Life

Dear Dad,

/ Love, M / Leave a comment

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5 years and 2 days ago, the idea that you wouldn’t be here anymore was unfathomable.

5 years and 1 day ago, I kissed you goodnight and whispered that if you needed to, it was okay to let go.

5 years ago, you did.

Grief is not something that you just deal with, or cure, or resolve.

When you are not done loving, grief lives inside of you forever.

I was not done loving you.

After 5 months, grief is still expected. It shows. Your smile is forced. Your eyes are tired. Your face, older. Your posture, defeated.

After 5 years, grief – somehow feeling less justified – turns you into the master of restraint. Grief becomes soundless screams into pillows and silently crying yourself to sleep. Hiding tears behind sunglasses when certain songs come on. Deep, muted breaths while you stare at the ceiling during tough movie scenes. Using the shower as a disguise for the kind of emotion you can’t choke back.

But after 5 years I am still just as angry as I was the day you told me that this time, it was terminal.

Some things, you can’t ever accept. Some things, I don’t think we’re meant to.

Last year I walked down the aisle to the love of my life, without you – my first love – on my arm.

Instead of cracking corny jokes and sneaking appetizers before cocktail hour, you were framed in pictures on a table.

I had to write you a love letter on the back of our programs, instead of you writing us a toast.

Instead of sitting front row, grinning wide with teary-eyes, there was one empty seat and we all bowed our heads in a moment of silence.

And I was taken by complete surprise when after the first dance ended, your brothers stepped onto the floor and each took turns dancing with me in tribute to you.

This is not how it was supposed to go.

I was not done loving you.

But we did it anyways.

And it was magical.

We all laughed and we cried and we danced and we ate.

And you would’ve loved every second of it.

 

 

Love,

M.

 

 

 

 

@tennisonweddingfilms

www.tennisonweddings.com

The Feins Go (Mid)West

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Six months ago, I moved to Wisconsin.

Er, WE. We moved.

I moved with my husband.

HUS-BAND!

(I got married?!?)

Yea, I didn’t leave him 51 days after our wedding – we moved together.

There’s no way we could split up the kids.

Also I love him.

But Wisconsin. Who does that, right? Seattle to Wisconsin. Cheese, brats, humidity, Packers dontchaknow, Wisconsin.

You know who moves to Wisconsin from Seattle? Pretty much anyone who doesn’t have a job at Amazon or Microsoft, that’s who.

Thanks, Jeff Bezos.

But really, we headed east because Jon went to school in Madison, and it had been a goal of ours for a long time to end up there and be real-life season-ticket-holding Wisconsin Badgers fan’s.

We were ready to trade “Starbucks on every corner!!,” for “Starbucks on every other corner!!,” and after we got back from our honeymoon, I guess it just seemed like as good a time as any to keep making huge life changes, so we took the leap.

Or maybe the thought of going back to the exact same job and routine that we had pre-wedding and pre-honeymoon was just so unbearable that packing up our entire life and moving thousands of miles away seemed like the only logical thing to do.

Either way.

So we drove across the country with about 4 possessions because of course our SUV was on it’s last legs right on the cusp of our cross-country road-trip, forcing us to have no choice but to fit all of our necessities into a sedan. We packed the two of us and our two pups in the car with as much as we could fit in our little trunk which is, NEWSFLASH: not much. As we are now pro’s at this, let me tell you what you can pack on a road trip with 2 dogs and 2 humans in a small car: 1 air mattress, 2 pillows, 1 coffee maker, and 3 pairs of underwear.

4, if you wear two pairs at once.

It was SO tight that I didn’t even bring all my makeup. You guys. I entrusted the moving company with my entire (and fabulous) makeup collection. These guys, who probably have never even HEARD of Sephora, let alone step foot into that magical kingdom. These guys, who definitely don’t know how invaluable a beauty blender can be, or how long I waited for Charlotte Tilbury’s Pillow Talk lipstick to be restocked – THE AGONY!!

That’s right –  I only packed the very basics and you know what? I feel liberated. I am a bra-burning, liberated woman now. Honestly though can we have another bra-burning moment because I hate bras and I know you do, too. The only women who like them are 14 year old girls going bananas over getting a training bra.

Not that I have graduated out of a training bra yet but that’s neither here nor there.

And besides, that’s what having babies is for right? I’m sure there are other reasons to have babies, but finally filling out your shirts is the main one, no???

I wish I had some hilarious road-trip stories of not being able to get to a rest area in time, or one of the dogs terrorizing a hotel room, but it was honestly pretty smooth-sailing. Of course we want our dogs to behave (and they do most of some of the time), but when a chance like this came along to really make some funny and lasting memories, they actually DID behave, and way too well. I mean, they really made us look like we knew what we were doing!

Ugh. Parenting is hard.

Taylor Swift’s album came out right before we left, and I’m still waiting for my ‘Wife Of The Year’ trophy to arrive since I listened to it non-stop BUT WITH MY EARBUDS ON, lest my dear spouse be tortured to death by nasally melodies about boys who done her wrong. (I love her and I hate her and I love to hate her). My husband, on the other hand, loves listening to sports radio, so even if I really hated Taylor Swift, I think listening to her album is still better than the alternative.

I feel like I know enough about sports to know that I don’t need to know anything sports radio is gonna tell me, you know what I mean?

I think the craziest thing that happened on our road-trip was having the epiphany in a Best Western that the best Indian food you’ll ever eat is found in the state of South Dakota. I don’t think this opinion has anything to do with us being near-death starving, pounding curry on a hotel futon and thanking any godly beings up there listening for making curry vegan.

We finally arrived at our new digs, but with zero things to furnish our house or cook with, and no real idea of when the movers would arrive. I was tasked with going to Target for “necessities.”  Naturally, I bought a giant cactus painting and a fake Christmas tree. Apparently necessities are more along the lines of “food,” and “toilet paper.”

I am nothing if not practical.

Thankfully my husband hasn’t fully caught on to the fact that I cannot be trusted alone in stores that sell home decor, clothing, animals, makeup – okay any store with any product really –  and so that is reason #379 that my husband is the best husband.

I can make a list later of all 379 reasons but for now I’ll just mention that they include his bacon-making skills (which we no longer put to use but it scored major points way back when) and also he picks up all the dog poop in the yard. Never did I think this would be such a turn-on, but having a husband who picks up the dog poop is a kind of sexy that I never knew I needed.

After several more trips to acquire the “actual” necessities, we stood in the middle of our empty house, with no real clue of what to do next.

For 14 days and 14 nights, we ate, drank, slept, played board games and watched Netflix on an air mattress, fantasizing about box springs and Tempurpedics.

You would think that on that 15th day, seeing that giant moving truck finally pull around the corner and onto our street would induce overwhelming emotion at the mere thought of sleeping on an actual bed that night.

The truth is that all I was really worried about was wether or not my makeup had survived the journey.

It survived.

1,989 miles, 6 states, 5 dog parks, 13 gas stations, 87 potty breaks and several tumbleweeds later:

We are midwesterners.

