Dancing Brave

A Woman Well-Loved

Thanks so much for all the wonderful good wishes for me and my family. I'd just written this long post about my grandmother, and the funeral and the viewing, but my computer ate it. A post about death died a very sudden one.

The viewing was as odd as they usually are -- there's something spooky in the sight of a body lying lifeless in its coffin, looking as serene as an afternoon nap. My grandmother wore that familiar brooch from her 90th birthday, a blue shirt that would've matched her now-closed eyes, and carried a rosary whose beads spilled over her folded hands. Watching my mother and her sisters kneel together in front of the coffin, shoulder-to-shoulder and arm-in-arm as they said their final goodbyes, moved me profoundly. Intellectually, it's easy to understand that the ties that bind them and Grammie are the same that bind my sisters and me and Mom. But because we've always known them as The Adults, you forget that they're trading on a shared six-decade history of being children and siblings, saying farewells to a woman who adored them so faithfully all that time. "Losing someone who loves you unconditionally, and without question, always leaves a void," Mom mused to me later. "I don't know if that will ever go away."

Still, all I could do was smile when I went up to say goodbye and wish her peace. She was Grammie, but she wasn't, not any more. And while it could have been very easy to give myself over to how much that can hurt, I just... didn't. She looked like she'd drifted off in the middle of a wonderful dream, and in my mind that's exactly how it happened -- Grammie took her leave of this world with the same grace with which she inhabited it, looking as radiant as a person can be in their coffin, resting so gently you almost expected her to wake up and ask what she'd missed. Mourners who knew her still gasped in awe at the assembled photos of her in a school uniform, in her wedding dress, in the familiar sweater and slacks of her later years, and lauded her remarkable beauty. My mother gently stroked the lid of the coffin and remembered my grandfather making all the arrangements for their final rest. "He was very concerned with how the inside would be," Mom grinned. "She picked the coffins and he insisted on taking care of the rest, because he said he wanted her to be comfortable. 'She HAS to be comfortable,' he told me, and so he tweaked their plans over and over until he was completely sure."

Even the funeral felt a little like a bunch of hoo-ha for someone else. Intellectually I knew it was her body in the coffin I escorted up the church aisle -- I was a pallbearer, along with Kevin, Dad, Julie, and my uncle and a cousin -- but throughout it felt more symbolic than actual. The priest knew her, told some stories, remembered how Grammie would sit to the right of the altar so she could stare across at the stained-glass window that had looked so familiar to her when she first attended Mass in Naples -- and which she later realized was the same marvel that graced her high-school chapel in Ohio. It was a personal service, a lovely one, but because it felt like it honored her spirit rather than her actual body lying prone inside a box, somehow the emotion of it didn't overwhelm me into sobs. It felt more like a bittersweet hug. We loved her, but we were letting her go, and she was off someplace she fervently believed in, and which she was certain would reunite her with her husband.

Twice, I did cry. My mother sings every hymn at every Mass in top voice, her gorgeous, lilting soprano gently caressing every note. As we sang the last hymn, we recessed into the vestibule and waited there until the song ran out of words. On the last couplet, I looked at my mother, singing her heart out until she chanced a glance at the coffin. Her voice cracked, faltered. She stopped, bowed her head, and rested it in her palm for a split-second before shaking it and rising again with a shrug and a wet smile. My mom always finishes the song, but here, she couldn't. Her emotion swallowed her whole, and it got me, too.

The second time, we were at the mausoleum. As the mechanism raised Grammie's coffin to meet the mouth of her tomb, my mother peered in and saw the shining edge of Gramp's tucked away in the back and gave a little wave and blew a kiss. Then in Grammie went, and the old man -- working his last day on the job before retirement -- caulked the opening, closed it, and sealed it with the marble plaque that bore Gramp's name, Grammie's, and the dates of their births and deaths. Seeing a bookend on my grandmother's life brought out my tears at last. That final date, a visual reminder of The End, means more than just one chapter has closed. It meant no more visits to Naples, no more Christmases, no more hearing her easy laugh.

