Sure, the cough and the Kathleen Turner-esque tone of voice remain (oh, who am I kidding? I still sound like a squirrel who swallowed a cactus), but the color is back in my face and I can honestly say I don’t wake up in the morning wishing someone would bundle me in a blanket, deposit me gently on the couch (SOFA), and bring me clear fluids.
Then again…
NEVER MIND! IT’S TIME FOR A LOVE LIST!
Today’s love list is going to be dedicated to counting the blessings in my life, since I have spent the last two months typing out some variation on MEH or FEH BLEH or MENEH here at my wee blog. It’s time to move on and push forward and look around and twinkle at things as best I can.
As always feel free to share your own love list in my comments or at your blog. Actually, you can do whatever you want at your blog because it’s YOUR FREAKIN’ BLOG.
THINGS I LOVE AND AM BLESSED BY
My parents, who show up randomly after I’m done work to take me places I need/want to go
New leaves on the trees
Words
Music that makes me feel more alive
New friends that make me laugh
Old friends that make me laugh
Sunshine!
Faith
Getting well
Being able to smell things again
Antibiotics
American boys
Learning to stop running myself down
A place to share what I feel about things, and what’s going on in my life
Clean water, which becomes REALLY special sometimes
Days where my pants don’t get soaked on the way to work
My roommate, Catherine, who shows me unconditional love and likes to clean as much as I do
Access to good, healthy, fresh food, even when it costs approximately $1K per heirloom tomato (GO WHOLE FOODS GO)
Color and light
Accountability
Wisdom
Wit
Grace
Patience
Forgiveness
Being challenged to write better
Other peoples’ babies and children growing up in amazing and beautiful ways
Enough money to give to others when they need it… not something that was always possible
Living in a home that is safe, warm and comfortable — deck door open, fireplace on! Woohoo!
Knowing what you want
Knowing what you need
Knowing the difference between want and need
Watching my friends parent with such dedication
Big amazing possibilities that make you eeeeeeeeeee with joy
Love
Also, a dear friend of mine and their family are facing a really tough, scary situation right now, and could use a little help. If you have the perpetual couple bucks rattling around in your PayPal account, I’d love to share some support with them. If not, no worries, of course — I certainly don’t have a right to ask, and I can’t provide you with any more details than that.
I’m helping as best I can, too. And I’ve definitely appreciated your support here for the single moms’ camp, for breast cancer research, for other friends’ blog projects/charities they love, and for other friends in need. I love the idea of a few people giving a little to make a big difference.
Just click here.
I should say that right off the bat, lest you take the rest of what I might say here personally.
I honestly do.
When you and I come together and it’s right and good and awesome, I find it nearly impossible to let you go.
Unfortunately, we don’t do that very often.
And when I say not very often, I mean hardly ever.
And when I say hardly ever, I mean rarely.
And when I say rarely, I mean… I’m tired.
I can lie in bed for hours yawning, but you sit just out of reach like an angry cat left alone with a dish of kibble all day.
I can refrain from looking at my laptop and throw my alarm clock into the deep blue sea, but you shrug and stare into space and make noncommital conversation about indie bands.
I can slow my thoughts down and breathe in time and say goodnight to my toes one by one, but I know full well that you won’t snuggle in for the spoon anytime soon.
You will do what you will do.
And until you do it with me, I’ll walk around like an affable zombie, making endearing spelling mistakes and tripping over air.
So what do I want?
What I want from you is a commitment. The assurance that you will come and stay. The knowledge that when I need you, you will be there.
But you are the ultimate casual dater, keeping your options and my eyes open until it seems like the dark blue sky of dawn might come and make me cry.
This is kind of a different Choose Ye… usually I ask you to choose the thing YOU like best. I like making people choose things. This is clear. Although I always invite you to choose coffee first, above all else.
But this time around, I’m making Choose Ye MegCentric in honor of the fact that I am recently maximum-aged and in possession of more mileage than a Pinto. Seriously. Old. Like milk in the fridge of a frat house. Like the Acropolis. Like your FAVOURITE PAIR OF SWEATPANTS WITH THE ODD STAINS AND GIANT HOLES.
