There are moments in life that are so branded into our psyches that there's no need to tie a mental string around one's finger. Like the firsts; first time I tied my shoes, first time I rode my bike without training wheels, first day of school, first pet, first A+, first time I stood up to a bully, first time my performance earned applause, first crush, first kiss, first raise, first car, the list is long because my memory is legend but also because I'm hopelessly romantic and schmaltzy sentimental.
But then there are those times that I've been hit by such an overwhelming wave of emotion and feeling that I forget who, what, when, where and why and knew in the depths of my bottomless soul that I needed to mark the moment lest I forget amidst the noise of my beating thrumming heart. And in truth, the fear of what could go wrong.
Some of it I've shared with you, gentle readers, here, there and everywhere, like the time I was kissed the way I was born to be kissed. Like Aurora in Sleeping Beauty, I waited for what seemed like a lifetime for that kiss and was taken breathlessly by surprise when it happened but I clearly recall saying in my heart as he held me in his arms, 'Let me not forget this moment, ever' a plea, a supplication to a higher being perhaps that in hours of need that I could visit upon that moment and remember for a few moments I was deeply wanted and needed and that moment was full of possibility. That I remain good friends with this man fifteen years later is a testimony to how time (for me at least) tends to filter and soften the focus of pain and disappointment and blur the memories to bittersweet treasures. That his hands shake when we see each other, still, even now, too is a treasure, a little pearl.
Speaking of pearls, they are a personal icon. The tiniest innocuous irritant makes its way into the imperious impervious lip of an oyster in an endless ocean full of countless grains of sand and countless oysters. They find each other or perhaps the current ebb and flow of life throws them together but either way the grain of sand rests and nestles in the heart of the oyster. No matter how much it tries, the oyster cannot expel the little interloper so it releases nacre to cover the grain of sand in layer after layer after layer until a pearl is formed. A precious natural jewel created from something so relentlessly even ruthlessly rejected. Oh how could I not relate? How could I not adore such irony? How could it not be......me?
Then there was the time I though God was lost to me. That we would be strangers, that I wasn't good enough and I would be a spiritual orphan because I couldn't fit into the box of 'should be' and couldn't reconcile that any intelligent God would expect me to suspend logic to believe and follow Him. One day, I joined a gathering of people and after years of wondering if it was possible, I felt a spiritual awakening. One night after many nights of prayer and meditation both on my own and with my friends, I felt as if a river was rushing and bubbling through my entire body and as I held the hands of my friends on either side, they felt it too and I said aloud, 'Let me not forget, ever, please oh please'...again a prayer.....and the tears on my cheeks even now are proof that whether you believe or not, I know that *I* felt it and needed it for whatever reason and I fully embraced it and do now. Oh, I do believe, I do believe as the Cowardly Lion said.
I am blessed. I have had illuminating moments that were joyful and some that were agonizing and perhaps because I AM so stubborn and willful I had to experience them both to learn. So many lessons learned and so many more to come. So many answers give rise to so many more questions and I stand in awe and amazement and wonder of it all. That I get one go-round on this beautiful earth is blessing enough. That I share it with so many amazing people and experiences is the cherry on the cake.
Some more Let Me Not Forget moments:
When my late mother visited me on the day of my sister's funeral to tell me she was now safe and no one could hurt her again.
When I knew I no longer loved someone but it wasn't my fault. I really had done all I could. And I was able to and did forgive him. And the one after him too.
When I was both devastated and relieved that the person I thought was my soul mate, wasn't.
When my dearest friend who lost everything she loved most still loved me and held me when I lost everything.
When a group of beloved friends had to repeatedly remind me who I was and did not let go until it sunk in.
When I poured out my heart to someone and he ran away and I never expected it.
When I poured out my heart to someone and he still didn't run away even though I fully expected it.
When a friend told me the brutal truth and I was ready to accept and embrace it.
When I finally believed it after denying it for years that I am amazing and there's nothing wrong with believing it.
When I was ready to give love a chance again in spite of seemingly insurmountable odds.
When I was ready to breath and stand on my own two feet.
When I was ready to start writing again.
Let me not forget.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Crying over Spilt Chocolate
In the space of less than seven years, I have lost half of my family; my beautiful mother and only sister Lisa and my sweet baby brother Donny. My father sees no reason to celebrate or observe any holiday today and I can't blame him because the loss of my brother was so recent, but I am deeply grateful for my many blessings, most especially, that I still have him and my brother David, my continuing improving health, the love and affection of friends near and far and even a couple of men who I still don't understand why they put up with me.
Today talking with David, we both mentioned simultaneously that it's 'just us' and I dissolved in tears. I don't like to dwell or wallow and don't want pity but I ache for what I've lost.
I do know that there is a future for me and a bright one at that which I anticipate with the same relish I have for the hollow chocolate bunny whose head I'm currently bashing in. Like the bunny, today is bittersweet.
Today talking with David, we both mentioned simultaneously that it's 'just us' and I dissolved in tears. I don't like to dwell or wallow and don't want pity but I ache for what I've lost.
I do know that there is a future for me and a bright one at that which I anticipate with the same relish I have for the hollow chocolate bunny whose head I'm currently bashing in. Like the bunny, today is bittersweet.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Bomb
When children have nothing to do they'll conjure up anything to entertain themselves soon after discovering stating aloud that they're bored will earn them two days cleaning a garage that has accumulated 24 years of unwanted stuff that somehow escaped eviction. Sometimes this isn't a total failure; it's amazing the things one can do with 11 cans of used lead paint and a rusty hacksaw not to mention 8 stale packs of Winstons my grandfather used to hide in the drop ceiling when he would run downstairs every twenty minutes to 'check on the boiler.' Don't ask me about the razor blades or the matches, please, but my brothers and I do have some interesting scars.
My house was the one on the street with all the kids inside, outside, everywhere, always. My parents put up with it with good humor mostly because at least they knew where WE were, except maybe at dinnertime when we descended on the kitchen like Mongolian hordes. When we weren't playing wolf-pack out on the street until the lights came on signaling it was time to go home or at least plotingt the next slumber party, we were devising more ways to maim and disfigure each other.
My sister being the youngest and therefore more fragile than the rest of us peasants (I had demonstrated my ineptitude at keeping her in once piece by shattering her collarbone in an unfortunate jungle gym accident), spent much of her time with my mother, shopping or on errands, so I the lone girl, would play with my brothers and my uncle, John.
