Tag Archives: birthdays

Sep25

Clean Eating, Detoxes, Chicos and Dying Anyway

Posted on September 25, 2014 by Grass Oil by Molly Field

Today is my 47th birthday. Tonight I am going to see “The Black Keys” and “Cage the Elephant” with my husband of 20 years and two of my three children. My youngest wouldn’t have any of that standing in a dark room with 8,000 other people to dance to a very loud band. None of that shit.

I haven’t been writing because I’ve been figuring out some stuff and I also have a terrible secret.

The figuring out thing? I thought I had it all resolved until I’d finished Prince of Tides and read Pat Conroy’s brief biography at the end of it. I thought I’d decided last week with my pal Lillian over at It’s a Dome Life that I would hold off on the memoir for a few years because I still have a 10-year-old to ~~screw up~~ raise. Then I finished PoT and realized I’d sort of done what Conroy did (although not nearly as well) when I wrote my fictionalized memoir / novel two years ago over a summer. I haven’t read it in two years. I need to read it and see if it makes any sense anymore.

No one cares about that. You want to know about the secret.

The terrible secret: I’ve begun a clean-eating detox. A couple friends who know me very well asked me with great confusion on their faces, “YOU? You eat very well!” And it’s true, I do. I smooth (make killer healthy smoothies), eat quinoa, chia, agave, spelt, chikimea (I made that one up). So I’ve stopped drinking coffee and eating other stuff (bread, yogurt, milk, BRIE…. ) going on 11 days now. Aside from that Brie thing, I eat well.

Well, judging from the freakin’ headache I’ve nursed for the past ~~three~~ five days, my metabolism would say otherwise. It’s brutal. I won’t go into details, ok, I’m shitting like a goose, but other than that it’s great. I am sleeping better. And I am waking better, so that’s huge. But the headaches… Criminy. What the WHAT with the headaches?

I have never really been a big sugar eater — I don’t add sugar to my cereal and I dilute the juices I drink and I’m not big on pasta and cakes and stuff, but apparently, even wiping out the artisan breads and eggs and coffee (of which I drank only one mug a day) is having a profound effect on me.

I also wonder if there’s any point to this — I had my blood drawn last week before starting any of this for my biennial well check and my vitals are great: BP is 106/60; triglycerides are 57, total cholesterol is 157 (LDL 91 / HDL 47); I row, practice yoga, jog a few times a week, walk the dogs, eat well and so … why? Why am I doing this?

“Because I’ll try anything once.” That’s what I said. I had no idea I would be this miserable.

On the first conference call, the leader said that this is a good time to take care of ourselves and calm things down in the exercise department. “If you’re someone who goes to a bootcamp every day, or runs a lot, this is a good time to dial back on that and slow things down. Practice yoga, go to a sauna or a steam bath… ” and I was wondering, “Why? I mean, this is a good way to increase our health.” And then the headaches came and I realized why we would be encouraged to calm everything down. Because I CAN’T FUNCTION ANYWAY. Sweet mother of Abraham Lincoln. I said the other day that I’ll gladly go back to running hard every day than do this.

To address the headaches, “Take vitamin C,” the health leader said to us on yesterday’s conference call that I had to set on mute/speaker whilst I sat in the bathroom. “About 1,000-2,000mg a day is fine…” then someone asked a further question about it and the health maven (whom I happen to respect a lot) continued, “there’s no limit you can take on Vitamin C, just take it until you start to get diarrhea…” and I thought… “Do you know where I am right now?”

So I’ve got headache and the bathroom. That’s going to be the name of my memoir: “Headaches and The Bathroom; How to Detox Your Past in 21 Days.”

The health commandant also mentioned that we could take something called Chlorella to help with the headaches. No. I know what I’m going to take for this headache. It starts with Gin and ends with Tonic and if you have just one, the headache will be a distant memory.

