Grandma

Two years ago today, my grandma passed away. I still don’t like to say it out loud. She had lung cancer. She was diagnosed in November, in hospice taking what we thought were her last breaths by January, then a miraculous revival. We took her home, laughed a lot more and did the best we could. She got weaker and sicker and passed away on July 31, 2007. I was on my way to her house with two baskets of clean laundry in my backseat because her washing machine was broken when my mom called to tell me. She didn’t ask me where I was before she told me, and I drove, sobbing my way across Atlanta, continuing on my way to grandma’s house because that was the only place I knew to go. When things are unbearable, you go home. Grandma’s house was home. Now it’s the homeplace in my mind. When life gets hard or my grief over losing her makes everything a bit colorless, I close my eyes and picture my grandma standing at her kitchen sink, the spot where she probably spent about 6/10 of her life, surrounded by the sweet knick-knacks so comfortingly in the same place for longer than I can remember, and I indulge in a little denial and pretend she’s still there. It gets me by.

I read in a novel that death is like a weight that bears down on the living. You go through life pretty carefree until someone close to you dies, and then you carry the burden of that loss, of the grief, on your shoulders forever. I’ve had two pretty significant losses in my life and I definitely feel the weight of them. Each event in my life from here on out, happy or sad, will be missing something because my Grandma isn’t here. She won’t be at my wedding, she won’t see my law school graduation, she won’t meet my babies. When I’m sad or things aren’t great, I can’t call her or lay my head in her lap and let her stroke my hair, or let her make me some creamed peas and mashed potatoes served up with some home brewed sweet tea. I feel the loss of these moments more than I have words to express.

I am grateful for the time that I had. Grateful for her love, for my memories, and grateful that she raised the beautiful and generous spirit that is my mother. Grateful beyond measure. But I’m sorry too. I’m sorry that I couldn’t spend every single minute with her after we found out she was terminal. Sorry that my tears and inability to say the words I felt rendered me unable to tell her all the things I wanted her to know. I tried so many times. Most of all, I’m sorry that when she was too weak to even get up from her recliner, after so many months of pain and suffering and fighting, and we found ourselves alone together, she looked at me and said “I’m so tired, I wish the Lord would just take me,” and I looked back into her exhausted and sweet blue eyes and said nothing. I’m sorry I was too selfish to say it was okay, too selfish to let you go. I wanted to. I wanted to say it. I wanted you to know I would be okay, our family would be okay, that you had done so good, you had fought so hard, it was okay for you to go. But it took everything I had just to fight back tears and I could not, did not, open my mouth. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to provide you that comfort. I just hope that you knew it, that you could see it on my face and in my eyes.

I love you. I miss you. I still talk to you and listen for you. I’m okay. Our family is okay. You did so good. Thank you for everything. Stay with me. I can’t wait for you to see me graduate from law school, see me get married and watch over my babies. You’re in my heart, always and forever.

Andrew "Humility" Gambino

I received the above picture via text today with the following message: "So you can show your friends how handsome your brother is."

To which I responded, "But how will I show them how humble you are?"

"Just tell them. You seem like a credible source."

"Ok. I'll post all about it on my blog. Tell the world."

"Yeah, that, or just know it in your heart."

"I really just might post it. Watch out."

"Watch out world is more like it."

So handsome? Sure. Humble? Not so much. Sorry, little brother.

Update:

I thought the above might shame him a little. But instead I have received this:

"Post this one too."

"Are you f'ing kidding me? Get your own damn blog!"

"And this one."


Only if I can still call you Andy Pandy Bear.

Too Much of a Good Thing

I love to cook, but when I'm working full-time, I find cooking severely interferes with my ripping off my clothes and laying in front of the TV for six consecutive hours every weekday evening. I just don't have time for both. But I still want to eat healthy and cheaply so my solution has been to make a big pot of soup every Sunday evening. That way there's always a go-to meal in the fridge, I only have to cook once a week, and it's pretty inexpensive. I make something different every week. There's no set recipe, I just think what might taste good and throw it in the pot. I like to mix up what I use for broth so it varies between chicken stock, beef stock or veggie stock and I supplement with tomato or vegetable juice for extra nutrition.

