Rainy Reflecting, Ruminating, Reminiscing, Remembering & Recollecting.

great rain skirt (Photo credit: gregglesworth)

It’s funny how a little rain and a few clouds can bring out the mom stuff for me. Couple that with the “Mother’s Day” cards at the card shop and you’ve got a full-blown, “Oh yeah, my mom is dead. I don’t need to buy one of these.” There my darling is the silver lining.

It wasn’t one of those ho-hum days in fact it was a good day. But the rain and the cards and oh yeah, something about Laundromats always remind me of my mom. I can picture my mom looking for quarters to do her laundry. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t but I can picture it. So, this morning with the rain falling silently and steadily, I put my dead-mom necklace on. The one that has some of her ashes. I know I know. You’re thinking, “Wow. Ashes huh? That’s odd.”But it doesn’t feel odd. I don’t know what my mom would have thought about it. I guess it doesn’t matter because she’s not the boss of me anymore.

So take all that; the weather, the necklace, the mother’s day cards and you throw in a little Barbra Streisand on the Pandora and you have a full-blown yep this is how it feels to miss your mom. And for those of you that are new to the Cheri Show, it’s not really so much the death that I mourn it’s the crap way before that.

It’s the day of Columbine that left so many parents crying in their sleep for the rest of their waking days. It’s the day my mom, at 49, had a stroke that ultimately would put her in the position to have her diaper changed and her life decided for her. Yep. It was as sucky as it sounds. To have someone a lot like me (minus the mountain bike) not feel well and then end up in a wheelchair…well I’ll come out and say it, that just kind of sucks.

I know you think I can always find a silver lining but sometimes there is none. And in case you are wondering, my mom was not like the person in the made for TV movie that becomes a paraplegic but still ends up on the other side of the mountain with a medal around their neck. Not everyone lives that life. Sometimes shit happens and then more shit happens and the next thing you know, life hasn’t turned out quite like you thought.

Why now you wonder. Why bring this up now. I want to share because I think you think that I always think things are great (and yes, I meant to do that).

I hope you reach out to all the mothers you know and wish them the best and thank them for all the rest. Remember that sometimes there are no do-overs in life. So make this one count.

Song for tonight on this rainy and chilly night: ‘Moon River’ by Barbra Streisand.

How to Have a Good Death.

I See Dead People Everywhere I Go.

laura (Photo credit: Marika Belfiori)

I’m here in sunny Southern California but it’s not very sunny right now. It’s rainy and chilly and the power was out this morning. But there are three CHP’s (California Highway Patrol) (think CHIPS) right outside the coffee shop so at least I’m safe. I aways think of CHIPS when I see officers on bikes here. But so far no one is even close to Ponch or John.

I must be thinking of dead people a lot. I know I am. In two more days, it’s my mom’s dead-iversary. I’m sure I’ll write about it. That sounds like me.

I love vacations for lots of reasons. Unlimited time. No schedules. My kids can sleep in. I get to be with my husband 24/7, except for when I am at the coffee shop. Which I must admit is about 1.5 hours a day. What? Everyone else is sleeping. Plus, I’ve got to ramp up. For Disneyland.

But I think my brain gets cleared. No mail to check. No dog to feed. No driving to school. No wondering what to make for lunch. Or breakfast. Or dinner. And so it’s like my brain can go elsewhere in the memory bank. Remember. Ponder. Wallow.

Last night I had a dream that my friend Laura, who by the way, is dead in real life, opened a small cafe. She needed money and was looking for backers. I happened up on her as she was sitting on the edge of a creek. She was on the phone to her grandmother, talking about her cafe and her daughter. In real life she had two boys but it’s my dream and it must be like it’s my party and I can cry if I want to because she had a daughter. Anyhoo, I didn’t wait on the bank. I went into the water and noticed an eel and an overturned canoe in the water. And I thought, “I wish I had that canoe.” And in real life, I do wish that I had that canoe.

In the dream, it was Gary who said, “We can give her 20,000 dollars.” And this is where it gets less about the dead girl and more about me and my bike because all of a sudden  I was in a bike race. And I finally made it to the podium. But of course, no one kept track of who came in when and I was sad about that. Because in real life, I want to be on that podium.

It’s not quite Laura’s dead-iversary, but it’s two days from my mom’s. But I don’t dream about her. I dream about everyone else. If Laura was here and if I knew what I know now, I would find her 20,000 dollars to make her dreams come true and to keep her safe. Yep, that’s what I would do. That would be just as good as getting on the podium.

