The Odd Broad

Just give me the haunted house and nobody gets hurt

They called themselves Busy Fingers.  They made crafts.  Wreaths and stuff.  Armed with glue guns, they created works of art out of grapevine leaves and baby's breath.  They drank White Zinfandel.  Upstairs in my bedroom, surrounded by Glow Worms, the echo of their high pitched laughter wafted up to me...

It was the early 1980's and my mother was into art and crafts.  My sister tells me I would wake up the next morning and drink the dregs from the leftover wine glasses.  This seems very probable; more probable, actually, than trying to imagine a time when my mother belonged to a ladies arts and crafts group. 

She even took a ceramics class.

"Where was this class again?" I asked her once, genuinely curious. 

"Oh, I don't remember...downtown somewhere..."

My mother is one of the hardest working women I know.  I'm fascinated by this period of time when she was a young woman, far younger than I am today, and made space in her life to do things like...paint ceramics.

As far as I know, three creative treasures were born out of that ceramics class: Mrs. Claus, a pumpkin wearing a witch's hat, and a haunted house.  The latter two become illuminated via a switch.  All three are frigging awesome.  Throughout my childhood, these pieces made cameo appearances at Christmastime and Halloween, jazzing up the end tables with their festive flair.

There have been a few casual conversations regarding who would eventually inherit these beloved family tchotkes, but nothing serious.  That is until recently, when I just came right out and said it: "I want that GD haunted house". 

A nervous smile flashed across my mother's face.  "It's not up to me!  Take it up with your sister!"  Great. 

This certainly had the potential to get ugly.  Later that evening I was informed of a counter offer from Sissy: Mrs. Claus and the pumpkin for the haunted house.

So she was going to play hardball.  I rattled off an email: 

"I wasn't born yesterday, betch.  Mrs. Claus stands alone.  This ain't a two for one deal."

I thought my tone was jokey and silly, until I got her response:

"Why don't you just take everything."

Ah, the passive aggressive route.  Always a strong choice.  Well played, Sissy.  But two could play at that game:

"Okay.  Gee thanks, Sissy!"

As a rule, my mother doesn't like to be in the middle, which can be pretty annoying at times.  She hated that her daughters were fighting over something so foolish, and she even threatened to settle everything once and for all by just wrapping all three pieces up at Christmas and having us choose a box at random.

No!  Was she out of her mind?  I told her she's the one who crafted these ceramics, so she should be the one to choose who gets what.  They reminded us of happy childhood memories; we coveted them because she made them, after all! 

It was sister against sister.

Sissy had decided to take the angle that I only desired the haunted house because she'd always wanted it.  "Your whole life you've always wanted what I wanted, just because."  She had a valid point there, but I'm in my thirties now and this hasn't applied for years.  She was flailing wildly, grasping at straws.

"I don't want it because you want it, you idiot; I want it because it's fucking awesome!!"

I said as much to Hubby.  He felt the situation was getting a little weird and had asked me to remind him, what was this thing again?

It's a haunted house.  Okay?  A scary, hand-painted haunted house.  The light shines through the little window panes when it's all lit up, and there are trick or treaters huddled outside, afraid to knock on the front door.  There's a witch on a broomstick on the roof, with the yellow moon shining behind her, an owl sitting in the oak tree, and a tombstone sticking out of the ground that reads 1892.  There are supposed to be two ghosts hanging out in the tree as well, but they've since broken off. 

It is a splendid piece of artwork and I have loved it from the moment I set eyes upon it.  Who wouldn't?

Hubby digested this information.  "And your mother made this?"

"Well, no.  She painted it.  Haven't you been listening?"

So I was getting a bit testy.  Ceramics can do that to a person. 

That Sunday, Sissy and her kids came over for a visit.  My parents were also planning on stopping by.  When they knocked on the back door, I noticed Dad was carrying a box, an orange pumpkin peeking out from the top.

"But I don't want the stupid pumpkin!" I began, only half in jest, before I was informed that they'd brought a bunch of things over for us to divvy up between ourselves.

Being an adult can be hard.  And sometimes it's fun, when my sister and I get together, to act like a couple of assholes.  It's shocking how quickly we can revert back to being bratty children.  I'm not sure my mother thinks it's as fun as we do. 

In the end, Sissy conceded and gave me the haunted house.  She is the elder sister, after all, and used to making the tough sacrifices when it comes to these types of situations.  (You know, with arts and crafts and stuff.)  Mrs. Claus and the pumpkin head are now in her possession.  In a spontaneous measure of goodwill, I mentioned perhaps sharing custody of the haunted house and switching off every year, but when Sissy looked receptive to this offer I asked that she please not make me do that.

Later that evening, I stood alone in my kitchen and plugged in the haunted house.  I was having a moment, so to speak.  I clicked on the switch and the house lit up in all its magnificence.  And there I was, hands clasped tightly in front of my chest, wearing an expression of jubilant glee, a maniacal little laugh escaping my lips.  It was really mine.  All mine.  Mine, I tell you!  Ahahahaha! 

Not gonna lie.  On Halloween night, our front window was the most bitchin one on the block.

 Thanks, Mom.  (And you too, Sissy.)  xoxo

April Fool's!

It's been a long time since I've pulled off such a quality April Fool's Day prank as the one I did this morning.

Sissy knew that I tried to go back on birth control a few weeks ago (the "mini pill"), but stopped because it just made me nervous, what with breastfeeding my newborn and all.  This morning we'd been texting for awhile when I decided to have a little fun...

