Pillsbury Dough Mom

Amelia has taken to lifting up my shirt and poking my fat rolls. Then she laughs hysterically. Today she reared her little head, lifted up my shirt, and with all 12 of her teeth, bit one. And again, laughed hysterically.

Nine months of pregnancy, the last three of which were horrendously uncomfortable and painful, an 11-hour labour, two of which were spent trying to push her 9-lb self out of my body and which resulted in my hooha being sliced and diced by the butcher, I mean surgeon, and then weeks of breastfeeding so painful that I had to scream MOTHER!!!!!…and then bite my hand and cry to avoid finishing the word, and this is the thanks I get? I’ll have her know that my rolls were not quite so prominent before she came along and the dreaded ‘baby shelf’ of fat plopped itself permanently on my lower abdominal region.

Kids — they’re not here to boost our self esteem, that’s for sure.

Cleaning catharsis

I’ve never been big on cleaning. I have no OCD tendencies (except for when I’m pregnant and live in a house with a brand new, gleaming white toilet, sink, tub and floor — then I am cleaning that shit every 5 minutes because otherwise it’s just icky and you can see every speck of dirt and every hair and my irrational impregnated self cannot sleep if it’s not spotless) and no one has EVER accused me of being a neat freak or ‘anal’. Okay, well, Paul might have, but this is a man who can’t even close a closet door after he’s retrieved an object and leaves dirty Q-tips sitting around the bathroom, so I don’t think he’s one to judge cleanliness levels and whether methods to dispose of said dirt are over the top or not.

I wouldn’t say I hate cleaning, just that I lack the motivation required for how often it needs to be done. I have days where I’d rather stick myself in the eyeball repeatedly with a toothpick than scrub the stove and others where I go to vacuum and find myself in the midst of a cleaning frenzy, unable to stop until I drop and every surface shines. Once I’m in the Zone, there’s no going back. I actually enjoy cleaning when I’m in the mood, the sun is shining bright, the windows are open, and some good, energetic songs are pumping through the speakers.

Today, the songs that got me through cleaning out the fridge and silverware drawer and bleaching the countertops were “I Love To Boogie” by T-Rex, “Paint it Black” by the Rolling Stones, “99 Luftballons” by Nena, “Family Affair” by Mary J. Blige and “Sing Sing Sing” by Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. Which songs keep you from slitting your wrists while you’re dusting the day away?

Home, Part 2

Part 1 here

I arrived in England on August 27, 1999. After a year of planning, pining and parting, Paul and I were together at last.

It had been an incredibly difficult year apart, with only three visits in that space of time. I was a depressed, lovesick mess, hiding my misery in drugs, parties, alcohol, more parties and my writing. Home felt like a faraway place that didn’t exist anymore. I was gone from the family nest and too fucked up to return to it without risking serious damage to my relationship with my parents. I was pushing my roommate away, insanely jealous of her relationship with her boyfriend and how passionate she was about school and learning. I, on the other hand, was failing out of my classes. I hadn’t even attended some of them and it was halfway through the semester. I felt like the blanket statement made on most of my previous report cards: “Very intelligent and bright, but doesn’t live up to her potential.” It feels like getting knifed when you’re already dead — it adds insult to injury but it doesn’t hurt because you’re numb.

All I knew was that I wanted beauty in my life. Rapturous, timeless, tortuous love, art, music, books, more books, learning, museums, people, bodies, faces, hearts, ideas, ideals, nature, history, the future…I yearned for beauty all around me. But the more I yearned for this perfect world the less happy I was because I was beginning to realise it didn’t exist. Life isn’t always doom and gloom and it isn’t always sunshine and roses, either. Basically, I was becoming an adult. Emerging from my teenage angst into the sometimes harsh but often glorious light of reality which, in hindsight, is one of the most wonderful gifts of growing up. Those skewed ideas of life are cast aside and suddenly it doesn’t hurt so much and you don’t have to try so hard to be something or someone that doesn’t exist. It took a year for me to figure that out and it was a painful process, but I don’t regret it at all. It helped make me who I am today. And it opened me up to the possibility of finally finding Home again.

