Caterwauling

It’s another awesome day. Truly.

Been a great week, actually.

Still busy as all get-out. But I have never been one to complain about that. (Other than the whole never being able to get a break thing.)

But now that I have seen that I can get a break, I have a whole new perspective. I love that I can even say “oh hey, now that I’m BACK …” because it means I left.

In any event, rather than waxing poetic about how beautiful Stockholm is in the fall, I just want to say I had a very good interview today.

And as I have to clarify, since someone asked where *I* am interviewing, I may get another “boy” to add to “my boys.”

In fact, he actually said to me, “My goal is to be one of your ‘boys.'” Which, come on — wouldn’t you hire this guy on that fact alone?

In any event, he’s been around the block too and he said he’s never met someone in my position who knows so much ABOUT so much. Like, I see a lot of mutual respect and trust in our potential future as colleagues. And that’s very important to me.

I don’t think it was b.s. when he was paying me compliments. Which, trust me — (sincere) flattery will get you as far as I can possibly help you to get.

Then I identified a big problem, and my friends got together and solved it before anyone else noticed it. Which is kind of what we DO but it makes the day doubleplusgood.

I love this day and this week.

A really good cup of coffee. 

A fresh salad with grilled chicken and sweet mixed berries. 

The day under control amid a super-busy (yay!) week. 

Thoughtful debates with my two favorite analysts. 

I ain’t got nothing to complain about right in this moment. 

And that’s exactly the way I like it. 

May you have an equally fulfilling slice of zen in your world. 

Today was mom’s actual birthday. 59. With the health of a 103-year-old. 

She asked to join me to feed the ducks. Which I haven’t done in a few days. We have so many now. I buy seed in bulk but they’re starving. It’s never enough. She gets depressed about that, and I don’t want to deal. 

She must feel the same way when I mention certain names as I do when she talks about neighbors or ducks. 

She also wanted to come to the mailbox in our clubhouse. Naturally her friends are as useful as mine, as the usual suspects were absent as usual with their birthday cards. This after I fussed over her BFF just last week. 

Except …

There was a card from Uncle Tom. Sent Friday, pre-holiday weekend, so he could get it to her on her day. 

We sat at the pool and cried. He died Sunday as far as we know. Maybe sooner. 

And it was so hard for him to get to a mailbox at 86 with his health.  

But he did it. For her. 

If there’s a heaven, he’s in it. I thanked him for showing love to her when no one else did/has. 

She would murder me for taking this pic. She held onto his letter for an hour, unopened. It struck me when she said, there’s no one to send a thank-you to anymore. 

She thanked him for every note. She loved seeing his handwriting. And he came to worry if there was a delay in getting a note from her. Which was rare. Her etiquette is pretty impeccable. 

They were pen pals for 10 years. 

I don’t know if she’s opened that letter yet. I won’t ask. I’m just so happy she received it. 

Thank you, Uncle Tom. Love you bunches. Thank you for loving my momma so much. 

In case anyone thinks my frame of mind after losing Sia is any better, well. Enjoy that optimism of yours. So cute!

The Baltimore Sun did a very nice story on her. One of my boys sent it my way yesterday, along with a tribute one of her editors did in his newsletter. And I was gut-punched all over again.

This makes me understand the journalism scholarship thing. Again, not quite how I would have honored her. But I get it now.

Her name was all over the air yesterday, actually.

I found out that a mutual friend was with her when she passed. That’s quite comforting. Not only was she not alone, but that she was with such a good friend.

I thanked him for being there. I don’t know why; it sure isn’t my place to say. But she would have said it if she could. I’ve been kind of doing that, letting people know she loved them.

She was always so good about telling me how awesome she thought I was. You feel good when someone like her admires someone like you. I just want to share that as much as I can.

I sent our buddy my favorite photos of her. He appreciated it.

Funny how our worlds connected, even when it wasn’t us connecting.

That’s the thing these days, with the small field we are in and the wide world of social media. You don’t have to reach out and call (don’t ever call me — text me) anyone. You can simply ask someone else how they are doing … or go lurk on their walls and go away quietly with them never being the wiser.

I got up the courage to read some of our last conversations on Faceypages. My last words in my last message to her, sent earlier this summer, were “Love you more.”

