Archives for posts with tag: chick lit
I write the most amazing, thought provoking crap while I’m lying in bed and can’t sleep. Do I get up and write it down so I won’t forget it? Of course not. Instead I fool myself into thinking it will remain in my memory for the few hours of darkness and I’ll jump out of bed and write it out, word for word, once the sun comes up. And after I’ve let the dogs out and fed them. And straightened up the kitchen, gone to the gym, had coffee at Starbucks, worked, run errands and whatever else I do before I think, “Crap, I forgot what I wrote in my head last night, and dammit, it was good.”
You’d think I’d remember that I don’t remember and actually write it down, but clearly that’s asking too much. Probably it’s not nearly as fantastic as I think it is anyway. I’m sure it’s a tired attempt at the most, but it sure seems good in the haze of sleeplessness.
I haven’t worked much on my book lately. The first draft is done, and I’ve got eight chapters of the final draft rewritten, but I’ve taken a well needed break. The plan was to have it all done and ready for editing in October. Of 2012, but that isn’t an option anymore. Instead, my goal is to finish it by March. Editing services are not cheap and I’ve got other expenses before I pay someone to tell me I suck at writing so March it is. I’ve been writing for work a lot lately and it seems to stifle my muse so the break was needed.
Even though I’m not working on Unfinished Business, I have been reading what others write, and what they think about writing, and mostly, about how they write. I’m glad to see I’m not any different than most. Sometimes I can write like a crazy person and it’s good and other times I can’t get a word on the screen to save my life. Most of the time I find my best writing is while I’m driving and can’t do anything about it. I do record some of it, but then I have to listen to it and type it and I…hate…that… Hate it. Who wants to retype their own dictation? It’s like listening to nails on a chalkboard for me. I listen and think, “Who the hell is that person talking and why can’t she say something interesting?”
I mentioned this to my husband and because he’s pretty darn wonderful, he got me that Dragon software. It allow me to talk and record and then it magically types it out. HOW COOL IS THAT? I’m hoping it works on my Mac. If not, I’m going to go through a form of depression. Planning to install it once the boy is back in school and my house is mine again.
I’m looking forward to writing more. I miss it, and it’s time.
Chapter Two
“Honey, it’s time to wake up.” My husband, Jake, shook me gently. “We have to go to the funeral home. Come on, your brothers will be there soon. Wake up.” He shook me a little harder.
I sat up. “Where’s Ma?”
He looked at me, his expression a mix of sadness and compassion. “I know this is hard but it’s going to be okay,” he hugged me, and it felt good, comforting. I let him hold me a little longer, and then I remembered the night before.
“No,” I told him, pulling away, and rubbing the sleep fog from my eyes. “Ma. She was here. Last night. I know she’s dead, but she was here. I saw her.” I grab his shoulders, trying to show him how serious I am, and whisper, “she told me she’s a ghost.”
He looked at me, and all of the sadness and compassion flew right out the dining room window. Jake is a fantabulous husband, and supports me in ways that often try his patience, but to see the gray area of what he considers to be only black and white, is asking too much. Fantabulous and all, he has his limits.
“Ang, it wasn’t Fran. It was a dream. I’ve read that that kind of stuff happens. People dream about the person who died and think it’s real.” He made a small attempt at comforting coos, but they just sounded like our cat before she died.
I push away from him, and get up. “Stop it. You sound like a sick cat, and I need coffee.” My mind barely works without a good night’s sleep, but without coffee, even the simplest conversations are practically impossible. Besides, now is not the time to get into a debate about the hereafter. I walk to the kitchen to pour myself a cup of coffee, and say a silent thank you to Jake for making a pot. I’d say it out loud but I’m a little miffed at him for discounting my ghostly experience.
Jake was kind enough to get our two kids, Emily and Josh, off to school without waking me. I feel a sense of relief at not having to deal with them this morning, then feel a little guilty because of it. They left me a handmade card near the coffeepot, knowing I’d be sure to see it there. It has red hearts and sad faces drawn all over the front, most likely by Josh, because he draws eyes with eyelashes. The inside of it reads, “We’re sorry for your loss. We loved Grandma and miss her.”
