I have an uncommon knack for going to the grocery store ten minutes before the heavens open up and dump all their stowed-away contents onto the earth. Pretty much a rain dance for me, driving to the Price Chopper. Actually, I got gas first, and noted how windy it was getting. In the back of my mind, I thought, Heh. Maybe I should just go home. But no! I must bring something to knit night, and there’s no way I’ll get up in the morning to shop.

So I drove over to the store, and noted that all the tree tops were scolding me, shaking violently and waving, “Go home! You fool! Big storm’s a-comin’!” Instead, I chose to press on, and marvel at how the huge volume of dust in the air was blowing horizontally and if you squinted, it almost looked like rain. I got in the store, and I hoofed it. Only the utter necessities, at warp speed. It didn’t matter. By the time I pointed my cart back out the door, people were running in the parking lot, rain was pelting down, and it was hap-mad-dashery to LaFonda and then – oh lord, karma will get me – my cart blew away. Blew away! Ran right into the front corner of my car and was off like a race car, making a break for freedom. I’ve never seen a cart travel so fast without a push! And I had a choice. I could race after it, and become a fully drowned rat, or I could collapse into my car and watch, with an open mouth, as the wind pushed said car across the parking lot (there were no cars in its path) before I could even get the car started. So. Yeah. I didn’t get the cart. I apologize, and I simply hope that cart-retrieval tonight at the Chopper was delayed due to the weather and someone goes and gets it when it’s not quite so torrential.

I think everyone who got caught in this rain tonight could pretty much have cared less, because we all knew the line of storms was bringing with it a dramatic change in the weather – it’s already dropped 30 degrees from the high today! Now, I best get to bed, so I can get up and chop ‘maters, onion & squeeze some limes – I am doctoring up some purchased guacamole…. if I made it tonight, I’d have eaten it for dinner! :) Hmmm. Guacamole. It’s not just for breakfast anymore!

So, I never thought a dentist would make me swoon, and I never thought being viewed as young would be so startlingly appealing, but today? My dentist thought I was under the age of 30. Now, upon further reflection, I am wondering if he can see, or if he is perhaps going daft, but in the moment, it seemed like a really swell compliment. We were talking about my lower wisdom teeth, and he said, “Well, if you were 20, then there’d be no question, we’d take them out.” To which I replied, “Considering I’m nearly twice that, then, we won’t?” He turned and said, “Oh! Well. I didn’t realize you were over 30, no, we will just leave them where they are.” And I, the one who is firmly devoted to AGING GRACEFULLY and accepting myself and ignoring the Beauty Myth and Hollywood, that girl, I exclaimed, “OH MY Dr. Morgan, you certainly know the fastest way to my heart, hmm, thinking I’m under 30?!?” And that flustered him a bit, which was rather amusing, though I think we all know the notion of hitting on my nearly-60-year-old also-married dentist is about as absurd as me taking flight off of our rooftop with some Icarus wings in this heatwave; we then had a fairly one-sided conversation about how people’s ability to gauge age changes as you grow older. One-sided, because his hands were holding my mouth open and he was checking all my fillings.

The swooning, it was so fleeting.

That’s the title of a great John Prine album, the man can write songs that are breezy and fun, and he can write songs of great pain, real downers, songs that were slightly dangerous to me in my younger years before I figured out I was actually depressed.
Today I feel like a bruise, not fresh and purple, but yellow-orange and dispersed, still sore to the touch. Last night in the grief group, I shared pictures of my dad, and talked about him briefly while struggling to keep the tears from obliterating my power of speech. I went first, because I wanted to just do it, and not wait for my turn. It wasn’t easy for anyone to talk about their loved one – and I understand the importance of being able to do this, to keep them alive in a healthy way. But as I walked down the hallway towards the blazing asphalt and my car, my face screwed up and my shoulders shook as I lost, if only briefly, my battle with the sadness. I made sure I got some deep breaths & regained control before I got in my car.