It’s more of a guessing game, really, and you’re at a better advantage if you’ve spent much time talking to me, if you are psychic, or if you read my blog as often as my parents do. Which is often. In fact, they may be the only people reading it. Just at MANY MANY COMPUTERS.
It’s really nothing relevant or earthshaking or all that interesting, which I think makes it PERFECT FOR MY BLOG.
And it definitely won’t have any impact on the primaries.
But, without further ado, guess… which would *I* choose?
Latte or Americano?
Spa or DIY girl?
Chicken or Fish?
Phone or text?
Clooney or Pitt?
Audi or BMW?
Man in suit or man in football uniform?
Vanilla or chocolate?
East coast or West coast?
Shower or bath?
Lemon or lime?
Handbag or backpack?
Men who drive standard or men who drive trucks?
Pink or Red?
Beef ribs or pork ribs?
Sleeping in or going to bed early?
Sweatpants or yoga pants?
Rice or pasta?
City or country?
Oreo or Chocolate Chip?
Hockey or baseball?
Thai or Indian takeout?
Strong, silent type or social butterfly?
California or Oregon?
Rain or snow?
Sweater or sweatshirt?
Potato salad or coleslaw?
Magazine or novel?
Pita or naan?
Beach or desert?
Modern or antique?
And you can answer them for yourself instead, if you like…
And it’s not like anyone was waiting with TRULY bated breath, but I do feel badly that I’ve:
a) concerned people who EXPECT ME TO KEEP MY PROMISES, DAMMIT
b) missed commemorating a major moment in my life in a timely fashion
c) left anyone with the impression that I went on some supernova bender
d) caused my Dad to hit refresh endlessly for two days without any payoff
I DID turn 34 successfully. Seriously. It happened. Go me!
And no, no true wildness, though we did cheer for a truckful of firemen and I did have to fend off a drunken man who was far too interested in my… well… parts.
It was a chill day overall, complete with the gift of a dozen roses from someone entirely amazing, a Hydradermie Facial from my lovely friend Catherine, and a great dinner out with Cat and Ash. I really wanted to keep everything small this year, and Cat gave me my wish, although she did ask up to the afternoon before if I was regretting that we weren’t doing a party.
Nope.
(The facial was amazing, by the way… they used buzzing machines and rollerballs and 6,237 different lotions and a gauzy masque and 18 towels and odd-smelling moisturizers and potentially a palm sander.
Seriously, though — one of the machines I HAD TO HOLD A GROUNDING ROD TO AVOID ELECTROCUTION. A GROUNDING ROD.
I don’t even know what that is, but I held it, lest my face get shocked off.)
Today I got to see my parents, who gifted me with candy from my favourite candy store in Cannon Beach, OR, SIX BUNCHES OF TULIPS, some other fun treats that made us all laugh, and a HANDBAG (white, good hardware, lots of pockets.
Because they understand me. And that I have things I need to carry about, none of which is a small dog or a Glock.
I should also note that, the day before, I got flowers and cake and happy cards from my lovely coworkers, and the unintentional gift of an hour-early departure due to bitumen fumes overtaking my floor.
Awesome!
Now it’s time to head to bed before another work week. I think I have to go to the doctor for yet another inflamed/injured/angry/unresolvedly bitter body part, and I am also getting my eyebrows ripped off.
Partly. By an expert.
Look for my more thoughtful take on 34 tomorrow, when I’ve given said parts a chance to rest up, and my brain can focus on meaningful ideas.
So it’s coming on two years since I started taking you for my autoimmune disorder, and though I know you do all sorts of good things…
… well, YOU SUCK. LIKE A FREAKIN’ DYSON ON A DATE WITH ANOTHER DYSON IN A WIND TUNNEL.
Most of the time, granted, you do your thing without interfering too much. But when you get in the mood, you turn my body into a science fiction novel.
However.
I can deal with the fact that I never experienced PMS until my early thirties. It’s like gaining an annoying friend who I only have to talk to a week out of each month.
I can deal with hot flashes. They give me nice color, kind of like a scorching, blistering sunburn from being trapped on a desert island.