They weren’t here last night. I knew it was Ma’s last day, and Jake and I didn’t want them to see her die, so we made arrangements for them to spend the evening with friends. Jake picked them up last night after the hearse left. I lacked the energy and courage to talk to them, so Jake asked them to give me some alone time.
The card is sweet, and I get a lump in my throat just reading it, even though I’m sure they’ll never work for Hallmark.
“What time is it?” I ask, and then look at the clock. “It’s 10 AM. What the – we have to be at the funeral home at 11:15.” I finished pouring my coffee, took a huge gulp, and cursed myself as it burned my throat, then rushed upstairs to get ready.
—
We arrive at the funeral home just before 11:15. My long blond hair is pulled into a ponytail, since I didn’t have time to style it and I don’t have on an ounce of make up. I’m dressed like a typical soccer mom heading to a yoga class. Normally I wouldn’t go to an appointment like this, but considering the fact that my mother just died, I don’t really give a crap.
We walk in through the front doors, into a sitting area I’m sure ismeant to seem comforting and inviting, but instead feels like a grandparents family room. The couch is a ridiculously huge, 20 years outdated, 1980’s floral print of mauve and grey, flanked with humongous pillows in matching solid colors. There are two matching and equally uncomfortable looking chairs, and ugly, ornate tables that don’t match, intermixed with the seating. A few magazines and tissue boxes sit on the tables. I grab a couple tissues just in case I need them later. Overhead, they’re playing soft music, and I’m sure they think it makes someone in my position feel better; but mostly it’s just annoying.
Carnations in various colors sit in vases on stands around the lobby, attacking my nasal passages like an old women drenched in White Diamonds perfume. I instantly feel a headache coming on from the sensory overload. The entire room smacks of old people, but I guess it should since it’s really mostly old people who die. Jake crinkles his nose at the smells, too. We both move quickly as we follow the signs to the assistant funeral director’s office. I silence my cell phone, knowing my best friend, Gen will probably be texting me any minute. I’d talked to her after Ma passed, but haven’t yet this morning and I’m sure she’s worried about me.
Before Ma died, we talked about what she wanted and I promised her I’d honor her requests. They were simple. She wanted to be cremated and buried with my grandparents in Chicago. Since we’re in the suburbs of Atlanta, we’ll have her body cremated here and the rest we’ll handle on our own.
My brothers, John and Paul, are already in the Funeral Director’s office. There is a spread of coffee and its fixings set out on the conference table, and I make a beeline for it. I’d have an IV of caffeine inserted into my wrist if it were socially acceptable. Actually, forget socially acceptable. I’d do it even if it weren’t. Coffee for me is like sex to a 20 year old man, never too much, and never too often.
My oldest brother John, lives near by, and was with Ma and I when she passed. Paul lives in Indiana and didn’t make it here in time. He was on a business trip and couldn’t get a flight here. I can see the angst and regret on his face. I say hi, hug both of them, and blink to stop any surprise tears.
“Ma wanted to be cremated and buried with her parents,” I tell the assistant funeral director, a short, squatty man, with a bad comb-over and a blue paisley tie that doesn’t quite fit over a mid-section that rivals Santa’s.
“Yes, your brothers told me,” says Comb-over. “It is our policy to return the remains to the loved ones for proper burial if our services are not being used.”
We all nod in agreement, and then Paul asks Comb-over if he can see our mother before she’s cremated.
Comb-over gives us what must be his really sympathetic face, and says, “Oh, no. No. I’m sorry. It’s against our policy to allow family back into the crematorium. You understand.”
Paul nods in agreement.
Seriously?
“Excuse me,” I say. “My brother wasn’t able to see our mom before she died. He lives out of state and couldn’t get here, so I’m sure you can make an exception.”
Jake smirks in my direction, liking my passive aggressive technique, and I give him a quick smile.
“Well,” Comb-over says, back peddling. I’ll see what I can do.” He gives us what is obviously his, I am not making enough money for this job, face, and excuses himself, closing the door behind him. A chill fills the air, and I hug my arms to my chest.
