A New Day...This Is What I Know

Dear Peeps, 

When I was a kid, I did a great impersonation of Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World."  I used to do it to crack up my bestest little friends, the sisters.  I can still crack them up with it if I work really hard, I'd bet.




Whatever random television station I was watching last night played this immediately after the apple/shoe/peach fell to mark the beginning of the new year, and it reminded me of sitting outside of Wendy's waiting on our dads to bring out some cheeseburgers while this song played.  Funny how those moments sneak up on you when you least expect them.

The new year always brings with it so much promise, but I'm always a little sad to see the old one go away.  Not because they've always been great years, mind you, but because I know that year.  It was predictable and comfy, like my green houseshoes with the soles worn thin.  It fit me because I had adjusted to it.  I didn't have to think about it when I wrote checks; it was instinct.  Now I have to start all over again.

Just like most, I make the same promises every year....better health, more exercise, blah, blah, blah.  And, just like most, I stick with it for a bit, but then I give in to summer ice cream trips with the kids and emergency runs to the drive-thru.  Thus the cycle begins again....and again...and again.   I've decided I'm done with that.  Of course, I will clean out the fridge and buy the healthy foods because I need to do that for health reasons, but not because it's my resolution.  It's just what I need to do for my body, but not my soul.

My soul resolution this year is to take a weekend or at least one day each month and to do something to recharge my batteries, so to speak, and to be a better friend.  Simultaneously.  I think I'm a good friend to many and a great friend to a few.  I'm dependable.  I'll bail you out of jail, let you borrow my clothes, give you amazing unsolicited advice, and cook for you on occasion.  But, I compartmentalize my life.  My family is one box; my career is one box, and my friends are a box.  I try to keep these separate because, truly, sometimes I need to go to another box to save my sanity.  It's harder and harder to make time for all my boxes.  

I want to make 2013 the year of friendship.  My goal is to spend the time each month with at least one friend.  I want to travel to visit those people I always say, "We need to get together!" but then life takes over and we never do it.  I want my girlfriends to come over with all their damn kids (trust me, there are a lot of kids....13, not including mine!) and let them play games and chase each other around while we chat around the kitchen table.  I want to jump in the car and spend the day  with my peeps in the town an hour away.  I want to fly to the other side of the country to see my girlfriend and explore her new happiness.  

Life has always been a series of mundane events punctuated by some spectacular event....a wedding...a funeral....a birth....a milestone of importance, such as starting school or graduating one.  I have always lived for big events.  I love the planning for a big trip or the anticipation of a surprise, but I fail to live in the moment.  Life is about my baby girl coming into my room on a Saturday morning and cuddling in the crook of my arm.  It's about explaining the ups and downs of friendship to my son.  It's about watching my oldest grow into a beautiful and strong young woman.  Memories are nice, don't get me wrong, but I need to leave more than memories to my children.  I need to leave a legacy of love and caring about those who are important to them as part of their everyday lives.

For January we are taking the kids out of town for the day and I'm planning to invite the girls over for a night.  In February there is Sisters' Prom!!  i hope sometime this summer to make a trip out west if everything falls into place.  As for the rest, we'll see how it goes.  I'm sure I can conjure up something! 

Where will 2013 take you?

Smiles,
Breathe Chick 

Don't Mess This Up, Okay?!!!

If you live your life right, people will smile when you're gone.  Not because they're glad you aren't here anymore, but because they have a bus load of memories to share...war stories of good times.


I went to a memorial service tonight. It wasn't a funeral by any means, really.  No sad hymns.  Not much tissue although I cried and snotted all over my sweater.  There was bluegrass music and smiles and laughter.  It was what a gathering to honor someone's life should be.


When I try to bring these things up with Better Half, he informs me I'm morbid and he just doesn't want to talk about it.  I have enough time to hit the high points, but then he moves on to something else.  So, I'm gonna let you know what ya'll need to do...just so no one screws it up. (This is assuming I don't live to be the last of my friends and family...if that happens, I'm gonna be pissed. I don't wanna be first, but I don't wanna be last, either.  I'll be happy with somewhere in the middle, thank you.)


First, should Jeffers Mortuary still be going strong, I'd like to go there.  Richard had the place spruced up and it looks nice.  The building is all old and full of character, but not musty and yucky.   Cremation wouldn't be bad, but I'm not sure what would be done with my ashes.  If they can be spread into the ocean, that would be great...Might be a law against that, though.  I'll think on that...If not, I want a pretty silver casket.  Brown just isn't my color.