I was feeling like a normal person, ready to get a job and be in an adult relationship, and life was good. Paul and I got a flat and I landed a job within a couple of weeks, working the reception desk at a multinational company’s headquarters. The first few months were both lonely and exhilarating as I tried to adjust to my new life, new surroundings, new culture, slang, words, accents, ways of doing things. Everything was new and different and so exciting. I worked out how to get buses, trains and the Tube without Paul by my side; I learned how to read maps, not get lost, look tough when the area was tougher; I went to lunch and museums by myself; I got a promotion, and then a tattoo. I found my liberation in London and the homing device that I thought had been shut off was reactivated.

I was so happy that I even stopped writing. Before, writing had been what I did to cope with life’s misery. Now that I was happy, I had nothing to say. This troubled me at first and I would sit staring at blank sheets of paper, pen poised and ready, but the words never came. It felt strange to not have these raw emotions pouring out of me anymore but it was also a huge relief. I boxed up my journals and poetry and went about the business of living.

Five months in and everything threatened to implode. My student visa was expiring in a month and the work visa I was supposed to be getting from my employer had fallen through. I either had to leave — London, Paul, my job, my flat, my new life — or we could get married. Married. I was 20, Paul nearing 26. It seemed a bit unthinkable, against everything we’d been told and conditioned to believe (get married young, you’re doomed), but there was no other option. I wouldn’t go through the heartbreak of a long distance relationship again, no way. So if I left England, I was leaving Paul as well. For good.

We mulled it over for a week but time was running out and we had to decide. Three weeks until my visa expired and I would be deported, or three weeks in which to become a bride. We looked into each other’s eyes as we clung, terrified, to each other in bed late one night and remembered how hard it had been, how unbearable the pain, when we parted in Germany and took planes back to our respective homes, and how in that interim year, home didn’t even exist without each other.

On February 5th in the year 2000, we dashed into a registry office with seven friends as witnesses, put £10 silver rings on each others fingers and vowed to love each other until death parts us. We took a few pictures outside on an unseasonably warm and sunny winter’s day and then went home, swelling with excitement and relief and nervousness at the same time. I’m sure no one thought it would last. Getting married before you’re 30 these days is considered a death sentence. Getting married at 20 makes people’s mouths drop open and tell me I obviously haven’t lived. The hell with them and their idea of ‘living.’ I have love in my life, a love that is constantly evolving, enveloping and ennobling me. If that’s not living, I don’t know what is.

It was Paul’s love and our commitment to each other that made me want to be a better person, the best wife I could be, one that has lived up to her full potential on life’s report card. I longed to return to college and salvage what was left of my journalism degree. I knew that to do that, I had to return to Indiana to face my demons. I could’ve just gone to university in London and gotten an adequate education, but I needed to prove to myself that I could do it, as originally planned, in the place where I started and the place where I failed. I needed to walk those halls again, march past the bars where I’d spent too much time drinking, hear the school fight song as I mustered up the fight within myself.

With my readmission to Indiana University and Paul’s green card secured, we planned to move in early October 2001. Three weeks before our departure date, those infamous planes hit those infamous towers and my heart broke as I watched it on television and online in London. The urgency to cross the pond escalated to desperation levels as I struggled to understand what was happening in the world and in my life. After the initial shock and sorrow had subsided, my indignant rage bubbled to the surface. Not only at the act itself but at the role my own country’s government played in it. The hatred they’d bred all over the planet, the wretchedness they’d bestowed on millions of people, the signs they’d ignored. I wanted to hold them responsible and string them up for all to see. I wanted to write again, and with a vengeance, with a purpose now. My pen flew across the pages as we flew across the ocean and to our new Home. Again, this was going to shake my ideas of it to the core.

to be continued

Baby boom

Geez louise! I have learned of four friends’ pregnancies in the past week and a half — Emma in Scotland is pregnant with her second and due in August, Becky is having twins and is also due in August, and I discovered yesterday that my best friend from home, Laura, is expecting as well!! She sent me an email apologising for not being in touch recently and sent an attachment which she said would explain it all. It was a scan photo of her baby and, of course, made me jump up and down and exclaim “Oh my god!” And then we have Tanja, who is marrying mine and Paul’s close friend and former flatmate Alex today, in Sydney. She is expecting in July. Congratulations to everyone, on all the wonderful news.

One of the most useful things I learned about being a new mother is to ignore everyone else, forget about what it’s supposed to look like, and just enjoy being with your child in simple, loving moments. It’s summed up nicely with this poem:

BABIES DON’T KEEP

Mother, oh Mother,

come shake out your cloth,

empty the dustpan,

poison the moth,

hang out the washing

and butter the bread,

sew on a button and make up a bed.