The Feins went (mid)west.

 

Love,

M

 

Band of Misfits

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I recently had a client come in who hadn’t been waxed for six months due to birthing a human out of her lady parts.

Very legit excuse for not having me rip hair off of said parts.

She brought her baby in with her, which was a super cute situation except for the part where I was thinking about how I was going to have a six month old baby girl watch me drizzle hot wax all over her birth place.

And also that I’m 103% more comfortable being around an alien life form than with a small, helpless human.

(Aren’t they kind of the same thing though? Let’s be honest.)

I really do like babies, don’t get me wrong.

But honestly. I am just literally the worst at it.

(You grow out of that, right?)

I’ve watched plenty of my friends get the baby fever/virus/plague and turn into a sappy puddle of goop whenever one is within five miles radius, but whenever one is put into my arms I more or less develop rigormortis and paranoia.

And whoever said babies don’t smell fear is a dirty liar because they most definitely start crying as soon as I touch them, and in the rare case that they don’t, it’s because they were slipped some Benadryl.

Or whiskey.

Either way.

Anyway, the baby who I was about to give a wax show to started screaming bloody murder right before I went in to do the service.

Of course she did.

Fortunately, (and miraculously), the screaming wasn’t my fault, as the mom had accidentally punched her baby.

IN THE FACE.

That’s normal, right?

Because I will totally do that.

At least once a week every day.

Sorry in advance, little one.

So speaking of me being a super great mother someday:

We had a baby!!

…”bought” a baby.

Well, a dog, technically.

A baby dog.

Also called a puppy.

Okay we rescued a puppy.

WE RESCUED A PUPPY!!!

The most adorable pup in the entire universe.

Not that I’m biased.

TELL me this is not the cutest little bundle of snuggles you’ve ever seen.

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Tell me.

Don’t actually tell me. I will cut you.

World, meet Sawyer.

Can we just talk about his eyelashes for a second?

Please notice how they butterfly literally 2 inches out from his eyelids.

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Ladies, is this not the cat-eye we all dream of having???

Is puppy eyelash envy a thing because I kind of hate him for it.

…okay but I’m also the mom that goes, “YASS BITCH my (fur)baby is a model” every time someone dies over how adorable he is.

He’s super well behaved except for the part where he’s constantly nibbling whatever human body part is closest to him at the time, jumping over our fence to chase birds, cats, the UPS guy, etc., and chewing up all of my undies.

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It’s always the lacy ones.

He’s got good taste, what can I say.

In our defense, we did get a shock collar recently to stop all the madness except that we soon realized our pup is a superhero when he jumped the fence this morning and was shocked repeatedly on full force for about five minutes with absolutely zero affect, while my saint of a boyfriend ran around the neighborhood trying to catch him.

But I guess it also could have been that, (helpful hint here, guys), the shock collar works a little better when you TURN IT ON.

You’re welcome.

….Okay but other than that he’s super well behaved.

(Extreme cuteness counts for something too, right?)

Sawyer’s favorite things include tummy scratches, decapitating (stuffed) animals, licking off my makeup (super convenient, actually), and eating cat poop.

….and the Wisconsin Badgers.

Obviously.

(Go Bucky)

His least favorite things include birds, bicyclists, leashes, and his brother, Marble.

….and Duke.

Obviously.

Now, I don’t want to be the mom who keeps posting a zillion pictures of her baby, because THEY ALL LOOK THE SAME (but omg he’s totally winking at me in this one!!!), so instead I’ll just leave a video of him getting slapped by Marble.

That’s entertainment.

And speaking of Marble, here’s a video of him slapping ME.

Also entertaining.

FYI the slap sound IS real and my neck 100% looked like I was attacked by a rake.

I deserved it though, clearly.

It’s hard to imagine life now without our little band of misfits.

…except that sleeping would be a lot more peaceful, considering Marble demands to be spooned by one of us every night (ALL NIGHT) and will walk all over your face until you comply.

…and less vacuuming.

…way less poop.

…no 5:00am potty breaks in the dark.

Okay so I guess I can imagine life without them.

But we can’t imagine going back.

I KNOWWWW….the sappiness leaks out sometimes, I can’t help it!

UGH. Puke.

Okay one more.

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HE KILLS ME.

Happy Thursday angel faces.

Love,

M.

Almost Thirty: I’ll Never Be Homecoming Queen

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The other day I was walking downtown on my lunch break when out of nowhere the guy walking in front of me threw two huge handfuls of something into the air, proceeding to shower me in CONDOMS. He didn’t look back, didn’t miss a beat. Just kept walking.

What worried me about this was not that I might now be on some YouTube prank video, nor that he seemed really delighted to get rid of (arguably) essential sexy time gear, but that I also just kept walking. Aside from checking the lid of my caramel macchiato to make sure I wasn’t about to inhale a contraceptive, I really didn’t even bat an eye.

My guess is that after staring at twenty vagina’s a day for almost two years, impromptu condom showers just don’t phase me anymore.

Condom confetti.

Okay then.

 

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This is the year I turn thirty.

That magical, dreadful number that seemingly makes us all shit our pants and have a nervous breakdown because we’re not married yet/we ARE married holy shit/we’re afraid our eggs are drying up/we don’t want kids/we were supposed to be pregnant SIX MONTHS AGO WTF/Our metabolism is being a giant bitch/we still can’t do our own taxes/we’re forever alone/thelistgoesonforever.

Right? Right.

I haven’t really been thinking about turning thirty though, until I recently went home for the weekend and found a diary from ninth grade.

How precious.

In this little gem included lots of lists:

“People I’ve Dated.” That list was short.

“Stupid Dumb Bitches.” That list was longer.

My favorite, though, was one titled, “Goals to Be Accomplished Before the Age of 30.”

I got a chuckle out of it and kept going on with my life except that since then I’ve come across several articles whilst surfing the interwebs, with lists of where I should in my life by the time I reach this “magical” number. And I say several as in, almost everyday I am seeing essays on why I’m a sucky almost-thirty-year-old.

Is everyone turning thirty this year?

Okay universe. Thank you. I GET IT. Do your laundry.

These people are telling me that in order to be a proper adult, I should know how to fold a fitted sheet properly, read the news everyday, get enough sleep, and never run out of toilet paper. First of all, fitted sheets can just fuck right off. Reading the news everyday is like feeding yourself depression pills. Getting enough sleep is just a ridiculous term that some jerk coined in an attempt to make us believe that it IS actually possible to feel rested, and toilet paper is something you just never think about until it’s too late, which is what paper towels are for (or the napkins you get in your McDonalds bag as if you’d ever use them because obviously you will just lick the sauce off your fingers. Hello).

The list that my 14 year old self wrote though, is far more worthy of striving for, in my not-so-humble opinion.

So I figured I would share what I thought was most important to do in your first thirty years of life, and we can all have a pity party celebrating how much we (don’t?) have our shit together.

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This would be way more entertaining if I hadn’t accomplished any of these goals, but unfortunately I can tick off more than I thought I would (or at least a version of them).

