Expansive, Encompassing E

Enh.

This is the first blog I've kept up with on a regular basis, admittedly without a real direction or focused topic. It houses my scatterbrained thoughts in a rambling fashion and I'm sure by now the writing friends who suggested I try it are deeply regretting the idea. But quality aside, at the last minute I signed up for this blogging challenge. Putting something together every week or two is one thing, this daily posting is starting to wear on me.

So to start with, E is for Empty, mentally and emotionally. I.got.nothing. It was a regular kind of day that had just enough mild mannered hiccups in just the right flavors to wear down my disposition. As John Pinette would have said, I lost my cherub-like demeanor. We've moved beyond my family's version of March Madness and as my mom's mood and mental health begins to level off from near catastrophe, the extra scaffolding I put up internally to get through the month begins to dissolve. I can stop bracing for a tornado every other minute. Which means, to try to put a more positive spin on being empty, that it's time for a little extra self-care to refill the engine.

Part of what has kept the empty at bay for a bit has been having things to Enjoy in the chaos. Theme parks, movies, nights out, writing, blah, blah, blah, all with a growing network of friends. Good people, the kind of people who don't just talk to me because they want something from me. The kind of people who remind you of friends you had as a kid before things were more complicated and before everyone had so much baggage. Beyond the people and the activities, I have quiet activities to recharge my batteries. A good book, an engrossing video game, a few shows stockpiled on the DVR for just such an occasion. A big salad (or, you know, like chili cheese dogs or a burrito - I'm flexible) a comfy pillow and a few hours to myself are just the ticket.

I'll end with Expanse. There are few things that bring me such serenity in life as driving a long stretch of quiet highway at night, the cool darkness stretching out seemingly forever. In that moment, with the stars lighting up the sky, life's potential feels infinite even if my destination is close by. I love to drive. I love to travel by car. I'm kind of happy living in the middle of nowhere (being in a hurry aside) because each time I come home late in the day, I get a little recharge from driving through the woods on a two lane highway. Bonus points if the radio stations are cooperating with awesome tune-age.

Destination Destiny - D

I’m not a card carrying sentimentalist. At least, not in my mind. I’m oddly attached to various things, places and memories (Maybe that’s not exactly odd, maybe that’s hoo-man, borderline sentimental even. Shh, don't tell!) in my own way, but I’m not beating down the door to many (any) tearjerker books or films. Also, for the love of God, Gaia and the baby Jesus, don’t let the dog die.

I’m also not exactly known for believing, for me at least, in a soulmate. One person and one person only who is destined to find me in the world and live and fairy tale with me. Life is… hard. Humans are imperfect and screw relationships up. People die. I’m not comfortable believing in there being just one person out there who is meant for me. And yet, here I sit a happily married person, staring down the barrel of two decades together. That in itself doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with destiny.

What does give me pause in terms of destiny is how much our respective lives swirled around each other before we were an item. We were both in scouts as kids, lots of people were. We lived hours away from each other, but on one of the biggest trips my troop ever took we camped at a state park less than an hour from where he grew up. While we camped, a group of boy scouts invaded our area. Our troop leader dragged them across the park and back to their own camp. More than a decade and a marriage later, my husband told me the story of how he camped at this local state park and the ne’er do wells of his group caused a ruckus with a girl scout troop, how his troop leader had gotten balled out by a very angry bear of a woman. We were able to confirm that our separate trips were taken at the same time in the same place. It’s a small world, ladies and gentlemen. Or our state lacks in scout approved camping facilities.

Coincidences happen (or there are no coincidences depending on your world view), so that may just be a one-off. In high school, after a couple of moves around the country, we settled in the city next to his. We had family in his town, so it was a quirk of fate (or something) that I almost went to his high school, but instead ended up about eight miles away. I tease him now that he wouldn’t have known what to do with me if we’d met in high school.

More eye make-up, less leather 

Our puzzle pieces finally started coming together as college wrapped up. I was in a serious relationship with someone when we met the first time, something he doesn’t remember at all. He worked at the local college and had to be called over to take care of something for the person I was with during registration. I couldn’t tell you what the cashier looked like at the grocery store I went to this morning (The store was new to me - don't judge.) But this random guy, his attitude (I thought he was a jerk, clearly overworked and fed up with his coworkers, but an asshole nonetheless.), I remember him having to help us. Nothing about him or the exchange made me give him a second thought at the time, other than perhaps to remark to someone later in the day about the grouch who had to assist.

