Did I Do That??

Anyone can write about events that are funny, quirky, or turn out great in the end.  But a hard hard thing for me to do is to write about hard things when they happen.  Things like marriage or money concerns, heartache with kids, or getting blamed for things I didn't do... For some reason, I have felt that it is just not entertaining to share bad things with people, as they are happening. (I can always spin it into a life lesson later, right?) What I find now, is how important it is for people to share burdens.  So lets take one of mine and see if anyone else relates.

I hate being embarrassed.  More than anything, I hate being someone that messes up, or is in the wrong place at the wrong time. I hate having something in my life that I have no control over that is embarrassing, and I hate even worse when I could have changed things, but didn't.  So whether it is a horrible thing like being assaulted, or being late to a loved ones funeral, or having a car break down in the middle of a trip, causing us to miss something important.... It all comes down to being embarrassed.

Without making this a rant, I want to stay on the embarrassment part. It is easier for me to have righteous indignation, or anger.  But the part that stays hidden is the embarrassment. The part that says, "Did I allow this to happen?" This is something that has just come out of thin air.  Like a whack in the back of the head, because who thinks about this?  It's odd. And I am embarrassed.

I usually label being embarrassed as being dorky, or goofy, or a nerd.  But there is a difference for me, really. I am confident enough now that if I have something spill on my shirt, or trip on a step, I can own that I am not perfect. And I have come to that confidence from a lot of spills and trips. But the uncharted, unfinished, and unacceptable part of me still has embarrassment issues about the big things. Things that I don't talk about because, well, they are embarrassing. Like harassment. And bullying. And...Assault.

Who would think that assault (in this case, assault is a socially neutral word to me, for sexual bullying, or rape, or things like that) would be embarrassing? Well, because it is something that is nebulous. And anyone that has done that to someone else would rather put that stuff on the victim than own it. Instead of "I'm sorry. I had no idea I had gone over the line" or "What was I thinking? I can't believe I hurt you!", it is "What? You baby. Can't you take a joke?" and "No, you wouldn't think I would come on to YOU, would you?"  All the time being sick to the stomach knowing something...SOMETHING had caused this, and it wasn't you. The offender is saying, though, that it is, and a small part would say, "Am I crazy? DID I misinterpret?"  And THAT is the embarrassment I am talking about.

I think, "DID I actually do this deed, and I have somehow forgotten/blanked it out?" And then I think, "That has to be the only reason for this to be happening, so I must be crazy!" How embarrassing  to be crazy. Right? To think everything is going well, only to be whacked up the side of the head with something that changes your day/week/life and IT'S MY FAULT.  And everyone else knows it.

February 15th, which is today, marks the 3rd year that I got through my embarrassment.  I got to feel humiliated because of an assault that left me hurting, inside and out. And I got to hear from a guy that it was my fault. That he knew I was looking to be assaulted. That I asked for it. That I chose to make the decisions he made that caused me scrapes and bruises, both physical and mental.  It's the 3rd year that I have had to decide whether to listen to police and hospital staff and therapists and ...me, instead of hearing again the guy that embarrassed the hell out of me.  And it is still ...so embarrassing that I would never dream of talking about it to anyone.

So why talk about it now?  Because I am a big girl now. I do not choose to have it eat at me. I do not choose to have it be a dark blot that is the only thing I don't write about. It is not about the event. It is about the feeling of embarrassment and why it so completely consumes me in who I talk to and how I choose to talk about it.  I could make a downplayed joke about it. I could keep it inside as a secret until it is a non-event. I could even make it into a building block in my life. But the truth is that right now...it is simply embarrassing. Not because of what I did, but because of the way he made me feel. And how I make me feel when I remember, which is every February 14th.

Instead of "Oh I am So Sorry!" posts, I am interested in knowing if embarrassment effects you the same way? Instead of "What a jerk!" comments, I am interested in knowing , if you dare, what it is that you have not had the guts to talk about because embarrassment was your cage? I am interested in knowing I am not the only one that holds embarrassment as the deepest, darkest secret.   Because the more I let it out into the light, the less it holds me hostage.

So Many Crossroads. I'll Go Left...No Right...

The Road Not Taken Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear, Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I marked the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. Robert Frost  I love to wander. And I love to walk. However, not all my choices happen in a thicket outside.  My mother likened this poem to daily choices, and I still have that tendency. For instance:

Well-off or not. Left-wing or Right. Fit or Fat. Heels or Flats. Spanxs or Flab. Gray or Color. Stay or Go. In or Out. Happy or Sad. I imagine all of these decisions as a road with a fork in it. (Not an actual fork.) And I am Robert Frost, coming to the 2 roads that bring me to my daily choice. They add up to a lot of energy spent, and sometimes I am exhausted by 8 AM.

Some of these roads are pretty recent.  And they are a bit disappointing. The choices of age just stink.  Why would I care if I went natural or fixed my body artificially? At 27, I was not in the least bit interested. But at 38... they need to be considered. Heels or Flats? At 9, it didn't matter, because my mom would have none of that anyway. FLATS. The choice was made for me.

OOH. HMM.  I want my mom. To continue just making choices for me. Now lets be clear that at teen-hood, I just wanted her out of my life because she was ridiculously dumb. Because I was always right, and knew all the answers. I just needed her for food and money. NOT ADVICE.  But now... it would be nice to wake up and have my clothes laid out, my shoes next to my clothes, and my breakfast made again.  Even if it was oatmeal. 