Sorry ’bout that.

I didn’t make it to American Idol’s Top Ten, but I did get a golden ticket, only to be shot down by the show’s producers in the second round. Not devastated or traumatized by that at all.

Let’s all do a slow clap at the fact that I’m not raising two children at this point because remembering to give my cat his eye drops everyday is enough of a struggle. Also if you really can’t drink coffee while pregnant, I’m really going to have to rethink this entire process.

I never studied abroad but I did live abroad so I’ll go buy myself a donut for that, later.

Skydiving is really fucking fun and everyone should do it unless you really really don’t want to. Then you should probably not do it, lest you have PTSD for all of eternity.

Shopping sprees are something I apparently took a little too seriously because I now work in a building that’s only a three minute walk from Zara, Anthropologie, Sephora, Nordstrom, yougetmydrift. It’s a BIG issue, people. A big issue. But, as a 14 year old I found this to be really important to do in my life so I really don’t feel that bad about it.

Bungee jumping is a sore subject to say the least, since I was literally standing on the ledge of a bungee tower and couldn’t seem to find my balls that day. I’d like to blame it on being hungover but the truth is that I was just a giant weenie. Instead, I got to take the walk of shame alllll the way down the tallest spiral staircase you could possibly imagine, and then go crawl into a hole and try to disappear forever.

I don’t wanna get all mushy here because that’s stupid and I’m not trying to make you guys puke, but let’s just say I’m pretty happy with the fact that I’m not dating a guy with a southern accent right now.

As for the REALLY important things on this list, I only have 8 months to buy a Navigator and be Homecoming Queen.

(Pray for me)

My conclusion to this whole “turning thirty” mumbo jumbo is that according to most lists, I’m kind of sucking at life. But according to MY list, I’m doing okay.

I have to say, I’d take skydiving and traveling and owning horses over being an expert fitted sheet folder any day of the week.

So I say to you, my lovelies: Make your own goddamn list.

Oh, and by the way, my contour IS on point.

Love,

M.

Faking It

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Let’s talk about faking it, shall we?

I know you’re hoping I’m going to talk about about faking it in the sack, because you guys are all dirty, dirty, rascals. Sorry to burst your bubble but this blog is NOT for dirty bedroom banter.

Just kidding, it’s for dirty everything.

But for this post, “faking it” has a slightly different meaning…

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My soul sister Claire (I love her so hard) sent me this e-card the other day and it totally validated that I’m not the only one who acts like I’m looking at a reflection of Shrek after a bar fight, sometimes usually every time I look in the mirror in the morning. Believe me, I am a professional at the slow-creep-into-the-mirror-view-with-my-eyes-almost-all-the-way-closed-and-then-open-them-very-VERY-slowly-as-to-not-startle-the-beast-staring-back-at-you. You KNOW what I’m talking about. I know you know. One body part at a time, often holding the towel strategically so that you don’t get a glimpse of TOO much all at once, or you may render yourself unconscious on the bathroom floor when you pass out from sheer terror, and without a Life Alert at that!

Sidenote: why in the HELL are Life Alerts catered for old people? If I break my fucking body falling down the stairs do the people answering 911 phone calls think that I’m gonna be able to jog over to my landline just because I’m twenty-shutupdontmakemesayit years old?

No. I’m not going to be doing that. I’m going to be lying on the bathroom floor, dying. Dying, and wishing I would’ve eaten more cupcakes. Granted, I probably have my iPhone on me but it PROBABLY BROKE WHEN I BODY SLAMMED IT INTO THE LINOLEUM .

Life Alert, people.

I’m buying one.

As soon as there’s a Groupon for it.

Anyways, oh yes. Morning Mirror Shock. The pre-game-esque pep talk that I give myself before the big reveal post-shower is also pretty epic and I should probably record it so that you can use it as a motivational speech before you do crazy things that need pep talks like getting married or taking calculus. It goes something like this: Okay. Breeeeeathe. Okay. Okay. You can do this. You will not freak out. You will take a deep breath and you will be absolutely fine. Nothing has changed. You survived yesterday and you look exactly the same, today. One measly donut is not going to do a damn thing. You are a beautiful, strong, confident, intelligent, sexy, lovable, radiant human being who deserv–what the FUCK. This is NOT what I looked like yesterday. How the fuck did those tumors on my thighs get there? I can’t put pants on!!! How am I grabbing this much love handle right now are you KIDDING me you are fucking kidding me. The universe is full-on screwing with me right now I know this for a fact. Oh. Yea. Side profile is not even worth it do not turn sideways DO NOT DO IT. Fuckkkkk. Really, dude? You really turned sideways? Okay I honestly didn’t eat hardly anything yesterday and then I just had that raspberry truffle Greek yogurt for dessert, and even then I only ate the chocolate coating off the top! Fine, I ate FOUR chocolate coatings off of four raspberry truffle yogurts. But I didn’t feel good yesterday and there was a really sad movie on and I was emotional OKAY? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?

See? Don’t you want to hear that speech before the biggest day of your life? I thought so.

So. In honor of “the fat days,” when you’d rather be lying broken on the floor sans Life Alert, instead of dragging your seemingly horrific (but obviously gorgeous) ass to work, I made a list of things to do instead of body shaming yourself. Because body shaming is fucking stupid.

Yes I am guilty of it.

But it’s DUMB.

So stop it. All of you.

And me.

We’re all fucking beautiful.

How To Fake It On A Fat Day:

1. Mood Music

Dial your Pandora to Backstreet Boys and let Nick Carter serenade you into a fantasy world of romantic one-liners and endless sweet nothings. Let me tell you a little story. You know that high note Nick hits in “I want it that way?” Yes, you know the one. That was the first moment I ever fell in love. I was 14. I literally felt my heart burst into rainbows and sparkles and shower me with candy coated stars as I watched him looking deep into my eyes from the inside of our television. I was OB-sessed with him, and 100% sure that if he could just meet me for like five minutes, he’d fall in love with me too. This is obviously not what real love is because real love includes things like “Do you like bacon,” and, “Are you a horrible human being because I’m ’bout done with those,” but when you are fourteen years old THAT IS WHAT REAL LOVE IS. So put on your favorite boyband and jam the fuck out. You can’t NOT be in a better mood when BSB is proclaiming their endless love for you.

2. Make-up Fixes EVERYTHING (except your empty soul)

There really isn’t anything you can do in the span of 20 minutes to fix feeling like you’re bloated enough to be the latest exhibition at SeaWorld, but you CAN slap some a ton of makeup all over that face, or as my dad liked to say, “She’s got her war paint on again!” Thanks dad. But seriously, in moments where the thought of actually putting your legs into pants makes you want to tear every last hair out of your head and then peel back all of your fingernails (now I’m just grossing myself out), good concealer and some red lipstick will be your best friend, my dear.

