This Time Around

There is some old cliche about returning to the scene of the crime.

A couple of weeks ago I went back to Fayetteville. Tits was getting married and it was time for me to get it together and face my demons.

This wasn't the first time that I had seen my old friends and caught glimpses of my old life. I'd gone east for a Sister's big Texas wedding three years before and further East for a whirlwind weekend in Philly a year after that. Then Justin died and everything was so pear shaped that I didn't know how to respond to the Sisters who reached out to comfort me from thousands of miles away. My interactions with my former life had been limited to sporadic Facebook messages from Roommate (who is a happily married lady now, barely recognizable as the hell raiser I once knew) and postcards from the Globetrotter- the only one of us who always knew exactly who she was.

So I got Tits' black and red invitation (appropriate for two Razorback alums, no?) and I held it in my hands for awhile before I could bring myself to open the envelope. The invitation itself wasn't a surprise- Tits had sent me a message requesting a mailing address a few weeks before. The message had been a surprise, but I had dutifully responded with the requested information.

I rolled the idea around in my head for weeks before I decided to go. Skinny's lack of support and the doubt in my mother's eyes were part of the motivation to go. I needed to prove to myself that they weren't right, that it was a good idea, that I was strong enough to return to a place that represented the best and worst times of my life. So I made a flight reservation, announced to Facebook (and effectively the world) that I would be attending Tits' wedding.

The response was so positive. More positive than I expected- Tits was so excited; women I hadn't seen in years were happy to hear I would be in attendance, wanted to spend time with me while I was in town. I was a little overwhelmed, in the best way possible. Let me be clear- it was not the Sisters I lacked faith in, it was myself. The TexasJewess (who is not really very Jewish and no longer Texan) offered to fetch me from the airport and house me in her guest bedroom. I had planned a hotel and a rental car, but her gesture effectively knocked down all remaining hesitation.

Before I knew it, I was counting down to the trip. Then (after a trip down PCH to LAX spent fielding work calls on speaker phone and fighting Southern California traffic) I was boarding a plane. On the flight my iPod seemed to know that I was headed backwards in time. It played all of the songs I loved when I was nineteen and all of the songs with memories attached. Tenacious D, Jason Boland &The Stragglers, Lucero, Pat Green, Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Cross Canadian Ragweed. I closed my eyes and let it all wash over me: giggling through "Fuck Her Gently" on the way to Tulsa, sitting on a makeshift stage thisclose to Jason Boland singing about pearl-snap shirts, learning to two-step in a champagne soaked foyer to "Fishin' in the Dark".

I was met at the airport by TJ who was exactly the same and completely different- still tall, bold, loud and lovely... but softer somehow. Her Texas twang was gone and she was happier than I'd ever seen her. She ushered me out into the cold air and I breathed in the Ozarks for the first time in five and half years.

We spent the morning of the wedding day walking around campus. It was absolutely deserted due to Fall Break, but I'm glad it was empty. There were things I needed to see, to come to terms with and hundred of writhing bodies in Polos and neon would've added to my anxiety. The only downside to the empty campus was that no one was around to let us into the sorority house. So many things were the same: Razorback Stadium, the "Pi Palace", my old dorm. And so many were different: Old Main was under construction, the fraternity house where I had spent so much time is now a parking lot, there is a mall on campus, new houses on fraternity row.

I had a momentary panic as I was seated waiting for the wedding to begin. I wasn't sure I could face the girls that I hadn't seen in years, answer the questions, smile in the face of all of the overwhelming memories.

The wedding turned out to be the sweetest little hometown wedding I've ever seen. It totally represented Tits & Mr. Tits. I actually got a chance to talk to the bride at the reception and she made me cry. I caught up with old friends and laughed and drank and even danced a little. After some hesitation on my part (and being paged over the loudspeaker) I participated in the sorority wedding ritual. I felt a little awkward about it, but I remembered more than I thought I would, and it meant a lot to me that my Sisters wanted me to participate.

I didn't escape the event unscathed, however. We went out to the bars after the reception. I fell on Dickson (like hundred of coeds before me) and ended up with two skinned knees and a sprained ankle. I should have known better than to wear the blue pumps that were a gift from Manonna. Such things have bad juju. I insisted that I was fine, but my sisters' husbands and boyfriends rushed to my aid anyway because as one of them put it "Honey, you're not fine. You're bleeding." I suppose that it was a fitting end to the evening. No reunion is complete without a little humiliation.