But as my mom noted, there was no tragedy here. She was not the younger person whose wake took place down the hall, and she didn't fall on the wrong side of a prognosis's odds; she was not the baby entombed a few spots away. This was a woman who gave the world 96 years and then left exactly the way she wanted to go. As death goes, this was a blessing. And that's why we allowed ourselves to enjoy each other, to tell some stories about her, and Gramp, and their wicked sense of humor -- like the time a groomsman showed up to Alison's wedding apologizing for not getting his shaggy hair cut, at which my grandmother innocently smiled and said, "Well, I have my needlepoint scissors in my purse" -- and to make the weekend as much about love as we could.

In fact, my mother said it best. As we raised our glasses at dinner the night after the funeral, she said, "To a life well-lived, and a woman well-loved." We clinked. We cried. We smiled. Amen.

Love and Death

When I was thirteen or fourteen, my grandmother got cancer. The details sort of escaped me, partly because I was a teenager and totally involved in my own drama, partly because I'm sure because my mother sugar-coated Grammie's ordeal either for our sanity or for her own, and in part because even at 80 my grandmother seemed indomitable. She was petite and soft-spoken, but she was forever.

I hate that I can't remember much about what this was like for her. But I do know that chemo helped, and she beat it; the loss here was that bit by bit, her beautiful red curls fell out and turned to white-gray wisps clinging desperately to the pink skin on her skull. Self-consciously, she would wear those little stretchy turban caps on her head when we came to visit. But one night, as we sat around the dining table, the occasional gentle rubbing and itching around the cap became regular scratching. My mother gently put her hand on Grammie's arm and said, "You're uncomfortable. Why don't you take it off? It's okay." Wearily, shakily, Grammie slid it off, freeing her skull to the air but laying herself bare. Even in front of family, it was a big step. Her lips formed a tiny smile but she sat there, hands fidgeting, eyes flickering around the table. We started in on some light chatter until my grandfather's voice broke through ours.

"You know what, Evie?" he said. "You have the most beautifully shaped head I have ever seen. It's exquisite."

Grammie giggled. Then beamed. Then completely relaxed into her seat, into the conversation, into her family, as my grandfather smiled at her with limitless adoration and awe.

I've remembered that moment ever since. That moment is love. That moment, and a million others like them in her long life, carried my grandmother through the ten years she outlived her husband. "If I could do it all over again, I'd marry Evie," he was fond of saying. She was never alone after he died; she had us, but more importantly, she still had him, and he was part of her until she drew her last breath.

It's been surreal, waiting for The Call since more than a year ago -- back when she wasn't supposed to make it more than six months at best. My grandmother, all 5-foot-one of her, may have looked fragile but she had the soul of a fighter. She was brave and graceful when her body stopped being able to keep up with her still-sharp mind, when the trappings of age sapped her energy.  There was no getting better, there was only waiting. I can't imagine the kind of courage it takes to close your eyes every night, or for a nap, and not know if you'll open them again or if the disease will take you while you dream. She had no fear. She was ready. And she had humor. Her 98-year old sister still lives; in the last few months Grammie would crack wise, "I don't know WHAT she's still hanging around for at this point." Last year, at age 95, she announced she didn't want to use a cane because "canes are for old people."

So it's weird to think she's gone. When we lost Gramp, it was sudden, and we didn't know he wouldn't be able to get better. He went into the hospital not feeling well and died within a week. Exacerbating the grief was the sight, for the first time ever, of our tiny Grammie without him standing tall at her side with his hand on her elbow. We watched her walk up to his coffin at the viewing, watched her touch him gently, and kiss his waxen cheek. "Happy sailing, Bill," she said. We watched her take her last look at the man she'd married 60 years before, and our hearts broke for her and for us, and for the end of a relationship that set the standard for the mutual love and respect and loyalty that we sought in our own lives.

This grief is different. It feels more like a misplaced sense of loneliness, like there's someone missing. Which there is, but my heart can't quite feel it so sharply yet. I know she's gone, but I can't really imagine it being true. My mother is being so strong, but for the past ten years she has seen my grandmother through everything, and was my grandparents' rock for a decade before that. There's a pain I feel for her, because she isn't a daughter any more. Even though she'd become more mother than daughter of late, "daughter" isn't a role she actively inhabits on this world any more, and as a daughter myself, I feel acute sorrow and anguish when I imagine being in that place. I know she'll talk to her parents in her prayers. But whether they're 46, 66, or 96, you're never ready for when you can't talk to them in person. As this hits my mother harder -- when the funeral is over, when the packing is done, when it's time to figure out what her life looks like without Grammie in it -- that's when it will really hit me. It's starting a bit even now, as she surveys my grandmother's empty apartment and faces putting a lifetime of memories into a bunch of boxes. "She'd left her glasses sitting on the bathroom sink and I almost couldn't bear to touch them," Mom said, her voice thick with loss.