Here’s what you’re gonna do:

You’re gonna contour the mother fucking shit out of your face. I’m talking contour level: Kardashian. Then, you’re going to put concealer ALL OVER AND UNDER AND AROUND THE SIDES OF YOUR EYES DO IT BELIEVE ME and blend the ever loving daylights out of it with your dampened Beauty Blender and if you don’t have a Beauty Blender YOU ARE LOSING AT LIFE GO GET ONE YOU’RE WELCOME. Then, you’re going to take some Bobbi Brown Bronze Shimmer Brick to those cheekbones until you look like a Greek goddess. Lastly, line those pouty smoochers (because if you don’t line your lips before bright lipstick it will bleed all over the fucking place yes you can thank me later), smear on that red lipstick and ROCK it like the whore you are!!! Okay that was a little aggressive. But red lipstick. Do it. I love Lady Danger by Mac, but any red lipstick that screams, “I am a classier version of a prostitue and you might get laid but not before buying me an entree AND a dessert (yea, motherfucker)”, should do just fine. THEN, as if bronzing yourself to death isn’t enough, highlight the tops of your cheekbones, brow bone, bridge of nose, Cupid’s bow, and collar bones in order to put some REAL shine into your fake-ass step today. This may all sound like a bit much, but I wear this look quite often and so far no one has tried to pay me to have sex with them. I do get compliments on my lips though. A lot. I’m telling you. RED. LIP. STICK.

3. Emergency Text

 Everyone has at least one girlfriend that she can Mayday text and know that she’ll get a response from that’ll make her feel less like a bowl of blubber and more like the gorgeous piece of lady lust that she is. Don’t feel dumb, just text her already. If you don’t know what to say, my Mayday text’s usually go something along the lines of, “Hi can you please talk me off the ledge of my bathtub right now because my pants have clearly shrunk three sizes overnight and there’s just no point in anything anymore.” Girls have to lift each other up, especially when we are being dumb asses to ourselves. TEXT YOUR FRIENDS. Do not text your man I repeat do NOT text your man. Don’t send him a message at 7:16am saying, “Baaaaaabe I’m so ugly omg am I fat??? Wtf helppppp I look horrible in everythinggggg.” Do NOT DO THAT. Why? Because DON’T. That’s why. First of all, you’re just having a hot-ass-mess moment, and it’s going to pass (eventually). Secondly, he already thinks you are gorgeous and funny and smart and amazing even when you feel like Shamu and he’s going to tell you that you’re lovely and awesome on his own because he’s super great and if he doesn’t do that you are most likely dating what I fondly like to refer to as a DICKhole. NEXT. And of course I don’t believe this romance-y shmancy stuff that I’m spewing out right now ALL THE TIME, but I should believe it all the time and so should you so goddamnit let’s start believing it together okay ready go.

4. Fabric Manipulation

Stretch. Stretch the fuck out. Literally. After you squeeze into your pants, and right before you start having a panic attack thinking about every last bit of lobster mac and cheese you consumed the night before, lie down on the floor and make yourself as long as possible. Gumby. You are Gumby. You’ll feel better because everything gets a little flatter when you stretch it out AMIRIGHT? Deep breaths, my love. Deep breaths. THEN, get up and do deep squats and lunges until you either A) are about to send me a bomb in the mail for making you do so many squats, or B) your pants are about to rip in half. The minuscule amount of extra room that you just created for yourself inside of your jeans will feel like the Taj Mahal compared to what you started with and you will be that much closer to feeling like the SEXY BITCH you always were.

DEEP SQUATS, love bugs.

Well there you have it. The holy grail of faking it on a fat day.

And if all else fails, cry.

Well, I should really get back to watching The Voice and eating this giant bag of kettle corn because it’s The Battle Rounds, people, and Blake needs me.

Toodles.

Love,

M.

365 Days.

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It doesn’t make sense that it’s been an entire year. It’s unbelievable to me that you’ve been gone for that long. A year is such a long amount of time, but it went by so fast. Too fast. I need the time to stop passing because it means you keep getting farther and farther away from me.

365 days ago I was sitting on the couch watching a game show while you laid in your hospice bed, unresponsive. The previous night had been rough, and something inside of me knew. Before I went to bed that night, I kissed you and held you and whispered sweet everythings in your ear. I knew how much you were suffering and how strong you were trying to be for all of us. I knew it was all too much. I whispered to you that it was okay to let go. I promised you that mom and I would be okay; that we’d be strong and we loved you more than anything. I whispered that you were the best dad I could’ve ever asked for and that I’d never ever let you go. I don’t know if you heard me but I have to believe that you did.

Morning came and you fell deeper into nothingness. As I watched you lying there I became so angry that this is how it was all going to end. A beautiful Saturday morning with you stuck inside in bed. You were always incapable of sitting still for very long. You were always outside doing something. Why weren’t you outside, now? I grabbed my headphones and placed them on your ears. Listening to me sing was one of your favorite things, and so I played the cd of my songs for you. You didn’t react but I know you heard me and maybe that’s what you had been waiting for because not long after, your breaths became slower, and labored. I knew what was happening and I could barely speak. I think I told mom that you couldn’t breathe, but I can’t really remember anymore. I watched you. I couldn’t help you. I couldn’t do anything. It was the most beautiful and precious and horrifying and heartbreaking thing I’ve ever witnessed but I couldn’t let myself look away. I had to see you go. I had to watch you and listen and feel it and you needed to know that I was there and that I saw you and that you weren’t alone.

Your final breath was such a deep inhale. It was as if you were trying to fill yourself up with everything you had ever loved; every memory. Every hug and kiss, high five’s after a basketball game, fishing on the river, morning walks with Ace, Friday night football games, sunny days at the beach, motorcycle rides, morning coffee with your boys, flowers  from your garden, all the songs I’ve ever sung. You wanted to take it all with you. I watched your eyes close. I remember letting out a panicked “No,” and then saying “It’s okay, you’re okay,” over and over and over. I didn’t want you to feel bad for having to go. I remember nuzzling your face and kissing your neck and your ears and your forehead and your eyes and your nose. I remember getting off of my knees and sitting on the bed with you and wrapping your hands around mine and not letting them go. I didn’t let them go until people that I didn’t know made me let you go. I was so mad at them, and your hands were stiff and had lost their warmth. It was difficult to untangle our hands and I knew you didn’t want to let go either.

Days passed and your funeral came. I remember walking into the gymnasium and seeing it filled with people. I remember feeling so proud. So, so proud of you, Dad. I wanted to show you how many people loved you. Did you see all of them? Everybody loved you so much. I remember that I sang and gave a speech and I don’t know how I did that. I think I was in shock. I remember lots of people saying the nicest things but I don’t remember now what any of those things were. I remember lots of smiling and laughing and trying to be strong. I remember a never-ending line of people wanting to hug me, and feeling like I couldn’t hug another person; it was just all too much. I remember someone making me sit down and eat some food. I didn’t want to eat any food because it made me feel guilty that I could eat, and hug, and smile and breathe and laugh, and you couldn’t.

More days passed, and they keep passing.