This week's soup is particularly yummy and I've been eating two or three veggie-filled bowls every night. It has been a rather, um, productive week and I couldn't figure out why. My diet is pretty consistent from week to week and there's no reason why everything I eat should be shooting through me with such reckless abandon and utter disregard for the fact that I might want to leave my house occasionally. The reason finally occured to me yesterday when I had a flashback to last Sunday when I was standing in aisle 3 of the grocery store trying to decide between two varieties of V8 Juice for this week's soup: Healthy Heart or High Fiber. Guess which one I chose.

What She Said!

I'm totally stealing this from someone else's blog but I just had to post it because it's so topical given yesterday's post. I feel like this girl would be on my side (listen the whole way through, gets better and better):




Borrowed from Mighty Girl.

I Came, I Saw, I Tweeted

If you scroll down and look to your right, you will see that I Twitter now. I tweet. Come along, won't you? Because you couldn't get enough. This is just the beginning. I have some of my best people working on how I can offer my essence in an IV drip so you can insert me directly into your blood stream. And then? My essence in pill form. Pre-ordering begins at midnight.

Some of my friends (hi, Sheridan!) will be surprised that I have decided to Twitter since I have very strongly and violently resisted Facebook and MySpace for all these years. Sher and I have actually had words about this. I think I used all caps and several exclamation points. I just don't like it. I know how I obsessively look up people dating back to pre-school whenever I'm on a friend's Facebook account, and then I say to my friend, "Dude, have you seen so-and-so?" or "Oh my gosh, he joined the army!" or "Holy crap, he's already bald!" or whatever, and while this is fun, I just don't like the idea of being out there like that for anyone and their mother to look up and be all up in my business. Also, I'm uncomfortable with being tagged. I don't entirely understand what it entails or how it works and it sounds unpleasant.

I'm much more comfortable and okay with putting myself out there in the form of this blog and now Twitter, which is strange, because arguably, this is much, much more personal and is a much bigger piece of me out there. But I like the idea of this. I've never been able to keep a journal consistently before and I've always regretted that because I feel like my life is always changing and I'm so different now from who I was when I was 16 or 20 or 23. Now, because of this, so far, I'll always have a piece of myself from when I was 25 from April to July of 2009. It's also been nice to share things with friends and family that I might not bring up in conversation and get your feedback and support and comments. I really love it, and I appreciate my buddies reading this and sending me emails and for just being a part of my life in general. Wow, this got off on a very sentimental tangent. Poop. There, that's better.

Where was I? Oh, right. I Twitter now. And I put my last name on it so now the world can find me. Sheridan is thrilled. I am unsettled. No weirdos, please. And no, Sher, I still don't want pictures of me on your page. But I love you and that should count for something!

Irrational? Nope, Not Me

There is nothing scarier than looking up and seeing a creepy crawly bug on your ceiling, running to the bathroom to grab some tissue to address the situation, only to return and discover the bug is nowhere to be found. I was so unsettled by this occurrence last night that I could not sleep. Because if I lose a bug, I immediately assume it is in my bed and it has invited its friends. They will mate, lay eggs, and soon lots of creepy crawly babies will hatch in my bed while I'm sleeping and then they will swarm my body and I will awaken, covered in creepy crawlies, and I will never be able to sleep in a bed again or breathe air in life again without getting that yucky phantom there's a bug on me feeling and then I will die and that will be the end of my life and I'll be buried in the ground, forever to have creepy crawlies crawling all over me, the end. So you can see why I couldn't sleep. All because of a bug on my ceiling. WHERE DID IT GO?

Odds and Ends

Lauren and I invested in this set of cute Kate Spade vases yesterday:


They were on sale, plus Lauren works there so that's 50% off. Living with her is finally starting to pay off. I could not be more thrilled.


Found this in the back of the fridge today. I put it in there weeks ago in the hopes of keeping it fresh longer, then I forgot about it. It did not work.



Um, I think you pulled in too far.