Where is the mother whose house

is so shocking?

She’s up in the nursery,

blissfully rocking.

Oh, I’ve grown shiftless as Little

Boy Blue (lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).

Dishes are waiting and bills are past due

(pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo).

The shopping’s not done

and there’s nothing for stew

and out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo

but I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo.

Look! Aren’t her eyes the most wonderful hue?

(lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).

The cleaning and scrubbing

will wait till tomorrow,

for Children grow up,

as I’ve learned to my sorrow.

So quiet down, cobwebs.

Dust go to sleep.

I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep……

~Author Unknown ~

The duvet blues

I hate my duvet. It’s all floppy and just squishes around inside the button-on cover, the extra material flapping around the sides uselessly. My duvet is like a flaccid penis.

As the blogosphere as my witness, the next time I move house I am buying my own (super duper king size) bed and finally investing in some lovely, expensive, luxurious bedding. I will also buy an extra set so that when I’m waiting for one set to line dry, I don’t have to have mismatched, horrible, cheap bedding. I’m going to jazz up the boudoir, and that can never be a bad thing. Bowmp chicka bowmp bowmp

A pregnant pause

One of my best friends is pregnant. She’s due in May so she’s about 6 1/2 months at the moment. She’s coming over tonight for dinner and a chat while Paul is out and she wants to talk to me about birth. She’s having a home birth, which I think is fantastic, and I’ll all for answering her questions, helping her plan things and get everything in order. I’m not as sure of how much to reveal to her about the pain of childbirth. I mean, it’s different to different people and one person might think it was the most horrendous thing she’s ever endured while others think it a pleasant experience akin to a walk in the park, so to speak. I was somewhere in between. I didn’t exactly find it easy and it was a different kind of pain than I was expecting, but it also wasn’t this blood-curdling, screaming, cursing, “get this thing out of me” experience that is all too commonly seen on sitcoms and in the horror stories that some mothers like to tell when they’re together.

But do I try to describe what it feels like and what the aftermath is like, even though this may scare her? Or do I pat her on the head, smile and tell her it’s not that bad so she can think about pink bunnies and blue skies up until her water breaks and reality sets in and KICKS HER ALMIGHTY ASS? I wish someone had told me truthfully what labour was like, not just that ‘it hurts.’ I was fully expecting the contractions to be uncomfortable and moderately painful, but I’d always had it in my head that pushing was the worst part. If only I’d known that the reverse was true, I might’ve been more prepared and not looked at the midwife in sheer panic when she said I was only 5 cm dilated and probably had another 4-5 hours to go. I truly felt that that was physically impossible, what she was telling me. There was no way my body wouldn’t just implode if this pain went on for more than 30 minutes, 60 max. Hours, let alone 4 or 5, seemed so vast an expanse of time that the years it took for the Rio Grande to carve its way through eons of rock to form the Grand Canyon was a more tangible time frame to me. So you can see my dilemma. Reality and being a good little prepared Girl Scout on the one hand and blissful ignorance on the other. Which one does a good friend ensure?

I need to find out which she’d prefer without giving away my plan. Maybe I could casually ask her a hypothetical question and see what her response is. Something like “So, if someone pissed in your soup and you had already eaten it without noticing, would you rather know about it or just go about your life none the wiser?” or maybe “Hey, here’s a conundrum for ya. If you knew that your husband had taken one up the ass one drunken night in college and someone else knew about it, would you want them to tell you or keep their mouth shut?”

The things I ponder for my friends.

Goal update

Let’s see how I’m doing on those goals:

• Lose weight — I’m eating smaller portions, healthy snacks, have cut way back on carbs, sugar and fatty foods and worked out to my fitness dvd today. I plan to do the dvd twice a week and start taking a class at the YMCA on Sundays, with brisk walks all around town on the other days (which I do anyway). Once Andrea’s visit has ended and she goes back to Chicago on March 11th, the diet will start in earnest. I had to be realistic and know that there’s no way I can stay on a really strict diet, including no alcohol, while my sister is here. Not when she’s such a fabulous bartender! I also need to check with my GP what a healthy calorie intake is for a breastfeeding mother. Will make an appointment for next week