But I’m a trouper. I don’t give up easily and I still have a couple weeks to go. Will I make it? I really have no clue. Part of my headaches I think are coming from all the mental bandwidth I’m dedicating to this thing: “Is that safe? Should I eat that?” and “I miss my gelato…” (even though I ate 1/4 cup whenever I had it). I’m really constantly obsessing about when and what I can eat. I also really hate being told what to do. So there’s that too. But the headaches… I don’t normally get them, so this experience is as close to a nightmare as it comes for me. “Don’t go and reach for the tylenol… or the quick fix,” she said. “You’re just going to have to suck it up… ha ha >insert my sneer< …” was the response about the need for an Advil.

I did NOT speak on that call. I didn’t because I know myself too well. Once I get started on this stuff, I am not easy to talk down; I also know that I signed up for this. I foolishly, stupidly, arrogantly signed up for this. I wasn’t feeling lousy to start with, I was feeling sluggish and foggy-headed. So I thought this might be a good idea. Eleven days in, I’m feeling like I WANT TO DIE and I can’t keep my head up to save my life. My office is overwhelmed by Lara bar wrappers. I have to start reframing all this for my own sake, that food is not the enemy. I would be willing to bet that the fear-based and white-knuckled detox industry stands to become incredibly lucrative if we keep thinking unmoderately, that food is the enemy.

This morning, my husband let me sleep in because it’s my birthday. He took care of the boys and got them all off to school. When he entered our room to and leaned in to give me a kiss, I could smell the coffee on his breath and when he kissed me, I could taste it.

“You had a raspberry mocha this morning, didn’t you?” I hissed. I felt like a succubus, a harpy. I wanted to bite his lip to get the remnants and then drain him of all his pizza he enjoyed last night.

On the detox call yesterday, people were GUSHING, absolutely freakin’ OVER THE MOON about this program. They must’ve had to stop eating grass and added quinoa instead.

I am convinced my canines will be ground down to resemble cow’s teeth. No more need for incisors.

I asked on the super-secret Facebook page if anyone had a recipe for a carrot cake alternative and all I know is that it was viewed by 41 people. Not even the leader could reply. No one even said, “take a carrot and roll it up with almonds and a Lara Bar and sprinkle it with cinnamon, then close your eyes and plug your nose and eat it.” I think my question made them all run from their computers and shove their faces in their kale, eggplant, brussel, coconut flake, mung bean sprout salads.

I was talking to some friends earlier this week about mid-life crises and shopping for clothes. One of the women was wearing these fantastic pants. “Banana Republic!” said one of the girls I was with. I said, “OOOOOooooWooooo! I love Banana Republic!” (Along with JCrew, prAna, Eddie Bauer and Anne Taylor.)

We started talking about where we shop now, that we’re all “of a certain age” and one of them blurted out, “Chicos. I like it there.” And I thought: “No, honey, you’re still too young for Chicos.”

Instead I said, “I hate the name of that store… CHEEEEEE-KOS … Nah. I can’t do it. It’s like, for me, that store name is just not cool. It’s all but resignation. It says, ‘I don’t have grandchildren, but I could.'”

“Same thing with ‘Coldwater Creek,’ ” another friend said.

And we started laughing. “I think my great grandmother shopped there…” someone said.

That was just before the tears flowed. We knew “Forever XXI” was never going to be in our futures for ourselves. That ship had sailed.

“How about a store named, ‘It’ll Be OK, Honey.‘ That is at least telling the truth,” I said. “Or, mingling mid-life crises with shopping how about, ‘You’re Just Going to Die Anyway…’ that would be another good one. I can see it now, at a fashion show … ‘Here we have Giselle in a tasteful surplice frock in a simple sand dollar and sea star pattern accompanied by her LifeTime walker and Dr. Andrew Weil Earth Shoes in cordovan… the slacks have a clever little pocket which conceals any catheter or medical alert device needed…”

I told a Joan Rivers joke, it was a sight gag, but I’ll tell it here anyway. She was walking across stage in one of her fantastic sparkly gowns and was lifting her knees high and curving them to the outer sides of her body. She said, “Excuse me, I need to move my breasts out of the way of my path…” And we started laughing so hard we were going to pee.