I really like having a camera phone.

I am currently watching MTV's "True Life: I Hate My Large Breasts". Preach it, sisters. Although I wouldn't say I hate mine. I feel rather detached from them. They're kind of just there and I work around them. Denial solves yet another problem. However, I was made brutally aware of their presence when Joe tried to teach me how to swing a golf club a couple weeks ago. Attach a couple softballs to your chest and try to swing through. It is not possible. I do not have a picture of this. Sorry. ..... WHOA! Hold up! There is a store in New York that sells clothes by bra size!?! You mean I could buy a button-up shirt that will button over my boobs AND fit my waist?? Why did I not know about this? Dude! Road trip! Thank you, MTV, yet again, you have contributed meaningfully to my life.

"You're a little bit rude, Cookie Monster."

This is old, but I saw it again recently and it cracks me up. I'm just gonna say it: Cookie Monster? Kind of a dick.

"You Look Pretty."

Finally a fortune cookie I can get behind.

Reading: I Like It

I don't get to read much during the school year, mostly because I don't have time, but also because at the end of the day, my eyes hurt from reading law books and staring at a computer screen all day, so the idea of picking up yet another book and reading yet another word is unbearable. I fixed this problem for a while by downloading books onto my IPod. At the end of the day I would crawl into bed, turn off all the lights and listen to a book being read to me until I was ready for sleep. This plan backfired because I would completely lose track of time and I would roll over to put my IPod on my nightstand only to catch a look at the clock and see that it was suddenly 3:37 am.

I read almost exclusively historical fiction. I just love and appreciate stories from hundreds of years ago, preferably about real historical figures. It's weird, but I just feel like I relate to these stories and people so much more than a story told in the present time. One of my favorite authors is Margaret George because she writes these biographical accounts of historical figures and they are so well-researched and so thick and filling, but she tells the stories as novels and fills in any unknown details about their lives with what most likely happened, which is why they're still considered historical fiction. She's written about Henry VIII, Helen of Troy, Cleopatra, Mary Queen of Scots, and I just finished the one she wrote about Mary Magdalene. All of them very, very good.

I've decided though that I need to branch out and read more genres. Specifically, I've decided to read more classics, which makes sense since most of the classics are historical fiction really, just written by authors actually living during the time. I stayed home from work today because I'm actually feeling quite poopy. I was in bed almost all day drifting in and out of sleep but by 5:00 pm I was wide awake, very much craving a book. So I ventured out to Barnes & Noble and picked up War and Peace and Vanity Fair. I shall read these books. I shall like them. I shall discuss them at dinner parties. And I shall grow as a person because of it. I just have to do all this before school starts at the end of August. Otherwise, War and Peace will just be collecting dust until next summer while taking up much needed room on my bookcase. Holy crap, that's a thick book. I plan to look very, very smart on the train every morning, holding it up unnecessarily high to read so all can see how smart I am. Perhaps I'll wear my glasses and possibly even some colorful argyle socks in case there are any doubts.

Carrie Bradshaw Made It Look Easy And/Or She's A Dirty Lying Liar

Hey, Philadelphia, if you saw a crazy girl in heels chasing down a double decker tour bus downtown at the corner of Broad and Locust on Thursday, July 16, 2009 at approximately 5:55 pm, hi, yeah, that was me. I can explain. I needed my keys. They were on the bus.

You need me to use more words to explain? I don't see why, but okay then. I had family in town last week and being the incredibly generous and kind person that I am, I graciously allowed all four of them to stay at my apartment. Further, being the thoughtful, magnanimous being that I so effortlessly am, I left behind my keys when I went to work so they could come and go as they pleased. Unfortunately, no additional planning went into this. So at approximately 5:05 when I was ready to leave work, I called my family to discover they were happily aboard a double decker tour bus taking in the sights and sounds of Philadelphia, PA.

