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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

 

Dear, Dad

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It’s been a year and ten months since I was forced to let you go.

Since I was forced to let go of your hand that had begun to go cold around my own.

Since I was forced to memorize how it felt and what it looked like: the freckles and spots; the deep lines running down your palm; the permanent dark stain under your nails — a symbol of your countless hours working in dirt and grease.

A year and ten months since not just a father was lost, but also a Friend. Husband. Brother. Uncle. Nephew. Coworker. Fishing buddy.

My biggest fan.

A year and ten months later I’m still struggling not to cry at some point everyday. If I sit quietly for more than a few minutes, my mind inevitably wanders to you.

When I see an older man on the street, I think of you.

When I see a man carrying his daughter on his shoulders, You.

When I see someone from the military, You.

When I hear Billy Joel or Elton John or The Beatles, You.

When I see blue eyes, You.

Feel the sunshine, You.

Smell fresh flowers, You.

Tend to my garden, You.

Everything.

You.

It’s so beautiful.

It’s so painful.

When I’m back home I find myself waiting to hear your footsteps down the hall. I had memorized them, you know; the cadence of your walk and the sound of your feet pressing into the floor. I knew them by heart.

I’d know them still.

On a Saturday in August, 2013 I drove you to three different grocery stores. You stayed in the car, exhausted and weak, but patiently, while I ran around looking for kale and spinach and acai powder and all of these other random products that boasted cancer-reducing benefits. I was convinced that if I could just get you to drink this all-powerful smoothie, it would do what 44 straight hours of chemo couldn’t, nor the additional chemo and drugs and therapies after that. This smoothie would take the cancer away, though.

You’d start getting better. We’d have more time together. I was convinced it would work.

I was desperate for it to work.

It had to.

You died a week later.

One year and ten months ago, my life and the way I would feel every single day for the rest of it completely changed.

Navigating life without you is a constant struggle, but there is one thing I know for sure: It keeps going.

That sometimes I curl up in a ball on the floor and cry for you and for all the days you’ve missed and all the days you will keep missing and I do not know how I can take one more second of this pain.

But it keeps going.

That sometimes all I wish is for someone to mention your name so that I’m reassured that you haven’t been forgotten because my biggest fear is that people will forget you.

But it keeps going.

That wonderful things and amazing people have come into my life since you left and it’s heart-shattering that you are not physically here to share in these moments and these people.

But it keeps going.

It’s that grieving you will always be present in me.

But grief is not solitary.

Happiness and sadness are not opposites.

They can coexist.

They coexist in me everyday.

They have to.

I love you.

Happy Father’s Day.

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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.

Shit Girls Say to Their BFF’s

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Girlfriends.

They’re basically the only way to keep your sanity in life.

AMIRIGHT?

Preach.

Furthermore, there are just certain things you only say to your best lady loves; those dark, dirty secrets or (embarrassing) everyday happenings that you just really need to share with SOMEONE so that you can be validated that yes, you are crazy but you’re not the only one.

As much fun as men can be, your husband/baby daddy/boyfriend/FWB/secret lover will probably (hopefully?) never have a vagina, and sometimes there are things that you can only say to people with similar parts.

Do you catch my drift?

I’ve been keeping a list for awhile now, of a bunch of the random, embarrassing, and ridiculous and things my girlfriends and I have said to each other.

I’ve been contemplating whether or not to publish this particular blog post for awhile, now. My thought was that it might be a little over the top and/or offensive (as if posting pictures of my underwear or talking about my sexcapades gone wrong are not either of those things). But then I said to myself, Self, have you ever read the title of your own blog? Okay? Okay. 

And also, I recently gave a fellow human a few examples of some of the quotes I’d planned on using and his response was, “I’m pretty sure you say way more inappropriate and weird things to me on a regular basis.”

Touchè.

So it’s happening.

(What that person doesn’t know is that I secretly took that as one of the best compliments ever.)