What a life it was. Gramp and Grammie were the core of the party back in their youth, with legendary booze-ups and stories I need told to me again and again because I lose the details in the laughter. They're stories my mom and her siblings tell with blushes and hands clapped to their foreheads, and rivers of mirth streaming down their cheeks. Grammie was a great-grandmother for more than seven years, she met the husbands of the three grandchildren she knew best, and she experienced the unconditional love of a daughter and her husband -- who treated her like his own mother -- who would do anything for her, any time, any place, anywhere. She showed us strength and dignity, and my mother showed us unimagined stores of selfless devotion that made us swell with pride at what an amazing line of women came before us.

The past year has been difficult for her. Spoiled by all those ageless years, it was frustrating for her heart -- "The heart of a 50-year old except for that one valve," her doctor said -- to slow her pace. She hated having to push through the lack of energy, the lethargy, the shortness of breath. Her mind still spun too quickly for that. After a particularly difficult, scary day, my mother and her brother tucked her in and gently told her they loved her, and that whenever she decided it was time to be with Gramp, they would miss her terribly but they would understand. "Great. If only it were that easy," Grammie sighed with a chuckle. She'd lived the heck out of 96 years and she was ready to be with her Bill again, if only her body would cooperate.

But they're together again now. On what would be her last day, she spoke to my uncle and told him she'd felt pretty good, lively enough to go downstairs for dinner; there was a special chocolate cake on offer that night, and she decided to let herself splurge on a piece. Then she went upstairs, took my uncle's call before she went to bed, and said, "You know what? I had a really wonderful day today." And then she fell asleep for the last time. It's exactly what she wanted -- painless, seamless, quiet. And all we can ask is that she went after one last happy time. She didn't go to bed frustrated or agonized. She was, truly, in a moment of peace.

It's times like this when I'm so certain there's an afterlife, because it is the only comforting reality, and in another sense, the only logical one. Because I can't imagine my grandfather not having been here all along, invisibly sitting by her side, ready to greet her whenever it was her time. He'd have charmed all of Heaven while he waited for her to finish up on Earth, watching, loving her from afar, spying as she stuck around to make sure we were all in good hands before she left to join him. I can see his face in my mind, its openness and genuine delight in the experience of talking to others, and in the pride of having married her. He named his boat the Rare Mood, after a line from his favorite song, "It's Almost Like Being In Love," from the musical Brigadoon -- a song he would sing so casually at random moments. "What a day this has been..." is sometimes as far as he got before one of us would give him a big hug, or join in the song. "What a rare mood I'm in; oh, it's almost like being in love." I remember so many times that he sang, squeezed her hand, made her laugh, made us all laugh. I know when she gently passed, the first thing her spirit heard was her beloved Bill's voice singing the song as if on cue.

"She's with him now, Mom," I said.

"I hope so. I have to believe it, that he's there, reaching out to hold her hand," she said softly, her voice catching.

"Oh, I think he's been holding her hand since long before she passed."

"And now she gets to hold his."

We love you, Grammie. We miss you. Give Gramp our love.

Belated Merry Christmas

There were really only two things I wanted for Christmas, neither of which I could ask anyone for: my grandmother to make it through, and my sister to make it home.

We got them both.

I won't go into too much detail, because it's not my story, it's hers, but Julie and her husband's assignment in the war zone ended safely and they got home in time for a huge family Christmas in Florida. And my grandmother was there to see it, continuing to beat the odds, having now gone two months beyond the end of her 4-6 month prognosis given in March. The entire clan -- husbands and all -- was together for the first time at Christmas, and we had an amazing time laughing together and diving into presents and playing tiring games of tag with the little ones in which the main rule seemed to be, "Run around and tag people at random, regardless of who is It or what that really means."

