Writing is so much cheaper than therapy, and you can drink while you do it!

Writing is so much cheaper than therapy, and you can drink while you do it!

Thursday, July 11, 2013


Death.  It's such a final word. The end. No more. Game's up, no more time outs or do-overs.  Inertia undone. Hmmmm.
The law of inertia states that it is the tendency of an object to resist a change in motion.  Newton's first law of motion: an object not subject to any net external force moves at a constant velocity. Thus an object will continue moving at its current velocity until some force causes its speed or direction to change.  Gravity, friction, contact, or some other source. 
Death? Bingo.
But perhaps death is just another form of inertia. It has a constant velocity. Once something is dead...it's dead.
Unless it's a zombie.

But I digress.
Death as an object. An obstacle.  It's an obstacle of life, certainly, with its own character and meaning. A vehicle to what lies beyond the physical state -- a blueshift of consciousness towards the hereafter, a red shift of life to un-life. Matter and energy.

Energy cannot be created or destroyed, but it can be saved in various forms. 
In all energy exchanges, if no energy enters or leaves the system, the potential energy of the state will always be less than that of the initial state.

Uh-oh...Thermodynamics, and I'm not sure I want to open that can of worms.

Yeah. I'm using that damned physics degree to get all metaphysical and whatevs. Money well spent, eh?

I'd like to talk about Larry. 
Who is Larry? 
Both of us. 

It's complicated, but that's our name. A title bestowed upon both of us during a warm summer day and a drunken quest to find our guru. We found the guru, a tiki bar owner suitable as a stand-in, but realized that we (Larry and I, Larryx2) each were a guru to the other.  We were Larry. 

Who was my Larry?
My friend. My brother (chosen family). Part of my heart. He is (technically was) my best friend. He knew what I was thinking from just the look on my face. He knew when I was sad, he knew when I was feeling evil and rallied to help me purge the wicked -- a great provider of alibis and assistance. 
A musical sounding board. A brilliant musician and purveyor of all things awesome. He was there when I met my husband. He approved...mostly. Me falling in love meant that the inseparable Larry Duo of Legend would change. But he loved my DH because I loved my DH, and because Darling Hubby is awesome. He'd have to be. And he is. So Larry loved him as much as I did.

And yes, as you've probably surmised from the first part of this blog, my Larry died.
Suddenly. Unexpectedly. He had his very own singularity. His aorta went super nova and now I'm dwelling in the event horizon of the burgeoning black hole of loss. 

Deep, eh?
I don't do death well. Nope. Not at all. Shite, who does? Dying people do. But they kind of don't have a say in it really. They just clock in to the new job, heads down, backs bent, and head on in. 
Gallows humour is my constant sidekick. My comfort zone. Unfortunately I've been living in that comfort zone a little too much lately -- my sister, then my mom...now my beloved Larry. 
But please don't stop reading. This isn't a sad blog. I won't EMO you away from your day. (hhhmmm...that rhymed) 

But it's my humour that keeps me moving. Keeps me upright when all I want to do is collapse in a bundle of tears and loss and sadness.

Damn it...I wandered again. This post is about Larry and saying goodbye.  I'm still working on that. In HE MAN world they never say goodbye, they say GOOD JOURNEY.

yeah, baby. Track 5.

Where the feck did that come from? 

I got the call that Larry had suffered an aortic aneurysm and that he was in surgery. But I knew...too much damned edjumacayshun for my own good...that he was gone.  I steadied myself for what was coming. Others begged and pleaded with the universe, buoyed themselves with hope, and I just sat quietly knowing what was coming. I hated myself for that. I wished that I could be the friend who was optimistic. The one who had faith. In truth I was numb. 
It wasn't fair. 
In three weeks he was coming home to me here, leaving Georgia behind to start a new life. I had his one way ticket. It was a done deal. This wasn't supposed to happen. 

Memorial tattoo. Twelve hours after he died.

It was a quick funeral. He died on a Saturday and was to be buried on a Tuesday. 
Gallows slip: I commented that things don't keep in the heat of the summer in the south.  Too soon? Probably. But Larry would have laughed.
I made the journey alone to his funeral. I had to. It wasn't a journey for my children to take even though they loved Uncle Larry. And DH's heart was breaking for Larry loss as well. But he stayed with the wee babes so I could make the good journey. Not a goodbye, but a good journey.