Today I am 47. Which means I’ve ended my 47th year and tomorrow will be the first day of my 48th.

This just popped into my email inbox:

Irony?

And the answer to this question in the TED Talk email is, Yes. We are dying. We all are. Once we hit the peak of hormonal balance and health, and begin that decades-long descent, yes, we are dying. We’ve hit our point of metabolic and procreative usefulness on this planet and all bets are off. But our liver regenerates every 28 days, so that’s all good too.

Speaking of liver regeneration, the four of us are going to a rock concert tonight while I wonder beforehand if there’s such a thing as gluten-free beer. If the headache is still here tomorrow, I’m done with this madness. I’m heading over to Chicos and I’m going to buy a real nice pair of pants with lots of pockets.

An epiphany (along with the secret): life is about living. If I were hit by a bus today, I’d be pissed that I was in the midst of a headache.

Thank you.

Jan26

I Have Two Teenagers Now. How to Stop the Madness.

Posted on January 26, 2014 by Grass Oil by Molly Field

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My second son, Thing 2, turned 13 today.

For some reason, I’m not totally blown away by it. Probably because he has been prepping me for it for about 12 years.

I don’t like to really write about my kids on my blog; I like to write of them; there is a distinction. My children have their own stories to tell and I don’t ever want this blog to be a reason why they would feel exploited or have them be the pedestal or shoulder upon which I stand to be seen, heard, noticed.

I write to my dear second son, who is so unique and special in our family.

Dear Thing 2,

The world is in a state of flux. In your lifetime’s small window terrorists have attacked our country and we theirs; we have been in a war as long as you’ve been alive and more and more people are dying of gunshot in public places. Just yesterday horror struck a shopping mall not an hour from where we live. The day before that, three teenagers who were minding their own business walking alongside the road were struck down by drivers who were bent on drag racing in the middle of the day on a busy suburban street; they too lived in Maryland.

I think about the world I am leaving you. I have a long time to go before I leave you, as far as I’m concerned, but I still wish things were simpler.

This is sounding rather depressing, isn’t it? Well, I don’t mean it to sound so sad. Despite what I say, research has shown, somewhere (and statistics can always be shown in one light or another to benefit someone) this is the least-dangerous time in recorded humanity. Piffle.

What I want it to do is to remind you that when all the world has lost its shit (I can say that to you now), that you can stop the madness. You have a light inside you, dear one, that can bring you peace and that can make people smile. You can be and already are a beautiful human being. Friends will come and they will go. Don’t try to save a friendship that has done all it can; learn the lessons you can from it and thank it for enriching your life. Romances fade; love is eternal. Stick with your God-given talents; they will take you far and will always be there for you.

I think about the day you were born. I can’t help it on a day like today: it’s cold out like it was then. The sky is confused. The sun shines behind me but I see gray skies behind the bare trees which stand so tall outside the windows of our cozy house on our little street. This is the first place you’ve ever lived. This is the only place you’ve ever lived.

When you were born, you almost flew out of me you were so ready. I know, “ew, MOM, DON’T…. UCH…” but I will. You were one eager son-of-a-gun. The doctors caught you, just in time, and immediately, you started to howl and curl your tiny body. You were so strong, and so fierce. You reminded me of rope that sits on a dock beside an ocean liner. Your voice, full and real and sweet was so alive, so strong that there was no doubt that you would not only make it, but that your passion would be the biggest part of you. It’s ok though — you are a soul, just like I am and just like everyone else is — and you were just trying to find your way then, as you are now.

Your skin is gorgeous and smooth. Your eyes are bright like copper pennies and your love you wear on your sleeve. Your smile is ready and your kindness knows no bounds. Your imagination gets you into trouble on this one-dimensional world; be sure to keep it alive but also try to tolerate we less-evolved persons who inhabit your planet. Owning our shortcomings makes us bigger people.

