Where I'm Supposed to Be

Back and mostly recovered (physically, anyway) from a sprinter-van northeast tour with the guys. Had some long-overdue conversations, mostly conducted with eyebrow semaphore, shoulder nudges, deep earthy sniffs, chocolate chip cookies, and the occasional tiny rowboat --though I did actually have occasion to use my big girl words at one point, too, which was more difficult than you'd expect coming from me. Looking someone in the eye without getting lost and having to speak coherently to them from a place of authenticity is really hard for me. And by hard I mean terrifying and vulnerable. And the more I care about the person, usually the harder it is. This means it was damn near impossible.

Welcome to my tiny boat.

A flotilla of tiny paper boats.

Late Sunday night I took a crash course in origami off instructions printed on a t-shirt. Partly this was to work off nerves, and partly this was because sometimes my brain gets too cute by half when it gets going. Half the band thought this was the gift until I informed them it was just the wrapper. (Then one of them proceeded to leave it in the van when they returned it to the rental place. I'm looking at you, Stephen Daniel.)

Yes, we resorted to middle names. There was a slightly rotating cast of characters, mostly in the tour staff. At the start there were two Steves (both with ph's) and three Matts. A week later there were two Steves, two Matts, and two Saras. For twelve glorious and very confusing hours on Thursday night, we had the trifecta--three Stephens, three Matts, and two Saras. We were looking for a third Sara, or at least a Sarah, or even a Sally, just to hit bingo. Sadly, the closest we could come was a Rasheeda. Oh well. God knows what we could have accomplished with three of us, considering the shit that just the pair pulled off that first afternoon alone. The Matts even had hand-gestures to go with their names, based on hairstyles (Muppet, mohawk, goatee).

Two Matts, doing the same thing.
(c) Todd Polesiak

In between, there was a lot of driving. No, I mean a lot of driving. While I had the luxury during this sprinter of returning home to my own bed every night, unlike the boys, it also meant approximately a shit-ton of extra driving for me between venues. Also, I had a dissertation meeting on Tuesday morning. Because that was intelligent of me to schedule. Oh, and did I mention it was nearly 100° every day, and my apartment isn't air-conditioned? There was also therefore many a cold shower just to get my body temperature down someplace sleepable.

Sadly, due to the nature of people's private lives and That Thing Called the Interwebz, I have to leave out most of the good stuff, like the Fairy Zombie Attack, the endless rotation of people onto the air mattress on my living room floor, The Macaroni and Cheese That Would Not End, the part where I had to upend myself into every single front-of-house case with my legs a-waggle trying to get stuff out of the bottom, how I ended up with a bar rag from the Birchmere in my laundry today, and the birthday cookies that weren't.

No, really. Ever try to make cut-out cookies when one of the recipients is a vegan? And it's 102° in the kitchen before you preheat the oven? And you're working on something like twelve hours' sleep for the week and it's already Saturday? Yeah. Like that. Fortunately they tasted really good, even though they rather looked like dog biscuits. Let's just say we ended up taking a detour to the vegan bakery in town, and judging by the swipe of icing the guys left me after the show, it was worth it.

Two Saras, doing the same....
well, whatever. Close enough.

During the week, I also had a chance to catch up with some very dear friends not connected with the tour, some of whom I hadn't seen in months, and one of whom I hadn't seen in a few years. Altogether, there was much bolting through various lobbies to launch myself bodily at people, a koala bear hug off the side of a loading dock (which left a very interesting bruise on most of the right half of my body), late night Wal-Mart shenanigans (CDs! Matching jammies! A packing box to get that crap out of my life and back to Ohio as soon as possible!), a constellation of fly bites on my ass from the proximity of Monday's venue to the Atlantic Ocean, two of the world's most well-travelled birthday cards (one of which, yes, made reference to my illustrious career as Snowmeister, having been to Colorado twice during snowstorms), and a choreographed set-up of folding tables that would make Bob Fosse weep. Oh, also leopard-print sticky notes!, brought to me by a  band fan with whom I'd had an hysterical conversation on Twitter regarding the plural of Post-It. Personally, I'm still holding out for Post-Them. Kim disagrees.