My brothers look at me. “Well, it’s a stupid rule and someone had to call him on it.”
“Thanks,” Paul says.
I smile at him and then see my mother floating behind him, smiling.
“You’re such a good girl. I knew you loved your brother,” she says.
“Uh, I guess I do.”
Paul looks at me. “You guess you do, what?”
Well, crap. For a brief second I consider saying, sorry I was talking to the ghost of our mother, who is, by the way, floating behind you, but instead go with, “Sorry, I was just thinking out loud.” Probably now isn’t a good time to tell my brothers I’m seeing ghosts. Probably there will never be a good time.
Paul starts to say something again, but Comb-over walks back in. The man may be a fashion nightmare, but his timing is impeccable. He coughs lightly and straightens his tie. “We don’t normally allow anyone into the crematorium, but given the circumstances, we’ll make an exception.”
We. Uh huh. We, as in the big boss, I bet. I smile my, I won smile, and thank him. Comb-over explains that since our mother is being cremated, they don’t prepare her body as they would for a traditional burial. I assume that means she’s not made up and nod my understanding. He walks to open the closed door behind my brothers and walks right through my mother.
She shudders. “Oh, Madone, that was creepy.”
I look at the wall and ignore her.
Through the doorway I can see my mother lying on a gurney, the one that’s not floating in the room with me, that is. I look back and forth between the horizontal Ma and the floating Ma. This is all a little confusing. First I had one Ma, and then she died. Now I have a dead Ma and a ghost Ma. If they both start talking to me, I’m getting up and driving myself straight to the loony bin. I stand up quickly, shake off the crazy, and say, “Ah, Paul, you can go first.” And he does.
We all say our goodbyes to my mother. I can’t hear their private whispered words, but I can hear Ma responding. Not the Ma lying on the gurney, the ghost one. As I said, it’s confusing. Like the loud Italian woman she was in life, her raspy, I’ve-had-one-thousand-too-many-cigarettes, voice envelops the room, for me at least, since apparently I’m the only one who can hear her. “Oh Pauly, it’s okay. I’m not mad that you weren’t here. Don’t be upset. It’s okay.”
I always knew he was her favorite.
Paul and I haven’t always had the smoothest of relationships. In fact, as a child he wanted me dead. No, really. He pushed me in front of slow moving cars a few times, but thankfully I wasn’t hurt. Highly embarrassed from peeing in my Granimals, but much to his frustration, still alive. Angst and sibling rivalry aside, my heart aches for him now. The guilt of not being there when Ma passed will haunt him forever, and I can’t help but wonder if that would be easier than being haunted by her ghost.
—
An hour later, the four of us are having coffee at Starbucks. Before we left the funeral home, Paul asked Comb-over to let us know when Ma’s body was cremated. I’d prefer not to know, but everyone handles death differently.
We’re discussing the arrangements of her burial when I get the call. Comb-over tells me they’ve started, and as I nod to Jake and my brothers, a heavy sadness fills the air.
I disconnect from the call and say, “Okay. When should we go to Chicago?”
“That’s a good question,” John, the over thinker of us siblings, says. “I’ll call the cemetery later today and find out if we can bury mom with Grandma and Grandpa. If they won’t let us, we’ll have to figure out what else to do. I was thinking maybe we could each take a portion of her remains and do something with our kids to honor her.”
Oh, no. No, no, no. That is not going to happen. I promised Ma I’d do this for her and I’ll be damned if I don’t. Especially since she’s haunting me. There is no way I’m going to spend the rest of my waking days with the ghost of my mother pissed off because we didn’t honor her final wish. No way.
“It’s okay,” I blurt out before Paul can agree. “Ma was worried about the same thing, so we called the cemetery a few weeks ago and found out that it’s fine.” I take a quick breath, hoping God won’t strike me dead for lying.
“They told me that as long as we’re not getting a stone, the plots are ours to do with as we please. Except for digging up our grandparents, that is.” I quickly look out at the sky, but still no lightening. Phew.
My brothers nod and say, “Okay.”
What’s wrong with a few little lies? This is what Ma wanted and eventually I’ll tell them the truth, once she’s buried and we’re on our way home, or maybe next year. What’s the saying? Ask for forgiveness, not permission. That’s what I’ll do, eventually.
