My Dad was sharp. He wore a suit and tie to work every day of his fifty-plus-year career, always crisp, always classic, always put together.
Nordic Boy put on a suit to wear to the funeral, and I walked up behind him, and he said "I'm wearing a tie from the 50s that used to be your dad's- he gave it to me" and turned around to show me.
*heartswell*
1. Got out of bed.
2. Got dressed and left
the house, if only for an hour.
3. Let love in.
So. For the past four years every trip back to see my parents has been bittersweet. Despite my dad's declining health, we always manage to have a nice time, being there, helping out. The past year has been different, since we've now crossed over into territory that grows more dire by the month, then by the week, and sometimes by the day. Now, whether I'm with my folks in Flint or whether I'm keeping in constant touch with them from Seattle, there is a portion of me that is always jacked up, sad, freaked out. It's a harrowing experience for us all. I'm trying to be better about sharing what's going on with my friends, but it's hard. I've found that so many people are desperate to comfort me and the way most everyone knows how to do that is to offer advice. I don't know why but this is something that seems almost universal and unfortunately it is something I just can't bear to hear. Please, I want to say, don't tell me what I should do. Don't tell me your opinions about how you think it should go, how I should handle it. Don't tell me what you think my regrets will be if I don't take this or that course of action. It is so subtle, this pushing from people who care about me. But it's there, all the time. People can't seem to help themselves. It makes me want to just keep it to myself. But, then I miss out on all the other support I could be getting, I guess. I think I just need to tell people when I can't handle the advice. It's hard to do, but I have to, I think. Right? Telling people what you need is good. (Hey me: say that last sentence again, and then repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat).
Anyway. I'm working on that one.
I got an email from my friend Maddie yesterday. It was kind, and caring, and thank the baby Jesus in a manger she didn't make any suggestions. She even made me crack up a bit, which is always appreciated. She's great. All of my peeps are great, advicey or not, and I don't want to sound like an ungrateful cow. I have people who love me and that's what counts. (Say that last sentence again and repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat).
When my dad is able to be home and isn't in too much pain, there's nothing he loves more than sitting in the sun (just like his daughter). Most of the week this week he was in a hospital bed, and while I helped my mom with things, Nordic Boy would sit next to his bed and monitor him while he slept. For hours and hours, Nordic Boy sat there as my dad went in and out of sleep, so that he never had to wake up alone.
For the short time my dad did get to be at home, he asked to sit in the sun. I got him out into a chair in the yard, where we saw that Nordic Boy had taken a much-needed break by lying in the backyard hammock and taking a snooze. When I looked out the window later, I saw that my dad had somehow dragged his chair from the deck onto the grass and was sitting next to Nordic Boy as he slept. I'm not sure why he did this, but he did. Just to be close, I suppose. Nordic Boy slept, and my dad kept watch. This role reversal was so sweet, I just sat at the window and watched them. I love them both so much.
Say that last sentence again and repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
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Like T Pain says, it's five o'clock in the morning. Unlike T Pain, I'm not going to tell you a horny story about it. I'm up because I'm headed out of town, back to the Michigan homeland. The airport is a decidedly unhorny place. Maybe if I were T Pain, I would feel different. About many things, probably.
There are so many things happening that I'm dying to tell you about, but it's early and I've got a plane to catch so I shall leave it all for later.
Michigan, ho! (says the Michigan ho).
Well, hello there, blog land! Long time no writey. In fact, it looks to my highly skilled eyeballs like I only wrote one blog post in the month of March. But here I am, writing for the second time in April. That is a DOUBLE STUFF INCREASE, my friends. So impressive. Right? So hey- let's talk about stuff.
My life: here are some of the things.
My work life is a little bit cuckoo bananas right now. I have some new duties (DOODIES, ha ha) just for the next few months and it always takes a little short bit to catch on so I'm all what now? Where do I? Who does the thing? How is that? Delightful to my coworkers, as per usual.
Nordic Boy and I had our 5 millionth meetiversary, where we commemorated the day that I looked at him across a crowded backstage theater area and said HOMINA HOMINA and he looked at me and was all AH-OOGA. I am happy to report that our relationship is much unchanged in this regard.
To celebrate the umpteenth anniversary, we hightailed it to Portlandia. It rained a blue streak in Seattle while we traipsed around Portland without precipitation. We went to this place called the Pittock Mansion, which is kind of a Downton Abbey era place and we marveled at the fancy wallpaper and decided that people from that era really didn't want anything to do with each other because the architecture seems to be based on a premise that no one should ever be able to interact. We spent a bunch of time at the Portland Art Museum, and then the rest of the time stuffing our faces. Eating, walking, buildings, art. Ugh, so freaking predictable.
We went to a fun dance party where I proceeded to dance for about 4 hours straight. Note to friends: ever wonder what would happen if I was given a choice between talking to you or getting my dance on? WONDER NO LONGER. I kind of didn't talk to anyone that night, but my booty was throughly shaken. Priorities?
In other news we did our taxes. Or we got kicked in the gonads. One of those. It was hard to tell.
Did I ever tell you about my friend's father-in-law who would pronounce things wrong all the time? Like, he would say "wiffles" instead of "waffles?" My favorite wrong thing he would sometimes say is that instead of getting the gist of things, he would say "get the jizz of it." No one had the heart to correct him.
The month of March and the first part of April were really quite eventful. So eventful that I didn't have time to write about any of it, so this is all you get. The jizz of it.
It was a beastly work week. It was also my meetiversary with a certain dude of mine this week, and we celebrated by getting take out Chinese food and falling asleep while watching Cheers reruns. OR SO I THOUGHT. That crazy kid busted me out of work early today, overnight bag packed, saying we're going to Portland. Like, now. Consensual kidnapping!
So I'm in the car now, getting gone. That Nordic Boy! I think I want him to be my boyfrane.