John was my worst nightmare. He was what people back then called a 'change of life' baby as in, 'Ooops...heh heh..I thought I was too old to get preggers but GUESS WHAT HONEY?' so when my mother and father were dating, my grandmother was foisting her toddler on them to kill two bird with one stone--get some free time away from a screaming snot nosed angel and said cherub with stinky cloth diapers and rubber pants would be the best birth control chaperone one could ever hope for only that didn't work that well because somehow I was born six months after the wedding. So much for precautions.
Grandma was already tired and Mom had us like stair-steps; four one after the other so what was one more? The thing was though...I was technically the oldest of MY PARENTS' children but because John entered the mix, he was the oldest of the group. Because he pulled the YOU'RE NOT MY REAL MOM card on her every change he got, he was able to torture me without restraint and did so gleefully. His pulling rank made Lord of the Flies look like a lemonade stand in comparison and my grandmother was no better. She owned our house and if John convinced her we were trying to decapitate him, she'd get all nasty with my mother who'd get medieval on our asses. I learned to independently and stealthily fight boys pretty young and damned effectively as a result. Bones were broken. None were my own.
One rainy afternoon we were killing each other over the Colecovision controls and screaming over the proper way to blow on the cartridges to get supreme effectiveness. DON'T SPIT YOU PIG! when one of thought up a new war game. Bomb.
My brothers ran into their secret lab errr...bedroom which in some states should have been closed down by the EPA and CDC but because we were in New Jersey, they were able to obtain access, and searched for every sock that had lost its match. They quit counting after about 600 and we set out to the task of stuffing balls of socks into a giant misshapen lump. This would serve as our ball as our eavesdropping mom had kiboshed our first idea of a brick wrapped in a pillowcase. I still don't know what her problem was. I figured they should have stopped at me anyway and would be doing the human race a favor by allowing us our own Darwin Awards competition but.....she was the adult and out of cigarettes and chasing my sister around so, "Keep quiet and don't bother me unless you're bleeding or something is on fire."
We took that as a direct challenge. She threw down the gauntlet. It was our honor we had to defend.
The game of Bomb was simple. Divide the living room into two halves. Push all furniture to the walls and make a low wall of whatever might pass for sandbags in foxholes to approximate the terrifying exhiliaration of impending death. We used down pillows, couch cushions, misappropriated rolls of Bounty towels, and when the going got tough, my sister's mangy stuffed dog, Scroungy.
Then we divided ourselves into teams. John was the bully and always a team captain. Sometimes he chose wiry Donny for maneuverability, sometimes he chose muscular David for sheer ruthlessness. By default and my big mouth, I was the other team captain and got whoever was sniveling that he wasn't picked, for John's team.
A countdown began. If the game was short, we started at twenty. We all counted off solemnly, steadily, chanting 17.....16.....15.....14.... lobbing our ersatz ball at and over the head of each other scrabbling around on our knees because standing was not allowed and other than the count, speaking wasn't either. Grunts and groans were though, and an occasional screams should we nearly brain ourselves on the corner of the coffee table but the game MUST NOT STOP until the count was over and whoever had the bomb on their side was dead replete with as many blowing up sounds as we could muster. I must say we were very good at explosive sound effects. I also recall there was a lot of spitting when we attempted machine gun fire.
Many days my mom would walk into the den and find us strewn around the floor like so many corpses. We even practiced not breathing but she always faked us out by reanimating us with, "Okay, who wants a snack?"
There are no atheists in foxholes, and evidently no Hostess Cupcakes either.
My house was the one on the street with all the kids inside, outside, everywhere, always. My parents put up with it with good humor mostly because at least they knew where WE were, except maybe at dinnertime when we descended on the kitchen like Mongolian hordes. When we weren't playing wolf-pack out on the street until the lights came on signaling it was time to go home or at least plotingt the next slumber party, we were devising more ways to maim and disfigure each other.
My sister being the youngest and therefore more fragile than the rest of us peasants (I had demonstrated my ineptitude at keeping her in once piece by shattering her collarbone in an unfortunate jungle gym accident), spent much of her time with my mother, shopping or on errands, so I the lone girl, would play with my brothers and my uncle, John.
John was my worst nightmare. He was what people back then called a 'change of life' baby as in, 'Ooops...heh heh..I thought I was too old to get preggers but GUESS WHAT HONEY?' so when my mother and father were dating, my grandmother was foisting her toddler on them to kill two bird with one stone--get some free time away from a screaming snot nosed angel and said cherub with stinky cloth diapers and rubber pants would be the best birth control chaperone one could ever hope for only that didn't work that well because somehow I was born six months after the wedding. So much for precautions.
Grandma was already tired and Mom had us like stair-steps; four one after the other so what was one more? The thing was though...I was technically the oldest of MY PARENTS' children but because John entered the mix, he was the oldest of the group. Because he pulled the YOU'RE NOT MY REAL MOM card on her every change he got, he was able to torture me without restraint and did so gleefully. His pulling rank made Lord of the Flies look like a lemonade stand in comparison and my grandmother was no better. She owned our house and if John convinced her we were trying to decapitate him, she'd get all nasty with my mother who'd get medieval on our asses. I learned to independently and stealthily fight boys pretty young and damned effectively as a result. Bones were broken. None were my own.
One rainy afternoon we were killing each other over the Colecovision controls and screaming over the proper way to blow on the cartridges to get supreme effectiveness. DON'T SPIT YOU PIG! when one of thought up a new war game. Bomb.
My brothers ran into their secret lab errr...bedroom which in some states should have been closed down by the EPA and CDC but because we were in New Jersey, they were able to obtain access, and searched for every sock that had lost its match. They quit counting after about 600 and we set out to the task of stuffing balls of socks into a giant misshapen lump. This would serve as our ball as our eavesdropping mom had kiboshed our first idea of a brick wrapped in a pillowcase. I still don't know what her problem was. I figured they should have stopped at me anyway and would be doing the human race a favor by allowing us our own Darwin Awards competition but.....she was the adult and out of cigarettes and chasing my sister around so, "Keep quiet and don't bother me unless you're bleeding or something is on fire."
We took that as a direct challenge. She threw down the gauntlet. It was our honor we had to defend.
