounds about right. I think that when you lose a parent or you undergo major transitions like the infamous ednaectomy, things start getting a bit askew. Now, with that said, I wonder why the issue of a tooth breaking and my mouth feeling like a construction worker has take a ball peen hammer to it started me thinking about this.

But it makes sense. This post is going nowhere really, but I can’t help but thing that I just need to sit out under the stars out in the country and contemplate the whole thing. Replenish myself spiritually, physically and emotionally.

I probably should see what Rachel over at Women’s Health News says about mid-life crisis. She always seems to have it going on.

So, today, I have an important meeting in less than three hours. My right side of my face is bloated. I wonder if there is a lovely pain killer out there that could, A.) fix my mouth and B.) Calm my soul.

Yeah, those things never work.

As I have been in a whirlwind the past couple of days, I have had to check on the news via the innertubes, as I have had no idea what was going in the world. As I have been in Nashville during Fan Fair week, I can tell you that I was quite delighted last night when I went out to eat  Japanese and there was an Elvis impersonator sitting at the table with us. He was a not a very pleasant Elvis impersonator, and although I missed the Nashville Sounds game because of my lack of reading comprehension, I think the Heavens were looking down at me and cited that I really, really needed to be at this restaurant to see this very, very sullen Elvis impersonator (skinny Elvis.) Too my delight, GingerSnaps went to another restaurant and also had dinner while staring at an Elvis Impersonator. I hope he wasn’t as sullen as mine was. John Carney, master of wit, said he would send me pics of HIS game last week. (There is a comedian in every crowd. Although I should be scorned and mocked as I missed the Sista and her little one. Seriously.)

Heh.  Anyway, lets look around the blogosphere, shall we?

•  Prince Harry is all in the news today and I have had a lot of links coming him on him, so I think, my fine readers, THIS is what you are looking for.
• A basset hound that disappeared from its California home in December has been found 430 miles away in Arizona. Why do stories like this give me a happy?
• A Post occupation plan? In this world, why does this not surprise me.
• Katie and Karsten, I now have my very first blogger crush on a couple. You guys are the best. And when you hang out with Rachel, you should know the girl has moxie and knows the words to a Bon Jovi song. Rachel has talked me out of getting a mullet, which I thought would be funny (I was going to get it for one day but as she advises on health, I think she realized my mental health was going to be at stake if I did that.) And Graceless, you are A.) the bell of any ball. Jeez, who are just about the funnest woman ever and B.) I bow to your karaoke mad skillz as I do to Ginger as well. Yeah, I sang, but I wasn’t very good. But, it’s karaoke and I didn’t make anyone’s eyes bleed, so I have that going for me.
• Frank Strovell reports on the numbers regarding Tennessee Hate Crimes.
• So it the NBA finals for you tonight, or is it The Sopranos? I confess, I’ve only seen one episode of The Sopranos since its inception, but Big Daddy loves it.
• I also met Casey yesterday who is talking of setting Kittens on Fire, but not really. It’s a joke. It’s about the cigarette tax. (Liked your Mac, dude.)
• Go look at Supermousey’s blog and while you are at it, look at her new masthead. (Squirrel Queen is the best. Squirrels and Mice get along very, very well.)
• Go listen to this now. You’ll be glad you did.

Have a lovely Sunday. Kiss your sweetie on the mouth, kiss a stranger on the mouth if that’s your thing, Hug your kids today and tell them how much they mean to you. Smile at a stranger.

We’re all in this together.

Reasons why I love my father and that I should tell him more that I think he’s the bee’s knees:

• He showed up at my niece’s play tonight to see her play a wild elf names Smacky. Smacky was a somewhat manic depressive elf, but she looked beautiful and I was smitten.
• He just had angioplasty on his espophagus. Hiatal hernia’s suck. He’s lived with it for years. They had to use a child size balloon because it was so small.
• He shouldn’t have come.
• He did. He was on some pain meds, but he came and  the little one was delighted.
• Thanks, Big Daddy. It meant a lot.

So this is for you about the television show you liked so well:

Fans trumpeting the cause of CBS’ canceled drama “Jericho” have caught the network’s ear.

CBS, deluged with calls, messages and shipments of nuts signifying viewer displeasure, is reconsidering its decision, a source close to the production said Tuesday.

The source spoke on condition of anonymity because he was not authorized to comment publicly. A decision on whether to bring the show back, probably for a midseason run, is imminent, the source said.

“We are tired of the networks (not just CBS) tossing aside quality programming,” was the message carried by jericholives.com, one of several Web sites protesting the cancellation. “Enough! We’re going to fight for this one.”

Follow the link and you’ll see what I’m talking about.