Making it rain string beans.

Oh! And I almost forgot the string bean truck! The guys swore we were hallucinating, because who on earth just drives an open truck crammed full of string beans down the I-95 corridor? The guy driving this truck, that's who. Needless to say, I got teased about string beans for the next 36 hours or so. And, really, I was ok with that, all things considered.

And, perhaps best of all, there was a righting of the world where it had been wrong, a resettling of my soul in my bones, a coming home, however brief it turns out to have been. If I had known it was really goodbye, I'd have made you stand up for a proper hug, no matter how tired we were. Like last time, I was caught ill-prepared and you were halfway into somebody else's van before I knew what was happening.

Close Encounters of the Matt kind

I know there are no words for this parting, that even a breath is too much, that my blood would be too little. I know now that every time I see you there will be that door that we walked through once, that remains half-lit, half in shadow, just behind us. I know now that even among the trees that night we could never escape the concrete of the streets that would carry you away after I had fallen to my knees.

Do you remember what the city sounded like?
Do you remember what the city sounded like?

RR St. Jude Country Music (Half) Marathon, Code Word: Doing the Nasty

Despite being on the NTP (Nita Training Plan, also known as not training at all) for this race, it ended up being redeeming in a lot of ways. It was in many ways a baptism. And I'm not just saying that because of near-flood conditions.

The day after I got home from Nashville in January, all hell sort of broke loose in my emotional and spiritual life, you may recall, and I'm only now coming out of the carapace I'd built around myself to try to ward off the crazy. As much as I tried to stay with it and engage with the process, I really hate change. I hate it. It's uncomfortable. As I once memorably said to a pastor's wife and dear friend, "I like my comfort zone. It's comfortable." I wasn't being ironic or witty, either. I was dead serious.

So, all that is to say that I had mixed feelings about returning to the scene of the crime. (Except love is not a crime. Only denying it is.)

None of this makes sense. It's not a narrative, it's not about running, and it's not about the race.

Welcome to my life, folks.

I don't know why I thought flying down to Nashville at 7:10 in the morning was a good idea; surely the hundred dollars extra a flight at a human hour would have cost was worth not having to get up at 3:15 in the morning and drive to Newark. Alas, it was not to be. Mags lives literally on my way to the airport, so I offered to drive her, for which she gave me a mason jar full of homemade moonshine. We hit the expo pretty shortly after checking into the hotel, where I accidentally got interviewed by Channel 5 News because I was wearing a Boston Strong t-shirt. Fortunately my interview is only quoted in the write-up, and not on-camera. I do, however, make a cameo as That One Chick Who Indiscriminately Hugs Strangers Because They're from Brighton and Are Safe from Terrorists. After the interview, said Stranger from Brighton asked for a picture with me from her organization. Due to the unfortunate combination of biology and Adidas's graphic design department, it appears she is pointing enthusiastically at my enormous rack. She is, but not for the reasons people normally do.

My breasts are not from Boston. But they stand as one. Er, two.

Then there was all sorts of stupidity involving the hotel shuttle and a comped lunch because of the hotel shuttle, and then I fell sound the hell asleep for a few hours until everything started happening at once.

Thursday night ultimately found me with my beloved friends the Masons and their lovely neighbours Inspector Dave and Sunny, drinking moonshine from a mason jar around their living room coffee table and ultimately watching He-Man reruns because it got that late and we couldn't find the remote to change the channel. In truth, we could not turn away.

Friday, needless to say, was spent drinking a lot of water to undo that hilarity, lunch with Mags, a little bit of solo wandering downtown, at loose ends and at odds with myself, and then back to the Mason Jar. See what I did there? No? Ok. Anyway, Steve had left for a couple of house concerts in the upper midwest, so it was me and Jude and the kids, and we had a splendid time eating pizza that's better than any pizza so far from Brooklyn has a right to be, catching up, and watching Pitch Perfect which involved my staying up far later than I ought to have done.