I kept updating my FB page...just to feel connected:

So far an interesting day: wasn't paying attention and sat down next to a Little Person and asked for a light. Be proud of me. I didn't scream. And then I chipped a tooth trying to close my purse zipper with my teeth. Lovely. Larry...this is how much I love you going through all this for you. — at Portland International Airport.
In my grief, I was distracted. I can't believe it. The horror, the horror. And she kept chatting at me as I sat there, unable to move. I'm a terrible person.

So I'm in the hotel in Atlanta. Oh boy.
The one prerequisite I gave the agent was NO HAIR IN THE BATHTUB.
She assured me this was a newer hotel and clean.
Checked in.
Oh my.
The fabulous desk clerk is a ray of sunshine. Just a doll. Needs to move to Portland, though.
The hotel? Oh dear.
Two hairs in the bathtub and I'm afraid to look under the bed. And I think the ice machine moved when I walked by...I know it growled.
I've become such a spoiled, pampered princess.

This place was disgusting. Dirt caked everywhere, a strange dripping noise coming from my closet, and odd smudged fingerprints on the door jambs and light covers. Made me think it was recent crime scene. I slept in my clothes on top of the covers, with a towel on the pillow case to avoid head lice. Yeah...it was that bad. The night clerk was a preop male to female -- she was beautiful, but had a deep masculine voice. Made me instantly homesick for Portland. 

Good morning.
In the light of day this hotel has a different face. Still slightly grubby and worn, but not as horror inducing as in the wee hours of the morning. The staff are kind and warm, and the sun is shining.
Today is going to be very difficult, so it's the accumulation of the little kindnesses that will help me get through the day.
It's a two hour, twenty-one minute drive to Tennille. I'm dreading every second of it because with each passing mile and each passing second I come closer to saying goodbye.
Trips like this serve more purpose than just closure -- self reflection and prioritization of the important things. That's the crux. Life is for the living.

The staff helped me get ready for the funeral. Every terror from the night before disappeared with the kindnesses offered. Hugs from perfect strangers go a long way to reviving a fire in your heart.

When I was driving through rural Georgia I had a few oooooh moments where I recognized scenery from The Walking Dead. Disconcerting to say the least.
I was quite sure I was going to run into Rick or Michonne at any moment and worried how much of a damage deposit I'd have to pay on the rental car if I rammed a zombie.
Deep thoughts. You can imagine what was going through my head at the cemetery. 

My poor Larry is lying in a box and all I can think is, "Please don't wake up...don't make me shoot you in the brain."

Not one of my finer moments.  
But I probably wouldn't shoot him in the brain.  It would suck to lose him twice.

Through this trip I got closure. Mostly. I recently told a friend that there is no time limit on grief. I should listen to my own advice.  I'm still hurting. I'm still raw in places. My heart has a hard time beating sometimes. Motivation is idle. But I need to get moving again. I have to. Life is for the living.
That's life. And death. Inertia and entropy. Thermodynamics and religious gobbledygook. 

Jason McNally Smith, my beautiful Larry, I love you. I've got to start being me again, though. 
Save a seat for me in Valhalla. It will be a while, but I'll get there eventually.



Tuesday, July 9, 2013

Today was a refresher course on parental sleep deprivation. Therefore I am not bringing my "A" game to this post....

I'm in a bit of a time crunch because of my self-imposed writing deadline of July 10 for Ariana Burns. What the bloody hell was I thinking? Hmmm? Huh? I let my procrastinator's guilt do the typing when I made that pledge. Remember: I'm not a writer, I'm a mommy who plays a writer on TV.

I didn't sleep well on Saturday night because of the child sprawl in the bed. You've seen the memes. If not, look upon the madness!

 We have myself, then Luna (3.5), then Solas (8), and then my darling hubby.  That's four attempted sleepers in a deluxe hippie monkey bed -- A magnificent California king with an added twin extra long.
Solas has her own room...her own bed...and her own plan on sleepy time domination. This attachment parenting is %^%%&^&$%#*((*&.
I mean it's great

Plus, we've hit a milestone, folks. Youngest monkette is now AFRAID OF THE DARK.
Even though my house is lit up rather like an airfield because of the millionty-fifty night lights (dream lights x 2, an overhead on low dim in the reading nook, the bathroom light, the AC green light, the clock radio, and of course the MOTHER SHIP) already blazing,

my little Luna will not, I REPEAT WILL NOT, cooperate and close her eyes for sleepy-time-night-night.  So last night after 45 minutes of cajoling, begging, threatening, repeated spotlight searches and reassurances that the room was monster free (which is rather hard for me because I am a horror writer! I always want to quiz her: what kind of monster do you think it is? Hmmm?), she finally passed out.
ummm, could you please go back into the closet until Luna goes to sleep? Your bones are rattling too much underneath the bed. And stop playing nick-nack-paddy-wack/take-five on your ribs. It's disconcerting.
That's when I made a break for it.  I stayed up until 3:30 am, madly typing away, out on the back deck. Yay for me!!!!
Okay. I'll come clean. I also watched Drop Dead Diva. Don't judge me. I like that show. I also watched Dexter.   And then a documentary on Monty Python.  But I did also write!