Odd Broad: Sissy...I've been throwing up in the mornings this week.  Like, every morning. 

Odd Broad: I feel nervous. 

Odd Broad: I stopped taking the pill after 2 days, becuz I thought I couldn't get preg if I was bfeeding. 

Odd Broad: Haven't told anyone.  Waiting for doc to call back.

Sissy: You aren't f*cking serious.  Why would they tell you to go on the pill then?!  Who told u you couldn't get pregnant?  Wasn't me!

Sissy: Dirty pig

Sissy: You better take a test because if you are pregnant your milk supply is going right down the tubes.  The baby might not get enough

Sissy: That's like the oldest wive's tale on the planet!  The doctor must have told you when she was explaining why you need birth control

Odd Broad: I took a test last night.  It was positive

Sissy: OMG.  I feel sick

It was at this point she called me, quite upset.  Everything happens for a reason, she said, but...wow.  Thoughts were running rampant through her head, she told me later, thoughts like: How in a million years are they ever going to afford this?  Who is going to take care of these babies while they're at work?  Oh my Christ, how did this happen?  She pictured me, destitute, moving back into my parent's house with a husband and two babies in tow.  We talked for a few tense minutes before I had to stop myself.  She was just so genuinely disturbed and concerned that I started to feel guilty.  Of course, not guilty enough to say no when she suggested she call our mother at work and do the same thing to her.  Haha! 

Sissy: "Um, Ma...have you talked to Sarah today?"

Ma: WHY???  What's wrong? 

Sissy: She just called me hysterical.  I think I need to go down and see her."

Ma: "What, why?  What's wrong?  Tell me!  Does this story have a happy ending?"

Sissy: "She didn't know she could get pregnant if she was breastfeeding."

We are so not nice.  Did I mention my mother was surrounded by customers at the time?  Sigh.  Although, don't feel too bad...she called my dad and played the joke on him soon after.  He, on the other hand, didn't find the ruse as funny as we did.

Granted, if so many of my loved ones think me capable of accidentally becoming pregnant nine weeks after giving birth because I thought breastfeeding would prevent me from conceiving, it kind of means they think I'm a frigging fragging imbecile.  But that's a post for another day. 

*   *   *

PS: I also texted Hubby and told him I'd spilled coffee all over his Macbook and now it wouldn't turn on.  Zing!  He's a mild mannered guy, but this really seemed to make him *angry*.  April Fool's!  I'm not sure what's gotten into me today, but truly I was inspired.  Sissy wanted me to play the pregnancy joke on Hubby, too, but unfortunately it wouldn't have worked.  (He knows better than anybody that there's no way in hell I could be pregnant.)  Buh dum bump- Ching!

Thinking of you...

Ever since I hit puberty, my late grandmother, Nanny, used to talk about buying me bust enhancing pills.  I suppose I never really knew if she was joking or not.  It occurred to me the other day that she'd probably be the only person to truly appreciate the fact that pregnancy has suddenly bestowed me with a real live set of knockers. 

I can hear her laughing now as I type, as clear and distinct as ever.  A-heh-heh-heh! 

I feel her absence a lot these days.  It's not that she didn't live a long and full life; and I understand that she's gone to a better place.  I've communicated with her from beyond the grave, for crying out loud!  It's just...on a night like tonight, I long to hear her voice.  I want to listen to her laugh at the fact that I've gained nearly twenty pounds.  I'd like to tell her all about my new job, and wait for that inevitable Nanny question...what are they payin' ya?  I want to lay my head on her shoulder, and stay that way as she gently rubs my head.  She had soft hands, and I can't count how many times they slipped a folded up bill into mine, money I usually desperately needed. 

I know I'm not the only person she made feel special, but this was part of her uniqueness.  I suspect she made all of us feel this way.  She genuinely cared, and conveyed this clearly and often, something I consider a rare, beautiful gift.  And we all loved her in turn. 

Nan, if you're reading this...I washed the blanket you crocheted for me tonight for the first time.  You were right, it didn't fall apart in the washing machine.  And I finally have a rack after all these years.  Your great-grandson is kicking like crazy these days and I wish you were here to share this with Hubby and me.  I miss you.  And wherever you are right now, I hope you're having a ball.  You deserve it.  xoxo

Bleekers, morsahs, and mamingish

Seeing as Bret Michaels thankfully appears to be on the mend, I'm going to devote this Friday's post to a different topic entirely...

About a year ago I went to see a dermatologist at Mass General and she found a mole she "didn't like the looks of".  That one?  I wondered.  But what about this one?  Or that one?  Surely these were much more sinister and ominous.  (I'm a bit of a backseat patient, if you can't tell.)

No, she insisted, the others looked perfectly normal.  This specific one was her main concern.  It was in a delicate spot though; and rather than biopsy the little bugger she had her nurse take a picture of it.  I was instructed to monitor it and come back in a year.

It was my first topless photo shoot.  (Tasteful, classy, yet edgy.)  The least she could have done was poured me a chardonnay first. 

I didn't think much about it, until the other day when I returned for my annual visit.  Dun Dun DUN!  I focused my eyes on the ceiling as the doctor furrowed her brow, peered closely at my bare chest and told me: no, she still didn't like the looks of it.  (Hey, I've been telling myself that very same thing since Jr. High!) 