Maddie is as boisterous and buoyant as ever, getting a particular kick out of this ball of goo that was actually a present for Leah. We played numerous games of Uno, in which Maddie would lay all the cards out in front of her and then get so excited about "sneaky cards" -- Skips and Reverses and Draw Twos and Wilds -- that she'd try to play them regardless of whether she technically could. Once, I pointed out that she couldn't, and she sighed, "DAMMIT! D'oh!" Alison jumped about three feet and then we all started laughing uproariously. We figured, the first time could be considered funny, and the second time might warrant actually discussing with her that choice of expletive. There wasn't a second time while we were there, so I guess Alison gets to deal with that one without our help. Another time, Maddie turned to me, her eyes wide as saucers and deadly serious, and whispered, "You know what? If I win, that means that NOBODY ELSE CAN WIN!" Trying not to giggle, I responded, "That's a good strategy, then." She nodded, "YEAH!"

Lauren is an endless ball of energy even though she's not tremendously chatty, and seeing the two of them play together is so cute, because they're great at sharing even when they occasionally get frustrated because they want the same toy. Their good natures win out every time. And Lauren totally adores her older sister Leah, always jumping up in the middle of something to trot over and see what Leah's up to, and sometimes watch over her shoulder for a few minutes, before going back over to what she had been doing.

I think Kevin came home wishing that I could give birth to a 4-year old, like, right now. They went to the park, they went to Chick Fil-A (a favorite with the kids), they played with a plushy-toy puppet show and jammed on the kids' new fake instruments, and he even let them crawl up on to his lap while he played his Nintendo DS. They were fascinated by Elite Beat Agents, where you're an elite team of heroes who dress in tuxedos and sunglasses and you help them dance to the beat while they save the world. Each level has a movie with it that tracks your success. It's hilarious and cheesy and fun -- like Dance, Dance, Revolution, but with a stylus and some hysterical Anime -- and the kids were enthralled.

The hot lady in the portrait is my grandmother, by the way.

Mostly, I just loved having Kevin around to enjoy our family traditions -- bangers and mash on Christmas Eve, a viewing of Blackadder's Christmas Carol, Cadbury's Roses on Christmas morning -- and he even got in on some of the snarky stuff. For instance, he knows I always put ribbons from my presents onto my person, and yet he NEVER uses ribbons when he wraps. Not even with a giant bag of them in the wrapping area Mom set up, staring him in the face with its tempting bows. So I goaded him about it, and this is what I got:

Figures. I guess I asked for it. And I was up to the challenge -- any one of them with enough tape to stick to me, I put it somewhere visible and left it for as long as I could.

I fear NOTHING, Kevin. Certainly no ribbon you can throw at me. BRING IT ON.

And yes, that IS a pizza hat on my head. Lauren took it off and without her, Maddie had no complement to her hot-dog hat. I HAD to fill the void. It's my job as an aunt.

It was exactly what I needed in a holiday: a full house full of love and laughter and chaos and great cooking. Life is going to change; it always does. Maybe by the time we get around to sharing Christmas with my family again -- 2009 would be their year -- everything will be different, and we won't get that big group gathering. And that's okay. That's life. Kevin and I are a new family, and we're hoping to expand someday, and when that happens we'll have to start putting our unit first. Our parents will become The Grandparents. We won't get the regular comforts of holidays with them every year. We'll become the head of a family rather than merely part of it, and the giant gatherings will probably peter out because of budgets and logistics. Geography will get in the way like it never has before. It's one of those really hard milestones in life that happens for good reasons -- having kids, growing our lives -- but is a tough change nonetheless.

So I'm unbelievably grateful that Kevin and I each have had a big Christmas with our families since we got married. This year, I thought it was just going to be me and him, my parents, and my grandmother, and you know what? That would have been great. I'd still have gotten to curl up on the couch with my mother by the light of the tree and smile on the ornaments she still puts up on there, which paint a picture of everywhere we've been together and how far we've come. But having my two sisters, their husbands who are basically brothers to me, and the three kids... it really lit things up, and gave us an amazing memory. More importantly, it gave my grandmother one more time to be one of four generations of women in the room. She's finally met all our husbands. She knows we're all in good hands, we're growing up, we're happy. Maybe it won't be the last time we all get a perfect week like that, but odds are, it will. And I'm thrilled and emotional that everything I wanted for Christmas, I got -- and got to share.

Mounting Nerves

I could eat cashews all day. All day. If I were sending a care package to myself, I'd stick a tub of cashews in there with a note reminding me to chew.