• Finances — Paul and I sat down together on Sunday evening and finally made a budget. After looking at current outgoings, we realised that we’re living about £800/month beyond our means. By cutting down our food budget, eliminating a few luxuries and coming up with a strict plan for our spending/entertainment money, we got that amount down to about £300/month over our income. I offered to get a part-time job but Paul pointed out that I would really only be able to work weekends because I wouldn’t be able to get to any job in time on weekdays since I have to wait for him to get home first and his hours and travel time aren’t always predictable. I thought about seeing if somewhere like Borders or Starbucks or a breakfast cafe need strictly weekend workers, but Paul thinks that it makes more sense if he just does more overtime to get that extra money. So as of this month, he will be working late every other Thursday and an entire 8 hour day every other Saturday. He says he doesn’t mind working more if I am sticking to and really working on my goals but he doesn’t want to never see me because he works all week and I work all weekend. I’m going to keep an eye out for weekend jobs just in case though (I would actually LOVE to work in a bookstore, though it may be counterproductive to earning money since it would be so tempting to spend my entire paycheque in the store). And can I just mention again how wonderful my husband is for working his butt off so I can raise our daughter and work on my own career ambitions? He’s getting major brownie points for this

• Get writing published — Really need to get moving on this one. I have to write a cover letter that isn’t too formal or over the top but I have to sell myself and stand out from the crowd. I should work on this tonight but I have a friend coming for dinner tonight and another one tomorrow (where are all my invites to dinner at other people’s houses? Hmmph. I’m tired of cooking/cleaning up for everyone else) so my priority on Thursday will be to write the cover letter and get three submissions out

• Less time surfing, more time blogging — This is actually going well. I haven’t been on the computer all that much in the last few days. I work out during Amelia’s a.m. nap and then blog during her p.m. nap (that’s the rules!). Housework and shopping have to be done in between, with her in tow, so sometimes that means I have to wait until she’s in bed before I get the house looking presentable again, but so be it. I have more important things to worry about than winning Homemaker Of The Year awards. As if there was ever any threat of that

• Get back into music — I’m going to see the Barenaked Ladies in concert on 30th March, courtesy of Paul’s lovely anniversary/Valentine’s gift, and have started downloading new music on Limewire. Viva la musica!

• Learn to control my temper — Well, I haven’t broken anything in anger or said the F word much this week. I haven’t wanted to punch anyone and, more impressively, I didn’t punch anyone even when I was drinking whiskey on Saturday. Now that’s progress!

• Buy more food from local sources — I’ve now been to the farmer’s market in Kingston twice in the past week or so for all my fruit and veg, and am buying my next order of meat and eggs from the butcher’s down the road

• Become a more attentive, creative mother — I’ve been keeping the tv and radio off and spending more time just sitting on the floor with Amelia, reading books, stacking blocks, teaching her new things, scampering around, and letting her explore things that stimulate her senses. We got on at least one outing a day, which she loves. She is always happy when she’s out and about and has plenty of people to look at. Today it was the spouting water fountain feature in the market. She couldn’t stop staring at the water shooting up into the air and then disappearing into the ground. The older children running through and around it were shrieking with delight and she was enamored of them. Soon she will be walking and running around with them and I’ll be sitting on the sidelines just watching. My sweet, sweet darling girl. I love being her mama

So, all in all, not too shabby on the goal front! Another update later in March…

These boots were made for puking

Went out on Saturday night with Paul to meet some friends at a bar, which was the first time in months that we’d been able to do so together. Usually we take turns going out to see our friends or just go out to dinner or a movie together when we do get a babysitter. But we talked Paul’s parents into looking after Amelia overnight at their house while we went out on the town. The plan was that we’d stay out until about midnight, then come back to their house and sleep in the guest room so that we were there for her first thing in the morning. That was mistake number one. We should have just gone home and left them to deal with her all morning. Kidding! I kid, I joke.

Paul had to work all day and we were meeting at the bar at eight, so I got myself and Amelia ready at home and Paul’s dad picked us up. I was like a girl getting ready to go out on a first date with a boy she’s liked for ages — I was nervous, kept changing outfits, touching up my makeup, smoothing my hair down and obsessing over whether my jacket matched my skirt and if I needed earrings or not. I was so busy doing primping in front of the mirror that I didn’t have time to eat and because I’d had a late lunch anyway, I decided it would be fine and I’d just get something to eat on the way home. Mistake number two.

