Archive for January, 2011

A week has passed since what would have been my Mom’s birthday.

I usually write on the anniversaries of the one’s that I have lost, particularly those of my parents. I don’t always write about them, but I always write. Last Sunday, I did not write.

I didn’t have to.
Someone else did.

My cyber-sister Annie Q. Syed wrote on my Mom’s birthday. I highly recommend that if you’re not familiar with Annie that you head on over to her home on the web and check out her work. Last Sunday, Annie posted one of her Still Sundays posts; a dedication each week of sorts, to the peace that only seems to come from waking before the light and experiencing the first soft sighs of a Sunday morning.

Annie’s post on the morning of January 23rd wasn’t about my Mom; it was Annie’s usual meandering mellifluousness. However, what I read there satisfied any need that I had to write for myself.

Serendipity is a reminder that it’s all connected. It doesn’t matter whether I am the ghost or am watching ghosts, it’s all connected. ~ a.q.s

Early this morning, I was rummaging through some of my Mother’s papers. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. I was just moving my fingers over the pen scratches on the various bits of paper that she had accumulated. A scrap here with a few words she wanted to look up; a rumpled bit with a few lines of poetry on it.

As I moved my hands through the notes of her life, an index card fell to my feet. I smiled. She carried index cards in her wallet at all times to capture her thoughts. Mostly, they’d have made no sense to anyone but her, and she was fine with that. I – quite happily – have inherited this trait from her.

I picked up the card at my feet and looked at the date.
It was dated the night she died.

I turned the card over in my hand while the memories of that night fell over me. She must have written it after I left her bedside. The handwriting was hers, and yet also not hers;  the drugs had already begun to take their effect. Though the handwriting may have been slightly unclear, the message certainly wasn’t.

Jack;
Hold me tonight as I fall asleep. Finally, my dreams will bring you back to me. I will see you soon. I love you.

It was signed only with a “D”, in Mom’s beautiful flourish.

It doesn’t matter whether I am the ghost, or I am watching the ghosts.
We are all connected.

Since it seems that anyone can do it, I believe that I shall declare myself to be a Social Media ROCK STAR! Yes, the words ‘rock star’ need to be capitalized if I’m planning on becoming a Social Media ROCK STAR! And no, you may not leave off the exclamation point at the end. The exclamation point is what makes it true. And important. Sheesh, don’t you know anything?

From what I can tell, there are really only two qualifications to become a Social Media ROCK STAR!

One, you must declare yourself to be a Social Media ROCK STAR! Well, that’s easy enough. I’m pretty sure I just did that. Or weren’t you paying fucking attention? Just for you, I’ll do it again… I. Am. A. Social. Media. ROCK STAR! Got that?

Two, you must be a complete douchebag. I might not have a lot of douchebag experience, but I learn quickly. I’m sure I can figure it out.

In order to facilitate my whole move to the state of douchbaggery, I shall do the following things:

As of this moment, every single person that follows me shall get an auto-dm explaining to them that I am, in fact, a Social Media ROCK STAR! and that I will help them reach new heights of awesome simply by doing nothing but using my auto-dm powers. I will also send this auto-dm to all my current followers. Just to reinforce my douche-factor.

Secondly, please take note that I will no longer be responding to any @ replies on Twitter. I am far too busy and important to deign to respond to you. One caveat. If you have more than a hundred thousand followers, I will not only respond, but I will re-tweet your ass like money falls out of it. That’s how we Social Media ROCK STARS! roll.

Lastly, my tweets will now become so much more valuable than yours, y’know because of my whole Social Media ROCK STAR! status.  Therefore, I shall be tacking on a ‘please RT’ to each and every motherfucking tweet. That’s right. You need to re-tweet that shit. Because I’m a fucking Social Media ROCK STAR! dammit, and what I say matters.

That aught to do it, I think. I don’t believe I’ve missed anything.

Oh, and for you people out there that will unfollow me because I have declared myself to be a Social Media ROCK STAR!?

Let me just say that I don’t blame you in the least.

I’d fucking unfollow me, too.

/rant.

I really don’t know why I’m about to write this.

It wasn’t the post I had planned on writing.  I had this whole other emotional post brewing for today, on account of my best friend’s divorce from her degenerate pervert of an ex-husband becomes final today.  But after what just happened, I know that even the best friend will appreciate this post more than talking about her degenerate pervert of an ex.

Especially since when it comes to laughing at me, she often laughs the loudest and longest.
Which, of course, is a right she’s earned over years of my laughing at her.
Like the time she showered with her underwear on.
Oh, sorry, Laur. Was that still supposed to be a secret?

Anyhow.

After a short but lovely sleep last night, I awoke a little earlier than I had wanted. But seeing as how I had to take white dog in for a groom, I figured I’d just throw the coffee on and try to stay awake for the hour or so that it would take to wait out his appointment time.

It went well. I dedicated a very loving song to my best friend.
I tweeted and facebooked.

And I had about half a cup of coffee.

I blame that last point for everything that is to come…

I got both hounds into the car, and tried to open the garage door. The garage door responded with a groaning, “fuck you”, opened approximately nine inches. That’s not enough for me to get my car out. I know, you needed me to tell you that, right? The worst part is that not only would it not open, but now it wouldn’t close, either.

So, I then did what any woman would do. I tried to open it again. About fifteen times. All to the same result. A nine inch fuck you. Which sounds all well and good until you remember that I’m talking about my fucking garage door.

A garage door that was now stuck nine inches open.

Luckily enough, I have a pull through garage. Opened door two, left, dropped off white dog, returned home, pulled into my now freezing garage. Looked at the stupid stuck-open-nine-inches garage door and tried to think like a man. I failed so miserably at that it’s not possible to measure it.

I thought, fine. I just need to get the fucking thing closed. So, I tried to close it with the button again. No go. Tried to pull it down manually. No way. Thought to myself, well… maybe if I can push the button AND try to pull it manually at the same time, I can get it down.

It was a good idea in theory. Motor power, plus my meager addition might get it past whatever was blocking it.

So, I pushed the button, and tried to get to the door before it hit the fuck-you point and went back up to it’s nine-inches off the floor resting point. Do I even need to tell you at this point that I didn’t make it in time? I tried again. And again. I don’t know how many times I tried to race the garage door.

Perhaps you should ask brown dog, because he seemed to think this was an awesome game.

If only there was something… anything… something that I could use that would allow me to be at the garage door when I hit the button so that I could be there in time to help close it. There must be something I could use… Some magical gadget that would come to my rescue in this, my time of great need…

You know…

Like the fucking remote opener in my fucking car?

*ahem*

The garage door is closed now.

Cartoon at top of post drawn by the super-talented Hugh McLeod at Gaping Void.
Visit. Enjoy. Purchase.