27

I've had a rough couple of weeks. I'm still having issues at work. My friends have been, well, they're stressing me out. 

And the 27th has been drawing closer and closer, casting an ugly black shadow over everything.

Saturday was the year-anniversary of my brother's death.

I spent the day doing my bridesmaid-duty and wedding dress shopping with Bridezilla and Hope. I wasn't going to go; Mommo and I should've been in Oregon with TheFish. I'd been looking forward to Oregon. I haven't seen TheFish since she left for school in September. I NEEDED a break from work. Unfortunately, the snow storms in the mountains prevented us from travelling, so I'd spent my hard-won week off on the couch at home and avoiding my grief, my friends, my work, etc. So when Saturday came around, I had been wallowing for days and I thought that maybe the shopping would provide a positive distraction.

I made it through the shopping. Barely. I helped Bridezilla choose a beautiful dress. I smiled. I laughed. I wanted to kill her. I wanted to go home. I drove home through the rain and made it back to the sofa before I cried. I was emotionally exhausted, drained, headachey. 

But I'm proud of myself. And I did something sort of frivolous to distract myself. The girl I was a few years ago would've skipped dress shopping. She would've bought a bottle of alcohol and gone to a guy friend's to drink herself silly and sex it out. I'm not going to lie, I thought about it. So-and-So's is on the way home from the dress boutique. I could've easily picked up a bottle of Crown and seduced him to make myself feel better. But I didn't. I went home and I cried. 

I guess this is what growing up looks like. Fuck. When did that happen?

Do Not Pass Go

My car is leaking antifreeze. 

I learned this sad fact on Wednesday when Puddin approached my desk about ten minutes after he should've left for the day. He had his serious face on and he informed me that there was a puddle of antifreeze the size of Delaware under my car. 

I guess that I knew that my car had antifreeze. And I know that antifreeze shouldn't be ingested. I live in a place where nothing freezes EVER, so I always sort of thought that maybe antifreeze was... unnecessary. You know, like those things people in Alaska have in their garages to make their cars work in the snow. I could tell from his tone that it was actually fairly serious, so I did what any person with no practical automobile knowledge would do.

I looked at him very blankly and said, "I have no idea what that means." 

So he explained to me (without being condescending) that it is never good when something is leaking from a car, and that mine was in danger of overheating. He said that I must buy antifreeze at the gas station and drive directly to his house without any detours, and wait for him to get home from class to help me. Then he texted me to remind me to watch the temperature gauge and call if my car overheated. Twice. 

In my head this translated to something along like "Your car is a DEATH TRAP that leaks TOXIC CHEMICALS and is about to SELF DESTRUCT". 

I found myself purchasing antifreeze (pre-diluted) from a man with one front tooth, and white-knuckling it fifteen minutes down the highway to Puddin's. I don't think that I took my eyes off of the temperature gauge the whole way down PCH. I was convinced that my car was going to blow up ANY MINUTE. When I arrived, I had a cramp in my wrist and my hair had frizzed out. Awful.

I went to the movies with Skinny and Manonna while I waited for him to get out of class. (Life As We Know It, cute but predictable.)

When he got home, Puddin pointed out the things under the hood by the light of the LED light on my Droid. I learned to identify the radiator and the fan belt and lots of other things that I previously considered "the stuff around where the oil goes". This my friends, is progress. 

Next week Puddin and Pumpkin are going to try to fix the leak. They have used various pieces of man-knowledge to determine that it is totally something that they can probably fix. Probably a hose. I'm cooking dinner in exchange for their somewhat dubious mechanical skills. I'm hoping that they can fix it. Otherwise it will be just like the time that I went over to help them paint. Except reversed... The next day I had a hangover. And I was scrubbing Gobi Desert paint from under my fingernails and between my toes for like two days (that stuff does NOT come out!).

The walls look great though. 

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Clouds In My Coffee

A stupid thing happened to me today.

I was watching Say Yes To The Dress. Its a recent obsession of mine. I'm not the mushy, frilly emotional type. This show is completely out of character for me, but I can't get enough. Its my secret shame.

So... Say Yes To The Dress. There I am: glasses, pajamas, lopsided ponytail, coffee mug watching this blond girl trying on ridiculously over priced wedding gowns. And then she starts crying and out comes a torrent of words. She'd lost her sister very suddenly earlier in the year, and she was feeling her absence intensely. 

I lost it. 

I just sat there sobbing into my coffee cup as this stranger sobbed into a mountain of tulle on the television.

I'd always thought that my brother would walk me down the aisle on my wedding day. Now when that day comes I'll walk alone. I couldn't possibly ask anyone else.

