The Funeral

My dad died on May 14, 2007.

The 134th day of the year. 

A Monday.

The call came in the afternoon. My brother.

"I've got sad news, Stace. Dad died today."

I was standing at the bottom of the staircase. Speechless, sort of.

"Son of a bitch."

"I know. But at least we've got closure. It's not what we wanted but at least we don't have to wonder anymore."

It was true. We didn't have to wonder anymore. Wonder when he'd actually call. Wonder when he'd wake up and realize that he'd abandoned his kids. Three of them.

The service was on Friday. Good thing we were all available. Jesus. Funeral planned without his own children involved. Shitty. But not surprising. The step mother comfortably sits at the right hand of Satan. It's not even too warm for her.

And so we did what our mother taught us. We were good citizens. We sent flowers in advance. Showed up in suits, looking like we'd stepped out of a Nordstrom catalog.

It felt like us against the world. Three of us, plus three spouses. A team of six. Heading into a disaster.

Stopped at Starbucks a couple blocks away. Ordered my usual mocha. Wished it was a whiskey with a beer back. 

Turned around and ran into our aunt and uncle. Thank God! Our only relatives on that side. My grandmothers brother. He's filled in a big role in my life. He taught me to ski as a teenager and rollerblade as a twenty-something. He danced with me at my wedding and he makes me laugh. Really hard. 

He's buried his sister, his brother-in-law and his brother. And now he's there to bury his nephew. He's proof that a life well lived isn't necessarily fair.

Our team of six jumped to a team of eight.

It's odd. When you're the stranger. The front row is a hard place to be when you know that the 40 or so people behind you have no idea who you are.

And so the service started. The obituary read by the funeral guy. Preacher maybe. Not sure. Might have just been the owner of the funeral parlor. No idea. The information was wrong anyway for the 10 years or so that he was married to our mother. Oh well. Let that go.

Funeral guy gave us each a task. Think of one word that reminds us of Phil. Our father. Half our DNA. 

Shit, he's going to ask us for our words.

So, I tried to think of an innocuous word. Think. Think. Think. Really wishing I'd had that whiskey.

Funny! That's it. My dad was funny. Really funny. 

True. 

Safe. 

And then my brother leaned over and whispered, knowing my favorite word, he asked, "Is your word, fucker?"

"No! Although that's true. My word is funny."

"My word is absent."

Although fitting, it didn't seem appropriate. 

For a funeral. 

Fortunately we weren't called on.

#momfail

I'm a big believer in 'It Takes a Village'. Big believer.

Mostly because I'm alone with the children a lot.

I need help.

Often.

Literally.

Fortunately I've got some great friends who help out. Run carpool. Feed us on occasion, watch beasties. All the things. Really, really good friends.

I try to keep the asks to a minimum. I do want to be able to handle everything. Kiddos, work, home. Plus, who wants to annoy their friends all the time with cries for help?

But, somewhere in there... the children have figured out at the ripe old ages of seven and eleven that I am not good at everything. Or, anything really. It's gone beyond needing help. It's not that they think I can't handle the extras. Now we're at the point that they don't think I can handle the basics.

It's Halloween weekend. On top of the kid focused day we had two soccer games and a soccer party to handle. Why have a mellow weekend when you can have a very busy one?

Saturday morning I had The Angels over for breakfast. I've had a couple stressful weeks, needed some girlfriend time to chill out and catch up. We don't often meet at a home for breakfast. We're dinner and drinks people. Normally. But, I'm alone with kiddos and the above mentioned activities. If we were going to see each other, the window was narrow.

Needed to adjust the belt for the Supergirl costume that would be worn later in the day. A few stitches. Nothing major. The girl is tiny and the belt needed to be taken in several inches. This is a basic mom task. Something I can handle. I may not be super domestic. (I got a C in Home Ec.) But, I can handle basics!

As I pulled out the sewing kit, the girl eyed me suspiciously. "Are you sure you know how to do this?"

"Yes. This is simple stuff."

"Um, but isn't Becca on the way?"

Braided by Becca.

Seriously? 

P.S. That belt didn't slip off after hours of trick or treating. There may have been some safety pins involved but that belt stayed on. On!

The girl has had a cold. Started with a sore throat, now it's a cough. Which doesn't seem to bother her much but it's super annoying to anyone with ears.

"Hey. Why don't you come in the kitchen and get some cough medicine?"

'No. I'm fine."

"I really think you should."

"I'm okay."

And then Tracey adds, "Are you sure? I think you'd feel better."

"Well then, okay."

Oh. My. God.

The girl then asked both Tracey and Becca to braid her hair. This is something I don't even attempt. I can ponytail.

After the interviews, she settled on Becca. Who put it in a French Braid. She then told Becca that she was welcome to stay over for 45 more hours. I'm pretty sure that I was free to go at any time though.

Later at her soccer game, a fellow mom asked if I did the braid. The answer was no. Of course, not. To which she responded, "Oh, I thought maybe you watched some Youtube videos!"