You move like a cheetah on the soccer pitch. When you think no one is listening, I hear you sing with passion and a sense of tender gentleness that I didn’t think your body possessed because you live so largely and you feel all your feelings.

The world is a crazy place, young Thing 2. Being 13 just means you’re going to hear more about it, but don’t let it get you down. Do what I do: go inside your beautiful head, say a few prayers for the crazy in the world and then go out and make people smile. Tell a joke, make a friend, sing a song, dress like Batman for no reason and wave at the cars passing by; do the things you already do. Don’t listen to those who want to bring you down to meet them.

I realize now that what I think is an education is actually a burden for you. Your brain is not wired the way the school system thinks it should be. You are still that piece of rope on the dock — you have so much energy inside you that I know, when you set your mind to something, you will achieve it. Just make sure it’s legal and ethical. That’s all I ask.

Cure cancer. Bring an end to poverty but keep capitalism alive. Make a video which makes people laugh. Write a song that brings people to their feet or to their knees. Keep it real. Be real. Keep evolving, never stop growing and learning.

There’s a song I love. John Mayer’s “Stop this Train.” It’s all about life going too fast. On days like today, when you, my middle child begins his teenage years, I want only to jump on the tracks and stop the train.

I am left with only one more son to hit his teenage years and then that’s all we’ve got… besides new puppies and marriages and babies you might make, this is what I have to look forward to in terms of my engagement as a mother on this planet. It’s not that I’m sad, it’s that I want you to live your life so fully, Thing 2, that I want all your fears removed and when you kick them to the curb, I want to take them and put them in a black velvet bag, stomp on it and push it into a cannon, the old-fashioned kind they have on Bugs Bunny versus Yosemite Sam cartoons and light the fuse and shoot it toward the moon, where Marvin the Martian, like on your hat, can vaporize it with his Illudium Q-36 Explosive Space Modulator before it gets there.

I love you Thing 2. Never stop being you.

-Mom

Thank you.

Nov14

Letter to Thing 3

Posted on November 14, 2013 by Grass Oil by Molly Field

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Dear Thing 3,

It never fails. On the days we walk to school and I wish I had my camera, I never do.

Today was such a treat to be with you. Do you remember? The sun, in its autumnal slant, so surgical and bright, like a laser, but weaker than in summer was still strong as there were no clouds. Frost had cured on the grass blades and the top cover of the fallen leaves we encountered on our walk out to school today and you asked me, “Where does the frost come from? It’s so sparkly.”

“It’s like a billion diamonds on the ground.” I said.

“Just for us,” you said.

“It’s from the moisture in the air; the dew. It freezes on the leaves and in the morning, we get diamonds.”

“They don’t last long, these diamonds. There are so many of them! It’s like a field of them!” you said and then fell silent. We stopped to look at a few. We moved our heads around to see more sparkles.

You will be 10 tomorrow.

It seems like every milestone is a new milestone in your life. That doesn’t make sense. I guess I just mean that it’s all so much. You’re the last one.

10.

Ten.

Two complete hands. The end of the two hands.

Before we left, I considered my camera / phone. I decided to leave it at home, amidst the breakfast smells of pancake and coffee. I prefer to be present, free of it. As much as you see me tinkering with it, T3, I really am better off without it.

“How many days are in a year? 365? I thought that there were only 364 days,” you asked as I helped you with your pilled black knit gloves today, the ones I bought in bulk at the Amish auction all those years ago with our friend, “RICK!”

“Well, the going rate these days, is 365. I believe leap year makes it 366, but I will admit my facts on that are loose, so I’m not entirely sure although I do believe 365 is the predominant number. Ready?” I asked, holding open the door, but thinking to myself back at my own childhood and remembering the 364/365 proposition more than 365/366.

“Can I have lemon cake and chocolate frosting?” you asked.