I left the house feeling good, wearing my new knee-high brown boots, patterned tights, a faded jade green skirt, brown short-sleeve shirt and little purple jacket with a skinny scarf looped around my neck. I felt cute and just knew it was going to be a great night out. I arrived at 8pm but the others were running late and I wasn’t familiar with the area we were in (Putney) so I waited for them at McDonald’s. Classy, I know, but it was warm and they had a bathroom. We finally met up and made our way to the bar at 8.30. At this point I realised that we only had about 3 hours before we had to leave to get the train back (damn stupid early trains!) so thought I’d better get my drink on if I was to get inebriated enough to dance later on, as this was part of my plan. Mistake number three.

The drinks menu looked promising and I noticed quite a few other people sipping concoctions in martini glasses and got my hopes up that they might actually make a decent cocktail. Mistake number four. Both the margarita and the cosmopolitan I had were terrible (why do I even bother ordering cocktails in England?). I drank them, of course, but they were hideous so I kept switching to something else. I had those two drinks, then a glass of pinot grigio. Then someone else at the table ordered a Jack Daniels and Coke and I thought that sounded like heaven on earth. So I switched to that. And made it a double. Then I thought I’d be all responsible and order a single JD and Coke and a glass of water (which I didn’t touch). While I was at the bar ordering that drink, Tim staggered over to me and demanded that I do a shot of tequila with him. We always drink tequila together so I knew he wouldn’t let me say no. So we did a shot at the bar and I got a pint of beer as a chaser. I had now consumed 6 drinks and was working on number 7. And they were almost all different drinks. And I hadn’t eaten. Do you see where this is going? The mistakes were adding up to equal a trip to the bathroom.

I had one of those “ohmygodi’mgoingtothrowuprightthisverysecond” moments where you have to literally run for the toilet and hold your hand over your mouth as you go. I scrambled/semi-fell down the stairs to the ladies’ room and flung the door open. All three stalls were occupied and there were two or three women waiting. There was no way I could wait. I looked around frantically, trying to decide whether to go for the floor, the sink, or the trashcan. I decided on the trashcan and heaved into that. Thankfully there wasn’t much in my stomach except all the liquid I’d consumed so it wasn’t particularly nasty or, ahem, chunky (sorry, that’s so gross) but I hadn’t gotten sick from drinking too much in absolutely ages, since before I got preggers, so I wasn’t used to that “I just puked and feel even worse now” feeling. Of course, right at that moment, one of the girls with our group upstairs and whom I’d just met for the first time that evening, had to walk in and see this. After hearing me talk about how I would take revenge on my ex-landlady if she didn’t pay me back the money she owes me, which involved bringing dead rats into her restaurant, making fake reservations on the weekends and papering her neighborhood with insulting flyers, and then seeing me puke, I’m sure I won’t be seeing her again!

I don’t remember the few minutes after that or how I got back upstairs, but I vaguely recall crying (how embarrassing) and telling Paul we had to go. We would have been leaving shortly anyway but I just wanted to die and curl up in a ball and go to sleep so I wasn’t hanging around until then. The urge to throw up hit me again as I waited for him to pay his tab but I was closest to the front door and not the toilets this time. I ran outside and puked just outside the door, near the bouncers. There were dozens of people streaming past and more than a couple people shouted “Eww!” I must’ve looked like one of those pathetic teenagers who drink one too many cans of cider and then hurl all over the streets every weekend. Ugh. I wanted to die.

Somehow Paul found me outside and had my jacket and handbag and we left. We’d missed the last train so we had to get a taxi. Paul wanted a kebab but I refused to go inside as I was worried that the smell would make me sick again. I sat outside on a bench and shivered in my way-too-light-for-winter jacket and skirt and, according to Paul, cried some more. He made me walk behind him while he searched for a taxi because he didn’t think one would stop if they saw me staggering around behind him. Normally I would’ve taken offense at this and told him to go screw himself but I knew he was right and just wanted to get to a warm bed so I did as I was told and after a few minutes of searching, he found a taxi to take us home. I passed out as soon as we got inside and don’t remember changing out of my clothes.

Amelia was up at 7am and I wasn’t feeling too bad, I thought. I was being silly, singing songs about bacon and sausages to the tune of Meatloaf’s I Would Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That) and throwing myself around the living room making Paul laugh. But about an hour after being awake, the queasiness hit me again and it was back to bed I went. Thank god we were at my inlaws’ house because they were more than happy to play with her while we slept some more. In the past, I would’ve been embarrassed that they were seeing me so hungover and sick but I just don’t care anymore. I figure we’re all grown-ups here, I’m sure they’ve had hangovers before, and they knew I hadn’t gone out in a long time, so I decided not to lie and just admit that I’d drunk far too much and was feeling like poo warmed over (see, I didn’t swear!). I finally started feeling better at about 2pm and we headed home.

