Amorphous blob'ism of a week

Y'all, January is hard enough without accusations of "shithole" (or, as it wasn't but was suggested/lied about, "shithouse") countries and assertions of people we do and don't want anytime but sort of especially MERE DAYS BEFORE we celebrate Dr. Martin Luther King Day in the year that IS ALSO the 50th year since his assassination. 

January is cold enough that we can really do without continued sexual impropriety on a grand scale, including multiple and fairly credible tales of porn stars having had affairs with the Evil Yam just after Melania gave birth and then being paid hush money to shut up about it all.

January is screwy enough in terms of snow days and, thusly, parental schedules, that I hardly think we also need a desperate mother paying a large sum to largely untrained Container Store people for a "sleek and Swedish" organizational system that promises to solve a hoarder son's closet issues. Said mother averred that a cyclonically-inspired closet could be tamed in 60-90 minutes on an early-dismissal Tuesday. Said mother was, four hours, no lunch, and extreme body and foot odor later, chastened by said sleek and Swedish org system that is now a permanent part of a closet due to a mallet, chisel, hammer, and wild-eyed determination to make that fucker fit. Do not tell said mother's husband just what lengths she went to via the baseboard just inside the closet doors.

My dear housekeeper, Imelda, ventured in two hours in: "Emily, I am hearing the hammer. Is everything going ok? I want to offer my help."

"Imelda, I will win in this closet. I will make this organizer fit."

"Ok, Emily, it's just, I'm hearing the hammer" -read: "I should not be hearing a hammer," which was an accurate perspective from anyone but especially Imelda who can fix and solve and do anything- "and I want to offer my services."

I'm pretty sure my scent and the state of my hair and eyes caused her quick departure from the room. 

The Container Store is really the devil. No wonder it partners with Real Simple magazine which is the lyingest name of a magazine ever. Real Stressful would be infinitely more accurate. Sweet baby jesus in the skies, RS editors. Back your trains up. No one can cover even 80% of the advice you offer on one page must less on 200 of them. 

Meanwhile, the children appear to be suffering January-induced meltdowns and loss of senses of humor. Mary mother of moody boys. Get it together. Tonight, Tom's 40th birthday incidentally, found me with a brand new Keratin treatment in my hair -which means it's straight as a board and CANNOT, under penalty of death, be tucked in a rubber band, hair band, or even behind an ear- peeling and deveining shrimp, making biscuits, preparing a cocktail, making the kids' dinner, AND alternately tending to and ignoring pitiful whimpering from Oliver because he had to copy previously written persuasive letter text onto a new sheet of paper. The trials of being a privileged youth today.

My eyes just fell out I rolled them so hard.

Have you ever tried to peel and devein shrimp without being able to move your hair out of your face or even really touch it? Such is not an optimal scenario. And the wailing child is the cream. 

But I'm a perseverant gal, and damn you shithole president and persuasive letter writing and Keratin, I will make my husband a delicious meal. And I did.

barbecue shrimp

biscuits!

kale salad

And the boys calmed down and got their homework done, and dinner was good, and then T and I watched Get Out which is hands down the best social commentary film I've seen in a while, and now we're two forty-somethings off to bed. Happy Birthday, honey.

It's been forever: memorial service, a salon, a protest

Gosh, y'all, I've never gone this long without posting here. Not while sick or abroad or in the weeds of any sort have I missed more than 4-5 days. But so goes life, and there you have it.

We're renovating our kitchen so have been mired in plans, and the boys finished school last Friday, and I went to New York on Sunday for Peter's memorial service and returned first thing Monday, and Christmas is a'coming, and on Saturday Jack asked with the most darling sincerity, "Mom, can you take me to the salon so I can get a new hair style?" and the orthodontist and this horrid tax bill and resistance, and a new venture, and so on.

I am deeply thankful to have been able to return to New York for Peter's tribute. I got to stay with my dear friend of nearly twenty years, Shawn, and time with dear old friends you don't see often enough is the absolute spice of life. 

Fourteen people shared their memories of Peter: how he'd believed in and supported them; how he'd changed their lives; how he was a rock, a touchpoint, the reason to stop and smell the flowers while running across a bustling campus. I know that I met Peter just when I needed to, at a time when I wavered internally, unsure of so much. He was a strong, funny, wise guidepost who kept me anchored and forward looking, even when I didn't know it. It was a gift to sit and listen to all who offered their reminiscences to us, a gift to hug Peter's wife and say thank you, a gift to see former colleagues and friends, a short moment to breathe and simply be present, with and for friends. 

This morning I spent two hours with a remarkable young woman. I have just opened the doors to a new business, an editorial consulting company of my own. I seek to help others make their written work shine. From college and graduate school essays to resumes and manuscripts, I am an eager partner and absolutely love the work. More about all of this soon.