The house has been so quiet since you left. People ask me why I don’t go home more often, and I don’t know what to say to them. It hurts me. It’s so painful. It’s so deep-down, bone-crushing achey to pull into the driveway and see your truck parked there. To see Ace run out and greet me with his tail wagging in excitement. Does he think it’s going to be you, every time someone pulls in? He misses you. Your garden is still there and mom weeds it for you and she is trying so hard for you and it’s gut-wrenching and I don’t know what to do with the heaviness on my heart.

Everything is still there. Everything but you.

I never know what to do when I’m home anymore, but I always go into your bedroom. The memory of the last time I saw you in there is so vivid.

I was going to take you to get coffee, at the place downtown you used to go every morning with the guys. You hadn’t been in awhile because your body was just too tired. You went in your room to change out of your pajamas. After several minutes I walked down the hallway and peered in, to check on you. You were sitting on the edge of your bed, struggling to get your shirt over your head; defeated. Your back was to me and I could see every bone, every vertebrae of your spine. Your skin was so thin and transparent, you almost didn’t look human. In that moment I felt my heart break. I felt pieces of it shatter and the pieces pierced my insides and felt like searing, hot pain all throughout my body. I tried to keep it together when I asked you how you were doing but you were feeling the same way I was, and for the first time since your cancer diagnosis, I saw you break down. Your boney shoulders shuddered as you wept and whispered to me that you just wanted to be able to put a shirt on. I wanted to squeeze you so tightly and bury your face in my neck but I didn’t want to hurt you. I held you, but gently, and I felt all of your bones trying to pierce me. I would’ve torn my own flesh off that very second if it would’ve filled in all of your empty spaces. I tried to crack a joke as I helped you put your shirt on and you tried to muster a laugh as you helped me wipe my tears. Did you know that would be the last time you would ever go out for coffee? The last time we would ever go for a drive together? I had never seen you so vulnerable in my entire life and there was nothing that I could do except love you with everything I had and hope that would be enough to save you.

Your clothes are still hanging in the closet and I always bury my face in them. They still smell like you, Dad. I wrap myself up inside of them and close my eyes. I pretend that you’re holding me as I take deep breaths in. And for a moment, I feel you there with me.

I need it to be 365 days ago, so that I can be at your bedside, holding your hands and trying to memorize the freckles and scars on them. I need it to be 365 days ago so that I can tell you I love you not just one time, but a million times. I would tell you and I wouldn’t ever stop telling you.

It will never be 365 days ago.

But I will breathe. Deep breaths. Keep breathing.

 

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“And when great souls die,

after a period peace blooms,

slowly and always irregularly.

Spaces fill with a kind of soothing, electric vibration.

Our senses, restored, never to be the same,

whisper to us. They existed. They existed.

We can be, and be better.

For they existed.”

-Maya Angelou

—

Love,

M.

Laser Hair Removal — Burning Your Vagina on Purpose

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Have you ever put Saran-Wrap on your lady parts? Don’t act like that’s a weird question.

Recently I let someone shoot red laser beams at my vajayjay over and over and over and OVER. And also at my legs. And armpits.

I know what you’re thinking. “I don’t remember that part in 50 Shades of Grey.” That’s because it’s not in 50 Shades of Grey, and also I probably wouldn’t trust a man to aim a laser at me when all of his blood is currently flowing in the completely opposite direction of his brain. AM I RIGHT?

I DID let someone (not a man) shoot me with laser beams though, because I’m sick of having my coworkers rip my hair out every month. Wait, that’s wrong. A more accurate statement would be that my coworkers are sick of ME, because I’m literally the worst client in the entire world and I will give any and every excuse for them not to pull the strip of hair off in that moment because blah blah blah and I’ll love you forever and buy you coffee EVERYDAY if you just stop torturing me already, and also I will aggressively grab your arm and smile so sweetly with terror in my eyes, alligator tears, and beg you to make it stop. So basically I’m worse than any of these clients that I’ve previously written about. I know this about myself though, and that’s the first step to recovery.

I don’t know why I’ve waited this long to give the permanent BUH-BYE to shaving and waxing, but it might have something to do with You’re taking ALL of my money right now? Okay cool, oh and also, Fucking OUCH.

Being an Esthetician, I knew quite a bit about the procedure and the skin-care side of being lasered, but that did not stop me one bit from having a minor panic attack in the car before I went in. I dumped a bunch of numbing cream down my pants in the parking lot at the last minute, with no qualms about the passersby trying to run errands in peace without getting an eyeful of my magic kingdom. I was also panic-texting my bestie about things that I just can’t share with you angels. Not even on a blog with the word “cunt” in the title. I was out of control. (Oh and also because some of it happened to be super sappy and what the fuck, people? I was totally prepared to be forever tormented by assholes, and nobody wants to hear about yummy mushy bullshit. I know, PUKE, right?).

😉

Anyways.

I tried to take all necessary precautions and prepare myself as well as I possibly could before having my vagina potentially burned off, as this would highly negate the reason to get laser hair removal in the first place.

If you’re not familiar with laser hair removal, you have to shave the area before the appointment. As someone who waxes peoples hoo-ha’s for a living and pounds it into their brains that they should NEVER shave, I really felt like I was cheating on myself. With a razor. What I learned from this process is that shaving fucking sucks, BUT, if you MUST do it, men’s razors are WAY better and slightly less likely to make you want to take the blade to your wrist (thank you, Claire, for your razor wisdom). I also learned that shaving EVERYTHING off is exactly what I thought it’d be. Fucking ridiculous. I’m very aware that popular culture likes the bare look, and 99% of my clients have me give them the full-meal-deal, but I just don’t see how looking like a really tall pre-pubescent child with too much makeup on is sexy. Nobody wants to bang a ten year old and if you do want to do that, I do not want to bang you. Glad that’s out of the way. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with a landing strip. That’s all I’m saying.

After giving myself approximately 62 shaving-induced ingrown hairs, I decided to slather myself with the numbing cream I bought so that I could hopefully get through this procedure without having the cops called on me for punching my Esthetician in the kidney. Something fun I learned is that applying an active numbing agent on a freshly-shaved vagina is the exact same thing as rubbing liquid fire onto a freshly-shaved vagina. If I wasn’t busy sprinting to my freezer for the icepack while making up new curse words and fanning myself with both hands on the way there, I would’ve gladly taken a video of my freakout for you.

If you’re on the fence about using a numbing cream, I put together a pros and cons list for you (some people don’t want to put all of those chemicals on their skin. I on the other hand, don’t want to feel my vagina being lit on fire for an hour, so GIVE ME ALL THE CHEMICALS).

Pros to using numbing cream:

– Your vagina feels numb

– You can text your bestie about how your vagina feels numb

– You can text a guy you’re dating that your vagina feels numb. 

– Don’t do that that last one

Cons to using numbing cream:

– It feels like fire

– Your vagina isn’t going to be numb enough

– Your vagina can never be numb enough

– It’s really difficult to distinguish between if you just feel like you have to pee, and if you are actually peeing. In your pants.