She could make my choices in clothing, but the consequence to that is she would also make my money choices as well. (NO, Sharon, You may not have unlimited funds for the night as you leave the house, looking for something "fun" to do.) That might work as a teen, but definitely doesn't work when I have my own household. Oh well. It was a thought...

Oh, the money thing. To Spend or Not To Spend. The daily road of choice. Now, most fork-in-the-road spots I do myself,  like trying on 5 outfits to get the right combination for the day. This includes the thank-you-for-trying-but-you-didn't-make-the-cut-today outfits being flung over my bed and dresser, with my husband looking on in wonder. (He gathers them up and puts them in a basket for me to put away later. I just keep them there, and bring them out the next day.) Most are my individual choice, when it comes right down to it, but the money thing, well, that brings in my partner. To Spend or Not To Spend looks like this:

Husband: Oh yeah. It's on sale. We have to get it.

Me: Is it on the list?

Husband: Writes it on the list with the pen he has kept for just such occasion. Yes.

Me: You just wrote that in!

Husband: So? It's on sale and we have to get it.

Me: You're right. It IS on the list....

And that's the decision. In fact, it is what all my choices come down to. Self Control, or Live In The Moment?  I'd say it is a 50/50 split right now.  I do wear high heels without Scholl's gel inserts (see a prior story for that), so I practice self control wearing them in spite of the pain, all day. They go with my outfit, after all. BUT, I don't wear SPANX as often as I could (or should, for that matter. I do have limits in my daily dose of discomfort.). I choose salty pickles and chips on my sandwiches every time, but will skip eating ribs, steak, or red meat, usually, and choose a salad instead. Does it balance out? the teeter totter of  having both control AND indulgence? Not really, but I am currently in the place where I pick the choice that makes sense at the time.

My mom would groan and turn away if she knew. (She doesn't currently read my blog, I don't think.)

Mom told me, once, to make a choice, make it once, and live with the consequences.  Then you never have to make it again, and you are free to do other things. (My mom got along with Robert Frost on a few things.) Sound advice, really. It is how she balances her checkbook. It is how she knows when to iron shirts, and darn socks, and what time to make dinner or breakfast. Or make her bed. And when to send out birthday cards, I believe. She is amazing!

She used it, she said, for choices like, "Does she date young, or at 16?" and "Will she pray before a big decision, or not?" and "What type of companion will she marry?"  I agree with her philosophy on the life changing things. And, I wish I would have listened. MMM, I listened. I just didn't emulate a whole lot. 

Oh how I envy that woman sometimes.  She came to the forks of her life a long time ago, I believe.  She sat in the dust, or the pavement (or she just brought one of those folding chairs that she got in a Church auction, with her), and, with a legal pad and pen in hand, would write down the pro's and con's of the decision. Then, she would keep the pad with her in her purse, to be referred to when needed, and would simply take the road that made most sense. And keep on down that road.  ( I am pretty sure she has the legal pad to this day.) Did I say she even taught me how to do it? I saw her balance her checkbook every Monday and iron Dad's shirts on Tuesday. 

 So why do my choices still look like me running, pell-mell down the road and then screeching to a halt at the last possible second, only to put a foot in both directions, walking it out until I do the splits?  It's because I want it all. I am a road dweller because I want both Self Control AND Instant Gratification.  Can it be done?

My legs hurt.

I do know this. I have started to pick myself up and go down one tine of the fork in that road. And then, cut across and go to the other side, knowing that I will probably run through prickles and milkweed sap and tumbleweeds. But when I get to the other side, I get to experience ... more.  Even if that ...more... is the wrong way after all, so I have to book it, double-time, back the way I came.  Even if, when I get to where I was in the first place, I look a bit sticky and dirty and tired. 

Usually, though, I am smiling because I got to see both sides. I got to look at both roads and THEN pick. Again, my mom would groan. So would Robert Frost.

I am not my mom. I will take her lessons and use them a lot of times. But sometimes...SOMETIMES... I will pick up my chair and my legal pad and just fling them into the weeds, running fast for the other road.  Sometimes in my heels, never in my SPANX, and when I get to the problem of whether to go gray or natural, I may wander, then, as well.  

Stop the words! I'm drowning!!!

I grew up with words being coerced, coaxed, pleaded and applauded out of me. As a baby, adult faces would frown when i didn't do what they asked, and shine when i got it right. Words let me know which paths were the easiest and the hardest, which food was hot or cold, which items were off limits, and what happened to the bad guys in fairytale stories.

As i grew, i heard more complex phrases which, put together with the correct punctuation, let me know when to come home for dinner, which friends i could hang with, and why my soup was too bland.

In teenhood, words became everything. EVERYTHING (along with the right eye liner) could be accomplished with words. Add an essential eye roll, a few facial expressions, and world peace could be solved.

All through life, words have been my companion in making my world vivid. I couldn't have have this vivaciousness about words without my elders. I was fortunate enough to have fine arts and liturature imbued into the very air i breathed. But, i do enjoy being lax, thanks to texting, facebook, and looking out the window as i tap away at the keys. Also, i like to write as i think, lately, and that is anything but high-falutin.