After our work, I took Jack to the orthodontist to get new brackets and Christmas-themed rubber bands before heading on to my hair stylist for my big boy's first trip to the salon. 

Tom has cut both boys' hair for all these years. Jack has never been to a barber, and Oliver has just twice. When Jack said to me the other day, "I love that Dad cuts my hair, but I have had this do forever, and I just want something more me, with some lift," I both nearly died over the darlingness of it all and felt happy to make an appointment with Michael.

As I knew he would, Michael listened to Jack's vague vision with such seriousness. Then, he began. And now, my boy is thrilled. He has stood a little taller all day and he has reapplied his "product" with admirable restraint. I thought Oliver might want a trim after all this, but no. No amount of pride and preening from Jack could get Ol before hair scissors.

After an hour's rest, the boys and I crafted signs for tonight's protest at the White House, Caroling for Impeachment. My good friend, Karen, and a friend of hers, Emily of The Handmaid Coalition, were co-sponsoring the event with March On. Karen rewrote classic Hanukkah and Christmas songs with a decidedly #resistance slant, Emily brought handmaid costumes, and March On advertised and organized.

We marched, sang, and delivered post cards with messages of good tidings and swift impeachment. It was a great way to combat feelings of horror and fury over the current tax "bill" and general devolution of our democracy and also a great way to teach democracy in action: one cannot take it for granted, and using our voices to gather and protest is absolutely our Constitutional right!

It was a gorgeous evening, and the White House looked so beautiful. I felt sad that such ugliness lives inside, but my hope is not gone, and I guess that's something. 

Invisibility, darkness, and fucks or the lack of

I said to him, "You played the wrong note. So what. What do you do now? Do you quit or do you play it again? Do you quit or do you practice? What happens if you quit? What happens if you stay in the seat and erect your spine and reshape your embouchure and steady your fingers and blow?"

He looked down at his feet, and mumbled, "I don't get better, or I do."

"So, which is it? What do you want?" I asked the options kindly, but I asked them.

He turned back to the music stand, centered his horn, and blew out the first chords of the Imperial March. No squeaks this time.

***

This morning, I had a meeting. "He saw Mrs. L and turned in on himself," she said. "He turned down a snack!"

He loves Mrs. L. He loves food. What?

***

We have a tradition: Thursday night deep talks. Sometimes these happen on Thursday, but as often they happen on Friday or Monday. It really just depends on when said deepness needs to be talked out.

Tonight, Friday, I initiated a Thursday night deep talk as he packed his instrument away until tomorrow.

"Have you ever heard the expression 'Fake it until you make it?'"

"No."

"Well, Misse used to tell me to do that when I was nervous."

"What were you nervous about, Mama?" with a definite emphasis on 'you'.

"All sorts of things, honey. Being liked. Being smart. Making the dance line..."

He snapped the case latches shut and moseyed to my lap.

"What did it mean, what Misse said?"

"It meant that sometimes you have to pretend to be comfortable or confident or capable or ready. And ultimately, do you know what that sort of pretending is?"

"No."

"What did I ask you earlier, when you slapped your head and said, 'This song is too hard'? What could you do?"

"I could quit or practice."

"And what might faking it until I made it be like?"

"Practicing."

"Bingo."

***

I see the way he turns in on himself when he's nervous. When he doubts himself. When he doesn't feel up to snuff. It is a behavior I am all too familiar with. The turning in to the darkness, to the false feeling of invisibility. The hiding behind 'can't' versus shakily bucking up before 'faking and making.' Sometimes, but not always.

"Honey, let me tell you. It is scary for me to write so openly about politics and social justice. I was not raised in a place that championed the questioning of the status quo. But I do it anyway because it feels to me right and just. I am scared, but I make myself do it. What do you think that making myself do it is?"

"Practicing?" he murmured.

"Yes! And do you know what happened to me today? I left my meeting and as I walked through the school parking lot I saw a lovely acquaintance sitting alone in her car. It was an odd time for a mom to be parked in the overflow carpool line, and as I approached her, I saw that her eyes were shining.

“Are you OK?"

"Oh, I'm OK." and we exchanged deeper-than-pleasantries catch up talk. But soon enough, I was in her car skipping Pilates, and she was crying, and I was nodding.

"And at one point she said, I sort of hate Facebook but it's allowed me to see that you are an amazing person."

"And I blushed and said thank you, and still I am so moved, honey, because I was practicing speaking my truth even when it was scary, even when it meant pretending not to feel dark and worried, even when it meant being decidedly NOT invisible, and someone essentially said thank you for that."

"The only way I know how to be more like the people I admire -strong, brave, vocal women- is to fake giving no fucks until I don't. It is scary but it's the only way I know. And I want you to see in yourself all the absolute wonder and magic I see. Does that make sense, hon?"

"It does, Mama." His lip quivered, and we snuggled tight, and I said, "Sweet pea, what is it to ask for help?"

"It's practice," he said.

Indeed.