The game of Bomb was simple. Divide the living room into two halves. Push all furniture to the walls and make a low wall of whatever might pass for sandbags in foxholes to approximate the terrifying exhiliaration of impending death. We used down pillows, couch cushions, misappropriated rolls of Bounty towels, and when the going got tough, my sister's mangy stuffed dog, Scroungy.
Then we divided ourselves into teams. John was the bully and always a team captain. Sometimes he chose wiry Donny for maneuverability, sometimes he chose muscular David for sheer ruthlessness. By default and my big mouth, I was the other team captain and got whoever was sniveling that he wasn't picked, for John's team.
A countdown began. If the game was short, we started at twenty. We all counted off solemnly, steadily, chanting 17.....16.....15.....14.... lobbing our ersatz ball at and over the head of each other scrabbling around on our knees because standing was not allowed and other than the count, speaking wasn't either. Grunts and groans were though, and an occasional screams should we nearly brain ourselves on the corner of the coffee table but the game MUST NOT STOP until the count was over and whoever had the bomb on their side was dead replete with as many blowing up sounds as we could muster. I must say we were very good at explosive sound effects. I also recall there was a lot of spitting when we attempted machine gun fire.
Many days my mom would walk into the den and find us strewn around the floor like so many corpses. We even practiced not breathing but she always faked us out by reanimating us with, "Okay, who wants a snack?"
There are no atheists in foxholes, and evidently no Hostess Cupcakes either.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Losing My Religion
There are many people who don't believe in a higher being. I'm not one of them. I look at the world around me and see the touch of a master's hand in what can only be described by my mind as beautiful design. I don't consider myself religious by any means but I do consider myself spiritual insomuch as I believe in God and communicate with Him and am comfortable with that. I don't need to search for answers or to be convinced for or against and respect how you feel about the matter too. You don't have to believe. It's okay. I still respect you and your right to not believe. I even understand the ire, disappointment and bewilderment that onlookers feel when they see those who believe, whether they flourish, flounder or fail. And many of us do fail spectacularly, don't we?
I was 'born' Roman Catholic to a family that had been that way for many generations. I loved the universality of belonging to such a huge 'family' and feeling cared for and I loved (and still do) the ritual and mysticism. I especially love the devotion and unselfishness of the believers. Not so much clergy, although Sister Eileen at St. Mary Star of the Sea was a peach, but I always took issue with authority figures because I've found that power is intoxicating and most don't handle it well, and my personal experiences bore that out.
I don't know what was the catalyst but my mother and grandmother began to go to a tiny pentecostal congregation some nights and before I knew it, my entire family with one exception, me, had converted and embraced their new religion with fervor. For a long time my family seemed drunk with happiness but I was skeptical. I was asked to shed many beliefs in favor of frankly fantastical stories based all on the Bible and subsequent interpretations of spiritual authorities and I was doubtful. I participated in the small church of warm friendly and generous people and I made a half-hearted attempt at saying the Sinners Prayer but I felt nothing much the same as I felt nothing when I was in the Catholic Church. I kept waiting to feel 'something' and was disappointed when I was told by my pastor that my problem was that I was thinking too much. I realized that any God that required me to suspend logic wasn't the God for me and quietly withdrew while remaining cordial to my friends and family within the community.
Thinking for myself, according to many, my parents, religious teachers and the little church was always a problem it seemed. Around the tulmultuous ages of 15-20-ish I decided that I had to choose between God and myself and chose my own desires. The truth was that I felt rejected by God because I felt He didn't care enough for me to give me some huge epiphany or the gift of speaking in tongues as everyone else in my congregation had. I felt left out of God's Club and although they loved me, I was more of an auxilliary member stuck in some sort of limbo because I hadn't cracked the code. I felt like I failed God and them and drifted away but I had friends who kept reaching out and loving me and pulling me in with their love.
A few of those friends were considered rogues within the church because they challenged authority, not with defiance but with their own fervor and zeal. They loved regardless of whether one towed the lined and it exasperated and later enraged those in power because as long as believers did what they were told under the guise of being a good Christian, everyone would be good well-behaved little soldiers. Eventually my friends would literally be barred from entering the church in a shameful display of abuse of power and I stood there and wept because while I was in good standing with the congregation for appearing every Sunday and tithing, I felt spiritually empty, while they were driven out because their passion and spirituality didn't fit well.
My dear friends didn't even use that horrible experience to their advantage as they well could have. Instead, they began to conduct little bible studies in their home on Tuesday nights and had an open house to anyone with an open heart and it was there that I first felt a spiritual awakening.
I am reminded of a little joke about how some churches like to clean a fish before they catch it, because I had been found wanting many times in the little church. I was a smoker then, and refused to wear skirts or dresses at the time because I was very self-conscious then about my weight and I was penalized by not being allowed to teach Sunday School or sing in front of the congregation (until they got choir robes) all of which drove a further wedge into my feelings of rejection and not being up to snuff. Contrast that to the humble little bible group that didn't care what I did as long as I wasn't disruptive. I and subsequently, my spiritual life bloomed under such freedom and acceptance and I had a real thirst and curiosity to know God.
I also realized that my withdrawal from God was a mistake. I had blamed Him (and I do think of Him as a 'him' but am comfortable with other descriptors) for other people's mistakes. The distance between us wasn't because He had rejected me; I was just led to believe I didn't know the magic formula to be favored, but that was human error, on my part and on others I trusted with my spiritual life. Now I see that while we are all on different walks on our spiritual journeys, should we choose to follow them, we owe it to ourselves, to God and to each other to be honest and responsible. What I believe may not be what you believe but if I'm going to believe in God, to put Him in a box and try to define Him for others is dishonest, self-serving and destructive.
The best way that I can show I am any kind of believer is to live my life in a way where others might wonder and seek out answers and desire it for themselves and if they need my input to tell them, this is how I feel and what I think, but you have to think and decide for yourself. Don't let anyone tell you because there are no magic tricks or secret handshakes. There IS love and compassion, forgiveness and gratitude and power and humility and if it seems so simple, it is. If it seems more universal and less religious, it is. Maybe that's the point.
I was 'born' Roman Catholic to a family that had been that way for many generations. I loved the universality of belonging to such a huge 'family' and feeling cared for and I loved (and still do) the ritual and mysticism. I especially love the devotion and unselfishness of the believers. Not so much clergy, although Sister Eileen at St. Mary Star of the Sea was a peach, but I always took issue with authority figures because I've found that power is intoxicating and most don't handle it well, and my personal experiences bore that out.