Which is why it is particularly silly when i get words, phrases, and even punctuation wrong, by accident. I was corrected about a few phrases, this afternoon, by a woman whom i could barely understand. She had no accent. She was from the same region as i. Yet i struggled mightily to let her words (and the blueberry muffin i was eating at the time) fight it out in my mouth for room. (I was saved by milk.) "You know, the correct term for ....blah blah.....is....bleetily blow, bliy bloo bloo..." and she sat there haughtily, waiting for me to do something. Bow down and say, "I'm not worthy!" or maybe "You have changed my life! I will now be a blow-torch guy!" (The term is welder.) Her eyebrow was pulled up to an almost Vulcan-ese hight, and the left side of her lips had been scrunched, while at the same time being pulled down slightly. And there she was. My grandma. Ouch. (And Ba Ha!!! She even had the mole!) I am not clear what she wanted from me, except for me to immediately stop offending her with my hill-billy ways, and move around her. This put me in mind of Dr. Seuss's story where two furry yet naked beings came across the sand, one from the north, and one from the south. Instead of either of them moving to one side so they could continue their journey, they found ways to share with the other about how important they were. And how IMPERITIVE it was that the other move, simply because of how important they were. The words got more self-important. Words like "Sir" were traded for "Young Man", and then on to "You couldn't possibly understand how important it is that you move aside so I can move forward, Simpleton"-ish attitudes. And a freeway was built around their haughtiness. It was like that, but the woman had clothes on and was slightly less furry. I believe she simply corrected me as she had been corrected by her elders, and wasn't even aware that she did it, honestly. And I was schooled. I said "Thank you." And moved aside so she could get her own muffin. To anyone that has been corrected, or even looked at, by me, in the oh-you-poor-creature way that she had given me, i apologize. It's hideous. For the next 2 weeks on Facebook, or texting, you have my permission to correct me. But only if i get to see the eyebrow-raising gesture at the time. Or the lips pursing together with those crinkly lines making you look 30 years older than you are. Send those pics in! Just the flaring nostrils and eyes and lips, mind you. Cause that would make one heck of a montage (homage? mobile?...) to the elders that have started turning over in their graves at my lax use of their lessons lately.

Crossing Over. Hold the line!!!.

by Sharon Thornton Montgomery on Tuesday, 09 March 2010.

I've crossed over.

I don't know when i did it. I don't remember the exact date or event, but here i am. A grown up. One minute i'm roller skating around my mom and dad's unfinished family room (trying not to get splinters from the plywood when I fall) thinking, “This is the life. The feeling of freedom and flying and not doing chores. Can it get better than this?”, and the next minute i'm roller skating in a quaint warehouse-turned-80's-disco, cajoling my daughter onto the rink as she watches me wobble around the half wall. I practically spun around from one age to the next with hardly a blink. Crap. My blinks must have gotten longer the older i got.

My whole thoughts, as i'm in this warehouse/roller rink, go like this: “I am NOT going to get knocked over by the 9 year old in lime-green hair. Again. A-HA!"..."This is so fun!"..."Well... i remember it being fun, but why don't my legs work like they used to? And why am i so much taller than the other people on the rink?”..."Why are all the parents on the side, shaking their head at me, with pity in their eyes??!!!" I honestly thought i could just pick up where i left off a few weeks/years..../decades ago. Dur.

I look over at the DJ up in the magical booth of music and notice that he's not quite the memory i remember, either. A cool grown up with the ultimate job, and a look on his face that says, “Envy me. I can put on any music I want and have people DANCE around me. AH AH AHH!!!”,... he is not. Oh no. This guy is a pimply 16 year old with a bored look on his face, wondering why he waited so long to look for a summer job. The look on his face that i first took as bliss at landing this fantastic job is actually incredulity that he has kept this gig under wraps from his girlfriend for so long. (She thinks he works at Boondocks.)

So I've crossed over. What's the big deal? Other people have gone there before me. They seem happy and... actually..... happy-ER. It's like they are keeping the line going steady for me, just waiting for me to take the bait and move forward. No big deal for them.

The big deal for me is being in resistance to change, i guess. I know what it feels like to be a kid, because i've done it already. Familiar is good, even if it is keeping me in the past. Letting go of something i know is good, for something i only hear about being better...We-eh-ehll!...That's a risk, a gamble, and it isn't a sure thing. Ever heard the story of the monkey and the mouldy peanuts? Look it up. End result is that the monkey is trapped by something good, and is unwilling to let go of the stuff he is holding on to, in order to get what's better for him.

I would much rather be, by the way, in my 30 some-things and having a great time in the present, than back at the younger age and not able to progress. Now. I have a feeling things just get better the further along I go.

Alright, I'm ready to take the bait. GULP!

My mom always wanted me to write in my journal.

Just about spiritual things. So here goes. I am hanging out in my temple. My feet are dirty, I am sticky from sweat, and I am laying down on my sofa with no one around. I have some serious joy going on.

I ran/walked today. Who cares? I do. Because I noticed that it was just me out there in the 94 degree day. I mean, of course there were others. The bulked up guy sweating it out on the top of his mountain bike. The older couple in spandex holding each other up coming down the hill. The nazi mom with 3 kids keeping them well exercised and hydrated at precisely the right time. (This is Colorado, after all.)

What I’m saying, though, is that no one was with me but me. No one was with me in my black shorts that were really my sons swim trunks (not a good idea in the sweltering air) , complete with mesh-ness (a great idea). No one shared my blotchy face and breathe counting. Not one person felt my butt muscles work, but me. My wheezing at the end… was my own. I was my temple. My place of honor, of love, of peace and comfort. I guess mom was right after all. She always said not to defile “My Temple”, and to take care of it. What a blessing.

it was me that decided when to push faster and when to ease up. It was me that asked myself why I had let my thighs grow together so my shorts rode up. And, it was me that forgave myself, got a chuckle out of it, and used it as a rhythm to walk to. (fwwp, fwwp, fwwp…step to the side to bring them down,…fwwp, fwwp, fwwp, …step to the side…) This has become a spiritual ritual that I adhere to daily. No husband, no kids or friends go with me, and it is damned freeing. I am partaking in the joy of doing it for me. The sky, the air, the bugs, the sounds, the flavor of the outdoor world… these are my temple grounds. Woot.

