I said goodbye to my grumpy little shadow last month. And now that I feel ever-so-slightly less numb I wrote about my grief and how it fertilizes my joy. And my hope. 🤍
The full piece is linked in my bio. Below are a few excerpts. But if you know grief intimately, please consider a few extra clicks to read the whole piece. You’ll get a laugh about me quietly believing that Charlie and my dad were visiting me via flickering kitchen lights.🫣
Also consider this my holiday card. Feels like a pretty perfect one to me. xV
—————————-
Some of us don’t consider this the most wonderful time of the year. We just consider it the most. When people ask the most of you because of expectations and comparison.
Christmas has always felt raw to me, but it has felt even more so in recent years. The demand for joy causes twitches and compulsory scratches at the phantom scab of grief. The wound reopened every morning like the paper door of an advent calendar.
-
In Irish Celtic lore there is this idea of “thin places.” Sacred spaces where the boundary between heaven and earth becomes porous. Where mystery feels alive in the landscape.
I like the idea of “thin moments.” Sacred moments that seem to simultaneously ask and answer the questions of life. I have been lucky enough to experience a handful this past year.
And while these moments are followed by heavier grief, when I crash land back to earth, I wouldn’t trade them for all the manufactured, flat, one-dimensional joy in the Hallmark Christmas world.
-
I’ve been wracking my brain trying to remember all of Charlie’s “lasts.” His last sit. His last big stretch. His last tail wag. I didn’t commit them to memory because I always thought there’d be another — that there must be another, how cruel for there not to be.
But I do remember our last beach walk, when he trotted ahead and then stopped to look back at me, to check that I was still there, that the grumpy little shadow still had his home, his place of rest and warmth from which to bloom again.
I will always be there, Charlie.
Even in your death. Even after. Ever after. And still then more.
And I will find you in my thinnest of moments with a thrill of hope.🕊️
For the last couple of months I have spent hours cackling in front of microphones with the best @brittmccraykaran for our pod baby @womenofcontradictions Have the mics been accidentally off at times? Yes. Have we misspoken? Probably. Do we disagree? Sometimes. Are we the first people on the planet to have a pod? I wish. But mostly it has been a life-affirming experience to simply jump into a thing with a best friend. You can listen to our cackles and cultural commentary on Apple and Spotify and link in bio for a newsletter moment plus blooper reel to come because, hello. We bloop. Okay, that’s all!!! Back to my regular IG voyeurism. 🫡 ✌️
I wrote about why the three-eyed-aliens from Toy Story remind me of women waiting for engagement proposals while looking much like an alien myself. It’s called method writing.
👽👽👽
And apparently when you launch a Substack Newsletter it’s supposed to be branded with a name and everything. (Can we just have one non-branded thing in our lives???) Anyway, I named mine ALMOST A HANDFUL because I was once told my boobs and personality are almost a handful 🙃 I don’t think it was meant as a compliment, but I took it as one. Huzzah.
⚡️⚡️⚡️
Okay, but really, some excerpts are in the slideshow and follow link in bio to read how I feel that only 2% of women are proposing in heterosexual couples (HINT: it’s not great, people!!!)
😳😳😳
Lastly, I wrote and published all this before discussing any of it with @eddieparadyce and he (understandably) had A LOT of questions. Which is really on brand with my ALMOST A HANDFUL personality. We call that connecting the dots in ze marketing biz! It’s like I’m a goddamn natural!
😵💫😵💫😵💫
ALSO subscribe, like, comment, heart, strike up a ruckus debate in the comments! Au revoir!
I’m moving these musings of mine over to substack because dear god making these copy slides took longer than writing them and they are still funky sizes 🫣😤🥴 And yes there is a typo but damnit there are too many steps to fix it. Feel superior to me when you find it! My gift to you!
.
But really, the above is for all who wake up angry and hold their breath to survive the days (eek, it me).
.
Link in bio to subscribe for more — there will be funny ones I promise!
.
Expect a weekly email (okay, maybe bi-weekly as I start out, let’s set realistic expectations) with personal ramblings, cultural commentary and link round ups of stuff I’ve read, things I like, and places that are cool — because I love a good smattering of links. They feel like slot machines! Who knows where you’ll end up on the WORLD WIDE WEB!!! Link me baby!
While sifting through your belongings this past week I found a card I gave you. It simply said, “Dad— my days spent with you are my favorite days.”
These photos are from the last one of those days.
You picked me up in your two-door 1995 Mercedes SL. The top was down but the transmission was shot, the car couldn’t and wouldn’t reverse.
That didn’t matter. You drove me to the Van Gogh exhibit in LA. It was your idea. You organized it and bought the tickets. I found out they were 50 bucks each. I hated that you spent that money.
I could tell you were nervous to be in a crowd and to stand in a line. But you did. For me. We got in and spent an hour staring at Van Gogh’s colors dance across the walls. You listened intently as I lectured you about Van Gogh.
I watched you take a thousand videos. I noticed how steady your hands were when holding your phone. I said I was impressed. You quipped back, “I know, right?! Pretty fucking good for an alcoholic!” We both cackled with laughter.
I wonder if you ever watched any of those videos of the sunflowers blooming. I’ve looked at these photos 1000 times since that day.
We took the 101 south. We found a restaurant. We sat at the bar. We always sat at the bar. I will always sit at the bar.
It was the last time we were alone. I told you about my life. That I wanted to freeze my eggs and pursue motherhood at any cost. That I could feel life yearning for itself in my body. I told you I had met someone and that it was early, but it felt big. You were so supportive. You loved love.
You met him a few months later. You told him to take care of me while you shook his hand. You didn’t think I heard or saw that interaction, but I did.
People often comment on the strength of my handshakes. It always makes me think of you. You taught me how to stand in my skin so someone else can relax into theirs.
I’m learning life is a lot like that broken transmission. It insists on moving forward, even if you want to go back.
You only ever went forward. Even when in pain.
I’m finally getting that transmission fixed for you. But don’t worry, your girls will always, only continue to move forward.
Even when in pain.
My boobs and I had a weird but ultimately wonderful October and I wrote some shit down about it.
.
Is this the best place for me to host these words? Absolutely not. But fuck it. No one actually clicks link in bio. So here they all are. For the pillaging.
She’s alive! And she still speaks about herself in third person! Nothing has changed!
.
Except that I have some thoughts on dating, which I wrote down for @dore and limited myself to ONLY two Oregon Trail references and one was a callback so it barely counts.
.
I pulled some bits here for those with short attention spans. If you have the attention span for the sincere parts and/or my condom snafu, link in da bio.
.
📸@shanajade
🍹@emmakatewhite
Shocked @vanessakhoury__ didn’t choose the second as the opener. Also, hi mama 👋🏻👋🏻👋🏻 Thanks for letting me put your gorgeous face up on @atelierdore today! Link da link in bio.
