R.I.P.

It’s over. My sister and I both didn’t know what to expect or what we were going to do...but as with all things, we got through it. My two cousins, sister, brother-in-law and step aunt got in the same little row boat we’ve used for both aunt and uncle ash spreading, went out on the ocean, spoke a little bit, spread some ashes, I played the song. I said that life with my mother was a wild ride, one that sometimes you didn’t want to be on, but in the end I thanked her for making me possible, and thereby making Bobby and Theo possible. 

I remember when I was caring for newborn Bobby and couldn’t stop thinking about how she had done all these things for me - carried me, birthed me, nursed me, wiped my butt a thousand times, had sleepless nights, endured hormonal shifts and vaginal tearing and all the rest of it. I can be as mad at her as I want, but she did all those things. And for that I am truly thankful. 

After we went back to shore a wicked thunderstorm started up along with gale-force winds that positively soaked my cousin’s small beach cottage. The rain was enough to fill a tall bucket in under a half hour. Then it passed and we had this lovely rainbow. It was very fitting, I thought. 

Grief is inconvenient

I’m in Boston. Tomorrow I get up and bury my mother. Sigh.

I’ve had episodes of grief and near panic about this, and then it passes, and then it comes back. Will I feel better once it’s over, once we have jettisoned her ashes to the Boston Bay along with her sister and brother-in-law? Once I’ve done the last - and only, for a long time - thing I have to do for her? Once I’ve had the last day that gets to be all about her? Does it get to be about me, now? Ah, The Song of the Child of the Narcissist. Sing it louder and we can all dance to it. 

I arrived last night and had lots of crazy dreams, mostly about her, of course. At one point I became very warm and was convinced she was visiting me. I felt her love for me, utterly enveloping. But even in the dream I was fighting it. “That’s all bullshit. It’s a nice fantasy, but no.” Her consciousness is gone, as is her human form. She knows nothing but that she is dead. Selah. 

I carry her genes, her blood, her mannerisms, her attitudes about things (for better or worse). On stage tonight I couldn’t help but think about how much my voice sounds like hers, how I’m doing this entirely because of her influence, how the countless times I watched her perform no doubt seeped into me, affecting every look and movement that I like to think are authentically mine. They’re not. 

Maybe some day my boys will fight my influence - maybe they’ll be proud of it. I feel both, really. Bobby is already so me it’s a little scary. Theo, like all younger siblings, automatically gets the freedom to create his own thing, and does with relish. Oh, let’s hope I don’t alienate them with my selfishness the way she did me.

I don’t want to be sad - sad feels helpless; lost. I feel more comfortable being angry because it feels empowering. I’m angry that she let this happen to her - isolated herself far away, clung to foolish beliefs, let herself die slowly and in a ghastly manner. I feel like you don’t have the right to do things like that if you’re a parent. I would never put my boys through that - having to find me, figure out all my shit with zero roadmap, left with no note or explanation or apology...fuck that. What she did sucks. And we get to carry that forever, and someday I have to explain to her grandchildren what happened to her...the same way she explained to me that her grandmother died in a sanitarium after repeated suicide attempts. Good times! 

I had hoped to write something to say tomorrow but I haven’t been able to do it. I picked a nice Blossom Dearie version of the song Some Other Time to play (I didn’t think I could make it through singing it); beyond that I don’t really know what I’m going to do or say. 

Here I am at this joyful Lindy Hop event full of love and youth and community, and yet I have to go do this dark thing tomorrow. It feels so out of place and fills me with dread, like prying open a coffin. 

I hope I can get through it and feel relief. This is the only thing required of me for her, ever again. I can suck it up for a day and try to remember the good times (there were many) and try to purport myself like a respectful young (?) lady. I owe her at least that. Hold the good thought for me, would you? 

WWJJD

I started with my personal trainer last Wednesday and have worked out independently twice since, as was required. Right now we’re mostly doing a little light weight training, something I’ve never done in my entire life. Like so many women I focus on working my legs and losing weight, not getting strong. But I’d like to try something new. 

