Saul Good and Co.

Not a True Entry, But...

I just have to present two excerpts from two coincidentally consecutive but randomly plucked diaries (I was 20 at the time, so they don't count as teenage entries).

From 4/29/1995:

Niki, though, is my girl She's probably my most favorite person in the world. We're so close and when we're together we're so much fun. We just keep saying how great the other is and how we love each other so much. I didn't really want to have to share her, she's my best friend like that.

That sounds a little psycho possessive to the outsider, but I assure you it wasn't like that in general, just the specific context. What struck me about this passage was my clear-eyed acknowledgment of my love for this woman, five or six years into our friendship, when we were living hundreds of miles apart. The feeling never, ever changed for me, and it puts right out there exactly why I can't seem to get over losing her. I've been lucky to have a handful of very close and wonderful friends in my life, but Niki was always my shining star. It's comforting to me to have evidence that I was cognizant of it in the moment.

Now exactly one month later, 5/29/1995, regarding Mike, one of my new housemates at the time:

I love that guy. He's so funny and cute and likes all the same stuff as me, so much that it's scary. He might just be my soul mate.

Kreskin, ladies and gentlemen.

Maybe I really should start keeping a diary again.

You Can Put Your Arm Around a Memory. Sometimes.

I kept a paper journal religiously from the time I was 15 until... oh probably my mid-thirties? It sort of dropped off when I started an online diary, but it's amazing to look back and see every single day of several decades accounted for and synthesized in excruciating detail. I'm not saying there's great writing in those tomes - quite the opposite. But it's where I poured my heart out, where I was free to be as ridiculous and pretentious and self indulgent as possible. I might just have to burn these babies before I die, because nobody needs this kind of mortifying record. But the volumes and volumes of me-ology certainly come in handy when I need a little inspiration, particularly when I'm trying to access the cuckoo clock period that is the teenage years. My twenties are a blur of life changes and beer-soaked questionable decisions, and though that can be fun to read (and useful when trying to put together missing pieces), it's the stuff from 15-19 that is a veritable gold mine. My writing life, whether fiction or nonfiction, ever circles back two major themes: death/grief and teenagers. To be able to be plunked right back into the choppy hormonal pool of adolescence is a gift when I need to be of a certain mind. Perhaps it's because I so achingly documented that time in my life that I have such a soft spot for teens, who knows.  What has been revealed to me after periodic revisits to my journals is that, though I have become a full fledged adult who does boring and necessary responsibly adult things, I have changed very little, fundamentally. 

I still care about and obsess over the same things. The two big differences are that I have become sure in and of myself - insecurity does not plague me, and I'm no longer inclined to do a morphing act for approval; conversely, growing up has made me a lot less SURE about things and ideas. I'm more flexible in my beliefs, willing to listen and leave room for argument. The insufferably arrogant smugness of youth has given way to experience. Not that I don't have ideals anymore, just that I don't think I have a single answer. And I'm ok with that.

The inevitable downside of dipping into the vault is that I fall down a rabbit hole of nostalgia and it's hard to come back from that colossally unproductive  time suck. Tucked into one page I found a three-page list of quotes that Niki and I wrote down over the course of a weekend in December of 1994 (we were huge into our quote lists)! I hardly remember what any of them mean, but I was so glad to have preserved them and I just wanted to go back and read more and more when instead it was time to get HR ready for school. The potential upside, for those who enjoy other people's embarrassment, is that I will probably be posting some choice excerpts here and there.

The Long and the Short of It

This was one of the more gratifying weekends, parenting-wise. HR was at his best, being a fun and funny and relatively relaxed little pal. Yesterday he and I had a conversation that ran our entire walk to the playground. It's moments like that when he feels like such a big kid to me, I can hardly process it. In a few weeks we're signing him up for full-time pre-K for the coming fall, which is great for all parties, but to pull back and think about it, that we're two months out from his fourth birthday, that's a lot of WHOA. As for sleep issues, I've decided to resume full on don't ask/don't tell. Nobody needs to know the details unless I strike a magical solution for perfect bedtime. For now, it's good enough.

This guy in general though: better than good, more than enough.

Some Days Just Are

Yesterday's post was a long time coming. I was waiting to write an appropriate tribute to my grandmother, but I couldn't get it together. Then it hit me that it would never be the perfect time, and I'd never have the perfect, all-encompassing entry.  I don't know what made me think I could sum up one of the most important people in my life in one swoop in the first place. So that was AN entry about Memere, but not THE. There won't be a THE. I'm sure she'll be popping up here and there for years to come, as long as I'm doing this. It felt good to get it out, though. And it made me feel like I was gathering those around me who knew and loved her, and we released our good memories into the universe. That's about as close to spiritual as it gets, for me.

The sun is ablaze, it's a balmy 45 degrees, and I'm giddy with renewed hope that we will get a spring. Not today, I understand, but someday. I really wasn't sure there for awhile. Add to that a major vacation being booked and my favorite band's coming to town - it's a hot damn! kinda day and I'm going with it.