“Why? And WHAT?! Who eats that?! Only goofballs…” I said.

“This goofball wants that,” you said.

I looked at you funny, pretending to be offended by the mention and I could see your smile fade. You were a little crestfallen. The joke had gone too far. You asked me, “Mom… can’t I have a lemon cake with chocolate frosting?”

“Absolutely you can.” I said and your smile returned.

On the way down the street you asked me, “What’s attachment? What did they mean about ‘not getting attached’ to that otter in the video?”

You were talking about “Otter 501,” the story about a stray newborn otter in Monterey, California.

“It means no eye contact between the trainers and the otter; that’s why they wore those welder’s masks and ponchos, so the otter couldn’t see their eyes. Did you notice they didn’t talk to her either? She could learn their voices and prefer one trainer over another trainer. In animals, it’s called ‘imprinting’ but in humans, because we believe we’re so different than animals, we call it ‘attachment.’ It’s basically falling in love with the otter, which could get in the way with her ability to go back to the ocean.”

“I would be attached anyway to that otter,” you said. “Helmet or not. I love her from my tv.”

Speaking of attachment, we didn’t take your dog with us today. He wasn’t ready to go. When I returned, he seemed fine with the temporary abandonment.

10.

It all goes too fast. Way too fast. I want it to slow down.

I was so compelled by the frost on the leaves, and my urge to remember this moment, that when I came home I picked up my camera and went back out to try to capture some of the sparkle but suspecting all the time that it would be the inverse of what we hear about supernatural phenomena: that it’s not viewable to the naked eye, or in this instance the iPhone. I suspect that I will need my big, actual camera to take proper pictures of the sparkly leaves. But here are a few unsparkly leaves…

there is no sparkle, but there is beauty in it; look at those crystals! “They’re free! They don’t cost anything!” you said when you saw them.

Here’s another cool frosty leaf:

I want you to live life beautifully, T3. I want you to ask questions, always.

Do you remember overhearing me and Dad talking about “the silent treatment” this morning? You asked me, “What is the silent treatment?” and I told you. Then you asked me why I was talking about it and I told you. You asked me, “Why would anyone do that? Why not just talk about your feelings? We don’t all have to agree…” and we talked about that. Then you came to a conclusion all by yourself when you said, “Well, giving the silent treatment is cruel.”? My heart swelled when you said that. “It’s easier said than done, to not give the silent treatment, bud…” and you didn’t agree.

Life has miracles and wondrous moments happening right in front of us every day, all the time! There is no reason to think it is boring, we just have to be willing to open our eyes. You’re pretty good at that already; it’s just that as we age, we tend to forget those things. I hope you never do.

As I ascended the hill on my second walk back home this morning:

This is a very nice way to start your day…

I saw this. I was so glad I went back out to try to take some sparkle pics.

the leaf blowing…

it all seems so ordinary… no big deal…

but it’s like a dance to me. the leaves fly up and then they waft down. they fly up and roll and curl and flip. sure, it’s a man working a leaf blower, but the LEAVES, T3… watching them. that.

Watching the leaves billow and plume … it could do it all day. It seems weird, I guess, to be so enraptured by such an everyday thing, leaf blowing… your mom’s eccentric views, but to me it’s like a ballet between the gardener and the leaves. It’s poetry in motion.

The leaf-blowing man must’ve thought I was with the NSA or something. I hope I didn’t worry him.

When I came back home, the house was warm and expectant. It still smelled of maple syrup, coffee and pancakes. The dishwasher was still running and the lights were on under the cabinets. Laundry, as usual, was waiting to be folded or put away. I came to the conclusion yesterday, T3, that smells tell me how busy I’ve been. If I smell laundry in the dryer, pumpkin bread in the oven and tea in my mug, I’ve had a busy day. These are the smells of progress.

I didn’t want to waste a moment, I had these thoughts fresh on my mind. I find that it’s hard for me to concentrate these days; I’m still so sad about Mimi. So I wanted to get these words off to you as soon as I walked in.