Keep it weird, people. Keep it weird.

I would like to emphasize that these did not all come out of MY mouth. Most of them are things other people have said to me…mm hmm, yea…especially the ones that really make you contemplate the status of my mental health. Definitely didn’t say any of those ones.

Definitely not.

…aaanyway…

Without further adieu,

Shit Girls Say to Their BFF’s:

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I just had to tug unnecessarily hard to get my thong out of my ass crack.

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I don’t want to hear from you again until there’s been actual P in the V. I love you. I believe in you. Good luck.

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GF1: The kissing was WAY too much. It was like, “Here, let me swirl my tongue around your tongue for 16 minutes and then right before your mouth completely dries up from being wide fucking open and catching flies, I’ll kiss your lips.” I’m exhausted.

GF2: Stop kissing him.

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GF1: Do you know what you’re wearing on your date tonight???

GF2: No idea! I want him to see me and choke on his own saliva. What does that outfit look like?

—

(At a bakery)

I am SOOO bloated. Do I look bloated? Don’t you fucking dare lie to me right now, ___. Do I? I don’t? You swear? Okay, lets split a cookie then.

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Don’t mind me while I furiously rub my vagina with face-cleansing towelettes.

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I just said this to somebody: “These almonds are EVERYTHING.” Everything? What am I, a fucking Kardashian? No. Please feel free to unfriend me from your life.

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I only ended up getting my ass waxed, so maybe we’ll just do doggy style and he’ll never see the front.

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I wish the reason that I have disproportionate forearm muscles was as pleasurable as the reason that guys do.

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How do people go commando in a dress? I feel like something is gonna fall out of my vagina at any moment.

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Ummm I’m growing a national forest on my face.

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My swamp ass is so real right now.

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My pants are literally going to just fall right off of me when he gets back from his trip and I’m going to have zero control over it.

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GF1: Please tell me you’ve had multiple orgasms in the last 72 hours.

GF2: Best sex of my life.

GF1: Marry him.

—

My uterus is about to erupt. My vagina is literally housing Mt. Vesuvius. I’m dying. Why am I a woman??

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I took the next day off so that I can get drunk just below the “get-sent-to-the-hospital” level, and then make bad decisions regarding my love life.

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I had to change out of my dress and into jeans because you could feel my leg hair through the fabric. I’m obviously not getting laid.

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If a guy doesn’t even want you to talk to him while he’s pooping, why the fuck would he want to stick it in your ass?

—

I def just ate a cookie that was god knows how old and stuffed behind a bunch of shit in one of the drawers at work. I have know idea whose it was but I do know that it had chocolate in it and also that maybe I shouldn’t drink sangria on my lunch break.

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If you stopped talking to me for more than 36 hours without having a death in your immediate family, I’d be a little butthurt. Especially if I had texted you that I got laid.

—

Just because he’s British does NOT mean he gets a free pass into these panties.

—

He had this little twitch in his eye and this weird cough thing happening and I don’t know if he was just super nervous but I do know that it was adorable and made me wanna give his penis a hug. With my vagina.

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Hahaha your fiancé is the best. I need a fiancé who’s also the best so that we can just be sister wives and brother husbands already.

—

You know that if I see your ex on the street, I’m going to walk straight up to him and kick him right in the balls, right? Like, multiple times. This is what bitches do for each other.

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Is it weird that we get really excited about each others’ sex lives?

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Would you rather take a shot of your guy’s cum, or a shot of your own phlegm?

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Do you think he’d think less of me if I boned his brains out before being exclusive?

—

I saw an ex last night who was in town, and I was expecting it to be along the lines of Fifty Shades of Grey, but it was more like The Notebook, except that Noah and Ally don’t ever end up together, and just…TEARS. TEARS EVERYWHERE. So yea, now I’m just eating a lot of cookies.

—

WTF I’ve pooped three times today already.