 

 

Riding in Cars with Memeres

When I was a very little girl Memere took care of me a lot, and I have so many memories of riding the back roads of the Western foothills, dropping off her Avon deliveries.

"Oh my, I think we're lost!" she'd say.

She knew exactly where she was going. I didn't know that, which made it thrilling. Or maybe I did a tiny bit, and the security of that made it ok to enjoy that "lost" sensation, but either way, I thought it was the greatest game ever. Just Memere and me, getting lost in her boat of a white Chevy, that was my favorite.

Years later, when I was old enough to not be such a baby about my fear of fireworks (to this day I can't tolerate the booms), Memere and I were driving back from one of my aunt's houses, and it was the fourth of July, maybe the day before. We got back into town just as dusk was falling, just as the regional display was getting started. Without any discussion, she pulled over on a hill, turned up the radio, and we sat and watched the light show together in muffled comfort.

"I can't stand that goldurned noise, either," she said.

It was probably true, but how could I know, then or now?

The last time Memere visited me at my house was just last May, and this time I was in the driver's seat, taking her across town to my workplace.

"But you don't walk to work," she said, surveying the route.

"Sometimes, Memere. I'd rather walk or run when the weather's nice, actually."

"No, but you don't!"

"Right! Sure, ok."

In truth, I do not appreciate being bossed. At all. With someone else I might have pulled the car over and walked the rest of the way on principle, or at least pushed back a little, done what I could to convince them it was perfectly safe. But with Memere, I would have said anything to ease her mind, because she didn't need any extra worry-fodder. I realized as I grew up that to be fretted over obsessively by Memere was to be loved by her. It came with the territory, she couldn't help it. You'd think that as the family expanded, it would spread the anxiety around a little. But no, every single one of us got our own special bead of the rosary, and even if we rolled our eyes on the surface, all of Memere's girls and Memere's boys wore it like a badge of honor. We didn't have to worry because she took it on for us. I have to say, the first time my dad came to visit since she died was odd, like something was missing, because she didn't call to make sure he got there OK. I can't imagine how it felt for him.

Memere never worried about us more than when we were traveling. Is it somehow fitting that my strongest memories of the two of us together took place in cars? With so many sharing the care of one woman, I guess these memories stand out because those were my opportunities to have her to myself.

Even since becoming a mother I haven't achieved my grandmother's Olympic level of concern for other people. Sure I worry more than I used to, and that will never go away. But the way that Memere absorbed all of our fears and hurts was her legacy, her protection spell.

I miss my strong and beautiful grandmother. But no more worries, Memere.

The Act

So good news: I've been writing. Not in here, obviously. And not too much. But enough so that I feel engaged in a thought process. Enough that I feel like I'm working on something that could take shape, or even just serve as a springboard to something else that eventually will. It's a form of inner peace, is what it is. My optimal formula for a reasonably balanced life always includes this type of project, even if it never goes anywhere. There's something in me that craves it. In terms of an optimal sense of equilibrium for me, I've broken down the other parts. There's the writing bit, then chill-out time with family and friends, lots of reading, a bit of alone time, some physical activity that I'm wholly enthusiastic about (right now running, but I'm on the verge of adding regular yoga again), thoughtful eating, plenty of treats. Work is work, I show up, do my thing, get paid, I'm good to go. Next to family it's the easiest part, as automatic as breathing. But the writing, man, it's so key, yet so easily neglected by me. If history has shown me anything, it's that I'm a self-sabotaging dodo. And I don't want to repeat that history another time. I can say it and wish it and get it tattooed onto my person but if I'm not forcing myself to keep it up, it's back to a naggingly lopsided state of mind. It seems so simple, but when I'm in dumbass mode, it doesn't seem to make a difference.

Just keep writing, dumbass, and all will be well. Hmm, maybe I do need that in tattoo form.

Fax Me? Fax You!

Valentine's Day has never been a remarkable part of my romantic life. Mike and I still get each other cards, but that's about it. IDGAF about flowers or jewelry, and we go out to dinner pretty much any time we want, so we don't really observe. HR has his first Valentine's party at school today, and it makes me nostalgic for a time when it meant something to me. Mainly in childhood and adolescence, and always with family and friends, not dudes. My Pup was the king of Valentine's. He always had a little something for his "little sweethearts" which is what he called his grandchildren. Nik and I always made a big deal out of the day, even when one of us had a boyfriend. One year we had a tea party at my house, and we always wrote mushy cards to one another. Conversation hearts were our thing, even into adulthood. I remember receiving a stale box from her in Paris when I was doing my semester there junior year. I might have actually saved the box somewhere, I hope I did. Gah, I'll never stop missing those Valentines of mine. It makes me want to make sure I do something special for my boy, even if it is a stupid made up holiday. This heart bleeds sap, and don't you forget it.

