I miss my mom.
The Sunday Blues are out-of-control rioting inside of my heart right now.
P.S. The young woman sitting next to me is the fifth ranked singles player in women's college tennis right now. Her free Nike schwag game is on point.
The Rooftop Ravens had their last soccer practice of the season tonight and the occasion made me both happy and sad. The feelings of happiness stemmed mostly from the fact that we've come such a long way since Annabel raised her hand during the first minute of the first practice and announced to the whole team that she was only there because her mother made her. The sad feelings were because I hate when things are over and because I won't get to see those fourteen dramatic and hilarious and kind and silly and wonderful little girls twice a week anymore and also because, well, my Feelz Meter has been stuck on Little Bitch since August and I can apply the Debbie Downer filter to almost anything right now.
Anyway, I enjoyed coaching this team infinity more than I ever thought I would and it's gonna be so dope to know these girls as they grow up.
Because this was our final practice we skipped drills and just scrimmaged the whole time. The girls let B and I play on opposite teams and I proposed that my team call ourselves Three Snaps (see GIF below) and the girls were all over it. Even though we were the fiercer crew (obvi), we got beat 7-4 because Bevan "Glory Days" Dufty pushed my whole team down to the ground on his way to scoring like ninety-five goals. Regardless, everybody had a rad time, there were minimal tears (but still way more than I could have ever imagined a few months ago) and it ended with cupcakes.
I called Laura on FaceTime while I was unloading the dishwasher earlier tonight to answer her "Are you alright?" text message face-to-face and after I had sufficiently convinced her that I would, in fact, make it through the day she asked me if I was at least enjoying Amy Poehler's Yes Please in spite of my dramatic web log post about it last night and I chuckled, partly because I found her question to be chuckle-worthy and partly to prove to her that I am a happy person who has chuckles to spare, and then proceeded to tell her about my favorite part of Yes Please so far which, I realized about halfway through my explanation, was about death. Regardless, I'll put the part that I referenced above down below for safe-keeping, or whatever.
Hopefully I have another forty to fifty years of living ahead of me before I pass from this earth either in my sleep or during a daring rescue caught on tape. Ideally my penultimate day would be spent attending a giant beach party thrown in my honor. Everyone would gather around me at sunset, and the golden light would make my skin and hair beautiful as I told hilarious stories and gave away my extensive collection of moon art to my ex-lovers. I and all of my still-alive friends (which, let's face it, will mostly be women) would sing and dance late into the night. My sons would be grown and happy. I would be frail but adorable. I would still have my own teeth, and I would be tended to by handsome and kind gay men who pruned me like a bonsai tree. Once the party ended, everyone would fall asleep except for me. I would spend the rest of the night watching the stars under a nice blanket my granddaughter made with her Knit-Bot 5000. As the sun began to rise, an unexpected guest would wake and put the coffee on. My last words would be something banal and beautiful. "Are you warm enough?" my guest would ask. "Just right," I would answer. My funeral would be huge but incredibly intimate. I would instruct people to throw firecrackers on my funeral pyre and play Purple Rain on a loop.
I'd like to note, before I end this post, that recently I've taken to publishing very sad things to this web log, but I am, by and large, a happy person.
HAHA! LOL! TEHE!
I started reading Amy Poehler's memoir Yes Please while I was home alone this afternoon and in it there's a beautiful and funny and touching part starting on page fifty-eight in which Eileen and Bill Poehler, Amy's mom and dad, take turns telling the story of her birth. Afterwards, Amy writes:
If your parents are still alive, call them today and ask them to describe the day you were born. Write the details down here, on the following pages. Tell the story every year on your birthday until you know it by heart.
In response, my body broke. I don't think it was an actual call-an-ambulance-I-am-dying panic attack, but the pace of my heart hastened and my forehead got sweaty and all of the air that was inside of my lungs made its way outside of them very quickly and I sat on my bed feeling crushed and lost and wondering if I'd ever asked my mom to tell me the story of my birth and if I had why I hadn't I written every single word of it down right then and there and if I hadn't then what the fuck was I doing during the two and a half years that she was sick? I sat there asking myself those questions for a while and soon my heart rate slowed to its normal speed and my forehead sweat dried up and the air returned to my lungs. Then I picked up Amy Poehler’s memoir and continued.
I guess if I were writing a book about grief I would probably include in one of its early chapters a part about how you can eat healthy food and exercise every day and skip past all of the sad songs on your iPhone but eventually you're gonna pull an orange sweater out of your dresser drawer and realize, for one reason or another, that the last time you wore it your amazing and beautiful mother was still alive and in that moment your heart is gonna explode into a trillion little red shards right inside of your chest and you're gonna feel exactly the same way you did when you first got that phone call however many months before. But that moment will pass and life will go on and you'll hope that someday the stuff that reminds you of her will feel more like gifts and less like shrapnel.