I have a hard time allowing myself to remember anything about my dad right now, because at the same time the images comfort me, they pierce me, like a trumpet, the metallic sharpness cutting through with the reminder that he is gone, he is never coming back, we will never have new memories together, he isn’t going to call, he isn’t going to laugh with me, the credits have rolled and the movie has been played. I know that in time, these things will mellow, my memories will be easier to see and share again, I will not turn and avoid and pretend I do not have this bruise just to get through the day.

I had Wed-Fri off, and five days away from work was nice. Actually, because I get OCD (and control freaky) about things, I still checked email, but successfully resisted the original plan to “pop in” on Friday to make sure everything was fine. I got one phone call and was able to answer the question, so hey – it was nice. Time not spent on death, dying, cancer, driving, the will, the burglary, more driving.

So I got it in my head to finish some things. And finish things I did! I had a pair of socks on the needles that had begun as socks for JWo, were diverted briefly towards my dad, but then obviously everything HAPPENED. So. Back to the Wo they went, and I got those done first:

Opal on 1’s:

Then, I turned to the truly evil project that has been waiting since late Winter/early Spring: The Homespun Prairie Stripes Afghan. Yes. Knitting with Homespun. Now, here’s the bitch of Homespun. I hate how it knits. That binder thread snags & it’s hard to control. But the finished product is so soft, washable, and this pattern’s pretty. I had half the yarn for it in the first place, plus the pattern, so I figured, knit ‘er up. And I turned a blind eye to the part that would later be my biggest stumbling block: the border.

Because the border has mitred corners, so you not only pick up 8 gajillion stitches on each side, but you increase your stitches, so it takes even longer, for the 16-row border. WOOHOO. All I can say is, it’s nice, it’s pretty, it’s soft, and IT’S DONE.

Then, I also finished Under the Banner of Heaven, by John Krakauer – talk about a mesmerizing, informative, disturbing & jaw-dropping book. I was raised without any organized religion, and knew very little about the origins of Mormonism & even the history right here in Independence, MO (a Kansas City suburb, now known more for meth production than divine salvation…) Without inciting a debate on religion, I can say that it gave me a deeper understanding of my favorite HBO show,Big Love! And that there’s a thin line between faith and a cult, and the fundamentalists who have 46 wives who are on welfare, or sleep with their own daughters or wed 14 year olds should be stopped. OK, that was kind of inciteful. But I don’t think my blog really plays to the polygamists, either. ;)

Ran across this blog and laughed my butt off at the different Kansas City Barbies. Also slightly relieved that there was no South Kansas City Barbie, however, I’d wager she does drive a Honda.

While waiting in the spacious waiting area at Carmax, to get their extremely lowball offer on my dad’s truck that we did not even consider:

“I’m moving away from you. You’re putting off too much heat.”

“I know. I’m like a furnace.”

“YOU HAVE A FUNGUS????!!!!!”

“I’m like a FURNACE, Jennifer. But thanks for shouting that I have a fungus.”

Some days I wake up, and I feel all energetic and bustling and ready to hit the day. Other days I wake up and I feel really focused, really polished, ready to knock out some work. And still other days I wake up and feel sluggish, slow, and wish I were going back to bed.

Then? I have the occasional day I wake up and feel like….. this…..

The Jen-nino……

Look out, Kansas City.

Joan Didion wrote a book called “The Year of Magical Thinking”, and her words, her stark, stark writing, take my breath away. It’s essentially a chronicle of the year following the death of her husband, John Dunne, and her grief. I can only read it in demitasse spoonfuls. It is beautiful, it is so accurate, it is like an acupuncture needle to my heart and it is like air in my lungs, simultaneously. Painful, reflective, reassuring.

She speaks to the moments, where you forget, where you believe reality is different, when you expect your loved one to come through the door, call on the phone, those moments that happen in just a fraction of time, like when you first wake, before truth is confronted and settles around your shoulders. In that fragment, you can believe it was all a dream, it didn’t happen, there’s a mistake somewhere, an error in the code. Then you are reminded. Then you see the other memories. Truth prevails. That kind of vascillation can make you feel pretty crazy.