In the months following this ordinary day, my life completely fell apart, turned upside down and reformed. Death took the person I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. In time, the Earth started to right itself and I stopped believing I shouldn’t ever laugh or be happy again. I started making new friends and getting out of the house. Eventually I went on a disastrous date that couldn’t be over fast enough and I ended after ordering nothing more than a soda (aka pop, for you weirdos thinking I was drinking baking soda). I had already decided I wasn’t quite ready for dating when a persistent gentleman firmly planted himself before me. 

The grouch, less grouchy/more jovial outside of work and while hanging out with friends, didn’t remember me at all, but made it very clear he was completely focused on me now. He was flirty and charming, doing everything he could think of to endear himself to me so I would go out with him. It took a few months, but I gave in.

I was skittish on our first date, barely able to look at him or speak. He wanted a hug at the end, I was ready to run to my car. He made me nervous in a way I couldn’t explain. I didn’t want to see him again. Instantly, I chastised myself and decided to give him one more chance. I wasn’t being fair, I thought. Mind control.  After our second date, we were completely inseparable. The first date, how I felt, what I (tried) to eat, what I wore, I remember well. I couldn’t tell you what we did after that. Could have been a movie, could have been a reef dive, could have been a mission to Mars, it’s all a blur.

The rest is history… with a dash, maybe, of destiny. And later, a library. Castle in the near future wouldn't hurt either.

Flash fiction - Cornerstone - C

Jack sat at the edge of the clearing, a thicket of trees behind him giving way to the dense forest just beyond. His annoyance at his sisters returning to their parents back up at the ‘struction site forgotten. He scooped up Jane’s metal trowel, an implement he’d spent much of the morning coveting, and continued digging in the dirt for treasure.

Once upon a time, Mommy had told them, there was a great big mansion in the middle of all these trees. It belonged to their Aunt Scissors. Daddy said they were in Mommy’s family a long time ago, but Aunt Joan and Aunt Cassie were Mommy’s family and they live right now so maybe they knew the Aunt Scissors. Mommy had hair-etted the land where the big house used to be because Aunt Cassie lived in a special home and Aunt Joan didn’t want the ‘sponsitility of it. Thinking about Aunt Cassie’s home made him think about the cookies the house mother made when they visited.

“Wish I had some cookies right now.” The six year old frowned as he glanced at his woefully stocked lunchbox. Mommy had put applesauce, carrot sticks and yogurt inside, but everyone knew digging was hard work and needed cookies. He returned to his ever widening hole, content that the metal trowel had replaced Jane and Marie’s presence. Jane was so bossy for being nine. Marie could be okay, but she was little and just wanted to make mud pies. Jane squealed when Marie ate the first one. But then she got mad and dragged her up to see Mommy and Daddy after she ate the second one.

Jack lost track of time as he happily dug far enough down that a wall of dirt as tall as his hand mounded up around him. This was better than running his trucks off the stairs back home. The apartment was the only home he knew, and it was okay, but Mommy and Daddy promised he’d have this whole yard to play in once the new house was built.

“Right, right. That’s no problem. We’ve had stranger requests than that. And you think the original stonework is facing the river side of the property?”

Jack looked up, pausing his digging to watch his parents and the ‘struction men walk closer to him. He waved as his dad’s eyes met his, earning him a wide grin.

“Having fun over there? Don’t dig all the way down! We’ll never find you again.”

Jack laughed at his silly daddy, all the while wondering if he could dig far enough down to find live dinosaurs. Aunt Joan watched a movie with him about dinosaurs living underground once. He dug with more enthusiasm as his parents walked away. He shoveled and scraped until the trowel hit something so hard he dropped it. He must have found treasure! Jack looked up to make sure no one had seen it.

“-gone long before my father’s time. Frankly I’m surprised there was anything left to pass on with the property. I figured they never rebuilt because they’d gone broke.”

The adults were slowly walking away. Jack focused on the hump of dirt in the middle of his hole. His mind a whirl of pirate chests and gold doubloons, the boy fell forward and began digging out the dirt surrounding his find.

“Then you aren’t completely sure which way it was situated on the property? ‘Cause my guys aren’t finding anything over there.”

“The letter was pretty specific about finding that cornerstone, but it was written a longtime ago. Maybe she was confused?”