And then it was race day and I was up far too early for the second morning that week. It started raining just as I got into Geoff the Jeep to drive to the start shuttle at LP Field. After that it was sort of all downhill. Except the parts that were uphill. I spent the better part of pre-race loitering in a McDonald's near my start corral with several hundred of my closest friends while the skies lightened...and opened. By the time I lined up for the start, it was full downpour and I was as cold as I've ever been in my life. Fuck this noise, let's run so I can at least feel my feet again. My feet, which are starting to ship water.

For by you, I can run in the night. You'd have loved this race.

At the expo, we had been given blue and yellow Boston commemorative bracelets with 4.15.13 on them. Just prior to the start, we were asked to hold those arms in the air, and give the peace sign during a minute of silence. It was the peace sign that undid me. I'm tearing up just writing about it. Then they went straight into the national anthem (which was aca-awesome). Fortunately it was raining because by the time they sent off the wheelchair start with Sweet Caroline there were thirty thousand people bawling their eyes out.

And then we were off. I was in a closer corral than I often am, but still pretty far back, so there was a lot of standing around shivering. While I was waiting, I bit thumb-holes in my throwaway jersey because it was clear I was going to need every layer of clothing I had on.

My back had been very tight in the area just north of my right hip for several days leading up to my flight down there, and with the wet streets I was really concerned about slipping at some points. Mostly I was just concerned about not drowning. I hadn't realised this was going to be a run/swim duathlon when I signed up for it.

It had been obvious for several weeks that I was going to run the half course instead of the full. Between the loop-de-loops in my life, the exams schedule, and the part where I broke toes walking into a piece of furniture in the middle of the night to avoid a cat, that message was loud and clear. Nevertheless, at one point during the first three or four miles I felt really good and thought briefly that maybe I'd attempt the full after all. Fortunately within moments I realised the folly of my ways.

By mile six things were utterly ridiculous. It was raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock. There was water coursing down the road on the hills. I was doing a lot of walking because of my back, and a lot of peeing because of the rain. Something about being waterlogged from the outside makes drinking water at rest stations fairly redundant. Seriously, I peed more during this half marathon than I did during any full, ever, or possibly even put together, and for that matter more than during El Scorcho. Which I would like to remind you was THIRTY-ONE MILES. In short, there was some serious peeing happening in Nashville last weekend.

Anyway, somewhere past Belmont in the middle of mile six or seven, a very lovely young woman offered me her red Solo cup full of mimosa. Whoever you are, I love you. Then, a half-mile later, another lovely woman, somewhat older and probably a mom, had dry towels stashed in the trunk of her minivan for runners to wipe their faces off so we could see for even a little bit. Whoever you are, I love you even more. Maybe.

And then I squished and slogged and sluiced along for another seven miles. I had a bad moment on Twelve South when I had to run past the Frothy Monkey, because they were open. And selling coffee. Hot, glorious, yummy, bone-tingling coffee. And then I was past them at the top of the hill. Sad Monkey.

Met another thyroid cancer survivor at mile ten, going on seven years strong. April 27th was my fifteenth cancer-versary, and it was because of this that I became a runner in the first place, so this was pretty sweet. We exchanged soggy hugs when we parted.

Right around mile 12.5, I met up with Susan, who had a cramp in her foot, and no wonder because it was cold, man. We were all little clenched shivers of wet humans trying to keep our shit together. It had long ago become obvious that I didn't give a shit about this as a race anymore, as long as there was a pot of hot tea waiting for me back at the Mason Jar (Jude's British; this is a completely reasonable expectation). I had long blown any PW out of the water, so to speak, mostly because of the standing in line to pee FOUR TIMES, but also because have I maybe mentioned that it was raining like pouring piss out of a boot this whole time?

This is not me. This is some other drowned rat of a runner.