Another fun thing I learned about numbing cream is that it activates more if you put Saran Wrap over the area. Yes, I 100% DID Saran Wrap my vagina. And whatever you’re imagining as far as how I did it or what it looked like, is probably right on the money. 

My Esthetician definitely thinks I’m crazy, and she’s not far off. I had my phone out the whole time, which surely creeped her out because who in their right mind takes pictures of someone burning the hair follicles out of their cooch? Well I’ve got news for you. I do that.  

 

 

 

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I promise you that this is the LEAST terrified I looked during my entire time on the table. The sexy glasses are to shield my eyes from the red light that the laser emits, but I know that it was actually to save my eyes from being shot with laser beams when I accidentally-on-purpose kicked my Esthetician in the face. 

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And just in case you don’t believe that I went through with it, that silver thing in the bottom right corner is a laser. I think you can guesstimate where she’s pointing it. 

So what does it feel like, you ask? Well, let me just tell you. After drawing a grid on you with a white crayon, your Esthetician is going to start firing the laser, quickly, all over the grid she drew. It’s basically as if your vagina has become a game of Pacman except that instead of a cute yellow cartoon character running around your lady bits, it’s a ball of fire. Lovely. 

I spent most of the time white-knuckling the table with one hand, texting my girlfriends and/or taking pictures with the other, and wondering if I’d ever let anyone near my vagina for any reason, ever again. 

I survived though, and lucky for me I get several more treatments to look forward to, with the laser being put on a more intense setting every time. SO LUCKY. CAN’T WAIT. 

It will all be worth it in the end, though. Right? 

If not, I’ll just drown my sorrows in lots of Butterfinger blizzards (extra Butterfinger). As if I need an excuse to do that. 

And on that note, I’m gonna go for a run. And by run I mean lounge on my rooftop deck with some wine. 

Happy Friday, lovers! 

Love, 

M. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Date Fails

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Do you think the reason I’m single right now has anything to do with me belting out The Proclaimer’s “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” at 7:30 in the morning while marching up and down my hallway with no pants on and using my giant bottle of Coconut Creme coffee creamer as a microphone?

Yea, me neither.

So, I’ve been on way more dates than I care to remember. At one point (years ago) I had eleven first dates in one month, and that is not including any second or third dates I went on. What in the holy hell was I smoking, you ask? I’d really like to know the answer to that, too. Shouldn’t I get an award for that or something? I got zero STD’s because nobody got laid and so I guess that’s my award. No chlamydia. Lots of free sushi. Win.

I think Larry David says it best.

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Now I’m not quite as cynical as Larry (yet) and I can’t say all the dates I’ve been on have been bad. I’ve had some pretty great ones. Some really great ones. Some, “OMG you’re going to DIE when you hear this” ones. Some, “I’m 96% sure I’m living out a very popular book series, right now,” ones.

When a date goes sour, though, it’s bad. Sometimes my encounters make me think that this cannot be real life. It’s appalling, some of the things men think will be impressive to do or say. I’m not 100% sure yet that my love life isn’t being Punk’d. I’m just waiting for Ashton Kutcher to jump out from behind my bathroom door with a camera. Except I hope it’s Andrew Garfield instead, and that he decides that he’s single and then also has no pants on.

I digress.

So, without further adieu, I want to share some of the Red Flags I’ve encountered on dates. This was originally going to be exclusive to first dates, but I didn’t want to discriminate and leave out all of the awesomely fucked-up things that guys have done at any point in my knowing them.

All of these things have actually happened to me.

Laugh it up.

The amount of FAIL that I’m giving these situations is obviously only my opinion…

But seriously, guys, stop it.

– If your date discloses that both his father and brother were admitted to the psychiatric hospital that you are currently working at. Okay well I guess I’ll be seeing your admission papers soon enough. Thanks for the pizza, okay BYE NOW. 

– If a guy tells you his favorite past time is working out, you might want to start lunging your way out of the juice bar you’re probably in. If I hear one more guy say how working out his his religion, I am literally going to throw up in my mouth, swallow it, and throw it up again. I am 150% sure that there are a billion exercise-obsessed men that are fucking cool as hell, but I can’t say I’ve ever had a good experience with a workout whore. I can’t listen to you talk about your “WOD” because it makes me want to “FKM.” And also because I can’t hear anything over the sound of myself chewing handfuls of Cheez-its.

– If a guy sends you a dick pic. Okay. Can we just chat for a second about dick pics? GUYS. A picture of your PENIS. really? Do you realllly think those things are that attractive? Besides the fact that it’s probably going to make us jump out of our skin when we open the picture, and then drop our phones into a puddle out of sheer terror, can you please tell me your thought process on sending me a picture of a giant worm attached to your body? It’s not sexy. You should know that 99% of the time, we are laughing at it. It’s a PENIS. We are laughing. And showing our friends.

– If your date says this: “I’m not a major stoner, just a mild stoner. At my worst, it was 10 to 20 bowls a day. Now it’s only like 1-3.” Do you remember what your last name is? Can you please recite the alphabet for me, sir? I’m going to need you to step out of the booth, and start walking in a straight line…and then just keep walking. Yep, right out of the restaurant.

– If a guy you haven’t gone out with gets your number and the FIRST thing he texts you is “Whattup?,” or “I ain’t got shit on Friday if you wanna hang,” or “You free tonight?,” we are probably not going to be on the same page with much of anything. I may swear like a sailor, but I actually AM a lady, and I’m most definitely not your homie or your booty call. Unless we’re role-playing.

– If a guy bails/reschedules on you three times in a row. You’re an idiot for giving him a third chance, and he’s an idiot for being so goddamn immature. Cut your losses and move on (but not before eating a giant Kit Kat).

– If he looks like he’s aged 20 years from the picture you were shown of him. Can someone please tell me why guys (or girls) think that their dates aren’t going to notice that their grandparent has replaced them at dinner?

– If this conversation happens: “I’m pretty apathetic, in general.” …Do you mean empathetic? No, I mean apathetic. Sooo, you have complete disinterest in everything? Yea, pretty much.” Oh..okay. That’s good to know. Shoot me.

-If your date says he doesn’t eat sweets. At all. Oh…okay, well, fuck you then. Anyone who hates sweets is either the devil, or wants to be.

– If your date ends the night by saying, “Good luck on your next date!” …*slow blink*

-If he proceeds to tell you about the two really hot girls at a wedding the previous weekend that he and his buddy tried to hook up with, and then immediately realizes that he totally just said that out loud and tries to back track. Um no, my friend. You can’t back track that. Goodbye.

– If he still lives with his parents, at an age where you do NOT live with your parents.

-If, after your date, he sends you a bathroom mirror selfie of him wet, naked, and holding only a very small white hand towel over his manhood boyhood which includes the caption “Night night, sweetheart.” FIRST OF ALL, do not call me sweetheart. I just met you, dickhole. Secondly, the only thing your little white towel picture is doing for me is making me want to stick a butter knife into my eyes. 