Being extremely resourceful, I googled the tour bus company and found their tour route. I discovered that Stop 15 was only 4 blocks from work. They were at Stop 12. So I grabbed my bag and hauled ass towards Broad and Locust. Only, unfortunately, I was out sick on "This is Right, This is Left" day in kindergarten because I still have to hold up my hands and see which one makes the shape of an "L" to see which way is left. So I walked 6 blocks in the complete opposite direction, before finally asking a kindly valet attendant which way was Broad Street, only to see him smirk and point in the opposite direction from which I was walking. To save face, I acted as if I knew that and I was just seeing if he knew it, you know as kind of a Philadelphia Valet Attendant Directional Pop Quiz which is a new public service straight from the mayor's office. It's the new P.V.A.D.P.Q. program. Your tax dollars at work. Congratulations, you passed! I kept walking to the end of the block I was currently on and then went over to the next block to walk back up so the valet guy wouldn't see what a moron I was. Why did I care? you ask. I do not know. I put a lot of store in stranger's opinions of me. It's quite crippling and perhaps one day I will write a strikingly revealing and soul-baring blog post about it. But today I'm talking about keys and double decker buses. Equally important, I think.

Realizing I better start running if I want my keys, I start hustling up the street. I'm in heels because I sillily did not consider the possibility of chasing down a double decker tour bus when I chose my shoes that morning. Huge oversight on my part. Finally, I get to Broad right ahead of the double decker, and because I didn't look like a big enough fool running down the street in heels, dripping sweat in 92 degree humidity, I start waving my arm at the bus until I get my family's attention. They are, of course, sitting on top and as the bus approaches the corner, my cousin unceremoniously tosses the keys over the edge so they land 5 feet in front of me on the sidewalk. I should also mention the entire tour bus, including the tour guide who has stopped talking into his microphone and is grinning down, is staring at me. "Thanks!" I yell up. Welcome to Philadelphia! This is the crazed, 9 to 5 Philadelphite live reenactment, but hold tight for the Betsy Ross House. It's awesome!

Then I took off running in the opposite direction because now I had to catch my train. OWWWWWW! My feet were screaming in loud, hot, swollen protest. However, I can personally attest that while you're waiting for the train in a hot, humid train station after having run about 14 blocks in heels, nothing feels as good as discretely dropping ice cubes into your shoes. Things that make you go ahhhhhhh.

Immediate Reflections Upon Watching Bruno

Me: "I don't really know what to do with that."

Joe: "Me either."

Pleasure and Pain

I wake up and gaze upon them, eagerly considering which pair will be the ones today. I love them, each pair necessary, each pair a welcome addition to the family. I take into consideration the weather, my plans for the day, the anticipated terrain, the possibility of stairs and sidewalks. The options are carefully weighed. Then I choose, selecting a little happy for the day. I saunter out, confident in my choice. I walk to my car, to the train station, to work. Ouch. Why did I pick these? Had I forgotten they hurt my feet there? And there? Oh, wait, now it hurts there. Shit, I forgot I was walking to meet a friend for lunch. Step, ow, expletive, step, ow, expletive. Why didn't I throw flip-flops in my bag? Ow, step, ow, step. I want to go home. I want these off. This sucks. But aren't they pretty? So pretty. Totally worth it when I'm sitting. Ow. Home. Slippers. Much better.

I wake up and gaze upon them, eagerly considering which pair will be the ones today...lesson never learned. But I will consider buying stock in Band-Aids and Neosporin so it won't be a total loss.

Overheard Today...

Girl #1: She smells like a wet basement.

Girl #2: Mellifluent buttface? What?

Long pause.

Girl #1: Um...no. I said "wet basement".

Long pause.

Girl #2: Oh.


Seriously, who accidentally hears the word mellifluent? Who even knows the word mellifluent? I had to look it up. It basically means sweet sounding or having a smooth rich flow. A sweet sounding buttface? That's my new favorite phrase. You, sir, are a mellifluent buttface. Love it.

Oh Mr. Bennett...