Love, Short Skirts and 4-Way Stop Towns.

girl Scout skirt (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There once was a young boy who met a young girl and they fell in love. Or something like that. They thought they were in love but really what happened was a young boy met a girl. The girl was very flirty and very sure of herself. Or so he thought. The boy was tall and had great hair. The girl knew her only way out of her father’s house that was filled with poverty, abuse, and no love, was to fall into another man’s house. And so these two kids who thought they loved each other very much, probably really only loved the idea of being in love and being married and having their own house. In fact, now that we look back on it, we can see that it was not meant to be and that must have been so obvious even way back then. But hindsight is as they say, 20/20.

They met in a small town. Not really a town. It was more of a 4-way stop type of town. Small and easy to pass through. And keep on going. But they met. She was probably being asked to leave class because her skirt was too short and you really couldn’t keep that woman down. Couldn’t tell her what to do. No one was the boss of her so she would gladly be sent home with a too short skirt. That must have caught his eye. That boldness. That sass. That je ne sais quois. That short skirt. He must have been different too. In his own way. Super tall, lots of dark hair. So much hair, it looked like you could live in it. If you wanted to. His eyes weren’t quite. Right. One was this way and one was that way. I bet she wondered why they were that way. But was too polite to ask. I bet he asked her out and knowing her, she said no. The first time. Played hard to get. The first time.

Eventually she must have said yes. Because even though she was playing hard to get, she wasn’t. He probably felt lucky because she was a looker and even that far back, he felt unloveable for some reason. Because of some comment. Because of something someone did or didn’t do. Because he was born. They must have looked kinda funny. He being so tall and her being not so tall. And I wonder if it was hearts and flowers or if they fought even that far back. Like if there was a sign. Or an omen. I bet it was fun in the beginning. Like Jack and Diane, two kids in the heartland. Doing the best that they can.

A small blip or a planned wrinkle I’m not sure, she wanted more and they told her she couldn’t have more so she said, I’ll show you. She joined the Women’s Army Corp. She made the cut. Short skirt and all. She wasn’t there long. Just long enough to prove she could do what they said she couldn’t. And then maybe she thought she better get back to marry that tall young man with all that hair. Or maybe she just didn’t know where else to go. Maybe there wasn’t anyone else to love in that 4-way stop town.

And maybe there were others. Men that is. But maybe something drew her to the tall one. Or maybe he asked first. We’ll never know because she is gone now and too far away to ask and even if we asked, we would never hear her answer. And wouldn’t it be nice if people only got married because they loved each other. Cherished each other. Trusted each other. Wanted each other. Needed each other. But when she was asked years later why she got married, it wasn’t any of those things. It was, “Because everyone else was doing it.” How romantic.

And so there they were, two kids in some sort of heartland. She was 19 and he was 20 and she had a baby in her belly. But they didn’t know that until later. After their wedding. Not like a wedding in a church or a hotel ballroom or on some grand mesa overlooking whatever grand mesas overlook. But in a small house. The size of a postage stamp. And not a big airmail stamp like in the old days, but a small one. They got some nice plates and silverware to start their “happy” life. And I guess the next month or maybe the next month, she must have said, “Honey, I’m pregnant.” I’d like to think it was a happy time. Since I was the baby in her belly.

But I imagine my parents as two hearts. One is bigger than the other. One has longer eyelashes than  the other. One has eyes that don’t quite line up. But two hearts nonetheless. And then, there was a third heart that was much much smaller. That was me. And the way I see the two bigger hearts is full of love. But it’s almost like they needed a road map for love and life. And they didn’t have one. Because they didn’t quite know how to do it. How to love each other. How to be a family. And even after one more very small heart was added to our family, they still couldn’t do it.

I still see them as two big hearts. Full of love. Full of sadness. Full of insecurities. Full of pain. They just couldn’t let the love out. It’s like it got caught up in the top where the two sides of the heart meet. And so I see it as a wasted opportunity. Like they just couldn’t do it. Not totally wasted, because they produced two little hearts. But partially wasted. And I feel sort of sad for them. And for the two little hearts.

I’m Not a Lesbian. I Just Dress Like One.

Touche (Photo credit: Michael Connell)

A long time ago in a far, far, far away coffee shop I met a girl. And some years later, she told me, “I thought you were a lesbian when I met you.” I asked her why and she replied, “Because of the way you dress. It’s your style. You dress sporty.” I kind of teased her because she was a lesbian (and I was not) and we hee hawed a bit about assumptions we make about people. Because of the way they dress. Touche.