After I took off my hat and gloves and put my coat away, I turned my way into my office / guest room and Gandalf, that massive gray barn cat of ours leapt off the bed and scurried out the door; I could hear his back claws grab whatever they could of the carpeting to ensure a speedy getaway as he careened and serpentined out of the room. It was like he was saying, “Oh crap! Busted!” (Because I can’t stand them when they’re on our beds.) He and his sister are irritated with me: they are both as big as watermelons and I’ve cut back their kibble rations to half of what they’re used to. Lean times ahead for the kitties, I’m afraid. I know they’re not ballooning up from us; it’s all the chipmunks they’ve hunted.

Well, even though tomorrow is your 10th birthday, I’ll tell you a secret that your auntie T told me one day when I turned 45: it’s not really your 10th birthday. It’s the first day of your 11th year. When you were born, that was the first day of your first year. The last day of your first year was the day before your first birthday. You’d been “1” all along. When you turned 1, it was the first day of your second year… and so it goes. So today… is the last day of your tenth year.

I love you, Thing 3. Happy birthday.

Mom

Sep25

Grief: Birthdays, “Dear Mom,” and a Play

Posted on September 25, 2013 by Grass Oil by Molly Field

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So today is my birthday and I will miss the phone call that my mother had made in recent years when she would sing like Marilyn Monroe did for President Kennedy (“Jack” to those of us in the know) or she would loudly and dramatically recite a random line from Molière’s “Tartuffe”: “What air for you the test?” (Or was that Oscar Wilde’s “The Importance of Being Earnest” (which has little to do with honesty) or was it … Good God, Mom… which play and why did you say it so often out of context? I’m going with Tartuffe and I’m QUITE sure I’m effed up the line. Now I’ll have to Google it. I know, good luck with that. I hope my cousins tell me what it was.)

Mom had a wonderful sense of humor when she was on. I ~~think~~ know she’d enjoy this letter and ask me to read it again and again.

. . .

Dear Mom,

Forgive me some schmaltz early in this missive and allow me to thank you for birthing me 46 years ago today. I know you took a huge risk after Baby John was born, continuing to have children and I am grateful that you did.

You and I didn’t have the smoothest relationship, until just before God took you, as fate would have it. It’s just like us to figure things out and leave the restaurant with the staff yawning and the lights up, as our family and our cousins’ families often did.

I have to say though, that you and God lined things up for me exquisitely before you died, and after your death, I know you lined things up to make it as painless as possible; which wasn’t always very possible.

The details of those months are for another letter, maybe a book, and I’d be foolish to suggest that it was just the months that prepared me.

I know it was the decades of good times and bad times, sadnesses and happinesses, healed feelings and hurt feelings that forged my steel and honed my blade to be sharp, keen and precise when separating the wheat from the chaff.

In some circles, it is suggested that my soul chose you to bear me and be my mother; that there was a karmic exchange for past lives to learn lessons and that your passing, well, all of our passings, means that our souls have done all they can to teach or learn the intended lessons. I believe that stuff, I believe there had to be a greater purpose to our discord and to our mirth, right? Otherwise, it all seems such a waste.

I was talking to your only son-in-law this morning and he is so good, Mom. He’s charged the boys with making me a dark chocolate raspberry cake for dessert tonight. We talked about death, he and I. He is concerned naturally about his own parents and he mentioned death and my grieving as sort of an isolated case.

I couldn’t help but remind him, and anyone who dares chat with me about it, that this is part of life; our universal experience. It’s what we all go through. Every single one of us. I am not afraid of death; I hope that brings you comfort and I’m sure you already suspected that. I would be lying however if I didn’t say I get mad when people talk about their still-living mothers.

I love that your final words were “Yes, please” and that you were looking forward to ice cream as your next big move. You were so frail, Mom. But your heart, the one that bears your soul, was soft and kind in the end.