The mole was going to have to come off.  Did I mention this mole is on my breast?  (I never really use the term breast, so it feels kind of foreign for me to be posting it on the world wide web.)  In my family we've always referred to that area of a woman's body as "mamingish," which I naturally assumed was Portuguese for breasts; seeing as that's what my Portuguese grandmother taught us to call them.

It doesn't mean breasts.  It means tits.  And I just found that out by doing an internet search.  Thanks, Google!

Every family has their own particular terminology for private parts, do they not?  Nanny, my maternal grandmother, was 100% Portuguese and she married my grandfather, Pa, who was 100% Irish.  (Incidentally, my own father's family is of Irish and German descent; so all in all, I'm a bit of a mutt.) 

The only thing any of us know how to say in Portuguese are obscene words and phrases.  My cousin Stevie and I always giggled whenever he'd come to visit me in New York and we'd pass by Bleeker Street.  (Bleeker, you see, is how we in my family refer to a man's privates.  I am not able to decipher how this word translates from a Google search, probably because our Massachusetts accent makes it sound more like "bleekah" and I have no idea how to spell it.  One thing is for certain, I'm fairly sure it doesn't mean penis.  Just as the term Nan taught us for vagina (morsah?) probably doesn't mean vagina.  (But what does it mean?  I wonder.)  I can't find that one through Google, either.)

I suppose I had an inkling these terms weren't kosher when I worked on an assembly line in New Hampshire the summer after my Freshman year of college.  My co-workers were a lively crew.  (An OB post in and of itself, really.)  One of them in particular had an impressively dirty mouth, and when I recited for her the few words I knew in Portuguese, taught to me by my grandmother no less, it inspired her to declare, eyebrows raised:

"Oh!  You're speakin' dirty filthy Spanish."

Was I?  Huh.  

And...I digress.  Basically, all I was trying to tell you is that I have a mole on my mamingish and it needs to come off.  (Ouchie!)

My doctor is a pretty, soft spoken woman with an Italian last name.  Her online Bio says she went to Harvard.  (Not too shabby.)  I listen as she tells me: "We can take off a little of it, and do the biopsy, and then if we need to remove all of it we can go back in later...or we can just remove the entire thing and be done with it.  Either way, it should only take half an hour." 

She drew a diagram of what the cut would look like, and also the scar, which will be a thin line.  I noticed my palms were beginning to sweat against my blue paper dressing gown.  "We'd do this today, you mean?  Like, right now?"  (I had to be back at work in 45 minutes!)

She then went on to explain that if I preferred to have a plastic surgeon remove it, that would be okay, too.  She wanted me to be aware of all my options. 

"What would be the point of having a plastic surgeon do it?" I asked, tentatively.

"Oh, some people feel better about going to a plastic surgeon, because they feel it minimizes the scarring."

Scarring, huh.  Seeing as my days as a topless go-go dancer are far behind me, not many folks are staring at my rack these days.  I didn't think scarring would be an issue.  But still, I scheduled the appointment for a later date.  (May 20th, to be exact.) 

I have a fairly impressive tolerance for pain (minus the fact that I detest veins and swoon at the very mention of them), but all the same, I can't say I'm looking forward to the big day of breast scraping.  (Even if it does mean I'll get out of work early.  And even if my mommy is taking a half day out of work to be with me and hold my hand while the pretty Italian lady cuts me.)

I guess what I'm trying to say is, if you see me walking around Boston clutching my right mamingish, now you'll know why.

xoxo

Odd Broad Disclaimer: My mother would like you to know that she firmly believes that my grandmother knew not what she was teaching us, in regards to her colorful anatomical terminology.  I suppose we'll never know...

My Life as an Artist

My mother has been asking me to clean out my child bedroom for the past decade.  I find it almost physically painful to throw certain things away; and to make matters worse, I'm compelled to peruse every little scrap of paper I ever saved before I do so.  This sort of behavior is not conducive to Spring Cleaning.  In light of an upcoming neighborhood yard sale, last weekend I went home to help purge.  Sissy didn't want to come.  "You can throw away everything of mine; I don't care!" she spat.  Hmmm...

Ma joined me in my bedroom and we began to sort through thirty one years worth of crap.  A cabbage Patch Kids table high chair.  (And I can take that one step further.  I kept the original packaging...as well as the manual.)  I barely made a dent in sifting through my memorabilia, such is the mania of my sentimentality. 

I found creepy things, like my old pal Lester, the groovy ventriloquist doll who in 1992 became possessed by a unholy, non-human entity.  Not really.  (Yes, really.  Call the police.  And do NOT refer to him as a dummy, for f*ck's sake!)  I found neat things, like my Michael Jackson hand held microphone, still in its box.  I found odd things, like a paper I wrote for school in the Fall of 1988, which would have made me nine years old.  The assignment was to detail a day in my life, sometime in the future.  The piece was entitled, My Life as an Artist. 

"I just woke up, and I'm ready to start my day.  My name is Sarah and I am 25 years old.  This is the year 2005."  (Admittedly, math was never my strong suit.  Hubby was the one to point out the error in my calculations, seeing as in the year 2005 I was actually 27.) 

"I guess I'll go downstairs.  My husband has breakfast on the table for me as usual.  He doesn't work, he is a house-husband.  I am an artist."

I then go on to detail the specifics of my day; I apparently own a chain of art supply stores and need to go check on my inventory. 

"I'm going to take a cold shower and go to work." 

I stopped reading at this point and turned to my mother.  "Why a cold shower?"