I don't know what was the catalyst but my mother and grandmother began to go to a tiny pentecostal congregation some nights and before I knew it, my entire family with one exception, me, had converted and embraced their new religion with fervor. For a long time my family seemed drunk with happiness but I was skeptical. I was asked to shed many beliefs in favor of frankly fantastical stories based all on the Bible and subsequent interpretations of spiritual authorities and I was doubtful. I participated in the small church of warm friendly and generous people and I made a half-hearted attempt at saying the Sinners Prayer but I felt nothing much the same as I felt nothing when I was in the Catholic Church. I kept waiting to feel 'something' and was disappointed when I was told by my pastor that my problem was that I was thinking too much. I realized that any God that required me to suspend logic wasn't the God for me and quietly withdrew while remaining cordial to my friends and family within the community.
Thinking for myself, according to many, my parents, religious teachers and the little church was always a problem it seemed. Around the tulmultuous ages of 15-20-ish I decided that I had to choose between God and myself and chose my own desires. The truth was that I felt rejected by God because I felt He didn't care enough for me to give me some huge epiphany or the gift of speaking in tongues as everyone else in my congregation had. I felt left out of God's Club and although they loved me, I was more of an auxilliary member stuck in some sort of limbo because I hadn't cracked the code. I felt like I failed God and them and drifted away but I had friends who kept reaching out and loving me and pulling me in with their love.
A few of those friends were considered rogues within the church because they challenged authority, not with defiance but with their own fervor and zeal. They loved regardless of whether one towed the lined and it exasperated and later enraged those in power because as long as believers did what they were told under the guise of being a good Christian, everyone would be good well-behaved little soldiers. Eventually my friends would literally be barred from entering the church in a shameful display of abuse of power and I stood there and wept because while I was in good standing with the congregation for appearing every Sunday and tithing, I felt spiritually empty, while they were driven out because their passion and spirituality didn't fit well.
My dear friends didn't even use that horrible experience to their advantage as they well could have. Instead, they began to conduct little bible studies in their home on Tuesday nights and had an open house to anyone with an open heart and it was there that I first felt a spiritual awakening.
I am reminded of a little joke about how some churches like to clean a fish before they catch it, because I had been found wanting many times in the little church. I was a smoker then, and refused to wear skirts or dresses at the time because I was very self-conscious then about my weight and I was penalized by not being allowed to teach Sunday School or sing in front of the congregation (until they got choir robes) all of which drove a further wedge into my feelings of rejection and not being up to snuff. Contrast that to the humble little bible group that didn't care what I did as long as I wasn't disruptive. I and subsequently, my spiritual life bloomed under such freedom and acceptance and I had a real thirst and curiosity to know God.
I also realized that my withdrawal from God was a mistake. I had blamed Him (and I do think of Him as a 'him' but am comfortable with other descriptors) for other people's mistakes. The distance between us wasn't because He had rejected me; I was just led to believe I didn't know the magic formula to be favored, but that was human error, on my part and on others I trusted with my spiritual life. Now I see that while we are all on different walks on our spiritual journeys, should we choose to follow them, we owe it to ourselves, to God and to each other to be honest and responsible. What I believe may not be what you believe but if I'm going to believe in God, to put Him in a box and try to define Him for others is dishonest, self-serving and destructive.
The best way that I can show I am any kind of believer is to live my life in a way where others might wonder and seek out answers and desire it for themselves and if they need my input to tell them, this is how I feel and what I think, but you have to think and decide for yourself. Don't let anyone tell you because there are no magic tricks or secret handshakes. There IS love and compassion, forgiveness and gratitude and power and humility and if it seems so simple, it is. If it seems more universal and less religious, it is. Maybe that's the point.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
DIE CHARLY HORSE DIE!!!!
There's a new portable heater in the house. In an effort to save on fuel oil for the winter, Spouse, always chomping at the bit to buy the latest gadget, sat me down and gave an impassioned speech and checklist why we HAD TO HAD TO HAD TO have it and since he asks for so little and he insisted we could afford it, who was I to argue? I'm always cold, so it was a win-win for me.
So every day the Edenpure sits in the living room warming the first floor. It's a very attractive wood-grain box with a window inside where it appears to have glowing coals so it's got an aesthetic appeal and the heat is infrared so it's got that sink-into-your-bones heat that others often miss. In the evening Spouse carries it upstairs to the master bedroom and sets it on full blast and by the time this night owl gets to bed the room is sensually cozy and I've been foregoing my usual winter sleepwear of granny nightgowns or sweats and a tee to well...nothing. So, in the middle of the night, I usually end up kicking the covers off and in the early morning hours IT happens.
Because I don't get to bed until 2 or 3 AM, I usually sleep in until 10, so I wake up to sunshine streaming in from the skylight. I know a lot of people resent light of any kind when they're sleeping but I like opening my eyes to the sky although once, it was a friend of Spouse's who was helping him install a satellite dish on the roof. He likes me a lot now. That morning it was bright blue sky, fluffy white clouds and the brown wing of some unidentifiable bird passing over and as I stretched languidly, my long time enemy slammed me hard like a freight train. The Charley Horse.
Grrrrr. Oh the tears. If I were into pain, the sheer poetry of the anaconda wrapped around my thigh twice and then my calf, down the top of my foot and around every toe and then tightening, would be exquisite. However, although I have an unbelievably high tolerance for it, I try to avoid pain whenever possible. Leg cramps have been a bane to my existence since my teens and it is definitely inherited on BOTH sides so you can say I'm doubly blessed.
A quick search on Google tells me the most common causes of leg cramps are:
So here I am squirming and panting and blindly flailing because I don't know what to do. I've tried the acupressure thing with firmly pinching and holding the dimple between my nose and upper lip (Trivia buffs: It's called a filtrum) with limited results. Sometimes it cuts off the acute pain but doesn't stop the contracting muscles. Sometimes I hop around or pace or lean against furniture crying and moaning and have to wait it out for an eternity of ten or so minutes and sometimes if someone is in the room with me, the dance begins.
Oh the patience of a partner that shares a bed with me. From my early years of sharing a twin bed with my little sister, to doubling up with Mom at the summer trailer at Eagle Lake, to the lucky few men who've shared a pillow, they all get caught up in my ballet of agony.