Ya'll are going to sing "Amazing Grace" because that song makes me think of my nana and always makes me cry happy tears.  Then everybody needs to share a little.  You don't have to talk about me.  Talk to each other.  Tell each other how good it is to see each other and how you all wish it was under better circumstances.  Do me a favor, see each other more often under better circumstances.  Don't lose touch, okay?


When everybody has had enough time, sing me "Brokedown Palace."  Make sure you print copies of the lyrics so everybody participates.  Ya'll gotta sing me out, okay?  As you're leaving, "Shady Grove" would be nice, too.


When ya get done singing and chatting, go somewhere and have a drink.  Here's the drill:  Everybody orders a shot.  Get juice if you don't drink.  I don't really care.  Get one empty shot glass for me.  When the shots are done, flip my shot glass upside down.  That's how we toasted my grandpa.  Don't send flowers or anything.  Give money to Shriners or something near to your heart.  


So, that's all.  Just have a good time.  It doesn't matter if we're all old...like our 70s or something.  Bring your ass in on your walker or whatever and celebrate.  Hug somebody you haven't seen in a while.  Tell an embarrassing story about me.  Talk about how crabby I was.  It's all good.  Just don't be sad...never sad.  Eat some Wanda's Stripper Dip and have a good time.  That's how I want to go out, okay?  


P.S.  You don't have to wait until I'm dead to start visiting with each other.  Matter of fact, this weekend you should call someone you haven't talked to in a while and catch up.  We both know you have 10 minutes you waste doing some other mindless crap.  Go make it count.  Much love to you peeps.  RIP, Phat Papaw.  I'm better for having known you.

The Gloved One

My mother told me when I was a young child how she remembered exactly where she was when President Kennedy was killed.  Later, I would have the memories of where I was and what I was doing when Challenger exploded or of 9-11.  There is one more, though:  The day MJ died.

I was walking down the sidewalk after some shopping when I got a text from my old school bff.  We grew up on MJ, rockin to some Thriller back in the day.  We had satin (Really? My parents bought that?) wall tapestries of him and all his albums. Seriously, they were albums. Her text said the Gloved One was gone. Our MJ had bitten the big one.

It's not like we hadn't buried some beloved rock star before. Hello? Kurt Cobain, anyone? A little bit of that chapter of your life closes when you learn of a famous person's death with whom you associate parts of your life. But MJ was different.  He was the first big star that was ours.

You may be thinking, "Yeah, yeah, we all had the album. So what?" Ah, yes, but I got to see him. The Gloved One, in action, in Knoxville. I wasn't supposed to go, but I found out my best friends, who are sisters, had tickets. AND THERE WAS AN EXTRA!! I ran home, told my dad we were invited (we weren't, but how could they turn me down if I'd already made plans?), and then told the older sister I was going. Now, I knew she was becoming a little tighter with another girl, but I never thought she'd cheat on me like that. She was pissed and raised hell, but I prevailed in the end. Their dad liked my dad, so he wanted to take me so my dad would be there for him. I get that now that I'm a parent.

I don't remember much about that night because I was obsessed with the teenage girl with the silver glove, flourescent shirt, and god-awful hair who was fist-pumping (yes, before Jersey Shore) through the entire show.  Plus, it was nosebleed at Neyland Stadium, so MJ looked like a speck and I was blinded by all sorts of pyrotechnic crap and lights. 

When we got back to the van, that would be the navy blue travel van with the captain's chairs and and cool table you could set your drink in, their van had been broken into and all the stuff we'd so cleverly left in the van was scattered around the parking lot.  This was my first experience with karma.  In return for my inviting myself, the concert gods punished me.  My very lovely pleated white pleather purse had carelessly been tossed into the bushes.  I was beyond distraught till I realize thugs don't need Hello Kitty pencils, so all my worldly possessions were intact. It was a little smudged, though, which kinda ruined it for me.

I know in the end he went all nutso, crazy weird. And when kids talk about how cool he is and start trying to dance like him, I get a little sick because he was a little cuckoo-cachoo, and, if he were still alive and could see them, he'd probably be checking them out. But, DAMN, in 1984 he was the stuff.
Not quite the same as remembering Kennedy, but who the hell else could rock one sequined glove AND sequined socks? Only the King of Pop.