mother's day

It's no secret that my mom and I spent lots of time together shopping when I was younger. There was no mall, no store left unturned by Fay and her little hunter, always finished around 4 or 4:30 The ritual would then consist of  picking up subs from The Great Outdoors or a bucket of KFC with mac and cheese, coleslaw, and definitely mashed potatoes. Sometimes it would consist of going home with just one thing, probably another plaid button down for my father mom nabbed from a sale rack at Dillard's, and then eating leftover pizza or homemade barbeque chicken. There was also a good chance one of the movies we rented from Blockbuster remained in its case unwatched. Saturday night was a good remedy for that.

As time passed, our rituals changed, much to my mother's dismay. I was growing older and hated to be around other people and was moody and depressed without direction. She may have also been depressed, too, for reason's I may never know. Looking back now, I know something wasn't right by the way she filled bookcases of our home with things she'd never read or Barbie dolls she never could have had as a child. My mother, the woman who taught me to save things for later, was a hoarder to the nines.

Now, my dad is cleaning out our home and ridding it of the things that have always bogged us down. It hurts because Mom has no say anymore, since she can't really speak more than soft utterances of sounds and attempts at sentences under her breath, hunkered over with an old Cowboy movie blasting away the reality of now. The reality of Mom's tiny, frail body; jowels that are proof of a good life lived, though they hang on a face that doesn't remember past Christmases or Easter suppers. Maybe she does. I hope she does.

My dad has become a scavenger since he was forced to retire. He has found cards that I wrote to my grandma--his mother--, his old military passport from before he experienced The War, photos of the sweet toddler my nephew used to be. There is an excitement as he shows me his findings, like I will be able to fill in the blanks on the memories he wasn't there to experience. I usually can and do, but it is too much to be The Giver of the family, in a sense.

As Mom would have it, even after garage sales and attempting to run a small antique booth, there is enough stuff to assure anyone outsider that love existed in this house. Pflatzgraff plates, cream with faint pink roses on the edge, including the entire set used for every Christmas, Thanksgiving, and fancy birthday. Small ceramic loaf trays that were intended for banana bread she would make for gifts. So many unfulfilled promises lay in every cabinet, drawer, or shelf.

I'll admit, that even seven years after all this began, Mother's Day is hard. The first few years after The Incident, she was able to say things sometimes, still laugh at jokes, dance, all that. This past summer, the doctors believe she had a secondary stroke which has robbed my mom of any kind of joy.

Hallmark was one of our favorite hunting grounds. I loved looking at Charlie Brown stuff or Beanie Babies, while Mom reminisced, examining art or sentimental cards or anything involving Frank Sinatra. How she loved Ol' Blue Eyes.

I write about her in the past tense because I can't make sense of what she's become. She is there, sitting before me, though much more tiny and precious and sad than I've ever seen her in my days. Telling her anything, about my job and how I know she would be proud of me, get a smile and sometimes a kiss on the cheek. It is not long after, though, she may fall asleep on the couch because of her anti-seizure medication, or she will fight being fed, or she will fight, period.

It isn't fair. Life isn't, my mom assured me many times growing up. The first time she explained the Rolling Stones song "You Can't Always Get What You Want" opened the floodgates for her to be goofy in an attempt to distract me from my want of a new doll or movie. It usually worked, but there were plenty of times it didn't.

She wouldn't want me to say it's not fair because I believe she knows it. It's most unfair to her, to have her life shortened by my dad's and my brother's inaction, my fear, and everyone else's fake concern. I can't make sense of it and I never will. For those that try to console people with mother's that are barely there this Mother's Day, we have already experienced the following:

--Yes, I will be stronger.
--Yes, I will remember the good times.
--Yes, I look and sound like her.
--Yes, I'm as stubborn as she was.
--No, I'm not as smart as she was. She was a fucking engineer with any kind of college degree.
--No, God doesn't allow bad things to happen for a reason. They just happen. My mother did not believe in a God who was so vicious that he would tear families apart.

Some days I only believe in God because I knew my mother did and it gave her such comfort. I want that hope she had, that she will be able to live again and be free of this pain. She deserves to sit on the right hand of God and hear "well done, my good and faithful servant."

Other days, I pretend God doesn't exist so I can say this is the end of our story and it will be over soon. It hurts less if there's nothing to come after.

I am not certain how to handle this Mother's Day. Do I get her a card that she cannot read, let alone open and hold? Do I buy her clothes that my dad will not dress her in, or that she will spill Ensure on while fighting not to drink it?