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GF1: I have a bunch of leftover Plan B pills, do you want them?

GF2: Hahaha what do you think I am, a whore?! Yes. I do want them.

—

I’m so dehydrated that my poop looks like a pile of burnt popcorn chicken.

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He hasn’t asked me on another date  yet, but I’m sure he’ll ask before the weekend is over…right? If not, I’m just going to eat three whole ice cream cakes and then drown myself in a kiddie pool.

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GF1: Why am I watching Katie Couric learn how to give a newborn baby the Heimlich?

GF2: You’re lonely.

GF1: And my uterus hurts.

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I just started my period and my back is fucking killing me and all I wanna do is crawl into a gallon of ice cream and eat my way out of it.

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 When I think about being skinnier, my first thought is always: it would be WAY easier to shave my vagina

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I love you so much I just hugged my phone

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I just shaved my entire vagina and I don’t get how this is so fucking attractive. I look like a really tall ten year old with way too much makeup on.

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He’s so sweet I might just kill myself purely because he’d write the best eulogy.

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He makes fucking delicious bacon, so…basically that seals the deal.

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I tried using conditioner instead of shave gel on my lady bits and my vagina feels like a pair of silk panties.

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I need you. In the most heterosexual way.

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GF1: At what point is it appropriate to ask the question, “So, are you gonna cheat on me with free dating websites or completely disappear for a week and then I’ll randomly run into you in a park and you’ll be holding a bottle of bbq sauce and a loaf of bread, like the last guy?”

GF2: I’d say that’s a good fourth date question.

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GF1: How to know your date tanked – you leave and drive straight to the KFC drive-thru window.

GF2: Oh no! He was that bad?

GF1: Give me all the Chicken Littles.

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I’m totally the whore in this relationship.

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It’s so hot out I have a cup of ice between my legs but the heat radiating from my vagina is already melting it.

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You know it’s time to get a brazilian when you move and your jeans tug on your pubes.

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SWEAR to me that you’ll always tell me if my ass is sweating through my pants. Swear it.

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GF1: What percentage of guys do you think try to suck their D’s?

GF2: 100%

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On a scale of 1 to eating cold chicken out of a plastic bag before bed, how lonely are you?

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Btw I’m so bloated I wanna kill myself, and I don’t even wanna binge on junk food first, because TOO BLOATED.

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Confession: I was holding a pen in my mouth and fully drooled all over my chest, but it felt good because I’m so bloody hot.

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GF1: Sorry your leg wax didn’t turn out well!!

GF2: Oh, it’s not that terrible. just thought I’d sit up and cum at touching my own legs.

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GF1: You may also have to hold a fan directly against my vagina while I hold my wedding dress up, so I don’t drip sweat all over everyone’s shoes.

GF2: I’m just going to buy you a strap on dildo and replace the penis with a fan.

—

GF1: How do you ask a guy if he’s a virgin without making his dick go soft for all of eternity?

GF2: You can’t.

Dedicated to my lady loves. I’d be lost and even more crazycakes without you.

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

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Love,

M.

Date Fails

/ Love, M / Leave a comment

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.

pdshoto

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?

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Happy Monday, lovers!

Love,

M.

Online Dating — You’re Doing it Wrong

/ Love, M / 1 Comment

Confession: I recently made an online dating profile. Recently, as in a few days ago. Why did I do this? I’ve asked myself this same question about 67,000 times in the last 72 hours, but it’s basically the same reason why I came home yesterday from what was supposed to be just a chiropractic appointment, with shopping bags from Zara and Nordstrom Rack filled to the brim with useless clothing items: I’m a wee bit IMPULSIVE.