Each time I went from voluptuous curves, to “you look great! So thin! How did you do it?”, it was due to a heartache of some kind. A tragedy. I didn’t eat or sleep as I was going through heartache, and the pounds just fell off. No joy in it a-tall. Currently, however, I am not in a relationship with a heartache, so I wanted to see what it was like to be healthy on my terms. Thus the walk/run every day earlier than the rest of the family gets up.

I don’t ask or want praise from family or friends. I don’t care that my socks match my shirt when I go. I certainly don’t brush my teeth first. I absolutely revel in taking this space and being perfect in it, however it looks. Even when it looks like taking two water bottles and lifting them in the air at various positions to get my arms a workout at the same time. Or cans, as the case was today. The older couple on the hill thought that was great. I know this because I wasn’t paying attention to them until I whacked the lady in the shoulder with one. (I now know her name is Thelma and she has 9 grandkids).

Then back to the breathing, the counting, and listening to the latest Harry Dresden audiobook as the prairie dogs chitter at me and the gnats compete with my nose hair.

The stretching at the end is the best. The climax. Out on my lawn, still alone and dedicated to my ritual as cars and neighbors pass. I bend, lunge, reach, and flex until… Until… until I am done. I water my plants, checking on them, loving them, and staying smelly for another half hour or so Just for the joy of it. When finally I move indoors, I look to the next step, and now comes the only decision of the morning. Shower? Or flop on my sofa and Facebook? Either way, I have permagrin.

That flavor of popcorn will never taste the same....

by Sharon Thornton Montgomery on Sunday, 14 March 2010 at 23:10

I never knew that the startle response could go on and on and on. Remember the feeling of being scared out of your wits, coming around a corner and almost running into someone? "Oh! You scared the crap out of me!" Then laughing for an ackward second as you walk away, but your heart is still pounding and you think you peed just a bit? Yeah, that startle response. I'm good with one of those a decade, and here it was a continuous moment that just wouldn't go away.

One minute I'm having a great night out at the movies and thinking, "It's about time I relax and let down my guard. I'm with good company, after all, and I'm stuffed to the gills with great food." The next minute, I notice how many people are near me, brushing up against me, STARING at me. Then BOOM! My heart feels like a hand is around it, making a fist. Squeezing.... squeezing...squeezing. How can this feeling hurt so much??

Looking around, I'm terrified of each and every person's motions. The moments slow down, and as I move my eyes around there is an echo of the picture before it. Bu-na na na. Bu-na na na. The Six Million Dollar Man sounds are playing in my head as I look around in terror. Every movement, whether head on, or periphrial, is acutely jarring.

I look at the person next to me and wonder if she can tell how creepy, how .... violated.... I suddenly feel. "How can I make this stop?!"

This is so silly, I rationalize. I'll just stand here, in the corner with my back up against the wall, and breathe. Only, it just keeps getting worse. All these people were actually breathing the air I needed! Oh No! I can hear my friend asking me if I needed anything, if I was ok. I even hear myself say "Yes, I'm fine. I'll wait here while you step into the restroom."... And that was just the beginning. Once she was gone, I couldn't breathe! Ears ringing, short sharp breaths with my heart pounding in my throat, I didn't know how to ease the squeezing in my chest.

I will never, EVER question the validity of someone else's panic attack. Or my own.

While she was gone, I just wanted to slide down to the floor and cry. I went from 36 years old to 7, just like that. Ahhh! So many people staring at me! Are they looking at me because they know how vulnerable, how scared of them I am? Or are they looking because i'm looking at them and jumping slightly as they come nearer and nearer to me? Their eyes, which just a few minutes ago said they were having a good time at the movies, now said that any one of them could corner me, could hurt me, and no one else would help.

And then, the calm came through the storm. Thank you BFF, for coming out of the restroom and seeing me even though I thought you had forgotten me, or missed me in the crowd and I was sure I was alone. I figured I was hiding my untimely terror pretty well as you "decided" that, instead of hanging around and doing another movie, we could just head home.

We walked out of the doors of the movie theatre and I figured I could keep this to my self, what with the fresh air, the moving away from the crowds, and...and...and then it hit me again. Like a wave. Instead of people, it was darkness, and the people that were around and passing us. The wave slapped me again, and I couldn't breathe.

I wonder at the calm and patience you showed as you stopped to hug me on the sidewalk as my tears and snot rolled down your leather jacket. Thank you for hugging me through the shaking and sobbing while the little girl in the window of the restaurant stared at me. Thank you for keeping me walking in the right direction when I had no idea where I parked my car. And sitting down with me as I was frozen stiff on the sidewalk, hurling the popcorn, the Coke with lemon, and the horrible memories that brought me here in the first place. Lastly, thank you for not making a big deal of me reaching back down to grasp desperately what was left of my bag of popcorn, and clutching it to me as you drove me home. You were so nonchalant as you brought me to the safety of my house, my family, and my quilt.

I remembered to breathe about 10 minutes or so into the ride home. I stopped rubbing my solar plexis around the time we turned off the freeway. The fist around my heart let go when I walked up the steps to my front door. And I started to regain my dignity 10 minutes after I wrapped my quilt around me and blew my nose for the umpteenth time with those precious Puffs tissues.

I have no idea when BFF left for the night, but I do know that I won't be getting popcorn for a long, long time. And... Life is not tidy...