I'm in love with Tony Bennett. You can take Brad Pitt and Matt Damon and Matthew McConaughey and keep 'em because no one speaks to my soul the way Mr. Bennett does. There's just something about him. The charm, the charisma, that ever-constant smile and that voice singing all those old-timey songs I love. I just want to curl up in it. It's not really a sexual thing, mind you. It's not really about that. All I really want to do is put on a 1950s party dress with a full skirt and twirl and sway under a spotlight while he sings to me in front of an old-fashioned microphone while wearing a tuxedo. That's perfectly acceptable. Normal, even. And if he loosens his bow tie and takes off his jacket, well, that's okay too. After the performance, I want to sit at a table with him, have a meal and maybe some scotch on the rocks, while he tells me stories about the good ole days. They just don't make 'em like that anymore. Swoon-worthy in every sense of the word. I just couldn't keep my feelings a secret any longer.

Everyone Loves a Trilogy

Guess who shouldn't have been so uppity?



Muahahaha...



Yummy.

I Take It Back!

I was on the train today on my way home from work. At one of the stops a lady got on and asked if the seat next to me was taken. I scooted over so she could sit on the aisle. She sat down in the seat I had just vacated and said, "oh, the seat's warm." "Sorry," I quickly mumbled.

Yep, I totally apologized to a stranger for exuding body heat. Such a wimp. "Oh, dear, I'm so sorry, you see, my body maintains a temperature of 98.6 degrees and it never occured to me that at some point this would inconvenience you, a complete stranger, but I do apologize and I will look into what I can do about that, but in the meantime, perhaps I could fan you with my magazine?" WIMP!

I don't know why I do this. My mouth works quicker than my brain and so whenever someone says something slightly awkward to me and I'm not sure how to respond, I tend to have an apology reflex. So I apologize to people a lot for no reason. To the point that I apparently apologize to strangers for my mere existence.

Oh how I wish I could go back in time and be able to say to this rude woman, "oh, right, yeah, I farted right before you sat down." That would have been so much better.

Parsley, Part Deux

Okay, I know, how much can one person talk about parsley? But the pictures I posted yesterday were about a week old. I hadn't since checked on the garden until today. Um, holy shit.



I'm beginning to think this is righteous parsley with something to prove. Because I don't water it, nurture it or pay it enough attention. So the parsley has decided to rise above, grow big and strong enough to reach for the water can and water its own damn self. Because it doesn't need me and it's going to show me what's what. My parsley listens to Aretha Franklin and doesn't need a man.

Because I don't think the above photo demonstrates just how abnormally tall this parsley has grown, I have used myself as a measure. I am 5'4".



It's boob high!

But on the plus side, finally, a legitimate reason to put my boobs on the internet.

Herbage: Not Just a Funny Word

A few months ago, when I was desperate to do anything but study for finals, I decided to plant a garden in the small overgrown plot by our patio. I did this because I had hours of outlining and studying to do so it made sense to drop everything and devote a weekend to a hobby I have heretofore had no interest in whatsoever. My roomie stared at me confused as I lugged in bags of soil, a medium sized shovel, a watering can, gardening tools and plants with a huge, stupid grin on my face. "What is all this?" she asked. "I'm planting a garden!" I declared, as if this made perfect sense. "Um, okay." "Listen Lauren, last week I decided I was a blogger and this week I decided I garden." "When are you going to study for finals?" "Shut up."

Since I have no gardening experience at all, I decided to start with herbs. They seemed easy enough. And practical! Think of all the money I'll save on herbs! This garden practically pays for itself. I planted basil, parsley, thyme and rosemary. I was going to also plant flowers, but never quite got around to it. By the time my interest in gardening peaked again, finals were over as was the necessity of a distracting hobby.

On a side note, does anyone know what a pain in the ass it is to dig up an overgrown garden plot? It is exhuasting! People do this every weekend for fun?! My back still hurts. And don't even get me started on the earthworms.

Anyway, either I am an extremely talented gardener, or I bought some species of mutant herbs, because these things have taken over outside. They have grown huge! HUGE! It's ridiculous. I'll never eat this much herbage. I don't think this amount of growth is normal. The dirt outside our patio must be filled with a combination of minerals and nutrients and magic fairy dust that the world has never known, producing plants of epic proportions. This is the Noah's Ark of garden plots. If we planted two of every species of vegetable in this soil, they would grow huge enough to feed the entire planet, and we'd still be in need of Tupperware.