First I scream in the night and they suddenly sit up disoriented from their golden slumber. I might be sitting on the edge of the bed, my back and shoulders shaking and they know, they just know and bless their hearts, they always ask, "Can I help?" and reach out to me whereas I always invariably shriek, "Don't touch me!" and collapse in a pitiful puddle of tears. It ain't pretty. I push (and slap) their warm strong hands away and I dance around the room like a demented marionette and the look of concern on their face fills me with guilt. Other than running to get a glass of water and some potassium gluconate, they can only watch me stumble and cry. Eventually the cramp will subside and I will fall back asleep exhausted for a few more hours until I wake up with a day-long achy reminder that it really happened and wasn't a bad dream.
I'm neither a kicker nor a toss-and-turner. I'm remarkably silent and still in my sleep except for the occasional laugh or sigh or soft sentence because I've been talking in my sleep since, well, I could speak, so I'm very safe and the benefits of sharing a bed with me far outnumber the disadvantages. Not to toot my own horn but I'm a big squishy soft warm pillow and I smell good too. What's not to love? You can go back to sleep, right? I do. Suck it up, buttercup.
I'm not making any New Year's resolutions. They always seem destined to fail, a jinx so to speak and if there's one thing I'm superstitious about it's my personal jinxes so those little or lofty self-promises are not for this girl. Instead, I'm going to be both easier on myself as I really am my own worst critic, but I'm also going to be more disciplined. I have the drive and desire but not much energy so writing will be my 'job' and I'm sticking with it because I enjoy it. I also know my weaknesses which is good; something to be avoided, and I learn my strengths as I go along.
I'm learning that I'm far stronger than I ever imagined. I have faced, battled and tackled things I was sure would kill me. I've learned that a heart can grow stronger and love deeper after it's been broken, even more than once, and that my capacity for forgiveness can grow or die depending on my choices so I choose to grow. Pain is a great teacher, task master and reminder that I am only human, but that in itself is wonderful. There are people who are literally born without the capacity to feel anything and they live in fear of injury and death so yes, even Mister Charley Horse as much as I hate him, reminds me that I'm alive.
Happy New Year.
So every day the Edenpure sits in the living room warming the first floor. It's a very attractive wood-grain box with a window inside where it appears to have glowing coals so it's got an aesthetic appeal and the heat is infrared so it's got that sink-into-your-bones heat that others often miss. In the evening Spouse carries it upstairs to the master bedroom and sets it on full blast and by the time this night owl gets to bed the room is sensually cozy and I've been foregoing my usual winter sleepwear of granny nightgowns or sweats and a tee to well...nothing. So, in the middle of the night, I usually end up kicking the covers off and in the early morning hours IT happens.
Because I don't get to bed until 2 or 3 AM, I usually sleep in until 10, so I wake up to sunshine streaming in from the skylight. I know a lot of people resent light of any kind when they're sleeping but I like opening my eyes to the sky although once, it was a friend of Spouse's who was helping him install a satellite dish on the roof. He likes me a lot now. That morning it was bright blue sky, fluffy white clouds and the brown wing of some unidentifiable bird passing over and as I stretched languidly, my long time enemy slammed me hard like a freight train. The Charley Horse.
Grrrrr. Oh the tears. If I were into pain, the sheer poetry of the anaconda wrapped around my thigh twice and then my calf, down the top of my foot and around every toe and then tightening, would be exquisite. However, although I have an unbelievably high tolerance for it, I try to avoid pain whenever possible. Leg cramps have been a bane to my existence since my teens and it is definitely inherited on BOTH sides so you can say I'm doubly blessed.
A quick search on Google tells me the most common causes of leg cramps are:
- Muscle fatigue
- Heavy exercising
- Dehydration
- High weight (not necessarily obesity)
- Electrolyte imbalances
- Medications (statins, prednisone, others...)
So here I am squirming and panting and blindly flailing because I don't know what to do. I've tried the acupressure thing with firmly pinching and holding the dimple between my nose and upper lip (Trivia buffs: It's called a filtrum) with limited results. Sometimes it cuts off the acute pain but doesn't stop the contracting muscles. Sometimes I hop around or pace or lean against furniture crying and moaning and have to wait it out for an eternity of ten or so minutes and sometimes if someone is in the room with me, the dance begins.
Oh the patience of a partner that shares a bed with me. From my early years of sharing a twin bed with my little sister, to doubling up with Mom at the summer trailer at Eagle Lake, to the lucky few men who've shared a pillow, they all get caught up in my ballet of agony.
First I scream in the night and they suddenly sit up disoriented from their golden slumber. I might be sitting on the edge of the bed, my back and shoulders shaking and they know, they just know and bless their hearts, they always ask, "Can I help?" and reach out to me whereas I always invariably shriek, "Don't touch me!" and collapse in a pitiful puddle of tears. It ain't pretty. I push (and slap) their warm strong hands away and I dance around the room like a demented marionette and the look of concern on their face fills me with guilt. Other than running to get a glass of water and some potassium gluconate, they can only watch me stumble and cry. Eventually the cramp will subside and I will fall back asleep exhausted for a few more hours until I wake up with a day-long achy reminder that it really happened and wasn't a bad dream.
I'm neither a kicker nor a toss-and-turner. I'm remarkably silent and still in my sleep except for the occasional laugh or sigh or soft sentence because I've been talking in my sleep since, well, I could speak, so I'm very safe and the benefits of sharing a bed with me far outnumber the disadvantages. Not to toot my own horn but I'm a big squishy soft warm pillow and I smell good too. What's not to love? You can go back to sleep, right? I do. Suck it up, buttercup.
I'm not making any New Year's resolutions. They always seem destined to fail, a jinx so to speak and if there's one thing I'm superstitious about it's my personal jinxes so those little or lofty self-promises are not for this girl. Instead, I'm going to be both easier on myself as I really am my own worst critic, but I'm also going to be more disciplined. I have the drive and desire but not much energy so writing will be my 'job' and I'm sticking with it because I enjoy it. I also know my weaknesses which is good; something to be avoided, and I learn my strengths as I go along.
I'm learning that I'm far stronger than I ever imagined. I have faced, battled and tackled things I was sure would kill me. I've learned that a heart can grow stronger and love deeper after it's been broken, even more than once, and that my capacity for forgiveness can grow or die depending on my choices so I choose to grow. Pain is a great teacher, task master and reminder that I am only human, but that in itself is wonderful. There are people who are literally born without the capacity to feel anything and they live in fear of injury and death so yes, even Mister Charley Horse as much as I hate him, reminds me that I'm alive.