(okay but they’re not totally useless clothing items and I got a gorgeous new white top because I’m obsessed with white and ohmygodicantstopbuyingallthewhitethings. This is 100% a cry for help)

Anyways, what really happened is that this site lets you make a profile for free (so obviously I got super curious), but you can’t see anyone’s emails or pictures or anything unless you pay, so once the messages started flooding my inbox and I couldn’t even see who was sending them, I caved and said FINE TAKE MY THIRTY DOLLARS, NOW SHOW ME THE SIX-FOOT-FOUR HUGH JACKMAN AND RYAN GOSLING LOOK-ALIKES ALREADY!!!

Also, dating websites are fucking hilarious. The best. I’m telling you, it’s better than reality TV. I think it’s safe to say that it’s pretty much exactly like being on The Bachelorette, but without having cameras following you around. Except that I think I can pick out at least 7 men on this website that would definitely follow you around with a camera.

And maybe also a weapon.

JUST kidding.

But seriously.

I feel like I should be embarrassed to reveal this recent venture, but then again, I posted a picture of my torn up underwear on here, and also, when I brought up this concern to my girlfriend, she said, “Wayyy more people are doing this online dating stuff then you think. They just don’t wan’t to admit it.”

SO THERE. I’m admitting it. I’m on one. Now piss off. Just kidding, I love you. Keep reading. And feel free to laugh at me. I’m laughing at me.

Oh and ALSO, one of my other girlfriends once said to me, “If you’re ever feeling shitty about your life, just remember that I got super drunk a couple weeks ago and slept with a toothless guy.”

…so there’s that.

Now, I’m about 15% taking this seriously, and 85% using this as a social experiment and having my mind blown by some of the stuff I’m seeing and/or reading, immediately taking screenshots of the madness and sending them to my equally inappropriate, we’re-both-on-the-first-train-to-hell-but-it’s-totally-fine-because-we’ll-be-singin’-the-whole-way-there-and-besides-everyone-we-love-will-be-there-too-oh-and-also-WEWILLBRINGTHEMARGARITAS, girlfriend. Love her.

So are you super curious as to what MY dating profile looks like? Well, I was feeling generous today so I uploaded a picture of it for you. Enjoy!…

Hahahahaha

No.

If you want to see my profile, fork over the money to be on the site and stalk me that way, like a normal person would.

Anyways.

For every one message that I’ve received or profile that I’ve come across that has actually made me laugh in a non-creeped-out way, or raise my eyebrow with a look of Okay, well you certainly don’t suck to look at and you also actually write about yourself using sentences that go a little deeper than “I like to have fun. Beer is good,” there are 103 ridiculous ones.

The majority of the time I’m shaking my head in disbelief. So, I thought I’d share, in my humble opinion, how to tell if you should NOT go out with a person you meet online.

If his main profile picture is of him wearing a fish hat.

phortto 2

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If he states that his pet peeve is “chipped nail polish.” Nail polish? Really? If you’re going to abstain from playing ping-pong or wrestling around with your girlfriend because you don’t want her chipping her nail polish, you need to re-evaluate your life. Wait, first remove the giant stick from your ass, and then re-evaluate your life.

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If he has no pictures whatsoever on his profile. Yea, you seem super legit and not at all embarrassed to show your face on here. Your mug shot is probably plastered on light poles in every residential neighborhood. 

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If his email says, “You won’t be disappointed.” Honey, I’m already disappointed.

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If his name is MacGregor, and he actually wants to be called MacGregor.

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If he is the Hispanic Tom Selleck. Except that I think this guy may actually be doing it RIGHT. Let’s be honest.

phoeeeto

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If he sends you emails that are in style of a Shakespearean sonnet.

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If he can’t even spell his own name right in his email.

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If he’s Jesus Christ’s doppleganger. Like I mentioned above, I’m already on the south-bound train for writing this blog post and I can’t look at someone so Christ-like everyday, wondering how much he’s judging me for drinking coffee out of a mug with the word “cunt” written on it.

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If his spelling is so bad that he confuses the word “horse” with “hores,” multiple times, thus asking you if you currently live with hores.

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Two words: Bathroom selfies.