With Julie heading off soon -- a week early; now she's going on June 25 -- I need to come up with some fun care packages for her. A friend of hers is already all set with a list of hair products to send in an emergency. I think Julie might have sent a box of them ahead already with what she guesses is enough to get her through her time there (the desert heat is murder on a girl's curls), but we need to be prepared just in case. And I'm in charge of making sure she gets a healthy supply of gossip magazines.

I'm not sure what else to send her. Maybe some CDs, or the occasional DVD, although Amazon will deliver to them (those dudes can find you anywhere; they're like the tax man). If anyone has any suggestions, she and I would both welcome them.

They're leaving on the 25th, a week earlier than planned. My parents headed out there today and I'm going on Thursday to spend one last weekend. There is something really surreal about having conversations with your mother that are nothing but ellipses pregnant with horrible thoughts.

"Flights are really expensive... but if I don't go, and something... "

"Right, if she goes and she doesn't... it's..."

"I know, and I mean, I could see her when she gets back, but that's..."

"True, and she wouldn't want you to come just because... especially if it's expensive..."

"But I don't know if I can handle it if..."

Finally, my mother said, "... if she goes and doesn't come back."

We're trying not to focus on that, but it's hard. We're not a military family. We aren't accustomed to these kinds of farewells. We have a harder time trusting that it's all going to be okay, no matter how many times we remind ourselves that going over there isn't a death sentence. Plenty of people live, we tell ourselves. No reason she won't be one of them.

And in the meantime I'll just take my job of care packages as seriously as I can. Frankly, nothing says, "I miss you and I hope you are not being shelled" quite like Us Weekly.

A Rosy Outlook

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Originally uploaded by hcocks.

There isn't one for my grandmother, so much; she's apparently got the heart of a 50-year old but for one junky valve, and at 95 her cardiologists have deemed her too old for the surgery to repair it, which is risky anyway.

The hospital in Naples offers a great e-greeting service where you can send photos and a message through their Web site, and they'll print it out and deliver it to her room. Mom had been telling her all about our roses, I decided to send some pictures. Since news of Grammie's condition has trickled in all week, the roses have burst forth bigger and brighter; I think they're inspired to try and be as beautiful as she is.

Not So Good News

My mother caught a red-eye back to Florida last night to escort Grammie to the hospital -- apparently, at her checkup with her doctor, he wanted her to go to the hospital immediately to start a course of blood thinners. He thinks her faint spells are caused by a weakened aorta he diagnosed a while back, which he is loath to fix surgically because the risks that she'll die from that are so much greater than the risks of the heart giving out. "It could well have another 5 years in it," he said. "You might live to see triple digits."

Hopefully that's still true. She wanted to wait until Mom returned to go into the hospital -- "If I'm going to cock up my toes, then I want at least one of my children with me," she told my uncle, half-morbidly and half-hilariously -- but her doctor was upset at that idea, saying she risked a stroke. So she called my uncle, not wanting to disturb Mom's trip out here, and he arranged to fly out and arrive this afternoon. Mom, though, unable to sit around twiddling her thumbs, realized she needed to be there (and she's used to being there, since they live two hours away from each other), and arranged a similar flight. It sounds like there might be other issues cropping up -- Grammie's feeling flutters in her heart -- and so we're all just bracing ourselves for the worst while hoping for the best. Mom arrived safely and checked Grammie in, so now, we're just biding our time until there's new information.

Hopefully the blood thinners will do the trick, but when you're 95, nature just takes its course sometimes and I think this was a sobering reminder for her and my mother and her siblings that my seemingly indomitable grandmother can't go on forever.

Mixed News

Sure enough, my parents got in touch that night -- they're fine, they're well on their way, and they'll be here around lunchtime tomorrow.

They did have some sobering news, which is that my grandmother is experiencing the odd fainting spell here and there. Two, to be exact -- one that my mother thought she'd told me about but didn't, and another one the other day, during which she slid gently to the floor and was out for two hours. Her doctor answered the first by reducing her blood-pressure medication and the second by taking her off it altogether. Apparently she sounds fine, and my mother doesn't seem to think she needs to fly off and be there just yet (she would, if she felt it necessary), but I think this is just another step in a slow bracing of herself, and ourselves, for the fact that our sassy 95-year old Grammie won't be around forever.