Happy New Year.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Christmas Angel
My parents had left in a hurry. Mommy hadn't been feeling well all day and before we knew it, Daddy bundled her up and whisked her out the door and into the car. I looked out the window as the snow fell softly and hearing my grandmother's voice to come away from the window, I turned away. It was cold and I was only in my nightgown and she was reminding me to put on my slippers.
My brothers were already sleeping, visions of sugarplums truly in their heads as it was Christmas Eve 1972. The house was silent save the gurgling pump of my father's aquarium which stood near our Christmas tree twinkling with red pinpoint lights. I spent hours in my dad's bug chair curled up by that fish tank watching tiger barbs chase (and eventually consume) each other in the light of that tree which was bought the year I was born in 1967.
It was a sturdy respectable tree which ended up serving us well over twenty years and was replaced by a gigantic Siberian spruce replete with fake pine cones and snow and was so ostentatious in comparison to our humble first tree, that it only spent two or three Christmas's in our parlor before being exiled to the basement in favor of real trees, the first of which was some indiscriminate pine that leaked sap and dropped needles everywhere, and more recently a glorious Frasier fir, always with red pinpoint lights.
The phone rang and I walked over to my dad's stereo which back in the day resembled furniture rather than mere electronics. It was encased in a large mahogany cabinet which often served as a type of buffet surface whenever guests were served. There was a large area behind sliding doors where my dad kept his record collection and I often hid things there that my brothers wouldn't leave alone like Barbies and once, a diary with a lock that never worked. The telephone, an ivory colored Trim-line, sat on top of the stereo and I answered it breathlessly as ordinarily at 6, I was not allowed to ever pick it up.
I said hello and my father answered saying, "Hi sweetheart! Guess what? We have a Christmas gift for you and your brothers! We're bringing home a new baby sister and we're naming her Amy or Noel."
I was dumbfounded and delighted. I had no idea that a baby was coming (or even how a baby arrived) but the idea of A SISTER filled me with such joy that I turned and looked out the window at the falling snow and then back at the twinkling tree and that moment of me standing there in my white nightgown covered in holly, was imprinted on my brain and remains there like a photograph to this day.
I remember the heavy evergreen damask curtains and white sheers that my mother had hung up for the season, parted so we could see the streetlights and the snow piling up on the cars and sidewalk. I remember the glow of the aquarium that had red foil backing so itself was quite festive. I remember the manger under the tree and how Baby Jesus' fingers were always the first things to break off when I surreptitiously played with it. And I remember that Santa Claus brought me a baby sister for a Christmas gift.
I don't remember that Christmas Day...I don't recall even seeing my dad. I imagine he stayed at the hospital with my mom but they came home a few days later. Mom had more of a lap and was tired, but happy to see us and she held this little bundle in her arms. My brothers and I came over to investigate and found within the receiving blanket a baby, a little squirming doll that didn't look like any of us! We were all very fair with blonde to light brown hair. This dusky baby had beautiful dark skin and black hair and when she opened her eyes they were deep endless brown fringed by long curly thick lashes. She opened her dark rosebud mouth in a tiny yawn and looked at us and it was love at first sight.
I think we were at an age where this was the first arrival of a child that we remembered. I don't recall my brothers' births. I wasn't aware of any preparations or even talk of a baby and in fact my parents didn't even tell us my sister was coming. My mother had always been chubby, soft and round and evidently carried as if she just got bigger around as opposed to obviously popping out. Perhaps they didn't think we would understand but that whole day before, my mother laid in bed softly moaning and when we came to her and asked her what was wrong she said she had a stomach virus.
In fact, she did indeed have a bug which is why she didn't know she was in labor until it was almost too late. My father was able to get her to the hospital but only so far as the steps when she almost delivered my sister there until she was brought inside. There in the emergency room, my sister arrived into the world, eyes wide open and meeting my father's eyes...the first (and only) of his children to do so, in fact, the first to be born naturally and in his presence. I don't recall if she cried but he said she entered the world as an old soul and I believe it. Their bond was strong and special to the end.
My mother kiboshed both names my dad liked in favor of Lisa and so she was, however we called her Sinky, because of her diapers and because Donny couldn't pronounce 'Stinky'. I called her Boo.
Lisa was a quiet and happy baby. There was nothing she did that didn't fascinate us. Even a diaper change was an event and I'm sure we exhausted our mother with our antics jockeying for position to see who had the best view and who could help. Because of her coloring my mother dressed her in bright colors, in particular a yellow fleece onesie that zipped all the way from ankle to chin. I don't know if it's a coincidence but my sister's favorite color was yellow. I just realize now that I typed 'is' because she is still with me if only in my heart.
Lisa's arrival into the world and into our family was a surprise to my brothers and I and so was her death at age 35. She slipped away in her sleep as effortlessly and peacefully and suddenly as when she was born.
The details of her death are still painful so I choose to dwell on her life. My sister was brilliant, intuitive, outspoken, generous, creative, supportive, open-minded, loyal, endlessly forgiving, funny as hell and had a heart of gold.
She was also spoiled, self-destructive, selfish, narcissistic, lazy, brutally honest, ruthlessly competitive, blunt and at times cruel. She was so possessive of me that no one...not one of my friends or boyfriends was good enough and she eyed everyone interested in me with suspicion. I was her hero and role model but she took it a step further and was a saturated more concentrated version of myself with no inner censor. Me, if I were a free spirited wild child. I adored her. I admired her.
The world is a better place for having her in it for a short period of time, and I pity those who never got a chance to experience her. It was truly a privilege and yet it had its price.
She was my only sister. I loved her more than I love myself. I miss her everyday. I ache for her everyday.
Happy Birthday in Heaven, Christmas Angel.
My brothers were already sleeping, visions of sugarplums truly in their heads as it was Christmas Eve 1972. The house was silent save the gurgling pump of my father's aquarium which stood near our Christmas tree twinkling with red pinpoint lights. I spent hours in my dad's bug chair curled up by that fish tank watching tiger barbs chase (and eventually consume) each other in the light of that tree which was bought the year I was born in 1967.
It was a sturdy respectable tree which ended up serving us well over twenty years and was replaced by a gigantic Siberian spruce replete with fake pine cones and snow and was so ostentatious in comparison to our humble first tree, that it only spent two or three Christmas's in our parlor before being exiled to the basement in favor of real trees, the first of which was some indiscriminate pine that leaked sap and dropped needles everywhere, and more recently a glorious Frasier fir, always with red pinpoint lights.