In the grief group, I gravitate towards talking about anger. Anger is a safer place for me. Anger lends itself to a semblance of control. I also quiz the facilitators. We have been asked to bring in pictures, to talk about the person we lost. I could feel the room shrink up in fear, as I felt my own skin retract, pull in. As graciously as I could, I acknowledged that they had run many of these groups, and so I was not questioning the validity of this assignment, but WHAT PURPOSE DOES THIS SERVE? Of course there was some nervous laughter from the other participants, because I believe I was saying what they were thinking, and honestly, I knew from my own reaction they were wondering if they could do it or just avoid it altogether. The answer was that it helps. It helps to memorialize the person, it helps to solidify the experience, and, well, they’ve done a whole bunch of these groups and me? I haven’t done it before, ever. So I’m trusting them. I want to burst into tears at the thought of doing this. But I won’t avoid it. I am processing the fear and the grief right now, and over the next few days, so that by Monday night, I can do this, even if it means I cry through the whole thing, but I will do it, because like Joan Didion, I, too, am scrambling for a process, a structure, a loop to grab onto as the grief bus lurches and surges and screeches to a halt and the moments fleet by when I hear the word “Dad” in my head and I know it will never, ever, ever mean the same thing because I am now without one.

I know I’ll never stop missing him. I just look forward to that point in time, and I guess it all comes down to time, when it doesn’t feel like a cheese grater on my heart when I realize he’s never coming back, he wasn’t mysteriously switched in the hospital with a doppleganger, this wasn’t all some crazy joke, that he won’t be on the other end of the phone, giving me advice, laughing about Jon Stewart, singing John Prine with me, loving me. I miss him so.

Flying right in the face of my father, who told me nobody was interested in my dreams, today? I choose to give you BOTH the dreams I remember from last night. It’s been quite some time since I remembered a dream, even – and I know all the ones I’ve had in the past month have been scary, bad, filled with conflict, filled with fear. No great shakes to interpret that, I suppose.

The first was extremely vivid. I dreamt that I got up super early, and rode my bike 30 miles, to a quaint shopping area in a small town outside of St. Louis. When I got there, I found the bike shop where I’d originally purchased the bike, and wheeled it in, stating I needed repairs. It had a flat tire, and was missing one of the pedals. I amazed them with my story of having ridden the bicycle there, especially with only one pedal, and then we decided the bike was worth $8 and I could just buy a new one for $500, but they had to put it together, and I was really stressed out because I still had to ride it another 30 miles to get work.

Would that I exercised half as much in a week’s time!

Then I had a second, awful dream, where two guys were trying to kill us, and I kept shooting my shotgun at them, but instead of blasting, it worked like a pellet gun, and I was really pissed, because the whole point of a shotgun is “general aim” and then I finally disabled the one guy by pelting him in the arm, and got his gun away and we were waiting for the police. Yeah, that last part? Doesn’t require a lot of interpretation, hm.

I have a few days off, in which I am revelling. I haven’t had a day off that wasn’t linked to cancer, death, burglary or exhaustion from driving, in a really long time. So if it means I still have crazy dreams when I sleep, I’m ok with that, because at least I’m sleeping, and at least my brain is finally trying to untangle everything. I have a whole ‘nother post on grief & the erratic process (Hey! it’s definitely like riding a bike with one pedal!)

So we’re in a meeting today, and we’re talking about Lasik surgery, and whether insurance would ever even cover such a thing, and I chirped, “Well, maybe for pilots or something,” you know, always trying to think outside ye olde box; Kristin thought I said “PIRATES” and basically the whole conversation derailed while everyone shut an eye and started shouting in piratey accents, “ARRRRR” “Swab the decks!” “Ahoy!” “Matey!”

That’s the fun part of advertising. The not-so-fun part is never shown, like billing, or traffic. But seven grown adults pretending to be pirates? That’s a movie scene even Johnny Depp could get behind.