For now, I will just give her my love, and tell her our stories, and hold her. It is more of a gift that she will be giving me than I could ever give her.

2.12.18

Being censored isn't fun for anyone, and as I'm transcribing footage where a character curses, I'm left wondering if I have to leave it in the transcript or not.

I curse a lot and this bothers me. Sometimes there are not enough words in the entirety of the English language that could convey certain feelings of anger or pride or shame or empathy or companionship.

Casualness and cursing are part of every day life, and I feel like I want to be better than that, to have a more developed vocabulary than that of a junior in high school.

But, fuck, man.

My frustration with parts of my life can only be defined using a four-letter-phrase that my mother would be horrified to hear shoot past my lips.

Maybe that's something I'll address on my Lenten journey, my honest-to-God first ever attempt at this holy and bizarre thing.

Just an update to let you know I am still writing, though it never is on paper, electronic or wood. Floating in my heads are words that I've forgotten and stories that I need to share. Perhaps this could also be part of my journey. Honesty in the guise of art.

We'll see.

An Ending's Beginning

Six, or seven years, of tumultuous family bickering and arguments over the betterment of out matriarch come to a slow, quiet conclusion--likely rife with tears, confusion, and anger--tomorrow afternoon.

Six years this past September 1st that I witnessed my existence change.

Not just my existence, really, but that of everyone around me including my city, the other sibling that tagged along quietly everywhere we went. It was and is consuming, and it is tiring. Oh, how it is tiring to explain that my mother is not herself and that I am beginning to forget what she was like before. That yes, she looks like someone else, yes, she was a great cook, yes to random pop culture comparisons. From family members to complete strangers, I am so tired.

Tomorrow is the opening of a new chapter for all of us, but mainly her. Though I don't know what's going on in her mind, we all think she's still in there somewhere. Some days she doesn't know who I am, which I guess was to be expected since I've moved away and can't visit as much. Others, it seems like she never wants to let me go. I love those days.

Dad told me that she stares at him sometimes, perhaps wondering if it's him or an imposter. Since cancer ravaged his throat, he has aged at least five years only in a very short, traumatic one. I could understand if she doesn't recognize us anymore. It doesn't make that hurt any less. She must be terrified all the time.

Of all the well-adjusted people in the world, my folks have never been among them. Dad has tried to be more open about his feelings, especially about this and how it's a mixed blessing. It's gotten too hard, she's too unpredictable, and it's no longer safe for anyone. She's terrorized by getting her hair washed at the salon and refuses to even eat Snickers anymore.

It's so easy to reflect on the could haves and should haves that have passed by in rapid succession. All I know is that I did what I could and that's how we're here now. God knows the struggle this has been for us all and, though marred with sadness and long forgotten hope, he's granted us what we've been working for as soon as Dad started loosening his grip.

Tomorrow means something new and I don't know what or how that will play out. Thankfully, my husband will be by my side, as he has been through the entirety of this. Without him, I couldn't have had the strength to complete any of this but he would tell you otherwise because that's just what he does.

If you pray, give a prayer of thanks on our behalf; thanks for the life we've shared, all five of us plus those who have decided to join the journey somewhere along the way. Thanks that God has given us so many wonderful memories, things to learn, and places to grow. Thanks that Mom will hopefully be able to enjoy life again, even if she doesn't know we are part of it. We will always cheer her on like she has us.

Always.

Happy birthday to The Sims!

Best Buy has always been a place of wonder and enchantment from me, even from my earliest memories. Whether we needed a new computer because someone pushed the wrong buttons (hint: it was probably me) or my brother tried to sneakily coerce my mom into buying him an overly-expensive Prince CD with PARENTAL ADVISORY upon the front of it, as though it was a scarlet letter. For me, it meant the chance to maybe get 1) a Backstreet Boys _____ 2) a movie from the cheap area or 3) that little portable black and white TV I had saved all my gift money and begged for literally every time we went there. Video games were something we reserved for buying at Babbage’s, Target, or Toys R Us. More often than not, they were my brother’s choice--not mine.

By the time the year 2000 rolled around, my brother had moved out since he was eight years my senior. This left me with my N64 and a PlayStation, as well as my parents’ PC. Most of the games I’d played on the PC were “educational” (I was homeschooled, after all), with Roller Coaster Tycoon and SimCity 2000 installed for good measure. When playing them during the day, I would often say that I was learning business principles, and my parents would leave me alone. Perhaps I missed my calling as a lawyer.

