The Day of 1000 Tears

That was maybe a little melodramatic.  I mean, maybe there were only 500 tears.

If you haven't noticed from reading this little blog, I am a little bit into my dog.  A few weeks after Charlie was born, I was talking to Matt about how I didn't feel that overwhelming gushy love for him yet--that I loved Charlie, of course, but didn't have that heart swelling goofy love yet.  "I love him like I love you," I told Matt, to which he replied, "So you love Charlie the way you love me, but you don't love either of us the way you love Mitch?"  Yeah, kind of.

That sounds awful, doesn't it?  Shoot.  I think that I probably love them all equally, but Mitch and I are soulmates.  Plus, Mitch is like 99% positive.  He greets me at the door when I get home, he drops his furbody into the crook of my knees when we're on the couch.  He sings songs with me and eats yogurt dots with me and licks the tears off my face when I'm crying.

Oh, the crying.  I've been a little bit of a hot mess ever since I found out my Mitch needed surgery.  And it wasn't really because I feared the surgery, but it was more because I know how much he gets stressed out at the vet, and it broke my heart to think of him in some cold metal kennel without me, how he wouldn't know what was going on.  The dog is neurotic and a big weenie anyway--I mean, he cowers when you close the lid of his treat jar too loudly.

And then I did a very stupid thing and started looking up his little tumor thing online and got myself all scared and nervous about what this could mean.  Even though I know that he'll probably be fine, and I know that the vet seemed to think this was pretty routine, I didn't do a very good job of keeping my mind from going places I shouldn't let it go.

So there were some tears.

And then I got up this morning and dropped off my baby dog at the vet, and there were more tears.

And then I came home and told Matt about dropping my baby dog off at the vet, and there were more tears.

And then I got it together, went to work for 2 hours (dream work day), came home and called the vet to see how the surgery had gone.  The vet put me on hold, and this was the song that was playing as their on-hold music.



Are you f'ing kidding me?  That was the song I used to listen to when I was in high school and wanted to cry.  Great.  Also, vet, don't let that song come on ever again.

So, duh, more tears.

And then Matt tried to cheer me up by having me look at these 21 Pictures That Will Restore Your Faith in Humanity.  He said they'd cheered him up earlier.  And they were quite heartwarming, but in a sad happy kind of way.  Like, the second one was about Japanese senior citizens who volunteered to go into the nuclear plant so that young people wouldn't expose themselves to radiation.

Cue the waterworks.

So Matt showed me this commercial.



More tears.

And then Matt had to call the vet to check on Mitch because I was too much of a mess.

Mitch was fine, but groggy.  More tears.   This time just because.

So while until the time that I could go get him, we watched part of the HBO documentary about George H.W. Bush.  What part did we catch?  Oh, just the part about how his 4-year old daughter died from leukemia.  Jesus H. Christ!

Finally, I got to go get my pup, and when they brought him out he was wobbly and pitiful.  He immediately plopped down on the floor and his vision must've been fuzzy because he didn't really respond to me at first, but then after about minute he smelled me and stood up and his tail started wagging and he seemed happier.  Still the most pitiful thing you've ever seen, with his light whimpers and lampshade and watery eyes.  He was crying, too!

I told you were are soulmates!

I'm so grateful that I have time off work to spend at home with my sweet furbaby, and the 10 days that he'll have to wear his cone collar can't go by fast enough.

Please send him your love and happiest of thoughts!

The Godfather

About a month ago, Matt's godfather, Gary, passed away.  It was incredibly sad to lose someone like him, not just because we adored him or because we know that we'll never see him again or hear him tell jokes or receive emails from him with scanned comic strips and random words in all capitals, but because without him, the world is just not as good.  I'm hesitant to even write this because I know that there aren't words to accurately convey just how awesome Gary was.  