"I dunno," she shrugged, "You were a weirdo."

"I said bye to my husband and went in my car.  The supplies came in, so I decided to walk around the streets to see what I would paint today.  I decided to get out my easel and pallet and paint a particular building.  I have places to go, so I guess I'll finish this up now.  I do get paid pretty much if I say so myself.  Every day I have to go see how business is going in most of my stores, and call and hear how business is going in the stores that are far away.  So I'll go to the one in Lowell, New Hampshire, Bradford, Dracut, and call the ones in California, Dover, Harrisburg and Denver (Yes, I'm mixing states in with towns and cities; wanna make something out of it?), and don't worry I have a lot more to call and see."

(I'm sure my teacher was very worried.)

"Well, today I also have to paint a family, a little girl, and believe it or not, a dog!  (I hope he will sit still.)  Sometimes I even do covers for books.  Right when I finished the family painting, it was 1:45.  Already!  I thought.  So, now I'll paint the little girl.  When I was done it was 2:45.  Already!  I thought again.  So I did a couple more paintings, then I sat down. 

Now, by this time anyone would be starving.  I forgot to pick up my lunch that my husband made for me.  So I called him up and asked him to bring it.  It was great.

I got so many calls today!  It's hard to believe.  I have to make a cover for a book that's about a dog and a cat.  I love my job, I really do, but painting is not all I do, I would have been a photographer, but I love to paint more.  (Random?)

Well, I've got more places to go, I have to go see if a company will sell my painting.  (Vague?)  Well, that can wait for tomorrow.  It's 8:45 P.M. and my husband is waiting at home with a hot bath ready for me, while he makes dinner.  I love my life."

I was a female chauvinist, at the age of 9!  I'd forgotten that.  I suspect this piece was one of those early semester, throwaway assignments, (seeing as I didn't bother to spell out the word "and" or try all that hard).  Also, while it was true I did entertain grand notions of becoming an artiste, in the end, despite all of my art lessons, I never possessed the temperament to keep at it.  It was too frustrating when I couldn't get those frigging apples to look like apples, goddammit! 

After this brief yet fucked up disturbing jaunt down Memory Lane, I joined my mother as she attacked my older sister's room.  Sissy's hoarding was far less anal retentive than mine, (plus, there weren't any man-hating essays hiding in her closet), but it was entertaining nonetheless.  A Charles in Charge "novelization" paperback?  Check!  Dylan McKay 90210 pins?  Check!  Rampant New Kids On The Block paraphernalia?  Triple Check.

After a while, we decided to take a little break.  I plunked down on the couch and began texting Sissy. 

"What should I tell her we found in her room?" I asked my mother; thinking she'd say Sissy's hideous Junior Prom dress, or that emerald bracelet from an over ardent, bi-polar ex-boyfriend.  My sweet mother's immediate answer? 

Condoms.

I texted Sissy: Daddy found condoms in your closet.

My mother and I then erupted into uncontrollable laughter; the kind that hurts your chest and makes you choke on your peanut butter sandwich.  (Daddy, however, was not laughing.)

It only took my older sister half a second to text me back: "What????????"  She rang my cell phone a moment later, quite unable to speak from laughter.  She was mortified our father had found something so heinous in her childhood closet; but why would they be in there, anyway, she wondered?

"We didn't find condoms in your closet, you fool!  We're just joking!"

Dear Reader, it was belly laughs all around.  Although Sissy still thinks we are terrible, sonofabitching bastards. 

The wind beneath my wings

Maureen Hancock can speak to the dead.  (Oh, what a deliciously pagan way to begin a post written on Easter Sunday!)

Some friends and coworkers have been to see her, and all of them had the same positive feedback to report: this woman is nothing short of amazing.  Not that I'm the type of individual who needs much convincing when it comes to matters like this. 

I called my mother to see if she'd be in.  "Ma, do you want to go see this medium?  Everyone who's been to see her says she's incredible..."

My mother's tone was swift and decisive: yes.  My auntie Kim didn't need much convincing, either; and though my auntie Donna wavered for a split second, her answer too was ultimately affirmative.  Woo hoo!

Nobody else wanted to come, not even Sissy.  It was too scary, too creepy, they decided.  Indeed, Sissy and her husband agreed that the last thing I probably needed was to visit a medium.  I corrected them and told them the last thing HUBBY probably needed was for me to visit a medium.  (Sissy admitted they'd already arrived at that conclusion five minutes prior.  Smart asses.)

I was resolute.  I wanted to visit my grandmother.  Moreover, I wanted my mother and her sisters to get in touch with her, since I sensed some unfinished business lurking in their hearts.  My friend Gregg warned me not to get my hopes up: "Don't be disappointed if she doesn't come through, okay?"

"I won't be!" I lied.  (Oh Nan, please, please come through!  I'm giving you advanced notice and all!)

Maureen Hancock dubs herself the "Comedian Medium" and I have to say, she had us in stitches all evening.  She began by asking everyone to uncross their legs, as keeping them crossed blocks the energy and makes it more difficult for our loved ones to come through.  "Don't worry, sir," she said to one of the four men in the room, "I won't make you use any stirrups..." 

She's a practicing Catholic who works with a number of charities.  "I'm a good Catholic girl," she quipped, "I don't read palms or anything...I just talk to dead people."  She even mentioned a priest who regularly brings grieving parents in to speak with her.  "Of course," she notes, "he's wearing a turtle neck sweater to cover up his collar..."