Later that evening, I was unpacking our overnight bag and noticed that my boots had splashes of vomit on them. My lovely new boots. Dang it! But, even more disgusting than that, I was on the phone with my sister when I discovered that there was also vomit on my necklace, which I’d been wearing all day. Abso-fucking-lutely hideous (not swearing didn’t last long). I disgust myself.

Simpatico

Shakespeare once mused “What’s in a name?”

For me, a lifelong virtue that I hold dear. My name, Amity, means friendship — something so important to me that the only name that might suit my personality better would be Opinionated. But that doesn’t have a very nice ring to it, does it? As it is, I should just be happy that my hippy parents didn’t name me Moon Biscuit.

There are very few things that I feel unequivocally good at. Friendship is one of them. I’m a good listener, I can draw people out of their shells, dole out sympathy, tough love or advice as needed, and am fiercely loyal. I don’t talk about my friends behind their backs and have only had a handful of arguments with them in my entire life, none of which ended the relationship. I don’t know if I would’ve become the friend I am today if it hadn’t been for the experiences I had in earlier years. The most important lessons I learned about the meaning of my name came from the thrill and intensity of meeting new people at a point in my life when friends were family and family more akin to the plague, and the gut-wrenching dysphoria of losing them to the cruel hands that crush Fate and Death together and rip them from this world.

First, there was Ryan. From the kindergarten class picture in which he was pulling my hair to high school graduation in which he was the valedictorian, he’d always been there in some capacity. Though we weren’t particularly close, we hung out in the same groups, took the same classes, and dated each other’s friends. We joked around and teased each other like you can only do with someone who has known you since you were five years old. He’d threaten to show the new guy who I had the hots for my 5th grade picture, in which I sported a horrific perm, bangs of skyscraper proportions and a purple sweater with a woolen cat clawing its way over my shoulder. He tortured me like the brother I never had and I loved him for it. He infuriated me, but I secretly liked that he still gave me that attention and made me laugh.

After high school we all left for our respective colleges and universities. Most of us were lost, without a clue as to what we wanted to do with our lives, but Ryan was different. So sure of himself, as usual. He had known he wanted to be a pilot for as long as any of us could remember and so it came as no surprise to learn that he had started his flying lessons and had been granted his learning pilot’s license within a couple months of starting uni. He and a fellow student pilot from the neighboring town were given permission to fly a small single engine plane together. Ryan wanted to surprise his parents by flying in for his 19th birthday and so arranged to land at the local airfield. Heavy winds and inexperienced hands made for a rough landing and upon touching down, the plane flipped over and skidded down the runway, out of control, bursting into flames. Ryan died nearly instantly.

My best friend’s mother left a message on my dorm room phone to call her. It was October and I had been out shopping with my roommate for Halloween decorations. It was one of those fantastic autumn days where the leaves have all changed, the air is crisp and cool and the sun’s light seems to be casting itself from every direction all at once, creating shadows, patterns and color palettes that turn the world into something that makes even a hardened atheist believe in God. Giggling breathlessly as I manipulated the fake skeleton’s arms into various poses, I returned the call nonchalantly. Two minutes later I was holding the phone in stunned silence with my mouth gaping open. Laura’s mother cried on the other end of the phone but it was muffled in my jacket as I clutched the receiver and rocked back and forth. My roommate pried it from my fingers and hung it up as she shook my shoulders and asked what had happened. I arranged a ride home with another friend attending the same university and got home that night to congregate with old friends and try to understand what happened together. Ryan’s sister came over and tried to comfort us –comfort US!–and asked us to choose someone to speak at his funeral.

For whatever reason, my friends chose me to write and speak the eulogy. The blessing of my name, the duty of friendship, felt more like a curse at that moment. He was one of the most intelligent, industrious people I had ever met and he had died on his 19th birthday with his whole life ahead of him. What the hell was I supposed to say about that?