I’m so glad that’s the last thing I said to her. I mean, I wish there were so many other things said. But as far as parting words go, I’m OK on our “love you, Goddess”/”love you more” as our final conversation.

Because every time some fool who can’t be bothered to:

• like any of my photos, 
• say something nice in my time of grieving, 
• send a thank-you card or 
• otherwise give a shit that I’m still alive 

But who can jump down my throat at the merest insinuation that Donald Trump is not our savior …

And not even on my wall but rather in someone else’s feed which was where I was playing with the smart people …

Well. 

Sorry not sorry, but I have to defriend ya. 

Mom is pissed. This happens often. Last week it was someone destroying me because I was thinking about all the nice girls I met at a rally eight years ago … And I hoped they are happy and well. 

But sure. If that’s anti-Trump and you’re offended, bring back my friend and go take her place on the other side. Please. 

Anyway.

Momma is like, these fuckers aren’t your fathers. And even if they were, fuck them for crapping on things that are important to you. 

It happens off Facebook too. I get to hear opinions I didn’t invite because I wasn’t offering my own. I can only smile so much in a damn day, you know. 

I asked mom if I were wrong in offering a thoughtful opinion like, say, Trump rallying his fans to perchance use their second amendment rights to justify, oh, violence against his opponent is not funny. 

Literally. That was my comment. I don’t find it funny. 

Burn me at the stake, why don’t ya. Maybe that was the era that America was so great. 

In any event, mom tells me I’m smart and well-read and have my own mind and I use it. Oh, and did she mention fuck them? Because, fuck them. 

I wish my mom were healthy and could live forever. Because the world needs more of her and fewer non-friends who treat my very neutral comments as a reason to crap on me like I’m their personal litterbox. 

Don’t mess with my momma, fuckers. Because then I will really be about to throw down. 

Peace out, losers. 

Dearest S.,

I know you were with me all day today. So I don’t have to type it all out.

You know the impromptu meeting that almost kept me from meeting your friends tonight. You also know that I never worked as fast as I did to make sure I made it on time.

We didn’t do that while you were alive. I wish we had. Excuse ourselves from the unimportant to enjoy the company of like-minded people.

I enjoyed everyone I met tonight. But, you know. Those days of instant and complete friendship like we had? That ship has apparently sailed. But I do like your newer friends. I thank you for bringing us together.

It’s Alex’s birthday, which you know. I reached out to him last night and we’ve typed a few times since. I thanked him for welcoming me into your home and for all the dinners, bottles of wine and conversations we all shared. The day is bittersweet for him. I told him you’d want him to not miss the sweet. I hope he’s listening to me.

He called me Goddess on every reference, like you did. I love you guys so hard right now. Always did, but you are truly living on … please know that.

Your other friends and I head-scratched over the scholarship thing. I had to ask what they thought. They all had the same puzzled reaction. One said pretty much what I typed earlier. “Sia wanted to save the world. I am not sure I would have arrived at ‘journalism scholarship.'”

Another said you were probably cringing at the obituary writing. We all agreed you would have edited it heavily. And we also agreed — they picked the most-beautiful picture possible to accompany it.

You know the rest. You know how I cried when C. told us about coming to your house for dinner. I told how your mom taught you and your sister to cook. How she called you both “Child.” C. told us how he got his apartment (um, you. Of course.) and I told how I gave you the name of that place. They asked how I knew you and I told all our stories from Rockville and beyond. At some point they also realized I hired Teresa too.

I’m pretty sure I earned rock-star status, for bringing you both into our world.

You guys are the rock stars. I am just really, really good at hiring. 🙂

Funny how we don’t often get to do what we excel at.

They told me what happened with your promotion. Utter and complete bullshit. No wonder you didn’t tell me.

Well, you know the rest. I will leave it at that.

The nice thing about this gathering is that everyone loved you. I know of one, or probably two because you just know that’s how it goes, who were so mean to you who are coming to the next event. I’m waffling between wanting to share your story and wanting to keep you all to myself in mixed company.

I know I’ll make the right decision when it comes time.

In any event, the wine is wearing off and there’s a surprise little project in my inbox. Again, something you’d understand and appreciate.