I can deal with migraines, nausea, hives… you name it. Though not all at once, please. And no locusts. That’s too biblical for my tastes.
What I can’t really deal with is that you’re the thing I have to blame it all on.
Hormones are supposed to be good when you’re a single girl of 33! The very idea of hormones is pure Cosmo fodder!
You’re supposed to feel them raging! Be inspired by them to do naughty things! Slip them on like Manolos! Toss them about like beads at Mardi Gras!
Not take them daily to avoid getting cancer or diabetes or osteoporosis. Killjoy.
It’s like putting on a cocktail dress to sit down and knit for a few hours, perhaps while beating yourself about the head with a porcupine figurine.
I’m tired of you guys not being the FUN kind of hormones.
(more evidence I was never meant to be a pro photog…)
This post took a while to get to, huh?
I am playing the sick card, because my lungs are still awash with grossness like a leaky basement. Complete with a rusty tricycle lodged near my bronchioles.
BUT.
For those of you playing along at home, you’ve heard the tales of our arduous journey to the North, and our blissful, yet icy time in the Snow Chapel watching Sean and Carey get hitched.
After all that, we had a reception. Or they did. I just went to it. And spoke at it. And danced at it.
But before I say anything else, I have to tell you about the thing that happened at said reception that has never happened before.
My parents? They danced.
Dude.
Now, a lot of you may have immediately jumped to the conclusion that there’s some sort of sinister reason my parents don’t dance. Perhaps you’ve referenced the fact that my dad is a minister and tied this reality to the classically Baptist disdain for booty shaking.
In fact, many Baptists fear the booty shaking so deeply that the old adage “dancing leads to sex” is reversed… because it’s way worse to be caught doing the watusi in some den of iniquity than to get knocked up in the back of a Chev.
Okay, not really, but I love that paragraph.
My parents’ friends dance. My parents’ children dance. In fact, their parents dance. It’s not an issue for them. It’s just that my mom can’t even really clap and sing at the same time, and my dad (although a musician with a great sense of rhythm) doesn’t enjoy dancing at all.
However — regardless of her lack of skillz — at my brother’s wedding, my mom was going to have to do the “mother-son” dance. This filled her with great trepidation — not enough trepidation to refuse the honour, mind you, but some trepidation.
What’s amazing, though, is that this led to a group obsession with getting my father to dance, as well. It took his sister, my Auntie Gwen, to finally get him out there, and eventually he danced with like, four different people.
Including (excuse the blurry, it’s like trying to capture the Loch Ness Monster on film) my mom:
Wow.
Just saying.
You’d have to know them to know how major that is.
They didn’t even have dancing at their own wedding.
(No, Mom, I wasn’t actually comparing you to “Nessie”… just accentuating the rarity, you know?)
What this means to me REALLY, however, is that my dad can no longer in good conscience duck the “father-daughter” dance at MY wedding. YOU’RE SCREWED, BUDDY.
Anyway, back to the reception.
It was held in Elks’ Hall, which is the most Canadian place you could have your wedding reception besides, say, a hockey arena. It was gussied up with pretty paper lanterns and pretty people, and ended up a lovely spot to spend a few special hours.
The food was fabulous, the company was great, and the DJ was even pretty damn good.
Also?
There were pipers, courtesty of Carey, who knows my brother loves them more than most things in life (even Star Trek and his iPod and novels about soldiers):
Also?
There was this guy totally shaking it in a pink shirt:
I have no idea why I love that photo so much, but I was actually trying to take a picture of something else and he just danced right on into it. Brilliant.
Also?
I learned YET AGAIN never to speak after either of my parents in speaking publicly ANYWHERE because they will MAKE ME CRY and then my usual steely composure is shot before I even hit the microphone. This time, I have my mother to thank for being a trembly, emo mess giving a toast to her son right before I went to welcome Carey to the family.
However, I did still manage to welcome her with a Top Ten list that I wrote using the “Notes” function I got with my iPod Touch software upgrade.
(I think that’s the most embarrassing sentence I’ve ever written. Gah.)
Unfortunately, when I’d lose myself into teary trembletude for a second, the Auto Lock function on the Touch would activate, and I’d have to use my shaky hands to get back to my “Notes” screen.