Jack’s fingers cleared the top of something square in the dirt. A box. A treasure chest! He spit on it twice, then wiped his hands across the surface to clear the muck away to reveal a gold ‘X’. It really was pirate treasure!

“It seems superstitious, but the will stipulated having to reuse that cornerstone if we agreed to take the property and the money to build with. They wanted that thing sealed and buried.”

Jack’s fingers worked at the box, but couldn’t get it loose. The top shifted the slightest bit, revealing a seam. Of course! Treasure chests opened from the top! In earnest he wiggled and pulled at the lid so he could finally see his treasure. Jack fell backwards, the lid in his hands and his face frozen in a mask of terror as a cloud of indigo jettisoned from the opening.

After the bodies were found the next day, no one was ever able to explain how an architect, a survey crew and a general contractor along with a family of four had all died simultaneously of internal bleeding. The children, a young boy and his younger sister, in particular left most of the locals saying an extra prayer in church the following Sunday. It would be another week before Joan Nordhaus arrived in town asking about her missing niece, an older child who hadn’t been among the dead that awful day.

By then, it was too late.

Butterscotch - B

25 more posts? Please tell me coming up with ideas is going to get easier.

Gather round, come one come all, as I discuss the finer points of cheap candy not really. Mmmm, butterscotch. Butterscotch? Yes.

Back in the day, there was hardly a grandparent's house across America without at least one candy dish. Beautiful glass or crystal (fancy!) dishes, with or without lids, containing hard candy. Dealer's choice of wrapped pieces or one large mass of congealed ribbon candy that required the use of a pickax. My dad's mother was an outlier; the only candy she kept on hand (that she admitted to or shared) were old sugar flowers my grandpa had made decades earlier. Nothing says childhood treat like a scary older woman eating decades old sugar flowers made by a dead man.

You got this Gretel!

My mom's mom on the other hand, otherwise known as Grandma, kept peach and apple hard candies at her home. I have never, ever found a store that sells them and have always been a little curious where they came from. She also kept a roll of mints in her purse at all times and God him/herself only knows how much lint I ingested in my youth from those mints.

Which is all well and good, but what does any of that have to do with butterscotch discs? When we would drive across country to visit my grandmothers (and their interesting candy choices) my dad would pick up a couple of rolls of butter rum Lifesavers and a bag of butterscotch. There were orange slices (the candy, not the nutritious fruit) and circus peanuts as well. Sort of a theme of orange tinted snacks now that I think about it. The other stuff invariably ran out first and every so often I'd unwrap a butterscotch for my dad while he drove.

Over time, road trip treats dwindled down to just the butterscotch variety. And then family road trips disappeared as my siblings and I scattered into adulthood. Fortunately for me, my husband loves driving trips. Every stop at a gas station he'll ask if I want a bag of butterscotch or a roll of butter rums. And I never would get them, but it would make me smile and remember traveling as a kid.

With my parents living with us now, my dad's wanderlust combines with ours and we've taken some road trips over the last few years. I drive instead of my dad now. I've traded circus peanuts for real almonds. I've traded orange slices for sliced apples. But when we go on a family trip, I pick up a bag of butterscotch discs. One bag lasts several trips now, and it's my dad handing me the candies.

No Fool Like an April Fool - A

And today's not-so-random topic is:

April Fool's Day!

Being the youngest in a fairly sizable family, I don't think I need to explain the sheer volume of jokes at my expense, teasing, embarrassment and just general being made to feel stupid that made up a portion of my youth. So I'm going to step over the obvious association with the day for a more personal one to me.

April the first is my grandpa's birthday. He is a mythic creature of lore to me, the man who I've sort of deified. I never actually met him. He died literally a couple of weeks before I was born, but from a young age I've taken a distinct ownership of the kind of relationship we would have had. As an adult with a passion for family history, I've pieced together a slightly fuller picture of his life and what he was like. 

He worked hard and was damn good at his job, a professional baker. He once made a wedding cake for a grocery heiress' wedding that was flown across the country because they wanted his decorating skill. He wanted to be a somebody, a big shot, and was a member of the local men's social club & a Mason.

Loyal member & nifty hat wearer

He came from a broken home in the heart ghetto of Chicago, his mother and brother dying young and his father such a hardcore alcoholic he eventually died from withdrawal. He worked from at least the age of 7 and left school by the eighth grade. He enlisted in the military, possibly without a doubt to escape some less than savory gentlemen he had dealings with, and was about to get out just before the US entered WWII. 