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If he takes the term “Profile picture” literally (and also burns worse than you do — for the sake of your unborn children)

phodddeeto

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If he puts up pictures of himself completely hammered and standing next to the Señor Frog mascot in Cabo (or any other monument/mascot/anything while shitfaced and slumped over). Stop it.

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If the subject line in his email to you is, “Who doesn’t like a good box?”

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If the subject line in his email to you is, “I have a gorilla.”

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If he posts this picture:

photeeo 1

I do not care that your muscles are chiseled and glistening with fake sweat. You’re an idiot. But have fun getting winks and emails from a bunch of girls who pop Valtrex like they’re Flintstone vitamins.

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If his message to you is anything along the lines of: “I’ll keep this short and sweet. You’re hot. What’s your cell number?” What this message ACTUALLY means is: “We should text for a couple of days and then have sex and then you can immediately regret it while I find someone else to text/sex/repeat.” And as romantic as that whole idea is my darling, you can just take your Costco bulk package of condoms and fuck off. K thanks. 

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If his username is “CreepyMcCreeper”

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If he sends you an email with this subject line:

photdsdso

Thank you for that. Now, if you’ll excuse me for a moment I’m going to go throw up and then pour acid in my eyes. 

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If his username contains the phrase “Rico Suave.” If you feel the need to make it known that you are the Rico Suave type, then you are not suave, you are a d-bag.

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If he’s wearing a big red helmet in 90% of his pictures. Take off your helmet.

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If he has someone take a picture of him talking on his cellphone, while strategically placing his other hand casually through his belt loop, and also just happens to be looking at the camera and giving a casual smile that says “Oh, were you taking a picture of me? You silly goose I wasn’t even ready!” You are not posing for a spread in LL Bean. Get out. 

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If he sends you multiple emails in a row, because he kept forgetting things that he had wanted to ask you. Let it go, my friend. Oh and also, Xanax. 

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If his pictures are literally from a modeling agency and so incredibly photoshopped that it looks like you could use the hollow of his cheekbones as a vessel for guacamole dip. Stop. You are not real, and if you ARE real, I am 98% certain that you have never been able to give a female an orgasm. You probably also do weird shit like only drinking water and sucking on lemons, except for on Tuesdays when you’ll let yourself have some organic soybeans.

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If he posts his Instagram username in his profile with the caption “Follow me on Insta!!” HONEY. You look so desperate. The douchebaggery that you are sending out into the world right now is really messing with my chi. 

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If any (or all) of his pictures are taken with various bikini-clad babes that CLEARLY are not his sister. Oh, please let me be your next lay. I can tell that you’re really into monogamy and class. Puke.

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Lastly, and on a slightly different note, if you’re a widower whose wife died of cancer 2 years ago and you post pictures with the adorable little girl that you had together, and you write happily about how most nights nowadays are spent building forts and watching Frozen, you should know that I’m just going to start bawling. So thanks for that (but you, kind sir, are NOT doing it wrong, and I hope that you find a deep and mighty love). But seriously, I cried. I know, I know. Throw me a tampon.

 It’s not all bad, really. This ain’t my first rodeo. I’m living proof that good things (and horrifying things) can come out of this interweb-correspondance. I know quite a few people who have a certain finger that is a little extra sparkly these days, thanks to one of these silly websites. It’s really no different than meeting people the “normal” way. No matter how you end up getting involved with someone, you’re always going to run the risk of  them being a fucking nutjob. Or a narcissist/sociopath. <— worst case scenario. But you may also just meet that dude (or lady) who is YOUR kind of weird, and it just works.

Well now that I’m feeling sappy, I’m gonna go snuggle my cat and then run around outside until it’s time to drive up north for the day and get into trouble with some old amigos.

Cheers!

Love,

M.

Self-Esteem Boosters

/ Love, M / Leave a comment

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.

photo

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.

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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)

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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.

photo

—

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

/ Love, M / 6 Comments

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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.