But that day is far off...

The first anniversary of my brother's death is right around the corner.

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Something Blue

When I was seventeen, I was a bridesmaid in my favorite cousin's wedding. She had a barefoot-hippie wedding on the beach of Lake Tahoe, complete with vegan cake and a blue wedding dress. My very Catholic Nana and my Born Again aunt both nearly birthed a cow when they found out about the blue dress. My cousin said that the blue was non-negotiable: she'd lived with her fiancé for years, and they weren't fooling anyone.  I wore a blue sun dress and walked down the (sand) aisle on the arm of a guy with a tattoo on his neck. (My dad nearly birthed a cow when he got a look at the tattoo) 

It is clear to me now how out of place I was there. I practically pranced next to Neck Tattoo. I had carefully tweezed and blown out my hair. I was so young and shiny and girl-next-door. But I was elated. Being a bridesmaid was the most important thing I'd ever been allowed to do. I thought that all of my cousin'f friends with their liberal beliefs and ultra healthy food were so interesting and sophisticated. 

I have no idea why my cousin asked me to be in her wedding, perhaps it was that I am the first female cousin (and thus, closest to her in age). Or perhaps its because of the hero worship that I'd always had (OK, still kind of have) for her. Or perhaps purposely losing touch with every single person you've known longer than a few years is a family trait... Whatever her reasons, it was the coolest thing that had ever happened to me. 

Now, seven years later, my close friends are getting married. 

I have been asked to be a bridesmaid.

I am less than elated this time around.

Perhaps its because the other bridesmaids are awful stuck-up bitches (save one) and not my cousin's friend with the angel wings tattooed on her shoulder-blades. Perhaps its because I smell a Bridezilla situation brewing already. Perhaps its because she informed me that her wedding colors are royal blue and orange. Or perhaps its because I've always been better friends with the male half of this particular couple than the female half.

Between now and June (of course, a June wedding. Original, no?) I will have to listen to the overwhelming flow of wedding minutia. Flowers, dresses, venues, guest lists, caterers. Drama, weight pressures (You must come dress shopping, love. You have the biggest... breasts). I'm not looking forward to any of it.

I know that I should be flattered, and I know that I had a choice. I suppose that I could have said no. I am flattered, or at least surprised to have been asked. Even though I don't want to be involved, I wouldn't dream of hurting the bride's feelings by saying no. Is there a tactful way to say "I know we've been friends for years, but I don't want to support you in front of everyone on your wedding day"? I didn't think so. Besides, even though I think that Bridezilla is a little ridiculous (and pretty damn tacky) I do really like her. So I'm going to suck it up and wear an ugly dress and smile.

I swear that if I catch the bouquet, I will choke a bitch. 

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Walk This Way

One of my more recent habits is taking pictures. Specifically taking pictures of my feet.

My one and only tattoo is on the top of my foot. TheFish and I got matching ones last winter, shortly after LittleBrother died. 

The placement of the tattoo was a subject of much discussion. It was important that we get it in the same place, a place that we could see, a place that would change much with age or child-bearing. We originally thought to get them on our ankles, but our ankles are small and the design ended up being to large to look the way we wanted. So I tattooed the top of my bony foot. It hurt like a bitch. The tattoo artist, a colorful character named Robbie, later confessed that the only place he doesn't have a tattoo is the top of his foot. It is apparently more painful that a face tattoo... or more intimate areas.

So now I take pictures of my feet... at the lake, in the sand at the beach, the grass at TheFish's graduation, etc. Sometimes my feet are alone, sometimes TheFish's tattoo is pictured too. She humors this habit of mine, bur doesn't seemed compelled to do the same.

I think that part of me likes to think of it as a tangible sign that LittleBrother is always with me. That maybe, he isn't missing out by not being here. That I won't ever forget. Maybe I'm not slowly losing him... a prospect almost as devastating to me as the shock of suddenly losing him last year.

I'm really afraid of forgetting. Sometimes I can't quite picture his face anymore. Its just a little fuzzy, like the days I forget my glasses and have to squint to see things at a distance. I feel guilty about that. It hasn't even been a year. What kind of sister am I? How could I have lost focus already?

The irony of this all, of course, is that my brother would never agree to participate in the beach days and kayaking trips that I mentally drag him along on.

See and download the full gallery on posterous

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Tiny Relics

My Gramma crashed her car into her house last week. 

Don't worry. She's totally fine. But now she's moving to Nevada to live with my aunt and uncle. They've been trying to convince her to move for awhile, but the crash has become the latest selling point. Gramma is no longer able to live alone.