                                    

Gary didn't want a funeral, so this past weekend we headed down to Ft. Lauderdale to attend his celebration of life party.  During this party, people from Gary's life spoke about him, about his sense of adventure, selflessness, and his incredible passion for helping others.  As the host would list Gary's accomplishments (which, by the way, earned him recognition from the U.S. Congress and countless other agencies), I began to wonder how one guy could possibly do so much.  Gary never mentioned all of his volunteer efforts or the funds he set up for different causes when we were hanging out with him eating brownies.  In fact, during those times, he seemed primarily concerned with us, with what was going on in our lives, with our jobs, our families.  

He was mischievous, kind, cheap, ambitious, humble, and generous.  He was a lover of baked goods and a packrat and a genius.  Gary dedicated his life to making other people's lives better, and I've never known anyone who was a better citizen than he was.

And now, knowing all that Gary did and how many people he helped, I feel like a complete lazy do-nothing.

 We're really going to miss Gary, and need to get moving if we're going to be even 1/10 as amazing as he was.

Long Time No Talk.

Hey there.  Sorry you haven't heard much from us lately.  On Tuesday we got the sad news that some of our best friends here are moving far far away, and very soon, and it's been just a little bit heartbreaking for me.  Add that to that the fact that the most exciting or interesting thing I've done all week has been to replace a faucet, and you might be thanking me that I haven't been cluttering up the interwebs with my sad, cranky, dull self all week.

I'm at the point now where I can talk about them moving without crying, and we're going on vacation soon, and I've been trying to find things to do (read: to eat) that are comforting.

So here's what's brought me joy this week.

That dog and that husband hurt my heart--in a good way. 

Fancy little notebook for my purse and a Pilot Precise V Rolling Ball pen to match.  Also, Mexican food. 

Watching a friend with giant cojones do stand-up comedy. 

 Back in the Day Bakery key lime bar and bacon jam.  Now if that doesn't make you happy, nothing will.

 Lizard butt.

Watermelon juice.  F yeah!

Five more pounds of peaches.  I will try not to eat them all in one sitting.

Not pictured: watching the series finale of Friday Night Lights (I love Coach Taylor with my whole being!), boxed wine, Cassie, sassy little kids who will make you cry by saying things like "I drew you this picture so that you would have something to remember us when we move," yoga pants, down comforters, Pinterest, Parks & Recreation, phone chats with my nearest and dearest, and hot dogs.  And Alexia fries.  And ketchup.  We're classy like that.

Weekend

This weekend was my first one off since I quit my second job a couple of weeks ago.  (Did I mention that I quit waiting tables?  Oh yeah, I did, and it is nothing short of incredible to have two full days off each weekend.)

And how did I spend it?  In the kitchen, of course.

See, my students have their big end of the year test tomorrow, and in an effort to bribe them (in addition to a full week of test prep and a year of harping on them about things like subject/verb agreement and what a simile is) to study and do well on their test, I made them some goodies.  Some pretty darned tasty goodies, if I do say so myself.  

So Saturday was all about kitchen bitchin', as Grandma Carol says.  It was both wonderful and exhausting. 

 

Dishes, and more dishes, and more dishes.

Sunday started off in a similar vein, and then I got some very sad, very hard news from a friend--the kind of news that makes you want to just hug your Matt and your Mitch a little tighter (the kind of news that meant that for much of the rest of the night, Mitch would be licking tears off of my face).  

I'm struggling to be enthusiastic or excited about stuff right now, but I think, sometimes, that during these  times when your heart feels so heavy, it's even more important than ever to soak up and reflect upon all of the lovely things about life.  And there are so many, aren't there?

Like good friends.

And dogs.

And ice cream.

And crazy sisters.

And cozy beds.

And wine.

And hydrangeas.

And Wendy's spicy chicken sandwiches.

And Matts.

And math jokes.

Grandpa Cheney

This weekend, Matt’s Grandpa Cheney passed away. He was a lovely man who was dedicated to and loved his family. He had an almost child-like appreciation for the world around him, and he took nothing for granted. Grandpa Cheney was a man who brought joy to the lives of those around him.