The phone rang and I walked over to my dad's stereo which back in the day resembled furniture rather than mere electronics. It was encased in a large mahogany cabinet which often served as a type of buffet surface whenever guests were served. There was a large area behind sliding doors where my dad kept his record collection and I often hid things there that my brothers wouldn't leave alone like Barbies and once, a diary with a lock that never worked. The telephone, an ivory colored Trim-line, sat on top of the stereo and I answered it breathlessly as ordinarily at 6, I was not allowed to ever pick it up.
I said hello and my father answered saying, "Hi sweetheart! Guess what? We have a Christmas gift for you and your brothers! We're bringing home a new baby sister and we're naming her Amy or Noel."
I was dumbfounded and delighted. I had no idea that a baby was coming (or even how a baby arrived) but the idea of A SISTER filled me with such joy that I turned and looked out the window at the falling snow and then back at the twinkling tree and that moment of me standing there in my white nightgown covered in holly, was imprinted on my brain and remains there like a photograph to this day.
I remember the heavy evergreen damask curtains and white sheers that my mother had hung up for the season, parted so we could see the streetlights and the snow piling up on the cars and sidewalk. I remember the glow of the aquarium that had red foil backing so itself was quite festive. I remember the manger under the tree and how Baby Jesus' fingers were always the first things to break off when I surreptitiously played with it. And I remember that Santa Claus brought me a baby sister for a Christmas gift.
I don't remember that Christmas Day...I don't recall even seeing my dad. I imagine he stayed at the hospital with my mom but they came home a few days later. Mom had more of a lap and was tired, but happy to see us and she held this little bundle in her arms. My brothers and I came over to investigate and found within the receiving blanket a baby, a little squirming doll that didn't look like any of us! We were all very fair with blonde to light brown hair. This dusky baby had beautiful dark skin and black hair and when she opened her eyes they were deep endless brown fringed by long curly thick lashes. She opened her dark rosebud mouth in a tiny yawn and looked at us and it was love at first sight.
I think we were at an age where this was the first arrival of a child that we remembered. I don't recall my brothers' births. I wasn't aware of any preparations or even talk of a baby and in fact my parents didn't even tell us my sister was coming. My mother had always been chubby, soft and round and evidently carried as if she just got bigger around as opposed to obviously popping out. Perhaps they didn't think we would understand but that whole day before, my mother laid in bed softly moaning and when we came to her and asked her what was wrong she said she had a stomach virus.
In fact, she did indeed have a bug which is why she didn't know she was in labor until it was almost too late. My father was able to get her to the hospital but only so far as the steps when she almost delivered my sister there until she was brought inside. There in the emergency room, my sister arrived into the world, eyes wide open and meeting my father's eyes...the first (and only) of his children to do so, in fact, the first to be born naturally and in his presence. I don't recall if she cried but he said she entered the world as an old soul and I believe it. Their bond was strong and special to the end.
My mother kiboshed both names my dad liked in favor of Lisa and so she was, however we called her Sinky, because of her diapers and because Donny couldn't pronounce 'Stinky'. I called her Boo.
Lisa was a quiet and happy baby. There was nothing she did that didn't fascinate us. Even a diaper change was an event and I'm sure we exhausted our mother with our antics jockeying for position to see who had the best view and who could help. Because of her coloring my mother dressed her in bright colors, in particular a yellow fleece onesie that zipped all the way from ankle to chin. I don't know if it's a coincidence but my sister's favorite color was yellow. I just realize now that I typed 'is' because she is still with me if only in my heart.
Lisa's arrival into the world and into our family was a surprise to my brothers and I and so was her death at age 35. She slipped away in her sleep as effortlessly and peacefully and suddenly as when she was born.
The details of her death are still painful so I choose to dwell on her life. My sister was brilliant, intuitive, outspoken, generous, creative, supportive, open-minded, loyal, endlessly forgiving, funny as hell and had a heart of gold.
She was also spoiled, self-destructive, selfish, narcissistic, lazy, brutally honest, ruthlessly competitive, blunt and at times cruel. She was so possessive of me that no one...not one of my friends or boyfriends was good enough and she eyed everyone interested in me with suspicion. I was her hero and role model but she took it a step further and was a saturated more concentrated version of myself with no inner censor. Me, if I were a free spirited wild child. I adored her. I admired her.
The world is a better place for having her in it for a short period of time, and I pity those who never got a chance to experience her. It was truly a privilege and yet it had its price.
She was my only sister. I loved her more than I love myself. I miss her everyday. I ache for her everyday.
Happy Birthday in Heaven, Christmas Angel.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Storyteller
Okay, the Viagra story would have been a lot funnier if the person it was about wasn't sitting next to me but I got carried away. I swear I don't know what comes over me when the storyteller demon comes screaming out like a Jersey Shore banshee. Yes, I can blame it on gin or cheap lambrusco and even garlic bread has a strange effect on me and yes I'm allergic to peppers but I can't pass up anything stuffed with cheese so I succumbed to popper seduction more times than I can count and yes yes yes that affected me too.
Today I'm blaming it all on a pot of bold blast something-something coffee. It has extra caffeine which I'm really sensitive to in minute amounts so yeah..that'll work especially since I've been bouncing off the walls like a Superball since noon.
I think it's an addiction to applause or laughter or having everyone on the edge of their seat. I come from a long line of storytellers or bullshit artists or like Mel Brooks in History of the World, stand-up philosophers, so it's inherent. Whether genetic or environment I've been lovingly cultivated like a hothouse orchid to make people laugh, weep or think and it's so effortless that I feel it would be dishonest to take any credit for it. To say that I stand in awe of some of the shit I come up with is not bragging....I really don't know where it's coming from and even worse, when I'm gonna blurt it out. My inner censor was always much more of a polite suggester only -that weak little angel on my shoulder that the little devil would smack around and say, "Shut up, bitch. Who's yer daddy?"
People often send me emails and messages or comments on Facebook saying they wish they were like me or more like me or as quick as me but I don't really think they would if they knew the havoc I wreak with my mouth or fast little fingers....my mind is constantly racing and obsessing, often all night long and when something comes to me the focus is so sharp and fixed I think of nothing else. If I don't talk about it I write and woe to the person upon whom my talent is inflicted. You might remember The Love Letters of Doooooom but there's countless other missives, poetry and essays I don't mention or submit for your approval (cue very appropriate Twilight Zone music) because after my general hysteria dies down, the evidence could and would be used against me not to mention people tend to look at me funny.