So This Is The Flavor of Crazy. Not Bad. Not Bad At All....

by Sharon Thornton Montgomery on Sunday, 06 June 2010 at 01:12

Summer. It's what I wait for every year. Summer equals fireworks, and watermelon. It equals gardening and promise. It equals sprinklers under the trampoline and stargazing. How, then, can I be caught by surprise when the heat and stickiness make me go crazy EVERY YEAR? It laces right over the heart of the watermelon I cram into my mouth, and sinks into the fabric of the hammock I just teetered on.

Crazy even shows its ugly head throughout the beauty of the 4th of July fireworks display as I fight the crowds to find that 3 foot square plot of land in the park. I cram the kids, snacks brought from home, lawn chairs, and a tent onto this spot so I can savor the golden moment, and KA-CHOW! our senses are assaulted.

Heat and stickiness seep into all of my activities throughout summer, but I forget about it until it has a firm hold of me and starts giggling.

I wonder why everyone and everything is irritating until I realize... Oh. I'm the grumpy one. I can't breathe in without feeling the dampness of my skin moving against my wrinkles in my clothes, and my hair. Immediately the thought pops in, "I'M GOING CRAZY!!!! If I don't...(insert ultimatum here)... I'll go crazy."

This year, If I don't cut my hair, I'll go crazy!!!

I'll deal with it here in a few more days. I'll look at the clouds and notice the moisture forming as I water my garden, or go to the mountains and breathe in the cooler air as I ride the Alpine Slide down the hill. I may even sample some fresh peas and forgive the heat altogether. I do remember that without the heat, I can't have the fantastic-ness that is summer. As long as Crazy tastes this good, I'll take it.

Oh Abby. The mohawk is just the start of a beautiful relationship with your Grandpa..

By Sharon Thornton Montgomery on Wednesday, 23 June 2010 at 23:41

I'm giggling.

Not out loud, because that would be odd. (I'm supposed to be sleeping, and my daughter is right next to me.) But nevertheless, I'm giggling on the inside. It's burbling up from my toes, through my knee caps, over my hips, and I'm keeping it at bay on top of my belly with some serious perma-grin and a note.

This is what the laughter is about: I'm remembering what my niece said to my dad this morning. Abby, who is a proud 4 year old, noticed that Grandpa T. didn't exactly approve of the mohawk she was giving to her little brother Carter. He came close to examine it and gave a small hint that he would look better with it down on his head.

She looked at Grandpa for a second and said, "Gwampa, Caw-tah is only pwetending to have one. He is too young. Not like you, Gwandpa. You awah old old OLD. But you don't have any ha-yah. Too bad." Observant? Yes. Grandpa T. is bald as an egg, except for the base of his skull. And I should say at this point, a bit sensitive about it. He would rather have a flowing mane of locks, but alas, it's not to be. The result to the comment was a bit of a scowl.

Now at this point, I would think that Abby would take the hint and change the subject, or at least go back to fixing Carters hair. Not so. She just plowed right on in her brutally honest way. (Somehow it works well, because she has an adorable voice. It's probably why she has made it to the ripe old age of 4.)

"Gwampa, you awah so so SO old, but you cannot be 100 yet, because when you awah 100, you die and stay dead." This seemed to be sound reasoning, so I didn't step in, other than to shift away about a foot from where my dad was plastering on a patient face. He is also keenly sensitive about not being 30 anymore. In addition, he had just come back from a brisk walk with me, and was ticked that he had to slow down for me, a young whippersnapper. Maybe that could be why he started snorting steam from his nostrils. Not sure.

(Carter, by the way, was happily chewing on an IPod in his high chair, and was oblivious to the dangerous situation that was brewing. Ignorance is bliss.)

Abby then came over and touched her grandpa, kind of patting him on the arm in a maternal way and blurted, "Oh Gwampa, does it hoot to be old? I would give you a mohawk if you had mo-ah ha-uh, but you don't because you awah too old to have ha-uh".

She Promptly gave him a great big hug, said she loved him, and went back once more to Carter's 'do.

The look on my dad's face was one of keen irritation. Then smiled. It melted his tantrum that was brewing. Once the hug came on, I could tell he was whipped. It explains why he keeps coming back for more, honestly. He is a grandkids boy, that's for sure.

It highlighted my morning, and as I assisted Abby with her brother's mohawk, and Grandpa went on to talk with his grandson, I realized that neither my dad, nor Abby would remember this moment as the funny moment it was. It deserved a good guffaw later. And that's just what I am doing now. It came out as a snort, but I know what it meant.

IS that Dr. Scholl's I taste?

The dishes were almost done. i just had the leftover crockpot to do. Granted, i hated dishes enough that it had sat by the sink for...well over the allotted dish-avoidance time, but i was getting to it today. I turned it over to scrub the outside of it, loving that it was just the ceramic tub that came out and i didn't have to wash the entire crock pot, when a mystery was solved. A big one.

Looking sticky, translucently cooked, and glued to the side in a death grip, was the partial word Dr. Sch-. That was all. Just Dr. Sch-. But for me, it was enough. I started laughing, and thought, THIS IS WHY I'M SUCH A DORK!!!!!!! Who else could start off cooking something simple, and end up cooking inserts????

UH. Lets back up here.

I think we all know this about me by now. I cook rarely. When I cook, it is mostly finger food with carrot curly cue's and other assorted flora and fauna, artfully placed around...something that came in a can. My theory is, why make something fancy from scratch when you can dress up the bland? It's why i can get away with a t-shirt at work when it isn't casual Friday. Really.