And all of that seems so cliché, and doesn’t convey at all how wonderful, or sweet, or charming this man was.

So I’ll tell you one story about him. Grandpa Cheney was also dedicated to the lottery. He played the same numbers every day for years and years. And Grandma Cheney would scoff, believing his lottery play to be a waste. And then, one day, Grandpa Cheney won. He won a handsome prize, and split it with his wife, children, and grandchildren. For the years after his win, Grandpa Cheney continued to play, loving that his wife could no longer lecture him about how nobody ever wins the lottery. The next time he won, he’d tell us, he was keeping it all for himself.

It’s sad to imagine a world without Grandpa Cheney in it. But since we don't really have a choice about that, I suppose the best way to remember him is to adopt his attitude toward life: to appreciate everything we have, to take nothing for granted, and to live our lives to bring joy to others.  Oh, and we should probably start playing the lottery. . .

Long Time No Talk. . .

Well, hello there, party people. Sorry about the week-long absence. Life's been pretty tough for our family lately, but here we are with our heads poking out on the other side. Last time I was on here I was bound and determined that nothing would break my stride. Well, let's just say that the stride was broken like a sombitch. Shoot.

Matt had been out of town (which I didn't tell you about before just in case you are a murderer who would then decide that--since my strapping protector husband was gone--it was high time for some murderin'), and I learned the hard way that I'm just no good at being by myself for long periods of time.* Even Mitch missed him.

But Matt's back, and although there are still some very sad circumstances that are out of our control, and some very annoying circumstances that are out of our control, we're doing better. It's been nice returning to our awesome, albeit boring, routine.

Cue the triumphant Forrest Gump music!



You didn't miss too much in the last week. I spent too many hours grading essays, waiting tables, and being otherwise pitiful. I was abandoned by Matt's car not just once but twice. I may or may not have witnessed a gas station robbery. I ate too much fast food and drank too much wine--so much wine, in fact, that I may have accidentally fallen into some curtains and pulled them down from the window. Oops. I filed the mail for the first time since this happened. And I started our taxes.

Exciting, huh? Try not to get too carried away with jealousy.

Actually, look at today's weather forecast for the SAV, and then you can be overcome with envy.

So, yeah. Things sucked there for a while, and I apologize for the absence. But short weeks and happy times lie ahead of us, and I can't wait to share those with you. I've missed y'all.**



*Judge away. I've spent days beating myself up about not actually being the strong, independent, "I don't need a man" kind of gal I've always fancied myself to be. Twenty-year old Mandy kind of hates twenty-nine year Mandy, but it doesn't really matter. Twenty-year old Mandy was a terrible cook, so take that!


**Twenty-year old Mandy also judges present-day Mandy for her use of y'all. Twenty-year old Mandy is such a bitch!

Blah.

You know that saying, "If you don't have anything nice to say, then don't say anything at all"?  Well, I kind of half-way subscribe to that.  I mean, I'll be the first one to rant about Teen Mom, and I love to gripe and complain about stuff.  Who doesn't, really?

But I've noticed on other blogs and Facebook (oh, the evil Facebook), that when all people do is bitch and moan, I begin to lose interest and/or judge them more and have to fight off the temptation to be all, "Shut up with your whinin' and complainin'!"  So I have a little rule for myself on Facebook and the ole bliggity blog, which is that I have to have an 8:1 ratio of positive stuff to negative stuff.  (Yes, I did pull out the thesaurus for this post.)  I don't want to be phony or misrepresent our life or anything, but I don't think people come here to read passages where I act like a little baby not getting her way.

That said, this has been a pretty sucky week.  Work has sucked, lots of home stuff has sucked, the weather has sucked, and I'm tired and cranky and sad and kind of sick but not sick enough to call into work.  And life is sucking even more for many of those close to me, which is extra super sucky* and just makes me more sad (and more annoyed with myself for being so down about my own small problems).  I've been in the mood for the last couple of days where I just want to find the most sad movie that I can, and I want to get a loaf of sourdough French bread and a plate of cookies and a box of wine, and I just want to sit and cry until I can't cry anymore so that hopefully it'll be out of my system and I can get over it already.

