I’m not going to be able to write much right now. I have wonderful things to share in my head, but I am also working at re-shoring my energies, pulling myself together, and some of these things will be counter-productive to accomplishing that. I just looked up through the skylight, and I saw that the sun is finally beginning to shine. It has been gray & cloudy since we got into Iowa on our drive here, and raining intermittently. It felt fitting, and yet it also does nothing to boost one’s spirits.

We have been sleeping in dad & brenda’s bed, partly because I think she is reluctant and afraid to do so, and at first it freaked me out, but I also found it comforting. To lie where he slept, to have the same view; it has felt like an embrace. I was awakened last night by the brightest moonlight shining in on my face, and the first thing I thought was “dad”. It matters not what you believe, everyone has their own notions of heaven or nothingness, but I will take these healing moments as they come.

Richard Nugent
January 22, 1944 – June 10, 2006

He passed away comfortably, surrounded by family, at 6 pm tonight. I held his hand as he took his last breaths, as the one thing, the biggest thing I’ve feared my whole life, happened. And it wasn’t terrifying. His death didn’t shatter the universe. It was the most profound moment in my life, and I am so grateful I was here to give him my love, I was able to tell him over and over, how much I loved him, and I repeated the words he spoke on the phone last night: it will be ok.

It is.

Rest in peace, my father. You will live on forever in our hearts.

Three little words.

Nine letters total.

You wouldn’t think that tiny little sentence would be so big, would you? It is, for me. I find myself steering away from the phrase, as violently and sharply as spotting your ex-boyfriend at the mall with his new girlfriend. Turnabout, about-face, rigid spine, determined marching. Can’t do it. Can’t say it. Won’t.

Don’t worry. I have a therapist. A really good one, and we talked about this. We talked about everything, as I attempt to cope & deal with my father’s illness, and my own grief, because that’s truly what it is. I have pulled myself inward, retreating with my big ball of emotions, protecting myself and building a buffer. After all, plenty of people who don’t know me very well are asking me how my dad’s doing, or just asking me how I’m doing, and I’m a terrible liar. I’ve had to adhere to The Skim, which is to breeze by the question with a non-informative, shut-down answer & deflect to something else. I know they mean well by asking, and they want to know, but it get exhausting to repeat things and talk talk talk about it and listen to someone try to give you hope or yet another perspective. To borrow from Jack Nicholson, I’m all full up here.

You might think this is a bad idea, and I see it a multitude of ways, because this is not a subject that is clearly defined, black & white, or right & wrong. In many ways, my sadness & grief are very solitary experiences. I am not the first, nor will I be the last, to have these emotions, I know this, but I am very alone with them: I have no siblings, my mother has no love for my father & she and I haven’t spoken in nearly 3 years, and I am losing the one person who has always been there. Always. I am blessed to have such a loving, caring husband, with a family behind him who loves me & cares about me. I have a tremendous group of friends, both here and in the land of the internet. I do not like to break down at work, or in front of many people. I have difficulty right now talking about what is going on, because the sadness shoots up inside and closes my throat, and the only other way out is through tears. I have to function, I have to do my job, interact with others, have some positive experiences, and I cannot do those things if I’m horrible-face crying all the time.

So today, I’m going to practice trying a little bit, to ask for a smidge of help. I’ve asked a friend to see if there are any support groups that meet my (somewhat stringent) criteria – the cancer support groups all seem to support the people with cancer, and the hospice groups support people who’ve already lost someone. There aren’t any purgatory support groups, for those who wait and hope and grieve and sit with this huge mixture of loss and love and pain and guilt and anger and all you can do is wait and try not to fall apart. I know I’m not the only one, but it is hard, feeling like the lonely one sometimes, especially when my entire approach to life is to be strong, to seek intellectual answers and solutions through research & action, to do the right thing, to do it yourself. Small steps, but today, I asked for a little help.

I say I’m tired of hoping, but that’s not true. Hope springs eternal, and I give you these absolutely beautiful words to prove it:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.
— Emily Dickinson

So, yes, I am no longer hell-bent on pronging out my own eyes with a pickle fork, but am deeply steeped in the lovely fantasy of taking out the eyeballs of others, and have not limited myself to just the forks, but how I could knock out some teeth with an ice-tea spoon, and don’t even GO to where I get medieval on their asses with the butter knife.