So anyway, Susan and I sort of trundled our way back in to LP Field, which for the record is also "just around the corner and up the hill" from mile 13. (Long story, but that's how the finish line of my very first ever 5k was described by the cop directing traffic. Suffice it to say that "up" is not a word you want to use in front of first-time runners if you do not want dirty looks in response. Eight years later at my first Marine Corps Marathon, my dad stood at the bottom of the Very Enormous Hill up to the Iwo Jima Memorial that comprises the last 285 yards of the marathon and greeted me with, "Just around the corner and up the hill." If I could have lifted my arm at that point I would have gladly slugged him. Instead I just lobbed my water belt at my mom and kept limping along.)

I got my kick in and finished strong, then wrung out my shirt and skirt while in the finish chute, which cracked some people up. I'd taken off my throwaway simply so there'd be at least one picture of me on the course. Turns out I'm barely in the frame. Dorks. That's ok, I look like every other freezing, waterlogged, drowned rat of a runner looked that day. Susan and I did take a picture together at the end, which was really sweet. Then I set about finding Geoff the Jeep, because he had a dry zip-up for me, and more importantly HE HAD HEAT.

Due to the way the finish line was set up, I had to walk fully three quarters of the way around the stadium to get to where I'd parked. By this time, the rain had stopped. Of course. I wrung out everything I could, including my hair and my hat, and hopped in for the ride home. Under normal circumstances it would have taken two minutes, but I couldn't get onto the damn road in the right direction and had to get on the freeway to get off at the next exit. This gave me enough time to text Jude and let her know that maybe she needed to meet me at the kitchen door with a couple of towels.

God love her, not only were there towels, there were cheering teenagers at the front door, a hot fig and honey bubble bath with a scented candle on the toilet seat, the pot of tea, and leftover pizza. Eventually I thawed out and took E2 with me to Kroger (so I could find it) to get the crucial ingredients for Thai green curry supper. If you're wondering why I went, it's because I offered, so that Jude could get Bean down for a nap and the big kids could maybe not kill each other. Also, E2 and I sort of bonded big time last weekend. Love. Her. While at Kroger, I made the beautiful discovery that you can buy beer in the grocery store in Tennessee. So I did, which made both Jude and me very happy later that evening.

Slept hard Saturday night and barely made it out of my pajamas in time for Steve's return, and thank god because wouldn't that have been awkward. I mean, this is a man I've known for close to twenty years and I'm pretty sure he's seen me throw up at least once (yay cancer) but he does not need to see me first thing in the morning, ever. For the sake of our friendship, I found some clothes I could put on without too much effort, since going up the steep stairs to E2's bedroom to get them was about enough activity for me, thanks.

Sunday was lovely. There was a walk round the neighbourhood in the sun, lunch at Calypso (omg fruit tea addiction), spontaneous friend visits, French cricket in the backyard (where I fell over, because of course), more spontaneous friend visits, and enormous pork loin barbecue. So. Good. Oh, and haircuts for the guys, because Steve is in barber school. With a mustache like his, it's the perfect place for him. Here, Steve nails Cal pretty good.

After altogether too much food and good company and helping Steve with the washing up (what, darlin, I'm Irish. We can't help ourselves. We wash up. It's how we do.) it was time to head back to my hotel room and give them some family time alone, which they don't get nearly enough of between Steve's tour schedule and the E-Team being with their mom during the week. I dearly wish I could have caught up with Steve more, but we managed to get some good talking done in the little bits between other stuff happening.

Monday I slept until almost noon and spent the rest of the day reading in the sun by the pool and trying not to nap. Which was closed, but that was fine. I didn't want any more water. Possibly ever.

And then it was all over until next time. There's a lot I'm leaving out, but some of it is utterly inexpressible. Only know this: once a door has been shown to you, there is only one way and that is through.

Flying Inland.

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Interior Monologue

Someone just asked me what I think about while I'm running.