He married only once, a woman I had a hard time calling Grandma and who was no mother to her only child, my father. I suspect the loss of Grandpa's mother may be the starting point of a generational trickle down of the members of my family marrying folks with... er... issues & in need of extra love. And patience. So frickin' much patience. According to my mother, granted not always the most reliable source, her father-in-law explained about his wife simply, "I love her" in response to how difficult a woman she was and why he stayed.

As a parent, well, he doesn't get a lot of points here, or I should say, there's precious little that stuck around in my father's mind. He was the product of a fractured family, married to a woman who wanted attention and worked hours that didn't match up with seeing his son often. He was also a veteran of war who didn't talk about what happened. At all. He didn't just not like guns, he found them abhorrent according to my dad. It's not that hard to think of a reason why. But he died when my dad was a young father, before they had a chance to reconnect and have any kind of a fulfilling adult to adult relationship. Before there was time for my dad to really understand him.

My dad's now several years older than my grandpa was when he died. The cancer that coursed through practically every part of his body was found early in my dad. He'd been in the process of dying for a while when my mom was pregnant with me. He told my mom that he knew I'd be a girl. Wishful thinking perhaps, but it was still a mostly wait and see situation regarding finding out the gender back then. Both my parents have steadfastly told me through the years that he would have spoiled me rotten and probably have earned the ire of his beloved wife without regret or hesitation for it. He was waiting for me, they've said.

So Happy 99th Birthday Grandpa.

You Gotta Hold the Frame Pt 2

Quick recap: a tale of good intentions and matriarchal vengeance, or what it was like taking my mom for an evening out.

Look, Dirty Dancing on stage? Did it need to be done? If you’re not a fan of the movie, then probably not. If you’ve seen the movie anywhere as often as I have in my life, then yes, it absolutely works for you. Here’s the deal, every memorable line, every particular dance move to a particular part of a particular song, it’s all there. With a few extras I’m sure as much to stretch the time a bit as to make up for songs the woman behind the movie wasn’t able to get then that she could now. And they even figured out a cool bit of stage magic to handle the part where Baby learns the lift in the field and then water. I was transported. I'm also weird, so there's that.

With the arrival of intermission, my mom wanted to leave. I had already realized at the very least we were going to miss the ending so we could get a little extra time down those steps before the crowds started to leave. So much for the time of my life. But Mom threw a curveball as only she can. “There’s more?” she asked as folks filed past to find bathrooms, drinks or (unbeknownst to me at the time) merchandise. Yes, Mom. Just the second half. Just the most iconic scene of the damn movie you’ve recently blocked out. “Oh.”

She didn’t want to leave while the show was still going on, because it would be dark. She was ready to leave now. Unless I was having a good time. Was I having a good time? She’d hate to ruin my night. About halfway through intermission, she decided to stay and we’d wait to leave until after our section cleared out. Unless she changed her mind for any reason later. A kid came back to her seat by us clutching a Johnny Castle teddy bear. That’s when I realized there were souvenirs. Damn and blast.

OH-EM-GEE

That's when the paramedics showed up, climbing the stairs to the nosebleed seats. One of the older ladies from our earlier stair convoy was in some kind of distress. When the paramedics walked her down a few minutes later, she told them she felt fine. Not really sure what happened, but my mom watched the whole thing like a hawk. I sat back in my own seat thinking it was a win for the evening that the paramedics were there and it wasn’t for my mom. I kept my fingers crossed that she wasn't getting ideas of her own for later.

We made it through to the finale, standing ovation and all. The theater emptied and we finally took the 3 foot walk over to descend K2. I’ll make this shorter than it unfolded. It took almost an hour to make a usually fifteen minute (max) walk to the car from our seats. 2 separate ushers felt the need to make small talk with me to while away the time for us to get out of the auditorium. That should have been a 45 sec walk, including the stairs and my gravel-filled knees. I had to promise my mom a milkshake to keep her motivated to get back to the car.