Since it occurred to me you might think I am exaggerating, I have photographed the monstrosity outside. This might be the only documented evidence of parsley this huge so prepare yourself to be astounded. Seriously now, prepare yourself:



That is some giant motherfucking parsley, you just said to yourself. I told you.

Now get a load of the thyme and rosemary:



"Shocking!" "Unbelievable!" "Unsettling!" Dude, I know!

Which brings me to my point and the reason for this post: anyone need some parsley? I assure you it has been lovingly tended and anyone who claims it was just planted and forgotten about except when I open the blinds to exclaim over the fact that it is still growing is a liar. And it's organically grown (I think)!

Then God Thought, "How Can I Make Exercise MORE Unpleasant For Her?"

Spinning class kicked my ass today. Crazy hard. So hard that my stomach started cramping about halfway through. Not a normal exercise cramp but a deep, aching uncomfortable cramp. The kind God sends monthly to remind us of the stupendous, inexplicable miracle that is woman. However, it is not currently time for this particular heaven-sent reminder. I was stricken with this awful pain for no good reason. No good reason. And it wasn't the first time. Strangely, I get this feeling often when I'm working really hard in spin class and I have no idea why, but I have two plausible theories: 1) intense exercise confuses my body so mightily that it just starts clutching my uterus in panic, like a spongy foam stress ball OR 2) that obnoxious bike seat gets wedged so far up my crotch that my body surmises I could be pregnant.

Christina Calling...

I've always been nostalgic for the days when women wore huge skirts, drove around in carriages and went visiting their friends, leaving calling cards behind as the pre-modern "While You Were Out" message. So in this pre-business card time in my life, I'm kinda loving the idea of these chic calling cards. I have no idea where or when I would use them, but I love them nonetheless.

Classy

I went to court today to observe one of our client's hearings. While I was waiting outside for the supervising attorney, I saw a woman walking out of the courthouse. A very preganant woman. Wearing a way too tight white T-shirt barely covering her bulging belly. Emblazoned across her shirt, stretched out over her chest and belly, were the words "Voted Most Likely to Steal Your Boyfriend." I'm not sure what I find more unsettling. The fact that this woman would leave the house like that or the fact that she would leave the house like that to go to her court date.

Joey Love

Eight years ago today, I met the Joeyness. I will always be grateful for July 1, 2001. That day, I met one of my greatest supporters and one of my very best friends. I love you, buddy. Thanks for 8 years by my side, making me laugh and being so frustratingly, fantastically you.

Handily Scarred

Several months ago I was cooking in the kitchen when I suddenly noticed there was a small chunk of skin missing from the back of my hand. I do not know how this happened. It took a long time to heal and has left an unpleasant and unsightly light red scar, as seen here:



I have been applying Mederma Skincare for Scars like crazy and even sleeping with Mederma Skincare for Scars slathered over the scar and covered with a bandaid, but to little avail. My main concern is that this is my left hand. The hand that will be photographed on my wedding day adorned with my huge, beautiful engagement and wedding rings bestowed upon me by some gorgeous, kind, generous, fantastic man who may or may not end up being Prince William. Now I realize panic of this kind is premature, but it is concerning me nonetheless. So imagine my horror when I again somehow, somewhere cut my left hand a second time and am now dealing with this:



TWO hideous scars on my wedding hand! I have been applying Neosporin and Mederma Skincare for Scars to this one as well and am now sleeping with two bandaids every night trying to undo the horror. I have used my highly technical skills to give you a preview of what my wedding photo will look like if the Mederma Skincare for Scars does not kick in soon:



I know. Awful. Now for contrast, I am also providing a photo of my beautiful, pristine right hand:



Smooth as a baby's butt. So, here are my options as I see them. I can pray for a miracle OR hope to convince society that wedding rings should be worn on the right hand and create this huge shift in humanity's thinking prior to my own engagement. I shall start now.

Dear Society, right hands are in. Left hands are out. Pass it on.