Time is nuts, y’all. It is currently the middle of the month of May. That’s the one that comes after April and before June, Rebecca. My short, glorified career as an internet social icon notwithstanding, it’s been a rollercoaster of a 2011, my friends.
This spring, both Sally & Kit celebrated the anniversaries of their respective births and got, thusly, older.
I love consistency.
During this vernal season, we discovered a new -itis in the stupid stupidness of my body and its stupidity – yes, of COURSE it mimics heart-attack symptoms and scares everyone in the vicinity of my screaming, narcotic-needing self.
Just today, I found the prospect of choosing a meal for dinner completely overwhelming and stared at the screen for over an hour. We call this PMS or normal… or something.
In the span of one week this spring, I got a new car, a new boyfriend, new business cards, a new job and a brand-spanking-new bout of HOLY-SHIT-I-HAVE-TO-SCHEDULE-EVERYTHING-RIGHT-NOW calendar-anxiety.
One of these days, make me tell you about how new boyfriend feels about that one. It’s a damn riot. Really.
Last month, I thought it would be a faaaaabulous idea to host 35 of my (geographically) nearest & dearest for an only slightly off Passover seder involving the removal of furniture from three rooms of my house, the use of three refrigerators, a professionally formatted yet typo-filled Mer-written haggadah (you’ve all forgotten I edit for a living, right? Good.), 32 bottles of wine and beautifully decorated plague signs. Obviously.
We’ve finally finished the leftovers, but all the borrowed dishes are still out. I figure they’ll come in handy in about five months when I discover what a great plan it would be to host fifty for Thanksgiving.
You didn’t, like, want them back any time soon, did you, Stacy?
This spring I was handed the leashes of about eight high school students and asked to mold them into better versions of their musically talented selves. So I denied them food and threatened their lives.
Throughout the passing of this time, I, of course, had ambitious plans for a variety of posts we all know I haven’t written, like these:
- the one about Kit overcoming his upbringing as a small, disenfranchised African-American child on the streets of South Philly to become the Jon-Hamm-like superhero of a Dr. Sally husband he is today;
- or the one for Sally’s 30th birthday in which we celebrate each of the individual cells that make up her particular neuroses and I start a letter-writing campaign to get her on the ballot for the 2012 Nobels – any of them;
- then there was the post about the new boyfriend, who I think we should call something along the lines of Captain Amazing or Señor Awesome, if only to watch him blush and squirm awkwardly, awaiting in fear the day he fucks up and loses his fancy moniker – this is obviously evidence I am the best girlfriend EVER;
- there was this one post percolating about how angry I am with God, Shakespeare, Martin Sheen, Disney, Wal-Mart and most of the Western world, but after I put off fleshing out the outline – I DID ACTUALLY WRITE AN OUTLINE – I got laid and reprioritized everything else in my life towards the goal of “more getting laid;”
- or maybe a serious post about identifying as a Jew again, complete with prayer and services and davening and making snarky comments behind my prayer book;
- there’s the post about how proud I am of Bestie Kazz, who has taken the reins of her life in a way I will always envy and admire, tackling the mountains of addiction and recovery and the deserts disappointment and struggle and love with a grace I didn’t know anyone could muster;
- and the one about my babyfever, which is currently so overwhelming I apparently can’t see a small child without finding a way to have him or her in my arms within a brief 15-minute introductory period – we must all give Captain Amazing kudos for not once running from me, screaming, any of the approximately 74,832,067 times I’ve melted into a gooey mess at the image or sound of a baby, and for mopping up my sloppy, sappy self each time this happens;
- or the time Captain Amazing brought me flowers, took me to dinner and the symphony, helped with the out-of-control seder when I was too sick, carried all my stuff when I wasn’t allowed to, helped me buy a new car and get into a credit union, talked me through awful family shit, sat on the dirty floor to win over my skittish dog – ok, ok, I’ll stop gushing.
I’m very good at gushing. I do enthusiasm well.
So I had all these plans and did all these things, and y’all? I’m a fucking grownup. And WHOLESOME.
I feel like I need to run out and get another tattoo just to hold onto my freaky self. The urge to buy a pack of cigarettes and just hold one between the first two fingers of my right hand is out of control.
I don’t actually want the nicotine. I just wanna look badass. You know. Me and my Virginia Slims.
For the record, I feel a bizarre urge to swear I have never smoked a Virginia Slims cigarette in my life. And certainly not out of a shiny gold cigarette case while wearing fuck-me-red lipstick. That so never happened.
But what I find, really, when I open my eyes far too early each morning or suck down cough drops like candy after singing for four hours straight, is that I like this life, this far-too-busy, must-learn-to-say-no, 11-hour workday, actually-have-a-social-life existence? Is pretty fucking rad.
Even when everything falls by the wayside, this crazy, lovely, out-of-control moment in my life – despite pain and illness, exhaustion and debt – is maybe the most beautiful I’ve ever known.
I’m so glad I get to share it with you.