I’m beginning to realize you were the only one who could. Or did.

Love you,
Goddess

I saw that Sia’s former employer established a scholarship fund in her name.

It makes sense. She gave everything to them. It’s good that they can help her memory live on. It was the right thing to do. It’s more than most would do.

But …

A college scholarship? In the era of Bernie Sanders and “free college for everyone except you assholes still drowning in student debt 25 years after you graduated because you were unfortunate enough to borrow at a 10% interest rate”?

Also, it’s to sponsor aspiring writers. Because that’s what she wanted to be, they say.

Look.

I say this with love because that’s all I have in my heart for our girl and anyone else who loved her.

She and I both knew you can’t be a writer anymore. Everyone’s a writer now. Even with lousy grammar, poor sentence structure and this b.s. called FK scores that makes you dumb everything down so even a Trump voter can comprehend it.

Those of us who were classically trained have had to find niches. Health. Finance. Sports. Policy. You can write … but you’ll probably be subbing in for people who have the knowledge who can’t hold a conversation with a normal person without you as their translator.

You know how to honor her?

1. Raise a bunch of money and donate it to the people of Greece. The ones who are eating out of dumpsters because there are no jobs.

2. Help the pensioners whose whole families have moved back into their basements. Who now all have to make do with one meal a day because they suddenly have seven more mouths to feed.

3. Send a bunch of people into the Peace Corps and keep the volunteerism spirit alive. Have them build a village and name it after her.

She was going to join the Peace Corps, for those of you who didn’t know. I can’t remember the timing — I’m pretty sure it was after I was tossed from that last company and she was saddled with my job for her pay.

It was a total fluke that the job she DID take (and stay at for the next five years) opened up when it did.

She wasn’t going to apply because none of us are allowed to apply at competitors. I mean we are but we catch hell for it and who wants to jeopardize what you DO have in favor of something you might not get?

No wonder everyone’s a walking anxiety attack, when you put it that way.

Anyway. You want to honor that beautiful girl, you make the world a better place. We don’t need more writers. (Wait, yes, yes we do. < / weary editor here > )

We need more Sias. That’s what we need. Full of love and hope and deep thoughts and compassion for our fellow man.

Anyway.

Maybe, with that, I’m starting to see how I can best memorialize her.

Dear S.,

You’ve been gone a week today. I finally slept for the first night. Not for lack of being exhausted. But, you know. The neighbor finally needed to rest his evil head. 

That’s what’s in my head today. The absolute pieces of shit who live on while people like you die too young. Like the entire population of Braddock Beach save for mom, me and my new friend T. 

I think about how we both liked the same people and shared a violent distrust of certain others. It sucks losing you because you were one of the greats. The kind of people you have to import to Florida. One of the ones who leaves (I’m just referring to your return to Baltimore, just like Lady L did before you and T will soon do) because it’s just too weird here. And expensive. But mostly weird. And lacking in opportunity. 

Funny how most people aspire to move to a big city. We lived in big cities. Many of them. And we gravitated here. But the good ones don’t seem to stay. 

Speaking of, this summer it’s five years since Chip died. Managing editors are a near-extinct species. I need a job or at least a title change. Did I mention how impressed I was when you stood up and got the title and pay you deserved? My heroine. Honestly. 

Chip was another one who was fine and working one moment and was suddenly gone the next. 

I don’t think anyone outside our roles understands how much weight we carry. Including on our minds and hearts. If you think enough, the doing looks easier than it really is. 

Say hi to Chip when you see him. Share a cigar and laugh at my yam fits. 

In the friend circle, we are stunned that you had a “cardiac event” at age 31. Like maybe it was something else. 

But the pain in my heart when I think of you hurting … And, now that you’ve seen my real life from your new view, all the other things that destroy me from within and cause mounting anxiety … Makes your heart attack make sense. 

The difference is that you still went out and lived when you could. Not me. I live with the most anxious person on the planet and you know the rest. 

I think it’s time to do a will. I’ve been thinking about it for a few weeks. 

Maybe you know this where you are now — I was going to will my boxes of writings and my social media accounts to you. 

Can’t imagine there’s anyone else who would have had a modicum of interest in that stuff. Now I have no clue what to do with it all. I guess when there’s no one left to pay for my storage units, my life will all go in the trash literally as well as existentially. Maybe that’s not a terrible outcome.