Um, yeah. No.

Make up by Dani.

And, the day progressed on. A little downtime in the afternoon. Followed by the Halloween costume prep. The boy was going as The Joker. Ordered the costume on Amazon and grabbed green hairspray and a basic clown makeup kit at the grocery store. Neither of their costumes took much effort. Only thing truly required was an Amazon Prime account.

While we were outside, me spraying him down with a can of green hairspray  (because, no way, no how is that happening in the house), he asked, "Can we wait to do my makeup until we're at Dani's?"

"I guess. But it's only going to take a minute to do."

"I just think that Dani would do it better."

Aren't they supposed to think I am the best at everything? Don't I have more time?

I'm not ready for this!

Le sigh.

Popped.

Where I come from popcorn is a big deal. A very big deal. Nearly a spiritual experience. From the time we were small children we sat on the stool watching grandpa make the popcorn. Only him.

Popped to perfection.

Air popper, roasting pan, butter and salted to perfection. Former cottage cheese containers as our serving dishes.

I am not as good at it. I must have watched him make it 50 times but I still cannot duplicate. Sad really. It's not a skill that just comes with genetics.

I've got the air popper. Bought it on Black Friday a couple years ago. For not much money. It's not as good as his. It flings popcorn all over the kitchen in some sort of angry fit.

The children are accustomed to the ease and taste of Orvile via the microwave.

But today, it's cold and rainy. We're catching up on our Halloween movies. Felt like the right time to bust out the air popper. The popper that we use so little it's stored in a cabinet near the ceiling. I have to get on a tall stool and then I still have to reach.

Melted the butter, readied the salt. Let the popper throw its fit. All over the kitchen.

The children, well, they were not impressed. First off, the popcorn wasn't fluorescent yellow and 'buttery'. 

The boy said, "It's buttered. Like on two pieces."

Not a glowing review, I'm afraid.

I will not let a bad review bring me down! I will try again! I will persevere!

Perhaps as a start I should buy a new popper. 

One that is slightly less temperamental.

Fit thrown.

Friday Night, 80s style

Friday night... 1980 something.

The General Lee.

Three kids sprawled out on the floor at 1052 Hemlock Avenue in the grooviest basement of all time. Orange carpet, two red brick walls, two paneled walls. Mom sitting on the tan tweed couch. Working on her latch hook. Microwave popcorn is ready. Dukes of Hazzard is on.

But, really, we're waiting for Dallas.

Dallas, Dallas, Dallas.

I was truly too young to be watching Dallas. But, it was Friday night and I got to stay up until 10. There was no VCR, DVR or any other technology to record it and watch later so, if I was up until 10 and my mom wanted to watch Dallas, well, I got to watch it too.

It's disheartening to report that neither show holds up. I've caught a couple of marathons in recent years. Last time I had the flu I stumbled onto a Dukes marathon. At the time I thought it was a fantastic stroke of luck. Sick, miserable, catching up on some 80's tube. Turns out, the writing is terrible. Really terrible.

Best. Bad. Guy.

No part of the Dukes is even plausible. Starting with the car. Really? Was everyone that gullible in the 80's that they thought you could jump that car over every manner of barn, bridge or gully?

And then there's Dallas, where the writing is bad but the direction is worse.  How did all of America watch and wait through all those cliff hangers? JR, Bobby, Sue Ellen, Pamela, Cliff... I remember all of them and the fantastical drama.

JR Ewing was the best bad guy around. Everyone in America waited an entire summer to find out who shot him, that's how bad he was. If there is a list of people who might murder you, you're seriously bad.  He called every woman in his office 'honey' or 'darling'. I dare a guy at work to call me either one. There won't be a cliff hanger. It'll be obvious who pulled the trigger.

I was pretty young to be learning about affairs, murders, rehab... plus, you can die and come back to life all via dream... Turns out you're just in the shower... When you're angry you throw wine glasses - full. Seems like a horrible waste of wine to me, now that I'm an adult. I can get pretty angry. Scary angry, in fact. The only thing I've ever thrown across a room in anger was my own glasses. Which, was really stupid as then I just had to find them, blindly...

I think part of me thought that when I was a grown up, life would be a little more dramatic. Turns out there are no evil twins, there's not a list of people who want to kill me (that I am aware of), I've never had amnesia, there's no mansion where we all still live with our mother. You're supposedly rich, but you've never bought your own place? You still live with your 'momma'?

The producer of Dallas was Philip Capice. And my brother loved to wait for that pause, the freeze frame at the end of the show and he'd shout out, "Philip Capice!" just as the name flashed up on the screen.

And then, Friday night was over.

Forget the Charger, this is the car for me!

Step Ball Change

Back when I was ten, I was forced into tap dance lessons. Forced. Totally against my will. It was an effort to make me 'graceful'. If you actually know me, you understand that this attempt was a total failure.

Holy Hell.