But there's work to do and papers to grade and houses to clean and taxes to file, so I need to soldier on for a couple of more days.  And if I'm still feeling like a whiny baby, then I'll go watch Blue Valentine or that rabbit movie where Nicole Kidman loses her kid and I'll ugly cry until I'm out of tears.  But you probably won't hear about that.  Unless I can find eight happy things to tell you about first.

So, you'll hear from me when I poke my head out of the other side of this mess.  In the meantime, I'll leave you with something delicious, an oldie but a goodie, the Perfect Chocolate Chip Cookie.** 

*Apparently it's not a very good thesaurus.

**There's one.  Now I just need seven more happy things.

Grandad in Trappe

Today my family lost its patriarch.

Grandad in Trappe was my Grandma Gail's dad, my mom's grandfather, my great-grandfather. He was kind and loving, proud of his family, generous, and had been hard of hearing for as long as I can remember. He was a veteran of WWII, a father to six, grandfather to about 75, great grandfather to about 1000, and a great great grandfather to even more.

He liked to tell goofy jokes. He carved wooden ducks. He painted. He lived his entire life on his family's farm in Trappe, Maryland. He would complain about my great grandmother's cooking to make the kids think the food was gross, just so that he could have more.

[five generations picture from my wedding]

Grandad in Trappe (in our family we identify grandparents by where they live) married my great grandmother Jean when she was 14, because she had lied to him and told him she was 18. They were married for over fifty years. Almost everyone in my family was at her bedside when she died. She'd had lung cancer and had been suffering, and Grandad had left the house to go to the store. She started to breathe heavily and it seemed that she didn't have long, but Grandad still wasn't there. Grandmom held on until he returned home, and gave her a kiss. And then she let go, and was gone. Theirs was a powerful display of love.

Several years after Grandmom's death, after he'd learned to cook and clean and do laundry on his own, Grandad reunited with a friend from childhood, Doris. He and Doris had both married and raised large families, but then lost their spouses. They reconnected, fell in love, and got married. It was the cutest wedding, until my crazy Aunt Donna gave him Viagra samples as a gift. Grandad laughed and laughed, making us all believe the pills wouldn't go to waste.

Grandad was 87 years old. He lived a full life and made others happier when he was around. He made it a point to talk to or see every member of his family before he died, and it's comforting to know that he's no longer in pain.

Ours is a large, loud, obnoxious family of shit-talkers. We gripe about each other and fight and gossip and aren't afraid to say when we don't like someone or something. But I don't think I've ever heard anyone speak badly about Grandad. He was just that sweet a man.

We will miss him.

Goodbye, Johnny Castle.

When I was in the second grade, my friends and I would play a game we called "Roomies," a more mature variation of house. We would pick out our boyfriends/husbands--selected on a first-come, first-served basis--create a conflict ("Okay, now you just found out that your boyfriend is cheating, and. . ."), and then drama would ensue.

The most sought-after boyfriend/husband? Patrick Swayze. Yes, this was during the time when Dirty Dancing was at the height of its popularity, when it was on HBO approximately 17 times per day. It was around then that People chose him as the sexiest man alive, and my friends and I concurred. It was a bit of a fight to get Patrick as your man.

My friend Sloan, who in hindsight was a bit of a bitch, always managed to call him first. And in the event that I managed to call him first, she would tell me that I couldn't have him because she always had him. Why was I friends with that girl?

Sloan's bitchiness caused me to pick an alternate, a Mr. Tom Cruise. (Tom and I were actually an item up until a couple of years ago, when he really amped up the crazy, causing me to dump him.) While I realized that there were, indeed, other handsome fellows out there, Patrick Swayze always held a special place in my heart.