Which is hard for Julie, because she just got confirmation that -- pending certain certifications and physicals -- she and her husband are headed to Iraq in a few months. I'm both proud of her and scared for her. Given the environment in which they work, it's natural to feel it's time to step up and try and be part of a solution over there, but it's also an incredibly brave and difficult decision. Before we knew about Grammie, Julie said to me yesterday that the thing she worries about most is not being able to come back if something happens to her and Mom needs her family around her. Hearing this is going to exacerbate those nerves. I think we're all a little scared and kind of shell-shocked that the deployment is actually happening -- not Julie, really, who seems fine, but me and Mom. And probably Dad. It'll hit us as we inch closer. It might even hit her. How any of us are going to handle what's coming for Julie is really a mystery. All we can do is focus on the positive -- that someone good, smart, and incorruptible is standing up and pitching in to that complex situation -- and try to stop from fearing the worst.

If only that were easy.

The Long U-Haul

Presumably my parents are on their way to L.A. to see the new house.

I say "presumably," because I've been unable to locate them, and they haven't contacted me, despite the fact that they're rolling to California from Florida IN A U-HAUL, and maybe it might make sense to check in and let their kids know that a) they're still speaking; b) they didn't roll the damn truck over on the highway; c) they are not in comas somewhere; d) when they expect to arrive.

Naturally, my parents don't have voice mail on their cell phones -- "Oh, our phones can't do voice mail," Mom says, despite the fact that I've explained to her five times that I used to have that phone, and it did, and that when I call it now, it invites me to leave a message that I know my parents will never retrieve because their phones "don't work that way," so it indicates the presence and availability of a mailbox all her own -- so I have to resort to leaving them aggrieved notices on their home voice mail. Which is going through its own suspicious period of not acting normally, like when I call and the message I know my father recorded years ago and which has always answered my calls suddenly is replaced with a vague greeting by a random computery man. I got Dad's voice once in the last six days, but that's it, so I'm half afraid to leave a message in case an anonymous elderly gent returns it and starts telling me that he's doing fine, thank you, except for the incontinence and crippling gas, and when would I like him to come visit me in L.A.?

The weird part is, this is not typical of them. My mother is religious about checking in, and sending off emails to the kids when they're about to head off on a trip, and given that they provided only a vague arrival date, it's unusual that they wouldn't give a progress report. Not to mention that if I hopped in a rented truck and toted some really heavy furniture 3,000 miles from my home with no real idea when or where I might stop for the night, I'd get excoriated for not calling to explain where I was and how alive I was or was not. Indeed, I'd have a raft of messages like, "Hi, it's Mom calling -- I'm going to assume you're fine, since we haven't heard from you, but we thought it might be nice to find out where you ARE, so perhaps you could give us a call..." Or, my Dad's style: "Heath, it's Dad. Your mother would really appreciate it if you called."

So, mother, I would appreciate it now if YOU would call ME very soon.

The funny thing about this trip is, my family was never a road-trip clan. Not since our trip to Cornwall when I was six did we pack up the car and go on a vehicular holiday, and that was the first and last attempt. You'll be pleased to know it was my carsickness that put the kibbosh on these outings, or so I assume; it was never directly said, but I am guessing my mother figured that one trip in which I vomited inside and outside of the car and all over my Cabbage Patch Kid -- resulting in mom having to wash her and douse her in Chanel No. 5 in order to get any of the smell to dissipate -- was one trip too many. So we'd do sightseeing tours around England, driving to Bath or Stratford or what have you, and my father would happily cram us in the car for a day at Goodwood Racecourse, but that was it. Except for the two-hour minor trips to stay with my grandparents in Naples, but that's nothing.

Now, though, my dad has decided he hates flying unless it involves crossing an ocean (all I can figure is, he prefers the larger planes they use on those routes). So he avoids it unless he's forced. They drove their cars to Florida from Houston when they moved, they have the northern route to Maryland down to a science, and now they are ALLEGEDLY heading West with my piano and my Bar Billiards table in the back of a truck that's uncomfortable and unwieldy. My father sounded totally excited about it; I could tell when he said, "I'm rather looking forward to it." My mother, less so -- which I could tell when he continued, "Your mother is perhaps slightly less enthusiastic."

But they're doing me a favor, saving me astronomical shipping fees, so I can't be too churlish -- but, seriously, PICK UP A PHONE. I am certain their phones are dead and they're not looking at them and/or they forgot the chargers at home -- a common refrain, along with, even when they DO have the chargers, "I don't like to keep the phone on because it runs the battery down," even though we have no way of REACHING them if they don't leave the damn phone on BECAUSE OF THE AFOREMENTIONED LACK OF VOICE MAIL OH MY GOD CAPS LOCK.