So when i do cook, it's a big deal around here. At least to me. And to my sou-chef, Addie. It becomes an event and she puts on her lavender Betty Crocker hat. I put on my apron (thanks for that habit, mom. you know i'm messy) and we both crank the tunes.

This particular morning, i put into play the fruition of the last nights brainstorming. That conversation went something like this:
Addie: "mom, we really should cook. It's been a long time."
Mom: "um. how bout sandwiches?"
Addie: "Are u listening? seriously, we need something warm in our bellies. Not chili again, please. I can't open the can at ALL."
Mom: "How bout a crock pott-ee thing-ee? Debbie on Facebook said she uses it all the time."
Addie: "isn't that complicated?"
Mom: "i'm not sure. We should look."

Now those of you that use crock pots as a crutch when you don't have time to do any real cooking, and just "throw any old thing in it", please just look away. Go back to your world conquering, knit your favorite charity a truckload of sweaters over the weekend... life. Any of you that are left, (menfolk, teens, women that watch the cooking channel but don't use it...) this is what happened next.

Addie and i saw in a cookbook (crockpots made easy) that chicken and rice was right up our alley. And still too complicated. But what we concocted instead was 15 bean soup w/some ham in it. Simple. Right up our alley. We even planned ahead enough to put dry beans in water to soften up over night. GENIUS!!!!

The next morning i got up, got ready for work, and came down to put together the "cook all by itself while you are away" magic.

This would be a shorter story if the next fact didn't come into play...
Now as we all know, life is sometimes about upkeep. So the gel inserts i keep in my ALL DAY/ALL NIGHT heels were just not sticking to the inside of the shoe like they should. And it was Salsa Lesson night in Boulder, after work. I needed to re-stickiuppee my gels. Um.. side note: Salsa dancing, not Salsa making. I don't cook often, remember?

So i'm rinsing off the inserts in the sink. The kitchen sink. They are all clean and sticky again, because they are that clear silicone stuff that Dr. Scholls made a million on. I don't have to know the why of it, i just like that i can Salsa (badly, but still) after work on Thursdays, because of these bad boys. I put the inserts on the counter (on a towel to dry, and so it isn't on my counter. Feet on counters, ew. This was my compromise.) and washed my hands.

I went to the other side of the kitchen to do the ingredient dump into the crock pot. Beans.... check. Water.... check. Spices.... check. And that was it for now. when husband got home from work, he would dump in the meat and finish it up. whammo! A meal that i wasn't there to watch over.

I took the ceramic part of the crock pot back over to the sink to fill it up with a bit of water, setting it on the towel so i had both hands. (wow. that was nice that there was a towel there so i didn't have to set it on the counter. wonder when i thought ahead that much?... what am i doing for lunch.... how many times will i need to hear annoying co-worker talk about her hair plugs...and so on and so on with the thoughts of the day). Then i put it in the outside part of the crockpot, put the lid on, and forgot about it. I felt so domestic at that point.

I then noticed i was running late, and Addie and i got the menfolk up, and i headed out the door, kicking myself when i walked and noticed that i forgot my gel inserts. "Dang it! i really needed them tonight, but i'll deal" and my day commenced from there.

Fast forward through the day to 4:30 when husband calls to say the house smells good and did i put something interesting in the crock pot? He puts in the meat, we chit chat, and i feel good that there is a meal for the family. I head to salsa lessons, and am home by 9:30. All i could think of was how great it would be to have a bit of this food.

I walk in the door and am assaulted by a great smell of homemade food......and something else. (what is that? WHAT. IS. THAT. SMELL?) I look in the garbage, i look in the fridge. nothing. I even look on the bottom of my shoes to see if I had brought home dog doo. Nothing.  I'm beat, so i eat the soup. love that it turned out well, and go to bed. (husband had just put the entire crockpot in the fridge. his way of putting dinner away. )

Next day, i take the ceramic part out of the crock pot, and prepare to just rinse it down a little bit when i'm assaulted by that odd smell again. I pick up the ceramic pot part and .... gunky, stringy, smelly, incredibly sticky stuff is on the bottom of the ceramic pot, up the sides, and stuck to the metal shell. I don't have a clue what it is because, lets face it, i'm an in the moment kind of gal. I rinse off the best of it, happy that at least it's coming off, so it must be some odd food that husband made the last time we used this thing, about 4 months ago... ew. i'd have to speak with him about cleaning up better...... and moved the ceramic to the counter by the sink, vowing i'd get to it later.... you know. LATER.

It was a few days later that the mystery clicked into place. I had cooked my inserts. Cooked them, and then fed the blended scents to my family. I'm that good. Welcome to my life. the worst part???? i mean, really the worst part? Now i'm going to have to go back out and find some more gel inserts. My family will live with the knowledge they inhaled my cooked foot goo. I, however, have Salsa night coming up, and can't live another day without the cushionee goodness.

The crock pot went back into the garage. We are having cheese, meat, and crackers for dinner tonight.

If we are going to Mourn, it really should look my way.

This is what I said to myself as a total stranger popped into the official mourning room for the family. Just as the door was being shut for the official Family Prayer. For FAMILY only. "What gall, to just mosey on in, like he belongs in the FAMILY ONLY area!". I didn't want onlookers out of the onlooker area. We had set it up to be in the foyer and/or the chapel. Clearly marked. Plus, I was busy with a fresh wave of sadness and hurt and... hunger? My belly growled loudly and I played it off as Uncle Gassy-Britches-On-The-Right's business. I was also busy with being tired. And numb. And...noticing that nephew #7 was picking his nose and wiping it under great-aunt Stone-Deaf-So-I-Will-Yell-Instead-Of-Whisper (to be spoken in a hurried and hushed voice)'s...wheel chair seat. eck. I just didn't have it in me to walk over and usher this person out so we could relax and stop being so dignified.