Oh god this sucks. Why do I run? I have so much shit I have to read it's not even funny. My ass hurts. I miss Matt. Fuck. This is stupid. I hate running. Hey, this doesn't feel too bad. Wait, yes it does. My nose is running. Oh hey look, a bird. Bye, bird. My knee feels weird. I wonder if I could make the argument that Thoreau...nah....Ed won't buy that. Wait, what time is it? I gotta pee. God this feels good. Shit. This sucks. How far is it? I hate running. I love running.If I keep this pace up, my marathon time will be....carry the four.....DAMN YOU BART YASSO! God, fatass cyclists who never yield. Make a hole, dammit! Fine. I'll just run into you. Asshole. I hate running. I gotta pee. Is it over yet? I miss Ruby. Fucking brain tumours. God I'm so angry. Ew. I think I ate a bug. My ass hurts. Relax. No, seriously. Relax. Am I there yet? I love running. I wonder how far it's been. I gotta blow my nose. I'm hungry. I gotta pee. Where's Len? I hate running. I love running. I want a cheeseburger.

This is pretty much an exact replica of every internal monologue of every run ever. If it sounds boring to read it, imagine being trapped inside your own head with it for six hours.

Go Home, Colorado, You Are Drunk

So remember that time I went to Denver to support the band, and it got snowed out?

Twice?

I wish with all my heart I was making this up. This time they called me from BNA, with all their gear loaded onto the plane. Which was now offloading. The pisser of it is, if their original flight hadn't been delayed, they would have already been in the air when the promoter cancelled, and I at least would have had the chance to see them. But no. No, instead I got to swear with them over the phone. I also got a new nickname from Steve, which is sort of fun. And now even the audio engineer from their latest album calls me Snowmeister. (Love you, too, Beau. That was the only time I outright laughed that day.)

On the plus side, this happened

A Mer, in her natural habitat.

on the way back from breakfast Monday. No, seriously. It's on the way home from her house from the place we ate breakfast. I almost whipped out my phone right there not just for the picture but to call the boyfriend and ask him how he felt about moving to Colorado Springs. This weekend.

Oh yeah. That's another thing. I won't get into it in public, because he's very very private (despite being somewhat of a public figure, or maybe because he's somewhat of a public figure) but....yeah. Apparently that happened this winter, too. About damn time.

Anyway.

And then yesterday I found out that apparently I've had an office mate this entire semester. And no one bothered to tell me. Including said office mate. Someone I took an advanced-level mixed grad/undergrad class with last spring stuck her head in my office yesterday afternoon. I was surprised to see her, but really happy. Wondered why she would have tracked me down in my office on a Friday afternoon before a holiday to visit, since we weren't really close. Turns out she was looking for Kristin, who told her that her office was in 303.

Um, no. 303 is my office. Has been for two years. I've had two different office mates, neither of whom are named Kristin. Last semester I was sharing with an adjunct who wasn't teaching this spring, so I've been sort of spreading out slowly onto the surface of the other desk when I need to stack books up (which is about once a week) to sort them. Apparently this has caused Kristin to wonder who's using her desk.

And here's the thing. I am in my office, on average, four to five days a week. And I'm usually there for hours at a time. Hours. As in, I get there between 10:00 and 10:30, I go downstairs at 11:00 to teach for an hour, and then I come back upstairs and read. And read. And read. And usually I go home when it gets dark, or Sarita drags me out to the gym, which is about the same time. Anywhere from five to seven at night.

And I have never seen Kristin.  Never. Not once.

The otherwise fabulous office staff (seriously, these women are amazing. Not only are they excellent at their jobs, they keep my shit together on a fairly regular basis. I love them for their snark, their humour, their adorable Woolrich sheep sweaters, and their unerring ability to pull a date, a room number, or a form out of their head or their filing cabinet without breaking their typing rhythm) didn't tell me Kristin existed. They didn't change the names on the door. So I was genuinely shocked when two minutes after this undergrad senior stuck her head in my office thinking I should be Kristin, some chick comes walking in like she owns the place and says, "Oh hi! I'm Kristin. This is my office."

Um, no. This is not your office. This is (apparently) OUR office. And who (the fuck) are you, exactly, anyway? And where have you been all semester? And why am I just finding out about you with four and a half weeks left in the semester?