I still really like my job. Some weeks are more arduous, stressful, and eye-rolling than others, and when it shows on all of us, it’s hard to remember that sometimes our jolly little crew could be confused with the Fun Committee at a Mexican resort, we have such good times. This week, most of us are playing the role of la pinata. And most of the work I need to finish involves (cue psychotic music:) BILLING. I freakin’ hate billing reconciliation, bills, all of it. I want to stab them with a steak knife.

Oh, and while we’re at it, and I’m being all frothy and whatnot, I’m just going to give you my line from last week, which is that I fervently hope that even the stupid can read lips. Yes, it was another instance of some Jen Road Rage, but seriously? If a copper has pulled someone over, I have my blinker on, and have edged the front half of LaFonda into your lane, before your dumbass even came over the hill? You have NO RIGHT to surge forward, nearly hit me, and give me a big arm movement with a thumb gesture that I should “get behind thee”. So yes, I hope you could read my big lipsticky lips mouthing the astonished “FUCK YOU” in reaction to your audacity & dangerous, rude behavior. But I suspect I might be wishing for too much. A pickle fork in his eye might have been the only effective form of communication at that point.

I wrote the above yesterday (Wed)because a combination of sloggy internet & blogger being drunk prevented me from posting. This morning? I had an INSANE driver experience on my morning commute, something that immediately made me think I was in another country, because seriously, does anyone besides an ambulance cross into the oncoming lane of traffic and turn left on red? Apparently, one Kansas City resident does, and despite the fact he almost hit me (and would have CLEARLY been in the wrong, not to mention I’d have had the six cars of witnesses he illegally passed) he completely ignored LaFonda’s irate horn. Motherfucker. For him? I would develop a special torture with a gravy ladle.

OK, I’m not completely caving to Tuesday yet, but she is proving to be a slightly more tenacious, if not passive-aggressive bitch.

I figure if I manage to get the fork tines way back in there, I can pop my eyeballs right out with a delicate flick of the wrist. After all, I’m going for effect, not distance here. And just think! With no eyeballs, I will have no road rage! And life will be like last night, when the power went out, only I won’t fruitlessly struggle with JWo’s 8-gajillion candlewatt flashlight that has a rocker switch on it, somewhere, but hells bells if I can find it IN THE DARK.

My first thought, as I was inspecting my skin in the mirror & the lights went off & all the house noises plummeted into silence, was, “OH! It’s like old-timey times now.” My next thought was, “How in hell am I going to sleep without a fan?” Plus there’s the whole, “They won’t fix it iffin they don’t KNOW about it!” concept, so instead of donning my bonnet and making off to bed prithee forthwith, I went in search of the aforementioned flashlight while my no-longer-sleeping husband rumbled to alertness with all the grace and fluidity of a Mack truck off-roading over landscaping rock. Claw, Claw, Claw. I ran my hands all over that thing (the flashlight, not my husband), effectively cleaning all the dust off it, and still no light. Finally the Wo stumbled into view and immediately, with his Y chromosome fully alert, flicked on the switch. I called the power company, placed an outage report, and then we harrumphed around, which for me meant being REALLY pissed the people across the street still had their lights on. I pondered how the power company could estimate my lights would be back on by 2:23 a.m. As we returned to bed, poor Wo unable to really sleep now, because his bi-pappy machine runs on, you know, electricity, I continued to ponder. “I heard sirens right before the lights went out. What do you think it means? We could drive around and see what’s going on.” Which is really apparently my own double-speak for, “Hey, JWo, you should go investigate what’s happening in our neighborhood.” And he did. I, in turn, thanked him for his exploration by promptly falling asleep. (But not before I set my Palm Pilot to wake me up! I love my gadgets. Oh, yeah, but I had to turn the flashlight on to find the Palm Pilot? And had to get shouted instructions from the Wo. Goddamn Y chromosomes.)

Everything was restored around 1:30 a.m. (see! Those KCPL peeps, they beat their time estimate!) and again, choosing sleep over everything else, I let James turn off lights & reset his clock. After all, I had the Palm on the job, I didn’t need to jack with my clock. And, the fan was on. Bliss!

So, back to Tuesday & our cage match & who will triumph: my workday’s going pretty well, but the general ennui and irritation hasn’t been completely flushed from my system, and while I’d never really gouge out my own eyes, I do dabble sometimes in the insanity of the fantasy of doing something so dramatic and drastic, so King Lear, to portray the melodrama inside my brain. Just be glad you’re visitin’. Living here can get purrrrrty interesting some days….. but I’d still put the money on me. I might be using that fork on Tuesday! I’d like to use a fork on our internet right now, but that would be the moment it would finally come back to LIFE

So, I am one cranky-ass bizotchy. Yes. I just made that up, because I don’t think there’s a single word in the human language to fully capture how mothertrucking irritated I am, and I have had approximately 54 hours of said irritations.