And it’s been really interesting, how I feel about lifting weights. It’s all about the story we tell ourselves, isn’t it? Right now I like the idea of being a strong, kickass woman who lifts weights in the gym with a bunch of guys half my age. This appeals to me. In my mind I’m channeling my idol, Joan Jett. “Do ya wanna touch me there? Yeah? Yeah? Yeah!!!”

Will I keep up with it? Who knows. But I do find it very meditative and empowering, much like knitting. Until my event is over the time requirements may be a problem. But I am motivated. So that’s something. 

What Would Joan Jett Do? I think she would lift weights and kick ass. That’s what she’d do.

In other news, my registration system kicked over...and it was a huge mess, because my business partner sent an email to all my attendees telling them about the switchover before I’d really had a chance to check it over, which caused a mass panic when people found contests missing and the wrong event pass on their account. Between Friday and Sunday I was swamped with freaked out emails; we had to do a re-import of all the data, and I had to manually check each of 400 registrations from our opening day to make sure everyone got what they paid for. I believe I’ve found most of the problems...but there’s no escaping that the event weekend is going to be a bit of a cluster-f after all this. I can’t go into my event with any confidence that the information I have is correct, which is terrifying. But...it is what it is. My staff knows to be understanding and just give people what they think they paid for; keep the customers happy. We’ll survive this, and then next year will be so much better.  But yeah. It was a tense few days. 

Had a weekend of birthday parties for the boys’ friends and baby showers. I’m so relieved the boys like their summer camp. We had a nice dip in the hot tub last night in which I watched in amusement while they took turns doing different jumps based on Captain Underpants and told each other, “oooh, that’s cool!” As much as there is often whining, tattling and shadenfreude involved, they do have a really good relationship. I’m very proud of that.

Thursday I leave for Boston for my annual singing gig and also to bury my mother. I’m dreading it, but I suppose I need the closure, since my mother’s death, for me, has been largely theoretical. Is this where I finally freak out and become non-functional? I suppose it’s possible, but not probable. I’ll bring some weights. And my knitting. Hopefully those will get me through. 

Camping, part II

Camping part two is completed. This weekend we went to Lake Cachuma with two other families, for a total of five adults and eight kids. All the new devices I bought, plus the separate tent for the kids, worked out great. Also, it not raining or freezing this time was a big plus.

It was a bit of a game changer - the other two families had invested in pop-up campers, so we were the only ones in tents. I was tempted by the idea of getting one, too, but there are a lot of variables. One, I just put a huge amount of money into all this camping gear that we’ll never use again if we get a camper. Two, we have nowhere to put it, although storage could be an option (for a fee). Three, we don’t know for sure that the BF’s car could safely tow a camper long distances. But. It sure would be fun, and open up a whole world of pulling up by a beach and just hanging out there for a weekend which we couldn’t do with tents (although we could piggyback on our friend’s camper with a tent by the beach). We could also just rent a camper, which is probably more practical. 

This is entirely unchartered territory for me. The world of tow hitches, boats, fishing, campers...these were things I did with other people’s families when I was a kid; my struggling single mother could never have had the wherewithal to do these kinds of things. And the reality is...I probably wouldn’t be doing them with my kids if I were single, either. It reminds me of how the world is your oyster just because you have a partner, and how restricted you are in your movements when you’re single, and that sucks. 

Now, I hit the ground running this week with work stuff. Also, tomorrow I meet with a personal trainer at my Y in yet another attempt to slim down. It’s one thing I’ve never tried - real working out - and I need guidance. Maybe putting toning up and getting strong before weight loss is the ticket for me...? Who knows. La lucha continua.

The boys had a blast playing with the other kids this weekend. It’s pretty special when you think that I met their parents twenty years ago through Swing dancing and now our kids are friends and building memories together. I’m so glad I get to be a part of that. 

It’s complicated

I’m in the airplane about to leave New York to return to LA. I’m having very complicated feelings about it.

To say this visit was magical would be a bit of an understatement. On top of two very special singing gigs, I spent long hours after midnight walking miles around the city with headphones on, taking it all in; and also had a couple of very intense, emotional visits with old friends. 