On one rainy day, as my parents contemplated the purchase of a new PC at Best Buy, I meandered the aisles of the store in an attempt to entertain myself. The ritual of CDs-movies- then-games rarely changed but was not observed this day. Something had pulled me to the gaming section. 

It was in that moment my entire life changed forever.

Released in February 2000, twelve-year-old me fell in love with Maxis Studios The Sims. Having previously been a fan of SimCity, my parents seemed eager to purchase the game for me. My dad even commented on how it looked fun and cool to him, which helped me skate across the whole T rating issue. From there, a love story was born. Well, of course it was Bella and Mortimer Goth’s but it was mine, too. I had found a game that let me be creative and weird and tell stories. It was beautiful.

Seventeen years and many new editions and expansion packs later, I am still playing. This, of course, means I am much older now, but my need and adoration for The Sims is as strong as its been. From the PS2 version, I learned about nudist’s colonies, from the College edition of The Sims 2, I decided I never really wanted to live in a dorm. The Sims 3 helped prepare me for marriage and home-decorating...at least, that’s what I’ve told myself.

More importantly than learning things from Sandbox games, its the experience. When something bad happens to a lovingly crafted Sim, it hurts. When the blue screen of death appears out of nowhere and you lose the home you’ve been lovingly crafting, it hurts. Not to liken something as insignificant as losing a game file to bankruptcy, but the game did help me when that happened to my parents in 2008. It helped me cope with horrible relationships and self-esteem, as I could create whoever I wanted to be and the life that I had always dreamed of. The Sims gave me some kind of power that I never knew I had, something very few others game have ever done.

Here’s to seventeen more years, The Sims. Please go back to open world style gameplay in your next update, though. This Sim-fiend would be grateful for it.

The Most Important Movie This Holiday (and Probably Forever)

Free movie screenings are the best because they combine the two things I love most: free stuff and movies. Thanks to the Austin Film Society's generosity, I was able to view not one but two free screenings this week. Merry Christmas to me!

The first of which was Jackie starring Natalie Portman as Jackie Kennedy during the time of her husband's assassination. Beautiful cinematography is only overshadowed by Portman's performance. Its as if she stole Jackie's soul, breathiness of voice but smart and strategic. This was an important film for an important time.

But that is not the one you need to see this Christmas.

Tonight, my husband was able to join me in a preview screening of A Monster Calls. I will not be divulging any information regarding the plot, though the trailer is very good at letting one know exactly what to expect.

There was no viewing of this film for me, only experiencing it. The summary of the story is that a middle-school aged boy is dealing with his mother having cancer by befriending a giant tree guy. The trailer rests below.

If you know me, the year I've had or, rather, the years that I have had, you can guess  it hasn't been easy. I'm not here to explain away any choices I've made or haven't or to seek sympathy. All I ask is that you view this film to gain a true understanding of those in your life who may be hurting.

Though not all of the story is personally applicable , the guilt, anger, fear, and betrayal Conor experiences are. There was not a moment this film didn't stir my soul or guide it into the place it needed to be. Was it enjoyable? Healing isn't always enjoyable and neither was this film. A Monster Calls and healing are not mutually exclusive.

Don't get me wrong--director Juan Antonio Bayona makes a gorgeous picture. There are scenes of watercolors, dreams, and nightmares, all of which are memorable and visually striking. Lewis MacDougall plays Conor, the young protagonist, and gives the best performance one could ask from any professional actor. I hope he's around for years to come.

Never have I experienced something, a motion picture or painting or literature, calm my soul all the while prodding it to deal with all the clutter left inside. Movies connect more deeply than many other forces in the way they can subvert your expectations and force you to address your own sins or suffering scattered across the silver screen.

This movie is not for children and has a PG-13 rating for a reason. Just because a child is the star and its about his life doesn't mean its suitable for little people.

There is much more I want to say about this film, and will do so in another post that is chock to the brim with spoilers and scene analyses. But for now, I will let my heart finish its response and my tears dry.

On politics

I thought my blog would be a safe space to discuss my thoughts on the debate in the entirety, moreover because I posted enough on Facebook already. The folks that read those thoughts are more than welcome to continue reading them on this blog. The Internet is a noisy place and I don't mean to negatively contribute.

Tonight was the night:

THE DEBATE

The "debate", also known as the tantrum-throwing-talking-over-show, was unlike any I'd heard in my life. For years, I had been raised to be a good Republican because that's what a "Christian" was, switching between altars of Jesus and St. Ronald himself. Being homeschooled didn't help this cause but in fact exacerbated the "brain-washing" that occured in my formative years. I do not think my parents ever meant this to harm me but I do believe they would die if they knew my deepest, darkest secret.