On the drive home, Mom tried telling me the exact opposite of comments she made about the experience earlier in the evening. Rewriting history is as much a part of her as the paranoia. After an all too brief silence she informed me that she's got to put her faith in God to get her through such difficult moments, because only He has the power to get her through. No offense to the holy spirit, but I rolled my eyes. My mom has a history, as is actually kind of common in some forms of mental illness, of having a rather fanatical devotion to religion off and on. Depending on your interpretation of faith and divine intervention, I'd say God has put my father and I in her life to help her get through, but why start being practical now? I kept such observations to myself and let her continue down her conversational martyrdom. As much as I had enjoyed the show, as relieved as I was about getting her back to the car, I was bummed about the ongoing inability we have to connect. She slips further away all the time. 

After several minutes, she thanked me for getting her through it. Me? Did I do something? She told me that my siblings would have given up but I never do. It’s as close to a genuine observation about our relationship as she’s ever going to make. A few minutes later she called herself stupid and laughed like an out of touch teenager. She’s well aware how much her verbal self-harm bothers me. The 'genuine observation' from earlier was just as likely bait to wind me up, since she brought up the siblings. She’s paranoid, she hallucinates, but she’s far from stupid and preternaturally astute about some things. Especially where I’m concerned. They are one of her favorite ways to stir me up.

In the end we got through it. I stopped on the way home and got her that milkshake. Maybe even an order of onion rings for good measure. As we neared home, Mom asked if I had any plans for the next day. My spideysense was tingling, so I cautiously reminded her that I had appointments to get a few of her grandchildren to and various errands to run. "Oh," she lamented, "I was hoping you'd have the day to sleep." Why? "Because you must be exhausted after tonight." Said complete with crazy eyes and the creep factor of a little girl possessed by evil. I managed a completely casual "Nope, got stuff to do."

My evening with my mother aside, I'm left with a burning desire to watch Dirty Dancing for the seven millionth time and listen to the soundtrack on repeat for a bit. The biggest shocker of the whole thing was learning one of my older niblings had no idea what the show was about because they had not yet seen the movie.

I'll be taking care of that in the near future. Alas, the souvenir bear is out of reach along with the tank tops they were selling emblazoned with "I carried a watermelon." Not that I needed something else of my own to collect dust in a corner of my office.

Writing: Seem to have settled into productive rhythm, so I'm contemplating ways to go from productive to getting.it.done.

Reading: Halfway through new book, feeling twitchy over stack of library books I shouldn't have acquired all at once.

Language: 30+ days and counting. Have gotten my dad into the program, just with a different language.

Coffee: Getting back to making morning protein drinks w/coffee. The sensation of more neurons firing is intoxicating.

Naps: I've actually managed a couple this week.

Positivity: The night out with Mom would typically be enough to derail my mood for a bit. But aside from the ever present dissatisfaction with how we relate to each other, I started moving on from it as soon as I was driving us home. I feel like my life is in the middle of a kind of evolution, moving up to some next step of self-improvement, personal enrichment, general good-type-things. That sounds all new-agey to me, but I tend to be an intuitive (or so I'd like to believe) person, so if I have a sense of something, there's a good chance there's something to it. I'm also crazy accurate at predicting the next song coming onto the radio or knowing a song in the first few notes. Seriously, it used to freak out my hubby. Not that any of those things are marketable skills.

You Gotta Hold the Frame Pt 1

Where to begin?

Let's rewind to Christmas time 2015. My mom is not an easy person to shop for. Closets are littered with gifts that were never used or tried once and forgotten. Even if it's exactly what she asked for. Usually we are forced to play gift roulette and spin the wheel of Mom's disappointment or confusion over what she's supposed to do with that. Birthdays, Mother’s Days, anniversaries, holidays…. And I'll tell you something else, local stores don't exactly carry cards that express my feelings for or my relationship with my mother. After more than 30 years with her, I can't bring myself to hand her a card bursting with sentiment about how she's the best mother who always put me first. And even if I could, my dad’s chortle of laughter at the message would piss her off anyway. I'm looking for: "I love you but I’m not so trusting that I wouldn't sleep with one eye open around you.”

Hmm, that might sound a little more bitter than usual. Let's move on.

I wanted to get my mom a gift that wouldn't collect dust in a corner but wasn't a gift card for a restaurant (food being her gift of choice). Since my mom isn't subtle (she thinks she is) I'm aware when I go out and about without her, that puts her in a jealous snit. I decided to do an activity with my mom as her gift. And an activity can be a dicey proposition, so something that doesn't really require interaction would be ideal. Having had a positive experience taking Mom to see a touring Broadway production a few years ago, I ordered tickets to see the tour of Dirty Dancing. She knew the story. (Easier for her to follow that way) She knew the music. (She likes music and this was mostly upbeat songs she knew.)