– If your date gets legitimately mad at you for not wanting to drink as much as he is (even though he might be, say, over a FOOT taller, and have at least 100 pounds on you), you should take that as a cue to bail. Any man who actually tries to make you feel bad for not drinking, wants you to drink more so that he doesn’t feel bad about how much HE is drinking. Oh, I’m sorry that I’m not an angry alcohol-abuser like you are, and that I actually like to be able to go to work the next day without wanting to give myself a lobotomy. Find a meeting, love. 

– If, on a date, a guy decides it’s a good idea to say, “I watch a lot of porn. What can I say? I haven’t had a girlfriend in five years!,”  A) How the fuck did we get on the subject of porn and B) Were you done with your glass full of beer because I need to chug it and then puke into the glass. 

– If, after enthusiastically explaining what you do in your career as a Recreation Therapist, your date LAUGHS AT YOU and says, “Isn’t that kind of a joke? You’re actually getting paid for that?” Lord give me the strength not to ruin this man’s chance of ever having offspring.

– If your date shows up late. ESPECIALLY without calling. Either way, it’s super inconsiderate. Unless your dog died right before you left the house, your ass should be at the restaurant before mine.

-If your date pays the bill and then says, “You should feel really special right now.” You should feel really special that your face doesn’t have my handprint on it right now. 

– If your date says, “So I guess I should probably mention that I’m in a cult.” I don’t even know what to say about that.

– If within the first 15 minutes, you feel like you’re on a date with a clone of your super narcissistic/borderline-sociopathic ex-boyfriend, you should probs just stick a fork in that bitch because he’s done.

– If your date says, “I don’t think I have much empathy. Things happen to people, but it doesn’t really bother me…I only really call my friends or family if I need something from them. Yea, I’m not really a good friend.” Are you hearing yourself right now? You are? Okay, just confirming that my ears aren’t full of all of the starving children in the world that you give zero fucks about. 

– If a guy acts completely smitten by you on a first date, and never calls you again. A four hour conversation, sharing personal stories, holding your hand across the table, acting like he’s so moved by what you say, saying over and over how much he’s going to have to thank our friend for setting you two up…and then nothing. No call. No text. No nothing. Don’t be that guy. But thank you for not wasting anymore of my life than you already did. 

-If a guy tells you on a FIRST DATE, “I have $350,000 over in Europe that I’m sitting on.” First of all, no you don’t. Secondly, who the fuck says something like that, and especially the very first time you go out? Hi, I’m super insecure. Can you please believe my blatant lies so that I feel like I’m something other than the cold, empty shell of a person that I actually am? Also, would I really believe that you’re sitting on 350,000 bones when you’ve taken me to a restaurant that makes Applebees look gourmet? I should’ve known that going to a place called Rock Bottom on a first date was a bad omen.

-If your date talks an absurd amount about how attractive other women are (except I really think that talking about it any amount is pretty fucking unnecessary).

-If your date says, “So…do you hook up a lot?” Well, yea! Obviously I’m a slutbag, I thought you’d never ask!

-If your date tells you that all of his friends think that he’s really arrogant, but he doesn’t see it. DUDE.

-If, on your second date, he tells you that you guys will work out just fine because he’s planning on having interracial children, you should probably just start running and not stop running.

Well, that’s probably just part 1, unfortunately. Or fortunately?

—

Happy Monday, lovers!

Love,

M.

Self-Esteem Boosters

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If you ever feel like you’re the only one struggling, read this and then high-five yourself.

You’re welcome.

Did I mention I tried to make a thong out of a pair of white granny panties?

Well, I did try to do that.

It turned out well.

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Now before you start going off with, “Good gracious!! That girl needs to keep her skivvies to herself! Who in their right mind would go around posting pictures of their panties?! She’s coming off looking like a goddamn hooker!,” let’s take a step back for a second.

People. Look at this pair of underwear. Does it LOOK like I was trying to make them into something that I was planning on having anyone else actually see (until now)? I do have a shred of dignity, sometimes.

I was trying to make them into something that I could wear so that certain things would NOT be seen through all of my white summer dresses because APPARENTLY, it’s really trendy right now for companies to make transparent clothing.

Lovely.

This endeavor clearly did not work out (and no, I didn’t end up wearing any of the dresses because I try to save my hoe-bag looks for never).

If I ever do manage to be successful in creating a thong out of granny panties though, you’ll be the first to know.

Or, I could aways just go and stock up on some of those string-y underwear bullshit things, like a normal person, and not have to sit on my floor trying to go all Martha Stewart on my underoos.

Either way.

—

Did I mention I went out to dinner and the human that I was with happened to get accosted with death threats at our table by a wild, yelling, arm-flailing man who claimed to “know all about him?” Yea. That happened. Was I surprised that it happened? No. Of course that would happen to me. And as I watched this all going down, with wide eyes, a forkful of lamb shank and giant gulps of my whiskey cocktail, I thought to myself Self, is this an appropriate time to get your phone out and start video-taping? I may be witnessing an attempted murder. Or a real murder. Or even my own murder. If this man actually takes a swing at the human across from me, is possibly knocking over my delicious plate of lamb really worth jumping in on the action and trying to be a hero? Is this person I’m with right now the Seattle version of Jordan Belfort, and I’m about to witness his downfall when twelve cop cars come screaming around the corner in about 30 seconds? I better start eating my lamb faster because if this happens I probably won’t have time to ask for a box. 

Did I mention that on this said ‘dinner-with-a-fellow-human,’ it took nearly an hour for me to get the half mile to the restaurant because the driver of the car that was sent for me couldn’t spell or pronounce the name “Harrison,” and kept trying to find a “Sheraton” street while I was standing outside in 6-inch heels and about ready to call Pizza Hut so that I could at least have something to munch on while my life was passing me by?

Did I mention that my fellow human was super romantic that evening, sending me texts while he was waiting for me to arrive that said things like,  “I’ll probably be drunk when you get here,” and, “Pouring Jameson in my eyes.”

Did I mention that the aforementioned dinner experience ended with a hilarious rejection of mouth to mouth contact, and the town car driver later telling my fellow human, “You’ll kiss her next time, champ.”

Aaahh, optimism.

Dating is really fun, guys. REALLY fun.

(okay but seriously, though, that one was really fun)

—

Did I mention that I resemble a zombie pretty much all of the time now and I’ve probably bought Sephora out of all of their under eye concealers because this little feline thing that I rescued is actually a human toddler? A toddler that doesn’t stop meowing from the time I get home until the time I pass out, UNLESS I let him drape his furry body across my face and start snoring in my ear? A toddler who, like clockwork, puts his face in front of mine at 4am every single morning and starts loudly meowing at me until I wake up, and once I’m up he promptly goes back to sleep, because he’s trying to KILL me? He thinks that because he’s so goddamn cute with his one eye, he can get away with murder.

He’s right.

Did I mention that I bought said feline a gift from Vegas, to try and remind him that I am actually the boss and will put uncomfortable, too-tight pieces of human-looking clothing on him whenever he gets sassy?