50 Shades of This Same Subject

I'm getting fed up with myself. I've self-identified as a writer since I was eight or nine years old and in reality I have eff-all to show for it. I've wasted all this time not tending my artistic notions. No excuses, it's my own fault. But still I refuse to quit. I don't think it's too late. The key, and I know this, is discipline.  Self-discipline is where I fail every time.

I could look at this one way, as an opportunity to say if I haven't made something by now why bother? But I can't do it. Something in me feels unfinished. What I'm doing with my life right now is not enough. It's not that my family life isn't fulfilling, or my job even. It's just that when I think very hard and truly about it, that's not all there is for me. I'll forever be disappointed if I don't give writing an honest shot. Could be I just don't have talent. I am willing to accept that I am average. But not without some proof. I have to put myself out there first to find out. I don't think the world is awaiting my great masterpiece. It's just something I need to do for me. Like this dumb little blog, that's more for me, to make me feel like I'm doing SOMETHING, than anything else. It's an added bonus to have a modest audience and community, but I don't take it for more than anything that it is.

I've written this same entry a hundred times, and probably will a hundred more and that's OK, and it's not. It's OK in that I need it to keep goosing me along, like being put in the stocks, living with my non-producing shame if I don't come back to report to anyone waiting for me to live up to my intentions. It's not OK in that, how many more times does it need to be said? This doesn't count as doing the work. It's a pep talk. The first step to making a plan.

I'm taking a break from fiction, for now. Maybe forever, we'll see. I'm going to give memoir writing a try. Not my own life story necessarily, but a story from my life. I've got lots of them tucked in there. Maybe some fan fiction from my favorite already existing characters with the names changed? (OK, so even though I think that's crazy and won't read her books, I can't actually hate on E. L. James, because she took that formula all the way to all the banks). I just need to start somewhere. I just need to start.

OK! That's it! I shall go forth and be this particular kind of ding-dong on my own time. 

I Think It's Called Karma

One week into re-sleep-training the boy - and how's that going? Thanks for asking. Uh, steady? There's a bit of progress, but it's not the instant kind we achieved back when you could put him in his crib and he had no choice but to stay there. I learned the first night that no amount of good old fashioned bribery would keep HR's booty in his bed, and straight up authority couldn't penetrate the bloody murder screams. So I've decided to take a more finessed approach. I'm not totally against taking a hard line with him on lots of issues, for example, tantrums receive zero tolerance. I can do discipline. But as possibly one of the three biggest bedtime menaces in my childhood (tied with my siblings) because I was terrified of going to sleep, I cannot at this point just shut my boy in his room and hold the doorknob until he gives up. I can't do it, it's absolutely not in me. I'm sure I'd have more success that way, ultimately, but I'm unwilling to do what I need to do to achieve that.

So we struck a little compromise. As of now, I kiss him goodnight and leave the room - but stay in the hallway, within his eyesight, until he falls asleep and I tiptoe away. It's not helping that much right now, he still visits our bedchamber sometime between one and four every morning, often needing to be resettled one time in the night before I even go to bed, but we're one step closer than we were last week. Gradually I will figure out how to abandon my sentry post and get him accustomed to independently putting himself to bed like he did in the heady days before the big boy bed transition. Or we just deal with it until he goes to college and learns the true beauty of sleep like I did.

As always, it could be worse. At least he likes baths.

In Which I Re-re-discover That I'm Not Young Anymore

I got a little Instagram-happy on Saturday, so many of you already know that I got to have a night out with my siblings and cousins and it was a stone blast. So much fun! So little time! I think we crammed in enough celebrating to last at least a couple of months. Earlier in the day we gathered at my aunt and uncle's house to do our annual post-holiday gift exchange, then we left the four kids (ranging from 10 months to 4 years) with our sainted parents and hightailed it into the city for the night. HR is usually pretty cool with being left in his grandparents' care and it was a bonus that he had a chance to have all that time to play with his cousins. I like to think that they'll be doing the same kind of thing in 20 years.

We "adults" got to have a proper fancy dinner, then bopped around different establishments until last call, moving about like an amorphous blob of obnoxious good-timery. Rolling with our homies, and we don't care. Something like that. Anyway, I feel so lucky we got to pull it together, and it's going to be an annual occurrence.  Maybe next time I won't pay so dearly the next day for going so hard, but my learning curve goes out the window when there's so much celebratory energy off which to feed. A day spent in sweatpants pounding coconut water seems like a small penance for such a rave-up.

Other things of note happened, one being that my dear girl Tanya gave birth to a perfect baby boy last week, and it looks like I'll be planning a trip to Houston in the near future. Also my Gram had a fall during the sleepover night (she was there too) and though she's ok, it makes me feel a nagging sick because all I can think of is that when Memere started falling everything went downhill pretty fast. It does me no good to think that way, and I'll do my best to stop. Just, oh you goddamn universe. Here's to the babies and the good times, may they stay ever in the lead.