Wish I had something of yours. I was thinking how I loved two of your necklaces. Christina and your mom should have those. Then I thought — ha — I should get your wine opener. 

Then I remembered, I gave you mine when you moved in with Diana. So I guess it’s only fitting that it keeps on traveling. 

Well sister, speaking of traveling, I imagine you’d rather be watching the Olympics than listening to me. Fly back to Rio safely. I know you are looking most forward to the soccer. Enjoy every last second of it!

Miss you, love. 

Goddess

Dearest S.,

I learned a new word today. Usually it would be you to teach me these things. And maybe you already know this Swedish saying. But lagom is something we never found.

Loosely (and I mean very loosely) translated, it means balance. Of having “just enough but not too much” of something.

Like, having just enough wine to dull the ache of another 16-hour workday. But not so much that we don’t appreciate all the flavors that went into that glass of joy. Or traveling just enough to satiate that wanderlust, but not so much that we miss home too much. To put it in our terms.

I think of how you lost your life as you were literally standing in line to board a plane back home from a foreign city you’d never visited before.

If what they tell me is true (and it’s amazing what we tell ourselves when we are grieving), you were gone pretty quickly.

If there was a way that you (or anyone, really) was “meant” to go — honey, you did it. You never wanted to go home. You enjoyed that last trip up to the last-possible second that it lasted. Everyone should go out that way.

Lagom, as I read it, referred back to the Vikings passing their booze around the campfire. They each took a draught — just enough — and left plenty for their pals.

Yes, socialist shit. lol. I swear I just heard you say that.

Now, I’m not saying that happiness is limited in this world. (Although it feels like there really isn’t enough to go around.)

But I think you took your share of happiness and pain. You had enough of both.

I wonder whether it’s the imbalance that keeps the rest of us alive. Until enough really is enough.

Speaking of enough, perhaps I have kept you here long enough with my letters to you. I do plan to type to you privately, about things I so desperately wish I could get your opinion on.

Or maybe I won’t. Maybe you had enough of all this and anything more would be too much.

That doesn’t mean I will forget you. It just means that Paris and Athens are high atop my must-do list now. I need to see the things firsthand that shaped you. You’ll still be my guide, I know it.

And, as always, I am only too happy to follow you wherever you want to take me next.

Love you bunches,
Goddess

Dear S.,

Your old boss (the good one. Well, I was pretty OK too, but you know who I mean) has written many a scathing memo about people who start off their stories with song lyrics.

Don’t tell bad stories, he writes. Tell interesting ones. Nobody knows your music, either. Get over yourself.

I will politely refrain from listing all the songs I’ve been listening to. (Although, “Seasons in the Sun.” You gotta admit the line about “too much wine and too much song” was totally us, right?)

I do have another musical interlude, though. This time, it was “your” song — or, at least, one of the ones I associate with you.

I got into the car late today. Turned on The Gater, as one does when one cannot stand another political discussion on NPR. And there was “Simple Man,” in its entirety. (My little Skynyrd fan …)

You and one of our editors bonded over that song. I bet he’s somewhere hearing it too and thinking of you. (Update: I had to go and crush his soul and be the one to tell him about you. He’s so sad now, too.)

Today is a better day for me, I guess, overall. I haven’t taken off my sunglasses since Sunday. My hair hasn’t seen the outside of a slew of colorful headwraps ever since, either. I keep forgetting to reply to people but you know what? When I do, they are gracious and kind and happy to hear back eventually.

There is good in this world. We found a whole lot of it in our circle. I forgot about that.

Milton saw me sitting outside looking sad. You know him — the sweet guy who works on cars next door to our work building. He offered to buy me a cold drink. Love that guy. I almost told him about you. But I didn’t want to shatter another smile today.

I don’t remember much these days (how many times did I have to walk back to my car this morning for my laptop and purse?). But I remember the right things that (sigh of relief) really weren’t long-forgotten.

It’s not just that I miss you — I have missed you for a long time now. It’s just a whole lot more palpable when the possibilities run out.

Thank you for sending me your song.

Sending hugs to your heaven,
Goddess