My efforts to embarrass him were fruitless because he gave absolutely zero fucks about it.

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And finally, since it’s 4th of July weekend, did I mention that I once had a new brazilian wax client, who’s name on her consult sheet was spelled “Merica,” and when I went to introduce myself and take her back for her service, I called her Mer-i-ka? Yes, like ‘Merica, in the style of Larry the Cable Guy.

Do you want to know how her name was actually pronounced? MUH-REE-SA.

Do you want to know what ethnicity she was? African-American.

Do you know how badly I wanted to crawl into the crevasses of the couch she was sitting on and never, ever ever come out ever again?

So, so badly.

SO badly.

I still almost throw up when I think about it.

Well folks, If THAT doesn’t make you feel better about yourself, I don’t know what will.

—

I hope all of you abstain from holding Roman Candles by the wrong end this weekend, and have lots of fun writing swear words in the air with sparklers.

Happy 4th!

Love,

M.

Father’s Day

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An eternity has woven itself inside of these last 10 months, but it seems like only yesterday that I kissed you goodbye.

Grief is strange. Maybe it had been withholding itself. Maybe it was waiting until it knew I was capable of doing it in a safe space.

Someone I thought I loved scolded me for grieving you, telling me, “Well it’s been four months.” As if four months is the magical number, the point where I should’ve stopped grieving the death of my father. I knew it was so incredibly wrong, but something inside of me seized up at that moment, and subconsciously tried to protect itself from such cruel and selfish words ever being said to me again. Just like the days leading up to your funeral when I was scoffed at for listening to a poem, one that connected you to my heart; the one that I ended up sharing a bit of at your service; the one I based my whole speech around because it moved me that much. I didn’t say why I was listening to it at the time, but I shouldn’t have had to. I wept silently as the author spoke the words when my body was begging me to let it out. I laid curled up in a ball at the very edge of the bed when I should have had two arms to safely fall apart into.

I’m so sorry that I had to keep you at bay for awhile. I’m so sorry if you ever thought I wasn’t thinking about you.

I’m so sorry.

And so now that I am in this place, this new, safe, healthy place, my heart has broken for you all over again, like it should have been able to all along. I cry for you all the time; in the strangest moments, and in the most obvious ones; in the quiet moments, and the overwhelming ones.

I cry for you now as I write this, and my sobs are getting too big to keep my eyes open, but my thoughts are not willing to wait, and so I keep typing, eyes blinded by tears, hoping that my hands alone, can say what is so clearly spilling out of my heart.

I cry for you and I don’t wish the tears away because they are a connection to you. They honor you. Each one spills over my cheek bone and down to the edge of my jaw, dripping into the hollow between my collar bones, just like the single tear that ran down your cheek when your eyes closed for the last time. I tasted it when I kissed your face, and that moment comes back to me when I taste my own.

The last trip we took together was to the ocean, your favorite place. Your sacred place. I had to drive us because your body was shutting down, but we didn’t speak of that. Instead, I sang along to the radio and made stupid jokes, and you told me stories; stories of your childhood and stories of us; stories of searching for pretty shells and sand dollars, and chasing down the waves together. I took each one in like a deep, deep breath, never wanting to exhale them out.

I was driving around a sharp corner when you asked me if I wanted your trick kites; the ones we used to fly together when the wind whipped at our backs and the sand stung our eyes and our laughs were lost in the crashing of the waves. I remember it so vividly because the sharpness of the corner mimicked the sharpness of the pain that stabbed my heart when you asked. I said yes, against my own will, because I knew that was your way of saying goodbye. You didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t either. But we both knew what your question and my answer meant.

At that moment I silently pleaded with anyone listening to please take it away. Please. Please give it to me instead. Please let me take your place. I will fight it. I can fight it.

No one listened. No one answered me.

And so I listened to the playing of Taps in a gymnasium filled with everyone who loved you, and watched my dear friend and fellow veteran, present my mother with an American flag.

I didn’t get to fight it for you.

I lost you.

Most days I feel lost, myself, and I am scared to look for you because what if I can’t find you? What if I find nothing? What if everything people say about you being here with me always is just a bunch of bullshit? How can anyone truly know?

So I went searching for shells, like we did when I was little, at one of the beaches in Costa Rica. I was the only one there that day. I found purple ones and red ones and I knew which one would have been your favorite right when I saw it; it was smooth with orange markings, and you would’ve told me they looked like tiger stripes. I chased down the waves, and they chased me back, the water so warm against my legs. I screamed at the ocean in anger, and wept as I walked along the shoreline. I threw fistfuls of sand and it went nowhere, and I asked a million questions of “why,” with no one to hear.

Why did it have to be you? Why did you have to suffer? Why wasn’t I able to save you? Why didn’t they let me take your place? 

The absurdness of it all made me laugh and I couldn’t help but think of you laughing, too. I was so far away from everything, but I’d never felt closer to you.

And then I came back, and I couldn’t find you anymore.

The city feels so big. My own walls feel suffocating, and too many buildings take up too little space, and I can’t feel anything except for business and money and ego and everything else that is everything but what you were.

I couldn’t see you.

And now it’s Father’s Day, the first one without you. There’s a weight on my chest and my heart is so tired. It’s hard to get a full breath, and each one is a constant reminder that all of yours are gone.

In my sadness I forget how close I am to what you so dearly love; to what you made me fall in love with.

So I walk the three blocks down to the water’s edge. Ferries are making their way across the Sound, and I imagine how I would’ve rolled my eyes at your excitement over the beauty of it. I would give anything to be able to roll my eyes at you again.

Slowly, the city is drowned out by waves and the smell of salt water and the sound of my breath and the warmth of the sun on my freckled shoulders. I ask the waves why you don’t get to have any more days and I ask the breeze how I’m supposed to go any more of my own without the  sound of your voice. I ask the current if the ashes that I sprinkled into the Costa Rican waters have made their way here, because I had asked each drop to hold you tightly. Because I had begged them to take you on their travels; to never let you go.

And I’m so caught up in the fact that I don’t feel you here like I so badly want to, that I barely notice the stranger that has been standing behind me. He is older, and he has bright blue eyes.

You had bright blue eyes.

Before I could say hello, he says, “You are beautiful.” I blush hard, and I smile, surprised and silently knowing that he is so completely unaware of the ocean of salty tears that have been pooling up behind my aviators long before he crossed my path.

It’s then that I am so aware that sometimes the darkness and the light take up the same space at the same moment, and they are both so very holy. Both so very beautiful. Both so very needed; each one a highlight, a reminder of the other.

As I thank him out loud, I thank you inside, because maybe that was it. Maybe that was you, telling me I’m beautiful. Still your beautiful little girl. Still okay. Still here. Still yours.

You’re still mine.

I see you.

—

If you’re able to hug your dad today, I hope you get to hug him every Father’s Day, and everyday, for forever.

If, like me, you’re no longer able to, my heart is with you.

Happy Father’s Day to my favorite guy. My first love. My best love.

—

Love,

M.