All of which has me a tad worried about them. I hope they're okay. I have no idea how long it would take the authorities to find one of us, especially since it's not like my parents even know their mobiles have an address book that can store contact information in it. I'm a bit terrified that they just won't ever show up at all. What then?

So I figure, the quickest way to induce a call is to start rambling at length about how they haven't called. Come on, Mom and Dad. Take the bait. TAKE IT.

Saving Julie's Kitchen

Julie hates being the center of attention, so aside from the wedding itself giving her daily aneurysms, she really was a trifle nervous about having a wedding shower. (And it'd be two in a row; this coming weekend, she's off to Detroit for a shower thrown by her future mother-in-law.)

First, though, there was a dress fitting, and I cannot aptly describe how stunning she looked in the gown. It already almost fits, other than the length and some bodice tamping-down that needs to happen; because most of the details of the elegant dress are in the front and in two folds on the side, the back is very simple, so she's doing a chapel-length veil with little rhinestones scattered sparingly throughout, to add interest. She also got a lovely tiara that's just tall enough that we are now under obligation to call it a crown. Julie has mounds of beautiful curly hair and she needs something significant on top of it. So from that to the shoes to the veil to the dress... we were all misty, and I was so proud. Her face shone the second she came out in the gown.

The shower itself was a kitchen/recipe shower, where everyone had to bring recipes -- as easy as possible -- to save the otherwise hopeless kitchen of these two. To illustrate how little she does in the kitchen: at her friend's upcoming shower that is of the same theme, Julie's signature recipe is going to be a card that says, "Call this number. Ask for pizza of certain size with toppings of your choice. Wait 45 minutes and then eat while hot."

Mom gave her a photo album she could store the new recipes in, along with pics from the shower itself, and some cute recipe cards for any future recipes she uses on her own (most of which will be, "Hot Dog Sandwich," and "Lima Beans With Hot-Dog Sandwich"). One girl gave her a pasta dish and some appropriate utensils, as well as all the non-perishable ingredients involved in her signature recipe. Tina gave her an Easy-Bake Oven. Julie said, "Hooray, I can play with this with my nieces!" To which someone responded, "Oh, good, you're making THEM cook for you now?" 

We scrapped games, although her pal Tina came up with a funny idea for one based on that episode of Friends where Chandler and Joey win the apartment from Monica and Rachel because they're stumped by the question, "What does Chandler do?" She wanted to write a quiz about Julie that included the doozies, "What was the topic of Julie's doctoral thesis?" and "What does Julie do?", but we ultimately decided that a) the former question was too easy for me, as I proofed the thing, and b) the latter, nobody should know, because she has top-top security clearance and therefore can't tell us what she does. So we nixed it in favor of doing more drinking and eating. There was spinach and artichoke dip (the recipe from Houston's, a chain whose Georgetown branch they all frequented in college after they discovered this piece of heaven), curried cous-cous, tiny roast beef sandwiches on fresh-baked tiny rolls, baked brie, and these amazing stuffed mushrooms packed with bacon. Dessert was cheesecake, a chocolate fountain, chocolate-drizzled popcorn, and these Oreo truffles that a friend of Alison's made as a part of her candy company. We gave away chocolate-dipped pretzels from the same lady, along with pink bags of smaller candies and a pink spatula.

She seemed to have a blast watching us mingle with the women in her fiance's family who were able to come, all while old college pals and work friends filtered through the apartment. Once it thinned out, we started reminiscing about the times some of her Georgetown pals came to visit us in Florida, both in Miami and Sarasota, and all the hijinks and hangovers that ensued. My personal favorite story: When the eight of them came for New Year's in Sarasota, we were all wrecked each morning from walking to the bars the night before; one girl, Christine, was bedridden in the guest room. At one point, through her moaning, she caught sight of a crucifix on the wall and started staring at it because she didn't have the energy to move her gaze anywhere else. After gazing at it for several seconds, it leapt off the wall apropos of absolutely nothing, crashed to the floor and broke off the arm of Jesus in the process. The family howled at what that might mean -- Jesus, heaving himself off the wall in an effort to make a statement about our debauchery, perhaps trying to save us from ourselves. Or, merely so offended by our revelry that he couldn't bear to look upon us any longer.