I'm with her.

I mean, I guess. She was never my first choice, for many reasons, but those reasons are now minute compared to the outrageous toupee'd pumpkin who parades himself as a yuuge success. I'm really with Bernie and think what the Clinton campaign did to him was obnoxious. Very House of Cards, if you will. However, I love my country enough to vote for Hillary Rodham Clinton.

There have been many things that have not felt right about Drumpf's campaign, message, or personality. He's brash and narcissistic at his best; mean, incompetent, and dangerous at his worst. In fact, the thing that made me 100% for Hillary (I mean, like, buying a car magnet and stuff 100% for) is Drumpf's character...or really the fact that he hasn't got one.

Political television ads are ridiculous, ranking up there with used car places or mini-malls in annoying factor. A poorly edited video with a microscopic budget is not a proper way to run your campaign, nor is an all out bloodbath, dumping everything on the other candidate as if they are the anti-Christ. Oh, do I remember my parents talking about that 8 years ago.

Clinton has an elegance about her campaign and its attack ads. In fact, when I first viewed this one about a WWII Prisoner of War, I was stunned. Secretly hoping for a mini-documentary about this hero's life, I was shocked to see it was a tactfully done ad by the Clinton campaign. It was not vicious; it was truthful. Drumpf is his own worst enemy.

The second ad I watched has been playing over and over in my mind and I cannot ignore it.

Can we ignore a man who degrades women? As a woman, one who has been considered "fat" or "chubby" or "overweight" by many people over her lifetime, I cannot. I cannot support him, cannot believe he is representing a party that I so closely associated rather foolishly with my religious convictions.

It is not just that he degrades us, it is that he would never see us as equal. What kind of world would I wake up in thinking that the President of a country I love, that my father and my grandfathers fought for, my grandmother emigrated to, would not see me as a valuable asset to the country? He would not see me as a person, rather as a piece of meat.

His comments tonight regarding "home grown terrorism" involved some pretty derogatory language, including a person who would be considered a deviant of society (a hacker) would be 400 lbs. Why is it necessary to: 1. bring up a person's weight in a political debate and 2. associate obesity with being a "bad guy"?

This isn't just about me.

This is about my mom.

She was brilliant in her top form, educating me every day while juggling managing my dad's business. In the 1980s, she was even an engineer of sorts without ever holding any type of higher degree. This woman is my hero. She left an abusive relationship to raise her son, gave up a promising career to make sure I became an educated person, and always tried to make sure I did my best.

Would he see her as a woman, a person, because of her condition? What kind of rules would he make to rid the earth of the disabled or people who couldn't contribute? This worries me greatly. 

Because of the feminist my mother made me, believing I was equal to any man, any person at all, I will break her heart and vote for a Clinton. There is no way that I would ever put any support, ideological or monetary, behind such a hateful fascist.

My mom did not raise a fool. I have changed; I do not believe I am a Republican or Democrat. I try to remember what she taught me, about God being the one whom I truly adhere to, to be kind, to be loving, to resemble Christ in his compassion and love. Hell, they even named me after him.

It is because I value myself, my mother's legacy, and my grandmother's legacy, that I firmly will say:

I'm with her.

champion

"Can we talk, um, about stuff?"

My request to eat ice cream with my husband is not unusual, though it has become problematic thanks to a recently discovered gluten problem. The things on top of my mind had nothing to do with wheat amino acids or calories or anything of the sort.

He seemed a bit shocked that I suggested we dialogue over the dinner table instead of in front of the television. Without a proper couch, or even living room set up, this is uncomfortable. I don't need it to be anymore awkward than that which I bring myself.

I'm anxious.

Rocky road, sitting in little glass bowls, staring at me.

"Talk to me, baby. What did you want to discuss?"

"Nothing..."

Wait for it.

"Well, I mean, when you left college what was your mindset? What helped you press on?"

Husband is a wealth of knowledge and self-motivation. He knows no failure and to not say no to himself. He's not only a champion of his own, but my champion.

He tells me the story of taking two months to complete a portfolio, as his parents graciously let him come home for a time. He then got the job he wanted. He knew nothing else.

He encourages me, holding me as he tells me the things I am accomplishing that no one else has done that he knows of. He tells me my mind is a torrential sea, swaying me back and forth. I need to be Neptune, controlling it's waves and ebbs, controlling it instead of the alternative.

He is my champion.

I will be victorious for him.