Johnny Castle was my real first crush. He was so sexy, and so vulnerable, and such a good dancer! When I was seven years old, most of the adult themes of Dirty Dancing--arguably the greatest film of ALL TIME--flew over my head. But I did know a few things: Johnny was SO hot, Baby was cool, Lisa and Robbie were stupid, Johnny wasn't the one who got Penny in trouble (even though I didn't completely grasp the enormity of "in trouble"), and dancing was awesome.

I wasn't actually allowed to watch Dirty Dancing. Pfffft. Yeah, okay. Like that would work. I think that during that period of my life I would only become friends with girls who had HBO, girls whose parents either didn't care what we watched, or were seldom home. I had to get my fix.

And get my fix I have. I've seen the movie approximately 752 times. I could recite it to you right now. I quote it almost daily. Dirty Dancing has become part of my psyche, though somehow I still lack the ability to dance. F-ing Baptist school!

Johnny Castle, in all his sexiness with jumping off stages and jumping over porch railings to beat up assholes, in his amazing singing, in the way he squinted his eyes and mouthed the words "and I owe it all to you" to Baby during the final dance number, was the first man I lusted after. He was like the wind, through my tree. . .

I, along every girl my age, will miss you Mr. Patrick Swayze.

In Memory

"The work begins anew. The hope rises again. And the dream lives on."

Rest in peace, Senator.

Farewell, Friends!

Above: New Year's 2008

Our good friends Cassie and Hugh moved away yesterday, and I'm even more sad about it than I thought I would be. Even though they're only moving 2.5 hours away, and Cassie will be in town once a week for work, I am really bummed.

For the last two+ years, Cassie and Hugh have been our closest friends in Savannah. They lived only five streets away, and we spent almost every Friday night (and many a Monday, Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday night as well) hanging out with them, talking, eating, and boozin'.

I think that what's making me so sad is the knowledge that they're no longer right here, that I won't be able to pick up the phone and have instant company at Mexican or at Blowin' Smoke, and that the spontaneity of our friendship is gone. (Or so they think: I'll be showing up at their new house randomly for wine and chili cheese dogs.)

One thing that I love about Cassie and Hugh is that they are really in love. They have mutual adoration for each other, but not in an annoying way. Whether it is a glance, or just the way they talk about each other, or a handwritten note on the refrigerator, it is always clear that they love each other and that they feel like they're better when they're with each other.

I first met Hugh at school, on my very first day of teaching. Hugh and I slowly became friends, and after a few months I knew that he was super cool--even friend-quality cool. Hugh (along with many others) helped to guide me through the hell that was my first year of teaching.

Hugh is one of the smartest people I know. He is currently leaving a career of being a kickass English teacher to go to medical school. He's seems to be good at everything, from painting a room to giving advice to running. (Occasionally Mitch and I would see Hugh at the park when we were on a walk/jog. While we got around the perimeter of the park just once, Hugh would lap us approximately 12 times.)

During those months when I only knew Hugh, he would often mention Cassie. I learned several things about her: she likes Bert's Bees, she wouldn't let him pick out his clothes for the first day of school by himself, she is an amazing cook, she wanted a dog. Even though he always spoke positively about her, I had no idea how cool she'd turn out to be.

The first time I met Cassie was at the Shipley's Superbowl party. What I didn't know was that Cassie was more nervous than she had let on and had consumed an entire bottle of wine in about 40 minutes. I didn't know she was drunk. So when she made a comment about something called a "hanging uterus," I didn't know that it was out of character. It was at that "hanging uterus" (an odd remedy for gastrointestinal issues) moment that I decided that Cassie was cool. Months later when I brought it up, she was horrified to learned that she had shared such embarrassing information.

Cassie is a great friend. She's loyal, she's funny, she's just the right amount of bitchy. She's thoughtful, she gives great advice, and she's the best cook I know in real life.

She's also threatened to steal my son and rename him Smitch.

Many of my Savannah friends have moved on in the six years that Matt and I have lived here. This time is especially painful because I'm losing not one but two friends. Cassie and Hugh will be sorely missed, and our Savannah family will not be the same without them. Sad face.