On Thursday Mommo I went to Gramma's to help her sort through her things and start packing. Let me tell you, the woman is a pack-rat. It must be a Depression Era thing, I mean who needs a dictionary that was printed in 1966?

Gramma also told us that we should take anything that we want now, because she isn't taking most of her things with her. She says that once she moves to Nevada we've lost our chance. Totally morbid.

I've lived within twenty minutes of my Gramma's house nearly my entire life. Its bizarre to think that she'll be so far away. It was sort of creepy to go through my grandmother's things. It felt like she was already gone, even though she was in the next room. I felt like I was intruding on her life. 

I felt guilty for growing older; becoming busy; scarcely visiting. What kind of granddaughter am I? 

I didn't really want any of the things Gramma offered. Our relationship isn't really about things for me. I call dibs on the horrifically heinous floral glass lamp in Gramma's living room. She's had it longer than I've been alive. I've always loved it... probably because of its ugliness rather than in spite of it.

The only other things I did take on Thursday were small; mostly relics from my childhood. Amongst them were the tiny dishes that my brother and I used to eat out of when we were kids. There are two small plates and two small bowls. One red and one blue. The reds were mine and the blues were his. The blue bowl is nowhere to be found, so I was only able to take three dishes. When I realized that the blue bowl was missing, it became the most important thing to me. I know that its only a bowl. But it was Justin's bowl. How could she lose it? How could she not realize that I would want it? What is wrong with her? 

I had to keep my cool though. Mommo was there, and she recently suggested with a  tearfully accusing tone that I may not be coping with the loss of my brother very well. 

After I calmed down about the bowl, I started to think that she may not be wrong.

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Three Baskets

When I helped my mother clean out her garage months ago, I found the three baskets that she wove when I was very young. They were faded from age and the bottoms were broken through from years of "tough love". Some of the reeds had begun to rot. I was so sad to these beautiful creations woven with my mother's love and hope destroyed. So I sat down on the floor of the dirty garage and I told my sister, TheFish, the story of the three baskets...

When I was young, my mom was the FunMom. She was a lot younger than most of my friend's moms. You see, I was the first child. Not the third or fourth like my friends. My mom baked cookies and made pine cones into bird feeders using peanut butter and birdseed. She packed yummy snacks with extras for my friends. She was never too tired to paint my toenails or read another story at bedtime.

My mom was the youngest child. Her mom had to work, so she was always too tired to play with mom. My mom had to walk home alone from school. When she was almost a big girl (about 11) my mom was allowed to spend the summers with Aunt Reba and her boyfriend. They lived together in Tennessee with a lot of other people. They had lots of animals, grew their own vegetables and made their own clothes. It was there that my mom learned to weave.

When my mother was pregnant with me, the first child, she wove a baby cradle. (I like to think that while she wove she thought of all of the FunMom stuff we were going to do.  She was probably also scared and hopeful and maybe a little sad... I, of course, don't remember her weaving the cradle, so that part is all conjecture.) It was in this cradle that she laid me when I was carried home from the hospital.

I remember that when she was pregnant with my sister, the third child, she wove again. I was fascinated as she unpacked her weaving supplies. I was proud and scared when she let me drop the stiffly coiled reeds into the hot water to soften them up. I can still hear her saying "Careful, careful, careful". She lifted me up, so that I could see the colored reeds undulate in the boiling water.

I remember my mom sitting Indian Style on her bed, her belly protruding under her dress. She guided my pudgy, clumsy baby fingers with her long, slim pale ones. How I wished for long nimble fingers like hers! Her patience with me was endless. Slowly, slowly our efforts began to take shape.

It wasn't the shape of the cradle, which had once sheltered me and then my brother, the second child. The cradle which was now home to McKenzie, the Cabbage Patch Doll from whom I had gotten my name. Instead, it took the shape of a medium sized basket with pink reeds interspersed and a sturdy handle thin enough for tiny hands to grip. This was followed by a blue basket for my brother and a green one for the new baby in her stomach.

Those quiet afternoons spent weaving with my mother were the calm before the storm. The storm of course being TheFish who came roaring into my life one evening in late November. Nothing has been the same since that day, but I have never forgotten the peace I felt watching my mother create something lovely with her hands.

I still watch my mom's hands sometimes: when she pours wine or gestures as she speaks. Her hands have aged a little, but the fingers are still slim and nimble.

Not too long ago, I leaned over to help my mother with something on her computer. As I looked down I noticed that my hands are now her hands. Long, slim, pale.

I only hope that mine can be as gentle, patient and creative as hers.

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