I looked around the room and smiled, both in affection and slight distaste. Uncle Creepy-Vibe was a little too close for my comfort. But that aside, affection. So what if the family was enormous, yet hadn't gathered for a family reunion in years? If ever? So what if they were a mixed lot, with their mourning attire ranging from a peach tuxedo and frilled button-down shirt, to a velvet pair of pants with a torn AC/DC T-shirt that was justified as "Well, it's black, isn't it?". So what if the grand kids had already tried to climb into the casket to play hide-n-seek with Grandma 3 times so far? So what if irreverence was the dominant trait? Pshhh. It was amusing and colorful and ridiculous. And mine.

And, glancing back at the guy that sauntered in, it doesn't mean that just any stranger can just be part of such an intimate thing as the family prayer. No siree, Bob. Not on my watch.

The problem was, I noted, no one else was booting him out. Preteens were walking around him, and toddlers shot through his legs, just as if he had always been in this room. In-laws and out-laws alike (Uncle Had-A-Slight-Run-In-With-The-Cops-In-A-High-Speed-Chase-But-Those-Days-Are-Behind-Me-Now, to be exact), talked with this guy in a slightly deferential manner, and I started to get suspicious. Even stoic old Great Aunt Bat-Any-Child-That-Comes-Near-Her-With-A-Cane stopped fanning herself long enough to take his hand and make clicking noises with her mouth as she shook her head and sighed.

I think I am missing something...


That was right before I was introduced to him as The Mortuary Guy. And, yeah, he was asked to give the family prayer. (Slight gasp at the thought.) He had declined, however, and was just there as a guide to facilitate the process of grief. A supportive onlooker.

Luckily, I had not let my facial expressions match the righteous indignation that was written all over the insides of my eyebrows. I kept quiet the frowny muscles on my left lip, and the puff of air that threatened to snake out my nose. Also, the shoo-ing tendons in both of my hands. (Hmmm. Those tendons also doubled as angry hands when put juuust-so on my hips, I notice.) No, these inside urges simmered slowly down into a bit of embarrassment at my secret snap judgements.

I instead did a properly saddish, yet formally welcoming smile. This, i assumed, was the right degree of "ok, you are in. You may stay and experience the intimacy of the mourn with the rest of us." Which was kind of a silly proclamation, even to myself, considering I was about the newest family member in the room. 19 years new, roughly. And one of the in-laws, at that. You just don't break into this crowd easily. But I am pretty protective of this group. And they overlook my flaws, I hope, as simply as I overlook their warts. So to speak. (There IS a cousin on the wobbly chair in the corner that really pushes the wart limit. By 17.)

The door to the room closed, and I knew that this was the time to focus my thoughts and to say my last goodbye's to a woman that was, herself, the epitome of overlooking flaws. Craaap. The tears, which I thought had just left my eyes for at least another hour on lunch break, crept back in through my stuffy, red nose, and leaked out stubbornly. As Mortuary Guy gave us directions on what would happen next, and who would say the family prayer (Uncle Stuffy-From-Out-East would actually take this role, as Slightly-Tipsy-Cousin-On-The-Other-Side-Of-The-Family didn't have the authority to extend this invitation in the first place.), I saw that there wasn't a script, or an invitation list, or a role to play at all.

This was death.

This was the part where the good, the bad, the messy, and the heroic all meshed up into an event. THE EVENT. The Funeral. And not even Family, Friends, Onlookers, or Event Planners were cut and dry. There is no script, so quit trying to memorize lines. This was what I said to myself as Grandson Angst-Yet-Tender set his ball cap on top of the casket. This was what I meant to myself when Uncle Stuffy relayed words of comfort, of depth, of tenderness as he went through the Prayer, and I was grateful to him for all of his words. This was what I choked to myself as Perfect-Stranger-In-Row-Number-Three took the small toddlers so Daughter-Number-One could speak simply and lovingly of her mother. There is no script... It is what I whispered to Husband as he dry sobbed through the grandkid's musical number of "I am a Child Of God". And, it is what I forgot to chant as I led the closing song of "God Be With You Till We Meet Again", snot and tears running down my face because my hands were full of hymn book and hand motions.

I forgot the proper way to gather the liquid-filled tissues on the chapel pew. So I left them. I also went back through the line that was shuffling out, because I had forgotten my phone and keys. I even wobbled on my stiletto pump as I was politely pushing back into my place in line. Can't we do another practice run? Nope. We just kept doing The Event. Nobody pointed at me. Not one person snickered, or even noticed. Just me.

At the luncheon, laughter reared its welcome head. Food brings about smiles to empty bellies. Also, Seeing Uncle Bring-A-Flyswatter-Everywhere-Just-In-Case save his place at the table with his prize possession... Well, that's just funny. It worked, though. (He got his space.) And as family mowed down mountains of Funeral Potatoes, heaps of ham, and pans of jello with raisins and/or carrots floating around, the laughter became...Allowed. Embraced. Nurtured, even.

Brazenly, the sorrow and heartache was put on hiatus so the hugs and smiles could be passed around. Clasps of hands. Claps on shoulders. Fingers lightly placed on forearms to emphasize a point in conversation. All walls came down as the desserts were devoured, and it became a safe place to heal. To let bygones be bygones. To exchange emails and phone numbers for future connection.