I'm channeling some of that energy into The Book. I've hit a bit of a slump now but Santa Claus has bought me a brand new big girl laptop and I'm dedicated to getting back to it in the new year. You're supposed to write about what you know and I know a lot about what I'm writing and it's become really cathartic and therapeutic.If only I could stop thinking of decorating the laptop in My Pretty Pony stickers since that model didn't come in pink but I digress.
I'm excited but also dreading it. My creativity has often been like an unruly puppy that everyone loves but no one wants to clean up after and the idea of reining in that puppy to make it a more productive working dog does have a lot of appeal but I'm worried that discipline will take all the joy and exuberance out of it. Still...I trudge on because I'm a hopeless optimist and romantic (the book is romance novel--chick-lit to be exact) and want it and me to have a happy ending which at the moment is unbelievably elusive but still worth the effort.
Someone asked me about my dreams and I couldn't answer because I thought I had none. I'd been so busy supporting other's dreams that I'd set aside my own. I gave it a lot of thought though and did come up with some good ones I'd suppressed and one of them was to be renowned for something. Since being an axe murderer or mother to the world's first surviving octuplets is already taken, I'd be happy with 'successful writer'.
My friend who's a psychic saw a future full of promise and even fame and while it seems so outlandish I do like the fairy-tale aspects like walking a red carpet in Hollywood and kissing at the top of the Eiffel Tower. My friend saw me sharing this future with a special someone and that person is unfortunately not part of the equation anymore but she still sees ME accomplishing these things on my own which astounded me. Again I thought I would be in some supportive role but she assures me that no....actually it's me...and then I think about the book and I realize in some ways that she wasn't wrong at all and I may start out on my epic adventure alone and unsure but the journey and the story is worth it.
A while back an acquaintance asked me if I was a writer and at the time I didn't really identify as one and asked him why he thought I was. He said he could tell from my Facebook pictures that I have a story to tell. Another said the same thing...only that I had many stories to tell and it's funny because that's what I've been doing my whole life.
When you are given a gift and don't recognize it for what it is, you're foolish and ungrateful. When you refuse that gift, it may be lost to you forever. I'm choosing to learn from both what I've lost and what I have to give and running as far as I can with it. Apologies in advance if I embarrass you along the way. But if I do, remind me to mention you when I'm up on that podium giving my acceptance speech. I promise whatever I say, will be funny.
Today I'm blaming it all on a pot of bold blast something-something coffee. It has extra caffeine which I'm really sensitive to in minute amounts so yeah..that'll work especially since I've been bouncing off the walls like a Superball since noon.
I think it's an addiction to applause or laughter or having everyone on the edge of their seat. I come from a long line of storytellers or bullshit artists or like Mel Brooks in History of the World, stand-up philosophers, so it's inherent. Whether genetic or environment I've been lovingly cultivated like a hothouse orchid to make people laugh, weep or think and it's so effortless that I feel it would be dishonest to take any credit for it. To say that I stand in awe of some of the shit I come up with is not bragging....I really don't know where it's coming from and even worse, when I'm gonna blurt it out. My inner censor was always much more of a polite suggester only -that weak little angel on my shoulder that the little devil would smack around and say, "Shut up, bitch. Who's yer daddy?"
People often send me emails and messages or comments on Facebook saying they wish they were like me or more like me or as quick as me but I don't really think they would if they knew the havoc I wreak with my mouth or fast little fingers....my mind is constantly racing and obsessing, often all night long and when something comes to me the focus is so sharp and fixed I think of nothing else. If I don't talk about it I write and woe to the person upon whom my talent is inflicted. You might remember The Love Letters of Doooooom but there's countless other missives, poetry and essays I don't mention or submit for your approval (cue very appropriate Twilight Zone music) because after my general hysteria dies down, the evidence could and would be used against me not to mention people tend to look at me funny.
I'm channeling some of that energy into The Book. I've hit a bit of a slump now but Santa Claus has bought me a brand new big girl laptop and I'm dedicated to getting back to it in the new year. You're supposed to write about what you know and I know a lot about what I'm writing and it's become really cathartic and therapeutic.If only I could stop thinking of decorating the laptop in My Pretty Pony stickers since that model didn't come in pink but I digress.
I'm excited but also dreading it. My creativity has often been like an unruly puppy that everyone loves but no one wants to clean up after and the idea of reining in that puppy to make it a more productive working dog does have a lot of appeal but I'm worried that discipline will take all the joy and exuberance out of it. Still...I trudge on because I'm a hopeless optimist and romantic (the book is romance novel--chick-lit to be exact) and want it and me to have a happy ending which at the moment is unbelievably elusive but still worth the effort.
Someone asked me about my dreams and I couldn't answer because I thought I had none. I'd been so busy supporting other's dreams that I'd set aside my own. I gave it a lot of thought though and did come up with some good ones I'd suppressed and one of them was to be renowned for something. Since being an axe murderer or mother to the world's first surviving octuplets is already taken, I'd be happy with 'successful writer'.
My friend who's a psychic saw a future full of promise and even fame and while it seems so outlandish I do like the fairy-tale aspects like walking a red carpet in Hollywood and kissing at the top of the Eiffel Tower. My friend saw me sharing this future with a special someone and that person is unfortunately not part of the equation anymore but she still sees ME accomplishing these things on my own which astounded me. Again I thought I would be in some supportive role but she assures me that no....actually it's me...and then I think about the book and I realize in some ways that she wasn't wrong at all and I may start out on my epic adventure alone and unsure but the journey and the story is worth it.
A while back an acquaintance asked me if I was a writer and at the time I didn't really identify as one and asked him why he thought I was. He said he could tell from my Facebook pictures that I have a story to tell. Another said the same thing...only that I had many stories to tell and it's funny because that's what I've been doing my whole life.
When you are given a gift and don't recognize it for what it is, you're foolish and ungrateful. When you refuse that gift, it may be lost to you forever. I'm choosing to learn from both what I've lost and what I have to give and running as far as I can with it. Apologies in advance if I embarrass you along the way. But if I do, remind me to mention you when I'm up on that podium giving my acceptance speech. I promise whatever I say, will be funny.
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