Thirty years before, my mother asked for dance lessons. Instead she was given a piano and lessons for years. When I asked for piano lessons, the piano was sold. Because, 'I'd never practice'. And yet she seemed shocked when I didn't practice tap...

There were five kids at the start of the class. Just two of us stayed the whole year and were in the recital. I remember standing there - an angry, hands on hips smart-assed ten year old staring at the teacher, refusing to move my feet.  (I'm certain she hated me right back, rightly so.) Our first steps were to Dipsy Doodle. In 1986. Dipsy Doodle.

I fractured my ankle that year. You'd think that four weeks in a cast would have gotten me out of tap, but no. She drug me right on down to the studio, where I sat in a chair and practiced. Tap shoe on my left foot, bulky cast on my right foot.

Step, ball, change.

I was desperate. I had to get out. I went to my only possible option. Grandma. I was on the green stool in the kitchen while she cooked dinner - the best time to have a BIG conversation. And then I begged.

Her response, "Give it time. It will be fun. I'm sure the music is modern and something you like. It's not like you're learning to dance to Dipsy Doodle."

Um, actually... 

My last hope. Dashed.

As you can imagine, the recital was a total disaster. Grandma was wise enough to not attend. We moved soon after. Probably unrelated.

And nearly 30 years later. Guess what I'm doing? Taking tap dance lessons on Friday nights.

So shocking to some of my friends, that when I was asked to join in on a Friday night girls night out, and said I could, but it would be after 8:30 when my tap dance class was over, one burst out laughing. In her defense, I'm sarcastic most of the time and she had no idea that I was serious.

Know what? Tap dancing is f***ing hard. It's a super challenge. I will beat it. I will be in the recital. I will own that dance.

Own.

And, my mother is going to pay for it. She just doesn't know it yet.

Tied!

I learned to tie my shoes when I was four. Bev taught me. She watched me four days a week while my mom worked. I remember emerging from my bedroom, the next morning, shoes tied, very proudly telling my mother that, 'I did it all by myself!'

She looked down at my blue and red sneakers and said, 'No you didn't. You slipped those on'.

Concentrating.

Don't worry, I proved I could. I'm pretty sure she felt bad about her lack of faith. And, just one of the things that's made me a pretty damn tough adult.

I don't remember if it was hard to learn but I'm assuming Bev had the patience of a saint because over the years I've tried to teach my children and suffice it to say, it's not gone well.

I tried and tried to teach the boy. Finally one afternoon he learned. Not by me. By the baby sitter. The one who watched him four days a week while I worked. The one who probably has the patience of a saint.

The girl though. Holy hell. Loop, swoop and pull. She couldn't do it. Add in her need for perfection and we would often have tears over shoe tying.  All the while I'm thinking, 'come on! I could do this when I was four!' She's seven. And a half.

Enter Kelly. Kelly runs the before and after school program. Got a text from her today - the girl can tie her shoes! Probably because Kelly has the patience of a saint.

Clearly proof that it takes a village.

VICTORY!

To the pain

Here I am again. Icing.

Sometime over last winter I hurt my shoulder. I noticed that it hurt to put my arm into the sleeve of my coat. I can't really pinpoint the injury. I can sort of pinpoint the time - cold enough to need a coat.

It's possible, but not confirmed, that I was injured when some of the guys in the office thought my football skills were lacking. I can throw. I can put it on your numbers. But, it doesn't spiral. They practiced with me, gave me tips. At the time, I thought, "man, I'm going to be sore in the morning."

At no time did I think, "shit, this is going to hurt so bad you'll cry nearly every morning for 10 months."

Now, I'm no pansy. I'm sturdy. I'm pretty tough. I've had broken bones and waited to go to the doctor until the next day. But this. This grinds on you. Day after day. 

I can't lift anything over my head. It's my right shoulder too. I'm hopelessly right handed. My left side is so pathetic I can't even really use it. My left arm just sort of hangs there. Like an ornament.

I've been to the doctor. She thought bone spurs. And if you read up on that, the symptoms fit. 

Negative on that X-ray. 

Torn deltoid. Negative.

Impingement. Still possible. But then they started second guessing that diagnosis because it seems like torn labrum is a possibility. That's surgical.

Now, it's possibly tendonitis and bursitis. Bursitis sounds like an old people disease. I'd prefer it to not be that. Because I'm not old. Dammit!

To treat the latest, we're working through stretches, ibuprofen, twice daily icing and an occasional muscle relaxer. Which I have no business taking. The other night, I decided, while medicated, that I'd like to be a mermaid. For a number of reasons. One of which was 'no pants'.

If someone told me they could fix it by stabbing me with a rusty spoon, I'd be game. Seriously. I just want it fixed. 

It seems to be down to a hardware issue. It's essentially hinges and pullies. Someone should be able to figure this out. So far, four highly educated people are struggling.

After a few more physical therapy appointments I'll finally be able to get a MRI. At least there will be some type of confirmation. Hopefully.

Because, I'm about to punch someone. If I could. But.. I can't punch for shit with my left arm.

Medicated.