I'd been anxious all day, though once she begins I notice that I'm not afraid whatsoever.  In fact, I'm strangely calm.  Although my left leg does keep twitching.  (Nan, we're here!  Are you?)

Maureen explained that her gift was like having the Verizon Wireless team behind her.  It was similar to being in a football stadium, she said, with everyone chattering away at once.  Her challenge is to get the voices to speak one at a time, although they don't always cooperate.  (At one point in the evening, a younger spirit who'd just passed three months prior kept interrupting, and Maureen explained that his crossing was so new that he hadn't yet learned "spirit etiquette.")

Maureen's backstory is a fascinating one.  As a child, she developed lead paint poisoning and was in and out of Boston Children's Hospital and in a coma for a year.  It was a miracle she recovered; and when she was released, she tells us, she saw dead people.  This gift was suppressed until adulthood, when she was in a serious car accident which left her with a broken skull and many broken bones in her face.  When the ambulance arrived, they asked her how she'd gotten out of the car, which had been totally crushed.  She told them she'd just opened the door, although it was apparent that this was definitely not possible.  Miraculously, she went on to make a full recovery without the need of any surgery.  She said this time she could hear the dead people (known as clairaudience.)  After 9-11, she decided to turn her gift into a full-time vehicle for helping others. 

The first person to have a visitor that evening was an older woman in the corner of the room.  "Wow", Maureen remarked, "Normally a person has maybe two people come through, but you have a bunch!"  She then proceeded to dub this woman a spirit whore.  The spirit whore had a loud mouthed sister who continued to come through for the remainder of the evening.

I sat there mesmerized as I listened to each person's story.  Mothers and sisters and fathers and daughters...all of them were coming through.  Whenever it got too heavy, Maureen lightened things up with a joke.  We had tears in our eyes from laughing so hard.  But I have to admit, I was starting to get fidgety.  (Nan, where are you?  No pressure or anything, but...)  Someone's dog came through.  A bragging mother came through.  Someone came through who was described as the "mayor of Heaven."  It was wondrous.  But where were my people?

"Steve?  Where's the Steve connection?" Maureen asked the room.  Auntie Kim nudged her older sister.

"Um, Steve is my husband's name...and my son's name..." Auntie Donna was getting a visitor!  It was her mother-in-law of all people, whom her sisters had been teasing would come through.  And she did come through, and told her some amazing things.  I listened raptly and started to get anxious until Maureen finally said, "I also have mom here, too..."

My heart leapt into my throat.  I knew she'd come through!  It wouldn't be like Nan to miss a party!   

Was this really happening?  It was a surreal moment.  Nanny was here.  And so was my grandfather.  "He wants you to know he was there to meet her, just like you all said..." 

"Where to begin?" my grandmother was saying.  Maureen told us Nanny hadn't been afraid.  "Does she have a strong faith?  She wasn't at all afraid."  She told us Nan had been surprised, that she hadn't realized how sick she'd been.  But she was ok.  She was there with her brother, his name was a J sound, a J-O sound...John?

"Uh-huh," my mother confirmed.  "Oh wait, she wants you to know she's here with all of them, all three of them..."

It wasn't like Nan to leave anyone out.  Maureen pulled out a necklace from under my mother's sweater, her crucifix.  (I could hear my grandmother saying, "Fix your necklace!") 

"Hi!" Maureen kept repeating, her eyes wide, an enormous grin on her pretty face.  "Hi!" she grabbed my cold fingers and gave them a squeeze. 

"Hi" I said back, my heart pounding.  It was just what Nan would be doing. 

"Okay, she's saying, I am really enjoying this" Maureen told us.  Nanny also told auntie Donna, "And you didn't even want to come!"  (She hadn't wanted to come; she almost bailed out earlier that day!)

It was time for Nan to step back, and Maureen was giving each of us a "hug from Heaven," but when she got to auntie Donna, Nan called something out.

"Whoa," said Maureen, "Okay, she just said, It's not right!  It's not right!"

Holy shit. 

"Is there another sibling you're fighting with?  Is there someone who's not speaking to the rest of you?  Because she's saying it's not right."

Reader, this is what I'd been waiting for.  All along I knew my grandmother would be less than pleased if she knew her youngest son had stopped speaking to his four siblings after she passed.  

"She's saying he's made it up, that everything he's mad about is in his head, that he's created it himself.  You've tried and tried and tried, but ultimately, it's up to him."

Holy guacamole.  "Oh, she's pissed!" Maureen told us.  "She's saying, if she were alive this would NOT be happening!"  And she was right, it wouldn't be.  We were totally airing our dirty laundry in public.  But everything she was saying was so very true.  Nanny knew what was happening, she knew everything.

I think the main thing I've taken away from all of this is that I'm not crazy.  It's real.  I feel validated in a way I've never felt before.  I listened as Maureen told a woman in the row in front of me, "You've seen your mother, she was really there when you saw her that time in your bedroom...when you wake up at 3:00 am, that's her..." I'd read online that Maureen believes the time between 3 and 4 am is when the veil is thinnest between this side and the other side.  That night she also suggested we not be frustrated when our loved ones can't talk to us in dreams, because as it is, it takes an enormous amount of energy for them to even appear to us while we're asleep.  My eyes welled up with tears when I heard her say that.  My dreams...all of those dreams I've had...