Your funeral. Mom. I think some people were totally taken by surprise by how much I resemble you. There were a couple friends of yours who literally stared into my eyes looking for you. You’ll get a kick out of this: one was getting all weepy and sad and telling me how awesome you were and staring into me, in a weird Star Trek sort of way and I got this feeling with a couple of them, “Oh no; I’m NOT taking care of you… it’s My Mom who went to God and is no longer around, you’re gonna have to deal…” and I would be whisked away by an observant family member.

Your death has brought me closer to estranged relations. Even in death, Mom, you manage to mend fences and bring us all together for a play of sorts. The nice thing about this play was though, that there was no acting. We were all very sincere. I guess that’s the best acting of all.

So the other day, Mom, I went for a walk/run/jog/walk thing. It was my first since you died. It was hard, but I thought of your heart, the physical one, and how if it were stronger that maybe you’d still be here; but then I thought again and said, “No. When God wants you home, when you’ve learned or taught your lesson, it doesn’t matter. Your number is up.” But when I was finished, I was in the cool-down mode and I decided to do some stretches and some yoga down dogs, etc., and a neighbor saw me. She was on a walk with her friend.

Here… we’ll do this the way you liked it:

The scene: Modern-day suburbia. The weather is beautiful; a crisp late fall morning. Molly, a middle-aged (gasp!) female returning from exercising outdoors without her dog, her buffer, for the first time after her mother died. She is in her quiet zone, feeling a little sacred and grateful that her legs, lungs and heart could sustain the effort. She is wearing her headphones. Music is on and she’s stretching, doing some yoga poses that she hasn’t done in a while.

Up comes a neighbor, a lively southern sort, who was walking with her friend. She sees Molly and she spazzes completely.

Neighbor: WAhahaha aha aha aahaaa ha MOLLLLAAAAY… ARE YOU SHOWING OFF YOUR ABS?? ARE YOU DOING YOGA TO SHOW OFF FOR ALL THE WORLD??? she gesticulates and speaks in a humorous friendly way … sorta show-offy for her friend who is likely dying inside.

Molly is still in her headphones and is literally making the “cut throat” sign and the “time out” sign and the “hands up, please stop” sign …

Neighbor: BLAH WAAH BLAAHAA HAAA YOGA ABS OF STEEL!!! RUNNING!!! WHERE’S THE DOG?? I CAN’T RUN TO SAVE MY LIFE…BLAH BLAH WAAH BLAAHAA HAAA AND SHE’S IN PEARLS! WHO WEARS PEARLS WHEN THEY WORKOUT?? MOLLLLLYYYYY…. BLLAHAAAHA HAAAAA….LALALALAAAA.

Molly sighs and just stops. She removes her headphones, puts up her hands: PLEASE. PLEASE STOP. TALKING.

Neighbor, taken aback a bit: What’s the matter?

Molly thinking “I barely know you so shut the eff up”: I’m just in a different place, I’m sort of low these days, not depressed, just grieving a bit…

Neighbor, throws her hands up to her mouth and gasps like Frances McDormand in “Raising Arizona” upon her first sight of the abducted quintuplet… : HUH??!… OMIGAAAD. GRIEVING!? ! WHAT’S WRONG??

Molly explains what she’s dealing with and it being her first day out; no running since and out and about, no dog to buffer her, just going for it… and the neighbor’s friend sighs and touches Molly’s shoulder but the neighbor is now upset.

Neighbor: OH! OH! MOLLY!!!! MOLLLLLLLYYYY!!!!! I’M SO SORRY! WELL ISN’T THAT JUST LIKE ME… I’M GREAT UNTIL YOU GET TO KNOW ME THEN I CAN’T SHUT MY MOUTH….

Neighbor starts tearing up and Molly is clearly vexed: “No. not another one… please don’t make me take care of YOU now… ” but she managed to recover the situation and talked rationally a bit about it all… when in her heart, Molly just wanted to say, “I can’t really do this right now,” and then turn her music back on and go running away. AWAY. Super fast.