Apparently she usually uses another office for conferences and office hours, but that one's currently occupied by someone doing something.

Yeah. Imagine that. So's this one. Fortunately, all I was doing was re-reading Last of the Mohicans and listening to Anderson East, so since this apparently her actual office, I could clear out of there and go home and do that on better speakers and a more comfortable chair. After I got done being all territorial and shit, I was actually really greatly amused by this whole incident.

But seriously. None of this was on my calendar for this week. Not one damn bit of it.

The universe needs to lay off the hallucinogens it's apparently been putting in my coffee. For reals.

So Young

This is how I will remember you. This is how your spirit shone through in everything you did.

courtesy of WJ Gage

Even when your body was horribly bloated from the steroids, when the tumour took your vision and your words and your understanding and eventually your life, it never once stole your dignity or your spirit.

Len, me, Ruby (January 2013)

You were truly a "beautiful, precious gem," not just to James and the girls but to all of us. My faith is so little, so easily shaken, it's hard for me to understand that at the end, you were excited to die. You couldn't wait to meet your God, to get that perfect sight and that restored body. It's hard for me to understand that you asked us to be happy for you. It's hard for me to understand a universe without you in it, without your crazy energy and your goofy jokes and your emails of encouragement.

I'm trying to be joyous. Right now all I can be is angry, because I want to understand the reason for this loss, in the season of so much loss everywhere around the people I love most.

I almost never called you So Young, first because I knew you by your American name, then later because I was afraid if I said it too loudly God would hear. And I didn't want him to take you so young.

Ground to a Halt

Catastrophic weekend failure.

I had really hoped my three hundredth post would be more chipper, but there you have it. Things started going downhill shortly after I woke up Saturday morning on my cousin's couch. What woke me was a text that my friend's death is imminent. Weighed down with that news, I nevertheless started firming up plans for Sunday, rumoured to include all manner of fantastic supper and shenanigans post-gig. I was excited.

Until it started snowing.

Point made, universe. You are drunk, you are mean, and you are not giving up the keys.

Short version: flights cancelled, band stranded in California, promoter cancelled, three-quarters of the band engaged in a round-robin of incoming messages that were alternately supportive, laden with rude but amusing sound effects, and delirious from having to drive 200 miles to Oakland for a 5 am flight back to Nashville. Without me. Though we did manage to tweet the Oscars at each other, which was a wee bit of consolation (though not much).

I am now home, having barely averted a full-blown stress meltdown Sunday afternoon at Gate C29 (which would have been mortifying) when my flight was delayed three times resulting in almost not being able to find someone to fetch me from the airport. And no, the bus does not run to Doodlehem after midnight.

I expect that any moment my phone will ring telling me Ruby's gone. It won't be long. She is receiving no nourishment, just morphine and oxygen and a sedative for anxiety. Her husband manages to persevere with so much grace I am ashamed to breathe the same air, to be called the same species.

I manage to be astonishingly grateful, however, at the bright spots--and there are many. My cousin and I made endless pots of Earl Grey tea and drank them out of our grandmother's Wedgwood that she inherited while reminiscing about being Henry women. Her children, though exceedingly high energy and often bewildering as they express their teenage frustration, are bright and thoughtful when you least expect it, and often screamingly funny. I managed to meet Mer for cafe au lait and beignets Monday brunch before she drove me to the airport, am utterly smitten with her, and remembered how much I adored living in the western half of the country, in the mountains. I still seem to have one of the best friends a girl could have, even though I'm a manipulative asshole when I'm grieving and I still miss him more than I can express. Lastly, I'm in student conferences all this week, so it will go relatively unnoticed that my cheese has temporarily slid off my cracker and wandered several hundred miles south of here.

Utility Infielder and Merch Juggler

I'd been waiting for Part Three, and it just came via text message. I am now working in Denver this weekend. Because I am apparently incapable of not getting drafted by these guys when I'm within a three thousand mile radius. Which is how Steve ended up calling me the Utility Infielder and his wife ended up calling me to ask if I could possibly pretty please work the gig this Sunday.