My friend’s dad passed away yesterday. Now she has no parents and a son at home still to raise. She’s usually one tough bitch, but when she allowed me to bring her son dinner last night, I knew her defenses were down. I was glad she could accept this little gesture of “help.” Her eyes were swollen and her nose was stuffed. She had a very difficult relationship with her father, but now he’s gone. That sucker punches even a toughened woman who searched for her dad’s love for over 50 years.
I have to do her work today, and my work to do today, and help get my daughter ready to go to college tomorrow, and remember who I am, too.
I’m trepedatious and yet aware that it’s a blessing to have these first world “problems.” I have a job and a daughter going to college and a parent still here and a new life to forge. Trepedatious and humbled.
Come here, world…let’s be friends.
I have a crush. Not a smush or a splat. A crush. Pleasant, overwhelming, and overtaking like a sparkling fruit drink on an August porch swing. I can’t stop thinking about someone and it makes me giddy and happy and hopeful that the future really will be better than the past, whether it includes this person for long, or not.
My friend and co-worker, however, had to leave work this morning after the nursing home called to say she’d better come right away — her father wouldn’t make it much longer.
We each get our turn on the roulette wheel, apparently. There was a time, still a visible dot in the rearview mirror, when I slid the dull side of the knife I would use down my wrist, just to get a foreshadowing of how it would feel if I decided to use the blade part sometime.
Sobering things. Infatuation. Love. Separation. Death. Suicidal Grief. And on we go. Sissies need not apply, or if in the thick of it, it’s best to huddle together.
Got together with the girls last night. Not spring, but early fall chickens, let’s say. Me, divorce, natch. Another laid off. Another retired with a condo that sucks all her hoped for disposable retirement money. Another couldn’t make it — watching her dad die slowly without a helpful, heartfelt Hollywood script. And, one who couldn’t come because she is still chauffeuring her oops baby around to his activities. Some of these people are composites, and some are made up, but the situations are real.
I always seem to come late to life’s parties. I know these things have been going on for years, but take my mom: She also was a second wife, but she and my dad stayed together until he died. Actually, they’re still very much together, just in a different way. She didn’t work when we were little. She went back to work for stimulation when we left the house. None of her friends were divorced. People didn’t talk about shepherding their parents into the afterlife, but oops babies are omnipresent, I guess.
The party I’m having is a pity party. I don’t like the hand I’ve been dealt and the beer is flat. But I’m not stupid. I will eventually show up to the cool party, hopefully toting a shiny new attitude adjustment.