Tuesday, May 1, 2018

Tommy Boy



         Atop the laundry list of moronic, hilarious, and dangerous misadventures I have flung myself (headfirst & hell no to half measures) into for all these past 30 years, this one will surely leave a memory. Shall we?
        Somehow, on a busy suburban Chicago road, all hell broke loose in my navy blue Honda. I felt my car, quickly, losing all power. I white-knuckled the steering wheel, wide-eyed with worry, at every blessed light my dashboard blinking in mocking melodic measures. Instantly, I could feel my stomach fall to the bottom of my butt. Didn't leave a stain though! I guided the car safely into a stranger’s driveway. Folks, that’s not even the peculiar part. My only thought was you must be out of gas, mo. I knew there was something I forgot to do. Never has this happened before in all my years of doing all the dumb things. And well, I might add. A first time for everything, right?
        After getting my few, dim wits about me, I summoned the courage to knock on the front door. Silently promised myself I wasn’t going to stutter or stammer. Good luck, Charlie Brown. After 3 nervous knuckle taps, Bill Murray’s doppelganger stood in front of me. A punt dog was anxiously pawing at my legs for affection & attention.  Immediately, my eyes darted to the top of the bench piano that was covered, from stem to stern, with cards all saying,” Father.” Carefully arranged in between each picture, were professional pictures of dad & spawn. My butterflies headed South. The need for Depends and Peppermint oil, to soothe my bubble guts, was no more.
         He greeted me with a warm smile. His kind eyes assured me my fate would not be spelled out on a 2hr special 20/20 episode. You know, the one that isn’t cut out for 60 minutes? They need every bit of 120 minutes to fully explain the unspeakable horrors that unfolded on that especially fateful Thursday evening. My mother would be heartbroken to hear of the brutal details that befell her gorgeous, brown-eyed, small town, City girl, from a little cotton town time forgot. Alas, such misery was not my fate. Not today, Satan!
        Before he could say, “Hello!”  My gums were flapping at Usain Bolt speed.  He caught the whole long-winded earful of how I’d never had this problem. I wasn’t a bum leaving a car in his driveway. The plan was to head to filling station on foot, about a mile up the road. Come back, fill her up.  Anyone who knows me is probably laughing their whole butts off right now. Stephanie, Stephanie, Stephanie.
This story was not only told like Irish-Mexican windtalker I am. It came complete with large, grandiose gestures. Me using both my hands. Some American Sign language to get my point across.  May or may not have been some “Interpretive dance” peppered in for good measure. Clarity, not brevity.  I’m sure he is certain I’m one of God’s special children. I are one. Jesus loves me. Being crazy is hard. Count me with the dreamers.
 He nodded. I was assured a gas can could be scrounged up to save the day. If I would let him confer with the Mrs. He would rather drive me to the local filling station.  His bumper sticker parroted his political alignments. Couldn’t care less. Didn’t even read the worthless stickers.  A wheelchair and 4-legged walker in the back of his Malibu assured me I could make a clean getaway.  Away we were to the Mobil down the road.
Naturally, he asked why I didn’t call my dad to come rescue me. I wish. Sometimes, the vacant left ring finger, I pray is destined for an ice rink and matching bands feels heavy & empty.  I struggle with it, greatly. It gives me away. I squeaked out my dad is dead. My chest tightened. No gestures. No tears. He gone. The cold hard truth sucks. We said goodbye to my old man January the year before. It’s amazing how the memories still take my breath away.  His eyes softened. Before you can say Kroger Fuel points, I was safely back in his driveway. My car now ready to see the open road safely back home. Nary a puncture wound. Look ma, I didn’t get chopped up into little pieces and sprinkled amongst the bushes. 
        We said goodbye. A solid handshake, 2 gallons of Unleaded, and a big sigh of relief. As I was pulling out of the driveway, a placard stopped me dead in my tracks. It read, “Tommy’s Garden 1994-2014” Gail Caldwell said, “I know now that we never get over great losses; we absorb them, and they carve us into different, often kinder, creatures.”