Let us start with the Wedding Caravan, which inofitself was nice, and seeing my hubby in a tux was a pleasant treat. I was Le Photographerrrre Extraordinaire, which meant I was carrying the bridal couple’s enormous Canon Rebel around my neck, complete with a humongous flipping lens. Did you know I know very little about Le Photographie? Yes, indeed, and thank god the camera was digital. I was sweating like le swine in le mud pitte, and running up and down the gravel path as though I had become the wedding co-ordinator. Snappy! Snap! Many pictures, hopefully some of them will be treasures, and my biggest memory (apart from the Wo in the Tux) will be the parakeet-sized mosquitos that feasted, nay, bellied up for the BUFFET that was my body. I react pretty strongly to bites, too, so I have these quarter-sized lumps on the backs of my legs, on my ankles, tops of my toes – and they all itch like madness.

Then we have Sunday, and I’m not even getting into the debacle which has been my father’s medical care, but keep in mind that is all just swirling along in the background/forefront throughout everything else. (They have screwed up his meds more times than I can count now, which results in him suffering swelling in his brain which in turn lends him to sounding as though he has dementia. Change the meds and he’s back to his normal self. Enraged doesn’t even begin to capture it.) Back to Sunday. I go and get my eyes examined, and that is mellow and fine, but suddenly they declare my insurance does not cover it. Wha? But I checked? And the lackadaisical attitude does nothing to assure me that anyone even called. Eventually, Don and I determine we will just wait & he’ll follow up today. Don could be Michael Jeter’s long lost cousin, which, if you were a big Evening Shade buff, might not instill the greatest sense of faith here. Don informs me he’ll be working until 2 p.m. on Monday; when I call at 1 p.m., he admits to not having time to get to it. No biggie, Don, I’m not buying glasses until they go back on 50% off. He agrees with me, and even tells me when that sale starts again. Redemption, through the irritation.

I then came home from kickin’ it with Michael Jeter & finished up my Chicks with Sticks bag, and what then ensued was such a disaster, I’m so pissed I’m not looking for a link. The third color of yarn didn’t felt at the same rate as the other two – so much so, I would have sworn it had a different fiber content – and my efforts of copious knitting were in effect, ruined. The bag looks horrid, it will take a rather-large sewing & scissoring re-design to even salvage what did felt properly, and I haven’t had a response from the yarn store I purchased the kit from, because you KNOW I sent an email immediately. Knowing them, they’ll offer 20% off my next purchase. Uh, yeah, that’s adequate compensation. It’s not like I’m a new knitter here, and there’s obviously something wrong with the yarn – and since they also screwed up once before, sending me two different dye lots (which I didn’t notice until the very end of knitting a sweater), I don’t have a lot of faith in their ability to handle this to my satisfaction. In other words? NOT ORDERING FROM THEM, EVER AGAIN.

Today? Was one cluster after another of pus-filled bags of non-joy. Sorry for the icky imagery, but hey, it’s appropriate. I’m itchy, on edge, clients are being insane, some co-workers have become unhinged, deranged, or worse, both. Yeah, and the internet was jacked up, so I got to wait until I had an entire day of itching, bitching, and being irritated to get home and post a proper blog.

All I can say is, come on Tuesday. Bring it, bitch. You WILL be a better day when I get through with you.

OK! Come sit next to me, my knitting friends. Let’s look at this picture, shall we?

All I can focus on are those uncooked sausages. This is a free pattern for a “grill mitt.” I challenge you to keep your eyes on the mitt. No, no! You cannot! Who puts their raw meat on a bed of cilantro? Let’s make up our minds here, food stylist or knits stylist.

Now, did that not inspire you? No? How about a project that calls for both a Pound of Love AND Fun Fur????? HAHAHAHAHA yes, it is your purgatory, welcome, we have your knitting basket right here.

With the bonus being, it already looks like moths, your dog, and Sasquatch have chewed it up. Yes, my child. Snuggle under the nightmare.