Nearly the entire town came. No funeral home could hold the grieving masses so it was held at the school auditorium where he had stood only four months earlier, addressing his classmates in his blue cap and gown, gold tassels draped around his neck, marking his honors and achievements in resplendent fashion. What a waste. What a mockery of life. What a blur. I don’t even remember what I said now but I do know that as I stood at that podium, my hands shaking as I tried to make out the words on my note card through the tears, I remembered trying to sing a song at my sister’s funeral and my voice breaking, breaking, breaking down into a ball on the floor, and being whisked back to my pew beside my shell-shocked parents. This was too much to ask of my name. What I would’ve given to be Susie or Amy or Jenny at that moment.

When I returned to university, my new friends enveloped me into their arms and comforted me by helping me forget. The one most instrumental in aiding my chemical memory loss, Joey, ironically became the second friend to break my heart by leaving the living. He made me forget but then brought it roaring back threefold as I sat at his funeral a few years later. I was learning that friendship isn’t always about laughs and good times. It’s also writing fucking eulogies.

But even through these tragedies, I learned an important lesson — don’t take your friends for granted. Don’t lose touch with those whom you’ve always felt a special bond but have moved away, moved on, chartered a different course from yours. Tell them how much they mean to you, work on improving your relationship, make sure they know they can count on you. Have fun, laugh, be silly. A true friend doesn’t require your thoughts to go through a filter before they escape your mouth.

And if, like me, you consider yourself a good friend, make it an inherent part of who you are. Live it like it’s your destiny, like it’s built into who you are. Kind of like it’s your name.

The Ice Queen Melteth

I’ve never been a big fan of Valentine’s Day. I wouldn’t say I hate it, but it’s not a holiday (and I use that term loosely, it’s more like a marketing campaign) that I’ve ever embraced. Paul always gets me a card and sometimes flowers but since we celebrate our wedding anniversary on the 5th and we usually get each other gifts or go out to dinner for that, we’ve never made much of a fuss of V Day. I’ve even been known to host the occasional Anti Valentine’s Day party, complete with lethal cocktails, Cupids with arrows through the head, broken hearts decorating the walls, and a fun game of Pecker Ring Toss with the girls. Though after the debacle of ‘05 in which I gave myself and three close friends alcohol poisoning, trashed my flat and broke all of my glassware, staggered to the local hot dog van for a mustard-slathered wiener, forced a black cab to drive me all of 4 blocks because I couldn’t remember how to use my legs and then crashed a house party, I wasn’t allowed to host those anymore. Hmmph.

But last night we actually had a nice, romantic evening and I didn’t once feel like I was in a Hallmark commercial or that I was going to be sick. Paul brought me some gorgeous roses and helped out with getting Amelia to bed the moment he got home, and I prepared dinner while he mixed some (non-lethal) cocktails. We had a little, ahem, alone time, the details of which I will spare you since a pair of family eyes are reading (sorry if you’ve been blinded, Andrea!), and then it was a lovely dinner of steak, green peppers stuffed with rice, cannellini beans and tomatoes, roasted butternut squash and caesar salad, accompanied by a nice shiraz. It was heavenly. Paul proved how much he loved me by sitting on the sofa and watching Desperate Housewives with me while we had dessert (coffee, tiramisu and raspberries). He also gave me a surprise gift, a ticket to see the Barenaked Ladies on March 30 at the Hammersmith Apollo with our friends Libby and Andy. He said he wanted to help me along with my goals that I listed on my previous post and knows how much I’ve been wanting to get back into music and concerts. Can I just reiterate how wonderful my husband is? I’ll be thinking of him when I’m dancing around to “If I Had A Million Dollars.”

The evening ended with us curled up in bed, looking at our wedding album. We normally do this every year on our anniversary but since he’d been away this year, this was really more of our anniversary date than Valentine’s. Flipping through the pictures, remembering that day and how in love we were (are) made my heart swell. Things have changed since then, yes. We’re not as footloose and fancy free and we have more serious responsibilities, but the funny thing is, we don’t look back with wistful nostalgia because those were the ‘good ol’ days’ and we mourn it. Instead, I study my pre-baby face and smile knowingly at the girl in the white dress, cosmopolitan in hand as she swirls round the dance floor. She doesn’t know it yet, but as much love as she thinks she holds in her heart that day, there is so, so much more to come.

It will knock her sideways with the intensity, the tenderness, the unconditional protectiveness. The lioness with her family, the fierce mama and wife, shielding her loved ones from the ills and predators of the world. This is what matters now, this is her life. And even though she doesn’t know it yet, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Maybe Valentine’s Day isn’t so bad after all.