In case you’re wondering, it didn’t bother me. People (women)(lesbians) have made that mistake before. It’s flattering. It means I have universal appeal. Leave it to me to take it as a compliment. But seriously, who really cares if someone thinks I am a lesbian. But what I can’t stand for is, for people to mistake me for a 5’11” teenager. For all my friends who look so cute in fitted skinny jeans, you can take a walk because you will be able to relate to none of this.

I went shopping a month or so ago. For jeans. I was ready to spend some money. Not like some of you do. Not over $100.00. But with the debit card burning a hole in my pocket, I went to buy a pair of Lucky Jeans. To start out, a knock out girl with Victoria Secret type of hair and a size negative 8, came up to me and said, “How can I help you?” Oh boy. Like a country girl coming into town for her first time, I said, “‘I’d like to buy some jeans.” She steered me towards the rack, asked me my size. I fingered the “jeans” and said, “Do you have any real jeans? Like the kind that don’t have stretch or lycra in them? Like the kind that actually have front pockets?” I came just short of saying, “Like cowboys used to wear.” I might as well said, “You know. Not like the ones you’re wearing. Cause those are a ridiculous excuse for jeans.”

We chatted and she brought me some jeans, smaller than I asked for. I pointed that out. She said, “You’re smaller than you think.” She was right. I found some I liked (less $100.00) and went home happy. Until I realized I still bought them a size too big. Ah well.  Fast forward to yesterday. I thought I’d try my luck at the Levi store. A sweet, petite (because she hadn’t gone through puberty yet) girl came up to me and said, “How can I help you?” “I’d like some jeans. Not skinny. Not straight.” Now mind you. I’ve just walked out of the Sephora Store. With tinted moisturizer on my face and I’m feeling pretty hip. I can tell this girl thinks I’m a friend of a friend’s mother or great-aunt. She and I both know I’m not buying anything in that store.

After a few failed attempts to even get the jeans (I said, I didn’t want skinny) over my calves, I gave up. She suggests with no smile on her face, “Let’s try the 501′s.” Let me break it down for you. I tried them on. It was a combination of Mitt Romney, my mom’s jeans from the 80′s and Pat and Chris from the Saturday Night Live skit. Only worse. Oh dear Jesus.

So, it’s back to the size too big Lucky jeans. I can only hope that warmer weather is right around my corner. So that I can wear my sporty shorts.

Yoga and Dead People.

Image via Wikipedia

It all started with yoga. I bought a VHS Shiva Rea prenatal yoga video. One set of kegel exercises and I was hooked. Not. Doing yoga by yourself, with a video, while pregnant when you can’t even see the area for which you are doing *kegel exercises isn’t exactly a recipe for a lifelong yoga practice. But something clicked. After my daughter was born, I put the VHS video away and made my way to my local rec center to find me a guru.

I have to give Shelly a lot of credit. I remember saying, “I’ll just get a punch pass and see how it goes.” And she said, “No. You need to sign up for the class so that you will go.” It was love at first downward facing dog. Yoga has played an impressive role in my life. It has helped me to heal from both cracked hearts as well as from physical pain. Last night I went to yoga at The Yoga Pod. They have more rooms than they used to. And true to Cheri form, I was early and didn’t know it. So as I sat in the yoga room waiting for my friend to come in and teach, I wondered if I was in the right room. And if I wasn’t in the right room, I wondered if my teacher (friend) would come in and get me or would I just sit there all night. Luckily, she came in (and saved me from myself). Lovely class. Super surprised I am walking today.

Shivasana. It’s the final pose and some call it corpse (so apropos as you will see). I was lying there, all spread out (except for my left leg because I am scared someone will step on my new ACL) and all of a sudden I had tears in my eyes. I know. You were hoping this was going to be about politics but stick with me for a minute.

It was at that same studio (not the same room, the same business) that I once had a very profound experience. Now, you’re probably thinking that I’m overstating the fact. That surely I must have profound experiences all the time. Au contraire, mon frere. And I think the fact that it’s **March might be the reason for this memory. And for those tears.