Before I left TJ told me that she was glad to see me doing so well, that I'm healthier and happier than I've been in years.

I was skeptical because I felt scraped raw by the whole weekend, but I guess she's right.

As angry and confused as I've been these last couple of months, the desperation is gone. I feel like I've won some kind of battle. The war may not be over, but for now this life is mine.

Dear Steph, Get bent. Love, MK

I read romance novels when I'm upset. Dramatic historical novels with crinolines and horses and dukes and more plot twists than an episode of Desperate Housewives. 

Before I was packed up and sent home to California with "crazy" practically stamped on my forehead, I was speed reading through the Regency era. Don't misunderstand; I have little respect for the romance novel genre. The books are silly and formulaic at best. They're anything but original, and sort of insult the intelligence of the women to whom they're marketed. I don't read them for the literary value... I kind of loathe them, really.

Its just that nothing brings out the crocodile tears in me faster than some lucky bitch in a corset getting her happily-ever-after.

I hate crying.

Totally fucked, right? 

I don't really have an explanation for it. Maybe it's because I don't believe in happily ever after. Or because I was scolded for crying as a child, teen, adult. Maybe I'm just plain twisted... or maybe I just need to get a fucking life. I have no idea.

Anyway, here I am reading some crap about an orphaned vicar's daughter and her horse groom lover who is secretly an earl, and bawling my damned eyes out. I'll be up all night crying for the mistreated girl who has no idea that the servant she's going to run away (from her evil uncle) with is going to make her a pregnant millionaire any minute. I don't even know if I feel sorry for her because of the evil uncle or jealous of the handsome man. 

I've always been afraid of becoming the kind of woman who has a drink and a couple of pills in the evening to deal with the burden of living: her white girl, first world problems. It seems that as long as Stephanie Laurens her ilk are around, I don't have much to worry about in that arena.

We Built This City on Rock 'n Roll

 SkinnyBitch has found a job at another company, and is in the East Bay for a month-long new employee training program. I went to visit her over the weekend, and we went into TheCity on Saturday. I love love LOVE TheCity! We watched football in a sports bar (Go Steelers!), went drunk souvenir shopping (note the ridiculous sunglasses below), ate at the Cheesecake Factory on the roof of Macy's and so much more. All in all, it was a pretty fantastic weekend.

Uglies

Years ago, my brother went to Yosemite with his then-girlfriend and her family for Thanksgiving. It was one of her family's traditions; my parents, not being the family-traditions kind of people, had no qualms about sending their only son away for the holiday. 

That year, for Christmas, he gave me what is, to this day, the ugliest gift I've ever received. Ever. He gave me socks. It wasn't the socks themselves that were offensive. I like socks as much as the next person. These socks were heinous: thick and brown with black bears, green pine trees and (just in case I was confused) the word BEAR printed across the instep. I cannot impress upon you how ugly these socks were. I promptly put them on (over the bottoms of my velour sweatpants), and we all laughed as I opened  the less functional gift that accompanied them.

At the time I was living in the unfamiliar South where it snowed and my California-flip-flop-feet were always cold. The ugly socks quickly became my favorites. After that, the ugly socks became a joke between my brother and I. He made a few more trips to Yosemite with then-girlfriend and her family. Each time, he returned bearing a new pair of socks for me, the thickest and ugliest he could find. I always accepted them gladly and exclaimed over their ugliness (as if ugly was a virtue) and immediately put them on, weather appropriate or not. 

No matter how hard he looked, he could never out-ugly the original pair of ugly socks.

I still have all of the ugly socks. Its a small miracle that the collection has survived so many moves fully intact, but they're stubborn. They're still well loved, but rarely see much action outside of my sock drawer. They're far too heavy for everyday wear, which is probably why they've survived this long. 

Today, its pouring outside, so I rooted around in my sock drawer until I found the brown uglies and pulled them onto my feet. There is a hole in the toe of one of them. 

I wore them anyway. Part of me wanted to keep them in the drawer always, so I'll always have them, this small tangible link to my brother, but instead I decided that I'm going to wear them until they've got no more life left in them. 

Its a big-picture thing. 

My brother's memory isn't something that I should hide in a drawer. 

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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