When it comes to New York, I’m now an outsider looking in - it’s been nearly 27 years since I left; the place is not recognizable to the New York I knew in the 80s, with its ten-pak token baggies, less-than-charming urban blight, and still standing Twin Towers. Dirty old New York is long gone. And yet...every once in a while you catch a soft whisper of it. The smell of a linden tree. The patina of a sidewalk with 200 years of grime on it. The caress of a warm almost-summer night, a phenomenon unknown to the desert I now call home. And it all caused me to be overcome with terrible, crushing longing.

But...longing for what? I have no desire to live there ever again. I love the life I’ve built for myself, and the new culture I’ve adopted. I am not a New Yorker. I don’t want to be young again, with all the misery and uncertainty my young life had. So, why the tears?

In a book I’m reading the writer says our brain thinks of the things we love as ourselves. So to my brain my children are me, as is my boyfriend and my sister and my event and band members. For all the intense devotion and love I poured into that city during my formative years, I suppose my brain thinks that New York in general, and the East Village in particular, is, in fact, me. To re-connect with me after years of absence is bound to be profound. How could it not be?

My oldest friend, a gay man I worked with at a video store after high school, and I had dinner and then found ourselves wandering to the East Village for ice cream. We talked about our toxic mothers, aging, how we were the Throw Away Kids. And how we’ve overcome and thrived. I mentioned half-joking how I was considering getting a tattoo of the “the party’s over” graffiti symbol which was everywhere in that neighborhood in the 80s - it was an anti-corporate, anti-1%, anti-gentrification symbol that so perfectly summed up the rebellion and street sensibility and sheer anarchy of those days. It seems more relevant now than ever. And it is me. He said DO IT. I just might. 

For now I’m going to try to come to terms with the fact that, as much as I tried to push it away - to my brain, anyway, New York is me. Immigrants all over this world know this reality - you are of two places; your heart will be forever split. My boyfriend, and my children, all native Californians, will never know the melancholy pull of the birthplace. The Brazilians sum it up so well with their term saudade - bittersweet longing. It’s terrible and beautiful and sad and lovely all at once. 

I’ve had a profound experience this weekend. It will take some time to fully weed through, and I may not ever entirely understand it. But I’m grateful for it.

Last days and June haze

Ah, June in Southern California. Haze, chill, and general moodiness, a brief respite before we’re plunged into triple-degree hell until Halloween.

I find I’m listening to Morrissey and knitting a lot more.

Monday I returned from my first-ever trip to Germany. We played a large event in the quaint town of Heidelberg. The event was delightfully young and fresh and had a progressive LGBTQ-positive vibe. There were lots of non-binary folx and same sex dance partnerships. So different from our stodgy, “I like to swing dance because I wish it were the good old days” middle-aged US bullshit. God bless those young people and their open minds and gender/orientation fluidity. God bless them, every one. 

Two days at home and then late tonight I leave for NY. It’s a bit stressful and I think most of us band members are kicking ourselves for agreeing to this tight schedule...but it’ll be ok. This morning I dropped Theo at his little neighborhood school for the last time. It’s weird to think I’ll never go to that place, ever again, after being there every day for almost a year. As if to solidify my feelings of sadness/guilt about leaving the school after only one year, as we were walking in an older Latina lady looked at Bobby and asked why he didn’t go there, and I said he goes to a different school. She then asked if Theo was going to stay here and I said no, he’d go to his brother’s school next year...she asked why, didn’t I like this school? It’s a very good school! I tried to explain that when B started his other school we didn’t even know about this one...in the end she seemed satisfied when I said the other school was closer. Someone told me last week that they’re discontinuing the ETK program there due to low enrollment. And despite my best efforts, Measure EE, a parcel tax meant to fund schools (result of the teacher’s strike, no doubt), failed to pass yesterday. Feeling all kinds of sad, weird, guilty feelings right now.

Also, hi, PMS!

Also, about to watch Season 3 of The Handmaid’s Tale. I guess I’m a glutton for punishment. 

Also, hot Dutch guy we met for lunch in Germany is private messenging me saying how much he enjoyed meeting me. Ha. I have no intention of going to the party, but it’s nice to be invited, ain’t it?