Life has been so busy, neither of us realized the show was coming up until I saw a reminder the day before. Those tickets?  Sitting in the Christmas card they came in, under a stack of dust-collecting crap. The good news about Mom not remembering the show was coming up is she didn’t have several days to obsess and worry about it, backing out of going every three hours. But I didn’t think about the show taking place in March, a time of great instability for her.

While I got ready, after finding clothes she insisted she didn’t have to wear and my dad making her get a shower, she tried several times to convince my dad to tell her she shouldn’t go. See, it’s not her decision if she convinces someone to say the words for her. More importantly, it gives her someone to throw under the bus later when she’s upset about the decision. 

I knew they would be searching purses at the door of the theater, standard operating procedure for just about any venue lately. To my relief, I wasn’t going to have to explain that to her and spark a fresh panic because she wasn’t going to bring her purse. She was, however, going to bring with her a big bottle for night time pills she usually takes at bedtime. She was worried about someone having a problem with her pills. I’ll skip to the end here: she didn’t end up taking them until after we were home.

The biggest hurdle I was bracing for was walking to our seats from the parking area. Which is right.freaking.there. My mother had been practically skipping around the house the previous few days. That night, out and about and around people? She was suddenly weak and feeble and kept trying to throw herself forward as she walked. I have no other way to explain it. She walked just fine and then as soon as she saw another person, she’d threaten to fall to her knees and throw her upper body forward like a diver attempting to jackknife. If we were walking to a restaurant from the parking lot, she’d have left me in the dust.

Luckily, I factored the potential for extra needed time into our arrival. What I had not factored was my mother refusing to let go of my arm as we approached security to check my purse. Thankfully, I got a guard who seemed to understand or at least empathize, who offered to come to us instead of my putting the bag on a table. I feel safe in believing had this been the TSA, I’d still be in an interview room being detained. Luck did not hold out and the ticket taker was bogged down by the folks ahead of us having ticket trouble. As the hiccup unfolded, my mother pitched wildly while we stood in one place.

I’m compelled to point out here that had I brought my mom in a wheelchair she doesn’t physically need but desperately wants in some bizarre hang-up, we couldn’t have gone. The handicap seats? Those are conveniently located in an area that costs 3 times as much as our tickets. And then there are the people who honestly, actually need those seats. The ones who can’t run into a restaurant.

I was relieved when they finally allowed us into the seating area. I was relieved until I showed them our tickets and the usher told us to go to the left and up the stairs. Stairs? With my mother? I was 75% sure she was about to meltdown and demand we leave. It was a conservative estimate. There was no elevator for that level, but I’m positive if there had been, it would have been on the other side of where we were, outside, down two flights of stairs, and in an underwater cave. Why? Because only maybe 10 stairs stood between us and our seats. You’d have thought they were asking us to hike up Everest.

Even without sherpas we eventually made it, the head of a convoy of little old ladies with canes climbing up to the nosebleed seats beyond us. The usher on this level was patiently cheering us on. “Slow and steady. There’s no rush. Take your time.” We weren’t going up a whole flight of stairs. I took comfort that there were others, quite a bit older, but there were others. I'd managed to get us aisle seats, so I figured once to our personal summit we were golden. Wrong. Mom was so flustered from those 10 stairs and her annoyance with having to go up them, she couldn't figure out how to sit. Butt in seat wasn't sinking in. Anxiously I waited for her to throw herself onto the floor, but eventually she sat. It took a bit of convincing, but I finally got my mom to relinquish her own cane for me to lean against my end-of-the-row seat. I really didn’t want people tripping over it. Or worse, Mom whacking somebody with it as she maneuvered around in her seat.

I sat simmering beside her, mentally berating myself for thinking this would possibly work out well. I’m leaving out a whole hissed back-and-forth before showtime where she let me know that she wasn’t happy about anything. I’ve kind of trained myself over the years to quickly dismiss these conversations from my mind. I can easily enough recreate one from the sheer volume if necessary, but I have made that commitment to being positive and happy. I’m positive that I’m happier letting go of what she said. So I sat silently looking to the stage as we waited. In the blink of an eye, as only my mom can, she turned to me and patting my knee, smiled benignly and told me to enjoy myself. Like the last 45 minutes hadn’t happened and I was being moody.

The show began.