They were real.  It was all real.  I'd known this in my heart, but how comforting to actually hear someone say it.  When I'm at work and see a dazzling light sparkling on the Charles River and all of a sudden I think about Nan, and wonder if she's there...all of those dreams I've had about her, the one where she'd been hugging me tightly and I woke up with tears on my cheeks...all of those times I've been awakened at 3:15 am and didn't know why...

She was there.  Our loved ones don't leave us, after all.  Not really.

That night I came home in a dreamlike state.  I relayed every detail to Hubby.  "What are you thinking?" I asked.  "Do you think I'm crazy or something?"  "It doesn't matter what I think," he answered diplomatically, the skeptical, supportive Scorpio that he is.  But do you know something?  He was right.  It honestly doesn't matter what anyone thinks about what happened that Thursday.  My world feels different, somehow; changed, more magical.  I awoke in the middle of the night that evening, like always, and when I glanced at my alarm clock it was 3:45 am. 

"Hi, Nanny.  I love you."

I wasn't afraid.  For the first time in my entire life, probably, I was not afraid.  I rolled over onto my side and went back to sleep.  Go figure. 

The Ghost Whisperer

It was a Saturday evening and I was enjoying my second glass of Riesling at Cornwall's when my cousin Jimmy informed me he'd seen our deceased grandmother.

My initial reaction: "WHAT?"

Followed swiftly by: "Were you on the sauce at the time?"

Jimmy assured me he hadn't been drinking when he'd seen Nanny.  He'd been asleep on the couch, had opened his eyes and she was sitting next to him.  She gave a playful wave of her fingers and was gone.  He also said he'd seen her at the top of the staircase.  He'd been startled and a little freaked out, but it was our grandmother, after all.

I sat there listening, eyes wide, my mouth hanging open.  I seriously envied Jimmy his visit.  I'd be lying if I said there haven't been a few improvised attempts on my part to contact Nanny.  (And no, I'm not drunk at the time.  Not always, at least.)  I like to think of it as channeling my inner Melinda Gordon, sans the false eyelashes and perfectly coiffed hair.  (I don't own any hot rollers.)  But I'm quite intuitive and can sometimes guess people's birthdays; I'm not a bad Tarot card reader, either.  I suppose I've always fancied that I'd be a pretty good medium, if I wasn't such a chicken shit.

"Well, have you heard about Melanie?" my cousin Keely chimed in.  Apparently our cousin's wife Melanie, who is over nine months pregnant, has been dreaming of Nanny and it's scaring her a little.  In her dream, Melanie asked, "Nan, why are you coming to me?" and apparently Nan answered, "Well, I'm here for a year, and I can't see everybody at once."

She was here for a year?  What did that mean?

My grandmother has been showing up in my dreams ever since she passed away last May.  A few of them have been quite memorable, but many I can't remember.  Once I dreamed that she brought my other grandmother along for a visit.  (And I do firmly believe they are visits, these dreams.) 

There was another dream where she'd given me a gift of a purple manicure set, and the tag read, "To: Va-Jay-Jay and Hubby," but when I looked closer I saw it actually said, "Va-Jay-Sa" and Hubby.  I can't say I ever remember her using the term vajayjay before, but my family does call me Sa...

I can only translate this as my grandmother calling me a vagina from beyond the grave.  (Was Nanny making a funny?)

I miss her immensely.  What did she mean when she said she was around for a year? 

All of this was on my mind as I walked into the guest bathroom at work the other day.  It's a lovely facility; very private, with wooden doors, and the lights go on automatically when you enter either of the two stalls.

The bathroom was completely dark and quiet, except for...a low, mumbling voice speaking in a tongue I could not decipher!  WHAT THE?  Who was that?  In a most un-Melinda-like move, I blurted out:

"WHAT??!!"

It was then I saw Esmeralda, the nice older woman who comes in to change the toilet paper in the bathrooms.  She was huddled behind the door, whispering into her cell phone.

"Sarah," she explained in her thick accent, "I'm sorry, it's my daughter- she's sick today..."

So it wasn't a ghost.  It was the cleaning lady.  And my outburst had startled her just as much as her low murmuring had frightened me.

I told her I was sorry for interrupting, and she apologized profusely for sneaking in a phone call from my company's bathroom.  It was awkwardness all around.  I overcompensated and suggested she go back into the bathroom to call her daughter back, told her I didn't have to pee anymore, and then went on to explain I thought she'd been my dead grandmother.  "My abuela!" I explained, in Spanglish.  I don't think she got it.

It was a most unfortunate situation.  A definite "low point" in the day.

I still haven't given up on trying to contact Nanny, though.  If only to tell her I love her.  xoxo

Odd Addendum

On my last post my sister commented that it was her and not me who went and got our mother when a strange lady stopped in front of our house to talk about birds.  Lies.  It was me, me I tell you!  I honestly don't even think Sissy was there.

Glad we cleared that up. 

The time that Mormon ball player peed with the door open

During our eight years living in New York, Hubby and I possessed an uncanny knack for attracting house guests.  Who knows why, really, since the studio apartment we dwelled in for the first four years was anything but spacious: the only thing separating the bedroom from the living area was a flowery sheer curtain.  I suppose it was because we lived in New York, and everyone wants to visit the big apple at one point or another, don't they?

Hubby and I entertained a plethora of people in that cozy little apartment, the record being five adults and two children at one time.  We enjoyed having visitors, and most of these souls were lovely guests, though a few of them behaved rather...unsatisfactorily.

Have I ever told you the story of the worst house guests we’ve had to date?  It's a tale I can only refer to as:

The time that Mormon guy peed with the door open.