I was drowning in my own river of tears for a litany of reasons. 15ish months ago, my Irish-Mexican family, wore blue, dad’s favorite color, as those nearest & dearest lined up on a Thursday to hold onto us as we let him go. The old familiar stories of dad had us all in fits of belly laughter & agonizing sobs. I couldn’t help but stare at the casket in bewilderment, from time to time. A stranger would greet me with a hug. After the hug came a story of how dad went out of his way for someone. As it were, the same thing happened at his dad’s viewing. Stories I pull joy and strength from when I hate everything. Days when I just want to lie beside him in the dirt. Cash em in. When I buckle under the weight of losing my protector in this world. His love for his fellow man is the music he gave me. He was a music man. I heart it every day. There is nothing louder than the song of my father.
I have no children of my own. There is no way for me to understand the depth of a love for a child. It’s beyond my mind to ever know the gravity of the loss for a love that was born of your own flesh and blood. After I stopped sobbing & snotting, I said two prayers. One for Tommy’s family. The other was for his dad. It was a prayer of Thanksgiving. It was a plea from an unspeakably tender place deep from the deepest recesses of my spirit. May my heart not be hardened by my losses, great or small. Banish any & all bitterness for what slipped right through my fingers. 
How wonderful for Tommy’s dad & the Michael McCormick’s of this old world. For the ones who help a friend move, or a slow-witted girl in need of kindness. We honor the dead by taking care of the living. I’ll lead by their example. When the news is hard to stomach, I’ll cling to the hope I have. Maybe someday when a stranger knocks on my door, I’ll pass it along. “The measure of a man is one who lends a hand. It’s what my father said.” – Vince Gill

Matthew 25:35-40 New International Version (NIV)

35 For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36 I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’
37 “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? 38 When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? 39 When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’


40 “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

Saturday, February 17, 2018

Wedgies and Weight Loss

Have you ever seen a person with a wedgie? Not your garden variety undies bunch, I'm talking about the kind that could be pulled out of the back of the poor sucker's throat. Yesterday, at my gym, for a stout hour, I watched a man run on the treadmill with the largest wedgie, ever. The kind that makes you check your own sweet cheeks. Phantom wedgie pangs are no joke, ma'am. I couldn't help but wonder why he could let something as intrusive as bunched boxers continue to fester.

On the way home, I surmised I needn't stare at stranger's posterior. The jury is still out. The second thought was, maybe the good man was trying not to trip, wipeout, faceplant, die, and simply remember how not to smear his face on the serpentine belt of a Nordic Trac. A lofty goal, well worth running towards. He did better than me, any day of the week. I don't run. Running is not something I do. I was built for comfort, not speed. When puberty hit, the boys in 6th grade did not call me "toes." I'm a cuddler. I love to snuggle. There will be no running. If someone wants to catch me, they will. There was one instance when I lived in Indianapolis, I actually ran for my own dear life. I outran a nutjob in shorty shorts, top knot, no bra, and a Goodwill sweatshirt. The rest of the dirty details, I'll spare you. Your retinas can remain intact. Suffice it to say, the Good Lord was on my side.

Perhaps the wedgie is symbolic of an underlying thought I've wrestled with for a good year. When the whole world crashes down around you, everything can't be saved, you have to learn to live the uncomfortable and intrusive facets of life. Since my parent's house fire, I've been "running" with a litany of "wedgies". Learning how to live again, when all I've wanted to do since the death of my father is lie down beside him in the dirt, has proven itself to be a formidable opponent. Just sprinkle some dirt on my head at old 6 Mile Cemetery. Let me see sweet Jesus. Let me go with my dad, please?

I believe we all have seasons of wedgie treadmill running. A time when we give it all we've got. tongue out, dogs barking, britches in a wad, dying for a drink, sweat pouring out, all of the gut-wrenching stuff. At times we are going for all we are worth. It means trying not to face plant in front of creation. The pain reminds us we have been in the darkness before. Even if it passes like a Kidney stone, it still shall pass. We are better for the lesson. More tender despite the ache of our heart.