One night last February, I was laying on the floor. In yoga. I was in final shivasana and all of a sudden I felt her. My mom. She was standing right behind my head. I couldn’t see her. My eyes were closed. I told myself it was Larissa, my teacher. I peeked. Larissa was across the room. It was the first time (that I can remember) that I felt like I had a visit from my dead mom. I wanted to open my eyes. Turn around and see what was there. But I didn’t want to ruin it. Didn’t want to make whatever it was go away. It was a sweet and full and emotional moment. It felt like it lasted for an hour but it was perhaps a minute. A precious, tear filled minute.

What was next to me? It could have been my imagination. It could have been another student. It could have been the moisture dripping down the windows. It could have been my mom. It doesn’t matter. It held meaning for me.

That’s yoga. It opens you up. It fills you up. It empties you out so you can do it all over again. I can’t promise a visit from your dead mom, dad, aunt or dog but I can almost promise you one thing. Sooner or later you will have a profound experience.

 

*kegel: an exercise performed by women to strengthen the muscles of the pelvic floor, in order to control incontinence, improve sexual response, and diminish some discomfort in pregnancy. dictionary.com

**March: the month my mom died.

Oh Rush. Where Have You Been All of My Life? Oh That’s Right. All Over the World.

Image via Wikipedia

Do you ever wake up and just want to scream OMG!? Having Rush in the limelight is like being handed a birthday present you never wanted. He’s what many of us can’t stand right about now; men trying to drag us back into the 1950′s with their pious, religious, pompous, and ridiculous rhetoric.

There are so many ways to go at this. There is no sense in arguing about abortion or premarital sex. And we know that many of these men who are like rush, have had premarital sex and gasp, gotten a girl pregnant out of wedlock, I know. The horror of it all. We could talk about why there isn’t an equivalent name for men. We could have a whole discussion on the fact that the words “slut” and “whore” cut right to the quick but that the words we use for men; player, ladies’ man, gigolo, well, they almost sound like a compliment. We know there are double standards. Both for behavior as well as for wrinkles and gray hair. There just are. And I don’t think a blog or a Facebook rant is going to change that.

Unfortunately, there are a bunch of men who are not only using the lovely word “slut” but they are also trying to regulate how to get out of offering reproductive services in insurance plans. Now that makes me mad but what makes me madder is how this is all a part of a bigger problem, a global problem. So forgive me if I don’t get too worked up over “slut” because I’ve been called that and I’ve got bigger fish to fry.

There are a whole bunch of Rush Limbaughs all over the world. It doesn’t matter if your name is Bjorn, Ahmed, Rush, Abel, Pierre, Alessandro, Elijah, Juan, Sam, Baruti, or Dominick. There are men all over the world trying to keep women down. And there are so many ways to do this. Female genital mutilation, restricted access to schooling, child brides, acid attacks, restricted access to birth control and abortion, unequal pay for equal work, and double standards for mothers who work. And let us not forget calling us sluts, whores, cunts, bitches, gold diggers, and my personal favorite a Ho (short for whore I know but so catchy isn’t it?). Oh there are so many ways and so many words and so many laws and so many customs and so many religions that they can use to try to keep us down. And in my opinion, one is no worse than an another (except the genital mutilation and acid attacks).

I kind of thought (mistakenly so) back in my college days, that we’d be done discussing this by now. The whole birth control thing. The whole abortion thing. I always thought it was so funny when men (and boys) argued against these things since it takes two to tango, to dance, to screw, to hump, to do it, and all the other things we call it. I loved how the boys who used the word “slut” were also the same ones screwing all the girls on Friday (and Saturday and Sunday and Monday and..) nights. I guess some things are never going to change are they? But I think I’ve digressed. It’s so easy with this topic.

These men (and probably more than a few women) are the same ones decrying Islam. Blaming those crazy muslims. Those horrid fundamentalists and fanatics. Blaming other cultures and religions for their “backward ways”. But when I look around at some of our leaders, some of our talk show hosts, radio personalities, and some of the good old Christian men who want to represent everyone in this country, what I see  is a bunch of CRAZY, FANATICAL, BACKWARD, FUNDAMENTALISTS. They are no different in my mind, from the men who shoot abortion doctors, the men who throw acid, and the men who prevent girls from going to school. Just because they wear a suit rather than a robe and just because they drink out of a tap versus a river, that does not make them any different.

You can hide behind your national anthem and you can try to redefine what the constitution says, but you are not fooling us. For those of you who try to take away our options and access to birth control and for those of you who try to keep us down by calling us a slut or a whore, shame on you. For you are now in the same group of those you continue to bomb, to decry, and destroy. You have been served.