I offer to make the memorial arrangements even though we all know they’d have asked me to do it anyway.
“I already called Roxanne, who said she’d make the rounds of calls and since the funeral home here said they would put the obituary in the Chicago papers, that’s covered. Does the weekend after next work? This gives us all time to plan accordingly.”
“I don’t see a problem with that, but I’ll have to check with Elizabeth and see what her schedule is,” John says.
Jake nods in agreement, not looking up from his iPhone.
Paul nods his agreement too, and says, “Let’s go through all of our pictures of Mom. I can make a video with music, and we can show it at her memorial.”
We all agree that’s a great idea, make plans to confirm the date over email by tonight, and my brothers leave. Jake and I share the same addiction to the warm, smooth taste of coffee, and get refills before we head home, too.
First, it’s important to note that I am not a doctor, nor am I an expert on menopause.
I am a just-over-the-hump-of-middle-age, if I live to be over 90, wife and mother. So while I’m not an expert at anything, I’m actually an expert at everything. I never know what I’m talking about, yet I’m always right. I have ESP. Things I say will happen, do happen, and I’m proud to admit, “I told you so,” is my favorite saying. I can find anything lost, misplaced or hidden, in seconds flat. The eyes in the back of my head can detect poor manners at the kitchen table through thousands of dollars worth of hair product, and I can smell a fresh pile of dog poop three floors down, while sleeping, through a closed door, with a Glade Plug In in the room.
I can cook a four-course meal while simultaneously cleaning the house, wrapping holiday gifts and getting glam, and not bat a fake eyelash.
I am superwoman.
I cannot however, stop myself from tearing up when I see a picture of a puppy. Or a moose.
I’m not sure why a moose chokes me up, but it does, and I bet the next time you happen upon a moose, you’ll get choked up too.
Because menopause is contagious.
This I know for a fact.
The other day while sitting in Starbucks, critiquing all of the women standing in line, because admit it, that’s what women do, including you, I felt a hair tickle my chin, and while brushing it away, I noticed it stuck. Okay, so it wasn’t actually stuck, more like attached, but the point is, it was there, and it had to go.
It’s not like I haven’t had a random hair growing, at lightning speed, on my chin before, that’s not the issue.
All women have hormonal hair. It’s not a big deal usually. Once a month we feel the prickle of a whisker, rub it repeatedly because we either want to force it out, or are in shock that it’s growing out of us, you pick. Eventually we get to a place, like our bathroom, where we can tweeze it out, star at it and think to ourselves how freaking huge it is and revel in the fact that it was ATTACHED TO OUR FACE. Once a month, since sometime in our twenties we’ve done that. Once a month. Except that I’d just had my hormonal hair a two days before. So yeah, I was a little freaked. Two hormonal hairs in one week isn’t the norm and I wanted that thing gone, and quick.
I gently and inconspicuously pulled at the hair, yanking it out in one swift jerk. Actually, in retrospect, I may have screamed in panic as I grabbed the hair with a finger and a thumb and yanked full throttle. Either way, that little MF’er was gone. After examining it and tearing up over the thick, coarse blackness of it, I quickly flicked it into the seat next to me, and tried to pretend the horrific incident was just a bad dream.
My friend happened to come over at that time, and noticing the look of horror on my face, was truly concerned.
“What’s wrong,” asked concerned friend (whom, by the way, I did not criticize in the line because she’s my friend and I only criticize friends when they look like they’ve lost weight).
“I just pulled the biggest freaking black hair out of my chin,” I told her.
“Oh, no biggie. It’s a hormonal hair. I get them once a month,” she innocently replied.
“I just had one the other day,” I shuddered at the thought, and might have said a little too loudly, too.
Concerned friend tilted her head and looked at me like a confused dog, and then slowly, face ashen, eyes wide, she reached a hand up to her chin.
And felt it.
“Holy shit,” she said. “I have one too, and I had my period last week.”
Yup, menopause is contagious.
And multiple hormonal hairs are just the beginning.
A Writing Woman 