 Aside from the devastating loss of my father, my weight loss has been the most uncomfortable facet for me to tackle. I would only go the gym and wear an old t-shirt with all of my makeup done and not talk. Sidenote, I am not at the gym for friends. K? Thanks. I'm not here to socialize. I'll smile, I'll nod after my heart snaps back into Sinus rhythm. I don't care what protein powder you use. I won't even photobomb your selfies. Yesterday, I noticed a seismic shift in my own struggle. There I was on some machine to bust my muffin-top in shorts, rebar lined sports bra and a tank top. If the truth gets told, I may or may not have belted out a few bars of the Spice Girls in between reps. Say it loud, say it proud!

I can't tell you how much this past year has hurt. No words to articulate the sorrow that has befallen me. By the same hand, it's been a lesson I know by heart now, it all will work out for my good. I can not tell of my sorrow without telling about the all of the unexpected ways I have also found soul-anchoring joy. I pray for my brothers and sisters walking their own road. Trying to let go of broken dreams, empty promises, or the aftermath of loss. Struggle well. Give it to Jesus. Go to the gym. Storm heaven gates for the wisdom to know when to go tongue out, wedgie in. Ask for guidance when it's time to shake the dust. If you see me at the gym, feel free not to say hi. I'm cheering for you. I am on your side. Won't even mention your wedgie I would love for you to pick.





Monday, February 12, 2018

Radio Silence

How are you, baby? I've missed you.

It's been over 3 weeks of no Facebook post with a witty status about my interaction with the Target cashier. No photograph of whatever organic, grain free, no sugar, hippie food I've whipped up. Nary a peep about my most recent projects and potions. Where is the barrage of Horsecrappery that littered Facebook & Instagram? Bueller?...Bueller?... Bueller?

Here is the bloody, bloody truth, social media was too distracting for me. Last year, when my dad took his last breath, mine went with him. I've toiled something fierce with a lonesome ache. A feeling only understood in a way that's unfathomable to anyone not in the struggle. You are blindsided but what you can't know. Social media has been my safe, meticulously crafted way to interact with the world. A way to dip my toe into the proverbial pond without getting wet. A picture is worth a 1,000 words, but it never told the whole story. How foolish to believe it ever could. 

The heavier my social media usage, the harder it was to have joy. Happiness is,"I am happy until my cherub fingers frantically scrabble around a disappointingly empty, greasy Mcdonald's French fry container." - Stephanie Marie. (Preach) Joy is a much more deeply rooted, intentional practice. I'm about 47 lbs down on a 100 lb weight loss goal. It's been an amazing journey with a rebar-supported sports bra & sweet sweat. A journey fraught with set backs, sickness, and broken bones, I'm a little less muffin top. When I would root & rummage through social media hashtags about weight loss, I would beat myself because I wasn't where I wanted to be.  A little old picture of someone's sliver of a story, would send me on a self-pity party. I don't care what Fergie said, big girls do cry. 

Another reason I walked away was because my FB & Insta were always on the back of my mind. If this interaction only makes 25 people laugh, why can't it make 50 people laugh? What is wrong with me? The real question is, WHO CARES? Me! but, WHY?  Facebook and Instagram had me living and dying with each post. I've always wanted to be a writer. Means get my duff off of FB & start typin! It's a year of culling what doesn't serve me. It's a year of cultivating what does. My hashtagged, as all get out, Insta posts, don't have a lasting impact on people. Why spend irreplaceable moments arranging my latest project for strangers to tell me I am creative and talented? Filters are not our friends. They keep us lonely. The ugly truth is rather beautiful. Even when it breaks your heart. And your can't see past your own nose.

My connections haven't changed since my ether hiatus. If anything, I remember why I love the ones I love. Social interactions aren't relegated to likes or comments. I cook for my shrinking muffin top. The nourishment comes to my soul and body when I spend time in my kitchen. That is enough for me. I need to walk away from self aggrandizing behaviors and practices. Hope for me yet. Much in store. Stay tuned!