smalltimore

Geez, time to lighten things up around here. My dear friend John in Germany (www.obscenedesserts.blogspot.com) "tagged" me recently to post on my own blog eight random things about myself that most people would not know about me. This is kind of a tough job, considering the source, as John knows a whole lot about me, and as it was his idea, I'd at least like to surprise him a little. He will probably know a couple of these anyway:

1. I rafted the Colorado River for a week through the Grand Canyon with my Dad.

2. I have visited at least 13 cemeteries in Paris.

3. I firmly believe that Michael Keaton was the sexiest Batman.

4. I read books written in French outloud to my dogs, and they seem to enjoy it.

5. I have spent the night in the Veuve-Clicquot Mansion in Reims, France (something most wine industry people would kill or die for, and with good reason).

6. Last summer, I taught actor Bill Pullman how to properly pick Maryland hardshell crabs.

7. I cried when I watched the funeral for the Crocodile Hunter.

8. At my (Catholic) high school graduation, the bishop of our diocese wore magenta robes. After the ceremony, I walked right up to him and said, "Hot pink is your color!"

 So that's what I came up with. Feel free to leave your own eight in the comments!

Good news, people. There are only five stages of grief. I've already checked off the first two, Denial and Anger, though I can't say I am completely through with them. The third step is Bargaining, but since Jen is long gone, I think I can skip that one. Then comes Depression and finally Acceptance. We'll see how those go.

What is really funny to me is that I thought for sure I was going to get a lot of Hate comments from the more rabid Christians that might stumble across my little blog, but so far, none. I had more people upset with me about the entry about the UPS guy's socks. I am almost disappointed.

A few friends who read this blog have called or emailed to see how I am doing. That means a lot to me. Death freaks a good percentage of people out, and leaves them afraid to say anything at all to someone who has recently lost someone else. It is so silly, I think. I mean, I am a pretty straight shooter and not one to mince words. There is always a way to say or ask what you are thinking in a tactful manner, no matter what the situation. Whenever a friend is lamenting about what they woulda-coulda-shoulda said to someone else, my advice is always the same: "Just say it! What is the worst that can happen? No one is going to DIE!"

See, like that. Some of you are cringing. I'm laughing, and I know that Jen is, too, and that makes me laugh even more. That is my advice to anyone, in nearly any situation, and I stand by it. The people who have taken my advice in said situations have ALWAYS come back to me and said things like, "That was amazing!" "I feel so much better!" "You should have seen the look on their face!" The ones who have not taken my advice end up repeating the same bitchfest to me over and over and over again to the point that when they start, I'll interrupt them and finish the story for them. You should see the looks on their faces. 

And, speaking of inappropriate humor, here is a little something in regards to my dear departed friend Jen that I just thought of while I was writing this entry. Jen's nickname within a certain circle of my friends was, "Bucketchick," derived from an incident that took place well over 10 years ago, and is funny-but-you-had-to-be-there, so I won't go into it. "But, Jen," I say outloud to myself, "You know what we have to call you now?" Jen would have started the pre-giggle and cautiously asked, "What?"

"Well," I would say to her, "Now we have to call you 'KICKING the Bucketchick'!" 

Then we both would have died laughing :)

Really probably should not be writing right now.  At least not in a semi-public format.

 Oh well...

Two weeks ago, I was in Budapest for the first time, enjoying a lovely vacation when I received an email from a very good friend of mine, asking if everything was okay with me, as I had not posted to my blog for awhile. I replied that all was well, I was out of the country, and I would give her a call when I got back.

I got back last Thursday. Two days later, and before I had given her a call, my friend Jen died in her sleep. She was 39.

Today I participated in her funeral. This meant a great deal to me. I was her best friend, and her family has always made me feel like one of them. Her mother asked me if I would read the General Intercessions at the funeral mass. My first thought was, what the hell are General Intercessions? I went to Catholic school for twelve years, I should probably know this. Okay, great, I actually have to google "General Intercessions". I could hear Jen's laughter as I had this internal dialogue. This was exactly the kind of thing that I could use to make Jen laugh, the kind of story that, told with precision timing and facial expression, never got old, and she would make me repeat it a million times. We had a lot of those kinds of stories.