. . .

It’s that kind of shit, Mom, that makes me nuts. And it’s not her fault, I mean, how was she to know? As I said to a friend in an email today about it all,

there is no way to know what i’m going through; there’s no mantilla to wear or sackcloth. for modern American living, those days are over, but grieving is not antiquated, it just feels that way because of the pace of this world, but i find solace that i’m not alone, ever in this sensation and that people the world over are doing EXACTLY what i’m doing right now — be it fresh news or ancient news. there is always someone dying and someone else doing what they can to process and not get lost in it all. at least that’s what i’m trying to do.

But really, I’m not here to take care of her.

Me? I’m largely OK these days. I go up and down. I became really anxious for a few days last week; jumping and jittery. I got very sad last night because I knew you wouldn’t be calling me. I dreamed about the Buffalo house again. Really, Mom?!

I asked Dad if he wanted to go to lunch today, but he emailed me and told me he couldn’t because he had plans. So I’m good with that. But then he called because he realized it was my birthday so he switches plans around and invited me to go to lunch with him and a colleague I’ve never met at the Occidental Grill downtown and I’m imMEDIATely saying “No” to that. I can’t do that. I gently declined. He pressed. He said my going would help him with parking and driving in and I just can’t so then my gentle decline became a firm decline. I want to stay in my jeans or yoga pants and no contacts and not drive to the city and so… sorry Dad.

But then the wheels start turning and I begin to think that in the total space of harsh reality when dealing with life and grief and the brutality of death, that no matter HOW much we think we’re going to transform into self-actualized, stellar people who all of a sudden have achieved a new sense of authenticity, vulnerability, empathy, altruism and kindness, that at the end of the day: we don’t. It’s not that we’re evil or complacent or afraid — it’s just that we’re being real with ourselves, I think.

Maybe our souls aren’t ready or done. I think we’re allowing ourselves to evolve as much as is comfortable or planned. I’m no Buddha or Jesus. I’m just me: flawed, insecure, a little panicky these days truth be told, but I’m alive and taking notes and adjusting.

I’ve been reading a book, In the Midst of Winter, which is an anthology on grief and it’s been terribly helpful. I laughed a little when I saw that one of my favorite excerpts is by James Agee, one of your favorite modern (20th century) writers and playwrights. The excerpt is from A Death in the Family which published posthumously. In it, the widow of her recently deceased spouse is getting dressed for her late husband’s funeral. I piqued at reading it because it reminded me of how I felt when I was doing the same for you almost three weeks ago. How that I was putting on a new dress on my body for your body’s “last day” above ground. I still have the tags from that dress. I couldn’t throw them away that day.

Agee writes how that through this experience this widow had somehow felt more a part of the human race, more evolved and that having children was just some sort of apprenticeship. And I think about that; how true it was and then I reflected on you: that you had literally almost done it all, but that God spared you from the final one. You buried your son, your parents, your grandparents, your favorite aunts and uncles, a nephew, and friends but not your husband; he will be the one who has now buried all the levels that life has blessed him with.

You had guts, Mom. I think about your woes, the God-awful stuff you experienced as a child with your unique parents, being a young woman in the 1950s, being a young mother in the 1960s and putting up with all that sexism and bullshit and yours and Dad’s weird friends in the 1970s. And how even in your own way, you were able to keep going. So then I think about your heart. Your heart was fine. It was just your time.

You have prepared me for this. I know it. Despite our biggest arguments and our worst moments you did the most amazing job: you mothered me. You got me here.

I wanted to tell you about the faceless chicken and how we selected your gravesite and the truly odd undertaker and his wife, but this letter is long.

Today is my birthday. The day you said I reminded you of a wrestler, a limbed tongue because I was so mighty and strong. The day you said “yes, please” to me.

Thanks, Mom. I’ll miss your phone call.