(No, I was wrong. THAT is the most embarrassing sentence I’ve ever written.)
I won’t print the Top Ten list here, because that was just for Carey. Suffice it to say, I warned her about the kooky clan she was walking into sufficiently, while at the same time letting her know we’d love her pretty much forever.
Because we will.
The same way we love my brother, who is one of the most kind, open, funny, special men you could ever hope to meet. And also a closet dancer, since he chose this moment in time to do pretty much this same routine to this same song:
And he did it WELL.
We all laughed until we couldn’t breathe… and his bride was sufficiently charmed.
The rest of the reception was unbelievably fun — I’ve never seen more people up and dancing for that long at a wedding before, and I’VE BEEN TO A FRICKLOAD OF WEDDINGS. Sean and Carey’s friends REALLY know how to move, and all my (biological and time-earned) Aunts and Uncles have some notable twinkletoes as well.
Even I — though I knew no one, and was not a fan of my heels at that point — got out there and did what I do when good music is playing.
Eventually I was in (the shameful yet Nothern-approved combo of) my Uggs and my little black dress, because I wasn’t DONE WORKING IT even as my toes screamed I HATE YOU I HATE YOU! I’m the one in my family who LOVES to dance, after all.
It was really the ideal night. Everyone said so, and keeps saying so. Which is everything you could hope for from your wedding reception.
But here’s the important thing in all of this:
My brother is happy.
And that’s what matters to me.
So, to him:
You and I don’t always agree on everything, and that’s fine, even when we aim to step on the other’s last nerve and push buttons that are thirty years old or more. We spend enough time making one another laugh to make up for all of that.
We are also the best kids anyone ever took on road trips, the best-behaved PKs in any pew in any church anywhere, and the single silliest pair of siblings anyone ever sat down to Sunday dinner with. All in all, a good brother-sister act.
You remain a consistent blessing in my life that no one else could have been, or ever will be. My only brother. My protector. My friend.
It was always my hope that you would meet someone who understood you and valued you and loved you for exactly the man you are, and you found that in Carey. She’s lovely and unique and amazing and everything a man could hope to find in a wife.
I’m really proud of your choice, and her choice.
Most of all, it does my soul whole worlds of good to see what I saw in your eyes that weekend… that sense of peace and hope and joy that comes with following your heart.
I mean, I don’t put the top of the bottle to my nose and inhale, but there’s something about the fragrance of a recently bleached surface that just says CLEAN. Oh, and GERM-FREE. Oh, and did I mention CLEAN?
I couldn’t sleep in this morning (the cough lingers, and maybe I am getting old?) so I hopped out of bed and started washing and polishing my house to a lovely OCD shine. And bleach got involved. And it was good.
But.
I didn’t get a chance to do my Friday Love List, so I figured I would do a Saturday Morning Love List in honor of bleach, the sunshine outside, the coffee perched on my lap, and everything else in life that is good and right.
Please feel free to share your own loves in comments or at your own sites. Spread the love!
THINGS I LOVE, RANDOMLY AND WITHOUT THEME
Bleach (you totally saw that one coming)
Bright mornings (ditto)
Coffee (now I’m just being annoying)
Farewells for dear friends who I can still see anytime I like
Hot wings
Our new vacuum
This song:
The blossoms coming out on our front tree
Kindness
This film:
Laughter that can’t be contained
Large eyes
Witty people who sparkle just a little
Jalepeno peppers
Edible-looking babies
A bit of redecorating
Being forgiven
Boys who drive standard
Looking at watches but never buying
Folding laundry
The promise of summer lurking in a high-sun sky
Iced tea, unsweetened
Everyone else’s sunglasses
Bare feet on green grass
Fresh bangs:
British real estate programs
Good intentions that give way to good actions
Interpretive dances by the photocopier
Antihistamines
Hugs
Plans
Lemon slices
Having the produce guy at Whole Foods compliment me on my choice of tomato
Imagining
Elvis Costello’s glasses. Also? Ira Glass’s glasses.
Old ladies laughing at Starbucks
You.