By the time the dishes were cleared, family pictures became a needed activity. Putting the cemetary on hold for just a few more moments, Grand-Dad looked on as Miss Bossy-Yet-effective niece held the camera and moved the grandkids, kids, and spouses, first just a liiittle to the left...then sliiiightly to the right....and Nose-Picking-Four-Year-Old! Hold still, or SO HELP ME I'll spank you all the way to Grandma in Heaven!!!.... until the camera click-click-clicked to capture a generation or two of his offspring. The grin he showed was only slightly wet from tears.

As immediate family packed into cars to making the final trip to bury the shell of One Who Is No Longer There, a different energy went with us. Even somber as I was, I joked with Son number 2, and chided daughter and son number 3 for fighting over the sweet seat in Hoss. Husband backed up our enormous suburban while I thought, "If I had energy for that, I'll have energy to get through the rest of THE EVENT."

...and then, WHAP!!!...

Husband looked in the rear-view mirror, then and looked at me in a way that said, "There really is no script...", and we got out to see Hoss's bumper pushed right through the radiator of Reclusive-Great-Uncle-From-Up-North. Grandma's brother, to be exact. Stroking his scruffy beard and quietly exiting his vehicle, he joined us in watching his rare Jeep truck's radiator spurt fluid 2 feet out. The food I had just ingested felt cold and heavy in my stomach.

I don't think I was the only one to contemplate the hit and run strategy. No one really knew him anyway, right? We curbed our urges, and I did the apologies while Husband and Uncle-Reclusive spoke the outlandish things men say to staunch the flow of car fluids when in a suit and tie. "Pepper in the radiator, that will do it." "Where are my tools? Ugg. I can't find the screwdriver!" "Here is my insurance information. I don't know how it happened." "No, No. I will just pick up a new ...INSERT NAME OF JEEP PART HERE... at the junk yard tomorrow. I was going there anyway." And, Great Uncle-Reclusive rode with us. (Hoss simply had a scratch on the bumper.)

As the teen boys yammered about the street cars they would SO have if they only had thousands of dollars, I thought about what small talk was appropriate with this family member that belonged in this EVENT, yet was just a vague name to me and my immediate family. I simply looked out my window and let curiosity do it's job. Just as I started to inquire, Great Uncle-Reclusive spoke. And spoke. And spoke. About cars and trucks, and everything motorized. Engines and carburetors... and The boys slowly tapered off and listened. He spun short stories that understated just how talented and varied his life was, in the motor arena. He had raced, fixed, and smuggled (eluded to, but still...) cars that my boys had only dreamed of, and that brought him right into their inner sanctum of adoration. Thank goodness for accidental bonding. We was upgraded from Uncle-Reclusive to Great-Uncle-Mysterious.

The last leg of The Event was here. As we pulled up to the rolling hills of the Cemetery, wind blowing and clouds racing by, I saw something that made me giggle and breathe hard, all at once. At the end of the dignified trail-way that led to the grave site, 6 children congregated over the open grave. Kneeling, squatting, chasing around, sitting in the chairs designated for the 8 most prominent members of the family.... irreverence just oozed off of these kids. Without thought, I tramped through the manicured lawn in my stilettos, aerating the whole way, and somewhat pompously shooed those kids away from there. I also looked around to see which parents were not keeping the kids in tow. Eyebrow raised. Lip muscle tugged down. Angry hands kept firmly in place with those tendons. I even think I harrumphed a bit.

All the kids obediently followed me, explaining that they had permission from the parents, and that if they promised not to climb down into the hole, didn't go past the step, and didn't push each other AT ALL.... They could play one last time around the place where Grandma would stay for a while. Yeah. I felt ridiculous. Especially because when I looked back, the parents were staring intently at us all. Where they had always been looking, now that I recalled seeing them right by the trees nearby. Pomp and circumstance were just not invited to this day.

There is no script to Death. It happens whether I ask it to or not. It brings people together in ways that don't make sense, and heals on it's own time. As quickly or slowly as it takes. And that is none of my nevermind. It never was.

I joined the grownups just as they start back toward the grave site, this time without my pumps. Sons, Brothers-in-law, and Nephew bring the casket with the formal fashion that is half tradition and half necessity so they don't trip or drop the precious cargo. It is lovingly laid in it's position and a simple dedication is made. Carnations are added to the flower spray, and it is over. Nothing else need to be added to The Event. But, thank goodness, we don't follow scripts, so grandkids touch the casket. Grandma's kids sit by and talk for the last time to the great lady that left such a legacy. And finally, Grandpa hugs family members, comforting them, smiling and laughing as he lets go of what is to be lowered down, and lets in the reminders of the life he shared and memories he made before the need for The Event even happened.

More pictures. More hugs. More chasing around the lawn. And just like that, The Event was downgraded to When We All Got Back Together. or possibly, What Started The Hugs and I Love You's. Uncle Stuffy-From-Back-East had somewhere along the line become Uncle Reserved-Yet-Approachable-Kindness-And-Humor-Guy. Uncle Had-A-Run-In-With-The-Law... became Uncle Grown-Into-A-Grounded-And-Humble-Man-That-Posseses-Tenderness-And-Love. I let go of what came next in the day.

Strangely, we did not seem to want The Event to end. 2 hours passed before we went back to our cars, and back to our rooms to change out of wrinkled or spotted dress clothes. And, there was still the next day, a spontaneous trip up the mountains for a picnic. And rock climbing. Yeah. Rock climbing. A fitting end before traveling the 8 hours home.

I am thankful for the mysterious man that slipped quietly into the Family Mourning Room. He was the only bit of guidance that moved our family through the day. The rest came on it's own. And took care of itself. Thank goodness I remembered to get out of the way.