Google was not very helpful, and I finally had to ask Jen's mom to clarify. It was more or less what I had expected - reading a line or two and then saying, "Lord, have mercy," and then everyone says, "Lord, have mercy," back at'cha. I figured I could handle this. It was only about ten lines. But I asked her if it was okay if my uncle backed me up, in case I couldn't get through it, and she said of course.

I am always a little (lot) nervous about speaking in front of a large group of people anyway, but I wanted to do this for Jen, and for her family, and for myself. When it was my turn to go up, my uncle asked me if I was all right. I said yes, and I went to the podium and read those words and I did not crack. The first eight lines were very general God-is-so-wonderful-isn't-he? kind of stuff. That was easy. I made sure not to look at the casket. The last two mentioned Jennifer and her family's suffering. That was not so easy. I made a fist and dug my fingernails into the palm of my hand. I do this when I need to distract myself so that I don't crack when I am saying something important. Focusing on physical pain is a lot easier.

After the service, I shared a hug with her brother, who is also a friend of mine. He said, "I don't know how you did it." I didn't tell him how, but I'll tell you. I was pissed. That's how.

After I am done writing this entry, I need to return to Google and learn what stage of grief, "Anger," is. I think there are seven altogether, right? Well, that is where I am now. I was sitting in that church, and listening to the speakers before me, and having to, as a part of the ceremony, repeat things back to them such as, "The Lord is kind and merciful." Those very words were coming out of my mouth, "The Lord is kind and merciful," but in my head, the words were, "Are you f*cking kidding me?"

I mean, what Lord are we talking about here? I know, I know, this is so cliche, being "angry at God" when someone dies, blahblahblah. But really. I would really like to know how many of the people sitting in those pews honestly believed what they were hearing, and saying. It was all I could do to not stand up and scream, "My friend is up there IN A BOX. She is THIRTY-NINE and one of the kindest people I have EVER known. WHAT THE HELL are we all talking about?" 

The funniest part about it is that just yesterday, I was thinking I might go to church this Sunday. I can't remember the last time I was in church just because I wanted to be. Actually, maybe I can now that I think about it. I believe it was September 12, 2001.

I do not consider myself to be a religious person, but I respect the beliefs of others. I do in fact, due to my own experiences, believe that there is something more to life (as in, afterlife) than only what science has proven to this point. But beyond that vague belief of my own... I don't know. I certainly don't claim to know what, exactly, happens to us after we die. And I find it confusing when other people seem so very sure of themselves that they do know.

Once in awhile, though, I have a peculiar craving to go to church. I do not think this is God calling to me, I do not even think it is all that spiritual in nature, this strange yen. It is a control thing. When I get very stressed out, when I am at my personal worst, sometimes this desire sneaks up on me, and I go to mass. Because at mass, I know exactly what is going to happen. Now you stand. Now you sit. Now you kneel. Now you shake the hand of the person standing next to you. Now you form a line and get a snack. It is ritualistic. It has a rhythym, it is predictable. It is reassuring when the world, or a few of its skyscrapers, is/are falling down around your ears.

I do understand that part of it, the appeal of organized religion as something tangible in its routine, but attainable to every person. What trips me up is, say, the intolerance, violence, and hypocrisy of organized religion. I sometimes wonder how the equasion would suss out if it were possible to weigh the good things done in the Lord's name against the bad things done in his name. To use my brother's favorite line, "I ain't sayin' nothin', I'm just sayin'."

I do understand that sometimes, believing in something bigger than yourself, something that you can't prove but that no one can disprove to you, either, sometimes that is the only thing that is going to get you through. If you think about it, it makes a lot of sense. I mean, a shiny new car or great sex or a nice juicy steak can certainly perk up your day, but it is not going to get you through a civil war or a hurricane or burying your youngest child.

The part about religion that I don't understand is why God gets all the credit for the good things that happen and none of the blame for the bad things. Sitting a few rows behind my friend's family, witnessing their excruciating pain, I couldn't help but think to myself,

why would Jesus do that?