It must have been around  2003, back when Hubby and I weren't married or even engaged yet.  (For practical purposes I'm still going to refer to him as Hubby, though, because he gets creeped out when I use his real name.)

I have an uncle who umpires for a wooden bat baseball league, and sometimes he'll help ball players find “host families” to lodge with over the summer.  Often times uncle would ask his own family to be one of these “host families.”  Their collective answer: a resounding no.

It’s not that my family members aren’t generous people, it’s just…well, the idea of opening up their homes to complete strangers just doesn’t hold that much appeal to them. 

That summer my mother must have told her brother 'no' a hundred times.  She would not be hosting a ball player and that was final.  Final, that is, until the day she actually met one of the athletes in question, when my uncle brought one along to a family barbecue.  This proved to be a highly effective tactic, indeed.  It turned out this person was a very polite young man from Utah whose wife would be flying out for two weeks.  They wouldn't be able to afford a hotel, and he didn't want her to have to bunk with the rest of the guys.

Somewhere pigs must have been flying because my parents suddenly agreed that the couple would be welcome in their home.

When Ma called to tell me the news, I was definitely stunned: “You mean strangers are going to be staying in your house?  What are you, nuts?”  I couldn’t wait to relay the news to Sissy and inform her that a strange couple would be sleeping in her childhood bedroom.  A young married couple who hadn't seen each other all summer, if you get my drift.  Eeeew.

My mother's voice turned angry: “Do NOT call your sister and don't make fun of me for trying to do a nice thing!”  Apparently I'd hit a nerve.  I think she may have even hung up on me.

I don't know why it was bothering Sissy and I so much, especially seeing as neither one of us even lived in our parent's home anymore.  But bother us it did.  It bothered us to our cores.

The day of arrival came, and Ma was just getting ready for work when the doorbell rang.  It was the ball player, coming to pick up a set of spare keys and drop off his luggage.  She wasn't expecting him until that evening; she hadn’t even gotten a chance to vacuum his bedroom yet!  The guy explained that his wife was flying in from Utah late that night and he wasn’t sure what time they'd be home.  Ma told him any time was fine with her and showed him into Sissy's old room so he could drop off his bags.  She went back downstairs and he left a couple of minutes later.

By this time my mother was running really late for work, but she figured she still had time to vacuum the room.  She wondered if this would be a violation of privacy, seeing as he’d already put his bags in there, but she decided it wouldn't be a big deal.  After all, it would only take a minute and she obviously wouldn’t touch any of his bags.

Ma tentatively pushed open the door, vacuum in hand, and...horror of horrors!  Sweet Baby Jesus!  There, strewn all over the floor, bed and pillows were…ROSE PETALS!!  There were rose petals absolutely EVERYWHERE!  A card and a small gift had also been left on the bed.

Had this young man actually scattered rose petals all over my sister’s childhood bedroom?  And had he then simply shut the door and left?  Apparently, he had.  A detail you should know about my sister’s bedroom is that her door doesn't even shut properly!  This guy really had some brass ones.

Holy f*cking guacamole.  Was my mother running a SEX DEN here?  She closed the door, more than a little disturbed, and left for work.  She didn’t bother vacuuming. 

Sissy and I were appropriately horrified when we got wind of this latest detail in the saga of the house guests.  Sissy even went so far as to vow she would never sleep in that bed again.

It turned out the couple didn't come home that first night, opting to instead spend it in a hotel.  After that the week passed rather uneventfully.  The couple didn’t bother with my parents all that much, coming and going without a lot of chitchat.  It was as if Ma and Dad were running a bed and breakfast, albeit an x-rated, rose petal strewn bed and breakfast.  Bizarre.

I still thought it was kind of weird, but I started to feel badly.  Had I been too harsh for making fun of my parents for trying to do a good deed?  I felt guilty for mocking their new found hospitality.  (Living away from my family often turned me into a giant, heaping bowl of mush.)  I was in this frame of mind when Ma casually mentioned over the phone that the couple were planning a trip to New York to attend a Yankees game.  “They don’t have a lot of money, so they'll be taking the bus back to Boston after the game...”

In a moment of weakness I heard myself utter, “They can stay with us.  We can show them around.”  Was I for real?  What had gotten into me?  I apologized profusely to Hubby.  But honestly, how bad could these people be?  And it would only be for a day or two.

I was still at work when our guests arrived, but unlucky for Hubby he was already home and was therefore forced to play host without me.  When I met up with them later, we decided to get a bite to eat and then go back to sightseeing.  The meal was unremarkable, minus the fact that while we were perusing our menus the wife asked what basil was.

"What's basil?"

"It's an herb," I heard my future husband say. 

This was all kind of odd, eating here at The Last Stop Cafe with two complete strangers.  I longed for a goblet of cold white wine, but alas, I didn't want to ostracize our guests; my parents had already informed us these people were devout Mormons and abstained from alcohol and caffeine for religious beliefs.  I felt a little awkward even sipping my Pepsi.

We spent a mildly uncomfortable evening sightseeing and then headed back to the apartment.

And here’s where the story really begins to turn…peculiar.  Now, I'm not sure quite WHY, but somehow I got it into my head that it might be a "nice thing to do" if we gave the Mormons our bed.  (Isn't it a miracle Hubby goes along with my antics?)  But honestly, our place was so tiny I figured this would be easier than having them spread out in the living room and us having to tiptoe around them while we got ready for work the next morning.  No, I decided I would take the air mattress, Hubby would take the couch, and our guests could take our bed.  After all, they'd been apart all summer.  (Another good deed.  I may have been living in sin and stuff but damn I was such a good person.)