I decided it was time for bed and made the trek up to the confines of our airfield ablaze bedroom only to find that Luna had crossed the bed and had my darling hubby pinned against the wall.

Dilemma time. Should I wake him? Or skulk into bed and revel in the space and freedom of my side?
I'm a bad person. I just got into bed. cackle™ I knew Monday would be an evil bitch, and I knew I needed sleep.  Desperate times, my friends.
But DH woke up and proceeded to sigh and fidget and make all kinds of uncomfortable/why-is-this-happening-to-me?/someone-help-me! noises, through which I couldn't sleep!!!! Sheesh. Argh! COME ON!!!!! At 4:15 he got out of bed and went downstairs. Ha!
Oops. I mean: Sorry, babe.
But I passed out within seconds.

Now because it's summer vacay, the kids have started sleeping in. GLORIOUS! I counted on that to save my bacon and let me get at least five hours of sleep.

Did that happen?  DID IT?

Sad monkey. Look at those tears. This photo was Kevi's idea. Thanks, Kevi.


Luna woke up at 6:15.  Six. Fifteen. AND WOULD NOT GO BACK TO SLEEP!!!!!!!!

But that's what happens when I write. The second I get the bug, a little ripple starts in the aether, the universe cackles madly, and then sets out with the crazy making waves!!!!

I used this analogy today:
The universe seems to do this when I take a dip in the writing pool. The universe steals my clothes, throws my shoes in the water, and makes sure everyone comes to watch me stroll down the street with a tree branch shielding my naughty bits in the front and a bin lid over me arse as I make my way home.

Today was not a good day. Nope. Not at all.  It's days like this that earn your stripes in the battle. It's also days like this where you sit and question every parenting moment you have. Was I a good parent today? Well, the kids got fed. Yes! Powdered donuts and Gatorade count. And so do popsicles. And chocolate milk. And sun chips. 

And I had coffee. So much coffee. That's probably why now, cruising on only two hours sleep, I'm up writing this fecking blog. I tried to sleep. I really did. Luna even pulled the same routine as the last two nights! But she was so tired she passed out!  I dozed. 
But then Solas started fidgeting.  I may have to apologize to her in the morning (today).  I was less-than-kind.  But then she passed out.
And then Darling Hubby, my soul mate, the LOVE OF MY LIFE, started snoring. 
Yes, honey. I'm outing you. But really only monkey pic seekers, Russian bloggers, and friends who already know that you snore read this blog.  

So here I am. Back in the car again.  Yay me. In this exhaustion twilight I'm doing a little introspection, self-analysis, coffee stain rorschach.  

It has been pointed out, on one more than one occasion, that I am quite sarcastic.



I dispense nuggets of witty, gallows observations, general amusing bitchery, and tids and tads of snark without even a second thought.

Personally I find that my particular brand of sunshine and kisses is the pot of gold, balm-for-the-soul at the bottom of the lucky charms rainbow.

 Maybe it's just for the chorus of weirdos residing inside my head.


Is it my fault that there are sooooo many golden opportunities presented by life in general to make my observations? I'm tired. I'm a mom. I have no filter. 

To the woman in the queue at the supermarket who wasn't amused by my comment about the correlation between soy milk consumption,  naturally occurring estrogen, and moustached women -- You shouldn't have put that face waxing kit next to your soy milk and then glared at my pile of meat products and filthy children in my cart.

To the toque wearing, Life-Aquatic-Steve-Zissou-wannabe,  recycling logo t-shirt-clad hispter-D-bag who tripped on the curb while flicking your cigarette butt into the gutter --  yeah...I got nothin'. Yes, I did laugh at you. Laughed and even rolled down the window so you could hear. You just had yerself an irony moment there. 

If only folks knew how often I BITE MY TONGUE.  Perhaps I just suffer from Bitchy resting face.

(That's a link! A link! A LINK! Go there, Now! Click the link!) le sigh.

But at least I'm writing again.

UPDATE: The monkettes slept until 9 today. Of course they did.