And those of you with the accident-prone youngsters will get a big chuckle out of this free pattern:

Why, it’s the Diamond-Back Rattler Cast Sock! As you can see, this hapless youth wasn’t satisfied with scrawling “Don’t Tread On Me”, a popular theme with the passionate Colonists in early Americana as evidenced on Revolutionary flags. There’s a lesson to be learned at every point in life, beyond skateboarding next to an empty pool, and that’s the proud history of our forefathers, the story every teen is hankering to communicate via their leg cast. Because nothing goes with an iPod like a Diamond-Back Rattler Cast Sock for today’s discerning, yet historically-conscious teen! And, please note, for those terrified of snakes, that the EYEBROWS on the snake will reassure even the most skittish that it is not real. We don’t want the lesson to be lost because someone gets squeamish! You think our ancestors turned and ran? The WHITES OF THEIR EYES, people. Never forget. NEVER.

All hideousness courtesy of Lion Brand.

Whenever we’re facing our own mortality, or that of someone we love with every cell in our body, you are not only tackling a daily wash of emotions, but you also get doused with flashes of the past – good and bad – and the smallest things can trigger them.

Driving to work yesterday, I saw a huge rope swing hanging from a tree. Like an ice pick, the image of the swing my father made for me pierced through, the board he cut & sanded, the ropes he tied over a tree branch, so high up, and I can still see his face when he was done, smiling as he grabbed both sides of the board & told me to jump on. I couldn’t begin to count how many hours were spent on that swing, recklessly trying to touch the sky, or at least a wayward branch. A memory I had forgotten.

The other night, I was possessed by a desire for something salty. Not chips, not something fried, but only a straight-up boullion cube would sooth the salty needs. Because yes, back in the day, that was one of my “snacks”. (I loved ’em! Beef? Chicken? Bring it on!) I ate them extremely slowly, gnawing a thin layer off at a time, and I’ve since referred to them as my teeny-tiny flavored salt licks. I was a little disappointed to discover the only boullion in the house was a Costco-sized shaker of granulated chicken with herbs. I dipped a finger in, and while yes, it was still salty goodness, it wasn’t the same. (I’m sure my blood pressure is grateful I didn’t succeed in finding a cube.)

One of my favorite comfort foods is extremely simple, but also extremely particular. It was a spaghetti made by a family friend, and I’ve never had another person make it quite like Frances. First off, when you cook the noodles, they have to be broken in half. Then, and this is crucial, you take home-canned tomato sauce & cook it down. It has to be home-grown tomatoes, maybe it’s the acidity or the “brightness” of such tomatoes, but I’ve tried with store-bought and it doesn’t work. Fortunately for me, I married a canner & a gardener. Then, you fry bacon. And you assemble your dish: spaghetti, topped with sauce, topped with crumbled bacon. A little salt, a brief marrying of ingredients with a quick toss, and then hunker down for a meal that rockets me back to being 8 years old, when my first real summer in Iowa was spent at Frances & Jake’s farm, clambering over hay bales and playing with cats in the barn, picking strawberries, swimming in an old horse trough, watching Hogan’s Heroes on a black & white TV, making a doll quilt, and just generally being a sponge to all of my surroundings.

It was a time of pure innocence and great moxie, before I knew how to be insecure, untouched by anger or depression, free from the responsibility of being a grown-up, unaware of love and all the joy and sadness it brings. I know we can never go back, but in that first bite, I squint, and I can almost be there again.

I have been obsessed a bit with order, not that you could tell it from my desk here at work. (Hm! Maybe I should attack it!) A bowl or glass barely has time to settle in to the sink, and I’m whisking everything into the dishwasher or scrubbing it up and I realize it’s all a psychological effort to maintain control and order while this large piece sits out there, beyond anything I can do, influence, solve or fix. It has given me a bit of a peek into the world of OCD, where touching a doorknob six times before you enter the house is the only thing standing between you & catastrophy.

Today, I took a break. I didn’t make the bed, and I left a dishwasher full, waiting to be emptied, and a sink full of dishes, waiting to be cleaned. It’s when I start lining up the soup labels that you’ve got to be worried, JWo.

See, you need to understand why I truly, madly, deeply love the free spirit that is the JWo. He created new lyrics to Personal Jesus, just for me.

Your own personal knit night
Some friends to knit some yarn
Someone who spins
Your own personal knit night
Someone who knits and purls
Some friendly girls

Feeling crafty
And you’re all alone
Big balls of yarn
By the telephone
Lift up the receiver
Ill make you a believer

Knit some new socks
Some socks that rock
A new sweater vest
You need to confess
UPS will deliver
Credit cards will shake and shiver

Reach out and buy yarn
Reach out and buy yarn

Your own personal knit night