I couldn't sleep.  It was a little unusual, after all, having two strangers curled up in our bed, just a few feet away. 

I laid there in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling, when suddenly I heard a noise.  The ball player was getting up!  I quickly closed my eyes and felt him walk past me into the bathroom.  Being a studio apartment, the bathroom was only inches away from the couch where Hubby lie sleeping; my air mattress was about two feet away from the bathroom. 

I kept my eyes closed and heard the toilet seat being lifted, and then the sound of peeing; curiously, the only thing I didn't hear was...the bathroom door being shut!  In a panic, I opened my eyes and saw that the bathroom door was wide open!  This dude was pissing with the DOOR OPEN!  What the?

Was this kid for real?  He finished up his pee and walked back to bed, and suddenly I felt afraid.  Very, very afraid.  My already overactive imagination went into frantic overdrive.  What kind of a madman pisses with the door open in front of people he'd just met that very same day?  When he’s stone cold sober, no less?  I really couldn't sleep after that.  How could I, when there was a possible lunatic psychotic in my apartment?  And to think he'd been staying with my parents for over a week!  Could this person be dangerous?

Hubby was sound asleep.  I sidled over to the couch and tried to whisper in his ear "that guy just peed with the door open, babe!" but it was no use.  This was a tale that would have to wait until morning.  If we survived the night, that is.

Daylight came, the Mormons left, and life went on.  When Ma called to see how things went, I smugly relayed each gory little detail, in true I told you so fashion.  (The basil...the pissing...)  There was no explanation for this sort of lavatory behavior, was there?  My friend Amy suggested maybe it was a guy thing?  Perhaps ballplayers pee with the door open?  Or could it be he was sleepwalking?  I speculated myself blue in the face, but I could never quite justify it.  I still can't.

Some house guests are messy, some argue, some will drink all your Grand Marnier; some will get wasted and act belligerent after a Mets/Red Sox game, while others will do the dishes and take you out to dinner.  And although it may seem highly unlikely, sometimes a house guest will take a whiz with the bathroom door wide open.

And that is why, Dear Reader, the couple from Utah will go down as the worst, most horrific house guests we have entertained to date.  Case closed.  (And good riddance.)

Back on the horse

My heart was pounding and I was petrified my hands were going to shake.  But I did it; I sang in public again for the first time in years.  It wasn't my worst performance, and it certainly wasn't my best, but I did it nonetheless. 

I love weddings.  Afterwards, as I sat next to Hubby and listened to his cousin recite her wedding vows, I gave his hand a sweaty little squeeze at the words, "In sickness, and in health..." 

I had certainly been testing the boundaries of the in sickness category as of late...mental sickness, to be exact. 

I experienced a brief but potent meltdown on Friday evening, you see, after I ran through the song with the church's ancient resident organ player.  She didn't know the song, she told me, but she would learn it before the wedding tomorrow.  I was also singing it at a much faster tempo than she seemed comfortable with, but she told me she would follow along.  I'd be singing from up on the alter, out in front, holding a wireless microphone.  (We'd forgotten to bring a microphone stand, hence my worry over shaky hands.)  It occurred to me that if I was fourteen years old I wouldn't have batted an eyelid at any of this information.  When had I turned into such a wimp?

Back in the car, I called my mother for comfort but found she had none available.  I had made my own bed and it was time for me to lie in it.  This is when I hung up the phone and cried heavy, sloppy tears, my chest heaving in rapid, panicky gasps.  I was going to make a fucking asshole out of myself!  Holding a microphone, up on the alter?  Like Ted Neely or Carl Anderson in Jesus Christ Superstar?  I couldn't do it!

Hubby continued driving, the very picture of calm.  He reached out his hand and patted my knee, gently telling me I was being ridiculous, but still allowing me the freedom to blubber away.  I was hot mess central: broken, pathetic, and very, very ugly.  Ten minutes and one phone call to Sissy later, I wiped the smudged mascara from my cheeks and entered the rehearsal dinner wearing a happy face.  What was the alternative?  I had to be an adult; Sissy said so.  She also told me to make like Mary Magdalene and just sing!

My husband is an exceedingly kind person.  All the same, ten years ago it would have killed me to put on such a shamelessly vulnerable display in front of him.  These days it's a different story.  He loves me even at my very worst, when I am at my most atrocious, and for that I am truly grateful.  I trust him, more than I trust anybody in the world, and there's something very freeing about that. 

"I was being really pathetic and horrible," I tell my husband tonight, back at home on our red couch with Kittie.  "I was acting ugly and childish and hysterical, all for no reason." 

"Yeah," Hubby agreed, squeezing my hand, a smile flickering across his eyes, "But it's okay."

God I love that man.

PS: I capped off my singing performance by getting very, very, very drunk.  (Fast dancing drunk.  Telling my brother in law to shave off his beard because I hate it drunk.  Peeing without putting a liner down on the public toilet seat drunk.)  I then commenced to tell all of my in-laws how much I loved them, again and again, and apologized profusely to Hubby's parents for not providing them with grandchildren.  I also promised to get on this right away, in a year and a half or so.  (Thanks, chardonnay!)  Hiccup. 

All in all, the evening was quite a success.