Somehow the crux of the crucifix got sent to Christine but the arm ended up elsewhere; Tina found it among her things and wrapped it up and gave it to my mother, along with a note that outlined the Myth of Leaping Jesus, and how we are always to pass the arm along among anyone who was there that December, based on who needed his miracles or his special airborne brand of stern, restorative disapproval.

In all, the shower managed to be another one of those times that proves a person's family isn't just comprised of blood relatives, and it can be as big and as sprawling as your heart allows.

[Addendum: Per the comments on the last entry, I wanted to upload Maddie's song to YouTube, but it was given to me via Snapfish and I can't figure out how to save it -- right-clicking isn't working. So, it might have to be an Imagination Maddie Video.]

Hi, PTI!

Just got back from a nice trip out East for Julie's bridal shower, and a visit with my nieces. The Virginia foliage was stunning -- I love the DC area -- and those kids are so, so funny.

Leah, my 6-year old niece with autism and the sweetest smile you could ever hope to see, has developed the funniest passion: PTI, which stands for Pardon The Interruption, a show on ESPN with Tony Kornheiser (of recent Monday Night Football fame) and Michael Wilbon. Both are writers for The Washington Post, and they sit and shoot the breeze about a variety of sports topics, usually on a timer so they can get in as much as possible. [My favorite segment, though, is the Errors bit at the end, where a guy comes on and corrects them on anything they screwed up during the show.]

Anyway, Mike watches PTI, and Leah somehow caught it one day and decided that she loves it beyond all things. When they really do go on a serious timer, they show a graphic that elicits from her an excited, "It's CLOCK TIME!" And when they go to the mailbag, she shouts, "Mail time! Mail time! Mail time!" She adores the Cincinnati Bengals because the mascot is a dancing tiger -- Kevin is distressed about this, but I told him that until the Steelers can offer up something more exciting, he's going to have to live with it -- and she will speak to the show as if it is her best friend. When it comes on, she says, "Hi, PTI!" When she's called away to dinner, she says, "I have to go to dinner, PTI!" Her adoration of the show is so potent that when she's misbehaving, Alison and Mike respond by denying her PTI; this is seriously the quickest way to get her back on the rails. It's hilarious.

Lauren has decided not to talk around adults, probably because she has always been the slightly shyer of the twins (who turned three in June), and they're in school so the teacher is always hoping to get her to be chatty. We think she's responding to that by playing a little silence game.

Maddie, however, never stops talking, and takes great joy in making pronouncements: "That's my red crayon!" "Hey, look -- I'm over here!" "There we go!" She also really enjoys responding to things in the affirmative: "Do you like beer, Maddie?" "Yeah! Except I don't like beer!" That whole situation was cute. We took the twins out for lunch, and they were leaning over the wall of the booth and staring around the restaurant. I asked if they saw anything they liked, and Maddie replied, "Yeah! I see beer!" I said, "Hooray, beer!" And she replied, "Everybody loves beer! Daddy loves beer!" And that's what prompted the other exchange. Which then ended with me asking her who else liked beer, and whether she thought I liked beer. Maddie looked at me, scrunched up her nose, furrowed her brow, and then broke into a big knowing smile and said, "Yeah. You like beer!"

It's always very healthy to have your three-year old niece discussing beer with you in public. Much as it was delightful when I accidentally and completely innocently taught her to say the phrase, "Yay, bonking!" I'm a really fantastic aunt. Truly. Although I did get Maddie to stop squalling at bedtime about the yellow top on her milk (she wanted red -- everything has to be red) by telling her that it was Imagination Red, and that if she closed her eyes she could pretend it was as red as she wanted. She seemed to love that: "I'm going to imagine it's red! It's imagination red!"

Maddie, in case you hadn't noticed from my italics everywhere, is a big fan of emphasis.

It stinks to be far from them because I get out there and I make all these good inroads, and then I leave just as fast as I arrived and they slowly start to forget again. I mean, they know who I am, but they'll forget that we had fun and that they like and trust me, and so when I turn up the next time we'll still have to do the delicate dance of getting them comfortable. But they are awfully adorable. And exhausting! They alternately get my biological clock ticking like mad, and slow it down to the point that it's going backward.